Discord's Apple

For the first half of her life, she hadn’t bothered even to think about what that must be like—dying. Then, she almost had, when Zeus pulled his trick. She didn’t much like the feeling. She’d vowed to avoid the possibility in the future.

Frank Walker entered the stormless space without blinking. He held the apple in his hand.

It pulsed with power in her eyes. She’d seen that power the first time it rolled into her sight, at the wedding. Not everyone had seen it, even among the gods and goddesses of Olympus. Aphrodite had, and of course, Athena. The three of them exchanged glances across the banquet hall, each challenging the other: It will be mine.

If she were to be charitable, she’d admit that Aphrodite had won it fairly. She’d rightly seen into Paris’s heart, seen him for the idiot he was, and played to his basest desires. With what Hera and Athena had offered him, he could have acquired any woman in the world, including Helen. But the boy hadn’t been able to see past his libido.

She and Athena both should have known better. Aphrodite had bested them.

But now, finally, the apple would be hers.

“Mr. Walker,” she said amiably, ignoring her minions and the chaos billowing around her. “I was just coming to make your daughter another offer. I took the wrong approach last time—I understand that now. She doesn’t want power. She doesn’t want to be part of a new pantheon. She wants to save her mother, but since she can’t do that—she wants revenge. Am I right?”

“Can you give that to her?” he said.

“I can do away with the system that caused her pain. It’s as close as she’ll ever find. This age is over. Nothing can stop that now, you know that.”

Walker smiled sadly and shook his head. Hera quelled a spark of rage. She hadn’t seen such a look of condescension on a man since Zeus.

“What do you think this is going to do, really? You think you can use it to wipe the slate clean. But the so-called chaos that’s already out there, that you want to take advantage of, the wars and terror—that isn’t chaos. It isn’t discord. It’s orchestrated. The gods of this age, the ones who made this world, pushed it into fear and chaos to stay in power, they made the world this way. They’re the ones who must be broken. This breaks the power of the gods.” He gestured with the golden apple.

Troy had been the beginning of the end. Troy had happened when they overstepped their bounds—when they manipulated the fates of men for the sake of a trinket. When men destroyed civilizations for the sake of status. The gods of this age—oh, yes. Discord already ran loose in the world. This artifact was meant to overpower those who sowed chaos. Use the values of the age to turn the tables.

His role as the Keeper of the Storeroom had given him understanding. How did a mortal gain such wisdom? His family had been living with this power in their cellar for over three thousand years. She wondered: Who had been the first? Who from the age of heroes had founded this line?

She nodded to him with the respect he’d earned.

He pulled something else out of his pocket: a cell phone. He offered her both, one in each hand.

“You need energy. You need a life to do this thing. Take mine.”

The sacrifice had to be willing. He was. And she was sure she had the skill to guide such power.

“Are you sure?”

“I have a condition. A request. This is for my daughter. To keep her safe. Build a world that will keep her safe.”

“I will. To the best of my ability, I will.”

He reached out with the apple. She covered it with one hand, touching both its gold surface and his cool flesh, creating a link. After three thousand years of waiting, she felt the object’s power—the hum of an oncoming storm.

With her other hand, she took the phone. It was already on. Deftly, she dialed with her thumb, checked the screen briefly, then met Frank Walker’s gaze.

This would be myth. This would be turned into metaphor and told in stories. The two of them would be the founders of a new age.

She didn’t turn away as the phone rang against her ear. Then, there was an answer.

“Hello, yes,” she said. “I’d like to order a delivery.”

In a secret room in a distant city, the power brokers worked their spells. The lobbyist from one country, the general from another, the president of a corporation that did business with them all. They moved their pieces across the board and manipulated the world to their best advantage.

Then came a knock on the door.

A lackey answered it. There was a man in the uniform of a delivery service. He offered them a square box, small enough to fit in a hand, wrapped in plain paper, unmarked but for an address which read:

FOR THE GREATEST.

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