On the internet a broad consensus was developing. The Olympians were, for the first time ever, looking vulnerable. Their iron grip was loosening. The perch they sat on, which for so many years had seem so lofty as to be unassailable, now seemed as though it might be within reach, since someone had managed to knock a couple of them off it.
The doubters had, for once, real fuel for their scepticism. The pessimists were converting to the church of optimism. The cynics were laughing. The scoffers were turning serious. Could this be it? The beginning of the end? Was the closing chapter in the saga of Pantheonic rule being written?
"Jerry was LLH on Paulita," ran a typical post. "The J's don't know what's hit them," ran another. "Whoever the guys in the super-suits are, they're MHB-ing the Pantheon," was a common refrain.
More and more, the New Labours of Hercules were coming to be regarded as a cheap ploy by Zeus, a bid for public kudos, an attempt to save some face by winning hearts and minds. It was almost taken as read, now, that Poseidon must have been behind the Staten Island Ferry near-disaster, and some were speculating whether the 25-foot alligator in the New York sewers hadn't just been planted there for Hercules to find. That 'gator was a kind of monster, after all, and the Olympians knew a thing or two about monsters, did they not? It stood to reason.
As for Hercules himself, a certain grudging pity was in evidence. "Jessie," as he was dubbed in J-Series Cipher, was judged to have been a patsy in the whole affair. Zeus had dangled him out there in front of the noses of the monster killers, setting him up as their first Olympian target. They'd taken the bait, and all along Hercules had been oblivious, innocently obeying Zeus's orders, until out of the blue the attack had come. "Jim," a.k.a. Hermes, was never meant to have arrived in time to save him. Zeus had, in other words, sacrificed Hercules in the hope of killing or capturing one or more of the enemy in exchange. Herc the Jerk was a perennial embarrassment for the Olympians. His death was no real loss to "Jerry." Get rid of him, get rid of some of the opposition at the same time — two birds with one stone, win-win, all that. Only, the scheme had backfired, and "Jim" was now MIA. One of the Pantheon's major assets, gone. Little wonder "Jerry" had been in such a grump on the chatshow. He'd made a bold play, and the other team had spanked him.
So ran the sentiment within humankind's electronic collective consciousness, and whether the internet shaped or only reflected the mood out there in the real world, its users were certainly becoming more strident in their views, more daring, more willing to stick their necks out and say what they thought. There was a fever building. The Titans, though no one apart from them knew yet that that was their name, had started the infection, and now it was incubating nicely, replicating, spreading. At last it seemed possible that Pantheonic rule was finite. The future wasn't going to be just year after year of the same old arrogant tyranny, the same old squirming submission.
A tantalising prospect. No more Olympians. If everyone could just get together, following the example of those unknown champions in their strange high-tech armour. If ordinary people would just rise up. If national armies would just unite and march on Olympus. If, if, if…
And as the fever grew, the temperature online rising and the internet buzzing and thrumming with a febrile radical zeal, hardly anyone noticed a brief, anonymous email that was lodged in the Comments and Suggestions section of the British government's official website. Hardly anyone noticed because such emails were routinely discounted and discarded. The UK's leadership had little interest in learning what the common man had to say about the way it ran the country, and even less interest in putting any of the common man's ideas or proposals into practice. The civil servant whose daily chore it was to delete each of these missives didn't even glance twice at this particular one, despite it having as its subject heading the words "I KNOW WHERE OLIMPAN KILLERS R HIDING." All sorts of crazy people wrote in to parliament, and emailers were often the worst. They were the new green-ink brigade. "Disgusted" of wherever-it-was had access to a computer now and no qualms about bombarding those in power with whatever nonsense happened to percolate up in his or her pea-sized brain that day. The poor grammar, the capitals, the misspelling of Olympian, and the textspeak "R" all confirmed that this particular email was the work of yet another uneducated, semiliterate nutcase. The civil servant opened it, ignored the content, pressed Reply, pasted in the stock answer template — "The Prime Minister thanks you for your concern and will address the valid issue you raise as soon as time permits" — then Send, Delete, done. Next!
Someone did sit up and pay attention, however.
Argus.
The email snagged at the fringes of his awareness. His enormous, globe-spanning ether-self felt a tweak, a faint, distant niggling as some lexical filter or other that he had set up years ago probed the content of the communique and was made curious. With intangible tentacles the software plucked the email from oblivion, much like a librarian retrieving a tome from the basement or a truffle pig snuffling out a fungal delicacy in the depths of the forest, and brought it winging to the forefront of Argus's mind, for his closer attention. Thousands of operations like this occurred every hour of every day. Argus's life was a perpetual assessment of data, an unending sorting of the relevant from the irrelevant, the pertinent from the impertinent, the tolerable from the intolerable. He would sift everything down further and further until only the finest-graded stuff remained — the credible threats to Pantheonic control, the most insulting or seditious opinions given voice to, the matters that demanded immediate action. He would then inform Zeus, leaving it to the king of the Olympians to determine the appropriate response.
The email in question read:
DEAR MR CATSBEY BARTLET
It was the tone of it more than anything that temporarily arrested the billion-baud flow of Argus's thoughts — the certainty, the crude confidence, the cool sincerity. The sender of the email was either a fraudster with nerves of steel or someone with genuine insider intel.
Argus elected to take matters into his own hands, to a degree. Zeus was absent from Olympus at present. A face-to-face consultation would not be possible until his return, and the email merited, Argus felt, face-to-face. In the interim, he had authorisation to let the sender know that the Olympians themselves were taking an interest. It was standard procedure with potential informants. He despatched a peacock icon back along the filepath of the email. It pinged up in the sender's inbox.
Sitting at a terminal in an internet cafe in south-east London, Darren Pugh at first frowned. Then, as the full implications of the peacock icon dawned on him, his face broke into a broad, feral grin.
48. DETECTIVE WORK
A t another terminal, underground on Bleaney, Sam sat. Mahmoud sat beside her.
"You're sure about this?" Mahmoud said.
"I'm not sure about anything, Zaina," Sam replied. "All I know is, there's something Landesman's not been telling us. It's been nagging at me for a while. Little things here and there. Like when I was talking to Lillicrap and he used the word 'vendetta.' He tried to make out it was a slip of the tongue, but I don't think it was. And Landesman's behaviour on the whole. I don't buy the whole 'billionaire on a mission to save the world' bit, not any more."