Outlanders 20 Prodigal Chalice, page 11
Vasquez sat atop him, her thighs on either side of his hips as she took him deeply inside her. Her juices cooled across his lower stomach and loins as she remained motionless - except for the slight quivering of the blaster barrel against his cheekbone.
"I didn't mean to hit you," Lindstrohm said. "I thought you were someone else." His eyesight adjusted, making the most of the lit candles sitting on the windowsills.
Her face was cold and devoid of softness, looking hard and merciless as brass in the candlelight. Her arm was steady. Only the barrel shook softly.
Lindstrohm tasted blood inside his cheek. The pain there became a dull ache, blasting into his face bones. She knew about his dreams; he'd told her about them.
But he also knew there'd be no excuse for hitting her. The Outlands were harsh and fierce. And the way she'd been raised and treated as a young girl in Louisiana would have killed most children.
"No one hits me," Vasquez whispered in a voice that was as smooth as silk. "Every man that ever hit me has died. I started that tradition with my father." Rage glimmered in her eyes for a moment.
"I'm sorry," Lindstrohm said.
"You're a dead man, Harry," she whispered. "All I have to do is squeeze this trigger to make it happen."
Lindstrohm swallowed hard, knowing there was no argument he could offer that would stay her hand if she chose to pursue that course of action. He resisted the impulse to ball a fist, knowing it would have alerted her and probably made the decision for her.
Silently, still holding the .38 Chief s Special against his face, Vasquez pulled up and disengaged their sexes. She threw a leg over the side of the bed and got to her feet, keeping the blaster shoved against his face.
"This is one of those times, Harry," she said, "that I regret letting you live."
Lindstrohm waited, remembering how coldly and dispassionately he'd killed the young woman in the passageway beneath Djoser's pyramid. Maybe he should have never become involved with Vasquez. Yet at the same time, he realized that without her he would have never gotten the two pieces of the machine that he had, nor would he have been able to organize Campecheville as he had.
He waited, as tensely as a coiled spring.
"I hate you, Harry Lindstrohm," Vasquez whispered. "I hate you with everything that I am. Not for hitting me, but for making me live with what I'm about to do."
Lindstrohm considered his chances, knowing it was only slightly possible that he could knock the pistol away before she shot him. A thousand things went through his mind in that moment. Images from past dreams of what had possibly been past lives trickled through his mind.
There was also a lot of pleading for his life. But in the end he trusted what he knew to be true about her. There was no other choice. Even if he knocked the pistol away, there was a good chance she would kill him anyway with some other weapon she had. Or he would have to kill her and explain her absence to Wei Qiang's men, who had come in late last night.
Despite everything else he knew to be true about her, she loved him.
He stared into her eyes, willing her to put down the pistol. "And I hate myself a little, too," she said, "because I put myself into this position."
Lindstrohm forced his breath out.
Slowly, as if not trusting him and not happy with herself, Vasquez pulled the .38's muzzle away. Then she eased the hammer back down and lowered the pistol to her side.
Lindstrohm gazed at her, seeing her lithe body, the high, conical breasts and the generous flare of her hips. She kept her pubic thatch neatly trimmed so that the lips of her sex could be seen clearly. The glistening there revealed how much she had wanted him. Her perspiration-streaked body glimmered in the candlelight.
"Good night, Harry," she said coolly. She backed out of the door and stepped out of sight through the doorway. He didn't even hear the padding of her feet as she walked down the hallway. "Don't come after me."
Lying in the bed, Lindstrohm became aware of the aching aced he had for her. And he became aware of the black anger that filled him at the thought of her pinning him to the bed and threatening to kill him.
He rose from the sweat-dampened sheets they had twisted about themselves. He tried to remember the physical encounter that had been going on before the dream. Maybe there hadn't been one. Maybe Vasquez had simply crawled on top of him while he slept. It wouldn't have been the first time.
