“Scholic Hockenberry,” he says in English, “do you know what trouble you’ve caused?”

I try to make my stare defiant, but I settle on not allowing my bare legs to shake uncontrollably. I can feel my penis and scrotum contracting toward baby-carrot and marble size from cold and fear.

As if noticing, Zeus looks me up and down. “My God, you old-style humans were ugly to look upon,” he rumbles. “How can you be so scrawny your ribs are showing and still have a paunch?”

I remember that Susan used to say that I had a butt like two BB’s, but she used to say it with affection.

“How do you know English?” I ask, voice quavering.

“SHUT UP!” roars the Father of the Gods.

Zeus brusquely gestures me onto the balcony and follows me out. He’s so huge that there’s barely room enough for me out here beside him. I back into a corner, trying not to look down. All this angered god of gods has to do now is lift me in one hand and fling me over the railing to get his revenge. I’d be flapping and screaming for five minutes on the way down.

“You harmed my daughter,” growls Zeus.

Which one ? I think desperately. I’m guilty of conspiring to kill Aphrodite and Athena, although I suspect it’s Athena he’s talking about. He’s always been fond of Athena. I suspect it doesn’t matter. Conspiring to harm any god—much less to overthrow the gods in general—has to be a capital offense. I peer over the railing again. I see the crystal escalator snaking down into the mists at sea level directly below, although my old scholic barracks, burned to the ground as it is, is too small to see with regular vision. Good Christ, that’s a long way down.

“Do you know what’s going to happen today, Hockenberry?” asks Zeus, although I assume the question is rhetorical. He extends his arms straight down and sets his fingers—each half as long as my forearm—on the stone railing.

“No,” I say.

He turns to look down at me. “That must be disturbing after all these years of scholic-wisdom,” he rumbles. “Always knowing what’s going to happen next even when the gods do not. You must have felt like Fate himself.”

“I felt like an asshole,” I say.

Zeus nods. Then he points toward chariots rising off the summit of Olympos one after the other. There are hundreds of them. “This afternoon,” says Zeus, “we are going to destroy mankind. Not just those posturing fools at Troy, but all human beings, everywhere.”

What can you say to that? “That seems a bit excessive,” I manage at last. My bravado would be more satisfying if my voice weren’t still shaking like a nervous boy’s.

Zeus looks out at the rising chariots and at the mass of golden-armored gods and goddesses still waiting to mount their cars. “Poseidon and Ares and others have been after me for centuries to eliminate humankind like the virus it is,” says Zeus, rumbling more to himself than to me, I think. “We all have concerns—this Age of Man Heroic you see at Ilium would concern any race of gods, too much inbreeding between their race and ours—you must know the amount of DNA nano-engineering that we’ve passed down to freaks like Heracles and Achilles through our libidinous fucking with mortals. And I mean that literally.”

“Why are you talking to me about this?” I ask.

Zeus really looks down at me now. He shrugs, those huge shoulders eight feet above my head. “Because you’re going to be dead in a few seconds, so I can talk freely. On Olympos, Scholic Hockenberry, there are no permanent friends or trustworthy allies or loyal mates . . . only permanent interests. My interest is in remaining Lord of the Gods and Ruler of the Universe.”

“It must be a full-time job,” I say sarcastically.

“It is,” says Zeus. “It is. Just ask Setebos or Prospero or the Quiet if you doubt me. Now, do you have any last questions before you go, Hockenberry?”

“I do actually,” I say. To my amazement, the quaver is gone from my voice, the quiver gone from my knees. “I want to know who you gods really are. Where are you from? I know you’re not the real Greek gods.”

“We’re not?” says Zeus. His smile, sharp white teeth glinting from his gray-silver beard, is not paternal.

“Who are you?” I ask again.

Almighty Zeus sighs. “I’m afraid we don’t have time for the story right now. Good-bye, Scholic Hockenberry.” He takes his hands off the railing and turns toward me.

As it turns out, he’s right—we don’t have time for the story or for anything else. Suddenly the tall building shakes, cracks, moans. The very air above the summit of Olympos seems to thicken and ripple. Golden chariots stagger in flight and I can hear the shouts and screams from gods and goddesses on the ground far below.

Zeus staggers back against the rail, drops the QT medallion on the marble floor, and reaches out a huge hand to steady himself against the building even as the tall tower shakes on its foundations, vibrating back and forth in a ten-degree arc.

He looks up.

Suddenly the sky is full of streaks. I can hear sonic booms as line after line of fire slashes across the Martian sky. Above Olympos, above our heads, several huge, spinning spheres of space-black and magma-red are opening against the blue. They are like holes punched into the sky itself and they’re spinning lower.

Lower down, much farther down, I see more of these jagged circles, each one with the radius of a football field at least, spinning at the base of Olympos. More appear out above the ocean to the north, some slicing into the sea itself.

Ants are coming through the land-based circles by the thousands, and then I realize that the ants are men. Human men?

The sky is filled now not only with golden chariots, but with sharp-edged black machines, some larger than the chariots, some smaller, all carrying the lethal, inhuman look of military design. More fiery streaks fill the upper atmosphere, lashing down toward Olympos like ICBMs.

Zeus raises both fists toward the sky and bellows at the little god-figures far below. “RAISE THE AEGIS!” he roars. “ACTIVATE THE AEGIS!”

I’d love to stay around and see what he’s talking about and what happens next, but I have other priorities. I throw myself headfirst between Zeus’s mighty arch of legs, slide on my belly across the bouncing marble floor, grab the QT medallion in one hand and twist its dial with the other.

At first they couldn’t get Hannah out of the tank. The heavy piece of pipe wouldn’t dent the plastic glass. Daeman fired off three rounds from Savi’s gun, but the flechettes barely knicked the tank’s surface before ricocheting around the firmary, smashing fragile things, ripping into already decommissioned servitors, and barely missing both men. Finally Harman found a way to clamber to the top of the tank and they used the pipe as a lever to first lift and then rip off the complicated lid. Then Harman pulled his thermskin visor lower, tugged on the osmosis mask, and leaped down into the draining fluids to pull Hannah out. With the main power out, lights off, and tank glow fading to nothing, they worked mostly by the light of the single flashlight.

Naked, wet, hairless, her skin looking raw and new, their young friend looked as vulnerable as a baby bird as she lay on the wet firmary floor. The good news was that she was breathing—gaspingly, shallowly, alarmingly rapidly—but definitely breathing on her own. The bad news was that they couldn’t wake her.

“Is she going to live?” demanded Daeman. The other twenty-three men and women in the tank were obviously dead or dying and there was no way to get to them in time.

“How do I know?” gasped Harman.

Daeman looked around. “Temperature’s dropping in here without the power to heat things. Another few minutes, it’ll be below zero, just like outside in the main city. We have to find something to cover her with.”