Born in Darkness

  SCOURGE

  OF GODS

  Book 1

  Born in Darkness

  -by-

  Thomas A Farmer

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9987679-2-5

  ISBN-10: 0-9987679-2-1

  Everything contained in these pages is ©2019 to Thomas A Farmer.

  Nothing may be copied or reproduced without his express written permission.

  Cover Art is ©2019 Steve Beaulieu, used with permission.

  Published by: Black Knight Books, 2019

  The following is a work of fiction. All persons and events depicted in this novel are wholly the product of the author's imagination and not intended to represent anyone or anything that has happened in the real world.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Author’s Notes

  About the Author

  For my Parents, John and Susan.

  It's all your fault I became a writer anyway.

  Chapter 1

  In the darkness, letters blinked into existence wreathed in a bloody red light.

  FINAL MEMORY DOWNLOAD COMPLETE

  As though dredged up by the words, the dreams flooded back into her mind. Monsters without faces clawed at her from the darkness, tearing and ripping with claws and knives caked with blood. At least, they tried to.

  This time, when the dreams came, she reacted and moved. Arms and legs and weapons darted around, moving her this way and that. Knives and other weapons sailed harmlessly through the air as she gracefully sidestepped every blow. The monsters grew larger and more distinct with every attack, until burning green eyes glared death into her mind.

  Now, when she struck, it was with a weapon. She kept the monsters at bay, piercing them through the face or the throat. Her weapon never sought their chest, where she knew her own heart lay. Instead, every thrust penetrated deep into the impossible darkness behind their masks.

  And then the dream faded, as they had all done, with the feeling of her life ebbing away in a pool of blood and pain.

  NEURAL ARCHITECTURE AND SELFHOOD ANALYSIS

  Something electric ran through her body. The movements and limbs of her dreams were now real. The passage of seconds and the sound of her beating heart filled her ears. She took a deep breath, savoring the sensation of her lungs filling with fluid as though for the first time. A thousand cold needles rushed into her fingers and toes and they flexed, stretched.

  Her heart sped up at the new sensation, something the dreams never showed her. It passed in moments as the bloody light around her cooled into a gentle blue. The feeling in her limbs warmed as the chill pinpricks faded away.

  COMPLETE

  Experimentally, she flexed the fingers of one hand. To her surprise, and perhaps even fear, they moved. The rush of endorphins that accompanied the discovery of motion ensured that the sensation coded itself into her brain as “pleasant.” She moved her other hand, turning her head to watch her fingers dance in the dim, blue light of the overhead screen.

  The murky biofluid surrounding her body and filling her lungs slowed her movements. Some part of her brain knew that moving in air would be faster and easier. She had been moving through air, not fluid, in her dreams.

  DECANTING PROCEDURE ACTIVE

  A timer accompanied the message now, counting down. The numbers grew smaller as her heart beat, but this was another thing the dreams never prepared her for. Logically, she assumed that somehow this procedure was a necessary step between her life as it had been and the cold terror of her dreams.

  Despite that, she felt no fear. If anything, the emotion lording itself over her thoughts was anticipation. She wanted to be out there—where or whatever “there” was—as quickly as possible.

  The countdown continued and she exhaled, eyes following the minute ripples in the current of the fluid as it caught the blue light from above.

  She watched the countdown. As each number grew less, additional numbers added themselves to the end, each moving faster than the ones before it. Now, it read: “00:00:30:597.” She watched with strange fascination as they seemed to grow faster as her newly-awakened brain grasped the passage of time. The fastest numbers hit zero, and the next set of numbers over clicked to “29” followed by “28” and “27” at an ever-increasing rate.

  The countdown finally stopped with a zero in every spot and she heard a faint hiss. It came from the thick biofluid around her. The blue light shimmered as the liquid curled and twisted slowly toward her feet. In moments, it dropped below her head, eliciting an unfamiliar cold chill as air touched her skin for the first time.

  An involuntary muscle spasm emptied her nasal cavities and lungs. Instinctively, she took her first deep breath. Air rushed into her lungs, chilling them even colder than her skin. The cold made her shiver, but she was amazed at how quickly her body moved now that it was free of the thick biofluid.

  The last of the murky fluid vanished through the drain between her feet as her skin started to adjust to the air. A faint current warmed her, blowing through the interior of her birthplace-turned-prison. After a few moments, she no longer felt cold and her heart started to slow down again. The shock of new sensations was over for the moment.

  Now that the opaque fluid no longer shrouded her eyes, she could see past the glowing display of numbers and information. As her eyes adjusted, she noticed the display held more than she first realized. In small print, backwards, were little lines that said her health was good, that her reactions were the way they should be, and a dozen other minor things that she had taken for granted in the moments between oblivion and now.

  All of that brought to her mind one question: if the words on her shell were written backward, then for whom were they written? She could read them well enough, but if they were intended for her, they would have been printed in the proper order and direction.

