Scott Sigler - EarthCore

EarthCore

Scott Sigler

Dragon Moon Press

EarthCore

hereinafter invented, including, but not limited to, xerography, photocopying and recording, and in any

known storage and retrieval system, is forbidden without permission from the copyright holder.

ISBN 1-896944-32-9 Print Version

ISBN 1-896944-44-2 Electronic Version

CIP Data on file with the National Library of Canada

Dragon Moon Press www.dragonmoonpress.com

Printed version printed and bound in Canada.

This book is dedicated to Michael R. Mennenga and Evo Terra.

THANKS:

If I neglected anyone in this thanks page, I'm on a huge deadline and under a lot of pressure to finish up.

This is an excellent cop-out and you know it. Therefore, if you don't see your name, it's not my fault. You

can't be offended. I forbid it. There, you have been forbade. In fact, I'm so stressed, maybe you could

stop thinking about yourself for once and send me some chocolate already.

You're A Trooper Thanks™ to my wife, Jody, who was the first to read the umpteen renditions of

EarthCore. She read the story more times than I can even count. That's a lot of pages, folks.

Super Special Thanks™ (which is way more than “special thanks” but still a bit less than “wow, can I

bear your children?") goes to the Sigler Media team:

Matt Albright

Kevin Capizzi

Kay Satirli

Dan Stah

Robbie Trencheny

Extra Special Thanks™ to Adam Curry & Dave Weiner for inventing podcasting

You're Smart & Other Publishers Are Dumb Thanks™ to Gwen Gades

Podcasting Peoples Thanks™

Accident Hash

Austin Podcast

Dawn & Drew

Mark Jeffrey

Russell Holliman

49er Media

Tee Morris

Podcast411

The Martini Shot

Paul Story

Podcast Alley

Podcast Bunker

Podcast Pickle

The Rev Up Review

The San Francisco Podcasting Crew

Soccergirl (not last, and not least)

And to the following kind souls, who were patrons of the EarthCore podcast:

Richard Mulholland, Greg Shorten, Timothy Burling, Raymond Kerr, Martin Bergendahl, David

McClellan, Mike Gorecki, Kyle Nishioka, Robert White, Mark Zaricor, Robert Gelb, Robert White,

Joel Gerhold, Edward Hunt, Joseph Saitta, Joe LaMontagne, Timothy Downing, Leonid Dragan, Ali

Buchan, Andrew West, Jason Arneaud, Markus Nesson, Andy Bruce, Martin Jarvis, Matthew Danis,

Shakid Otaqui, Katherine Steer, Daithi O'Crualaoich, Joerg Weiss, Richard Pavonarius, Stephen Drury,

Matthew Danis, Reilly Beacom, Michael Mayfield, Steven Shouse, Lewis Minteer, Michael Romeo,

Peter Diamond, Albert West, Michael Coaty, Dennis Faust, William Midyette, Mark Friedman, Patrick

Stevenson, Roger Bass, Bruce Press, Chris Anderson, Patrick Ainge, Steve Johnson, Joel Lipton,

Thomas Kier, Michael J Garcia, Dane Summers, Martin Kardon, Steve Rollins, Michael Clark, Brad

Callaway, Jerry Scullion, Robert Fink, David Eaton, Dwight Illk, Len Humbird, Andrew T. Kee, Robert

Blum, Thomas Holliday, Rich Legg, Ryan Casey, Frederick Beecher, Craig Meyer, Patrick Messier,

Robin Hudson, Dan Kuykendall, The Murphy Loft, Paul Grimard, Jeff McFarland, Patricia Drake,

Steven Kolstad, Mike Brady, Brian Pipa, Michael Tichon, James Daniels, Jonathan Wallington, Nick

Sagar, Sebastian Dittmann, Joe Jennings, Pekka Oikarainen, Christopher Booth, M.J.L. Osborne, Doug

Kerr, Greg Collette, Adam Christensen, Patrick Gade, Benson Wong, Joe Fitzgerald, Duarte Velez

Grilo, Manu Saxena, Richard Smykla, Rafael Tamayo, Brian Beatty, Brian Cotter, Brandon Hill, Rafael

