Chapter 1
I stood on the top plank of scaffolding and craned my neck back to gaze at the magnificent capstone glittering above me.
Atop the pyramid, slowly spinning, the pointed red monument shone a blood-bright crimson in the red sun of Gatthi. Rotating in the wind, it stood a meter tall, etched on four faces with pictograms depicting a mythological battle between good and evil.
Not for the first time on this survey, I was overcome with awe. The pyramid—an intriguing structure made of airy stone latticework—was not even the main attraction. This glowing marvel at its peak had, for decades, captivated the interplanetary community of xenoarchaeologists.
A dozen such pyramids dotted this region of jungle, each shrouded in mystery. They must have been incredibly expensive to construct. Who had built them? Were the capstones merely decorative, or did they serve a greater purpose?
I opened my mouth to ask the middle-aged tribesman beside me what he thought, but cries and groans erupted from the workers below. They shouted and pointed to the east, across the canyon, where swirling dust from an imminent storm whipped the horizon into a frenzy.
“Misu, come down!” Rishi shouted from the ground.
Misu, their word for Sir, literally meant “magnificent capstone” in the local tongue. It was the same word they used for the capstones’ sparkling crystal material, which resembled diamond but had a slightly different molecular structure. Initial tests indicated it was even harder than diamond.
Misu were worth billions on the black market. The natives believed the capstones possessed magical power to ward off evil spirits, endowing those who touched them with spiritual protection. Some scientists theorized the material could be excellent conductors for starship engines, but thus far no new deposits had been found, here or on other worlds.
As for the capstones that did exist, most had been stolen from the other pyramids on this small, windy planet. Only this one remained: the last capstone, the object I had traveled between star systems to investigate.
Located in the most remote and inhospitable region, where a thick rainforest met the edge of a sudden and enormous crevasse, I had been invited by the Gatthi natives to study this last capstone—its story, craftsmanship, and most of all, its purpose.
Though they guarded it fiercely, the people of Gatthi feared this one, too, would soon be stolen. They wished to document it in detail before it vanished. They’d asked me to create a comprehensive scientific archive.
Receiving their invitation had been the highlight of my career.
But it seemed I would not be able to complete my survey today. I looked down into the vast, shadowed mouth of the crevasse over which our pyramid rose. Not even at this time of day, with the sun directly overhead, could one see the canyon’s shrouded floor. The locals said that the river of the dead flowed through its depths. Somewhere down there, almost directly below this pyramid, lay the frozen entrance to the underworld itself.
Carvings on the capstone depicted Hell’s entrance like the corolla of a black lotus. Why a black lotus? In their mythology, the flower symbolically related to the dark haboob—the violent dust storm bearing down on us.
“Come down from there, please, Misu Dane!” Rishi called, cupping his hands to be heard over the whistling winds. Rishi had been my guide since I’d arrived. “Haboob comes. We must take shelter!”
I ground my teeth. We were so close to reaching the capstone. Just a few more levels of scaffolding, and I’d be close enough for a better look.
I held my hand out to the middle-aged, bearded tribesman working next to me. He passed me a clamp. I secured a carbon fiber rod, then screwed it to another rod, creating an X-brace to stabilize this shelf. We shook it to test its strength. It felt solid.
“Raise the plank,” I said. Fen signaled two fellows on the level below us. They passed up a large wooden plank. We secured it overhead, then attached it to the X-braces on either side.
The natives climbed these latticework pyramids barefoot and thought this was an extravagant way to approach my survey, but I wanted the scaffolding for space to work and to avoid being tightly harnessed while up here.
Climbing onto the new plank, I stood and tested my footing. Reaching up on my tiptoes, I could just brush the edge of the red capstone. It whooshed as it rotated, seeming to speed up as the storm approached.
“Ouch!” I hissed through my teeth.
Blood oozed from the tip of my finger. I put it in my mouth and tasted copper. I must have cut it on the edge of the capstone as the corner swung past. I barely felt the slice, only the stinging pain afterward.
“So sharp! Look how the material fits perfectly on top of the base—is that a metal frame holding it in place? There’s barely a hair’s breadth between them. How did they do that?”
I glanced down at Fen, who smiled and shrugged. He spoke Galactic Standard but rarely offered his opinion.
“That’s odd,” I said. “There’s some kind of clear resin or wax laid over the seam between the metal base and the capstone.”
Maybe it was animal excrement or silicate residue left by the haboob. My finger continued to bleed heavily. So much for protective powers! I pulled a bandage from the emergency kit on my belt and wrapped it around the wound.
