Queen of wands sc-2

by John Ringo

  Stan Robertson was five foot seven, sixty-ish, with thinning light-brown hair going gray and a lean, muscular figure. His face also turned beet red when he was angry. As he was much of the time.

  “That would be me,” Randell answered evenly. “So you don’t have anything?”

  “What is this stuff?” Stan shouted. “It is not, let me make this plain, any of the above, ey? It’s not even degraded human biologicals. Nor any mammal. I haven’t gotten through the full spectrum of reptiles, fish and amphibians, ey?”

  “We were hoping you could tell us,” Randell said. “By the way, Stan Robertson, PhD, Mrs. Barbara Everette and Doris Grisham. Dor…Miz Grisham prefers to be called Janea.”

  “Whatever,” Stan said. “There are two distinct samples. Very distinct. If I was to make a bet, they’re two different species! The DNA is just bizarre. The cell structure is as alien as anything I’ve ever seen.”

  “There are cells?” Janea asked.

  “Yes, there are cells,” Stan snapped. “If you can call them that.” He walked to a monitor and flipped up an image. “You want to tell me what that is?”

  The cells on the monitor were stellate in shape and appeared to be almost jet black.

  “That was in this junk,” Stan said, waving the vial again. “Then there’s this!”

  The second picture was of more cells, but curved like a banana. The only similarity was that they were, again, black.

  “That was from the first sample I got,” Stan said. “And those were really weird. They were reproducing like mad. I was afraid I had a pathogen on my hands but they weren’t infectious in any normal test. But as long as they had a food source they continued to reproduce. They would consume just about anything, proteins, agar, sugars, but they had a real fondness for potassium enhancements. Don’t get me into doctrine of types, I’m not a Christian whack-job, but they went crazy over banana. Continued to reproduce down to minus one hundred degrees Celsius, and they don’t degrade until four hundred degrees Celsius. Getting complete clearance of them is going to be a job, let me tell you.”

  “Internal cell structure?” Janea asked.

  “Which one?” Stan asked. “The banana cells are less odd. They actually have mitochondria. There are some structures that might be equivalent to Golgi bodies but for the rest I’m stumped. They have DNA but not nuclear DNA. The star cells are semi-viral-that’s the best I can do. They don’t have mitochondria, and how they process oxygen without mitochondria is a good trick, they don’t have nuclear DNA, they don’t even have bacterial ring DNA, and they don’t seem to have any internal structure at all. They’re closest to a coronavirus but they’re not coronaviruses. I don’t know what they are. Alien is the best I can do, and that’s as good as you’re going to get.”

  “That’s from the second attack?” Janea asked. “The stellate cells, that is?”

  “Second sample, yes,” Randell said. “You know what he’s talking about?”

  “Uh-huh,” Janea said, distantly. “That means it’s probably not a skru-gnon. Interesting.”

  “What in the blue blazes is a shu-gnon?” Stan yelled. “What is this…” He paused as one of the machines started beeping urgently and walked over.

  “Now that’s odd…” he said, rubbing the back of his head. “That’s… Okay, that’s impossible.”

  “What?” Janea asked, walking over to the machine.

  “The banana cell,” Stan said, gesturing at the readout. “It has human DNA.”

  “I thought you said it wasn’t human DNA,” Randell said, walking over and looking at the readout.

  “It’s not,” Stan snapped. “Anybody but a moron would know that! But it has some human DNA and that sounds really really stupid. Wait…this is impossible!”

  “It’s a match,” Janea breathed.

  “It’s not a match,” Stan shouted.

  “Okay,” Janea said, her voice tight. “It’s a near match.”

  “What?” Randell said. “Would either one of you make some sense?”

  “None of this makes sense,” Stan shouted. “It can’t be…It’s…”

  “Would you hit the link, please?” Janea asked, pointing at an icon. “Or do you want me to do it?”

  “Fine,” Stan said, hitting the icon.

  The image of a young black woman appeared, a mug-shot photograph. Thin and with a worn face, probably from heavy drug use.

