Pyramid Power (ARC) Read online

  "I believe that's the term applied to it," said Megane. "We're arranging to bring the creature here from Las Vegas. That's what the delay is about."

  Mac was about to say something when Cruz kicked him. Throttler could get them back, all right. If she wanted to, she could get them there too, without the dangers of going via the pyramid. But that wasn't something Cruz wanted to point out, or the fact that the Greek Sphinx—with the head and breasts of a woman and the body of lion with huge eagle wings—was pretty bad tempered and very deadly. Someone—or probably all of them—were going to end up coming back from the mythworlds a lot sooner than even Cruz anticipated. He and Mac were definitely, come hell or high water, going to masquerade as prisoners. And remember their riddles. If humans didn't get them right, Throttler would kill them.

  * * *

  Medea might not have brought her magical command of spirits and sprites with her from Mythological Greece to modern America, but she had lost none of her skills at making potions. Arachne didn't even have to fake looking unwell, and throwing up was easy. The PSA agent did accompany her to the base doctor, though.

  Arachne looked the agent straight in the eye, at the door. "There are certain things... certain... female problems, that I do not discuss in front of strange men. So you will wait out here."

  He looked as if he might argue, but just at that point a very large corporal, with his arm in a sling, cleared his throat and got up. Arachne recognized him. His name was Dale Thompson and he was one of Anibal and Mac's friends. "I'd let the lady see the doctor in private, Mister."

  The PSA agent looked incredulously at him. "You want time in Leavenworth, boy?"

  Thompson grinned. "I got a concussion. I have these blackouts when I don't remember anything. I'm feeling real faint right now, in fact."

  Arachne took the opportunity to slip into the doctor's room. She'd been extremely embarrassed by the examination he had given her a few weeks before, and had no real intention of repeating the experience.

  "I'm not sick," she said hastily. "I just need know something from the war-captain... Colonel. Who is 'Harkness'? Mac and Cruz have been taken to fetch him. Ask him, and arrange to bring me a potion and tell me."

  "Uh..." said the doctor.

  "Medea said if you do not do it she will bring Priones to visit you again," said Arachne.

  The doctor's eyes bulged slightly. He nodded. "All right. You do look rather pale though, Ms. Arachne."

  "You may bring me something to help with nausea. And to help me sleep," she said as a sudden afterthought. A sleeping potion could be useful, if Medea couldn't provide.

  She went out into the doctor's waiting room to find her minder furiously trying to extricate himself from the embrace of a lolling corporal Thompson, who, for a man who was struggling to stay upright, gave her a very nice wink before collapsing onto the floor—and dragging the agent down with him.

  "Perhaps you should render some assistance," said Arachne, coolly, to the furious agent, after he extricated himself. "The doctor will bring my medication later, and I am feeling faint myself. I shall go out and take some air."

  "He hasn't fainted. Wait until I get onto headquarters about this," he snarled. Arachne smiled at the rest of the waiting-room crowd, who all seemed very tense—and furious with the PSA agent. "I wouldn't do that," she said. "All these people saw the poor man faint." The roomful of people nodded like marionettes having their strings pulled. "I think one of you should call the doctor to look at him," she added, as she walked out, leaving the PSA agent to scurry after her.

  * * *

  Colonel McNamara had a serious problem on his hands. He was constrained by some of the more outlandish provisions of the Alien Pyramid Security Act. Like all security legislation passed by Congress in a fit of hysteria, APSA was riddled with idiotic clauses that gave a sufficiently ambitious and unscrupulous security official the ability to ride roughshod over common sense as well as other people. He was also constrained by a duty to his men, and a growing suspicion that this PSA action was at least a semi-rogue one. That would explain why the agent-in-charge had backed down when he'd finally gotten mad enough to risk his career.

  The colonel had talked to Professor Tremelo, and he understood the implications of pyramid expansion with each human that it had snatched, and the increasing snatch radius. He also knew just who Tom Harkness was, and when he had disappeared. The only way to get him back was to ask his men to do what they'd been the only survivors of doing before—get snatched again, and go inside a world which shouldn't really be able to exist. A impossible world that spat out a lot of dead people.

