“And what are you doing?” Andra asked.
Skilla tucked her chin. “You saw the rocket. Speaking of”—she reached for a nearby tablet—“we’ll have to bump a few passengers. I assume you’ll want a spot reserved for Doon as well.”
“Bump a few passengers?”
Skilla handed Andra the tablet, and she took it without looking.
“Room for one hundred. Not a passenger more. If you want a place on the list, you’ll have to take someone else’s.”
She tapped on the tablet, drawing Andra’s attention down. It showed a list of names. At the top was Skilla’s, in angular, jagged lettering.
“So,” Andra said, looking up from the list, “by reserving a spot, I’m condemning someone to die.”
It didn’t seem fair. But it was exactly what Alberta Griffin had done. Andra hadn’t thought about it then, but that’s what the lottery had been—choosing whose descendants got to live, and whose would eventually fall extinct. The more she thought about it, the more she realized the colonists had been mainly middle- and upper-class. There were also tons of celebrities chosen for the Ark. CEOs and senators. Every single scientist at LAC. The random lottery hadn’t been random at all, and Andra should have seen it.
“Try not to think bout it,” Skilla said. “That’s what the First told me, anyway.”
Andra felt a surge of guilt, because not only did she want a space on the rocket, she also wanted spaces for Doon and Zhade and Lew-Eadin and Lilibet. It was a terrible truth that she was willing to doom others for the people she cared about.
“Zhade said you hated the goddesses,” Andra murmured. “That you hated magic.”
Skilla sighed and gave Andra a patronizing look. “Zhade says a lot of things. Perhaps he even believes some of them.” She stretched back, resting her head against the cavern wall. “We know the truth. Or at least, as much as we can understand. We know what the goddesses really are. We know what magic truly is. We don’t hate it. Or you. Or the other goddesses. We hate how the people see it.”
“Is it really that different?” Andra asked. “Magic or technology? Goddess or colonist? Isn’t it just a matter of terms?”
Skilla raised a sharp brow. “Terms can matter quite a lot.”
Andra supposed it was true. She wouldn’t be running for her life if these people called her Andra, instead of Goddess. The First and Second wouldn’t be dead if the Eerensedians used the word technology instead of magic.
“Who was she?” Andra asked before she could stop herself. “The First Goddess?”
“The First?” Skilla ran an unconscious hand over her ponytail. “She knew . . . everything. Our history. Magic. Things we’d forgotten. I was just a kiddun when she woke. My parents were low-level guards in the Schism. They died during a mining expedition, when pirates raided the party. The First took an eye out for me. She told me everything. Except bout herself.”
There was something tight in Skilla’s voice, and her gaze dipped down to Andra’s birthmark. It was her proof that she was the Third Goddess, but just then it felt like condemnation. She was going to let them down the same way the First had.
“Her name?” Andra asked. “What she looked like? A pic?”
Skilla frowned, a tiny wrinkle appearing between her eyes. “No name. As for what she looked like? She was tall. Her hair was silver. She kept it long, but always complained bout it.”
“Did she have a scar?” Andra asked. Adrenaline coursed through her.
“A scar?”
“A jagged one. Running down her cheek?”
Her mom had gotten it when something had gone wrong with their AI—the first Isla created. It malfunctioned while learning to cook and accidentally sliced Isla across the face with a carving knife, the wound too deep to ever fully fade.
Skilla blinked. Andra held her breath.
“Neg. No scar.”
It was like a punch to the gut. Andra’s breath left her in a whoosh, and she felt the world tilt beneath her.
“Are you evens?” Skilla asked.
“Yeah, fine,” Andra muttered, but she wasn’t.
She hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted her mother to be the First until now. Until she had proof it hadn’t been. Not that she wanted her mom to have been separated from the rest of their family to live in this terrible world and die a horrible death as a sacrifice. But if her mother had been the First, then that meant all this wasn’t random. That there was some reason for the three goddesses to be left behind. That this was a mystery Andra could solve and the solution would give her purpose. But no. It had been chance. She had been misplaced. Forgotten. There was no reason she was here, no significance. It was a stupid fluke, a joke of the universe, that Andra was here and she was the one who had to save what was left of humanity. It was all just chaos.