  “Lorna Ewing,” Randell said. “Street name, Fantasy. Missing person, Louisville, Kentucky, probable foul play. This thing’s…related to her?”

  “Sibling or child,” Janea said. “Let me be clear. Child.”

  “Oh, dear Lord,” Barb said, shaking her head. “I had hoped you were wrong.”

  “Okay,” Stan said, calmly. “I am missing pieces of information. I do not like to be missing pieces of information. I cannot do my job if I’m missing pieces of information!”

  “Are you going to shout about ‘impossible’ and ‘morons’?” Janea asked, sweetly.

  “Not to mention, what was it? Christian whack-job?” Barbara said, tightly. “Because I do not enjoy being shouted at. But the Lord tells us to take people as they are instead of, oh, throwing them through a wall.”

  “You and what army?” Stan said, angrily.

  “Stan?” Janea said, still sweetly. “You really don’t want to ask that question. Because I’ve seen her when she gets mad. You don’t want to be the one she gets mad at.”

  “I would never harm a human who was not intent on harming others,” Barbara said. “But can you please just calm the tone a bit? And if you would like the other information, we will give it to you. But your first instinct will be to shout ‘morons’ and ‘religious nuts’ and other similar insults. And then the only person you have to blame for not being able to do your job is you.”

  Stan looked at Barbara, then looked at the screen. Very faintly he started quivering. He looked at Barbara, then looked at the screen. More quivering. It wasn’t fear, it was just his body trying to tell him to go away. From the thought of what they’d said as much as anything.

  “The term you’re looking for here is ‘cognitive dissonance,’” Janea said, trying not to laugh. “I take it you’re an atheist.”

  “No one can be a scientist and not be an atheist,” Stan said firmly.

  “Feel free to hold as true to your beliefs as I hold to mine,” Barbara said, mildly. “But you’re also looking at something that is plainly impossible. And we have given you a rational-for values of rational-explanation. However, it is an explanation that is entirely at odds with your beliefs. Thus the cognitive dissonance. May I make a suggestion?”

  “Please,” Stan said.

  “You do not have to think of this as metaphysical,” Barbara said. “Think of it, instead, as a very advanced form of science. One for which we do not have the theory, yet. Feel free to work on theories for it in your back brain.”

  “There’s a body of scientific literature on this, actually,” Janea interjected. “I’ve read some of the papers. Most demons that manifest have what is called transform DNA, which is basically DNA made up from scratch. Some don’t have any DNA at all, but those have no capacity for reproduction with humans. These appear to have something different, again. This is the first I’ve seen of this sort of approach. Makes sense since it’s Old Ones and not demons. They’re assumed to come from completely different backgrounds. This is sort of a proof of that hypothesis.”

  “Demons have cellular structure?” Stan said, blinking.

  “Manifested ones do,” Janea said. “Mammalian, primarily. Those with DNA appear to have no senescence coding, thus the ‘immortal’ aspect. And there appears to be no cellular turnover. How that works is being very quietly studied by a group of SC scientists.”

  “Why don’t I know about this?” Stan asked angrily.

  “Because if you don’t have to know about SC you don’t find out about SC,” Randell said. “And once you do find out about SC you wish you didn’t know.
”

  “Think of it this way,” Barb said. “You can now do the first and only paper on the biological structure of Old Ones. You’re the world expert.”

  “But there’s only about five hundred people in the world who can read the paper,” Janea said. “And only about fifteen who will.”

  “You being one of them?” Stan asked.

  “I’m not a biologist,” Janea said. “I’ll read the abstract and the conclusion and skim the rest because I won’t understand half of it. But I’ll get the important bits that I need to know the next time I run into an Old One. The first and most important being, how do we kill these things?”

  “Well…” Stan said, turning back to the screen with a huff. “The first sample was a…sku-gnon?”

  “ Skru-gnon,” Janea corrected. “I’ll leave you the spelling.”

