Wolves of the Tesseract Collection

by Christopher D Schmitz

  “All these years spent in preparation for the Earth gambit. What is the contingency plan if she cannot be secured?”

  “Just find her, Caivev!” James lashed out in frustration. “There is no contingency! She is the key!” He seethed as he paced the length of the old gangster’s facility. “We’ve shifted all of our focus to this plan. This is the closest we’ve ever come in our efforts—this is the only plan, now!”

  “We still have Princess Bithia.”

  Nitthogr shot her a sidelong look. “Yes. Of course. But she will never bend to my will.” He paused. “Return to the Prime. I may not be able to bypass our prey’s mental defenses, but at some point they will make a play for the end game. Claire Jones cannot run forever, and we must be able to anticipate their next course of action. Zahaben’s son has never been predictable.

  “Have General Regorik reassure the vyrm army that everything goes according to plan. Keep them on our original schedule. We will preserve the original timeline. Return at once and use your contacts in the earth government to expand our search. Use the humans’ own forces against them.”

  Vivian bowed, but she did not smile. She’d always been jaded by the fact that she had not been given Regorik’s appointment. “And Princess Bithia?”

  “Make sure Regorik maintains a heavy guard around her; he should include some of the vyrm psychics. Also, all portals to the Prime must be guarded from within. If our fugitives attempt to access it, we will have them.”

  “Can I use the nearest dimensional gate?”

  “The old cathedral on fourth, at the altar,” he confirmed, searching his thoughts for the proper calculations. “The church has been bought by the Heptobscurantum; there are no prying eyes to be wary of.”

  Vivian nodded and clicked her heels. She turned and departed. If Claire slipped out of their grasp, it wouldn’t be her fault.

  . . .

  “Imagine that reality, all the dimensions combined, was like a giant block of Swiss cheese,” Rob tried to explain. He’d had more time to compose his thoughts and explain inter-dimensional travel along the planes of reality that made up the Tesseract.

  “But I thought it was like a Crystal?”

  “That’s true, but for the sake of my illustration, think of it like a cube of cheese. Some cheese makers coat the outside in colored wax. Imagine that this six-sided block of Swiss had a wax coating on each side so that each was a different color. That would be a simple way to think about it. Each facet is a different color because each is a different dimension; aspects of reality are different there, even though we’re all tied to the greater stuff of reality which makes up the center: the Prime. The way reality is expressed is different from dimension to dimension, like a different color, even though it’s still all cheese. For example, the vyrm are the race of people from The Desolation, a realm utterly corrupted by Nitthogr long ago, during the Syzygyc War, when all of reality very nearly was devoured.”

  “Devoured?”

  “Sorry. The Reality Eater is a title given to Sh’logath.”

  “You mentioned him before.”

  “He is the anti-god worshiped by the vyrm. Many centuries ago, Nitthogr and his brother, Basilisk, acted as inter-dimensional surveyors; they discovered the methods of travel and recorded it all. But in their time exploring they were seduced and corrupted by the vyrm and the newly formed cult of Sh’logath.”

  “And Sh’logath is what, like God’s enemy, some kind of devil or Satan?”

  Rob chuckled. “Oh, no. Sh’logath is far worse than that. He is the essence of unreality. Satan is hard at work against you, but neither he nor other any mere demon could ever be considered an equal with the Almighty—”

  “Wait,” Claire interrupted. “You’re saying God and Satan are real, too? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  Rob looked far off. “Open your mind Claire. An eternal, creative force like God did not stop with making only your kind. Humanity, even Earth, is special, but there is more to reality than just this flesh,” he pinched his cheek for emphasis. “But I understand your confusion, that is why this realm has always been off-limits to travelers. Eventually all travel was prohibited.”

  “But something changed?”

  “We were overrun. Nitthogr finally acquired enough power and flooded the gates with his vyrm. The Prime is his, now.”

  “How does he get through?”

  “Back to the cheese,” Rob winked. “If one wanted to move from the edge of the block to the inside, you must move through one of the holes: go from edge to inside. Once inside, you could then go to another edge.”

