Breakfast is, of course, spectacular. Blue corn waffles with bourbon syrup, crème brûlée French toast wedges, blueberry scones, lobster omelets perched on seared fingerling potatoes, and more. It’s a fine consolation prize for having to spend another day in this blasphemous labyrinth. As much as I wanted to leave and spend the night in my own bed, I haven’t yet gotten my off-site permit and, more important, I’m not going anywhere without Nathan, who’s still unconscious. Considering how angry this place makes me, you may be wondering why I’m not fuming over this delay, but that’s only because you’re not eating these waffles.
I enjoy every last morsel with the Hawaiian sisters, chatting about the modern world and trying to wake myself up with a steaming cup of freshly roasted coffee. I also try to avoid looking at Samantha, who’s sitting in her usual corner, sad and withdrawn as ever. I feel immensely guilty, but snooping around the facility is already going to start making Finemdi wary of me—if I want to lie low, I need to avoid other suspicious activities, like hanging out with their leader’s daughter.
“So what’s the deal with Tlaz?” I ask my companions after our lighthearted griping about modern man runs out of steam.
“Who?” they say together.
“The Aztec floozy in the detention block.”
They all make various sounds of disgust. “Better off staying away from those people,” Nāmaka says. “They’re all trouble.”
“I gathered,” I reply. “But she’s weird, and I want to know more about her.”
“You mean she feels like competition and you like to know your enemies,” Pele says, glancing up from her pancakes with a shrewd look.
“Or that,” I say, smiling.
“Oh, come on—we can tell her,” Hi‘iaka says. “It’s not like it’s a secret or anything.” Pele and Nāmaka shrug, and Hi‘iaka gives me a look that says See what I put up with? before continuing. “She used to be a teammate here. Joined about half a dozen years ago after they picked her up in Costa Rica, I think. Everything was fine for a few months. Just another god, right? Then the deaths started.”
“The human staff began dropping like flies,” Nāmaka says. “Mostly the men, but some of the women, too. All of them succumbed to a terrifying combination of diseases. No rhyme or reason to it. They lost a lot of people until they began combing through security footage and put two and two together.”
“Right, and by then, the death toll was well into the triple digits,” Hi‘iaka says, looking disgusted. “I mean, we’re talking full-scale lockdown, quarantine conditions, the whole nine yards. Every day, more bodies got carted out. Things were grim, let me tell you.”
“What did they find?” I ask, appalled and captivated at the same time.
“She was sleeping with them,” Nāmaka says. “All of them. Like a kid in a candy store.”
“More like a wolf among lambs,” Pele mutters. “Most of them were married or in some sort of relationship, too.”
“She wasn’t even trying to destroy Finemdi, either,” Hi‘iaka adds. “It was just her nature. She looks for infidelity, leaps on the chance to expose perversity and deviance, and then judges them accordingly. Thing is, she would have been happy to forgive the people who were already being unfaithful if they came to her. She would even reward those who spurned her advances. Hell, she could cure other diseases they might have gotten, make them the picture of health. But for those who cheated with her?” She shudders.
“Biggest set of fatalities they’ve ever seen at Impulse Station,” Pele says. “We’ve had gods cut loose on operations, mystical artifacts overload, and summoned creatures go berserk, but in all these years, nothing has done more damage than one wanton goddess.”
Until me. “So she’s been locked up since?”
Hi‘iaka nods. “Straight into Corrections the second they found out it was her.”
“What about the rest of the prisoners?” I ask.
Pele waves a hand. “Eh, picked up on various ops. They’re all too deadly or unpredictable for Finemdi to just let them wander around.”
“And they can’t kill any of them because they might have enough believers to regenerate, right?”
“Tch. Bingo,” Hi‘iaka says, making a gun with her thumb and index finger and clicking them together with a wink.
“What about disbelief? Can’t they deny them out of existence?” I ask. “I mean, it took Garen all of five minutes to threaten me with that one.”
That gets me some frowns. “They’ve always been a little vague there,” Pele says, thinking. “I get the impression they like to hold it over our heads, but actually pulling it off takes some real doing. Easier to just let them rot behind glass, I guess.”
“Faith is one of the few things in this world that’s harder to destroy than create,” Nāmaka says. “Ideas are rather slippery in that regard.”
“So they’re just prisoners forever?” How awful. That could so easily have been me, too. Just a little less restraint, and I’d be right there alongside them.
Hi‘iaka nods. “Best they can do is teleport them to another facility if anything goes wrong.”
“Makes you wonder just how many prisons they have,” I say. “How many gods they’ve captured … or destroyed.”
She shrugs. “No idea. Probably a lot, though. They have all kinds of tricks.”
And I’ll need to discover every last one.
