by Jeff Long
The Beowulf scholars paused. Their eyes passed the question around the skybox room. What if this hadal crawling across the frosty grass of Candlestick Park had been embarked on a quest identical to their own, to find Satan? What if this lost tribe really had been searching for its missing leader … on the surface?
For the past week they had been discussing a theory, and this seemed to fit. It was Gault and Mustafah’s theory, the possibility that their Satanic majesty might actually be a wanderer who had made occasional forays to the surface, exploring human societies over the eons. Images—mostly carved in stone—and oral tradition from peoples around the world gave a remarkably standard portrait of this character. The explorer came and went. He popped up out of nowhere and disappeared just as readily. He could be seductive or violent. He lived by disguise and deception. He was intelligent, resourceful, and restless.
Gault and Mustafah had cobbled the theory together while in Egypt. Ever since, they had carried on a discreet phone campaign to convince their colleagues that the true Satan was unlikely to be found cowering in some dark hole in the subplanet, but was more apt to be studying his enemy from within their very midst. They argued that the historical Satan might spend half his time down below among hadals, and the other half among man. That had raised other questions. Was their Satan, for instance, the same man throughout the ages, undying, an immortal creature? Or might he be a series of explorers, or a lineage of rulers? If he traveled among man, it seemed likely he resembled man. Perhaps, as de l’Orme had proposed, he was the character in the Shroud. If so, what would he look like now? If it was true that Satan lived among man, what disguise would he be wearing? Beggar, thief, or despot? Scholar, soldier, or stockbroker?
Thomas rejected the theory. His skepticism was ironic at times like this. After all, it was he who had launched them on this convoluted whirlwind of counter-intuitions and upside-down explanations. He had enjoined them to go out into the world and locate new evidence, old evidence, all the evidence. We need to know this character, he had said. We need to know how he thinks, what his agenda consists of, his desires and needs, his vulnerabilities and strengths, what cycles he subconsciously follows, what paths he is likely to take. Otherwise we will never have an advantage over him. That’s how they had left it, at a standstill, the group scattered.
Foley looked from Thomas to de l’Orme. The gnomelike face was a cipher. It was de l’Orme who had forced this meeting with Helios and dragged every Beowulf member on the continent in with him.
Something was up. He had promised it would affect the outcome of their work, though he refused to say how. All of this went over Sandwell’s head. They did not speak one word of Beowulf’s business in front of him. They were still trying to judge how much damage the general had done to them since going over to Helios five months ago.
The skybox was serving as Sandwell’s temporary office. The Stick, as he affectionately called it, was in serious makeover. Helios was creating a $500 million biotech research facility in the arena space. BioSphere without the sunshine, he quipped. Scientists from around the country were being recruited. Cracking the mysteries of H. hadalis had just entered a new phase. It was being compared to splitting the atom or landing on the moon. The hadal thrashing about on the dying grass and fading hash marks was part of the first batch to be processed.
Here, where Y.A. Tittle and Joe Montana had earned fame and fortune, where the Beatles and Stones had rocked, where the Pope had spoken on the virtues of poverty, taxpayers were funding an advanced concentration camp. Once completed, it was designed to house five hundred SAFs—Subterranean Animal Forms—at a time. At its far end, the playing field was beginning to look like the basement of the Roman Colosseum ruins. The holding pens were in progress. Alleyways wound between titanium cages. Ultimately the old arena surface and all its cages would be covered over with eight floors of laboratory space. There was even a smokeless incinerator, approved by the Environmental Protection Agency, for disposing of remains.
Down on the field, the hadal had begun crawling toward the stack of concrete culverts temporarily housing his comrades. The Stick wouldn’t be ready for nonhuman tenants for another year.
“Truly a march of the damned,” de l’Orme commented. “In the space of a week, several hundred hadals have become less than two dozen. Shameful.”
