by James Axler
"Even a paradise has its price," Doc challenged. "What were you expected to give Pharaoh in return for this bucolic existence?"
Danielson shrugged. "The usual. Unswerving, unquestioning obedience and loyalty."
"In other words," Ryan said softly, grimly, "your free will."
Danielson's gray eyes flashed in anger. "What would you have done, Cawdor? First of all, Pharaoh has a power, and I've had a long time to study on it, on how it works."
Pharaoh's power was subtle, Danielson explained, an amplified application of will and emotion. The strength of his mind-energy required only a focal point to guide it, a vibration it followed like a torch flame in the wind. If your mind was naked and unguarded, you were immediately under Pharaoh's influence. Even if you were prepared, the influence was so persistent that resistance was eventually eroded away.
"You're thinking that all of us in Aten are weak-brained fools," Danielson said. "You're thinking we let Pharaoh turn me and my people into zombies. That's sort of right and sort of wrong. He gave back as much as he took. He provided us not only with emotional sustenance but material sustenance. No suffering, no poverty, no going hungry, no night-crawling coldhearts slitting your throat for your shoes. Who wouldn't go along with that? You'd go along with it, too, if you'd been us."
Danielson's voice grew soft with a touch of mockery beneath it. "You know why you'd go along with it, Cawdor? Because you're afraid to die, just like the rest of us zombies. I never believed in any god but myself and a blaster, but I believed in him. And even if Pharaoh is a mutie, spawned in a test tube and not heaven, who gives a shit?"
"What about Connie Harrier?" Krysty asked. "You said he loved her. Did she love him back, or was she just under his influence?"
"Doesn't matter. Like I said, when you're in the presence of Pharaoh, you end up loving him eventually."
Taking a deep breath, Danielson continued, "After a few years, Pharaoh decided his dynasty needed a son. To make sure of it, he took Connie back to his tomb—the redoubt—to do something to her. Don't know what, exactly."
"Genetic preselection, probably," Mildred said. "Prenatal manipulation to determine the sex of the offspring."
"Yeah, whatever. Connie died." Danielson's tone thickened with anger and grief. "She died, and something died inside of Pharaoh, too."
Pharaoh brought his wife's body back to Aten. The period of mourning went on for months, went on so long that the atmosphere of brooding and grief became the norm. Pharaoh locked himself away in his palace, shutting out his daughter, Nefron, his counselors and even the needs of his own people.
Danielson wasn't sure how long Pharaoh's self-imposed exile lasted, but he was certain that well over two years elapsed. Then came the day when Pharaoh emerged. He made several announcements, issued a number of decrees.
The old man uttered a short, sneery laugh. "He claimed that Connie had never been meant to be his mate, that he had been deceived by her. Henceforth, he wouldn't recognize their union, and he wouldn't recognize Nefron as a legitimate heir to his kingdom."
Furthermore, he knew his true queen, his true consort, lay out in the world somewhere and in order to prepare himself and his kingdom for her arrival, a pyramid in her honor would be erected. Its power would act like a beacon to draw her into his arms.
The population was divided—slaves to build the pyramid and slaves to serve the increasingly erratic whims of Pharaoh. There was much dissatisfaction. The bitterness became a quarrel and then open rebellion. From the rebellion two factions emerged— Pharaoh and his inner circle of advisers to which he, Danielson and Stockbridge belonged, as well as the newly formed security force called the Incarnates. The other faction was led by supporters of Nefron, at that point a young woman of fourteen.
"The rebellion turned from words into a week of bloodshed, murder and assassination attempts," Danielson stated. "At the end of that week, the revolution was crushed—ruthlessly. Over twenty people sympathetic to Nefron died, including one of my wives and two of my children."
Danielson shuddered and his eyes were wet. He dried them with a frayed sleeve. "Despite that, I was still in Pharaoh's favor, since my only son was killed while trying to assassinate me. But I had begun to doubt."
He touched the ankh amulet. "I had this made by one of our craftsmen who knew it blocked Pharaoh's power. Most of the rebels had worn them, acting on Nefron's advice. When construction on the pyramid began, I decided I had had my fill of Aten. About a year ago I came back here, to Fort Fubar, where it all began."
