Slumber of the Gods

Trent Roman

Hollow tapping alerted Nehreim to a sensor contact, stirring him from the routine drudgery of keeping watch on the Amenthes’s autopilot. Pushing his chair over to the electronic cartouche in question, he saw a sigil representing an unknown vessel moving towards the tomb-barge, falling inwards while carefully keeping the shadow of fleet-footed Thoth between it and the blazing glory of Amun-Ra. Switching to active sensing mode, Nehreim broadcast a standard interrogation ritual and then waited for the response. When the signal resolved itself into the hieroglyphics for the Nebt-het, Nehreim was both unsurprised and deeply puzzled. Only two starbarges ever came to visit the sprawling, floating funerary complex that was the Amenthes, a resupply barge that brought food, water and other such supplies, and the Nebt-het, which only came if she was ferrying a new resident for the sepulchral starbarge.

If she was here, then it meant that the Great Pharaoh had died.

The Nebt-het responded to his query with one of her own: a request to initiate docking rituals. After a brief moment’s hesitation, Nehreim replied with the appropriate protocols, and watched as the relevant hieroglyphics unfurled across the cartouche as the vessels’ respective genii exchanged information at inhuman speeds. As the sleek little starbarge neared her much bigger counterpart, Nehreim pushed himself towards another cartouche, flipped a switch and spoke into the ren projector:

“The presence of High Priest Daenesis is supplicated in the command balcony at his earliest possibility,” he said, hearing the echo of his own voice coming back at him from the vaults below.

Nehreim didn’t know where on the starbarge the Daenesis was, but it took him several minutes to reach the balcony, looking slightly winded beneath the heavy coat of greasy makeup. A High Priest of the Anubean Order, he was a long-time servant of those aboard the Amenthes, arriving years ago as a mere attendant and eventually rising to the eminent rank of Vizier of the Dead. Daenesis was a tall man, with easily a head on Nehreim, an effect accentuated by his tall, golden-plated headdress; his musculature lean from decades of artificially-induced gravity, and his wan skin tone—even for a Heliopean—from going the same amount of time with only occasional exposure to Amun-Ra’s rays, combined to make him look almost as skeletal as the slumbering gods in his stewardship.

“What is it?” he asked, voice edge with irritation.

“The Nebt-het is docking, eminence,” Nehreim told him, pointing to the cartouche in question. He glanced at the High Priest. “We were not advised of her arrival, sir … nor have I heard anything of a death on Geb.”

He phrased this last as a statement, even though it was really an interrogation. Nehreim was of the scribal classes, and as such carried a fairly high status, but few did not defer to a High Priest. Daenesis frowned, concentrating on the scrolling hieroglyphics. By now, the docking ritual was well underway, with the smaller starbarge huddling alongside the Amenthes in Thoth’s shadow, the extendable palanquin deployed and the genius cycling through verifications to ensure the connection between the two vessels was sturdy.

“To my knowledge, the Great Pharaoh remains in sturdy health,” Daenesis said at length. “I have no insight into the purpose of this visit. Have they said anything?”

“They have volunteered no information other than the docking request, and I did not feel it my place to ask.”

“But you did give them permission to dock.”

Nehreim felt a moment’s anxiety. Had he overstepped his bounds?

“Well, eminence … I hardly thought we would tell them to turn back around.” After all, he thought but did not add aloud, a starbarge of the Nebt-het’s size only could only carry enough victuals for a single trip into the system; they needed to refuel using the Amenthes’ stores before the return trip to Geb.

“No, indeed,” Daenesis said easily, to Nehreim’s relief. “Still, I don’t care for this breach in protocol. It’s … inauspicious.”

“I have them on hawk’s eye now, eminence,” Nehreim said, punching up the image on the broadcast cartouche. The party of five were dressed in starcophagi, the bulky white protective garments and bronze-tinted helmet offering no clue as to their identity, a small bag at each of their feet containing some personal belongings; however, four of them flanked a rectangular box that was large enough to hold a traditional sarcophagus, with the fifth standing at the head of what looked like nothing if not a funeral procession. Had there actually been a death, then?

The palanquin, its load aboard, pulled back into the Amenthes; the electronic eye allowed Nehreim to briefly glimpse the impenetrable darkness of space as Nebt-het’s retreated into the background, before being replaced by the pale industrial tones of the pressure chamber. The boarding party wheeled their cargo out of the palanquin’s aperture, which sealed after them; as a precaution, air was pumped into the chamber to replace any that might have leaked out during the transfer between the starbarges. When the genius confirmed that the atmosphere in the chamber was the same as the rest of the Amenthes, Nehreim signalled hieroglyphically that it was safe to remove their starcophagi and triggered the purification ritual.

The vents that had pumped in the air switched to a gaseous antibacterial compound, complemented with myrrh. Removed from humanity for years at a time, it was necessary to maintain a sterile environment due to their charges and the distance from any suitable medical facility; the myrrh and ritual chants broadcasted through the ren projector saw to the spiritual purity of the new arrivals as the antiseptics did for their physical purity. It was the standard protocol for all who entered this holy place, one that had been carried out for all arrivals since the Amenthes had first been consecrated, but when the visitors began removing their helmets, Nehreim saw something he had never witnessed aboard the Amenthes before.

“Women.”

Daenesis, who had been looking over at another cartouche, suddenly snapped back to attention, absent-mindedly pushing Nehreim aside. He stared at the cartouche, his brow furrowed and his mouth slack with incredulity. Nehreim wondered how long it had been since the High Priest had seen an actual female—the Anubean Order made no requirements of chastity from its clerics, but service aboard the Amenthes enforced such a lifestyle on its crew.

It had been decided, long before the sepulcher barge had been launched, to restrict the servants to male slaves to prevent the slave population from increasing within the confines of the vessel, deep in the warm black sky near Amun-Ra. The scribes and priests were fewer in number, and could be expected to be better behaved than mere slaves besides, but the Anubean overseers of the project realized that a handful of female servants or spouses amongst a disproportionately male crew was a recipe for discontent and worse still, so women of all ranks were barred from service aboard the Amenthes, and by the same token from the funeral parties that brought the dead out to the floating tomb. And so it had been, at least until today.

