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Jul. 19th, 2006 12:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gone_byebyeCentral Nevada
July 19, 2006
The figure making its way across the scrublands of the Nevada desert would have been a comical sight indeed, had any been there to see; but there was no one to see. Somewhere very far back, north towards Winnemucca, there had been a lone sign reading:
WARNING
THIS ROAD CROSSES A UNITED STATES AIR FORCE BOMBING RANGE
FOR THE NEXT TWELVE MILES
DANGEROUS OBJECTS MAY DROP FROM AIRCRAFT
That pretty much kept possible spectators away. Which was enough for Ray, really. Explaining the clothing ("White's supposed to be the coolest under desert conditions, right?"), the sunblock ("I already have SPF 30 on most of my skin but the blue zinc oxide's going to cut down on the glare under my eyes and along my nose"), and the backpack ("The Rim Runner is the largest capacity hydration pack Camelbak makes!") had been quite enough. Explaining the test equipment? Mleh. Not something he was looking forward to.
Fortunately, there was no one there to see it as he parked the Jeep by the side of the road, and no one to ask why he was hauling the big brushed-metal case through the desert like something out of a cable television commercial. If anyone saw him pacing out the circumference of the biggest open, plant-free space he could find, they were probably of the phylum Arthropoda, and thus uninclined to ask questions. Any witnesses to the careful consultation of an ordinary magnetic compass- his PDA, while possessed of GPS service, wasn't reliable out here- were reptiles or rodents, and unlikely to care. The PKE scan of every possible point along the open space's edge went unnoticed entirely, and the placement of the miniature Beam generator prototypes themselves.... well, all right, someone might have seen that, if only by satellite or by leaning to look out a window on the lone plane that passed overhead. But one more crazy person in the desert was no big deal, and so even that, fundamentally, went unnoticed.
Fine with Ray. Stage fright was not very high on his list of priorities just now.
Three minutes to Trinity, he'd said once, back when the PKE beacon was still an unknown almost. Teller's line about setting the atmosphere on fire had been taking up most of the free space in his head then. It was gone now, replaced by the cold creeping silence that tended to sneak up on him in the night- the great silent void of perspective. As he set up the control console on the last of the prototypes, he did his best to ignore the feeling, but it was still there: what do you think you're doing, anyway? You fight things that make slime, and you can't convince the rest of the scientific community that you're anything but a weirdo, and you're 'the fuzzy one' in the eyes of the New York public- you do know you're insane, right? Half the technology in these things is scientifically impossible and the rest of it is magically ridiculous. Is there a reason you haven't retreated to an occult bookstore on Eighty-seventh and taken up selling rune manuals to Columbia freshmen out for a little light introduction to the paranormal?
Hello? Are you listening to me?
Nothing irritates your fears of inadequacy quite like going on and doing what you're supposed to anyway. By the time the script of personal and scientific inadequacies finished playing itself out in his head, Ray's finger was hovering above the big red button. That hadn't been part of the original controls, but he'd felt it was important to include one. Too many evil overlords had fallen because the last step of their plan had involved aligning the twelve stones of power on the altar at the moment of eclipse just before invoking the amulet. Big red button was the way to go every time.
One last, deep breath, one check to make sure the holocomputer camera was recording everything, and he pushed it.
What he'd expected, he didn't really know. Eddie had mentioned the Beams being visible in the sky in Mid-World, but never described them. All Ray knew for sure was that the desert air wrinkled, and there was an enormous thrum feeling through every molecule of his bones as the machinery sprang into life. When he pulled his goggles down he could about make out the nebulous lines of power lancing from prototype to prototype, meeting and crossing in the center. The sight gave him the willies (too much like crossing the streams to really sit well with him), but he knew the real mojo was going on in other dimensions he couldn't even begin to persuade the old goggles to perceive. It was all there, all right. The readouts said so, even if he himself was lacking in the ability to really touch on it.
