by Steve White
Jason tried to imagine Franco’s state of shock. It must, he thought, be as complete as that of the worshippers, though for different reasons. And there was nothing Franco could do. He could hardly shoot or otherwise silence the “god.” He could only stand, paralyzed, and listen as his creation’s jeering voice went on, tearing down his edifice of intrigue with every syllable.
“Know, then, simpletons, that I am come from the East, for I am of the daiva, the anti-gods who impersonate and thwart the gods just as black smoke rises along with the sacred fire. Even as the Ionians of Didyma worshipped one of my fellows thinking him to be their god Apollo, so you have worshiped me! Oh fools, fools, fools!”
As Zoroastrian theology it was, of course, perfect gibberish. But these people didn’t know that. They had some vague knowledge of the religion’s concepts and terminology, for their fellow Greeks in Ionia had long been in contact with the Persians. And they had heard of what Datis had told the Apollo-worshipers of Delos about the oracle at Didyma. So this all held a ring of horrible verisimilitude for them, and continued to do so as Pan raved on.
“You think what I have done at Marathon today was to save Athens, this stinking pig-wallow you call a city? Ha! I did it to punish the Persians for their failure to worship the one true God: Ahriman, lord of the darkness which must inevitably engulf the universe when the last light finally gutters out, no matter how many futile fires the priests of Ahura Mazda ignite. But the Persians have chosen to worship Ahura Mazda, following their stupid prophet Zoroaster, and now they have paid for their folly. And so shall you, fools! For my servants are here to destroy you!”
It took a fraction of a second for Jason to realize what Pan meant. Then he barked “Move!” at the others and forced his stiffened legs to propel him up the ladder, to stand beside Pan.
The light in the cavern was dim enough that his eyes required no real adaptation. He saw the cultists, still immobilized with shock, and, off to the side, Franco with Chantal beside him, staring wildly. Another figure, which he recognized as one of the middle-level Transhumanists, lunged at him, drawing a dagger as he moved. Jason brought up his “walking stick” and speared the man with a laser beam.
Behind him, Mondrago and the others were scrambling up the ladder and, as they emerged into the cavern, firing laser bolts into the mass of cultists. In this dimness, the trails of ionization were almost bright enough to resemble lightning. And the vicious crack was loud in this confined space.
The cultists went mad with terror. They pelted toward the tunnel mouth, trampling and crushing each other in their hysterical haste to be gone from what had become a chamber of inexplicable horror.
The rapid-fire laser bolts stabbed again and again into that writhing, screaming mass of bodies, and the stench of burned flesh filled the cavern.
But Jason had eyes for none of that. He swung his weapon toward Franco.
With that unnatural quickness of his, Franco whipped out from under his tunic a small laser pistol of the same model his fellows had used earlier on Mount Kotroni. But he did not point it at Jason. Instead, he grasped Chantal by the upper arm, twisted it up in an obviously painful grip, and swung her in front of him, placing the pistol’s focusing lens against her head.
Chantal gave a cry of pain and something worse than pain. “Franco . . . darling. . . .”
“Shut up, you pathetic Pug cunt!” Franco snarled, and yanked her arm further up, eliciting a fresh cry. “You’re useless for my purposes without your TRD—except as a shield.”
Jason forced himself to remain calm and do nothing reckless like trying for a head shot, for even if it succeeded it might well cause Franco’s trigger finger to spasm in death. He looked around. The last of the surviving cultists had by now fled down the tunnel, and Mondrago, Da Cunha, and Logan were also covering Franco and his captive with their weapons. Pan groveled beside Jason’s feet.
Franco looked them over for a moment, then smiled at Jason. “So . . . you’ve come back, while an earlier version of you is simultaneously here. The fuddy-duddies who run the Authority will never recover!”
Jason was in no mood to appreciate Franco’s perspicacity, which would doubtless also enable him to recognize the falsity of any offer to let him live. “Let her go,” he said evenly, “and you can have a quick, clean death. Your choice.”
