Lesser Gods (31 page)

Alongside me on the balcony stood a cluster of tourists just like you’d expect to find anywhere else on the Earth or Moon. A few of the men wore formal glow suits with their non-wife rentals, dressed in multicolored sequin-infested dresses so tight they might as well have been transparent, draping their bodies over their clients’ arms. But most of those on the deck wore usual T-shirts and shorts or plastipants similar to what I wore.

Several tourists on the balcony gestured toward some unseen landmark lost in the blowing snow and argued about where it must be. I’m failed to see why the position of a landmark that remained invisible was of importance, and did my best to ignore them, instead admiring the cloud of snow buffeting the hotel, giving the illusion that we were hurtling through space with the giant flakes careening past us.

Though I didn’t grow tired of the sight, I knew it was time to get to work. I took the elevator down to the main lobby and crossed to the desk. “Reservations?” the highly polished bronze concierge behind the translucent counter asked.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any,” I replied. “Had to come here unexpectedly. I’m hoping you have a small room available.”

“Normally we don’t. But today’s your lucky day because a party of four has remained lost for two days and the authorities have grave doubts as to whether they’ll be returning alive. So I can let out their rooms. If you don’t mind paying for a large suite.”

I started to protest that it would be too expensive, then remembered the briefcase full of e-cash I carried. “No problem.”

“Wise decision,” the bot said as he took ten of the larger e-cards and deposited them into his chest. “We’ll credit the surplus to your account. I think you’ll enjoy your room. It comes complete with a built-in food and drink dispenser. And we have uh, entertainers available to help you while away the cold winter nights.”

Tempting, but I had work to do. “I think not. But could you put my briefcase in a safe place?” I interrupted.

“Most certainly,” the bot gushed. “We have a safe here in the hotel.”

I removed my recently purchased sack of electronics gear from the attaché, then closed and latched it and shoved the case across the counter toward him.

“I’ll put it in our safe immediately. And here’s your bellhop.”

A small bot rolled up to my feet and squeaked, “Do you have any luggage?”

“No luggage. Just lead me to my room.”

“Thank you, sir,” the manager behind the desk said with a slight bow of his brass head, his eyes glowing in appreciation. “Enjoy your stay.”

I nodded back and then turned to follow my knee-high bellhop who, with a whirring of servomotors, led the way to the elevators.

“Here on business,” the bot asked as the elevator doors closed.

Not wanting to reveal more about myself to a machine that was most likely recording everything I said, “A little business, a little pleasure.” I changed the subject. “Is there a gift shop around here? I’ll probably be needing some things.”

“On the third floor,” the bot pointed with a tiny appendage toward the clear floor above us where a large shopping mall was suspended on brushed aluminum beams. “The elevators at the end of each hall will take you to it. Here’s your floor. This way, please.”

I followed my guide down the hallway that radiated light through its lucent floors that preserved privacy by becoming an opaque bluish white as we reached the area of the guest rooms.

The door to my room opened as we approached and we entered. Although the suite was formed of plastic, it appeared to be carved from bluish ice with a white carpet completing the chilly feel. I regretted that my e-cash would soon run out. This would be a great place to crash for the rest of the summer.

“The food dispenser is there,” the bot said, pointing a claw. The number of choices the mechanism offered added to my remorse that I wouldn’t stay long. “The net-jack and phone are there — and the usual infrared and wireless connections. The beds fold from inside those blue lines in the wall. Tables and chairs rise from the circles etched on the floor. Just hit the yellow release area for any of them and they’ll deploy. The modi-bath is through there. What temperature would you like your room to be maintained?”

“Uh, twenty-two point two Celsius would be fine,” I answered.

“Anything else you need? Anything at all?” the bot asked in a conspiratorial whisper and a wink of one small LED eye. “We have live companions.” All that was missing was a wicked leer.

“This should take care of me for the time being,” I said, holding out a small denom e-card for the machine’s tip.

A claw darted from the top of the bot and snatched the card. “Thank you. Enjoy your stay.”

“Wait a minute.”

The bot swiveled to face me. “Yes?”

“Could you get me any Doze-Less?”

The bot was silent a moment, undoubtedly checking the hotel’s inventory. “No problem. Will twelve tablets be enough?”

“Perfect.”

“I’ll bring them to you shortly.” The bot rolled out the door that closed behind it.

I hit the recessed release studs on the floor and a small table and chair hissed up. Then I examined the food dispenser. It had been nearly thirty-six hours since I’d last eaten and I was famished. If I was going to meet Huntington and risk death again, at least I wanted to do it on a full stomach.

I’d just finished eating when the door chimed. Probably the bot with my Doze-Less tablets. I rose and opened the door.

The muzzles of three government-issued pistols pointed at my nose.

Before I could speak, the tallest of the three agents snarled, “So long, sucker” and jerked the trigger of his gun.

