Mountain of Black Glass (51 page)

But not today. Not ever again.

He was waiting for it, of course—he was always waiting for it these days—but this time he was going to do something. Perhaps it was dangerously foolish to answer it, but he could not take the miserable feeling of being probed at anymore, could not cope with the growing obsessive madness. And a thought had been gnawing at him until between that and the anticipatory fear of the sound, there was little room left for anything else.

What if he
had
to answer it to make it stop?

It had only been a casual idea at first. Perhaps it was some kind of automessager, programmed for random retries. Perhaps all that was needed—all that had been needed all along—was for someone to answer the call and either accept its message or demonstrate that the line was not equipped to carry information more complex than audible sound. Perhaps if he'd only picked it up the first time, that would also have been the last time.

He'd laughed when he'd thought that, a hollow wheeze of bitter amusement that felt like it might turn into something much uglier and more painful if he wasn't careful.

But maybe that's not all that will happen,
another voice had whispered.
Perhaps it's some kind of hunter-killer gear, one of those things you see on the net, and it's just trying to get into the system here. Maybe one of those Grail people has sent it to kill the V-tanks.

But if so,
a more sensible inner voice suggested,
then why send it to an audio phone? And what harm can it do over audio lines, even if I pick it up?
Jeremiah didn't know much about technology, but he knew that someone couldn't send gear that would drip out of an old-fashioned phone and go crawling across the floor. He dimly remembered that Renie and the others had been talking about people like Renie's brother being struck down while using a low-cost station, but even so, that was a
station,
for God's sake, not an antique telephone!

The idea of answering, despite its attendant worries, had begun to grow over the last forty-eight hours. Every flinch-inducing ring of the phone bell had given the idea strength. He had actually meant to pick it up the last time it had rung, but the ring had sounded like the scream of a sick animal echoing in his ears, and his courage had failed. Now he was waiting again. He could do nothing else. He was waiting.

 

Jeremiah had dropped into a half-sleep, nodding over the V-tank console. When the phone rang, it was as though someone had poured a bucket of ice water on his head.

His heart was beating so swiftly he thought he might faint.
Idiot,
he told himself, trying to force his legs to lift him from the chair,
it's just a phone. You've been letting yourself be panicked by a twitch of electric current. No one knows anyone is here at all. Phones ring all the time. Just pick it up, damn you!

He edged toward it as though afraid to startle the thing. The ring sounded for the third time.

His fingers closed on the rectangular handset just after the fourth ring. He knew if it rang again under his hand, it would feel like an electrical shock. He had to take it off the cradle.

It's just a phone,
he told himself.
It's nothing to do with you.

There's a spider on the other end,
a voice whispered in his mind.
Forcing poison through the lines . . .

He squeezed it and lifted it to his ear but said nothing. He felt himself swaying, and put out his free hand to the pillar. For a moment he heard only static, and relief began to climb through him. Then someone spoke.

It was a voice distorted, if not by mechanical means then by some incomprehensible malformation. It was the voice of a monster.

“Who is this?”
it hissed. A second passed, then two. His mouth worked, but even if he had wanted to answer, he could not have.
“Is it Joseph Sulaweyo?”
Buzzing, crackling. It did not sound human at all.
“No, I know who you are. You are Jeremiah Dako.”

The voice began to say something else, but Jeremiah could not hear it above the roaring in his ears. His fingers had turned lifeless as carved wood. The handset slipped from his grasp and clattered to the cement floor.

F
EELING more like a teenager than he had in some time, Orlando waited for the grown-ups to decide what they were all going to do. He was tired—exhausted—but too nervous to sleep and bored with sitting in one place. With Fredericks worriedly following, he set out on a slow journey around the Temple of Ra.

Unsurprisingly, the Wicked Tribe insisted on coming. After a negotiation punctured by many high-pitched shrieks of
“Not fair, not fair,”
Orlando wangled the concession that they remain perched on him or Fredericks at all times.

For any ordinary people, simply walking through the temple would have provoked continuous astonishment—even the architecture could only have been possible in a virtual world, the unsupported stone ceiling so high that it could have held Skywalker jets stacked like cordwood—but Orlando and Fredericks had been veterans of online fantasy worlds long before they had come to the Otherland network: they barely glanced at the magical carvings that flowed with life, the talking statues dispensing cryptic wisdom, or even the multiplicity of gods and goddesses, animal-headed and otherwise, who wandered the vast besieged temple, apparently as stifled and apprehensive as the two teenagers.

As the pair turned away from a fakir who had created twin serpents of red-and-blue fire, then set them to battling on the floor before a group of fascinated children, the monkeys began to complain loudly about not having any fun. The Wicked Tribe were still doing what they had been ordered to do, namely stay perched on Orlando and Fredericks and keep relatively quiet, but they were growing restless.