Franco gave another infuriating smile. “I believe I’ll choose no death whatever. I’m taking her with me. If anyone tries to stop me, she dies. If I see anyone following me, she dies.”
Jason put on a devil-may-care expression. “What makes you think a threat to the life of a defector is going to deter us?”
“It shouldn’t. But if I know Pugs, it will.” The false levity abruptly slid away, and Franco’s face, for all its designer Classical handsomeness, grew very ugly. “No more childish bluffing! I’m going now, to the precinct of Zeus, where that repulsive little genetic monstrosity must have brought the Teloi aircar.” He gave Pan a look of loathing. “I wish I were in a position to kill it now, for its betrayal. But no; that would be kinder than letting it live.”
Beside his legs, Jason felt Pan stiffen, and a kind of convulsion go through the misshapen body. All at once a high-pitched scream of pent-up hate split the air of the cavern and Pan’s goatish legs propelled him forward like a projectile.
Startled, Franco pulled Chantal with him as he tried to avoid that sudden attack. He almost succeeded. Pan careened against his and his prisoner’s legs, knocking them both off balance. He tried to grapple Franco’s legs. Instinctively, Franco brought his laser pistol down hard. The butt struck Pan’s right temple, under the horn, with a sickening crunching sound. Pan went limp.
Mondrago was the first to recover. With an inarticulate shout, he fired at the now partially exposed Transhumanist. But Franco was still staggering, and the aim was off. The laser beam brushed against his left arm, and also Chantal’s, which Franco had never quite let go. Her scream immobilized them all just long enough for Franco to bring his laser pistol back up against her head.
“Now, where were we?” said Franco, although his face was too contorted with pain to manage a mocking smile. “Remember, nobody is to follow us, or she dies. After I reach the aircar, I’ll let her go. After all, I think I’ve had the full use of her! You’re welcome to her now, Thanou—not that I’d give her much of a recommendation.” He gave Chantal’s laser-burned left arm a particularly vicious jerk and pulled her along with him as he backed into the tunnel. The sound of their footsteps and Chantal’s whimpering gradually receded.
Jason dropped to his knees beside Pan. As expected, the artificial being whose fragility Jason had thought he had sensed was dead.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Mondrago miserably. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I thought I could—”
“Forget it.” Jason held up a hand for silence, and waited until he was sure Franco had had time to exit the tunnel. “All right. The three of you set up the explosive charge in the tunnel, as per the plan. And . . . leave Pan’s body in here. After you’ve set the timer, come to the precinct of Zeus. I’m going there now.”
“What?” Mondrago goggled. “But, sir—”
“Don’t worry. Of course I’m not going to let Franco see me—at least not until he reaches the aircar. There . . . well, I think I have a way of dealing with him.”
“Let me come too!”
“No. There’s less chance of him spotting just one of us. Now just follow orders for once, damn it!” And Jason plunged into the tunnel.
Franco had closed the outer door, but like Houdini’s safes it was easy to open from the inside. Jason scrambled down the steep, rocky slope of the Acropolis and slipped through the twisting alley-like streets. Once he caught a glimpse of Franco and Chantal far ahead, and instantly flattened himself against a wall before resuming his stealthy pursuit.
He emerged from the labyrinth of alleys and buildings into the open area where the unfinished temple stood, just in time to see Franco drag Chantal betwee
n two of the topless columns. He followed, circling around and passing through the colonnades at another point. Franco had mounted the open-topped aircar and was pulling Chantal up onto it.
“But you said you’d let me go!” she protested, struggling to resist.
“Don’t be even stupider than you have to be. I lied, of course. No, I think I’ll take you with me. I can amuse myself with you in various ways before my TRD activates. By then, you’ll be begging me to kill you. But I probably won’t. No, I believe I’ll just leave you permanently stranded . . . an unattached woman with no family, in this society . . . maimed and disfigured, as you’ll be by then after what I’ll have done to you . . . yes.” With a final heave of his good arm, Franco hauled her up onto the aircar.
