The Mammoth Book of the Mummy Page 8

  “Are you ready, Ruth?” asks Botha.

  “Of course.”

  “Good.” He claps his hands, twice. “Okay, everybody, attention please! Moment of truth happening here.” The emir sits up expectantly, and the technicians make a point of looking alert.

  Botha checks his watch. “It is four twenty-seven and forty-two seconds,” he announces. “Stand by to commence Reignition, pass one, at four twenty-eight.”

  Frans is full of horseshit, thinks Ruth. She has done some cybernetics work for NASA in her time, and this is no rocket launch. She could hit the button now and the whole process would begin just fine. Frans is performing for his audience.

  “On my mark, Ruth.”

  Yes, yes, get on with it.

  “Mark!”

  Ruth presses the button.

  At the end of the cave, where the craggy ceiling curves to meet the floor, a cauldron squats over a fire. The molten wax, prepared to Mentuhotep’s specification. Bak weaves through the other men in his way, and approaches the fire. All he needs to do is pour the wax over the king, seal him into the sarcophagus, and he will have done his duty.

  The cauldron hisses smoke. The fumes tickle Bak’s nose, but it is bearable.

  It’s odd, he thinks. He was forced into this. It is not as if he could say no to the king. But now he is here, it does feel like he is paying a debt, fulfilling a promise. He wants to do this. He wants to get this right.

  No sense in delaying, then. He reaches for the wooden lid on the cauldron.

  “Wait.” Amenemhat’s voice stabs him in the back. He turns around.

  “This is blasphemy. This is wrong. Stop this at once.”

  Ruth’s computer emits a single, lonely blip.

  “Pass one complete” she says.

  “Pass one complete!” bellows Botha. “Commence pass two.”

  All eyes are on Amenemhat, except for those of Mentuhotep’s brother, who keeps his head bowed.

  “My friends, this new method troubles me. It tears at my conscience. How can we let this happen?”

  One of the priests clears his throat. “The king willed it. This wax, it was his wish.”

  “That is true,” says Amenemhat. “But it is against the order of things.”

  The order of things is surely what the king says it is, thinks Bak.

  “Are we to go down into the city and say, yes, we let the king go into the afterlife so ill prepared, the subject of a barbarian ritual?”

  The entourage shuffles, but no one says anything.

  “Are we to risk that this new apostasy becomes the normal way of things? When our time comes, shall you or I also seal ourselves in wax and hope that the great tribunal in the next place accepts our petition? Would you wish to come face to face with Osiris and explain this insult?”

  No, they would not. They would rather have Bak break his vow.

  “To save ourselves, and more importantly, to save the king, I think we should reconsider the burial procedures,” says the vizier. “For the sake of His Majesty, let us abandon this . . . this drowning, and replace it with something more traditional.” He folds his arms over his chest, pleased with his own oration.

  Murmurs of approval.

  So that is how it will be, thinks Bak. The king’s wishes shall be ignored. He shall arrive at the afterlife and discover he is without heart, lungs, or kidneys. His body incomplete and rotten. Everything he feared. And the blame on his ethereal lips shall be the word Bak, because it was I who promised the ritual would be completed as he specified. Worse, he will not have to wait long before Amenemhat’s spear sends me into the afterlife too, and I shall be there, and I shall have to explain why I failed, why I was weak, why I allowed Amenemhat’s forked tongue to persuade me. What shall I say?

  “No!” A short sharp shout bursts into the cave. For a moment, Bak is surprised as anyone by the noise, and then his brain catches up with his ears, and he realizes it was he who shouted.

  Amenemhat laughs. “You have something to contribute, Bak?” He turns to the priests. “It seems the slave is in disagreement with the vizier!”

  “I made an oath that I would perform the ritual,” says Bak.

  “Well, you must break it, Bak. But do not worry. The promise of a slave does not weigh much. We shall not hold your failure against you.”

  “I care only for the wishes of the king,” says Bak. “When I meet him in the afterlife, do I have leave to tell him that it was you who forbade me from doing my duty?”

  “The king will not be in the afterlife.”

