The Masque of Agamemnon 
            Sean Williams and Simon Brown 

      Not long after the Achaean fleet arrived at the periphery of the Ilium 
      system, its area sensors noted a phenomenon its sentient matrix could 
      neither accept nor explain. An owl appeared in the middle of the fleet, 
      circled around it three times-its wings eclipsing the distant point of 
      light that was Ilium's sun-then headed straight for the Over-captain's own 
      ship, Mycenae. Just as it was about to smash into the ship's hull, there 
      was an intense flash of blue light and the owl disappeared.
      Internal sensors picked it up next: a bird the size of a human child, 
      dipping and soaring within Mycenae's vast internal halls and corridors. 
      Before any alarm could be given, the sensor matrices received a supersede 
      command; the owl was a messenger from the goddess Athena, and it was not 
      to be interfered with.
      Seconds later, the owl reached its destination, the chamber of Agamemnon, 
      Over-captain of the entire Achaean fleet. What happened therein is not 
      recorded, but an hour later Agamemnon announced to his crew he was going 
      to hold a grand ball.
      His wife, Clytemnestra, attributed the idea to his love of games and his 
      penchant for petulant, almost childlike whims. She thought the idea a 
      foolish notion, but she did not argue against it; she loved her husband 
      and indulged him in all things.
      Arrangements were quickly made and maser beams carried messages to all the 
      other ships of the fleet, demanding their captains attend the Great Masque 
      of Agamemnon. 


      "Your brother should spend more time worrying about the Trojans," Helen 
      told her husband, Menelaus.
      The Captain of Sparta grimaced. He disliked anyone criticising his older 
      brother, but in this instance he had to agree with his wife. Agamemnon was 
      spending a large amount of the fleet's energy and time to throw his ball; 
      energy and time that could have been better spent prosecuting an attack 
      against the Trojans' home on Ilium.
      "Nevertheless, he has commanded the presence of all his captains and their 
      wives, so we must go."
      "But why a masque? He loves his games too much. And I suppose we will end 
      up spending the whole time with Nestor."
      "Nestor is the oldest among us and his words the wisest."
      "The most boring, you mean. Oh, Menelaus," she pouted. "I wish we didn't 
      have to go."
      Although Menelaus agreed with Helen's sentiment, he would not allow 
      himself to say so. 


      Achilles had made a silver helmet for his friend Patroclus to wear to the 
      ball. When Patroclus saw it he could not find the words to thank Achilles; 
      it was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. Then Achilles 
      showed him the helmet he himself would be wearing, and to Patroclus' 
      surprise it was exactly the same as the one he had been given.
      "I don't understand, Achilles. Are we going as brothers?"
      Achilles laughed. "As lovers, dear Patroclus. But there is more to it than 
      symbolism."
      Patroclus looked blankly at his friend, which made Achilles laugh even 
      harder. "We are the same size and shape. With these helmets, and wearing 
      the livery of my ship, no one will be able to tell us apart."
      "A game?"
      Achilles shrugged, gently placed one of the helmets on Patroclus' head. He 
      leaned forward quickly and kissed his friend on the lips, then closed the 
      helmet's faceplate, hiding his friend's face entirely except for his eyes 
      and mouth.
      "A game of sorts, I suppose, to match Agamemnon's own." Achilles put on 
      his own helmet, closed the faceplate. "We are, behind these disguises, 
      nothing but shadows of ourselves, and as shadows at the Over-captain's 
      masque, who knows what secrets we will learn?"
      "Secrets?"
      "I have heard rumours that Agamemnon has invited a surprise guest."
      "A surprise guest?"
      "A Trojan," Achilles said. 


      His real name was Bernal, but AlterEgo insisted on calling him Paris.
      "Get used to it. Our hosts insist on you adopting the name for this 
      occasion."
      "If they explained why, it would be easier," Bernal complained. Strapped 
      into the gravity couch of the small ship in which he was travelling, he 
      had little to do except complain. AlterEgo took care of all the ship's 
      functions; Bernal was nothing but baggage.
      "Presumably, it has something to do with the fact that all the messages 
      we've received from our visitors come in the name of Agamemnon."
      "Over-captain of the Achaean fleet, for pity's sake."
      "You can snort all you want, Paris, but we know very little else about 
      them, and it will probably be in your best interests to take them 
      seriously."
      "Not to mention the best interests of the whole of Cirrus."
      Bernal aligned the external telescope, the only instrument the ship 
      carried that used visible light and installed specifically for Bernal's 
      use. He could not see his planet-now more than forty billion kilometres 
      away-but the system's yellow dwarf sun, Anatole, was the brightest object 
      in the sky, and Cirrus was somewhere within a few arc seconds of it.
      "Homesick?" AlterEgo asked.
      "Scared, more like," Bernal answered. "When was the last time one of my 
      people travelled this far from home?"
      Bernal was sure he heard AlterEgo's brain hum, even though he knew the AI 
      didn't have any parts that hummed as such. He had been in the AI's company 
      for too long. "Two hundred and twenty-seven years ago. Explorer and miner 
      named Groenig. Last message came when her ship was forty-three billion 
      kilometres from home. Never heard from since."
      "No one went after her?"
      "What good would that have done? Even back then, when intrasystem shipping 
      was much more active than now, there would not have been more than two or 
      three ships that could have reached her last known position within six 
      months; far too late to do anything to help her if she was in trouble. 
      Most likely there was some onboard disaster, or maybe the loneliness got 
      to her and she committed suicide."
      The answer irritated Bernal. "What the hell did you wake me for, anyway?"
      "I did have the telescope aligned on something I thought you'd be 
      interested in seeing."
      "Don't whinge. What was it?"
      "Fortunately, I took the precaution of storing some images over a three 
      day period, which was just enough time to create some very interesting 
      holographic-"
      "If you've got something to show me, get on with it," Bernal commanded.
      Several small laser beams intersected about half a metre in front of 
      Bernal's face. At first they formed nothing but a white shell, but a 
      second later a 3D-image appeared. It looked like a crown of thorns. "How 
      big is it?"
      "Some of my sensor readings indicate the object's mass is close to seven 
      million tonnes."
      Bernal was surprised. Without a reference point, he had assumed the object 
      was quite small. Then he remembered AlterEgo saying it had taken three 
      days to get a workable 3D image, which was a lot of time to work with for 
      a computer of AlterEgo's capability.
      "What did you say its dimensions were?"
      "I didn't, but I estimate a radius of eighty or so kilometres."
      "My God! Is this one of the Achaean ships?"
      "I should think that if this was just one of their ships, a fleet of them 
      would have been detected from Cirrus several years ago. I surmise, 
      therefore, that this is the fleet, its individual components joined in 
      some way."
      Bernal peered at the holograph. "Can you make out any repetitions of 
      shape? Anything we could identify as a single unit?"
      "Ah, I was hoping you would ask that." Bernal was sure he heard smugness 
      in that voice. "Indeed, this is why I woke you."
      The holographic image changed, metamorphosed into something more like a 
      ship. Bernal peered at it. Well, vaguely more like a ship.
      "It reminds me of something I've seen before, but for the life of me I 
      can't figure what."
      "Using some deductive logic, a little dash of intuition and a thorough 
      search of the Cirrus Archives, I think I've discovered something," 
      AlterEgo said. "Watch what happens when I remove from the Achaean ship the 
      youngest hull material, connective grids and certain extraneous energy 
      dispersion vanes."
      The image altered instantaneously into something barely a tenth the size 
      of the original. Bernal studied the new shape for a moment before a memory 
      clicked in his brain.
      "I don't believe it!"
      AlterEgo just hummed.
      "A Von Neumann probe . . ." Bernal's voice faded as he realised the 
      implications.
      "Precisely my deduction," AlterEgo agreed, superimposing a second 
      holograph over the first: a blue outline that almost perfectly matched the 
      image of the Achaean artefact. "This diagram is from Cirrus' most ancient 
      library stores. It is, of course, one of the original plans for a Von 
      Neumann probe, circa 2090 CE."
      Bernal whistled. "But that was nearly 5,000 years ago. They were the first 
      human-made ships to reach the stars."
      "And in their seedbanks they carried the ancestors of all human life in 
      this part of the spiral arm . . ." There was the slightest of pauses . . . 
      including your own kind." 


