“What do you think would happen if I took my osmosis mask off?”
“You’d die,” said Harman without emotion. The older man was ill—not a condition humans had encountered often, since the firmary dealt with such things—and he was shaking with cold, despite the thermskin’s preservation of all his body heat. “You’d die,” he repeated.
“Quickly?”
“Slowly, I think,” said Harman. His blue thermskin was filthy from river mud and lizard blood. “You’d asphyxiate. But it’s not pure vacuum here, so you’d struggle for quite a while.”
Daeman nodded. “What if I took my thermskin off but left my mask on?”
Harman thought about this. “That would be quicker,” he agreed. “You’d freeze to death in a minute or less.”
Daeman had said nothing and he’d thought Harman had drifted back to sleep, but then the older man whispered over the comm, “But don’t do it without telling me first, all right, Daeman?”
“All right,” said Daeman.
The corridor was so thick with wild kelp that they almost had to turn back, but by having one of them twist and shove the floating growth aside while the other fought his way through, they were able to wiggle and kick and pull their way the two hundred yards or so of the dark length of the windowless column. There was a wall at the end—just what both men expected after their troubles—but Daeman kept moving the flashlight beam past the kelp, and suddenly they could just barely make out a white square set in the dark bulkhead of exotic material. Daeman had the gun so he went through the semipermeable membrane first.
“What do you see?” called Harman on the commline. He hadn’t come through yet. “Can you see anything?”
“Yes.” It was Daeman’s thermskin suitcomm answering, but not Daeman’s voice. “He can see wonderful things.”
50
Ilium
“Tell me again what you’re looking at,” said Orphu, speaking not over the tightbeam but via k-link cable. Mahnmut was riding on the Ionian’s back like a jockey on a floating elephant. The k-link had given them enough broadband for Orphu to upload the entire Greek language and Iliad databases in a few seconds.
“The Greek and Trojan leaders are meeting on this ridgetop,” said Mahnmut. “We’re just behind the Greek contingent—Achilles, Hockenberry, Odysseus, Diomedes, Big and Little Ajax, Nestor, Idomeneus, Thoas, Tlepolemus, Nireus, Machaon, Polypoetes, Meriones, and a half dozen other men whose names I didn’t catch during Hockenberry’s quick introductions earlier.”
“But no Agamemnon? No Menelaus?”
“No, they’re still back in Agamemnon’s camp, recovering from their single combat with Achilles. Hockenberry told me that they’re being cared for by Asclepius, their healer. The brothers have broken ribs and cuts and bruises—Menelaus has a concussion from where Achilles brained him with a shield—but nothing life-threatening. According to the scholic, both of them will be able to walk in a day or two.””
“I wonder if Asclepius could give me my eyes and arms back,” rumbled Orphu.
Mahnmut had nothing to say to this.
“What about the Trojans?” asked Orphu, his voice eager. He sounded the way Mahnmut always imagined a human child would sound—happy, enthusiastic, almost gleeful. “Who’s here representing Ilium?”
Mahnmut got to his feet on the cracked shell, better to see across the plumed heads of the Achaean heroes into the ranks of the Trojans.
“Hector leads the contingent, naturally,” said Mahnmut. “His red horsehair plume and bright war helmet really stand out. He’s wearing a red cape as well. It’s as if he’s defying the gods to come down and fight.”
Mahnmut had already relayed to Orphu the scene described by Hockenberry from earlier that afternoon when Hector and his wife, Andromache, had walked among the massed thousands of warriors from Ilium, holding high the mutilated body of their dead son—Scamandrius—still dressed in blood-stained royal linen, holding up the corpse for all the Trojans to see. Hockenberry reported that there were thousands of Achaeans still contemplating flight to the high seas in their black ships, but after Hector’s and Andromache’s grim procession, all of the Trojans and their allies were ready to fight the gods, hand to hand if need be.
“Who’s here for Ilium besides Hector?” asked Orphu.
“Paris stands next to him. Then the old counselor, Antenor, and King Priam himself. The old men stand slightly apart, not interfering with Hector.”
“Antenor’s two sons, Acamus and Archelochus, have been killed already, I think,” said Orphu. “Both by Telemonian Ajax—Big Ajax.”
“I think that’s right,” said Mahnmut. “It must make it hard for them to be clasping forearms in truce the way they are now. I see Big Ajax talking to Antenor as if nothing’s happened.”
“They’re all professional soldiers,” said Orphu. “They know they raise their sons for battle and possible death. Who else do you see in Hector’s contingent?”
“Aeneas is there,” said Mahnmut.
“Ah, the Aeneid,” sighed Orphu. “Aeneas is . . . was . . . destined to be the only survivor of the royal house of Ilium. He’s destined . . . was destined—to escape the burning city with his son, Ascanius, and a small band of Trojans, where their descendants will eventually found a city that will become Rome. According to Virgil, Aeneas will . . .”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here,” interrupted Mahnmut. “As Hockenberry says, all bets are off now. I don’t think there’s any part of this Iliad you uploaded to me where the Greeks and Trojans become allies in a doomed crusade against Olympos.”
“No,” said Orphu. “Who else is standing there with Hector besides Aeneas, Paris, old Priam, and Antenor?”
“Othryoneus is there,” said Mahnmut. “Cassandra’s fiancé.”
“My God,” said Orphu. “Othryoneus was destined to be killed by Idomeneus this evening or tomorrow. In the battle for the Greek ships.”
“All bets are off,” repeated Mahnmut. “It looks as if there isn’t going to be any battle for the ships tonight.”
“Who else?”
“Deiphobos, another son of Priam, is there,” said Mahnmut. “His armor is polished so bright I have to drop more polarizing filters in place just to look at him. Next to Deiphobos is that fellow from Pedaeon, Priam’s son-in-law, whatshisname . . . Imbrius.”
“Oh my,” said Orphu. “Imbrius was destined to be killed by Teucer in just a few hours . . .”
“Stop that!” said Mahnmut. “Somebody’s going to overhear you.”
“Overhear me on tightbeam or k-link?” said Orphu with a rumble. “Not likely, old friend. Unless these Greeks and Trojans have a bit more technology than you’ve told me about.”
“Well, it’s disconcerting,” said the smaller moravec. “Half the people standing up there on Thicket Ridge are supposed to be dead in a day or two, according to your stupid Iliad .”
“It’s not my stupid Iliad,” rumbled Orphu. “And besides . . .”
“All bets are off,” finished Mahnmut. “Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“The negotiations are over. Hector and Achilles are stepping forward, grasping each other’s forearms now . . . good God!”
“What?”
“Can you hear that?” gasped Mahnmut.
“No,” said Orphu.
“Sorry, sorry,” said Mahnmut. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that literally. I just meant . . . I mean . . .”
“Get on with it,” snapped the Ionian. “What didn’t I hear?”
“The armies—Greek and Trojan both—are roaring now. Good Lord, it’s an overwhelming sound. Hundreds of thousands of Achaeans and Trojans combined, cheering, waving pennants, thrusting their swords and spears and banners into the air . . . the cheering and yelling mob goes all the way back to the walls of Ilium. The people on the walls there—I can see Andromache and Helen and the other women Hockenberry pointed out—they’re all shouting as well. The other Achaeans—the ones who were undecided, waiting by their ships—they’ve come out to the Greek trenches and are cheering and screaming as well. What a noise!”