There is evidence to suggest the Nazis believed in shamanic shape shifting.
Morphology is based upon geometric fluctuations conforming to a simple
centralized and relatively stable design, the more sensational aspects of which
would be a creature like a werewolf. Hitler enjoyed his nickname “Wulf”
(Adolf means “noble wolf”), thus the name Wulf’s Lair for his Bavarian hideway.
He was also called “Manitou” by his staff. This means shape shifter.
Otto Skorzeny, the top Nazi commando of World War II, chose Werewolves
as the name of his crack commando unit. They were elite above all others,
including the SS.
(Peter Moon, The Black Sun: Montauk’s Nazi-Tibetan Connection,
Sky Books, New York 1999, p. 71)
New Xanadu, coordinates 000.000/000.000/000.000
June 29th, 666 EG
Few knew the exact location of the Temple. Even near-pure werewolves were brought there blindfolded on the day of their initiation into the inner circle of the Apostles. Only afterward were they instructed on how to find a certain pentagonal building hidden deep within the Underworld of New Xanadu.
That night, the great hall was packed. One hundred young humans — men and women — were about to enter one of the most coveted brotherhoods in the Galaxy. They came from every walk of life, though most were misfits, drifters, or small-time criminals.
The vast walls were draped with banners bearing cabbalistic patterns. Scarabs, ibises, and other terrestrial relics were everywhere: a black granite statue of Anubis, a portrait of the satanist Aleister Crowley, bronze vases from the Chang Dynasty, statues of Emperor Nero and the goddess Kali. At the far end of the hall stood a stage, framed by a proscenium of fake torches on log bearings. Above it loomed an altar of basalt-like stone, with a triangular altarpiece flanked by two small statues—one of a wolf, the other of a panther. Nearby stood a podium draped in cloth printed with a swastika pattern, partially concealing an ordinary holoscreen.
The High Priest — known as the Great Black Wolf for the ritual mask he wore — concluded a litany of infernal invocations, then nodded. The offering was to be brought forth.
The new initiates chanted in unison:
“Help us in the arduous time of Change!
Come and save us from human persecution!
Come and give us rule over the Galaxy!”
A hooded figure emerged from a small door concealed behind the altar, leading a child by the hand. The boy — no older than five or six — seemed utterly unfazed by the hundreds of ravenous eyes on him. He climbed the altar steps, paused, and bowed to the crowd with the innocent flair of a school performance. Then, as if playing a new game, he lay down spread-eagled on the stone, making no effort to resist.
“We are looking forward to your coming!” the initiates chanted.
The Great Black Wolf unsheathed a claw-shaped dagger, tracing glowing runes in the air.
“Come, O Mighty Spirit!” he cried.
“Come, Spirit of Terror, from the Wolf’s Lair, from the House of the Dead! Give us Your blessing!”
The blade flashed in the torchlight and then…
“We are looking forward to your coming!”
… it plunged into the child’s chest. He died without a sound.
The High Priest twisted the blade, then handed it to his nearest assistant. Dipping his hands into the pale, silvery blood, he reached into the wound and withdrew a bulbous, artificial mass — threaded with plastic tubing and multicolored cables.
Tradition dictated that the High Priest consume the heart or drink the blood. But this time, the Great Black Wolf discarded the synthetic organ without ceremony and moved to the final stage of the rite.
“Supreme Zha’nkhaij, Dark Emperor of Shamballah, King of Fear, Archon of Tr’lang,” he intoned, “accept this offering of blood!”
“Come, O Mighty Spirit!” echoed the crowd.
“Come, O Great Unknown! We are ready to meet you, and may your hand strike us without mercy… if we fail our mission!”
“Welcome to the Gathering of the Chosen!” proclaimed the High Priest.
“Forget your human nature. Now you are Werewolves! Werewolves!”
The new Apostles erupted in celebration.
Some tore off their cloned wolf hoods and hurled them into the air. Others embraced, whooped, or howled with joy. Cheers and animal cries reverberated through the vaulted chamber of the Temple.
The black hole loomed against a flaming backdrop.
Its terrifying gravity pulled in millions of tons of waste; the incandescent matter spiraled into a glowing accretion disk, like a fantastic beast of pure energy.
