Inside Straight by George R. R. Martin
His BMW was in Munich though, and so he sat astride this relic with its bald tires, flaking green paint, and an exhaust pipe that looked to be made of solid rust. The bike’s gas gauge was broken, too, stuck somewhere just above empty even when the tank was freshly filled. I am running on fumes, he thought. Klaus prayed that it would be enough to take him through the hills, and down into the Valley of the Queens.
“You get them, Lohengrin!” Tut shouted, as Klaus fed some fumes to the engine. “You kill them good!”
Over ground like this, he dare not push the Royal Enfield too hard. Even at a sprinter’s pace it rattled so badly that he feared it might shake itself to pieces before he reached John Fortune. A nimbus of white light played about his head, took form, became a warhelm with a narrow eye slit and swan’s wings sprouting from the temples. A motorcyle helmet it was not, but Klaus had faith that the ghost steel would protect him in a spill.
Turning west and south, he wove a crooked path through the squalor of the camp, bouncing past the hulk of an abandoned school bus where a dozen families now were living. Behind the bus, the carcass of a dog was turning over a cook-fire that stank of burning camel dung. A cloud of wasps trailed after Klaus, glimmering and winking in the sunlight. A joker whose face had sprouted dozens of small heads threw a rock at them as they went by, and a dark-eyed woman with a child at her breast gave Klaus a lingering look, as if to say, You are not one of us. What are you doing here?
Some nights Klaus would ask that selfsame question as he twisted in his sleeping bag on the hard ground, wondering if that was a scorpion crawling up his leg or just another of Jonathan’s wasps. Barbarossa would mock at him for coming here, he knew, and most of the other aces of the Reichsbanner would consider him a fool. He had thought to find in them a modern Round Table, where heroes broke bread together and talked of righting wrong, but the only wrong they wished to right involved their tax rates. “You expected more, ja?“ Barbarossa said afterward, when he and Klaus escaped the feast for a beer garden in Heidelberg’s student quarter. “You are young. You will learn. It is all cartels and sponsors now. Mighty Euro and Mighty Dollar are more powerful than any ace on earth. They own us, ja.”
“Not me,” Klaus had insisted. “My honor is not for sale.”
Barbarossa pinched his cheek. “Keep your honor. It’s your smile they will buy, your big blue eyes and pale blond hair, and these apple cheeks of yours.”
He was right, and I was wrong. His first endorsement had been a local dairy that offered him five hundred euros to say their milk helped him grow up big and strong. Klaus had resisted at first, but his mother said he should do it for the children, that milk was good for children, and maybe they could go as high as a thousand euros. That was a lot of money, so Klaus drank the milk and smiled for the cameras. Other endorsements followed, until finally he signed with an agent and she brought him BMW. He loved his motorcycle, and loved the freedom that fame and money brought him, but sometimes at night he still felt like a fraud, no different from the hollow heroes of the Reichsbanner, who took adulation as their due but never did a thing to earn it. Yet, what had he done since Neuschwanstein? Nothing but smile and sign “Lohengrin” on pictures of himself. That was no life for an ace, or for a knight. There was no honor in it.
The road wound back and forth as it made its way through the hills down into the valley known as Biban al-Harim, where the tombs of eighty ancient Egyptian queens were sunk into the dry and stony soil. Klaus was banking round a curve and wondering how long his fuel would last when he heard the sound of gunfire ahead.
Jackals, was his first and only thought. That was the name that Jonathan had given to the rabble of Ikhlas al-Din, the Muslim fundamentalists who had been swept to victory in Egypt’s last election. It was not enough for them to drive the Living Gods and their worshippers from their homes. All the long way south, they had continued to hound the refugees, raiding their camps, picking off stragglers, even burning villages and poisoning wells along the way to deny them water, food, and fuel.
