Born in Darkness

by Thomas Farmer

  Despite that, he smiled and clapped her lightly on the shoulder. “That's the exciting thing, Second Lord. We're about to find out.”

  She nodded. “As you say, First Lord.”

  Tritogenes laughed. “Alright, shall we disembark?”

  Amalia nodded. “Of course. Isodorus?”

  “The shuttle's systems have been completely shut down, First Lord.”

  “Good, good.” Tritogenes smiled. He raised his right forearm and waved his left hand over it, activating his computer's holographic interface. Smart sensors in the device knew they were still in the shuttle, and the first menu to appear highlighted several of the ship's key functions.

  Finding the airlock controls were easy enough, and the door began its short cycle.

  “First Lord?”

  “Yes, Second Lord Isodorus?”

  “We're just here to make you look good, aren't we?”

  Tritogenes laughed. “That's not the only reason.”

  Second Lord Isodorus smiled in amusement as the airlock opened.

  A tall, red-haired Third Lord with hair braided into a complex, three-helix pattern waited on the other side. She waited until Tritogenes offered his hand, then clasped the First Lord's wrist in greeting.

  “Welcome to Aphelion, Hexarch Tritogenes.”

  Tritogenes strode out of the ship a few paces ahead of his ostensible escort. “Thank you, Third Lord Stasia. How have things been in my absence?”

  “I was instructed by Facility Director Pallasophia to tell you that things have been going excellently without you, sir. My apologies.”

  He laughed. “Of course she did.”

  “Shall I inform the Facility Director of your arrival?”

  Tritogenes shook his head. “Don't bother her, I'm sure whatever she's doing is more important than entertaining me. Leave her a text or something.”

  Stasia nodded. “As you say, First Lord. Where would you like to inspect first?”

  He looked over his shoulder, offering an inquisitive grin. “Isodorus? Amalia?”

  Neither responded for a moment. Then Isodorus said, “I believe I have business with Second Lord Glaukos, sir.”

  Tritogenes nodded. “Of course. You may leave.”

  Isodorus nodded. “Thank you, First Lord.”

  “Amalia?”

  “I will go where my Hexarch commands.”

  “Then I command that we take a brief detour for lunch.”

  Amalia nodded, fighting to keep a smile off her face. “As you say, First Lord.”

  He turned back to Third Lord Stasia, their apparent escort for the day. “Have you eaten?”

  She shook her head. “Not since breakfast.”

  Tritogenes nodded firmly. “Then my first command for the day is that you bring Second Lord Amalia and myself to the dining hall, and that you join us for lunch. Will that conflict with your existing orders?”

  “It will not, First Lord.”

  Tritogenes smiled. “Good, good. Now, while we walk, tell me how things have really been around here.”

  “There's been little news lately, but I overheard Pallasophia and Glaukos talking...”

  ***

  At its core, Aphelion station was built around a massive complex once designed to house Tritogenes's branch of Project Titan. Since the Incident, it remained largely unpopulated beyond the scientific and engineering staff monitoring the area through the few remaining systems.

  The only people that ever went quite this far were Facility Director Pallasophia and Tritogenes himself.

  After lunch, he went on a short inspection tour of the more regular parts of the station. Even Aphelion had functions beyond Project Titan, and the other areas had projects and experiments of their own. With that done, he took a short break to change into a more comfortable robe and remove most of his makeup. This was a personal meeting, not a professional one.

  He raised a hand and knocked on the simple metal door, waited a moment, and opened it by hand. It swung silently on its hinges—the machinery to operate the automatic door might have been damaged in the Incident, but what remained was well-maintained.

  A young woman in a blue robe waited on the other side of the door, occupying one of two chairs in the small room. She looked up when the door opened, greeting the First Lord with a bright smile and a wave toward the other chair.

  “Hey, Boss. I didn't see you come in.”

