(no subject)

Tuesday, October 2nd, 2002
Columbia University, Manhattan
Basement

There had been no sleep last night- small surprise. Ray had been thinking, and that kind of thing tended to preclude the possibility of sleep. He'd taken the precaution of stopping at the nearest coffee shop (not Starbucks, thank you) to his apartment before getting on the train to work; while advanced cogitation was great for keeping you awake at night, sooner or later that darned pesky sack of meat called the human physiology demanded its toll, and if he was going to get anything done today at all, he was going to need stimulants to do it. Coffee qualified. Oh, it wasn't anything like the products of the rig he'd built after seeing I Come in Peace, but it was still coffee and that was good.

Especially since he had a phone call he had to make if he was going to have a snowball's chance in Kuthu of diverting the wrath of Ereshkigal from the city.

55 Central Park West
26th Floor

The phone rang.

"Hi, this is Louis Tully, I'm about to head out the door so I really hope this is good-"

"Mr. Tully, I'm told that you're one of the best certified public accountants on the island of Manhattan."

Louis blinked several times, but to his credit, rallied swiftly. "Uh, I don't know if I'd necessarily say that, sir-"

"Nonsense, Mr. Tully. I've seen your performance in the past and I've talked to people who've used your services."

He smiled. He couldn't help it. "Well, okay, I guess I am pretty good- can I help you, Mr...."

"Doctor, Mr. Tully, or Professor if you'd rather. My name is Ray Stantz and I need some help arranging a truly massive home equity loan."

If he hadn't been holding the handset, Louis would have rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "Just how massive are we talking about, Professor? Because there's an awful lot of ways to structure this kind of thing..."

(no subject)

Thursday, October 4, 2002
Columbia University
Basement

In a hallway under the Columbia University psychology department, one man grabbed another by the upper arm as they passed in opposite directions. "Egon. C'mere. I need to talk to you."

"Venkman, I'm in something of a hurry here-"

"It's about Ray."

Silence.

"I think he's losing it, Egon- seriously. I know he's pretty flighty normally and he gets into things over his head sometimes, but this is ridiculous."

More silence, though perhaps there was something more of tension to it now.

"Is it true what I heard? Did he really take out a loan on his family house to start building those proton things he's suddenly working on?"

"... yes."

A sigh, half exasperated, half resigned. "Dammit. He's gone completely off the deep end over this Shandor thing."

"No, he hasn't."

"Not you too, Egon-"

"This is serious, Peter. I believe everything Ray's hypothesized about that building and about the city's current situation. All my tests and readings have indicated that he's somehow stumbled onto something that could very well be an end-of-civilization-level event if it isn't stopped as soon as possible."

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me!" There was the sound of a hand against a forehead. "I expect this kind of thing from him, but you-"

"We're in a tremendous amount of trouble, Peter, whether you like it or not. How Ray came across this information in the first place I don't even pretend to know, but the fact of the matter is that Miss Barrett's building-"

"Yeah, about that- are you sure he hasn't just-"

"No, Peter. It isn't because of her. I assure you."

"I dunno, Egon-"

"Believe me, I've seen them interact. She's got a level of interest in him that goes beyond the normal gratitude of a parapsychological perceptive who's found a believer, but there's no reciprocation whatsoever on his part. I don't know if he's even noticed that she's female."

"That sounds like the Ray Stantz I know, all right. You're sure?"

"Positive."

More silence.

"... think these proton doodads are going to work?"

"Yes. But I don't think they'll be enough."

"How 'not enough' are we talking here, Spengs?"

"I think the Shandor Building is going to attain critical mass sometime in the next seventy-two hours, that the resultant dimensional collapse and puncture will succeed in at least summoning the herald of Ereshkigal, and that the city- if not most of the North American continent- will be subjected to a reign of undead terror the likes of which hasn't been seen since the days of Gilgamesh."

"You know, that's what I like about you. You're such an optimist."

(no subject)

Friday, October 5, 2002
Columbia University, Manhattan
Basement

Eventually someone was going to come around to ask him what he'd wanted with that many smoke detectors. Ray knew how it worked. Sooner or later a hardware store owner would realize that nobody bought twenty of the things in a single day, and they'd mention it to someone else, and they'd say there'd been a weirdo in their store buying them too. There would be questions at Hosokawa Micron Powder Systems, at Roditi International, at Electron Hut- all kinds of places. Nobody bought that many chemicals or prefab parts, at one go. The police would get involved. Maybe the FBI. Possibly- hah- possibly the EPA, given what some of the power cell components could do if they got dropped in the wrong place by mistake.

On the other hand, none of those people were here, so it didn't really matter and he wasn't about to let it matter. He had work to do.

