Pyramid Power

by Eric Flint

  "That's the advantage of trade over the aristocracy. Who would drive the horseless chariot then?"

  "Me," said Neoptolemeus hopefully. "I want to."

  The trucker saw a dragonish eye peering in at him from the side window.

  Medea sighed. "I know that look. They're hungry again. They're always hungry. So, is it you for their dinner or do we get to go to Chicago?" There was no jest in that matter-of-fact tone.

  Convey took a deep breath. "Look, there's a truck stop ahead. How about I call the boss, and you talk money to him?"

  "Perhaps there will be food available," said Arachne.

  "And I need to wee," piped little Priones. "Soon."

  Neoptolemeus said nothing. He just concentrated on the gears and the physical operations of the vehicle, imitating the movements of the driver.

  That was the most worrying thing of all, maybe.

  "We're two blocks from the Pyramid Exclusion Zone," said Convey. "I can't take you any farther." There wasn't much traffic here. The road didn't go anywhere anymore.

  "So you see," said Arachne, smiling devastatingly and handing over a wad of crisp $100 notes. "It wasn't that hard."

  Medea nodded. "The seats are better padded in these chariots than in mine. Now, children, let's get going."

  "Will you teach me to drive someday?" asked Neoptolemeus as he scrambled out. "I want to drive a chariot with so many horses under the hood."

  "I just want to see how you fit them all in," piped Priones. "And I want to wee." It seemed like that was the kid's favorite statement.

  One of the dragons sniffed. "Can smell Cruz," he said happily.

  "Right," said Medea. "Let's go. Up you get, children."

  Mike felt sorry for someone.

  The dragons began to slowly rise, spiky and glittering above the roadway, and definitely headed toward the exclusion zone. Convey watched, shrugged, and decided that it was a good time to get into his truck and get the hell out of here.

  Chapter 6

  Agent Schmitt bravely arrested Johnny Bravo for molesting the Cow, and shot the Chicken, while, Ed, Ed and Eddy cheered. But did they have to cheer so loudly?

  He opened his eyes. Ed, Ed and Eddy were cheering . . . on the TV screen in front of him. They weren't, his confused mind realized, cheering for him. Maybe they were cheering Agent Erskine. They couldn't be cheering for that useless idiot Reno. But what had Erskine done to get cheered? He was snoring his head off, the side of his face covered in either some horrific scabrous disease, or dried Coco Pops. He hadn't shot the Cow and arrested the Chicken for molesting Johnny Bravo. . . .

  Something was wrong! With a force of will, Agent Schmitt tried two things. First, to sit up. Second, to think clearly.

  Schmitt failed entirely at the first task. He tried to use his hands and it appeared that they were tied together. His head did clear slightly, though. He remembered drinking part of a truly terrible cup of coffee, before taking the detainees . . .

  Detainees. Now he woke properly. Enough to yell, at least. That woke Agent Reno. Reno said "Shurrup!" and rolled over, and fell off the couch. He landed with a thump, which must have done a better job of waking him, because he tried to get up.

  "I'm tied up," Reno said.

  He always did state the obvious, thought Schmitt, struggling to stand up himself. "I know, you moron," he snapped. "The coffee was drugged, and we're all tied up and the detainees have esca—aaaaaah!"

  The last part of his "escaped" converted to a scream that was lost in the shattering of glass as he fell over Agent Erskine's feet and crashed over onto the glass-top coffee table.

  It didn't cut him too badly. And it did wake Agent Erskine, who blinked and said, "Isn't there something on another channel?"

  They tried yelling. Nobody came. Agent Reno thought he saw something at the window, but no one came in.

  So, using a piece of broken coffee-table-top, Erskine managed to saw through some of the line on Schmitt. Agent Cangi slept happily on as they cut each other loose. As soon as his hands were free, Schmitt felt for his mobile and his gun. Neither were where they should be. He stumbled on numbed legs over to the telephone, only to realize, as it echoed hollowly in his ear, that they'd ordered it cut off at the base switchboard.

  The other two were trying to shake Agent Cangi into wakefulness, having cut him free.

  "Leave him. We need to get in touch with the duty officer as soon as possible." It was daylight out there. "They've been gone for a few hours."

  The three, none too steady on their feet, headed for the front door. It was locked. They had to force their way out of a window. As he fell into the garden, Agent Schmitt became aware that he was being watched. The woman who was watching from across the street had the kind of look on her face that made wise men kowtow. Schmitt staggered toward her. "I need to use your telephone, right now."

  "Keep your distance," she said warningly. "I've called the base MPs."

  "Ma'am. I'm Agent Schmitt. PSA . . ." With horror, he realized that the ID he was trying to flash wasn't there. And he'd stepped closer as he said it. She kicked him hard enough to make him sing tenor for a month, and retreated from his doubled-up body into her house and locked the door, loudly.

