99 Gods: War

by Randall Farmer

  “That’s no rationale.”

  “I didn’t give you a rationale. I gave you a ‘why’.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “Uh huh,” Nessa said. She couldn’t deny being impossible. Unless she wanted to be more impossible… “You want a rationale? Then why’d you come bother me in Alaska? You don’t understand why you did that, but you did. It’s the same.”

  “I don’t get what you’re saying.”

  “Listen to your mind,” Nessa said. “Deep down inside all of us Telepaths a little voice is saying ‘the Gods are going to kill us, so what we do to them doesn’t matter because they’re already dead anyway’.”

  “Which ‘they’ and ‘them’? Telepaths?”

  “Uh huh. For some damned reason we’re the other side. Right and wrong don’t seem to matter.”

  Ken didn’t comment, deep in thought. She drifted off into sleep.

  “You’re right,” Ken twisted to his side and the bed bounced with his motion. “It’s desperation. That’s what’s motivating all of us. Desperation is why we’re so successful this time at recruiting Telepaths, and why we weren’t before. Desperation is why I’ve kept from throttling Alt every time he masturbates while thinking of you.”

  Ken’s voice dragged her back out of the edge of a dream of a chocolate orgy. “It’s the old lesson about lying to ourselves,” Nessa said. “Poor Javier. He’d seen too much of the real world, and so he’d invented a whole world out after him.”

  “Javier? That’s his name?”

  Nessa grunted.

  “He going to take a shower? Man, I don’t think I’ve ever run into anyone who reeks as much as he does.”

  “Defense mechanism. He gets stinky on purpose,” Nessa said. “He actually had those stock market investments he talked about.” Javier slept out in the floor of their motel room, his mind filled with quiet dreams, save those in which Nessa appeared. The bad dreams. He would stop hating her after a couple of days. “He’s real good at long range telepathy, or at least he is now, and, by the way, it is the Seven Suits who’ve done in the economy. Javier’s got the proof, though he didn’t realize what he had until I showed him. Anywho, he doesn’t have the will to control other minds. He’s a good scanner, though. Now that I’m done with him, he can even read Phil’s thoughts.”

  “That’s impressive,” Ken said. “What’s next?”

  “Damn if I know,” Nessa said. “Sleep?” Every man she slept with wanted to chatter on when she was half-asleep. From her discussions with other women, she had learned the opposite happened more often. She didn’t know what this meant about Telepaths or her lovers, though.

  “I mean on our mission, Nessa.”

  “Love you too, Ken.” Her exhausted mind turned in circles. “Train, go after Miami, find out if Miami’s an enemy or not. See if Dubuque’s a friend or not.”

  “If Miami isn’t an enemy, confronting him will make him one.”

  “Never that simple,” Nessa said. “Sometimes confronting bullies makes them respect you. Perhaps, after we confront him, we’ll sit down and have a nice discussion.”

  “Bets?”

  “I’m not saying it will happen, but that it could happen,” Nessa said. “Sleep?”

  “If you insist,” Ken said.

  Nessa checked and noticed that he had gotten interested. Sleep was all she wanted, though, so she reached into his mind and dragged him off to sleep with her, where they made glorious superhuman love to each other in their shared dreams.

  36. (Dave)

  “Tiff, I know this is going to sound strange, but I’d like you to pray with me,” Dave said, as he straightened his tie. He had put off both his tense meeting with his co-owners of DPMJ and his return to his chamber music group long enough, and couldn’t postpone either of them any longer.

  Time for me to face the music with both, the second more literal than the first, Dave told himself. Both scared the crap out of him.

  Tiff looked up from scrubbing her face. “We have to wake the kids.”

  Tuesday. Right. His turn to wake the kids and get them ready for school. “It’ll only take a few moments. I’ll wake the kids when I’m done.”

  “Okay,” Tiff said, after a moment of hesitation.

  She walked over to him, a blank expression on her face that changed to a frown when Dave didn’t immediately kneel, but instead led her to the nearest stairway to the second floor, and then to his Dubuque shrine in the guest bedroom where he kept his small home office. She eyed him warily when he knelt before the shrine, and slowly knelt down herself.

