Robots versus Slime Monsters

by A. Lee Martinez

  “Your boss is an asshole.” She glanced around as if she’d be punished for using the word.

  Chester shrugged. “Tell me about it.”

  Something crashed in the basement. Monster’s swearing filtered up the stairs.

  “Stay here, Miss. For your own safety.” Chester ran down to check on Monster.

  Kristine paused on the threshold, but if she couldn’t fix her mistake, she could at least help someone who could.

  “Mr. Monster? Chester?” She descended slowly and saw Monster at the bottom of the stairs. He’d taken a short tumble, and his legs were twisted up under his body, his arm was splayed at a weird angle.

  “Holy shit.”

  “The little bastards set up a tripwire,” said Monster. “It’s worse than it looks. I’m rubbery when I’m emerald.”

  It wasn’t much of an explanation, but she was too distracted to care.

  The faeries had crumpled Chester into a ball that they playfully batted around among themselves. “This is embarrassing,” he mumbled.

  The basement was swarming with pixies, but none of them were flying. They covered the floor like a squirming carpet and coated the walls. A ring of shimmering mushrooms stood in the center of the basement.

  “That’s the nest,” she said.

  “Figure that out all on your own, did you?” asked Monster. He wiggled his floppy arm, and it snapped into place before going wobbly again. “Damn it.”

  “What do I do?” she asked.

  “You should leave this to the professionals,” said Monster.

  Several pixies jumped on his head. They poked his eye and tugged at his hair.

  “Suit yourself.” Kristine turned around.

  “Take the horseshoe out of my bag and drop it in the ring,” he said.

  She jumped over the tripwire, down the flight of stairs, and opened the bag beside his twisted body. The horseshoe caused the faeries to recoil, and their high-pitched shrieks rang in her ears.

  “This isn’t going to hurt them, is it?”

  “It’d serve the little bastards right, but no, it won’t hurt them.”

  She tossed the horseshoe into the circle. The mushrooms dimmed, and the pixies howled, flying in every direction, whipping past her hair and face, crawling under her clothes.

  “Now open the wisp bottle!” shouted Monster above the din.

  “Where is it?” she asked.

  “I had it in my hands when I came downstairs! It has to be here somewhere.”

  Bits of the ceiling fell. An overhead pipe exploded, spraying water everywhere.

  Playing a hunch, she rolled Monster to one side and found the bottle hidden under him. She twisted open the top. The pixies fell silent, and the wisp sang an ethereal melody. The faeries flew into the bottle. All of them. Within thirty seconds, they’d crammed themselves inside. The final few entranced stragglers drifted into it.

  The song hypnotized her, and Kristine wanted nothing more than to stick her head in there with the rest of the pixies. Chester unfolded his crumpled body, grabbed the plastic bottle from her, and screwed the lid back on. She struggled to shake off the effects.

  “Thank you.”

  “Just doing my job, Miss.”

  Monster mumbled face down in the corner.

  “Sorry,” said Kristine as she flipped him face up.

  It took him a few minutes to straighten out. His right leg had the integrity of a wet noodle, but he could walk on it.

  She studied the bottle, impossibly full of faeries. “What are you going to do with them?”

  “Relocation. They’ll be fine, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Her father had stopped dancing. He was groggy after the Post-It was taken off his head, but she helped him out of the unstable house and sat him on the lawn until he recovered his senses.

  “He’s not going to remember this?” she asked Monster as he packed up his van.

  “Not much. You won’t get in trouble.”

  Several of the house’s windows spontaneously shattered.

  “That’s not why I was asking.”

  Monster had her sign paperwork. “It’s likely the place wasn’t inspected properly. Or someone cut corners because they knew your dad was an incog and they could get away with it. Either way, there are agencies to help incogs cope. You can probably get a reimbursement for some of the damages.” He handed her a form. “Call the number at the bottom. Don’t lose this one.”

  She took it. “Thanks.”

