“Can they do damage?” asked Harman.
“I don’t know,” said Savi. “We’re approaching the Sho’or Yafa—the Jaffa Gate. Let’s see if we can get rid of them.”
She swerved the still-accelerating crawler into walls on the left and then on the right side of David Street, finally smashing through an arch lower than the crawler. Vibration and falling masonry shook the clinging voynix off, but Daeman turned to see most of them rising out of the rubble and joining the pack giving chase. Then the crawler was through the gate, out of the old city, and picking up speed down the graveled hill where they’d left the sonie, but the only sign of their flying machine was a heap of rocks thirty feet high surrounded by forty or fifty more voynix. Immediately the creatures left the mound and rushed to cut off the crawler. Savi ran over some, dodged others, and found an ancient highway running west from the city.
“Tough machine,” said Harman.
“They built tough machines toward the end of the Lost Age,” said Savi. “With nano-maintenance, it should last damned near forever.” She’d pulled her thermskin night-vision lenses from her pack and was driving with the crawler’s headlights off now. Daeman found the effect of hurtling along in the dark unsettling as he heard the big wheels crunching over rusted artifacts on the road—probably ancient abandoned vehicles. Then he realized that they were hurtling over a bridge and then rumbling through a cut between hills. He couldn’t see the pursuing voynix now in the dark—only the receding blue blade of light leaping straight up from the dark hill of Jerusalem—but he knew the voynix were still back there, still coming on.
Savi told them that it was about thirty miles to the coastline of the former Mediterranean Sea. They made the distance in less than ten minutes.
“Look at this,” said Savi, slowing the crawler. She removed her night-vision glasses and flicked on the headlights, fog lights, and searchlights.
A mass of five or six hundred voynix had made a wedge near where the land suddenly tilted down into the dry Mediterranean Basin.
“Do we turn?” asked Harman.
Savi shook her head and accelerated the crawler forward. Later, Daeman thought that the sound of the machine hitting so many voynix at such high speed had been somewhat like a hailstorm he had heard on a metal roof in Ulanbat many years ago. But this was very large hail.
The crawler reached the former shoreline, Savi cried “Hang on,” and the machine was airborne for ten seconds as it jumped the drop between shore and former sea. Then the six huge wheels hit the ground, the struts absorbed most of the shock and stabilized them, and they drove straight ahead down into the Basin, headlights and searchlights still stabbing white cones out of the darkness.
Daeman looked back and saw the surviving voynix, silhouetted by the distant blue beam, lining the shoreline behind them. “They won’t follow?” he asked.
“Into the Basin?” said Savi. “Never.” She slowed the crawler to a more reasonable speed, but before she slipped on her glasses and shut off the lights, Daeman saw that they were following a smooth red-clay road through verdant fields of crops. There were black metal crosses rising above the level of the wheat and corn and sunflowers and flax out there in the dark, and, impaled on each cross, was what looked to be a pale, writhing, naked human body.
34
The Coast of Ilium, Indiana
Achilles raged, roared, and tore at the tent wall where the goddess Athena had disappeared, dragging the body of Patroclus. Then the man-killer went mad.
His guards rushed in. Still naked, Achilles lifted the first man and threw him at the head of the second guard. The third guard heard a roar and found himself also flying through the air, tearing through the canvas wall of the tent. The fourth threw down his spear and ran to wake the Myrmidons to let them know that their lord and captain had been possessed by a demon spirit.
Achilles gathered up his breechcloth, his tunic, his breastplate, his shield, his polished bronze greaves, his sandals, and his spear, wrapped them in a sheet, and, taking up his sword, cut his way through three canvas walls of tent. Outside, he shoved over the large tripod left burning in the center of his camp and ran past the darkened tents—toward the dark sea and away from all the encampments of men, toward his mother, the goddess Thetis.
The waves crashed in to shore, only the whites of each curl visible in the darkness here away from the fires. Achilles paced back and forth on the wet sand. He was still naked, his armor and his weapons scattered on the beach. While he paced, he pulled at his long hair and moaned aloud, occasionally crying out his mother’s name in anguish.
