Subterranean (23 page)

Linda nodded. She held up a second vial of yellow phosphorescence. “So many mysteries down here . . .” She checked a note in her book and pursed her lips.

Ashley said her good nights and retired to her mattress. She snuggled into her blankets, still warm from her recent slumber. Sighing, she closed her eyes, but the biologist's questions nagged at her. What
did
they eat?

Ben struggled in his sleep, knowing he was dreaming but unable to stop it. He was in that damned cavern once again. He walked among the fruit-laden trees, red pulpy gourds drooping obscenely.

“Hello,” he hollered into the grove of trees.

No answer.

He had seen an image of his grandfather the last time he was down here. In a cave. Now, just where was that? He headed in a direction that seemed familiar. He brushed past a low mass of foliage with petite blue flowers. Didn't he pass a similar bush before? It was like returning to your hometown after being gone for decades. His feet seemed to remember their previous steps.

As he approached the far wall, he knew he was going the right way. He could even see the black hole in the glowing wall. Glowing? It was the same fungus growing in the geode room. Strange.

He continued toward the wall, expecting the trees to block his way forward, like his previous visit. But this time no trees stopped him. Taking a handful of steps, he found himself standing before the wall, a soft muskiness enveloping him. The fungus was sporing little pods the size of pinheads. He brushed a hand against the wall. With the sweep of his hand, the odor became overpowering. His mind reeled. Explosions of colors flashed before his eyes. He swooned to his knees, fighting to stay conscious, but his vision swirled in fantastic eddies of colors and textures. He slipped to the floor, the back of his head exploding as it hit the ground.

A voice arose from beside him. “Benny-boy, enough of that bloody crap.”

He knew that voice from childhood. It was his grandfather.

“Jesus, snap out of it, mate.”

His vision cleared as his grandfather waved a twisted leaf under his nose. It smelled of mint with a hint of cherry. With each wave, the swirls of colors were wiped away, as if erased by the passing of the leaf. “There you go, Benny-boy. 'Bout time you got your bloody arse down here.”

Of course, he was dreaming—but it seemed so real. He could see the spiderweb of broken blood vessels at the tip of his grandfather's nose. The tufts of white hair at the edges of his ears. The ever-present laughter in his eyes. “Granddad?”

“Who'd ya think?”

“Well, considering you're buried six feet under Aussie soil, I didn't much expect to run into you anytime soon.” He pushed himself upward, the musky odor still strong, threatening to overwhelm him again. “Why are you here?”

“I've been sent to warn you.”

“We know about those black beasties. You're a little late.”

“Those wankers? Don't let them pests get to ya.”

“Pests? Those ‘pests' just about consumed our entire crew.”

His grandfather sat down beside him, crossing his legs.

“Benny-boy, you have to continue down. Don't go up.”

“But—”

“Down, Bennie-boy. Down.”

The muskiness intruded again, smearing the image of his grandfather with wide swatches of purple and orange. “I don't understand . . .” He felt himself falling away again.

Only his granddad's words followed him as he faded away: “. . . down . . . down . . .”

“Wake up, Ben.” Ashley patted his shoulder, surprised at how deeply he slept. The others were already up and about. He was the last still in his bedroll. Even Villanueva was sitting up, doing much better, his arm in a crude sling.

She shook Ben's shoulder. “C'mon, breakfast is about ready.” She glanced over to where Michaelson was bent over the campstove. How he managed to turn dehydrated eggs into a damned close approximation of a Denver omelet was a mystery that would baffle Betty Crocker. Her stomach rumbled in response to the tantalizing scent of grilled onions and tinned ham.

Ben groaned, rolling onto his back, eyes cracked open a slit. “Bloody hell, what is that stench?”

“It's breakfast, and if you don't hurry, you'll be eating cold cereal.”

He propped himself up on his elbows, his hair sticking out in all directions. He scratched at himself under the blanket. “Blimey, my head's aching like she's about to blow. It's not fair that I get a hangover without a fine evening at the pub.”

Concerned, Ashley placed her hand on his forehead. Thankfully, Ben had no fever. “It's just a headache. I'll get you a couple aspirin.”

