“The dark place,” voted Harman.
Daeman only nodded tiredly.
They kicked their way down through the tangling kelp while keeping one hand on the other’s arm so as not to be separated. Daeman had the gun this day and he swept it from side to side at every spectral movement of the kelp. Without windows or reflected glow from the central city core, only Savi’s flashlight showed the way. Both men wondered about the flashlight’s charge, but neither spoke their worry aloud. Daeman reassured himself by remembering the dim fungal glow in most, not all, of the caverns below, enough to hunt lizards by, with luck, but the truth was that he didn’t want to go back down to those charnel hunting grounds ever again. He’d asked Harman about the near vacuum around them just two nights earlier.
“What do you think would happen if I took my osmosis mask off?”
“You’d die,” said Harman without emotion. The older man was ill—not a condition humans had encountered often, since the firmary dealt with such things—and he was shaking with cold, despite the thermskin’s preservation of all his body heat. “You’d die,” he repeated.
“Quickly?”
“Slowly, I think,” said Harman. His blue thermskin was filthy from river mud and lizard blood. “You’d asphyxiate. But it’s not pure vacuum here, so you’d struggle for quite a while.”
Daeman nodded. “What if I took my thermskin off but left my mask on?”
Harman thought about this. “That would be quicker,” he agreed. “You’d freeze to death in a minute or less.”
Daeman had said nothing and he’d thought Harman had drifted back to sleep, but then the older man whispered over the comm, “But don’t do it without telling me first, all right, Daeman?”
“All right,” said Daeman.
The corridor was so thick with wild kelp that they almost had to turn back, but by having one of them twist and shove the floating growth aside while the other fought his way through, they were able to wiggle and kick and pull their way the two hundred yards or so of the dark length of the windowless column. There was a wall at the end—just what both men expected after their troubles—but Daeman kept moving the flashlight beam past the kelp, and suddenly they could just barely make out a white square set in the dark bulkhead of exotic material. Daeman had the gun so he went through the semipermeable membrane first.
“What do you see?” called Harman on the commline. He hadn’t come through yet. “Can you see anything?”
“Yes.” It was Daeman’s thermskin suitcomm answering, but not Daeman’s voice. “He can see wonderful things.”
50
Ilium
“Tell me again what you’re looking at,” said Orphu, speaking not over the tightbeam but via k-link cable. Mahnmut was riding on the Ionian’s back like a jockey on a floating elephant. The k-link had given them enough broadband for Orphu to upload the entire Greek language and Iliad databases in a few seconds.
“The Greek and Trojan leaders are meeting on this ridgetop,” said Mahnmut. “We’re just behind the Greek contingent—Achilles, Hockenberry, Odysseus, Diomedes, Big and Little Ajax, Nestor, Idomeneus, Thoas, Tlepolemus, Nireus, Machaon, Polypoetes, Meriones, and a half dozen other men whose names I didn’t catch during Hockenberry’s quick introductions earlier.”
“But no Agamemnon? No Menelaus?”
“No, they’re still back in Agamemnon’s camp, recovering from their single combat with Achilles. Hockenberry told me that they’re being cared for by Asclepius, their healer. The brothers have broken ribs and cuts and bruises—Menelaus has a concussion from where Achilles brained him with a shield—but nothing life-threatening. According to the scholic, both of them will be able to walk in a day or two.””
“I wonder if Asclepius could give me my eyes and arms back,” rumbled Orphu.
Mahnmut had nothing to say to this.
“What about the Trojans?” asked Orphu, his voice eager. He sounded the way Mahnmut always imagined a human child would sound—happy, enthusiastic, almost gleeful. “Who’s here representing Ilium?”
Mahnmut got to his feet on the cracked shell, better to see across the plumed heads of the Achaean heroes into the ranks of the Trojans.
“Hector leads the contingent, naturally,” said Mahnmut. “His red horsehair plume and bright war helmet really stand out. He’s wearing a red cape as well. It’s as if he’s defying the gods to come down and fight.”
