The Descent

Every  cavity,  every   tunnel,  every   hole  along  the   chamber's   soaring  walls  was saturated  with  light,  and  yet  you  could  still  see  winged  animals  flitting  about  in  the domelike 'sky'  extending a hundred  meters  above  camp.  Eventually  the  animals  tired and spiraled down to rest  or feed – and promptly got fried upon contact  with  the  laser canopy.  The  work  and  living  quarters  in  camp  were  protected  from  this  bone  and charcoal  debris,   as  well  as  from  the   occasional   fall   of   rocks,   by   steeply   angled fifty-meter-tall   rooftops  with  titanium-alloy   superframes.   The   effect,   from   Ike's window, was a city of cathedrals inside a gigantic cave.

With  conveyor  belts  spanning  off  into  side  holes  and  an  elevator  shaft  and  various ventilation chimneys jutting through the ceiling and a pall of petroleum smog, it looked like  hell,  and  this  was  man's  doing.  A  steady  stream  of  food,  supplies,  and  munitions churned down the belts. Ore  churned back up.

The  train  car  glided  to  a  stop  by  the  front  gate  and  the  Rangers  unhorsed  in  a  file, nearly bashful in  the  face  of  such  safety,  eager  to  get  past  the  razor  wire  and  lay  into some  cold  beer  and  hot  burgers  and  serious  rack  time.  For  his  own  part,  a  fresh platoon would do. Already  Ike  was ready  to leave.

A tardy  MASH team came rushing out with a stretcher,  and  as  they  passed  through the  gate,  a  panel  of  arc  lights  turned  them  as  white  as  angels.  Ike  knelt  beside  his wounded man because it was the right thing  to  do,  but  also  because  he  had  to  find  his resolve  again.  The  arc  lights  were  arranged  to  saturate  every  thing  that  entered  this way,  and to kill whatever  lights killed down here.

'We'll take  him,' the medics said, and Ike  let go of the boy's hand. He was the last  left in the  car.  One  by  one  the  Rangers  had  gone  through  the  gate,  turning  into  bursts  of blinding radiance.

Ike  faced  the  camp's  gate,  straining  against  the  impulse  to  gallop  back  into  the darkness.  His  urges  were  so  raw  they  hurt  like  wounds.  Few  people  understood.  He had entered  this Manichaean state:  it was either darkness  or  light,  and  it  seemed  that all his gray  scale was gone.

With a small cry,  Ike  cupped his hands to his eyes  and  leaped  through  the  gate.  The lights  bleached  him  as  immaculate  as  a  rising  soul.  Like  that,  he  made  his  way  inside once again. It  seemed  more difficult each time.

Inside  the  razor  wire  and  sandbags,  Ike  slowed  his  pulse  and  cleared  his  lungs. Following  regulations,  he  shucked  his  clip,  then  dry-fired  into  the  sandbox  by  the bunker, and showed his tags to the sentinels in their Kevlar  armor.

CAMP  HELENA,  the  sign  read.  HOME  OF  BLACKHORSE,  11 TH  ARMORED  CAV ,  had  been crossed  out  and  replaced  with WOLFHOUNDS,  27TH  INFANTRY .  In  turn,  that  had  been replaced with the names  of  a  half-dozen  more  resident  units.  The  one  constant  in  the upper right corner was their altitude: Minus 16,232  Feet.

Hunched  beneath  his  battle  gear,  Ike  trudged  past  troops  in  their  field  'ninjas,'  the black  camos  issued  for  deep  work,  or  off-duty  in  their  Army  sweats  or  gym  trunks. Whether  they  were  on  their  way  to  training  or  to  the  mess  or  the  basketball  cage  or

the  PX  to  snarf  some  Zingers  or  Yoo-Hoos,  one  and  all  carried  a  rifle  or  pistol,  ever mindful of the great  massacre two years  before.

From  beneath  his  ropy  hair,  Ike  cast  side  glances  at  the  civilians  starting  to  take over.  Most  were  miners  and  construction  workers,  sprinkled  with  mercenaries  and missionaries, the  front  wave  of  colonization.  On  his  departure,  two  months  ago,  there had  been  just  a  few  dozen  of  them.  Now  they  seemed  to  outnumber  the  soldiers. Certainly they  had the hauteur of a majority.

He  heard  bright  laughter  and  was  startled  by  the  sight  of  three  prostitutes  in  their late  twenties.  One  had  veritable  volleyballs  surgically  affixed  to  her  chest.  She  was even  more surprised at the sight of Ike.  The  soda straw  slid  from  her  strawberry  lips, and she stared  in disbelief. Ike  twisted  his face from view  and hurried on.