“Misu, please!” Rishi shouted again from below. He and the other workers had already packed the ydrams and were strapping the last of the saddlebags onto the bulky creatures. “We must hurry!”
I hefted the next rod and glanced at Fen. A polite smile was fixed on his round face, but he danced from foot to foot, nervously glancing between the storm and the spinning capstone. I sighed and stowed the rod in my pack. “Yes, okay. Fine! We’re coming down.”
“Many thanks, Misu Dane! Many thanks to you, sir!”
Chapter 2
We made the journey back at a brisk trot.
It jarred my sore backside, which wasn’t yet accustomed to this mode of transport. I may have been an expert in ancient pyramids and alien ruins, but I was a complete novice as a ydram rider. What I would have given for a hoverbike!
With Rishi leading the way, we jounced across the sand and cracked clay atop our stinking mounts. The beasts crashed through dense foliage of broad blue fronds and thick tangles of hanging vines laced with the choking scent of musky citrus.
In moments, my nose was stuffed up and my eyes watered. The clarity of breath and vision I’d taken for granted on the pyramid scaffolding was whisked from me like a stolen treasure.
It wasn’t until we started descending into the caves that I felt any relief. The temperature dropped by twenty degrees. My steed trailed Fen’s as we thundered down a corkscrew ramp into the earth.
Here, a network of dwellings had been carved from the bedrock, like a castle fortress built deep underground. We unsaddled and stabled the ydrams in a broad barn off the entrance hall. Fen hung a grain sack on my ydram’s oversized horns, which served as its hearing organs and swiveled stiffly.
A song like a howling gale echoed from deeper in the cave system. The haboob had arrived. I imagined it crashing through the forest overhead, tearing leaves off trees and bending their boughs. Underground, it was different. The haboob transformed the cave system into an auditorium, woven with that eerie yet harmonious song. It echoed throughout the entire structure.
Upon our arrival, I caught a few frightened looks from the native stable hands, who exchanged murmured comments in their own language. I couldn’t translate without Amalie’s help, but they seemed irritated that we cut it so close.
I imagined they were asking each other, Who is this foreigner, to tempt God? Their eyes glanced down to my bandaged finger, which had tinted a blotchy red during the ride. One woman made a sign, crossing her chest in a triangular pattern meant to ward off danger.
“Misu,” murmured an older man as he brushed past me. The others followed without meeting my eyes.
I knew it wasn’t fatal to get caught in the haboob, but it would have been mighty uncomfortable.
High operatic notes reverberated through the stables and entryways as we traveled into the caves. Inside, the halls were lit with bioluminescent inlays painted in tribal designs of repeating diamonds, slashes, and waves. They also had battery-operated lamps and large batteries for communal areas, which they charged in the sun between storms.
I followed the workers as they made their way down into the largest and lowest cavern, a cathedral where they worshiped. Here, the song resonated at top volume, louder than anywhere else in the system.
They called it “The Heart of the World,” according to Amalie’s translation.
“No one really knows how long this place has been here,” she’d said breathlessly when we arrived. “Legend has it that the cave system was a fortress made by the same people who constructed the pyramids. They obviously loved music and learned to capture wind from the storm, transforming it into song with carefully placed ductwork in the jungle above.”
What intrigued me most was how the trees of the forest above were kept trim and tame by the recurring dust storms, yet the edges of the latticework pyramid and even the mouths of the stone ducts remained sharp and smooth.
It was a marvel. Inside, the walls looked like they’d been poured in a mold or scooped out by a giant hand—too precise to have been done with chisels or stone tools. The walls between chambers were decorated with overlapping braids of stone—completely seamless, delicate, and perfectly shaped.
I’d been here for weeks, and the sight of this place still amazed me. Amalie had tested the tensile strength of the latticework and inquired about its origins with the tribe’s elders while I was out building scaffolding to reach the capstones. Long ago, they’d lost the capability to build in this style. They lived here but had inherited this place from an even older culture. Amalie said they never veered from that part of their story, despite her probing.
Consumed by these distracting thoughts, I followed the native workers down into the Heart of the World without really paying attention to where I was going. I figured Amalie would be here, so I let my mind wander. Others from around the cave heard the haboob’s song and joined the stream of people. By the time I reached the cathedral, I was lost in a thick river of Gatthins.
They dressed in rough weaves and smelled strongly. Most danced in time with the cathedral’s haunting song, smiling broadly, laughing, shuffling along. Their arms were intertwined as they held their children’s hands. They greeted friends and family with wide smiles and open hearts.
