24:01 One Minute After by Eric Diehl - HTML preview

A Second Rising

They stood at the façade of one of the few structures still having substance enough to continue its fall to ruin. They’d come a fair distance out from the habitation zone, far enough into the hinterlands that there was the very real chance of being caught out, but even so, Stedder found himself drawn to this escape from the mindless drone of the ghetto. The feeling of open space was liberating, exhilarating, fully unburdened of the sordid crush of a population packed so tightly in squalor. He had persuaded Nyreea to accompany him, promising her a lonely drama, and emboldened by her acceptance he had ventured out farther than ever before.

Now Stedder craned back his neck, stirring mixed emotions over this rare opportunity to view the trappings of an advanced technology. He knew it existed, certainly—it was commonly spoken of, even if only in hushed whispers—but his people were carefully shielded from the potential empowerment of knowledge. That was how he saw it, anyway, though not everyone agreed. He and Nyreea would certainly not be witnessing this had they not violated the quarantine, as what they witnessed here would be below the horizon of ShantyTown, and with hill country in between.

They were still far from it, but even at a distance he could feel the rumbling in the ground and the waves of thunder pulsing on his skin. The four great booster rockets lit the daytime sky as it lofted its live cargo above a landscape scoured barren by centuries of misuse, and when he cast a sideways glance at Nyreea the image of the soaring craft remained burned across his vision. He blinked it away.

Nyreea’s lips moved as if in silent prayer, and when she became aware of his gaze she looked to him, frustrated yearning etched clearly across her face. “Can you not help but wish that was us, Stedder? Finally gaining Elder status and breaking free from this place-holder of a life?”

Stedder snorted and shook his head. “Off to a rejuvenated life among the Viirin? I don’t understand how you and the others can buy into that delusion, Nyreea. How could we expect to excel in an advanced culture, when we’ve lost whatever special capablities we might have had before the Viirin ‘Salvation’, centuries past? And don’t you wonder why the Viirin would want, or even tolerate, the imposition of what they clearly consider a lesser species on their precious home-world?”

It pained him to see the brightness dim from Nyreea’s eyes, but Stedder could not repress his dark vision. “It’s probably a slave ship, you know; taking the Elders to forced labor in the mines on some obscure, scarcely-habitable outpost. Or they’re being fed as expendable fodder into some abominable, never-ending war.” He shook his head. “Or maybe they’re just dumped into open space, so the Viirin are rid of too many mouths to feed.” He absently fingered the small chunk of AlGro cake in his pocket. “Not that this pseudo-algal gruel they feed us might actually constitute ‘food’.”

The thundering of the rockets lessened with altitude, and Nyreea let her gaze fall to the ground. “Why must you always be so negative, Stedder? We must retain hope—especially when there’s little else to hold on to. Ancestral religions may have evolved from superstition, but they proffer spirituality and good will through times both good and bad.” She looked up to hold his gaze. “Why not cling to hope, Stedder? If it is truly as you claim, and there will be nothing for us beyond this miserable clod of dirt orbiting a slowly dying sun, then why do we even bother with such a meaningless existence?”

Stedder cursed under his breath and scuffed at the dry scrabble with his toes. “I’m sorry, Nyreea. I know my tirades upset you. But I simply know of no other way to see our circumstance. Yes—I would like to think that one day I will live a meaningful life. But…” he gestured at the ruins they crouched in, “Look at us. Scurrying like rats for any crumb, hunkered down in the rubble of what was once great in our civilization, bowing to inhuman ‘masters’ who treat us like a nuisance to be penned up; out-of-sight, out-of-mind.” He gestured to the disappearing vapor trail overhead. “I wish that was them, Nyreea—the Viirin. All of them, rocketing away to forever leave us to fend for ourselves. That might lend us real reason for hope.”

“Stedder,” began Nyreea tiredly, but her eyes suddenly flashed wide, focused over his shoulder. His stomach took a sickening lurch as he sensed what must be happening, but before he could react a noose looped over his head and tightened around his throat, followed by a hand clasping his shoulder. The fingers were strong, amazingly so for such slender digits. And very pale; almost translucent.

