The Third Gate (31 page)

“But death occurs when the heart
stops
. How could a stopped heart be of any use to Narmer in the next—” Logan paused abruptly. “Wait. What was it you said earlier? You said that this entire tomb seemed to be almost a rehearsal for Narmer’s death, for his passage to the next world. A dry run, so to speak. Right?”

Romero nodded.

Logan looked from her, to the contents of the tomb, and then back to her again. All of a sudden—with a flash like a thunderstroke—he understood.

“Oh, my God,” he whispered. “The Baghdad Battery.”

For a moment, nobody moved. Then—as slowly as he had dropped to his knees—Stone stood up again, turned, and faced Logan.

“Just before the Second World War,” Logan continued, “some artifacts were found in a village just outside Baghdad. The artifacts were very old, and their purpose was unclear. A terracotta pot; a copper sheet in the shape of a cylinder, topped by an iron rod. A few others. They were ignored until the director of Iraq’s National Museum stumbled onto them in the museum’s collections. He published a paper theorizing that these artifacts—when properly filled with citric acid, or vinegar, or some other liquid capable of generating electrolytic voltage—originally functioned as a primitive galvanic cell. A
battery
.”

Everyone remained silent, all eyes on Logan.

“I’ve heard of all this,” Stone said. “That battery was small, weak, perhaps used for the ceremonial electroplating of objects.”

“True,” Logan said. “It was weak. But it didn’t
have
to be.”

“Jesus.” Romero pointed to the objects sitting at Stone’s feet. “Are you implying—”

Carefully, Logan picked up the red-enameled object, topped
by the iron rod and the curled piece of copper. Next, he picked up the bowl-shaped marble object, the long filaments of gold trailing. Very gingerly, he placed the red device atop the white one. They fit together perfectly.

“The double crown,” Romero said.

“Exactly,” Logan said. “But a ‘crown’ with a very special—even divine—purpose. Note the elements it is composed of. Copper. Iron. Gold. Add lemon juice or vinegar, and you’d have a battery—but potentially much stronger than the one found buried in Mesopotamia.”

“That urn in the corner,” Romero said. “It smelled like vinegar.”

“And those gold filaments,” Dr. Rush added. “You’re guessing they could serve as … electrodes?”

“Yes,” Logan said. “Properly placed on the chest, they could be used to stop the heart.”

“Stop the heart,” Stone repeated. “A dress rehearsal for death.”

“Perhaps more than one rehearsal,” Logan said. “Look at the extra materials stored in those golden boxes.”

Stone held out his hands. Logan carefully passed over the crown apparatus.

“A dress rehearsal for death,” Stone repeated. He gave the crown a brief, almost loving caress.

“It might be even more than that,” Romero said. “Remember the tremendous importance the ancient Egyptians placed on the heart. By stopping the heart—and then restarting it—it might not only be a preparation for King Narmer, but a validation of his divinity as well.”

“Of course,” said Stone. “A way to establish, prove, his divinity—and the divinity of his line.”

Logan looked at the expedition director. Over the last few minutes, Stone’s voice had grown a little more excited, his movements a little more animated. True, this discovery was no jewel-encrusted crown—but in some ways it was even more remarkable.

“And that would explain why the ‘crowns’ were kept here,” Romero said. “In the most sacred and secret place in the tomb, the holy of holies. It explains why such a dreadful curse was placed on
the third gate. Narmer must have feared that, if anyone else were to get his hands on the crown—if anyone else were to experiment with making the journey to the next world—he might gain his power, perhaps even supplant him … both in this world and the next.”

Logan stared at the double crown in Stone’s hands. What was it Jennifer had said, during her final crossings?
That which brings life to the dead … and death to the living
.

How could she possibly have known about that?

He cleared his throat. Something had just occurred to him—something he almost did not want to mention.

Stone glanced toward him, his hands still grasping the double crown. “Jeremy?”

Logan shrugged. “I can’t help but wonder. If this device was an invention of Narmer’s, for the pharaoh to use as a trial run for what he’d experience after the death of the physical body, a way of preparing himself for the next world …” He stopped. All eyes were on him.

“Given the beliefs of the ancient Egyptians,” he went on. “About the nature of the soul, I mean … might they not have believed that such a device could release the soul, the life force, from the body—and in so doing, achieve instant immortality?”

