Earthcore

Chapter Twenty-two

A film of dust lingered in the still air, seemingly suspended by magic, defying gravity's pull. The thick dust flew in visible swirls when anyone coughed, which was often. The only light came from headlamps attached to helmets; the crash had cut off all electricity from the surface. The headlamp beams swerved back and forth through the dusty tunnel, feeble attempts at illuminating the hungry and endless darkness.

A hundred yards away from the shaft bottom the party tried to come to grips with the situation. Sitting in silence, they waited for Mack to return from his evaluation of the ravaged shaft. O'Doyle had insisted Connell, Veronica, and Sanji stay back, under Lybrand's watchful eye, while he and Mack searched the rubble for Fritz and Lashon. Exhausted, all had fallen asleep while waiting. All except for Lybrand, who stood tall, eyes methodically sweeping up one side of the tunnel, then the next.

She heard Mack and O'Doyle returning, and woke the others. Connell felt like he'd been hit with a truck. He blinked away the sleep and stood.

Mack returned, O'Doyle at his side with his H&K at the ready, all eyes turned hopefully toward them. O'Doyle slowly shook his head from side to side, a pained, grim expression on his face.

"You saw them?” Sanji asked.

Mack nodded. “Lashon and Fritz are dead,” he said. “They didn't stand a chance."

Silence once again filled the tunnels. Someone coughed, and dust swirled.

Connell closed his eyes tightly. Two more dead. Three men, gone, because of his obsession. What would Cori think of him now? He wanted to curl up in a ball and die. Or maybe put the H&K barrel in his mouth, and simply pull the trigger.

"How bad is the shaft?” Connell asked. The rest of the party sat quietly, hanging on Mack's every word.

"We're in a world of shit, Mr. Kirkland,” Mack said. “There was quite a bit of cave-in damage. Judging from the amount of rock that's spilled out of the shaft, the crash sealed off at least the bottom one hundred feet. It could be more, maybe a lot more — it's impossible to say from down here."

"What does that mean?” Veronica asked. “How long will it take them to dig us out?"

"Dig us out with what, Professor?” Mack said. “Without the elevator they can't lift loose rock out of the shaft. I found a few parts scattered around the cave — some of them were from the main winch mechanism. It wasn't just the platform that came down, it was the whole fucking thing."

"How long will it take to repair it?” Veronica asked, fear palpable in her voice and eyes.

"Repair it with what?” Mack said, again answering with a question. “They've got spare parts up there, but the whole winch came down. They can't build one of those from scratch. Even if they hit the panic button and have EarthCore fly in another winch, we're talking at least a day to acquire the machinery, a day to ship it out here if the helicopter flies nonstop, and then at least a day to install it and start winching out the rock. From there it depends on how much rock they have to remove."

Veronica's eyes cast downward, the circle of light from her helmet illuminating the dirt at her feet.

Mack continued. “And that estimate is only if they can simply put another elevator in, which I doubt. If the whole winch came down, then most likely so did much of the ceiling above the shaft. They'll have to dig that out as well. Figure a day or two at best, depending on the damage, just to prepare the area and make it stable for installing the winch. Then they have to haul out the rock that's blocking the shaft. Don't forget that the shaft is probably weak from the tumbling elevator, so they'll have to be careful and make sure the shaft doesn't collapse any further. That will probably slow them down to a top speed of a hundred feet a day.” Mack lifted his helmet and wiped beads of nervous sweat from his brow. He took a deep breath, or tried to, but coughed harshly. Swirls of dust danced through the air. He put his helmet back on and continued.

"At best, we're looking at a week down here."

"And at worst?” Sanji asked.

Mack stared down the tunnel, unable to look at anyone's eyes. “At worst, a mile of rock fills the shaft. The whole thing is probably unstable as hell, and they may have to dig a new one. You all know how long that takes. On top of that we have no power, and no hope of getting power. We've got a generator in the Picture Cavern, but only enough fuel to run it for maybe a day.

"The batteries we stored down here will keep our headlamps lit for another three or four days. We were in the process of setting up supplies for just such an event, but were far from completing the stockpile."

"How much food have we got?” O'Doyle asked.

"Well, there's six of us down here,” Mack said. It was so quiet in the cavern they could hear each other breathing. “We've got enough food and water to last about three days, if we ration strictly. From then on, we're all on the underground diet plan.” His attempt at levity fell on deaf ears.

"What about the KoolSuits?” Sanji asked. “How long will they keep working?"

"I suppose that's the only good news,” Mack said. “According to Angus, the suits should work fine for a good three weeks."

"So what would you say our chances are?” Lybrand asked.

Mack looked at Connell, who simply nodded.

"Not good at all, I'm afraid,” Mack said softly.

Connell fought against his feelings in the only way he knew, by taking control. He took a deep breath, stood tall and walked to the center of the party. “I know it sounds bad,” he said with his best authoritative voice. “But you all need to know there's more."

"What do you mean ‘there's more'?” Lybrand asked. “We're in a tomb here, Mr. Kirkland, how can there be more?"

All eyes turned to Connell. He'd spent years controlling his emotions, presenting a blank face to everyone at all times. Despite the situation, he showed no signs of fear or panic.

"Before the elevator crashed I talked to Dr. Hayes,” Connell said. “It appears that EarthCore may not be the only ones down here.” Connell expected words of surprise, but no one spoke.

He continued. “Apparently, she discovered that someone else was in the mountain, digging toward our main shaft. I spoke to her shortly before the crash. She wanted everyone to evacuate the tunnels immediately, so I can only assume that this other faction was getting close to the shaft. We may even be able to assume that they reached the shaft, sabotaged the elevator, and that's why we're in this predicament."

"Well who the fuck is it?” Mack screamed. His enraged voice bounced off the cavern walls, an echo that lingered for a few seconds before fading away.

"I don't know,” Connell said. “We've had several other incidents. We suspect that the accident in the lab was sabotage intended to kill Angus and possibly others. On top of that, Jansson may have been murdered, and the people who did it may still be around. At this point it's prudent we assume this other faction wants to kill us."

Sanji spoke up in his singsong accent. “But if they got to the elevator, would they not have to attack the whole camp?” Silence again dominated the conversation. The mood grew darker and more hopeless by the second.

"It's possible, but not likely,” Connell said. “They were probably just trying to hit the elevator and didn't suspect that Mrs. Hayes would discover their digging. Hitting an armed camp outright would require not only a task force, but a great deal of preplanning with intent to commit mass murder."

Expressions didn't change. They all knew that if the mystery faction had destroyed the camp, they were as good as dead.

"Well that's just fucking great,” Veronica said. “What the hell do we do now?"

They all looked at Connell. Confidence and control replaced his fear. These people needed a leader, and that leader needed to give them purpose, something to focus their attention on so they wouldn't dwell on the dim prospects of rescue. He had just such a purpose — Connell wasn't finished with this mountain. Not by a long shot.

"You're missing the obvious,” Connell said. “This mystery enemy dug toward the mine shaft. That takes equipment. And while maybe they could have slipped someone into our adit, or possibly put a spy in our ranks, there's no way in hell they could have sent mining equipment into our shaft without our seeing it."

Everyone fell silent, but their faces lifted with the first signs of hope. Lybrand was the first to voice the common thought.

"So there's got to be another way in,” she said.

Connell nodded. “Exactly. It's the only answer."

"So how do we find it?” Mack asked. “There's miles and miles of caverns down here."

"There's really only one way to go,” Connell said. “We have to head for the Dense Mass."

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me!” Veronica stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at Connell. “We're stuck here, with no possibility of rescue, we've just seen two men die, and all you can think about is money? You just take the cake, mister!"

Connell gave her a neutral expression. He wasn't going to give her any fuel to continue the tirade. He waited until the echoes of her outburst faded away into nothingness before he spoke.

"Professor, please listen,” Connell said. “This isn't about money. We're cut off. It's going to take them days to dig us out, maybe weeks. The Dense Mass is what our enemy is after. They're either there already, or they're heading toward it. Either way, that's the fastest way to find them. We find them, and we find out how they got in."

Veronica eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then nodded. “I guess you've got a point."

"So we know where we're going,” O'Doyle said. “I suggest we all get some sleep. Everyone is in pretty bad shape, so we'll rest a few hours before heading out."

"Sleep?” Veronica said. “How the hell am I supposed to sleep at a time like this?"

"These caves are hard to navigate, so we'll have our work cut out for us,” O'Doyle said. “If you can't sleep, professor, fine, but at least lie down and relax. We need everyone sharp for the march ahead."

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence, then Sanji found a rock-free area and lay down. The others soon followed suit, all except for O'Doyle, who stood guard.

Kayla moved as silently as a shadow, carefully picking her way through the adit. She saw clearly courtesy of three-pound starlight-sight goggles. Through those lenses, the tunnel walls and floors glowed an eerie green.

She'd expected to see bodies, or at least some sign of a struggle, but there was nothing. She saw no sign of the creatures either, but she still moved carefully, her Galil ARM at the ready. She'd seen those things take out a dozen trained, well-armed men. Kayla had no intention of joining the mutilated ranks of EarthCore employees. Still, she had to assess the situation. When she finally made her pitch to the NSA, she needed complete information, and that required reconnaissance.

She moved down the adit until a pile of fallen rocks blocked her path. Some of the boulders must have weighed ten tons or more. It would take Army engineers at least a week to clear the tunnel. She knew she was close to the elevator shaft, which meant the shaft was likely filled with fallen rocks as well. Not good. Without a way in, all she could give the NSA was a story and a location. Kayla sighed — that would have to do. She'd simply have to do a better sell-job.

The adit's silence seemed to weigh down on her. She wondered if the people who'd been in the adit had heard anything before the monsters pounced. Maybe they hadn't heard anything at all. Kayla shuddered.

There was nothing more to see, so she quickly moved out of the adit.

Mack busied himself preparing backpacks. It gave him some level of escape from his frustration, but the facts that he'd lost two miners and that some unknown enemy had destroyed his mine were never far from his thoughts. It had been a masterpiece, a flawless work and the pinnacle of his career. Now it was gone.

Even his worst-case scenario was overly optimistic. He'd lied more than a little to the others — he couldn't bear to remove all hope, couldn't tell them the truth, tell them that they were already dead. The shaft's integrity was compromised. Another one would have to be dug to get them out. That meant rescue was at least another month away. They wouldn't last a week, especially not after the lights went out.

On top of that hopelessness, there was the unspoken fear of Jansson's abductors. They were down here somewhere, perhaps waiting for an EarthCore member to wander off on their own, to become separated just as Jansson had. Someone was down here waiting.

Someone.

Or maybe something.

The image of the silvery spider flashed through his mind. “Silverbug,” Fritz had called it. Mack gritted his teeth to fight back tears. Fritz had been so young. Mack had forgotten about the silverbug in the hubbub of the elevator crash. Could the spiders have taken the missing man? If they did, how did they take a two-hundred-pound man away so fast?

He and Lybrand had told the others about the silverbugs. The story only added to the doom-and-gloom feeling that filled the caves. Mack shuddered, thinking of the slender silvery legs flashing quickly in the dim light, wrapping around Jansson's hand, his leg, his shoulder, his face. Jansson would have screamed for help, but the tunnels ate sound as readily as they gobbled up light. No one would have heard him.

Mack found himself looking around the cavern in quick, nervous glances. Looking for a flash of silver.

"Listen, it's not his fault we're down here,” O'Doyle said. Lybrand listened to him carefully, but she had opinions of her own. They stood far down the tunnel that led into the cave complex, away from the Picture Cavern. The only light came from their headlamps, illuminating each other's faces like pale moons floating in the ether.

She wanted to slip away from the others. Away from Connell, in particular. Based on what she'd seen so far, Lybrand felt strongly that following Connell was akin to courting death.

"If it isn't Kirkland's fault, then whose fault is it?"

"Don't be stupid,” O'Doyle said. “It wasn't Connell who sabotaged the elevator and who mucked things up at camp. You know that."

Lybrand looked away, down the tunnel. Her fingers drummed a pattern on the hilt of her H&K. She liked the weapon, and she liked O'Doyle. Other than that, this whole situation was about as tasty as a turd sandwich.

She turned back to look at O'Doyle, admiring the hard lines of his face. She even liked the scar tissue that perched where an ear should be. He still hadn't told her that story. She knew he would, eventually. He'd told her a few stories already, some that were obviously difficult and painful to share. Some of the stories he wasn't supposed to tell, what with the oath of secrecy and all that happy horseshit.

At least she'd found out why he had Argentina's flag tattooed on his arm. In a personal tradition born of youth and foolish, macho pride, O'Doyle adorned his body with the flag of every country where he'd killed someone. She didn't ask why the U.S. government had sent him to Argentina to kill. She had hoped to hear more of his stories, all of his stories, when they left the mining camp. Only now it didn't look like they were ever going to leave.

Cheated. That's how she felt. She'd been in love only once, way back in the tenth grade. She and Billy Rasmussen passed notes in history class and cut school to walk the littered streets of Patterson, New Jersey, holding hands and being young. Juvenile love, to be sure, but she still treasured the memories. She'd joined the army at eighteen, shortly after Billy died of a heroin overdose. Twelve years she served with honor and distinction. But those twelve years were loveless. She never found anyone in the service, anyone to love anyway, and all her relationships were cheap and quick. Now, at thirty-two, she thought she'd finally found someone.

Patrick O'Doyle.

The two of them hit it off in the midst of the parched Utah desert. It was something that went mostly unsaid, something that clicked between them right off the bat. O'Doyle's professionalism forbid them from fraternizing out in the open. They'd barely even kissed, only a clumsy peck late at night after the celebration party. Their relationship certainly hadn't burned with passion. Not yet, anyway.

But she knew passion was there. They'd connected almost immediately. It bothered her to know the reason for that connection — they'd both killed people. Up close and personal, where you could smell the fear on their last breath as your knife punched through a heart, as you heard the gurgle of lungs filling with blood. Those moments changed a person forever. She never thought she'd find a man who understood what it was like to carry that feeling around, that memory of watching life seep away from another human being. O'Doyle understood because he carried that same feeling. When she talked to him, she felt complete. For the first time in her life, she felt whole.

"You're right,” she said quietly to O'Doyle. “You're right. It's just that… you know… I find you, and now…” her voice trailed off as O'Doyle gently put a finger to her lips. Her heart ached with the gesture, ached at how such a massive, violent man could be so tender.

"I know,” O'Doyle said. “I know exactly what you mean. We're going to get out of here, I swear it to you. But he's still the boss and we've still got a job to do down here. We have to protect these people."

She marveled at his simplicity. The job was over. It was now survival of the fittest. She couldn't believe the depth of his loyalty, his professionalism. She instantly wanted to argue with him, change his mind, but at the same time knew it would be useless.

"He's the boss, and we do what he says, understand?” O'Doyle said quietly, but firmly.

She nodded, her eyes never leaving his. She didn't like it. But for now she'd play the role. She'd do it simply because Patrick asked her to.

Connell hefted the weight of the lethal Heckler & Koch machine gun. He instantly hated it. He'd never fired a gun in his life — a silent mantra repeated in his head, a wish that he wouldn't have to use the weapon.

O'Doyle took the biggest pack, but Connell carried more than his fair share. Mack prepared everything with a master's touch, stuffing all food, batteries, ropes, and climbing gear tightly away into backpacks and supply belts. About the only thing he hadn't found a place for was the small generator. Without that, the portable floodlights were useless. They'd make the rest of the trip — wherever it led — using only the lights of their headlamps.

All told, they had seven weapons: three H&K rifles, two Beretta pistols and two K-Bar knives. The pistols and knives belonged to O'Doyle and Lybrand, so they kept them — they each carried an H&K as well. The number of weapons was the good news, but the amount of ammo was the bad. They had six H&K magazines total, two for each rifle. O'Doyle set all their weapons to single-shot, as automatic would use up their precious ammo supply too quickly. The brief weapons training for Connell, Sanji, Veronica and Mack didn't involve actual firing — O'Doyle refused to waste a single round.

O'Doyle carried Mack's cavern map and took point. Connell walked about twenty paces behind him. Another twenty paces back Mack stayed with Veronica and Sanji, and twenty paces behind them Lybrand brought up the rear. They all had their headlamps on, which announced their presence to anyone further down the tunnel, but there was really no choice — they would either be an easy target or stumble blindly through the dark and dangerous caves.

A little more than six hours after the elevator plummeted to the shaft floor, the party set out down the tunnels. They knew roughly where they were headed, but nothing about what they'd find along the way.

Chapter Twenty-three

They moved steadily downward through switchbacks and crisscrossing tunnels, sometimes crawling hundreds of feet down ancient rock slides, using the massive boulders like misshapen ladders. Twice they had to break out their two sets of climbing gear to get past particularly dangerous declines. When the tunnels were wide open and the footing sure on some ancient streambed, it felt like they moved quickly; but they wanted to move downward, not horizontally.

The massive expanse of unforgiving stone tunnels and brownish tan caverns soaring high overhead seemed to humble everyone, even Connell. In the midst of such grandeur, speech seemed somehow childish and ineffective. In three and a half hours, they'd moved more than three thousand vertical feet below the Picture Cavern.

O'Doyle halted the party and stopped to examine a puzzling feature on the ground. He called back to Connell, who came forward and stared at what looked like tiny indentations in the powdery cave silt.

"What is that, tracks of some kind?"

O'Doyle nodded. “I saw some a ways back, but I didn't much worry about it. That was stupid of me. I didn't think of Mack's little silver critters until I saw this set. Now that I look around, these tracks are everywhere, and I mean everywhere. Look at any patch of dirt you see in here and you'll see these little two-prong indents."

O'Doyle pointed to one of the marks. Connell's headlamp lit it up like a spotlight illuminating a pitch-black stage. The marks looked like someone had pressed a two-prong fork into the dirt. The “prongs” were less than a quarter-inch apart. Like eyes focusing in on ants after seeing the anthill from high above, hundreds of marks suddenly clicked sharply into view. They were everywhere. Thousands of them in just the small area surrounding him and O'Doyle.

"Holy shit,” Connell said softly.

"Yeah,” O'Doyle said. “I should have seen it sooner."

Connell marveled at the big man's perceptiveness. The tiny prong marks were damn-near invisible even with the light shining directly on them — that O'Doyle spotted it while on the move seemed incomprehensible. Some of the tracks seemed to end at the rough cave wall. Connell's face furrowed in confusion. “Do the damn things go through the wall?"

"No sir, Mr. Kirkland,” O'Doyle said patiently, the voice of an underling explaining the obvious to a superior. “Not through, up. I think these things can crawl right up the rock. It makes sense, based on Mack's description."

The term spider jumped uninvited into Connell's head. And just when he thought things couldn't get any worse. Now not only was he stuck miles deep inside a mountain, soon to be completely in the dark, but there were spiders, too. Big spiders, from what Mack had said, more than a two feet long. Mack had taken to calling them “silverbugs.” The thought of being in the utter darkness with those crawling… things… made Connell shiver.

