In applying our “fantastic-reality” theory to
history, we have adopted a process of selection. Sometimes we have
chosen facts of minor importance, but suggestive of some form of aberration,
because, up to a certain point, it was in aberration that we were seeking a clue.
[…] Can this method be used to forecast the future? Sometimes we dream about this.
[…] Trends of thought that escape the notice of the trained observer;
writings and works to which the sociologist pays scant attention, together
with social phenomena that he considers too insignificant or too “odd”
to worry about, are perhaps a surer indication of events to come than the
facts that are there for all to see and the openly expressed opinions
and general trend of thinking which cause him serious concern.
(Luis Pauwels and Jacques Bergier, The Morning of the Magicians, Kindle Edition, pp. 135-136)
Hyperspace, coordinates ***.***/***.***/***.***
August 13th, 666 GE
New Florence, Tau Ceti III — July 29th
MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF A POLITICAL LEADER
Linus Van Cartier, 35 std, human, secretary of the “Make Earth Great Again” movement—an organization opposing equal rights for non-human citizens—was found dead this morning in his Puerta del Sol residence. According to authorities, the death may have been self-inflicted. The victim showed no visible wounds, nor were there signs of violence at the scene. However, an empty vial of aminperoxide of toluene—commonly known as Xetor—was found beside the body. In high doses, this popular hallucinogen can induce ventricular fibrillation, followed by heart failure.
According to the household steward, who discovered the body, Mr. Van Cartier was not known to use drugs. Nor did he appear to have any reason to take his own life. His political faction was on the rise, having secured a promising 10.3% in the recent local elections of the two-hundred-and-third galactic sub-sector. In well-informed circles, he was considered a likely winner in the next Senate polls. His financial situation was stable, and he had divorced his second wife five years earlier.
“Hmm… interesting,” Twiglet murmured, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. “What’s the synchronic index?”
“97.2%, DOCTOR. WOULD YOU LIKE TO REVIEW THE NEXT EVENT?”
“Yes, please.”
The mahjit blinked, trying to dispel the pink werewolves creeping at the edges of her vision.
Damn human food…
It could have been worse. If they had dropped out of hyperspace just a few seconds later…
The Aranui had taken the worst of it. Meteor impacts had destroyed the aft compartments; most of the cargo—and a large portion of the fuel—was gone. Kyle and Uful’lan had worked tirelessly to stabilize the damage. Still, they were operating with less than 10% of their life-support capacity.
After two days of cold and darkness, Twiglet’s condition was deteriorating rapidly.
“THIS EVENT IS EVEN MORE SIGNIFICANT, DOCTOR: THE SYNCHRONIC INDEX REACHES 98.5%…”
Another report appeared.
Sangah, Albireus IV — July 21st
HORRIFIC DEATH OF CULT ADEPTS
The alleged mass suicide of Reverend O’Malley’s congregation has shocked the population of Sangah, a secluded mining settlement at the foot of the Belisarius Mountains. According to local police chief Tch’ill Odewan, “the horror is beyond imagination.”
Thousands of charred bodies—many of them children—have been discovered within the natural cave system known as the “Worm Lair.” The exact number of victims remains unknown. Some corpses were found embracing; others lay in piles. Authorities believe the tragedy occurred in two distinct phases. Full exploration of the cavern network, which extends for miles and remains largely uncharted, may take weeks.
The eschatological cult, founded by former pop star Jon O’Malley, counted more than 10,000 followers, primarily among the poorer segments of Albireus IV’s human population. Although the investigation is ongoing, a possible motive may be linked to O’Malley’s recent imprisonment on charges of tax fraud and credit card manipulation. However, sources suggest the self-proclaimed “Savior of the Galaxy” had been planning a demonstration to “awaken those who still refuse to believe in the one true Messiah.”
“Hmm… what about the other dates?” Twiglet asked. “Anything else?”
“YES. I MAY HAVE FOUND SOMETHING. IT IS NOT HIGHLY SIGNIFICANT. ON YAD V, AROUND JULY 13TH, A MUTANT VIRUS ESCAPED FROM A LABORATORY. OVER ONE THOUSAND PEOPLE DIED.”
“And Alnath II?”
“NO SIGNIFICANT EVENTS DETECTED.”
“Alright… show me the current probability distribution.”
OCC3576 projected the familiar galactic map. Regions of equal probability density glowed in uniform colors.
Twiglet immediately noticed something new.
Fewer peaks.
