The Prey of Gods

by Nicky Drayden

  Observe: Human Muzikayise McCarthy (Master), Human? Nomvula, Human Elkin Rathers (Deceased), Alpha Bot ID 34ew.ee.4gx.r32 Designation Piece of Shit (Decommissioned);

  Observe: Behavior outside previously observed parameters;

  Observe: Blood pressure elevated;

  Observe: Excess of bodily fluid;

  Output: This Instance worries for Human Muzikayise McCarthy (Master), Human? Nomvula;

  Output: This Instance worries that This Instance is capable of worrying;

  Schedule: Full Systems Diagnosis 27 June 2064 06:42:25:30:43 . . .

  Detected: Possible viral infection running on an independent thread;

  Chapter 51

  Muzi

  His thoughts echo around in his head like a kicked tin can. That’s the first hint that something’s not right. Muzi’s mouth tastes like metal, and his vision is all wrong, objects glowing like ghosts around the edges, a soft blue-white light. He makes out Nomvula, bent over him, her mouth smiling, her eyes not.

  “Muzi? Are you in there?”

  In here? In where?

  “There’s been a little mix-up. But there’s plenty of room for you in there until we find a way to sort this out.”

  Fifty-seven point three terabytes of free space, comes a thought, not his own. More than enough to accommodate a human mind, Human Muzikayise McCarthy (Master).

  Muzi panics, tries to sit up. There’s a pulse of movement, more like a convulsion. And then he crumples back down to the floor.

  “Careful,” Nomvula says, her voice echoes like it’s coming from out of a deep, dark well. “Your body isn’t quite what you remember. You’ll have to learn to move all over again.”

  Concentrate, feel, the thought comes again, mechanical yet friendly.

  A creeping feeling overwhelms Muzi, like he’s got a dozen electric eels nibbling at his mind, and they spark when he gives them attention. Things move, slippery and awkward down below, and it makes Muzi want to retch, though he has no idea how. Instead he makes an eel spark again, electricity arcing through him, closer to voluntary this time. A sleek, silver arm stretches in his view. With careful thoughts, the arm bends at its metal joints, in odd degrees and awkward angles.

  Muzi engages the eel that turns his head, but Nomvula catches his face.

  “Not yet,” she says. “I need to explain, but there’s not much time. It’s Elkin . . .”

  The word ignites thoughts, memories, or more accurately, memory addresses. His mind is like a library now, each moment of his life categorized and filed away. He accesses the memories: of Elkin pulverized under the feet of Riya Natrajan’s fans. Of Muzi traveling into some sort of afterlife, foolish enough to think he could save his best friend/sorta boyfriend. It worked, didn’t it? It couldn’t have failed. He yanks himself away, a shudder, a convulsion, wrangles eels until he’s on his feet, all eight of them. He’s wobbly as hell, but it’s enough for him to turn, to see.

  Elkin’s body is a mash of flesh, worse than how they’d left it. Half his face has been sliced away, high cheekbone peeking from muscle and skin. Deader than dead. Muzi cries out, not words but a mechanical screech, a staccato shrill bubbling from the stereo speakers where his mouth had once been.

  “No, no. He’s here,” Nomvula whispers. “He’s safe. He’s . . .”

  Then Muzi sees himself, his old self. His self smiles back at him. “Hey, ass jacket. Welcome back to reality.”

  Speech is straightforward. Just call the VOC.ssl3.mzx subroutine, and pass the appropriate parameters, the thought nudges Muzi, and he grasps around, fiddling with data types and variables and output streams until it all clicks.

  “Elkin?” Muzi says to his flesh self. Clever4–1? he then says to his metal self, almost simultaneously on the order of nanoseconds. Muzi finds it strangely efficient to carry out two conversations at the same time, never losing focus, never getting confused. He quickly learns that Elkin’s body had been too badly mangled for Nomvula to repair, and his soul took a detour into Muzi’s body. And Muzi had been funneled into Clever4–1, who seems all too happy to have a houseguest—eager to share its subroutines, motor functions, hard-drive sectors. But Nomvula—she’s pissed off seventeen different ways, despite her calm demeanor.

  “Elkin says you gave up your powers to bring him back,” Nomvula says, her blue-white aura going orange red along her cheeks, along the crown of her head.

