Goddess in the Machine

by Lora Beth Johnson

  After a dinner with some of the palace dignitaries, Andra returned to her room almost too exhausted to look through the new crop of ’bots Kiv had left. It was eerie in a way she hadn’t realized the night before, a line of humanoid ’bots, eyes blank, holding spears. Only one was a mech’bot, but it didn’t have the programming she needed. It had been either created or updated recently. She checked the others for AI capabilities, but they were all standard ’bots.

  Andra powered down the last one and sank into her bed. This was completely inefficient. She should be actively searching, not waiting for the ’bots to come to her.

  Despite her exhaustion, she pushed herself up. She wasn’t a prisoner; she was a goddess. She could go out into the city and search for a ’bot herself.

  Tucked in the back corner of her wardrobe, she found dark, durable pants and a black shirt that was tighter than she was comfortable with, along with a sturdy pair of boots. She donned them, left her room, and ran straight into a dark figure in the hallway.

  They grabbed her wrist, and she jerked back, flailing, arm swinging out, and by some miraculous accident, it made contact. There was a crunch, a spray of blood, and the person—whom Andra now saw had broad shoulders and tousled blond hair—rolled to the floor moaning.

  Both hands covered his face, but it was unmistakably Zhade curled into a ball. “I think you broke my nose!”

  She let out a sigh of relief and rolled her eyes. “You’re fine, you big baby.” She wasn’t that strong.

  He sat up and tilted his head back, stanching the flow of blood with the sleeve of his jacket. “What an absurd insult.” It came out: What ad abturd intuld. “Would you hit a baby?”

  “If it were you, I might,” she said dryly.

  “Peacing somewhere?” he asked from the floor. She hadn’t encountered him all day, and it was an odd relief to see him whole and unscathed—well, except for the bloody nose—even if she was still annoyed with him for not being there when she was almost killed.

  “Uhhh . . .” Andra scrambled for an answer, but wasn’t sure exactly what Zhade would approve of. But what did it matter what Zhade approved of? “I’m going out.”

  “Out?”

  She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I’m not a prisoner.”

  Zhade stood, moving past her into her darkened room. He jostled out of his bloodied jacket and tossed it over the back of one chair, and then settled himself into another, his gold hair sticking out in a perfect mess. He raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  Andra looked around the room, grabbed her ’locket from the bedside table, and then clasped it around her neck. She gave Zhade a forced smile and started to leave, but he cleared his throat.

  “We had a deal. Goddess lessons.”

  She sighed. “Fine.” She drew out the word. “Where’s the piece of magic you promised me?”

  He nodded to the tiny circuit board he’d brought her last night. It was sitting, untouched, on her vanity. “One piece of magic for one goddess lesson. I brought that to you last night and you fell asleep while I was talking. I’m not certz if I should be offended or concerned.”

  Andra crossed her arms. “I doubt you’re ever either.”

  “Let’s peace.” Zhade stood. “You say you’re not actualish a goddess, but we have to hold up this ruse for time and a half, so your lessons start tonight. Wead’s waiting for us.”

  Andra was relieved. She would actually see Lew-Eadin and know for sure that he was all right, that she hadn’t accidentally killed him. She groaned though, just for show.

  Zhade put his hands up in protest. “I’m mereish trying to hold you alive.”

  She was going to argue that he wasn’t doing a very good job, but there was a tiny cough behind them, and a small voice said, “You’re not actualish a goddess?”

  Andra turned. Lilibet was standing in the doorway.

  * * *

  “Shut. up,” andra hissed as they sneaked down a secret passage through the center of the palace rock. It was dark and almost too narrow for Andra, and she kept feeling things skitter past her feet.

  “Sorries and worries,” Lilibet tittered. The vowel sounds had changed enough in the last thousand years that the words rhymed. “I’m mereish excited. I’ve never been a part of a secret scheme before! Plans, firm, but never a scheme. It’s nearish like we’re story heroes and, seeya, Goddess, you can trust me. Should I still call you Goddess? I should probablish still call you Goddess. Out of habit. I don’t want to accidentalish call you Andra afront of the Guv. It’s such a charred name, marah?”