  “Can you go from edge to edge, too?” Claire attempted to follow the analogy.

  “Yes, but the destinations are more fixed in those circumstances, but every hole can also lead to the inside.”

  “So how did Nitthogr conquer the Prime?”

  “He came all at once. If you were going to push something through this cheese-hole, you would need some kind of force, like, say a stream of water. It can be pointed from one direction when it is on, and if the angle is right, the force will push whatever you want inside the tunnel. That is how travel works: when the moon phases are right and everything aligns, travel is possible as the tunnels are free and open. But at certain times, like certain moon phases or cosmic events, all of the portals unlocked.

  “If the cosmic and lunar forces are like streams of water that push through, what happened during his invasion is the equivalent of this cheese being plunged deep inside a bucket. He came when all the portals opened wide and we were caught off guard. Vyrm forces came from every portal; they arrived everywhere and all at once.

  “We did not foresee such an attack or so many vyrm that he positioned throughout the planes; some of our own had also been corrupted over the years. But still, Nitthogr hasn’t made his play for a greater prize: total control of all the Tesseract’s power and secrets.

  “He kidnapped the daughter of the King to try and gain access. The Creator, the great Architect King, invented such a secure method of access, that none can penetrate its defenses. But I fear he will eventually succeed if he acquires you. You are the key, Claire Jones: you and Bithia are both access points for him to break the vault or open the void.”

  “So if he gets me, the world ends? Perfect.”

  “That’s just one of two options,” Rob explained. “The vyrm are fanatical. They seek the unleashing of Sh’logath and the annihilation of reality. Some aspects of God are creativity and the grand song of existence. Sh’logath is Agod: the opposite of God. He is not maliciously evil or malevolent like Satan, a fallen, heavenly being. Sh’logath is The Hunger, the opposite of reality. He is the nether and the nonexistence. Contrary to God, Sh’logath has no power; he does not exist.”

  “Except that he does, or he wouldn’t have a whole planet full of crazed cultists,” Claire pointed out.

  “That’s the paradox, of course,” Rob agreed. “By calling Sh’logath into existence, letting him into the Tesseract, into reality, the vyrm would splinter existence, shatter it. Everything would cease to exist: only Sh’logath personified—the great nothing.”

  “Not even God?”

  “Existence and nonexistence cannot dwell together. This goes beyond the Light and Darkness of Lucifer and Jesus. Shadows can be dispelled with the light. But neither shadow nor daylight exist without the Sun.”

  Claire nodded. “Don’t get caught.”

  “And don’t eat the cheese,” Rob winked and pointed to the nearby public beach as they drove very slowly through the tiny tourist town of La Pointe. “Pull over there.”

  “So all of reality ending is option number one. What was the other possibility?”

  “I think it far more likely that Nitthogr, your James, is leveraging the awakening of Sh’logath against his own plan. Basilisk was always far more enthralled by the Devourer. And yet, it was Basilisk that ended the Syzygyc War; in the end, his sudden doubts overruled his fa
naticism. Nitthogr’s heart bent towards a different sort of corruption. He seeks domination and adoration. He is using the vyrm to his own end, I believe; eventually he will need to somehow turn their devotion from Sh’logath to Nitthogr.

  “If he cannot have his satisfaction, if Nitthogr cannot subjugate the creation of the Architect King, only then will he release Sh’logath.”

  Claire nodded. She felt less confused than before, but knew she’d only learned snippets of a grand story which spanned the pages of galactic history. She turned her thoughts to the more immediate situation. “Then what will this shaman be able do? How will that work?”

  “First, we’ve got to find her.” Rob withdrew an elongated crystal almost the size of his thumb from his pocket. He hopped out and waded nimbly into the water, wincing only slightly as the cold water came in contact with his wounds. Rob reached down and retrieved a clamshell almost as big as his hand; he shook it dry as he returned to the passenger seat.

  “What’s that?”

