The Short, Labored Breath of Time 3 page

“I suspected as much, but I hardly have the authority to tell him that. After all,” Rumford added modestly, “I’m only helping you gentlemen out. I have no real clout here at all.” Though naturally soft, his voice could take on a certain firmness when he wished it to. “I might mention that he’s already threatened me.”

Hayes looked alarmed. “Threatened you? But he doesn’t know where you live–does he?” Glancing back through the front room, he eyed the front door uneasily.

“I seriously doubt it. I know how to cover my ass online. And I don’t know where he is, either. Not physically. We only know where the other person is on the Net. Still,” he added as he tapped a fistful of keys, “there are a few things we can try. Ah!” He indicated the screen. “Say hello, gentlemen.”

The image on the monitor was a mass of writhing tentacles, bulging cephalopodan eyeballs, and slavering ichorous maws. Well‑done for an applet, Hayes decided, but not especially well‑animated. Words began to appear beneath the image.

When do I get my money…?

Rumford glanced expectantly at his visitors. “What do you want me to tell him?”

Spitzer and Hayes exchanged a glance. Coming up on the train the previous night, they had already rehearsed a number of possible scenarios. Two‑way audio would have made things easier, Hayes knew, just as he knew that unless he was dumber than he seemed, their quarry would not risk committing even a disguised voice to storage that could be studied later. Speech patterns were too easily divined and applied to future suspects.

“Tell him it’s in the works. He’ll have his money before ten tonight, well ahead of his deadline. Provided we can assure ourselves of his sincerity and that his threat is real.”

Rumford typed in the response. Moments later a reply was forthcoming.

Actually, I’m surprised. The government usually isn’t this sensible. Of course, this may be a stall on your part, but I don’t care. You can’t find me, certainly not by tonight, if at all. As for further proof of the seriousness of my intentions, turn on CNN and keep watching.

Spitzer shrugged. A somber‑faced Rumford directed them back to the living room and to the TV sequestered there. The big agent switched it on, found the requisite cable channel, and returned to the study. Two hours slipped by before the National Aquarium in Baltimore, an exceptionally sturdy and well‑designed building, collapsed into the harbor amid much screaming and panic and death by drowning. Collapsed–or was pulled.

An ashen‑faced Hayes relayed a response via their host.

“Enough! We get your point.”

Back came the reply.

I thought you would. There are quite a few passages in the Necronomicon dealing with a certain Cthulhu, his minions, and other really unpleasant ocean dwellers. Next time, I thought I might try to call up the servants of Ithaqua. The East Coast hasn’t had a really serious blow in five years.

“You’ve done enough,” Spitzer had Rumford type back. “Give us till ten.”

You’d better come through. This stuff is almost too easy. Those Columbine guys could’ve blown away their whole state with it. Imagine al‑Qaeda’s people scrolling through the file, or some of those murderous tribal types in Central Africa.

At the end of the message, the onscreen cursor winked patiently back at the three men, awaiting commands.

Spitzer and Hayes caucused. “There’s no way the Bureau is going to cough up ten million for this weirdo on our say‑so alone. No way.” Despite the fact that it was very comfortable in the study, sweat was beading on Hayes’s forehead. “We’ve got to find a way to get to him before he starts posting.”

“We don’t even know if he’s in this country,” Spitzer reminded his partner somberly. “He could have come in just to pay his visit to the library.”

“I know, I know!”

“I said there were one or two things I could try.” In the room, with the sun beginning to set outside, only their host remained relatively composed. “I can’t go ahead–I won’t go ahead–without your authorization, though.”

Turning, Hayes frowned down at their host. “Why not?”

Rumford’s expression did not change. “There could be ancillary consequences that I can’t predict.”

“What, online? Go ahead. If there’s something you can try, try it.”

Rumford was very precise. “Then I have your authorization?”

“Sure, go ahead,” Spitzer told him. “If a router goes down somewhere or you crash an ISP, we’ll take responsibility. We have to try something. Maybe you can find out where this guy is. If you can do that, and if it’s on this continent, we can have people there within the hour. Overseas, within a day.”

