imposing peaks of the Ural Mountains behind it in a great wall of rock.
Rib-like supports held the rounded dome of Voggoth's temple, five-hundred foot spires like sour vines reached to the sky at each corner, and smaller satellite buildings resembling blisters basked in the shadow of their Master's shrine. Wisps of steam pumped from hidden vents, ghoulish beings marched in formation, and an oval landing pad flashed a creamy light to guide the vessel to its last stop.
From the impossible flying machine emerged the Missionary, stumbling forward cradling the stump of one arm. On the side of his face flexed a patch of faded skin while chopped tentacles sprouting from his neck writhed like wounded snakes.
A short flight of wide steps made from a substance like marble stretched before the grand entrance that was guarded by a pair of humanoid sentries standing eight feet tall with gray flesh, granite-like jaws, and tiny eyes beneath hairless scalps. Their legs and arms sported unnaturally large muscles that threatened to rip through the skin while metal cuffs and a matching collar symbolized their servitude.
As the Missionary approached, the fibrous front door retracted like a paper fan. He walked into darkness.
The inside of the temple was a great empty space with a ceiling stretching impossibly high and the far wall so distant it could not be seen. Humid air carried a smell of decay.
The Missionary walked alone, hobbling forward. Far overhead from the hidden rafters hung two massive, clear orbs each hundreds of feet in diameter and each filled with a pulsating black fog that beat against the glass like an imprisoned animal. From those orbs crackled energy of a kind not known to Earth until ten years ago.
Unseen voices from a universe away called to the Missionary through the energy of those orbs:
… you should not have touched the boy…
… this represents a rules infraction…
… an investigation is warranted…
… violation…
… the surrogates were not to be targeted…
The Missionary cringed and stopped. The pain had become too great.
'Master! Help me!'
A tremor announced His coming. It rolled from the blackness, filling the place from wall to wall and ceiling to floor like a mega tsunami, the details of its form hidden by the dark.
Just as it threatened to crash down upon the Missionary, the entity collapsed from gigantic to small, taking the form of a man: a man whose body had, years ago, become a vessel to facilitate the Master's travel to the world of life; to the physical. 'My Lord, Voggoth! Help me! I am infected!' The Missionary groaned in pain at the infection the boy had jammed into his mind. 'You failed. Now the plan must be accelerated before this opportunity is lost.' The Missionary protested, 'But his mind is shattered!' Voggoth replied, 'No. He will survive. He will fight again.' 'But how can you know this, Master?'
From the form of the man came a pair of barbed tendrils. They drilled into the Missionary and tore the occupied body to pieces. It would be the Missionary's last pilgrimage.
The body of the man that now belonged to Voggoth stepped into the light cast by the crackling energy from the orbs so far overhead. He gazed upon the dying Missionary and found great pleasure in his cries.
'Because I know him,' said Voggoth, speaking from the body that had once belonged to Danny Washburn.
30. Maelstrom
General William Hoth sat alone in the conference room aboard the Philipan with a cup of warm coffee in one hand and stacks of papers-readiness reports, maintenance updates, weather forecasts, more-spread before him at the head of an empty table.
The ship's XO interrupted his thinking via a rude buzzing from the phone and a report: 'Sir, our scout ships confirm two or possibly three bogies launched from the Excalibur. Speed and radar profile suggest they are Eagle transports. Should I launch the alert fighters?'
Hoth answered with as few words as possible, 'No.'
'Sir?'
'What's the status of the Excalibur?'
'Holding position over the ocean, sir. No sign of movement.'
'Continue to monitor the Excalibur.'
'Sir, with all due respect, the transports, sir?'
Hoth did not like explaining himself. In fact, he absolutely hated it, something his Executive Officer knew. But these were strange times, even for a world invaded by aliens.
'Our orders are to engage the Excalibur, not transports.'
The General promptly hung up, but before he returned his eyes to the stacks of paper strewn across the table, he considered the situation. He did not like the idea of firing upon an officer whom he respected or upon a ship built to fight on his side. However, Hoth had also not liked firing on humans in California.
What he liked or did not like mattered little; he followed orders. And until he heard different, those orders came from the Secretary of Defense, Dante Jones, a man whom Hoth did not think very highly of. Nonetheless, had Hoth disregarded orders from civilian overseers he felt were incompetent all his career that career never would have made it out of the 1970s.
Like a doctor detaching himself from a patient, the General learned long ago to carry out whatever directives came along the chain of command. On those occasions when he did not care for those directives, he went to even greater pains to ensure he followed them exactly. In this case, his orders clearly stated to monitor the Excalibur and engage it with deadly force should it attempt to re-enter friendly air space.
He would do exactly that. Should Brewer's dreadnought threaten such a move, General William Hoth would blast it from the sky. On the other hand, his orders said nothing about transports.
Hoth returned his attention to the papers and waited to see what would happen next.
– When Barney heard the knock, he set aside the bowl of soup that served as lunch and walked around the kitchen counter toward the apartment door. Denise sprang to her feet from the sofa and rested one hand on the pistol in her hip holster. The Internal Security goons had seemingly left the neighborhood a couple of days ago, but one could never be sure.
Denise hid against the inside wall by the door. Barney waited until she reached position then, with his one arm, opened up.
Nina Forest stood in the doorway, a sagging pack on her back, an M-4 rifle slung over her shoulder, and a vacant expression in her eyes but that changed when she entered the apartment and saw her daughter..
'Mom! I thought you were…I mean…geez, you could have called.'
Nina responded with a strong hug.
Barney said, 'A bunch of guys came looking for Denise a couple of days ago. They said they had a message for her from you. I didn't buy any of it, hope that was the right call.' 'Yeah, um, yes, that was the right thing to do. Thank you, Barney.' The mother-daughter embrace broke. 'Can I go home now, mom? All my CDs are upstairs.'
Barney reported, 'Haven't seen anyone snooping around since the weekend. Other than the folks living here, there's only been the mail man today. Do you think it will stay that way?'
Nina answered, 'I think things are going to…well, look, things are going to be okay in a day or two. We just have to keep our heads down for a while longer. Not too long, I think.'
'What about Shep, mom? I heard they arrested him.'
'He'll be okay. Things are…things are different. The President just doesn't know it, yet.'
'Mom, are you okay? What happened?'
Nina forced a smile and kissed Denise on the head.
'Lots of stuff happened. But look, I don't have the time to go over it right now. Denise, you stay down here for a bit. I'm going upstairs to our place to make sure it's clear, maybe take a shower. I think…I think I need a little