“Your piteous complaints are annoying, hooman—most would deem it highly offensible.”

Stedder could not help but recognize the tonal quality of the voice; the rounded vowels and the soft syllables. A Viirin! Being caught so far outside the ghetto bounds spelled serious trouble. He pried his fingers under the noose to ease its constriction enough that he might breathe, and he carefully turned in place.

There were two of them, armed with laserswords and holstered scatterguns. They were taller than an aearthling, but basically humanoid in body configuration. Their pallid complexions were totally void of warmth, but that lack of color was more than made up by their eyes—vibrant red corneas split by black pupils of a crescent shape.

“Yours is a serious breach, hooman. You know that crossing the boundary of your habitat is expressly forbidden.”

Stedder focused on the speaker and stifled the urge to respond logically, suppressing the observation that even had they wanted to, there was nothing that he or Nyreea might do that could be construed as mischief—not out here in the midst of nothing. But knowing that such an explanation would not satisfy the Viirin, he lied, hoping to better their chances.

“We… we were searching for food, chasing a rat. That is allowed, is it not? The vermin crossed the boundary and we followed it, thinking we could catch it quickly and return before our absence was noticed.” The latter claim should be believable enough, as nobody was monitored inside the ghetto. “We were distracted by the launch of the outbound craft,” he continued lamely, pointing to the sky. “I’m sorry.”

The Viirin smiled—a contemptuous expression—and when Stedder looked upon all those small sharp teeth crowded together in a protruding mandible, he was uneasily minded of the rat he claimed to have chased.

The Viirin gave a tug on the noose and Stedder stumbled forward. “I think you lie, hooman.”

A fair portion of the Viirin language had been translated by the hoomans, but in mixed company the ‘Caretakers’ tended to speak a bastardized Aenglish rather than the revered mother tongue. The second Viirin abruptly stepped forward to seize their right wrists, turning them up to expose their pale undersides.

Damned saints, that thing moves fast!

The first Viirin swept a scanner over their arms, over the implanted and updatable ID chips, and the apparent leader of the pair turned his thin smile to Nyreea. “The female shows no previous infractions. That is good; but you should remember that the next time you are scanned, this incident will show.” His demeaning smile fell away as he turned to Stedder. “This one, however—I see three previous counts against. Many among my colony would number this fourth affront as grounds for imprisonment. Do you understand that?” It pressed its lipless mouth into a tight line, and Stedder held his breath and tried his best to cower convincingly—not really so hard to do.

“Hmmmm. Count yourself lucky today, hooman. Your issues have been minor, and I haven’t the desire to bother with processing this infraction. I will give you one last chance. Bear in mind that rogue imprisonment is a serious matter—you would relinquish all privileges and be set to labor in the culture vats. Most perish there. You would do well to take my warning seriously—we do not typically track anyone’s movement within their assigned zone, but we can, and do, easily monitor border violations.”

Stedder nodded his game face, grimly determined to hold his tongue. “I thank you for your kindness; I will do as you say.”

The second Viirin scowled, as if irritated with his compatriot’s magnanimity, but silently raised his lasersword and pointed back toward the ghetto. Stedder took one last glimpse of the surroundings—a grim sampling of ‘freedom’—and fell in behind Nyreea as she plodded woodenly back toward their loose confinement. Stedder hung his head, watching the scorched soil rise as dust with his every step, and he wondered at the futility of life.

***

Nyreea had vowed to never again make the mistake of wandering beyond the restricted bounds of ShantyTown, but this walk she took daily, making her way around the inside perimeter of the ghetto, intent upon reminding herself of what it was that she’d escape in the not-so-distant future. This was how she steeled herself for that momentous voyage, how she distracted any doubt that might nibble at her courage.

As with all other streets throughout ShantyTown, this particular stretch was lined with monotonous, ramshackle hovels; crowded shoulder to shoulder like the lame and decrepit huddled in the food line. The shacks were cobbled together from whatever scrap the Viirin might occasionally dump from their hovering loader-platforms at varying locations throughout the ghetto. Wood was rarely included anymore, because its source had reportedly become very scarce planet-wide. The loads of scrap dumped most often comprised various types of synthetic material and pressed composites, occasionally a bit of battered and rusty sheet metal or scraps of fabric. Once the Viirin had exhausted an item’s value they would bring it here or to one of the other ghettos, in effect to their dumping grounds, and leave it for the hoomans to try to make some use of.

