The Age of Ra

17. Airstrike

David was home.

Home wasn't his London pad. Pleasant and well furnished as that was, it served as a convenient place to live, nothing more.

Home was Courtdene, the family estate on the Sussex Downs, the flint-and-brick manor house with its walled gardens and its long, valley-hemmed views of the Channel, the sheep-cropped fields, the oak copses and hawthorn thickets, the wide expanses of grassland that were treelessly bleak and bare, the curving driveway, the main gates capped with sphinxes, the pyramid folly which Archibald Westwynter commissioned to be built the day after he bought the property, the lake with its replica Solar Barque dinghies and small overgrown island, this secure and private world where nothing intruded from the outside that wasn't permitted by the family within.

Home was always the place where life was at its simplest.

David strode up to the front door, pausing to glance up at the family cartouche that was carved into the lintel. It was the best kind, a compact, logogrammatic one. You could spell out any name in the uniliteral manner and get a string of simple demotic hieroglyphs, but that was little better than an alphabetical substitution code and looked ungainly. For real class, you paid the priesthood a small fortune — the current asking price was €50,000 — and had your surname translated officially into hieratic logograms. The cartouche for Westwynter consisted, logically enough, of the logograms for west (a bird crown and a sun setting over hills) and winter (four assorted geometric shapes), arranged one above the other and enclosed in a box.

David had always thought of a cartouche as a sign of vanity, but a necessary one. No family that was held in high regard could do without.

He passed under it and entered the house.

The hallway was empty. A clock ticked. Dust motes hung in a shaft of sunlight, swirled by a draught. He smelled the familiar musk of waxed floorboards, mixed with the hint of damp which hung around the draughty old building constantly, even in high summer.

No one.

He was home from war. He had a right to expect some kind of reception, a welcoming committee. Didn't he? He had been away for weeks. He was presumed dead. Why wasn't anyone waiting in the hallway to greet him, rejoicing? His mother at least, even if his father had chosen to disown him.

''Hello?''

Echoes echoed echoingly. No answer.

''Mum? Dad?''

Nothing.

''Jepps? Mrs Plomley?''

Silence.

He searched the ground floor: all the drawing rooms, the library, the dining room, the billiard-room, kitchen, scullery, pantry. Everything exactly as it should be, spotlessly tidy. Not a soul to be seen.

He went upstairs. He tried Steven's bedroom, then his own. The beds were tightly made, sheets turned down, awaiting occupancy. Finally he approached his parents' bedroom at the far end of the corridor.

The door was ajar. He nudged it open.

His mother and father lay in bed together, naked, entwined, locked in a fervent kiss. Jack Westwynter was kneading Cleo Westwynter's breast. Cleo Westwynter's hand was under the covers, working away at Jack Westwynter's crotch.

David stood and stared. He wanted to back away, pull the door to behind him, steal off down the corridor before his parents realised he was there. But he couldn't move. He was paralysed with embarrassment… and fascination.

Nobody in their right mind wanted to see their parents making love, or even to think about it.

But then, as David had realised, these weren't actually his parents.

Around their heads golden auras glowed, and each aura had a distinct shape. His father's was a double-plumed mitre, his mother's a weird blend of vulture and throne.

Dreaming.

David continued to watch as his father's hand moved down his mother's body, sliding over her belly and beneath the bedcovers to stroke between her legs. His mother, Isis, moaned. His father, Osiris, grunted softly and stroked harder.

Then, as if on some unspoken cue, the two of them calmly turned their heads and looked round to where David stood. They smiled. They kept their hands on each other's genitals, rubbing, caressing, but their gazes were focused on David. Their expressions were kindly but stern.

''Why are you doing this, son?'' his father asked.

''Why are you helping your brother?'' his mother asked.

''Because…''

He was dreaming.

''Because he needs me. And because he's right. I really think he is.''

''We're your parents,'' said Osiris. ''We watch over you. We care for you.''

''Don't you think this is hurting us,'' said Isis, ''this rebellion of yours?''

''It's not rebellion,'' David replied defensively. He couldn't think of a better name for what the Lightbringer was up to but rebellion sounded so childish, the way his mother had said it, a hormonal-teenager thing, like getting a piercing or a tattoo.

''If you want to hurt us, you're going the right way about it,'' his father said sternly.