  There was a specific Presidential directive forbidding anyone who was at risk of becoming a snatchee from entering the safety perimeter. Over-riding that directive had to be approved by the Pyramid Scientific Research Group as well as the PSA. That meant that Tremelo must know about this. It was a pity. He'd seemed a sensible man, for a civilian and a scientist.

  This all seemed more than enough reason to call General Brasno. Unofficially. And damn the PSA. It all smelled, and it wouldn't be the first time that secret service agencies had used secrecy to provide cover for their own agendas.

  "I need advice, Sir. And I didn't call you. Or rather I called you about different matter altogether."

  While the colonel was officially not talking, the Base Medical Officer was arming himself with a generous ration of candy in case he met up with a certain small boy again. Who would have thought one child could yell and bite so much?

  * * *

  In a remote corner of a wildlife reservation, some distance away, a winged dragon sighed gustily and licked his new white little teeth with a long red snaky tongue. They helped his speech as well as his chewing. "I feel as if my life is lacking something."

  His sibling, Bitar, licked his chops too. "Something of the flavor of life."

  "Could be ketchup?" said Smitar, after serious thought, and then concentrated on trying to reach an annoying itch between his shoulder blades.

  "Or it could be hot sauce. Who would have thought that American maidens would be in such short supply that they'd have to be protected game?"

  "Over hunted," said Smitar, righteously. "Should have introduced a permit system. Or reservations. Or a minimum size limit."

  Bitar shook his vast armored head at the iniquity. "A bag limit." He paused. "It wasn't you, was it?"

  "Not unless I'm sleep-eating again," said Smitar. "If it wasn't me, was it you? And can you scratch this spot for me?"

  "We need Cruz," said Bitar, obliging. "He can give a decent scratch with an oar. Do you think we're molting again?"

  "Could be. It's this foreign food. Very greasy. Fattening." Smitar patted his midriff.

  "You haven't been eating these foreigners again?" demanded Bitar accusingly. "You know Medea told us not to. Anyway, you could have shared!"

  "Phttt," said Smitar. "He was barely a snack. And Cruz said that anyone from the INS was fair game. I still feel something's missing in my life. I've got this sort of inner itch too."

  "Could be indigestion. But I have it as well. And I never even got a bite of the INS official," Bitar sniffed dolefully. "Could use a good scratch with a pole from Cruz."

  Smitar wrinkled his scaly forehead in thought. "I think it is that time of life when a young dragon's thoughts turn to love."

  "Could be. What time is that?" asked Bitar, tasting the idea.

  "This century, I think."

  "Hmm. In that case I think we need some male advice on how to draw chicks."

  Smitar looked a bit puzzled. "I thought you just grabbed them and dragged?"

  "Doesn't that lack finesse?"

  "Probably. It could work though."

  "We need to ask Cruz," said Bitar, rubbing his back against a rock and shattering it. "It's time he sat us down and gave us a little talk about the birds and the bees."

  Smitar tasted a piece of the rock. Chewed it thoughtfully and then asked: "Why?"

  "I think it's
what you have to talk to girls about," said Bitar knowledgeably. "Cruz will know."

  Smitar spat out rock fragments. "And he could give us a good scratch."

  As they took off and began searching for thermals, Smitar asked, "So what's this finesse stuff? Some kind of sauce? Or a lubricant to help with the dragging?"

  Bitar nodded. "Both. It's got chocolate in it, too."

  Chapter 3

  Liz had to smile at Miggy Tremelo's ill-contained frustration. He'd had several minor fumes at various aspects of the PSA's new "system" ever since she and Jerry had arrived five minutes back. The PSA kept dragging its way into the conversation like some kind of pernicious disease. It was obviously driving him up the wall. She could identify with that. Minor bureaucrats who seemed to derive enormous satisfaction from making petty matters into insurmountable obstacles, and saying "no" whenever possible, had been a feature of her life, especially lately. Normally Miggy and Jerry would be feet deep in animated theoretical discussion by now. It was obviously preying on Tremelo's mind almost to the exclusion of everything else. She wished that Lamont would get there. Even a few puns would be welcome, although she could never admit that in public.

