Goddess in the Machine

by Lora Beth Johnson

  And he’d been doing this since he was a kiddun.

  A layer of dust covered the conduit—another small panel floating afront of him by magic. He didn’t stop to consider if the spell still worked—magic wore off sometimes; his mother had told him that. He placed his palm on the panel, and the platform began to descend.

  When he was a kiddun, this was how he would visit his father apalace. The magic lift and the connecting tunnel had been confidential, as had Zhade’s existence. Sole his fam, the Schism, and Wead—charged with his protection—recked who Zhade was for true. The bastard prince may have been a dirty secret, but his parents had still loved him, he spozed. Enough to sneak him in from time to time.

  It had been his mam’s decision not to tell anyone bout him. The blood magic had also been her idea. It sole worked for her and Zhade. Not even his father—and for certz not Maret—had access to this entrance to the palace.

  Zhade had been born first, but Maret had been born legitimatish. Their father had married for a political alliance—back then, Eerensed was just as vulnerable as any other city, if not bigger. They relied on angels for protection, but sorcers to translate were few and fewer, so Guv Reiden married Tsurina kin Anloch for her family’s sorcers and their absurd number of angels hoarded in Wastern caves. No one recked how the Anlochs had collected so many, but Reiden didn’t care where they came from as long as they held Eerensed safe. Certz, soon and sooner, the First awoke, and brought with her magic beyond anyone’s imaginings, including the gods’ dome. Tsurina’s access to sorcers and angels was no longer needed. And when the Guv fell in love with Zhade’s mother . . . evens, Zhade happened. Maret happened not too long after, the assumed heir to the throne, but not the true one.

  Zhade’s mam recked that if the citians ever discovered Zhade existed, he’d be at danger, so she hid him in the Hive with a group called the Schism. They were powerful Low Magic sorcers, and to be true, where Zhade learned most of his magic, though he told people it was natural.

  Part of Zhade wanted to run away to the Schism and never look back—even if they had betrayed him, they were nearish fam—but he’d promised his mother. Find the Third, protect her, don’t let Maret have the crown.

  The Silver Crown no one recked the origin of, but the power of which held such a terrible leader as Maret on the throne.

  The magic platform finalish reached the bottom of the abyss. Zhade stepped off into a tunnel and pressed his palm to the wall, relying on muscle memory, and then realized he was a few inches taller than when he’d last been here and adjusted. When his palm reached a certain spot on the wall, the tunnel magicalish lit with a series of torches, each one sparking to life after the other, down the passage til Zhade could no longer see them. He set off toward Southwarden, the route achingish familiar, even after four years adesert.

  The network of tunnels had been created from the excavated ruins of the civilization Eerensed was built upon, following the network of long-forgotten paths and roads. As a kiddun, Zhade would sometimes find artifacts that hinted at the ancient society—bits of metal and cords and glass. He’d had a stash of his findings in the Hive, but he doubted it was still there. Probablish divided among the Schism sorcers. Their protection had ended when his mother died—when Maret had killed her and banished Zhade, and the Schism had done nothing to stop it.

  He made his march through the tunnels til he reached the peacing that led up to Tia Ludmila’s house in Southwarden. From the outside, it looked like a sewer grate in her pantry, but it was actualish how Zhade’s mam would take him to see the old meddoc whenever he was sick or injured.

  He waved his hand, and the torches spluttered out behind him. Then he ascended a grimy ladder and lifted the grate. He moved it aside with a groan and dragged himself up, falling to a heap on Tia’s pantry floor. She was waiting for him, arms crossed, foot tapping.

  Tia was ageless in the way that she had always seemed ancient to Zhade. Her hair had forever been a translucent white, her skin always craggy. She offered him a brown-skinned hand, and for a moment, he mereish stared at it, confused.

  “Get afeet, boyo,” she snapped, her voice a low croak.

  She loomed over him, blocking his view of her pantry, but he could see the metal shelves were far from full bars stocked and dust clung to every surface.

