The Age of Zeus

30. BRUGES

T hen came Bruges.

And the Titans' second casualty.

The elegant little Belgian city had endured a French attempt at annexation in the 14th century and, more recently, Nazi occupation, as well as lengthy periods of impoverishment when the canals that connected it to the coast silted up, meaning the arteries which carried its lifeblood, commerce, were blocked. It had survived all these hardships with its medieval architecture more or less intact and its air of resilience undiminished. Bruges sat in the midst of farmed flatlands like a well-preserved lesson in the art of quietly getting on with business and hoping for a brighter tomorrow.

Except… the good burghers of Bruges had slipped up lately. They'd forgotten their history — neglected the tradition of passive, sedate stoicism that had served them so well in the past. The city had become the hub of a youth movement that was prevalent throughout Europe and particularly in the Benelux: the Agonides, the Children of Struggle.

They were teenagers, mostly, who had grown up knowing little other than the Pantheonic rule and who chafed under the yoke of this unasked-for, quasi-divine governance. They were rebels, as passionate in their beliefs as only young people could be. They refused to accede to the Olympians' authority. They would not bend the knee the way all the older folks seemed to, especially the ones in positions of political power. They took it upon themselves to resist by mocking and denouncing the so-called gods at every turn.

They'd become famous — notorious — for their art stunts, graffiti sloganeering, and internet pranks such as a Trojan horse virus, called the "Trojan Horse," which embedded a subroutine in operating systems so that whenever the name or image of an Olympian appeared onscreen, a tiny wooden horse would pop up and disgorge a band of even tinier animated hoplites armed with mops and brushes who would set about scrubbing the word or picture out of existence. Millions of PCs and Macs were infected worldwide before All-Moderator Argus managed to expunge the virus from the Web. The Agonides were also responsible for a number of skilfully organised flashmob events that saw dozens of random strangers flock to some open public space and allow themselves to be arranged, through a cunning piece of mobile-phone GPS trickery, into a pattern that could be best seen by nearby surveillance cameras. They'd remain in place for as long as it took to guarantee the pattern had been recorded on CCTV, but no more than 30 seconds, before dispersing. On one occasion a reasonable likeness of Zeus's face was formed, showing the king of the Pantheon with eyes crossed and tongue sticking out. On another, a hundred or so bodies aligned to spell out the words FUCK THE GODS. Most often, though, the flashmobs adopted the official symbol of the Agonides, a circle representing the letter O — for Olympian — surrounded by a larger circle with a line slashing across it diagonally.

The movement had arisen in the genteel backstreets of Bruges. That was where its spiritual heart lay. Accordingly, Bruges was where the Olympians had chosen to site one of their vilest monsters. If the presence of the Lamia in their midst couldn't deter the Agonides from their adolescent shenanigans, then nothing could.

The Lamia was a vampiric thing, half woman, half snake, that seemed quite at home among the towering spires and torpid canals of the town. Night and day it swam and lolled in the water, lurking under bridges or crawling onto jetties to bask in the sun. Its preferred prey was small children, and as a consequence there were no small children to be found anywhere in Bruges. Everyone under the age of twelve had been evacuated into the surrounding countryside or found temporary lodgings in Brussels and Ghent. The Lamia was partial to the odd adult as well, but its attacks on mature victims were seldom fatal, whereas its attacks on minors almost always were. It was a question of blood volume. The Lamia sucked three or four pints at a single sitting, never any more. Most adults could survive that level of blood loss and the attendant shock, just, if given immediate medical treatment and an on-the-spot transfusion. Small children could not.

The inhabitants of Bruges tried to go about their daily lives as normal, acting as if the Lamia wasn't there. It wasn't easy, though. They could feel their city slowly dying around them. The empty playgrounds, the lack of high-pitched voices yelling, the toy shops, kindergartens and primary schools that had "Closed Until Further Notice" signs in the window — nobody had realised, until they were gone, quite how much children added to a community and quite how great a void was left by their absence. Without them, there was no tangible evidence of a future, no visible sense of continuum. There were just glum parents, missing their offspring terribly, and the elderly, feeling the cold wind of mortality more keenly than ever.

