by DD Barant
I scream.
* * *
The scream pulls me back, back to Yomi and the blank gray concrete wall. Before the numbness can set in again, I blurt out the escape word I found in the programmer’s file. It yanks my soul through the interface and into my own body with a shudder. I cross my arms, gasping, and try to pull myself together. “Only a dream,” I tell myself. “Only a dream, only a dream.” I do my best to believe it.
Charlie’s soul is still at the interface point, his body as lifeless as a statue. I glance at the workstation’s monitor, not terribly surprised to see it portraying a demon lying flat on its back with a dinosaurian Charlie sitting casually on its chest. He’s picking his teeth with a long, pointy spike, which I realize is one of the Oni’s horns.
“Was that you?” Charlie asks, looking around. “Something just came flying past like a bat out of … well, you know. It was sort of Valchek-shaped.”
I key in the command to draw Charlie out. His image vanishes from the screen and his eyes snap open. “Well, that was a thrill,” he says. “Get what you were after?”
“Pretty sure I found the pire kids. Can’t prove it, though.”
Charlie stands up, picks up his fedora as gently as he would a kitten. “Can we get them out?”
“Oh, we’re gonna get them out. Just don’t know how yet.”
He settles the hat on his head, snugs it down so the brim is exactly where he likes it. “Okay, then.”
“What, you’re not going to point out all the glaring flaws in the plan I don’t have?”
“Nah. You’ll think of something.” He grins at me. “I just hope it involves coming back and doing this again. That was fun.”
I swear to God he’s whistling as we break back out of the building.
Back at the hotel, we fill Eisfanger in on what happened and what we’ve learned. “Okaaaay,” he says when we’re done. I’m standing, Charlie’s on the bed leaning against the backboard with his feet up, and Eisfanger’s perched on the room’s one chair. “Can I ask a question here?”
“Shoot,” I say.
“Why is it that every time I work on a case with you it always spirals into some kind of overblown hyperweirdness? Can’t you just catch run-of-the-mill bad guys for a change? You know, a charm counterfeiter or a blood-bank robber or something? Something ordinary?”
I resist the urge to laugh in his face. “Eisfanger, the very fact that you can reel off two examples like that as ordinary means you and I are always going to have very different standards of weirdness.”
“So this is the new normal for you?”
“No, this is weirdness cubed for me. At this point, I’ve had so many bizarrities thrown at me I feel like I should celebrate Christmas with a freak show. But hey—if I can deal, you should have no problem.”
He sighs. “Yeah, fine. Let’s take this one revelation at a time, all right?” He leans forward and holds up a large, pale finger. “One. The Yakuza—a worldwide criminal organization—now have their own afterlife.”
“Pretty much.”
“Two. Said afterlife is being populated with residents of Yomi—the Asian version of Hell.”
“Yeah.”
“Three. This afterlife is being powered by the souls of the kidnapped pire children.”
“Near as I can figure.”
“Four. While in astral form, you had some kind of dream or vision featuring Cassius—the third one you’ve had. And right at the start of it, you heard the phrase Yog-Sothoth. Right?”
“Right.”
He leans back and frowns. “I don’t recognize the words, but they have that sound to them. That unearthly sound.”
“I know,” I say. “High Power Level Craft?”
“Maybe. If anyone would know, Gretch would.”
“Then I guess I better give her a call.”
I call but get her voicemail—she no doubt has her well-manicured hands full with running the Agency right now. I leave her a long and detailed message and tell her to call me back as soon as she can.
“So,” says Charlie. He’s taken his jacket off and is fiddling with a mother-of-pearl button on his suspenders. “Looks like we’re staging an assault on Hell, huh?”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I say. “We’re way out of our league here. The entire NSA might be outclassed in this situation. I have a real bad feeling about who or what this Yog-Sothoth is going to turn out to be, and it’s not going to have a lot to do with sushi.”
For a second Eisfanger looks even more confused, then he shakes it off and moves on. “Okay, well, what is our plan? Sit here and eat room service until Isamu sics the local cops on us again? Or that Triad warlord finds out where we are and tries to grab us? Or—”
I cut him off. “We gather our allies. We pool our resources. We analyze the situation and strategize.”
