99 Gods: War

by Randall Farmer

  Damned annoying. Dana could be right, though, Atlanta decided. She quit pushing.

  Dubuque turned to Atlanta and Montreal. “Now that we’ve agreed on the dangers of the Seven Suits and of worshipped Gods like Miami, let’s move on to my own pet worries, worries over to the paths the two of you have chosen,” Dubuque said. “I believe they are both morally wrong and personally hazardous. Let me help you.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Montreal said. Her wary eyes held the same reaction Atlanta’s did. “I’m sure you’re willing to tell me, though.”

  Atlanta turned her willpower and mind to analysis. She had to figure this nonsense out, and fast. She had to.

  “Yet you cannot deny the pleasure you offer is unholy,” Dubuque said, leaning close to Montreal. “You must place strict limits on it, limits you have not as yet set.”

  The discussion had gone on for fifteen minutes, Montreal slowly beaten down by the weight of Dubuque’s arguments. During the time, Atlanta had gone over Dubuque’s words and decided that despite the fact she still sensed no active willpower in use, Dubuque indeed swayed them all against their will. Logic said so, even though she still didn’t know how. Dubuque’s sway wasn’t omnipotent; his mind control trick hadn’t been enough to sway Montreal away from her Mission to be a goddess of pleasure, but had been enough to force Montreal to negotiate.

  Atlanta couldn’t sense any control over her mind, but, again logically, no shock there. Logically, the first thing any mind controller would learn to do would be to make sure his victims didn’t notice his tricks. How could she find her way out of this mess? Could she wiggle free while under Dubuque’s control? She feared not.

  Was her fear part of the control, though, or was it logic?

  Regardless, she neither liked nor wanted anyone to control her, in any form. She had to oppose the control if she wanted to remain herself. Such control offended her.

  “You’ve given me a lot of possible limits, too many in my book,” Montreal said. Still wary, but not hostile. “I’m not you, nor am I your slave. I do value your wise opinion, though. So tell me, what limits are most important to you?”

  “Well, I have already convinced you that drug use among you and your followers must be stopped,” Dubuque said. The convincing had come early. Atlanta guessed Montreal had already been wavering on the issue. “Adultery, then, must be the chief limit.”

  Dubuque’s arguments had exposed a typical man-of-God’s distaste for the temptations of the modern world. Sins, sins, sins. Lust in the heart. Give your life over to Jesus. She had heard it all before, far too many times, from men of God from all points on the political spectrum. Escape from this nonsense had been one of the reasons she had joined the Marines. These issues were far too petty to be spending so much time worrying about, or so she thought.

  “All sex out of wedlock? Forget it,” Montreal said. Montreal’s intransigence gave Atlanta hope.

  Dubuque sighed. “Adultery then as the breaking of one’s marriage vows. I am willing to consider the issue of sex outside of marriage as a topic for later discussion.” Emotionally, the munificence of Dubuque’s patience and willingness to compromise awed Atlanta. Logically, she realized Dubuque hadn’t given up a thing.

  Atlanta slowly melted into the white floor, metaphorically, each further bit of frustration increasing her anger.

  This had to stop. She let herself fall into the pilot’s checklist: if one thing doesn’t work, try something else, and keep trying things until something works. After many ‘something else’s’, Atlanta, against her normal paranoid instincts, decided to open herself up to Dana’s loaned willpower. It flowed into Atlanta like a tide, and to her surprise Dana’s willpower tide freed Atlanta’s mind from Dubuque’s subtle sway, enhancing her self-awareness.

  No, she hadn’t fought off Dubuque’s trick. Instead, she had already fallen. Dubuque had gigged her Integrity and Rapture quite nicely. He didn’t need to argue Atlanta out of following her chosen path. Mere window dressing. Dubuque already had her where it counted, her Mission. Right now, she couldn’t kill a flea. The words would be a formality, to lock Dubuque’s message into Atlanta’s Integrity so Atlanta couldn’t wiggle out later.

  Dubuque had attacked her, and she had lost. Hot anger built inside, anger at herself for allowing this to happen. Atlanta looked at her arms in shock – they had gone back to their native brown. To a nice slave brown, literally whitened by Dubuque’s stark white gaze.

