Born in Darkness

by Thomas Farmer

  “Why not another sophont?” Pallasophia asked.

  “We believed the sophont was a spontaneous development. It was exactly what you said, a mikros 'growing up.' We believed the elites we believed were a directed mutation somehow, that had to be triggered by an existing sophont.”

  “The one that was here probably began the development of this juvenile before One Hundred killed it,” Pallasophia said.

  “Likely, yes.”

  “Orders, Lochagos?” Photeos asked.

  Pallasophia took a deep breath, mentally shifting gears back in to the combat mindset. “We kill it. Eleni, Isodorus, cover our equipment. Everyone else, drop everything but your weapons and follow me.”

  If the two soldiers she ordered to stay behind on guard objected to Pallasophia's orders, it did not show in their body language or movement. They nodded understanding, then immediately started gathering up the packs of supplies and equipment and tucking them in a nearby corner.

  “Good, no—gods!”

  Whatever order Pallasophia was about to give was cut off as Isodorus tackled her to the floor, using the straps of her backpack for leverage. He flattened himself on top of her as a sickening rush of wind cut through the air, followed by a scream.

  “Talk too much, humans!”

  The thing in front of them did, in fact, look like a mastigas elite in miniature. It rose just over two meters tall, much shorter than the full three meter height the “adults” attained. Its nude, sexless body was the same uniform shade of fishbelly white except for the three bright, emerald eyes staring them down.

  In the juvenile's upper hands was a metal pipe easily a meter and a half in length. The end it gripped was wrapped in strips of black fabric and the other end terminated in an elbow joint, into which had been jammed a jagged piece of twisted metal. One of its lower hands clutched one of the long daggers that gave the fonias their name, but in the hand of even a juvenile elite, the blade looked more like a pocket knife. Its other hand was empty, fingers curling in and out in readiness.

  Isodorus rolled off Pallasophia, rising in a flash of movement. One hand went up as long-drilled reflexes took over, but he realized a moment too late that his weapon was not in his hand. It lay at his feet, dropped when the quick-release sling snapped as he tackled Pallasophia out of the way of the juvenile's first attack.

  The mastigas's second swing did not miss, and the heavy length of pipe smashed into Isodorus's side, penetrating his ribs with the twisted spike. He gurgled and folded in half as the juvenile's swing carried him into the air.

  Isodorus hit the floor several meters away, where he lay unmoving.

  “Shoot!” Pallasophia snapped. She scuttled backward and away from the juvenile's third swing, a downward blow that shattered the tile where she had been a moment before.

  Eleni and Photeos fired first. He was the first to put down his extra gear, and so was just a little quicker on the draw. Eleni, to her credit, simply dropped Myrto's pack to the floor and drew her own weapon in a single, fluid motion.

  One burst of gunfire hit the juvenile in the left thigh, tracing out a trio of bloody pinpricks, while the other went wide.

  The juvenile charged forward, swinging its pipe. Stavros froze in mute horror until Eleni grabbed him and threw him backward. He stumbled to the floor, then scrambled to his feet again. His hand finally found his weapon, but by that point, the juvenile was too enmeshed in close combat with the others.

  “I don't have a clear shot!”

  Pallasophia ducked low, under a swing from the juvenile's pipe, then had to contort sideways to dodge a follow-up thrust from the knife in its hand. “Then—shit!—cover it until you do!”

  Photeos backed away with two quick steps, bent double, and picked up a broken piece of tile from the floor. He hurled it at the juvenile's head like a discus, where it shattered into a cloud of dust and several pieces.

  The juvenile roared, bounding forward. It swatted Pallasophia aside with the back of its knife hand, drawing a long gash across her stomach. She stumbled backward, but remained on her feet.

  Myrto was not so lucky. It struck her fully with its empty hand, knocking her onto her back, where she lay writhing and gasping for air.

  The juvenile's third step brought it close enough for it to reach out with its open hand, seeking to grab Photeos. The hands that held the pipe lowered the weapon in a backhanded swing that shattered part of a nearby wall, showering Eleni and Stavros with dust, but not hitting either of them. It raised the knife, ready to impale Photeos as soon as its other hand could grab him.