Suddenly, the Horitzò Inc. logo burst onto the screen — cheerful and colorful, jarringly out of place. A school of iridescent fish swam into view, followed by flickering holograms of exotic destinations and fancy gadgets, like ghosts from another universe.
Inside the crowded restaurant, the volume of a dozen conversations rose, worsening Twiglet’s already pounding headache. She’d ordered arachnids Bolognese, but her appetite had vanished. Actually, she was starving — but the Mohs’ horrible fate had clamped her stomach tight. Guilt gnawed at her. She should’ve warned them. What had made her think the werewolves’ only target was her? Aral had been a Holroyd operative, too. She’d been selfish. And stupid.
Uful’lan, unfazed as always, was wrestling with a mammoth-sized moshaawk fillet.
And the two new acquaintances? Well, she wasn’t sure she could trust them.
The girl was clearly a synth — though unusually designed. Twiglet was sure they’d never met, but something about her felt oddly familiar.
The guy, though, was far shadier. He hadn’t touched his food and was already on his third glass of whiskey.
“Why don’t you eat something?” she asked. “Anything would be healthier than all that alcohol.”
He ignored her and filled his glass to the brim again.
“So?” he said.
“So what?”
“Listen — I don’t have time to waste. You said you knew the killers.”
“Well… that’s not exactly true,” Twiglet said carefully. “Let’s just say I have reason to suspect—”
“To hell with your suspicions! You sounded sure as hell earlier. Don’t try to wiggle out of this or—”
“Fine!” Twiglet snapped. “I’ll tell you what I know. But don’t you think I deserve to know more about you first? I’m taking a considerable risk.”
“Kyle Tokalau,” he said flatly. “I’m the owner of a Cetus C89F freighter. Her name is Shirl.”
“You’ve got a ship? Interesting… We were actually looking to hire one. I hope you’re not already booked?”
For the first time, Kyle’s hostility seemed to soften.
“You want to hire the Aranui? That’ll cost you an arm and a leg… But let’s not change the subject. I answered your question.”
“How did you know Aral Mohs?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Then our conversation ends here.”
Kyle swore under his breath.
“We served together in the Space Force, okay? Now, please — cut to the chase.”
“Thwigleth, don’th leth a human thell you whath tho do,” Uful’lan mumbled, mid-bite.
“Hey, you thickhead—”
“Enough!” Twiglet snapped. “No need to argue. Let’s get to the point. I think I know who murdered Aral Mohs and his family. They tried to kill me, too.”
“Who are they?” Kyle asked. “And what was your connection to Aral?”
“They’re…” Twiglet unrolled her tongue slowly, struggling to find the right words. “It’s hard to believe, I know… They’re the followers of a secret society — very exclusive, humans only. For thousands of years, they’ve pulled strings behind Earth’s history, until their curse spread across the Galaxy.”
She paused, her red eyes fixed on his.
“Aral and I were part of an organization trying to monitor and contain their influence quietly. We keep a very low profile. But lately, the Apostles — as they call themselves — have ramped up their activity. Something big is coming. And I’m afraid it’s already begun.”
The gathering began to break up when the Big Bad Wolf descended the altar steps. He approached a tall, thin, middle-aged man with thick, bushy eyebrows who was waiting for him off to the side.
“So? Honestly, Doctor, what do you think?” he asked, removing his mask.
“Fascinating, Your Excellency!” replied Dr. Zisk. “In my day, we only had to bring in a DNA test and proof of at least three killings…”
Holunder Bai, Minister of the Interior, handed his bloodstained tunic to one of the white-clad altar boys.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” he said with a feigned modesty. “These days, we mostly sacrifice synths and reserve real humans for special occasions. This was just a basic initiation. I’m not sure these second-rate werewolves could complete a Change during a full-Galaxy night. Once, you needed at least seventy-five percent lycanthropic genes to become an Apostle. Now we settle for a measly fifty-one.”
He sighed, accepting help as he slipped into the tailored jacket of a three-piece suit.
“The Coming is getting close… unfortunately.”
“I understand, Your Excellency. The end justifies the means! To complete the Plan, we can’t be too particular.”
“No!” Bai flared, his eyes wide with sudden rage. “You don’t understand at all.”
He glanced around and quickly lowered his voice so the servodroids cleaning the hall wouldn’t overhear.
