The Gods of War

by Christopher Stasheff

  The archaeological site had been silent since that initial scream and the crack of gunfire. But in the distance, clear to see in the moonlight, and well down the slope toward the theater: four figures. Two grotesquely twisted pairs, bent with the weight of the crates swinging between them as they hurried down the slope.

  Kabil swore, aimed the Uzi at the fleeing bodies, and fired.

  The barrel climbed wildly, throwing Kabil's aim (such as it was) off, and the figures hardly even hesitated in their staggering dash.

  Behind them, a shout.

  Berk: gun out and feet planted.

  Kemal whirled. Shouted a warning. Threw himself at the old man, taking the bullets meant for Berk.

  Kabil was a fast study.

  The strangely calm analysis ran through his mind oven as Kabil fell, Berk's better aimed bullet making short work of the would-be terrorist.

  And then it was Kemal's turn to stare down the guard's gun barrel. He froze, one leg numb, the other throbbingly alive.

  "Don't even think it, Kemal," Berk hissed a warning mid worked his way free. Wavering to his feet, he culled out to the dig's watchman.

  Nothing.

  Then, of a sudden, rapid fire, and, as if in slow motion, Berk stumbled backward, spraying black-in-the-moonlight blood like a fountain.

  Confused, horrified, all Kemal could think of was escape from the unknown attackers. Turkish police, American CIA, Israelis, or even Mart; whoever had killed Berk would be after him next, he was certain of it. For the moment, he didn't care who that was, certainly did not count him a friend.

  Not even sure his legs would work, he rolled down the marble street and into the shadowy ruins, where, ignoring the pain in his leg, dragging the other limply behind him, he wormed his way among the stones and brush, intent only on avoiding the inevitable pursuit.

  From down in the parking lot, he heard the familiar rev of the bus engine, wondered vaguely who would escape, knowing it wouldn't include him. Not tonight.

  Black haze fogged the moonlit marble. His world reduced to an instinctive fight for survival. Layers of stone shielded him, now. He pulled himself to his feet, found marginal support in the numb leg, a little more in the other, and an arm that grated ominously when he leaned on it. Blind with pain and shock, he staggered deeper and deeper into a honeycomb of low walls and half stairs, thick brush and thicker shadows.

  The brothel across from Diana's temple.

  With a smothered sob, he realized instinct had led him to the best possible cover. He sought a partial staircase he knew well, staggered and fell, his right wrist collapsing with a nauseating snap as he tried to buffer that fall The world greyed out for an undetermined time, but that survival instinct roused him and he tucked in under the stairs, pulling his numb leg up with his working hand.

  Silence, save for the pounding in his ears, the rasp of his own breath.

  The bus was gone.

  No evidence of pursuit.

  Free.

  Free to feel the pain.

  Free to feel the blood slowly soaking his pantleg, creeping up his sweater from the shattered wrist.

  Free to wonder . . . why?

  Curious dilemma.

  Diana perched atop a tall pillar, knees clasped to her chest, and watched the mortals blithely eliminate each other without regard to motivation, waiting to see what shook out of the chaos.

  On the one side, her Kemal and a pack of fools. On the other, equally foolish Greeks armed with an honest desire to get the guns to roust the Junta regime holding their homeland hostage.

  In the middle, one old man who'd befriended a kid and trusted too much.

  Mortals. Thousands of years of observation, and their capacity for stupidity and waste still held the power to amaze.

  But the shooting had ended. The bus had departed with the two surviving Turkish fools. The Greek fools quickly collected the contraband weapons and loaded them into a truck in the lower lot. Even the two crates Kemal had stashed.

  As for Kemal himself . . .

  "Kem?" Soft whisper out of the shadows. "Kemal Duman, are you in here?"

  Kemal bit his lip on a sob. Denied that voice out of dreams.

  "Kem?" She appeared out of the shadows, and it was—

  "Kirsi?" He got her name out on the front end of a gasp.

  "Kemal!" She dropped to her knees beside him. "Oh, my gods, you're hurt. . . ."

