Goddess in the Machine

by Lora Beth Johnson

  Andra was suddenly aware of all the ’bots stationed around the room. The handful of guards were dangerous, sure, but it was the ’bots that frightened her. The guards had minds of their own, free will, and they might think twice before murdering a goddess. The ’bots, however, had no autonomy. They were merely extensions of Maret’s every whim.

  His fingers brushed against the ’dagger, but skipped over it to reach for a bottle of liquor instead.

  “I did nothing,” Maret said, unstoppering a crystal decanter. His voice was bored, patronizing. He poured the brown liquid into a glass. “It was the stardust, the angels, the will of the goddesses.” He nodded toward Andra, rolling his eyes. “You must have wanted them dead, or you would have stopped it.”

  “You think I don’t know my own mind?”

  Maret smirked. “Do you?”

  “You were heard screaming,” Tsurina said, her voice a hypnotic purr, somehow both rich and thin, quiet and strong. “The maids rushed out of your room, and when a guard went to investigate, you were found lying unconscious on the floor. We were protecting you, but it is unfortunate you had to witness the incident.”

  “Unfortunate? The incident?” Andra snapped, the numbness fading and anger rising in its place. She gripped the edge of her chair cushion. “Were they given a trial? What were they even supposed to be guilty of? If the guards were so worried about me, why did no one wake me up to see if I was okay?”

  “That’s not how things happen here,” Maret said, shoving a glass in her direction. She wrinkled her nose at the sharp scent. “Justice and punishment happen quickish. The gods’ dome mereish sustains so many people. We can’t allow thieves and murderers to take the place of good people. Innocent people. Your maids died so you and your . . . friend”—he glanced at Zhade—“could live here.”

  Andra didn’t know how to argue with people like this. All she wanted was to stay alive long enough to find a mech’bot and an AI, and then get off this planet. Whatever had happened since the colonists had landed, whatever their descendants had become, it was warped and inhuman and evil, and Andra wanted no part of it.

  Maret gave her a pitying smile. “Soze you see my side.”

  “They should have been given a trial,” she said, her voice small. She crossed her arms over her stomach. “Why kill them? If you’re so worried about the population, why not just make them leave the ’dome?”

  Maret clenched his jaw and looked down at his drink, his face red.

  “Mercy,” Tsurina answered. Her elbow rested on the armrest, her long nails skimming her cheek. “You’ve seen the Wastes. It was kinder to give them a cleaner death. An Eerensedian wouldn’t last a turn outside the gods’ dome.”

  “Scuze,” Zhade said, gesturing to himself.

  “You’ve always been the exception,” she said, her tone light, but teeth bared. “For many things.”

  “The exception, and exceptional.” Zhade winked at Andra. Her cheeks burned. How could he be so cavalier after what happened?

  Maret ignored him, but his expression was taut. “It’s my job to hold the citians of Eerensed safe, to hold as many of them alive as possible. You haven’t been here time and a half, but you’ll lose that naivete soon and sooner. Sacrifices must be—”

  “I can fix the ’dome,” Andra blurted, a half-baked plan rising in her mind. This was a risk. She didn’t even know what was wrong with the ’dome and definitely not how to fix it, but if she played this right, she wouldn’t have to. “I just need something in return.”

  Maret frowned. “An offering?”

  “Goddess,” Zhade cut in. He placed a hand on her forearm in warning.

  She pulled away. “No, not an offering.”

  “Then what?” Maret asked, running a hand through his hair. The white-blond locks were starting to fall into his eyes. “You have the ability to fix the gods’ dome, but require something in return? Are you holding our lives hostage?”

  “No!” Andra felt a surge of guilt. “I just need to inventory the, uh, magic of the angels . . . All the angels in the palace. Their magic can . . . supplement mine to fix the ’dome. But I don’t know which ones. So I need to . . . check them.” She inwardly cringed and hoped it didn’t show on her face.

  Maret’s eyes narrowed. “The other goddesses didn’t need angels to do their work for them.”

  Andra swallowed. “The other goddesses left you a faulty ’dome. Maybe they should have.” Was that sacrilege? Did it count as blasphemy if she was a god herself?

