"She's not available," said Marie. "I threatened to rip an extra asshole in her secretary, but I reckon she's genuinely not there."
"The President . . . What is it, Rachel?"
"Checkpoint CZ alpha on Midway Plaisance. Lieutenant Evans reports two PSA vehicles have just passed the outer perimeter, towing two large trailers. Horse trailers, they think. The dragons have chased after them. The lieutenant says the dragons insist Sergeant Cruz was in one of the vehicles."
"With their sense of smell, I don't doubt it." Miggy grabbed his jacket and was heading for the door himself. "God only knows why the bastards have horse trailers—but it won't be good. The call to the President will just have to wait. Marie, tell Lieutenant Evans those PSA agents have to be stopped from whatever they're doing. With deadly force if need be, dammit! I'm getting down there. And get on the phone to Senator Abrams of the Pyramid Oversight Committee. Senator Larsen from Montana, too. Tell them we've got the dragons, the sphinx and the PSA running some kind of cowboy rogue operation. Tell them I've gone to try and put a stop to it."
Lamont pushed past Miggy. "The car's out front, Miggy. I'll drive you."
"Rachel, you make the calls," said Marie, grabbing her children's hands. "I ain't letting that man of mine out of my sight ever again, not as long as I live."
A minute and a half later the stretch limo was racing toward the inner exclusion zone around the University of Chicago's Regenstein Library. Or what was left of it, anyway.
Sitting in the second black SUV, the one towing the larger trailer with a sleeping Greek sphinx within, not the one towing the double horsebox, Cruz could only wish that he'd had a proper chance to say goodbye to Medea, and that they'd put him and Mac into the same vehicle. Well, he had a pack full of the sort of things he'd wished like hell he'd had last time. And in BDUs he was a lot warmer than these jerks in leather skirts. They looked a lot more like a cheap remake of Ben Hur than the real thing. The inner exclusion line was just ahead. There, according to Agent Supervisor Megane, they'd stop, hitch the horses from the horsebox to Throttler's trailer, and, linked hands touching the still somnolent sphinx, make their way into the snatch zone.
By now, Cruz was pretty sure the PSA agents must have drugged the sphinx. How they'd managed that—or how they'd persuaded her to enter the cargo plane that brought them here from Las Vegas—he still couldn't figure out. They had to be absolutely crazy to do something like that. Leaving aside the legalities, Throttler was dangerous.
But . . . he'd also been around Agent Supervisor Megane long enough to have gotten a sense for the man. And just that one brief contact with Helen Garnett had been enough to give him a sense of what she was like. So, although he didn't know any of the details, Cruz was sure he knew how the whole thing had unfolded. Garnett would have talked tough in front of Megane, not understanding that Megane was to a real "tough op" what a semi-delusional drugstore cowboy was to John Wesley Hardin. If she said "inch," Megane would interpret "mile"—not knowing himself the difference between a mile and a kilometer.
The rest would follow, like an avalanche—or a train wreck. It would actually be rather funny, in a gruesome sort of way, if Cruz and Mac hadn't gotten stuck in the middle of it. Cruz was pretty sure that he could break free of the two assigned to be his contacts, but whether Mac could was another matter. And whether they'd get themselves shot on the spot, was yet another matter. It might be best to go, and let Throttler bring them home . . . if this worked.
He wished he could talk it over with Mac first, though. This bunch of PSA security flakes didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of surviving the other side. They just didn't get it. He just couldn't penetrate that armor of know-it-all. The only trouble was that the Krim might drop them into a place where even Throttler might get killed or separated from them.
Just then decisions were taken out of his hands by an impact that knocked him sprawling onto Agent Bott. With the raw sound of screeching metal the SUV fishtailed and came to a stop. Struggling to sit up, Cruz saw why. The trailer carrying the sphinx had been knocked over sideways. The roof had been torn clean off and Throttler had been rolled right out onto the street. Now, looking somewhat groggy, she was lurching to her feet.
Looking up, Cruz gave a lopsided grin. He saw now what had knocked the trailer over. A blow from a dragon's tail. It was a good thing that they'd been slowing to stop just outside the inner exclusion zone.
"Looks like the Seventh Cavalry arrived just in time," he murmured to himself. It might make things more complicated later on but it took decisions out of his hands, for now.
Agent Supervisor Megane hauled his helmet straight. "Out. We need to recapture that animal!"
"Are you utterly crazy?" said Cruz.
"That means you too, soldier!" snapped the PSA agent. The doors to the vehicle opened and pseudo-Greek hoplites spilled onto the roadway.
Willy-nilly, so did Cruz.
* * *
It wasn't hard for Liz to work out where they were. The two dragons were wheeling overhead, just above the black SUVs and the now-smashed trailer. The stretch limo slewed around, and people—led by Arachne, by a short head—exploded out of the doors. She and Medea ran full tilt toward the redhead and the stocky dark man, both in camo battledress, surrounded by Greek hoplite warriors who seemed to be frantically trying to pull their swords apart.