Sex with him was different for her. She'd told him that. And he suspected it was because she came closer to giving something of herself away that she'd fought for and protected for years.
Nude, he walked out onto the small balcony and stood in the cool wind sweeping in from the Bay of Campecheville. Farther out into the bay, boats marked with lanterns moved back and forth across the gentle waves rolling into land. Bells echoed, rolling over the ville.
Farther inland, protected by a sand and rock bar that the ville's inhabitants had made at his instruction, was a small lagoon that held fishing boats, as well as the tugs that toiled night and day. This night it also held the Tong's two prop- driven air wags that looked like fragile, crimson dragonflies and rocked on long, narrow pontoons.
The Tong advance representatives had easily acquiesced to his invitation to spend the night at the ville. Their reluctance had been carefully weighed, and they made just enough noise that it hadn't seemed too easy. Lindstrohm had no doubts that the men would scout around the ville. Despite Vasquez's suggestion to keep the Tong men confined and under guard, Lindstrohm had posted no such orders.
There was nothing to hide at Campecheville except what he chose to hide. And that stayed very well hidden. Only Vasquez knew.
Moonlight streaked the partially cleared streets, and he watched cats chasing rats near piles of rubble that had to be hauled off to dump sites in the next few days. There were, he noticed with satisfaction, more lights in the windows of the buildings that had survived the nukecaust now than there had been even a month ago.
Vasquez was right, and Reynolds had been right, as well: feeding all the slaves he was buying or accepting immigrants from the American coastline had always been hard. Now the expanding numbers were making that even more impossible.
But he believed he could do it. Nothing else was acceptable. All he needed was the third part of the machine. Over the past few years, he'd found two of them and he'd gotten them through the mat-trans unit he'd discovered in Campecheville and brought back on-line.
Timing was becoming critical, but he was certain he was closer to the revelation of the third piece of the machine. When he had found the earlier two pieces, the dreams had increased frequency and intensity—just as they were doing now.
And now, just as then, he'd found Ka'in in his dreams. But would he be a friend or a foe? That remained to be seen. It always did.
Chapter 10
Harsh sunlight struck Kane when he woke, burning through his eyelids in violent reds. He felt the dull remnants of a headache, and his throat was parched. Voices, grumbling and tired, created an undercurrent of noise around him, and the smell of cooking meat filled his nose.
He opened his eyes slowly, slitting them so he could ascertain where he was. It was an old Magistrate practice that he knew he'd never get over.
Everything looked normal, though. The people they'd rescued were huddled around small cook fires. Early dawn stained the eastern skies, barely lightening the thick fog bank that had settled over the area. The previous night's acid rain storm lingered in the stench that filled the air and the occasional sting of drops that landed on the people hunkered below.
"Are you awake?"
Lifting his head from the hillside, feeling how stiff and achy he was from the position he'd been forced into during the night, Kane looked over to his left at Brigid.
She sat cross-legged only a few feet away. "Feeling better?"
"Yeah."
"You ran fever most of the night."
Kane nodded carefully, feeling the pain still throbbing in his temples. "I don't think I have it now, Baptiste."
"No. It broke about an hour ago."
"You've been watching over me."
Brigid didn't say anything.
"Did you get any sleep, Baptiste?" Kane asked He forced himself to his feet.
"Some. Enough. Watch out for the branches above your head. They collected a lot of acid-rain water last night that hasn't dried out yet. A couple of people got burns from it this morning when they weren't paying attention to what they were doing."
Kane stayed low enough to avoid contact with the sheltering bather. "What's the sitrep, Baptiste?"
Brigid nodded out toward the cook fires. "Grant and Domi found a nest of squirrels about a hundred yards away on the other side of this hill. The two young boys in the group went with them when they found out they were going hunting. They've been bringing back the kills."
"Nobody else is in the area with us, then?"
"Everybody last night would have had sense to get in out of the rain," Brigid commented.