Their host nodded. “That’s not really what I intend to try, but I’ll keep it in mind.” Swiveling in his seat, he turned back to his monitor.

It took less than thirty minutes. There was no shout of triumph from their host. He clearly wasn’t the type. But there was quiet satisfaction in his voice. “Got him.”

Both agents were more than a little impressed. “That’s impossible,” Hayes insisted tersely. “Our technical people at the Bureau have been working on this since yesterday, and all through the night, and we haven’t been beeped. Which means they couldn’t locate squat.” He eyed their stocky, intense host closely. “How come you could do it?”

Beady blue eyes flicked in the agent’s direction. “I’ve been dealing with individuals of this type for some time. Let’s just say I have access to a search engine or two even your people don’t know about.” He smiled thinly. “The Net’s a big place, you know.”

Spitzer loomed over both of them. “It doesn’t matter. Where is he? Physically, I mean.” He already had his phone in his hand, ready to transmit the vital information back to Virginia.

“Let me try something first.” Without waiting for a response, Rumford returned to his typing. “If he thinks you’re on to him, he can still post a lot of dangerous material before your people can restrain him physically.” Both agents read over their host’s shoulder.

Wilbur: Do not post the Necronomicon or any part of it online. By doing so you’re making it available to children and to people unaware of what they are dealing with. The Necronomicon is not a video game.

The response was immediate.

Don’t lecture me, Rumford. I know all about the Necronomicon and I know what I’m doing. I want my ten million! Tell the Bureau people that.

“He doesn’t know you’re here,” their host murmured. “Probably thinks I have and am on a phone connection to you.” He typed.

If you persist in going ahead with this, steps will have to be taken.

The reply was prompt.

I’m not afraid of the government. I know how fast they don’t move. By the time they find out where I buy my groceries, I can post the entire contents of The Book. They’d better not try anything. Tell them that.

Rumford didn’t have to. Hayes could see it for himself.

Their host looked up at the agent. His expression was set. “Hand me that box of flash drives, will you?” He pointed. “The one in the open cabinet, over there.”

Hayes fetched the indicated container. For a box full of flash drives, it seemed excessive. Solid steel, with a tiny combination lock. Returning, he tripped on a roll in the throw rug and nearly fell. Their host’s reaction was instructive.

“For God’s sake, don’t drop that!” Rumford’s round pink face had turned white.

Hayes frowned at the metal box, infinitely sturdier than the usual plastic container. “Flash drives can handle shock. What’s the problem?”

“Just don’t drop it.” Carefully taking the container from the bemused agent, their host opened it slowly. Spitzer was surprised to see that it contained only one silvery KeyDrive. Mumbling something under his breath, Rumford slipped this into the appropriate socket on his main machine. The drive did not, Hayes observed, automatically identify itself.

A couple of clicks and a macro or two later, and the monitor filled with a jumble of symbols and words that were unintelligible to the two agents. Working with grim‑faced determination, their host began to use his mouse to methodically highlight specific sections. These were then cut and copied to another page, where he proceeded to carefully position them over an intricate template of symbols. After some twenty minutes of this, he sat back and double‑clicked. Immediately the monitor began to pulse with a rich red glow.

Spitzer observed the vivid visual activity with interest. “Java applet?” he wondered aloud. “ActiveX?”

Rumford shook his head. “Not exactly.”

“Nice animation,” the agent continued, watching without understanding what was going on. “Bryce or something from SG?”

“My own code. I correspond with people with similar interests. There’s a guy in Germany, and interestingly, a woman in R’yleh–sorry, Riyadh. We play around with our own software. Closed‑source. It’s kind of a hobby within a hobby.”

Hayes indicated the monitor. The intense, swirling, necrotic colors had given way to the more familiar instant‑messaging screen format.

What do you think you’re doing? You think you can trouble me with this?

“What did you do?” Spitzer leaned even closer, dominating his surroundings. “Send him a virus?”

“Something like that,” Rumford replied noncommittally. In his server, the flash drive continued to blink softly even though no eldritch colors or patterns were visible any longer on the monitor.

