The Descent

Time  to  nail  the  coffin  shut  and  start  the  long  road  back  out.  With  the  exit  tunnel sterilized by  synthetic  virus,  there  would  be  no  critters  left  to  dodge  or  run  from.  His worst dangers would be solitude and boredom. Basically, he faced a  lonely  half-year  of walking with a diet of Power Bars, which he'd secreted  at caches all along the way. Finding  the  hadals  mobbed  together  in  this  foul  pit  had  been  a  stroke  of  good  luck. Helios  researchers  had  projected  it  would  take  upward  of  a  decade  for  the  prion contagion  to  filter  throughout  the  sub-Pacific  network  and  exterminate  the  entire abyssal  food  chain,  including  the  hadals.  But  now,  with  his  last  five  capsules  taped inside the  laptop  computer  shell,  Shoat  could  eradicate  the  nuisance  population  years ahead of schedule. It  was the ultimate Trojan horse.

Shoat  felt  the  high  of  a  survivor.  Sure,  there'd  been  some  rough  spots,  and  there were   bound  to  be   more   ahead.   But   overall,   serendipity   had   favored   him.   The expedition    had    self-destructed,    though    not    before    carrying    him    deep.    The mercenaries  had  unraveled,  but  only  after  he'd  largely  run  out  of  uses  for  them.  And now  Ike  had  conveyed  the  apocalypse  straight  into  the  heart  of  the  enemy.  'And flights of angels sing  thee  to  thy  rest,'  he  muttered,  setting  his  eye  to  the  sniperscope once again.

Just a minute ago, it had seemed  Ike  was ready  to run off. Now, oddly, he was on  his knees,  groveling  in  front  of  some  character  emerging  from  the  inner  building.  Now there  was a sight, Crockett  servile,  head glued to the floor.

Shoat  wished  for  a  more  powerful  scope.  Who  could  this  be?  It  would  have  been interesting to see the hadal's face in detail. The  crosshairs would have  to do.

Pleased to  meet  you, Shoat hummed. Hope you guessed my name.

'So you've  returned  to me,' the voice said from the shadows. 'Stand up.' Ike  didn't even  raise his head.

She  stared  down  at  Ike's  bare  back,  frightened  by  his  subjugation.  It  upended  her universe.  He  had  always  seemed  the  ultimate  free  spirit,  the  original  rebel.  Yet  now he knelt in abject surrender,  offering no resistance, no protest.

The  hadal khan – their rex,  or mahdi, or king of kings, however  it translated  –  stood motionless  with  Ike  at  his  feet.  He  wore  armor  made  of  jade  and  crystal  plates,  and under that a Crusader's chain-mail shirt, sleeves  short, each link oiled against rust.

She  felt  sick  with  realization.  This  was  Satan?  This  was  the  one  Ike  had  been seeking, face by  face,  in  all  those  hadal  dead?  Not  to  destroy,  as  she'd  thought,  but  to worship.  Ike  kowtowed  blankly,  his  fear  –  and  shame  –  transparent.  He  ground  his forehead against the flowstone.

'What are you doing?' she said, but not to Ike.

Thomas  solemnly  opened  his  arms,  and  from  throughout  the  city  the  hadal  nations roared up to him. Ali sagged to her knees, speechless. She couldn't begin to fathom  the depths  of  his  deceptions.  The  moment  she  comprehended  one,  another  cropped  up that was more  outrageous,  from  pretending  to  be  her  fellow  prisoner  to  manipulating January's group, to posing as human when all along he was hadal.

And  yet,  even  seeing  him  here,  draped  in  ancient  battle  gear,  receiving  the  hadal celebration,  Ali  could  not  help  but  see  him  as  the  Jesuit,  austere  and  rigorous  and humane.  It  was  impossible  to  simply  purge  the  trust  and  companionship  they'd  built over  these  past weeks.

'Stand  up,'  Thomas  ordered,  then  looked  at  Ali,  and  his  tone  softened.  'Tell  him,  if you please, to get off his knees. I have  questions.'

Ali knelt beside Ike,  her head by  his so that they  could hear each other over  the roar of the hadals' adulation. She ran her hand across his  knotted  shoulders,  over  the  scars at his neck where  the iron ring had cinched his vertebrae.

'Get up,' Thomas repeated.

Ali  looked  up  at  Thomas.  'He's  not  your  enemy,'  she  said.  An  instinct  urged  her  to advocate for Ike.  It  had to do with more than Ike's  submission  and  fear.  Suddenly  she had  her  own  grounds  for  fear.  If  Thomas  was  truly  their  ruler,  then  it  was  he  who'd permitted  Walker's  soldiers  to  be  tortured  through  all  these  days.  And  Ike  was  a soldier.

'Not  in  the  beginning,'  Thomas  conceded.  'In  the  beginning,  when  we  first  brought him  in,  he  was  more  like  an  orphan.  And  I  brought  him  into  our  people.  And  our reward?  He  brings  war  and  famine  and  disease.  We  gave  him  life  and  taught  him  the way.  And he brought soldiers, and guided colonists. Now he's  come  home  to  us.  But  as our prodigal son, or our mortal enemy?  Answer  me. Stand up.'