"The Mystical Gods of Hinduism brought to life"
Reviewed by Shellie Surles
Posted March 16, 2014
Science Fiction
In AGE OF SHIVA, James Lovegrove brings to life the ancient
Gods of Hinduism. As with Lovegrove's other books in the
Pantheon series he does his research on the
Gods/Goddess
the book is based on. Lovegrove also includes many stores
about Hinduism. These are stories Indian children are told
as youths not realizing that they have an important
historical bases in the religion. I always enjoying reading
a book where when I check to see if the author is making up
history I find that he or she really did their research.
It's nice to learn something while reading an enjoyable
story.
AGE OF SHIVA starts out with comic book artist Zak Zap
being plucked off the streets of London by three real big
and real mean looking men and flown in an extremely
advanced aircraft to an alleged resort on an island off the
coast of India. There Zak is introduce to three of the
most wealthy and powerful men in the world who offer him a
chance to do what every comic book artist alive would love
to do. Its something he can't dream of turning down and the
money is more than he will need for a long, long time. Zak
would do it for free but the money would be nice for a
starving artist. Once Zak completes his mission and he is
still on the island, he realizes something is wrong. Zak
gets bored and discovers things that put him in danger and
leave him with a choice that will change his life forever.
As people are killed all over the world and India and
Pakistan go the brink and beyond of nuclear war Zak and
friends he made while on the island must make choices and
sacrifices that will change the world forever. If you like comics and ancient Pantheon's then you will
like this book. There are great references comic nerds will
enjoy and even leave the unenlightened smiling. Zak
gets the chance to be and do what every little kid wants,
be a superhero and try to save the world.
SUMMARY
A team of godlike super-powered beings based on the ten
avatars of Vishnu from Hindu mythology is assembled, but are
they in fact a harbinger of apocalypse?
The latest
standalone novel in the best selling Pantheon
series.
Zachary Bramwell, better known as the
comics artist Zak Zap, is pushing forty and wondering why
his life isn’t as exciting as the lives of the superheroes
he draws. Then he’s shanghaied by black-suited goons and
flown to Mount Meru, a vast complex built atop an island in
the Maldives. There, Zak meets a trio of billionaire
businessmen who put him to work designing costumes for a
team of godlike super-powered beings based on the ten
avatars of Vishnu from Hindu mythology.
The Ten
Avatars battle demons and aliens and seem to be the saviours
of a world teetering on collapse. But their presence is
itself a harbinger of apocalypse. The Vedic “fourth age” of
civilisation, Kali Yuga, is coming to an end, and Zak has a
ringside seat for the final, all-out war that threatens the
destruction of Earth.
ExcerptThis is a confession.This is an apology. This is an origin story. This is the tale of ordinary people who became
extraordinary, became heroes, and the price we all paid. It's completely true. I know. I was there.
CHAPTER 1
KIDNAP IN CROUCH END I stepped out of my flat to get my lunchtime sandwich and
cappuccino, and never went back. There was a coffee place round the corner from my house. It
styled itself like one of the big chains, calling itself
Caffè Buono and boasting baristas and leather armchairs and
a Gaggia machine, but it was the only one of its kind in
existence and it never to my knowledge opened any other
branches. The sandwiches were all right, though. The coffee too. I didn't notice the jet black Range Rover with tinted
windows prowling after me as I sauntered along the street.
It was spring. The sun was out, for a change. I'd been
slaving away at my drawing board since breakfast. Daylight
on my face felt sweet. To be among people - the usual
milling midday Crouch End crowds - was pleasant. My work was
a kind of solitary confinement. It was always good to get out. I was thinking of a plump, tasty BLT and also of the plump,
tasty new barista at Caffè Buono. Krystyna, her name badge
said. From Poland, to judge by the spelling and her accent.
