Torment of the Ancient Gods

by Craig Robertson

  Hilazz became the leader of the pack. That was natural, him being an especially large dire wolf and the god of wild fury. He was also the fastest afoot, most of the time having to stop and wait when his companions fell far enough behind. He enjoyed his role. Once they found a stable planet, it was he who ferreted out the best hunting and the direction they would destroy in.

  Gomenchorum was not exactly a follower, but at least for a while he ceded the role to Hilazz. It rubbed his bristles the wrong way, but times were so good it was hard to complain with any heartfelt conviction. So, for the present the god of lost souls would follow that of wild fury. Plus, the souls his trio were liberating were anything but lost. No, they were accounted for one and all before they were desecrated, desiccated, and disintegrated. One, two, three, they were no longer going to be. Puff. In defiance of any natural presuppositions, Gomenchorum didn't look his part. He was no hooded and robed grim reaper or a wispy-lilting manifestation. He was a hedgehog who'd made his nest too near a nuclear reactor. His body was asymmetric, heaped up in random chunks and lumps. The unsightly mess was covered in irregular-length bristles ending in sharp metal tips, each one capable of delivering a jolt of electricity strong enough to kill a water buffalo. Standing ten meters tall when on his three front and back legs, he looked very much like a nightmare's bad dream.

  The silent partner in the group was Compico. Literally. He communicated only by mental simaging and rudimentary body posturing. Why? Because a three-tailed metallic scorpion had no voice box with which to generate a sound. Plus, topping the scales at just over two tons sort of meant he didn't need to speak to have himself understood. Compico's message was always the same. You are about to die. There was absolutely no need to repeat that certainty over and over again.

  Somehow the three Cleinoids made amiable traveling companions. They did share a similar vision and set of goals, so that wasn't too surprising. They surely made an impressive mess of any and all planets they visited. Their latest selection promised to be the richest yet. It was the play world named The Answer Is Yes. In the distant past the planet was called Visuewa. It was home to a thriving, industrious, and profit-loving society. Think Ferengi but a tad brighter. Over time the inhabitants discovered the quintessential surefire, time-tested, lead-pipe cinch way to make even more coin. The pleasure industry.

  All restrictive puritanical laws were stricken from the books. Anything was made legal, even items not specifically known to the lawmakers when they penned the what they deemed the “adaptive moral imperatives.” Yeah, you want it, you got it. So over centuries the entire economy switched to a hospitality footing. If it wasn't an aphrodisiac, an amusement park, or a gaming establishment, it wasn't funded. Visuewa became wall-to-wall knock-yourself-out fun. And the people, or whatever, came. Enclaves dedicated exclusively to either wholesome fun or absolute debauchery sprang up designed to accomodate any species so inclined. It became Las Vegas/Disney World/Caligula/Hugh Hefner on steroids. Then they changed the name to The Answer Is Yes. In time people mostly called it just Yes!, always with that exclamation.

  What titillated Gomenchorum, Hilazz, and Compico most about Yes! was that it had zero defensive capabilities. The entire economy was based on pleasure. The only provision for weapons of any kind were where they were required in role-playing forms of, em, interactions. And Yes! was always packed to the gills with a mind-boggling variety of species of all ages too intoxicated or otherwise distracted to concern themselves with sudden and gruesome death. Yes, Yes! was the icing on any evildoer's cake of lustful desires.

  As had become their routine, Hilazz led the attack wedge. The other two monstrosities flanked him to form a triangle. Once they made solid contact with a concentration of playthings, they split off and went nuts privately. They always liked to strike a population center in its densest section first in order to achieve maximal horror-impact. So it was to be with Naked City, a megalopolis of over four million revelers and employees all buck naked, all the time. Nudity was actually a strictly enforced law. Talk about being defenseless. Nowhere to hide so much as a Swiss Army knife, let alone a good-sized blaster. No, easy pickings had a poster child, and it's name was Naked City.

  A large central square, Lecher's Lookout, was bounded by tall buildings and small parks. The square itself was completely open. That allowed lots of those casually strolling to have unobstructed views of a whole bunch of other gawking individuals. Reaching out and touching others, by the way, was considered a must.