"But we haven't seen anything else,” Connell said. “We haven't seen one living thing down here. So, if they're spiders, what do they eat?"

Neither man answered. O'Doyle simply shrugged, stood, and continued down the tunnel. Connell watched the big man's light bob up and down along the walls of the cavern, not just on the floor and sides anymore, but the ceiling as well. Connell counted off twenty of O'Doyle's paces and followed, waving back down the tunnel for the rest of the party to continue.

He checked the ceiling every third step, hoping that he wouldn't see a flash of silver.

After six hours of walking and climbing and crawling, the party stopped to rest. With their yellow KoolSuits covered in dirt and grime, they looked like exhausted athletes from some futuristic sport.

"Twenty minute break,” O'Doyle called out. “Everybody off your feet.

Sanji and Veronica practically collapsed on the silt-covered ground. Connell, Lybrand and O'Doyle gathered around Mack, who knelt on one knee, his headlamp shining on the map.

"How are we doing?” Connell asked.

"Not bad,” Mack said. “O'Doyle is moving us along nicely, but it gets more complicated from here on out. The closer we get to the Dense Mass, the more tunnels there are. I think I should be up front."

Connell looked at O'Doyle, who looked at the map one more time, then looked up and nodded. “Mack's probably better at reading that map."

"Fine,” Connell said. “Lybrand, anything unusual from the rear?"

She shook her head. “Nothing that I've seen or heard."

Connell looked at the map, trying to make sense of the complicated network of tunnels. There were so many side passages, so many connectors — it would be simple for someone to slip in behind them. He thought of the tiny sliverbug tracks, and how O'Doyle had seen them while on the move and in very poor lighting.

"O'Doyle, I think you should bring up the rear for awhile when we move out. We can't afford to let someone sneak up on us."

"But sir—"

"Just do it, okay?” Connell said with a forced smile. “Lybrand can take point with Mack."

O'Doyle started to say something, then looked at Lybrand. She nodded. O'Doyle cleared his throat. “Yes, sir, that sounds fine."

"Okay,” Connell said. “Twenty minutes then we move out. I'll take watch."

"You do know where we're at, don't you?” Lybrand asked. She tried to sound like she was only teasing, but a hint of genuine concern lurked in her voice. She wasn't sure Mack knew what he was doing.

"Of course I know,” Mack said. “I'm just trying to figure out the best way for us to go, that's all.” He sat on his haunches, clutching the plastic-coated map in a death-grip, his shaking hands making the paper quaver slightly.

They'd stopped at a triple-branch in the tunnels. One branch led off at ninety degrees to the left, another went steeply up and about fifteen degrees to the left, and the last headed gently down at about thirty-five degrees to the right. Mack was obviously trying to orient their position. He'd rotated the map three times so far. It looked upside down, but she reminded herself there was no upside down on a three-dimensional map. He knew what he was doing. He had to know.

She turned away from him and looked down the tunnels, her light probing the passages’ dark depths. They all looked the same to her. It seemed logical to take the tunnel heading down, as they were still above the Dense Mass, but they'd taken two up-slopes already en route to another down-slope. The added dimensions made her disoriented so quickly, she didn't know—

click-click, click-click

She stared intensely into the downward slope, her light probing back and forth with the quick, jerky, birdlike movements of her head. She'd heard something. Until that moment there had been no noise except her and Mack's footsteps. Mack sat quietly, still staring at the map, oblivious to the sound.

click-click, click-click, click

Her ears couldn't pick out a direction. The tunnel amplified the small sound until it seemed to pour from every inch of the ragged stone, as if the walls themselves breathed with the noise. Her light bounced violently back and forth across the tunnel floor, looking for the source. Her fingers gripped the knurled handle of the H&K as her thumb quietly slipped off the safety.

click-click-click, click, click-click

The noise sounded random, like halting movement, or like… like little scurrying feet scraping on rock. She remembered the tiny tracks, and she remembered Connell and O'Doyle checking the ceiling every few yards. Her light flashed upward, where it reflected brightly off a moving, silvery sphere only fifteen feet from her face.

Chapter Twenty-four

Lybrand's voice was a hiss between clenched teeth. “Mack! Look over here!"

He looked up at Lybrand, then in the direction of her pointed gun and focused stare — up to the ceiling. There, frozen in the glow of the headlamps, only a few feet from Lybrand's head, perched a silverbug.

Instantly he could see where he'd been wrong. It wasn't a spider, or even a bug.

It was a machine.

Its spherical body was slightly bigger than a softball. A long, wedge-shaped protrusion jutted forth from one end and pointed toward Lybrand's head. Other chunks and baubles broke up the outline — an impression of the old Russian Sputnik satellite stuck in Mack's mind.

Four long legs — each divided into three eight-inch long segments — stuck out from the ball's equator, one every ninety degrees. The first segment of each leg jutted away from the round body, the second paralleled the ceiling, and the last segment pointed the leg back to touch the roof, almost exactly like an insect's legs. Mack thought it looked like a silvery Daddy Long-Legs, but with only four limbs.

The last segment of each spindly leg was actually two thin pieces, giving the silverbug eight contact points with which to cling to the rock. Mack was too far away to see the little feet, but the way its body hung effortlessly from the cave ceiling he knew strong hooks or claws dotted the end of each one.

The silverbug's body stood rock-still, but some of the sphere-body parts moved with small whirring and buzzing noises. From end to end, the silverbug looked to be about fifteen inches long. With the segmented legs stretched out flat, it might be as long as five feet.

Mack's mind could focus on little more than the silverbug. “What do you want me to do?” he asked in a whisper.

"Go get the others, get O'Doyle,"

"I can't leave you here alone with that thing."

"Do it! We don't know what this is and I'm not letting it out of my sight. Go get the others, now!"

Mack hesitated only a second, then turned and ran back up the tunnel, moving as fast as he could over the rough footing.

"Does anyone read me?” Cho Takachi said into the walkie-talkie. “This is an SOS, is anybody out there?” His monotone voice droned the words repeatedly. He'd lost count of how many times he'd said that phrase or how many times he'd tried each channel. Nothing came in. Nothing at all. It made no sense. The walkie-talkie should have picked up something. The nearest town was just over twenty miles away — there had to be radio traffic in the area, yet thick static dominated every channel.

It didn't really matter. He was going to make it to Milford anyway. He'd already covered about three miles, and only needed to go about three more to reach Route 21. His face roared with pain. Passing out face-up for hours in the desert sun had left him with a severe sunburn. His head still throbbed to the point of promising a third round of vomiting. He stumbled now and then, the desert floor seemingly bucking and lurching beneath him. Every time he moved his right arm more than a few inches, searing pain shot up his shoulder. He'd managed to stop the bleeding. Mostly, anyway. The wound still oozed fresh blood. A concussion, a laceration, sunstroke, and he still had to cover three more miles in this heat.

Sooner or later, he kept telling himself, sooner or later someone will come down this road or I'll reach Milford. I will make it.

His head swam with vivid memories of the attack. Twice he'd hallucinated the flashing things coming at him through the shimmering desert heat. Was he a coward for running? Fuck it — he was alive. Everyone else was dead. Anyone with a brain should have run the moment those things came pouring down the mountainside.

He didn't remember shredding his uniform to tie the bandage on his arm, but it was there, and it had done the trick. He must have done it some time during the night, just before passing out again and laying unconscious through the morning, cooking in the Utah sun like a hot dog on a grill.

"Does anyone read?” Cho said again. “This is an SOS, is anybody out there?” The static seemed to drop off suddenly. His heart leapt when a woman's voice answered.

"Yes, I read you, go ahead."

"This is Cho Takachi from the EarthCore mining camp in the northern Wah Wah Mountains. We've been attacked. I'm wounded and need immediate assistance."

"Attacked?” the woman said. “How's the rest of the camp?"

"I believe they're all dead,” Cho said. “They're all hacked to pieces."

"Where are you?"

"I'm on a Jeep trail, I think about three miles north of Kiln Springs. I'm moving north, trying to reach Route 21."

"Stay right there, I'll be there in twenty minutes."

Cho stared at his walkie-talkie in joyous relief for a few seconds, then tried signaling her again. “Hello? Bring a first-aid kit if you've got one.” He waited for an answer, but heard only that peculiar static again. He keyed several more times, but received no response. He tried the other channels, but the static dominated. He sat down at the edge of the dirt road, and waited.

She'd almost missed him. It amazed her that anybody made it out of the camp alive, but this one was apparently better than the rest. The little fuck. If the COMSEC unit's periodic sweeps hadn't picked off Cho's calls for help, he might have made it to Milford. She had to make sure that didn't happen.

He turned to look at Cori. Faint light shone from the lamps surrounding the driveway. The passenger-side door was smashed in, glass gone but for a few jagged shards, the once-stately Lincoln now a mass of twisted metal, torn leather, and ripped fabric. The other car had smashed the door in so far that Cori was pushed almost to the middle of the seat. Snow blew in through the broken window, melting where it hit blood.

Her eyes were wide with shock and pain. Her beautiful blond hair clung to her face, matted down with glistening red. Flecks of glass hung in her hair like glitter. Blood sheeted her scalp, her cheeks, her chin, falling to stain her white coat.

She looked at him. This time there was no questioning terror, no fear… at least not for herself.

"Get out, Connell.” Something liquid and gurgling masked her smooth voice. She sounded weak, fractured. “You have to get out."

Connell shook his head. He was in the dream, part of it, yet still he knew something had changed.

"I can't get out, I need to stay with you."

"Get out, my love."

He felt rough hands shaking him. The dream fell away.

"Wake up, Mr. Kirkland,” O'Doyle said, his hands gripping Connell's shoulders.

"Wha… what is it?” Connell fought to wake up. The fatigue in his body didn't want to relinquish its hold.

"Lybrand's got a silverbug. She's alone with it now."

Connell's eyes suddenly flew open wide and he escaped sleep's grasp. He stood up, ignoring the throbbing from his knee, and grabbed the H&K. Mack was rousting the two doctors.

"Mack's waking the professors, you bring everyone and make it fast,” O'Doyle said. “I'm going to Lybrand."

Before Connell could speak, the big man loped down the tunnel, his yellow suit flashing in Connell's headlamp beam. Connell moved over to the professors and Mack. Veronica looked ready to go. Sanji tried to rub the sleep from his exhausted eyes.

Mack's eyes were wide with fear and intensity. He moved with sudden, jerky jolts.

"What happened back there, Mack?"

"We found a silverbug,” Mack said, his Aussie accent ripping out at a fast pace. “Only it's not a spider; it's a machine, a robot or something. She told me to come back and get everyone else."

Connell turned to the professors. “You two ready?” Veronica looked scared, but nodded emphatically. Sanji didn't look ready at all, but nodded as well.

"You two stay behind me,” Connell said. “Mack, you bring up the rear, keep an eye on the walls and ceiling, and keep a sharp lookout back down the tunnel. Don't let anything get behind us."

Connell followed O'Doyle and moved down the tunnel. The others trailed closely without a word.

Sonny McGuiness scanned through the channels again on his walkie-talkie. Nothing. Nothing but static. That was all he'd heard since leaving the camp, except for that last little exchange between Cho and the mystery woman. She hadn't followed proper rescue procedures at all, so she wasn't a ranger or a state trooper or anyone of note. Probably a hiker or something. If she was out here and knew enough to monitor the emergency channel, then she was no amateur. Especially if she recognized Cho's position so quickly. Not many people knew offhand the location of Kiln Springs.

Sonny felt surprised anyone made it out of the camp — somehow he'd expected Funeral Mountain to be more thorough. He'd been just over two miles away when he heard the gunshots and explosions and alarms echoing through the brisk night air. That's when his curiosity set in.

What had happened back there, anyway? Initially he'd ignored that thought and managed to put another half mile under his feet. But his domineering curiosity wouldn't leave well enough alone. What did Funeral Mountain do when it awoke and killed people? Were Jessup's demons for real? That cave drawing of the primitive sun, which wasn't a sun at all — was that what Jessup's demons looked like? Sonny had turned, cursing himself for doing so, and retraced his steps, moving to within a mile of the camp.

At least, within a mile of what was left of the camp. His binoculars showed nothing but a few wisps of black smoke, a few chunks of metal sticking out of the sand, and the concrete footing of the diesel tank. The place had been absolutely leveled. It was as if Funeral Mountain had come alive and swallowed up the entire camp.

He'd gotten out just in time. Now EarthCore was just one more entry on Funeral Mountain's résumé, to be remembered alongside Jebadaiah Jessup and Samuel J. Anderson.

Sonny moved away from camp for the second time and headed North toward Route 21. It was only a thirty or forty minute walk to reach Cho's position. He hadn't spotted Cho at the camp wreckage, probably because Sonny's flight took him due West toward Milford while Cho apparently moved North toward Route 21. It thrilled Sonny to know Cho was still alive — both because he liked the man, and because Cho could tell him what the hell happened to the EarthCore camp.

Something about Cho's conversation with the mystery woman bothered Sonny. As soon as she'd finished talking, as soon as she'd told Cho she was on her way, that peculiar static had returned. Something wasn't right.

He turned back and looked toward Funeral Mountain, towering tall and proud among the Wah Wah chain. He was only about two miles northwest of Cho's position. If that woman's twenty-minute estimate was right, she'd reach him before Sonny could get close. But she was coming to rescue the man — Sonny wondered why his nagging intuition told him Cho was in danger.

Sonny sighed and started north, toward Kiln Spring.

Connell half-crouched, half-sprinted down the low-ceilinged tunnel, hands gripping his H&K. He came into the fork slightly ahead of Veronica, Sanji, and Mack. Lybrand and O'Doyle had their guns trained on the silverbug. It hung from the ceiling, seemingly frozen; only a wedge-shaped chunk moved, swinging in Connell's direction when he entered the fork. Connell stood there, motionless, staring at the thing that appeared to be staring right back at him. He thought it looked more like modern art than a machine or a bug.

Veronica and Sanji rushed into the fork. Their sudden presence appeared to spook the silverbug. It moved slightly with a jerky, twitching motion, as if preparing to defend itself. Mack came in just behind the professors — apparently he made one too many people for the silverbug's tastes.

Without warning, the silverbug dropped from the ceiling, or maybe jumped, because it was on the ground in the blink of an eye. It landed on its feet; Connell wasn't sure if it had flipped over or merely reversed its legs. It hit the ground and scurried off in a silvery blur of rapid motion, disappearing into the dark tunnel.

They stood quietly for several seconds, not knowing what to think, not knowing what to say. On a collective level, they all knew their situation had suddenly changed, although they didn't know exactly what that meant.

Veronica broke the silence. “What the hell was that thing?” No one answered. “I mean, it looked like a little machine, but the way it ran."

Their ears filled with the still, impossible silence of the caves. No one moved, save for darting glances into every dark area, every nook and cranny. Everyone was on the lookout for a flash of silver.

Connell spoke softly. “First of all, has anyone ever seen anything like that before? Anywhere except for the movies?"

"I've seen some of the unmanned NASA explorer technology,” Mack said. “It was at a conference on the future of mining. The explorers were similar insect-looking machines, only much bigger. They're designed for unmanned exploration of Mars's mountains, but they don't move like that. The state-of-the-art isn't much faster than a turtle, and when it walks it looks like a machine.” Mack didn't have to explain the analogy. The silverbug moved like an animal, like it was alive.

"I once enjoyed the opportunity to visit MIT's robot lab,” Sanji said. “As far as I know, they have the cutting edge of robot science. I saw Ghengis IV and their other smart robots. Some of them looked like insects, too, but they do not move like what we just saw. Their best robot, named Cassiopeia IX, I think, was built last year. It takes over a minute just to cross a room, and that is probably the most advanced autonomous robot on the planet."

"How fast would you estimate that thing moved, O'Doyle?” Connell asked, wishing Angus was there. Angus could instantly make sense of the marvel they'd just witnessed.

"Best guess would be twenty to twenty-five miles an hour, Mr. Kirkland,” O'Doyle said. “It really hauled ass, and it hit that speed almost immediately."

Connell looked at Mack. “Why were there Mars explorer robots at a mining conference?"

"Well, they figured someday we could use robots to mine the deep areas of the Earth, where it's too dangerous for people to go. But it would take very advanced machines. They would have to drill blasting holes, navigate the tunnels, haul out rock, all the things men do now."

"But there was nothing there comparable to what we just saw?"

"No way, mate. Not even close. That's like comparing a stone wheel to a Ferrari."

"Okay, fine, they're revolutionary,” Veronica said. “I think we've established that point. So who built the thing? Why is it down here and what are we going to do about it?"

Connell didn't have an answer. The same questions raged through his mind. “We have to be on the lookout for them,” he said. “O'Doyle thinks there's a lot of them around. We have to assume they're down here for a purpose. Someone had to put those things here."

"It's got to be the same people that took out Jansson and sabotaged the elevator,” Lybrand said. “So we'd better assume they're very dangerous."

"There's something else,” O'Doyle said, his eyes flitting across every inch of the cavern. “That thing was looking at each of us. The Japs put cameras on cockroaches, for crying out loud. We know the silverbug saw us. So we have to assume that its owners did, too. Whoever the saboteurs are, they might know we're down here."

Connell nodded. “You're right,” he said. “Let's grab the equipment and get going.” He looked across his party. They were exhausted, but no one complained about his decision.

They all wanted to move out, and move out fast.

With Meredith Brooks’ song “Bitch” blaring from the stereo, Kayla's black Land Rover — doing 110 miles per hour — caught big air as it sailed over a small hill, kicking up a cloud of dust both on takeoff and on impact. The landing jostled her in her seat, but she barely noticed, for when she cleared the hill she finally set eyes on that piece of shit Cho Takachi.

He sat there, devil-may-care, as if he were sunning himself on the side of the road. Her Steyr GB-80, fixed with a silencer, pressed gently into the small of her back, reassuring her with its solid presence. Instinctively, she reached a hand under the seat, double-checking the position of her Galil ARM automatic. This was the wide-open desert, after all, and a girl could never be too careful.

She slowed quickly, bringing the Rover to a coasting halt in front of Cho. She hopped out as Cho shambled slowly to his feet. He looked like shit. Like something you'd scrape off a shoe. His face looked as if it had been boiled, so cooked-lobster orange it must have hurt to blink. A dirty, blood-soaked bandage clung to his shoulder. Kayla relaxed; even if she hadn't reached Cho, he obviously wouldn't have made it much farther. She noted the pearl-handled .45 stuffed into his shoulder holster: she'd have to make this quick.

"Hey there,” Kayla said in a friendly tone. “You don't look so good."

"I feel like hell,” Cho said with a painful smile. “I sure am glad to see you."

Kayla slipped his arm over her shoulder and helped him toward the passenger door. She looked all around, searching for any sign of humanity. No cars, no people, no nothing.

