TRANSCENDENCE, page 11
“It worked exceptionally well. For the first several months, no one believed him. Then the effects were undeniable, and people clamored for access. My father set a monumental price, and when people could no longer afford to pay for the monthly doses, he demanded their fealty instead.
“You may be thinking from this that my father is a greedy man, but he was also magnanimous. For those in the lower quarters whose money was insufficient and fealty was not useful, my father offered them access if they worked for him. Some of them work in the palace, while others more suited were sent to the mines my father created.”
In my head, I see how the same castes of society were carried from inside of the city to outside of it. Order must be maintained. Again, something the Narrator said nags at me. “A practice common / From birth to the stars beyond / Of men over men.”
The blue glow intensifies until everything swims in it. It drowns out the feeble light from the sconces on the wall.
“So this thing your father created has to be taken continuously? A constant supply of this rock is required? Is this what your miners extract?”
“That’s correct. We only have one mine operational now, it’s near the site where my father originally found Indigo. Our other mines supplied the marble for this palace, as well as much of the metal needed to build this facility.”
“What happens if the supply stops?” Or the miners decide they don’t want to continue working?
Allen shrugs lightly, as if the possibility can’t be taken too seriously. “My father believes a cascade of cell mutation and rapid aging will occur eventually, but no one really knows for sure. It’s not a concern though, the miners' contracts don’t allow them to quit working.”
There it is. The shit that props this whole world up. It’s always there, if you dig deep enough. “So the miners are kept alive by this forever drink your father made, and aren’t allowed to quit working. And even if they did, they’d likely die soon after. So you keep them as slaves?”
“We do not keep slaves, I find that statement very offensive,” Allen responds haughtily, looking over to me with furrowed brows. “They are indentured workers, nothing more, fulfilling terms of a contract that they agreed to. They benefit from this and are treated well.”
Why is it that the powerful always try to keep the moral high ground?
I’m about to respond when we step out of the spiraling stairwell, and into the massive expanse of a factory. Everything is awash in neon blue light. It seems to glow organically from every surface. As my eyes adjust to the sight, I see the illumination is from bits of translucent rock that are in various forms of processing across the room.
On one side, giant boulders are being unloaded from a mine cart. On the opposite side, a vat of glowing blue liquid is agitated by an automated paddle wheel. In between these two extremes are machines that crush, pummel, and grind the rocks into a fine powder, and then combine them with more ingredients into the final liquid form. Workers are scattered across the factory floor—monitoring equipment, holding clipboards, and assisting in loading raw material. They all wear white lab coats and face coverings.
I follow Allen into the room, and I’m stunned into silence. The factory flows like clockwork around us. The workers give a slight nod to the prince as they pass, but otherwise ignore our presence. The machines here are loud, but not overly so. They operate smoothly, efficiently, and I’m drawn into their repetitive motions. After one machine crushes boulders, another actuates immediately behind it and continues to refine the material down to a powder. I’d read of factories before, but never experienced one.
I follow the processing line and see the powder added to a clear liquid in measured doses. It glows faintly. Another liquid solution is carefully titrated in, and when the perfect balance is hit, the mixture glows heavily. From there it’s boiled and condensed several times, removing impurities. In a flash of memory, I see myself working similar tools to create terrible concoctions. I’m no chemical genius, the methods were all captured in my father's books. But I made something truly terrible, and I gave it to monsters. Memories of the night at Skyball circle in my head. The screaming, the blood. The death.
I become aware that Prince Allen is speaking at some point. “...line was built from my father’s vision after we moved into the palace to automate a large portion of production. Of course, with such high demand this was necessary. As you can see, the factory runs smoothly, cleanly, and creates a steady stream of Indigo. We are not wanting here.”
“Why are you showing me all this?” I ask, but it hits me before he responds. To impress me, to intrigue me, to make me stay. I can tell my question has caught him off-guard, it’s more honest than he expected.
“To show you what our world has to offer,” he responds after a pause, and blushes slightly.
“Cart returning soon!” The call goes up around the room as a red light starts to flash. It draws both of our attention.
In the corner of the factory, technicians hurriedly clear the mine cart’s track of debris and tools used for lifting boulders. The job done, one of them presses a button on the wall, and the mine cart rockets off through the darkness. We both stare after it for several moments.
Allen turns then and like we’re twin moths drawn to a flame, we walk over to the glowing blue vat of fluid. I watch as a mixing paddle turns slowly through it. It’s still translucent, but only just barely.
