by Rod Rees
‘Yeah, sure did. Your Holiness, this is Captain Engineer Roberts, the guy who did such a stand-up job in bringing the Column to the Pyramid.’
Roberts straightened his back and did his best to contain a smile. He had never heard Clement be complimentary about one of his officers before.
‘You seem to be an engineer of some talent,’ said Crowley.
‘Thank you, Your Holiness.’
‘So tell me, how do you think the Pre-Folk built the Pyramid?’
An odd question, but, fortunately, it was one Roberts had already given much thought to. Being possessed of an enquiring mind, the puzzle of how the Pre-Folk had constructed such an enormous edifice was one he’d been cogitating on ever since he’d arrived in Terror Incognita. The Pyramid was the greatest feat of engineering in the whole of the Demi-Monde and living and working in Terror Incognita had given him an ideal opportunity to study it. He planned to write a book on the subject when he was back in the ForthRight.
If he got back to the ForthRight.
‘It’s a tricky question, Your Holiness; by my reckoning, the Pyramid is made from half a million tons of Mantle-ite … from one thousand blocks of Mantle-ite each weighing over five hundred tons. The construction of the Pyramid is a feat of engineering unmatched anywhere in the Demi-Monde.’
‘I know this: what I want to know is how they built it.’
‘Well … discounting the possibility of the Pre-Folk being possessed of technologies or magics unknown to us, then I believe the answer is to be found in earthen ramps.’
‘Earthen ramps?’ queried an incredulous Crowley, obviously struggling with the Pre-Folk being associated with such a mundane technology.
‘Yes, Your Holiness: I believe the Pre-Folk built the Pyramid by the use of ever-rising earthen ramps which allowed gangs of slave labourers to drag the blocks of Mantle-ite up to the place where they were needed. As one layer of blocks was laid, the ramp would be raised so work could commence on the next layer … and so on and so on. Using this method and, of course, the employment of several thousand men and an equal number of mules, I think it would have been perfectly feasible for the Pre-Folk to site one … possibly two blocks of Mantle-ite every day. At that rate it would have taken them less than three years to build the Pyramid.’
‘Three years?’
‘Yes, Your Holiness.’
‘And could we use this earthen ramp technique of yours to move the Column from the base of the Pyramid to its pinnacle?’
‘Yes, Your Holiness.’
‘And how long would this take?’
‘I would need to do some calculations, Your Holiness.’
Crowley waved a disdainful hand, then busied himself by pouring a glass of Solution.
Roberts took out his notebook and pencil and scribbled his calculations. He worked diligently for five long minutes, all the while trying to ignore the impatient tapping of Crowley’s foot on the wooden floor of the tent. Finally he looked up and smiled. ‘I am assuming that we will need two steamer-crawlers to drag the Column up the ramp, and as a consequence the ramp must be able to bear a combined steamers/Column weight of four hundred tons. Additionally the path running atop the ramp has to be durable enough to withstand both the depredations of the steamer tracks and the Fall rains. Moreover, the maximum inclination that steamers can negotiate hauling such a load is five degrees, therefore’ – Roberts paused to make a swift check of his calculations – ‘to construct a ramp of sufficient size and robustness we will need one million tons of compacted soil reinforced with one hundred thousand tons of steel girders and a similar quantity of cement.’
‘And how long would such a structure take to build?’
‘That, Your Holiness, depends upon the resources dedicated to the project, but I am confident that, given adequate support, such a ramp could be built in … a year!’
‘A year!’ squawked Crowley. ‘What if I said it had to be completed by the end of Fall?’
‘In fifty days? That, with all respect, Your Holiness, is an impossible deadline. Just to manufacture and transport the steel and cement would take twice as long as the timescale you propose. It might be possible to build the ramp’s foundations by Season’s end but …’
‘The Column must be in place on top of the Column by the end of Fall, Captain Roberts. The Great Leader has commanded it be so. You do understand the implication of that instruction, don’t you?’
Roberts did understand. His mouth went dry as he contemplated ending his tour on Terror Incognita swinging alongside Trubetskoy. His mind raced. There wasn’t any method known to man that he could see solving this dilemma.
Known to man …
‘I began, Your Holiness, by assuming that the Pre-Folk did not employ technologies unknown to us, but there are clues that they did.’
‘Good!’ said a suddenly energised Crowley. ‘That is why we have turned to you, Comrade Captain Roberts, in the hope that you might be able to fashion a more … modern solution to the problem of elevating the Column to its final resting place. Go on.’
‘I have noted that each of the landings on the staircase leading to the top of the Pyramid is hexagonal in shape and of a size that corresponds exactly to the dimensions of the base of the Column. I would speculate that there is some Pre-Folkian mechanism hidden inside the Pyramid waiting to be turned on, a mechanism that, if the Column were placed on the bottommost landing, would draw it upwards in a manner similar to that of a grain elevator.’
‘How would this “grain elevator” of yours be activated?’
