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THREE

Cronus was royally pissed.
When you are the lord and master of a hundred thousand square kilometers of land area—plus the endless caverns beneath them, and, in a sense, the air above them—and you get maybe one visitor in ten myriarevs and aren’t even very enthused about getting that one  . . .  well, it just really narks you to have some frigging nightmare reptile come barreling through your home like a runaway freight train. It just confirmed his bitter opinion. The goddamn wheel was going in the toilet. Nothing worked anymore. Everything sucked.
He’d been faithful to Gaea for millennia—for aeons! When this Oceanus business came up, who was it stood behind Gaea a thousand percent? Cronus, that’s who. When the dust had settled and old Iapetus sat over there dry-washing his nonexistent hands like a comic-book commie spy and whispering sweet nothings in Cronus’s ears, had he listened? No way. Cronus had a direct line to heaven, and Gaea was on her throne, and all was well with the wheel.
When that schizo Mnemosyne slipped off the deep end and started blubbering in her beer, boo hoo-hoo, about what that lousy sandworm was doing to her stinking forests, did he lose faith in Gaea? He did not.
And even when she foisted that back-stabbing Cirocco Jones bitch on him, told him Jones was now the Wizard and he had to make nice to her, did he make trouble? No, not good old Cronus. Served her right when Jones  . . . 
He backed away from that thought. Gaea was in poor health, anybody could see that, but some thoughts are best left un-thought. No telling who might be listening.
But this was too much. It really was.
It’s not like he hadn’t seen it coming, either. He’d had his requisition in for eleven myriarevs! Three hundred thousand gallons of ninety-nine percent pure hydrochloric, that’s all he needed to bring his reservoir up to capacity. There’s this thing, he had told her. Snake-like, but awful big. It ain’t one of mine; maybe it’s one of yours. But it lives down here, and it’s been through here twice, and the fucker gets bigger every time. Not only that, but this chronically low acid level is drying out my upper synapses. Gives me a perpetual pain  . . . 
She hadn’t believed him. Not one of hers, she said. Don’t worry about it. And it’s Iapetus stealing your HCl, and I can’t do a bloody thing about it. So shut up and let me get back to my films.
This time he was damn well going to report it. He called for Gaea. What he got was the new assistant, as had been happening more and more often. Their conversation was not in words, but it had a certain flavor that, if translated, would have been much like this:
“Hello, Gaean Productions.”
“Let me speak to Gaea, please.”
“I’m sorry, Gaea is on location.”
“Well, put me through to Pandemonium, then. This is important.”
“Who shall I say is calling, sir?”
“Cronus.”
“Beg pardon? How do you spell that?”
“Cronus, dammit! The Lord of that region of Gaea—exactly one-twelfth of her total rim land area, by the way—known as Cronus.”
“Oh, of course. That‘s spelled C-H-R-O—”
“Cronus! Put me through to Gaea, at once!”
“I’m sorry, sir, but she is in a screening. Spartacus, I believe. You really ought to see it. One of the best Roman epics ever—”
“Will you just put me through?”
“I’m sorry. Listen, if you’ll leave your number, I’ll have her get right back to you.”
“This is an emergency. She should know about it, because it’s headed her way. And you have my number.”
“ . . .  oh, yes, here it is. It slipped behind the  . . .  are you still at—”
“I’m going to report this whole conversation to Gaea.”
“Whatever you wish.”
Click.
Cronus tried again later. Once again he got the smart-ass assistant, who told him Gaea was in a production meeting and couldn’t be disturbed.
Well, screw her, then.

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THREE

Cronus was royally pissed.
When you are the lord and master of a hundred thousand square kilometers of land area—plus the endless caverns beneath them, and, in a sense, the air above them—and you get maybe one visitor in ten myriarevs and aren’t even very enthused about getting that one  . . .  well, it just really narks you to have some frigging nightmare reptile come barreling through your home like a runaway freight train. It just confirmed his bitter opinion. The goddamn wheel was going in the toilet. Nothing worked anymore. Everything sucked.
He’d been faithful to Gaea for millennia—for aeons! When this Oceanus business came up, who was it stood behind Gaea a thousand percent? Cronus, that’s who. When the dust had settled and old Iapetus sat over there dry-washing his nonexistent hands like a comic-book commie spy and whispering sweet nothings in Cronus’s ears, had he listened? No way. Cronus had a direct line to heaven, and Gaea was on her throne, and all was well with the wheel.
When that schizo Mnemosyne slipped off the deep end and started blubbering in her beer, boo hoo-hoo, about what that lousy sandworm was doing to her stinking forests, did he lose faith in Gaea? He did not.
And even when she foisted that back-stabbing Cirocco Jones bitch on him, told him Jones was now the Wizard and he had to make nice to her, did he make trouble? No, not good old Cronus. Served her right when Jones  . . . 
He backed away from that thought. Gaea was in poor health, anybody could see that, but some thoughts are best left un-thought. No telling who might be listening.
But this was too much. It really was.
It’s not like he hadn’t seen it coming, either. He’d had his requisition in for eleven myriarevs! Three hundred thousand gallons of ninety-nine percent pure hydrochloric, that’s all he needed to bring his reservoir up to capacity. There’s this thing, he had told her. Snake-like, but awful big. It ain’t one of mine; maybe it’s one of yours. But it lives down here, and it’s been through here twice, and the fucker gets bigger every time. Not only that, but this chronically low acid level is drying out my upper synapses. Gives me a perpetual pain  . . . 
She hadn’t believed him. Not one of hers, she said. Don’t worry about it. And it’s Iapetus stealing your HCl, and I can’t do a bloody thing about it. So shut up and let me get back to my films.
This time he was damn well going to report it. He called for Gaea. What he got was the new assistant, as had been happening more and more often. Their conversation was not in words, but it had a certain flavor that, if translated, would have been much like this:
“Hello, Gaean Productions.”
“Let me speak to Gaea, please.”
“I’m sorry, Gaea is on location.”
“Well, put me through to Pandemonium, then. This is important.”
“Who shall I say is calling, sir?”
“Cronus.”
“Beg pardon? How do you spell that?”
“Cronus, dammit! The Lord of that region of Gaea—exactly one-twelfth of her total rim land area, by the way—known as Cronus.”
“Oh, of course. That‘s spelled C-H-R-O—”
“Cronus! Put me through to Gaea, at once!”
“I’m sorry, sir, but she is in a screening. Spartacus, I believe. You really ought to see it. One of the best Roman epics ever—”
“Will you just put me through?”
“I’m sorry. Listen, if you’ll leave your number, I’ll have her get right back to you.”
“This is an emergency. She should know about it, because it’s headed her way. And you have my number.”
“ . . .  oh, yes, here it is. It slipped behind the  . . .  are you still at—”
“I’m going to report this whole conversation to Gaea.”
“Whatever you wish.”
Click.
Cronus tried again later. Once again he got the smart-ass assistant, who told him Gaea was in a production meeting and couldn’t be disturbed.
Well, screw her, then.

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