  Livid anger rushed through Atlanta, and she willed her skin back to the jet black she preferred as a statement of her identity. Dubuque’s gaze flickered over to her, puzzled.

  Dana’s willpower flowed out of Atlanta, and Atlanta’s arms faded to brown. Dubuque returned to his discussion with Montreal.

  She couldn’t defeat Dubuque this way. She and Dana didn’t have the strength.

  “For those who are married, I can limit myself to the enhancement of their pleasure only with their marriage partners,” Montreal said. Dubuque nodded.

  To her consternation, Atlanta found she agreed with Dubuque.

  Damnation! I’ve got to find a way to fight this on my own, Atlanta told herself.

  “Next, you need to admit it’s deeply wrong to enhance in any way the pleasure of women with women and men with men,” Dubuque said. “It may not be our right to forbid such things, but we have no call to encourage it.”

  Montreal licked her lips and studied her feet. “I don’t know. This isn’t…”

  “Listen to the word of God,” Dubuque said, his Rapture filling his voice. “You know in your heart those physical acts are wrong. The City of God cannot be founded on such wrong acts or on the mindless tolerance of the so-called victimless crimes. We must use our moral suasion to stop them, and even if you disagree, at least you mustn’t use your divine willpower to enhance such pleasure. You must see this. Tell me, Montreal.”

  “Yes,” Montreal said, rubbing her hands together. “You’re right. I do see this. I’ll do as you ask.”

  Atlanta clenched her fists. Montreal’s strength dwarfed hers, but when Dubuque pushed, the sex goddess caved. When Dubuque finally turned his eyes to her, Atlanta knew she would quickly cave, or lose her Integrity as well.

  The weight of futility crushed down on Atlanta, paralyzing her. She had lost, and in her gut, to her annoyance, her loss was proper.

  She had never imagined she would fall so soon. Her own accomplishments had fooled her and lulled her into a false sense of security. Her hands clenched in anger, Dana wincing and moaning as Atlanta squeezed Dana’s arm. “God, deliver me from this madness,” Dana said, whispering an actual prayer.

  Dana’s prayer wouldn’t work, Atlanta knew. Their creators had given them the power to do miracles in God’s name. Which meant they couldn’t pray to God for what they already had.

  They could pray to God for what they lacked, though.

  “If you must pray, pray for strength,” Atlanta said to Dana, with a whisper. “The will to be yourself.” Montreal, still speaking with Dubuque, agreed to give up on her enhancement of sex toy use, her surrender almost complete. Montreal’s expression grew vacant, matching the stark whiteness of the room. Dana shook her head, not understanding.

  Atlanta decided a little prayer wouldn’t hurt her, either. ‘God’, Atlanta prayed. ‘Give me the strength to overcome Dubuque’s attack. Give me the strength to use the power those who created me gave me to use. Give me the strength to will my own destiny.’

  By doing so you will harm yourself, her own Angel, the one named Weeping for Cordoba, said in her mind. There is no attack. His strength gives him the right of this. Thus you were made.

  My strength gives me the right to refuse him, Atlanta sent back. She smiled, remembering Dubuque’s earlier words. Let me be a martyr to the greater good.

  So be it.

  Atlanta’s arms became jet black again. The world around her subtly altered, as she now sensed Dubuque’s Mission-guided willpower at work, gr
eatly enhancing his charisma.

  To her, Dubuque’s eyes had now become white holes in reality, burning terrifying power.

  “Atlanta,” Dubuque said, turning to her. “It’s time for us to talk.”

  “Speak, then,” Atlanta said. This time her arms remained jet black.

  “It’s time for you to stop solving problems by violence,” Dubuque said. “It’s wrong.”

  Atlanta’s new strength rattled around inside her, a new form of fierce awareness of herself and her Mission. Self-belief.

  Dubuque’s words no longer swayed her.

  The new strength had a cost. By focusing her willpower into, well, her willpower, it wasn’t available for other uses.

  “Dubuque,” Atlanta said. “Release us from this mental attack of yours. Then we can talk.”

  Dubuque frowned. “Attack? I’m doing nothing but talking, Atlanta.”

  Atlanta shook her head. “No more coercion. Win us over fairly, by logic, or win us over not at all.”