Mahnmut had already relayed to Orphu the scene described by Hockenberry from earlier that afternoon when Hector and his wife, Andromache, had walked among the massed thousands of warriors from Ilium, holding high the mutilated body of their dead son—Scamandrius—still dressed in blood-stained royal linen, holding up the corpse for all the Trojans to see. Hockenberry reported that there were thousands of Achaeans still contemplating flight to the high seas in their black ships, but after Hector’s and Andromache’s grim procession, all of the Trojans and their allies were ready to fight the gods, hand to hand if need be.
“Who’s here for Ilium besides Hector?” asked Orphu.
“Paris stands next to him. Then the old counselor, Antenor, and King Priam himself. The old men stand slightly apart, not interfering with Hector.”
“Antenor’s two sons, Acamus and Archelochus, have been killed already, I think,” said Orphu. “Both by Telemonian Ajax—Big Ajax.”
“I think that’s right,” said Mahnmut. “It must make it hard for them to be clasping forearms in truce the way they are now. I see Big Ajax talking to Antenor as if nothing’s happened.”
“They’re all professional soldiers,” said Orphu. “They know they raise their sons for battle and possible death. Who else do you see in Hector’s contingent?”
“Aeneas is there,” said Mahnmut.
“Ah, the Aeneid,” sighed Orphu. “Aeneas is . . . was . . . destined to be the only survivor of the royal house of Ilium. He’s destined . . . was destined—to escape the burning city with his son, Ascanius, and a small band of Trojans, where their descendants will eventually found a city that will become Rome. According to Virgil, Aeneas will . . .”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here,” interrupted Mahnmut. “As Hockenberry says, all bets are off now. I don’t think there’s any part of this Iliad you uploaded to me where the Greeks and Trojans become allies in a doomed crusade against Olympos.”
“No,” said Orphu. “Who else is standing there with Hector besides Aeneas, Paris, old Priam, and Antenor?”
“Othryoneus is there,” said Mahnmut. “Cassandra’s fiance.”
“My God,” said Orphu. “Othryoneus was destined to be killed by Idomeneus this evening or tomorrow. In the battle for the Greek ships.”
“All bets are off,” repeated Mahnmut. “It looks as if there isn’t going to be any battle for the ships tonight.”
“Who else?”
“Deiphobos, another son of Priam, is there,” said Mahnmut. “His armor is polished so bright I have to drop more polarizing filters in place just to look at him. Next to Deiphobos is that fellow from Pedaeon, Priam’s son-in-law, whatshisname . . . Imbrius.”
“Oh my,” said Orphu. “Imbrius was destined to be killed by Teucer in just a few hours . . .”
“Stop that!” said Mahnmut. “Somebody’s going to overhear you.”
“Overhear me on tightbeam or k-link?” said Orphu with a rumble. “Not likely, old friend. Unless these Greeks and Trojans have a bit more technology than you’ve told me about.”
“Well, it’s disconcerting,” said the smaller moravec. “Half the people standing up there on Thicket Ridge are supposed to be dead in a day or two, according to your stupid Iliad.”
“It’s not my stupid Iliad,” rumbled Orphu. “And besides . . .”
“All bets are off,” finished Mahnmut. “Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“The negotiations are over. Hector and Achilles are stepping forward, grasping each other’s forearms now . . . good God!”
“What?”
“Can you hear that?” gasped Mahnmut.
“No,” said Orphu.
“Sorry, sorry,” said Mahnmut. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that literally. I just meant . . . I mean . . .”
“Get on with it,” snapped the Ionian. “What didn’t I hear?”
“The armies—Greek and Trojan both—are roaring now. Good Lord, it’s an overwhelming sound. Hundreds of thousands of Achaeans and Trojans combined, cheering, waving pennants, thrusting their swords and spears and banners into the air . . . the cheering and yelling mob goes all the way back to the walls of Ilium. The people on the walls there—I can see Andromache and Helen and the other women Hockenberry pointed out—they’re all shouting as well. The other Achaeans—the ones who were undecided, waiting by their ships—they’ve come out to the Greek trenches and are cheering and screaming as well. What a noise!”
“Well, you don’t have to shout as well,” Orphu said drily. “The k-link works just fine. What’s happening now?”
