Sunset of the Gods

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.

“No, of course not, but he could hardly have avoided dropping some information in the course of her . . . association with him. He was an incorrigible braggart. She may turn out to be an ace in the hole for us.” Jason paused. “I don’t know what the final judicial determination of her case will be, or if it will even come to that. But if she ends up being sentenced to incarceration, I recommend that the time we keep her here be credited against her term.”

“I will pass along your recommendation, with my endorsement. Coming from a man whose death she almost caused, it should carry some weight. And you may quite possibly be right about her usefulness to us. But it goes without saying that she can provide no information on what the Transhumanists have been doing since Franco’s expedition. And as to what they may do in the future, the expeditions they may send back before we find this compact and energy-efficient temporal displacer of theirs, as we must find it . . . !” Rutherford shook his head slowly and looked at least his age.

“And,” said Mondrago, “we don’t know how riddled Earth is with these long-term secret organizations of theirs—we only aborted one of them, remember. We also don’t know when ‘The Day’ is scheduled to be, when all their long-term schemes are scheduled to come to fruition. Basically,” he concluded with a kind of pessimistic relish, “we don’t know much of anything at all.”

“One thing we do know,” said Jason grimly, and his eyes held Rutherford’s. “We know that the Temporal Service is going to have to change. The days of us being a sort of glorified tour guides are over. Oh, of course we’ll continue to send historical research expeditions back. But those expeditions are going to have to have more guards—very watchful guards. And above and beyond that, the Service is going to have to have a new unit whose full-time job is hunting down the Transhumanists across time the way we just did—a specialized combat section.”

Rutherford winced. “Perhaps we could call it the ‘Special Operations Section.’”

“Sounds good. Call it whatever you want. But for that section, at least, the old loose-jointed style isn’t going to work anymore. It’s going to have to be a military, or at least paramilitary, outfit—and outfits like that have the kind of organization they do, including a formalized rank structure, for a reason.”

“And I think I know just the man to head it,” Rutherford told him, with a very brief smile. Then his expression grew desolate again, as he contemplated the coming era of time wars. It was the look of an old man seeing his life’s assumptions and verities slipping irretrievably away into the past and vanishing, leaving him face to face with a harsh, unfamiliar, and unfriendly future in which he did not belong.

But then his eyes strayed to the fifteenth-century sword in his display case, the sword that had been borne by she who had come to symbolize the capacity of human beings to fight bravely and die gallantly for something they knew in their souls was worth dying—and killing—for. He seemed to draw strength from it. He turned back to Jason and spoke matter-of-factly.

“You will, of course, need to commence recruiting without delay.”

“Right. Da Cunha and Logan are, of course, obvious candidates. And we’ll need as wide a range of ethnic types as possible.”

“Sir,” Modrago blurted. “I want to be the first to sign up for this Special Ops Section of yours.”

“Satisfactory, Jason?” asked Rutherford with a lift of one eyebrow.

Jason pretended to consider. “Well, he’s an insubordinate wise-ass—”

“I can see how there might be a certain affinity, however reluctantly acknowledged,” Rutherford interjected drily.

“—but he’s an insubordinate wise-ass who is very handy to have around in a fight.” Jason turned to Mondrago. “I just might be able to use you. But I need to be sure you’ve got the right kind of motivation.”

“Well, sir, let me put it this way. Of course I’ve always hated Transhumanists, but mostly just because everybody hates them, if you know what I mean. Now I understand why I ought to hate them.” Mondrago seemed to seek for words to explain further, but then shook his head and spoke briefly. “It’s just something that has to be done.”

“Like what those men we fought beside at Marathon did,” Jason nodded. “Yes, I think you may possibly do.” He turned to Rutherford. “Will that be all for now?”

“Yes.” Then, as Jason and Mondrago got to their feet, Rutherford seemed to remember something. “Oh, yes, Jason, I almost forgot. A most remarkable coincidence occurred.” He took out the little plastic case Jason had left in his care. It was empty. Then he held out his other hand. It held a tiny TRD.

“Do you recall our last exchange just before your departure? Afterwards, still thinking about it, I looked in the case and found it was empty. A subsequent search revealed this on the displacer stage. Would you like to keep it?”

“No. I don’t think I need it anymore.” Jason smiled. “Come on, Alexandre. We’ve got work to do.”



HISTORICAL NOTE


That Marathon was one of the most crucial battles of world history has been recognized by such diverse authorities as Sir Edward Creasy and the U.S. House of Representatives, in a resolution on its 2500th anniversary. I fail to see how any other view is possible.

The events of Xerxes’ invasion of Greece ten years afterwards—the immensity of the Persian host, even when discounted for exaggeration; the heroic last stand of the three hundred Spartans (and their seven hundred forgotten Thespian allies) at Thermopylae; the stunning naval victory at Salamis; the titanic clash of massive armies at Plataea—have an epic quality which causes them to get most of the attention. But none of these things would ever have happened had the Athenians lost at Marathon, or submitted without fighting. No subsequent Persian invasion would have been necessary. It would have all been over in 490 b.c.—or perhaps the following year, if Sparta had not yielded and another campaigning season had been required to complete its obliteration.