  Tritogenes grinned, taking the seat she offered. For the moment, he decided to ignore the subject of the cameras and personnel sensors in the hallway outside. If she somehow had not been notified of Tritogenes's arrival by the facility staff, then the facility itself would inform her as he approached.

  It was a game, and he played along. Now that Tritogenes was back in more comfortable clothing, settling into the old, worn chair was easy. He crossed his legs at the knee, ignoring the room's large window for the moment. If anything of interest was happening out there, Pallasophia truly never would have noticed him.

  “How long have you been down here?”

  Pallasophia shrugged. “Not long. The hard lines connected to Number One-Hundred's pod activated this morning. I came down to see, well,” she shrugged. “I don't know.”

  “None of them have ever made it to the arena in a single day.”

  Pallasophia waved dismissively. “I know.”

  “So?”

  Pallasophia leaned back in her chair and ran her hands through her short, plain hair. It hung in stark contrast to the complex design braided into Tritogenes's hair, but she preferred it that way. Were her position less important, it might have mattered more, but Second Lord Pallasophia, head of Aphelion Facility and Director of this branch of Project Titan, had enough social clout to flaunt tradition almost any way she saw fit.

  Tritogenes knew the expression on her face. At the moment, even if she needed to conform more closely to convention, she would not have cared.

  She sighed, more a single, long exhalation of breath. “So. I don't know. She's the last one, Tritogenes.”

  “You can monitor her progress from the main workroom better than you can from here.”

  “That's not the issue. What if she fails?”

  “You know better than I do how unlikely that is.”

  She turned back to the window, gesturing to it. “The others shouldn't have failed, either.”

  “I understand that, but what can we do about it?”

  “You mean what can I do about it, Tritogenes.”

  “Pallasophia, Aphelion Station belongs to...” He stopped himself. Despite the steady level of improvement, he took the Project's continual failure personally. The other Hexarchs and their projects were all producing glamorous, and sometimes quite public, results. By contrast, Aphelion station remained so secret that even its name was not spoken outside the facility itself.

  Finally, he took a deep breath, correcting himself, “us. It belongs to us.”

  “And I am the Facility Director.”

  “Pallasophia, I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. I reviewed the data you forwarded and I admit that it doesn't look good. That's part of why I came out here myself.”

  “To see how the Project was going or to make sure you won't lose face in front of the Council?”

  He started to snap again, opened his mouth to curse, and shut it with a subvocal growl. “Let's not talk about this right now.”

  Her face pinched in for a moment. “Then when?”

  “Later, I promise. The lack of results are bothering me, that's all.”

  She sank back into her chair with a curt nod. She knew—he knew she knew—that she was one of the only people, and perhaps the only non-Hexarch, that Tritogenes would be that candid with.

  “It's alright, Tritogenes. You're usually not here so soon after one of them wakes up, so you don't see me like this either.”

  He nodded, saying nothing.

  Her eyebrows lowered, hardening her face into an angry mask. “To answer your question, if she fai
ls, then we break the lower levels open and kill every mastigas down there.”

  “That option has always been on the table, Second Lord. The reason it's never been done is manpower, pure and simple. If we assault the lower levels with conventional soldiers, if we attack that monster, we stand to loose all of them. If One-Hundred fails,” he hit the table with the side of his fist, “then we evacuate the station and destroy it.”

  Pallasophia finally turned to face Tritogenes. “Then it's good that she won't fail. One-Hundred has every scrap of information we could distill from previous iterations.”

  “What's the plan if,” he stopped himself, “when she succeeds?”

  Her face twisted into a grin. “We break open the lower levels and kill every mastigas down there.”

  Tritogenes sat in silence for a minute. He turned to the window for a moment, but the sand far below remained empty and still. “I'm surprised to see you've not commissioned a new robe.”

  Pallasophia laughed. “You're wearing one that's nearly eight years old, yourself.”

  “I'm off duty at the moment.”

  “I am, too.”

  Tritogenes shook his head. “Do you ever rest?”

