Rage of the Ancient Gods

by Craig Robertson

  “Okay, time to boat this marlin,” I said as I stood.

  “Love, a few questions. What boat? What marlin? What did I do to deserve you?”

  I kissed the top of her head. “The metaphorical boat, an equally metaphorical fish, and because you were a good girl in many previous lives.”

  “So where are we going to do what?”

  “I'm going to add the last push to get our plan over the wall. I'm going to meet with Vorc.”

  “And the reason your much better half isn't accompanying the worst negotiator of all time at the most critical juncture would be?”

  “You're a distraction.”

  “I'll take that in its most positive sense.”

  “No, seriously. Vorc hates me straight up. I can use that to help massage him and win the battle of wits.”

  “So you want to be alone to massage him. Is it you don't want me to witness where you'll be rubbing vigorously?”

  “Oh you've got a potty mouth, girl. If I had time I'd wash it out with soap.”

  “If you had time and three helpers maybe.” She gave me a Kaljaxian war growl. It was really cool. Really scary too.

  “You're too nice. He'd try and be polite, win you over and in so doing attempt to bypass me.”

  “You know at age two billion, I thought I'd been the recipient of every curse there was. Then—bada bing, bada boom—I get Ryaned again. I'm too nice? How is that theoretically possible?”

  “Oh get over yourself, nice person. Like I said, I want to leverage his loathing to help …”

  “I know. Sexually gratify him.” She stuck out her tongue.

  I replied in kind. Then with my elbow fully flexed and my finger just in front of my mouth, I pointed at her. “And I'm serious about that soap cure.”

  “Anything us little-brains can do while you're off saving the day and relieving Vorc's pent-up tension?” asked Toño, who'd been sulky quiet up until then.

  “Well, the little lady can stay as cute as she is,” I replied, cupping her chin.

  “I wish I could still vomit,” she said while my hand was still conspicuously close to her mouth.

  “That's what I'll do. I'll work on an algorithm so we can vomit on him upon his triumphant return.” That Toño. Real funny guy.

  “At this point, my merry band of coconspirators, there's not much else to do. If we can't get Vorc to commit to repair the intermixers, we're looking at a series of lesser choices.”

  “And to think that children reading this fairy tale in the future will learn that the only man—neigh—force in the universe able to save said universe was the most forceful soul, none other than … can I get a drumroll, please,” coughed up Al like a hairball.

  A roll from multiple snare drums was heard.

  “Pilot General Jon “Ryanmax” Ryan, DDiv., BMF like Shaft, and slumlord of the eighty-nine thousandth century. Now go to bed, you brats.”

  I clapped slowly.

  “Why thank you, Pilot. I thought that was fairly rich myself,” said half my ship's AI.

  “No, I'm clapping because you're done, pickle dick.”

  “Form One, as it is always my duty to keep you correctly informed, I must disabuse you of thinking my spouse has a pickle dick,” responded Stingray with devout sincerity.

  “Rim shot. What kind of dick does he have?” I tried to sound like Groucho Marx.

  “He is inorganic. He possesses no physical anatomy,” she replied flatly.

  “Ah, Stingy baby, that's not funny. If you're coming to a knife fight, bring a knife,” I scolded her.

  “I wouldn't know about that, Form One. But if my Al was coming to an allegorical enormous dick fight, I swear he'd win. He'd beat you by a country mile, and I do mean mile. Can I get a rim shot, please.”

  Naturally a loud snare drum rim shot was blared.

  I was surrounded by idiots. I loved 'em, but I hoped they'd never find out. “On that lowest of all possible low notes, I'm outta here,” I said, and I left.

  **********

  “Master Vorc, there's an …”

  “No, do not under penalty of a tragically premature horrific death finish that sentence. Yesterday you said what I think you were going to say, and two sequentially worse nightmares visited themselves upon my peace of mind. Turn around and leave.”

  “Certainly, sir. Ah, what shall I tell Ryanmax?”

  “Okay, you had to complete the message, didn't you?” He picked up a quill. “I'm writing on my desk calendar to begin the interview sessions for your replacement the day after tomorrow.”

