Olympos

by Dan Simmons

  This new palace—they had no other name for their central civic building—still smelled of fresh wood, cold stone, and paint, but it was bright and sunny this early spring day. Helen slipped in and took her place near the royal family, next to Andromache, who gave her a brief smile and then turned her attention back to her husband.

  Hector was getting some gray in his dark-brown curly hair and beard. Everyone had noticed it. Most of the women, Helen knew, thought it made him look even more distinguished, if such a thing were possible. It was Hector’s place to open the meeting and he did so now, welcoming all the Trojan dignitaries and Achaean guests by name.

  Agamemnon was here, still strange, occasionally giving everyone that long, unfocused gaze he had worn for so many months after the Fall, but he was lucid enough now to be heeded in the Joint Council discussions. And his tents were still full of treasure.

  Nestor was here, but he had to be carried to the city—carried up from the tent-city of the Achaeans, undefended now on the beach—on a portable chair toted by four slaves. Wise old Nestor had never recovered the use of his legs after that final day of terrible battle on the beach. Also here from the Achaean camp—sixty thousand Greek warriors still lived, enough to demand a vote—were Little Ajax, Idomeneus, Polyxinus, Teucer, and the acknowledged, if not yet publicly acclaimed, leader of the Greeks—handsome Thrasymedes, Nestor’s son. With the Greeks were several men whom Helen did not recognize, including a tall, gangly young man with curly hair and beard.

  At his introduction and welcome by Nestor, Thrasymedes glanced in the direction of Helen and Helen lowered her eyes in modesty while allowing herself to blush slightly. Some habits died hard, even here on a different world and in a different time.

  Finally Nestor introduced their emissary from Ardis—not Hockenberry, who had not yet returned from his trip west, but a tall, thin, quiet man named Boman. No moravecs were present this morning.

  Having finished the welcomings, unnecessary introductions, and ritual words of assembly, Hector established the reasons for this council and what needed to be decided before they could adjourn.

  “So today we must decide whether to launch the expedition to Delphi,” concluded noble Hector, “and, if we do so, who shall go and who shall stay. We also have to decide what to do if it is possible to interdict the blue beam there and bring so many of the Argives’ relatives back. Thrasymedes, your people were in charge of building the long ships. Would you tell the Council what progress has been made?”

  Thrasmymedes bowed, his knee raised slightly on a step and his golden helmet on his leg. He said, “As you know, our best surviving shipbuilder, Harmonides—literally ’Son of the Fitter’—has been in charge of the construction. I shall let him report.”

  Harmonides, the curly-bearded youth Helen had spotted a minute earlier, now stepped forward a few paces and then quickly looked down at his feet as if he wished he hadn’t made himself so conspicuous. He had a slight stammer as he spoke.

  “The…thirty long ships are…ready. Each can…carry…fifty men, their armor, and provisions adequate for…reaching Delphi. We are also close to…to completing…the twenty other ships…as commanded by the Council. These ships are…broader of beam…than the long ships, perfect for…for transporting goods and people should we find such…goods and people.”

  Harmonides quickly stepped back into the group of Argives.

  “Very good work, noble Harmonides,” said Hector. “We thank you and the Council thanks you. I’ve inspected the ships and they are beau-tiful—tight, firm, made with precision.”

  “And I wish to thank the Trojans for knowing where to find the best wood on the slopes of Mount Ida,” spoke up the blushing Harmonides, but with pride this time, and no hint of a stammer.

  “So we now have ships to make the voyage,” said Hector. “Since the missing families on the mainland are Achaean and Argive, not Trojan, Thrasymedes has volunteered to lead the expedition back to Delphi. Would you tell us, Thrasymedes, your plans for that voyage?”

  Tall Thrasymedes lowered his leg, holding his heavy helmet easily in one palm, Helen noticed.

  “We propose to sail in the next week when the spring winds bless our voyage,” said Thrasymedes, his low, strong voice carrying to the far ends of the large, pillared Council chamber. “All thirty ships and fifteen hundred picked men—Trojan adventurers are still invited if they want to see the world.”