“THE INTEGRATED CATASTROPHIC PROBABILITY IS 98.8%, AND INCREASING.”
“Damn it!” she snapped, unrolling her tongue. “Another attractor is gone!”
Her pulse quickened.
Only two hotspots remained: New Xanadu… and Starmont.
“Quick—where was the last one?”
“NEAR OVERMARS 41, DOCTOR.”
The Space Forces Headquarters.
So the military wouldn’t be directly involved… at least not yet.
Her mind reeled. If not war, then what could drive the catastrophic probability to near certainty?
She closed her eyes and leaned against the cold wall.
She needed rest. The cold… the hallucinations… they were getting worse.
Still—one last attempt.
“When did Overmars 41 disappear?”
“TWO DAYS AGO. NO HIGH-SYNCHRONIC EVENTS FOUND. HOWEVER, ALL MEDIA ON THAT PLANET ARE UNDER MILITARY CONTROL.”
“And the peak? Same date?”
“YES, DOCTOR. THE INTEGRATED CATASTROPHIC PROBABILITY WILL REACH 99.999% ON OCTOBER 12TH.”
October 12th…
Where had she heard that before?
Recently…
Why couldn’t she focus?
Like when she failed to recognize Shirl as the princess’s double…
Her eyes snapped open.
“The coronation.”
That interview… the anchor had mentioned it.
“I think I’ve got something, OCC,” she said. “Princess Virginia’s coronation is scheduled for October 12th. That’s when the catastrophe begins.”
“THAT IS A PLAUSIBLE HYPOTHESIS, DOCTOR. SHALL I RUN A NEW SIMULATION?”
“Yes—do it.”
The recalculation took only seconds, despite the immense complexity of the Holroyd–Skunks equations.
Twiglet held her breath.
“INTEGRATED CATASTROPHIC PROBABILITY INCREASING… PROJECTED VALUE: 100% ON OCTOBER 12TH.”
“Bingo!” she exclaimed.
At last—a solid lead.
But too many questions remained.
What would trigger the crisis? The coronation of the rightful heir… or her synthetic double?
What role would Princess Virginia play?
Who—or what—was the Son of Night?
Who was Blondie Mary?
And why were the other crisis points disappearing?
Too many unknowns.
Still…
For the first time, Twiglet felt certain.
She could do this.
Hyperspace, coordinates ***.***/***.***/***.***
August 15th, 666 G.E.
Shirl’s lower body felt as if it were being devoured by Twiglet’s bugs, brought back to life. Ignoring the rapidly shifting data on the holo-screens, she closed her eyes and focused.
She had become the ship’s mind.
Every movement, every gesture translated into the Aranui’s metallic body—guided by the energy flowing through her conduits and the electromagnetic fields of the shielding.
She could feel the ship.
And it was sick.
Far worse than the status reports suggested.
The sensation was so overwhelming that, more than once, she nearly tore the cables from her head. Somehow, she resisted.
The meteor strike had crippled half the wiring and destabilized nearly every system. Even the ship’s sentient core was malfunctioning. Kyle had briefly considered using Twiglet’s hyper-neural probe as a backup, but OCC3576 simply lacked the computational power to handle navigation in the eleven-dimensional Yonsiipi–Kaku metric.
That left only one option.
Her.
Another surge of pain tore through her mind. She screamed, tears streaming down her face as her muscles seized in violent cramps. Fighting against machine code never meant for something partly human, she struggled to preserve what remained of herself.
Then—
A signal.
Exit coordinates: imminent.
“At last!” Kyle exclaimed from the pilot’s seat. “Just get us out of hyperspace. I’ll take it from there.”
A deep vibration rippled through the damaged hull.
Moments later, Tr’lang filled the main viewport—a vast, reddish sphere.
“That’s amazing!” Kyle shouted.
“Do you think so?” Twiglet replied from behind. “It looks rather… dull, for a planet.”
“No, I mean, we came out this close! Less than one astronomical unit… I didn’t think it was possible without getting dragged into the star.”
“Indeed… a clever way to avoid patrol ships,” Uful’lan added.
“Well said, Big Boy!” Kyle grinned. “We’re thinking alike. And… Shirl, my dear, I may have just found your perfect job. How about becoming the Aranui’s permanent brain?”
Still entangled in cables at the copilot’s station, Shirl turned slowly.
“Forget it.”
“Oh, come on—I was joking.”
“No. Enough. Your turn.”
Kyle tapped a sequence on the console.
