Ride the Star Wind: Cthulhu, Space Opera, and the Cosmic Weird

by Remy Nakamura

  And I hear this sound . . . I don’t know what it sounds like. Like cracking stone, maybe? It’s coming from above me, so I look up. And there is this large fucking eyeball over me. As big as a moon, taking up all of the space. With a wine-colored iris that looks like it’s throbbing, like a muscle, like a hose, jerking, full of something.

  And I feel myself jolt awake, Mari. I swear to you, I feel in that moment like I’ve already gotten up from the bad dream. But this eye still just . . . looks down at me. And I don’t have any idea what happens next because nothing changes for a long time. And the color from its eyes starts to fade. And I see it’s falling down, into the . . . the water-air or whatever, onto me, but not like ink falling into water or anything. It falls like it’s falling in air. And the pressure in the water gets tighter, and I feel like I’m being crushed by something. I can feel it flattening me, and I want to wake up, I really, really already want to wake up, but the dream just won’t let me.

  So I scream. I’m screaming your name the whole time—“Mari! Mari, help me! Mari, Mari!”—and I can feel it. I am already more than ready to get out of this dream, but it won’t let me. Not until I am all the way crushed by . . . whatever is happening. And I am scared. Because it feels like I’m really, really dying. I feel the wind slip out of me, I feel myself blacking out among the lights, and I am still scared, still freaking out. I don’t know what’s going on—

  And then I wake up. And . . . I think I can’t cope. I think space is making me a little weird. Like, right now? I can smell Tempranillo. I swear. It’s like I’m drowning in wine right now, and I hate it. I don’t want to be here, and I just want to be wherever you are, and I don’t know why we had to go on this fucking mission to find six fucking researchers on this fucking rock in the first fucking place because I am freaking the fuck out, and I don’t know what to do.

  I didn’t expect . . . I thought it’d be like going out to sea, and it isn’t. And I don’t know why I’m getting so weird about this. But I don’t like it. I just . . .

  Why won’t this smell go away?

  * * *

  Red, 18229LM:

  The rover has sent some of its mosquito drones back with trace samples of the dust and stone from SRN227 for our team astrogeochemist to look at, and from what we can see, it’s amazing. Just as the Six documented in their own recordings: a gemstone with chemical properties totally unknown to the existing colonies and with a pressure resistance and electrical conductivity higher than any of our current leading materials. I mean, Dr. Beltrán hasn’t supplied all eir notes, yet, but as it stands, the rock—and even the sand—do exactly what the previous team said it would. If you pardon my excitement, this could make the colonies rich. What we thought would be an ideal extended settlement is really a massive gemstone mine!

  The basics, I’m sure, are in Dr. Beltrán’s recordings, but I can’t help but note its deep wine color. As a gemstone, it’s actually quite attractive—although I imagine this would be of far more financial value in the electronics sector than as jewelry.

  Blue, 18236LM:

  Yes, I know—I just said that something the color of wine is “attractive.” But I’m not going to do anything stupid, alright?

  Outside of the specifics of the mineral, the rest of the crew has been idly debating what to call it. I personally feel like the way we think about naming things like this is an exercise in ego—everyone wants to put their name on something before they die, I guess—but there’s one name I actually kind of like. One of the technicians confessed that he took the job because his partner, Johann Piper, was one of the Greyville Six, and he was hoping to bring him back home. So, obviously, what did you think he’d ask the stone to be called?

  Piperite. I think it’s fucking adorable. I didn’t even know—Augustus, I think his name was?—I didn’t even know he asked to be on this mission. Just to find his partner.

  I think that’s amazing. I mean . . . it gives me a little bit more hope that maybe we’re actually gonna get through this. That we’re gonna find them. I mean . . . I want us to now. I really do. Because I want his partner to come back home. And I want yours to come back, too.

  * * *

  Red, 23315LM:

  I’ve begun some of the preliminary document scans sent by the rover. I can’t make any actual deliberations until sometime in, but I have some opening judgments in the hope that the hypotheses will grow more shape as I keep digging.