And Thetis, daughter of the sea god Nereus, the Old Man of the Sea, answered Achilles’ call, appearing from the salt-green depths, rising up from the rolling surf like a mist, but then solidifying into the tall form of the noble goddess. Achilles ran to her like an injured child and fell to one knee in the wet sand. Thetis cradled his head against her wet breast while he sobbed.
“My child—why the weeping? What sorrow has hurt your heart?”
Achilles groaned. “You know, you must know, Mother—don’t make me tell it all again.”
“I was with my father in the salt-green depths,” murmured Thetis, stroking Achilles’ golden hair. “Since mortals and gods were both sleeping so late, I did not see what transpired. Share it all, my son.”
And Achilles did, sobbing with grief, choking with anger. He told of the appearance of Pallas Athena, of her insults and taunts. He described the apparent murder of his friend Patroclus.
“She took away his body, Mother!” cried Achilles. He was beyond comfort. “She took away his body so that I can’t even perform the proper funeral rites for him!”
Thetis patted his shoulder and burst into tears herself. “Oh my son, my sorrow! Your birth was bitterness. All I bore was doom. Why did I raise you up, if it is Zeus’s will to throw you down?”
Achilles raised his tear-streaked face. “So it is Zeus’s will? It was Pallas Athena who just killed Patroclus—not some false image of the goddess?”
“It was Zeus’s will,” wept his mother. “And although I did not see it, I know it was Goddess Athena herself who taunted you and killed your friend this night. Oh, the pity that you were doomed not only to a short life, Achilles, my son, but to one so filled with heartbreak.”
Achilles pulled away and stood. “Why did the immortal gods insult me so, Mother? Why would Athena, who has championed the Argive cause—and especially my own—for so many years, abandon me now?”
“The gods are fickle,” said Thetis, water still running from her long hair down to her breasts. “Perhaps you’ve noticed.”
Achilles paced back and forth in front of her, repeatedly balling his hands into fists and unballing them into splayed fingers as he stabbed at the air. “It makes no sense! To bring me so far—to help me in my conquests so frequently—only for Athena and her divine father to insult me so now.”
“They are ashamed of you, Achilles.”
The man-killer stopped in his tracks and turned a pale, frozen face her way. He looked as if he had been slapped hard. “Ashamed of me? Ashamed of fleet-footed Achilles, son of Peleus and the goddess Thetis? Ashamed of the grandson of Aeacus?”
“Yes,” said his mother. “Zeus and the lesser gods, including Athena, have always had contempt for mortal men, even you heroes. From their vantage point on Olympos you are all less than insects, your lives are nasty, brutish, and short, and your very existences are justified only because you amuse them by your deaths. So by sulking in your tent while the fate of the war is sealed, you’ve irritated the Third Born daughter of Zeus and lord god Father Zeus himself.”
“They killed Patroclus!” roared Achilles, stepping back from the goddess, his bare feet leaving footprints in the wet sand. Footprints that were washed away on the next roll of the surf.
“They think you are too much of a coward to avenge his death,” said Thetis. “They leave his corpse for the crows and vultures on the heights of Olympos.”
Achilles moaned and fell to his knees. He pulled great fistfuls of wet sand from the beach and smashed them to his bare chest. “Mother, why are you telling me this now? If you knew of the gods’ contempt for me, why haven’t you told me before? Always you taught me to serve and revere Zeus. To obey the goddess Athena.”
“I always hoped the other gods would grant mercy on our mortal children,” said Thetis. “But lord Zeus’s cold heart and Athena’s warrior ways have won the day. The race of men is of no interest to them any longer. Not even for sport. Nor are we few immortals who argue your case safe from Zeus’s wrath.”
Achilles stood and took three steps closer to his mother. “Mother, you’re an immortal. Zeus cannot harm thee.”
Thetis laughed without humor. “The Father can kill anything and anyone he wishes, my son. Even an immortal. Worse than that, he can banish us to the murk of Tartarus, throw us down into that hellish pit the way he did his own father, Kronos, and his weeping mother, Rhea.”
