The Descent

Their  rafts  rocked  on  the  seiche.  You  couldn't  feel  or  hear  the  tremors,  but  deeper designs  were   stirring   the   sea   with  swells.   The   food  and  gear   were   lashed  with muleskinner  knots.  They  had  the  chain  gun  mounted,  the  spotlights  on.  It  was  going to   be   heavy   going   for   eleven   men,   but   their   cornucopia   promised   months   of sustenance and would lighten as they  exited.

Half  of  the  soldiers  waited  on  the  rafts  while  half  went  back  to  tidy  up.  They  had drawn straws  for the wet  work. It  was disgusting to them that Shoat asked to watch. You  didn't  leave  witnesses  alive,  not  even  the  walking  dead.  Long  before  they  died of  starvation,  any  one  of  the  survivors  might  pen  some  damning  deposition.  Things like that could haunt you. It  might be ten years  before any colonist found this  fortress, but why  risk the testimony  of ghosts? That  was what  had  confounded  them  about  the colonel. He'd treated  this as a calling, when all along it was just a crime.

They  worked  from  front  to  back  and  kept  it  professional.  Each  of  their  wounded comrades got a well-placed mercy  shot behind the eyes.  Walker  they  left  alive,  strung to  the   wall,   babbling   scripture.   Fuck   him.   In   a   million   years,   he   wasn't   going anywhere.

All  that  remained  were  the  civilians  in  the  side  room.  Two  entered.  'What's  this bull?' one shouted.

Spurrier  looked  up,  shielding  Pia.  'They  ran  away.  We  could  have  gone  with  them,'

he said. 'But look, we stayed.'

'Dumb fuck,' the other soldier said.

They  rolled  two  fragmentation  grenades  into  the  room  and  hugged  the  outer  wall, then  hosed  what  was  left  with  a  clip  each.  They  returned  to  the  front  room.  It  was quiet, now that the wounded had finished pleading. Only Walker still moaned.

'That sucked,' said one of the mercenaries.

'You ain't seen nothing yet,'  Shoat said. He was  just  finishing  inserting  another  of  his homing capsules into the wall.

'What are you talking about?'

'Visualize whirled peas,' Shoat said.

'Hey,  Shoat,'  called  another.  'Why  keep   stringing  those   homers?   We  ain't  ever coming back this way.'

'He who plants a tree,  plants posterity,'  Shoat pronounced.

'Shut up, mope.'

They  watched  from  just  below  the  water.  Others  occupied  the  heights,  camouflaged with powdered rock, stone-still. Their  composure was reptilian. Or  insect.  A  matter  of clans. Isaac had arranged them just so.

Had the mercenaries  thought  to  illuminate  the  cliffside,  they  might  have  detected  a faint  pulse,  the  ripple  of  many  lungs  respirating.  Their  lights  on  the  water  simply ricocheted off the oscillating surface. The  humans thought they  were  alone.

The  party  of  executioners  appeared  at  the  fortress  gate,  in  no  hurry.  They  walked with heavy  legs, like peasants at the end  of  the  day.  Until  you've  done  it,  you  have  no idea: Killing is a form of gravity.

'Vengeance will be mine,' Walker's mad voice bellowed from the fortress.

'Have a nice day,' someone muttered.

The  flicker  of  fire  coruscated  through  the  doorway.  Someone  had  started  a  bonfire with the last of the scientists' papers.

'We're going home, boys,' the lieutenant called to his men as he welcomed them.

The   lance   that   impaled   him   bore   a   beautiful   example   of   Solutrean   Ice   Age technology.  The  flint  blade  was  long  and  leaf-shaped,  with  exquisite  pressure  flaking and a smear of toxic poison milked from abyssal  rays.

It  was a classic impalement, driving  straight  up  from  the  water  and  penetrating  the lieutenant's  anus  precisely,  pithing  him  the  way,  long  ago,  the  lieutenant  had  readied frogs in junior high school science lab.

No  one  suspected.  The   lieutenant   stayed   erect,   or  nearly   so.  His  head  bowed slightly, but otherwise his eyes  stayed  open, the smile pinned wide.

'Made in the shade, Lewt,' one of the soldiers replied to him.

Down  at  the  far  end  of  the  line  of  boats,  a  shooter  called  Grief  sat  straddling  the rubber  pontoon.  He  heard  a  sound  like  oil  separating  and  turned  and  the  sea  was sliding open. There  was just enough time to  see  a  wall-eyed  happy  face  before  he  was seized and pulled under. The  water  sealed shut above  his heels.

The  mercenaries  spread  out  across  the  sand,  angling  for  different  boats  beached along  the   shore.   Two   carried   their   rifles   by   the   handle-sight.   One   draped   his, cruciform, across his shoulders.

'Let's go, pendejos,' called one of the boat men. 'I can feel their ghosts.'