Specifically, detailed intel ops at ground zero. At this point in the game, we are sending out data shipments on return flights every six hours, and all of it is gathered, prepared, and launched from the specs lab.
Taking a deep breath, I exit the portal. “Six fucking hours with Kreel,” I mutter, entering the lab. Boy scout is already here, grinning at me as the door slides open.
“Wheatley.”
Ignoring him, I take a seat at a console. “Anything to note from last shift?”
“Not a thing! No worries, though. We’ll get some excitement. I’m sure of it.”
Of course he is. Swiping through the sensor screens, I begin logging the first round. A lot of the men, like Kreel, accepted this commission exclusively to get a chance to hit back at them. A little excitement would do their nerves good after all this damn waiting.
“Hey, Kreel. Did last shift fill you in on the current we hit? It knocked several days off our trip. We need to make sure it’s documented.” I change screens to view the trajectory.
“Didn’t mention it. It had to have happened the shift before. Maybe at 02:00.”
I pull up the file, but no anomalies were recorded. “Damn. They didn’t enter it. We’ll have to do a retro.” Swinging around to the log console, I pull the sensory readings and load them into a handheld screener. Scanning them, I see no irregularities. “Kreel, check out the back-up logs. Do you see a current that I don’t?”
Kreel’s fingers drum restlessly on the console. “No, nothing.”
“Okay. So we have an acceleration that brings us a week and a half in just twenty-four hours but no indication of what caused it.” I study the data on the handheld. “You got any ideas, Kreel?”
His thumb began tapping more rapidly against the display edge. “Okay, hear me out. You dodged an asteroid, and within thirty-six hours, we are on top of the pillars. I don’t know how it did it, but I’m telling you, man. That asteroid had something to do with this.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Fuck’s sake, Kreel. A goddamn asteroid did not do this. Maybe in dodging it, I put us in an unexpected substream, but your conspiracy theories are too goddamn much.” I take a breath and release it slowly. “Now. I am going to push this off to the brains, though my bet is they already know a lot more about it and haven’t bothered to tell us. Just keep up on the fucking specs. I’ll be back.” Pulling the data chip from the handheld, I stand up.
“Whatever, man.” Kreel returns to his primary console as I step into the hall.
The only communication access to the brains is a comm port off of main expanse on the internal hull. Inserting the data chip into the port, I type my access code and make the connection. “Acceleration at approximately 02:00. Unknown source. Data log provided.” I withdraw my card after it sends.
Boarding a lift, I catch sight of a harried Philips scurrying across the expanse. I pause for a moment and punch in level five: med bay. It’s time to pay Jonesy a visit.
I expected to find him fussing and whining from a cot. Maybe bitching at one of the med hands. Or lounging with a book in hand. Not strapped down with restraints, thrashing against them like some feral animal. Arching his back, he snaps one of the bands spanning his chest and presses the top of his head down into the bed to lock his eyes with mine as his arms, free now of their restraints, flail wildly.
The blood seeping from his eyes trickles over his eyebrows and onto his forehead. I stumble back a few steps, knocking into a stand and sending supplies flying.
“Whatchit, Wheatley!” The doc races over, righting the stand. “Unless you have a medical reason to be here, get out. No gawking!” Not waiting for a response, she grabs my shoulder and whirls me back toward the door. Behind me, a shrill keening erupts out of Jonesy as two of the med hands struggle to restrain him. “Out!” She gives me a final shove as Jonesy’s eyes roll back, and he collapses on the bed.
The door slides shut behind me and latches with a soft click that echoes in my stunned brain.
“What. The. Actual. Fuck.”
* * *
The only job worse than having to wriggle about the fucking access ports is cleaning the latrines. They couldn’t have made these ports with the least little bit of breathing room, oh no. No, they had to make them so fucking tight you have to sidle along inside, squeezing from latch to latch with your goddamn toolkit banging along behind you.
But I need to know. What happened to Jonesy was not just a zap. And the only way to get uncompromised data is to go straight to the source. The fried circuitry responsible for the short is scheduled for repair today but not until after they finish building the replacements this afternoon.
