Can I help? Mahnmut looked out the open hatch to where Hockenberry was jogging toward Achilles and his men. He felt useless-if he left Hockenberry behind, the scholic might die in the fight here. If he didn't get the hornet airborne and through the Hole immediately, other moravecs might be sealed away from their real universe forever. Mahnmut looked out the open hatch to where Hockenberry was jogging toward Achilles and his men. He felt useless-if he left Hockenberry behind, the scholic might die in the fight here. If he didn't get the hornet airborne and through the Hole immediately, other moravecs might be sealed away from their real universe forever.

Stand by, I'll check with the integrators and General Beh bin Adee, sent Orphu. A few seconds later the tightbeam channel crackled again. sent Orphu. A few seconds later the tightbeam channel crackled again. Stay where you are right now. You're the best camera angle we have on the Brane at the moment. Can you hook all your feeds to Phobos and get outside the ship to add your own imaging to the link? Stay where you are right now. You're the best camera angle we have on the Brane at the moment. Can you hook all your feeds to Phobos and get outside the ship to add your own imaging to the link?

Yes, I can do that, sent Mahnmut. He de-stealthed the hornet-he didn't want the approaching mob of Achaeans and rockvecs to bump into it-and hurried down the ramp to join Hockenberry. sent Mahnmut. He de-stealthed the hornet-he didn't want the approaching mob of Achaeans and rockvecs to bump into it-and hurried down the ramp to join Hockenberry.

Walking up to the cluster of Achaeans, Hockenberry felt a growing sense of unreality tinged with guilt. This is my doing. If I hadn't morphed myself into Athena's form and kidnapped Patroclus eight months ago, Achilles wouldn't have declared war on the gods and none of this would have happened. If anyone dies here today, it's all my fault. This is my doing. If I hadn't morphed myself into Athena's form and kidnapped Patroclus eight months ago, Achilles wouldn't have declared war on the gods and none of this would have happened. If anyone dies here today, it's all my fault.

It was Achilles who turned his back on the approaching cavalry and greeted him. "Welcome, Hockenberry, son of Duane."

There were about fifty of the Achaean leaders and their captains and spearmen standing there waiting for the women on horseback to arrive-from the rapidly closing distance, Hockenberry could see that they were indeed women decked out in resplendent armor-and among the top men here he recognized Diomedes, Big and Little Ajax, Idomeneus, Odysseus, Podarces, and his younger friend Menippus, Sthenelus, Euryalus, and Stichius. The former scholic was surprised to see the leering camp-lawyer Thersites standing by Achilles' side-normally, Hockenberry knew, the fleet-footed mankiller would not have allowed the corpse-robber within a mile of his person.

"What's going on?" he asked Achilles.

The tall, blond god-man shrugged. "It's been a bizarre day, son of Duane. First the gods refused to come down to fight. Then a motley group of Trojan women attacked us, killing Philoctetes with a lucky spearcast. Now these Amazons approach after killing more of our men, or so this rat by my side tells us."

Amazons.

Mahnmut came hurrying up. Most of the Achaeans were used to the little moravec now and gave the metal-plastic creature only a passing glance before returning their gazes to the fast-approaching Amazons.

"What's happening?" Mahnmut had spoken to Hockenberry in English.

Rather than answer in the same language, Hockenberry recited- "Ducit Amazonidum lunatis agmina peltis Penthesilea furens, mediisque in milibus ardet, aurea sunectens exwerta cingula mammae bellatrix, audetque viris concurrere virgo."

"Don't make me download Latin," said Mahnmut. He nodded toward the huge horses being reined to a stop not five yards in front of them all, throwing up a cloud of dust that rolled over the Achaean captains.

"Furious, Penthesilea leads a battleline of Amazons," translated Hockenberry. translated Hockenberry. "With crescent shields, and she glows in the middle of thousands, fastening golden belts around the exposed breast, female warrior, and the maiden dares run with men." "With crescent shields, and she glows in the middle of thousands, fastening golden belts around the exposed breast, female warrior, and the maiden dares run with men."

