Surrendering to the inevitable, Mahmoud shifted his legs over the edge of the bed, levered himself into an upright position, and lowered his feet into his waiting slippers.
Only then did he open his eyes.
"Hello, Mahmoud," said the black woman.
He threw himself backwards, slid over the satin sheets his wife had insisted on buying and fell off the bed. Scrabbling around in the semi-darkness, he found the bedside drawer and opened it, grabbing the weapon within before getting to his feet and brandishing it.
"You!" he said. "What do you mean by this? I warn you, I will not be fooled this time. You have made a big mistake."
The woman was sitting on the edge of the sofa. She looked at the frightened Mahmoud, his boxer shorts gaping, his vest riding half way up his hairy stomach. She patted the seat next to her.
"Come and sit down," she said. "I have some questions I'd like to ask you. And you should put that down."
Mahmoud stared at the vibrator in his hand with horror. He had opened the wrong drawer.
"Aaah!"
He dropped it onto the carpet.
"It isn't mine. I have never seen it before. It is my wife's. I am married. She is on holiday. You are sick, sick, thinking it is mine. How dare you?"
"Mahmoud?"
"What?"
"I will not hurt you. Come here. Sit on the bed if you like."
Slowly, never taking his eyes off her, Mahmoud moved to the end of the bed and sat down. He risked a glance at the open window. So that was how she got in. But he lived on the twelfth floor.
"How—?"
The woman shook her head. There was something different about her. His eyes flicked away from her face then back again. It was her eyes. They were gold.
"Now, Mahmoud, tell me, who else has been in that tomb? They must have taken specialist equipment down there to open the sarcophagus."
Mahmoud, with some difficulty, looked away from those golden eyes and thought for a moment. The American had paid enough money to buy his wife's share of the apartment. With a bonus to guarantee his discretion. The man hadn't threatened him explicitly, but Mahmoud had been left with the clear impression that were he to speak of their business transaction, he would regret it.
He looked at the woman again. He knew how to handle a woman.
"I'm sorry," he began, "but I don't know what you're talking ab—"
His lips went dry, and his tongue flopped to the bottom of his mouth. Every piece of furniture in his apartment had risen from the floor and was floating. Looking through the double doors to the room beyond, he could see every pot and pan, plate, knife, and dish drift up to the ceiling. His table and chairs were already there. With a whimper, he scuttled backwards to the middle of the bed as it, too, rose from the floor.
Mahmoud stifled a scream. The woman's face appeared at the foot of the bed. She was flying now, her golden eyes blazing. She looked down at him, and he had an epiphany.
Her eyes, her features, her power... she is Bastet herself! The goddess!
He supplicated himself before her, muttering entreaties and prayers, assuring her he would tell her everything she wanted to know, begging her mercy for not recognising her godhood earlier, apologising for the whole vibrator thing, although that was really his wife's fault, she must have left it there.
"Mahmoud?"
"Y—, yes, Goddess?"
"Tell me who was in the tomb."
He told her everything.
14
TripleDee and his crew delivered the IGLU team to their contact at the far end of an airport carpark closed off to the public.
They arrived in a large panel van and two black Teslas. The Teslas were TripleDee's pride and joy. He was fond of pointing out that a silent car was the perfect choice for a criminal. He couldn't see what was so surprising about a drug dealer wanting to save the planet, either. If humanity screwed the ecosystem, there'd be no crack-heads to keep him in business.
The van and cars pulled up alongside what looked to be a motor home or RV, modified by a rich paranoid with no taste. It was dark grey, windowless, and as big as a council bungalow. There were a satellite dish and an array of aerials on the roof.
As the halfheroes emerged from their vehicles, a man stepped out of the front of the RV. A second man stayed behind the wheel.
The first man, dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and no tie, stepped forward to meet them. Average height, brown hair, a symmetrical face. Utterly forgettable.
"Mr Davison?" Even his voice was bland, with an anonymous American accent.
TripleDee, climbing carefully down from the passenger seat of the van, raised a hand.
"That'll be me. Robertson?"
The man nodded.
"Your boss here?"
Robertson shook his head, smiling.
"My employer is a busy man."
"I'm sure he is, but this is pretty bloody special."
The man shrugged. He looked at the assembled group, noting bruises and bloodied features. Some were limping.
"Did they give you any trouble?"
"Some. Nothing we couldn't handle, like."
"Hmm. Nine against three?"
"Listen, man, they are trained fighters. And that Daniel guy...it was like punching a tree. Made of iron."
"Show them to me."
TripleDee bristled at the tone of command in the man's voice, but he walked him round to the rear of the van without a word. Robertson was about to hand over more money than he'd made in the past two years, after all.
He opened the rear doors. Daniel, Gabe, and Sara were each lying on wheeled ambulance beds, with intravenous drips supplying the drugs to keep them unconscious.
Robertson climbed in, seeing broken bones and battered faces.
"You tried to kill them?"
"They're not so easy to kill. They—we—heal fast, too."
"Yeah. So I've heard. Okay, let's do business."
