by George Mann
Behind them, the stabilizing hooks hung from the ceiling, dangling on massive chains. If he could get to those…
The bird-headed statue punched out at him, its stone ankh still clutched in its fist like a knuckle-duster. He twisted, and the blow missed his chin, glancing off his chest as he leaned back, trying to dodge out of its way. His broken ribs erupted in pain, and he staggered, dropping to one knee.
He felt another blow connect with his kidneys, and threw himself on the ground, rolling just in time to avoid a cracked skull, as one of the stone feet struck the floor where his head had been just a split second earlier.
Quickly, he forced himself up onto one knee, pain flaring in his chest, and pulled the ignition cord for his boosters, propelling himself up toward the roof.
The lion goddess was too quick, however, and jerked at the last moment, aiming a blow that caught him hard in the back of the knee and sent him spinning wildly off target. He shot across the hangar, trying desperately to alter his trajectory. The wooden crate loomed before him, and he buried his face in the crook of his elbow as he collided with it, unable to gain enough height to clear it. The wood splintered beneath the impact, and he fell through into the void inside, slamming into the far wall and tumbling onto the ground.
Groggily, he got to his feet. He was standing in a small room that resembled the interior of an ancient tomb or temple, complete with piles of gilded treasures and accoutrements inlaid with precious stones. The walls were covered in crudely painted hieroglyphics. Whatever was going on here, the interior of the crate had been carefully constructed to resemble a scene from ancient times.
He didn’t have time to worry about it now, though—the statues had continued their relentless pursuit, and he could see them through the hole in the wall, closing in.
He angled his shoulders at the hole, and fired up his boosters again. This time he sailed over the heads of the statues, catching hold of one of the massive stabilizing hooks and swinging himself around, using the weight of it as an anchor. He angled his body, hovering for a moment, waiting for a clear shot. The lion-headed statue was lumbering beneath him, glaring up at him with her pristine black eyes.
The Ghost drew a deep breath, and then, using all of his upper body strength, hauled down on the smaller chain securing the hook. There was a clanking sound from overhead as the chain lurched free of its housing, the links clinking against one another as the massive weight of the hook suddenly took up the excess slack, yanking more and more of the chain free from the reel.
The hook fell like a dead weight, striking the lion-headed statue right between the eyes. It shattered explosively, hunks of stone tumbling across the floor of the hangar. The entire vessel seemed to shake beneath the impact, and the other statue trembled with the reverberation, almost going over as the hook struck the deck.
The Ghost knew he didn’t have long now; the noise would have been heard out on the dock, and people would be dispatched immediately to investigate.
He cut the power to his boosters, drifting slowly to the ground. The other statue turned and lurched toward him, hissing angrily.
He knew he’d only have one shot at this, and he was taking a huge risk, but it seemed like his best shot. He stood his ground as the statue approached, aiming his flechette gun as if he were about to unleash another barrage. Then, at the last minute, as the statue closed the gap between them, he dropped into a crouch, fired his boosters, and grabbed hold of the statue’s waist.
He felt its fist slam into his back, the base of the ankh gouging his flesh, but he held on as the boosters fought against the weight, raising the two grappling figures off the ground.
Just a little higher… just a little higher…
He let go, pushing himself free of the statue and sending himself into a spiraling upward motion as the force of his boosters, now suddenly free of their burden, sent him careening toward the roof.
The only force acting upon the statue, however, was gravity. It fell, twisting in the air, reaching out with its good arm in a pointless attempt to protect itself. It struck the floor with a thud, face down, its torso cracking into three, its head rolling free of its neck. Its arm, still clutching the ankh, gave a final, jerking spasm, before falling still.
The Ghost struck the ceiling, rebounding painfully, jarring his shoulder and causing more pain to flare in his chest. He hooked his arm out, catching hold of a bundle of chain, and pulled himself to a stop, panting for breath.
