Pyramid Scheme by Dave Freer and Eric Flint

Lamont wasn’t stupid. The Institute wasn’t “empty.” It had been evacuated. He had no idea why, but there was only one place he was going—out of here.

Then, after dancing back and forth for a moment, he decided to postpone his own evacuation. Very briefly. It would only take him two minutes to grab his tools and the boombox from the air handler room. That coffee had already scummed over. They hadn’t just left. No sense in running out on his personal possessions. Still, it was spooky . . .

* * *

Hearing a voice calling out as he emerged from the air handler room, Lamont turned right and ran across Dr. Lukacs standing in front of the Assyrian Bull. As usual, the visiting professor looked vaguely puzzled. Lamont liked Jerry Lukacs, but he sometimes thought the professor only touched the real world now and again.

Lukacs smiled at him. “Hi. I’m relieved to see you. Where the hell has everyone gone?”

Just then they heard voices. Voices that sounded oddly loud in the strange silence. Lamont repressed a strong and irrational urge to look for somewhere to hide. There was no logic in it. They were just ordinary American voices. All except for one, and that was female.

* * *

“The place looks like it’s been evacuated already, Lieutenant Salinas,” said a male voice.

“Well, well, what a surprise. Shall we go on getting lost, and try somewhere else?” That was a woman’s voice. Despite the foreign accent, Lamont recognized the tone. When his wife Marie spoke like that, it was time to start looking for cover.

The person who replied was obviously not as experienced. “We haven’t been lost . . . ”

Jerry cleared his throat. “In here!” he announced.

Lamont was glad that the decision had been taken away from him. Sighing with resignation, he set down the toolbox. No reason to keep lugging that heavy thing around for the moment.

Seconds later, when an armed and testy-looking group of soldiers piled in, he was less glad. Paratroopers, no less. Lamont recognized the insignia of the 101st. But it only took a few seconds for him to figure out that they were actually mad at the police officer in their midst.

“The United States government requires your services!” the policeman boomed. “We need an historian. Bring them along, men!”

Jerry blinked owlishly. “Er . . . I’m Professor Jerry Lukacs. I’m a mythographer, I work on comparative mythology.”

Lamont chuckled. “And I’m the maintenance man. Is the government short of those again?”

* * *

Another two minutes, and the woman’s going to tear that cop’s head off his shoulders, thought Cruz. She wasn’t American and sure as hell wasn’t much on respect for pompous authority. Nor did she seem fazed in the least by the sight of soldiers in BDUs walking around a city with loaded weapons. She acted as if it was kind of normal. That was . . . odd.

* * *

Liz repressed a slight chuckle. This errand-boy policeman was a right royal pain in the backside. Arse-licking those above him and arse-kicking those below. His face, at being told the black guy—who looked the smarter of the two—was a mechanic, was quite a study. The other guy looked like a typical “nocturnal” arts major. Weedy. Slightly confused looking. The kind that always turned out to be at the top of some esoteric field of no use to man or beast.

More with the intent to irritate Salinas than in any real expectations of getting any worthwhile information, Liz introduced herself and began explaining. To her surprise the little man tensed like a terrier scenting rats when she got to mentioning what the survivor had actually said.

“He used the words: ‘Black ship’?”

“No, sir,” corrected the dark-skinned, powerful-looking soldier named Cruz. “Actually he said, ‘black galley.’ ”

“Tell me what else he said. As much and as precisely as you can remember.” The little guy was just about quivering.

The sergeant hauled out his notebook. “I wrote it down, sir.”

“A man of intelligence, eh, Lamont?” The little mythographer’s eyes were bright. “Read it, please. I just may be able to help you.”