by Pam Uphoff
“Which ones have you met?”
“Wolfgang Oldham, Gisele Heath, Harry Murchison, Richie Xi, and Michael Omega.”
Nicholas grinned. “Old friends and enemies. Who else is still alive?”
“Jason Rombeau, Rebeccah Abrams, Charlie Alpha, and . . . Chance? Chauncey, I think.”
“Tabler.” Nicholas sighed. “Old friends.”
“There are several more. Two of the people they called Old Gods are dead—Art . . . Marty? And Edmund Vice. They’ve lost track of Pax and Barry Virtue. I think Mercy Green has been neutralized in some way.”
Luck Dave eyed her. “That’s fourteen people.”
“Charlie Alpha went to Exile Four with a lot of Tellies. He says he’s the only survivor there. The rest went to Exile Five.”
"Rebeccah and Charlie went to different worlds? That surprises me." Nicholas frowned.
Rael's eyebrows rose. "I wonder if they thought they'd be able to come and go? They're together now. Has anyone explained the Comet Fall Gods to you?"
But her eyes were drifting toward the door.
The commander chuckled. "Go. I'll check my computer, if those idiots haven't destroyed it."
"Thank you, sir, and my office is just down the hall if you'd like to move there until your suite is cleaned."
"Thank you. An excellent idea."
Rael trotted off and Davos replaced her.
"After all these years, you'd think I'd have realized that when you just got up and walked away, that it was your luck again, not that we'd offended you." Davos shook his head.
"So that's how it works?" Foo's voice from the hall. "He just gets up and . . ."
Davos nodded. "Just happens to be handy when something happens. Over and over. Or he decides to not do something, or suddenly drives a different path."
Nicholas chuckled. "And sometimes we never find out if something would have happened. And we try to laugh it off as him absent-mindedly missing a turn. But our hearts are just not in it. Well, let me fold up that handy little room and we'll get out of everyone's way."
He headed back into the other bedroom. Umaya eyed the body on the floor, and stepped over to kick him.
Foo looked shocked.
She sniffed. "That was the fourth assassination attempt I've witnessed. Not to mention the battle of Fort Rangpur. I am not some weak-kneed fainting flower." She kicked the body harder, turned and marched back to the commander’s room and frowned at the barred door to the hall.
Lucky Dave grinned and popped the bar loose. Opened the door to the hallway and preceded her out. The commander was on her heels and Davos behind.
A maid was being strapped to a gurney, unconscious, an IV in her arm.
He caught Rael's eye.
"She tried to trigger her laser to explode, and when I contained it, tried to mentally kill herself. So I stunned her, and we'll keep her sedated while we work on a few other things."
"Exploding guns? Really?"
"It's not easy to rig, but the idiots who do generally fix it to go off a few seconds after it leaves their hand."
"And that's why Scar grabbed it and threw it."
"Right. Just in case. It's not as powerful as a grenade, nor designed to maximize shrapnel, but they're still plenty nasty."
Lucky Dave nodded back at the room.
"The maid in there was very strong. 'She' might not be what she seems."
Rael's brows rose. She turned back to the gurney. "Let's do a quick crotch check . . . yep. It's a boy. Check him for facial modeling, and . . ." She rolled the “maid” slightly and pulled the white dress off his left shoulder. And ripped off a bandaid. A straight incision, a few days old. “Implanted ID. Damn. Well that’s how he got in. Now I wonder where the real maid is. Maids. I think we'll do a quick search of their homes.”
"Watch for traps." Lucky Dave called back, then got his mind back on protecting the commander from the next attack. Investigating the last one wasn't his job. Dammit.
***
Rael disappeared after letting them into her office. Foo showed up with bags leaking delicious odors, and they ate at Rael’s beautiful table.
The commander had just started yawning when she returned.
“The three maids were killed four days ago, their implanted ID removed and implanted in the imposters’ shoulders. They’ve been working here for three days, and delivered two meals to Commander Nicholas. I suspect they scoped out the bubbled room and thought they could just fold it up and walk out.”
They all looked at the rod leaning against the wall.
