Pyramid Scheme by Dave Freer and Eric Flint

Set was carrying a burden. A manlike form, which he began to rip limb from limb and toss into the water.

Jerry stiffened with comprehension. Then, convulsively, he grabbed the spear from McKenna’s hand, lurched upright, and flung it as hard as he could.

Alas, Jerry was never going to make the Olympic javelin team. And a stick with a bayonet on the end was a lousy javelin anyway. It struck the mud a few feet from Set and then flipped over to strike the destroyer lightly across the ankles. Set didn’t even notice. He tossed the last gruesome piece into the water, turned, and strode away. In seconds, he was gone.

“Quick!” hissed Jerry. “We’ve got to get those pieces. Particularly the penis! The crabs got that bit the last time.”

By now, Jerry’s companions had learned to trust his knowledge, even if they didn’t understand it. The crew scrambled from the boat and began the grizzly task of hauling piece after piece out of the shallows.

Liz found the vital bit, already being attacked by two of the spider crabs. She had it in hand and was lifting it—triumphantly and daintily at the same time—when—

Cruz shouted. The sound was inarticulate, filled with simultaneous rage and terror. A large form surged out of the water. Liz gasped.

The crocodile nearly took out Cruz. It would have taken out any other member of the party, except possibly McKenna. But Cruz had the trained reflexes of a paratrooper and a martial arts devotee. He’d caught sight of the croc at the last moment. As the teeth ripped into his flesh, seizing his leg, the muscular soldier struck the beast’s snout with the only weapon he had at his disposal. A severed arm.

Instantly, the crocodile let go. Jerry and Medea hauled Cruz up onto the bank, still clutching a severed mummified arm. His bitten leg was pumping blood. McKenna was there at a run. He applied pressure to the wound.

“Fucking monster let go,” said Cruz weakly. “The minute the arm hit its snout, it let go.” He seemed more astonished than anything else.

Jerry was no longer surprised that Lamont knew that myth also. “Only the spider crab was prepared to touch the remains of the Osiris,” the mechanic said quietly, looking at the mummified arm.

“Do you ever forget anything?” Jerry muttered.

“Stop blabbing and get a fire going!” snapped McKenna. “I need to see what I’m doing.”

The younger paratrooper’s voice was a little high-pitched. Like all of them, Jerry realized, McKenna had come to rely on Cruz’s calm good sense and quiet courage. And, like all of them, had found professional respect transmuted into personal friendship. The thought of losing Cruz was well nigh terrifying.

Fortunately, the leg wasn’t severed. Badly lacerated, true, and it would need a lot of sewing. Mac was already starting the task.

Jerry sighed. But Cruz wasn’t going to be walking anywhere soon. And even if they solved that set of problems with the limited medical care facilities they could offer . . .

He sighed again. The next problem had just arrived.

“Do we ever get a break?” complained Lamont.

* * *

There was no longer any need for a fire, so Lamont left off struggling with it.

There was plenty of light. It streamed from the lunar disk balanced on the ibis head of one visitor. The female figure at his side bore a small throne on her own head. Which would have been odd enough if she had not also had winged arms.

And, just to make things complete, behind them walked a very large man with the head of a jackal.

“Ah, how delightful,” muttered Jerry. “Just what we needed. Thoth, Isis and Anubis.”

The triad of Egyptian gods did not look delighted to discover the bedraggled group of humans, with the fourteen collected pieces of Isis’ beloved brother and husband.

In fact, if Jerry understood the hauntingly familiar speech at all, what Isis was saying was: Grave robbers. Kill them all.

Hastily, Jerry cleared his throat. It was time for a fast explanation—very fast, with a sadly limited vocabulary and, he was quite sure, a truly terrible accent.