  Hilazz took aim as he hurled down from on high. When he was a hundred meters from the lookout he hit the ground running. Homenchorum and Compico set down simultaneously but fell behind quickly due to their inabilities to match pace with the wolf. That dispersal was very much appreciated by Mirraya. She stepped into the clear of the naked mannequins set up in Lecher's Lookout. She spread her massive wings and murmured an incantation. A sparse amber light leapt from her extended arm and struck Hilazz in the chest. He immediately tumbled limply at high speed. When he finally came to rest he was as still as a corpse.

  Mirraya jumped on him, sunk her talons in, and seized flesh. She tore ferociously at his exposed belly. Large chunks of Hilazz flew everywhere. Blood spewed and was cast up like a public fountain dedicated to exsanguination.

  Then Hilazz rallied. He rolled side to side with what little energy he could muster. But he could not dislodge Mirraya. She continued to rip and tear at him. Slowly his resistance waned. Soon he was still and lifeless. By the time Mirraya jumped off, there was more of Hilazz in tiny scattered pieces than left intact.

  Meanwhile, EJ addressed the overgrown hedgehog Gomenchorum as he lumbered into the square. The assailant was only becoming vaguely aware that something was rotten in the state of Yes!. Instead of retreat he chose only to slow down. That way he slammed into the membrane EJ deployed less forcefully than he might have. Still, he flipped over and struck the force field again with his back. When EJ dropped the membrane, Gomenchorum had staggered back to his paws. His singular focus became the man that hurt him. Gomenchorum charged EJ in a blind fury.

  EJ raised his right hand and formed a power bolt. He cast it at the beast. It sailed threw him like he was formed of jello. Gomenchorum howled in pain and even greater rage. He kept charging.

  EJ waved his hands like he was rapidly polishing seperate mirrors. Two walls of invisible energy slammed Gomenchorum on either side of his head like a closing bear trap. He skidded awkwardly to a stop and pawed at his neck. His panic grew furiously. Soon he was ripping long strips of pelt and skin off in his attempt to free the crushing of his windpipe. Gomenchorum fell onto his back and his hind legs kicked insanely. He spun like he was playing a game. But soon the game, along with Gomenchorum's worthless life, came to an agonizing end.

  Quittle and Domitra were assigned to Compico. If there had been additional Cleinoids involved in the attack, similar pairs of Deft brindases would have been tasked to kill those. Quittle and Domitra were Mirraya's oldest and most capable students. They were also both battle-hardened by long service against the Adamant. Unfortunately for them, Compico was the most deadly of the trio. He, being by far the slowest, was fully aware that he was sprinting into a well-laid trap when he took aim at the Deft dragons.

  When he was several meters away each brindas cast separate spells. Quittle melted the ground under the god's feet so it became like intensely hot quicksand. Domitra pounded down on his back with a ramrod of energy. Compico's claws faltered into the muck. His heavier front end sank the fastest and his hind end bucked up and twisted to one side. He stabbed two of his tails ahead of his roll and steadied himself. He jabbed the third tail on the other side of the quagmire and slowly levered himself free. Without hesitation he raced at the dragons.

  Domitra sent a dispersal spell at his flat head. That would, if effective, split her target open. It caused him to shake his head and clap his mandibles open and shut, but no part of him dispersed.

  Quittle tried to bind his legs with ropelike myst
ical manifestations. One would catch, then fail, while another found purchase. Compico lurched slightly but was not slowed appreciably. He was on the brindases with the impact of twin locomotives. Both dragons heaved backward. Quittle took flight midway along her arch. Domitra tumbled clumsily to the ground and rolled out of control.

  Compico pounced on her before she came to a stop. With his massive pincers he pinned her down. All three tails took rapid-fire turns pummeling her. The tail with universal toxin struck her face. The stinger of unquenchable acid sniped at her chest. His barb of unending fire whacked her sides. She began to smoke and then she began to burn.

  Quittle leapt onto the back of one of Compico's tails and sunk her talons. She struggled to lift him. He was too heavy. She only stopped that appendage from striking her friend. His merciless assault on Domitra with the two other stingers didn't slow.

