Pyramid Scheme

by Dave Freer

  It didn't disintegrate the helicopter. It did cut the engines.

  It also "disappeared" two of the soldiers inside the helicopter, including the copilot. Reacting frantically to the Master Caution Light—practically every light on the warning panels was on—the pilot lowered the nose steeply to avoid stalling and flattened the blades. Forty feet from the ground, he yanked on the collective to make the blades bite and slow the descent.

  Watching from the ground, Cruz knew nothing about what was happening inside the helicopter. But he did understand that the pilot was trying to bring it down by autorotation—and Anibal knew as well that "autorotation" is a euphemism for controlled crash.

  He was hollering for a medic before the helicopter hit the ground in a crumpled mess straddling the pavement and the street. Men spilled out like fury, running for cover. The pilot, his face a bloody mask, staggered out clinging to someone's shoulder.

  Sergeant Cruz exhaled. He hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath. Aliens!

  He tried to console himself with the thought that the helicopter hadn't actually been disintegrated or anything. The thought did not cheer him up very much.

  5

  It looks fishy to me.

  To a younger son of a farmer, the army had seemed like a pretty good option. Hell. It had seemed like the only option at the time. A short stint and then college. Shepherding these two along to Major Gervase, Corporal Jim McKenna began to seriously wonder about other options. The tall civilian named Professor Tremelo seemed okay, even if he was dressed in what seemed to be his pajamas and a lab coat. Hell, he'd been herding the police officer along. The guy was supposed to be a lieutenant, for Christ's sake. The heavyset cop had been acting like a kid with a wet diaper when the professor had called them.

  That hail had nearly gotten them shot. The paratroopers were more than a little jumpy after what had happened to the chopper. Fortunately, Sergeant Cruz had steady nerves and quick reactions, so he'd kept his men from opening fire. McKenna was more than a little jumpy himself, truth to tell. Seeing two crewmen disappear in a violet flash wasn't something they prepared you for in jump school.

  * * *

  Major Gervase was on the telephone in the command post when Corporal McKenna came in with the two men he was escorting.

  "Yes, sir," the major was saying. "You can reassure the President that whatever the thing is doing, nothing has come out of it—yet. And the alien object is still just a single item. No sign of any more being built. I've got scouts within thirty-five meters of it."

  The major raised his eyes to heaven as the distant questioner held forth. "Yes, sir. As I've already said, sir. Distance and cover seem to make no difference at all within a radius of about five hundred meters. We lost a man standing behind a building which separated him from the object. All I can say is that if any victim is touching another, sir, it seems to mean they both go."

  He paused again. "Yes, sir. The area is being evacuated. Yes, sir. I am aware of the Posse Comitatus regulations." The major eyed the police lieutenant McKenna had shepherded into the room. "We've established liaison with the Chicago police. The colonel will be here within the next few minutes, sir." McKenna could hear a loud voice droning from the telephone in Gervase's hand. "Yes, sir." Drone, drone, drone.

  A soldier came hurrying in. The major eyed the out-of-breath runner with relief. "I'm sorry, sir." He interrupted the flow. "A runner has just come in from one of the outposts. I must deal with the matter immediately, sir."

  The major put the phone down and turned to the panting runner. "Well?"

  "Sergeant Roberts sent me, sir. Reporters, sir. Two of them must have sneaked through the cordon. The pyramid got the one. We've got the other. She's, uh, flipped. Sir."

  A wry smile tweaked the major's mouth. "The thing doesn't respect the accredited press much, huh? Tell Peters to detail an escort and ship her off to the aid station."

  The police lieutenant cleared his throat and puffed out his chest. "Major, I'm Lieutenant John Salinas. Are you in overall command here? I was the last man in touch with Mr. Harkness. I feel obliged to make a personal report to the National Security Council in order—"

  "You've arrived too late. I've just been speaking to the NSA himself," said the major sourly. He did not sound as if he had considered it an honor. He peered at the policeman's name plate. "Lieutenant Salinas, is it? I am in charge of this operation until Colonel McNamara gets here. Which," said the major, looking at his watch, "should be in less than ten minutes. In the meantime, I need a responsible Chicago police official to liaise with. Under federal law, U.S. troops cannot—"

  The doors to the room were thrust open violently. Two soldiers with a burden burst in. "It's the copilot of the Blackhawk!" exclaimed one of them. "He just fell out of the sky, Major. Just dropped out of nothing almost on top of us!"

