Ilium (58 page)

The three huddled together in the darkness there.

“Did you see him come out of the firmary?” gasped Savi.

“No.”

“I didn’t see anything after we ran,” gasped Harman.

“Was it a
calibani
?” gasped Daeman, realizing that he was weeping, not caring that he was. He asked the question with his last reservoir of hope.

“No,” said Savi over the comm, her tone dashing Daeman’s last hopes. “It was Caliban himself.”

“Those bodies . . .” began Harman. “Fifth Twenties?”

“It looked like younger ones, too,” whispered Savi. She had the black gun in her hand and was swiveling, peering into the darkness between the strands of swaying kelp.

“Maybe the thing used to harvest just the Fifth Twenties,” whispered Harman over the comm. “But it’s gotten bolder. Impatient. Hungrier.”

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” hissed Daeman. It was the oldest invocation known to humankind, even if they didn’t know what it meant. His teeth were chattering

“Still hungry?” asked Savi. Perhaps she was attempting to calm Daeman down with some dark approximation of humor. “I’m not,” she said.

“I am,” said Caliban over their radio frequencies. The monster floated out of the kelp, cast his net over the three of them, batted the gun out of Savi’s hand, and gathered them in like fish.

44

It felt strange to Mahnmut not to have Orphu in tightbeam range. He hoped his friend was safe.

The gods burst into the room a second after the human, who had never identified himself, quantum teleported out. Mahnmut didn’t believe in invisibility other than good stealth material, but he was obviously invisible to the tall gods and goddesses who crowded into the room and knelt around Hera. Mahnmut slipped out between the bronzed legs and white togas and began retracing his way through the labyrinth of corridors. He discovered that it was very hard to walk as a biped when one is invisible—he kept checking to see where his feet were and they were nowhere—so he dropped to all fours and padded silently along the halls.

Because Orphu had slowed down the gods escorting him to his cell, Mahnmut had seen where they’d stored the transmitter and Device. The room had been down a side corridor three right turns away from the corridor where he and Orphu had been incarcerated.

When Mahnmut reached the storage room, the hallway was empty—although gods passed through the adjoining hallways and intersections frequently—and Mahnmut activated his low-wattage wrist laser to cut through the door. Even while he was cutting he realized how odd this would look to any divinity turning into this hallway—no moravec in sight, but a twenty-centimeter red beam floating by itself, slowly burning a circle into the lock mechanism of the huge door.

The laser could never have cut through the entire door, but it cut a nice five-centimeter circle above the lock—Mahnmut’s hearing could detect the solid-state mechanism shifting up through subsonic frequencies—and the door swung inward. Mahnmut closed it behind him when he stepped in, hearing footsteps coming down his corridor only a few seconds later. They passed by. He tugged off the leather Hades Helmet cowl the better to see his hands and feet.

This was no empty holding cell. The room was at least two hundred meters long, half that high, and filled with bars of gold, heaps of coins, chests of precious stones, small mountains of polished bronze artifacts, marble statues of gods and men, great seashells spilling pearls onto the polished floor, dismantled gold chariots, glass columns filled with lapis lazuli, and a hundred other treasures, all gleaming from the reflected light from flames flickering in a score of gold fire tripods.

Mahnmut ignored the wealth and ran to the dull-metal squirt transmitter and slightly smaller Device. There was no way that Mahnmut could carry both things out of here—invisibility didn’t keep one inconspicuous when two metal devices could be seen floating down the hallway—and he knew that he only had seconds in which to act, so he dragged the Device out of the way, found the correct jackpatch on the communicator, and triggered it with a standard low-voltage command.

The transmitter’s primitive AI accepted the command and shed its nanocarbon skin to show complex devices folded in on themselves. Mahnmut backed away as the transmitter did a forward roll as gracefully as a human acrobat, extended tripod legs and Chevkovian
felschenmass
power booms, then unfurled a mesh dish eight meters wide. Mahnmut was glad he hadn’t tried this in a small room.