  He finalish took her hand, and with surprising strength, she dragged him up. For a moment, Tia’s weathered face drew into a soft expression. She was the closest thing to a grandmam he’d ever had, and he’d missed her. She pulled her hand from his and swatted hers together as though she were dusting them off.

  “Fool boyo. Never had the sense of a skirl, darting front o’ carts and stopping mereish in time to be killed. Now go see that other fool one. He’s wellish. And I’m wellish too, thanks for asking. Now peace.” She jerked her head toward the back room where she saw patients.

  “It’s good to see you, Tia,” Zhade said. She grunted in response.

  Zhade was through the door when he heard her mumble, “Decide your fate, Zhade.” He grinned. That was exactish what he’d planned to do.

  He found Wead stretched out on a patient’s cot in the back. The infirmary was the largest room in Tia’s house, long and narrow like a hallway and packed with a line of med cots hovering over the dirt floor. There were no windows, sole flickering magic torches that cast Wead’s face into shadow. He had one hand resting on his stomach, and the other was made of glittering magic. Tia hadn’t regrown Wead’s arm—even magic couldn’t do that—but she had given him a new one. It resembled that of an angel, and was probablish as hard and cold as well. If it was anything like the other magic-made limbs Zhade had seen, it would click and whir and take Wead time and a half to learn to use. But Wead was alive and full well. And they were home.

  Wead opened one eye, and seeing Zhade approach, pushed himself up into a sitting position, the cot groaning beneath him. His movements were spry, natural. Zhade wondered if it would hurt Wead if he hugged him. Instead, he leaned against a med cart.

  “Where’s the Goddess?” Wead asked.

  Zhade picked up one of Tia’s conduits. It looked similar to the graftling wand. “Apalace.”

  Wead’s eyebrows shot up. “Alone? Is that wise?”

  “It was my decision, marah?” He set the conduit back, not meeting Lew’s eyes.

  “Hmm,” Wead said. “Rare point.” He stood, slowish, then stretched his new hand and flexed his fingers, awkwardish. “I’m magic-made now. Reck I’ll have powers?”

  It didn’t seem as though he’d almost died yesterday. There was no indication that his life had almost bled out of him, that the Goddess had used her bare hands to stop up the wound, that Zhade had driven the horse to near collapse through the Wastes, convinced it was too late, certz his friend was already gone, sunk into stardust.

  Zhade ran a finger through the dust on the med cart, searching for something to say.

  “Wead!” A high trill of a voice echoed round the room, and a bundle of ganglish limbs and dark curls bounded into Wead’s arms.

  “They said you were back, but I never recked . . . It didn’t seem possible . . . You . . . I . . . How . . .” She continued to mumble nonsense into his chest.

  She was taller than Zhade had memory, but she’d been eight when they were banished, and that would make her . . . twelve now. Wead could bareish rest his chin atop her head.

  “Heya, Doon,” Wead said, as he hugged his sister tighter.

  Their parents had died when Doon was mereish a kiddun, and Wead had practicalish raised her. If Zhade could bring himself to regret dragging Wead with him adesert, it would sole be because of the skinny dark-haired girl hanging on to the brother she hadn’t seen in four years. She pulled out of the hug, but held her hands clasped in his, jumping up and down and squealing her excitement. She caught sight of Zhade and stopped.

  “Ugh. You made it back too?”
She scowled.

  “Brought your brother back for you,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall.

  “Do you expect thanks? You took him away firstish.”

  “Doon—” Wead cut in.

  She turned back to her brother, as though Zhade weren’t even there. “Where are you staying? Does the Guv know you’re here? I have friends—”

  “Where’s Dzeni?”

  Her face fell. She still looked like a kiddun, her cheeks round, her forlorn expression almost a pout.

  “Is Dzeni evens?” Wead’s voice was frantic. He grabbed his jacket from the cot and moved toward the door.

  “Firm,” Doon said, stopping him. “Firm, she’s evens.”

  “Are you not . . .” Wead frowned. “I recked after I . . . I recked you would stay with her.”

  “I . . .” Doon’s gaze flicked to Zhade. “I stayed with the Schism. But that’s not . . . I haven’t for true talked to Dzeni since . . .” She took a deep breath. Let it out. “She has a kiddun, Wead.”

