President Amanda Deinhardt signed off on yet another piece of paperwork. Despite constant crowing about becoming a paperless society, she had yet to see it actually get to the White House. But, considering the things hackers could do to computer programs these days, she supposed paper had its advantages. She was about to pick up another stack of memos when the door to the oval office opened.
One of her favorite aides – Martin Shelton – stuck his head in.
“Madame President,” he said, smiling. “The NASA guy is here for you.”
Deinhardt preferred a relaxed White House. The aides and staff repaid that – a change from the previous administration – with almost fawning loyalty. She nodded.
“Send him in, Martin,” she said.
The NASA guy turned out to be named Dr. Robert Pero. He was dressed in a suit about three decades out of fashion, wore thick bottle glasses, and looked almost entirely like a completely stereotypical NASA scientist, save for the fact that a furrowed knot of flesh was all that was left of his left ear. Seeing the glance, he smiled at the President.
“Old motorcycle accident. Glad it just took the ear,” Dr. Pero said, taking her hand, shaking it.
“Well, I’m glad to see that too,” Deinhardt said. “What is it that you needed to speak to me about? I was told that it was something that got ya’ll down at NASA runnin’ around like ants who got their hive shook up.”
Dr. Pero smiled shakily. “That’s, ah, one way of putting it.”
He pulled out his tablet. Tapping it on, he brought up a picture. It was of a gray white crescent surrounded by blackness. He tapped the side of the tablet, his voice firm.
“This is a photograph of Charon, the moon of Pluto,” he said. “The Second Horizon probe took it yesterday.” He swiped the photo left. “It took this one five seconds later. Then this one. Then this one.”
The pictures showed, clearly, a bright white flash coming from Charon. Then, later, a stream of gas shooting out into space, as well as some debris. A few glinting specs.
Deinhardt’s brow furrowed slowly.
“Dear god,” she whispered.
“Yes,” Dr. Pero said. “It’s a horse.”
Or, more accurately, half of a horse. It looked like the explosion had ripped the poor beast in half. The flash freezing from being exposed to space had rendered the image less gory – that and the fuzz introduced by the extreme distance of the Second Horizon probe. But it was still distinctly disturbing. Deinhardt had a fondness for horses, one that had helped her during the campaign trail, on interviews, and commercial spots.
She shook her head.
“Have you heard of the Vanderbilt Effect?” Dr. Pero asked.
“I think so,” Deinhardt said. “It was named after some kid, right?”
“Yes, Liam Vanderbilt is why we even know it exists. Exotic particles bombarding a specific part of space-time can create a rapidly rotating fourth dimensional object, creating a linkage between the targeted area and another.” He licked his lips. “The research at Atlanta, the work by Dr. Chelsea Brown and her husband-”
“Ah, Doc,” Deinhardt cut him off. “Concise.”
Dr. Pero gulped. “W-We assumed the exotic particle shower was a random event. Natural phenomenon, as nothing we know can make it. Weird things hit the Earth from time to time.” He paused. “But Dr. Brown did the math. Vanderbilt would have ended up in Charon.”
Deinhardt bit her lip.
“Ma’am,” Dr. Pero said. “If he went there...”
“So can we,” Deinhardt said, her eyes speculative. “
Dr. Pero nodded.
Deinhardt smiled. “We choose to go to Charon not because it is easy. We choose to go because it is necessary.” She grinned. “I’ll start making some phone calls, Dr. Pero. I think NASA just got a budget increase.”
***
Ares leaned back in his little office, situated in the center of Purgatory’s sun. Brax’s skull looked down at him from over the bed that he had made. Ares had a pleasant mental image of fucking that Fizit bitch on that bed, under her lover’s skull. If Brax’s child wasn’t in her womb, he’d eat his own sword.
There was something marvelous about taking another man’s woman.
His palm rested on the desk before him. It had taken many years of experimentation. With his mind freed from the shackles of mortal worship, he was no longer tied to being Ares, God of War. There was so much power in being a god. Powers to move, to shape, to make matter dance as he would will it. Yes, his power was actually lessened from what it used to be.
Yes, the prayers were distant and muted.
Yes, every worshiper he had now seemed to count as only a tenth of what they used to be.
But the freedom alone made it worth it.
He might not be able to make a spear that could cleave the sky. He could no longer make armies immortal and invincible when he needed it. And his priests could no longer heal by using his power.
Not that many had noticed yet. Priests of Aries rarely were called for that art.
But he could teleport. He could change his shape. He could pick apart minds at his pleasure.
He was himself.
And so, he subtly changed his hand. Soon, his skin was the skin of an elf. His blood was the blood of an elf. His heart beat came in the same steady beat beat beat of an elf. And his face, reflected to him in the mirrored surface of the wall, was the face of that elven bitch he had sired Liv in.
The desk recognized her.
“Administrator Liz’Ten, welcome back,” the computer spoke in Ancient. “How may I assist you?”
Ares smiled, and spoke in the dead woman’s voice. “Can you check on System Administrator Four?”
“System Administrator Four’s functionality has failed, Administrator Liz’Ten,” the computer said. “Do you wish me to wake System Administrator One? Or Two?”
Ares shook his head.
Three had been destroyed during the War against the Ancients - the war that had brought him and the other gods freedom. One and Two were both far too sane to be useful to him. But System Administrator Four – Sys-Min-Or – had been perfect. Scattered and confused and so easily led. He tapped his fingers on the desk, then leaned forward.
“Show me Earth again.”
The crystal pods that thrust from the desk glowed to life. Dozens of screens appeared in the air. Those in the middle showed images of the world of Earth. He could see how it had changed. The new glow of lights. Cities, each with millions - billions - of people. The other screens showed the feeds from dozens of media programs. He saw tanks driving through a dusty desert. Strangely green tinted footage of a city in flames. Anti-aircraft fire streaked through the air. In another, children were escorted from their school, panic on their faces. The police were approaching as helicopters circled.
“-at least twenty dead in this latest shooting-”
“-terror attack leaves dozens wounded as-”
“-heroic Marine and a fellow bystander stopped the knife wielding-”
“-we shall bring down fire and fury unlike anything-”
“-this far! No further! We shall-”
“-overcome!”
“No, no, we won’t go!”
The voices – in dozens of languages – flowed through Ares. He leaned back, feeling an almost sexual thrill buzz through his body, accentuated by the feminine form he had taken. He grinned and let himself slide back into his male form. His hand caressed his lap.
“War on women,” he murmured. “War on terror. War on drugs. War on poverty. Wars by the bushel. Wars by the pound. Wars for all occasion...”
His eyes glowed.
“Wars for me.”
THE END