And the hoomans would do just that. But as there was no space for anything new in ShantyTown, and vertical construction was impossible given the resources at hand, they’d typically just patch or prop or partition their teetering shacks, struggling to extend the grim serviceability of what little they had. Each project would be plotted in excessive detail and the participants would argue and reconsider and revamp, mostly because aside from maintaining the squalor they lived in and occasionally being compelled to perform the more dangerous or distasteful servicing tasks at one of the Viirin compounds, the hoomans had little else to occupy their time.

Nyreea edged past a game of kick ball where the only goal seemed to be to pelt one’s opponent, that esentially comprising every other player. It was a safely mindless game, requiring little intellect or concentration or strategy. The Viirin did not approve of any pastime requiring clever or constructive thought, and so were careful to provide no enabling materials in their offloads of trash.

Waving away a cloud of the tiny, biting dust-flies that plagued the ghetto, Nyreea turned up ‘North Street’ to loop past the northern gate. She had so-named this street only because she had a compulsion to know all things by their name, but for most everyone else this street, just like every other street, was best not pondered at length.

Suddenly Nyreea realized that she’d been so deep in rumination that she’d not noticed a rising commotion, and she looked around to see people ducking into their shelters as the lumbering north gate began to swing open. With everyone else dodging out of sight she would be the focal point of whatever was entering the ghetto, in a locale outside her assigned zone! In a rising panic she turned to run for cover, but was frozen in place by a strident voice that echoed throughout the surrounding blight.

“You there—female! Stay your place!!”

Nyreea’s knees turned to mush as she pivoted to the pair who crossed the threshold into the ghetto; and when she recognized their garb she sucked in her breath and a cold fist tightened around her heart. Two Silver Hoods of the Just Penance—those who preach Least Tolerance! The cloaked and hooded Viirin strode purposefully forward and the first seized her wrist and twisted it to scan her biotag. The slotted black pupils of its eyes dilated.

“Yes! I thought that I recognized you! From just a few days past, out scavenging well beyond your habitat.” Its eyes narrowed. “Just what are you up to now, ummm? This time you are outside your assigned internal sector.”

Nyreea’s heart fluttered. “But, that’s not—I mean, nobody…” She pressed her lips shut. She could hardly tell them that no one abided the sector restrictions internal to ShantyTown, even though the Viirin were surely well aware of it. “I… was just… walking, for exercise,” she whispered.

The Viirin glowered down upon her, and she trembled under its baleful stare. “A firm example must be set here, to demonstrate to all that they will conform, or suffer dire consequences!” It paused, and then a sly smile parted its thin, chalky lips. “What of your confederate from three days past, hmmm? He would make for a better example, don’t you think? Lead us to him, hooman, and I will release you to scurry back to your burrow.”

Nyreea opened her mouth, and closed it. How could she tell them anything about Stedder? He was a close friend. “I know nothing of that male,” she lied, her voice quaking. “We were together only… because we chased the same rat.”

The Viirin’s eyes flashed anger and it bared its teeth, and a whimper escaped Nyreea’s lips as she saw the second Viirin draw a strap-manacle and leash from within its robes. The presumed male seized both her arms, pressing her wrists through the strap and cinching it painfully tight, and Nyreea was certain that she saw depraved glee in the creature’s eyes.

“Very well,” said the female curtly. “If that is how you would have it, your example will serve well enough.”

***

Stedder sat splayed in the shade of his shack, listlessly waving away the irksome dust-flies, when he became aware of a group of near-elders bustling up the street, some from his cadre and others that he did not recognize.

