by Eric Flint
Back in the patrol car, the officer called in. "You can tell the Fish and Wildlife guys that it's not strayed dangerous animals any more. It's poaching. Frederick. The local weed king? Yeah, well, the bastard's decided to move from trafficking dope into trafficking wildlife."
Beth Camero went on painting her new sign. Dragons' Rest Road House.
"That's the perimeter fence. You just follow it and you'll come to the gate," said Carl. "Look, can't you let me go here? I'm . . . uh, not really welcome there." The thought of the base MP's reaction to his arrival, even on dragonback, was not a comfortable one. "You don't need me. And you've damaged my life enough. Couple of damn muggers, what you are."
The dragons were still full, and bulgingly good tempered. "I suppose we are here. And you have fed us," said one.
"But what have we done to you?" said the dragon, setting him down.
"You destroyed my livelihood. Landed on my crop," said Carl righteously. "Not to mention robbing me blind."
The dragons looked at each other. "It's only fair that we make it up to you."
Visions of dragonback bank raids flashed through Carl's mind. "That lot of skunk was worth easy . . . half a million bucks."
"That's a lot of buck," said a startled dragon. "A whole herd."
"You grew skunk?" asked the other.
"Yeah. The best," boasted Frederick.
Both dragons undulated off. "Back there," said one, sniffing.
Moments later he had two black and white—and frightened and angry—contributions from above. "A fresh start for you," said the dragon.
"Enjoy!" said the other, as the skunks lifted their tails.
Having fled through the bushes, Carl was running headlong down the road when the patrol car spotted him. Never had he been so grateful to see cops. They could shoot the skunks or the dragons.
"Carl Frederick, you're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent—"
"But I haven't done nothing!" He was as clean as a man could be. Not an ounce of skunk on him. Well, except for the bouquet that was making the deputy's eyes water.
"Illegal trafficking in endangered wildlife."
Carl sat down on the road and wept. So did the deputies who handcuffed him. But that was probably the smell . . . Or maybe the thought that he would be going in the back of their patrol car.
Of the dragons there was no sign. It was only a little later that a conservation officer put two and two together about the location, so close to the Fort Campbell perimeter fence. "They probably went looking for their former owner, once they got away from the dragon-napper!"
Someone was dispatched at once to Fort Campbell to see one Sergeant Cruz and his wife Medea. To be met with zero cooperation from two PSA agents. Who, under pressure, had to produce PSA IDs. It was just about the same time, 10:00 PM, as the story of Throttler's mysterious removal from Las Vegas—by PSA agents—hit the news channels.
America liked having the world's only living dragons. Until the story hit the wires, the politicians had been unaware of just how much the public fancied the idea.
Instructions came at 4:00 AM to move the detainees to a more secure secret location, while the dragons slept peacefully on the firing range. Not even the arrival of a cold front disturbed them.
Chapter 5
"Harkness," explained Arachne, "is some prince of theirs. He was seized by the pyramid and has not come back. They plainly plan to try to rescue him. That means returning to our world, a world where the gods still rule."
"Albeit, under Typhoeus. We must stop this!" said Medea, between clenched teeth.
"Yes," said Arachne. "First, I'm not having Mac go there without me, and second, if he went with me, well, I might end up with great legs. Eight of them."
"And how will they get back? Without Throttler they have no way to return."
"True. We need to get there and stop this. But we don't even know where they've taken them."
"This Chicago place, I would guess. That is where the pyramid is. We were going to go there, remember, to see this Professor Tremelo, and Doc Jerry."
"Well, that is where we must go then. Is this isle far off? Where is it? I will call my dragons . . . I hope that the call still works."
"I hope it does. They could deal with these guards. It is a good sixty leagues if I have it aright. A fair distance. We can maybe catch them while they travel—but these Americans travel faster than the Greeks or my people did. Anyway, long journey or no, it must be done. I will poison the wakeful one, and you can cut the sleeper's throat," said Medea grimly. "We go, with or without dragons. I do not know if my powers to call them will work here."
Arachne held out the little vial that she'd gotten from the doctor. "With any luck you could just make all of them sleep. Or I can. They've tasted your coffee."
"I'll help you to cut their throats then."
"We probably should just bind them fast. We do not wish to start a blood feud if we can help it."
"Will taking them captive help? Have they value as hostages? I think they are lowly fighters. Mere slingers. And will that not be cause enough to send the soldiers of Cruz's Uncle Sam to seek bloody vengeance? Better to cut their throats and be done with it."