“Yeah,” Charlie says. “Then we storm Hell.”
Eisfanger closes his eyes and groans. “You know, I’m even wishing you still had the use of your gun,” he mutters. “At this point it’s no more ridiculous than any other aspect of the situation…”
My phone rings. I grab it and answer, hoping it’s Gretch. It isn’t—it’s Stoker. “Jace. How’s the investigation going?”
“I’ve found them.”
“Does Hemo have them?”
“In a manner of speaking. They’re in Yomi.”
I expect him to demand details, but he surprises me. “I know. We need to meet.”
“What? You know? What else do you know?”
“Not over the phone. Meet me aboard a ship called the Orca, at the old Coal Harbor marina. Half an hour.” He hangs up.
“That was Stoker,” I tell Charlie and Eisfanger. “He wants to meet.” I tell them where and when.
“I know where that is,” Charlie says. “Foot of the park. Used to be swanky, once upon a time. These days it’s abandoned and fenced off.”
“Well, according to Stoker there’s at least one vessel still there.”
“Then I guess it’s where we’re going, isn’t it?” Charlie stands up, slips on his jacket. “Gathering allies and all that.”
“Yeah.” But it’s not Stoker I’m worried about finding; it’s Tanaka. If we’re going up against the Yakuza, I can think of worse things than having a thrope samurai at my side—but I have no idea how to get in touch with him.
I’ll worry about that later. I don’t want to deal with more than one case of testosterone poisoning at a time, anyway; Charlie’s bad enough.
“Let’s go.”
* * *
There’s a major street called Georgia that cuts right through downtown. A long time ago, back when the city planners thought a second bridge across the inlet was the best way to link North Vancouver with Vancouver proper, Georgia Street ran all the way through Stanley Park itself. After the residents of the park made it clear they wouldn’t allow any such bridge to be built, Georgia was redirected to the north, where it led to the mouth of the tunnel that became the compromise.
I can see the tunnel now, a hundred yards or so east of where I’m standing. A continuous line of vehicles thunders into its brightly lit maw, a hungry mouth mindlessly swallowing hundreds of tons of brightly painted metal every hour. Hard to believe that less than fifty yards to the west is a primeval rain forest populated with savage packs of thropes and criminal gangs.
But at the moment, my attention is focused to the north, to a stretch of rotting boardwalk and pilings that line a rocky shore. The remains of several boats are scattered among the boulders; a few have been turned into makeshift shelters. The weather’s turned cold and damp, though it isn’t raining yet. The sun’s invisible, somewhere behind the gray of the sky.
There’s only one vessel in the harbor, about twenty feet from shore. Half submerged and listing sharply to starboard, it’s an old fishing boat that seems to be held together with rust and seagull droppings. The name ORCA is barely visible on its prow.
Charlie sighs. “I’m gonna
ruin this suit,” he growls. “You know you’re not supposed to get wool wet, right?”
“Then stop drowning sheep,” I say. I’m scanning the ship with binoculars, trying to spot Stoker. The only movement I see is two gulls fighting over the remains of a grease-stained paper bag.
“There’s some kind of walkway,” Eisfanger points out. “Those logs aren’t just random. Somebody’s lashed them together at the ends, probably anchored them, too—I can see chain wrapped around one.”
Technically, Damon shouldn’t be here; I should have made him stay back at the hotel, like the other times. But I want us all to stick together, for a reason I’d rather not admit to myself—that I’m still spooked by that dream about Cassius. “I see it,” I say. “Guess we’re taking that or swimming. Hope it isn’t booby-trapped.”
We decide the best approach is to send Damon across in half-were form first—as a thrope he’s more sure-footed, and his enhanced senses will help him scope out the boat. He’ll signal to Charlie and me if everything’s okay or not, and then we’ll either join him or I’ll go ahead alone and Charlie will approach from the water for an ambush attack.