The near-elders were the closest thing there was to internal governance in ShantyTown; it was never thought odd that there were no true adults here in the ghetto, because it had always been that way. Nyreea would dreamily repeat the Viirin platitude that explained it away by proclaiming that the young were rewarded upon reaching adulthood by being ‘graduated’ to a ‘new life’ on the mother planet. Stedder would scoff at that suggestion, wondering what exactly it was that they graduated from, and more to the point what they ascended to. He would also posit the likelihood that it had not ‘always’ been this way, because he truly believed in the folk tales that spoke of a time when hoomans lived independent on Olde Aearth, when the Viirin were as yet unknown.

But the hoomans were allowed no written history, and so it was by word of mouth only that their record was passed down. There were those among them who, throughout the generations, took it upon themselves to memorize the stories and pass them along to successive memory-tellers, but Stedder always wondered how much the story might change with each retelling. Some of the lore seemed just too implausible to believe, including, in his opinion, their ‘salvation’ at the hands of the Viirin.

Now Stedder recognized Plaf at the head of the approaching group, and he clambored to his feet. Spotting no other point for their focus, he was surprised that the near-elders seemed to be headed straight for him.

“Plaf, what is it?” he asked as they came in range.

Plaf gripped his shoulder. “It’s Nyreea. A pair of the silver-hooded ‘stards entered the northern gate earlier today, likely seeking out anyone as a target. One of them recognized Nyreea from an encounter just a few days past, and demanded that she tell them the whereabouts of her accomplice.”

Stedder swiped a hand down his face, feeling a cold sweat flush out. “That would have been me,” he said softly. “Nyreea and I were caught out in the hinterlands. It had been my idea. They surprised us there, and the lesser of the pair was clearly angered that I was not taken away for punishment.”

Plaf nodded. “I suspected as much, but Nyreea would tell them nothing.”

“They took her instead of you, Stedder,” said Jamiah in a resigned tone. “They claimed that she fostered dissent, and they bound her and drug her away. I don’t think they really cared who they took, they simply wished to be seen dispensing their ‘righteous’ penance.”

Stedder shook his head, feeling dark emotions well in his chest. “So, what do we do? We can’t allow them to simply take whoever they want, whenever they want!”

Sharana laughed; a bitter, poisonous humor, and she spat in the dusty roadway. “What will we do? Why, we’ll do exactly as we always have, and that would be nothing! There’s nothing of consequence we might do to influence the Viirin; they see our young as creatures with an overlong development cycle, and are likely resentful that they must care for us until we come of age.”

Others of the group began to protest, but Sharana raised her voice. “Do not forget that for each of us—the ascending near-elders—our time draws near. If we were to instigate trouble now, if we were to attempt to thwart the Viirin Caretakers, would we soon—would we ever—depart on the ascendance that we’ve awaited our entire lives? I think we all know the answer to that question!”

Some piped in, echoing Sharana, while others protested, and the entire episode devolved back into the heated, aimless argument that Stedder had seen played out time and again.

As Sharana suggested, Stedder fumed, they will do nothing. A black anger descended over him and he pivoted and began to stride away, but was pulled up by a hand on his shoulder.

“Stedder!” hissed Plax. “What are you going to do?”

“I am going to… I’m—” He shook his head. “I don’t know what it is that I’ll do—not yet. But if there is a Hell, I’ll be damned to it if I do nothing.” He smiled, a mirthless expression. “A harsh ending to a bitter existence.” He swept his arms open. “Look around you, Plaf. Nyreea spoke of hope, Sharana of ‘a new life beyond’. I see oppression with a dark purpose. Which view do your surroundings support?”

Plaf leaned away from Stedder. “I don’t know. Neither, maybe. But this… intrusion does feel wrong. And it could have been any of us.” He stirred the dirt with his toes. “You’re going to go after her, aren’t you? Try to take her away from the Viirin?”

Stedder nodded grimly. “I have no choice. I’ll likely die in the attempt, but even in the unlikely case that the Silver Hoods didn’t catch up with me in ShantyTown, it’s not so long before I’ll also be an ‘ascendent’ Elder, and the Viirin would then come to take me away with all the rest.” He shook his head. “I’m not going! I’ll never board that vessel.”

Plaf touched him lightly. “Stedder, have you thought this through? Even if you were able, somehow, to take Nyreea away from the Viirin—what then?”

