The Cydonian Pyramid Read online

  “Biological warfare? Where’d you hear that?”

  Tucker shrugged. “Look, I’m not a spy.”

  “Then what are you? How did you get here?”

  “It’s kind of a long story.”

  The doctor could not take his eyes off Tucker’s hands.

  “You just sit tight.” He stood up abruptly, left the cabin, and exchanged some terse words with the man outside. Tucker stared at his hands. The little bumps had stopped moving.

  A few minutes later, the doctor returned, wearing a surgical mask.

  “You are officially quarantined,” he said, the mask muffling his voice.

  Tucker thrust out his hands. “I’m not sick. Look.” The bumps were almost gone.

  “You’re still quarantined. You and I are going to be spending some time together while the captain tries to sort out what to do with you. The aurora is active, so we might be stuck here for a while.”

  “Aurora?”

  “The aurora borealis.”

  “Isn’t that the northern lights?”

  “That’s right. They interfere with our radio transmissions. You said you had a story. Let’s hear it.”

  “Okay,” Tucker said, then stopped.

  “Well?” the doctor said after a moment.

  “I’m trying to think where to start.”

  “Try the beginning.”

  “You aren’t going to believe me.”

  “I already don’t believe you. Go ahead.”

  Tucker cleared his throat. “Okay. I guess the beginning would be the day my dad brought home this girl. He said she was from Bulgaria.”

  The doctor grunted. “Bulgaria! That’s a Communist country.”

  “Except she wasn’t really from Bulgaria. She was from the future.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud . . . Kid, you’re going to have to do better than that. I want the truth, not some fairy tale!”

  “Do you want to hear this, or not?”

  The doctor took a breath, puffing out his mask as he exhaled. “Okay, okay,” he said. “I guess I’ve got nothing better to do. This future-girl-not-from-Bulgaria, did she have a name?”

  “Her name was Lahlia. She said she was from a place called Romelas. . . .”

  During the latter years of the Lah Sept regime, two factions were in opposition: the priests, who wielded political and religious power, and the Yars, responsible for the care, education, and training of the Pure Girls.

  The priests maintained their power through the usual means: intimidation, mystique, and spectacle, with spectacle becoming the most visible influence, while the Pure Girls bore the burden of their public displays.

  In that manner, the priests provided wonderment and dread for the people of Romelas, while ridding themselves of Plague-susceptible girl children. The Yars quietly resisted the priests by training the Pure Girls to survive their ordeal, thereby creating more Yars.

  — E3

  MANY YEARS LATER, WHEN SHE LEARNED TO COUNT, Lah Lia would number the days of her adulthood from the moment she bit into a sweet persimmon and there discovered a worm.

  Lia screamed and flung the fruit against the wall. It splattered and stuck, then slid slowly down the smooth pink marble, leaving behind a streak of reddish-orange ichor. She watched as the wet husk puddled on the floor and, seconds later, disgorged a green caterpillar as long as her thumb. The worm raised its front end and moved its head from side to side, as if seeking the source of its discomfort.

  “Tah!” the girl cried out. “Tah!”

  Before Lia had taken another breath, Sister Tah rushed into the alcove in a swirl of lilac robe.

  Lia stabbed a shaking finger in the direction of the worm. Tah frowned, crushed the creature beneath the rubber tread of her sandal, and led Lah Lia out of the dining alcove to her study.

  Shortly thereafter, Lia’s sciences tutor, the Lait Pike, joined her. He paused in the doorway to take in the pampered luxury of Lia’s world. As a Pure Girl, Lia was denied little in the way of physical comforts. The seating was designed to conform to the contours of her adolescent body, her vicuna and silk robes were woven by the finest artisans in Romelas, and a Sister was always nearby to see to her needs. Lah Lia needed only to mention a slight dryness of the throat, and Sister Tah or a palace servant would present her with a glass of water.

  It was fair enough, Pike supposed. A little luxury was small payment for the rigorous and demanding training required of a Pure Girl, and her life was likely to be short. The girl deserved to be well treated during the time remaining to her. The fact that an infested fruit had somehow made its way into her tiny utopia was distressing.