He glanced over at Krysty. "I don't know why the Incarnates should be looking for you, young woman. Unless Pharaoh thinks you're his true, predestined consort. If that's the case, my advice to all of you is to put as much distance between yourselves and Aten as you can before another search party is sent out."
"How long will that be?" J.B. asked.
"Dawn tomorrow, at the earliest. The chariots can't travel very far at night."
"How far to city?" Jak inquired.
"Thirty miles or so. About an hour by chariot."
"How many people are there?" Ryan demanded.
"Three hundred and fifty or so, counting the kids."
J.B. extended a metauh rod. "Tell us about this."
Danielson scowled. "What part of me advising you to run didn't you understand, Dix? You got no time for this—"
"Tell us." Ryan bit out the words.
The old man ran a hand through his hair. "They operate on some kind of ancient principle about channeling the sekhem—the 'life-force.' You got to be trained in how to use them. My amulet keeps my body helix from being warped."
"How?" Mildred asked.
With a forefinger, Danielson traced a line along his arms, head and chest. "The shape of the amulet is a closed double-helix energy pattern. It protects my bioaural field from the resonating mena energies. Get it?"
"No," Jak growled.
Danielson ignored him. "That's why Pharaoh is building a pyramid—to increase the power of his bioaural field, to saturate him and his queen completely with the sekhem, so they'll be immortal."
Krysty looked at him skeptically. "Pharaoh told you that?"
"Not exactly," Danielson admitted. "Stockbridge said it. He said once the pyramid was built, the capstone put in place, it would draw power from the energy field of the planet, even other planets. Anybody standing inside the pyramid would be made immortal."
"The old pyramid-power theory," Doc interjected. "In my day it was called electromotivism. A pseudoscience."
"By my day," Mildred said, "the theory had gained some respectability. With the translations of ancient Egyptian texts and codices, reputable scientists performed experiments and came up with empirical evidence that the old Egyptians had a kind of energy-transference technology."
Ryan had completed reassembling his SIG-Sauer. He tested the action, then slid a clip into the butt. "We've got plenty of ammo. J.B., you have any other surprises you rat-holed from the commune?"
The Armorer shook his head. "Sorry. That gren I used on Poseidon's sec men was my last surprise."
Ryan turned his attention to the Steyr. "We've gotten by with just our blasters on many an occasion. Guess they'll have to do this time."
"'Do?" Danielson echoed. "Do for what?"
"We're going to the city."
"What are you, a jolt-brain?" Danielson exploded incredulously. "Boost them chariots and get back to where you came from!"
"We came from the redoubt. It's a door that opens only one way, at present. Your pharaoh saw to that. And there's a good reason why this region is called the Barrens, right?"
"Right," Danielson admitted.
"There's nothing out here, no settlements, no villes, not even a pesthole outpost. Only Fort Fubar. And Aten. Right?"
Danielson nodded.
"Besides, Hell Eyes is expecting us." Ryan showed his teeth in a humorless grin. "Far be it from me to disappoint him."
"You'll be
walking into a trap," Danielson muttered.
Doc laughed. "We never let that stop us before."
"Yeah," Jak grunted. "People try trap us, we chill."
"See?" Doc said. "A marvelously simple approach to the vagaries of life."
Danielson sighed, shaking his head. "You're all crazy."
J.B. reached out and tapped the amulet hanging from the old man's throat. "Look who's talking."
DEAN WAS BORED with standing watch. He had patrolled up and down the sandy, heat-baked perimeter of Fort Fubar several times, squinting out into the wasteland in all directions. He saw nothing that interested him.
Returning to the square, he looked over one of the chariots. Ryan stepped out of the storage building as Dean examined the simple controls.
"Think you could drive one of these things, son?"
"Could I, Dad? That'd be a real hot pipe!"
"Good." Ryan's face held no particular expression. "The rest of us will be moving on at dawn. We'll leave one of these wags. You'll stay here."
Dean gaped, stricken, at his father. "Move on? Where?"
Tersely, Ryan gave the boy an overview of Danielson's story about Pharaoh Akhnaton and the city of Aten.
