by Dana Fredsti
“Don’t worry, I promise I’m not. Just what you’re sending to me.”
It suddenly occurred to Amber that she wasn’t getting any emotional readings off of DeMetta at all.
“Why can’t I sense anything from you—or any of the rowers?”
“There’s nothing in their surface thoughts at present. I have them in a sort of fugue state. As for me, my passive defenses are up. Anybody can do it, even our friends back there. I’ll teach you all how to shield your thoughts.”
Amber sighed with relief.
“So can I learn to hypnotize people, too?” she asked. “‘Push them,’ you said?”
“Well… yes.”
“And animals, too? What about creating illusions?” The implications began to wash over her. “Can I go inside people’s dreams? Or hide my mind from other psychics who are looking for me? Can I stun people the way you did Cam and Kha-Hotep, back at the pyramid?”
“Whoa, slow down,” he replied. “Yeah, in theory I can teach you all that, but we’ll need to start with the basics and—”
“Can I see into the future?”
“I wish,” he responded. “No, that’s high-level precog stuff, and the thing about PreCogs—sometimes knowing the future isn’t such a good thing.” A strange look came over him, as if she had reminded him of something. Then the moment passed, and he was in instructor mode again.
“Look, I can’t really teach you much about precognition, psychometry, or medical or forensic psi. So we’ll stick with the basics. You need to walk before you can run, including some basic psychic etiquette. There’s serious responsibility that comes with ability like you’re showing.”
“Okay—but there’s something I have to do now.”
“And what’s that?”
“I need to reach the others aboard the Vanuatu. I’m worried sick about them.”
“Well, without getting a lock on someone, like I did with you, that could be tricky. Still, we can try. Do you have any idea where they are?”
“Let me see… the ship said they were headed about three hundred kilometers northeast of where we landed, but we’ve been traveling east and north since then, so… I guess I don’t know.”
“Well, it’s a start. Here, let’s try it together.” He closed his eyes and focused, and she did the same. Together, each stretched their consciousness across the psychic landscape. With his help, she turned down the background hum from all the non-human forms of life, from the multitude of bacteria to the overwhelming number of viruses, insects, and even the plant life that lived in the vast empty desert.
“See if you can concentrate on just the animals.”
Even as she winnowed out vast numbers of living creatures, it still left her with tens of billions of points of contact. Every one of them radiated a struggle for survival—she picked up a panoply of instincts at work, bursts of adrenaline fueled by predators and rivals, the drives for food and sex.
“Good. Keep going.”
As she refined her search, she began to detect large groups of humans, each revealing a rich symphony of thought and desire.
“Now, try aiming for just one of your friends. Concentrate on that specific person as best you can.”
That was an easy choice. She honed in on Nellie, striving to locate her unique psychic signature amid a few hundred thousand others. She sent her consciousness streaming toward the nearest cluster—a large concentration, upriver and to the northwest.
She sensed a city on the coast. Rising above its harbors, a shining beacon, and within its walls, diverse peoples from every corner of the Mediterranean world. Alexandria, they called it, and she knew that name from school. Nellie was somewhere in there. Amber could feel it. But where?
Amber called to mind Nellie’s face, those mischievous gray-green eyes and delicate upturned nose, her voice, anything.
There was nothing.
“It’s no use, I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Don’t give up. It’s not easy, but you can do it.”
She chewed on her frustration for a moment, then tried another approach.
… the first time she saw Nellie, disguised as a seventeenth-century peasant.
Confusion—why is this strange young woman slipping her a loaf of bread?
Nellie rescuing her from Cromwell’s witchfinder. The ride to break the rest of their group out of the bell tower…
Needling the pompous Harcourt.
The quirky mix of Victorian manners and take-no-prisoners confidence.
And then, just like that, Amber caught the barest psychic flutter of her friend’s mind.
“Nellie? Can you hear me?”
A faint thought came quavering back.
“We’ll be stoned to death!”