  Portland’s, Montreal’s and Phoenix’s eyes turned to Atlanta. Montreal’s and Phoenix’s eyes became white holes in reality as well. Atlanta’s stomach churned as her Rapture plummeted. Bees buzzed in her head. White tendrils of white room crept up her legs. Invisible fingers tried to peel her divine willpower off her personal will.

  Tried and failed.

  Only she was able to sense Dubuque’s actions. Only she had the ability to thwart them.

  Dubuque sighed. “There is no coercion here. Atlanta, this is for your own good.”

  “I’ll decide what’s for my own good or not, and I won’t allow myself to be coerced into anything.” Her statement rippled through her Mission, and through Dana, now able to struggle against the subtle willpower trick that bound her.

  “I’m saddened your warrior spirit sees enemies here, instead of friends,” Dubuque said. He raised his white and holy hands wide. “Atlanta, your actions are leading you down a road no Living Saint should follow, leading you to your self-destruction. I can help you, though, and save you! Give up your campaign of terror. Give up on your so-called justifiable removal of criminals from society. All four of us agree: your violence demeans all of us. God Almighty put us Living Saints here to stop war and violence! Your saintly violence is turning you into a monster.”

  Atlanta’s lips narrowed. “I’ll negotiate with you, Dubuque, but only if you stop trying to coerce me.” She gave her voice the boom of thunder, the wrath of God. “Only then.”

  “I am negotiating,” Dubuque said. The passion of his old mortal war-protester spirit flowed freely now. “Your ceaseless violence has already changed you. It’s twisted your mind and made this discussion into a confrontation.”

  “Please, Atlanta, let’s discuss this as Dubuque and Montreal did,” Portland said. “Your and Dana’s fears are unwarranted. I’m fully in agreement with Dubuque’s point, and I certainly haven’t been coerced into agreement. I’ve talked to you about this several times before, remember?”

  Atlanta nodded agreement and turned back to Dubuque.

  “Let us help,” Dubuque said. Pleading. His coercion beat on her mind like a hammer.

  “Dubuque, you’re the one who made this into a confrontation with your mind control,” Atlanta said, leaning forward. “You want to talk about my Mission? Fine. But you have to stop trying to take over my mind first!”

  Dubuque turned to Portland, Phoenix and Montreal. “Can you talk some sense into her? Get her to talk this over rationally?”

  “There’s no coercion here,” Portland said, puzzled. “We’re all here to help you, Atlanta.”

  “…here to help you, Atlanta,” echoed Phoenix and Montreal.

  Dana slumped over and vomited her breakfast at her feet.

  Portland’s face turned stony, and she flickered a suspicious glance at Dubuque. Only Melvin, among the others, even noticed.

  Atlanta fought back panic. Phoenix and Montreal’s echoed statements had stripped something off her, a piece of her Godhood holding her connection to the outside world and her territory. Her mind now whirled, unceasing, Dubuque’s stark white audience chamber twisting into all her senses. She focused more of her willpower on her free will, and as a side effect of her focus, her thoughts slowed to pre-Godhood speed, on but a single thought track. Her panic abated, though.

  “Forget it,” Atlanta said, angry and firm. “I refuse to bow to your will.” That wouldn’t be enough. She needed to buoy her Mission. “Instead, Dubuque, I pledge to free those who’ve fallen under your control.”

  Beside her, Dana escaped Dubuque’s hold, freed by Atlanta’s pledge.

  “You refuse our help? My help?” Dubuque said. Pained.

  “Coercive mind control is not help,” Atlanta said. “It’s an attack. It’s a form of violence, which you say you oppose.”

  Dubuque’s pained expression turned to anger. “You leave me no choice, Atlanta,” he said. “To oppose me on this is an open proclamation of enmity, placing yourself in league with the other side, those who oppose the will of God Almighty. If you refuse my arguments, you must be opposed.” Atlanta’s Integrity shattered, to fall dead and powerless at her feet. She wavered, longing for her lost Integrity. If she surrendered to Dubuque, she …

  “No! This is wrong!” Dana said. Atlanta steadied. Portland’s willpower gathered in storm as she glanced back and forth between Dubuque and Atlanta. She, however, did not act.

