21:13
I returned from my search and discovered that my patient is much recovered. Indeed, she has recovered sufficiently to remove the IV from her arm, upset the instrument tray, and exit the sick bay completely. I must find her immediately.
FLIGHT RECORDER TRANSCRIPT
Recorded 29.08.2144 (21:14)
GILL: Brooke? Brooke? GILL: Jake? Hello?
BROOKE: (very faintly) Get out. GILL: Jake? Are you okay?
BROOKE: (increased effort, but still weakly) Get out!
BAKER: The instruments are imperfect, but they’ll do. I am your rod and your strength.
GILL: (screaming, distressed) What did you do? What did you do? BAKER: Bleating calf. Render unto Pan what is Pan’s!
GILL: The captain is coming!
BAKER: The captain understands.
GILL: Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus, oh, mercy, oh sweet motherfucking Christ— BAKER: Bleat bleat bleat.
LOG OF CAPTAIN JARVIS NEILL
29.08.2144
Well, he’s finally done it. FINALLY. I always thought—well, I was raised Episcopalian, you know, and been in a good many cathedrals in my life, and when I first stepped on this ship, I always marveled at how much the bridge resembles a nave in miniature. It’s got the vaulted ceiling, all of eight feet tall, and the banks of computers flanking it, under their cooling hoods, quite resemble arcades. And the command console, the altar, and the viewscreen—what is that but the curtain of the Holy of Holies? To mix our sacred buildings a little. The barrier between us and the impossible infinite. What was missing? The sacrament.
Rather—you’ve read Moby-Dick, I assume? I felt I had to read it before I became a captain, don’t know why. There’s that church Ishmael visits, the pagan temple constructed entirely of the skeleton of a whale. (Holiest of passages in that holy paean!) The divinity conjured within the very mortal constraints of blood and bone. A cathedral—the greatest creation of the divinity, the mightiest most god-like being, its very existence an act of worship. And, in death, its matter fashioned into another act of worship.
So has Baker arranged his own crude materials. The sacrament has been offered, and the cathedral is finished.
And what did Ishmael do? Though the priests of Tranque protested, he took a stick and measured the width and breadth of their god. In measuring, so defined; in defining, so conquered. To know the width and breadth of infinite divinity—to hold it in your hand. We are every one of us Ishmaels.
LOG OF DOCTOR THEOPHORUS
29.08.2144 (99:99)
Patient: Jeffrey Theophorus
I have been to the bridge and seen what has been done there and all I
have to say is: Oh God Oh God Oh God. Deliver us from evil.
The sick bay door is sealed. I hear someone outside. He walks past the door, and he walks to the other end of the hall, and he turns. I know him to be a full man, but all I hear is his steps, so it is not hard for me to imagine that his steps drive the man, not the man making the steps, and when he turns, I hear all his murderous intents turn with him, revolving as big and as plain as the Earth revolves. So day turns to night.
I have sealed the door. I have a revolver and two gallons of water and rations for three days.
LOG OF CAPTAIN JARVIS NEILL
29.08.2144
1136 should produce a great yield. I have prepared five CS2 charges, which should produce enough force to fragment the asteroid completely. We have prepared the cathedral and offered the sacrament. The divinity must be invited within. Morale remains high!
EMAIL FROM DR. JEFFREY THEOPHORUS TO MRS. ALISON THEOPHORUS
(Indianopolis, Indiana, USA, Earth)
29.08.2144
My dearest Alison, I can’t tell you
Baker talked about the instruments and the tabernacle. I remember now—the Jews in the desert. They offered up burnt animals, yes? Remember Isaac and Abraham on the mountain? The knife on the boy’s throat? Or remember Jackie in the alley? In what holy mouth is the taste of blood so sweet?
Take this cup; it is my blood. Take this bread; it is my body. In what mortal mouth is the taste of blood so sweet?
Savage, savage.
But—life. What else can matter to a god? The earth and all its treasures are his. All the birds of the sky are his. All the secrets of the cosmos are his. What else remains? The burning pinpoint of will—of defiance— that blesses us all at our birth. To lay that down in servitude is not enough. He cannot truly possess it as long as it exists. No remission—no remission without blood!
I know this—I know this because I heard it. Baker hears it. The captain hears it. Gill and Moss heard it and were afraid. The call for blood, the crying for it. But viler than that—it takes our blood and our lives and more. From the day we lay down our burning wills, it chains our minds—our very souls. It chains them, and mangles the wings with which we could have soared. So we languish in a slavery of the spirit, when we should be aloft with the angels. What greater sacrifice could we give? What is blood to that?
I have a tiny viewport in the sick bay. I have been looking through it for some time now, watching the captain, an ant in a spacesuit, crawling all over the asteroid. He’s planting charges out there, my love. And he’ll crack the rock open. My estate is not in order.
I am reminded. If you see an icon of Saint Christopher, you cannot die that day.
Wait—
He’s done it, he’s blown it, there’s a slow-motion ballet, the boulders are tumbling silently and with ghastly weight, and the radiance—the brilliance!
I can do nothing but fall on my face and say:
there is no god but the true god there is no god but the true god there is no god but the true god there is no god but the true god
[Here the records end.]