  Rob used the pointy end of the faceted stone to etch a rune into the inside of the shell. He put the crystal into the shell while holding it. The crystal slowly moved to point north. “It’s a kind of compass,” he said as he navigated them through the village on the south-western side of the island. “Go north-east.”

  . . .

  Vivian dusted off her clothing as if she could somehow wipe off the Earth stink as she walked through the halls. Her boot heels announced her presence as they clacked and echoed down the cobblestone corridor. She strode up to General Regorik who sat near the door to the prison cells. Perched atop a stool, he and four other guards engaged in a game of chance.

  “Caivev,” he hissed from behind his serpent-like tongue. “What news from the earth-front?”

  She scowled down at the venerable warrior as he pushed in an ante chip. “Surely there are better uses of your time while our lord is away?”

  Regorik laughed. “I’m sure you’ll tell me just what those things are! For all your desire and devotion to Sh’logath, you still lack those fundamental qualities that make a good vyrm!”

  Caivev rolled her eyes. Deep down, he was correct, but also more wrong than he would ever know. She was more than vyrm! Caivev’s zeal and devotion burned stronger than any vyrms’ because she was not—she did not inherit her faith. Her consecration to Sh’logath belonged only to her.

  “Tell me,” Regorik pressed, “Have you let all the blood necessary to complete the Dunnischkte?”

  Her tight-lipped grimace came as close to a smile as she would give. “I have, when my Earth persona, Vivian Shianan, fell under my knife.”

  Regorik waved to the drunken priest who sat nearby on the floor. “Charsk! Check her.”

  Charsk staggered to his feet. He took her by the face and stared deep into her eyes.

  Caivev bit her tongue; Charsk was, perhaps, her least favorite vyrm, but as the leader of the priest caste, he held the keys to her completing the Dunnischkte ritual which would merge her human self with the Vyrm physiology, much like Basilisk and Nitthogr had done so long ago. It was the ultimate symbol of devotion to the Cult of Sh’logath—a task that only an outsider and convert could perform. Eliminating all dimensional variants, the Dunnischktet could conceivably live forever—and yet this devotion to the agod demanded that it never come to pass.

  Charsk shook his head. “There still remains another. She has not yet eliminated all her forms across the Tesseract. She cannot yet merge.” He playfully slapped her face with a drunken grin.

  She cursed as her shoulders slumped. Regorik exposed a winning hand and the other players mirthfully spat profanities at him. “What next, then,” he asked her.

  Caivev spun on her heels. “I’ve got more work to do. Get more guards in here on Nitthogr’s orders!”

  “Nobody’s getting in here,” Regorik defended.

  “Then get some sober ones in here! And call for some psy-vyrm: someone who can defend our prisoner through the ether! He wants a psychic tabs kept on Bithia at all times.”

  Regorik spat out an amused sigh as he anted up again. “Psssh! Humans.”

  . . .

  The small size of the island meant that the car soon closed in on the mystic compass’s destination. Claire and Rob sat inside Jackie’s car at an overgrown driveway near the north coast where a rusty chain barred their path. A rickety fence made of rusty corrugated sheet metal waged a war of heights with the unkempt stalks of field grass.

  “You’re sure this is the place?” Claire asked for confirmation.

  The six foot hunk of steel nearest a stray fencepost wore an age-faded Native American eagle symbol. The emblem of the Anishinaabe, though only done in red Krylon, looked like it was once a majestic and artistic piece before the rigors of age set in.

  Rob nodded, and then got out of the car. He detached the chain and let it fall to the ground. “I see a little shack back there in the woods,” he pointed the way.

  The little car rocked and bucked on the rutted, earthen driveway. Claire feared it would bottom out and get stuck in one of the potholes. After a jarring bump, the trees opened up into an ill-kept yard. Piles of debris and other assorted junk had been heaped in a variety of manners all around. Their sheer size made distinguishing a mound of twisted scrap from the owner’s hovel a difficult task. An intertwined mess of interlaced branches peeked up from behind the shanty house; the owner obviously put more effort into that tangled structure than the home.

  They exited the vehicle and walked toward the shack, passing a disturbingly tall pile of weather-checked Jack Daniels bottles. The fading evening sunlight glinted off of the western side of the glass mound.