“How about a fistful?” he said with a tired grin.

She crossed over to the bag that held the first-aid kit, shaking out three aspirin from a small plastic bottle.

Villanueva sat next to the kit. “He doesn't look too well.”

Ashley couldn't help but smile at his observation. This from a man whose shirt was still soaked in his own dried blood and whose arm had just about been torn off. “I'm sure Ben will be fine. You, on the other hand, need to rest. You shouldn't even be sitting up.”

He looked at her stonily, as if she were speaking a foreign language.

Michaelson stepped up behind her and handed the SEAL a steaming bowl. “Chicken broth,” he said when Villanueva raised his eyebrows. “You lost a lot of blood. You need plenty of replacement fluid. Drink up.”

Ashley crossed over to Ben, a slight smile on her face. Major Michaelson was turning into a regular Florence Nightingale.

“Thanks,” Ben said, when she offered him the aspirin, “but I'm already feeling better. Once I'm up and moving, I'll be more chipper than a 'roo with a full pouch.”

“Take the aspirin anyway.” She pushed the tablets into his hand and passed him a cup of water. “We've still got a big day ahead of us.”

He pouted but took the pills. “Now, weren't you saying something about breakfast earlier? I always wanted to be served breakfast in bed.”

“If you're feeling hungry, then you're fit enough to get your own meal. Besides, we need everyone together at breakfast to discuss our options, and I want your input.”

“Oh, all right. But that's a good way to give everyone a bad case of indigestion.”

She helped him stand. “Quit griping.”

With a mock scowl, he accompanied her to the camp stove, where Michaelson was already scooping out platefuls of omelet and fried potatoes.

“Quite a spread of tucker, mate,” Ben acknowledged, hefting a tin plate from the major's hand.

“Since we haven't had hot food since breakfast yesterday, I thought everyone could use a big meal.” Michaelson filled Ben's plate with a tap of his ladle.

Ashley took a smaller helping and sat down on a flat boulder. Khalid and Linda were already seated around the campstove, forkfuls eagerly being consumed. Villanueva sipped at his chicken broth, lustfully eyeing their greasy meal.

Once Michaelson was settled in with them, Ashley spoke up. “We need to decide a course of action from here. We have only supplies for another eight days.”

Nods and chewing were her only answer; the others waited for her to elaborate.

“Our options are to go back and try to make it through monster alley back there; stay here and hope that after a period of time the lack of radio contact may generate a search party; or push forward and try to find an alternate route up, knowing that there may be other nasties awaiting us.”

Linda put down her fork. “I think we should stay here. Eventually someone will come looking for us.”

“Perhaps,” said Michaelson, “but consider the previous team. We were sent three months after the first. It could be a long wait.”

“That's true,” said Ben, “and those beasts will be waiting for them too. It's not fair to ask someone to walk into the same lion's den without warning. And going back through there ourselves is not an option. I say we push on.”

Ashley nodded. She felt the same way, but there were other concerns to take into account. She pointed to Villanueva. “We have an injured teammate here, and additional traveling will risk further injury.”

Villanueva lowered the bowl from his lips. “I'll manage just fine. I know how far I can push myself.”

Ashley looked over at him. “I'm sure you do. But what if we run into more trouble? Your injuries are a serious hardship on the mobility of the team.”

“If that happens, then leave me behind. Don't risk the team for my sake.”

“Noble words, but it's us abandoning you. I, for one, won't do that.”

“Me either, bloke. If we get in a scrape, we all go or no one goes.”

Villanueva shook his head and raised the broth to his lips. “Civilians . . .” he mumbled across the steaming bowl.

Khalid spoke up. “So then, what do we do? Push forward or not? It sounds like we're damned if we do and damned if we don't.”

“I have a suggestion,” Ashley said. “We split up. Linda and Khalid stay here with Villanueva where it's safe. The rest of us will head out. We'll try to find a way back up and come down with a rescue team.”

Everyone was quiet as they pondered her plan, then Michaelson nodded. “It's a sound plan. An efficient team has a good chance of making it back up. But, Ashley, there's no reason for you to come along. Ben and I—”

Ben interrupted. “The major's right. Two could move faster than three.”