  Atlanta finally found the way forward, understanding what Dubuque intended. What the Angelic Host feared.

  This was war.

  She knew she had other ways to fulfill her Mission besides Integrity. She would rebuild her Integrity, but only outside of the range of Dubuque’s gaze.

  Here, she had to attack.

  With words, the chosen battlefield. Words and Mission.

  “I formally declare my opposition to your tyranny of the mind, Dubuque,” Atlanta said. The statement itself buoyed her. Dubuque’s stark white audience chamber lost its scifi radiance, revealed now as the flat off-white dingy meeting space it was. “Any utopia you build using your foul divine tricks will be little more than illusion, a Hell on Earth, even if you name it the City of God.”

  Dubuque rocked back as if slapped. Phoenix and Montreal’s eyes returned to normal, and Atlanta sensed she had shaken Dubuque’s Rapture. She would love to stomp on his Integrity, but now free of Dubuque’s control she realized Dubuque’s Integrity wasn’t his strength, and what little he had was impregnable.

  “I can’t believe a Living Saint would say such a thing!” Dubuque said. “You’re turning yourself into nothing more than one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse, an embodiment of war instead of a Territorial savior. The common good requires you to be stopped and fixed. We must!”

  She had to continue attacking, or his control would insinuate itself back into her Mission and mind. “Slavemaster,” Atlanta said. Again, she rocked his Rapture. “False Prophet!”

  “Antichrist! Demon!” Dubuque said. Atlanta’s own Rapture fell away.

  “False God,” Atlanta said, sneering back.

  Dubuque’s face flushed. “Attend me,” he said, his voice overcome by anger. He raised his arms. Phoenix and Montreal stood. Portland followed, an instant later, silently mouthing the words ‘Trust Me’, which Atlanta ignored. “Let us gather them into our arms and heal their delusions…”

  He said ‘heal’, but only one thing would come from this, a physical fight. A fight she couldn’t win, not with so much of her willpower devoted to keeping her mind free from Dubuque’s coercion. Not against four other Territorial Gods.

  Besides, she had shaken Dubuque’s Rapture as much as she could for the moment, and she had at least planted the seed of revolt into the minds of the other Territorials.

  Atlanta reacted much faster than Portland, Phoenix, Montreal and Dubuque. She grabbed Dana, pushed down, and blasted open the dirty white walls of Dubuque’s audience chamber, melting them back to the unreality they came from as she a
nd Dana passed, letting in the sun and the blue sky to cleanse the foulness out of the place.

  It seemed to be an appropriate thing to do.

  They broke the sound barrier less than a hundred feet above the ground.

  23. (John)

  John’s magical area alarms went off, waking him from his early slumber. Before he could roll out of bed and put on his kitty-cat slippers, the front of his house exploded, indenting his bedroom shield and knocking him off his feet. Reflexively, as he searched for Reed and didn’t find him, he grabbed his bedroom shield and flew up and out, leaving behind a hole in the ceiling and in the unused storage room the next floor up, and a hole in the roof above, covering his remaining magical protections with plaster dust and other debris. Four more explosions followed him as he rose, and as he got his bearings, he focused on his neighborhood.

  There. Eight attackers. Should he just run? Scenarios rattled through his mind, and noting that his house wasn’t engulfed in flames, despite the bright flashes and loud bangs of the explosions, he decided on something more aggressive. Muttering words that morally bothered his subconscious, he made it appear as if he was still inside the house, casting aggressive fire magics at his opponents. Only one of the fire magics connected with any of the eight, who dropped to the ground and rolled, attempting to extinguish the flames. He would live. One of the attackers signaled the others, and they all opened fire on his old house with automatic weapons, and between the weapons fire and his flame attacks seemingly emanating from the house, his old home finally caught fire. A moment later the city gas inside blew, demolishing the house down to basement level, and setting three nearby houses on fire.

  John muttered another spell, and willed his magic out, seeking. No willpower. No abnormal anythings. “This damned rumpus is going to attract far too much attention,” he said, swallowing curses he would rather never say or even think. He landed high on a tree, a half block away, and used his magic to anchor him to an unsteady branch. He followed the attackers with his magic as they rushed the remains of his house, weapons ready.