Even here, Klaus thought grimly, even now. Pale light danced around him, hardened, became breastplate, greaves, gorget, gauntlets. He leaned into a turn and accelerated, pushing the old motorbike as fast as it would go, and leaving Jonathan’s wasps well behind. A little farther on, he came upon a woman clutching her child by the hand as blood streamed down her face. She flinched at his approach, and Klaus did not have the time to set her fears at ease. He screamed past her, his armor shining. The gunfire grew louder, staccato bursts that echoed off the hills. He could hear other sounds as well, shouts and screams, the roar of some great beast and the chudder of a helicopter’s rotors.
The jackals had no helicopters. The army, Klaus thought, the army has moved in to stop them. For a moment he was relieved.
When the valley opened up before him, Klaus hit his brakes and swerved to a sudden halt in a spray of dust and pebbles. He let his helm dissolve for a moment to give himself a better view, but even so, it took him a long moment to understand what he was seeing. The camp down there was much smaller than the one by the colossi, and half of it was in flames, rag tents and cardboard shacks alike sending up greasy pillars of smoke into the sky. A truck was burning, too, a large flatbed with a green canvas awning. Corpses littered the ground. Through the smoke he saw armed men moving, dim shapes with automatic rifles in their hands. He heard rifles chattering, a woman wailing. Above it all the helicoper moved, firing at something on the ground.
Some of the wounded had rushed toward the nearest of the ancient tombs and were trying to tear down its steel scissors gate to seek refuge inside. Klaus saw three men appear behind them and open up, raking the refugees with bullets. Their bodies danced and jerked under the impacts, like marionettes gone mad.
And then the lioness appeared. Even from a distance she was huge, larger than a pony, almost as big as the draft horses that pulled his father’s wagon up the mountain. Flame swirled from her jaws as she leapt onto the soldiers. Two fell screaming, wreathed in fire. The third she opened from throat to crotch, tearing at his intestines until the helicopter’s shadow fell across them. Then she whirled to leap, but the copter was beyond her reach. Klaus saw her hammered to the ground by a stream of machine gun fire, heard her roar of pain, saw the bullets kicking up dust all around her as she turned and raced away.
Jackals do not have helicopters. Through the smoke and dust, Klaus could see the uniforms, patterned in the tan-and-dun of desert camouflage. Not jackals. Those are soldiers. It is the Egyptian army doing this. This time he would not be facing paint-ball guns, or the cheap Czech pistols of the Bavarian Freedom Front. The jackals had always fled before him after a perfunctory shot or two, but these men were trained and disciplined, and there looked to be a lot of them. But none with my armor.
At Peenemünde, the scientists had argued for months about the nature of that armor. Doktor Fuchs theorized that it was made of coherent light, Doktor Alpers suspected quantum particles, and Doktor Hahn coined the term “hardened ectoplasm.” Klaus did not understand half of what they said, so he went on calling it ghost steel. Even after six months of study, the scientists still could not say with certainty whether it was made of energy or matter, but their tests did show that it was impervious to knives, axes, bullets, flamethrowers, acid, shrapnel, lightning bolts, and everything else that they could find to throw at him. The Egyptian soldiers were not nearly as well-armed as the good doktors. There was nothing they could do to harm him.
Klaus fed the motorbike a little gas and gathered speed as he went rolling down the hill. Mists shimmered around his head and became his warhelm again, its wide white wings outstretched. When he raised his hand his sword appeared, shining bright. Today we will give Jonathan something true to blog about, he thought.
Afterward, Klaus could not have said how many men he had faced, or how many he had slain.
The smoke from the fires drifted everywhere, acrid and choking, so thick at times that friend and foe alike seemed to
He had no trouble finding the soldiers, though. The first man he slew was coughing when he emerged from the smoke, but as soon as he saw Lohengrin he raised his rifle. “Yield!” Klaus called out to him. “Throw down your weapon, and I will not harm you.” Instead the soldier dropped to one knee and squeezed his trigger. Klaus saw the muzzle flash. The round struck him near the temple and caromed off. “You cannot harm me,” he warned the man, his voice booming through his warhelm. “Yield.” The soldier fired again, and then a third time. By then Klaus was on top of him. When he swung his sword, the man raised the rifle to protect himself, but the ghost steel blade sliced through stock and barrel and opened him from neck to belly.
