The Mummy Job The news photos showed only a blurry smudge, bearing no resemblance to the descriptions praising the beauty and wealth of the ancient sarcophagus. It was retrieved from the only unlooted burial site of the long-perished kingdom of Laar. Perhaps there was "wealth" inside, but even the ubiquitous journalists, bloggers, and onlookers saw absolutely nothing—covered trucks had pulled up to the museum and unloaded grey, featureless containers. Just like day after day, all these years. This was how research materials were always delivered: human remains from a wrecked starship, samples from plague burial sites, marble from the underground labyrinth of Alilia, skulls and bones of the first humans... And the staff left, as always, right on time. They called out to one another, weary yet cheerful, discussing how they would spend the holidays, and most importantly, how they would drag themselves back to work afterward. The heavy doors closed, cutting off the scientific-magical research institute housed inside the historic building of the Tenassa Museum. The curious crowds dispersed without finding out a single thing. Did the Laarian sarcophagus even exist, or was it just a hoax cooked up by sensation-hungry journalists? On the table, looking much like the newly delivered sarcophagus, sat a container of salad. Beside it, a freshly reheated roast steamed, and a golden broth simmered in a mug. Roman, nicknamed "Donut," was gearing up for a five-day shift. And why not work the holidays? The pay was double, his mother had gone to visit a friend, and he had never managed to get a girlfriend—he loved eating too much and despised leaving the house. Donut nudged the broth a bit closer to himself and pushed the salad further away, deciding that perfect harmony had been achieved. "Once I eat," he said aloud, "I'll go on my rounds. Maybe I can catch a glimpse of the sarcophagus with one eye!" The sarcophagus, along with everything found in the ancient king's tomb, had been brought to the research center—a place where a museum security guard, naturally, was strictly forbidden to enter. His job was to chase crowds away and make sure no one smoked near the exhibits. Even so, Roma sincerely hoped that he could either peek from afar while the staff went in and out, or spy through some crack. The research itself, much like the history of the burial site, didn’t interest Donut at all. A golden coffin for a mummy? Well, the guy must have earned it. Died young? That happens to the best of us. Was he a terrible villain? Now, that was doubtful—villains aren't wrapped in gold and surrounded by jewels so bright they hurt your eyes... Of course, he hadn't seen it himself—who would let him inside?—but he had watched the news and listened to the chatter of the departing staff. By all accounts, they had found something sensational, but heaven forbid anyone found out... The fact that the remains of two dozen people and six bulls had been discovered in the tomb didn't particularly move the brave guard either—barbaric times, savage people, what did you expect?! He had read about their cuisine! Bread with reeds, semi-liquid cheese, and porridge made from grains so coarse that half the skulls had their teeth worn down to the roots! They didn't know how to live with style, nor how to die! The guard checked his watch and pulled the cheese sandwiches closer. It was dinner time, to be followed by his rounds. This was the part he loved—walking through completely empty halls, feeling like a ruler, or perhaps a great mage holding untold treasures. And where the exhibits didn't exactly look like treasure, he could always use his imagination. While the guard indulged in gluttony and the sarcophagus sat peacefully in the research center under the protection of a massive alarm system, waiting for the holidays to end, a man woke up inside an unassuming van parked across from the museum. He stretched, drank a cup of coffee from a thermos... and slid back a wall panel, revealing a highly complex artifact hidden behind it. He set to work tuning it, turning dials and symbols until one of the embedded black stones glowed blue, a second one turned red... and soon, all twelve stones found their colors. The steady radiance of each stone blended into a single symphony of color, and a quiet melody vibrated through the machine. After listening and admiring his handiwork, the man picked up his network pad and sent a message. Then he reached for his thermos again. His job was done; if anything went wrong, the artifact would warn him with a dead stone or a change in pitch. He did not see, nor did he care to, as four figures landed on the museum roof like massive birds, folded their dark grey wingsuits, and entered the