But the computer buried deep within the floating pyramid didn’t understand the reference and hadn’t been programmed for such interactions. The image shimmered, collapsed in on itself, and exploded into a thousand motes of light.
“It wasn’t real!” Hasa announced triumphantly, his relief plain to see. “Come on, men, let’s tackle that door!”
A stylized star gate could be seen as the minder’s glow light splashed the surface of the barrier. Having heard the specter’s warning, the wings were understandably reluctant to approach the barrier at first but were eventually convinced to do so, only to discover that it was locked.
“Well, that’s that,” Rebo said cheerfully. “It looks like we’ll have to backtrack. Let’s keep an eye peeled for trapdoors however. . . . It would be a shame to lose anyone else.”
“Not so fast,” Hasa said, as he fumbled something out of a belt pouch. “King Kufu foresaw such a possibility—and that’s why he gave me this!”
“This” proved to be what looked like a metal wand but was actually a powerful cutting torch. The minder thumbed a button located at one end of the device and was rewarded with a loud pop and a six-inch-long bar of blue energy. A second pop was heard when the tool was extinguished.
“That looks promising,” Rebo admitted. “But before you turn that thing loose, I suggest that we take positions to either side of the door. Who knows what might be waiting on the other side.”
Hasa had to admit that the suggestion made sense, and ordered the wings to take up positions to the left and right of the barrier. Judging from appearances, the lock mechanism was located on the right side of the door, and the minder was just about to tackle it, when Rebo cleared his throat. “Sorry to butt in, but what if that sucker pops open? And some sort of weapon goes off? You’ll be right in the line of fire.”
Hasa was irritated. “If I don’t cut into the lock, how will we get in?”
“Tackle the hinges,” the runner suggested mildly. “Which you can do from my side without exposing your body.”
Though still reluctant to accept counsel from an inferior, the minder didn’t want to die and repositioned himself on the left side of the door. Then, having reactivated the high-tech tool, Hasa went to work. The top hinge began to glow, became white-hot, and soon parted. The door sagged, but held, as the minder cut into the lower hinge. It surrendered, too, but rather than collapse as planned, the barrier remained stubbornly upright. “Kick it,” Rebo suggested. “That should knock it loose.”
Once Hasa’s boot hit the door the results were nothing less than spectacular. There was a loud crash as the barrier fell inward to reveal a muscular statue. It had a big head, massive shoulders, and stood crouched as if ready to leap forward. There was a throaty roar as its mouth opened, and a tongue of fire shot out into the center of the room, scorched the floor where people might be expected to stand, and sent a cloud of black smoke up to swirl just below the heavily embossed ceiling. The statue’s head pivoted from right to left bathing 70 percent of the chamber in flames. The attack seemed to last forever, but actually took no more than five seconds, and ended when the fire-breathing beast ran out of fuel. There was an anticlimactic pop, followed by the whir of hidden machinery, and a clacking sound as damaged servos attempted to close the door.
Rebo blinked and coughed as he moved out into the open. There was plenty of room to pass the now-impotent statue to either side. Hasa yelled, “Wait!” but the runner and the sentient had already entered the next passageway by then, leaving the minder and his troops to bring up the rear.
“Keep your eyes peeled,” Rebo cautioned, as he played a beam of light across the wall on his right. “There are bound to be more traps.”
“The passageway is slanted downward,” the sensitive observed. “We’re making progress.”
A good ten minutes passed while the tomb raiders followed the narrow hall down through the hairpin turn that led to another long incline. Beautifully painted murals covered the walls around them. From what she could see, Norr got the impression that the images were intended to tell the story of the Emperor’s life, beginning with his childhood and progressing toward his eventual death. There was even a picture of the ruler’s daughter, which was to say a previous her, as a very young girl.