* * *
The rest of breakfast passes quickly, all pleasantries and pastries, and then I’m off for my first full day as a Finemdi employee. I’m scheduled for something called Divine Calibration in an hour, but my first stop is the Medical wing. I’m really looking forward to talking to Nathan, but when I eventually make my way down there, all I can do is peer at him unhappily through the glass in Recovery. He’s still out cold. His chest rises and falls with slow, even breaths, and I watch him for a while, reassuring myself that at least he’s alive. I hope he’ll awaken soon; it’s uncomfortably distressing, the idea that he might be injured. I look away from his sleeping form, confused. I’ve seen a lot of mortals die over the years, some very close to me. Death is nothing new. So why I am so distraught over the possibility of it happening to this one?
I turn back for one more look at Nathan. Maybe it’s because he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me. Maybe it’s because he’s the first halfway decent friend I’ve had in decades, or maybe it’s because he’s just a halfway decent guy in general. Maybe it’s some weird combination of all that and more. I couldn’t tell you. All I know is I want him awake and safe.
With that cheery thought rattling in my head, I begin picking my way through Impulse Station’s insane corridors. It only takes me twenty minutes to make it to my assigned room, which I count as a marked improvement. Still, considering it took me thirty to find Nathan, I’m just barely on time.
I enter the door marked Calibration Suite 7 and find myself in what looks like a high-tech classroom. Sleek plastic desks are arranged in rows, executive office chairs on rollers behind each one. There’s a podium at the front of the room, a digital whiteboard affixed to the wall behind it, and a projector built into the ceiling. Adam Carraway, bright and chipper as always, waits by the door. He beams at me as I arrive, clearly pleased.
“Ah, Miss Sara!” he says, sounding thrilled. “Right on time. Please take a seat anywhere and we can get started.”
I suppress a groan as I notice Dionysus lounging in a chair on the right side of the room. He looks at me with those dancing eyes of his and grins. “Morning, gorgeous,” he says. “Sleep well?”
“Like a baby,” I say, pointedly taking a seat on the opposite side of the room from him. “Even had a chance to wander around a bit, see the sights. Did you know there’s a beautiful lady in Corrections who’d just love to meet a dashing fellow like you?”
“Oh, really?” he says, looking interested.
“Third cell on the right.”
“Umm, heh, okay, looks like we’re all here,” Adam says quickly, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of me playing matchmaker between Dionysus and an Aztec god of sex and sin. “What we’re going to do today is put you both on the path to better, stronger believers.” He clicks a remote in his hands as he moves toward the podium and the screen behind him lights up with a PowerPoint slide that reads Divine Calibration: Setting you up for success! I wonder if these presentations are provided by Finemdi or if Adam makes them himself.
“To do that, we need to get a better idea of precisely who you are.” The slide changes to show a stick figure scratching his head while little question marks dance around him. “You see, centuries of competing myths, chronicles, and retellings have left things a little confusing for everyone. You each represent the concept of a deity, and there’s only one of you in the entire world. You’ll never see another Freya or Dionysus as long as you live … but there are hundreds of interpretations for both of you. Isn’t that strange?”
The slide changes to a horde of illustrations of Dionysus and myself. I see him in painting and sculpture: a bearded man; a jolly, fat reveler; a lanky, smooth-skinned Grecian playboy; and so on. As for me, they’re almost all drawings: warriors and chariot riders, noblewomen surrounded by flowers, and young ladies clutching trees. There are even a few pictures of a Japanese cartoon character and stills of a sword-wielding woman from a video game. It looks like someone did a Google search and pulled any decent image they could find. I glance at Adam, noting the proud look on his face as the images animate into place; I guess that answers the question of who made the PowerPoint.
“Somewhere along the way, enough people worshipped each of you as a deity to bring you into being. As time passed, followers new and old changed that image, adding fresh definitions and altering your appearances and personalities to match. Over the years, you’ve both been warped to fit a final prevailing mind-set—the last major vision your believers had of you before they vanished.”
The slide changes to head shots of the two of us—the same pictures that were used to make our ID badges. “This is who you are now,” Adam says, looking up at the screen. “And this is who we’re going to have our volunteers believe in. Now, it’s not that simple, unfortunately. These days, if someone wanted to start worshipping you, they wouldn’t know where to begin. Sure, you’d be empowered by some of their belief—you’re both still one of a kind—but it wouldn’t be everything you deserve. It’s inefficient!”
He clicks his remote and the screen changes to show our puzzled stick figure on one side, next to a bunch of arrows pointing at all the different pictures of the two of us. “What we’re going to do is get a precise idea of exactly who you are—all your perceptions, desires, motivations, and so on—and use that to build a profile that’ll help your believers target you.” The slide animates, all but one of the arrows between the stick figure and the pictures disappearing. Then all those misleading archetypes fade away until only our two head shots remain. “See? It’s a clear line from follower to god now, which means you’ll receive much more power out of fewer believers.”