Story of his life, that.
After about ten minutes he judged that he had enough data to go on. Now came the important part: the off signal. A shift in the para-transference wave harmonic along a sub-current routed through several of the dimensional loops River and the Doctor had helped him isolate should, theoretically, propagate along the Baby Beam's length and radiate outward from the central nexus, running upstream along each of the remaining Baby Beams until the interference at the generators themselves forced a shutdown. For this, he didn't plan on pressing any big red button. Oh no. No, for this there was something far more suitable, something to which long years of experience had made him accustomed.
( "The light is green-" )
The only other control on the panel was the black-handled switch. Big enough to be pulled with two hands, light enough to only need one. Ray glanced at the holocomp again, crossed his fingers, and pulled it.
If he was expecting something visually incredible he sure didn't see it, but it registered. Something changed in the thrumming through his bones, a brief fingernails-on-chalkboard feeling. Very brief, mercifully, because it suddenly swelled to intolerable proportions (probably hitting the nexus), shivered in the air-
( "-the trap is clean." )
And one by one, the remaining prototypes shut down and the Baby Beams winked out.
Ray threaded the tube from the Camelbak over his shoulder and took a good long drink of the water. The way his palms were sweating, he kinda figured he was entitled.
He made sure the holocomp was turned off before doing the Ass Dance of Victory, to which he figured he was also entitled.
July 19, 2006
The figure making its way across the scrublands of the Nevada desert would have been a comical sight indeed, had any been there to see; but there was no one to see. Somewhere very far back, north towards Winnemucca, there had been a lone sign reading:
WARNING
THIS ROAD CROSSES A UNITED STATES AIR FORCE BOMBING RANGE
FOR THE NEXT TWELVE MILES
DANGEROUS OBJECTS MAY DROP FROM AIRCRAFT
That pretty much kept possible spectators away. Which was enough for Ray, really. Explaining the clothing ("White's supposed to be the coolest under desert conditions, right?"), the sunblock ("I already have SPF 30 on most of my skin but the blue zinc oxide's going to cut down on the glare under my eyes and along my nose"), and the backpack ("The Rim Runner is the largest capacity hydration pack Camelbak makes!") had been quite enough. Explaining the test equipment? Mleh. Not something he was looking forward to.
Fortunately, there was no one there to see it as he parked the Jeep by the side of the road, and no one to ask why he was hauling the big brushed-metal case through the desert like something out of a cable television commercial. If anyone saw him pacing out the circumference of the biggest open, plant-free space he could find, they were probably of the phylum Arthropoda, and thus uninclined to ask questions. Any witnesses to the careful consultation of an ordinary magnetic compass- his PDA, while possessed of GPS service, wasn't reliable out here- were reptiles or rodents, and unlikely to care. The PKE scan of every possible point along the open space's edge went unnoticed entirely, and the placement of the miniature Beam generator prototypes themselves.... well, all right, someone might have seen that, if only by satellite or by leaning to look out a window on the lone plane that passed overhead. But one more crazy person in the desert was no big deal, and so even that, fundamentally, went unnoticed.
Fine with Ray. Stage fright was not very high on his list of priorities just now.
Three minutes to Trinity, he'd said once, back when the PKE beacon was still an unknown almost. Teller's line about setting the atmosphere on fire had been taking up most of the free space in his head then. It was gone now, replaced by the cold creeping silence that tended to sneak up on him in the night- the great silent void of perspective. As he set up the control console on the last of the prototypes, he did his best to ignore the feeling, but it was still there: what do you think you're doing, anyway? You fight things that make slime, and you can't convince the rest of the scientific community that you're anything but a weirdo, and you're 'the fuzzy one' in the eyes of the New York public- you do know you're insane, right? Half the technology in these things is scientifically impossible and the rest of it is magically ridiculous. Is there a reason you haven't retreated to an occult bookstore on Eighty-seventh and taken up selling rune manuals to Columbia freshmen out for a little light introduction to the paranormal?
