themselves.' They fell silent.
'They're giving us a dead man for food?' whimpered Pia. 'To eat?'
'The question is why,' Ike said, staring across the dark sea. Twiggs was affronted. 'They think we're cannibals?'
'They think we probably want to live.'
Ike did a horrible thing. He did not push the body back out to sea. Instead he waited.
'What are you waiting for?' Twiggs demanded. 'Get rid of it.' Ike didn't say anything. He just waited some more.
It was appalling, the temptation.
Finally Ruiz said, 'You've misjudged us, Ike.'
'Don't insult us,' Twiggs said.
Ike ignored him. He waited for the group. Another minute passed. They glared at him. Nobody wanted to say yes and nobody wanted to say no, and he wasn't going to say it for them. Even Ali did not reject the idea out of hand.
Ike was patient. The dead soldier bobbed slightly beside him. He was patient, too. They were all thinking similar thoughts, she was sure, wondering what it would taste like and how long it would last and who would do the deed. In the end, Ali took it one step further, and that was their answer. 'We could eat him,' she said. 'But when he was finished, what then?'
Ike sighed.
'Exactly,' said Pia after a few seconds.
Ruiz and Spurrier closed their eyes. Troy shook his head ever so slightly.
'Thank heavens,' said Twiggs.
They languished in the fortress, too weak to do much except shuffle outside to pee. They shifted about on their sleeping pads. It was not comfortable, lying around on your own bones.
So this is famine, thought Ali. A long wait for the ultimate poverty. She had always prided herself on her gift for transcending the moment. You gave up your worldly attachments, but always with the knowledge you could return to them. There was no such thing with starving. Deprivation was monotonous.
Before their strength dwindled anymore, Ali and Ike shared two more nights in the tower room among the lighted lamps. On November 30, they descended to the makeshift camp with finality. After that she was too lightheaded to climb the stairs again.
The starvation made them very old and very young. Twiggs, especially, looked aged, his face hollowed and jowls hanging. But also they resembled infants, curled in upon their stomachs and sleeping more and more each day. Except for Ike, who was like a horse in his need to stay on his feet, their catnaps reached twenty hours.
Ali tried to force herself to work, to stay clean, say her prayers, and continue to draw her day maps. It was a matter of getting God's daily chaos in order.
On the morning of December 2, they heard animal noises coming from the beach. Those who could sit struggled upright. Their worst fear was coming true. The hadals were coming for them.
It sounded like wolves loping into position. You could hear whispered snatches of words. Troy began to totter off in search of Ike, but his legs wouldn't work well enough. He sat down again.
'Couldn't they wait?' Twiggs moaned softly. 'I just wanted to die in my sleep.'
'Shut up, Twiggs,' hissed one of the geologists. 'And turn out those lights. Maybe they don't know we're here.'
The man got to his feet. In the preternatural glow of stone, they all watched him
stagger across to a porthole near the doorway. With the stealth of an intruder, he cautiously lifted his head to the opening. And slid back down again.
'What did you see?' Spurrier whispered. The geologist was silent.
'Hey, Ruiz.' Finally, Spurrier crawled over. 'Christ, the back of his head's gone!' At that instant the assault commenced.
Huge shapes poured in, monstrous silhouettes against the gleaming stone.
'Oh, dear God!' screamed Twiggs.
If not for his cry in English, they would have been shredded with gunfire. Instead there was a pause.
'Hold your fire,' a voice commanded. 'Who said 'God'?'
'Me,' pleaded Twiggs. 'Davis Twiggs.'
'That's impossible,' said the voice.
'It could be a trap,' warned a second.
'It's just us,' said Spurrier, and shined his light on his own face.
'Soldiers,' cried Pia. 'Americans!'
Lights snapped on throughout the room.
Shaggy mercenaries ranged right and left, still crouched, ready to shoot. It was hard to say who was more surprised, the debilitated scientists or the tattered remains of Walker's command.
'Don't move, don't move,' the mercenaries shouted at them. Their eyes were rimmed with red. They trusted nothing. Their rifle barrels darted like hummingbirds, searching for enemy.
'Get the colonel,' said a man.
Walker was carried in, seated on a rifle held on each side by soldiers. To Ali, he looked starved, until she saw his blood. The knifed-open rags of his pant legs showed dozens of bits of obsidian embedded in the flesh and bone. It was pain that had hollowed his face out. His faculties were unimpaired, though. He took in the room with a raptor's eye.
'Are you sick?' Walker demanded.
Ali saw what he saw, gaunt men and women barely able to sit. They looked like scarecrows.
'Just very hungry,' said Spurrier. 'Do you have food?'
Walker considered them. 'Where's the rest of you?' he said. 'I recall more than just nine of you.'
'They went home,' said Chelsea, prone beside her chessboard. She was looking at
Ruiz's body. Now they could see that the geologist had been sniped through the eye.
'They're going back the way we came,' said Spurrier.
'The physicians, too?' Walker said. For a moment he was hopeful.
'It's just us now,' said Pia. 'And you.'
He surveyed the room. 'What is this place, a shrine?'
'A way station,' Pia said. Ali hoped she would stop there. She didn't want Walker to know about the circular map, or the ceramic soldiers.
'We found it two weeks ago,' Twiggs volunteered.
'And you're still here?'
'We ran out of food.'
'It looks defensible,' Walker said to a lieutenant in burned clothing. 'Set your perimeters. Secure the boats. Bring in the supplies and our guest. And remove that body.'
They set Walker on the ground against one wall. They were careful, but laying his legs out was an agony for him.
Mercenaries began arriving from the beach with heavy loads of Helios food and supplies. Not one retained the look of the immaculate crusaders Walker had
assiduously groomed. Their uniforms were in rags. Some were missing their boots. There were leg wounds and head injuries. They stank of cordite and old blood. Their beards and greasy locks made them look like a motorcycle gang.
Their veneer of religious vocation had rubbed away, leaving tired, angry, frightened gunmen. The rough way they dumped the wetbags and boxes spoke volumes. Their escape attempt was not going well.
After a few minutes, Walker returned his attention to the scientists. 'Tell me,' he said, 'how many people did you lose along the way?'
'None,' said Pia. 'Until now.'