Nehreim’s own service was ordained for only five years—measured by the standards of Geb, of course, not speedy Thoth—and, though he was honoured to have been chosen to serve aboard the Amenthes, he had every intention of returning to the blue world once his duties had been discharged, unlike the High Priest’s lifetime commitment. Still, that didn’t make the lack of companionship, relieved only by his collection of hierosgamous sheut projections, any easier to ignore.

“I recognize the sigils of her office,” Daenesis said, tapping the woman at the head of the procession on the screen, presumably recognizing the complex makeup she wore. “It’s the Divine Adoratrice.”

At this point, the funeral party had shed their starcophagi and had taken their wigs out of their bags, adjusting them atop their heads. Like Daenesis and Nehreim, they wore shenti and tunics or robes, by sex, bleached a pure white, over transparent thermal stockings that covered the whole body and kept wearers comfortably warm without the need to expend extra energy heating cavernous Amenthes to an ambient temperature more like Sacred Kemet, while still conveying the illusion of light garb. Apart from that they were relatively unadorned, with only makeup and some perfunctory jewellery but no headdress. Perhaps they had more in their bags but were waiting for better accommodations; the air chamber was hardly a boudoir.

“This is most unorthodox,” the High Priest muttered to himself. “What could account for this deviation from protocol?”

“Eminence? Perhaps it would be best to ask them yourself. Because the arrival was unannounced there are no porters standing ready, but I could call down to the slave quarters—”

“No, certainly not,” Daenesis cut him off. “If word gets out of women aboard—let alone a noblewoman—we’ll have a terrible time keeping away the gawkers—at best.” He rubbed his chin. “Yes, I’ll go meet them myself—as shall you; I want to keep the circle of people who know of this restricted. Call up a replacement to finish your shift here—I presume you can adjust the protocols to ensure that he cannot see that the Nebt-het has docked, or that we have visitors?”

“That is …” Nehreim thought quickly about what such modifications might entail, “It may take a few minutes, eminence, but yes.”

“Get started, then, and afterwards join me at the air chamber. Oh, and have the servants prepare quarters for our guests, but do so quietly. I don’t want to start rumours about the Pharaoh’s death before I can confirm itself for myself.”

“Eminence? If we tell the servants to prepare new quarters, they’ll know we have new people aboard.”

Daenesis looked at him pointedly. “Think of something, scribe,” he said and then quickly made his way towards the balcony’s autoladder.

Nehreim contemplated the adjustments and deceits he had only a handful of minutes to perform. “The ancients were right,” he sighed, “Women aboard barges are trouble.”

Nehreim jogged down the scripted corridors of the Amenthes, doing his best to move with all due speed without, for that matter, exhausting himself. It wouldn’t do to arrive as the High Priest was greeting their visitors all puffy and out of breath. And, some vain but honest part of him acknowledged, he didn’t want that to be the first impression he conveyed to the first women he’d seen in over three years.

It had taken him longer than he had expected to redirect the Amenthes’ genius to conceal the presence of the Nebt-het; however small, the genius nonetheless had to take the starbarge’s profile and mass into account as kept the Amenthes in geostationary orbit, concealed by little Thoth’s protective shadow, and any skilled pilot would recognize that the rituals weren’t what they ought to have been. Because he wasn’t sure how long it would take him to make those adjustments he only called his replacement—who grumbled freely about being risen from his rest while safely away from the High Priest’s ear—after he was done, and had, by protocol, to remain manning the command balcony until his relief arrived, making him rather later to the meeting than he had anticipated. It at least it gave him the time to concoct a story about malfunctioning environmental controls turning a number of scribal quarters into iceboxes, which have him an excuse to order a team of slaves to ready new quarters until the technicians could fix the alleged glitch. Hopefully that would keep curiosity to a minimum, and aboard the already chilly Amenthes, discourage anybody from snooping.

Nehreim slowed his pace as he neared the air chamber, composing himself, passing his hands over his tunic to make sure it was unruffled, his stockings smooth. Taking a deep breath, he turned the corner, affecting a neutral, inexpressive air. He was in luck: the High Priest and the Divine Adoratrice were still concluding their ritual greetings, and Nehreim settled himself in a spot just behind and to the right of the High Priest, standing at attention. Daenesis’ eyes flicked in his direction briefly, but he didn’t pause in his greetings.

Quickly lost in the arcane formalities, Nehreim looked over the rest of the team, two men and two other women. One of each was Kemeti, while one of the men had the distinct features of a Nubian, from below Sacred Kemet. The other woman had the cooked-clay tint and facial structure of an Inti, the stock of the southwestern continent. Her makeup was drawn with a reddish rather than black substance, a testament to the heritage of the Inca Kingdom no doubt; the patterned lines vanished behind the dark ringlets of her wig, which had the lustre of real human hair. Her eyes flickered to him in the midst of his examination and Nehreim, suddenly feeling guilty as though he were spying on something forbidden (and after three years, it almost seemed that way), quickly fixed his sight forward again, and hoped that he wasn’t blushing. He may have imagined it, but for a moment he thought he saw, in his peripheral vision, a flicker of a smirk at the corner of her lips.

Nehreim became aware of a pause in the exchange, and both the High Priest and the Adoratrice seemed to subtly relax; the ritual greetings, Nehreim assumed, were complete. Now they would get to the heart of the matter.

“I must confess to some confusion, Beloved of the Gods,” Daenesis said when the pause became pronounced. “You come to Amenthes bearing a sarcophagus, yet we guardians of the underworld were not advised that the Great Pharaoh had begun His journey to the next life. What manner of events have occurred on blue Geb to merit this breach of protocol?”

“Events of dangerous significance, stalwart Vizier—events which demand that, for the time being, the dead keep their habitual silence,” the Adoratrice answered. “We do not know how many of your underlings know of our presence, but it would be advisable that they still their tongues—particularly when it comes to long-wave ren projections back to Geb—and that they are informed of this with all due haste, before we proceed any further.”

“Such precautions have already been implemented,” Daenesis replied with an arch tone, “in light of the unusual circumstances of your silent arrival and the unprecedented graciousness of the presence of the Divine Adoratrice in Amenthes. Other than myself and this servant of the gods …”—Daenesis inclinded his head towards Nehreim, who, put on the spot, felt compelled to give a short bow, lacking any more specific knowledge of the correct forms of address—“… no other knows that Nebt-het is come to the proximity of Amun-Ra.”

