I stood up, horrified at what she was saying, aware that she wasn’t even railing at me but at the old man, that I was just a reminder of her pain, not in any way a substitute for what she’d lost. I stumbled through an apology and fled the room. I ran down the corridors and out of the hospital and I kept running until I was off-planet and headed for home.
***
The big platform for Alltheway Station was being spun up. A whole comet, rubble and ice inside a tough polymer bag, was being warmed by the sun at the aphelion of its tight, elliptical orbit, and whirled around so fast it would flatten into a gigantic plate, two kilometres across. By the time it reached us here at the Moon, it would have refrozen, the tethers would all be in place and the platform could be guided in and attached. We were building the biggest space station ever. A whole city, with one-sixth gravity and a spaceport on its outer face that, one day, would fling the first starships out into interstellar space.
I had a message from Eden when Penny finally passed away. It was there in my mail one day when I got off my shift. It was short and to the point and it thanked me “for trying to help Grandma.” It made me laugh and rage both at the same time. So I wasted another bottle of scotch on my unresponsive system and let my illegal software extension keep me drunk for three days before I went back to work.
I hung by my feet on T17 and watched the tugs nudging a freighter into the dock on T2. From her markings she was carrying nanite paste from the new factory on Ceres. Behind her, the Earth was a blue crescent, dazzling and remote.
Another world.
About The Author
Graham Storrs is a former research scientist who now lives in the Australian bush and writes science fiction. He has published short stories and eleven novels, covering all the major sci-fi themes, including time travel, dystopian futures, transhumanity, alien invasion and space opera and, within each theme, he likes to mix it up, writing thrillers, adventure and comedy. Keeping the science real is as important to him as keeping his characters real, and his books and stories are heavily researched. He does most of his writing outdoors, in the mountains and gum forests that surround his home.
For more information, visit http://grahamstorrs.cantalibre.com/.
Scales Fall
Dave Higgins
Editor’s Note: Fantasy spends a lot of time in quasi-Arthurian worlds, but magic has flowered in many human cultures beyond Medieval Europe. Take ancient Egypt for example. If your taste is for dark magic, I’d go with mummies every time.
Philip Luttman ticked the final item. “Well, the crates are all present and undamaged. The contents are another matter.”
“It’s Dyer’s first big find, dear.” Anna placed Dyer’s telegram on a bench and picked up a crowbar. The scent of dry straw cut the air of the museum as she eased the top from a small crate. “If anything, he’ll have packed everything too well. There’s space for twice as much in this crate. I don’t know why he didn’t use the opportunity to come back with them, though. Especially with the problems.”
“You mean that guide trying to steal some of the grave goods? You have to expect the odd bad apple with native workers. But it’s all petty crime, no planning. I mean, trying to carry a five-foot-tall brass mirror through the camp. No wonder he was caught. No, Dyer might be a little slack on details, but he’s right about doing a survey of the rest of the valley. No sane archaeologist gives that up to shepherd crates.”
“I didn’t just mean that. Egypt closed the Suez Canal. Do you read the newspaper or just use it to hide the toast?”
“President Nasser gives a good speech, but he’s not got the stomach to take on Great Britain.” Philip picked up the second crowbar and worked the nails out of Crate 42. “And his people certainly don’t. Scratch most Egyptians, you’ll find they’re scared of devils hiding in the sand. Take Dyer’s diggers; one look at the inside of the tomb and they’re babbling about ancient curses. And the ones who aren’t superstitious are all trying to buy civilisation. Worst Dyer might face is some little Egyptian bureaucrat asking for more baksheesh.”
Anna reached into the straw. “Hopefully. Small bowl, dark glaze with traces of an unidentified substance in the bottom. I’d say Naqada III.” She glanced at the manifest. “And, Dyer says Naqada. So, that’s one detail right.”