  Dave took Tiff’s hand. “Saint Dubuque,” he said, eyes focused on the shrine’s picture of the Living Saint. “Conduit to God, focus of my adoration of the Almighty. Let me be calm today as I confront those who do not understand me. Let me accept what I cannot change with strength and purpose, and give me the insight to know what I can change.” As always when he prayed to the Living Saint, Dubuque’s eyes came alive to him, a trick of his own mind. The usual mixture of acceptance and wonder flowed through Dave, helping him know everything would be right with his world. “Thank you, Saint Dubuque, my personal savior, for all you have already done for me in the name of the Almighty, and let me do the will of the Almighty in all things. Amen.”

  Silence followed, Tiff’s fingers trembling slightly in his, at least until she extricated her hand from his grasp. Dave’s eyes left the picture of Dubuque and he glanced over at his wife, whose expression had returned to stony blankness.

  “Thanks,” Dave said. He did feel calmer, more accepting, though he didn’t know if Saint Dubuque miraculously calmed him, or if the action of praying itself calmed him.

  “You’re welcome,” Tiff said, neutral voiced, and stood. “Very educational.”

  Dave stood as well and gave Tiff a hug; she tensed in his arms. “Time to wake the kids,” he said.

  “Don’t forget that Stacy needs lunch money,” Tiff said, a little pale and breathless, extricating herself and rushing off quickly, to slam the bathroom door behind her.

  Dave rang the doorbell at Mirabelle’s, then stood and waited. To his consternation, he heard music, even though he had timed his arrival to the scheduled start of the chamber music practice session. He wanted to talk to his friends in person and undo all the damage caused by his sojourn to Dubuque’s mega-church. Steve had refused to speak to him over the phone, and blocked his texts, while Mirabelle had been distant, distracted, and non-communicative.

  The music stopped. Dave licked his lips, half contemplating his friends’ reaction and half aching over the buy-out options he and his DPMJ co-owners had discussed. He couldn’t say the negotiation hadn’t been successful; they came to a mutual agreement without any raised voices. The fact he needed to negotiate at all hurt, leaving him with a barely buried desire to find a way to strike back at the Seven Suits and their hidden shenanigans. With his health returning, he would be hitting the client search hard over the next month, living out of a suitcase and rarely returning home. He hoped the kids and Tiff would be able to cope.

  Mirabelle opened the door, a quizzical look turning into a frown. “Dave! What a surprise! How’re you doing?” she said.

  “Much better. Not fully cured yet, but well on the way. Haven’t had a headache in days.” In truth, he felt like a new man. He suspected his medical problems had been as much of a burden on his mind as on his body, and although he hadn’t lost all the physical symptoms of the cadmium poisoning, his attitude had certainly changed for the better. He even had one of his old woo-woo moments, about something other than himself, where he knew the word the second place kid in the national spelling bee missed before he read the article online. He hadn’t been having many of those, at all, during the depths of his illness.

  “Come on in,” she said, and waved her arm. “You know Geneva. She’s been filling in on cello.”

  “Hiya, Jenni,” Dave said, waving and smiling. Already replaced. Whole lot of replace’n goin’ round, he kn
ew.

  “Dave,” Geneva said, eyes downcast and peeking at her own cello.

  Neither Steve nor Roger said a word after Dave sat himself down in Mirabelle’s music room, in front of the munchies, with his cello case and cello at his side.

  Awkward silence followed.

  “Well, I’m back,” Dave said.

  “I don’t want to talk to you,” Steve said, shaking his head and refusing eye contact.

  “Excuse me,” Roger said. He put down his violin and exited toward the bathroom. Geneva turned away and began to retune her cello. Softly.

  “What happened, happened,” Dave said, letting his calm mood flow through his body. “I’m on the way to being cured.”

  Steve leapt to his feet and stuck a finger in Dave’s face, uncharacteristically physical. “You’ve sold your soul to the worst devil of the lot! You’re not even you anymore!” Steve had always been excitable, certainly more excitable than Dave, but then again, most people thought Dave excessively phlegmatic. Still, Dave didn’t like his old friend getting in his face.