attic through a door left unlocked by their inside accomplice... The research center building, nestled within the museum, was protected against everything—magic and physical force alike. But there is no force capable of protecting against betrayal. And there is no force capable of stopping a very ancient creature, starved for fresh blood... The first burglar broke into the hall and nearly whistled in admiration. Each of the stone panels recovered from the tomb had already been mounted on a display stand. The scientists had completely recreated the tomb's interior. The gold plates gleamed like new in the dim light of the security artifacts, staggering the criminals' imaginations with their delicate craftsmanship and precious engravings. One of the burglars reached out his hand, but the second stopped him with a gesture. "Don't touch that, it's cheap trash." "It's gold!" the interested one protested. "We'll be eating and sleeping on gold if we strip the entire mosaic off this coffin," the second pointed to the golden sarcophagus, adorned not just with enamel but with precious and semi-precious stones. "And the jewelry off the corpse. They pay extra for each piece." The burglars skillfully slid the lid back and peered inside. The shriveled corpse lay like a broken mannequin meant for displaying jewelry: a headpiece made of gold, enamel, and gems. A pectoral on the chest, bracelets, and rings—everything was solid gold. "Incredible," the leader muttered. "Must have been a highly respected man. Even their high priests and kings didn't mind wearing silver, but here... Lapis lazuli, carnelian—definitely someone from the upper echelon. Look at that falcon! The feathers are made of gems, pure beauty. And the bracelets have the same birds. They must weigh a pound each, hundreds of thousands in gold alone. Can you imagine how much they'll pay us for these as artifacts?" Beneath the men's feet, blending with the twilight of the vault, a mist began to drift. It spread across the floor, flickering and winding into cords. The burglars didn't notice it, completely engrossed in examining a head hoop featuring a serpent, a jade cat ring, and a wide belt. Suddenly, the leader frowned. "What in the..." He pointed to the corpse's withered hands folded over its chest—on one of the crooked fingers, there was a distinct mark from a ring, but the ring itself was missing. "Did someone pinch it?" the third burglar, who had been silent until now, suggested. "If you touch him, he'll crumble. But the ring is gone, and judging by the mark, it went missing recently. Close it up!" The leader turned away from his crew, pulling out his network pad. "I need to report to the boss." At that exact second, the dark mist flooding the vault floor surged up the men's legs. It suddenly whipped upward, enveloping them and choking out the screams that never managed to escape their lips. When the mist cleared, nothing remained on the floor but four piles of ash and a sarcophagus lid that had been shifted back by two hand-spans. Withered, darkened hands in tatters of skin clawed at the golden barrier, pushing it aside. If the monster inside could have screamed, he would have howled in agony—touching the enchanted metal burned as if he were still alive. But alas, his dried-up throat couldn't utter a sound. He broke out in absolute silence, searching for living energy and water. He needed to restore and nourish a body nearly obliterated by time, to return himself to a life lost long ago. Finally, his efforts were rewarded—the lid shifted enough for the occupant of the sarcophagus to squeeze through the gap. Now he stood, swaying, in the middle of the hall. Just a few steps to break free from the control of the wall slabs—already weakened, but still oppressive. He took an awkward step, fell, and began to crawl away. He moved toward the blinking diodes of the instruments and the glinting research artifacts. Toward energy and freedom. He dropped and shed the very jewelry that had kept him imprisoned for all these centuries! The presence of a human troubled him slightly, but the man was far away, beyond the walls. He could be dealt with later... Roman adored broth. Specifically this kind—golden, with clear droplets of fat floating on the surface, hot and fragrant. He didn't even immediately notice the shuffling footsteps echoing from the depths of the museum, and more importantly, drawing closer to him. By the time he realized it, it was too late—a monster stood in the doorway of the guardroom. It was a shriveled corpse in the remnants of some rags, and rather untidy bits were flaking off it onto the floor... The monster's eyes showed white beneath half-closed lids, and its taut skin kept its mouth fixed in a semi-open