Age of the Marcks

by Gregory Benson

  Several nearby workers snuck a dismal look over to them with blood-red eyes. In spite of all their apparent suffering, there was still a sense of pity in their expressions toward the group that was boarding the platform. A guard on a control tower that overlooked the area below activated the platform, and it rotated slightly, and then descended, leaving the processing level. A sharp pit crawled in the deepest part of Crix’s stomach. He felt beads of sweat forming around his cheeks and brow as his nerves began to rattle.

  The group remained vigilant and quiet as they nervously looked around to see what emerged in the darkness below. The platform hummed and groaned as it descended deeper through the stone chute. Eventually, the walls turned from a smoke-stained black to a grey, packed-on dust. A pungent odor filled the air, similar to the smell on level one but much stronger. Finally, the platform plunged into an area known as the upper scab mines. The environment was cloudy with grey dust that made breathing strenuous from a burning sensation that filled their throat and lungs.

  It was difficult to see past a few meters through the dust-filled air, and a hollowed hum echoed in the distance. The group followed close behind the shadowy silhouettes of Eetak Five and Six, who followed the Dispor Marck guards. They moved forward at a moderate pace. In the distance, a faint red glow became visible, as the haunting hum drew closer. Crix looked to the side and could barely see a dust-covered handrail nearby. His eyes burned, and he found himself blinking erratically. Crunching and popping rang out in every direction and was so loud that at times it was startling.

  They found themselves surrounded by an eerie red glow that had a slow, flickering strobe. Two rings came into view that moved up and down in opposite directions from each other. A dome in the center of these rings gave off the red glow and was responsible for the monotonous humming that could be heard everywhere.

  “What is that thing?” Crix leaned into Kerriah, careful not to let the guards hear him.

  Crix found he was unable to focus; his mental state melted away, and he felt emptiness pour over his spirit. He felt alone. The constant humming throbbed through their minds, and only Kerriah appeared to be mostly unaffected. All around, machines pounded the walls and floors, and the shadowy silhouettes of workers could be seen sifting opaque disks from the debris. Some wore crude masks to shield their eyes and nose from the dust, but most stammered about without any protection.

  They stopped upon a pitted metal sled that sat atop a shaft opening, which led down into a ninety-degree drop below. The guards fastened belts hooked to the sled around the passengers and themselves. One of the guards grasped a nearby lever and pulled, sending the sled blasting down to the lower scab mines. It was a short, intense ride; the group could barely hold on. Their restraining belts pulled tight from the force of the downward momentum and cut off their breath. The sled screamed to a halt, placing them into a pitch-black area with the exception of some random strobe lights.

  “Level three reached. Proceed to prisoner assignment handling,” one of the guards commanded. The guards dismounted the sled and led them to a dimly lit corridor in the distance. The lit area was repugnant and filled with grime. The four Marck guards that kept watch over access to the area were beat-up and laden with dirt around every joint and cavity within their armor. The Marcks that guided them down from the first level stopped, motionless.

  Crix looked over at Kerriah. The time passed by. Minutes became an hour; their feet and backs wrenched from the pain of standing still.

  Krath started to lose his patience and blurted aloud. “What the heck? Are we goin’ to just stand around here all—” Before he could finish his complaint, one of the Marcks that guided them from level one drove the butt of its rifle into his gut, sending him down to one knee. Krath looked up slowly at the Marck. His eyes were on fire with the urge to unleash his fury, but he held himself back and got back up to his feet in silence.

  Clank . . . clank . . . .clank . . . .metal against stone echoed from deep within the guarded corridor and became louder with each subsequent clank. A tall, slender shadow stretched through the corridor and slowly crept into view, keeping pace with the approaching noise. From the shadow emerged a black, skeletal figure of a Marck at least a meter taller than most and with a lumbering gate. The surrounding Marcks all cautiously took a step back to give this superior Marck its space.

  The lofty Marck stopped and turned its head toward the group; its eyes were radiating red with a dusty glow as they illuminated the particles floating in the air around them. Its appearance was nothing short of menacing: equipped with longer arms and legs fused together from various parts of other Marcks. Its darker shaded metal showed signs of damage and scarring all over from its feet to its head.