Jason stepped out from behind his concealing column. “Hi!” he called out with a jaunty wave. In his hand was a small black object: the remote control unit Pan had given him.
Franco and Chantal, standing on the aircar’s edge, both stared.
Jason pressed the stud.
The autopilot awoke, and under its control the aircar lurched aloft.
Chantal lost her balance and fell a few feet. The impact, landing on her burned left arm, brought a gasping shriek of pain.
But Jason’s attention was fixed on the swiftly rising aircar. Franco was windmilling his arms, frantically trying to regain his balance. But he toppled over the side. He managed to catch the rim and hold on as the aircar rose still higher and began to swing into a southward course.
Jason took careful aim with his disguised laser carbine and burned Franco in his good right shoulder. With a cry of pain, the Transhumanist lost his grip and fell. He hit the stump of an unfinished column face-first with bone-cracking force, then fell the rest of the way to the ground and lay still. The aircar continued on its way, and would plunge into the sea, vanishing from an era in which it did not belong.
Jason walked over to Franco. The Transhumanist’s ribcage was crushed, and when he tried to speak only a feeble, gurgling hiss of agony emerged from between his splintered teeth, along with a froth of blood.
Jason drew his dagger, but then stopped. Why bother? He sheathed the dagger, turned away and went to examine Chantal. Her breathing was shallow, and aside from her laser burn, she had broken her right leg. But she would live. Franco’s noise had ceased by the time she regained consciousness.
“Lie still,” he told her. “You’re safe. Franco’s dead.”
“Jason,” she whispered weakly, “I’ve been a fool. I wish I could make amends, but I know I can’t, ever. I deserve to stay in this century and die.”
“You’re not going to. We’re going to take you back.”
“What? But how—?”
“Never mind. Just lie still,” Jason repeated. He heard footsteps behind him. It was his team.
“All done, sir,” Mondrago reported. “The charge is set. In fact, it ought to be—”
From the direction of the Acropolis, Jason thought he heard an extremely faint crump, but he knew it was probably his imagination. The explosive device they had used generated a momentary sound-deadening field at the instant of its detonation, rendering it effectively inaudible to Athens’ preoccupied citizens. If he’d heard anything, it must have been the rumble as the subterranean tunnel collapsed.
“We left Pan in there as ordered, sir,” Da Cunha added.
“Good. It’s a fitting tomb for him.” Jason smiled. “No one will ever know who’s lying under the Acropolis.”
“When the Athenians offer their annual sacrifices to Pan at the grotto,” mused Logan in the thoughtfully deliberate way he always seemed to speak, on the rare occasions when he did it at all, “they’ll never dream that the real thing is entombed inside it.”
“Interesting point.” Jason handed his “walking stick” to Mondrago and, with great care, put one arm under Chantal’s knees and the other behind her back, and lifted her up. She gasped with pain but clung to his neck. He focused his mind, preparatory to giving a neural command. “All right. Is everybody ready? Let’s go home.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The great domed displacer chamber was almost exactly as they had left it a couple of hours earlier. Rutherford had to all appearances never moved. After his initial startlement at their appearance, he brusquely motioned forward the waiting medical team. Jason handed Chantal over to them.
“How is she?” he asked as soon as they had laid her on a stretcher and brought their medical sensors to bear.
“She’s in a great deal of pain,” a doctor replied as he gave her a hypospray injection against that same pain. “And she’s in mild shock. But none of her injuries are life-threatening. She’s going to be fine.” He gestured, and his orderlies lifted the stretcher.
Chantal turned her head to meet Jason’s eyes, and spoke weakly. “Jason . . . thank you. I’m—”
“Hush. Don’t try to talk.”
“No, let me finish. I already knew I was wrong. But you’ve shown me just how very wrong I was, because what you’ve done has reminded me of what it is to be truly human. So now I know why—whatever humanity’s imperfections—we must always remain human. That is too precious a thing to be gambled away against the chance of something ‘superior’.” The effort of speaking seemed to exhaust her. The doctor gave a more peremptory gesture, and she was borne away. Only when she was out of sight did Jason turn to face Rutherford.
