His scars ached, throbbed really. Something was happening. Was the fog thinner? Was the darkness less impenetrable? Were the stairs less steep?
Carter had picked up the pace, and without even noticing, Horne had followed suit. Carter hummed as he walked, almost too low to hear—a pre-millennial song by Inhouse. It still played on the classic rock stations. Horne couldn’t remember the title, but as he caught the tune, he tried to remember the lyrics, something about James Taylor and an old coat and a box of photographs. It reminded him of nights on the Intracoastal eating guacamole and fresh fish tacos on the beach with live music washing down from the bars and clubs that lined the streets of Lake Worth. If he closed his eyes, he could almost smell the salt air and taste the cilantro and garlic. Somewhere in his memory, a bass guitar was pounding, but it wasn’t any song that he could put a name to. He realized it wasn’t his memory at all.
His scars beat out a tempo that echoed in his head. His eyes started to blur. His tongue felt fat, and he had that sensation in the back of his throat, the tightness just before the technicolor yawn. All around him, the pentagonal pattern fell apart. Carter turned, and he had no face, just a huge Cheshire grin of ivory teeth staring back from an empty space. Horne’s scalp itched. He brought his hands up to try to get his helmet off and run his fingers through his thick wiry hair, but his hands were different. They had become disconnected. The scars were empty spaces, and his hands had begun to drift apart in pieces. He could still move them, still flex his fingers and wrists, but they weren’t entirely connected anymore. He could still feel them, but he could also feel the spaces in between.
Horne screamed.
The faceless thing that Carter had become was holding on to him, dragging him forward, that great terrifying headless mouth opening and words leaking out. Horne couldn’t hear the words, but he could read them. “Hold on. It’s just a little further. We’re almost there!”
And then there was an arching gate, and the darkness was gone. So was the fog and so were all the other soldiers and so was Carter.
As he woke up, Horne realized that there had never been a 7th Hypnological Battalion. They had been an illusion, a way of making him feel part of something. There was safety in numbers, and the thousands of other soldiers were just echoes to help get him here, into the Dream Lands. Now, in this place, Horne felt different, inhuman. He could feel his body but also the particles of air and dust and pollen that moved around and through him. He looked at himself and realized that he perceived his surroundings through sensory apparatus that were more than just eyes and ears. He extended into a dimension that he didn’t even understand. His body was no longer three-dimensional but five, and he could see that, sense it, somehow.
A nonsense phrase came to his mind. He realized that he knew exactly what it meant. It had been years since he thought about that child’s rhyme, but today, he finally understood what it meant to be a frumious bandersnatch.
He rose up on his twrils and, with his three multi-faceted subordinate eyes, took in his surroundings. There was a cat at his feet, purring and rubbing against him in a figure eight design. He was on a green hill overlooking a harbor. There was a vast ship, all steel and brass, larger than anything he had ever seen. Great towering stacks vented gouts of steam the size of storm clouds. On the decks of the Brobdingnagian construct, Horne could see fighter craft tethered like butterflies. Men and other things scurried about on the decks, in the rigging, on the hull, and on the huge wharfs and scaffolding. There were flying things, some with wings, some with great balloon-like organs, and some were like him, bandersnatch with twrils to climb through the ether.
“What do you think, Horne?” The voice came from the cat.
Horne played his sensors over its fur. It wasn’t really a cat, though it looked like one. It was so much more.
“That’s a warship.” His voice was like wind being forced through a bellows, like a whale imitating human speech.
The Carter-Cat nodded, which was kind of an impressive action for a creature with limited anatomy. “Welcome to the Hlanith Naval Yard. That, my friend is the Tars Tarkas. She’s almost ready to launch. She’ll be your home for the next eight weeks while she steams to Phobos Base.”
Horne tilted what was left of his head. “Phobos is a moon of Mars. We’re steaming to Mars?”
“I told you, the rules are different here.” Carter-Cat ran a paw over his head and face. “The human fleet is assembling around Phobos. Our allies are organizing around the other moon, Deimos.”