I sync my handheld with the comm connector and pull out a coupler from my kit. A little luck and I can recover a few files.
Easing the coupler between burned out nodes, I increase the power through the link. Pressing the log command on the handheld, I wait for the connection indicator. “Data transferred” flashes on the screen. I disconnect and squirm back out of the hole.
A slow, deep breath steadies me. Directly across the hall, the command center hangs just beyond the glass. I stash the handheld in my kit and turn toward the quads. Maybe, it’s nothing, or maybe, Kreel finally succeeded in spooking me, but I don’t have any intention of sharing the existence of this data just yet. Not until I understand what exactly is fucking happening.
“I’m getting as paranoid about conspiracy theories as the goddamn boy scout,” I mutter as I enter my quarters. Regardless, a sense of security eases over me as the doors slide shut. I pull up the files that weren’t too corrupted to be saved.
Command will realize I took a detour soon, so I work fast. Noting the time frames in conjunction with what data is available, I scribble out the details of the charts. Stashing the handheld in a drawer, I step back out into the hall. Keeping my eyes down and away from the view, I head back to the specs lab.
Kreel is tapping away at a console when I reenter. “What took you so fucking long? No way should a run to command console take an hour and half, Wheatley.”
Somebody’s cranky. “Give it a rest, Kreel.” I slide into my console and reactivate my screen. While the incoming data begins to consolidate, I scour it for a pattern. There has to be a connection. “You get any more reads on that acceleration?” I hand him the data I copied.
Surprise crosses his face. “So that’s what took so long. Feeling a tad daredevil, are we?” He studies the data, and his smirk freezes. Reading intently, he spreads the papers out across his console and compares it against his scans.
“Well?” Patience has never been my strong suit.
He bites the lid off a marker, circles three timespans on my chart, and points at his screen. “Compare the files. At each of these spikes,” he says, pointing at the chart, “our sensors were bombarded with low-grade sonics. It started when your asteroid got within our close range sensors.”
“The fuck you mean, ‘low-grade sonics’? It was an asteroid, Kreel, not a motherfucking director beacon.”
He holds up a hand. “Now, look at this. At 02:30, Jonesy goes to reset the sensors just in time for one last blast of that sonic interference. He gets zapped by the short, and twelve hours later, we have somehow skipped over the final leg of our trip. I don’t know how they did it, but those fuckers want us here.”
I stare at him. “I went and saw Jonesy after sending the command comm.”
Kreel’s eyebrows shoot upward. “Oh?”
“Whatever fucked him up, it wasn’t any sort of electric shock I’ve ever seen. If this does have something to do with the ship’s acceleration to the Pillars, it don’t mean one good fucking thing for us.”
“Did you send this data to command?”
“No. Just the initial data we found before. Technically,” I add, “the circuitry housing is off-limits since—” A shudder rips its way through the ship, interrupting me. We glance at each other, then take off for the main lift.
When we reach th
e platform, I hear someone murmur, “My God,” only dimly aware that it was me who’d spoken it. What might have been the view from God’s own throne room two days prior had undergone a horrendous metamorphosis. Fucking Hades himself would shy away from this nightmare.
Aligned on either side of the Gallivant, the bastards lurk just beyond the reach of the ship’s lights. Massive, tentacled, and patient. Thousands of them, just waiting for us to stroll right into their midst.
Spanning the distance between us and them, floating all around us, are bodies. Human bodies, gaunt limbs rent from torsos, heads with faces sunken in and twisted in expressions of pain and terror, collide into the glass over the main expanse as the ship forges ahead through this gruesome sea.
The ship shudders again. “The engines,” I realize. “Kreel, I think command is trying to pull an all-stop,” I hear myself mumble.
Kreel does not respond. Instead, he sinks slowly to his knees and stares unblinkingly at the millions who our government had declared lost. The ones assumed to have been incinerated in the attack. None realized they had been taken. “My sister. S-she was an unrecoverable. Look at them, Wheatley. Fucking look at them!” he screams, launching himself to his feet and grabbing at my shoulders.
