Hastings didn’t trust himself to respond.
“I’m not saying that’s a bad thing, but we’re scientists here, and scientists work with facts. Your belief, which ignores the evidence at hand, compromises our efforts and quite frankly, ends our usefulness here.”
“Faith and science aren’t exclusive,” Hastings said.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Martin said. “I’m just as religious as the next person, that’s why I’m making this call. If we aren’t basing our beliefs on concrete data, then we’re showing a lack of trust.”
The men stood there, bodies rigid, faces expressing forced casualness. Their difficulty gave Hastings a fleeting sense of power. If they expected him to show emotion, to go off the deep end here, it wasn’t going to happen. He blinked rapidly.
The captain made the inevitable statement. “When The Gurdeep turned around, I asked for direction and command left it up to me. Now I’ve made my mind up and we’re going home.”
Hastings rose slowly, not wanting to startle Morgan into action. He made a casual gesture and said, “It’s been a long mission, hasn’t it, Captain?”
Martin nodded and placed a hand on Hastings’ shoulder and the organisms screamed at this sudden intrusion.
“Thank you for telling me personally,” Hastings said. He smiled in acceptance of the inevitable.
“You deserve that consideration,” Martin replied. “You put more into this than anyone else. You deserve at least that respect, and more.”
“And more,” Hastings said.
His comment fell flat.
He became aware of the bacteria at the back of the captain’s neck, and sensed the movement under the man’s arms and down his groin. He almost forgot the man. Fearful he would fixate, Hastings shut his eyes and concentrated on the present until designs floated in the dark.
What would they do to returning Sensitives? Reconditioning? To what end?
“Sensitives have many uses,” Martin said.
Hastings opened his eyes, surprised he had spoken his thoughts out loud.
“Although,” the captain continued, “it’s sad to think of all we’ve put you through, and for what? But no one is going to abandon you. No one is going to forget the sacrifices you’ve made.”
“I did what was expected, that’s all,” Hastings offered.
Martin studied his face and Hastings blanked out everything to maintain his calm.
“You’re taking this better than I thought you would,” Hastings said. “Dr. Guarav, don’t you think so?”
“Better than we thought. He’s a good man.”
Hastings quoted The Book of Reawakening, “Find comfort in the known, for all is inevitable.”
“God is the inevitable,” Martin gave the automatic response.
Morgan dropped his head, lips pressing together in an ugly grin. Hastings wanted to launch at him.
Posture perfect, the captain, all right angles, headed for the door. Dr. Guarav moved aside, but still peered at Hastings. The old man didn’t trust him, nor could Hastings blame him.
“One favor, Captain?” Hastings said.
Martin paused, looking over his shoulder.
“Can I have one last jump? One last projection before we turn about?”
The captain turned back, brows raised in surprise. He appeared to mull over the request. He looked to Guarav. “Doctor?”
“To what end?” the physician asked.
“I need the closure.”
The doctor gave the words consideration.
“Without one last flight, I would feel incomplete,” Hastings said.
Guarav shrugged at the captain, who in turn winked at Hastings. The gesture made him want to scream.
“I don’t know,” the captain said. “I need to think about it. I’m not convinced of the wisdom.”
The doctor spoke. “It might not be wise, but maybe there is something to be said about closure.”
Hastings said nothing more. He didn’t want to appear too eager.
“I’ll think about it,” the captain promised.
Three hours. It was a token reluctantly granted by the captain, barely time to do more than reach out and look around. After that, the machine would draw him back.
Three hours. It wasn’t time enough for anything, but it was time enough if he had the courage to follow through with it.
Hastings jumped.
He spread into the blackness of space, the initial freedom sublime. With ease, he split and sent out bolts of awareness, each containing a part of his identity and at the same time each whole onto itself.
Working with urgency, for he had no sense of time once projection began, he looked for markers from the last jump. Letting intuition guide him, Hastings stretched fearlessly and trusted destiny.
The projector sent a warning indicator. He was reaching too far, spreading too thin. He ignored the alarm and reached out further. Morgan might be watching, but wouldn’t stop him, if Hastings disincorporated, there wasn’t anything Morgan could do about it. And maybe it would be easier for everyone if they returned with an empty husk. That way they could honor his sacrifice and not his failure.
Hastings stretched and opened himself to the void. A Sensitive usually followed a central path, setting off tendrils but, never straying far from his core, but now Hastings directed those tendrils to release more tendrils until sparks of consciousness multiplied many times. The feedback was almost overwhelming.
The music called.
Triumphantly, he directed his energies in that direction.
What beautiful noise. How sublime! He glided along the strands of himself sent out by the projector and skillfully wove the energy to strengthen the connection.
The projector would be recording his excitement, but it wouldn’t capture what he now experienced. This was outside their reality.
Hastings writhed in the majesty and crawled along the chaos, weeping at the enormity of it all. This wasn’t hallucination. This thing, this life, intertwining now with him, was more real than Morgan’s stone face as he sat at the projector panels monitoring activity. And at the kiss of blackness, he became its avatar.
