“It is true that anonymous sources within the European Organization for Nuclear Research (CERN) claim to have spoken to Zeus once or twice in 2008. However, such claims may be dismissed as the fabrication of scientists who’d developed a god complex while playing with the building blocks of the universe in their Large Hadron Collider and, now that actual gods were back on the scene, were desperately concocting stories to regain attention. No credible agency of any kind—public or private—has officially claimed knowledge of the existence of the Olympian gods prior to their official return on June 17, 2009. This includes (among others) the European Space Administration, the Vatican, and—despite rumors to the contrary—the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation. The FBI does acknowledge, however, that there is no way to tell if any pre-Return anonymous tips were made by Olympian entities.”
—A Mortal’s Guidebook to the Olympians’ Return
WHILE TRACY AND THE OTHERS went chasing after a male-model jewelry pirate, and while Apollo was talking his sister into opening the gates to a place usually best left alone, and while the Zeus-murdering conspirators were busy yelling at Ares for both acting openly and failing to be effective in doing so, a small task force of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was acting on divine inspiration.
Neither the group that stormed the small Neo-Christian Movement of America compound nor their superiors who sent them were conscious of being divinely inspired, of course. So far as they knew, they were acting on actual evidence that one Brittany Simons (a.k.a. Wynter Nightsorrow, a.k.a. the young woman from Chapters Four and Seven) was being held hostage in the compound by a cult that jeopardized the national security of the United States. An anonymous source had delivered to them video footage of Wynter’s abduction from Hecate’s temple and her subsequent incarceration and attempted brainwashing within the NCMA compound. The address of the compound accompanied the footage, along with the secret keypad access code to the back door and a box of chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies—the regional bureau chief’s favorite, though he’d never told anyone about it.
Though it pained her to act so mundanely, it was the best Hecate could do for her disciple. There could be no divine wrath for Wynter’s captors, no creeping avengers of shadow terrorizing them alone in the darkness, no journey into catatonia astride cosmological mysteries the mortal mind was never meant to know. She could not even simply steal into the compound herself to rescue Wynter, for fear that her fellow Olympians would learn of it and realize which secrets Hecate had entrusted to her. No other gods could know that those secrets had fallen, however temporarily, into other hands. If mortals could go through channels, she’d decided, then so could she. Her problems would be solved by the U.S. government. What could possibly go wrong?
It further pained her that the (far more apropos) Secret Service kept putting her on hold and forwarding her calls to the FBI, but those were the breaks.
The Secret Service itself was only her second choice. A particularly clandestine group within the U.S. government made generous sycophantic sacrifices to her on a weekly basis and would jump at the chance to help, but it was impossible to use them anonymously. The Circle Order Society of League Shadow Trust Syndicates was such a closely guarded secret that the knowledge of merely the group’s name was divided into equal and unique parts among its highest-ranking members—the director of West Coast Operations merely knew “The”—and the group’s lower echelon labored under the belief that they were actually unemployed. Simply dialing the group’s primary phone number would likely cause more problems than it would solve.
And so it fell to the FBI. They stormed the compound late at night and burst into the NCMA’s midst in much the same way as the Ninjas Templar had earlier violated Hecate’s temple―albeit with fewer backflips. It pleased the goddess greatly. They rescued Wynter, arrested her captors, and confiscated the parchment containing the forbidden secrets as evidence. It would soon be placed into an evidence holding facility, which Hecate could later set on fire. If any of the other gods asked, she would claim that her target was the facility’s entire contents, purely for the sake of creating uncertainty in numerous criminal cases. She trusted that they wouldn’t dig any deeper than that.
It never occurred to her that the NCMA might have already made a copy of the parchment. Secrets were her specialty. A copy of something made it that much less secret.
The NCMA had copied the parchment, of course, shortly after getting it back to the compound and realizing their luck at stumbling onto something of such value. The NCMA’s copy wasn’t lovingly decorated with glitter, but it did accurately replicate the original’s drawings, words, and strange symbols. And so it was that during the first moments of the FBI’s rescue operation, the copy was being carried in a cardboard tube out of Philadelphia International Airport under the arm of one Richard Kindgood.
The call from his fellows at Compound 14―where the heathen girl was being held―came through moments before the FBI took the place. Though the call was not a long one, it was enough to give a clear picture of the situation: the compound was about to fall.