He hovered there for a moment, watching the ruins of the statues on the deck. Then, certain that it was over, he cut the power to his boosters and gently lowered himself to the floor. He was smarting all over, and could feel blood running freely down the crease of his spine, from where the statue had jammed its ankh into him.
He crouched over the remains, tentatively turning over a hunk of stone. There were no visible circuits or brass sub-frame here; the statues appeared to be just that—carved from blocks of solid stone. How, then, had they suddenly come to life to attack him? He wondered if the Enforcer had given him a knock around the head, as well as the chest—if he wasn’t imagining it all. The evidence was right here before him, though, and he had the wounds to prove it.
He stood, kicking around amongst the shattered remains for a moment until he found what he was looking for—a hand, broken at the wrist, still clutching an ankh. He stooped and picked it up, slipping it into his coat pocket. He’d have someone examine it later to see if there was something he was missing. There had to be some evidence of buried technology there, somewhere.
He crossed to the wooden crate, looking up at the ragged gash he’d made in the side panel during the fight. Whoever had been trying to keep this thing hidden here was going to be pissed, he was certain of that.
With both hands, he grabbed at the splintered panel around the hole and pulled, prising it open a little further. He tossed the broken piece of wood on the ground by his feet. Then, hauling himself up, he climbed inside.
His initial impressions of the small room had been of a temple or tomb, and now that he had chance to study it properly, he realized it was a burial chamber—or at least an approximation of one. He’d seen grainy photographs of the interior of Tutankhamun’s tomb in the National Geographic a few years earlier, and the layout here was similar, if more compact: a large wooden casket rested in the center of the floor, decorated in elaborate gold leaf, and vertical columns of hieroglyphs.
Lining the edges of the chamber were piles of gilded grave goods—footstools, headrests, Canopic jars, the wheels from a chariot, spears—while the walls themselves were covered in detailed pictograms, presumably a facsimile of the story of the dead king or queen whose tomb it was intended to recreate.
Most of one wall was missing now, but he circled the chamber, taking in what he could of the story. The lion-headed goddess—the one whose statue had attacked him—featured prominently in the artwork; here at the head of a line of charging chariots; there bestowing gifts upon the workers who had erected great statues in her name.
In one scene she stood before a kneeling woman, her hands held just above the woman’s head, glowing light spreading from her fingertips. In another, soon after, the kneeling woman was standing, arms outstretched, head tossed back, ethereal lions billowing out of the darkness behind her.
The ibis-headed god was present, too, along with a symbol the Ghost recognized. He fumbled in his pocket for a moment, withdrawing the sheaf of photographs Donovan had given him on the roof. He spread them out on top of the casket until he found the one he’d been looking for—the cartouche, depicting someone’s name. It was here, too, just beneath a painting of the ibis-headed god.
He bundled the photographs up again, returning them to his pocket. Was that enough of a link? If it was simply the name of an Ancient Egyptian deity, then surely it was ubiquitous? He’d have to talk to Arthur or Astrid to be sure.
He turned his attention to the casket. Again, it was nothing but a prop, a hurriedly made approximation
of the real thing. He could see where the wood had been hammered together with modern nails, hidden beneath a layer of hastily applied gold leaf.
The script on the outer casket was dense and unreadable, at least to someone so untrained in the art as the Ghost. Cautiously, he tried the lid. It came away easily, constructed from thin sheets of ply that had been covered in a layer of papier mâché.
Inside, he expected to find a coffin, but was surprised to see two pillows and a cotton sheet. It was a makeshift bed. It had been slept in recently, too; the sheets were mussed, and there was a depression in the pillows where the person’s head had lain. It couldn’t have been very comfortable, unless the person was out for the count. Someone must have kept them fed and watered throughout the trip, too. Was this their game, then? People smuggling? Donovan had mentioned the Reaper’s involvement in such activities. Could this be connected? Had they brought someone back from Egypt who wasn’t on the passenger manifest? Or even… someone who was?
