Sunset of the Gods (28 page)

“More lies! It is all clear to me now! Your only concern is to establish a cult of this grotesque artificial being Pan which we enabled you to create but which is now under your control. And you intend to commit the ultimate blasphemy by establishing him as a god, for your own selfish purposes!”

Pan looked like he wanted to burrow into the stony soil of the hillside.

Zeus was raving now, his features working convulsively. “You are no better than all other humans—the original stock, and the Heroes we created in an effort to guide the others back to their proper role. You ‘Transhumanists’ claim to be a superior strain, but you are like all the rest: treacherous and disloyal and, above all, ungrateful to us, your creators and your gods! We should never have summoned your species up from apedom!”

A strong shudder convulsed the Transhumanist and his façade of worshipfulness seemed to fall from him and shatter, revealing what lay beneath. Not just his face but his entire body was one great sneer of loathing and contempt.

“Our gods? You senile, decayed, demented fool! You are inferior even to the lesser breeds of humans. You have long since outlived your time—and you have now outlived your usefulness to us, your supplanters—the new gods!” And with motion of almost insect-like quickness, possible only to genetically upgraded reflexes, the Transhumanist reached inside his chiton, pulled out an extremely compact laser pistol, and shot Zeus in the upper chest.

In the late twentieth century, after the invention of the laser but when weapon-grade applications of it had been only a theoretical possibility, people had had peculiar ideas about them. The vision of a blinding but silent beam of light was wrong in every particular; it was invisible in vacuum, and in atmosphere there was only a sparkling trail of ionized air, accompanied by a sharp but not very loud crack as air rushed in to fill the tube of vacuum that had been drilled through it. And a continuous laser beam swinging back and forth and reducing its target to sizzling salami slices was out of the question; even aside from the impossible energy demands, any attempt to do it in atmosphere would have come to grief on the hard facts of thermal bloom. Instead, a pulse of directed energy burned a hole in the victim, with a burst of superheated pinkish steam—the human or Teloi body is, after all, seventy percent water—whose knockback effect now sent Zeus’ body toppling over backwards.

The other two Teloi drew their weapons, as did the two subordinate Transhumanists. There was an intense instant of crisscrossing, crackling beams. One of the Transhumanists went down, as did all the Teloi.

It all happened so quickly that the last Teloi was sinking to the ground before Jason could react.

“Get them!” he snapped, rising to his feet from behind the boulder and activating his “walking stick.” He speared the Transhumanist leader with a series of rapid-fire laser pulses more powerful than those of the pistols. Mondrago and the others opened up at appreciably the same instant, and the Transhumanists died, practically incinerated by multiple laser burns.

Jason turned away toward Pan. But as he did he heard a low, croaking “Jason.” Zeus was still barely alive.

Moved by some impulse, Jason walked over to the Teloi with whom he had once conspired the “imprisonment of the Titans,” and looked down into the nonhuman face. It was contorted with pain, but the strange pale-blue-and-azure eyes held an odd clarity, as though the clouds of insanity had dissipated.

“Jason,” Zeus repeated, though this time it was more a whisper than a croak. “Yes, I do remember you. It was so long ago, when Kalliste exploded and our older generation were trapped forever.” He stated it matter-of-factly—nothing about imprisoning the Titans in Tartarus. All his delusions were gone, burned away by the fires of agony. “You made that possible.”

“I and my two companions,” Jason nodded. “Both of them died to do it. One was Oannes.”

“Yes, I remember him too—one of the Nagommo.” The Teloi’s voice held none of the hate that would once have suffused it at the name of his race’s mortal enemies. Even that was gone now. “And I remember Perseus, who afterwards established my worship at Mycenae as king of the gods. King of the gods!” The huge eyes closed, and Jason thought Zeus had spoken his last. But then they fluttered open, and were empty not just of lunacy but of everything, holding the ultimate horror of absolute nullity as he looked back over thousands of barren, pointless years with the pitiless clarity of impending death. His desolate whisper was barely audible.

“Lies. All lies. No, not even lies. Just . . . nothing.” The Teloi’s last breath whistled out in an oddly humanlike way.