SANCTUARY
LINDA GILMORE
My favorite diner is a funny kind of place. Not funny like one of those pizza places where kids want you to take them, where a giant mouse greets you (which always struck me as strangely disturbing) and the kids can play games. No, it’s in a seedy neighborhood and the street signs are gone—and sometimes I can’t seem to find it at all. Weird. Maybe I’m just getting old. That’s what my pal Harry says. He says 30 years on the night copy desk will do that to you.
One night we got off late. The shift had been a nightmare with breaking news, right on deadline no less, about shootings and scandal. The big story was an outbreak of violence between rival crime organizations. I edited most of the front section, and by the time the paper was on the press it was almost one in the morning. I was beat. One more misplaced comma or weak verb and I would have resorted to violence.
“Let’s go somewhere,” I said to Harry as we walked out to my car. I was too keyed up to go straight home, and besides, I didn’t have anything to go home to.
“If you’re going to drive around half the night looking for that diner, count me out,” he said.
“Oh, come on. You know you’re hungry. If I can’t find it right away, I’ll take you home. OK?”
“No thanks,” said Harry, “I'll be sleepin' on the couch if I don't get home soon.” He got in his car without looking back.
I still needed to unwind, though. I could picture the neighborhood with the diner and anticipated its warmth and light on a cold dark night. I didn’t need the street signs to find it—this night I drove straight to it and parked across the street.
It seemed colder when I got out of the car. The wind swirled dead leaves and trash in eddies along the street. The city lights made the low clouds above glow softly; it felt like snow.
In the large front window a neon sign spelled out the words “Diner Open All Night.” I don’t know if it had another name. I’d only ever heard people call it the Diner.
Inside it was warm and fairly busy for that time of night. A couple of men sat at the counter, about a dozen others sat in booths lined along the opposite wall. It was a typical night crowd: two cops, a cab driver, four nurses in colorful scrubs, a few
other people whose occupations I couldn’t identify.
I sat on a stool at the counter and Mike, the cook, came to take my order. He remembered me.
“Hi Ned,” he said, bringing me a steaming mug. “You look like a man who could use some coffee. Anything else?”
I ordered eggs and sausage and Mike turned to the grill. He chatted as he cooked, asking about the news. Mike’s a husky guy and always pleasant, but for some reason he has the most forgettable face. When you don’t see him right in front of you, you can’t quite recall what he looks like. But he always remembers his customers. I hadn’t been in the place for months, but he knew me right away.
Pretty soon Mike set my plate in front of me and refilled my cup. I dug straight in. Mike was some amazing cook. I don’t know what he did to the food, but it seemed somehow more filling, more satisfying, than meals anywhere else. Maybe it’s crazy of me to talk like this, but I don’t know how else to describe it. What was on my plate looked like eggs and sausages, but it was ambrosia for the gods.
The sound of tires squealing, a door slamming, and a woman shrieking interrupted my meal. As I looked toward the entrance a young woman carrying a small boy burst in. She looked around wildly and started for the back. Mike caught up to her quickly.
“Slow down! What’s wrong, ma’am?”
“Please,” she said, her eyes and voice pleading, “Is there a back way out? I have to get away. He’s coming!”
Mike stayed calm. “Don’t worry, you’ll be safe here.”
Even as she shook her head and tried to pull away, we heard shouting outside.
“Becky! I know you’re hiding somewhere around here. Get out here now or it’ll be worse when I find you!”
A man was standing outside the diner and shouting. I expected him to come charging through the door after Becky, and it was plain from her face that she expected the same thing. But he didn’t. He stood on the sidewalk, facing the diner, but his eyes scanned back and forth across the front of the building like the Diner Open All Night sign was a centerfold he couldn’t get enough of. He paced back and forth, looked up and down the street, then shouted some more, but he didn’t come in.
Becky was frozen where she stood, staring at the man outside who obviously couldn’t see her, though the wide aisle between the counter stools and the tables was in plain view through the windows. She looked a question at Mike.
It didn’t make sense to me either; but the thought came that the man couldn’t see the diner right in front of his face. What other explanation could there be?
Mike just smiled at Becky.
“Like I said,” he told her, ”you’ll be safe here. There’s someone here who can help you, I think.”
He guided Becky to a booth where two women were sitting and, like the rest of us, watching the drama unfold. Becky and her little boy sat and whatever the women said seemed to calm her. Mike brought her a cup of coffee and some chocolate milk for the boy.
When he came back behind the counter I asked him who the women in the booth were.
“Oh, they work at an emergency shelter. They’ll know what to do.” “Huh. Two women from an emergency shelter in here, just when . . .”
Mike didn’t say anything, just smiled and shrugged. I went back to eating. The food was still good, even cold.
Something in the window caught my attention, though. A boy, in a thin jacket, was watching through the window, hungry eyes following my fork’s progress from my plate to my mouth. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen, slight, with that gangly look that boys have about that age. What was a kid like that doing out alone in this part of town in the middle of the night? A couple possibilities I didn’t want to think about came to mind.
