by A J Marshall
Anna stood straight and looked up at Tom. “Apart from the physical dimensions, do you think there is any link between these pyramids? I mean those on Earth, Egypt and Mexico, and here . . . There have been a lot of rumours lately.”
Tom drew a deep breath. “The jury’s still out. And I’m undecided, Anna, to be honest. But Commander Reece – who was here a few years ago as the base Planetary Surveyor – made a study, and he is convinced that they were built by the same race of colonists. Maybe the ones here had the edge on technology. Or perhaps they were built this size for a reason. Who knows!”
“And the key we are about to print – what if that works?”
“Sorry to interrupt Commander,” said Lesley. “We are entering the . . . well . . . precinct, for want of a better description; it’s astonishing, look . . . You can imagine it as a busy marketplace or a venue for political rallies or something like that. To me it just brims with memories . . . what do you think?”
“I agree, Lesley,” said Anna, as she gazed outside again.
“There is an unusual ‘feel’ to the place, that’s for sure,” said Tom. “I’ve experienced it before.”
“This is the north side, Commander, where would you like me to stop?”
Tom checked along the side of the pyramid and saw at approximately two hundred metres the flight of wide steps cut into an otherwise smooth surface. “Over there,” he directed. “You see . . . at the base of those steps . . . that’s where I was before. Pull up there.”
Lesley acknowledged with a nod and a few moments later she pulled up adjacent to the steps and at a distance of around twenty metres. Paul, meanwhile, in the left-hand seat, had the best view through his side panel. Lesley, who appeared a little apprehensive, turned for Tom’s approval; she set the parking brake and turned off the electric drives when he gave her a thumbs-up signal and nodded back at her.
Veronica raised her hand from the rear console. “Line of sight on the satellite Commander,” she called. “I will wait for another two degrees of azimuth to be on the safe side, and then we can download the file – it’s a strong signal.”
“Very good,” responded Tom.
A moment of eerie silence descended over the cockpit, and as the occupants stared out at the inspiring but also foreboding landscape, a prolonged gust of wind blew between the farthest structures. It was powerful enough to whip up a mist of rusty brown sand and dust that in a flurry circulated around the plaza, spraying the PTSV with grit as it did. In an instant, and reinforced by another gust, the mist was concentrated into a dense cloud that twisted and tightened into a vertical column, and for ten to fifteen seconds its form resembled the funnel of a tornado with its base touching the ground. For a while longer the distinct shape squirmed over the ground and then darted off to the side and dissipated, dropping its load onto a dune that was piled against a pyramid. The impromptu display left everyone speechless for a time, until Tom said: “Dust devils and sand storms are frequent in these parts.” He remembered the one that nearly cost him his life.
“It’s a very abrasive environment,” commented Paul.
“Yeah, and the sand and grit gets everywhere. We need to maintain a good positive pressure inside tube when we open the airlock, otherwise it will blow in and play havoc with the seals.” Tom pointed outside again. “Even though the pyramids are almost a kilometre apart their funnelling effect on the wind is clearly evident. To make matters worse there seems to be a high concentration of maghemite in this area, so protect your helmet visor as much as possible Paul, when we are outside. Oh, and my last bit of advice is to be very careful on the platform – those gusts will lift you off your feet, no problem.”
Lesley sat for some time scanning the landscape whilst seemingly deep in thought. Occasionally, she glanced down at the instrument panel and checked the life support readings. They had enough oxygen for two weeks and with seventy-four per cent of the solar panels serviceable, the batteries were charging at an acceptable rate. However, water was good for only another five or six days. Eventually she stood and slid across to the left-hand seat and looked out at the steep flight of carved steps that were some three metres wide and precision-cut into the smooth but pitted surface of the pyramid. In places the dark, orange-coloured stone had suffered considerable erosion, such as rounded edges to the risers, and here a lighter shade of orange helped Lesley imagine what the pyramids looked like in their heyday. The lower steps were partially covered in blown sand, but upwards, tapering into the distance, they looked like a stairway to heaven.
