Daniel got a bad feeling.
"Ah mean, man, you were happy with your odds, right? Three against one? Overkill, normally, but since I'm like you, you canna rely on taking me down one on one. Ah'm a halfhero, you know, I'll put up a fight. But, man, did you think you're the only ones who ever thought of teaming up?"
Sara, Gabe, and Daniel looked at each other.
"Nah," said Sara. "I've read your file, Davey. You were near the back of the queue when brains were being dished out, and I think you tripped and spilt most of yours. Someone else organised this little reception party."
"Enough talking," said Davey and stepped forward, fists raised.
Sara and Gabe were trained fighters. Daniel knew he didn't have to worry about them. He was the amateur, the one with the fewest fancy moves. His sheer size, power, and tenacity made up for it. He was the only person ever to have faced, and defeated, two hybrids. He had needed a little help in Birmingham with Spot, but that was only because they had been on the clock. He had a reservoir of rage to draw upon. He only had to remember the fourteen years of his life that were taken from him by Hopkins and Station.
Daniel thought of that as he ran to meet TripleDee. As two more figures in his peripheral vision moved towards him, he was very glad he'd had three full English breakfasts that morning.
TripleDee was making a mistake. He was leading with a haymaker, a blow which would be devastating if it landed. Against anyone who could fight, a haymaker was a bad choice. It was too well signposted. But TripleDee was fast. Faster than any human, anyway. And an adversary with human reactions could never avoid the bone-shattering disaster heading his way.
But Daniel Harbin was only half-human.
As his opponent's arm whipped towards the side of his head, Daniel dropped to his knees and delivered an uppercut directly between the man's legs. The haymaker passed harmlessly overhead, and TripleDee made a strange wheezing sound. Daniel grabbed a fistful of crotch and, still kneeling, swung the man in a circle as the other assailants—one male, one female—approached. They were both knocked off their feet.
Daniel slammed the drug dealer onto the concrete floor, stood up, still holding the semi-conscious man by his crotch, and ran forwards until skull met wall. TripleDee slumped, unconscious. He wouldn't be getting up for a minute.
The man and woman were back on their feet, more wary now. Daniel turned to face them.
On the far side of the room, Gabe was inflicting pain. He was strong, tough, like all halfheroes, but his forte was his speed. Not just the pace at which he could cover ground, but the speed of his reflexes. He could react to a blow that had already landed, moving his head away so fast that the impact had no more effect than someone kissing him. He was almost impossible to put down.
Gabe was dancing between three adversaries. Their blows were coming at him in a blur of speed, but he was avoiding them, parrying and coming back with shots of his own. Gabe wasn't much stronger than a human, but his knowledge of pressure points compensated for this disadvantage. As kicks and punches came his way, he found a gap in the onslaught and jabbed his fingers into a spot less than half an inch in diameter, just under the chin of the nearest man. The result was unconsciousness and paralysis. The man fell backwards. He would wake up within thirty seconds to a minute, but the paralysis could last up to fifteen minutes.
Gabe realised he had dispatched the weaker of the three. The two remaining opponents were fast. Maybe as fast as he was. He was being driven backwards by the ferocity of their attack.
As he blocked them, something unprecedented happened. Gabe inexplicably decided to drop his guard.
It was only for a split second, but it was long enough for four or five blows to land, and Gabe fell. He rolled and got back to his feet, but he was shaken. Someone had planted an idea in his head.
The man smirked.
"Asshole," said Gabe, wiping blood from his mouth.
Sara had worked out what was going on within the first five seconds of the fight. She saw three distinct groups form amongst their opponents, each heading for one of the IGLU halfheroes. The ambush was well planned. There was more at play here than a small fry drug dealer flexing his muscles. She could see the speed of Gabe's opponents, and the strength of Daniel's. She had no doubt that everyone had been briefed about what they were about to face.
Which meant she would need to be careful.
Now she knew why they had cleared the space. Not only did it give them clear lines of attack, it removed objects that might be used as weapons by someone who could manipulate matter. Someone like Sara.
