The sign of Karka, the Crab, reigned high in the sky over the One and Only Secret Temple of the Nine Unknown Men. Rather, it reigned high over one of the One and Only Secret Temples—one of the hundreds that dotted the seven continents of the Earth. The Nine Unknown, the keepers of the world’s most powerful ancient knowledge, had a number of curious traditions, and it was these traditions that served to make a joke of the name of their great place of worship. It was their custom that each of their number would independently become leader of his own Nine, taking for himself nine lieutenants—who in turn would take nine aides of their own. These nine then took their own nine servants, who took their own, and so on and so forth into infinity. Thus were the Nine, who could shatter cities with metal discs the size of coins, and unlock the innermost secrets of time and space, but one Nine in a sea of Nines, Nines all the way down, most of them false and corrupt in nature. If the true Nine were Gods—if there was indeed such a thing as the true Nine—then all others were like Demiurges, delusional impostor creators who writhed and seethed in their own ignorance. And each of these Demiurges, in their vanity, needed a fortress to pray and worship in.
So it was that the two of the Nine who spoke on this starry night, in the courtyard of this Temple, did not know if they were of the true Nine, or of one of the many Demiurge factions that had arisen over the last two thousand years. They knew that if they were truly worthy of the wisdom of the Nine it would not concern them what the truth was, for their only responsibility was to maintain the great power that the ancient Emperors had entrusted to them in centuries past—it was that that made them the Nine. The Unknown Men were guardians of the nine books of knowledge, which together held the answers to all the mysteries of science and technology; for generations they had guided humanity’s progress in accordance to the teachings of these tomes, as per the wishes of the long-dead enlightened Imperials.
Of course, just as there were seemingly-infinite Nines, there were also seemingly-infinite tomes, all of which had slightly different things to say about the nature of science and reality. All of the Nines asserted they alone held the truth, if only for the sake of the time-honored tradition of constant disagreement. All the Nines had always disagreed, and they felt they always had to do so, for the sake of ritual as much as for their own subjective truth. Some of them hoped that maybe this great disagreement might eventually lead to the revelation or alchemization of a final truth, a truth-beyond-truth, but there were just as many who felt the exact opposite. So it was with all controversies within their unwilling collective. All views, all interpretations were espoused, until they built and swelled into the senseless cacophony that was the real Nine’s greatest disguise.
It was this precise conundrum which now concerned these two possibly-real Nine members. All the members of the Nine usually kept themselves separate outside of their annual meetings, but these two had decided to visit each other out of sequence. They didn’t know each others’ faces—they didn’t even know each others’ names, if they had any. But now they felt an overwhelming urge to discuss their predicament with someone—anyone—and it made sense that only a fellow Unknown Man could understand.
“Look at this beautiful night,” said the first one, gazing up at the cosmic tapestry above. “It is but faint solace for the shame we bear.”
“Great shame indeed, brother,” nodded the second.
“Initially, there was sanctity within our order. We preserved the knowledge of Atlantis and Mu and Lemuria and all those other ancient places, places that were blessed by the deities themselves. We gave ourselves eternal life not out of greed but out of a sense of piety and duty. We carried out our rituals mindfully and with meaning. But now, an army of fakers has dragged our name through the mud and made us a thing of mockery.”
“It’s true,” agreed the second man.“By opening the gates to our supreme power, sharing it with the curious and the passionate, we have created innumerable bootlegs of ourselves.”
“Bootlegs?”
“Ah, apologies, an American term. I’m a Yank,” he said.
“Oh, I see.”
“My country’s recent era of alcoholic Prohibition has led to certain unscrupulous parties crafting their own liquor and selling it for heavy profits. These individuals often sell flasks on the street out of their boot-legs, hence ‘bootlegging.’ This independent underground means of manufacture has been applied in slang to any production of shady, unauthorized goods.”
“Ah. ‘Knockoffs,’ as it were.”
“There are dozens of bootleg Nines, bred by our foolishness. They pervert and distort our good name, our devotion to supreme knowledge!”