Wait–what’s going on?

A pause, then,

Stop it…stop it now! You can’t block me. I’m not waiting any longer. Just for this, I’m going to post the first chapter right now!

Hayes tensed, but their host did not appear overly concerned. He just sat staring, Buddha‑like, at the screen.

What is this? Make it stop–stop it now, I’m warning you! Rumford, make it stop! You sonofabitch bastard, do something!

A chill trickled down Spitzer’s broad back as the words appeared on the screen. The flash drive, he noted, had stopped blinking.

Make it go away! Rumford, do something now! I won’t post–I’ll do anything you want. Make it go away! Rumford, please, don’t let it–oh god, stop it now–please, do someth

No more words appeared on the screen.

Sighing softly, Rumford leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead. He looked and sounded like a man who had just driven several fast laps around an especially bumpy track. “That’s it.”

Hayes made a face. “That’s it? What do you mean, ‘that’s it’?”

Turning away from the monitor, their host looked up at him. “It’s over. He’s not going to post anything. Not now. Not ever.”

The chill Spitzer had been experiencing deepened. “What did you do? Where is he? What did you send him? ”

Rumford rose. “Something to drink? No? Well, I’m thirsty. Nasty business, this. You need to tell those people at Harvard to be more careful. They really ought to burn the damn thing, but I know they won’t.” He shook his head dolefully. “Book people! They’re more dangerous than you can imagine.” He eyed Spitzer.

“It doesn’t matter where he is or was. I took care of the problem. He can’t post a ‘you’ve got mail’ note, much less an entire book. Much less the Necronomicon.”

Realization dawned on Hayes’s face. “You got into his machine! You wiped the copy!”

Rumford nodded. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

Spitzer was not impressed. “Unless this Wilbur was a complete idiot, he made at least one duplicate and stored it somewhere safe.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Rumford reiterated. “He can’t make use of it. Just take my word for it.”

“That’s asking a lot.” Spitzer studied the smaller man. “How can we be sure?” He indicated his partner. “We have responsibilities, too, you know. This isn’t a hobby for us.”

Their host considered. Then he pulled a KeyDrive from a box in a drawer. An ordinary box full of ordinary drives. Slipping it into an open socket, he entered a series of commands. In response, the computer’s hard drive began to hum efficiently. Moments later the flash drive ejected. Carefully, very carefully, Rumford removed it, slipped it into a protective case, and handed it to Hayes.

“Here’s a copy of the program I used.” His eyes burned, and for an instant he seemed rather larger than he was in person. “You might think of it as an anti‑virus program, but it’s not intended for general use. It’s very case‑specific. You’d be surprised what can be digitized these days. If someone like this Wilbur surfaces again, you can utilize it without having to come to me.”

Hayes accepted the drive and slipped it into an inside coat pocket. “Thanks, but I couldn’t make sense of anything you put up on screen.”

Rumford smiled humorlessly. “Just press F‑one for help. There’s an intuitive guide built in. I had it translated from the German.” He brightened. “Now, let’s have something cold to drink!”

Later, in the cab on the way back to Grand Central to catch the express back to Washington, while their Nigerian driver cursed steadily in Yoruba and battled midtown traffic, Hayes pulled the KeyDrive from his pocket. It was a perfectly ordinary‑looking drive, rainbow‑reflective and silvery. Their host had hastily added a few explanatory words to a piece of notepaper he had passed to Hayes just before the two agents had departed.

“You really think he dealt satisfactorily with that Wilbur person?” Spitzer asked his partner and friend.

Hayes shrugged. “Unless this was all some kind of elaborate hoax.”

The other agent grunted, and his belly heaved. “Better not let Morrison hear you say that. Not after we pressed for the time and expense money to come up here and do the follow‑through.”

Hayes nodded, absently scanning the notepaper. “If it wasn’t a hoax, at least we won’t have to come up here again. The instructions for making use of this are pretty straightforward.” He had no trouble deciphering Rumford’s precise, prominent handwriting, which he proceeded to quote to his partner.

