Born of Metal

Chapter One

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

Grey: inactive.

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

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

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

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

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

Tomorrow is going to be the utter pits.

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

Bashir, Ibukun

Collections

British Museum

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like tyres on wet streets. Like that night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Green: active.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every day costs him a little more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckled, his smile returning in force.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***Bonus***

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

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

0730

I was late. Very late.

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

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

On a good day, I’d be out the door by six-forty-five to reach Mile End by seven where I could take the Central Line to Tottenham Court Road. That put me inside the museum by seven-forty. Early enough even for a miserable busybody like Shelton.

On a desperate day, I’d scramble to Stepney Green, ride the Hammersmith & City line to Liverpool Street, take Central to Holborn and then run like mad. That would me a chance to come in the back door where Eddy the porter would let me in on the sly. I could swipe in and be down to collections before Shelton knew what happened. He’d stick his beaky nose into the sorting room and I’d greet him with a cheery ‘good morning!’ and he’d slink away to criticize someone else.

I was well past that point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was like magic, and I loved it.

It was why I was interning at the museum but also why I was frustrated to be shunted into collections instead of cataloguing. Cataloguing meant examining artifacts, assessing their traits, checking their provenance, even putting something under an electron microscope. Rocks, metals, stones––they’d fascinated me since I was a child, and the older the better. As I’d matured, my interests honed. Detective, almost forensic intersection of archeology and geology had fascinated me since the beginning of highschool.

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

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

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

0822

I packed up, squared my shoulders and hopped off at Tottenham Court Road. I was going to face Adrian Shelton with my head held high.

That attitude lasted until I reached the porter station and Tariq, one of the two porters who worked the security desk at the front staff entrance. He gave a pitying glance as I swiped in.

“Careful, Miss Ibby. Dr. Shelton is on the prowl and he is hungry.”

My shoulders sagged. I didn’t think of myself as a pushover. I grew up in the East end, but exhaustion paired with latent anxiety over Uncle Iry was taking its toll. Shelton was Goliath, and I was no David.

A rat of anxiety scampered through my mid-section as I glanced around the lobby. Leaning in to Tariq, he rocked forward to share in a brief conspiracy.

“Any chance you know where he’s prowling right now?” I murmured.

Tariq glanced at his fellow porter, a man we knew only as McPhee, who shrugged and returned to staring at his monitor. Tariq inched a little closer. I wondered randomly if my coffee breath was as bad as the porter’s.

“He asked us to inform him the second you arrived, then he made for administrative offices.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Probably sharpening his canines. You know how much he loves blood, fresh from the jugular.”

My voice went up an octave. “When was that?”

Tariq looked over at McPhee who didn’t look away from his screen but helpfully held up four fingers. Tariq nodded, understanding the taciturn porter’s shorthand.

“Twenty minutes ago.”

I winced. He could be anywhere by now. About to come around the corner, laying in wait next to the elevator, crouching in my corner, ready to pounce. I began to better appreciate the paranoia of citizens from dictatorial countries. In moments like these, my life was terror and uncertainty. Luckily, I didn’t have to wait long for the axe to fall.

McPhee gave a warning grunt. “Incoming.”

Tariq swivelled in his chair as we stared at McPhee. My phone buzzed in my pocket but I ignored it, my palms were sweating.

“Ms. Bashir, how nice of you to join us this morning,” Shelton oozed at my back. “I had to check my watch to make sure it was still morning.”

My heart took off like a startled hare as Tariq and I made eye contact. So much white showed in his eyes it was almost comical. Even Tariq–– who’d worked here for years––was afraid of Adrian Shelton.

Putting on my best contrite look, I turned to face my doom, eyes low and hands behind my back.

Tall, freckled, and as stiff as his starched suit coat was Dr. Adrian Shelton. If ever a man exuded self-importance it was him. He glared down at me through wire-rimmed spectacles, thin lips pressed into neither a smile nor snarl but something in between.

Keep it simple. Assurances to never be late again would only meet with a sneer, and an excuse was putting blood in the water.

“Good morning, sir. I apologize for my tardiness.”

Dr. Shelton brushed aside my words with a disdainful lift of his chin. “I see you are not satisfied with simply shirking your responsibilities, but have also seen fit to enlist these men into an attempted cover up.” His accusatory eye now included the porters.

In my periphery, I watched as McPhee and Tariq shared a stricken look. Shelton had more than enough grief to go around this morning. Tariq’s mouth opened to refute the accusation, but I got there first.

“You have nothing to worry about, Dr. Shelton. These men remain as incorruptible as ever.”

I used my hidden hand to give both men a secret thumbs up. I felt a little fighting spirit stirring in my chest. If Shelton wanted to rake me over the coals that was fine. Uncle or no, I was late for work and I’d take whatever punishment he had. But going after the bystanders was bullying, plain and simple. I had as much tolerance for bullying in the workplace as I did on the schoolyard, and if Jared Cooper’s nose was any evidence, that tolerance was zero.

“That remains to be seen.” Shelton glared at the men. “For now, I’ll deal with you.”

At least Shelton seemed intent on wearing himself out on me first. That small victory gave me a dangerous boost in confidence.

“The best thing would be to send me straight down stairs, sir.” I pointed to the elevator, in case he worried I’d forgotten how to get to the basement. “With any luck I can catch up on whatever work I missed.”

Shelton’s watery blue eyes glinted dangerously at my tone. I’d overstepped. It felt good, but the nasty grin spreading across his face made me queasy.

“I will determine what is best, but by all means please head to your station. I’ll make sure that you have no lack of opportunity to catch up,” he mimicked the way I’d said it, “but first I’ll return to the administrative offices and make a note in your file.”

I refused to let him see how much that hurt. A demerit in my file could come back to haunt me, especially when I needed to find real work in the field. I nodded diffidently. “Will that be all, Dr. Shelton?”

Shelton flapped a dismissive hand. “Run along, Ms. Bashir, you’re appallingly behind in your duties. Perhaps, the work will give you time to clear your head for the conversation you will undoubtedly have with your Proctor.”

I’d begun to go, one foot back and my shoulders turning, but his words spun me around like a slap across the face. Proctor? He was really going to go to the university over this? A bad note in my file was one thing, but a call to the lecturers was another. The museum and the uni worked in close concert and that meant such a call could have far-reaching consequences. Depending on how grossly I was mischaracterized, I could see sanction or even expulsion from the program.

I met Shelton’s glare, daring me to say something he could use against me. Only thinking of Uncle Iry kept me from giving what he wanted and more besides.

“Very good, sir. I should get going then.”

He almost seemed disappointed by my response.

I felt Tariq and McPhee’s pitying eyes on me as I strode towards the elevators, but I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. I was trying to hold everything together. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to break Shelton’s nose or burst into tears.

Uncle Iry, I reminded myself. For him. For being a family again.