He didn’t have to search the beach for Achilles and Hector. The two heroes had just crossed the trench bridge and were leading their captains and two or three thousand fighters with them toward the middle of the old battlefield. Mahnmut decided to be formal and rose to his hind legs for the greetings.

“Little machine,” said Achilles, “where is your master, the son of Duane?”

It took Mahnmut a second to process this. “Hockenberry?” he said at last. “First of all, he’s not my master. No man is my master and I’m no man. Secondly, he’s gone to Olympos to see what the gods are up to. He said he’d be right back.”

Achilles showed his white teeth in a grin. “Good. We need intelligence on the enemy.”

Odysseus, standing between Hector and Achilles, said, “It didn’t work too well for Dolon.” Diomedes, behind the heroes, laughed. Hector scowled.

Dolon was Hector’s scout last night when things looked so bad for the Greeks, sent Orphu. Even though Mahnmut understood Greek now and could speak it after the download from Orphu, he was still sending the whole dialogue to his friend via subvocals. Orphu’s message wasn’t finished—Diomedes and Odysseus captured Dolon when they were going out on a night raid, and after promising the Trojan that they wouldn’t hurt him, they got all the information they could from him and then Diomedes cut off his head. I think that Diomedes mentioned it because he still doesn’t really trust Hector as an ally and . . .

“Shelve it,” said Mahnmut, forgetting to subvocalize. He switched frequencies. I need to concentrate here. Mahnmut thought he was capable of multitasking as well as any other moravec, but Orphu’s history lesson was interfering with his real-time concentration.

“What did you just say?” demanded Hector. The Trojan hero was not happy. Mahnmut remembered that the man’s mother and half-sister had just been killed in the aerial bombardment, although he wasn’t sure that Hector knew that yet. Perhaps Hector was just in a bad mood.

“Just a brief prayer to my own gods,” said Mahnmut.

Odysseus had dropped to one knee and was feeling Mahnmut’s arms, torso, head, and protective shell. “Ingenious,” said the son of Laertes. “Whichever god crafted you, it was a fine job.”

“Thank you,” said Mahnmut.

I think you’ve stepped into a Samuel Beckett play, sent Orphu.

“Shut up,” Mahnmut said and sent in English. “Damn it, I keep forgetting to set the tightbeam for subvocal only.”

“He prays still,” said Odysseus, getting to his feet. “But I like the part where he said that his name was No Man. I’ll remember that.”

“Fleet-footed Achilles,” said Mahnmut in the proper Greek, “may I ask your intentions now?”

“We go to challenge the gods to come down for single combat,” said Achilles. “Or their army of immortals against our army of men—whichever they prefer.”

Mahnmut looked at the few thousand Greeks—many of them bloodied—who’d followed Achilles out from the camp. He turned his head and saw a thousand or fewer Trojans coming over the ridge to join Hector. “This is your army?” asked Mahnmut.

“The others will join us,” said Achilles. “Little machine, if you see Hockenberry, son of Duane, tell him to come to me at the center of the field.”

Achilles, Hector, and the Achaean captains strode off. The moravec had to dodge quickly or be trampled by the men and shields following.

“WAIT!” called Mahnmut. He’d used more amplification than he’d planned.

Achilles, Hector, Odysseus, Diomedes, Nestor, and the others turned. The men between Mahnmut and the heroes made a space.

“In thirty seconds,” said Mahnmut, “something’s going to happen.”

“What?” demanded Hector.

I don’t know, thought Mahnmut. I don’t even know if we’ll feel the effects here. Hell, I don’t even know if my timer-trigger is going to work at that depth in the Caldera Lake.

You’re subvocalizing, you know, sent Orphu.

Sorry, sent Mahnmut. Aloud, he said in Greek, “Wait and see. Eighteen seconds now.” The Greeks didn’t use minutes and seconds, of course, but Mahnmut thought he’d got the units translation right.

Even if the device blows Mars to bits, said Orphu, I don’t think this Earth is in that time or universe. But then again, the so-called gods have connected this place—wherever it is—to Olympos Mons via a thousand quantum tunnels.

“Nine seconds,” said Mahnmut.

What would an exploding Mars look like, in daylight, from this point in Asia Minor? sent Orphu. I could do a quick simulation.

“Four seconds,” said Mahnmut.

Or I could just wait to see. Of course, you’ll have to see for me.

“One second,” said Mahnmut.

I don’t remember Ares or Hephaestus QTing as they dragged me out of the Great Hall, but obviously they did. The room they’ve thrown me into—my holding cell—is on the upper floor of an impossibly tall building on the east side of Olympos. The door was sealed behind them and there are no windows as such, but another door opens onto a balcony that hangs hundreds of feet above nothing except the slopes of Olympos right where they drop down to the vertical cliffs of Olympos. To the north is the ocean, a burnished bronze in this afternoon light, and far, far to the east are the three volcanoes I realize now are Martian volcanoes.

Mars. All these years. Mother of Mercy . . . Mars.

I shiver in the cold air. I see the goose bumps on my naked arms and thighs and can imagine them on my bare butt. The soles of my feet are ice cold against the chilly marble. My scalp hurts from being dragged and my pride hurts from being caught and stripped naked so easily.

Who did I think I was? I’ve been watching gods and superheroes so long that I forgot I was just an ordinary guy when I was real. Less now.

The toys went to my head, I think—the levitation harness and impact armor and morphing bracelet and QT medallion and shotgun mike and zoom lenses and taser baton and Hades Helmet. All that nifty Sharper Image crap. It allowed me to play superhero for a few days.

No longer. Daddy took my toys away. And Daddy’s angry.

I remember Mahnmut’s bomb and, out of old habit, lift my bare wrist to check the time. Shit. I don’t even have my watch. But it has to be only a few minutes until the robot’s Device is supposed to detonate. I lean out from the balcony, but this side of the building looks away from the caldera lake, so I guess I won’t see the flash. Will the shock wave knock this building off the top of Olympos, or merely set it afire? A new memory swims up—TV images of doomed men and women jumping from burning towers in New York—and I close my eyes and squeeze my temples in a vain attempt to get rid of these unbidden visions. It only makes them more vivid. Hell, I think, if they’d let me live another few weeks—if I’d let me live just by not screwing around with my toys and the fates of so many—I might have remembered all of my previous life. Maybe even my death.

The door crashes open behind me and Zeus strides in alone. I turn to face him, walking back into the bare room.

Do you want a recipe for losing all self-esteem? Try being naked and barefoot, facing the God of All Gods who’s dressed in high boots, golden greaves, and full battle armor. Besides that obvious disparity, there’s the height thing. I mean, I’m five feet nine inches tall—not short, I used to remind people, including my wife Susan, but “average height”—and Zeus has to be fifteen feet tall this afternoon. The damned door was made for NBA stars carrying other NBA stars standing on their shoulders, and Zeus had to duck when he came in. Now he slams the door behind him. I see that he’s still carrying my QT medallion in his massive hand.