Nightmare Passage

by James Axler

  "Good," Ryan said hoarsely. His throat felt raw, and his head throbbed.

  Akhnaton smiled wryly. "No matter. I've lived so long with pain, I no longer really feel it."

  Ryan got his hands under him and pushed. The pavilion swayed around him. Gradually the thunder in his ears faded to a dim mutter. He stumbled erect.

  "Why didn't you use your psi-powers on me?" he croaked. "Give me a hemorrhage or burst my heart, like you said you could do?"

  "You were ready for me to try that," Akhnaton answered calmly. "Your strength of will is greater than I initially figured. If a mind is strong enough, consciously resisting me, I can't do much more than inflict a headache."

  Ryan massaged his throat. "So you're not quite up to the superhuman specs of Mission Invictus."

  "Actually," he retorted matter-of-factly, "I am. My bones are denser, my circulatory system is far more efficient than yours. I probably have three times your strength, as you found out. I have control over my body's autonomic functions and reflexes. I've already stopped the bleeding and nipped any chance of infection. I'll be fully healed by tomor­row. You won't be able to say the same."

  Ryan stared at him, noting with despair that blood no longer flowed from the man's many wounds. "What now? Public execution for daring to lay hands on Pharaoh?"

  Akhnaton shook his head derisively. "That's the act of a coward, Cawdor. No, you've made this a personal situation between us when it could have been a simple exchange. Torture, I think, is more appropriate."

  Ryan chuckled dryly. "Torture isn't the act of a coward?"

  Akhnaton grinned, exposing blood-filmed teeth. "Not the way I'll torture you. Hear my words and believe what I say—Krysty will be my queen. I'll just have to persuade her a little less subtly than I intended. In two days, the capstone of my pyramid will be placed. Then there will be a ceremony, cul­minating in our marriage."

  Ryan didn't stir, didn't change expression.

  "And she'll agree to it," Akhnaton continued. "By the time the ceremony is over, the only thing she'll care about is how soon and how many royal heirs I can plant in her belly. I'll enjoy the seeding, Cawdor. And so will she. I'll make sure of it."

  Ryan struggled to keep his homicidal fury leashed. His mind seethed.

  "Get back to your barracks, Cawdor," Akhnaton commanded. "You'll be hurting tomorrow, but con­sider yourself the most fortunate dung beetle who ever lived. You went toe-to-toe with a god and lived to regret it."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Krysty saw the whole world spread out below her, like a tapestry of horror. She passed like a phantom wind over gloomy wastes, gazing down on the leg­acy of the nukecaust.

  Where there had once been lush and fertile fields, the desert swept in, a sea of sand lapping at the spires of half-buried skyscrapers. Instead of cities and towns, only vast, ugly craters pockmarked the ground, seething with poison.

  Ungainly caricatures of human beings lurched across the wastelands, forlorn monstrosities birthed and molded by outraged nature. She tried to cringe, praying they wouldn't see her.

  She soared over toxic swamps, percolating with a foul and fetid soup, and she watched people des­perately trying to snatch the most meager of exis­tences from their half-dead surroundings.

  She saw babies dragged cold and lifeless from rad-damaged wombs and she wanted to weep, but phantoms couldn't shed tears.

  Flying up and arcing down again over bitter seas, she plunged through a maelstrom of buffeting mem­ory, reliving in a heartbeat all of her own suffering at the hands and bestial imaginations of the de­praved men who sought to rule Deathlands.

  She didn't hate them now. She pitied them so deeply it was almost a despair. Deathlands had made them, turned their ambitions into ugly cravings to control the chaos by any means necessary.

  She was flung headlong on the swirling gales, the clean, fresh wind of hope filling her lungs with an intoxicating purity. She raced upward toward the sun, exulting in its life-giving heat, its eternal power.

  The brilliant, fiery surface greeted her joyfully, miles-long tongues of flame lapping toward her in a burning yet arousing embrace.

  She knew the sun would change the world, trans­form its horror into beauty, saturate it with sekhem and return it to health. She thought, Neither from nor toward…at the still point, the dance of life be­gan anew.

