Small Gods

talk. Fight first, talk after. That’s how it works, boy. That’s history . Now, go back.”
    Brutha turned away. I. Shall I Smite Them?
    “No!”
    II. I Could Make Them As Dust. Just Say The
    Word .
    “No. That’s worse than war.”
    III. But You Said A God Must Protect His People —
    “What would we be if I told you to crush honest men?”
    IV. Not Stuck Full Of Arrows?
    “No.”
    The Omnians were assembling among the dunes. A lot of them had clustered around the iron-shielded cart. Brutha looked at it through a mist of despair.
    “Didn’t I say I’d go down there alone?” he said.
    Simony, who was leaning against the Turtle, gave him a grim smile.
    “Did it work?” he said.
    “I think…it didn’t.”
    “I knew it. Sorry you had to find out. Things have a way of wanting to happen, see? Sometimes you get people facing off and…that’s it.”
    “But if only people would—”
    “Yeah. You could use that as a commandment.”
    There was a clanging noise, and a hatch opened on the side of the Turtle. Urn emerged, backward, holding a spanner.
    “What is this thing?” said Brutha.
    “It’s a machine for fighting,” said Simony. “The Turtle Moves, eh?”
    “For fighting Ephebians?” said Brutha.
    Urn turned around.
    “What?” he said.
    “You’ve built this…this thing…to fight Ephebians?”
    “Well…no…no,” said Urn, looking bewildered. “We’re fighting Ephebians?”
    “Everyone,” said Simony.
    “But I never… I’m an…I never—”
    Brutha looked at the spiked wheels and the saw-edged plates around the edge of the Turtle.
    “It’s a device that goes by itself,” said Urn. “We were going to use it for…I mean…look, I never wanted it to…”
    “We need it now,” said Simony.
    “Which we?”
    “What comes out of the big long spout thing at the front?” said Brutha.
    “Steam,” said Urn dully. “It’s connected to the safety valve.”
    “Oh.”
    “It comes out very hot,” said Urn, sagging even more.
    “Oh?”
    “Scalding, in fact.”
    Brutha’s gaze drifted from the steam funnel to the rotating knives.
    “Very philosophical,” he said.
    “We were going to use it against Vorbis,” said Urn.
    “And now you’re not. It’s going to be used against Ephebians. You know, I used to think I was stupid, and then I met philosophers.”
    Simony broke the silence by patting Brutha on the shoulder.
    “It will all work out,” he said. “We won’t lose. After all,” he smiled encouragingly, “ we have God on our side.”
    Brutha turned. His fist shot out. It wasn’t a scientific blow, but it was hard enough to spin Simony around. He clutched his chin.
    “What was that for? Isn’t this what you wanted?”
    “We get the gods we deserve,” said Brutha, “and I think we don’t deserve any. Stupid. Stupid. The sanest man I’ve met this year lives up a pole in the desert. Stupid. I think I ought to join him.”
    I. Why?
    “Gods and men, men and gods,” said Brutha. “Everything happens because things have happened before. Stupid.”
    II. But You Are The Chosen One .
    “Choose someone else.”
    Brutha strode off through the ragged army. No one tried to stop him. He reached the path that led up to the cliffs, and did not even turn to look at the battle-lines.
    “Aren’t you going to watch the battle? I need someone to watch the battle.”
    Didactylos was sitting on a rock, his hands folded on his stick.
    “Oh, hello,” said Brutha, bitterly. “Welcome to Omnia.”
    “It helps if you’re philosophical about it,” said Didactylos.
    “But there’s no reason to fight!”
    “Yes there is. Honor and revenge and duty and things like that.”
    “Do you really think so? I thought philosophers were supposed to be logical?”
    Didactylos shrugged.
    “Well, the way I see it, logic is only a way of being ignorant by numbers.”
    “I thought it would all be over when Vorbis was dead.”
    Didactylos stared into his inner world.
    “It takes a long time for people like Vorbis to die. They leave echoes in history.”
    “I know what you mean.”
    “How’s Urn’s steam machine?” said Didactylos.
    “I think he’s a bit upset about it,” said Brutha.
    Didactylos cackled and banged his stick on the ground.
    “Hah! He’s learning! Everything works both ways!”
    “It should do,” said Brutha.

    Something like a golden comet sped across the sky of the Discworld. Om soared like an eagle, buoyed up by the freshness, by the strength of the belief.