The Descent

Passing  through  the  security  and  passport  and  ticket  checks,  Ali  neared  a  great edifice  made  of  glistening  steel.  Rooted  in  solid  black  stone,  the  enormous  steel  and titanium and platinum gateway  looked immovable. This was  one  of  Nazca  Depot's  five elevator  shafts connecting with the upper interior, three  miles  beneath  their  feet.  The complex of shafts and  vents  had  cost  over  $4  billion  –  and  several  hundred  lives  –  to drill. As a public transportation project, it was  no  different  from  a  new  airport,  say,  or the  American  railway  system  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago.  It  was  meant  to  service colonization for decades to come.

Out   of  necessity,   the   press   of   soldiers,   settlers,   laborers,   runaways,   convicts, paupers, addicts,  fanatics,  and  dreamers  grew  orderly,  even  mannerly.  They  realized at  last  that  there  was  going  to  be  room  for  everyone.  Ali  walked  toward  a  bank  of stainless-steel  doors  side  by  side.  Three  were  already  shut.  A  fourth  closed  slowly  as

she drew  near. The  last stood open.

Ali  headed  for  the  farthest,  least  crowded  entrance.  Inside,  the  chamber  was  like  a small amphitheater, with concentric rows of plastic seats  descending toward  an  empty center. It  was dark and cool, a  relief  from  the  press  of  hot  bodies  outside.  She  headed for the far side, opposite the door. After  a minute her eyes  adjusted to the dim  lighting and  she  chose  a  seat.  Except  for  a  man  at  the  end  of  the  row,  she  was  temporarily alone.  Ali  set  her  daypack  on  the  floor,  took  a  deep  breath,  and  let  her  muscles unwind.

The  seat  was  ergonomic,  with  a  curved  spine  rest  and  a  harness  that  adjusted  for your  shoulders  and  snapped  across  your  chest.  Each  seat  had  a  fold-up  table,  a  deep bin  for  possessions,  and  an  oxygen  mask.  There  was  an  LCD  screen  built  into  every seatback.  Hers  showed   an  altimeter   reading   of  0000   feet.   The   clock  alternated between  real time and their departure  in minus-minutes.  The  elevator  was  scheduled to leave  in twenty-four  minutes. Muzak soothed the interim.

A  tall  curved  window  bordered  the  walkway  above,  much  like  an  aquarium  wall. Water  lapped  against  the  upper  rim.  Ali  was  about  to  walk  up  for  a  peek,  then  got sidetracked with a magazine nestled in the pocket beside her. It  was called The  Nazca News , and its cover  bore an  imaginative  painting  of  a  thin  tube  rising  from  a  range  of ocean-floor  mountains,  an  artist's  rendition  of  the  Nazca  Depot  elevator  shaft.  The shaft looked fragile.

Ali  tried  reading.  Her  mind  wouldn't  focus.  She  felt  barraged  with  details:  G  forces, compression  rates,  temperature  zones.  'Ocean  water  reaches  its  coldest  temperature

– 35 degrees  – at 12,000  feet  below the  surface.  Below  that  depth,  it  gradually  heats. Water on the ocean floor averages  36.5 degrees.'

'Welcome  to  the  moho,'  a  sidebar  opened.  'Located  at  the  edge  of  the  East  Pacific

Rise, Nazca Depot accesses the subplanet at a depth of just 3,066 fathoms.'

There   were   nuggets   and  sidebars   scattered   throughout.   A   quote   from   Albert Einstein:  'Something  deeply  hidden  had  to  be  behind  things.'  There  was  a  table  of residual  gases  and  their  effect  on  various  human  tissues.  Another  article  featured Rock Vision^TM, which produced images of  geologic  anomalies  hundreds  of  feet  ahead  of a mining face. Ali closed the magazine.

The  back page advertised  Helios, the winged sun on a black backdrop.

She noticed her neighbor. He was only  a  few  seats  away,  but  she  could  barely  make out his silhouette in the dim light.

He was not looking  at  her,  yet  some  instinct  told  Ali  she  was  being  observed.  Faced forward, he was wearing dark goggles, the sort welders use. That  made  him  a  worker, she decided, then  saw  his  camouflage  pants.  A  soldier,  she  amended.  The  jawline  was striking. His haircut – definitely self-inflicted – was atrocious.

She realized the man was delicately sniffing the air. He was smelling her.

Several  figures  appeared  at  the  doorway,  and  the  presence  of  more  passengers emboldened her. 'Excuse me?' she challenged the man.

He  faced  her  fully.  The  goggles  were  so  darkly  tinted  and  the  lenses  so  scratched and  small,  she  wondered  how  much  of  anything  he  could  really  see.  A  moment  later, Ali  discovered  the  markings  on  his  face.  Even  in  the  dim  light,  she  could  tell  the tattoos  were  not  just  ink  printed  into  flesh.  Whoever  had  decorated  him  had  taken  a knife  to  the  task.  His  big  cheekbones  were  incised  and  scarified.  The  rawness  of  it jolted her.