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

by Remy Nakamura

  The sky is not its usual dull pinkish-white anymore but a deep shade of infrared at least as bright and intense as the blue of Earth’s sky on a cloudless day. A color outside the visible light spectrum, a reflected frequency that the human brain cannot translate into a part of the rainbow. A red beyond red, a red so quintessentially different from the earth-normal color palette that they’ll need to invent a new name for it.

  How is that possible? Has his vision extended into the infrared? It might make sense on a planet closer to the Sun, where the predominance of CO2 in the atmosphere both filters and scatters the sunlight in a different manner. Yet how could this adaptation happen so fast? Are they becoming just as crazy as the Fractal Forest?

  Baretta hears Vanessa cry out, first in surprise, then in wonder. She points to the trapezoidal insectoids.

  Baretta can’t suppress a scream, either. At first, his eyes can’t make sense of them—they dazzle, they flicker, they change colors like crazy until what he sees are not quite colors anymore. Not normal colors, anyway. But eventually the trapezoidal insectoids become beautiful, like a school of coral reef fish, like a swarm of tropical butterflies. Gone is the sickly yellow, the badly polarized white sheen—they’re imbued with patterns. Stripes, spots, bands, and ribbons in a variety of infrared shades that they can finally see but not describe.

  Like someone who’s used a slide rule all their life and then is confronted with a computer that does the same calculations and much more besides—and not just a huge mainframe but a computer so small it fits in a pocket and is called a “smartphone.” Like someone who’s suffered tinnitus all their life being cured, suddenly hearing all nuances in speech and music clearly. Like someone who’s only tasted white wines and is now introduced to the full variety of reds and rosés. Like scientists realizing that genetic information is carried by DNA structured like a double spiral.

  Maybe the burning pain in their eyes was a growing pain, adding a fourth cone type to their photoreceptors. However, the brain then needs to interpret the new types of colors. This process is highly disorienting at first until the mind settles into a representation.

  Almost, but not quite, like a veil being lifted, like walking out of a long dark tunnel into the light. With initial effects not unlike a perceptual shift or a conceptual breakthrough with synesthetic overtones—these shades of infrared look like the colors hidden by the twilight’s chiaroscuro now revealed by the morning sun, this tone of infrared sounds like suddenly understanding a strange language, and those tinges of infrared taste like the complex combination of tannins, cacao and black pepper balancing the floral, fruity and peaty undertones of a single malt.

  The trapezoidal insectoids, those floating tables, don’t seem threatening anymore. Au contraire, they now look welcoming. Baretta also feels a minor rise in the background vibration, a weird interference like a happy buzz. A tear in one of his hyper-gossamer wings? No, their diagnostics read fine. A minor malfunction in the new exosuit? Why didn’t he feel it earlier? Maybe a lingering side effect as his brain incorporates the new color schemes?

  Closer up, Baretta now sees the fractal edges of the fluttering trapezoids. It should be impossible as the frame rate with which these insectoids flit their kite-like bodies should be well above the human flicker fusion threshold. Has his brain sped up, his perception become faster? Like Vanessa said, he does feel much better since the fever retreated.

  At some point, though, the kite insectoids keep their distance and twirl around in enticing patterns, beckoning, as if asking the humans to follow. Serendipitously, the frequency and intensity of the vibrations rummaging his being seem to rise to a frantic buzz. He wants to ask Vanessa if she’s experiencing something similar, but she answers him before he can form the question. “Yes, I feel it too. An upbeat tone, like an elated glissando.”

  “You—”

  “—answered before you could ask. I know. It’s like I’m totally in sync with you. I can anticipate your next move. You should try it, too.”

  Baretta shifts some of his attention—the crazy events beneath him had been totally absorbing—to Vanessa, he feels an instant connection. Not quite telepathy, more like he can almost feel what she feels. A strong empathic link. Her attention for her partner’s safety is imbued with something deeper. Admiration? Respect? Friendship?

  Too much happening at once; Baretta feels his focus waning. “Let’s just follow them, first?” He says. “We can talk about . . . us later.”