“Well, pottery’s a beginner’s topic anyway.” Philip ducked as his wife reached for the crowbar. “Although, there might be subtleties. The electrum dagger is the critical find. Dyer describes the mummy as crude, and you, the most skilled and beautiful of all pot experts, agree with his dating of the bowl. Suggests Third Dynasty. But, an ibis-headed dagger doesn’t fit the rituals of the Third Dynasty. We should start there.”
“Only last month, you said knives weren’t worth considering.” Anna lifted a cracked jar from its bed of straw and turned it in the light. “Mrs. Hadsall hasn’t forgiven you for spreading butter with her best ladle.”
“I can’t be held accountable for that: I was sleepwalking. It’s your fault. You know it happens occasionally when I can’t relax, so if you did your wifely duty…”
“Wifely duty? You convinced me to marry you, not support your theory about a missing Pharaoh.”
“Not missing; excised from the record for unspeakable blasphemies. You agree placing an unsheathed dagger between the mummy’s hands is unusual?”
“Yes, dear.” Anna settled the jar back in the crate. “Play with your knife. I’ll finish cataloguing the pottery.”
Philip kissed her on the cheek. It was fortunate they had the museum to themselves tonight. The last thing he needed was someone making a joke about how his theories were so mad even his own wife wouldn’t support them.
After picking up the dagger, he strolled to the photography lab. He shouldn’t get ahead of himself: a single artefact didn’t prove the gap in Egypt’s dynastic record was deliberate. But a crude mummy entombed miles from any others with the trappings of immense power and riches meant something. And the placement of the dagger screamed divergent rites to anyone who wasn’t too tied up in the past to consider the evidence.
Not that he was free of the past himself. The museum’s camera might be older than him. With a firm kick, he got the tripod to lock. After fighting the same war with the swivels on the lighting stands, he took a series of close shots. As he lined the lens up for a shot of the whole dagger, an odd glint caught his eye. He tilted his head, hoping to see it again.
There was a subtle pattern or carving on the blade. Dyer’s notes hadn’t mentioned that. It could be the turning point. Camera stable enough to release, he picked up the knife and angled it back and forth. Something. He brought it even closer.
The slight shift in angle revealed two lines of early hieroglyphics. Kheft-ek…en…Seba’u…
Kheft-ek ertaw en set/Seba’u Kher. Thine enemy is given to the fire; The Evil One has fallen.
From The Book of Coming Forth By Day. Which suggested the New Kingdom, Eighteenth Dynasty at the earliest. The hieroglyphics were in the oldest format, though, in use from the Second Dynasty onwards. The Book had to be based on older rituals. He might be on the verge of—
The sound of pottery shattering interrupted his racing thoughts. Before he could gather them, a scream echoed. Anna!
Philip sprinted for the storeroom. From around the corner, he heard someone shouting for Clegg to leave it. He saw four men heading away as he turned the corner. On instinct, he raced after them, only to collide with a fifth man emerging from the doorway.
Shoulder bouncing off the wall, the stranger fell, knocking Philip down too. Philip’s vision blurred as the fall slammed his head against the hard floor.
By the time Philip’s senses returned, his attacker had left. He eased himself upright. Anna!
Despite his throbbing head, he staggered into the storeroom. His wife’s legs stuck out from behind a pile of crates. Fragments of pottery crunched under his feet as he rushed forward. He knelt beside her. Moist stickiness oozed through the knees of his
trousers, but all he noticed was the absence in her eyes.
***
Amber liquid sloshes from a dirty bottle, the flicker of a gas mantle casting golden pools across a rough table.
Filthy curtains twitch over a rain-spattered window.
Stubby fingers, nails hacked square, lift a glass.
The shadows stretch, metal glinting.
Gold and crystal explode.
A gaping mouth pushes against the night.
Flabby guts tear.
An impassive face stands in a pool of whiskey and blood.
***
Philip’s elbow struck the bedroom wall, sending a jolt of pain along his arm. Fragments of his nightmare sank back into the darkness.
Gentle tapping came from the door. “Professor? Are you all right?”
He untangled the blankets and staggered to the door, an erratic throb stabbing at his temples.
