“Yeah, speaking of which . . .” Leif checked his watch out of what Tracy could only assume was habit. Then again, maybe he didn’t get the same sort of power she did.
“Aetoc is returnings!” Jerry declared, pointing toward the open door to the deck outside. A sizable golden eagle soared in from beyond to alight on the deck railing with the grip of a single talon. In the other, the eagle held a large fish of some sort. Tracy guessed a trout, but fish were outside of her area of expertise and, apparently, additional knowledge of them was not within whatever powers she’d been granted.
(Don’t feel sorry for Tracy. As valuable abilities go, instantaneous fish identification—while not without its uses—is not among the top ten.)
The eagle—named Aetoc if “Jerry” could be trusted—leaped from the railing, sailed the short distance through the open door, and deposited the fish onto the seat of a broad chair before perching on its back (the chair’s, not the fish’s). After a greeting nod of his proud head to Tracy, he reported, “The area remains clear, Lord Zeus. No Titans nor Olympians for at least a hundred kilometers.”
His voice startled Tracy, not because he had a voice at all (previously encountered talking trees tend to blunt such surprises), but for its sound: soft as feathers, yet sharp as talons. She supposed it was appropriate and moments later hoped he would speak again.
“One of Jerry’s brothers,” Zeus explained quite needlessly.
“Pleased am I that you have woken, Tracy Wallace,” Aetoc whispered, nodding again.
“I love the eagle as I love the oak tree,” continued Zeus. “It was a simple choice. His eyes are better than any other of Olympus. Were Hermes lurking invisible in the shadows a mile off, Aetoc could spot him easily. He is noble, he is proud—”
“He is quiet,” Apollo muttered with a sidelong glance at Jerry.
“Aetoc is not being quiet!” Jerry boomed. “I be knowing him for twenty minutes, and he is being more talkative than all birds and lizards I be knowing putted together!”
“What’s with the fish?” Tracy asked.
“Um, he likes fish?”
Aetoc nodded and then tore into the fish without getting an ounce of mess on the chair.
“I think we should introduce her to Baskin now,” Leif said. “And then, ya know, do the save-the-world thing, ’cause that usually winds up taking longer than you’d expect, and I still think there’s got to be some big twist to get out of the way.”
“Rush me not, Mr. Karlson,” Zeus answered. “Nevertheless, you are right on the first count at least. Baskin! My daughter has awoken! Return and meet she who inspired your existence!”
From the parking lot came a cry of, “At last!”
Zeus grinned proudly. “He’s been guarding the entrance since I elevated him. He is fearsome.”
On cue, a fat, milky white hand speckled with flecks of color grabbed the balcony railing from below. Another followed, heralding a grunt of exertion as the new divine being apparently known as Baskin hauled itself up to the deck. Tracy stared. Dumbfounded amazement barely held her brewing laughter in check.
“I believed it fitting that I create the third brother out of an element that my only loyal daughter loves,” Zeus said.
“He came out a little . . . odd,” Leif whispered.
“One might say he’s a little nuts,” Apollo added. “But, not I.”
The seven-foot-tall Baskin regarded her from the deck. Seconds later he swept into the room in a cascade of movement while she continued to stare.
“You’re . . . an elevated sundae?” she asked. Amusement was winning out over amazement.
“Believe it!”
She grinned, unable to help herself. “Sweet.”
Baskin recoiled in a swirl of offended richness. “Sweet?” he boomed. “I am not sweet! I am a being of fearsome violence and power! I am frigid might lurking between the carcass of a banana that bladed violence has cleft asunder! My strength is undeniable, born in ice and cravings irresistible! My will is glacial, forged by cream brutally whipped beneath a cherry the color of crimson blood! None—I say none!—shall stand against me! I am an ice cream headache incarnate! I am frozen terror! I am power overwhelming!” Baskin surged forward. His wide mouth blasted her with cold breath, demanding, “Do you declare yourself loyal to Zeus?”
“That’s a—”
“Do you declare yourself loyal to Zeus!”
Tracy held her ground in the face of violent absurdity. “I’m the one who brought him back to life!” Good cripes, she thought, she was yelling at ice cream.