“Yes, there are all those who claim to be the true servants of Kali, when in fact we are Her sole devotees. There are those who have turned to the heretical worship of other deities. Furthermore, there is that one that claims to be made up of immortal cavemen, who like to rip off each others’ ge—”
“Stop! Do not speak of them any further. The mere mention of these false orders humiliates me by association.”
“And yet,” the first man said, “I find some of them strangely fascinating.”
“What do you mean? They’re disgusting, and sometimes even downright evil.”
“But don’t you see? What’s done is done. The mark is made. Even if that mark is tattooed in scandal it is still part of the Great Pattern.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Oh, yes, we are injured by their actions, those bootleggers. But of course we are, we’re the ones caught up in it. All the same, as pursuers of knowledge, we must force ourselves take on the eyes of a third party. We must look outside ourselves, and see ourselves not as participants, victim and victimizer, but as neutral observers of the timeline. Through that lens, I find myself uncannily fascinated—because I am tempted to try to syncretize it all, to make every scrap of contradictory madness from every mouth of every Unknown Man into something that reveals not only a holistic truth, but also something...democratic.” He sighed. “Like tumors, these ‘bootlegs’ threaten to constrict and murder their host if not controlled. But I understand how tempting it must be to take our lore and imagery and fly free with them.”
“A curious view on cancer, to be sure,” said a soft voice from the shadows. “I consider those tumors of yours to be malfunctions in spacetime, but what do I know?”
“Goddess!”
The two men turned and saw the leader of their Nine striding towards them, clad in her ceremonial violet armor. The pale, gray-haired woman was named Liar, but they called her Kali. She was, for their purposes anyway, the avatar of their goddess, or rather the goddess they told everyone was theirs.
They began to kneel, but she stopped them. “Don’t make fools out of yourselves,” she commanded. “And don’t look so scared. You’re not in trouble.”
“We—we live under orders to never meet outside of the annual congregation.”
“Oh, who cares about any of that? I’m much more curious about this discussion of bootlegs. Have either of you ever heard of Petey the Potoroo?”
They both stared at her awkwardly—having spent many lifetimes now in the business of keeping esoteric natural lore, they were shocked to hear such a mundane, contemporary reference.
“Yes, he’s that animated cartoon rodent fellow created by that American animator, Theo Darloogy,” the first Unknown Man said, speaking slowly.
“Petey is quite famous, isn’t he? (He’s a monotreme, by the way, not a rodent.) But he is hardly an original character. Unless you were a regular attendee of American cinemas in the prior decade I doubt you’d remember Bartholomew the Bilby.”
“Who?”
“Exactly. Bartholomew the Bilby was created by Darloogy’s mentor, Skarl Wessex, who was or will be the first person in human history to teach animation at a university level. Darloogy stole the scripts for the eighth, ninth, and eleventh Bartholomew shorts from Wessex and used them as the basis for the three cartoons he pitched to investors for a Petey the Potoroo series. Once he got his series off the ground, he filed such airtight trademarks that Wessex, to this day, is barred from even drawing Bartholomew the Bilby in his spare time, for his own pleasure.”
“I was aware that Darloogyfilm is prosecution-hungry against those they deem to infringe on their brand,” said the second man, “but I didn’t know the character they leveraged to do so was a ripoff to begin with.”
“Everything is a ripoff of some preexisting idea—it’s just that fame, privilege, wealth, marketing, and fannish senses of sanctity are often great determinants of what sorts of duplications that people deem acceptable. Or unacceptable.”
“How does that apply to our discussion of the false Nines Unknown?”
Liar, or Kali, smirked at them. “I sense that it may pertain to my most recent catch.”
She waved her hand, and suddenly in a puff of smoke the unconscious figure of a man appeared. He was an old, old man, likely eighty or older, with a long white beard and thick spectacles. He wore the garb of a Christian cleric.
“Who is this?” the first man demanded.
“He calls himself Father Cyprian. For decades now, he has been intent on capturing our sacred volumes and burning them.”
