Resurrection (29 page)

The Captain felt himself choking. Through his constricted throat, he whispered, “You cannot kill me, Lion.” In his voice was the quiet certainty of a man who was never denied in his smallest wish.

“You’re human, Father!” the Lion yelled. With his hand, he wiped blood from the Captain’s nose and held it up for him to see. “Blood. Your blood. Human blood. Red, like mine. Like my son’s. Like anyone’s. You’re not a god.”

The doors shook again. Then there were shouts among the guards.

“I am a god,” the Captain said. In that moment, he could not feel fear, he could not feel danger, he could only feel himself as Osiris, invincible.

“Then the god dies.” The Lion shoved the barrel of the gun into his father’s neck. He pressed the trigger, letting go of his body as he did so. There was a blue light at the tip of the gun, where it was wedged into the Captain’s skin, and the Captain’s body shook in random, wild jerks. His face contorted horribly. The Lion kept his finger on the trigger, sending a continuous bolt into him. A second or two would have been enough to kill any man, but the Lion could not release his finger. It was after a full minute, when there was a wet burning smell and curls of smoke, that he finally managed to command his hand to let go.

The Captain’s eyes were frozen open, lifeless, but still twitching slightly. As the Lion pulled the gun away from his father’s neck, the Captain slid down the wall and collapsed onto the floor. The Lion knelt beside him, feeling for his breath and pulse. There were neither. He stared at the Captain, thinking how prosaic and anticlimactic it was to see him lying there dead. After all the years building to this moment, it was so simple and quick. And right. Above his dead body sat the great Osiris of the mural, bearing the Captain’s face, gazing out with equanimity on all that passed before him.

The Lion turned from the his father. Only one of the doors was now shaking. The guards had concentrated their efforts. The Lion checked the gun. Its charge, drawn from kinetic energy of the user as well as sunlight, was still nearly full. It and the other weapons the Lion had taken were the only ones left from the survey crew’s original stockpile. The others had been used over the first years of the survey and had eventually broken and been discarded. He was, therefore, more powerfully armed than any opponent he might face outside the doors.

As the far door continued to shake under impact from outside, the Lion grabbed his father’s robe and dragged his body to the opposite door. Drawing on all of his considerable strength, he picked up the body and propped it up in front of him. As quietly as he could, holding his father’s body against him, he released the locking board on the door and pulled it open.

There were two guards on either side of the doorway. They turned and saw the distorted face of their Lord Osiris standing there. Before they could move or speak, the Lion shot them. The rest of the guards were on the other side of the receiving chamber, still attacking the door. The Lion eased his father to the ground, straightened his own clothing, then quickly ran down the empty corridor before him. Before the rest of the palace servants understood what was happening, he was outside, running through the gardens and away.

The tapestries were burning. The rooms of the temple were scorching hot and full of smoke. Guards ran from room to room, some trying to save others, some trying to save themselves. Those of the priestesses who were sober were also running. Many men and women, overcome by smoke inhalation, were lying or crawling on the floor. Others lay on couches or floor cushions, carried away on their opiate reveries, unable to mentally connect the heat and smoke to real danger.

The Lion walked from room to room, a torch in his hand, setting everything burnable aflame. There were no means of quick long-distance communication in Memphis. Thus, the Lion had been able to run, unobstructed, from the palace, out of the city, to the desolate outlying spot of his mother’s temple. He had killed a few guards at the outer doors and inside, and then the burning had begun. He had started with the rooms around the perimeter, burning toward the center of the building. He had torn off the leopard skin around his chest. His short blond hair was matted with sweat, and it stuck up wildly from his head. Barefoot and barechested, with only his skirt wrapped around him, he moved through the temple, bringing destruction.

There was screaming up ahead. His pushed his way through the great copper doors, where his own likeness had been replaced with the likeness of his half brother Khufu, pushed his way into his mother’s bedchamber.

She lay on her bed, crying. The chamber was full of smoke from surrounding rooms. Several young women were screaming in a corner. They were all drugged, and the screams were high and insane. The Lion touched the torch to the nearest hangings, the beautiful tapestry renditions of his mother and father embracing each other. They sprang into flame. At the sight of new fire, one of the girls became partly lucid. She tugged the hand of another. When the second girl would not get up, the first ran, throwing open a door that led into a neighboring room, also ablaze. She plunged in regardless, trying to find the way out.

The Lion walked to his mother’s bed. She looked up at him, tears of confusion streaking her face.

“I can’t breathe,” she said, her eyes trying to focus on the flames climbing the walls. “Son,” she said, somehow recognizing him. “I can’t breathe.”