  If she’d offended them, they gave no indication. Tsurina only coughed, and asked, “How much time will this take?”

  Andra sucked her teeth and shrugged. “It depends. On the angels. On the state of the ’dome.” On how long it takes me to find a mech’bot to build me a shuttle and an AI to fly me the hell off this planet.

  “You will have other responsibilities, Goddess,” Tsurina said, and though her tone was polite, her eyes blazed. “The people will want to see you. There will be ceremonies and meetings and—”

  There was a thunk as Maret slammed his glass down on the table. Liquid sloshed onto his hand.

  “For certz she can have a bell each day, mother,” he said through gritted teeth. His hair was no longer slicked back, but hanging in strands across his face. “Between bells after dinner. We will do what we can to help you.”

  His words were for Andra but his eyes were on his mother. There seemed to be a struggle of wills, and then Tsurina sighed.

  “Certz,” she said, her smile slow and disconcerting. “I’ll have Kiv bring a selection of angels to your suite after dinner.”

  “Thank you,” Andra croaked, but she got the distinct impression that she wasn’t actually getting what she wanted.

  “Perhaps”—Tsurina stood, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a cloth napkin—“the Goddess should be cleaned up before her Awakening Ceremony.” She eyed the bloodstains on Andra’s clothes.

  The dismissal was clear. Andra wanted to keep arguing, to keep pushing. Nothing had been solved, and she felt like this conversation was setting a dangerous precedent. She should demand more time with the ’bots, free rein of the palace, no more killing. But Zhade nudged her arm.

  “Time to peace, Goddess,” he said. “You have a ceremony to prepify for.” He stood and offered Andra his hand.

  She ignored it but stood as well. “It seems I have a lot to prepare for.” She gave an awkward curtsy.

  Maret’s smile was a sneer. “Decide your fate, Goddess.”

  Andra nodded. She would have to endure goddess lessons and political negotiations, but eventually she would get out of here. Deciding her fate was exactly what she planned to do.

  * * *

  Andra sat at a small table in her room, the balcony doors thrown wide and a breeze rustling her hair as she picked at her food. She moved her eggs from one side of the plate to the other in a way that would have made her mother snap when Andra was younger, and then, once Andra started gaining weight, would have left a glint of relief in her eye.

  Andra needed to eat to keep her mind sharp. It would be easy to wallow in grief, but there were things to do if she wanted to survive. As long as Maret believed she was trying to fix the ’dome and Zhade believed she was trying to get him the crown and the Eerensedians believed she was a goddess, she would stay alive.

  She needed her strength. So she ate.

  A ceramic plate stacked with flatbread had been waiting for her when she got back to her room, along with an egg bake and reddish vegetables she didn’t recognize. So had Kiv. He stood stoically by the door, his eyes never meeting hers. Even when Andra mumbled under her breath, “I don’t eat with murderers watching,” Kiv didn’t even blink.

  Andra was trying the pot of tea—it was cold, and she wished she could have used her ’implant to command the kettle to heat some more water—when there was a knock a
t the door. Before Andra could answer, a girl with brown skin and long dark hair waltzed in.

  “Goddess,” she said, her voice breathless. “I’m Lilibet.” She bowed her head, dipping into a swift curtsy, then teetered as she rose. “Your new maid.”

  The girl was shorter than Andra, and skinny as a rod’bot. Her bronze skin was flushed, and a tiny hoop pierced her left nostril. When she smiled, she revealed a row of crooked white teeth, her tongue pressed against them as though she were holding back a squeal.

  Andra wanted to tell her to leave, to run as far as she could. But if she dismissed her, and with Kiv watching, the girl might end up with the same fate as the other maids. Her dark hair hung to her waist, swaying as she skipped over to the table. She poured Andra some more tea, overflowing the cup when she noticed the guard standing silently by the door.

  “Hi, Kiv!” Lilibet waved. Her cheeks darkened in a blush.

