The Age of Ra

32. Refuge

Pastor-President Wilkins delivered a televised statement from the Oval Office, and what he said caught North America on the hop. He announced that, as of this moment, there was to be a cessation of hostilities between Horusites and Setics. Already, Horusite naval units were being recalled from the Bering Sea and the Sea of Okhotsk. The entire North Pacific Fleet, in fact, was heading back to base in Vancouver and San Francisco. Similarly the Setics were pulling their ships back to Murmansk and Tsingtao.

This move, which he acknowledged was a surprising one, although the adjective he preferred to use was ''neat'', came about as the result of a single phone call to Vladimir Chang, in which Wilkins had informed the Commissar that the White House's high priests had all received dream visions unequivocally urging a peace settlement with the Setics. Chang confirmed that Setic high priests had received similar instructions, and thus, in a matter of a few hours, with top-ranking diplomats rushing around various capitals in a flurry of ambassadorial activity, a deal was sealed.

''Our gods have willed it,'' Wilkins said, flashing his trademark aw-shucks smirk at the camera, ''and so it must be done. What's more, as a sign of our spirit of co-operation with the Setics, I've agreed to assist them in their campaign against this Lightbringer fella who's causing such a ruckus in the Middle East right about now and giving the Nephs such a headache.'' The Pastor-President's advisers had told him never to refer to Nephthysians by their full name. Not only did this do wonders for his down-home image, but he couldn't actually pronounce the word. ''We haven't yet ironed out the detail on what form this assistance is gonna take. But Commissar Chang and I have agreed that it'd be good for us to show the Setics some support, so after his troops have hit the guy, our boys are gonna be close behind. It kinda feels like we should've been doing this all along, dontcha think? Leastways it does to ol' Jeb here. Like maybe the Setics and us have more in common than we thought, that's why we've been scrappin' so much.''

A slippery argument, doctrinally speaking, but it carried some emotional heft.

''Ain't it funny how the words 'competition' and 'coalition' sound so much alike?'' was how Pastor-President Wilkins signed off his broadcast, along with another of his just-a-regular-guy smirks.

The Osirisiac Hegemony was quick to proclaim that it was behind the Horusites in their decision, and that for the time being all military operations against the Setics in Eastern Europe and the Mediterranean would be suspended. As a mark of earnest, all Osirisiac troops were withdrawn from the Vistula flashpoint to a point five miles outside Warsaw. The Setic army reciprocated.

All eyes, then, were on Megiddo and the events unfolding there. International conflict had been shelved, if only temporarily. Hatchets had been buried. The global war drums had stopped beating. The world was watching.

And as the world watched, the Lightbringer was forced to give the command for one last retreat. His beleaguered troops surrendered their positions at the foot of Mount Megiddo and scrambled up the mountainside to the ruins of the city, their last redoubt. The Nephthysians gave chase, but the limited width and number of the pathways that led to the top meant they couldn't do so in significant strength. The Freegyptians were able to ward them off the whole way up, and once they had gained the advantage of level high ground they were even better placed to keep the enemy at bay. Again and again, Nephthysian infantrymen filed up the paths. Again and again, the Lightbringer's troops picked them off from above, ending their sallies and sending them back downhill in a tumble of panic.

On the other side of Mount Megiddo, the medics set to work dismantling the field hospital and transporting it and its patients to the relative safety of the city. With Setics approaching from the north, there was no alternative. The field hospital could not remain where it was, as clemency for the wounded was not a given in a situation like this. In the course of a normal war, convention had it that one side spared the other's injured soldiers, although the dead, of course, were another story. But this was not a normal war, so there was no guarantee the convention would apply. The city offered refuge, and in the short-term that was all that mattered (and no one now was thinking in anything but the short-term).

The wounded who could walk, walked, or in many cases limped. The rest had to be carried, and the doctors spent several hours doing just that, using blankets as makeshift stretchers. David joined in. He paired up with one of the veterinarians to lug casualty after casualty up a narrow track that zigzagged back and forth across the mountain slope. It was a punishing slog. His hands cramped, his back ached, sweat stung his eyes, his wounds burned, and the groaning burden in the blanket grew heavier with every step. Each time they reached the summit, the vet advised David to stop. He had done enough. He was still recuperating from his own injuries. He should leave the helping to someone else. But David insisted on going down to fetch the next patient.