“You agreed they should die, didn’t you, mother? I know him. He would not decide such a thing without you.”

She nodded, strangely coherent. “Yes. We had no choice.”

The Lion felt tears burning his eyes. He threw the torch at the wall, igniting another group of tapestries, and scooped his mother off the bed, throwing her over his shoulder. She did not struggle.

He ran from the bedchamber with her, passing through burning rooms. The walls radiated intense heat, and the smoke was oppressive. The Lion felt his lungs giving out. He ignored the pain and ran, passing the women and men who had collapsed, passing blackened frescoes and smoldering furniture.

He reached the high doors to the outside, which now stood open, smoke billowing out into the sunlit air. There were people here who had escaped the blaze. They lay stunned and choking.

He dropped his mother to the ground. She did not try to move. Several hundred yards away, he could see a large group of men approaching at a run. They were coming from the city.

He fell to a sitting position next to her. Her eyes were open, staring up at him, still held by her drug.

“Tell me one thing, Mother,” he whispered in Haight, the language he had learned from her when he was a toddler. “Did you really agree with him? Did you really want all of this?”

Her eyes watered, and she turned her head away from him. She answered him in the same language, the first time she had spoken it in nearly ten years. Softly, she said, “I had no choice.”

The Lion let his head fall into his hands.

“It is the Lady Isis, my lord!” someone called.

The Lion looked up. The group of men had arrived. There were thirty of them, breathing hard from a long sprint, all with spears and knives held ready. They stared at the smoke from the temple and the people lying outside. Khufu, now a strong lad of thirteen, was leading them.

The young king raised a hand, and the men came to a stop. The Lion stared up at them, but made no attempt to move.

“Take him!” Khufu yelled, pointing at the Lion. The Lion still held his gun, but he threw it aside as several men took hold of him. He did not need it anymore.

Khufu knelt by the Lion’s mother and tenderly placed a hand on her cheek.

“Are you hurt, Divine Mother?” he asked.

“No, my son,” she responded, wiping her eyes. She took his hand. “I am safe now.”

Khufu snapped his fingers, and several of the men came forward to attend her. He walked over to his half brother. The Lion had been pulled to a standing position. He regarded Khufu impassively.

“You have murdered the god,” the young king said. His eyes moistened. “You have taken my father.”

“He was also my father.”

Khufu made a derisive laugh. “That claim wears thin. My father has told me of your true identity and your disloyalty.”

This was, apparently, a new twist to the Captain’s story. It did not matter.

“You have claimed my title,” Khufu continued. “You have claimed to be Horus.”

The Lion stared at the boy wordlessly. There was no need to answer.

Khufu went on. “Your life is insignificant, and so your death cannot possibly make up for the murder of the god. Still, I offer it as a small sacrifice on the altar of beloved Osiris. Het!” The last was a command, and five warriors sprang into position in front of the Lion, their spears held ready to strike.

“I am only a man, like my father,” the Lion said quietly. “A single spear will be sufficient.”

He held Khufu’s eyes for a moment; then the boy made a downward slash with his hand, giving the signal to the warriors. Their spears came down with force, embedding themselves in the Lion’s chest. The impact sent him backward, pulling him from the arms of those who held him. He hit the ground, five spears sticking up from his body. A single, long breath issued from his lips. Then he was silent.

Whatever the afterlife might be, the Lion only hoped his wife and child would be there with him and his father would no longer exist. No, perhaps his father would exist, but it would be his real father, the man who had raised him back on Herrod, the honest hero he had worshiped as a child. In the moment of his death, he thought,
At last, it ends.

Present Day

The Mechanic and Marcus walked down a broad sidewalk bordering Lake Geneva. They were facing southeast, with the lake on their right and the cafés and restaurants of Montreux lining the street to their left. The Mechanic walked slowly, his eyes looking down at the pavement, which was dark after the rain showers earlier in the day. Marcus glanced around, his eyes skimming over the tidy buildings, old and new, that made up the town of Montreux. Above the buildings, the mountains were visible, half hidden in mist. The day was cloudy, but the sun found its way through here and there, imbuing the air with a bright, rich quality and putting hints of blue in the gray stretch of the lake.

There was a sprinkling of people in the roadside restaurants, most sitting inside, with only a few braving the chill of the patio tables. Pedestrians moved up and down the sidewalk in light jackets and hats.

