When a Goddess Wakes

By Herb. Jones

This story is set in an alternate reality, much like our own, and has both magic and space travel. From old gaming sessions I played in my younger days, I took player characters and tried to answer the question: what are they doing now? That soon became larger than I could handle, so I cut it down to one main character and told her story.

Katlin Catlin Adderlink is the main character. She's the Royal Duchess of Spine and stepdaughter to King Adderlink of Brox Rook. That means she has all the rights and privileges of a princess, except she can't become queen, and that's okay. Her job as Knight Errant to the House of Adderlink is ideal: autonomy, variety of assignments, and fantastic pay with perks.

When she received a project involving her old college friend, Prince Aramis Rouge of Blair, she treated it like any other assignment until the prince went missing. Finding him became a personal obligation until a media blitz hit Iron Rock. It accused the house of Adderlink of Aramis's abduction. That made it an official assignment for KC.

Was Aramis really missing? Was he a victim or villain? Who was responsible for the media assault? Was it a scheme to draw Brox Rook and Blair into a war? And who the hell was Janice? Read When a Goddess Wakes and find out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Herb. Jones
• Release date: Oct 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781792326554

Herb. Jones

My parents and I lived out in the country with our closes neighbor about a mile away. There were no little kids to play with, so my best friend became the TV. I loved those afternoon adventure shows like Buffalo Bill Jr and Anny Okely.Sky King was another favorite. He was a crime-fighting rancher with an airplane. He also had a nice named Penny, my first girlfriend. Out in the front yard, all by myself, I played cowboy, with a toy gun, a stick for a horse, and Penny ridding by my side.The old adventure movies from the late '50s and early '60s were something else: Mysterious Island, Journey to the Center of the Earth, the Time Machine. I saw most of them as new movies. They didn't have the same explosion and frantic fights as today, but they felt real, believable as if you were alongside the heroes and leading ladies.I want to write like that; I always wanted to write like that, and around the age of 65, I realized I had better get busy doing it before I ran out of time.I have written one novel and one short story, and I hope I have time to write more. I want to go on another adventure, and I hope some others will enjoy coming along. Here's an overdramatic line I wrote. It's probably not true, but this is my biography. "There are writers, authors, and wordsmiths, but I consider myself a humble tinker of dreams." How did you like that? Let me know in the remarks section.

Book preview

WHEN A GODDESS WAKES

By Herb. Jones

PUBLISHED BY

SMASHWORDS

EDITED BY COMPUTER

Copyright 2020 Herb. Jones Smash word Edition, licensed for you only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not buy it or purchased it for your use only, please return it to your favorite e-book retailer and buy a copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

---0000O0000---

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

FINAL COMMENTS

MY SEBSITE

OTHER BOOKS

CHAPTER ONE

---000O000---

Kaitlin Caitlin Adderlink: tall; athletic build; dark auburn hair; the Royal Duchess of Spine; today she wore her technician clothes. In her hands, she held two plastic bags. Each contained a single bullet.

This one. She held up the one in her right hand and shook the bag. Is from five years ago and a distant part of the galaxy, right?

Yeah. A serial killer. Never apprehended. That was Marshal Mathew Grambling. It's from the Focal’s evidence locker.

She didn't enjoy dealing with the Federalist Focal, but she knew the Marshal. He was good people; most Trek Marshals were.

This one. She lifted the second bag. Is a local crime from three days ago.

That's right, he said. I need to know if they came from the same gun.

Her intimate knowledge of life and death made her an excellent crime scene investigator. For now, necromancer-based testimony didn't hold up in court, but Marshal Gram only needed probable cause.

She concentrated. Almost undetectable, the bullets reached out to each other.

They're from the same gun, she said. A Glock thirty-eight.

Alright. The same thirty-eight?

Same thirty-eight, she said.

Three more plastic bags rested on the table. What are these?