"That's just great," the little moravec said sarcastically. "But the Latin...it's not Homer, I presume?"

"Virgil," whispered Hockenberry in the sudden silence in which the paw of a horse's hoof sounded crashingly loud. "Somehow we're in the Aeneid Aeneid here." here."

"That's just great," repeated Mahnmut.

The rockvec techs are almost loaded and will be ready to lift off from the Earth side in five minutes or less, sent Orphu. sent Orphu. And there's something else you have to know. We're pushing up the launch time for the And there's something else you have to know. We're pushing up the launch time for the Queen Mab. Queen Mab.

How soon? sent Mahnmut, his mostly organic heart sinking. sent Mahnmut, his mostly organic heart sinking. We promised Hockenberry forty-eight hours to make up his mind and try to talk Odysseus into going with us. We promised Hockenberry forty-eight hours to make up his mind and try to talk Odysseus into going with us.

Well, he has less than an hour now, sent Orphu of Io. sent Orphu of Io. Maybe forty minutes if we can get these damned rockvecs tranked and shelved and their weapons stored. You'll have to get back up here by then or stay behind. Maybe forty minutes if we can get these damned rockvecs tranked and shelved and their weapons stored. You'll have to get back up here by then or stay behind.

But The Dark Lady, sent Mahnmut, thinking of his submersible. He'd not even run the last checks on the sub's many systems. The Dark Lady, sent Mahnmut, thinking of his submersible. He'd not even run the last checks on the sub's many systems.

They're stowing her in the hold right now, sent Orphu from the sent Orphu from the Mab Mab. I can feel the bumps. You can do your checklist when we're in flight. Don't dally down there, old friend. I can feel the bumps. You can do your checklist when we're in flight. Don't dally down there, old friend. The tightbeam went from crackle to hiss as Orphu signed off. The tightbeam went from crackle to hiss as Orphu signed off.

Only one row back from the thin front line here, Hockenberry saw that the Amazons' horses were huge...as big as Percherons or those Bud-weiser horses. There were thirteen of them and Virgil, bless his heart, had been right-the Amazon women's armor left each of their left breasts bare. The effect was...distracting.

Achilles took three steps in front of the other men. He was so close to the blonde Amazon's horse that he could have stroked its nose. He didn't.

"What do you want, woman?" he asked. For such a huge, heavily muscled man, Achilles' voice was very soft.

"I am Penthesilea, daughter of the war god Ares and the Amazon queen Otrere," said the beautiful woman from high on her armored horse. "And I want you dead, Achilles, son of Peleus."

Achilles threw back his head and laughed. It was an easy, relaxed laugh, and all the more chilling to Hockenberry because of that. "Tell me woman," Achilles said softly, "how do you find the courage to challenge us, the most powerful heroes of this age, fighters who have laid siege to Olympos itself? Most of us are sprung from the blood of the Son of Kronos himself, Lord Zeus. Would you really do battle with us, woman?"

"The others can go if they want to live," called down Penthesilea, her voice as calm as Achilles' but louder. "I have no fight with Ajax, son of Telamon, or with the son of Tydeus or the son of Deucalion or the son of Laertes or the others gathered here. Only with you, son of Peleus."

The men listed-Big Ajax, Diomedes, Idomeneus, and Odysseus-looked startled for a second, glanced at Achilles, and then laughed in unison. The other Achaeans joined in the laughter. Fifty or sixty more Argive fighters were coming up from the rear, the rockvec Mep Ahoo in their ranks.

Hockenberry didn't notice as Mahnmut's black-visored head swiveled smoothly around, and Hockenberry had no idea that Centurion Leader Mep Ahoo was tightbeaming the smaller moravec about the imminent collapse of the Brane Hole.