Klaus did not have the time to watch him die. Other soldiers had appeared by then, and they were firing, too. He gave them all the chance to yield. None did, though a few of them broke and ran when they saw him cutting down their friends. Perhaps they did not have the English to understand what he was saying. Klaus would need to learn the Arabic word for “yield.”
Riding through the smoke and slaughter like a ghost, Lohengrin soon lost all sense of time and place. No blood stained his ghost steel; his armor gleamed white and pure, unblemished, and his blade glimmered palely in his hand. “God wills it,” he remembered thinking—though, why any god would will such carnage, the white knight could not have said.
When the fighting ended, Klaus was hardly conscious of it. The fires had burned low by then, and a hot wind out of the red lands to the west had begun to dissipate the smoke. He realized suddenly that he could no longer hear the helicopter. Sekhmet had fallen silent as well. It had been a long while since he had last heard her roar. John, he thought.
Jonathan’s wasps had found him by then. They buzzed around his head, the thrum of their wings strangely reassuring. Klaus wondered how much Bugsy had seen of what had happened here. He turned his head, searching for the enemy, but all of the soldiers were dead or fled. Klaus let his sword and helm dissolve, but kept his body clad in ghost steel. “John!” he bellowed, rolling slowly across the battlefield. “John Fortune!”
In the end it was the wasps who found him, sprawled naked by the entrance to a tomb, where he had been protecting the jokers who had taken shelter within. John was drenched in blood, but none of it was his own. When Klaus tried to lift him he gave a gasp of pain. “My ribs,” he said. “I think they broke some. The bullets—they melt when they touch her flesh, but they still hurt. They hit like hammers.”
“You look ghastly,” Klaus admitted.
“I just tore a dozen men to pieces with my fingernails.”
“That was Sekhmet,” said Klaus. “She fought nobly.”
“With my fingers!” John’s skin was damp with sweat.
He looks forty years old, Klaus thought. His face had thinned to the point of gauntness, and he had lines around his eyes that had not been there in Hollywood. The red scarab that was Sekhmet sat above his eyes like some huge blood blister, making his forehead seem to bulge the way his famous father’s had bulged when he fought the Astronomer in the sky above Manhattan, a year before Klaus was even born. John’s skin had darkened, too; daily exposure to the harsh Egyptian sun had browned him several shades. That made him look more like Fortunato, too.
Some of the surviving jokers had emerged from the tomb. A hunchbacked woman with snakes for fingers offered Klaus a charred and torn blanket. He wrapped it around John Fortune to stop his shivering. His smooth brown skin was covered with dark bruises. Klaus unhooked his canteen from his motorbike to give him a drink of water. “Not too much, now,” he cautioned. “Sip.”
Between sips, John told him how the fight had started. The camp had been a small one, perhaps three hundred people, jokers and their families down from Port Said and Damietta. Even among the followers of the Old Religion, jokers were reviled if their wild card deformities did not mimic the old Egyptian gods, so these had chosen to take refuge in the Valley of the Queens, well away from the larger camps to the east. When word of them reached the New Temple, however, Taweret had dispatched the goddess Meret to bring them food, clothing, and medical supplies. John went with her, in case of trouble.
“When we first saw the helicopter, Meret waved to them,” John said. “She thought it was Ikhlas al-Din we had to fear, not the army. Then they touched down and the soldiers started pouring out. We did not know what to make of that. Meret told me to continue with the food distribution and went to speak with their captain. She was walking toward them when the soldiers opened fire. There was no warning, no reason given. They just started shooting. All I could think to do was let Sekhmet work the change, so we could fight them.” His voice was hoarse.
