Born in Darkness Read online

  She stepped forward, ready to strike, but had to drop into a deep crouch in order to evade a head-level kick. The monster kicked with its other foot and she struck out with the heel of her hand against the side of its knee. It buckled and nearly lost balance, then twisted in order to bring its foot down on her face.

  She rose with her hands in motion, grabbed its extended foot, and flipped it onto the floor. Her foot shot out between its legs once—not that such a strike would hard these monsters, the voice in her head warned—then she twisted them to one side, dropped down against the side of its knees, and pinned the monster to the floor.

  Instincts and movements she remembered but had never performed led her into an effective pin and she held one hand against its collar, choking her would-be assassin. It bucked and thrashed, but could not throw her off. Realizing that, it resorted to hammering the bare skin of her back with its gloved hands.

  She barely noticed the pain being drummed into her ribs, but knew that being hit over and over was bad. Shifting slightly, she pinned its arms to the tile with her knees and opened her mouth to speak.

  Her voice cracked as muscles she never used tried to form words she never remembered learning. She inhaled again, conscious of her breathing having deepened and quickened during the short encounter, and tried to speak a second time. “Who are you?”

  Her attacker raised its head and smiled, if the twisting motion its fishbelly face made could be considered a smile. Its teeth were needle sharp. “Kill humans, we.”

  “Why?”

  “No talk, us!”

  Using her momentary distraction to free an arm, the monster struck out at the side of her head. She released its collar to block the blow, shifted forward, and slammed the monster's helmet against the tile with her other hand. It bounced with a dull thunk.

  It bucked again, and she seized its head with both hands, twisting until the helmet ripped free. Its hairless skin seemed to glisten in the faint light and its three eyes regarded her with a mixture of amusement and hate. Capitalizing on her shift of position, the monster struck her in the shoulder with one hand.

  With a ferocity that felt like reflex, she bashed the back of the creature's skull into the floor. The tile cracked as she did it a second time. By the fourth impact, the creature stopped moving. The fifth and sixth impacts splattered bright blood onto the dark, dirty floor.

  Finally, she took a deep breath and pushed herself to her feet. She swayed unsteadily as adrenaline had its way with her muscles. As her heartbeat calmed, she examined the creature that had tried to kill her. It was smaller than she was, thinner. Even without any way to see a reflection or image of herself, she could compare their arms and legs. She was taller. Her arms were longer and stronger. Even with its black suit adding bulk, she was larger as well.

  So why, she asked herself, did it try to kill her?

  With no one around to ask and the monster's dead body not revealing any useful information, she returned to her shell and climbed inside. It was cold now, and dry, but the confines were familiar. They gave her a place to think, to catch her breath. She dreamed about these monsters, but facing one in reality was very different. Worse, if her dreams were accurate, this thing was the smallest kind.

  She told herself she would move again once her limbs and lungs stopped trembling and burning.

  ***

  She rose to her feet no more than five minutes later. Her steps remained shaky and her fingers tight, things that lingering memories told her were normal when adrenaline faded from her system. The places where the green-eyed monster hit her were sore, but not damaged. She dreamed about enough wounds to tell that much.

  Other than the damage from their fight, and the monster's corpse itself, the room outside her shell was exactly like it was when she first stepped out. No new creatures moved around, no subtle shifts in scent or sound that might hint of danger.

  Now that she could look around without worry, she could take stock of the room and, perhaps more important, herself. None of the surfaces around were reflective, but she was obviously not one of the green-eyed monsters. What she could see of her skin was much darker and even without seeing her face, she knew she would only find two eyes there.

  Still, curiosity ate at her, and she ran her hands over her face, feeling the bones of her skull and trying to picture it in her mind. Under her fingers, her cheekbones stood out most of all, high and sharp. The top of her head was as smooth as anything else, letting her feel the subtle contours of the bone though the thin skin.

  Her ribs were tender where the monster struck her, but nothing felt swollen or broken. It was too early for bruising, as well. She remembered such basic injuries from her dreams along with injuries far worse. By comparison to the things she remembered, her current state was almost pleasant.

  Near where the monster fell, she found its knife. The thing was small and dirty, very much like the weapons she dreamed about using. Testing the edge against her fingertip almost drew a laugh from her lips. Even if the creature managed to slash her with it, she doubted it would have done very much. However, an overhand stab would be useful enough, and so she turned it over in her hand.

  Content for the moment with her own state, she finally turned her attention toward something more than her immediate surroundings. She, and her shell, stood at one end of a long, narrow room. Other shells like hers sat in a double row that ended where she stood and stretched several hundred meters in the other direction. Hers was, if she stared down the line of empty shells, the last one in the leftmost row. Her shell now looked like all of the others: dark, empty, cold.

  Above, the high ceiling was flanked by a catwalk that spanned the room from end to end. A half-dozen doors studded the walls at the catwalk level, but she saw none on her level. Nor did she see any any way to get up there.