  An echoing laugh bellowed from this darker Marck as it approached the new prisoners. “Fresh meat, gooood.”

  It brushed a long, razor-sharp fingertip gently across Crix’s cheek. The raspy, mechanical voice broke in and out. Its soulless shell coupled with the ghoul-like voice sent a quiver down his spine.

  “I am Sintor, your new master and the commandant of the lower mining and hive levels of Dispor. Work hard, and I may allow you to stay in the mines, where you can serve me for years, and maybe I will choose to endure your pathetic existence.” It raised its hand as if to strike them. “If I get the sense that anyone’s not providing sufficient work efforts, the horrors of the hive awaits you. I tell you that we need hive workers more than miners, so do not test me! The neuro suppressors placed throughout the mines will aid in subduing your rebellious will, but the strong of will individuals are now warned.”

  It turned to the Marck guards. “Take them to get changed and properly outfitted for work. I wish for them to start immediately.”

  Two of the Marcks grabbed Kerriah and Crix, shoving them further into the darkness as Krath followed. Eetak Five and Six followed as well, but Sintor stepped in front of them.

  “I do not know what you are, but you are not of Dispor.” He looked them up and down sharply as if sizing them up for parts. “However . . . I do have need of you both more than you’ll know.” He stood erect, and his multi-jointed arms and legs extended, giving off a distinct creak from each joint.

  Eatek Five’s threat detection systems activated and he raised his rifle, but before he could take a shot, slender rods impaled through the backsides of their heads, destroying the CPUs of both Eetaks. Two lower mine guards behind them withdrew their ballistic rods and re-sheathed them to their belts as both Eateks dropped to their knees then crumbled to the floor.

  Crix looked back at the loss of their escorts with sudden doubts fluttering around in his mind. He tried to keep his thoughts on his keeper, his father, and the words of Suros to regain his mental fortitude to press forward. Kerriah always seemed so confident in everything she did, and Krath feared nothing. It gave him a somewhat lonely and isolated feeling, being the only one that was struggling with fear and uncertainty.

  Through the darkness, they passed dimly lit pockets of workers wearing makeshift masks and holding tools that crunch into the walls exposing fossilized scabs. All around them, heavy machines ground through rock as the floor shook. There was an occasional scream in the distance, keeping the anxiety level of the group elevated and second-guessing their plan. However, they kept silent and followed the guards to a rusty bridge, which extended over a deep, black crack in the floor.

  Overlapping hisses swirled up from the depths below like voices whispering over the top of one another. A warm breeze brushed against them as they mounted the bridge. The air from the breeze smelled of vinegar over feces. The bridge creaked and rattled with every step as they made their way to a large, circular enclosure at the end. Orange floodlights illuminated the outer perimeter of the building.

  “These are your barracks,” a guard announced as they entered a rough opening outlined by brown stains and green veins weaved throughout the rock. They entered the barracks, and an older Solaran stammered up from a steel plank secured to the wall
by chains. He had a short but square build, typical of Solarans due to the stronger gravitational pull of their world. His right leg was missing from the hip down, and he leaned heavily on a metal rod with both arms. He pulled his scraggly grey beard away from his lips and brushed his hand back across his heavily scarred bald head as if to nervously gain composure.

  “How may I be of service, my gracious masters?” His voice was shaken and feeble. One of the guards replied in a stern but still mechanical tone.

  “Prepare them for immediate scab excavation. We will return in thirty minutes to take them to their mining stations.”

  “Ye—yes, my masters, right away,” he answered, fidgeting his fingers through the tangles in his beard. The guards unshackled them and then turned to exit the barracks, leaving them alone with the old Solaran.

  “Follow me, and I will get you some mining jumpers and show you your quarters.” The Solaran wobbled down to the far end of the barracks. The inside of the living quarters was mostly a bare room lined with dirty mats and some rusty bins. He opened up one of the bins and started to sift around.