“So you’re in danger,” Achilles said numbly. He teetered like a man who has drunk too much or like a sailor on the pitching deck of a small ship at sea in storm.
“I am doomed,” said Thetis. “And so are you, my child, unless you do the one thing that no mortal—not even the brazen Herakles—has attempted before.”
“What, Mother?” Achilles’ face in the starlight was undergoing disturbing transformations as his emotions ran from despair to fury to something beyond fury.
“Bring down the gods,” whispered Thetis. The words were barely audible above the crashing surf. Achilles stepped even closer, his head bent as if not believing. “Bring down the gods,” she whispered again. “Storm Olympos. Kill Athena. Depose Zeus.”
Achilles staggered back. “Can this be possible?”
“Not if you act alone,” said Thetis. White waves curled around her feet. “But if you bring your warring Argives and Achaeans with you . . .”
“Agamemnon and his brother rule the Achaeans and the Argives and their allies this night,” interrupted Achilles. He looked back at the fires burning along the miles of beach and then turned his head to look at the far more numerous Trojan watch fires burning just beyond the defensive trench. “And the Argives and the Achaeans are on the verge of rout this night, Mother. The black ships may burn by sunrise.”
“May burn,” said Thetis. “This day’s victories to the Trojans are simply another sign of Zeus’s whim. But the Argives and Achaeans will follow you to victory even against the gods, Achilles. Just this night, Agamemnon said to Odysseus and Nestor and the others gathered in his camp at midnight that he was the better man—wiser and stronger and more bold than Achilles. Show him otherwise, my son. Show all of them otherwise.”
Achilles turned his back on her. He was looking toward distant Ilium where torches burned bright on the high walls. “I cannot fight the gods and the Trojans at the same time.”
Thetis touched his shoulder until he turned. “You’re right, my child, Achilles, swift-runner. You must end this senseless war with Troy, begun over Menelaus’ bitch of a wife. Who cares where mortal Helen sleeps or if the Atridae—Menelaus and his arrogant brother Agamemnon—are cuckolded or not? End the war. Make peace with Hector. He too has reason to hate the gods this night.”
Achilles looked quizzically at Thetis but she did not explain. He looked back at the torches and the distant city. “Would that I could see Olympos tonight so that I could kill Athena, throw down Zeus, and reclaim Patroclus’ body for his rites.” His voice was soft but terrible in its mad resolve.
“I will send a man to show you the way,” said Thetis.
He wheeled on her again. “When?”
“Tomorrow, after you have spoken with Hector, made common bond with the fighting Trojans, and taken kingship of the Argives and Achaeans from posturing Agamemnon.”
Achilles blinked at the breathtaking audacity of this. “How shall I find Hector without him killing me or me killing him?”
“I will send you a man to show you the way for that as well,” said Thetis. She stepped back. The predawn surf crashed against the backs of her legs.
“Mother, stay! I . . .”
“I go to Father Zeus’s halls to find my fate now,” whispered his mother, voice all but lost in the sibilant surf. “I will argue your case a final time, my son, but I fear failure and banishment will be my lot. Be bold, Achilles! Be brave! Your fate has been set but not sealed. You still have the choice of death and glory or long life, but also life and glory . . . and such glory, Achilles! No mortal man ever dreamt of such glory! Avenge Patroclus.”
“Mother . . .”
“The gods can die, my child. The . . . gods . . . can . . . die.” Her form wavered, shifted, became a mist, and disappeared.
Achilles stood staring out to sea for long minutes, stood staring until the cold light of Dawn began creeping from the east, and then he turned, donned his clothing and his sandals and his armor and his greaves, hefted his great shield, slid his sword into its sheath on his sword belt, took up his spear, and began walking toward Agamemnon’s camp.
After this performance, I collapse. All through the dialogue, my morphing bracelet was beeping in my ear with its AI voice—“Ten minutes of power left before shutdown. Six minutes of power left before . . .” and so forth.
The morphing gear is almost out of charge and I have no idea how to recharge it. I have just under three minutes of morphing time left, but I’ll need that to visit Hector’s family.
You can’t kidnap a child, comes the ever smaller voice that is all that’s left of my conscience. I have to, comes the only response I have.