  Above, lights had been torn from the ceiling or smashed. Parts of the wall suffered similar damage, like something had torn out specific sections or pieces. Wires dangled from most of those holes, but there her knowledge ended. Nothing in her dreams explained how to understand wiring or computers, and the broken equipment yielded nothing useful.

  She scoured the area, looking for anything that might be useful. So far, her only possession was the dull knife taken from the small monster. Memories told her of other useful tools, more effective weapons, or even food. All of those memories showed her other places than this room. In fact, to her growing annoyance, she had no memories of the room around her. Her fight with the monster had been all instinct and memory of other fights in other places.

  She scowled. The long wall opposite her shell looked like it once displayed a series of computers—but what, she asked, were computers?—but all that remained now were smashed pieces. The only intact piece of furniture remaining was the heavy table with its thick, black top and busted cabinets underneath. Despite the growing hunger pains in her stomach, she went through drawer after drawer. Her instincts told her that before she moved on, she needed to examine everything around her. Too many dreams ended with an ambush or some other danger coming out of the shadows.

  So she searched diligently, pushing down the feeling of hunger for a little longer still. She vividly remembered another pair of hands hiding food and water not far from where she awakened.

  A cold pit opened in her stomach as she connected the obvious logic there. She had been treating the memories and dreams as though they really happened. Her instincts and reactions came automatically, and, until she truly woke up, the dreams had been as real as anything else. Now, she wondered where those memories came from.

  Perhaps one of the previous lives of which she dreamed went out of their way to prepare a bag of supplies for the next one. Perhaps, those thoughts continued, it knew it was going to die and wanted to make sure she did not suffer the same fate.

  She found talking easier now, and her voice echoed in the empty room. “How many times has this played out?”

  No useful tools or weapons presented themselves,
no matter how long she searched. Signs that tools or weaponry once filled many of the drawers and cabinets were obvious. Markings, ones she recognized somehow as being made by human hands, could still be made out underneath all of the dirt and grime.

  She wanted to curse, but did not know how.

  She briefly contemplated stepping back into her shell to rest again. That urge lasted only a few moments but her attention lingered on her shell. Instead of the inside, now what fascinated her was the outside. Screens she had never seen from inside dotted the shell's exterior, but every one of them were black. The only identifying markings on the outside were four blocks of red letters, each in a different font.

  “VI:C:T – O.R.I. – A.”

  The string of characters had no meaning for her as they were printed. Unlike her other surroundings, nothing in her memory or instincts gave any context to what she was seeing. The letters could have any one of a billion meanings, assuming they were part of an acronym at all. The periods between some of the letters made it seem that way, but she had no way to be sure without context.

  The A was clearly the oldest. It had faded somewhat, like it had been subjected to time and weather. The block of characters in front of it was newer, though its colors had darkened over time as well. The first block was the newest; it showed no sign of fading or discoloration.

  Unfortunately, without any idea how quickly the environment outside the shell affected the paint, she had no way of knowing how long even that newest marking had been there. Ten minutes before, she had barely been aware of herself. She had not been aware that the world beyond her shell existed except in ideas and thoughts only half-glimpsed in a lifetime of dreaming. None of that told her how long her shell had sat there or why it had been painted with that particular string of symbols.

  She focused on the first and last symbols. The A was ornate, with a small circle over the point and a larger, filled-in circle at the base. Her mind told her it was some sort of logo, which meant it was more than a letter. It meant something, even if she had no idea what. She filed that information away in her mind and looked at the first symbols. They were newest, possibly something that directly identified her shell.

  Curious, she took a few steps toward the next shell, examined it, and went on to read the markings on a third one. What she found there confirmed her suspicions. They each had the same second and third blocks that all looked to have been printed at the same time. What differed was the first block of characters. The next shell over was marked “VI:XCIX:T.” The one after that was labeled with “VI:XCVIII:T.”

  As she walked, she passed dozens of empty shells like the one from which she originally came.

  The lettering system on the shells ran all the way down to the first pair, labeled “VI:I:T” and “VI:II:T” respectively. The labels had gone past “VI:VI:T” a few rows back, and she felt a sick fascination as she wondered if the first pair of symbols indicated that somewhere five entire other sets of shells sat empty. The paint on the first two empty shells looked older than it had on hers, and the first block of symbols were nearly as faded as the ornate “A” logo.

  So, she thought, returning to stare at her empty shell again, they were a numbering system. There are, or were, others that came before her.

  “How many others?” she whispered, finding her voice again.

  Eventually, she came back to her shell and reread the markings there. The entire scheme might have been a simple catalog, but the symbols on her shell were hers specifically. She touched the cold outside, running her fingers along the smooth metal there.

  She read the markings aloud as though they were a single word. She nodded, satisfied. Something about that sounded proper. It gave her a sense of identity where before there had only been an empty spot upon which she was writing her experiences.

  “Victoria.”

