The Third Gate

40

Robert Carmody stood in the dust-scented confines of chamber one, moodily playing with the focus ring on the lens of his digital camera. Nearby, Payne Whistler was kneeling on the newly cleaned floor, holding a carved tablet in a gloved hand.

“Item A three forty-nine,” Whistler murmured into a pocket recorder. “Tablet. Polished limestone.” He pulled out a ruler, measured the object carefully. “Seven centimeters by nine and a half centimeters.” He scrutinized the tablet’s face for a minute. “It appears to be an invocation for the pharaoh’s safe journey to the next kingdom.”

He made a few additional remarks, then gently placed the tablet on a white linen cloth that lay nearby. “All right, Bob,” he said.

With a sigh, Carmody wheeled over a freestanding light, then leaned in, focused his camera on the tablet, snapped a dozen shots from different angles, bracketing the exposures. Then he straightened up and reviewed his work on the camera’s LED screen. “Another masterpiece.”

Whistler nodded, then picked up the tablet, tagged it, carefully wrapped it in a fresh cloth, and placed it in a plastic evidence locker. Carmody jotted down the photo reference numbers in a small notebook.

“Jesus,” he said, flipping the notebook closed. “We’ve been here-what-three hours already? And not one interesting damn piece.”

Whistler glanced at him. “You kidding? All this stuff is interesting. More than interesting-these are the grave goods of the first pharaoh of unified Egypt.”

Carmody scoffed. “Listen to you. You’re starting to sound like Romero.”

Whistler stood up, brushed his pants back into place. “You have to be patient. If you wanted instant gratification, you picked the wrong profession.”

“What profession? You’re the archaeologist.”

“Surveyor,” Whistler corrected.

“I’m a photographer. I’ve been here three weeks now. Can’t call home, can’t order in a pizza, can’t even go for a damn jog.”

“There’s all the pizza you could ever eat in the mess. And the exercise room has plenty of treadmills.”

“Can’t get HBO. Can’t play World of Warcraft. Can’t get laid.”

“Well, that’s your problem.” Whistler set the evidence locker aside.

“I mean, I’m not stupid. I knew what I was getting into when I signed the nondisclosure forms. But I thought I’d get to shoot pictures of, you know, mummies. Golden masks. That kind of thing. Stuff that would look good on the resume, later, when I could talk about it. But he’s picked this place clean, cleared out everything sexy. He’s keeping all the good stuff for himself. I mean, look at that.” And Carmody gestured toward the rear of the chamber, where a locked partition sealed off the entrance to chamber two.

“What did you expect? March is the head archaeologist. Stop grousing-you’re getting well paid. I mean, you could have it a lot worse. You could be doing his job.” And Whistler jerked a finger out toward the Umbilicus platform, where a security guard stood, monitoring their progress.

“I didn’t sign on to be a door shaker. I’m an artist at what I do. I don’t just point my camera and fire away. I’ve had my work in five different shows.”

“Sell anything?” Whistler grinned wickedly.

“That’s not the point.”

“Let’s get on with it.” Whistler turned and carefully removed another object from the gilt-edged wooden box that sat nearby. He turned it over in his hands, peered at it closely. “Item A three fifty. Tablet. Polished limestone.” He measured it. “Six and a half centimeters by nine centimeters.” He glanced at its inscription. “It appears to be an itemized list of the gifts Narmer’s wife, Niethotep, was given on her thirtieth birthday.” He nodded to himself. “Now this is interesting.”

“Yeah. As interesting as watching paint dry. How do you say ‘fuck you’ in hieroglyphics?”

Whistler raised his middle finger. Then he placed the tablet on the linen cloth. “Do your thing.”

With a huge sigh, Carmody raised his camera, took the obligatory shots. He made some notations in his book, then watched sourly as Whistler put the tablet carefully away for curation and documentation.

“I just want a little fun,” he said as Whistler reached again into the gilded box. “I mean, stuck out in the ass end of nowhere for three weeks-I’m going crazy here.”

“Take a walk out in the swamp. Then come back and count the mosquito bites. That’ll give you something to do.” Whistler shook his head. “Last tomb I worked on was a Neolithic sand pit burial. Compared to that, this is heaven.”

“You know what? You need to get out more.”

“Maybe.” Whistler pulled another object from the box, examined it. “Item A three fifty-one. Tablet. Polished limestone.”

“Not another one,” Carmody groaned. “Somebody shoot me. Just shoot me, please, and get it over with.”

Out on the metal grating, the guard’s radio crackled into life. “Maw Base to Eppers, come in.”

The guard raised the radio to his lips. “Eppers here.”

“Sensors are picking up a pressure spike in the Umbilicus, at waypoint nineteen. We’d like you to climb up and do a visual before we send a repair team down.”

“Copy that.” The guard snugged his radio into his belt, then turned toward the metal rungs and climbed out of sight.

Carmody watched him disappear. Then he looked around the chamber. As he’d already pointed out, it had been cleared of most of the easily transportable items. Beyond the gilt box and a scattering of grave goods, only the furniture and the huge guardian statue, covered by a tarp, remained.

His eye settled on one of the chairs: intricately carved, decorated with gold filigree. “Watch this,” he said. He walked over to the chair and sat down in it with an air of mock gravity.

Whistler looked at him with a mixture of surprise and horror. “What the hell are you doing? Get out of there! It hasn’t been fully curated-you could damage it!”

“No way. This stuff is solid as a rock.” He folded his hands over his chest. “King Narmer speaking. Bring me the virgin du jour.”

Whistler looked worriedly up at the security camera. “They’re going to see you. Stone’s going to have your ass.”

“Calm down. Paxton’s manning the desk this afternoon-he’s a buddy of mine.” Carmody got out of the chair, looked around to make sure the guard was still out of sight, then walked over to the massively constructed royal bed. While the legs, posts, and canopy were dense with inlay and gold leaf, the bed surface itself was of plain, unornamented wood. He tested it with his fingers, pressing, and then-satisfied-lay down on it.

“Carmody, you’ve gone frigging stir-crazy,” Whistler said, his voice low and serious. “Get out of there before the guard sees you.”

“I’ll just take a quick forty winks first,” Carmody replied. He raised his head, made a show of looking around the chamber. “Hey, Cleopatra, get your ass over here, I’ve got a royal scepter that needs polishing-”

There was a sudden, sharp cracking noise; the entire frame of the bed vibrated, then gave a violent shear. Before Carmody could move, there was a little puff of displaced air and-with a second, even louder crack-the massive wooden canopy overhead broke loose from its anchors and hurtled down onto his prostrate form.

A flash of brilliant white-a moment of unspeakable, crushing pain-and then nothing at all.