"Wait for us here four days," Ryan concluded. "Then take this wag back to the redoubt and try the gateway."
"Why don't all of us do that?"
"I'm taking a calculated risk. It's possible that once we arrive in the city, whatever power is being directed to deactivate the gateway controls will end and be directed toward us. But there's no guarantee any of us will make it back."
"Why can't I share the risk?" Dean asked.
"I won't have you deliberately strolling into a tiger trap with us."
"I'll follow you," Dean said defiantly.
"No!" Ryan's tone was ragged, harsh, brooking no discussion. "You'll do what I say."
Dean turned away, ashamed of the tears suddenly stinging his eyes and the thickness growing in his chest.
In a softer tone, Ryan said, "Listen to me, son. If we're not back in four days, then more than likely we won't be coming back. At least not for quite a while."
"We've only been back together a few weeks," Dean muttered. "Not fair to leave me behind."
"No, it isn't fair," Ryan agreed. "But dragging you into a trap isn't fair, either. Do you understand?"
"No," Dean whispered. "I'm not a kid anymore. I can make my own decisions."
"Not this time. You'll stay here until we come back…or until we don't. Now, get out of the heat and grab some grub."
Dean didn't look at him as he turned and marched toward the storage building. He passed Krysty as she came out, and he evaded her patting hand as if she were contaminated. She had a metauh rod angled over a shoulder like a fishing pole. "Guess you told him."
Ryan nodded. "Think all of us can squeeze into one of these wags?"
Krysty eyed it. "Tight fit, but we'll manage. Better than walking."
She paused and added quietly, "You sure this is the right idea, lover?"
"Hell, I'm not sure of anything!" Ryan snarled out the words. "But this Hell Eyes bastard wants you, and he's interfering with us and he sent sec men after us. I'm sick and fed the fuck up with deranged sons of bitches dogging us, no matter where we go."
"Well," Krysty observed sagely, "we're making it awfully easy for this particular deranged son of a bitch."
"Why delay the inevitable? There's no place to run, and this fort is about as defensible as a strawberry patch. And even if it wasn't, combining Da-ielson's food supplies with ours still doesn't give us the provisions to hold out against a siege. But I'm open to suggestions."
Krysty didn't offer any. She looked away, nodding, lightly biting her lower lip. She swished the metauh rod in clockwise and counterclockwise swirls. Extending the V prongs toward the chariot, a thread of light, like a static-electricity discharge, popped toward the metal-rimmed wheels.
Surprised, Ryan asked, "You know how to operate that thing?"
Krysty smiled wanly. "Bioelectric-energy manipulation, the same principles of drawing on natural electromagnetic currents taught to me by my mother. Like Danielson said, it's all in knowing how to channel and focus them."
She glanced into Ryan's face, and the smile fled her lips. "You're wondering if I should stay behind with Dean."
"Something like that."
"Hell Eyes will just come for me, you know. You said it—we'd only delay the inevitable."
"But to give you up—"
"No choice," she said grimly. "I'm just as sick of running as you are. He got into my head and played with me, like I was a sex puppet. Whether he's a pharaoh, god or mutant, and whether he wants me to bear his children or warm his bed, I'll provide him with a surprise that will give him nightmares for the rest of his life."
A smile twisted the corner of Ryan's mouth. "Pretty tough talk for a sex puppet."
Krysty leaned the metauh rod against the side of the chariot and came into his arms. She trembled slightly. Lowly, she intoned, "It is. And I mean every word of it."
Chapter Twelve
Gray dawn stole over Fort Fubar when Ryan, Krysty, Mildred, Doc, J.B. and Jak trooped out to the chariot. Dean stood by the door and watched them pass wordlessly, not responding to Jak ruffling his hair or the kisses bestowed by Mildred and Krysty.
Before he joined the others aboard the vehicle, Ryan said grimly to Danielson, "I expect you to treat my son with hospitality. You don't have to feed or baby-sit him. The food we've left should be enough so you won't have to share your own larder."
Danielson spread his hands wide, palms outward. "Cawdor, I don't mind the company. Long as he behaves himself, we'll get along fine."