“I bet you’ve seen curious things in your travels through different cities, but nothing as curious as this,” he says with a charming smile, his composure regained.
On a nearby table there’s a graduated cylinder of the liquid that looks left over from some testing. It pulls to me, calls to me, promises the end of death. What an incredible thing it would be to live forever. I never thought I was overly interested in my own mortality, until the possibility of removing the barrier was presented to me. It’s tempting. No death, no pain, just unending comfort. But this is all built on the backs of others. Just like our city, it’s beautiful on the surface. But underneath that exterior, it’s skewed, ugly.
I think again of the Narrator, of his goals in sending me here. In creating a temptation for me that pits my own nature against my morality. This is all a test. A moral proving ground. A fucking story. And with that thought, my anger returns. It does not flare and die, it blazes into being like an active volcano, ready to spew magma and hate. I see the miners who toil to create this life, and though I’ve never met them, their plight makes my chest ache. Cursed to live forever as a slave, so these people can enjoy fine dining and cocktail parties every day. It’s no different than our city. The setting changes, but the rules don’t.
“I’ve seen many abuses of people in my travels, but certainly nothing as great as this. You’ve built a world on the backs of others and framed it as a great achievement. Only here, people can’t even get freedom from death. I can only imagine the horror of their existence. I would like to return to my room now.”
I say it slowly, my words dripping in venom, and with each sentence, Allen’s face gets more flushed with anger. I see his hands twitch, and wait for him to try and strike me. Let him try, I’m not defenseless, I know how to fight. I curl my fists and watch his body for clues.
Instead, he relaxes, his face calming back to his princely superiority. He calls over my shoulder, deeper into the room, “Guards, remove this guest to her room, she’s being difficult.”
I turn, and only then do I realize that two bodyguards have followed us down into the factory. They must have moved silently behind us. One of them points a long, shining gun toward me. Absurdly, I notice how the shimmering blue of the room dances over its surface as the world around me seems to slow. I try to move sideways to avoid it, but a wall of pressure hits me suddenly and my balance evaporates. My legs turn soft as I lunge, and I strike the floor hard.
I try to move on the ground, to crawl to my feet, to get away, but nothing seems to work right. My head swims, and I puke from a violent wave of nausea.
Allen bends down at my side. “I can be sweet too, I promise, but I can also be sour. I won’t tolerate insolence. What you’re feeling will fade, but let the memory be a reminder that you are in my world. You will not disrespect me.”
With that, the guards grab my arms and haul me to my feet. Vertigo washes over me, and I puke on myself again. I hear them mutter in disgust behind their reflective, black helmets. And then mercifully, I pass out.
I come to as they drag me back through the cocktail party, but I can barely lift my head. Around me I hear the stir of conversation die, and in the hush of the room whispered threads drift to me.
“...girl didn’t know her place.”
“An absolute mess…”
“Poor thing…”
“... only want her for her womb anyways.”
“…prince needs an heir…”
The words float around in my head without meaning. I turn them over, inspecting them like an alien puzzle. The guards stop and when I open my eyes there are a pair of feet in front of my downward gaze. With great effort I raise my head and see Dee, her face flushed in anger. Why is she so upset, I wonder distantly.
“I see the prince still has not learned how to treat a woman. What a disgrace. Give her to me, I will help her back to her room,” she says haughtily.
Muttering, the guards lift me and Dee loops my arm around her neck. Without a care that my vomit stains her clothes, she pulls me to her. I’m shocked at the strength of the smaller woman as she supports me, and find then that my legs have started to respond to my brain again. With her help, despite my mounting nausea, I hobble from the room and back down the hall to my quarters.
A feeling of floating, of weightlessness. I drift upward into Sophia’s arms. I smile drunkenly into my friend’s blank face, until I see the skewed reflection of my own in the metal and grimace at the sight. With the world spinning again, I close my eyes.
“What happened to her?”
“Sonic cannon, it disrupts the inner ear. No lasting damage, but she needs to rest. The prince…” Dee trails off.
I fly over to the bed in her arms, and feel its welcoming presence envelope me as Sophia sets me down. She removes my stained clothes, cleans my face with a soft cloth, and covers me in thick blankets. The darkness tugs at me again, but before I go, I rummage through the conversations I heard earlier. I see everything as a puzzle piece, and I feel their edges to determine the shape of what’s missing. Everyone’s the same age, but the prince is younger. They all drink the forever drink. There are no children here that I’ve seen, no sounds of their playing, no toys fit for them. The king…the prince…dynasty building. The prince needs an heir.
