The Descent

All night Ali spent with the captive, watching  her.  In  her  fourteen  years  the  girl  had experienced  more  of  womanhood  than  Ali  had  in  thirty-four.  She  had  been  married, or  mated.  She  appeared  to  have  borne  a  child.  And  so  far  she  had  kept  her  sanity through brutal mass rapes. Her inner strength  was amazing.

Next  morning  Twiggs  needed  to  go  to  the  bathroom  for  his  first  time  since  the starvation.  Being  Twiggs,  he  did  not  ask  the  soldiers'  permission  to  leave  the  room. One of the mercenaries shot him dead.

That  spelled the end of what little freedom the rest  of them had. Walker ordered the scientists  bound,  wired,  and  removed  to  a  deeper  room.  Ali  was  not  surprised.  For some time now, she had known their execution was imminent.

And darkness was upon the face of the Deep

– GENESIS 1:2

24

TABULA RASA

New York City

The  hotel suite was dark except  for the blue flicker of the TV.

It  was  a  riddle:  television  on,  volume  off,  in  a  blind  man's  room.  Once  upon  a  time, de  l'Orme  might  have  orchestrated  such  a  contradiction  just  to  confound  his  visitors. Tonight he had no visitors. The  maid had forgotten to turn off her soaps.

Now   the   screen   showed   the   Times   Square   ball   as   it   descended   toward   the deliriously happy mob.

De  l'Orme  was  browsing  his  Meister  Eckhart.  The  thirteenth-century  mystic  had preached such strange  things with such common words. And in the bowels of  the  Dark Ages, so boldly.

God  lies  in  wait  for  us.  His  love  is  like  a  fisherman's  hook.  No  fish  comes  to  the fisherman that  is not caught  on his hook.  Once  it takes  the  hook,  the  fish  is  forfeit  to the  fisherman.  In  vain  it  twists  hither  and  thither  –  the  fisherman  is  certain  of  his catch.  And  so  I  say  of  love.  The  one  who  hangs  on  this  hook  is  caught  so  fast  that foot  and  hand,  mouth,  eyes  and  heart  are  bound  to  be  God's.  And  the  more  surely caught, the  more surely you will be freed.

No    wonder    the    theologian    had    been    condemned    by    the    Inquisition    and excommunicated. God as dominatrix! More dizzying still, man freed of God.  God  freed of God. And then what?  Nothingness.  You  penetrated  the  darkness  and  emerged  into the  same  light  you  had  left  in  the  first  place.  Then  why  leave  in  the  first  place?  de l'Orme  wondered.   For   the   journey   itself?   Is   that   the   best   we   have   to  do   with ourselves?  These  were  his thoughts when the phone rang.

'Do you know my  voice, yes  or no?' asked the man on the far end.

'Bud?' said de l'Orme.

'Great... my  name,' Parsifal mumbled.

'Where are you?'

'Huh-uh.' The  astronaut sounded sluggish. Drunk. The  Golden Boy?

'Something's troubling you,' de l'Orme said.

'You bet. Is  Santos with you?'

'No.'

'Where is he?' Parsifal demanded. 'Or do you even  know?'

'The  Koreas,'  said  de  l'Orme,  not  exactly  certain  which  one.  'Another  set  of  hadals has  surfaced.  He's  recording  some  of  the  artifacts  they  brought  with  them.  Emblems of a deity  stamped into gold foil.'

'Korea. He told you that?'

'I sent him, Bud.'

'What makes you so sure he's where  you sent him?' Parsifal asked.

De l'Orme took his glasses off. He  rubbed  his  eyes  and  opened  them,  and  they  were

white, with no retina or pupil. Distant fireworks streaked  his  face  with  sparks  of  color. He waited.

'I've  been trying  to call the others,' Parsifal said. 'All night, nothing.'

'It's New Year's  Eve,' said de l'Orme. 'Perhaps they're  with their families.'

'No one's told you.' It  was an accusation, not a question.

'I'm afraid not, whatever  it is.'

'It's too late. You really  don't know? Where have  you been?'

'Right here. A touch of the flu, I haven't left my  room in a week.'

'Ever  heard of The  New  York  Times?  Don't you listen to the news?'

'I gave  myself  the solitude. Fill me in, if you please. I can't help if I don't know.'

'Help?'

'Please.'

'We're in great  danger. You shouldn't be at that phone.'

It  came  out  in  a  tangle.  There  had  been  a  great  fire  at  the  Metropolitan  Museum's Map  Room  two  weeks  ago.  And  before  that,  a  bomb  explosion  in  an  ancient  cliffside temple   library   at   Yungang   in   China,   which   the   PLA   was   blaming   on   Muslim separatists.  Archives  and  archaeological  sites  in  ten   or  more   countries   had  been vandalized or destroyed  in the past month.

'I've  heard  about  the  Met,  of  course.  That  was  everywhere.  But  the  rest  of  this, what connects them?'

'Someone's  trying  to  erase  our  information.  It's  like  someone's  finishing  business. Wiping out his tracks.'

'What  tracks?  Burning  museums.  Blowing  up  libraries.  What  purpose  could  that serve?'

'He's closing shop.'

'He? Who are you talking about? You don't make sense.'

Parsifal  mentioned  several  other  events,  including  a  fire  at  the  Cambridge  Library housing the ancient Cairo genizah fragments.

'Gone,' he said. 'Burned to the ground. Defaced. Blown to pieces.'

'Those are all places we've  visited over  the last year.'

'Someone  has  been  erasing  our  information  for  some  time  now,'  said  Parsifal.  'Until recently  they've  been  small  erasures  mostly,  an  altered  manuscript  here,  a  photo negative   disappearing   there.   Now   the   destruction   seems   more   wholesale   and spectacular. It's  like someone's trying  to finish business before clearing out of town.'

'A  coincidence,'  said  de  l'Orme.  'Book  burners.  A  pogrom.  Anti-intellectuals.  The lumpen are rampant these  days.'

'It's no coincidence. He used us.  Like  bloodhounds.  Turned  us  loose  on  his  own  trail. Had us hunt him. And now he's backtracking.'

'He?'

'Who do you think?'

'But  what   does  it  accomplish?  Even   if  you   were   right,   he   merely   erases   our footnotes, not our conclusions.'

'He erases  his own image.'

'Then he defaces  himself.  What  does  that  change?'  But  even  as  he  spoke,  de  l'Orme felt wrong. Were those distant sirens or alarms tripping in his own head?

'It destroys  our memory,' said Parsifal. 'It  wipes clean his presence.'

'But  we  know  him  now.  At  least  we  know  everything  the  evidence  has  already shown. Our memory  is fixed.'

'We're the last testimony,' said Parsifal. 'After  us, it's back to tabula rasa.'

De l'Orme was  missing  pieces  of  the  puzzle.  A  week  behind  closed  doors,  and  it  was as if the world had changed orbit. Or Parsifal had.

De l'Orme tried to arrange the information. 'You're suggesting we've  led our  foe  on  a tour of his own clues. That  it's an inside job. That  Satan is one of  us.  That  he  –  or  she?

– is now revisiting our evidence and  spoiling  it.  Again,  why?  What  does  he  accomplish by  destroying  all  the  past  images  of  himself?  If  our  theory  of  a  reincarnated  line  of hadal kings is true,  then he'll reappear  next  time with a different face.'