“Convenient.” Nicholas’s voice was dry. “I’m pleased they were the only ones to die. How is Scar?”
Rael pulled out her comm and tapped at it . . . “He’ll be fine, a bit of shrapnel in his calf muscle, nothing deep.”
“Good. I’ve been impressed with the new Warriors Isakson is finding.” A wry smile. “As little as I see of them.”
Rael sighed. “Thank you. I’m sorry your recovery has been interrupted. And that we failed to keep you safe.”
Nicholas shook his head. “The only way to be risk free is to die and get it over with. So, how about a briefing on political parties, splinter groups and nuisances?”
“Oh One! Well . . .”
Dave listened with half his attention on the door, half his thoughts on the commander. Is he going to gather Warriors around him again? Do I need to recruit a squad of bodyguards? Dammit, I barely know anyone here to vet anyone. Bad enough now, but Nicholas is going to be on the move quite soon.
I need people, weapons, vehicles, a well-protected house. Hell, I want a compound.
His head jerked around as Nicholas spoke.
“I need to talk to Emre. Perhaps I should do so right now, while this attack has me alert and not likely to snooze deeply for a while.”
Chapter Eight
The Hive Mind
27 Shawwal 1413
Three armored vehicles. Isakson, Ra’d, that Ebsa fellow who’d been in so many vids. Scar and his team. Foo and his team.
Lucky Dave and Davos with Nicholas in the center vehicle, Ebsa driving, Ra’d riding shotgun. I wonder if they use that phrase anymore? And of Ra’d’s three visible weapons, not one is a shotgun.
And Corridors. We’ll only have to drive straight the last 300 kilometers.
I wonder how much it has changed in the last millennium?
Less than he’d expected. Some obviously new buildings in Jeddah, more that were either aging incredibly well or had been replaced with buildings so similar as to fool his memory. The road still skirted the ruins of Mecca, a victim of the nuclear war that had happened a century and a half before the arrival of the New Prophets.
Fifteen centuries ago, now. Hence the extensive parking lots, and people on foot, walking in.
Another two hundred kilometers on, east and then northeast, they reached Makkah. The home of the New Prophets.
Lucky Dave was squinting at the headache from holding a mental shield against an increasingly powerful mental buzzing, pressure from ahead, from something huge.
Nicholas gripped his shoulder, and the commander’s shields reached out and covered him. “Relax for a moment. I don’t know what that is.”
Ra’d glanced around. “The hive mind. Five or six hundred powerful magic users in a giant merge. Stuck there. Some of them have no individuality left. Few were volunteers, and while the coerced mostly accept their fate now a lot of bitterness and hatred remain. Emre was weakened for some time. He’s recovered and is trying to correct the excesses, but I do not find the situation pleasant.”
A massive understatement!
I’ve seen a few stuck compasses, with the usual eight. And jolted a few loose, come to that, when they needed to retreat, or just stop and eat.
Five or six hundred! No wonder that buzzing is so unpleasant.
Lucky Dave eyed Ra’d. “So . . . from our vid education, most of the people here were kidnapped at ten years of age, castrated and then shoved into this
hideous huge merge?”
“Yes.” Chilly tones, not hiding the hot anger underneath.
“But this Wine of the Gods joy juice stuff can regrow their testicles?”
Ra’d shot a nasty grin over his shoulder. “That’s what happened to that other One World. A priest was among those marooned for months, and when he returned, he took the wine with him and spread it all over Makkah. Without a prophet to hold them together, most of the priests broke loose from the merge and left Makkah. There are ongoing problems. But with less than fifty priests, the influence of the church is gone.”
Lucky Dave shifted uncomfortably. “I wonder if they were behind the attempt to kidnap . . . but then, don’t they have their own prophet Nicholas?”
Ebsa answered that one. “There’s an eleven year time lag, so they went and searched for your Bag of the Prophets. Where you, the other you, ought to be resting. I understand they found only a small rusty stub that they think was part of the handles. They’re searching a century of local hospital and police records for anyone that might have been you three, and finding nothing.”