The outline of the missing shape forms in my head, and I realize that its edges are my edges. Disgust washes over me. I am a salvation the Narrator promised them. I am their future, their hope of growth. My rage simmers. I will destroy them.
I let sleep take me.
A dream of anger and fire. I scream in eternal frustration, and as my rage washes over, it all burns down. The city I came from, the structures. And in the flames I see the people I love burned with it. I see my mother who preferred death to participation, I see Sophia, my caretaker, who preferred me to life. I see Nick running from the flames as they try to swallow him. As I try to swallow him. I see hundreds of people in the Skyball, they stare at me with blank gazes, unmoving as the fire takes them.
I see a vat of iridescent blue, its contents being slowly stirred. The liquid calls to me, but the desire only fuels my endless, boundless, seething anger. And when I scream again, I will the fire to take it. To burn it all down. To end another world.
Twelve
Nicholas
Days pass at the mine. There is a natural tide to their flow that can only come from the repetition of doing the same things. With each cycle, I rise for breakfast stiff and sore. I work each day with Brian, and every night I bring Charon food. I watch the cistern slowly dip lower at every meal. I can taste the sediment in it now, like sand against my throat when I swallow, just as Brian said I would.
On the lift to and from the mine, I plead my case to the others in quiet whispers. Not for just my sake, but for all of ours. Some nod along, others tut in disapproval. There’s fear of reprisal, and also a fear of what will happen when they stop taking Indigo. But under that fear is an anger that simmers in all of them. There’s a hunger for freedom, and with each passing day there is more hope in their eyes.
“I watched the guards pilot that flyer yesterday, it seems mostly automated. There was one control lever for take off, and then I’d guess the other must be for movement. I think it auto-balances though,” Henry Fiveboroughs tells me as we descend for an evening shift.
My father was friends with a Henry Fiveboroughs, and when I look into the miner’s blue eyes, I wonder if he shares the same affable nature.
“Good work confirming that, Henry. Did you see how they accessed the pilot’s cabin?”
He shrugs. “There’s a hand scanner, but only keyed to them. Guessing we’ll need to drag ‘em there once they’re out cold.”
“Do you really think the strength of the weeds will be enough to knock them out?” Jospehine asks, concerned.
This particular point has come up several times, and we’ve chased it around. Some are convinced that it will, some are concerned that it will be strong enough to even knock the tolerant amongst us out. Others are unsure. It seems the effect is not the same on everyone, even between the tolerant there’s a wide range of dosage used. And of course, some plants are stronger than others. We spent an entire lift ride discussing where I harvested them from, to know if they were predominantly shade-grown or sun-grown, to earmark their potency.
“Those cats don’t have any experience with the stuff, Joe, we just gotta be careful to not have too much ourselves,” Brian responds, and shoots me a conspiratorial wink.
I’ve been dosing myself heavily the last few days to boost my tolerance, but I still know I’m at a disadvantage. If I’m not careful, I’ll wind up knocked out like the guards and have to hope the miners execute on the plan.
“How long until we put the dose in, then? Is the cistern low enough?” I ask, after a brief moment of silence.
The miners look at each other, judging the depth from their own experiences these last few days. There’s agreement in their faces as they turn to each other, My pulse quickens in response.
“We drop it in tonight, let it soak and see what happens in the morning. Or we lose our chance for a long time. They’ll surely fill it up tomorrow evening,” Brian says to me, others nodding in agreement.
“Any opposed?” I ask, my heart pounding in my throat.
There’s complete silence. The weight of finality descends onto my shoulders, and I hope that I haven’t just signed everyone’s death sentence. When we reach the bottom of the mine, everyone filters off. Just another day, nothing has changed. I hope this works.
Brian shakes me from my contemplation when he thrusts a pick into my hands.
After night falls, I pull my cosmic armor out from under my bedding. My clothes I brought here were too ragged to save, but the thin barrier underneath them was still in good shape. It saved my life twice now, once when Charon and I battled a room full of Inquisitors, and then again when Edward tried to stab me. I might need it again tomorrow, and it won’t be noticed under my workwear. I quickly pull it on.