Damon shifts into half-were form, the cracks and gurgles of his transformation masked by traffic noise. He pads across the beach silently, leaping from rock to rock and avoiding the gravel, then nimbly makes his way onto the first log. From there he has more than one choice; he takes his time, testing each log by putting a little weight on it. He has to backtrack only once.
He gets to the last one and pauses, swaying back and forth slightly, his muzzle in the air and his ears cocked straight up. He sniffs, he listens. After a long moment, he crouches down and springs aboard, his claws scrabbling a little on the tilted deck.
When he disappears into the wheelhouse, I start to get nervous. He’s just doing a thorough job, but I really wish we had some comm gear right about now. One of those Morse code headsets thropes use in the field—okay, I don’t know Morse code, but I bet Charlie does.
A long minute passes. I told Eisfanger I’d give him two. When his head reappears from the shadows of the wheelhouse, I let myself breathe again. He gives us the all-clear signal.
We make our way over the logs. They’re fairly secure, but you have to be cautious; some are tethered so that they bob and roll when you put your weight on them, while others don’t. I took careful notice of the route Eisfanger took, and we retrace it exactly.
When we get to the boat, Eisfanger extends a hairy white paw and helps me aboard. Charlie vaults over a second later, landing on the rusting deck with an audible thump.
Stoker’s below, Eisfanger signs. Want me to come with you?
“No,” I answer. “Stay up here and keep an eye out. If anything or anyone shows up, signal us—thump on the deck with your foot.”
He nods. Charlie and I make our way into the cabin, where there’s an open hatch. I can see a dim but steady glow from it, illuminating metal rungs leading down.
“Me first,” Charlie growls. He’s pushy that way.
He climbs down. I follow. The air is cold and wet and smells like fish that died a hundred years ago. The hatch leads into a small cabin belowdecks, just big enough for a tiny kitchen and bunk beds. Most of the fixtures were ripped out a long time ago, but the rusting frame of one of the bunk beds is still bolted to the wall. Sitting on it, with an electric lantern at his feet, is Stoker. He’s wearing combat boots, stained khaki pants, and a spotless white T-shirt, his brawny arms bare. He smiles up at me as we clamber down, finding our footing carefully on the inclined deck.
“Glad you could make it,” he says. “Sorry about the cramped conditions, but the location seemed appropriate.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. “I’ll get over it. Tell me why we’re here.”
“Sure. I know who’s behind all this.”
“You mean besides Isamu?”
“Isamu’s just the facilitator. The real mover behind all this is a lot older, a lot more powerful, and a lot nastier.”
“The deity that’s backing Hemo’s move into the afterlife market?”
“Exactly. His name is—”
“Yog-Sothoth?”
Stoker blinks, then looks annoyed. “What? No. Who the hell is Yog-Sothoth?”
I sigh. “Never mind. Just a guess.”
“The player here is a badass named Dagon. You familiar with the name?”
“Can’t say that I am.”
Stoker shakes his head. “Imagine a cross between King Kong and the ugliest fish you ever saw. Gigantic, scaly, toothy, with fins like the sails on a Chinese junk. Webbed fingers and toes, claws you could use as meat hooks for a dead elephant.”
“Wait,” I said. “Fish?”
“And that’s just the physical description. This is an Ancient One we’re talking about here, one of those beings that lives and breathes HPLC. The bottom of the ocean is just as comfortable an environment as dry land as far as this guppy is concerned, and it ignores little details like rapid decompression, too—laws of physics are for the little people.”
“Like leprechauns?” says Charlie.
Stoker gives him a look. “Like everyone else on the planet that doesn’t have reality-bending sorcery running through their veins.”
“So not leprechauns.”
“No,” Stoker says. “Not leprechauns.”
“Wait,” I repeat. “Fish? This is all coming back to fish again?”
“What do you mean again?” Stoker asks.
“I ran into this crazy skeleton-monster thing that told me fish were angry at me. Which almost makes sense, now. But—” I shake my head. “I must be missing something. Skeletor made it sound like some kind of personal vendetta against me, and that doesn’t track at all. For that matter, why is some ancient fish god involved in all this, anyway? The hereafter environment wasn’t aquatic.”
