Genesis

by Paul Antony Jones

  About four feet down, Emily spotted a tendril that looked like it would bear her weight; she swung her legs over the lip of the ship, flipped around, and used her arms to lower herself down until her feet touched its thick body. Still holding onto the lip of the craft with both hands, she crouched and examined the surrounding area, plotting a route down into the pit. There was enough light for her to see about ten meters or so down before the rest of the ship was swallowed by darkness.

  Okay, deep breath, and let’s do this.

  She reached out, took hold of a nearby vinelike tendril . . .

  . . . rustling through tall red grass. Fear gripping her heart as something huge exploded out of nowhere, teeth dripping with saliva, jaws closing around her neck . . .

  . . . and promptly released it as if she had grabbed a live electrical line.

  Emily screamed, instinctively ducking away, her hand grabbing for the lip of the ship again as her foot shifted and she almost slipped.

  What . . . the . . . fuck . . . was . . . that?

  Her heart hammered in her chest, her system flooded with adrenaline.

  Jesus!

  It felt as though she had woken from the worst, most vivid nightmare of her life. It took a while to convince herself that she was actually alone; the experience had been so terrifyingly real.

  Okay, so, obviously that was fucking freaky, she thought as she steadied herself against the ship. But the similarities between her dreams and this—whatever you wanted to call it—were unmistakable. Touching that tendril had connected her somehow with that creature—lunch, that creature had been lunch, the darker side of her mind filled in. The question now was: Would she go through the same experience every time she touched one of these tendrils?

  Emily reached out and tentatively placed the tips of her fingers against the same tendril, ready this time for . . .

  . . . water all around her. Waves rippling across the surface far, far above her head as she slid through the sea toward a darkened mouth of a cave . . .

  . . . anything. This time the experience had been distant, as though she were observing it, watching rather than participating. Maybe being prepared for it gave her some control over whatever process she was connecting with?

  She reached out a third time, steeling herself for what would come, and . . . found only the warm, uncomfortably fleshlike texture of the tendril beneath her fingers. It was as though touching it had established some kind of tie to whatever creature she had found herself linked to, just like in her dreams; but, this time, she’d been awake, and the sudden switch between her reality and that of whatever was on the other end of the connection had been far more jarring. Either the effect had worn off each time she touched the tendril or being aware and ready for it had reduced its influence. Whatever it was, she didn’t have time to think about it right now; she had to find a way inside.

  Emily lowered herself down the embankment, dropping a few feet into the concavity of the pit, her feet resting on a thicker tendril, then she tentatively reached out her hand for another. Thank God, there was no sensation other than the disconcerting fleshy warmth of whatever material it was constructed from. She had dropped another five meters or so deeper into the pit before realizing that the sense of constant pulling she had felt almost from the second Adam had vanished, that had only grown more amplified the closer she got to this machine, had disappeared.

  She stopped for a second and caught her breath. It was getting warmer the farther down she climbed. She wiped sweat from her eyes as she rummaged back through her memory of the last ten minutes, searching for the last time she had felt Adam’s pull. It had been the moment she had felt the shock of that first connection, she was sure. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of what that could mean. Had something happened to Adam, or did it have something to do with the link that she had established? Had she somehow shorted out the connection between her son and her? Absurdly, now that the constant pull had left her, her need to find Adam had only grown stronger, more urgent. While it was there it meant she was still connected, could still feel her boy, but its passing left a hole that was quickly filling up with panic and fear.

  Keep moving. You must keep moving, she told herself. If she stayed still, the panic she felt swelling up like a high tide would drown her, and that would be it for all of them.

  Emily pulled her flashlight out again, directing its beam down and around her. The outer skin of the craft was just about a meter away from her. It stretched down another fifty meters before disappearing beyond the limits of her flashlight. She eased herself across a section toward the body of the ship. The outer skin was a sheer surface, no sign of those pockmarks she had seen on the exposed top—or bottom, she still wasn’t sure which—of the craft. She reached out and lightly placed the flat of her hand against its skin, half expecting that same shock of displacement from her body into another.

  Nope, still here. But she did feel a slight electrical tingle run up through her fingertips. She braced herself for another vision, throwing the crook of her arm around the nearest tendril, so she wouldn’t slip and fall if her consciousness was suddenly relocated to some new creature. A second more passed and she was still exactly where she should be. She pulled her hand away, confused.

  Keep moving, she told herself.

  Emily began to use the tendrils to move laterally around the circumference of the craft, looking for any clue of an opening. Her arms and legs were already beginning to ache from the exertion of climbing down through this tangled jungle of tubes, and the warm air was not making it any easier.

  By the time another hour had passed, Emily’s spirits were almost as exhausted as her muscles. She dropped down another level and began the same route around the ship again. The body of the craft began to taper inward, but the farther down she climbed the thicker the jumble of tendrils grew, and by the time she had carefully maneuvered herself down another two meters, she could see that there was no chance she would be able to progress any lower than this. The tendrils were thick enough that she could use them as a bridge if she were careful not to catch a foot and twist an ankle.

