The Essence of Darkness

by Thomas Clearlake

  Isha approached the bed. He was dancing, tapping his feet on the ground, and fervently reciting other magic words intended to unite the child with both the spirits and the world of men. Lauren was now sweaty, breathing hard, and perfectly focused on her task, as she had learned from the tutorials she had watched.

  The midwife started to help her with the delivery.

  The child looked healthy.

  “He’s beautiful,” said the midwife, “and quite a bruiser! Keep pushing, Lauren, keep breathing.”

  The labor was extremely painful for Lauren, who was almost screaming. After twenty endless minutes, the baby was born. Aiyana was the only one who noticed that the candlelight lost intensity for a few seconds, as if a dark wind had blown through the room.

  Gina was holding humanity’s last hope in her hands. The little being was bawling and breathing for the first time. The midwife put him on Lauren’s chest and then worked on cutting the umbilical cord. Lauren took her son in her arms and kissed him, crying with both joy and sorrow. Conflicting emotions tore her heart. Eliott . . . where was he? What was he doing now? Was he even alive?

  “Matthew,” she said lovingly as she stroked his face.

  But when Lauren saw the child’s eyes open, her blood turned to ice. They were completely black, without pupils or irises—just two openings as dark as night. Her hand trembled on her child’s cheek. But she didn’t love him any less.

  “May the spirits grant you their protection in the world of men, Matthew,” Isha chanted in his native language. “May you know peace, happiness, and love throughout your life.”

  The shaman shook a freshly cut tree branch over the baby’s head as he cried even more. Lauren held him against her and felt his warmth infuse her mother’s body. She knew he was different. But at that moment, the difference made her proud and happy.

  “Your father is with us, Matthew. He’s with us in spirit, but he’s here. He sees you,” she whispered.

  40

  Somewhere under the ice of the Central Siberian plateaus: August 16

  The Elder’s fist rose and came down on the wooden table. The group of men around the table didn’t hide their fear of the titanic creature’s rage. For a few moments, its emaciated body, as black as coal, absorbed the dim light of the torches.

  The hollow, gut-wrenching voice of Hominum primus boomed out in the room carved into the underground rock. “What is the status of the manufacture of vital fluid catalysts, Professor Meyer?”

  The professor rose from his chair to speak. He legs were shaking. “We’re falling behind. This is mainly due to the sabotage of our production lines.”

  A guttural rumble emanated from the creature. “You were responsible for the entire project, Professor Meyer. The security of the production lines is part of that.”

  The German scientist turned to General Oubaiev. “But . . . I’m just a physicist. How could I—”

  “Silence! Stop shifting the blame for your mistakes. When will the production lines be operational again?” the creature thundered.

  “That depends on how long it takes us to get the damaged quantum generators up and running again.”

  The French physicist Armand Lucas, who designed these generators, took over. “I can assure you that the system will be operational again within two months at the most.”

  The master considered these words carefully, seeming to read the intonations of the one who pronounced them. He exhaled deeply to release the anger he could barely contain; then he stood up and stared at the men gathered around the table one by one.

  “Let me remind you that your participation included very specific conditions. We already have men just as qualified as you to carry out your work in the event that delays occur again. Have I made myself clear?”

  The five scientists could only nod. They had now received warning. The slightest error would cost them their lives.

  September 2

  After eight long months of war, the key countries in the conflict finally unanimously ratified a global armistice under the aegis of the UN. The number of soldiers killed across all armies stood at 420,000. Neither the US and its allies nor the East Asian bloc could claim any kind of domination. The Earth had become a vast terrain of ruins plagued by the H-4 pandemic and fraught with major insurrections raging in some twenty countries. The latest figures for the H-4 virus indicated 2,800,000 victims worldwide.

  The old major metropolitan areas devastated by bombs attracted many migrants in search of easy money. The cities still contained tons of diverse and varied consumer products up for grabs. The militias had warrants for many of these black marketeers. In the urban ruins, they found safe havens and the means for survival, after a fashion. Some even grew rich. When the militias arrested the looters, they summarily executed them. They only deported them to the extraction camps when they were lucky enough to arrest them in sufficient numbers.

  Groups of people roamed the countryside, often no more than ten individuals, united around a single objective: to survive. Profiteers resold anti-H-4 suits at a premium because the Adepts had halted their production. Militia soldiers no longer hid from view to commit the most unjustifiable acts of violence against migrant groups they encountered, including rape, murder, and torture. Citizens no longer had any legal rights because martial law made their torturers the sole authority to try civil cases. The military command, fragmented and corrupt to the max, had entered a phase of internal conflict from which it wouldn’t recover.

