Someone was banging against the doors.

Why don’t they just quantum teleport in? thought Mahnmut. He didn’t take time to figure that out. Swapping out his hands for metal leads, he found the final enable port and transmitted the actuate charge of thirty-two modulated volts.

The dish shot out a yellow beam eight meters wide. The column of pure Chevkovian energy blasted a hole in the ceiling and through three more floors before stabbing out to the stars. Then it switched off and the transmitter silently self-destructed into a molten blob.

Mahnmut’s emergency polarizing filters had come on in nanoseconds during the transmission, but he was still blinded for a few seconds. When he did look up through the series of slanted, steaming holes above and saw the sky, he dared to have hope for the first time.

The gods blew the door inward and Mahnmut’s end of the treasure vault filled with smoke and vapor.

Mahnmut used the few seconds of cover the smoke provided to grab the Device—which would have massed only about ten kilograms on Earth’s gravity and weighed only about three here on Mars—and then he crouched, contracted the springs and actuators in his hind legs as tightly as he could, ignoring design tolerances, and then leaped up through the smoking holes, flying up and through fifteen meters of shattered marble and dripping granite.

The roof of this part of the Great Hall was flat and Mahnmut ran along it as fast as he could on two legs, exhilarated to be out in the open air, carrying the Device under his left arm.

The sky above the summit of Olympus Mons was blue, and filled with dozens of flying chariots being guided by gods and goddesses. One of the machines swooped down now and hurtled ten meters above the rooftop, evidently intent upon smashing Mahnmut under its wheels. Too late, Mahnmut realized that he’d forgotten to pull the Hades Helmet cowl over his head. He was visible to every one of the searching gods above.

Using every bit of stored energy in his system, leaving any worry about recharging for a later date, Mahnmut coiled and jumped again, passed right through the holographic horses, and kicked the surprised goddess right in the chest. She flew backward off the chariot, white arms pinwheeling, and landed hard on the roof of the Great Hall of the Gods.

Mahnmut spent three-tenths of a second studying the virtual display holographed above the front chariot rail, and then he slipped his manipulators into the matrix and banked the chariot hard right. Other chariots and shouting gods banked and dived and climbed to cut him off. There’d be no escape from Olympos airspace, but Mahnmut wasn’t planning to escape that way.

Five chariots were closing and the air was full of titanium arrows—arrows!—when Mahnmut crossed over the edge of the huge caldera lake. He grabbed the Device and jumped just as the first of Apollo’s arrows struck his chariot. The machine exploded just meters above him and Mahnmut fell toward the water amidst melting gold and flaming energy cubes. The air rained microcircuits in the seconds before Mahnmut hit the surface. His deep-ranging sonar told him that the caldera under the lake’s surface was more than 2,000 meters deep.

It might be good enough, thought the little moravec. Then he hit the water, activated his flippers, kept a tight hug on the Device with one arm, and dived deep.

I feel bad about not going back for the little robot right away, but things are busy here.

The guards lead me to an Achilles dressing for combat, surrounded by the chieftains he has inherited from Agamemnon—Odysseus, Diomedes, old Nestor, the Big and Little Ajaxes—the usual crew except for the Atrides, Agamemnon and Menelaus. Can it be true, as Ares was shouting above, that Achilles has slaughtered King Agamemnon, thus depriving his wife, Clytaemnestra, of her bloody revenge and a hundred future playwrights their subject matter? Has Cassandra overnight been spared her fate?

“Who in Hades are you?” snarls the man-killer, swift-footed Achilles, when the sergeant leads me into his inner camp. Again I realize that they’re looking at only Thomas Hockenberry, slump-shouldered, bewhiskered and begrimed, minus his cape and sword and levitation harness, a sloppy-looking foot soldier in dull bronze chest armor.

“I’m the man your mother, the goddess Thetis, said would guide you first to Hector and then to victory over the gods who murdered Patroclus,” I say.

The various heroes and captains take a step back at hearing this. Achilles has obviously told them that Patroclus is dead, but perhaps he hasn’t told all of them his plan of declaring war on Olympos.

Achilles hastily pulls me aside, further from the listening circle of weary warriors. “How do I know that you are the one of whom my mother, the goddess Thetis, spoke?” demands this young god-man. Achilles looks older today than yesterday, as if new lines have been chiseled into his young face overnight.

“I will show you by taking you where we must go,” I say.

“Olympos?” His eyes are not quite sane.

“Eventually,” I say softly. “But as your mother told you, first you must make peace and common cause with Hector.”

Achilles grimaces and spits into the sand. “I am not capable of making peace this day. It’s war I want. War and divine blood.”

“To fight the gods,” I say, “you must first end this useless war with Troy’s heroes.”

Achilles turns and gestures toward the distant battle lines. I see Achaean pennants across the defensive ditch, moving into what were Trojan lines the night before. “But we’re beating them,” cries Achilles. “Why should I make peace with Hector when I can have his guts on my speartip in mere hours?”

I shrug. “Have it your way, son of Peleus. I was sent here to help you avenge Patroclus and reclaim his body for funeral rites. If these things are not your will, I’ll take my leave.” I turn my back on him and start to walk away.

Achilles is on me so fast, throwing me to the sand and drawing his knife so quickly, that I couldn’t have tasered him if my life depended on it. Perhaps it does, for now he sets the razor-sharp blade against my throat. “You dare insult me?”

I speak very carefully so the blade does not draw blood. “I insult no one, Achilles. I was sent here to help you avenge Patroclus. If you wish to do so, do what I say.”

Achilles stares at me a moment, then rises, resheaths his knife, and offers his hand to pull me up. Odysseus and the other captains are watching silently from thirty feet away, obviously curious as hell.

“What is your name?” demands Achilles.

“Hockenberry,” I say, dusting sand off my butt and rubbing my neck where the blade touched it. “Son of Duane,” I add, remembering the usual ritual.

“A strange name,” mutters the man-killer. “But these are strange times. Welcome, Hockenberry, son of Duane.” He extends his hand and grasps my forearm so tight that he squeezes off circulation. I try to return the grip.

Achilles turns back to his captains and his aides. “I am dressing for war, son of Duane. When I am done, I shall accompany you to the depths of Hades if need be.”

“Just Ilium to start with,” I say.

“Come, meet my comrades and my generals now that Agamemnon is defeated.” He leads me over toward Odysseus and the others.

I have to ask. “Is Agamemnon dead? Menelaus?”

Achilles looks grim when he shakes his head. “No, I’ve not killed the Atrides, although I bested both in single combat this morning, one after the other. They are bruised and bloody, but not so badly hurt. They are with the healer Asclepius, and although they have sworn allegiance in return for their lives, I will never trust them.”

Then Achilles is introducing me to Odysseus and all the other heroes I’ve watched for more than nine years. Each of the men grips my forearm in greeting and by the time I’ve gone down the line of just the top captains, my wrist and fingers are numb.