The long, broad corridor beyond the Chamber of the Sarcophagus stretched off into the darkness. Lex and the others followed the passageway for about three hundred feet until they found themselves crossing a stone bridge constructed of carved blocks as large as houses.
Nothing could be seen on either side of the bridge, just a vast, black emptiness. Frigid blasts rose up from the depths. Lex pointed her flashlight into the darkness, but the beam could not penetrate the abyss. Out of curiosity, she broke a chemical glow stick and dropped it over the side.
For a long time, everyone watched the light fall. When it finally faded in the distance, it was still falling.
“How deep could that be?” Connors asked.
Sebastian managed an ironic smile. “To hell perhaps? If we’re not already there.”
Miller stared at the huge construction stone under his feet. “We’re standing on a single piece of solid rock that’s bigger than a Wal-Mart—and these people built a bridge out of it. How could primitives have possibly moved it here?”
“Clearly—”
“They had help,” Stafford interrupted. “You’ve said that before, Dr. De Rosa. But who helped them?”
“An extraterrestrial intelligence from another civilization,” said Miller.
“But why?” Max replied. “If some advanced star-faring civilization did come to Earth in ancient times, why hang around? These ancients may have had something like a civilization, but compared to an alien race that could travel across galaxies, they were primitives.”
“So are we,” Sebastian replied.
Weyland hobbled past them, an oxygen bottle slung over his shoulder. The industrialist no longer seemed interested in their speculations. Max Stafford broke off his conversation with Sebastian, then hurried to catch up with his employer.
On the other end of the bridge they found another door—this one framed by panels decorated with even more elaborate hieroglyphics.
“This looks important,” said Sebastian.
The darkness beyond the threshold was absolute. Lex drew a powerful storm flare and ignited it. Raising the flickering light high, she led them into a long, broad corridor lined with mammoth jade-hued statues mounted on square stone pedestals. Each effigy was a representation of a vaguely humanoid being between eight and ten feet tall, with impossibly broad shoulders and hair bound in long dreadlocks. The faces varied—some were broad, flat and featureless, while others had narrow, close-set eyes and a mouth surrounded by mandibles that looked like they belonged on a shellfish.
“The green men aren’t so little,” Lex observed.
“They have different heads, different faces,” Stafford added, facing Sebastian. “Do you think they are supposed to be half-human, half-animal gods, like the ancient Egyptians worshipped?”
Sebastian shook his head. “The flat faces are actually masks, I think, perhaps ceremonial. These… crab faces… may also be masks.”
“I hope,” said Bass.
Sebastian noted that some of the effigies were depicted in regal poses, but most were more dynamic, engaged in some sort of battle, usually against a strange, crustaceanlike creature with a long, narrow, eyeless head and a bony, segmented tail. Despite the unearthly artistic style and sensibility, it was clear that the heroic central figure in each sculpture were the humanoids.
“Like St. George,” Stafford marveled.
“The English knight who killed the dragon?” asked Miller, gazing up at a statue.
“St. George was Turkish… well, Cappadocian, actually,” Sebastian noted. “He was born in Asia Minor, though he did indeed become the patron saint of England in the fourteenth century.”
“Recognize what’s on their shoulders?” Lex asked.
The creatures wore weapons on some kind of shoulder mount—the guns were exact replicas of the devices Weyland and his men had just looted from the sarcophagus. Squinting through his thick glasses, Miller examined the statues.
“These weapons are carved in roughly life size,” he whispered, looking up into the sightless stone eyes of one of the effigies. “Which makes our friends here pretty big dudes.”
Sebastian directed them to a large painted mural, which depicted humans bowing in supplication to the giants. Max Stafford appeared at his shoulder.
“We worshipped these things?”
“According to this, we did.”
“Surely they were just pagan gods,” Weyland said, suddenly impatient with all the speculation. He moved forward, but Miller caught up with him.
“The heat bloom that your satellite detected makes more sense now,” said the engineer.
“What do you mean?” asked Weyland.
“A building this sophisticated would require a major energy source. That’s what the satellite detected—the power plant for this pyramid firing up… preparing.”
“Preparing for what?”
Weyland and Miller continued to move on. Sebastian remained behind to examine an etched panel. Soon, everyone but Connors and Stafford had moved down the corridor.
“Try to keep up, Professor De Rosa,” cautioned Max.
As they walked, the group moved to the center of the long corridor lined with statues. Sebastian counted over sixty before giving up. More effigies lined the passageway as far as his eyes could see—and the passage seemed to be endless.
Suddenly Lex felt a cold chill. She whirled and extended her flashlight, its column of light probing the shadows.
“See something?” Miller asked nervously.
Lex peered into the darkness. “I thought I saw a blur, or a shadow or something. But if I did, it’s gone now. The passage is empty.”
“I can’t believe the detail in some of these carvings,” Sebastian said. “Some of the sculptures are meant to be realistic representations, while others have vague, almost abstract features. I suspect the styles in art changed over the passing centuries.”
As they moved forward, Stone and Bass drifted to the back of the group to protect the rear, while Lex and Verheiden took point.
Sebastian, Charles Weyland, Max Stafford, Miller, and Connors gathered together in the center of the group, shielded by the mercenaries and their machine guns.
As soon as the humans began to move, the Predator who was stalking them from behind crossed the passageway and edged closer to its prey.
Meanwhile at the opposite end of the corridor, far ahead of the humans, another Predator morphed to visibility, its face briefly superimposed over the features of a stone statue before vanishing again.
The trap was ready to be sprung, and in the uncertain light of the sputtering flare, it was impossible for the humans to know that they were moving into the Predators’ carefully prepared ambush.
The bridge lights were burning, and despite the fact that the ship was on anchor, a full complement of officers was working on deck. The radar operator made countless futile attempts to pierce the wall of snow, while the ship’s meteorologist tried to calculate the duration of the storm based on very sketchy data.
“Is the end in sight?” Captain Leighton asked.
“I’d guess four hours. Six at the outside,” the meteorologist replied. “But it’s just a guess.”
Captain Leighton crossed the bridge and dropped a heavy hand on the radioman’s shoulder.
“Anything? Anything at all?”
“Nothing, Captain… not since the first message. The one the chief picked up.”
Leighton turned to his executive officer. “What exactly did you hear, Gordon?”
“Not much,” the XO replied. “The transmission was broken up by the storm. There was a lot of static. Some panicked voices… nothing coherent.”
“You’re sure the call came from the whaling station?”
“They identified themselves as members of Quinn’s party. Said something had attacked them… or some of them… I couldn’t quite make out the rest. I tried to respond, but I don’t think they heard me. After that, all I got was static.”
“An attack? Ridiculous,” Leighton declared. “Who could possibly mount an attack down here, and in the middle of a katabatic storm?”
“Maybe it was whoever buzzed our ship,” the XO replied.
Leighton stared into the tempest. “We have too many questions and not enough answers. And we’re not likely to get any until this storm ends and we can cross the ice to the whaling station to see for ourselves.” The captain paused to rub his tired eyes. “By then we may be too late.”