  Photeos, however, skipped back another step and fired a pair of bursts into the juvenile's chest. Brilliant red streamers answered him, fountaining blood that covered the front of his uniform with inhuman redness.

  The juvenile stumbled, dropping its knife but not the pipe, as Photeos dodged to the side. His foot caught on a piece of debris on the floor, and he fell as the juvenile's now-empty hand struck him.

  Pallasophia rose to her feet again and, the heartbeat she was sure Photeos was out of the line of fire, tracked three bursts up the creature's back. The final bullet impacted beside its upper right shoulder blade, and that arm went limp. It howled, turning in place. The pipe slipped out of its other hand, leaving it unarmed, for all the good that would do.

  She fired again, catching it in nearly the same spot that Photeos shot moments before. Despite the nearly two-dozen bullets riddling its body, the juvenile seemed barely affected. If anything, now that it was mad, it seemed to be moving even faster than before. It closed the distance to Pallasophia in two bounding steps, reaching out to grab with its lower arms and with its one good upper arm raised to strike.

  A single shot slammed into the juvenile's face, turning its left cheekbone into a mass of blood and gore.

  Momentarily stunned, it slowed fractionally, giving Pallasophia time to move not away, but toward it. She saw how One Hundred killed the full-grown elite, and knew that if she could just get too close for its long arms to properly attack her, she could kill it. A thought nagged at the back of her head as a second bullet struck the juvenile in the upper chest, reminding her that getting close was not good enough. If she did that, which she was, she had to finish the fight before its titanic strength could envelop and crush her.

  Fortunately, her plan worked for the most part. The juvenile's upper arm strike went wide and it took a moment to realize where she had gone. In that moment, Pallasophia jammed the barrel of her rifle against the underside of the juvenile's chin and almost pulled the trigger.

  Before she could fire, its lower arms wrapped around her, squeezing and crushing. Despite a career as a trophy-winning grappler, Pallasophia never felt strength like that before. Even an underdeveloped juvenile elite like this easily possessed enough arm strength to crush her rib cage and break her spine. The momentary hesitation as she imagined what an adult was capable of nearly killed her as the juvenile tightened its grip.

  “Lochagos!”

  Eleni's shout brought her mind back on track and Pallasophia put every ounce of power she possessed into her struggle. All she needed to do was create enough space between her chest and its body for one hand to do its job.

  In the back of her mind, Pallasophia was momentarily glad Glaukos outfitted Aphelion's security force with state-of-the-art magnetic weaponry. Shooting a traditional gunpowder weapon with the barrel next to her face was not on her list of good ideas. As it was, even the rail gun produced enough waste heat to burn the side of her neck where it was exposed beneath her helmet. The bullet flashed by a moment later with millimeters to spare.

  It did its job, however, and the top of the juvenile's skull exploded upward. Its grip tightened for a terrible moment before falling away completely.

  Pallasophia sagged to the floor, still quite conscious, but willing to lay there for several moments as she reminded her body what it felt like to not be nearly crushed to death. Elsewhere in the room, she heard someone vomiting as a series of
rapid footsteps moved around the space.

  “Isodorus! Isodorus! Wake up, damn you!”

  Painfully, Pallasophia drew herself back into a sitting position. Eleni was shaking the bloody and unmoving body of Dekaneas Isodorus. The gaping hole in his side, torn by the juvenile's weapon, told them everything they needed to know, but Pallasophia let her have her moment to process what just happened.

  Quietly, Photeos crept closer and then sat beside Pallasophia. His visor was raised, face white but set into a firm mask. “Orders, Lochagos?”

  “Are you alright, Lochias?”

  “I fought mastigas on Kipos.”

  “But are you alright?”

  His expression did not soften. “I will be. Orders?”

  “We need to find a safe place to tend to our wounds.”

  “And Isodorus?”

  “Hide his body under some rubble and leave a location tag. Once we get the network restored down here...”

  “And the mastigas are gone,” he interjected.