  “In his divine wisdom, he thought otherwise.”

  The priests begin to talk amongst themselves. Clearly, Bak’s theological puzzle cannot be summarily dismissed. Amenemhat’s grin has disappeared, replaced by a glare.

  “Perhaps I can offer a solution?” says Bak.

  Amenemhat glances at the priests. One of them shrugs, why not?

  “Talk, slave.”

  Bak speaks slowly and with care. “Your consciences are against this ritual. But the king has made a Godly decree that it should happen. So, why not let me perform the task alone? That way, you shall be without blame before both Osiris and Mentuhotep.”

  The priests confer, briefly. The eldest of the three addresses Amenemhat. “This is acceptable. We shall withdraw.”

  Amenemhat rolls his eyes. “Very well. Do the deed, Bak. But know it is without our blessing.”

  The three priests gather their robes and prayer scrolls, and leave the chamber as quickly as is possible while also walking backward. When they are out of sight, Amenemhat nods at the handmen, the ones who carried the sarcophagus into the cave. They are far more practiced at the art of walking backward, and scurry out of the chamber like crabs. Only Amenemhat and the soldiers remain. And the king’s brother, who everyone has forgotten as he kneels in prayer at the foot of the coffin.

  Bak turns back to the cauldron, and lifts the lid. The heat of the molten wax scratches at his face. A huge bubble, as big as a fist, rises slowly from the pot and pops, spitting specks of wax. Bak flinches as the heat pricks his arm.

  Behind him, a rustle. The scrape of gravel that says that leather-clad feet are moving. The quiet clink of ceremonial garments being adjusted.

  He spins. The four soldiers have removed the cords from around their waist, and are wrapping the ends around their fists. Beyond them, Amenemhat is smiling again.

  “Pass two complete,” says Ruth.

  “Figures?” says Botha.

  “They’re okay,” she replies. “Thirty-five percent on the second pass, with an average of twenty-eight percent intensity.”

  In the corner, the emir turns to Mourad. “Shou qasdha?”

  “The first number is how many extra synapses the computer reconnected on the second attempt, compared to the first.”

  “And this is good?” asks the emir.

  Botha interrupts. “Yes, Highness. In our other experiments, the figure was usually much lower . . . ”

  “About nine percent,” says Mourad. “ . . . but thirty-five is a good working figure for something so old.”

  The emir looks reassured. “And the second number?”

  “That is the average strength of the synaptic connections,” says Botha. “The system becomes more and more sensitive on each pass. First we reconnect the strongest bonds. Then we go back and find the residue of weaker connections.”

  “So now you are finished?”

  “No, Your Highness. We are about to commence pass three.” Ruth types the command, and the metal box beside her monitor begins to buzz again.

  So this was their plan, thinks Bak. An asphyxiation. Now I know why Amenemhat conceded the point so quickly, thinks Bak. All he wanted was for the priests to leave.

  The soldiers edge toward him.

  The beep sounds for the end of pass three, and instantly Ruth knows something is wrong. The figures are much, much higher than they should be.

  “What’s the story, Ruth?” Clearly, Botha can se
nse her unease.

  “Something is not quite right.”

  “What? What’s not quite right?”

  “Just a second . . . ”

  “Talk to me, Ruth!”

  “The numbers went up.”

  “Both of them?”

  “Yes, both of them. The results for pass three were sixty-three on eighty-seven.” Ruth grabs the monitor and points it toward Botha, who stoops to see the numbers for himself.

  “Jesus, Ruth. I mean, fucking Jesus!”

  Botha stares at Ruth, his eyes red and bulging. She can feel other eyes on her too: the emir, Mourad, Lentini.

  “I . . . I don’t understand,” she says. “If the Reignition fails it usually just goes to zero-zero.”

  “I bloody know that, Ruth. What I don’t know is why your computer system . . . ” he emphasizes the fact that it’s hers, “your system is suddenly pissing off-piste.”

  “I don’t know, Frans. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t know?” Botha lunges toward her, then checks himself. He diverts his hands to her computer mouse and grabs it. The wire goes taut for a moment, before the socket gives way. The lead whiplashes into his hand.