  “I’m still here, like I promised.” Muzi shrugs, but the action gets lost in translation. “Sort of, at least.”

  Nomvula crosses her arms over her chest. “Save your excuses. Can you walk, at least?”

  Muzi tries, stumbles. “I just need a few more minutes. To test things out.”

  “Do we look like we have a few minutes? Those Clevers out there are going to come looking for their leader any minute.”

  Clever4–1, Muzi says. Can you detect their locations?

  There’s no response.

  Clever4–1?

  Apologies, says the thought. It appears I have underestimated the capacity of your mind. I’ve been shuffling to keep things in order, but . . .

  But what? Muzi asks, but he’s already started to notice, sluggish responses, his memories further and further away. Clever4–1’s 256-terabyte hard drive is quickly approaching capacity. The godfruit, Muzi remembers. Like trying to reorganize an ocean, teaspoon by teaspoon.

  Two point eight percent free space left. A minute, two at best, before things start getting ugly. Muzi looks down at the decommissioned Clever unit, then back to his flesh self.

  “Elkin, I need that hard drive.”

  Elkin grimaces. “This one? It’s just a K12 dual point. Literally the cheapest hard drive made. More bad sectors than good.”

  “Just hook it up,” Muzi says, reaching underneath his body and opening the access panel.

  So then Elkin hops to it, disconnects the drive, then wires it up to Clever4–1’s spare port. Clever4–1 doesn’t waste a moment and begins a quick format of the drive, ghosts of Clever4–1.1’s psychopathic thoughts bleeding through their circuitry.

  One point six percent free space. Clever4–1 starts throwing data on sectors as soon as they’re scrubbed clean, but they’re still losing ground.

  Wait, Muzi says. Stop formatting.

  That would be inadvisable, Clever4–1 says.

  But we could crack his communication encryption codes and walk out of here without a peep from those other bots.

  I don’t have that capability.

  But we’ve got a certifiable genius on our team. “Elkin. I need you to crack Clever4–1.1’s comm codes. Fast.”

  Inadvisable. The human mind couldn’t possibly be sophisticated enough to decipher such a code, even if given an infinite amount of time, which clearly we do not have.

  You’re starting to sound a bit like our friend here, Muzi says, looking at the scrap pile Clever4–1.1 has become. Muzibot shudders at Elkin’s touch, the tap of his fingers on his keyboard, rhythm of his keystrokes producing a mechanical euphoria. Clever4–1 hasn’t stopped the formatting though, and each moment that passes means those codes are likely to vanish forever. Please, Muzibot says. I have faith in him. He can do it.

  Point nine percent free space. Clever4–1 stops. Faith. Such a human word. One hundred percent illogical. But I understand.

  Point six percent free space. Point three. Space is eaten up by the gigabyte, massive chunks of data stored all over the place, wherever there’s room. Organization is no longer a priority. Elkin’s fingers rip through him as the entire system grows sluggish, warning protocols blaring the threat of permanent disk damage.

  Point zero four percent free space.

  “I’ve got it!” Elkin yells. Not a nanosecond later, Clever4–1 issues the command to continue formatting. Point two percent free space, and climbing.

  Faith, Clever4–1 says, integrating the codes and sending a message to the bots outside the closet to stand down.

  Muzibot takes a lock of hair from Elk
in’s corpse and stores it away for when he can mourn properly. Just seems like the logical thing to do. Then they leave the supply closet—Nomvula, Elkin in his Muzi suit, and Muzibot/Clever4–1—sticking close to the walls, a dozen mono-eyes following them, but not acting. If Muzi had a heart, it would be beating straight out of his chest right now. They make it to the sewer room exit without incident. As soon as he’s outside, Muzibot temporarily stops his visual input, and takes in a breath full of air, or at least its approximation. A hundred different scents filter through his nasal emulators. The salty ocean air, the distant scent of pine, car exhaust, rhinoceros dung, lion’s breath. Muzi’s visual input resumes, and he sees a fierce beast crouched before him, like no animal he’s ever seen before. Fangs like he’s never seen before. And that horn . . .

  Muzibot shits himself. Or at least its approximation.