  Gervase cocked his head. "Marrano! Get the aid station. We need a medic!"

  Jim McKenna reacted fast. He was already trying CPR before the major got out from behind his desk. Tremelo was kneeling next to the injured copilot. The physics professor wasn't trying to render medical assistance. Instead he was examining the man as if he were a valuable microscope specimen.

  "Get this civilian out of here!" roared Gervase. "Unless he's a doctor?"

  Tremelo stood up and looked down at the stocky major. "I was leading the research team into the alien artifact," he said, quietly and calmly. "I don't think I should go anywhere until I've been debriefed. Also you may need me if the pyramid starts doing something new. I'm on the presidential science advisory council. I also have a top secret security clearance."

  "Stay," the major snapped. "Just keep out of the way, while we try to keep him alive."

  The medics arrived at a run and relieved McKenna. But it was too late for the pilot.

  McKenna stood up. His knee was blood-wet. "It's no use," he said grimly. The medic, who was feeling for a throat pulse on the cooling body, nodded.

  Tremelo looked at the body. "Did he fall onto anything sharp?"

  One of the paratroopers who'd brought him in looked startled. "No, sir. He landed on a grassy area in the quad, as a matter of fact."

  The scientist rolled the dead man over onto his stomach. The broken legs turned at sickeningly odd angles. The flight suit was blood-soaked. The physicist calmly pointed to a narrow cut in the fabric. "Something stabbed him. I thought the blood was coming from somewhere other than his legs."

  Cutting away the flight suit revealed a wide, nasty wound. Somebody or something had stabbed the pilot in the back—and not with a stiletto, either.

  "Major!" one of the men manning the field telephones shouted. "The forward OP. They've got another one back, sir!"

  The medics left hastily with one of the major's runners.

  "I need to see this too, Major," said Tremelo.

  Gervase glanced at McKenna. "Take him there, Corporal."

  So McKenna escorted the tall scientist along after the running medic. Tremelo walked briskly and calmly, making no effort to look for cover. "The alien artifact appears to detect humans even if they're out of line of sight. It doesn't take some of those in line of sight. I'm pretty sure that if it wants you, Corporal, it'll take you."

  McKenna knew that the guy was crazy then. He sounded deeply disappointed that it hadn't taken him.

  * * *

  This time it was an Air Force officer that Jim McKenna had never seen before. Tremelo obviously had. "Hmm. One of that ass Harkness' men."

  If it hadn't been for the medics, it would have been one of Harkness' ex-men. It was a relatively hot dry autumn afternoon. The Air Force colonel was wet. Sopping wet. He was also trailing brown streamers of ribbony, leathery stuff. Water was pouring out of his clothing . . . and his lungs, as the paramedics "emptied" him out. A number of other things were also falling onto the paving stones.

  Hopefully, most of them came from his clothing and not his lungs, because some of them were definitely fish. Silvery, flapping litt
le things, about seven inches long. To McKenna, with the ichthyological knowledge of a farmboy, they looked like . . . fish. And a little thing with tentacles. All of the critters were very much alive.

  The two medics worked fast. One kept up the artificial respiration. The other tied a tourniquet onto the remainder of the NSC man's leg. He then cut away the rest of the trouser leg, exposing a triple crescent of sluggishly bleeding wounds.

  Jim McKenna's eyes went very wide. Whatever it was that had a mouth that big and teeth that size, he didn't want to meet it.

  Tremelo calmly bent over, stuck a finger into the bloody water, and tasted it. "Salty. Sea water."

  Then with perfect aplomb, the scientist picked up one of the fish, a piece of the brown ribbony stuff and then the little thing with the tentacles. He dropped them calmly into his pocket. "Okay, soldier. I've seen enough. Let's go." McKenna noticed the pocket dripped black liquid. The scientist either didn't notice or didn't care.