Hello? Are you listening to me?
Nothing irritates your fears of inadequacy quite like going on and doing what you're supposed to anyway. By the time the script of personal and scientific inadequacies finished playing itself out in his head, Ray's finger was hovering above the big red button. That hadn't been part of the original controls, but he'd felt it was important to include one. Too many evil overlords had fallen because the last step of their plan had involved aligning the twelve stones of power on the altar at the moment of eclipse just before invoking the amulet. Big red button was the way to go every time.
One last, deep breath, one check to make sure the holocomputer camera was recording everything, and he pushed it.
What he'd expected, he didn't really know. Eddie had mentioned the Beams being visible in the sky in Mid-World, but never described them. All Ray knew for sure was that the desert air wrinkled, and there was an enormous thrum feeling through every molecule of his bones as the machinery sprang into life. When he pulled his goggles down he could about make out the nebulous lines of power lancing from prototype to prototype, meeting and crossing in the center. The sight gave him the willies (too much like crossing the streams to really sit well with him), but he knew the real mojo was going on in other dimensions he couldn't even begin to persuade the old goggles to perceive. It was all there, all right. The readouts said so, even if he himself was lacking in the ability to really touch on it.
Story of his life, that.
After about ten minutes he judged that he had enough data to go on. Now came the important part: the off signal. A shift in the para-transference wave harmonic along a sub-current routed through several of the dimensional loops River and the Doctor had helped him isolate should, theoretically, propagate along the Baby Beam's length and radiate outward from the central nexus, running upstream along each of the remaining Baby Beams until the interference at the generators themselves forced a shutdown. For this, he didn't plan on pressing any big red button. Oh no. No, for this there was something far more suitable, something to which long years of experience had made him accustomed.
( "The light is green-" )
The only other control on the panel was the black-handled switch. Big enough to be pulled with two hands, light enough to only need one. Ray glanced at the holocomp again, crossed his fingers, and pulled it.
If he was expecting something visually incredible he sure didn't see it, but it registered. Something changed in the thrumming through his bones, a brief fingernails-on-chalkboard feeling. Very brief, mercifully, because it suddenly swelled to intolerable proportions (probably hitting the nexus), shivered in the air-
( "-the trap is clean." )
And one by one, the remaining prototypes shut down and the Baby Beams winked out.
Ray threaded the tube from the Camelbak over his shoulder and took a good long drink of the water. The way his palms were sweating, he kinda figured he was entitled.
He made sure the holocomp was turned off before doing the Ass Dance of Victory, to which he figured he was also entitled.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 04:18 am (UTC)Desert, the waste lands, the big empty; desolation.
Pria-toi.
To create, to call forth from nothing; to will into being. To wish.
(Cam-a-cam-mal, pria-toi, Gan delah.)
Can-toi. The children of the desert.
What music they make.
One coyote howls, and another one picks it up; eventually Ray's got his own chorus going, both to the left and the right. Some of them are distant, and some of them are less so.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 04:21 am (UTC)The sounds- coyotes, right? You don't get wolves out here, do you?- are kind of unnerving. Consider it a PBS special, he tells himself.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 04:26 am (UTC)A wise man once said: In these silences, something may rise. Like, howls.
This time in full panorama; left, right, front and back. Coyotevision, baby. A couple of slat-ribbed shaggy yellow beasties squat directly ahead, hazy with distance and heat; they stand and begin to pad forward even as they come into view.
(rattle)
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 04:32 am (UTC)Ray's met Native American entities in the Bar. Raven. Wiskadejak. Not Coyote. As he remembers it...
Well, as he remembers it, Coyote isn't all that nice. He's the one who juggled his eyeballs, stole other spirits' wives, did things with-
Yeah. Um. Speaking of PBS, he's almost sure coyotes aren't supposed to gather in packs this large. Little family groups maybe. Not this many critters, though.