position, revealing teeth unusually sharp for a human. "Holy crap, a mummy..." Donut realized, knowing that no matter how slow the guest was, he couldn't run away. Running wasn't his thing, especially not on slippery museum floors. His hand reached for his network pad to call his boss and ask what to do in this scenario. Crimson flared in the visitor's eye sockets, and the screen went completely dead. Donut furiously tapped it—no response—and lost his temper. "What did you do that for, you jerk?! My mom bought me that pad! Are you completely insane?! What am I supposed to tell her now, huh? If you want to eat, the whole table is full! If you need to use the john, the bathroom is right behind that wall! But you've got to draw the line somewhere!" he shouted, actively waving his arms, entirely forgetting his fear for a moment. The monster listened intently, even tilting its head slightly, spilling a few more fragments onto the floor. "Aha, so you do understand something!" Donut grabbed the withered arm and dragged the guest closer to the table. The monster didn't resist; it weighed very little, just as a proper mummy should. "Right, see this? This is a table—you eat from it. No standing on it, no throwing food around..." For a second, he got distracted, plugging his network pad into a charger. He saw a crystal flash on the screen with relief—the device had simply run out of battery. From behind him, a rustling sound came from the table. Donut spun around, only managing to let out a terrified gasp, realizing the beast couldn't be stopped anymore, it was too late... The phone call woke the head of security from his bed, interrupting a vivid dream where he had finally fixed his motorcycle. "Rom, what do you want?" "Sasha, something happened... Basically, a mummy came to life here..." the guard began, suddenly rushing to get the thought out before his boss started swearing. "I took care of everything. Led him to the shower, got a bathrobe ready, shared my broth! He's coming over right now to drink it. Don't worry, I prepped a spare blanket for him... Only, what do I do next? I don't know the language, and he doesn't talk anyway, just rustles something... Do we have a mummy-to-Russian translator?" "I'm on my way!" The boss bolted out of bed, fumbling for his slippers with bare feet. He couldn't find them, gave up on the hopeless task, and grabbed his pants, rushing to get dressed and run to the museum. Donut had never been caught using illegal substances, but you never knew. Maybe his buddies were playing a prank, or burglars had deployed some kind of gas—there had been precedents. And the kid was on duty alone tonight! Fortunately, the taxi arrived quickly enough, and just as quickly delivered Alexander to the museum. Donut met his boss with a slightly bewildered smile and a table piled high with food, where Alexander noticed two cups of tea. A crumpled blanket lay on the sofa. "Alright, where is your mummy?" he asked, trying to spot any signs of intoxication on his subordinate's face. "In the shower. The first time, I led him by the hand! The jerk poured my broth right over his head! Well, I told him exactly what I thought of him. Took him to wash up, and he got stuck there for half an hour. Now he's back in there! I poured him some tea, but I guess he shouldn't eat regular food?" Uneven splashing water indeed echoed from the shower cabin, proving someone was inside. "Well, let's go take a look." Given his subordinate's absolute sobriety, a prank remained the most obvious theory. The mummy was real. A dark, withered corpse stood under the streams, its head thrown back, exposing its face to the water. It turned around on its own when Alexander opened the shower door. "Either a masterpiece of robotics, or..." "No," a foreign thought brushed against his brain. "I am not what you just said." "Then who are you?" the head of security clarified in astonishment. Shooting the guest was stupid; he wasn't attacking. In fact, the mummy was behaving remarkably calmly for a living corpse. It was supposed to be clawing for living blood right now, not taking a shower. "You are right. I am required to kill. But I do not wish to," the corpse continued the telepathic conversation. The head of security felt a brief wave of dizziness that passed instantly. "I am Cass. I need help." Alexander nodded. Of course he would help. And maybe later, when the situation resolved itself, he would become famous. Far more famous than all those scientists who had missed their chance. The mummy's glistening arm touched the faucet, the stream from above stopped, and the head of security realized that despite the water treatment, the mummy was already completely dry. "So, no towel needed?" he asked, feeling