“Nellie! I can hear you! We’re coming, Nellie! Cam and I.”
Interference of some kind obscured Nellie’s signal. She wasn’t alone—in fact she was surrounded by other minds, an eye of fear in a storm of fierce, hate-driven emotions.
“Oh god, this is it!”
“Nellie!” Amber shouted aloud.
The connection was dead.
* * *
Stones and screams filled the air.
Orestes’ blood covered his face like a mask, and his eyes were closed tight—Hypatia could not tell if he still lived. Their charioteer was dead. Staring skyward, his mouth and skull ruined by fresh red wounds, he lay sprawled at their feet. He had been dragged half out of the chariot when the horses fled. Rocks continued to pelt down on his exposed body.
Nellie held her tight, shielding Hypatia from the rain of stones with her own body. The two women clung together, their faces so close that Hypatia could feel Nellie’s tears, hot and wet, pressing on her cheek. They flinched at every rock hammering off the chariot or whizzing down, narrowly missing them. They listened in horror to the howling of the mob closing in on them.
Then came the sharp clatter of horse hooves ringing off the cobblestones, shouts, and a commanding flourish of trumpets. The women lifted their heads, and Orestes opened his eyes at the sound. He groaned, stirring a wave of relief in Hypatia. Nellie knelt and cautiously peered over the edge of the chariot.
The cataphract cavalrymen charged to the fore, braving the stones to position themselves between the sea of black hoods and the chariot. Then they advanced, and turned their wall into a wedge—aimed at the bishop himself. As rocks pinged off their armor and their horses’ barding, they drew their swords and began to plow through the mob.
The bishop paled to see the cavalry attack centered upon him, but the sheer number of parabolani slowed their progress, no matter how many of the rioters they cut down or tried to flee. If this kept up, the horsemen would become mired and brought down.
* * *
Then through the din of battle, Nellie thought she could hear more trumpets sounding in the distance. A new commotion rose above the screams and shouting, deep rumbling roars that grew louder and louder. Soon another sound, a high-pitched droning whine, echoed down the Canopic Way, cutting through all the chaos.
Hypatia gripped Nellie’s wrist, and she ducked back down.
“What is that noise?”
“I think…” Nellie answered slowly, “I think it’s ‘Scotland the Brave.’”
The fierce yells of fighting gave way to shouts of fear, and the tide turned into a rout as the combatants sought cover. Nellie risked another look over the rim of the chariot, as a caravan of horseless vehicles rolled in from the west. Two big boxy transports, barreling toward them at impressive speed, their unseen engines making an unbelievable amount of noise. The drivers laid on their horns, adding to the ferocious racket.
Novatianists and parabolani alike scattered out of the way of the convoy, bunching up along the sides of the boulevard. The cataphracts took advantage of the confusion to pull back alongside the shield wall. As everyone moved aside, Nellie could see the cause of all the alarm.
Out in front, a familiar motorbike led the way.
&n
bsp; “Blake!” she cried out.
In the sidecar, a Scotsman was playing the bagpipes, spreading terror among the Alexandrians. From the side window of one of the big vehicles, a man waved his hat at them.
“Good lord,” Nellie exclaimed. “It’s Harcourt!”
* * *
Blake roared to a stop between the stalled chariot and the mob. MacIntyre ended his playing with a final flourish, and the crowd stared at them in silence. Blake didn’t bother dismounting from the motorcycle, standing up astride it instead. He saluted the cataphracts, then jerked his head toward Cyril, who stood petrified with fear.
“You there! This your bunch attacking my friends?”
The man stared, and nodded mutely.
“Who the hell are you supposed to be?”
“I… I am Bishop Cyrillus the Blessed, patriarch of Alexandria, confessor, doctor of the true and Catholic Church, Pillar of Faith and seal of all the Fathers…”
As the bishop spoke, the Scot handed Blake something from the sidecar. He pointed it just over the heads of the crowd, and let loose a spray of bullets, blowing apart a row of amphorae on a portico behind the bishop’s head. Shocked, the patriarch ducked for cover while chips of pottery flew into the air like scattershot. The terrified mob ducked, as well.