That was when Norr noticed the regularly spaced apertures that were located chest high along both walls. The sensitive was just about to comment on them when Lysander took control of her body. Many, many years had passed since the disincarnate had worked side by side with his chief architect to create the tomb’s original design. But when the disincarnate “saw” the holes through the thick mist that swirled around him, he remembered what they were for. “Get down!” the spirit entity said urgently, and pushed the sensitive forward. Rebo felt Norr push him from behind, lost his balance, and threw out his hands to protect himself as he fell.
Hasa heard the order, saw the twosome go down, and was already in the process of imitating their action when the carefully concealed fléchette guns began to fire. The steady phut, phut, phut sound generated by the automatic weapons was followed by a loud clatter as the wickedly sharp darts bounced off the intricately painted walls and ricocheted away.
And it was one such projectile that caught a wing in the throat, sliced through a major artery, and left the soldier choking on his own blood. Another variant crawled over to give aid, but was unable to stop the bleeding or see his friend’s spirit rise to stand next to him.
Then the prolonged phuuuuuut and clatter generated by the fléchette guns died away as the weapons ran out of ammo. Darkness fell, but was forced to retreat, as Rebo, Norr, and Hasa remembered to pump their glow lights. “Damn,” the runner muttered, as he came to his feet. “That was close.”
Norr, who had been freed by then, was still a bit dazed as Rebo bent to offer his hand. He looked concerned. “Thanks for the warning. . . . Are you okay?”
The sensitive was about to credit Lysander with the save but decided that doing so would be pointless. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”
The group had lost two of its members by then, but there was nothing they could do except forge ahead, nerves stretched to the breaking point. Finally, having cut their way through another door and successfully made their way through a gauntlet of swinging blades, they saw a dim glow in the distance. Then, having just emerged from a series of what might have been defensive points, they stepped out onto the narrow gallery that circled the huge globe-shaped chamber. And there, floating at the very center of the space, lay the emperor’s mummified body. Beams of sunlight had been channeled down through the top of the pyramid to bathe Hios in gold and warm his ancient bones.
In spite of the multitudinous layers of dust that covered the funeral bier, it was still possible to see the solar-powered synsilks in which the body had been wrapped and the scintillating rainbow of colors they produced.
Of equal interest, to Hasa at least, was what appeared to be a console located at the head of the bier, and more specifically, the lever that protruded from the center of the curvilinear structure. What happens if you pull on it? the minder wondered, as he ran his tongue over dry lips. Something important—or why place it there?
There was a moment of silence as the entire group stared at the sight before them. Rebo was the first to speak. “That platform has got to be a hundred feet away. . . . How in the world are we going to reach it?”
“You aren’t,” Hasa answered hoarsely, as his pistol came into sudden alignment with Norr’s head. “This is where we part company. . . . Who knows? Maybe you can make your way back the way we came. Thog, keep an eye on them while Vamer, Pamak, Obo, and Rang carry me to the platform. Oh, and it would be a good idea to pull the runner’s teeth so he can’t fire on us from here.”
“Throw your weapons over the side,” Thog ordered, and jerked the barrel of his light submachine gun toward the edge of the abyss.
The runner was reluctant to part with the recently acquired handguns, very reluctant, but k
new he had no choice. One by one he removed the pistols from their holsters and tossed them over the side. There was a faint clatter as they hit the floor far below. Norr was armed with the sword she had stolen on Derius, but it was slung across her back and was therefore useless.
“Good,” Hasa said, as he returned his pistol to its holster. “I’m glad to see you’re going to be sensible about this. . . . Now stand back and give us some room.”
Rebo and Norr were forced to retreat into the passageway as four of Kufu’s variants took up positions around Hasa, secured grips on the minder’s harness, and extended their wings. Although the norm was deadweight, he was relatively small, and the soldiers were strong. The leathery triangles of skin that were stretched between their arms and torsos made a whuf, whuf, whuf sound as Hasa was hoisted up into the air and carried out toward the platform beyond. Shadows fell across the funeral bier, and wings thumped warm air, as Lysander “watched” the tomb raiders began to close with what had been his body. And that was when the man who had been emperor remembered still another detail about his tomb and began to laugh.
