by Tom Merritt
“What do you want with me?”
“Believe it or not, we didn’t want you at all at first. We were willing to let you work on the machine, and then we planned to approach you directly at the Complex. But Guteerez’s people moved before that. Maybe they thought all the factions would try to capture you. I don’t think most would have, but Guteerez’s faction captured you and took you out to that metal shack.”
“Why would Guteerez do that?”
“I didn’t say he did,” the man raised his eyebrows. “In fact I’d bet he’s a bit miffed that his faction did it. It seemed to me, his plan was to stay close to you until you were ready for transmission and stop any other faction from getting to you. But his betters had different ideas.”
“So you want me to believe this was a rescue? Why am I here and not back at the Complex?”
“It’s not safe,” the man raised his eyebrows again. “If we took you back there, chances are you’d just get captured again. No, we had to keep you safe. We want what you want, Michael—the transmission codes for the Moon. We want to contact the Moon again. That is what you were working on, right?”
Michael started to answer, but his drug-addled brain presented him with a question he might not normally have asked himself. His habits were broken. He didn’t automatically give the authority figure what it asked for. Why would the man who knew so much about factions and who was doing what to whom have to ask what he was working on?
“No,” Michael shook his head.
The man stopped fiddling with his knife for a full second, the first time he had stopped playing with it through the entire conversation.
“What do you mean ‘no,’ Michael? We know that’s what you were working on.”
“Then someone told you wrong,” Michael heard himself say, and let out a little giggle. “You’ve obviously got the wrong guy. As far as I know, the Moon men are just legends. Maybe true, maybe not, but none of my concern.”
“You disappoint me, Michael,” Chao said, frowning. “If you weren’t working on a transmission vector, what were you doing in your secret room in the Reliquary of the Citadel?”
Michael felt suddenly powerful. It was probably the remaining effects of the drugs, but it felt good. He saw the depths of the man’s ignorance in that statement. Nobody called it the “Reliquary of the Citadel”; it was just the Reliquary. Michael had no idea what “transmission vector” meant, but it certainly wasn’t a common phrase in any of his studies of the Sculpture.
He laughed a loud, confident laugh and told Chao, “I was studying a Sculpture, in a very not secret room on a very not secret project. It’s art history, Mr. Chao, not fairy tale exploration. If Guteerez was part of your so-called faction, maybe you could have asked him and he would have explained it.” He finished with a rolling, painful belly laugh that was, frankly, out of his control.
Chao slapped him across the face with the flat of the knife, drawing a bit of blood as the blade grazed his nose.
“While I’m a patient man,” Chao hissed, “I will not be mocked. You were working on transmission, and you will tell us how to access the equipment and how to bypass any encryption on it. Do you understand?”
Michael sobered up a bit after the slap and thought perhaps he had overplayed his hand. He nodded slowly.
“I didn’t hear a response. Do I need to slap you again, Michael?” Chao sneered.
“No,” Michael rasped again. “I understand.”
“Give him his water,” Chao shouted. “We’ll do this the other way later.”
Two women approached with a ladle and bucket, forced his mouth open and poured brackish, metallic-tasting water down his throat.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” one of them whispered. “Now he doesn’t like you.” Then they were gone.
Michael passed in and out of consciousness. He felt compelled to stay awake, but each time he thought he had succeeded, he jerked forward from some nightmare or other. Once he dreamed Guteerez and a dead Jackson, animated and spraying blood, were chasing him. The blood stuck like some kind of glue and slowed him down as he tried to get away. In another dream, Dabashi sat on a high podium wearing a white wig and pounding some kind of hammer, yelling obscenities at Michael while the two mean men held him and forced his head up to listen. In another, Chao crept over Michael’s body, sometimes like a bug, sometimes like a baby, sniffing in every hollow and crevice but never quite touching Michael. Each time he got to the point in the dream when he cried out, he would wake up yelling to nobody, still tied to the chair.
