The Descent

Like a fish with  beautiful  green  scales,  Thomas  lay  beached  on  the  stone  floor,  mouth gaping,  wordless,  dying,  surely.  His  strings  were  cut.  Below  the  neck,  he  could  not move a muscle or  feel  his  body,  which  was  a  mercy,  given  the  scorched  wreckage  left by  Shoat's bullet. And yet  he was in agony.

With  every  labored  breath  he  could  smell  the  burnt  meat  on  his  bones.  Open  his eyes,  and  his  assassin  hung  before  him.  Close  them,  and  he  could  hear  his  nations stubbornly waiting for his great  transition.  His  greatest  torment  was  that  the  fire  had seared  his larynx  and he could not command his people to disperse.

He  opened  his  eyes  and  there  was  Shoat  on  the  cross,  teeth  bared.  They  had  done an exquisite job of it,  driving  the  nails  through  the  holes  in  his  wrists,  arranging  small ledges for his buttocks and feet  so that he would not hang by  his arms  and  asphyxiate. The  crucifix had been  positioned  at  Thomas's  feet  so  that  he  could  enjoy  the  human's agony.

Shoat  was  going  to  last  for  weeks  up  there.  A  hank  of  meat  dangled  at  his  shoulder so  that   he  could  feed   himself.  His  elbows   had  been   dislocated   and   his   genitals mutilated; otherwise  he  was  relatively  intact.  Decorations  had  been  cut  into  his  flesh. His  ears  and  nostrils  had  been  jingle-bobbed.  Lest  anyone  think  the  prisoner  had  no owner, the symbol for Older-than-Old  had been branded onto his face.

Thomas  turned  his  head  away  from  the  grim  creation.  They  could  not  know  that Shoat's presence gave  him no pleasure. Each view  only  enraged  him  more.  It  was  this man  who  had  been  planting  the  contagion  along  the  Helios  expedition's  trail,  yet

Thomas could not interrogate him to learn the insidious details. He could not abort  the genocide.  He  could  not  warn  his  children  and  send  them  fleeing  into  the   deeper unknown.  Finally,  most  enraging,  he  could  not  let  go  of  this  ravaged  shell  and  cross into a new body. He could not die and be reborn.

It  was not for lack  of  new  receptacles.  For  days  now,  Thomas  had  been  surrounded by  rings  of  females  in  every  stage  of  pregnancy  or  new  motherhood,  and  the  smell  of their  scented  bodies  and  breast  milk  was  in  the  air.  For  a  minute  he  saw  not  living women, but Stone Age Venuses.

In  the  hadal  tradition,  they  were  overfed  and  gloriously  pampered  during  their maternity.  Like women of any great  tribe, they  wore  wealth  upon  their  naked  bodies: plastic  poker  chips  or  coins  from  a  dozen  nations  had  been  stitched  together  for necklaces,  colored  string  and  feathers  and  seashells  had  been  woven  into  their  hair. Some were  covered  in dried mud and looked like the earth  itself coming to life.

Their waiting was a form of deathwatch, but also  of  nativity.  They  were  offering  the contents of their wombs for his use. Those with newborns periodically held  them  aloft, hoping  to  catch  his  attention.  Each  mother's  greatest  desire  was  that  the  messiah would enter  her own child, even  though it would mean his obliterating the soul already in formation.

But Thomas  was  holding  himself  back.  He  saw  no  alternative.  Shoat's  presence  was a  minute-by-minute  reminder  that  the  virus  was  out  there,  set  to  annihilate  his people.  To  try  and  inhabit  a  developed  mind  meant  risking  his  own  memory.  And what was the use of reincarnating into the body of an infant, if he was helpless  to  warn about the impending plague? No, he was better  residing  in  this  body.  As  a  precaution, he  –  and  January  and  Branch  –  had  been  vaccinated  by  a  military  doctor  at  that Antarctic base many months ago, when  the  presence  of  prion  capsules  was  first  being revealed.  Even  racked  and  paralyzed,  this  shot,  burned  shell  was  at  least  inoculated against the contagion.

And so their king lay in a body that  was  a  tomb,  caught  between  choices.  Death  was sorrow. But as the  Buddha  had  once  said,  birth  was  sorrow,  too.  Priests  and  shamans from  throughout  the  hadal  world  went  on  drumming  and  murmuring.  The  children went on crying. Shoat  went  on  writhing  and  mewling.  Off  to  one  side,  the  daughter  of Isaac  continued  her   fascination  with  the   computer,   tapping  at   keys   endlessly,   a monkey with a typewriter.

Thomas closed his eyes  against the nightmare he had become.

After  a week  of climbing, Ike  and Ali reached the serpentine sea. The  last of the  Helios rafts rested  near the lip of its discharge,  which  plunged  into  a  waterfall,  miles  deep.  It circled in an eddy  by  the  shore  like  a  faithful  steed.  A  single  paddle  was  still  lashed  to one pontoon.