  Lah Lia was sitting at her education table, viewing images from The Book of September. Pike performed a shallow bow — his spine was not so flexible as it once had been — and spoke a greeting. Lia nodded, acknowledging her tutor without looking at him directly; the miniatures hovering above the table held her attention. There was a trace of rudeness there, but Pike chose to overlook it.

  The girl was viewing images of a naked man and woman cavorting in the Garden of Eden. Pike smiled wryly. Genesis was popular with many of the Pure Girls, although in his opinion it was not as nourishing as the Postnumerary Anachronology or as interesting as the Apocalypta of Adrian the Sinner.

  Lah Lia had viewed Genesis many times before. She played through it quickly, forcing the figures to move like agitated mice: the serpent’s temptation of Eve, the sharing of the forbidden fruit, the banishment of Adam and Eve through the Eastern Gate — all displayed within a few hands of heartbeats. The birth, life, and murder of Abel passed in moments, as did the lives of Adam and Eve’s other children: Cain, Seth, and Tuckerfeye.

  With a murmur of apology, Pike waved his hand over the table. The figures froze, faded, and were replaced by several hovering icons.

  “I understand you have confronted a great and terrible beast,” he said, sitting down across from her.

  “A great and terrible serpent,” said Lah Lia.

  “It was only the larva of a moth, Dear One,” Pike said. “It would not have harmed you.”

  Lia stared back at him, her dark eyes luminous and challenging. Pike had tutored many Pure Girls in his long lifetime — he did not allow himself to think of the number — but never had he dealt with one with eyes so large and unblinking, or an intelligence so unsettling. According to Yar Tan, the girl was already proficient in a hand of languages.

  “Larva or serpent, it is not germane,” said Lah Lia. The crispness of her voice always surprised him.

  “How so?” Pike inquired.

  “I am a Pure Girl. I do not consume animal flesh. I bit into the fruit. I could easily have ingested a portion of the creature, to the inconvenience of all.”

  Pike sat back in his chair. “It would have changed nothing,” he said after a moment. “As you know, we consume lesser creatures with every bite we take — aphids, bacteria, plankton — such creatures are embedded in our food chain. You must think of them not as mortal individuals but as fragments of a larger whole.”

  “The creature was aware. It looked at me.”

  “I very much doubt that it saw you,” Pike said. “The visual acuity of such creatures is quite limited.”

  “Nevertheless, the worm looked at me.”

  “Not worm, Dear One. Larva.” He reached a veiny hand into the cloud of icons hovering over the table and made a selection. The icons faded, and a bright-green caterpillar with rows of orange spots running along its side appeared above the table’s surface. “Or caterpillar if you prefer.” He gestured with his other hand, and the hologram began to rotate slowly around its vertical axis. “This is the creature, yes?”

  Lia nodded. The image collided with her memory, producing a frisson of excitement, a feeling similar to fear but not so disagreeable. She enjoyed it for a moment, then willed her heart to slow. There were times when what she wanted — what she needed — was to be startled. Her life in the Palace of the Pure Girls was too orderly, t
oo perfect. Even the anxiety she felt over her approaching blood moon had a remoteness to it. The thrill of finding the caterpillar had been distinctive and immediate. She had known that it could not injure her and that she had ingested no part of it. The moment of horror had been opportunistic and unreal, yet it had felt real and true, as if it had been hiding inside her, waiting for an excuse to find its way out.

  Pike regarded her with a slight frown — his face did not have the flexibility of the young; expressions came and went slowly, as if any sudden change might cause his thin, brittle skin to shatter. He returned his attention to the hologram.

  “It is the larval stage of the luna moth. Note the rudimentary legs, the well-developed ocelli, the setae. They feed on the persimmon tree, and other trees as well.”

  The image of the caterpillar winked out. Pike made an irritated sputter with his lips, then brought his hand down on the table with a loud crack. The image reappeared, wavered, solidified.

  “It has been doing that more often,” said Lia.

  “The machine is old,” said Pike. “Its power cells are growing weak. One day it will cease to function entirely. As will we all.” He waved his hand, obliterating the caterpillar and replacing it with a fresh cloud of icons.

