The Goddess Quest

by Lawrence Ambrose

  "Gamer...roids...?"

  "Players who play like they're taking steroids – generally favor over-aggressive, violent shit. Never graduated from the mindless, shoot-em-up videogames. Also related to hemorrhoids since they're generally such irritating assholes." While her mom chewed on that, Alex continued, "The remaining players, if there are any, probably aren't into that. If they were, they already would've shown their true colors last night."

  While her mom pondered, Alex poured a bowl of mixed-nuts cereal, grateful that Cindy had missed the part about the game going public if this phase wasn't resolved. A temporary reprieve.

  "Okay," said Cindy. "Thank you for sharing this with me, Alex. But one thing you haven't said is where, exactly, you'll be when you go back."

  "In a jail, I assume. My last memory was being arrested in the restaurant."

  "I don't recall reading about anyone being arrested."

  "Not surprising."

  "But if you're in a jail, how can you continue this game?"

  "I guess I'll have to charm my jailers into releasing me."

  Her mom didn't return her smile. "But seriously..."

  "Look, Mom. I don't know what's going to happen, okay? I haven't known what was going to happen at any point in this quest. I guess you could say I'm a play-by-the-seat-of-your-pants type of gamer. I don't plan much, but somehow I usually find a way to solve every problem that comes my way. That's what will happen when I rejoin my avatar. Or I'll give up and check out for the duration."

  Cindy bowed her head. Alex felt confident she was praying that her daughter would spend her last three days in a comfortable and safe jail cell.

  "Will you promise me something?" Cindy lifted her gaze. "If it turns violent or too stressful, you'll check out?"

  Alex slowly smiled. "Sure, Mom."

  ALEX WOKE up in a transparent box in the center of a darkened room. She sat up on a mattress of memory foam. The furnishings consisted of a sink and toilet, constructed of the same Plexiglas-like material as the room itself. Small steel grates in the ceiling provided ventilation, she assumed. A single light shone from a ceiling high above.

  She stood up and walked to the nearest wall, peering into the darkness that surrounded her. The bright overhead light effectively illuminated a portion of her room, but reduced everything beyond the walls to blackness. She was in a "Hannibal Lector Cage," the cliché of every movie depicting the confinement of an ultra-dangerous individual. Perhaps there was some basis for that cliché. A couple of hard TK pulses had no effect on either the wall or the sink. She extended her telekinetics outside the room, but with no visible targets to focus on, she was like a blind person with a rifle in a gun range.

  Alex paced around the room, tamping down her dread and an incipient panic, making herself coolly contemplate her current circumstances. On the plus side, her avatar was still alive and healthy. On the negative side, they had her wrapped up in a space-age cocoon, going nowhere...well, really, really slowly.

  "You're awake."

  It took Alex a moment to place the voice: the DARE secretary, Elizabeth Learner.

  "Secretary Learner," said Alex.

  "I trust you find your accommodations comfortable."

  "You're awfully trusting."

  Twenty or thirty seconds dribbled past. Alex bided her time. She must have something Learner and her organization wanted or the head of this prestigious institution wouldn't be speaking with her now.

  "I'm wondering if you would you be willing to answer some questions," said the DARE Secretary.

  "What are you offering in return?"

  "Better accommodations, for starters. Perhaps a room with a view."

  "Not necessary. I rather like it here. It has a certain ascetic charm."

  "What would you like, then?"

  "Something to drink."

  "Certainly. But I thought you didn't need to eat or drink."

  "I don't. Doesn't mean I can't have a thirst for a special soft drink."

  "Let me guess. Something served at the Green Mac Drive-In?"

  "That's a pretty good guess."

  "A lot of people lost their lives at that drive-in. Good people."

  "Not because of me."

  "We know. You defend yourself quite forcefully, Mr. Milner, but we've noticed you have some scruples about killing. Otherwise, I wouldn't be alive. Or Agent Wilson, for that matter."

  "How is Tatiya?"