Blake looked over to Nellie in the chariot. “Alright there, Nellie?”
Smiling broadly, she gave him a thumb’s up. Climbing out of the chariot, she hurried over to him. She pointed out one of the monks, who still gripped a stone in one hand. “That one tried to murder the prefect with a rock.”
The hooded man dropped the stone and raised his arms in surrender. Blake gestured at him with his Sten gun.
“Right. You’re going with the city guard. Chop off his head, or feed him to the lions, whatever you people do here.” A pair of the foot soldiers hauled him away, sobbing. A low disgruntled murmur rumbled up from the parabolani. Blake stared them down until they fell silent.
“Where’s the prefect now?” he asked.
Hypatia stood up from the chariot. “He’s here,” she said. “He’s bleeding, but he lives.”
“Alright, Cyril.” Blake drew the name out slowly. “First, you better remind your flock here of the cast-the-first-stone story. As for the rest of you”—his upper lip curled in disgust—“if you’re going to fight each other, you can do it in hell.” He leaned forward for effect.
“You don’t have time for this nonsense, you bloody bastards. These people, your fellow citizens you’re so eager to murder, may be the ones who save your miserable lives when the real fighting starts.” An undercurrent of muttering rippled through the crowd.
“You’re afraid of this?” He held up the Sten. “This is nothing. The real enemy is coming, an army with bigger weapons than this—and a lot more of them. That cold-blooded bastard leading them means to take everything you have here—and make no mistake, he’ll happily pave the streets with your bloody corpses, and those of your wives and children, to do it. But all the while he draws nearer, you idiots keep merrily doing his murdering for him, so there’ll be absolutely nothing standing in his way when he comes for you.”
They all remained silent, as his words sank in.
“God forgive us,” the bishop moaned. “We are doomed.”
“Shut your mouth, you bloody coward,” Blake snapped. “The rest of you—do you want to murder each other, or do you want to fight to save your city?”
Another brief silence. Then— “We fight!” someone shouted.
Another person yelled, then another, and slowly the crowd took up the chant. Blake let it ride before he raised his hand for silence, dismounting from the motorcycle.
“Right then,” he said crisply. “Here’s what we’re going to do…”
8
The Lighthouse of Alexandria
Just before dawn
Ten days after the Event
High above the streets, a wayward gull riding the morning sea breeze glided past the soldier on lookout duty. From his vantage point atop the Pharos lighthouse, the lone sentinel could see the entire city, still bustling with commotion like an agitated anthill. Beside him the beacon glowed, its fires kept constant.
All through the night soldiers and workmen, women and children, slaves and free alike had been frantically busy, a hundred thousand lantern lights tracing their movements in the dark. Continuing work in the dim gray light before dawn, the exhausted city still prepared for the coming attack.
Casting his gaze toward the horizon to the southwest, the sentry frowned, then abruptly swore. He leaned against the cold stone wall and shuddered, not from the chill morning air, but from a sudden shock of desperate realization.
Time had run out.
An ashen rippling in the sky marked an emerging dust cloud. Not the familiar signature of a wind-borne desert sandstorm, but the unmistakable mark of an advancing force snaking up the narrowing isthmus toward them, bigger than any he had seen before. It was just as the barbarian warrior Blake had warned— the army from Magna Germania would attack at dawn.
Snatching a camel-leather bucket off its hook, the sentry began flinging handfuls of mineral salts into the beacon’s great blazing fire pit. With each throw, the roaring flames flared an angry red.
* * *
Outside the city walls, the gardens of the necropolis teemed with scores of diggers and stonecutters plying spades and mattocks while long, twisting lines of porters and slaves hoisted heavy loads past them. A team of men and horses wrestled with the wreckage of a large wooden harbor boat, threading their ungainly cargo between the monuments and mausoleums, their foreman dishing out threats and encouragement in equal measure. Glancing up, he broke off in mid-threat.