  Once the brindas was fully engulfed in flames the god scampered away, pulling the attached dragon with him. He stabbed at Quittle, but his weapons were never designed to fight off an attack from behind. He spied a tall tree and raced toward it. Halfway there, Quittle reasoned he meant to pound her against the tree until she was knocked loose. She pushed off as hard as she could and rose above Compico's range. He nonetheless flailed at her as he screeched madly.

  Compico never saw Mirraya coming. She flipped him on his back with one wing and drove her beak into his abdomen. His tails were again useless in her direction, but his pincers were not. He clawed frantically at Mirraya's neck and wings. She flapped as hard as she could to drive her head deeper and deeper into his midsection. Finally, in a show of immense strength, she punched her head through him and lifted Compico into the air. He oozed over her neck and back and cried out in agony as he slowly and painfully died.

  When he was limp Mirraya dropped to her knees and wiggled out of his dead carcuss. She hopped two steps back and stared at the lifeless Domitra. Mirraya then threw her talons into Compico's face. She ripped at it until it was unrecognizable as having once had form or function. At one point Toño considered trying to pull her off but decided the effort was not worth the risk. Her rage was justifiable and he was unlikely to shorten her wrath.

  Hours later, a cleaned-up Mirraya rested back against the wall aboard Blessing. Sapale, EJ, Toño, and Daleria sat at the mess table not even touching their mugs of coffee.

  Finally Toño spoke. “Well at least we proved they can be stopped.”

  No one, most noticeably Mirraya, responded. All eyes were concentrated on the cold coffee. All but Mirri's. They were staring off into some distant, unknowable private hell.

  “The three we faced are among the tougher of the Cleinoids,” remarked Daleria, trying to sound upbeat. “That's something to take into account.”

  “I supposed,” replied EJ with an exhalation. “But it was not easy. It was hard, in fact. Too damn hard.”

  “But they are dead,” responded Daleria.

  “And so is Domitra,” said Mirraya in a hollow voice.

  “She died well,” responded EJ. “She died fighting for the best of causes.”

  “But still she's dead,” whispered Mirraya. A few seconds later she continued morosely. “Run the numbers. Four of us to kill three of them. One in four dead. Multiply by one million. Oh wait, you can't. We don't have four million brindases. Five hundred, maybe. So we can rid the universe of six or seven hundred of them. Then they're free to do whatever they were going to do in the first place.”

  “Maybe we can find the antigods and enlist their help?” remarked Daleria with absolutely no conviction.

  “Or maybe the antigods'll save their own asses and never give the remainder of life one single thought,” muttered Mirraya darkly.

  “Well what the heck else are you going to do?” snapped EJ. “Barbecue wharf rats and sell them to passersby?”

  “That's nauseating,” replied Toño.

  “Then let's not. Let's kill as many as we can and plan on dying in the process.” He harrumphed. “Universe won't be missing us old tin automatons, I can tell you that for nothing.”

  “I'm certain we'll think of something,” reassured Toño softly. “We always do.”

  “No,” Sapale said as tears streaked down her face. “Jon does. We follow him, but it's Jon who always thought of some harebrained scheme at the eleventh hour.”

  “Well, thanks for nothing,” quipped EJ, “And you can forget that coming from me because it ain't gunna happen. His magnificence is apparently not in our shared DNA.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I was no where and I was no thing. I drifted in nothingness. That, unreassuringly, was all I knew. Around me was the perfect void. No light, no matter (or annoying neutral matter), not even any cosmic microwave background. I was immersed in the absence of existence. I could not see because I had no eyes and because there was nothing to see if I did. The same went for sound, smell, and touch. You name it, I didn't have it. But since nothing to do with Jonathan Alan Ryan was clear-cut or reasonable, I somehow knew I didn't know, see, smell, or fart. Wash, rinse, repeat. If there was an unresolvable riddle of a pile of doggy doo-doo anywhere to be found, yours truly stepped in it one hundred percent of the time. Ah well. Lucky for whatever I was or wasn't at that moment, in the center of my reality, and until there wasn't any me left to ponder mysteries, I was a fighter pilot. Instead of floating there—or whatever—I was motivated to do something.

