Born of Metal: The Rings of the Inconquo, #1

Prologue

He didn’t like the desert.

A true Brit, Professor James Lowe would take the murky English summer and foggy London night over the brain-cooking heat of the desert. In jolly ol’ England, the sun was polite enough to step behind a curtain of clouds now and then, even in the humid summer, but not here. Here the sun was utterly merciless and uncomfortably close. Hot, yet dry. It was odd, the sensation of being slowly mummified alive. He wondered if his body had forgotten how to sweat.

He passed under the shadow of an immense sandstone idol, cleaning his spectacles for the hundredth time. The sun stabbed down through a wide fissure in the chamber ceiling, casting the stonework in sharp relief.

Perhaps the sun wasn’t so abominable when people were still offering sacrifices to it. He squinted up at the stone figure staring blankly down with an ibis’s sad eyes. The grunts and thuds of the excavation team echoed from the shrine.

That fellow is Thoth, not Horus or Ra. Lowe’s colleague, Prof Harold Weston, was perpetually cheery in spite of the torturous desert conditions. He was not a sky or sun god, but a god of knowledge and craftsmanship.

Lowe stifled an irritated retort.

Naturally. Lowe was thankful his sunburn hid the blush rising in his cheeks. He wasn’t embarrassed by his seeming ignorance, or at least not much. Keeping up the façade was necessary to allay suspicion. Lowe was not an Egyptologist like Weston, but knew full well who the idol depicted, because he’d been secretly searching for the Sons of the Bronze Scroll for many years. It wouldn’t do for Weston to know his little secret, though it would have been delightful to knock the grotesquely optimistic grin off the man’s broad, tanned face.

It appears your team found this after the soldiers. Lowe dragged his gaze over the spent rifle casings and cigarette stubs littering the floor.

Yes, quite, the archaeologist chuckled as he continued down the hallway, scattering a few brass shells into the dark recesses beyond the sun’s light. Seems the lads cracked the whole thing like an egg with a mortar blast and used it as a redoubt when the enemy counterattacked. Bloody awful show by the sound of it, but when the smoke cleared, they were quick enough to let us in.

Lowe had wondered at the dark stains he’d spied here and there, but hadn’t asked. Turned out he was right.

They were near the rear of the chamber, and the split in the roof had narrowed to a final spike of sunlight. Weston and Lowe produced torches, and with a pair of dull clicks, the back of the space was bathed in orange light. Two large blocks of basalt jutted forwards from the back wall, a narrow space left between them. In that gap, something glittered, and Lowe forgot about the sun, the sand and even Weston’s annoying good humour.

The two men shared a silent moment of mutual thrill, and then — like two schoolboys — nearly raced to the gap. The light of their torches made glimmering shapes dance and twinkle. The gap was just large enough for a man to slide through sideways to reach the small chamber beyond.

Lowe began to squeeze through then checked himself, looking back at Weston and hanging halfway out the rocky crevice. I expect you’ve already been through?

The archaeologist shook his head. Afraid not, ol’ boy. Weston smiled sheepishly and patted his considerable belly. I was afraid of damaging the site. I studied what I could from here.

And? Lowe grunted as he wriggled deeper.

It’s not ancient Egyptian or anything of that sort, and that places it firmly outside of my realm of expertise. Weston shrugged. I contacted some mutual friends, and learning you were in Alexandria, I thought what a capital opportunity. A scholar of multiple Near Eastern peoples and artifacts.

Lowe felt guilty then for what little value he’d placed on Weston. At the very least, the man was humble enough to know when to get help, and that was more than most learned men could manage.

I can’t thank you enough, Lowe muttered abashedly, but you should be the first …

Lowe’s voice tapered off as Weston’s head wagged good naturedly. Not at all. He waved his free hand before patting his round stomach with another chuckle. Go on ahead. I’m confident I’ll not fit, and my reputation would be in tatters if I got stuck.

Lowe didn’t need further prompting.

It was an awfully tight fit, as it turned out. More than once he felt a flutter of near panic as he inched along. He was far thinner than Weston but still lost more than one button in the journey. With a final gasp, he was through.

The room was pitch black except where the light of the torch fell, and for a long moment, he stood with that light pooling around his feet.

Steady, Lowe muttered quietly, bracing himself for what might come next.

Years of searching hung on this moment.

Weston’s voice drifted in from the outer chamber as a hoarse whisper. The flash of his torch wove in and out of view.

Are you through?

Lowe let out a low breath before calling over his shoulder. I’m through, and no worse for wear.

What do you see?