  “Certain poison gases might work,” Stan said musingly. “The hyperproduction of cells explains the regeneration. Fire…would be mostly useless unless it’s very hot. Thermite or something like that. Cold? Impervious. You could hit this thing with liquid nitrogen and it wouldn’t blink. Might die if you immersed it in liquid helium, but good luck on that. I don’t know anything about the rest of its structure. I don’t suppose you could bring one back alive?”

  “Not even going to try,” Barb said. “These are a crime against God.”

  “And on the part that you don’t like to think about,” Janea said, as Stan started to get worked up again, “they have a psychological impact on the unprotected that is severe. You don’t want to be in the same room with a live one.”

  “Just their cells are driving me crazy,” Stan said, grabbing his hair.

  Barb looked at Janea, her eyes wide.

  “Uhm, Stan,” Janea said, her face tight. “Just how crazy are you feeling?”

  “What?” Stan asked.

  “One of the aspects of the Old Ones is that they tend to induce panic and insanity,” Janea said. “Just how crazy are you feeling?”

  “I’m…” Stan said, collapsing in a chair and grabbing his head. “I’m not feeling good, that’s for sure.”

  “Okay,” Janea said, patting him on the shoulder. “Feeling obsessive?”

  “I’m OCD,” Stan said. “Obsessive is normal for me.”

  “More obsessive than normal?” Janea asked.

  “Maybe,” Stan said, still not looking up.

  “Voices?” Barbara asked.

  “What are you, my psychiatrist?” Stan asked.

  “Seriously,” Barb said.

  “No,” Stan said. “But I am feeling more frantic.”

  “ More frantic?” Randell said.

  “Stop,” Barb snapped. “And?”

  “I’m not normally a violent person,” Stan said. “I shout, but I don’t feel violent. Angry, yes. But not violent. But I’ve been feeling very violent since I’ve been studying these samples. And…Yes, crazy. I am neurotic, not psychotic. I am beginning to manifest traces of what I would diagnose as psychosis.”

  “There’s not enough material for emanations,” Barb said. “And I don’t feel any at all. Do you?”

  “Not a twinge,” Janea said. “A fundamental aspect?”

  “How?” Barb asked. “How could it be a fundamental aspect?”

  “Arachnophobia,” Stan said.

  “Non sequitur,” Janea replied.

  “Arachnophobia,” Stan repeated, finally raising his head. “Arachnids induce fear and panic in a large number of people. The theory is that they are so unworldly, so unlike any normal creature, that it induces an automatic ‘other’ response in many humans. It’s been studied because of the possibility that there would be a similar response on the part of anyone encountering aliens. Ladies, I don’t think that we are dealing with something…metaphysical,” he said with a spit of distaste.

  “I think that these are extraterrestrial. So, yes, a higher form of biological science. Perhaps with other abilities that are beyond our current understanding. My reaction is, therefore, a reasonable one. My psychological issues with it are a function of that response and there are appropriate medications to relieve some or all of the response. I will immediately consult my psychiatrist. I don’t know how, exactly, I will explain that something I am studying is driving me insane, but I will explain it as best I can and avail myself of the appropriate medications. I’m thinking Haldol. It will slow my thinking and make me marginally less functional, but I will be able to continue to study this phenomenon without, in fact, becoming insane. Hopefully, once I’ve finished the study I will be able to resume my normal medication schedule.”

  “It’s possible you won’t,” Janea pointed out. “These things tend to put people in the loony bin. Maybe you should just put the samples away until we figure out a way to study them without resorting to antipsychotics. I know this sounds sort of Catch-22, but I think that continuing to study them is a little crazy.”

  “I am a scientist,” Stan said, standing up. “It’s what we do.”

  “That is pretty much the same thing Victor Von Frankenstein said,” Janea replied.

  “He was a fictional character,” Stan replied, firmly.

  “Bet you a dollar?” Janea said. “Seriously, we’ve got what we needed. Drop it.”

  “Not on your life,” Stan said.