Farm-girl pretty and very friendly. Flirtatious, even. It
was never likely that I would ask her out, she being at
least fifteen years younger than me, but seeing her
brightened my day and I chose to think that seeing me
brightened hers. If it didn't, she did a very creditable job
of pretending it did. I moseyed along, a million miles from where I was, and all
the while the jet black Range Rover was stealing ever closer
to me, homing in from behind, a shark shadowing its prey. I was coming to the end of my latest commission - another
reason I was so preoccupied. I was on the final straight of
eight months' solid work. Five pages left to go on a
four-issue miniseries. Full pencils and inks, from a script
by Mark Millar. I liked collaborating with Millar; he gave
the bare minimum of art direction. Usually he offered a
thumbnail description of the content of each panel, with a
caption or two to fit in somewhere, along with an invitation
to "knock yourself out" or "make this the best fucking
picture you've ever drawn." So few restrictions. Happy to
let the artist be the artist and do what an artist was paid
to do. I was fine with that. But it had been a long haul. I was slow. Had a reputation
for it. A stickler; meticulous. Notoriously so. Every page,
every panel, every single line had to be exactly right. That
was Zak Zap's unique selling point. You only got
top-quality, ultra-refined product, and if you had to wait
for it, tough titties. I'd been known to tear up a completed
page rather than submit it, simply because a couple of
brushstrokes weren't precisely as I'd envisaged they'd be,
or the overall composition was a fraction off. Just rip that
sheet of Bristol board in half and bin it. Three days'
effort, wasted. And I'd rage and fume and yell at the cat,
and then maybe neck down a few beers, and then next morning
I'd plonk my backside down in front of my drawing desk and
start all over again. Stupid, but that's how I was. It was why Francesca left me. Not the tantrums or the fits of creative pique. She could
handle those. Laugh them off. It was the pressure I put on myself. The sense of never
being good enough which constantly dogged me. The striving
for unrealisable goals. The quest to be better than my best. "It's not noble to be a perfectionist, Zak," Francesca told
me as she packed her bag. "It's a kind of self-loathing." I was within spitting distance of the coffee place, just
passing the Louisiana Chicken Shack, when the Range Rover
drew alongside and braked. The doors were already open before the car came to a
complete stop. Men in suits bundled out. I glimpsed them out of the corner of my eye. They were
Hugo-Boss-clad barrels in motion. My first thought was that
they must be bodyguards for some movie star. Someone famous,
over in the UK from Hollywood to promote the release of his
latest action-fest, had had a sudden hankering for southern
fried chicken, and his security detail were forming a cordon
so that he could go in and buy a bucketful. Will Smith,
maybe. Bruce Willis. The Rock. One of those guys. And then I thought, In Crouch End? This wasn't even
the fashionable end of Crouch End. This was the crouchy end
of Crouch End. And no movie star in his right mind, however
hungry, would want to sample the battered scrag ends of
battery hen they served at the Louisiana Chicken Shack. And then the nearest of the men in suits grabbed hold of me.
And then another of them did too, clamping a hand around my
elbow and whispering in my ear, "Don't shout. Don't
struggle. Act natural, like this is nothing out of the
ordinary. Otherwise you'll regret it." Then, loudly so that passersby would hear, he said, "All
right, sweetheart. That's enough now. You've had your fun,
but it's time to go back to the Priory. Your management is
paying all that money for your rehab. They don't want it
wasted." With that, they dragged me towards the Range Rover -
literally dragged, my heels scraping the kerbstones.
I was helpless, inert, a flummoxed idiot, no idea what was
going on. Even if I hadn't been warned to act natural, I'd
have been too dumbfounded to resist or protest. It happened so fast. Just a handful of seconds, and suddenly
I was in the back seat of the Range Rover, squashed between
two of the suited goons, and the car was pulling out into
the traffic, and I wasn't going to have that BLT or that
cappuccino today and I wasn't going to cheer up Krystyna
with a smile and she wasn't going to cheer me up either.
CHAPTER 2
KNUCKLEDUSTER RING, HILLBILLY MOUSTACHE AND
FRIENDS There are moments in your life when you do what you have to,
simply because you're too scared to do anything else. I was no Jedi knight, no master of kung fu. I hadn't been in
a fight since secondary school, and that was more of a
pathetic bitch-slap contest than anything, and besides, I
lost. Now I was in a car with four blokes, each of whom
weighed twice as much as me, each of whom had a shaven head
and no-bullshit mirrored sunglasses and seam-straining
muscles and looked as though he could snap my neck just by
breathing hard on me. Compliance was the only logical course of action. I wasn't
going to karate chop my way out of this predicament. I
didn't have super powers like the characters in the comics I
drew for a living. No eye beam to blast a hole through the
car roof. No webbing to truss up my kidnappers. No frigging
Batarang. I was stuck, a victim, panic-stricken,
hyperventilating, only human. They could kill me, these men. Were they going to kill me?