"Except the rider on the motorcycle," Kane stated. "Unless I hallucinated that." He thought about the dream he'd had, realizing that a hallucination might have covered all of it. But it was strange that there appeared to be no aftereffects of the fever, and no other symptoms of sickness, either.
"No. That was real."
"Where did the rider go?"
"Down the road."
"Alone?"
"I think so," Brigid said. "If the rider was an advance scout for a group, Grant or Domi would have seen them. They went out looking for them this morning, which is how we ended up with the squirrel feast. We've got breakfast for the morning, Kane, but we're out of food. The slavers' packs had some, the ones that were recovered, but those people ate it. And I wouldn't have tried to take it away from them yesterday."
"It would have caused a fight. Someone might have been killed."
"I know, but now that I'm looking at those people, I realize we've taken on a lot of responsibility." Brigid sounded resigned.
Kane almost grinned at her, but knew better. He looked away, watching the ex-slaves gather around the cook fires and prepare their own meals. "Freeing them yesterday was a good idea."
"I know, but now I understand a little better why you and Grant are a little more reluctant to get involved in other peoples' problems. The next problem is to figure out when to let go."
"There's only two decisions regarding that, Baptiste," Kane assured her. "You let them go when they're able to handle being on their own, or you let them go when you have to."
Brigid handed a sharpened stick and several squirrels to Kane. "You can skin and roast your breakfast. If it hadn't rained last night, we could have gathered berries and nuts from the bushes and trees. A lot grows around here, foraging materials mostly, but the acid rain from last night will make them inedible for a while. We're going to have problems with a water supply, though. Whatever natural water was in the area will be contaminated after last night's rain. The last of what we've had has already been used this morning."
"Does anyone know how far it is to Fiddlerville?"
"I've asked a couple of others, but they all say the same thing."
"That Fiddlerville isn't far?" Kane asked.
"Right." Brigid looked out at the people. "None of them have even been there, Kane. Maybe it doesn't even exist."
"Did you read any records at Cerberus about Fiddlerville?" Kane knew all about Brigid' s memory, and he knew if the ville had been mentioned she would remember it. Added to that was Lakesh's own driving need to know more about everything.
So it was surprising when Brigid shook her head. "For all we know, it's a myth. Something to give these people hope."
Kane looked to the south, following the curve of the rutted road they had been following. "We'll know soon enough, Baptiste."
"There're going to be other slavers. In fact, the whole myth of Fiddlerville could be a trap."
Kane nodded. "I know, Baptiste, but we can't stay here, and going back isn't any more attractive than going forward. We'll keep going. We haven't been that way yet."
KANE SAT on his haunches and pinched meat from the roasted squirrel while he held the spit he had cooked it on. The flavor was slightly gamy, but the meat helped fill his belly.
Metal clanked around him as two of the men used hammers they had taken from the dead slavers to remove the iron slave collars from the others. Counting Angel and Cherub, there were sixteen ex-prisoners in the group. The five children among them, including Cherub, were restless and anxious to go. All of them were thirsty.
Glancing up to the right, Kane spotted Brigid keeping watch high on the hillside next to a gnarled sycamore tree. She had gotten good at keeping herself concealed. Finished with the squirrel, Kane used his M-14 to push himself to his feet, then made his way up the hill to join Brigid.
When she looked at him, wary hostility was evident in her emerald-green eyes. "Did you come up here to take over watch?"
Kane subdued the immediate feelings of irritation that swelled within him. There were times when the chemistry between himself and Brigid Baptiste was difficult to handle. Both of them were too independent to get along easily much of the time.
"No, Baptiste, I didn't." Kane sat gingerly, mindful of the throbbing ache that had ballooned up inside his chest after he'd gotten up and started moving around. A brief inspection of his chest earlier had shown that his whole upper body was covered in deep purple bruising. "I came up to talk."
