Authors: Pete Rawlik
Something large screeched and charged us; Asenath stepped into its path and with her hands performed a strange serious of motions that carved a weird semi-luminescent shape in the air. The creature slammed into it like it was made of bricks and bounced back through the room before crashing to the ground amongst the piles of raw materials. This caught the attention of the other things in the room, including the blue-skinned supervisor. It turned to look in our direction and let loose another of those strange atonal howls. In response three of the shoggoth machines stopped what they were doing and then systematically transformed into similar blue-skinned creatures.
The other two creatures, including the one Asenath had tossed across the room, began marching toward us. As they grew closer they seemed to almost fall apart. With each step, small bits fell off and hit the floor, scattering like an army of rats or ants, which these small creatures bore some semblance to. In a just a few steps the giant monsters were gone, and we were faced with a wave of small creatures that were slowly but surely encircling us. Asenath moved her hands once more and enveloped us in a sphere of strange purple light. It seemed to have some impact on the creatures and while they continued to surround us, they came no closer than Asenath’s barrier.
“Well we are going nowhere fast,” Hartwell spat.
Asenath opened her mouth to speak but whatever she would have said was drowned out by the roar of the ship powering up. The far wall was suddenly crumbling, falling apart and revealing the grey streaked sky and the weirdly black peaks of the city that stretched unnaturally into it. The four blue-skinned shoggoths had climbed into the ship, and vanished as the hatch closed down on top of them. Hartwell made a desperate move, but the shoggoth rats countered whatever direction he shifted, and none of us could see a way around them.
Hartwell checked his tank and nodded. “I have enough to take them out, or at least slow them down.”
“We’re out of time!” yelled Asenath. “Do it!”
Asenath dropped the shield, Hartwell sprayed and I bounded over the shoggoth horde as they popped and squirmed in agony. As I ran I grabbed a length of rod and with all my strength threw it at the ship. It was a futile effort. My makeshift spear arced through the air and impacted against the skin of the ship, and then rolled to the floor. The squid-like vessel slid forward and gathered speed. It reached the broken exterior wall and launched into the waiting beyond. It dropped a bit as it lost the support of the floor, but it caught the wind, as if it was somehow aerodynamic, and then soared away.
I rushed to the edge and the others weren’t far behind me. I looked at Carter, but he shook his head. “They’re too far, and I don’t have enough power.”
Asenath fell to her knees and stared at the ship as it flew further and further away. “Then we’ve failed, and the world is doomed.”
“I think you may be right Kamog, but not the way you think.” It was Mister Ys that had suddenly mocked Asenath, I hadn’t seen him come into the room. “I think that Carter has found your ally, and they will gladly deal with our shoggoth problem. Unfortunately, I think, how would Hartwell phrase it? ‘The cure might be worse than the disease.’”
CHAPTER 23
From the Account of Robert Martin Olmstead
“The Ulthareon”
The air within the room was suddenly electric. A wind was howling, it had come up from nowhere, and had built into a maelstrom in a matter of moments. The storm had picked up the lighter bits of debris and created with it a miasma of danger that culminated into a sudden explosion of light and heat. The howling became a whining drone that seemed to focus on a single point that became a shimmering glow. The air wavered and then melted away, leaving a hole in reality through which something, many things, were coming through.
It was Carter, I swear to you for a moment I saw Randolph Carter step through that gate. He was tall and lean, aged but not old, and he was holding something black and shiny that squirmed in his hands. It was Randolph Carter as he had been, a dreamer, a mystic, but a man, like any other. Then he was gone, and in his place stood Zkauba, but not the sad, divided thing that we had come to know over the last few days. There was still the air of something alien and something human, but now that seemed to be something to revel in rather than to suffer.