I have to.
I’m in this now. I’ve thought it through. Patroclus was the secret to Achilles. Scamandrius and Andromache—Hector’s son and wife—are the secret to turning Hector. The only way.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
Earlier, when I’d QT’d into existence on the sunny-afternoon hill of what I still hoped to be Indiana, the unconscious Patroclus in my arms, there had been no sign of Nightenhelser. I dropped Patroclus quickly into the grass—I’m not homophobic, but dragging a naked man makes me feel odd—and I’d called toward the river and forest for Keith Nightenhelser, but no response. Perhaps the ancient Native Americans had scalped him by now, or adopted him into their tribe. Or perhaps he was just across the river and into the woods, gathering nuts and berries.
Patroclus groaned and stirred.
What are the ethics of leaving a groggy, naked man as a stranger in a strange land like this? Would a bear kill him? Not likely. It was more likely that Patroclus would find and kill poor Nightenhelser, although the Greek was naked and unarmed and Keith was still decked out in impact armor, taser baton, and prop sword. Yes, I’d put my money on Patroclus. What are the ethics of leaving a pissed-off Patroclus in the same berry-gathering acre of land where I’d left a peace-loving academic?
I didn’t have time to worry about it. I’d checked the morphing bracelet’s power—found it waning—and QT’d back to the coast of Ilium. I’d learned a little about becoming a goddess from the Athena experience and Thetis wouldn’t require as much energy to morph into as had Zeus’s daughter. With a bit of luck, I thought, the morphing gear would work long enough to allow me my scene with Achilles and leave a bit left over for Hector’s family.
And it did. And I do have a bit left over. I can morph a final time.
Hector’s family. What have I become?
A man on the run, I think, as I pull the Hades Helmet over my head and walk along the sand. A desperate man.
Will the QT medallion run out of power soon as well? Does the taser hold another charge if I need it in Ilium?
I’ll find out soon. Wouldn’t it be ironic if I succeeded in turning both Achilles and Hector to my cause but then didn’t have the quantum teleportation power to get them or me to Olympos?
I’ll worry about that later. I’ll worry about all this crap later.
Right now I ha
ve a 4 a.m. appointment with Hector’s wife and baby boy.
35
12,000 Meters Above the Tharsis Plateau
“What does Proust have to say about balloons?”
“Not much,” said Orphu of Io. “He wasn’t big on traveling in general. What does Shakespeare say about balloons?”
Mahnmut let that go. “I wish you could see this.”
“I wish I could see it, too,” said Orphu. “Describe everything to me.”
Mahnmut looked up. “We’re high enough here that the sky overhead is almost black, fading to dark blue, then to a lighter blue by the horizon, which is definitely curved. I can see the band of haze of atmosphere in both directions. Beneath us, it’s still cloudy—the early morning light makes the clouds glow gold and pink. Behind us, the cloud cover is broken and I can see the blue water and red cliffs of Valles Marineris stretching back to the eastern horizon. To the west, the direction we’re traveling, the clouds cover most of the Tharsis Plateau—they seem to be hugging the ground along the rising terrain—but the three closer volcanoes are poking up through the gold clouds. Arsia Mons is furthest to the left, then Pavonis Mons, then Ascraeus Mons farther over to the right, to the north. They’re all a bright white, snow and ice, gleaming in the morning light.”
“Can you see Olympus yet?” asked Orphu.
“Oh, yes. Even though it’s the farthest away, Olympus Mons is the tallest thing in sight, rising over the western curve of the planet. It’s between Pavonis and Ascraeus, but obviously further away. It’s also white with ice and snowfields, but the summit is free of snow and red in the sunrise.”
“Can you see Noctis Labyrinthus where we left the zeks?”
Mahnmut leaned over the edge of the gondola he’d built and looked below and behind them. “No, still cloud cover there. But when we were rising toward the overcast, I could see all of the quarry, the docks, and the whole tumble of Noctis. Beyond the seaport and quarry there, the jumble of canyons and cliff-collapses runs hundreds of kilometers west and scores of klicks north and south.”