He'd finished two packs already. The third was- mm- looked like five-eighths of the way done. No hydrogen fuel cells to work from here, since the city clean-bus initiative didn't seem to exist, but he'd found an alternative going through the physics department's discards. (Another source of questions, maybe, but maybe not- you never really knew around here.) Some surprisingly advanced collider elements had turned up on the Net; the supplier had been located in Queens, so he'd lost no time at all there. It was just a matter of putting the whole thing together without setting it off-

Oh, who was he kidding? Three packs required three wearers, and Peter wasn't going to do it. He'd gone through the phone books and the Internet alike looking for Winston and the man was nowhere to be found- Ray had a sinking feeling that this world's Winston Zeddemore had never left the military. Tully, maybe, might be able to do it, or even Dana, but his stomach clenched every time he considered the prospect of either one. Part of him was wondering if it might not be worthwhile to check a certain mental institution in Albany- who knew? Maybe this world's Mike Draverhaven wasn't as screwed up, or had gotten better, or something.

None of the speculating was slowing him down, mind. Fretting had very little effect on his ability to get actual work done. He'd built enough proton packs in the animated continuum, and at Milliways, and at home. His hands knew what had to be done, even if his brain was elsewhere. He had his parts, he had his tools, he had his procedure, he just didn't have his people. And all New York was going to pay, no matter how fast he worked or what else he did. . .

"Ray?"

"Go away, Peter," Ray said evenly, not looking up. "I'm right in the middle of routing a particularly tricky plasma circuit and the presence of someone telling me I'm out of my mind isn't going to make it any easier."

"That's not what I'm here for."

Inhaling deeply, Ray closed his eyes. He set his tools down on the counter. "You aren't helping, you know," he said quietly. "I'm trying to work here." It was easier to be angry at Peter than the world. At least if he was angry at Peter, it might change something.

Peter didn't say anything.

"Thank you," Ray said, and reached for the tools again.

"Ray, I-"

He spun around on one heel, soldering iron in his hand. "Out," he said to a wide-eyed, shocked Peter. "Right now. I don't care if you're here to call me insane again or not by this point but I don't need the interruption, okay? So unless the building is on fire-"

"Not this building," Peter said.

". . . oh, no."

"Yeah," Peter said dully. "The, uh, the sky sort of. . . apparently has this gigantic rip in it over the-"

Whatever he was going to say would never be heard. Ray swore and grabbed one of the completed packs, thrusting it at Peter. "Here! Take this and find Spengler! We haven't got time to explain- we've got to get down there yesterday!"

(no subject)

Friday, October 5, 2002
Henry Hudson Parkway, Manhattan
Yellow Cab #10452
Back Seat

As Omar deftly swung past the maniac bicyclist who had decided that now was the perfect time to take his chances with the Henry Hudson, Ray couldn't help but experience a pang of regret. Ecto, ol' girl, he thought, if I get out of this and back to you, I am never going to take you for granted again. Not that he did anyway, but at a time like this, with Peter to one side of him and Egon to the other, and only about enough space for any two of them, he sure felt like he had.

"Have you given any thought to how we're going to actually get into the building once we get there?" Egon asked. "In all likelihood the police've already cordoned off the block."

"Yeah, Ray, and my charm and boyish good looks don't do much good against most of New York's finest."

"It's okay," Ray said quietly, trying not to let the latest curve dig anyone's elbows into his ribs. "I'll get us in there."

"As I recall," Peter said, "that's almost exactly what you said when Egon here pointed out that you don't have a proton pack yet."

"No, I said I'd manage when we got there."

"Close enough. Care to let-" Peter grabbed for the door handle; Omar was a damned fine driver, but everyone else on the highway had gone insane today. "Care to let us in on your little secret?"

There was a spring poking into his butt and he didn't dare shift his weight to either side. "Not in here."

"And why not?" Peter asked.

"Because I don't think our driver wants me to turn his cab into a convertible."

"I most certainly do not," Omar returned. "Thank you very much, Dr. Stantz, but I like my car the way it is."

"No problem, Omar."

68th Street and Broadway
Manhattan

Under other circumstances Omar would have peeled away from the corner as fast as his car's engine could take him, but the instinct of self-preservation is occasionally thwarted, and this was one such occasion. The phenomenon in the sky was no mere blackening cloudbank, no atmospheric disturbance- oh, no. No indeed. It was wrong. Above the hulking forms of the apartment buildings on the block ahead of them there was a vast space of not there, a terrible swath of sky that made the eye water and the brain ache just to look at it, as if dimensions four through nineteen had ganged up on one, two, and three and thrown them bodily out of existence. It is very, very hard not to stare at something so wonderfully monstrous as that.

Save, perhaps, when the terrified sussurrus of crowds a full side-street deep gives way to exclamations. He jerked his attention back to street level, where the crowds were starting to point towards his passengers-

Merciful Allah! he thought. Where did that man get a lightsaber? It can't be real, can it?