Tamayo, Daniel Pearce, Allan Byxbe, Benjamin Hauger, Mind Over Media, Jerry Poe, Parker Hyink,

Allan Byxbe, John Stone, Bryan Gilomen, John Bonewitz, David Wangrow, Derek Jackson, Dennis

Moore, Paula Hilton, David Mackler, Russell Turley, Cal Evans, James Spears, David Campbell,

Eugene Johnson, William Hart, David Sica, John Hartge, Derek Coward, Donna Finner, Joseph

Krackeler, Matthew Blair, Seth Greenstein, Wilbert Leeper, Justin MacLean, Joseph Scharfenberg,

David Wright, Stephen Skeels, Darin Peterson, David Hempy, Michael Cecere, Mike Kazmierczak,

Sarah Nichols, Richard Wezowicz, Kendall Bullen, Randy West, Edward Garbacz, Catherine

McConnell, John Prue, Brian McDavid, Gary Beckstrom, John Skehan, Aaron Propst, Deborah Pugh,

Robert Butler, Brian McDavid, David Millar, Eric Ortega, Joseph Scharfenberg, Yvonne Bolden, Steven

Jarvis, Richard Dorothy, Mat and Kris Weaver, Roy Hill, Stephen Kendall, Charles Hannum Jr, Stan

Smyla, Joel Mullins, Gregory Lewis, Jim McGarr, Tom Bechtel, Michael Barnidge Jr, James McCabe,

Jim McGarr, Charles Barone, Scott Fox, Alan Snow, Lee Smart, Mark Thiele, Jort Bloem, Neil

Smithline, Chad Minishew, Harley Freeman, Jeff McRaven, Leslie Green, Pablo Chalmeta and David

Shaw.

You Got My Back Thanks™ Jabberwocky Literary Agency

EarthCore

Scott Sigler

www.dragonmoonpress.com

Prologue

March 15, 1942

Wilford Igoe Jr. wrapped his fingers around the pumpkin-shaped rock, steeled himself with a deep

breath, and pushed with all his strength. The rock slid back a half inch, accompanied by the sound of

stone on stone. He held his breath, waiting, listening for further grinding sounds, for the sound of settling

rocks—the sounds of certain death.

But no sounds came. He let his breath out in a long sigh of relieved tension. No point in relaxing, he told

himself, I'm just going to have to go through it a dozen more times until I clear this rock.

"Just a little more, Will,” said his friend Samuel, who stood behind him in the cramped cave, watching for

any signs of settling. Will could only grunt in response. The light from Samuel's mining helmet jittered from

side to side, up and down, bouncing all over the rough gray rock that filled Will's hands. Will's own

helmet lay behind him and to the right—he'd had to take it off to squeeze into the narrow crawl space

among the cluster of ancient boulders.

The headlamps’ illumination was the first light this pitch-black place had known in decades, possibly

centuries. Sunlight had never graced the interior of the cave; they were too far into the zone of perpetual

darkness.

"Stop moving that damn light, Samuel,” Will said, grunting out the words. “If I move this rock the wrong

way we all die.” Samuel's light stopped bouncing, but only for a moment, then began flittering about

again, following the excited movements of his head.

Will fought down his irritation and tried to concentrate, which wasn't easy considering his position. He

was wedged into the crawl space that he and Samuel and Douglas had made during the last three days.

The space was part of a much larger tunnel that led steadily down into the mountain. Will's head was at

the low end of that incline, his body lying in powdery cave silt. It felt like going down a slide headfirst,

although he wasn't actually moving, especially if he couldn't budge that boulder.

But removing the rock wasn't the real problem. He had to move it right, he had to move it just so. The

boulders surrounding him were remnants of an ancient cave-in. You couldn't tell how these rocks settled

against one another. Move out a “linchpin” rock, even if it was a tiny one, and sudden settling would

crush anything lying below.

"Come on Will,” Samuel said. His excited voice rang off the dead stone walls. “Try a little to the left."

"Up yours, Anderson,” Will said. He wrestled with the chunk of limestone, his thick arms shaking with a

combination of concerted effort and exhaustion.

