'Lee?' Alana was a small woman, and light-and for the first time, Daniel noticed that she was riding a little high and something dinged in the far reaches of his brain, but he couldn't chase the thought down. Alana reached a hand to her lover then seemed to think better of it. 'Tell us.'
Harriman was staring at the virtually featureless curve of lava arcing over them, his weirdly blue eyes clicking right then left. Finally, they settled on Daniel's face.
'I don't know for sure,' he said. 'But I think it's been waiting.'
'Waiting for what?' said Alana.
Harriman stared at Daniel. 'You.' • • •
Harriman led the way, following a guideline through a maze of narrow lava tubes that led into the guts of the dead volcano. Daniel had visions of the tubes crumpling under the pressure, the full force of the seamount crashing down. His breathing was shallow; he was hyperventilating but not getting much air. His headache was worse, and his chest was one continuous burn.
Calm down. He tongued salt from his upper lip. You've been in way worse situations. The fact that he couldn't think of any off the top of his head wasn't reassuring. This was like something out of a childhood nightmare: visions of being trapped underground, in the dark, where going up wasn't an option.
And something else: He'd never wished for the Rebbe to find them quite as much as he did now. Some kind of irony there.
'How… how much… further?' Alana sounded as winded as he felt. He craned his neck but could only manage a few degrees: enough to see her laboring in the glow of his headlamp. Her tanks clanked rock.
'Not much.' There wasn't enough room for Harriman to turn around. 'Just another dozen meters or so.'
It was less. Inching along, and then Daniel felt the roof of the lava tube soar away, had the sense of space opening before them. He switched to his astral sense; saw Alana's orange glow-washed out, weaker than before, like a sunset bled of color, on the cusp of night. Harriman was even dimmer, just a silvery wisp.
But now above and beyond Harriman, an immense space in which something pulsed and glowed now white, now purple, now green…
The tube spat them out and the sudden drop was like tumbling out of an airlock into outer space: nothing above, and a long way-forever-down. He was having trouble with his buoyancy, the added weight of the water dragging him down and he scuttled back, kicking until his tanks banged rock. Grappling for a handhold, he hung- and stared. He'd seen pictures of the Watergate's Great Rift and of course, he'd seen-and repaired-much smaller tears in the fabric between metaplanes. Still, he wasn't prepared.
Ragged, gaping, the rift was easily ninety meters long, fifty meters wide. It undulated like something alive; gossamer-thin tendrils of mana coiled in its depths, glimpses of an adjoining metaplane. Bolts of light fitfully pulsed between its shredded, swollen lips, like blood spurting from a wound hacked into the skin of the earth. Something moved in the rip. Not mana. He squinted. The effect was like peering through a flawed pane of milky, runny glass. He could make out shadows, silhouettes and as he watched, one pulled together, solidified-
Oh shit…
A shedu.
'What is this, Harriman? What…?' He swung his head toward the other man and his voice died in his throat because he saw two things: Harriman-and Alana, hovering at an angle, her feet higher than her head, working hard to keep from drifting.
God, no…
When a diver's tanks empty, the paradoxical happens. Compressed air, trimix, heliox are all heavy. As tanks are depleted, a diver usually dumps air from her buoyancy compensator, or expels air from her lungs in order to maintain her trim. Only when a diver's air is completely gone and the lungs filled with water will the body sink. The only reason a dead person floats is because of tissue bloat from gases released with decomposition.
Alana, an experienced diver, was having trouble with her trim and the only reason for that was…
'Alana.' Each breath was harder and harder, but now he knew why. Cursed himself for not having thought of it before. Wondered if the same force that had fooled their senses also clouded his judgment. 'Alana, honey, I need you to come over here.'
'What?' Her labored breathing rasped in his ears. She sounded dazed. Her face shone with sweat.
'Alana, it's an illusion. This whole time… we've been… running out of air.' Now that he knew for sure, he could sense the seconds ticking off his life. 'Your buoyancy… ' He gulped down another thin lungful. 'Headache…'
'Carbon dioxide.' He heard the sudden fear in her voice. 'But… but Lee…'
'Alana, look at him.' He swallowed, slicked his lips. 'No bubbles. He's got no air… '
'Oh my God.' Her voice quaked with terror. 'Lee? LEE?'
'No.' With a huge effort, he kicked, closed the distance between them and wrapped a hand around her bicep. 'Stay away, just… Ah, God.'
He saw now that Harriman's suit was in tatters; half his chest was gone and a chunk of his left thigh; his facemask was shattered, open to the water. A yellow stalk of nerve wormed from one empty socket. Harriman's puffy face went slack all at once, like a marionette whose puppeteer has stepped out for a smoke. His color leeched away; his head lolled; and then his lower jaw sagged. A convulsive shudder wracked his frame; something bulged and heaved in his throat.
Alana screamed.
Harriman vomited something slick and mucinous and gray. It had the undulant consistency of a jellyfish, the same translucent milkiness and yet it was also muscular, like the rope of a serpent's body worming in a gurgling, unctuous coil. Emptied of its cargo, Harriman's savaged body drifted away, spinning in a slow, lazy spiral.
Give me what I want. The shedu's voice was sibilant, gauzy, curiously tender. This one was weak; he let her get away and then he smashed his own facemask and he died, and for what?
And yet, Daniel thought, the shedu-clearly a Master to have manufactured such an illusion and held open this gateway-had not used Harriman's body to escape. Why?
The Master, seeping into his brain: I require a vessel able to contain me.
Something like him: a binder, who could hold all that monstrousness for all time, if need be. Someone whose shell would not decay. A kind of shedu-esque Dorian Gray. Well, that was his talent, wasn't it? Had the Rebbe known? He thought of the legend, that the shedim were locked away in mountains and in the depths…
The Master: Who do you think imprisoned me here to begin with? You are a pawn, nothing more, but I offer you power. I offer you life.
Something had gone wrong here, Daniel knew. He was surprised at how calm he felt, as if he'd always known that this was his destiny. All his sins, the stains of his past…
So. This prison had weakened, or the Master found some way to break through and now there were others, waiting to come through…
But why Alana?
The Master, again: Without her, you would never have been drawn here. Submit freely, and I will let her go again.
A lie. He knew that. But he would have to very careful now.
'What,' Daniel sucked in a mouthful of air but couldn't fill his lungs. 'What… guarantee?'
'Who…' Alana gulped. 'Who… are you… talking to?'
No guarantees, but I will not interfere. A pause. You do not have much time. Soon your air will be gone and you will die. Submit. Open yourself and live.
'Go.' Chest working, he ripped off his spare air and thrust it at her. He spoke in bursts, trying to get it all out while they still had time. 'Get out. Guideline. Let you go once. If I stay…'
'N-no.' Her skin was a sick, dusky blue in his headlamp. 'No… I'm nearly out.' The whistle of her next breath. 'I won't make it.' Another gasp. 'Not leaving… without you.'
'GO!' Pushing the canister into her arms, he shoved her, suddenly, very hard. The effort blacked his vision for a second, and the world tilted wildly. Then his vision cleared, and he saw that she was flailing, one hand still holding the canister, the other trying to right herself.
She wouldn't go, she wouldn't go! But he couldn't spare a lot of energy; if he were too depleted, they were both dead; and he certainly didn't have much time. Still, he had to give her this chance because there were no more options. Gritting his teeth, he focused his will, marshaled his mind, harnessed the power of the mana radiating from the rift, conjured up the image of the crater's maw and thought: GO.