He strode out of the abyss like a great Indian god. The armor, Zkauba’s armor, covered him from head to toe, and it was truly magnificent. It had the look of a kind of ceramic, bone white and glistening. There were jewels along all the surfaces, including the head which sported seven crystalline adornments. He stood on two legs and in four great arms he carried a variety of weapons, including two swords, and something that looked like a cattle prod. As he stepped through the last remaining shoggoths swarmed toward him. With a flick of his wrist those swords roared to life, their teeth spun and a weird energy sparked from them and sent arcs of blue light traveling down their lengths. Whatever that strange electricity was, the shoggoth flesh reacted poorly to it. The severed parts thrashed about uncontrollably and then seemed to bloat before collapsing in on themselves and dissolving into inanimate sludge.
His path took him toward Asenath, and for a moment I saw those blades raise up and take a position to strike the lithe figure that was our leader, but then they paused, and that great helmet tilted in an odd manner. “Zkauba is going through a whole litany of ethical considerations in our head,” Carter informed us, “but he doesn’t seem too concerned about the issue, because after all, the shoggoth did try to eat you. That you ate it instead may be ironic, but not amoral.” He paused and then added, “Ate may be the wrong word in this context.”
The gate swelled up once more and a wave of fur cascaded out of it. Cats. Cats of all species and sizes and colors poured through that weird doorway. Dozens of them, and they flowed like a tide around the feet of the armored Warlock of Yaddith like an army of subservient followers. The forward members spit and hissed at the few pieces of shoggoth that still remained, and this, as odd as it seems, was enough to vanquish what was left of the quivering foe. Then the army of felines scattered, they wandered across the room, some to look out the window, and some to the door where they meandered out of our sight. Others found Elwood and seemed intrigued by what had become of the boy and in particular his missing arm.
I moved to greet our companions, but my movement was halted by a sudden wall of cats that made it plain that I was not to approach any further. It was then that I realized that the army of cats might be more of a threat to us than a form of salvation. I shuddered at the stereotype oft used in commercial advertisements of cats preferring to feast on fish, and stepped back away from the furry soldiers. Asenath stepped back as well, and soon the two of us were holding hands searching for comfort from each other as the furry sentinels took control of the room.
Something else came through the gate; there were three of them, strange colored things that were not green, or blue, red or yellow, but rather all of these colors and none of them, for it seemed that the creatures were constantly changing hue, their very skin was unstable. When they moved, it was clear that they were cats, but they were a completely alien species, and of unearthly construction, as if a cubist painting of tigers had been brought to life. They stalked out of the gate and then leapt across the floor and took off through the gaping hole in the wall.
The hole in the wall shimmered and then was suddenly replaced with the image of the ship soaring through the Antarctic sky. The craft cleared the mountain range and had already begun to cross the plains, heading north toward the sea. It cut through the sky like a bullet heading toward the heart of the world. It seemed beyond the reach of anything natural or human. It seemed unstoppable, but I suppose that all things seem unstoppable until the inevitable occurs.
The three cats of unusual color appeared behind the ship, moving faster than I would have thought possible for something alive. That they were gaining on the ship seemed obvious, and the thing that was their target began swinging about in the sky trying to dodge the attacks of the trio. It reminded me of the tales that the aviators of the Great War had told of the Red Baron Manfred von Richthofen and how he would fly like a falcon through the sky at his enemies. The shoggoth ship may have been larger and more powerful, but the flying cats were faster and more agile, and they outnumbered their prey three to one.
One of the creatures latched on to the ship and found a way to hold on, ripping chunks of the ship off with its crystalline teeth. Another hit the rear of the craft and cut into it, boring a thick hole into the engine and sending the ship sputtering out of control. It spun through the air, leaving a black trail of smoke behind it. As it fell the force of gravity accelerated its decent, and I could see a wave of heat form in front of the bow. While I couldn’t see the occupants I knew they were trying to regain control, for the tip jerked up as it approached the ground. The ship was nearly skating across the ice which appeared to be liquefying as it passed over. The ship hit a pile of ice and bounced awkwardly, sending it rolling across the surface sending up great sprays of ice and snow that rained back down in great gouts. As it came to rest the remaining heat turned the ice soft and the ship was swallowed up into the grey slush. Even with the semi-solid water we could see the hatch of the ship fly off and the shoggoths abandon the ship. They swam through the freezing water, desperate to reach the surface, but the ice had already reformed, and with no way to gain traction they had no leverage to crack open the icy shield that had formed above them. In seconds the creatures ceased to move and became little more than frozen blemishes within the glacier.