I drive my fist into his jaw. Hard. Grabbing him by his collar as he staggers, I haul him back upright. “Fuck’s sake, Kreel. Look at them out there. We have got to get to the docking bay, do you understand? It’s our only chance to—” He struggles, and I shake him. “Do you understand?” I yell at him. Others had arrived on the main, their confused exclamations escalating.
No longer waiting for a reply, I drag him back to a lift. I punch in the order for the docking bay while Kreel sags against the lift wall. “I need you with me on this, Kreel.”
“Shells, just . . . shells. Sucked dry, hollowed out,” he rambles on.
I ignore him. The lift stabilizes, and I haul him out. He maintains his feet this time, despite another shudder rocking the ship.
“You still with me, Kreel?” I take him by the elbow and lead him to the nearest console. Speaking slowly, I tell him, “Access main engine control here and run an override while I coordinate at the command link.” I eye him uncertainly. He’s pale and his eyes glossy. “Kreel,” I bark, snapping my fingers in his face. My hands shake. Balling them, I clench and unclench them at my side.
He shakes his head sharply and places his hands on the console. “Yes. Yes, I’ll do the override.”
I move to the command console around the corner, calling out, “I’ll contact command. Once they respond, you’ll have to sever the link fast.” I link up, entering the query code for all-stop. The cursor blinks slowly as I await their response.
Hearing a choking gasp from Kreel, I grind my teeth. We all lost people in the attack, and the graveyard out there is grade-A fucked up, but that doesn’t mean we lose our shit down here. I take a deep breath and steal a glance around the corner.
Kreel staggers toward me, a dark circle of blood blooming magnificently across his chest. I catch him as he falls, and we both sink to the floor. My mind spins chaotically as I stare at the blood now covering my hands. Numbly, I shake him. His head lolls to one side.
Another violent shudder throws me over backward, and Kreel flops free of my grip. I scramble on all fours back to him, struggling to lift his dead weight to standing. Stumbling, Grafner emerges out from behind a bulkhead.
“Grafner. Grafner, get over here. We gotta get him to med bay.” I grab Kreel under his arms. “His legs, Bill. Get his legs.”
Grafner’s face stretches into a wide, frenzied grin. His hand clasps a blade, cruelly hooked and dark with blood. “They’re gods, Wheatley,” he croons. “They are gods, and they are not pleased we’ve forgotten.”
I stand up slowly, my heart hammering wildly as he, gnashing his teeth, drives the dagger into his arm. Twisting the blade gently, he works the tip beneath his implant.
I stand frozen, my mind stubbornly refusing to process that Bill, who I’d known for years, who had volunteered for this mission, whose family was among the taken, could possibly be this manic zealot.
“You’re smart,” he continues, flinging his implant aside as blood flows freely down his arm. “You know there’s only one thing to do here, Wheatley. Fucking heads of state sending us out here like they could destroy God.” He screams at the console. “Arrogant maggots! They don’t understand, no, not them.”
Another shudder from the engines. This time it knocks a hold unit free, and spare replacement bits scatter across the engine bay, distracting him. I throw myself at him, ramming my shoulder into his abdomen. He gasps for breath, and I wrench the blade free.
His breath becomes more ragged, and I realize he is laughing. “You’re gutless, Wheatley,” he sneers. “You won’t kill me any more than you could the asswipes who threw you in here.” He steps toward me, eyes hardening.
Anticipating his lunge, I drive my elbow into his nose when he charges. “Whatever I might be, Bill, you are still slow.” Leaving him fuming and spitting blood, I take off toward the launch bay. Ducking into a console tucked behind a bulkhead, I tap into an escape pod’s controls. One of the pods illuminates.
“Wheatley! Get back here, coward!” Grafner roars. Spotting the ready lights on the pod, he charges in. I punch in the confirmation code, and the pod seals behind him.
With the sharp hiss and clang of clamps releasing, the pod launches. Screaming in fury, Grafner beats at the doors. Writhing in anticipation, his gods close in on him as his pod floats deeper toward their nest.