  Kerriah stepped right next to him to gain his attention. “Solaran. What’s your name?”

  “What is this you’re asking of me?” he replied, and then mumbled to himself incoherently while sifting faster and tossing out dirty garments.

  “Your name, what is it?” she restated.

  “Icad,” he answered as he continued his sifting. He stopped, and then pulled out a rather large, faded, blue jumper stained with sweat and blood. “This looks like it should fit onto your build.” He held it up with one arm in front of Krath.

  “Icad,” Kerriah said, still trying to get his attention. “We are looking for someone, an Andor.”

  “A who . . . or what . . . an . . . an . . . Andor, w—what is an Andor?” He turned away, wanting strongly to avoid any more questions.

  Crix interrupted, somewhat annoyed in his delivery. “An Andor, from the great equine tribes on Soorak: you know, strong, noble, and steadfast.”

  “Yes . . . yes, the Andor. We don’t get many of those here. In fact, only one,” Icad answered. Kerriah’s eyes lit up. She took a step toward Icad, and he skittishly slid back.

  “Then you know where he is?”

  Icad timidly shook his head. “Oh no . . . well, yes . . . I mean, no.” He stood up a little straighter. “You must put those garments on! If the masters’ return and you’re not ready to work, they will put me in the castigation vault. I . . . I . . . I can’t go back there, ever again.”

  “Okay! We’ll put these on, while you tell us the location of the Andor. How does that sound?” Kerriah spoke slowly as if speaking to a small child.

  “Fine. Just please get changed quickly.” He closed the garment container lid and turned around. “Now, over here are your resting mats. You get four hours a day . . .”

  “Icad!” Kerriah stomped her foot out of frustration. “The Andor, where is he?”

  “He’s gone.” Icad looked down and refused to make eye contact.

  “Gone where?” Kerriah persisted.

  “He’s just gone, okay! Just leave me alone, he was a hero down here, and now, he’s gone.” Icad buried his hand against his face and began to weep.

  “Aw, what the heck. The Solarans I remember were a hard bunch. What the heck is wrong with tya?” Krath recalled a time during the war that Solaran soldiers would remain resolute during even the bloodiest of battles. It was difficult to witness one this broken.

  “Krath! Please.” Kerriah positioned herself between Krath and Icad. “Please, we need to know where he is located. I know you’re hurting, but we are his friends and are here to help.” Icad lowered his head. The thick skin on his neck folded over like old leather left out to dry in the blistering heat over many years. He felt the pressure of the three staring at him across the room.

  “Some time ago, I don’t recall as we don’t know time down here, he saved me. I was operating a torso drill, and I was one of the most productive workers, still youthful and strong in that day. The masters, they gained favor for me because of what I produced from mining scabs. The ones they favor get extra rations, masks, additional rest time, and a hope that someday, maybe there could be a parole of some sort. The Andor called Creedith. He also held favor with the masters and was the only one that could outwork me. One day, a deep rumble was felt under our feet, and the lower mine shook until we could no longer stand afoot. It was a burrower. Terrible monsters they are!

  “Zeltak, the Master Warden of Dispor, slew the only other one that was ever encountered. That particular burrower chewed through most of Dispor’s guards with ease, and as the story goes, Zeltak managed to trap it inside of scab silo eight and skewered its central nervous system with a thermal breacher. He then fused the beast’s tines to his helmet in a haughty display of his superiority.”

  “I think we’ve seen him up on the first level,” Crix said.

  Icad turned to him with a slow draw in his voice. “Yes, and even Sintor, the sub-warden, fears him, though his ambition is to continue to enhance himself with parts of whatever Marck he chooses in a secretive scheme to take over as master warden.

  “Anyway, we encountered the second burrower the day Creedith saved my life. We had hit a practically rich spot of scabs, you see. Burrowers feed on scabs. The burrower blasted through the floor. Its spine-filled tendrils flailed all around, grabbing everything near it and ripping them into shreds.