“Live hadals are as rare as Martians,” the general explained. “Getting them to the surface alive and intact—before their gut bacteria curdles or their lung tissues hemorrhage or a hundred other damn things—it’s like growing hair on rock.”
There had been isolated cases of individual hadals living in captivity on the surface. The record was an Israeli catch: eighty-three days. At their present rate, what was left of this group of fifty wasn’t going to last the week.
“I don’t see any water. Or food. What are they supposed to be living on?”
“We don’t know. That’s the whole problem. We filled a galvanized tub with clean water, and they wouldn’t touch it. But see that Porta Potti for the construction workers? A few of the hadals broke in the first day and drank the sewage and chemicals. It took ’em hours to quit bucking and shrieking.”
“They died, you’re saying.”
“They’ll either adapt or die,” the general said. “Around here, we call it seasoning.”
“And those other bodies lying by the sidelines?”
“That’s what’s left of an escape attempt.”
From this height the visitors could see the lower stands filled with soldiers and ringed with miniguns trained on the playing field. The soldiers wore bulky oversuits with hoods and oxygen tanks.
On the giant screen, the hadal male cast another glance at the night sky and promptly buried his face in the turf. They watched him clutch at the grass as if holding on to the side of a cliff.
“After our meeting, I want to go closer,” said de l’Orme. “I want to hear him. I want to smell him.”
“Out of the question,” said Sandwell. “It’s a health issue. Nobody goes in. We don’t want them getting contaminated with human diseases.”
The hadal crawled from the forty to the thirty-five. The pyramid of culvert pipes stood near the ten. Farther on, he began navigating between skeletons and rotting bodies.
“Why are the remains lying in the open like that?” Thomas asked. “I should think they constitute a health hazard.”
“You want a burial? This isn’t a pet cemetery, Father.”
Vera turned her head at the tone. Sandwell had definitely crossed over. He belonged to Helios. “It’s not a zoo, either, General. Why bring them here if you’re just going to watch them fester and die?”
“I told you, old-fashioned R-and-D. We’re building a truth machine. Now we’ll get the facts on what really makes them tick.”
“And what’s your part in it?” Thomas asked him. “Why are you here? With them. Helios.”
The general bridled. “Operational configuration,” he growled.
“Ah,” said January, as if she had been told something.
“Yes, I’ve left the Army. But I’m still manning the line,” Sandwell said. “Still taking the fight to the enemy. Only now I’m doing it with real muscle behind me.”
“You mean money,” said January. “The Helios treasury.”
“Whatever it takes to stop Haddie. After all those years of being ruled by globalists and warmed-over pacifists, I’m finally dealing with real patriots.”
“Bullshit, General,” January said. “You’re a hireling. You’re simply helping Helios help itself to the subplanet.”
Sandwell reddened. “These rumors about a start-up nation underneath the Pacific? That’s tabloid talk.”
“When Thomas first described it, I thought he was being paranoid,” said January. “I thought no one in their right mind would dare rip the map to shreds and glue the pieces together and declare it a country. But it’s happening, and you’re part of it, General.”
“But your map is still
intact,” a new voice said. They turned. C.C. Cooper was standing in the doorway. “All we’ve done is lift it and expose the blank tabletop. And drawn a new land where there was no land before. We’re making a map within the map. Out of view. You can go on with your affairs as if we never existed. And we can go on with our affairs. We’re stepping off your merry-go-round, that’s all.”
Years ago, Time magazine had mythologized C.C. Cooper as a Reaganomic whiz kid, lauding his by-the-bootstraps rise through computer chips and biotech patents and television programming. The article had artfully neglected to mention his manipulation of hard currency and precious resources in the crumbling Soviet Union, or his sleight of hand with hydroelectric turbines for the Three Gorges dam project in China. His sponsorship of environmental and human-rights groups was constantly being shoveled before the public as proof that big money could have a big conscience, too.