The Mechanic glanced at his watch. He was dressed in a fine black wool suit, for which he had been fitted in Cairo. He wore a narrow-brimmed felt hat, which cast his face in shadow, making his odd skin tone less obvious. He looked very much like a Swiss businessman out for a lunchtime constitutional. Next to him, Marcus also wore a dark suit, though he had left his head bare to allow himself unobstructed vision. With his tall, solid frame and weathered face, he looked a bit dangerous, even in his present clothing,

It was nearly time. The Mechanic would hand over the two manuals, the only existing copies of the Eschless Funnel technology. Once he had handed them off, all of this would be over, and his life would begin. After the scene in the bazaar, he had realized that he was getting far too careless with his own safety. All that had mattered to him since waking was securing a pleasant life for himself, a life as good as the Captain’s had been, maybe better. It was time to make the deal and put risk behind him, just as Nate had advised. The Mechanic had left for Geneva directly from the bazaar, ferried there by the Chinese, whom he had quickly informed were his buyers of choice.

He resisted an urge to look at his watch again. There were surely agents of the Chinese scattered throughout the local area observing him at this moment. He turned to look out over the lake. Even out there, they were probably watching him from one of the boats on the water. He would not appear nervous. He put his hands into his coat pockets and stared ahead without expression.

“Do you see anything yet?” Eddie asked in Pruit’s ear.

“No, just him and the tall man, walking,” Pruit responded. She spoke into a tiny communicator hidden at her neck and in her ear. They had brought a pair of the communicators from the sleepers’ cave. Their range was short, but sufficient for their needs today. She was walking down a street perpendicular to the lakefront, from which she had a view of the Mechanic and his bodyguard as they ambled along. As far as she knew, the Mechanic did not yet have the manuals. He had stopped nowhere since arriving in Geneva, except his hotel, and he carried nothing of any size on his body. Neither did Marcus. Where were they?

Eddie was on a street parallel to the lakefront and a block away, slowly driving a rented car in pace with the Mechanic. Eddie had lobbied to be the one on foot, for there was a real danger that Pruit would be recognized by the Mechanic. Pruit had pointed out, though, that she did not drive cars with much skill, and her handling of weapons was better than his. Eddie had ultimately agreed. In this setting, wearing a sweatshirt and jogging pants, she looked nothing like that dark-eyed Muslim girl from the bazaar.

As she walked down a gentle slope in the street, Pruit was aware of the aching soreness in her lower back. It had been clear that Adaiz was expecting her in the bazaar, and the obvious deduction was that the Lucien had planted a second tracer on her. It had taken Eddie half an hour to locate it, concealed in the line of her lower spine, but he had managed to pry it out, and they had found no others on her body.

The Mechanic had left Cairo almost immediately, leaving no time for Pruit to sleep in her fullsuit and repair the wound. During the flight to Switzerland, however, it had not been the wound, but the thought of the Lucien Enon-Amet that occupied her. Where she once saw only differences between her race and the Lucien, her mind was now occupied with similarities. They had similar religious beliefs, similar knowledge of their spiritual nature. What else did they share? And why could she not hate them any longer?

Eddie passed the street she was on and saw her from behind as she headed down toward the lake. He mentally went over his weapons: gun on right calf, knife on left, ready should he need them.

Jean-Claude sat on a bench, looking out over Lake Geneva. He was concealed in a stand of evergreen trees between the sidewalk and the railing overlooking the lake. His black skin stood out here, but no one seemed bothered by his difference. These were a tolerant people, and they were pleased when they discovered he spoke French, even if he had a Parisian accent.

He wore a long overcoat and had dressed himself in nice clothing. Around his belt, concealed beneath the coat, were the three items he would need, ready for quick action.

To his right, several hundred yards away, was the Mechanic, slowly walking in Jean-Claude’s direction. Jean-Claude had watched him for a quarter of a mile, but he now found he no longer had to look to know where he was. He could sense the man’s proximity like hot light burning his skin.

Burning
…he thought.

It was almost time. He would not move until he saw those manuals. Those books had been the root of the Mechanic’s power and his need for slaves. They too must go.

“Father, my moment draws near,” he whispered. “’When you take the field against your enemies, you need have no fear of them, for the Lord your God will be with you…’” It was Deuteronomy 20:1. He had read it over and over in that chapel above the Mediterranean, spelling out the words until he understood them all. “I have no fear, Father. I have no fear…”

Pruit reached the lakeside street and casually passed by the patio of a café. Fifty yards ahead and across the small street were the Mechanic and Marcus, still heading slowly east around the lake. Beyond them, the railing at the edge of the lake curved away from the sidewalk toward the water, carving out a larger space where there were several tall trees. Pruit stayed on the opposite side of the street and picked up her pace.

