“According to Trebitsch Lincoln (who claimed to be, in reality, the lama Giordi Den), the Society of the Green Men—related to the Thule Society—originated in Tibet.
In Berlin, a Tibetan monk, nicknamed ‘the Man with the Green Gloves,’ who on three occasions accurately predicted in the press the number of Nazi deputies who would be elected to the Reichstag, regularly received Hitler.
He was said, by the initiates, to be ‘the keeper of the keys that open the Kingdom of Agarthi.’ “
(Pauwels and Bergier, The Morning of the Magicians, Kindle Edition 2017,
Or. ed. Le Matin des Magiciens, Librairie Gallimard, Paris 1960)
Starmont, galactic coordinates 91.349/-74.222/000.001
August 16th, 666 G.E.
The Minister of Culture’s summer residence stood on the Rongorongo coral reef, only a few light-hours from New Xanadu.
Every year, the island hosts a prestigious film festival. VIPs flocked in droves—an appearance at Rongorongo meant invaluable publicity.
“Not bad, your speech, Ginny,” said the Duchess of Rigel. “This time Ding really outdid himself!”
Princess Virginia stared into her half-filled glass of bluish liquid. Tiny luminous sparks swirled within it, mimicking the fish drifting beyond the windows.
“Sorry to disappoint you, dear Gladys, but Ding had nothing to do with it.”
Gladys van der Meer frowned.
“What? You wrote the opening speech for the Rongorongo Film Festival? Please, Ginny… hard to believe. You’ve never understood a thing about movies, and—”
“Have you ever considered changing bio-stylist, Gladys?” the princess cut in coolly. “Yours must be an idiot. He shaped your body as a spider’s… brain included.”
Gladys forced a brittle smile.
“Your Highness, I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just… you’ve been acting strange lately. You had me change our best number to make room for that nonsense about… werewolves! Honestly, I blame Renny Condla.”
“What does Lady Condla have to do with it?”
“Oh, come on. Admit it. Ever since her visit, you’ve been nervous. Distracted. Sometimes it feels like you’re avoiding me.”
“Nonsense.”
The party had reached its peak. Droids bearing the Lionheart emblem—a lion’s head against a sparkling galactic disk—circulated with appetizers. Crystal trays shaped as yanaatje overflowed with inocybes, while on a selenium grill, black laboos from Kroehn III, dusted with dark red harakthi, glowed like embers.
“And what about that interview?” Gladys pressed on. “All that talk about a palace conspiracy? Really, Ginny? Since your parents died, Lord Chang has been spreading rumors that you’re nothing but a spoiled child, unfit to rule. You’ve got a target on your back, and you know it. Before doing anything reckless, you should’ve consulted me.”
“That’s enough. Stop.”
Several guests turned, their conversations faltering. Virginia met Frankie’s eyes—her bodyguard—and saw him give a subtle shake of his head.
“One day I’ll tell you everything,” she said more quietly. “But not tonight. Tonight, I want to relax… and have fun. By the way—”
She glanced toward the colorful crowd gathering around the long buffet table.
“Gladys, would you fetch the Minister for me? I’d like to ask him a favor.”
Gladys hesitated, then complied. She soon returned with Moo Khu’ajv, a Skar from Sheratan VI.
“Your Imperial Highness…” the Minister bowed deeply. “Allow me to express my immense gratitude. Your presence honors this festival. As its humble supervisor, I—”
Virginia waved a hand dismissively. Conversations with Skars were best kept short; their species communicated as much through glandular secretions as through speech.
“Please, Lord Khu’ajv. Spare me the formalities.”
The Minister’s long, ear-like appendages twitched.
“May I confirm that tonight’s guest of honor is the star of Titanic VII: The Revenge?”
Gladys rolled her eyes.
“Of course, Your Highness! Loren Falke—the idol of every humanoid girl in the Galaxy. He should be arriving any moment.”
