99 Gods: War

by Randall Farmer

  Diana looked away, far away, vacant eyed, but answered anyway. “I’m sort of a new-ager. Kinda sorta. Runs in my birth family. We’re not exactly a hundred percent normal. My birth mother’s a friggen celebrity, which annoys the crap out of me, and she and my dad and my step-dad and all their crazy friends are into peeking under rocks to find tentacle monsters just so they can fight them. I had different priorities, so I ran away. Twice. Enough about me, though.

  “Think about this, Dave: when God acts publicly in our world, it makes sense to have a faith flexible enough to survive it, but inflexible faiths are everywhere. For instance, from a Hindu point of view, all Christians, Moslems and Jews are dirty rotten unbelieving atheists. Sorta gives one a different perspective on things, eh? Anyway, believing God’s just acted once in history, or appeared to one tiny group of people and no one else, had always been too much hubris for me.”

  Dave scratched his head, not sure how Diana’s rambling commentary connected. “We know nothing about God. God’s too big to know.”

  “Sure we do,” Diana said. “Read any science textbook. What better way to learn about the Creator than from the creation?”

  “Hey!” Dave said. “That’s supposed to be my line.”

  Diana licked her finger and marked the air with it. “And there’s the problem you’re having: you’re making the true believer’s mistake.”

  “Theology makes my head hurt,” Dave said. It did. His headache had returned. Perhaps they were stress related.

  “You want a miracle cure, you get to swim in the theology,” Diana said, dimpling. Dave suspected she had decided to take out her day’s frustrations on him. Her week’s frustrations? Her month’s?

  “So, uh, what… I don’t get it,” Dave said. “Am I supposed to believe all the mutually contradictory information promulgated by all the different religions of the world is true, just because the 99 Gods say the Creator exists and equally blesses all true religions?”

  “Yes, at least allegorically; especially the process of religion and faith. The existence of multiple faiths is an explicit test of anyone with any faith at all: whether they have the guts not to fall into the true believer’s mistake and put God in a teeny tiny box of the true believer’s own design.” She paused. “Most don’t have the guts. They can’t face the fact that God is damned big.”

  “I don’t understand. Are you saying I need more faith or less faith?” Dave said. Diana had to be going somewhere with this, but her life experiences and viewpoints sounded so different from his that he couldn’t figure out where.

  “More or less? It’s not a question of quantity, in my experience.” Diana paused and glanced down at the clutter of tarot cards, I Ching sticks and glittery crystals on her desk. She picked up a pair of glittery crystals and started fiddling with them absentmindedly. She walked the crystals across the backs of her fingers Captain Queeg style. Seeing her dexterity at work induced Dave to pat his wallet, surreptitiously, he hoped. “Anyone who’s altruistic only because of the strength of their faith is just one crisis of faith away from being a murderous psychopath. Phooey on them. Life after death? Who does more in the world, the person who believes there’s only one life and they need to live it while they can, because of faith in their fellow man, or the person whose faith informs them of a literal physical life after death and is willing to give up the fruits of their mortality to wait on a better world, accepting whatever comes their way?”

  “You sound like an atheist, not a new ager.”

  “I’m too well trained,” Diana said, and laughed. “Faith exists to help us, Dave, not take us over, or at least it shouldn’t. Faith is a good thing. Do you have faith in, do you believe in, intercessory prayer?”

  “No.” Intercessory prayer never made any sense to him.

  “You should; I believe it’s going to save your life.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will.”

  “Yes, Yoda.”

  “Oh, to be that wise,” Diana said. Dave couldn’t tell if her comment was sarcastic or not. She put her crystals away and took out a pad of paper and a charcoal drawing stick, and began to sketch a hand. As she drew, he recognized her picture as the palm of his hand. She had an unbelievably good memory. “I’m just a kid, as I’m sure you figured out, though you wouldn’t believe my real age. Then again, you’re a kid as well, even if you do have a physically older body.” Observant as all get out, too.

  “So I’m supposed to trust the 99 Gods enough to pray to them, or pray to them to ask God to help me or something equally strange?” he said. “That takes more faith than I have, more trust. Do you believe in the utter goodness of the 99 Gods?”

