Beneath the Mountain

The air was thin, so thin that your lungs must work twice as hard for half the air. The air was cool, but not frigid in that day and altitude. Of course, the altitude is far more relevant than the day in the Rockies of Colorado. The tundra curved over a few slopes, before giving way to cold, snowy mountains, rising pure and aloof from the foothills. There was a flash of movement near one of the bush-like fir trees of the tundra. It seemed insignificant at first glance, a twitch of a cushion plant blown by a cross breeze. But cushion plants, as the non-evergreen vegetation of the higher altitudes is called, embrace the ground as a mother does a lost child, none growing above three inches.

The movement was caused by a creature most heatedly denied by the human population: a fey. His skin was tan and leathery, and had silky hair, black as night, growing down to his shoulders, but his most striking feature was his eyes, as bright as a light bulb behind a magnifying glass. They had a hypnotizing quality, and were such a dark brown that at first they seemed as black as his hair. Almost as striking he himself was his garment. It clung tight to his small body, stretching unbroken by seams from neck to wrists to ankles, and seemed to shift its colors and pattern to better blend in with the tundra about him.

Now the fey are often incorrectly called fairies, due to a shift in spelling some centuries ago. “Fairy,” or more accurately “Faerie,” originally referred to the land of fey. He would probably grin at the idea that his complexion was as fair as snow, and laugh aloud if someone suggested his people were but a few inches in height. Admittedly, he was rather short by our standards, being fully grown and only approximately three feet in height. 

Saigon, for that was his name, gave a half wary, half absent glance around, before ducking into the ground-ridden fir tree so quickly he seemed to disappear. Now the fir and other evergreen trees of the tundra are generally much taller than the cushion plants, being roughly two at the most, if even that tall. He could not have normally entered one, but the fir concealed a doorway. Saigon leapt down into the passageway which it led to with the lightness and ease of experience.

The subterranean passageway was well lit from tiny fixtures attached to the silvery, polished ceiling. Blue tiles of an unknown substance coated the floor, shedding some of their color upon the pristine, white walls. On one side it stopped at a solid wall, the other continued for a ways, ending at another wall with a circle cloven neatly through the center by a single depressed line. The circle was made of some strange metal tinged blue. But Saigon paid no attention to that, as he walked swiftly down the passage.

Now underground, his entire demeanor was transformed, where before he was crouched over and furtive, he now possessed a stride which bespoke of confidence and efficiency.

He burst through an automatic circular doorway, saying, “Councilor Larch.” He held an open hand before him, and then pulled it towards himself, while closing it into a fist: the proper way for a fey to show respect. One of the female fey in the room nodded in response. She was even shorter than the others in the room, but not by much, and more than compensated for it with an aura of confidence and authority, which she seemed to radiate in its abundance. Her skin and hair were as dark as his, and her face bore lines which told of many, many years. She wore the robe of sober midnight blue decorated only by silver hemming of all councilors.

Saigon continued, “If it pleases you, I would request an audience.”

“Do you perceive I am in the midst of a conference?” inquired Larch, rather reprovingly.

“I assure you it is urgent,” replied Saigon. He spoke with an extremely forced politeness and such an ill disguised impatience that several of the others in the room frowned at him chastisingly.

“If it is urgent,” replied Larch, “State your business here. However, you will have to wait, as we are currently discussing the caribou overpopulation.”

“Begging your pardon,” Saigon’s manner was more forced than ever, and his cheeks flushed with emotion.

“I believe the issue I wished to discuss is slightly more relevant than caribou.” Some of the sub-councilors and caribou experts looked at one another in shock at his rudeness, but others, realizing that a dire need was behind his actions, furrowed their brows in concern.

“It shall suffer to wait,” Larch’s tone was final, and her serene features compromised themselves to betray irritation. Saigon’s jaw clenched and his flush deepened. He made the motion of respect abruptly, robbing it of the emotion it was intended to convey. He stepped back and leaned his back against a wall, smoldering. The conference continued. To Saigon, it was a blur of faces and a droning of voices. Sometimes he could make out the words, sometimes it was a muttering, and the words melted into one another as though he was underwater. Mostly, however, he didn’t care.

Minutes became weeks, and he began rubbing his chin to be certain he hadn’t grown stubble, when the words rang out, “The decision has been reached. This conference is adjourned.”

Larch waited until the sub-councilors and scientists had exited the room before turning to Saigon.

“Well?” she demanded. He lifted his head from the bowed position it had assumed and eyed her accusingly.

“The mountain couldn’t handle the strain,” he said simply. “The friction from the digging machines melted the rock. It will blow its top within the fifth hour tomorrow.”

“I fail to see what is urgent about this message,” answered Larch. “We will be safe beneath the earth.”

“And what of the ones above it?” Saigon’s brow furrowed more, ever more accusing.

“Of what relevance is that to us?” inquired Larch. “Let them care for themselves.”

“They do not expect an eruption here!” exclaimed Saigon. “Yes, they have devices to sense such things, and procedures to protect themselves. But they are not monitoring the seismic activity. They will be taken completely by surprise.”

“Then they shall learn caution,” replied Larch simply.

“Do you care nothing for the loss of life?” Saigon was no longer leaning against the wall. Then, more quietly, he added, “They are as human as we are.”

“They believe we are two different species,” stated Larch. “They do not even believe we exist,” responded Saigon.

“We are merely a different culture, a foreign country. Their deaths are not justified.”