"You have offended the gods by your feeble attack on their home," cried Penthesilea, her voice rising until it could be heard by the men a hundred yards away. "You have wronged the peaceful Trojans by your failed attack on their their home. But today you die, womankiller Achilles. Prepare to do battle." home. But today you die, womankiller Achilles. Prepare to do battle."

"Oh, my," said Mahnmut in English.

"Jesus Christ," whispered Hockenberry.

The thirteen women screamed in their Amazon language, kicked their warhorses' sides, the giant mounts leaped forward, and the air was suddenly filled with spears, arrows, and the clatter of bronze points slamming into armor and onto hastily raised shields.

20.

Along the coast of the northern Martian sea, called the Northern Ocean or the Tethys Sea by the inhabitants of Olympos, the Little Green Men-also known as zeks zeks-have erected more than eleven thousand great stone heads. Each of the heads is twenty meters tall. They are identical-each showing an old man's face with a fierce beak of a nose, thin lips, high brow, frowning eyebrows, bald crown, firm chin, and a fringe of long hair streaming back over his ears. The stone for the heads comes from giant quarries gouged into the cliffs of the geologic tumble known as Noctis Labyrinthus on the westernmost end of the four-thousand-two-hundred-kilometer-long inland sea filling the rift known as Valles Marineris. From the quarries at Noctis Labyrinthus, the little green men have loaded each uncarved block of stone onto broad-beamed barges and floated them the length of Valles Marineris. Once out into the Tethys, zek zek-crewed feluccas with lanteen sails have guided the barges into position along the coast, where hundreds of thronging LGM unload each stone and carve the head in place as it lies on the sand. When the carving is finished except for the hair on the back of the head, the mob of zeks zeks roll each head to a stone basepad prepared for it, sometimes having to lift the head up cliffs or transport it across bogs and marshes, and then they pull it upright using a combination of pulleys, tackle, and shifting sand. Finally they set a stone stem from the neck into the base stone niche and rock the huge head into place. Then a dozen LGM finish the carving of the wavy hair while the majority of the little beings move on to work on the next head. roll each head to a stone basepad prepared for it, sometimes having to lift the head up cliffs or transport it across bogs and marshes, and then they pull it upright using a combination of pulleys, tackle, and shifting sand. Finally they set a stone stem from the neck into the base stone niche and rock the huge head into place. Then a dozen LGM finish the carving of the wavy hair while the majority of the little beings move on to work on the next head.

The identical faces all look out to sea.

The first head was erected almost an Earth-measured century and a half ago, at the base of Olympus Mons near where the surf of the Tethys Sea rolls in, and since then the little green men have placed another head every kilometer of the way, traveling east, around the great mushroom-shaped peninsula called Tempe Terra, then curving back south and into the estuary of Kasei Valles, then southeast along the marshes of Lunae Planum, then to both sides of the huge estuary and sea-within-a-sea of Chryse Planitia, then on both cliff-faced shores of the broad estuary of Valles Marineris, and finally-in just the last eight months-northeast along the steep cliffs of Arabia Terra toward the northernmost archipelagoes of Deuteronilus and Protonilus Mensae.

But this day all work on the heads has ceased and more than a hundred feluccas have carried the LGM-meter-tall green photosynthesizing hominids with transparent flesh, no mouth or ears and coal-black eyes-to a point on the broad beaches of Tempe Terra some two hundred kilometers across the curve of water from Olympus Mons. From here the island volcano of Alba Patera can be seen far out in the sea to the west and the incredible massif of Olympus Mons rises up over the shoulder of the world far to the southwest.

