From the Source of our Soul

Amun’s fingers clawed on the sandy floor. The laborer’s bare feet scrambled against stone as he tried to haul himself over the edge of the pit. Below him the inky chasm shimmered as it slowly filled with boiling tar—the latest trap threatening to claim his life and leave him entombed in this place along with the rest of his cohort.

His fingers found a metallic node among the bricks. Amun gripped it tight, and with a grunt he hauled himself over the edge and rolled onto his back, panting. Beside him the metal node let out a brassy chime and the floor gave a soft shudder. Some distant machinery lurched to life, propelling a thick slab of sandstone inch by inch to close over the top of the tar pit.

The sound of a ritual cymbal crashed from hidden speakers somewhere above him.

“Greetings, contractor.” A deep, genderless voice filled the room. “Your progress is acknowledged.” Amun closed his eyes, still breathing hard from the climb. The automated message would only give him a moment of respite.

“Executive Pharaoh Mez-Utuf-Ankhuru commends your contribution to this edifice. In accordance with SunCorp company policy, please exit the complex via any available escape shaft. When you are retrieved by your shift Overseer, submit your worker identification coin for processing at the Indentured Payroll Department.”

Eyes still closed, Amun mechanically mouthed along with the words as they reverberated off the walls. He reached for the frayed lanyard around his neck, relieved to touch the tattered plastic sleeve that held a small copper coin etched with a hair-thin barcode—his only way to clock out.

Amun’s fingers traced the edge of the plastic. His chipped nail brushed the corner of a folded photograph, its tip protruding from just behind his ID coin. Slowly, Amun opened his eyes.

“Employees have eight minutes remaining to vacate the tomb complex. After that time, exits will be sealed and any employees remaining inside will be reassigned to the Afterlife shift.”

Not much time left, but there couldn't be more than one or two more rooms. Amun sat up. The tomb’s stale air clogged his lungs and sand clung to his sweaty skin. He flexed his fingers experimentally as he took stock of the room.

Holo-torches guttered rhythmically in braziers along the walls. To a casual eye they might have looked organic, but after years spent chiseling the tunnels below his feet Amun knew every pre-programmed flicker of the heatless flames. The scripted torches illuminated three walls of reliefs depicting men wielding long hooked implements. They stood around tables, studiously removing organs from linen-wrapped bodies lying on slabs.

“Great,” Amun muttered. He must be in the Canopic Research Division.

Against the last wall stood a wide limestone basin presided over by a massive statue, a looming ebon figure that stood easily ten feet tall. The Executive Pharaoh himself. The statue’s stone hands were cupped in front of his chest in a pose that wanted to suggest either regalness or humility, though Amun wasn’t sure which.

The sculptors had clearly been instructed to carve the Pharaoh with a powerful and administrative presence. To that end, the sculpture had been embellished with cords of thick muscle and a gaudily ornate wristwatch. But the same liberties could not be taken with the Pharaoh’s aged face without making him unrecognizable. The result was an unsettlingly muscular body topped by a jowled, balding head. In the automated torchlight, Amun could be forgiven for thinking of the likeness as a caricature.

Behind the statue Amun could see a passageway extending towards a blank stone wall, but he knew better than to explore recklessly. Cautiously, Amun approached the sturdy basin that stood before the statue. His eye caught the glint of synthetic torchlight playing over something metallic on the lid of the stone plinth. He leaned in to find an etched brass plaque.

“Here at SunCorp we keep our work close to the chest. Excellence, intention, willpower—these are our passions, from the Source of our Soul, to the Palm of our Hand.” -E.P. Mez-Utuf-Ankhuru (Born 4903 AD; Immortal, Omniscient)

Of course the jerks in Canopic Research would design their section to suck up to the boss. From the looks of it, this was a riddle too. He ran his calloused hands over his face, trying to wipe at the caked layers of sand and grime but only succeeding in stinging his eyes with sweat. He didn’t have time for this.

“Employees have six minutes remaining to vacate the tomb complex.” The automated message chimed overhead, stirring the dusty air.

Amun sighed. “Alright then.” He gripped the edge of the stone lid and pulled, throwing his weight against the immense slab until he felt it budge. Amun shifted the thick limestone lid onto the floor, levering it down slowly and carefully until it rested against the basin. His family would be billed if he damaged company property.

Inside the basin sat a tangled pile of thin chains connected to a number of small pewter shapes. Amun grasped one of the chains and pulled it free, raising it up to eye level. Dangling from the chain appeared to be a misshapen lump creased with small rivulets. Perhaps a withered bean? No. Amun squinted in the gloom. It looked more like a liver. With a lurch he realized that each of the necklaces bore a metal reproduction of a different human organ.

Amun wrinkled his nose. The creeps over in Canopics had to make everything all about the organs.

“Employees have four minutes remaining to vacate the tomb complex.”

