So in Lincoln Park, on this summery and boisterous L-Day, it was possible to imagine that a Titan might be standing right next to you. Might be that man in the queue for the hot dog vendor. Might be that woman sipping bottled water while leaning on a lakefront lamppost. Might be that rollerblader whizzing around in a cutoff L-Day T-shirt (motto: Waking Up From A 10-Year Nightmare). Might be that rich-voiced gospel singer leading a chorus of "Amazing Grace."
Might even be one or other (or both) of that mixed-race couple who were pushing a baby-stroller through the crowd and observing the goings-on with a detached, wry amusement.
"Don't you just feel like standing up and telling them?" said he to her. "Shouting it out loud? 'That's me you guys are all so jazzed up about. I'm the one. Come and give me a pat on the back. Maybe the key to the city too.'"
" You might," said she to him. "I wouldn't."
"Pride ain't a crime."
"No, but modesty's a virtue."
"You're not even tempted? Don't tell me you're not tempted."
"Not for a moment. Besides, what makes you think they'd believe us? Dozens of people have come out of the woodwork in the past three years claiming they were a Titan. They've all been debunked and laughed at. Why would we get treated any differently?"
"Uh, because it's true?"
"Face it, Rick, we're better off this way. We have a nice, quiet life. Be a pity to ruin it."
"Quiet?" said Ramsay, casting a dubious glance at the occupant of the stroller, who was fast asleep.
Sam followed his gaze. "Well, for another few minutes, at any rate. Hey, ice-cream van. Fancy a snow cone?"
They ate the cones on a bench overlooking the brilliant expanse of the lake, where pleasure cruisers, jet-skis and water skiers leashed to speedboats all vied for space, cross-hatching one another's wakes.
"Oh, I got an email from Jamie this morning," Sam said.
"And how is yon bonnie laddie?"
"Your Scottish accent is even worse than your English."
"Did I not sound like Sean Connery?"
"Not even close. And Jamie's fine. He's got a girlfriend now, so I don't hear from him as often as I used to."
"McCann has a girlfriend?"
"Don't sound so surprised. He's cute — in a boyish way. He's also pretty wealthy, thanks to Landesman."
"Aren't we all?" said Ramsay.
Jolyon Lillicrap, as executor of Regis Landesman's will, had supervised the disbursement of funds from his late boss's estate. Channelling the money through various offshore accounts so as to render it untraceable, he had ensured that everyone involved in the Titanomachy II campaign, from techs to surviving Titans, had been duly and amply rewarded for their services, himself included. By this means Sam and Ramsay had been able to buy a handsome, serviced penthouse apartment on North Lake Shore Drive, with spectacular views of the lake. They'd also established financial security for themselves for the rest of their lives.
"And Therese?" Ramsay enquired. "She called lately?"
"No, but the trip to Quebec to visit her is still on." Sam nodded at the stroller. "I'll take him with me so she can see how big he's getting."
"The poor woman. Any, you know, progress?"
Sam shook her head. "Every treatment in the book's been tried. If it's not made any difference by now, it's never going to."
Hamel had been left quadriplegic by Poseidon's attack. Sam's intervention had prevented him from fully coagulating the blood in Hamel's veins but he'd done enough damage to trigger a series of small ischemic strokes, the result of which was complete loss of function and sensation below the neck. Hamel could afford the best of healthcare and occupational therapy and, tough old broad that she was, she remained resolutely upbeat about her condition, arguing that it could have been worse, she could be dead, and moreover it had all been in a good cause. Sam, though, still felt an ache in the pit of her stomach every time she thought of her.
"If I'd only been a fraction quicker off the mark…"
Ramsay lodged a reassuring arm around her shoulders. "Stop it. You always beat yourself up about this, and it isn't going to change anything. Therese doesn't blame you, so neither should you."
Sam nestled her head against the muscled firmness of his shoulder. "Rick," she said after a few moments, "what do you think about, when you think about that day?"
He gazed out over the lake. On the grass nearby a drummer was pounding on bongos, beating out a complex polyrythym for a throng of neo-hippie L-Dayers to freak out to.
"Mostly I think how goddamn lucky you and me were to get out alive. When Zeus went all self-destructo on us… I mean, Jesus, if it hadn't been for our suits, we'd have been toast. Crispy-fried bacon. Done to a turn and carbon round the edges."
"Me, I can't forget Zeus's face as Landesman — you know."
"Castrated him."
"The sheer disbelief. His own father. After all the feuding and bad blood between them, suddenly he was just a kid again, ten years old, not understanding how his daddy could be so cruel."
"Yeah, it was a regular Greek tragedy. Bet Landesman himself regretted it, in the last few seconds. Not even a TITAN suit could save him from the shitstorm Zeus called down. The two of us just got blown off our feet. Landesman was right at the epicentre…" His voice tailed off.
Sam wasn't listening. She was back there, on Olympus, reliving it — the lightning explosion and its aftermath. Tottering to her feet, dazed, dazzled, half deafened. Her battlesuit seared all over, partially melted, no longer functioning. Useless, just so much high-tech clutter. Discarding most of it, piece by piece. Helping Ramsay upright, helping him pick off the majority of his armour too. Then surveying the agora — blasted and blackened on every surface, a negative print of itself. Trawling through the rubble to find scorched bits of Cronus's battlesuit, with scorched bits of Cronus inside it. Finding even less of the Olympians, just a few charred, scattered bone fragments, some held together with tar-like scraps of skin. All that remained of Zeus, Hera, Demeter and Dionysus.
Then the journey back through the stronghold to Rhea, amid grinning, triumphant soldiers who sensed now that the battle was truly won. On the way, encountering a group of men who'd unearthed Argus from his chamber. Seeing them drag him into the open with detached wires dangling from his head. Seeing them push him to his knees, his belly flopping over his thighs. Seeing them retreat to form a line, rifles raised — a firing squad. Seeing a vague smile creep onto Argus's corpulent face, as if he knew what was about to happen and it was a relief, an end to the stench and suffering of his existence. Or else the smile was just the idiot smile of a creature disconnected from all contact with the world, not realising what awaited.
The multiple report of the guns, and the slumping thud of a fleshy body falling, and her and Ramsay trudging on. To Rhea, who was still lying at the poolside, and lying so still, with Armstrong-Hall squatting solicitously beside her, doing his best to soothe her. The Field Marshal, in his water-soaked battledress, standing up as he saw the other two Titans approach. Snapping off a salute. Catching their expressions. Understanding. Saying, Done?
Sam confirming it. Done.
Armstrong-Hall relaying this into a walkie-talkie: Stand down. I repeat, all units stand down. It's over.
And Sam and Ramsay walking on as the mist began to lift from Olympus, thinning, the air brightening. Making for the gate, and the mountainside, and somewhere, elsewhere, anywhere that wasn't here.
On the bench, Ramsay could see Sam unreeling this vivid memory-movie in her mind.