by Pete Hautman
It might be true that the past was immutable — it certainly seemed so in her dreams — but she would never know for sure unless she tried to change it.
Mornings, before meeting Jonis in the library, Lia would take her breakfast on the zocalo. The plaza surrounding the pyramid had once again become a gathering place for the citizens of Romelas. The corn seller was back, along with an empanada cart, a fruit vendor, and several others. The scorch marks on the cobblestones were gone. The flowers and hedges had been replanted, the blood washed from the stones of the pyramid. At the top, the single remaining Gate shimmered in the morning sunlight. A pair of guards, each bearing a Boggsian baton, stood upon the frustum.
Lia had promised Severs that she would take her through the Gate. It would be difficult. Severs was no fighter, but one day an opportunity would come. In the meantime, she would work with Jonis, she would heal, she would plan.
Lia visited Severs often. Although the Medicant was bland, unemotional, and mostly oblivious to the feelings of others, they had developed a comfortable friendship. Both were prisoners of this time, both felt like outsiders, and both wished for the impossible: to change what was. Evenings, they would sit together in Severs’s makeshift clinic, Lia reading a book, Severs staring into her tricorder and occasionally tapping the screen.
“What do you look at on that?” Lia asked her.
“Patient histories, test results, diagnoses.”
“Do you want a book to read? I could bring you one.”
“I would not know how to operate it.”
“You turn the pages.”
“That sounds rather crude.”
“Some of the books are about medicine.”
“If it is printed on paper, it is certainly out of date.”
Lia looked down at the book she had been reading — the King James Bible that Jonis had been so excited to find. As near as she could tell, it was identical to the Bibles Arnold and Maria had kept in their home. It was much like The Book of September. Many of the same events were described, but with some notable differences. For example, Tuckerfeye was nowhere mentioned. He did not appear in the Garden of Eden story or in the story of Abraham. In the Bible, Abraham’s son was named Isaac. And, of course, there was no mention of Plague, or of Father September, who lived long after the King James Bible was written. How much of the Bible was true history, and how much of it was lies? She had the same question about The Book of September — especially the part where Father September sacrifices Tuckerfeye, with no angel there to stay his hand.
“Have you ever read The Book of September?” Lia asked Severs.
“Why would I do that?” Severs asked, blinking the way she did when she was surprised or puzzled.
“It might help you to understand the Lah Sept.”
“I do not wish to understand the Lah Sept.”
“You told me once that Plague was not real.”
Severs lowered her tricorder to her lap. “What the Lambs called Plague was simple evolution. They feared what we Medicants were becoming.”
“And what was that?”
“Rational. Our minds were evolving.”
“The Lah Sept teach that the Medicants were destroyed by numbers.”
“Not destroyed. Altered, perhaps. Our researchers were seeking a way to coax the Lambs out of their ignorance and into the twenty-sixth century. However, the Lambs resisted our efforts and rejected all things digital. With each passing year, we became increasingly separate, as different as Neanderthals and Homo sapiens.”
Lia thought back to her many conversations about biology with the Lait Pike. “Are you saying that people with Plague are a different species?”
“In time, we might have become so.”
“But weren’t most people with Plague . . . disabled? Unable to care for themselves?”
“The evolution of a species is a harsh and imperfect process,” Severs said. “The first primates to travel on two legs no doubt stumbled and fell on their noses. The first sea creature to open an eye may have been blinded by the sun. The first dog may have been torn apart by the wolf pack that bred him. I speak metaphorically, of course. It is true that a large number of us were disabled in one way or another. Many Medicants wore enhancement and filtering devices to help them process distracting stimuli. I wore such devices myself, although I do not require them. Do I appear disabled to you?”
“You seem a little . . . unemotional.”
“I have emotions. I choose not to display them.”
Lia nodded. She understood. As far back as she could remember, she had kept her feelings to herself.
Severs continued. “It may be that we handled the Lambs clumsily. They were resentful when we forced their children to learn mathematics in our schools. We thought we were doing the right thing. I fear that the Neurajust was a mistake.”
“What is Neurajust?”
“A programmable pseudobacteria we attempted to introduce to the general population. Those who came to us for medical treatment were inoculated. It worked well, but the Lambs found its effects alarming.”
“What did it do?”
“Many things, most of them beneficial. Most notably, it encouraged rational thinking. Many of the Lambs who were treated began to think like Medicants.”
“You mean it gave them Plague,” Lia said.
“Call it what you will. The Lambs’ priests were outraged when those who were treated began to leave them. I now believe that we overstepped the bounds of our ethic: to do no harm; to heal. We thought to bring evolution to the masses. Ultimately, we destroyed ourselves.”
“If you get back to Mayo, maybe you can change what happened.”
Severs shook her head. “Our researchers at Mayo have determined that this is not possible. The diskos are capable of moving matter back and forth through time, but that which has already occurred is immutable. There is but a single timeline, that which we occupy. We cannot unmake the past.”
“Then why do you want to go back?”