Also, tourists had stopped coming. Bruges's principal source of income these days were the visitors who were drawn in their droves to the "Venice of the north" thanks to its art treasures and its stately basilicas with their Gothic and neo-Gothic stylings. But the Lamia had put paid to that. Now the horse-drawn carriages stood idle in the Markt, the cobbles of the Burg were untroubled by the soles of sightseeing and coach-party crowds, and open-topped tour boats sat at their moorings with tarpaulins stretched over them and green slime accumulating on their hulls.

Then, one spring night, a rare event. A group of outsiders did arrive in town, unbeknownst to the residents. Although they had come to explore the place and their visit would ultimately be beneficial to the Brugesian economy, they were hardly tourists. Their reason for being there was, as one of them put it, to "find that motherfucking leech and blow it to bits."

Ramsay uttered these words in the back of the van as McCann drove him, Sam and Chisholm into the town. The Chicagoan's sense of humour had been on the wane since they'd left Singapore, and now his face was nothing but a mask of resolute, implacable hatred. His moment had come. Once more he reasserted that nobody else, nobody, would deliver the killing blow tonight. Nobody but him.

"I said it on the plane, I'll say it one more time. The bloodsucker is mine. I'm staking my claim. I've waited five goddamn years for this. You two are welcome to come with. I'll appreciate your support. But so help me, if either of you gets in my way when we have the thing cornered, you better damn well get out of it, or else. It's me and the Lamia, OK? For my little boy's sake. For Ethan. Me and that monster. To the death."

Sam said nothing, just nodded to show that she understood; Chisholm likewise.

McCann parked in a leafy residential square, and the Titans put their helmets on and powered up. Tethys, Hyperion and Oceanus exited from the back doors, and the hunt for the Lamia began.

Much like Singapore, Bruges was deserted after dark, the streets abandoned by its inhabitants, indoors seeming altogether a safer and more sensible place to be. The belfry of the Belfort-Hallen rang out every fifteen minutes, its carillon playing tunes to parcel out the hours, but it seemed nobody was out and about to hear, other than the three Titans.

"I know that one," Oceanus remarked, as the bells tolled half past midnight. "Bugger me, it's 'Danny Boy.'" He joined in. "'The pipes, the pipes are ca-all-ling.'"

"Hey," said Hyperion. "Zip it."

"Only having a bit of a singalong."

"Well, don't."

Oceanus bristled. "Now hold on a moment. Who are you to — "

Behind Hyperion's back, Sam made an air-patting gesture. Leave it.

Oceanus jutted his jaw, but relented.

They traversed several low bridges, weapons trained on the canals below. The water was mirror-motionless, black as oil. Mist drifted up from it in thready swirls.

"Come on out, Lamia," Hyperion muttered. "Show your face. I got something for you."

The "something" was the rocket launcher that he carried slung over his back, a Daedalus special, short enough that the user could flip it forward, slot the rocket in, and assume firing position in one easy manoeuvre. Its effectiveness in the field had been proved twice, first against the Sphinx, then against the Chimera. The projectiles' thermobaric warheads, designed to stop armoured vehicles and penetrate masonry, made mincemeat of monsters. Overkill? Hyperion would argue that under these circumstances there was no such thing.

"Movement," said Oceanus.

"Where?" said Hyperion.

"Your eleven."

"Got it."

The Titans had just crossed yet another bridge, having performed almost a complete circuit of the central part of the city. On the corner of a narrow street up ahead, Sam could see what looked like an arm — waving? Reaching up? She could also, now, detect an intermittent hissing noise.

Hyperion swung the launcher, already loaded, onto his shoulder and advanced. Back at Bleaney, Landesman advised caution. Sam followed Hyperion, machine gun at the ready. She kept to his left side, steering well clear of the launcher's rear end. Thanks to her battlesuit the backblast wouldn't kill her but it would certainly knock her off her feet.