Thousands of years ago this passage had housed a swiftly churning underground river. Now all that

remained of the ancient stream was the tunnel itself and a floor of bone-dry silt, two inches thick and as

fine as high-grade flour. That same silt coated Will's sweaty skin.

Sweat dripped from his face, the inverted position making it seem as if it ran up his neck, up his cheeks

and into his stinging eyes. Will heard his own labored breathing as he wrestled with the rock, which had

already split open two of his knuckles. His breath sounded loud—not because of the claustrophobically

confined space, but because there were no background sounds. A hundred yards into the cave and all

sound ceased. Not even the insects made noise, although that far down the insects were strange

indeed—blind crickets with fragile antenna twice as long as their body, tiny beetles that burrowed

ceaselessly into the sand, and ghostly-white, long-legged spiders that had never felt the faintest trickle of

sun.

"Sam, keep that fucking light still!” To Sam, the opportunity to take the cave deep into the mountain's

layers—to travel into the mountain as if they were a blood cell in the circulatory system of the very stone

itself—was like heaven on Earth. Sam couldn't wait to get through this cave-in and continue exploring the

tunnel. Will wanted to know what lay beyond as well, but for the moment he didn't give a good goddamn

about the tunnel or geology or the fact that he had to piss like a racehorse. His world narrowed to his

hands, his arms, and the damn stubborn pumpkin-shaped boulder streaked with his blood.

"Try a little to the left, Will,” Samuel said again.

"Yeah, thanks for the tip, Einstein,” Will said. But for lack of a better idea, he pushed it hard to the

left—and it slid a good two inches.

"Oh shoot!” Samuel said. “Holy moley, it's moving!"

"I think I've almost got it,” Will said, grunting and panting. He had it now. Oh, it wanted to fight him, but it

was too late, he had that bastard of a rock and he wasn't letting go.

Will felt the thud of footsteps approaching from up the tunnel. Douglas Nadia moved with all the grace of

a drunken elephant. Will always wondered how someone so thin could make so much noise.

"Where have you been, Douglas?” Samuel asked. “We've been working on this boulder for the last

twenty minutes."

"What do you mean we?” Will said. He pushed, and with each fractional movement he listened for the

sounds of settling rock, but nothing moved except the pumpkin-shaped boulder.

"I did a little chiseling back up at the plateau,” Douglas said. His thick Texan drawl betrayed his

excitement.

Samuel sounded immensely annoyed. “Douglas, please tell me you didn't carve your name on the tunnel

mouth."

"Hell no. I carved all our names. Hey, you think we'll find any more cave drawings, or maybe another

goofy knife like last time?"

"Who cares about that?” Samuel asked. “Once we're through, and if this tunnel continues to descend, I

surmise we'll drop below the next sedimentary layer within fifty feet or so. That will give us a real good

look at this mountain's composition."

"You crack me up, Anderson,” Douglas said, his sharp laugh bouncing off the rough, narrow walls.

“We've found some lost Injun tribe in here, maybe even with buried treasure, and all you can think of is

geology. You're a screwball."

The two continued to babble, but Will tuned them out. The rock was the last obstacle that stood between

them and continued exploration. They'd found the opening while researching Samuel's Ph.D. thesis. The

Wah Wah Mountains were only a three-hour drive from Brigham Young University, and yet were a wild

and obscure treasure of geological wonders. The thick limestone mountains seemed to rise straight out of

southwestern Utah's scrub-brush deserts.

Five months earlier, they'd been a thousand feet up the side of an unnamed peak when they discovered a

small plateau and a dark, cramped opening. The opening led into a long, slender tunnel that traveled well

over one hundred yards into the mountain before dead-ending at the ancient cave-in. Low on supplies,

they'd decided to head home and try again later.

Now, well supplied and eager to explore the caves, they had to clear a path through the cumbersome

boulders to access the tunnel they knew lay beyond. For three days they'd probed the cave-in, placing

small charges of dynamite to help break up the tightly packed rocks. Following each blast, they labored

to clear loose stones. It had been three days of noisy, backbreaking work, but the intensive effort was all

but forgotten as Will slowly worried the last stone clear.