“We have allies?”
“Grimalkin, alien cats. From Saturn mostly, though some are from Uranus. They aren’t really cats, not as we know them, though there is something feline about them. Turns out that the Migou interdiction works both ways. Just as we aren’t allowed off Earth, the grimalkin aren’t allowed in. That has deprived them of some very prime hunting grounds.”
What passed for Horne’s ears pricked up. “What were alien cats hunting on Earth?”
Carter-Cat blinked. “Best you not worry about that. Just remember that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. And when in Ulthar …”
“Never kill a cat. You’ve told me. Rather self-serving, don’t you think?”
“But nevertheless, true.”
“What happens when the fleets are fully assembled?” Horne wondered.
“There’s a gate on Mars, a big one. It’s large enough to let the fleet through into real space. When that happens, the battle carriers will launch the fighters toward Earth. When melded with our own technology, the Saturnine grimalkin make particularly powerful drives. We can strike at the Migou from behind with a technology they won’t expect.”
“I was thinking more about me, about us. We aren’t exactly human. What happens when we pass through the gate? I mean, aren’t I dead?”
“You, Timothy Horne, are dead. But the gate on Mars isn’t connected to Earth. It doesn’t know that, doesn’t even know we were ever human. When it spits us out back into real space, I’m still going to be a cat, and you are going to retain the form you have now.”
“Which is what? What exactly am I?”
“You’re something new, and you’re not alone. The feedback from the energy weapon altered your template; you’re a little Migou now. When you enter real space, you’ll be able to access some of the higher dimensions. It’s going to be weird.”
Horne flexed his six arms and watched them spread out farther and farther until there was more empty space than solid. “Does this look human to you?”
The Carter-Cat used a hind leg to scratch behind his ear. “Nope, you don’t look one bit human. It’s a strange new world, Horne. Aliens have surrounded Earth, we’ve built virtual reality steamships to take us to Mars, our best friends are Saturnine grimalkin, and your commanding officer is a cat. I think we are going to have to redefine what it means to be human, don’t you?”
Horne closed his eyes and looked at the Carter-Cat with his slin. If he mimsied just the right way, he could make him just be Carter again, mostly.
Together, they walked down the hill toward the titanic starship brimming with the various novel and multiform facets of humanity. Toward war, toward hope, toward the future.
Pete Rawlik, a longtime collector of Lovecraftian fiction, is the author of more than fifty short stories, a smattering of poetry, and the Cthulhu Mythos novels Reanimators and The Weird Company. He is a frequent contributor to the Lovecraft ezine and the New York Review of Science Fiction. In 2014, his short story “Revenge of the Reanimator” was nominated for a New Pulp Award. His new novel, Reanimatrix, a weird, noir, romance set in HP Lovecraft’s Arkham, will be released in 2016. He lives in southern Florida where he works on Everglades issues.
Curiosity
Adam Heine
As a child, I sometimes had dreams so terrible they haunted me long after they were over. I’d wake up questioning what was real, jumping at shadows, thinking the wraiths or revenants or facehuggers had followed me into the waking world
or worse, that I was still trapped in my nightmare.
It’s been three days since I escaped Mars, and I’m still jumping at shadows.
That won’t make any sense. Let me explain.
To Mission Control and anyone else listening, this is Dr. Sarissa Nontaisong, exolinguist and crew psychologist aboard the Victoria. Our mission is … was to investigate the images transmitted over a year ago by the Mars rover Curiosity. The images hinted at extraterrestrial civilization—carved monoliths, glyphs, and alien symbols. They told us we were not alone. All of us wanted it to be true.
Our mission had difficulties from the moment we left Earth. The solar cells powering the EmDrives and ship systems failed at irregular intervals, requiring us to perform frequent in-flight spacewalks for repair. On top of that, nearly every member of the crew reported nightmares: demons, human sacrifices, horrifying monsters of all kinds.