He reached in and grabbed one of the pillows. It carried the faint scent of women’s perfume, along with a few loose strands of blonde hair.
The Ghost swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He recognized the scent immediately. It was one of Ginny’s favorites. He’d spent lazy hours in bed beside her, breathing in that scent, tracing his fingers along the curve of her hip while she’d kissed his neck and playfully slapped his hands away.
What had she gone and gotten herself mixed up in?
He threw the pillow back where he’d found it, and replaced the casket lid. Again, there was every chance it was just a coincidence. There had to be hundreds, if not thousands of women out there with the same perfume. He had to avoid drawing conclusions, at least for now, despite everything his gut was telling him, despite the gnawing sense of fear. He needed proof. Real proof.
Something occurred to him, and he glanced back at the pictures on the wall. He hadn’t noticed it earlier, but the woman kneeling before the lion goddess in the painting was blonde. He’d never seen a blonde Egyptian before.
The sound of distant voices brought his reverie to an end. He had to get out of there, and fast. He reached for the hole in the wall, pulling himself through. The dockworkers, or guards, or whoever was on their way, would be there within moments. The wreckage of the statues would hold their attention for a few minutes—long enough for him to get off the ship and be up on the nearby rooftops before the police were called in, assuming he could avoid running into them on his way out.
With one last glance back at the ruins of the wooden crate, the Ghost melted into the shadows, and slipped away.
NINE
The motorcar purred across the smooth desert sands, leaving two snaking trails across the starlit dunes.
Ginny sat in the back beside Amaury, peering out of the window in wonder. It was beautiful out here—desolate, but beautiful. Light was only now beginning to break over the horizon, a shining red disc shimmering across the glassy sand, like the world was only just waking from a long and restful slumber.
She’d risen shortly after midnight, bathed and dressed, and found the others waiting for her in the hotel lobby. They didn’t look as if they’d been to bed, and sure enough, Landsworth had slept most of the way out here in the car, snoring noisily as their Egyptian driver wrestled with the wheel, leading them deeper and deeper into the empty desert.
They’d left Luxor behind them over an hour ago, and Ginny hadn’t seen a landmark or settlement since. She had no idea how the driver had any sense of where he was going; he didn’t even seem to be consulting a compass.
“It’s very…”
“Bleak?” suggested Amaury.
“No, not bleak,” said Ginny. “Just… well, I’m not sure, really. Peaceful, but… empty, I suppose. I’d expected to see more buildings, villages, towns, that sort of thing. Ruins, even. I can’t even see the city anymore. It’s just… empty.” She sighed. “If you were to strand me here now, I wouldn’t have any sense of how to find my way back.”
Amaury laughed. “The desert is a dangerous place, Miss Gray. You can rest assured that you will not have to find your own way back.” He grinned. “Although you might be longing for it, soon enough.”
The car was drawing to a stop. “What do you mean? What’s going on?” she said, craning to see out of the windscreen.
They’d stopped before what appeared to be a small encampment, with pitched tents, a campfire, and a number of men milling about. On the edge of the camp, tied to a post by coils of thick rope, were four camels.
“Oh, you can’t be serious,” she said. “Camels!”
“I’m afraid the motorcar cannot take us any further,” said Amaury, laughing. “The terrain becomes too uneven as we get closer to the site of the tomb.” He shrugged. “And besides, you said you wanted to see the real Egypt.”
“I said I wanted to see the Luxor Temple!” said Ginny, with mock protest. “I’m just glad that I didn’t wear a nice dress.”
“It’ll be worth it,” said Amaury. “Trust me. You’re only the fourth westerner to visit this tomb. You have a chance to see it before the tourists descend and my friend Landsworth here strips it of everything valuable for his colleagues at the museum.”
“What? What was that?” said Landsworth, suddenly jerking awake now that the engine had cut out. He twisted in his seat, looking back at Amaury. He narrowed his eyes. “You were talking about me, weren’t you?”