  “A—” Wead cleared his throat. “A kiddun?”

  She ran an unconscious hand through her dark hair, not meeting her brother’s eyes. “Firm. A boy. I don’t reck. I’ve seen her round. She’s always with someone. Cheska. Big boyo. A flamehead.”

  Wead was suddenish preoccupied with arranging his clothing: tucking in his shirt, straightening his collar. He picked at a hangnail. Doon was unnaturalish still.

  “Sorries, Wead,” Zhade said.

  Dzeni had been kind. Strong in a way most people overlooked. She was quiet, but had yelled at Zhade on more than one occasion for getting Lew-Eadin into trouble. She wasn’t imposing, but that somehow made it worse when he disappointed her. She and Wead had made promises just before he’d been banished.

  “Cheska was always a good man,” Wead said, dusting off his pants. “His shop did well. He’ll take care of her . . . and the kiddun—”

  His voice broke off and Zhade pretended not to notice.

  “Are you staying with Tia?”

  It took Wead a moment to comp Zhade’s words, but when he did, his eyes widened. “She’s terrifying.”

  Doon took his hand. The non-magic hand, Zhade noticed. “He’s coming back to the Schism with me.”

  “The Schism is not what it once was, tiny warrior,” Zhade said.

  She scoffed. “What would you reck bout it? While you’ve been four years adesert, I’ve been working for them.”

  For the first time, Zhade noticed Doon wore swords—twin curved blades, strapped cross her back, hilts glinting in the dim torchlight. And she hadn’t just gotten taller. She was still skinny and long-limbed, but she also looked strong. She’d always resembled her brother—the same bronze skin, the same tangle of dark curls, the same warm brown eyes. But now she also looked like her own person. With a story he recked nothing bout.

  Her brother had been surviving the Wastes the past four years. What had Doon been surviving?

  “And what is the Schism now?” Zhade asked.

  Doon gave him a withering look. “Wouldn’t you like to reck.”

  “Firm. I would. That’s why I asked.”

  Doon rolled her eyes. She was definitish starting teenish years. “We mostish provide shelter for refugees. And there are . . . other missions.”

  The way Doon said it, he recked she meant illegal or dangerful. When Zhade’s mother had been alive, the Schism had been more than a group of sorcers, but Zhade didn’t reck exactish what. His mam never told him much, and what little she did, he wasn’t allowed to tell his father. Zhade always assumed it was something subversive, something against the government. Reiden had been a mostish benevolent ruler (if somewhat oblivious), but now that Maret was Guv . . .

  After Reiden died and they came after Zhade’s mam, things in Eerensed got bad quickish. Maret was a massive sorcer, especialish with the mysteriful Silver Crown, but he was a dreadful ruler. He ignored what was best for the people, instead focusing on parties and appearances. He used up resources, leaving few for the citians. It was Maret’s fault the gods’ dome was failing. Maret’s fault there was sole one goddess left. Maret’s fault Zhade was an orphan.

  The Schism reacted by dedicating themselves to protecting their city from its guv. Zhade recked things had mereish gotten worse since he was banished. What exactish was his tiny friend-sister part of?

  “Where’s the Schism hiding these days?” Zhade picked up a palmberry that was no doubt meant for Wead from a nearby table and bit into it.

  “The easthand caves under the Hive,” Doon said. “It’s safe there.”

  Zhade doubted it. Nowhere was safe. Not anymore.

  “Good.” He pocketed the palmberry and switched it for the speak-easy he had stored there. He tossed it to Wead, who caught the small copper coin without looking. “Sorcered this from Fishy. You have memory of Fishy?”

  A smile tugged at Wead’s lips. It had been the angel Zhade’s mam had sorcered the most. She hadn’t named it Fishy—that had been a three-year-old Zhade. He was surprised to find it still apalace. He’d expected most of his mam’s things to be destroyed or . . . repurposed. He’d found most of her belongings missing, but there were a few things left Maret must not have recked the power of.