Life.

Life was what counted.

Life and the living.

During each of his trudges downhill, David would reflect on his dream of Osiris and how he had felt sitting in the shade of the terebinth earlier on, at no great distance from the yet to be buried — and still not yet buried — Freegyptian corpses. Sitting with his back to a tree that was burgeoning with life while the cicada trilled and flies buzzed around the laid-out dead and alighted on their exposed, unfeeling toes and fingers or crawled under the blankets to get to the good stuff beneath, the eyes, the orifices.

It wasn't remorse, as such. David didn't feel a sudden wave of guilt over the Nephthysian soldiers he had slain yesterday or the many other enemy troops he had despatched since joining the army. He could safely rationalise everything he had ever done in combat. Them or him. Kill or be killed. The brute equation of war, the zero-sum balance of the battlefield: one soldier + another opposing soldier = one soldier. That was acceptable to him, a necessity of the way the world was and of his chosen role in it.

What seemed less acceptable, if not downright unacceptable, was the sheer inanity of so much death. From Petra onwards, it seemed that corpses had littered his wake. Every paratrooper in his stick, from Sergeant McAllister down. The Nephthysian ambushers, including Captain Maradi. The Bedouin, none of whom had really deserved to die except Uncle Chessboard Smile. The Liberators whom the Bedouin had killed during their raid. The Wepwawetian monks. And now all these Freegyptians, and yet more Nephthysians. Death was shadowing his footsteps like some big dumb brute of a dog that had latched on to him even though he was not its owner.

Well, enough. He was fed up. Sick of it. He would not be a part of it any more.

Once the field hospital was re-established in its new location on the mountaintop, David went in search of the Lightbringer. He didn't have to look far. Steven was standing, alone, on one of a pair of stone plinths that had once formed a gateway. He was surveying the scene to the north and to the south — the Setic armies rolling inexorably towards Megiddo, and the tattered remnants of his own army fending off Nephthysian attacks from below. David strode up, grabbed him by the sleeve and yanked him down from his perch.

''Dave! You're up and about. Fantastic. Knew you'd be OK. Takes a lot to put you down. So what's up?''

''This.'' David gestured, indicating the predicament they were in. ''What is this?''

''What do you mean?''

''What is going on here?'' David said. How hard it was not to shout. ''Your troops are on their last legs, ammo's running low, the Setics are just about on top of us, and the Nephs aren't going to sit down there for long without launching a full-scale assault or else calling the bombers back in.''

''Your point being?''

''What kind of half-arsed plan are you working to? You've lost nearly two-thirds of your army and you've got about a thousand able bodies left who are willing to lay down their lives for you, but what for? What's to be gained? Attrition warfare only works if you're grinding down the enemy to the same extent that he's grinding you down, and that certainly isn't the case here. Anyway, soon as the Setics arrive we're dead. All of us. What'll have become of your dream of liberating the world then?''

''First of all,'' said the Lightbringer, ''these people are willing to lay down their lives for me, yes. And that's something. That's an inspiration to us all.''

''You glib bast-''

''Second of all, Dave, the situation isn't nearly as bleak as it looks to you.''

''It couldn't look much bleaker, frankly.''

''But there are certain things you don't know. Things which make all the difference.''

''Oh yes? Such as?''

''I don't have to tell you. You'll find out soon enough.''

''I think you fucking should tell me, as a matter of fact. Because right now, Steven, the only hope I can see of any of us getting through this alive is to surrender. Give up while we still can. Unless you've got something pretty damn amazing up your sleeve, I'd recommend that we do just that. And if you don't want to follow that recommendation, I can make you.''

''Oh yes, big brother?'' said Steven with scorn. ''Really? Make me how? What are you going to do if I don't, run to Mum and Dad and tell on me?''

''Beat the living shit out of you, for starters.''

''I'm so scared.''

''You should be.''

''What's got into you, Dave? Something's eating at you. What is it? Don't you trust me any more?''

''I'm not sure I ever did.''

''Then why, can I ask, have you come all this way with me? Helped me at every turn? If you've never trusted me, why have you stuck by my side ever since I beat you hollow at senet?''