“Excellent,” Virginia said, raising a hand to shield herself from an enthusiastic spray of Skar saliva. “When he does, you’ll introduce us.”
“It will be my pleasure, Princess—and the highest honor for Mr. Falke! I know him personally. In fact, I contributed to the production of this remarkable film. You might be interested to hear the full story… About a year ago, the director, Jarkko Wop, asked me if—”
Without warning, the lights dimmed.
“What’s happening?” Moo Khu’ajv sputtered. “Who ordered—”
A figure had entered the room.
Tall and slender, dressed in white, with green gloves. His black hair fell to his shoulders, framing a lean face that was both feline and unsettlingly predatory.
The crowd parted instinctively.
Heads turned… and lingered.
Women admired him openly. Men studied him with guarded skepticism. Whether it was pheromones or presence, every movement radiated a dangerous, almost supernatural allure.
Loren Falke smiled.
A few onlookers—especially humans—shifted uneasily. Several women adjusted their hair. A famously arrogant billionaire from Betelgeuse straightened his posture. Moo Khu’ajv forced a grin; Gladys feigned indifference, though her cheeks flushed.
The man was like scorched earth—disruptive simply by existing.
“Oh, my goodness,” the princess murmured. “I adore film festivals.”
Tr’lang, coordinate 154.843/+17.332/6921.24
August, 16th, 666
For this place could be no ordinary city. It must have formed the primary nucleus and center of some archaic and unbelievable chapter of earth’s history whose outward ramifications, recalled only dimly in the most obscure and distorted myths, had vanished utterly amidst the chaos of terrene convulsions long before any human race we know had shambled out of apedom.
(Howard Phillips Lovecraft, At the Mountains of Madness, 1931)
It was bitterly cold at the spaceport. Behind a heap of wreckage, Twiglet tried to shield herself from the biting wind. She had been there barely half an hour, and already she hated the planet.
“Holy shit…”
The cold and the hunger were the worst of it. Then there was the stench—something like an open sewer—and that moon… green, enormous, fixed on the horizon. Tr’lang’s only satellite had been locked in geosynchronous orbit for billions of years, its rotation perfectly matched to its revolution around the planet.
“Well… what did you expect?” she muttered. “It’s the werewolves’ world.”
Leaning out from her makeshift shelter, she saw the others still unloading what little equipment had survived the meteor strike.
She shivered and pulled the blanket tighter. They had been through worse, she told herself. At least now the danger was over. The Holroyd Society’s funds should cover the ship’s repairs.
Should.
But what about the expedition? How were they supposed to conduct an archaeological survey without proper instruments? With what remained, she doubted she could even locate the site. OCC3576 was still intact—but even the faithful probe was useless without data.
There was always the alternative: turn back. Return to Gliese 614 IV. She imagined the scene.
“Master,” she would say, “we were unlucky…”
Unlucky?
Who was she kidding? This wasn’t bad luck—it was negligence. Her negligence. She had been overconfident… and ruined everything. Their mission. Their chance to stop the werewolves.
Fern Lescovar would laugh himself sick.
A strange noise broke her thoughts.
From the darkness, a small spherical object bounced into view and landed nearby with a dull thud. Its surface rippled—then an eye emerged, staring at her with unsettling curiosity as it hopped closer.
“Finally… real food,” Twiglet whispered. “Food for a mahjit…”
Her tongue flicked out—slow, delayed.
The sphere reacted instantly. Its eye vanished, and it shot away behind the wreckage.
Despite the fever gnawing at her, Twiglet lunged after it. The mere thought of fresh food sent a surge of energy through her.
After a few failed attempts, she stopped, gasping for breath.
Darkness pressed in around her.
The wreckage now blocked the moon, and beyond it stretched only blackness. A few meters ahead loomed a massive, shapeless silhouette.
She turned, expecting to see the Aranui’s lights.
Nothing.
Twiglet unrolled her tongue, trying to steady herself. It was nothing. She had simply wandered too far. Low gravity distorted distances—it was easy to misjudge.
