Pyramid Power: Chapter Six

    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 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. Secondly, 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 up, 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 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 towards 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 which vaguely resembled dried coco-pops, and not a shred of ID between 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 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 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 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 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 portmanteaux-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."

    Tremolo 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 re-buttoning 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, Lt. 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 Tremolo, 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 which 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 Tremolo.

 

---

 

    "She's not available," said Marie. "I threatened to rip an extra asshole in her secretary, but I reckon she's genuinely not there."

    "The President... What is it, Rachel?"

    "Checkpoint CZ alpha on Midway Plaisance. Lt. Evans reports two PSA vehicles have just passed the outer perimeter, towing two large trailers. Horse trailers, they think. The dragons have chased after them. The lieutenant says the dragons insist Sergeant Cruz was in one of the vehicles."

    "With their sense of smell, I don't doubt it." Miggy grabbed his jacket and was heading for the door himself. "God only knows why the bastards have horse trailers—but it won't be good. The call to the President will just have to wait. Marie, tell Lt. Evans those PSA agents have to be stopped from whatever they're doing. With deadly force if need be, dammit! I'm getting down there. And get on the phone to Senator Abrams of the Pyramid Oversight Committee. Senator Larsen from Montana, too. Tell them we've got the dragons, the sphinx and the PSA running some kind of cowboy rogue operation. Tell them I've gone to try and put a stop to it."

    Lamont pushed past Miggy. "The car's out front, Miggy. I'll drive you."

    "Rachel, you make the calls," said Marie, grabbing her children's hands. "I ain't letting that man of mine out of my sight ever again, not as long as I live."

    A minute and a half later the stretch limo was racing toward the inner exclusion zone around the University of Chicago's Regenstein Library. Or what was left of it, anyway.

 

---

 

    Sitting in the second black SUV, the one towing the larger trailer with a sleeping Greek sphinx within, not the one towing the double horsebox, Cruz could only wish that he'd had a proper chance to say goodbye to Medea, and that they'd put him and Mac into the same vehicle. Well, he had a pack full of the sort of things he'd wished like hell he'd had last time. And in BDUs he was a lot warmer than these jerks in leather skirts. They looked a lot more like a cheap remake of Ben Hur than the real thing. The inner exclusion line was just ahead. There, according to Agent Supervisor Megane they'd stop, hitch the horses from the horsebox to Throttler's trailer, and, linked hands touching the still somnolent sphinx, make their way into the snatch zone.

    By now, Cruz was pretty sure the PSA agents must have drugged the sphinx. How they'd managed that—or how'd they'd persuaded her to enter the cargo plane that brought them here from Las Vegas—he still couldn't figure out. They had to be absolutely crazy to do something like that. Leaving aside the legalities, Throttler was dangerous.

    But... he'd also been around Agent Supervisor Megane long enough to have gotten a sense for the man. And just that one brief contact with Helen Garnett had been enough to give him a sense of what she was like. So, although he didn't know any of the details, Cruz was sure he knew how the whole thing had unfolded. Garnett would have talked tough in front of Megane, not understanding that Megane was to a real "tough op" what a semi-delusional drugstore cowboy was to John Wesley Hardin. If she said "inch," Megane would interpret "mile"—not knowing himself the difference between a mile and a kilometer.

    The rest would follow, like an avalanche—or a train wreck. It would actually be rather funny, in a gruesome sort of way, if Cruz and Mac hadn't gotten stuck in the middle of it. Cruz was pretty sure that he could break free of the two assigned to be his contacts, but whether Mac could, was another matter. And whether they'd get themselves shot on the spot, was yet another matter. It might be best to go, and let Throttler bring them home... if this worked.

    He wished he could talk it over with Mac first, though. This bunch of PSA security flakes didn't have a snow-ball's chance in hell of surviving the other side. They just didn't get it. He just couldn't penetrate that armor of know-it-all. The only trouble was that the Krim might drop them into a place where even Throttler might get killed or separated from them.

    Just then decisions were taken out of his hands by an impact that knocked him sprawling onto Agent Bott. With the raw sound of screeching metal the SUV fish-tailed and came to a stop. Struggling to sit up, Cruz saw why. The trailer carrying the sphinx had been knocked over sideways. The roof had been torn clean off and Throttler had been rolled right out onto the street. Now, looking somewhat groggy, she was lurching to her feet.

    Looking up, Cruz gave a lopsided grin. He saw now what had knocked the trailer over. A blow from a dragon's tail. It was a good thing that they'd been slowing to stop just outside the inner exclusion zone.

    "Looks like the 7th cavalry arrived just in time," he murmured to himself. It might make things more complicated later on but it took decisions out of his hands, for now.

    Agent Supervisor Megane hauled his helmet straight. "Out. We need to recapture that animal!"

    "Are you utterly crazy?" said Cruz.

    "That means you too, soldier!" snapped the PSA agent. The doors to the vehicle opened and pseudo-Greek hoplites spilled onto the roadway.

    Willy-nilly, so did Cruz.

 

---

 

    It wasn't hard for Liz to work out where they were. The two dragons were wheeling overhead, just above the black SUVs and the now-smashed trailer. The stretch limo slewed around, and people—led by Arachne, by a short head—exploded out of the doors. She and Medea ran full tilt toward the red-head and the stocky dark man, both in camo battledress, surrounded by Greek hoplite warriors who seemed to be frantically trying to pull their swords apart.

    Liz ran toward Throttler instead, with Jerry and Lamont—and Marie and a trail of kids in hot pursuit—across the broad yellow line painted across the roadway. They ran past the Exclusion Zone—Danger! signs. "Are you all right?" yelled Liz.