  Botha throws the mouse toward the far wall of the lab, causing one of the technicians to duck. The plastic shatters.

  “You stupid, stupid . . . ” He checks himself again, and takes a breath.

  Ruth protests, “It could be anything! What if the brain had some trauma just before it was put in the wax? Or maybe they waited too long, and it just decomposed? Or maybe, Frans, it’s just too old?”

  Botha just shakes his head in frustration.

  In the corner of the room, the emir speaks. “I do not understand? Has she failed?”

  “The process is off-course,” says Mourad. “She does not know why.”

  The emir makes a strange sound, a sort of cluck. Then he leans forward, toward Mourad. He speaks quietly, but everyone can hear what he says. “Tell me again, how much of my money are we paying this girl?”

  Ruth feels a pressure on her throat, like she is being choked.

  The soldier nearest to Bak pulls tight on the rope between his hands. His bare arm muscles bulge. Bak feels his neck tighten, already resisting the strangulation to come.

  The cauldron lid is still in his hand, a heavy wooden disk, a shield. It would not stop a sword or a spear, but he wonders if it will help him against a rope. He’s been in some fights in his time, of course, but he never had any kind of combat training. Four against one, plus Amenemhat, who Bak now knows can throw a mean punch. In fact, the only one Bak is confident he could beat in a fight is Mentuhotep’s brother, but he still on his knees at the foot of the sarcophagus and looks in no mood to attack.

  He hasn’t forgotten the king’s knife, wrapped into the layers of his tunic. Without looking down, he slowly lets his free hand wander into the folds. Layer by layer, he peels back the cloth until his fingers touch the unmistakable texture of wood and metal. He grasps the handle, making sure he has a good grip. Only then does he move his arm out of the cloak.

  The soldiers take a step back when they see the blade.

  “Get back,” says Bak. “Step closer, and I will use it.”

  He watches them look at one another, and at him. They are weighing their chances. With just their ropes, there is no way they can make a clean kill, thinks Bak. And I have nothing to lose, which makes me dangerous. Will they risk a knife in their belly?

  For a moment, they wait there. Bak with his knife and shield, the soldiers fingering their ropes.

  Ruth is livid. “You’re paying me what I deserve!”

  The emir recoils. Mourad raises his eyebrows.

  Even as she speaks, she knows that screaming during Third Pass Reignition is not the best way to convey competence. But Botha started it, and right now, she hates him more.

  She turns back to face him, righteous and taut. “You’re right, Frans. It is my system. I wrote the program, not you. No one else could do it!” She hates herself for arguing like this, but now I’ve begun, she thinks, I may as well let it all out. But Botha is not calm either.

  “But you haven’t done it, have you?” he shouts. Ruth remembers the argument yesterday, where Mourad said much the same thing, and she is jolted out of the moment. She opens her mouth but says nothing.

  Botha pushes it. “At least Lentini did his job!”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Ruth sees Lentini’s head bob up from behind the Reinvigoration monitors at the other end of the room. Then he ducks below the parapet once more.

  Botha will not stop until he has skewered her. “I mean, just look at the mummy. It’s in better shape than when he died.”

  That’s true. Almost all the cells have been totally regenerated, puffing up King Mentuhotep like . . .

  “Wait a moment,” says Ruth. She rushes back to her keyboard, and begins to type.

  “Look at him, Mentuhotep’s most dedicated shabti!” Amenemhat bellows.

  “I made a promise,” says Bak. “If you want to stop me, then that is your choice. But I will not go quietly.” He waves the knife. “And I will not go alone.”

  The vizier smiles and shakes his head.

  “You poor, deluded slave.” He pushes past the soldiers and plants himself in front of Bak. The tip of the knife is a thumb’s width from his nose. Bak wonders whether he is quick enough to slash Amenemhat’s face.

  “You do not understand, Bak. I care nothing for the wax or the burial. Mentuhotep can have whatever ritual he wants. He is welcome to try his luck at the reckoning without a heart to weigh.”