  Her ramblings were muffled as the passageway got smaller and they had to duck and crawl single-file under a fallen stone archway.

  “It’s not too late to kill her,” Zhade said.

  “It’s not too late to kill you either,” Andra shot back.

  Zhade’s lips tightened, like he was holding back a smile.

  The passageway opened behind a faded tapestry in what Zhade said was an abandoned wing of the palace. He helped her to her feet, then Lilibet, whose incessant chatter trailed off as she took in the room they were now in. Her mouth fell open.

  The ceilings were high and arched. Glass skylights let in the stars and faint green aurora trails. Though the furniture was coated in dust, Andra could tell it was every bit as opulent as her own. A plush settee, a gilded glass table, an enormous canopy bed set on a pedestal. Like Andra’s room, there was a balcony on the far side. Unlike Andra’s room, it was boarded shut. Flickering candles lit the space, and something about being here in the candlelight, under the stars, with Zhade, made Andra blush.

  “This belonged to the First, marah?” Lilibet breathed.

  “Zhade! Andra!” Lew emerged from the shadows, alive and well, wrist flicking as he extinguished a match. His eyes fell on Lilibet. “And guest.”

  Andra nodded to the smaller girl. “This is my, uh, maid, Lilibet.”

  “Co-conspirator,” Lilibet corrected. “Spy for the rebellion.”

  Andra winced. “This isn’t really a . . . never mind.”

  Lew laughed. “Honors, Lilibet.”

  They touched palms, as she’d seen Eerensedians do in greeting.

  Zhade had warned her about Lew’s modded arm, but it still caught her by surprise. It wasn’t synthesized from organic matter, like most mods. It shone like the metal casing of a ’bot. Whoever had healed him had done an incredible job, but they were working without the entire history of human ingenuity to support their work. The word cyborg had never been used in Andra’s time, even with people who were over 50 percent modded. But with Lew and his metal arm, it was the only word she could summon.

  She felt a surge of guilt.

  “I’ll bring actualish lights next lesson,” Lew said. “Candles were the best I could do for today.”

  Andra made her way around the settee and threw her arms around him in a tight hug. He seemed surprised, but hugged her back.

  “I’m so glad you’re okay,” she said. “I mean, I’m glad you’re evens.”

  “Never better,” he said.

  Zhade coughed. “Candles will do. Is Doon coming?”

  Lew swallowed, pulling away from Andra, but not before she felt him tense. “Neg, she’s . . . busy with the Schism.”

  She had heard the word before, but she couldn’t remember the context. The way Lew said it didn’t sound nice. “What’s the Schism?”

  Zhade glowered. “Doesn’t meteor. They hate the goddesses and their magic. It’s something Doon shouldn’t be involved in.”

  “Who’s Doon?”

  “My sister,” Lew said.

  Zhade nudged Andra. “She thinks I’m charred.”

  “She doesn’t.” Lew rolled his eyes. “She’s twelve.”

  “I’ll let her down easyish.”

  Andra plopped onto a nearby sof
a, stirring up a cloud of dust. She tensed, until she realized it wasn’t a nano’swarm. “What are we working on today?”

  Lew handed her a small tablet. It glowed in the candlelight, and on it, Lew had typed a list. No, a schedule.

  “You made me a syllabus?” she asked.

  Lew pursed his lips. “I don’t reck that word, but I spoze.”

  Andra skimmed the tablet. The dates were unrecognizable to her—whatever calendar system the Eerensedians were using, it wasn’t one she was familiar with. Next to each day was a lesson topic: dining, religiful ceremonies, greetings, public appearances, etc. She glanced at the top of the list, the lesson that was scheduled for this evening.

  “Dancing?” She groaned.

  Lilibet paused her inspection of the room to clap and squeal.

