The Descent

'We need to find out,' Ali said. 'It  could be relevant.'  Relevant, she did  not  say,  to  her search for the missing Satan.

'What do you propose, growing wings?' asked Spurrier. 'There  are no stairs.'

With a pencil-thin beam of light, Ike  traced  a set  of handholds  carved  into  the  upper half  of  the  platform's  circular  wall.  He  opened  his  hundred-pound  pack  and  laid  out the contents, and they  all took a peek.

'You're still carrying rope?' marveled  Ruiz. 'How many coils do you have  in there?' Ali saw a pair of clean socks. After  all these  months?

'Look at all those MREs,' said Twiggs. 'You've  been holding out on us.'

'Shut up, Twiggy,'  Pia said. 'It's his food.'

'Here,  I've  been  waiting,'  said  Ike.  He  handed  around  the  food  packets.  'That's  the last of them. Happy Thanksgiving.' And it was, November  24.

They  were  ravenous.  With  no  further  ceremony,  the  vestiges  of  the  Jules  Verne Society  opened  the  pouches  and  heated  the  ham  and  pineapple  slices  and  filled  their pinched stomachs. They  made no attempt  to ration themselves.

Ike  occupied  himself  uncoiling  one  of  his  ropes.  He  declined  the  meal,  but  accepted some  of  their  M&M's,  though  only  the  red  ones.  They  didn't  know  what  to  make  of that, their battle-scarred  scout fussing over  bits of candy.

'But they're  no different from the yellow and blue ones,' Chelsea said.

'Sure they  are,' Ike  said. 'They're  red.'

He  tied  one  end  of  the  rope  to  his  waist.  'I'll  trail  the  rope,'  he  said.  'If  there's anything up there,  I'll fix the line and you can come take  a look.'

Armed  with  his  headlamp  and  their  only  pistol,  Ike  stood  on  Spurrier's  and  Troy's shoulders  and  gave  a  hop  to  reach  the  lowest  handhold.  From  there  it  was  only another twenty  feet  to the top. He spidered up, grabbed the  edge  of  the  platform,  and started  to pull himself over.  But  he  stopped.  They  watched  him  not  move  for  a  whole minute.

'Is something wrong?' asked Ali.

Ike  pulled  himself  onto  the  platform  and  looked  down  at  them.  'You  better  see  this for yourself.'

He  knotted  loops  in  the  rope  to  make  them  a  ladder.  One  by  one,  they  climbed  up, weak, needing help. It  was going to take  more than one meal to restore  their strength. Between  themselves  and  the  tower,  ninety  feet  in,  a  ceramic  army  awaited  them. Lifeless, yet  alive.

They  were  hadal  warriors  made  of  glazed  terra-cotta.  Facing  out  toward  intruders, they  numbered in the hundreds, arranged in concentric circles around the  tower,  each statue  bearing  a  weapon  and  a  ferocious  expression.  Some  still  wore  armor  made  of thin  jade  plates  stitched  with  gold  links.  On  most,  time  had  stretched  or  broken  the gold, and the plates had tumbled to their feet, leaving the hadal mannequins naked.

It  was  hard  not  to  speak  in  a  whisper.  They  were  awestruck,  intimidated.  'What have  we stumbled into?' asked Pia.

Some brandished war clubs edged with obsidian chips, pre-Aztec.  There  were  atlatls

–  spear  throwers  –  and  stone  maces  with  iron  chains  and  handles.  Some  of  the weaponry   carried   Maori-type   geometrics,   but   had  to   predate   Maori   culture   by fourteen  thousand  years.  Spears  and  arrows  made  of  abyssal  reed  had  been  fletched not with bird feathers  but with fish spines.

'It's like the Qin tomb in China,' said Ali. 'Only smaller.'

'And seven  times older,' said Troy.  'And hadal.'

They  entered  the circles  of  sentinels  tentatively,  setting  their  feet  carefully,  like  t'ai chi  students,  so  as  not  to  disturb  the  scene.  Those  with  film  left  took  pictures.  Ike drew  his  pistol  and  stalked  from  one  to  another,  culling  facts  meaningful  only  to  him. Ali simply wandered. Troy  joined her, dazed.

'These  furrows  in  the  floor,  they're  filled  with  mercury,'  he  said,  pointing  to  the network  cut  into  the  stone  deck.  'And  it's  moving,  like  blood.  What  could  be  the meaning?'

It  was fair to guess by  the details that the statues  had  been  built  true  to  life.  In  that case,  the  warriors  had  averaged  an  extraordinary  five  feet  ten  inches  –  fifteen  eons ago.  As  Troy  pointed  out,  it  was  always  a  mistake  to  generalize  too  much  from  the looks of an army,  for armies tended to recruit the healthiest and  fittest  specimens  in  a population.  Even  so,  during  the  same  Neolithic  period  the  average  H.  sapiens  male had stood five to eight inches shorter.

'Next  to  these  guys,  Conan  the  Barbarian  would  have  been  nothing  more  than  a

mesomorphic runt leading a bunch of human pipsqueaks,' Troy  said.  'It  kind  of  makes you  wonder.  With  their  physical  size  and  this  level  of  social  organization  and  wealth, why  didn't the hadals just invade us?'