Hellhole

by Jonathan Maberry

  And...now we’re ready.

  I hope we’re ready.

  ISIL is still out there destroying sanctuaries and churches and sacred places where things like the Unlearnable Truths have been stored and protected. We got lucky with this, but Lizzie said that there are many more of those books out there. A lot of them are in lands torn by war. In Iraq and Iran, in Syria. Elsewhere. Even in America. The Library of the Ten Gurus is searching. So are we. So are select friends.

  We need to find those other books first.

  We need to.

  We need to.

  THE DEVIL’S THROAT

  Rena Mason

  Dr. John Blake’s gloved hands floated between striated rock walls as he swam through the ancient lava tube toward Shelf 5. The color footage went gray before white horizontal bands rolled down the video screen.

  Cyan leaned toward the glass and tapped the monitor. “What the—”

  Static blasted from the speakers. “Bloody hell!” she said, jumping back.

  “Dr. Blake?” Kau said, his timid voice unexpected from his broad, Māori physique.

  Cyan slid the microphone from Kau’s hold. “John, what’s happening?”

  “Wellington, we have a problem.” Fear skirted John’s voice.

  She hated his Kiwi versions of Yankee phrases. They’d met in Corpus Christi, Texas during a Fossil Fuels Drilling and the Environment Conference, and bonded through marine biology, genetics, and ocean science. A perfect match since research consumed ninety-five percent of their lives.

  A hazy image froze on every screen in the control room, and then all systems went down.

  “Kau, get him back online!” Cyan rushed to the power box and flicked switches.

  Kauri Tāmihana, the communications specialist, pounded the dash with his massive fist. Tribal tattoos rippled up his arm as a metallic clang resounded off the aluminum walls. Cyan glared at him from the other side of the room.

  “Oops. Sorry.”

  As it quieted, they tuned their ears into the silence. Panel lights flickered then steadied. Some blinked red.

  Mackenzie Brown’s voice came over the loud speakers. “Sorry ‘bout that, Cy. Generator’s fucked.”

  “Mack, get your ass to comms.” Cyan hunched over Kau’s shoulder and watched him reboot. “Can you pull up—”

  The last bit of feed from John’s camera blinked onto his computer, cloudy and fixed.

  “Thanks,” she said. “But can you clear it up and get it in color?”

  “That is color.”

  Cyan scrutinized the picture. “Are those knots?”

  “Black ones?”

  “Video cables?” she said. “Did he get tied up in old equipment?”

  “What’s going on?” Kauri’s wife Maia, the station’s cook, stood in the doorway.

  “Dr. Blake’s A/V stopped working,” Kau said.

  “I’m sure it’s something you did.” Maia dried her hands with her apron. “Can I help?”

  A towering shadow shifted behind her. Mack moved Maia aside and walked in.

  “You can go,” Kau said to his wife.

  “What’s wrong with the generator?” Cyan looked up at Mack.

  “Couldn’t find anything specific,” Mack said. “Seems to be happening more. I’ll check the cooling systems. Might have to call mainland engineering in to have a look.”

  “Anything yet?” Cyan rested her hand on Kau’s shoulder.

  Kau shook his head.

  “Dammit. I’m suiting up.” She headed out.

  CYAN SHADED HER eyes as she stood on the curved dive entry deck of the partially submerged Rori Underwater Research Facility, built for the scientific study and genetic manipulation of rori—Māori for sea cucumber—for their water filtering abilities. From the air, RURF had the shape of a puzzle piece: two circular areas at bow and stern and the entire deck constructed of long teak planks. The center housed solar panels arranged like flower petals above the generator, pumps, cooling systems, and everything mechanical to do with running RURF. Comms, the lab, kitchen, and their quarters, edged the perimeter. Ballast tanks lined the underside, ocean water pumped in and out to stabilize the platform on the sandy bottom, cooling the equipment and providing air conditioning. Every year scientists and engineers from all over the world visited RURF, a foolproof engineering marvel until now.

  Twenty-two meters out, a dark blue circle of calm water separated Cyan from her husband, Dr. John Blake.