“It is possible that our researchers were mistaken.”
Lia was alone in the library later that day when she sensed a presence. She turned to find Inge, her mother, standing beside one of the stacks of books, watching her.
“You have recovered,” said Inge in her rough voice. Her eyes were surrounded by dark circles. Deep creases framed her mouth.
When Lia did not reply, Inge said, “When we carried you off the pyramid, I did not think you would live.”
“I’m sorry to have disappointed you,” Lia said, making no effort to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
“I have been thinking about you,” Inge said after a moment. “The last time we spoke, you were not happy with me.”
“You gave me no cause for joy,” Lia said.
Inge shrugged. “As you pointed out, I gave you your life, but I have not been a part of it. Until we met the day of the uprising, I did not even know if you had survived your own birth. The midwives tore you from my womb and sent me to the farms, where I labored for three hands of years. Is it so hard to imagine that I might not feel overwhelmed with maternal instinct?”
“Your instincts are your own business,” Lia said, then felt a twinge of regret, wondering if she were judging her mother too harshly. “But I suppose I should thank you for bringing your archers to the pyramid. They say we would all be dead without you.”
“I was glad to be of assistance. Killing priests is not so difficult.”
“Hidalgo seems to agree with you.”
They stared at each other without speaking for several seconds.
“Why did you come here?” Lia asked.
Inge’s hard face softened. She looked away. “I came to apologize.”
“You are not very good at it.”
“I have had little practice. I am afraid I was not very sensitive to your feelings when we first met. I had other things on my mind. For that I am sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Lia said after a moment. “We ar
e different people, with very different lives. Thank you for your effort.” She turned her back and busied herself, pretending to sort books. Her eyes were stinging, and her chest felt full. She did not want her mother to see how affected she was.
“Do you read them?” Inge asked.
“Please leave,” Lia said over her shoulder. “I have work to do.”
“You are a prickly one. No doubt you get that from your father.”
Lia froze. “My father?”
“They never told you who your father was?”
Lia shook her head, still with her back to Inge. She felt as if she were going to explode.
“An acolyte. He called himself Alpharo.”
“He was your . . . lover?” Lia turned to face her mother.
“Lover?” Inge snorted. “Hardly. I was a Pure Girl, even younger than you. What could I know of love? The acolyte Alpharo was my rapist.”
Lia stared into Inge’s hard features. The rest of the world went away. Her mother’s grating voice seemed to come from another room, another reality.
“He took me from the garden into the colonnade. He told me I was chosen. Chosen! Chosen by him for his wicked games. In those days, the priests and deacons treated the palace as their own private harem. I was not the only Pure Girl to be so abused. It was shortly after that that the Yars began to assert themselves, and the Pure Girls were better protected.”
“What happened to him?”
“Alpharo?” Inge’s face flattened into a grim smile. “He escaped through the Gate not so very long ago. I’m sure you remember him — he gave you something to remember him by.” She reached out and lightly traced her finger along Lia’s scar. “The acolyte Alpharo later became the priest you know as Master Gheen.”
FOR THE NEXT SEVERAL DAYS, LIA COULD THINK OF little else but what Inge had told her. Master Gheen was her father? Her own father had killed Tucker Feye. And he had intended to kill her — not once, but twice. She kept pushing the knowledge away, but it would not leave. She tried to make sense of it. Maybe he had thought that killing his own child would bring him closer to God, like Father September in the Book. More likely, he had simply not cared and had regarded her as the unfortunate remnant of a sick thrill he had enjoyed in the colonnade with some nameless Pure Girl. Every explanation she came up with made her hate him all the more.
She was brooding on her parentage one evening when she heard a commotion from outside the convent. Glad for any distraction, she ran to the zocalo doors and saw a crowd gathering at the base of the pyramid. She went outside and approached a fruit vendor who was dragging his cart closer to the crowd.
“What is happening?” she asked.
“The Yars have captured an acolyte.” He pointed up at the frustum, where a hand of figures had gathered near the Gate. She recognized Hidalgo. The others were Yars she did not know and a frightened-looking young man with his hands bound behind his back. Hidalgo was speaking, but Lia was too far away to hear.
“What are they going to do with him?” she asked, even though she knew the answer.
“Whatever they do, it is good for business,” said the fruit vendor, hurrying forward with his cart.
Hidalgo, waving her arms dramatically, continued to address the crowd. People crowded the base of the pyramid, trying to hear her. After a time, she stopped talking and gestured to one of the Yars, who handed her an arma. Abruptly, Hidalgo pointed the arma at the young man and fired. The man’s face disintegrated into red mist. Without further ceremony, the Yars lifted his headless body and threw it into the Gate.
Lia closed her eyes, but she could still see the red mist.
Yar Jonis was sitting on the floor in the library, her back against an enormous pile of books, reading a particularly thick volume. She looked up at Lia and smiled.
“This is a very good book,” she said, holding it up. The cover had a picture of a gigantic white fish attacking a wooden ship.
“I just saw a man die,” Lia said.