  * * *

  Sergeant Anibal Cruz watched them go. Then he turned to look at the man the paramedics were working on. Cruz flexed a burly forearm. He'd never seen a real shark bite before. But it sure looked like the pictures. And the little fish sure looked just like anchovies . . . he'd seen them whole and salted often enough. But these fish were just too big. So what the hell was going on?

  6

  So get me a fisherman!

  Back at the command post, McKenna saw that Colonel McNamara had arrived, along with a lot more men. It was very apparent that Lieutenant Salinas had been getting on his nerves already, in the way that a first-class ass-kisser can do to someone who neither wants nor appreciates the fawning attention.

  "So the NSC wants us to find Mr. Harkness. He'll probably be returned dead—like the Blackhawk copilot," snapped the colonel. "The Regenstein is a heap of rubble. The area where you last saw him is full of pyramid."

  "Colonel," interjected Tremolo. "He was certainly consumed by the pyramid. I saw that. If you like, I'll tell them they're wasting your time."

  The colonel looked at the oddly attired professor. "Who the hell are you, mister?" The tone was less abrasive than the words.

  "Professor Miguel Tremelo."

  A wintry smile lit the colonel's face. "I've had the MPs out looking for you. I've got orders from on high to find you and get you here. The President wanted to know what the hell was going on and somebody gave him your name. We're supposed to render all possible assistance."

  Tremelo smiled back. He stuck a hand in his pocket. And pulled out a fish and the thing with tentacles, which clung to his hand. "First assistance I want is a marine biologist. Preferably one who knows something about sharks."

  "Sure. We've got some helicopters on standby, Professor. We'll take you wherever you need to go."

  Tremelo shook his head. "No." He looked at Lieutenant Salinas, who was staring at Tremelo with an entirely new vision. "I need to stay near the artifact." The scientist turned slightly away from Salinas and McKenna saw the wink to Colonel McNamara. "I'm sure I could trust the lieutenant to fetch me a suitable man."

  "You can count on me!" said Salinas crisply.

  McKenna decided that if the opportunity ever arose, he'd never play poker with his colonel. "I'm sure he can," said the colonel, with near-perfect sincerity.

  McKenna wasn't delighted when he found himself detailed to accompany the policeman to one of the university buildings on the north end of the quad, right across the street from the library. The MPs, assisting Chicago patrolmen and university policemen, were just in the throes of attempting to evacuate a building full of biologists. As librarians are to their books, so too are biologists to their animals, alive or in jars. McKenna would have been amused if the whole situation wasn't so tense.

  As he and Salinas charged up the ramp leading to the entrance of the building, they passed two Chicago PD patrolmen. McKenna saw one of the men glance at Salinas, scowl, and whisper something to the other. McKenna wasn't positive, but he thought the cop had said: Just what we need—Lootenant Zorro.

  He was sure he heard the riposte correctly. Who was that masked asshole?

  The sign on the building announced it to be the location of the Department of Ecology and Evolution. Once inside, McKenna followed Salinas as the police lieutenant wandered through the corridors. It became clear almost immediately that Salinas hadn't the faintest idea whom he was looking for or where to find them.

  McKenna shook his head. The Army prepares you as widely as possible, for as many things as possible. The idea is to make the training worse than the reality will be. It works pretty well. Mostly.

  But the training schools had certainlyleft out aliens landing in Central Chicago, for one. For another—this one almost did have him laughing—they'd left out how to prevent a little gray-haired five-foot-two-inch biddy from bullying a beefy six-foot-tall MP armed with an M16. Corporal McKenna was almost sorry not to be able to stay and watch. She already had the soldier carrying a bag of fish. But Salinas hurried ahead, demanding to speak to the head of this facility.

  There were two people in the department chair's office. One was a tiny, white-haired old gent, with bifocals. The other was a big woman somewhere in her early thirties. Despite her advanced years—practically "middle-aged," to the 21-year-old corporal—McKenna's interest was aroused. The woman was a bit hefty, but not fat. Very buxom. She wasn't really even that big—except compared to the old dude. It was just the square and solid way she stood. Five foot seven, he estimated. Hundred and forty pounds, give or take a few. Big shoulders for a girl. She needed those shoulders, in order to heft those big—

  "You want to look at my teeth too, troepie?" She snapped. It wasn't an American accent. She sounded vaguely German or Dutch, which went with the blond hair, he supposed. She was very suntanned, though, which didn't fit his image of North Europeans.