  “...and the mastigas are gone,” she agreed, “we'll send people down here for him. I don't know what's left of the others, but if we come across any remains on the lower levels, those are my standing orders.”

  “Others?”

  “From the Incident.”

  Photeos nodded, but his eyes were elsewhere. “Understood, Lochagos.”

  ***

  Pallasophia cracked the seal on an ampule of quick heal. The syrupy liquid was supposed to be sweet, sugared to mask the taste of the chemical cocktail, but for the moment, the Second Lord could taste nothing. Losing troops had been a near certainty, but Isodorus gave his life to protect her from the juvenile elite. That final act drove his death home in a way no distant casualty ever could.

  Despite, or perhaps because of, the losses suffered during the Incident, Pallasophia felt every death in a profoundly personal way. Isodorus was one of her soldiers, a man only recently assigned to Aphelion itself and even more recently to her command. In a very real way, Pallasophia felt Isodorus's death as a personal failing,

  Her command, she thought, downing another sip of the bitterly sweet quick heal, and so it was her responsibility.

  She briefly considered downing the rest of the ampule, overloading her body with the healing cocktail. The chemicals had a euphoric effect, one whose appeal for abuse she could easily understand. That impulse passed in a moment—a longer moment than she might have admitted, but it was gone nonetheless. Two oral doses would be enough to heal most of her injuries until they had time for proper local application.

  With Isodorus's supplies divided up between the survivors, they ran no real risk of running out of quick heal. She frowned, thinking. At least some good came out of his senseless death.

  She heaved a sigh, thankful that for the moment her back was turned to the others. As Photeos said right after the fight, she would be alright later. When One Hundred was safe, Second Lord Pallasophia would take the time she needed to grieve for their losses. Until then, Lochagos Pallasophia had work to do.

  Pallasophia stood, about to give orders, but when she turned, she caught sight of the expression of intense focus on Eleni's face, and instead went to her directly.

  Squatting down next to their communication equipment so that she could more easily read Eleni's holos, Pallasophia asked, “is everything alright?”

  The reply was quiet, not quite aimed at anyone in particular. “I heard something.”

  “What was it?”

  Her eyes shifted to Pallasophia, bright and blue despite the fatigue lining them, followed by the rest of her face. “A voice, Lochagos.”

  “Play it,” she ordered.

  Eleni nodded and adjusted a few settings on the holographic control panel floating above her forearm. Beyond the subtle rustling of air currents picked up by the hypersensitive microphones, the recording seemed to be silent. She waved her fingers through the controls, advancing the time on the recording slightly.

  There came a rustling, scraping sound, followed by a heavy double-thump.

  “That was feet. Bare human feet, specifically,” Photeos said, and Eleni paused the recording. Neither of them heard him approach. He gestured to the ceiling. “She was probably up there.”

  Pallasophia and the others looked at the ceiling in turn. The room they were in was bare of tiles, revealing the network of rafters and wires above. Most of the conduit had been ripped free of its fixtures and the wire stripped out. Pipes had been broken free as well and, from the looks of the upper layer, had been used as rudimentary and ineffective chisels.

  “She was above us the entire time?” Eleni asked. Pallasophia noted the blank, even tone in her voice, but said nothing about it.

  “So it would seem. Pallasophia turned to Photeos. “Lochias, would you care to tell me why you did not pick up on that particular fact earlier?”

  He spoke with a matter-of-fact tone, not attempting to make any excuses. “There were a lot of tracks, Second Lord. Between those left by the mastigas, our own, and multiple sets of prints left by One Hundred during what appeared to be several trips through that area, I could not tell how recent any of them were.”

  Pallasophia nodded. “She would have ended up behind us.”

  Photeos apologized, then added, “I should have been more aware of the surroundings. Perhaps...”

  Pallasophia interrupted him. “Apology accepted, Third Lord.” When she continued, her tones softened and became much less formal. “However, you can't blame yourself for missing the clues. One Hundred has had a lot of time down here to perfect her skills. This isn't a normal woman you're tracking, Photeos.”

