The Stars Have Eyes: Wander and Wonder

Stories

### Chapter 1: 1 Arrival

“Hoom ge’sore, ihm ge’sara. Hoom ge’sore, ihm ge’sara. Hoom ge’sore, ihm ge’sara.”

A low, droning chant filled the darkened chamber. Its source was a gathering of precisely forty-two figures arranged in a very specific pattern around a central altar. Each of them wore robes that were a dark red color reminiscent of a fine wine, with golden embroidery around the sleeves, shoulders, and neck. The long hoods each carried the same insignia - that of three vertical eyes in a triangle formation. It was all quite sinister and foreboding, and one wouldn’t be blamed for thinking this was some kind of cult.

“Hoom ge’sore, ihm ge’sara. Hoom ge’sore, ihm ge’sara. Hoom ge’sore, ihm ge’sara.”

Of course, such rash judgements were ill-advised. With all the various cultures and races throughout the galaxy, it was common for people to interpret an extraterrestrial custom for some sinister machinations. One of the more egregious examples of such misunderstandings were the gorgori. When explorers from the Federation of Allied Governments first encountered these serpentine humanoids in the Jake-13 system, they witnessed a group of gorgori ripping out and then eating their own hearts. What looked like a ritualistic form of suicide at first was later revealed to have been a wedding ceremony that wasn’t at all as fatal as it first appeared. The entire galaxy had since learned to be more tolerant and understanding towards alien cultures. Indeed, just because a bunch of creepy guys in hoods were chanting while arranged around an altar didn’t necessarily mean they were a cult trying to call forth some ancient cosmic evil.

“Hoom ge’sore, ihm ge’sara. Hoom ge’sore, ihm ge’sara. Hoom ge’sore, ihm ge’sara.”

That most assuredly was the case in this particular instance, though. The Cult of the Gazing Star was made up of the usual dregs of society that joined such organizations - the hopelessly desperate, the mentally disturbed, the easily manipulated, and the dangerously stupid. This particular gathering of deadbeats all agreed that the best way to leave their mark upon the vast and uncaring universe in which they lived, was to bring about an end to it. In order to fulfill that goal, they were attempting to call forth Magh'rathlak the Observer, an obscure Class-3 cosmic entity. Admittedly very few people understood what ‘Class-3’ actually meant, but given how such things usually went from Class-1 to Class-5 it was safe to assume that Magh'rathlak was average. At least, as far as terrible beings from beyond the fabric of reality went.

“Hoom ge’sore, ihm ge’sara. Hoom ge’sore, ihm ge’sara. Hoom ge’sore, ihm ge’sara.”

As for how, exactly, the Cult of the Gazing Star were planning to draw Magh'rathlak into their realm, it appeared to involve the tried-and-tested method of human sacrifice. The offering in question was a young human male of unremarkable descent. He looked to be in his early twenties, with brown hair, brown eyes, a skinny out-of-shape figure, and a perfectly average penis. That last one was visible because the guy had been stripped naked and bound to the stone altar in the middle of the room with some uncomfortable chains. Interestingly enough, he didn’t seem all that bothered by his predicament. He glanced around the room with a vacant look on his face that suggested he belonged to the fourth group of people that usually took part in cults.

“Hoom ge’sore, ihm ge’sara. Hoom ge’sore, ihm ge’sara. Hoom ge’sore, ihm ge’sara.”

As the ceremony progressed, the ancient runes etched into the stone altar began to glow a dull red. The sacrifice couldn’t see any of that, but he definitely felt the rock he was lying on slowly heat up his back and butt. His vacant expression momentarily changed to signify that the sensation wasn’t all that bad. It was certainly more welcome than it being cold, if nothing else. He wasn’t the only one heating up, either, if the rapidly approaching sound of gunfire was any indication.

“Hoom ge’sore, ihm ge’sara. Hoom ge’sore, ihm ge’sara. Hoom ge’sore, ihm ge’sara.”