As the pyramids came to the southernmost extent of their range and began a long, dignified turn toward the west, King Kufu saw a series of flashes march along the top of a distant rise and knew that King Horus’s artillery had opened fire. Confirmation of that supposition came in the form of loud shrieks and a line of explosions that tossed men and animals high into the hot afternoon air. They seemed to hang there, as if suspended by the same force that kept the pyramids aloft, before falling back to the planet’s surface.
The tomb raider could hardly complain, however, since the war had been set into motion by his decision to unilaterally land a party of grave robbers on the largest of the three pyramids, thereby raising the possibility that his forces would empty the structure of whatever riches lay within before his peers could steal their share. Now, in a rare display of cooperation, Horus and Tepho had launched a coordinated attack on Kufu’s forces in an attempt to break him.
The answer, to Kufu’s mind at least, was to quickly and efficiently eliminate the weakest of his opponents and thereby reduce the odds. So, having chosen Tepho as his first victim, Kufu ordered his forces to charge. Then, having given the two-mile-long line thirty seconds to react, the king laid his long supple whip onto the backs of the angens in front of him. The animals screamed, jerked the three-man chariot forward, and began to run. Moments later 562 other charioteers began to roll as four companies of red-clad wings swept in to provide air cover, and an army of more than a thousand armored heavies began a ponderous march.
Meanwhile, to the south, Tepho eyed the screen in front of him and smiled grimly as the enemy swept toward him. Kufu was an idiot, proof of which could be seen in his decision to attack the Techno Society’s army first, hoping for an easy victory. Because rather than simply invest in brute force, Tepho had put his money into technology, which he often referred to as “the great multiplier.” And, making the contest even more delicious was that while Kufu led his forces into what would almost certainly prove to be a disastrous battle, Tepho planned to steal Logos right out from under the fool’s nose!
The air crackled with radio traffic, and servos whined as three beautifully restored raptors took to the field of battle, their energy weapons burping blue death. Tepho, who had chosen to pilot the centermost machine himself, felt a sudden surge of elation. Because within the cramped cockpit, and in spite of his malformed body, he was a warrior!
Because Kufu was intent on closing with the enemy as soon as possible, he ordered his artillery to stop firing and was leading a long line of charioteers south when three hundred heavily armed metal men erupted from the sand in front of him. They leveled their automatic weapons and began to fire.
Angens screamed as they went down, and chariots tumbled end over end, even as Kufu’s wings swept in to attack the androids from above. Columns of sand flew up into the air as grenades went off, robots were dismembered, and their appendages began to rain down out of the sky.
Then, drums thumping, Kufu’s heavies arrived on the scene. War hammers rose and fell with the regularity of pistons as the variants attacked the surviving metal men, only to be ripped to pieces by bursts of bullets, or the pulses of bright blue energy that originated from Tepho’s steadily advancing raptors.
It was a hellish scene, and one that Kufu, who had been lucky enough to survive the initial onslaught, would never forget. The artifact king was on foot by then, his throat raw from screaming commands, and no longer confident of victory. Survival, that was all Kufu could hope for, as everything he had worked so hard to build began to crumble.
As what promised to be an epic battle began to unfold a couple of miles to the south, and the pyramids sailed along the edge of the far horizon, Hoggles watched from the top level of the nearly deserted tower. The heavy knew it was stupid, but he was lonely, and jealous as well. Because even though Hoggles knew that his love for Norr was hopeless, he had long taken pleasure from simply being in the sensitive’s presence, and now even that bittersweet enjoyment had been denied him.
And, as if to add insult to injury, Rebo and Norr had left him to guard Logos. Having more than doubled in size, and taken on the appearance of a hip-length jacket, the computer was in a good position to needle the heavy from time to time, and seemed to take pleasure in doing so.