  Kiv didn’t respond, only stared at her with an intensity that made Andra want to step between them. His eyes narrowed, his dark complexion deepening. He nodded. Just once. The maid lowered her head shyly, biting back a smile.

  “I priorish worked akitchens,” Lilibet said, taking away Andra’s eggs before she was finished and replacing them with flatbread. “Mainish stirring stuff—seeya, stews and things. It was always full hot, because, seeya, it’s fire. And you don’t for true get to dress nice, and I like dresses, and so when they said they needed maids for you, I volunteered soon and sooner, but they didn’t pick me, but then this moren, Tarna said they needed someone else, and I begged and begged and begged, and they let me, and gave me this dress, and it happens so charred, marah?” She twirled for Andra. It was a simple white smock. “And to say truth, I imagine Tarna was glad to see me go, because she recked I talked too much.”

  Andra’s eyes were wide, chin tucked.

  “I’ve never seen a goddess up close before,” she continued. “My fam worshipped the Second—neg offense—but I never got to see her. Except for the monies. One time, I got to hold a Silver Second because I was scrubbing dishes out back and a man said to give it to Tarna for—evens I don’t have memory for what—but I took it to her. I didn’t hold it for myself! But I did look at the pic of the Second on the front and then made a sketchings of it and then stitched it in a leftover burlap from the kitchens and sent it to my fam. They like my stitches.”

  Andra wanted to ask what the Second looked like, but Lilibet kept going.

  “I sole saw the First once. And I’ve never seen a Gold First, but I don’t reck it has her pic. I heard stories she recked the monies were silly. Will you let them put your face on Bronze Thirds? Or maybe the Celestia? Evens, I reck that would be charred either way.”

  By the time she was done with this speech, she’d rearranged the plates half a dozen times, and Andra had only gotten the most cursory taste of each dish before they were stacked back on the silver tray. Lilibet looked so pleased, Andra couldn’t bring herself to say anything. She didn’t feel like eating anyway, though her stomach rumbled as the maid took the tray to Kiv.

  “Out, you spoon,” she said, swatting him with her free hand.

  His eyes narrowed at the contact, and Andra braced herself, but after a tense moment, he took the tray from Lilibet, and left without a word.

  She called, “Bye, Kiv!” as the door fell shut, then turned to Andra, placed a hand on her hip, and pointed to the washroom. “We need to clean you. Your dress for the ceremony happens to come soon.”

  “Dress for the ceremony?”

  Lilibet frowned. “It happens”—she made an ambiguous gesture with a dainty brown hand—“like a religiful occasion—”

  “I know what a ceremony is. Why do I need another dress? Isn’t this my banquet dress?” She picked up the gauzy clothing Zhade had pulled from the wardrobe, displaying it for Lilibet.

  Its delicate fabric must have cost a fortune. This wasn’t something ’bot-made. There were too many imperfections, the fabric too sheer—a synth’bot would snag and tear right through it. Someone, not something, had made this.

  Lilibet laughed. “Neg, you spoon. That’s a day dress. The stitchers are still working on your Awakening dress. All night. All day. Seven stitchers all at once. I asked to be a stitcher before you came, even though the stitchers only made stuff for the Guv, and it happens all black, always black, and that’s so boring.”

  She pulled a pair of long sewing needles out of the ends of her sleeves, as though she’d hidden them like weapons.

  “I practice, seeya. Stitch, stitch, stitch.” She made a sewing motion with the needles, then jabbed one in Andra’s direction. “Now, into the bath, Goddess. Tonight, you shine.”

  * * *

  When Andra finished her bath, her new clothes were waiting on the bed. Cream-colored leggings adorned with delicate gold lace, a matching sheer skirt, and a beaded bodice that wrapped around her torso in such a complicated fashion, Lilibet had to help. The lace was scratchy, and the beads made the whole thing heavy. The fabric was much too clingy, but at least the dressmakers had gotten her size right.

  The evening’s ceremony sounded exhausting, though Lilibet chatted about how amazing it would be and how she wished she could go. It sounded like Andra just had to stand there and be prayed at. After what she’d seen this morning, she wasn’t too keen on the idea. But she just had to get through the Ceremony and the following dinner, and then she would have an hour all to herself to sort through ’bots. Of course, then she would have to go to Zhade’s stupid goddess lessons, and then start everything all over again the next day.