  She scanned the room outside her shell and found scant detail, only darkness and vague, shifting shadows. The wall opposite her little window was black tile, lit by the blue-green glow of a single computer screen. Her mind filed those details away as the shadows shifted and moved and a clawing sound scraped through the shell around her, sending a chill down her spine.

  The blue light abruptly burned a bright, angry red again. She could not tell if the color was brighter because the biofluid was gone or if this was a different shade of red. At the moment, however, the exact color of the message was not her concern. It appeared backward, designed to be read by who or whatever the small messages were for. Again, reading it proved easy enough for her.

  ERROR

  MANUAL RELEASE REQUIRED

  With no real way to measure the passage of time, and indeed the passage of time itself still being a new concept, she could not be sure how long she stood there. It might have been seconds, or it might have been hours. However much time actually passed, it quickly exceeded her patience and she began to search the inside of the shell for some type of release.

  A voice that was not her own, speaking to her in the back of her mind, told her that this was no test. No such problem had ever been encountered by any of the lives in her dreams. Whatever this was, it was unique to her and her alone.

  She scraped and pressed on the smooth inside of the shell, failing to find any seam or gap that she could conceiv
ably use to open it. As she searched, her stomach rumbled. Seemingly the last of her organs to function fully, it now tightened upon itself and demanded that she find something to eat.

  Angry and frustrated, she sank back against the back wall of the shell as another dream played itself out in front of her eyes. This was different, new. Before, the dreams had taken her entire attention, sight and sound as real as what she was experiencing right at that moment. This dream played itself out in front of her eyes, superimposed on the real world, and she fought to differentiate between the two.

  In front of her eyes, hands that were not her own hid a bag made of black fabric. The dream gave her no other information beyond the bag's location. She knew she could find it again if she needed it. When her stomach rumbled again, she assumed she would be needing it very soon.

  The scratching on the exterior of the shell grew louder, more regular, and she raised her own hands to beat on the inside. If she could hear sounds from outside, then whatever was out there should be able to hear her.

  She struck with the heels of her hands as memories and dreams of lives she had never lived told her how dangerous it would be to use her knuckles to hit something hard and unyielding like the inner surface of the shell. The dull thuds reverberated around the small space, but otherwise went unanswered for some time.

  Eventually, the scratching sounds from outside returned. This time they were accompanied by a featureless black visage at her window. Her first reaction was relief, and it washed over her before the more rational parts of her brain could catch up. A mixture of anger and fear replaced it in moments as she remembered other, similar, faces like that from her dreams. The glossy black visor that regarded her from the other side of the window belonged to one of the things that always tried to kill her in her dreams.

  The head tilted this way and that, regarding her with what felt almost like curiosity. A long-fingered hand scratched at the window next to the head, then vanished. A moment later, the helmet-shrouded face vanished as well.

  Her heart thundered and she struck out at the inside of the shell. Again, the only answer to her attack was a dull thud.

  A minute passed before the shell itself groaned and shifted. In front of her, it cracked open and slid apart. One half went to her left, the other to her right, and a small part at the bottom folded several times to create a step down to the floor. Cold, dry air assailed her skin, and she shivered at the sudden sensation.

  Smells assaulted her nostrils. Inside the shell, the only thing she could smell was the lack of biofluid. Even that did not have a scent she could describe, only the lack of one. In the time since it drained away and when the shell opened, she became aware of her own body's scent, but that was subtle compared to the complex smells washing over her now.

  Even without moving from her spot inside the shell, the scents were strong. The room beyond smelled like dirt and blood. The terms came to her unbidden a moment later. Around her, everything smelled of decomposition and decay. Subtle, buried under those smells was the scent of oil and machines.

  As though that had been the missing piece, the smells assailing her awakened the past parts of her brain. They were the smells not only of life, but also of death. The air carried a strong tang of blood, bright and metallic. She had dreamed of that scent. It filled the air when the monsters died. A similar smell, one darker and more faint tickled at the edge of her memory, brought out only in dreams where the monsters killed her instead.

  Instinctively, She balled her hands into fists at her side as the smell of blood awakened one of the most primal sensations the human body possessed: adrenaline.

  Yes, she thought, this is good.

  Her adrenaline spiked again as her brain finished parsing the scents around her. Under the dirt and blood, even more faint than the machine smell of oil, were chemical smells. Ozone hung in the air, heavy from the destruction of some computer component or electrical relay. She had no idea what those things were, nor any context for why they might smell like that, but the terms layered themselves in her mind anyway.

  Even more faint came a whiff of antiseptic that evoked another memory. This one was dim, barely remembered. Everything about it was fuzzy, from the sights to the sounds and even the smells. The other memories, the dreams especially, all felt real. The featureless blobs of primary color that flitted around at the edges of her vision did not feel like events that ever actually happened.