What she was hoping they didn't know, was the technique she had taught herself after meeting Daniel. The one she's used that night in Birmingham. One long afternoon, Daniel had told them about Station, about the years when he was drugged and manipulated into killing other halfheroes. He'd described the only mission he could remember in cathartic detail. Days later, Sara had asked him to elaborate on the abilities of one particular adversary that night in Shoreditch. Daniel had described the way his assailant had manipulated the air itself, moulding it into a weapon, using it to send significant blows from some distance.
Sarah had spent months learning how to do the same. Now was another opportunity to put it into practice.
She was facing three men. She focussed.
All three were swept off their feet. Before they could get up, she hit the nearest with a blow of energy the equivalent of having a bowling ball thrown into his stomach by an enraged silverback gorilla.
The man ended up in the corner. He was still moving, rolling onto his hands and knees and coughing.
She turned to face the other two. One of them ran straight through the door to the basement. She smiled at her remaining opponent.
"Probably just remembered he'd left the gas on."
The man smiled back. Sara was about to attack when he moved—fast—and pushed her backwards. She hit the wall hard.
"Now I'm just pissed off," she said, taking a step forwards.
There was a noise and a blur of motion behind her, where, a fraction of a second before, there had been nothing.
Gabe had found himself, for the first time in his life, outmatched. They weren't as fast as him, but there were two of them, and as quickly as he tried to plant ideas in their heads, one of them was doing the same to him. He jabbed at throats that weren't there, moved the wrong way to avoid a kick. Before he knew what was happening, too many punches had landed, and he was on the floor, curling up to avoid more punishment.
Daniel, meanwhile, was trying to adjust his normal fighting style of hit hard, take punishment, and hit some more. One of his opponents was planting ideas in his head, and he was sweating trying to resist them, while simultaneously blocking the attacks coming his way. He found a tiny gap in the confusion and put a fist in someone's face, his mind clearing as the woman hit the floor hard.
"So it was you doing that," he said, and he turned his attention to the man. Fit and wiry, but no match for Daniel's strength. He could see Gabe was in real trouble, and Sara had just shouted in surprise. He needed to finish this guy.
Daniel punched him in his solar plexus hard enough to wind a rhino.
Only, he didn't. The punch didn't land. The guy was moving out of the way before Daniel knew what was happening. It wasn't that he was fast. Gabe was fast, faster than anyone Daniel had ever met, and he could respond to an attack with reflexes almost beyond belief. This was different.
Daniel tried again, a feint with his left this time, intended to move the man into the path of the right hook he was unleashing.
He missed. Again.
What the hell?
To his left, Sara had failed to anticipate an attack, because the attack itself was impossible. She had the wall at her back, which closed off one approach. Or should have closed it off. She was facing down her single remaining opponent, intending to nudge him into thinking he was being attacked from behind. Before she could do it, the man who had run away came back. He walked through
the solid wall at her back and pinned her arms.
The man in front of her reached into his pockets and pulled out handfuls of something. From where Daniel was standing, it looked like a cloud of grey dust surrounded both his fists. Sara pulled her face to one side, but it was too late. The man's pockets were full of ball bearings. He shared her ability to manipulate the physical world around him with his mind, and—before Sara could mount a defence—he sent the tiny balls streaking towards her. They hit her legs, her midriff, her ribs, and her neck, neatly missing the arms of the man holding her.
The unmistakable sound of snapping bones was followed by a merciful descent into unconsciousness, and Sara slumped.
Daniel screamed with rage and redoubled his efforts, tiring quickly as every blow missed its mark. He failed to notice TripleDee get to his feet behind him, or Gabe's opponents leave his crumpled body and turn their attention to Daniel.
As his energy ebbed to a dangerously low level, TripleDee pushed him, hard.
Daniel's view of the room tilted as he fell. He tried to get up, but three of them sat on his chest and legs.
