24:01 One Minute After

by Eric Diehl

  As Sharana suggested, Stedder fumed, they will do nothing. A black anger descended over him and he pivoted and began to stride away, but was pulled up by a hand on his shoulder.

  “Stedder!” hissed Plax. “What are you going to do?”

  “I am going to… I’m—” He shook his head. “I don’t know what it is that I’ll do—not yet. But if there is a Hell, I’ll be damned to it if I do nothing.” He smiled, a mirthless expression. “A harsh ending to a bitter existence.” He swept his arms open. “Look around you, Plaf. Nyreea spoke of hope, Sharana of ‘a new life beyond’. I see oppression with a dark purpose. Which view do your surroundings support?”

  Plaf leaned away from Stedder. “I don’t know. Neither, maybe. But this… intrusion does feel wrong. And it could have been any of us.” He stirred the dirt with his toes. “You’re going to go after her, aren’t you? Try to take her away from the Viirin?”

  Stedder nodded grimly. “I have no choice. I’ll likely die in the attempt, but even in the unlikely case that the Silver Hoods didn’t catch up with me in ShantyTown, it’s not so long before I’ll also be an ‘ascendent’ Elder, and the Viirin would then come to take me away with all the rest.” He shook his head. “I’m not going! I’ll never board that vessel.”

  Plaf touched him lightly. “Stedder, have you thought this through? Even if you were able, somehow, to take Nyreea away from the Viirin—what then?”

  Stedder nodded to some vague destination, far beyond the bounds of the ghetto. “Out there. The stories say the distances are vast, and uninhabited by either hoomans or the Viirin.” He gazed intently at Plax. “We survived on our own, once, I’m sure of it. Why not once again?”

  Plax sighed. “That is an appealingly idealistic desire, but appallingly unlikely. The land might once have supported—what was it called… agerculter? The growing of food—plants that could be eaten? But look now,” he scuffed his feet in the dirt, stirring the dust. “Even if you knew how, and what, to grow—what could possibly be grown here? Water is essential to agerculter, so the stories say, and the Viirin maintain total control of the water in their vast reservoirs, releasing it to our well fields sparingly.”

  Stedder shook his head stubbornly. “I’d wager that they don’t control it all, not across the entire planet. The stories tell of spots where the landscape is not so barren, where water falls from the sky and stands in pools to be used at will.”

  Plax snorted. “I’m surprised to hear that from you—the one who dismisses the old tales as mythology.”

  “Not all of the old tales,” insisted Stedder. “Only those based on empty words, those foisted upon us for the sole purpose of manipulation.”

  Plax sighed again. “All right, let’s say there actually is some place on the planet where it’s possible to live off the land, and that you were able to get there, and learn enough to survive.” He peered hard into Stedder’s eyes. “What of the Viirin? They don’t track us individually inside any of the ghettos, but they can overlay the signal from our biotags on their map-charts and spot any hooman outside the bounds of ShantyTown.”

  “That’s not the leading issue,” said Stedder, shaking his head even while understanding that Plax made a very compelling argument. But Stedder had a vague plan, and by his reckoning a failed attempt was better than a loss with no effort expended. “The first question is; how do I get to Nyreea, inside the Viirin compound? I can scarcely walk up and rap on the door. Maybe in the dark I might find someplace to climb in over the walls?”

  Plax let his gaze fall, seeming to consider the bit of nothing at his feet, and then raised his eyes back to Stedder. “I should not tell you this, but I’m certain that you’ll try to get in anyway, one way or another.”

  Stedder cocked his head. “What, Plax? What should you not tell me?”

  “Do you remember a couple years ago; the Viirin needed labor to dredge some of the sedimentation in their sewage system?”

  Light dawned in Stedder’s eyes, like the sun after a wind-storm.

  “They needed someone strong, but small,” continued Plax, “to be able to clamber through the channels and wield a shovel and barrow. You might remember that that was me.”

  “Yes,” said Stedder softly. “I know where the outflow grates are. It makes sense that the sewer lines would pass throughout the compound. Unintended and unattended access to the fortress.”