  Hominum primus had achieved all its objectives. The planetary war had weakened all the armed forces that would have been able to ally against it. Now nothing could stand in the way of the legions of warriors when they swarmed to the world’s surface. No one could oppose its reign now.

  Even though the Adepts considered the Dawn resistance laughable, the organization continued to constitute a threat they fought using all means. Incorruptible, brave, expert in concealment, and loyal to their cause, the resistance fighters remained the only element over which Hominum primus had no control. Within two months, more than 200,000 volunteers had joined the ranks of the resistance in the US alone.

  October 15

  A new large-scale attack, this time targeting the extraction camp in northern Minnesota, was a resounding success. It managed to stop the extractors for a time. But more importantly, the video footage the fighters shot inside the extraction camps provided the world with proof of the camps’ existence and the militias’ involvement. The unbearable videos showed all the horror of extraction. They raised only one question among people: Why?

  Could the human mind comprehend the answer to this question? How could humanity accept this secret reality buried for eons in the depths of the Earth? Were people ready to hear it?

  The answer came not from the Dawn, but from Hominum primus.

  October 28, eight p.m. UTC[5]

  Sixty percent of the people on Earth were sitting in front of their television screens, watching the only official evening news broadcast on U-Earth Channel 1. It covered everything happening internationally.

  John Porter was the appointed anchor.

  That evening, the usually friendly fifty-something man with a square face and salt-and-pepper hair looked serious when he took to the air during a special news flash.

  “Good evening, viewers and citizens of the world.”

  He cleared his throat and took a moment to straighten the pile of papers in front of him. He was ill at ease. He obviously didn’t know what he was going to say or where he should start. You didn’t have to be an expert in behavioral science to guess that he was improvising.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight . . . is an unusual night. I—”

  Suddenly, he put his hand over his earpiece to listen to what the control room was saying.

  “I am hearing that General Warren of the US Armed Forces is going to speak . . . from the Pentagon offices to make an important statement that—”

  The introductory credits the channel used for speci
al flashes interrupted him.

  The screen showed a nearly full pressroom with flashbulbs bursting. A heavily armed security service contained the agitation. More specifically, they were soldiers from the militia’s special forces. It wasn’t the briefing room the Pentagon usually used for this type of event. In fact, it wasn’t a briefing room at all. It looked like a large underground hangar, similar to that of a private or military airport complex. No announcement specified the nature or location of the site. The cameraman directed his lens toward an empty lectern equipped with microphones. Behind this the security service took position, assault rifles in hand, in front of American flags. A high-ranking officer, judging by his uniform, took his place behind the microphones and tapped on them to make sure they were working properly.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, good evening. I’m General Warren.”

  The soldier scanned the audience before continuing.

  “An organization that has remained outside the global conflict until now recently contacted American forces.”

  The officer had made sure no hands rose among the authorized print media journalists. He had issued strict instructions: no questions until security gave the green light.

  “The purpose of this press conference is to present this organization and its objectives. The military authorities of the United States of America, which I represent, share these objectives.”

  The general paused, staring into the camera with his impassive, steel-gray eyes.

  “Humanity has reached a turning point in its history,” he continued. “The outcome of the global conflict through the armistice remains unstable and certainly provisional. The high command of the armies is the only competent authority under martial law. The command has thus decided to enter into a strategic and political alliance with the representatives of this organization. The goal is to guarantee peace and a cessation of hostilities on American soil as well as on a global scale.”

  The journalists feverishly recorded the general’s words and were clearly having trouble containing their surprise.

  “No one beyond this organization’s representatives themselves will be able to explain the nature of their objectives in the current geopolitical context. That’s why I will yield the floor to their delegation, which has done us the honor of coming here tonight. However, first I would like to inform you about the physical differences of the representatives who will now be speaking, due to their distant origins. Our interpreter will soon nullify this difference. In the end, these beings speak the same language we do, the language of all people, which is none other than the language of peace and unity. Thank you.”

  The general left the lectern and went to stand in the back. The journalists were all talking among themselves, unable to get answers to their questions. Suddenly, several armed men joined the militia soldiers already in the conference room. They wore gray suits different from the militia uniforms. Once they had positioned themselves on and around the stage, the delegation came it.

  Screams rang out from the press corps as the four gigantic creatures climbed the stairs to the microphones. One of them stepped forward and stared at the crowd with its black eyes. Its rangy silhouette, swarming with clouds of black particles, came to a halt, which highlighted its focus on the human audience. A stream of incomprehensible syllables then gushed from its withered mouth in a deep rumble. To the left of the lectern, the interpreter began to convey the incomprehensible words.

  “We have lived far away from you for a long time. And yet, we’ve stayed so close. Now that war and disease are decimating your populations, we have decided to come to your aid.”