“Well . . . not much,” said Mahnmut. “The captains are all shaking hands up and down the ridge. Bells and gongs are ringing out from the walled city. The armies are milling around—regular foot soldiers from each side crossing the no-man’s-land to clap each other on the shoulder and exchange names or whatever—and everyone looks like they’re ready to fight, but . . .”
“But there’s no one to fight,” said Orphu.
“Right.”
“Maybe the gods won’t come down to fight,” said the Ionian.
“I doubt that,” said Mahnmut.
“Or maybe the Device will blow Olympos into a billion pieces,” said Orphu.
Mahnmut was silent at the thought of this. He had seen the gods and goddesses up there, sentient beings by the thousands, and he had no wish to be a mass murderer.
“How long until your jury-rigged timer activates the Device?” asked Orphu, although he must have known himself.
Mahnmut checked his internal chronomoter. “Fifty-four minutes,” he said.
Overhead, dark clouds suddenly boiled and roiled. It appeared that the gods were coming down after all.
When Mahnmut had dived into the Caldera Lake atop Olympus Mons, he had little hope of escape. He needed a minute or so to prep the Device for triggering—for detonation?—and he thought some depth and pressure might give him that time.
It did. Mahnmut dove to 800 meters, feeling the familiar and pleasant sensation of pressure pushing on every square millimeter of his frame, and found a ledge on the west side of the steep caldera wall where he could rest, secure the Device, and ready it. The gods did not pursue him into the water. Whether they didn’t like to swim or foolishly thought that their lasering and microwaving of the surface would drive him up, Mahnmut didn’t know or care.
He’d been negligent in not configuring a remote triggering mechanism before he and Orphu began their short-lived balloon trip, so he did so now, 800 meters down in the dark lake, his chestlamps illumating the ovoid macromolecular Device. Removing the access cover of its transalloy shell, Mahnmut cannibalized bits of himself—one of his four power cells to provide the necessary 32-volt trigger signal, one of his three redundant tightbeam/radio receivers arc-welded to the trigger plate by his wrist laser, and a timer made from his external chronometer. Finally, he’d attached a crude motion-contact sensor rigged from one of his own transponders, so the Device would auto-trigger at this depth if anyone other than he touched it.
If these ersatz gods come down for me now, I’ll trigger the thing manually, he’d thought as he sat on the ledge 800 meters below the lake surface. But he didn’t want to destroy himself—if destruction was, indeed, the Device’s purpose—and he didn’t want to hide underwater all day. But the Hockenberry human had promised to QT back for him, so he’d wait. He wanted to see Orphu again. Besides, their mission—the late Koros III’s and Ri Po’s mission, actually—was to deliver the Device to Olympus Mons and transmit its arrival via the communicator. Both these objectives had been met. In a sense, Mahnmut and the Ionian had completed their mission.
Then why am I hiding 800 meters under the surface in this impossible Caldera Lake? He thought of the water boiling above him as the gods poured their anger and heat-rays into the lake and had to chuckle in his moravec way—this water should be boiling away anyway, since the top of Olympos Mons should be in near-vacuum.
Then the time had come for the human named Hockenberry to return to rescue him, and, amazingly, he did.
“Describe Earth,” said Orphu on Thicket Ridge. Mahnmut had slid down from the shell and was leading his friend by the rope leader he’d looped around the levitation harness. “And are you sure we’re on Earth?” Orphu added.
“Pretty sure,” said Mahnmut. “The gravity is right, the air is right, the sun looks the right size, and the plant life matches the images in the databanks. Oh, so do the human beings—although all these men and women seem to have memberships in the solar system’s best health and exercise club.”
“That good-looking, huh?” said Orphu.
“As humans go, I think so,” said Mahnmut. “But since these are the first Homo sapiens I’ve met in person, who knows? Only Hockenberry of all the men I’ve met here looks as ordinary as the men and women in the photos and vids and holos you and I have in our data banks.”
“What do you think . . .” began Orphu.
