by Dave Freer
She pulled the little cuttlefish out of the jar. Liz liked cuttlefish. Not as cute as Ockys, but still . . .
"I'm not familiar enough with these to swear to it, but I think this is Sepia rondeleti. Mediterranean species, if I'm not mistaken. This is a big one, too. You should keep some of the water if you can. That could be diagnostic. The water from the Med is more saline than ordinary seawater. Besides, the plankton in it can tell you a lot. And I'd freeze these specimens if you have no other way of preserving them. Gut contents could be revealing."
She plopped the squid back, and wiped her forceps and her hands on her skirt. "I'd say that your man's been on Earth—or at least someplace with the same fauna. The probability of such familiar species being found off Earth, by mere chance, ranges from ridiculous to absurd."
Tremelo nodded. "And the bite?"
Liz pursed her lips and shook her head. "Now there you've got me. Except it isn't a shark bite. That tooth looks more like a seal tooth . . . "
"Excuse me, ma'am," said the doctor. "If you want any further examination you'll have to do it later. He's stabilized enough to be moved now. We want to get him into the hospital and get some whole blood into him."
The drowned and bitten man groaned . . . and began muttering. "S'ha' barsid Odisoos . . . " Then he opened his eyes and screamed, before lapsing back into a restless unconsciousness. The medics grabbed the stretcher and moved off to the waiting ambulance.
The professor stood up and thrust his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. Hastily he pulled one hand back out. It dripped black goo. "Well, I wish I understood what he tried to say? 'Barsid Odesoos' . . . ?"
"Uh." The heavyset, short, swarthy sergeant standing nearby spoke. "I can translate some of it, Professor Tremelo. He said it quite a lot. The first part is 'It's that bastard.' I don't know who 'Odesoos' is. I actually wrote down what he said, sir." The sergeant produced a little green notebook and turned it to a page covered in fine scrawl. Liz looked at it. It would have gotten the sergeant into fourth-year medicine instantly.
The professor looked at it too. Then, at the man's name tag. "Sergeant Cruz, you'd better read this to me. Or maybe you'd better come back to the command post and read it to me there."
The sergeant shrugged. "It didn't make a lot of sense to me, sir. He just said the same thing over and over again. And I have to get back to the OP, sir."
Tremelo cocked his head and smiled. "Get me your colonel on the line, Sergeant."
* * *
With Professor Tremolo, Liz, and Colonel McNamara peering over his shoulders, Sergeant Anibal Cruz pointed a thick forefinger at his pad. "Here's what it says. 'Twelve feet, six heads . . . six heads . . . six fucking heads.' "
His eyes avoided the female biologist. "I'm just quoting his exact words, sir. Ma'am. He said that a lot. And something about a sword. And what could be 'help' or 'yelp.' And that 'Odesoos' word. Oh, and here's 'black galley' and 'whirlpool.' "
Liz snorted. "I'd say you needed an historian more than a biologist. Swords and galleys! Fish we haven't found for at least a hundred years. Cuttlefish from the Med. Mind you, the six heads stuff doesn't make a whole lot of sense."
Professor Tremelo sighed. "None of it does. But there must be sense in it somewhere. And I think you're right—we do need an historian."
Salinas stepped forward. "Want me to get you one?" he asked unctuously.
The colonel nodded. "Won't do any harm, Lieutenant. It seems insane, but then so do the circumstances. Get us someone who is up on Mediterranean history. Who knows, it may produce something useful."
If Liz read his look right, the unsaid part of his statement was: and it'll get you out of my hair. But what the colonel actually said was: "Take the sergeant and Dr. De Beer with you, please. Perhaps they can tell the historian something first-hand."
* * *
That brown-noser Salinas obviously decided his exercise in "not being taken seriously" by the old geezer at the last place called for more men. Salinas demanded a squad this time around.
Jim McKenna grimaced. It was just his luck that Major Gervase should have seen him smile at the policeman's demand for "adequate personnel to ensure the success of his mission." A sense of humor was a necessity for an NCO. It was a pain in the ass in an officer.