In person, the entrepreneurial bangs and wire rims looked strained on a man his age. The former senator had a West Coast vitality that might have played well if he’d become President. At this early hour, it seemed excessive.
Cooper entered, followed by his son. Their resemblance was eerie, except that the son had better hair and wore contacts and had a quarterback’s neck muscles. Also, he did not have his father’s ease among the enemy. He was being groomed, but you could see that raw power did not come naturally to him. That he had been included in this morning’s meeting—and that the meeting had been offered in the deep of night, while the city slept—said much to Vera and the others. It meant Cooper considered them dangerous, and that his son was now supposed to learn about dispatching one’s opponents away from public view.
Behind the two Cooper men came a tall, attractive woman in her late forties, hair bobbed and jet black. She had invited herself along, that was clear. “Eva Shoat,” Cooper said to the group. “My wife. And this is my son, Hamilton. Cooper.” As distinct from Montgomery, Vera realized. The stepson, Shoat.
Cooper led his entourage to the table and joined the Beowulf scholars and Sandwell. He didn’t ask their names. He didn’t apologize for being late.
“Your country-in-progress is a renegade,” said Foley. “No nation steps out of the international polity.”
“Says who?” Cooper asked agreeably. “Forgive my pun. But the international polity may go to the devil. I’m going to hell.”
“Do you realize the chaos this will bring?” January asked. “Your control of ocean shipping lanes alone. Your ability to operate without any oversight. To violate international standards. To penetrate national borders.”
“But consider the order I’ll bring by occupying the underworld. In one fell swoop, I return mankind to its innocence. This abyss beneath our feet will no longer be terrifying and unknown. It will no longer be dominated by creatures like that.” He pointed at the stadium video. The hadal was lapping its own vomit from the turf. Eva Shoat shuddered.
“Once our colonial strategy begins, we can quit fearing the monsters. No more superstitions. No more midnight fears. Our children and their children will think of the underworld as just another piece of real estate. They’ll take holidays to the natural wonders beneath our feet. They’ll enjoy the fruits of our inventions. They’ll own the untapped energy of the planet itself. They’ll be free to work on utopia.”
“That’s not the abyss man fears,” Vera protested. “It’s the one in here.” She touched the ribs above her heart.
“The abyss is the abyss,” said Cooper. “Light one and you light the other. We’ll all be better for this, you’ll see.”
“Propaganda.” Vera turned her head in distaste.
“Your expedition,” Thomas said. He was angry tonight. “Where have they gone?”
“I’m afraid the news isn’t good,” said Cooper. “We’ve lost contact with the expedition. You can imagine our concern. Ham, do you have our map?”
Cooper’s son opened his briefcase and produced a folded bathymetric map showing the ocean floor. It was creased and marked with a dozen different pens and grease pencils. Cooper traced his finger helpfully across the latitudes and longitudes. “Their last known position was west-southwest of Tarawa, in the Gilbert Islands. That could change, of course. Every now and then we harvest dispatches from the bedrock.”
“You’re still hearing from them?” asked January.
“In a sense. For over three weeks now, the dispatches have been nothing but bits and pieces of older communications sent months ago. The transmissions get mangled by the layers of stone. We end up with echoes. Electromagnetic riddles. It only suggests where they were weeks ago. Where they are today, who can say?”
“That’s all you can tell us?” asked January.
“We’ll find them.” Eva Shoat suddenly spoke up. She was fierce. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying. Cooper cut a glance at her.
“You must be worried sick,” Vera sympathized. “Montgomery is your only child?” Cooper narrowed his eyes at Vera. She nodded to him. Her question had been phrased deliberately.
“Yes,” said Eva, then looked at her husband’s son. “I mean no. I’m worried. I’d be worried if it were Hamilton down there. I should never have allowed Monty to go.”
“He chose it himself,” Cooper tautly observed.
“Only because he was desperate,” Eva snapped back. “How else could he compete in this family?”
