The Descent

At each turn he  pissed  his  musk  onto  the  ground.  Just  the  same,  he  grew  lost.  How could this be?  A  labyrinth  without  walls?  He  berated  himself.  If  only  he  had  gone  left at every  turn as he had been taught, he would have  inevitably  circled to the  source,  or at  least  been  able  to  retrace  his  path  by  backtracking  right  at  every  nexus.  But  now he  had  jumbled  his  directions.  And  in  his  weakened  condition.  And  with  the  tribe's welfare  dependent  on  him  alone.  It  was  precisely  times  like  these  that  the  teachings were  for.

Still hopeful of finding water  or  meat  or  his  own  scents  in  the  bizarre  vegetation,  he went  on.  His  head  throbbed.  Nausea  racked  him.  He  tried  licking  the  frost  from  the spiky  vegetation,  but  the  taste  of  salts  and  nitrogen  overruled  his  thirst.  The  ground vibrated  with constant movement.

He  did  everything  in  his  power  to  focus  on  the  moment,  to  pace  his  advance  and curtail distracting thoughts. But the luminous white line repeated  itself  so  relentlessly, and  the  altitude  was  so  severe,  that  his  attention  naturally  meandered.  In  that  way, he  failed  to  see  the  broken  bottle  until  it  was  halfway  through  the  meat  of  his  bare foot.

He  cut  his  shriek  before  it  began.  Not  a  sound  came  out.  They'd  schooled  him  well. He  took  the  pain  in.  He  accepted  its  presence  like  a  gracious  host.  Pain  could  be  his friend or it could be his enemy,  depending on his self-control.

Glass!  He  had  prayed  for  a  weapon,  and  here  it  was.  Lowering  his  foot,  he  held  the slippery bottle in his palms and examined it.

It  was  an  inferior  grade,  intended  for  commerce,  not  warfare.  It  didn't  have  the sharpness  of  black  obsidian,  which  splintered  into  razor  shards,  or  the  durability  of glass crafted by  hadal artisans. But it would do.

Scarcely  believing  his  good  fortune,  the  young  hadal  threw  back  his  rag-headdress and  willed  himself  to  see  in  the  light.  He  opened  to  it,  braced  by  the  pain  in  his  foot, marrying  to  the  agony.  Somehow  he  had  to  return  to  his  tribe  while  there  was  still

time. With  his  other  senses  scrambled  by  the  foulness  and  tremors  and  voices  in  this place, he had to make himself see.

Something  happened,  something  profound.  In   casting  off  the   rags   covering   his misshapen head, it was as if he broke the fog. All illusion fell away  and he  was  left  with this.  On  the  fifty-yard  line  of  Candlestick  Park,  the  hadal  found  himself  in  a  dark chalice at the pit of a universe  of stars.

The  sight was a horror, even  for one so brave. Sky!  Stars!  The  legendary  moon!

He grunted, piglike, and twisted  in circles. There  were  his caves  in the near distance, and in them his people. There  lay  the  skeletons  of  his  kin.  He  started  across  the  field, crippled,  limping,  eyes  pinned  to  the  ground,  desperate.  The  vastness  all  around  him sucked  at  his  imagination  and  it  seemed  he  must  tumble  upward  into  that  vast  cup spread overhead.

It  got worse. Floating above  his  head  he  saw  himself.  He  was  gigantic.  He  raised  his right hand to ward off  the  colossal  image,  and  the  image  raised  its  right  hand  to  ward him off.

In mortal terror,  he howled. And the image howled. Vertigo toppled him.

He writhed upon the cleated grass like a salted leech.

'For the love of Christ,' General  Sandwell  said,  turning  from  the  stadium  screen.  'Now

he's dying. We're going to end up with no males.'

It  was  three  in  the  morning  and  the  air  was  rich  with  sea,  even  indoors.  The creature's   howl  lingered   in  the   room,  piped  in  over   an  expensive   set   of   stereo speakers.

Thomas   and  January   and  Foley,   the   industrialist,   peered   through   night-vision binoculars  at  the  sight.  They  looked  like  three  captains  as  they  stood  at  the  broad plate-glass  window  of  a  skybox  perched  on  the  rim  of  Candlestick  Park.  The  poor creature  went on flopping about  in  the  center  of  the  arena  far  below  them.  De  l'Orme politely  sat  to  one  side  of  Vera's  wheelchair,  gathering  what  he  could  from  their conversation.

For the last ten minutes they'd  been  following  the  hadal's  infrared  image  in  the  cold fog  as  he  stole  along  the  grid  lines,  left  and  right  at  ninety-degree  angles,  seduced  by the linearity or chasing some  primitive  instinct  or  maybe  gone  mad.  And  then  the  fog had  lifted  and  suddenly   this.  His  actions  made   as  little   sense   magnified  on  the live-action video screen as in the miniature reality  below.

'Is this their normal behavior?' January asked the general.