The Age of Zeus

25. MAN-LION DREAM

S am slept for almost a full twenty-four hours. She was dimly aware of Mahmoud entering and leaving their room every so often, for all that Mahmoud was as surreptitious as she could be. Otherwise, she was dead to the world.

Dreams came thick and fast, and lions featured in many of them. Dead lions, for the most part. Whole prides of them, slaughtered, eviscerated, bullet-riddled, their corpses strewn across mountainsides and deserts and strange dark forested landscapes. Sometimes the lions morphed into monsters such as the three Sam had recently helped kill, things that had lionlike attributes but were amalgams of other beasts as well. One of these started speaking to her as it lay, sprawled in a stew of its own blood and internal organs, dying.

"It hurts," groaned the creature, which had distinctly human facial features. "Why have you done this to me? What did I ever do to you?"

Sam's dream self could come up with no good answer to that. Rationally, she knew that the monster had to die, just as all the Olympian monsters did. Landesman's plan demanded it. The world was crying out for it.

Emotionally, a justification was harder to find.

"I'm sorry," she said, conscious how pathetic this sounded.

The man-lion shook its mane. "'Sorry' really won't do. Where is this all going, Sam? Have you even thought about that? Say you wipe out all us monsters, and the Olympians too. Unlikely, but not beyond the realms of possibility. What then? What happens after?"

"I feel better."

"You're sure? And will the world feel better? Years of pent-up aggression. The dozens of simmering conflicts the Olympians have been keeping a lid on. All that anger held in check. Ancient hatchets buried but not forgotten. All of it comes exploding out at once. Remember the Balkans after perestroika? Now imagine the same but on a worldwide scale. Humankind will tear itself apart."

"Or we'll all heave a sigh of relief and get back to the business of being ourselves again."

"And being yourselves, was that really so great?" the man-lion asked, its voice seeming to grow stronger even as its life ebbed away. "What was so fantastic about a world where men like Regis Landesman, purveyor of instruments of death, could flourish? Remember what you used to see day in, day out at work, Sam — the degradation, the crime, the mindless brutality. Lives ruined at a single stroke. That was your job, cleaning up the mess left behind by people who were at best thoughtless, at worst evil incarnate. You know better than most the corruption that lurks beneath the surface film of everyday life, and how thin and fragile that surface film is. The husbands who just suddenly snap and turn into wife beaters, wife killers even. The lunatics who listen when God tells them to go out with that Stanley knife and use it on whoever looks at them with the Devil's eyes. The junkies who rob pensioners' savings tins then take a shit on their living-room rugs for good measure. The whores so worn out and numb inside that they think getting beaten black and blue by their pimps is proof of affection. That's what you want to go back to? That's a status quo worth restoring?"

"There's still crime, even under the Pantheon."

"Nowhere near as much as there used to be."

"Crime is the shadow of freedom."

"That's what Ade used to say, isn't it? That was his personal favourite little Christmas cracker motto."

"Don't you mention his name. Don't you dare."

"You raised the subject. You quoted him. Very liberal for a copper, was Ade, wasn't he? Always could see the other guy's point of view. Always tried to understand the crims' mentality. That's probably why he was destined to stay a uniform for ever. Didn't have the detachment, the inner steel. Not like you."

"Ade was a good man."

"Of course, of course." For a being that was on the brink of death, and sinking fast, the man-lion seemed to have a lot to say still and plenty of breath to say it with. "And that's why you loved him. Deep down, though, you always felt he was a bit of a sap. How did he do it? How did he survive day after day on the beat, being abused and derided, having teenagers spit and jeer and call him ' cunt stable,' and not get ground down by it, not become bitter and cold? How did his heart continue to remain open and honest and fair? Because he lacked guts, that's why."

"It isn't weakness, staying uncynical."

"Oh but I think you think it is, Sam. Wasn't it because Ade was so wide-eyed and eager to help that he got himself killed? That's the truth of it, no? If he hadn't volunteered with the Police Support Unit, hadn't trained for crowd control, hadn't been at Hyde Park that day, hadn't dashed in to save a life when Apollo and Artemis arrived and everything went to hell…"

"Shut up." Sam realised she had a submachine gun in her hands.