  Chapter 2

  First Lord Tritogenes, Hexarch of Limani, adjusted the hem of his robe for what had to be the tenth time since getting dressed that morning. This one was new, and the bright purple satin currently in fashion among the Hexarchs hung in a stiff curtain around his feet.

  He made a general sweep across the symbols embroidered on his robe. A handful of them had to do with the Project, but with most of the details still classified, there was only so much he could pull from. Others related to more recent, and positive, achievements such as the recent financial success of one of his media corporations. That design snaked its way down one arm in a twisted maze of pictographs that showed not how much the company made, but how much of a bonus it was able to provide for its employees.

  Tritogenes turned. He supposed he was rather proud of the glittering hawk stitched across his shoulders in gold and red. Under its wings were a series of names rendered as single glyphs, patrons on one side and star performers on the other. He was proud enough of his holofilm company, but in his mind it was simply that: a company. The Golden Hawk, however, was an opera house, the design and construction of which had been Tritogenes's passion for years, decades even.

  The final choice that morning had been between this newest robe and an older one. When Project Titan began, he designed and commissioned a garment to celebrate the occasion. Unlike the robe he wore at the moment, that one had been hand-designed using old-fashioned pencil and paper. Each stitch had been individually programmed into the machine, resulting in a process that took the better part of a year to complete.

  He much preferred that robe. It was older and soft, but it was growing threadbare in places and was in dire need of repair. For any other visit, he would not have cared, but rank had its demands as well as its privileges. From the moment he stepped off the shuttle until he entered his private room in the facility director's suite, he was there for Official Business.

  Fortunately, at least, he had very little to do directly. The Project handled itself rather well these days, especially now that things were officially winding down.

  Tritogenes frowned. That was the problem.

  The agreed-upon deadline for the end of Project Titan loomed. He hoped this visit provided some useful information or assurances he could pass along to the other Council-members. If not, he was going to be in a rather unenviable position. Either he presented them with nothing or he rushed an eleventh hour solution. Neither option appealed to him.

  His thoughts returned to the same place they frequented when he came here: if it had to do it all again, he would...

  This time, he stopped that chain of thoughts, offering assurances to himself that the Project was in good hands. It was certainly in better hands than his, and had been so for four years now.

  More to the point, he was about to get an update on things, so worrying himself about it would do no good.

  He did, however, allow himself to get somewhat cross at the slow speed at which the dock staff seemed to be operating. Under ideal conditions, his ship should have been through decontamination the better part of an hour before. Tritogenes sighed. It had been nearly six months since his last visit and the station did not get very many other visitors, so he supposed he could cut the ground crew a little slack. Their skills did not get very much polish.

  Of all the times he wanted to abuse his rank and just push his way through the system...

  The indicator light on the table next to his prep mirror interrupted that thought. Simple, unobtrusive, it told him directly that the shuttle's airlock was ready for him. He had no use for underlings—servants, if he was being honest about the way they were usually treated—whose only purpose was to relay messages to him in person.

  The last check was his makeup, yet another piece of formality Tritogenes would have preferred to do without. Still, it was expected that he present himself with all the proverbial bells and whistles of his rank, and the wing-like stripes across the sides of his face and underlining his eyes were the least he could do.

  At the shuttle's airlock, he met with the two staffers that took the trip with him, a pair of blue-clad Second Lords. Like Tritogen
es, they had donned their best robes and spent more time than usual on their appearance.

  Well, thought Tritogenes, one of them spent more time than usual on his appearance. Second Lord Amalia was the sort to wake up early in order to present the best visage possible. In a way Tritogenes envied her—he certainly never bothered to care that much.

  Tritogenes greeted the two Second Lords in turn, offering his hand first as was customary for the one of senior rank. They clasped arms just above the wrist and exchanged a curt head nod of acknowledgment.

  “Good Morning, First Lord,” Amalia said.

  “Good Morning, Second Lord Amalia, Second Lord Isodorus.”

  “What are our orders?”

  Tritogenes chuckled. “For the moment? We're going to walk in there and look impressive. After that, the two of you have the next few days off.”

  “As you say, First Lord.”

  “First Lord?”

  Tritogenes raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Second Lord Isodorus?”

  “If I may, why did you bring both of us. The shuttle can be crewed by a single person.”

  “Speak to Second Lord Glaukos when we arrive. I suspect he will be able to give you more information.”

  Isodorus's excitement was barely concealable. “Yes, First Lord. Thank you.”

  “First, Lord, if I may?”

  Tritogenes turned slightly. Amalia regarded him with stiff formality. As much as he appreciated her attention to detail and constant proper presentation, he found her to be a tad inflexible. Of course, he reminded himself, he could use that sort of inflexibility from time to time to help keep himself on track.

  “Yes?”

  “Does this mean Project Titan is completed?”

  He waited a moment before replying. Amalia had been here before and was one of the few people other than the facility's staff who knew the full extent of his branch of Project Titan and what he intended to accomplish.