Vera saw Thomas across the table, rewarding her with the slightest hint of a smile. She had done well.
“He wanted to be part of things,” Cooper said.
“Yes, part of this,” Eva said, throwing her hand at the skybox view.
“And I’ve told you, Eva, he is a part of it. You have no idea how important his contribution will be.”
“My son had to risk his life to be important to you?”
Cooper disengaged. It was an old argument, obviously.
“What precisely is this, Mr. Cooper?” Foley asked.
“I told you,” said Sandwell. “A research facility.”
“Yes,” said January, “a place to season your hadal captives. By the way, General, are you aware the term was once used about African slaves arriving in this country?”
“You’ll have to excuse Sandy,” Cooper said. “He’s a recent acquisition, still adapting to the language and life on campus. I assure you, we’re not creating a population of slaves.”
Sandwell bristled, but kept silent.
“Then what do you need live hadals for? What is it you’re researching?” Vera asked.
Cooper steepled his fingers gravely. “We’re finally starting to collect longer-term data on the colonization,” he said. “Soldiers were the first group to go down in any numbers. Six years later, they’re the first to show real side effects. Alterations.”
“The bony growths and cataracts?” said Vera. “But we’ve seen those since the beginning. The problems go away with time.”
“This is different. In the last four to ten months we’ve been monitoring an outbreak of symptoms. Enlarged hearts, high-altitude edemas, skeletal dysplasia, acute leukemia, sterility, skin cancer. The horning and bone cancers have come charging back. The most disturbing development is that we’re starting to see these symptoms among the veterans’ newborns. For five years we’ve had nothing but normal births. Now, suddenly, their newborns are displaying morbid defects. I’m talking about mutations. The infant mortality rate has soared.”
“Why haven’t I heard of this?” January asked suspiciously.
“For the same reason Helios is rushing to find a cure. Because once the public finds out, every human inside the planet is going to evacuate. The interior is going to be left without security forces, without a labor force, without colonists. You can imagine the setback. After so much effort and investment, we could lose the whole subplanet to whatever this is. Helios doesn’t want that to happen.”
“What’s going on?”
“In twenty-five words or less? The subplanet is changing us.” Cooper gestured at the c
reature on the stadium screen. “Into that.”
Eva Shoat laid a hand upon her long throat. “You knew this, and you let my son go down?”
“The effects aren’t universal,” said Cooper. “In the veteran populations, the split is roughly fifty-fifty. Half show no effect. Half display these delayed mutations. Hadal physiologies. Enlarged hearts, pulmonary and cerebral edema, skin cancer: those are all symptoms that hadals develop when they come to the surface. Something is switching on and off at the DNA level. Altering the genetic code. Their bodies begin producing proteins, chimeric proteins, which alter tissues in radically different ways.”
“You can’t predict which half of the population will develop the problems?” asked Vera.
“We don’t have a clue. But if it’s happening to six-year veterans, it’s eventually going to happen to four-month miners and settlers.”
“And Helios has to find a solution,” observed Foley. “Or else your empire beneath the sea will be a ghost town before it ever starts.”
“In vulgar terms, precisely.”
“Obviously, you think there’s a solution in the hadal physiology itself,” Vera said.
Cooper nodded. “Genetic engineers call it ‘cutting the Gordian knot.’ We have to resolve the complexities. Sort out the viruses and retro-viruses, the genes and phenotypes. Examine the environmental factors. Map the chaos. And so Helios is building a multibillion-dollar research campus here, and importing live hadals for research purposes. To make the subplanet safe for humans.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Vera. “It seems to me research and development would be a thousand times less complicated down below. Among other things, why stress your guinea pigs by transporting them to the surface? You could build this same facility at a subterranean station for a fraction of the cost. You’ll need to pressurize the entire laboratory to subplanetary levels. Why not just study the hadals down there? There would be no transportation costs. The mortality rate would be far lower. And you could test your results on colonists in the field.”