by Robert Price
Fedor held his hands to the glass to cut down the reflections and strained to see the prone person’s face. “Is that Dr. Kaplan?”
“Yes,” whispered Reznik at his shoulder, “Kaplan was the first person she spoke to.”
“What happened to him?”
“We don’t know. He’s broken, mentally, we can’t get a sensible word out of him.”
“We don’t know?” Sidorov’s outburst was high-pitched and laced with incredulousness, “she was in his head!”
Kozlov spun and hissed at the scientist, “That’s enough, comrade,” he then indicated to one of the guards, “escort this man back to the main hanger. He is of no further use to us.”
Sidorov’s squirming and protestations were in vain as he was frog-marched from the pool room, and the General fixed the remaining party with a steely eye as a barely conscious Kaplan, slumped in a wheelchair, was pushed out through a side door and handed over to one of the remaining guards. “Come,” ordered the general, “let’s not keep it waiting.”
Fedor glanced at Lev, but his old friend merely shook his head, equally bewildered, and fell into step behind the exiting soldiers. As the group left, the remaining two men slowly peeled off their suits then sat on the tiled floor of the empty pool and silently stared at their reflections in the plate-glass wall.
Their trip took no longer than thirty seconds, and the general drew them to a halt outside the giant shuttered door of the inspection hall; a vast housing where the remnants of satellites, space craft and other testing machines were analyzed and catalogued. Fedor had been in this section of the building only once before, as part of the team that attempted to piece together an earlier version of the life-support module that would eventually contain Little Curly, but had disintegrated upon test launch.
General Kozlov turned to face the party. “As of this moment, those of you who have not yet encountered the entity are now sworn to the utmost secrecy,” he stared specifically at Fedor and Lev, both of whom were breathing quickly in nervous anticipation. “Divulgence of anything you see or hear in this room will result in execution without trial, am I understood?”
“Clearly,” growled the big Ukrainian, while Fedor merely nodded.
The general knocked twice on the corrugated entrance and the squeal of multiple sliding bolts pierced the air before the door slowly rolled up accompanied by the rattle of chains and the hum of overhead motors. As the contents of the room were exposed, Fedor reeled, his senses assaulted by a crystal white light that seemed to burn into his eyes, a high-pitched whine that might have been that of a dog, but now sounded mechanical such was its pitch and longevity, and a smell that could only be described as raw meat tinged with the acrid sting of electrical discharge. As his eyes grew accustomed to the brightness in the room, he began to make out arc lamps, whirring film cameras and microphone stands surrounding a large shape; a shape that heaved and writhed but was ultimately wholly recognizable to him. The general waved one hand at the attending technicians and they immediately darted around the room, turning off the giant lamps until the only light source came from the object itself. This was still enough to reveal the monstrous object in all its unholy glory.
“It prefers to generate its own light,” said Kozlov, marching up to the mass, his hands clasped behind his back, “we only illuminate it for recording purposes.”
Noting with little amusement that Lev was frozen to the spot behind him, Fedor took a step closer. The object that pulsated and glistened before him was undeniably the conical shape of Sputnik 2 standing on its circular base, its tip pointed to the roof of the building. However, this capsule was twice as large as the one they had launched. Fedor estimated the base had to be at least ten feet across, an estimation that was hard to confirm as the object constantly changed shape, swelling and retracting like the muscular foot of a limpet, its gelatinous bulk rippling as fresh mucus seeped from the apex of the cone and solidified against the surface like a form of ghastly magma. The whole mass was in a constant state of agitation; polyps formed and broke free, rolling down the sticky slope for a few seconds before being absorbed back into the main ‘body’. Thick, stubby limbs extended at random points, testing the air with their fern-like tips before retracting. The surface color was a muddied gray tinged with an oily iridescence that swirled and glowed, intensifying with each rhythmic pulse from the bulk.
Fedor turned to look at the others, and suddenly understood what had been gnawing away at his perception; there was no color in the room. Ruddy faces and dark green uniforms had been reduced to pale grays. Men merged with furniture, their forms rendered indistinguishable through lack of hue and contrast.
