Space Eldritch
Page 31
Another flicker of attention and he was smashed back into the wall, his teeth rattling in his head. He picked himself back up, his gut writhing. The son of a bitch was not going to keep him down. It was not going to—
Control. He had to keep control. He had to—
Smash. This time ribs broke. Spetzna knew that it could hit harder than this. He’d seen it shatter his friends. It was toying with him. He was helpless. Just as helpless as he had always been. Just as impotent as when he’d tried to save all those people. He was worthless, expended. Just give up. Just give up.
He couldn’t beat it. He couldn’t win. It had been toying with him all along.
It smashed him again, and his gut boiled and he tried to stand, tried to keep control. Tried to hold it all together. This was it. This thing was going to kill them all and Icarus was going to become something even more abominable and it would escape and this would all start over again. This would all be for naught. His gut twisted and the bile rose. But he forced it down. He lay there, beaten for the moment, and he tried to see a way out.
Had it lured them here? Why was Icarus even in this room? Had it brought him here to feed? Was his anger, his rage so pure that it wanted him for the final transformation?
And the engine room. The thing had a physical body, it needed an escape route and the escape pods for engineering were holy—they would be perfectly maintained. It would smash the ships together, get that final rush of energy but it would be shooting away when it happened. They would fuel the fire of its birthing. They would be the energy that would feed its transformation, awash in the energies of the maelstrom. Wait. His gut. His gut had been twisting with each of those surges. His gut was trying to tell him something.
They. They would feed it. He wasn’t the only light in this fire, he was just the brightest. It was all for naught. Even if he could control his anger, it wouldn’t help. There was still enough fuel in this ship to get the job done. What he’d been doing was fruitless. The bastard thing didn’t need him to get angry. It merely wanted him to get angry.
It was getting a sick thrill out of it.
Spetzna rose to his feet again, allowing his anger to seethe under the surface. The demon didn’t strike at him through Icarus this time. It wanted the anger. This was sex to it. It hit him when he tried to control it, not when he let it go.
Suddenly, he knew what his gut was trying to say. Suddenly, he knew what he had to do. Dear God save him, he knew.
He let the anger boil, fanned it in his heart as he walked across the room. “You bastard!” he screamed, but not to the demon, to Pasha. He stumbled towards his XO, the only person still twitching on the floor of the engine room. The only one still alive.
“You stupid kozel fuck!” he screamed. The anger was there, but it was more physiological than emotional. Burning, banked in the back of his head, while the alien fanned the flames. “You got us into all this!” he screamed. “You tore down my people! You undermined my command!”
He grabbed Pasha with one hand as he hefted the axe with another. The man moved like broken bones, and Spetzna had to choke down the bile as splinters shifted behind the backs of his fingers. The man whimpered, his bruised eyes terrified as Spetzna lifted him up and punched him back into the wall, pulling the blow as much as possible, praying that wasn’t the final blow that killed the man, but needing to keep up the appearance, needing to feed the thing, to keep it watching, not acting. “I’m going to kill you,” he hissed, then pulled him back and thrust him forward and a foot and a half to the left.
Into the airlock.
Pasha landed, broken, on the couch of the airlock as Spetzna screamed his fury and the alien didn’t react. It should have reacted, but instead it spasmed there, up by the roof, out of his reach. He didn’t know what it would take to kill the thing, with its telekinetic powers. He probably only had one chance and no practical weapon. His pulser was locked into its peace harness by the proscription transmitters in the room. The safeties on the axe would stop its motor the moment it left his hand. There wasn’t even a really good tool handy.
But Pasha was in the airlock, and the alien, for just a moment, seemed out of control.
“I need to become angrier,” Spetzna said to Pasha.
Pasha couldn’t respond through his broken mouth, but he managed to give a disbelieving expression, as if to say, “How is that even possible? You are the angriest man alive.”
Spetzna hit the launch button on the life pod and spun as it launched and cycled.