  There was some chuckling and good humor in the room.

  “We shall sail south along the coast past empty Colonae,” continued Thrasymedes, “then to Lesbos, then across dark waters to Chios, where we shall hunt and lay in fresh water. Then west-southwest across the deep sea, past Andros, and into the Genestius Strait between Catsylus on the peninsula and the isle of Ceos. Here, five of our ships will break away and sail upriver toward Athens, the men crossing on foot for the last way. They will hunt for human life there, and if they find none—they shall march to Delphi on foot, their ships returning and sailing past the Saronic Gulf after us.

  “The twenty-five ships remaining to me shall sail southwest past Lacedaemonia, circumnavigating the entire Peloponnese, braving the straits between Cytherea and the mainland if the weather allows. When we spot Zacynthros off our port bows, we will approach the mainland once again, then east-northeast and east again deep into the Corinthian Gulf. Just past Cyolain Locrians and before we reach Boeotia, we shall sail into harbor, beach our boats, and walk to Delphi, where the moravecs and our Ardis friends assure us the blue-beam temple holds the living remnants of our race.”

  The person named Boman stepped into the center of the open space. His Greek was horribly accented—much more so even than old Hockenberry’s had been, thought Helen—and he sounded as much the barbarian as he dressed, but he made himself understood despite syntactical errors that would make the mentor of a three-year-old blush.

  “It is a good time of year for this,” said Boman, the tall Ardisian. “The problem is—if you do follow our procedures for bringing back the people trapped in the blue beam, what do you do with them? It’s possible that the entire population of Ilium-Earth was coded there—up to six million people—including Chinese, Africans, American Indians, pre-Aztecs…”

  “Excuse me,” interrupted Thrasymedes. “We do not understand these words, Boman, son of Ardis.”

  The tall man scratched his cheek. “Do you understand the idea of six million?”

  No one did. Helen wondered if this Ardisian was fully sane.

  “Imagine thirty Iliums, when its population was at its height,” said Boman. “That is how many people may come out of the Temple of the Blue Beam.”

  Most in the Council chambers laughed. Helen noticed that neither Hector nor Thrasymedes did.

  “This is why we’re going to be there to help,” said Boman. “We believe that you can repatriate your own people—the Greeks—with little problem. Of course, the houses and cities, temples and animals are gone, but there’s much wild game and you can breed the domesticated animal population up again in no time…”

  Boman paused because most of the people were laughing or tittering again. Hector gestured for the Ardisian to continue, without explaining his error. The tall man had used the word for “fuck,” as it applies only to humans, when he had talked of breeding up the number of domesticated animals. Helen found herself amused.

  “Anyway, we’ll be there and the moravecs will provide transport home for those…foreigners.” He used the proper word, “barbarians,” but he obviously wanted another one.

  “Thank you,” said Hector. “Thrasymedes, if all your many peoples are there—from the Peloponnese, from the many islands such as Odysseus’ little Ithaca, from Attica and Boeotia and Molossi and Obestae and Chaldice and Bottiaei and Thrace, all the other areas your far-flung Greeks call home, what will you do then? You will have all those people in one place, but no cities, oxen, homes, or shelters.”

  Thrasymedes nodded. “Noble Hector, our plan will be to dispatch fi
ve ships back to New Ilium immediately to inform you of our success. The rest of us shall stay with those freed from the blue beam at Delphi, organizing safe trips for families back to their homelands, finding a way to feed and shelter everyone until order is established.”

  “That might take years,” said Deiphobus. Hector’s brother had never been a fan of the Delphi Expedition.

  “It may well take years,” agreed Thrasymedes. “But what else is there to do but attempt to free our wives, mothers, grandfathers, children, slaves, and servants? It is our duty.”

  “The Ardisian could fax there in a minute and free them in two,” came the resentful voice from the couch where he sat. Agamemnon.