  Emily began to follow the body of the craft again, looking for the elusive doorway or even a way to drop down farther beyond this barrier growing out of the ship, her frustration increasing with every step she took. By the time she had prescribed another full circle around the perimeter, her anxiety had brought her close to tears.

  It was simply unfair. There was nowhere left to go. No sign of any way inside the ship.

  Emily pummeled her fist against the skin of the Caretakers’ craft. Despite its fleshlike surface, it was as solid as metal and just as impermeable. Not even an echo from it, just the dull thud of solidity.

  “Goddamn you! Open up. Open up!” she yelled, her voice echoing in the darkness.

  She sat down heavily on a tendril. Uncomfortably warm. Exhausted. Out of ideas.

  That was it, then. Not that she had ever actually had a plan, but she had at least been able to anticipate getting here. But how was she supposed to have known the Caretakers would not let her in? She’d made the assumption that she would either be able to walk right in to the craft or that the Caretakers would be waiting for her. Having the bastards simply ignore her had never even crossed her mind.

  “Fuck!” she yelled, venting her frustration to the slit of sky high above her head, past the mesh of tendrils, and into the heavens.

  And that was when the knowledge of exactly what she was going to do overtook her.

  Her child was inside that thing, and if the Caretakers were trying to keep her away from him, well, fuck them! They had taken almost everything that she had ever loved from her, so she would be damned if she let them keep her son from her.

  Emily directed the beam of her flashlight upward, scanning the levels of thicker tendrils above her. She quickly spotted one about halfway to the surface that would suit her needs just fine.

  Pulling the knife Mac had given her from its sheath on her ankle,
she placed it between her teeth and began to climb toward the light.

  It was the perfect candidate for what Emily had in mind. The tendril jutted out from the side of the ship, and disappeared into the ground with a barely perceptible curvature. Its circumference was as thick as an oil drum. The only problem was that there was no way she was going to be able to climb to it directly.

  She had chosen this particular tendril because it was one of the only ones with an exposed area surrounding it. She was going to need that space to work. It looked strong enough to support her if she could reach it, but there was only one way to be absolutely sure. Emily climbed up another tendril two meters above her target, took hold of one of the smaller ropelike tendrils hanging loosely between the ship and the wall, tested it would hold her weight, and then jumped.

  She swung out once and almost made it across the distance separating her from the big tendril, the tips of her boots touching it, but she had underestimated the distance and had not given herself enough of a boost; she swung back to her perch. The second time she pushed harder and overshot . . .

  “Ooomph!” she exhaled hard as she collided sideways with the ship, the knife still between her teeth. She began to swing back, but her body had twisted so her back was toward the target. She was going to have to guess . . .

  Oh shit! Oh shit!

  She let go . . .

  Emily dropped through the air, praying she had judged her timing correctly. Her feet hit the curved skin of the tendril and immediately slipped out from beneath her. She teetered for a second, her arms flailing wildly, her feet trying to get some kind of purchase on the slippery skin of the tendril but finding none.

  She fell . . . Her hands brushed against a thin vine. She grabbed on and allowed herself to hang there, her legs dangling over the hundred-meter drop to the bottom of the pit. Her teeth hurt from biting down so hard on the metal blade of her knife. No way was she going to lose that.

  Emily grunted as, hand over hand, she began to pull herself up the tendril. It was only a matter of a meter or so, but by the time she threw a foot up onto its thick, slick body and shimmied herself to safety, her shoulders ached and her forearms burned like nobody’s business. She lay on her back against the flesh of the stalk, panting hard from the exertion, regaining what strength she could.

  Emily carefully maneuvered herself to a sitting position, then swung her right leg over the tendril’s body, straddling the tube as if it were a horse, facing toward the body of the ship. She plucked the knife from between her teeth, careful to keep a strong grip on it, and then dropped her torso to the tendril until her cheek was flat against its warm skin. From the interior she could feel a deep, thrumming pulse, like a distant heartbeat thumping against her inner thighs.

  Slowly she reached her right arm around the tendril. Its circumference was too wide for her to get all the way around, but she figured it should work anyway. She pointed her blade back up toward the bottom of the stalk, took a deep breath, and plunged the blade deep into the flesh of the tendril. She plunged her knife in, pulling toward herself as hard as she could.

  There was a hissing sound like gas escaping from a balloon as the knife sliced through the fleshy bottom of the stalk. Something wet, warm, and slimy dripped over her fingers.

  Oh sweet Jesus, that reeked.

  Emily fought her gag reflex. Whatever gas was escaping from the core of the tube stank like decaying vegetables. She prayed silently to any god that might still have an interest in the world that, whatever this stinking gas was, it wasn’t toxic. A minute passed and the hissing finally began to slow. Thirty seconds later and it stopped completely.

  Emily allowed herself to breathe again. Now for the difficult part.

  She began sawing with the blade, cutting a slit in the flesh. More liquid began to spill out, pleasantly warm against her hand.