Though no expert in the matter, Nehreim couldn’t help but think there was an undercurrent of challenge between the two, barely detectable beneath the elaborate speech. Was Daenesis, whom Nehreim knew to be a creature of habit, simply off-put by the day’s breach in protocol, or was there some underlying hostility between these two?

“Salutary prudence, Vizier,” the Adoratrice answered; if she was flustered at having been anticipated, she did not show it. “In light of which, we believe we can take you and your functionary into our confidence. It is indeed the Great Pharaoh who lies here behind me, blessed may He be, come to join His forebears in their communion with the royal ancestor, Amun-Ra, Lord of Things That Are. The reason His journey has been kept secret is because the Great Pharaoh’s path to the next life was prematurely precipitated … by unnatural means.”

Only the time it took Nehreim to parse the Adoratrice’s words kept him from gasping. Murdered. The Great Pharaoh had been murdered. Nehreim had no personal connection to the man—technically, the Great Pharaoh was the ultimate secular and religious authority on Geb, the emissary of the gods, but that was so removed from Nehreim’s concerns as to be meaningless—but the idea that the most powerful man on the planet could somehow be assassinated was pretty shocking.

Daenesis, for all his usual reserve, was less sanguine. “Sacrilege,” he hissed. “Who would dare lay a hand on a living god?”

“That, Vizier, is at the crux of the matter. The Great Pharaoh, as you may know, was in robust health for a man of his age. At His unexpected passing, the Elected Son asked his parent’s attendants to conduct a toxicology screen on the Great Pharaoh’s body, and they found trace amounts of a poisonous substance which had built up in His system, eventually causing the cardiac arrest that felled our lord. The Elected Son, realizing that only one closely placed to the Great Pharaoh could have poisoned Him in this fashion, could but conclude that the culprits must already be ensconced within the royal court of the Overkingdom, and felt he could not openly announce the murder and pursue an inquiry, because those responsible could easily obfuscate any such investigation from within.”

“May their bodies rot, their shadows flee, and Ammit devour their souls,” Daenesis interjected.

“Indeed,” the Adoratrice went on. “The Elected Son eventually decided that it would be best to conceal the Great Pharaoh’s death—as far as the general public is concerned, He has sequestered Himself in a spiritual retreat for the next several months to try, once again, to solve the question of Amun-Ra’s silence. We assume that the culprits will see this as a cover, but without preparations for a pharaoh’s death and the installation of the Elected Son as the new Great Pharaoh, will believe that their plan has only succeeded in making the Great Pharaoh ill, and it is hoped they may yet reveal themselves as they try to either conclude their schemes or cover their tracks.”

“The Elected Son is wise,” Daenesis said, although Nehreim had no idea whether the High Priest genuinely thought so or was mere expressing rote support—court conspiracies were something beyond his ken. “But why bring Him here if His murderers have not been found?”

“The Elected Son felt he could only delay his parent’s journey to His final resting place for so long. And … he didn’t want anybody stumbling across the body and spoiling the attempt to flush out the killers, let alone sow panic in the broader world, particularly with the peace of the Overkingdom being so … brittle, in these days of scarcity.”

“Pragmatic, too,” Daenesis said, his tone as neutral as ever. “Yet—if this humble servant may be so bold as to ask—how is it that the Beloved of the Gods has found herself bearer of this sad news and mournful burden?”

“The Office of the Elected Son and that of the Divine Adoratrice has always had a good relationship. And since we operate as independently as any from the court of the Great Pharaoh, the Elected Son entrusted us with the responsibility of his secrets, and this task.” She arched an eyebrow, the effect complimented by the dark makeup. “When those nearest to you may be betrayers, one must sometime place one’s faith in outsiders. And we trust that your curiosity in this matter has been satisfied, Vizier?”

“Of course, Beloved; I am merely doing my duty as the Vizier of the Dead, you understand. My guardianship of our honoured kings is to fulfill their will in death as in life.”

“A duty you dispense with the vigilance of a sphinx, clearly,” she said. “Yet if it is not too great an imposing on your duties, the journey has been long and we would like to retire somewhere other than an air chamber, to rest and refresh ourselves before we resume our discussion of how to give the Great Pharaoh his proper due without alerting anyone to the Elected Son’s scheme.”

“Of course, Beloved; forgive my delaying you here with my inquiries. My functionary has, I trust, seen to such arrangements.”

Nehreim didn’t miss the hint of edged interrogation in the High Priest’s tone. He bowed again, and said: “They have, although from the need to maintain the secrecy of her visit, I’m afraid the quarters will not be as well-appointed as the Beloved may be accustomed to.”

The Adoratrice made a small, dismissive gesture. “That will not be a problem; after the journey here in the Nebt-het, simple room to stretch will seem a luxury, and our stay here will only be of limited duration. Should we have any further needs …?”

“Nehreim will be pleased to see to them, asking only for the understanding that Amenthes’ supplies are themselves limited, and secrecy means procurement cannot always be immediate,” Daenesis put in on his behalf.

Nehreim tried to keep his expression placid. On one level, he was vaguely insulted to have been effectively demoted to servant-like tasks; he was an accomplished scribal technician, and such duties were, nominally, beneath his station. More worrisome, however, was that by the same token, he knew nothing about waiting on a noblewoman and her entourage—his specializations were piloting, electronic ritual languages and genius/cartouche repair. He had no idea what she might need beyond of obvious necessities common to all stations, or what protocols had to be respected in her presence and what might give her offence. He had thought the slumbering gods that lined the Amenthes’ sepulchres and the giant, silent orb of Amun-Ra would be the closest he would ever get to nobility—and now he was footman to the highest ranked female priestess on Geb (or off it).

“Of course; you have but to ask,” was all he simply said, hoping he wasn’t making himself out into a liar.

“He will lead you there now if there nothing further; I believe I should see to our staff schedules and beginning reconfiguring our protocols to better conceal your arrival.”

“Very good, vizier, we shall reconvene soon.”

Daensis gave a short bow, turned smartly in place and went off, leaving Nehreim alone with the Adoratrice and her attendants. He licked his lips.

