by Tom Holt
He found the ex-God of War in the bar, pouring himself a large ambrosia and ginger ale with a shaking hand.
‘Do you know,’ Mars said, ‘what those crazy bastards nearly did to me?’
‘No,’ Apollo said, ‘Look . . .’
‘I mean,’ Mars went on, ‘they wanted to run their own show, so it stands to reason, they don’t need me to fight their battles for them any more. How I see it, I’m just in the way. In fact,’ he added bitterly, ‘that’s it exactly, except that what I’m usually in the way of is something made of lead and travelling fast. Look, Pol, see what those jerks in the Middle East did to my armour?’ He held up what at first sight looked like a collander, but which turned out to be a helmet with holes in it. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘this time I’ve had enough. First thing, I’m going to go to him and I’m going to lay my cards on the table. JOM, I’m going to say, either you let me have some decent protective clothing or else you can stick your lousy job up where the sun shines out of; and if he wants to chuck me off the Edge, that’s all right by me, because right now . . .’
Apollo gave him a soothing smile and the torrent of words subsided. Smiling was probably what Apollo was best at.
‘While you were down there,’ he said, ‘you didn’t happen to notice anything - well, odd, did you?’
Mars laughed miserably. ‘Depends what you’d call odd, doesn’t it?’ he replied. ‘I mean, if a whopping great SAM missile up the backside is odd, then yes, I did. Really, Pol, I ask you, I was just standing there minding my own business and wham! Be honest with me, chum, do I look like a bloody tank?’
‘Possibly,’ Apollo said. ‘Maybe they were just nervous. Or bad shots. But apart from that, did you see anything which sort of caught your eye? Out of the ordinary, anything like that?’
Mars poured himself another drink, a lot of which ended up on the bar-top. ‘Out of the ordinary?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Let’s see,’ Mars said. ‘The Sri Lankans beating up on the Tamils. The Ethiopians stomping on the Eritreans. The Chinese swapping missiles with the Vietnamese. The Irish shooting up the British. The British shooting up the Argentines. The Americans dropping bombs on the Libyans. The Libyans setting off bombs under everybody else. No, can’t say that I did.’
‘Right,’ Apollo said, ‘fine. Only while you were out, you see, we lost a Hero.’
Mars shook his head vigorously. ‘Wasn’t me,’ he said. ‘All the ones who copped it today were complete cowards, the lot of them.’
‘No,’ Apollo said, ‘not lost in that sense. Mislaid. He sort of wandered off for a bit between choosing the Path of Virtue and duffing up some Centaurs.’
‘I don’t know, really,’ said Mars, sloshing his drink round in his glass thoughtfully. ‘Heroes, you know, they’re a bloody funny lot, believe you me.’
‘What are you getting at, exactly?’ Apollo enquired patiently.
‘Simple,’ Mars said. ‘It doesn’t say this in any of the books, mind, but I’ve been watching the little creeps long enough to have twigged this one for myself. They don’t belong in the human race. They aren’t human. Mortal, maybe, but not human. Or not exclusively human. Do you see what I’m getting at?’
‘No.’
‘Ah.’ Mars reached for the bottle again. ‘Fancy one?’
‘Not just now, thanks.’
‘Suit yourself. Let me put it another way. You remember how there are all the different worlds, because of the bifurcation of thingy and all that stuff we had to learn when we were kids?’
‘Some of it,’ Apollo replied. ‘Actually, I spent most of those lessons looking out of the window.’
‘Me too,’ Mars admitted, ‘but I looked up my notes the other day. Now the way I think it works is that your Hero, being all sort of different, he can flip back and forward between the different possible worlds all at the same time. Like, suppose there’s a choice . . .’
‘As it might be,’ said Apollo, ‘between conspiring with Prometheus and sitting under a tree eating shish kebabs?’
‘Exactly,’ said Mars, ‘very imaginative example, that. Suppose there’s a choice between your two courses of action, right? Your ordinary mortal makes the choice, and he splits off into two different mortals on two different worlds. One does the conspiring; one has the kebabs. All clear so far?’
‘Give or take a bit, yes.’