"Hold on while I open the door,” Kayla said.

Cho leaned against the side of the Land Rover, smiling even while he winced in pain.

"You gave me quite a scare,” Kayla said.

"Why's that?"

Kayla took a step back and pulled out her Steyr. “Because I thought you were going to blow it for me, you piece of shit."

Cho instantly reached for his gun, but he was too slow.

Kayla pulled the trigger three times, sending all three rounds into Cho's chest. He lurched against the Land Rover, spun once, then fell to the ground, facedown.

She smiled as she put the gun to the back of his head.

Kayla pulled her trigger twice more.

Sonny felt dust on his tongue before he realized his mouth was hanging open. She'd killed him.

Just like that. Just as casual as you please. Pulled out a gun and blew his brains all over the dirt road. It wasn't fair. Cho had made it out of camp, escaped whatever it was that had gobbled up everyone else. And she'd just up and killed him.

You're going to pay for that, sister, Sonny thought. I don't know how, but I'm going to make you pay.

Who was she and what was she doing out here? Sonny's curiosity flamed at a level just below his rage. He turned away from the scene of Cho's death and started back toward Route 21, a mere three miles away. He could be there in a few hours, then try to flag help, maybe catch a ride to Milford and alert the state police.

On second thought, he decided to stay well off the road. No telling when that psycho bitch would come driving along. He'd cross through the Wah Wah Valley, heading for any one of the dozen mines that dotted the San Francisco Mountains. The San Frans were about eleven miles away — he wouldn't arrive until 2:00 a.m., at the earliest.

Sonny stopped suddenly, the small cloud of dust he kicked up drifting lazily in front of his feet. He knew the site was worth billions. He knew Connell kept the place a secret, but other people — EarthCore people — had to know what was going on. They wouldn't let a treasure-trove like Funeral Mountain slip away. The camp was obliterated — how long would it be before EarthCore sent people out to investigate, to look after their investment?

It hit him that 2:00 a.m. might be too late. If he knew EarthCore would send people soon, then so did the woman that killed Cho. That was probably why she killed Cho, to keep him from calling for help.

She killed him to buy time.

But buy time for what? She couldn't get much ore out of the mountain before EarthCore people came looking, at least not enough to make it worth killing a man. She couldn't haul ore by herself, and he'd seen no one else at the camp's ruins.

So, if she couldn't haul a fortune from the mine, what could be important enough to kill Cho and any other survivors she might have found? The walkie-talkie continued to crackle with static — he still couldn't call for help. Sonny wouldn't be to the San Francisco Mountains for another ten hours. He couldn't have local cops and the Utah State Police at the site until tomorrow afternoon at the absolute earliest.

She'd be gone by then. Just as he knew Funeral Mountain meant death, he knew she'd be gone. He might never know what she was up to, or what was important enough for her to kill Cho. She'd never be heard from again.

Sonny clenched his fists and snarled at himself. He knew what he had to do. He could keep heading for the San Frans, but sooner or later his mind would get the best of him and he'd head back anyway. Any time spent walking away was wasted time.

He spat his wad of Copenhagen onto the ground, took a swallow from his canteen, put a fresh pinch in his cheek and headed back toward Funeral Mountain.

Chapter Twenty-five

Mack and Lybrand moved forward, crawling on their bellies most of the time, walking at a half-crouch the rest. Mack's muscles voiced constant complaint. Fatigue was beginning to take its toll — making his concentration slip. He'd need more than just thirty minutes of sleep, and he'd need it soon.

"Do you hear something?” Lybrand called out from behind him.

The words sent an instant chill down Mack's spine. His breath caught in his throat as he listened for the click-click of a silverbug. But he didn't hear that. Instead, he heard a low echoing rumble.

"What is that?” Lybrand asked. “Sounds like when you put you ear to a seashell."

"Yeah, it does sound like that,” Mack said. But it sounded like something else, something he'd heard before but couldn't place. He pulled the map from his belt and stared at the confusing web of tunnels and caves. Up ahead about 300 yards was a large tunnel, larger than most.

"I think we're almost there,” Mack said. “There's a big tunnel up ahead that goes straight to the Dense Mass. We'll be able to walk the rest of the way."

"Well let's get going,” Lybrand said. “I never thought I'd be so excited to just stand up and walk."

Mack stuffed the map back into his belt and crawled forward, the back of his mind searching his memories for that mysterious rumbling sound.

Moving as quietly as a piece of dry grass blowing across the desert sands, Sonny crawled to the top of a ridge that gave him a clear view of the camp's ruins. His position also let him keep tabs on the little concealed spot used by Cho's killer. At that moment, she was down in the ruins, poking around the few visible spots of broken wood or twisted metal, unaware that Sonny watched her every move.

Hopefully unaware, Sonny reminded himself. She sees you, and you'll wind up just like Cho.

Sonny watched her move through the ravaged camp. She had a nasty looking machine gun slung across her back, and in her hands she carried a box. Every now and then she'd find something of interest in the sand, place it in the box, then continue on her strange excavation.

It had surprised him how skilled she was at hiding her position. She was no desert newbie. He'd completely missed her warren during his first cautious pass through the area. She knew her business, all right, and she knew it well. Eventually he'd spotted the Land Rover. No amount of camouflage is going to hide a Land Rover, even in the mountains. From there it was a simple matter to track her to her hiding place, although she'd done a remarkable job of covering her trail. Her nest offered her a perfect view of the former camp. She'd been there all along, watching, waiting.

The camp remained as it was when he'd last seen it, obliterated and almost invisible. He couldn't help but think that the mountain had come alive and swallowed the place up. A few pieces of charred wood or blackened metal peeked out from beneath the sand and rock, but only a few.

One smoldering pile pumped thin black smoke into the darkening night, its small, dying flames dancing softly amid glowing embers. Obviously a fresh fire; he hadn't seen it when he'd last left the camp. He peeked through his pocket-sized binoculars. Even under the low magnification, he could make out a blackened skull sitting on top of the pile, grinning amid the flickering flames. She'd brought Cho's body back to camp, cut it up, and burned it. But why? Another mystery added to an already full plate of unaccountable actions.

Whatever she was up to, she would have to make her move soon. Her clock was running out. EarthCore might swarm down on the place at any moment. Sonny had no clue what she was up to, and that lack of knowledge ate at his soul like a cancer.

The mystery woman finished up her scavenging and headed back to her warren. She wore webbing jam-packed with ammo clips and a large handgun in a shoulder holster. Normally Sonny would have admired the long blond hair that gracefully danced in the breeze, and the sway of her hips, but not now. Not after what she'd done. Right now there was only one way he could admire that body.

When it was cold, motionless, and dead.

Kayla lugged the box of equipment toward her nest. She'd tried counting bodies and checking them against the list of personnel she'd made during her observations, but quickly found the task impossible. Buried body parts littered the area, most of them charred and blackened by fire. She had to hand it to the creatures; they were definitely thorough.

Despite the camp destruction, the wreckage yielded a treasure — one of Angus's “Marco” locators, designed to track down anyone lost in the caves. Flames had charred the metallic surface, but it still worked like a champ. She'd spent over two hours tearing through the lab's rubble hoping to find one.

The Marco unit gave her a far more accurate body count than she'd managed on her own. Without the unit, counting skulls was the only way to tally the dead; but most skulls were smashed into pieces and buried fairly deep. She had to hand it to Angus in one category — he did quality work. His little “Polo” transmitters worked just fine, even after the bodies they were attached to burned to cinders.

All told, there were twelve people unaccounted for. Twelve names missing from the mangled corpses buried in the camp's ruins. The list read like a who's who of camp personnel.

Professor Veronica Reeves. Professor Sanji Haak. Bertha Lybrand. Patrick O'Doyle. Mack Hendricks. Sonny McGuiness. Connell Kirkland. Fritz Sherwood. Lashon Jenkins. Brian Jansson.

And, of course, Angus Kool and Randy Wright.

They had to be dead, of course. All of them, except for Angus and Randy, had been in the caves when the monsters attacked. Even if the survivors had somehow avoided the bloodthirsty creatures, they were trapped under miles of rock with no way out. She didn't want to assume anything, but at this point she had to write off Connell and the others.

Cho appeared to be the only one to make it out of the camp. She'd chopped him into little bits with a broken crescent-shaped knife left buried by the attackers, then burned his body. By now he was indistinguishable from the rest of the victims.

But what about Angus and Randy? What about them? They were still in a hospital in Milford… they might come back at any time. She had to deal with them, and quickly. Just to be sure. She didn't have much time left. Soon Barbara Yakely would send someone to find out why Connell didn't respond. When that happened, the game was up.

She had to contact the NSA soon, before anyone from EarthCore showed, and make sure all camp personnel were dead by the time the NSA arrived. The NSA would flinch at something as simple as killing a few survivors. Kayla knew that from experience. Hard-earned experience, the kind that had cost her a promising NSA career.

It was a race against time. She needed to serve this up gift-wrapped and on a silver platter, with no complications. She had only one chance, and that was to make sure NSA director André Vogel was the one to take this information to the president. Such a coup would give Vogel's political career a turbo-boost. He'd control the discovery, probably be one of the main people reporting to the president even though the on-site work would be handled by the Air Force and staff from Nevada's Area 51.

Kayla went to work on the COMSEC unit. The time had come to make contact and make her pitch, but she couldn't have the NSA picking her location. She'd have to set up several satellite relays for her signal, make it impossible for them to triangulate her position. This location was her only bargaining chip. She meant to keep it secret until they met her singular demand.

And before she made that call, she had to take a quick trip to Milford Valley Memorial Hospital.

Connell stood with the others, staring at the violent impasse before them.

"Well, so much for walking in standing up,” Lybrand shouted — everyone had to shout to be heard over the river's roar.

"I knew I'd heard that sound,” Mack said. “I've seen underground rivers before, but nothing like this."

The party's lights played about the water's dark surface, a 75-foot-wide undulating band of angry onyx. The river ripped through a chasm that had towering vertical walls reaching up at least a hundred feet. The walls showed sandwich lines of various petrified sediments, all in shades of gray or red or tan. Up at the top, where their headlamps cast only a dim illumination, a flat sandstone layer sparkled with pristine white gypsum, a ceiling fitting the grandeur of the limestone chasm and roiling river. About twenty yards downstream, the water roared off jagged rapids, making it impossible to traverse. And downstream was the direction they needed to go.

Connell looked at Mack. “Suggestions?"

"I thought we'd take this all the way to the Dense Mass, but the map didn't say anything about the river,” Mack said. “We're going to have to cross, then work the tunnels on the other side."

Connell nodded. O'Doyle walked over and looked at the map with Mack. As the two tried to figure out the next step, Connell looked for a place to sit and rest his knee. The constant crawling over rock had his old car-accident injury screaming with complaint. He sat at the water's edge, his headlamp playing about the shallows.

He knelt with a small wince of pain and dipped his hand beneath the surface. The water looked black and cold, but he could feel the heat even through his KoolSuit gloves.

Connell stared downstream, the direction that would lead them to the Dense Mass. The river curled angrily, dark and hungry, waiting to devour. He walked over to O'Doyle.

"Couldn't we rig something and go down the river?” Connell asked. “I mean, it will take us right to it."

"Don't even think it, Mr. Kirkland,” O'Doyle said. “We don't know how deep it is, and look at that current. We've got to cross, it's the only choice."

O'Doyle began stripping out of his KoolSuit. The muscles on his arms twitched with every motion, as did the fat around his waist and stomach. Everyone stared at the plethora of small flag tattoos that covered O'Doyle's back and arms. Connell recognized a handful of them: Brazil, Argentina, France, Iraq, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Egypt, Turkey, Australia, Russia, Columbia, Algeria. The flags lined up in regimented rows and columns, covering his entire back from below his neck down to his waist and even spreading to his upper arms.

"What are you — poster boy for the United Nations?” Veronica said.

O'Doyle laughed. “Something like that, Professor."

"Why are you stripping?” Lybrand asked, concern showing in her eyes.

"Because I won't be able to swim right across.” O'Doyle stepped out of the suit, unashamed of his nakedness. He gestured to a frothing wave curling up over a jagged rock-fall at the river's far side. “Look where the current is going. I'll probably smash up on that shoal. It'd be sure to rip the suit, and then even if we did make it across I wouldn't last long in the heat.” The KoolSuits kept them all somewhat oblivious of the scorching temperature of the cave, which now topped just over 200 degrees Fahrenheit.

"Christ,” O'Doyle said, a sheen of sweat breaking out over his body. “It's pretty fucking hot down here."

"You don't have to do this, O'Doyle,” Connell said.

O'Doyle flashed a reassuring smile. “Sure I do. We have limited supplies, Mr. Kirkland. We can't afford to backtrack."

Connell cupped his gloved hands into the river, then put his face into his hands. The water felt only a little cooler than the air.

"This water is probably 150 degrees,” Connell said. “You're not going to last long."

"Then I'll have to get across quick,” O'Doyle said.

O'Doyle gesture to Lybrand for some rope. She brought it to him, touching his hand and looking at his face. O'Doyle looked back at her with a quick, confident smile, then looked up at the rest of the party.

"I'm going to tie this around me,” he yelled, slipping into his lecturing drill-sergeant voice. He held the rope as if it were a feature of show-and-tell. “If I'm sucked downstream and I don't make it across, you need to reel me in just like a big fish."

He tied the rope tightly around his chest, threw the other end to Connell, then waded gently into the stream. He dropped with each slow step, as if descending a steep staircase, the water splashing up around his body.

Connell quickly lined everyone up on the rope. He stood closest to the water. Sanji took anchor, tying the rope around his girth.

O'Doyle looked at Connell. “You ready?” he asked. Connell nodded. The others stood rock still, eyes wide with trepidation. O'Doyle walked back to the shore. He took a deep breath, then sprinted for the water, his fat bouncing and muscles rippling. He lunged outward with a yell, feet churning the air in classic long-jumper fashion. Headlamps tracked him, his painted body illuminated brightly amidst the lightless chasm. Connell realized that O'Doyle wasn't jumping directly for the far side, but a bit upstream toward a rock that jutted out of the river like a shark's fin breaking the surface just before attack.

O'Doyle hit the water and tumbled forward, arms pumping amidst the swirling eddies. He shot downstream as soon as he splashed in, carried swiftly by the pounding current. O'Doyle tried to turn his body to catch the shark-fin rock, but he could find no purchase to brace himself. The current slammed him into the jagged stone like a bird hitting a window pane. He bounced back a bit, stunned, and rolled off the far side of the rock.

The rope slid around the rock's far side, and snapped taut in an instant, pulling the party unexpectedly toward the water. Veronica lost her footing on the wet silt and hit the ground hard. The rope yanked Sanji forward and he lost his balance, feet sliding on the slimy ground and dropping him on his ass.

The rope pulled Connell into the water, but he didn't let go. The river swirled around his shoulders. Mack splashed directly behind him, the water up to the Aussie's waist. Lybrand grunted and strained. Mack's feet slipped in the slick silt and he fell face-first into the water, splashing madly as he fought against the shallow's insistent current.

Less than four seconds after he'd jumped in, O'Doyle's life lay in the hands of Connell and Lybrand.

The current's pull on O'Doyle's weight continued to yank Connell into the river. The rough rope rapidly slid through his hands. Water swirled around his head, in his mouth, up his nose. Connell planted his feet against an invisible rock and pulled with all his strength, tilting his head back to pull in breaths that seemed to be half air, half water.

The slipping rope tore through his KoolSuit gloves and ripped into the skin of his palms and fingers. Connell screamed in pain, but squeezed harder and yanked — the slipping stopped, and the rope snapped taut once again. He grimaced with effort, refusing to let go, ignoring his burning hands. The river pulled his helmet fell from his head. The current pulled it downstream — it disappeared in an instant.

Behind him he heard Lybrand growl with effort. Primitive instincts screamed at him to let go of the rope, to get back to shore, but he ignored them. He braced his legs and pulled with all his might as his muscles howled in protest. Something in his back popped with a banjo-like twang of pain, but he ignored that as well.

Veronica stood and threw herself on the line, pulling back as hard as she could. Her strength gave Sanji a chance to recover as well; the fat man dug his heels into the dirt with a snarl of fury. He started walking backward, one strong step at a time. Coughing up water, O'Doyle grabbed the rope and began pulling himself hand over hand toward the shark-fin rock.

Connell backed up a step from his platform rock. Mack tried to stand, but again slipped and fell. His helmeted head bounced off a round rock with a splash and a dull thonk. He instantly went limp and started to float downstream. Connell left one hand on the rope and desperately reached out with his other, snagging Mack by the collar just as the current started to suck the Aussie toward the river's powerful middle. Mack's helmet stayed glued to his head.

O'Doyle reached the shark-fin rock and crawled atop it. The rope sagged. Connell let go of the rope and used both hands to pull Mack toward the shore. Lybrand rushed in and helped. Together they pulled Mack clear of the water, dropping his limp body on the damp, glistening sand. Ignoring the pain from his back and bleeding hands, Connell again picked up the rope.

O'Doyle managed to perch on top of the shark-fin rock. Water sprayed at his feet. He looked as if he were surfing the rapids. His coiled legs launched him across the stream once again. He splashed in just five feet shy of the far tunnel. He swam toward the far side with long strokes of his powerful arms. Just as he'd predicted, O'Doyle smashed into the shoal at a ferocious speed. So frightening was the impact that Connell thought surely the man would bounce off, sink and drown, but O'Doyle clung tenaciously to the rocks. The ferocious current sprayed water up and around him.

O'Doyle pulled himself along the shoal toward the far side's dark tunnel entrance. He finally pulled himself on the shore.

He secured the rope to the other side and the party crossed the river one at a time. Lybrand took O'Doyle's KoolSuit and crossed first, showing the proper method. Then the professors crossed, one at a time. Mack regained consciousness. He was groggy and weak, but was able to make it across with help from Connell.

As he stepped from the roiling water to the shore, his knee and back throbbing, Connell saw that he wasn't the only one in pain. O'Doyle hadn't put on his KoolSuit gloves — his knuckles looked like cheap hamburger. Both his palms were open and bleeding. The big man walked over to Connell.

"Lybrand told me what you did,” O'Doyle said only loud enough for Connell to hear. “Thanks.” O'Doyle offered his mangled hand in friendship and gratitude.

Connell extended his own hand, noticing that his palm — raw and bloody from the rough rope — spilled red droplets onto the wet rocks. They shook hands, ignoring the other's wounds as well as their own, their blood running together. Connell looked up into the big man's eyes, realizing this was the first time he'd ever shaken O'Doyle's hand. Connell also realized, quite suddenly, that it was the first time in years anyone offered him a hand in friendship, not as some business formality.