  Her laugh might have been angry, but Tritogenes was not sure exactly who it was directed at. “Not when one of them is alive down there.”

  “Do you know when she'll get to the arena?”

  Pallasophia shrugged. “A week, maybe less.”

  Another moment of silence passed before Pallasophia said, “when was your newest one done?”

  Tritogenes took a moment to parse the subject of her question, then realized she was talking about his robe, deflecting from the subject at hand. “Six months or so? It's the one I arrived wearing.”

  “The one for your opera house, yes. I saw it.”

  He grinned. “I thought you didn't see me come in?”

  “I see everything that happens here, First Lord.”

  “Of course you do.”

  Yet another quiet moment fell. This time Tritogenes pushed his chair away from the table a little and propped his feet on it in a breach of social protocol he never would have allowed anyone else but her to see. Unfortunately, the motion trapped his long braid between his shoulders and the chair, robbing the pose of any remaining dignity it might have had.

  He sighed. “I can't thank you enough, Pallasophia. The work you've done here is incomparable.”

  She frowned for just a moment before smiling. To anyone else, the smile would have looked genuine, but Tritogenes had known Pallasophia long enough that he could tell how fake the expression actually was.

  She had been an ardent supporter of Project Titan since he first brought it to the other Hexarchs. The other five First Lords had been hesitant, but he was able to sway many of the Second and Third lords who, in turn, persuaded the other First Lords to go along with the plan.

  Out of the direct light from the window, her blue robe appeared nearly black. “Thank you, Tritogenes. I have done everything possible to ensure its success.”

  “Why do I feel like there's a 'but' coming?” He paused, raised his eyebrows and opened his expression. “Second Lord?”

  She sank back into her chair, relaxing visibly. Tritogenes knew what she was doing—the same thing Pallasophia always did. Formality only added to his stress, so she would ignore it whenever possible. He had to admit it helped. “I've got more faith in each passing generation.”

  He interlaced his fingers in his lap. With practiced calmness that was, slowly, having an effect on his tension, he asked, “will it be enough?”

  “At this point, it will have to be. Otherwise,” she shrugged, “we'll be far behind the other branches of the Project. I'll have my data, but without physical results, that won't mean much.”

  That did nothing but bring him back to the original problem. Tritogenes knew he was allowing too much of his emotion into his voice, but at the moment, that was a secondary concern. “What if she fails? We won't have time.”

  She interrupted him with a voice like a knife edge. “I will go myself.”

  He sat up in his chair in a single movement that slammed his shoes on the floor, and he shot to his feet. “You will... No. I forbid it. As your Hexarch, I would forbid your volunteering.”

  The edge in her voice persisted and she glared at him from her seat. “Tritogenes. My Hexarch, and my friend, if you think you could stop me, you are mistaken. If One-Hundred fails, I will go before the Council as Limani's Titan.”

  “No.”

  “Who else, Tritogenes? Who else?”

  A long, very long, tense silence grew between them before Tritogenes gingerly returned to his seat. In a quiet voice, he asked, “how long since ninety-nine made it to the arena?”

  Pallasophia's voice was distant, and completely formal, when she said, “nearly a month.” When he had no reply to that, she asked, “Why did you really come here today, First Lord?”

  “As I said, I wanted to verify the status of the Project.” He narrowed his eyes slightly in a gesture that was a touch angrier than a frown. “And, yes, I wanted to have something I could take to the Council. Some shred of good news to make it seem like my insane idea was finally going to work.”

  Pallasophia watched him for a long minute, brown eyes boring deep into his soul. In the dim, room, backlit by the bright arena lights, her gaze might as well have been black. Finally, she said, “no. Why did you come here, to this room, today?”

  “Because I knew you'd be here.”

  “Did you know One-Hundred was awake?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then how?”

  The ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “Where else would you be if you were too busy to greet me at the landing pad?”

  She watched him for a second longer before an answering smile opened her face and she laughed. “I suppose I do have somewhat predictable habits. You could have called me, you know.”