  “Why do we not request a new machine?”

  “The Boggsians are both recalcitrant and parsimonious. They do not part easily with their technology, and the cost would be excessive. In any case, the priests are already uneasy with such digital technology as we possess.”

  A glimpse of billowing lilac robe caught Lia’s eye. Sister Tah entered the room, bearing a loaded tray.

  “May I offer you warm tea?” Tah was the most solicitous and proper of the Sisters, but Lia did not like her. There was a chill beneath Tah’s simpering smile and muted resentment behind her eyes.

  “Thank you, Sister,” said the Lait Pike.

  Sister Tah served the tea and withdrew. Lah Lia had selected a new icon and was viewing another set of images from The Book of September — the scene in which Abraham attempts to sacrifice his son Tuckerfeye, but his hand is stopped at the last moment by the archangel Michael.

  “I do not understand how Tuckerfeye can be in both the Garden of Eden and the mountains of Moria,” Lia said.

  “That is a question for Brother Von, your history tutor,” said Pike.

  Lia scowled. She did not care for Brother Von.

  “Why do we have Pure Girls?” she asked.

  “That is a question with many answers, Dear One. Some might say that you Pure Girls symbolize our innocence. Others would call you the dagger of our shame.”

  Lia was surprised to hear her tutor say such a thing aloud. Were the priests to hear of it, he would be reprimanded, or even banished.

  “But why send us through the Gates?”

  “Again, I must refer you to Brother Von.”

  “Brother Von is useless.”

  The Lait Pike sat back, startled by her vehemence.

  “He simply reads to me from the Book,” Lia said. “He knows nothing.”

  “The Book of September is the soul of our people,” said Pike, quoting the old aphorism.

  “What about the old books?”

  The Lait Pike became uncomfortable.

  “I have heard whispers,” Lia said.

  Pike sighed. “The old books . . . are gone. Still, this table”— he waved his hand at the floating icons —“contains much of their essence, cleansed of numbers, contradictions, and blasphemy.”

  “There is much missing,” Lia said. “It will tell me nothing of the blood moons. Why do they come?”

  Pike regarded her in silence for what felt like a very long time. Finally, he spoke. “From time to time, the earth casts a shadow upon the moon, producing a lunar eclipse — what we call a blood moon.”

  “How do the priests predict them?”

  “They are foretold.”

  The previous blood moon had belonged to Lah Kim, a dark-haired Pure Girl with a conspicuous scarlet birthmark on her forehead. Lia had attended Kim’s passing with Sister Tah. The event remained vivid in her memory, even though since that day, all the seasons had come and gone.

  To attend a passing was, Sister Tah informed her, a great and rare honor for a Pure Girl. Much later, Lia learned that the Yars insisted that every Pure Girl be allowed to witness at least one passing before the arrival of their own blood moon.

  The Cydonian Pyramid had been surrounded by a throng of Lah Sept, filling the zocalo, spilling into the surrounding streets, pushing and shoving and shouting, jockeying for the best view. The windows of every building surrounding the zocalo had been crammed with faces, the rooftops lined with spectators.

  Lia had followed Sister Tah along the barricaded path leading directly to a raised platform from which they could view the top of the pyramid. They were joined by a group of Yars, including Yar Tan, her language tutor, and Yar Hidalgo, whose face was hideously scarred.

  Most of the citizens crowding the zocalo were blind to the Gates, but the Pure Girls and the Sisters had received special training from the Yars. The Gates appeared to Lia as grayish, flickering disks crowning the torch-lit frustum of the pyramid.

  Lah Kim and the priests were already on the frustum, having arrived via a secret route that led through the heart of the pyramid. Kim, standing atop the black stone altar, was dressed in a simple silvery-gray shift. The priests were robed in yellow — the color of death, the color of hope.

  Sister Tah brought her mouth close to Lia’s ear. “Do not be afraid,” she said. “It will come quickly when it comes.”

  A priest was calling out to the crowd, holding his hands high. At first he could not be heard, but after a few heartbeats the crowd settled and fell silent. All faces turned to the altar, to the bright-yellow shapes of the priests and the shimmering silvery wraith that was Lah Kim.