“Maybe they’re planning on flooding it later,” Charlie offers. “Wouldn’t be hard to do, right? If the whole thing’s a simulation anyway.”
Stoker shrugs. “Maybe. Could be that Dagon was the only deity they could interest in their project. A god of fish is better than none.”
I think about that. It doesn’t seem right, somehow. “How’d you find this out?”
Stoker looks away. “Sorry. Some of my contacts would prefer to stay anonymous. Let’s just say I know someone on the inside and leave it at that.”
“Let’s not. The inside of what? If you had someone at Hemo, you should have told me before this.”
“I didn’t say it was someone at Hemo.”
“Then who?”
He grins. “Would you believe a little fish told me?”
“Not likely.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and see that it’s Gretch. “Hold on, I have to take this. Gretch?”
“Sorry it took so long to get back to you. I have the information you requested.” Her voice is brisk and curt, all business. She must be busy. “Yog-Sothoth. Also known as the Key and the Gate, the Beyond One, Opener of the Way, the Lurker at the Threshold, the All-in-One and the One-in-All. An Outer God, extremely powerful—though it’s hard to say exactly how powerful. The cults that worship these entities all tend to claim that their Unspeakable Entity is the last word in Unholy Ghastliness, so deriving any objective data is difficult.”
“Can you give me a ballpark figure, cosmically speaking?”
“Said to be more powerful than Azathoth.”
“And Azathoth is…?”
“Said to rule all time and space.”
“Ah. I see what you mean about objective data.”
“Yes. But beings of this scale are often described in contradictory terms. For instance, Yog-Sothoth is also said to exist throughout all time and space, but its followers frequently concentrate their efforts on trying to bring it into this dimension—so apparently it isn’t quite as omnipresent as they claim.”
“Right. So what sort of god is it, aside from contradictory?”
> “It’s primarily a god of information—knows all and sees all. That description, while probably exaggerated, holds at least some truth; cults that follow Yog-Sothoth are usually driven by the esoteric knowledge that can be obtained. It may not know everything, but it does have access to a great number of arcane secrets.”
A god of information. Well, that makes more sense, considering the computer-simulation aspect. “Okay. Does Yogi-Bearsloth have any connection to a marine deity named Dagon?”
“Mmm. Not directly, no.” For the first time, Gretch sounds hesitant. It’s not like her to be unsure, but she’s probably juggling a dozen high-profile situations right now. “I seem to recall there’s some sort of link through family connections, but I can’t recall the precise details at the moment. I’ll do some more research and get back to you.”
“Sure. Sooner would be better, though, okay? Things are starting to escalate here and I need as much information as I can get.”
“Will do.” She hangs up.
I turn back to Stoker. “Okay, so this Dagon—he’s big, he’s mean, he’s waterproof. I get that. But what else can he do? What kind of sorcerous whammy can we expect him to throw our way?”
Stoker pushes himself to his feet. He’s a big guy, and this is a small room; he seems to take up a third of it. “Dagon’s an up-close-and-personal sort of deity. He won’t sit back and hurl thunderbolts or change you into a frog—if you tick him off, you can expect an actual visit from him. A dripping-wet, rip-the-roof-off-your-house-at-three-AM kind of visit.”
“I hear Arizona is nice this time of year,” Charlie says.
“Good advice,” says Stoker. “In fact, I may just follow it myself.”
“Oh?” I say. “The mighty Impaler, heading for the hills at the first sign of an angry Outer God?”
“Damn straight,” he says, and seems to mean it. I see something in Stoker’s eyes I’ve never seen before: fear. “Near as I can tell, this thing is unstoppable. I may be a killer, but I’m just a man. I’m done.”
I feel strangely disappointed. Stoker’s right, he is a killer—but until now he also seemed unkillable, a force of nature unto himself.
He isn’t, of course. He’s only human, just like me—and even though an entire planetful of supernatural beings haven’t been able to beat him, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have limitations. And he’s smart enough to know that.