“‘To download Shoggoth,’” he began thoughtfully…

Basted

Theme anthologies force a writer to think about subjects that are often, at most, of passing interest. For example, it’s hard to imagine writers of fantasy who have not at one time or another in their lives gone through a spell of fascination with ancient Egypt. There is simply so much of that great civilization that inspires, from its art to its technological developments to its incredibly long lineage. It is a fascination that persists to this day in films like the modern Mummy and its sequel and humankind’s continuing obsession with the afterlife. Not to mention the alien science that helped to raised the pyramids–though one would think that any civilization with the knowledge to shortcut such massive construction would prefer a more modern building material than rock.

Ah well. Some of the mysteries of the Pharaohs must remain forever as inscrutable to us as their preferred hairstyles and their penchant for being portrayed in profile. They have even given us a word for it: sphinxlike.

And now, a word about cats. I love cats. I adore cats. I like to think that this affection is reciprocated. Certainly it is among the six cats who sleep on the bed with us. Sleep with six cats, and you will never be cold–though morning will often find you extricating stray cat hairs from the oddest places.

Cheetahs are an especial favorite of mine (no, one of those six cats is not a cheetah). Once in Namibia in 1993, at a private wildlife preserve called Mount Etjo that lies about halfway between the capital of Windhoek and the great national park Etosha, I was allowed to spend more than an hour interacting in an open environment in excessive midday heat with a local resident named Felix. A full‑grown male cheetah, Felix was content to sit quietly while I scratched him on his head and behind his ears. He did not, however, like to be scratched between his front legs, a fact that the local guide in attendance declared was something new to him.

I was grateful to Felix for apprising me of this fact in a forthright and unmistakable manner while not simultaneously removing my face. I also discovered that cheetahs not only purr like oversized house cats, but occasionally go “meow,” just like a cartoon cat’s meow in a dialogue balloon.

So, out of ancient Egypt and modern Namibia comes the following story…

It was Harima who drove Ali into the desert that night. Harima was his wife. There had been a time in the not‑so‑distant past when Ali had thought Harima a great beauty, as had a number of his friends. When, exactly, had that time been? He tried to remember. How long ago? He could not recall.

Now his wife was rather larger than he remembered from their time of courtship. In fact, the joke around the village was that she was as big as the pyramids at Giza–and her voice shrill and loud enough to wake every mummy in the City of the Dead. Whatever she had become, she was no longer the sweet and alluring woman he had married. Her voice, old Mustapha Kalem was fond of saying over strong coffee in the village café, was harsh enough to drown out the morning call to prayer.

Ali was sick of that voice, just as he was sick of what his life had become.

Once, long ago, he was a bright and promising student who had done well in school. Well enough to be considered for attending the university, in Cairo. But his hardworking family, Allah’s blessings be upon them, had been dirt poor–which in soil‑poor Egypt is a description to be taken literally. Even with Ali being an only child, there had been barely enough money for food, let alone higher schooling. As for the university, it was made clear to Ali that such a notion was out of the question.

Forced to look for a job to help support himself and his increasingly feeble parents, the ever‑resourceful Ali had seen how rich tourists paid incredible amounts of money to visit and view the fabled ancient wonders of his country. The guides who escorted such people through temples and tombs not only received substantial salaries from the tour companies, but were also the recipients of frequent tips, sometimes in hard currency, from the grateful visitors. Espying an opportunity where there seemed to be none–something Ali had always been good at–he proceeded to apprentice himself to one of the best‑known and most successful of the local guide groups.

Alas, many years had passed, and he was still carrying heavy luggage and fetching cold drinks and doing only the most menial of tasks for the guide service. They guarded their privileges jealously, did the guides. Many times, Ali had seen less qualified apprentices promoted over him, only because they had connections: this one was somebody’s cousin or that one, wealthy Aunt Aamal’s son. A poor boy like himself was kept down.

This sorry state of affairs continued despite his excellent and ever‑improving command of English, as well as his knowledge of many things ancient that he had acquired from listening to the other guides, reading guidebooks, and humbly asking questions of the more knowledgeable tourists themselves. In truth, it had to be admitted that the visitors from overseas encouraged him in his efforts to better himself more than did his own countrymen.

