by Byron Craft
“One more thing, Professor and this may be more up your alley. It was easy for the boys at Mike Lab to tap in and learn that these creatures love our internet. They devour it, we assume, for content on us and current data around the world. They seem to be fascinated with social media, not as contributors but as observers.”
Ironwood brightened at the news and smiled at the Admiral.
“What is it, Tom?”
“Your info is more valuable than you realize, Jack. It has given me an idea actually,” he added tugging at his beard, “a plan.”
“Tell me about it?”
“I better leave you out of this one, Jack. The less you know for the time being might be better for all of us, especially since our Congressman will be putting you on the hot seat soon. I better handle this myself, with the help of only a few associates.”
“Have it your way; I hope it’s a good one. In time our boys may be able to figure out what and where they are beaming out in space.”
“Keep at it, but it is probably not necessary,” he replied still fingering his facial hair.
“Why?”
“I’m pretty sure I know what they are up to now.”
“Tell me, Prof, that’s an order,” he demanded grinning.
“E.T. is phoning home.”
***
Morris Ankrum was scared to death. He had to get the hell out of there! It meant traversing miles of desert on foot, but that was better than hanging around and getting a bullet in the head. He, along with the linguists, had cracked the language of the Elder Beings, well a good part of it anyway. The parts the Congressman needed for his pursuit.
Morris had accrued a considerable amount of personal leave from the NWC, and Neville Steam’s connections awarded him that intelligence and the fact that he, Morris, was their top code-breaker. And now the only code-breaker at the Congressman’s sanctuary. He would be away from his day job for only a few weeks, no more than a month. The pay would be more than he could earn in ten years. He probably wouldn’t live to collect it, if they ever intended for him to collect.
The linguists were dead. Shot through the head while Morris looked on from the kneehole of his desk. It was a lucky break. He had been down on all fours searching for a contact lens. Stream’s men in black took out his entire language crew with one volley of fire. Morris covered his mouth and cried.
There was a tiny open space under the desk, a narrow gap between the kickboard and the belly of the desktop, that afforded Morris a limited field of vision. The periphery of his observation permitted him the view of his office door, two other desks, and a wall hung mirror. It was a reflection in the mirror that drove him to abject panic. One of the men in black was walking toward his hidey-hole. It was the one they called Mosley. He was the biggest of the Congressman's guards, well over six feet in height and immensely muscular. Mosley frightened Morris more than the others in the Congressman’s security detail, not only because of his formidable stature, rather it was his hygiene.
Mosley was excessively fastidious in his appearance. Always attired in black from head to foot. Black jacket, black tee shirt, slacks, and boots. His long raven dark hair was drawn back, bound into a ponytail by a broad silver ring and meticulously manicured fingernails to a brilliant clear gloss. The nail on the pinky of his left hand, much longer than the others, displayed a diamond chip rooted in the varnish.
Mosley was the personification of why evil people gave Morris a creepy feeling without them having done anything evil to him, until that moment. The big man’s polished boots were now inches from the kickboard, so close that he knew that he must be breathing over his desktop. Was he discovered? Did Mosley know that he took cover below? This was where the action hero in a movie would overcome the bad guy utilizing the element of surprise. For Morris that was fantasy. The attempt would be as pathetic as a mouse attacking a lion.
Morris heard Mosley repeatedly tap his little-jeweled fingernail on a file folder lying on the desk. Morris instantly recognized that it was the target of his tapping. There had been no other objects resting there. It was Morris Ankrum’s OCD; he hated a messy desk, his was always as neat as a pin. He closed his eyes, held his breath, and waited for the inevitable. An eternity traveled through his gray matter. Was Mosely now the cat staring into the mouse hole waiting to pounce when he opened his eyes? Eyes wide he looked toward the area between his desk and office chair. There was only the empty chair! The sound of rustled papers met his ears trailed by retreating footfalls. Morris turned and looked once again through the narrow gap between the kickboard and the underside of the desk to observe Mosely dash from the room with the file folder in hand.
