Children of the Dark World

by Will Townsend

  “You can feel the vibrations?” Farr asked astounded. He’d had no warning whatsoever of the impending torrent except the noise.

  “Yes, it starts building in the rocks about thirty seconds prior to the blast. Let’s continue on. The vent will lighten up around the next bend in the shaft about a kilometer ahead.”

  Farr continued to feel his way along the darkness and was pleased when his opticals powered up again and he was able to see several meters. The tunnel ahead was much brighter and Eric signaled for him to be quiet. The young man was so fluid in his motions that Farr found it hard to rectify his physical appearance with his grace of movement. He seemed perfectly in control of his body as he silently glided through the dim ways of the vents. Farr did the same but his’ was a fluidity and grace born of years of martial arts training and discipline and yet a fifteen year old boy achieved the same results with far less effort.

  Suddenly Farr could hear voices wafting along the passageway and reflexively became quieter in his movements. Soon he was able to see a grated vent thirty meters up the passage. It was through this vent that the sounds emanated.

  As they approached the vent Eric signaled him to move in closer. At the vent Eric paused and pointed down. The number of voices drifting up from below had grown in both numbers and intensity. Eric leaned over and whispered into his ear.

  “This is the gathering room of the Suits.” Farr looked through the slots to the area that was five meters below the vent and saw the same arrangement he’d seen at Lunar Base Six except the dwellings were occupied and the overall condition was much better. There were the same amount of lights here as in the living area of Six, but these obviously functioned.

  It was his first close look at the Suits and though they had the same general body structure as the altered Workers, they were obviously much more robust. But he also noted that they didn’t have the same inquisitive (as he knew it now) head movements about them as the former. They took very little note of their surroundings and they walked with a posture of arrogance, or so it seemed to him. Moving about with their heads down were many of the people of the Workers and these were even more emaciated than the free Workers he’d seen.

  They were obviously slaves for they performed all of the menial tasks in and around the dwellings. Several times they found themselves in the path of one of the Suits and scurried rapidly out of their way. Those who were not fast enough were kicked or cuffed in a back handed style. It was difficult to make out individual voices from the chatter below, but presently Eric tapped his shoulder and pointed to two men about five meters from the vent who were in earnest conversation. Farr concentrated with all his might and slowly he was able to isolate their voices from the din below.

  “We took the stranger before the Chief and he looked him up and down and pronounced him a mutant from one of those who didn’t receive the alterations,” the taller of the two told his companion. “When we told him what he’d done in the tunnels the Chief hit him quite a few times with his baton,” the man laughed. The other man joined in the laughter and Farr could feel his anger rising.

  “Yes Alekos enjoys the baton, but I’m telling you Alejandro, the stranger isn’t a mutant. Did you see the suit he was wearing? I think those devious Workers are up to something. Maybe they’ve made suits to go through the dead places and will fall on us when we’re unaware.”

  “Could they have revived the old science of altering, do you think?”

  “That was the first thing that crossed my mind. The slaves are always mumbling their little equations when they think no one is listening, still trying to practice the old sciences in their heads. They’re a devious race, always conniving against the Executives.”

  “It worries me that we don’t know where they are and I know it worries Alekos. These slaves are dying faster every day and we barely have enough to support us in our present status as it is,” he muttered.

  “Alekos told his board members that we’d go out in force from now on and take their daily offerings. He said if we take all of their food they’ll come crawling out of the woodwork like the starving rats they are. They’ll be begging to serve us.” The man smirked before he replied.

  “It’s about time we put an end to them, except as slaves, of course.”

  “What did he do with the mutant?”

  “Well, when he was finally able to stand after the beating Alekos gave him, he was sent to the lowest level of the mine. He ordered the guards to work him as hard as they could and to beat him at every rest period until he died. He told them to make sure though that the strange one lived at least five light cycles and offered them an extra slave if they could make him live ten light cycles,” the man laughed.

  “He was very strong. I think he’ll live ten light cycles no matter what those imbeciles do or don’t do. That’s one Worker, mutant or not, who’ll never raise his hand again to an Executive. It’ll be a good lesson for the rest of them.”

  Farr’s eyes were burning as he looked down on the two men when Eric gently laid his hand on his shoulder, dissipating the rage that was building within, and motioned him further on down the tunnel. Farr steadied his anger and channeled it away as his studies of the eastern philosophies had taught him and followed the young man. There were vents all along the way and he observed the Suits in a detached manner as he travelled behind Eric. They idled about the gathering room in small knots engaging in no productive activity that Farr could discern while the slaves carried on the necessary functions of survival for the group. Eric stopped near the last vent of the central room that stood before him and again whispered to Farr.

  “They do nothing productive with their days, just scheme against one another,” Eric whispered. “Their Chiefs are always worried about rebellion. They call it a hostile takeover.”

  “How many times have you been here Eric,” Farr whispered, following a sudden train of thought.

  “Many times. The Suits never enter the ventilation shafts. That would be beneath them.”

  Farr pondered that and the condition of the shafts he had been through. Someone was obviously keeping these areas clean and free of debris, he told himself.