“He’s looking at his watch again, Eddie,” she whispered.

“I’m moving down to your street,” Eddie said.

“All right.”

Up ahead, she watched a black sedan pull up on her side of the street, some distance beyond the Mechanic. From the back-seat, a small Asian man in a gray pinstriped suit emerged. He crossed the street and began walking up the sidewalk toward the Mechanic. They were a hundred feet apart.

“It’s happening, Eddie,” Pruit said quietly.

A moment later, Eddie’s car pulled onto the street behind her.

Pruit began to jog toward the Mechanic. Where were the manuals?

The Mechanic saw the Asian man approaching. The man did not look at him, exactly, though he did not avoid the Mechanic’s gaze, either. His demeanor indicated that he was interested in nothing but the fresh air and the view.

Where was the messenger? It was time. The Mechanic and Marcus continued walking toward the Asian. They were closing in on a stand of trees to their right.

Then, from behind him, the Mechanic heard a small, pleasant bell. He and Marcus turned, and the Mechanic felt relief. Moving toward him at a quick clip was a young boy on a bicycle, wearing a blue jacket that bore the name of a local messenger service. He rang his bell again.

“Sir,” the boy called out in French, as he closed the distance, “I have your package.” He was holding a manila envelope in one hand.

The Mechanic stopped and let the boy reach him. He took hold of the envelope and nodded.

“Prepaid,” the boy said and continued on, crossing the street and heading back toward the center of town.

“He has them!” Pruit whispered. “Get ready!”

“I’m ready. I’ll follow.” He was just behind her in the car.

Pruit broke into a run that looked like a pleasure jog, heading for the Mechanic.

The Mechanic clutched the envelope. The Asian man arrived, smiling pleasantly. They shook hands.

“It’s a pleasure,” the Asian man said in English, his eyes glancing at the envelope for the briefest of seconds.

“For you,” the Mechanic said, offering it to him.

Before he could hand it to the man, there was a scream. The Asian was knocked aside, and Marcus fell to his knees, clutching a red stain in his abdomen. The Mechanic found himself staring into the face of Jean-Claude, who had just made a mad dash from the trees on the right. In his hands was a long, curved knife, its blade red from Marcus’s blood.

“Your time is here!” Jean-Claude screamed at the Mechanic in French. Then he thrust forward with his hand, burying the knife in him. Jean-Claude could feel it go in up to the hilt.

He pulled his knife out and felt his own body jerk. He had been shot. There were bullets hitting him from several sides. He felt one of his legs give, but he did not care. His life was unimportant. Only one man’s life mattered, and he was taking it.

He lifted the bottle of lighter fluid that was tied at his waist and clutched it with both hands, squirting the fluid all over the Mechanic, who had now fallen to his knees and was making an awful gasping noise.

The fluid soaked the Mechanic’s clothes and the envelope in his hand.

Pruit was closing the distance now. “No!” she yelled. “No…!”

Jean-Claude felt two more bullets rip into him. He was shot in the chest. He was surely dead. But his hand found the third item at his waist, the lighter. He flicked it on and threw it onto the Mechanic. The man went up in a blaze.

Jean-Claude fell back, feeling the heat of the fire, feeling the shock of his own body dying.

“Your time is here!” he said again, trying to yell, but it came out as a hoarse whisper. Another bullet found his head, and he twisted to the side, falling. He hit the ground and was still.

Next to him, the Mechanic burned. He was still alive for several moments, trying to breathe, trying to scream. Then the flames consumed him, and he fell to the sidewalk.

The Asian man beat a hasty retreat. His car pulled up beside him, and he ducked inside. In moments, they were roaring away. It was often so in his profession. Countless times he had been close enough to touch something great, only to have it whisked away. He had learned to live with disappointment. He watched through the back window of the car as the Mechanic and the manuals burned.

Pruit ran up to the bodies and scrambled frantically for the envelope. Eddie ran up beside her. Where the envelope had been, all that remained was a stack of filament-thin sheets of carbon. Pruit stopped moving. She could faintly see the writing on those carbon sheets. The formulas were still visible there.

“Wait, Eddie!” She held her breath. Eddie stopped moving.

Then a breeze blew in off the lake, and the carbon sheets disintegrated and scattered. She and Eddie knelt on the sidewalk, trying to grab the flakes, the bodies of the Mechanic, Jean-Claude, and Marcus lying around them.

A crowd was beginning to form. The few patrons of nearby restaurants were leaving their tables and moving across the street. There was a police siren in the distance.

Pruit clutched at the ashes, feeling them break up and become grit in her hands.