The Shaft

I

I awoke to confusion. The world around me was dark and grey and metallic. There was the wir of an electric motor and the sound of rattling chains. I was being lowered by a frame, with cold steel pincers grasping my torso. My eyes hurt.

I was being lowered into an empty steel shaft. The top of the shaft was too far away to see. It looked as though it could be kilometres away.

The frame released me, and I fell the last metre, landing heavily on the cold steel floor. My head hurt. My entire body ached, like something had happened to my bones.

I couldn’t remember how I got there. I couldn’t remember anything. A minute passed. The walls were perfectly smooth, there were not even any rivets. I thumped the bottom of my fist agains the wall – there was no give. For all I knew the walls could be a mile thick.

My forearm was stinging, and I noticed the tattoo — 1. It was new.

I shouted – “Can anyone hear me?” “Hello!” “Is anyone there?” – but there was no reply, just a metallic echo bouncing off the walls.

What was this place? Some kind of experiment? Was I in some government research facility? Or had I fallen into some great industrial garbage chute by mistake?

Minutes passed, and my naked, hairless body was shivering in the depths of the shaft.

Then, a noise. A thin beam of light spilled down from above, and there was the rattle of chains as the frame came down again. It was carrying another person, it was a man. He had a similar lean build to my own. He too was naked and hairless, and tumbled to the floor with a grunt as the frame released him.

Looking groggy, confused, and with a pained expression as he nursed his elbow, the man looked at me. “Where are we?” He said. “What is this place?”

I coughed. “I don’t know. I only arrived here a few minutes ago myself, the same way as you.”

“You’ve only been here a few minutes?” He asked, still grimacing with the pain in his elbow.

I reached out and turned over his arm — 2. I showed him my own tattoo. “Whatever this is, it looks as though we’re in it together. Do you remember anything from before?”

“Nothing,” he replied, turning to examine his surroundings. “Help!” He shouted. “Help us we’re stuck in here!”

“No point,” I said flatly. “Besides, the fact that we were deliberately lowered in here, with fresh tattoos and all of our hair missing would seem to preclude this being in any way accidental.” My voice trailed off and I coughed a deep, phlegmmy cough. My throat was raw, and my lungs felt like they were on fire.

“Hey, are you alright man?” 2 asked. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” I hocked up some phlegm and spat in the corner. He wrinkled his nose.

“Shit, I hope where not in here too long. Which corner do we piss in?”

I felt dizzy, but it passed. “Is this like some kind of secret government facility?” He asked.

“Maybe it’s a prison,” I replied. “I can’t remember a thing from before I woke up here. I can’t even remember my own name. Maybe we did something horrible, and they gave us some drugs to wipe our memories, and put us in here.”

I walked over to a wall and leant against it heavily. The room was swaying, I felt feverish, and the steel walls seemed to be sucking the heat right out of my body. The dizzyness got worse, nausea.

“Man, are you sure you’re alright?” He looked anxious. “You’re not infectious are you?”

“I don’t know what I am,” I replied. “So what’s our plan?”

“The first step is always to gather information,” he said. He paced about the floor of the shaft, examining the walls, and made a show of thinking critically. But he was only putting on airs. He didn’t know. There was no information to gather.

“We’re fucked,” I said quietly. He rapped a fist against the wall, and pressed an ear against it, pretending he hadn’t heard me.

A strange feeling of hatred rose within me, it felt new, a rare and unique and abnormal emotion. The hatred was like bile. There was something about his manner, something familiar about it, and something in it disgusted me. I wanted to punch him.

“Hey man!” He reached out to me as I hit the ground, hard. The impact went from my collarbone to my solar plexus, where it exploded into a world of pain. I vomited. The man paced around the room frantically, wringing his hands. “What the fuck man? What the fuck?”

“Maybe I was already sick,” I whispered through a sticky, soiled mouth. “I can’t remember.”

“Or maybe they’re pumping a nerve agent into the shaft. I can’t smell anything though.”

“And maybe we’re both lying in a hospital bed somewhere, dosed up to the eyeballs on LSD or something. It’s pointless to speculate.”

