Goddess in the Machine

by Lora Beth Johnson

  She noticed he’d grown slim, losing muscle mass, despite now living in relative comfort. His hair had been getting lighter, turning almost white. Was he stressed? Was he eating enough? She didn’t want to be thinking about Zhade right now—who cared if he was wasting away, when she had been left. She scuttled out of his lap and sat next to him, silent. He let her, without comment.

  There was a good view of Eerensed from where they sat, the river cutting through, the winding streets sprawling toward the palace. Her mind kept overlaying the city she knew on top of the city in front of her. That wasn’t a row of houses—that was the drone field where Oz played. That wasn’t a market square—that was the Academy. That wasn’t the palace—that was the Vaults.

  The Hell-mouth was Earth, and Eerensed was Riverside. All this time, she’d been trying to get home, and she was already there. Her city. Her planet. This was no longer some strange world across the galaxy. This was the remains of everything she’d ever known.

  Her family had left her behind.

  Andra huffed out a long breath. “We should go back to the palace.”

  She stood, wiping the sand from her pants, and caught sight of the mech’bot Lew-Eadin had given her just a little while ago. The mech’bot that was going to help her build a shuttle. Its polished surface gleamed, its LAC marking stark against its black paneling. It was useless now.

  “For certz.” Zhade scratched the back of his head. “Soze, I’ve been snapping a few pieces of information together, and—”

  “I thought I was somewhere else.”

  “Firm, oddish I did reck that.” Zhade tapped his finger against his temple. “Not just a charred face.” He nodded toward the statue of Alberta Griffin, his blond hair falling into his eyes. “Soze, do you reck him? I’m mereish asking because you broke the poor man’s nose. Just broke it clean off. Seeya, the stone is old and fragile, so don’t get full egotistic bout it.”

  “Her. And yes. We met a few times. She deserved more than a broken nose.”

  What should Andra even do now? She had nowhere to run, and even if she escaped death at someone else’s hands, when the ’dome failed, she’d die alongside everyone else.

  Zhade pursed his lips. “Evens. Evens . . . Soze, you’ve been full vague bout all this and, seeya, that’s your prerogative as a goddess, but if you want to tell me anything . . .”

  The wind picked up, stronger than should have been possible inside a fully working bio’dome. From here, Andra could see the palace, teetering on the rock, the city in its shadow. There was an AI somewhere in there, she was sure of it. An AI that could fix the ’dome, and protect Eerensed. Riverside. Her city.

  This was her home now, whether she wanted it or not. Where she was worshipped as a goddess, whether she wanted it or not.

  So much had been decided for her. What did she have left to choose for herself? How could she decide her fate?

  “I want you to take me back to the palace,” she said.

  Zhade groaned as he got to his feet. “Evens then, Goddess. Firstish, let’s figure a way to hide that wishmark.”

  She looked down. There was a gash through her birthmark, where one of the men had cut her. She’d wanted rid of the unsightly mark, but this seemed an extreme solution. Now, it was her proof that she was a goddess—or at least, the same girl who’d lain for centuries in a box—and she couldn’t go around flouting its injury.

  Zhade helped her to her feet and led her toward a stone bench at the water’s edge. There had been a hover’bench about two meters to the left during her time. The mech’bot trailed over without being given a command, ready to be of service. If it had been a med’bot, it could have done something about their wounds, but its fingers weren’t fine enough for delicate work.

  The river lapped against the bank, giving off the scent of fish and algae. Across it, there had once been a park, a few restaurants clustered nearby. Sometimes her mom would work late, and they’d meet her for dinner at the sushi restaurant. During the summer, she and Oz would race drones there. The memories blurred, running together like dyes bleeding through cloth. She was having trouble focusing. Perhaps she’d lost too much blood.

  Zhade helped Andra onto the bench, surprisingly gentle. Instead of pulling away, he paused, his arms caging her in. His gaze started at her temples, but then shifted across her face—her eyes, her nose, her chin, then ended on her lips. She held her breath. Zhade leaned closer, and lifted one hand to her cheek, and—

  Ripped off the cos’mask.