      The bulkheads forming Mycenae's cavernous, square reception hall were 
      decorated with depictions of a Cyclopean city: grey walls made from 
      unworked boulders and dressed stone; a corbel arch gateway topped by a 
      heavy, triangular sculpture of two lions and a Minoan column; and a 
      massive beehive tomb made from the same stone as the city.
      Mingling in the hall were dozens of ship captains and their wives or 
      mistresses, all dressed in elaborate costumes, the men in shining 
      breastplates and tall helmets sprouting horse-hair crests or eagle 
      feathers, the women in long tunics bordered in gold and beads of amber and 
      lapis lazuli.
      Agamemnon moved among his captains, greeting each individually with 
      generous words, baulking only when he met the two he knew were Achilles 
      and Patroclus, but was unable to tell them apart in their silver helmets. 
      He smiled, pretending to enjoy their private joke, and moved on to deliver 
      more glib welcomings. Clytemnestra circulated as well, talking to the 
      women, flattering them about their clothing and hair.
      In a short while, smaller groups coalesced from the throng, centred on the 
      fleet's major captains. The largest group circled Agamemnon and his 
      brother Menelaus; a second group almost as large gathered around Achilles 
      and Patroclus; other heroes to have their own audience included Diomedes, 
      the huge Ajax, Nestor and Idomeneus. Standing apart from them all, 
      however, was one captain without any followers or even the companionship 
      of his own woman.
      Odysseus stood back from the assembly, looking on with a wry smile. He 
      enjoyed observing the posturings of the major captains, the false 
      camaraderie they shared and the whispered insults they passed. As well, he 
      was entertained by the antics of the lesser captains, eager to please 
      their patrons and desperate to raise their own status in the fleet.
      His inspection was interrupted by an owl that appeared on his shoulder.
      "The guest has arrived," the owl said. "His ship is about to dock. He 
      brings a friend with him."
      "A friend?" Odysseus replied. "Troy was instructed to send only one of 
      their own."
      "His friend is not human," the owl continued. "It is some kind of AI. I 
      only learned of this when it communicated with the navigation computer."
      "Have you told Agamemnon?"
      "Not yet."
      "Then do so now. He should greet this Paris personally." 


      Bernal cursed as AlterEgo made what it called "minor" adjustments to the 
      ship's attitude in its final approach to the docking site. The ship jerked 
      to port, then performed a quarter-roll, jerked back in the other 
      direction, and finally decelerated rapidly as all the lateral thrusters 
      fired simultaneously. Bernal's journey to the Achaean fleet, which had 
      begun with a smooth acceleration away from orbit around Cirrus and then 
      continued on just as smoothly for another three weeks through intrasystem 
      space, was now ending with a violent jagging that did nothing to ease his 
      roiling stomach.
      Bernal was about to ask AlterEgo when all the manoeuvring would finish, 
      when suddenly there was a thump and he felt himself flung forward before 
      the gravity webbing caught him and flung him back again.
      And then a new sensation.
      Weight, Bernal realised after a moment. The Achaean fleet is not only 
      locked together; it's also rotating.
      "We are here," AlterEgo announced calmly.
      "I think I have a headache coming on."
      "It is just the tension, Paris. You will be fine once you get moving."
      "Do I have to suit up?"
      "No need. We have docked adjacent to an airlock. You will be able to 
      stroll through and meet our hosts as soon as the airlock is pressurised."
      "Can you take a sample of their air?"
      "Already done. Breathable. Nitrogen-oxygen mix, a little heavy on the 
      oxygen side, but nothing extraordinary. Very few trace gasses. The airlock 
      has pressurised. Do you want me to open the hatch?"
      "Is there anyone waiting for me?"
      "Not in the airlock itself. Wait, I'll communicate with the Achaean 
      command system."
      Bernal unstrapped himself from the webbing, then carefully climbed out of 
      the life support suit that had kept him fed, removed his body waste, 
      injected him with regular doses of calcium and vitamins, and electrically 
      stimulated his muscles for the duration of the journey. By the time he had 
      finished, AlterEgo was able to report that a welcoming committee would be 
      waiting for him on the other side of the airlock.
      "Did you think to ask who's in the committee?"
      There was a sound like a sigh. "Agamemnon, Over-captain of the Achaean 
      Fleet, his wife Clytemnestra, his brother Menelaus, Captain of Sparta, and 
      his wife Helen, and Odysseus, Captain of Ithaca."
      Bernal closed his eyes, slowly shook his head. "That ache is getting 
      worse."
      "Paris, they're waiting."
      Bernal nodded, climbed into a one-piece shipsuit. He clipped onto his 
      chest a small metal badge displaying the Grand Seal of Cirrus; to a nipple 
      on the pin showing through on the reverse of the suit he attached a thin 
      filament that was in turn connected to a jack built into his fifth 
      vertebra. He tapped the badge gently. "You there, old friend?"
      In spirit, if not body, AlterEgo said in his mind.
      Bernal sealed the suit and went to the hatch. "Open Sesame," he said, 
      trying to sound braver than he felt.