  Emily’s shoulders, biceps, and forearms were soon burning with an intensity she had not felt in years, but she was making headway. She allowed herself a moment’s rest, then began that sawing action again. When she estimated she had sliced a good meter along the length of the tendril, Emily began to draw the knife in a gradual arc up toward her on the top of the tendril.

  Another twenty minutes passed and her arms now felt numb. She had to stop frequently or risk losing her knife from her aching fingers and wrist. When sensation finally returned, Emily began cutting a line parallel to the first back along the length of the trunk. When she was sure she was done, she sat upright and placed the knife between her thighs, massaging her aching right arm with her left hand until she got some kind of feeling back into it.

  Emily checked her wristwatch. Three hours had passed since she had left Rhiannon and Thor. Darkness was drawing steadily closer, and if she did not get her ass into high gear, then she was condemning both of them to defending themselves against a hostile world that would have the upper hand. Emily sheathed the knife at her ankle. She slipped her right thumb into the cut and pulled, but the muscles on that side of her body refused to cooperate; she was just too tired.

  Ignoring the pins and needles in her lower half, Emily moved to a kneeling position, wobbling slightly, her jeans offering little grip on the sheer surface of the tendril’s skin. She tightened her grip and pulled as hard as she could.

  She felt the skin give a little.

  She tried again with the same minimal result.

  What she needed was more leverage. Emily edged her body backward along the trunk until her feet touched the body of the craft, pushed her thumb deeper until the rough edges of the incision cut into the web of skin between her thumb and forefinger, and yanked hard.

  A chunk of the tendril’s skin came away in her hand and went spinning down into the darkness, the suddenness of it almost sending her right along with it.

  Finally! She smiled at the minor victory, and thrust her fingers into the larger hole she had created and began tearing away chunks of the skin, tossing them into the pit below.

  With an almighty crack the outer skin broke along the incisions she had made, and she pulled the large, curved piece of the tendril’s skin away.

  Fluid cascaded from the opening, spilling into the darkness like the intestines of some slaughtered animal. When the gush finally subsided, Emily looked over the ledge and into the hole she had created. The inside of the tendril was hollow as she had hoped. Rivulets of the goo she had felt flowing over her hand hung from the opening, dripping obscenely off the ragged edges. God, does it stink. She pulled back in spite of herself and took a couple of breaths of clean air.

  There’s no time left for nerves. Don’t think about this, just do it.

  Emily swung her head back over again and checked that her estimation had been correct: it looked good. She was going to have to be careful at the beginning for sure, and all that lay ahead was uncertainty, but, hey, these days, that was the best any of them could expect.

  Emily took one final look up at the sky, took another long deep breath as though she were about to dive to the bottom of the ocean, swung her torso over the side until she was facing the doorway she had created, and slithered herself into the red darkness of the tendril.

  Emily managed to hold her breath for a little over a minute.

  If the smell outside had been bad, inside the belly of the tendril was much, much worse.

  When she finally sucked in a breath of the fetid air within the tube it instantly burned the back of her throat and mouth, turning them to sandpaper as the saliva dried up. She gagged, trying to resist the urge to vomit. Her eyes had teared up again almost the instant she crawled inside the gutted tendril, giving her sight a hazy distortion, as she elbow-crawled her way along the slime-covered floor.

  Her eyes throbbed as she tried to blink back the constant stream of tears. The urge to wipe them was almost too much to resist, but her hands were coated in the same burning excretion, and getting that shit in her eyes directly would probably end up blinding her too. So she did her best to ignore the discomfort as she sl
id onward through the alien muck.

  Her entrance into the shaft of the tendril had been close to the outer wall of the Caretaker craft. She estimated she had been crawling now for a good five minutes through this stinking mess—her watch was covered in the crap too, obscuring the dial—so she knew she must be well past the outer wall. She had no idea where this conduit would lead her, but she knew it must have some importance to the Caretakers, so it must go somewhere.

  She just had to keep crawling.

  There was no sign of anything even vaguely resembling an outlet or a valve or, preferably, some kind of a hatch. Just meter after meter of this shiny-sided tube leading farther into the guts of the craft.

  Her flashlight illuminated the way ahead, but all she could see was more of the same red-tinged wall. It was like being on the inside of an artery.

  Well, if she had her way, she would follow this thing all the way to whatever dark heart it was connected to and split the bastard wide open.

  Elbow knee elbow. Elbow knee elbow. That was all that mattered. Move forward. The sides of the tendril were just a few centimeters from her face. A mucouslike substance covered every surface, oozing out of small pocks, scattered like pores along its surface. It was sticky and pretty fucking disgusting. The discharge slid down the walls and formed a pool of goop at the base of the tube.

  A gradual warmth spread through Emily’s hands and the knees of her jeans. The liquid she was sloshing through was getting warmer. She looked down at the puddle of red goo beneath her fingers, except it wasn’t just a puddle anymore, and, where a few minutes earlier she had been able to clearly see her fingers, now the goo had risen to just above her wrists. And now that she was paying attention, the amount of the goo oozing out of the walls was increasing, quite quickly in fact. In the few seconds since she had noticed it, the level had risen another centimeter.