Nightmare Passage

by James Axler

  Fasa considered his options for only a heartbeat before replying, "Tie me up and hide me."

  Securely binding and gagging the man was the work of only a few minutes. Hiding him presented another problem. An upright tool chest was affixed to the wall in a far corner. J.B. removed the hand tools, and Ryan dragged Fasa over to it, pushing him face first against the wood backing. The locker was tall but not particularly deep, and the fit was tight. The man's bound wrists were jammed fast against his hips when Ryan shut and locked the door. He immediately regretted not chilling him, but he knew it was a bit easier to conceal a live body for a couple of days than a dead one. If luck was with them, Fasa would suffocate before he managed to work the gag out of his mouth and call for help.

  "Let's get back at it," J.B. said. "Next time somebody comes in, we'd better think about chilling them."

  "Yeah," Ryan agreed. "It'd be simpler all the way around."

  IN THE HOURS after sunset, the great, endless vista of the dark, star-sprinkled sky spread out above the city of Aten. The walls were made of dressed con­crete, and vigilant sentries paced their length.

  But no eye saw two black-cloaked figures emerg­ing from a small postern gate that was always locked, but never guarded. The two moved across open ground swiftly, keeping to the shadows.

  Mimses and Nefron walked through the sand, their concealing cloaks fluttering in the blessedly cool breeze. They strode silently until they reached the bottom of the stair at the base of the pyramid. It loomed above them, strangely beautiful in the starlight.

  "You know where the entrance is?" Mimses asked doubtfully.

  Nefron nodded. "Of course. I studied the blue­prints. Follow me."

  She went determinedly up the steps at a half trot. Mimses hiked up the hem of his cloak and followed at a considerably slower pace and without a fraction of her nimbleness of foot.

  Halfway up the side of the pyramid, Nefron stopped and watched Mimses's panting ascent with a condescending half smile on her lips. She wasn't even slightly out of breath. Mimses reached her, swaying slightly on weak legs. "Now what?" he demanded between rasping gulps for air.

  "The keystone sequence." Nefron stretched out her right arm and hammered twice with the heel of her hand against the corner of the closest casing stone. With a grating rumble, the square of stone sank inward, seemingly to sink beneath the surface of the pyramid.

  Mimses scowled his astonishment. "How does that work?"

  "Pressure-sensitive actuators connected to a hy­draulic sleeve pivot," she replied breezily. "Predark engineering, nothing magic about it."

  She stepped into a black abyss. After a hesitant moment, Mimses followed her into the darkness. He had to squeeze his bulk between the rope-wrapped drum of a winch-and-pulley device. Far away glim­mered a pinpoint of light. He followed the cloaked girl as she went forward into the shadows, which slowly receded before them until they stood in the King's Chamber.

  It was a vast, hollow pyramid within the pyramid, made of pink-hued granite. Workmen had set up flaming braziers at intervals of ten feet along either side of the room. Arrangements of fragrant white flowers stood between each brazier. The air was heavy with the scent of gardenias and incense.

  At the apex of the pyramid, suspended by a web of wires, hung a copper sigil of an enormous, lidless eye. It stared down with a fathomless gaze upon the varnished sarcophagus. Light glittered from quartz inlays, gleamed on the gold-leaf face fashioned into an exaggeratedly noble likeness of Akhnaton.

  High on the ceiling, two shaft openings aligned with mathematical precision allowed the diffused light of two carefully selected stars to reflect from the polished surface of the sarcophagus.

  Nefron shivered. "It frightens me to be in here."

  Mimses looked upward. "Yeah. Millions of tons of stone, held together by a small deadfall. Just wait­ing for someone to pull the right lever in the right way at the right time."

  She shook her head. "That doesn't bother me. It's the thought that Pharaoh's scheme to increase his power might really work."

  Mimses eyed the sarcophagus, then the copper sigil. "He explained it to me once. Didn't make a whole hell of a lot of sense."

  Nefron shrugged out of her cloak, folding it over one arm. "It's simple, really. The crystal in the pyr­amid acts as energy condensers. They hold enough bioaural energy to trigger a series of synapses in Pharaoh's brain and relay the energy to his pineal gland. The process will take about an hour. If Krysty is with him, we'll have to deal with two insufferable chrysalides evolving into arrogant butterflies."