  But the sun wanted—needed—her help. It couldn't do it alone.

  The sun caressed her, showered her with hot, fierce kisses. Love and desire swelled within her, building, rising, cresting.

  The sun whispered, "You belong to me. You have always belonged to me. Long have I awaited you. You are the mother of a dynasty that will last ten thousand years."

  She spread herself wide, inviting the sun to enter her, to fill her—

  Krysty awoke with the echoes of her own cry ringing in her ears. She sat up, shuddering, feeling her hair knotting and twisting in wild convulsions. Her body was damp with sweat, damp with more than sweat. She whispered hoarsely, "Your dew is in all my limbs."

  She flung aside the sheet and swung her legs out of bed, her knees weak and wobbling. In the dim light of the brass lamp suspended from the ceiling, she saw her sleeping gown was in disarray and saw the flush rising from her breasts up to her throat. Her heart beat fast and frantic, then slowed to steady rhythm.

  She groaned, not with pleasure, but with shame and fear. Squeezing her eyes shut, she said aloud, "What's happening to me? Gaia, give me the strength."

  AKHNATON OPENED HIS EYES, drawing in a shuddery breath. He murmured, "My dew is in all your limbs." He lay back on the couch in his private chamber, waiting for his wild pulse beat to steady and the throbbing in his temples to abate.

  Perspiration gleamed on his near naked body, touching and stinging the wounds inflicted only hours before by Cawdor. The pain was sharp, almost exquisite, and allowed him to pull his mind back. He deliberately averted his gaze from the bulge stretching the fabric of his loincloth.

  Penetrating Krysty Wroth's sleeping conscious­ness and directing it in the channels he wanted it to go had been more strenuous than he had anticipated. Though her natural empathic powers provided him with egress, her loyalty and love for Cawdor and the rest of her people formed a very strong barrier. Rather than try to batter it down, he had searched for ways around it.

  The primal force of her sexuality was one route, but even that led only so far. It was deeply entangled with the higher emotions, not a separate thing easily isolated and manipulated as it had been with the others—O'Brien and Harrier.

  O'Brien's intellect was so regimented that most of her emotions had been compartmentalized, locked away in a drawer in the dark recesses of her mind. It hadn't been difficult to unlock and use the con­tents of that drawer. In fact, she had been patheti­cally grateful to him for opening it.

  His eyes grew wet when he thought of O'Brien. She had loved him madly, unconditionally. He had loved her as his mother, his mate, but never as his queen. He would have made her so if only she had lived.

  Harrier had been quite different. Her emotions lurked very close to the surface and were rather shal­low, at least compared to O'Brien's. She had loved him, too, though she really hadn't had much of a choice.

  Akhnaton sat up and walked across the room to the window. He transmitted a tentative probe, seek­ing out Nefron's mind. Without much surprise, she detected his presence and deflected it. He smiled slightly. She possessed none of her mother's com­pliance of spirit.

  He looked to the west and saw his pyramid thrust­ing up toward the deep, blue-black sky, gleaming white and ghostly in the starlight. It lacked only a few more casing blocks and the capstone. Then it would stand whole, a beacon of hope lighting a path of his glory over the barren face of the world.

  Once it was complete, so would he be, able to shape and forge the planet into a paradise. He would know what it was like to be Osiris, the father of a new civilization.

  And he would know again, at long last, what
it was like to love.

  Chapter Twenty

  After Mildred returned to the hall of women after the indoctrination session, Grandmother sent her off to another part of the palace, to report to Mimses. The rambling building was divided into quarters, and one quarter was the domain of Pharaoh's chief counselor. As she padded along the corridors, she kept an eye out for either Kela or Nefron.

  When the corridor branched to the right and to the left, she impulsively turned left, in the opposite direction of where Grandmother had instructed her to go.

  Rich tapestries hung on the polished paneled walls, the lofty ceiling adorned with ornate and in­tricate carvings and silver-chased scrollwork. The concept she was walking through an old movie set was almost as hard to accept as the idea she had been transported back to ancient Egypt.

  As she turned a corner, she nearly trod on Nef­ron's toes. The girl almost dropped the bowl of fruit in her hands and she regarded Mildred with wide, fearful eyes.

