The Age Of Zeus

by James Lovegrove

  The Olympians staggered and reeled. Apollo kept trying to loose off an arrow but his golden bow shook in his hands and he was unable to draw the string. Artemis had her hands clamped over her ears, as did Ares, while Zeus attempted to summon lightning but could not marshal his thoughts to do so, and Hades was on his knees, retching. Then bullets began to rake the hillsides to the left and right, and the Olympians instinctively closed together, a sense of survival penetrating the pain and nausea brought on by the decibel hell the Titans had unleashed.

  Screamers and rumblers, however, could not be deployed for long. The infrasound bursts, in particular, were indiscriminate, affecting the suit wearers more slowly but just as surely as they did the suit wearers' opponents. The moment Sam felt her stomach start to churn, she knew it was time to shut the noise down. At least she and the other three were now within decent range of the Olympians. She went down on one knee, bringing up her recoilless submachine gun.

  Plenty of targets to choose from, but with barely a second thought she singled out the twins, Apollo and Artemis, and then narrowed it down to Artemis.

  The hunting goddess, or genetically-enhanced simulacrum thereof, was recovering her wits, raising her spear, getting ready to strike. A stutter of rounds from Sam came stitching across the grass towards her. Quick as anything, like some jungle-wary predator, Artemis vaulted aside, launching her spear at the same time. The throw, for all that it was made while taking evasive action, was astonishingly accurate. Sam just managed to hurl herself flat as the spear hissed over her and impaled itself into the ground directly behind.

  Then Artemis was sprinting towards her, covering the distance in a few lithe, pantherish leaps. So fast. Too fast. She snatched up the spear and brandished it above her head. Her eyes flared, her teeth flashed, the sinews in her arm flexed, and Sam rolled over, hoping to get onto her back in time to fire but knowing, even as she did so, that she wasn't fast enough.

  The spear came down, aimed at her waist, in between sections of the suit. Sam felt a sudden terrible pressure in her stomach, a discomfort that expanded all at once into sharp, rooting agony. Her trigger finger spasmed, but the shots sprayed wild. Artemis grinned fiercely and, left hand joining right on the spear, brought all her weight and might to bear. Sam heard a low, helpless moan coming out of her throat, and she could feel - feel - the spearpoint skewering through her abdominal tissue, worming down towards her innards, splitting, bursting things as it went. Her hand involuntarily slackened, the gun slipping from her grasp.

  "There, that should hold you," Artemis said. "Now where's - ?"

  Then thudding footfalls, a roar, and a huge black blur came barrelling into Artemis. Sam wailed as the spear was wrenched sideways out of her flesh. She saw, blurred as though through a veil, two figures moving close by, grappling, locked in combat. One was Artemis, the other she identified as the Minotaur, who had come to her rescue. She heard his grunts and snorts as he beleaguered Artemis with blows. Artemis, in return, kicked and wrestled with the monster, her face a leer of disgust. Her spear was still in her hand, its tip dripping with Sam's blood, but the Minotaur was pressing in hard, keeping the Olympian at too close a range for the weapon to be useable.

  Elsewhere on the battlefield Sam could see Rhea dodging to and fro at full TITAN suit speed while Zeus strafed her with lightning bolts, missing but keeping her off-balance and preventing her from getting near enough to hit him with her flamethrower. Hyperion and Thea, meanwhile, were trying to pin down Apollo, who answered their gunfire with a volley of arrows, which he plucked from his quiver one after another and sent on their way with inhuman swiftness and precision. As Sam watched, an arrow struck Theia in the elbow, piercing the vulnerable, unshielded join between upper arm and forearm. It went clean through, fully half of its shaft emerging from the other side. Theia groaned, staggered, but then, all credit to her, kept up the assault on Apollo, firing her coilgun one-handed while her arrow-transfixed arm hung useless at her side.

  Dreamily, bobbing on waves of pain, Sam swivelled her head and looked towards the croft, where Ares was now taking the fight to the three Titans emplaced there. His battleaxe rose and fell, rose and fell, gouging chunks out of the tumbledown walls as he rousted Cronus, Iapetus and Crius from hiding. Sam could not help but marvel at the Olympian's relentlessness and tenacity. His copper armour bore the marks of shotgun rounds, he was bleeding in several places, yet none of it seemed to bother him or hinder him. Like some living siege engine he hammered away at the Titans' meagre, makeshift fortification, driving them out into the open by whittling it to pieces.