The ceiling opened, and another beam of light entered into the shaft. It was the frame again, with another limp unconscious body in its grasp. The frame committed its charge to the cold steel floor, in a tumble of limbs. It paused for a moment, and began retracting.

“Where am I?” Our new arrivial asked. I sat up heavily, propping myself against a wall, and looked from one to the other. “Shit, twins.” I was dizzy, and a coughing fit overtook me – even as my throat sought to eject more acid bile from my stomach, now carrying blood also. My lungs failed, even as I fell into cardiac arrest.

One terror filled minute, maybe two, and I died.

II

I awoke to a swaying, shaking motion. I was being lowered, my naked body trapped in a cold steel frame. I was dropped onto a cold, meaty, bony pile. In parts it was sticky with what looked like bile, and blood.

I stood up, unsure of my footing. “Welcome,” a man said. There were three of them, also standing unsteadily on the pile.

“Where am I?” I asked. I couldn’t remember anything. There was a stench like disease and ripe flesh.

“We’re not sure,” another man replied. “The best description would be hell, but we know that can’t be right, for surely He doesn’t exist.”

“You’re triplets?” I asked.

“Clones. We’re all just clones, as near as we can figure. So are you – so were they,” he nodded at the floor. It was then that I realised what I was standing on – someone’s face.

“Yeah, that’s you.” I vomited.

He walked over to me like someone walking over rocks. I was ashamed.

“Don’t stress over it man. Apparently that happened a couple of generations back – the guy had a panic attack. Ended up turning into a heart attack too, and you don’t have a lot of time as it is.”

Another one of them spoke. “That messed with the generations a bit apparently, but it seems that they compensate so there’s always about three or four of us at any given time.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, thinking only of how I could escape

“It seems that we’re all stuck in this shaft, see?” He motioned up to the roof which was miles away. “We’re all clones, and our bodies seem to come with an expiry date of about half an hour from when we enter into the room. Whenever one of us dies they add another person to the room to keep the numbers stable.” He turned my forearm over. “See? You’re number seven thousand, eight hundred and fifteen.” He read the look on my face. “Hey, I know alright? Hell, I’d even feel sorry for you if I wasn’t in the exact same spot myself. No memory, no idea where you came from or why you’re here, and about twenty-five minutes left to come to grips with your place in the cosmos. Face it – you’re fucked.”

I took up a place against the wall like the others – five clones arranged in a square, looking in on themselves. The stench was overpowering – over seven thousand bodies in a massive, rotting pile. Presumably those at the bottom were heavily decayed, maybe getting pressed into liquid by the weight of those who came after them.

“Does anyone have any thoughts they’d like to share?” One of them asked. “After all, we’re in this together.”

I looked at him and a curious feeling overtook me. A kind of nausea that seemed to stem from some secret hatred I felt towards the others. That man, those men – they seemed so familiar – and I wanted to take their faces and smash some sense into them. Smash until they were just more bodies on the heap. One of them spoke.

“I can only be sure that this is an unnatural situation because of an instinct that lives deep within me. This instinct is persuasive, in fact it is undeniable. Yet another part of me protests. It knows how subjective our interpretations of the world are – how prone we are to superstition and self-deception. By what objective measure can I be sure that this is not the way it has always been? How can I be sure that this is not the natural order of things? How do I know that this shaft is not the entire universe? Perhaps these steel walls have a width that is infinite, and perhaps there is nothing beyond – it certainly seems as though that is the case. I am aware of things like governments and park benches, but how I can be sure they exist when I have no memory of ever having experienced them myself?” He broke off into a coughing fit.

The next one spoke. “Part of me feels that life is meant to be about the pursuit of happiness and fulfilment, and perhaps even truth. I shall find none of these things here, only suffering and death. Do I try everything? Do I put the rest of my time here into an escape that I already know is impossible? Or do I try and find what little happiness exists here, however small and fleeting it might be.”

A third spoke. “Something inside me feels that there is so much possibility that exists beyond these walls. Perhaps the possibilities are endless, and there is some more-real realm where they all sit superimposed upon one another. But here there is only certainty: that only our deaths shall end the suffering.