  "What are you doing here?" she demanded in an accusatory whisper.

  "I work here, thanks in part to you."

  Nefron shook her head vehemently, her glossy black hair gleaming in the lights. "You are in Pharaoh's quarter. You have been assigned to Mimses. Go."

  Nefron made a move to step around her, but Mil­dred restrained her with a firm hand. "You can spare a sec for Scheherazade. A girl came to me this morning. She told me you had sent her and that Jak Lauren was safe."

  "Kela, my maid. She spoke the truth. She also visited your friends in the cell blocks."

  "What's being done about Krysty?"

  "I am on my way to her now," Nefron answered hesitantly. "Pharaoh wishes to see her this morn­ing."

  "What's the plan for getting us out of here?"

  Nefron glanced up and down the corridor. "I'll arrange transportation and provisions."

  "And our weapons?"

  "I'll find them. Do not fear."

  "When and where?"

  "Not here. You must trust me, Mildred. Be pa­tient. Please."

  Nefron's dark eyes widened in a silent plea. Mil­dred felt compelled to step aside, and the woman swept past her. As she did so, she whispered, "Go back the way you came and report to Mimses. Now."

  Mildred had retraced half of her steps before she realized she had done it.

  She found Mimses's hall again without too much difficulty, wondering again at the absence of sentries posting along the corridors. Unlike the afternoon be­fore, the black man was dressed in a flowing blue robe, an outfit she assumed was his robe of office.

  He stood at the balustrade of the terrace and, when she entered, he beckoned for her to join him there.

  "Did you spend a pleasant evening?" he asked, not looking at her.

  "No," she answered.

  "Good. If you had, Grandmother would be se­verely punished. As it is, if the decision was up to me, I'd have you and your scavenger friends staked out in the desert atop a bed of cactus."

  An obscenely witty remark popped into her head, but she kept it from passing her lips.

  Mimses turned, his eyes drifting up and down her body. "Do you know how Aten operates?"

  "No."

  "I'll spell it out for you, brown sugar. It's divided into classes, but we don't observe strict distinctions. We're not numerous enough for that. There's only a handful of what you might call royal insiders. I'm at the top of the heap since Osorkon lost his brain and took off."

  The man's lips moved in his characteristically vulpine smile. "Life in Aten is easy. The system is smooth, except for a little spot of bother a year or so ago. Everybody has obligations and duties to dis­charge to the kingdom. All they have to do is dis­charge them and they earn privileges. You know what the first privilege you'll earn will be?"

  She shook her head.

  Mimses grabbed her by the upper arms and pulled her hard against him. She splayed out her hands on his chest, first trying to push him away, then relax­ing into his arms. He closed a hand over her left breast, fingers kneading it through the thin leather covering. Into her ear, he crooned, "You get to let me fuck you."

  She was careful to keep her face an expression­less, bland mask. Mimses snorted out a laugh at her lack of response and released her, leaning back on the terrace railing.

  "But not for a while yet, brown sugar. You've got to prove you're worthy. Now, get to the kitchen. It's past time for my breakfast."

  She turned, and he gave her a swat on the rear to inspire her to pick up her pace. She said not a word. Mildred wasn't moved by the threat of sexual vic­timization. She was too angry, too consumed by the desire to murder the man with her bare hands.

  She was also too pleased with herself to speak, for fear of betraying her small triumph. She kept her hand closed tight around the metal ankh she had slipped from the delicate chain on Mimses's neck.

  DOCS FIRST DAY of servitude was, by and large, a bore. He had expected to feel the bite of an overseers whip on his back or shackles to be welded to his ankles and all sorts of humiliating abuse. His long tenure as slave and court jester in Jordan Teague's vulgar little empire of Mocsin was still fresh in his memory and gave him an occasional nightmare.

  Assigned to a maintenance detail, he followed a crew of four into a covered shed at the far side of the compound. Within were a number of the solar-powered chariots in various states of disrepair. His job was to help repair them, and so he did.

  The first chariot he turned his attention upon had a burned-out wheel bearing, and under the helpful directions of his fellow workers, he rebuilt it by melting down the original in a small smelter and recasting it in a mold.