Cruz was looking a little pissed too. McKenna found himself half hoping the obnoxious police lieutenant would really piss the sergeant off. Anibal Cruz had the forearms of a gorilla. He took weight training seriously, and had a brown belt in one of the martial arts.
McKenna was even more disgruntled when Cruz ordered all the men in the squad to bring their rucksacks. He understood the logic of the order. The headquarters building was soon going to be flooded with soldiers from the 82nd. At best, their rucks would get trampled. But he didn't much appreciate having to hoist the damn thing around.
* * *
Five minutes later, Jim's irritation with the police lieutenant deepened. Of course, thought McKenna sarcastically, you can always rely on a prick like Salinas. He knew exactly where they were going. Which was why the building he led them to, less than two blocks away, didn't say "History Department." It said "Seminary Co-operative Bookstore."
Cruz had the brains to ask a University of Chicago policeman directing traffic nearby. The man pointed across the street and suggested they try the Oriental Institute.
"Why not?" asked the female biologist, cheerfully shrugging her shoulders. "The Mediterranean's east of here, isn't it?"
She led the way, still swinging her bag like a deadly weapon.
8
Between Orient and accident.
When Lamont Jackson finally put away his tools and left the air handler room, intending to pay his visit to Dr. Lukacs, he was surprised to see the Institute apparently empty. At least on the ground floor. The museum was open, and it normally had plenty of visitors.
When he wandered into the front entrance area, heading for the stairs leading to the floors above, moderate surprise turned into sharp apprehension. A half drunk cup of coffee sat on the counter of the Suq, the Oriental Institute's gift shop. The glass display case in the center was open, and a beautiful piece of onyx jewelry was lying on the counter.
Lamont wasn't stupid. The Institute wasn't "empty." It had been evacuated. He had no idea why, but there was only one place he was going—out of here.
Then, after dancing back and forth for a moment, he decided to postpone his own evacuation. Very briefly. It would only take him two minutes to grab his tools and the boombox from the air handler room. That coffee had already scummed over. They hadn't just left. No sense in running out on his personal possessions. Still, it was spooky . . .
* * *
Hearing a voice calling out as he emerged from the air handler room, Lamont turned right and ran across Dr. Lukacs standing in front of the Assyrian Bull. As usual, the visiting professor looked vaguely puzzled. Lamont liked Jerry Lukacs, but he sometimes thought the professor only touched the real world now and again.
Lukacs smiled at him. "Hi. I'm relieved to see you. Where the hell has everyone gone?"
Just then they heard voices. Voices that sounded oddly loud in the strange silence. Lamont repressed a strong and irrational urge to look for somewhere to hide. There was no logic in it. They were just ordinary American voices. All except for one, and that was female.
* * *
"The place looks like it's been evacuated already, Lieutenant Salinas," said a male voice.
"Well, well, what a surprise. Shall we go on getting lost, and try somewhere else?" That was a woman's voice. Despite the foreign accent, Lamont recognized the tone. When his wife Marie spoke like that, it was time to start looking for cover.
The person who replied was obviously not as experienced. "We haven't been lost . . . "
Jerry cleared his throat. "In here!" he announced.
Lamont was glad that the decision had been taken away from him. Sighing with resignation, he set down the toolbox. No reason to keep lu
gging that heavy thing around for the moment.
Seconds later, when an armed and testy-looking group of soldiers piled in, he was less glad. Paratroopers, no less. Lamont recognized the insignia of the 101st. But it only took a few seconds for him to figure out that they were actually mad at the police officer in their midst.
"The United States government requires your services!" the policeman boomed. "We need an historian. Bring them along, men!"
Jerry blinked owlishly. "Er . . . I'm Professor Jerry Lukacs. I'm a mythographer, I work on comparative mythology."
Lamont chuckled. "And I'm the maintenance man. Is the government short of those again?"
* * *
Another two minutes, and the woman's going to tear that cop's head off his shoulders, thought Cruz. She wasn't American and sure as hell wasn't much on respect for pompous authority. Nor did she seem fazed in the least by the sight of soldiers in BDUs walking around a city with loaded weapons. She acted as if it was kind of normal. That was . . . odd.