"Shut me up," the man-lion replied.

So she did, pouring bullets into the expiring monster's face until it had no face left.

"There, that's you put out of your misery," she said as the gunsmoke cleared, "and mine."

That could well have been the last of the dreams that came to her during her long sleep. If there were subsequent ones, she didn't remember them on waking. She crawled stiffly out of her bunk and went to make herself coffee in the dining area. Then she went in search of company. The subterranean complex seemed quiet. Far quieter than usual. Emptier, too. Eventually she found people down in the command centre. Everyone, in fact, was there, gathered around one of the screens.

"Ah, she is risen!" Landesman declared. "Come on over and join us, Sam. You're just in time. The Olympians are about to make a statement. I believe our moment has come. The proverbial feline has exited the proverbial flexible receptacle. The Olympians have realised somebody is tweaking their noses and they can't ignore it any longer."

Onscreen, a BBC newscaster was filling airtime while below her a "breaking news" strapline scrolled from right to left promising that an important announcement from Mount Olympus was imminent.

"We're expecting the live feed to begin any minute now," she said. "To repeat, in case you've just tuned in: the Olympians are shortly to broadcast a message to the world. We don't know yet what they have to tell us. All we know is it's a top-priority simulcast that's being beamed to every single known national network and news channel. Here in the studio with me is our Pantheonic Affairs correspondent Tom Marsters. Tom. Any clue what Zeus and the rest are likely to say?"

"None at all, Julia," the correspondent replied. "This has all come rather as a shock. Normally we're given at least a day's advance notice if Zeus has something he wants to share with the world, and more often than not we have some idea what topic he intends to cover. It's either obvious or guessable. In this instance, we've had no prior warning, we only knew an hour ago that something was in the offing, and that itself is fairly unprecedented and not insignificant, I'd say."

"And is it also not insignificant that all of the Olympians are going to be there when Zeus makes this statement? In the past it's been just him in front of the camera, perhaps with Hera beside him, but this time, as I understand it, if the information we've received is correct, the entire Pantheon will be on hand."

"It's definitely not insignificant, Julia. I believe the last time something like this happened, it was in the wake of the Obliteration, and that's going back a few years. Then, I think, it was as much a show of solidarity as anything, a case of putting on a unified front. All of the Olympians took part in the Obliteration, and all of them were keen to go on TV and show they had no regrets about it. So yes, we can only assume this is a broadcast on the same level of momentousness as that one. What's unclear is what has prompted it. So far as we're aware, the Olympians haven't carried out any major police actions recently. There've been no protests to quell, no conflicts to curb. The world's been rather quiet of late. This is all so unexpected."

"There have been rumours, though, haven't there?" said the newscaster. "Unconfirmed reports about missing and dead monsters."

"There have," the correspondent said cautiously, "although it's important to stress that they are just rumours, they are unconfirmed."

"The Griffin killed in Kashmir. The Chimera in Estonia. No attacks on people by the Hydra for over two weeks, and no fresh sightings of it either."

"All highly disturbing, I agree. But let's not jump to conclusions, Julia."

"In the light of that, the Cyclops's death is starting to look a little suspicious too, don't you think?"

"As I said, let's not jump to conclusions. If something is happening, if somebody is really going around bagging Olympian monsters, then it's very serious stuff indeed. But let's wait and see, shall we? It could turn out to be — "

"Sorry, Tom, have to interrupt you there." The newscaster was pressing a finger to her in-ear talkback monitor. "I'm getting word… yes… I'm being told the statement is just about to begin, so we're going to go straight over to that. This is coming live from Mount Olympus."

The image cut to the Olympians' stronghold. The fourteen gods were assembled on the steps of the central temple at their mountaintop home. Behind them, fluted Doric columns supported a portico on which, just visible, was a frieze of the Olympians' faces. Those faces, sculpted in marble, were smiling, benevolent, just a touch smug. The Olympians' actual faces were anything but.

