Eric Flint: Pyramid Power

There was a specific presidential directive forbidding anyone who was at risk of becoming a snatchee from entering the safety perimeter. Overriding that directive had to be approved by the Pyramid Scientific Research Group as well as the PSA. That meant that Tremelo must know about this. It was a pity. He'd seemed a sensible man, for a civilian and a scientist.

This all seemed more than enough reason to call General Brasno. Unofficially. And damn the PSA. It all smelled, and it wouldn't be the first time that secret service agencies had used secrecy to provide cover for their own agendas.

"I need advice, sir. And I didn't call you. Or rather I called you about different matter altogether."

While the colonel was officially not talking, the base medical officer was arming himself with a generous ration of candy in case he met up with a certain small boy again. Who would have thought one child could yell and bite so much?

In a remote corner of a wildlife reservation, some distance away, a winged dragon sighed gustily and licked his new white little teeth with a long red snaky tongue. They helped his speech as well as his chewing. "I feel as if my life is lacking something."

His sibling, Bitar, licked his chops too. "Something of the flavor of life."

"Could be ketchup?" said Smitar, after serious thought, and then concentrated on trying to reach an annoying itch between his shoulder blades.

"Or it could be hot sauce. Who would have thought that American maidens would be in such short supply that they'd have to be protected game?"

"Over hunted," said Smitar righteously. "Should have introduced a permit system. Or reservations. Or a minimum size limit."

Bitar shook his vast armored head at the iniquity. "A bag limit." He paused. "It wasn't you, was it?"

"Not unless I'm sleep-eating again," said Smitar. "If it wasn't me, was it you? And can you scratch this spot for me?"

"We need Cruz," said Bitar, obliging. "He can give a decent scratch with an oar. Do you think we're molting again?"

"Could be. It's this foreign food. Very greasy. Fattening." Smitar patted his midriff.

"You haven't been eating these foreigners again?" demanded Bitar accusingly. "You know Medea told us not to. Anyway, you could have shared!"

"Phttt," said Smitar. "He was barely a snack. And Cruz said that anyone from the INS was fair game. I still feel something's missing in my life. I've got this sort of inner itch too."

"Could be indigestion. But I have it as well. And I never even got a bite of the INS official." Bitar sniffed dolefully. "Could use a good scratch with a pole from Cruz."

Smitar wrinkled his scaly forehead in thought. "I think it is that time of life when a young dragon's thoughts turn to love."

"Could be. What time is that?" asked Bitar, tasting the idea.

"This century, I think."

"Hmm. In that case I think we need some male advice on how to draw chicks."

Smitar looked a bit puzzled. "I thought you just grabbed them and dragged?"

"Doesn't that lack finesse?"

"Probably. It could work though."

"We need to ask Cruz," said Bitar, rubbing his back against a rock and shattering it. "It's time he sat us down and gave us a little talk about the birds and the bees."

Smitar tasted a piece of the rock. Chewed it thoughtfully and then asked, "Why?"

"I think it's what you have to talk to girls about," said Bitar knowledgeably. "Cruz will know."

Smitar spat out rock fragments. "And he could give us a good scratch."

As they took off and began searching for thermals, Smitar asked, "So what's this finesse stuff? Some kind of sauce? Or a lubricant to help with the dragging?"

Bitar nodded. "Both. It's got chocolate in it, too."

Eric Flint Dave Freer

Pyramid Power

Liz had to smile at Miggy Tremelo's ill-contained frustration. He'd had several minor fumes at various aspects of the PSA's new "system" ever since she and Jerry had arrived five minutes back. The PSA kept dragging its way into the conversation like some kind of pernicious disease. It was obviously driving him up the wall. She could identify with that. Minor bureaucrats who seemed to derive enormous satisfaction from making petty matters into insurmountable obstacles, and saying "no" whenever possible, had been a feature of her life, especially lately. Normally Miggy and Jerry would be feet deep in animated theoretical discussion by now. It was obviously preying on Tremelo's mind almost to the exclusion of everything else. She wished that Lamont would get there. Even a few puns would be welcome, although she could never admit that in public.

Then the Jacksons arrived. And it was immediately apparent that things with Marie were not improving. Even the kids were silent, which as Liz knew from their previous get-togethers, was straight unnatural. Little Tyrone normally was the best reason she'd ever come across for having silencers fitted to all kids at birth. As they said back in South Africa, the kid had been born with the volume control stuck on full. And the twin girls had competed with his volume by doing it shrill and in stereo. Only the fifteen year-old live-in nephew, Emmitt, seemed to be the same as usual. He hadn't smiled much then and he wasn't smiling now. They all looked like they were heading for a funeral.

Which was accurate.

Marie's.

"He said I've got secondaries in my liver and my chest cavity already," said Marie calmly. "Too late for chemotherapy, too late for surgery. I've got about three months. It doesn't hurt much."

She was the only one who appeared to be calm, and talking about it. "I'm sorry, Miggy. I've come to give my notice. There's no point pretending I'm just on sick leave, anymore. Me and Lamont and the kids, we want to spend as much time as we can together now. While we can."

"At least money's not really an issue any more," said Lamont with a sigh. "I never thought I'd be able to say that."

"Ain't no use cryin', for heaven's sake. I thought we'd maybe go on a road trip. See places we've never seen."

Lamont nodded. "We wanted to fly to Greece. But it seems like I'm a national asset, not to be risked in a foreign country. It's an attitude I wish they'd had when they sent me to Vietnam."

Standing aside, talking to Jerry, Lamont looked like a skyscraper that just lost its foundations. "What the hell is the use of having all the money in the world if I haven't got Marie? I reckon my luck has deserted me, Jerry."

He bit his lip, his eyes downcast, voice shaking. "I'd swap anything in the world, just to make her well. That's the worst kind of luck that can happen to any man. I was the luckiest man in the world, thanks to Tyche. Now, I think I'm the unluckiest. Marie's… she's my life, I guess."

Jerry didn't quite know what to say. He just leaned over squeezed Lamont's shoulder.

The telephone rang.

"I'm not taking any calls right now," snapped Miggy.

"But, Professor, it's Ms. Garnett," said Rachel Clements, popping her head around the door. "And she is… well, insistent."

Marie rubbed her hands. "Shall I deal with her? For old times sake?"

Miggy Tremelo smiled for the first time since he'd heard her news. "I'm tempted. But I'd better handle it. As little as I like that woman, I'll have to deal with her, for the foreseeable future."

"And I won't have to cope with the aftershocks, I guess," said Marie.

Miggy picked up his phone. "Professor Tremelo speaking."

The person on the other end was shouting. Not quite loud enough for the rest of them to make out all the words. Just: sphinx.

"I am afraid that you're blaming the wrong person," said Miggy. "But I strongly advise you not take on the environmental lobby over…" He held the phone away from his ear, and then put it down on the cradle.