Meanwhile, as the heavy stared out across the battlefield, the sentry nearest to the stairs saw the air in front of him shimmer. He blinked to clear his eyes, saw what might have been a materialized spirit, and opened his mouth to shout a warning. But a hand blurred past his face, something tugged at his throat, and a sheet of blood flew out to splash the hot decking.
The body was still falling as Shaz spun away, slashed a second throat, and paused to shoot each of the remaining guards. The rhythmic bang, bang, bang generated by the semiautomatic pistol served to echo the artillery rounds that continued to pound what remained of King Kufu’s army. Hoggles heard the pistol shots, lifted his war hammer, and turned toward the sound. The heavy was shocked by what he saw—and confused as well. There were bodies, lots of bodies, but where were the attackers?
Having eliminated all of his opponents with the exception of the heavy, Shaz allowed himself to be seen. Though rare, Hoggles had encountered combat variants before and knew what they could do. Though only half as strong as he was, the other variant was not only twice as fast but armed with a pistol. The heavy figured he could absorb four or five bullets and still be able to close with his opponent, but then what? Would he be able to rip the bastard’s canine head off? Or would the cumulative effect of his wounds pull him down? There was no way to be sure.
But Shaz had already completed the very same calculus and, having no particular desire to kill the heavy, lowered his weapon. The combat variant’s smile revealed two rows of extremely white teeth. “Good afternoon,” he said politely. “We haven’t met, not formally, but I’ve been following you and your friends for quite some time now.”
Hoggles wrapped and rewrapped his thick sausagelike fingers around the war hammer’s smooth shaft. “Who are you?” the heavy demanded hoarsely. “One of those techno people?”
“Yes, you could say that,” Shaz admitted breezily. “Which brings me to the purpose of my visit. The jacket you’re wearing . . . Would that constitute a computer called Logos?”
Not being sure of what was taking place, the AI had been silent up until then. But now, having given up on his plan to eliminate Sogol, the computer saw what might be an opportunity to rid himself of Lysander’s self-righteous flunkies and still take control of Socket. “Yes, I’m Logos,” the computer answered loudly. “Are you a member of the Techno Society?”
“I am,” Shaz answered simply. “More than that, I was sent here to get you.”
“Excellent!” the AI replied enthusiastically. “If you would be so kind as to kill this fool—we can depart immediately.”
“You’re welcome to give it a try,” Ho
ggles growled, and charged straight ahead. Though slow by his standards, the heavy was faster than Shaz expected him to be, and the combat variant barely managed to avoid a blow from the war hammer before spinning away. Although Shaz had the pistol, he couldn’t use it on the heavy’s torso without punching holes in Logos, a surefire way to send Tepho into a homicidal rage. That left the possibility of a head shot, a leg shot, or hand-to-hand combat.
But the decision was suddenly made for him when Hoggles threw the war hammer. The weapon hit Shaz in the shoulder and sent the handgun flying. Worse yet, the blow left the combat variant’s right arm completely numb and forced the functionary to back away. His body shimmered, but was still partially visible, as Shaz slipped on a pool of blood.
Seeing his chance, and certain of victory, Hoggles uttered a basso war cry as he thundered across the intervening space. The two men collided, the combat variant felt a sudden stab of fear, and was fumbling for his knife when Logos entered the battle. Although the computer didn’t have arms to fight with, he had control over his highly mutable “body,” which Hoggles continued to wear.
Suddenly, Hoggles felt the jacket start to shrink around him. The heavy produced a roar of outrage, released the grip that he had established on his opponent’s throat, and began to remove the traitorous garment. But it was too late by then. The AI had been transformed into what amounted to a straitjacket. Hoggles found himself unable to move his arms, realized what that meant, and tried to back away.
Shaz saw the opportunity and took it. The last thing Hoggles saw was a canine grin, a flash of steel, and the blinding sun. Then he was down, his blood soaking the object he was supposed to protect, his lips forming her name. Moments later the heavy was somewhere else, in a place far removed from the physical plane, and the family lost so many years before was gathering to greet him.
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