Especially more than Harima. He was not good enough for her, she was fond of telling anyone who would listen. He was too short, too dark, he didn’t make enough money, he was a lousy lover–ah, Harima, he mused! Wild‑haired, lovely, full‑lipped Harima–who once was the love of his life and he, he had thought, of hers. No longer. Black visions of drooling jackals and squawking buzzards helping themselves to hearty hunks of the hefty Harima filled his head. Unworthy thoughts, he knew. But he could not help them.

To get away from her he had taken Suhar, his favorite camel (truth be told, his only camel) for a nocturnal jaunt into the desert in the direction of the canal. A piece of the desert, the real desert, was very near to Ali’s village. It was not hard to get away from contemporary civilization and back to those of the great Pharaohs and kings of ancient Egypt. It was their temples that brought the tourists to his town and kept them coming back. Neither Ali nor the guides for whom he worked were ashamed to admit that the best thing about the temples was the money they continued to bring in, thousands of years after their builders had vanished.

The moon that floated high in the star‑flecked sky was nearly full. Ali enjoyed the ride, as did Suhar. The farther from the village they rode, the more a calming peace settled on both man and camel, and the farther the lights of the city of Zagazig faded into the distance. He took a different track than usual. As his mount’s wide, splayed feet shusshed over the sands, away from the roads and trails that led to the main tourist sites, the steady yammering of televisions and of boom boxes and, yes, of Harima faded from memory as well as from earshot.

It was well past midnight when Suhar suddenly stopped. Ali frowned. Nothing lay in front of them but flat desert and the still‑distant canal. Giving her a firm nudge in the ribs, he yelled “Hut, hut!” Still she refused to move.

What ails the beast? he wondered. Dismounting, he strode out in front of her. If he failed to return before sunrise, Harima would lay into him even more than usual. She would accuse him of spending their money, her money, on illegal liquor or women or khat. He winced as he envisioned the knowing smiles that would appear on the faces of his neighbors, and the disapproving expressions he would encounter the next time he went into town for coffee.

Taking the reins, he began tugging. Gently at first, then more forcefully. But neither sharp gesture nor angry words could persuade the camel to budge so much as a foot.

“Spawn of the devil! Spewer of sour milk! Why do I waste good money on food for you? If not for the tourists who like to have their picture taken with you, I would sell you for steaks and chops!” Unimpressed, in the manner of camels, Suhar stood and chewed and said nothing.

“Come on, ” Ali snapped. Leaning back, he put his full weight into the reins. As he took a step, Suhar emitted an outraged bawl. This was overridden by the sound of a loud crack beneath his feet. With a yelp and a shout, he felt himself plunge downward and out of sight.

Above, Suhar stood quietly masticating her cud. She did not move forward toward the yawning cavity that had appeared in the desert.

Spitting out dust and grit while mustering several suitable curses, a groaning Ali rolled over and climbed slowly to his feet. Though his backside throbbed where he had landed, the fall had wounded his dignity more than his body. Feeling carefully of himself, he decided that nothing was broken. Looking up, he saw that the hole through which he had fallen was no more than a meter wide. Sand continued to spill from the edges of the opening, the trickling grains illuminated by the moon that was still high in the night sky.

What had he tumbled into? An old well, perhaps. But a well would have been deeper. Turning as he continued to dust himself off, he let his eyes adjust to the subdued moonlight.

And sucked in his breath.

Surrounding him were beautifully painted walls. Fourth or Fifth Dynasty, he decided, drawing upon his years of accumulated knowledge about his ancestors’ works. The elaborate murals were intact and completely undamaged. At the four corners of the chamber stood four massive diorite statues of Bastet, the cat god of the ancient Egyptians. Except for them the tomb–for such it had to be with a stone sarcophagus in its center–was empty. His heart, which had leaped so high the instant he had recognized his surroundings, now fell. No golden chariots blinded his gaze, no metal chests of precious stones stood waiting to be opened. The tomb was in excellent condition, but it either had been looted or else was the resting place of some poor man.