incredibly foolish. "Nothing is needed," Cass replied with a thought. "I have not yet regenerated. I require a large amount of water or blood. But I presume you would prefer I do not kill you?" "No, absolutely not," Alexander shook his head rapidly, his hand automatically dropping to his time-tested pistol. "But as I understand it, killing isn't mandatory for you." "No. Water and energy are required. For now, water is preferable. I did not wish to terrify the human. But I could not wait. The temptation to kill... no." Cass tried to speak to the man clearly, using short phrases, distracting him from the main thing—the almost forgotten but once second-nature influence over another's mind. To calm, to subjugate, to make him his servant. Once, it failed, he reminded himself. But these people were not his enemies; they didn't know whom they were dealing with. They weren't obstructing him or his goal. He wanted to live. And they would help him, regardless of their actual desires. "Why did Donut complain that you wouldn't talk to him?" Alexander suddenly remembered. "Forbidden. The barrier is weak. It could kill," the mummy replied. "A humanitarian, for Christ's sake..." Alexander knew perfectly well that if the monster had wanted to, he would have arrived to find the corpse of poor Roma. Those fangs were definitely not meant for chewing grass. Still, the creature moved very slowly and unsteadily, so he took a bathrobe off the hanger and draped it over Cass's shoulders. "I did not wish to kill," Cass agreed with his thoughts. "He is kind. Defenseless. He wants to feed me." "Can you eat?" "Only blood for now. Later, I will be able to." Alexander pondered. The mummy—or Cass, as he called himself—really wasn't doing anything bad. So why not accommodate him? If only on the terms of a hospitable host. "Is it critical for you to actually kill? Or can we manage out of a glass? And how... healthy does it need to be? Because we have some drunks hanging out behind the building; I bet they'd share for some cash." "Living blood. Death—I can forgo." Cass suppressed another urge to tear his companion's throat out. Not here, not now. His goal was to survive in this new, unfamiliar world, to learn about it, not to perish completely. The new servant was trying hard, looking for options—good, he should be encouraged. It mattered not that his word once moved armies and mountains; here, he was merely a guest. Naked as a newborn babe, and just as helpless. All that was available to him now was death and suggestion. Suggestion was better; death, judging by what he had managed to see, attracted far too much attention. He would be quiet and submissive, taking his place at the feet of humans, only to rise later! May the black-winged Strix protect you, King Cassimetros of Laar! The mummy sat on the sofa, trying to heal his eyes even a fraction. Alas, the blindness would not lift. And it wouldn't, not until the body fully regenerated! Fortunately, he wasn't deprived of magical vision, nor of thermal sight—though right now, he desperately wished to turn the latter off. People in white coats bustled around—full of warm blood, so alluring and attractive. Three whole people. Plus the security guards. Except he had managed to read their thoughts a little and bitterly realize—he couldn't overpower them. Their conventional weapon, carried on the hip like a sword by his new servant, could destroy him in a matter of seconds. From a massive distance. And the man was not yet sufficiently subjugated, meaning he would use it at the slightest suspicion. "Cass!" one of the people nearby called out to him. "What were you... in life?" "I do not remember," he replied, out of habit now. They didn't need to know. And what could be more natural than forgetting everything that happened before death during a multi-century slumber? People walked around, consulting... He listened and memorized. He grew increasingly horrified—without information, it was impossible to survive in this new world. Survive? He didn't even understand what spells made the water pour over him, or why this miraculous power was controlled not by a great mage or a mechanicus, but by a good-for-nothing fat man! "Cass, maybe some more water?" Here came Roman. With yet another glass. Cass raised his hand and carefully—his fingers still wouldn't obey properly—took the glass to the ecstatic gasps of the people in white. He even managed to hold onto it, unlike the previous two. His parched insides accepted the liquid, absorbing it instantly. Blood would have been better; alas, it replenished energy but did not regenerate flesh. So sit there and find harmony, King Cassimetros of Laar. "Cass, what does this drawing mean?" A woman sitting next to him