  “Why then, if it is pertinent I know, sir? Wouldn't it be more time efficient to begin tomorrow?”

  “No, tomorrow's no good for me,” he replied, wagging the quill at the calendar. “Tomorrow 's packed. There's the killing you in the morning, your flaying in the afternoon, and the dispersal of your ashes by quitting time. Nope, day after tomorrow's the best I can do.”

  “Very well. What shall I tell …”

  Felladonna tumbled forward to the floor as I shoved past her, opening the door. “Am I eligible to apply for that plum job, Vorc? I'd love to work one-on-one at the feet of a master dickweed.”

  “I did not give you permission to enter.”

  “Yeah, I heard you trying to get the girl on the ground to blow me off. She didn't make it that far. Hey, as to the killing and flaying, is it okay if I park a food truck nearby? I bet that spectacle will draw quite the hungry crowd.” I rubbed my palms together in anticipation.

  “I return to you a series of nos. No you may not come in. No I do not wish to speak to you . No you cannot bring a food truck, whatever the devil that is. And no.”

  “What was the undirected no at the end there?”

  “To whatever you say subsequently.” He grinned maliciously.

  “Do you mind if I leave and never return?” I asked with a similar grin. “No? Okay, then I'll stay and chat.”

  “Have I mentioned that I hate you?”

  I tapped a finger to my chin. “Thinking back here. Give me a sec. There was the … no, you never actually said hate, did you?”

  “Stop. I'm losing my mind. I hate you. There, it's official.”

  “I feel better. Are you going to sign like a royal decree or something? I'd like that in writing if possible.”

  He rubbed his face with what seemed to me uncomfortable vigor. “I am not royalty. I'm just the center seat. My decrees are administrative only.”

  “Ah,” I responded, sounding impressed. “I'm royalty, you know?”

  “Didn't know. Don't care. Hate you.”

  “Yeah, my cousin was Duke Ellington. My maternal uncle was the Count Basie. And my favorite cartoon character as a kid? Witch Hazel. Ah, she wasn't royalty, but she was damn funny. I just thought you should know in case you were wondering.”

  Vorc's unsteady hand fumbled with the Fire of Justice. He dropped it twice, once all the way to the floor. When he could finally hold it aloft he spoke in a nervous, choppy voice. “Do you know what this is?”

  “No,” I marveled as I angled my head to appreciate it fully. “But I want one.” I deployed my probe fibers and snatched it from his hand.

  What are you? I said in my head. Electromechanical rod designed to discharge one point two one gigawatts of electricity in a linear fashion from the red terminus. Composed of …

  Abort. Can it be disabled?

  Affirmative. The electric couplings can be easily broken. Pending detailed repair the unit would remain …

  Abort. Do it and confirm.

  Device is now nonfunctional.

  “How dare you,” bellowed Vorc. “Give me that.” He lunged across the table and snatched it back. “I have half a mind to use it on you for that affront.”

  I leaned the chair back on two legs and put my most challenging, badass grin on. “Go ahead.”

  His head recoiled. “Beg pardon?”

  “I said go ahead. Give it your best shot.”

  “That's it? I get to kill the mo
st significant boil on my backside and it actually invites me to?”

  “Sure, why not? Of course there's a but.”

  “Somehow I knew there would be.” He scowled.

  “If I live, you hear me out.”

  He smiled and giggled in eruptive fits and starts. “That's it? I'm all in.”

  “Me too.” I tapped the center of my forehead. “Maybe aim here.”

  “No need. This puppy spreads out to fit the task.”

  Wow, I'd never heard such an evil laugh in person as the one he issued forth. I know I'm reaching way back, but if you recall Ted Danson's evil laugh in the TV show The Good Place, then you got the picture [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qSiEwtlQHCI for those curious].

