The Dark Descent

by William Oday

  “Sure thing, big guy,” I replied with real enthusiasm. I considered myself a few rungs up the evolutionary ladder from these two, but I would’ve been lying if I said I didn’t want to tangle. If I didn’t want to turn that ridiculous grin into a pained grimace.

  Martinez forced her way into the center and shook her head. “Am I the only one having a hard time breathing with all the testosterone oozing out around here?”

  Caleb’s chest puffed out again and he sniffed his armpits. “Really? Is it that bad?”

  “Not you, kid.”

  “Sixteen is not a kid!” He shoved by and started off down the corridor. After he went a ways and realized we hadn’t followed, he stopped and turned around. “Hello? Let’s go already! I’ve got stuff to do today. Adult stuff. Grown up type things. Ya know?”

  27

  As hazy as the middle half of the journey was, I knew this wasn’t it. We’d diverged from the way back to Kat’s somewhere in the last few minutes. I didn’t say anything initially because I wasn’t sure.

  But I was now.

  That and Martinez was starting to look around. She was feeling it too.

  Where was Caleb taking us?

  Was it to Kat’s but by a different route?

  And if so, why?

  To avoid being tracked. To avoid observation. To be unpredictable. They were all plausible explanations.

  But it still didn’t feel right.

  Something was off.

  Martinez caught my eyes and her expression communicated the same suspicion.

  That did it. We both had twitching antennae.

  Caleb was about to turn a corner, but I grabbed a handful of his jacket and yanked backward. Letting his momentum carry him backwards, I pivoted him around slammed him against the wall.

  My forearm flowed over his shoulder and across his neck with fluid, practiced ease. I leaned into it just enough to let him know I was serious.

  Not enough to crush his windpipe. But serious.

  “Where are you taking us?”

  He coughed and fought to push my arm away, with no success. “To Kat’s!”

  Poor kid was way out of his depth. Wasn’t my problem though. I leaned in a little more.

  He started choking and tried to snap a kick at my groin.

  I checked his kick and landed a hard knee to his thigh. From experience of being on both ends of a strike like that, I knew it hurt. Bad. His leg was going to be numb for a few minutes and he’d wake up tomorrow walking like an old man. But there would be no permanent damage.

  He screamed in pain and went limp, further choking himself on my arm. I let off a little when he tried to talk but couldn’t manage more than a gag.

  “To the market!”

  I eased off and held onto his shoulder to keep him from collapsing with only one leg holding him up.

  Tears streamed down his cheeks. “I can’t move my leg, man! I can’t move it!” He continued groaning.

  “I hit a nerve. You’ll be fine in a few minutes.”

  That wasn’t strictly true. But he’d feel better than he did now.

  Martinez pressed in from the side. “Why are you taking us to the market?”

  “Why do I do anything that I do? Because the boss says so.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us that up front?”

  “Didn’t you just hear me? Because the boss said to tell you we were going to Kat’s rathole. I still can’t feel my leg, man!”

  I ignored his whining. “Why are we going to the market?”

  Caleb shot me a sarcastic, eat crap, look. “Because this little piggie needed to pick up bread and eggs and cheese and maybe some apples if they’re ripe and red.”

  My jaw muscles quivered as I fought the urge to lay down another thigh strike and let him collapse into a puddle of squirming agony. “Why?”

  “I don’t know, man! Do I look like an insane dwarf?” His eyes went wide with terror. “Don’t tell him I said that!” He glanced down the hallway in both directions.

  A stooped man wearing patchwork faded blue overalls limped by. His eyes stayed fixed to the ground both in the coming and going. He clearly didn’t want any part of what was happening. He turned the corner and continued on with his life.

  “If that geezer says something, I’m screwed,” Caleb said.

  Martinez chuckled. “Crypto doesn’t like people making fun of his height, huh?”

  Caleb looked at her like she was an idiot. “He doesn’t give two shakes of a scabbed rat about that.”

  “What’s the problem then?” she asked.

  “He hates when people bring his sanity into question. You’re not going to tell him I said anything, are you?” The poor kid’s face was pale and dead serious.

  “No,” I said. “And good to know. Thanks for the tip. Back to the market. What do you know?”

  He shrugged. “That’s it. I’m supposed to take you to Grizelle’s stall and that’s it. I swear I don’t know anything else!”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s a she.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She trades in old military surplus goods. Old DAPs, legacy tech, and other stuff. All black market and off the books.”

  “Can you feel your leg yet?”

  He rubbed at it and nodded. “A little.”

  I let go of his shoulder and he stayed upright. I turned to Martinez to see if she had a preference, but she answered before I asked the question.

  “Up to you.”

  Why would Crypto send us to meet this woman? She traded in old military surplus gear. Was he looking to outfit us? Assuming that was the reason, I wouldn’t turn it down.

  But that was a big assumption.

  Who knew what his actual motive was. That and wandering through a place packed with people wasn’t the smartest idea for wanted fugitives. One call to the Grays and we could find ourselves pinned down in no time.

