He could almost hear Sophia’s reply, however. You are preparing for them. You’re also making them.
Livorus couldn’t know the chill that had gone through Adam, however. A smile touched his eyes as he continued, “A bargain beyond compare, having had all of you in my life. But while I know that time creeps more slowly for some of you than the rest of us . . . ” A quick, incisive glance at Trennus, who had somehow ceased to age after his . . . death . . . in Tawantinsuyu, followed by an equally piercing glance at Sigrun and Lassair, “All of you will need to consider your careers. Ben Maor, you, for example? You’ve been head of my detail for close to fourteen years. It’s time to move on. I won’t let you waste your time on a politician in his declining years.”
Adam shook his head. “Sir? Those years have been well-spent. You’ve been the second-most important man in the Empire for all of them. I think all of our resumes are . . . well-secured.” Not to mention the notoriety we all have. Most other politicians and ambassadors won’t have us as lictors, for fear of being overshadowed.
“Yes, yes.” Livorus flipped a hand at him, but genially. “I strongly encourage all of you to begin thinking about your futures. For myself? It might be time to write my memoirs.” He gave them all a final look. “Give some thought to your futures, please.”
They broke apart, after that, as the night-shift arrived to take over the bulk of the security; the core lictors had all wanted to be on hand for when there would be three or four hundred guests milling through the villa. “End of an era,” Trennus admitted, as they all headed to the back of the house, where their various vehicles were parked. “I have no idea what I’ll do next. I mean . . . it’s not like I don’t have plenty to do, between Lassair and the children, but . . . I could stay in the Praetorians.” He shrugged. “I just don’t think any other assignment they’d give me would be as interesting.” He gave the others a look. “And I don’t want to be assigned separately from you.”
“We’ve gotten a little insular,” Adam admitted, holding the car door for Sigrun. “I’m entertaining an offer by the Praetorian office in Judea, though. It’s . . . a lot more desk work than I’m used to, unfortunately. But it’s probably time to think about that sort of job.”
“What would it be?” Kanmi asked, leaning against his own motorcar.
“I’d come in as deputy director, Jerusalem branch. I’d start in investigations, and maybe move up from there.” Adam suppressed a certain amount of pride. “Might make full director in five years. And, I have to admit . . . it’ll be nice not traveling as much. I’ve gotten a little worn out on it.” Of course, they’ve been offering me this job on and off for five years. I’d have jumped at it, if Sig had ever gotten pregnant. Maybe this trip to the Odinhall will take care of everything. He hoped so. They both really did want children, and he wasn’t getting any younger.
“Outstanding,” Trennus said, grinning. “You think they have openings in the counter-summoning department?”
Adam blinked, and then grinned in return. “I can check. You’ve had a house there for . . . about a decade. They shouldn’t have a problem with your background. The neighbors have even mostly stopped muttering about you at this point.”
“I still get gestures to avert the evil eye every now and again at the grocery market,” Trennus admitted. “Though that could just be the tattoos.”
“I get the gestures, too. Don’t worry about it,” Sigrun called from the inside of the car, and Adam looked down, sharply. She’d never admitted to that around him before.
Kanmi and Minori traded glances. Kanmi, for his part, looked glum. “I’m just hitting my stride as a sorcerer,” he said, tiredly. “Retirement is the last thing on my mind. That being said . . . it would be nice to see a bit more of Masako than I got to see of Himi and Bodi growing up.”
“You could take a teaching job, like me,” Minori offered.
“I hate teaching.”
“Analysis?”
“Half of what I do in my spare time is analysis.” It was true. If Minori collected volcano eruptions and earthquakes and monster sightings, Kanmi collected extremist groups. He read up on them almost compulsively. Looking, Adam suspected, for any signs that the people involved in the Source Initiative had resurfaced, somewhere else.
“So, get paid for it,” Adam told him, dryly.