  He leans back against the sarcophagus and looks down at the dead king’s face, pale and sunk in death.

  “It’s probably better for me if he fails the trial anyway. I do not relish the thought of seeing him again in the House of Kings.”

  “But you’re a vizier, not a king. You’ll have your own place in the afterlife.”

  “You’re right. I’m not a king. Not yet, anyway.”

  He readjusts his regalia, and turns his back on Bak.

  That was not expected. Bak does nothing.

  Amenemhat steps over to the foot of the pedestal, and puts his hand on the shoulder of the king’s young, weeping brother. “It’s time to go.”

  At his words, the four soldiers move as one. Well drilled, they surround the kneeling figure and haul him off the floor. His legs wobble and give way, but the four of them keep him upright.

  The brother begins to wail. A steady drone. But he does not struggle.

  In a moment, they have dragged him down the passageway, out of sight.

  Only Amenemhat and Bak remain.

  “You can put the knife down, Bak.”

  Bak looks as his shivering arm, still outstretched, still brandishing the useless little knife. No one is coming for him.

  He allows his arm to flop down to his side.

  Amenemhat acknowledges the gesture with a nod.

  “What now?”

  Amenemhat snorts. “Do as you please, Bak. I have more important things to address than you—” he looks down his nose at the corpse “—or him.”

  He turns on his heels and strides down the passage, out of the cave.

  “Why don’t you pour the wax?” he shouts, over his shoulder. “Do as you were asked. Then you will be free.”

  “The Reinvigoration” says Ruth. “How long did you say it has been going on for?”

  “Long enough,” says Botha. He is still seething. “What does it matter?”

  “Maybe the cells are too healthy?”

  He grits his teeth. “What do you mean?”

  “The body looks . . . pumped. What if we’ve overdone the Reinvigoration?”

  Botha opens his mouth to speak, but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know. Ruth turns and looks beyond the sarcophagus, to the other end of the room.

  Lentini takes her cue. “Yes, this could happen. If original cells are being healthier when they go into aldheyde than our b
ase calculations . . . ” He pauses to think. “Then, yes, by now the cells are certainly being over-generated. This can explain why he is, as you say, pumped.”

  “So maybe he was embalmed closer to death than we assumed?”

  “Is of course possibility. But, Ruth, this is not big problem for Reinvigoration.”

  “Not for Reinvigoration” says Ruth. “But what about Reignition? If the body was fresher . . . ”

  Botha picks up her train of thought. “Then the synaptic connections would be much stronger than we anticipated.”

  Ruth nods. “And we’re running the algorithm too slowly. The stronger residual connections will just blot out the newer, weaker ones.”

  Botha is wide-eyed. “Well, shit! Ruth, we’re erasing data! Shut down the pass and reconfigure it. Zip, zip.”

  The cauldron looks heavy. If he tries to lift it by himself, the wax will probably go everywhere. And there is fat chance that anyone is coming back to help him.

  Thankfully, there’s a small bowl lurking beside the fire. Probably left over from when they made up the mixture, earlier today. Bak grabs it and dips it into the ooze.

  He remembers the communal pots of stew the foremen would put out, back when he worked on the construction sites, farther down the valley. Large barrels of swill, old meat, and older vegetables, but tasty enough after a long day toiling on some irrigation channel or temple. They would line up with their bowls and delve deep. The secret was to angle the bowl so the stew filled right up to the lip.

  No more of that now, thinks Bak. Food on a plate, if I want it.

  He carries the first bowl over to the sarcophagus. Mentuhotep, still lying in state. The king’s soul cannot begin its journey until his body is comfortable in the coffin.

  Should he offer some sort of prayer or incantation as he pours the wax? No one left any instructions or lines for him to recite.

  He tips the bowl, and the thick, sticky liquid slides on to the body.

  “On your way, Your Majesty,” says Bak. Then he returns to the cauldron, to refill the bowl.

  Pass four.

  Ruth never thought that she would ever wish for a progress bar, but she wishes now she had coded one into the system. Oh, for a Graphical User Interface! Instead, she has a cursor blinking by the word EXECUTING.