  CHOICES

  1. Continue to Grizelle’s to see what Crypto had lined up.

  2. Forget Grizelle’s and force Caleb to take us back to Kat’s.

  The group chose #1 and this is what happened next…

  28

  One minute, we were in a narrow corridor with people shuffling by in the opposite direction, and the next we’d again left the steel and structure of the bunker behind.

  Caleb looked over his shoulder and noticed our surprise with a grin. “Welcome to the marketplace. It’s something, huh?”

  Martinez snorted. “Something is right.”

  The marketplace was one enormous cavern packed with narrow stalls that themselves were packed with every possible thing one could imagine. As long as the imagination was limited to things that had seen better days long ago.

  The smooth sloping sides of the nearby cavern walls suggested it had formed through water erosion or some other natural process. The ceiling was sixty feet above and stretched out into the distance. Both where it ended and the actual height were obscured by a thick layer of smoke hugging the ceiling. Small wisps of smoke rose here and there. The heavy scent of cooking and spices hung in the air.

  “Stay close,” he said. “It’s easy to get lost in here. And the locals might not be so friendly without me around.”

  He wasn’t kidding.

  Every pair of eyes we passed regarded us with, at best, suspicion, and more frequently, open hostility.

  I wasn’t too worried about it. They were shopkeepers and customers for the most part. Not the kind of people that were accustomed to dealing with trained and determined resistance.

  That was my way. And Martinez’s. The soldier’s way. We expected resistance and spent a lifetime of training to hone our response to it.

  Then again, there were a lot more of them than us.

  We filed down the middle of a cramped corridor with shop stalls lining each side. Each store appeared to be constructed of whatever its owner had on hand during the time of building. Fabric here, thick cardboard there, sheet metal in other places.
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  The shopkeepers sat or stood in the deeper recesses behind shelves filled with used clothing, carved figurines, toys assembled from the flotsam of refuse that the bunker created.

  A young boy that looked like he hadn’t seen a bath in longer than was healthy or sanitary reached for a toy soldier made of bits of hardware. Bolts for the arms and legs that were articulated with universal joint sockets at the shoulders and pinned hinges at the elbows and knees. A series of variously sized nuts that tapered toward the bottom formed the torso. It carried an oversized battle rifle made of other metal bits glued or welded together.

  The boy’s eyes were wide with wonder as his fingers closed around it.

  His mother dressed in tattered blues smacked his hand. She pulled him away and the two disappeared into the crowd.

  The shopkeeper chuckled and then caught my eyes. The levity morphed into a scowl as we passed.

  I leaned closer to Martinez. “Have you been here before?”

  “Nope. Never even knew it existed. And I grew up on this level. At least until I joined the Grays and moved quarters.”

  “When was that?”

  “Fourteen years ago. I was ten when I passed the selection exams. Failed the first time.”

  “You look older than twenty-four.”

  She arched an appraising brow at me. “And you look like crap, as long as we’re being honest.”

  “I meant it as compliment, for your information. When did you join your unit?”

  “A week after passing the exam.”

  “At ten years old?”

  She gave me a strange look. “You really got your brain scrambled.”

  “That’s what everybody keeps telling me.”

  “Yes, at ten. Everyone does. Joining the Grays is a lifetime commitment. You live, eat and work with the other people in your unit up on level one. I’m sure you did, too, before you got into politics. Politicos don’t live by the same rules as everybody else.”

  “Why did you decide to join the service?”

  A man passing by bumped her shoulder and she snarled at him, sending him scurrying away. She shrugged. “I wanted to join my father and brother. They got to come home on the holidays and other times, but we didn’t see them that often. I missed them. Besides, what kind of future would I have had otherwise? Can you see making it as a courtesan?”

  A courtesan?

  She saw my confusion and understood without my having to say it for the hundredth time. Which was nice because it was easy to feel like an idiot when you didn’t remember things. It wasn’t that you were an idiot. It was just easy to both be perceived and feel that way.

  “Courtesans work on the Recreation level.”

  I nodded, still not understanding.

  “On their backs. They work on their backs.”

  “You mean prostitutes?”

  She shook her head, pitying me. “Yeah, like that only they don’t get paid by their clients. They work for the good of the society like we all do. They get paid with a place to live and food to eat. I’ve heard they can get tips though. Word is the high class ones serve only the top level politicos and live pretty cushy lives. Aside from all that time on their backs, that is.”

  I took it all in, trying not to betray my feelings one way or the other. I felt like a stranger in a strange land.

  And yet this was my home.

  “Yeah, I don’t see you making it that way,” I said.

  She hammered a fist into my shoulder. “What? You don’t think I’m attractive enough?”

  I shrugged off the sting. “No…”

  Her eyes blazed and her nostrils flared.

  “I mean, I don’t see you accepting a role like that. I think you’d knock out the first guy who laid a hand on you in a way you didn’t like.”

  The anger dissolved and she grinned. “You’re right about that.”

  We continued following after Caleb, winding through a seemingly endless maze of stalls filled with worn, reassembled and recycled goods. There must’ve been a food alley somewhere nearby because the spicy charred scent soaking the air had my mouth watering.