The hissing continued, reminding Sam of the sound the Gorgons had made. Perhaps they and the Lamia were related, members of the same composite woman/snake species. But the Lamia was a stealth predator. Its modus operandi was to creep up on its prey and latch on, injecting them with a venom that served as a muscle relaxant before it took its fill of their blood. Why would it be making any noise? Why alert anyone to its presence in this way?

Hyperion rounded the corner, adopting a feet-spread firing stance.

"Ah shit," he said. Angry, disappointed. "One of them."

Sam joined him, and found a scared teenage boy cowering before him. The teenager's face was covered with a balaclava, and in his hand was an aerosol can. On the wall beside him, part of the facade of a chocolate shop, were two freshly painted concentric O's. He hadn't yet managed to add the diagonal line that would complete the Agonides symbol.

"Please, don't shoot!" the teenager begged. "I am good kid. No threat. Just doing my thing."

"I'm not going to shoot," Hyperion assured him. "What do you mean, your thing?"

"I must paint ten of these, ten logos around the city, then I am able to join Agonides as full member. It's my — I'm not sure of the word." The teenager's English carried a Flemish accent, not dissimilar to a Netherlands accent. Word came out voord.

"Initiation."

"Yes! Initiation."

"It's dangerous out here at night," Sam said.

"True," said the teenager, "but in daytime police would try to stop me. At night, no police."

"You'd rather risk death than being arrested."

He shrugged. "What we do — it is worth dying for." Through the balaclava eyeholes Sam saw his gaze turn inquisitive. "But who are you people? Not army. Not proper army."

"We're no one," said Hyperion. "Ghosts. We don't exist. Got that? Now run home and forget you ever saw us."

"Ghosts…" A light of comprehension dawned in the teenager's eyes. "I know! I know it! You are them!" he exclaimed. "The ones. The monster killers. That is right, no? The ones who do the Griffin, the Sphinx… The Sirens also, I think. It is on the news today. And now the Lamia. You're here to kill her too."

"It," Hyperion corrected him. "Kill it. Now what part of 'run home' did I not say clearly enough for you to understand, son?"

"Please, I must shake your hands. You are heroes to us. We Agonides, we are talking about you the whole time. We love you. Many people love you. You are big buzz online. Go to the chat rooms, the forums, you'll see. Our leaders do not like you. They say you are bad. You are too much making waves. But the people, they know you are doing good thing. And the Olympians next? First the monsters, then the assholes who say they are gods but are not? That is the plan?"

"I'm not going to tell you," said Hyperion. "And I'm not going to be shaking any hands either. Just scram, kid. I mean it."

The teenager produced a mobile phone from his back pocket. "A picture. So I can post it online and show everyone who you are. Proof that you exist. The world needs to see you."

"For God's sake don't let him," said Landesman.

"Gimme that." Hyperion reached for the phone.

"Um, Tethys, Hyperion…" came Oceanus's voice, quaverily over the comms. "Help."

They turned.

"I'm sorry," Oceanus croaked. "Came up from behind. Didn't see."

The Lamia had him. A glistening trail of canal water led from the parapet of the bridge to where the monster now was, draped around Oceanus. Its snakelike lower half enveloped him to the waist like the coils of some immense boa constrictor. Its womanlike upper half clutched his torso, pinning his arms to his sides in a muscular embrace. He was helpless. The Lamia had torn off the rubberised gorget which protected his neck. Now its mouth was latched onto his exposed throat, and its venom was already taking effect. Oceanus writhed feebly in its clutches but, even with the added strength from his battlesuit, his efforts were in vain. The Lamia's head bobbed slightly as it drank deeply from his jugular.

Without hesitating, Hyperion sighted the rocket launcher on the monster.

"Hyperion!" Sam snapped. "What the hell are you doing?"

"What needs to be done," Hyperion said, off-comms. Launch lever down. Finger on trigger. "He's as good as dead already."

"No he is not." Sam raised her submachine gun. "Back off and leave this to me."

