The object was white plaster. It looked like the cast of a disk-shaped, deep-graven stone. A part of the curved rim of the original must have been worn flat; it must have been cracked, he saw, and a little segment lost. That sweet fetor clung to it in an evil cloud, so powerful that Barbee had to draw his flat head stiffly back.
The white bitch peered fearfully at it, swaying where she stood. ‘A cast of the Stone, that must be,’ her dry whisper rasped. ‘The Stone itself must be in that box – the secret that destroyed our people engraved on it and protected with that stinking emanation.”
(Jack Williamson, Darker Than You Think, 1944)
Twiglet opened the door to Durrell Wang’s office—and it was like stepping back in time. Everything was exactly as it had been fourteen years ago, when they’d still been working together on New Xanadu. The same obsessive cleanliness. The same manic precision.
She adjusted the desk to fit her body size, sat down, and looked around.
Despite his perpetually scruffy appearance, Durrell’s office was immaculate. Everything was sorted by shape and size. A gleaming, almost brand-new OCC unit took pride of place at the center of the desk. Two of the four walls were packed with ancient books and scrolls, all arranged in strict alphabetical order. Durrell would interrupt even the most urgent task just to straighten a misaligned volume. Twiglet couldn’t blame him. The library was truly impressive—so much so that even Hwan Bernala occasionally stopped by to consult rare manuscripts he couldn’t find on the Hypernet.
On the opposite wall stood a shelf filled with holograms—mostly pictures of friends and family, or ordinary postcards. Next to a sweeping view of New Xanadu from space, Twiglet spotted a smiling portrait of Durrell with his parents and a slightly plump girl—his sister, perhaps? Then she noticed another image… one she’d completely forgotten.
It showed a group of people, herself and Durrell among them, seated around a restaurant table. The scene dated back nearly two decades, but she remembered it instantly. It had been just before the K’rell War, a celebration for a new adept’s admission into the Society.
After some back-and-forth, most colleagues had voted for a club in the Underworld—beer was both abundant and cheap. The next morning, many were blind drunk and had taken taxis home. Even walking to the nearest subway station had been out of the question.
A memorable night. One of the last happy ones before the Council had voted to expel her. Back then, she’d thought it was the end. And now here she was again, sitting at Durrell’s desk, preparing to use his beloved probe.
Durrell. The man everyone believed was a traitor. And a suicide.
Twiglet unrolled her tongue. There was no point brooding.
I’d better get to work.
She pressed a button on the OCC unit. The familiar red eye turned on, scanning her retina.
“OCC UNIT 3576 AT YOUR SERVICE: HELLO, DOCTOR SKUNKS!” chirped the machine. “I’M SO HAPPY TO SEE YOU AGAIN!”
Just as she had, Durrell had kept the default personality standard on Series 3000 Hypernet probes. That high-pitched voice might’ve belonged to a five- or six-year-old human child.
“Thank you, OCC.”
“I WAS HOPING YOU’D TURN ME ON, DOCTOR. DURRELL LEFT A MESSAGE FOR YOU.”
“A message? But how…?”
“IF YOU LOG IN, YOU CAN READ IT RIGHT NOW.”
Twiglet hesitated. Why would Durrell leave her a message? And how had he known she’d make it to Headquarters?
“SORRY FOR PESTERING YOU, DOCTOR, BUT YOU SHOULD REALLY LOG IN RIGHT NOW. PLEASE, TELL ME THE PASSWORD.”
“Ah… oh, yes! It’s… ‘Werewolf666Werewolf’…”
At least, that’s what it had been fourteen years ago.
She exhaled in relief as an image flickered into view.
From: DURRELL WANG
To: TWIGLET SKUNKS
Subject: 666
>>>>NO TEXT <<<<
Durrell Wang’s serious face appeared.
“Welcome to Avalon, Twiglet.”
He looked exactly the same. Just like in that Christmas message, seven months earlier—black hair tied in a ponytail, eyes crinkled from a lifetime of laughter.
“If you’re seeing this, it means you made it safely past the werewolves… and I, unfortunately, am dead.”
Twiglet nearly toppled over.
“They’ve tried to kill me many times, and I fear they’ll eventually succeed. But I think I’ve stumbled onto something—an idea so insane I could hardly believe it at first. And yet, if they’re working this hard to silence me… I must be on the right track.”
He cleared his throat and continued.
“It all started a few weeks ago, when news of the Holroyd agent massacres began pouring in. Then I had a dream. Someone handed me an ancient book—a rare collector’s copy. The cover was black and blue, with no title or author. Inside, the pages were completely blank—except for the numbers: six hundred and sixty-six, all in order. Nothing else.”