  "Now, now, Dr. De Beer," reproved the old man in a reedy voice. "Calm down. We'll sort all this out after the evacuation. I've just got some papers to get together and a few boxes of microslides . . . "

  "I'm Lieutenant John Salinas. If you are the head of this department, I'm afraid we have been sent to co-opt you. The colonel—the government, I should say—wants a marine biologist."

  The little man tilted his head forward to peer thoughtfully through the tops of his bifocals. "I'm a freshwater limnologist, young man. I have some knowledge of aquatic microfauna, and some small expertise with ostracods and various copepods. Has the city been overwhelmed by mutant plankton?"

  This was obviously rather over Salinas' head. McKenna hadn't the faintest idea what the old guy was talking about either. The woman obviously found it funny, though.

  Salinas frowned and tightened his heavy jaws. "We need an expert on shark attacks."

  The little man gave a reedy, asthmatic chuckle. "Most of my work involves SEM—scanning electron microscopy. Are these really really small sharks? The bites are micrometers in diameter perhaps?" He shook his head. "No, gentlemen. I'd be quite willing to help you. But it doesn't sound as if you have any idea who you are looking for. Besides I've got responsibilities here. Go away." The old man continued to grub in his desk, ignoring the lieutenant.

  Salinas stepped forward. "I am empowered to use force if necessary . . . "

  "Oh, leave him alone!" the woman snapped. "I'll go with you. I'm a marine biologist. And I've worked on sharks."

  Salinas stared at her. His thoughts were obvious. McKenna was tempted to stir the pot a bit more by whispering: "The colonel said a man, sir." But he managed to stifle the impulse easily enough. From the scowl on her face, he suspected the woman would belt him with that heavy bag she was carrying.

  The moment passed. The female marine biologist brushed past Salinas and McKenna and began stalking down the corridor toward the entrance.

  "Come on!" she barked. "Let's go and see what your problems are." She led the way, swinging her tatty leather shoulder bag like an offensive weapon.

  7

  Hold
the anchovies.

  The guy Liz squatted beside on the stretcher in the aid station was a mess. She thought he'd live, but . . . probably without a leg. And the other leg would carry some really impressive scars. At the moment he wasn't conscious. Looking at that bite she could only be glad for him.

  "We found this bit of tooth, Dr. De Beer," said Tremelo, holding an object out to her. "Imbedded in the bone and snapped off."

  She wasn't surprised they'd found it. The tooth was the size of a fifty-cent piece. Tricuspid. Cruelly sharp. She turned it over in her hand. Hmmm. Not a fish tooth. She looked at the three rows of tooth marks. Widely spaced. Equisized.

  "Why are you so sure that this is a shark bite?" she asked.

  The physics professor squatting next to her shrugged. "I'm not, Dr. De Beer. I know the limits of my expertise. He was in salt water and he had for company these, and several others. They were all alive." He produced a mayonnaise jar. It now contained his specimens.

  "Call me Liz." She fished about inside the huge shoulder bag, produced a pair of forceps, and started pulling out specimens. "I'm not too hot on seaweeds. It looks like plain old Laminaria . . . at a guess." She peered closely at it. "There is a colonial bryozoan growing here." She looked at the fish and the squid and smiled.

  "What do you want to know about these? Why do you want to know?"

  "The man disappeared in a violet flash. He reappeared in this state . . . Liz. I want any clues I can gather. Are these alien creatures?"

  "Hmm. Right, Professor. Well, the fish is about as earthly as you can get. It's an engraulid. What you would call an anchovy. You say there were several of them?"

  "About ten."

  "And they were all this size?" She pointed to the seven-inch-long fish.

  He nodded. "More or less."

  Liz pulled a wry face. "Ah. Well, I don't know where on earth he's been—but there are several hundred million dollars worth of fishing fleets that would also love to know. That's a third-year-size class anchovy. I'll swear to that. I've seen too many thousands of anchovy not to know what they look like. But not usually of that size. That's unfished anchovy. I didn't think an unfished stock still existed. I didn't think one had for a couple of hundred years."