  To my absolute approval, nothing happened when Vorc jerked at the button. What followed was kind of comical. He pushed the spot several times, harder each repetition. Then he swore quietly. He tapped the rod on his desk and directed it back at me, pumping the button. Nothing. He swore loudly. Then he did what all idiots throughout time and space did when their weapon misfired. He stared with one eye down the barrel. He even pushed the button while looking in. I could hardly contain myself, but I did. He rapped it hard against the side of his table and looked down the chute again. What a moron. I heard him mumble damn thing worked fine the other day. Presumably because that memory was so vivid, he slapped it with one hand, pounded it on the desk, pointed at me, and pressed one last long, hard time.

  He rested it gently in its holder. “Now, what may I do for you today, Ryanmax. I'm all ears.”

  “Why thank you, fearless leader.”

  He puzzled briefly then put his business face back on.

  “I'm here about Beal's Point.”

  “Ah. To confess?”

  “Not hardly. I heard there's a movement afoot to repair the damn place.”

  “I'd hardly call it a movement. More a few drunks thinking they have one cogent thought.”

  “Oh yeah? I heard you have one of their tee shirts.”

  “Me?” He pressed hard on his chest. “Are you in… No, of course you are. We know that. Don't be ridiculous. I do not favor the rapid repair of Beal's Point, and I do not own a tee shirt supporting that dubious cause.”

  “Are you being totally honest?”

  “Yes, of course. Why would you even question that fact?”

  “Because I'm serious and you’re a politician.”

  His fingers began to tap the desk top with irritation. “I am not a politician. I serve our people for some brief period because I feel it's my duty.”

  “Spoken like a true politician. Anyway, my point is this. I think we should tear the rest down before we consider repairing any part of that abomination.”

  “You do realize what you're saying borders on the sacrilegious? There are more than a few statues up there to persons who voiced similar opinions.”

  I shrugged. “I couldn't care less.”

  “Bold words. Perhaps too bold.”

  “Lighten up, Francis. I'm of a mind that DS'll be up and running before you know it. Then we'll all be gone for a very long time. With any luck you and I won't cross paths for eons.”

  “DS?”

  “Dominion Splitter, DS. Come on. Vorc, everybody calls him that.”

  “Him? Since when does it have a sex?”

  “Probably the last time you did. Long time. Way back.” I wafted a hand over a shoulder.

  His face pruned up so cute. Mechanically he began to force words out of his mouth. “So you favor not wasting time or effort on repairing the monuments at least until we return. Fine. You've delivered your message, made your point, demolished my day. You may leave.”

  “Not so fast, bucko. I'm the one who risked whatever your tube was supposed to do to earn the right to speak. I'm not done speaking.”

  He slumped. It was so satisfying to see.

  “What else might you wish to say?”

  “That's better. First, I want your assurances no repair work of any kind will be done for the foreseeable future.”

  “First? You mean there's more than one thing left?”

  “I haven't actually counted them, but yes.”

  “Ye gads. This is turning into a brutal day.”

  “Be that as it may, psycho, we're here to listen to my problems, not yours.”

  “Please proceed.” Then his body kind of convulsed. “I mean proceed. No please intended or implied.”

  “Are you done whining, you pathetic little man? I may be immortal but I don't have time to waste on you.”

  He gestured that I should proceed.

  “Do you promise?”

  “That no repairs will take place?”

  “Yes. And no crossed fingers behind your back. No crossed toes either.” I did the I'm-watching-you-think with my fingers just to really get under his skin.

  “You are so odd.”

  I cleared my throat.

  “No, I cannot promise you anything. I answer to the conclave and the council. As such you are one member. I do not answer or reassure you individually of anything. Is that clear?”

  “Then I'm not leaving.” I crossed my arms resolutely.

  “Don't be such a baby. Look, I could simply promise you something and not do it. You know that, right? I'm trying to be honest. I have no idea why I'm trying to be fair with you, but I am.”

  “Yeah, makes me kind of suspicious, doesn't it?”

  “I couldn't, to quote you, care less.”

  He sort of shook his body. Oh yeah, I was getting to him. Oorah.

  “I'm curious. I hate myself for it, but I am, so you force me to ask. Why do you care one way or another about the repair status of Beal's Point?”

  I set my index finger on my chest. “I don't.”