  And waiting for the three Titans as they retreated was Hades and Hermes, who had teleported into position on the other side of the croft, upslope. Cronus, Iapetus and Crius backpedalled blindly towards where the two Olympians stood. They were firing at Ares as they went, concentrating solely on him, so that they didn't perceive the danger from another quarter until they were almost on top of it. Sam tried to warn them over the comms, but could manage only a whispery, unintelligible croak.

  Hades flourished his bare hands out of the sleeves of his cloak as the three Titans blundered within reach. Hermes darted behind the nearest of the three, Crius, and tore off the Titan's helmet. Then Hades leaned in and - casually, almost - brushed fingertips over Cruis's face. Hermes returned to Hades's side before Crius had even started sagging to the ground. Then in an eyeblink, with a kind of spiral twisting of the air, both Olympians were gone. Cronus and Iapetus scarcely had time to register what had happened. They watched their comrade keel over face first onto the grass, and over the comms Sam heard Iapetus curse: "Fuck no. No. Fred. The poor bastard."

  Then another twisting of the air, as though space itself were being unwound, and there stood Hermes and Hades again, back for more.

  This time, however, Iapetus was too quick off the mark. As Hermes reached for his helmet, the Titan squirmed sideways. Then, with a gloating "Hah!," Iapetus squeezed off a shot at the other Olympian. The round hit Hades in the gut and sent him flying backwards. In the time it took Iapetus to pump and reload, however, Hades vanished. Hermes grabbed him and teleported out of there, and Iapetus blasted nothing but the innocent soil of Bleaney.

  Sam returned her attention to the nearest conflict, the struggle between Artemis and the Minotaur. Artemis was a hellion, clawing and spitting like a cornered cat as she fought. The Minotaur's superior strength and brute force counted for nothing against the naked ferocity of the Olympian - not least when a well-aimed knee jab from Artemis caught him square between the legs. The Minotaur let out a moan that would have cracked iron and staggered away from Artemis, clutching his large, prominent and all too unprotectable genitals. He doubled over, almost weeping, and Sam could tell what was coming next and knew she must somehow prevent it. Only she would be able to. Her submachine gun lay on the grass just inches away, and all she had to do was turn over onto her side, but she couldn't turn over onto her side, she just couldn't, this simplest of manoeuvres was beyond her, physically impossible, but she had to, because Artemis was lofting her spear, set to run the Minotaur through with it, and the monster was still helpless with pain, no idea what was about to happen, past realising, and Sam had just a split second in which to act, and so she turned over, even though it felt like muscles were tearing and her stomach was splitting open, she turned over, and her fumbling hand found the gun, but then she seemed to have nothing useful inside her gauntlet, nothing that could bend or grab, a bunch of bananas in place of fingers, so that her hand flopped onto the gun but couldn't pick it up, and Artemis levelled her spear and with cool, cruel deftness lanced it into the monster.

  Such was her strength that it went in through his chest and out through his back as easily as if she had been piercing putty. The Minotaur cried out, loud, then louder still as Artemis yanked the spear out and smartly rammed it home again. This time she got him in the midsection, and as the spear was withdrawn it tugged out a blue-grey tangle of intestines with it. Then the Olympian plunge
d the sleek silver weapon into the Minotaur's chest once more, hard enough that ribs could be heard splintering.

  "How they turned you against us, beast, I don't know," she said. "But all living creatures are fair game to Artemis the Untamed. Man, animal, or both, you're mine to hunt and kill."