  He drove away with his paper gnome.

  Kristine joined Dad in the grass. She could smell something burning.

  “I’m sorry, Kristine,” he said, as if any of the blame was his.

  “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  He gave her a curious look. “For what?”

  “Just sorry. About stuff.”

  It didn’t matter that he couldn’t understand. There was always something to apologize for. All people really did was screw up and hope people would be there for them when they did. Her parents, despite it all, were always there. She took that for granted too often.

  The porch collapsed.

  “Who would’ve thought rats could do so much damage?” he said.

  “Yeah. Rats.” She put her arm around him and pondered a world stranger than he could ever know.

  Kristine dialed emergency as fire flickered in the kitchen windows.

  ###

  MY DINNER WITH ARES

  Divine Misfortune

  The gods are among us, and they are flawed. Divine Misfortune was always intended to be a tribute to the myths of old, where gods were real and powerful, and where faith was a foreign concept when Zeus might show up to toss lightning bolts around in a drunken stupor. The idea of gods as human with all the advantages and disadvantages of incredible power and immortality was always appealing to me, and despite featuring some of the most powerful characters I’ve ever created, the story is grounded in a very mundane reality. It’s Seinfeld meets The Iliad, and, even though the gods are often jerks, they have their moments of introspection. This is one of those moments.

  Ogbunabali, god of death, had many forms, most of them terrifying, but when he walked among mortals with no desire to instill dread fear in their sinful souls, he preferred the shape of a tall, angular man in a suit made of the darkest shadows and a blood red necktie. His face was a grinning black skull, and immense vulture wings sprouted from his back.

  The manifestation worked by being so utterly frightening, so completely embodying the grim reality of oblivion, most mortals subconsciously chose to ignore him rather than face that truth. He walked the streets of Cleveland, ignored by nearly everyone except for one man who spotted him and fled in horror. The man must’ve offended the universe in some manner, and under normal circumstances, Ogbunabali would’ve pursued in the name of cosmic justice, but if he stopped to chase down every tainted soul he came across, he’d never get anything done.

  He continued on his way, arriving at the little Greek restaurant tucked in an out of the way corner. The place could have been construed as either hole-in-the-wall or charming depending on one’s inclination. It had certainly seen better days. One of the front windows had been broken and boarded up, and two young women brawled over a young man’s affections on the sidewalk outside. Despite being a Greek restaurant, the Ballad of the Green Beret played from the music system.

  “This must be the place,” said Ogbunabali.

  He moved like a shadow through the restaurant, ignored by all. He found Ares sitting at a table in the back. The god of war was hard to miss, decked out in camouflage fatigues, with a sword, shield, and Glock pistol laid on the table for everyone to see. He also wore an old-fashioned war helmet with an absurdly tall horse hair crest.

  Ogbunabali sighed. Perhaps dispensing cosmic justice would be a more productive way of spending his evening. Before he could leave, Ares spotted him.

  “Og, you made it!” The god of war waved him over. “Wasn’t sure you were going
to this time!”

  Ogbunabali slipped into the opposite side of the booth. He forced a smile though with a skull for a face, it wasn’t obvious. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  Ares pushed his weapons to one side and pounded the table. “Wench, a drink for my friend here! Wench! Wench!”

  The server, a man of at least forty, came over. “Your friend, sir?”

  Ogbunabali assumed a less terrifying form, that of a bottomless shadow shaped like a man. “Can I see your wine list?”

  “Wine?” Ares laughed, slapped the table. “A mead, wench. And I’ll take one myself. Off with you now.”

  The server, barely hiding his irritation, went back to the kitchen.

  “Who drinks mead anymore?” asked Ogbunabali. “And I don’t think wench is considered appropriate in this day and age.”

  “He does a wench’s work. He gets called a wench.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Ares lifted his helmet to allow him to bite into his souvlaki, spilling bits of lamb and tomatoes on his shirt. “How have you been, Og?”