  His breath caught on attempted laughter. That was an understatement if ever he'd heard one.

  "What . . . are you . . . doing here?"

  "I came to find you. I was worried. . . ."

  She slipped an arm beneath him, pillowed his head in her coat.

  But there was a smell . . . an all too familiar oily smell, which belied her statement. He reached his flood hand to brush that coat-pillow, hooked a fiber and brought it close to his face.

  Packing. Like that the archaeologists used to protect delicate artifacts. Or contraband weapons.

  He let his head fall, bringing his injured arm up to hide his face, perversely grateful for the jar to the wrist which could account for the tears in his eyes.

  "Wh-who are you?"

  Her hand, encased in a black glove, brushed the hair back from his face. "Such a strange question, Kemal. You know me."

  "Do I?"

  Her hand swept gently, but thoroughly, down his body, tenderly rearranging his wounded limbs.

  "I haven't a weapon, if that's what you're looking for. Anything else—" His breath caught. "—I fear I'm not quite up to tonight."

  "Kemal, I'm so sorry." She sat back on her heels.

  He stared up at her, wishing the blackness didn't obscure everything, knowing it wasn't the blackness of night he fought.

  "My name, sweet Kemal, is Kirke. I was born and raised on Cyprus, and I, like you, love my country and my people.'

  Cyprus. Half-Greek, half-Turk. A millennia old conflict in microcosm. You've been had, Kemal Duman, he thought. Aloud, he whispered: "No wonder you speak so well."

  "Many of my childhood friends were Turks, Kemal. —A fact I'd forgotten in my college years in Athens. Until you."

  "Am I—" He gasped. "Am I to take that as a compliment?"

  Her fingers brushed his face. "As a thank you. For reminding me not all non-Greeks are enemies."

  "What—" He had to pause as a wave of pain shot through him. "—do you people plan . . . to do . . . with me?"

  "The others have left. They've got to get the shipment loaded onto the boat before dawn. They left me to find you."

  A chill went down his spine. "And what are your instructions, once you found me, Circe?" he asked, giving her Greek name the Anglicized pronunciation. "Turn me into a toad?"

  A long pause. Long enough to make him regret that barb. Whatever she was, alienating her further now gained him nothing. Finally, rather than answer, she asked, "What do you suppose will happen to you when the police find you in me morning?"

  "I won't lie to them. I was a fool. They should know the truth about what happened tonight."

  "I thought so. And do you think the Turkish army will buy that—truth?"

  "I—" There was no answer to that. Even had—Kirke—not shown, he hadn't the strength—nor the will—to escape. And the evidence was too strong against him.

  "I can't take you with me to Greece; my companions would be as anxious to extract information from you as the Turks—and as ruthless in their methods. I can't leave you here to point me out. My job here is not yet completed."

  His breath caught. "Have a problem, don't you?"

  A sharp point touched his side.

  "Do you trust me, Kemal Duman?"

  Of a sudden, Kirsi's voice sounded different. Perhaps it was the increased fear pounding in his ears. But Kirsi's features seemed . . . fuzzy . . . around the edges, her dark hair glinting moonlight pale under the black scarf holding it back from her face.

  "Do you trust me?"

  "How can I?" His cry withered and died in the night breeze
.

  "Do you love Turkey?"

  "Of course—"

  "Do you love Ephesus ?"

  His breath caught. Tears fractured her hazy image.

  "Do you love the goddess?"

  "Yes-s-s."

  "And would you, like the true Kings, give your life that the land you love might live? That your daughter might one day walk on the moon?"

  "I have no daughter—" His mind grasped for stability at that one absolute truth.

  "You will have, darling. Nine months from last night. The powers here are still quite potent."

  "Why are you doing this to me, Kirsi? he whispered, close to sobbing. "Just finish and be done. —Please."

  Soft lips brushed his. He found his senses lost in that lass. Felt the pain of his wounds vanish.

  Sharp, sudden agony in his gut. Hot flow of blood down his side. And then—

  —Quiet, gentle ecstasy as that heat flowed into the earth beneath him, drawing him into the goddess' embrace.