“If you’ll follow me …?”

Given the uncertainties of protocol, Nehreim felt it best to simply lead the Adoratrice’s party in a silence he hoped would seem respectful rather than cowed. For the most part, the Adoratrice seemed to agree; she only spoke up once, as they were beginning their journey through the small, winding service corridors of the Amenthes.

“Will we be visiting with the kings? We confess it is a sight we have longed to witness.”

“No, Beloved—the sepulchres are the central hub of activity of the starbarge, and it would be impossible to travel there without being noticed.” Nehreim thought quickly. “If such is your desire, however, I’m sure I could arrange some reason for the chambers to be deserted of other personnel that you and your party may visit the dead.”

“That would be agreeable to us,” she said, and lapsed back into silence. The attendants, of course, said nothing, not that Nehreim expected them to when their lady was silent; they still carried the sarcophagus of the late Great Pharaoh between them.

Instead, Nehreim tried to use the convoluted journey to the newly prepared quarters to review what he knew about the Divine Adoratrice. Though far outside his area of specialization, the Technical Institute of Scribal Studies in Memphis was one of the top institutions in Holy Kemet, and therefore the Overkingdom as a whole, and expected well-rounded knowledge from its graduates. Dredging up half-remembered history lessons, he recalled that the office had been founded during the Third Kingdom, and demonstrated its power by combating the Atenist heresy of the mad Pharaoh Akhenaten, preserving the worship of the true gods during the rule of the infidel king. Initially, the Divine Adoratrice had been devoted to the worship of Amun, the solar god whose presence the Amenthes even now skirted behind rocky Thoth; after the largely female-driven rise of fertilism following the Great Interstice, the office had diversified to include the rest of the pantheon, with a particular emphasis on Geb and Nut, the divine coupling of earth and sky, creating something of a votive gender split with solar and underworld deities primarily served by male clerics, nature and fertility deities female clerics. That had been the case for a couple of dynasties, now; and Nehreim had either never learnt or forgotten anything more recent.

They finally arrived at the quarters Nehreim had hastily ordered prepared. He bowed and held the position, arm outstretched, as the Divine Adoratrice and her party filed through the low doorway. The Beloved of the Gods looked around, her expression never changing yet somehow communicating something just short of contempt for the pale steel walls, sparse furnishings and cramped facilities.

“This will do for now,” she said as Nehreim took up a spot next to the door within the room, standing at attention. “But where do our attendants rest?”

“Quarters for each have been prepared to either side of this one,” he answered.

“Good. Please remain here a moment; we need to converse with our attendants.”

The Adoratrice and her people gathered into a small circle and began whispering amongst each other, their tone hushed. Nehreim tried to keep his gaze determinedly on the opposite wall, blanking his mind with white noise of ritual equations, looking to make himself as inoffensive as he imagined a domestic to nobility should be. Despite his best efforts, however, he couldn’t resist the occasional glance sideways. Once, he thought that some of them—including the Adoratrice and the Inti woman who had caught him staring before—were looking in his direction, and he turned his eyes back to the pale blue-grey wall in front of him, telling himself that he had imagined it.

When the discussion finally broke up, the Adoratrice called back to him:

“Nehreim, isn’t it?” He nodded. “Tell the High Priest we will desire to meet with him in the morning—whatever that may be in this place. In the interim, we would ask you to speak with our servant, Sisuyoque …”—the Inti woman nodded at him—“… and she will provide you with a preliminary list of what we will need for our stay.”

Nehreim wasn’t sure which he should be most concerned about—that he would now have to deal personally with this woman, or that the Adoratrice had a preliminary list of demands. Outwardly, however, he merely smiled and bowed, then slipped out of the Adoratrice’s quarters. The men, carrying the sarcophagus by both ends, followed him out; he indicated that their quarters were the two doors to their right, and they nodded an acknowledgement, unsmiling. They carried the sarcophagus into the first room; shortly thereafter, the Nubian emerged and went to his own room. Nehreim, meanwhile, escorted the women to the left. The Kemeti woman took, unbidden, the first door they came up to, bidding them goodnight, so Nehreim and this Sisuyoque came up to the final apartment alone.

He paused outside the door, but Sisuyoque walked past him, turning around only once through the boundary to ask, with a smile: “Won’t you come in? It will be easier to talk if you aren’t in the corridor.”

“Certainly, milady,” Nehreim said, keeping his gaze downcast in what he hoped was a deferential manner.

“Please, Nehreim,” she said, looking about the apartment. “I am a lady-in-waiting, not a lady myself, and I’ve never placed much emphasis on rank. You may call me Sisuyoque. After all, if we cannot be informal amongst servants, when can we?”

“Very well … Sisuyoque,” he said. “Your mistress spoke of needs …?”

“Straight to business, then?” she said, her smile curling at the edges. “Very well, but let us sit; the journey was long and dead kings are as weighty as live ones.”

There was a small, uncovered table for meals, along with two chairs. Sisuyoque took the seat facing the rest of the room, and gestured to the other with an amused look on her face. Feeling ill at ease at the handmaiden’s strange combination of assertiveness and joviality, uncertain whether to defer or play along, Nehreim did as he was bid.

Sisuyoque, apparently working from memory, began going through the list of things the Adoratrice wanted, while Nehreim checked their availability on his portable cartouche. Most of the items were fairly typical, things missing from the quarters because the Amenthes’ crew would simply fetch it from storage themselves, and so the slaves who prepared the quarters didn’t think to include them.

After a few minutes, Sisuyoque sighed, removed her wig and passed the back of her hand over her forehead. “Sorry, I’m just feeling worn out. Do you have hot water here?”

“Plenty,” Nehreim said. Water flowed through the outer walls of the starbarge’s hull, acting as extra insulation. Whenever the Amenthes dared risk itself out of the shade of Thoth, ostensibly to better help the dead kings to commune with Amun-Ra thanks to the direct proximity to the burning star, the water there captured some of the great heat that beat onto the starbarge, and remained so even after the Amenthes had retreated back into the shadow of the little grey planet thanks to pressurization.

“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll avail myself of some,” she said, rising from the table.

