“Yeah, that’s why I’m here,” I say, feeding him another pulse of love. “Whole thing was a bust. Got the wrong girl. Can you undo it?”
“Oh, of course!” he says, resistance fading beneath my onslaught of affection. I watch as he clears the various fields, unlinks my IMDb page and headshot, and basically turns the file into a blank slate. In a few minutes, all that’s left are the operation expenses, the links to the—good gods, twenty-three agents who were killed or injured a few hours ago—the follow-up plans … everything but the girl they were targeting.
I have Clark craft some edits out of whole cloth, explaining how Sebastian was attacked out of the blue, the search for the unknown deity is ongoing, stuff like that. “Is there a code name for blank gods?” I ask as we finish. The entry still needs a name.
“John God or Jane God,” he says, filling in the latter.
“Obviously. Now, is there a record of what we just did? Any kind of history?”
“Sure,” he says, and scrolls to the top of the page, clicks on Tools and then selects Page History from the drop-down menu. Hyperlinked version numbers appear, each followed by the date of the changes, a Changed By field (the first lists Sebastian Gallows, while the most recent shows Clark Harrison), and a Restore This Version link.
“How do you delete these?” I ask.
“You need to be an admin, like me,” he says. “Every space has its own permissions.”
“So you can do it?”
“Yeah. Me and a few others on the floor, the folks in IT, upper management, my supervisor—”
“Please stop talking.”
I’ll spare you the utterly fascinating details of wiki navigation, but ten minutes later, after some awkward discussion, emotional manipulation, and page edits, Sara Valen has a clean slate and all records of my actions have been purged from the system. Clark tells me it’ll still be possible to recover the original versions, but that requires a server rollback and a lot of red tape. Without probable cause, he doubts it’ll be an issue. My timing is excellent, because according to the wiki, the operation won’t have a replacement for Sebastian until later today, and an assigned agent familiar with the file is the only person who might wonder why “Sara Valen” is no longer a person of interest.
After we’re done, I crank the love and affection for Clark into overdrive, blasting memory from his mind and replacing it with a hazy soup of warmth and fuzziness. He’ll be back to normal in a few minutes but won’t remember the past few hours beyond a sneaking suspicion that something really, really nice happened.
It’s an effective way of covering my tracks, but not a trick I enjoy using. In part, it’s because drop-kicking someone’s brain into a love haze is a minor abuse of my gifts, not far from applying the acid of regret instead, like I did to that Finemdi motorcyclist. The other, more important reason is that it’s incredibly draining. I wait until I’m a few halls away, then find one of those relaxation rooms and collapse onto a beanbag chair, breathing heavily.
I spend a few minutes there, watching the shadows of the nearby skyscrapers shift in the morning light and feeling pretty good about myself. Sure, I’m still a meager gnat of a goddess, but I’ve just stolen my career back from under Finemdi’s nose. How many other gods can lay claim to such deeds? Now there’s just the question of escape … and this “other” Freya. I snagged her file from the printer on the way out; now might be a good time to review it. I lean over and pull it out of the commemorative Finemdi tote (I’m not kidding) Clark was kind enough to let me borrow. It’s no Kate Spade, of course, but I was feeling naked without a bag of some sort, and who knows what else I’ll need to carry?
Flipping through “Mistress Freya’s” file gives me chills.
This girl was apparently made by direct request from the highest levels of the organization. She’s worked for the chairman since she “reached cohesion” shortly after the destruction of Impulse Station, doing all sorts of busywork and staff coordination for upper management. She was built with those skills in mind using my intake profile and … orientation quiz?
“Oh come on!” I yell at the paper. Of all the poor decisions I’ve made, this is what comes back to bite me? I remember that test—it was meant to help Finemdi focus their efforts on “empowering” me, but I caught it for the trap it truly was. My answers for that thing were half joke, half misdirection, intended to keep from being targeted with their poisoned belief. Now I find they’ve used them after all, bundled them with brainwashed faith to forge a hateful copy of me, and for what? Do they do this with every god who slips through their fingers? Impossible. And she’s the chairman’s assistant?