He groaned, joints sore and head aching with fatigue. Fine. Not enough time to be frustrated. Amun closed his eyes and pondered the adage on the plaque. Excellence, intention, willpower. That was just jargon. Source of our Soul? Something about that phrase sounded familiar. Had he overheard it from a viscera surgeon spouting off after too many beers?

He furrowed his brow, ignoring the pang in his head. Why did he run into the hardest trials at the end of the day? He just wanted to go home.

The haggard laborer rolled his shoulders, feeling the tension and setting his lanyard swaying. The plastic sleeve brushed over the skin of his bare chest, and the corner of his folded photograph grazed him above the heart. His eyes snapped open.

Amun thrust his hands into the basin and began rooting through the heap of necklaces. He pawed past metal kidneys, bladders, and heaps of intestine, his eyes scanning through the pile for the one he sought.

“Employees have two minutes remaining to vacate the tomb complex.”

Desperately he rooted, a puddle of discarded chains on the sandy flagstones at his feet. He felt his fingers close around an irregular shape, nearly spherical and with four small fluted bumps protruding from its top. Amun tugged at it, his other hand plucking at knots of chain until the necklace came free. Whirling, he turned to examine it in the torchlight.

Nestled in the palm of Amun’s hand sat a pewter lump—a tiny, anatomically correct metal human heart. His eyes darted to the statue.

With strength he barely possessed, Amun leapt onto the lip of the limestone basin and leaned forward, catching himself on the sculpture’s exaggerated muscular forearm. He reached up with the locket in hand, stretching onto his toes as he tried to place the heart-shaped locket around the statue’s neck.

“Employees have one minute remaining to vacate the tomb complex.”

Straining, Amun extended his fingers until he felt the chain leave his grasp. Taken by gravity, it slipped over the Pharaoh’s bald head and dropped, snagging on his stone shoulders with a gentle clink. The heart fell directly into the Pharaoh’s cupped hands, bouncing once before settling in place and spinning slowly above his upturned palms.

The room rumbled as a heavy mechanism started moving somewhere behind the thick stone walls. Instinctively Amun braced himself, his eyes darting to corners, floor tiles, any surface which could deploy a trap. Instead, his bleary eyes found a sliver of blinding light at the far end of the corridor behind the statue.

Sand churned under his feet as Amun took off, sprinting down the passage towards the light. His feet burned as the sand on the tiles grew steadily warmer, and he could feel a surge of dry wind from the other side.

“Attention all employees, the exits to the tomb complex will now be sealed. To those remaining inside—congratulations, you have been selected for the sacred duty of preparing the Executive Pharaoh’s afterlife arrangements in the unlikely event of his death. Your families will be charged a tribute fee in recognition of this honor. Overtime will not be provided for your remaining lifespan. SunCorp thanks you for your service. All hail the immortal Executive Pharaoh Mez-Utuf-Ankhuru.”

The automated voice boomed across the desert. Amun collapsed against the cool stone wall of the pyramid's exit alcove as the stone door ground shut behind him. He gulped in each breath of fresh air, shielding his eyes from the harsh sun after so much time spent underground.

After a moment, he caught the sound of an approaching hum and the waft of ozone on the wind. From around the side of the stone structure a hulking drift-chariot hovered into view. On its shaded prow stood Amun's shift Overseer who was nonchalantly guiding the reins of the vehicle with one hand as he took a sip from an earthenware mug. Behind him in the cart below, Amun could see rows of laborers crammed shoulder to shoulder behind a fenced hull.

The Overseer slowed the skiff and looked down at him. He studied Amun’s exhausted form for a moment, then his face split into a wide grin.

“Well hey there, looks like someone’s lyin’ down on the job!” The Overseer's headdress glinted in the sun and Amun winced from the glare, too drained to respond. The Overseer barked a laugh like a jackal and jerked his thumb towards the back of the barge. “Why don’t you drop your ID coin in the hopper and hop aboard?”

With effort, Amun climbed to his feet. He reached for his lanyard and felt for the opening, fingers fishing for the copper coin. As he tugged it free, Amun felt his folded photograph slip from the plastic casing. Amun lunged for it, but his fingers only clipped the photo as the wind caught it. The picture tumbled in a lazy loop, then sailed high into the air to be carried away into the desert.

Amun summoned strength back into his legs and started after it, his feet thrashing against the hot sand. He had only taken a few steps when he felt the crack of a lash through the air in front of him.

“Sorry, chief, no personal errands on company time.”

From under his shaded awning, the Overseer loomed over Amun. The man still held his mug, but his other hand grasped a sizzling electrified whip that snaked over the side of the elevated carriage to meet the gash it had left in the sand.

“Be a team player and climb on in, huh?”

Amun looked out into the desert, trying to catch sight of the scrap of paper, but it was already gone. His limbs sore and heavy, Amun turned and trudged through the sand towards the back gate of the drift-chariot.

The Overseer grinned again. He set down the lash and scooped up the reins, taking a long and slow sip from his mug. He turned, staring out at the rows and rows of enormous pyramids statues, and monuments dominating the desert horizon.

“Thanks, buddy. You’re a rock star.”