Alice Liddell

Dear Diary:

This time I’m really worried about Ralph. I think maybe he’s dead. I know I’ve thought this before, and he’s turned up again like a bad penny (in the bad boy sort of way). But this time I felt… something. Like something really max-terrible had happened to him.

I’m scared, too. Sometimes when I sleep the OEK appears in my dreams. In all sorts of forms from bats to hairy spiders to dirty old men. So far I’ve been able to fight him and win, or escape and hide — or at least I’ve dreamed I have. I’m not sure where dreams and games and real life leave off these days. They’re all sort of running together like a watercolor painting left out in the rain.

Maybe mom is right and the Jet really did scramble my brain.

I hope Ralph is all right. I would never let him know it, but I have a major crush on him these days.

Ralph Crocker

I found myself sitting astride a horse, guiding it across a shallow, muddy river. We reached the opposite bank where I kicked my mount’s flanks, spurring him up the steep mud bank and through the brush growing along the river. Two armed men rode alongside me. We slowed to a stop at an outcrop of limestone where a lone cottonwood held court, surrounded by willow trees, its kingdom rooted in the stony shelf along the riverbank.

My companions and I gazed across the clearing of the valley. “There’s one of them,” the sheriff said with a tobacco-gruff voice, pointing to a nearby horse with a pale man lying in a carpet of yellow cottonwood leaves at the animal’s feet. Victim of a lucky shot from the posse pursuing him from town, the outlaw’s shirt was stained with dry blood and the dark red hole in his shoulder wetly reflected the morning sunlight.

“Don’t think you’ll need that gun,” the sheriff told the deputy to my left. “Much blood as he’s lost, he’s dead. Or good as.” The lawman turned and spit tobacco as if punctuating his remark.

I spurred my horse past the dead man and wove a path through the last of the brush and trees, stopping at the boundary where the thick growth ended and the tall grass dominated. Taking care to remain hidden behind the scrub, I extracted my binoculars from the saddlebag and studied the terrain beyond.

Looking through the lens across the valley where an eroded, rocky outcropping of steep purplish hills began, I spotted the two horses and their riders. We’d been tracking the murderous bank robbers for days. They’d left eight townspeople dead following a botched holdup.

The sheriff pulled up alongside me and I handed him my field glasses. “On that hill. Look about half way up. To the left of the dead tree.”

The sheriff had a little trouble finding the tree with the binoculars but finally focused on the area I’d directed him toward. “Well I’ll be… There they are, sure ‘nough. Think we can catch ‘em before they reach the top?”

“Doubt it.”

“Can you hit ‘em with that rifle of yours?”

I studied the distance a moment, unconsciously stroking the sheath encasing my Sharp’s rifle as I considered the feat. “Might.”

The sheriff studied me for a moment, his eyebrow cocked upward. “That’s… what? Least a mile o’er there.”

“Little shy of a mile, I recon. But I might be able to hit them as slowly as they’re moving up that hill.”

“Well, it’s our only chance of stopping ‘em,” the lawman said. “Once they’re over the ridge, they’re good as gone with the border just a few miles beyond. I’d sure like to see them sons of bitches dead.” He spat again.

I drew the rifle from its saddle sheath, taking care not to disturb the sensitive scope on top of it. Then I dismounted. “Hang onto my horse,” I told the deputy, handing him the reins. “He’ll get spooked when I start shooting, so hold tight. Don’t want to have to walk back to town.” I turned to the sheriff. “Watch through the field glasses and let me know what you see after I fire. Dry as it is, the bullets will kick up some dust and you can help me adjust for windage.”

I pulled a box of shells from my vest pocket as I sauntered over to a forked tree, the jingle of my spurs loud in the crisp morning air. I tore open the box of cartridges and emptied the five rounds into my pocket. After flipping the breechblock open, I chambered one of the brass .45-70 shells into it, then I carefully closed the breech, locked it, and pulled back the single-action hammer.

“The lead one’s ‘bout half way up the hill,” the sheriff announced.

“I’m aiming for the rear one.”

“Not the lead?” the sheriff asked.

“They’ll take longer to realize what’s happening if they don’t see what happened. Buy me a few extra shots before they wise up and high tail it ‘cross the ridge.” Resting my rifle on an old tree stump, I knelt and squinted through the long, brass-bodied telescope atop my rifle, carefully centering the crosshairs well above the hindmost rider, and then I adjusted the point of aim a little to the right since that was the direction the horse and rider climbed up the face of the steep hill. The air was still, so I made no adjustment for windage.

I released the set trigger, held my breath as I steadied the rifle so the scope’s view swam only a little, and then, just as crosshairs aligned with the fleeing killer, I touched the hair trigger. The rifle jumped in my hands, shoving at my shoulder as I rolled back with the heavy recoil of the powerful cartridge.

“Nothin’,” the sheriff said, disappointment in his voice.

“Kick up any dust?” I asked, wondering if there was a crosswind between me and the bad guys. I flipped open the breach and extracted the hot brass, dropping it into the sand. I retrieved another shell, and chambered it.