Sshhh, said Mahnmut on the tightbeam. He’d pulled the k-link so he didn’t have to ride on Orphu’s shell any more. The clouds continued to swirl above the battlefield. Achilles is addressing the troops—both Trojans and Achaean.
Can you understand him?
Of course I can. The files downloaded just fine, although some of the colloqialisms and cuss words I have to guess from context.
Can the other humans hear him without a public address system?
The man’s got lungs of iron, said Mahnmut. Metaphorically speaking. His voice must be carrying all the way to the sea in one direction and all the way to the walls of Troy in the other.
What’s he saying? asked Orphu.
I defy you, gods . . . blah, blah, blah . . . and now cry havoc and unleash the dogs of war . . . blah, blah, blah . . . recited Mahnmut.
Wait, said Orphu. Did he really use that Shakespeare quote?
No, said Mahnmut. I’m loosely translating.
Whew, said the Ionian on the tightbeam. I thought we had an amazing bit of plagiarism there. How long until activation of the Device?
Forty-one minutes, said Mahnmut. Is there something wrong with your . . . He stopped.
What? said Orphu.
In the middle of Achilles’ defiant cri de coeur against the gods, the King of the Gods appeared. Achilles stopped speaking. Two hundred thousand male faces and one robot face turned skyward on the plains of Ilium.
Zeus descended from the roiling black clouds in his golden chariot, pulled by four beautiful holographic horses.
The Achaean master-archer, Teucer, standing close to Achilles and Odysseus, took aim and launched an arrow skyward, but the chariot was too high and—Mahnmut was sure—surrounded by a powerful forcefield. The arrow arced and fell short, dropping into the thickets of brambles along the base of the ridge where the generals stood.
“YOU DARE TO DEFY ME?” boomed Zeus’s voice across the length and breadth of the fields and shore and city where the armies were gathered. “BEHOLD THE CONSEQUENCE OF YOUR HUBRIS!”
The chariot swung higher and then accelerated toward the south, as if Zeus were leaving the field in the direction of Mount Ida just visible on the southern horizon. Perhaps only Mahnmut, with his telescopic vision, saw the small silver spheroid Zeus dropped from the chariot when it was about fifteen kilometers south of them.
“Down!” roared Mahnmut on full amplification, shouting the word in Greek. “For your lives, get down now!! Don’t look to the south!!”
Few obeyed his command.
Mahnmut grabbed Orphu’s halter and ran for the slight shelter of a large boulde
r on the ridgetop thirty meters away.
The flash, when it came, blinded thousands. Mahnmut’s polarizing filters automatically went from Value 6 to Value 300. He didn’t pause in his wild running, tugging Orphu along behind him like a giant toy.
The shock wave hit seconds after the flash, rolling up from the south in a wall of dust and sending visible stress waves rippling through the atmosphere itself. The wind speed went from five kilometers per hour out of the west to a hundred klicks per hour from the south in less than a second. Hundreds of tents were ripped from their moorings and flown into the sky. Horses whinnied and fled their masters. The whitecaps blew out away from the land.
The roar and shock wave knocked everyone standing—everyone except Hector and Achilles—to the ground. The noise and shattering overpressure were overwhelming, vibrating human bones and moravec solid-state innards, as well as setting Mahnmut’s organic parts quivering. It was as if the Earth itself was roaring and howling in anger. Hundreds of Achaean and Trojan soldiers two kilometers or so to the south of the ridge burst into flame and were thrown high into the air, their ashes falling on thousands of cowering, fleeing men running north.
A section of the south wall of Ilium crumbled and fell, carrying scores of men and women with it. Several of the wooden towers in the city burst into flame, and one tall tower—the one from which Hockenberry had watched Hector saying good-bye to his wife and son just days ago—fell into the streets with a crash.
Achilles and Hector had their hands to their faces, shielding their eyes from the terrible flash that threw their shadows a hundred meters behind them on Thicket Ridge. Behind them, great boulders that had stood firm high on the Amazon Myrine’s mounded tomb vibrated, slipped, and fell, crushing running Achaeans and Trojans alike. Hector’s polished helmet stayed on his head, but his proud crest of red horsehairs were torn off in the high winds that followed the initial shock wave.