Future Lovecraft
Page 1
FUTURE LOVECRAFT
edited by
Silvia Moreno-Garcia and Paula R. Stiles
Published by Innsmouth Free Press
© 2011 Silvia Moreno-Garcia and Paula R. Stiles
ISBN: 978-0-9866864-7-4
Cover illustration: Markus Vogt
Interior illustrations:
“In the Hall of the Yellow King” and “The Library Twins and the Nekrobees” by Nacho Molina Parra
and
“Dolly in the Window” and “The Kadath Angle” by Chadwick Saint John
Cover and interior design: Silvia Moreno-Garcia
Reproduction or utilization of this work in any form is forbidden without permission from the copyright holder.
Published by Innsmouth Free Press, December 2011
INTRODUCTION: THE FUTURE IS LOVECRAFT
H.P. LOVECRAFT IS not generally considered a writer of science fiction, even though he had a personal interest in the sciences (astronomy, of course) and wrote stories that were rooted in science, even if they frequently had a horror bent (“The Colour Out of Space” is a memorable example). In his stories, Lovecraft explored scientific concepts like evolution, alien invasion and genetic engineering. His aliens were truly alien, not funny-looking people, and had no interest in humans—except, perhaps, to eat us. For that reason, his realistic view of the tiny human position in the cosmos, and his espousal of a very long view of human history, he has had as large an influence on science fiction as on horror. Thus, it seemed to us an excellent idea to develop a whole science fiction/horror anthology, and set all the stories and poems in the future.
The entries included here vary quite a bit. We do have Mythos-inspired fiction—including guest appearances by Nyarlathotep, Azathoth and others. However, our concern is not merely Mythos fiction but Lovecraftian fiction in general. We could go on for pages and pages about what ‘Lovecraftian’ means to us, but in the end, we think the stories can answer that best.
Thus, there are tales questioning reality, undermining protagonists’ sanity, or dwelling on the hopelessness of the characters. There are post-apocalyptic fables and stories in the near future. Space opera and tales set on Earth. Poems and epics told by aliens. Stories where sinister entities slip into our world. Stories where humans slip into other worlds. Tales of chaos and destruction.
Welcome to the future: It is Lovecraft.
—Silvia Moreno-Garcia and Paula R. Stiles
IN THIS BRIEF INTERVAL
By Ann K. Schwader
Ann K. Schwader is the author of six poetry collections: Twisted in Dream (Hippocampus Press, 2011), Wild Hunt of the Stars (Sam’s Dot Publishing, 2010), In the Yaddith Time (Mythos Books, 2007), Architectures of Night (Dark Regions Press, 2003), The Worms Remember (Hive Press, 2001), and Werewoman (Nocturnal Publications, 1990). Ann was a Bram Stoker Award nominee (for Wild Hunt of the Stars) in 2011, and received a Rhysling Award from the Science Fiction Poetry Association in 2010. She is an active member of HWA, SFWA and SFPA. A Wyoming native, she now lives and writes in Colorado, USA.
Before our sun first sparked, the stars turned right
Beyond some liminal apocalypse
To herald the return of elder night.
Sunk deep in ignorance we name ‘delight’,
Such cosmic truth will never stain our lips:
Before our sun first sparked, the stars turned right.
One Arab mystic dared describe that sight
Before he suffered sanity’s eclipse
To herald the return of elder night.
What matter all the rockets we ignite
To launch sleek probes or long-range sleeper ships?
Before our sun first sparked, the stars turned right.
Mundane events monopolize our fright,
Obscuring time’s frail fabric as it rips
To herald the return of elder night.
Dizzied by ascension to this height,
We never feel it when the balance tips.
Before our sun first sparked, the stars turned right
To herald the return of elder night.
IN THE HALL OF THE YELLOW KING
By Peter Rawlik
Peter Rawlik is a contributor to the New York Review of Science Fiction and has had fiction published in Crypt of Cthulhu, Talebones, and Dead But Dreaming 2 (Miskatonic River Press). He has stories forthcoming in Horror for the Holidays (Miskatonic River Press), HPL Mythos 2: Urban Cthulhu (H. Harksen productions), and Tales of the Shadowmen 8 (Black Coat Press).