thought as hard as she could about a bird attacking from above. "His name is Strix. A god. A hunter, a warrior. A falcon." "Thank you, Cass. You must have been a priest. You remember the gods, but you forgot yourself." He felt her sympathy and care. A priest... you could put it that way. "I am tired. It is difficult." He decided to decline further conversation and, at the same time, test the boundaries of what was permitted. "Oh," she gasped. "Of course, let's go! We can't let you out into the city just yet, you understand, but we have very comfortable rest quarters here. You can occupy one of them." "How do I get there?" They supported him from both sides. They helped him straighten up and stay on his feet. He could have killed them. He chose not to. Let them take him to this room of theirs. Let them manage things—they knew the way, he didn't. "Look, Cass—here is a bed, a table, chairs, and an armchair. The light turns on like this," the woman touched the wall with his hand. "When you go to sleep, you turn it off. The bathroom with a shower is behind the wall, right here... It must feel unusual to you!" "I will grow accustomed." Cass looked around. In his magical vision, all objects appeared as shadows of themselves, but he still managed to orient himself. He suppressed a bitter laugh. A man who once lived in a vast palace was now sitting in a room fit only for a peasant! Was there a limit to how far one could fall? "Cass," the woman led him to the bed, helped him lie down, and covered his legs with a blanket. "Here is a button; press it to call us." "What is your name?" She had mentioned it, but it felt so long ago, three hours prior. He forgot everything, especially names foreign to his ears. "Alisa. Alisa Ving." The voice sounded very soft. "And beside me is Mark. He will help you too. We will take turns watching over you." He sent her a mental image: a small animal with pointed ears. The secondary form of his mistress and patroness. "What is this, Cass?" "Avelas. The one who grants life. Take it for yourself." "All valuables belong to the museum," she objected. And before he could concentrate on his next speech, she promised, "I can order a copy for myself and wear it. Will that satisfy you?" "Yes. Avelas for women, Strix for men. Otherwise, it is difficult for me." He sank back onto the pillow helplessly, cutting the conversation short. The humans walked far away, toward the sarcophagus, completely unaware that the resurrected corpse had already cast his net and heard every single word. "What do you think, Mark?" "I don't know. Maybe the guy is playing dumb, or maybe he really did forget his life after so many years! We'll question him gradually, piece things together! That's how we'll slowly find out what he's hiding. We need to gain his trust if he truly is a priest... We ought to make ourselves medallions with Strix and Avelas." "He pronounces it Strix." "He'll also help us decipher the script. Laar is too far from us, and the cultures are too different. Without him, it would be a thousand times harder." If Cass could have laughed, he would have. But his skin, taut from drying out, wouldn't allow for facial expressions yet. He had to lie there and slowly regenerate. Still, if there was one thing he had learned over these five thousand years, it was patience. Three months later. Max stared with distaste at the truck he had to unload. But a bar without hot wings wasn't a bar. That was exactly what The Old Nail was famous for. People ordered hot wings with their drinks, ordered them for delivery, and carried them away in branded bags. It didn't really matter what the customer ordered—beer or a "Three Little Pigs" cocktail—they would get the wings regardless. A shadow fell over the crates; someone had approached completely soundlessly. Max turned around. Just an ordinary guy, thin, wearing a standard security uniform that hung on him like a coat hanger, peering into the truck with interest. "Hey! The bar is still closed," Max said just in case. "But if you want... help me move the crates, and I'll pour you a beer." "I do not understand what you mean," the guy said with a slight accent. "But if needed, I can help with the crates." "Take the bread then, it's lighter," Max pointed to the sacks containing future garlic-and-salt croutons. "Not like I couldn't manage myself, it's just more fun with two people. And then we'll have a beer! You're new here, I take it? What's your name?" "More like very old..." the stranger muttered, examining the cargo. "Cass. You may call me that. Amusing, even... Step aside and open the door!" Shrugging his shoulders, Max opened the door and... almost closed it right back. The wings—freshly butchered from chickens and undoubtedly