''Because,'' David replied, ''I thought you needed me. And because these Freegyptians have such faith in you. And because, I don't know, but… I fell for it.''

''For…?''

''Your vision. Of a god-free world. It was… attractive.''

''It still is.''

''No, I think not,'' David said, shaking his head. ''Not any more. The gods use us. They don't care about us. We're nothing more than a convenient power source to them, like batteries in a radio.''

''Which is exactly what I've been saying.''

''But. We can live with them. We just don't have to live for them. We can get on with being who we are, without compromising in any way to them. The gods pay little attention to us. We can return the favour.''

''We all just turn our backs on them? Not going to happen.''

''Maybe we can't collectively. Individually, though…''

''So that's it?'' Steven cocked his head in an inquisitive fashion. ''That's Dave's great change of heart? 'I give up. I'm not taking sides any longer. Leave me out of this.'''

''More or less. I can do it. And you could too. Standing against the gods is just as bad as kowtowing. It validates them. Surrender now. Call it quits.''

Steven laughed. ''If only it were that easy.''

''If not for your own sake, then for all of these people, your followers, what's left of them. They don't have to die here today. It would be senseless if they did.''

''Their job is to hold this city,'' said Steven. ''That's all they have to do. For as long as possible…'' A rattle of gunfire from a nearby emplacement served as punctuation, placing an ellipsis at the end of Steven's words.

''While the Nephs lay siege, and then the Setics come in and polish us off? Steven, I'll say it again, in case you didn't get it the first time. What's to be gained? What is the point?''

''You simply cannot understand, Dave. But that's not your fault. You're too limited in your outlook. You always were. You'll never see the bigger picture the way I do.''

This was said so smugly, so patronisingly, David was enraged. How dare Steven — his little brother! — how dare he talk to him like that? Four years his junior, and acting as if he had a lifetime of experience over him. This little brat who had come along and intruded on his firstborn, only-child existence, whom he'd done his best to accommodate, whom he'd defended and protected and (as it turned out, in vain) mourned bitterly, whom he'd opened up to about Zafirah only to have this act of confiding abused and thrown back in his teeth…

Nothing changed. Lightbringer or not, Steven was still the same snotty, ungrateful little sod he had always been.

The urge to punch him was strong. Almost overwhelming. Smack him in the face with a blow that was freighted with years of feelings of injustice and aggrievement. It would be all Steven deserved and more.

Instead, softly, almost to his own surprise, David said, ''Take the mask off.''

Steven cupped hand to ear, an impression of someone mishearing.

''The mask. Take it off. I need to see your face.''

''No way, Dave. I can't show you.''

''I need to look you in the eye. See who you are.''

''You know who I am.''

''But not who you've become. Come on. It isn't much to ask.''

''It's more than you realise.''

''The mask is your advantage over me. It allows you to hide everything from me, while I can't hide anything from you. We need to be equals. Take the mask off.''

''Can't it at least wait?'' said Steven. ''Please. Give me a day or two, then I'll happily do it.''

''No. I've waited long enough. Now.''

''It's not a pretty sight.''

''Don't care.''

''Dave, this isn't something I can just-''

David lunged, catching his brother off-guard. He got a hand to the side of the mask, gripping a fold of fabric. Steven tried to wrestle him off. David held fast. Steven pummelled his forearm, yelling at him to let go, not to do this, not now. David began to tug the mask upwards. Steven wrenched his head away, to counteract the move.

There was a rending sound. David staggered back with a scrap of the mask in his hand.

Steven screeched in frustration and clamped a hand over the section of his face that was now exposed by a jagged hole in the mask — his left cheek.

But too late. A fraction of a second too late.

David had glimpsed what lay there, and Steven knew it.

The burned skin, the scarring…

Had a shape.

Formed a pattern.

Was a picture.

Seared into the skin of Steven's face: an image. One David recognised. It was well known. The emblem of one of the gods. It wasn't an exact representation, but close enough. As close as one could expect from puckered scar tissue.

''You. Fucking. Twat!'' Steven snarled. ''What have you done?''

''No,'' said David, numb. ''You. What have you done, Steven?''