‘That I don’t know, Your Holiness. Perhaps the different colours of the Mantle-ite slabs use to cover the Pyramid or the numbers etched onto each of the landings of the staircase hold the secret, but …’ He trailed off. He had spent hours studying both, trying to discover some pattern in them, but he had failed.
Crowley bent down and took a book from his briefcase, which he pushed across the table in the engineer’s direction. ‘This is a translation of the Flagellum Hominum, an ancient work which contains the lore of Lilith and the Pre-Folk. I had hoped it would reveal the methods by which the Pre-Folk moved the Column to the Pyramid’s peak, but unfortunately the Flagellum Hominum has defied all attempts to unravel its secrets.’
‘Tough shit, Your Holiness,’ said Clement as he lolled back in his chair, ‘you being stumped and all. Must be kinda galling to have to come to us military types to get your dick outta the wood chipper.’
The general’s observation was rewarded by a glare from Crowley.
Doing his best to ignore the atmosphere of mutual loathing that existed between Clement and Crowley, Roberts took the book Crowley proffered into his hands. ‘Perhaps if I was permitted to study the Flagellum Hominum, Your Holiness? It might be that an engineer can see what has eluded the attention of your more refined intellect.’
‘The prosaic triumphant, eh?’ Crowley gave a nod. ‘Study away, Roberts, but only within the confines of your tent: the translation you hold in your hand is a Classified Document. You’ll find the sections relating to the Column and the Pyramid marked by slips of paper.’ And with that Crowley drained his glass, rose to his feet and flounced out of the tent.
‘Better guard that book with your life, Captain,’ said Clement as he popped a plug of chewing tobacco into his mouth. ‘Ah hope you realise that you’ve adopted Crowley’s mantle of failure. Fuck up raising the Column and His Holiness ain’t gonna have a second’s hesitation in casting you to the wolves … better you get chewed up by the Great Leader than him. Good luck.’
*
The threat of imminent death was, as Roberts came to appreciate, an enormous stimulant to performance and he set about trying to decipher the secrets of the Flagellum Hominum with gusto, reading the marked texts until he was cross-eyed. But the more he studied them, the more he was baffled. In the end he was forced to call on the help of Lieutenant Edgar Allan Poe, a man of humble birth and therefore limited prospects, but who was possessed of an intellect
that Roberts thought bordered on genius.
Now, together with a bottle of Solution, they sat in Roberts’ tent reviewing the enigmatic instructions and trying desperately to understand the clues the Pre-Folk had left.
‘Let’s review what we’ve learned, Edgar,’ Roberts announced after thirty minutes of pondering. ‘According to the Flagellum Hominum, there are two secrets pertaining to the Pyramid: the first is how to activate the power contained in the bloody thing and the second is how to raise the Column to the top of it. In Crowley’s judgement, Edgar, there are four verses directly pertaining to the powering up of the Pyramid. Perhaps if you were to read them out loud we might have a better chance of appreciating what they mean.’
Poe nodded, opened the book and began. ‘The Verses are numbers fifty to fifty-three of Book Three. They read as follows:
I am ABBA
The Nothingness.
Before me and after me
Is Nothing
But the Emptiness
Of the Never-Was,
And the Never-Will-Be.
I am the Not Being,
Absent but ever present.
I am ABBA
The One,
Omniscient,
Omnipotent and
Omnibenevolent.
Everlasting and
Never-Ending.
The Perfect Simplicity of Unity
Encompassed in my Being.
I am ABBA
The Duality of the Kosmos.
The Determinate
And the Indeterminate
Melded.
The Yin
And Yang
United
In Ying.
I am ABBA
The Nothingness, the One, the Duality.
Indivisible
Except by His/Herself.
Come, touch
The Great Pyramid
Unveil the Power
Of ABBA.
But to err is to die.’
‘Enigmatic.’
‘Indeed,’ mused Poe, ‘but as these verses are accompanied by a woodcut of the northern face of the Pyramid, I don’t think it’s much of a leap to surmise that text and image are in some way related.’ He nodded towards a copy of the woodcut image he’d drawn on the blackboard Roberts had had erected in his tent.
‘More, I think we can assume that each shade of Mantle-ite relates to the Nothingness, the One or the Duality … zero, one or two.’
‘But which is which, Edgar?’
‘That is the conundrum, George. We are advised to “touch the Great Pyramid” to “unveil the power of ABBA”. My own belief is that the things that have to be touched are the triangular slabs covering the north face of the Pyramid, but which shade of Mantle-ite represents which number we aren’t told.’
‘And it would seem that the penalty for getting it wrong is quite draconian: “to err is to die”.’
‘We could, of course, simply guess.’
‘With only a one in three chance of being correct. Not terribly appetising odds.’
The pair of them spent a silent few minutes in private contemplation of the riddle of the Pyramid. Finally, Roberts admitted defeat and turned the pages of the Flagellum Hominum until he came to the second marked passage.
‘I’ve a feeling that solving the conundrum of how to get the Column sitting on top of the Pyramid might be easier. Verses fifty-four to fifty-six of Book Three relate to the staircase running up the northern side.