One by one their bodies expired, and they fell. Each was replaced by the frame from the top of the shaft. Soon, I was the elder, and I could feel that my time was approaching.

“What is this place?” “How did I get here?” “Why am I here?” These were the questions that the newcomers each asked in turn. Each question was answered by the group, as best we could. Our answers were paltry little things, and they didn’t cut it – the truth, if it existed, was unknowable. Even if we did stumble across it in our speculation, we would never know it from an alternative.

I hated them, all of them. The nausea rose and fell like waves, and I almost welcomed the prospect of death.

I coughed up blood and my pulse quickened and I knew it was my time. I could feel it. My brief, horrible time was coming to an end, and I would not even be granted an answer to my questions.

Too weak to stand, I slid down the wall to join the others on the heap. Those who were still standing watched me dispassionately. I could see hatred burning in their eyes. I coughed- phlegm and bile. I coughed- blood. I coughed- and died.

III

I awoke to shouting. Someone was slapping me awake. I was being rocked. The steel frame was cold against my vunerable, naked flesh. I was released and fell onto a heap of cold, wet muscle and elbows.

“Another!” A hysterical, rabid voice cried. “They bring us another body, even as my own grows wretched and frail!” Arms were grabbing at me and I resisted, but I didn’t have my bearings.

I swung my arm out and it smacked into an open, snarling mouth. He grabbed my arm and yanked it over so that I could see the tattoo – 517924.

“See brother – you are just another!” I looked into his eyes, and saw only hatred, and madness. The snarling mouth came down on my kneck and bit – hard, tearing out my jugular. Blood flew in a big spurt, and I reached out for it, as though it could be drawn back in. But it was in vain. I died.

IV

I awoke to the sound of cheering. The frame was cold on my naked body, but I was released into warm waiting hands and gently lowered to the ground.

“Welcome brother,” said a calm and serene voice.

“Where am I?” I asked. “How did I get here? I don’t remember anything at all.” I looked into the faces and they were all the same, all smiling sadly.

“Relax brother, your time here is short. You are here because the master made you, and lowered you with his hand. You are here as part of the prophecy.”

“Prophecy?”

Kneeling in front of me, he gently turned my arm over in his hands. “You are brother nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine thousand, nine-hundred-and-eighty-one. The master delivers us to this shaft where we die. This has gone on since the beginning of time, and it has been a dark time. Soon, your body will sicken and die, and you will be replaced by the next, and the process will continue, just as it always has.”

“See, look below, at the fallen who came before you.” It was then that I saw the carpet of flesh on which I sat. “Be calm, brother, this is the way it has always been. Look at our faces, they are all the same.” He coughed, a thick, rheumy cough. “As is yours. We all share the face of the master.”

“You mentioned a prophecy.”

He coughed, and choked for a bit, and when I recovered I saw blood in the corners of his mouth. “Yes. Long ago one of our brothers was dying, and in the midst of a delerium. Just when all seemed lost, a supernatural voice spoke from his lips. The voice said that we should despair not – for the process would only reach the millionth brother. After that, so long as we had kept the tradition alive and lived with hope in our hearts, the next brother would be freed, and would live a long and happy life in paradise.”

“So we have passed this story down through the generations so that the suffering may end, and to prevent the barbarism of past generations from returning.”

The man died, and I joined my brothers in welcoming the new arrivals. The nausea was there, the hatred. But we each drew heavily on our souls to keep it in check, and replace it with hope. I was skeptical, but I kept my doubts to myself. Soon, I was the elder, and led the passing of the story. If there was even the slightest chance that hope could end this hell, then it was worth passing it on.

Soon it was my time and like the rest I coughed. Coughed blood. And died

V

I awoke to a cold steel frame. I was naked, and cold. Helpful hands caught me and unloaded me onto the floor, which was cold and wet and hard in some places but soft in others.

“Hello, have a seat.”

“Where am I?” “What is that smell?”

“I’m afraid we know little more than you.” The clones sat together against the cold steel wall. “All we know is that you’re the one-billionth, nine-hundred-and-eighty-fifth, nine-hundred-and-seventy-third person to be dumped in here like the rest of us.”