Reznik noticed Fedor’s gaze and spoke loudly above the whining din coming from the thing before them. “Remarkable, isn’t it? The creature appears to be absorbing all reflected light from its surroundings, we are illuminated only by its luminescence.”
Fedor stared at his own hand, marveling at the lack of textural detail caused by the object’s absorption of his skin tone. Suddenly he looked back at Reznik. “This is how she would see.”
“Who?”
“Kudryavka. This must be how she saw the world.”
Kozlov stepped between the scientists and brought his face uncomfortably close to Fedor’s. “Why don’t you ask her, comrade Demidov?”
His breath was stale and cold and Fedor turned back to the gelatinous capsule, favoring this view than that of the general who now resembled something that might be found squatting over a cemetery gate. Fedor could see the missing colors from the people and objects in the room dancing in the rainbow film that coated its quivering flesh.
A sudden cry from the corner of the room announced the full awakening of Dr. Kaplan and the distraught patient tried to stand, causing the wheelchair to spin backwards and sending him crashing to the floor. One of the guards grabbed the broken scientist under his arms and hauled him to his feet.
“Fedor! Oh, my boy. She has so much to show you.”
“Dr. Kaplan,” began Fedor, extending an arm to steady the older man, “what happened to you? How does she speak to you?”
“You’ll see, young Fedor, she has asked for you by name. She wants to show you what she has seen, what she now knows, things we should not know,” his grip on Fedor’s arm tightened until it hurt, “The darkness, the colors! We are ants! Lower than ants! Protozoa tower over us!” He laughed, but it was devoid of any mirth.
General Kozlov snatched the older scientist’s hand away from Fedor’s arm and pushed him back toward the guard who grabbed Kaplan, forcing him back into the wheelchair. “Secure this fool!” shouted the general. He then turned back to Fedor. “Enough of this. Time is short. Find out what this thing wants!”
Fedor glanced at Lev who appeared to still be dumbstruck along with a subdued Andreev, and then to Reznik. “Nikita, what does he mean ‘time is short’?”
His colleague looked as if he was about to reply but the words never escaped his lips. Instead, his eyes were trained on the service revolver that Kozlov was now waving in their direction.
The general’s face contorted in fury as he hissed at them. “Dr. Reznik, get away from Demidov.” Reznik did as the general said, slowly side-stepping away toward the other two men.
“Now, Fedor Demidov, speak with it.”
“How do I…?” began Fedor, suddenly silenced as a finger-thin tendril emerged from the center of the pulsating, conical mound and snaked toward him. Fedor froze, mesmerized by the waving limb that grew closer by the second, then instinctively twitched when the tip of the appendage burst apart into four thin digits that quickly spread until it resembled a grasping hand. He began to step away as the limb reached his face but his retreat was cut short by the cold touch of gun metal against the back of his neck. He wanted to protest, but it was already too late and the tentacles were upon him, two burrowing into his ears and two into the inner corners of his eyes. A brief moment of absolute terror was instantly replaced by a sense of enormou
s well-being, warmth and security, and then Fedor was in his mother’s arms. He was wrapped in black furs and could hear damp wood chips sputtering in the hearth as his mother rocked him back and forth, humming softly, her breath heavy with warm milk. Fedor wanted to gaze upon her beautiful round face, feel her kisses on his cheek, but when he craned his head to look at her, all he saw was the same gray room and its frightened occupants. He felt loving arms squeezing him tightly, and then he was falling, sinking into sweet, viscous fluids.
Darkness, then points of light that danced and merged to form an image. It was the room again, only this time he was sitting in a wheelchair. He glanced down at his hands, ashen, folded across his lap, then up at the tableau before him. His friends were pressed against the back wall, the general’s gun keeping them in check. He could see himself, Fedor, floating in the air before the living capsule, his body stiff and horizontal, connected to the thing by the serpentine appendage that enveloped his face.
Get out.
The voice in his head was that of his old mentor.
“Dr. Kaplan?”
Get out. There is no refuge here. Speak to her.
Fedor wanted to address the voice but he felt bony digits pushing and prodding upon his back until he was forced from the chair and flew across the room, spinning, spinning.