  "On an extended leave at the moment."

  "After dealing with me, I'm sure she could use a long vacation."

  "As could we all, Mr. Milner. Regrettably, some of us don't have that luxury. But speaking of moral scruples – or the extreme lack of them – what can you tell me about Taylor White? A competitor in this bizarre contest of yours, I assume."

  "What has he told you?"

  "Nothing. He appears to be in some form of unresponsive comatose state. Or so our psychologists tell me."

  "And his 'partner'? Ralph something-or-other?"

  "He's been quite voluble on the theme that gods live among us and that we must pay tribute to them or suffer unspeakably dire consequences."

  "Hell hath no fury as a gay dude scorned."

  "Is there any truth to what he says?"

  "I notice you've segued past my request for a special soft drink."

  "Sweet Hemlock, correct?" After a few moments' pause, she asked, "What's in this drink that people would kill for it?"

  "Have you ever heard of Ambrosia? It turns a mortal into a god."

  "People actually believe that." The Secretary's voice had gone cold. "That's what this madness is all about."

  "That's right."

  "Which is, of course, utterly absurd."

  "Of course it is."

  "Yet you do believe that, don't you, Mr. Milner?"

  "Not just me, as you might've noticed."

  "A group – a cult – of delusional augmented people who've come to believe their unusual powers originate in alternate worlds and gods. Plus people actually from an alternate world? Or are they all from this 'alternative Earth'?"

  "The latter," said Alex. "This is a contest by special invitation only. Eleven people, all told, including me. Taylor White was one of them. One of us."

  "So you and your alternate world confederates actually can acquire great powers from a soft drink? That is what you're saying, just to be clear?"

  "Correct."

  "Through what mechanism? Sweet Hemlock's ingredients, if rather eccentric, are all natural, benign substances. Our scientists have assured us of that."

  "That's the mistake in your premise, Secretary Learner," said Alex. "The mechanism lies outside your world, in zeroes and ones, not in the ingredients. Same with your augmented powers, for which you can find no cause."

  "That's absurd."

  "Well, why don't we test our competing theories, Secretary Learner? Bring me the drink and we'll see."

  A frosty silence developed in the darkness beyond Alex's cell.

  "I'm sure your scientists will assure you that nothing in a Green Mac soft drink could possibly give someone superpowers," said Alex.

  "They already have assured me."

  "Then what's the problem?"

  More silence.

  "You lack faith?" Alex asked.

  "I'm not much for faith. I'm more a believer in hard science. In facts."

  "Great. So let's do a test, Secretary Learner. Bring me the drink – that will be the experiment. Are my claims factual or are yours? Settled with one sip. What could be simpler?"

  "What would you do if you did acquire this power?"

  "I was thinking Disneyland."

  "You wouldn't rain brimstone and fire on us?"

  "I think you're mixing your mythologies. But no. As you've observed, I'm not really that much into pointless death and destruction."

  "You wouldn't destroy DARE? Bring down other governmental institutions? Rule the world?"

  "God, no. I like this world the way it is. Besides, we're tal
king Greek gods here. I wouldn't be omnipotent. I'm guessing the world's powers, in balance, would be stronger than I would be. The Founders didn't design this place to be ruled by an errant god. And I'd have no interest in trying."

  "I'm not sure what our interest would be in giving you the opportunity to try – assuming, by some miracle, we're wrong about this phenomenon. What's our incentive to take the chance? Why not eliminate any possibility of your gamers getting their hands on it?"

  "Because you can't. It's going to happen, no matter what you do. In a few days ever player in my world will be coming for that drink. You think what happened in Madison last night was scary? It will be nothing compared to what's coming. In this phase of the quest, we had to earn our powers. In the public phase, gamers will bring every power they can beg, borrow, or steal to the show. They won't need machine guns or nerve gas. Believe me, what I have now that makes you lock me in this Hannibal Lector cage is the equivalent of a BB gun to a tank brigade. One pulse from a Grade 10 telekinetics could blow a hole in this cage a semi could drive through – or level a city block. And that's just one of countless possible destructive powers these freaks will bring."