Jason turned away and looked around him. In the usual way of laser firefights, it had been very quiet, without spectacular visual effects. None of the battling thousands on the plain below—none of whom were looking up the hill in any case—had noticed. Besides, even as the Transhumanists were dying, the Athenian war-cry of
Alleeee!
had arisen again, and the grinding crash as the phalanx had rammed into the Persian holding force.

Jason couldn’t pause to admire the view. He rushed over to where Pan crouched in a fetal position. Grabbing a shoulder, he rolled the being over. Large brown eyes went even wider.

“It’s you!” squeaked Pan. “How—?”

“It’s a long story, and we haven’t got time. What I need to know is this: does the agreement we made a few minutes ago over there on Mount Agriliki still hold?”

“Yes. But now you’re suddenly dressed differently, and you seem somehow changed. And who are these others?”

“Never mind. You said you knew how to pilot this Teloi aircar. I need for you to take us to Athens, as fast as it can possibly be managed while maximizing concealment.”

“Yes . . . yes, that was always the plan. And there is a prearranged landing site—the precinct that’s always been sacred to Zeus, and where his unfinished temple is located. Nobody ever goes there now.”

“Good.” The irony was not lost on Jason, as he glanced at the detritus of the erstwhile king of the gods. “Do you also know how to program the aircar’s autopilot?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then let’s go.” Jason turned to his subordinates. “Put that sonic projector into the aircar’s baggage compartment—it should fit, and we ought not to leave it here. Move!”

They piled into the aircar. Jason had intended to be the last one in, but Mondrago, standing on the rim of the ledge, called to him. “Sir, look down here.”

Jason joined him. He had forgotten the roar of battle from the plain below. But now he followed Mondrago’s pointing finger to the east. The makeshift Persian line had given way, and the battle was dissolving into a chaotic melee on the narrow beach as the Greeks pursued the fleeing Persians through the sands and the shallows as they sought rescue, desperately scrambling aboard the ships that Datis’ last stand had enabled to disembark before it had collapsed in—

“Panic,” Mondrago stated. “The Persians panicked after all, even though the Transhumanists never got a chance to use that sonic projector! Ah . . . what’s funny, sir?”

Jason brought his chuckling under control. “Of course the Persians panicked! I mean, after the hell they had been through in the first stage of the battle, the one we were involved in . . . and remember, this Persian battle-line was a pick-up force of stragglers Datis somehow put together to cover the embarkation. And now they saw that blood-spattered phalanx coming at them again. What could be more natural than panic? So you see . . .
it happened anyway!
”

Mondrago nodded his understanding. “And because of the ‘prophecy’ that Pan gave Pheidippedes on the road from Sparta a few days ago, the Athenians will attribute it to Pan and sacrifice to him in that grotto every year, just like history says.”

“Exactly. As usual, reality protects itself. Come on, let’s go.”

They departed, leaving the bodies of the would-be gods to the carrion birds.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

They flew southwestward,
relying on the aircar’s low altitude and high speed to avoid being observed—or, at least, to assure that anyone who
did
observe it would not be believed. As they curved around the lower northern slopes of Mount Pentelikon, Jason reflected that somewhere up there on the summit was at least one Transhumanist, ready to flash the “shield signal” that would so perplex contemporary Athenians and later historians. He would subsequently return to his own time and place, for they had no leisure to attempt a search for him. Then the mountain was behind them and they sped across the plain of Attica.

As they went, Jason spoke to Pan in haste, because they had little time. “Do you know anything about the beliefs of the Persians? The teachings of their prophet Zoroaster?”

“Some,” said Pan, clearly puzzled by the question. “Franco and others have spoken of it.”

“Good, because when you address the cultists, this is what I want you to say.” Jason set it out in a few swift sentences, which was all he had time for. Pan frowned but claimed to understand. Jason could only accept that.