That stone finally came loose with a horrible, grinding sound of protest. As Will pushed it free, they held

their collective breaths, waiting for the suspended rockfall to give way and crush them all.

Nothing happened.

"Take that,” Will said, his voice an exhausted whisper. “Take that, you piece of shit."

"Quit cursing,” Samuel said. “Hurry up and get out of there, will you?"

Will wanted to squeeze out of the opening, sit up, and wring Samuel's neck, but he didn't have the

strength. Samuel and Douglas each took an ankle and pulled, hauling Will out like a dead animal.

Samuel rushed to the opening, laying flat and letting his light probe the newfound depths.

"How's it look?” Douglas asked, leaning on Samuel's shoulder and craning his head for a peek.

Samuel's exuberant yell pealed off the stone wall, accompanied by the hint of an echo from the

unexplored passage beyond. “Looks like a straight shot! As far as I can see—at least another fifty

yards!"

Samuel whooped triumphantly. Douglas's Texan yelp joined in. Will lay flat on his back, stomach

heaving, sweat pooling in sandy little lumps on the cave floor.

Douglas slapped at Will's thigh, “Get up, lazybones. Lookit Samuel—he's already crawling in."

Will remained on his back, breathing deeply, but turned his head to see Samuel's skinny body wiggle

through the narrow opening. Will thought it looked like the rocks were a giant stone mouth with pursed

lips, and Samuel was a piece of slurped spaghetti.

"You go on ahead,” Will said.

Douglas again whacked Will's thigh. “Get up, rich boy."

With effort, Will lifted himself to one elbow. “Doug, you hit me again and I swear I'll—"

"Fellas,” Samuel interrupted. Both Douglas and Will jumped slightly as Samuel's head suddenly

reappeared in the narrow opening. “Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?” Douglas and Will said together.

"That sound,” Samuel said. A lock of his thin blond hair fell free from under his helmet, dangling on his

high forehead. Only his head and hands were visible. In the poor lighting, he looked like a talking

guillotine victim perched on a wall of tan and red boulders.

"Sounded like sand blowing across the desert or something like that,” Samuel said. “Didn't you hear it?"

"Didn't hear a thing,” Douglas said. Will simply fell to his back again, staring back down the pitch-black

tunnel, ignoring the overexuberant Samuel. Sometimes he hated that kid's nonstop energy.

"Maybe there's a connecting tunnel down here and there's some air circulation,” Samuel said quietly.

“Oh, forget it. Come on, fellas, let's see where this thing leads."

"I think rich boy is staying here,” Douglas said, aiming a slap at Will's thigh but pulling back at the last

second, avoiding contact.

Will said nothing, merely raised his hand, extended his middle finger, and let the hand whump heavily

back into dry silt.

Samuel's head disappeared into the dark hole. Douglas laughed and followed him headfirst into the

mouth, working his way into the confined opening.

Will lay motionless, eyes closed, listening to his friends’ excited laughter fade into nothingness. He'd catch

up to the goldbrickers in a moment, he just needed to rest. The cave was so peaceful, so still. He'd just

close his eyes for a few minutes, just relax in the motionless, timeless caverns. Just a catnap, perhaps, and

then—

His eyes flew open, yet he remained deathly still. He'd heard the faintest echo of a noise, a noise that

somehow didn't belong in that serene place. A faint clicking, the sound of metal tapping rock. And

another sound, something he couldn't put his finger on and yet it stirred recollections of Chicago, his

hometown.

He strained to grasp the noise again, as if by concentrating his hearing he could tear free of the thick veil

of silence enveloping the tunnel. Not moving, not breathing, not understanding the cause of his sudden

fear, he listened.

And heard the noises again.

click-click, click, click-click

The clicking, followed by that hissing, breathy, scraping sound. He immediately understood why the noise

made Samuel think of a sandstorm, but that analogy wasn't quite right. Samuel had spent all twenty-two

years of his life in the deserts of southern Utah. For Will, however, the sound brought back memories of

Chicago's powerful weather.