  “It’s a very old structure,” said Plax, “with the lowest section comprised of cells—like the dungeons of old that the Caretakers claim they saved us from. It’s probably not guarded at all—it wasn’t when I was working there—because what do the Viirin need to defend themselves against here on Olde Aearth?”

  Stedder nodded eagerly. “Yes! That’s the answer! We can enter at the grate and pass through the sewer lines, and….” His voice trailed off as he watched Plaf shake his head.

  I won’t be going with you,” said Plax quietly. “I’m sorry, but I won’t risk my life for a cause that I’m not at all sure of. But—I can tell you how to proceed once you’re in.”

  Stedder gulped, and nodded.

  ***

  The stench was horrific, worse even then the latrine pits in ShantyTown. He strained at the metal grate, and put to work the short iron bar he’d managed to secret out of the ghetto. He’d had no recourse but to steal the piece, as iron in any form was extremely valuable, and prohibited in the hooman habitats. He found a crevice to pry it into, and he worked and worked the leverage until he could pull the grate out enough to force in a rock to prop it open. He bunched his muscles and tugged the grating further and further out, and finally it tipped and fell in the dirt with a muffled thud. He held his breath, listening.

  After long moments with no sound rising above his pounding heart, he turned to peer into the opening. It rose at a minimal grade, with a thin flow of effluent coursing out over a layer of sludge. He stepped in, willing his eyes to adjust to the dark. There were smaller venting grates to either side, letting in just enough light to see by. He began shuffling forward, hands pressed to either wall and feet slipping and catching. There were constant sounds of skittering ahead and behind and all around, and when he could see just a little from the faint light of a side grating he could make out the forms scrambling through their domain-by-possession. Sewer rats. Any that had survived the failed extermination were hardy mutants, and evidence here pointed to a very prospering subterranean population. He gritted his teeth and forged on.

  He counted off the overhead grates, as Plax had told him, and after four he turned left where the channel branched, and after two more came to his target. He stood below the overhead grate, looking up, and he mustered the will to start the short climb up, the heavily rusted and flaking rungs of the ladder chafing even his calloused palms. Just below the grate he pressed his face close and squinted to peer through, and seeing and hearing nothing he came up another step, his head down and his shoulders pressed up against the iron weight. He surged up against it, again and again, and finally with a supreme effort it pinged and crunched and lifted free. He carefully rose and turned to sit while bracing the hinged piece from clanging back down, and once he’d lowered it carefully back into place he squatted, breathing hard, peering all around the dimly lit surroundings.

  He was outside the cell block.

  He padded softly along the bank of enclosures—they were all empty, with heavy wooden doors standing open. Then he came to one that was closed, with a heavy iron deadbolt thrown. He studied it, lifting the tang and sliding the bolt back. He pressed open the door, and there, huddled on the floor, was a cowering bundle of rags, its head tucked between its knees and quivering.

  “Nyreea?” whispered Stedder.

  The head snapped up. “St... Stedder? How… How can you be here? They’ve taken you as well? I’m sorry, I told them nothing, I—”

  Her voice hushed as Stedder slipped down beside her on the floor and placed a finger to her lips. He smiled—bravely, he thought.

 
“No Nyreea,” he whispered. “I came in through the sewer lines. I’ve come to free you.”

  Her lips began to tremble, and she flung her arms around his neck, hugging him fiercely and sobbing into his shoulder. But after a few moments she pushed herself back and stared at him, doubt clouding her eyes.

  “But Stedder, they’ll find you here! They’ll pick up the signal from your—” Her eyes had fallen to his forearm, and she stared at the bloody rag tied there. He held up the short iron bar, one end of which he’d ground an edge upon, and Nyreea began to cry quietly. “Stedder, you cut the tag out? You’ll be punished horribly when they find out what you’ve done. They will… you’ll…” Her voice faltered to a stop.

  “Nyreea, it doesn’t matter now, I’m already marked. They would have taken me earlier today if they’d found me; it’s just a matter of time.” He put a hand softly to her cheek. “Just as it is for you, I fear.”