She turned and started back.
What did she really know about this planet? Almost nothing. Back on Avalon, it had been easy to laugh at Fern’s warnings—the nawpaq, the giant mollusks, the mysterious jakmurrr said to lurk underground.
She wasn’t laughing now.
She crossed a patch of soft ground.
Grass?
She was certain it hadn’t been there before.
Maybe she had drifted off course without noticing, distracted by the chase. She took another step.
And another.
Then—
She couldn’t move.
Her feet were locked in place, as if nailed to the ground.
Fighting panic, she reached down into the darkness.
Her hand touched something wet.
Slimy.
She screamed.
The “grass” shifted—threads tightening, coiling around her legs… her arms. Lichens? Tendrils? Tentacles?
They wrapped around her, clinging, creeping upward… brushing her neck, her face.
She tried to scream again, but only a faint rasp escaped her throat. The air seemed to vanish. She couldn’t breathe.
The realization struck her with brutal clarity.
The sphere…
It had been bait.
A lure.
And she had fallen for it.
In the last flicker of consciousness, she heard a voice.
Distant.
Impossible.
Someone was calling her.
“Twiglet! Wake up… Twiglet!”
She snapped her eyes open. The greenish moon loomed on the horizon—a bizarre, painted disc hanging above the crater’s edge.
What in the universe is happening? Is this the end?
She drew a breath and immediately coughed. The air reeked.
“Twiglet, can you hear me?”
“Jussth leave her alone, capthain. She’ss ssick, can’th you ssee?”
“Yez, indeed! Very ill! Dying, I’d zay…”
Twiglet shook her head, trying to push through the pounding ache behind her eyes. Who was that stranger? The voice was shrill, oddly accented… and disturbingly eager.
Bracing herself on her elbows, she looked around. The icy, dusty ground of Tr’lang… the dark silhouette of the Aranui…
The lawn… where is all that grass gone?
Uful’lan’s massive figure stood nearby, holding a lamp. A little farther off, three smaller shapes hovered in the gloom.
“Cut it out!” Kyle snapped at the newcomer. “Nobody’s dying. And, Twiglet…” he added, his tone softening slightly, “do you think you can walk?”
A dream… I was dreaming. Or hallucinating… Thank God.
She tried to answer, but her voice failed her.
“I… I… I don’t…”
Her throat felt like sandpaper. Hunger gnawed at her.
“No worries, Twiglet—I’ll carry you!” Uful’lan said.
“All right, Big Guy, take care of her,” Kyle replied. “Let’s move… I don’t like this place. Kameel… I mean, Kamal… whatever your name is…”
“Yes, Zir! I am Kamaaljit Zangheera, faithful unto death!”
“Forget about dying and tell me this: are you sure your mount can carry our gear?”
“Abzolutely! Oji bravo tagot’ma—very ztrong! Rather than dizappoint your lordzhip, he diez!”
Kyle muttered a curse.
“Come on, Shirl,” he said. “Time to go.”
Deep within the crater, below the level of the spaceport, lay R’lieh’s inner city. It was vast—fifty, perhaps seventy square miles. A faint, almost translucent glow seeped from thousands of unseen sources, a dim galaxy of lights partly obscured by the central peak.
“Noble lady livez up there!” Kamaaljit said, pointing with one of its tentacles toward the summit. An imposing castle, flanked by a gigantic tower, loomed in the distance.
“Which lady?” Kyle asked.
“The Lady of R’lieh. She decidez everything… even death.”
“That’s right… death.”
“Pliz, no jokez about Death! Fast az znake or zlow az ruhmi of dezert… Death alwayz comez!”
“Lissthen, mate, ssthop jinxing uss, or I’ll rip your ssthupid little wingss to blow my nosse withh!”
“Well said, Big Boy!” Kyle said.
He glanced at Twiglet.