Stedder nodded to some vague destination, far beyond the bounds of the ghetto. “Out there. The stories say the distances are vast, and uninhabited by either hoomans or the Viirin.” He gazed intently at Plax. “We survived on our own, once, I’m sure of it. Why not once again?”

Plax sighed. “That is an appealingly idealistic desire, but appallingly unlikely. The land might once have supported—what was it called… agerculter? The growing of food—plants that could be eaten? But look now,” he scuffed his feet in the dirt, stirring the dust. “Even if you knew how, and what, to grow—what could possibly be grown here? Water is essential to agerculter, so the stories say, and the Viirin maintain total control of the water in their vast reservoirs, releasing it to our well fields sparingly.”

Stedder shook his head stubbornly. “I’d wager that they don’t control it all, not across the entire planet. The stories tell of spots where the landscape is not so barren, where water falls from the sky and stands in pools to be used at will.”

Plax snorted. “I’m surprised to hear that from you—the one who dismisses the old tales as mythology.”

“Not all of the old tales,” insisted Stedder. “Only those based on empty words, those foisted upon us for the sole purpose of manipulation.”

Plax sighed again. “All right, let’s say there actually is some place on the planet where it’s possible to live off the land, and that you were able to get there, and learn enough to survive.” He peered hard into Stedder’s eyes. “What of the Viirin? They don’t track us individually inside any of the ghettos, but they can overlay the signal from our biotags on their map-charts and spot any hooman outside the bounds of ShantyTown.”

“That’s not the leading issue,” said Stedder, shaking his head even while understanding that Plax made a very compelling argument. But Stedder had a vague plan, and by his reckoning a failed attempt was better than a loss with no effort expended. “The first question is; how do I get to Nyreea, inside the Viirin compound? I can scarcely walk up and rap on the door. Maybe in the dark I might find someplace to climb in over the walls?”

Plax let his gaze fall, seeming to consider the bit of nothing at his feet, and then raised his eyes back to Stedder. “I should not tell you this, but I’m certain that you’ll try to get in anyway, one way or another.”

Stedder cocked his head. “What, Plax? What should you not tell me?”

“Do you remember a couple years ago; the Viirin needed labor to dredge some of the sedimentation in their sewage system?”

Light dawned in Stedder’s eyes, like the sun after a wind-storm.

“They needed someone strong, but small,” continued Plax, “to be able to clamber through the channels and wield a shovel and barrow. You might remember that that was me.”

“Yes,” said Stedder softly. “I know where the outflow grates are. It makes sense that the sewer lines would pass throughout the compound. Unintended and unattended access to the fortress.”

“It’s a very old structure,” said Plax, “with the lowest section comprised of cells—like the dungeons of old that the Caretakers claim they saved us from. It’s probably not guarded at all—it wasn’t when I was working there—because what do the Viirin need to defend themselves against here on Olde Aearth?”

Stedder nodded eagerly. “Yes! That’s the answer! We can enter at the grate and pass through the sewer lines, and….” His voice trailed off as he watched Plaf shake his head.

I won’t be going with you,” said Plax quietly. “I’m sorry, but I won’t risk my life for a cause that I’m not at all sure of. But—I can tell you how to proceed once you’re in.”

Stedder gulped, and nodded.

***

The stench was horrific, worse even then the latrine pits in ShantyTown. He strained at the metal grate, and put to work the short iron bar he’d managed to secret out of the ghetto. He’d had no recourse but to steal the piece, as iron in any form was extremely valuable, and prohibited in the hooman habitats. He found a crevice to pry it into, and he worked and worked the leverage until he could pull the grate out enough to force in a rock to prop it open. He bunched his muscles and tugged the grating further and further out, and finally it tipped and fell in the dirt with a muffled thud. He held his breath, listening.

After long moments with no sound rising above his pounding heart, he turned to peer into the opening. It rose at a minimal grade, with a thin flow of effluent coursing out over a layer of sludge. He stepped in, willing his eyes to adjust to the dark. There were smaller venting grates to either side, letting in just enough light to see by. He began shuffling forward, hands pressed to either wall and feet slipping and catching. There were constant sounds of skittering ahead and behind and all around, and when he could see just a little from the faint light of a side grating he could make out the forms scrambling through their domain-by-possession. Sewer rats. Any that had survived the failed extermination were hardy mutants, and evidence here pointed to a very prospering subterranean population. He gritted his teeth and forged on.