“I have something for you!” he screamed at Icarus.
Icarus snapped out of his reverie and he or the demon said, “What?”
“Ecstasy,” Spetzna said.
And for the first time in his life, Spetzna stopped fighting and let his anger go.
***
The anger flowed through Icarus’s body in a wave of pure power, of pure pleasure. He went rigid in its wake, gasping out loud at the perfect, unspeakable joy of it. All that power. He had never tasted anything like it before. So close. So pure.
He swayed in the wake of it, unable to even cry out as the energy wracked his limbs, as the power washed back and forth through his body. He was more than a man. In that moment, he was a god.
His awareness reached out through the ship, feeling the rich, nutritious bed of hate and pain that roiled in the maelstrom around him. He could sense the Catherine now, despite the background noise, so close. In minutes, they’d overtake them. He and Mother would eject in the escape pod. The ships would collide. In the orgasmic spasms of the horror and death of the two crews, Icarus would take that last step. He would shed this bony, human form and evolve, become a new god in the universe, feasting on the hatred of others.
And oh did they hate. Did they rail. Did they slaughter one another. It took only the slightest nudge to drop them into the most delicious depredations. He would feast on them. He would sup in their decadent splendor until the end of time.
A god.
“A god, huh?”
Colin? No, not Colin. An echo of Colin, a memory of Colin.
“You don’t really think that you’ll become a god, do you?”
Not Colin, just Colin’s voice. An illusion in the tossed, endless storm of his mind. Nothing to be concerned with, just a squeaking in his ear.
The voice. That tiny, foolish part of him. The part that fought. That pitiful, pitiful piece.
“Will it really be you, or are you deluding yourself? When the alien finishes taking root in your mind and your body, when it blossoms, will it be you that remains, or are you just the placenta?”
Icarus snapped his eyes open and could sense that the alien realized something was wrong. It tried to blast through their connection, but the attack was unfocused, a little wild. Not enough to batter down Icarus’s mind. Not enough to silence the small voice, which had taken the opportunity to seize control.
The alien’s panic burned through their link, trying to force him to attack, desperate to fight through his conduit, but Icarus wouldn’t let it have control. He didn’t know why it was so panicked, but he wasn’t going to let it have control again. Spetzna had given it his anger, and it had faltered, and Icarus was Icarus again. Let it “nudge” humans if it wanted. For this moment, it wouldn’t have the power that came from acting through a human mind.
I will not. I will not become your thing. I am a man of God. You will not destroy me. You will not devour me. You may kill me, but I will go down my way. I will go down with my soul.
And then the pain hit, tearing through his flesh like so much tissue. Icarus was too startled even to scream. He looked down to see his body covered in caustic fluid, dissolving his flesh. He looked to the source.
And there stood Spetzna, who had cut one of the thigh-sized fuel lines with that axe of his. Toxic rocket fuel sprayed across the room, and Icarus’s already sloughing flesh peeled off the bone. The Russian only fared slightly better in his armor, but he’d managed to raise his axe, spinning at full speed.
Icarus wasn’t able to speak, but the alien managed to get just enough control to speak through him. “What are you doing?”
“Going to hell,” Spetzna rasped, then brought the axe down on the deck plating with a spark.
***
Those who believed there was no sound in space had never felt the wails of two hundred souls sent straight to hell. Captain Grigory Petrovich Romanov could feel that, even as he saw the energy release on the scope. Even as he reached out to grab the sensor operator’s chair, subtly, for support. Even without the gifts of a priest, he could feel it.
“They’re gone,” he whispered.
No one cheered. No one celebrated. A hush lay over the bridge as each person or creature there processed what had just happened. Two hundred or more souls, snuffed out. How many of them were complicit? How many of them escaped damnation? Surely Spetzna, if he had still been alive, had tried to stop the explosion in the end. Surely he, at least, valued his soul more than the destruction of the enemy.
They had won, but at what cost?