Local murders, he said. They came from the same gun, the one your serial killer used. I'm sure of that, but I can't prove the same person pulled the trigger.

I can try to get a vision if you like. She lay the newest evidence bag on the table.

Gram said, I know who pulled the trigger on that last one, but go ahead.

She closed her hand around the oldest evidence bag, the one from the Focal. She squeezed. It felt barren, with no trace of lingering emotions, no heat from anger, no icy bite of fear.

Remarkably void for a murder weapon. She shook her head. Too much time has passed.

The next pouch had a cartridge fired two months ago. KC picked it up.

The victim was male, between the age of twenty-five and thirty. I sense only trace levels of fear. They either knew each other, or the killer caught the victim by surprise.

The next bag contained a slug fired less than a month ago.

Male. Under thirty. He was athletic, into sports. I see the shooter, a middle-aged man, about fifty. No strong emotions here, not from the victim or the shooter.

The shooter's face remained unseen, but the third round, discharged only eleven days ago, yielded a detailed snapshot of his psyche.

He's warm and friendly, quick with a joke or a smile. He is prone to social excesses, too much alcohol and womanizing, but with murder, he is cold and unfeeling. When she looked up, she saw Marshal Gram smiling.

Go on, he said. You don't realize how well you're doing.

KC shrugged her shoulders. It seems he's doing it for sport, like a hunter. His way of showing dominance.

That's what our profiler said. Gram used his finger to push the newest shell in front of her. Here, this is the crime I'm interested in.

From three days ago?

Yeah.

Concentrating, she moved her hand toward the bag but stopped.

It's so fresh; I can feel it from here.

She eased her hand forward and touched the slug. Separated only by the thickness of the plastic, a vision leaped into her mind. A face, a smiling face, round and jolly with a warm smile but cold, dead eyes. The man looked harmless, old, with a potbelly and a bald head, but another face hid there, a snarling, ravenous face.

One person, two faces, she thought. She said, I see him.

Great, said Gram, but don’t tell me.

She broke contact and leaned against the table.

Not a nice guy, she said. She let out a breath and stood.

Give me a minute or two, said Gram. I'll bring him here.

I'll go too. She was the Royal Duchess of Spine, and the Royal Duchess of Spine didn't wait for things to happen.

---000O000---

KC wished she had waited. Outside was hot, high noon in the desert, in the middle of summer. She walked a step or two behind the local sheriff. He was the boss and leading the way.

Let's go the long way, he said. Don't want to spook him.

Deliberate delay, thought KC. His inexperience was overwhelming, but he was in charge — for now.

FN434 was a worthless dirt clod of a planet, valuable only to geologists and a handful of hopeful prospectors. She looked around the small settlement, a patch of manicured green surrounded by hundreds of miles of barren wasteland. Pads of concrete poured here and there supported prefab buildings. That was the town.

Lots of people here today, said KC.

They're here to escape the heat. Happens every year. That was Gram.

The sheriff stopped to chat with some locals.

Another delay, thought KC.

There's a trading ship in orbit now, said Gram.

I saw it when we arrived. I see vendors came down.

Yeah, that adds to the population. This year, the trading ship brought a squad of hostesses.

Sales facilitators. The townspeople seem to like them. She handed her rifle to the Marshal and strapped on her Colt Peacemaker.

On the far corner of town was the funeral home. Colored ribbons hung there, and mourners paid their respects.

The latest victim, said Gram.

The latest victim, she thought. I bet the townspeople didn't call her that. Out loud, she said, Female, right?

She finished buckling the holster and tucked her Henry Repeating rifle under her arm. The guns clashed with her khakis, but she didn't care. As the Knight Errant of Brox Rook, she understood firearms better than fashion.

Yeah, female. She in your vision? That was Gram.

Yes. An outgoing personality?

All his victims were dominant, alpha-types.

She have many friends?

