Purvai Talizmeer watched the medical clinic expand. Maintenance robots moved with constructed purpose, dismantling walls between buildings and upgrading where necessary. The very structure still offended him. It had been neglected already, and deeper scans showed significant damage to its foundation. The rock had been poorly mined and supported. Within the next decade, it would either break through the roof or sink into the next floor. It took constant reminders that this was a long term issue and that he would only be here a few months at the very most. Part of him still wanted it corrected on principle.
A signal caused him to turn and four chimera moved with him. A company of the fable had arrived and were awaiting his inspection. They were at the tunnel entrance and could assemble wherever he deemed fit. He ordered them to remain in place. It took time out of the Purvai’s schedule, but he’d only been there to observe. His work hadn’t begun yet. Besides, the thought of the fable waiting in the cold made him happy.
The lift was disabled so the Purvai went straight over the edge. The platforms and lights whipped past him before he crashed feet first into the floor. The rock broke around him, but it only slowed the Purvai as his feet were buried in the crumbling regolith. Chimeras came crashing down after him, dragging their claws into the rock wall to slow their descent. They were forced to kick away to avoid the elevator floor which was rapidly being dismantled. Their master hadn’t gone too far on short, human sized legs.
The reservation hadn’t gone dark yet. They were still waiting on the proper inventory before they began disabling the fusion reactor. It required specialty parts and machines to operate, and without them, operations would grind to a halt. But changes were apparent everywhere. The groundwork for the tunnel was halfway complete and then a new road could be laid. Lights had been removed and reinstalled in more optimal locations. It was a simple, unnecessary fix, but the more the Purvai remained underground, the more they annoyed him. Sometimes the simple pleasures were worth the extra effort.
Outside, the wind howled and whipped, gnashing and snapping at the assembled soldiers. Ten squads of twenty were arrayed before him. They stood at parade rest in perfect lines even in the subzero temperatures. They were certainly freezing but dared not show it. The cleverest used the pushing wind to conceal their shivers. Their uniforms were black from the boots to the balaclavas on their heads, revealing not a centimeter of skin. Mottled grey armor covered their torso, arms, and legs. It was designed thin and light for easy mobility, providing about as much protection as standard riot armor. Each squad was equipped with rifles, with two members carrying a short, stubby close quarters weapon.
Each of their faces was concealed by a thick brown mask, made of a material designed to look like burnt wood. They were the only item that was not uniform, each with their personal imperfections in the grain. The grunt masks had a sad face resembling that of a crying mask from Greek theater, painted a bright blue to echo their grim life. Their squad leaders in front of them wore a comedy mask. Where the tragedy masks were adorned with exquisite detail, the comedy masks were painted haphazardly in red, like portraits done by a caveman or someone mocking a demon. Their commander stood alone, waiting for the Purvai to address him. His wooden mask was fitted with wavy horns, an extended nose, and a macabre smile. The entire mask was painted gold, leaving only black holes for eyes.
“Jester.” The jester commander saluted and the Purvai nodded. “Assemble your troops inside.” The Purvai turned and the jester moved to follow him wordlessly. The first squad broke away and soon the company snaked its way down the tunnel.
“Jester, your tasks are as follows. Maintain order in the reservation. Conduct a census of the local population. I want names, picture ID, and genetic sample for confirmation. Search every building and tunnel to get an accurate count. You are to be forceful, but polite. There will be no killing. Records indicate there is a ruling council. Have their members meet me at the headquarters being constructed above. All pertinent information has been transferred to you.”
The jester pulled up his left wrist and a screen appeared over his forearm. It included maps, files, and the orders stated. “Personal scanners or drones for identification, sir?”
“Drones.”
“Lodging for the fable?”
“Designate which buildings are non-essential work during our time here and appropriate them. Do not remove residents from their lodging. We want the population docile, not agitated.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Purvai left them at the base of the elevator with a squad of drones. The jester began to assign four drones to a squad, and each squad a level of the mine. An announcement rang through the reservation stating that the Fabled Army was conducting a census. Please return to your designated domicile and do not resist. Nobody will be harmed.
The residents didn’t find that to be exactly true as the drones scanned their faces and hands before sticking their arm with a needle. It wasn’t much, just enough to draw a drop of blood, but it still stung. The fable were intimidating to find at the door, but appeared more bored than threatening. They moved with the same enthusiasm as the garbage man. There was a job to do and the sooner it was done, the better. They entered all homes, checking closets, under beds, and anywhere a person could be hiding. But none of their actions were done at gunpoint, with entering members slinging their weapons.