  Her eyes implored him to say otherwise, but also reflected her realization of the harsh truth of his words. She hung her head and spoke in a teary voice. “There was a boy here when they brought me in,” she said, very softly, “in a nearby cell. I didn’t recognize him, he was from another ghetto—DownsTown, I think he said—and we whispered through the bars. He was very frightened, of course, but when they came for him he pretended he wasn’t afraid. He stood up to them, demanding his privileges. They told him to be silent and he didn’t; he began to yell at them, cursing. His voice got louder and louder until he was screaming. I was frightened and I covered my eyes—and then there was a muffled, thudding sound, and another, and then silence. Nothing but… nothing but the sound of a dead weight being drug across the floor.” She gripped his shirt in both fists. “Stedder, I think they killed him! Just as easily as that!”

  Stedder nodded grimly. “I’m afraid that does not surprise me. Look, Nyreea, bite down on this scrap of softboard, and avert your eyes if you prefer. I’ve got another strip of cloth for a bandage. I’ll cut out your tag, and then we must go!”

  Staring down at the stone floor and sobbing quietly, Nyreea began to shake her head no, then stopped. She lifted her gaze, and the raw despair in her eyes tore at Stedder’s heart.

  “It has to be this way, doesn’t it? There will be no… no glittering new life for you or I now, no hand of providence extended.” She paused some moments, and visibly seemed to regain strength, or at least resolve or acceptance. “Stedder? If you really believe the Viirin are so terrible, should we try to learn more, something to take back to the near-elders?”

  ***

  Padding softly on calloused soles they climbed a flight of stairs to a second level. Multiple floors; so much fully-sheltered space—new experiences they would have deemed marvelous under very different circumstances. Now Stedder became aware of something else: new smells! Not the rank and bothersome odors they were acclimated to, but fascinating scents, smells that made Stedder’s mouth water and his empty belly growl.

  There was a gaping passageway off to one side of the chamber they now skirted, with a rounded glow of light falling from the arched entry, and they cautiously made their way to it, hunkering down behind a broad column in the corridor beyond. Stedder edged his face around to squint from behind the pillar, and he sucked in his breath and forgot to exhale.

  The chamber was lit well, not just by the cool glow-rods but also by torches and a crackling fire pit. A great table was set—a weighty, hulking piece—arrayed with all manner of steaming platters and bowls, bottles and carafes, bounteous platefuls and chalices kept mostly full. Multiple Viirin, tall and thin and pale as fleeting wisps of cloud, continuously circulated the room, refilling goblets and ladling gravies and spooning oddly shaped items that Stedder had never before seen the like of but which he imagined to be food, possibly grown from the ground?

  A glorious meal, it would seem—served to the apparent Dark Lords of the Netherworld.

  Around the table sat a half dozen of what Stedder might assume to be Viirin, if not for a build and countenance very far removed from anything that he'd ever laid eyes upon. The more familiar creatures, those who now circulated the room in apparent servile duty, were slender, pasty complexioned beings, but these six were massive—and familiar as Viirin only by eyes that reflected the light nearly as red as the glowing coals in the fire pit. They were of a dark umber complexion, like that of dried blood, with bony overhung brows and widely spaced nostrils. They wore flowing black trousers but their upper torsos were bare, revealing corded bands of muscle under gleaming skin and broad chests perhaps thrice the girth of their attendants. Most deeply disturbing, though, were their teeth—more like fangs, really—with a pair, a long curved rear and a shorter front, protruding from either side of the upper jaw.

  “Look!” whispered Stedder at Nyreea’s ear. He jabbed a finger toward one side of the chamber, where an uncharacteristically docile Viirin stood attentively turning a long spit over the glowing fire pit. A creature was skewered on the slowly turning spire; a relatively thin torso, with longish legs and arms trussed in to prevent their dangling into the flames licking up from below. The body had been disemboweled and the spit rammed through lengthwise, emerging at either end of the spine, and the head was wired tight to the shaft just below where the top of the skull had been cut away and the brain removed. The mouth was forced open with some charred object wedged within, and its eyes had either been removed or had simply burned away.