  “It’s not your life I’m worried about,” Barbara said. “It’s your soul.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Graham,” Barbara said unhappily, looking at the house that was the site of the second attack.

  The two-story house was in a small neighborhood near the town of Goin, Tennessee. Brick front, vinyl siding, two-car garage. It looked enough like Barb’s house to be a twin, right down to the holly hedging.

  At the trailer she had managed to avoid, to the greatest possible degree, thinking of the victims. The horror that they had experienced she now clearly understood, and if she sunk too far into sympathy it was going to take the edge off her deadliness.

  With this set of victims, she suspected empathy was going to be unavoidable.

  Local police were keeping the news media well back, but they were staying nearly as far away. The forensics van was from the FBI, as was everyone on site at the house.

  “Two dead, two missing,” the special agent said without preamble. “Dead, father Wilkerson Boone, age thirty-two, Jason Boone, age nine.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Barb said, taking a deep breath.

  “MO of deaths is slightly different,” Graham said, looking at her oddly. “Both were strangled. The marks are…strange.”

  “I bet,” Janea said. “Sucker marks?”

  “Yes,” Graham said, blinking.

  “We’ve got some updated information,” Randell said. “Keep going.”

  “Missing, Wendi Boone, mother, age thirty-one; Titania Boone, age thirteen.”

  “These things are gathering hosts for the Gar,” Janea said.

  “ More hosts,” Barb replied, tightly.

  “The what?” Graham asked.

  “I’ll update you in a second,” Randell said, holding up a hand. “Trail?”

  “Similar trail leading up the hill to a cave,” Graham said. “The cave is known in the area. A local kid got lost in it a couple of years ago and a rescue team had to find him. Attack occurred approximately two AM.”

  Barb looked at the horizon, where the sun was already falling below the mountains.

  “If this thing recognizes that there is more prey here, it might come back,” she said, frowning.

  “That’s what’s got me worried,” Graham said.

  “Okay,” Barb said, nodding. “We need to clear the forensics people by sundown. I’d like to get the FBI to take over holding back the media. Hopefully get rid of the media. Can we get the other houses cleared?”

  “Not without some sort of serious cover story,” Graham said. “Washington is getting really exercised. They want to know what you’re going to do about this.”

  “There’s only two of us,” Janea
said, angrily. “There are, or were, at least two of these Old Ones, and now we’re pretty sure there’s a major Old One involved. That means there could be dozens. These caves go all through this region, and that’s the natural environment of the Hunters of the Dark. I’m not sure we can get in there and comb them out one by one. I’m pretty sure that it would be suicidal to try.”

  “We have to do something,” Graham said, waving his hands.

  “We’ll wait for this one tonight,” Barb said. “It may use the same exit, looking for more prey. We need another cave team, but this time, no civilians.”

  “You’re civilians,” Randell pointed out.

  “You know what I mean,” Barb said. “Send out an urgent message. There are bound to be cavers in the military. Get us a team of people who know how to survive and know how to cave. Get them here, and all the gear we’re going to need, fast.”

  “You don’t want much, do you?” Graham said.

  “How many more do you want to die?” Janea asked. “You asked for our answer, that’s it. We need a team of fighters to go into the caves and find these things. On their own turf, which is a bit like fighting a leopard in the brush. But leopards aren’t the size of a water buffalo, stronger than a gorilla, invulnerable to most weapons, and able to drive you insane if you look at them. Hopefully find out where they’re coming from. And, you know, survive.”

  “And we’re going to want military-grade weaponry,” Barb said thoughtfully.

  “Why?” Graham asked. “I thought you said these things weren’t vulnerable to normal weapons.”

  “We don’t know that,” Barb said. “The skru-gnon wasn’t, but the other beasts might be. And when people fought them before, they were using spears and clubs. I would personally like to see what a grenade does to one. And if we fight them aboveground, a rocket launcher would be nice. You have to see these things to understand.”

  “But if I do see them, they’ll drive me insane,” Randell said. “Great.”

  “Hey,” Janea said, “that’s what Thorazine is for.”