  Zhade nodded to the speak-easy—a flat metal disc bout the size of his thumb. “It’ll glow when we need to meet. Use the southhand tunnel. That wing is blocked off anow.”

  Lew-Eadin frowned, and opened his mouth to say something, to argue probablish, but Zhade cut him off.

  “We’ll need to polish up our new goddess. Make her shiny for the Guv.”

  Wead blinked slowish. “Has the Goddess agreed to this?”

  “Nearish.”

  He avoided Wead’s gaze. He recked what his friend would say—that they needed to tell the Goddess the full plan, the full story. But Zhade was too used to holding secrets—to having to—and he wasn’t bout to break habits now. Sides, even Wead didn’t reck the full truth—mereish the instructions Zhade’s mam had left, not how Zhade planned to fulfill them.

  “We march forward,” he said. “Make certz Maret trusts her.”

  “And the Guv’s mother?” Wead asked.

  Zhade shook his head. He had no proof, but he imagined Tsurina was the one who had killed his father. And it was her actions that led directish to his mam’s death, though Maret did the deed. Tsurina was unpredictable, and he’d need to take an eye out. He would feel more prepped if he could mereish determine what she wanted. People were so much easier to manipulate when you recked their wants. It was usualish something simple like love or power. But Tsurina seemed to need neither. She never had friends or partners. Even with Maret, she bareish seemed to care for his feelings. As for power, she could have easyish taken the throne instead of Maret, but she didn’t. Firstish, Zhade assumed Maret had held his mam from the throne using the Silver Crown, but now he wasn’t so certz.

  “We’ll watch her, but we need to focus on holding Maret happy and making the Goddess more goddessish.”

  He could tell Wead didn’t like it, but Wead didn’t like much, so he spozed the less happy Wead was with a plan, the more likeish it was to work.

  Wead gripped the coin in his magic-made hand before putting it in his pocket.

  “You brought back the Goddess?” Doon asked, eyes narrowing. “Which one?”

  “The Third. Why? Is there more than one?”

  Doon shrugged, but a harsh smile tugged at her lips. “There’s a rumor the Second is still alive.”

  Wead placed his natural hand on Doon’s shoulder. “There’s always a rumor. I wouldn’t hope. Fishes and wishes.”

  Doon gave them both a level look. “I reck if the goddesses skooled us anything, it’s that there are no fishes and wishes. Or hope.”

  Zhade didn’t disagree, but Wead looked like he was bout to a
rgue.

  Doon tilted her head to the door. “Let’s peace?”

  Wead nodded, then gave Zhade a sorries look before following her back to the tunnel entrance, Zhade on their heels. They said goodbye to Tia Ludmila and lowered themselves into the underground passage, but it diverged in two directions—one to the Hive, one to the Rock.

  “Tonight,” Zhade said to Wead. “Have memory of the speak-easy. It’ll glow when we’re prepped to meet.”

  Wead nodded. They clasped forearms and traded decide-your-fates, and Wead and Doon disappeared into the dark.

  Zhade twirled his own speak-easy round his fingers as he made his march back to the palace, plotting out contingency plans that accounted for Tsurina’s unpredictability and the Goddess’s misguidedness. He couldn’t let anything come between him and his goals. Maret had taken everything from him. Both his parents, the four years he spent adesert, and his throne. Sole one of those things Zhade could get back, and so he would. There was work to be done and fate to be decided.

  ELEVEN

  lacuna, n.

  Etymology: Latin lacuna: a hole, pit, anything hollow. Became synonymous with technology due to the prevalence of the Lacuna Athenaeum Corporation, a conglomerate under the direction of Dr. Alberta Griffin, which specialized in everything from cryonics to space travel to nano’meds.

  Definition:

  in a manuscript, an inscription, or text: a hiatus, blank, missing portion.

  the hole left by something missing.

  Andra was stuck in a loop. A recursive function swirling her from memory to memory. The third-grade spelling bee. Playing darz with Oz at the sim’porium on Twenty-sixth Street. Eating satay with Ah Ma.

  Her father, reading The Future’s Historians in his study, when she was eight. She hung in the doorway.