  “It is the blood moon come again.” The priest’s reedy voice snaked down the stone steps and swept across the zocalo. “It is our time to share the Father’s sacrifice, that we might live in peace.”

  The crowd spoke as one: “To live in peace.”

  The priest turned back to the altar. Kim lay down flat upon the great black stone. The priests moved around her, arranging the folds of her robes to best effect as they intoned the prayer of passage. The prayer became a chant as the priests began to walk in circles around the Pure Girl.

  “This is the choosing,” whispered Sister Tah.

  Lah Lia realized that they were not circling Lah Kim but rotating the altar itself. After several rotations, the priests released the altar and stepped back.

  The stone altar spun. The priests continued to chant. Lia felt herself breathing, her heart thudding. The altar slowed. The chanting fell to a murmur. She gripped Sister Tah’s hand so hard that Tah reached over with her other hand and disengaged Lia’s fingers. Lia imagined the scrape of stone on stone as the altar ground to a halt.

  “Dal,” Tah murmured.

  Without further ceremony, a priest drew a black dagger from the folds of his robe, raised it above his head, and buried it to the hilt in Lah Kim’s chest, withdrew it, and stepped back quickly.

  A jet of red blood arced from the Pure Girl’s breast; her body convulsed; the crowd breathed out as one.

  With the blood still spouting from the girl’s wound, the priests lifted and carried her to the frustum’s edge and fed her to Dal. The Gate flashed orange. Lah Kim was gone.

  The mass of Lah Sept filling the zocalo remained silent, all eyes on the spot where the girl had disappeared, waiting. After a time, a disappointed mutter and buzz arose from the crowd. It had been too long. Pure Girls who became Yars usually returned quickly, in no more time than it takes to draw a hand of breaths. Lah Kim would not be coming back. The sound increased to a rumble as the Lah Sept jostled to exit the zocalo. Tah took Lia by the arm and hurried her back along the barricaded path to the palace, where they celebrated Kim’s passing with tiny cups of rose-hip tea, and bitternuts in
pomegranate syrup.

  The next morning, Lia had awakened to find a spot of blood on her nightgown. She washed it out, but Sister Tah, with her sharp eyes, had not been fooled. “There is blood on your sheets, Dear One.”

  “I must have cut myself,” Lia told her.

  Sister Tah’s mouth had flattened into a smile, and Lia knew from that moment forward that when the next blood moon came, it would be hers.

  “IT HAS BEEN LONG SINCE THE LAST BLOOD MOON,” LIA said.

  “That is true,” said the Lait Pike, his voice catching in his throat.

  “I have made blood,” Lia said.

  Pike made the sign of the Gates, his wrinkled hand touching his shoulder, his ear, his brow. “I have been informed of this,” he said.

  “Lait Pike, I do not wish to die.”

  Pike cleared his throat. “Dear One, you must remember that some Pure Girls return from the Gates to become Yars.”

  “Yes, but they are not the same. Yar Hidalgo’s face is a ruin. Yar Satima is mad.”

  “The Yars are varied and strange. Some bear terrible injuries to their minds; others are damaged in their bodies. Others remain whole. The Yars Pika, Tan, and Sol were returned to us undamaged — except for Yar Tan’s left kidney, which she does not need. You may return to become an honored Yar. You may find glory and greater purpose on the other side. You may discover yourself in a paradise.”

  “Or all may go to black.”

  “These are things we cannot know.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments.

  “How did the Gates come to be?” Lia asked.

  “So far as we know, the Gates have existed always. The Cydonian Pyramid was constructed so that we might have access to them.”

  “Where do they lead?” Lia asked, as she had many times before.

  “We know only that they lead elsewhere and that these elsewheres have their own Gates, which lead back to us. The Yars know more, but they keep their knowledge close. The priests keep their knowledge closer. But we do know something of the character of the Gates. Aleph, nearest the rising sun, is the most sanguine of the Gates. Those who return to us through Aleph are healed of their wounds. Bitte, the northernmost-facing Gate, also heals mortal wounds, yet it retains body parts such as Yar Tan’s kidney. To the west, we have Gammel and Dal.”