Space Eldritch
Page 16
Cormac grumbled. “You said you’ve read the files. We would like to know what the mission is. General Manning said we would be debriefed in orbit. You just want to look around up here? It’s no Sunday in the park.”
“I am quite aware that space is an intrinsically hostile environment.”
“Are you?” pressed Cormac, unstrapping his shoulder harness and turning in his seat to look Ryman in the eye. “This isn’t some pleasure cruise favor for a—whatever the hell you are.”
“I am a senior jet propulsion engineer, an Advanced-Laboratory chemist, and most importantly, a Meta-physicist or Mancer if you will, at the absolute peak of my field.”
“Whatever. It is burning cold out there and the universe doesn’t care that you have dirt on Manning or that the J.P.L. owes you a real big favor, the universe will kill you in an instant all the same. So let’s cut the chit chat and do the work. Tell me why I’m up here.”
Driscoll gulped. “You have dirt on Manning?”
Ryman laughed without mirth before answering. “Quite. General Manning has a penchant for the asphyxiation of young homeless prostitutes. All the pretty young things that have taken Kerouac, Cassady and Ginsberg into their naive little hearts.”
“Who?”
“I would not expect you to know, Major Driscoll.”
“Damn beatniks,” muttered Cormac.
Again Driscoll balked at Ryman’s revelations. “How could General Manning do that? How do you know all this?”
“Let us just say that I am not without sin. And if you had any idea of the former gatherings at ‘the Parsonage’ which was the Agape Lodge, you would not need to ask.”
“Lodge? Like the Freemasons?”
“You delight me, Major Driscoll. Your fraternal order is similar yet different. I am the current, yet disputed, Outer Head of the Order of the O.T.O. Lodge. Which is centered around Thelema or, more plainly, following the Whole of the Law.”
“Whole of the law? Good, I was afraid you might be weirdos.”
Cormac looked at Driscoll and rolled his eyes.
“And as far as you need to be concerned, Major Driscoll, I am the J.P.L. these days, if only from the shadows.”
“You?” said Driscoll, shaking his head within his stationary helm. “Jet Propulsion Labs are a conglomeration beyond any one man.”
Ryman answered, “And you forget that the J.P.L. was Jack Parson’s Lab before that. I should know, I was his unspoken right hand. I was there when the mercury fulminate explosion took his life. You remember that, do you not, Captain?”
Cormac shook his head. “Nope. I was in Korea, shooting down Chi-Coms.”
“Your services were greatly appreciated then, as they are now.”
Driscoll broke in, “What does Jack Parsons have to do with anything now?”
“Not a thing, I simply walk the same path he did.”
“Will someone just tell me what the hell I’m doing here?” said Cormac. “What is the mission?”
“Patience. Get us to the Lagrange point and all will be revealed.”
The curtain of darkness flexed larger as the earth shrunk. The stars cast cold light from the distant reaches as Cormac continued his hawk-like ascent to a higher orbit. He occasionally swung the X-20 wide of various cascading jetsam. Some of the floating debris was ice-covered and alien; catching light like a swarm of fireflies, it went in every possible direction contrasting to the usual human expectation of earthbound flotsam caught in a single flowing current.
“This is my third mission,” said Driscoll, “and you never get used to it.”
“To what?” asked Ryman.
“The sheer beauty of the Earth. Right down there, the Bahamas. Turquoise perfection. Clouds sprinkled like newly fallen snow. And in a few minutes, the Straits of Gibraltar like only God can see them.”
“A god. Indeed.”
“Just wait until we get to the night side,” said Driscoll. “All the city lights almost make it seem like it’s all a kingdom in some fairy tale.”
Both astronauts noticed that Ryman displayed no interest in seeing the truly rare vista. It was as if the very idea were beneath him and somehow vulgar. He instead watched them piloting the X-20 over and under the clouds of stardust.