As the ice solidified the image ceased and we were left staring at each other, confused and relieved. Mister Ys seemed pleased with himself. “The threat is eliminated, buried under feet of ice, as if it had been there for millions of years. And it will stay there until the axis of the world shifts and the entire continent thaws. Hopefully by then, man will be more prepared to deal with what we’ve just locked away.”
Just then the gateway burst back to life and hummed evilly as five great masses moved from the Dreamlands into the real world. They came into the room moving like predators, their cylindrical bodies horizontal to the ground, rotating clockwise with each step. Each of their five eyes were spread wide, and their wings pulsed like the crests of great lizards. As they cleared the gate they changed their orientation and rose up on their powerful lower tentacles. They strutted forward gracefully, like alien dancers. Mister Ys moved to greet them, and assumed a submissive stance. He said to us, “This is the cohort known as Ulthar, the Lord of all Felines, the Cat City. You should be on your knees.”
Asenath eased slowly to the floor, and I and Hartwell followed suit. Carter did the opposite: he rose up on his lower limbs and spread his four arms wide with each hand brandishing a weapon. He said something unintelligible, in a language that I did not recognize, which I assumed was a language known to them. The Progenitors hissed and whistled something back at the warlock. Carter called back, and was met with what sounded like a terse response. Whatever was said seemed to calm Carter for he sheathed his weapons and assumed a less threatening stance.
Their movements were inhuman. They seemed to be constantly aware of each other, but whether this was because of some mental connection between them, or simply because the field of vision provided to them by their five eyes was almost entirely uninterrupted, I could not say. I suspect it may have been a little of both. One of them left the rest and moved ethereally toward us. There was a whispering whistle as it moved, a kind of reel that reminded me of my childhood. The emissary reached out a branching tentacle and touched Asenath Waite’s face. The whistling changed pitch and became something of a mournful dirge. The creature moved on and examined Doctor Hartwell, the song changed again. It had become shallow, superficial, like a piece of music being played badly. The creature lingered momentarily, and then moved on to examine me.
The first thing I noticed was the smell. The creature, the emissary, the Progenitor, the Q’Hrell reeked of the sea, of fish, of oysters, of the shallows exposed at low tide. Its tentacles, which divided down into fine manipulators, had a distinct salty odor, rich and strong. Its touch was at times soft and rough. Those fine strands of alien flesh traced the line of my cheek and jaw. It was as if I was being judged, not like a lover caresses, but as a farmer assesses a new calf or foal. It wasn’t just my body that was being judged, it was my parentage, my lineage, my entire line of breeding. The tune changed, it became melodic, almost cheerful, even hopeful. It made me feel a kind of elation I suppose, as if I had done something right and was being praised by one of my parents.
The creature retreated back to his fellows. There was a conversation, a discussion of some sort. None of us understood it, except for Mister Ys, though I suspect his comprehension was not as complete as he would like to have us believe. There was then an exchange between the emissary and Ys. Ys seemed disappointed, I think he protested, but to no avail.
He marched over to me and stared at me with a look of intrigue. “Congratulations Mister Olmstead. You’ve managed to find some favor amongst the Ulthareon. They’ve decided to let you, all of you, live, and leave.” He turned and looked at Asenath. “I am to stay here, at least for a while. The timelines are in flux. They need to stabilize before I can depart.”
Asenath looked at him incredulously. “What are you talking about?”
Ys spun around, “I didn’t come here by accident Kamog, you know that, but it had little to do with you and your mission. I was drawn here, to Antarctica, to this city, to this body, to Gedney. He’s a crucible, a focal point, always has been, and will continue to be so for quite some time. You think of him as dead, but even that may not be true. He is unstable, in space and in time and because of that his past and fate are not fixed. Even his name changes from timeline to timeline. Sometimes he’s Thomas, others Felix, in another Leonard Clayton, but always Gedney, and always something more.”