He looks at the two of us and smiles, spreading his hands. “At first we’ll just work on making you both stronger, but in time, you’ll be able to make requests and change things about yourselves! Perhaps you have a crippling vulnerability, like Achilles?” He nods at Dionysus. “Or a weakness to some common element, like Baldur?” He grins at me. “All those chinks in the armor can be removed. Or maybe you’d like a new power? Something to spice up your own set of abilities? Think about it. Weaknesses stripped away and new strengths added in their place!”
Horrifying. I conceal my revulsion at the idea of meddling with the checks and balances with which we were born and glance over at Dionysus. His face is gleeful, mind whirling at the idea of such self-aggrandizement. Can’t say I’m surprised.
“Pretty cool, right?” Adam says, going over to the podium and retrieving two packets of paper and some pens. “I’m going to give you both some surveys to fill out. I’d like you to be as exhaustive and honest as possible. The more precise you are, the more precisely we can believe!”
He sets down a sheaf of papers in front of Dionysus and hands him a pen. The god of merriment snatches it from Adam’s hands and immediately begins filling out the form. Adam smiles at his enthusiasm, then walks over and places the remaining survey on the desk in front of me. “Here you are,” he says, holding out another pen.
Cautious, I reach out and take it. Adam gives me an encouraging nod and then walks back to the podium, where he pulls out a smartphone and begins playing with it. I turn to the survey, filled with apprehension. Whatever they ask, I have to mislead them at every turn. If I’m accurate, it’ll be like painting a bull’s-eye on my chest. They’ll know just who to target for rewards or ruin.
The survey’s long and doesn’t beat around the bush—there are no questions about my name, age, or physical traits. Instead, it launches right into detailed personal information, starting with What is your purpose? Then What are your talents? and Describe your dreams. That last one worries me, because it’s one more sign that Finemdi has an uncomfortably detailed understanding of how deities work. I decide I need to be as vague as possible while still hewing close enough to the truth to make it seem like someone who could be Freya filled out everything out. Since they already know my specialties, I’ll include them, but twisted in all the wrong ways. Question by question, a new version of me takes shape. She’s a fickle, bloodthirsty god obsessed with desire and tokens of affection, encouraging rivalries and battle in her name, reveling in the wages of war if they will lead to her exaltation. She smiles on the unpredictable and hotheaded, granting her favors to those who lead with their hearts and always preferring decisions born out of lust and emotion, never rationality.
In short, a clichéd supervillain. They’ll eat it up. After the initial battery of questions, there’s a multiple-choice personality test, then a series of logic puzzles and hypothetical situations. I Christmas-tree the test, take a halfhearted stab at the puzzles, and answer the remaining questions as if I were a domineering baroness. Finished, I stack my survey, collect the pen, and turn it in to Adam, who seems a little surprised by how quickly I finished it. Dionysus, I see, is still hard at work, taking his time to answer each question as completely as possible.
“Thank you for your participation,” Adam says, placing my survey in a folder marked Freya. “That’s all we need for now, so unless you have any questions, I suppose you’re free to go.”
“Did you get my permit form?” I ask.
Adam smacks himself on the forehead. “Oh, almost forgot! My sincere apologies, Miss Sara.” He rummages around in the pocket of his suit, then pulls out a laminated card with my picture on it.
“It’s quite all right,” I say, taking the badge and looking it over. It reads Off-Site Permit in large black letters at the top. I wave it at him. “Thanks, Mr. Carraway.”
He smiles, seeming relieved I haven’t decided to rage at him for this minor oversight. I really need to have a talk with my fellow gods about being nicer to mortals. I head out of the room, suddenly left to my own devices. Where to now? I could go and check on Nathan again, but I don’t want to seem desperate. After all, if Finemdi thinks I care that much, they might use him against me. Yes, that’s why. It’s certainly not because I don’t want to see him lying there helpless, feeling guilt and a host of other emotions I’m not in the mood to analyze.
That would just be silly.
I have my permit now, which means I can come and go as I please, but since I’m not leaving this place until Nathan can join me, it seems my only option now is to explore further. I turn back to my not-so-helpful map and try to figure out where else I can go. Maybe the research wing? Operations command? Security control? Or perhaps one of these unlabeled areas? There are plenty of rooms on the map that don’t have any designations at all, and while I gather a lot of them are just residences, utility closets, and meeting rooms, there might be something juicy hiding in plain sight. After a bit of idly walking back and forth in the hallway, looking down at the map, frowning, trying to get my bearings, and gauging how interested I feel in exploring each area, I decide I’m turning into a stereotypical lost tourist and just pick the first thing I think of: Research. Along the way, I figure I can check out any unlabeled rooms and get the best of both worlds.