  “Can’t complain. And you?”

  “Business is good. I’m practically drowning in tribute. These mortals do so love to slaughter one another as I’m certain a god of your particular domain is already painfully aware.”

  The server brought them two meads. Ogbunabali ordered the horta.

  “Hardly a meal, old man.”

  Ares slapped the table again, and all the other customers glared in their direction. The god of war was an irritating presence, both physically and metaphysically. It was often a volatile combination. It didn’t help that Ogbunabali charged the atmosphere with the specter of death. Aggravated mortals were often at their worst when reminded of their own mortality.

  It was Ares’s habit to pick a favorite restaurant and to visit it until his nature infected the place down to its floorboards. Depending on the location and the temperament of the locals, the place would self-destruct at its own pace. Ares would pay the owners for their loss and move on. And so it would continue.

  The Ballad of the Green Beret finished and immediately restarted.

  “I love this song,” said Ares. “Have I told you about the time I met John Wayne?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Great guy. Just terrific. The Duke made war glorious, didn’t he?”

  “I always preferred his westerns,” said Ogbunabali.

  “Ah, yes.” Ares leaned back and sighed. “The conquest of the Americas. What a time that was. I tell you, manifest destiny was a smashing idea. Wish I’d come up with it.”

  A mortal at a nearby table with a heart condition he didn’t even know about clutched his chest. The condition might have gone unnoticed for decades if not for Ogbunabali’s presence. The mortal’s wife fanned him with concern as he drank some water.

  The god of death could not stop the mortal from dying. Mortals died. It was their nature. But it needn’t happen right now. Ogbunabali willed the mortal’s death a few years into the future. The man’s pained breathing returned to normal, and he made some silly little excuse about pushing himself too hard at the gym earlier.

  His wife hugged and kissed him, and they resumed their dinner.

  Ogbunabali smiled, though there was no way of knowing this in his current form. “They’re so fleeting.”

  “What’s that?” asked Ares.

  “Mortal lives. They pass so quickly.”

  “Aren’t they though? Good thing they keep breeding.”

  Ogbunabali took a sip of his mead. “Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be one of them?”

  “No, why would I?” Ares laughed. “What’s to think about? They’re mortals. Not worth troubling yourself over excessively. Granted, they’ve accomplished a lot. With our help, of course.”

  “Right. Help.”

  “Oh, come on. Next you’ll be telling me they could get along without us.”

  “I never said that,” Ogbunabali replied. “But I do sometimes wonder.”

  “Preposterous. They need us.”

  “And we need them. What would we do without their tribute?”

  “True, but they are the grass, and we are the lions.”

  “Lions don’t eat grass.”

  “You know what I meant.” Ares took off his helmet. “Don’t tell me you’re having an identity crisis, old boy?”

  “No, I am a god of death. It is my nature, and I have no real desire to change it. Just an idle musing.” Ogbunabali said, “Did I tell you about that business man I had to kill the other day?”

  “No.” Ares’s disinterest was apparent. The gods were indifferent to the lives and deaths of ordinary mortals, and gods of war were especially so.

  Ogbunabali told the tale regardless.

  “He was a follower of mine. We had an arrangement, you see. I kept his death at bay, and he repaid me with tributes of animal sacrifices and burnt offerings. It worked out nicely for a few hundred years, but I can only do so much. Death comes for all men, and not even I can change that. But seeing as how he was such a dedicated sort who never missed a payment, I felt I should deliver the bad news personally.”

  “Yes, very thoughtful of you,” said Ares.

  Ogbunabali continued, aware that Ares was only half listening. The god of death was talking mostly to himself anyway.

  “I visited him at his home. He wasn’t happy to see me. They never are. I can’t blame them for that, I suppose.” He sighed. “He didn’t take it well. He had more years than most mortals, but in the end, he said it wasn’t enough. He needed more. Understand this was a man who had accomplished great things. He had wealth, power, family. And he was also a genuinely nice guy. Not perfect by any means, but he had made this world a better place in his time than how he’d found it. Something I pointed out to him in hopes of helping with the transition.”