“Perhaps you should go lie down,” Skilla said, and Andra nodded absentmindedly.
She turned to leave, but then a shrill alarm sounded, echoing through the cave. Skilla jolted to her feet, grabbing a nearby battle-ax in one swift movement.
“Stay here,” she said, and left without a backward glance.
Andra hesitated. The alarm could be nothing—it could have some secret meaning only the Schism knew—or it could be everything. After all, Skilla had grabbed a weapon. Andra felt the tug to help, but she wasn’t a fighter. She peeked out into the hallway. Nothing but flickering torches.
She stepped out of Skilla’s room just as the alarm cut off. It was replaced by screaming, the sounds of laser’guns and a stampede of footsteps. Instinct told her to run, but as she turned, a shadow wavered in the torchlight. A figure emerged, flanked by spear-wielding ’bots.
He was dressed in a midnight robe, his hair slicked back, the look in his eyes wild, and on his temple shone the crown.
“Hello, Goddess,” Maret said.
Andra ran.
There was only one route away from Maret, and it was toward the screaming, toward the main cavern. She wasn’t a fast runner, but Maret didn’t seem to feel the need to hurry. As she closed in on the main cave, his footsteps faded, overtaken by the sounds of a battle. She darted out of the narrow tunnel and was surrounded by chaos.
The coppery tang of blood filled her nostrils. Pandemonium swirled around her. Someone screamed a few yards away. People were scrambling for tunnel exits, but each was guarded by an army of ’bots. All mech’bots like Andra’s, except these were designed for war. They held out their spears, skewering anyone who got too close. The few people armed were easily overwhelmed. A couple rushed past Andra, hand-in-hand, and darted into the tunnel she’d just come from.
“No, don’t!” she shouted, but it was too late.
A sound of impalement. A scream. And then the scream stopped. Maret was coming.
She had to save the rocket.
It was a bizarre thought—it seemed to come out of nowhere—but it pushed Andra forward. There had to be some sort of defensive program she could engage that would protect it. She darted through the chaos, tripping over fallen kiosks and bodies, slipping in pools of blood. Her vision narrowed to what was in front of her, highlighting the path she had taken with Skilla just a few hours ago. She ignored the screams, ignored the gore. Her lungs burned, and her side started to ache.
A ’bot came at her, swinging a sword. She ducked, but knew it wouldn’t be enough. It was coming too quickly, she was moving too slowly. She fell to the ground and the sword stopped centimeters from her neck.
Andra gave herself a single second to breathe, then scrambled out from under the blade. She didn’t let herself look for Maret, but he must have been close. He had to have stopped the ’bot from killing her, but she knew it wasn’t mercy that stayed his hand.
She kept moving, trying to lose her pursuers in the chaos, her focus narrowed on the tunnel that led to the rocket. She’d almost made it, when she saw
something that stopped her.
Doon.
She’d forgotten all about Lew’s little sister, but the girl was fighting her way through, swords out, her face a mask of concentration. She twisted between ’bots, dodging each of their blows effortlessly. She jabbed a sword into the skullcap of one while fighting a second. She kicked the ’bot back, pulled her sword out of the first, and then brought it down, decapitating the second with a crossed slash of her blades. The ’bots sparked and their eyes blanked as they fell to the ground.
“Doon!” Andra yelled. The chaos was too loud. She tried again, her throat burning. “DOON!”
The girl stopped. They made eye contact. Doon’s blank expression turned to horror half a second before Andra felt stabbing pain through her arm. She dropped to her knees. The pain was all-consuming.
A soldier stood over her—human, not ’bot. His actions weren’t controlled by Maret. They were his alone, and his eyes were bright with bloodlust. Andra didn’t know if he recognized her as he raised his sword. Before he started his downward swing, a blade burst through his chest, bright with blood.