“What of our exposure?” asked Larch “Do you justify revealing technologies they are not ready for? Will you leave us at their mercy? They are still belligerent. We are still sworn to do no harm. What would happen to us?” Saigon stood silently, his mouth slightly open.

“Mt. Vesuvius did not cause the fall of Rome,” Larch’s manner was gently chiding.

“Can we not send some anonymous warning?” Saigon was dangerously close to begging.  

“They would not take it seriously. They would think it a prank.” Saigon sighed, his shoulders sagging.

“It is for the best,” said Larch softly. Saigon opened his mouth as if to answer, then changed his mind and shut it. He left dejected, dragging his feet out a different door than the one he came in, and entered a cavernous room bustling with people. The silvery ceiling was high, perhaps ten units above his head. (A fey unit is about one foot) The tiles here were a metallic gray, and the walls light beige.

Some of the fey walked, as Saigon did, but most rode aboard open, levitating platforms with chairs attached. The platforms seemed to come in all shapes and sizes, aesthetically pleasing rather than streamlined. Some were simple geometric shapes: circles, squares, rectangles, and even a few triangles. Others had more whimsical designs. At one point, one passed Saigon with a design that spiraled upwards, far wider at the bottom than the top, and boasting detailed mosaics prominently featuring a fey whose hand seemed to be constantly consumed by some sort of green fire.

The circular doorways were scattered throughout the room, with people constantly going in and out of them. Saigon barely noticed any of this, barely even glancing at the spiraled platform. This was his home; the sights were all familiar to him. He made his way through the underground labyrinth with an absent assuredness which showed his thoughts to be elsewhere. Finally, he entered a door to a more personal setting: a home.

The light was slightly dimmer here, but one could see extremely well. The floor was a soft, thick cloth, in a shade of red umber. The walls were white, though not as pure a hue as in the blue-tiled passageway. The ceiling was the universal silver, but no lights were attached to it. Instead, a few poles were scattered throughout the room, and atop each one was a small orb, which emitted lights slightly dimmed by gauzy tan clothes draped over them. Cushions, pillows, and blankets were to be found all over the room in small piles. Saigon fell into one of them with a sigh.

In spite of Larch’s words, he still could not justify to stand back and allow the people to die. Yet could he betray and destroy this place, his home? Saigon rubbed his forehead and sighed again. He felt drained. He was hungry, and he knew he should begin preparing his meal, but his limbs seemed to have turned to lead. Saigon stayed there for a few more moments before he forced himself up with a groan and walked to the kitchen.

The next day he awoke early. His eyes fell on a picture depicting one of his favorite stories: Caisson, the genius detective. The painting showed him overseeing the loading of a large clear container onto a vehicle. The container held a murderer Caisson had just caught, who was sound asleep in his mini-jail.

Suddenly, Saigon leapt out of bed. He needed to see Larch. He dressed himself so fast he almost put his head through a sleeve of his jumpsuit. He righted it hastily and cursed quietly to himself. Saigon burst out of the automatic door, nearly running into several levitating platforms. His feet pounded on the ground, his breathing ragged and the painting in hand. He knew Councilor Larch wouldn’t be receiving audiences yet, so he ran instead to a public message device. The device was a metallic gray, and a thin rectangle. He activated it, and one side lit up. Saigon began writing with the auto-pen with great velocity. He tapped the “send” button.

He sat back in the hard chair. He had nothing to do but wait. He glanced at a time piece on a wall, and a bolt of shock went through him. In an hour, in would be the fifth hour. Would there be time to carry out his plan?

He had wanted to incapacitate the people with somne-vapor, which was undetectable, and use large public transport platforms to transport them to a safe area.  After the eruption, they would move them back. The people would wonder what had decimated the landscape, but they would create some theory about aliens and get on with their lives.

Time crawled slowly by, then finally the device beeped, hailing a response. Saigon tapped “open,” and began to read it eagerly.

Councilor Larch to Saigon:

      Your request has been determined to be unpragmatic and inapplicable in an actual situation. You have our regrets.

Saigon sat back again, his eyes glazed, his mouth slightly open with disbelief. Soon he felt silly, sitting here, trying to start a military operation inspired by a fictitious detective. There was nothing to do now but go to his job, mindlessly solving minor disputes on various commercial problems. While trying to placate a hysterical vegetable solicitor, Saigon chanced a glance at the time piece. A small shock racked his spine. It was only twenty minutes to the fifth hour. He had been saying,

“You must calm yourself. I know it was the juiciest crop you’ve had for years, but no harm was …”

His jaw clenched, and his hands turned to fists.

“I can’t stand it,” through gritted teeth. The solicitor was so surprised that he forgot to be inconsolable.

Saigon was careful not to look at the time again until he was done with the solicitor. When he was the solicitor had finally reached agreement with the corporation, Saigon looked at the time again. Another jolt shot through his body. The eruption had been going on for ten minutes.

The entire day passed that way, Saigon barely able to concentrate and the time piece seeming to be eons behind. Finally, he was able to break for midday meal. He had expected to be completely without appetite, but, to his surprise, he was ravenous. But before he went to his workplace’s cafeteria, he had one more duty.

Saigon went to the judicial coordinator, and received permission to access an above ground security camera. (There was no trusting non-feys.) The scene was of total annhilation. Saigon felt a tear run down his cheek. He was powerless. He forced himself to look more closely at some of the wreckage, and found that they were bodies, twisted almost beyond recognition. Powerless. To this day, experts have still not found the cause of the freak volcano of the Rocky Mountains.