The commander eyed him. “Are you involved with them?”
“Yes sir. I was doing a quick survey of this odd world, just as the other Earth connected. It was . . . quite exciting for a while there. I am liaising regularly.” He kept his eyes forward as he spoke, and slowed and turned to park near a raised train platform.
Lucky Dave raised his own shields and stepped out of the car first.
A mob of people approached, eerily silent, their footsteps rustling on the pavement. The first ones were in uniform, white with green and gold piping. The remainder were in white arab style robes, perhaps half including a white keffiyeh scarf with agal bands in multiple colors.
Dave ran a hand up and down the short stick he’d picked up out of the various weapons in the gym’s martial arts collection.
If that was my Luck, it’s off its top game. This isn’t riot control material.
But he stepped out anyway, walking far enough away from the commander that Davos and Isakson had time to form up with the Black Horse Guards for a loose merge if it looked like they were going to need it.
Scar stepped forward as well, an unneeded ninth.
Ra’d and Ebsa . . . were an interesting pair. In contact somehow, standing far enough apart to not interfere with each other if it came to a fight.
Dave waved Scar out to the left flank, and took the right.
The white uniformed guards split to let five men through.
A dark man, striding out, grinning.
Lucky Dave recognized him, with a shock. Jeb ibn Oliver ibn Joseph ibn Byram. Head of the Islamic Union’s Diplomatic corp. Everyone always said he was as strong as a Prophet. Apparently as long lived as well.
The second man was a stranger. Lucky Dave’s shield was leaky enough to show his strong glow.
:: Unvu. :: A quick thought from Ra’d. :: Young, ambitious, and not to be trusted. ::
Then Emre.
The Prophet was visibly older than when Lucky Dave had last seen him. He could pass for a healthy sixty-year-old. Not bad for fourteen centuries.
He switched his attention to the last two men. They looked older than the prophet, one calculating, the other grinning like a kid.
:: Usse can be dangerous. Retired spy. Ytry’s the youngest, an expert in shields, trained Rael. Trustworthy. ::
Dave could feel Ra’d’s concern about the mob, as he stepped forward. “Grandfather?”
Emre nodded at some unspoken question. “I am well.” His lips split in a grin as he looked beyond Ra’d. “Not as well as you, Nicholas.”
“You look a thousand years older than when I last saw you.” The commander grinned as he embrace his old friend.
Unvu stared hard at him. “Join us. Lower your shield.”
Emre frowned at him. “Unvu, this is very unwise. It is time to disengage, not entangle another Prophet.”
Jeb turned to frown from Emre to Unvu, and the silent mob of priests closed in.
Unvu is taking control of them, concentrating their merged selves, trying to overwhelm Nicholas.
They were not physically threatening, but the pressure of their minds made Dave’s eyes water in pain as he eased through the crowd.
Drawing the stick.
And bringing it down with a hard snap to the bone above Unvu’s ear.
The mental pressure snapped as the priest dropped.
The mob jerked back, the priests shaking their heads, puzzled, spreading out and walking away.
Nicholas started laughing.
“Lucky Dave, I believe you have successfully broken their Compass.”
Emre snorted. “One! Nick, I thought you might do that if the idiots got pushy. But Lucky Dave . . . I ought to have known it would be you.”
“It’s not funny.” Jeb turned and glared. “Davy . . . you, you always were impossible!”
Lucky Dave ignored a snicker from Ra’d. And eyed the fallen priest.
The other two . . . were they head priests? Senior priests? Whatever. Ytry bent over Unvu and peeled an eyelid back. “Heh. Serves him right. Medic’s on the way. Emre, why don’t you haul your guests off to your house while Usse and I deal with the wandering flock?”
Lucky Dave stepped in between the commander and the white uniformed guards. “You lot back off.”
The one with the most frufru on his uniform bristled. “It’s our job.”
Lucky Dave looked him up and down. “And what were you doing while,” nod at the man who was being loaded onto a gurney, “he was orchestrating an attack on the Prophet Nicholas One?”
“That was not . . . not . . .”