The file contained the results of their translation. The directions attained by torture of the Elder Thing. Detailed instructions on how to operate an ancient and hideous machine. An expulsion of breath chased relief, momentary relief, brooded Morris. They probably were searching for him elsewhere, he wished, with any luck believing that he was either hiding somewhere in the Congressman Stream’s underground lair or perhaps slipped past them and made it outdoors. He would stay put, bide his time, wait until evening. Maybe then he could sneak out, maybe they would give up looking for him and leave for their objective. He had to be very cautious; each cavernous gloom can conceal lurking fear. Black-clad Mosely could easily lean into the shadows competing with the darkness. Kill time, linger until the moment was right, he was emotionally drained. Morris rested his chin on his chest and fell asleep.
***
Cac was no longer ambulatory. His legs had become useless, but his brain made up for the deficiency. Cac’s day job, at the NWC, was as a physicist that specialized in how matter and energy behave, specifically in the field of satellite-based solar-pumped lasers. At other times he was a techie supreme, knowledgeable about technological things, especially relating to computers. His abilities and an obsessive desire to tinker with anything mechanical and electrical drove Cac to recreate the Allonby X-10 PowerChair, an electric wheelchair that was the cutting edge of the design spectrum. Made of a durable, lightweight aluminum alloy and carbon fiber, the chair can support passengers weight up to 350 pounds, which was beneficial for the extremely overweight physicist. The advanced mobility wheelchair would also allow individuals to climb stairs and complete tasks that, previously, would have required another person’s assistance. It was not cutting edge enough for techie Cac, and when his fiddling was complete, it additionally became a power standing chair with the ability to ride through water and across rough terrain. Cac would amaze and outperform his co-workers darting around their lab completing research tasks swiftly.
Cac was also the hero of the Naval Weapons Center. Shoggoth killer, they called him. More than a year had passed since the incident that ultimately left him crippled. He had used the SGT, Space Guard Transmitter, to destroy the creature. Seabees, Marines and a handful of scientists from the base had piled a ton of blasting gel beneath a hole in the tunnel’s ceiling to stop a rampaging shoggoth. Dozens of blasting caps were stuck into the many plastic tubes of dynamite gel and, nestled amongst them, a cell phone was placed. Cac was ordered to Geo-Locate the mobile phone, using Norsat and, “lock on to it with the Space Guard Transmitter.” The SGT was an experimental low orbit solar powered laser. He was to deploy the space-based laser gun remotely detonating the explosives from the safety of the Michelson Lab, at the NWC, or so he thought. Preparations were complete, and Cac received the “GO” signal from the orbiter. Activation was the only step left. Two hired guns burst in through the lab’s double doors and shot him twice in the back. They left him for dead. Life, although, was still pumping through Cac’s veins. One of the 9mm slugs had damaged his spine; his legs were unworkable. With tremendous willpower, Cac dragged his bloody form across the floor and in his last moment of consciousness triggered the SGT.
“The rest is history,” he announced from his hospital bed two days later. “The SGT blew the place to bits, and the bastard was encased in molten lava.” Who
the gunmen were, he was never sure. Rumors circulated that a big-time politician had hired them and he had his suspicions. However, all involved in the ordeal were forced to sign a non-disclosure agreement which meant that the case was closed, and they couldn’t talk about it.
Cac’s social life revolved around his lasers and gadgets, which perfectly satisfied him. He had no desire to make friends outside of work or attend social gatherings. His only desire for societal outreach was through social media, and that was limited to those who worked in his field. Cac oversaw the SGT research team and conversation within that realm of experience was simply relegated to issuing assignments to its few lab assistants. Beyond that, he kept to himself, aside from his boss. The man he worked for tolerated his eccentricities with an air of amusement and was outwardly appreciative of Cac’s contributions to their research. Cac had no relatives worth mentioning, and his supportive boss became a paternal image.