She was the local mechanic, said Gram. Spent most of her time traveling the badlands, moving from camp to camp, did emergency repairs and maintenance. If we take this fellow alive, we may have trouble keeping him that way for the trial.

She saw him, the same smiling face from her vision. He sat on the front porch of the general store, surrounded by vendors and locals. A hostess dealt a round of beers to outstretched hands. The face paid.

Life of the party, she thought, then shifted her gaze to avoid eye contact.

I wondered when you'd notice, said Gram. Name's Burdett. He travels around selling Planet Rovers. That's his booth at the end of the porch. Fun-loving guy, huh? Nice to chat with or have a cold beer.

No, thank you. I've seen his other face. She moved to block her view of him and discovered a Tarantula parked at Burdett's booth. Its robotic legs made travel across any terrain possible. It could even climb rock walls.

The town sheriff walked again.

At last, thought KC.

She followed, keeping Marshal Gram between her and Burdett. Looking might cause Burdett to bolt, and then the sheriff glanced at the target. It was only a second. Was it too long? KC looked toward Burdett. She saw him scrambling through the crowd to his Rover. She shouted, and Gram looked.

The Marshal was a big man, and his boots made a big thud as he ran. KC's long legs helped her keep pace, but Burdett made it to the Tarantula. She cocked her Henry Repeater but didn't aim; too many people were in the way, but the Spider's legs were above everyone. She raised her Repeater. Enough damage to a leg joint, and the vehicle couldn't power up.

The sheriff stepped in front of her, shouting and waving his revolver. He posed more of a hazard than the Spider.

She lowered her weapon and used her magic to amplify her voice. Clear the street. Get down.

She laced her words with a Control Spell. It worked on spirits but not well on the living. Still, the crowd responded. When the Spider came to life, they responded even more.

With alarming speed, the robotic craft charged toward them. The town sheriff scrambled away. KC raised her rifle to her shoulder and fired off several shots. The bulletproof windshield didn't crack, but she put enough pits in front of Burdett's face. He stopped.

The Tarantula crouched, preparing to leap. Gram raised his sonic blaster and aimed, but he didn't fire. Collateral damage was too likely. The apparatus jumped, and the muzzle of the blaster followed its ascent. At the optimal point, Gram pulled the trigger.

The Federalist Focal used benign, non-violent little stingers. They made a polite humming sound that could stun, disable, shock, or produce lethal force. Trek Marshal weapons spoke with authority.

A sonic blast bellowed toward the Tarantula and slapped the ATV off course. It twisted off robotic legs and dropped them to the ground. The right legs remained and cushioned the fall, but the left legs lay on the street unattached. The Tarantula hit hard.

KC and the two lawmen moved forward, alert for danger. Burdett came from behind the disabled vehicle — head down, body bent forward. He staggered toward Gram, trying not to fall; his hand hung near his Glock thirty-eight.

Burdett, yelled Gram.

Burdett's head snapped back, and everyone saw the real person: his face distorted by rage. Then he relaxed, and that warm, friendly smile returned.

Marshal. He raised his hands. You got me. I surrender.

Lace your fingers behind your head and turn around, said Marshal Gram.

Burdett put his hands behind his head. He studied the reassembling crowd and smiled. I don't mind being rehabilitated by the Feds. He made eye contact with Gram and leaned forward as if he were sharing a big secret. About time to retire. Write my memoirs.

Get on with it, said Gram. Turn around.

KC heard a faint scraping sound and glanced at the crash debris fields. Again came the scraping sound from a pile of tables. KC stood as still and quiet as she could: listening, watching. The tables shifted; people jumped back; someone screamed.

Everyone watched as a hostess crawled from under the pile. It took time to stand, and once on her feet, she teetered back and forth in danger of falling. She stared at the people watching her, adjusted her costume to cover the significant bits, and tried to brush her hair with her fingers.

KC's eyes returned to Burdett. He wasn't smiling; he watched the girl, fascinated. Was she a hostage or his next victim?