  He fluttered his eyes then left them shut. In my considerable experience bugging the crap out of people, that was a good sign so early into our torture session. The king still had his mojo.

  “If … if … if you don't care, w … why are you here, hmmmm?”

  His left eye began to twitch involuntarily. Outstanding.

  “It's personal.”

  There, he almost started to hyperventilate. Oh yeah, daddy like.

  “Wh … what is personal?”

  One of his hands was trembling, I was sure of it. #gooddjobme.

  “My reasons for not wanting the monuments restored at this time.”

  He opened the drawer of his desk and fumbled for something. Not finding it, he tried another drawer. He didn't locate it. He stared to one side and up, mumbling, “It has to be in here somewhere.”

  ”What're we looking for, boss?”

  “Oh, not sure you know it. It's called the Fire of Justice. I use it to disintegrate people and things.”

  I pointed resolutely to the rod in its mounts on the desk in front of him. “Isn't that it?”

  “No. Yes. I mean that one seems to be broken. I was looking for a spare.”

  “Is there one? Was the need for one anticipated and a duplicate made?”

  “I … I don't know. I guess I was hoping there was one.”

  Oh yes. Reel him in, Jonny boy.

  “Look, here's the deal. For ultra-personal reasons I do not want to see Beal's Point repaired. What's more, I represent an ever-growing group of like-minded comrades who feel just as strongly if not more so than I.”

  “Hmm. Comrades, you say? Intent on seeing the terrorist damage left as is, you say?”

  “I didn't say word one about terrorists and you know it. There, I've exposed you for what you are. You'll never hear the end of this, so-called Vorc.” I shot to my feet.

  “Exposed, you say. Hmm. Ah, what, if you don't mind me asking, am I that you … you've unearthed?”

  “A terrorist sympathizer. Oh yeah, and your mother too. You want to undo the terrorist damage to prove it never happened. You're covering up the most dastardly deed ever perpetrated on our sacred soil of home. Are you happy now?”

  He had a tick going on o
ver the left side of his face.

  Almost there. Stay on target.

  “M .. my mo … mother too? Did you even meet her?”

  “Don't try and dodge the truth when it hits you like a ton of bricks. When everybody learns of your betrayal, it'll be curtains for you.”

  “I don't need curtains. I don't want them. I prefer the natural light.”

  Vorc's door opened. Felladonna rushed in and took hold of his arm. “Master, I heard such a ruckus. What's going on? Do you require help?”

  “My mother's a terrorist fan.”

  “I beg your pardon, lord. What?”

  Self-realization hit him. Bingo!

  He shook her off and laser-focused on me. “You, Ryanmax, are through. Your insanity is infectious but I am immune. Understand this with certainty. I will repair Beal's Point, and I will do it in a rush. Do you know why?”

  “You're a …” I began coweringly.

  “No,” he boomed. Felladonna even backed away two steps. “I will see it done because you don't want me to. That's reason enough in my book. But know this and know it utterly. I will do so hoping you will sling your absurd challenge against me. Yes, and when you do I will be vindicated. Everyone will see you for the inbred mental incompetent that you truly are. And then, after I have fully exposed and humiliated you, I will kill you myself with this.” He snatched up the Fire of Justice and held it up as high as he could reach. “And the day you die will be declared a feast day for all of eternity, Ryanmax. I will see to it that every man, woman, and alternate life form takes the day off to piss on your grave. It'll be Piss on Ryan's Grave Day and it will be magnificent.”

  I pointed up to the rod. “Is there a reputable repair shop you can trust to fix that?” I blinked twice.

  His finger swung to the door. “Out.”

  Yo, baby. Score two points for Team Ryan. No, make it three. I was just that good.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The Stone Witches lived in severe isolation. They desired contact with no one and no one desired contact with them—at least no one with a functioning brain. Legends were varied, but all centered on their being a breed well worth avoiding. One tale had it that they were in fact not stone at all. No, they were pure-energy beings that covered themselves in rock on a whim. The origin story on many worlds maintained they were as old as time, as powerful as supernovae, and as vengeful as an ex-wife scorned.