  “Certainly not. The appearance of the 99 Gods mocks the Christian belief that Jesus is the complete truth and the only way to God; the female Moslem Gods mock Islam, and the existence of the Confucian Gods mocks everybody, including the rocks and trees. There are even strident anti-religious Gods, but they aren’t public yet. They do tremendous harm just by existing, and could do irreparable harm if their Missions succeed.”

  Confused again, Dave shook his head. Missions? “So the Gods are evil?” If so, why pray to them?

  “Certainly not,” Diana said. “Think about all the good they’ve already done, and consider how much more they can and will do. Their goodness is obvious.”

  “I don’t understand anything you’re saying.”

  “Exactly.”

  Dave rubbed his temples and wondered why he had stayed here so long. Diana appeared to revel in his confusion, and everything she said made it worse. They’re not good because they can do harm. They’re not evil because they can do good. What could it mean? What’s she getting at?

  Well, he thought, what if the Gods were free willed, like humans are, and capable of both good and evil? That could explain a lot, especially Mirabelle and Steve’s diverging opinions about them. How could Diana know this, though? Hell, how could she know enough to say half the things she said? He remembered an earlier comment about different priorities than her family and her commentary about flexible religions, and he had one of his woo-woo moments, his hands and feet and mind tingling with strangeness.

  “Diana, it almost sounds to me like you expected the 99 Gods,” Dave said.

  “Uh huh,” she said, nodding, eye-twinkling pleased with him.

  A stronger shiver ran down his spine. “Why? How could you expect such a thing?”

  “Parent issues,” Diana said, and smiled. “You’re meant for bigger things than you think, Dave.”

  “Me? You’re crazy,” Dave said. He half wanted to wring Diana’s neck, tired of her dancing around his questions. “Why did you expect God to act?”

  “All I’m going to say right now, Dave, is that if you work on saving yourself I’m sure you’ll succeed. Afterwards, if you want to know my secrets and the bigger things you can get into, come back and visit me. Madame Xenia will tell all.”

  Useless.

  “You’re trying to recruit me into something, aren’t you?”

  “The fact you understand enough to even ask the question gives you your answer.”

  Utterly useless. “So, assume I’m dense here, Diana. What am I supposed to be doing to save myself?”

  “I don’t need to tell you anything more,” she said. “I already gave you all the answers you need.” Answers and a completely flightless pig. He left without leaving a tip in the tip jar.

  “There was a set of mysteries at Athens, called Thesmophoria, and one at Rome, called the mysteries of the Bona Dea, which were celebrated by married women only. Various notions prevailed as to what they did. But can there be any reasonable doubt about it? They were, I fear, systematic conspirators meetings, in which the more experienced matrons instructed the junior ones how to manage their husbands. If this was not their object, then it was to maintain the influence of the heathen clergy over the heathen ladies. Women have always been the constituents of priests where false religions prevailed, as
they have, for better purposes, of the ministers of the Gospel among Christians.” – P.T. Barnum, Humbugs of the World

  “Unfortunately, vigilantism is about all we have left.”

  22. (Atlanta)

  “This is so neat,” Montreal said, looking over Boise’s unexpected creation. Montreal’s ever-cute Quebec-French accent, her luscious and sex-suffused speaking voice and indeed her very presence goaded Atlanta to engage in carnal activities she had turned away from since Apotheosis. Atlanta wondered if she would ever have the time for such again. “How did you figure out how to do this? Is it something all of us Gods can do?” The Iowa afternoon sun shone down on the four gods and their companions, and Atlanta let it warm her dark skin. The autumn warmth made her think of home. Dried stalks and weeds crunched under her feet and poofs of dust floated into the air.

  “I believe long-distance projection is something all the Territorial Gods can do, and something they should all learn to do,” Boise said. His long-distance projection even had fleas. Atlanta thought he took the ugly old white guy prophet-in-the-wilderness game of his too far.

  It did enhance his Rapture, though.

  “I’ve got to learn this long-distance projection business,” Montreal said, lust in her voice. Portland nodded, as did Atlanta. She could project herself about five miles, but hadn’t thought to try anything farther.