  “How would you know?” Dave said, his kind voice surprising himself. He turned away, put some cheese on a cracker and ate. “You haven’t even talked to me.”

  “For one thing, you’re here,” Steve said, waving his arms. “You go off to Dubuque to sell your soul without telling anyone, then you come here today, to Mirabelle’s, without any warning. Now you’re sitting here without a care in the world. I’m screaming in your face and you’re not even responding!”

  Dave shrugged at Steve’s craziness and looked at Mirabelle. She wouldn’t meet his gaze either, a weary sadness around her eyes. “I don’t want a fight. I just want to get on with my life.” He didn’t want to proselytize, defend himself, apologize or explain. He wanted the entire thing behind him. For a moment, he had the urge to apologize, sarcastically, for saving his own life, but the urge passed, replaced by a warm calmness.

  Geneva put down her cello and fled the room.

  “Steve, please,” Mirabelle said. “You’re making me uncomfortable.” She gently pointed to a chair. Steve took a deep breath and sat. “Thank you.”

  Mirabelle turned to Dave, her face sad. “This wasn’t how this was supposed to be. I wanted to talk to you in person, ahead of time.”

  “About what?”

  “Dave, we took a vote and I got outvoted. You’re out of the group.” She studied her toes and tapped her sandals together. “I’m so sorry.”

  Dave took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Oh.” Now he understood all the funny emotional currents roving Mirabelle’s house. He waited a few beats, and took another breath. “I understand.” The parallel to the DPMJ debacle saddened him. The echoing of Dr. Greuter’s ‘I’m so sorry’ didn’t help, either. Damned freaky, but he had grown used to the damned freakies years ago.

  Mirabelle’s eyes opened wide in shock. “You understand?” she said. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

  “I’m not happy that things worked out this way, but I’m not devastated, if you’re asking,” Dave said. Mirabelle frowned. “I just had a death sentence miraculously lifted from me. The miracle’s made me appreciate…”

  “Your so-called cure’s warped your fool brain worse than your cadmium poisoning did!” Steve said, leaning forward and almost snarling. “The Dave I know would get his back up. Snark sarcastically at us for being fools. Point out all the reasons for and against, and try to convince us we were wrong, using logic. For unending hours!”

  “Perhaps I’ve just picked up the ability to accept what can’t be changed,” Dave said. The strange Boise follower, Diana, had been right. Intercessionary prayer did work. He felt no urge at all to get upset, and if there was a cost, he didn’t know of one. The louder and more obnoxious Steve became, the calmer and more confident Dave got. “My immediate reaction, if you want something nasty and personal, is to rush over to the Center for the Performing Arts and make sure I’m not kicked out of ‘The Shadow Box’ production’s costuming group. I would like to retain some measure of my former life.”

  Steve shook his head and leaned back. “Okay, perhaps this Dubuque thing hasn’t totally destroyed your ego and turned you into a hapless cult member. But, Dave, Dubuque’s going after me. Us. Homosexuals. He’s not advertising what he’s doing, but anyone can see the shit coming when we read between the lines. His goal is a world without sin, this City of God thing of his. He’s not being very specific yet about what he thinks of as sin and what he doesn’t, but it’s not hard to figure out his true feelings about gays. Dave, religions always persecute gays; and when our nation gets turned into a theocracy, that’s what’s going to happen.”

  Dave shook his head. “Theocracy? I think you’re jumping the gun, Steve.” He paused while Steve fumed. “Before I chose Dubuque I studied the Living Saints. I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re right, in part. The Living Saints are going to change everything. Not just Dubuque, but all of them. However, what they change doesn’t depend only on the Living Saints, but on the choices us mortals make as well. To me, Dubuque’s just one viewpoint, albeit a very religious viewpoint. The other Living Saints will have their say. So will the rest of us; I’m convinced the coming change will arise from our desires. For instance, who didn’t dislike war?”

  Steve didn’t say a thing, just clenching and unclenching his hands every time Dave said ‘Living Saint’.

