The Descent

three  to  five  thousand  years,  the  artifacts  have  been  increasingly  human  in  origin: coins,  weapons,  cave  art,  hand  tools.  That  could  mean  that  the  hadals  turned  away from  menial  and  artistic  labor  as  they  pursued  higher  arts,  or  that  they  jobbed  the day-to-day  minutiae  out  to  human  artisans  whom  they'd  captured,   or  that   they valued stolen possessions more than homemade ones.

'But  match  it  with  the  decline  in  hadal  population  over  the  past  several  thousand years.  Some  demographic  projections  suggest  they  might  have  numbered  over  forty million  individuals  subglobally  at  the  time  Aristotle  and  Buddha  lived.  The  figure  is probably less than  300,000  at  present.  Something's  gone  terribly  wrong  down  there. They  haven't  grown  more  sophisticated.  They  haven't  pursued  the  higher  arts.  If anything,  they've  simply  become  packrats,  storing  their  human  knickknacks  in  tribal nests,  increasingly  unaware  of  what  they  have  or  where  they  are  or  even  what  they are.'

'Vera  and  I  have  talked  about  this  at  length,'  said  Mustafah.  'There's  a  tremendous amount  of  fieldwork  to  be  done,  of  course.  But  if  you  go  back  a  million  years  in  the fossil record, it appears the hadals were  developing hand  tools  and  even  amalgamated metal  artifacts  far  ahead  of  what  humans  were  producing  on  the  surface.  While  man was  still  figuring  out  how  to  pound  two  rocks  together,  the  hadals  were  inventing musical  instruments  made  of  glass!  Who  knows?  Maybe  man  never  did  discover  fire. Maybe  we  were  taught  it!  But  now  you  have  these  grotesque  creatures  reduced  to savagery,  their tribes  draining off into the deepest  holes. It's  sad, really.'

'The question is,' said Vera,  'does this overall decline reflect in all the hadals?'

'Satan,' said January. 'Above all, does it affect him?'

'Without  having  met  him,  I  can't  say  for  sure.  But  there   is  always   a  dynamic between  a  people  and  their  leader.  He's  a  mirror  image  of  them.  Kind  of  like  God  in reverse.  We're an image of Him? How about Him as an image of us?'

'You're saying the leader isn't leading? That  he's following his benighted masses?'

'Of  course,'   said  Mustafah.   'Even   the   most   isolated  despot   reflects   his   people. Otherwise  he's  just  a  madman.'  He  gestured  at  the  space  around  them.  'No  different from the knight who built this castle on top of a mountain in a rocky  wilderness.'

'Maybe  that's  what  he  is,'  said  Vera.  'Isolated.  Alienated.  Segregated  by  his  genius. Wandering  the  world,  above  and  below,  cut  off  from  his  own  kind,  trying  to  figure some way  into our kind.'

'Are we so attractive  to them?' January wondered.

'Why  not?  What  if  our  light  and  civilization  and  intellectual  and  physical  health  is their  salvation,  so  to  speak?  What  if  we  represent  paradise  to  them  –  or  him  –  the way  their darkness  and savagery  and ignorance represent  our hell?'

'And Satan's tired of being Satan?' asked Mustafah.

'But  of  course,'  Parsifal  said.  'What  could  be  more  in  keeping?  The  ultimate  traitor. The  Judas of all time. A serpent  ascending. The  rat  jumping off the ship.'

'Or   at   least   an   intellect   contemplating   his   own   transformation,'    said    Vera.

'Anguishing over  his direction. Trying  to decide whether  he  really  can  bring  himself  to cut loose.'

'What's  so  wrong  with  that?'  asked  Foley.  'Wasn't  that  Christ's  agony?  Isn't  that Buddha's conundrum? The  savior  hits  his  wall.  He  gets  worn  out  being  the  savior.  He gets tired of the suffering. It  means our Satan is mortal, that's all.'

January  opened  her  palms  to  them  like  pink  fruit.  'Why  get  so  fancy?'  she  asked.

'The theory  works perfectly  fine with a much simpler explanation. What if  Satan  came up to cut a deal? What if he wants to  find  someone  like  us  as  badly  as  we  want  to  find him?'

Foley's  pencil  fanned  a  nervous  yellow  wing  in  the  air.  'But  that's  what  I've  been thinking!' he said. 'In fact, I think he's already  found us.'

'What?' three  of them asked at once.

Even Thomas raised his eyes  from his dark thoughts.

'If there's  one thing  I've  learned  as  an  entrepreneur,  it  is  that  ideas  occur  in  waves. Ideas   transcend   intelligence.  In   different   cultures.   Different   languages.   Different dreams. Why should the idea of peace be  any  different?  What  if  the  notion  of  a  treaty or a summit or a cease-fire  occurred to our Satan even  as it occurred to us?'

'But you conjecture he's found us.'