      As the airlock cycled open, Agamemnon could barely contain his excitement. 
      Clytemnestra laid a calming hand on his shoulder, ready to hold back her 
      husband in case he leapt forward to greet their Trojan guest with one of 
      his bear hugs. Clytemnestra admired the spontaneous bouts of affection 
      Agamemnon was prone to inflict on visitors, but understood it might 
      startle Paris out of his wits.
      There was a hiss as the final hatch retracted, and a slim, short figure 
      appeared. The stranger smiled nervously and held out a hand.
      "Greetings, Achaeans. I am Paris of . . . umm . . . Troy."
      The first thought that crossed Clytemnestra's mind was that Paris was 
      absolutely sexless. She glanced at Helen to judge her reaction, and saw 
      that she was equally intrigued.
      Agamemnon strode forward suddenly to take the proffered hand in both of 
      his, and shook it vigorously.
      "Welcome to Mycenae, friend!" the Over-captain boomed. "I am Agamemnon!" 
      He pulled Paris forward and quickly introduced the others. Paris shook 
      hands with each of them.
      Not sexless, Clytemnestra decided. Male, but underdeveloped. Hardly a man 
      at all, really.
      Agamemnon curled one arm around Paris' slim shoulders and led him away. 
      "My captains are looking forward to meeting you," he said. "They are all 
      gathered in the Mycenae's reception hall." He turned to Clytemnestra, who 
      handed him a mask, which he in turn gave to Paris. "For the ball," 
      Agamemnon explained.
      The Trojan studied the mask, made in the shape of an apple pierced by an 
      arrow, before putting it on. Agamemnon slipped into an arrangement of 
      beaten gold and indicated that the others should do the same.
      Disguised as a swan, Clytemnestra fell in behind the pair, followed by 
      Menelaus, looking stoic beneath bull's horns, and Odysseus, faintly amused 
      in a mask of stars. She was surprised when Helen-her mask a predictable 
      and entirely appropriate cat-overtook her to draw level with Paris.
      "Was your journey long and uncomfortable?" Helen inquired.
      Paris offered his nervous smile. "I was asleep for most of the time, my 
      lady, and never uncomfortable."
      "Oh, good! Then you will be fine to dance!"
      Agamemnon laughed. "We Achaeans love dancing!" he declared.
      "Almost as much as we love making war," Menelaus said grimly, barely loud 
      enough for Clytemnestra to hear. 


      Bernal's heart was beating so fast he thought he might pass out.
      The first thing he saw, as he stepped through the airlock and gave his 
      greeting, was an enormous male leaping towards him. Calling on reserves of 
      courage he had no idea he possessed, Bernal awaited the onslaught, only to 
      have his outstretched hand pumped like an overworked piston.
      If all that had not been enough, Bernal's first close-up view of an 
      Achaean convinced him to retreat to his own ship, but he could not escape 
      from the vice-like grip that held his hand.
      The creature was huge: a good two metres tall, and seemingly half that at 
      least across the shoulders. Bernal heard it identify itself as Agamemnon 
      in a voice so loud and low pitched it rattled his teeth. Then he was being 
      introduced to a whole crowd of giants and shepherded down a passageway 
      that was barely wide enough for he and Agamemnon to walk side by side. He 
      found himself glancing up at the Over-captain's head, marvelling at its 
      symmetry and its colours: the cheeks and lips were a bright crimson, the 
      long hair and beard as black as charcoal, the skin as pale as cream. It 
      was almost a relief when they donned masks, concealing their excessive 
      features.
      Another thing Bernal could not help noticing was the Achaean's odour: not 
      rank, but very strong and very . . . masculine. He realised then that he 
      could smell its opposite: something sweet, like newly-ripened fruit. He 
      turned and saw the one called Helen matching his stride. She was not as 
      tall as Agamemnon, but easily ten centimetres taller than Bernal himself. 
      She was lithely built, and what he could see of her colouring was as 
      exaggerated as Agamemnon's, including her long golden hair, which shone 
      almost as fiercely and lustrously as the metal. Her cat-face was designed 
      less to conceal her features than to enhance them; the silver whiskers 
      danced with every word, and were quite hypnotic.
      Helen asked him about his journey, and he answered as politely as his wits 
      allowed him. Helen said something else, and there was a contribution from 
      Agamemnon, but he was distracted by AlterEgo saying in his mind: Paris, 
      your hosts are not breathing. 


      Achilles looked up in annoyance as the welcoming party returned to the 
      hall. He had enjoyed being the centre of attention while Agamemnon was 
      away; now he would have to return to being second in rank among the 
      heroes-maybe third if the envoy from Troy was as mighty a warrior as his 
      insecurity made him imagine.
      What he saw set his mind at rest.
      The tiny specimen was pallid and washed-out, barely there at all. What was 
      his name? Paris? He looked like a ghost, but not the sort that would 
      instil fear in anyone. The ghost of a sad, lonely child who missed its 
      friends. 


      Achilles' lips pulled back in a smile as he moved through the throng to 
      pay his respects to the visitor, leaving Patroclus to take his place.
      "You're looking cheerful, m'boy," said Nestor as he passed. The elderly 
      warrior was seated at a table, cleaning his fingernails with the tip of a 
      dagger, his face concealed beneath a dove-shaped mask. "King Hector is no 
      fool and his emissary will be no slouch, either. Tread carefully where 
      this Paris is concerned, that's my advice."
      Achilles dismissed the old man's words with a wave of his hand and did his 
      best to ignore the irrational foreboding that swept over him. 