  Andra tossed the tablet onto the couch and leaned her head back. “Why?” she whined. “When am I ever going to be dancing?”

  “Parties, banquets, festivals,” Zhade said. He was leaning against a tapestry-covered wall, arms crossed. He’d already discarded most of his guard accoutrements and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. “You are expected not sole to save the people, but to interact with them as well. That includes dancing.”

  “I can already dance,” Andra said.

  “Oh? Then show us.”

  Andra pushed herself to her feet and started a half-hearted group dance that had been popular when she was a freshman. Heel. Toe. Butt jiggle. Jump turn. Hands up. The next part involved her ’implant, so she just did another butt jiggle.

  “That was awful,” Zhade said.

  “You have . . .” Lew shot him a chastising look. “Space for improvement, Goddess.”

  Lilibet nodded sagely.

  Lew picked up what looked to Andra’s eyes like a guitar. Its surface gleamed, polished and cared for. He cradled it like it was a child and lightly strummed the strings as he sat on the nearby settee. His left hand was awkward, but the mod work had been good. He was acclimating to his new limb quickly. The sound he produced was higher than a guitar, the tuning of the strings somewhere between a jazz scale and an eastern mode. It was haunting and delicate, and the sound grew and shrank as Lew refamiliarized himself with the instrument. Then a song began to form.

  Something about it almost seemed . . . familiar. The rhythm, the short melody, and sparse chords. It almost sounded twenty-second century. It almost sounded like home. Then she realized—

  “Is that . . . The Sun and Other Stars by Vichey?”

  Her mother’s favorite song to work to, though she tried to hide it. Sentimental nonsense, her mother called music. She considered it a waste of time, but Andra couldn’t count how often she’d walked by her office and heard the four-note melody seeping under the door. If they knew the song here on Holymyth, a thousand years in the future, perhaps the First had been her mother, and she’d reintroduced it.

  Or maybe it was just an old folk tune now.

  Lew smiled over the instrument. “Zhade’s favorite.”

  He nodded to Zhade, and the prince stepped forward, arms outstretched, ready to dance.

  Andra hesitated, remembering the fake kiss in the hallway. “Could I learn with Lew instead?”

  Lew’s smile turned apologetic. “I never learned to dance.”

  “Much to Dzeni’s disappointment,” Zhade said.

  Andra could tell Zhade immediately regretted his words. The sadness in Lew’s eyes deepened.

  “And sides,” Zhade went on quickly, “even if Wead could skool you, I play the strings bout as well as you dance.” He gave Andra one of his rakish smiles and stepped toward her again. He was taller than she thought. She had to look up to meet his eyes. He placed her left hand on his shoulder, took her right in his, and then snaked his remaining arm around her waist, pulling her close.

  For a moment, Andra didn’t breathe. Her muscles tensed, and as Zhade began to lead her in the dance, she fought the urge to pull away. She fought the urge to lean in to him.

  One, two, three, four. She counted in her head, moving her feet as little as possible, letting Zhade guide her.

  She stared resolutely at a snag in his shirt. It was dangerously close to his revealed collarbone. The creak as Lilibet sank into a chair made her jolt. Zhade laughed, and pulled her tighter.

  “You look tired,” he said. His voice was soft. Their feet tapped against the marble floor. Andra could feel each individual finger on her waist through the thin fabric of her shirt. “Day and a half?”

  One, two, three, four. Such simple numbers, but she couldn’t translate them to her feet.

  “Just boring.” A waste of time. “And it’s tiring being nice and godly all day. Who knew being worshipped was such hard work?” Andra tried not to let the anxiety seep into her voice. “These were the First’s rooms?”

  “Firm.”

  “Do you think there’s anything left from her?” Any clue that the First could have been her mother. “Maybe an ancient angel? Like one of the Angelic Guards?”

  Zhade shook his head. “I already checked. Nothing left. Maret must have raided the room before he boarded it shut.”