Lybrand bandaged their wounds. Connell replaced his torn gloves with the spare pair in his belt. O'Doyle moved the crew farther down the tunnel, until the river's rage faded to a dull roar. They found an alcove resplendent in dull brown flowstone glistening with a sheet of slowly trickling water. O'Doyle lay down and was out instantly. Sleep nabbed them one at a time, all except for Lybrand. Connell nodded off last, watching Lybrand stand over the body of her sleeping man, H&K clutched in her hand. Her eyes flicked attentively up one end of the tunnel and down the other — and at the ceiling.

Always at the ceiling.

Chapter Twenty-six

Kayla hated being away from the mountain. Anything could be happening back on that dark peak. She had to make this quick — she still had the 90-minute drive back from Milford to the EarthCore camp.

She got in on the tail end of visiting hours. That was okay, she didn't need long. Milford Valley Memorial Hospital looked clean and well run, despite its small size. Kayla approached the reception desk, behind which sat an overweight nurse with a beehive hairdo and horn-rim glasses. From the look of her she might have been working that job back in the sixties, when she would have been the epitome of fashion.

The woman — her name tag read “Alice" — looked up at Kayla, but didn't smile. “May I help you?” she asked.

"I'm here to see Angus Kool."

The woman's eyes widened slightly, then returned to normal.

"I'm sorry, but we're not allowing any visitors for Mr. Kool."

"Fine. Then let me see Randy Wright."

"He's in the same room,” the woman said. Now she smiled, forced and fake and apologetic. “Doctor's orders, you see."

Kayla reached into her purse, fingers tracing along the inside pockets, gracing over multiple IDs.

"I'm agent Harriet McGuire, FBI,” Kayla said, flipping open her ID badge. “This is a matter of national security. You will take me to that room immediately."

The beehive woman's face turned ashen. Her eyes widened, and this time they stayed that way. She looked at the badge, then back up at Kayla.

"But… but you can't, ma'am."

"Take me to that room, or you'll spend the night in jail, you got it?"

The woman's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.

"Right now,” Kayla said. “Move it, Alice."

Alice hopped out of her chair, grabbed a key from a pegboard, and moved around the desk. Her fat jiggled with each step. The woman smelled like baby powder and potato chips.

"I assure you, Agent McGuire,” Alice said as she walked quickly down the hall. “I'm only acting on orders from the doctor."

Alice turned down a left-hand hall, looked back once, then inserted the key into a door marked C-2. Just as she turned the handle, Kayla shoved the woman through the opening door. Kayla reached into her purse and drew her Steyr even before Alice hit the flecked linoleum floor with a “whuff” of surprise.

Kayla strode into the room.

Two beds, both empty.

Angus, you little prick.

Kayla looked at Alice. “When?"

"I… I don't know what you mean."

Kayla knelt and reached in the same motion, her left grabbing a handful of beehive and yanking it back. Alice opened her mouth to scream, but froze when the cold barrel of a gun slid past her teeth and rested against the back of her throat.

"Thought you'd make a little extra money, did you, you fat pig?” Kayla said, her voice the soft hiss of a coiled cobra. “Well now it's time to pay the piper. Talk to me."

Kayla slowly pulled the gun from Alice's mouth. A thin strand of saliva swung from the barrel.

"They were only here for a few hours,” Alice said in rapid-fire words. “We admitted them into this room then he told me to shut the door and he offered me ten thousand dollars to play along and told me to go get the doctor and he paid him too and I didn't think I'd get into trouble and—"

"Shut up,” Kayla said. “When did they leave?"

"A couple hours after they arrived,” Alice said. “He did something to the phone."

Kayla walked to the phone, which sat on a small table. There was no cord in the phone's jack. Kayla rolled the little table out, and found the phone cord. It ran into a small metal-and-plastic contraption no bigger than a toaster.

You little prick. You little fucking prick. You routed the calls.

"So am I in trouble?” Alice asked quietly.

"That depends, Alice. All you have to do is help me.” Alice nodded as Kayla wrote down a number on a scratch pad next to the phone. She handed it to Alice.

"If they come back, you call that number."

"That's it?"

Kayla nodded. “That's it."

"But what about…"

"What about the money? Keep it, just call me if they come back.

Alice nodded. She stood and held the scrap of paper with both hands, pressing it to her chest.

Kayla quickly walked out of the room without another word. It was all she could do to keep herself from sprinting to her Land Rover. That little prick Angus was more than she'd bargained for.

The small shovel dug into the stony ground with the sound of metal scraping against unforgiving rock. It took almost five minutes to dig a three-inch hole, barely enough to plant the Kilroy Was Here sign. The digger suppressed a giggle, wishing he could see the look on Connell's face when the sign was discovered.

He'd expected more calls from Connell, but had received only the one. Angus had spent enough money to pull this off, first bribing Cho to put on the fake bandages, then bribing a doctor and that fat nurse to seal off his room. From there it was easy. He'd set up a relay on his hospital room's phone, so that calls were automatically routed to his walkie-talkie. Of course, he was so deep in the tunnels he had no way of knowing if Connell had called in the last day or so.

Angus now knew that he wasn't the first in these tunnels. Some of the tunnels weren't even natural — they had been dug into the stone. There was a crushing disappointment of not being the first in the tunnels, but the mystery was still every bit as intriguing. Who had dug these tunnels? And how could they dig them so far beneath the surface? Angus and Randy had found no evidence of blasting, nor a shred of leftover mining equipment. The artificial tunnels looked like they'd been chipped out, like people had taken a hammer and chisel and dug away. That, of course, was impossible. The amount of time it would take to chip out a tunnel of any size — let alone the dozen or so artificial ones they'd seen thus far — would be enormous, and no one could survive that long in this heat.

The answer, they hoped, lay in the enigmatic robots Randy had dubbed “ALs,” short for “artificial life-form.” The silvery creatures lurked everywhere. The things seemed to be watching, sometimes even tracking Angus and Randy. Angus didn't know what to make of their behavior, but he knew there was only one way to see what made such clearly advanced machines tick.

AL tracks dominated this area of the caves, ubiquitous wherever a patch of dry silt covered stone. The tracks were far thicker here than anywhere else they'd seen so far. It was a veritable AL thoroughfare, which made it a perfect place to catch one.

Actually, Randy was ready to do the catching. Angus was bait. They already established that the four-legged robots reacted mostly to movement and noise, and that they kept at least a fifteen-yard cushion. Randy lay half-buried under dirt and rocks, motionless, about twenty yards down the tunnel. They'd rigged a blanket from the ceiling and hoped to use it as a net.

Angus looked at his handheld monitor. It weighed less than a pound, but gave an excellent readout with its four-inch display. The unit picked up data from the tiny, five-ounce motion sensors they'd placed about thirty yards down the tunnel. They had originally brought the motion sensors to keep tabs on EarthCore personnel. Now, however, the motion detectors proved to be invaluable for gathering observational data on the ALs.

The readout showed a scale map of the tunnels covering a one-hundred-yard diameter area. He stood at the center of that large circle. On the screen, a red dot slowly blinked on and off. Angus banged the shovel against the wall three times, letting Randy know that the AL was on its way. They didn't want to use walkie-talkies until they established the ALs’ method of communication.

Clearly, the ALs were the most advanced robots he'd ever seen. Angus theorized they wandered in a loosely programmed pattern, probably utilizing some form of fuzzy logic to maneuver through the tunnels and collect data, probably for creating detailed maps that showed the expanse of natural tunnels. Once “full,” the creatures likely returned to the surface to pass the info on to their masters.

He watched the red dot. Still blinking slowly on and off, meaning the AL sat still and unmoving. The faster the AL moved, the faster the light blinked. Angus picked up the Kilroy sign and jammed it into the hole, making as much noise as he could.

The light suddenly started flashing faster as the dot moved toward him. He slammed the small shovel against the wall with two quick hits, informing Randy the AL was coming fast. Angus held his breath. The blip moved toward him, then stopped as the light returned to a slow, steady blink.

"Angus, get down here! I got it!"

Angus sprinted down the tunnel with a rush of adrenaline, feeling oddly like some primitive cave dweller deep into the hunt. His headlamp light bobbed madly as he neared Randy and the wiggling blanket.

They'd slashed the blanket in a dozen places, hoping to entangle the AL. The strategy had worked; two of the AL's slim, squirming legs poked through the blanket, which trapped the struggling, gleaming, spherical body. They heard whines and whirs of machinery, but the AL looked very trapped.

Excitement blazed from Randy's cherubic face. “Help me bag him! Watch out for his feet, they could be sharp!"

The two men pounced on the entangled AL, wrapped it further in the blanket, then lifted the whole package and placed it in a backpack.

"Damn thing is heavy,” Angus said as they sat down and watched the bag wriggle with the AL's futile escape efforts.

Randy nodded in agreement. “That surprised me. The way they can crawl across the ceiling I guessed them to be made from some kind of aluminum alloy, something light.” They both looked at the bag, listening to the whirring sounds emanating from within.

"Well,” Randy said. “What do we do now?"

"Oh, come on,” Angus said. “You've had a biology class before, haven't you? I think it's time we had ourselves a good old-fashioned dissection."

"Professor Reeves, wake up."

The hand on her shoulder shook gently, but insistently. Sleep danced enticingly around her head, calling to her to forget the shaking and slip back into slumber. Ignoring it, however, did not make it go away. She felt the hand's gentle strength squeeze firmly, pressing for her attention.

"Professor, wake up now. We're in danger."

She batted her groggy eyes open, feeling her body's complaint against the lack of sleep, and looked up into Connell's face. He returned her look only for an instant, then his eyes flicked down the tunnel. She immediately noticed the tension in his demeanor. She also noticed that his other hand pointed a machine gun in the direction of his gaze. The gun's barrel reflected the light from his headlamp in a thin, lethal, metallic line.

She sat up slowly, wiping the sleep from her eyes with the backs of her gloved hands. That action made her face burn and tingle with needlelike pains. She had more than a few blisters on her face and head. She hoped they didn't look as bad as the puffy, peeling, painful-looking blisters on Connell's face. The others fared little better. The KoolSuits regulated overall temperature, but the prolonged heat was taking its toll on their exposed skin.

Connell wore Mack's helmet and sat on his haunches. Mack was still asleep. Veronica suspected that Mack had suffered a concussion.

"What is it?” she asked quietly, fear already clawing its way into her mind, filling the void left by fading sleep.

"It's the silverbugs again. This time there're more of them. Their behavior is making O'Doyle nervous."

The thought of that spidery silverbug sent a shiver down her spine. She didn't like the way its spindly legs and dead, metal body could move so fast, so fluidly, with the grace of a ballet dancer. She grabbed her helmet, flicked the light on, placed it on her head and looked down the tunnel at whatever held Connell's rapt attention.

What she saw almost made her scream.

A line of silverbugs stretched down the tunnel's rocky floor, one gleaming body after another, spaced about ten feet apart. They stretched as far as her light carried, extending back toward the river. She counted at least forty in her line of sight. But it wasn't the number that chilled her blood as much as their actions.

The silverbugs bobbed in rhythm; a sickening, snap-motion of the body jerking toward the ground and then instantly popping back up. The line bobbed in unison, each silverbug moving neither forward nor back, just snapping up and down in an unnatural way that made her fight-or-flight response flare like wind-fueled fire through drought-ravaged grassland.

"What the hell are they doing?” she asked, unconsciously moving a step behind Connell.

"I don't know, but we're not sticking around to find out. You help Sanji with Mack, so I can keep my gun ready. Lybrand and I need to keep our hands free in case we have to start shooting."

Veronica's eyes never left the sickening line of convulsing machines. Sanji awoke almost instantly. Mack took more effort. The Aussie's eyes were glassy and unfocussed. Sanji dragged Mack to his feet. Veronica slipped under Mack's left arm, Sanji under his right; they kept him on his unsteady feet. Their KoolSuits brushed together with rubbery squeaking noises.

She saw Lybrand standing at the back end of the tunnel, less than twenty feet from the nearest silverbug, her gun leveled at the jerking creature. Connell and O'Doyle stood behind her, conferring over the map, eyes flicking up from the tattered paper every other second to watch the strange machines.

Veronica watched Connell fold the map, stuff it in his belt and run toward her. O'Doyle stood next to Lybrand, the two of them facing down the tunnel.

"We're moving out,” Connell said, a tinge of fear tracing his voice. “We're going to go forward a hundred yards and then take a tunnel to the right. It's a steep vertical climb, but at the end it takes a sharp descent and moves us toward the Dense Mass."

"What about the silverbugs?"

"O'Doyle doesn't want them following us, giving away our location,” Connell said. He moved down the tunnel, gun pointed ahead of him, his light showing the way like a beacon in the night. She and Sanji followed as fast as they could under Mack's heavy weight.

O'Doyle stared at the bobbing line of silverbugs that stretched far down the tunnel's length. The machines’ clicks and whirs played off the rough stone walls, filling the tunnel with an echoing din.

"You ready?” he asked Lybrand.

"Yep,” she said. He wanted to look at her, even for a second, but couldn't. His training forced him to concentrate fully on the danger before him. He reminded himself she wasn't a woman now, wasn't someone he loved. She was a soldier, ready to do her job.

"Use your sidearm,” he said, pulling his Beretta and slinging his H&K with one smooth motion. “Stay low, keep your hand on my hip so I know where you are. Look back if you have to see where we're going. I won't take my eyes off them unless we have to run, so you have to let me know what's coming behind us. Once the firing starts, we won't be able to hear anything. Pat me on the left hip to go left, the right hip to go right. Watch my actions as often as possible — if I turn to run, you'd better be three steps ahead of me and booking it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Patrick,” Lybrand said, her voice cold and professional.

O'Doyle took a deep breath to steady himself. “Okay — let's see what happens."

He leveled his Beretta at the first silverbug and fired. The bullet ripped through the sphere with a spark and a pop. A smell like burning chocolate instantly filled the cave. The silverbug fell to the ground, two of its legs curling in while the other two twitched violently in random directions.

O'Doyle fired again less than a second after the first blast, but the swarm was already in full motion, scattering like enraged ants. The shot blew a leg off the second silverbug. The machine whirled and tried to run, but Lybrand's bullet hit it dead center. It fell to the floor, motionless and smoldering.

The rest of the silverbugs sprinted down the tunnel, their legs a madly flashing blur of faceted reflections. O'Doyle fired three more times, all misses. Just like that, the silverbugs were gone.

The sound of gunfire died out. O'Doyle quickly checked to see if he'd been hit by stray ricochets. He hadn't felt anything, but he'd seen stranger things during his combat days. Free of blood, he checked Lybrand.

"You all right?"

"Fine,” Lybrand said. She moved forward in a crouch toward the first fallen silverbug, its leg still madly twitching in a revolting mockery of a dying insect. O'Doyle grabbed her arm, stopping her.

"Don't go near it. We don't know if it's booby-trapped. Let's get the hell out of here.” Lybrand moved through the tunnel, her hand on O'Doyle's hip as he kept his light and his gun pointed back the way they had come.

Far away, at the edge of his light, he saw a silverbug lurking. Still moving backward, he waited for a clear shot.

Sonny McGuiness sat quietly, hidden among the rocks less than twenty-five yards from the killer's warren. She'd been gone for three hours, leaving in the direction of Milford and coming back the same way. He watched as her Land Rover drove right through the camp's remains and ground its way up the hill toward her burrow. She wasn't bothering with caution anymore. Something had changed.

The Land Rover skidded to a halt less than fifteen yards from her formerly invisible hiding spot. She got out and strode into the warren, her every move an exhibit of anger.

Adrenaline buzzed through his brain, making him feel shaky and alive. Alive. Something he wouldn't be for long if he stayed here. If he could just get a little bit of information, something the cops could use to track her down, then he could take off. He'd given up any fantasy of killing her himself. He couldn't take that psycho bitch. But he'd come this far, and now he was only a short crawl from her position.

He needed to get closer still. He had to know.

Sonny quietly moved toward her nest.

That little fucking prick Angus Kool had thrown a major monkey wrench into her plans, but he wasn't going to stop her. No way, no how. He was out here somewhere. Why else would he have set up the hospital ruse? Was he looking for a way into the tunnels, or was he in there already? Perhaps he'd sneaked back in through the adit, possibly when Kayla was sleeping. If that was the case, then he was likely dead along with the others. But she had no way of knowing for sure.

Kayla punched numbers into the Harris COMSEC unit, carefully creating a web of bounced signals and coded relays. As far as the NSA was concerned, her call would originate from a payphone in Duluth. The NSA had expert SIGINT people, but she knew a dozen tricks they had yet to learn. The ruse would only last about ten minutes, tops, but she didn't plan to be on that long.

She knew she didn't have much time. The camp's secrecy kept people from calling in — only Barbara Yakely had done so, and then only in response to one of Connell's queries. But Yakely wasn't stupid. After a day, perhaps just a bit more, Barbara would try and contact Connell. When she couldn't do so, she'd send someone out here to investigate, and when that happened, Kayla's play was over.

She hoped she could finish everything off in about ten hours. Ten hours to regain the only thing she'd ever wanted — to be an NSA agent once more. Controlling her excitement lest she make even a minor mistake, Kayla silently entered the codes into the Harris COMSEC unit. Another hour or so of programming, and she could make the call.

Veronica had thought herself in shape, and in reality she knew she was, but carrying most of Mack's weight on her shoulder — up a steep incline all the way — wore her out within twenty minutes. Connell took her place, giving her the map, then shouldering Mack with one arm while keeping his H&K at the ready with the other. Connell seemed tireless, dauntless, unstoppable. She was amazed that — amid all the horror of the caves and the silverbugs and some unknown, murderous enemy — she felt a pang of attraction for him.

Strange thoughts to have at a time like this, Professor, she chided herself. Not exactly the place or time for a Love Connection.

Every few minutes she heard a gunshot erupt from far back down the tunnel, where O'Doyle and Lybrand brought up the rear. She didn't know if they were in danger. As long as the gunshots kept ringing out, she surmised they were still in good shape.

She busied herself with the map, calling out directions. The map looked strangely familiar to her, as did the tunnels. They were very much like the Cerro Chaltel catacombs. She felt instantly at ease with the map, finding she could read it without difficulty. She led them steadily in the direction of the Dense Mass. At each turn, she paused to make an arrow out of loose rock to point the way for Lybrand and O'Doyle.

They turned a sharp corner dominated by a pendulous green stalactite. She directed Connell down a shaft on her right-hand side, then knelt to gather loose rocks to make a pointer. Connell and Sanji shuffled up the slope, practically dragging Mack. Their noise quickly faded away. She scooped small rocks into a pile.

Then something caught her eye.

She snapped her head up, fear gripping her, realizing that she was alone in the cave with no weapon should the silverbugs come. She saw nothing. She looked hard, her light flashing across the darkness, filling the cave with a faint cone of light. No movement, no flashes — nothing.

No sooner had she bent her head toward the rocks than her eye again picked up the mysterious vision. Suddenly it hit her; she reached up and snapped off her headlamp, then looked down the tunnel.

There it was, far down the tunnel, faint but unmistakable.

A light.