  “Whaddaya want?” a disheveled, old Native American woman crooned from the dilapidated porch as they approached. She attempted to stand up, nearly knocking over her freshly emptied whisky bottle in the process. “I already told em, I ain’t paying those back taxes. It ain’t like that on the island!”

  Rob stepped forward apprehensively and said in a calm tone, “That’s not who we are, miss…”

  “Kechewaishke,” she said arrogantly, as if the name born of her proud heritage should mean something to an outsider. “Besides, I’da had the money if those National Geographic people woulda ever completed that piece on th’island history.” Her words held a slight slur, but might have been a product of her hermitage more than the effects of the alcohol. She slumped back into the old rocking chair that propped her up.

  Something in her defeated tone indicated it might be okay for them to continue their approach. Rob crept up beside her; he ignored the unpleasant odors lacing the air.

  The old woman noticed the look on his face and chuckled. “Don’t mind th’smell. An opossum died under the deck last week. It’ll quit stinkin in a few days. What do you folks want from me, then?”

  Claire interjected, “We were told a great shaman could be found here.”

  Kechewaishke cackled a great, almost toothless chortle. She laughed so hard she cried. Wiping a tear from her eye she said, “Honey, I don’t know who’s been filling your head with such nonsense, but you might’ve seen Dances with Wolves one too many times.”

  Claire looked at Rob with hesitation.

  “I’m sorry Miss Kechewaishke…”

  “Ma Kechewaishke. Call me Ma.”

  “Ma. I’m looking for someone who can help my friend on an Hembleciya.”

  Ma spat at the word and gave Rob a dirty look as if he’d offended her.

  “I’m sorry, Ma.” He corrected his verbiage, accidentally using a Sioux term instead of the Ojibwa. “She needs to meet with her Weyekin. Can you help us?” He told her only what she needed to know and might be capable of understanding in her state.

  She spat again, but looked at them with a gleam of enterprise in her eye. “D’you got any money?” She picked up the bottle to take a sip, but discovered it empty.

  Rob looked apprehensively at Claire. Claire returned his n
ervous look and pulled out her empty pockets in response.

  “Is there anything else we can do to secure your help,” Rob asked.

  A foul look came over Ma’s face. “If you’re name ain’t Jack Daniels or Benjamin Washington, I ain’t listening to ya.” She crossed her arms sternly, firmly gripping the glass jug.

  Dejectedly, Claire muttered, “Let’s just go. We can find another.”

  Rob whispered back, “No. There’s a reason we are here. Nitthogr will have guards near any with the practiced skill to ‘send you beyond.’”

  Claire gave him an apprehensive look. She still didn’t quite understand what she was doing here.

  “What if I told you we were on a mission from Gichi-manidoo?”

  Ma uncrossed her arms and leaned forward in her squeaky chair. “What did you say?” She almost whispered the question; a long pause followed as Ma looked back into her memories. “He said you would come…” she trailed off, looking away, into the distance, into nothing at all. She looked down at the empty bottle in her hands. “Long ago… so long ago, when my Weyekin brought me into the presence of almighty Gichi-manidoo. He told me to expect you, to aid you. I was a young girl, then.”

  Her eyes narrowed at her bottle and she clutched it with white knuckles. “I waited and waited. But you never came. And I couldn’t find my Weyekin or Gichi-manidoo, no matter how long or how often I quested through the ether. I was alone; He was silent. And now… here you are, and I’m an old lady.”

  She stared down, ashamed at her own impatience. “What form does your Weyekin take?” Rob asked gently.

  “A wolf.” Ma looked up to see Rob standing there as a mountainous lycanthrope. She choked back her gasp, stood, and threw her bottle at the mountain of empty glassware. It hit with such force that it shattered and caused a violent landslide of empty jugs. The avalanche engulfed her regrets and thrust new life and vigor into her. “This way,” she said, beaming. “I will get the spices and reagents. My sweat lodge is in the back!” She hobbled quickly inside her house.