“Dear Doctor, I’m in serious trouble. If we don’t come up with a solution fast, Lord Chang will want my head… mine, and those of everyone who failed him.”
“But… Your Excellency!” Zisk was visibly shaken. “I didn’t… I mean… I am the most faithful among the Zha’nkhaij’s followers! I’ve always done as I was told — no matter the risks, the complications…”
“Exactly, Doctor. That’s the point,” Bai interrupted. “We still need you, in your role as court physician. You’re being asked to obtain another copy of Princess Virginia’s neurophysiological print.”
Kharl Zisk winced, though he quickly composed himself.
“May I ask why?” he said flatly. “What was wrong with the one I gave you a year ago?”
Holunder Bai stared at him in silence for a long moment.
“Come, Doctor,” he said at last. “I’ll tell you a secret…”
“You mean Aral and Weema were victims of a conspiracy?” Kyle asked, doubtful. “But in that case… I mean, they were slaughtered! And the apartment, too! It was like… a fucking wild animal tore through the place!”
“Yeah, I get what you’re saying. A couple of blaster shots could’ve done the job. But these aren’t ordinary killers… they’re werewolves.”
“I thought you were talking about humans…”
“I am — all human beings — though in varying degrees — are werewolves. Most of them don’t even realize it. But the ones with the right kind of genes do. They can use telepathy… and tap into Zero Point Energy to shapeshift. Into wild animals, usually.”
“Human shapeshifters…” Kyle echoed, shaking his head. “No. I don’t buy it. There’s gotta be another explanation.”
He glanced around the busy restaurant, teeming with exotic creatures from every corner of the Galaxy.
“New Xanadu isn’t safe. Before the war, you just had to steer clear of the Underworld. Now? I doubt it makes any difference. Some crackpot gang probably broke into Aral’s place and…”
He stopped short as a servodroid approached to clear their table. Uful’lan ordered a massive slice of chocolate cake. Meanwhile, the holovid lit up with breaking news.
“Yet another heinous crime in the upper levels,” announced the hologram of a bug-eyed news anchor. “According to the 38th Sector Police, the death of famed stylist Etti Freex is also believed to be the work of the mysterious killer who has haunted multiple city levels above the 60th. The killer’s modus operandi appears to be consistently brutal…”
The feed cut to the interior of a ransacked apartment. What little remained hinted at wealth and refined taste — but barely. Every piece of furniture had been smashed. A white sheet and the bulk of several police droids obscured the victim’s body. The camera lingered on the plush carpet for a second, soaked in dark-green blood.
Shaken, Twiglet stayed silent for a moment. She didn’t know whether Freex had been a Holroyd agent… but the similarities to the Mohs massacre were chilling.
She turned to Kyle.
“Common criminals wouldn’t bother wrecking the furniture like that — too risky. Besides… there’s the strange coincidence with what happened to me. I left Bageechaa to escape two humans who burned down my house. I was lucky — I wasn’t home when it happened. Just like me, Aral knew dangerous secrets.”
Kyle had stopped drinking. He was staring at something just over Twiglet’s shoulder.
“These… werewolves… what do they want?” he asked. “What are they trying to achieve? Humans already rule the Galaxy…”
“As I said, I’m not talking about all humans. The Apostles cult brings together the most twisted and malevolent minds of your kind. From their ranks came some of the worst mass murderers and fanatics in your history — history that, since the Expansion, has become everyone’s history. They thrive on suffering. They want injustice to prevail. And they’ve been planting seeds for something massive, something imminent. Who knows… I fear the K’rell War was just a dress rehearsal.”
“Nonsense! The K’rell War didn’t benefit anyone — not even human warmongers. Billions died. Entire planets were wiped out. Civilization collapsed almost everywhere, and a decade later, we’re still crawling out of the wreckage…”
“True. But no one dares challenge human dominance anymore, do they? Imperial power is practically absolute. Four out of five Senators are human, even though you’re just one of hundreds of races in the Empire.”
Kyle looked away, visibly unsettled.
“I don’t know… I’ve never cared much for politics. All I want is to keep finding gigs for my freighter.”
“This isn’t about politics,” Twiglet said, leaning in. “This is about everything. If the Apostles succeed, civilization falls. Evil wins. And genocide, tyranny, and fear will spread across the Galaxy like wildfire.”
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