“Bullshit. I can move as fast as you, and I'm a sharper shot. Besides, the more eyes watching the trail, the better. I'm going.”

Both men tried to beat her down with stubborn stares, but she didn't budge. Finally, Ben turned to Michaelson. “It's a lost cause, mate. We got us some female company. Have to watch our language and be careful where we spit.”

“Fine,” Michaelson said. “Then let's divvy up the supplies and get going. We're gonna have to travel light. Just the necessities: guns, radio, canteens, ropes.”

Ashley picked up her holstered pistol. “And lots of ammunition.”

Khalid stood off to the side as the others readied themselves for the journey. From under heavy brows, he eyed Ben and Michaelson packing supplies. Villanueva struggled to be of use, disassembling the radio and wrapping key components in waterproof seals. Khalid studied the SEAL, weighing the strength left in Villanueva.

Linda stepped beside him. “Look at this!”

He turned to her.

“There's actually a phosphorescent species of mold growing
within
this diamond.” She cupped the glassy chunk in her hands and leaned close to him, blocking out the surrounding light, her hair brushing his cheek. “See!”

The golf-ball-sized crystal glowed a soft yellow between her palms. “Why don't you add it to your specimens?”

Specimens? It took him a heartbeat to understand her. Then he realized she meant the collection of fist-sized diamonds he had stored in his pack. He'd told her they were geologic samples, scientific research.

“I will,” he said, accepting her gift. He fumbled his bag open and snuggled the diamond carefully among the others. He ran a finger across the other diamonds. Twelve of them.

Regardless of his employer's desire, he wasn't leaving this cavern empty-handed.

Linda watched with mixed feelings as the others exited through the wormhole. She waffled between trepidation that the team was splitting up and relief that she was safely ensconced in a cavern secure from the predators.

She noted Khalid had already returned to studying the diamonds; he seemed fixated on the wealth around them, constantly drawn back to collecting stray fragments. Villanueva dozed nearby on his mattress.

Only she stared as Ben's light faded around a curve in the wormhole. She wondered what new discoveries they would encounter, what marvels she would miss by staying behind. A small spark of envy tried to blossom into a flame, but the horrors that could also lay ahead lessened her regret.

Glancing around the small cavern, iridescent in the lamplight, she smiled at the thought that she, Linda Furstenburg, claustrophobic extraordinaire, was happy to be trapped in a confining chamber miles below the earth's surface. Let the others discover new wonders. At least here she wouldn't be something's dinner.

She crossed to the miniature laboratory she had set up. Besides, there was plenty to research right here. She sat down and checked her figures twice, then monitored the new hyphae growth under a microscope. She pulled out a slide of the older fungus and studied it too. “My god, if that isn't a chloroplast,” she muttered.

Villanueva, who had been dozing nearby, opened an eye. “Are you talking to me?”

Linda blushed. “No, sorry. It's just this mold is fascinating.”

Villanueva pushed into a seated position, obviously still groggy, but bored too. “What did you find?”

“I thought at first it was a dimorphic species, two forms of the same fungus. But now I don't think so. I think they are two unique species surviving symbiotically. Each sustaining the other.”

“You lost me, Doc.”

“One type of mold—the one with glowing hyphae—gets its energy from hydrogen sulfide in the trace volcanic gases, but its rate of growth is too fast to attribute to the amount of gas present. Plus it wastes a lot of energy to produce the glow.”

“So how come it does that?”

“That's just it! There's a second species of fungus interwoven with it. This second fungus is full of a type of chloroplast!” She pointed at the microscope slide as proof.

The SEAL shrugged. “So?”

“So the second fungus uses the glowed energy from the first, like a plant uses sunlight. It feeds on this energy and in turn not only thrives, but also produces hydrogen sulfide gas to feed its glowing counterpart.”

“So each mold feeds the other.”

“Exactly! But obviously there must be more to it. More energy is needed to sustain this relationship. Whether from thermal heat, or from something in the rocks here, or from decomposition, or something else. I don't know. There's so much to learn. I could spend years studying just this relationship.”