It was beautiful to witness. I watched them move to the music until a blood-curdling scream cut through the experience.
The haunting and beautiful song continued, but the crowd’s mood changed as it surged. I staggered back, borne on a receding wave of bodies.
But that scream. I knew that voice. It was familiar.
“What’s going on?” I demanded, looking sideways in search of Amalie or someone else I recognized. It was all tribespeople, but none I knew. No sign of Fen, or even the high priestess, Ma’atwa.
My blood ran cold. I shoved my way through the crowd, my heart hammering in my chest. I fervently prayed it wasn’t the nightmare I imagined it to be. I wanted to be wrong. I couldn’t yet see. I pushed and pressed my body between groups of people.
Finally, I stumbled into open space, where I found Amalie holding a broken shard of clay pottery in one hand. She was soaked from the water it had contained and breathed heavily. Her eyes were wide, as if in shock.
On the ground at her feet lay the body of a teenage girl no older than seventeen. Her face was painted elaborately in the tribal style. She wore a flowing silk robe, marking her as an acolyte of their priestess class. A halo of blood on the stone floor spread from her head. Her lips trembled.
Without thinking, I took two steps to Amalie’s side and positioned myself between her and the girl. Tribespeople with angry, worried, or shocked faces surrounded us. As I watched, the acolyte heaved her last breath and went still.
Amalie looked up at me with eyes like saucers and a mouth hanging open in terror. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. It was self-defense!” she said. “She came at me with a knife!”
My wife pointed at a curved blade, the kind the natives used to skin animals. It lay inches from the dead girl’s outstretched fingers. She must have dropped it after Amalie… what, hit the girl over the head with the clay pot, the shards of which were still in her hand?
Talking it through now would end badly. “We’re leaving,” I said. “Let’s go!”
I took Amalie’s hand and tugged. We’d been married long enough that the tone of my voice jarred her into motion.
“She said he needed my heart,” Amalie muttered. “Was she talking about you? Did you send for me?”
“No,” I said. “We can talk later. Keep moving.”
The crowd closed around us, and people shouted, spitting in our faces. I didn’t need Amalie to translate the words—they didn’t want her to leave. I drew my utility knife from my belt and waved it threateningly, scaring off a few hands that grasped at the fringes of Amalie’s shirt. Most didn’t know the blade was for fieldwork, not skinning animals or fighting, but it was all the feeble protection I had.
At the sight of the small blade, they stepped back. I spotted a gap in the crowd and led us into it.
“Dane, wait, we can’t run. It just makes me look more guilty!”
“We can worry about proving your innocence once I know you’re safe.” I loved my work—I was beyond thrilled about our mission here—but no way in hell was I going to give my wife over to the whims of some tribal kangaroo court.
We made it to the hall leading up from the cathedral before a group of native women blocked our way.
“You may not go,” Ma’atwa said. The high priestess wore an elaborate headdress made of the planet’s local leaves and black lotus petals. Chips of quartz were sewn into her white lace dress. The other priestesses were all dressed in black.
“We’re going back to our ship,” I said.
She glanced at Amalie, who wilted under the old woman’s gaze.
More acolytes and several armed men arrived. They held spears pointed at us. At least two had retrieved pulse rifles from somewhere. Damn! I thought. I suspected, but hadn’t known, that they were in possession of modern firearms. My tiny utility knife felt like a toothpick in my fist.
“She has committed murder,” Ma’atwa said. “Against one of our own.”
“It was self-defense!” Amalie insisted. “She attacked me! I was just standing there, listening to the song. I thought I heard voices and then—wham! Look, she got me here before I grabbed the clay pot.”
Amalie held out her forearm, where multiple cuts glistened wetly. They were fresh and must have stung horribly. Her hands shook violently. Amalie looked down and must have just realized she was still holding a bloodstained shard of pottery in the hand that wasn’t in my death grip.
She dropped it. The murder weapon clattered to the dusty stone floor.
“You must come with us. Misu Dane, please let her go.”
I argued with them. Pleaded. Sobbed. I tried to grab Amalie and run. Eventually, my wife had to pry my fingers off her hand. I only let go when I realized I was hurting her.
It was all useless. Rishi and Fen showed up at some point. The two men held me back while the high priestess and her people took my wife to an isolated jail whose walls were made of the same stone latticework I had been admiring minutes before.
This was supposed to be a dream job.
My dream had just turned into a nightmare.