Liz ran toward Throttler instead, with Jerry and Lamont—and Marie and a trail of kids in hot pursuit—across the broad yellow line painted across the roadway. They ran past the Exclusion Zone—Danger! signs. "Are you all right?" yelled Liz.
The Greek sphinx was still groggy, but at least she recognized them. "When does the great contest start?" she demanded. "I hope we're not too late. I'm bound to win the gold medal."
Liz looked up at her. "Huh? What contest?"
Throttler frowned. "The World Riddling Olympics, of course." She nodded her huge head toward Megane. "The one that Mr. Bara over there is . . . what's the word? Emcee, I think."
Liz, Lamont and Marie stared at Megane, who was lying on the ground now. Apparently, he'd tripped while trying to duck one of the dragon's swoops.
Marie suddenly laughed. "God, you know—he does look a little bit like Dave Bara."
The name vaguely registered on Liz. Dave Bara was the master of ceremonies for one of those idiotic television quiz shows that Americans seemed addicted to, for no reason she'd ever been able to fathom.
Lamont laughed, too. "So that's how they did it." He shook his head. "Throttler, there ain't no such thing as—"
"Lamont!" Liz half-shrieked. She now understood how the PSA agents had managed to finagle the sphinx onto that cargo plane, too—but she hadn't forgotten, as Lamont had, just how deadly Throttler was. As much as Liz detested the PSA, she still didn't want to see half a dozen of them eaten alive right in front of her and several children.
Sure enough, the frown on the huge sphinx's face was starting to look positively thunderous. But before Liz could figure out a way to deflect Throttler's murderous fury, one of those same idiot PSA agents—disguised as a "Greek warrior," to make everything as absurd as possible—rushed up and tried to push her away from the sphinx.
Liz lost her temper and gave the bastard a mighty swat with her handbag. Unfortunately, he flinched at the last moment. Instead of the solid corner of the bag smacking into his head, it simply knocked his helmet askew and she stumbled off-balance into him. The next thing she knew she was wrestling the jackass.
Jerry and Lamont tried to pull them apart, only to have more "Greek hoplites" run up and join in. Marie and her kids did too. There was a massive free-for-all just in front of Throttler—whose teeth were now bared.
Cruz was the first to realize what was happening, as he emerged from an enthusiastic hugging by reptilian and human agencies. "Smitar!" he yelled at the dragon. "Herd them back across the line!" He struggled to free himself from the embrace of his loved ones.
Then there was a brief purple flare of light. Jerr
y, Liz, Lamont, Marie, four children and five "Greek hoplites" had vanished.
Miggy Tremelo was making the air turn blue with his swearing.
Lieutenant Evans and his soldiers arrived a few seconds later, spilling out of their Humvee with their weapons ready.
"Arrest that son of a bitch," Tremelo snarled, pointing at Megane.
The agent supervisor had managed to get back onto his feet. "You can't—"
But by then Lieutenant Evans had his rifle muzzle right under Megane's chin.
"Can't what?" he asked. "And what kind of odds do you want? I'll give you ten-to-one, but I wouldn't take them if I were you. I really, really wouldn't."
"Should I shoot him, sir?" asked Henderson. Quite a bit more eagerly than was really proper for a trained soldier.
Megane cocked his eyes at the private. Henderson's gun was pointing right at his upper chest, from a range of maybe eight feet. He couldn't possibly miss—and whatever else Megane was ignorant of, ballistics was clearly not one of them. He'd be dead before his body hit the ground.
"It grieves me to report that Private Henderson here once got arrested for pizza," Evans said solemnly.
Megane's eyes swiveled back to Evans. By now, they were the only part of his body that was moving at all, besides his mouth.
"Huh? That doesn't make any sense."
"I know it doesn't—and he's the same soldier who just asked my permission to shoot you. I recommend you contemplate that juxtaposition." Evans held up a hand. "Not just yet, Private Henderson. I think negotiations are still possible. So, Agent Whateveryournameis, I repeat: What odds do you want to give me that—what was the expression—'you can't do that,' I believe? Like I said, ten-to-one's the going rate."
Megane's jaws tightened. "I'm not talking."
"How wise of you. Private Henderson, you may lower your weapon. I do not believe it will prove necessary to shoot the imbecile after all."
Henderson did as commanded. "Well, damn," he said. "It was lousy pizza, too."
"I tried to point out that the sphinx could have taken them there, without all the dangerous stuff with the pyramid," said Mac. "When we were in the SUV on the way here. But they weren't listening."
Miggy shook his head. "The Greek sphinx would probably not have helped them get where they've gone anyway. According to what we've established from Dr. Lukacs, the Krim have been excluded from ancient Greek myth, and ancient Egyptian myth. I'm not sure where they've gone, but it isn't there."