To their credit, the cultists continued their chant without skipping a beat. They felt certain that their defenses would either repel the interlopers or at the very least stall them long enough for the ritual to be completed. It soon became evident that their confidence in their fellow brothers and the facility’s automated security was, as usual, ill-placed. The crack team of military commandos that had caught wind of the cult’s plans fought their way through the sinister lair in less than three minutes. The only reason they hadn’t burst into the ritual chamber and ventilated everyone’s heads was because there was a massive sealed bulkhead in their way.

“Hoom ge’sore, ihm ge’sara. Hoom ge’sore, ihm ge’sara. Hoom ge’sore, ihm ge’sara.”

It would take more than some metal doors to stop these persistent soldiers, of course.They began cutting their way through the bulkhead within seconds of arriving at it. Unfortunately the basic handheld plasma cutters they had were woefully inadequate for the task. The doors were thick and heavy, so it would take far too long to get through them via conventional means. Thankfully for the commandos, they had an ace in their sleeve. The team’s psi-operative stepped forward and threw the entirety of her considerable telekinetic might at the barricade.

*THUNK*

A noticeable fist-shaped bump the size of a watermelon suddenly appeared on the inner side of the bulkhead. It was at that point that the cultists finally realized just how deep in shit they were. The psi-op would need several seconds before she could unleash another blast, and the doors looked like they could only take three or maybe four more hits before they gave way. In other words, the cultists had only about half a minute to finish their ritual. The one in charge of the proceedings shrugged and rolled his eyes as if to say it couldn’t be helped, then just went ahead with the final step of the ceremony.

*THUNK*

The leader nodded to one of the others, prompting the underling to flip a switch next to him. The strange machinery at the base of the monolithic altar sputtered to life. Four mechanical arms rose from each corner of the bed-like shrine. Each robotic appendage was tipped with a brick-like laser emitter with a tiny outlet on their smallest side. These were pointed upward and then engaged so that the four beams of purple energy converged in a single spot somewhere above the hapless captive’s midsection. The streams merged into a slowly growing ball of light that let out tiny arcs and sparks as it gathered power.

*THUNK*

The head cultist walked up to the bound sacrifice and pulled something peculiar from his robe. It was an obsidian dagger with a curiously curved blade that resembled a crescent, the length of which had been inscribed with a series of squiggly runic symbols. The head cultist gripped the occult implement firmly in one hand and pressed it to his lips as he muttered some forbidden un-words to it. The loopy sigils lit up with a familiar red glow while the chained victim looked on with a sort of bewildered concern that implied he wasn’t fully aware of where this situation was headed.

“Oh, wise and all-seeing Magh'rathlak! We, your devoted servants, implore you to hear our humble plea!”

*THUNK*

The chief of ceremonies spoke in a clear, crisp voice that did not waver even as a fourth fist-shaped dent appeared in the bulkhead. It was clear he had thoroughly rehearsed for the big moment.

“Join us now, in our moment of revelation,” he carried on. “Accept this meagre offering of blood! Share with us your terrible glory, so that we may in turn spread it across the cosmos!”

The man reversed the grip on his dagger and unhesitantly plunged it down, straight at the heart of the bound sacrifice.

*THUNKRRANK*

Thankfully for the witless offering, the bulkhead gave way under the telekinetic assault in a rather spectacular way. The mass of mangled metal was ripped out of its sockets and flung across the chamber. It pulverized the leader’s head into chunky soup before he could deliver the final blow while also interrupting the converging laser beams, causing the ball of energy to fizzle out. It then flattened several low-ranking cultists before it came to a stop by crashing against the far wall. The commandos burst through the newly created opening in the next instant and unloaded into the chamber, mowing down the unarmed and unarmored cultists with extreme prejudice. It was a testament to the soldiers’ marksmanship that they managed to take down all forty-ish suspects within the initial three-second volley of automatic fire.

The ten-man military unit ceased fire and fell silent as they scanned the room for any more threats.