There was only a single incident when an overly paranoid resident met the fable at the door with a flechette cannon. The fable died before he realized the door was opening. His partner opened fire through the door, scorching the resident with repeated laser fire. The fight was over in seconds but upon entering the home, they found three dead women caught in the crossfire. His comedy leader took the fable outside where they shot his knees and elbows before tipping him headfirst down the central shaft. It was a mercy to ensure he landed on his head. If he’d lived, the jester would’ve dragged him before the chimera to explain why he couldn’t obey orders. The jester still had the responsibility to explain the incident to the Purvai, who was already speaking. He’d seen the whole thing through the drones.
“Have all three women brought to the medical center immediately! Use retrieval bags and do not lose an ounce of blood.”
The medical center was not ready for mass production, but it was operational. Surgical robots activated and moved to the dissection lab, with extended tables with large gutters before the edges so they didn’t lose valuable material to the floor. The surgical robots were tall and spindly, almost mirroring a raknath’s curved body, with lots of long thin hands equipped with tools. A silvery, octahedral head with eyes capable of seeing in multiple spectrums would be placed over the subject so as to capture every layer.
The fable squad came jogging up, three teams of four holding onto corpse retrieval bags. It was an awkward pace as they tried to rush while not damaging the dead. They laid the bags on the tables in front of the impatient Purvai and unzipped them. The surgical bots went into action. The priority was the brain which was quickly dying. Scalpels peeled away the flesh and saws quickly cut away the skull. Needles were placed through the grey matter, adding their own signals, and attempting to absorb data. Scans were done by the second, looking for abnormalities in the physical brain and looking for an outside presence in any other spectrum. What they saw was nothing, which was disappointing and a relief all at the same time. The women did not appear to be viable subjects.
The Purvai redirected the surgical bot in front of him and joined the procedure. The brain would have to be removed and preserved. All the fluids would have to be drained and then the real dissection started. The hardest part was removing the central nervous system with as little damage as possible. It was an exhaustive process requiring an excess of time and precision, even for him. He loved it. Talizmeer let the machines outside of the medical bay work on designated tasks and informed them and the jester he was only to be disturbed in case of an emergency. When he was done, he could’ve scooped the flensed remains of the woman into a bucket. He didn’t need the rest of her.
“Jester?” A quick check of his internal map said the jester was waiting outside the clinic. Delightful. “Jester, have you located the reservation council?”
“They are outside waiting for you.” Proud of the efficiency, the Purvai wiped his bloody hands on a rag and stepped outside. A ripple in his unnatural skin removed any remaining fluids.
The council had been waiting for a long time now. The jester knew his master was busy and told them to wait. When hours had passed, he’d made sure chairs and meals were brought up. The extended wait was probably a blessing in disguise. With the lift out, the council had to walk, and none of them were young or healthy. It had been a very long walk, leaving all but Grandma Snibbs wheezing. Grandma Snibbs did not have the capacity to wheel herself that far. A fable had been provided to escort her. Those who could, stood, as the Purvai approached.
“I am Purvai Talizmeer,” he said in simple introduction. “Your reservation belongs to me for the foreseeable future. I am here to conduct a survey of your population. All of your residents will receive a questionnaire, a medical exam, and a psychological survey. While here, I am upgrading your facility. You will suffer some inconveniences in the upcoming days. Power will be intermittent, the lift and tunnel are disabled, and I am converting some of your buildings. But in the long term, you will benefit from my visit, and prosper in a way your ursa overlords would not allow.”
“Unfortunately, there have already been incidents. A group of entrepreneurial assassins tried to kill me when I first arrived. Today, someone fired upon the fable while they conducted their inspection, leading to three deaths. I have instructed my force not to kill. I hope you will reinforce this with the members of your reservation.”
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“Why have you come?” asked Grandma Snibbs. The other members shuffled away from her. She held her ground, glaring at the Purvai from her wheelchair. A few hundred years ago, Grandma Snibbs might have flicked a cigarette at the machine posing as a man and lit up a new one.
“I am here looking for a unique set of genetic features that I believe are present in your population. Jester here will also be accepting applicants for any who wish to join the Fabled Army.” This was an unexpected development, but they had lost some of the grunts and they were already in the pasture. Might as well restock from the source.
“We’ll keep the peace,” said Grandma Snibbs.
“Good. As I said, you only stand to benefit from our visit.” Occupation was a better word, but they didn’t know any better. “I wish to know about your population. Don’t bore me with the specifics. I know your statistics and soon will have more accurate data. Tell me about your people. I’m looking for men and women of terrific talent; unrealized gifts.” It was better not to tell them too much. Humans were reliably good at rambling. He just needed to sift through the garbage until a nugget of information revealed itself.