Who were they? What did they want with me? We had driven perhaps half a mile before I finally found
some gumption and piped up. "Piped" was the word; my voice
sounded like a piccolo. "You must have the wrong man," I said. "I haven't done
anything. I'm nobody." "You Zachary Bramwell?" said the goon on my immediate left,
who wore a gold sovereign ring so large it could easily
double as a knuckleduster. It didn't really seem to be a question, which was why I
said, "Yes." "Then we've got the right man. By the way, you got a phone
on you?" "No." "I'm going to check anyway." Knuckleduster Ring ransacked my
pockets, finding nothing but lint and loose change. "Left it
at home, eh?" I had. I nodded. "Good. No need to confiscate it, then. Now shut your trap." I shut my trap, but after another mile I couldn't keep it
shut any longer. My anxiety wouldn't let me. "What was all that stuff about ‘the Priory' and my
‘management'?" "What do you think? To make it look like we were staging an
intervention." "Oh. But you are sure you've got the right Zachary
Bramwell, not a different one? Same name but, you know,
minus the substance addiction issues?" "Hundred per cent." "So where are you taking me? Who do you work for? Are you
cops? The government?" Knuckleduster Ring smiled. The goon on my right, who had the
type of drooping moustache favoured by bikers and
hillbillies, smirked. The guy driving the car actually
laughed, like I'd cracked a joke. "Nah," said Knuckleduster Ring. "They pay shit." "Private contractors, you could call us," said Hillbilly
Moustache. "Available to the highest bidder." "Well, who is that, then?" I said. "Who in God's name has it
in for me so badly that they've hired you to snatch me off a
London street in broad daylight?" "Christ, this fucker talks a lot," said the fourth goon, who
was the spitting image of Knuckleduster Ring and could only
have been his identical twin brother. "Can't I give him a
crack upside the head? I don't want to listen to him jabber
all the way." "Unharmed, intact," said the driver, who I reckoned was the
boss of the outfit. He had a diamond inset into one of his
upper incisors. "That's the brief. But," he added, "maybe
you should think about quietening down, Mr Bramwell. My boys
have a pretty low threshold of tolerance for nonsense, if
you know what I'm saying. Here, I've got an idea. How about
some nice soothing music? Help us all chillax." Diamond Tooth switched on the radio, tuned it to Classic FM,
and there we were, tootling along the North Circular, me and
this quartet of brick-shithouse abductors, listening to a
sequence of plinky-plonk sonatas[*], with comments from the nerdy posh
announcer spliced in between. At one point Knuckleduster
Ring's twin brother raised his hand off his knee and started
stroking patterns in the air as though conducting an
orchestra. It was ridiculous, and I might have thought it
funny if I hadn't been trying so hard not to soil my pants. We drove for an hour, leaving London behind. We headed
northbound up the M1, turning off somewhere before Milton
Keynes and then wiggling around in the Buckinghamshire
countryside on A-roads and B-roads until I was thoroughly
disorientated and couldn't have found my way back to
civilisation even with a map. In my head Diamond Tooth's words - "Unharmed, intact" - rang
like a church bell, offering solace and hope. Whoever my
kidnappers' employer was, he didn't want me hurt. There was
at least that. Or could it be that he didn't want me hurt until he himself
got his hands on me? I was the pair of box-fresh sneakers
that no one else could touch and that only his feet could sully. I racked my brains, thinking of people I'd pissed off during
the nearly forty years of my life so far. It wasn't exactly
a short list. I'd aggrieved more than a few editors in the
comics biz with my propensity for handing in work at the
very last minute, or else blowing the deadline completely.
