Sunset of the Gods

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR





They flew southwestward, relying on the aircar’s low altitude and high speed to avoid being observed—or, at least, to assure that anyone who did observe it would not be believed. As they curved around the lower northern slopes of Mount Pentelikon, Jason reflected that somewhere up there on the summit was at least one Transhumanist, ready to flash the “shield signal” that would so perplex contemporary Athenians and later historians. He would subsequently return to his own time and place, for they had no leisure to attempt a search for him. Then the mountain was behind them and they sped across the plain of Attica.

As they went, Jason spoke to Pan in haste, because they had little time. “Do you know anything about the beliefs of the Persians? The teachings of their prophet Zoroaster?”

“Some,” said Pan, clearly puzzled by the question. “Franco and others have spoken of it.”

“Good, because when you address the cultists, this is what I want you to say.” Jason set it out in a few swift sentences, which was all he had time for. Pan frowned but claimed to understand. Jason could only accept that.

Pan brought them carefully around to approach Athens from the southwest, where no one’s attention was fixed. There, tucked into an angle of this century’s unimpressive city walls, was the dust-blown, weed-choked precinct sacred to Zeus. Here stood the forest of unfinished columns that had been intended to uphold the immense temple the tyrant Hippias had begun to erect, ostensibly to the glory of Zeus but in reality to his own and that of the Pisistratid dynasty of political bosses. It was what Napoleon might have built as a monument to his own ego if he had been a Classical Greek. Now it stood in its permanently unfinished state, left by the Athenian democracy as an object lesson in the futility of dictatorial megalomania.

Pan landed the aircar in the roofless space that was to have been the temple’s vast central aisle. As they got out, alert to the possibility of stray bystanders—even more unlikely than ever, on this day—Jason spoke to Pan. “Now, I want you to set a course into the autopilot which will, when signaled to do so, send this aircar out over water—I don’t care where, as long as it’s a remote stretch of coast—and then into a crash dive. I don’t really expect to use it,” he added, seeing Pan’s expression. “It’s just in case of contingencies.”

Pan obeyed, as he was conditioned to do, then handed Jason a remote-control unit, small and austerely functional by Teloi standards. “You need only press this stud to activate the command.”

“Good.” Jason put the unit in the pouch at his waist. “All right, everybody, let’s go!”

It was only about a third of a mile to their destination-point on the Acropolis’ north slope, as the crow flew. Of course, crows didn’t have to negotiate the twisting narrow streets of Athens. But Jason’s map display helped keep them from deviating from the most nearly direct route. And those streets were practically deserted, with the old men and women and children thronging the Agora on the far side of the Acropolis, waiting for news of the battle. The baggage compartment had held a hooded cloak in which the Transhumanists had customarily wrapped Pan when it was necessary to move him about where he might be observed. Swathed in it and hunched over, he might be mistaken for an elderly woman, as long as the cloak fell to the ground and concealed his hooves.

As they hastened through the streets, Jason briefly wondered if that slightly younger Jason Thanou was even now on the far side of Athens retrieving Chantal’s TRD from Themistocles’ house, or if he had already departed for Crete.

Moving along the narrow roadway that ran along the north side of the Acropolis, with the steep hillside immediately to their left, they reached a point directly below the grotto of Pan. The decaying Bronze Age wall did not extend here, for it only enclosed the area around the Acropolis’ western end. The hillside here was regarded as unscalable. Jason understood why as they scrambled up it, not wishing to waste time and risk notice by proceeding around to the gate in the wall and backtracking along the pathway Jason and Mondrago had followed before.

There was no one outside the grotto. Pan had explained that the cultists would not arrive until later, although they were probably already on their way, following the pathway from the gate, which was another reason Jason hadn’t wanted to take that route. The question was whether Franco was already inside. It was at this point that they were going to have to begin playing it by ear.

“Do you remember where you hit the rear wall?” Jason asked Mondrago.

“About here, I think.” Still, Mondrago had to pound several times before finding the right spot. The door-sized segment they remembered swung open. He and Jason led the way in, down the crude, shallow steps and across the small cave and into the tunnel. They activated their laser weapons’ “flashlight” feature as the light from the doorway dimmed. There was no light from up ahead, and no sound. Jason dared to breathe a sigh of relief.

They entered the large cavern holding the eerily archaic cult statue. But the idol was not on its dais. Rather, it was sunk into the floor, leaving the hatchway Jason remembered Pan emerging from in a glare of artificial light.

“Franco will be here any moment,” said Pan nervously as he busied himself lighting oil lamps.

“With how many others?” demanded Mondrago.

“No more than one. Aside from the one on Mount Pentelikon, that’s all he has left.” Jason nodded; he’d always thought there had to be a limit to how many people the Transhumanists, however advanced their time-travel technology, could displace, especially when they were also displacing the mass of an aircar. “He’ll be expecting the four others from Marathon to be waiting here with me. Oh . . . and he’ll also probably bring the woman defector. He’s represented her to the cultists as a priestess.”

Jason made no comment. He looked down into the chamber into which the idol had sunk. “It looks like there ought to be room for all of us to squeeze in down there. Pan, you wait up here where Franco expects you.”

The four of them descended a short ladder and crowded together. It was at least as tight a fit as Jason had thought . . . and though the cavern was cool, they had all been sweating profusely in the outside August heat.

“It’s just as well,” whispered Mondrago, as though reading Jason’s thoughts, “that none of us have been eating the local diet. All those beans—!”