The weight of the question settled on him like a lead blanket as he raised the beam of his torch. Inch by inch, the light revealed an immense bas-relief worked in bronze, silver and gold. Part diorama, part historical record, its lines and symmetries were distinctly Sumerian. The entire relief was framed in an amalgam of cuneiform and hieroglyph he’d never seen before.

Centring the entire edifice was a simple abstract recreation of an engraved scroll. Lowe’s fingers ran across the smooth contours of the raised lines, depressing a section here and there. There was a deep thump and a soft rumbling sound.

Lowe! Weston’s voice was shrill. What do you see?

The bas-relief began to shift and rearrange. A smile spread across his face.

The answer, he whispered to himself. The answer to all the riddles. He picked up the welded gauntlet of four rings and stuffed them into his pocket.

1

Ichecked the status icon next to Uncle Irshad’s smiling face.

Grey: inactive.

I gave a long, sputtering sigh and sank back into what passed for my love seat, fingers tightening around a cup of cooling tea.

No news is good news, I told myself, but I hated the patronising words as soon as I said them.

For Uncle Irshad Bashir — like so many others in Sudan — no news could just as easily mean something truly terrible. Militias, famine and plague had taken more than one could imagine from so many people in the homeland of my parents. Though Uncle Iry was always smiling during our chats, even he couldn’t pretend that things weren’t bad. After all, it was why my parents left.

The older I grew, the more I marvelled at my parents’ bravery. Leaving Sudan and everything they knew in the hope of a better life for themselves and their unborn child (that’d be yours truly) took a megaton of faith and guts.

Glaring at the icon, I narrowed my eyes and loosed a telepathic request that he come on-line. The grey disc sat there in mute rebellion. I gave up in disgust. I checked the time — 1:20am — and groaned.

Tomorrow is going to be the utter pits.

I should’ve gone to bed hours ago, but I wouldn’t sleep well unless I knew Uncle Iry was all right. I didn’t dare hope he’d gotten hired, but maybe that was because I was trying not to think about work. My gaze wandered across my tiny flat to where my work jacket hung on a peg beside my bed. My smiling face grinned from the ID badge clipped to the lapel.

Bashir, Ibukun

Collections

British Museum

A better life for you, Ibby, my mother had said one night. "A better life where you can grow up without fear of bad men with guns."

"You never met, Adrian Shelton, ‘um, I had muttered, using the Arabic for the word mum. There are times I’d rather face bad men with guns."

My eyes roved past the grey icon before settling on the pinched window that revealed only the wall of the neighbouring building.

I wasn’t serious, of course, but my supervisor was not to be trifled with. Adrian Shelton was a terribly demanding and critical man. He seemed to take particular satisfaction in scrutinising everything I did. I had little option except to adopt the old stiff upper lip. I didn’t just need the pitiful pay packet, the internship was the best shot I had in getting a real job once I graduated university. My whole future hung on making Dr Shelton happy, and I wasn’t convinced the man even knew how to be happy.

More important even than my future was my uncle’s life, which depended on my success. Every day he stayed in Sudan was another day his life was at risk. Putting an end to that risk meant money. Money I could earn if I finally got a good paying job, ideally (if I could dare to dream) with the Museum of Natural History.

I swallowed another sad sigh and got up with my now cold cup of tea. Hopping over a pile of folded laundry on my way to the countertop, which made the whole of my kitchenette, I turned the electric kettle on and stared at the blue light as the contraption began to rumble and hiss.

Like tyres on wet streets. Like that night.

My arms wrapped around my chest reflexively as the thought rocked me. It was nearly nine months since a lorry took a wet street corner too fast, sending both my parents to an early grave. They’d gone out to celebrate my mother getting a job as a nurse, the very occupation she’d had for years in Sudan before coming to London. It had taken her nearly two decades, but she was finally going to do the job she was born for.

My father had known my mother wanted to tell me the news herself, but when I’d called that night, he couldn’t help himself.

He’d blurted out, She got it, Ibby! She got the job! before I’d even said a word.

He’d apologised to my mother immediately afterwards and handed the phone to her, but she was too happy to let his outburst spoil things. My father was like my uncle, ready smiles and easy laughs, a man who wore his big heart on his sleeve. Mother was softer, quieter, yet somehow stronger for it. Yes, Ibby, she had said in her low, smooth voice. I’m a nurse again.

It was one of the last things my mother ever said to me. That and their plans to bring my Uncle Iry to the UK, with money from the new job.

Now I was Uncle Iry’s best hope. His only hope.

Still hugging myself, I glanced at the laptop screen. My tired eyes skidded over the status icon but everything snapped into focus when it flashed.