  “Why did he close off this part of the palace?”

  “Probablish so he could forget what he did.”

  “What did he do?”

  “A lot of things.”

  “You’re always so cryptic.”

  Zhade smirked. “What’s this cryptic? I don’t reck this word.”

  “Means mysterious. It comes from a Latin word that refers to hidden caves where they buried their dead.”

  “Oh.” Zhade twirled her, her feet almost stumbling as the floor moved from marble to carpet, but he drew her back. “What does Latin mean?”

  One, two, three, four.

  “It’s an old language that—you know what, never mind.”

  Zhade laughed. “You gods and your languages,” he said, almost to himself. He nudged Andra. “No shakes, Goddess. Decide your fate. Do your best, and all happens evens.”

  “You mortals and your languages.” Her laugh caught in her throat.

  “For true. No shakes, Goddess.” Candlelight flickered across Zhade’s serious expression. “I reck you have fear, but all you have to do is sit there and look charred. For now.”

  “What’s charred?”

  A smile spread across his face. “Means beautiful. It comes from a Zhadian word that means absolutish delicious.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re a scoundrel.”

  “I don’t reck that word either, but it sounds like a compliment.”

  “Yeah, well, to you it probably would be.”

  “You reck you like me,” he said, his grin almost shy.

  One, two.

  “I . . .” She sighed. “ . . . hate you less than other people.”

  Three, four.

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “And I tolerate you.”

  He was so close, she couldn’t breathe. His eyes were not as brown as she once thought. A little bit of green lined the edges. There were the beginnings of crow’s feet at the corners, and a small scar at his temple that she could only see when they twirled into the moonlight.

  Lew-Eadin coughed. Lilibet snickered.

  Zhade and Andra pulled apart. He gave her a half smile and scrubbed the back of his neck.

  “Rare form, Goddess,” he said, looking away.

  For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Only tried to control the blush that was rising to her cheeks.

  “I don’t know those words, but they sound like a compliment.”

  Zhade grinned, meeting her eyes. “Oh, they are.”

  SIXTEEN

  THE LIAR

  The Goddess was a terrible dancer.

  Her movements were almost angelic: stiff and exact, but somehow the precision made her awkward, not graceful
. It was like there was a time chime ticking in her head, forcing her to stay on beat. There was no room for interpretation. No room for passion.

  At least in her dancing.

  The rest of her, though . . . the rest of her was passionate and smart and caring and—

  No distractions, Zhade reminded himself.

  He splashed cold water on his face, then leaned onto the sink and watched it drip off his cheeks, down the drain. He’d scuzed himself soonish after their dance and found an empty smallroom—one designated for the First’s servants. It was also the entrance to one of the tunnels he and Wead had used as boys to escape the palace. A series of loose tiles in the corner gave way to a trap door. It was now the easiest way for Wead to meet them, and the sole reason Zhade was evens with using the First’s suite for the Goddess’s lessons.

  The Goddess.

  His hand on her waist, her laughing at his jokes, relaxing into him—

  She’s just a tool. Just a way to get revenge.

  Neg. He had to be honest with himself. He was attracted to her. That wasn’t saying much. He was attracted to most people. It was more than that. She was kind. She wanted to help. She was funny. She was awkward, but in an endearing way, and she had a dimple in one cheek when she smiled full wide or pressed her lips together in exasperation.

  When he’d kissed her to shut her up, he’d wanted to keep kissing her. Just because he liked her.

  That was problemistic.

  She’s just a tool.

  It didn’t import that he liked her. There’d be others—there always were. Vengeance imported more than . . . whatever this was.

  He shut off the faucet and watched the last of the water swirl and vanish. There was no towel, so he wiped his face with his untucked shirt.

  No more lessons today, he decided. The rest of the night would consist of Zhade pilfering what was left in the First’s suite and then scoping out the Rock—watching, learning its rhythm, leading Kiv on a wild moose chase. He needed the Goddess far from him so he could get his head straightish.