  “I understand.”

  Pallasophia turned back to where Eleni still stood with her recording at the ready. She motioned for her to continue. “Now, where were we?”

  Eleni advanced the time on the recording slightly. The device played back scraping and sounds of movement. The unmistakable sound of hands moving over the microphone came next, then again.

  “I think she's inspecting the sensor,” Eleni supplied.

  Pallasophia nodded, but said nothing.

  The rustling stopped, and then a raspy voice spoke. It sounded healthier than a patient with a sick throat, but still unpleasant. Underneath the sandpaper, however, was a warm contralto, decidedly human, that lacked the wet-rocks sound the mastigas sophonts made when they spoke.

  The voice coughed, dry and hacking. “Come find me.”

  More rustling and sounds of movement followed. The device fell silent, then it let out a series of scrapes and clicks as the floor piece was replaced above it. Moments later, a series of heavy footfalls receded.

  “Those steps are heavier than anything else I've picked up,” Eleni said.

  “Not so heavy as a gigas,” Photeos added, “but she definitely wanted us to know which direction she went.”

  “Could it be a trap?” Eleni asked.

  “It most likely is,” Pallasophia replied. “She knows we're here, she's seen us now, and she wants to force a meeting.”

  “That is what we came down here for,” Photeos supplied.

  Pallasophia nodded. “True, but Dekaneas Eleni's word choice was apt. One Hundred knows nothing of our motives. She's probably trying to trap us somewhere on her terms.”

  “We're not hostile,” Eleni protested.

  “She doesn't know that,” Photeos cautioned.

  “Exactly. We'll go to her, but we go very carefully.”

  “And if she attacks us?”

  “Defensive force only,” Pallasophia ordered. Her voice indicated that she would accept no arguments on the subject.

  The replied came instantly and unanimously. “Yes, ma'am!”

  “Dekanii Myrto, and Isod—damn it. Myrto, you and I are on point. Stavros, you and Eleni have the gear. Photeos, watch our backs”

  “Will do,” he replied informally.

  ***

  “She's in there, Lochagos,” Eleni said, dismissing her holo interface. �
�Or she was when she found the recorder.”

  “Left the bait, you mean,” Photeos muttered.

  “I've not heard anything else since then.”

  “We didn't hear her, sensors or no, until she wanted to be heard. She killed a blue-screened elite, remember.”

  “Quiet,” Pallasophia snapped, not entirely sure where that burst of anger came from.

  “Apologies, Lochagos,” he replied stiffly. “Orders?”

  “As I said before, defensive force only, weapons ready, but not high.”

  “If she attacks?”

  Pallasophia paused, on the verge of repeating her orders yet again. Before that could happen, however, she realized exactly what it was Photeos was asking. He wanted specific instructions, not vague guidelines, and she nodded firmly. “Stun her, then restrain her.”

  “Understood.”

  A moment passed and Pallasophia gestured to Photeos. “You and I are on point, Lochias. If she's not in there, I need to know where One Hundred went.”

  He nodded and joined her at the front of the group. A small gesture sent Dekaneas Myrto to the rear. Activating the holographic controls on his rifle, he switched the weapon over from lethal fire to stun rounds. First Pallasophia, then the others, did the same.

  With a curt wave, Pallasophia deferred to Photeos, allowing him to move forward first. She followed a pace behind him, with the butt of her rifle at her shoulder and the muzzle pointed slightly downward.

  Pallasophia grit her teeth. She hoped she could reason with her, but if One Hundred had any inkling of why she had been born into the darkness of Aphelion's depths, the odds of that might be lower than she wanted.

  The room where Eleni's sensor reading and Photeos's tracking led them was nearly identical to how it had been before. If Pallasophia had not known where the sensor was hidden, no unusual markings or signs on the floor would have given it away. The only real difference was the prominent set of footprints leading off in one direction.

  Photeos pointed to the ceiling. “She was right there. The footsteps directly under that spot just appear.”

  “Like she dropped from above.”

  “Exactly.”

  Pallasophia nodded. “Can you tell where she went?”