But he was still in a windowless room, perhaps under tons of marble and granite and Martian stone, quite possibly too thick for the transmission to pass through. At any rate, there was no starfield for the dish to use for navigation or orientation. As the dish searched and whirred, Mahnmut felt anxiety build—and not just because there were more shouts from the corridors. This should be the next place the gods would search—or QT to—after making sure that Hera was alive. If the transmitter couldn’t lock on here, Mahnmut’s and Orphu’s mission was probably over. It all depended on the sophistication of the squirt transmitter’s design.

The dish wobbled, whirred, adjusted itself a final time, and locked on something about twenty degrees from vertical. A virtual control panel appeared next to the physical jackports and green lights glowed.

Mahnmut jacked in and downloaded everything in his memory banks from the entire trip—every conversation with Orphu, every piece of dialogue with Koros III, Ri Po, or the gods, every visual he’d seen and recorded from the time they left Jupiter space. With the broadband on the transmitter jackport enabled, it took less than fifteen seconds to complete the download.

Mahnmut’s sensors picked up the Chevkovian antimatter energy field in the squirt transmitter building, and he wondered if the gods could sense it. One way or the other, he knew, they’d find him within minutes, if not sooner. And there was no way out of this room and the building while carrying the Device. He could trigger it now, or he could trigger it later. Either way, he’d be in the center of whatever happened.

But it wasn’t the Device he had to worry about now, Mahnmut reminded himself. It was this squirt transmitter.

The communicator blinked green across a myriad of indicators, suggesting to Mahnmut that the squirt power source was now at maximum charge, the data was encrypted, and the target—probably Jupiter space, possibly even Europa—was locked. Or so he hoped.

Someone was banging against the doors.

Why don’t they just quantum teleport in?
thought Mahnmut. He didn’t take time to figure that out. Swapping out his hands for metal leads, he found the final enable port and transmitted the actuate charge of thirty-two modulated volts.

The dish shot out a yellow beam eight meters wide. The column of pure Chevkovian energy blasted a hole in the ceiling and through three more floors before stabbing out to the stars. Then it switched off and the transmitter silently self-destructed into a molten blob.

Mahnmut’s emergency polarizing filters had come on in nanoseconds during the transmission, but he was still blinded for a few seconds. When he did look up through the series of slanted, steaming holes above and saw the sky, he dared to have hope for the first time.

The gods blew the door inward and Mahnmut’s end of the treasure vault filled with smoke and vapor.

Mahnmut used the few seconds of cover the smoke provided to grab the Device—which would have massed only about ten kilograms on Earth’s gravity and weighed only about three here on Mars—and then he crouched, contracted the springs and actuators in his hind legs as tightly as he could, ignoring design tolerances, and then leaped up through the smoking holes, flying up and through fifteen meters of shattered marble and dripping granite.

The roof of this part of the Great Hall was flat and Mahnmut ran along it as fast as he could on two legs, exhilarated to be out in the open air, carrying the Device under his left arm.

The sky above the summit of Olympus Mons was blue, and filled with dozens of flying chariots being guided by gods and goddesses. One of the machines swooped down now and hurtled ten meters above the rooftop, evidently intent upon smashing Mahnmut under its wheels. Too late, Mahnmut realized that he’d forgotten to pull the Hades Helmet cowl over his head. He was visible to every one of the searching gods above.

Using every bit of stored energy in his system, leaving any worry about recharging for a later date, Mahnmut coiled and jumped again, passed right through the holographic horses, and kicked the surprised goddess right in the chest. She flew backward off the chariot, white arms pinwheeling, and landed hard on the roof of the Great Hall of the Gods.

Mahnmut spent three-tenths of a second studying the virtual display holographed above the front chariot rail, and then he slipped his manipulators into the matrix and banked the chariot hard right. Other chariots and shouting gods banked and dived and climbed to cut him off. There’d be no escape from Olympos airspace, but Mahnmut wasn’t planning to escape that way.

Five chariots were closing and the air was full of titanium arrows—arrows!—when Mahnmut crossed over the edge of the huge caldera lake. He grabbed the Device and jumped just as the first of Apollo’s arrows struck his chariot. The machine exploded just meters above him and Mahnmut fell toward the water amidst melting gold and flaming energy cubes. The air rained microcircuits in the seconds before Mahnmut hit the surface. His deep-ranging sonar told him that the caldera under the lake’s surface was more than 2,000 meters deep.