  He nodded. “I know, but I wanted to go over the footage from the most recent trials.”

  She gestured to the holoprojector that occupied the center of their shared table. While it theoretically had access to any computer system in the Facility, provided the user had the right passwords, the two of them only ever used this particular holo for a single purpose.

  While she navigated through holographic menus on her computer, Tritogenes stood and looked out the window. From there, he looked out over the arena. For the moment, it was empty. No one or thing prowled the sandy ground. The bloodstains remained. They always would, he reflected, at least until they were able to re-open the lower levels.

  He sighed, but only barely. The motion and noise were scarcely larger than a normal breath. The bloodstains served as a reminder of the cost of his Project.

  He felt her eyes watching him from behind.

  When he did not turn, she said, “only two have made it this far since your last visit, First Lord.”

  He winced at the sudden formality in her tone. “Two? This time last year you had reports of seven or eight in a similar time frame.”

  She nodded. Her voice returned to level formality for a moment. “Those trials ended rather quickly. Each generation is more skillful than the last.”

  “And the network?”

  She frowned. “The mastigas rip out any sensors they uncover, making it difficult to distill data. I can only use visual information from the arena anymore. Everything else is conjecture and simulation pieces together from atmospheric data. The chemical detectors are sturdier than the others and the mastigas have a harder time destroying them.”

  “Are you not worried about losing data?”

  She shook her head once, firmly. He knew, despite her never admitting it to him, that Pallasophia felt the cost of the Project as much as, if not more than, he did. He also knew the pain involved in even contemplating an answer to his question. “No. The goal is to pass on the most useful data possible, and if that means synthesizing data using simulations built by spotty senso
r data, then that's what we do.”

  “How much does One-Hundred know?”

  “All of it,” Pallasophia replied. “Or she should. It is a time consuming process, especially with the mastigas sabotaging everything and no one down there to actually work the systems. And, as you so eloquently put it at the last Council session, time is something we have little of.”

  For a moment, Tritogenes places his head in his hands and leaned his elbows on the table. “How far have the recent trials gotten?”

  She sat straight again, once more stiff and formal, projecting a wall between herself and her work. “Subject ninety-seven made it to the arena, as I said, as did number ninety-nine. Ninety-eight was killed seven levels down. I believe too much of ninety-seven's bravado made it into his memory.”

  “But you have no way to be sure.”

  “Not directly, no,” she answered. Her voice went beyond cool formality, and the icy edge sent a shiver down Tritogenes's spine. “We de-emphasized ninety-nine's focus on personal accomplishment, because, as you will see in a moment, it was pride that killed ninety-seven. Ninety-nine made it to the arena, and lasted longer than any others have so far, but in the end not even he could finish the task.

  “Come,” the Second Lord said, gesturing toward the holo. “I'll show you.”

  She pressed a final button and the details of the floating menu faded out. They were replaced by a perfect representation of the arena from ground level.

  From there, the size of the arena was obvious. Nothing but the sand, lit from above by powerful lights, showed on the screen for several seconds. Then, one of the large doors opened, and through it strode a man. He was naked save for strips of fabric wrapped around his feet like rudimentary shoes. His toned, nearly hairless body instantly started to sweat under the intense lights as he scanned the arena with his eyes. In one hand he held a long spear that was barely more than a sharpened wooden pole, but the reddish-brown stain on the pointed end spoke to its efficacy as a weapon.

  “Come out!” he called. His voice was a rich baritone that echoed off of the bloody, metal walls of the arena. “I have killed hundreds of you by now. Come out!”

  The other large door opened and the ground shook. The creature on the other side was the same every time, and so the camera remained fixed on the ninety-seventh challenger. It zoomed in on his face, watching for little muscle ticks or changes in his expression that would indicate the emotions and thoughts running through his head. All of that was be cataloged and analyzed, then distilled down to component emotions and passed on to the Project's future generations.