  “If the suits don’t come in here, who maintains these shafts close to the living areas?”

  “The slaves do, of course.”

  Farr’s eyes were suddenly very alert peering along the passageway for hidden danger. “Have you ever been discovered?” Eric looked at him with a quizzical face.

  “Yes, I have frequently met the slaves that maintain the ventilation, why?”

  “And they didn’t inform their masters of your presence?”

  “A Worker would never “inform” against another Worker. It is against our principles of solidarity.”

  “Why don’t the slaves escape through the vents? I mean, it would be easy wouldn’t it, given your various talents?”

  “I’m told that some did long ago. Now they’re heavily chained when they enter the vents and they are never allowed to roam them unconstrained. There is no escape for the slaves of the Suits,” he finished flatly. Another thought occurred to Farr and he followed up immediately.

  “How many Suits are there Eric?”

  “Four hundred and sixty eight,” he responded without pausing. “And there are one thousand four hundred and four slaves,” he said anticipating Farr’s next question. Farr shook his head in amazement. Four hundred and sixty eight people were enslaving or oppressing almost five thousand! But then he remembered his Earth history, specifically the Spaniards and their massacre of the Native Americans in Central and South America. And all it had taken was flintlock muskets and horses. The Suits had always had the weapons and the technology, what little there was of it in the darkness, and the Workers had had nothing. This story will have a different ending though, he promised into the gloom. At least if the first Earth exploration team in a century manages to stay alive.

  “Is the number of slaves constant?”

  “It takes three slaves to keep
a Suit in his or her accustomed level of comfort. As the food has worsened they’ve begun looking for more slaves because they give less and less to the ones they’ve got just so their station in life doesn’t diminish. It is an unsupportable way of life under the conditions of our environment. Wait!” he said suddenly looking through the vent screen.

  “This is what I wished you to see. That Suit over there at the table,” he said indicating a very tall man sitting on a raised chair with slaves kneeling at his feet. Farr could make out his features even from this distance. His face was cruel and the large eyes that dominated it were tinged with something Farr could not at first identify, but as he watched him he realized he had seen this look before, in the eyes of the Masters at Nguyen. It was madness, a cold, cruel malevolent madness, the sociopath’s view of his place in the universe. His lips were thin and haughty and he held himself in a disdainful manner. “That is Alekos, the Chief,” Eric continued. “He is of the line of Antonopoulos.”

  “What did you say?” Farr said with wide eyes as he put the two names together. Alekos Antonopoulos was one of the most hated names in the history of humanity. It had been his corporation that had built and supposedly maintained the planetary defense system that had failed humanity in its hour of need. Lansing and Lao had scoured the world, looking for the man for twenty years so he could answer for his crimes against humanity, but he’d never been found. And here sat his descendant!

  “All of the Chiefs are called Alekos, after the original Chief, and claim to be of his line, but few actually are, with the exception of this one. He is the cruelest Chief to rule the Suits in many periods,” Eric informed him, “and the most insane.” So, Farr thought, Antonopoulos had escaped the destruction of Earth only to participate in the lunar catastrophe. Then he recalled that the military ships of the time had commandeered two corporate vessels in lunar orbit. These must’ve ferried Antonopoulos and his entourage to Lunar Base Six. He observed the descendant of the enemy of humanity as he conducted court below. As he sat upon his raised dais his subordinates gathered about a long table and each stood and gave glowing reports of the progress in their areas of responsibility. It was, Farr realized, a wry expression on his face, a boardroom meeting. The Suits had become stuck in an endless parody of their former lives, a century later following meaningless protocol, and, no doubt the same dishonest reporting procedures. They’re all talk without any particular substance, just like they always were, he thought. Farr had seen enough. His man was his only concern and he nodded to Eric to move off from the vents of the common room.

  “If all Chiefs claim to be of the line of Antonopoulos, how can you be sure that this one is?” Farr asked Eric as the sudden thought came to him.

  Eric looked at him puzzled, as if he had asked, how can you be sure that man is alive?’

  “The Workers know,” he had said simply leading the way again into the dark ventilation system.

  “Your man is in a difficult location,” Eric whispered when they had put the common room of the Suits some distance behind them. “I can get us into the mines through the vents but the lowest level has no ventilation shafts. It is the worst place they can put a slave. The air quality is very poor. They usually rotate the slaves out of the lowest level every two days but your man has been condemned to die there. If the guards don’t beat them often they can last as long as thirty light cycles. Your man has warranted special treatment though for daring to strike the Suits.”

  “I’m not about to turn back so let’s go.” Farr commanded and Eric set out through the dark maze once again.

  CHAPTER 12

  The venting narrowed and shrunk as they entered the mine areas until the two men had to stoop as they moved along. Finally, Eric stopped and put a finger to his lips while pointing straight down at one of the louvered vent screens. Directly below the vent screen stood one of the Suits, obviously on guard duty. Eric made motions to indicate that they had to exit the venting system at this point. The guard was just a meter below the screen, lolling about, obviously bored with his assignment and Farr, sitting just above him, thought the situation over for a minute while he examined the screen mechanism. The screen opened outward from the bottom and Farr indicated that Eric should open it suddenly on his command. Eric looked at him dubiously but nodded.