While I’m alone in my cave I also check the functionality of my wrist knife. My gift from Micah, so long ago. He had a better idea of where my story would head than I did. Even though the guards must have searched me for weapons when they brought me here, the cloaking of the small plasma knife means it avoided detection. I haven’t wanted to show it to the miners, in case it gives them a different idea of me. When I pull my wrist back, it springs upwards and coats the inside of the cave walls in a celestial blue glow. I quickly snap my wrist forward again, hoping that no one saw the light.
Memories burn my conscience long after the glow of it fades. With my eyes closed, I watch the blade pierce Edward’s chin and leave him a charred husk. In a time that feels ancient now, I see a Plague Doctor impaled with it. I shudder, and hope that tomorrow doesn’t bring a need for it. I’ll defend myself and my friends, but I’m tired of killing.
Lastly, I grab my canteen from under my pillow. I uncap it, and the room is instantly full of the dense, earthy aroma of the sleep weeds from the crevasse. Time in the heat of the canteen has made them start to decompose, and I can only hope that it doesn’t affect their potency. I wrench the cap back on quickly, my heart thudding at what comes next.
The night sky lights my path down to the cistern from the cave. I wished we were completely obscured, but this world seems to have little cloud cover, and the phase of the twin moons seems nearly constant. In the soft light, I make out the shape of Brian crouched next to the well. I make my way slowly down the hill to join him, careful to avoid making excess noise.
One of the major flaws in my plan, that both Brian and I have recognized in the past few days, is a complete lack of knowledge on what surveillance there is on this encampment. It seems unlikely with the level of technology the guards have, and the value of these miners, that there would be none. But despite careful checking, neither of us have seen any evidence. Still, we do what we can to prevent being noticed.
We work quickly, our actions already discussed while we worked in the mine that evening. Brian takes a thin rope made from scraps of old jumpsuits, and ties it to the neck of the canteen. He leaves the cap barely engaged at the end of its threads while I hold it out over the cistern. He gives the rope a few careful tugs, and when our eyes meet in the dark, he gives me a quiet nod.
The plan is to have the cap hold the rope onto the canteen so we can slowly lower it to the bottom. Once the canteen is near the water’s edge, a quick snap of the line will break both it and the cap free. With Brian’s nod being the signal for me to release the canteen so that he can start lowering it, I let go. And then I watch our plan fail spectacularly.
“You may be thinking from this that my father is a greedy man, but he was also magnanimous. For those in the lower quarters whose money was insufficient and fealty was not useful, my father offered them access if they worked for him. Some of them work in the palace, while others more suited were sent to the mines my father created.”
In my head, I see how the same castes of society were carried from inside of the city to outside of it. Order must be maintained. Again, something the Narrator said nags at me. “A practice common / From birth to the stars beyond / Of men over men.”
The blue glow intensifies until everything swims in it. It drowns out the feeble light from the sconces on the wall.
“So this thing your father created has to be taken continuously? A constant supply of this rock is required? Is this what your miners extract?”
“That’s correct. We only have one mine operational now, it’s near the site where my father originally found Indigo. Our other mines supplied the marble for this palace, as well as much of the metal needed to build this facility.”
“What happens if the supply stops?” Or the miners decide they don’t want to continue working?
Allen shrugs lightly, as if the possibility can’t be taken too seriously. “My father believes a cascade of cell mutation and rapid aging will occur eventually, but no one really knows for sure. It’s not a concern though, the miners' contracts don’t allow them to quit working.”
There it is. The shit that props this whole world up. It’s always there, if you dig deep enough. “So the miners are kept alive by this forever drink your father made, and aren’t allowed to quit working. And even if they did, they’d likely die soon after. So you keep them as slaves?”
“We do not keep slaves, I find that statement very offensive,” Allen responds haughtily, looking over to me with furrowed brows. “They are indentured workers, nothing more, fulfilling terms of a contract that they agreed to. They benefit from this and are treated well.”
Why is it that the powerful always try to keep the moral high ground?
I’m about to respond when we step out of the spiraling stairwell, and into the massive expanse of a factory. Everything is awash in neon blue light. It seems to glow organically from every surface. As my eyes adjust to the sight, I see the illumination is from bits of translucent rock that are in various forms of processing across the room.