Darkness.
Fedor opened his eyes. He immediately felt extreme claustrophobia, his knees were pushed up into his chest and he was hunched over in a crouched position. His arms were stretched out before him, tethered to metal walls on either side that were veined with brass pipes while a rubber mask smothered his mouth and he felt pinpricks of pain all down his spine. He realized he was naked and started to struggle.
Rest.
Fedor began to speak, but his words were already resonating in the cramped compartment before he had finished thinking them.
“Who are you?”
I am good dog.
“Kudryavka? I am so sorry.”
You are good man.
“No, I failed. You should not have suffered.”
Fedor was aware of great forces pushing against his physical body. Internally he was drifting in a balmy sea, but externally his skin was rippling and his muscles were compressing.
Come with me.
Live with me.
See with me.
Die with me.
The walls of his new prison shimmered and undulated and in a moment were no more. Thin cloud structures streamed all around him as he hurtled through a sky that became the most glorious blue he had ever seen as violet ribbons of atmosphere cocooned him, turning white as an intense heat blasted his body. Fedor could actually feel his blood boiling in his organs and looked down at his outstretched arms, marveling at the way his flesh blistered and split before curling away from his bones and melting into pink mist. He felt nothing.
“This happened to you?”
Fear. Great pain.
Fedor wanted to cry, but no tears would come. He was dimly aware of something blocking his eyes, burrowing into his tear ducts.
“I, I should have checked more thoroughly. I needed more time, I…”
See.
Fedor felt himself blinking; a phantom sensation layered onto his exposed and rapidly disintegrating skull. Then he saw it. The pitch black of the limitless void beyond his home was blemished by a shifting patch of golden light that swayed like a broken reed in a stream. The radiant slit grew larger and then opened like a jagged mouth to swallow him whole.
Lev Ovseenko looked on in silent terror as the body of his old friend, Fedor, bobbed gently at the end of the obscene limb extended from the former shell of Sputnik 2. Andreev had collapsed into a chair, wanting to leave but prevented by Kozlov’s soldiers who were having a hard time maintaining their own composures.
In the corner, Kaplan cackled, “He’s seeing what I saw.”
“Explain yourself!” barked the general, still waving his revolver around like a protective talisman, “What is he seeing?”
“Our place in the universe,” answered the old scientist, smiling,“…the truth.”
“I asked you this yesterday, and I’ll ask you again,” the general stepped closer to him, “is this thing a threat?”
“And you still do not understand, General Kozlov, that our friend here has no interest in us. We are motes of dust, stirred by the currents of its passage through our space. It can only threaten our understanding of ourselves, of our importance. It serves to remind us that no achievement, however glorious, is of any significance.”
Kozlov waved his free hand as if batting away the scientist’s words and growled, angrily. “Enough of your meaningless prattle. Is it telling Demidov the same thing?”
“I expect so. Little Curly always liked Fedor, so I imagine she is telling him a lot more than she told me.”
“We shall see. I am under orders to take any appropriate action to protect the space program. If I do not like what Comrade Demidov has to say, then we shall see how this invader likes the consequences.” The general turned to face the levitating man and flipped the safety on his revolver before picking up a long-range radio mike. Lev felt his stomach tighten. This would not end well.
“Where am I?” Fedor’s words barely resonated; such was the vastness of the barren, stone plain he now stood upon. He had already inspected his arms and torso and had been relieved to find he was whole once more and clad in his work clothes.
You are here.
Fedor felt himself lift into the air, rising vertically for what seemed like miles. He looked down and saw that the plain he had been standing on was, in fact, one of thousands of square faces that coated an immense sphere upon which the horizon barely curved. Above him, the sky seemed to be a giant golden mirror, reflecting an infinite swarm of similar, grid-scarred balls. He touched a finger to the lustrous surface and it rippled as if he had dropped a pebble into a pond. In the troughs of the circular waves he caught glimpses of infinite pitch studded with billions of stars.
You are there.