The silence that followed this was interrupted by a harsh squawk. One of the security guards plucked a radio from his belt; spoke into it for a moment; listened to the reply, awash in static. Then he held the radio out toward Stone.

“Dr. Stone?” he said. “A message from the surface. They say it’s important.”

51

Cory Landau sat in the Operations Center, feet up on one of the consoles, swigging from a twenty-four-ounce plastic bottle of Jolt Wild Grape. He’d recently finished reading
The House on the Borderland
and was now well and truly freaked out. His shift wouldn’t end for another four hours; he’d brought nothing else to read; and the still, tomblike atmosphere of Operations was getting on his nerves. As a distraction, he’d begun running through video feeds from various locations around the Station, but things were depressingly quiet. There was a lot of activity at the Staging Area, but it consisted mostly of people monitoring various consoles or standing around the Maw. As for the tomb itself, the cameras had been turned off in chamber two—apparently at Porter Stone’s request—so there was nothing to see down there, either. A few minutes earlier, there had been some excitement around the archaeology labs in Red, but that seemed to
have settled down as well. Basically, the entire Station felt as if it was in a holding pattern, awaiting word from the party that had recently entered chamber three of the tomb.

He took another deep swig, sighed, twirled his Zapata mustache, and cycled through a fresh set of video feeds as if channel-surfing a television. He did not notice Jennifer Rush silently enter the Operations Center. He did not notice as she slowly approached a bank of consoles, then hesitated several moments, seemingly studying them. He did not notice when she lifted a red plastic protective shield on one of the consoles, then snapped the toggle switch beneath it from the on to the off position. He grew aware of her presence only when she turned from the console and, walking away, stumbled into a rack of diagnostic equipment, knocking some loose cabling to the floor.

“Whoa!” Landau said as he wheeled around, Jolt sloshing over his hand. Then he smiled as he recognized Jennifer, the doctor’s wife. She was, he’d already discovered, a real babe, but standoffish, with a reserve that had always completely intimidated him. Oddly enough, she was dressed in a hospital gown, but Landau didn’t mind—it was, he noticed, quite revealing.

“Hi, there,” he said. “Your husband’s down with the expedition team, isn’t he? You here to watch the return of the conquering heroes? I’ve got the best seats in the house.” And he gestured at an empty chair not far from his, overlooking the central bank of monitors.

Jennifer Rush didn’t answer. Instead, she walked toward him, then past him, and then out the far door. She was cradling something in one of her hands.

At first, Landau assumed she was preoccupied, or just plain rude—he’d rarely seen her talk to anybody—rarely seen her, period. Then he’d noticed her opaque, cloudy eyes; her strange, shambling, almost robotic gait, as if the act of walking itself was a novelty.

As her form disappeared down the corridor, he nodded knowingly to himself. “Plastered,” he murmured. Not that he blamed her—being stuck out here at the ass end of nowhere was enough to start anybody drinking.

——

Jennifer Rush continued on slowly, a little unsteadily, past a series of conference rooms, until she stood before the barrier that gave onto the pontoon-supported access tube leading to Maroon. She turned and opened the final door before the barrier, a heavy hatch with a label that read
POWER SUBSTATION—WHITE
.

The interior was cramped, a forest of thick tubing and small, blinking lights. Along the far wall were rows of dials and gauges, and a technician stood before them, peering curiously at a few, while making notations on a clipboard. At the sound of the hatch opening, he turned. The light was dim, but the technician recognized the woman standing in the hatchway.

“Oh. Hello, Mrs. Rush,” he said. “Can I help you with something?”

Instead of answering, Jennifer Rush took a step inside. The faint lighting made her features indistinct.

“I’ll be with you in a jiffy,” the technician said. “Just let me finish inspecting these controls. It’s my duty shift in Methane Processing, and a few seconds ago I started to get some weird error messages.” He turned back to the gauges. “Almost as if the safety protocols had been disengaged. But that’s impossible, you’d have to deliberately—”

Hearing another sound behind him, he turned back once again. Immediately, the smile on his face vanished, his expression turning to surprise and concern. Jennifer Rush had placed the items she was carrying on the floor, knelt over a bank of heavy valves, and was—once again, movements slow and awkward, but deliberate—turning one of them.