  On Farr’s silent command the screen flew open and the guard looked up just in time to see the Earthman’s huge hands grip his throat like a vice. Farr, having braced his legs prior to the move on the interior of the vent tunnel, heaved the guard in one smooth motion into the vent, the screen closing behind him. The Earthman’s grip had prevented any sound from escaping the man’s mouth and one hard and well placed blow rendered him unconscious before resistance had even occurred to him. Eric nodded at him, a look of respect in his large dark eyes.

  “What do we do with him now?” he asked. That stopped Farr short. He hadn’t honestly considered that question. He knew that if this was one of the operations he’d conducted on Earth he would’ve killed the man instantly and never looked back. He’d no wish to do that here, not because he was squeamish about such things, but because he was reluctant to be the agent of death on this particular mission. None of the people who’d signed onto this mission had seriously considered that bloodshed would be involved. This was intended to be the culmination of the planet’s pledge to its’ two beloved leaders, and as such, was humanitarian in nature.

  In the darkness of the lunar tunnels, four hundred thousand kilometers from his mother Earth, Farr made a vow to himself that he’d kill only when it could not be avoided, but if death could be avoided without endangering those he was responsible for, then he’d stay his hand, even though the acts of the Suits warranted death in his view of the world.

  “We’re going to tie him up and leave him in the duct for his people to find.” Farr, having no rope, tore strips from the material of his coveralls using Eric’s knife and quickly cinched the unconscious man and gagged him, then dragged him further from the vent screen. The two men then eased themselves out of the duct system and Farr had his first view of the mines of the Suits. Ragged tunnels branched out from the main tunnel in many different directions. Farr could see that some of them ended very quickly, probably because the vein of mineral they were mining had petered out.

  Eric led the way, staying close to the dark walls in the shadows and selected a ragged, narrow tunnel that dropped at a five degree gradient. Farr could hear sounds ahead and both he and the youth slowed simultaneously and their movements became stealthier than before as they edged along the dim passage toward the sound of voices. Presently they were close enough to hear the conversation among the guards who stood watch over the prisoners. There was no air flow in these tunnels, he noted, and the air was full of dust which filled the eyes and lungs. Farr found it was stifling despite the low temperature.

  “Does he look like he’s working hard to you Ganis?” one of the guards uttered in a low evil chuckle.

  “No, he appears to be sloughing off. Maybe he needs some motivational instruction,” the second man suggested, at which point Ganis got to his feet, walked over to a group of Workers and struck one viciously in the meaty parts of his upper legs with one of the batons that all Suits seemed to carry. The man went down immediately, but turned and spit vehemently into the man’s face. Ganis paused for the briefest of seconds, utter shock transforming on his face into maniacal rage. Again and again he hit the man and only stopped when he was short of breath and his arm had tired.

  A cold rage moved slowly up Farr’s entire being as he saw Alexander Skorsson’s act of defiance and the response it had garnered. He willed his anger into a calm state of logic. Never attack in rage and never kill in anger. Both must be dispassionate acts brought on only by the necessity of the event his mind whispered over and over again.

  “Get up and dig, you dog. You think you’re in a Union?” Ganis laughed.

  Skorsson stared him directly in the eye and replied, “Bite me, douchebag,” which
confused Ganis all the more but brought a flickering smile to the earthman observing the man’s face during the macabre scene. He knew Skorsson enjoyed Ming’s old movies more than most and even though Farr didn’t understand the reference he had no doubts that it was deprecating in nature.

  “Why would I lower myself to touch such a thing as you with my mouth,” the Suit said puzzled. “Perhaps another beating will convince you to respect an Executive.” Ganis raised his arm to strike again and Skorsson didn’t flinch as he waited for the blow. But it never fell. Farr had assessed the scene in a moment taking into account the low gravity and the positions occupied by the two guards. The one threatening Skorsson had his back to Farr’s position and was perhaps seven meters away while his partner stood watching the amusements offered by Ganis and Skorsson and was five meters away. There were eight slaves in addition to Skorsson, none of whom were in the way or, Farr thought, likely to help. This was a time to kill, Farr’s cold logic told him, as he launched himself like a coiled spring, using all of his strength, at the nearest man, legs first, and connected with the man’s throat slamming him back into the wall, crushing his neck and allowing Farr to use his body and the wall as a launching point against Ganis. Farr never touched the ground as he catapulted off the Suit and the wall directly at Ganis. His fist struck a resounding blow against the side of the other man’s face and he went crashing head first into the wall without a word, as Farr stopped himself against the near wall with considerable force and some bruises to be disclosed later. He instantly came to rest in an attack position and scanned the area. The entire encounter had consumed a mere three seconds and no one else had moved a muscle. The slaves just stood there with wide eyes as if the angel of death had swooped down upon them.

  “Hello doctor,” Farr said amiably. “You’re late reporting in and I must tell you, I’m a little peeved.”

  “I can see that. I got sidetracked,” Skorsson responded with a big lop-sided grin. “My apologies Captain.” Farr’s military mind noted the word “Captain” and how it was said.