This plan seems great in theory. I’ll get to cut through most of the complex, ferreting out all sorts of sinister plans and dark secrets. I feel excited, like I’m a private detective about to blow the lid off an evil conspiracy. Several hours later, I come to several stark realizations. First, I’ve missed lunch. I’m certain it was just as amazing as my previous meals, too, which makes its absence all the more painful. Second, exploring vast corporate complexes is incredibly boring. Nearly every room I pass is mind-numbingly utilitarian. Oh, look, a janitor’s closet. Wow, an air-conditioning hub. Always wanted to see a server farm up close. Wonderful, there’s the plumbing access. Conference rooms, staff offices, and break rooms, oh my. I swing through the residential areas and thrill to the sight of guest, guard, and god lodgings. As nice as they are, I’m glad for the permit and the freedom to stay off campus. I’d rather not spend any more time here than necessary—meals aside, of course.
I pass random security agents, lab personnel, cleaning staff, businessmen, deities, maintenance workers, and more on my tour. None of them pay attention to me, and they all look like they’re actually doing something of value. For the first hour or two, I don’t mind this. Around hour three, however, I start feeling a little resentful. I know I don’t actually want to be confronted by anyone, nor do I really want a job here, but this is killing all my notions of what spying on an amoral company is supposed to be like. Where are the armed guards barring entry to suspicious vaults? The laser alarm systems? The air ducts I’m supposed to crawl through? This place was a whole lot more interesting in my imagination.
Another hour passes, and the sheer scale of the facility starts to dawn on me. I’ve literally walked for miles and haven’t seen the end of it. There are multiple stories, and every floor feels like it covers the same area as a football stadium. How did they even build this place? It must have taken years. I mean, it even extends down into the basement for half a dozen sublevels, too, and while it’s mostly all just maintenance there, it’s still—
Wait, what? Confused, I stop in midstride to examine the map more closely. This is Florida. Nobody has basements this deep in Florida. The water table here is extremely close to the surface. I look at my map again, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. This place is gigantic. I don’t care how far off the beaten path you are; there’s no way you can just build something this big and not have anyone get the least bit curious. I pull out my Mim and go to the local map, telling it to show me where I am. A blue dot appears just off Landstreet Road in the southeastern Orlando area.
“Magic,” I say at last, narrowing my eyes at the facility map in my other hand. They have some fancy spells at work here, making the interior a lot bigger than it looks from the outside. That’s how they can cram so much—including all those subterranean levels—onto a regular parcel of land and not have anyone realize what’s going on. I look at my Mim’s map again, zooming in to get an idea of how big Impulse Station’s lot is. Judging by the little access roads on either side, it’s just a handful of acres. Setting aside room for parking spaces, whatever’s visible from the outside can’t be larger than a basic warehouse—and oh my gods I know how to destroy them.
I barely manage to hold on to my phone as triumph roars through me. My lips pull back in a wicked smile, and I stagger against the wall for support. This is too good. If I can pull it off, well … it’s going to be spectacular. I think I can do it, too. Magic is, after all, part of my portfolio. I just need some time to plan it out, but if I’m right about this, the results will be more than worth the wait.
Satisfied my tedious explorations haven’t been in vain, I place my Mim back in my bag and continue on to the Research wing. Plenty of other unlabeled rooms call to me on the journey, but I ignore them—I feel I have what I need from this day already, and I’m not going to waste another second wandering around and poking my head into nondescript office spaces.
It’s sometime in the midafternoon when I finally reach the labs. These are spread across multiple floors, but it seems like they share a lot of vertical space, probably to make a quarantine go more smoothly. The section I’m closest to is labeled Hybridization Control. Fun. There’s another spot on the map called Belief Indoctrination nearby, but I have a feeling any investigations there are just going to end with me staring sadly at a roomful of sedated dreamers wearing creepy helmets.
The rest of the wing includes a few more enticing names, but they’re even farther away, and I’ve already had my fill of wandering, so Hybridization Control it is. I reach the entrance in a few dozen steps, stopping when I notice the name of the section stenciled on the wall beside an unassuming metal door. I frown at the simplicity of the entrance, worrying this will end up just as boring as every other place I’ve passed today. Only one way to find out, I suppose. I swipe my key card across the access panel and get rewarded with a savage bleep of negation. Locked out. Well, I know how to handle this—all I need to do is wait for some errant worker to come by and charm them into holding the door open for a poor, helpless goddess who just wants to see the sights.
I lean against the wall beside the door, cooling my heels. My plan starts to feel less and less brilliant as the minutes tick by. After what seems like ages, I pull out my Mim and look at the time. Four o’clock? Where did the day go? Someone better show up soon, because I only have an hour left until they start serving dinner. That, and I want to be back in Recovery around six so I can see if Nathan’s awake and, if so, hit the cafeteria with him before we head back to the apartment. Another ten minutes crawl by before I hear someone coming. Voices. No, wait, it’s a single voice, bouncing off the walls around me, coming from behind me. It sounds masculine, so I put on my “distressed cutie” face—look, gender bias can be useful sometimes—and wait eagerly for its owner to make an appearance.