Grant and Domi were on the other side of the trail. If anyone approached, they would have a chance to put him or her into a cross fire. Kane and Grant had talked briefly and decided that it was in their best interests for the slaves to remove their collars. That way maybe they wouldn't be an open invitation to the next slavers that came along.
Brigid seemed surprised. "What do you want to talk about?"
After only a moment's hesitation, Kane told Brigid about his two dreams of Egypt.
"DJOSER WAS an important pharaoh," Brigid Baptiste said after Kane had finished. "He was part of what scholars termed the Third Dynasty. There were actually four dynasties during the time of Egypt's Old Kingdom. During that period, governments became centralized and administrative systems came into being. There were also dramatic increases in technology, building, hieroglyphic writing and art."
"Like someone was guiding them along," Kane said, thinking of Enlil. The campsite was ten minutes back along the rutted road they followed south. The forest stayed thick on either side of the road, which was why Grant and Domi walked the wing positions. No one would able to slip up on the group with them watching, and they could range ahead to scout out the new territory. Kane walked point with Brigid.
"Back before skydark," Brigid went on, "there were many archaeologists and other historians who believed the ancient Egyptians had contact with aliens. The Maya, as well as Native Americans, were thought to have traveled across the Bering Strait and settled into North and South America. Those people believed that the extraterrestrials—what they called grays, like Balam or Enlil—had guided civilization in those days."
"Well," Kane said dryly, "we know those people were right. So why was Djoser important?"
"He was the first pharaoh to unite Upper and Lower Egypt. When he had his pyramid built, he—"
"It was six mastabas tall," Kane said, musing over the images still strong in his head. "Did I tell you that already?"
"No," Brigid replied, "you didn't tell me that. How could you know that? Only four of the mastabas were surviving at the end of the twentieth century."
"Because I saw it in the damn dream." Kane swallowed reflexively, finding it harder to do since they'd been without water all morning long. Adults had to watch their children to make sure they didn't try to drink from the pools of acid rain that occupied the hollows of the land.
"Are you sure you've never seen the pyramid anywhere before?" Brigid asked.
Kane struggled to keep the irritation from his voice. If he hadn't been sure that he had never seen the pyramid before yesterday, he would have said so. "Baptiste, I'm not an archivist. All the material I've been exposed to regarding pyramids has been while I was with you. Back in Cobaltville, reading about pyramids never happened. I was a Magistrate— I wasn't there to read. I don't think even Lakesh has droned on about anyone named Djoser."
"I just thought maybe you had seen a book on Egyptology while you were at Cerberus."
"No."
Brigid nodded. "Djoser wasn't the name scholars knew this pharaoh by. He was also called Netjerikhet, and that is the name he is best known by. It wasn't uncommon for a pharaoh to have five or more names."
"I haven't heard anything about that name, either."
A crow started cawing ahead of them. The big black bird sat at the top of a towering oak tree that overlooked the road and shallow valley it descended into. The Grande River ran narrow and shallow farther ahead and to the west, like a bright ribbon laid through the overgrown forest. The road meandered down the side of the valley and disappeared into the trees when it hit level ground. There were no villes and no one else moving on the road as far as Kane could see.
"Was there anything in the materials that you have read about some kind of machine that Djoser had?" Kane asked. "What kind of machine?" Brigid asked.
"I don't know what kind of machine, Baptiste," Kane retorted. "If I knew already, I wouldn't have all these questions."
"Even given your description of the machine, I can't place it."
Kane had drawn it out for her, as best as he remembered from the dream, in a smoothed-over patch of ground near the gnarled sycamore tree they'd kept watch by. Brigid had confirmed that she had never seen anything like the machine.
"Balam was there in your dream," Brigid said.
"Yes."
"But you said that you had the impression that Balam didn't belong there."
"He didn't," Kane stated.
"Because he knew you weren't Kanakht?"
"Yeah. And because of how the whole situation felt, Baptiste." They were quiet for a moment, and Kane listened to the wet mud of the rutted road sucking at his boots.
