The Descent

The  lips  peeled  back  upon  white  teeth.  It  was  the  grin  of  someone  whose  last  sole possession was the grin itself.

And then he started  laughing  that  laughter  they  had  heard.  The  mirth  was  real.  He was  laughing  at  them.  At  himself.  His  suffering.  His  extremity.  The  universe.  It  was, Branch realized, the most audacious thing he'd ever  seen.

'Shoot the thing,' Sergeant  Dornan said.

'Don't,' Branch commanded.

'Ah,  come  on,'  said  the   creature.   The   nuance  was   pure   Western.   Wyoming  or

Montana. 'Do,' he said. And quit laughing. In the silence, someone locked a load.

'No,' said  Branch.  He  knelt  down.  Monster  to  monster.  Cradled  the  Medusa  head  in both  hands.  'Who  are   you?'   he   asked.   'What's   your   name?'   It   was   like   taking confession.

'He's human? He's one of us?' a soldier murmured.

Branch brought the head closer, and saw a face younger than he'd thought. That  was when  they   discovered   something  that   had   been   inflicted   on   none   of   the   other

prisoners.  Jutting  from  one  vertebra  at  the  base  of  his  neck,  an  iron  ring  had  been affixed  to  his  spinal  column.  One  yank  on  that  ring,  and  he  would  be  turned  into  a head  atop  a  dead  body.  They  were  awed  by  that.  Awed  by  the  independence  that needed such breaking.

'Who are you?' Branch said.

A  tear  streaked  down  from  one  eye.  The  man  was  remembering.  He  offered  his name like surrendering his sword. He spoke so softly, Branch had to lean in.

'Ike,' Branch told the others.

First you must conceive that the earth... is everywhere full of windy caves, and bears in its bosom a multitude of mirrors and gulfs and beedling, precipitous crags. You must also picture that under the earth's back, many

buried rivers with torrential force roll their waters mingled with sunken rocks.

– LUCRETIUS, The Nature of the Universe (55 BC)

6

DIXIE CUPS

Beneath Ontario

Three  years  later

The  armored  train  car  slowed  to  thirty  kph  as  it  exited  the  wormhole  into  a  vast subterranean  chamber  containing  Camp  Helena.  The  track  arced  along  the  canyon's ridgeline and descended to the chamber floor.  Inside  the  car,  Ike  roamed  from  end  to end,  stepping  over  exhausted  men  and  combat  gear  and  the  blood,  tireless,  shotgun ready.  Through  the  front  window  he  saw  the  lights  of  man.  Through  the  rear,  the strafed,  fouled  mouth  to  the  depths  fell  behind.  His  heart  felt  pulled  in  two,  into  the future, into the past.

For seven  dark weeks  the platoon had been hunting Haddie, their horror, in a tunnel spoking off the deepest  transit point. For four of those weeks  they'd  been living  by  the trigger.  Corporate  mercenaries  were  supposed  to  police  the  deep  lines,  but  somehow the  national  militaries  were  back  in  the  action.  And  taking  the  hits.  Now  they  sat  on brand-new  cherry-red  plastic  seats  in  an  automated  train,  with  muddy  field  gear propped against their legs and a soldier dying on the floor.

'Home,' one of the Rangers said to him.

'All yours,' Ike  replied. He added, 'Lieutenant,' and it was like passing  the  torch  back to its original owner. They  were  back in the World now, and it was not his.

'Listen,'  Lieutenant  Meadows  said  in  a  low  voice,  'what  happened,  maybe  I  don't have  to report  it all. A simple apology, in front of the men...'

'You're forgiving me?' Ike  snorted. The  tired men looked up. Meadows  narrowed  his eyes,  and  Ike  pulled  out  a  pair  of  glacier  glasses  with  nearly  black  lenses.  He  hooked the  wings  on  his  ears  and  sealed  the  plastic  against  the  wild  tattooing  that  ran  from forehead to cheekbones to chin.

He  turned  from  the  fool  and  squinted  out  the  windows  at  the  sprawling  firebase below  them.  Helena's  sky  was  a  storm  of  man-made  lights.  From  this  vantage,  the array  of sabering lasers formed  an  angular  canopy  one  mile  wide.  Strobes  twinkled  in the distance. His dreadlocks – slashed to shoulder length  –  helped  shield  his  eyes,  but not enough. So powerful in the lower darkness, Ike  shied here in the ordinary.

In  Ike's  mind,  these  settlements  were  like  shipwrecks  in  the  Arctic  with  winter closing  in,  reminders  that  passage  was  swift  and  temporary.  Down  here,  one  did  not belong in one place for long.