  Alex wondered if she was laying it on too thick. But she felt she was on a roll.

  "And we should take that on your word," said Secretary Learner.

  "Well, maybe you could think of it as a Pascal's Wager. You might think I'm delusional, that there's almost no chance what I'm saying is true. So why not place your bet on that? If you're right, no harm done. If you're wrong, you got to deal with me. But if you don't make that wager, and you're wrong, then instead of me you could end up dealing with some power-hungry piece of shit like Taylor White. You have to admit, I'm a lot less scary. Hell, I might even do some good deeds once in a while."

  Learner didn't reply.

  "And by the way, if there are any competitors remaining, you can bet they'll pay Sam Macintyre a visit. He's the owner of the drive-in, and he has the knowledge and means to make that drink."

  "We know who he is. We've had his house under guard since last night. And someone did pay him a visit. He's been detained."

  "What's this person's story?"

  "Just said he was hoping to get the secret ingredients of Macintyre's drinks and sell them."

  Alex laughed. "Right. Is he augmented?"

  "No evidence of that. We plan on turning him over to the local police as soon as we're sure."

  "He might have no extra powers. As I said, those have to be earned by solving stages. It looks like a lot of these tools were too lazy or too stupid to do that."

  "But you did solve these stages."

  "Yep. Every stage, except this one. And I've solved it – I know where the puzzle piece goes – I just can't get my hands on that piece."

  "What if that piece were eliminated?"

  The chill was back in the darkness surrounding Alex's glass cage. It was as if she were in that Twilight Zone episode where aliens transported a chunk of Earth into space. Like staring out into the abyss.

  "Eliminate all records of the drinks along with everyone, including the owner, who knows the recipe?"

  The dark silence was its own reply.

  "Wouldn't work," said Alex. "You see, I know the recipe."

  "But you can't get at it from here."

  "Not at the moment. But all that will change in three days. I'll be free to return as an avatar you don't know. I'll have a new identity and name. I'll buy the ingredients, combine them, and assume my rightful crown."

  "You're saying you'll just disappear from this cell?"

  "No. You'll have this body, just as you have Taylor White's body. You see, he's gone. Back to flipping burgers or running a used car lot or working for the TSA or whatever the droid does in the real world. But in three days, he'll be back, too. And this time, no more Mr. Nice Guy."

  "He doesn't know the formula, does he?"

  "No, but he'll raise hell looking for it. Along with hundreds if not thousands of others. You're going to be a very busy lady in a few days, Madam Secretary."

  "You're rather proficient at manipulating people's fears, aren't you, Mr. Milner?"

  "You know what I'm starting to think?" Alex's smile held no amusement. "Truth is not only stranger than fiction – it can be a whole lot scarier."

  Chapter 21

  "I KNOW WHERE YOU live, and your time is short."

  The single-sentence email message greeted Alex that morning on her computer, the second morning of her avatar's confinement. Neither Secretary Learner nor any other agent had communicated with her in thirty-six hours. It didn't appear she was going to take Alex up on her generous offer. No real surprise there. So Alex let her avatar languish in his glass house and went to work in the Real preparing her strategies for the quest reset.

  And now this. The message had been sent from Anonymous Z, a popular Darknet anonymizer, carrier of secret communiqués and unlawful schemes. Alex might be able to track down the sender, but that would take a lot of time and energy, neither of which she had at her disposal right now. She knew who sent the message, though no idea where the sender was and where she worked. The question of the moment, however, was how Henna Flowers/Dr. Ana R. Lawsone had discovered her secret identity.

  Penetrating Oink's security protocols required a level of hacking expertise and/or placement within the corporation itself that was inconceivable for any amateur. Even state actors such as China had famously tried and failed to hack into Oink's proprietary codes, and they'd had at least three highly skilled spies in the organization.