He paused. “Since then, that number has haunted me. Every morning, I wake at exactly 06:06:06. Every lecture I give has sixty-six attendees. My new student was born on June 6. Wherever I turn, it’s always six, six, and six.”
Twiglet gasped.
“How’s that for synchrony? Then one day, I had lunch with Fern. Fern Lescovar—you know him, don’t you? That’s when he told me he’d found the werewolves’ homeworld. At first, I didn’t take him seriously. You’ll agree he’s more bureaucrat than scholar…”
Oh yes, Durrell. I know it all too well.
“But when he showed me the evidence, I had to reconsider. Fern was right—at least this time. According to him, the werewolves evolved on Tr’lang, a planet orbiting Lalande 21185. I did some digging. Turns out, Lalande 21185 is a dM2-type red dwarf, and unlike most stars with habitable planets, it emits no UV radiation. That might explain the werewolves’ notorious aversion to daylight.”
His tone shifted, charged with urgency.
“But wait—you haven’t heard the best part. Guess what the sixty-sixth book on the sixth shelf of my collection is? Darker Than You Think, by Jack Williamson. Everyone dismisses it as an old Earth sci-fi novel, but they’re wrong. It’s about werewolves, genetic hybridization, and the coming of a legendary leader.”
Durrell pointed to one of the jam-packed shelves.
“Think about the year: 666 G.E.—the Number of the Beast. According to Revelation, the Antichrist is supposed to rise this year and bring history to a close. The ‘Son of Night’… the werewolf messiah.”
Now Twiglet was truly afraid.
The Holroyd Society had long suspected the Apostles’ obsession with genetic engineering. Intelligence reports suggested their ultimate goal was to create a pureblooded werewolf—a humanoid with supernatural power, destined to seal the fate of the Galaxy.
“Isn’t it strange,” Durrell said, “that thousands of our agents are being murdered right now? Someone’s trying to stop them from discovering… what, exactly? Anyway, that novel—on its last page—mentions a weapon: a metal, disk-shaped object that emits a mysterious, lethal radiation.”
He nodded gravely.
“I’d read that sentence a hundred times and never realized its importance. But that afternoon, I searched the Hypernet for any myth or artifact resembling it. After all, Earth isn’t the only world plagued by lycanthropic invasions…”
A sad smile crossed Durrell’s olive-toned face.
“Guess what? Just ten minutes later, OCC found a match on Angelhoelm, the fifth planet of Fomalhaut. The local Archaeological Museum catalog includes a strange object: roughly circular, twelve inches across, metallic with a purple iridescence. The chemical analysis? Completely unknown alloy—no match in the database. And where was it found? Tr’lang.”
Twiglet unrolled her tongue.
You’re a genius, Durrell. I think we’re finally on to something.
“A certain Max Ecklund discovered it in 570 G.E., during an Imperial Cartographic Service expedition. It was buried beside a decayed skeleton in a necropolis dating back over 10,000 years. But then, higher authorities shut down the dig. Only a few artifacts were preserved—including the disk. And here’s the bad news: it was stolen from the museum in 633 G.E. No one knows where it is now.”
Twiglet sighed. If their only hope had already vanished… what was the point?
“But we can’t give up,” Durrell continued. “We must find another disk and figure out how it works. I haven’t had time to run a synchro-complex analysis, but I’m sure time is short.”
His image leaned closer, as if reaching from beyond the grave.
“Twiglet, you must help me. Headquarters has been infiltrated. But not everyone’s compromised. Fern, for instance. I know you don’t like him—neither do I—but if he were a traitor, why would he bring me this lead?”
What about Hwan Bernala? We can trust him… right?
“Talk to Fern. Convince him to send you to Tr’lang. Bring two good operatives—no more, to avoid drawing attention. OCC has an old map of the Gahannam site. It’s a century out of date, but Tr’lang is geologically stable and sparsely populated. The map shows several other burial sites near Ecklund’s dig. If you’re lucky, you might find another disk. Maybe then, even the werewolves will fear us. It’s a desperate move—but it might be our only shot. Please… do it for the Galaxy. And for our friendship. Don’t let my death be in vain.”
Durrell’s hologram flickered… then vanished.
Twiglet slumped in the chair.
“DOCTOR?”
“Yes?”
“DURRELL… IS HE REALLY DEAD?”
“I’m afraid so, OCC.”
“HE WAS SUCH A GOOD MASTER.”
“I know, OCC.”
“WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN TO ME NOW?”