Secured atop Oji—a ten-foot-tall pack feline—the mahjit was still unconscious. At first, he hadn’t worried about her condition. A few days without bugs wouldn’t kill her. If anything, she’d deserved it. Her carelessness had cost him the Aranui… and most of his possessions.
But now, he wasn’t so sure.
What if Twiglet kicks the bucket?
What would become of their mission? He and Uful’lan knew nothing about archaeological digs. They were chasing a weapon against the werewolves—and Twiglet was their only lead. If she died…
Then what?
Nothing. Business as usual.
The Galaxy would keep turning. With or without the pile of ancient bones, she wanted to dig up. Werewolves or not, he had money now. Enough to buy passage to some decent world—not a dump like Tr’lang. A fresh start. From one scam to the next… one debt to another… one bar to the next.
Funny thing.
Only now did he realize how much his new—almost respectable—life depended on Twiglet.
They were approaching R’lieh, and Kyle quickened his pace to keep up with their guide’s long strides. It was hard to believe the capital city was reached by such a narrow dirt path. Still, Kamaaljit insisted it was a shortcut—saving them several miles.
Soon, barren ground gave way to a shantytown. Harsh lights flickered behind grimy plastiglass windows. In the distance, strange shapes staggered around a bonfire.
The stench hit him hard.
They moved onto a cracked strip of tarmac, squeezed between crumbling buildings and shabby storefronts. Kyle slowed, glancing down an alley where shadowy figures rummaged through heaps of scrap and refuse.
Just like Dabih City… Story of my life.
“Yo, Kyle! Do you happen tho have a gass massk?”
Kyle turned. In the moonlight, Uful’lan was covering his nose.
“None in your size, Big Boy.”
As they pressed deeper into the city, the buildings grew taller—but no less decayed. Streetlights were sparse. Shapes lingered in doorways, half-hidden in shadow. Some leaned forward—on elbows, or tentacles—to watch them pass.
Shirl followed close behind Kyle, her hood pulled low, trying to remain unnoticed. Surrounded by those ghostly figures, she quickened her pace.
They had been walking for nearly two hours.
Kamaaljit led them through a maze of narrow alleys—so tight even the tagot’ma barely squeezed through—then along short galleries and sharp turns. Strange cries echoed all around them, and the cold air hung thick with smoke.
Kyle had lost all sense of direction.
I thought this was a shortcut…
Where the hell was Kamaaljit taking them?
Maybe the creature was smarter than it looked.
Kyle slipped a hand inside his jacket, finding the familiar, reassuring grip of his blaster. He released the safety and set it to maximum intensity.
“How much longer? Are we close?”
Kamaaljit turned, shaking its head. Four long antennae waved in a universal gesture of negation.
“Almozt there, Zir. You must be very tired.”
Kyle muttered a curse and kept walking.
They entered a square. A massive mound of rubble swallowed an entire block of derelict structures. Nearby, several odd, ubiquitous creatures were dismantling a decaying robotaxi.
Suddenly, one of them swung an object overhead and hurled it. It narrowly missed the placid tagot’ma.
With a hiss and a violent thrash, the terrified animal tried to shake off its burden.
Kyle drew his blaster.
“No, Captain!” Kamaaljit shouted, rushing to calm the beast. “It’s only a dead mouze!”
“Hey! You! Stay away from that, or else…”
“This iz the place, Zir!” the guide added hastily. “The inn I told you about! I’d rather die than lie to you.”
A flickering sign glowed faintly above the dark entrance:
LOUP-GAROU
The double doors opened a crack, spilling a blade of light onto the street. A beggar crouched on the threshold. It looked vaguely human—except its head was grotesquely oversized, and its yellow eyes had narrow, vertical pupils like a snake’s.
“Where… are we?” Twiglet muttered weakly.
“Come, Thwigleth,” Uful’lan said. “I beth thhey sserve living bugss, here.”
Please return to the novel’s main page to read the first ten chapters for free!
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