  “Far too many people dislike gays,” Mirabelle said.

  “So? Far too many people also dislike not being super-rich,” Dave said. Mirabelle’s eyes opened wide again. “But you can’t make everyone super-rich.” Dave held up his hands for peace, seeing Mirabelle’s frown. “I’m not trying to be facetious. I’m just trying to make the point that one impossible miracle, my cure, doesn’t make everything possible.”

  “You’ve made your point before,” Steve said. “But we’re not talking about physical impossibilities like turning the sun purple or making the Earth rotate backwards. We’re talking peculiarities of the human body.”

  “Well, that’s true,” Dave said, tapping his feet, ideas leaping through his head, unable to stop the flow of his words. “But didn’t I read in your literature that one of the arguments gay men make about why being gay must be biological instead of a choice is to have someone like me, a standard hetero, think about gay sex and our own reaction to it, implying that nobody in their right mind would choose such a thing?” Steve frowned, but nodded. “What if, and this is just a what if, one of the Living Saints could miraculously change your sexual orientation? Would doing so be a bad thing?”

  Steve’s eyes opened wide in shock. “Dave! I can’t believe I’m hearing this!” He stood and stalked out of the room.

  Dave scratched his head and turned to Mirabelle. “I’m not sure I understand why what I said upset Steve so much. What did I say wrong?”

  Mirabelle sighed. “Steve’s right. You’ve changed, Dave. You just insulted his identity. That’s not the sort of thing you do. Or at least, you did.”

  “Okay, if you say so,” Dave said. “I thought I was just following the point of his earlier comment with an obvious follow-up point.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Mirabelle said. She looked up at the ceiling high above. “‘In me, all things are possible’ is too scary for even someone like myself to contemplate. Steve’s convinced me, opened my eyes to the real danger.”

  “Real danger? You’ve been pro-Living Saint from the start.”

  Mirabelle’s frown deepened when he spoke the words ‘pro-Living Saint’. “The Gods threaten everything we, the American people, have accomplished on our own with our democracy, our choices, our desires and our squabbles. Their influence on all of us, at the national level and the personal level, is taking all our choices away from us right before our eyes. Before this, you cared. Now, you don’t seem to.”

  “I care about making the world a better place,” Dave said. “The Living Saints need our help, our thoughts, even our prayers,
if the world is to be made into a better place. Which the world can be.”

  “I think you’d better go, Dave,” Mirabelle said, standing and walking toward her front door. Dave picked up his cello and followed. He didn’t want to fight Mirabelle, of all people. “You’ve become a marked lesson to us all, but I think you’ve said enough for one night.”

  “Tiff, I’m back,” Dave said to the air in the kitchen. No answer. He went to the mail kiosk in his micro office, checked it, and found two of his magazines had come in. He grabbed them and trotted off to Tiff’s office. He knocked.

  “I heard you the first time.” Tiff clicked the desk switch that unlocked her office doors and Dave walked in. “What’s up?” she asked, wary.

  “Nothing much,” Dave said. He didn’t want to talk about being kicked out of his own chamber music group or his successful attempt to grab the lead volunteer costuming spot for the production down at the Center for the Performing Arts. He did want to talk about the successful negotiations with the DPMJ co-owners, but he wanted to save that until later.

  Instead, he whipped out the bouquet of red roses he bought on the way home. He hadn’t done that sort of thing in years.

  Tiff frowned, sighed, and smiled. “Thank you,” she said, standing and giving him a peck on the cheek and a cold hug. “You’re better, I can tell.”

  Dave nodded. He felt healthy enough to make love to his wife, the main reason he had thought up the idea of the roses tonight. He went over to stand next to her, putting his hand on her shoulder.

  Tiff flinched. “Dave, hun, I’d like to, but something’s come up. My boss dropped a huge new project into my lap today, and I’m… Well, you know. Working all hours.”

  His eye flickered to her computers, and saw the usual blank screens. He didn’t know how, but Tiff had found a way to boss-key out of all her work on all her computers at once with a single keystroke. He had actually seen it in action once, about a month ago.