  Agent Reno was trying to break into the black SUV. Agent Erskine made the mistake of following the woman and was pounding on the door, when a Humvee with six MPs skidded to a halt, narrowly missing Schmitt, lying in the middle of the roadway.

  Aggression, under the circumstances, was probably stupid, but perhaps it was the drug's effect. Schmitt had to admit later—with him bloody, Reno coffee-stained, and Erskine's face looking like he had a terminal disease that vaguely resembled dried Coco Pops, and not a shred of ID among them—it wasn't that surprising that things went badly wrong. One of them did appear to be burgling a car, and another attempting to force entry into Sergeant Jenkins' house. A third person being sick in the roadway didn't help the reaction of the MPs one bit.

  Still, they were luckier than Cangi. He was forgotten in the melee and mess that followed, and woke up the next day, when the others were already in Washington, doing some explaining. On an actual carpet that might as well have been The Carpet.

  "We could ignore them," said Arachne doubtfully, looking at the soldiers in front of them. They'd come down Midway Plaisance fairly low. The soldiers were unmistakably making gestures to halt and to come down.

  Medea had much more experience at judging soldiers by their posture. Those were four nervous men, but not men who would run. You could see it in the way they stood, as clearly as daylight. She shook her head. "They're from the 101st. We'll have to talk to them. Down, Smitar."

  The one with marks of rank plainly recognized them. He was suitably respectful, but firm. "I'm sorry, ladies, but we're not allowed to let anyone in past the outer perimeter unless they've been authorized."

  "Is that like roasted?" asked Smitar.

  "No, silly! Don't you know anything? It means written on," said Bitar, tasting an M16 with his tongue.

  "Well, tell him to write on us then," said Smitar impatiently. "We want to see Cruz. We need a good scratch and some birds and bees to eat."

  The officer blinked at the dragons. "Sergeant Cruz isn't here."

  "Yes he is. Can smell him," Bitar informed the man.

  "They can smell a man a thousand cubits off," said Medea. "Those people from the PSA took him and Mac. They're coming here, if they're not here already. We need you to authorize us to find them. They're not going into the pyramid."

  She folded her arms. Neoptolemeus and Priones took one look at that and took a step back, wide-eyed and silent.

  That move obviously did not pass this young officer by. He would go far, decided Medea. He had survival potential.

  "I can't do that, ma'am," he said.

  She downgraded his survival potential. As he was about to discover what dragon dinner felt like, first hand, from the inside. He continued, "But I can have you taken to see Professor Tremelo."

/>   "Who is he?" asked Medea, pausing.

  "Remember, Medea. We met him. It is a rank like Doc Jerry's," said Arachne.

  "Dr. Lukacs? He's here too," said the young officer. "He came in to see Professor Tremelo this morning, and Lamont Jackson just arrived too. Look, ladies, let me escort you there. They'll sort something out."

  Medea looked at him, long and hard. "Very well," she said. She turned to the dragons. "Wait. If we do not come back with this authorization very soon, eat these others and come and fetch us."

  The two dragons nodded obediently and rose to settle on a nearby building like two enormous, shiny gargoyles. Gargoyles that watched the checkpoint very carefully, as Medea, Arachne and the children climbed into the lieutenant's Humvee.

  "Dragons!" exclaimed Miggy Tremelo.

  Arachne, Medea, Priones and Neoptolemeus burst into the room. "Doc," said Medea, with no real attention for the rest of them, "They have taken Cruz and Mac, and they are making them go back! Back to fetch someone called Harkness. You must help us. The dragons say they can smell Cruz. He is near. They will take him back into the pyramid and I will never see him again. And he is such a wonderful husband. Such a good father."

  She sniffed and dissolved into tears. Liz patted her arm and fished out a Kleenex for her from the new portmanteau-handbag, as Arachne continued in her musical voice. "We need authorization to get past the soldier guards. Help us, please. Mac will be killed without me to look after him properly."

  Miggy Tremelo cleared his throat. "You say the dragons smell Sergeant Cruz inside the outer perimeter? That they're going to 'fetch' Harkness? Tom Harkness?"

  Arachne and Medea nodded. "They have been taken by the PSA. They have held us as hostages for days, until we escaped from them this morning."

  "Hell's teeth! There is a presidential directive putting the entire inner perimeter area off limits to anyone without prior consultation with PSA and the National Science Advisory Council. And that means me. They're not authorized to do any such cowboy crap on their own. Rachel! Get me that woman—ah, Ms. Garnett—on the phone. Meanwhile—"

  He looked at the paratrooper lieutenant's name badge. "Lieutenant . . . Evans, is it?"