  The Minotaur met her look of haughty triumph with a contemptuous crimson stare. Blood and drool bubbled around his lips. Then, lowering his horns and planting both feet firmly, he thrust himself toward her. The haft of the spear sank further into him, while the point protruded further out behind. Artemis was too startled to let go of the weapon. She'd thought the Minotaur done for, finished, still standing only because her spear was holding him up. Too late did she understand that the monster, though fatally wounded, had resolved not to die alone or unavenged. Now, pushing himself along the spear, he got to within arm's length of her. His massive black hands seized her by the head, took a firm grip, and clenched. Artemis's scream was high-pitched and unearthly, like steam whistling from a kettle, but, ghastly as this was, it wasn't nearly as ghastly as the sound of her skull being crushed - a ripple of firecracker pops that ended in an abrupt, eruptive squish. Wet pink spongy stuff spewed out over the Minotaur's fingers. Artemis's body twitched, then went limp. The Minotaur dropped her and a moment later himself fell, toppling forwards onto her supine form. Briefly he shuddered, then lay still, with the spear poking up vertically from his back like some hideous, gore-soaked flagpole.

  Elsewhere, lightning continued to flicker and explode. Gunfire ripped through the air. There was the heavy kerrump of a grenade going off, followed by the patter of clods of earth raining down. Just by her ear, and yet as though from miles away, Sam heard Hyperion calling anxiously for her, for Tethys. In the midst of all the mêlée he couldn't see that she was lying not so far off from him, beside the fallen Minotaur and the remains of Artemis, whose head was like a trodden-on pumpkin. She wanted to speak up, tell Hyperion where she was, but a strange and wonderful numbness had set in. Icy fire burned in her belly, licking along her veins, suffusing her with soothing coldness, and with every heartbeat she seemed to grow calmer, more detached, remoter from herself. The ground was like water, something you could float on, and nothing mattered. Life, she saw, was such a small thing. All its strains and efforts were immaterial. It felt good to be able to rest at last. Perhaps that was all she had ever needed, just some rest. A good, long sleep.

  Her eyes were on the point of closing when a face hove into view above her, peering down.

  Hermes, with his shiny winged helmet, like a cross between a dove and a hubcap.

  Sam smiled, then frowned.

  Why did Hermes have someone else's features?

  Why did he look a lot like - no, exactly like - that twelfth Titan candidate, what was his name, the one who dropped out right at the start? Darren Pugh, that was it. Why was Hermes a dead ringer for him?

  She couldn't work it out.

  Then Hermes reached down with one arm, and said, in Darren Pugh's voice, "Time to go," and clasped her wrist, and next thing Sam knew she was being turned inside out, flipped like a pillowcase, then flipped again, and/

  /not Bleaney/

  /enclosed, quiet/

  /ceiling, not sky/

  /where?

  Here?

  Her?

  Er...

  61. A VIEW

  FROM ON HIGH

  They removed her TITAN suit at some point. Shortly before that, or maybe it was after, someone placed hands on Sam, touching her stomach where Artemis's spear had gone in. This hurt abysmally. The pressure of the hands was almost unendurable. Then something warm and sparkling seemed to flow into her, like liquid summer-night stars, and the pain went away and was replaced by a deep-seated sensation somewhat like a tickle and somewhat like an itch but neither, and better, and worse. Sam prised open her eyelids just enough to catch a glimpse of a woman she had never met but recognised all the same - a woman with unruly hair and plain, outdoorsy looks, her complexion coarse and plum-coloured, her cheeks jowling over her jawline. Demeter.

  The Olympian stood up after her ministering was done, and swayed for a moment, as though suddenly emptied of all energy, then tottered out of sight, and Sam tried to track her as she moved away but darkness closed in and she plunged back into unconsciousness, although not before hearing Demeter murmur to someone, curtly, "She'll live."

  Later, there was food being spooned between her lips. She took it in - some kind of soup - in grateful slurps. Who was feeding her? Was that Zeus himself?

  Later still, voices in the room. Hushed. Heated. Arguing over her. About her. Why keep her captive? Why heal her? Why let her live? Why not simply kill her?

  "Because it is my will," was the final, definitive answer to all these questions, and it came from - him again - Zeus.

  And then, just like that, Sam found herself fully awake, and alone, and feeling better than she had in ages, refreshed as if after the sleep of a lifetime. She was stretched out on a couch in a bedchamber furnished in the ancient Hellenic style. Drapes billowed. There were urns and amphorae everywhere, patterned in orange and black, some with figures painted on them - warriors, huntsmen, poets with lyres. Repeating zigzag and spiral motifs ran along the top of the walls, and a mosaic by the door depicted... she wasn't sure what, until she inspected it close up and worked out that what she was looking at were scenes from Tartarus, a panorama of the torments of the damned.