From Carcosa, the Yellow King reigns,
Unbroken, unmade, the royal remains
Eternal, the Regent from death refrains,
Lest the dynasty of Uoht regains
The Jejune Throne.
—The Prophecy of Cassilda
AS THE DOORS to the throne room opened, the human Erbert Ouest cast a last look upwards at the great, towering spindle that rose through the sky and into space beyond. At the pinnacle, a scintillating light marked the location of The Armitage, the Tillinghast transport that had brought him and the rest of the delegation from Earth to dim Carcosa. Six weeks they had spent aboard The Armitage with the Tillinghasts, whose skill at traversing the Between Space had made them something more, and something less, than men. Ouest was no stranger to the metamorphic, but even he was disturbed by the dead, black eyes of the Tillinghasts and was grateful that there had been on board one of the few remaining Nug-Soth to serve as steward.
Once the doors had opened completely, an impatient Tcho-Tcho waved Ouest and his companion forward. With a gesture, the twsha master Sthast placed the shoggoth in motion. It slid forward, its hideous, protoplasmic bulk carrying its great load in silence and ease. The lozenge-shaped sepulchre was carved from the finest black coral and massed more than five full-grown carcharadons. As they proceeded, the court tittered. Ouest, though tempted, resisted the desire to cast a foul glance at the school of Hydran Sisters that swam amongst the courtiers whispering and hissing in their strange, lungless voices. Now was not the time for petty acts of reprisal, he thought. Later, when the formalities were complete, then the traitorous sorority would know the skill and wrath with which he could wield a scalpel. Only then would the flaying of Father Dagon be avenged.
Never had Ouest seen such a diversity of creatures in a single place. He supposed that any such court must have its parasites. By far, the most represented were the sycophantic Mi-Go, but there were contingents of Shan swarms, Xiclotl, and Nagaae, as well. There were a dozen Yith, identifiable not by their conformity to a single species but by the mandatory wearing of the Voorish sign. A small cluster of Martian Aihais fretted and tried to remain unnoticed behind a column. Ouest noted their presence and that of a rogue Xothian that he could not identify by name. Yet, despite all the species he could identify, the crowd was mostly dominated by those that he could not. These came in single exemplars, which meant that Ouest could not tell whether they were representatives of an unfamiliar species or something entirely unique. Such individuals were many and multiform, dread and vile, wondrous and terrifying, and none more so than that occupying the great throne before him.
One might be tempted to call the thing that rested uneasily on the dais “humanoid”, but such a classification would be giving it too much credit. It was swathed in yellow, diaphanous robes that concealed the vastness of form, and a square of the same material draped over its head, concealing the eyes, but revealing the gaunt, lipless mouth and ivory, peg-like teeth that sat amongst a husk of grey skin. Its hands, resting in its lap, were gloved, with only a thin gap between the gloves and the sleeve of the gown. Ouest could see nothing in that gap; no skin or
bone seemed to connect the appendages to their terminal digits. Ouest knew that acting as Ythill was a dread task, and that the host was to expect certain concessions, but becoming partially unreal seemed excessive. Above the creature’s head, floating like an untouched and untouchable crown, was the ghostly, triple-curved symbol of He Who Must Not Be Named, marking its wearer as the King in Yellow.
Without a prompt, Ouest and Sthast both bowed before the Regent Giallo, but their failure to kneel sparked a wave of disapproving chatter throughout the courtiers. The great form strained its neck and peered at them through unseen eyes. When it spoke, it was not in a language Ouest recognised, but he understood what the words, which tasted of ichor and dust and decay, meant. “What fools dare to come unbidden to the Carcosan Court, wearing such masks as these?”
Ouest bobbed his head, respectful but defiant. “We wear no masks, milord, and we come, not at your bidding, but in response to the will of our own Lord, who sends to you this precious boon in hopes that the enmity between you shall no longer rage.”