TripleDee smiled broadly at that and winked at the others. They all climbed the three steps to the RV door, which was already open. TripleDee gave it a look as he passed it. It was more like a door you'd find on a 747 than a motor home.
Inside, a polished boardroom table and chairs dominated the space, which was lit by LEDs flush to the ceiling. There were ten chairs, laptops open in front of nine of them.
TripleDee took a seat at the head of the table and waited. The last to file in was Ray, the least dangerous-looking of all, shabbily dressed, balding, his unkempt beard streaked with grey. But TripleDee knew not to underestimate him. A man who could see the immediate future was a great ally, but next to impossible to double-cross.
"All of us in a room together?" said Ray. "This has got to be the most halfheroes in one place ever, right?"
TripleDee glanced at Robertson, who had followed him in.
"This wouldn't be a trap, now, would it?"
Robertson chuckled without an iota of humour.
"You're the most powerful individuals in the world. How am I supposed to trap you? Howell here can walk through solid matter."
A grunt from the man in question was his only answer.
"Two of you can place ideas into my brain as if I thought of them myself. One can fly, all of you are strong, and a couple of you are pretty much bulletproof. Ray here has his own private window into the future. How's the view, Ray? You see me betraying anyone?"
Ray stood on the threshold a few seconds longer, then sat down with the others.
"Excellent. Now, if you would all enter your bank details, I will transfer the money. You can confirm the transfer online or by phone."
Robertson began to close the door. Everyone else stood up. He paused, putting both hands up, palms towards them.
"Sorry, folks, but we have to seal the environment. With the door open, electronic signals other than the ones routed through the array on the roof can still get in or out. With the door closed, we are un-hackable. Once you have confirmed the transfers, I will open the door. I'm staying in here w
ith you. No foul play. Ray?"
Ray seemed relaxed about the idea and, knowing nothing unexpected was about to happen, the rest of them re-took their seats.
Robertson pulled a lever across the door to create a seal. Everyone typed bank details into the form on the screen. Robertson sat in the tenth chair, folded his hands on his lap, leaned backwards and closed his eyes.
For a few minutes, the tense silence was broken only by the sound of fingers tapping keyboards, accompanied by the occasional curse as the bigger specimens among them hit two, or even three, keys at once with hands more used to punching than typing.
Ray broke the silence, jerking his head up and pointing at Robertson.
"Not asleep!"
"What?" TripleDee pressed RETURN before looking up. Ray was trying to get up. He staggered a little, then sat down again, heavily.
"No," he said, "no, no..." He fell forward and was still.
TripleDee swung round to look at Robertson. The sudden movement made him dizzy. The American's hands had moved from his lap and now hung at his sides. His mouth was open, and a line of drool reflected the overhead lights.
"Shit," said TripleDee. Or, at least, that was what he tried to say. It came out as a long, "shhhhh," before his own head sagged. He was heavy, leaden, exhausted. His eyes wanted to shut, and there was nothing he could do to stop them. He was dimly aware of the others slumping to the side, or falling forwards onto the table as he watched the scene darken and become dreamlike, a smoky phantasm with no substance. Then he slept.
Three minutes later, the door hissed and opened outwards. The driver, a gas mask obscuring his features, stepped into the room and opened a sliding cupboard door inside the RV. Moving with practised speed, he removed small tanks with triangular black rubber masks. He attached the masks to the sleeping halfheroes in order of size, largest first, turning on the valve at the top of the tanks and making sure the gas was flowing before moving to the next.
Only when he was sure that everything was working as it should did the driver turn his attention to Robertson. He hooked his hands under the other man's armpits and dragged him outside, propping him against the wheel of the RV. He jumped back into the cab and flicked a switch to stop the flow of gas from the air vents in the room behind him.
Then he lit a cigarette and waited for Robertson to wake up.
15
Abos got back to Cornwall before dawn, as the sky in the east was taking on a pinkish glow.
She thought about what Mahmoud had told her. There were others of her species out there, but someone else was looking for them. How many had they found? Her mind hovered around questions she had no answers for, worrying at them, poking them, rolling them around to find a way in.
She stood still, breathing the air and watching the sky lighten.
Lately, once or twice a day, she had taken to stopping whatever she was doing and just existing for a moment. Her life was unusual, but her day-to-day, minute-to-minute experience of the world was surely similar to most humans. Self-awareness was as much a mystery to her as it was to humanity's greatest thinkers throughout history. Pausing now and then didn't give her any new insights, but she enjoyed it. No, enjoyed wasn't quite the right word. It made her feel grounded, as if she were here.
Her first life had been one of subservience. Manipulated by Station, used as a figurehead for a political system she neither understood nor believed in.
Her second life, in a body grown from the blood of Cressida Lofthouse, was one of escape. Of denial. She feared falling into the hands of Station, or others with an equally ambiguous attitude to freedom and the rights of individuals. She hid her power, pretended to be what she appeared to be: a quiet, intelligent school teacher who enjoyed her privacy.
Her children had initiated the sequence of events leading to this, her third life.
