The Descent

All  of  this  went  over  Sandwell's  head.  They  did  not  speak  one  word  of  Beowulf's business in front of him. They  were  still trying  to judge how much  damage  the  general had done to them since going over  to Helios five months ago.

The   skybox   was   serving   as   Sandwell's   temporary   office.   The   Stick,   as   he affectionately  called  it,  was  in  serious  makeover.  Helios  was  creating  a  $500  million biotech  research  facility  in  the   arena   space.   BioSphere   without   the   sunshine,  he quipped.  Scientists  from  around  the   country   were   being  recruited.   Cracking   the

mysteries  of  H.  hadalis  had  just  entered  a  new  phase.  It  was  being  compared  to splitting  the  atom  or  landing  on  the  moon.  The  hadal  thrashing  about  on  the  dying grass and fading hash marks  was part  of the first batch to be processed.

Here,  where  Y.A.  Tittle  and  Joe  Montana  had  earned  fame  and  fortune,  where  the Beatles and Stones had rocked, where  the Pope had  spoken  on  the  virtues  of  poverty, taxpayers  were  funding  an  advanced  concentration  camp.  Once  completed,  it  was designed to house five hundred SAFs  – Subterranean  Animal Forms – at a time. At its far  end,  the  playing  field  was  beginning  to  look  like  the  basement  of  the  Roman Colosseum  ruins.  The  holding  pens  were   in  progress.   Alleyways   wound  between titanium  cages.  Ultimately  the  old  arena  surface  and  all  its  cages  would  be  covered over  with  eight  floors  of  laboratory  space.  There  was  even  a  smokeless  incinerator, approved by  the Environmental Protection Agency, for disposing of remains.

Down  on  the  field,  the  hadal  had  begun  crawling  toward  the  stack   of  concrete culverts   temporarily   housing   his   comrades.   The   Stick   wouldn't   be   ready   for nonhuman tenants for another year.

'Truly  a  march  of  the  damned,'  de  l'Orme  commented.  'In  the  space  of  a  week, several  hundred hadals have  become less than two dozen. Shameful.'

'Live  hadals  are  as  rare  as  Martians,'  the  general  explained.  'Getting  them  to  the surface  alive  and  intact  –  before  their  gut  bacteria  curdles   or  their   lung  tissues hemorrhage or a hundred other damn things – it's like growing hair on rock.'

There-had  been isolated cases of  individual  hadals  living  in  captivity  on  the  surface. The  record  was  an  Israeli  catch:  eighty-three  days.  At  their  present  rate,  what  was left of this group of fifty wasn't going to last the week.

'I don't see any water.  Or food. What are they  supposed to be living on?'

'We  don't  know.  That's  the  whole  problem.  We  filled  a  galvanized  tub  with  clean water,  and  they  wouldn't  touch  it.  But  see  that   Porta   Potti   for  the   construction workers?  A  few  of  the  hadals  broke  in  the  first  day  and  drank  the   sewage   and chemicals. It  took 'em hours to quit bucking and shrieking.'

'They  died, you're saying.'

'They'll either adapt or die,' the general said. 'Around here, we call it seasoning.'

'And those other bodies lying by  the sidelines?'

'That's what's left of an escape attempt.'

From  this  height  the  visitors  could  see  the  lower  stands  filled  with  soldiers  and ringed  with  miniguns  trained  on  the  playing  field.  The  soldiers  wore  bulky  oversuits with hoods and oxygen  tanks.

On  the  giant  screen,  the  hadal  male  cast  another  glance  at   the   night  sky   and promptly buried his face in the turf. They  watched him clutch at the grass as if holding on to the side of a cliff.

'After  our meeting, I want to go closer,' said de l'Orme. 'I want to hear him. I want to smell him.'

'Out  of  the  question,'  said  Sandwell.  'It's  a  health  issue.  Nobody  goes  in.  We  don't want them getting contaminated with human diseases.'

The  hadal  crawled  from  the  forty  to  the  thirty-five.  The  pyramid  of  culvert  pipes stood  near  the  ten.  Farther  on,  he  began  navigating  between  skeletons  and  rotting bodies.

'Why  are  the  remains  lying  in  the  open  like  that?'  Thomas  asked.  'I  should  think they  constitute a health hazard.'

'You want a burial? This isn't a pet cemetery,  Father.'

Vera  turned her head at the tone. Sandwell had definitely crossed over.  He  belonged to  Helios.  'It's  not  a  zoo,  either,  General.  Why  bring  them  here  if  you're  just  going  to watch them fester  and die?'

'I  told  you,  old-fashioned  R-and-D.  We're  building  a  truth  machine.  Now  we'll  get the facts on what really  makes them tick.'

'And  what's  your  part  in  it?'  Thomas  asked  him.  'Why  are  you  here?  With  them. Helios.'

The  general bridled. 'Operational configuration,' he growled.

'Ah,' said January, as if she had been told something.