  The room looked a little less tawdry today. The stain was still in the couch, but curtains hung like new, and the stained glass sparkled in the Olympian sunshine.

  As for herself . . .

  Diana turned slowly, viewing her reflection from all angles.

  She had curves again. Curves even Mammon appreciated from the look on his lecherous face, not so full as he generally preferred.

  Mammon crossed the room, holding out his arms, his intent quite obvious. She avoided him with a smooth sway, drifted on a breeze across the Hilton suite. Mammon was quite talented. And in a pinch, he'd do nicely.

  Fortunately, for now, there was no such lack.

  "There he is," she said, seeing dark curly hair gleaming in the Olympian light. "—Looking a bit bemused at the moment he is, but he'll come around. One thing's certain, he won't have a headache." She turned to Mammon, brushed his furry cheek with one hand. "Goodbye, darling. Enjoy your war. I'm sure it will prove quite profitable for you."

  The curly young head turned, framed in a flowering archway. Dark eyes gleamed as work-calloused fingertips gently stroked tine glowing marble. Closed as he sniffed a blossom.

  She smiled indulgently. They were always so charmingly bemused at first.

  Meeting Mammon's resigned look: "By the by, darling, you've not quite got it straight, yet. Tek is not an upstart. Tek is but a child—a babe in the woods. You, my dear, are the upstart. You make wars. Tek fights them. But I, darling godling, win them. And when all the gold is used, all the jewels ground to dust, when all the techno-toys run out of batteries, my devoted worshippers will still thrive. I was the first to arrive and I shall, most assuredly, be the last to fade."

  She smiled sweetly . . .

  . . . and walked into the mirror.

  ALLY

  The party had ended and Tek found himself still without any idea who had planned the attack. For a long while he had sat in his bunker carefully filing and analyzing data. For a longer time he had simply sat confused, unable to categorize and file all the data he was receiving. During all this time Mentor sat quietly, appearing pleased by the contemplation. Finally, the war god had to admit there wasn't any way to solve the problem with the information he had.

  "I cannot determine who caused the attack." Tek broke the silence.

  "Why?" said Mentor.

  "Because I have insufficient data," was Tek's frustrated reply.

  "No, I mean the information you need is now is 'why.' Knowing 'why' will tell you the who."

  "But there seems to be no reason," Tek protested. "Jealousy? Would a war god send such a creature?"

  "Most would prefer to face you in person," Mentor agreed. "This kind of attack would mean a loss of face, but there is no guarantee it wasn't one less concerned with honor."

  "Except there weren't any of the other war gods at the party."

  "Which does leave them out, excepting Thor perhaps," the teacher speculated.

  "Not really," Tek said in a flat voice. "I saw him arrive after I was up and about again. Quite an entrance being pulled through the sky by that glowing hammer and all."

  "That lug was always a show-off," Mentor agreed.

  "Which still leaves me no closer to a solution."

  "So then, why would anyone have made that attack?"

  "Gods can't die," Tek said looking to his teacher for confirmation.

  Mentor nodded. "But they can feel pain, as you have noticed." Tek had most certainly discovered he could feel pain. It seemed to him that he was rediscovering this particular fact much too often. Tek glowered. The reference to his injuries caused another long silence. Mentor wasn't sure if the war god was remembering the pain or calculating something he hadn't shared with his teacher.

  Actually Tek was wondering why, if the attack was what he had been sensing approach, it was over. But he still felt a sense of urgency. It had to have been the sense of urgency he was feeling since he awoke. But if this was so, why was the feeling he should be doing something different still nagging at him? What was driving him? Why was there a growing sense of need and what was Mentor helping to prepare him for? For the first time Mentor broke the silence.

  "What you need is some light relief."

  "Hardly," Tek protested. The last thing he wanted was to relax. The last time he had relaxed was in that garden.

  "Check your files for references to battle fatigue and the morale value of entertainment," Mentor urged.

  Accessing the files, Tek had to agree that the teacher had a point. Still he was a god, not an ordinary soldier. He didn't need such things. Before the war god could protest, Mentor had summoned his screen.