Closer to the vehicle, an occasional gust of wind blew the sand from the paving stones, exposing a flat and highly polished surface that reflected in the sun’s glory, being only another forty minutes until midday. By skewing in the seat in order to look behind, Lesley could see the edge of a dark and ominous shadow that was cast by the towering Zeta Two pyramid. With the Martian day being only fractionally longer than an Earth day, the shadow had been retreating at a familiar rate.
In front and slightly to the right there was a raised area that was like a terrace, or perhaps a small civic square. Lesley imagined a dignitary standing close to the edge and addressing a huge crowd of . . . beings. Had catastrophic and ruinous news been proclaimed here, she mused – the end of days?
All the same, Lesley sensed a strong feeling of melancholy about the place, as if a terrible event had taken place there. At that moment, Paul stepped between the seats and put a hand on her shoulder; it dragged her from her thoughts and she looked up. Squirming a little awkwardly inside his pristine white spacesuit in order to stretch out some folds in the thermal layer below. Paul then tugged at the roll neck of his blue cottothene undergarment, so as to bring it above the undersuit. “You okay?” he asked. “You know, sitting up here on your own.”
Lesley nodded and smiled weakly. “How high is that ledge?” she asked, looking outside again.
“About thirty-three metres apparently, and the platform is ten by twenty, according to the Boss.”
“Well you be careful . . . the diurnal winds are beginning to pick up – just stay away from the edge.”
Paul nodded. “Anna’s about to print the key, why don’t you come back and take a look?”
Lesley smiled and climbed from her seat. Paul leant across to the weapon control panel and set the parameters to maximum sensitivity and a five-kilometre range. Then he connected the weapon sensor loop to the fire control system and as he armed the pulse cannon he murmured, “Anything moving out there will get a nasty surprise.” Then he stood for a moment focusing on the scene outside, and on the ordered precision of it all and its symmetry. Dismissing a strangely morose feeling, he turned and went back.
“The formatter has programmed a number of restrictions into the file, Commander,” said Anna, looking up from her console.
Tom was halfway into his spacesuit. He shook his legs alternately and stretched his arms to pull out creases until he felt comfortable. He pulled up the white roll neck of his sweatshirt, adjusted the metal neck ring of the suit so that it was central, and then glanced at the data on Anna’s screen.
“One print only – um, that’s not so helpful,” he commented. He looked at Anna. “Commander Reece will have done that for a good reason . . . anything else?”
“He recommended that we use a blue dye on the palm and fingertips – again there is no reason given.”
“Can you do that?”
“Yes, that’s no problem.”
“Okay . . . and you have downloaded the complete file? It’s all there, no sign of corruption?”
Anna nodded but looked put out.
“Okay, sorry Anna, then press the button, please.”
“It’s done, sir.”
All eyes focused immediately on the 3D printer. The machine resembled a medium-sized microwave oven, with a clear glass door and a line of air vents in the top casing. It began to hum quietly.
“How long will the process take?”
“It’s a very lar
ge file, Commander, requiring maximum definition. The model will have a high degree of detail . . . the system is telling me another nine minutes.”
Tom nodded.
“I’ve reduced the hardener content in the Deromutine mix as you requested. The model should remain set for at least three hours and twenty minutes.”
“Good,” said Tom, and he bent down and looked through the glass door at the object taking shape.
“Commander, I need you to input your ID code into the pulse cannon’s fire control system so that it recognises you,” said Paul, who was standing behind Lesley. “Also your command failsafe code . . . the system will then be set to automatic.”
Tom nodded and simultaneously unzipped the thigh pocket on his left leg. He slid his hand inside and withdrew a heavy pistol. “It’s the Lurzengard semi-automatic that I acquired from the Humatron – hell of a weapon,” he said, turning it in his hand and checking the breech. Then he unclipped the magazine and checked the digital ammunition counter.
Lesley and Veronica looked apprehensive.