TripleDee was gesturing to someone, asking them to bring something. Daniel struggled, but something was pushed over his nose and mouth.
"Yep, Ray is a complete bastard to fight, isn't he?"
TripleDee's voice seemed to come from further and further away. Daniel felt as if he were being pulled along a tunnel, the light dimming.
"He can see into the future. Only a few seconds, so don't ask him for the lottery numbers. Canny in a scrap though."
Panic and despair were replaced by nothingness as Daniel finally slumped. He didn't hear TripleDee's final words.
"Champion. Tough fuckers, mind. Let's get masks on the other two and toss them in the van. They're about to make us all rich."
13
The guide was waiting at the agreed place, north of Saqqarah, just outside Cairo. A few pyramids could be found nearby. The area didn't quite have the same appeal for visitors as the Great Pyramid and Sphinx at Giza, but enough tourists added Saqqarah to their list of excursions to bring a little affluence to the neighbourhood.
Mahmoud was in the bar at the Pyramid Country Club when Abos texted him. He met her outside, in the shadows. A single woman in Egypt wandering about alone after midnight, he warned, was a terrible idea. The couple of hours spent in the bar waiting for her text had boosted his sense of chivalry. He insisted on chaperoning her. This extra service would, naturally, necessitate an extra charge.
"We have agreed your fee, and I do not need protection, thank you." Abos—or Abi, as she had introduced herself to Mahmoud—would rather he'd emailed a map, but her contact had insisted on a face-to-face meeting. Probably to get more money out of her.
"I cannot allow it." Mahmoud was adamant.
"You will allow it. The map, please. I have your money."
Abos took out an envelope stuffed with Egyptian pounds.
Mahmoud put his hand in his jacket pocket. Rather than the map, he pulled out a knife and waved it around himself.
"You need a guide. For protection. The fee will be double. I will keep the map."
"This map?"
Mahmoud's eyes widened. The map had been in his other jacket pocket. He frowned and raised the knife, only to find his hand was empty. He felt a sharp sensation in his stomach and looked down. The tip of his knife was pressing against his shirt. The woman was shaking her head.
"I do not need protection. I'm disappointed at your attitude. Goodbye."
She walked away, disappearing into the darkness.
Mahmoud said, "Abi! Wait!" and took a step forward. His trousers fell down, and he tripped into a ditch. As he stood up, he grabbed his belt. She had cut right through it. He peered into the darkness and shouted after her.
"Perhaps we go for a drink sometime?"
About five miles further north-west, out of sight of the Djoser pyramid car park, a working quarry plied a trade it could trace back for thousands of years. Silica sand was exported all over the world for glass production, water filtration, even golf courses.
At two in the morning, the site was silent. Abos flew over it, looking for a location four hundred yards away from the south entrance., She found it within minutes; a deep shadow on the side of a rocky dune.
She alighted a few feet away but didn't let her feet touch the ground. No point leaving any physical evidence. The only person other than Daniel who knew she was here was Mahmoud, and she doubted he would tell anyone about their encounter. Why didn't he take the agreed fee? Why try to cheat her? She sometimes thought she would never understand humans.
For a moment, she wondered if she had the right spot. It looked unpromising, a cave entrance four feet high. Had Mahmoud been selling false information? For his sake, she hoped not. He would be shocked to discover she had his address.
She flew to the entrance and let her feet touch the sand so she could crouch and move into the blackness beyond.
Scorpions and beetles scurried away as she shuffled inside. After a few feet, she came up against a stone wall. Her eyesight was keener than a human's, but she still had to feel her way around the rough surface. After only a few seconds, she found what she was looking for on the left side of the wall. A narrow gap, wide enough to squeeze through. After a few, sliding sideways steps, she found she was descending. The incline became more acute, leading her deeper underground.
This was it. Bastet's tomb.
She flicked on the torch, confident now that its light couldn't be seen from outside. The path widened as it descended, and Abos was able to walk upright. It doubled back on itself three times before reaching the chamber. Abos guessed she was at least two hundred feet below the desert surface.