"The Lamia's mine, Tethys. You can't have it."

"That isn't your decision to make," Sam replied. "And besides, I don't recall asking your permission."

She darted towards the Lamia. Hyperion was yelling at her, pleading with her — she ignored him. The situation being what it was, his choice of weapon had put him out of the running.

"Hey!" she shouted at the monster. "Hey! Over here! Look at me!"

The Lamia broke off from its feasting and looked up. Its mouth was round and fringed with needle teeth like a lamprey's. Gore trickled from the puckered, sphincter-like orifice, dribbling down the monster's chin onto its bare flaccid breasts. Orange-irised eyes fixed Sam with a look of gluttonous glee. Oceanus now hung slack in the Lamia's clutches. His jaw drooped and his head was starting to loll.

Sam drew a bead on the Lamia's face and fired. Quicker than she'd anticipated, however, the monster swivelled. The shot ricocheted off Oceanus's shoulder, zinging into the stonework of the bridge. Next moment, the Lamia relaxed its hold on Oceanus, loosening its coils, but not completely, and not for long, only for the couple of seconds it took the monster to slither to the bridge parapet and over the side. It dived headlong into the canal, taking its victim with it.

Sam was at the parapet before the Lamia was even fully submerged. The canal was shallow, no more than a couple of metres deep. She switched to thermal imaging. Within the water a dim red blob appeared, roughly the shape of Oceanus and the Lamia entwined. Sam fired and fired again. The Lamia flexed its tail and lanced off through the water, dragging Oceanus along. A turbulent wake swelled up from below.

Then a rocket pierced the surface of the canal, its small splash followed swiftly by a tremendous subaquatic detonation that flared white in Sam's visor and raised a ten-metre-diameter blister of water. Hyperion reloaded and fired the launcher again. A second blister of water overwrote the tumultuous ripples left by the first.

"I got it," Hyperion breathed. "Tell me I got it."

The canal churned, waves slapping and slopping against its embankments. Gradually the tortured water subsided to calmness. Moments passed. Then, with a slow, sinister grace, two bodies broke the surface. They bobbed up side by side like a pair of synchronised swimmers, Oceanus face down, the Lamia rolling over onto its back, its thick tail uncoiling. Outwardly both looked more or less intact. The blasts hadn't killed them directly, the hydrostatic pressure had.

"Ah goddammit." Hyperion sounded sick and weary all of a sudden, drained of all energy. "Shit."

"Yes," said Sam. "Quite. Shit."

"I didn't… I mean, he was a goner the moment — "

"Save it for later. Police'll be here soon. Those bangs will have woken up half of Belgium. Let's get down there and retrieve Oceanus's body, then scarper."

"Sam, I — "

" Later. And if you ever call me anything but Tethys again while we're on an op, I will smack you in the mouth. The way I'm feeling right now, I've a good mind to smack you in the mouth anyway, so don't give me an excuse."

"Do as she says, Hyperion," said Landesman, "and make it quick. We can't leave Oceanus. We need him home — him and his suit. We can't leave any trace of ourselves behind."

On a nearby jetty Sam found a boathook which she used to draw Oceanus over. His head-up display was still lit; the suit was still functioning, even though its wearer was not. She left Hyperion to haul the body out of the water and sling it over his shoulder. As he did so, she spared a glance for the Lamia, which floated serenely, eyes open but unseeing, lamprey mouth agape. In spite of herself, Sam thought that the monster looked at peace.

Oceanus's death had been a mercy killing. She was angry about it but deep down she knew Hyperion had done the kindest possible thing, if not necessarily for the noblest possible motive. Slow drowning versus instant oblivion? No contest.

But the Lamia's death — it occurred to her that that might be regarded as a mercy killing too. An end to a repugnant, unnatural existence.

God help her, was she actually starting to feel pity for these creatures?

The siren of an emergency services vehicle skirled in the distance. Hyperion bounded up the jetty steps and started running towards where the van was parked, accelerating to his top speed, barely impeded by the bulk of Oceanus. Sam followed suit.