“Just in case,” commented Tom. He looked at Paul. “What have you got?”
“Two stun grenades and a fully charged static baton.”
“That’s it!”
“We were on a survey task, Commander. I didn’t draw any specific weapons. All the same, I’ve got the laser sight from the Geosystem’s Distancemeter.”
“Okay,” responded Tom. “And the notebook containing the translation programme?”
Paul slapped his leg pocket.
Tom gestured his approval and joined Anna peering into the printing machine.
“It’s a hand!” Anna exclaimed, as the object’s form was nearing completion.
“Sure is. A woman’s hand to be precise – I’m playing a hunch,” explained Tom. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll resort to the heavy equipment. But that will take time, and even so, I have my doubts about ever getting through the massive stone door up there.”
The machine pinged. Anna opened the printer and carefully withdrew the object. She looked surprised as she examined it. “I won’t ask who it belongs to, Commander,” she said, staring at the blue fingertips that had faint grooves. “But whoever it is they have an amazing fate line and the life line too is unusually prominent!”
Now it was Tom’s turn to look surprised. “Anything else?” he asked.
Anna looked again. “It’s just a hobby, but the marriage line is broken and the family line is crossed only once.”
“Go on, what else do you see?”
“As I said, Commander, it’s a hobby – I only know the basics – but the mounts of Jupiter and Mars seem particularly pronounced.”
“Really . . . now that is interesting.” Tom broke from his thoughts and looked around the circle. “Now listen up everyone,” he said. “Lesley . . . you’re in charge while Paul and I are outside. Any problems, and I mean anything . . . then you call. If you can’t get hold of us then stay in here until we call you. If we get inside we are unlikely to have a signal . . . understand?”
Lesley nodded.
“Anna, you look after comms. Update Osiris with the situation. Tell them to standby for the real-time digital image transfer.”
“Yes, Commander.”
“Veronica, you keep a good lookout and monitor the sensor and weapon systems. The pulse cannon is programmed to fire at anything that moves; apart from Paul and myself, of course. Paul . . . you go and suit-up, I’m right behind you. Any questions anybody?”
“Okay, let’s go to it.”
In the dispatch section, Tom and Paul completed a buddy check on their helmets and suits and tested their intercom before charging the airlock. With the positive pressure differential, there was a loud whooshing outflow of air from the compartment as the outer door inched open and then rotated upwards.
Outside, they could feel the strength of the wind blowing against their bodies and within moments sand and grit began to deposit itself in the crevices around their shoulders and elbows and around the accessories on their belts and backpacks. The white tube of the PTSV was made a rusty orange colour by a covering of dust. Tom turned and walked towards the steps as Paul closed and secured the airlock.
Clearing the vehicle, Tom had a sense of movement behind him and he turned back to see the turret on top of the vehicle turn in his direction and then the barrel of the pulse cannon point directly at him. It unnerved him. But at least it’s a positive check that the system is functioning, he thought. As Paul stepped from the electronic confines of the vehicle and into sensor view the long, cobalt steel barrel trained in an instant on him. “It will take a second or two to crosscheck and identify your code,” said Tom, and he waved Paul over to the steps where they both began the long climb. Tom held the model of the hand in a clear plastic bag and was careful to keep it away from his body.
Halfway up, the two men stopped for a break. Both turned and sat down on a step and gazed across at the towering Zeta Two pyramid. Even lolling backwards, Paul’s helmet stopped him comfortably sighting the top of the structure.
Tom put a hand on the sand-covered step and measured its width with outstretched fingers and thumb. “Judging by the size of the treads and risers of these steps,” he commented, “I would say that the average height of the race that designed and built them was one point four metres – which means that they are a damned uncomfortable pitch for people like you and me.”
Paul looked down at the PTSV; thankfully the barrel of the canon was stowed in the neutral position. “Yes it is hard-going . . . but ready when you are.”