Jonis lowered the book to her lap. “Oh . . . I heard something going on outside. An execution?”
“Yes, an acolyte. He was not much older than me.”
Jonis pursed her lips and shook her head sadly. “I heard they had captured one of them in the south market.”
“I do not see why it is necessary to kill.”
“It is certainly unpleasant.”
“Especially for the young man whose head was vaporized by an arma.”
Jonis grimaced. “Must you be so vivid?”
“It was a vivid occasion.”
“Yes, well, it is none of our affair.” Jonis shrugged off real-world events as if they were stories in a book. In a way, Lia envied her that ability. Jonis went back to reading, as if she had forgotten Lia’s presence.
“You’ve only read a few pages,” Lia observed. “How do you know it’s a good book?”
“It has many pages.”
“Not as many as The Book of September.”
“That is also a very good book.”
“Is it?” Lia frowned. “I am not sure. Much of it is not true.”
“A book does not have to be true to be good. The very best books are filled with lies.”
“Do you know which parts of The Book of September are lies?”
“No.” Jonis smiled. “That is what makes it so good.”
“I think all books should be one or the other.”
“No book is that.” Jonis laughed. “Speaking of The Book of September, I recently discovered an ancient document describing the arrest of Father September. It seems that he, at least, was real.”
“What document is this?” Lia asked.
“It is a fragment from what was once called a newspaper.”
The scrap of newspaper was brittle, broken, and yellow, held together with strips of disintegrating tape. Only a few paragraphs were still legible.
Attached to the article was another scrap of newspaper with a black-and-white photograph of Father September and his accomplice being escorted to the county jail. Lia examined the photo. Father September did not look at all like the powerful and vigorous prophet depicted by her old entertainment table. The man in the picture looked elderly, frail, and frightened. Lia stared at the narrow, wizened features, the long jaw, the wide mouth . . .
It was the Reverend Feye. He was older, but it was definitely him.
She examined the image of the man beside him. It was a bit out of focus, but . . . the hairs stood up on the back of her neck.
Master Gheen! Her father. In Hopewell!
Lia handed the scrap of newsprint back to Jonis and sank onto the bench beside her.
“Are you all right?” Jonis asked.
Lia clasped her hands together to stop them from shaking.
“Do you think it is possible to change the past?” she asked.
Jonis looked at her for a long time, then said, “Why?”
“It’s just a question,” Lia said.
Jonis thought for a moment. “It is a very good question. But a better one would be to ask if it is possible to change what is to come. That is the question we live to answer. And if the answer is no, then we must ask whether there is truly any difference between the past and the future. If the answer is yes, then every moment of our lives is burdened with accountability.” She swept her arms out to indicate the piles of books surrounding them. “That is why these books were written.”
“All of them?”
“Well, some of them.”
“Is that what the book with the white fish on the cover is about?”
“It is not a fish; it is an extinct species of mammal called a sperm whale. But I will not know what the book is about until I have finished it.”
That night, Lia went out onto the zocalo. She bought a limonada from one of the cart vendors, then sat by the fountain and watched the frustum as she sipped her drink. A single torchère was burning. She could see neither of the guards, but she was sure they were up there. After a few minutes, one of the
guards appeared near the edge of the frustum, looked down the face of the pyramid, then backed away.
It must be very boring for them up there, Lia thought. She wondered how they passed the time. Did they take turns napping? It seemed likely. How would they respond if she climbed up?
She finished her lemon drink, bought some oranges from the fruit vendor, walked to the base of the pyramid, and climbed. A few of the people on the zocalo noticed, but no one called out or attempted to stop her. She reached the penultimate step and looked out over the frustum. One of the guards, a man she did not know, was sitting with his back against the altar stone. The other one, a woman, sat at the far side near the Gate, her legs hanging over the edge, looking down the side of the pyramid. Lia climbed onto the frustum.
“Hello,” she said.
Both of the guards jumped to their feet, batons at the ready. The one who had been sitting on the edge was Tannis, one of the younger Yars.
“Yar Lia,” said Tannis.
Lia tossed her an orange. “I thought you might be hungry.”
Tannis caught the orange. “You cannot be up here.” The male guard moved to put himself between Lia and the Gate.
“I was curious.” Lia tossed the other orange to the man. He let it bounce off his chest and fall to the stone surface. He would be difficult.
Lia walked over to the block of stone that had once been the altar. The explosion had cracked it in half. The stairwell beneath it was filled with rubble. “The last time I was up here, this stairwell was filled with priests.”
“It still is,” the male guard growled. “On warm nights, their stench rises.”
Lia suppressed a wave of nausea and backed away from the rubble-choked stairwell.
“Your heroics are well known and appreciated,” said Tannis. “But you must leave now.”
“I am leaving,” Lia said. She descended the pyramid.
Severs was sitting with Oro, her only remaining full-time patient. Beetha and Argent had both been released. Oro lay unmoving on the bed.
“He’s no better, is he?” Lia said.
“No,” Severs replied.