Lesser Gods Read online

  Lesser Gods

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Preface

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  About the Author/Illustrator

  LESSER GODS

  Duncan Long

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2013 by Duncan Long. All rights reserved. No portion of this book, including illustrations, fonts, and text, may be reproduced, printed, or distributed in any way without prior written consent from Duncan Long Publications. All characters in this story are completely fictional. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Cover illustration and inner illustrations painted and drawn by the author. Copyright © by Duncan Long.

  Published by Duncan Long Publications, Manhattan, KS

  Print version ISBN 978-0-938326-31-1

  Dedication

  For Jonathan and Breely.

  Preface

  Sometimes novels are written in months or even weeks. Sometimes they take years or decades to come to maturity. Lesser Gods is one of the latter. The manuscript has traveled through any number of slush piles in publishing houses great and small. It has endured several agents. It has had its ending changed three times. It has undergone massive rewrites.

  At one point, Lesser Gods was in the running to became a children’s TV series (an idea doomed from the start given the violence, adult themes, and drugs in the storyline).

  Lesser Gods languished for years when first one and then another press promised to buy it but did not. The first publisher went out of business before the story could go to print; the second had an editor who became suddenly unresponsive after initially being enthused about purchasing the manuscript, never replying to my inquires and phone calls. (Hopefully that editor simply decided against publishing Lesser Gods and was too embarrassed to tell me. If not, he’s out of luck now.)

  Fortunately for me and this novel (and hopefully for readers), we appear to be entering a new gold age of publishing that offers the luxury of a virtual press, imparting the freedom to finally bring Lesser Gods into print. So, after nearly a decade of wandering in the wilderness of publishing, the story has finally journeyed into the Promised Land.

  In closing, I must thank all those who encouraged me at each step of the way. There are too many kind souls to list, but two should be singled out: Cyrus “Cy” Cohen who offered useful advice as well as input on the story, market, and title (finally pushing me into bringing Lesser Gods into print). And Nicholas Long who did a wonderful job in proofing, offering suggestions, and giving encouragement. Without the help of these two, this story would never have made it to my readers.

  – Duncan Long, January 9, 2013

  Prologue

  Ralph Crocker

  When I was still human, I looked Death in the face, and struggled to control my bowels.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself….

  Some might argue that my story traces back to that initial cosmic explosion that formed the stars and dust of worlds. But I prefer to map out my tale from a point much nearer, a chain reaction started with the seemingly insignificant, like the banana peel on the sidewalk, that kills the unfortunate sod who makes one last pratfall, dying with the laughter of those around him echoing in his ears.

  Jeff Huntington

  I cast my smoldering Marlborough into the darkness. It’s crimson tip arched like a fallen angel, crashing into a hundred sparks on the tarmac. I exhaled acrid smoke that burnt my throat, and eyed the glowing hint of a sunrise that promised to boil the humid dawn into another scorcher.

  Despite a throbbing headache and an upset stomach from a roasted night of debauchery in Bangkok, I decided to report for duty, a choice that would eventually change things forever.

  Now I stood waiting, one of a sweaty band of electricians stationed at the side of the runway as the B-52s prepared to take to the air. The US military had once again lived up to its “hurry up and wait” reputation. We technicians had hurried and now we waited.

  Fifteen minutes.

  Half an hour.

  We didn’t complain. If we lucked out, we’d continue doing nothing. If we were less fortunate, we’d be called on to repair any of the electronics that failed during the pre-flight tests within the eight aging bombers.

  And if any one of us was really, really unlucky, we might fly the mission with the flight crew — bad news since only the aircrew had ejection seats; a technician received vague instructions on how to exit a falling plane, and was issued a tired-looking parachute pack left over from the Korean War, the chute crammed into faded canvas that promised failure should its canopy be unfurled.

  Lieutenant Norton ambled up behind us, his approach masked by the jet engines winding up. “Huntington,” he yelled, announcing his presence and causing me to wince with hung-over pain. “Get to the second BUFF. They’re having troubles.”

  I swore under my breath. “You’ve got to be kidding.” The Stratofortress had fired up its engines, which meant I’d have to go along and fix the package in the air.

  “Get moving, mister,” Norton yelled. “This isn’t a matter for negotiations.”

  I glared at the lieutenant for a moment, considered punching him out, and then thought better of it, yanking my muffs into place, augmenting the ear plugs I already wore in a vain attempt to dampen the jets’ roar. Grabbing my tool kit from the pavement, I headed for the designated aircraft, reflecting on the rumors that Hanoi’s SAMs had brought down two B-52s just the day before.

  A minute later I scrambled through an open hatch, and four minutes after that, the bomber’s engines throttled to full power and the big steel bird shuddered down the tarmac and then soared into the air, starting its bombing run on the distant industrial complex to the north.