I'd hacked off my previous landlord but one with my
complaints about mice droppings in the kitchen and mould on
the bathroom walls, but those were legitimate gripes and he
had no right to be upset with me for pestering him about
things he was duty-bound to fix. I'd left behind a trail of
women who to a greater or lesser degree found me lacking in
the attentive boyfriend department, up to and including
Francesca, who had stuck it out with me the longest but had
ultimately come to the same conclusion as the rest: that I
wasn't worth the time, trouble and effort. And then there
was that financial advisor at the bank who I'd lost my rag
with, just because he told me I wasn't in a "reliable
occupation with regular income" and therefore didn't deserve
to be offered a more preferential mortgage rate. In
hindsight, I shouldn't have swept his pot of ballpoint pens
onto the floor of his cubicle and told him to stick his
flexible variable rates up his backside. It was petty and
childish of me. I should have done the mature, manly thing
and thumped the tosser. All these people and others had cause to dislike Zak
Bramwell. They might well wish to curse me under their
breath and think ill of me during the long watches of a
sleepless night. But hate me so much as to have me brought to them so that
they could inflict prolonged and nefarious revenge upon my
person at their leisure? And at great expense, too? I didn't think so. Who, then? Who the hell was I being taken to meet? I couldn't for the life of me rustle up an answer. Finally the Range Rover arrived somewhere. And by
"somewhere" I mean the middle of nowhere. To be precise: a disused, dilapidated aerodrome that had
once served as a US airbase during World War 2 and
subsequently the Cold War, and was now a collection of
grass-covered hangars, mouldering Quonset huts, and sad,
sagging outbuildings. An air traffic control tower with smashed-out windows
overlooked a shattered concrete runway criss-crossed by
strips of weed. And on the runway stood the most extraordinary vehicle I had
ever seen.
CHAPTER 3
THE GARUDA Most of you reading this will be familiar with the
Garuda. How can you not be? You'd have seen it on TV
or the internet, maybe been fortunate enough to watch it in
flight, zipping overhead with scarcely a sound. You'd no
doubt have been startled the first time you clapped eyes on
it, perhaps a little in awe, certainly impressed. Back then, virtually nobody knew about the Garuda.
Maybe no more than a couple of hundred people in total were
aware that it existed. So imagine my feelings as the Range Rover bumped out onto
that runway and pulled up in front of this sleek metal angel
with its folded-back wings, its downturned nosecone, its jet
vents, its high-arched undercarriage, its rugged spherical
wheels, its all-round air of lofty magnificence. It didn't
seem to be standing on the ground so much as perching, a
forty-ton bird of prey that had briefly alighted to survey
the lie of the land. I was gobsmacked, all the more so in those shabby
surroundings. The incongruity was striking. It didn't belong
here in a disused Midlands aerodrome. It belonged somewhere
in the future, perhaps docking with a space station in near
Earth orbit. I think I fell a little bit in love with it, there on the
spot. And bear in mind, this was before I had any idea what
the Garuda was capable of, all the things it could do. The goons hauled me out of the car and lugged me over to the
aircraft, from which steps unfolded like a carpet unrolling.
A door opened, so smoothly it seemed to melt inwards, and a
woman emerged, extending a hand to me in welcome. I can't deny that things were suddenly looking up. She was
quite beautiful. She was Asian - Indian, if I didn't miss my
guess - with almond-shaped eyes and soft features. Her hair
was pure black gloss and her figure was full, just the way I
liked. I wasn't into the skinny, self-denying type of woman.
I preferred someone who ate and drank with an appetite and
wasn't guilt-ridden or ashamed. Her dress was smart and immaculate, from pale blue silk
blouse to hip-hugging skirt. Her makeup was subtle but
effective. Her nails were varnished chocolate brown. I think I fell a little bit in love with her, too. Maybe I
was just glad to see a face that was utterly unlike the
hard, expressionless faces of the four goons. Maybe it was a
relief to meet someone who looked friendly and wasn't acting
as though I needed to have my head stove in. "Aanandi Sengupta," she said, introducing herself. "I hope
you've had a pleasant journey, Zak. Sorry if it's been a
bit... abrupt. Our employers are not patient men. When they
want something, they tend to reach out and grab it. Often
without asking permission until afterwards." "Ahem. Yes, well..." I felt scruffy and uncomfortable in
front of the crisply turned-out Aanandi Sengupta. I hadn't
shaved that morning, I was in my oldest, baggiest sweatshirt
and jeans, and there were ink blotches on my fingers as I
shook her hand. I was a mess, and she was as far from a mess
as one could be. "Can't say they were the finest
conversationalists I've ever met." I glanced over my shoulder as I said this. The goons were
keeping their distance from the aircraft, standing at ease,
soldiers relieved of a duty. I was passing from their care
to Aanandi's. And don't think I was unhappy about that, but
I also figured I had no choice about getting on the plane.