  No, "The Doctor" – Alex had decided to reduce her title of her near-certain career designation – had almost certainly found her the old-fashioned away: adding two and two together. The top suspect for her method was brutally simple: she'd searched for "Alex Milner" online.

  Alex carried her laptop out to the kitchen, scrambled up an organic egg on sprouted-grain toast, and settled at the table for her usual eat and work routine. Life was too short – particularly hers – to waste eating time.

  She performed the searches the Doctor might've – Alex Milner, Alex Miller, and Alex Mills. Quite a number of them, as expected. But knowing that Dionysus35567 and Alex Milner were one in the same, which the Doctor did, might help. Dionysus was believed to be American (the accent and attitude) and a California denizen. The evidence for the latter was sketchy – drawn mostly from his frequent gaming in California and his surfer-god appearance – but that was the assumption. The Doctor might further assume that Alex was a computer programmer, possibly young, a student, and either well-to-do or from a family that was. Not everyone could afford an AFIRM, and the Doctor was bright enough to realize that Alex could not have done what she did without a top-of-the-line VR rig. Some minor investigation and/or hacking could've produced a nationwide list of AFIRM-users. It would not have been a terribly long list.

  The Doctor was also sufficiently bright to realize that Alex might be female.

  All this hinged, of course, on the Doctor believing Alex was dumb enough to use part of her real name in a contest. In retrospect, that struck her as remarkably non-prescient, if not spectacularly stupid, but who would ever have thought she'd encounter a psychopath obsessed with unearthing her identity? The unGood Doctor might've doubted Alex would use part of her real name, but given the paucity of options had decided to proceed on the assumption. And apparently had found enough circumstantial evidence to indict her.

  But chances were, the Doctor wouldn't be certain. How could she be? Whatever connections she'd found would not be proof. She'd have to provoke a response, either online or up close and personal, to be sure. When Alex didn't respond online, which she wouldn't, the Doctor might show up in person, depending on how serious the psycho was. And Alex was inclined to believe she was serious.

  Now isn't this fun?

  Alex drummed her fingers beside her laptop, chewing on her last bite of egg and toast, thinking it through. She chewed until suspecting she was in danger of becoming
a cow – and swallowed. The egg-toast crawled down her throat. Her saliva appeared to have dried up.

  As in virtual reality, so it was, or could be, in life. She'd just made that up, but it sounded pseudo-profound enough to be a real saying. Was she actually considering a game in the Real?

  Since their encounter with the Nazi morons in the park, Alex had idly looked into purchasing a gun and how she might do that without getting bogged down in the People's State of California's labyrinthine maze of red tape and legal requirements. One possibility popped up: Linda "Carry or Die" Days, a staunch local Second Amendment supporter famous for her strong pro-gun and anti-government opinions. She'd had a couple run-ins with the Sacramento sheriff, including a lawsuit targeting his gun-carry policies, and sometimes expressed the view that the sheriff's department and the government were out to get her, which Alex guessed might very well be true.

  Linda Days was a founding member of Women With Guns, a right-leaning/libertarian gun advocacy group, which had scored her a few interviews and even some national press coverage. She was also a gun dealer who frequented gun shows throughout the country. Overall, she looked like a good candidate for a little hot under the table gun action. No harm in calling her, anyway.

  Thirty minutes later, after an annoying bank-stop where the teller seemed shocked and morally appalled by her request for six thousand in cash, Alex was steering her mother's Prius out of town toward the City of Cowbells, Sacramento. Fortunately, her mom had taken to riding her bike into campus. Alex would usually call her chauffeur, but not for this mission. Brandon would probably throw a hissy fit when he found out. He could be such a pussy at times.

  Linda Days had responded to her voice message about wanting to make a "sizable donation to the cause" within a five minutes. They'd had a brief but friendly conversation where Alex convinced her of her bona fides as a "lifelong devotee of the right to bear arms" who "rejected my liberal parents' anti-gun propaganda." That struck a nerve with Linda, who spoke of a similar battle with her own parents.