‘Well,’ said Mars, wiping a drip off the rim of his glass and licking his finger, ‘where I think Heroes are different, because of some sort of basic intrinsic weirdness in their molecular structure or some such crap, is that they can come up against one of these choices, bifurc-whatsits, and there’s a sort of third choice that suddenly opens up for them out of nowhere, just for them, specially. Means they can have their cake and eat it, if you like; no, that’s not actually what I mean. What I mean is, if they’ve got to make a choice between having the cake and eating it, then sometimes, because they’re Heroes and not ordinary, they get the option of having a doughnut instead. Do you see what I mean or have I lost you completely?’
‘Vaguely,’ said Apollo, thinking of the Road Marked Diversion. ‘But that’s impossible, surely.’
‘Let’s leave what’s possible and what’s not possible out of it, shall we?’ said Mars. ‘Walls have ears, and all that. What I’m saying is that Heroes are . . . well, I think “jammy bastards” puts it quite nicely, don’t you?’
‘Possibly,’ Apollo replied. ‘So what you’re saying is, if a Hero had a choice between fighting some Centaurs and having lunch, he might find himself doing neither. He might sort of wander off into another dimension or . . .’
‘Dimension’s the wrong word,’ Mars interrupted firmly. ‘That’s all strictly theology-fiction, not theology-fact. But I think - and you’ve got to bear in mind this is just me speaking after I’ve had a nasty shock from a rocket - I think what you’ve just described is entirely possible. Well, not possible, in fact completely impossible; but I’d be willing to bet it could happen, with a Hero.’ He drained his glass, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stood up. ‘Who knows?’ he said. ‘Come to that, who really cares, anyway? Who needs to understand the perishers when you can outlive them, that’s what I always say.’
Apollo laughed politely. ‘Very true,’ he said. ‘Still, if you could keep your eyes open for me . . .’
‘That depends,’ said Mars, ‘on what’s visible through them at the time.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
At approximately half-past five the next morning, the door of Mr. and Mrs. Derry’s house opened and Jason Derry came out. He was carrying a long canvas sack and a plastic carrier bag.
The sun rose in a confusion of pink seepage and presented the first commercial break of the day. Unfortunately for the consortium of Antipodean tycoons who manage it now, very few mortals have the necessary satellite dishes and decoding equipment to receive the signals it broadcasts, but Australians are nothing if not patient. Just as soon as the fossil fuels run out, they argue, and everyone starts taking solar energy seriously, then we’ll have ’em.
By a curious accident probably connected with his unique genetic makeup, Jason Derry was a natural receiver of the sun’s subliminal messages, albeit on a subconscious level only, and he had often wondered why looking directly into the sun made him want to change to low-fat margarine and take out unnecessary life assurance. He had eventually managed to come to terms with the problem by telling himself not to be so bloody stupid.
A small electric buggy whined up to the front gate and stopped.
‘Morning, George,’ Jason said.
‘Morning, Boss,’ the driver replied. ‘Where to?’
Jason grinned. ‘Glad you asked that, George,’ he replied. ‘Been a change of schedule.’
‘Oh yes?’ said George cautiously. ‘Been rather a lot of those lately, haven’t there?’
‘Yes,’ said Jason, undoing the top of the canvas sack, ‘and there’s going to be a lot more. You know what this is?’
‘What was that last bit again?’
‘Glycerion.’
‘Oh,’ Jason said, after a moment. ‘That’s what I thought the old bag said, but I reckoned I must have got it wrong. Anyway, the point is that it’s very sharp, George, very sharp indeed.’
‘I know,’ George said. ‘So?’
Jason frowned. ‘Oh come on, George, don’t be so damned thick. I’m threatening you.’
‘Are you?’ said George, mystified. ‘Why?’
‘Because I want to intimidate you into doing what I tell you,’ Jason said irritably, ‘that’s why. Why else, for pity’s sake?’
‘But Boss,’ George said, ‘I always do what you tell me, don’t I?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Jason said, ‘but that’s because I always tell you what I’m supposed to tell you. Look,’ he went on, ‘I’m not in the mood for deep metaphysical discussion so let’s just get going, shall we, before anybody notices.’
George shrugged. ‘Whatever you say, Boss. Next stop Thessaly.’