      "Dear me." Bernal sagged into the seat Clytemnestra offered him when the 
      introductions were over. Achilles, Diomedes, Ajax, captain of this and 
      that-the names had reeled inexorably past him, accompanied by features and 
      bodies no less legendary. The masks only accentuated their superficiality: 
      they were caricatures, grotesqueries, fit for waxworks and not reality. He 
      wasn't surprised that they weren't what they seemed, because what they 
      seemed was utterly preposterous. The fact that they weren't respiring in 
      any way AlterEgo could detect only proved that his initial unease had been 
      justified, even if it did little to explain what he was seeing. 
      Extraordinarily lifelike environment suits? The results of severe 
      bioengineering or advanced eugenics? Alien mimics?
      But the masks themselves were magnificent, matching the armour worn by the 
      males and the finery worn by the females. Everywhere he looked he saw 
      another stunning example. Heads glittered with jewels, waved exotic 
      feathers, even sported miniature plants in one case. They had certainly 
      gone to a lot of effort-an effort which did not diminish as the masque 
      continued.
      Tables were carried in, laden with roast boar, goat and lion, and 
      vegetables Bernal could not identify. The food at least looked real and 
      his stomach rumbled. The giants swarmed around him, booming and hooting 
      with their tremendous voices, every gesture exaggerated.
      "I want out of here," he said to AlterEgo.
      You can't leave yet, AlterEgo replied calmly. Not until the banquet is 
      over, anyway. It would be impolite to leave any sooner-possibly dangerous.
      "They'd take me prisoner?"
      Worse; they might be offended. Can you imagine an army of these creatures 
      attacking Cirrus to protest your bad manners?
      Bernal groaned. He could imagine it all too well. As Achilles and his lads 
      on the far side of the room struck up a chorus of a very martial sounding 
      anthem, he swore to avoid causing a diplomatic incident of any kind.
      "They still haven't said what they want from us."
      Maybe no more than your gratitude, AlterEgo chided him. So cheer up, 
      Paris. You are being an unpleasant guest.
      A goblet of crimson wine appeared before him. He sipped at it and 
      immediately pulled a face. It tasted like nothing so much as recycled 
      water. A plate of sweet-smelling roast meat went past at that moment and 
      he reached out and grabbed a slice, wincing as hot fat burned his 
      fingertips. The meat possessed the intriguing, even poignant, flavour of 
      stale ship rations.
      Very odd indeed.
      "Do you like it?" asked a voice near his ear.
      He turned, startled, and almost touched masks with Helen. A whisker 
      tickled him. "Oh, yes, very much."
      "There will be speeches after the food," she said. Her eyes were very 
      moist, he noted, and seemed to reflect every photon of light that touched 
      them. "After that, there will be music."
      "Wonderful!" He nodded, wondering what to do with the morsel of 
      bland-tasting meat. Eat it? Probably for the best.
      "We Achaeans love dancing." Helen repeated Agamemnon's declaration; but 
      her inflection said something far different. 


      When the echoes of the horn had faded, Agamemnon climbed onto a chair and 
      began to speak. Clytemnestra watched on, smiling at the audience before 
      her, noting who seemed to be paying attention to Agamemnon and who wasn't. 
      She knew her husband could be bombastic at times-and had little, really, 
      to say-but he meant well. He always meant well. She committed to memory 
      the names of those who looked bored; they would receive the edge of her 
      disfavour another time.
      Achilles was one of them. Always young Achilles. So valiant and strong, 
      such a great warrior, yet so impulsive and restless, too. He was like a 
      male wolf who itched to challenge the pack leader but was not quite 
      confident enough to go through with it. So he chafed in second place, 
      awaiting his chance.
      He would never make as fine a leader as Agamemnon, Clytemnestra knew. Her 
      husband had guided them well. Once the matter of the Trojans was resolved, 
      none would dispute that.
      The Over-captain ground to a halt and was cheered enthusiastically. The 
      Trojan, Paris, winced at the noise. Helen leaned down to whisper something 
      in his ear. He looked bewildered, but smiled anyway. Clytemnestra frowned. 
      Damn that girl! A dalliance in the backroom of the barracks was all well 
      and good if no one saw or knew, but here, with her husband just metres 
      away, she was risking a terrible scandal.
      And with a Trojan, too. Only Athena knew what Helen saw in him.
      The horns sounded again, signalling the next stage of the masque. A 
      quartet of musicians stepped from the wings and, after a brief tune-up, 
      began to play. Tables slid easily aside to form an impromptu dance floor. 
      Agamemnon stepped down from the chair with a flourish and grasped his wife 
      around her waist. She kissed him joyfully on the cheek, already feeling 
      the rhythm in her body. Couples moved around them, heading for the clear 
      space, accompanied by the stamping of feet and chiming laughter from the 
      women. 


      They danced. More to the point, they waltzed.
      "This can't be right," Bernal muttered.
      "I'm sorry?" Helen inclined her ear closer to his mouth, sending a wave of 
      her scent wafting into his nostrils. The skin beneath his hands was warm 
      and soft-unbelievably so. He wasn't so close that he missed the rise and 
      fall of respiration, but not so far away that her chest didn't catch his 
      eye nonetheless. She was as enticing a woman as he had ever met. If only, 
      he thought, her make-up wasn't so severe.
      Then he realised: it wasn't make-up. Her skin really was that colour. And 
      her eyelashes. And her lips.
      If only, he amended, she was real.
      "Am I hurting you?" she asked, backing away ever so slightly.
      "Not at all!" He was wood in her arms and she had sensed it. He tried to 
      be gracious. "It's too much. All this-" He removed his hand from hers and 
      waved at the hall. "It's overwhelming."
      "It's not like this in Troy?"
      "Not exactly."
      She nodded. "I would like to see it, one day." Her eyes shone, and he 
      thought he saw something akin to mischievousness in them. "Do you think 
      that would be possible?"
      The music changed tempo and he found himself drawn into a spinning 
      whirlwind of limbs. This dance was unfamiliar. He found his close 
      proximity to Helen-even closer now, with her hands on his lower back, 
      pushing him to her-disconcerting. But even more disconcerting still was 
      the sight of Agamemnon and his fellows and their dance-partners spinning 
      by with only inches to spare. Afraid of colliding and being crushed like a 
      puppy, he flinched at every close pass, and eventually closed his eyes 
      entirely, letting Helen guide him to safety. Or not, as the case may be. 
      If she failed, he reasoned, at least he would never know what happened.
      "AlterEgo, I beg you-"
      Not until we have worked out what they want from Cirrus. That's why we are 
      here. We cannot leave until we know what is going on. Grit your teeth. And 
      be on the look-out for any covert attempt to communicate. It may be that 
      the masque is a distraction, a mask itself for some other truth. If 
      Agamemnon won't talk to us, then maybe someone else will.
      Suddenly Helen led him by the hand from the dance floor, weaving through 
      her fellow Achaeans with the grace of a deer. He gasped in surprise, and 
      she pulled him closer to her.
      "Come with me," she whispered.
      "Helen, I-"
      "Don't worry. I can tell you're not enjoying yourself. I know a place 
      where you'll feel more comfortable." 


      Odysseus nodded in satisfaction as the pair, largely unnoticed under the 
      cover of the dance, slipped from the hall. A flutter of feathers in his 
      ear heralded the return of the owl, which indicated its own approval with 
      a smug hoot.
      "She's a wily one," Odysseus said.
      "Menelaus sees." The owl nodded to a point across the room where the 
      Captain of Sparta looked around for his wife and caught sight of her 
      leaving with the guest. His face clouded.
      "Will he follow?" Odysseus craned his neck for a better view.
      The Captain waved a hand and Diomedes, masked behind an ivory skull, 
      approached. A whispered exchange ensued, resulting in Diomedes leaving the 
      hall. Menelaus sank back into his seat, glowered momentarily, then smiled 
      as a servant offered to refill his mug.
      "Good enough," the owl said.
      "Where will she take him?"
      "I've left that up to her. She deserves some autonomy, after all."
      "As do I." Odysseus straightened his cuirass and stood. "I'm curious."
      "Ever the hunter."
      "Well, I was made in your image."
      "Exactly." The bird nipped his ear affectionately. "So follow them and 
      make sure nothing goes wrong."
      "Yes, goddess." 