Green: active.

My tea and the kettle forgotten, I vaulted over the laundry and dodged a cast-off pair of shoes as I lunged for the laptop. Jamming the headset into place with one hand, I frantically worked the mouse with the other. Uncle Iry had to pay for each minute he was on-line at a small internet café, so every second was precious.

The status bar showed a connection being made, and my feet did a little dance of joy.

A few seconds later a window popped up. A dark, bare scalp and forehead lurked beneath a view of the ceiling with peeling plaster and glaring fluorescent lights.

Ibby? Are you there? My uncle’s deep voice came through the headset with only a little distortion crackling over his accented words.

"Try pointing the camera down, a’am," I suggested. My uncle had asked we always talk in English so he could practise, but I couldn’t help slipping a little Arabic in here and there.

The view in the chat window shifted, pixelating, then resolved into Irshad’s handsome face, complete with a well-kept beard and our family’s bronze eyes. As the screen sharpened, he wore a frown of concentration. I couldn’t help noticing how hollow his cheeks looked and the deepening lines around his mouth and eyes. These all vanished when he smiled that immense grin. My heart ached. He reminded me of my father so much.

Every day costs him a little more.

What’s a good girl like you doing up at a time like dis? He sounded grave, but he didn’t put his smile away.

I couldn’t sleep, I lied, trying not to rub at my burning eyes. "I hoped you’d make an appearance. It’s been almost a week, a’am-mi."

My uncle’s expression became contrite, and he nodded. I’m sorry, Ibby, I should have got in touch earlier. Things have been … difficult.

I clenched my fist and ground my knuckles into my thigh in shame for guilting him. Uncle Iry, along with living in one of the most unsettled regions in Sudan, had to walk many miles for internet. He only had time in the late evenings because he was either looking for or doing what work he could find. Though he didn’t say it, I knew he was exhausted.

No, I’m sorry, it’s just … I bit my lip, fighting to find words and trying to keep the tears at bay. The last thing my uncle needed was to spend his precious few minutes watching me weep. He’d endured enough of that when my parents first passed.

But, I have good news, Ibby! Very good news!

Uncle Iry coming to the rescue even from thousands of miles away.

I forced my voice to steady. Really? Don’t keep me in suspense. Don’t you know it’s late?

He chuckled, his smile returning in force.

A company is expanding and needs construction workers. Their foreman was looking for men with welding experience, so I have work for the next few months. Possibly longer!

This wasn’t good news; it was great news. Once upon a time, my uncle and father had worked as automotive mechanics in a garage in Nyala. When my father expressed a hope to take his newly pregnant bride to the UK, my uncle had used what little savings he’d had to make it happen. Shortly thereafter, the violence and the swelling tide of displaced peoples had driven him from Nyala back to their home village in the scrublands. It took years for the brothers to reconnect after the chaos, and both of them had hardly been able to scrape together enough to live. For years now, Uncle Iry has squeaked by, taking whatever work he could. A job like this, skilled and with potential for extended work, was very rare.

But something caught my attention, and I felt a tremor of suspicion twist in my belly.

A’am, you said company. But what company? What are you building?

Uncle Iry’s smile weakened a little, and he wagged a finger across the screen. Now, Ibby, remember, English only.

He was stalling. The twist in my stomach tightened into a knot. Uncle … 

The smile shifted into an embarrassed grin that might have won me over if I hadn’t known what was coming next.

Greater Nile Petrol. We are expanding some of the oil rigs.

The knot became a weight that took out the bottom of my stomach. Greater Nile! Oh, Iry, no. I sank into the love seat.

Ibby, this is still good news. It will be safe, I promise.

Iry has always been an honest man, but in this moment, he was lying. Not only was the GNP notorious for their callous working conditions, but they were a favourite target for whatever band of armed thugs was roaming the area. He couldn’t promise me he’d be safe because oil rigs throughout Sudan were one of the most dangerous places he could be.

There was no stopping the tears welling in my eyes this time.

I know it is scary, Ibby, but if I’m kept on, I’m that much closer to rejoining my family.

He meant me. The brutality of life in Sudan had taken everything from us.

I tried to shove away the thoughts, the guilt, the wishes, but they came in like a flood. It was beyond unfair. It was utterly cruel, and I was powerless. Nothing I could say, nothing I could do was going to keep him from those oil rigs, because nothing mattered as much to either of us as being together.

Crying wasn’t going to help. Uncle Iry needed me to be strong, no matter what. I brushed away my tears and smoothed out my voice. And you’ll be that much closer to a complimentary tour of the Museum of Natural History given by your niece, where she’ll soon be working.