  "Yes, sir. Rich Evans."

  Miggy gave the young officer a quick inspection and decided he liked what he saw. Not so much Evans' size—although he was a big fellow, well over six feet tall—as a certain indefinable something he thought he read in his blue eyes. Still . . .

  As a scientist, "indefinable" made Miggy edgy. He had to be careful here.

  "Tell me something about yourself, Lieutenant. Personal, I mean."

  Evans' eyes widened slightly. "Sir?"

  "You heard me," said Miggy. "I'm entering a political gray zone here, Lieutenant, and you may—or may not—be one of my chosen instruments. I haven't got time to subject you to a battery of psychological tests. So tell me something about yourself that might give me a handle. On you, so to speak, not your uniform."

  Tremelo knew it was a rather outlandish demand, but . . . if his assessment of that "indefinable something" was accurate, the lieutenant would give him an answer.

  And, indeed, after a moment's hesitation Evans shrugged, unbuttoned his right sleeve, and rolled it up to expose a very striking tattoo. A large Celtic Cross with . . .

  "I got this after I married Tricia. She's a Jewish girl from Wisconsin. Then"—he pointed to some lettering under the cross—"I had our two daughters' names added. This one's Kennedy Lynn and that one's Madeleine Grace."

  Miggy recognized the script, if not the names themselves. "In Hebrew!" he said, half-laughing. "Why do I think I'd never find such an idiosyncratic tattoo on the arm of a PSA agent?"

  Smiling thinly, Evans rolled the sleeve back and began rebuttoning it. "I believe, sir—so I've been told, at any rate—that PSA agents are strictly forbidden from getting tattoos of any kind."

  "Wouldn't surprise me. Fine, Lieutenant Evans. Will you accept my authority, under the circumstances?"

  "Yes, sir." That came with no hesitation at all.

  "Good. Get onto outer perimeter security. Check if any PSA vehicles have gone into the exclusion zone."

  "I'll do that," said Marie decisively, heading for the outer office. "Put the lieutenant outside where he can do what I can't."

  "And get me the director of the Fish and Wildlife Service!" Miggy hollered after her.

  Evans frowned for a moment, and then smiled. "Fish and Wildlife, huh? Correct me if I'm wrong, Professor Tremelo, but I don't believe their authority is limited by the Alien Pyramid Security Act."

  Miggy was grinning outright—and starting to rub his hands together. "No, as a matter of fact, they aren't, Lieutenant. I really, really detest that woman. And I do believe she just stepped over a line she couldn't afford to cross."

  But Evans didn't hear the last sentence, since he was already out the door.

  The two black SUVs drove up to the checkpoint, at speed. The driver held up a PSA ID and drove into the outer perimeter area, towing his horsebox. The vehicle behind towed an even larger trailer. Uncertainly, without their commanding officer present, the paratroopers let them through.

  "That's Throttler!"

  "And Cruz!" said the other dragon.

  They looked at each other.

  Then at the paratroopers manning the checkpoint. Then at the departing SUVs. Then at each other again. Then they launched into flight.

  "We're going after Cruz and Throttler!" said the dragon, leaning his head down to shout at the paratroopers.

  "We won't be long. Don't worry, we'll come back and eat you," said the other, flapping.

  Lieutenant Evans drove up just in time to see the SUVs heading further into the exclusion zone. Then, he looked up at the seventy feet of sinuous reptilians, undulating after them.

  Private Marc Henderson raised his rifle.

  "Hold," commanded Evans. "Don't fire. I doubt if a 5.56 mm bullet would have any effect on a dragon anyway."

  "But, Lieutenant, they're entering the fire-zone."

  Evans put his hand on the muzzle of the rifle and brought it down. "They're animals, Henderson, don't you know that? Wildlife. Endangered wildlife. We don't even shoot pigeons flying in here, let alone something that is rarer than an American bald eagle."

  "But they talk, Lieutenant," protested Henderson.

  The lieutenant shook his head sadly. "So do parrots. Like boots, they're hardly human, are they? We stop human ingress. Those are our orders."

  One of the other soldiers spoke up. "Lieutenant, on the news last night they said that they believed those critters had been taken by the Pissants, uh, the PSA. The conservation guys were appealing for any information."

  "Yes, I know," said Lieutenant Evans, smiling more widely still. "You're right. I'd say we'd better report to Fish and Wildlife that they're here—except I happen to know that's already being done. I guess the Pissants are going to have to do quite a lot of explaining, especially after Ms. Garnett's denials last night."

  Private Henderson nodded earnestly. "I found that out when I got arrested for the pizza."

  At any other time Evans would have loved to know how even Henderson could have managed to get arrested for pizza, but right now he had to get a report in to Tremelo.