A light so weak it only presented itself in complete darkness, but it was there. It looked very small. She noted the tunnel narrowed gradually to only a few feet of clearance, which cut off most of the light source.

She screamed down the tunnel to her right. “Connell! Get back here now!"

Another gunshot from far behind filled the tunnel with noise. O'Doyle and Lybrand were drawing closer. Veronica crouched with her headlamp off, staring at the light. Connell's headlamp beam danced on her and the wall to her left as he ran toward her, then he was there, crouching beside her.

"Where's Sanji?” she asked, grabbing his arm.

"He's back down the tunnel with Mack. What's wrong? Why is your light off?"

In answer, she gently reached up and turned his lamp off, then pushed the side of his face to make him look down the tunnel.

"Holy shit… what's up there, according to the map?"

Veronica pulled out the paper, switched on her light and examined it. “It looks like a huge, kidney-shaped cavern. It's very big, but the map says the cavern's floor is far below our current elevation. Looks like this tunnel might lead to a cliff on the edge of that cavern."

"Is there a way down to the cavern floor?"

"I don't know. It's hard to tell on the map."

Connell stared at the faint glow. “If there's a light, someone is there. We may have found our silverbug owners."

"I can't believe the whole thing is made out of platinum,” Randy said. “This is so cool."

Angus nodded in agreement. A pair of tiny portable halogen lamps flooded the tunnel with light. The AL lay on a flat rock, its spindly legs sticking motionless into the air. Angus thought it looked very much like a dead bug. They'd found access panels all over the AL, easily opened by small catches built right into the body.

"I wish we hadn't smashed it up so bad,” Randy said, looking at the one mangled leg and the heavily dented left side of the spherical body. “We damaged the internal structure."

"Yeah, but what choice did we have?” With no suitable equipment on hand, they'd decided to use the most primitive of research techniques — smash the thing with a big rock until it stopped moving.

For the past hour they'd poked through the machine's innards. The level of technology stunned them. The legs were all hollow, thin straws of the same tough platinum alloy that made up the shell. Long strands of a fibrous black material were anchored at multiple points inside the hollow tubes. The material appeared to be some kind of artificial muscle, although the strength-to-weight ratio must have been very high to make the heavy ALs move so quickly. The first two sections of every limb were identical, each about a quarter-inch in diameter and eight inches long. The last section was actually two thinner tubes, about an eighth of an inch in diameter and, again, eight inches long. Those two tubes — they'd dubbed them “split feet" — ended with a cluster of tiny retractable hooks or claws that were too small to do any damage, but perfect for gripping any type of rough surface.

The shell itself, about seven inches in diameter, was packed full of fascinating items. The black muscle material coated the inside of the shell, obviously providing locomotion for various external gadgets whose purpose remained a mystery. Angus and Randy didn't understand even half of what they saw. Angus figured that a large blue chunk of glassine material probably served as some kind of a battery. Randy thought he identified an irregular, faceted crystalline lump as the CPU, the AL's computer brain, but it was only a guess — the structure differed from anything they'd ever seen.

About the only things they could identify were a pair of tiny pneumatic pistons mounted behind the wedge-shaped head, and a simple radio transmitter and receiver. Four thin coils of wire, possibly tiny retractable tentacles, curled up inside the wedge. They were still guessing at their purpose.

Randy's wide eyes seemed to suck in every detail of the technological miracle. “You really think it's a genuine AL and not some kind of probe?"

"It seems so,” Angus said. “The radio transmitter and receiver are both fixed on a single frequency. That's not going to travel very far down here in the tunnels, so I don't think they're remote-controlled."

"They must use the frequency to communicate with each other,” Randy said. Angus nodded. Logic dictated the numerous ALs communicated somehow; it wouldn't make sense for a bunch of them to blindly wander around, covering the same ground over and over again.

"Still think you can scramble their signal?” Randy asked.

"I think so. If we fix our walkie-talkies to that frequency and transmit static, it should screw them up pretty bad."

"It's odd that they use simple radio frequencies, don't you think?” Randy said. “I mean, look at all this advanced technology. This thing is vastly ahead of anything I've ever seen."

"Yes, but look at it in a broader light,” Angus said. “The AL is very advanced, but it's also all very simple, and therefore very easy to maintain. As long as someone isn't trying to jam it, simple radio is very reliable at short range. And the leg joints; see how each joint mechanism is identical, no matter where it is on the body? That means they only have to make one part — easy to build, easy to replace and easy to keep in stock. These tunnels hold more square mileage than all of New York City. Think of how much space that is to explore. These things may have to last several months in order to get to a deep area and return to its launching point. Whoever built them needed something simple and reliable. Hey, something just dawned on me — there's no wiring in here. How does it work with no wiring?"

"I think that's the platinum,” Randy said. “See how all the artificial muscles are affixed to the shell's interior? The platinum carries the signals from the main processor and apparently each muscle sorts the commands. The signals go all over the shell, but specific muscles only react to specific commands.

"Yes, that must be it,” Angus said. “Platinum's conductivity makes it perfect. And the fact that it doesn't corrode and isn't affected by any temperature changes you'd find down here helps, too."

Randy shook his head in amazement. “This is pure genius. No wires to corrode or break, no fuses to short out — it just sends all signals through the shell. Even if the AL shell breaks or something punches a hole through it, it can still send signals to any part of the body. Incredible."

"Boy-oh-boy is Connell going to be pissed when he sees this,” Angus said gleefully. “There must be twenty pounds of platinum in this critter."

"Who the hell could afford to make such a thing? At $850 an ounce, it would cost around $270,000 just for the shell material, let alone construction and other components."

Angus looked thoughtfully at the dead AL, his mind collecting the available information, sorting it, cataloging it. There was far more going on down here than he had ever suspected. “No one can afford that much for a simple exploratory device, not to mention there's not enough platinum around to merit this kind of a machine. At least, not up there,” he added, jerking his thumb toward the surface.

"You think someone is already mining the Dense Mass?"

"They must be. No one is going to make machines like this out of platinum unless they've got tons of it. The Dense Mass is at the center of the entire tunnel complex. So the people who made these ALs must have found the Dense Mass and already mined it, or at least a portion of it."

"But how could EarthCore not have known that?"

"Hey, I'm sure there are people out there better at subversive tactics than Mr. Big Shit Connell Kirkland. He got fucked, that's all. Somebody did a number down here."

"That doesn't make sense,” Randy said. “If they already made it to the Dense Mass and mined the platinum — which we think they had to do to build the ALs — then why would they build them?"

They both fell silent for a moment, contemplating a situation that seemed to make no logical sense.

"I don't know,” Angus said. His mind searched for possibilities. “Maybe—"

A soft beeping from the motion-tracker's monitor interrupted their thoughts. Randy picked it up off the ground — one look at the screen made him freeze up with tension.

"What is it?” Angus asked.

"I think you'd better figure out how to jam those radio signals,” Randy said quietly, handing the monitor to Angus.

At least twenty red blips slowly pulsed on the screen.

O'Doyle cursed under his breath. He didn't know how many shattered silverbug bodies he'd left in his wake, but the damn things kept popping up all over the place. He was down to his last Beretta magazine, and only five shots remained. The silverbugs had quickly learned his effective range and stayed beyond it, far enough that he missed most of the time, but still close enough to reflect the light from his headlamp. They scurried across the tunnel floor and up the walls, moving away from the light as it flashed back and forth. The collective noise of their whirs and their feet clicking on rock filled the tunnel with an eerie, constant chatter. It sounded like a million wind-up toys packed into a small steel box.

The silverbugs increased their distance even more when Lybrand started shooting — her aim proved to be far more accurate than his. He felt a surge of pride each time she pulled the trigger and another silverbug erupted with a shower of sparks and that sickening smell of burning chocolate. If they ever got out of this, they'd make a killing betting on her aim at biker bars and gun conventions.

Suddenly and without warning, the silverbugs scurried away. His light flashed back and forth across the tunnel but saw nothing; no flashes of silver, no squiggling legs… nothing. The horrible click-buzz noise vanished as well.

"Where'd they go?” Lybrand asked, her hand still firmly on his back.

"I don't know. Maybe they had enough."

"Damn good thing,” Lybrand said. “I'm down to two shots. Why didn't they attack?"

"I have no idea. There were at least a hundred of those things. They could have easily overrun us."

"Maybe they don't attack at all."

An hour ago he would have thought the idea stupid, but now he wasn't sure. “But if they don't attack, then who killed Jansson?"

She didn't answer. They remained still for a few moments, until Connell's hissed whisper called out to them.

"O'Doyle! O'Doyle, are you there?"

O'Doyle turned toward Connell's voice, seeing the dance of his headlamp along the rough tunnel wall. He moved toward Connell. Lybrand followed. They reached him in seconds.

"Are you two all right?” Connell asked.

"Yes sir, Mr. Kirkland, we're fine,” O'Doyle said.

"We found a light."

"A light?” O'Doyle was unable to hide his excitement — a light meant people. “What do you mean? What is it?"

"I don't know. It's down the tunnel. I came to get you two before we investigate."

O'Doyle nodded his approval. “Very good, Mr. Kirkland. The silverbugs appear to have given up the chase for now, so let's move before they come back.” O'Doyle ran quickly down the tunnel, Connell followed, and Lybrand brought up the rear, constantly checking behind her.

They turned at the green stalactite and almost tripped over Mack, who crouched groggily on one knee. Veronica and Sanji stood motionless in front of him. Connell immediately saw the reason for their stillness.

It sat there between them and the light, glowing a soft yellow.

A tentacle god.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Even though they'd never seen one — and to this moment not one of them thought the tentacle gods existed anywhere but in the violent religion of a dead culture — they all thought it looked rather small. It stood about three feet tall, its skin glowing yellow, a soft light emanating from the creature and illuminating the walls with dim incandescent radiance. Below the glow they could make out a pattern of stripes and spots on the rough skin.

Three thick tentacles acted as legs, supporting the thick body with tripod-like efficiency. Three more softly waving tentacles jutted out from the body's midline, alternating in position so that each tentacle was directly above the space between the tentacle “legs.” The limbs moved like agile, boneless pythons, muscle rippling under the glowing skin.

Each of the top three limbs ended with three slender tips. The tips fit together so seamlessly that, when closed, the tentacle appeared to end in one thick point. It opened and closed these tips in random fashion, which vaguely reminded Connell of someone opening and closing a fist.

Beneath the glow, Connell noticed black spots peppering the fibrous, muscular skin. Thousands of them, spread all over each tentacle and throughout the ball-shaped body, like small, polished onyx jewels embedded in the strange flesh.

The tentacle god reeked of a distinct, offensive smell — the pungent punch of dog shit and the sickeningly sweet waft of rotting fruit: perhaps apples or strawberries.

Connell felt stunned, as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. Nothing in his experience could have prepared him for this moment. He stared at the creature for several minutes, incapable of speech. The others acted no different.

The tentacle god, just stood there, tentacles waving softly.

O'Doyle finally ended the mental standoff, raising his Beretta and pointing it at the tentacle god. Connell suddenly broke his paralysis and, grabbing O'Doyle's arm, pushed the gun away from the creature.

"Don't shoot it! We don't know what it is."

O'Doyle stared back at his boss with a cold, heartless gaze. “We know exactly what it is,” he said. “We all saw those carvings in the Picture Cavern. We know what these things do to people."

Connell felt a chill brace his body, despite the KoolSuit's constant comfort, as the havoc-laden images ran through his head. He looked back at the tentacle god, still glowing an inviting yellow. For some reason the small, graceful creature, which couldn't have weighed more than sixty pounds, didn't look capable of carving up a human.

"What do you think, Veronica?” Connell asked quietly, eyes fixed on the creature.

Before she could answer, their headlamps caught movement far up the tunnel wall, almost to the ceiling. A pair of white tentacles slid out of a crack no more than six inches wide, accompanied by a hissing sound of dead leaves blowing over concrete. Everyone inadvertently took a step back. O'Doyle's gun came back up and pointed at the new creature; Connell laid a hand on O'Doyle's arm, but didn't try to sway the big man's aim. No one even breathed.

The creature slid out of the crack like pudding pushed through a strainer, its body swelling as it left the confines of stone until it reached the same size as the first tentacle god. The new one didn't glow yellow, didn't glow at all, and they could clearly make out the pattern of black-and-gray spots and stripes on white skin. The second creature gracefully lowered itself to the ground and moved to stand a few feet in front of the first. Two of the new creature's tentacles hung like beached seaweed: shriveled, limp, and black.

"Oh my God,” Veronica said quietly, shrinking back against Connell as a third creature slid from the crack in the wall. This one moved quickly to the original creature — which still glowed a soft yellow — and pulled it back down the tunnel. Connell observed that the first creature didn't move gracefully and smoothly like the two that had poured from the wall. The first creature moved clumsily, haltingly, as if it were about to fall on its face at any second.

"They look kind of like an octopus,” Mack murmured from his delirium, looking up at the creatures from his spot on the ground. “Rock octopuses."

The creature with the two blackened, limp tentacles stood before them. Connell saw some of the onyx spots shrink back into the body, only to pop up again. The spots alternated this action — there were hundreds of them, some shrinking back while others stayed visible, like twinkling stars in a clear night sky.

After a few seconds of looking, the creature thrust one tentacle into the air. O'Doyle pulled back the hammer on his Beretta. Lybrand did the same.

Its raised tentacle suddenly pulsed three times with a bright light, the pulses starting at the body, moving up to the end, then disappearing, a whump whump whump of yellow. The creature lowered its tentacle back down. It stood motionless. The other two creatures stood about ten feet farther down the tunnel toward the unknown light. Neither of them moved.

No one spoke for several moments. The cave filled with a surreal stillness until Lybrand finally broke the silence.

"What the fuck is it doing?"

"It looks like it's waiting,” Sanji said.

"Waiting for what?” Lybrand asked. As if in reply, the creature again thrust its tentacle into the air, let off a whump whump whump of yellow light, then lowered the limb. This time it added a quick, high-pitched screech, as if to punctuate the light show. Everyone jumped slightly at the unexpected noise. It reminded Connell of a basketball shoe squeaking on a gym floor.

"Let's just shoot this fucking thing and be done with it,” O'Doyle growled. “This must be what killed Jansson."

"Rock octopus,” Mack said, sounding groggy and delirious. “Rocktopi. Anybody got any aspirin?"

"Don't shoot it!” Sanji said. “I think it's trying to communicate with us.” He slowly lowered his helmet and turned off the light. He raised his arm and laid the headlamp against his bicep, pointing it toward the ceiling. He then quickly turned it on and off three times, the light brightly illuminating his KoolSuit. With a shock, Connell suddenly realized the creature's flashing yellow was exactly the same shade as their KoolSuits.

The creature reacted quickly to Sanji's message, waving its good tentacle and spinning in an impossibly fluid, graceful circle, as if dancing, its whole body flashing bright yellow. Sanji stepped forward from the group, repeating the tentacle god's motion as best he could. No one said a word, just simply stared at the unfathomable scene.

The creature cavorted through a series of antics: it rushed up the side of the wall, amorphous body conforming to the wall's shape; it shot its good tentacle like a pseudopod and clung to the eight-foot ceiling; it pulsed with bright blues and greens to accompany the original yellow. The other two creatures remained down the hall, one frolicking along with Sanji. The other, the first creature they'd seen, wobbled from side to side, moving slowly, tentacles waving. The motion reminded Connell of something, something strangely human and familiar, but he couldn't tell what it was.

Sanji mimicked the lead tentacle god as best he could, already growing short of breath from the unexpected exertion. Lybrand leaned her head forward, as if moving a foot closer would give her some insight.

"I don't think that's language,” she said. “It's playing, like a child."

A flicker of movement caught their eye, high up on the wall, in the crack that had spawned the second two tentacle gods. Another tentacle slid through, but this one was bigger. Much bigger. Only the tip fit through the crack, the three-fingered end splitting and feeling around the inside edges of the tunnel like a trio of searching snakes.

Sanji's dance partner pulsed a bright purple, then ran up the wall and started tugging on one of the “fingers,” hanging and swinging from it as if it were a jungle vine.

"Veronica,” Connell said quietly. “What's on the other side of that wall?"

She held the map with shaking hands. “It looks like that wall is fairly thin, and there's another tunnel on the other side."

A deafening screech filled the tunnel, much louder and deeper than that made by the small tentacle god. It sounded as if a semi had locked up its brakes and skidded across an open highway. Everyone jumped at the horrid sound; the cacophonous bellowing seemed to shake the very ground.

The six humans stood stock-still. The thick, gray-and-black spotted tentacle finally found purchase on the smaller creature and pulled it quickly, but gently, into the crack. The crippled tentacle god squished into the crack like a purple dollop of goo, entering the wall as its boneless body conformed to the narrow, rocky crevice.

"Is there a connecting tunnel between this one and that one?” O'Doyle asked. His voice sounded urgent, aggressive yet full of dread.

"I don't see one,” Veronica said. Her eyes constantly flashed from the map back up to the wall.

The big, mottled tentacle again lolled through the crack, the three boneless fingers waving like the snake-hair of Medusa. Connell couldn't see the body through the narrow crack, and wasn't sure if he wanted to.

As the large tentacle-fingers waved about, the two small tentacle gods moved toward it. The first creature they'd seen moved slowly and in an unsure manner, guided by the other, which was graceful and quick. Both pulsed a warm purple, although the original's light looked fainter and thinner.

It was the uncoordinated walk that brought Connell's impressions into focus. Dimwitted, he thought, staring at the slowly moving original tentacle god. It's retarded or something.

"I don't like the looks of this,” O'Doyle said. “It seems like the adult is pulling the children away from danger."

The python-like tentacle first pulled the dimwitted creature through, then popped back out and grabbed the other. Neither creature fought, and in an instant they were gone, pulled through the crack like jiggling Jell-O.

"Did you see that fucking tentacle?” Lybrand said in a rushed voice. “It was huge. That thing must be ten feet tall."

Connell tried to imagine one of the three-foot tall creatures growing to monstrous size, but the picture wouldn't register in his brain.

"They have no bones,” Sanji said. “They go right through the wall, they have no bones."

The crack seemed like a mouth smiling at an inside joke to which Connell wasn't privy.

A repetitive click click click sound filled the narrow tunnel. Five headlamps snapped rigidly to attention, pointing back down the tunnel like a sweep of Broadway spots swinging toward center stage. As a group, they peeked around the green stalactite corner.

Brightly reflecting the headlamps sat a string of jerking silverbugs, convulsing in rhythm, snapping toward the ground with sickly speed and then slowly rising back up, only to snap down again. Lights played up the length of the tunnel — silverbugs stretched as far as the headlamp light traveled.

The lights didn't reveal just the silverbugs, but something else as well, something unrecognizable. All eyes tried to focus at the back of the tunnel, at the far end of the light's long but weak reach. The back of the tunnel seemed to move, to flow, to convulse.