Fedor was floating above the gelatinous cone in the inspection room. He called out to his companions, but they did not respond. A blink, and then he was back on the smooth, silver plain. A snuffling sound behind him caused him to spin around and he smiled as the familiar brown and white shape of Little Curly padded over to him. The little dog was overjoyed to see him and she wagged her tail furiously, jumping up and licking his hands. Fedor laughed and scratched the excited terrier behind her left ear causing her to yap and roll over for more.
I love you.
Fedor continued to stroke Kudryavka, poking and tickling the dog until she writhed helplessly on the hard ground, her back legs kicking the air.
“Is this heaven?” thought Fedor aloud, immediately regretting his immature question.
This is life.
Little Curly suddenly stood and looked directly into his eyes.
They brought me here when I died.
“Who? Who brought you here?”
Before the question left his lips Fedor became aware of a bubbling sound that grew steadily louder. The ground beneath his feet began to throb and bulge and as he was thrown to the floor he grabbed the dog by her scruff and held her tightly. The plain shattered where the bulges peaked and giant forms rose into the space all around them. The shapes were solid, geometric and straight-edged, but their faces were not uniform and this caused organic bends and twists in their forms as they grew like bean sprouts, twisting up toward the mirrored dome. As soon as the thunderous event had begun it was over, and specks of debris dissolved back into the available portions of smooth plain left undeveloped. Fedor gazed upon these mighty monuments in astonishment as Kudryavka squirmed in his arms and he dropped her to the floor. She immediately ran over to the closest multi-faceted structure and stood on her hind legs, scratching at the base and wagging her tail. A crack appeared at the base of the shape, widening and growing as it defaced the lower third of the structure. Then the crack opened fully, p
eeling the face back like an orange, and Fedor felt every last drop of moisture evaporate from his mouth as a creature the size of his apartment block oozed out of the opening. The color of the foul thing was astonishingly vivid, pinks and reds flecked with rusty spots like leopard-print, and contrasted against the sterile landscape like a rose petal on a corpse. Fedor gagged as the true composition of the creature suddenly became clear; it was a conglomeration of hundreds of giant tongues, all of them writhing, coiling around and into each other like mating slugs. Toward the base of the monster, smaller muscles detached and wriggled on the ground as if blindly seeking sustenance, before merging back into their host. From deep within this heaving mass a steady stream of saliva oozed, running sticky rivulets down the center of each flapping tongue, dripping to the ground in pools of milky fluid. Fedor watched in horror as Kudryavka reached the foot of the creature, barking excitedly and licking at the drool. Fedor wanted to call her back, but no sound would come. Suddenly the little dog slumped to the floor and began to shake. She gave one last yap, and then she folded in on herself, turning inside out like a latex glove and flopping about on the ground. She now resembled one of the obscene tongue-muscles and quickly wriggled into the undulating mass, disappearing between glistening lumps.
I am here.
Fedor finally found his voice and wailed in terror, dropping to his knees. The mountain of tongues squeezed its entire bulk out of its angular tomb and rolled around him, forming a looping wall of quivering flesh. He wanted to run, but every direction was blocked by a twitching, magenta mass and he spun on his heels, his heart pounding so hard that he could barely draw a breath. Suddenly his fleshy prison lifted from the ground, exposing multiple escape routes, and Fedor took the opportunity to put some distance between him and the nightmare, but skidded to a halt almost as soon as he had begun his flight. He stared up into the air, where another ghastly behemoth swayed before him, stretching toward the golden sky. Inconceivably this creature was more horrendous than the first. The glistening orbs were not of uniform size; some were the size of a car, others the size of his fist. They were squashed together, bonded by sclerotic jelly and freely rotating with tendrils of optic nerves poking out from between cracks to quiver in the air. As Fedor stumbled back every eye swiveled to look at him, their pupils dilating, diminishing the brown irises streaked with gray. Blood vessels throbbed and snaked across alabaster sclera as the obscene lumps tracked his every move. He cried, a dry, pathetic sound, and slumped once more to the ground. The feeling of helplessness was so absolute, so crushing, that Fedor began to cry, silently yearning for the comfort he had felt wrapped moments before in his mother’s furs.