* * *
Liz repressed a slight chuckle. This errand-boy policeman was a right royal pain in the backside. Arse-licking those above him and arse-kicking those below. His face, at being told the black guy—who looked the smarter of the two—was a mechanic, was quite a study. The other guy looked like a typical "nocturnal" arts major. Weedy. Slightly confused looking. The kind that always turned out to be at the top of some esoteric field of no use to man or beast.
More with the intent to irritate Salinas than in any real expectations of getting any worthwhile information, Liz introduced herself and began explaining. To her surprise the little man tensed like a terrier scenting rats when she got to mentioning what the survivor had actually said.
"He used the words: 'Black ship'?"
"No, sir," corrected the dark-skinned, powerful-looking soldier named Cruz. "Actually he said, 'black galley.' "
"Tell me what else he said. As much and as precisely as you can remember." The little guy was just about quivering.
The sergeant hauled out his notebook. "I wrote it down, sir."
"A man of intelligence, eh, Lamont?" The little mythographer's eyes were bright. "Read it, please. I just may be able to help you."
He listened in intent silence as Cruz read from his notebook. Then he shook his head.
Salinas snorted in disgust "Well, ma'am, now that you've wasted our time, we'd better get moving."
Jerry Lukacs cleared his throat. "Sorry. That headshake was—'this is too unbelievable.' "
Liz looked at him grimly. "I've seen the evidence."
Lukacs' eyes were bright with excitement. "It's got to be Scylla. Somehow—somewhere—the myth must have a basis in truth."
Liz shook her head "Scylla? Look, I saw those bites. The biggest crab in the world couldn't have done that."
The mythographer looked puzzled. "Who said anything about crabs?"
It was her turn to look mystified. "I thought you just did. Swimming crabs. Scylla. A big one will take fingers off. But not legs."
Salinas cleared his throat loudly. "It appears that all this is not getting us anywhere . . . "
The black mechanic chuckled. "Lieutenant Ra-Ra-Ra doesn't understand what you're getting at, Dr. Lukacs."
"Amon's got to think, Lamont." Jerry grinned.
* * *
Liz groaned. Die-hard punsters would make torturing language take precedence over matters of life and death. "Look you two, I don't understand, never mind this silly ass. And if you don't explain, Dr. Lukacs, I shall give you capital punishment by pulling your head off."
"Couldn't you just get that soldier"—Lamont pointed at McKenna—"to beat us up instead, ma'am? Then it'd just be corporal punishment."
The wild-haired academic groaned appreciatively. You could almost see his mind hunting links to "corporal."
By the look Salinas directed at Lamont, he did not enjoy this. Not one damn bit! He was plainly a humorless man. It looked as if there was only one thing he really hated more than being excluded from the joke—and that was being the butt of one. The big black guy had certainly pushed both sets of those buttons. The last time Liz had seen a look like that was when some Afrikaaner Weerstand Beweeging guys had found themselves in close contact with a visiting Nigerian professor. That had been ugly. She tensed. It was all sort of her fault. She had better try and move it all along. "Tell. Please."
The small mythographer assumed the posture of an orator. "Ahem, I quote: 'It is the home of Scylla, the creature with the dreadful bark. It is true that her yelp is no louder than a newborn pup's, but she is a horrible monster nevertheless, and one whom nobody could look at with delight, not even a god if he passed that way. She has twelve feet, all dangling in the air, and six long necks, each ending in a grisly head with triple rows of teeth, set thick and close, and darkly menacing death.' "
He relaxed his professorial stance. "It's from the 1946 Rieu translation of the Odyssey. Consider that the hero's name was Odysseus, that he was sailing what is described as a 'black ship' and that section of the Odyssey describes sailing between Scylla and the dreadful whirlpool, Charybdis. It all fits rather well, doesn't it?" The man smiled. He looked rather like a child who is showing you a puzzle that he's just put together and hopes you'll applaud.