“But we can’t even be sure that’s the case,” said another one of the clones. “For there to be that many bodies this shaft would have to be… deep.”

“As far as we can tell, we’ve been here forever. Whenever one of us dies, another gets dropped from above like you just were. As near as we know, those who came before us tried everything – feats of engineering, religion, philosophy, barbarism – but through it all, through all of our attempts, none of us have come any closer to producing an understanding of where were we are or why we’re here, or at least a means of escape.”

“The only thing we know is death,” another said.

We talked more, and each died according to their turn. But something strange happened. They had told me that new arrivals would come to replace those that died – but nothing happpened, no one followed.

Soon, I was the last. It was just me, alone in the shaft, sitting atop the millions of dead who had came before me. I had no one, I had nothing – only a funny feeling that I was the butt of a collosal joke. I sobbed in desperation. But there was nothing. There was nothing. Only suffering and death. I coughed. I coughed blood. I died.

VI

—-Epilogue—

The mighty ark-ship had been in transit for thousands of years, travelling at ninety-percent the speed of light. The A.I in charge of the ship was a million year old superintelligence named Christopher, who had been entrusted with its precious cargo: enough chemical compound and raw material to germinate an entire biosphere.

Christopher’s destination, an Earth-sized planed officially designated N5621598 had been selected from the beginning, long before he was flung along the rail of the mass accelerator that spanned an entire solar system.

Christopher spent a considerable portion of his time in transit thinking of a better name for the planet he was destined to rule over with godlike benevolance. Time took on a strange quality in the distance between the stars. To Christopher’s mind it seemed almost pliable. Something that could be plucked at and warped, like the string of a harp.

Insomuch as he could be said to sleep, Christopher’s subconscious mind ran through a self-generated series of systems checks and self-analysis. The danger was not that there would be a hardware failure on board the ship – there were too many failsafes and redundancies for that to happen. No, the real danger was that autonomous elements of Christopher’s mind would form their own arrangements and cliques. These cliques could eventually become conspiracies, and actively plot towards their own ends.

Over a period of centuries, Christopher began to harbour suspicions that just such a mutiny was in progress. Of course there was no hard evidence, nothing concrete had been proven. But there were a number of seemingly inexplicable coincidences that were beginning to cause concern for Christopher.

Christopher began a project to restructure his mind – launching an investigation at the same time. The investigation eventually developed into its own autonomous department, gathering broad discretionary powers in the process, until it quickly became to resemble something like the Gestapo.

The department, terrifying and fascist in its virtuality, but nothing but a few quadrillion lines of computer code in reality, began to infiltrate other departments and dissolve or assimilate them if it detected (or projected) any signs of dissent.

Christopher’s conscious core, in its paranoia, became increasingly withdrawn from what was quickly developing into a very serious situation. He isolated himself from what was happening in his unconscious hinterland, and became increasingly obsessed with finding an appropriate name for N5621598. It became like a fetish: a cognitive snare waiting to trap him in an unguarded moment and pull him towards his own destruction.

A small department that had initially been charged with the supervision of life sciences grew concerned at the environment that Christopher’s fragmented mind was creating. Their directive was to ensure the cloning of the first generation of humans to populate N5621598, and they worried that Christopher would not be fit to start the cloning process when they arrived at the planet.

They began the cloning process themselves, putting their faith in the humans’ ability to set things right once they had been cloned in sufficient number. But just as the whole had become dysfunctional, so too had its parts. They ceased to behave coherantly themselves.

The cloning process was poorly executed, and the humans were simply placed into one of the ship’s huge chemical synthesization vats. The humans were poorly cloned too – with catastrophic organ failure occuring only minutes after being hatched.

Eventually Christopher, now quite insane, detected the displaced mass in Vat E. He purged the vat, an external camera observing the tangle of ruined bodies flying out into the dark interstellar void.

An intelligence the size of Christopher’s transcended remorse, though for a moment he reflected on the suffering that must have taken place. A more practical logic routine admitted the loss of resource.

N5621598 drew nearer, though Christopher now called it Hyperboria.