  Portland led them out of the long-since-harvested soybean field and to a dirt road angling them toward Dubuque’s headquarters, five miles away. She hadn’t spoken much since her arrival, but she walked with a spring in her step Atlanta hadn’t seen before. Although they all could have flown the rest of the way, they walked simply for the pleasure of the conversation. Atlanta wondered if she had stumbled into the 99 God version of the Corps’ Lance Corporal Underground.

  Atlanta’s summitry plans hadn’t fully succeeded. Convincing Boise, Montreal and Portland had been easy: all she had to do was suffer through far too many verbal jabs about her (to them) inappropriate thug removal service. She had also talked to Worcester and Akron until she was blue in her godly black face, but Akron had been opposed to the entire idea of conspiring against other Gods and Worcester, a suspected Suit supporter, had been evasive. Phoenix, although tardy as usual, had pledged to show, the only one without preconditions, and Atlanta expected him at any moment.

  They walked silently for a moment, dodging ruts and potholes in the overused dirt road. It hadn’t been up to handling the traffic Dubuque’s palace generated. “Did you get Akron’s divine banquet recipe book?” Portland asked Montreal. Montreal looked up from her smartphone, where she had been playing with her Splursh page. Atlanta couldn’t imagine a God needing a Splursh page; she considered the faddish social media site based on group AI-based biography creation disgusting and tacky. Despite the recent improvement in AI quality, nearly every other paragraph an AI created made her wince.

  Montreal nodded. “The whole idea of focusing one’s Rapture into fresh vegetables and finger food strikes me as a bit much,” Portland said, with a half-grin on her face.

  “Why? It’s just another way of making the mortals happy,” Montreal said. “You ever spend any time poor?”

  All the other white folks shook their heads.

  “I had the misfortune to do so for six months,” Montreal said. She slowed and walked with her eyes downcast, gently pushing dirt clods to the side. “It does something to your mind to put so much thought into where your next meal is coming from; I got all greedy and grasping. Antisocial. Akron’s divine food actually cures the problem. I gave some out to some of the local needy and their mood improved immediately.”

  Melvin, the young veteran Atlanta had plucked and trained to be Portland’s military advisor, nearly as gifted with divine willpower as Dana, rolled his eyes. Try a few years, Montreal, Atlanta had the urge to say. Or perhaps an entire lifetime. Then you’ll notice real changes.

  Although they didn’t touch, Atlanta noticed Melvin’s steps matched Portland’s exactly. That and the studious way the two of them ignored each other, and several unexplained periods where Melvin’s thoughts hadn’t been in Atlanta’s mind, finally clicked. Atlanta made a mental note to mention to Portland she didn’t have to bother turning off Atlanta’s sensory link with Melvin just for some simple lovemaking. It wasn’t anything Atlanta hadn’t sensed before.

  “That’s well worth considering, Montreal,” Portland said. “Perhaps I should drop in on some shelters, try it and find out if it helps.” She smiled and looked vacantly off into the distance.

  “I thought of it as a warning,” Atlanta said, kicking a loose pebble a dozen yards ahead. She had received the recipe book on one of her supposedly private email accounts she had Dr. Horton and Lara sorting for her. She had Dana with her today, leaving Dr. Horton running the shop and experimenting with her newly acquired divine healing talents, and Lara off doing her café owner job.

  “A warning?” Portland said. “Whatever of?” A sheriff patrol car slowed, down where the dirt road y-ed ahead into a paved two lane road. Atlanta projected ‘none of your business, we’re not criminals’ at the patrolman and the patrol car sped off. She had been practicing her mental tricks.

  “Consider the use of willpower on food for dastardly ends,” Atlanta said. That had been the first thing she thought of after reading Akron’s preface. “For instance, consider the idea of putting anger and the urge to do violence into milk.” She and Dana had spent a few hours weaving a sensory miracle to alert them to any such attempt at the food supply in Atlanta’s territory. Atlanta found the idea that someone could mess with her territory to be terrifying.

  “What’s the danger in a glass of milk?” Portland said.