Apparently satisfied, Baskin backed down. “Then we shall have no problems! My loyalty is to Zeus the creator, to whom we owe our allegiance! Let it be known that any who claim otherwise—that any who raise even a finger against him—shall know the terror of my sprinkles!”
Zeus held out a calming hand. “Thank you, Baskin. You are indeed a mighty force for my glory, but please, save your passion for the battlefield.”
“Yeah,” Leif muttered, “chill out.”
“Eat me!” Baskin roared back.
Tracy, for the moment, was speechless.
“Do we now go to fight against those who would claim false dominance over you, Lord Zeus?” asked Baskin. “I am ready!”
“I regret that we must wait.”
“Still?” Leif shot. “Oh come on!”
“Do not question our Lord Zeus!”
Zeus restrained Baskin with a single hand. “Seizing victory from the crisis we face requires strategy. The time to strike grows close, but we must allow the two sides to weaken each other with their struggle. Then we take full advantage.”
“I hate to say it, but I have to side with Leif on this one,” Tracy said. “The longer we wait, the more people get hurt. I know the Olympians seem to be trying to keep the fight out of populated areas, but they can’t do that forever. Haven’t you seen the news?”
“We cannot move too soon,” Zeus insisted.
“We cannot move too late either, Father,” spoke Apollo. “Tracy is correct: further delay risks the very lives of the mortals who worship us.”
Zeus dismissed this. “They will find their deserved rewards in the afterlife. Were you not overwhelmed by the sheer number of worshippers flocking to you, Apollo? Consider it a blessing to lose a few.”
“Um, putting aside the morality of that for a second, doesn’t being worshipped give you power?” Leif tried. “What about that?”
“We have never learned to gain any but the most negligible amounts of power from worship. Recall that I was not part of the Return. I have no worshippers. If it worked that way, I would be doomed indeed. Worshippers give us pleasure and status only.”
“Their lives still matter,” Apollo insisted.
“Please,” Tracy pleaded.
Zeus frowned and seemed to consider this. Tracy awaited his answer with Leif and Apollo. Their newer companions waited beyond. Baskin trembled with barely restrained anticipation as Jerry happily continued the study of the room that he’d begun before Baskin’s arrival. Aetoc maintained a dignified attentiveness while chewing thoughtfully on his fish.
“Very well,” Zeus said finally. “The sooner we join the battle, the sooner we may mark the opportunity to strike. But you must all obey my orders! We strike as one coordinated force, as I command, when I command. Is that understood?”
“My sprinkles shall fly at your word, Lord Zeus!” Baskin declared. “After almost half an hour of waiting, our time is at last at hand!”
As the others merely nodded, Jerry raised a branch. “So we is waiting here until they be showing up? Jerry is wondering, how this be working? Is awfully small room for battle.”
“You can move now, Jerry,” Zeus reminded him. “We go to them.”
“Go . . . to them?” Jerry blinked, screwing up his mouth in a vexed attempt to sort that one out before he finally burst out in delighted laughter. “Go to them, yes! Is being just crazys enough to work!”
Zeus l
ed them toward battle.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
“No, gods can be temporarily fatigued by epic tasks. Otherwise we couldn’t brag to each other about who’s stronger. Yet your listeners may rest assured that from the mortal perspective, we remain all-powerful.”
“Oh, quite. We’ve far more stamina than a mortal can match. Would you like me to show you, Rebecca?”
—Apollo and Dionysus (Rebecca, Live! interview, August 22, 2009)
THE OLYMPIANS’ PROTRACTED STRUGGLE was becoming desperate. For all their efforts, Poseidon’s Olympians simply could not force even one of the Titans back through the vortex. Though weakened and wounded with battle, every hour the Titans spent outside their prison saw them grow closer to their former strength. Every moment risked greater collateral damage to the Olympians’ worshippers, and more than once an Olympian escaped grievous and crippling injury by no more than the skin of his or her teeth.
What military assistance the mortals could provide proved near futile. Even when mortal weapons were within range, the Titans were too fast for all but the most state-of-the-art targeting systems, and those shots that did reach their targets made barely a dent. Even so, the mortals refused to shirk the duty of defending their people from the Titan threat. Air strikes, cruise missiles, armored divisions, even small arms—they brought all weapons to bear.