“Clear!”

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

A few of them called out that they spotted no additional targets. It was only then that the team finally allowed themselves to release the tension within their bodies. Fist-bumps, high-fives, down-lows, and too-slows were exchanged as they briefly congratulated each other on a job well done. The only one who wasn’t taking part in the festivities was Agent Johanson, the team’s psi-operative. She would have liked to participate, but was too busy vomiting in a corner. It wasn’t the sight of blood that had made her queasy, nor was it that suspicious mega-burrito she’d had for lunch.

“You alright, AJ?” one of her comrades came to check on her.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine,” she reassured him. “Just a bad overload, you know how it is.”

Breaking through that bulkhead had put an enormous amount of strain on her nervous system that her body wasn’t quite sure how to deal with. The so-called psionic overload could manifest in a number of unpleasant ways, and evacuating the contents of one’s stomach was a common one. Agent Johanson was just quietly glad that her meal hadn’t left through the other end of her digestive tract.

“I dunno, AJ, I’ve never seen you this bad,” her concerned colleague pressed. “You’re looking awfully pale, and you keep shivering.”

“No, really, it’ll pass,” she insisted. “It was a heavy door, is all.”

She usually needed anywhere between a few minutes and a few hours to fully recover from an overload, depending on how severe it was. Some symptoms passed much quicker than others, at least. Agent Johanson’s splitting headache, for instance, would usually subside after several breaths. However, as the seconds dragged on, it did not get better. Just the opposite, actually. It was gradually growing in severity to the point where the woman couldn’t help but clutch at her forehead while wincing in pain.

It was only then that she realized that the source of her brain-ache wasn’t an internal one. She frantically turned towards the middle of the chamber. The door-turned projectile had eliminated the head cultist, but it had done so in the worst possible way. The impact had both coated the man’s dagger in his blood and had flung it from his grip. The obsidian weapon had then fallen atop the stone altar, right between the legs of the miraculously alive hostage.

Now, Agent Johanson had some knowledge of the occult. It was impossible not to pick up a thing or two in her line of work. Though by no means an expert, her experience told her that whatever cosmic entity this cult was trying to contact had interpreted the aforementioned sequence of events as a suitable sacrifice. This unfortunate conclusion was born from a series of hints. The first of those was her rapidly worsening headache. The second was the way the runes along the blade and the altar continued to glow through the blood on them. The third and most damning piece of evidence was the tiny golf ball sized object of pure darkness that hovered idly in the air, right where that ball of energy had been.

“Get away!”

The psi-op shouted a warning to her comrades, but it was too late. The tiny void-ball exploded into a cloud of writhing shadow while simultaneously unleashing a mind-rending screech. The soldiers scattered away from the source of the disturbance while reeling from the indescribable sound. They raised their weapons at it and watched with mounting terror as a thoroughly alien being beyond their understanding wormed its way through the veil of their universe. They stared into that sentient void, and sure enough, it stared back. Eyes of all shapes and sizes emerged from the eldritch entity’s formless mass as it scanned every molecule in its immediate surroundings.

“M-Major?” one of the men called out. “Do we start blasting or what?”

“Hold. Your. Fire,” the officer slowly commanded. “Whatever you do, do NOT engage!”

It was the right call. The invasive mental pressure the Major felt from that creature’s multi-faceted gaze told him that he was facing a Class-3 cosmic entity. Mere bullets were completely ineffective against it. One needed either powerful psionics or heavy ordnance in order to drive such beings back to whatever nightmare they crawled out of. However, Agent Johanson was barely resisting the urge to pass out and the team had exhausted most of their explosives on the way in. In short, the commandos would be hopelessly outmatched should they engage the entity in a contest of force. They should have been already retreating by all accounts, but operational protocol demanded they learn the name of this threat and, if possible, discern its motives. This information was vital in order to formulate a viable plan of action so that the eggheads back at base could formulate a viable containment strategy.