A few historians—including Arnold Toynbee, in one of his less brilliant passages—have attempted to minimize the criticality of the Persian Wars. And in the 2006 collection Unmaking the West, Barry Strauss presented a counterfactual scenario suggesting that even if the Persians had conquered Greece and gone on to conquer the rest of the Mediterranean basin, it is not impossible that Western civilization—or at least a Western civilization, sharing many of the characteristics and values we associate with that term—still could, maybe, just possibly, have arisen. As an intellectual exercise, the essay is as original, ingenious and thought-provoking as one would expect from Professor Strauss . . . and it doesn’t convince for an instant. Not even he can succeed in defending the indefensible.

No. When those ten thousand hoplites broke into a run and charged three times their number of a hitherto invincible enemy, our future went with them. We cannot calculate the debt we owe them.



The scholarly literature relevant to Marathon is intimidating in its voluminousness. For the interested reader with finite time, I recommend three books on which I have leaned heavily and to which I take this opportunity to acknowledge my debt.

The first is The Western Way of War, by Victor Davis Hanson, a brilliant study of Classical Greek warfare and its long-term historical repercussions, which latter theme is further developed in the author’s subsequent Carnage and Culture. Hanson has been on the receiving end of a great deal of hysterical invective and politically correct name-calling. He must be doing something right.

The second is Persian Fire, by Tom Holland, a compulsively readable overview of the Persian Wars which achieves an almost unique degree of evenhandedness without ever seeming to lean over backwards to be evenhanded. Rather, the author simply accepts each side on its own terms while skewering both with his trademark sardonic wit. He is particularly good on the little-known and less-understood subject of what can only be called the ideology of the Persian Empire.

Third and most recent is The First Clash, by Jim Lacey, which focuses on the Marathon campaign and benefits from the fact that its author, aside from his academic credentials, is an experienced infantry officer and defense analyst. And unlike all too many historians, he does his math. On narrowly military questions I have tended to defer to his judgment, or at least to give it respectful weight when balancing it against Holland’s. I have not always done so in less specialized areas such as the much-disputed chronology and sequence of events. For example, I agree with Holland and an ever-increasing number of other historians that the battle took place in August. Lacey, in his Prologue, does perfunctory obeisance to the traditional date of September 12, but he doesn’t mention it again—which is understandable, inasmuch as his own reconstruction of the campaign (and, in particular, of the logistical constraints under which the Persians labored) makes nonsense of it. In fact, in a later chapter he himself refers to the “hot August sun” in the days immediately preceding the battle.

Finally, in addition to these books, I cannot forbear to mention The Ancient City, by Peter Connolly and Hazel Dodge. In the absence of actual time travel, it is the next best thing. After studying the segment on Classical Athens, I felt as though I had been there.



With the exception of Callicles, all the fifth century b.c. Greeks named in this novel are historical. Themistocles is the only one for whom we have what is self-evidently an individual portrait—the Ostia bust—free of artistic conventions and idealization. Otherwise, I have had to use my imagination about personal appearance, aided by hints from sculpture (the baldness of Aeschylus) and names (“Miltiades,” derived from the word for red ochre clay, was often bestowed on reddish-haired children).



The dualistic theology of Zoroastrianism is complex and fascinating, but I have not gone into it as it deserves. The Persian kings of the period in question were far from consistent in their practice of it, for their imperial policy was based on scrupulous (if insincere) respect for the innumerable gods of their various conquered peoples. Even among the Iranians themselves, Ahura Mazda was by tradition merely the chief god of a pantheon almost as inchoate as that of the Greeks, rather than the one uncreated God proclaimed by Zoroaster. The Persian Empire was not in any sense a Zoroastrian theocracy. But Darius I, one of the greatest masters of spin who has ever lived, used Zoroastrian imagery and terminology to justify his usurpation of the Persian throne. It was in this spirit that Datis used a distorted version of it as a propaganda tool as I have described. I have followed in his footsteps, albeit with even more outrageous distortion.

* * *

In the matter of dialogue, I have permitted myself certain anachronisms in the interest of clarity.

The initial Persian conquerors of Ionia were Medes led by their General Harpagus, and since this was the Greeks’ first contact with the Persian Empire they tended to refer to all the Persians as the “Medes,” just as Near Easterners today call all Western Europeans “Feringhi,” or Franks. In these pages the Persians are simply the Persians.

Conversely, the Greeks referred to themselves as “Hellenes,” as in fact they still do. I have used the more familiar “Greeks,” a name later applied to them by the Romans, who derived it from the Graeci, the inhabitants of the colony of Graeae in Italy. Interestingly, in light of the preceding paragraph, Near Eastern terms for the Greeks have always been some variation on “Ionians,” the Greeks with whom the Near East was most directly in contact. (The Persian word was “Yauna”; in the Old Testament, one of the sons of Japheth, the son of Noah whose progeny peopled Europe, is “Javan.”)

Likewise, I have used the well-known Latinized forms of Persian names rather than the originals. (“Cyrus,” not “Kurush”; “Darius,” not “Daryush.”)

Whenever transliteration of Greek place-names is disputed, I cheerfully admit that I have simply picked whichever version struck my fancy, with a fine lack of that foolish consistency which as we all know is the bugbear of small minds. (“Mount Pentelikon,” not “Mount Pentelicus”; “Phalerum,” not “Phaleron.”)