  Then the Jacksons arrived. And it was immediately apparent that things with Marie were not improving. Even the kids were silent, which as Liz knew from their previous get-togethers, was straight un-natural. Little Tyrone normally was the best reason she'd ever come across for having silencers fitted to all kids at birth. As they said back in South Africa, the kid had been born with the volume control stuck on full. And the twin girls had competed with his volume by doing it shrill and in stereo. Only the fifteen year-old live-in nephew, Emmitt, seemed to be the same as usual. He hadn't smiled much then and he wasn't smiling now. They all looked like they were heading for a funeral.

  Which was accurate.

  Marie's.

  * * *

  "He said I've got secondaries in my liver and my chest cavity already," said Marie, calmly. "Too late for chemotherapy, too late for surgery. I've got about three months. It doesn't hurt much."

  She was the only one who appeared to be calm, and talk about it. "I'm sorry, Miggy. I've come to give my notice. There's no point pretending I'm just on sick leave, any more. Me and Lamont and the kids, we want to spend as much time as we can together now. While we can."

  "At least money's not really an issue any more," said Lamont with a sigh. "I never thought I'd be able to say that."

  "Ain't no use cryin', for heaven's sake. I thought we'd maybe go on a road-trip. See places we've never seen."

  Lamont nodded. "We wanted to fly to Greece. But it seems like I'm a national asset, not to be risked in a foreign country. It's an attitude I wish they'd had when they sent me to Vietnam."

  * * *

  Standing aside, talking to Jerry, Lamont looked like a skyscraper that just lost its foundations. "What the hell is the use of having all the money in the world if I haven't got Marie? I reckon my luck has deserted me, Jerry."

  He bit his lip, his eyes downcast, voice shaking. "I'd swap anything in the world, just to make her well. That's the worst kind of luck that can happen to any man. I was the luckiest man in the world, thanks to Tyche. Now, I think I'm the unluckiest. Marie's... she's my life, I guess."

  Jerry didn't quite know what to say. He just leaned over squeezed Lamont's shoulder.

  The telephone rang.

  "I'm not taking any calls right now," snapped Miggy.

  "But, Professor, it's Ms. Garnett," said Rachel Clements, popping her head around the door. "And she is... well, insistent."

  Marie rubbed her hands. "Shall I deal with her? For old times sake?"

  Miggy Tremelo smiled for the first time since he'd heard her news. "I'm tempted. But I'd better handle it. As little as I like that woman, I'll have to deal with her, for the foreseeable future."

  "And I won't have to cope with the aftershocks, I guess," said Marie.

  Miggy picked up his phone. "Professor Tremelo speaking."

  The person on the other end was shouting. Not quite loud enough for the rest of them to make out all the words. Just: sphinx.

  "I am afraid that you're blaming the wrong person," said Miggy. "But I strongly advise you not take on the environmental lobby over..." He held the phone away from his ear, and then put it down on the cradle.

  He looked at the phone as if it was an envenomed serpent. "I should have let you handle it after all, Marie. Still, I think that woman may have bitten off more than she can chew, this time."

  "What's happened?" asked Liz, curious.

  "It appears that certain PSA agents were observed loading Throttler on a cargo plane at McCarran Airport in Las Vegas. God only knows how they talked her into getting on it—without getting killed in the process."

  Miggy smiled beatifically. "And, while PSA can ride roughshod over most things... Not the Endangered Species Act. Throttler and the dragons have been declared endangered species, if you recall, and now it appears that the two Greek dragons have disappeared too. It hasn't taken the wildlife authorities long to put the two together, and go public about it. It would appear that when their rare and endangered species are involved—especially crowd-pullers—Fish and Wildlife don't actually care if you're the head of the PSA. Especially since one of the loopholes in that screwball Swiss cheese legislation they call APSA exempts them from PSA authority."

  Jerry's eyes widened. "It does? Why, in God's name?"