“You shouted fit to wake the—” His housekeeper pressed one hand over her mouth. Eyes wide, she clutched at her worsted dressing gown. “Oh, sir. I didn’t think.”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Hadsall. Sorry for waking you.”
“Can I bring you anything? Some warm milk? Or cocoa?”
Philip’s stomach roiled. “No, thank you. I’ll ring if I need you.” Closing the door on her frown, he headed for the bed. Something tangled around his feet.
He reached down and picked up a pair of trousers, still damp to the touch. A darker patch next to them proved to be his jacket, also damp. How had they ended up on the floor? He’d poured a generous tot to fill the space after dinner. The vase in the drawing room had been empty, so he’d gone into the garden to cut a few roses. After that, the evening slipped into darkness. He must have had a few more tots, then stumbled up to bed. That explained the nightmares and going three rounds with the blankets.
Philip slumped onto the bed, reality fleeing before he could pull the blankets across.
***
Philip strode through the back entrance of the museum, neutral expression gripped in place. The remains of the night hadn’t overcome the excess of whisky, but he needed to do something. Mrs. Hadsall kept lurking on the edges of the room, gaze like limp rags; and when she wasn’t there, the house was so empty.
“Professor Luttman.” The assistant curator gaped at him from ahead. “We didn’t expect… That is, I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say—”
“Anna wouldn’t want me moping around, Mr. Chivers.” Philip nodded as he marched past. “She’d want us to finish the cataloguing. Get a full list of what’s missing for the police.”
Chivers scurried after him. “Already in hand, professor. I had the porters call around all the staff so we could—”
“Well?” Philip spun and thrust his face at Chivers. “How much did we lose?”
“Most of the crates are still sealed. Crates 45 and 47 have a few fresh marks near the nails, so the police think that your wife… That is the thieves ran off when they were disturbed. Two jars were broken during the theft. Crates 39 and 42 were empty. So, four canopic jars, a bowl, several items of jewellery, and an ibis-headed dagger.”
The dagger? He was holding it when he heard the scream. He must not have put it down, and the thief grabbed it after he fell. “Photographs. Has anyone…? The police will want them.”
Leaving Chivers to flap like a fish, Philip marched towards the lab.
Three hours later, two copies of his photographs hung on the drying line. After slipping the first set into an envelope, he scrawled For the Police on the front and dropped it at the porter’s lodge. He snatched up the negatives for comparison, grabbed the second set of pictures and hurried to his office. Keep busy. That was the best remedy for it all. Like at university. Just work through the hangover.
He ran his magnifying glass across the images of the blade. The hieroglyphics stood out even clearer in the photographs. He’d need a second opinion on the translation, but they were there.
If Dyer had missed something that obvious, what else had he missed? Philip dumped all the other papers from his desk onto the floor and spread the pictures out. An hour slipped by unnoticed as he inched the magnifying glass across the images.
There! What seemed, at a casual glance, poor carving or wear on one feather, on closer inspection took on a sense of purpose. Caught at the right angle, it was tiny hieroglyphics, “Place of Judgement.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose. His eyes were too old for this. Anna’s eyes were sharper, and she’d want to— Already halfway out of his chair, he collapsed back down. Magnifier creeping across the photographs, he struggled to separate tiny pictures from chance patterns.
He’d found what might be “no rest” when a voice broke his concentration.
“You didn’t hear me knocking.” Chivers breezed to the desk, holding a tea tray. “Thought a cup of tea—”
“What? No time.” Philip stood, chair thudding against the wall. “Take it away.”
Chivers staggered back. His left foot landed on the pile of papers and slid sideways. Arms shooting out to catch his balance, he upturned the tray. Amber liquid spewed from the spout as the pot struck the centre of the desk. A lake of shards and boiling water washed over the photographs. “Good God, man!” Philip shoved Chivers away. “You’re worse than those bloody thieves.” Grabbing his coat, he strode out of his office. It was clear he wouldn’t get anything done here. Mrs. Hadsall loomed, but at least she let him work. He needed to refer to Culp’s notes on the “Parchment of Sobek” anyway. And the mummy; there might be something on the wrappings. He whirled on his heel in the corridor and fixed Chivers with a glare. “Crate 45. Have it sent to the house.” With Chivers still mopping at the ruined images, Philip marched out into the storm.