“I’m a goddamn secretary?” I snap, working myself up.
There’s more, but I’m too annoyed. I stuff the papers back into the tote and fume for a few minutes, thinking it over. Part of me advises caution, tells me there’s a lot at stake, that bizarro Freya is, however enticing, simply a distraction. A much angrier part, on the other hand, demands I hunt this walking blasphemy down and beat the answers out of her. I mean, it’s just weird, right? I don’t pretend to understand Finemdi’s inner workings, but this—No, I have to find out what’s going on. The whole affair makes precisely zero sense. Sure, escape may still be my primary goal, but if I can get answers while I’m at it, then all the better.
First things first, though: I really need something to eat.
I get out of the beanbag with a groan, tilting myself onto the floor before staggering upright. For the zillionth time, I find myself yearning for the power of my glory days. Gods, did I take it for granted. Forget tweaking the minds of mortals like Clark; with my full suite of spells, I could’ve given Zeus a run for his money. At least things have gotten better. A year ago, this kind of effort would’ve put me down for hours. Now it just means I’m going to be a little wobbly for a few minutes.
Suitably reassured of my growing strength, I head in the general direction of the nearest elevator. I’m definitely shaky, but I’ll manage—especially after some breakfast. According to Clark, most gods hang out around the thirtieth floor, so that’s my destination. I figure I stand a better chance of enjoying my meal and overhearing something juicy about potential escape routes if I manage to lose myself in a crowd.
A few minutes later, I exit the elevator and begin navigating some rather lovely tiled corridors. Large marble planters full of flowers, carved columns, and tasteful art installations keep pace with me as I follow luxurious strips of malachite to what I hope is the lunchroom (one of the few tips I retained from my time at Impulse was that green lines lead to food and recreation). I soon pass through a bejeweled archway and step openmouthed into a landscape of mind-warping regality and wealth. I thought the retreat of the Graces was something special, but it’s a third-world flea market compared to this place.
I’ve entered a vast atrium, easily the size of several football stadiums. Rolling hills of fresh green grasses are dotted with soaring temples, sculptures, and mansions. Oaks, sycamores, willows, and more spread their leaves over sun-drenched ponds, while fish dart in the shallows, brilliant sunlight reflecting off their scales in sharp, beautiful flashes. Clear streams connect these glittering pools, filling the air with the sound of babbling water and giving purpose to several delicate bridges of hand-carved wood that join the wandering footpaths.
This serene park is surrounded by terraced hills of earth and steel. Outlandish homes and castles sprawl across the layers, their lawns intercut with gardens and waterfalls. Massive illusions coat the distant walls and ceiling, providing the artificial sun that crawls lazily through a bright blue sky and drawing the eye to far-off mountains and fertile meadowlands. Songbirds flit through the air on brightly colored wings, while exotic animals and creatures of myth stroll the grounds alongside their divine masters. Grecian temples sit beside Slavic fortresses, Shinto shrines, and more, each pantheon seeming to have carved a uniquely beautiful fiefdom for itself into the verdant landscape.
Our world has man
y gods. I know this intellectually, have studied the history of my kin as much as any scholar, and despite centuries of fog and befuddlement, I can still remember the names of hundreds. Even so, I have always considered us a rarity, jewels cast among the sands of an endless beach, and treat every encounter with one of my peers as a singular, remarkable event. It is this mind-set that makes the tableau before me all the more striking.
There are gods everywhere, dozens of living legends enjoying the riches of this artificial paradise. Dressed as I am by the Graces, I fit right in alongside what’s clearly a slim Greek majority. Most of their pantheon seems to have a place here, followed by a hearty assortment of European, Slavic, and Eastern gods, as well as scattered pockets from the Americas, Africa, and the Pacific. I even recognize a few transplants from Impulse Station, and—
“First time?” a voice asks in a friendly, rumbling Irish brogue.
I turn to take in my greeter. Leaning against a nearby column is a tall, well-muscled man. Unlike most of the style-impaired deities here (togas are so last millennium), he’s wearing a navy-blue tartan suit, which hangs open to reveal an ever-so-lightly rumpled white shirt and dark blue tie. His hair, shining golden locks kissed by a touch of fire, falls to shoulder length and frames a face of gleeful confidence and irresistible amusement. Piercing green eyes glow with strength and assurance, and his smile promises good-natured mischief and friendship.