‘No,’ Jason said, ‘Piccadilly Circus.’
‘You sure?’ said George. ‘Look, it says here on the manifest: Larissa, ancient capital of Thessaly . . .’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, George,’ said Jason wearily. ‘We aren’t going to Thessaly, we’re going to Piccadilly Circus. Instead,’ he explained.
‘Why?’
‘Shut up and drive the bloody car, will you?’
The little electric buggies supplied to Heroes are manufactured by Vulcan, ex-God of Fire and Craftsmen, and being of divine manufacture they can burn off Porsches without going into second gear. They also come with a twenty-million-year warranty and centralised locking as standard. It therefore took George less than thirty seconds to get to Piccadilly Circus; which was just as well, since it then took an hour and a bit to find a parking space.
‘Will here do you?’ George asked.
‘Here’ll do fine,’ Jason replied. ‘I shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours.’
‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘So do I.’
George shrugged. ‘Please yourself,’ he said. ‘What’s in the carrier bag?’
‘Sandwiches,’ Jason said, ‘and a thermos. If anyone wants me, tell them I died of cholera, OK?’
Jason climbed out, tied up the canvas bag carefully, and descended the stairs to the Underground station, where he stood in front of the ticket barrier and waited. After a few minutes, a very tall, thin man with a flower in his buttonhole walked up to him and coughed.
‘The worship of Mithras,’ he said slowly, ‘has all but died out in Saxmundham.’
‘You what?’
‘The worship of . . . Oh bugger, sorry,’ said the tall man. ‘Thursday is not a good day for peeling onions.’
‘Friday,’ Jason replied self-consciously, ‘is even worse if you happen to be left-handed. So you’re Virgil, are you?’
‘Sh!’ said the tall man, ‘keep your ruddy voice down, will you? I’m not supposed to be here.’
‘I know,’ said Jason. ‘Neither am I.’
‘I told them at the office,’ Virgil went on, ignoring him, ‘I was going to a seminar on “Whither Hexameters Today?” at Spoleto, but I bet someone’s going to phone through and find out I’m not there. I’m a fool to myself to be doing this.’
‘You’re dead,’ Jason said; ‘what’s it to you?’
‘Just because you’re dead,’ Virgil hissed darkly, ‘doesn’t mean they aren’t still out to get you. Anyway, this is definitely the last time I get mixed up in anything like this.’
Jason tapped his foot ever so slightly. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘you’ve made your point; now let’s get on with it, shall we? And next time I need a guide to the Underground, I’ll buy one of those little maps.’
Virgil gave him a poisonous look and produced a couple of tickets from his raincoat pocket. They weren’t like ordinary subway tickets, being luminous and made of gold. ‘Don’t lose them,’ he said. ‘Right. Abandon Hope All Ye, and all that stuff. This way.’
They walked for a long time down gloomy winding passages which echoed with unearthly noises. All around them, Jason became aware of what looked suspiciously like souls in torment - murderers, parricides and people trying to find the westbound platforms. For all that he was a Hero, he shuddered slightly.
‘It only goes to show,’ Virgil was saying, ‘the truth of the old saying that a friend in need is a pest. Just because I showed Dante the way through the Inferno when he got lost that time - you know, one poet helping another and all that stuff, though that’s a myth if ever I heard one; you try asking a poet to help you mend a puncture in the rain and see how far you get - just because of that, they’ve got it into their heads I’m a sort of one-man package holiday company. Mind you,’ he went on, ‘I blame my agent, the damn fool. He encourages them. He’s got me taking a party of schoolchildren round the Dutch bulb fields next month, which really isn’t my idea of a good time. I’ll never forget . . .’
‘Virgil,’ Jason said.
The Mantuan turned his head. ‘Yes?’ he asked. ‘What?’
‘Are we going the right way?’
Virgil sniggered unpleasantly. ‘Down here,’ he said, ‘there isn’t a right way. The right way is to go by bus. We go left here, I think.’
‘But we’ve been walking for ages,’ Jason said.
‘True,’ Virgil replied, helpfully.
‘So which line are we taking?’
‘Ah,’ said Virgil, ‘that’d be telling.’
