I have no idea where the real person went when we morphed into him. Perhaps the probability wave of that person simply floated around on the quantum level, no longer collapsing into what we called reality until we were finished with his form and voice. Perhaps the probability wave was stored in the bracelet we carried or in some machine or god’s microchip on Mons Olympos. I don’t know and don’t especially care. I once asked Hayakawa, shortly before he displeased the Muse and disappeared forever, if we could use the morphing bracelet to change into one of the gods. Hayakawa had laughed and said, “The gods protect their probability waves, Hockenberry. I wouldn’t try to mess with them.”
Now I triggered the bracelet and flicked through the hundreds of men I’d recorded there until I found the one I wanted. Paris. It’s probable that the Muse would have ended my existence if she’d even known that I had scanned Paris for future morphing. Scholics don’t interfere.
Where is Paris right now? Thumb over the activate icon, I tried to remember. The events of this afternoon and this evening—the confrontation between Hector and Paris and Helen, the meeting of Hector and his wife and son on the walls—all occurred near the end of Book Six of the Iliad. Didn’t they?
I couldn’t think. My chest ached with loneliness. My head was swimming, as if I’d been drinking all afternoon.
Yes, the end of Book Six. Hector leaves Andromache and Paris does catch up to him before Hector leaves the city—or just as Hector leaves the city. How had my favorite translation gone? “Nor did Paris linger long in his vaulted halls.” Helen’s new husband had buckled on his armor, as promised, and rushed out to join Hector and the two of them had strode through the Scaean Gates together, into more battle. I remember writing a paper for a scholarly convention in which I’d analyzed Homer’s metaphor of Paris racing along like a stallion breaking free of its tether, hair streaming like a mane back over his shoulders, eager for battle, blah, blah, blah.
Where is Paris now? After dark? What have I missed while wandering the streets and staring at Helen’s lights and Helen’s tits?
That was in Book Seven, and I’d always thought that Book Seven of the Iliad was a confusing, cobbled-together mess. It ended that long day that had begun in Book Two with Paris killing the Achaean named Menesthius and Hector slashing Eioneus’ throat. So much for husbandly hugs and fatherly embraces. Then there was more fighting and Hector had taken on Big Ajax in one-on-one combat and . . .
What? Nothing much. Ajax had been winning—he was the better fighter—but then the gods started quarreling about outcome again, there had been a lot of talk by the Greeks and Trojans, a lot of bluster blown back and forth, and a truce, and Hector and Ajax had swapped armor and acted like old pals, and then they all agreed to a truce while they gathered the dead for corpse fires, and . . .
Where the hell is Paris this night? Does he stay with Hector and the army to supervise the truce, speak at the funeral rituals? Or does he act more in character and come to Helen’s bed?
“Who gives a shit,” I said aloud and thumbed the activation icon on the bracelet and morphed into the form of Paris.
I was still invisible, decked out in Hades Helmet, levitation harness, everything.
I took off the helmet and everything else except the morphing bracelet and the small QT medallion hanging around my neck, hiding the gear behind a tripod in the corner of the balcony. Now I was only Paris in his war gear. I took off the armor and left it on the balcony as well, appearing now only as Paris in his soft tunic. If the Muse swooped down on me now, I had no defense except to QT away.
I walked back through the balcony curtains into the bathing area. Helen looked up in surprise as I parted the curtains.
“My lord?” she said, and I saw first the defiance in her eyes and then the downward-cast gaze of what might have been apology and self-subordination for her earlier harsh words. “Leave us,” she snapped at the servants and the women left on wet feet.
Helen of Troy came slowly up the steps of the bath toward me, her hair dry except for the wet strands over her shoulder blades and breasts, her head still lowered but her eyes looking up at me now through her lashes. “What will you have of me, my husband?”
I had to try twice before my voice would work properly. Finally, in Paris’s voice, I said, “Come to bed.”
19
Golden Gate at Machu Picchu
They walked from green globule to green globule on the Golden Gate, down unmoving escalators and across green-glass-enclosed walkways connecting the giant cables that supported the roadway so far below. Odysseus walked with them.
“Are you really the Odysseus from the turin drama?” asked Hannah.
“I’ve never seen the turin drama,” said the man.
Ada noticed that the man who called himself Odysseus had not really confirmed or denied anything, just sidestepped the question.
“How did you get here?” asked Harman. “And where did you come from?”
“It is a complicated answer,” said Odysseus. “I have been traveling for some time now, trying to find my way home. This is only a stop on the way, a place to rest, and I shall be leaving in a few weeks. I would prefer to tell some of my story later, if you don’t mind. Perhaps when we dine this evening. Savi Uhr may be able to help me make sense of parts of my tale.”
Ada thought that it was very strange to hear someone speak Common English as if it were not his native tongue; she had never heard an accent before. There were not even regional dialects in Ada’s fax-based world, where everyone lived everywhere—and nowhere.
The six emerged on the top of the tower where Savi had landed the sonie earlier. They emerged just as the sun was touching the top of southernmost of the two sharp peaks that anchored the bridge. The wind from the west was strong and cold. They walked to the railing at the edge of the platform and looked down at the sloping, grassy saddle with its terraced ruins more than eight hundred feet below.
“The last time I came to the Golden Gate, three weeks ago,” said Savi, “Odysseus was in one of the cryotemporal sarcophagi where I usually sleep. His arrival—and what it means—is the reason I finally contacted you, why I left those directions on the rock in the Dry Valley.”
Ada, Harman, Hannah, and Daeman stared at the old woman, obviously not understanding the terms or real meaning of her statement. Savi did not explain. The four waited for Odysseus to say something that would enlighten them.
“What is for dinner?” asked Odysseus.
“More of the same,” said Savi.
The bearded man shook his head. “No.” He pointed a broad, blunt finger at Harman, then again at Daeman. “You two. There is an hour of twilight left. A good time of day for hunting. Do you want to come with me?”
“No!” said Daeman.
“Yes,” said Harman.
“I want to come,” said Ada, surprised at the urgency in her own voice. “Please.”
Odysseus stared at her a long moment. “Yes,” he said at last.
“I should join you,” said Savi. She sounded dubious.
“I know how to handle your machine,” said Odysseus, nodding toward the sonie.
“I know, but . . .” Savi touched the black weapon in her belt.
“No need,” said Odysseus. “It’s just food I’m seeking, not a war. There will be no voynix down there.”
Savi still hesitated.