O'Doyle hurriedly holstered his Beretta and in a flash whipped his H&K into firing position, bracing his legs as if to fight the impact of an oncoming train.

"Run!” he screamed over the clamoring silverbug sounds. “Get to the light, right now!"

Connell and the others paused for only a moment, for the briefest fraction of a second, until their eyes focused on the horror that swept down the tunnel like a wall of bile. They turned and sprinted for the light.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Randy Wright felt very much like a worm on a hook.

"Nothing. Keep scanning,” he shouted up the tunnel. He walked slowly, fear visible on his body as if his KoolSuit were woven from the emotion. He didn't like the way the ALs tracked his movements, adjusting themselves to keep their wedge-shaped protrusions pointed in his direction as he walked back and forth through the stone passage.

"It's probably a low frequency,” Angus said called back. “Better to travel through the tunnels that way.” He was still in the small cavern, where they had dissected the silverbug, tinkering with the radio and trying to find a way to scramble the machines’ signals.

"I don't really care about theory right now,” Randy said. “Just find it.” The ALs tracked his every step. While one AL fascinated him, more than twenty clinging to the walls and the ceiling sent a primitive survival urge tickling through his loins.

Suddenly the ALs’ behavior changed. Randy felt his skin bubble up with goosebumps as the machines rushed to form a straight line on the tunnel floor. They started to bob in a coordinated, herky-jerk fashion. Something about the movement looked insectlike… predatory. Randy fought a sudden urge to run.

"Angus, you'd better get that figured out quick. They're up to something and I don't like it."

Then, just as suddenly as they'd started bobbing, the ALs broke ranks and moved randomly, walking in circles and bumping into each other.

Randy screamed back up the tunnel to Angus. “That's it! That's screwing them up royally!"

"I knew it,” Angus shouted back. “Get over here."

Randy ran up the tunnel to where Angus sat with the dissected AL. A sharp crackling, hissing sound filled the air. Angus's walkie-talkie looked as if someone had smashed it, leaving wires exposed and circuit boards scattered about the sandy ground.

"Frequency is at 300 kilohertz,” Angus said smiling. “I just rigged the radio to broadcast rapidly alternating blasts of static and coding from our scrambling signal. It should really mess up their communication. What are they doing?"

"They're wandering all over, bumping into each other. They look drunk."

"You see?” Angus said. “They are artificial life forms! They use communication with each other to help navigate, like a moving network. They act like a communal life form, like an insect hive."

Randy stared at the electronic mess that was once a walkie-talkie. “We can't exactly carry that pile of junk around with us."

"Of course not,” Angus said. “I had to fiddle a bit to find out what signal would be best. Give me yours and I'll modify it."

"Will we still be able to send and receive after you modify it?” Randy asked.

"No, I have to hard-wire the scrambler to the circuit board,” Angus said. “The signal has to stay on, we can't switch back and forth."

"Then what the heck happens if we need the radio?"

Angus looked irritated. “Would you rather have ALs following us around?"

Randy handed over his walkie-talkie. Better to be incommunicado than to see that sickening AL conga line again. The silvery machines continued to wander about aimlessly.

"What do we do now?” Randy asked.

"Well, let's turn this off and stay very still and see what happens,” Angus said. Almost as soon as he switched off the modified radio, the ALs moved swiftly out of sight down the tunnel.

"Look at the map and see where they're going."

Angus tapped keys on the tiny monitor and his 3-D map flared to full-color life. The map's quality and detail still amazed Randy — it made EarthCore's “official” map look paltry by comparison. The computerized version could spin and rotate three-dimensionally to show any heading. Angus hadn't wanted to give Connell this version of the map because it clearly showed tunnels, depth and direction. It made traversing the complex easy, much easier than it would be for the mining team. Angus had rationalized, and Randy had agreed, that to stay out of sight and keep one step ahead of Connell they needed a big edge. The map provided that edge.

Angus tapped a few buttons, allowing the screen to encompass a larger view of the map. The flashing red dots blinked at the edge and then were gone, out of range of the motion sensors, but not before Randy noted their direction.

"They're heading for that big kidney-shaped cavern, about 350 yards from here,” Randy said. “That's the biggest cavern in the complex, except for the one surrounding the Dense Mass."

"Let's go check it out. We're getting a thumper update in fifteen minutes. We'll have to stop for that, but we could be at the big cavern before the update."

Angus switched on the sliverbug scrambler. He and Randy headed for the big cavern, the modified radio squeaking static all the way.

Connell never had time to consider himself cowardly. He ignored the flaring pain in his back and knee and helped Sanji lift Mack off the ground. They tossed the semidelirious Aussie over Sanji's shoulder like a roll of wet shag carpet. Connell held the H&K tightly, shuffling backwards up the tunnel, following Veronica and the lumbering Sanji toward the unknown light.

O'Doyle let loose on full automatic, filling the tunnel with the weapon's explosive report. Pain-filled screams riddled the air, not the screams of humans, but the impossible rubber-on-asphalt screeching of the things. Connell never heard such noises before, not even in nightmares, but knew without question they were cries of agony. He suffered an urge to jam his fingers into his ears to block the soul-numbing sound, but he kept both hands locked on the H&K with sweaty, white-knuckled intensity.

The strange light rapidly grew brighter as he sprinted forward, while at the same time the cavern narrowed like a funnel as the ceiling lowered past five feet high. He heard more automatic fire and more screeching, but didn't bother to look back. He cared only about getting away. He scrambled forward, hunched over as the jagged ceiling dropped below four feet. The light spread and brightened, looking suspiciously like afternoon sunbeams crawling across the floor of a shaded room. He found himself wishing, passionately praying, that it was indeed sunshine, even though he knew that was an impossibility.

The ceiling continued to slant down, forcing Veronica to her hands and knees. Sanji soon fell to his belly. He set Mack down and urged him to crawl forward.

Connell looked back down the tunnel — he could see the staccato shadows of Lybrand and O'Doyle, briefly illuminated in each roaring burst of gunfire. Connell turned his attention back toward the light, crawling forward, following Sanji and Veronica and Mack through the funnel's small opening.

Once through, the tunnel opened up again with a good seven feet of clearance. Up ahead the light source seemed to reveal itself; the tunnel ended in… sky? No, it couldn't be sky. The gunfire barked behind him, drawing closer with each burst.

Mack lay on the ground just inside the funnel opening, holding his head and moaning softly. About twenty feet ahead, Veronica and Sanji suddenly stopped short of the tunnel's end. Connell quickly caught up to the professors — and stared out at an impossibility. A cavern the size of a massive domed stadium sprawled before them, lit up as brightly as if the sun itself had squeezed through the narrow caves and taken up residence. The light held a strange blue tinge that seemed to cast a dull pallor on everything. Connell looked to the cavern's ceiling, but had to shield his eyes against the brightness — it was so bright he couldn't stare at it; it might as well have been the sun. Instead, he looked outward and took in a cavern floor filled with strange, clumpy orange trees and endless regimented rows of multicolored plants. A glistening river meandered through the fields.

Farmland.

Connell looked downward. A feeling of absolute doom swept over him. He gently pushed past Veronica and Sanji, who numbly stood by, their bodies radiating an aura of defeat.

Connell walked forward until his booted toes hung over the cliff's sharp edge. He leaned forward enough to look down the jagged, vertical stone face — at least a two-hundred-foot drop loomed between him and the distant cavern floor.

Gunfire erupted close behind him, breaking his funk and forcing his attention back to danger pouring down the tunnel.

"Sanji, drag Mack to the edge,” Connell said as he ran back to the funnel and looked through the narrow opening. He saw Lybrand crawl about ten feet past a crouching O'Doyle, who fired short bursts down the tunnel. She rolled to her back and fired down the length of her body toward the flashing, onrushing mass as O'Doyle scrambled past her and worked his big body through the narrow opening. He turned and poured gunfire down the tunnel toward the nightmare, covering Lybrand as she also squirmed through. She cleared the opening, giving Connell a clear view down the passage.

He couldn't count all the rocktopi; the narrow tunnel allowed only a few at a time. How many didn't really matter — every time one fell, another spilled over the top of the fallen creature, tentacles waving, body glowing in angry oranges and bloodreds. They filled the tunnel, pushing forward like brackish water rushing up a rusted pipe. Their pungent dog-shit aroma clung to Connell's nostrils, combining with the harsh richness of gunpowder. The angry tentacle gods’ crescent-shaped knives glinted with evil flashes, reflecting the headlamps’ glow. Their rough skin scraped against the rock with the raspy sound of a million paper-dry leaves.

Grunting and panting, O'Doyle stood as Lybrand fired another volley into the onrushing rocktopi, now only twenty yards away. He looked up at Connell, who clicked the safety off his weapon, but kept it pointed to the ground.

O'Doyle looked at him as if he were stupid. “What the fuck are you doing? Run!"

"There's nowhere to run, this ends in a cliff!"

"Well then get the gear out and scale down it, goddammit, we're out of time!” O'Doyle squeezed off a burst as Lybrand popped a fresh magazine into her weapon.

"We'd never make it,” Connell said. “The cliff is huge!” He dropped to one knee and raised his gun. Held the stock firmly to his shoulder and looked down the barrel with one eye as O'Doyle had instructed him. The rocktopi pressed closer, filling the narrowing funnel. They were less than fifteen yards away and moving fast. Connell squeezed the trigger; the kick of the gun and the noise of the shot shocked him, catching him off guard. He fell back a bit, then caught his balance, leaned forward and fired several times. The weapon responded, hurtling burning lead down the tunnel toward the pulsing rocktopi.

Something gray flashed in his cone of light — a rock smashed into the ground in front of him. It bounced past, kicking up a small cloud of fine dust. Connell fired twice more and saw one of the rocktopi fall, tentacles flailing in a seemingly painful death. He didn't have time to enjoy his little victory — another creature swarmed over the fallen body and continued the charge. A hand tapped him on the shoulder. As if he'd been told what to do, Connell turned and ran for the cliff while Lybrand fired until her weapon clicked on empty.

Connell didn't have far to go before he and O'Doyle stood only feet from Sanji, Veronica, Mack and the cliff's edge. O'Doyle moved quickly forward and looked over the edge of the cliff. He turned with a grave expression on his face.

"Lybrand, give Sanji your Beretta,” O'Doyle said as he handed Veronica his own sidearm, then took a step toward the funnel. He knelt in front of them, raising his weapon to his shoulder and pointing it toward the sickening mass of pulsating rocktopi that rushed up the narrow funnel like demons being birthed from Hell's womb. “Kirkland, give Lybrand your extra ammo."

Connell handed Lybrand the magazine, then knelt next to O'Doyle. Lybrand stood tall behind Connell and O'Doyle, weapon at the ready. The first rocktopi pushed through the funnel, stood tall on tripod tentacles, and strode forward as the second and third horrors oozed forth like toothpaste squeezed from a much-used tube. These were different from the young tentacle gods — these were thick and strong, agile and aggressive, wielding wicked curved blades instead of dancing with playful innocence.

They had only seconds to live, yet O'Doyle calmly barked definitive orders.

"Kirkland, switch to automatic, but use short bursts. Reeves and Haak, use your weapon only if they close on us, and don't fire until you can put the gun right up to the body. We only get one chance at this, people!"

"Fire!"

The glowing creatures has closed to ten yards when three Heckler & Koch HK416s on full automatic ripped the tunnel air and pounded bullets into their muscular, boneless bodies. Warm streamers of thick fluid squirted like gooey rain, splattering Connell's face as he squeezed off volley after volley. In the deafening, close confines of the tunnel, the rocktopi attack disintegrated under the concentrated fire of Lybrand, O'Doyle, and Connell.

Suddenly and without warning, the charge became a retreat. The remaining rocktopi poured back into the funnel, moving with terrifying speed on their thick tentacle legs, squishing through the opening not as individuals, but as a bulging mass of flashing flesh. Just like that, the attack ceased.

Dead, wounded, and dying rocktopi littered the sandy ground, spurting thick, oily, purple fluid in all directions. Some lay still, some shuddered as if caught in a freezing wind, still others reached their long tentacles toward the funnel, pulling themselves slowly forward inch by agonizing inch. Even in an unknown creature, Connell recognized the obvious struggles of wounded desperately grasping for escape.

O'Doyle stood, switched his weapon back to single-shot and silently handed it to Sanji. The big soldier took his Beretta back from Veronica and drew his K-Bar knife. O'Doyle wiped thick streamers of goo from his face and flung the mess to the ground.

His eyes bore the remorseless look of a cold-blooded killer. He looked back at Lybrand. “You ready?"

She slung her weapon, grabbed her Beretta back from Sanji and drew her own knife. Together the two warriors stepped past Connell. He remained kneeling, body taut and rigid, hands clutching his H&K as if he intended to hold the weapon tight for all eternity.

Lybrand looked at O'Doyle and nodded. Connell watched in detached amazement as the pair stepped forward and began hacking into the still-moving rocktopi. Strong, overhanded thrusts dug the blades deep into mottled white bodies, bodies that now shone only with the faintest of light. Again and again Lybrand and O'Doyle raised the knives, blades still dripping with the life juices of the last victim, and brought them down fast and hard into another soft body. Tentacles spasmed horrifically with each thrust. A thick smell, like that of rotting meat, filled the cave and the cliff.

Sanji lost his lunch with a guttural sound. Crippled rocktopi squirmed weakly, trying to get back to the tunnel mouth, searching for escape. Death squeals, like a million sets of fingernails on a million chalkboards, filled the cavern, making Connell wince with pity despite their inhuman source.

Within thirty seconds the two soldiers had finished the nasty business and walked back to the others. Weariness, mental and physical, slammed into Connell like a swinging hammer. He fell to his ass and stared blindly off into space, a thin string of viscous purple fluid dripping from his face onto his chest.

Chapter Twenty-nine

For two scientific minds accustomed to the controlled environments of a lab or the dangers of well-planned thrill-seeking, this was almost too much to handle. Perhaps for the first time since their respective childhoods, Randy Wright and Angus Kool didn't know what to think. They perched, well hidden, at the end of their tunnel, looking out into a sight that warped their notions of reality.

"What the fuck are those?” whispered a wide-eyed Angus, who rigidly crouched behind a boulder. “How did all this get here? And did you hear gunfire?"

Randy also hid behind the boulder. “I'm not sure, it sounded faint. It might have been shooting."

They stared out into a massive, kidney-shaped cavern, taken aback by its breadth and complexity. The walls arched high overhead until they met at the center, but the zenith couldn't be seen due to the blazing light that illuminated the cavern with a strange, bluish hue. The cavern stretched away so far they couldn't make out details at the far end. Acre upon acre of never-before-seen plants grew in orderly rows on the cavern floor. Near the cavern's center squatted a small village of dilapidated stone buildings, crumbling like the ruins of some ancient Aztec temple.

Far more captivating than the cavern, the crops, or the buildings were the apparent “villagers.” Randy and Angus started in jaw-hanging amazement at the creatures’ soft bodies and long, flowing tentacles. They pulsated with patterns of colored light. Their movements looked odd and yet graceful, almost fluid — like a jellyfish coursing effortlessly through deep ocean waters. Some towered a good ten feet from top to tentacle toes. Others were only a few feet high and stumbled around like uncoordinated one-year-olds struggling to walk for the first time.

The creatures moved softly about the cavern, occasionally piping up with a screech reminiscent of a diamond saw slicing through a core sample. The ceiling's blue light cast tiny reflections off thousands of spherical AL bodies — the robots littered the ground and walls. At a distance they looked very much like countless flashing ants scurrying about their hill. Hundreds of tunnel entrances pockmarked the arcing walls; most entrances rested at ground level but some sat as high as two or three hundred feet.

"What the fuck is this place?” Angus whispered.

Randy didn't answer. He stared out at the gargantuan cavern's honeycombed walls, his mind frantically trying to put the pieces together. According to the map, this place was one of the biggest spaces in the complex, second only to the cavern surrounding the Dense Mass. He hadn't known what he'd find, but impossibly strange creatures and echoing reports of gunfire wasn't what he'd expected, to say the least.

"Angus, Check your Marco/Polo unit. That gunfire had to be from EarthCore personnel."

Angus pulled the small unit from his belt and slid to the sandy ground, his back against the boulder, completely out of sight from anyone — or anything — inside the cavern. The Marco-unit beeped softly with a low-pitched sound, then again with six high-pitched beeps. His eyes narrowed with anger.

"Dammit,” Angus said. “I can't believe it."

"What? Who is it?"

"I'm picking up signals from Mack, Dr. Reeves, Dr. Haak, Lybrand, O'Doyle, and Mr. Big Shit Connell Kirkland himself,” Angus said. “What the hell is going on?"

"We heard gunfire, so something must be very wrong.” Randy said. “Where are they?"

"About two hundred feet up the side at ten o'clock if you face the little village."

"How's everyone's vitals?"

Angus tweaked the knobs, switching quickly through readings for each person. “Everyone's pulse is absolutely racing, except for O'Doyle, he looks normal. Temperature is okay, alpha waves are through the roof, but they appear to be coming down. Hold on… Mack doesn't look good at all. His Alpha waves are down and his blood pressure is low. I'd guess he needs a doctor and soon."

"High Alphas and fast pulse; sounds like they were in a fight."

Angus looked up at Randy. As if the same thought simultaneously flashed through their minds, they slowly peeked over the boulder and into the cavern. Although almost four hundred yards away, they saw hundreds of ALs forming a long, distinct line. One end of the line ended inside the village. The line's other end stretched off into a tunnel entrance at the cavern's edge. Speck-small at this distance, the ALs’ reflections flashed in a rhythmic, repetitive pattern.

Randy pulled his pocket binoculars from his belt and stared at the scene. “The ALs are doing that jerking thing we saw earlier. I wish I knew what the hell that meant."

As if to answer his question, a mass of orange-flashing bodies and angrily waving tentacles emerged from the crumbling stone buildings. Moving quickly, the aggressive-looking creatures followed the bobbing AL line. Halfway to the cavern's edge, they stopped.

He focused in, staring at the metal objects clutched in the creature's tentacles. He felt a spike of fear drill though his chest — the metal objects were long, curved knives.

He looked to the right. His stomach churned with revulsion at the sight; a swarm of ALs, perhaps a thousand strong, moved across the ground like a pile of living, squirming, twitching metal balls. Like an army of cartoon ants pilfering a picnic basket, they carried what looked to be sheets of steel. The ALs delivered their strange cargo to the glowing, waving creatures, which quickly formed orderly lines and moved toward the cavern's edge.

"We need to get the fuck out of here and back to the surface,” Angus said. “And I mean pronto."

Randy nodded his head in zombie-like fashion, clinging to Angus's words. Angus would get them out. Angus ate danger for lunch. Angus would know what to do.

"It's 11:21,” Angus said. “The thumper should be updating. We can send out a message."