On one side, giant boulders are being unloaded from a mine cart. On the opposite side, a vat of glowing blue liquid is agitated by an automated paddle wheel. In between these two extremes are machines that crush, pummel, and grind the rocks into a fine powder, and then combine them with more ingredients into the final liquid form. Workers are scattered across the factory floor—monitoring equipment, holding clipboards, and assisting in loading raw material. They all wear white lab coats and face coverings.
I follow Allen into the room, and I’m stunned into silence. The factory flows like clockwork around us. The workers give a slight nod to the prince as they pass, but otherwise ignore our presence. The machines here are loud, but not overly so. They operate smoothly, efficiently, and I’m drawn into their repetitive motions. After one machine crushes boulders, another actuates immediately behind it and continues to refine the material down to a powder. I’d read of factories before, but never experienced one.
I follow the processing line and see the powder added to a clear liquid in measured doses. It glows faintly. Another liquid solution is carefully titrated in, and when the perfect balance is hit, the mixture glows heavily. From there it’s boiled and condensed several times, removing impurities. In a flash of memory, I see myself working similar tools to create terrible concoctions. I’m no chemical genius, the methods were all captured in my father's books. But I made something truly terrible, and I gave it to monsters. Memories of the night at Skyball circle in my head. The screaming, the blood. The death.
I become aware that Prince Allen is speaking at some point. “...line was built from my father’s vision after we moved into the palace to automate a large portion of production. Of course, with such high demand this was necessary. As you can see, the factory runs smoothly, cleanly, and creates a steady stream of Indigo. We are not wanting here.”
“Why are you showing me all this?” I ask, but it hits me before he responds. To impress me, to intrigue me, to make me stay. I can tell my question has caught him off-guard, it’s more honest than he expected.
“To show you what our world has to offer,” he responds after a pause, and blushes slightly.
“Cart returning soon!” The call goes up around the room as a red light starts to flash. It draws both of our attention.
In the corner of the factory, technicians hurriedly clear the mine cart’s track of debris and tools used for lifting boulders. The job done, one of them presses a button on the wall, and the mine cart rockets off through the darkness. We both stare after it for several moments.
Allen turns then and like we’re twin moths drawn to a flame, we walk over to the glowing blue vat of fluid. I watch as a mixing paddle turns slowly through it. It’s still translucent, but only just barely.
“I bet you’ve seen curious things in your travels through different cities, but nothing as curious as this,” he says with a charming smile, his composure regained.
On a nearby table there’s a graduated cylinder of the liquid that looks left over from some testing. It pulls to me, calls to me, promises the end of death. What an incredible thing it would be to live forever. I never thought I was overly interested in my own mortality, until the possibility of removing the barrier was presented to me. It’s tempting. No death, no pain, just unending comfort. But this is all built on the backs of others. Just like our city, it’s beautiful on the surface. But underneath that exterior, it’s skewed, ugly.
I think again of the Narrator, of his goals in sending me here. In creating a temptation for me that pits my own nature against my morality. This is all a test. A moral proving ground. A fucking story. And with that thought, my anger returns. It does not flare and die, it blazes into being like an active volcano, ready to spew magma and hate. I see the miners who toil to create this life, and though I’ve never met them, their plight makes my chest ache. Cursed to live forever as a slave, so these people can enjoy fine dining and cocktail parties every day. It’s no different than our city. The setting changes, but the rules don’t.
“I’ve seen many abuses of people in my travels, but certainly nothing as great as this. You’ve built a world on the backs of others and framed it as a great achievement. Only here, people can’t even get freedom from death. I can only imagine the horror of their existence. I would like to return to my room now.”
I say it slowly, my words dripping in venom, and with each sentence, Allen’s face gets more flushed with anger. I see his hands twitch, and wait for him to try and strike me. Let him try, I’m not defenseless, I know how to fight. I curl my fists and watch his body for clues.
Instead, he relaxes, his face calming back to his princely superiority. He calls over my shoulder, deeper into the room, “Guards, remove this guest to her room, she’s being difficult.”
I turn, and only then do I realize that two bodyguards have followed us down into the factory. They must have moved silently behind us. One of them points a long, shining gun toward me. Absurdly, I notice how the shimmering blue of the room dances over its surface as the world around me seems to slow. I try to move sideways to avoid it, but a wall of pressure hits me suddenly and my balance evaporates. My legs turn soft as I lunge, and I strike the floor hard.
I try to move on the ground, to crawl to my feet, to get away, but nothing seems to work right. My head swims, and I puke from a violent wave of nausea.