“Mission accomplished,” he reported wearily, “in all particulars. I’ll tell you the details later, in private. But the Transhumanist operation has been scotched, and their leader was killed. And I don’t think Dr. Frey’s loyalties are going to be in any question after this.”
“And the, uh, ‘cleanup’ aspects of the plan?” asked Rutherford anxiously.
“All done. The tunnel under the Acropolis behind the grotto was sealed, and no anachronistic hardware was left lying around.”
“Good.” Rutherford’s relief was palpable.
“Also, the being ‘Pan’ was killed by his own Transhumanist master.”
“Just as well,” said Rutherford offhandedly.
Jason glared at him. So, he noticed to his surprise, did Mondrago. “I suppose it could be regarded that way, from the standpoint of ‘cleanup.’ But . . . well, he kept his bargain with me, and he died trying to aid us. I think he’s entitled to just a little respect.”
“I meant no offense.” Rutherford seemed genuinely contrite, and Jason’s annoyance ebbed.
“None taken. And before we head for your office, there’s one other thing you’ll want to know, because it relates directly to one of the questions the original expedition sought to answer. As we learned then, the Olympian ‘gods’ were still alive and active in the flesh—at least the Teloi flesh—up to 490 b.c. But after that, for the most part, they became just what they’ve always been assumed to have been: myths.”
Rutherford’s eyes kept going to the sword that was his private office’s prize exhibit. Jason wasn’t sure why.
Finally Rutherford swung around to face Jason and Mondrago. “So not all of the Teloi were wiped out in this final confrontation with the Transhumanists?”
“No. Zeus, before he died, mentioned Aphrodite—or whatever names she was known by in the other Indo-European cultures—as being the pilot of the aircar that had dropped them off. So she and various others must have lived on afterwards; I can’t account for Athena or Artemis or Apollo, for example. And they could have continued to play the god game with the help of the self-repairing Teloi techno-magic devices. But remember, they were all members of the youngest Earth-born generation, which Oannes assured me suffered from a drastic reduction in life expectancy. They must have died off, and even before they did, the literal belief in their pantheon began to dissipate, leaving a void that was filled by various Eastern mystery religions and, finally, by Christianity.” Jason chuckled. “Knowing the Teloi, I have a feeling that the loss of human belief in them helped hasten their end.”
“Quite
likely.” Rutherford turned brisk. “But, more to the point, about the Transhumanists. . . .”
“Yes. That’s the real problem. At least one of them survived, as we knew from the first was going to happen, since we didn’t have time to hunt down whoever sent the signal from Mount Pentelikon. So one or more of them were retrieved on schedule, as were the corpses of Franco and the others. The survivor or survivors didn’t know the details of Franco’s death, but they did know in general about our discovery of their presence. And they knew that Alexandre and I may have gotten back with that knowledge, even though we were earmarked for assassination down there on the battlefield.
“Incidentally, I’ve been using the past tense deliberately, because as you know, their expedition came from, and therefore returned to, a time somewhat prior to ours. So their linear present lies in our past—”
“I know,” interjected Rutherford bleakly, for he understood the implications.
“—and therefore by now they know that their scheme for a Pan cult was foiled, although they don’t know how. And they must regard it as at least a possibility that, as of a point slightly in their own future, we know about their underground and its extratemporal activities, so they’ll be on their guard. One good thing: when we went back we killed all the ones who actually saw us, so just exactly what happened on Mount Kotroni and at the grotto in Athens must be a mystery to them.”
“One other good thing,” Mondrago spoke up. “They know that we got Dr. Frey’s TRD back, so they’ll assume she was left to die in the fifth century b.c.”
“That’s right,” Jason agreed. “I suggest that we keep her presence here strictly under wraps, even to the extent of providing her with a new identity. I’m certain she’ll cooperate. And a debriefing by intelligence specialists ought to be productive.”
“Surely Franco didn’t give her a great deal of detailed and specific data about the Transhumanist underground,” said Rutherford dubiously.