  Miggy's grin was almost scary, now. "What do you think? The usual trading and swapping you get whenever Congress rushes through legislation too quickly. One of the key legislators involved—Montana's Senator Frank Larsen—saw a chance to do a favor for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. He's very partial to them, partly because he's an avid outdoorsmen himself, and partly because his nephew Mark O'Hare happens to be the agency's director."

  Lamont chuckled. "So an agency nobody thinks has anything to do with 'alien pyramid security' gets a better deal from APSA than the CIA or the FBI, or even the military. What a laugh. It reminds me of something I read once. If a police car, a fire truck, and an ambulance—all answering emergencies with their lights flashing and their sirens blowing, mind you—come to an intersection at the same time as a Post Office van making routine deliveries, guess which vehicle legally has the right of way?"

  "The Post Office vehicle," said Miggy. "Of course, in the real world, no postman would even think of not pulling over to let the emergency vehicles go past him first—but, legally, he could pull rank on them if he wanted to. Yup, and that's technically the situation here. Except that in this instance, Fish and Wildlife is hopping mad. Mad enough, even, to be willing to take on that woman publicly."

  "What does Garnett want Throttler for, in the first place?" asked Liz. Militantly, she twitched the strap of her new shoulderbag. It wasn't yet as full of useful things as the old one had been. It still felt unnatural and quite emaciated, poor thing. It couldn't weigh more than five pounds. "They better not hurt her. She's biologically priceless."

  "So, it would appear, Ms. Garnett has just been told by the Fish and Wildlife director. She somehow reached the conclusion that I had told the conservation authorities that the creatures were to be brought here. How I was supposed have done that when this is the first that I've heard about it, I don't know. But I suspect logic is not her best friend."

  "I don't think logic even gets near her mind," said Jerry, shaking his head, "unless it involves political maneuvering. The PSA still hasn't allowed me back to the Oriental Institute to collect my papers, although I have absolutely zero chance of being snatched."

  "Or let me back to the Department of Ecology and Evolution," said Liz with a grimace. "And quite a lot of my documentation is still sitting there. Documents Immigration and Naturalization want."

  "I'll get some of my people onto that," promised Miggy Tremelo. "Still, I think its a good thing that we have nothing to do with her dragon-problem. It'll probably explode on her."

 
; * * *

  "The thing to get into your head," said Cruz, patiently, "Is that the people you're facing, as Doc explained to me, are the idealized warriors of their age. That means they've been fighting all their lives. They're more used to cold-blooded killing than any US mass-murderer. And to them you are a barbarian. If you're not Greek, you're a barbarian. A Greek life isn't worth that much. A barbarian's life is worth a little less than that of a stray dog. They don't know what your human rights are, because you aren't human. Only Greeks are."

  Agent Stephens blinked. "We're posing as Greeks."

  Cruz shrugged. "At a distance, maybe." Greeks with hidden rifles, 50. caliber IDF Desert Eagles, abseil gear, night-vision goggles, laser sights, heat-seeking RPGs...

  And not a clue. Some of that gear could be useful, maybe. Depending on what it turned into.

  "Anyway, to be frank with you, Sergeant, they're not up to our level of training," said Bott, practicing assembling his rifle. He might be faster at that than a bastard like Odysseus would be at dismantling him before he was finished, but Cruz wouldn't bet on it.

  Chapter 4

  Even if the dragons flew to a remote part of the wildlife reserve, to have a break from pesky tourists they weren't even allowed to eat, there were inevitably eager dragon watchers with binoculars somewhere in the park, tracking their upward flight.

  Up, up, up... into the clouds.

  * * *

  "So, where to from here?" asked Bitar.

  "Dunno. Thought you did."

  "It's north."

  "So which way is that?"

  Bitar thought about it for a moment. "Let's ask someone."

  Dragon have keen eyesight. It's useful for spotting prey from a great height. Good for spotting a really well camouflaged greenhouse in the woods, too.

  * * *

  Carl Frederick, cultivator of the fine green product known variously as purple haze, ganja, weed and, lately, thanks to his new English girlfriend, by the charming epithet "skunk," owed his skill in camouflage to time spent in the 101st, prior to his not-entirely-honorable discharge. He owed his survival over the next few minutes to being too stoned to care. He just sat there and smiled vacantly.