Marshal Gram's hand moved to his sidearm. Burdett, don't do it.

Burdett lunged.

Marshal Gram pulled and fired.

An antimatter pellet screamed through the positive atmosphere. When an antimatter pellet hits a regular matter target, one explodes, usually the one with less mass. Burdett's shoulder flew apart. The rest of him got knocked back to the storefront. He hit a little shy but continued to slide several feet under the porch.

The silence of the aftermath seemed surreal. Someone escorted the hostess away, and a few townspeople tried to pull Burdett's body from underneath the porch.

Marshal Gram sighed and holstered his handgun.

So much for the FN434 project.

---000O000---

KC wore her comfy clothes: baggy sweatpants and an old T-shirt with a picture of Moondust Fallon. He was the misunderstood one in her favorite boy band. The FN434 project took six hours to complete, and that included transportation. The after-incident inquiry took five days, five days sequestered aboard a Federalist Cruiser, five days sitting in a courtroom, five days exposed to the Feds’ one-size-fits-all freedom.

She walked toward the lounge of the High Plains Drifter, her ship. The five-day inquiry had screwed up her schedule.

Hey, I have time to lounge in my lounge, she thought. What a concept.

She carried a book in the pocket of her terrycloth bathrobe, and hiding in the fridge was a slice of cheesecake. She had plans for them and eighteen hours to execute that plan.

To be home again. To sleep in a bed that smells like me, thought KC. She wanted to see her friends, read her mail, listen to her missed messages, and even attend Mass in her neighborhood church.

In the lounge, her crew, Angus McGray, stood atop a flight of steps that led to the pilot's station.

Welcome back, he said.

He resembled a Minotaur, but not a half-bull, half-human creature. His face, including the muttonchop sideburns, and a broad and stout body, was human. His cloven hooves and the horns protruding through his thick midnight-black hair were bovine. KC dragged her feet to keep her pink-fuzzy house slippers from sliding off as she walked to the kitchenette.

How long to Iron Rock? she asked.

Angus laid his chopsticks across his salad bowl and turned down the Brazilian Jaz that played.

Eighteen hours, he said.

As she set up the coffeemaker, she imagined all the things she could do in eighteen hours, read, daydream, nap, whatever she wanted. But coffee was the first step in her grand plan, and it was critical.

What are you eating? she asked.

A salad, said Angus. Field greens; sliced red onion; a pear; chopped pecans; blue cheese; and a homemade dressing made with maple syrup, apple cider, and vinegar. He used the chopsticks to pick up a mouthful and brought it to his lips.

Sounds delicious. Let me get a cup of coffee, and I'll take over the controls.

It took Angus several seconds of chewing before he swallowed.

Change of plans, he said.

What?

Now, we're going to Mud Hill.

What? What's on Mud Hill? After five days aboard a Federalist cruiser, after weeks upon weeks of back-to-back assignments, she deserved a break.

Some father wants help to find his son. Says the kid is in big trouble.

That's so touching, she said. I don't do humanitarian projects; they don't pay enough.

Good intentions can get you killed. Her father told her that. He should know; he was Snake, the leader of the old mercenary group, the Dark Knights.

Hang on, she told Angus. I need caffeine for this.

She turned her attention back to the coffeepot. She would fight for time off if it came to it, but first, she needed a cup of wake-up juice. With her cup filled, she walked back into the lounge.

She called out to Angus. Who says?

What?

Who says we're going to Mud Hill?

Your daddy, replied Angus.

There goes my cheesecake, she thought. Snake was not only her stepfather and King; he was her boss. As a Knight Errant, she worked for him. Against one authority figure, she could prevail, but not all three.

How long? she asked Angus.

He looked over his shoulder at the instrument panel. Forty-five minutes before we hit the Brox Rook System, another three hours before we get to Mud Hill.

She climbed the steps to the pilot's station. Mud Hill? What's happening on Mud Hill?