  Mimses watched her, hearing the subtle undertone of hatred in her voice. "What happens if you un­dergo the process instead?" he asked.

  Nefron snapped her head around, eyes narrowed. "Why do you ask that?"

  "Just curious. You inherited some of your fa­ther's powers. Mebbe you could enhance them this way."

  "Perhaps," she admitted. "I'd rather have him dead."

  Mimses didn't reply as she paced with feline grace around the chamber. Acting as the consort of a queen, of a young goddess, might have been an exciting prospect if any woman other than Nefron was the candidate. She was certainly beautiful, but she was too bright and too sleek for his tastes, with her small, hard breasts and the rondure of her slim hips. He preferred the other court women, languid and fluttery though they were. The image of the new woman, Mildred, flashed into his mind.

  The hollow chamber echoed with Nefron's weary sigh. "Still think she's the cure for your problem, Mimses?"

  His shoulders jerked in surprised reaction to her words. "What are you talking about—?"

  A rush of shame and humiliation brought heat to his face, drawing perspiration from his pores. He bared his teeth in a grimace. "You little bitch. You read my thoughts."

  Nefron laughed, a cruel, tinkling sound. "You transmitted them, your lust for that woman is so strong. You should be wearing an ankh shield, like I told you."

  Mimses turned his grimace into a frown. "Drop it. Are you sure nothing can accidentally trigger the deadfall?"

  "No. But I'll have to warn Jak to be very careful when he's in the relieving chamber not to dislodge the release mechanism."

  "Just make sure you're away from here before the ceremony begins."

  "I will."

  "What about the kid?"

  She shrugged and gestured to the ceiling. "Even if he gets stuck in the relieving chamber, he can crawl out through one of the shafts. We'll have our assassin."

  Mimses dabbed at a film of sweat on his upper lip. "You sure he's under your control?"

  "All he has to do is trip the keystone lever. He's under my control for that little task."

  "As long as Pharaoh doesn't hear anything in time for him to escape."

  "There's no way. The only thing he'll hear are the blocks falling down. The only way to escape is through the Grand Gallery, and that will be jammed with his counselors. Only the few people right by the mouth of the corridor will be able to reach safety."

  Mimses nodded. "Mebbe we should put another of the newcomers up there in the relieving chamber, just in case your boy doesn't make it. How about the woman?"

  Nefron regarded him with a sly, speculative look. "Not until you're done with her, of course."

  Mimses opened his mouth to voice an angry de­nial, then he looked into the girl's dark eyes, glinting with a flicker of deep red, and realized he could hide nothing from her that she wanted to discover.

  He forced an uneasy chuckle. "Of course."

  Nefron's sly look suddenly vanished, replaced by a slit-eyed, searching examination. "You're a fool," she said. "A lust-besotted fool."

  Mimses clenched his fists. "What are you talking about?"

  Nefron inhaled a sharp, fearful breath. "I see it in your mind."

  "See what?"

  "The woman, Mildred, took your shield. She lifted your ankh while you were busy pawing her and licking your lips. She knows."

  "How?" Mimses demanded in a ragged voice.
"How?"

  Nefron shook her glossy black head. "That's not important. But she knows!"

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Danielson was a yakker, not a communicator, and as the third day of Dean's stay in Fort Fubar crawled to a close, he seriously contemplated filling either the man's mouth or his own ears with sand.

  It wasn't so much that he resented the old man, but was too angry at his father for leaving him again to even try to make the best of the situation. Still, he remembered a saying he had learned while at the Brody School, something to the effect that he also serves who only stands and waits. It was a very cold comfort.

  Only a short time had passed since his father had rescued him from the gladitorial games staged by Vinge Connrad in Nevada, and he was insecure about being abandoned—though he wouldn't have admitted that fear to anyone, not even to Doc or Jak.

  Dean spent most of his waking hours in Fort Fu­bar trying to avoid sunstroke or gazing out on the empty horizon in the direction his father and his friends had traveled. Nothing ever stirred on the wasteland but the wavery, watery heat shimmer.