  “Fine.” Vanessa smiles ear-to-ear.

  * * *

  In the wake of the “kitesects”—or “zoidflies”—they’re approaching the area of the white-out sections: sick, colorless segments where, once, vibrant life shouted its exuberant celebration in exultant pigments. They’d been so taken aback with the bleaching that they’d overlooked the fact that the shapes and forms were still alright, perfectly fractalized, constantly varying, diversifying, changing . . .

  Now, they can see. An infrarufescence too spectacular to be taken in at once. Indescribable to those whose vision is not wired to infrahues.

  When language and vision unite and take a synesthetic leap of faith:

  Neologisms negating the need to negotiate new nexus to neophytes? Yes, sirrah, cabinets of sauvignon grimace in a grand mal beckoning a mellow pin—oh, noir is the beau you laid. Just dip into the vermillion verisimilitude. Fly over fields of multiformed pimpernel so scarlet they beat beet red three rungs down the ladder. Chase cerise cardinals and carmine apiece cheering the claret of cochineal cacti clouding the infractalscape. Crimson clay Bodacious bricks so corroded they kick rust’s ass into a new low of infrastructure. Rubies marooned in foxy cherry-pies bleeding infravescence under the veil of a vermeil sky. Schools of gules criss-crossing sanguine corals under the mask of a damask heaven. Flame on, infrasonic rumbles in the underbelly: the forest’s afire with a new type of flame.

  Language explodes into bleeding shards, shards of sky bleed into linguistic fireworks, and synesthetic fire works its way into the conceptual breakthrough.

  This, Baretta realizes, is a new world coming to life. Not the one we tried to make.

  On top of that, the bleached infrared parts are not separate sections anymore—they’re blending with the human-visible parts. Human eyes would see a patchwork of crazy colors interspersed with white sections in a way that would turn the ghost of Jackson Pollock green with envy. Venusian eyes, though, see the miracle of accelerated evolution. A fractal factory bursting with life, flourishing in unforeseen ways. Violet flowers spouting from ochre stems set against the background of a crisp infrahue. Infrafused explosions of tripled tendrils reaching for the vermillion sky. Tangled webs of teetering willows, true-blue waves of tethered seaweeds thrown against a wavering backdrop shimmering in an ultrarainbow to infraprism cycle.

  And even in this flare-up of wild abandon, this wanton assault on perception, there is something else underneath—either an undertone on the edge of infrasonic or an overtone beyond the threshold of ultrasonic. Something you feel rather than hear, but still somehow is sound. Something you sense rather than experience, but still somehow is real. Something that communicates instantaneously, but it still needs to be converted to a comprehensible form. A strange interference not unlike wave harmonics, binaural tones, and frequency modulation. Something riding something else.

  Whatever it is, it’s trying to get a message through to Vanessa and Baretta. But the communication is unclear. Time is running out.

  “We have to get back,” Vanessa says, “our oxygen is running low.”

  “True,” Baretta is so engrossed that he wouldn’t have noticed until the low level alarm set in, “but we still need to employ the new biosensors.”

  “Might as well dump them here. This is definitely the most interesting place.”

  “No mistake.”

  After spreading the sensors, they leave, very reluctantly, like trespassers from a new paradise.

  * * *

  Inevitably, the
y return, carrying extra oxygen supplies. They didn’t report their changes. They made up a story about how upset they were when they found out that the “bleached” parts of the forest were expanding and infiltrating the “healthy” parts. They need time to wrap their minds around the new development.

  They need privacy, so Vanessa hacks their voice implants. The cameras don’t need to be tampered with as they record human normal. Back at the new section of the Fractal Forest, they re-appreciate the infrared sections and how that novoforest—the infraforest—integrates with the existing parts. It sharpens and fine-tunes their extended color perception while something else keeps happening, as well.

  “You feel it, too, right?” Baretta asks, “sort of a common wavelength that seems to be—

  —connected to every living thing in the Fractal Forest.” Vanessa says, finishing it for him. “A kind of übergestalt—

  —Gaia come to Venus. Vaia?” Baretta says. “But its intelligence still feels a bit primitive, unformed.”