“Well… you’re an orphan. And I lost my OCC on Bageechaa. So… how about working together?”
OCC’s lights blinked rapidly as it processed this.
“YOU KNOW, DOCTOR, DURRELL THOUGHT HIGHLY OF YOU. I’LL BE HONORED TO SERVE.”
Gliese 614e’s short day was coming to an end when the purple jeep emerged from the forest.
The vehicle crossed the landing pad and rolled to a stop beneath the Aranui’s cargo bay hatch. A bulky antigrav canister dominated the jam-packed loading platform. Its contents—ten tons of degenerate plasma—would fuel the ship’s engines for the return trip.
“You ain’t coming, then. Is that your final decision?” Kyle asked.
He slid out of the driver’s seat and tapped an icon on his Datapad. With a low buzz, the raft port began to slide open.
“I can’th abandon Thwiglet,” Uful’lan replied. “Noth righth now. Sshe wass alwayss kind tho me, and I promissed tho prothecth her.”
Kyle shook his head, cursing the planet’s sultry heat—and the bugs. Millions of them swarmed the jungle, turning it into one throbbing, hungry, living entity. For a few moments, neither of them spoke.
“Too bad,” Kyle said at last. “Do as you wish, even though I think—”
The Datapad chirped.
“This must be Shirl…”
“CAPTAIN! THANK GOD, YOU’RE SAFE!”
The Aranui’s voice rang out loud and clear from the device.
“Safe? Me? Why shouldn’t I be?”
“OH, BUT… THOSE PEOPLE CAME A COUPLE OF HOURS AGO… THEY SAID YOU WERE SICK, THAT YOU NEEDED HELP… I TRIED TO CALL YOU!”
Kyle felt an icy tentacle coil around his heart. He stopped listening, broke into a run, and charged up the gangway. Uful’lan followed close behind.
Kyle sprinted through the main corridor and burst into the cockpit.
“Shirl! Hey, Shirl! It’s us!” he shouted.
No answer.
The ship was silent. Empty.
He rushed into the galley.
“Shirl! Are you here?” he called again.
Uful’lan stepped in behind him.
“What’s wrong, Kyle?”
“I don’t understand… I left her here just a few hours ago!”
“Maybe sshe wenth out for a walk.”
“That’s impossible! She knew she was in danger…”
“Buth why? Whath could happen tho her?”
Kyle didn’t answer. Instead, he kept calling the synth’s name as he searched the crew quarters, again and again.
“AHEM… CAPTAIN…”
“HEY! WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO SHIRL? WHERE IS SHE?”
“WELL, YOU SEE… TWO HUMANS CAME. THEIR JEEP LOOKED JUST LIKE YOURS… THEY ASKED ME TO LET THEM IN…”
“And you did!” Kyle snapped. “Brilliant! I knew you were a wreck, but this is unbelievable!”
“WAIT UNTIL YOU HEAR THE REST OF THE STORY BEFORE BLAMING ME! THEY SAID YOU’D SUDDENLY FALLEN ILL WITH A MYSTERIOUS DISEASE, AND THAT THEY NEEDED TO CHECK THE LOGBOOK TO FIND A CURE. I TRIED MANY TIMES TO CONTACT YOU AT THE BASE, BUT—”
“It’s shielded,” Kyle muttered. “The damned base is shielded…”
“UNFORTUNATELY, SHIRL BELIEVED THEM… AND OPENED THE AIRLOCK HERSELF.”
For more than two hours, Twiglet had been running a synchro-complex analysis using OCC3576.
The Son of Night.
She hadn’t thought about it in years—until Durrell had resurrected that elusive figure. What was the connection between the coming of the werewolf messiah and the plan to place a synth puppet on the Galactic throne?
“THE INTEGRATED CATASTROPHIC PROBABILITY IS NOW 92.8%. IT WILL REACH 99.999% ON OCTOBER 12, 666 G.E.,” the probe announced.
Twiglet considered the implications. Two and a half months to travel to Tr’lang, retrieve at least one of those mysterious disks, and figure out how to use it. Hardly generous, given the time required for interstellar travel—assuming, of course, that the Master would authorize the mission.
“Display the evolution of the probability density starting from… um…”
What was the date?
A pang of homesickness struck her as she thought back to that distant night on Bageechaa. A seemingly trivial problem involving Uful’lan had forced her to dust off an OCC unit she hadn’t used in years. Damned werewolves. Her home. Her beloved books. All gone.
If only she could take the fight to them…
“Start from June 23,” she said. “There’s something I want to check.”