  One morning, before the heat of the day became unbearable and under the helpful eye of Danielson, he practiced maneuvering the chariot around the pe­rimeter. Dean had expected his host to object to his experimentation with the vehicle, but all the old man had said was, "Don't appear like Pharaoh is going to send anybody out to claim it. You might as well try it out."

  Dean didn't examine Danielson's words too closely until that night, lying on his sleeping bag with the old man's snores ringing in his ears. The only reason Pharaoh hadn't dispatched sec men to retrieve the chariot was that he already had what he wanted, and the wag was an acceptable loss. Dean slept very poorly that night.

  The food eaten by the man and boy was strictly rationed, but there was plenty of water in the stream, though it had to be boiled and strained through a cloth before it was drinkable. Danielson and Dean took turns performing this procedure.

  Sometimes when Danielson began one of his seemingly endless and pointless narratives, Dean would try to listen and construct and fit it into some kind of coherent chronology. So much of what Dan­ielson said concerning his life was contradictory and came in no particular order. He thought he had learned how to tune out the man's disconnected ramblings.

  On the fourth sunset in Fort Fubar, while Dean was gazing at the horizon, the Steyr in his hands, the wry realization came to him that he actually had absorbed a lot more than he would have guessed.

  Danielson was born in what used to be called In­diana to a Farer family. He had joined up with the Trader's group when he was in his early thirties, so he looked older than he truly was. Ryan and J.B. had only been with Trader a short while before he was cut loose.

  Danielson had lived peaceably in Aten for a long time under the name of Osorkon. He shared coun­selor responsibilities with a man he referred to al­ternately as Mimses and Mel.

  The names of his three wives were Pyatha, Flaresh and Iocol. He had three children, but all were dead now but his oldest daughter, Kela.

  Something had happened in Aten, and Danielson had abandoned both Pharaoh's service and his own daughter to return to this pesthole.

  As the sun slowly sank out of sight, Danielson called to him from the doorway of the storage build­ing, "Time to eat, boy."

  Dean pulled his gaze away from the color-splashed horizon and shifted the strap of the rifle on his shoulder. The Steyr was heavy, and constantly carrying it had worn a raw, tender abrasion on the skin of his right shoulder.

  Inside the ramshackle building, Danielson stirred another of his stews simmering in a pot over a small fire. Without looking up, he said, "Tomorrow is the fourth day."

  Dean didn't respond. He sat down cross-legged on the sandy floor and waited for Danielson to ladle the stew into a plate. The old man passed it to him, saying calmly, "If your pa isn't back by sundown, I think you'd better figure on rolling on to Pharaoh's tomb—the redoubt—by first light the day after."

  Dean spooned some of the tepid, very nearly tasteless sludge into his mouth and fixed his eyes on a distant, invisible point, somewhere over Danielson's head.

  The old man coughed a little self-consciously. "Can't deny it's been a pleasure having you here, son. Almost like having my own boy back with me. He was about your age when he—"

  He coughed again and ate a mouthful of stew. Dean shifted his gaze and saw tears shining in the man's melancholy gray eyes. He couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy.

  Exhaling noisily, Danielson said, "Guess I didn't know how lonesome I was. When you move out, I reckon I'll go with you."

  Dean shook his head. "If my dad doesn't show by noon tomorrow, I'm off to this Aten place, not to some Pharaoh's tomb or redoubt."

  Danielson blinked at him. "That's not a sound notion, son. If your pa hasn't come back, then it means he can't come back—"

  "I'll bring him back," Dean declared fiercely. "And the rest of them, too. I'm not going off and leaving them, not knowing what's happened to them."

  Tugging nervously at an earlobe, Danielson said quietly, "I don't think your pa would like that, you ending up in the same kind of mess he's in. If you ask me—"

  "I'm not," Dean snapped.

  "—you'll be taking a hell of a big risk. I'm afraid I can't allow it."

  Dean dropped his plate and put his hand on the stock of the Steyr. "You going to try and stop me?" he challenged.