“Shhh!” Jason shushed him, for there was a faint sound of approaching footsteps above.

They hadn’t long to wait before Franco’s unmistakable voice spoke, curtly and without preamble. “Where are my men?”

“Dead, Lord,” squeaked Pan. “Zeus and three other Teloi arrived atop Mount Kotroni and accused you of betraying them. A fight broke out and everyone, on both sides, was killed. Afterwards, I took the aircar and came here according to the plan, as I knew you would wish.”

“You lie, you nauseating piece of filth! All of them, on both sides killed? Do you take me for a fool?” There was a meaty smack, followed by a high-pitched whimpering.

“Don’t, Franco!” came a female voice—Chantal Frey’s voice. “After all, he came back as ordered.”

“He had no choice.” Franco’s voice held a dismissiveness that transcended contempt.

“They’re coming!” said a male voice unknown to Jason.

Franco’s voice muttered a non-verbal curse. “All right, we have no time. We’ll get to the bottom of this later. You: get down there and be prepared to play your role.” Franco didn’t look down into the compartment below the dais, for he had no reason to. Pan scurried down the ladder and crammed himself in with Jason and the others. His body odor was oddly acrid, but none of them were particularly squeamish. Above, Franco must have activated a control, for the cult statue rose up to its position on the dais and the hatch closed. Darkness settled over them.

Sounds from above were now muffled, but Jason could discern shuffling feet as the cultists filed into the cavern. It didn’t sound to him like as large a group as he had seen here before, but that made sense on this day; this would be mostly women and older men, with only those younger men who had managed to evade military service. Then he heard the droning, somehow sinister chant he had heard before. Soon the chanting began to be responsive, alternating with various ritual signals. Jason paid no attention to the sounds of the ceremony, which had probably been crafted to conform to the type of ritual that members of the various mystery religions would expect. Then it stopped abruptly, replaced by the stirring sound of Franco’s voice.

“Rejoice! Civilization is saved! While other Athenians huddle in the Agora, quaking with fear, Pan now grants you, his elect, the news they await. Know, then, that at this very moment, the battle is already won. The barbarians, driven mad with fear by Pan, have fled shrieking to their ships. The only ones left on Attic soil now lie dead on the plain of Marathon or drowned in the marshes.”

The rapturous collective sigh was audible.

Franco’s voice dropped an octave. “But those barbarians who escaped still believe they can defy the will of the gods and vent their rage on Athens. They have now set their course for Cape Sunium, and Phalerum beyond it, where they mean to land and descend on this defenseless city.”

There was a faint hissing sound of indrawn breath.

“But fear nothing!” Franco’s remarkable voice again became a clarion. “Pan has granted to his priestess Cleothera a vision of the future. Hear the prophecy!”

There was a pause, either intentionally or unintentionally dramatic, before Chantal spoke. Jason thought he could discern a quavering hesitancy in her voice. To the cultists, the effect must have been one not of ambivalence but of eeriness. And her singsong tone of recitation by rote must have been exactly what they expected of an oracle through whom a god spoke to mortals.

“Rejoice,” she intoned. “At this moment, the men of Athens have recognized the danger, and are girding themselves to march back. And they will arrive at Phalerum in time! The Persians, seeing the men who had just bested them drawn up on the shore, will wet their barbarian trousers in fear and sail away.”

Another, even more relieved sigh arose.

“And now,” Franco resumed, “your god has once again shown the favor in which he holds you. You have already received oracles that will enable your families to enrich themselves when the events they foretell—the second Persian invasion ten years from now, the wars between Athens and Sparta, and all the rest—come to pass. Thus you will be able to profit at the expense of this city that has never accorded Pan proper worship! And he will always hold you and your descendants in this same favor, as long as you unquestioningly obey his commands, as told to you by us, his messengers, while keeping your vow of secrecy.”

There was a chorus of frantically affirmative noises.

“Finally, even though his previous appearance was spoiled by impious intruders, you will now receive the ultimate reward of your devotion . . . for now the Great God Pan appears to you!”

All at once, the hatch above Jason’s head was outlined in light that shone through the cracks as the harsh electrical light he had seen before flooded the cavern. He heard the gasps of the cultists as they were temporarily blinded by the unnatural glare. Then the hatch, with the idol atop it, sank down, leaving the opening. Pan ascended the short ladder and the light above faded, allowing the cultists to see the apparition in the dimness.

Jason, crouched in the darkness below, heard the weird half-moan and half-sigh that arose above. It was a sound that no group of people in Jason’s world could have produced, for it held the kind of skepticism-free terrified ecstasy that the human race had lost the capacity to feel when it had emerged from the shadows of superstition. Gradually it droned down into silence, leaving a breathless hush.

The silence seemed to last a long time.

Jason felt Mondrago’s body, pressed up against his in the confines of the chamber, go rigid with tension.

Pan’s not going to go through with it, thought Jason, with a sickening sense of defeat. He can’t. The habit of obedience is too strong, and now it’s reasserting itself. He’s going to do exactly as Franco told him to do. I was an idiot to think otherwise.

All at once, the silence was shattered by a high-pitched sound. It took Jason a second to recognize the sound for what it was, for he had never heard it or even imagined it could be.

It was the sound of Pan laughing.

“You fools! Are you really such idiots that you still think I’m your god Pan? Now the time has come when I can enjoy telling you how you’ve been deceived.”

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 between 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.”