It might be good enough,
thought the little moravec. Then he hit the water, activated his flippers, kept a tight hug on the Device with one arm, and dived deep.

45

I feel bad about not going back for the little robot right away, but things are busy here.

The guards lead me to an Achilles dressing for combat, surrounded by the chieftains he has inherited from Agamemnon—Odysseus, Diomedes, old Nestor, the Big and Little Ajaxes—the usual crew except for the Atrides, Agamemnon and Menelaus. Can it be true, as Ares was shouting above, that Achilles has slaughtered King Agamemnon, thus depriving his wife, Clytaemnestra, of her bloody revenge and a hundred future playwrights their subject matter? Has Cassandra overnight been spared her fate?

“Who in Hades are you?” snarls the man-killer, swift-footed Achilles, when the sergeant leads me into his inner camp. Again I realize that they’re looking at only Thomas Hockenberry, slump-shouldered, bewhiskered and begrimed, minus his cape and sword and levitation harness, a sloppy-looking foot soldier in dull bronze chest armor.

“I’m the man your mother, the goddess Thetis, said would guide you first to Hector and then to victory over the gods who murdered Patroclus,” I say.

The various heroes and captains take a step back at hearing this. Achilles has obviously told them that Patroclus is dead, but perhaps he hasn’t told all of them his plan of declaring war on Olympos.

Achilles hastily pulls me aside, further from the listening circle of weary warriors. “How do I know that you are the one of whom my mother, the goddess Thetis, spoke?” demands this young god-man. Achilles looks older today than yesterday, as if new lines have been chiseled into his young face overnight.

“I will show you by taking you where we must go,” I say.

“Olympos?” His eyes are not quite sane.

“Eventually,” I say softly. “But as your mother told you, first you must make peace and common cause with Hector.”

Achilles grimaces and spits into the sand. “I am not capable of making peace this day. It’s war I want. War and divine blood.”

“To fight the gods,” I say, “you must first end this useless war with Troy’s heroes.”

Achilles turns and gestures toward the distant battle lines. I see Achaean pennants across the defensive ditch, moving into what were Trojan lines the night before. “But we’re beating them,” cries Achilles. “Why should I make peace with Hector when I can have his guts on my speartip in mere hours?”

I shrug. “Have it your way, son of Peleus. I was sent here to help you avenge Patroclus and reclaim his body for funeral rites. If these things are not your will, I’ll take my leave.” I turn my back on him and start to walk away.

Achilles is on me so fast, throwing me to the sand and drawing his knife so quickly, that I couldn’t have tasered him if my life depended on it. Perhaps it does, for now he sets the razor-sharp blade against my throat. “You dare insult
me
?”

I speak very carefully so the blade does not draw blood. “I insult no one, Achilles. I was sent here to help you avenge Patroclus. If you wish to do so, do what I say.”

Achilles stares at me a moment, then rises, resheaths his knife, and offers his hand to pull me up. Odysseus and the other captains are watching silently from thirty feet away, obviously curious as hell.

“What is your name?” demands Achilles.

“Hockenberry,” I say, dusting sand off my butt and rubbing my neck where the blade touched it. “Son of Duane,” I add, remembering the usual ritual.

“A strange name,” mutters the man-killer. “But these are strange times. Welcome, Hockenberry, son of Duane.” He extends his hand and grasps my forearm so tight that he squeezes off circulation. I try to return the grip.

Achilles turns back to his captains and his aides. “I am dressing for war, son of Duane. When I am done, I shall accompany you to the depths of Hades if need be.”

“Just Ilium to start with,” I say.

“Come, meet my comrades and my generals now that Agamemnon is defeated.” He leads me over toward Odysseus and the others.

I have to ask. “Is Agamemnon dead? Menelaus?”

