The Descent

Ike  backed  away.  How  much  was  that  snake  woman  being  paid  to  show  her  flesh and  proselytize  and  recruit  these  gullible  men?  Her  wounds  looked  suspiciously  like surgery  scars, possibly from  a  double  mastectomy.  Regardless,  she  did  not  speak  like a former captive. She was too certain of herself.

To  be  sure,  there  were  human  captives  among  the  hadals.  But  they   were   not necessarily  in  need  of  rescue.  The  ones  Ike  had  seen,  the  ones  who  had  survived  for any  length  of  time  among  the  hadals,  tended  to  sound  like  a  sum  of  zero.  But  once you'd  been  there,  limbo  could  mean  a  kind  of  asylum  from  your  own  responsibilities. It  was  heresy  to  speak  aloud,  especially  among  liberty-preaching  patriots  like  these tonight,  but  Ike  himself  had  felt  the  forbidden  rapture  of  losing  himself  to  another creature's  authority.

Ike  made  his  way  up  the  steps  dense  with  humanity  and  entered  the  medieval transept.  There  were  touches of the twentieth  century:  the  floor  was  inlaid  with  state seals,  and  one  stained-glass  window  bore  the   image  of  astronauts   on  the   moon. Otherwise  he  might  have  been  passing  through  the  crest  of  a  Black  Plague.  The  air was filled  with  smoke  and  incense  and  the  smell  of  unwashed  bodies  and  rotten  fruit, and  the  stone  walls  echoed  with  prayers.  Ike  heard  the  Confiteor  blend  with  the Kaddish. Appeals to Allah mixed  with  Appalachian  hymns.  Preachers  railed  about  the Second  Coming,  the  Age  of  Aquarius,  the  One  True  God,  angels.  The  petition  was general. The  millennium wasn't turning out to be much fun, it seemed.

Before  dawn,  mindful  of  his  debt  to  Branch,  he  returned  to  18th  and  C  streets, Northwest,  where  he  had  been  told  to  report.  He  sat  at  one  end  of  the  granite  steps and  waited  for  nine  o'clock.  Despite  his  premonitions,  Ike  told  himself  there  could  be no turning back. His honor had come down to a matter  of the mercy  of strangers.

The  sun  arrived  slowly,  advancing  down  the   canyon  of  office  buildings  like  an imperial  march.  Ike  watched  his  footprints  melt  in  the  lawn's  frost.  His  heart  sank  at the erasure.

An  overwhelming  sadness  swept  him,  a  sense  of  deep  betrayal.  What  right  did  he have  to  come  back  into  the  World?  What  right  did  the  World  have  to  come  back  into him?  Suddenly  his  being  here,  trying  to  explain  himself  to  strangers,  seemed  like  a terrible indiscretion. Why give himself away?  What if they  judged him guilty?

For  an  instant,  in  his  mind  a  small  lifetime,  he  was  returned  to  his  captivity.  It  had no  single  image.  A  great  howl.  The  feel  of  a  mortally  exhausted  man's  bones  hard against his shoulder. The  odor  of  minerals.  And  chains...  like  the  edge  of  music,  never quite in rhythm,  never  quite song. Would they  do that to him again? Run, he thought.

'I  didn't  think  you'd  be  here,'  a  voice  spoke  to  him.  'I  thought  they  would  need  to hunt you down.'

Ike  glanced  up.  A  very  wide  man,  perhaps  fifty  years  old,  was  standing  on  the sidewalk in front of him. Despite the neat jeans and a  designer  parka,  his  carriage  said military.  Ike  squinted  left  and  right,  but  they  were  alone.  'You're  the  lawyer?'  he asked.

'Lawyer?'

Ike  was  confused.  Did  the  man  know  him  or  not?  'For  the  court-martial.  I  don't know what you're called. My  advocate?'

The  man nodded, understanding now. 'Sure, you might call me that.'

Ike  stood.  'Let's  get  it  over  with,  then,'  he  said.  He  was  full  of  dread,  but  saw  no alternative  to what was in motion.

The  man seemed  bemused. 'Haven't you  noticed  the  empty  streets?  There's  no  one around. The  buildings are all closed. It's  Sunday.'

'Then what are we doing here?' he asked. It  sounded foolish to him. Lost.

'Taking care of business.'

Ike  coiled  inside  himself.  Something  wasn't  right.  Branch  had  told  him  to  report here, at this time. 'You're not my  lawyer.'

'My name is Sandwell.'

Ike  could  not  fill  the  man's  pause  with  any  recognition.  When  the  man  realized  Ike had never  heard of him, he smiled with something like sympathy.

'I commanded your  friend Branch for a time,' Sandwell said. 'It  was in  Bosnia,  before

his  accident,  before  he  changed.  He  was  a  decent  man.'  He  added,  'I  doubt  that changed.'

Ike  agreed. Some things did not change.

'I  heard  about  your  troubles,'  Sandwell  said.  'I've  read  your  file.  You've  served  us well   over   the   past   three   years.   Everyone   sings   your   praises.   Tracker.   Scout. Hunter-killer.  Once  Branch  got  you  tamed,  we've  made  good  use  of  you.  And  you've made good use of us, gotten your  pound of flesh back from Haddie, haven't you?'