''Come back home,'' said his mother. ''Come back and all will be forgiven.''

David thought he had come back. He was home. Wasn't he?

He was having a dream, and outside the hotel room…

''We love you,'' said Isis, still fondling his father's cock.

''Don't make us angry,'' said Osiris, still fingering his mother's cunt.

Lightning flickered at the bedroom window. Thunder growled. The sky had been cloudless a few moments earlier, but now-

David snapped awake.

He had been having a dream, and outside the hotel room there were flashes of bright red-purple light and the rumble of distant explosions.

He went to the window and drew back the curtain.

The bombardment of Luxor had begun.

For two weeks the Nephthysians had been threatening an assault. The Afro-Arabian Synodical Council had debated and fulminated. There had been deputations to both the parliament in Cairo and the Kommissariat Svyatoy Dyela, the Setics' Commissariat of Holy Affairs, or KSD. From Freegypt's Prime Minister Bayoumi, nothing less than a full acceptance of liability had been demanded, along with a promise to track down the instigator of the temple attacks, the Lightbringer, and hand him over to Libya. Neither of these things could Bayoumi do. It was impossible for him to admit that his country was responsible, since that would be tantamount to a declaration of war on Libya. It was equally impossible to find and extradite the Lightbringer since Lower Freegypt had little say over what went on in lawless Upper Freegypt. Politically and practically, Cairo was stymied and the Nephthysians knew it and relished it and had no problem taking advantage of it.

As for the Setics, the KSD happily huffed and puffed on the Nephthysians' behalf and made all sorts of statements about unity, alliance, standing shoulder to shoulder against a common foe, the sanctity of the Bi-Continental Pact, et cetera, et cetera. ''To harm a single Nephthysian,'' said Vladimir Chang, KSD High Commissar, ''is to harm us all, Nephthysians and Setics alike. Just as the millions of us stand firm against Osirisiac expansionism, Anubian aggression, and Horusite interventionism, so we stand firm against this unprovoked and unprincipled violation of Libya and its people. Freegypt, like a viper in our midst, has bitten our flesh and the poison must not be allowed to spread.'' The Setics guaranteed to give the Nephthysians their full backing, diplomatically and, if necessary, militarily.

The Osirisiac Hegemony was more cautious in its condemnation. Pharaoh Benedikt II of Germany, the country to which the revolving control of the Hegemonic Ecclesiastical Polyarchy had fallen this year, released a joint statement with his sister Queen Dagmar. ''Terrorism is ugly in any form,'' the statement ran, ''and terrorism against religion is the ugliest of all. Freegypt's political leadership must be held to account for the actions of its people. At the same time, the Hegemony would counsel the Nephthysians to take a measured view on this incursion. We recommend a programme of political sanctions and trade embargos. Any more forceful response runs the risk of adding new converts to the cause of this so-called Lightbringer, whoever he is. For terrorists to prosper, we need only greet their violence with more violence.''

The Horusites broadly supported the Osirisiac stance, although Pastor-President Wilkins was heard to comment that if this Lightbringer guy had trashed a few Neph-related temples, so what? In a way he was doing America and Europe a favour, and what the heck, maybe he could give some of those Setics a damn good butt-kicking while he was about it.

The Anubians, for their part, said very little, officially at least, although where death and destruction were concerned the mood of that introverted Pacific Rim empire was never hard to gauge. War had waxed and waned across the planet for the past hundred years, and recently the levels of fighting had been relatively subdued. The Lightbringer's actions seemed likely to trigger a fresh rise in the tide of conflict, and for the thanatophiliac Anubians that could only be good news. Slaughter suited the Jackal-Headed One, their dark deity. It brought more souls to his realm and boosted his status. The suicide rate in Japan went up significantly, a reliable indicator of Anubian cheerfulness.

The intensity of the Nephthysian sabre-rattling grew and grew. The Setics egged them on from the sidelines. The other religious power blocs looked on with interest and perhaps an element of smug glee. It did appear that Freegypt, godless Freegypt, the Unholy Land, for this first time in its heathen history, was about to take a hammering. Arguably, it was long overdue.