Achilles looks grim when he shakes his head. “No, I’ve not killed the Atrides, although I bested both in single combat this morning, one after the other. They are bruised and bloody, but not so badly hurt. They are with the healer Asclepius, and although they have sworn allegiance in return for their lives, I will never trust them.”

Then Achilles is introducing me to Odysseus and all the other heroes I’ve watched for more than nine years. Each of the men grips my forearm in greeting and by the time I’ve gone down the line of just the top captains, my wrist and fingers are numb.

“Godlike Achilles,” says Odysseus, “this morning you have become our king and we swear our allegiance and have given our oath to follow you to Olympos if need be to win back our comrade Patroclus’ body after Athena’s treachery—as unbelievable as that sounds—but I have to tell you that your men and your captains are hungry. The Achaeans must eat. They have been fighting Trojans all morning after little or no sleep and have driven Hector’s forces back from our black ships, our wall, and our trenches, but the men are tired and hungry. Let Talthybius there prepare a wild boar for the captains while your men and you draw back to eat and . . .”

Achilles wheels on the son of Laertes. “
Eat?
Are you mad, Odysseus? I have no taste for food this day. What I really crave is slaughter and blood and the cries and groans of dying men and butchered gods.”

Odysseus bows his head slightly. “Achilles, son of Peleus, greatest by far of all the Achaeans, you are stronger than I am, and greater by not just a little with the spear, but I might surpass you in wisdom, seasoned as I am by more years of experience and more trials of judgment. Let your heart be swayed by what I say, new King. Do not let your loyal Achaeans and Argives and Danaans attack Ilium on empty bellies this long day, much less go to war against Olympos while they’re hungry.”

Achilles pauses before answering.

Odysseus takes Achilles’ silence as an opportunity to press home his argument. “You want your heroes, Achilles, willing to die for you to a man, eager to avenge Patroclus, to meet their deaths not by battle with the immortal gods but by
starving
?”

Achilles sets his strong hand on Odysseus’ shoulder, and I realize, not for the first time, how much taller the man-killer is than the stocky tactician. “Odysseus, wise counselor,” says Achilles, “have Agamemnon’s herald Talthybius draw his dragger across the largest boar’s throat and set the animal to the spit over the hottest fire your men can make. Then slaughter as many more as there are appetites in the Achaean ranks. I will order my loyal Myrmidons to take charge of the feast. But make no initial offering to the gods this day. No firstling thrown into the fire for sacrifice. This day, we will give the gods only the business ends of our spears and swords. Let them take the hindmost for a change.”

He looks around and speaks loudly so that all of the captains can hear. “Eat well, my friends. Nestor! Have your sons, Antilochos and Thrasymedes, also Meges the son of Phyleus, Meriones and Thoas, Lycoedes the son of Creon, and Melanippus too, carry the word of the feast to the very front of the fighting, so that no Achaean warrior goes without meat and wine for his midday meal this day! I will dress myself for battle and go off with Hockenberry, the son of Duane, to prepare myself for the coming war with the gods.”

Achilles turns and walks into the tent where he had been dressing when I arrived, beckoning now for me to follow him.

Waiting for Achilles to get dressed for war reminds me of the times I waited for my wife, Susan, to get dressed when we were late for a dinner party somewhere. There’s nothing to do to hurry up the process—all one can do is wait.

But I keep checking my chronometer, thinking of the little robot I left up there—Mahnmut was its name—and wondering if the gods have killed it, him, it, yet. But he told me to return and meet him by the caldera lake in an hour and I still have more than thirty minutes left.

But how can I return to Olympos without the Hades Helmet to hide me? I’d been impulsive in giving the leather cowl to the little robot, and now I may pay for that impulsiveness at any moment if the gods look down and spy me here. But I tell myself that Aphrodite will be able to see me anyway if I return to Olympos, Hades Helmet or no Hades Helmet, so I’ll just have to QT in there fast, get Mahnmut, and QT out. What’s important now is what’s happening here and in Ilium.

What’s happening here is that Achilles is getting dressed.

I notice that Achilles is grinding his teeth as he dresses for war—or rather, as his servants, slaves, and stewards help him dress for war. No
knight chavaliex
from the Middle Ages ever handled his weapons and armor with greater care and ceremony than does Achilles, son of Peleus, this day.