“Very well,” Nehreim said, making a last few adjustments to his cartouche, rising from his chair, “I’ll get started on these and we can finish up whenever you’re—”

“Oh, no, sit, I don’t want to turn you out,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder as she passed and gently pushing down. “There’s no point in making you come back later for what little we still have to go over. Really, I’m just impatient; it’s one of my vices.”

“Alright,” Nehreim said, warily. What was she going to do? And was this flirtation, or were years of solitude making him read into intentions where none existed?

Sisuyoque had resumed speaking, and Nehreim, without really thinking about it, started to turn in his chair to address her in turn—when he saw that she had deposited the wig on the counter of the small, functional bathroom and was in the process of divesting herself of the rest of her garb. He quickly turned back around, disbelieving. She had to be doing it on purpose now. Even if she didn’t know that there were no women aboard Amenthes, he couldn’t fathom what else to call this except a deliberate tease—or an invitation. He had, of course, heard all the stories about women who joined fertility cults, but had never really believed in such tall tales, dismissing them as schoolboy fantasies. His current situation made him half-wondered if he hadn’t fallen asleep watching hierosgamos projections—it might explain how he suddenly found himself in this business of court conspiracies and assassinated Pharaohs.

“Nehreim?”

His name, spoken in a slightly worried tone, startled him out of his feverish musings. He was embarrassed to realize that she had been talking, and had asked a question, but the words had completely flown over him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, waving his cartouche, “I was distracted. There looked to be a procurement problem for a moment there, but … ah … I fixed it now. No problem.”

“I’m sure,” she answered in an impish tone that said she didn’t buy it for a minute.

She repeated her latest query, and Nehreim answered her in as equal a tone as he could muster, and so it went. If she wasn’t going to comment on the awkwardness of their situation, neither would he. He stiffened when he heard the water running, her voiced raised above the sound but no less beguiling, but still he feigned indifference, the efficient servant. Gradually, the list of the Adoratrice’s ‘needs’ became ever more frivolous, and Nehreim was incapable of providing anything but a standard response that the Amenthes didn’t carry flamingo feathers or Hidush incense; the paranoid part of him suspected these requests of merely being delaying tactics. Finally, Sisuyoque came to the end of her list—or could think of no more; without ever looking in her direction, Nehreim rose, bowed towards the empty wall, and walked out in a manner he hoped didn’t seem rushed.

Only when he was out in the corridor, the door automatically sealed behind him, did he stagger to the nearest bulkhead, bent until his head was resting on the bulkhead, and exhaled heavily.

“Fool.”

He found Daenesis in the High Priest’s personal office, two tall cartouches rising to other side of his desk, hieroglyphics unfurling rapidly. Nehreim recognized the symbols, of course, but their juxtaposition was meaningless; presumably this was some proprietary language for priests, or the Anubean Order more specifically.

“The Divine Adoratrice has been set up in her quarters?” he asked when Nehreim walked in.

“She has. We should also be able to see to her less eccentric requests.”

“Good. That’s good,” he said, sounding distracted. He frowned, paused the cartouches, and turned to face Nehreim, his expression set. “I have … concerns. Normally, I would confide in my own priests, seek the counsel of others of my order. But the Adoratrice’s instructions were clear, and I do not wish to go against the wishes of the Beloved of the Gods—nor, through her, the Elected Son and our next Great Pharoah. At least, not yet. So you will have to do.”

“Eminence?”

“This matter disturbs me, Nehreim—and not just for the obvious reason that someone has apparently killed a living god, which is upsetting enough. I have verified on our long-wave transmissions from Geb that all which is available publicly confirms what we have been told: the planet’s media do indeed report that the Great Pharaoh is on a spiritual retreat in the Hikush Himals. And vague solicitations for royal gossip from some of my Anubean counterparts back on Geb have confirmed a great deal of activity in the courts of the Great Pharaoh, Elected Son and Divine Adoratrice. And yet …”

He shook his head.

“The Elected Son is no minor office; he should have his own security forces to sweep through whatever corruption might have infected the court of the Great Pharaoh—and he would have the outrage of the global populace at his summons. Turning to the office of the Divine Adoratrice, particularly … this is not public knowledge, but ever since the rise of fertilism and the diversification of the post’s devotions, there has been some rivalry—minor, I stress—between the two courts. Our current Beloved of the Gods has been particularly critical of the late Great Pharaoh’s encouragement of desertification. They are not natural allies.”

“Eminence? As I understand it, it was the Elected Son who brought her into his deceit. Perhaps their offices are on better terms.”

Daenesis seemed to mull into over. “Yes … I seem to recall gossip to the effect that the Elected Son was friendlier with the Adoratrice than his parent. You may well be right, and my worries unfounded. But I did not become High Priest by ignoring my feelings, and I can’t help but feel that something is amiss. Since you will be seeing to the needs of our visitors, I would like you pay attention to what they do and say, and report back to me if you find anything … atypical.”

“You want me to spy on the Divine Adoratrice?” Nehreim said, startled.

“No! Certainly not,” Daenesis said quickly. “Simply to be observant to their needs … and to keep me informed. That is all.”

In other words: yes, Nehreim thought glumly. He didn’t like this at all—waiting on nobility brought about the potential for offence already; taking sides in a royal or religious dispute was sure to do so. But he didn’t see that he had any choice in the matter.

“Yes, eminence,” he merely said, and left the High King’s office with an ever increasing sense of weight upon his shoulders.

It had taken some doing to arrange for the Adoratrice’s session with the dead kings. The Amenthes was a segmented starbarge—the forward compartment held piloting, the shipboard genii, quarters for everybody except the slaves, and victual storage; the subsequent compartments were largely dedicated to the sepulchral chambers of the Amenthes’ permanent residents. Nehreim had come up with a scenario wherein a catastrophic hull breach between compartments would force all personnel onto that forward compartment, then announced that they would be conducting a test of such a scenario. There was no small amount of grumbling for all classes of servants aboard the Amenthes at the disruption this would cause, including a number of pointed comments directed at Nehreim about his perceived new status as the High Priest’s ‘favourite’—as if he had ever wanted any of this.