Even as he watched the bombs rain down on the northern outskirts of Luxor, David could not shake off the last lingering traces of his dream. It wasn't at all uncommon for Europeans to dream of Osiris and Isis and, moreover, dream of them in the role of parents. Supposedly such sleep visions were a visitation from the two gods themselves and that any message they imparted should be taken seriously and paid attention to.

So the priests said, anyway. David himself was minded to think that in this instance it had been just a dream, his subconscious working through the anxieties of his present situation and urging a return to the safety and security of the life he used to know.

He just wished the content of the dream hadn't been quite so explicit. It would take days for the image of his parents doing it to fade from memory.

The bombs burst in crimson hemispheres of light tinged with shimmering coronas of purple. The Libyan planes were striking at Luxor's commercial district. Steven had predicted this, saying the Nephthysians were likely to try and keep casualties to a minimum, at least to begin with. Property damage, yes. Human damage, no. All the same David feared that the blasts were straying near residential areas, and even hitting them.

The airstrike went on for another twenty minutes, a rippling, overlapping cascade of incandescent eruptions, each accompanied by a rolling rumble of impact that rattled the hotel windows. It was darkly, devastatingly, coruscatingly beautiful.

The Lightbringer toured the bombsites the next morning. He sighed over the flattened buildings, the factories and business premises turned to rubble, the great smoking holes that had once been shops and livelihoods. He lamented the deaths, of which there had been ten in total. Night watchmen mostly. A taxi driver. A family whose house had stood just a fraction too close to the target zone.

He comforted the bereaved in person. Then he addressed the crowds that were following him. He reassured them that none of the deaths would be in vain. This appalling attack demonstrated the enemy's absolute callousness, their and their goddess's lack of regard for human life. He stated his belief that the airstrike was only the beginning. The Nephthysians would mount further assaults, perhaps even a land invasion. It was time to put the next phase of his plan into action.

The citizens of Luxor were in full, vociferous agreement. They chanted the Lightbringer's name — ''Al Ashraqa! Al Ashraqa!'' They hoisted him up on their shoulders and paraded through the streets, declaring undying loyalty to him and death to all who opposed him.

Reporting the episode to David later, in private, he said, ''They were passing me around and shaking me up and down like a football trophy. I nearly got dropped on my arse several times.''

''Ah, the perils of being a beloved leader.''

''They do love me, though, don't they? It's true.''

''Just don't let them down,'' David said. ''Let them down, and being dropped on your arse will be the least of your worries. Today's adoring crowd can be tomorrow's baying-for-blood mob if you're not careful.''

''Oh, it's nag, nag, nag with you all the time, isn't it?''

''Only sounding a note of caution.''

''Why would I let them down, Dave?'' Steven asked brusquely. ''Why would you even think of saying that? Trust me, the Lightbringer is no false messiah. I've vowed to lead the world out of a Dark Age, into enlightenment, and that's what I'm going to do. Anyway, enough of that. We've a busy couple of days ahead of us. Pack your belongings.''

''I've no belongings to pack.''

''Good. Neither have I. We can start all the more quickly. Let's get to work.''

A little over seventy-two hours after the airstrike, Nephthysian forces moved in on Freegypt from three sides. Libyan armoured divisions rolled across the border and into the Western Desert, kicking up a towering plume of dust behind them, while Sudanese troops pushed up from the south along the course of the Nile, past Aswan, and Arabian warships took up position along the Red Sea coast, blockading ports and harbours from Hurghada to Foul Bay.

The Libyans arrived at Luxor the following day, halting at the river. Their Scarab tanks blasted ba across the water, not with a view to hitting anything in particular, more as a way of announcing that they were there.

The lack of answering fire from the town was disappointing to say the least. Unsettling, too. Not even the crackle of a machine gun. Nothing.

By arrangement, it was left to the Sudanese to make the first forays into Luxor on foot. Troops darted along the streets, going from house to house, kicking down doors and entering. At any moment they anticipated being ambushed and shot at with conventional weapons. They held their baboon-head ba lances at the ready.

Silence hung over everything. In the streets stray dogs sniffed and roamed with unusual boldness. In the houses the Sudanese discovered grandparents and children cowering in corners or behind furniture. All morning and afternoon the soldiers encountered only the town's infirm, the very elderly, and the young with their mothers. There appeared to be nobody else left in Luxor. Virtually everyone of sound body and arms-bearing age was gone.