  Boman stepped back into the open space. “Noble Hector, King Agamemnon, nobles and worthies of this Council, we could do as Agamemnon says. And someday you will also fax…not freefax as we…Ardisians…do, but fax through places called faxnodes. You’re not near one here, but you will discover one or more back in Greece. But I digress…we could fax to Delphi and free the Greeks in hours and days, if not minutes, but you will understand when I say it is not right for us to do this. They are your people. Their future is your concern. Some months ago, we freed a mere nine thousand-some of our own people from another blue beam, and while we were grateful for the extra population, we found it difficult to care for even that few without much planning in anticipation. The world has too many voynix and calibani roaming in it, not to mention dinosaurs, Terror Birds, and other oddities you will discover when you leave the safety of New Ilium.

  “We and our moravec allies will help you disperse the non-Greek population, if there is such in this blue beam, but the future of the Greek-speaking peoples must remain in your hands.”

  This short speech, although barbaric in its grammar and syntax, was eloquent enough to earn the tall Ardisian a round of applause. Helen joined in. She wanted to meet this man.

  Hector stepped into the center of the open area and turned in a full circle, meeting almost every individual’s gaze. “I call now for a vote. Simple majority rule. Those who agree that Thrasymedes and his expedition volunteers should leave for Delphi on the next good wind and tide, raise your fists. Those against the expedition, hold your palms down.”

  There were a little more than a hundred people in the Joint Council meeting. Helen counted seventy-three raised fists—including her own—and only twelve palms down, including Deiphobus’ and, for some reason, Andromache’s.

  There was much celebration inside and when the heralds announced the outcome to the tens of thousands in the central plaza and marketplace outside, the cheers echoed back off the new, low walls of New Ilium.

  It was outside on the terrace that Hector came up to her. After a few words of greeting and comments on the chilled wine, he said, “I want so badly to go, Helen. I can’t stand the thought of this expedition leaving without me.”

  Ah, thought Helen, this is the reason for Andromache’s no vote. Aloud she said, “You cannot possibly go, noble Hector. The city needs you.”

  “Bah,” said Hector, swallowing the last of his wine and banging the cup down on a building stone that had not yet been set in place. “The city is under no threat. We’ve seen no other people in twelve months. We spent this time rebuilding our walls—such as they are—but we shouldn’t have bothered. There are no other people out there. Not in this region of the wide Earth, at least.”

  “All the more reason for you to remain and watch over your people,” said Helen, smiling slightly. “To protect us from these dinosaurs and Terrible Birds our tall Ardisian tells us about.”

  Hector caught the mischief in her eye and smiled back. Helen knew that she and Hector had always had this strange connection—part teasing, part flirting, part something deeper than a husband and wife’s connection. He said, “You don’t think your future husband will be adequate to protect our city from all threat, noble Helen?”

  She smiled again. “I esteem your brother Deiphobus above most other men, my dear Hector, but I have not agreed to his marriage proposal.”

  “Priam would have wished it,” said Hector. “Paris would have been pleased at the thought.”

  Paris would have puked at the thought, thought Helen. She said, “Yes, your brother Paris would be happy to know that I married Deiphobus…or any noble brother in Priam’s line.” She smiled up at Hector again and was pleased to see his discomfort.

  “Would you keep a secret if I tell you?” he asked, leaning close to her and speaking almost in a whisper.

  “Of course,” she whispered back, thinking, If it is in my interest to do so.

  “I plan to go with Thrasymedes and his expedition when it sails,” Hector said quietly. “Who knows if any of us will ever return? I will miss you, Helen.” He awkwardly touched her shoulder.

  Helen of Troy set her smooth hand over his rough one, squeezing it between her soft shoulder and her soft palm. She looked deeply into his gray eyes. “If you go on this expedition, noble Hector, I will miss you almost as much as will your lovely Andromache.”

  But not quite so much as Andromache will, thought Helen, since I will be a stowaway on this voyage if it costs me the last diamond and the last pearl of my sizeable fortune.

  Still touching hands, she and Hector walked to the railing of the Council palace’s long stone porch. The crowds in the marketplace below were going mad with happiness.