We reported these things to you already. By themselves, they weren’t enough for concern. We crafted the reports so that would be the case. This was the most important mission in human history, after all. None of us wanted to return to Earth prematurely.
So although we told you about the nightmares, we neglected to report our waking hallucinations. We didn’t report that, due to these hallucinations, every one of us was terrified to go on spacewalks. We didn’t report what happened to Dr. Landry.
Consider this my full account on the Victoria’s mission.
During Dr. Landry’s last spacewalk, I had the comm, while the other three crew members slept. As I said, we were all terrified of being out there, so Joline and I did our best to keep each other talking.
“God, I hate it out here,” she told me.
“That’s chipper,” I said. “Do you have more to say about that?”
“Hell no.” She laughed. It sounded hollow over the commlink. “And don’t you start shrinking me, Sarissa. Not out here.”
“Sorry.” I smiled at being caught. The crew’s mental health was my job. “What do you want to talk about?”
The line was silent. Her helmet’s camera feed slowly approached the solar cells on the spokes toward the ship’s center. “Why’d you choose psychology?” she said, the barest tremble in her voice. Although her helmet was pointed at her destination, I imagined her head turned up, staring out into space, worrying at what was out there.
“I didn’t choose it, really. I chose linguistics, but my father didn’t think I could support myself with that.”
“Ah, that explains the double degree. I notice you didn’t answer my question.” I could hear the smirk even over the commlink.
I shrugged, forgetting she couldn’t see me. “My parents always complained that they couldn’t understand each other. I guess it came out of that—a desire to understand people, how they think, why they do what they do.”
“Kinda explains the linguistics, too.” Joline had reached the first unit of shorted solar cells. She began loosening the bolts with the pistol-grip power drill. For a time, all I could hear was the grating pulse of the drill’s vibrations. Each oscillation made my stomach clench.
The drill stopped suddenly, and she became still. “Are you afraid of anything, Sarissa?”
“Let’s not, yeah?” That question couldn’t lead anywhere good. “Hey, tell me why you—”
“I’m terrified of open water.” She laughed, sounding nervous. “It sounds stupid, I know. But it’s not the water itself. It’s what’s in the water, the idea that I’m intruding in some other thing’s home, that I don’t belong and they know it.”
“Who are ‘they’?” If she wouldn’t be turned from the subject, maybe I could help her talk through it.
“Whatever. Sharks, whales.” She began flipping switches underneath the opened panel. “Hell, I’m afraid of fucking sea turtles.”
“Thalassophobia. That’s perfectly normal, Joline.”
She finished the reset sequence and closed the panel. “Space feels like that to me, too.”
I started to say something, but she was already drilling the bolts back in place. The comm rumbled loudly. All I could do was wait. Gradually, the drill’s rumbling became a high-pitched screech as the bolt stuck in place.
“That looks done, Jo.”
No response. She kept tightening it.
“Joline?” With horror, I realized the high-pitched screech wasn’t the drill. It was her. “Joline, talk to me! Jo! Jo!”
Breathless, I slammed the alert button and ripped off the headset. The corridors blared red as I dashed to the airlock.
By the time I got to her, she was at the end of her tether, unconscious, spinning amidst a glittering cloud of debris. The solar cell beneath her was completely destroyed.
I dragged her into sick bay. She babbled, something about blood, a terrible eye, creatures like maggots swallowing each other whole. She grabbed me suddenly, digging her fingers deep into my shoulder. “Don’t! I saw it. I saw it, Sarissa. It wants … it wants …” Then she fell back on the table, muttering gibberish before going unconscious again.
She had no injuries, no indication at all of what had happened to her, but I couldn’t wake her. The others came in, and I told them the story. If it weren’t for the hallucinations, they might not have believed me, but we’d all seen things like Joline had described—in flashes, visions. Her camera feed showed nothing, not even what had happened to the solar cell.
“Without that cell, we’re at 60 percent capacity,” Commander Marshall said. “Enough to enter orbit or turn back home. Not both.”