This was the power of the cosmic entity at the universe’s center. This was the true giver of life, not the architect gracefully creating its own image. This!
The projector alarm sounded.
He braced himself against the drag, refusing to be pulled back. Let it end like this, free of the constraint of the shell called Hastings. He embraced his god but wasn’t equal to the effort. He was ripped back, sucked into the metallic prison housing his empty carcass.
Only he wasn’t alone.
“The stars are right,” a memory spoke.
The Gods were returning to the playground.
Hastings touched the harness release and stumbled forward. He stood for a long time, naked, covered in a fine film of sweat, the organisms swarming over his body screaming in horror. He reached for them and drank their madness.
“Here,” Morgan said. The tech passed him a towel.
Hastings didn’t move.
“Take it,” the man said, tossing the towel so it hit Hastings’ chest and fell to the deck. The contempt ignited him.
“Suit yourself,” Morgan grumbled. The tech shook his head and turned back to the business of powering down the projector.
Hastings focused on the life forms roving Morgan’s body, traveling his blood stream, inhabiting his internal organs. With the power of the avatar, he reached out and spoke to the tiny worshipers.
“Go forth and multiply.”
And they did.
The bacteria exploded in celebration, life cycles racing along at a dizzying speed. A group of streptococci spread through subcutaneous tissue, invading the fascial plane and necrotizing tissue there.
Morgan stopped.
His face registered confusion and discomfort. The man scratched at his skin through the tunic sleeve and a red spot formed on the fabric.
He tugged the sleeve up
and revealed violet blisters sprouting along his forearm. His eyes grew wide and he screamed.
“My, God! What’s happening? Help me!”
Morgan’s face turned scarlet. He slid down the side of the projector, mouth rapidly opening and closing before vomiting up blood and bile.
A chiming sounded. The ship’s medical system had detected the crisis in the projector chamber.
Hastings stepped into the hall before the door to the chamber sealed. Three crew members churned down the corridor. Behind them came Dr. Gauray. His gray hair was uncombed and his tunic unfastened. His gaze flicked to the red light above the door and back to Hastings.
“Who’s in there?” he asked.
“Morgan.”
One of the security officers activated the monitor beside the door. “He’s down. The alarm is identifying a biological threat.”
“What happened to him?” Guarav asked.
Hastings shrugged. “Said he didn’t feel good. The next thing I knew the alarm went off. Maybe it malfunctioned.”
“Seal off everything,” Gauruv ordered. “All five of us need to be quarantined. And we need to seal off this section of the ship. Was Morgan here all the time? Track the log and see where he was.”
The bacteria sang to Hastings. He sent love back at them and stood there, reflecting no light. The little ones danced and made their chaotic music.
Hastings pushed past the doctor.
“What are you doing? Where are you going?” the doctor said.
“It’s too late for quarantine. You should have had faith.”
Captain Martin’s voice sounded from a triangular stud on Gaurav’s tunic. “Doctor, what’s your status?”
“I don’t know yet. We have to … Hastings! Stop!”
He couldn’t allow himself to be trapped, and the captain would remotely seal off this portion of the ship. Feet sounded behind him. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to look back. He heard their steps falter as the army of bacteria started devouring their flesh.
A section of wall slid out of the bulkhead ahead of him.
He leapt through the narrowing aperture and turned in time to watch the security wall finish its path, slipping into the opposite bulkhead and closing off the section of corridor leading to the projector chamber. He leaned against the wall, the metal cold against his naked skin, while he concentrated on catching his breath. The presence of the entity still touched him, still energized him as its avatar.
“Adrian?” The captain’s voice filled the corridor.
Hastings walked to the nearest camera and smiled.
“What are you doing? What’s happened?” Martin’s voice sounded edged with panic.
“Ask the doctor.”
“The doctor isn’t responding.” The fear in the captain’s voice excited him. Better, it excited the thing that caressed him.
“Captain Martin, we’ve been on a fool’s errand.”
The captain didn’t respond. He would have seen the biohazard warnings and was probably ordering science officers to their stations, looking up protocol and trying to avoid doing something that would get him reprimanded under review.
“We try and impose order in understanding the universe. Instead, we should be embracing chaos. All is chaos.”
The blackness urged him to act. Without pause Hastings reached through metal and plastic and sought the organic matter that nourished his children. He issued a clarion call, one only the little ones would understand. The more complex life forms were too removed.
“Go forth and multiply,” he whispered.
“Except that one,” chided the blackness.
“Except that one,” agreed Hastings, sending out instruction. Except Amala.
“Good,” it said.
“Good,” Hastings echoed.
He stood and listened as the little ones gave witness. The pain and horror they wrought washed over him. The blackness within responded with orgiastic pleasure.
It would end soon.
When the number of living crewmen dropped below a certain number, the automatic functions of the ship would generate a distress signal. By the time rescue arrived the way would be prepared.
“This was my purpose,” he whispered.
Hastings padded down the hall and stopped outside Amala’s chamber. The door was shut tight against contagion, but he spoke to her through the little ones, using their voices.
She opened the door and let him in.