  Droplets fell from the roasting creature into the fire below, sizzling and sending up spiking flames and whiffs of aromatic smoke, and Nyreea squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head into Stedder’s chest. Stedder had to force his locked gaze away from the spit, and was further horrified to realize that he could guess the source of the steaming, bulbous lump of soft tissue that was being cut into small bite-sized chunks at the main table.

  “Damnation,” whispered Stedder shakily. “That’s… a hooman.” His senses opened up to the rich scent, stirring some primal lust; he licked his dry lips while salivary glands flooded his mouth. It smelled… so amazingly good to someone who never knew anything but a dull, aching hunger. It overwhelmed his senses, he could somehow even taste it, and he bent forward and fought to not gag on the bile that rose in his throat.

  One of the creatures began to speak in a deep grating voice, and Stedder pressed a fist to his mouth, straining to concentrate on its words.

  ***

  Zar, the Alpha Prime, was very pleased with this turn of circumstances, and he let that show in his uncharacteristically benevolent manner. He drained the goblet, feeling it course through his system—so much more enervating than any common grain or fruit-based liquor. Bloodwine was one of the few perquisites of this backward planet where he’d had to endure the seven earth centuries since his initiation into the Primacy.

  One of the female Viirin pushed a wheeled cart bearing a small cask, and as she leaned in to refill his goblet Zar reached out to gently smooth a hand over her rounded belly. She stiffened, as if alarmed or incensed but still terrified of making any misstep, and Zar smiled. Even in his charitable mood, it was vastly pleasing to be so feared.

  “You should not be serving tonight, Ilyara,” he growled amiably, “You should instead tend to your growing brood. Take a place at the attendant's table and send in one of the other females. Fetch one who is not with child, and tell her that rest will come for her when she's taken my seed to grow.”

  Ilyara smiled uncertainly and scurried away to an adjacent chamber, her departure followed by the basso chortling of the gathered coven primes. When the mirth had dwindled away, Draded, on Zar’s right hand, spoke up.

  “Alpha Prime—you have called us in from the outlying covens for a specific purpose?”

  Zar nodded, and motioned for the Viirin at the spit to begin serving. When the steaming plates began to arrive he tore off a chunk of meat and chewed messily, nodding his satisfaction, and as the others fell to their plates he spoke around a mouthful.

  “You are corre
ct, Draded, I do indeed have tidings of great merit. It is with pride and pleasure that I announce that an entire wing of harvest vessels has been launched from the provisionary holding planet. I expect them to arrive here in twenty Earth day-cycles.” He paused, watching the reactions on the faces of his primes, satisfyingly bemused at their wide-eyed astonishment.

  “Alpha Prime!” gulped Ruden, holding a forgotten, charred thigh in his taloned grip, “A full wing, you say? What does this mean?”

  “A number of concerns and opportunities coalesce,” rumbled Zar, “such that our Guiding Council has elected to refocus our efforts.” He waved an arm to include the small group, “As you well know, our take from this planet continues to dwindle. Some say it is because the hooman spirit is broken, and with that goes the reproductive surge, while others insist it is because they are dull and witless creatures no longer led by the fiercely theological tenets that they held to before exposure to our reality. Another concern, somewhat contrary to the first, is that there is increasing unrest and discord surfacing among the creatures once removed from their home planet. Even in the tight confines of the stocking pens, they manage to plot and to distract; to even revolt. They are, of course, unable to make anything of such efforts, but their actions are distracting to the handlers and tiresome in terms of resource utilization. Why—there is even a surging effort among a cross-pen grouping to destroy themselves, before the slaughter, via a home-brew poison that renders their consumables useless!”

  Zar’s voice had risen with that last affront, and he calmed himself. “It is not an especially serious issue, really, but you know how the Council watches and worries over such matters.” The primes gathered around the table nodded knowingly, as the Council, in their cosseted home-world privilege, were always watching for means to justify their continued selection.

  “So that is the first of it,” continued Zar, “—concern over the continued viability of this harvest point. But,” he smiled broadly, “that is not the most of it.”