So the humans prattled. They spoke of Jose, who was one of the most brilliant miners in a generation. He could tell you the contents and depth of materials from the smallest of samples. The man was an astute hound. Abeba was head of the power station and a brilliant physicist. It was amusing to hear they thought they knew anything about physics. Taraji was a doctor in training, remarkably young and so good with children. Unlikely, but maybe there was a hint of insight there. On and on they went, praising their offspring like it was kindergarten graduation.
“Tell me, do you know the expression, a canary in a coal mine?” They nodded. Not bad for a race who’d never seen coal or a canary. But these stories had a way of changing over time so it was good to be specific. “Tell me what it means.”
“It was an Earth animal you carried into the mines. If there was a toxic leak, the animal would die, and you knew to leave,” offered a man.
“Good. Do you have anyone like that?”
“Um…anyone who died?”
“No. Was there anyone you looked to for trouble? Anyone who told you about the danger before it happened?”
“Jose is pretty spot on about tunnel danger. We have probably a dozen people that seem to have a sixth sense about the mines.”
“Please.” Talizmeer listened intently. He crossed the five males off the list and logged the other women. “They sound wise, with a hint of luck.”
“If you wanted luck, you should’ve met Sadie,” said a man, his grin already vanishing. He knew he’d say something he shouldn’t have.
“Sadie? Please, go on.”
“She was always lucky.” The man lowered his bald head. “She’s gone now.”
“Dead?”
“Off world,” said Grandma Snibbs. “I sold her.”
“In return for what?”
“Little help with a bug problem. We don’t have much to offer.”
“I see. And how is Louis?” Talizmeer knew he’d struck gold. Most of the council flinched. Grandma Snibbs remained a cold wall. She was impressive. A woman well past her prime, probably holding onto life through sheer determination. “Yes, I heard about the Delta’s visit.”
“Is that why you’re here? Because he’s long gone.”
“What did you think of him?”
“Rude bastard.”
Talizmeer almost laughed. The cantankerous old broad was growing on him. “That he is. I’m surprised he was willing to help for so cheap.”
“We protect our own,” whispered Grandma Snibbs. Then louder, added, “and it was easy work. He did alone what would’ve taken our entire security force.”
“I see. And he did it just for the girl?” Grandma Snibbs chewed her lips, not caring to respond. There was additional payment. The reservation likely kept a small cache of rare minerals and gases to trade. One of those tricks everyone knows about, but nobody can say out loud.
Just then something pinged in his search. Jester had already catalogued the council in his census and amusingly, her listed name was Grandma Snibbs. But what was more interesting was her family history. “You sold your granddaughter?”
“She deserved to get off this rock.”
That was a depressing answer. Sadie had been sold to a Delta who was probably using her to scrub the floors by day and a whore at night. If she was lucky, he wouldn’t kill or abandon her. What lives these people lived to consider selling their family into servitude in hopes of a better life. Not his problem.
“Jester, please escort the council away. I need to have a conversation with Ms. Snibbs.”
“Damn right you don’t get to call me Grandma.”
Talizmeer turned his back and returned to the medical clinic. Three large specimen containers were now fitted along the back. Spinal columns still connected to the brain floated in amber liquids, the free floating nerves giving them a ghostly appearance. They were awaiting further testing he knew was useless, but he couldn’t risk throwing them away on a miracle surprise.
The doors slid open behind him and the ancient wheelchair rattled in. It clicked and squeaked so much that if he intended to spend a second longer with her, Talizmeer would have it replaced. Grandma Snibbs looked bored and resigned. A chimera was comically pushing her forward with extreme delicacy. Its clawed hands almost crunched the handles and it had to hunch to hold them. It was so low it looked like it would eat Grandma Snibbs at any moment.
“Seems excessive, for an inspection.” Grandma Snibbs nodded toward the specimen jars.
“An unfortunate loss. But I don’t believe in wasting anything.” Not bothering to sit, Talizmeer loomed over her. “Let’s talk about your family history. I’m a big fan of genealogy.”
“What makes you think I intend to share anything with you?”
“Because it is a long process from where you’re sitting to the specimen jar.” Talizmeer grinned maliciously. “You don’t want to know how long I can keep you alive for it.”