It was the sound of dry, windblown leaves and loose paper hissing across concrete streets and

sidewalks. But unlike steady gusts of Chicago wind, the new sound ebbed and flowed with a jerky,

stop-start feel. It reminded Will of another noise, a noise he'd learned to watch out for since he'd started

hiking into the mountains with Samuel and Douglas some three years ago—the malignant sound of a

rattlesnake's warning.

He fought down a creeping panic and a sudden, clutching stab of claustrophobia. His reaction to the

strange noise was primitive, instinctive, and raw.

Will rolled to his knees and peered into the hole he'd labored so long to create. He felt a strong urge to

run, but his friends were in there. He stared into the tunnel, listening to the bone-dry hissing-rattling sound

grow and swell—until another, more recognizable sound joined the approaching noise.

The sound of a man screaming billowed up from some unseen place far down the tunnel. Will knew it

was Samuel, although he'd never before heard Samuel scream. It was a high, piercing noise, almost

feminine, full of agony and terror that transcended either sex. The scream lasted only a few seconds,

faded to a single, mournful, fearful moan, then ceased.

Will forced himself to remain rooted to the spot. He couldn't summon the courage to cram himself into

the narrow opening, to crawl farther into the mountain's belly, but he could keep himself from a cowardly

flight while his friends remained in the tunnel.

He saw a bouncing light before he heard the rhythmic pound of heavy footsteps and the strained

breathing of a man running for his life. He recognized Douglas, pounding hard and fast up the sandy

incline, blood smearing his face and covering his chest as if someone had splashed him with a great

bucket of gore. Douglas fell hard, his face skidding in the loose dirt, his helmet rolling and bouncing like a

decapitated head. Ignoring the lost helmet, he scrambled to his feet and ran some more, kicking up arcing

streams of the fine cave silt with each desperate step.

Confusion and panic gripping his voice and thoughts, Will screamed to his friend. “Douglas! What's

happening?"

Douglas said nothing. His eyes were wide, their whites shining intently in the glow of Will's headlamp.

Douglas closed the distance quickly. Will saw strange flashing lights and movement behind his sprinting

friend—the subtle, rushing form of something his mind couldn't place. Before he could register the image,

Douglas dove for the narrow opening and blocked all sight into the deep tunnel.

Douglas tried to worm his way through the tight bottleneck, but panic slowed his efforts. His hands

lashed forward more like he was drowning than crawling through a mountain. His knuckles burst open

each time they slammed into jagged, unforgiving rock.

"Hold on Doug, calm down!” Will grabbed at his friend's flailing arms and bloody hands. “Let me pull

you out!” Douglas made noises that weren't words. Spittle flew from his wide-open mouth, splattering

against his face, mixing with the blood that Will knew once belonged to Samuel.

Will pulled and Douglas started to slide through, but whatever had been chasing him caught up and pulled

back—hard. Will lost his grip on Douglas's blood-slick skin. Doug's hands grasped desperately at the

rocks, his fingers as taut and rigid as dry sticks scattered by the desert wind. Douglas's eyes somehow

grew even wider and his mouth opened with a throat-ripping scream that made Will want to cover his

ears and run.

Will once again fought down his urge to flee. He dove forward, grabbing Douglas's left arm just as the

unseen assailant yanked again. Douglas lurched backward into the darkness, into the opening. Will pulled

with all his might, fighting to keep his friend alive. The strange lights flickered inside the tunnel, coming

from whatever played tug-of-war with Douglas's body.

Will planted his feet on the same boulder he'd worked so hard to move, arched his back, and heaved

with every last ounce of strength.

From inside the opening, Will saw a flash of something silver. A sudden release of opposite pressure

made him fall backward on his ass, as if his opponent in the tug-of-war had just dropped the rope.

Only it wasn't a rope he'd been pulling.

Will looked down, even as the urge to run claimed his mind, even as he scrambled backward, trying to

get to his feet. In his grasp he clutched Douglas's bloody mess of a hand—which had been neatly severed

just above the wrist with a cut as clean as that of a butcher's meat-saw.

Silhouetted in the lone spotlight of his headlamp, the only light in the eternally black cave, he saw blood

Scott Sigler - EarthCore

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