There was an inhuman noise, the sound of something that wasn’t quite real laughing. “After all these years, my half-brother sues for peace. He sends two Terrans, a man and a child of Yig, to do his bidding. It has been millennia since I last saw the Serpent Lord. I was there when the Q’Hrell punished him for refusing to bond with the Shining Trapezohedron. He didn’t understand that he had been created for just that purpose. His crucifixion was a wondrous thing to witness.” The thing on the throne paused, then added, “Despite all their power, the Q’Hrell are so fearful of becoming singular. They want so much to know what would happen, what they could become. How goes the war against them?”
Sthast spoke, proud and defiant, “The Q’Hrell still lie, dead but dreaming, and Nodens still roams free, warring against us where he can, though with the loss of the Great Machine around Altair, their power is diminished. The black crystal remains theirs to do with as they wish.”
The gloved hands floated forth and gestured to Ouest. “It must be unbearable, Man, to know that your creators have abandoned you, that they have the ability to raise you up, to make you so much more than you are, but have chosen not to.”
Ouest bowed his head. “My people have found new Gods to serve.”
“And so, we come full circle. Tell me, what gift does the Sepia Prince think can possible ease my vendetta? The Yellow Sine is not so easily dismissed.”
“My Lord, the Sepia Prince seeks to end the conflict through union. He sends to you His greatest possession—His only daughter”
The lid of the great, ebon sepulchre slid back slowly and a great, noxious smoke poured forth, spilling over the sides and roiling over the floor of the chamber. The crowd inched back against the walls, but Ouest and Sthast stood their ground and let the green fog envelop them. With each passing second, the great lid retreated and more of the mist seeped out. Ouest inhaled deeply and let the glowing, green aerosol fill his lungs and permeate his being. Behind him, the tomb had opened fully. From the swirling mist emerged a hand—grey-green and boneless, with vestigial suckers lining the palm, it was more of an imitation of a hand than a real hand. It was large, massive, nearly the size of those possessed by the King in Yellow, but it was, at the same time, slender—delicate, even. With a slow sense of determination, it grasped the edge of the casket and helped raise its owner into the royal chamber.
Ouest and Sthast fell to their knees and, together, announced the arrival of their charge: “Behold the Lady Cthylla!” The thing that crawled out of the mist was as human or humanoid as the Ythill that bore the ruler of Carcosa; a great, tentacled head surmounted a lithe, feminine body with full, robust breasts, a thin waist and wide hips atop two sculpted legs. Like her hands, these features were merely an imitation, an attempt, by something that was not even an invertebrate, to mimic the flesh and bone structure of a woman. The result was surreal and terrifying, and exacerbated by the strategic placing of swirls of gold, in imitation of a sense of human modesty. She leapt from her sepulchre and, with the aid of two massive, tentacular wings she landed, in the space between Ouest and Sthast.
It took a moment for the demi-thing to find her footing, but only a moment. Ouest suspected that it was only he that actually noticed her transition from predator to a demure maiden with a bowed head and large, pleading eyes. It had taken years to train her in the art of such body language and Ouest suppressed a smile as she slinked forward, her breathing exaggerated and her chest heaving rhythmically. Her voice was the dull, howling roar of a black smoker bellowing out of the abyssal plain. “My father sends me as envoy, my Lord, to parlay for an end to the aggression that lays siege to our home. He asks that the Yellow Sine be withdrawn, the integration made whole, and the reputation repaired.”
The King in Yellow roared up out of his throne. “You ask much on your father’s behalf, my niece, and you offer what in return, yourself? What makes you think that I would be interested in such carnal offerings?”
The Lady Cthylla widened her eyes and strode forward. “You are the King in Yellow, the avatar of Hastur.” The court murmured as she spoke the unnamable name. “But under those robes, beneath the crown, you are still Ythill and all such creatures still have certain...needs.”
The Regent’s tattered robes fluttered as he rushed to meet the Lady Cthylla at the base of the throne.
“You know the Prophecy of Cassilda?” His disembodied hand leapt out and grasped her by the throat.
She nuzzled her head against his chest and murmured an affirmative.