Angus handed her the message. At the top, a handwritten note read: handle this for me; you are my favorite child. Her dad said that to all his children, but it still made her feel good.

Yeah, this came from my father, she said. That makes the project personal. It didn't go through the royal council.

Off the books, said Angus. That means you can charge more.

She laughed. It was a personal job, but the person was her father, and he didn't pay for anything. He was famous for that.

I'll be lucky if I get expenses, she said.

The message read: Snake, I'm calling in that favor you owe me.

Who is this guy? she asked.

Angus reached over her shoulder and pointed at the signature block. It's from King Labib Rouge of Blair.

King Rouge, she said. Back in his pirate days, they called him Slaughterhouse of the Red Coast.

He ran the Piranha, a pirate clan out of Chanlon. That was while Snake headed the Dark Knights.

Slaughterhouse and Snake were mortal enemies. They still are, she said.

Perhaps they reconciled, said Angus.

Are you kidding me? Even if they did, how does dad owe Slaughterhouse a favor? There was something else bothering her. Why is Labib trying so hard to find his son? He's not a little-lost boy; he's as old as me.

You know him.

Prince Aramis Rouge, I know him from college.

Mud Hill was famous for its colleges. Most royal families sent their sons and daughters to study the more delicate details of imperial rule, classic studies, languages, social behavior, persuasion, and deception. Meaningless Words and Their Usage was a popular elective. Angus finished his salad and carried the empty bowl back to the kitchenette.

You trust him? asked Angus.

I trust him. He's a good friend.

That wasn't altogether true. Aramis was Royal, like her, and Royals did strange and unusual things in the name of necessity.

I sure don't trust his father, Labib, she said.

Well, you have three hours before Mud Hill, said Angus. You should have a power nap.

I'll take a cup of coffee and a slice of cheesecake. I have preparations to make.

Aramis remained her friend. If he were in trouble, she would help.

It didn't matter, she thought. It didn't matter if she got killed, and it didn't matter if she got paid. This was a debt of honor, and her father had transferred that debt to her. She had to pay back that debt to King Rouge, even if the obligation was bogus.

She considered her options, then realized there were none.

Well, she thought. Crap.

---000O000---

CHAPTER TWO

---000O000---

KC still wore her relaxing clothes but couldn’t relax. She sat next to the pool on her ship’s recreation deck but couldn’t go for a swim, nor could she use any of the exercise equipment around her. Above, a tinted dome allowed the dim light of space to seep through. It had a soft copper hue, an ideal ambiance for napping, but that couldn’t happen either, not until she found Aramis.

It should be as simple as calling the local police, but her father could have done that, and so could King Rouge. They didn’t. That meant she had to find him herself, and it had to de done on the sly.

She knew where he was, the Regrets Hotel, third-floor corner room, the one with the wraparound balcony. He always stayed there when he came to Mud Hill. Everyone knew that, well, not his father, but everybody else.

Carlos, thought KC.

Her stepbrother and Aramis talked often. He would know if the prince made it to Mudhill, that is, if he answered her call.

Only people who want something call me. He gave everyone that warning, and he was true to his words. She got no answer and left a message.

Now, what? she wondered. Cousin Norma Jean. She was golden with research and usually answered her calls. They connected on the second ring.

In answer to KC’s request, cousin Norma Jean said, I'll make some discrete inquiries. And I'll investigate the rumored abduction. Random chatter is rarely accurate.

They ended the call, and KC didn't move for a moment. What next? she wondered. There had to be something, but it all hinged on finding Aramis's whereabouts.

She leaned back in her deck chair and gave herself permission to relax, just a little and just for a moment. With eyes closed and breaths slow and even, she reached into the Spirit World and summoned her Children, wayward spirits that passed from life too soon. Necromancers attracted such spirits, but her children reminded her of her days in the orphanage and were rarely a bother. Kindergist, she called them.