The air within the cabin was thick with the aroma of lotus. The priestess, dressed in a translucent blue frock, bare at the shoulder, backed slowly from Hastings. Her heavily dilated pupils fixed on a spot over his shoulder where their shadows spread along the wall.
“My Sweetness,” she said. He heard the trepidation in her voice.
“It’s never enough to have faith,” Hastings said.
“What’s happening? Why are we under lockdown?”
He settled on the couch and stretched out. She stood watching him. He shut his eyes and listened to the destruction coursing through The Omnipotent. He didn’t need to explain to Amala, the little ones on her body had already shared with her what was coming.
“There’s nowhere to go,” Hastings said. And he knew she recognized the statement as truth.
The priestess took a step back, her jaw clenching as though to stifle a scream. The little ones transmitted her mounting horror.
“I fulfilled my destiny,” Hastings cooed. “Now fertility goddess, you fulfill yours. Together we’ll birth the arrival.”
“I can’t.”
“You will. It’s who you are. It’s why you were bred. Everything we’ve done, all we’ve built, all we’ve destroyed and built again, all we think we’ve created, has been to bring you and me to this moment. Through us, the gods will reclaim their playground.”
Amala screamed then, and the darkness rejoiced. He let her continue screaming and then pulled her close and together they ushered in the return of Chaos.
MAKING THE ROUNDS
ADRIAN LUDENS
“GOOD MORNING, MR. HAYES,” Mary said. She caught sight of her own reflection in a large mirror on the wall behind him. Her freshly-shorn scalp and piercing blue gaze stood in contrast to his unkempt gray curls and rheumy hazel eyes. She smoothed her scrubs and favored him with a warm smile. Her teeth, she knew, radiated whiteness. The patient, a thick-necked man with a flat nose, returned her gaze levelly.
“Have you decided upon your treatment, Mr. Hayes?” she asked.
He scowled. “Why are you bothering me?”
Mary did not allow her smile to falter. “Did your family have any input?”
The old man sneered. “If you must know, I have opted against treatment.”
This time her smile faltered; he’d reversed his stance, it seemed. “Now, Mr. Hayes, I must advise against this.”
“I choose to reject treatment.” He sat bolt upright, defiant. Mary got the impression he loved playing the martyr. “There’s nothing you can say to change my mind.”
“The medical field experienced an incredible breakthrough last year. The technology to cure your cancer exists, Mr. Hayes. It’s at your disposal. No one has to die from cancer anymore. Please listen to reason.”
“I refuse treatment. My wife supports my decision. This is a matter of faith.”
Mary mentally scrambled, unsure why she was losing this discussion. “I’m at a loss, Mr. Hayes. Surely the existence of a cure trumps any strongly-held religious beliefs.”
He leaned back and crossed his brawny arms. The obvious strength in them appeared to be old-fashioned muscle tissue, built by decades of manual labor. Mary could detect no sign of any modifications or enhancements. She mentally chided herself for not taking this into consideration earlier. He was what medical professionals referred to as a Natural, and there seemed to be more of them every day.
“I can see that you are a Natural, and I want you to know that I respect that.” Mary kept her arms at her sides, harmless and unobt
rusive. She gave Hayes another radiant smile. “And here’s some great news: your health insurance will pay 100% of the costs accrued! Free worldwide healthcare has been in full effect since 2017. Why turn away the gift of life?”
Hayes flared his nostrils as if he found her imparted knowledge odious. “I shall rely on my faith.”
Mary gave in to her own curiosity, itching in her brain like an infected implant. “Faith in whom?”
“The cancer consuming my organs, gnawing at my bones,” Chin up, chest out, Hayes seemed to expand, inflating on his own sense of self righteousness. “Is a crawling chaos of rogue cells, but I am at peace with it.”
Mary stiffened. A crawling chaos? She realized then where his beliefs had led him.
“The ancient Egyptian suffix, hotep means ‘peace’, after all,” he said. “Therefore, I shall be at peace with my transformation.”
“That’s only according to some translations,” she argued, but he brushed aside her words with a wave of a thick-fingered hand.
“My cancer is a gift from the being some call the Crawling Chaos. I will not question the ways and methods of my lord.”
Mary rolled her eyes in an effort to convey her disbelief—and stave off the sudden chill that threatened to skitter across her skin.
“Leave me alone now,” Hayes announced. “I put my faith in Nyarlathotep.”
In the corridor, Mary paused, needing to collect herself. Mr. Hayes had undermined her confidence. How could she proceed with her rounds with that superstitious claptrap tainting her thoughts? She closed her eyes for a moment, clearing her mind. Science was the only indisputable truth, and science and medicine worked hand in hand for the betterment of humanity.
She waved the ID card across the scanner and the next door slid open. Mary stepped into the room.
A young woman with shockingly frank brown eyes and billowing hair the color of walnut shells reclined on the hospital bed nursing a monster.
But the baby wasn’t a monster at all, Mary reminded herself. There were corrective procedures that could address this child’s deformities, all relatively painless and with high rates of success.
Dark Horizons Page 21