So while all but seven of the Amenthes’ living residents waited, cramped and bored, at one extremity of the starbarge, the Divine Adoratrice was taking a leisurely stroll along the avenues of the dead. They wouldn’t be doing the whole vessel, of course—the Amenthes held the sarcophagi of pharaohs going back as far as had been possible to recover when the project was first initiated, including kings from Sacred Kemet’s earliest dynasties. Each sarcophagus stood in its own alcove, flanked on either side by a ka statue in the likeness of the deceased ruler to one side and the status of a guardian deity on the other, both several times larger than a man. Above the sarcophagi were golden plaques that stretched to the cavernous ceiling, whose hieroglyphs detailed the slumbering gods’ names, titles, breadth of rule temporal and geographic, and great achievements. Even after three years aboard the Amenthes, it was hard not to be awed by the scale and history of the floating mausoleum—and, if one was pious, at the greatest gathering of deities ever, a pantheon millennia in the making.

They walked in waves: the High Priest and the Divine Adoratrice at the front, speaking in hushed tones; the sepulchre caused their voices to echo but didn’t make the words intelligible. In the second rank, he and the Adoratrice’s attendants walked a respectful distance away, hands clasped before them deferentially, not speaking. Sisuyoque, he noticed, was separated from him by two other attendants. He kept glancing in her direction, despite himself; and every time her eyes glanced his way and caught him doing so, her stoic expression would let slip a smile.

He had not spoken to her since that first night in her quarters, too busy first with procurement then with arranging the cover of the ‘drill’. She had visited his thoughts all too often, however, as he replayed the events of their meeting and speculated how it might have ended differently. Fear that a tryst would upset either the High Priest or the Adoratrice seemed like a hopelessly minute concern in the lonely watches of the night, and he would flagellate himself for not seizing the opportunity. Yet nor was he fully able to abandon the practical realities of their positions, to say nothing of the High Priest’s suspicions.

“Lost in worship?”

It took all his composure not to jump at Sisuyoque’s voice in his ear. Turning his head, he saw that she was now walking alongside him. Past her, the other attendants walked on, unmindful, the distance between them essentially unchanged other than the fact that they had reordered themselves such that the Inti woman was now next to him. Was it a conspiracy?

“Yes,” he lied, probably in vain.

“Mm. Might I ask you some questions?”

“Regarding …?”

“This, of course. The sepulchres. While I’ve always known this starbarge was out here, I can’t say I ever gave it any thought—and when the Beloved told us we would tasked with bringing the Great Pharaoh here, there was too much to do to read up on it.”

“What do you want to know?”

“To begin with, why be out here at all? Why not a mausoleum back on Geb, in Sacred Kemet, where people could visit?”

“There are a number of reasons, but first and foremost is proximity to Amun-Ra. Once starbarge technology became more common, more predictable, it was thought that bringing the dead closer to Amun-Ra would be of benefit to the communion between the kings and their divine parent; that they would serve as a chorus of voices to defend humanity’s interests to the greatest of the gods.”

“Yet the starbarge hides in shadow.”

“The heat put out by the star is massive; it feels hot enough on Geb, does it not, to dry up seas and turn grasslands into desert? I magine how much hotter it is at this proximity—the face of Thoth which always faces Amun-Ra is permanently burnt. To leave the safety of Thoth’s shadow for more than a few hours at a time would risk elevating the temperature within the starbarge would turn the Amenthes into an oven that would cook us alive.”

“But you do venture out at times, do you not?”

“From time to time, and for short periods of time, we fly straight into Amun-Ra’s light. The first Vizier of the Dead began the practice as a compromise when it was discovered the starbarge could not sustain in the heat; this way, the pharaohs still have occasional, direct contact with Amun-Ra, to facilitate their advocacy on our behalf, to make it easier for the Lord of All to answer back.”

“And has he?” Sisuyoque asked in an arch tone.

“Of course not,” Nehreim said. “Everybody knows about the silence question.”

Sisuyoque made a cynical sound. “The silence question,” she echoed contemptuously.

“You sound … disbelieving,” Nehreim looked at her, frowning. The silence question was the great philosophical debate of recent generations. Ever since the world had emerged from the Great Interstitial Period, the chaos of that time replaced by the strength and unity of the global Overkingdom of the Great Pharaoh, attempts to consult with Amun-Ra and many of the other gods had been unsuccessful; the Overkingdom was clearly their will, or they would not have granted Sacred Kemet victory, so why did Amun-Ra no longer speak to the kings and priests as He had their forebears? Some had argued in was because of the technological and industrial advances made during the centuries-long period of warfare, that the gods would only speak once the people returned to the ancient methods of divination, but that made no sense. Why would the Lord of All speak through a bird’s innards but not a ren projector?

“Disbelieving, yes,” Sisuyoque said, “that so much emphasis would be placed on the silence of one deity. My gods speak to me, Nehreim—Shu whispers on the wind, Satis babbles in the water, Geb groans in the earth … nature is alive with its own language, and we have only to learn the humility to listen to the small sounds. Instead, we build great barges and launch ourselves across the lifeless emptiness of space, then are surprised when a chorus of the dead in a barren place provides no answer.”

“But you cannot deny that Amun-Ra has been silent.”

“No, but I can recognize when a god has made up his mind to keep his own counsel, and the futility of mere mortals in attempting to change it. You disagree? Do you think Amun-Ra will speak if this vessel only stays here long enough?”

Nehreim shook his head. “Religion is not my area. I leave such subjects to those trained in these matters.”

“Very well then, allow me to ask a question more suited to your experience …” She leaned over closer, practically whispering in his ear. “Why did you run away from me?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Nehreim said flatly.

“I’ll just have to guess for myself then. Are you a eunuch?”

“What?” Nehreim said, louder than he would have cared to. “No,” he said, dropping to a harsh whisper. “I am no eunuch.” Nehreim sighed. “Why are you so insistent?”

“It seemed to me that we had made a connection—I saw how you looked at me. Yet when I pursue, you flee. Does intimacy frighten you?”

“I am not frightened, I am … concerned. This hardly seems the time to be engaging in frivolous liaisons, and I have no desire to offend your patron or mine should we be discovered.”

Sisuyoque laughed lightly. “The Beloved is a fertilist, as am I. We do not take offence at sexuality or dismiss it as frivolous—we celebrate it as the creative act from which all else springs. Do you know the etymology of the word hierosgamos? It has the pejorative of superficiality now, but in the original Heliopean it referred to a sacred union between gods. We see the sacred in every such union, a moment that touches the universal and divine principle of genesis.”