A large crowd had formed around Upaut's throne at the center of the room and Orlando found himself drawn toward it. A group of priests in white robes crouched before the wolf-god, already well into some ritual, chanting and knocking their heads against the stone flags; Upaut ignored them, gazing off into the air with the expression of a weary philosopher. Some of the siege victims crowded around the throne were calling out to him, demanding to know what was being done to protect them from the attack everyone seemed sure was coming, but the wolf had mastered the attitude of heavenly royalty if nothing else; their shouts went unanswered.

As Orlando led Fredericks to a spot between a bare-chested man with a child on his shoulders and a minor tutelary deity with the head of a goose, someone touched his arm. He turned to see Bonnie Mae Simpkins.

“Don't you say anything to that wolf,” she quietly warned him. “He's got everyone in enough trouble. Goodness only knows what he'll do next.”

“Who are those priests?” Orlando asked. “Are they his?”

“They belong to the temple, I suppose.” She frowned at having to discuss heathen practices. “They're priests of Ra. You can tell by those gold disks. . . .”

“But if this is Ra's temple, where is Ra? Isn't he the . . . the big guy around here? Egypt, I mean?”

“Ra?” She shook her head. “He used to be, but he's pretty much retired now. Kind of like one of those Mafia things, I s'pose, where the old don isn't dead yet.” She frowned. “Don't look at me funny, boy, I watch the net like anyone else. Osiris is the old fellow's grandson. He's the one who really runs things. They all give lip service to Ra, but all the old fellow does is sail through the sky in his boat, being the sun, or whatever the story is. But they still have to respect him, at least in public.” Bonnie Mae's expression became something altogether grimmer. “That's why they'll wait until night before they do anything, when Ra is in the underworld. Why are you grinning? You think that what's going to happen here is funny?”

He didn't, not really, but the sudden notion of an Egyptian Mafia in linen skirts and heavy black wigs was hard to suppress. “Do you think they're going to attack tonight?”

“Nobody knows. But there are rumors that Osiris is coming back soon, and Tefy and Mewat sure won't want him to know about this—doesn't look good for them at all. So it seems likely. But we'll get you out of here before that, boy. Both of you.”

“Yeah, but what about you and the others?” Fredericks asked.

Instead of answering, Bonnie Mae suddenly bent down and caught one of the Wicked Tribe, who had shinnied down Fredericks' robe to the floor. “I oughta find a tiny little stick to whup you with,” she told the squirming primate before placing it gently back on Fredericks' shoulder.

“Didn't mean to!” it shrilled. “Fell!”

“Likely story.” Bonnie Mae paused for a moment, then reached out and squeezed both boys' arms before heading back to the corner of the Temple where the Circle kept their camp.

“I don't like this waiting . . .” Fredericks began. A hoarse voice interrupted him.

“Ah! It is the gods from the river!” Upaut had spotted them, and was beckoning them toward his throne with long, hairy fingers. Orlando turned and caught Bonnie Mae's eye where she had stopped again; the look she sent back to him was full of helpless worry.

He and Fredericks stepped forward until they stood before the throne. Lifted by the high chair, Upaut's head towered almost three meters above them, but even at that distance Orlando could see that the wolf-god did not look good: his eyes were red-rimmed and his ceremonial wig sat slightly askew, partially covering one of his ears. He held a flail and a spear in his hands, and tapped the flail nervously against the side of the throne, a continuous and rather irritating beat. Fredericks stared at it as if hypnotized as the wolf leaned toward them, sharing a too-wide grin and carrion breath.

“Well, now!” His jollity sounded a bit hollow. “You have come to see me—and look! As I promised, I am leading heaven against those who have wronged me!”

Orlando nodded, trying to summon a smile.

“And you have come all the way here to join me—good, very good! It was the gift of your boat which brought me back from exile, after all. I shall be sure that your trust in me does not go unrewarded—your names will echo forever in the halls of heaven.” He looked around the room. Perhaps reminded of his situation, he said in a slightly less emphatic voice, “You
have
come to join me, yes?”

Orlando and Fredericks exchanged a look, but there was little to be done. “We are here to defend the temple, yes,” Orlando lied. “And help you in the fight against those two—against . . . against . . .”

“Taffy and Waymott,” said Fredericks helpfully.

“Good, good,” Upaut grinned, showing every tooth. He apparently cared little for the correct pronunciation of his enemies' names, or else had simply stopped listening to most of what was said to him. “Excellent. When the time is right, we shall burst from the temple like Grandfather Ra appearing on the eastern horizon and our enemies shall wail and throw themselves in the dust at our feet. Oh, they do not suspect our power! They do not know how mighty we are! They will weep and beg our forgiveness, but we are stern, and will punish dreadfully all who raised arms against us. We will reign a million years, and all the stars will chant our praises!

he abruptly sang, booming out the hymn to himself,

As the priests of Ra somewhat raggedly took up the tune—most of them appearing a little less than wholehearted—Orlando realized that the “we” Upaut claimed would do all those things was Upaut himself, and that the wolf-god was as deranged as a box of worms.