This is the stairway
To heaven.
To the Trinity
That is ABBA
You must conquer
Time and hence
Progress the Column
By seconds
To its resting place.
As we progress
The Column
So we progress
To ABBA
The positive
And the negative
Enshrined in Ying.
Thus, on Fall Eve,
We come to Revelation.
The Final Moment.
The Old Yields
To the New.
The Duality of Life
Merges in Ying.
It is the One who
Brings the Column
to Rest who
Shall be the Victor.
To my mind, the clue is in the word “progress”. This sequence of numbers marked on the landings of the stairway is undoubtedly a numerical progression. What we are being challenged to do is find the next number in the series.’
He jotted the numbers on the blackboard.
2 5 2 3 2 7 8 11
‘I’m sure that it can’t be beyond the wit of the pair of us to discover what that number is.’ And with that the pair of them buckled down to their calculations.
*
‘A devilishly tricky sequence, Captain,’ crooned a very self-satisfied-sounding Poe when he burst into Roberts’ tent the next morning, ‘but not devilish enough to resist my powers of analysis. Look!’
With that Poe laid a sheet in front of Roberts filled with mathematical musings. ‘You see, the answer is eight! That is the number the device at the top of the Pyramid must be set to.’
‘Well, it’s certainly one solution,’ mused Roberts.
‘Believe me, George, this is the correct answer … I’m sure of it and now is the time to prove it.’ He grabbed Roberts by the arm. ‘Come on, George, let’s make us some history.’
‘We had better alert His Holiness—’
‘His Holiness is already alerted, Comrade Captain,’ came the unmistakable voice of Aleister Crowley from outside the tent, ‘and I would be most grateful if you would provide Lieutenant Poe with all the assistance he might require to test this theory.’
Roberts didn’t need any further encouragement: he threw his greatcoat over his shoulders and pushed his way out of the tent and into the chill of a Terror Incognita dawn. ‘Are you sure about this, Edgar?’ he whispered, as he bustled along after Poe. ‘The Flagellum Hominum was quite specific: get the solution wrong and the consequences will be fatal.’
Poe cast a glance over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being overheard by Crowley or any of his minions. ‘Don’t worry, George, I’m totally confident in my answer. You and I will be the toast of the ForthRight. It’ll be back to London for wine, women and even more women.’
It took the rest of the day to have the Column removed from the pontoon and to erect it on the unmarked hexagonal plinth at the foot of the staircase. Once this had been done to Roberts’ satisfaction he reported by to Crowley.
‘We’re ready, Your Holiness,’ he announced, but just as he was about to accompany Poe up the staircase to set the dial to number eight he felt a restraining hand on his arm. ‘I would be obliged if you would wait here, Captain,’ said Crowley. ‘There is no use in risking both of you.’ With that he nodded to Poe, who began the taxing job of ascending the staircase.
Five minutes later Poe was standing at the top of the Pyramid. ‘I am ready, Your Holiness,’ he called down and Crowley signalled that he should begin.
*
Alone on top of the windswept Pyramid, Poe felt much of his bravado drain out of him. Andrew Roberts might be no great shakes as a mathematician but he was a loyal friend and without his support he felt very exposed and very unsure. There was no going back now.
He peered out over the side of the plinth. ‘I am ready, Your Holiness,’ he shouted and when he saw Crowley’s arm drop he grasped the hand of the dial and wrenched it round to the number eight.
*
Nothing happened.
‘Has he moved the dial?’ Crowley asked.
‘I presume so, Your—’
Roberts’ presumption was interrupted by a huge ear-splitting scream that came from the top of the Pyramid, which for the briefest of moments glowed with a supernatural intensity. Then … nothing. A deathly hush fell over Terror Incognita as though the plaintive quality of the cry had stilled the world.
‘What’s happened?’
Roberts didn’t wait to reply: he bounded up the stairs leading up the Pyramid two at a time. He found Edgar lying dead in the centre of the hexagonal platform.
1:28
The JAD
The Demi-Monde: 51st Day of Fall, 1005
Extract from the diary of Edgar Allan Poe dated 50th day of Fall, 1005
Schmuel Gelbfisz found it difficult to remember what the JAD had been like before the war, but if he closed his eyes he could still picture it. In his mind’s eye he could see the zoot-suited men sporting their kippahs and beards, their briefcases and serious expressions, as they bustled through the crowds en route to the JAD’s bourse. He could see the elegant women in their feathered berets promenading arm-in-arm along the Street of the Profits, window-shopping as they went. He could see the PigeonGram messengers clutching their red envelopes as they darted along the cluttered pavements. He could see the steamers and the drays and the streetcars that made up the JAD’s tangled traffic edging through the tight tenement-lined streets of HaRova and he could smell the stink of horses and soot and humanity that had given the JAD its unique bouquet.
All gone.
In the four weeks since the Shades had begun their onslaught, the old JAD had disappeared. Now all that remained was a wasteland; a burnt, battered and busted carcass of a city.
‘Rabbi, what are your orders?’