  The ornamentation of the structures on SRN227 and a great deal of the pictograms recovered seem to betray a kind of ritual opulence portrayed among the dominant culture here. What seem to be historical texts continuously depict massive feasts, orgies, gambling events, stage shows, and more for weeks upon weeks at a time, all at once. I’d hesitate to think of them as rituals at all, but they are all connected to some common words and symbols, including what appears to be an image of a sun—perhaps, Aglaope?

  There were also technological artefacts—the techs observing the rover feed have reason to believe that there is a cultural analogue of the tablet computer on the surface of SRN227, but of course, that means the rover will have to put it away for us and bring it back before we can even determine how they’re powered or if they’re still of use.

  There is still far more reading and research to do. The bit I’m puzzling over now in the texts, referring to the astrological festivals they apparently partook in, gives mention of a god. Of course, I’m . . . paraphrasing; my hope is that I can have something better to go on in terms of what words mean or how they’re used. For the time being, I’m attempting to crack the two symbols beside the sun in pictograms. They come in only two variations.2 One is the sun, followed by what seems to be wind being blown out of the lips of a humanoid creature (perhaps, their own species’ face?) and . . . like an ankh, I guess? I mean, you’ll see it, but it’s like an ankh but with three handles instead of one, perfect circles each. And the other variation of the statement is the sun, followed by a shape I can’t put in context—um . . . two rhombuses in a circle? And then the triple-ansated cross again.

  So I placed them against how many other times the images seem to come up in the description of the festivities themselves because maybe their sacraments include some manner of mimicry, right? And I . . . think I make sense of it? The rhombuses come up by themselves in a lot of the gambling mentions. (I’m guessing because I can definitely make out their base-eight numeral system. I’ve been staring at most of that for the duration we’ve been hovering over the planet.) The overall shape is mentioned in what I suppose are musical events—because the breath pictogram is there, too. I’m taking poetic license, of course—all of this may go out the window as we dig deeper into their general texts—but I’m designating both phrases as “clicking god” and “sweet-voiced god,” respectively.

  I’ve been sharing notes with Dr. Beltrán on the samples again in order to get a better sense of what actually happened to the inhabitants of SRN227, and e surmises that a massive solar ejection may have been responsible for impacting them so drastically. It may be responsible for some of the conditions of the piperite, even, according to eir estimation, which would be utterly fascinating.

  We’re both in the beginnings of our observations, of course—hell, uncovering the secrets of this mineral may take years and require more resources than we have on this lifeboat. But we’re both eager to see where they lead.

  Blue, 23323LM:

  I wanted to go with “lambent-voiced god,” obviously . . . right? The star’s name is Aglaope, after all. Just saying. It fit. But I didn’t want to get attached to it . . . you know, if the readings lead another way.

  Also, it seems like we’re getting a bit comfortable here on the ship. A little too comfortable, maybe. On both ends of the spectrum—large shouting-matches on the one end, private lovemaking sessions between techs and researchers on the other . . . why am I telling you all this? This is a research mission, not a soap opera.

  I just . . . really wish you could be he
re to help me sleep. The fucking dream . . .

  Anyway. At least we’re making progress, right?

  * * *

  Orange, 24121LM:

  Technician Julian King noted that a feedback sound we had noticed on the ship when we arrived at the system is still persisting. After the repairs to the storage room, we couldn’t find any faults, even though we had suspected that it was perhaps interference from passing through the binary wormhole. By all accounts, it isn’t a flaw of any kind (hence not mentioning it sooner).

  And then we dug deeper, and it got even weirder.

  I thought, maybe, it’s a beacon.

  And we got excited, too! Maybe it was an SOS from the Greyville Six? But it’s coming from Aglaope. So we immediately dismissed it as feedback, of course, but I figured I’d ask one of the techs to help me tinker with some of the equipment so we could chart the sound itself.