  Lying in the claustrophobic space beneath the malfunctioning console, I felt my stomach lurch as I rose within the eagle’s belly. I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath; the air, laden with dust, smelled of burnt plastic wiring. I opened my eyes, grabbed a pair of needle-nosed pliers from my tool kit, and concentrated on repairing a backup module that would never be needed.

  Chapter 1

  Ralph Crocker

  Now we come to the part where I stared Death in the eye and felt my life about to be swept, like a desiccated leaf before an autumn storm, without hope, into some cosmic storm sewer from which there could be no return. This downpour had been a long time in the making, like water falling from clouds heavily pregnant with rain.

  That’s the poetic version. In reality, I fought to control my bowels and my bladder. Especially my bladder. Had I known I’d be facing Death, I definitely would have skipped my cup of SynthaCaff. I made a mental note to drink less tea in the future — should I somehow escape Death’s clutches yet one more time.

  His henchmen had a milliwave scanner. Using it, they scanned and very efficiently relieved me of my pistol along with my four kni
ves. They’d missed the mini-claymore strapped to my thigh — apparently mistaking it for part of my exo-armor. But the claymore remained useless weight at this point. Firing a claymore on my thigh would be like hang gliding without a glider.

  At the very least, I’d be guaranteed a broken leg and shrapnel wounds from the plastic body of the device.

  Yet, I would have risked that if it might have extracted me from the awkward scene.

  The catch was the six-foot swath of jagged plastic that would exit the front of the claymore might fail to penetrate Death’s composite shell. The last thing I wanted to do was merely wound him again. I’d failed to kill him the first time, proving the old saw that when you try to assassinate a crime king, best not botch it. Hence, my consternation at being brought to his court now. I was gladdened, yea even happily astonished, that he hadn’t flayed me and then slowly roasted what was left over a low flame.

  So now I figured it was better to do nothing and let him kill me coolly and quickly now, rather than have him do his worst for a protracted time because I’d angered him with another botched attempt at murder. I had heard the stories and never doubted them. Expiring quickly beats departing slowly and painfully any day — especially your last.

  The possibility of setting off the claymore was academic anyway since I couldn’t reach the firing button in my spread eagle state, being stretched between Death’s two mesomorphs who each held one of my arms in muscled paws that threatened to dislocate my shoulders.

  So instead of doing anything, I fought to control my bladder and waited, with the two henchmen savoring my fear, like pigs chewing on a chicken. The mechanical clock on the wall tick tocked long seconds in a room smelling of sweat and blood.

  And, I reflected, soon of urine.

  Death stared at me across the smoke-filled room, sitting behind a stainless steel desk that resembled a mortician’s table. As always, he wore the chrome mask with a crazy grin molded into it, never seeming to don any of the somber countenances that hung along the wall like eyeless onlookers. His antenna darted like a nervous cricket’s as he faced me, his voice grating like fingernails down slate. “Surprised to see me again so soon?”

  “Yes,” I managed.

  “Didn’t take long to put the pieces back together.”

  “Please, just get it over I pleaded. Tired of waiting to die, I wanted to at least shuffle off this mortal coil with clean underwear.

  Death threw back his head and shrieked — his way of laughing. “You think we brought you here to…” He sputtered as he uncoiled himself from his chair and rose to his feet, stooping so his dented skull didn’t scrape the ceiling. “Actually I have a little job for you.” The hand that ended in human digits instead of a claw snaked into his chest compartment and retrieved a plastic vial. “Here.”

  The meso on my left let go of my arm so I could receive the tiny container. I recognized the opalescent liquid inside without checking the label. “I don’t do jet any more.”

  Death’s eyes burned like angry coals in the dim light. “You’re not going to wear out my patience are you?”

  “No!” I answered quickly, knowing his patience was in short supply. I wrapped my hand around the vial and lowered my arm.

  “I’ve seen your records,” Death said. “You have three jet-net convictions and two months in detox on your records. I know you’ve used the stuff. Don’t smudge me.”

  “Used to use is the key point here. I quit. I’ve seen what happens when a guy crashes and splatters his brains over a console.”

  “Let’s just say this is non-negotiable. With a blur of motion, his hand snaked toward me. Abruptly a razor sharp blade rested next to my groin. “You’re in no position to bargain.”

  He was right: I was up the creek without a paddle, over a barrel, with my pants down, and ready to fold.

  “Please continue,” I said in as low a falsetto voice as a man can manage with testicles attempting to hide inside his pelvis.

  Death withdrew the blade and then paced the narrow room for moments that seemed like eternity, his clawed hand snapping open and shut with the quiet efficiency of slaughterhouse hammers. Finally he growled. “There’s this guy who’s lost himself — very thoroughly, especially after the EMP attack on the Central that erased the master banks last week. But he probably left tracks in the subnet, which is where you come in.”

  “Don’t tell me you want me to jet net.”

