heart’s content, My Lord. I will not oppose you. I will not begrudge your will . . . little good it would do me anyway, since you are the stronger of us two. But remember this, O Zeus—although I am your consort, I am also born of Kronos and thus deserving of your respect.”
“I never suggested otherwise,” mutters Zeus, taking his hard seat again.
“Then let us yield one to the other on this point,” says Hera, her voice audibly sweeter now. “I to you and you to me. The lesser gods will comply. Quickly now, my husband! Achilles has left the field for now, but a mewling truce makes quiet the killing ground between Trojans and Achaeans. See that that the Trojans break this truce and do first injury, not only to their oaths, but to the far-famed Achaeans.”
Zeus glowers, grumbles, shifts in his chair, but orders the attentive Athena—“Go quickly down to the quiet killing ground between Trojans and Achaeans. I order you to see that the Trojans are the first to break the truce and do injury to the far-famed Achaeans.”
“And trample on the Argives in their triumph,” prompts Hera.
“And trample on the Argives in their triumph,” Zeus orders wearily.
Athena disappears in a QT flash. Zeus and Hera leave the room and the gods begin to disperse, speaking softly amongst themselves.
The Muse beckons me to follow with a subtle flick of her finger and leads me out of the assembly hall.
“Hockenberry,” says the Goddess of Love, reclining on her cushioned couch, the gravity—light as it is—giving emphasis to all her silky, milky-weighted voluptuousness.
The Muse had led me to this other room in the Great Hall of the Gods, this darkened room with only the double glow from a low-burning brazier and from something that looked suspiciously like a computer screen. She had whispered to me to remove the Helmet of Death and I was relieved to take the leather hood off, but terrified to be visible again.
Then Aphrodite had entered, assumed her position on the couch, and said, “That will be all until I summon you, Melete,” and the Muse had stepped out through a secret door.
Melete, I thought. Not one of the nine muses, but a name from an earlier era, where the muses were thought to be three: Melete of “practicing,” Mneme of “remembering,” and Aoide of . . .
“Hockenberry, I was able to see you in the Hall of the Gods,” says Aphrodite, blinking me out of my scholic reverie, “and if I had pointed you out to Lord Zeus, you would be something less than ashes now. Even your QT medallion would not have allowed you to escape, for I could follow your phase-shift path through time and space itself. Do you know why you are here?”
Aphrodite is my patroness. She’s the one who ordered the Muse to give me these devices. What do I do? Kneel? Prostrate myself on the floor in the presence of divinity? How do I address her? In my nine years, two months, and eighteen days here, my existence has never been acknowledged by a god before, not counting my Muse.
I decide to bow slightly, averting my eyes from her beauty, from the sight of pink nipples showing through thin silk, of that soft cusp of stomach sending shadows into that triangle of dark fabric where her thighs meet.
“No, Goddess,” I say at last, all but forgetting the question.
“Do you know why you were chosen as scholic, Hockenberry? Why your DNA was exempted from nanocyte disruption? Why, before you were chosen for reintegration, your writings on the War were factored into the simplex?”
“No, Goddess.” My DNA is exempt from nanocyte disruption?
“Do you know what a simplex is, mortal shade?”
Herpes virus? I think. “No, Goddess,” I say.
“The simplex is a simple geometric mathematical object, an exercise in logistics, a triangle or trapezoid folded on itself,” says Aphrodite. “Only combined with multiple dimensions and algorithms defining new notional areas, creating and discarding feasible regions of n-space, planes of
“I never suggested otherwise,” mutters Zeus, taking his hard seat again.
“Then let us yield one to the other on this point,” says Hera, her voice audibly sweeter now. “I to you and you to me. The lesser gods will comply. Quickly now, my husband! Achilles has left the field for now, but a mewling truce makes quiet the killing ground between Trojans and Achaeans. See that that the Trojans break this truce and do first injury, not only to their oaths, but to the far-famed Achaeans.”
Zeus glowers, grumbles, shifts in his chair, but orders the attentive Athena—“Go quickly down to the quiet killing ground between Trojans and Achaeans. I order you to see that the Trojans are the first to break the truce and do injury to the far-famed Achaeans.”
“And trample on the Argives in their triumph,” prompts Hera.
“And trample on the Argives in their triumph,” Zeus orders wearily.
Athena disappears in a QT flash. Zeus and Hera leave the room and the gods begin to disperse, speaking softly amongst themselves.
The Muse beckons me to follow with a subtle flick of her finger and leads me out of the assembly hall.
“Hockenberry,” says the Goddess of Love, reclining on her cushioned couch, the gravity—light as it is—giving emphasis to all her silky, milky-weighted voluptuousness.
The Muse had led me to this other room in the Great Hall of the Gods, this darkened room with only the double glow from a low-burning brazier and from something that looked suspiciously like a computer screen. She had whispered to me to remove the Helmet of Death and I was relieved to take the leather hood off, but terrified to be visible again.
Then Aphrodite had entered, assumed her position on the couch, and said, “That will be all until I summon you, Melete,” and the Muse had stepped out through a secret door.
Melete, I thought. Not one of the nine muses, but a name from an earlier era, where the muses were thought to be three: Melete of “practicing,” Mneme of “remembering,” and Aoide of . . .
“Hockenberry, I was able to see you in the Hall of the Gods,” says Aphrodite, blinking me out of my scholic reverie, “and if I had pointed you out to Lord Zeus, you would be something less than ashes now. Even your QT medallion would not have allowed you to escape, for I could follow your phase-shift path through time and space itself. Do you know why you are here?”
Aphrodite is my patroness. She’s the one who ordered the Muse to give me these devices. What do I do? Kneel? Prostrate myself on the floor in the presence of divinity? How do I address her? In my nine years, two months, and eighteen days here, my existence has never been acknowledged by a god before, not counting my Muse.
I decide to bow slightly, averting my eyes from her beauty, from the sight of pink nipples showing through thin silk, of that soft cusp of stomach sending shadows into that triangle of dark fabric where her thighs meet.
“No, Goddess,” I say at last, all but forgetting the question.
“Do you know why you were chosen as scholic, Hockenberry? Why your DNA was exempted from nanocyte disruption? Why, before you were chosen for reintegration, your writings on the War were factored into the simplex?”
“No, Goddess.” My DNA is exempt from nanocyte disruption?
“Do you know what a simplex is, mortal shade?”
Herpes virus? I think. “No, Goddess,” I say.
“The simplex is a simple geometric mathematical object, an exercise in logistics, a triangle or trapezoid folded on itself,” says Aphrodite. “Only combined with multiple dimensions and algorithms defining new notional areas, creating and discarding feasible regions of n-space, planes of
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