If the thing beneath the veil could sneer, then it did. “Then you know that my service in this place makes me immortal. Only beyond the mists of Demhe am I vulnerable and taking leave of these halls is something I have not done for more than a thousand years. Even then, if I were to be mortally wounded, the mantle would merely find a new host, a new Ythill. And I assure you that the vengeance my successor, Uoht, would wreak on the Sepia Prince would be legendary.”
The retainers of the great court of the Carcosan Imperium shuddered, as if a cold wind had blown through, and the Lady Cthylla laughed once more. “It is true that the throne cannot be empty, a singularity must reside, and should the mantle of the King be somehow divorced from his crown, the universe itself would bend to fill the void. The Kings of the Yellow Sine would be deposed, relegated to cosmic memory, and Uoht, the Pallid Masque, would be free to roam the cosmos. So, let us assure that nothing untoward ever happens to you, my liege.”
Cthylla leapt forward and embraced the Yellow King, let her great appendages and cilia dance around and beneath his robes. She blossomed and enveloped him in the coils of her terrible form. The King moaned, but whether that moan was from pleasure or from the sudden realization of what was happening, none could rightly say. The lady was dragging the King backwards and, entangled as he was, he could gain no leverage to resist her. As they inched back, the shoggoth move forward and tilted the great sepulchre, so as to better receive them both.
Cthylla’s tentacles reached backwards and gripped the edges of the ebon box. The victim bellowed as the maw of the tomb grew closer, but another set of those grey-green pseudopods wrapped around the King’s head and muffled his protestations. In an instant, the two figures were suddenly lost inside the mists that still seeped from the sepulchre. The lid slowly slid forward and, with a grinding finality, closed with a gasping hiss.
The members of the court cast their eyes about in anticipation, but while they waited for one of them to become King, Sthast and Ouest put their own plans in motion. Ouest withdrew a scalpel—a small thing, really hardly a threat at all to the entities that prowled these halls. He looked at his companion and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
The ancient serpent man bared his abdomen. “We don’t have time for your human sympathies, Ouest. Do what you must; bring this to an end.”
The knife flashed and sliced through the green-scaled flesh, leaving a trail of crimson in its wake. As Ouest’s left hand completed i
ts arc, his right plunged into the wound and sank deep. Ouest grunted and twisted his wrist, searching inside the body cavity of his companion. Suddenly, he stopped and a wry look covered his face. With a sense of satisfaction, Doctor Erbert Ouest, Lord of the Ghilan, withdrew his hand from the gut of his dying friend and brought the Shining Trapezohedron into the light.
Some amongst the court moved against him, but the shoggoth, following its master’s final orders, lashed out at anything that moved, enveloping its victims in fleshy pockets of digestive juices and rings of restraining tendrils. The others fell back and some made for the exits, in a last attempt at survival. The Hydran Sisters fell to the ground and began swearing allegiance to the Sepia Prince, wailing for forgiveness. Unfortunately, their ministrations fell on deaf ears.
Ouest took the great crystal in both hands and brought it to eye level. His eyes were locked onto its facets. Through them, he could see the billions that comprised the human race. He struggled to speak the words, to perform the rite, to forge the connection with the shard of Azathoth that the Progenitors had secreted within. The chaos thing in the crystal crawled up out of its prison, into the consciousness of Ouest and, through him, nearly the entirety of the human species. For too long it had been confined, forced to assume shapes both many and multiform. Now it would be one with Man, and Man would be one with it and themselves.
Ouest faded from existence, replaced by the great, dark form that rose up in his place. It was no longer human, but rather, a monstrous amalgamation of Humanity. The Black Man strode across the space, his three-lobed burning eye challenging all those who would oppose him. As he claimed the Carcosan throne, the shoggoth hed planting the black, coral tomb in place and sealed it with an Elder Sign. A fraction of the human thing, a facet that had once been Ouest, mourned the loss of Cthylla, but took comfort in the eternal, frozen tableau of the King in Yellow clawing at the inside of the sepulchre, his crown still ensconced on his brow.