  It’s a repeated pattern. I’m attaching it with the others.3 Plays like . . . an 8/8 time signature? Which is interesting—maybe, Aglaope itself is the catalyst for the numerical system on SRN227? Anyway, I’m also intrigued to find out if its translation may have had any significance to the planet’s inhabitants since the sun is one of their revered symbols in their language, important enough for lavish rituals.

  Blue, 24140LM:

  Julian—he’s nice people. Really ingenious, loves to help. I mean, not like anyone here doesn’t give of their time when you ask, but Julian saw me perk up at the beacon thing and offered all on his own. He’s a whiz with some of this stuff, too.

  I feel like he kinda did it out of pity, though. Everyone else thought I was just wasting my time thinking about it. “It’s just a fucking noise, Percy.” Like it wasn’t annoying the hell out of all of us the whole time.

  But Julian just went, “we’re all going a little bit weird about this job. At least you’re being productive about it.”

  And that could’ve been rude, but I actually thought it was kinda . . . sweet.

  * * *

  Blue, 25025LM:

  Mari. The fucking dreams. It’s like they’re following me now. Even when I’m awake, whenever I close my eyes, even for a blink, that wine-eyed monster is staring at me, and it lasts forever every time it happens, and I don’t know what to do.

  It’s driving me crazy, Mari. Not even just how fucking creepy it is. Like, why the hell? What does it even mean? I feel like my psyche is trying to make me backslide—that’s the part that gets me. Like I’m freaking myself out because it wants me to fall off the wagon.

  And it’s . . . it’s not just me. I feel like the trip’s finally gotten to all of us. In the mess, a researcher—dunno her name—got into a fistfight with one of the engineers, nearly stabbed the guy in the neck with a broken coffee mug. Apparently, there was an incident in Dr. Beltrán’s room; someone lit one of eir bookshelves on fire when e wasn’t in eir room? I don’t even know why the fuck—e’s been so nice the entire time.

  And the worst part? Gus—Augustus. Augustus Mellon. Fucking spaced himself. Who knows how long ago. I’m the only one who knows so far—the rest of the ship isn’t up yet. I got up from the nightmare and . . . I see something floating outside the airlock window, and . . . Gus is just . . . there. Clutching a cracking picture frame in his arms as he floats away from the ship. And . . . godfuckingdammit. I don’t get it. If he’s losing hope already . . .

  Mari. I’m scared. I know I have nothing to be scared of . . . but . . . I feel like I’m here alone, and I want to know for sure that I’m going to see you again.

  I’m going to see you again, right?

  Right?

  Please.

  * * *

  Red, 33053LM:

  I have reason to believe I have a pretty solid baseline interpretation of some parts of the texts that we’ve found, especially the scrolls; I have to thank Julian, again, for taking control of the rover to photograph some of them for my research. Again, more reading could prove something more, but the context I have so far make sense.

  Without going into greater detail—all of which will be covered in the files already being sent back4—the gist is this: the citizens of SRN227 worshiped a “lambent-voiced god,” to whom they attribute the success of their world. They were thriving; they claim to be yielding a surplus of food, in perfect health . . . they don’t mention much about material wealth, but when they do, there is mention of “the deserving” coming into financial success. And the god was who they thanked for it all.

  And the god is—or wields power—over the sun, and everything they had was a result of the sun. What appears to be their literal litany records have a one-to-one correlation to records of crop yields and defense from natural disasters (and mind you, the quality of these records are impeccable, down to individual moments, and one of them even mentioned a dancer fainting during worship with the same diligence as their grain counts; I’m assuming there’s an entire hierarchical position dedicated to consistent event recording, but the specifics of that are still locked up in the texts). This god was literally the reason they were still alive. They had the numbers to back it up. Whether it was real or not, they were having impeccable luck maintaining a society here.

  So they developed rituals. Now, this part’s rough, but this is where the “lambent-voiced” bit comes in: they claim to have heard songs from the god, songs that literally fell from the sky. Into the ears of some or, for others, indirectly through their technology. Songs telling them to make offerings to the sun and to constantly perform . . . I’m taking this to mean, um . . . “humbling rituals.” And the records show that: flagellation, immolation, electrocution, scarring . . . stampedes, weekly brawls . . . all forms of practice in their ritual spaces, with some groups favoring some in general or for certain outcomes.

