Darrel Schweitzer - Cthulhu's Reign

“Here in Genova it is 2:30 in the afternoon. In New York it should be 7:30 in the morning, maybe 8:30, I am not sure exactly. But I am sure I saw an oval shape of light to the west , way beyond the New Jersey heights. Presumably that was the sun, although looking distorted. Unless it was the fireball from a nuclear weapon. But assume it was the sun. Right now it should not be evening in New York. Did any of you feel something strange about time after the shock while we walked here?”

I raised my hand, and he beckoned me to him, while Gabriella was apparently translating for the benefit of her two fellow citizens.

I said, “I felt as if I was walking over the same space many times. I even watched my feet to make sure they were moving forward.”

“And you are?” he asked.

“My name’s Sally Hughes. I work at CERN in Geneva. The big particle accelerator.”

“So you are a physicist!”

“No, I’m an administrative assistant in the Director-General Unit, Relations with the Host States Service. That means I deal with the various French and Swiss authorities, update regulations about the site we’re on, that sort of thing.”

Less than three per cent of the people at CERN were actual physicists. The site employed masses of engineers, electricians, low temperature specialists, just for instance. How else could CERN have functioned?

“But you are English?”

“My mother is Belgian. I went to school in Liège for a few years.”

“So you’re a bureaucrat, not a physicist.”

“I’m fairly familiar with what we’re doing scientifically at CERN. As are most of the staff.”

“Is anyone here a scientist?” demanded the German, but everyone shook their heads.

“Miss Hughes, was any important experiment at CERN scheduled for today?”

“All the experiments are important, and they happen constantly. But it can take a bit of time to interpret results.”

“Your physicists are trying to recreate the earliest primitive state of the universe, is that not so?”

“That’s an important part of it.”

The superintendent pulled out his mobile and jabbed, but then he frowned at its screen; whereupon he resorted to a fixed line phone on the desk, before gesturing helplessly, non-plussed. Quickly I discovered that my own mobile had no signal. Nor did those of others in our party. We were cut off.

“Did you observe,” our German asked me, “that the enormous krakens in the sea and the smaller but still sizable creatures in Paris had exactly the same appearance? As if the latter were identical to the former, merely on a smaller scale?”

I nodded. “I think I saw two of them join into one, and another suddenly divide into two.”

Ruefully: “I missed that. This suggests to me that both sizes are iterations of the same thing. Assuming that we were indeed watching reality, not a hoax.”

“Iterations?”

“The repetitions of a process, for instance in a computer program, or in fractal geometry such as the Mandelbrot set where the same figure is generated at ever diminishing scales. Or the pattern of a Blumenkohl , a cauliflower. Chaos theory gave rise to this.”

“You ain’t kidding about chaos!” cried a buxom American woman. “That was chaos from hell itself we saw in New York. Hell has broken through into the world! This is the end time right now . That’s the very Antichrist, as prophesied.”

“Verily it is ,” called out her presumed husband.

“Be calm, madam, sir,” said our German. “We must analyse. That is why we have brains.”

“ You seem to be a scientist,” I said to him quickly, in case the Americans might take offense.

“I am Thomas Henkel, a historical novelist of some reputation, but I have wide-ranging interests, particularly in the history of science present and past, including Chinese, which I taught myself. This is my spouse Angela.” Ann-gay-la .

“I’ll see if our bus is waiting for us,” announced Gabriella, perhaps clinging to a lifeline of routine.

“Excellent idea,” said Henkel, and we all filed out quickly in her wake.

The gateway, and that shimmery mist pressing upon the entrance. Gabriella strode towards and into the mist, promptly disappearing; just a moment later she was returning, and gaping at us all.

“I did not turn round!” she cried out. “Mother of God, I did not turn round . I walked straight. I swear that.”

“Come back here,” Henkel said in a consoling, though authoritative tone. “We must all stay together now.” He alone was standing still, tall on a step, while the rest of us milled about. “Listen to me, while you, Gabriella, translate for your countrymen. If this is no hoax, such as we saw on the television before it failed, and if we are not somehow miraculously protected by nothing external being able to enter here, analogous to Signora Vigo being unable to leave — an assumption that we dare not make! — and if those krakens multiply and iterate themselves at progressively smaller scales, being all essentially reflections of the same entity, then we might encounter one or more within these very walls, of a scale more in accordance with our own size. For which reason, we must all arm ourselves with whatever suitable maintenance tools the Superintendent can make available immediately .”

This certainly made sense, as did the wisdom of acting in an organised manner as regards morale, which might have been Henkel’s major motive. Major or general, I thought. Well, someone needed to take charge.

“Miss Hughes,” he called out to me, “I need an aide, or rather an adjutant.” So Henkel was indeed thinking of himself as a sort of high- ranking officer. “I believe your job qualifies you. We shall see to introductions and assess our skills just as soon as we are all armed.”

From a storeroom near the entrance we were soon equipped, like some band of medieval peasants cajoled to war, with spades, various forks, a scythe, a couple of sickles, shears that could stab, hammers. I myself took a fork and Henkel a spade that could deliver a flat blow as well as jabbing or slicing; and now our impromptu general could get on with formal introductions, to the extent that we hadn’t already spent a whole morning together informally. Dutifully I listed the names and occupations in a notebook taken from the office.

Thomas Henkel, historical novelist, German

Angela Henkel, ex-archivist, researcher, German

Hans-Ulrich Kempen, literary translator, German

Sally Hughes, CERN administrator, British

Gabriella Vigo, guide, Italian

Rudolfo Grasso, cemetery superintendent, Italian

Gianni Celle, cemetery assistant, Italian

Jimmy Garrett, evangelic Protestant pastor, American

Mary-Sue Garrett, business secretary, 1970s Kansas beauty queen, American

Paul Goldman, Harvard University Press, American

Betsy Goldman, romantic novelist, American

Alice Goldman, their teenage daughter, American

Wim Ruyslinck, architect, Dutch

Anne Gijsen, art student, Dutch, Wim’s girlfriend

Dionijs Ruyslinck, Wim’s elder brother, computer assieted designer, Dutch

Nellie van Oven, art historian, Dutch

Anders Strandberg, bank manager, Swedish

Selma Strandberg, financial consultant, Swedish

Bruce Ballantyne, wine merchant, Australian

Jack Ballantyne, teenage son, Australian

Iain Mackinnon, gap year student of geography, Scottish

Katie Drummond, ditto but archeology, Scottish, Iain’s girlfriend

Laszlo Michaleczky, computer programmer, on honeymoon, Hungarian

Zsuzsa Michaleczky, lawyer, on honeymoon, Hungarian

Our ages ranged from a guesstimated 65 for our general down to 15 or 16 for the American girl Alice who kept chewing at her lip, looking scared, scythe in hand. Fortunately there were no small children among us.