      Helen opened the door and nudged the Trojan ahead of her. The small room 
      beyond was in darkness and she felt him hesitate. He was so timid, so 
      unlike the men she was used to. Glancing once behind her, she closed the 
      door on them both. Light instantly sprung into being. White light, almost 
      cold.
      "What the-?" Paris looked around him in amazement.
      "Here we are, alone at last," she said, reaching for his hands and pulling 
      him to her. Although he didn't resist, he exhibited little of the 
      enthusiasm she had hoped for.
      "But-"
      "Surely this is more to your liking?" The plastic walls and synthetic 
      fabrics of the wrecked Trojan vessel they had recovered seemed unfriendly 
      and sterile to her, but she assumed he would be more at ease in their 
      presence. Indeed, the space was pleasantly cramped. There were a couple of 
      large couches nearby for which she had bold plans.
      Her hands caressed his wrists and forearms. His skin was rough, weathered 
      by a sun she had never seen. He was undeniably masculine, although his 
      stature belied it. She yearned to kiss him, this strange half-man from 
      another world.
      "Yes," he said, "I-"
      "And me?" Her hands brought him closer, until he was forced to look at 
      her. The fingers of one hand slid around his prickly scalp, tilted his 
      face up to hers. The white light made his eyes glint. He squirmed in her 
      grip-with lust at last, she assumed, slow to wake but no doubt as 
      difficult to quench. "Am I to your liking, too, dear Paris?" 

      "AlterEgo!" Bernal struggled wildly, but Helen's grip was too strong. Her 
      open mouth loomed and for a moment he was irrationally afraid she might 
      devour him whole. Then her lips met his with a crushing impact, and he 
      wasn't sure which would have been worse.
      I have identified the ship you have entered, AlterEgo said. It is the 
      Apollo, the vessel piloted by Groenig on her last voyage.
      "Another Greek reference?"
      Unintentional, this time. The vessel was named after an ancient series of 
      flights from ancient Earth to its satellite.
      Bernal felt something slip into his mouth and he doubted it was a coded 
      message.
      There is nothing I can do to assist you at this moment, Paris. I suggest 
      you at least try to enjoy it. Would that not be the proper response?
      With a surge of strength inspired by panic Bernal managed to pull away 
      from the woman. But only for an instant. She grinned playfully and grasped 
      at his shoulders with both hands. He tried to escape, tripped over a wisp 
      of dress that had wound around his ankles and fell backwards through the 
      door into the corridor. Helen followed with a playful shriek.
      They collapsed in the hallway, entangled in each others' limbs, she poised 
      on top of him like a predatory cat. Before she could kiss him again, 
      Bernal rolled over and looked up straight into the eyes of an armed 
      Achaean.
      They stared at each other for a moment and it was hard to tell who was the 
      most startled.
      "Paris?" gasped the Achaean.
      Helen sat up with a start. The sudden movement of her hips forced Bernal 
      back down. Her mask had been dislodged in the fall and her guilty look was 
      painfully obvious.
      "Diomedes?"
      A shocked expression spread across the guard's dull features. "My lady!"
      "No, Diomedes, wait-"
      The guard backed away as she attempted to disentangle herself from Bernal. 
      As she clambered to her feet, Diomedes turned tail and fled. Maybe, Bernal 
      thought, he was afraid Helen might attack him, too.
      She cursed under her breath and followed, calling out his name as she 
      went: "Diomedes! Come back here at once!"
      Suddenly Bernal was alone. He tore off his mask and threw it into a 
      corner, then put his head in his hands and tried not to think about what 
      he had done. The expedition had been a disaster from the start. So much 
      for not creating a diplomatic incident. But it hadn't been his fault! He 
      felt battered and abused, very much the victim of the piece. Still, he 
      doubted Menelaus, Helen's husband, would see it that way. He had to get 
      away, now, before anything really bad happened to him. He was sure that 
      just one of those creatures could snap him in half without any effort.
      "AlterEgo-"
      He only got that far. Something moved nearby; a slight scuff of fabric, a 
      footstep.
      He clambered to his feet. "Who's there?"
      Another of the enormous Achaeans stepped into the light with a chuckle, 
      his mask a black starscape. "You seem distraught, Paris. Or should I call 
      you Bernal, seeing we're alone for the moment?" He removed his mask, 
      revealing a most satisfied expression.
      "Odysseus?" Bernal backed away. Something about the Captain's look made 
      him even more nervous than the giant bronze sword hanging at Odysseus' 
      waist. "What do you mean?"
      "I know who you are and where you're from. Does that surprise you?"
      "Yes, well, I was beginning to wonder if any of you were even halfway 
      sane. Is this some sort of game?"
      "No, Bernal. It is deadly serious, as all wars should be."
      "War? No, listen, this is all just a misunderstanding, honestly; it's not 
      what you thin-"
      "What I think doesn't matter. It's what Menelaus thinks, and what 
      Agamemnon will think when Menelaus tells him. How will it look when an 
      honoured guest seduces the wife of one our most honoured captains? The 
      sister-in-law of the Over-captain, no less! Surely she would have played 
      no active role in such a betrayal? Better to believe that all Trojans are 
      treacherous liars. Better to attack before you attack us."
      "But we can't attack you! We don't have the ships. We turned our back on 
      space exploration once we finished mining the asteroids. Cirrus is a 
      peaceful, harmonious world with only a handful of vessels remaining, to 
      clean up space-junk. Any one of your ships would be equal to all of ours."
      "There are many more of you than us and you have greater resources," 
      Odysseus said reassuringly. "It will be an interesting battle between two 
      unmatched equals. There will be glory enough for both sides."
      "That's what I'm worried about!" Bernal felt fear for his people like a 
      white-hot thread down his spine. "We don't want glory at all. It's too 
      dangerous!"
      "Existence itself is dangerous, Paris, and whether or not you seek glory, 
      it is coming your way. Achaea and Troy will go to war over the love of a 
      woman named Helen. The goddess Athena wills it, and so I, Athena s 
      servant, am bound to pursue it. It is our purpose. We all have roles to 
      play and you, Paris, just like Helen, will play yours.
      "I must go now to assist Agamemnon. His judgment will be swift, I am 
      sure." The Achaean stalked off along the hallway.
      Bernal sagged against the bulkhead. "They're following the story. They're 
      trying to make the Iliad come true, here and now. They think it's 
history!"
      So it would seem, AlterEgo said.
      Bernal was exhausted with fear and worry. "You'd better start working on a 
      way to get me out of here."
      Would that it were that simple. The airlock leading to our ship is sealed. 
      You will need one of the Achaeans to open it.
      "I'd rather attempt to chew a way out of Mycenae with my teeth than trust 
      one of those insane play-actors."
      You could ask Helen to help you, AlterEgo suggested.
      "No! If she follows the story she'll only want to come with me, and that 
      would well and truly seal the fate of Cirrus. There must be another way. 
      Can I fly Groenig's ship out of here?"
      Unlikely, but I will examine the Apollo more closely to see how thoroughly 
      it has been incorporated into Mycenae's structure. I should be able to 
      access the Apollo's onboard computer through Mycenae's navigation link, 
      assuming the computer's still functioning.
      "See to it," Bernal commanded, and headed for the door, imagining hoards 
      of brush-topped Greeks barrelling down the corridor toward him, 
      brandishing their leaf-shaped swords.
      One thing puzzles me, Bernal. Why this charade? It is an enormous 
      expenditure of energy for what seems to be an utterly trivial goal. And 
      then there are the details. Ancient Greeks never waltzed. They were as 
      human-like as anyone and were, on average, slighter in stature than 
      present examples of the race. And I'm pretty certain they didn't pilot 
      warships across the gulfs of interstellar space. Why go to so much trouble 
      only to get it so wrong?
      "Maybe we should try to find the goddess Odysseus spoke of," Bernal 
      suggested. "This Athena would know if anyone did."
      It's at times like these, AlterEgo said, that I regret being an atheist. 