“I’m just to the point now that, simple to mid-level spells, I don’t need words or gestures, just the matrix in my mind and energy. Don’t want to waste that.” Kanmi grimaced and rubbed at his face.
“At your level,” Minori said, lightly, “you really should be teaching. And your presence in the field should be reserved for very large emergencies.” She pulled her silk wrap-around coat more closely around her. It wasn’t quite a kimono, but it bore similarities.
“I’ll consider it,” Kanmi said, with a sigh.
“University of Tyre,” Trennus told him. “University of Jerusalem.”
“University of Jerusalem doesn’t have a technomancy department.”
Build one, Lassair recommended, with amusement in her tone.
“I keep getting passed over for tenure here in Rome,” Minori grumbled. “A smaller department would make that easier.”
Adam chuckled, and got in the motorcar. “Plenty of time to talk about it later,” he called out the window, and turned the key. The electric motor of his 1967 Mehyman XVI purred to life, and then he and Sigrun were off and away. As he drove them through the nighttime streets, he found, however, that he was looking up at the full moon, and glanced over at his wife as she had her eyes closed in the passenger seat. “Not having to pay for an apartment in Rome anymore will be nice,” he said, after about ten minutes of silence.
“There is that,” she admitted, quietly.
“You were pretty silent back there. You’ve got a career to think about, too.”
“My life is service. It does not matter where my obligation to Rome is spent. For now, I will go where you go, and there’s an end.”
She was obviously trying to sound upbeat about it, but Adam caught the underlying implication. She would outlive him, barring death in battle. Her gods were permitting her to take assignments that allowed her to remain with him . . . but when he died, she would be reassigned. New tasks.
Adam, as he stopped at a light, looked up at the moon again, trying to pick out where the entrance to the underground complex that was L’banah was, precisely. “There’s another option,” he said, suddenly. “We’re still young enough to do it. We don’t have children. We could chuck it all in, and apply for colony living licenses.”
That got Sigrun’s head to turn. “On the moon?” she asked. In the dim light, her eyes were shadowy pits. She started to chuckle. “You want to go live on the moon.”
“It’s been a dream for a long time. They’ve got five thousand colonists up there, and they’re going to expand out to ten thousand billets over the next ten years. All while starting to send teams to Mars.”
“Why Mars, anyway?”
Adam shrugged. “Because it’s the next big challenge. Stopping now would be like climbing every mountain in the Hindu-Kush except the tallest one. Also . . .” he gave her a glance, “Luna will never be totally self-sustaining. Terraform Mars, or at least get underground biomes going? It’s got water. It can be self-sustaining, in time. And that lessens the chance that the ‘end of the world’ will mean the ‘end of humanity.’”
Sigrun absorbed that, and nodded. Looked up at the moon. “I would like to,” she admitted. “It would be . . . terrifying, really. No air in which to fly. Complete dependence on technology and natural philosophy that I do not understand. But it would be . . . entirely new.” She sounded extremely nervous, actually, but . . . intrigued.
Adam eased the car back out into the late-night traffic, his heart racing a little. He hadn’t actually thought she’d be up for it, and it was a dream. “Are you serious?”
Sigrun sighed. “I would like to. It’s a dream of yours. It’s i
mportant, and worth doing. However, I do not think I would be permitted to go there. Either by the gods, or by the people in charge of the station. Can you imagine what I would do to sensitive electrical equipment up there?”
Adam took a hand off the wheel, and clasped hers. “Fill out the paperwork with me, at least? Worst they can say is no.”
She squeezed his fingers. “Of course I will.”
He parked outside their building, and, before they headed up the outside stairs, he looked up again at the moon. “You know what? When we were in Tawantinsuyu, years ago, I should have asked Mamaquilla something.” He grimaced. “It was just a little awkward. She was in mourning.” And mine was the hand that had killed her husband. Maybe that’s why she couldn’t help you, Sigrun. Maybe, deep down, she didn’t want to help. If spirits and gods have subconscious motivations, that is.