The soldier looked surprised, then the light left his eyes and he dropped to the floor. Doon stood behind him, her expression unreadable.
She dragged Andra to her feet and led her to the tunnels.
Andra’s mind blurred with pain. Doon was saying something, but Andra could only focus on what was ahead of her. They hit a fork in the tunnel, and Doon started to pull her the wrong way.
“No,” Andra wheezed. “I have to get to the rocket.”
Doon looked confused, but nodded. She stood like a warrior. “Go, I’ll hold them off.”
“No, you have to get out of here!” Andra pushed her toward the exit, the small movement sending her into a rush of dizziness. She was still losing blood.
Doon watched her for half a second, then nodded. “I’ll lead them away. But hurry.”
“I will,” Andra said, and then they darted in different directions.
Andra stumbled almost drunkenly, having to catch herself against the craggy walls. She held one hand to the wound in her arm, pushing herself forward as though she could escape the pain, escape the threat of passing out.
She burst into the cavern, but she was too late.
Flames traveled the length of the rocket. Sparks burst, and with a deafening groan the nose of the rocket broke off and crashed to the floor. Andra felt waves of heat. Her lungs filled with smoke. If she didn’t get out of here, she would be caught in an explosion.
She turned and ran.
She felt lighter. Thinner. The world was growing dark.
She pushed herself forward. Forward.
There was only instinct and will, and the narrow bit of light her eyes could take in. She stumbled, and fell straight into something solid.
It was a person. A man. A guard. He held her, his grip gentle but firm.
“Andra.” A voice. Familiar.
She forced herself to look up into his face, and she recognized him. Blond hair sweeping into rich brown eyes. A smattering of scruff. The small scar on his forehead. A wave of relief washed over her, so strong she wanted to cry.
Zhade’s mouth was set into a grim line, and he avoided her gaze.
“I found her,” he said to someone behind him. “Throw her in a cell. And tell the people to prep for a sacrifice.”
Pain overtook her, and everything went black.
TWENTY-NINE
cell, n.
Definition:
a room where a prisoner is kept.
a small unit serving as the nucleus of a larger political movement.
also: can refer to the grave.
Andra woke in the same cell Doon had occupied just yesterday. The pile of rags she’d mistaken for the girl still sat in the corner. It was cold, damp. A monotonous ping of water dripped somewhere, but Andra couldn’t find it. A small flicker of light drifted in from the kinetic torch in the hallway beyond the dungeon door. All she had was a cot and the pile of rags, and a bucket—which she was determined not to use.
She shuddered, trying to shake off the cold. The wound where she’d been stabbed throbbed. Her bicep was bandaged, so they must have taken her to a med’bot while she was unconscious. Couldn’t let her die before they killed her.
She was still woozy from blood loss, and the only thing she could focus on with any clarity was Zhade’s betrayal.
He had led Maret right to her. To the Schism. And though Andra had seen many of them flee, she’d also seen a good number dead on the cavern floor. She didn’t know if Doon had truly escaped or the fates of Xana and the general.
All those people. Maret had killed so many.
And Zhade had let it all happen.
Her stomach cramped as she thought of all the stupid little moments she’d read too much into. The kiss in the hallway that had been no more than a strategy to shut her up. Dancing in the First’s suite, which had only been goddess lessons. Saving Doon, just to immediately send Maret after them. He’d told her that very first day that she was a bargaining chip, nothing more than a means to an end, and she’d ignored it.
She couldn’t even be angry. Just ashamed. Zhade was only ever being Zhade, which is to say, he was no one at all. He was what the moment called for. She’d known and ignored it, saw motives that weren’t there, because she was so damn desperate to be seen.
No, she wasn’t angry at Zhade. She was angry at Alberta Griffin. She was angry at the cryo’tech who froze her. She was angry at her parents—for wanting to go to Holymyth in the first place, for not ensuring she got on the spaceship with them, for living the rest of their lives without her. Angry that she had never been enough. Angry that she felt like she had to be a goddess to be important.