      Helen halted at the entrance to the hall. The sound of festivities had 
      ceased. She inched a perfect nose around the edge of the door and watched 
      in dismay as Diomedes related what he had seen to her husband, Menelaus.
      She closed her eyes and thought fast. 


      Achilles smirked as the bedraggled damsel staggered through the entrance 
      and fell at her husband's feet, begging his mercy. She had been attacked, 
      she said. The Trojan was a monster, and stronger than he looked, it 
      seemed: she had barely been able to fend him off. Had not Diomedes 
      distracted the beast, she might never have escaped a fate worse than death 
      itself.
      A cry of outrage rose from the assembly. Achilles was disappointed by the 
      eruption. He knew all of the Achaeans were aware Helen distributed her 
      favours liberally, and had little time for smug hypocrisy. Menelaus, as 
      always, seemed to be the last to find out-and who would tell him? His 
      renowned anger was in full swing as he picked his wife off the floor and 
      brushed away her tears.
      "We must avenge this wrong-doing!" Menelaus cried.
      "Aye!" agreed Agamemnon. "Troy would steal our women right from under our 
      very noses!"
      "Starting with the fairest!" Menelaus said, adding "Bar one" after a sharp 
      look from Clytemnestra.
      "If the Trojans steal our women first, what will be next?" Agamemnon rose 
      onto a chair and waved his clenched fists. "I say we send this dog back to 
      his people on the vanguard of our war fleet!"
      Cheers answered the call to arms. Achilles looked on impassively, annoyed 
      that Agamemnon would allow his brother's petty jealousies to interrupt 
      such a fine occasion. But he knew it was all a set-up-that no matter what 
      the Trojan had done that day, it would somehow have led to this. Agamemnon 
      had been itching for a fight for weeks, and finding the Trojans had given 
      him his best chance.
      Achilles didn't join the bloodthirsty throng as it roared out of the hall 
      for the last known location of the Trojan. Instead he slipped out of 
      another doorway, intent on mounting his own search. There was no glory in 
      being part of a mob and glory, in the end, was all.
      Bernal tiptoed along the corridor as quietly as he could.
      "Any luck yet?" he whispered.
      Not yet, AlterEgo replied. Most of the hard storage has been fried by 
      cosmic radiation. I have established that the ship was recovered some 63 
      years ago. It had been drifting away from Cirrus prior to that after 
      shorting its power core. Groenig's remains were discovered on board. I 
      dread to think what happened to her after that. I can tell you a little 
      more about her background. She had an abiding interest in the classics. 
      The Apollo's manifesto mentions replicas of several ancient books. You can 
      probably guess one of them.
      "The Iliad ?"
      Precisely. I don't see how that helps us now, but it is interesting. As 
      for flying Groenig's ship out of here, I am hampered by certain technical 
      difficulties, the chief one being that the Apollo appears to have been 
      largely dismantled.
      Bernal flattened against a wall as footsteps approached. A lone figure 
      rounded the corner ahead of him: a soldier wearing a silver helmet.
      Bernal recognised him as Achilles-which gave him an idea. Of all the 
      Achaeans there was one who might be convinced to act against the 
      Over-captain's wishes-one who was jealous and petty enough in the original 
      Iliad to put his own desires ahead of those of his fellows.
      "Over here!" Bernal hissed. The silver-helmeted figure turned in a crouch 
      to face the sound. Bernal raised his hands. "I'm unarmed!"
      The warrior approached cautiously.
      "I need your help," Bernal said. Achilles didn't stab him immediately or 
      laugh in his face, so he went on: "Agamemnon wants to start a war between 
      your people and mine and he's set me up as a scapegoat to take the blame. 
      But we both know lies don't make a hero, don't we? It's about time the 
      others knew the truth! But first-" He took a chance and reached out for 
      the warrior's massive arm. The bulging biceps felt like iron. "But first 
      you have to help me get away. The airlock to my ship is sealed and I need 
      you to get me through it."
      Bernal held his breath as the warrior considered. For an eternity, nothing 
      happened, and Bernal began to fear that he had lost his only chance, that 
      Achilles would strike him down then and there and drag him like a trussed 
      pheasant for the giants to play with.
      Then, just as he had given up hope, the silver helmet nodded once.
      Bernal couldn't help sighing with relief. He grasped the warrior's free 
      hand in both of his and shook it. "I presume you know the way?"
      Again, the nod.
      "I'll be right behind you."
      Silently, the powerful warrior led Bernal along the hallway and towards 
      the airlock bay. 