"They would have to admit they were bested by a pair of women and two small children," said Arachne, smiling seraphically. "I have noted that American warriors are no better than Greeks at that."
Medea nodded. "We had best dispose of their weapons, though. It will take them a little while to rearm. When do we do this? Tonight?"
"In the morning. They are all here at the dawn. The hour six, as these Arabian numerals show it."
Medea grimaced. "Priones has yet to learn to let me sleep past it. It will be easier than in the dark. Guards are more suspicious then. Very well, I shall call the dragons to me. Maybe they will come. Otherwise we will have to find charioteers and ships as need be."
Medea looked poisonously at the PSA agent. Medea was not someone you wanted to cross at the best of times, and waking her before dawn was a life-risk, no matter who you were. It was probably just as well that she was half-handicapped by a sleepy little boy in one arm nuzzling into her, and another holding onto her nightgown.
"Not without coffee," she said. There was a certain grim finality in that tone. "And over my dead body in my nightgown. If you try I shall scream. And my man's fellow warriors are not so far off, that they will not come. They will deal ill with someone who molests his wife."
"You can have a few minutes to pack up," said Agent Schmitt placatingly. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but these are orders from higher up. And I'll make coffee. I could use a cup myself."
She gave him a look that would have frozen a cockatrice. "I'm just instilling proper discipline into that coffee-pot. I won't have you spoiling it. Arachne is bad enough. She keeps giving it more grounds when it doesn't deserve them and hasn't tried hard enough with the old ones. I'll make any coffee in this house. You can sit here and drink it, while we take ours and pack our clothes."
Agent Schmitt decided it wasn't worth arguing about. When he tasted the coffee, he decided that that had been a bad decision. But it was hot and wet, and an extra spoon of sugar helped.
"See that they drink all of it, Neoptolemeus," said Medea, taking her cup.
So, under the unnervingly stern gaze of the seven-year-old-boy, the agents drank.
"The tall one is trouble," said Neoptolemeus righteously. "He did not drink all of the drink you made for him, Mama."
"Oh?" said Medea, calmly checking the edge on her dagger. That didn't worry the boy in the least, Arachne noted.
"Yes," said Neoptolemeus, nodding. "He fell over when there was still at least a quarter of it left. I tried to make him sit up and drink the rest, but most of it spilt down the front of his shirt."
"Those tablets must have been strong!" exclaimed Arachne, looking at her cup. She'd nearly reflexively taken a mouthful. And the doctor had said that they were mild!
"Well," said Medea, taking the cu
p from her hand. "I didn't know how fast they would work, so I used a potion of my own too."
"It's to be hoped that we haven't killed them," said Arachne.
Medea snorted. "Small loss. But it is not likely. And better that they fell asleep now rather than when they were driving those chariots of theirs. I think we must disarm them and bind them, just in case they do wake up before we leave."
"I wish I had some decent spider web," Arachne said as they walked out of Medea's bedroom to the lounge, where the agents sprawled.
"My new papa has rolls of it," Neoptolemeus informed her. "He calls it fishing line, though. I'll get it. I am not to play with it although he said he was going to show me how to use it, soon. I'm sure it'll be all right if you use it, though."
While he went off, the women searched through the pockets of the agents. Shortly they came upon shoulder holsters.
They looked at the firearms very warily. "Cruz has showed me," said Medea. "Within are small metal arrows. You release them thus." She removed the clip, and put it carefully aside.
"I found some more of those," said Arachne. "What shall we do with them, and the guns?"
Medea's eyes narrowed. "The vacuum cleaner," she said. "It has a bag which it refuses to apply itself to. It is full of dust and scraps. Let them look in there. Cruz told me that the weapons have to be kept clean to work."
A little while later the firearms were being put safely into the dust-bag of the vacuum cleaner, along with the car keys, both from the victims and Cruz's own vehicle. "Now, you see that you look after those. You can bite anyone if they try to take them away from you," said Medea sternly. The vacuum cleaner huddled in its cupboard and looked nasty. Arachne had to admit that she wouldn't try to take anything from it, not even the dust it hoarded.
"And the clips?"
"In among that fiendish Lego-stuff that Cruz bought for the boys," said Medea cheerfully. "You could search for a year and not find the pieces you need." It was a vast barrel of Lego. A few shakes had the clips well-buried, and they went back to the sleeping agents. Priones was sitting eating his breakfast Coco Pops with supreme unconcern, as he sat between them and watched the TV, while his mother and Aunt Arachne continued doing the mysterious things adults did.