“That’s … an interesting view,” Nehreim said, genuinely. It was a standpoint that held no little appeal, and not only for the obvious physical aspect. Until now, he hadn’t realized how much he had grown weary of the company of death, of the pervasive silence of these empty regions and empty gestures.

“As for your patron, I can’t speak to his wishes. I wonder, though, whether you are a free man or his slave, that he should command your life such.”

“I am a free man,” Nehreim said.

“Then prove it,” she whispered forcefully. “When this tour is complete, when we have retired to our quarters and this starbarge takes on the quiet of the tomb, come to my quarters and prove that you are still one of the living.”

Nehreim recognized the dare for what it was, but the challenge in her voice didn’t make his intrinsic freedoms any less real, nor his desire any less ardent.

“I’ll be there,” he promised.

Due to the removed and somewhat ascetic nature of the retreat, the Amenthes’ living arrangements were sparse. The beds were hard slabs, and the pillows little better; none of which bothered Nehreim at the moment. After a three year fast, he had gorged himself as if at a banquet, and Sisuyoque had readily provided, then reciprocated with an enthusiasm of her own. He felt like a man who had been plunged into a sensory deprivation chamber for so long that he had forgotten that there was more beyond the pale grey walls of the starbarge, and was only new emerging from the long, deathly sleep to a world of sense and motion. Even the stillness of their bodies lying side by side of the industrial slab seemed uncommonly vibrant, as though the air about them was still suffused with the expended energy.

Nehreim was uncertainly how long afterwards Sisuyoque swung her legs around to her side and slipped out, saying: “You might want to get dressed.”

“Why?” Nehreim asked in a teasing tone. “Am I being kicked out?”

“Not at all,” she answered in the same tenor, “But the Divine Adoratrice is coming over, and I know you can be a bit shy.”

“Oh, I see,” Nehreim said, smiling at this new tease. “Maybe she’ll join in next time.”

Sisoyoque smiled brilliantly at him, pulling her shenti about her waist. “It’s great that you’re finally opening up, but I’m not kidding.”

Nehreim looked at her: she was amused (when was she not?), but she was also sincere. Nehreim felt his heart flip and began looking about for his shenti.

“Why?” he asked as he fumbled. “Some kind of fertilist post-coital ritual?”

“Ah, those fertility cult stereotypes,” Sisoyoque laughed, wrapping her robe about her shoulder. “No, she just wants to talk to you.”

“We couldn’t … have arranged a meeting at … a more convenient time?” Nehreim asked as he quickly slipped on his clothes.

“I’m afraid time is of the essence,” Sisuyoque said, sounding more solemn than he had ever heard her. “Every passing day brings the risk of discovery.”

“Discovery of what?” Nehreim asked, alarmed by her tone, but there was no time for her to answer: a soft knocking came from the door: two taps, a pause, and two more taps.

“Come in, please,” Sisuyoque called out.

The door opened, and the Divine Adoratrice walked in, ducking her head to avoid striking her headdress against the low doorway, and looked about quickly. Though dressed, Nehreim couldn’t help but feel some degree of embarrassment; everything here, from the dishevelled blanket, to the sheen of sweat on his skin, to the lingering scent of their exertions, communicated in no uncertain terms what they had just been doing, and some part of him flinched expecting wrath and punishment. The Adoratrice, however—true to Sisuyoque’s earlier claims—seemed utterly unperturbed. She waved over to the small table, and said: “Whenever you are ready, Nehreim.”

She took the seat facing the rest of the apartment, and her other attendants, who had slipped in behind her, took up positions on the wall behind her, their body language relaxed but their faces neutral and saying nothing.

Hoping he was at least halfway presentable, Nehreim took the seat opposite her. After a moment he felt Sisuyoque standing to his side, and she put a hand on his shoulder. Nehreim wasn’t certain if he ought to feel comforted or ambushed.

“Nehreim, I come here not to command, but to explain; not to order, but to ask for your help,” the Beloved of the Gods began, startling him with the humility of her tone, going as far as dropping the plural when referring to herself. “If the High Priest says true, and I believe he still does for the moment, then you and he are the only ones who know of our presence here, and where the High Priest's allegiances are as clear, and inflexible, as crystal, it is to you I turn in search of an ally.”

“An ally … for what, Beloved?”

“Some of what you have been told about our presence here is true … and some is not. We are indeed here at the request of the Elected Son, and the Great Pharoah was indeed poisoned … but the identity of the murderer is not unknown to us: it was the Elected Son himself, acting with our knowledge and approval.”

Nehreim felt a sudden surge of panic, that he was once more in over his head and wanted to flee—but there was no hiding from something learnt.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked, his voice higher than he would have cared.

“I want you to have all the facts when you make your decision.”

“Decision?”

“To support us … or go against us.”

Nehreim felt his throat was very dry; he swallowed, but that didn’t help.

“I assure you it wasn’t a decision we made lightly,” the Beloved went on, “But all parties concerned felt it had to be done. The Great Pharaoh’s support for desertification, His refusal to see beyond His solar and mortuary cults, was hurting our world and our people, and leading us all into ruin.”

“Desertification?” Nehreim was confused. “It’s the will of Amun-Ra …”

“How would we know? Everybody agrees Amun-Ra hasn’t spoken to us in centuries now; we’ve merely assumed desertification was good because it made the rest of our planet gradually resemble Sacred Kemet. But Sacred Kemet has H’pi to water it during the flood season, something the rest of the world lacks. Even the other flood kingdoms, like Hidush and Chin, have been wracked by food riots as there simply aren’t enough crops to feed their populations; every year brings global droughts that are bleeding our people dry. There’s no denying the planet has gotten warmer, but our best scribal scientists agree that we, not the gods, are to blame: industry has thrown the world’s equilibrium out of joint, and while we strained to hear far-away Amun-Ra, we’ve been deaf to the pleas of our nature gods to be good stewards of the planet.”

“Is … is this confirmed?”