    The Greek sphinx was still groggy, but at least she recognized them. "When does the great contest start?" she demanded. "I hope we're not too late. I'm bound to win the gold medal."

    Liz looked up at her. "Huh? What contest?"

    Throttler frowned. "The World Riddling Olympics, of course." She nodded her huge head toward Megane. "The one that Mr. Bara over there is... what's the word? Emcee, I think."

    Liz, Lamont and Marie stared at Megane, who was lying on the ground now. Apparently, he'd tripped while trying to duck one of the dragon's swoops.

    Marie suddenly laughed. "God, you know—he does look a little bit like Dave Bara."

    The name vaguely registered on Liz. Dave Bara was the master of ceremonies for one of those idiotic television quiz shows that Americans seemed addicted to, for no reason she'd ever been able to fathom.

    Lamont laughed, too. "So that's how they did it." He shook his head. "Throttler, there ain't no such thing as—"

    "Lamont!" Liz half-shrieked. She now understood how the PSA agents had managed to finagle the sphinx onto that cargo plane, too—but she hadn't forgotten, as Lamont had, just how deadly Throttler was. As much as Liz detested the PSA, she still didn't want to see half a dozen of them eaten alive right in front of her and several children.

    Sure enough, the frown on the huge sphinx's face was starting to look positively thunderous. But before Liz could figure out a way to deflect Throttler's murderous fury, one of those same idiot PSA agents—disguised as a "Greek warrior," to make everything as absurd as possible—rushed up and tried to push her away from the sphinx.

    Liz lost her temper and gave the bastard a mighty swat with her handbag. Unfortunately, he flinched at the last moment. Instead of the solid corner of the bag smacking into his head, it simply knocked his helmet askew and she stumbled off-balance into him. The next thing she knew she was wrestling the jackass.

    Jerry and Lamont tried to pull them apart, only to have more "Greek hoplites" run up and join in. Marie and her kids did too. There was a massive free-for all just in front of Throttler—whose teeth were now bared.

 

---

 

    Cruz was the first to realize what was happening, as he emerged from an enthusiastic hugging by reptilian and human agencies. "Smitar!" he yelled at the dragon. "Herd them back across the line!" He struggled to free himself from the embrace of his loved ones.

    Then there was a brief purple flare of light. Jerry, Liz, Lamont, Marie, four children and five "Greek hoplites" had vanished.

    Miggy Tremelo was making the air turn blue with his swearing.

    Lt. Evans and his soldiers arrived a few seconds later, spilling out of their Humvee with their weapons ready.

    "Arrest that son-of-a-bitch," Tremelo snarled, pointing at Megane.

    The agent supervisor had managed to get back onto his feet. "You can't—"

    But by then Lieutenant Evans had his rifle muzzle right under Megane's chin.

    "Can't what?" he asked. "And what kind of odds do you want? I'll give you ten-to-one, but I wouldn't take them if I were you. I really, really wouldn't."

    "Should I shoot him, Sir?" asked Henderson. Quite a bit more eagerly than was really proper for a trained soldier.

    Megane cocked his eyes at the private. Henderson's gun was pointing right at his upper chest, from a range of maybe eight feet. He couldn't possibly miss—and whatever else Megane was ignorant of, ballistics was clearly not one of them. He'd be dead before his body hit the ground.

    "It grieves me to report that Private Henderson here once got arrested for pizza," Evans said solemnly.

    Megane's eyes swiveled back to Evans. By now, they were the only part of his body that was moving at all, besides his mouth.

    "Huh? That doesn't make any sense."

    "I know it doesn't—and he's the same soldier who just asked my permission to shoot you. I recommend you contemplate that juxtaposition." Evans held up a hand. "Not just yet, Private Henderson. I think negotiations are still possible. So, Agent Whateveryournameis, I repeat: What odds to you want to give me that—what was the expression—'you can't do that,' I believe? Like I said, ten-to-one's the going rate."

    Megane's jaws tightened. "I'm not talking."

    "How wise of you. Private Henderson, you may lower your weapon. I do not believe it will prove necessary to shoot the imbecile after all."

    Henderson did as commanded. "Well, damn," he said. "It was lousy pizza, too."

 

---

 

    "I tried to point out that the sphinx could have taken them there, without all the dangerous stuff with the pyramid," said Mac. "When we were in the SUV on the way here. But they weren't listening."

    Miggy shook his head. "The Greek sphinx would probably not have helped them get where they've gone anyway. According to what we've established from Dr. Lukacs, the Krim have been excluded from ancient Greek myth, and ancient Egyptian myth. I'm not sure where they've gone, but it isn't there."

    "So... where have they gone?" asked Cruz.

    Miggy pulled a face. "Name a mythology. There are hundreds to choose from. Probably thousands."

 

---

 

    At last! The Krim-device sensed a rich crop, full of credulity and anger, just in range. It activated the prukrin transfer mechanism. This Ur-mythworld had been a huge problem, with too few new meme-carriers and huge problems with the local gods. It had thought the Greeks venal and unreasonable, to say nothing of lazy. The Egyptians had been far too independent and intransigent. This place, underpowered as the Krim-device was now, was worse still.

    It was only when the translation was too far advanced that the Krim-device realized that it had been gulled. The meme-flavor of some of those coming through was the same as the group of denialists it had had such a hard time with in Greece and Egypt. The one who had eventually driven the Krim-masters out of their new playground in Greece.

    The group would have to be killed. But it would have to avoid direct contact!

    As if it had not been having a bad enough time with the Krim-primary in this world. He was very strong. It was questionable just who was in control, any longer.