They turned a corner and came across a busker. He had a hat with no bottom and a guitar with no strings, and when he opened his mouth, no sound came out. A mouth organ hovered round his head like a large chrome hornet, buzzing ominously and occasionally swooping in and biting his ear. Virgil stopped and felt in his pocket.
‘Oh good,’ he said, ‘I thought I had some somewhere.’ He took out two pesetas, a corroded pfennig and a fruit-machine token and dropped them into the hat. They vanished.
‘A sad case,’ said Virgil. ‘In life he was a great conductor but one Christmas he agreed to appear on one of those television comedy-variety programmes and after that it was downhill all the way. First it was chat shows, then double-glazing commercials, and when he died, it was straight down here. Diabolical, what they come up with sometimes. ’
Jason stared. ‘You mean he’s dead?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ Virgil replied. ‘You’re in the Underground now, you know.’
Around the next corner they came across a woman. She was crouched on the ground, hard up against the tiled wall of the corridor, with her hands clenched over her ears, in which were the earphones of a Sony walkman. Although the music was plainly audible to Virgil and Jason as they passed by, it was clear that the woman couldn’t hear a note of it.
‘That one,’ Virgil commented with a shudder, ‘speaks for itself.’
For someone who didn’t know the meaning of Fear, Jason was beginning to feel decidedly edgy; but since Virgil seemed to be taking it all in his stride, he did his best to conceal it. Thus, when a haggard woman with staring eyes jumped out at them and demanded to know the way to Platform Seven, and Virgil told her, and she darted off in the opposite direction, Jason fought back the impulse to whip out the Sword of Sod It I’ve Forgotten Again and sweep her head off, and just stood back feeling embarrassed.
‘Another hopeless case,’ said the poet, as the woman’s hysterical laughter died away in the distance. ‘Her crime was forever to be nagging her husband to ask someone the way whenever they got lost. Serves her right, I suppose, but still . . .’
It had been getting darker and darker the further they went, so that now they could only make out the walls of the corridor in front of them by the glow of the burning graffiti-artists conveniently nailed just above head height at regular intervals. The shadows in between cont
ained strange, shuffling figures who made disturbing noises, which Jason did his best to ignore.
‘Nearly there,’ Virgil said. ‘I’d better warn you, the next bit’s not for the squeamish.’
‘Oh super,’ Jason murmured.
They turned yet another corner and came to a set of steps, which led down to a short passageway. Onto the walls of the passageway were glued a number of screaming, struggling people, on whose faces demoniac posters were drawing in moustaches. Then they came out onto a platform. It was empty.
‘Here,’ Jason said, ‘this isn’t too bad.’
‘You wait,’ Virgil chuckled grimly.
There was a clanking noise in the distance which gradually got closer, and a Tube train appeared. As it went past them, Jason could see it was filled with wan, spectral figures, all standing on one another’s feet.
‘Once a commuter,’ said Virgil, ‘always a commuter. Horrible, isn’t it?’
The train slowed down and stopped, and the doors opened. Some of the people inside made a dash for it and tried to get out, but at once the doors slammed shut on them with sickening force. Jason noticed with a spurt of terror that the doors had teeth.
‘Can’t say they weren’t warned,’ Virgil said sadly. ‘Do Not Obstruct The Doors, it says, plain as the nose on your face. Hang on, it’ll stop soon.’
After what seemed to Jason a very long time, the doors finished chewing the people and a big red tongue appeared and drew them back inside. The doors closed, and when they opened again the carriages were empty. From somewhere near the driver’s compartment came an unmistakable belch.
‘Right,’ said Virgil. ‘I don’t know about you, but I like having my back to the engine.’
Jason grabbed his sleeve. ‘I’m not getting in that,’ he said.
Virgil gave him a contemptuous look and got into the carriage. Behind him, Jason sensed that there were people coming down the steps onto the platform that he really didn’t want to meet, and so he closed his eyes and stepped in. The doors closed.
When Jason opened his eyes, all he could see was a perfectly ordinary Underground carriage, and Virgil sitting on one of the seats, meditatively stirring a large pile of ash and charred bones. Jason winced.