Medea looked at the card she had taken from the sleeping agent's pocket. "It is a powerful magical talisman of some sort. I saw the other one threaten the warriors with it. But it has his image painted on it, so it would be of little use to us. I think we should dispose of it. Here, Priones, take it to your favorite toy. You may work the magic handle. But only once, mind."
"He'd better take the other ones too, then," said Arachne, tying more knots in the inferior spider-thread from the reels. "And their mobiles."
"And while you are there, you'd better go. I don't want to have to stop the chariot for you," said Medea, practically. "Both of you."
The women went on tying. It was fairly feeble spider-thread, this "fishing line," but it was the best they had. They heard the sound of flushing and Priones' delighted giggle, as the agents' PSA IDs went to impress the sewers.
Soon Medea stood up, dusted off her hands and looked down on the sleeping cocoon arrayed in front of the Cartoon Network. "That will have to do," she said. "Stop being so prissy and precise about it, Arachne."
Arachne tied off a last knot, neatly. "It's a habit, I suppose."
"Do you want to bite them and save them to eat later too?" asked Medea. "I really could use that coffee now, but I suppose we'd better go."
"Maybe we should eat something first?"
"That's a good idea," said a voice from the window. A dragonish voice.
"Food is always a good idea, Smitar, so long as Arachne makes it," said Bitar. "So where is Cruz? We need to ask him about which birds and bees to eat."
"Trust me," said Medea. "I still have some powers. Bitar, spot a truck with a flat bed at the back. One of those with many wheels. Let me know when you see one."
"With pillows?" asked Bitar.
Medea was used to dragon logic. "Just with a flat back part. You have to provide your own pillows."
"I had a pillow once when I was little, but I ate it."
"That was a goose," said Smitar. "You complained about feathers for ages afterwards."
Bitar wrinkled his forehead. "That's right. Pillows have their feathers on the inside. I remember that now. Geese should be made like that too."
"Look out for the truck or you'll have feathers," said Medea grimly. "And I don't mean inside you. Neoptolemeus. Go up his neck, and keep a look out."
He nodded eagerly. He liked trucks. A few minutes later he called out, "Eighteen wheeler coming, Ma. A flatbed."
Medea nodded. "Time for us to do our magic, Arachne."
* * *
Mike Convey hauled steel. He'd just delivered twenty tons to one of the big machine shops in Clarkson. He was on his way back to Pittsburgh, still swearing because the return load had fallen through, and the company needed his rig back to finalize part of a massive contract. Nice contract. Shitty late delivery clause. So here he was deadheading.
He did not pick up hitchhikers or hookers. Well . . . sometimes a guy needed a bit of company. When he saw two very good-looking women standing at the roadside sticking a leg out at him . . . Suddenly he was hit by a powerful and irresistible compulsion.
These "truck" things could move faster than a dragon could fly, at least over long distances, and once the trucker got over his initial wrong impression he was very cooperative. Especially when he figured that a dragon could take a look in the window. And the glass wasn't that thick.
While the Air Force scanned the skies, two dragons sped by road toward Chicago. Passing vehicles admired the realistic dragon models on the back of the flatbed. People always see what they expect to see.
"I can't take you to Chicago!" Convey protested. "My boss will have sixty fits."
"What if we paid for the hire of your vehicle?" Arachne came from Colophon, the timocracy of the ancient world where money ruled, and commerce was everything. "It cannot be financially lucrative for you to drive an empty motorized chariot."
Mike gave a quick glance at her, before turning his attention back to the road. It was obvious enough what he was thinking, though. Arachne had had people not take her seriously before, because she was a slight young woman. It was at times like this that still having a spider's body could have been useful.
"Come on, lady, it's a good joke, but this isn't a cab. It's . . ."
"A Peterbilt. A 379 Pete with a five and half Cat and an 18-speed transmission," put in Neoptolemeus.
That got a glance of surprise from Convey. "Bright kid!" he said admiringly.
"I am entirely serious," said Arachne calmly. "I never make jokes about money."
Something in her tone made Mike think twice. "Sure, lady. I just don't think that you have any idea about how much money you're talking about. The company charges four dollars a mile for this rig."
Arachne picked up her laptop, opened it, and took a platinum credit card out of her purse. "Approximately how many miles are we talking about? If we can find a hot-spot, I can do a direct online transfer. Of course there will be a substantial gratuity to you for all the extra trouble. Shall we say one thousand dollars? Or what do you think, Medea?"
Medea sniffed disapprovingly. "I've never really understood the point in chaffering and trade. It's not something a princess has to do. Personally I think we should offer him a choice. This Chicago-place, or Bitar and Smitar can eat him."