"I don't suppose any of you guys speak English, do you?" he tries, all the while mentally calculating how far he has to go to get back to the Jeep he rented in Winnemucca.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 04:36 am (UTC)The three behind him flop noisily into a tangle on the hardpan and look up, tongues lolling.
The rattling is definitely getting more pronounced.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 04:41 am (UTC)He looks around for the rattlesnake, but his free hand is reaching for his PKE meter.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 04:44 am (UTC)A couple more pad up from the brush off to the left, and one comes over a ridge on the left, followed by another, and another, making a swift canine jog towards what is, increasingly, a ring of coyotes around him.
A couple of rattlers slipslide from beneath rocks, filling in the gaps; from the noise, there's more where those came from.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 04:54 am (UTC)Heeeeeeee's just gonna put that big ol' case down now, mmkay? Especially since the meter arms are rising more, particularly when he turns. Something's coming. Something a good deal bigger.
Winnemucca's too damn far away all of a sudden.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 04:57 am (UTC)A deep, throaty howl, far louder and stronger than the coyotes's, rises from the distance, and the coyotes reply, throwing their heads back.
Far off in the distance, a wildcat screams.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 05:02 am (UTC)"Suddenly I wish I were Steve Irwin."
Violence? One thing. Poison? Something else again. And him without his-
Well, no, he only ever developed the plans for-
Those he never came up with at all-
No, he did bring the Swiss Army knife, it's just useless-
Ace? No, she wouldn't've fit in his pocket-
What has it got in its pocketses? Oh, indeed indeed. He smiles and switches the meter off, shoving it back into place and grabbing the butt end of his 'sabre, stashed (as always) in the largest pocket of his cargo pants.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 05:17 am (UTC)(Who's surprised?)
Except, then again, it's not a timberwolf. A timberwolf should not be the size of a small pony. The coyotes cower, flattening their bellies in the dust, and the serpents and vermin slither out from under his enormous passing paws.
The eyes are dull agates, opaque-looking; foam slathers from his jaw.
(Wolves do not, normally, attack humans; it's not in their nature. They will run before they fight, and generally try to avoid people if at all possible.
This wolf was a normal wolf; but he chased the wrong rabbit, stuck his nose in the wrong hole. It could have happened to any one. Now there are things in his blood, things that are devouring his brain from the inside, he's thirsty, burning inside, but water repulses him. And his simple beast's mind is becoming, more and more, a fog of rage and hate and pain.
That's nature for you; that's rabies. But this event sets up a resonance; connects this wolf with the Wolf, the great Wolf who was once a Guardian of man and his worlds but was changed and was infected and who is dying, insane and terribly angry.
This wolf is an avatar. And if it is too much of a coincidence for you that he should be here, interrupting this work, then consider the scripture according to Lovecraft:
The universe is bigger and stranger than we can imagine and full of powers beyond our conception. And they do not mean us well.)
Ka-Maugrim, the avatar of the Wolf, howls, and the can-toi-tete tremble. And then he growls, and gathers himself for the spring.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 05:29 am (UTC)It has been said on more than one occasion that Dr. Stantz, for all that he may be a brilliant man, has roughly the survival instincts of Solanum melongena. Today...
( secure yourself to heaven / hold on tight, the night has come )
Well.
The sound of Ray's response, they say, is best rendered as snap-hiss, and the light of the Nevada desert becomes just that tiny bit greener.
Possibly there are hints of the wily jungle eggplant to be found here.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 05:38 am (UTC)Let time draw out. Let the tumbleweeds roll.
Listen for that spaghetti western cry on the edge of hearing.
In the end, it always comes down to the showdown. And in the end, somebody's always got to strike first.