Punching in the propulsion codes, I activate the pod’s plasma thrust. The pod, rocketing forward, careens wildly while grasping tentacles snatch at it. As it plunges into the nearest Pillar, a brilliant flash rips through the formation, consuming the creatures in a blinding explosion.
Gods or not, they’ll all fucking burn.
Heather Terry is a writer, secondary English teacher, and adjunct professor hailing from Akron, Ohio. After earning her M.A. in English from Kent State University, she founded the Curious Words blog, a site dedicated to analyzing and sharing useful writing resources.
As a lover of the macabre, fantasy, and all things Harry Potter, Heather’s works-in-progress range from Lovecraftian-inspired horror to tales from magical realms. When she isn’t reading or writing about magic and monsters, she spends her time exploring with her husband, trying vainly to tire out their non-stop dog, and crafting Halloween creations well in advance of October.
When the Stars Were Wrong
Wendy Nikel
Illustrated by Michael Bukowski
The creature hid in the universe’s shadows, and if we’d known that the Andromeda XI would cross its path, we’d have avoided that quadrant entirely. Or maybe not. Maybe we did know.
I don’t recall.
The log doesn’t indicate any intention of approaching the cosmic being, though the man called Tyrol suspects the records aren’t entirely accurate. Our other crew member (Vivian, the patch on her suit says) has only rocked and spoken frantic gibberish since the creature enveloped us in its long, curling appendages, fracturing our fragile memories.
Tyrol pores over our records, his stubbly chin jutting out in concentration, madly circling words and phrases he doesn’t think he’s written. I stand beside him, staring blankly out the window at the being’s giant, darting eye. Or at least I assume that’s what it is. It’s an orb of concentric circles that jerks about, mirroring my movements. Each circle grows incrementally, hypnotically smaller—a Fibonacci sequence tethered to an eyestalk.
“It says we were investigating an asteroid giving off a strange frequency . . . why can’t I remember?” Tyrol’s pen hovers over the letters, hesitant. He glances at my patch. “Nadia, do you recall how long we’ve been out here? How far we are from—”
From what? That’s the real question, for though some sense of logic or instinct tells us we’d been on a journey to somewhere (or from somewhere) neither of us c
an remember where. Does it even matter, now that our ship is ensnared in some massive being’s clutches and our computers are dim and unresponsive?
I don’t answer. It’s hopeless.
The ship shudders, and instinctively, I reach out to steady myself. A flash of something on my wrist catches my eye, awakens something in me. A memory? A clue? I ease my bulky sleeve back to expose the tattoo.
“PRISONER #7820-02.”
Something heavy hits the ship. My heart slams into my rib cage. Prisoner? Of what? And why? What exactly have I forgotten?
“I’ll search the storage compartments,” I tell Tyrol, and at his look of surprise, I quickly add, “for clues.” I’m not ready yet to tell him what I found: not sure what he’d do or if I should trust him. Or if he should trust me.
The longer I search, the stronger my unease and the more persistent the creature’s battering upon the hull. There’s no escape pod, but that’s not all that’s missing. The compartments are fake—Medical Supplies and Food, Lab Equipment and Tools—nothing but squares of plastic fused to the ship’s walls. If it even is a ship.
The monster’s eye stalk follows me, floating from window to window, circling the orb of our prison. I can’t shake the sense that it’s angry. That it doesn’t want me to discover these things. It doesn’t want me to remember.
As we stare each another down, its strangely globed eye reflects the red letters of the ship’s name from the hull, backward in the reflection but still decipherable: Andromeda XI.
The name strikes a chord. Though I still don’t know how we got here, I remember the origin of the name, the myth that goes with it. I rush to the window, and there, beyond the eyestalk, is a tether holding us to the asteroid. Trapping us here like the mythological princess awaiting Cetus’s wrath. A sacrifice to an angry god.
Ignoring Tyrol’s protests, I pry off the control console’s cover, but it’s empty, bare of wires or circuits. I begin to piece things together. My breath comes fast. Sweat tickles my neck. Apprehension crumbles into panic.
Ride the Star Wind: Cthulhu, Space Opera, and the Cosmic Weird Page 29