Farther on, they saw a gray-suited body rolling toward them in the ether. CCCP was emblazoned across the top of the figure’s helmet. The mirror-like faceplate hid the certain death mask behind. A six-foot tether dangled uselessly from the body harness.
“Friend of yours?” asked Ryman, with an edge begging for something more.
“Probably,” said Driscoll. “The Ruskies started calling Captain Ross the ‘Rezuhin’ on their private channels.”
“I do not speak Russian.”
“It means ‘Cutter.’ There is no one they fear more.”
“What do they do when you cut them loose?”
“Well, they don’t take it kindly,” snarled Cormac.
“I mean, what is the reaction when they have lost the encounter?”
“Every single time, the stupid bastards start flapping their arms, trying to swim through space. It’s pathetic,” said Cormac, stifling a chuckle. “Fear makes everyone forget their training.”
“This is what I hoped we could talk about. Hearing it firsthand is so much better than reading a sterile military report. Tell me more.”
Composing himself back to the humorless edge, Cormac said, “It’s simple. Once they are out of reach of their own ship with a cut line, that’s it. Ten feet away from your capsule might as well be ten miles. You can’t swim through space and you can’t get back with nothing in the vacuum of space to push against.”
“What do they do when they realize it is hopeless?”
“They die.” Cormac furrowed his brow, answering, “I once saw a cosmonaut accept his fate and cut his own airline, rather than drift for hours in hopeless despair.”
“Brutal work. Yet you never used a gun?”
“Not up here with the weight requirements. In theory, I was never supposed to get out and space walk. Offensively, we are only supposed to outmaneuver the Reds and drop ball bearings in their path. Their capsules can’t turn and get out of the way. Then they become what you saw back there. That was actually the biggest piece of one I’ve ever seen. Must have only winged him.”
Cormac went to rub his chin out of habit, hit the smooth face plate and put his hand down before continuing. “But the Soviets send more men up on virtual suicide missions than you could ever shake a stick at. I had to get out and start cutting tethers when they got outside first and started messing with our satellites.”
“How many cosmonauts have you killed?”
“I couldn’t say. I don’t always know how many they have inside their capsules.”
“But outside, face to face, cutting them loose?”
Cormac paused a moment. He considered himself a soldier, perhaps even a knight errant, doing what needed to be done as he understood it, but Ryman’s prying bordered on sick fascination, too eager even for scholarly interest. Besides, after he had been debriefed a dozen times, the eggheads had put together an ultra-classified space combat manual, so why didn’t Ryman just read that? Unless he wanted to hear about death from the dealer himself. “Twelve.”
“A noble lot indeed,” said Ryman.
“But you asked about guns and I told you about weight requirements, so now I have to ask about yours.”
Driscoll nudged Cormac for asking, but Ryman grinned.
“You noticed these,” he said, jingling the three talismans.
Driscoll scrutinized them. “They don’t look like anything I’ve ever seen before. I almost wondered if you received the Bronze in the Olympics, but those aren’t bronze.”
“No. They are most certainly not medals,” Ryman sneered. “Do not trouble yourself over our weight requirements, Captain Ross. We still have your standard offensive cargo should the need arise, though it is a good twenty pounds lighter.”
“Twenty pounds?”
“I assure you, Captain Ross, my contraband, as you so colorfully refer to it, is not more than twenty pounds. Perhaps no more than ten.”
“What else you got?”
“Reading material. A training manual, you might say.”
“You are two hundred miles above the earth for a very limited time frame. What the hell are you gonna read?”
“As I said, do not trouble yourself with worry over this minor change in your standard operating procedure. We are indeed under your weight ratios for our fuel and mission parameters. Besides,” he paused a good long while, “I know very well that despite your self-righteous indignation, you personally eliminated three ball bearings to effectively counter your own contraband.”
Driscoll turned to Cormac in disbelief. “What is he talking about? Tell me you didn’t bring anything you weren’t supposed to.”
“All right, ya got me on that one, prick.”
“What was that, Captain Ross?”
“I said you’re a prick.”
