The Descent

It  took  Ike  time  to  adjust  to  the  scale  of  this  place.  Only  then  did  he  begin  to distinguish   the   multitudes.   They   were   so   numerous   and   packed   together   and enfeebled that all he saw at  first  was  a  broad  stain  upon  the  floor.  But  the  stain  had  a slight motion to it, like the slow agitation of glaciers. Here  and  there,  winged  creatures launched from cliffside aeries, darting through the fog.

In  effect,  the  refugees  were  camping  not  in  but  atop  the  old  city.  He  couldn't  make out  individual  figures  from  this  distance,  but  he  guessed  there  had  to  be  thousands down there.  Tens  of thousands. He had been right about the sanctuary.

They  must have  come  from  throughout  the  planet  to  this  single  place.  Even  though Ike  had  guessed  they  were  migrating  to  a  central  location,  their  numbers  astounded him.  Haddie  was  a  solitary  race,  as  willing  to  demolish  one  another  as  their  enemy, prone  to  wandering  in  small,  paranoid  packs.  He'd  decided  there  were  probably  no more than a few thousand left in the entire subplanet. There  had to be  fifty  times  that right here. For them to have  gathered  this way,  and in apparent armistice, it had to be like the end of the world.

Their  abundance  was  good  news  and  bad.  It  all  but  guaranteed  that  Ali  would  end up  in  the  refugee  horde,  if  she  was  not  already  among  them.  Ike  had  devised  no specific gambit, but had been relying on a much smaller  mob  to  deal  with.  Finding  her from a distance was going to be impossible, and  infiltrating  them  a  lengthy  nightmare. Just  locating  her  could  take  months.  And  all  the  while  he  would  have  to  tend  the hostage,  his  daughter.  The  prospect  threw  him  into  a  downward  spiral.  He  looked  at his watch – Troy's  watch – and noted the time and date and altitude.

He heard the pad of feet, and  started  to  rise  up,  knife  in  hand.  He  had  time  to  see  a rifle  butt.  Then  it  axed  into  his  face,  he  felt  it  clip  his  temple,  and  all  the  brawl  went out of him.

By the time Ike  revived,  he was  bound  hand  to  foot  with  his  own  rope.  He  pried  his eyes  open. His captor was waiting, seated  five feet  away,  barefoot and in  rags,  sighting on Ike's  face  through  a  US  Army  night-vision  sniperscope.  A  pair  of  binoculars  hung from his neck. Ike  sighed. The  Rangers had finally hounded him to earth.

'Wait,' Ike  said. 'Before you shoot.'

'Sure,' said the man, his face still burrowed behind the rifle and sight.

'Just tell me why.' What had he done to deserve  their vengeance?

'Why what, Ike?'  The  executioner lifted his head. Ike  was thunderstruck.  This was no Ranger.

'Surprise,' Shoat said. 'I didn't think it was possible, either,  an  ordinary  joe  trumping the   great   Ike   Crockett.   But  you   were   easy.   Talk   about   bragging  rights.   I   mug Superman and get the girl.'

Ike  couldn't  think  of  what  to  say.  He  looked  across  at  his  daughter.  Shoat  had tightened her bonds. That  was significant. He hadn't shot the girl outright.

Bearded  and  emaciated,  Shoat  had  not  lost  his  daft  grin.  He  was  very  pleased  with himself.  'In  certain  ways,'  he  said,  'we're  the  same  guy,  you  and  me.  Bottom  feeders. We can live off other people's shit. And we always  make sure we know where  the  back door is. Back at the presidio, I was ready,  just like you.'

Ike's  face ached from  the  rifle  butt,  but  what  hurt  most  was  his  pride.  'You  tracked me?' he said.

Shoat  patted  the  rifle  with  the  sniperscope.  'Superior  technology,'  he  said.  'I  could see you from  a  mile  off,  clear  as  day.  And  once  you  netted  our  little  bird,  things  were even  easier. I don't know, Ike,  you got  slow  and  you  got  sloppy.  Maybe  you're  getting old. Anyhow' – he glanced behind him over  the precipice – 'we've  reached  the  heart  of the matter,  haven't we?'

While Shoat talked, Ike  gathered  the few  clues.  A  rucksack  sat  against  the  wall,  half empty.  Over  near  the  watchful  girl,  Shoat  had  scattered  the  plastic  refuse  from  a single  military  rations  packet.  It  told  Ike  he  had  been  unconscious  long  enough  to  be tied,  and  for  Shoat  to  finish  a  meal.  More  important,  the  man  had  come  alone;  there was  just  one  pack  and  the  remains  of  one  MRE.  And  the  MRE  meant  he  was  not feeding off the land, probably because he didn't know how to.

Obviously,  Shoat  had  foraged  through  the   destroyed   fortress   and  found  a  few essentials:  the  rifle,  some  MREs.  Ike  was  mystified.  The  man  had  his  ticket  home; why  pursue the depths?

'You should have  taken  a raft or just started  walking,' Ike  said. 'You could  have  been partway  out of here.'