“The captain must have been Ikhlas al-Din. A member or a sympathizer.” Klaus remembered Meret from his last visit to the New Temple. A dark, slender woman, she’d had vines and lotus flowers growing from her head in place of hair. She was gentle, too, and even had some German. Who would want to kill such a woman? “It was a rogue unit,” he told John, hoping it was true. “This mad captain—we will report him to his superiors.”
“He’s dead,” said John. The scarab in his swollen forehead seemed to throb. “I tore his throat out.”
Klaus nodded. “We must get you back to the New Temple. Can you ride? Hold on to me. That is all you need to do.” One of the jokers helped him lift John Fortune onto the Enfield. “Hold me tight,” he told him. “It is not so far.”
They were walking down the hill road an hour later when they heard the roar of a truck coming toward them.
Klaus had been pushing the Royal Enfield along for almost a kilometer. Its tank had gone bone dry, but he could not bring himself to abandon it. When he heard the truck he let go of the handlebars and called up his blade and armor. He could feel the heat of Sekhmet beside him, and smell the sulfur stench of the smoke rising from her nostrils. John had changed back as soon as the bike had died, too weak to continue in his own flesh.
When the driver of the truck came round the rocks and saw them, he screeched to a sudden stop, his air brakes screaming like a chorus of damned souls. Behind the wheel, a man with the long snout and gray-green, scaly skin of a crocodile grinned at them. “Those motorbikes go faster if you ride them instead of pushing them along,” he called out. “So you are not dead. Good. Taweret sent me, to fetch her sister back. You can come, too.”
Klaus lowered his sword and let the ghost steel dissolve back into nothingness. Of all the Living Gods he had met, old Sobek was the one that he liked best. No more than five-six, the Egyptian had heavy shoulders, big arms thick with muscle, and the sort of hard, round belly that tells of a great fondness for beer. Where his fellow gods dressed like pharaohs in silken robes, golden collars, and jeweled headdresses, Sobek wore baggy pants, suspenders, and a stained photographer’s vest. His skin was cracked and leathery, more gray than green, and what he lacked in hair and ears he made up for in teeth. They were long and sharp and crooked, those teeth, stained brown and yellow by the rank black Turkish cigarettes he smoked.
Sekhmet sprang up onto the bed of the truck, and Klaus grabbed his motorbike in both hands and swung it up beside her, before climbing into the cab next to Sobek. “Meret is dead,” he told him, as he slammed the door. Behind them, Sekhmet curled up and began to lick her bruises.
Sobek put the truck in gear. “We know.”
“This time it was not jackals. The army—”
“We know that, too.”
“How? Jonathan? Did he send his bugs to you?”
“He called Horus on his cell phone.” Sobek wrenched the wheel around, and sent the truck roaring back toward the river. “They sent soldiers t
Klaus was shocked. “They call us terrorists?”
“Why not? You terrify the Caliph, I think. At night he dreams of the crusader’s big sharp sword and wets his bed. In the morning his wives all smell of piss.” He laughed. “General Yusuf has sent word across the river. Cairo wants you and Sekhmet handed over to him for trial. If we do that, he says, the rest of us may leave in peace. Leave for where, you wonder? Hell, I am thinking. Well, it does not matter. Taweret will never hand you over. Sekhmet is her sister, a fellow goddess. Your friend would turn into bugs and fly away, and you would make the white sword come and go chop, chop, chop.” Sobek drove with one hand on the steering wheel and the other slamming at the horn, one of his foul black Turkish cigarettes turning to ash between his teeth.
“What will you do?” Klaus asked him.
“Go to Aswan. Where else? There are more of us in Aswan.”
“You mean to flee?”
“Flee or fight. Serquet can summon scorpions, Bast sees well in the dark. Babi is strong as ten baboons, and I have many teeth. The rest have no powers, only funny heads. The army, they have guns and planes and tanks. Guns and planes and tanks beat funny heads. So we flee. Aswan is a good place, I am thinking. How to get there, though? That is not so easy. Taweret has summoned the gods to meet upon the morrow. You and your friend may come as well, and we will talk about what must be done.”