“What did you bring?” demanded Driscoll.
“Just my Arkansas toothpick.”
No words came from Driscoll’s mouth for a moment. “You brought a knife to space? We have tools, we have—”
“You never asked how I took care of those Reds, did you? You were just glad I did. So let’s leave it at that.” Cormac gave sharp glances to his two companions. “I’ve used wrenches too. This is quicker.”
“This is highly irregular.”
“Least I didn’t bring a damn book.”
Ryman spoke soothingly. “I assure you both, no one will be reported for any of this. General Manning is well aware of Captain Ross’s barbaric implements and if there is one thing neither one of us will do, it is punish results.”
Unwilling to let it go, Driscoll muttered, “You broke protocol.”
“Shut up.”
There was a tense silence for a few moments until Driscoll piped up. “What are those not-medals then, Mr. Ryman?”
“They are pentacles. These for the Moon, these Jupiter and these is for Saturn. They are vital for dealing with my mission.”
“Your mission?”
“Quite. Your mission is to specifically get me to the Lagrange point and deal with any troubles therein. Then my mission begins and should in short time finish, then you are to bring me back to Earth, Captain Ross.”
Driscoll looked puzzled.
“Do not trouble yourself, Major Driscoll. I simply expect Captain Ross to be more capable at eliminating the threat posed by anything we encounter. I have no doubts that you will do your best in the coming exchange.”
“Do you really expect a threat?”
“Certainly. The Soviets will not simply hand me control of their secret space station!”
Dead silence reigned for a cosmic moment as each man took that revelation to task.
“Soviet’s don’t have a space station yet,” said Cormac, breaking the stillness.
Ryman gave a venomous chortle. “Do not be offended that they seem to have made it past you and the rest of the Crypto-Cosmic Command. They have done so a handful of times already, Captain Ross. Not that it really matters. We have known for some time what it was they were building and have allowed them to do the dirty work of constructing and putting it into orbit. We are going to take their weapon, called a Salyut, and turn it against them.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Ryman, but how could you know that? My understanding is that all the best spies were caught inside Star City and horribly tortured and killed. There’s no way you could know what a secret Soviet space station is being outfitted with. I’ve heard they don’t even tell the Politburo the half of it,” said Driscoll.
“What do they have?”
“Patience, Captain Ross. All will be revealed soon enough. My talents have granted some insight into the Soviets’ capabilities. Suffice to say, I have seen for myself what the Soviets intend to do.”
“Not good enough.”
“You were told to follow orders. That you would be debriefed in orbit. What part of that do you not understand?”
“We have a right to know,” said Driscoll. “Why not tell us now? It can’t be that much farther.”
“You ought to grace us with your master plan.” Cormac agreed. “I’ll have us at the Lagrange point in twenty minutes.”
Ryman grimaced before answering. “Very well, since you both are now my most trusted liaisons, I can reveal some of my knowledge. I use the will of the Universe, the very ether to learn all. Some have taken to referring to it as a sixth sense, some remote viewing, others sorcery and Magick.”
“What do you call it?”
“Sorcery.”
“That sounds like you believe in the occult,” spat Driscoll.
“I do not believe in the occult,” said Ryman. “I participate in it. Mere belief is quite different.”
“How?”
“Magick is the result of willful intent.”
“So a workable faith, then?”
“You could say that,” said Ryman, sneering.
“What does any of this—magic do for you? What’d you learn?”
“Astute as ever, Captain Ross. I learned that there are forces within the Soviet machine, specifically the paranormal branch of the NKVD, the GUMOD, that have their own dark agenda and are working against me.”
“Who with the what?”
“Professor Andreiev, head of GUMOD, the Soviet Administration of Occultic and Magical Affairs.”
“I don’t follow. What’s this got to do with the here and now?”
“True men of power have always controlled the people through the gods, whether black or white, light or dark, real or unreal.”
“What?”
“I have said far too much to the uninitiated. How far to the Lagrange point?”
“Is that where the Reds are?”