Sigrun, a step or two ahead of him, turned back. “Asked her what?”
“If she minded having a base built on her . . . symbol, I suppose.” Adam paused, and grinned. “Kanmi would say we’re tunneling into her ass, wouldn’t he?”
“Kanmi would,” she admitted, with a ripple of laughter. “That’s . . . a graphic description.” Sigrun took two steps back down to stand beside him. “I don’t see why she or Mani or anyone else would mind.”
“Wait, that’s right, you don’t have a moon goddess. Yours is a god.” Almost every major world religion saw the night as female—and Nott, the Valhallan goddess of night, was no exception. But the moon among the northern gods was, indeed, male. Adam looked across at Sigrun. “Why wouldn’t they mind?”
“Because all parents wish to see their children grow up,” Sigrun replied, simply. “Most of the old tales speak of the earth itself as the body of a god or goddess, and humans tunneling though and living on it. Why would they object to more of the same, just elsewhere?”
“You’re putting common-sense and religion together in the same sentence, Sigrun. That might not be allowed.” Adam caught her hand and pulled her up the stairs. “You hear what Min and the senators were talking about?”
“Giants and monsters in the northlands.” Sigrun shrugged. “No seismic activity that’s stood out to Minori up there. No ley-grid expansion.” She unlocked their front door. “And giants are a well-established part of the old sagas. Jotun. Hrímþursar, the frost giants. Grendel. Fire-giants who’ll help begin Ragnarok.”
He raised his eyebrows as the door swung open. “You sound skeptical.”
“The oldest stories speak of the jotun and hrímþursar as creatures that are as powerful as the gods. Taller. Stronger. Faster. But often bestial. The females were beautiful. Some of them supposedly taught Odin and Bragi the art of poetry, and some of the females even became wives to the gods, in the very oldest stories. Skadi, the goddess of winter, was said to be a hrímþursar, and she is married to Njord. Loki supposedly begot Jormangand on Angrboda. But . . . ” Sigrun shrugged and flipped on a light. “I’ve never met a jotun. Never seen one or met one. Neither has anyone else in a thousand years and more. And Angrboda isn’t worshipped. I don’t think she exists, to be honest.”
“I’ve never met a nephilim, either. Doesn’t mean they didn’t exist.” Adam followed her in, his tone peaceable.
“A what? . . . oh. I know this one.” Sigrun kicked off her boots and set them by the door, padding on in her bare feet. “The . . . ‘giants in the earth.’ The offspring of the ‘sons of God’ who lay with the daughters of mortal men.” She made a face. “The union of angels, or spirits, with mortals. Your people’s variant of god-born, Adam. Nothing more. Probably wiped out thousands of years ago.”
“You remembered.” Adam grinned. The early lessons in Hebrew had all come out of the Torah. Classical version of the language, with all the beauty and precision of the old writing, as opposed to the slipshod way it was spoken these days, with loan-words from Latin, Hellene, Gothic, and Persian all infiltrated through it. “Of course, it seems that almost any spirit that can incarnate can lie with a daughter of man.” He caught her hand, spun her around, and kissed her. “I think these were a little different than just god-born, Sigrun. If that’s all they were, we’d still have them.”
Sigrun pulled away, laughing. “There are only two or three references to your nephilim. My people’s jotun, we know their names. There’s more history written on them. It’s just that they don’t seem to exist anymore. I personally believe, though I have never asked . . . that the gods killed the jotun. Wiped them out, to prevent Ragnarok from happening.” She looked up at him. “I did not say that, Adam.”
“You didn’t say what?”
“Precisely.” Sigrun looked up at him. “So if your nephilim aren’t god-born, what are they?”
“I’ve been digging in a lot of Aramaic sources over the years,” Adam warned. “It colors my judgment and opinions. But . . . there’s a text that’s not in the Torah. It’s called the Book of Enoch. Supposedly the account of Noah’s great-grandfather, passed down from before the Flood.”