If I turned and made a run for it, Diamond Tooth, Hillbilly
Moustache and the twins would be on me in a flash. I could
walk aboard willingly or I could be frogmarched aboard with
my arm twisted up between my shoulderblades. Either way, I
was making the flight. "Come on in," Aanandi said. "I promise I'll answer every
query you have, once we're wheels up and in the air." "Every query? Because I have loads." "Almost every. Some stuff is off-limits for now. All right?" "Fair enough." The main cabin was spacious and fitted with large, plush
seats; about a dozen, all told. Shagpile carpet whispered
underfoot. I caught a whiff of a fragrant scent - incense? "Make yourself at home, Zak. I can call you Zak?" A woman like her, she could have called me anything she liked. "How about a drink? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?" My body was crying out for alcohol. Something to de-jangle
the nerves. But I settled for mineral water. I had a feeling
I ought to remain compos mentis for the time being.
Whatever wits I had, I needed to keep them about me. The water came in a cup with a plastic sippy lid, like a
takeaway coffee. This should have struck me as odd, but
didn't. So much else here was off-kilter, what was one more
thing? Aanandi hit an intercom button. "Captain? We're ready for
takeoff." She sat beside me. She buckled her lap belt and I followed
suit and buckled mine. Through the window I saw the Range
Rover depart with its full complement of goon, veering out
through the broken gateway it had come in by. I gave it a
little farewell wave. The aircraft began to move, those ball-shaped wheels rolling
along within armatures that clutched them like talons, and
then, before I even realised, we were airborne. The
abandoned aerodrome shrank below. England disappeared.
Within moments we were soaring among the clouds, our climb
so steep it was all but vertical. Other than a plummeting
sensation in the pit of my stomach, there was little to tell
me we were actually in ascent; our rise was smooth,
turbulence-free and eerily quiet. "What is this thing?" I asked Aanandi. "It's like
something out of a Gerry Anderson show." "It's the Garuda. It's the only one of its kind; a
multi-platform adaptable personnel transporter, equally at
home in five different travel environments." "It's ruddy quiet, is what it is. My bicycle's louder." "I don't know the technicalities, but the engine design
incorporates sound reduction technology way in advance of
anything else currently on the market. The turbofans have
the highest conceivable bypass ratio and feature multilobe
hush kit modification baffles. And of course the cabin is
comprehensively soundproofed with layers of porous absorbers
and Helmholtz resonators." "That's an awful lot of jargon for someone who says she
doesn't know the technicalities." Aanandi gave a brief, self-effacing smile. "I listen well. I
pay attention. I have a good memory." "Your accent," I said. "American?" "Born and bred. Second-generation Indian from Boston." "And who are these ‘employers' you mentioned?" "That I can't tell you, Zak. Not yet. You'll find out in due
course. What I can tell you is that you're under no
obligation to co-operate with them. You're under no
obligation to do anything. I'm pretty sure you'll want to be
a part of what's happening, once you learn what it is, but
there's no coercion involved. We're after willing recruits,
not slaves." "It did seem like I was being pressganged," I said. "Not so. Those four were perhaps a little insensitive and
overenthusiastic, I imagine, but they had to get the job
done quickly and with minimum fuss. Like I said, we work for
people who are not patient and have no time for messing around." "Well, where are we going? Is that one of the queries you
can answer?" "Certainly. The Indian Ocean. The Maldives." "Seriously?" "Is that a problem?" I looked at her. "Normally I'd say no. Who wouldn't want to
visit a tropical paradise? Especially when someone else is
paying for the ticket. But... You can see it from my point
of view, can't you? I'm in a super-duper fancypants James
Bond aircraft, with someone I've never met before, being
flown halfway across the world. How long does it even take
to get to the Maldives? Twelve hours?" "Ten by conventional means. In the Garuda, a third of
that." I shot past that little nugget of information. I was in full
spate, mid-rant. All the outrage and disquiet of the past
hour was pouring out, and not much was going to stem the
flow. "And there I was, not so long ago, just walking down
the street, minding my own business. I still can't help
thinking this is a case of mistaken identity. You've picked
up the wrong Zak Bramwell. What the hell would anyone who
can afford a plane like this want with someone like me? I
draw comic books for a living, for heaven's sake. I don't
have any practical skills besides that - and it's not even
that practical." "You are Zak Zap, though," Aanandi said. I winced a little. The name sounded dumb, coming from her.