All weapons, that is, save for nuclear strikes. Ares suggested it, of course, even outright demanded it; he would have emptied every launch tube around the world were it not for Athena. While the two Olympians long ago had devised a way to initiate a global combined launch—for the sheer heck of it—Athena refused to turn her key.
It was in the late hours of the European morning that Poseidon’s patience reached its limit. Seizing the battered Dionysus and Aphrodite by the hair, he demanded the use of the UnMaking Nexus. The weapon would serve its original purpose.
The spilled Titan blood pooled on numerous battlegrounds proved ideal for priming the weapon. Poseidon’s first strategy was simple: throw the Nexus at the Titans. As the Titans rarely held position unless fighting, it required perfect timing—an Olympian strike against the intended Titan target would have to withdraw right before the weapon was deployed, in order to ensure the target remained in place.
The plan proved disastrous. Hecate, withdrawing last from the melee while shrouding the others’ escape, fell to friendly fire as the Nexus struck out at the first immortal it could find. She collapsed in her own darkness, first horrified, then mortal, then dead.
Chagrinned, Poseidon reversed his strategy: throw the Titans at the Nexus. While this worked far better—Poseidon and Hera annihilated the Titan Menoetius by flinging him into a pit containing the recharged Nexus in a fragile wooden crate—surviving Titan witnesses spread word of the threat immediately. Upon its next use, they were ready. They trapped the weapon before it could strike, sealing it inside a lump of molten metal and swiftly cooling it with a blast of frigid breath. Then the Titans hurled it into space before the Olympians could recapture it.
The Olympians were not having a good day.
Aetoc spied every moment from his vantage point in the stratosphere before returning to Zeus beyond the battle’s outskirts.
“They have lost the Nexus,” Aetoc reported. “Olympian morale plummets as Titan confidence soars. I offer that it is time.”
“Indeed,” Zeus agreed. “They grow weak. Apollo, send word to the Muses. They are commanded to deliver the message.”
“Do you really think this’ll work?” Leif asked no one in particular.
“It worked on Dionysus,” Tracy said.
Apollo nodded. “The Muses know their business.”
At Apollo’s signal, the Muses leaped from their perches near the last sighted location of the Titan leader, Cronus. Nine gloriously groomed birds of varying types and colors sped on the wind, each grasping a golden string tied to the same small box. They winged their way through the chaos of battle and dodged bursts of violent energies to reach a mountaintop where Cronus surveyed the fight, planned his next move, and looked in vain for any evidence of Zeus. Calliope pulled up short and shifted to womanly form high in the sky as the other Muses continued on course with the box.
“Cronus! We are servants of Zeus, come in peace to deliver a message!”
At that, the remaining Muses released their strings to send the box straight on target to Cronus’s chest. The string-wrapped box plunked off his collarbone and tumbled down the front of his makeshift armor before coming to a stop somewhere along his navel. The nine Muses scattered, disappearing into the sky as quickly as a fleeting thought.
Suspecting another device like the Nexus, Cronus seized the box through his shirt and yanked, tearing both shirt and box from his body. Instinct told him to hurl it away. Anyone not an idiot would surely stab a spork in his eye before trusting a box delivered mid-battle by his mortal enemy (figuratively speaking), and Cronus was not an idiot.
Well, not usually.
Foolish curiosity assailed him in that moment. He’d seen no sign of Zeus at all since their escape. Poseidon seemed to lead the Olympians. Was there not a chance Zeus might serve to be an ally against the others, however temporarily? Might the message contain some proposal of an alliance or vital intelligence? And so it was that Cronus, king of the Titans, father of Zeus, and generally despicable jerk-ass devourer of his own children, opened the box and dumped the contents into his palm.
Within the box was a little golden ball, and taped to the little golden ball was a message on that remarkable substance known as paper: If you have the courage to face me, if you wish your revenge, you will bring your Titan fellows to the slopes of Mount Parnitha. There, treacherous Father, we shall do unceasing battle until one of us is vanquished.