Cac would have jumped if he hadn’t been strapped into his high-tech chair when the double doors to the lab opened harkening back to that deadly day a year earlier. His heart slowed to a normal beat when he saw familiar faces. There were four of them. An acquaintance, Lieutenant Riggs, entered with a kid in tow, a teenager, that he had observed before hanging around the computer lab. Behind was a white-haired gentleman that inquisitively glanced about their research department. Never seen him before, he decided. Pulling up the rear was his boss, Professor Thomas Ironwood
***
Ironwood leaned back in his chair, the four of them sat around a circular conference table. Lieutenant Jason Riggs departed the lab after leaving his nephew in the Professor’s keeping. Five-foot six-inch Cac raised his chair to the standing position halting beside the table giving the appearance of a man taller than his actual stature. He stood directly across from his boss, the Professor, who was flanked by the white-haired visitor on one side and the teenager on the other. “Hi,” he said, “my name is Cac.”
Noah looked at the half man, half machine, appearing nervous queried, “Cac?”
“Yeah,” he answered with a horse laugh, “it’s my cyber name, an acronym for Charles Augustus Chase. I like it,” he added still guffawing, “it sounds like a cat gagging on a hairball. What’s yours?”
“Noah,” he responded looking apprehensive.
An electric motor hummed, Cac leaned closer, reminiscent of a creepy sci-fi moment, and challenged, “Why are you here, Noah?”
“I’m grounded,” he sheepishly replied. “I guess my Uncle sent me here as punishment.”
It was Ironwood’s turn to laugh. “Not at all,” terminating the comment with a chuckle. “Noah is a computer prodigy. He is extremely adept with the NWC’s quantum computer system.”
“I only have limited access to the IT Department.”
“Hey screen-ager, I’ve got full access,” boasted Cac beaming with geek pride.
“That makes you two the perfect team,” instructed Professor Ironwood with a grin.
“Huh?” the two re-joined dumbfounded.
“In due time, both of you, all will become clear. We need to get down to business . . .”
“Excuse me, Boss,” Cac interrupted, “but we haven’t been introduced to this fella,” indicating the white-haired man on Ironwood’s left.
“Ken,” answered white hair hesitantly, “Kenneth Wolfe. The Professor believes that I have some photographs that might be helpful.”
Ironwood interjected, secretly knowing that Kenneth Wolfe was his legal name, not his birth name. He had aided Faren Church and his wife to assume new identities over thirty years ago. “Mr. Wolfe was involved in an incident in the 1980’s. For reasons of anonymity I will have to withhold his personal details, however, his clash with . . . let us say, ‘elder things’ will be advantageous.”
Cac’s eyes sparkled with mischievous humor, “Please don’t keep us in the dark any longer, Boss.”
Ironwood steepled his fingers to address them. “There is an old saying about not calling forth that which you cannot put down. And now they are here, feeding off humans.”
“You mean that video that’s all over the place, the thing eating human lunchmeat. I thought it was proven to be fake news?” Cac inquired.
“A supplicant and compliant media are disseminating the actual fake news,” Ironwood replied.
“You mean that video is the real thing?” an astounded Noah asked.
“I’m afraid so, and the worse is yet to come.”
“If that is the case, I hear that there are no more than a thousand of those things. Can’t the military take em’ out, take em’ down?” Cac countered.
“Politics and the military, unfortunately, in this case, are hand in hand. Once the sham is known worldwide, and public outcry becomes the dominant force it may be too late. The mere one thousand or so Elder Beings could multiply to millions, probably tens of billions and humans will be converted to slaves and cattle.” Ironwood recalled his old friend, Alan Ward’s dying words, “Sometimes used as food and sometimes as amusing buffoons.”
“Cluster funk!” complained Cac. “I take it we aren’t here to play Pandemic, what badass thing can we do?”
Ironwood filled them in on the veracity of Gideon Ward’s video, the HPL Memorandum and shoggoth towers transmitting signals into deep space.
“Oh, frell me!” Noah softly intruded staring at the tabletop.