It was apparent that Salinas was not going to cheer. "I've had enough! I'm putting both of you under arrest. We'll see how funny you are at the precinct!"
"Taking them to see Professor Tremelo would make more sense to me," Liz snapped.
Salinas' authoritarian instincts were now in full evidence. "If I need any further comments from you, ma'am, I'll ask for them. In the meantime, keep your mouth shut. This is a police matter now."
Lamont did not seem in the least intimidated. In fact, he laughed aloud. "I can't think what Silenius' donkey was called, Dr. Lukacs. But all this war talk Mars Lieutenant RaRaRa's complexion. It quite dis-Troys . . . "
And then it all happened very fast. Something in Salinas seemed to snap. He yanked out his pistol and grabbed Lamont. Something in Liz did snap. She grabbed the cop's wrist and shoved the gun upward. In what seemed like two seconds, she and Salinas and Lamont and Jerry Lukacs and Sergeant Cruz and Corporal McKenna and Privates Hooper and Dietz were all in contact with one another, shouting and wrestling.
* * *
The Krim device sensed a valuable one. Highly charged with emotion. A low personal credulity level. Perfect for the application of prukrin transfer. It responded.
PART II
It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound!
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge,
"Rime of the Ancient Mariner"
9
It's all Greek to me.
There was no moment of transition. One second there was a fight in the Oriental Institute, between polished glass cases and under modern track lighting. In the next moment there was searing sunlight. And the group tumbled onto the deck of a wooden ship, which was sliding down the front of the swell. The sea was wine-dark and laced with champagne bubbles, as the ram sliced through the wave.
Jerry had a fine view of the water. He'd nearly fallen over the front of the gunwale in landing, before pulling himself back from the drink. Then he almost wished that he hadn't.
The villainous-looking crewmen were rowing the wooden ship with frantic energy. Well, about forty of them were. The other ten or so were bearing down on the newcomers—armed either with bronze swords or with long spears in hand. There was something about the way they moved on the bucketing deck that, even to a landlubber like Jerry, said old seamen. The only thing that said it more was the stench. Jerry wasn't giving any odds that they were unfamiliar with the swords or spears either.
He glanced sideways. They were close to land. Worth swimming for . . . except that it was a sheer cliff that they were skimming next to. The gray wall looked almost polished. He looked the other way hastily, as the sailors advanced. What he saw made him swallow and wonder if
he should grab an oar. The dark water was trailed with racing foam. No wonder the rowers were pulling frantically! Even from here he could hear the grumble of the white-lipped whirlpool. The air above it was hazed with a smoking mist. One way or another, this was going to be one mother of a wild, wild ride.
One of the advancing sword-swinging sailors shouted a recognizable word . . . "Odesoos."
* * *
Jerry Lukacs was, in many ways, the epitome of the absent-minded professor. And he was possibly the most frightened person on the ship. But camouflaged by the perpetually vague expression on his face was an acute mind. Quick, too. It took him barely seconds to work out where they were. Somehow they were between Scylla and Charybdis, on board Odysseus' vessel. One of the famous black ships.
The unknown holds terrors for the imaginative person. But knowing all about the terror that really is coming gives the imagination a focus. Jerry thought he knew exactly what came next—even if having read about it wasn't at all the same as actually being there.
Therefore he was the only one who was not giving his full attention to the advancing sailors. Instead he was looking ahead.
There, in the middle of the sheer, cloud-capped expanse of gray cliff, was a dark stain—the maw of Scylla's cave. And, if he understood the odd-sounding Greek correctly, then Odysseus was being wily again. The leader of the Achaean sailors was shouting: "Herd them into the bow! The monster will take them!"
* * *
It happened with such speed and casual brutality. Private Hooper was the closest to the advancing men. One of the scruffy-looking sailors stepped up to him and started yelling at him. Hooper was a big guy. He didn't take too kindly to being pushed and yelled at by someone at his armpit level. Not even on a strange boat with the pushee bellowing in some goddamn foreign language, with a pigsticker in his hand. So he pushed back.