“No, it is not. It should be the high ground above the Salyut’s orbit so that we can swoop down on them.”
“There is no high ground in space, unless we are at the top of the gravity well—which we aren’t. They’ll see us coming.”
“Are you telling me that you cannot accomplish this mission? Are you telling me that you, the ‘Jack-Hammer,’ are not capable of dealing with perhaps three cosmonauts?”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Gladly. They are to be eliminated with extreme prejudice.”
“What is their secret weapon?” asked Driscoll.
“They have a nuclear reactor aboard their new Salyut space station. It is attached to a Soyuz module and paired with some minor communication relays. This station will be turned against us as soon as it is fully operational. We must destroy it. I brought forth a plan to take over the thing and give us an ultimate weapon that will dominate and reinvent the world. Any who stand against us will taste an entropic bomb, especially Moscow.”
Cormac said nothing, but went to rub his chin again, but for the faceplate.
Driscoll shook his head. “This isn’t right. We could disable and destroy it. We don’t have to be instrumental in killing thousands of innocent people and starting a war. I did understand you, didn’t I, Mr. Ryman? You are suggesting mass murder!”
Ryman answered in a quick jerking succession of syllables, “Of course not, you stupid man. I will perform the Oath of the Abyss and open a gate, a dimensional window if you will; then I shall summon an ancient power undreamed of—I will control the dark matter entities and make an entropic bomb that will grant me passage and control of the Qliphothic realm.”
Cormac raised an eyebrow at Driscoll.
“Seems awful complicated, Mr. Ryman,” said Driscoll.
“It is the simplest plan possible. It will enable a new age, born in darkness, to return. A window through the veil, a link of materia to ultrateria. A union of the void and its dark disciples. Ultimately, I will eliminate the outdated uselessness of the nuclear bomb.”
Cormac scoffed, “What the hell
are you talking about?”
Ryman went quiet, staring daggers at them.
“Maybe he has space dementia,” suggested Driscoll. “Take a drink from your line Mr. Ryman.”
“I don’t know,” said Cormac, “but that Red space station is just ahead and above.”
“I thought we were supposed to have the high ground?”
“The gyroscopes might be off. I put the star tracker in sync with Canopus, but with our attitude and climb we’ve probably gone off course a titch. Not unusual, especially with this kinda ramrod mission thrown together at the last minute before any of the regular techs could check us out.”
“What’s that hum?”
A pervasive yet undulating buzz violated the tranquility of their headsets.
Cormac and Driscoll exchanged raised eyebrows, and looked behind at Ryman reading his book. The massive dark tome was held together by a thick leather cover and bronze clasps at the edges were green with age, while yellowed parchment made up its myriad pages. The lettering appeared to be handwritten ink of various shades from cobalt blue to ghostly black and finally blood red.
The hum was Ryman.
He muttered archaic-sounding phrases repeatedly under his breath, the words hardly captured by the two-way radio. “In the beginning there was naught but darkness, untainted by shape or form. Then came the light. It scorched its way into the darkness, marring the smooth beauty of nullity with its unnatural essence, cauterizing the wounds it had caused by its mere presence...” His chant broke in varied pitches of primeval verse, emphasizing the eldritch and unholy rhyme.
“Ryman!” Cormac barked. “Snap out of it. If this mission is your operation, you’d better tell the doctor where it hurts.”
“I am preparing for this confrontation, Captain Ross. You know what needs to be done! You will dock us beside the station and dispatch the crew, and then I will do what is truly the important work of ages.”
Ryman turned his radio off, but they could still see his lips moving as he continued his mantra from the diabolic book.
“You haven’t fought them hand to hand before. You ready for this?” asked Cormac.
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Remember, if your suit gets cut, or your faceplate is ruptured, exhale immediately. Get all the breath out of your lungs. You will feel tension on exposed skin, you will have swelling. But you have some time to make it to an airlock—ours or theirs, doesn’t matter. Then it’s just animal savagery.”