Apparently the police officer at the edge of the crowd had the same question. And apparently Dr. Stantz was prepared for it, because a few seconds later the POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS saw-horse lay in two smoking halves on the ground.

The crowds parted; the men from the university went through; Omar looked up at the sky once more, got into his cab, and set a course for Parsippany, New Jersey just as fast as he could possibly go.

(no subject)

55 Central Park West
Manhattan
Central Stairwell

"Ray?"

"Yeah, Pete?"

"Next time-"

"If there is a next time-"

"Thank you, Egon... next time this happens? And you have a lightsaber?"

"Yeah?"

"USE IT TO MAKE THE COPS TURN THE ELEVATORS BACK ON."

55 Central Park West
Corner Penthouse

"Okay, I'll grant you that was an impressive use of the saber, but I think your girlfriend-"

"She's not my girlfriend."

"-is gonna be upset about her wall-"

"You assume the building's still going to be standing when all of this is over."

"Egon, put a sock in it."

55 Central Park West
Rooftop

There was no door to open at the top of those stairs, only masonry to crouch behind. Ray hadn't minded before, but somehow it just didn't feel right now. There ought to be a door. Lord knew they were crossing a threshold, given how vile the air felt around him. . .

For all that he'd labored months over his saber, for all that it meant and stood for, he still suddenly found himself wishing he could trade the thing for one more working proton pack. Those were his babies.

Behind him he could hear Peter's feet, and Egon's, but he scarcely listened. Ahead, he could hear voices, and they were speaking in Sumerian.

"My mistress waits." It was a voice like a sock full of gravel, belonging to someone who sounded as if he ought to be choking on his own spittle. "I would not keep her longer."

"Nor would I, dread one," soothed the other voice, and oh, it was all too healthy, all too human. Accented, too, though in Sumerian it was hard to say how Ray could really tell.

"Ray," Peter whispered, "what are they saying?"

"Sssh!" That was Egon.

"The nasty voice's mistress is waiting for something," Ray translated. "The other guy's sucking up to him."

"How can you tell?"

"'Dread one' isn't really a marker of casual conversation in any language," Ray answered. "Now quiet!"

"I have waited long enough in this frail frame," the second voice continued, as gentle and mellifluous as any might imagine. "The great Queen does not need to wait one moment longer."

"Oh, that isn't good," Ray whispered, and Egon nodded furiously.

"I GOTTA TELL YOU, MISTER, I DON'T KNOW WHO YOU ARE BUT YOU'RE MAKING A REALLY BIG MISTAKE, IT ISN'T A GOOD IDEA TO-"

"Oh dear God that's Louis Tully!" Ray blurted, his voice nearly lost in the rooftop winds.

"Who?"

"OW OW OW THAT'S MY HAIR, NOT A TOUPEE, COULD YOU MAYBE CONSIDER LETTING GO OF THAT-"

"My accountant! He lives in this building! What the heck are they going to do?"

He stuck his head up, just enough to get a look at the tableau- Tully, his arms pinned behind his back by some kind of unwholesomely purplish energy-bond, was being pushed forward by a man a head taller than him. That man was dressed in dusty greys and browns- were those robes? No, not quite- a kilt, maybe? Yeah, it looked like one- and his long hair and beard alike were twisted into many individual coiling braids. There was a faint flicker of the same purple light about him as he looked to the third being: a presence too tall, too un-subtle, to be anything human. It was a man-shaped mass of seething shadows some seven feet tall, and merely looking at it put the sound of wriggling things and dripping dampness in the back of Ray's skull. He shivered.

The shadow being coughed- a wet, horrible sound, and yet one of no particular compulsion. If an end-stage consumptive were even capable of coughing once, politely, it would sound like that. The bearded man nodded and let go of Tully's hair. "As you wish," he said.

The accountant staggered, wheezing a little himself. "Oh, man, that was no fun at- eeep!"

From high above him, the shadow being crossed its arms. Tully cowered- though really, he could not have physically done much else without running into the thing.

"Quiet him for me, would you, Shandor?" the shadow-being said, voice writhing with vileness. "I would not carry him kicking through the Seven Gates."

Shandor?

Ray's eyes flicked to what he and Egon had decided was a sarcophagus complex. The stones were shoved aside- broken-

If you're going to invite a pantheon in, you're going to have to do it through a priest, aren't you? And if you're going to start with Ereshkigal, goddess of the dead...

Ivo Shandor never left this building, did he?

The kilted, bearded man had a club in his right hand and a sickle at his belt. Ray saw him raising the club as Tully tried to turn around-

"OH NO YOU DON'T!" he shouted, saber blade blazing green as he leapt to his feet.