  In the distance I noticed a light. It was weak, fragile, and wavering uncertainly. I moved toward the light. Of course the minute I did I kind of freaked out. I'd spent forever hearing tall tales concerning the recently departed moving toward the light. The finality of that process gave me the willies. Nearly stopped my in my nonexistent tracks. But again, as always, #fighterpilot kept me moving toward the damn light.

  The closer I came the more I took in what it was I approached. Thank goodness it did not appear to be a tunnel or portal. No motes of sparkle being drawn in and Granny Miller standing beyond the opening, extending toward me a lemon meringue pie in one hand and a cold beer in the other. There was no TV right behind the non-Granny with the Super Bowl about to kick off. What a relief. I wasn't about to dock with Heaven.

  I neared a structure of light. Puffy clouds of light stacked to look like, I don't know, maybe the Parthenon. The form was rectangular with a definite opening and purposeful form in the columns of stacked clouds. The whole thing looked like a strong breeze would end it but good. I thought to myself, if self I actually was, who designs buildings in the void that can't stand up to a light breeze? JPS, if you ask me. Just plain silly.

  Finally I stood—or whatever—before the entrance. Gut check time. I'd read enough science fiction to know there were rigged passages out there. One-way traps you could enter but from which you couldn't depart. No going back leapt to mind. Then again, my day calendar was otherwise empty so I drifted in. Honest to goodness using the retrospectoscope, I'm not entirely sure I made the correct decision. Fortunately Jon Ryan never suffered from remorse over decisions made. Oorah.

  Inside I saw the reverse side of the cloudy blocks. They were—alert the media—the same as they looked from the outside. The vast nebulous interior was otherwise featureless. No exactly welcoming or promising, but what the heck. In for a dollar in for a dime. I proceeded. Naturally as I did forms, shapes, and walls began to materialize out of nothingness. Sure, made sense. Inexplicably bizarre needed to be punctuated with the stupefying. They went so well together. I passed chairs, tables, and a particularly uncomfortable-looking chaise lounge or British-made Chesterfield sofa. Bingo. I knew one thing now. Place was designed by a woman, female touch present and accounted for.

  Just when I began to wonder why there were no residents zapping into existence—you got it—one zapped into existence not three feet in front of me. Talk about gender-neutral. The figure was humanoid, of course in LaLaLand here it wore a robe with a hood, and had facial features that were bland, generic, and hairless. This was not God à la Michela
ngelo as represented in the Sistine Chapel. That was an immediate relief. I was disembodied and disoriented, and hence not at my best. Whenever I faced God, I needed to be on my A-game. Yeah. Lots of 'splaining to do, don't you know.

  “Hi,” I said cheerily. Not sure how, by the way, since I lacked the body parts to say anything.

  “Hi back at you, Jon. It is a Jon Ryan I address, is it not?”

  “Think so. Hang on a sec.” I patted my non-body with my non-hands to see if I had any ID. Yes, I know, but in my defense I was disembodied and disoriented. “Beg pardon, are there more than one of me?”

  “Is there more than one. No plurals in play, my friend. And yes. You yourself know of two if memory serves.”

  “Yeah, technically, I guess.”

  “So, where the blazes am I?” said my possible host.

  “Ah, Houston, we have a problem. You don't know where you are either?”

  “No,” it said with a faint grin. “I was anticipating the next words to exit your mouth.”

  “Ah. I see. You … you get that often?”

  “Often is relative here. Let's just say I've heard it more than other potential points of conversational departure.”

  “Conversational departure, eh? Look, is this a grammar place?”

  “Nearly out of the gate you ask what zero have asked before. I'm impressed. And no, this is not a grammar place, though I would be loathe to accept bad grammar in any context.”

  “Okay, grammar place it is.”

  “You stand, Jon Ryan, in the Pillars of Creation.”

  I stared at him a bit. “No drumroll?”

  “You've lost me already.”

  “No, it's just when someone proclaims you're in the Pillars of Creation, there should be deep echoes and thunder. Drumrolls may substitute if the others are busy at the time.”

  “I'll bring that up at our next roundtable.”

  “You're welcome.”

  We both stood there silent a while.