"So . . . where have they gone?" asked Cruz.
Miggy pulled a face. "Name a mythology. There are hundreds to choose from. Probably thousands."
At last! The Krim device sensed a rich crop, full of credulity and anger, just in range. It activated the prukrin transfer mechanism. This Ur-Mythworld had been a huge problem, with too few new meme-carriers and huge problems with the local gods. It had thought the Greeks venal and unreasonable, to say nothing of lazy. The Egyptians had been far too independent and intransigent. This place, underpowered as the Krim device was now, was worse still.
It was only when the translation was too far advanced that the Krim device realized that it had been gulled. The meme-flavor of some of those coming through was the same as the group of denialists it had had such a hard time with in Greece and Egypt. The one who had eventually driven the Krim-masters out of their new playground in Greece.
The group would have to be killed. But it would have to avoid direct contact!
As if it had not been having a bad enough time with the Krim-primary in this world. He was very strong. It was questionable just who was in control any longer.
PART II: My kingdom for a Norse
Chapter 7
Again there was no moment of transition, no time between places. Jerry just found himself in an alien world, falling flat on his butt, with a large "Greek" on top of him. That almost certainly saved his life, though. A hissing white-hot ball of metal hurtled overhead and smashed clean through a huge rusty iron pillar.
Frightened, yowling, misshapen creatures yammered and ran around them, and over them. They were in some kind of enormous hall, lit only by fires running down the length of it, and filled, right now, with panic. Some of the panic came from the man on top of him. "What in hell is going on?" he yelled. And then he repeated himself in bad contemporary Greek.
"We're in a Mythworld. Now get off him, you idiot," said a woman with a slight Germanic-Dutch hint to her English.
Never had Liz's accent sounded so charming. She pushed the PSA agent off Jerry and hauled him to his feet. "Come on, Jerry. The others are back there. We've got to get out of this place. There is a passageway."
It was the kind of Liz-practicality that Jerry found he really could use. Unfortunately it didn't seem to be working too well this time. The passage led into a warren of others, an absolute maze of rock-hewed passageways, poorly lit by pitch-soaked brands that burned in iron hoops along the way. It was also full of panic-stricken men, and creatures that definitely weren't human. Humans were in the minority, and they had that half-starved, beaten look that said "slave" even without the dirt and the ragged clothes. The ragged clothes always included some form of breeches, and, despite numerous attempts by the PSA agents still badly disguised as "hoplites," they did not speak Greek.
What was worse was that the passageways all eventually seemed to loop back to the great hall. And someone was throwing white-hot iron around in there, with considerable force. Force enough to make holes in walls, and start several fires, which didn't make things any easier.
"That's enough," panted Marie. "Let's stop running and try and get organized."
They stopped in a little alcove off the main passage, and Marie sat down on a stone bench. She looked a little gray-faced even in the ruddy torchlight. Her kids clustered around her, the youngest boy climbing down from Lamont's back to hug her. And then Marie's eyes went wide. "Where's Tina?"
The little girl swallowed. "She didn't come with us, Mama."
"Are you sure?"
The one twin who was present nodded. "She let go my hand just before it happened." A tear leaked down her face. "Will she be all right?"
"Just fine, honey. I promise," she said, hugging her. "Better off than us, here."
Marie looked at someone standing next to Jerry. Standing so quietly that Jerry hadn't even noticed him. "And you, boy?"
In jeans, sneakers and a Chicago Bears sweatshirt, Neoptolemeus looked like any American kid, not the son of Medea and a Greek hero. A scared, miserable kid, right now. "This is Medea's son," said Jerry, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Neoptolemeus."
Lamont nodded. "We'll take care of you, boy."
The child bit his lip and leaned into the shelter of Jerry. It was an odd feeling, that. Jerry squeezed the shoulder. "You'll be fine. We're all friends of your mama's."
In the background, five "Greeks" were attempting to assemble firearms from their spears and swords, with a notable lack of success. One of them cleared his throat. "Um. Dr. Lukacs, I presume?"
Jerry looked at the man and noted his hoplite outfit was from around the rise of the Persian conflicts—which was rather a lot later than the Achaeans that they'd fallen in with on their first venture into the Ur-Mythworlds. "Yes. And who are you?"
"Besides the jerks that got us into this mess, that is," said Liz, swinging her shoulder bag dangerously.
The PSA agent straightened up. "You interfered with our mission—"
A huge squalling howl from the hall interrupted him, and perhaps recalled him to where he was. "I'm Agent Stephens. Can you tell us where we are? We've lost our guides and we still have an assignment to complete, if possible. Sergeant Cruz said you were the leading expert in this field, you and someone he called 'Sir.' So could you tell us where about in Greece we are?"