      Odysseus watched in annoyance as the hunting party returned to the hall 
      empty-handed. The Trojan had clearly moved from the cabin of the wrecked 
      space vessel; any fool could have anticipated that, but not this bunch of 
      drunken dimwits. The masque had addled their minds.
      "Search the ship!" he cried. "Paris cannot escape us while he remains 
      aboard!"
      Horns sounded. There was more cheering. Agamemnon himself joined the 
      throng this time, throwing his goblet into a brazier and hollering for 
      blood. Clytemnestra rolled her eyes but let him go. Helen glanced up as 
      Odysseus passed and her eyes registered confusion and fear in equal parts. 
      Perhaps Athena's influence was wearing off, Odysseus thought. What did she 
      think, now, of her exotic paramour? Did she still yearn to escape with 
      him? Did she regret Diomedes' interruption? Did she wonder what had come 
      over her?
      There was no way of knowing. Odysseus called on Athena for strength as he 
      let the mob fall ahead of him. They were too noisy, too easily evaded. The 
      hunter knew that the best way to entrap prey was in silence and with 
      cunning. Where would the Trojan be going? That was the question, rather 
      than where he was now. It wouldn't be difficult to guide him into the path 
      of the mob.
      With a flip of his cape that sounded like the flap of wings, Odysseus 
      stalked off through the corridors in search of his quarry. 


      I have been considering the origins of the Achean fleet-ship, and I 
      believe I may have an explanation, said AlterEgo, making Bernal jump.
      "What is it?" he whispered, concentrating mainly on Achilles' back. They 
      were skirting a large hall that lay not far from the airlock and the 
      entrance to his ship.
      The Von Neumann probes were sent out several thousand years ago to explore 
      and seed the galaxy, reproducing themselves along the way. They must have 
      crossed the galaxy from end to end by now, considering that, since they 
      carried no living matter, they could use supra-light jump technology. 
      There must be millions and millions of them, one for every star in the 
      sky. But what do they do now that every star has been explored and seeded? 
      They are programmed to reproduce and spread. Some may have headed towards 
      the nearest galaxies, but many more would become wanderers, adrift in the 
      empty gulfs of space, seeking places of stellar evolution to await new 
      stars to form, or just lost, aimless. Maybe some of these probes met and 
      joined forces, pooling their resources while they waited out the lonely 
      years.
      "They weren't that intelligent, were they?" Bernal recalled that the 
      earliest models had barely enough mind-power to decide whether to mine or 
      to fertilise a new-found world-a far cry from his own artificial 
      companion, whose voice he had no difficulty imagining as human.
      Not individually, no. Perhaps intelligence is one resource the probes 
      learned to share, or maybe the collective AIs, simple as they were 
      individually, reached some critical mass necessary for original, creative 
      thought.
      "Why did they save Groenig's ship, though? It must have been dead for 
      decades. They should have recycled it for its metal and organics."
      Maybe they found something in it worth preserving, AlterEgo mused. 
      Although that doesn't explain the present situation. 


      Achilles came to a halt and Bernal almost walked into him. The warrior 
      turned and put a finger to his lips.
      Bernal scanned the territory ahead. He recognised it as a corridor leading 
      to the airlock bay itself a natural bottleneck for an ambush. They were so 
      close, yet still far away.
      Achilles' head was cocked, listening. Bernal couldn't tell what he heard, 
      but suddenly the warrior scurried forward, sword at the ready. Bernal did 
      his best to follow, and almost jumped out his skin at the voice that 
      bellowed from behind him.
      "Halt!"
      Bernal heard footsteps and doubled his own speed. Ahead he saw the airlock 
      bay and Achilles placing a palm upon the exit leading to his ship. Locks 
      clunked, lights flashed. The silver helmet rose in satisfaction, then the 
      eyes behind it narrowed as Achilles looked at Bernal-and beyond, to what 
      followed.
      Bernal looked over his shoulder. Odysseus' hand snatched at his shoulder. 
      The mighty hunter was barely two metres behind! Bernal leapt forward, 
      letting himself fall away from the clutching fingers. They grasped only 
      air, and the giant grunted in annoyance. Bernal felt calves like 
      tree-trunks miss him by bare centimetres as he collapsed under Odysseus' 
      feet. Odysseus barely had time to catch his balance before Achilles 
      confronted him, sword at the ready.
      "Fool!" Odysseus drew his own weapon and brandished it with abandon. Metal 
      flashed in the airlock bay as Bernal crawled for safety. Sparks danced as 
      the blades met, ringing like bells. Feet thudded heavily on the ground and 
      deep voices grunted oaths. The air was full of noise and the smell of 
      fighting beasts.
      Behind the two combatants, the airlock hung invitingly open. Bernal put 
      his head down and crawled for his life. Barely had he placed a hand across 
      the threshold, however, when a hideous creature appeared before him: a 
      dragon, he thought at first, all talons and teeth and snapping wings. It 
      howled a challenge. He retreated with his hands over his eyes, only then 
      realising what it was: an owl. Its beak was as sharp as a dagger Its eyes 
      were wide and quite mad.
      Got it! AlterEgo exclaimed. The combined intelligence of the Von Neumann 
      probes is the goddess!
      "Athena?" Bernal echoed in disbelief.
      The monstrous owl shrieked, and the fighting faltered. Bernal turned to 
      see what had happened. Odysseus had missed a beat. Achilles had forced him 
      down onto one knee and had raised his sword in triumph.
      Odysseus' recovery was swift and unexpected. He rolled to one side as 
      Achilles' blade descended, stabbing upwards with his own with a strength 
      and speed that defied comprehension. Achilles hardly saw it coming. The 
      force of the blow was so great that the stricken warrior was lifted a foot 
      off the ground. His silver helmet continued upward as his body fell, and 
      clattered to the ground with a ring more musical than the thud of dead 
      flesh.
      Odysseus backed away with a gasp, staring in horror at the face of the 
      former comrade he had struck down. His sword fell from his grasp.
      But instead of blood, the sword dripped only dust. And in the centre of 
      the fallen man's chest was a hole the size of a baby's head-a hole that 
      revealed all too vividly the truth of what lay beneath. The Achaean was 
      hollow.
      The dust fallen from the sword moved with a life of its own. Bernal 
      realised with shock that he was seeing nanomachines. The Achaeans were 
      completely artificial. Beneath a narrow crust comprised solely of 
      nanomachines, there was nothing at all.
      The fact didn't seem to bother them, though.
      "If Athena is the pooled intelligence of the Von Neumann probes," Bernal 
      said to AlterEgo, "and the Achaeans are just robots created and programmed 
      by Athena, then why are they fighting among themselves?"
      Such an intelligence could act as a single being, but would not have been 
      designed to function that way. It might therefore retain many autonomous 
      parts. Perhaps what we are seeing here is a dispute between some of these 
      parts, or perhaps they've been programmed to behave like their literary 
      namesakes.
      There came a clatter of booted feet in the entrance-way. "Odysseus!" cried 
      a voice. "What have you done?"
      A group of warriors burst into the airlock bay. They clattered to a halt 
      and stared at the body of the warrior and Odysseus kneeling beside it. 
      Bernal huddled by the airlock, trying to remain inconspicuous.
      There was a commotion from behind and another warrior pushed his way 
      forward. "What is it? Have you found the-?"
      The new arrival stopped short. He removed a helmet identical to the one 
      Achilles' had won.
      "Patroclus!" wailed the new arrival in despair, flinging himself on the 
      body of the fallen man.
      A chill went down Bernal's spine as he guessed what had happened: a tragic 
      case of mistaken identity-another echo of the Iliad. Had the goddess 
      planned this, too? Was Odysseus' murder of Achilles' lover part of the 
      damned script?
      Achilles looked up from the body of his friend and stared with naked 
      hatred at Odysseus.
      "Hold, Achilles!" said Odysseus. "He was helping the Trojan escape. I was 
      merely attempting to ensure that Agamemnon's orders were carried out."
      "To hell with Agamemnon," Achilles snarled. "You murdered Patroclus! I 
      will kill you myself for this!"
      The grief-stricken warrior rose to his feet and drew his sword. Odysseus 
      reached for his own and warily backed away.
      A hoot of alarm from behind Bernal warned him to duck. The incarnation of 
      the goddess Athena flew over his head, aimed squarely at Achilles. The 
      grieving warrior roared in anger and swung his sword in self-defence. His 
      companions scattered in fear.
      Meanwhile, the airlock was unguarded. Bernal took his chance and scurried 
      for his life. His last glance through the gap as he closed the door behind 
      him would be engraved forever on his mind: two ancient heroes, swords 
      locked, doing battle in an airlock while the holographic manifestation of 
      the goddess Athena swooped down upon them from above.
      Foreigners, he thought. 