The last words caught in my throat, but I forced them out, a bright promise I’d do anything to keep.

Uncle Iry’s brilliant smile was worth it. I can’t wait for that day, Ibby. Tell me, how is the internship going?

2

The alarm buzzed angrily near my ear. I swatted clumsily at my phone, knocking it onto the floor, where the buzz became a rattle.

Half-groaning, half-snarling I threw myself over the edge of my mattress to snag the nasty thing. Sleep-numbed fingers fumbled at the snooze button as one bleary eye glared at the screen. The alarm quit as the display kicked my sluggish brain into action.

7:30am

I was late. Very late.

I didn’t notice what time I’d logged off after talking to Uncle Iry, but it had been much longer than usual. His new job with Greater Nile had made him confident enough to splurge, and how could I say no? When we finally logged off, I’d barely managed to remove the headset before collapsing onto my mattress.

I sat up, rubbing at my face and willing my sleep-deprived brain to work. Was there any way to get to work on time?

On a good day, I’d be out the door by 6:40am to reach Mile End by 7am, where I could take the Central line to Tottenham Court Road. That put me inside the museum by 7:40am. Early enough even for a miserable busybody like Shelton.

On a desperate day, I’d scramble to Stepney Green, ride the Hammersmith & City line to Liverpool Street, take Central to Holborn and then run like mad. That would give me a chance of coming in the back doors, where Eddy, the porter, would let me in on the sly. I could swipe in and get down to Collections before Shelton came to berate me. When he’d stick his beaky nose into the sorting room, I’d greet him with a cheery good morning! and he’d slink away to criticise someone else.

I was well past that point.

My hands slid from my face to my temples where I squeezed an ache that ran from my scalp to somewhere behind my eyes.

I was going to be late. Shelton was going to tell me off, that glimmer of hideous joy in his eyes the whole time. There was no way around it.

With one more groan, I set to getting ready, thankful my hair was already up in braids from the night before. I set the kettle to boil and took a shower that was too fast to be either warm or relaxing, before setting my coffee to percolate. The good thing about working in Collections is that my wardrobe choices are simple. Dark slacks, an understated top and a drab uniform jacket with an ID badge hanging from the lapel.

I nabbed my bag and coffee in one fell swoop and didn’t bother to check myself in the mirror. Shelton would have to have it out with me as I was.

Walking at a brisk stride to Mile End, I descended into the incessantly loud and busy world of the London Underground. The soundtrack of east London’s poorer district was a mishmash of centuries-old cockney drawls among Hindi dialects and a host of other tongues. It was the background music of my entire life. My parents had never gotten used to it, but I was a born Londoner. The hum of the underground was like an old wool blanket. Scratchy in places, but oh so familiar.

I let myself fall into that blanket as I took a textbook out of my bag. Commuters around me texted, read, listened to music. London’s underground even had wi-fi these days for those who bought service from the bigger telecom companies. I thumbed through my books while the Central line rolled on. I examined an explanation of how metal artifacts can tell an observant archaeologist not only ‘when’ something was made, but ‘where,’ right down to the hill or crag it was mined from. This in turn revealed much about the people who made it, their technology, their place in human history. A few trace elements here, a few surveys there and a single item could reshape what we understood about people alive hundreds or thousands of years ago.

It was like magic, and I loved it.

It was why I was interning at the museum but also why I was frustrated to be shunted into Collections instead of Cataloguing. I wanted to examine artifacts, assess their traits, check their provenance, even put something under an electron microscope. Rocks, metals, stones — they’d fascinated me since I was a child, and the older, the better. As I’d matured, my interests honed. Detective work, almost forensic intersection of archaeology and geology, had fascinated me since the beginning of grammar school.

In Collections, I organised boxes and punched numbers into a computer. Dry as dust. The museum’s selection of antiquities was vast, and they constantly rotated exhibits from their archives to the floor and back again. It was the job of my department to handle the paperwork, ensuring nothing was misfiled or lost. It wasn’t that the work didn’t have significance. After all, misplacing a box full of ancient artifacts was tragic, but it was the sort of work a trained monkey could do. Check the number on your screen, check the number on the box, check the seal, stamp it. Repeat.

I was nearing a year of this drudgery without ever getting to actually handle the artifacts. If it weren’t for some of my classes, I might not have experience with them at all.

I looked up from my book, pushing away gloomy thoughts, to see my stop was next. I checked my phone for the time.

8:22am

I packed up, squared my shoulders and