Allen bends down at my side. “I can be sweet too, I promise, but I can also be sour. I won’t tolerate insolence. What you’re feeling will fade, but let the memory be a reminder that you are in my world. You will not disrespect me.”
With that, the guards grab my arms and haul me to my feet. Vertigo washes over me, and I puke on myself again. I hear them mutter in disgust behind their reflective, black helmets. And then mercifully, I pass out.
I come to as they drag me back through the cocktail party, but I can barely lift my head. Around me I hear the stir of conversation die, and in the hush of the room whispered threads drift to me.
“...girl didn’t know her place.”
“An absolute mess…”
“Poor thing…”
“... only want her for her womb anyways.”
“…prince needs an heir…”
The words float around in my head without meaning. I turn them over, inspecting them like an alien puzzle. The guards stop and when I open my eyes there are a pair of feet in front of my downward gaze. With great effort I raise my head and see Dee, her face flushed in anger. Why is she so upset, I wonder distantly.
“I see the prince still has not learned how to treat a woman. What a disgrace. Give her to me, I will help her back to her room,” she says haughtily.
Muttering, the guards lift me and Dee loops my arm around her neck. Without a care that my vomit stains her clothes, she pulls me to her. I’m shocked at the strength of the smaller woman as she supports me, and find then that my legs have started to respond to my brain again. With her help, despite my mounting nausea, I hobble from the room and back down the hall to my quarters.
A feeling of floating, of weightlessness. I drift upward into Sophia’s arms. I smile drunkenly into my friend’s blank face, until I see the skewed reflection of my own in the metal and grimace at the sight. With the world spinning again, I close my eyes.
“What happened to her?”
“Sonic cannon, it disrupts the inner ear. No lasting damage, but she needs to rest. The prince…” Dee trails off.
I fly over to the bed in her arms, and feel its welcoming presence envelope me as Sophia sets me down. She removes my stained clothes, cleans my face with a soft cloth, and covers me in thick blankets. The darkness tugs at me again, but before I go, I rummage through the conversations I heard earlier. I see everything as a puzzle piece, and I feel their edges to determine the shape of what’s missing. Everyone’s the same age, but the prince is younger. They all drink the forever drink. There are no children here that I’ve seen, no sounds of their playing, no toys fit for them. The king…the prince…dynasty building. The prince needs an heir.
The outline of the missing shape forms in my head, and I realize that its edges are my edges. Disgust washes over me. I am a salvation the Narrator promised them. I am their future, their hope of growth. My rage simmers. I will destroy them.
I let sleep take me.
A dream of anger and fire. I scream in eternal frustration, and as my rage washes over, it all burns down. The city I came from, the structures. And in the flames I see the people I love burned with it. I see my mother who preferred death to participation, I see Sophia, my caretaker, who preferred me to life. I see Nick running from the flames as they try to swallow him. As I try to swallow him. I see hundreds of people in the Skyball, they stare at me with blank gazes, unmoving as the fire takes them.
I see a vat of iridescent blue, its contents being slowly stirred. The liquid calls to me, but the desire only fuels my endless, boundless, seething anger. And when I scream again, I will the fire to take it. To burn it all down. To end another world.
Twelve
Nicholas
Days pass at the mine. There is a natural tide to their flow that can only come from the repetition of doing the same things. With each cycle, I rise for breakfast stiff and sore. I work each day with Brian, and every night I bring Charon food. I watch the cistern slowly dip lower at every meal. I can taste the sediment in it now, like sand against my throat when I swallow, just as Brian said I would.
On the lift to and from the mine, I plead my case to the others in quiet whispers. Not for just my sake, but for all of ours. Some nod along, others tut in disapproval. There’s fear of reprisal, and also a fear of what will happen when they stop taking Indigo. But under that fear is an anger that simmers in all of them. There’s a hunger for freedom, and with each passing day there is more hope in their eyes.
“I watched the guards pilot that flyer yesterday, it seems mostly automated. There was one control lever for take off, and then I’d guess the other must be for movement. I think it auto-balances though,” Henry Fiveboroughs tells me as we descend for an evening shift.
My father was friends with a Henry Fiveboroughs, and when I look into the miner’s blue eyes, I wonder if he shares the same affable nature.
“Good work confirming that, Henry. Did you see how they accessed the pilot’s cabin?”
He shrugs. “There’s a hand scanner, but only keyed to them. Guessing we’ll need to drag ‘em there once they’re out cold.”