  She’d forgotten she was wearing it. Her cheeks heated, and Zhade did a poor job of hiding his smile. He hummed to himself, turning the ’mask over in his hands, then held it up to Andra’s collarbone, right above her birthmark.

  “This will hurt, but we need to cover the wound til we get an angel to heal it.”

  She nodded, wincing as he pressed the ’mask to her skin. Once the edges had faded to a thin line, he started programming away the blood and superimposing the birthmark as it had been before being slashed. The fit wasn’t perfect. The mesh screen was designed to be flexible, but with faces in mind, not collarbones. It was too large for her birthmark, and the holes designed for eyes, nose, and mouth roamed, trying to find where they were supposed to be, until Zhade finally programmed them away completely. The mesh melted into a single round ’mask.

  “How did you do that?” she asked.

  “I keep telling you I’m a sorcer,” he said. “This is what we do.”

  Even Andra, brilliant as she was at technology, didn’t know how to do that. She hadn’t even known it could be done.

  Once the fake birthmark was in place and the lines of the ’mask had faded, Zhade stood and nodded at his work.

  “Evens. Time to sneak you back apalace.”

  She took a deep breath and nodded. She would go back to the palace. She would inventory her resources and count her assets. She would make a plan. Then, she would be a goddess.

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE DIRTY SECRET

  Zhade was going to kill her.

  The air was damp and chilled as he hurried through the underground tunnels, scratching at the wound on his face. He’d seen an angel as soon as they returned apalace, but what he for true needed was Tia Ludmila and her med sorcery. Guards sole had access to small-magicked angels, and he would have a scar if he didn’t see Tia soon and sooner.

  He’d left the Goddess in her tower, warning her to stay apalace, and then marched forward straight to the tunnels. He felt the need to hurry. Who recked what the Goddess would do in his absence? What had she been imagining? Wandering acity alone? Thank sands Wead had sent him a message. Zhade had bareish gotten there in time.

  His speak-easy had gone off in the middle of training with Kiv. He’d had to fake an injury and semi-fake losing the sparring match so he could find her. Wead’s message said the Goddess had left the palace. Alone. In the mid of the day.

  He was going to kill her.

  If someone else didn’t get to her first.

  His plan had been sloppy; he knew that now. By tracking the tiara he’d given her, he’d overestimated her attachment to her divinity, assuming she’d be like the other goddesses—reliant on symbols of power. But she never wore the thing, so he’d need a better method of tracking her soon and now.

  Zhade quickened his pace, his footsteps making heavy thuds, his armor clinking. His nose crinkled at the smell of mildew in the air.

  The one good thing that had come out of the Goddess’s little day trip was that Zhade had chance to listen to pieces of convo as he passed through the city. Rust had grown on his Common Eerensedian, but he had memory enough to comp the people were growing impatient. The Goddess had promised (or the Guv had promised on her behalf) to fix the gods’ dome, but it was still weakening. As the ley lines grew, so did their fear. Most of what Zhade overheard was frustration, but some of the citians already had
anger with their new Goddess for not acting full quickish.

  And Zhade had memory of what happened to Goddesses who didn’t do what the people wanted.

  Zhade recked it was going to be an issue eventualish, but they’d been here all of what? Less than a moon? He needed a plan if he was going to save the Goddess from sacrifice. The Third Festival was in a turn—eight days. Good sands, would she not even last til then?

  He needed a miracle. And there was sole one place he recked where to get one.

  Zhade headed toward the Schism, going faster and taking less care than some of the more unstable sections warranted. Hardcrete crumbled neath his feet and he bareish caught himself as he edged round a sinking hole. The tunnel forked, and he hesitated sole a moment before taking the path veering southeast. He hadn’t gone this direction since before his mam died. Even with the Schism coin heavy in his pocket, he wasn’t certz he’d be welcome.

  He had to try, though. His need was dire. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have risked leaving the Goddess alone. For the first time in four years, he would seek their help. He would ask the people who betrayed his mother for a miracle.