Angus handed Randy the Marco unit and pulled out his hand-held computer. “Okay. We've got five minutes until the thumpers turn off,” he said. “I'll tell the thumpers to stay on for the next six hours and broadcast a constant SOS."

"Which one?"

"Well, I didn't happen to program a message for Hostile Tentacle-Creatures, but situation number fourteen seems to be the best. Situation fourteen is that we've encountered armed and dangerous claim jumpers. That will get the authorities out here on the double. The surface should be crawling with SWAT teams and Utah State Troopers inside thirty minutes."

Randy busied himself setting up the portable thumper used to send the message to the surface units. He wondered just what the State Police could do about a race of aggressive subterranean creatures.

Angus pulled the small receiver unit from his belt, pushed the collapsible stand into a crack in the rock, then plugged the whole unit into his handheld computer. A blank bar appeared on the screen. He watched the bar fill up, indicating the receiver unit's progress in processing seismic information sent from the thumpers up on the surface.

Randy finished setting up the small, portable thumper and set it to broadcast situation number fourteen. The unit's small hammer pounded into the ground with a rapid, complex dance. The two scientists winced with every thud. Randy knew it only sounded loud because he was right on top of it, but thoughts of AL hordes and knife-wielding creatures hung foremost in their minds. After only a few seconds, the thumper fell quiet. Randy quickly broke it down and stashed it back in his pack.

Randy paused, an idea filtering through his jumbled emotions. He grabbed the handheld monitor from Angus and called up the tunnel map, studying it carefully. An orange dot marked the position of the other EarthCore personnel.

"That tunnel the glowing creatures went into. It's part of a series that may lead to Connell and the others. The creatures might be going after them. We have to do something.” Randy looked at Angus, hoping he would know the best way to help the others.

"Screw that,” Angus said in a hiss. “We need to hightail it out of here. Let them fend for themselves!"

Randy stared at his friend. He knew Angus was selfish and self-centered, sure, but this was too much. There were people in danger, lives at stake, for goodness sake.

"Come on, Angus,” Randy said, not sure if his friend was serious. “We can't leave them to die. We'll be as careful as we can, but we have to go after them."

Angus's face clouded with anger. The look took Randy aback. For the first time, he felt afraid of his friend, felt like something dark and dangerous lurked inside Angus's talented brain. Randy waited as Angus seemed to turn the situation over in his mind.

"All right,” Angus said finally. “We'll go after them and help if we can, but if we can't then we take care of Numero Uno and get the fuck out of Dodge, understand?"

Randy nodded. They quietly finished packing up and slid back into the tunnel, using the map to find an alternate route to Connell and the others.

On the surface, the thumpers’ sensitive seismic sensors picked up the tiny repetitive throbbing from below. All six of the thumpers processed the message, read the instructions contained within, and accessed their data banks for the proper action.

As a unit, they beamed a synch signal to cue up their efforts, and began broadcasting the preprogrammed Situation Report No. 14 on all radio frequencies.

After three rings, a groggy-voiced André Vogel answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"André, did I wake you?"

"Who the hell is this?"

"Come on, you don't recognize my voice?"

There was a brief pause. Kayla smiled maliciously, trying to picture the look on his face.

"Kayla Meyers. I don't believe it. Using restricted access codes is a federal offense, Meyers."

Kayla's anger bubbled just from the sound of his voice, but she stayed calm. “I know that,” she said. “I've got a matter of national importance, so please, hear me out. I only need two minutes.” Kayla paused, waiting for André to make his decision.

André Vogel came up through the ranks of the NSA, starting out as a computer analyst, eventually moving into the field and finally earning the powerful role of NSA director. Vogel answered to only one person: the Secretary of Defense.

"You've got a lot of balls calling me, Meyers,” Vogel said. “But then you always did have balls. Since this is the only chance you're going to get, go ahead."

"I've found something that will make your career."

"And that is?"

"I'm afraid it's not that easy, André,” Kayla said, trying hard to keep her tone respectful. “There are conditions."

"Well, give me an idea of what this wondrous piece of information is and we'll haggle over a price,” Vogel said. “I can't believe you wouldn't go through normal freelance channels on this."

"It's not about the Middle East or any of that penny-ante bullshit. This is the biggest thing you've ever heard of."

"And what's this going to cost me? Your usual price?"

"It's different now,” Kayla said smoothly. “This is big, beyond anything we've seen before. This time it's more than money."

"Oh, sounds like something juicy. Get to the point, Meyers, you're wasting my time. What's your damn price?"

"The price is, I want back in."

"Back in what?"

Kayla looked at the handset as if it were stupid. She put the handset back to her ear and took a deep breath, internally counting to ten. “I want my life back. I want to be reinstated to the NSA."

Vogel's laugh sounded loud, harsh and sharp; the laugh of the in-crowd ridiculing an outsider. “You've got to be kidding me! You're a psycho. I saw what you did to those children, remember? You're lucky I got them to let you go instead of doing away with you permanently. The NSA will never let you back in. I don't care if you have blackmail pictures of the President buggering a sheep."

Kayla fought back her rising anger. “Hear me out. I've discovered a new species."

Vogel made no comment for a few seconds, then said, “A new species of what?"

"I don't know,” Kayla said. “It's something no one has ever seen before. This species is intelligent, as smart as man, and very dangerous."

"You're shitting me. You've found another intelligent species? What, like a monkey or something?"

"No, nothing like that. It's completely different. I told you, as smart as man. No one has ever seen anything like it. It's dangerous, definitely a threat to national security and the lives of Americans. It's the Holy Grail for you, André, something you can take straight to the Secretary of Defense and the President himself."

Another brief pause. “Tell me more, Kayla.” She heard a difference in his voice. The dismissive, insulting tone had vanished, replaced by the tone of a man hungry for power.

"No,” Kayla said. “Nothing more. You know damn well I wouldn't come to you with this unless it was the real deal. Do you believe that?"

"Yes,” Vogel said. “Yes, I believe you."

"Good. I'm telling you this is the find you've always wanted. And to get it, to be the man who brings it to the president, I need a full reinstatement. You wipe my record clean. I want it on paper, and I want it ironclad. Once I have that, and I've put copies in the right places in case you go back on your word or in case anything unfortunate happens to me, I'll give you all the location and all the information I have."

"You show me one of your new species and you've got a deal."

Kayla started to speak, then stopped, the words dying on her tongue. André wanted proof. But the adit and the elevator shaft were sealed up with millions of pounds of rock. She'd already checked the camp's ruins, and found no trace of the creatures.

The COMSEC unit's soft beep drew her attention. It had just completed its periodic frequency sweep and isolated a clear transmission signal. She stared blankly at the unit, checking the readout and not believing what she saw.

"Well?” Vogel said. “What's the matter, Kayla? You can't get me proof?"

"I'll get you your evidence, but we're running out of time. You get those reinstatement papers drawn up and be ready to move when and where I tell you."

"Kayla, you have—"

She broke the connection, roughly throwing the handset down and pouncing on the COMSEC unit like a predator. She checked the readout.

"Angus, you little prick,” she whispered in a voice thick with malice and murder. “You dirty, little motherfuckers."

She rummaged through her gear bag and found the portable SIGINT unit. She picked up the H&K and stomped off toward the camp's ruins, a scowl emblazoned on her hateful face.

O'Doyle allowed himself a brief rest and pondered their tactical situation. It wasn't good. He'd taken a look over the cliff's edge and found Connell's assessment correct; it would take an experienced climber forty minutes to descend that face. Inexperienced climbers could probably make the trip much faster, but be a bit worse for the wear after they hit the ground at terminal velocity. Dr. Reeves had climbing experience and said she could take the cliff face with ease. Dr. Haak also had experience, but hadn't done any climbing in twenty years.

O'Doyle looked up as Mack walked toward him, moving slowly like a rickety, fragile old man. “How you feeling, Mack?"

"It's not so bad. The look on his face clearly showed the lie. “I'm… I'm sorry about what happened at the river."

"Don't sweat it. We all made it across and that's what counts."

"Still, I feel like I let everyone down. I know I'm not in good shape right now, but what can I do to help?"

O'Doyle thought for a moment. He didn't want to give Mack any serious responsibility, and he sure as hell wasn't going to give him a firearm, not in his condition. He could barely walk on his own. “It would help if you went over and kept watch down the tunnel. We can't afford to let anything sneak up on us."

The Aussie nodded gently. “Sure thing, mate.” He walked — slowly — to the funnel.

Mack was in no condition to climb. He'd have to be lowered down, and they didn't have that much rope. Mack wasn't the only one having trouble. O'Doyle looked at Connell, who sat slumped against the wall. Back in camp, O'Doyle would have never guessed his boss to be so damn tough. Connell had stood tall and fired away at the rocktopi despite a complete lack of training or combat experience. Judging from the way Connell walked, his knee hurt pretty bad and he'd probably slipped a disk or pulled some back muscles. O'Doyle knew the last injury came during the river crossing; without Connell's effort, O'Doyle would have been swept down stream and drowned.

On top of adversity posed by the cliff, O'Doyle didn't like the cave mouth in which they now sat. It provided an excellent position against the rocktopi's forward assault, conveniently funneling them into one tight ball to be mowed down by concentrated fire. But by the same token, it trapped O'Doyle and the others at one end with nowhere to run should the creatures attack again. And there were cracks in the walls. Big cracks. Too small for a person to fit, but maybe big enough for a boneless adult rocktopi to squeeze through.

Last on the hit parade of fun facts was their ammo situation. Connell was completely out. O'Doyle was shocked when he checked Connell's ammo and found a single bullet in his H&K. Lybrand had ten rounds left in hers. They had eight rounds between the two Berettas. They'd never stop another rocktopi assault — if the flashing creatures came again, it would end in hand-to-hand combat.

O'Doyle stood, slowly and stiffly. He ignored his physical pain and walked toward the professors, who were in the process of examining a dead rocktopi. They crouched over the mutilated carcass. Sanji had cut into the creature with O'Doyle's knife, then peeled the hide back. Rocks weighed down the thick skin, exposing the rocktopi's multicolored guts.

O'Doyle leaned over the body. He'd seen countless combat wounds in his day, and one way or another had seen every human organ either hanging from a dead body or laying on the ground, but he'd seen nothing like this. The guts were thick and stringy, punctuated by colored lumps still wet with the thick purple blood.

He tapped Sanji's shoulder. “Find anything interesting?"

Sanji's wide eyes never left the rocktopi corpse, but Veronica looked up to answer the question. Fatigue pulled at her face. Thick globs of goo covered her hands and forearms.

"I don't know what good this will do,” she said. She sounded beaten, both mentally and physically. He didn't think Mack would survive much longer, and he wondered if Veronica would be the next weak link.

"Every little bit helps,” he said softly. “We need to know as much as we can."

Veronica sighed and looked over at Sanji. He was oblivious to anything but the rocktopi's innards, sifting through slime and unknown body parts.

She lifted a chunk of rocktopi hide and tossed it to O'Doyle. He stared at the ragged cube of flesh. It felt thick and firm, yet pliant, like a chunk of relaxed elastic. It stretched easily, with all the resistance of a rubber band. The outer skin appeared to be comprised of many tightly packed fibers.

"They have no bones, as we guessed,” Veronica said. “Their structure is apparently supported by this cartilage-like skin. Sanji figures internal hydraulic pressure helps as well. Look at their bodies now that we've either shot them or stabbed them — they all look flat, deflated. This skin gives them the rigidity they need to stand and move, yet allows them to be pliable enough to squeeze through tiny cracks like we saw the young ones do earlier."

O'Doyle noticed a thin film on the skin, slightly sticky to the touch.

"What's this slimy stuff?"

"I think they are already decomposing,” Sanji said. “Perhaps it happens very fast for them, I don't know. That could explain how we didn't find any remains of them in the old burial site, or at Cerro Chaltel. I think they decompose so fast there's no chance for mummification of any kind that would preserve the flesh."

O'Doyle tossed the chunk of rocktopi skin to the ground. “What about internally? Is there anything there?"

"We have identified a stomach,” Sanji said. “It is full of some fibrous plant material. Via the stomach, I believe I found the equivalent of intestines, as well as an anus and a mouth, although I only know that because one orifice has what appears to be teeth. I believe I have discovered the brain right in the center of the body, and it is quite large, but I am sure you guessed that based on the fact that they use advanced weapons and have developed agriculture."

"It was the first thing that crossed my mind,” O'Doyle said.

"I am not sure about much else,” Sanji said. “We are not even sure if they have a heart or they circulate via tension from their whole body. They are basically a big bag of liquid. I am afraid most of the organs escape known classification."

"So are these aliens or something?"

Sanji stood and flung goo from his hands. “I have no idea. These creatures are something completely new. They are a monumental discovery — a form of intelligent life outside of humanity. It seems unlikely, however, that aliens would come to Earth, bury themselves three miles underground, and live like primitives."

"They've got to be aliens,” Veronica said. Her irritation palpable. “How else could they have the same culture on two continents, yet humans have no recorded sightings of these things for at least ten thousand years?"

Sanji shook his head. “It is possible that these creatures evolved along some divergent branch and we have never seen them because they live so deep underground. Remember that humans have never been this far below the surface before. However, there is obviously something else going on here, as the silverbugs and that light in the cave should tell you. And that light does more than just illuminate. It is a safe bet that it provides energy for the crops to undergo some form of photosynthesis. We have a rather complicated little ecosystem going on down here."

O'Doyle turned back to look down the tunnel, toward the cliff face, toward the light. It just didn't make sense. A light as bright as the sun shone in a cavern of immense size — if Angus's original estimates were true, the cavern measured some twenty-five square miles. He could make out crops growing in the fields below, the central village of small stone buildings, sparkles of reflecting silverbugs, and occasionally the movement of other rocktopi. The scene looked totally idyllic, peaceful.

"The light is obviously artificial,” O'Doyle said. He looked at Veronica. “So if our squiggly-wigglies didn't make it, who — or what — did?"

She thought for a second, then shrugged. “I don't know. It's obvious these things didn't build it. They charge at guns with knives and rocks, for god's sake. They show evidence of other primitive cultural behaviors — that is, if we can draw parallels between them and humans."

"What other evidence?"

Sanji answered for her. “They appear to fight among themselves. They show a great deal of what we think is scar tissue. In many places the skin, which has a rough, fibrous pattern, as you see, is crisscrossed with random straight lines."

O'Doyle knelt next to the deflated corpse and lifted a snakelike tentacle. In several places, particularly on the tentacle fingers with which they held the crescent knives, he saw the straight, discolored lines.

"If these marks are scars, that probably means a lot of infighting, perhaps even tribal warfare,” Veronica said. “That would be another indication of a very primitive culture."

O'Doyle dropped the limp tentacle to the ground. “So if these things are basically just funny-looking cavemen, who built the light? The same ones responsible for the silverbugs?"

"That would be my guess,” Veronica said. “Something is keeping things running down here, both the silverbugs and that artificial light. I think we can rule out a rival mining company now; something else may have built the silverbugs, but no technology in existence could create the rocktopi."

"Call them Reevus Haakus,” Sanji said.

"The what?” O'Doyle asked, noticing that Veronica shook her head slightly and looked away, embarrassed.

"The Reevus haakus,” Sanji said. “I took the liberty of naming them. They are a new species, after all. There is nothing like them on the planet that I have ever seen, and that includes any fossil record to my knowledge. I can't think of a single animal related to these creatures.

"I think it is important to note that whatever they are, they are far from healthy. We have identified what we think are congenital defects in almost every one or these creatures: lesions, internal growths that might be some form of cancer, probable skin diseases. Many have withered limbs similar to the ones seen on the small rocktopi we tried to communicate with."

"Congenital?” O'Doyle said. “You mean birth defects?"

Sanji nodded. “It seems that way. Of course, it is difficult to tell with a creature never before studied. The widespread prevalence of diseased traits among all the individuals here would seem to indicate excessive inbreeding."

"What does that mean?"

"They've been down here for thousands of years with no apparent contact with outside members of their species. Unless there are other populations out there, or the population in this complex is much larger than it appears, the gene pool would eventually grow stagnant. If they are at all like humans, they breed in pairs and pass combinations of their traits on to their young. Evolutionary theory would indicate that some aspects of evolution are likely universal — so I assume they've got the equivalent of genes, the things that hold those inherited traits. When a human egg is fertilized, two halves of a gene set come together to make a functioning whole. In humans, many genes that code for diseases are recessive, meaning that the other half of the pair — the healthy half — dominates, blocking out the diseased trait. But if a child receives that recessive trait from both parents, then the disease manifests itself. If you have four children, all with the recessive trait, they will likely breed with people outside your family, people who probably don't have that same recessive trait."

"So the kids don't get the disease,” O'Doyle said.

"Exactly. However, if those four children breed with each other, chances are much higher that your grandchild will receive two recessive genes. With a very small population, it works the same way. Sooner or later you start breeding with your direct relatives, and that increases the chances for inherited diseases to appear. That the defects in the rocktopi come from inbreeding, however, is only a theory. We can assume nothing with this unusual species."

The urge to sit and rest filled O'Doyle. His ribs throbbed loudly and his hands felt worse. Yet he couldn't rest — he had to plan their next move. They couldn't scale the cliff, and they couldn't stay. He knew the silverbugs might return at any moment, and shortly after them the rocktopi.

"Finish up professor,” O'Doyle said. “I'm sure you'd love to study this all day but we don't have the time.” He turned to look at Veronica. “Go talk to Connell. Maybe you can snap him out of it. We need him sharp if we're going to live."

Veronica stared for a moment, wide-eyed fear mixed with some internal rage, then nodded and walked over to Connell. O'Doyle wondered if she would snap. He'd seen people break under stress more times than he could remember. Each time someone wigged out it was different, and each time he could never say for certain what the “pre-wigging” signals were. It was just a thing you developed a knack for, a way of knowing who might become a liability, and who you could count on if you wanted to stay alive. He'd survived hundreds of missions — that knack was a key reason for his survival.

And that knack told him Veronica Reeves was damn close to the edge.

Veronica sat down next to Connell. She was glad to rest, even more glad to get away from Sanji's freakish little dissection class. She looked at Connell, whose head hung low as he stared at the powdery ground.

"You look like shit,” she said. Connell looked up at her with glassy eyes. His body sagged. His back leaned against the arcing limestone walls, legs flat and spread out before him. He held the H&K tightly against his chest, like a child holding a teddy bear against the night's shadowy demons.

Veronica unconsciously leaned toward him, her shoulder touching lightly against his. Her body ached for human contact. Some paltry reassurance she wouldn't die at the hands of a glowing, tentacled monster wriggling up from depths of hell.

"You sure know how to show a girl a good time."

Connell continued to stare straight ahead, fingers clutching the gun a little tighter, as if Veronica would snatch it away the second he let down his guard. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I've always been aces with the ladies.” They sat silently together.

"Why aren't you helping Sanji?” Connell asked, his eyes never breaking their glassy stare into nothingness. “I would think this is the find of a lifetime."