No one responded, but we were all thinking the same things. Nobody wanted to be stranded out here. Nobody wanted to abort. Everybody wished Joline would just wake up.
Isiah, the archaeologist, asked, “What did she see out there?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. Something more than we’ve seen so far.”
The pilot Cobb voiced what I was afraid to say. “She didn’t destroy the solar cell by herself.”
“She might have,” I replied, unconvinced.
Again, we sat in silence, eyes on our knees.
“We should ask Mission Control,” Marshal finally said.
Cobb grimaced. “They’ll ask questions. If we have to tell them about the visions, they’ll make us turn around.”
Marshal sighed. He didn’t like keeping things from you on Earth.
I felt the same, but … life on Mars! This was the most historic voyage ever made. What if Neil Armstrong had turned back? Or what if the Challenger or the Columbia had succeeded? How far might the space program have come? We could have discovered Curiosity’s ruins in person, could have rovers as far as Titan. We might, finally, have proof that we’re not alone.
“I’ll monitor her,” I said.
They watched me carefully.
“If she’s fine, there’s nothing to report.”
They pretended to be convinced, even though they all knew I would never report a thing.
We related the cell damage to Mission Control, calling it an instrument malfunction. There was public pressure to complete our mission, so instead of ordering us to turn back, you came up with the plan to use the lander’s liquid-fueled thrusters for deceleration in place of the solar-powered EmDrives. We couldn’t begin deceleration until the last minute, meaning we’d get to Mars earlier than planned, but once there, we could cannibalize the cells on the Curiosity rover. Theoretically, that would give us enough power to get back home.
We’d arrive at the planet during solar conjunction and have no communication with Earth on arrival. All agreed this was a risk worth taking. Hell, I was grateful. I wouldn’t have to falsify reports for a while.
We recorded final messages for friends and family. Then the sun cut off the Victoria from Earth, blocking communication for at least a week. That was four days ago.
“You made a good decision,” Isiah told me.
“Did I?”
He gave me his warm smile. “Come on. Do you think any of us would have forgiven ourse
lves if we turned back? We’d all die for this mission. You know that.”
“Joline, too?” Days after the accident, Dr. Landry still hadn’t woken. An IV kept her hydrated.
“She would’ve,” Isiah’s smile was gone now. “I’m still praying for her.”
We achieved orbit that night. The increased deceleration from the lander’s rocket propulsion was uncomfortable but effective. Unfortunately, it also used half the lander’s fuel. That left us very little room to explore.
The Victoria, too, needed what little power she had left for communications and maintaining orbit. We decided to power down her life support entirely and take Dr. Landry to the surface. The lander had oxygen and an airlock.
At 3:07am on July 16th, the ship began shaking, rumbling like an angry god; we had hit the atmosphere. Systems picked up the rover’s signal immediately. “It’s at Olympus Mons,” I told the pilot, “in the deepest caldera.”
“What?” Cobb said. “How the hell’d it get in there?”
Nobody responded. It didn’t matter; the rover was our only chance of getting home.
Two minutes into atmospheric entry, Dr. Landry regained consciousness. She fought against the restraints, rubbing her wrists red. Her piercing screams rose above the din of the lander’s reentry.
“Shut her up!” Cobb shouted.
Isiah and I tried to calm her, but she didn’t seem to hear us, and we couldn’t unstrap until we landed.
“I said—” Cobb started.
Suddenly, she stopped screaming. I breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived. She wasn’t silent. Her voice was low, guttural. Her eyes peeled wide open, looking all about as if for some means of escape. She was chanting, the same gibberish repeated over and over: “Gof’nn uh’e hupadgh Shub-Niggurath’geh nog kadishtu.”
I can repeat the words because I’ve heard them many times. I looked to Isiah, but he was staring at Joline, his eyes as wide as moons.
Cobb snapped, “Something’s wrong. The reverse thrusters aren’t responding.”
Tomorrow's Cthulhu: Stories at the Dawn of Posthumanity Page 19