  Wead met him before he reached the entrance, walking briskly, his magic hand gloved. He looked healthier than he’d ever looked in the Wastes—dark curls curlier, rich complexion richer—but his full demeanor had changed. Adesert, he had something he was trying to get back to. Now, Zhade wasn’t certz what Wead had.

  “You’re for certz you want to do this?” Wead asked.

  “When am I certz bout anything?” Zhade held back his irritation at Wead for letting the Goddess leave the bake shop alone, for getting her an Angelic Guard—which was full obvi counter to Zhade’s own plans. “You know I mereish make stuff up as I march.”

  “Firm. I do.” Wead sighed, and there was more than the norm resignation in it. Zhade didn’t have time to ponder why. They’d reached the entrance to the Schism.

  He tightened his grip on the coin. “Prepped?”

  “Neg.”

  They entered the cave.

  Since the days Zhade’s mam had been a part of the Schism, they’d met in secret. Mostish in homes, but then later, in caves located off the tunnel system that ran under Eerensed—the ruins of the civilization Zhade’s mam told him bout. Now, the Schism was located in a cavern that had once been too dilapidated to live in, but was currentish teeming with life. Despite Doon telling them how strong the Schism was, Zhade was surprised at how many people there were.

  As big as the cave was—and it was the largest Zhade had seen—it was overcrowded. People were everywhere, spilling into the space like water in a pot. Wood and metal structures formed markets. Magic orbs lit the space. People called to one another across makeshift paths. There was a full city under Eerensed, and no one recked.

  “Bodhizhad kin Vatgha.”

  He winced at the sound of his full name and reluctantish turned toward the familiar voice. He’d expected some kind of welcome, probablish guards or soldiers. He’d hoped for a parade. But it was mereish the universe being a giant fraught that it was Skilla meeting him. Doon had said she would set up a meet. He imagined she meant with someone in the Schism, not with the Schism itself.

  “Skilla,” Zhade greeted her through gritted teeth.

  She strode toward him, decked out in fighting gear and weapons, her raven hair pulled back into a high knot atop her head. Her cheekbones could cut glass, and she was full charred in the most intimidating way possible. A few people at a nearby stall stared as she passed.

  She was several years older than him, and his mam had relied on her, confided in her in a way she never did with her own son. It still singed Zhade that his mam had chosen Skilla to prep for leadership, while she’d trained Zhade as nothing more than an amateur sorcer. She’d left Skilla a veritistic empire, and to Zhade, she’d left an obscure message bout saving the Goddess and a few worthless hand-em-downs. In the end, Zhade was the one carrying out his mam’s legacy, while Skilla sat hidden with her cadre of Low Magic sorcers.

  She was flanked by two people—Doon on one side, and the woman he’d seen at the Goddess’s Awakening Ceremony on the other. Her magic eye gleamed against her dark skin, her face smooth, expression blank.

  “I have something of yours,” he said, tossing the Schism coin, watching it flip a few times before catching it. He did it again, but this time, quick as a sandstorm, the girl snatched it out of the air.

  “Took you time and a half,” she growled, teeth bared. Her magic eye was trained on him, and could probablish target the exact location of his heart and the speed and trajectory needed to throw the coin and kill him instantish.

  “Xana,” Skilla snapped, and immediatish the girl went still. She looked around. Several people were watching them. “Let’s get away from this crowd.”

  She nodded to a nearish alcove empty of people. It was nothing more than a smallish round room carved into the wall of the larger cavern. The rock ceiling didn’t look full stable, but Zhade followed her there anyway.

  “So you’ve finalish come to visit us,” she said once they were out of the main cave. It didn’t allow much privacy—there was no door—but the curve of the walls made it easier to hear. “What do you want, Zhade?”

  That was a loaded question. He wanted to go back in time and make certz the Schism didn’t betray his mother. He wanted to never have been banished. He wanted the Goddess safe. He wanted to decide his own fate. He wanted.