The stone heads line a cliff face here some several hundred meters back from the water, but the beach is broad and flat and it is here that all seven thousand three hundred and three zeks zeks have gathered, creating a solid mass of green along the beach except for an empty semicircle of sand some fifty-one meters across. For several Martian hours, the little green men stand silent and motionless, their black coal-button eyes trained on the empty sand. Feluccas and barges bob slightly to the very low Tethys surf. The only sound is wind blowing in from the west, occasionally lifting sand and pelting it against transparent green skin or whistling very slightly among the low gorse plants beyond the beach and below the cliffs. have gathered, creating a solid mass of green along the beach except for an empty semicircle of sand some fifty-one meters across. For several Martian hours, the little green men stand silent and motionless, their black coal-button eyes trained on the empty sand. Feluccas and barges bob slightly to the very low Tethys surf. The only sound is wind blowing in from the west, occasionally lifting sand and pelting it against transparent green skin or whistling very slightly among the low gorse plants beyond the beach and below the cliffs.

Suddenly the air smells of ozone-although the zeks zeks have no noses to pick up this scent-and repeated thunderclaps explode close above the beach. Although the LGM have no ears, they feel these explosions of sound through their incredibly sensitive skin. have no noses to pick up this scent-and repeated thunderclaps explode close above the beach. Although the LGM have no ears, they feel these explosions of sound through their incredibly sensitive skin.

Two meters above the beach, there suddenly appears a three-dimensional red rhomboid about fifteen meters wide. This rhomboid widens but then grows pinched at the waist, until it resembles two red candy kisses. At the points of these kisses, a tiny sphere emerges and then grows into a three-dimensional green oval, which appears to have swallowed the original red rhomboid. The oval and rhomboid begin to spin in opposite directions until sand is thrown a hundred meters into the air.

The LGM stand in the growing storm and stare impassively.

The three-dimensional oval and rhomboid spin themselves into a sphere, completing the original shape's flop-transition mirror rephrasing. A circle ten meters across appears in midair and seems to sink into the sand until a Brane Hole cuts a slice out of space and time. Because this Brane Hole is newborn, its protective world-sheet is still visible, petals and layers of eleven-dimensional energy protecting the sand, the air, Mars, and the universe from this deliberate degeneration of space-time fabric.

From the hole emerges a puffing, chugging sort of steam-powered carriole, hidden gyroscopes balancing the metal and wooden mass on its single rubber wheel. The vehicle clears the Hole and comes to a stop precisely in the center of the space the zeks zeks have left clear on the sand. An intricately carved door opens on the vehicle and wooden steps lower and unfold like some carefully contrived puzzle. have left clear on the sand. An intricately carved door opens on the vehicle and wooden steps lower and unfold like some carefully contrived puzzle.

Four voynix-two-meter-tall metallic bipeds with barrel chests, no necks, and heads looking like mere humps on their bodies-emerge from the carriole and, using their manipulator hands rather than their cutting-blade hands, begin to assemble a complex apparatus that includes silver tentacles ending in small parabolic projectors. When they are finished, the voynix step back toward the now-silent steam vehicle and freeze into immobility.

A man or a projection of a man shimmers first into visiblity and then into apparent solidity there on the sand between the projector's tentacle-filaments. He is an old man in a blue robe covered with marvelously embroidered astronomical icons. He carries a tall wooden staff to help him walk. His gold-slippered feet are solid enough and his flickering mass heavy enough to make impressions in the sand. His features are precisely the same as the face of the statues on the cliff.

The magus walks to the edge of the limpid sea and waits.

Before long the sea stirs and something huge rises from the water just beyond the line of desultory surf. The thing is large and it comes up slowly, more like an island rising from the sea than like any organic creature such as a whale or dolphin or sea serpent or sea god. Water streams from its folds and fissures as it moves in toward the beach. The zeks zeks step back and to the side, making a larger space for the thing. step back and to the side, making a larger space for the thing.

In its shaping and color, it is most like a gigantic brain. The tissue is pink-like a living human brain-and the convolutions most resemble the maximized folded surface area of a brain, but there the resemblance to mind matter ends since this thing has multiple pairs of yellow eyes set in the folds between pink tissue and a surfeit of hands: small grasping hands with different numbers of fingers arising from the folds and waving like sea anemones stirred by cold currents, larger hands on longer stalks set on either side of the various inset eyes, and-as becomes more apparent as the house-sized thing emerges from the water and shuffles to the sand-multiple sets of huge hands on its underside and edges to propel it, each grub-white or dead-gray hand the size of a headless horse.