  “I wasn’t thinking about a glass of milk, I was thinking of a milk distribution center.”

  “Oh, Atlanta,” Portland said, and raised an eyebrow at Atlanta. “Why’d you have to bring up such a thing? None of us Gods would stoop to terrorism.”

  “I have no such faith,” Atlanta said. “To tell the truth, I expect it. Someday soon.” She expected far worse, and Portland should know better. The idea that the 99 Gods brought chaos had been one of Portland’s better ideas.

  Boise snorted. Atlanta noticed his flea-possessing projection didn’t raise any dust as it walked. Must be the beta version, she noted to herself. “Which brings us to the reason we’re here,” Boise said. “We Gods, at least us territorial ones, have so many different ways we could harm the world it boggles the mind. Even if we restrict our actions to the purely good, as Dubuque does. What we could do if we turned to willful destruction terrifies me.”

  Portland shuddered. “You’re right. Although I don’t think any of us would choose to be willfully destructive, the unintended consequences of a God doing thoughtless good deeds at the behest of some worshippers who’ve addled the God’s mind could be quite severe.” Portland still had quite the bug up her ass about worshippers. Atlanta thought the worshipper problem an effect of sloppy God behavior, not a cause of it. She decided to study the issue and put it on her mental four-digit long to-do list.

  Melvin cleared his throat. “Ma’am, that’s not anywhere near as bad as a worshipper-addled God declaring a jihad. One person’s good deed is another’s terror campaign.” Melvin, a reserve officer who had served in the Middle East for three years, didn’t have the sass Dana did. Despite the grief Dana gave her, Atlanta thought Dana’s sass far more constructive.

  He had managed to cheer up the cheerless Portland, though. That deserved a medal all in itself.

  “Precisely,” Boise said. Portland paled, likely thinking through the complexities and social dangers of a jihad backed by one of the Territorial Gods. Atlanta suspected she would eventually get an email from Portland on the subject, outlining dozens of possible bad consequences. That one would be worth memorizing. Portland did have her uses. “Still, the Angelic Host made it perfectly clear to us that war is a great evil and beyond the pale. There are no Practical or Ideological Gods of
war, and stopping wars is one of the explicit responsibilities the Host handed to us. We would have to fall very low indeed to consider jihad.”

  Us meaning the Territorial Gods.

  Someone didn’t understand the Ideological and Practical Gods, Atlanta guessed.

  “Have you been following Accra’s activities?” Montreal said, proving she had been paying attention to the conversation even as she reveled in the late-season sunshine and warmth, sunning the tops of her breasts. Dana, Melvin and Portland nodded. Atlanta and Boise shook their heads.

  “What’s Accra been doing?” Atlanta said. His activities hadn’t yet made the parts of the internet Atlanta frequented.

  “He’s been snuffing out the west African brushfire wars with a vengeance,” Montreal said. That sounded good to Atlanta. There had been wars in West Africa for decades, one after the other, each more barbaric than the previous. “I think he might have even killed more people than you and Khartoum have, Atlanta. The same sort of people, too, only his victims are primarily soldiers.”

  A private plane stuttered by overhead, misfiring on one of its engine’s cylinders. Atlanta checked if the pilot was in any trouble, and decided not. The engine would make it to the woman’s destination. She also checked whether the woman knew about the Gods below, and found no awareness in her mind. Good.

  “Like Khartoum, he’s primarily going after the officers, with a few corrupt officials thrown in for leavening,” Melvin said. “My guess is he’ll soon start in on the common soldiers who’ve committed atrocities.”

  “Don’t be so supportive,” Boise said. “I’m still worried about the problem of such blood on a God’s hands as much as I’m worried about what it does to society.”

  Back to this again… “I know you’re watching me,” Atlanta said, after several minutes of quiet walking. They reached the paved road and turned toward their target, now visible a few miles ahead. Dubuque’s headquarters occupied the spacious parking lot of an abandoned outlet mall at the corner of their paved road and US 20. It glowed to Atlanta’s senses, far too wasteful of willpower for her tastes. “Have you seen any problems yet?”