*
Not all of the fable squads were conducting the census. A quarter of them had been dispersed to the tunnels to look for stragglers, hidden equipment, weapon lockers, or anything else left off the books. They’d already found workers in areas that were supposed to be shut down. Nothing hostile, just people who went to work as they did every day. They were escorted home in batches.
“Comedy, this is Tragedy Four.”
“Go ahead, Tragedy Four.”
“We’ve got a blank spot. Permission to investigate?” Their comedy checked his map. Sure enough, the tragedy team was at the end of the tunnel on a map, but their signals expanded over the line. The cartographers down here sucked.
“We are coming to you. Proceed with caution.” The comedy wasn’t far behind. They were just inspecting an old carved out section. It looked like it was little more than a collection point. Any usable furniture or equipment had been removed, leaving only a few broken pieces behind. The slow part was letting the drones do deep scans of the rooms, looking for hidden panels or signs of life.
Gunfire. Heavy and repeated in thick tones which reverberated down the walls. It lasted only a few seconds and no screams followed. It came from the direction of Tragedy Four. They sprinted down the tunnel, finding two panicked tragedy firing down the tunnel. The comedy held his fist up before more started firing. He didn’t see any targets. Four tragedies were laid out, shot from behind with a rapid fire weapon. Judging by the large chunks missing in the ground and their bodies, some of the rounds had been explosive
“Report!”
“Unknown attacker, sir. One minute they were there, the next they were dead.”
The comedy keyed a drone to start scanning and drift down the tunnel, halting or retreating if they encountered trouble. It floated down, unaware of the apparent danger, green lights flickering off the rock walls. It paused a few meters in, turning upwards as it chirped loudly. A picture was forming over the comedy’s forearm.
“Automated turret. Motion activated.” The drone followed wiring back down the tunnel and scanned a piece of fake rock near them. The comedy opened the panel and found the simplest turret panel in existence. A button was pressed in, lighting up ‘ACTIVE’ in bright red letters. A button below it was next to a dull light that said, ‘DEACTIVATED.’ On the panel door was a simple note.
“Bug hole. Do not deactivate,” read the comedy aloud. “They probably dug too close to the hive and set up a turret.” Why didn’t the stupid people put up a warning sign? It was probably just common knowledge around here. Then again, two boards that had been nailed in an X over the entryway. The tragedy team had broken through to enter. With a sigh, he pressed the button and DEACTIVATED glowed in bright green. The drone confirmed the turret had powered down. With a sweep of his finger, the drone hovered down the tunnel. No gunfire.
“All clear. Let the drone advance five meters ahead at all times.” They were going to have to scan every centimeter of this tunnel. There was likely more than one turret. This was going to be their entire day.
The first tragedy to enter the tunnel did so warily. When nothing happened, a second followed. They were in a long tunnel with no cover so the turret could mow down a whole swarm of bugs by itself. Four were in the tunnel, watching the long guns. “Permission to eliminate the target, sir?”
“Negative. We might need that turret. Proceed.” He was almost following them when he heard a warning buzz come from the box. It clicked horrendously at them, but there was no change. After ten seconds, the comedy was about to chalk it up to an alarm designated to remind people the weapons were powered down. Then it made a happy chime, and the button pushed itself back to red.
The guns clicked back on and the majority of his squad turn to red paste along the walls. The comedy jammed the button back to green, but it was too late. They were all dead. Who designed a security system like this? He was going to find the nearest security expert and feed him into the tunnel personally.
The comedy never had to explain his failures to the jester. When he turned with his remaining tragedies, there was an additional figure in their midst. They wore a heavy miner’s uniform, which gave them a dumpy appearance. A thick gas mask covered all but two dark eyes. All of which was irrelevant compared to the flechette cannon pointed in their general direction.
One empty magazine later, the remaining tragedy team was gone. Their bodies were torn and spread so far down the tunnel that the automated turret took potshots as part flew by. The only one slight intact was the comedy, who had been at the back of the group. He had been shielded by his men, but still been eviscerated. The figure stepped through the gore slowly, studying the most intact victim.
Lure removed her gas mask. She had broken up fights before. She had broken arms and noses before, but never killed anything besides a bug. These fable were alien to her world, but not to her. They walked and moved like humans, talked like humans, and certainly bled like humans. Reaching down, she removed the comedy’s mask and saw a man lying there. His breathing was ragged and his eyes were unfocused. Blood drooled slowly out of his mouth.
What was a human doing serving machines? Why was he down here, hunting his own kind? Had she done anything by killing all these people? Grandma Snibbs had sworn her to protect the group, but had she? At the end of the day, a score of humans were dead, and they had done nothing to the invading machines.
What was the point of all this?