“Typical…” he muttered under his breath. “Always complaining. Stay connected a bit longer—I may still need you.”
Shirl rolled her eyes but stopped removing the cables.
Kyle slipped on his headset and turned to the others.
“Alright, everyone—watch and learn. A true professional at work.”
He gripped the controls and guided the battered ship into a parking trajectory. The damaged thrusters protested immediately—every correction triggered warning alarms.
Ignoring the chatter behind him, Kyle dropped altitude, trading height for speed.
Without hesitation, he plunged the Aranui into Tr’lang’s shadow.
The hull screamed.
Temperature readings spiked toward structural limits.
Through the viewport and infrared feed, Kyle identified the Taikil and’ Arurd mountain ranges. Near the equator, a faint glow marked the mining outpost of Qusura.
The capital, however, lay on the dayside.
And this world had no navigation beacons.
Typical.
He leveled the ship a few miles above the surface. The inertial dampers wailed, but the antigravity field held. Without it, they would already be pulp.
Minutes later, the Aranui crossed the terminator line.
Blinding light flooded the cockpit.
The red dwarf Lalande 21185 loomed huge on the horizon.
Kyle switched to visible-spectrum imaging, boosting resolution. The terrain below was bleak—endless basalt plains, jagged ridges, deep fissures, scattered ice dunes. In the distance, dark lakes glimmered.
He tried to raise ground control.
Nothing.
Not even static.
“Oh, great… the radio’s dead too.”
He descended to half a mile.
Still no city.
No R’lieh.
He activated the ILDs.
Nothing.
Dead.
At this point, the fact that they were still airborne felt like a miracle.
Flying low over frozen lava plains dotted with sparse vegetation, Kyle pushed lower for visibility.
Luck wouldn’t last forever.
On the engineering console, a warning light began blinking.
Structural failure: imminent.
Kyle wiped sweat from his forehead—useless. His shirt was soaked despite the cold.
“Shirl… find that miserable excuse for a city,” he muttered.
This time, she obeyed without protest.
Closing her eyes, she interfaced with the ship. Data flooded her mind—Tr’lang’s entire cartography unfolding in layered detail. Mountain ranges, polar caps, lakes… settlements.
Lallassu. Qusura…
Then—
“I’ve got it!” she cried. “I’ve found R’lieh!”
“Course correction!” Kyle snapped.
“No need—wait… oh my God!”
She leaned forward, pointing at the holo-display.
What Kyle had taken for forest and lakes was something else entirely.
A crater.
A massive one.
“The city is inside it,” Shirl said. “Down there.”
Kyle cursed under his breath.
“Can we climb above the rim?” Twiglet asked.
“No,” he said tightly. “Half the control systems are dead. No margin for maneuvering.”
The crater wall rushed toward them.
“We need an opening.”
“A passage? That’s absurd—”
“Don’t tell me that!”
He slammed a control, forcing the dampers to respond.
Shirl scanned frantically.
“We’re lucky! The wall is fractured—multiple passages!”
“Any big enough?”
“…Not many.”
“I need one at heading 185.”
“There’s a fissure—forty feet wide—at 179.”
“It’ll have to do.”
The crack glowed in the dying light.
Too narrow.
At the last possible second, Kyle fired the starboard deflectors.
He prayed.
The ship lurched violently as magnetic repulsion forced it sideways. Cliffs roared past on either side.
Then—
Impact.
A panel exploded in flames.
“Damn it!”
The smell of burning filled the cockpit.
But they were through.
“Made it!” Kyle shouted.
He fought the controls, leveling the ship.
Darkness swallowed them.
Far below, R’lieh’s scattered lights flickered.
“We did it! Told you!”
Shirl said nothing.
“Nice work, Captain,” Twiglet said dryly. “But perhaps we should celebrate after we land.”
“Oh, come on—wasn’t that impressive? What do you think, Beasty Boy?”
“Nexth time, I’ll do thhe pilothing.”
Kyle laughed and deployed the landing gear.
They skimmed over a bleak landscape of black rock and sand before reaching the spaceport—a ramshackle cluster of structures under dim light. A broken control tower sign. A handful of battered ships.
“Classy place.”
“Let’s hope not,” Twiglet said. “Otherwise, it would attract werewolves.”
Kyle brought the Aranui down. The landing struts sank into soft sand, the ship settling with a weary sigh.
Exhausted, he slumped back and closed his eyes.
Then—
A violent crash.
The main engine struck the ground.
Kyle’s eyes snapped open.
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