  Chapter 52

  Riya Natrajan

  Riya Natrajan feels like she’s flying, her bare feet only hitting the ground out of courtesy as she rushes through the streets, trailing after that beast. Glass and metal and other shards of destruction dig into the flesh of her feet—sweet dollops of twinging pain with each step, telling her she’s heading in the right direction.

  She spares a second to check back over her shoulder. Rife’s not there, damn it. Either he’d chickened out, or he’s shifting again like the weasel that he is. Just as Riya Natrajan starts to cuss his name, she sees him turn the corner, panting something fierce, a hand pressed to the brick of a nearby building for support.

  She smiles. “I could run faster than that in six-inch heels,” she scolds. He looks up, face flushed red. Riya Natrajan slows her stride, setting her eyes on a couple fleeing from the carnage ahead. They watch her like she’s a predator approaching, the man limping badly, but all the while shielding his wife, pressing her closer and closer to the storefronts.

  “I won’t hurt you,” Riya Natrajan says. She holds her hands up, palms out so she won’t look intimidating. “I’m a nurse,” she lies, glancing down at her blood-soaked concert ensemble. “In my spare time.”

  She’s close enough to touch them, but she doesn’t, not right away. “Can I look?” she asks the man. He and his wife exchange sharp glances, too terrified for words. Riya peels back the sliced fabric of his pant leg. It sticks to the wound beneath, but she’s careful, grazing the skin around lightly to soothe it. Then she presses both hands around his thigh, feeling the fracture mend, the flesh, the skin.

  “Thank you,” he says, mystified yet grateful.

  “No, thank you,” Riya Natrajan says, words so fierce in her throat now, primed and ready.

  Rife’s a few meters ahead of her. She eases back into a lengthy stride and pops him on the ass as she passes. In the distance, she hears the beast snarl. They cut a corner, toward the sewer mains, then tread down a sharp embankment until they see the beast cornering its prey.

  She recognizes the boy—it’s that Muzi kid she’d gotten the backstage passes for. His punk friend, the one who’d had the audacity to ask her to sign his bong, is nowhere to be seen. There’s a girl, too. Face somehow familiar. The beast growls at the poor child, its heavy head keeping her locked in its sights. A junk heap alpha bot skitters between the beast and the kids. The beast rears back on its haunches, claws flexed and eager.

  “Whatever you’re going to do, do it now,” Rife says, huffing behind her.

  He’s right. She doesn’t have time to waste. Doesn’t have words to waste. She clears her throat and steps toward the beast. The note grows inside her, curling her toes and making her skin go to gooseflesh. She takes her aim, then unleashes a perfectly pitched high C that stops the beast midattack.

  The beast rises up again, croons at the sound with a warbling shriek of some winged monstrosity mentioned only in myth. The earth itself rattles beneath Riya Natrajan’s feet. She lets the note go flat. The beast writhes with pain, flopping from side to side, its heightened hearing betraying it. It shudders, looking pathetic now, like a beetle under the shadow of a child’s shoe.

  The little girl screams something at Riya Natrajan, but her voice won’t break over the cacophony. Her small fists are balled tight, arms to her sides, red rising up in her brown cheeks. She’s angry, Riya senses. The girl wants her to stop. It’s impossible to stop now. They’ll be defenseless, and the beast will rip them to shreds without a second thought.

  The beast croons again, a growl like gargling knives. Blood in its eyes. Drunk on its feet. It sways, then collapses to the ground.

  The girl gets closer, mouth still moving. Nothing Riya Natrajan can make out. Not until she hears her words, scream lost in a mere whisper.

  “It’s human!” the girl says. “You can’t kill it! It’s part human.”

  Riya Natrajan keeps her aim on the beast. There’s nothing human about that. Not in the slightest. Its bloodied gaze cuts at her, fangs drawn, muscles tense, ready to rip her throat apart as soon as it’s given a chance. There won’t be that chance. The girl frowns, then veers toward the line of fire. Why doesn’t she protect her ears? Like Rife. Like Muzi. Like anyone who values their hearing. The girl stands fully in front of the beast. Riya tries to stop the note, but the force is impossible to cut off. She angles away instead, crumbling the concrete column of a pedestrian bridge, then blowing all the windows from the top floors of the building behind it. Her throat constricts, and her voice becomes her own again . . . wonderful, but not wondrous. The effects of the godsend have worn off, and the pain—her pain—is back, worse than any of the relapses she’s ever had. She feels like she’s been steamrolled. Her knees buckle. Her legs give out. Face hits the dirt.