  Whooping helicopter blades blew golden strands of blonde into her face. “This can’t be good.” She pulled her hair into a ponytail and hurried to get her gear on.

  The chopper landed on the pad, deposited four men in uniform, then took off again. Cyan hadn’t even zipped her wetsuit when one of them approached.

  “Dr. Blake!” he said.

  She ignored him and tugged on the cord behind her, using the helicopter noise as a good excuse to pretend she didn’t hear him.

  His footsteps rattled the boards under her bare soles. “Dr. Blake. I’m Captain Richards.”

  Cyan huffed and turned around. “Captain, I don’t have time... What are you doing here? Never mind. Talk to Mack, he’s in charge of whatever’s going on with the generator. I’m going in.”

  “No, you’re not. Ensign Smith is. I have orders to—”

  Kau’s curly black hair came up the stairwell, followed by the rest of him. “What’s going on?”

  Cyan checked her tank, put her vest over the top of it, then latched it into place. “Kau did you call these guys? Maybe Mack did?”

  “He’s still working on the generator.”

  Richards stepped in front of her. “Dr. Blake, at zero, eight, thirty-seven hundred hours your husband set off a sensor at Shelf 9. We were deployed immediately as that’s a violation of—”

  She stopped fidgeting with the regulator and gauge hoses. “What are you talking about? Besides being physically impossible, we never go past the third shelf,” she lied.

  Within the last few weeks, they’d noticed more productive filtration coming from the sea cucumbers the deeper they went. They’d needed more specimens to study the anomaly. That’s why John had gone down to Shelf 5, a restricted area only because of its sixty-meter depth.

  Underwater caves and lava tubes branched off the main vent of a dead volcano and then ascended onto dry land shelves further inside. The shelves contained breathable air, making it optimal for human exploration.

  Richards’ team carried and rolled big black cases and trunks to the dive entry deck. They set them down near her gear and prepped equipment onto a frame she’d always wondered the purpose of. It appeared these men had more familiarity with RURF than she did.

  One of them, Ensign Smith she presumed, already had on an NZDF issue black wetsuit. “Oy, why’s your gear strapped to nitrox if you ain’t going past thirty meters?” he said.

  Cyan pointed at Kau and lied some more. “He brought me the wrong tank. See, we’re all in a bit of a rush to get to John.”

  The other two Defence Force members pulled a large helmet from a box and attached it to Smith’s odd, hybrid atmospheric suit. It sealed with a click and a hiss. Before she could ask, Ensign Smith stepped into the water carrying a large pack, blasting up plumes of creamy sand and silt.

  Asshole.

  “Where’s your operations room?” Richards said. “My men need to link the A/V.”

  “Captain, I don’t care who you are, we’re not switching John’s feed to yours.”

  Richards reached for his sidearm. “I have orders to—”

  “John’s is still down,” Kau said. “I think it’ll be okay if they use it.”

  “Thanks a lot, Kau.” She’d said it sarcastically, but he likely just saved her ass.

  “Sorry.” Kau shrugged and lowered his head.

  “Show these men to comms. I’ll be there soon.” Cyan glanced at the sword and writing on their uniform patches.

  The men followed Kau below. She peered over the deck and watch
ed Ensign Smith approach the blue hole, leaving a milky ocean behind him.

  “Come back, John,” she said. His diving skills ranked in the pro level, and they’d stored plenty of nitrox tanks on the shelves for deeper dives, but she worried anyway. Cyan stepped away when dark water caught her eye. The sunlight and waves distorted everything under the surface, so she squinted and lay prone with her head over the deck.

  Ensign Smith’s landing had shifted the cover of hundreds, maybe thousands of black sea cucumbers, Holothuria leucospilota. Cyan had never seen such a dense population before and wondered how far they spread around RURF’s platform. Long white strands, their innards, or Cuvierian tubules, undulated below. Like her, they saw Smith as a threat and went guts out, a self-defense mechanism. She’d see the ensign eviscerated before doing that to herself. Dozens stuck to his boots and legs. No wonder he made such massive silt clouds. Cyan headed for the engineering room. She needed to calm and think straight, not that she’d get that from Mack.

  The Aussie was up to his neck in a panel box when she arrived.