“YES, DOCTOR!”
The OCC projected an isodensity map over a holographic model of the Galaxy. Regions of identical color marked areas where the density value remained constant.
Twiglet immediately noticed that the isodensity lines clustered around roughly a dozen attractors. While this wasn’t the meaningless output she’d obtained on Bageechaa, such a high number of potential collapse points was unheard of. When she’d predicted the K’rell War, there had been no more than two or three.
What the hell is going on?
“Wait a second, OCC… something’s off. Forget the temporal evolution for now. Keep the June 23 isodensity map. Good. Now… please identify.”
“RIGHT AWAY, DOCTOR!”
Tiny captions appeared next to each attractor, listing the nearest inhabited planet and its local catastrophic probability. In every case, the gradient was so steep that the uncertainty was less than 0.001%.
As expected, New Xanadu dominated the map. In the capital alone, the probability density had already reached an alarming 97.6%. Other hot spots included Starmont, the celebrity resort, and the Imperial Space Force Headquarters on Overmars 41.
“Very well,” Twiglet said. “Now display the probability evolution as time moves forward. Slowly.”
“WOULD A ONE-DAY STEP SUIT YOU?”
“Too fine-grained. Let’s use three-day steps.”
She watched as the simulation progressed. One by one, the lesser attractors faded away. After two weeks, fewer than half remained.
Suddenly, Twiglet unrolled her tongue in disbelief.
Oh, come on… I don’t believe this.
The overall integrated probability rose even as the number of attractors sharply declined. She was so stunned it took her several seconds to realize the simulation had ended. The date in the upper-right corner of the holo screen read July 24, 666 G.E.
Only four attractors remained: New Xanadu, Starmont, Overmars 41, and Tau Ceti III.
“That’s incredible…” she murmured. “Move time backward. One-day steps.”
OCC3576 resumed the simulation.
On July 21, an attractor flared near Albireus IV. On July 15, Yad V reappeared. On July 9, the Alnath system lit up bright red.
“That’s it,” Twiglet said. “Freeze here. Now search local news feeds. I want reports from the past three weeks—Alnath II, Yad V, and Albireus IV. Look for anything noteworthy around the dates when those worlds vanished from the map.”
“THAT WILL TAKE TIME, DOCTOR. THESE ARE HEAVILY POPULATED WORLDS. FOR FASTER RESULTS, YOU MAY WISH TO NARROW YOUR SEARCH.”
“Right. Focus on unusual events—anything that dominated the Hypernet for several consecutive days, and—”
“EXCUSE ME, DOCTOR, BUT THERE IS AN INCOMING CALL.”
“A call? For me?” She frowned. “Who is it?”
“DOCTOR LESCOVAR, DOCTOR.”
“Oh… all right. Put him through.”
Fern Lescovar’s face appeared over the isodensity map. His hair was more disheveled than usual, and a nervous tic made him blink incessantly. He looked deeply shaken.
“Twiglet!” he burst out. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Doing? What—what’s wrong, Fern? I don’t—”
“Don’t play dumb,” he snapped. “You were at the lecture. You knew we were looking for her.”
“Looking?” Twiglet echoed, stunned. “Who are you talking about?”
“The clone of the princess, of course! Luckily, we realized you had her just in time—before your pilot sneaked off…”
“What?”
At first, Twiglet thought she’d misunderstood. A clone of Princess Virginia? And what did Kyle have to do with any of this?
Then it hit her.
Shirl.
She was the clone. That was why she’d seemed so familiar.
The revelation hit like a blow. For a few seconds, Twiglet lost her bearings as questions piled up in her mind—each more disturbing than the last. Kyle. His urgency. His sudden departure. Had she made a catastrophic mistake by trusting him?
“F-Fern…” she muttered. “I didn’t know. I swear it. This is as much a shock to me as it is to you.”
“I wish I could believe you, Twiglet.”
“You must believe me! Why would I lie? To help the werewolves? I’m not even human!”
“I don’t know,” Lescovar admitted, avoiding her gaze.
“Have you already killed her?” Twiglet asked, then corrected herself hastily. “I mean… terminated her?”
“No. Not yet. We need to dissect her bionic brain first—see if there’s anything useful we can extract.”
“Wait for me,” Twiglet shouted, cutting the connection. “I’ll be there shortly.”
She turned to the probe.
“I’m leaving, OCC.”
“TROUBLE, DOCTOR?”
“It’s a disaster,” she said. “A complete disaster.”
She flung open the door and sprinted down the hallway.
Please return to the novel’s main page to read the first seven chapters for free!