The message was signed by Zeus with a small postscript that read only: Bring the ball.
Enlisting the Muses was the first step the group had taken upon leaving Switzerland. For them, relocating the Idiot Ball from the drawer in Poseidon’s throne was a simple matter, and their experience made them the best equipped to handle it safely. Having delivered the ball to its target, they returned to Zeus.
“He took the bait,” announced Calliope.
“Well, you know, we figure he did,” insisted Thalia.
“Hope and pray he took the bait,” warned Terpsichore.
“We shall soon see, in any case,” said Clio.
“If he did not, we are all doomed! Doomed! Doomed!” cried Melpomene, trailing off. “Just sayin’.”
Calliope cleared her throat with a glare at her sisters and repeated more firmly, “He took. The bait.”
Zeus shot an expectant glance to Aetoc, who peered into the distance.
“The Titans gather,” he confirmed. “They return to Greece.”
A smug smile spread across Zeus’s lips. “To the vortex.”
“To battle!” Baskin screamed.
“Is too much talkings goings on at once!” Jerry threw his branches over where his ears ought to have been.
“You have done well!” Zeus told the Muses. “Now make yourselves safe, but stray not too far. There may still be opportunities for you to help.”
Calliope bowed, pleased. “Of course. Clio and I will be recording it for posterity in any case.”
Off to one side, Thalia caught both Leif’s and Tracy’s eyes and winked. “Looking good, you two. Immortality suits you. Aren’t you glad I lightened you up and bossed you around all those times? Wasn’t it all worth it? Isn’t flying fun?” She patted Tracy’s arm with another wink.
“This is temporary,” Tracy insisted.
“For you, maybe,” Leif grinned. “I’m really starting to get the hang of this.”
“Of course you are; I told you it suits you and I’m hardly one to lie! Unless it’s funny, I mean, or unless I feel like it, or unless I’m talking to a ‘creative’ executive or the Erinyes, or I suppose it could happen in any number of situations, really, so no guarantees, but I’m
not lying about this, you can trust me on that. Oh, my sisters are leaving! Time for us to go find a shady spot to watch and catch up on paperwork! Have fun being gods,” she called as she floated up after the others with a wave, “but I’m not going to say anything about storming the castle! Oh—don’t forget to spout lots of one-liners! And smile, Tracy, you’re getting that look again!”
As the Muses sailed off, one turned to call back, “Good luck, Zeus! Be sure to add some sort of twist! Every story needs a good twist!”
“This isn’t a story, Terpsichore!”
“Nonsense!” she shot back, looking quite anxious about the matter. “Everything’s a story! There must be a twist!”
“Sorry,” Apollo apologized as the Muses vanished into the distance. “Terpsichore muses thrillers, you know. I fear her demand for twists lately has begun to border on cliché. It’s the stress of the Return, I think. Overworked.”
“But she’s right,” Leif pitched. “By definition, this is an epic struggle. There will be a twist. There has to be. Just you watch for it.”
Cronus gathered the Titans swiftly. Each withdrew from individual entanglements and followed him to Greece, to the base of Mount Parnitha, to the vortex. The battle-weary Olympians, grateful for respite, let them go, only to notice their destination with mystified curiosity. Surely it must be a trap, they thought, yet they could not afford to dismiss the opportunity. They followed, cautiously at first. Then, seeing the Titans amassed near the Tartarus vortex—now grown into a raging swirl of suction—and unable to discard their luck, Poseidon dived down with his fellows, desperate to wrestle the enemy back into their nearby prison.
When the Titans turned to defend themselves, Zeus struck. He gave no glorious speech, no witty, pre-battle banter. Springing from concealment, Zeus drove his new allies like a lance into the Titan flanks. The battle was well and truly joined.
Iapetus, uncle to Zeus, fell in the first moments to the combined might of his nephews, first stunned by Zeus’s lightning and then kicked end over end and screaming into the vortex by both Hades and Poseidon. Yet even only seven strong, the Titans fought back like death itself. Titans, Olympians, and neo-Olympians smashed into the landscape around the vortex in a storm of cosmic violence. Were Athens not already destroyed, it would not have survived the ordeal.
Zeus is Dead Page 46