  Here was Sisyphus, eternally and unsuccessfully pushing that boulder up that hill. Here, Tantalus, unable to slake his thirst from the pool he stood in or eat the grapes that dangled just out of reach overhead. And here, Ixion, strapped to his ever-revolving fiery wheel.

  Turning away from this rather charmless piece of décor, Sam went to the window, which was small and unglassed, the source of the thin, cold draught that nudged the drapes. She looked out, already knowing what she would see, just needing it confirmed.

  A view from on high.

  From a mountaintop, across folds of pine-forested crag and foothill to a far-off, urbanised plain and beyond, in haze, a coastline, the sea.

  The view, she knew, from Mount Olympus.

  She tortoised her head out of the window. Below her lay a long, straight drop into a deep cleft, whose far side was capped with battlements. Both faces of the cleft were smooth and precipitous. Sam peered hard, but potential handholds and footholds were few and far between. Climbing out of here was simply not an option.

  "There is no exit that way," a voice behind her confirmed.

  Sam whirled. Zeus had entered, accompanied by Ares.

  "At least," he added, "not unless you consider falling to your death an exit. Which you might, but it would be a pity and a waste. How are you, Tethys? Well, I trust?"

  "All right."

  "You'll have noticed that your wound, which was a fatal one, is troubling you no more. Gone as if it never was, I think you'll find."

  Sam's hand went to her stomach, reflexively, and stroked it through the cotton of the peplos someone had dressed her in. The skin was perfectly smooth. There was no trace of injury, not even any scar tissue. Nor did she feel any residual internal ache. Nothing.

  "Demeter," said Zeus, "has never seen fit to use her powers on a mortal before. You should feel honoured."

  "Remind me to thank her," Sam said, "when I next see her and I'm kicking her teeth in."

  "Oh, Tethys, Tethys. Or would you prefer I call you Samantha Akehurst?"

  "Sam, if you must."

  "Your aggression does you credit, Sam. It's made you a remarkable foe. But surely you can see that the time for such petulant posturing is over. Besides, you don't have your fancy suit of armour. You pose no threat to me, or to anyone here."

  "Oh yeah? Then why have you come along with Tall, Dumb And Clueless there? If you're not afraid of me, send the big hairy goon out of the room and we'll chat alone."

  Ares scowled, unfolding his arms menacingly.

  "No, no," Zeus said, stayi
ng him with a hand. "Sam shouldn't be punished for speaking her mind. She has a point. Am I afraid of you, Sam? No I am not. Of course not. But were I to have come in here by myself, and you were to attack me in some kind of maenad frenzy, it would be inconvenient and undesirable to have to deal with."

  "And lightning bolts don't work so well indoors," Sam said.

  "There is that," Zeus conceded. "Hence an escort, as a precaution. One that, I am sure, will not be necessary. Eh?"

  She shrugged. "So why am I a prisoner? And what happened back at Bleaney after Hermes kidnapped me? Where are the other Titans? Are they here too? Oh yes, and why does Hermes not look like Hermes used to?"

  "So many questions. Perhaps you'd like to shove me into an interview room and shine a lamp in my face while you're about it."

  "Watched many TV cop shows lately?"

  "Let me take your first enquiry first. You're here as our guest" - he laid emphasis on the word - "because I'm hoping to persuade you how reckless and misguided your war against us has been. As for the results of our little island fracas, I can show you shortly. And on the subject of Hermes - well, frankly I'm not sure what you're getting at. Hermes is still Hermes. His helmet, his sandals, his caduceus, his speed, his ability to teleport, all the things that make him the Divine Messenger, the Luck Bringer, the Conveyor Of Souls, are there."

  "All the things," said Sam, "except him. He's changed. Face, body, voice - they all belong to someone I met once a while back."

  "I really don't know what you mean."

  "In the same way that your face and all the rest of it belong to a man called Xander Landesman."