Moving crablike, darting sideways onto the sodden sand, the huge thing scatters LGM farther back and then comes to a stop less than five feet from the blue-robed old man, who-after an initial backing away to give the thing room to find fingerhold on the dry beach-now stands his ground, holding his staff and looking up calmly at the multiple sets of cold yellow eyes.

What have you done with my favorite worshiper? asks the many-handed in a voice without sound. asks the many-handed in a voice without sound.

"He is loosed upon the world again, it pains me to say," sighs the old man.

Which world? There are too many.

"Earth."

Which Earth? There are too many.

"My Earth," said the old man. "The true one."

The brain with hands makes a sound through holes and apertures in its folds, a mucousy noise like a whale snorting thick seawater. Prosper, where is my priestess? My child? Prosper, where is my priestess? My child?

"Which child?" asks the man. "Dost thou seek after your blue-eyed sow-raven whore, malignant thing, or after the hag-born freckled whelp bastard, never honored with a human shape, that she did litter there on the shore of my world?"

The magus had used the Greek word sus sus for "raven" and for "raven" and korax korax for "sow," obviously enjoying his little pun, just as he had with the "litter." for "sow," obviously enjoying his little pun, just as he had with the "litter."

Sycorax and Caliban. Where are they?

"The bitch is missing. The lizard-pup is free."

My Caliban has escaped the rock on which you confined him these long centuries?

"Have I not just said so? You need to trade some of your excess eyes for ears."

Has he eaten all your puny mortals on that world yet?

"Not all. Not yet." The magus gestures with his staff toward the stone versions of his own face that look out from atop the cliff behind him. "Have you enjoyed being watched, Many-Handed?"

The brain snorts brine and mucus once again. I'll allow the green men to labor some more and then send a tsunami to drown all of them at the same time it knocks down your pathetic spy-stone effigies. I'll allow the green men to labor some more and then send a tsunami to drown all of them at the same time it knocks down your pathetic spy-stone effigies.

"Why not do it now?"

You know I can. The nonvoice somehow conveys a snarl. The nonvoice somehow conveys a snarl.

"I know you can, malignant thing," says Prospero. "But drowning this race would be a crime greater than many of your other great crimes. The zeks zeks are close to compassion perfected, loyalty personified, not altered from their former state as you did the gods here on your monstrous whim, but truly creatures that are mine. I new-formed them." are close to compassion perfected, loyalty personified, not altered from their former state as you did the gods here on your monstrous whim, but truly creatures that are mine. I new-formed them."

And for that alone it will give me more pleasure to kill them. What use are such mute, chlorophyllic ciphers? They're like ambulatory begonias.

"They have no voice," says the old magus, "but they are far from mute. They communicate with one another through genetically altered packages of data, passed cell to cell by touch. When they must communicate with someone outside their race, one of them volunteers his heart up to touch, dying as an individual but then being absorbed by all the others and thus living on.'Tis a beautiful thing."

Manesque exire sepulcris, thinks-hisses the many-handed Setebos. thinks-hisses the many-handed Setebos. All you've done is call up the dead men from their graves. You play Medea's game All you've done is call up the dead men from their graves. You play Medea's game Without warning, Setebos pivots on his walking hands and sends a smaller hand from his brainfolds shooting out twenty meters on a snakelike stalk. The gray-grub fist slams into a little green man standing near the surf, penetrates his chest, seizes his floating green heart, and rips it out. The zek zek's body falls lifeless to the sand, leaking out all its internal fluids. Another LGM instantly kneels to absorb what it can of the dead zek zek's cellular essence.

