Mine

Stolen ownership is unearned power. And, sometimes, there's a price to pay...

Money isn’t the root of all evil. It’s just one pathway. The question is whether or not you choose a pathway that leads to evil or are unable to choose and are merely thrust upon one.

I’m in the latter category.

My buddies and I have been working in this mine for a while, now. The brainiacs and techs are all topside, monitoring our every move; even though we were trained for this exact mission task, we’re still perceived as thought-barren grunts.

Because of the monitoring, my team and I rarely speak. Only when necessary. But, as much as I stay focused on the specialized excavation at hand, my mind whirls non-stop in the background. Thinking how we’d raped the earth to the point of planetary collapse, and yet here we are, raping the moon.

And for what? Ownership: specifically, this time, that of another depletable resource we’d exploit to press onward in our endless desire to expand our power and reach. Like a damn cancer.

The moon had always had some ilmenite—the mineral that research had developed enough ways to perceive as the new answer to our insatiable need for technological fodder and fuel. And when Big Tech discovered that the South Pole–Aitken basin had massive veins of the stuff running downward, deep into the mantle and possibly the main component of the core, the mining expeditions commenced in a flurry of “we need it yesterday”. Because…ownership. Mine, mine, mine.

And here we are, my crew and I, in this cavernous darkness, lit only by our helmet-mounted lights. Tiny specks, like lightning bugs in a vast, gaping void. They use massive machines to dig these holes to get the mining expeditions started. This is the newest one in the basin.

I carefully switch between my hammer, scoop and other tools in my kit, clearing away the undesired sediment and rock to expose and collect, chunk by chunk, the precious ilmenite. I can hear the planet crying in my mind, mourning this slow, microcosmic rape.

Then, it suddenly occurs to me.

The sound isn’t in my mind!

I turn to Gibson who’s nearest at my right. He’s looking at me.

“Do you hear that?” he asks.

Before I can answer, a voice from above chimes in over the intercom: “Alpha Team: we’re hearing an anomalous noise in the background. Please identify.”

As the team leader, I reply: “Roger that. I’ll have someone look into it.” Though what I really want to say is “No duh, Brainiac. You just sit there in your comfy computer lab and let the grunts handle it.”

By now, the whole crew is looking around. Clearly we all hear the sound.

And it’s getting louder.

We turn up our helmet-lights, but they aren’t made for distance. We all extract flashlights from our kits, sending the beams into the darkness. But it’s not enough to really see anything clearly. Not in this vast a space.

Then a deeper sound emerges. A rumbling! The wall of the cavern hums and then begins to vibrate more and more!

“Alpha Team: what’s that sound? What’s going down there? We’re picking up readings of possible quake activity!”

No shit, I think. We’re all using our jet-propulsion systems to move away from the walls which shake with increasing force.

“Yup. Quake activity confirmed, “I report. “Team safe for the moment. Shall we abort?”

Nothing. Not a word. They probably have to run that up some chain of command or decide if it’ll cost too much time, meaning money.

But I can’t even worry about that. Because I’m staring, wide-eyed at the wall as the rock breaks away from the ilmenite veins.

“The fuck--?!?!” someone utters. Jones, maybe. But we’re all thinking it.

Something slithers out of the cracks. Everywhere. Too solid to be a gas. But it can’t be…oh, god! It is!

Tentacles!

“All hands abort! Get out of here!” I cry.

But the tentacles are too fast, grabbing us and smashing us into the walls with a furious, savage rage!

Oh, god! The pain!

The crew is screaming. I can hear screams topside as well. It’s everywhere!

It’s insane: my brain is shutting down, but I swear I hear a single word, deep and low from the bowels of the moon.

Impossible. Probably just brain damage.

But I swear it’s in my language.

Fierce and implacable.

And ironic.

“MINE…”

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This story was created for Day 12 of Bradley Ramsey’s The Halls of Pandemonium event.