“S̝̫͉̯̲u͈̪͚̱b̗̗̗̜̺̬͠ͅm̶̤̝͙ḭ̢̱̭̻t̩̲̥,̫̠ͅ ̛̩͚͚̗̦m͈̖͚͚o̙̭͎̙̤rt̥͚͎̝a̪̝͍̱̩̹l̖ṣ̳̺̫̤̱.”

An eerie whisper was not heard, but felt as words seemed to emerge from the deepest recesses of the soldiers’ minds.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

“M̸̞͇̻͙̭͈͉a̭̣̫̖͙͈͚g̤͇̠͠ͅh̙̣̙̪͠'͈̮̟̰͈r͖͇̪a͍̺̫̳͉̩t͙͖̜͢h҉̬̠̭̲̜l̛a̸k̖͓ ̧̠͙͓̯d̜̰̥̲͔e̷̗͔̙m̗̟̼̩̟̤͚a̰͓̳̥̼n̴̺̼̥ͅd̼̗͎s ̤͔̤͔͝y͏͓o͓̙͉͓̬͕̗͡u̦͍̮r̵͔̱ o̱̲͚͔͔͜ḅ̼̪̰͔̖e̖͈͡d̩ḭ̫̗̣̜ͅe̷̹̣͕̙͍n̘͎t҉̞̩ͅ ͍̤͉̼̠s̰̯̯̹̺͚͜e̜̺̺̥͖͚͜r͖͠v̵͙̞i̷̳̩̫͖̼̞͎c̤̣̤̠̜͔e͏̝.”

“Major?!” the same soldier cried out.

“Okay, start blasting!”

Having obtained the bare minimum his contract required, the officer prompted his team to unload on the mass of darkness and eyes with all they had. Small arms fire wasn’t enough to force it back through the portal, but it would serve to stall it long enough for the commandos to retreat. Or at least that had been the idea until the soldiers found their bullets instantly reflected right back at them with pinpoint accuracy matching their own. Their helmets and body armor absorbed most of it, allowing them to escape the ritual chamber with only minor injuries and no casualties. Once through the breached doors, they used their last few bombs to collapse the hallway in an effort to buy themselves more time in case the thing gave chase.

Thankfully for them, Magh'rathlak had no desire to follow after them. The entity had already seen all that they were and it wasn’t all that impressed. That female with the ‘gifts’ was a bit interesting, but there was someone far more curious in that very chamber. Magh'rathlak’s countless eyes fell upon the specimen still bound upon its altar. There was nothing remarkable about his physical form, and his mental faculties appeared to be… unimpressive. And yet, this one lowly mortal had somehow withstood all of the events that had transpired around him without so much as a twinge of fear.

“Y̨͚̥̬o̺̝̝͠u̦͍͍.̘̞̭ ̰̯̠͉͚͉̣͠T̢̟͓͔̥ͅhé͎̙̪̺͎ ̶͇̞̰o̖̲̰͍̟̼n͈e͍͈͎ͅ ̥c̪͔͔̲a̝̻̩͔l͕̝͚̮͇̹̗̕l͖̥e̲̹͓̯̮d̞ ̞̻̻̝̝̙̳J͏͖o̻͚͔̮e̝̹̮̣̬̞͚ ̻̬̤͈͔́M͎̘̤̭̦ul̯̕l̷͙i̺̰̫̼g͉̼̠a̱͢n̙̦̰͉.͎̲̹̜̥͘”

“Oh, hello.”

Joe responded in a slightly surprised but otherwise calm manner as he stared up at the writhing mass of darkness above him. He even gave it a little wave, though the shackles on his wrists made that a bit difficult.

“Are you the matchmaker?” he asked hopefully.

“… T̲͓̹h͏͉̞͚̮͖̻̖e̡͍̪̘̱ ͈̥̣w̢ha̷̮̠̻t̜̞̦?̞̜”

“Y’know. The matchmaker. The one who can make all my dreams of finding a girlfriend come true?”