The Descent

At  8,700  fathoms  –  almost  ten  miles  deep  –  they  reached  a  ledge  overlooking  a canyon.  The  stream  of  water  joined  others  and  became  a  waterfall  that  leaped  into freefall. The  stone  was  shot  through  with  fluorines,  providing  a  ghostly  luminescence. They  were  standing  at  the  rim  of  a  hanging  valley,   partway   up  the   wall.  Their waterfall was one of hundreds threading the walls.

Their path snaked across the  shield  of  olive  stone,  carved  into  solid  rock,  where  the natural fissures gave  out. Chunks of enormous stalactite bridged a section.  Iron  chains traversed  blank spots.

The  climb down took  all  of  Ike's  attention.  The  pathway  was  old  and  bordered  by  a precipice falling a thousand feet  to the floor. The  girl  decided  this  was  her  opportunity to terminate  the relationship. She abruptly  pitched herself off the edge, body and  soul. It  was  a  good  effort  and  almost  took  Ike  over  with  her,  but  he  managed  to  pull  her kicking and thrashing back to safety.  For the next  three  days  he had to be  on  constant guard against any further  such episodes.

Near  the  bottom,  fog  drifted  in  big  ragged  islands,  like  New  Mexico  clouds.  Ike thought  the  waterfalls  must  be  feeding  the  fog.  They  came  to  a  series  of  broken

columns forming  a  sprawling  course  of  polygonal  stairs.  Each  column  had  snapped  off at  a  ninety-degree   angle,  exposing   neat,   flat   tops.   Ike   noticed   the   girl's   thighs trembling from the descent, and gave  her a rest.

They  were  eating  little,  mostly  insects  and  some  of  the  shoots  topping  reeds  that grew by  the  water.  Ike  could  have  gone  scavenging,  but  chose  not  to.  Progress  aside, he  was  using  the  hunger  to  make  the  girl  more  pliable.  They  were  deep  in  enemy territory,  and  he  meant  to  get  deeper  without  her  setting  off  any  alarms.  He  figured hunger was kinder than tightened ropes.

The  sound of waterfalls pouring from the walls made a steady  thunder.  They  moved among fins of rock that sliced the fog and menaced them with false  trails.  They  passed skeletons of animals that had grown exhausted  in the maze.

The  fog  had  a  pulse  to  it,  ebbing  and  flowing.  Sometimes  it  lowered  around  their heads  or  feet.  It  was  only  by  chance  that  Ike  heard  a  party  of  hadals  approaching through one such tidal bank of fog.

Ike  wasted  no  time  bulldogging  his  prisoner  to  the  ground  before  she  could  make any  trouble.  They  stretched  flat,  bellies  to  the  stone,  and  then  for  good  measure  he climbed  on  top  of  her  and  clamped  one  hand  over  her  mouth.  She  struggled,  but quickly ran out of breath. He settled  his cheek onto her thick hair, and his eyes  ranged beneath the ceiling of fog. Its  cold mass hung just inches above  the stone.

Suddenly  a  foot  appeared  by  Ike's  head.  It  seemed  to  reach  down  from  the  fog.  He could  have  grabbed  the  ankle  without  reaching.  Its  toes  were  long.  The  foot  gripped the  stone  floor  as  if  shoveling  gravity.  The  arch  had  flattened  wide  over  a  lifetime  of travels.  Ike  looked  at  his  own  fingers,  and  they  appeared  thin  and  weak  next  to  that brute  testament  of cracked and yellow nails and veined weight.

The  foot  relinquished  its  hold  upon  the  earth  as  its  mate  set  down  just  ahead.  The creature  walked on, soft as a ballerina. Ike's  mind raced. Size sixteen,  at least.

The  creature  was followed by  others. Ike  counted six. Or seven.  Or eight. Were they searching  for  him  and  the  girl?  He  doubted  it.  Probably  it  was  a  hunting  party,  or interceptors, their stone-age  equivalent of centurions.

The  padding of feet  stopped not far ahead. Soon Ike  could hear the hadals at  the  site of a kill, cracking sticks. Bones, he knew. By the sound of it, their prey  had  been  larger than  hominid.  Then  he  heard  what  sounded  like  strips  of  carpet  being  torn.  It  was skin,  he  realized.  They  were  rawhiding  the  dead  thing,  whatever  it  was.  He  was tempted  to  wait  until  they  left,  then  go  scavenge  the  remains.  But  while  the  fog  held, he got the girl on her feet  and they  made a broad arc around the party.

The  panels  of  stone  grew  wild  with  aboriginal  scrawl,  old  and  new.  The  hadal  script

– cut or painted ten thousand years  ago – overlaid images overlaid on other images. It was like text  foxing through text  in old books, a ghost language.