“It’s over,” he whispered. “It’s over.”
He turned and walked back to his chair. His facade didn’t matter now. No one here would be able to see past the rushing sound behind their own eyes. So many dead. A ship destroyed. Such evil. How many people witnessed such evil in their entire lives?
He collapsed into his seat. He’d given himself his moment. Time to take control. “Scan for survivors.” The priests wouldn’t be able to sense anything in here.
“One LIFE-POD,” the Sensor Operator said.
“Communications,” the Captain said, “is it one of ours?”
“Single friendly armor transponder,” the tech serf replied. “Pavel Ivanovich”
Pasha. Pasha had made it out. Of all of them, just that one man. “Navigator,” he said. “Plot a match for velocity and vector. Let’s bring him in.”
***
In the depths of space, clinging to the hull of the surviving ship, pulsed the rippling form of the father. The screams of its mate still echoed on the psychic tides of the maelstrom. She had only just arrived at his spawning ground and they had killed her, before he’d even been able to fertilize their child. These insects had killed that which was eternal. They had killed her.
And he knew rage.
Slowly, he reached out. One by one, he brushed the minds of the crew with his perfect, divine mind. Looking for the one.
Flight of the Runewright
Howard Tayler
There is a click, soft and silvery, at my throat. The black velvet bag over my head is now locked in place, and I won’t be able to see a damned thing until I’m safely aboard the Voidheron and bound for freedom. I know better than most just how damned those things are, but the thought of a blind, winding walk across the rune-inscribed tarmac gives me a momentary chill.
“The rope is to your left, Mister Simonson,” says a voice in my right ear. She sounds like a sweet girl, and she’s speaking remotely. Very remotely, I expect. She’s probably never seen the path we need to walk, let alone the glyphs, symbols, and assorted ’grams carved into the ancient materials of Voidheron’s hull. Seeing is believing, and believing is not worth it. My brother—my twin, just forty seconds my senior—has seen and believes, and is locked away for his own and everybody else’s good.
So I reach out with my left hand, and there is the rope. It feels like silk, and it’s thick. It hangs from something above me, taut above my hand, slack below.
“Hold tightly as you walk. Do not let go.” There is a mechanical hum and a click above me, then a gentle pull forward on the rope. I begin to walk.
“Mommy, why won’t they let us see?” The child’s voice is coming from maybe five meters ahead of me. Shut up, kid. You don’t want to know.
“The spaceship is very bright on the outside. We need to fly through the darkest parts of the whole universe, and our ship is brighter than the sun. If you looked at it, you’d burn your eyes.”
Lucky kid. His mother is one hell of a liar. I mean, that’s a good lie. There’s just enough truth in it to convince you that you shouldn’t look, but it’s not the whole story. The actual truth will have you wanting to look. After all, how can seeing some letters and numbers, or whatever those shapes are, really break your brain?
My brother, like all the rest of the runewrights, had to do his work with a patch strapped over his left eye. Always the left. Something about brain hemispheres. You can get by if just half your head has eldritch power coruscating through it, but if both eyes see what you’re writing, if you get a chance to really think about it, it’s all you can think about, and your head ends up in the place where Voidheron needs to go, except your head can’t get back out.
Ignoring the nervous murmurs around me, I walk. Led by the pulling of the rope, I step along a gradually tightening rightward curve. Then a sharp left and a long straightaway. There are others ahead of and behind me, shuffling carefully. Now another sharp left. I take a few steps, and my rope stops pulling. I take another step and my rope tugs backwards once. I stand still, waiting for direction.
The murmurs and shuffling footsteps are just a few meters behind me, moving from my left to my right. Somehow I’ve gotten off the path. It’s not my fault. I was led here. Did they pull me out of line? Do they know?
My face begins to sweat inside the velvet bag. Does velvet breathe? Am I going to suffocate? The smell of my own breath is suddenly overpowering. I brushed my teeth this morning, didn’t I? Is this halitosis or fear?