Setebos retrieves his retractable armstalk, squeezes the heart into a dry husk as one would squeeze moisture out of a sponge, and flings it away. Its heart was as empty and voiceless as its head. There was no message there. Its heart was as empty and voiceless as its head. There was no message there.

"Not to you," agrees Prospero. "But the sad message now to me is not to speak so openly to my enemies. Others always suffer."

Others are meant to suffer. That's why we create them, you and I.

"Aye, to that end we have the key of both officer and office, to set all hearts in the state to what tune that pleases our ear. But your creations offend all, Setebos-especially Caliban. Your monster child is the ivy that hid my princely trunk and sucked my verdure out on it."

And so was he born to do.

"Born?" Prospero laughs softly. "Your hag-seed's bastard oozed into being amidst all the panoply of a true whore-priestess's charms-toads, beetles, bats, pigs who once were men-and the lizard-boy would have made a sty of mine own Earth had not I taken the traitorous creature in, taught it language, lodged it in my own cell, used it with humane care, and showed to it all the qualities of humankind...for all the good it did me or the world or the lying slave itself."

All the qualities of humankind, snorts Setebos. It moves five paces forward on its huge walking hands until its shadow falls over the old man. snorts Setebos. It moves five paces forward on its huge walking hands until its shadow falls over the old man. I taught him power. You taught him pain. I taught him power. You taught him pain.

"When it did, like your own foul race, forget his own meaning and begin to gabble like a thing most brutish, I deservedly confined it into a rock where I kept it company in a form of myself."

You exiled Caliban to that orbital rock and sent one of your holograms there so that you could bait and torture him for centuries, lying magus.

"Torture? No. But when it disobeyed, I racked the foul amphibian with cramps, filled his bones with ache, and made him roar so as to make the other beasts of that now-fallen orbital isle tremble at his din. And I shall do so again when I capture him."

Too late. Setebos snorts. His unblinking eyes all turn to look down at the old man in the blue robe. Fingers twitch and sway. You said yourself that my son, with whom I am well pleased, is loosed upon your world. I knew this, of course. I will be there soon to join him. Together, along with the thousands of little You said yourself that my son, with whom I am well pleased, is loosed upon your world. I knew this, of course. I will be there soon to join him. Together, along with the thousands of little calibani calibani you were so obliging as to create when you still dwelt among the post-humans there and thought that doomed world good, father and son-grandson will soon scour your green orb into a more pleasing place. you were so obliging as to create when you still dwelt among the post-humans there and thought that doomed world good, father and son-grandson will soon scour your green orb into a more pleasing place.

"A swamp, you mean," says Prospero. "Filled with foul smells, fouler creatures, all forms of blackness, and all infections that fetch up from bogs, fens, flats, and the stink from Prosper's fall."

Yes. The huge, pink-brain thing seems to dance up and down on its long fingerlegs, swaying as if to unheard music or pleasing screams.

"Then Prosper must not fall," whispers the old man. "Must not fall."

You will, magus. You are but a shadow of a rumor of a hint of a noosphere-a personification of a centerless, soulless pulse of useless information, senseless mumbles from a race long fallen into dotage and decay, a cyber-sewn fart in the wind. You will fall and so shall your useless bio-whore, Ariel.

Prospero lifts his staff as if to strike the monster. Then he lowers it and leans on it as though suddenly drained of all energy. "Ariel is still our Earth's good and faithful servant. She shall never serve you or your monster son or your blue-eyed witch."

She will serve us by dying.

"Ariel is is Earth, monster," breathes Prospero. "My darling grew into full consciousness from the noosphere interweaving itself with the self-aware biosphere. Would you kill a whole world to feed your rage and vanity?" Earth, monster," breathes Prospero. "My darling grew into full consciousness from the noosphere interweaving itself with the self-aware biosphere. Would you kill a whole world to feed your rage and vanity?"

Oh, yes.

Setebos leaps forward on its giant fingertips and seizes up the old man in five hands, lifting him close to two of its sets of eyes. Where is Sycorax? Where is Sycorax?