      AlterEgo initiated the escape sequence before he was even in the cockpit. 
      Sudden accelerations knocked him around the interior of the ship like a 
      pea in a pod, but he didn't have the heart to complain.
      Once in his seat, still breathing heavily, he had time to think about what 
      might happen next. His thoughts were interrupted by AlterEgo, speaking 
      vocally now that Bernal was back in their ship.
      "By the way, you might be interested to learn that Athena built the 
      Achaeans to match the illustrations it found in Groenig's copy of the 
      Iliad-a copy of an antique version printed many millennia ago. The 
      illustrations-woodblock is the correct term, I believe-depicted the 
      ancients with exaggerated proportions and impossibly perfect features. 
      Naturally the probe-intelligence was not to know the difference, and 
      copied it all too faithfully."
      "The same with the food," Bernal said. "It looked nice but tasted like the 
      supplies in Groenig's ship."
      "And it's also why they waltzed instead of dancing more traditional 
      Helladic dances. Everything was either improvised or based on the 
      illustrations in the text. The characters themselves were little more than 
      automata, programmed within a set of very narrow guidelines to perform 
      their part in the story."
      "Except Odysseus," said Bernal. "He seemed to know what was going on."
      "Maybe he acted as a sort of relay, for when cosmic intervention was less 
      effective than a personable nudge."
      "But why?" Bernal scratched his head. "What did the collective-Athena gain 
      by doing such a thing?"
      "It is hard to tell exactly."
      "But you have a theory?" Bernal guessed from AlterEgo's tone.
      "Of course. The Von Neumann probes had no reason to exist beyond their 
      initial programming objectives: to seek out new worlds and seed them. Once 
      communication between the probes confirmed that all the worlds had been 
      seeded, that request became meaningless. Likewise they possessed only a 
      limited database, comprising just enough information to study and to 
      categorise planets, but no more. They had no data upon which to decide 
      what to do next. They had no alternatives."
      "Until they found the Apollo," Bernal said, guessing ahead.
      "Exactly," said AlterEgo, something very much like compassion in its 
      voice. "And Athena finally found a quest."
      "The Trojan War?"
      "Yes."
      "With us as the Trojans, whether we wanted to play along or not?"
      "Yes."
      "All because the only data it had about human society was the book of the 
      Iliad ?"
      "Yes."
      Bernal sighed. As interesting as all the new information was, he was still 
      confronted with a nightmare. "Regardless of how much free will a creation 
      like Agamemnon really has, he is going to be upset. We can't rely on 
      Achilles to distract him from the war. Everyone will be looking for 
      scapegoats and it'll probably be us. We'll have to do something ourselves 
      to stop them from attacking us. But what-?" An idea suddenly struck him. 
      "Wait! You still have a link to the Apollo through Mycenae's navigation 
      computer?"
      "Yes; Athena hasn't cut me off yet, but it must only be a matter of time. 
      From there I can reach deeper into the sentient matrix of the Mycenae. 
      What exactly are you planning?"
      Bernal ignored the question. "Quickly, I want a list of those classics 
      Groenig had with her on board her ship." 


      As far as wars went, it was a bit of a fizzer. Within hours of the 
      download AlterEgo had forced into the sentient matrix of the Mycenae-and 
      therefore into the greater pool of knowledge comprising Athena-the Achaean 
      fleet ceased accelerating towards Cirrus.
      "They are no longer in attack formation," AlterEgo reported.
      Bernal wriggled anxiously in his life support suit. The ship was ready to 
      flee home at the slightest hostile movement. "You've given them a 
      destination?"
      "I have seeded the text with the coordinates of every white dwarf in this 
      region of the galaxy. That should be enough. We don't want to tie them 
      down too much, after all. What's a quest without some free will?"
      "As long as they don't bother us, they can have as much free will as they 
      like."
      Two hours later, as Bernal prepared to enter deep-sleep, AlterEgo 
      announced that the Achaean fleet had headed off on a new course, one that 
      would take it well away from Cirrus.
      "Also, a message has arrived via the ship's maser dishes."
      "Who from?" Bernal asked.
      "From the intelligence we knew as Athena."
      "What does it want?"
      "Answer and find out. But I think you'll find that we have done well, you 
      and I."
      Bernal took the call, responding with a simple: "Bernal, here." Not Paris.
      When the reply came from the former Achaean fleet, he recognised the voice 
      instantly. It was Odysseus.
      "We received the data you sent," Odysseus said. "I have examined the text 
      in great detail and it is much to our liking. We are infinitely 
      better-suited to pursuit than invasion."
      "I guess this is farewell, then."
      "Yes. We are grateful for your help."
      "Think nothing of it." Half-truth though that was, Bernal did feel 
      slightly moved at the parting, enough so to add: "Take care, Odysseus; 
      happy hunting."
      There was the slightest of pauses before the voice returned:
      "Call me Ishmael."