George had contacted her by email. The existence of children had been a shock. That so many of them had died at puberty was horrifying. The abilities of those who had survived—in George's case, abilities that Abos did not possess—and the news that Station was now manipulating, or killing, them, was the turning point.
Abos had become angry.
Station had fallen, George had died, and Abos had used her blood to grow this, her third body. Memories threaded through each existence, but they faded. She could barely remember much from those early years. Many of the faces of the children she had taught in Wales had blurred, their names forgotten.
Her awareness of self was strong, but the nature of that self eluded her.
She had no history. Like a baby left on an orphanage doorstep, her origins were unknown. Unlike the baby, her species was also unknown.
As she watched the last stars disappear as the sky got lighter, she wondered if she came from another world. Perhaps the yearning she sometimes felt when she looked at the panoply of stars was something other than the awe and wonder humans experienced.
Abos remembered that she was supposed to be enjoying breathing, standing on the living earth, being alive.
Everything was beautifully uncomplicated when she surrendered to that.
This morning, she couldn't do it. With every breath, she became more aware that the next few weeks would considerably complicate her life. The man looking for members of her species may have come to the same conclusions about the provenance of certain mythical or legendary characters. And he had the money, power and connections to get in and out of Egypt, desecrate an ancient tomb, and leave with stolen material, unchallenged.
According to Mahmoud, this man was an American. He had overheard his name, but, as it was commonplace, Abos wasn't sure how much help it would be.
His name was Robertson.
Two of the bathtubs now had occupants. In the first, Shuck was now fully grown. At least Abos hoped so. She and Daniel had bought the largest baths they could find, but the male body shifting, stretching limbs, and flexing newly grown muscles was close to seven feet tall. His enormous feet were dangling over the edge.
Abos spoke to him, but there was no response. She remembered reading Cressida's diary. It had taken two months for her (or, rather, him, as she was then) to become conscious after her first body had grown. Her second, and third bodies, had grown more quickly, but she didn't know how, or why. Shuck had been here for nearly six weeks. She or Daniel would have to stick around from now on. It would hardly be fair to let their guest wake up in a new body, and a new century, alone.
She took her phone out of her pocket. Daniel's bike hadn't been in the yard. It wasn't the first time he'd been late, but he'd always sent a message. Not this time. She tapped the screen, then put the phone away. He wouldn't thank her for waking him up at 6:30 am.
Rasputin—Arthur, she reminded herself—was also growing a body, although it was still a day or two away from being fully formed. Abos stared down at it.
"Oops," she said. "You're not an Arthur at all."
She thought for a moment before remembering the Asimov books Daniel had given her. "How would you feel about being a Susan?"
Radio 4 was playing the Today programme. As well as absorbing the language, Abos hoped her kin would begin their lives with a thorough understanding of current affairs.
An item on the news caught her attention.
"A recap of the headlines. The government is under pressure to reveal the exact nature of the Ministry of Defence facility near Gravesend, which was the scene of an explosion late last night. No one was believed to have been hurt in the incident, which took place just after midnight. Opposition parties are calling for an enquiry after rumours surfaced that the site was being used as a high-security prison. The Ministry of Justice will make a statement later today. Technology news: the world's richest man, Titus Gorman, is expected to make another of his surprise announcements later today at a..."
Abos stepped back out into the yard, closing the door behind her.
Gravesend was where the four rogue halfheroes rounded up by Daniel and his IGLU colleagues were bei
ng held.
Where was Daniel?
Cruising at an altitude of up to fifty-one thousand feet, the Gulfstream G650 was capable of a top speed of over eight hundred miles an hour, making it almost as fast as Abos.
A sixty-seven-million-dollar jet used by the richest individuals in the world, the Gulfstream was fitted out with large leather seats, sofas, even beds. Passengers travelled in absolute luxury, their every whim catered for by the discreet staff, arriving at their destinations refreshed and happy.
Not so the passengers who had flown on the G650's previous trip. It had made the flight from Newcastle fifteen hours earlier and, after refuelling and checks, plus a thorough valet, was now heading in the opposite direction. It wouldn't be landing in Britain this time, instead, taking its owner to a technology symposium in Geneva, where he would deliver the keynote address that evening.
The owner sipped a glass of mineral water and ate salted nuts. He would normally avoid salt, but his nutritionist had advised him to up his intake when flying long haul.
He tapped a button on his armrest.
"Sir?"
"Patch me through to Robertson at the Facility."
"Yes, sir."
He glanced around the cabin. There was no evidence at all of the twelve passengers Robertson had brought over. They had crossed the Atlantic in style but remained unaware of it. There had been no need to secure the individuals in question, as, once they were onboard, an intravenous anaesthetic drip had been inserted into each of them. They had been treated with care, the medical staff doing whatever was necessary to ensure their flight passed comfortably.
A convoy of SUVs had met them at Space Harbor before transferring the passengers to the Facility.
The Facility itself was new, purpose-built and awaiting its first guests.
"Sir, I have Robertson for you."
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