Eventually, Chao returned with his hands full of rusting metal tools. He stood in front of Michael, dropped the tools at his feet and gave him a level, uncaring look.
“So, Michael. I’ve brought these old tools as a contingency. Do you know what a contingency is?” He didn’t pause for an answer. “A contingency is something you plan, but hope not to use. It only actually becomes the plan if your main plan fails. I do not want my main plan to fail. My tools are old, rusty and dull. They tear when they should cut. And I am out of practice. I make mistakes. I do not want to make mistakes on you, Michael. I do not want to use my contingency plan. Do you understand?” He finally paused.
Michael nodded though not in acquiescence. If asked at that moment what he would do next, he would not have been able to say. He nodded only to indicate that he understood what a contingency was and what Chao’s rusty, tearing, metal tools could do to him if he did not cooperate. Michael did not nod to indicate he would cooperate.
“Good,” Chao said and sat down on the empty stool. The tools were not in easy reach, still scattered on the ground where Chao had dropped them. That reassured Michael a bit.
“So this should be over quickly then, Michael,” Chao grinned a smile that looked genuine to Michael. He truly believed that Chao had no intention or desire to use the tools. That Chao wanted only the best for Michael. Could the woman have been wrong? Did Chao still like Michael? Michael wondered if he should care if Chao liked him or not, then wondered what to do next. He was far from any life he ever knew or remembered. He was tired, hungry and still thirsty, even after the little water they gave him. He was too exhausted to feel frightened, though his body pumped the fluids of fear through him. Michael began to cry.
Chao made a sound like “Tsk tsk tsk.” He stood up from the stool, walked over and laid a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “I understand too, Michael. It has been hard for a Monk like you, so sheltered in the Complex. So used to a routine where everything is provided. You may not eat the best food, but you always eat. You may not sleep in the best bed, but you always sleep. This can be over now, my friend,” he patted Michael on the shoulder and returned to his seat on the stool.
“Tell me how to access the machine. Just where it is and what controls it, nothing complicated. Give us the encryption codes we need to use it. Just be honest. Tell us what you can, Michael, and you’ll return to the Complex to eat and sleep as you used to, safe in your own bed, among your colleagues.”
The thought tantalized Michael. He wanted desperately to be back in familiar territory. But it had been a mistake for Chao to tell Michael about Guteerez, whether true or not. Michael no longer thought of the Complex as safe. He thought of dangers at every turn. He thought of Dabashi hating him. He thought of Guteerez plotting against him. He thought of other Superiors with hidden agendas. Whether Chao told the truth or not, there was no ignoring the fact that someone had captured Michael from within the Reliquary. Then someone else had stolen him away from his captors. Both wanted something from the Monk, and the only people who wanted something Michael had were the people of the Complex.
Chao tapped his feet. “You can take your time, Michael, but why string it out? Just tell us. Gather your thoughts, tell us and you will be safe.”
Michael felt the pull of promised safety. Would it be safer to tell and return? Or would someone else capture him as soon as he got back? Would he really be returned?
“You want to kill me
afterward, don’t you?” he asked.
Chao scoffed. It seemed genuine. “No, Michael, I do not want to kill you. Ever. I only want the information I seek. You made this unpleasant with your attitude before, but I understand why you acted out. You’re scared. You forgot your training. But now we can be pleasant. Now we can be Monks of the Citadel and speak plainly and be done with unpleasantness.”
Chao showed his partial ignorance again. Michael was a Monk of the Citadel, but he was not trained in the disciplines Chao seemed to refer to. Those were fighting Monks of the defense guards, not Michael. Chao seemed to think all Monks were the same. Michael was convinced more than ever that Chao was a hired gun with limited contact and understanding of the Superiors and the Complex. Had he been hired to deliver Michael and the information or just the information?
“Take me back and I’ll show you.”