“Lugh,” he says, springing off the column and approaching me with an outstretched hand. He pronounces it Lú in those rich Irish tones, and I feel a touch of pink creep into my cheeks as he clasps my hand in his. “Of the Tuatha Dé Danann. God of skill, mostly. Wee bit of the sun, touch of war, you get the idea.”
Oh, yes, I do.
“Freya,” I say, cranking my smile into the megawatt range. “Of the Vanir. Goddess of love, beauty”—he smirks at that and tilts his head, like it’s obvious—“war, magic, sex … you know, the good stuff.”
“That I do. So what brings you to our haven, sweet girl?”
“Is it so obvious?”
“What, that you’re new?” He laughs, and mimes a wide-eyed look of awe. “Everyone makes that face, the first time.”
“I was at Impulse,” I say, deciding to go with half-truths in case he’s good at picking out liars. “Finemdi caught up with me again, and here we are.”
“I was there!” he says, laughing. As he moves, I notice the flash of an ID badge clipped to his belt; looks like even gods get carded here. Something to keep in mind. “A very dramatic end. We’re all still wondering what really happened.”
“‘We’?”
“My kin and I. Banded together after Impulse collapsed, made our way here. Didn’t you—” He frowns. “Forgive me—I talk of my people, yet I’m not sure Finemdi has welcomed a scion of Yggdrasil before you.”
Wait, what? They’ve never had a Norse god here? I may have a high opinion of my pantheon, but that’s just odd.
Ragnarök, the Twilight of the Gods, may be playing a part here, of course, even if it didn’t precisely happen. As the foretold end of my pantheon, it’s supposed to come with all kinds of apocalyptic nonsense—a serpent rising, our sun devoured, armies of darkness, and swords brighter than stars searing all life from the world—but the only real outcome of that prophecy was the deaths of my most prominent peers, including my beloved brother, Freyr. As near as I can tell, the sheer strength of humanity’s conviction that Ragnarök had already happened erased my allies from existence … but that doesn’t account for all of us. Many went unmentioned in that tale, myself included, so I can’t be the first Finemdi’s found.
Either Lugh’s simply mistaken, or something strange is going on.
“I’m sorry?” I say.
“At least that I’ve seen,” he explains. His frown softens. “You must miss your peers. I have my doubts, entrusting our fates and faiths to Finemdi, but at least I can share them with kin.” There’s a ripple of sympathy and embarrassment in him, and his features turn sheepish. “I make a poor greeter, do I not? Please, join us, Freya. A guest at our hearth, a voice in our halls, a friend in our hearts.”
He holds out a hand, and I want so badly to take it. I mean, I do, reaching out with a smile and letting him guide me to the nearest sights, but I want it to be more than a gesture. In that moment I feel a tremendous sense of loneliness, of distance, because I know it’s only temporary. I can’t stay here, can’t let myself succumb to its tempting promises, but oh, how I wish for the freedom ignorance would bring. This place is nothing like Impulse. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I traveled with my peers, felt the joy of belonging, not just to friends and allies, but a pantheon? I could have a life here, could watch days drip into decades, relaxing in the shade of temples and men of marble.
And all I have to do is forget.
Since that’s impossible, I resign myself to playing the awestruck tourist, following Lugh to nearby sights of magic and miracle. I’m not going to lie—it’s amazing. There are stands of utopia trees, branches heavy with protean fruits of endless flavors, each promising a taste of joy from a new corner of the world. Pools of ambrosia ripple with iridescent immortality. Soul forges twinkle and pulse, creating, unmaking, and fusing all manner of birds and beasts for the curiosity and amusement of their masters. Miniature worlds twirl above manicured lawns, little globes of life growing, dying, and colliding in an endless waltz, eons washing over them in the blink of an eye.