The leap.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 05:48 am (UTC)'Course, now it's coming at him faster than a Nolan Ryan special. Whumm goes the 'sabre, up and out and across in a move that's half block (thank you, training drone), half iaido draw (thank you, John Preston). He won't be staying in the block, though. This isn't a duel. This thing is inhuman, intelligent (maybe crazed, yeah, but intelligent), and out to kill him dead. As far as he can see, this means he's got a license to boogie.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 05:54 am (UTC)Far more than upsetting is the brush of the glowing-stick thing along its flank, scorching hair and muscle. It gives a pained howl-cry and rounds about, circling away from the painful burning thing.
The other animals whine uneasily, their loyalty already pressed to its limit. They don't want to be here, and now the commanding intelligence gripping them is wobbling and incoherent.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 05:59 am (UTC)Even if Ray could anticipate the deranged wolf's next move, he's got venomous THINGS around him to worry about stepping on. He skitters back and sideways, 'sabre low, eyes mostly on the wolf but flickering now and again to the surrounding henchbeasts. "Come on," he mutters. "What're you waiting for?"
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 06:02 am (UTC)The other animals try desperately to get out of the human's way, panic beginning to leak in.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 06:08 am (UTC)The wolf lunges. Ray goes down on one knee- it's more accurate to say one of his feet goes out from under him, but the net result is the same- and has just enough presence of mind, even as he's dropping, to swing at the beast. The way it's moving he's not going to be able to kill it with this strike. He knows that for sure. He might, however, be able to take out some of its offensive capacity, though.
Because really, it's all fun and games until somebody loses a manipulating appendage. And then it's a lightsabre battle.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 06:12 am (UTC)It rolls across an errant rattler; when the snake rears up, hissing furiously, the wolf lunges forward and bites through the snake's neck, severing the head.
That didn't last long.
It clumsily rises on three legs and one twitching, cauterized stump, and with an awkward hopping gait tries to prepare another lunge.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 06:17 am (UTC)Okay, maybe not in the biting of poisonous reptiles until the reptiles die area, but still.
He makes it back to his feet but stays crouched low, presenting the smallest profile he can manage while still being able to move. It's got to come at him where he is now. The smaller the strike zone, the better.
(He could really use another mouthful of water about now, because damn he's starting to feel dry in all the wrong places.)
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 06:20 am (UTC)It comes down on Ray's back, the still-intact front paw slamming heavily down around his neck, slavering jaws snapping at his face. The stink is prodigious. Worms crawl in the corner of one eye, visible at this range. Long front toenails dig into the ghostbuster's shoulder.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 06:31 am (UTC)Did we mention that Ray is not the masked man in black, nor the Dread Pirate Roberts? No, really, it's relevant. See, they are not left handed. Whereas Ray? Totally is.
The blade flickers out of existence for the fraction of a second that it takes to flip the 'sabre handle around so it faces in the opposite direction. Then his thumb flicks it back on-
Whmmmmmmm is not a noise that anybody, let alone a rabid demon wolf chock full of maggots, wants to hear that close to their soft squishy bits. Especially not when it's coming from something whose wielder just jerked it straight upwards in a lovely clean tearing motion a Chicago butcher would envy.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 06:41 am (UTC)It seems a lot smaller, dead.
(So passes one of the Twelve Guardians; O Discordia, the world grows dark)
The coyotes howl, in unison and forlorn; mourning. Then they run like hell for the horizons, getting as far away from Ray and each other and the other animals as they can.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-19 06:53 am (UTC)He'd close its eyes or something, but, well, rabies. Still, there are things you ought to do in a situation like this...
( At another house, where people were stirring, he asked questions about the gods, and whether they danced often upon Lerion; but the farmer and his wife would only make the Elder Sign and tell him the way to Nir and Ulthar. )
He's made the hand gesture a hundred times or more since the animated continuum. It's the best he can offer before he forces himself back to his feet and starts the trek back to the Jeep, the brushed-metal case in hand. There'll be a doctor in Winnemucca who can fix him up with a preventative Pasteur series.
And then he's NEVER GOING ANYWHERE NATURAL EVER AGAIN.