Chao chuckled. No, Michael, I don’t think so. It doesn’t work like that. Too many eyes are watching there. I can’t just waltz into the Citadel and tell them I’m with you. I’m not the one that needs this information anyway. You know that. I’m just the one asked to get it from you. And I will,” he bent down and picked up one of the metal tools off the floor and began to play with it the way he had played with the knife. “One way or another,” he said, looking at the rusty pliers in his hand.
Michael felt something break inside him then reveal a core like strong iron. It was as if a soft shell had fallen off his soul, taking his vulnerability with it.
“Then get it,” Michael said quietly without taking his eyes off Chao.
For a moment, he saw the old man waver. Then Chao let out a great sigh. “Oh, Michael. I’m too old for this.” But he bent down anyway and began gathering the tools up and sticking them in loops on his belt, one by one. He left the pliers in his hand as he approached Michael. “But here goes,” he sighed and then Michael watched the most unnerving grin he’d ever seen take shape on Chao’s face. Michael’s newfound iron core wavered but did not break.
CAPITULUM 6
Michael couldn’t see. He didn’t mind. He didn’t want to see. He was living in the ebb and flow of pain. It was his only care. He had learned to separate himself from it when he could, but it didn’t make it easier to bear. He still screamed inside his mind sometimes and probably out loud as well. He couldn’t tell the difference anymore anyway. But he no longer felt a desperate urge to take action. He resigned himself to waiting and living through it and so preserved his self.
He knew either death would take him or the pain would recede a little. When it receded, he didn’t feel relief, for it never entirely left. Instead, he felt a curtain fall between himself and his awareness, and he was able to form thoughts that didn’t focus solely on pain.
In those moments of respite, he listlessly tried to remember what they wanted. Not that he could remember things or even form whole thoughts. He could barely remember the Reliquary. He could only think about the pain and things related to the pain.
A hoarse voice, Chao’s voice, the only voice, whispered in his ear.
“I know what you think now, Michael, because you only can think of one thing. I have boiled you to your essence. Now rest. Let your mind heal. Let the pain recede. Then your mind will return cleansed and we can talk again.
Michael felt his lips forced apart and cool liquid poured down his throat. Pain flared in protest then receded as the water did its work. The veil between consciousness and unconsciousness was so thin, he honestly couldn’t tell when he passed out.
When he woke, the pain was dull and distant. He felt drugged again but pleasantly so. His thoughts were muddled, but they were whole thoughts again. And he could see. The room around him was no better than before, but he could see it. And he could think about it. He could ponder its dirt floor. He could watch Chao walk in and sit on the stool, no tools in his belt this time. He could think of responses and once again feel his metal core. He imagined it as pitted and scarred but yet unbroken. He also could remember the encryption codes again and where the Sculpture was.
“So, Michael. I tire of this and, well, I know you tire of it too. You think I want to kill you but I don’t,” he stretched these last words out with a bitter expression and shook his head. “I do not want this for you or me. I read an old book once where one of the characters ripped his soul to gain some advantage. He kept ripping it and ripping it to become powerful, but his soul weakened. That’s what I feel like. It rips my soul. I do not want to rip my soul anymore. I do not want to rip your flesh anymore.
“Let’s start with the machine. How do we access it?”
“You will just kill me anyway,” Michael responded, not knowing how he formed the words, not meaning to. He just heard them come out, straight from the core.
“Then,” the old man looked genuinely disappointed and sad, “we continue until you realize the truth.” He dragged his feet as he loped out of the room.
Michael stole a smile. Whether it was an act or not, seeing Chao defeated was better than any relief or drug. Michael felt like he had the upper hand. For now.
CHAPTER 10
Corge’s ears rang for minutes every time they stopped the drill. For a secret plan, it was extremely loud.
“How much more do we have to go?” He yelled.
“You don’t have to yell anymore,” LeAnn said. “We turned off the drill.”
“Tell my ears!” Corge yelled anyway.
“Well, if you wore your helmet, maybe it wouldn’t bother you,” LeAnn tapped the side of the helmet that covered her whole head.