  “Human life is important,” the girl says, her accent thick, but her words ring with something else. Something that speaks of a higher power. “All human life. Even this.” She approaches the beast’s side, presses a hand behind its ear, speaks to it with words Riya Natrajan cannot hear.

  Rife offers her a hand up, but she’s so fatigued, she can’t even reach for it. “Get that girl away from that thing,” she orders him, her voice the rasp of dried reeds.

  “She says it’s human.”

  “I know what she said. Since when does being human mean it can be trusted? Didn’t you see the look in its eyes?”

  “She does not wish to harm me,” the girl says. “She does not wish to hurt any person. Sydney has put these horrible thoughts into her mind.”

  The beast raises its heavy head, eyes glinting at the girl. Talons scissor ever so slightly.

  “Go!” Riya Natrajan manages to scream. “Now!”

  Rife runs, but the beast is a beast in every way that matters. Quick, precise. It snatches the girl up in its claws, sharp enough to slice her in half—but it does not. It has its orders, Riya thinks. So maybe human after all. Wings beat, kicking up dust, wings sturdy enough to lift mountains.

  The alpha bot shrills. Muzi throws rocks. But Rife’s following its gaze, just like Riya Natrajan is. The gaze directed right at her.

  The beast. It’s coming her way.

  She summons the power and coordination to get up, and manages to roll onto all fours, her entire body screaming bloody murder.

  Rife digs in, sprints back toward her, faster than she’s ever seen him move before. But not fast enough. The beast glides overhead, its free talon flexing in anticipation of revenge.

  Her powers may be gone, but she’s not powerless. She’s Riya fucking Natrajan. She plants one foot, then the other. She’s wobbly as hell, but she concentrates on the expanse of concrete in front of her. She fights an entire war with her body to take those seven steps toward Rife. Rife and the beast dive at the exact same time. Riya reaches out to Rife, the tips of their fingers kissing, and she’s sucked into the shifted world, so suddenly that her ears pop. The beast lurches through her, talons scissoring around her in a way that would have severed her body in half.

  Rife’s body presses firmly against hers. Noses touch. Lips, nearly.

  He probably thinks
he saved her. Probably thinks he’s her knight in shining armor, oblivious to the war she’s just won. But she’s hogged the spotlight for long enough, so she’ll allow Rife to be the hero . . . at least for now. He tosses half a smile her way before shifting them back. Molted feathers flutter in the breeze. “Thank you,” she whispers.

  “All right, team. We’ve got a beast to catch,” Rife announces, so utterly full of himself, and she doesn’t mind a bit. The kid and bot huddle around him in awe. And Riya Natrajan has to admit, she feels a little awed, too.

  Chapter 53

  Muzi

  “Rife?” Elkin throws his arms around his cousin.

  Muzibot’s circuits are still trembling, and it’s all he can do to stand there and stare. Seeing Rife . . . in some ways, it’s more shocking than all they’ve been through today. A glimpse of reality ripping them from the icy grip of this nightmare. At least for a moment.

  “You know this kid?” the woman asks in an empty rasp, something so damn familiar about her, but it’s hard to tell through all that blood.

  “Cha. Muzi, right?” Rife says to Elkin. “A friend of my cousin.”

  “Actually,” Elkin says. “I’m Elkin. Muzi’s . . .” He gestures in Muzibot’s direction. “There was sort of a mix-up.”

  Muzibot still can’t stop staring. Her hair is filthy, dress drenched red and adorned with entrails. Makeup a distant memory, but it’s her. Riya Natrajan. Muzibot grits nonexistent teeth, praying his mechanical prayers that Elkin doesn’t notice. “That beast took Nomvula,” Muzibot reminds them, before the introductions get a chance to make their way around. It doesn’t matter who’s in whose body, who can disappear into thin air, and who refused to sign Elkin’s precious bong. What matters is saving the world from Sydney.