“Her employer,” Shaz answered emotionlessly, as he opened a knife. “Here, cut her loose.”
Okanda considered making use of the knife to attack the combat variant but knew he couldn’t beat a bullet. What looked like a rifl?e sling had been used to bind the woman. The angen hide parted, and Phan was free. Though more than a little surprised by the operative’s unexpected appearance, the assassin gave no sign of it as she got down off the table. “Thanks for dropping in.”
Shaz smiled wolfi?shly. “You’re welcome. . . . What happened?”
“This man had a gate seed—but didn’t know what it was. Logos made use of it to open a portal to Haafa. All four of the subjects are there by now.”
Shaz liked the fact that Phan’s report was brief, to the point, and empty of excuses. “Haafa? Not Socket?”
“That’s what Logos said.”
“Damn,” Shaz exclaimed wearily. “What the hell is that piece-of-shit computer up to now? Ah well, time will tell.”
Then, without any warning whatsoever, the variant turned and shot Okanda in the head. The bullet’s impact was suffi?cient to tip the ladder-back chair over and dump the dead body onto the blood-splattered fl?oor.
“Come on,” Shaz said, as he reached for the assassin’s hand. “The Techno Society has a gate in Feda. We can be there in three days. And one other thing . . .”
“Yes?”
“Don’t screw up again.”
EIGHT
The Planet Haafa
One has only to watch the pyramids sail across the desert tounderstand how much knowledge has been lost.
—Synthia Mosaba, curator to King Horus,
The Segenni Index
Four huge pyramids could be seen in the distance, each fl?oating about fi?fteen feet above the desert fl?oor and drifting toward the southwest. The sun was past its zenith, so their sharply geometric shadows pointed east and seemed to caress the land as if to soothe it. Above the pyramids, having been lofted there by friendly thermals, winged variants made lazy circles against the azure sky. The wings wore bright livery, so their masters could identify them from a distance, and were not currently engaged in combat. But they would be once the Goddess Sogol brought the pyramids to a momentary halt, opened a ramp to the artifactrich city that lay buried below, and thereby triggered a stampede. Something that could occur in an hour, a day, or a week. No one knew except for Sogol herself—and she wasn’t talking. And that, King Kufu thought to himself, as he stared out over the sun-baked desert, is the most addictive thing of all. Not knowing, but risking everything he had and winning enough to stay in the game. Even though 136 days had passed since the last big score, he was still living off the proceeds, and savoring the victory. Because nothing brought the nobleman more pleasure than an opportunity to best his peers—as scabrous a group of liars, thieves, and villains as anyone was likely to fi?nd.
Such were the artifact king’s thoughts as he sat beneath the awning that had been erected for him and took comfort from the fact that his father’s father had commissioned the throne he sat on, and that his army was large enough to fi?ght any two of the other kings should that become necessary. Then, as a pair of comely young women fanned him, something unexpected took place. The air in front of Kufu seemed to boil, three fi?gures materialized out of nowhere, and fell ten feet to the sand below. There was a moment of confusion as the newcomers fl?ailed about, cries of alarm as the apparitions came to their feet, and the rattle of equipment as two dozen heavily armed heavies rushed forward to subdue the interlopers.
Rebo had barely recovered from the trauma associated with the jump and the unexpected fall into what felt like the heart of a gigantic oven, when a pair of half-naked heavies took hold of his arms as a third confi?scated the runner’s newly acquired arsenal. The heavies were dressed in identical uniforms, which consisted of red-plumed helmets, leather cross belts, and boot-style sandals. Three minutes later the off-worlders were frog-marched up to the shaded dais where Kufu and the senior members of his household sat waiting. Norr stumbled as a heavy pushed her forward, fell to her knees, and got back up again. “You!”
the man seated in the jewel-encrusted chair said, as he pointed a long skinny fi?nger at the sensitive. “Who are you?
And where did you come from?”
Norr had just started to formulate an answer when she felt a familiar presence. The sensitive tried to fend it off but there was no denying Lysander as he moved in to assume control of the channel’s body. “My name is Emperor Hios,” the spirit answered hoarsely. “Or was, back when I ordered my staff to construct the fl?oating pyramids. I reside in the spirit world now, but speak through this female when I have the need, and continue to take an interest in affairs of the physical plane. The runner and the heavy serve as bodyguards. In answer to your second question, we arrived here from the Planet Derius.”
There was a moment of silence as everyone waited to see what Kufu would say. He wore a red headscarf, pulled tight in front, with the excess fabric hanging down his back. He had a high forehead, eyes that appeared larger than they actually were thanks to heavy makeup, a hooked nose, and a weak chin. The gold band the king wore around his neck matched the cuffs on his wrists and glowed against his skin. A fl?uted scepter lay across the king’s lap. His legs were long, lean, and so smooth they might have been shaved. Outside of the gold ring that encircled one elongated toe, Kufu’s feet were bare. The king frowned. “That’s an interesting claim if true. But everyone knows that Emperor Hios commissioned the pyramids, and that subsequent to their deaths, both he and his closest relatives were entombed within them. So, unless you possess the means to prove your identity, your channel and her companions will soon be at work in the artifact mines.”
“As it happens I can prove my identity,” Lysander replied loftily. “Because the baton on your lap once belonged to me.”
“So?” Kufu demanded skeptically. “That isn’t proof . . . It’s another claim.”
Emboldened by the nature of the situation, and certain that their liege was correct, the various generals, advisors, and other functionaries ranked behind Kufu offered their support via comments such as, “That’s right!” “She’s a fake!”
And, “Send them to the mines!”
But the commentary came to an abrupt halt when Kufu raised a bejeweled hand. “Silence! Answer, spirit, if you are one.”
“Raise the scepter,” Lysander instructed, “turn the knob on the end, and point the instrument at my pyramid.”
Kufu followed the instructions, and, once the baton was in the proper position, Lysander spoke again. “All right,”
the disincarnate said, “push on the emerald.”
The gemstone was not only large, but located in a position convenient to Kufu’s right thumb, so it was easy to push. The jewel gave slightly, a disk of bright red light appeared on the distant pyramid, and wobbled when Kufu’s hand moved.
There was a mutual gasp of surprise from the same people who had been making fun of Lysander just moments before. Even Rebo stared in amazement as the laser beam made contact with the distant object and slid back and forth across its surface. “I think you will fi?nd that the baton comes in handy during large battles,” the spirit entity commented. “Just point it at what you want your generals to attack and give the necessary orders.”