From the platform the vista was incredible and indisputably unworldly. Both men stood side-by-side a metre back from the edge and gazed out over the plaza, with its raised terrace to the left, a square, sunken area on the far side and to the right what could have been a water feature – possibly a fountain. The light around the sun had a milky appearance; however, everything else in view seemed to have a reddish hue, although the tone varied from a dark, rusty brown to a sulphur yellow depending on the direction. They turned and approached the huge rectangular stone door with some apprehension, until Tom suddenly put a hand on Paul’s arm and pulled him up short. He pointed to the left-hand side of the entrance. “Look!” he said. Paul followed his finger.
There were clear scuff marks on the ground where windblown sand had not had time to cover. Then Tom saw the damage on the stone door – deep grooves and cuts and there was a pile of the stone on the ground – debris that was too heavy to be blown away. “It’s the Humatrons!” Tom barked. “They’ve been trying to get in . . .”
On closer examination there was an area of approximately one metre diameter where the robots had used mechanical equipment to cut to a depth of around fifteen centimetres.
“By the looks of things, this granite is especially hard,” commented Paul, while taking a wary look behind him. “I’d say they have been working here for some time, Commander. But with limited equipment . . . looks like a couple of battery-powered chisels and some hand tool . . . seems they didn’t come prepared for the operation.”
“They probably didn’t have much to go on – perhaps a few images taken by Gregory Searle, back a while.” Tom slid his hand into his leg pocket and pulled out the pistol. He handed it to Paul. “Safety catch is on . . . better keep a lookout . . . I’ll . . .”
Suddenly there was a loud, reverberating crack, the echo of which rumbled around the plaza for several seconds. Even with their helmets on and above the whistle of the wind it was clear and sharp. The two men rushed back to the plateau edge and looked down. The turret on top of the PTSV could be seen returning to its default position.
“Commander Race, sir, Anna here . . . can you hear me?”
“Yes Anna, what happened?”
“The weapon system acquired a target and automatically engaged it.”
“Where?”
“Veronica is checking . . . she says on a bearing of one seven seven degrees and at one point three
kilometres.”
“At that range there is a high probability of success,” interjected Paul.
“Status, Anna?”
“Nothing showing, Commander, everything seems quiet.”
Tom turned to look at Paul; their near perfect reflections in each other’s visors made it impossible to make eye contact. “What do you think?”
“Optimistically . . . ? One down and one to go,” replied Paul, lowering the pistol.
Unseen, Tom grimaced. “But only a kilometre away . . . that’s too close for comfort,” he said, over the intercom. Then he pressed the radio transmit button on his belt again. “Anna, get Lesley to deploy the emergency voltaic panels, and then electrify the outer casing – tell her to set twenty thousand volts. We are about to try the key. Keep a good look out!”
“Will do, sir.”
Tom turned and walked quickly back to the left side of the entrance. “We had better get on with this,” he said, and he pulled the model from the plastic bag.
The door itself was of perfectly flat stone and it clearly blocked what appeared to be a square tunnel leading directly into the centre of the pyramid. Tom recalled the lines of hieroglyphic script etched into the stone, but Paul was surprised by the extent of it.
“Shall I take an image and download it into the notebook?”
“No, Paul, not at the moment, we can make up the log later – better to keep a lookout. I don’t want to be surprised by a Humatron.”
Paul agreed and he half-turned again but watched Tom brush away sand from a shaped niche set in the wall at knee height.
Tom carefully offered the model to the recess; he could tell instantly that it was the same size, and that the woman had spread her fingers precisely when the original scan was taken. He hesitated for a moment a few millimetres clear and then pushed the model home – the response was immediate.
Suddenly there was a grinding noise and an accompanying rumble that became accentuated as the great stone slab began to move sideways from left to right. Paul took a few steps backward in amazement – he was speechless. Tom straightened up, and as the gap in front of him widened there was a piercing whistle of escaping gas and he felt the powerful outflow increase until it pushed him off balance – he immediately dropped to one knee, bowed his head and leant against the force.