"It is… just not my lifetime.” Her entire professional career now seemed wasted. Somewhere inside she knew this discovery dwarfed anything any archeologist had ever found. Nothing compared to the discovery of another intelligent species.

She'd spent her life investigating a lost human culture, only to find that it was neither lost nor human. Did the rocktopi still exist in Cerro Chaltel? Were they waiting, a mile or two below the surface, waiting to attack anything that moved?

It all seemed so obvious now; twenty-twenty hindsight and Monday-morning quarterbacking. The caves, the depth, the heat, the lack of human remains — now it all seemed to crazily point to boneless aliens glowing with neon-bright intensity. This wasn't some lost tribe, pure and pristine in its primitiveness, it was an absurdity — an abomination. Something that didn't belong. And that was what she'd spent her adult life chasing.

"It's not what I hoped it would be,” Veronica said. “It's all wrong."

"Yeah, and this is everything I planned for,” Connell said with a snort, turning to glare at her. “I planned on being trapped in this hellhole, paranoid about robot spiders, petrified something will tear my suit so I'll cook to death, too afraid to sleep, killing these… these… things just to stay alive. Yeah, I'm happy with the way things turned out."

She stared back at him. The stubble on his chin made him look rough — handsome, perhaps. The blisters on his face were swollen and leaking pus. In some places the skin peeled away, leaving open, oozing sores. She shuddered as she realized her own face must look the same way.

She put her arm around him.

For a second he tensed up even further, perhaps to the point of shattering from his own rigidity, then his body seemed to deflate as if someone had pulled a plug and let all the stress flow down and out of his body. He sagged against Veronica, his head resting heavily on her shoulder. She reached up with her other hand and softly brushed the hair out of his face.

Mack's voice — loud and full of urgency — broke her reverie. “O'Doyle, we've got problems!"

She looked up at Mack, who knelt before the funnel mouth. Then she heard it — heard the sound that in a few hours had become synonymous with fear, with unknowing terror, with a horrid and inescapable death.

click click, click-click-click

Chapter Thirty

Kayla read the dial on the portable SIGINT unit.

She looked up and around, looking for any sign of movement, of strangely colored lights. The monsters had struck without warning — would they do so again? Her logical side told her she should be afraid of being out in the open, exposed; but her instincts said otherwise. Her instincts told her the monsters had attacked the camp — a very specific, targeted mission. The reality was that it didn't matter which side was right. If she wanted back in the NSA, she had no choice but to be out in the dark, hunting for that little prick's toys.

Kayla moved the unit slowly from left to right, the signal needle swinging to the red when she pointed at his hidden station. Kayla turned back again, making sure she had the direction correct, then walked forward.

That fucking little prick.

The phrase echoed over and over in her mind, usually followed by the word Angus. Kayla walked forward, slowly swinging the portable unit, closing in. Finally she found it. She stared in amazement, and more than a little embarrassment, at a metallic, pyramid-like device. The pyramid was a hodgepodge of equipment: a stainless-steel hydraulic piston that had already pounded a three-inch deep hole into the rocky ground; a trio of seismic sensors, one mounted at the base of each tripod-leg; a small, rubber-encased industrial computer; and a radio transmitter.

If he got a message out, if the police or rescue teams or — God forbid — the media found out about the mine and the monsters, well, then her plan went to hell in a handbasket. Everything hinged on secrecy, on André being the one who controlled the information. Any news coverage and she'd watch that leverage evaporate.

That fucking little prick.

How could she have missed it for this long? The answer was obvious — until a few hours ago, Angus's device didn't stay on all the time. It cycled, signaling every six hours and then only for a few seconds. It was a hard signal to catch, but that didn't make her feel any better. She was trained in signals intelligence, for crying out loud, and at one time the U.S. Government considered her the best in the world. To be outfoxed by a cock-sucking scientist was simply too much.

That fucking little prick.

He'd invented a way to communicate with the surface from who knew how far underground. The system also probably served some mapping function, like an underground GPS with the pyramid devices taking the place of satellites. If that was the case, there were more of these things, at least three for triangulation purposes. And she'd have to track down every single one. How fucking long would that take?

She'd underestimated Angus Kool. She should have followed him from the get-go. He talked to this pyramid-like machine from around three miles underground via rhythmic patterns of seismic waves. The unit, in turn, broadcast those messages into the air. The system was pure genius.

Kayla reached into the pyramid and yanked the antennae from the transmitter. Maybe the device would yield some information. She picked up the surprisingly light device and carried it back to her warren. She didn't have time to examine it now, because she had to find the rest of the fucking little prick's handiwork.

Connell stared out the funnel. The line of silverbugs stretched off into the distance, jerking and convulsing. “Got any bright ideas, O'Doyle?"

"No sir,” O'Doyle said. “I was hoping you might have something clever.” O'Doyle had spread the H&K rounds evenly among them — Connell had only five shots in his weapon. Definitely not enough to waste on a seemingly endless supply of jittering silverbugs. The machines seemed to pick up on this fact somehow; the line ran from the tunnel edge back as far as they could see, over the mass of deflated rocktopi corpses littering the tunnel floor.

O'Doyle turned toward Sanji and Veronica. Fear gripped their faces and stole their breath. “You two keep an eye on those cracks,” O'Doyle said. “You do the same, Mack."

Mack nodded slowly and kept his hand on the wall, steadying himself. He looked around slowly, blankly, the pain in his head evident in his every movement.

Connell peered intently down the tunnel, looking for a flash of color. He spoke quietly, so that only O'Doyle could hear. “We're not going to be able to hold off another attack."

"I know that,” O'Doyle said softly.

The cave filled with the sound of clicks and whirs and buzzes, all the ambiance of the silverbug's sickening, jerking dance. No one spoke.

Then, finally, the wait ended.

The scraping dead-leaf sound filtered up the tunnel like the dry hissing of a poisonous snake, slowly building into a raspy cacophony that melded with the mechanical silverbug sounds. Screeches poked at the air like needles punched into eardrums. The wafting smell of dog shit and rotting fruit made Connell's nose wrinkle involuntarily.

They came down the tunnel, moving slower this time, no longer hurtling forward. They moved at a deliberate pace, like a cat sneaking up on an unsuspecting squirrel. Their light looked different… muted.

"Let's make them think about coming closer,” O'Doyle whispered as he hugged the H&K to his shoulder, looked down the sight and squeezed off a single shot.

clank

O'Doyle's head snapped up as he and Connell stared into the tunnel's dimness. They'd both expected a rocktopi's screeching death-squeal, but only heard the sound of a bullet ricochet off… metal?

Steadily the rocktopi moved closer, into the headlamp light, revealing both the reason for their deliberate pace and for the sound of the ricochet. Like a phalanx of Roman soldiers, the rocktopi moved forward carrying shields of glossy metal that cast back distorted headlamp reflections.

"This is not good,” O'Doyle said.

Connell counted three shields pushed edge to edge in the narrow tunnel, moving slowly forward like the plunger of a syringe. He couldn't make out how many rocktopi perched behind the moving metal wall. The shields, rectangular and roughly hewn, pressed forward, the promise of death huddled behind them.

They were stuck between a bottleneck of rocktopi and a two-hundred-foot drop. The flashing, glowing creatures pressed closer, closer, taking their time. Silverbug clicks and whirs excitedly filled the air, accompanied by the occasional small screech emanating from behind the silvery shields.

"We've got to go down the cliff,” Connell said, unable to stop himself from slowly backing up.

O'Doyle shook his head. “You know we'll never make it."

"It's either some of us make it or we all die."

"But you can't get down with your knee,” O'Doyle said sternly.

"I'm not going."

O'Doyle looked away from the oncoming threat and gaped incredulously.

"I'm staying right here,” Connell said. “Mack too. We'll have to let the rocktopi get close before we can use the guns accurately. You get the rest of the party as far down as you can. I'm still in charge here and you'll do what I tell you. Now move!"

O'Doyle blinked a few times, seemingly unable to comprehend the situation, then turned and sprinted the short distance to the others.

Connell turned to face the oncoming death. Only forty yards separated him from the metal phalanx. He felt fear spin wildly through his stomach and chest. He easily fought down the urge to turn and run — mostly because there was nowhere to go. Five shots. He'd gotten everyone into this, after all, and if anyone had to die, it seemed logical he be the next.

A wave of sweat broke out on his brow, trickling down his cheeks, stinging his numerous blisters. His grip tightened on the weapon, its feel and weight now familiar and comforting. He shuddered at unbidden thoughts of platinum knives tearing into his belly, spilling his blood and intestines all over the dirty cave. A gut wound was supposedly the worst way to go. Would he still be alive when they hacked him to pieces?

He tried to swallow but couldn't. He stood helpless, waiting for the right moment, as the rocktopi closed the distance to thirty yards. Their subtle lights cast soft red and orange hues on the tunnel's walls and ceiling. The dull gleam of his headlamp reflected off the three shields aligned in the front rank. The shields’ edges gleamed with a razor's brightness, leaving streamers of afterglow illusion dancing on his retinas. They looked as if they'd just been cut from a large, slightly curved sheet of metal, the fronts dull with age while the thick edges flashed as his head turned from one to the next to the next.

He suddenly missed his wife more than ever. For the first time he felt grateful she was dead. She wouldn't hear of a husband hacked to pieces by some alien monstrosity deep in the Earth's bowels. He wished he could look at her picture one last time before he died.

The rocktopi closed to twenty yards, their rancid odor almost overpowering. He saw glowing bodies and the onyx-colored spots peeking out from the spaces between shields. His body started shaking uncontrollably. He raised the gun and tried to draw a steady aim, but the weapon's barrel twitched in time with his rebellious muscles.

He fired. The bullet smacked dead center into the center shield, bouncing off with a spark and a whine, disappearing unseen into the tunnel's endless dark spaces.

Four shots left.

The rocktopi kept coming.

"Connell, get back here!” Veronica screamed, “get back here now!"

All his body needed was an excuse. He turned away from the funnel mouth and ran like a madman, afraid to look over his shoulder, afraid to find out if the rocktopi would drop their shields and give chase. He reached the others in an instant near the cliff's edge, and almost tripped over his own feet in sudden shock.

There, hanging down from a rope just in front of the cave's end, perched a smiling Angus Kool, swinging slightly from side to side like a spider caught in a light breeze.

Chapter Thirty-one

Connell stared in slack-jawed awe. Angus hung from some unseen point above the cave mouth, dressed in full rappelling gear atop a dirty KoolSuit. Two other ropes hung down, one on either side of him, harnesses attached. Veronica and Sanji scrambled into the rigs, Lybrand and Mack helping the hurried effort.

"Hey boss,” Angus said. “Glad to see me?"

"Where the hell did you come from?"

"Who cares?” said O'Doyle, peering worriedly down the tunnel at the rocktopi's slow, methodical advance. “He's here and we've got a way out."

"You didn't think I was going to let someone else see all this splendor first, did you?” Angus asked.

"You're Kilroy,” Connell said. Angus only smiled as Veronica expertly scrambled up the rope. Sanji followed, moving with impressive speed for someone of his girth. Within seconds, both moved past the opening's top edge and disappeared from sight.

"We've got company,” O'Doyle said.

Connell turned to once again face the enemy. The first of the shield bearers worked its way through the funnel mouth, less than twenty yards away. The shields scraped against rock, making a sound like a church bell dragged over gravel.

The bell tolls for me, Connell thought crazily. Hemingway would have loved this macho crap.

Like lethal turtles, the rocktopi moved slowly forward, a few inches at a time, their small, excited screeches drowning out the rustling-leaf sound and incessant silverbug noise.

"Angus said Mr. Wright's position is only twenty feet above us,” O'Doyle said. “We've got to hold the rocktopi for a few minutes, so the professors can get up and send the ropes back down. We'll send Mack and Lybrand up next."

Connell nodded, a grim acceptance of the situation still fixed in his mind. He moved toward the closing rocktopi phalanx. O'Doyle followed. The second shield bearer was already through and lining up next to the first. The third member quickly oozed through the funnel and worked the shield into position. Behind the phalanx, waiting to pour through the funnel, Connell heard the rocktopi pack screeching with excitement, perhaps even anticipation.

His hands seemed suddenly steady and sure. He saw the onyx eyespots peeking out between the shields. Connell raised his H&K and fired. A deafening, shuddering screech rewarded his aim. The center shield fell forward with a monstrous clang and a billowing puff of cave dust. The creature dropped to the floor, writhing in sickening pain.

O'Doyle seized the opportunity, rapidly firing three times through the unexpected phalanx opening. Connell saw two rocktopi squirm and thrash in the funnel mouth, like food half in and half out of a whirring garbage disposal. Screeching filled the cavern, high pitched and painful, tearing at his ears far worse than did the weapons’ loud report. The front rocktopi rank foundered in confusion, their whirling tentacles flinging gooey purple blood from their fresh wounds. O'Doyle fired his last round into the mass, then tossed the H&K away and drew his Beretta.

Behind them, they heard Angus calling them back. “Two more, let's go, let's go!"

"Fall back to the cliff!” O'Doyle yelled, backing up quickly. The rocktopi pushed their wounded and dying comrades out of the way and poured through the funnel, trying to stay behind the two standing shields. Connell turned and ran to the cliff's edge. Lybrand started up the rope. O'Doyle fastened Mack into the harness. Lybrand had almost cleared the top of the cave when she suddenly stopped climbing.

"Patrick, watch out!"

Like a frog's tongue nailing a passing fly, a thick tentacle holding a glistening platinum knife shot out of a wall crack. O'Doyle dove to the ground. The knife's tip sliced his cheek, sending a thin streamer of blood onto the sand. He rolled away from the rocktopi and away from the cliff as the monster poured through the crack.

Moving with blinding, boneless speed, it sprang toward Mack. He tried to dive away, but the harness held him motionless, like a worm on a hook. Mack screamed once as angry glowing-orange tentacles wrapped around him like an octopus snagging an unwary fish. Mack smashed his fists into the flashing, nightmarish monstrosity, each of his weak punches hitting with the sound of a fist slapping raw hamburger. His face contorted with a powerful scream as a platinum knife flashed once, came up again trailing an arcing gout of blood, then flashed a second time.

O'Doyle jumped to his feet and pressed the muzzle of his Beretta against the rocktopi's body. He pulled the trigger three times, emptying the last of his ammunition. The creature screamed with a pitiful wail and released Mack, tentacles swinging wildly, teetering on the cliff's edge. The smell of rotting meat, thick and almost overpowering, filled the air.

The smell somehow snapped Connell out of his horrified daze. With a roar of frustration and rage, he sprinted at the rocktopi and put a full-speed shoulder into the soft body. The impact felt satisfyingly solid. The rocktopi sailed out over the cliff and plummeted with a fading screech.

Lybrand screamed a second warning. “Here they come!"

Connell turned just in time to see a massive rocktopi diving toward him like a hellish cross between a lion and a whip-limbed starfish, a pair of crescent-shaped platinum knives arcing forward point first. Three bullets from Lybrand's H&K rent the air as the creature fell on Connell, knocking him to the ground with a linebacker-hard collision.

Its reeking skin felt pliant and raspy, like rubbery sandpaper, yet the creature was solid and heavy. Connell lashed out against the rocktopi, but it was like punching a half-deflated waterbed. He viciously squirmed out from under the motionless body. Lybrand still hung from her rope, her Beretta drawn, her H&K cast away. Angus was gone and Mack hung limply from his harness like meat on a hook, his blood cascading down in audible rivulets, his intestines dangling wet and pinkish-white into the fine sand.

Connell snatched up his H&K, turned and fired his last three shots, catching two of the rushing rocktopi. Both dropped to the rock-strewn ground like half-full sacks of grain — one fell motionless, while the other jittered and convulsed with a sickening resemblance to a large, glowing Jell-O mold. The shots seemed to slow the rocktopi advance. The remaining creatures, perhaps twenty of them, held back, only ten feet away, arms waving like whips, skin flashing like multicolored police lights, screeches ripping the air.

O'Doyle cut the rope connected to Mack's harness. The limp Aussie fell motionless to the ground at Connell's feet, side by side with the dead rocktopi.

Another harness, apparently Angus's, dropped with a jingling of buckles between Connell and O'Doyle. Connell stepped over the dead bodies and stumbled into the still-swinging harness.

"They're rushing us!” Lybrand screamed. Still swinging lightly at the rope's end, she ripped off three rounds from the Beretta. She pulled the trigger a fourth time — it clicked on empty.

The last bullet was gone.

The three of them scrambled to climb up and away from the cliff's edge. O'Doyle started pulling his body up what had been Mack's rope. Connell wrapped his arms in the harness and felt himself being yanked upwards while Lybrand expertly slithered up the climbing rig.

Connell felt a tentacle grab at his foot like the caress of a python reaching for a crushable meal. He kicked hard but hit only empty air. Another long tentacle shot out — he saw a silvery flash and felt searing, scorching pain rip through his shoulder. Blood spilled down his chest and side — it looked purple in the cavern's strange blue light. A baseball-sized rock sailed through the air and glanced off his temple, yet he held on. He felt himself yanked upwards as his unseen helpers pulled him out of the rocktopi's reach.

O'Doyle screamed below him. The big man's face contorted in agony but he continued up the rope, spinning wildly like a trick yo-yo. Connell saw a platinum knife buried deep in O'Doyle's leg, blood spurting free, falling in bomb-run droplets to the ground some two hundred feet below. Mack's body was already invisible, covered by a dozen hacking, slashing, glowing rocktopi that tore into his corpse.

Suddenly Connell's upward pull ended. Rough hands dragged him onto another flat stone cliff. He saw both his blood and a strange, yellowish fluid splashing on the rock, making it slick and wet. Hands flashed at his chest, he looked up to see Randy Wright moving to free him from the tangled harness. Off to Connell's right, he saw Veronica and Sanji haul Lybrand over the cliff's edge. Seconds later O'Doyle cleared the edge, pulling himself up with a final, powerful effort, his face wrenched with agony. The wicked knife jutted from his thigh.

Connell closed his eyes. A sudden silence gripped the cliff, broken only by ragged breathing and O'Doyle's soft, painful moans. Connell rolled away from the cliff's edge and sat up, hand pressed to his stinging shoulder.

"So hot,” he heard O'Doyle mumble. “So hot."

As if O'Doyle's words were a trigger, Connell's mind registered the massive temperature swell. The heat hit him as if he'd stepped into a kiln. He laid back, struggling to breathe, feeling waves of heat wash over him. Every square inch of his body prickled and burned with a million tiny bee stings.

"Their suits,” he heard Lybrand yell in a dreamy, far-off voice. “They're losing all the coolant!"

Connell tried to speak, but nothing came out, and suddenly all he could think about were the black spots that danced maddeningly in his vision.

Connell felt hands lift him, gently but firmly, and carry him away from the cliff's edge. The spots in his vision widened, growing even blacker, until they were spots no more, filling his vision, blocking out the light.