  Arms shot up among the journalists, driven by an irresistible impulse. The militia soldiers immediately forced them to put their hands down by threatening them with their weapons.

  The interpreter continued, “We are going to legislate and unite your peoples under our supervision, with the assistance of your respective governments and the support of what remains of your armed forces.”

  The creature paused in the gloomy blast of words it was uttering in its terrifying language and scrutinized the men sitting in front of it. The journalists saw the vise of militia soldiers tighten around them as if under orders. They began to feel threatened; panic seized them. Women began to cry or scream hysterically in a state of shock. Others tried to make phone calls, but their phones no longer worked. A few arms rose bravely.

  The creature signaled to the soldiers and pointed to a man with its long, dry index finger.

  A militia soldier approached the man. “You—ask your question,” he ordered.

  The journalist stood up holding out his recorder. He was shaking, and his eyes were bulging with fear. He had trouble forming his question. All the people in front of their TV sets had to be asking themselves this essential question.

  “Are you . . . not human . . . ?”

  The Hominum primus stared at him with its empty eyes. The neon lights on the ceiling began to flash.

  “Rephrase your question,” ordered the soldier, pointing his assault rifle at him.

  The journalist swallowed with difficulty and then reformulated his question.

  “What . . . species do you represent?”

  “It’s a conspiracy! An armed takeover!” shouted a man from the back of the room.

  Immediately, five militia guards rushed the unfortunate man and beat him to a pulp. They dragged out his bloody, dislocated body after having strangled him so violently that he was probably dead.

  “Who are you?” repeated the journalist, his voice expressionless.

  The creature replied with a droning grumble.

  “We are the ones who created life on this planet,” began the interpreter, visibly familiar with this truth. “We created you human beings. And we are no different than you because you are made from our genes.”

  The journalists in the room sat paralyzed. They had completely lost it. They gazed at the creatures, motionless, arms dangling, eyes wide open like sluggish frogs. Certainly, they were asking themselves other questions internally. But any brain activity remained buried under a thick layer of terror and disbelief, so it didn’t show on their distraught faces.

  The interpreter continued impassively.

  “We have spent many eras, billions of years, slumbering in the depths of the Earth. And we have awakened. We have returned from our own extinction to reign over the Earth again.”

  “Holy shit,” whispered the reporter. “Tell me this is all just a nightmare; tell me I’m going to wake up.”

  He sat back down, letting himself fall onto his chair like a sack of potatoes under the sole force of gravity. He had no more questions to ask. He had nothing, really, except the desire to get out of there as quickly and as far away as possible, as soon as he had the chance.

  Another man bravely rose to his feet. After consulting the creature with his eyes, the soldier waved at the man to speak.

  “Can you explain your last sentence, ‘We have come back to reign over the Earth again’?”

  A few seconds passed; then the interpreter replied, “We planned life at the very beginning, as we wanted it to be. Now this same life will once again depend on our wishes to continue to evolve. That means we will have authority over your people.”

  The interpreter emphasized these last words with his tone. For the journalist, there was no possible ambiguity. It was indeed an official takeover, broadcast live to every country in the world. There was the show of excessively violent force and the location itself, chosen for its isolation and secrecy. All of this was part of a display intended to demonstrate strength.

  The four dark beings continued to stare at the press without showing any reaction to the terror they inspired. The one who stood in front of the microphones rasped more unintelligible words, which the human interpreter immediately transmitted. The Hominum primus turned toward the camera to address the entire planet.

  “All your political and military organizations are already under our command. We wis
h no harm to man because in a way, you are our children.”

  The interpreter pronounced the word in an icy tone.

  “Our goal is not your extermination. However, our regeneration involves your cooperation in certain biochemical processes you will learn of at a later time.”

  The Elder paused, seemingly relishing the terror he was generating in the human audience. He concluded by listing a series of injunctions to political representatives who had not yet sworn allegiance to the Order of the Adepts. The monologue went on for quite a while. Then the colossal figure withdrew to the back of the stage to converse with its three counterparts.

  The interpreter wrapped things up by stating simply, “This press conference is now concluded. We thank you for giving us your full attention.”

  The security service quietly escorted out the two hundred or so journalists invited to attend the event. They cleared out in record time.

  The camera light in front of John Porter turned green, catching the evening news anchor off guard.

  “Back to you, John,” the control room told him.

  His makeup artist had just enough time to get out of the frame. Despite an additional coat of tanned foundation, John Porter’s face was still as white as an enamel sink. He wasn’t the only one in a state of shock. According to the channel’s audience figures, 2.2 billion people had watched the press conference. Before their eyes, an intelligent species that looked like it was from a distant galaxy had just told them they had invaded the Earth. At first, most viewers thought it was a huge hoax.