“Hey!” the technician said. “You can’t do that—you’re opening the emergency relief valve!”

Dropping his clipboard, he hurried over. Jennifer Rush did not protest when he gently propelled her to one side.

“You don’t want to be doing that,” he said, grasping the valve and preparing to close it again. “Open this, and we’d start venting
concentrated methane throughout the crawl space beneath this wing. It would only be a matter of minutes until—”

An explosive impact against the base of his neck—a sudden wave of pain—and then a concussive burst of light that filled his field of vision before giving way to oblivion.

Jennifer Rush watched as the technician crumpled to the metal floor of the substation. Then she dropped the wrench she’d picked up, bent over the relief valve, and once again began to slowly open it wide, turning, turning, turning.…

52

Logan watched as Porter Stone handed the radio back to the guard. The conversation had been brief; Stone himself had said fewer than a half-dozen words. As he’d listened to the voice on the radio, his face had initially gone deathly pale. But now—as he looked at each of the expedition members in turn—his face went dark, almost purple. His pupils retreated to mere glittering pinpoints. His gaze fastened at last on Tina Romero.

Suddenly, he stepped forward.
“Bitch!”
he snapped, throwing one hand back in preparation for striking her. Immediately, Dr. Rush and Valentino rushed forward, restraining him.

“Idiot!” he cried, struggling to free himself. Romero took an instinctual step back.

Logan looked on in shock. It was as if all the setbacks and vicissitudes of this expedition—capped just now by the discovery
that Narmer’s crown was, in fact, completely unexpected and bizarre—had caused the normally dispassionate Stone to snap, to lash out in frustration and anger.

“Incompetent!” Stone shouted at the Egyptologist. “Thanks to you, all my effort, all my money—wasted! And now, there’s no time.…
No time
!”

Logan came forward. “Dr. Stone, calm down,” he said. “Just what exactly has happened?”

With an effort, Stone mastered himself. He freed himself from Rush and Valentino, who nevertheless stayed close.

“I’ll tell you what’s happened,” he said, his breathing loud and ragged. “That was Amanda Richards on the horn. She was repairing the damage to Narmer’s mummy—when she learned it
wasn’t
Narmer, after all.”

There was a moment of shocked silence.

“What do you mean—not Narmer?” Dr. Rush asked.

“That mummy
was a woman
. All this time, we’ve been working the wrong damned tomb.” He looked back at Romero. “No wonder nothing’s as it should be. You’ve led us to the wrong spot—a subsidiary tomb, for his queen, or—or a concubine! My
God
!” His hands balled into fists, and he seemed about to lash out once again. Rush and Valentino moved in still closer.

“Just a minute,” Logan said. “There can’t be any mistake. The seals, the inscriptions, the treasure—even the curse—everything indicates the resting place of a pharaoh. This
has
to be Narmer’s tomb.”

For a moment, nobody spoke. Stone struggled to get his breathing under control. “If this is Narmer’s tomb,” he said, “then where the hell’s his mummy?”

“Wait a minute,” said Logan. “Just hold on a minute. Don’t be so hasty—let’s think this through.” He turned to Tina Romero. “Haven’t you said, all along, that there have been things in this tomb that didn’t add up—that didn’t make sense?”

She nodded. “Little things, mostly. I ascribed them to the fact this
was the tomb of the first pharaoh; it was only natural that we’d find the unexpected. The later tradition hadn’t yet been fully established.”

“Excuses,” Stone said. “Mere excuses, nothing more. You’re just trying to explain away your stupidity.”

Ignoring this, Romero turned toward Logan. “It first started when you mentioned that skull to me. The one you examined, the skull of one of Narmer’s priests, ritually killed to protect the secrecy and sanctity of Narmer’s tomb. Do you remember telling me that one of the eye sockets—the left—had scratches?”

Logan nodded.

“And that was just the first sign that something was amiss. The rest of the signs are right here, among us. The serekhs we found in the tomb’s royal seals—the glyphs are Narmer’s, but they aren’t quite right. They have unusual features, like the feminine ending of
niswt-biti
. Then there are those inscriptions in chamber one, with the ritual sequences reversed, the gender wrong. And the glyphs on this chest, here, with the head of the catfish, Narmer’s symbol, scratched out.”