Moments before my mystery guest rounds the corner, I stiffen as I recognize who’s speaking. “—don’t care what your excuses are, I want a full history before I go back out there! I nearly got myself killed the last time, and do you know whose fault it was?”
Garen. He’s coming this way. I need to make myself scarce now. My shoes skid on the linoleum as I bolt for the far end of the hall, hoping I can make it before he rounds the bend.
“The what?!” he yells. “If the requisitions officer knew what I was getting myself into, he wouldn’t have given me class-one garbage! No! It’s your fault I didn’t have the intel I needed, because guess what: That’s the name of your damn department!”
I almost fall as I round the bend, flats clacking on the cheap floor as I whip to the side and screech to a halt. Breathing hard, I stagger against the corner and hug the wall, praying he didn’t spot me. I can still hear his footsteps getting closer, but did I hide in time?
“Fine!” he shouts. “That’s fine. Yeah, I’ll just—yes, I’m going to file a complaint!” A pause. “Well, I don’t care if there weren’t any signs. This is your damn job! No, I don’t—” He sighs, and I hear a fist smack against the wall. “Look, I have to go. Yeah. All right. Mm-hm. Trust me, it’s mutual.”
He grumbles to himself, followed by the sound of him pocketing the phone. I breathe a sigh of relief. There’s no sign I’ve been noticed. Then I hear the whisper of plastic on fabric and a tiny clatter as he slots a key card into the door. He’s actually going inside? I pop my head around the corner in time to watch Garen yank on the door’s handle and wrench it open. He stalks inside without a moment’s hesitation, letting the door slap against the wall from the force of his pull. It’s wide open. Well, Sara? What’s it going to be: Follow your nemesis into the diabolical laboratory or wait outside and play it safe? I watch the door begin to swing back, closing slowly on its hinges.
What the hell.
I launch myself down the corridor, shoes squeaking on linoleum as I race pell-mell for the rapidly closing portal. At the last second, I catch the handle, stumbling a little against the doorway as I struggle to keep it open and not pitch face-first onto the floor in the process. Phew. Reminding myself to invest in a pair of decent running shoes, I stand up and pull the door open. There’s no sign of Garen, but a short hallway beckons to me. Quietly, I slip inside.
The building materials here are all noticeably nicer. The floors are made from some sort of glossy tile, the walls have an enameled look, and the lighting is less harsh. I move farther down the hall and see it ends in a T intersection. As I draw nearer, I hear a click from the right side—I guess that’s where Garen went. Everything’s so sleek and minimalist I feel like I’ve walked onto the set of a technology commercial.
Nervously, I pad to the edge of the hall and peer around the corner. There’s a thick metal door about ten feet down. A sign above it reads INCUBATION. Figuring I’m not in any danger at the moment, I straighten up and walk to the door. It’s very sturdy-looking, but there’s no key card reader, so I shrug and test the handle, which turns without complaint. I open the door a crack and peek into the next area, then immediately slide it closed. Garen’s in there, standing in some sort of strange changing room. When I glanced at him, he was pulling on a pair of white coveralls over his gray suit, zipping them up over his chest. The getup looked like something you’d see high-tech painters or asbestos removers wearing. I listen at the door until I hear him leave, then slip into the room.
There are rows of those same white coveralls hanging along the back wall, divided into size categories. The changing table across from them has hairnets, a box of gloves, face masks, and plastic slipcovers for your feet. I take it all in, then shrug and pick out a set for myself. If anything, wearing this stuff will help me blend in. It takes a couple of minutes to put everything on, but when I’m done, there’s no way you could tell it was me—with the coveralls’ hood up and a surgical mask drawn over my nose and mouth, my eyes are the only part of me showing. That just leaves my bag, which doesn’t exactly go with the rest of my ensemble. I stare at it blankly for a few seconds before heading over to the rack of coveralls, moving a few of them to the side, and bending down to shove the bag in the corner. There. Once I let the outfits swing back into place, it’s impossible to see the bag. That should work.
Hoping I haven’t lost Garen completely, I open the inner door to reveal a sprawling laboratory. Researchers in getups just like mine are hunched over workbenches, probably hard at work uncovering secrets man was not meant to know.
At first I wonder how in the world I’m ever going to find Garen here among all these identical workers. Before I have a chance to begin looking, however, his grating, arrogant voice comes to me from just a few rows down. “Wait, this calls for another set to be extracted tomorrow,” he says angrily, holding up a clipboard and speaking to another scientist. “Isn’t that a bit soon?”