And yet–the quality of the murals was exceptional. That did not square with the apparent emptiness of the chamber. And then there was the single sarcophagus, resting in isolated majesty in the exact center of the room. It was not large, indicating that this was perhaps the final resting place of a juvenile. Or maybe an intended resting place, given the barrenness of the chamber.

He consoled himself with the knowledge that while there might not be any great riches present, the four massive and well‑made statues of Bastet would surely be worth something. Even mummies themselves could be sold. He hesitated. That was provided there was a mummy here, of course, and that the sarcophagus was not empty.

It took him nearly an hour to shift the heavy stone cover far enough to one side to let him get at the inner sarcophagus. For a second time, his heart jumped, this time at the flash of gold within. Sadly, the inner container was only of gilded wood. It opened far more easily than had the upper cover. Another person might have been frightened, working there alone beneath the desert in a previously undiscovered tomb, opening ancient sarcophagi. Not Ali. The desert, the nearby ancient city of Bubastis, were his home. He had spent all his life among such relics of the distant past. The only danger in doing what he was doing, he knew, came from inhaling too much dust and mold or being discovered by the antiquities authorities.

The inner cover was muscled aside, allowing him to see within. His brows furrowed uncertainly. The inner sarcophagus contained a mummy, all right–but a mummy unlike any he had ever seen. It was too big to be a child, and the wrong shape for a man or woman. What could it be? From local excavations in and around Tell Basta, Ali knew that the rulers of Bubastis had sometimes caused selected holy cats to be interred beside them along with human members of their household. The statues of Bastet pointed the way to the answer, helping him to finally recognize the shape.

It was indeed a mummified feline, not unlike those from the famous graveyard of mummified holy cats–but this was no house cat. This was big, much bigger. Was it unusual or unique enough to be particularly valuable? There was no way of telling without calling on expert help. It did not look particularly heavy–certainly no heavier than had been the stone lid of the main sarcophagus. He knew a man who, for a reasonable price, could identify such things and who would ask no awkward questions.

Ali was very strong in the arms and shoulders from years of carrying tourists’ overfilled luggage. Suhar could manage the dual burden of man and mummy easily. Reaching into the inner container, he carefully slipped both hands under the wrappings that had lain undisturbed for thousands of years, preparatory to lifting it out.

Something moved against his fingers. And coughed.

“Inshallah!” he exclaimed involuntarily as he dropped the weight and stumbled backward. Eyes wide, his back pressed against the far wall, he gaped in wide‑eyed fear and wonder at the sarcophagus.

The mummy was getting up.

It rose slowly on all four feet, a lean and lithe bundle of unimaginably ancient linen and encrusted, desiccated preservatives. Trembling violently, Ali scuttled to his right. But there was no stairway that led to freedom, no ladder with which to climb out of the chamber. Come to think of it, how had he intended to get the mummy out of the tomb, much less himself? Excited by his accidental discovery, he had not thought that far ahead. Now he looked at the circle of moonlight overhead as if it represented the route to Heaven. He would have screamed, but there was no one to hear him.

An odor reached his nostrils: the smell of something incredibly ancient but rapidly reviving. Suhar caught a whiff of it, too. He heard her snort once, in fear, before the clomp‑clomp of her big, oversized, suddenly lovable feet commenced to recede rapidly into the distance.

Now he was well and truly alone. Alone with–something.

Oh God, he thought. It’s looking at me.

Indeed, the bandage‑swathed head had turned toward him. Behind the rapidly disintegrating wrappings, a pair of intense yellow eyes were gazing directly back into his own. They seemed to burn into his soul, to squeeze his very heart. And yet, and yet–there was no murder in them, but something else. Curiosity, perhaps. Curiosity, and–intelligence.

That was impossible, he knew. But then, to have a millennia‑old mummy suddenly stand up and stare back at you was not exactly possible, either, and that was happening before his very eyes.

Date: 2015-12-13; view: 429; Нарушение авторских прав