  “Is that a good idea?” she said.

  His head banged gray aluminum as he backed out. “Ouch.” He rubbed his skull in quick circles. “You told me to look into it, and that’s what I’m doin’.”

  “So, what’s the story with the pumps?” Cyan leaned against a post.

  “I can’t figure. Says they’re functional. Pressure’s right. We’re still running on stored battery power though, and the cells won’t last more than a day or two. We’ll have to shut down energy suckers like the lab. And pray clouds don’t roll in.”

  “You call someone out?”

  “Thought I heard a choppy topside. No way it’s those engineering dills. So, who’s here?”

  “Military. But not like I’ve seen before. There’s a long sword on their insignia. Innovative and Agile or something it reads at the bottom. You were Anzac. Know it?”

  Mack scratched the stubble on his chin with the wrench in his hand. “Hmm... Special Ops Forces. What those diggers want with RURF?”

  “It’s something in the blue hole they’re after. They’ve already sent a man down.”

  “I’m sure they’re just here to rescue John.”

  “Captain Richards said they came because John triggered an alarm on Shelf 9. Why would they have alarms down there?”

  “They’ve had control since its discovery. RURF’s crew’s the first non-military they let go near it,” Mack said. “How far down you think their secret project goes?”

  “I don’t know. Deeper than we can venture with our gear.” Cyan took in a breath then exhaled. “Honest, I don’t give two fucks what’s down there, Mack. I just want John back.”

  “And you trust these diggers’r gonna do that?”

  “Come up with me. There’s something I need to show you. I have a bad feeling about John, and we can’t leave Kau alone with those soldiers for too long or he’ll give away all my lies.”

  “Bloody natives.” Mack smiled but kept the wrench in his hand as they headed out.

  Cyan didn’t question his weapon of choice. Topside, she showed him the dark water, now spread beneath RURF. Off the bow, exposed rori cut a black road to the blue hole.

  “Fuck all. What’re they doin’?” Mack stared down. “Looks like they’re headin’ out on holiday to feed the rēwera o korokoro.”

  “Don’t call it that! John’s down there.” Cyan lowered her eyes and waited for them to focus. “Dear god. Their motility...”

  “So much for inching along the bottom with their little feet.”

  “They can’t be advancing that fast!”

  Fixated, Cyan and Mack followed the movements of the rori horde, raising their heads to the blue hole, or as the Māori call it, the devil’s throat.

  IN COMMS, RICHARDS gave orders to his men, as well as Kau.

  “What’s all this?” Mack said.

  Laptops from more of their black cases sat atop of the control dashboards, linked by wires and cables.

  “Oh, hey,” Kau said. “These guys have some cool equipment, you should see—”

  “That’s classified,” Richards said. “A need-to-know only basis, and they don’t need to know. We’re square on that, right Tāmihana?”

  “Okay. Yeah. Sorry.” Kau went back to typing on one of the military keyboards.

  All the screens blinked on with rock wall shaded in blue hues. Cyan walked over to a laptop monitor that displayed Smith’s vital signs. “I see what you mean by cool, Kau.”

  “I’m coming up on Shelf 3, sir.” Ensign Smith’s voice came through cleaner than she’d ever heard. “Permission to head in?”

  “Wait,” Cyan said.

  “Is there something you want to tell me Dr. Blake?” Richards smirked.

  “John was going to Shelf 5. We needed specimens from that depth to—”

  “Negative, Ensign. Head to Shelf 5.” The captain turned back to the screen.

  Smug bastard.

  The live feed had unbelievable clarity. As he descended, floating white streamers ruffled all around him.

  “His suit is impenetrable, right?” she said. “Their excretions can be harmful.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” one of the soldiers said.

  “Thank you, Simms,” Richards said.

  “I’ve reached Shelf 5, Captain. Permission to enter.”

  “Go ahead, Ensign.”

  Cyan sat down in front of a monitor. Mack stood behind her. Ensign Smith hovered in front of the opening.

  “Thrusters on,” the other soldier said.

  “Affirmative.” Richards watched Smith propel into the cave.

  Lights came on, illuminating dark rocky walls.