Even dumber than usual. "That's me. I know, I know. Pretty
lame. I was young when I chose it. Teenager. Seemed cool
then. Now I'm stuck with it and there's not much I can do.
Too late to change it." "The same Zak Zap who drew the Deathquake strip for
2000 AD, and did brief but well-respected runs on
Fantastic Four and Aquaman, and recently
illustrated Robert Kirkman's Sitting Ducks miniseries
for Image." "Yeah. Don't tell me you're a fan." "I'm not. But the people I work for are." "Oh." I digested this fact. It sat pleasantly in my belly.
"Right. And, er... Am I going to some sort of convention? Is
that what this is? Maybe a private one?" "Not as such." "I just thought... I mean, I've done Comic Con. Plenty of
others, too. Crap hotels, mostly. Teeming hordes of
cosplayers and fanboys. Pros all hunkered down at the bar
trying to avoid them. I thought this might be the same deal
only, you know, classier." "Afraid not." "Shame." The professional freelancer instinct kicked in.
"But you say there's work involved? Actual paid work?" "There could be," said Aanandi, "if you want it. Very well
paid." I was beginning to like the sound of this. I was still
unnerved and discombobulated. It had not been an ordinary
day so far, and the dread evoked by my "kidnap" had yet to
subside. But work was work, and I was never one to turn a
job offer down. I could hardly afford to: plenty of comics
artists made a pretty decent wage, but they were the fast
ones, the guys who could churn out a book a month,
twenty-odd pages bang on schedule, no sweat. As I've already
established, that wasn't me. My financial situation was
definitely more hand-to-mouth. I'd never been asked to draw
any of the mega-sellers; Fantastic Four had been in
the doldrums when I was assigned to it - and then fired six
issues later. And as for Aquaman... Who the hell buys
Aquaman? I only took the gig because I was short on
cash at the time and I liked drawing underwater stuff. [†] So I didn't have a steady stream of backlist royalty revenue
to rely on, and no editor with any sense was going to hire
me to do Superman or Amazing Spider-Man or any
of the other DC and Marvel flagship titles. Readers wouldn't
stomach the indefinite delays between issues or the
inevitable rushed fill-ins by other artists. They'd desert
in droves. So somebody was interested in employing me? And was flying
me to the Maldives for the job interview? I can handle that, I thought. I felt a flush of smugness, the kind you get when your
talent is recognised, when you're acknowledged as being
skilled at what you do. The pardonable kind. A sort of
giddiness overcame me. I undid my lap belt, thinking that a
victory stroll up and down the cabin aisle was in order, a
moment by myself to clench my fist and go "Yes!" under my
breath. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," Aanandi advised. Too late. I was already on my feet. And then I was off my
feet. I was somehow standing without standing. My toes were
in contact with the carpet, but only just. The giddiness
wasn't an emotion, it was a genuine physical sensation. I
was bobbing in the air, a human balloon. "What the hot holy...?" Aanandi took my wrist and pulled me back down into my seat.
I refastened the belt, tethering myself. "I would have warned you," she said, "but you had so much to
say." The empty cup floated free from the armrest tray. Tiny
sparkling droplets of mineral water poured from its lid
aperture like reverse rain. I glanced out of the window. We were high up. Oh, God, so fucking high up. I could see the curvature of
the Earth, the horizon line of pale blue sky giving way to
the blue-blackness of the void. Continents were small enough
that I could blot them out with my hand. Cloud forms were
rugged Arctic snowscapes. "Space," I breathed. "We're in fucking space."
Vivaldi? Haydn? One of those guys. There'd never been any great fan-love for the King of the
Seas with his daft orange and green swimsuit and his power
to exert mental control over, er, fish. After my brief
tenure on the title, no one liked him much more than they
had before.
What do you think about this review?
Comments
No comments posted.
Registered users may leave comments.
Log in or register now!
|