There are temples greater than any man could build; impossible columns of forged light support diamond statues, plinths of typhoon stone hum with hurricanes of faith, curved fractal towers promise lifetimes of exploration, and more. These are not tricks, not illusions from petty charlatans like myself. They are the playthings of pantheons, the works and wonders of centuries, and I am humbled by their very existence. This is true power, the stuff of legend and myth made real, and I—
Stars above, I want it. This is everything we’ve been designed to desire, a literal heaven on earth, and it could be mine. Easily.
And I have to burn it, burn all of it with the single-minded fury of the Valkyrie. It’s built on a lie, one I cannot swallow, will never accept. Despite the joy I feel, the sense of purpose and community I’ve missed for centuries, I cannot open my heart to it, cannot allow it to exist, because war does not discriminate. I said I would torch the world if I knew Ares could be found among its ashes, and the same is true for Finemdi. I am sworn to their destruction, and if achieving that end means bringing down the walls of heaven, so be it.
Doesn’t mean I’m not broken up about it, though.
Honestly, I’m close to tears by the time brunch rolls around. The food here is heartrendingly good, a marvel on par with everything else I’ve seen today. Impulse’s offerings were basically three-star Michelin fare, but imagine what the greatest chefs in history can do when “magic” is an ingredient on their shelves. Zao Jun, the Chinese god of cooking, rubs shoulders with Hestia, Greek goddess of the hearth, the pair forging dishes of surpassing skill and spectacle from within a cavernous kitchen realm of their own design.
There are mimosas that taste of orange-tinted sunshine and starlight, sparkling in a glass. Juices that conjure images of summers without end, water chilled in the hearts of glaciers, cocktails infused with essences of desire and celebration. Actual cornucopias spill their contents across tables of living wood, impossible foodstuffs masquerading as mortal fare like it’s a continental breakfast on Mount Olympus. There are crepes as light as air stuffed with berries that ripen on your tongue, miniature loaves of filled bread, each ingredient the ideal temperature, meats crisped in ovens of eternal flame, their skins forever crackling with juices and memories of the hearth.
If food were music, this is the master symphony of an angelic choir.
“Not bad?” Lugh asks as I stuff my face.
“S’amazing,” I moan through a mouthful of pancake clusters, each a tiny cake elegantly layered with bands of syrup and pre
served fruit.
“One of the reasons we stay, honestly,” he says, taking a sip of something fizzy that churns with hypnotic swirls of purple and aquamarine. “The belief is nice, as is the chance to do some good in the world after all these years, but we are made for nature and the open road. The Tuatha Dé Danann do not require this … congress. We prefer lives of sharp pleasures and pains; solitude, battle, romance…” His twinkling green eyes flash to me. “They are better fierce, quick. Not muddled and drawn-out, like this.”
That gives me pause, and I grab a crème brûlée pig while I try to think of a proper reply. It trots across my palm, oinking happily, and I pretend to examine it with glee. Lugh’s words have the ring of truth to them, but I know Finemdi’s the real reason he and his kin can’t bring themselves to leave. That belief he mentioned? It comes with all kinds of strings attached. Finemdi’s masters know it shapes us, so they lace their offerings of faith with a compulsion to stay, to obey, to avoid rocking the boat.
Lugh is trapped, and he doesn’t even know it.
“So where do you go when wanderlust gets the better of you?” I finally ask, popping the pig into my mouth. It melts into a blanket of warm sugar and scorched custard, and for once I don’t feel bad about eating one of my beloved swine.
“Where else?” he says, surprised. “The Otherworld.”
I frown. Did I miss something in the employee orientation packet? “And that is … where, exactly?”
He laughs, happily and without malice, a joyous bark that makes me feel my confusion was more than worth it, if only to bring this charming man a moment of glee. “Here!” he says, sweeping out an arm. “There, everywhere. The Otherworld sits beside us, a bright mirror to these mortal lands. Tír na nÓg, our home, is but a part.”
Now that one, I know. “Oh! Like our Valhalla.”
“A touch. Ah, but you’re a little close to the afterlife for my liking. The Otherworld isn’t what follows death—it’s what escapes it. A place of undying summer and joy, of youth and beauty and—” He pauses. “Oh, but why not simply show you?”
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