“The office of the Great Pharaoh has been hiding much to support its policies. But we and the Elected Son paid heed to our scribal scientists, who concurred that there was no time to waste to reverse the disastrous hegemony of the sun. We could not wait for the Elected Son to become Great Pharaoh in his own turn; by then, millions more will have died as the world’s rivers dry up and the coasts are swallowed by thirsty oceans. So the Elected Son used his access to his parent to change the course of events … for all our sakes.

“With the Elected Son in control of the pharaonic apparatus, we will claim the Great Pharaoh has experienced an epiphany during His spiritual retreat, and begin to change His policies in consequence. The Elected Son will make a show of opposing the changes, to make the transition to a state policy of fertilism seem more gradual, but when we officially declare the Great Pharaoh dead, the Elected Son will embrace the path of creation fully, supposedly out of respect for his parent’s wishes.”

Nehreim’s head spun. This was a massive, historical shift, the kind that came only with the passing of dynasties, and he suddenly found himself a first-hand witness to it—for reasons he still didn’t grasp.

“What does any of this have to do with me?”

“The shift to fertilism entails some destruction of the remnants of the solar cult, to prevent them from become loci of resistance around which those who worship the emptiness of deserts and death could rally around. Amenthes is one such locus, and we need you to scuttle it for us. The starbarge and its residents must be lost to us, to make the break with the past cleaner.”

“You … want me … to destroy the barge?” Nehreim sputtered. He suddenly felt hyperaware of Sisuyoque’s hand on his shoulder and shook it off, turning towards her. “You … none of it was genuine, was it? It was all a seduction, to manipulate me into helping you.”

“Is there any reason it couldn’t be both?” Sisuyoque asked, frowning. “We made a connection—you felt it the moment we walked onto the barge. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I should feel a bond, already ready to blossom, with just the person who could help us: that’s how life works, by seeking out other life and making connections.”

“But you waited until after we … to tell me all this,” Nehreim waved at the Adoratrice and her attendants.

“I thought you needed to be initiated before you were ready to learn what was really happening.”

“I don’t know what you imagine, but you were certainly not my first,” Nehreim told her.

“Initiated to fertility. You’ve been out here, amidst the emptiness of space, in the company of the dead, segregated from the other half of the human soul … you had to be reminded what it was to be alive before you could be an agent of life again.” She stepped closer to him, caressing a cheek with her hand. He did nothing to stop her. “I told you, we think all sex taps into a sacred, generative principle, the hierosgamos. Believe that I would not profane the temple of creativity if my motives were purely pragmatic, manipulation empty of emotion. You acted to further life—will you do so again?”

He looked at Sisuyoque, at the appeal in her deep dark eyes, then over at the Beloved, who waited with seeming equanimity.

“What would you have me do?” he asked, and felt Sisuyoque wrap her arms around his waist and squeeze. The Adoratrice, for her part, satisfied herself with a small smile.

“The excuse you gave the rest of the crew to allow us to pay our farewells to the kings of old—the catastrophic hull breach. We think it’s an intriguing idea.”

“Will you not change your mind, eminence?” Nehreim asked.

The High Priest stood alone and defiant in the vaulted darkness of the first sepulchral compartment. Everybody else had been evacuated to the piloting compartment, this time believing that it was no test, that the Amenthes was truly on the verge of suffering a catastrophic hull breach—which, thanks the Nehreim’s rigging of the compartment’s couplings to detonate, was partially true. The hull wouldn’t be breached, but the Amenthes would soon be lost, exactly as the Divine Adoratrice had planned.

She stood next to Nehreim now, as did Sisuyoque and the other attendants, confronting Daenesis. They had lured the High Priest here with another story about the Adoratrice wanting to consult with the dead kings, and only then advised him of their plans. The Adoratrice had insisted on explaining everything to him, as she had Nehreim, but the High Priest’s face was frozen in a rictus of contempt, and, as she had suspected, there seemed little chance of convincing them to see matters as they did.

“And betray the gods, as you have?” Daenesis accused. “ Sacrifice my soul for the sake of the body? Never.”

“Think, vizier,” the Adoratrice said. “Why has Amun-Ra fallen silent, if not to signal his retreat from human affairs? Why, if not to indicate that his era is past, and it is the still-vocal gods of nature to whom our deference is now owed?”

“Heresy and sophistry,” he jeered. “Do you really think my faith so weak as to be swayed by pretty words and clumsy theology, as this one was?” he asked, gesturing towards Nehreim. Nehreim averted his gaze from the High Priest’s scorn—he still believed what he was doing was right, but that didn’t make confronting the immediacy of his betrayal any less painful. “If your purpose is to murder me as you did a living god, then do so already; but do not look to me to vindicate your sorry justifications—or for forgiveness. I shall die righteous.”

The Adoratrice stared at him in silence, and then said: “So be it then.” She bowed, extending her arms. “Hail and farewell, the Vizier of the Dead—let it be remembered that his devotion to Amun-Ra and his descendants was full and without doubt, and that he kept watch over those with whom he was charged the stewardship until the very last moment of their journey; yea, unto death itself.”

“And is that supposed to make me feel better—or you?” Daenesis scoffed.

The Beloved of the Gods said nothing, but waved at the others to move back, into the pressure chamber of the piloting compartment. They filed out silently; Nehreim, who alone knew how to seal the chamber and trigger the detonations, was the last one out, and before closing the door tossed one last look back at the High Priest, a mixture of supplication and apology. Daenesis merely sneered back, so Nehreim closed the door, sealing it with the hollow sound of a vacuum lock.

As the Beloved and her attendants watched, he went about the business of detonating the couplings. The compartment shook slightly as the front part of the Amenthes became detached from its segmented mausoleum sections behind, and they watched through the window as the dark mass of the starbarge drifted away, driven by the Amenthes’ momentum into the burning light of Amun-Ra. That had been the Adoratrice’s idea: instead of merely casting the floating tomb adrift amongst the stars, that the descendants of Amun-Ra should be reunited with their parent and the god to whom their kingships had been devoted. The party watched until Amun-Ra’s brilliance blotted out the shadow of the funeral barge, and then Nehreim turned away, heading towards the autoladder that would take him to the command balcony, where he could plot a course back to blue Geb.

“So ends the era of Amun-Ra, blessed as it was,” he heard the Beloved say. “The stars will no longer control our destiny; we shall forge our future in concordance with the wind, the river and the earth.”