The chamber was a large, open room with four pillars. The pillars featured the only decorations: they were covered in carvings of cats.
At the centre, there was a stone sarcophagus, large enough to contain three people. Next to it was a stone shelf, designed to hold the huge lid when the occupant of the tomb was ready to reemerge. This was the tomb of a goddess. She was expected to come back to her people.
But Abos wasn't looking for a goddess. She hoped her studies, phone calls, emails, and bribes over the last year may have uncovered another member of her species to join Shuck and Arthur in the lab. Well, in the third bath she'd ordered for the old outbuilding. She had named both her guests during their weeks growing new bodies. Black Shuck had become Shuck, Rasputin was Arthur. His Russian name had been Grigori, but—even if only a quarter of the rumours about him were half-true—she thought a clean break from the past was in order. And Arthur had been the main character's name in one of her favourite books.
What did one call a cat goddess? Bastet was unusual and sounded too much like an insult. She'd have to think about it.
Abos put her hand on top of the huge slab. The whole sarcophagus was plain, but its sheer size made it impressive. She wondered how an ancient civilisation could accomplish such feats of engineering. Daniel had bought a wardrobe just after they'd moved into the farm, and after three days, the doors had fallen off.
Bastet had drawn Abos's attention because of an unusual change in the way she was portrayed. For decades, she had been depicted as a warrior goddess of the sun, with a human body and the head of a lioness. Over the course of a few years, the pictures had changed to that of an enormous cat, worshipped so avidly that cats, even now, were treated with guarded respect. In ancient Egypt, cats were often mummified along with their rich owners. When the temple of Bastet was discovered under the streets of Alexandria, six hundred stone felines were found standing guard over the mummified bodies of three hundred thousand cats.
The evidence suggested a real being at the heart of the myth.
Abos shut her eyes. When she had found the tomb, flying above it, there had been no telltale sensation of proximity. She wondered if it was due to the depth at which it was buried. But now, with her prize so close, she still felt nothing. Was it
possible that a certain type of stone blunted her perceptions?
Abos put both hands on the side of the sarcophagus. She hesitated. Something wasn't right. She put her hands on her hips, took a step back and looked more closely at the shelf next to the tomb. There were scratches that lined up with the lid of the sarcophagus. And something else was strange. The dust. Or rather, the absence of dust.
She came round to the opposite side and placed both hands on the lid. She pushed, gradually adding more pressure. After some initial resistance, the massive stone slab slid smoothly away and onto the shelf beyond, the grinding rumble echoing around the walls of the tomb.
Abos looked inside.
It was empty.
Mahmoud turned over in his bed, muttering. Despite the late hour, he was struggling to get to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. The beautiful black woman who had humiliated him. He had replayed the encounter over and over, wondering how he had been bested so easily, and so ignominiously.
Drinking at the club had been a mistake. He could rarely afford the imported whisky, and the promise of an excellent payday had led to over-indulgence. One drink was fine, to settle the nerves. Two was okay, but three, four, or five? Foolish. His cat-like reflexes had been compromised. It would be different if they met again. He would teach this Abi some manners.
He scratched his capacious stomach as he dozed. Perhaps he should lose a little weight? Mahmoud liked to think his bulk made him intimidating. When you are, perhaps, not as tall as you might be, a large girth provides gravitas. So he had read somewhere and did not doubt it. When his wife had moved out, she had called him fat. She had always been shallow. Many women found the larger man attractive. He had read this in an American woman's magazine at the dental surgery.
This Abi was probably one of those women. She was sexually attracted to larger men. Almost certainly.
His scratching had moved a little lower when he a breeze lifted a few strands of hair from his scalp. Odd. Mahmoud always left the window open an inch, but now he could hear his curtains flapping, and the noise of the city was clear. He must have left it wide open. He was more drunk than he thought. No wonder that foreign wench had got the better of him. Well, if he ever saw her again...
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