  “I suspect we’re not directly experiencing it because it’s not self-conscious. Operating like our subconscious—possibly very fast and very efficient but not fully aware.”

  “And it seems to welcome us as if we’re a part of it.” Whatever type of quantum harmonics vibrate through them, eventually they seem to translate into certain feelings.

  “Is it telling us—

  —we need to discard our artificial extensions. But without our exoskeleton we’re unprotected against the sulfuric acid clouds—

  —that seem to have become very rare, at these altitudes, anyway—

  —lightning and CO2 poisoning. And without our wings—

  —we’ll fall into an over-pressurized, superheated hell. So how?”

  Their nervous systems are alight with a sensation so harmonious and uplifting, it’s not unlike music. Ode to Joy, Baretta thinks. At the End of the Day, is Vanessa’s take.

  “Show us the way?” They say in unison.

  A flock of kitesects rises up to meet them. Vanessa and Baretta keep their relative positions in a figure-eight flying pattern. Their wings are attached to their backs, so their arms and legs are free. The kitesects swoop down on those free limbs. Simultaneously, the pair have the nigh-irresistible feeling that they must stretch their arms and legs.

  The kitesects merge, and reform tightly around Vanessa’s and Baretta’s limbs. A third skin forms around the second layer of the exosuit, extending into huge, fractally-feathered wings. Vanessa and Baretta rise up, fast, as they now have double the lift. Exaltation.

  “Wow!”

  “Yeah. Only one way to find out—

  —retract our artificial wings.”

  They do and brace for the fall. But they keep flying, if clumsily. They move in awkward patterns. Their new wings have lift aplenty, they just don’t control quite right.

  “It seems as if they need direct body contact—

  —but that means ditching the exosuit.” Baretta says.

  “We don’t need to ditch the complete exosuit,” Vanessa says. “How about we only take off the sleeves, to see if we can then control our upper wings better?”

  “Right, we can always put them back on, fast,” Baretta says, “hopefully.”

  They extend their artificial wings, and the kitesect arm wings, almost on cue, disintegrate into kitesects again. The trapezoidal insectoids flutter around until Vanessa and Baretta have taken off their exosuit sleeves, then reform.

  The kitesect wings—after a fast trial-and-error process—now perfectly follow their directions.

  On top of that, it’s not just their control, their commands flowing into their new arm wings, but something else flowing back—a kind of energy, a sustenance. They fly around as long as they dare, keeping a close eye on their oxygen levels and signs of CO2 poisoning. It lasts much longer than they thought, or dared hope. But, in the end, they need to report back.

  “It’s crazy,” Baretta says, “I feel great, not even hungry.”

  “Our oxygen level has barely depleted since we used our new arm wings,” Vanessa says. “Have we been using less, or is there something else going on?”

  “Don’t know,” Baretta says, “but unfortunately we can’t go native just yet. I think it’s better if we put our exoskeleton sleeves back on—

  —otherwise, they’ll totally freak out at Quadrant 4 base.”

  * * *

  In the days that follow, Vanessa and Baretta keep experimenting. They increasingly interact with the Fractal Forest. Their flying becomes perfect as they let the kitesects take the place of their exoskeletons. On top of that, no signs of CO2 poisoning nor are they hungry anymore. What to do with their food packs?

  Baretta notices Vanessa’s kitesect wings glowing during flight. “Maybe our wings perform photosynthesis, supplying us with carbohydrates and oxygen.”

  “Which would explain our decreasing need for food and oxygen,” she says, “but we still need water. And proteins, vitamins, minerals, and other trace elements.”

  “Probably, the Fractal Forest can supply those—

  —and we can dump our food into the Fractal Forest. In this extreme environment, it’s becoming an absolute champion at recycling.”

  “We need to take a leap of faith. Become part of the Fractal Forest, embrace Vaia—

  —Vaya con Dios? Go with the God of this place?”

