The Black Prism

The water pooled around his middle. He was too fat for it to drain down to his feet, he sealed the whole tube. Kip’s heart was pounding. The intense light emanating through the walls burned from blue down into green, through the whole spectrum in order, even through heat, and then faded into nothing again as the water reached Kip’s neck.

Up to his ear. He pushed his body hard against the side of the chamber, and a gap opened between his hip and the wall. The pooled water poured down to his feet. But it kept coming from above.

For a few moments, he was able to intermittently push against the wall and make it drain once more, but soon he was awash, nearly floating. He pushed against the wall again, and the water didn’t drain at all. There was nowhere for it go.

The water rose once more to his left shoulder, which was trapped down even as his right was trapped up. Then up to his neck. His left ear.

He didn’t notice when the walls pulsed superviolet, but then they passed through blue, to green as the water rose to his chin, to yellow as it touched his lips, orange as it covered his lips—was the water falling more slowly on his head now? He took deep breaths through his nose, wriggled to try to use his body’s wedged-in position to climb higher in the tube, and found that there were straps above his shoulders, keeping him down.

This was insanity. Someone was trying to kill him. Kip had to ring the bell. His fingers were claws around the rope. He could try again when there wasn’t a murderer around.

No. Quitting meant being put out. It meant failing.

There was barely time to take one last deep breath before the water covered Kip’s nose.

The falling water pelting his head abruptly ceased. Kip could imagine it now: “He was so fat, he trapped the water. It wasn’t supposed to be that high. We didn’t put too much water in… he just panicked. You know, a child, trapped and afraid. He must not have even thought to pull the rope.”

So that was it. He either quit and shamed his father more than his very existence already did, or his father’s enemies did their best to kill him.

Holding his breath, his lungs just beginning to burn, there was a sudden, stark clarity to the world: pull the rope, go home.

But, there was no home. So, pull the rope, and go farm… somewhere. Or stay, and maybe die. Fail here, and he failed his father and his mother. Fail here, and he was a failure forever.

I’m not pulling the rope.

The chamber went black. The water got hot from the sub-red light, but then even that faded.

I don’t like farming. Kip coughed out some of his air, laughing, the thought was so inane. But the pain rapidly squelched wry humor. He couldn’t make his heart slow. He couldn’t stop his throat from swallowing convulsively, his chest from pumping on nothing. I’m not pulling the rope, damn you. I’m not pulling the rope.

Something shifted. At first, Kip thought it was the water pouring out, but it wasn’t. The ground below him was rising, but the stops above his shoulders stayed in place, crushing him in place. The water, far from draining, simply rose up his raised arm. In moments, he squatted down, pushed against his own knees. It squeezed him and he coughed, the last of his breath bubbling out.

He was trying to hold on to nothing. Breathing the water in would be worse than breathing nothing at all, he knew it. He knew it and yet his body overwhelmed him and he sucked a breath in. The water was hot, sharp, acrid in his lungs. He gagged, hunched even tighter against his own knees, his body ripping itself apart. He coughed and, miraculously, water shot out of his mouth into air, blessed, glorious, free, beautiful air!

Gasping, spitting, retching, and still compressed into a ball, Kip breathed. He could breathe! Mostly. His knees hurt from being squashed tighter than his not-so-flexible joints would allow. His back hurt. His ribs hurt. But Orholam, the air was good. If only he could get a full breath.

Nothing happened. It was still utterly black. Kip was sweating now. He was packed in here. It was getting hotter by the second and he was still dripping wet. The colors flashed past him, through the whole spectrum again.

So that’s how it was. They saw that he wasn’t going to quit, so they weren’t going to give him another chance with the colors.

It didn’t matter. I’m not pulling the rope. “I’m not pulling the rope!” Kip shouted. Or tried to shout; he wasn’t very loud with only a half a breath.

In response, the floor rose even more, crushing him harder against the stays on his shoulders. Kip screamed. He sounded like a coward.

He couldn’t even push back against the stays. His knees were bent too far to get him any leverage. If he just pulled on the rope a little, he could get a breath, and then he could go on fighting.

No! Kip deliberately relaxed his fingers, his arm. He concentrated on breathing. Tiny, quick little breaths.

It was enough. It would be enough. He was making it enough.

A succession of colors blurred past. Kip didn’t care. Was he supposed to do something? What? Draft? Right. Go bugger yourselves.

The pressure eased suddenly and the floor dropped. Then the walls eased wider. Kip almost fell, but after a moment his rubbery legs were able to take his weight. The walls pulled back farther, farther. He tried to take a wider stance, but there was nothing beyond his little disk except air.

Reaching one hand out, Kip couldn’t feel the walls at all. A breeze blew across his skin, giving him the sensation that he was standing on some high place. It had to be an illusion, though, he was in the middle of the school. No way was there a big hole here.

Colors flashed through distant walls, illuminating the chamber for a brief, terrifying moment. Kip stood over an abyss. His disk was the tiny round top of a pillar: a pillar standing alone in the middle of nothingness. The walls were thirty paces away. The ceiling over his head had a single hole, through which only his hand was poking.

Wind buffeted him, and Kip felt his grip go white-knuckled on the rope. He clamped his eyes shut, but then he couldn’t tell if he was swaying with the wind or against it or staying still. His heart was beating so hard he could hear his own pulse in his ears between gasping breaths. He screamed words, but he didn’t even know what they were.

After an eternity, the walls came back. They closed firmly around him, but comfortably now, and he felt a surge of relief. He’d made it. He’d passed. He hadn’t given up. He’d hadn’t pulled the—Something touched his leg.

What was that?

It curled around his ankle, twisted around his calf. A snake. Kip looked up and some many-legged thing dropped on his face.

He reached a spastic hand up to sweep a spider away, but felt a manacle snap over his wrist and pull his left arm away, lock it into place. He tried to kick the snake away from his feet. Snap, snap. Shackles closed around his feet and yanked them wide apart.

Kip screamed.

The spider fell into his mouth.

Before he even knew what he was doing, Kip bit down fiercely on it, crushing it in his teeth, sour goo squirting into his mouth. He screamed again, sheer defiance. Something landed in his hair. Dozens of slithering things roped around his feet, climbed his legs. He was going crazy.

“I’m not pulling the rope!” he shouted. “You bastards, I’m not pulling the rope!”

Kip convulsed. Orholam have mercy. His whole body was covered with loathsome things. He was weeping, screaming—and salvation lay in his hand. There was nothing wrong with farming. No one would hold failure against him. He didn’t need to see these people ever again. And what did he care what they thought of him anyway? The whole game was stacked against him. He was finished. It was over.