  “Precisely what I have in mind. For a hacker like you who’s been, shall we say, pharmaceutically challenged in the past, that ought to be a grav dive with eyes closed.”

  “If I’m going to risk frying my mind it would be nice to be reimbursed —”

  Death roared, causing the teeth in the skull collection behind him to rattle. “You think you have room to bargain here?” he hissed.

  “I thought, maybe… You know.”

  “You ought to be glad I’m not going to kill you outright after what you did to me.”

  I conceded that, having left him short a couple of arms after he stumbled into a booby trap I’d left behind.

  Death leaned toward me, so close his antenna brushed my face, tickling my sweat-covered brow. Tiny gears whirred angrily inside him; his breath reeked of machine oil. “Fortunately for you I’m feeling generous today. You find this guy’s hard address by the end of the tomorrow and —”

  “Just find his hard address?” I asked. “You don’t want me to make the pick up or anything?”

  “Correct. My guys’ll make the pickup when you find his hard address. You find it before anyone else does, and I’ll delete your criminal records from the PD machine and throw in a couple of K’s to boot. How’s that sound?”

  “Very generous. But perhaps a bonus if —”

  “As a bonus, I won’t kill you.”

  “Very, very generous.”

  “Here’s a DF.” He produced a ROM dot from his chest and handed the storage device to me. “Everything we have on him. He left records behind when he went into hiding.”

  I took the tiny storage device and carefully placed it into the PA on my wrist. “Is this guy dangerous?”

  “Not hardly,” Death replied. “Antique. Remember the Supreme ruling last month? The one that said all vets had to be compensated for the past sins of the UN and its member states?”

  “A hundred thousand per year, each year they continue to live,” I replied. I was up to speed on this because I’d been trying to figure out some way to hack into the data bank so I could add my name to the list of those who’d be receiving the cash. Sadly, my labors never came to fruition.

  “That ruling was their death warrant,” Death continued. “The Powers decided to cut their losses to a hundred thou per vet.”

  I thought a moment and then knew: “By killing them off this year.”

  “Right,” Death said with a hissing chuckle. “The actuary tables will be skewed for years to come with all the unusual accidents, unexpected heart attacks, and exotic endings to come the next few months. But it won’t be so easy with this guy. He’s no schmuck. When the law passed, he didn’t wait for a goodbye knock-knock. Went underground. So, we contracted the job from The Powers and now I’m subcontracting you. Two days to hard address him for us — or else.”

  “Hate to mention this,” I said in the most contrite voice I could muster, “But I’m short of cash.”

  “He was trying to hit an ATM when we scooped him,” one of the mesos guarding me offered.

  I nodded. “If I’m to access the sub-webs… The pub-net doesn’t have anything of value for a data search like I’ll need to do.” I stopped and tried to swallow.

  Death vented air, sounding like a wire brush peeling flesh from muscle, eyes flaming crimson before cooling while everyone in the room held their collective breaths. Then he fished through a pile of papers on his desk, produced a smart card, and hurled it at me. “Here’s an anonymous five hundred. That’s your advance.”

  I was quiet for a moment, surprised at Death’s
unexpected generosity since normally he held a debit card so tightly it moaned in pain.

  “Is there anything else?” he demanded.

  The room was ominously silent, the clock ticking off five seconds.

  And then I ventured, “Do you have a bathroom?”

  Chapter 2

  Jeff Huntington

  High over Hanoi, I swore under my breath as I double-checked my voltmeter. No doubt about it; the circuits weren’t getting the proper power and I didn’t see how that could be.

  My musings were interrupted by the navigator yelling at me over the engine noise of the B-52. “Get your parachute on!”

  “Can’t work in a chute,” I replied. Hell, I could barely work inside the heavy flight jacket dictated by the frigid air pouring through the bomb bay doors where the last of the bombs shuttled through the opening, raining death far below. For just a moment, it registered on me that I’d been blissfully unaware of the lives that most likely were coming to violent ends on the ground far below. We flew above the murder and mayhem, death I was taking part in, high in the sky where everything seemed serene and sterile. The chaos we’d just dumped onto those faceless enemies below remained both distant and abstract.

  I shook the thought and concentrated on the circuit board I labored over.

  “Grab your chute!” the navigator yelled again, this time tugging at my shoulder. “Get your chute on. Now!”

  What’s with this guy? I wondered, glancing up in time to see the navigator pull his helmet’s blast shield down over his face and jerk his shoulder harness tight.

  With a shock of electrified clearness, I realized the crewman was readying to eject.

  That made an impression.

  I dropped my tools and grabbed my chute, just as the rear of the plane ripped apart with a concussion that sent shrapnel slicing through the interior of the plane. Jagged holes appeared as if by magic in the skin of the jet. Sunlight peppered the dark interior as air whistled through the countless new openings. The B-52 lurched into a gut-wrenching turn, starboard engines sputtering.