  “Very sensible,” mumbled Ares.

  “It didn’t matter. He offered me everything he had. He offered to burn every dollar of his fortune for just a little more time. He’d erect statues in my honor. He’d have a movie made glorifying me. He had Steven Spielberg on his speed dial. Said I’d have first choice of casting and final script approval.”

  Ares perked up. “Sidney Poitier. That’s who I would say should play you.”

  Ogbunabali ignored the remark. “I told him it was a very generous offer, but I’m not that kind of god. I work in the shadows. And mortals have no interest in the exploits of a death god in any case.”

  “True. Remember Tuoni’s film?”

  “Don’t remind me. What a dreadful self-indulgence.”

  Ogbunabali’s food arrived. He picked at the plate with little interest.

  “I explained that it just didn’t work that way, and that, while I could keep him going a while longer, it was at the point that my favor output was exceeding his tribute. All very logical from a business perspective, and that he, a very successful businessman, should have understood. He didn’t.”

  “I could’ve told you that,” said Ares. “Mortals only truly value their lives when they’re about to lose them. It’s good for my business at least. If they paused to think before throwing themselves once more into the breach, there wouldn’t be much for me to do.”

  Ogbunabali said, “I almost let him live.”

  “What?” Ares slapped the table hard enough to knock over his mug. The mead spilled across the tablecloth, leaving a red stain in the image of a skull, no doubt influenced by the presence of the gods.

  “I said almost,” said Ogbunabali.

  Ares snorted. “Not a very death god thing to do. One mortal life means nothing, Og. You should know that by now.”

  “Actually, I’m pretty sure one mortal life is all that matters. At least to the mortal that lives it.”

  The god of war laughed, and his amusement caused a fistfight to break out in the neighboring booth.

  “We all get sentimental now and then, Og, but that’s no reason to—”

  “
I could’ve afforded it. I’ve got enough surplus favor from my other investments.”

  “It’s not a question of spare favor,” said Ares. “The whole system works as a free exchange of tribute and favor. If someone starts getting more favor than they’ve earned it sets a bad precedent. I could see if this mortal was a great warrior or hero—”

  “He was just a guy,” said Ogbunabali. “Successful and influential, but not a legend in the making.”

  “If he doesn’t serve your greater glory or bring you bragging rights, why would you even consider it?”

  “He seemed like a nice guy. This world can always use more nice guys.”

  Ares shrugged. “I don’t get it.”

  Ogbunabali found this unsurprising. Ares had always been a dim-witted sort.

  “Do you ever wonder what it would be like?” asked Ogbunabali. “To be a god of life and joy, to have mortals welcome your arrival?”

  “I don’t have to wonder. The Spartans loved me. Temples and statues everywhere. Sacrifices and offerings galore. Those were the days.”

  Smiling, Ares gazed wistfully into the distance.

  “Nobody likes me,” said Ogbunabali. “No one has ever liked me. They tolerate me. They bargain with me. They fear me. But no one has ever been happy to see me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re complaining about. At least as a god of death, you have job security. In ten thousand years, if things keep going as they’re going, the mortals might get over their obsession with killing each other. Unlikely, yes, but not impossible. Won’t be much tribute for myself at that point. I’ll be no better off than that one fellow? You know the one I’m thinking of. God of the strigil. Oh, what is his name, again? Doesn’t matter, I suppose. That was a god who thought he had everything figured out. Then along comes soap, and now where is he?

  “Not you though. You, Og, will always have a place among mortals as long as they are mortal. That’s nothing to sneeze at, and you have to admit that you’re good at it.”

  “I’m the best,” admitted Ogbunabali. “But—”

  “But nothing. You’re Ogbunabali, god of death, slayer of transgressors.”

  “Yeah, about that. I kind of . . . let one go, recently.”