  Man and boy locked gazes for a long moment. Danielson was the first to look away. "No," he an­swered sadly. "Even if I could hog-tie you without getting myself gut-shot, I couldn't keep you tied up all the time. I won't try to stop you."

  Resting his plate on his lap, Danielson slipped the thong and ankh amulet from around his neck. He tossed it to Dean, who caught it one-handed, eyeing it skeptically. "What good will this do me?"

  Danielson began to eat again. "Mebbe none, mebbe all the good in the world. Never can tell. Now, eat up. I know it tastes like parboiled shit, but if you're determined to walk into the lion's den, you'll need every ounce of your strength."

  JAK SETTLED into his twilight world without too much difficulty or too many questions. Everything was comfortably blurred, all hard edges softened and blunted. It smelled sweet and tasted like honey, though sometimes there was a sharp bitterness at the back of his palate. During these times, one part of his mind would occasionally come alive with fleet­ing, alarmed thoughts. But then Kela would offer him food or drink or herself, and the thoughts would be muddled and warmed by pleasure.

  He had been told to always remain inside the small house and never to venture outside. He was never left alone except when he slept, which seemed to be often. When he mentioned this curious leth­argy to Kela, she maintained sweetly it was all part of the healing process.

  However, it seemed a little strange that his sexual energy wasn't adversely affected. In fact, it seemed enhanced. When he was awake, it was as if he were swimming under dreamy water. All he really re­membered was lying atop Kela, thrusting into her, or she was atop him, thrusting down herself. The girl was smooth and warm and avid, and he loved her, really loved her. He thought.

  Nefron appeared very infrequently, usually— though he could never be sure—at night. He looked upon her hungrily whenever she arrived. He loved her, really loved her, too. She would smile at him fondly, murmur to him, stroke his head. Desire rose in him like a column of fire. After she had departed, Kela would douse the fire with a fierce heat of her own.

  The twilight routine seemed to go on for days, for weeks, but he was distantly aware that his sense of time was distorted.

  One time when he awoke from a slumber, he re­alized with a start that he hadn't asked about Ryan, J.B., Krysty, Doc or Mildred for what felt like a very long time.

  Naked, he arose from the pallet, guiltily forcing himself to remember their faces, straining his mem­ory to count how many days and nights had passed. He couldn't. As far as he knew, as little as two days or a
s many as two months had passed since he had put himself in the care of Kela and Nefron.

  He checked to make sure his weapons were where they were supposed to be. He clicked through the cylinder of the Colt Python, testing the smoothness of the action. He heard the soft scuff of feet behind him and caught a whiff of a familiar perfume. He didn't turn.

  "You should have let me know you were awake," Nefron said softly.

  "Where Kela?"

  "Out to get food. She'll be back soon."

  Jak didn't want to look at her. He found himself actually a little afraid to look at her. Already his body was responding to her presence. "When I leave?"

  She laughed musically. "Growing bored with us, Jak?"

  Sullenly, Jak demanded again, "When going?"

  A note of anger entered Nefron's voice. "Why are you so anxious all of a sudden?"

  He didn't respond to the question. Stubbornly, he said, "Need to see friends. Need to get out. Need talk to Ryan."

  "It is impossible. He is in the men's workers bar­racks. I cannot get in there unnoticed."

  Putting down his blaster, Jak massaged his eyes with the heels of his slightly trembling hands. "Need to get out," he said hoarsely.

  "Every one of your friends is fine," Nefron said comfortingly. "Thanks to me. You must trust me."

  "What about Krysty?" Jak asked.

  "She is in high favor with Pharaoh."

  Jak frowned, saying uneasily, "Tricking him until we escape."

  "She is charmed by him, as well."

  "No way. Not believe."

  Sadly, Nefron replied, "You must come to terms with the possibility that your friend Krysty might not be able to help herself. Pharaoh possesses pow­ers beyond your comprehension. It is a crafty, subtle power. He can enter a mind and deftly change what he finds there, and the victim of the tampering may never know what has happened until it is too late."

  "Why wait to leave?" Jak asked.

  "Akhnaton's pyramid is very close to completion. You and your friends can escape during the confu­sion surrounding the ceremony. If we plan it right, you can be many miles from here before your friends are missed."