She pulled the ’locket from under her shirt. It was broken beyond repair. It hadn’t been designed to last a thousand years. Her memories were trapped inside a cheap plastic shell, right under her fingers, but completely out of reach.
She’d taken for granted her life on Earth. It wasn’t perfect. Her family was distant—all except Oz. Andra had never lived up to her mother’s expectations—not in her personality or her body or her brain. But she had a comfortable, privileged life that would have continued if she’d actually gone to Holymyth with the colonists. Whatever her future would have held there, it wouldn’t have been a cell and execution.
She tossed the ’locket away, a uselessly defiant gesture that she immediately regretted, because a hand shot between the bars of the adjacent cell and grabbed it.
“No!” Andra said, scuttling over to the bars. “Give it back!”
“Ahee kin prawbublee feksit.” The voice echoed in the dark, sandpaper and glass. “If thuh kumpohnints arnt kurodid.”
“What?” Andra said. “Give it!” She thrust her hand through the bars, twitching it in an impatient gesture, only to have it slapped away.
“Bee payshint.” It was a thin, fragile feminine voice, and with a start, Andra realized she wasn’t speaking gibberish.
Andra understood the prisoner, but she wasn’t breaking through a barrier of a new accent. She was remembering an old one. Hers. The girl in the cell was speaking Andra’s language. Perfectly flawed twenty-second-century American English.
“Oh my god,” Andra breathed. “Oh my god. Who are you? How are you here?”
The girl was silent.
“Who are you?” Andra demanded. She snaked her hand through the bars, feeling around the floor. She heard the prisoner scuttle back, out of reach. “No, wait! Please. Wait. Who are you?”
The sound of scrambling, then silence. Not even a breath.
“Please,” Andra asked the darkness. “Please don’t leave me.”
Water was dripping onto the concrete, and another prisoner clanked their chains. A muddy silence.
Then: “Rashmi. I’m Rashmi.”
“Rashmi.” Andra said her name like a prayer, but then suddenly realized she’d heard that voice before. “Rashmi? Rashmi what? Rashmi Bhatt? It’s me. It’s Andromeda. Isla’s daughter. From LAC. Do you remember? Do you remember me?”
Could it possibly be Cruz’s girlfriend? Dr. Griffin’s intern? Andra never thought she would be so relieved to hear her voice.
The prisoner was silent for a moment, then spoke in a whisper. “Rashmi Bhatt.” She sniffed. “I think. I think that’s me. It’s been so long. Sorry, I’m not at my best at the moment. I think I’ve gone a bit insane.”
Andra waited for her to laugh off the statement, soften the earnestness in her voice, but she didn’t. Andra’s heart pounded, a dizzy sensation spiraling through her extremities.
“Oh my god. Rashmi. It’s Andra. We met a few times. Cruz’s friend. One of the other colonists. Remember?”
“Colonists?” Rashmi asked, and Andra could almost hear her memory starting up again. “Oh. Yes. That’s what they called us.”
Andra was plastered to the cell bars, stretching her fingers out. She wanted to see Rashmi, she wanted to touch her. Rashmi was from her time. She’d known her. Not well. But still. Andra wasn’t alone.
“How long have you been here?” Andra asked.
“Too long. They don’t know what to do with me. I don’t make sense. So they keep me here when I’m not in use.”
There’d been two others—two others like Andra. Left, forgotten, goddesses. The First’s execution had been public, but the Second’s hadn’t.
It was Rashmi. She was alive, and Andra wasn’t alone. Maybe she knew why they’d been left. Maybe she knew where the AI was.
Rashmi whispered something Andra couldn’t make out, then louder: “I thought I’d imagined it. I thought I’d dreamed it all up. Maybe I’m still dreaming. We don’t dream, you know. It’s just glitches.”
Goddess in the Machine Page 27
