Authors: George Mann
He cast around, searching for anything at all that might help him to understand what had happened on the ship, but there was nothing. It was just an empty hangar, on an empty ship.
All he’d been able to find was a smattering of chalk dust, which might or might not indicate something untoward. It was tenuous at best.
He supposed he was going to have to call in a favor with Arthur over at the Met, see if he couldn’t get a look at the exhibition early, before it opened to the public. Maybe there was some clue in the artifacts themselves.
He crossed the hangar, ducking through a doorway into the adjoining cargo hold. Here, too, there was evidence that a large number of crates had been recently removed; only there was one major difference—a single wooden packing crate still stood in one corner.
It was large, about the size of a small room, presumably containing some significant relic from the dig. A statue, maybe? The head of a colossus? Judging by the size of the crate, it would have to be a centerpiece to the whole exhibition.
It seemed odd that it had been left here unattended while everything else had already been unloaded, but he supposed the dockworkers might have found themselves in need of a bigger crane to take the weight, or an alternative means of transporting it uptown.
He crossed the hangar, circling the crate. The sides were unmarked panels, nailed onto a wooden frame. Around the front, he was surprised to see two freestanding statues, just abandoned in the shadow of the crate. One resembled a human female with the head of a lioness. She was seated on a plinth, which had clearly been damaged at some point in the long forgotten past, so that the hieroglyphics carved upon it were scratched and undecipherable. She had her arms folded across her naked chest, one hand holding an ankh, the other a rod or scepter. She’d been hewn in smooth black stone, and her eyes watched him impassively as he circled around, studying her.
The other statue bore a similar aspect, also seated upon a plinth. This one resembled a bare-chested male with the head of an ibis. Its curved beak was partially absent, and one of its arms was missing, lending it a strangely maudlin appearance. This one also carried an ankh, its surviving arm lowered by its side. It had a sun disc headdress, similar to the one he’d seen carved into Autumn’s forehead, and the base of its plinth was covered in neat white columns of pictograms. In the near darkness of the ship’s hold, they seemed eerie; things that didn’t belong in the here and now, relics from an ancient past that should have remained forgotten. The Ghost couldn’t help but feel there was good reason why the old religions had been extinguished; his experience with the Roman had left a deep, unsettling scar.
These, though, were simple statues; artifacts recovered from the hot sands of the past and brought here to be gazed upon by thousands of admiring New Yorkers. Despite their unsettling aspect, they posed no threat.
Nevertheless, it seemed odd that they should have been unpacked from their transportation crates here, in the hold of the ship. Surely the museum would have expected to receive them by now, along with all the others? Perhaps, he decided, they were rejects, too damaged to put on display alongside the more pristine examples that had already been chosen for the exhibition.
Frowning, he approached the crate, looking for a means to see inside. There was a door round the front, cut into the wooden panel and hinged to allow access. It was padlocked shut. He leaned closer, trying to peer through the thin crack between the door and the frame to ascertain what was inside. It was too dark, even with his night-vision goggles. He was going to have to break the lock.
Behind him, something groaned. It was a long, drawn-out sound, like rending metal, and at first he thought it was the hull of the ship, settling with the change in temperature. When it started again a second later, he realized it resembled more closely the sound of grating stone. He turned, his mouth suddenly dry.
The lion-headed statue was getting down from its plinth.
The Ghost edged back, flicking his wrist so that the barrel of his flechette gun ratcheted up and around, clicking into place along the length of his forearm.
The statue lurched forward, its movements jerky and deliberate. He glanced at the other to see that it, too, was now pulling itself free of its perch, raising its remaining arm to hold its ankh aloft, as if calling for divine intervention.
This, the Ghost realized, was why the two statues had been left unguarded on the ship. They
were
the guards. Someone wanted the contents of that crate to remain very much unseen.
The two statues marched toward him, their feet clanging on the metal floor of the hangar. He wondered what was powering them, whether there was a control mechanism hidden inside of them, like the automatons he’d fought before.
“Um, listen,” he said, holding out a placating hand. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.” He glanced at the one on the left. “I mean—you’ve already lost an arm. I’m sure you don’t want to lose another? Why don’t the two of you return to your seats, and I’ll be on my way?”
The ibis-headed statue leaned forward, its jaws levering open to reveal a wriggling, barbed tongue. It hissed, and the sound was like a pressure valve releasing. It was one of the most unearthly sounds the Ghost had ever heard, and he felt his hackles rising.
“No, I didn’t think so,” he said. He raised his arm, squeezed the trigger and released a hail of flechettes at the creature. The tiny blades struck home, but they pinged harmlessly off the stone, failing to leave even a single scratch.
“Ah,” said the Ghost. “This is going to be interesting.”
The lion-headed statue was close to him now, and it pulled its arm back and took a swing at his head, using its scepter like a glaive. He dropped and rolled, coming back up to his feet and firing into its face. Once again, his flechettes had no effect. The creatures really did appear to be made from stone.
The other one was nearly on top of him now, and he cast around for anything he could use to ward it off. There was nothing, not even a length of pipe. It swung at him, and he raised his arm, twisting it so that the barrel of his flechette gun would take the impact. It connected with a resounding clang, and the vibration in his forearm made him cry out in pain, falling back, clutching at his wrist. Cringing, he flexed his fingers. Thankfully, it wasn’t broken.
The statues stalked forward, full of menacing intent. He glanced back the way he had come, wondering if he could reach the door in time, but decided he wouldn’t make it. They were slow, but not
that
slow.
They were closing in, trying to shut him down with a pincer movement. His only advantage was the fact one of them was missing its arm, but he couldn’t yet see a way to use that against them.
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.