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Underground. A collision of dark worlds. The oiled slide of leather like the congealed slime on the walls. A hiss of pleasure escapes filed teeth. Take me there, bee emm.
"Reading you, ess see."
Bare feet in colourless sludge. Movement like slow liquid, creeping up rounded sides. The nap-thwack of damp climbing rope. The rigid grope of a grappling hook. Purchase. The focal point in an ever-shifting surface. Sludge footprints on a slime wall. Wet leeching even into leather. Bee, emm.
"Coord., ess see, straight up. No one walks in these lands save you."
Climbing spikes replace the sole's pure purpose. Already, the underground layer cracking and crusting. And in, into the elephant's grave yard. The dryness, the dust of requisition. A name plate, etched like a tombstone: AS 400. How much, bee emm?
"All of it."
* * *
Base camp. The swirl of genetically poor dirt and the tick of radiation slowly dying.
"You're a mess, Smooth C. You're covered in filth."
A smile of filed points. Eyes drawn to military issue boots. A memory of dry, stamping feet as antidotes burn through the blood. The rains came.
* * *
"She's not sane, Jonston."
"If I didn't know aliens exist, I would say she wasn't human."
"It's religion, that's all. She's from some cult."
"She looks like a monster."
"It's part of her religion."
"She had most of her vocal cords severed, Jonston. She can only subvocalise." The two men swallow dryly.
Jenna Manley, 19/10/01
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