Ryan favored him with a steely, slit-eyed glare. "It's not his behavior I'm worried about."
It took a second for the implications of Ryan's words to penetrate Danielson's comprehension. "Don't be vulgar, Cawdor. I had three kids of my own, remember? 'Sides, Trader gave me the boot for putting things in my pants, not for taking things out."
Ryan nodded shortly, glancing at Dean. The boy refused to meet his gaze. The big man turned away, paused, then heeled around, unslinging the Steyr from his shoulder. He walked over to his son, thrusting the rifle into his hands.
"I leave this in your care. You may need it for hunting game."
Dean ran his fingers lightly over the wood-grain stock and slid the strap over his shoulder, letting the long blaster hang down his back. "Okay."
Ryan began to move away again, then turned quickly, catching his son's slim form in a crushing embrace. He pressed his cheek against the top of the boy's head.
"We'll be back," he whispered fiercely.
Dean only nodded, struggling to keep the tears bottled up.
Ryan pushed him away and climbed into the chariot, sitting at the edge of the chassis platform, beside the solar-cell array. J.B. engaged the drive, and with a purring hum and only the slightest of lurches, the vehicle rolled forward. Hands on the guide bar, J.B. steered it around in a wide half circle and out into the open desert. Ryan kept watching Dean, even after his figure was swallowed by the distance and dimness.
Though Krysty sat beside him, she didn't speak to him. She didn't need her empathic abilities to know what her one-eyed warrior was feeling.
The afternoon before, J.B. had experimented driving the chariot, testing its limits and capabilities. The battery charged by solar energy retained sufficient energy to keep them on their way, provided he kept the wag's speed at a moderate level. After a few minutes of scanning the desert floor with his flashlight, he found the tracks cut into the sand the day before by the Incarnates. The two sets of parallel grooves curved ahead. The wind hadn't had the time to do more than blur the edges of the individual tracks.
He notched up the rate of speed only slightly. Without the solar rays to recharge it, the storage battery would drain fast in the darkness.
Time and sand rolled on, and their ears
grew accustomed to the clickings and hummings of the chariot and soon forgot them. Around and beyond, the desert flowed out unbroken and featureless. The sand was soft, and the wheels of the overburdened chariot sank into the deep drifts, struggling to turn themselves free. Even if J.B. wanted to speed up, the Barrens wouldn't have allowed him.
A rust red sun rose, splashing the sky with variegated scraps of color. By the time it was a finger's width above the horizon, Ryan figured they had traveled about twenty miles. The desert gradually ebbed, funneling into a broad roadbed made of crushed, grit-encrusted gravel. J.B. steered the chariot down its middle and shifted to a higher speed. The drone and mechanical clickings rose in pitch, and a cloud of dust floated behind the wag.
The road widened, and within five miles tall palm trees began to line it on either side. J.B. guided the chariot toward one on the right, reaching out to slap the bark as they passed by.
"What'd you do that for?" Mildred asked.
J.B. shrugged. "Wanted to see if it was real or not. It sure felt like it."
The road twisted between two heaped hillocks of sand. Vegetation sprouted from them, scraggly leaves moving slightly in the breeze. When the road straightened again, in the midst of the desolation beyond them lay a city.
J.B. decreased the chariot's speed until it crawled to a droning halt. Swallowing hard, he husked out, "Dark night."
He engaged the brake, and everyone climbed out, staring from beneath shading hands. The city was about a quarter of a mile away, and it was alive with movement. The high outer walls loomed, white and massive, above the sands. The road wound past a collection of squat, low-roofed buildings and through an open gate. The stone archway above it bore bas-relief profile carvings of archers in racing chariots. Four gigantic statues of seated men wearing elaborate headdresses flanked the gate.
Beyond it, people moved to and fro through an open plaza large enough to contain a small army. Around its edges fluttered the brightly colored canopies of merchants. Straight ahead, a very wide avenue ran past the plaza, guarded on either side by four great sculpted figures, representations of animals half-reclining on tall, rectangular pedestals. At the end of the avenue appeared to be a large building of some sort, backed up against the far wall. It was too distant to distinguish details.