  “I had turned to run just before a tendril wrapped around my leg and tightened, grinding the flesh and bone away. It burned like nothing I have ever felt before. I tried to drag myself to safety, clawing the coarse ground with my fingers until they were raw and bloodied until my leg finally severed completely away. I was able to drag myself toward a nearby crevice low in the wall. I struggled to pull myself into it as I could hear howls of pain from others in the mine that were consumed by the beast and plasma blasts from the Marck guards, their metal crunching from its wild wrath.

  “Just as I slid myself deep within the low crevice, another tendril wrapped around my torso, yanking me back out and into the air. As I looked back, I saw a horrifying sight in the face of the burrower. It had hundreds of tiny black eyes and teeth that were clear like glass but dripping with flesh and stained in blood. As it swung me around to drop me into its grisly jaws, Creedith came out of nowhere wielding a scab fork and pinned down the tendril holding me to the floor.

  “The burrower dropped me in an effort to break free. Creedith grabbed me up over his shoulder and tossed me into a maintenance shoot to sub-level four, a terrifying place in its own right but, at least for the moment, better than with the burrower.

  “From there, the story goes that Creedith grabbed hold of one of its two low-hanging tines, which the burrower used for movement. He climbed up the tine to its top near the beast’s chin, pulled out a pulse saw he had tucked into his tool belt, and pierced clean through the tine, sending the burrower turning violently over until it pinned itself against the wall. Creedith took the beast’s newly liberated tine and drove it through its jaw and the top of its head, slaying it.

  “He was a hero, at that moment, to all the workers in the lower mine, but that is not how Sintor saw it. In fact, when he discovered the burrower was slain by one of the prisoners, he went mad, having wanted to kill it himself to draw closer in stature with that of Zeltak and—”

  “Stop,” Kerriah interrupted, “am I understanding this correctly? Did you say a Marck was furious and envious? Earlier, you mentioned Zeltak taking a position of arrogance over slaying a burrower. I have heard reports of Marcks displaying characteristics of emotion, but I thought it just a rumor at best. Are you certain of this?”

  “Unfortunately, I am. So much so that he banished Creedith to sub-level four because of his fury. That’s a place that is considered a near term death sentence as life expectancy is days or weeks at most.” Icad looked nervously toward the doorway.

  Crix’s heart sunk.
“So he’s dead, I presume.”

  Icad now realizing that the guards would be back at any minute, seized up for a second, and then responded. “No . . . no, I don’t believe so. There is still someone down there sending up scab quotas, and if anyone were to survive there, I believe it would be him.”

  Seconds later, the guards returned and pinned Icad against the wall with a forked rod. “Why are these prisoners not awaiting their work requisition outside?” one of the guards demanded. Icad struggled with both hands grasping the fork in a feeble attempt to loosen it from his neck.

  “I—I—aghh—was, masters. Please—aghh . . . we were ha—having difficulty finding a jumper that would fit the big one,” he said gasping. The guard’s head slowly turned to look at Krath then turned back to Icad, dropping him from his fork. Icad dropped to the floor, holding his neck with one hand.

  “A few days in the castigation vault may break that willful spirit of yours.” The Marck guard stared down at Icad.

  “Please, no! I am at your service and have no will of my own.” Icad felt fear strike the back of his neck and roll down his spine.

  The second Marck guard leaned over, picked him up by the arm, and held him dangling and squirming to get a foothold on the ground. “Very well, only two days in the castigation vault for being a faithful servant.” The Marck turned and exited, dragging Icad along. His agonizing screams for mercy faded away into the distance. Crix felt highly agitated by the injustice.

  Krath took a half step forward.

  “Mind your own, or else find yourself in a similar fate or worse,” the Marck guard warned, raising his weapon on Krath.

  Kerriah looked over at Krath and nodded. A wide grin crawled across Krath’s face as he looked sharply at the Marck. Kerriah sidestepped toward the doorway. Foolishly, the Marck turned to look. Krath took advantage of the Marck’s unwise but predictable move and grabbed its rifle. He promptly swung it, smacking against its metal head and leaving it dangling from a few bent rods and shorting power threads. He forward kicked the mangled Marck in the torso and sent it smashing into the wall.