  “Simms?” Richards said.

  “All systems functional, Captain.”

  Lighter bits of marine life, their excrement or what remained of them, floated in the water like dust motes drifting in air. Cyan synced her breathing to Smith’s.

  “Do you see any sign of John?” Cyan knew it was a reach, but maybe he’d dragged the cords from the last image his camera froze on with him.

  Smith lowered his head, giving them better visuals of the cave bottom.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Sand and silt covered most of the floor. Occasional dark rocks jutted, but no cables, wires, not even a single fish came into view.

  “Have you seen anything swimming around down there?” she said.

  “Just me,” Smith said. “And this white shite.”

  “That’s unusual. Can he? Can you, get a closer look at those rocks?” Cyan hoped they might be rays, skates, or nurse sharks.

  Petty Officer Taylor typed on one of the black keyboards. Then Ensign Smith smacked head first against the bottom of the cave. “Dammit, Taylor!” Smith said.

  “It’s hard to adjust buoyancy in small spaces. Hang on, or you’ll hit the ceiling.”

  Cream swirled past onscreen. White streamers shot up from the sand.

  “What the fuck?” Smith said.

  “Ensign, report.” Richards leaned toward a monitor.

  “Worms. Giant black slugs, crawling on my helmet. Taylor, get me up!” Smith’s heartbeat pounded from the laptop, and his breathing became rapid and shallow.

  “Calm down,” Cyan said. “They’re harmless.”

  The image went out of focus as Smith’s suit lifted off the cave floor.

  “We can’t see them,” Taylor said.

  “Switch to the suit cam,” Richards said.

  “Yes, sir. Interior camera on,” Simms said.

  Black tentacles from the sea cucumbers’ open mouths searched the glass for purchase. Their tubule innards stuck to it in a wrestle, like oriental noodles crammed into a package.

  “Fuck, that’s gross,” Simms said.

  “Can’t you get them off?” Ensign Smith shouted.

  “With what?” Taylor said. “The grabbers won’t reach. Find something after you molt. Just keep your eyes closed. We’ll steer the ADS
in.”

  “That’s one helluva suit. Clever bastards,” Mack said.

  “They’re not aggressive.” At least Cyan hadn’t seen them behave that way before today.

  “You sure?” Mack put his face next to hers and stared at the screen. “These look like they’d eat his face if they could get in.”

  “Something’s not right,” she whispered.

  “Switch back to exterior camera,” Richards said.

  Overhead lights flickered, the room vibrated then shook. Cyan steadied a laptop as it slid across the dash. Comms panels rattled around her.

  “What’s happening?” Richards said.

  “Mack?” Cyan said.

  “I’m on it.” He headed out with his wrench.

  “Captain, Ensign Smith’s reached the surface of Shelf 5,” Taylor said.

  “Atmosphere? Systems?” The captain stepped to the laptop displaying the exosuit’s digital readouts.

  “Sustainable, sir. All systems functional,” Simms said.

  “Proceed with ADS removal.”

  “Smith, keep moving your legs. It’ll feel like you’re walking up a ramp.”

  “Do the thrusters work when he’s on land?” Kau said.

  “No,” Taylor said. “A specialized hydraulics system takes over. That’s Simms’s specialty.”

  “That’s enough, Taylor,” Richards said. “Simms, let’s see what you got.”

  “Has the ground leveled off, Ensign?” Simms tapped the laptop keys in front of him.

  “Yeah,” Smith said.

  “Then sit down where you are and follow standard molting procedures. Take it slow.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Okay, suit separation in three, two, one,” Simms said.

  Popping then wheezing came through the speakers.

  “Systems?” Richards said.

  “Stable, sir,” Simms said. “Ensign Smith, you can molt now. Don’t forget to connect A/V to your wetsuit and turn the system on after you crawl out of ADS.”

  “Affirmative,” Smith said.

  “What’s ADS?” Kau said.

  Simms turned to him. “It stands for Atmospheric Dive Suit, but we call ours a mix of names because it borrows ideas from most of them like the Newtsuit, Exosuit, and the WASP. Ours is lightweight, maneuverable, and specially designed for ease of—”