  In the center of the plaza, exactly where the old fountain had stood for centuries, the mob of drunken Greeks and Trojans, milling together like brothers and sisters, had pulled in a large wooden horse. The artifact was so large that it wouldn’t have fit through the Gaean Gate, if the Scaean Gate still stood. The lower, wider, topless gate, hastily erected near the place where the oak tree had stood, had no problem swinging wide for this effigy.

  Some wag in the mob had decided that this horse was to be the symbol for the Fall of Ilium and today, on the anniversary of that Fall, they planned to burn the thing. Spirits were high.

  Helen and Hector watched, their hands still touching lightly—silently but not without communication to each of them—as the mob set the torch to the giant horse and the thing, made mostly of dried drift-wood, went up in seconds, driving the mob back, bringing the constables running with their shields and spears, and causing the noblemen and women on the long porch and balconies to murmur in disapproval.

  Helen and Hector laughed aloud.

  93

  Seven years and five months after the Fall of Ilium:

  Moira quantum teleported into the open meadow. It was a beautiful summer’s day. Butterflies hovered in the shade of the surrounding forest and bees hummed above clover.

  A black Belt soldier moravec approached her carefully, spoke to her politely, and led her up the hill to where a small, open tent—more a colorful canvas pavilion on four poles, actually—flapped gently in the breeze from the south. There were tables in the shade of the canvas and half a dozen moravecs and men bent over them, studying or cleaning the scores of shards and artifacts laid out there.

  The smallest figure at the table—he had his own high stool—turned, saw her, jumped down, and came out to greet her.

  “Moira, what a pleasure,” said Mahnmut. “Please do come in out of the midday sun and have a cold drink.”

  She walked into the shade with the little moravec. “Your sergeant said that you were expecting me,” she said.

  “Ever since our conversation two years ago,” said Mahnmut. He went over to the refreshment table and came back with a glass of cold lemonade. The other moravecs and men there looked at her with curiosity, but Mahnmut did not introduce her. Not yet.

  Moira gratefully sipped the lemonade, noticed the ice that they must QT or fax in from Ardis or some other community every day, and looked down and over the meadow. This patch ran a hilly mile or so to the river, between the forest to the north and the rough land to the south.

  “Do you need the moravec troopers to keep away rubberneckers?” she asked. “Curio
us crowds?”

  “More likely to interdict the occasional Terror Bird or young T-Rex,” said Mahnmut. “What on earth were the post-humans thinking, as Orphu likes to say.”

  “Do you still see Orphu much?”

  “Every day,” said Mahnmut. “I’ll see him this evening in Ardis for the play. Are you coming?”

  “I might,” said Moira. “How did you know that I was invited?”

  “You’re not the only one who speaks to Ariel now and again, my dear. More lemonade?”

  “No, thank you.” Moira looked at the long meadow again. More than half of it had its top several layers of soil removed—not haphazardly, as from a mechanical earthmover, but carefully, lovingly, obsessively—the sod rolled back, strings and tiny pegs marking every incision, small signs and numbers everywhere, trenches ranging from a few inches in depth to several meters. “So do you think you’ve found it at last, friend Mahnmut?”

  The little moravec shrugged. “It’s amazing how difficult it is to find precise coordinates for this little town in the records. It’s almost as if some…power…had removed all references, GPS coordinates, road signs, histories. It’s almost as if some…force…did not want us to find Stratford-on-Avon.”

  Moira looked at him with her clear gray-blue eyes. “And why would any power…or force…not want you to find whatever you’re looking for, dear Mahnmut?”

  He shrugged again. “It’d be just a guess, but I would say because they—this hypothetical power or force—didn’t mind human beings loose and happy and breeding on the planet again, but they have second thoughts about having a certain human genius back again.”

  Moira said nothing.

  “Here,” said Mahnmut, drawing her over to a nearby table with all of the enthusiasm of a child, “look at this. One of our volunteers found this yesterday on site three-oh-nine.”