The air chilled, and a fine mist gathered on her skin; her Children had arrived. They stood in a group and stared at her, stoic faces with oversize eyes. KC gave them a warm greeting, and they glowed. Their expressions didn't change, but KC knew they would glow if they could.

In their hands, they carried makeup, oils, and powders, along with brushes, files, and nail polish. They wanted to give KC the spa treatment, and KC saw no reason not to. She held out her arms and wiggled her fingers, and they rushed forward with excited faces. Again, their expressions didn’t change, but KC knew what was in their hearts.

Two and a half hours until Mud Hill, thought KC.

Her Spirit Guide, Hototo, had been with her since she was thirteen. She called and immediately felt his presence. No words were needed to communicate. Hototo knew KC wanted scouts for the area around the Regrets Hotel, third floor, corner room, the one with the wraparound balcony. KC understood her Spirit Guide needed more time to do a proper search, and the Spirit Guide understood there was no more time.

Both knew the answer—Bogeys.

Bogeys were evil spirits that lurked at the edge of awareness, looking for a chance to cause misery and pain; also, they were what you got when you had little time and no resources. KC and Hototo share the same notion, Bogeys would have to do. In agreement now, Hototo’s presence faded away, and KC went back to her relaxing.

The Children continued their work. Translucent at best, the uninitiated had to strain to see them. If anyone watched now, they would see hairbrushes and nail buffers moving on their own and KC’s skin stretching and deforming, but they couldn’t see the tiny hands controlling the events. KC smiled every time she thought about it.

The females performed the spa treatment while the males stood in a ring around her, facing out. They were the guards. She asked the younger Kindergist to bring her working close. Two of the older boys escorted them into the Spirit World.

Several minutes passed, and her ShadowCom pinged — Norma Jean.

Has Carlos returned your call? said her cousin.

Not yet, replied KC.

I left a message for him to call you. His information about Aramis is the most accurate, said Norma Jean.

That must have been painful, thought KC. Information accuracy was a matter of pride with Norma Jean. Say something comforting, KC thought, but the Children returned, and the moment was lost.

The first little girl brought form-fitting jeans, and the second had a freshly ironed Western shirt. They carefully laid them on a table next to her deck chair and stepped back.

KC nodded thanks as Norma Jean continued her report.

The flight plan lists Mud Hill as their next port of entry, and according to public records, they were to arrive about twelve hours ago. I don't have confirmation that happened, but that was the plan, said Norma Jean.

What about the kidnapping plot? asked KC.

Two Kindergist stepped forward with KC's cowboy hat and boots. The girls were so small they couldn't quite reach the tabletop, so KC had to help.

It appears real, or at least the reports are factual, enough to justify concern but not enough to confirm an actual attack. Most of the rumors seem to originate around the Chanlon area.

King Rouge comes from that part of the galaxy, said KC.

Two older boys delivered her weapons, a Colt Peacemaker and a lever-action Winchester. One boy had an overnight bag: toiletries, spare shirt, change of underwear. It also had standard issues for a low-threat mission: a second Peacemaker, a nine-millimeter Glock, a combat knife, extra ammunition, and a twelve-gauge for those times when nothing less would do.

He and your stepfather were both from the Chanlon area, said Norma Jean.

Dad was a mercenary; Labib was a pirate.

KC's ShadowCom pinged again - Aramis.

What's up, sis? asked Carlos.

KC gave him the short version, and Carlos replied, I'm on Iron Rock now. I can be there in about eleven hours if you need me.

Thanks, but I have other resources. I just need to confirm Aramis’s location.

I talked to him just a few hours ago, I think noon in Splendor. Anyway, he was closing down his ship. He and his entire crew were going down to Mud Hill for shore leave. He always does that when he goes to Mud Hill. Everyone knows that.

Except for his father, added KC.

That's true, said Carlos. "I assume he's in Splendor