  “Here we are,” Caleb said as he stopped in front of a particularly dim and dingy stall. Half as wide as the normal ones and stacked from floor to patchwork metal roof with electronics that looked like they’d been made when the concept of electronics was invented.

  I sifted through the nearest pile and didn’t see anything that would be the slightest bit useful. If I was researching a dissertation on the ancient history of electronics, then sure this place would’ve been a gold mine. But as far as having anything that would be remotely useful for the predicament I was currently in?

  No. Not really.

  Martinez cast a raised eyebrow my way and made it clear she felt the same way.

  This little side adventure was a complete waste of time.

  I tossed a rusted DAP back onto a pile of rubbish and turned to Caleb. “I don’t see the point of coming here. This is all junk.”

  A voice drifted out from the deeper shadows within.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t trust your eyes.”

  29

  A hunched form shuffled out of the shadows, leaning heavily on a warped cane that looked like it needed a cane of its own to stay upright.

  She had long, silver frizzy hair that had forgotten what a brush was decades ago. Her face was wrinkled to the point of exhaustion. There were wrinkles criss-crossing over the top of other wrinkles. It looked like a stack of transparent topological maps laid on top of each other so that all the lines were visible at once.

  Like a map of all the ups and down of her entire life.

  The thick, layered garments covering her withered frame hid any identifying characteristics of body type that might’ve characterized her birth gender.

  She was old. Older than old. Ancient by human standards.

  The extremes of age circled back to each other with respect to gender distinctions. With a diaper on, a baby could easily be mistaken for either gender. The same went for the other end of the spectrum.

  From birth, the body launched like a rocket toward the full blossom of peak reproductive health. It then clung to that state for an admirably long time. But eventually, as with all flowers, the fullness of the leaves and petals slowly slipped away. If a person survived the decline long enough, the physical form eventually returned to androgynous anonymity.

  “You must be Grizelle,” I said.

  “Oooh, we have a smart one here.” She stepped forward and ducked under the dim light hanging near the front of the stall. She brushed a rope of limp hair out of her face and looked up at me. Her unseeing eyes were filled with milky white. “Are you sure you don’t see anything that looks useful?”

  I sifted through the piles of junk to verify I hadn’t missed something. I hadn’t. “No. Not unless I was thinking of opening a museum of ancient relics.”

  She grinned.

  At least, I was pretty sure that’s what the jagged crack spreading across her face was.

  “And he has a sense of humor to boot.”

  “My sense of humor is fading rapidly.” I turned to Caleb, grinding my teeth in frustration. “Crypto didn’t seem like the type to send us on a useless expedition, but perhaps I misjudged him. Take us back to—”

  “Perhaps you misjudge a great many things,” Grizelle said.

  I turned back to her with growing irritation.

  She spread her arms. “Take my humble business, for example.”

  “What about it?” I wanted to tell her that it was a junkyard that had somehow missed the incinerator, but didn’t.

  “You probably think it’s just a giant pile of junk.”

  I wasn’t going to refute that.

  “Am I right?”

  “The thought crossed my mind.”

  Martinez leaned over and whispered. “I don’t think she’s working with a full deck of cards.”

  Grizelle arched a brow as she turned to face her. “And you must be
the buddy. The one that tags along and inevitably dies at some point.” She held her hand up to the side of her mouth in an exaggerated whisper. “I’ve got news for you, honey. Nobody cares.”

  Martinez’s grip tightened on her rifle.

  “In any case,” Grizelle said, “this isn’t the good stuff. This is the window dressing.” She swept a pile of junk onto the floor to reveal a waist-high swinging door. She shoved it open and gestured for us to enter. “The good stuff is in the back.”

  I nodded at Martinez and accepted the invitation before she could say otherwise.

  “Come, come,” Grizelle said as she waved her hand in a circle.

  Martinez marched in after me.

  Caleb tried to slip in but the door slammed shut.

  “Not you, boy.”

  “I’m not a boy!” Caleb protested.

  Grizelle shuffled past us and threw aside a tattered curtain to let us into the back.

  I looked around, deflating like a balloon with a nail punched in it. If this was what she called the good stuff, she was blinder than the simple physical disability indicated.

  There was nothing.

  Not nothing.

  But not anything useful.

  I’d expected to find a hidden cache of modern weapons or armor or the latest countersurveillance gear. Expected was too strong a word. Hoped was more accurate.

  Hoped for something, at least.

  But there was none of that.

  We entered a small round room with a corrugated metal ceiling that arched like a dome in the middle. The puzzle of random pieces looked like it had been fitted together by a child because there were holes here and there where they didn’t quite fit.

  I had to crouch a little to keep from banging my head.

  In the middle of the cramped space was an old wooden, circular table with a pair of rickety chairs on opposite sides. A squat candle burned atop a large mound of melted and hardened red wax in the center. A stream of hot wax spilled over the rim and raced down the side and onto the table before slowing. It would soon cool, adding to the ever-growing topography. Numerous previous flows hung off the edge of the table like stalactites. Partnered stalagmites sprouted from the floor. Many had bridged the gap and created a solid column of hardened red wax. The candle infused the air with a cinnamon scent that left blackened soot on the roof above.