  Despite that, it made her angry. The very feeling of unreality that memory conveyed angered her not because of what it was, but because of what it was not. Her mind tried to tell her that it was just as real as anything else, but she could not reconcile the bright lights and clean scents with the dirt and darkness around her.

  Her brain processed all of that in under a second, the memories coming more as flashes and sensations than actual images. Sounds came an instant later, loud and high-pitched. Through the biofluid, everything had a muffled, low quality. With that gone, dim buzzes, pops, and crackles all came as one wall of noise.

  She flinched, trying to make sense of it. The shell's once-comforting hum was gone and its absence only intensified the sensation of adrenaline coursing through her body. Even her own breath sounded strange as it echoed in her chest with every inhalation. Like the smells of cleaning chemicals, something else lurked behind those louder noises.

  Whatever it was, the sound warned her of danger as a quiet scraping noise slowly climbed above her. It rose by centimeters until it sat directly above her, then quieted again.

  Quieting her own breathing, she took stock of her surroundings. The cold feeling in the air was gone as her skin cooled with exposure. She made a fist and the muscles on her arm stood out like steel cables beneath olive skin. She kept that hand in front of her, ready to strike, and raised the other above her head. The sound might have ceased, but the gut-deep warning of danger persisted.

  Simply assuming a more guarded position with her arms triggered more snippets of memory as pieces of her dreams coalesced into reality. Her hands may not have experienced violence yet, but her mind had, and connecting the two was proving to be a very simple process.

  Walking, however, was more difficult. The first time she tried to move her legs, she wobbled. One leg came up before the other was ready and her balance struggled to adapt for a moment before that foot slammed back down on the floor of the shell. The second time she tried it, her brain was ready. She raised one leg, shifted forward and set it down on the first step outside the shell. A second step followed it, then a third, and she was out of the shell and standing on the cold tile of the floor. The grayish-white tile felt cold and dry, everything that the interior of the shell was not.

  She turned, but before she could take in much of the room, a thin shout from above took the entirety of her attention. She pivoted in place, hands already where they needed to be in order to deflect the attack and send the black-suited figure over her shoulder and to the floor. Before it could right itself, instinct took over her limbs and she pivoted on her heels, crouching into a secure ready stance.

  Her assailant wore a black bodysuit and helmet that obscured its features. She remembered the suit and helmet from her dreams. This was one of the monsters that she hunted—and that hunted her—in a life before this one. It stood shorter than her, with disproportionately long arms and fingers that darted around in a chaotic swirl that made them hard to follow. In one of the thing's hands, she caught sight of the glint of steel—a knife.

  It lunged, arms outstretched. She shifted backward in a move that was not quite a hop and the attacker fell short. It stumbled, overbalanced, and she stepped back in. She remembered shattering the faceplate, but as she raised a hand, a memory flashed across her vision.

  In her mind's eye, she struck one of the creatures in the face with her fist. The visor shattered, but the pieces cut deep into a hand that was not hers. That hand bled, sending searing agony through her real hand. The pain only grew worse as she remembered more. The wounds grew in
fected, swelled, and turned black. Eventually the rot spread, black tendrils along the arm that led to an agonizing, drawn-out death in the darkness.

  A violent kick to her ribs brought her back to reality. She sprawled on the floor as her attacker shuffled forward to kick her again. It raised the knife, keeping it pointed at her eyes the entire time.

  When the monster raised its leg to stomp, her hands shot out and seized it by the foot. She rose, twisting, and it fell. The knife clattered out of its hands, skidding two full meters across the cold tile floor.

  It came to its feet, ready to attack with its hands, but she was faster. In one smooth movement, her rear leg came up, around, and her heel slammed into her attacker's head. The impact sent a shock of pain through her foot, but this was the pain of impact, not the pain of being cut.

  The creature fell to the floor, shattering the black plexiglass faceplate. When it rose again, she could see the fishbelly-pale face underneath. Three green eyes rimmed in red stared hatefully back at her. Blood ran from its small nose.

  Her attacker uttered something that might have been a curse and lunged again. This time, its attack was much more controlled. The three-eyed thing threw several quick punches, a kick, and then another series of punches. She dodged each of the attacks easily enough, then spared a moment to glance at her surroundings.

  That told her two things. First, she was being backed into a corner. Second, she should not have taken her eyes off of the monster right then. A black-gloved fist struck her in the side of the head, sending her stumbling backward. It lunged forward, throwing a punch with its other hand. She stepped into this one, taking it just under her collarbone, and used the momentary interruption of the thing's rhythm to grab that same arm and sling it around.

  She threw the creature head first into a nearby table. The impact made a hollow thud and the massive black topped table slid away on hidden wheels. It kicked off the table, pushing it further away and took a moment to claw at its face. Shards of black plexiglass fell to the tile and it glared at her with its three lurid eyes.