“You mean Gilgamesh’s.”
He kissed her nose. “Everyone’s got a piece of the puzzle, Sigrun. It’s just that none of us has the picture on the box lid to go on. Now, in the book of Enoch, the nephilim are ‘fallen angels.’ They’ve left heaven. They are egregori. Watchers. Angels who deliberately chose to come to earth to watch over humanity.” He raised his eyebrows at her. “Larger and more powerful than other spirits. They’re the namtar-demons, Sig.”
“They’re the godslayers?” Sigrun hissed it out.
“I don’t think anyone’s listening, Sig.”
“Gods above.”
“It’s just a theory. I’ve got nothing to prove it. But all the pieces do fit with everything else we’ve gotten so far. Even Trennus talking about another universe, beyond the Veil. What if that’s heaven, Sig?” Adam had thought this, immediately, on hearing that Trennus thought of the other dimension as a changeless, timeless place of total order.
“He says the spirits call it the Aether.” Sigrun’s tone was dubious.
“The spirits can’t go there. But he also told us that ‘entities’ leave the Aether and come to Earth. What if those are watchers? Egregori? Namtar-demons?”
Sigrun leaned back, and he put his hands to the small of her back as she did so, letting her stretch, and admiring the view as she did. “I don’t see any of them around here, any more than I see jotun.”
“Give it time. We’ll probably see both before we die.”
“Don’t say that. The gods take words like those as a challenge.”
Adam laughed, picked her up, and carried her towards the bedroom.
Aprilis 14, 1970 AC
Sigrun waited in the interface area of the Odinhall. As always, for her, it looked like an infinite sky, clouds and blue rolling in every direction. No ground. No up, no down, just infinite space in which to fly and glide on the wind. But for the first time, she realized that her vision of this place was, essentially, an empty one. Lonely. Barren. She shifted a little in place. Perhaps a little on the nose, don’t you think?
Dvalin, the dwarf who usually oversaw the antechamber, was not visible anywhere. This was, however, Sigrun’s appointed time, and she had arrived early, just to make sure she wasn’t late at all. It wouldn’t do to miss the appointment after waiting two years for it.
She shifted again, in mid-air. Time probably had little meaning here, but she had to resist an impulse to look at her watch and verify how many mortal minutes she’d been, quite literally, left hanging here.
A shadow crossed her face. Surprised, Sigrun looked up (there was no ground; up was thus entirely subjective) . . . and saw a massive dark shape eclipsing whatever light source that caused the whole space to glow so vibrantly. Her eyes widened as the black-and-silver shape spread barbed wings wider overhead. For an instant, the beast appeared large enough to engulf the entire planet. The massive head swung downwards, and silver eyes, cold and deadly, met hers. And then the dragon plunged, directly
for her. The enormous jaws gaped wide, and deathfrost began to pour out of its jaws, like liquid nitrogen just beginning to turn back to gas. Little curls of it, out the sides, like drool.
Níðhoggr, Sigrun recognized, dimly, and dove, at a steep angle, top speed, away.
The beast followed, its wings tearing the air behind her like the screams of the damned. Sigrun dove through a cloud-bank at a forty-five degree angle, reversed direction, and shot upwards, feeling g-forces pull at her stomach and frame. She never had the chance to fly like this, and, as she saw the long, diamond-scaled tail lash through the clouds below her, it was, for an instant, exhilarating. She kept rising, dimly aware that she should have impacted on the ceiling by now . . . gods know, Níðhoggr’s too big to fit inside the Odinhall, isn’t he? . . . and then the dragon shot out of the clouds under her, and Sigrun had to veer. Juke. Jive. Every iota of speed she had, every trick she’d ever learned, just to get the beast to go left when she intended to go right. Her hair tore loose from her braid, billowing out behind her like a banner, and for an instant, the pure exhilaration, the pure joy of flight, consumed her, in spite of the absolute fear in her heart.
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