“The signal!” he shouted, pointing up to the crimson flames reflected in the lighthouse beacon. “They’re coming!”
Blake stopped directing his own team, and came running up to see for himself. The foreman was right. Time for preparation was over.
“That’s it then. Battle stations, everyone!”
“Sir, the boat—” the foreman began.
“Leave it!” Blake cut him off. “There’s no time. Get to your battle stations now—those tanks will be here faster than you think.” When the foreman still hesitated, he barked, “Move it! On the double!”
* * *
In the desert a few kilometers to the south of the city, the Afrika Korps moved with the determination of a steel glacier— imposing and unstoppable.
Oberleutnant Dietrich, the lead tank commander, rode upright in the turret, inspecting the vista ahead with his binoculars. For days the remaining army had steadily advanced northward in stages, moving slowly to conserve fuel. The unexpected commando strike on the rear base had done serious damage to their reserves, forcing hard choices on them. In addition to destroying irreplaceable petrol tankers, the assault team had stolen three supply lorries and slipped ahead of the column, where they continued to wreak more havoc.
Yesterday, the Germans lost two more tanks, both crippled by the commandos’ newly laid mines, but their biggest casualty was time—the covert offensive costing them another day and a night as they slowed to a crawl, probed for more mines, and kept wary for ambushes.
At last, all that was behind them, and the vanguard was close enough to see the high walls of Alexandria.
Wiping the fine yellow grit from the lenses, Dietrich focused his sights on the city’s wide wooden gates. There were two of them, one on the far left-hand, close to the sea, the other in the center of the great wall. Each gateway stood ten meters tall and seven wide—doubtless the iron-bound doors were as thick as tree trunks. No problem there. A single Panzer would reduce both gates to splinters in a moment.
There were eighteen Panzer tanks in Dietrich’s vanguard.
Dietrich smiled. Alexandria would be the first fruits of the new Reich, all its splendors there for the taking. And if any of the stray Allied commandos were holed up there, they would soon learn there was no escape from the
punishment of the Afrika Korps. Their revenge was close at hand.
* * *
Less than two kilometers from the city, the squadron pulled to a halt, waiting in flying wedge formation, two chevrons of nine tanks each. The rear wedge held back in reserve, two hundred meters from the lead wedge centered on Dietrich’s Panzer. His earphones crackled.
“Mobile HQ to Wedge Leader, report.”
“Wedge Leader here,” Dietrich responded. “We are on southwest approach. Objective is in visual range. The Alexandrian Nekropole lies immediately in front of our position.”
He regarded the extensive cemetery grounds stretching between the Panzers and the high city walls. No way to go around it. The Alexandrian city of the dead was an impressive metropolis in its own right, sprawling with gardens, avenues, and ornate tombs. The Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans had all left their stylistic marks on it over the centuries.
“Defenses are light and scattered,” he continued. “There are improvised obstacles, made from cemetery headstones and other blocks of stone. Defenders have also raised a series of wooden barricades throughout.”
He peered closer. The barricades had been thrown together mostly out of ship hulls. They must have dragged them all the way from the harbor. A flutter of movement caught his eye—was that a fringe of spikes jutting up from one of the barricades? He pursed his lips.
“Some appear to have spearmen hiding behind them.”
Observing further, well past the irregular lines of crude timber barricades, he saw more definite signs of the enemy.
“The main body of defenders are in two groups. Archers manning the walls, all along the battlements. There is also a line of cavalry arrayed just in front of the main gates. Estimate between one and two hundred horsemen, perhaps double that number of bowmen.”
“Shame to kill all those beautiful horses,” the wireless operator said.
“Well, horseflesh is delicious,” the gunner quipped back.
“How many angles of attack are available?” a new voice crackled. It was Generalfeldmarschall Rommel.