Corge shrugged. “I can’t hear you through your helmet!” he shouted.
LeAnn pulled her helmet off and threw it at him. “Put it on!” she threatened.
“Live a little,” Corge said, and tossed it farther up the tunnel by the nonessential supplies where his own helmet lay.
“Why, you insubordinate piece of—ever since you gained star status I—”
“Can you hold off on the flirting for a moment? I have a question,” Chi-lin interrupted, smirking. That stopped LeAnn in her tracks.
“We weren’t—flirting. W-what is it?” she snapped, forgetting about her helmet for the moment.
Chi-lin consulted the map. “Looks like we have a few more clicks to go. LeAnn, are we still taking the right jog near the end, or are you doing a slow curve? I can’t remember.”
LeAnn sighed without subtlety. “I’m going to tattoo it on your arm. We curve. Even though it uses more energy now, it saves a lot when Corge has to bring his equipment through. Why he needs all that equipment in order to press a few buttons, you’ll have to ask him. I thought this was going to be a mapping mission, not a drilling mission. Do you know how much trouble I can get in?”
Corge snapped, “Maybe I should tattoo how much trouble you’ll get in on your hand.”
LeAnn looked sorry. “Come on, Corge. I didn’t mean anything.” She reached out toward him but he stomped off through the middle of the huge powered-off driller’s open-air center and into the smaller service way, which hadn’t been drilled yet. He stooped under the drill’s circular blades and stayed stopped. In front of the drill, the service way was too small to stand up in.
“See?! I can’t even stand up in here,” he pointed at his stooping self. “I don’t need that much equipment, LeAnn, but I do need to be able to stand to carry it, OK? I’m not a robot that can bend down and carry on for hours!”
LeAnn had followed him and stooped next to him in front of the drill. She had continued to look sorry until he said this last when her expression changed.
“Oh, so I suppose I’m the robot, then. Is that it?” she asked. “I don’t like your favorite—”
A loud crack interrupted them from above. She knew that sound. It filled her nightmares.
“RUN!” LeAnn yelled and turned back toward the drill, but it was too late. Rock had already started to rain down by the time they heard it. By the time she yelled “run,” it was tumbling down all around them.
Fortunately for both right then, and unfortunately for her at any other moment in her life, LeAnn had seen several tunnel collapses. She knew which way the rocks were falling.
If they ran the short distance back to the drill, they had a small chance of making it, but it was more likely that they would get crushed inside the drill. She could tell this was a big one. Running the other direction meant crouching down and fighting your instincts, but it would likely save their lives.
In the infinitesimal fraction of a second that her brain processed this knowledge and applied it to the pattern of falling rocks, Corge started to valiantly push her toward the drill. She shoved him the other way up.
“What are you doing?” He yelled, sounding as if he thought she was trying to kill him.
She didn’t answer but pushed harder then squeezed past him and pulled. Her insistence got through to Corge. She knew tunnels, and he had to know she wouldn’t risk his life.
The rocks beat on her back now. She felt as if she were being punched or beaten. She was—by Lunar rocks. Thankfully, the rocks didn’t weigh much, but the number of them meant they still posed a threat.
The dust choked them. She realized this was a probably a good sign. If they were choking, it meant they were breathing and not exposed to vacuum. The deadliest part of tunnel collapses usually wasn’t the falling rocks; it was loss of air pressure.
She dragged Corge by the hand, but the more rocks fell, the slower she went. The tunnel narrowed. She knew it wouldn’t get wider. This tunnel narrowed to an arm’s width at its end near the surface. She couldn’t see anything through the dust. She couldn’t quite breathe through it, either. Every patch of her body was sore. The rock falls slowed but still hit every few seconds. She and Corge bent into a crawl.
Finally, like waiting for a bag of puff pops in a microwave, the falling rocks slowed enough that it was safe to stop. Corge flopped down on the floor of the tunnel next to her. She could barely hear his breathing over her own.