“Do you really think the strength of the weeds will be enough to knock them out?” Jospehine asks, concerned.
This particular point has come up several times, and we’ve chased it around. Some are convinced that it will, some are concerned that it will be strong enough to even knock the tolerant amongst us out. Others are unsure. It seems the effect is not the same on everyone, even between the tolerant there’s a wide range of dosage used. And of course, some plants are stronger than others. We spent an entire lift ride discussing where I harvested them from, to know if they were predominantly shade-grown or sun-grown, to earmark their potency.
“Those cats don’t have any experience with the stuff, Joe, we just gotta be careful to not have too much ourselves,” Brian responds, and shoots me a conspiratorial wink.
I’ve been dosing myself heavily the last few days to boost my tolerance, but I still know I’m at a disadvantage. If I’m not careful, I’ll wind up knocked out like the guards and have to hope the miners execute on the plan.
“How long until we put the dose in, then? Is the cistern low enough?” I ask, after a brief moment of silence.
The miners look at each other, judging the depth from their own experiences these last few days. There’s agreement in their faces as they turn to each other, My pulse quickens in response.
“We drop it in tonight, let it soak and see what happens in the morning. Or we lose our chance for a long time. They’ll surely fill it up tomorrow evening,” Brian says to me, others nodding in agreement.
“Any opposed?” I ask, my heart pounding in my throat.
There’s complete silence. The weight of finality descends onto my shoulders, and I hope that I haven’t just signed everyone’s death sentence. When we reach the bottom of the mine, everyone filters off. Just another day, nothing has changed. I hope this works.
Brian shakes me from my contemplation when he thrusts a pick into my hands.
After night falls, I pull my cosmic armor out from under my bedding. My clothes I brought here were too ragged to save, but the thin barrier underneath them was still in good shape. It saved my life twice now, once when Charon and I battled a room full of Inquisitors, and then again when Edward tried to stab me. I might need it again tomorrow, and it won’t be noticed under my workwear. I quickly pull it on.
While I’m alone in my cave I also check the functionality of my wrist knife. My gift from Micah, so long ago. He had a better idea of where my story would head than I did. Even though the guards must have searched me for weapons when they brought me here, the cloaking of the small plasma knife means it avoided detection. I haven’t wanted to show it to the miners, in case it gives them a different idea of me. When I pull my wrist back, it springs upwards and coats the inside of the cave walls in a celestial blue glow. I quickly snap my wrist forward again, hoping that no one saw the light.
Memories burn my conscience long after the glow of it fades. With my eyes closed, I watch the blade pierce Edward’s chin and leave him a charred husk. In a time that feels ancient now, I see a Plague Doctor impaled with it. I shudder, and hope that tomorrow doesn’t bring a need for it. I’ll defend myself and my friends, but I’m tired of killing.
Lastly, I grab my canteen from under my pillow. I uncap it, and the room is instantly full of the dense, earthy aroma of the sleep weeds from the crevasse. Time in the heat of the canteen has made them start to decompose, and I can only hope that it doesn’t affect their potency. I wrench the cap back on quickly, my heart thudding at what comes next.
The night sky lights my path down to the cistern from the cave. I wished we were completely obscured, but this world seems to have little cloud cover, and the phase of the twin moons seems nearly constant. In the soft light, I make out the shape of Brian crouched next to the well. I make my way slowly down the hill to join him, careful to avoid making excess noise.
One of the major flaws in my plan, that both Brian and I have recognized in the past few days, is a complete lack of knowledge on what surveillance there is on this encampment. It seems unlikely with the level of technology the guards have, and the value of these miners, that there would be none. But despite careful checking, neither of us have seen any evidence. Still, we do what we can to prevent being noticed.
We work quickly, our actions already discussed while we worked in the mine that evening. Brian takes a thin rope made from scraps of old jumpsuits, and ties it to the neck of the canteen. He leaves the cap barely engaged at the end of its threads while I hold it out over the cistern. He gives the rope a few careful tugs, and when our eyes meet in the dark, he gives me a quiet nod.
The plan is to have the cap hold the rope onto the canteen so we can slowly lower it to the bottom. Once the canteen is near the water’s edge, a quick snap of the line will break both it and the cap free. With Brian’s nod being the signal for me to release the canteen so that he can start lowering it, I let go. And then I watch our plan fail spectacularly.