He counted off the overhead grates, as Plax had told him, and after four he turned left where the channel branched, and after two more came to his target. He stood below the overhead grate, looking up, and he mustered the will to start the short climb up, the heavily rusted and flaking rungs of the ladder chafing even his calloused palms. Just below the grate he pressed his face close and squinted to peer through, and seeing and hearing nothing he came up another step, his head down and his shoulders pressed up against the iron weight. He surged up against it, again and again, and finally with a supreme effort it pinged and crunched and lifted free. He carefully rose and turned to sit while bracing the hinged piece from clanging back down, and once he’d lowered it carefully back into place he squatted, breathing hard, peering all around the dimly lit surroundings.

He was outside the cell block.

He padded softly along the bank of enclosures—they were all empty, with heavy wooden doors standing open. Then he came to one that was closed, with a heavy iron deadbolt thrown. He studied it, lifting the tang and sliding the bolt back. He pressed open the door, and there, huddled on the floor, was a cowering bundle of rags, its head tucked between its knees and quivering.

“Nyreea?” whispered Stedder.

The head snapped up. “St... Stedder? How… How can you be here? They’ve taken you as well? I’m sorry, I told them nothing, I—”

Her voice hushed as Stedder slipped down beside her on the floor and placed a finger to her lips. He smiled—bravely, he thought.

“No Nyreea,” he whispered. “I came in through the sewer lines. I’ve come to free you.”

Her lips began to tremble, and she flung her arms around his neck, hugging him fiercely and sobbing into his shoulder. But after a few moments she pushed herself back and stared at him, doubt clouding her eyes.

“But Stedder, they’ll find you here! They’ll pick up the signal from your—” Her eyes had fallen to his forearm, and she stared at the bloody rag tied there. He held up the short iron bar, one end of which he’d ground an edge upon, and Nyreea began to cry quietly. “Stedder, you cut the tag out? You’ll be punished horribly when they find out what you’ve done. They will… you’ll…” Her voice faltered to a stop.

“Nyreea, it doesn’t matter now, I’m already marked. They would have taken me earlier today if they’d found me; it’s just a matter of time.” He put a hand softly to her cheek. “Just as it is for you, I fear.”

Her eyes implored him to say otherwise, but also reflected her realization of the harsh truth of his words. She hung her head and spoke in a teary voice. “There was a boy here when they brought me in,” she said, very softly, “in a nearby cell. I didn’t recognize him, he was from another ghetto—DownsTown, I think he said—and we whispered through the bars. He was very frightened, of course, but when they came for him he pretended he wasn’t afraid. He stood up to them, demanding his privileges. They told him to be silent and he didn’t; he began to yell at them, cursing. His voice got louder and louder until he was screaming. I was frightened and I covered my eyes—and then there was a muffled, thudding sound, and another, and then silence. Nothing but… nothing but the sound of a dead weight being drug across the floor.” She gripped his shirt in both fists. “Stedder, I think they killed him! Just as easily as that!”

Stedder nodded grimly. “I’m afraid that does not surprise me. Look, Nyreea, bite down on this scrap of softboard, and avert your eyes if you prefer. I’ve got another strip of cloth for a bandage. I’ll cut out your tag, and then we must go!”

Staring down at the stone floor and sobbing quietly, Nyreea began to shake her head no, then stopped. She lifted her gaze, and the raw despair in her eyes tore at Stedder’s heart.

“It has to be this way, doesn’t it? There will be no… no glittering new life for you or I now, no hand of providence extended.” She paused some moments, and visibly seemed to regain strength, or at least resolve or acceptance. “Stedder? If you really believe the Viirin are so terrible, should we try to learn more, something to take back to the near-elders?”

***

Padding softly on calloused soles they climbed a flight of stairs to a second level. Multiple floors; so much fully-shel