Pan brought them carefully around to approach Athens from the southwest, where no one’s attention was fixed. There, tucked into an angle of this century’s unimpressive city walls, was the dust-blown, weed-choked precinct sacred to Zeus. Here stood the forest of unfinished columns that had been intended to uphold the immense temple the tyrant Hippias had begun to erect, ostensibly to the glory of Zeus but in reality to his own and that of the Pisistratid dynasty of political bosses. It was what Napoleon might have built as a monument to his own ego if he had been a Classical Greek. Now it stood in its permanently unfinished state, left by the Athenian democracy as an object lesson in the futility of dictatorial megalomania.

Pan landed the aircar in the roofless space that was to have been the temple’s vast central aisle. As they got out, alert to the possibility of stray bystanders—even more unlikely than ever, on this day—Jason spoke to Pan. “Now, I want you to set a course into the autopilot which will, when signaled to do so, send this aircar out over water—I don’t care where, as long as it’s a remote stretch of coast—and then into a crash dive. I don’t really expect to use it,” he added, seeing Pan’s expression. “It’s just in case of contingencies.”

Pan obeyed, as he was conditioned to do, then handed Jason a remote-control unit, small and austerely functional by Teloi standards. “You need only press this stud to activate the command.”

“Good.” Jason put the unit in the pouch at his waist. “All right, everybody, let’s go!”

It was only about a third of a mile to their destination-point on the Acropolis’ north slope, as the crow flew. Of course, crows didn’t have to negotiate the twisting narrow streets of Athens. But Jason’s map display helped keep them from deviating from the most nearly direct route. And those streets were practically deserted, with the old men and women and children thronging the Agora on the far side of the Acropolis, waiting for news of the battle. The baggage compartment had held a hooded cloak in which the Transhumanists had customarily wrapped Pan when it was necessary to move him about where he might be observed. Swathed in it and hunched over, he might be mistaken for an elderly woman, as long as the cloak fell to the ground and concealed his hooves.

As they hastened through the streets, Jason briefly wondered if that slightly younger Jason Thanou was even now on the far side of Athens retrieving Chantal’s TRD from Themistocles’ house, or if he had already departed for Crete.

Moving along the narrow roadway that ran along the north side of the Acropolis, with the steep hillside immediately to their left, they reached a point directly below the grotto of Pan. The decaying Bronze Age wall did not extend here, for it only enclosed the area around the Acropolis’ western end. The hillside here was regarded as unscalable. Jason understood why as they scrambled up it, not wishing to waste time and risk notice by proceeding around to the gate in the wall and backtracking along the pathway Jason and Mondrago had followed before.

There was no one outside the grotto. Pan had explained that the cultists would not arrive until later, although they were probably already on their way, following the pathway from the gate, which was another reason Jason hadn’t wanted to take that route. The question was whether Franco was already inside. It was at this point that they were going to have to begin playing it by ear.

“Do you remember where you hit the rear wall?” Jason asked Mondrago.

“About here, I think.” Still, Mondrago had to pound several times before finding the right spot. The door-sized segment they remembered swung open. He and Jason led the way in, down the crude, shallow steps and across the small cave and into the tunnel. They activated their laser weapons’ “flashlight” feature as the light from the doorway dimmed. There was no light from up ahead, and no sound. Jason dared to breathe a sigh of relief.

They entered the large cavern holding the eerily archaic cult statue. But the idol was not on its dais. Rather, it was sunk into the floor, leaving the hatchway Jason remembered Pan emerging from in a glare of artificial light.

“Franco will be here any moment,” said Pan nervously as he busied himself lighting oil lamps.

“With how many others?” demanded Mondrago.

“No more than one. Aside from the one on Mount Pentelikon, that’s all he has left.” Jason nodded; he’d always thought there had to be a limit to how many people the Transhumanists, however advanced their time-travel technology, could displace, especially when they were also displacing the mass of an aircar. “He’ll be expecting the four others from Marathon to be waiting here with me. Oh . . . and he’ll also probably bring the woman defector. He’s represented her to the cultists as a priestess.”

Jason made no comment. He looked down into the chamber into which the idol had sunk. “It looks like there ought to be room for all of us to squeeze in down there. Pan, you wait up here where Franco expects you.”

The four of them descended a short ladder and crowded together. It was at least as tight a fit as Jason had thought . . . and though the cavern was cool, they had all been sweating profusely in the outside August heat.