  But those practices date back a while. They’re all in the same document, but by the look of the texts themselves, the state of the more recent additions to their records isn’t as specific, and I’m willing to bet they’re not as accurate either. And the records of their litanies drop at a point, too. Whippings and cuttings stop. But the orgies don’t. And, I mean, if they believe they were literally hearing their god, all at once, they made that decision from a place of . . . faithlessness? Because there are slivers of texts that seem to be about a kind of “turning away.”

  I still need to dig deeper to grasp the rest of the words, of course, but progress is swift. More than enough texts survived for us to study. Hopefully, I can bring even more of them back!

  Blue, 34748LM:

  I showed some of my findings to Zoe—that’s Dr. Beltrán, by the way; we’re getting along so well now!—and e goes, “Well, I guess their god didn’t like that very much, did they?”

  * * *

  Blue, 38000LM:

  Mari . . . [labored breathing] Oh my god, Mari . . . [sobs] It felt like it lasted forever . . . like the eye was drawing me into it this time. It felt like I was drowning and being lit on fire all at once, and the fucking smell . . . wine, wine everywhere . . .

  I don’t want to stay here . . . I want to do something . . . the whole time I was there I wanted to do something stupid to myself. I woke up, and I wanted to hurt myself, Mari. It was as if something other than me was inside me, and it wanted to hurt me so bad, Mari, I don’t . . . I’m losing my goddamn mind here.

  I want . . . I want to hear your voice, Marielle. I know I can’t, but . . . it was your voice that saved me from drowning in my own puke four years ago, and I don’t know who else to call on to save me from . . . whatever this is.

  The fucking clicking, beeping, whatever, it’s like it’s getting louder. And the dreams. And the big fireball of Aglaope, like it’s taunting us, begging us to just come closer and end it.

  And a part of me really wants to. A part of me . . . I can’t even lie. We said we wouldn’t lie, right? I want to just drink all the fucking wine in the storage bay and drive the ship right into the sun because I am scared, and I don’t like it, and I didn’t want to be her
e, least of all alone.

  I am bugging out. I don’t even . . . I can’t even hold on to you after I have dreams like this . . . Why?

  [crying]

  Why can’t you save me from th—

  * * *

  Blue, 39343LM:

  Oh my goodness, I must’ve had a really bad dream a while ago, huh? I barely remember it, even. I’m sorry if I worried you, Mari, but I’m fine. Just . . . jitters, I guess?

  Orange, 39345LM:

  I’ve come closer to deciphering the beacon that I noticed a while back. The . . . feedback from Aglaope.

  First, I had to figure out what kind of coded systems the language on SRN227 used, how their characters were ordered using base-eight, and what the beeps would correspond to. I mean, I don’t even know the syllabic structure of the spoken language, yet! But it got me some characters, which got into words, and I’m basing the rest of this roughly on the words and phrases I was already lucky to stitch together. I can give you two lines. What I think are two lines—um, lines as in “phrases.” Of the beeps? Anyway:

  Hailing from a fairer shore to save kin,

  leaning over to sip of the sea’s own sweetness.

  The . . . embellishments are mine, of course. I felt like it fit as a poem. I dunno. Anyway.

  * * *

  Orange, 58330LM:

  Some brief notes on the research I’m presently tackling:

  I’ve been listening to the entirety of the star’s feedback. Noticing the general pattern, the specificities of each single phrase in tandem with the whole. It has a form—like a sonnet is in iambic pentameter? But specifically, I’m assuming tetrameter, but seeing as I don’t know what the language sounds like, I can’t be sure. It’s all a peculiar pattern, though: the beeps aligned with letters from the citizens’ abjad system. I suspect the star influenced their alphabet, just like it did their math. It’s like the rhythm of the sun is literally how SRN227 saw the world.