The Descent

For  as  long  as  he  could  hold  his  breath,  Branch  let  the  river  have  him.  At  last  he triggered  the survival  suit and felt its bladders fill. He was buoyed to the surface  like  a cork.

The  fastest  hadal  was  still  tracking  him  alongside  the  river.  The  moment  Branch's head popped above  water,  the hadal made a hurried cast.

The  spear lodged deep just as Branch  fired  a  burst  from  underwater,  and  the  water chopped  upward  in  long  rooster  tails.  The  hadal  spun,  was  killed,  and  hit  the  water flat.

The  river  flowed on, taking him around bends and crooks, away  from the danger. For the next  five days,  Branch had the dead  hadal  for  company  as  they  both  drifted to  the  sea.  The  river  was  like  a  mother,  impartial  to  her  children's  differences.  He drank her water.  His fever  cooled.

The  spear fell out of him eventually.

Parasitic eels gently  sucked at him. They  took his blood, but his wound  stayed  clean. Somewhere along the way,  he got his knee back in joint.

With all that pain, it was no wonder he dreamed so much as he drifted to the sea. Back  along  the  riverbank,  a  monstrosity,  painted  and  inked  and  ridged  with  scars, picked  up  the  tube  of  maps.  He  unrolled  them  from  the  waterproofing  and  pinned their  corners  with  rocks  while  hadals  gathered  around.  They  had  no  eye  for  such things. But Isaac could see the care  and  detail  the  cartographer  had  lavished  on  these pages. 'There  is hope,' he said in hadal.

For  days  they  had  been  remarking  on  a  nebulous  gleam  the  color  of  milk,  occupying the  rump  of  their  horizon.  They  thought  it  might  be  a  cloudbank  or  steam  from  a waterfall  or  perhaps  a  beached  iceberg.  Ali  feared   they   were   suffering   collective hunger  delusions,  for  they'd  begun  stumbling  on  the  trail  and  talking  to  themselves. No one imagined a seaside fortress  carved  from phosphorescent cliffs.

Five  stories  high,  its  walls  were  as  smooth  as  Egyptian  alabaster.  It   had  been whittled from solid rock.  Beerstone,  Twiggs  told  them.  The  Romans  used  to  quarry  it in ancient Britain. Westminster Abbey  was made of it. A  creamy  white  calcite,  it  came out  of  the  ground  as  soft  as  soap  and  over  the  years  dried  to  a  hardness  perfect  for sculpting. He adored it for its pollen residues.

Long ago, hadals had skinned away  the  face  of  this  wall,  denuding  its  softer  stone  to cut  out  a  complex  of  rooms  and  ramparts  and  statues,  all  of  one  piece.  Not  one  block or brick had been added to it, a single huge monument.

Three  times  as  broad  as  it  was  tall,  the  dwelling  was  empty  and  largely  in  collapse. It  breasted  the sea and  was  clearly  a  bulwark  anchoring  the  commerce  of  some  great vanished empire. You could see what was left of stone docks  and  pier  slips  submerged an inch beneath the water.

Even weak  with hunger, they  were  beguiled.  They  wandered  through  the  warren  of rooms  looking  across  the  night  sea  and,  to  the  fortress's  rear,  onto  the  crags  below. Stairs  had  been  cut  into  the  cliff  sides,  seemingly  thousands  of  them,  leading  off  into new depths.

Whoever – or whatever  – the hadals had built this defensive monster against, it  was not  humans.  Ali  estimated  the  fortress  dated  back  at  least  fifteen  thousand  years, probably  more.  'Man  was  still  chipping  flint  in  caves  while  this  hadal  civilization  was engaged in riverine  trade  across thousands of miles. I doubt we were  much  of  a  threat to them.'

'But where  did they  go?' Troy  asked. 'What could have  destroyed  them?'

As  they  wandered  through  the  crumbling  hulk,  they  encountered  a  people  from another time. The  fortress  rooms and parapets  were  built to Homo scale,  with  ceilings planed at a remarkably  standard six feet.

The  walls held traces  of engraved  images and  script  and  glyphs,  and  Ali  pronounced the  writings  even  older  than  what  they  had  seen  before.  She  was  sure  no  epigrapher had ever  laid eyes  on such script.

Deep  in  the  cavernous  interior  stood  a  freestanding  column,  rising  twenty  meters into  a  large  domed  chamber  in  the  heart  of  the  building.  A  high  platform  separated them from the spire's base. They  made  a  complete  circuit  around  the  immense  room, following  the  narrow  walkway  and  shining  their  lights  on  the  spire's  upper  section. There  were  no doors or stairways  leading onto the platform.

'The spire could be a king's tomb,' said Ali.

'Or a castle keep,' said Troy.

'Or a good  old-fashioned  phallic  symbol,'  said  Pia,  who  was  there  because  her  lover, the  primatologist  Spurrier,  trusted  Gitner  even  less  than  he  trusted  Ike.  'Like  a  Siva rock, or a pharaoh's obelisk.'