The man, about a head shorter than Garen, is looking up at him and glaring. “I don’t recall you getting a say in our schedule,” he says, snatching the clipboard out of Garen’s hands. “And to be quite frank, I’m sick of you acting like we’re just a different set of grunts to boss around. Kindly remember you are here as a favor, nothing more, and if I have to put up with one more minute of idiotic posturing from you, I will seriously consider revoking your clearance to enter these labs. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I actually have responsibilities to attend to around here.”
“Dr. Vargleiss, please, I—” Garen begins.
“Save it!” the man snaps. With that, he storms off, leaving Garen sputtering in silence. I try to fight it, but I can’t keep an enormous smile from spreading across my face. I turn away on the off chance my attention will get me noticed. That was immensely satisfying. When I look back, Garen’s already moving in a different direction, away from the little supervisor with the Napoleon complex. I do my best to follow him without raising suspicion, taking a leisurely walk between workbenches, chemical baths, and lab tables. Every now and then, I bend over and pretend to inspect random cell cultures and whatever else they’re brewing. Finally, Garen reaches the far end of the lab, walks to another door, pulls it open, and heads inside. I go to follow, wait a moment for him to get a little farther away, then slip in after him.
I’ve entered another hallway, and this one makes me feel like I’m in more of a nursing home than a lab. On both sides, there are patient suites visible through large panes of glass. They’re all empty, blinds pulled back to reveal identical hospital beds, IV stands, EKG monitors, and other equipment. I walk past a half-dozen rooms like this, glancing into each one, before I have to pull back and hide. Garen’s in one near the end of the hall, and I think it may be the only one that’s occupied.
I sneak over to peer in the window. He’s leaning over the bed, looking strangely forlorn. There’s a woman lying there in a hospital gown, a blanket pulled halfway up her chest. An IV snakes into her arm, delivering milky-white poison straight into her bloodstream. She’s still conscious despite it, staring at Garen and talking to him in a weakened voice. My hearing is barely good enough to pick up their conversation.
“—like you’ve had a rough day,” the woman in the bed says. You’re one to talk, I think. She looks like she’s been through the wringer; her skin is pale and waxy, her long auburn hair sprawls limply on the pillow, and her face seems taut and pained. Even so, I can see she was once beautiful. Though she looks like she’s in her midtwenties, she has a wise, motherly disposition and firm, commanding features.
Garen sighs and, in a startling display of humanity for such an unrepentant jackass, brushes a few strands of her hair back from her forehead. “Rough month,” he replies.
“You ever catch that little Vanir girl you were looking for?” she asks.
He nods. “Yeah, we got her,” he says softly.
She smiles, reaching up with a trembling hand to brush his cheek. It’s such a warm, friendly gesture that my mind rebels at the idea of anyone using it on Garen. “Then why so glum?” she asks, frowning.
He looks away, turning to the bank of machines that monitor her vitals. “Because you’re still here,” he says. “I thought she’d be similar enough, that maybe they’d—” He shakes his head. “I don’t know why I keep getting my hopes up. No matter how many I bring them, you’ll still be here, and—”
“Shh,” she says, patting him on the back. “Shh. It is what it is. Why dwell on it?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” he says, turning back to look at her. To my deepest shock, I see his eyes are shining with tears.
“Well, I’ve given them hundreds of their little ‘hybrids’ over the years, and you’re the only one who seems to care,” she says, shrugging a little.
“That doesn’t make it better, Mom,” he says, his voice cracking.
Mom? The woman in the bed doesn’t get a chance to respond, because I’m so shocked by this that I stumble a little against the glass, making enough noise to draw their attention. The woman just raises her eyebrows, peering at me curiously, but Garen whips around, furious, and fixes me with a stare that could freeze a star.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” he barks.
“I—um, sorry, I just…” I mumble, trying to think of an excuse. “Dr. Vargleiss sent me to tell you he doesn’t want you upsetting the, um, patient, sir.”
This only seems to enrage him further. “Upsetting her? That jumped-up son of a—”
“Language,” the woman in the bed says, a bit of steel in her voice despite her damaged state.
Garen bites off his words and sighs. “Sorry, sorry.” He composes himself, then picks up her hand and holds it for a moment. He looks at her sadly, then nods and turns to me. “Fine, I get it. He doesn’t want me around,” he says, harsher than I’ve ever heard him before. “I’ll go for now, but you can tell him I’ll be back to see her no matter what he says. I’ll use a tank if I have to.” With that, he gently sets down the woman’s hand and leaves her room, glaring at me as he passes.
“Y-yes, sir,” I say, flattening myself against the wall.
I turn to watch him leave. He doesn’t even glance back—just reaches the end of the hall, flings the door open with a bang, and marches out. I let out a breath, thankful he didn’t realize who I was.
“You’re quite the actress.” The woman’s voice drifts out of the room behind me. Okay, so Garen might not have seen through my disguise, but she, on the other hand …
I spin around. “Excuse me, ma’am?”