“Hashtag,” Cac butt in dominating the conversation. “Oh Pokémon! I get it! These Dudes can’t project a bunch of Yith brains here without a gang of cone-buddies to occupy, and the existing Elders won’t multiply unless they have the brains to fill em’. Which means . . .
“A coordinated effort, most likely on a massive scale,” Ironwood interposed.
“So then why are we here, what can we do?” Noah self-consciously asked.
“Create a false narrative.”
Kenneth, AKA Faren, cleared his throat. “I think that is where I come in,” he cautiously volunteered.
Ironwood looked fondly at his old acquaintance knowing how difficult it will be for him to be forthcoming. “When I read that memorandum, it was reminiscent of Kenneth’s situation years ago. The key, I am hoping, to end this invasion.”
Kenneth Wolfe cleared his throat for a second time, “My wife and I resided in Germany in 1985. The area was isolated, several kilometers from the nearest village. There was this door, a dimensional passageway that was left partially opened by the previous resident of our home, a sorcerer of sorts. We soon learned that it was a hellish place, a prison world, where a demon and its hordes were fettered. I discovered from multiple sources that the demon creature was known over the centuries as Cthulhu.”
“OMG!” Cac almost shouted. “I’ve heard of him. You’re scaring the crap out of me Dude!”
“Enough Cac,” commanded the Professor. “I am well versed in its history too, be still. Please continue Far . . . Kenneth.”
After a sideward glance at Ironwood followed by a thoughtful pause he continued. “The dimensional door was only slightly ajar, not enough for them to access our world, barely permitting them to influence Earthly minds. I discovered, as well, that they invaded our planet millions of years ago. A pre-human civilization existed back then. The same cone-shaped beings we are faced with today. Highly intelligent and fearless creatures. Fearless except when it came to the horde of Cthulhu. A great battle ensued between the two forces. Millions of the Elder Beings were slain until the dark ones were driven from this earth into dimensional confinement. Only one remained immune. A horrible thing known as Yath-Notep. If allowed to linger on our planet’s surface, when the stars were right, it could cry out to the heavens summoning its master, Cthulhu, and its multitude to return. The Elders, wise with their ancient scientific skills, imprisoned Yath-Notep beneath the earth and sealed the opening with a giant star stone.”
“We already know this, the Professor related the same story from that memorandum,” declared Cac cutting him short.
“Hush!
” commanded Ironwood again with a raised hand.
“In 1985 the starstone door was flung open.”
Silence and stillness permeated the room. Not wanting to be told to “shut up” again, Cac with hand over mouth regarded Kenneth Wolfe with shocked surprise. He turned to Noah and observed the Kid’s equal amazement.
“Yath-Notep almost succeeded in releasing his master. It was only by sheer luck aided by an ancient technology that I am not at liberty to divulge, that he was driven back underground before the deed was done.” Kenneth had been looking down at his clutched hands while conveying his tale, completing his account, he raised his head and considered his companions.
Cac, sensing that it was permissible for him to speak, contested four words, “Create a false narrative?”
“Precisely,” countered Ironwood. “You see gentleman these legless beings have two Achilles’ heels. The first is, of course, Yath-Notep; the second is their love for our internet.”
“What!” Noah cried out, then appearing embarrassed for the outbreak became quiet.
“Yes, Noah. I’ve been told that they devour it, probably for information about us and world-wide data. They are also intrigued social media observers.”
“I think I see where you are coming from, Boss. They’re like Mr. Spock’s ‘insatiable curiosity.’”
“Exactly Cac. And we are going to be the troll. More than the verb to define an action, we will have the computing power and capability to become the humanoid that lives under the bridge preying on the unsuspecting. A ‘false narrative’ that will lurk in discussion groups, social media, and websites, living and promulgating a tall inflammatory tale that will force the Elders to seek refuge elsewhere.”
“Yath-Notep will rise again!” shouted Cac. “But won’t they just stick around to fight like they once did?”
“Remember your HPL Memorandum, Cac. That age-old war was fought by an army consisting of billions of Elder Beings. If we act now, they might imagine that they are grossly outnumbered and . . .”