“Hold still for just a moment, Mister Simonson,” says the voice of innocence in my right ear. “Some passengers must take different paths than others.”
Some passengers? What does “some” mean? Thirtysomethings with brown hair and blue eyes? Or men who cleared security on a false ID? I think on the last time I saw my brother, Jude, bound to his hospital bed with heavy, padded straps, the bandage over his left eye keeping his mind from further fracturing. I stood at the foot of that bed, holding an envelope in my right hand, his Exodus Lottery notification inside. In my pocket, his passport. I wanted to apologize, but the words wouldn’t come.
A pull on the rope, this time to my right. It startles me, and my heart begins to pound. I follow, and I hear myself whispering. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I clench my teeth against the voice, and it stops. My voice. Act normal! It’s too late to apologize to Jude, and mumbling a mantra will get me profiled. I blow out an exasperated sigh, and my breath smells like old cheese.
“Relax, Mister Simonson. We’re almost there.” I inhale deeply, through my nose like you’re supposed to when you’re relaxing. I exhale, and something warm and wet dribbles onto my upper lip. Snot? Sweat? Tears?
Blood? I haven’t had a nosebleed since we lived in Flagstaff. The air was too dry and too hot and way too thin. Say what you want about Wisconsin, but at least the air doesn’t cut you. For the first time I wonder what the air will be like on Terra Tenska, on the other side of the Abyssal Void. Cold and thin? Warm and wet? Those are okay. But cold and wet? Ugh. Depressing. That’s suicide air, and I breathed enough of that in Bellevue.
I’m being stupid. T-2 is a planet, not a state park. Earth has hot, cold, wet, dry, thick, thin... Terra Tenska should be the same. I just need to settle in whatever they call the local equivalent of Wisconsin, someplace where I’m free to enjoy the hot and the cold without sandstorms or suicides.
I’ve successfully distracted myself from the panic. See? I’m not guilty of anything. I’m not acting suspicious. I might be self-medicating on introspection, but that’s healthier than alcohol, or binge eating.
I wonder what the food will be like on Voidheron. The trip to Terra Tenska takes three days, so they’ll have to feed us something. Of course, figuring out accommodations like that for a couple thousand people is child’s play. The Abyssal Void makes travel so simple. No need to generate thrust to escape your planet. No need to spin for gravity, either. Just
build something big and airtight—it might as well be a freestanding luxury hotel—and let the funny writing pull it to a new world. It’s as cheap as free, even considering the fact that you risk driving all your runewrights in-fucking-curably bonkers.
“Watch your step, Mister Simonson.” The tarmac gives way to something smoother. I’m on the ramp. Voidheron and freedom lie immediately before me. “Welcome aboard. Someone will be with you momentarily.”
I lick my lip and taste what dribbled there. No copper, but lots of salt. Sweat, then. Not blood. No parting shot from Flagstaff. Earth isn’t bothering to say good-bye to me, so I’m not going to bother saying good-bye to her.
***
My hood comes off, and the fresh air is delicious by comparison. They’re going to want to wash that thing a couple of times before putting it on anybody else’s head. I rub my knuckle across my upper lip and blink as I look around.
The lobby is a huge space, high-ceilinged and long. It curves out of sight in either direction, with milling crowds also extending beyond my view. Voidheron is cylindrical? Perhaps this is a subtle reminder that she truly is a starship, not the hotel she masquerades as. A hotel with no windows. We can’t have anybody looking at the runes on the tarmac, let alone at the Abyssal Void through which we’ll travel.
And then I see it, in my mind’s eye. The curving, indirect paths we took to board weren’t mapped to prevent us from stepping on the power symbols in the tarmac. Our trails were their own runes, inscribed by a couple thousand blind pedestrians. Was my pause the tail on an eldritch Q, a tilde changing the sound of some alien consonant? Or was I a serial comma in support of some extra-dimensionally-screamed list of crimes?