  “Or remain freaks in the human settlement. We are different. Until they know exactly what has happened, they will keep us quarantined—

  —indefinitely, which might as well mean forever.”

  After venting their unused oxygen supply—to avoid suspicion—they return to base. Their hand is forced when an old friend secretly transmits a preliminary abstract of the research into their viral infection to their implants. “Their DNA is different as sulfate has replaced the phosphate in the nucleotide, which now uses an extra sugar group to extend the structure from a double to a triple helix.” Once their superiors see this, they’ll discontinue Vanessa and Baretta’s expeditions. Their next scheduled reconnaissance flight will be their last.

  * * *

  Off they are, on their ultimate trip, one way or the other. Cutting the Gordian knot of their future.

  Sometimes, there’s nothing to it but hope. Hope that the Fractal Forest can deliver sufficient sustenance to keep them alive, maybe even help them thrive. Hope that their new metabolism adapts.

  Sometimes, you have to face the abyss and own it. Sometimes, you must jump off the cliff. Sometimes, there’s nothing to it but don your reality distortion field and take the leap of faith. Cross the Rubicon into truly new frontiers. Prime the senses for new wonders.

  Baretta looks up to Vanessa, and she answers before he can ask.

  Yes, I’m ready.

  Let’s do it.

  They say goodbye to Quadrant 4 base.

  If panspermia is correct, Baretta thinks, life on Earth is also not truly native. In that case, a genuinely pristine Earth would be, like Venus only a few decades ago, barren. As such, keeping a lifeless planet “pristine” (as the KVP demands) is madness. What happens on Venus is merely an advanced form of panspermia.

  This also means that we are our own—well, not quite people—entity, Baretta thinks, simultaneously transmitting it to Vanessa and the rest of the Fractal Forest. We need to negotiate with the humans as we are not an experiment anymore. Nor do we wish to be a colony.

  We’re not totally independent, yet, Vanessa sends over the quantum-entangled trilix link, we need more water and trace elements to expand life on Venus. The remaining sulfuric acid clouds will only get us so far.

  Baretta gazes at the stars, wistfully, It’ll be a very long time before we can descend to the surface to extract the metals we need for space flight.

  How about us, Vanessa signals over the Fractal Forest trilix link, feel like being Adam to my Eve?

  This takes Baretta aback. He’s been so focused on so many other things that this slipped right by him
. Another world of possibilities opens up, even if he wants to take that one step at a time. He looks at her with new eyes. Well, we can look into that anytime, he thinks, although—thinking about it—we might open up to immigrants.

  Come who may, Vanessa’s feelings ride the trilix wave, but you are mine.

  Ingrid Garcia tries to sell local wines in a vintage wine shop in Cádiz and writes speculative fiction in her spare time. Initially, the good people of Ligature Works (poem), Panorama, and EOS Quarterly were willing to take a risk with her, and now, the Futuristica 2 and—indeed—Ride the Star Wind anthologies and F&SF will feature stories of hers, as well. Between the day job, writing more stories, and setting up a website, she—dog forbids—even has hopeful thoughts of writing that inevitable novel.

  Sense of Wonder

  Richard Lee Byers

  Illustrated by Michael Bukowski

  Everyone else lumbers around preparing the exploration pod for departure. I return to the cliff face for one last look at the fossils: the remains of spiny, scorpion-tailed creatures that lived and died before the cosmic collision that smashed the moon, stilled the tides, and ultimately abolished life on this particular planet.

  The fossils make me want to see the living organisms. The physicists back on Earth told me only to step across space, never time, but should I care? They don’t understand time like I’m starting to. They think it’s like nitroglycerin, primed to explode if you jiggle it. But isn’t it really just the ocean in which we drift?

  Cheong speaks over the radio, “Valdez. We’re ready to leave.”

  “Roger that,” I reply. But still, the fossils hold me.

  After a while, someone approaches across the gray sand. I can’t tell who it is until I register the name stenciled above the helmet’s reflective faceplate: Otienno. Then I wonder why I didn’t recognize her willowy frame even though we all look pretty much alike in spacesuits.