  During the morning hours, he worked quickly and efficiently with a minimum of conversation. Only one man tried to engage him in small talk, an old gnarled fellow who looked to be his age or a trifle older. His name was Nasaris. His thin white hair was arranged in several looping braids over his brown scalp.

  His smile was friendly. "Looks like we're the only snow-tops here."

  Doc nodded a silent, smiling affirmative.

  Nasaris touched one of his braids. "You know, for safety's sake, you ought to do your hair like mine. You don't want to get it tangled up in an axle or something and have yourself snatched bald. Al­most happened to me once."

  One of the other men overheard the comment and laughed. "Funny as hell, too."

  "That's 'cause it didn't happen to you, Zophren!" Nasaris snapped. "I'm trying to give our new pal here a little safety tip—don't need to have you butting in."

  Nasaris returned his attention to him. "I'll be glad to do it for you."

  Doc thought it over for a moment, not particularly relishing having the old man style his hair for him, but also knowing he needed an ally and a source of information. He agreed.

  During the noon meal break, he submitted to Na­saris's tonsorial ministrations, allowing the man to twist and plait and loop his hair. He felt a sharp sense of the ridiculous, but he was able to engage the fellow in conversation, in much the same way he used to pump his barber for local gossip.

  Nasaris was garrulous, if not necessarily precise in everything he said. As he had halfway expected to hear, Nasaris was one of the first citizens of Aten, one of the first acolytes of Pharaoh Akhnaton. He yammered about the difficulty of excavating the city, telling tedious stories of heat, endless broken tools and days of thirst and hunger.

  More to interrupt the flow of chatter than for any other reason, Doc said, "Shouldn't you be retired by now, on a pension from Pharaoh for all of your contributions?"

  Nasaris fell silently, his hands and fingers stop­ping in midtwirl of a strand of Doc's hair. In a quiet, strained voice, he said, "There was a problem a while back. I made something I shouldn't have for Pharaoh's daughter. This is my punishment."

  His voice brightened as he continued. "But what the hell. It's better than being dead, and at least I have something to do with my time."

  "What did you make?" Doc asked.

  Nasaris clear
ed his throat self-consciously. "Just a little piece of jewelry. See, I was one of Pharaoh's chief craftsmen. When Nefron asked me to make some little doodads for her and some of her friends, I didn't ask questions. I should have."

  "What happened?"

  Nasaris sighed. "I'd rather not say."

  As his fingers busied themselves with Doc's hair again, the old man asked very quietly, "Did Nefron give one of these little doodads to Osorkon?"

  The old man's fingers twitched, pulling Doc's hair painfully. He stepped away, and Doc, rubbing his smarting scalp, turned to look at him. The fellow's expression was commingled fear, guilt and grief.

  "I've said too much. I'm old. My head gets mixed up. Forget what I told you." With that, he scuttled out of the shed.

  Doc followed him, but Nasaris had decided to ob­serve a board game between two of the other men. When the noon meal break was over, Doc decided he was tired. He hadn't slept very soundly the night before, so he hung around the shed doing as little work as was humanly possible. His deportment was an education in laziness.

  The other three men labored on refitting a char­iot's drive shaft and paid him no attention, so he went for a little stroll around the compound. No one hailed him as he passed among the workers in the yard stirring a puttylike substance in metal-walled cubes.

  He found a back entrance into the palace and after walking down a hallway, he followed his nose to a huge, well-equipped and very hot kitchen.

  Squinting through the steam and smoke rising from open grills and sinks full of hot water, he saw Mildred arranging food on a tray. She looked up as he sauntered over to her and she burst out laughing.

  Doc had almost forgotten his looped, braided hair. He tried to glare at her, then gave it up and laughed, too. "How goes your career as a royal scullery maid?"

  "I've had worse jobs," she told him with a smile. "When I was attending university I worked in a fast-food restaurant. That was more like slavery than this place."

  She looked around furtively, then took him by the elbow and guided him over to a corner where they were screened from casual view by steam and smoke. She slid her fingers into her cleavage. "I want to show you something."