  "Allow me then luxury of relaxing, even if you are made of sterner stuff," he insisted. "Besides, you will find this tale most enlightening, as well as amusing."

  THE B TEAM

  by Mike Resnick

  It had not been a good year for the Mau Mau.

  The British had brought in their army, and what had seemed like a battle against a handful of white colonists had become something infinitely bigger. Thousands of insurgents were held captive in camps that lined Langata Road. Thousands more had been slipped to the Northern Frontier District and incarcerated there in the burning heat of the desert. The bulk of those who remained were spread throughout the Aberdare mountain range, where the British made three daily bombing runs in their planes, killing Kikuyu freedom fighters, Kikuyu loyalists, elephants, rhinos, and buffalos with equal facility.

  It was time, declared Deedan Kimathi, the Supreme commander of the Mau Mau, to take the gloves off.

  Peter Njoro, the officer in command of one of the western slopes, made his way down the twisting path, alert to his surroundings. Twice this morning he'd been charged by fear-crazed rhinos. Another time a bongo had stepped on a land mine not twenty yards from him. He could hear gunfire to the north, and he knew that the colonials had recently brought his blood enemies, the Maasai and the Samburu, to the Aberdares to help hunt his army down in the thick forest.

  He shook his head. He should be back with his men, fighting the enemy, rather than proceeding on this fool's mission. But Kimathi had issued the order, and it had fallen on his broad shoulders to carry it out.

  He stepped over a fallen tree, waded across a narrow stream, jumped with surprise as a colobus monkey screeched overhead, and peered ahead. He must be getting close to his goal, he knew, but visibility was extremely limited, especially in the lower sections of the mountain, where the British didn't drop any bombs for fear of hitting their own commando units.

  Finally he broke into a clearing and saw a row of caves ahead of him. Three old women sat around a fire, and a naked little boy, no more than four years old, was scratching designs in the dirt with a stick. The women looked at Peter as he approached them, but made no move to leave.

  "I am looking for Matenjwa," said Peter. "I was told I could find him here."

  One of the women nodded and pointed to the farthest cave.

  "Asante sana," said Peter, walki
ng over to the cave and standing in the entryway. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness, then took two more steps forward and stopped before the old man who sat cross-legged on a blanket, mindless of the snakes that slithered across the moist floor of the cave.

  "You are Matenjwa?"

  The old man nodded. "I am Matenjwa."

  "I am Peter Njoro," said Peter. "I come with an order from Deedan Kimathi himself."

  "I told Deedan Kimathi's other messengers that my magic is not strong enough to kill all the soldiers," said Matenjwa. "I tell you the same thing, Peter Njoro."

  "I am not the first?" asked Peter.

  "No," responded Matenjwa. "The first messenger was a man named Kanoti. His tongue was cut out.'

  "How could he possibly have told you what Deedan Kimathi wanted?"

  "His tongue was cut out after he told General Kimathi that my magic could not defeat the British soldiers," replied Matenjwa. "Still, he was more fortunate than Sibanja, the second messenger. I believe Kimathi killed him and ate his heart." He smiled at Peter. "You are the third. I do not envy you, Peter Njoro; I have the very distinct impression that your General does not like to be given unhappy news."

  Peter swallowed hard. "He ate Sibanja s heart, you Nay?"

  "So I have been told."

  "Maybe it was just a rumor," said Peter hopefully.

  Matenjwa shrugged. "Maybe."

  "I believe it, though," said Peter.

  "So do I," agreed Matenjwa.

  "I can't just go back up the mountain and tell him that you can't defeat the British."

  "But it is the truth."

  "What purpose would be served by it?" said Peter. "He'd just kill me and send someone else."

  "Very likely," said Matenjwa. "He does seem to be a creature of habit."

  "But I can't desert, either. Sooner or later one of his men would find me and kill me."

  Matenjwa nodded thoughtfully. "That is true. General Kimathi has even less use for deserters than for the bearers of bad tidings."