  “What do I want? You’re the one that left me breadcrumbs.” He nodded to the coin in Xana’s hand. “Seems likeish you wanted something from me.”

  “We never want anything from you, Bodhizhad. We were checking on you out of respect for your mother.”

  Zhade’s anger rose hot. “For true? You for certz didn’t show her respect when you helped Maret kill her.”

  If Skilla felt anything at the accusation, she didn’t show it. “We did nothing.”

  “Exactish. You did nothing and let her die, when you had resources to stop it.” He gestured to the cave beyond, bright with magic, and filled with people.

  Skilla took a deep breath, but it seemed less that she was calming herself and more that she was waiting for Zhade to do so. She raised her eyebrows as if to say, Are you done? “If this is the sole reason you came, the meeting is over.”

  This was one of the things that irked Zhade bout Skilla. She always played the role of emotionalish-detached leader. As though emotions weren’t full useful. His mam had been like that too, and it made sense she would bond with Skilla more than Zhade, who saw feelings not as a hindrance, but as a tool.

  He tried to mimic Skilla’s stance, arms crossed, feet shoulder-width apart. “Did Maret hire you to kill the Goddess?”

  Skilla’s poised exterior came down mereish long enough for a burst of laughter. “Why would you imagine that?”

  “Your charling here was at the ceremony.”

  “So were a lot of people,” Xana snapped. Her magic eye went red.

  Zhade ignored her. “You don’t exactish have a crystal record when it comes to goddesses.”

  Skilla gave him a pitying look. “We may have been at differs with goddesses in the past, but that doesn’t mean we want the Third dead. And we would never work with the Guv. Everything we do is to take down that monster.”

  “You swear?” Zhade asked.

  Skilla sighed. “If you don’t believe me now, why would you believe me if I swore?”

  “Rare point.”

  Zhade scratched the back of his head, considering the evens and odds. It was true the Schism had turned their back on him. They’d been his home, his fam for so much of his life, and they’d done nothing to stop his mother’s murder. They’d refused to hide him when it became obvi Maret would banish him. They’d shifted from a group of secular sorcers practicing Low Magic to some sort of rebellion. But if Maret was for true the
ir enemy, that meant they could be useful. He didn’t have to trust them to use them.

  “I need your help,” he said.

  Skilla cast Xana a sidelong look like they were sharing a joke. Xana seemed pleased.

  “That must have been hard for you to say.”

  “Neg. Super easy. I didn’t even have to practice. Not like I would have to if I was saying, oh, seeya, I forgive you or I won’t kill you the firstish I have chance.”

  Xana’s eyes narrowed, hand going to her sword, but Skilla nodded, as though she were expecting this, and let out a sigh. “If you hate me so much, why come here?”

  “I brought the Third back from the Wastes.”

  “So I’ve heard. Were you expecting a parade?”

  “For certz, but that’s not why I’m here. The people are growing restless. They expect the Goddess to perform miracles, but she’s not like the others. She’s magicless.” He paused to let that sink, but Skilla didn’t react. “I’ve seen her do two miracles, and she didn’t reck she was doing either. Both times her life was at danger, and during the second one . . .”

  Zhade hesitated. He wasn’t certz how much he should reveal to Skilla bout what had happened in the Small Wastes. He hadn’t even told the Goddess his theory. She’d killed the man. Choked him and slit his throat. It had to have been her. It for certz wasn’t Zhade. And though he was full grateful she’d saved him, he recked the Schism wouldn’t feel the same, considering she’d ended someone’s life. He had to take full care what he told them.

  “ . . . during the second miracle she controlled the stardust, but it was sole because she was holding this.”

  He took the icepick dagger from his pocket. It must have had something to do with what happened at the Small Wastes, the Goddess using it like some sort of conduit. When his mam had given it to him, he’d assumed it was for his own protection, but maybe it was for the Third. Maybe his mam had sorcered it for her. He didn’t comp how or why it worked, but considering how close his mam had been with Skilla, maybe the Schism General did.