Amaury laughed. “I was telling Miss Gray here that you’ll soon have plundered the tomb for your exhibition, is all.” He turned to Ginny. “That’s why he’s worried about the press. Doesn’t want them giving everything away before he has chance for a grand unveiling.”
“Which museum do you work for, Mr. Landsworth?” said Ginny.
“I’m more of a… freelancer,” said Landsworth, “although this particular exhibition is being sponsored by the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City.”
“My home town,” said Ginny with a grin. “I’ll make sure all my friends come along.”
“Very kind of you,” said Landsworth. “Now, what about these ruddy camels?” He clicked the door open and almost fell out of the car as his foot sank into the sand. Ginny stifled a laugh; Amaury wasn’t so kind.
“Watch yourself there, Landsworth,” he said. “We need you to keep the bank off our back.”
“Glad to know I’m good for something,” muttered Landsworth, before stomping off toward the camp, his feet kicking up little clouds of sand in his wake.
“Come on,” said Amaury. “It’s not far from here. Just another hour or so.”
“An hour, on one of those things?”
“You’ll be fine,” said Amaury, opening his door. “What is it you say? ‘It’s just like riding a bicycle.’” He clambered out of the car, holding it open for Ginny to follow.
“I never learned to ride a bicycle!” she called after him, but his only reply was another heartfelt laugh.
* * *
An hour later, and Ginny had just about figured out how to remain seated on top of the creature as it lumbered ponderously across the sweeping sands.
The sun had risen now, bringing with it the first indication of the heat to come, and while the men had simply wrapped scarves around their heads—all beside Landsworth, who had insisted on wearing his hat—Ginny had managed to balance a parasol over one shoulder whilst clinging onto the saddle for dear life with the other.
She’d only fallen off twice, and while the others had found this rapturously funny, she was counting it as a success.
The landscape around them had altered, too; now there were rocky formations amongst the dunes, peeking out from beneath the golden sand. They’d passed the ruins of an ancient structure, now just a collapsed pillar and a tumbledown wall, still guarded by the gargantuan feet of the colossus who had once stood here. She was reminded of Shelley’s “Ozymandias”, and wondered what it had been like here once, in that long-lost era of great kings and bizarre ritual. Perhaps Amaur
y’s tomb might provide some insight, some glimpse into the ancient past, a sense of what it must have been like to live amongst these people.
She watched him now, balanced expertly upon the back of his camel, quietly surveying the landscape. A cigarette drooped from the corner of his mouth, and his hand was raised to his eyes, shielding them from the harsh glare. He was handsome, she supposed, and amusing, and there were clear overtones to his interest in her. Yet she found she could not even consider him in that way. Or rather, she did not want to consider him like that.
All the way here she’d thought of Gabriel, and even now, thousands of miles away on a different continent, thirsty and perspiring on the back of a camel, her thoughts returned to him. She would send him a postcard when she returned to Luxor that evening, and begin making arrangements for her return to New York. She’d stay a few more weeks, make the journey back to Cairo to see the pyramids, and after that, take a berth on a steamship home. A month here would be long enough to see everything she wanted to see, to make the long journey worthwhile—and besides, she wasn’t sure she could stand being away from him any longer than that. Not if she didn’t have to.
She sensed another camel drawing up beside her, and turned to see Landsworth, hunched uncomfortably in his saddle, sweat dribbling down his forehead and staining the front of his shirt. At least he’d made the concession of foregoing a tie that morning, although his pale suit still looked uncomfortably hot, and he was obviously suffering.
“Here,” she said, holding out her water bottle. “Take a sip of water. You look as if you could use a drop.”
Landsworth nodded gratefully, and took it from her, gulping at it as if it were the first drop of water he’d seen all day. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, replaced the stopper, and passed it back. “Most generous of you, Miss Gray. Although, if truth be told, I could use a drop of something stronger.”
“Ah, well you have me there,” she said. “I’m avoiding the stuff.”