“The meek-assistant act. It’s very good. Hard for a goddess to pretend she’s something she’s not. I should know,” she says, lifting a quavering hand and beckoning me to join her.
“You could tell?” I ask, entering the room cautiously.
She rolls her eyes at me. “Like you can’t sense divinity when it’s close.”
I smile at that. “Fair enough.”
“So who might you be?” she asks. “Can’t say I’ve seen another god in … oh … some time.”
I briefly consider lying to her. She didn’t rat me out to Garen, though, so I figure I might as well be courteous. “Freya. Though I prefer Sara these days.”
“Aah,” she says, eyes gleaming. “The famous Vanir. Gave my boy quite the chase, didn’t you? According to him, you were very … stubborn.”
“Yeah,” I say, moving closer. “Though in my defense, he didn’t really make me feel like I had much of a choice.”
“No, I suppose he wouldn’t have,” she says, sighing. “He’s not a bad person, Sara. He’s just trying to square things in his life. Make amends.”
I sit on the bed beside her. This definitely doesn’t sound like the Garen I know. “For what?” I ask.
“Me, mostly,” she says. My confusion must show on my face, because she laughs. “Oh, you must be full of questions. But I suppose introductions are in order, first.” She clears her throat. “I am Nantosuelta, of Gaul. Nature, earth, fertility, that sort of thing. Just call me Nan.”
“Gaul?” I ask.
“Before your time. Celtics and such. We bit it early on, when the Romans came,” she says, grimacing. A trembling hand rises toward me. “Pleased to meet you, all the same.”
I clasp her hand in mine, feel the weakness in her, thin bones shifting under pale skin. This is a severely damaged god. “And I you,” I say, trying not to let my pity show.
“So what do you think of Finemdi?” she asks, returning her hand to the blankets.
I pause, looking around, and she recognizes my hesitation immediately. “Oh, don’t worry—they’re not listening,” she says. “My boy cleared this room ages ago.”
“Oh,” I say. “In that case, I think they’re twisted monsters who need to burn.”
She chuckles softly. “That they are, Sara. That they are.” She takes a deep breath, a wheezy inhalation that doesn’t quite seem to fill her lungs. “And you don’t even know the half of it, I’m sure. Well, I can give you your answers, but you know what they say—be careful what you wish for.”
“Tell me, Nan,” I say, edging closer. “I never was one for warnings.”
She grins. “Figured as much. Well, do you know where we are? The name of this wing?”
I pause for a moment, thoughts returning to the map. “Hybridization Control, I think.”
“Right. Sounds so nice and clinical, doesn’t it? Any guesses as to what kind of hybrids they’re making here?”
I feel myself grow very cold. “You mean … no,” I say, mouth dropping as I look down at her, aghast. “Tell me they’re not…”
“Of course they are,” she says. “Children of the gods receive many benefits: stronger, smarter, limited magic use, all sorts of good stuff. Partially solves the recruiting problem, too. Who needs to worry about résumés and job fairs when you can just breed your own workforce? It’s been their policy for centuries now, though they’ve only perfected it in the past few decades.”
I feel like I’m about to throw up. “They make you—”
“Oh no, no, not with this vile sludge keeping me weak,” she says, gesturing at the IV drip beside her. “Can’t carry anything to term like that. No, they just harvest what they need from me, then get a surrogate to finish the job.” She pauses, taking in my reaction. “There. Told you it wasn’t going to be pretty. Enjoy your righteous anger.”
“So Garen—”
“Half god, yes. And so far the only one of my children who seems the least bit upset about it. Interesting boy. That’s why he was so keen on getting you—on getting any new fertility goddess, really. He hopes he can persuade them to swap me out, put a replacement here. I guess he never got the chance; you decided to work with them after all, didn’t you?”
I nod. “Only way I could see to get revenge,” I say in a trembling voice. No wonder he was so upset when I took his offer. This also explains his incredibly vile attitude toward me. He was never really trying to get me to join Finemdi; he just wanted me so blindingly angry I’d refuse anything, forcing them to take me prisoner. All of it was an act, performed on the off chance he could persuade his superiors to release his mother and put me in her place. I can’t say this makes him any less despicable in my eyes, but it does put a new spin on things.
“Smart girl,” she says. “They’re not very nice with the ones who refuse their pitches, as you can see.” She gestures at herself with a feeble flap of one hand.
“So this is just … punishment?” I ask. “I mean, why else would they do this? A male god would be—”
“Much easier, yes. Of course they use them. And yes, this is, to a certain extent, a punishment for some rather”—her lips curl in a wicked smile—“inventive acts of rebellion on my part. There are other reasons, too. I believe they like variety in their stock. Perhaps they’re trying to breed demigods, as well. It may also be because they are soulless, amoral scum. I don’t ask why anymore. The answers never change anything.”