It was a blessing, really, Kindgood believed. He never much liked it there, and it was merely a small enclave of righteousness. Those who fell in the FBI’s raid that night would be martyrs to the cause. He doubted anyone would be killed, of course. It wasn’t their job to give armed resistance to the misguided forces of the U.S. government. It’s just that they always over-waxed the compound floors, and there would be much slipping and sliding in the mad dash to escape arrest― especially on the part of that clumsy Higgins fellow.
“Oh, certainly,” Kindgood once grumbled to anyone who would listen, “there’s money in the budget for floor wax, but none for balance training in the ninja camps?”
The heathen girl would be rescued, of course. It was too late to worry about that now, but the failure tasted bitter nonetheless. He sighed, taking solace in one of his favorite personal prayers: “God grant me the strength to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to justify which is which depending on how I’m feeling.”
It mattered not. In truth, getting her to renounce her love of the false gods took up valuable time anyway. Even with the starving and constant berating, her resistance was almost exuberant. Such defiance was not to be permitted. Before he’d left, Kindgood gave orders for her to be water-boarded, hoping that would put her in a more receptive mood. Even with the promising captured parchment in his possession, the girl’s recalcitrance occupied his mind for the entire plane ride. Now she was no longer his problem. Yes, he’d failed to fix her, but it wasn’t his fault the FBI stormed the place and rescued the witch, was it? It was out of his hands now. His cup runneth over, or the Lord giveth and He taketh away, or . . . whatever.
It occurred to Kindgood that those at the compound who’d seen fit to question his methods with respect to the girl were now about to be thrown into a prison of their own.
“She’s just a girl!” they’d said.
A girl who worshipped the false ones they were sworn to oppose, Kindgood had answered. Clearly that was why they’d fallen while he and Stout had escaped. In hindsight the others' devotion was no greater than those “tolerant” Christians who’d turned the other cheek and failed to take up arms against the false gods. “Love thine enemy”? Where did they get that fool idea?
So good riddance to them, really.
Of course, now he had no one but Stout to command, but the NCMA would fix that soon. The glory of his discovery could not be denied. (He was also pretty sure he could pin the compound’s fall on the others who’d remained there. Or Stout, if it came to that. Gabriel Stout would certainly jump at the chance to suffer penance for the cause. It was part of why Kindgood liked him so much.) He patted the parchment tube happily, recalling the writing.
Within nine cans depicted here
Resides that which Olympians fear.
It chilled him to think that they’d nearly destroyed it before realizing what they’d found! From the clues scrawled in the margins in the girl’s hasty handwriting, plus the half-finished drawings of what appeared to be nine cans—or cylinders, at the very least—they adopted the theory that the cans somehow contained the Titans, supposedly banished by the false gods many millennia ago. It was half an educated guess, half faith, but the pieces fit.
Kindgood and Stout certainly didn’t believe the cans contained actual “Titans,” of course. That the false gods of Olympus actually existed was insulting enough, Stout pointed out. The existence of even more false gods whom the Olympian gods had defeated—that was simply more ludicrous than any thinking person could contemplate. The tale was merely propaganda to further the Olympian agenda. Whatever the cans truly held was still a terror to the Olympians, certainly, but the enemy of my enemy is my friend. If the NCMA could gain control of the cans’ secrets, use them for their own advantage . . .
In truth, Kindgood did wonder a little if the cans somehow held the Titans (though if that was the case, such cans surely must be of impressive size). Yet even if they did, it was plain that, if the Titans were released, the two groups would annihilate each other. Two birds with one stone, problem solved, and once again the meek would inherit the Earth.
“Kill ’em all and let God sort ’em out” was also a fully viable position.
If they were released. That was the problem. The parchment made mention of a “great and powerful secret ritual” that would do the trick, the details of which were imprinted on the cans themselves. So really all they needed to do was find the cans, and the parchment held a hint or two toward that end, as well. The words Sidgwick’s and Swindon were both listed on the parchment and were presumably location names. Perhaps. The experts would tell them.
Then they would see. Everyone across the globe would see the glory of the Neo-Christian Movement of America and their triumph over the false gods, and it would be he, Richard Kindgood, who brought the truth to their eyes!
At the very least he’d get some sort of promotion out of it. After all, tithe revenues would shoot through the roof.