  “There,” the maid said, as she placed the last pin in Andra’s hair.

  Andra sat in front of her vanity and Lilibet stepped back to admire her own handiwork, holding up a mirror so Andra could see the back. “I recked I would make a good maid. I did my sister’s hair before”—her ecstatic expression faltered for a moment, but she recovered quickly—“before I came here. I told Tarna I’d do better higher on the Rock. I’m a waster at stirring stews. They forever burn on the bottom. And then, I have to scrub the pot too. I happen small, certz, and I have to climb into the pot to scrub it. I recked one day they’d forget I was inside, and serve me as the day’s stew.”

  She giggled, but Andra was too busy looking at the design Lilibet had pinned into her hair to respond. She’d woven strands of synth’hair and golden twine into Andra’s own locks, twisting and pinning until she’d created a single design in gold, against Andra’s naturally dark hair.

  It was a starburst, twelve lines spewing from the middle, each a different length. And suddenly, Andra recognized the same design everywhere. Sewn into the stitching on the bedspread, hewn into the marble walls, carved into the wooden furniture. And now Andra realized what it was, and why it was all around her.

  They’d re-created her birthmark.

  “Do you like them?”

  Andra jolted, realizing she’d been staring at the starbursts for far too long.

  “The Celestias?” Lilibet said the word with a hard C. She pointed to Andra’s collarbone, where her birthmark was hidden under the gown.

  Andra swallowed, nodded. “Yeah, they’re great.”

  Lilibet looked satisfied, and then reached into a drawer in the vanity. “One last thing,” she said, and pulled out a cos’mask.

  Andra deflated. She hated ’masks. They were fine when you used them like Oz (like Oz used to, she reminded herself)—just for fun, pretending to be his favorite character or laughing at a lion’s face superimposed over his own. But when they were used like this—to fix her—it was just a reminder of all the ways she wasn’t good enough.

  “Where did you get that?” Andra asked.

  Lilibet pointed at the drawer.

  “No. Before,” Andra said. “Where did it come from?”

  Lilibet blinked. “The angels,” she said simply, placing the cos’mask on
Andra’s face.

  ’Bots making ’bots. An endless cycle of technology creating and repairing itself. The same function of technology that allowed a thousand-year-old ship to orbit in perfect condition also made it possible for the Eerensedians to keep using technology even though they couldn’t create it. The technology sustained itself. Though it seemed that some of this tech had been created by the other goddesses or . . . whatever Zhade was.

  “You’re a . . . sorcer,” she said, remembering the word Zhade had used.

  Lilibet giggled. “Neg, you spoon. The spell’s already inside.” She pressed a hidden button on the side of the ’mask.

  Afternoon light shone in from the balcony as Andra watched the ’mask scan her face, and then seamlessly transform it into sim-star perfection. Vanishing blemishes, evening her skin tone, thinning her brows. It took what it thought were the best aspects from either side of her face and transferred them to the other, making her features nearly symmetrical. It was only an illusion—one that would fall apart the moment someone got too close, but from a distance Andra looked nothing like herself.

  Lilibet didn’t seem to notice her disappointment. The maid droned on about stitching while she helped Andra into her silk slippers, sash, and fur cape.

  It wasn’t long before Zhade returned, sauntering in with his hands in his pockets, not sparing Lilibet a glance as her wide eyes flitted between Zhade and Andra. Though there was curiosity on her face, there was no recognition. He was just a guard to her. His true identity must have been kept a tight secret. Lilibet curtsied and scurried out of the room, leaving Andra alone with the bastard prince.

  He was clean-shaven, his uniform pressed. He had all the accoutrements now: breastplate, saber, dust-colored pants tucked into recently shined boots. His hair was still a mess, but a nice mess. He held his shoulders back, standing tall, and his face was set in a grim expression, even as his eyes twinkled.

  “You look like a real Eerensedian in those clothes.”