First, Achilles wraps his legs with finely formed greaves—shin guards that make me remember my days as a catcher in Little League—although these greaves aren’t made of molded plastic, but are wonderfully worked in bronze with silver ankle-clasps.

Then Achilles straps the breastplate around his broad chest and slings his sword over his shoulder. The sword is also made of bronze, is polished brighter than a mirror, is razor sharp, and has a silver-studded hilt. I might lift that sword if I crouched and used both hands. Perhaps.

Then he hoists his huge, round shield, made of two layers of bronze and two layers of tin—a rare metal at this time—separated by a layer of gold. This shield is a polished and gleaming work of art so famous that its design had Homer devote a full book of the
Iliad
to it; the shield has also been the subject of many stand-alone poems, including my favorite by Robert Graves. And, surprisingly, it doesn’t disappoint when seen in person. Suffice it to say that the shield design includes concentric circles of images which summarize the essence of thought in much of this ancient Greek world, beginning with the River Ocean on the outer rim and moving through amazing images of the City at Peace and the City at War near the center, culminating in beautiful renderings of the Earth, sea, sun, moon and stars in the bull’s-eye center. The shield is so brightly polished that even in the shade of this tent, it gleams like a heliograph mirror.

Finally Achilles lifts his rugged helmet and sets it in place over his brows. Legend has it that the fire god Hephaestus personally drove in the horsehair crest—not only Trojans wear high-crested war helmets in this war, but also the Achaeans—and it’s true that the tall golden plumes along the ridge of the helmet shimmer like flames when Achilles walks.

Fully armed now except for his spear, Achilles tests himself in his gear like an NFL lineman making sure his shoulder pads are set. The man-killer spins on his heels to see that his greaves are tightly fitted and his breastplate tight, but not so tight that he cannot turn and twist and dodge and thrust with ease. Then he runs a few paces, making sure that everything from his high-laced sandals to his helmet stays in place. Finally, Achilles lifts his shield, raises his hand over his shoulder, and pulls free his sword, all in a single movement so fluid that it looks as if he’s been doing it since birth.

He resheaths the sword and says, “I’m ready, Hockenberry.”

The captains follow us as I lead Achilles back to the beach where I left the Orphu shell. The guards have not gone near the huge crab-thing—which is still floating thanks to my levitation harnesses, a fact not lost on the gathering crowd of soldiers. I’ve decided to give a little magic show here, impressing Odysseus, Diomedes, and the other captains while earning a little more respect. Besides, I know that these other Achaeans, not blinded by fury as Achilles is, can’t be very enthusiastic about going up against the immortal gods they’ve worshiped and sacrificed to and obeyed since they were old enough to think. Theoretically, anything I can do now to reinforce Achilles’ dominion over his new army should be helpful to both of us.

“Grasp my forearm, son of Peleus,” I say softly. When Achilles does so, I twist the medallion with my free hand and we blink out.

Helen had said to meet them in the foyer of the baby Scamandrius’ nursery in Hector’s home. I’ve been there, so there is no problem visualizing it and we QT into an empty room. We are a few minutes early—the changing of the guards on the walls of Ilium won’t happen for four or five minutes yet. There’s a window in this foyer, and we can both see that we’re in the center of Ilium. The street traffic—oxcarts, horses and their clanking livery, marketplace shouts, the shuffle of hundreds and hundreds of pedestrians on cobblestones—comes through the open window as a reassuring background noise.

Achilles doesn’t seem to be nonplussed by quantum teleportation. I realize that the young man’s life has been full of divine magic. He was raised and educated by a
centaur,
for God’s sake. Now—knowing that he’s in the belly of the belly of the enemy beast in Ilium—he only sets his hand on the hilt of his sword, not drawing it, and looks at me as if to ask, “What next?”

The “what next” is a man crying out in terrible pain from the room next door, the nursery. I recognize the voice of the shouting man as Hector, although I have never heard him moan and cry like this. Women are also weeping and lamenting. Hector shouts again, as if in mortal pain.