Zeus was foregrounded. Flanking him were his wife Hera and son Hermes, the one matronly, the other leanly muscled. Behind them stood two more of Zeus's offspring, the half-siblings Ares — copper armour, tree-branch arms folded in front of his tree-trunk torso, double-headed battleaxe sheathed in his belt — and statuesque Athena, her martial helmet raised high on her forehead. Beside them were a further pair of his offspring, the twins Apollo and Artemis, he with his golden bow slung crosswise over his torso, she leaning on her silver hunting spear. They were joined by Hercules, Zeus's illegitimate son, posing with his knuckles on hips, looking beetle-browed and surly and ever so slightly camp, as only Hercules could. Forming the third row were an ill-assorted bunch: proud Poseidon, shy Demeter, ruddy-cheeked Dionysus, and sullen, sallow-faced Hades. Aphrodite — pale, slender, inordinately beautiful — stood at the rear, along with her husband Hephaestus, a stunted dwarf of a man who held onto her shoulder for support. His left leg was a twisted, crippled thing encased in a brace and an orthopaedic shoe.

All fourteen members of the Pantheon stared straight into the camera, and the anger radiating off them, even off loving Aphrodite, was palpable.

They remained like this for several seconds, stern parents letting their children know the severity of the trouble they were in.

Then white-bearded, dark-eyed Zeus — Zeus the Wide-Seeing, Zeus the Master Of The Bright Lightning — spoke.

"Mortals," he said, "how dare you. How dare you! Such great things we have done on your behalf, and all we have asked in return is for you to stay peaceable and abide by our governance. It seems, however, that even that is too much for some among you."

A pause, then he continued: "It has come to our attention that a number of our beasts — those custodians of your wellbeing, guardians of your good conscience — have been foully and cruelly slain. I refer to the Sphinx, the Griffin, the Chimera and the Hydra. It is our belief, moreover, that the supposed accident which took the life of the Cyclops was not, in fact, an accident at all. These five deaths having occurred within the space of a single month leads us to one conclusion and one only. There is a concerted effort being undertaken to kill our loyal creatures. We are facing a co-ordinated series of attacks by persons unknown. A conspiracy has been hatched."

"And here was I thinking Landesman was long-winded," muttered Barrington. "This fella could teach you a thing or two, Regis."

Landesman shot him a sharp look.

"This cannot stand," said Zeus, his voice lowering to a menacing rumble. "This will not stand. Harming innocent beasts who are simply doing the tasks they have been instructed to do is a craven act. Only a coward would kill the watchman's dog but not the watchman. If you wish to attack Olympians, then by all means attack us. See how far it gets you. To go after our vassals achieves nothing… other than arousing our ire."

Hera, at his side, nodded in vehement agreement. She, keeper of the monsters, was doubtless feeling a sharper grief than any of her fellow Olympians. Her eyes gleamed with imperious indignation.

"We do not know who you are, you butchers, you murderers," Zeus said, "but rest assured, we will find out, and once we know your names and where you live, we will come for you and we will pinch you out like match flames. In the meantime, you must learn that your actions have consequences, if not immediately for you then for others. A show of our displeasure is in order. World, prepare yourself. See, once again, what it means to incur the wrath of your divine guardians."

Zeus directed a grave, searching stare into the camera. Blue-white light crackled in his eyes.

Then the transmission from Olympus ended, the screen went blank, and a moment later the BBC studio reappeared. The newscaster and the Pantheonic Affairs correspondent were looking at each other with expressions that were, frankly, alarmed.

"Well, that's… That's certainly…" said the newscaster, and groped for a description.

"A worrisome turn of events," the correspondent said. "Zeus sounding there like he means business."

The newscaster collected herself. "What, in your view, will the 'consequences' he just mentioned be, Tom?"

"No idea, Julia. But I expect it won't be long before we find out, and I, for one, am not looking forward to it."

"Oh God."

"Indeed. Oh God."