I motioned for him to come in and he moved toward the door, then hesitated. I smiled in what I hoped was a reassuring way and motioned to him again. This time he came in, but stopped short of the counter.
“Can I buy you some breakfast?” I said.
Hunger and pride waged a war across his face. Pride won.
“I got some money.” He cleared his throat to get Mike’s attention. “Excuse me, mister, what can I get for a buck?”
He looked to me like he needed more than a dollar’s worth of food.
“You’re in luck,” Mike said, with a smile. “Tonight’s special is a plate of eggs, bacon and hash browns for $1.”
The boy started to grin, then a suspicious look took over.
“I’m not dumb,” he said. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” Mike said. “This time of night I need to use up what I’ve got before the morning deliveries.”
The boy thought about it, looking back outside, where fat snowflakes were now drifting past the front window. I thought about how if I’d had bacon instead of sausage, I could’ve had hash browns, too, and saved three-fifty.
“OK,” he said. “I’ll have the special.”
“Smart choice,” I said. “Mike’s a great cook. You’ll see.”
The boy sat down a couple of stools away. Mike brought him a cup of hot chocolate.
The boy wrapped his red hands around the cup and started to sip; his ears and nose were red with cold, and his light brown hair hung lank across his forehead. Up close I thought he looked closer to thirteen than fifteen. He reminded me of someone I used to know and for a moment I couldn’t look at him. Then I pushed the memories down and said, “Son, what are you doing wandering around this time of night?”
“None of your business,” he said. “Sir.”
Somebody had taught the kid manners. I glanced across the diner and saw one of the cops looking our way. I didn’t think the boy had noticed him, or he probably wouldn’t have come in.
“Don’t you think it should be somebody’s business?” I asked. “Like maybe your parents?”
“No,” he said. “They’re the last people whose business it should be.”
Mike set his plate in front of him and he started to eat, then stopped. “I’m fine,” he said. “I just got lost, that’s all.”
But he didn’t look me in the eye. “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Da—Josh,” he said, around a mouthful of eggs. He was eating like he hadn’t had a good meal in a long time.
“Hi, Josh,” came a voice from the other side of the boy. It was the cop who had been watching him. His nametag said his name was Brown.
Josh looked scared and started to get up, but the officer put his hand on his shoulder.
“Go ahead and finish eating,” he said. “Then my partner and I would like to help you out.”
“I won’t go to no juvie,” Josh said, a defiant edge to his voice.
“Who said anything about juvenile hall?” Officer Brown asked. “There’s someone at the precinct who can make sure you end up in a safe place. Am I right that you need a safe place?”
Josh seemed to respond to the kindness in Brown’s voice. He softened a little, and nodded a bit hesitantly.
“OK,” Brown said. “Tell you what, I'll make Sam sit in the back and you can ride up front with me.” He sat beside Josh while he finished eating and they talked quietly. I didn’t catch everything they said, but it sounded like Josh had run away from a pretty bad home situation and there were younger siblings who needed help, too.
I wondered about this second coincidence, but Mike was busy behind the counter and I didn’t say anything.
The diner started to empty. The cops left with Josh at the same time that Becky and her son left with the women from the shelter. Soon I was the only one left. I was reluctant to leave but it was snowing heavily and I knew it would only get worse the longer I waited. I got out my wallet to pay for my breakfast, but stopped when the front door banged open and shut behind me.
Two men stood just inside the door, snow dusting their hair and shoulders. Their dark overcoats weren’t bulky enough to fully mask the shoulder holsters. I wished the cops hadn’t left already. I recognized one of the men from the mug shot I’d used on the fron
t page that very night. Sammy Sorrento, one of the lieutenants of the city’s largest organized crime family.
He and his companion looked around the empty diner. They seemed a little surprised to be there, and a little afraid.
“Hey, you,” Sorrento said to Mike. “What kind of joint is this?” “It’s a diner,” Mike said, a bit amused, it seemed to me.
“Got a back room?” “No.”
Sorrento glanced around and grabbed his companion’s arm. “Come on Joey, let’s go,” he said.
“Don’t worry,” Mike said, coming around from behind the counter. “You’ll be safe here.”
Sorrento stopped, looking even more puzzled.
“No one can find you here.” Mike’s voice was steady and reassuring. “What are you talking about?”
“Just what I said. Someone you don’t want to find you is looking for you and you need a safe place. This is a safe place.”
This was too much for me.
“Mike, what are you doing?” I said. “Don’t you know who this is? You don’t want to protect him from the police!”
“He’s not hiding from the police,” Mike said, still looking at Sorrento.
The crack and stutter of automatic weapon fire sent Sorrento and Joey diving for the floor. I ducked behind the counter. But Mike just stood in front of the door and windows as two cars came careering around the corner, guns still firing. I could see the sparks of fire from the muzzles and heard the ping of bullets hitting the building and trash cans. I expected the plate glass window to disintegrate in the barrage of bullets, but nothing touched it. Once again, the pursuers didn’t seem to see the diner.
After the cars had passed, Mike stepped over the two men on the floor and looked out the window.
“I’m afraid your car is done for,” he said.
MIdnight Diner 1: Jesus vs. Cthulhu Page 32