“I’m getting you out of here,” I snap, feeling the Valkyrie in my heart howl for blood, for death in the face of this mind-boggling injustice.
“Pfft. Don’t bother,” she says. “My time is done. Decades of this filth have left me a shell of what I once was,” she says, gesturing at the drip again.
I reach out, aiming to tear it from her skin, but she pulls her arm away, shaking her head. “Enchanted,” she explains. “Hercules would have trouble with it. Besides, its work is done. Rescuing me will solve nothing. But … if you are dead set on doing me a favor, then there are two things I will ask of you.”
“Name them,” I say without hesitation.
“If you truly believe you can succeed in razing this place, then please include me in that destruction. I want to die—to be free of this broken shell and this tedious suffering.”
I open my mouth to object, but she silences me with a glare. “You can’t imagine what it’s like to sit and wait, alone, for someone to come and slice you open and remove the very thing you were created to cherish, constantly, for years. Kill me, Sara, and maybe one day I will have new believers and they will rebuild me, grant me a new body and a new life.”
I stare at her, both moved by the gravity of her request and dismayed by how woefully reasonable it seems. This poor woman.
“You have my word,” I say after a moment, trying not to let her hear the pity in my heart.
She gives me a vague smile, seeming to relax. “My second request won’t be as easy to follow, but if you can, well, I’d like you to try not to kill Garen. He’s not bad. Just … hurt.”
I was afraid she might say something like that. But it sounds like she understands what she’s asking. To change the mind of a god on the path of vengeance is no mean feat. We are, by nature, more inclined to punish than forgive. “I—I will try, Nan. But you’re right—it will be hard. He hates gods so much, and if he survives and realizes it was my hand that released you, he will never stop hunting me.”
She nods, closing her eyes. “I know. Trying … is all I ask.”
“Why does he hate us so much?” I ask. “Why not Finemdi? They are the ones that did this to you, aren’t they?”
Her lips twitch. “To Garen, Finemdi is playing the hand it has been dealt. They are doing everything in their power to right what he sees as a terrible wrong—the creation of gods. The fact that I am his mother is, perhaps, part of this view, because as he sees it, if there were no more gods, then there would be no more need for me to be here, to be punished.” She opens her eyes to give me a bleak, painful stare. “He blames you for this, not Finemdi. For him, every god in existence has played a role in my torture simply by existing, by unbalancing the world through their very nature. He believes there will always be a need for something like Finemdi to exist, always be a need for someone to rein in the heavens … but he does not believe there must always be gods. That is why he follows them, and why he despises you.”
“That’s insane.”
She shrugs. “He has been burned, yet rather than blame the arsonist, he has chosen to blame the fire, because once the fire is gone, well…”
“No one will ever be burned again,” I finish. I’m silent for a moment, trying to add this to what I know of Garen. “Still, to work for the people who enslaved his own mother…”
“Imagine you are born here, Sara,” she says. “Finemdi is all you know. The company is your caregiver, your home, your family. You’re raised to believe in their goals, and for years, you hunt dangerous, callous, and depraved gods. You make the world a better place. You feel complete. Then one day you wonder where you came from. You do a little research, and you find your mother, and she’s right here, at home. She’s a horrible, nasty goddess, of course, but you’re curious. So you go meet her, and she’s not dangerous at all. She’s just this broken old woman who still loves you, in spite of it all.” She pauses, and gives me a sad look. “Now what do you do?”
“I—I can’t begin—” I stammer. How horrible. Despite my hatred for her son, I can’t help pitying him, just a little. No one should have to be in such a situation, not even him.
“You really have two choices, don’t you?” she continues. “Turn your back on everything you’ve ever known for a mother who’s barely been in your life, or keep working for, as you said, the people who enslaved her.”
“And he chose the second,” I say, feeling a little of my anger return.
“Not exactly,” she says with a tiny smile. “He still thinks he can find a way to free me. He thinks he can have his cake and eat it, too—that Finemdi will see reason and he’ll keep the mother he loves and the job that makes him feel whole. In his heart of hearts, he thinks he’s doing the right thing.”
I take a moment to digest that, tumbling it around with my other thoughts, then meet her gaze. “What do you believe?” I ask her.
She holds my eyes for a long time, then shakes her head. “I wasn’t made to believe. I’ve been forgotten and tormented by the ones who were,” she says. “All I know is that I am tired, and would like to rest. It was nice meeting you, Sara.”
Without another word, she closes her eyes and leans back on her pillow. I stand there for another minute, dumbstruck by what I’ve discovered, then turn to leave. I must find Nathan. I must get out of here and create a real plan to destroy this place.
I must do many things, but for now, as I move back among the researchers and employees of Finemdi, all I can think is that I must not cry.