He snorted. “You were following that priest’s orders, while he gathered all the merged minds. Well, your mind is now your own—I suspect you have until Unvu regains consciousness to decide if you want to keep it, or be mind-slaved again. Good luck.”
Dave turned and followed the two Prophets. Makkah had not expanded much in the intervening centuries, but buildings had been replaced, landscaping changed.
Emre had a small house in a garden.
Dave ordered Scar to spread the Black Horse Guards around, and gave the house a quick search. Isakson and Davos were hovering over the two prophets, Jeb was sitting back, looking thoughtful. Lucky Dave stepped out the front door. Oldy and Ahsi were bracketing the door, and Ra’d and Ebsa were further out, facing some priests.
Lucky Dave stalked out to join them.
“. . . just want to go home!” The young man, boy really, all teenage gawkiness, had a high childlike voice.
Dave shuddered and eyed the group. “You all look very young. I thought they’d stopped taking children.”
The spokes-boy nodded. “I think I was the last. Six years ago. But they’re out of my head and I want to get away from here before they come back. The guards stopped the train, and took us off. If Nicholas One orders them to let us go, they will have to obey. Won’t they?”
Ra’d pulled out his father’s bag . . . no, this was a shiny new one. And produced a jar of virulent green stuff. “Each of you take one swallow of this. It’s a multi-medical spells potion. In three weeks you’ll experience abdominal pain while your newly grown testicles descend. Pain and muscle relaxant spells will help. One. Swallow.” He handed it to the boy.
Lucky Dave eyed the bottle. “Doesn’t look much like that . . .”
“They call it grass clippings, because of the color. Possibly because of the taste, but I’ve never tried grass pureed in white wine, so I couldn’t say. Anyway, it’s got all the healing, and none of the fun.” Ra’d took the nearly empty jar back from the last young man, spun the lid on and dropped it into his bag.
Ebsa looked them over. “I’d guess half of you are under twenty-two. Give puberty a year, get your voice settled, then there are various ways to suppress your hormones so your Priest gene can maximize your magic. Give it until you’re twenty-five or so, then let it go.”
A
boy of perhaps eighteen glanced over his shoulder. “But will they let us go? And what do we do then?”
Ytry stalked up. “Indeed, didn’t think past running away, did you?”
Ebsa ignored him and looked at the boy. “Let me ask the prophets what they are going to do about this situation.”
Lucky Dave boggled a bit, and followed the crazy man back inside.
Ebsa stood politely for a minute, until Emre leaned back and eyed him.
“So, the young man so concerned with justice. Who are you rescuing this time?”
“Some of the priests wish to leave. To try to have a normal life. Will you help or hinder?” Ebsa’s voice was polite, mild and . . . calm.
Emre thought that over and nodded. “We will help our fellows who wish to leave. What do you have in mind?”
“Money, to get a new start with. Umm, I’d recommend two thousand rials a month for ten years. Long enough to remedy any schooling they missed, plus college or trade school, or start a business. If any older priests wish to leave, and have no families to help them, you might offer the hospitality of the remote mosques and churches.”
“Humph. That’s not unreasonable. And this healing potion . . .” Emre glanced over at Ytry with a smirk. “Better than the one some people got dosed with. Unvu . . . well, puberty, fatherhood. He’s always been ambitious, and now he’s very strong.” His eyes unfocused for a long moment. “Right. Excellent idea, young man. Tell the children out there to report to the financial offices for their first payment. That should get them home . . . well, they’ll need all sorts of things eventually, but the civil authorities can sort that out.”
Ebsa bowed and backed out.
Lucky Dave stayed.
Emre shook his head. “I wish I’d been alert enough to appreciate that boy the first time he came storming in here demanding we do the right thing.”
Ytry snorted. “I’ve ordered the priests to stop being silly and just go about their jobs. Have you decided whether to form up again, or not? Unvu’s starting to wake up, and the guards are hovering over him.”
Emre sighed. “He’s going to be a problem. Always trying to take over. He came quite close, when I was at my weakest. If I allow him to form a compass, there will be large problems.”