dead—soared into the air and headed toward him, right through the open door of the bar. "Where should I put them?" the guy asked. "Hold on!" Max quickly wedged a piece of brick under the wheel out of habit, grabbed the empty crates, and dashed inside. He set them on the table and yelled, "In here!" Under his watchful gaze, the wings swarmed into the crates, jostled around a bit, but all fit inside. Cass peered through the door and clarified: "May I enter?" "Yes, of course! You're always a welcome guest here! Can you do that with bread and sausage too?" The guest stepped hesitantly over the threshold and looked around. The moonlight glinted unpleasantly in his dark eyes. He reached out and touched a protective three-rune ward. "Amusing interior. What is this?" "To keep out evil spirits and the undead." "Indeed? Most peculiar... I cannot do it with bread and sausage. They are not dead flesh and do not obey me." "And they swore it was real meat... Fine, I'll grab it myself. Have a seat inside." Max returned with a bag of bread, tapped his best beer, and handed a full glass to the guest. He hit a button, spinning a disco ball under the ceiling. He noticed the guest staring at the reflections dancing across the floor and walls with almost childlike wonder. Obviously, such things were entirely new to him. "I'm Max, this is my bar. Well, my dad's, but he died recently, so now it's my bar. How's the beer?" "We brewed it differently." "Want some wings? I'll whip up a batch real quick." Cass looked at him with interest. "I will have one. I barely eat for now." "Sick then?" Under the stranger's curious gaze, Max quickly prepared the sauce and submerged all the wings, letting them sit and marinate. As soon as they were ready, he would treat the poor guy. Wonder where he was from? "Garlic croutons with salt? While the wings are cooking?" "That would be acceptable. Only... people are coming. Two of them. Aggressive." "That's bad. Look, Cass... There's a backroom over there; go lie low until this blows over!" "What do they want?" The guest didn't move an inch, watching the men who had just walked in. Large thugs carrying short clubs. "Money. What else do guys like that want!" Max grumbled, calculating how fast the police would arrive, if they arrived at all. He had pressed the panic button, but they could have blocked the signal. "Oh! Got a buddy with you, do we?" One of the thugs grabbed Cass by the collar and hurled him against the wall. "Sit there; your turn will come." "That is highly debatable," Cass spoke up, shaking his head. "Don't touch him," Max stepped out from behind the counter. "He just helped me unload." "This weakling? Don't make me laugh," the second thug stated. "Who is he? Your boyfriend? Your brother?" The bandits moved through the bar, flipping tables and chairs. The crunch of breaking furniture echoed through the room. A glass shattered with a delicate chime... "As Mistress Ving says, it matters not who a person is; it matters who backs them," Cass suddenly announced, rising to his feet. "I do not even intend to soil myself dealing with you!" The doorway was obscured by shadows once more, and four figures burst into the room—armed with far more than clubs. Pistol barrels pointed at the intruders. On their chests, right next to the museum emblem, gleamed the image of an attacking falcon. The clubs clattered to the floor. Max stared at his guest in astonishment, trying to figure out what kind of big shot had just helped him unload the truck. "Are you unhurt?" one of the guards approached Cass. "I believe I have a severe bruise," he complained. "Have Alisa look at it... I do not understand these matters well yet. Furthermore, they broke my beer." "Don't worry, we'll explain to them how to behave... around valuable exhibits." Cass waited until the whole crew filed out, winced slightly at the sound of the police siren, and requested: "May I have another beer? And I shall help you set the furniture upright." "Is it... made of dead flesh?" Max gasped, utterly flabbergasted. "Who the hell are you anyway?" "It is made of dead wood." Cass turned his hand palm up, made an inviting gesture, and the tables and chairs stirred, lifting into the air and arranging themselves throughout the hall on their own. "Who are you?" Max repeated mechanically, barely noticing his own hands filling the glass with beer. "Me? A museum employee." Cass sat down by a broken chair and ran his fingers over the cracked leg, fusing it back together. "I work as a mummy." Perhaps I am not destined to conquer the entire world, contrary to the prophecy, but a museum and a bar—that is a perfectly respectable conquest for an ancient necromancer, Cassimetros smiled. May the sharp-winged Strix protect me!