***
Rain gusts down an alley, spreading the shadows.
Hunched shoulders bend over cheap boots.
Shadow lashes out, exposing a cruel beak.
Hands clasp the wine-dark mess of a shirt.
Grey feathers cut the gloom.
Fingers drop from a torn stomach.
A falcon soars into the rain, bloody flesh trailing.
***
Philip awoke, chest tight. While wrestling himself free of the nightmare, his arm struck something. A stack of books cascaded off the table. He was in his study. He must have dozed off after lunch.
Six o’clock. Why hadn’t Mrs. Hadsall woken him for tea? Well, he’d have it now. A cup might clear his head. He’d better tidy his papers first, though. The last thing he needed was someone else causing an accident.
His coat lay on the floor near the French windows, dark patches on the carpet surrounding it. He dumped his books on the desk and snatched the coat up. Soaking wet. Coat tails dragging behind him, he stormed to the bell pull.
The pad of heels marked Mrs. Hadsall’s approach. Too impatient to wait for her, Philip yanked the study door open and thrust the coat at her. “I told you to hang this to dry. And where do I find it…?”
“I did, sir.” Mrs. Hadsall’s shoulders drew back. “If it’s moved, then it wasn’t me that moved it.”
“And what about afternoon tea? I requested it at—”
“I brought it at four.” She gazed up at him, concern warring with anger. “You didn’t answer when I knocked, so I left it beside the door. Knocked again at five when some porters turned up with a crate. You hadn’t said where you’d want it, and it had such a funny smell, so I told them to put it in the garden shed.”
Crate? The mummy. Philip looked past her. A tray of sandwiches and tea languished on the hall table next to the telephone. “Sorry for snapping. I…”
Mrs. Hadsall patted him on the elbow. “I’ll hang this up, then bring you a fresh pot.”
As soon as she was out of sight, he raised one leg. His trouser cuff was damp, and he was in his socks. A few steps took him to the French doors, and he peered around. A pair of brogues, droplets of water clinging to the leather, lay behind the curtain as if kicked off. Now that he though
t to look for it, the damp patches on the carpet bore a resemblance to footprints.
He’d been sleepwalking again. Only one thing for it: he’d have to tie his ankle to the bed tonight, as his mother had done when he was little.
***
Moonlight creeps through curtains, slashing across the barrel of a revolver.
Thin blankets mummify the legs of a sleeping man.
A plain gold band glints as a hand wraps around his throat.
Eyes gape as a revolver spins to the floor.
An ibis tears at a man’s chest.
Familiar fingers reach into the wound.
Plumage shining silver, an ibis-headed dagger slashes twice.
The hand withdraws, dropping its bloody prize into the mouth of a jackal.
***
Philip snapped awake. A third nightmare filled with murder. This time containing the missing dagger. As he attempted to sit up, dull pain yanked at his ankle.
The cord. Sliding down the bed to ease the tension, he threw back the covers. The knot, somehow having twisted in the night, resisted his fingers. He scrunched further down the bed. Even with both hands, it was too dark to see what he was doing. Not that there was much point in untying it until morning anyway.
Caught on the edge of sleep, fragments of the nightmare rose. Ambivalence filled him: decent horror at the brutality of the dreams; and pleasure at seeing murderers suffer. And something else: familiarity.
The attacks were vicious, but the cuts—at least the ones in the latest dream—had been precise, and focused on the abdomen. Like the evisceration of a mummy.
Eyes gritty, he shuffled back up the bed and tugged the blankets over himself. Egyptian funeral rites on filthy louts. Perhaps there was something in that psychotherapy the Americans were so set on. There was nothing he could do to the thieves in real life, so he was taking revenge in his dreams. Still uncomfortable with how brutal his unconscious was, he slipped into a troubled sleep.
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