“What?!” the second man exclaimed.
“Blasphemy! Hideous blasphemy!” the other spat.
“Yes, well, that’s religious fanatics for you. If they can’t force you to agree with them with words, they’ll just commit cultural genocide to make themselves feel better.” Father Cyprian began to stir from his sleep, but Liar snapped her fingers, and he fell unconscious again. “I think that we should experiment on this man. Erase his memory and reshape him anew.”
“As he sought to destroy the truth of history, so shall we take his history from him,” the monks agreed.
Liar laughed proudly. “Take him to the Temple of the Manus, the First Men. There he shall become but a minor priest, forgotten under the boggy shadows of the Temple’s deepest dungeons.”
“That is an appropriate punishment,” the first Unknown Man said. “That Temple is insignificant in the grand scheme of our plans. Indeed, when it was plundered a couple of years ago by that American drunk, John Prendergast, it was hardly a matter of concern.”
“The Temple’s sewers will treat Father Cyprian well,” nodded Liar. “Let him be honored, this one—for Kali has chosen him for divine destruction!”
Liar smiled. Though she had spoken true, and knew the cancers of bootleggery to be Mal-Functions of reality, she saw this Cyprian as an opportunity to breed a cancer that would serve her designs.
* * *
When the man awoke strapped to a steel table, he knew he was in trouble. That feeling only deepened when smoothly-motorized metal arms emerged from the nearby wall and began to peel away his skin. He made no sound as the arms sank their greedy claws into his flesh, and peeled it back from the soft, tender wood within. The lights shone down bright on him—he could feel himself start to sweat. Yes—he was definitely in trouble.
Eventually, all the skin was peeled off of his arm—the metal “hands” released it and dropped it to the ground, like a hideous glove. All that was left underneath was wood, a long wooden branch that ended in a hand-shaped formation.
Behind him, someone loudly thrust open a door, and stepped into the sterile room. In moments a man was standing over the prisoner, a man dressed in hospital scrubs and a surgeon’s face-mask. A gloved hand moved up to remove the mask, and soon, Peter Wayne was gazing upon the bearded face of a madman.
“Who—who are you?” Wayne, the wooden man, demanded.
“An amusing question,” the bearded man replied, “given the alias that the media has ascribed to you, Mr. Wayne.”
Wayne tried not to lose his cool, but it was hard to do so in the moment.
“If you’re talking about those superhero comic books,” he muttered, “those were gross exaggerations of the events surrounding my crime spree.”
“So you weren’t actually called ‘Mister—’”
“Hush,” Wayne interrupted. “Even chained to a table, I refuse to accept the childish nonsense those funny papers thrust upon my reputation.”
“Of course, because your enterprise upon this Earth is so serious.”
“Ha! What do you know of my enterprises?”
“I know you’re not just a thief and a murderer, Mr. Wayne,” the bearded man said. “You’re also an opportunist, and a spy.”
At this point Peter Wayne ceased to speak—but his words were unnecessary. The masked man—Dr. Maubeuge was his name—would do all the talking for him.
“You claim to be Peter Wayne, grandnephew to the recently-deceased millionaire Silas Wayne, correct?” Wayne opened his mouth to answer, but Maubeuge raised a silencing finger. “Anyone who bothered to investigate the esteemed Wayne family tree would fail to spot any Wayne scion by the name of Peter, no matter how hard they looked.”
“M-my birth records were destroyed in—”
“In a fire, yes. That’s the story you’ve told everyone. But I don’t buy it, mostly because there is much more out there to indicate it’s a lie than not.” Maubeuge bent down, and lifted up the discarded skin. “Naturally, most humans don’t have your biology. But you’re only part human. You were spliced in with...something else. I admire your people’s ability to incorporate biotechnology into themselves, and none of their artificially-derived attributes is more impressive than their power to create perfect spies by grafting the DNA of other species into their saplings.”
“Then you know I am a Domitaar spy,” Wayne intoned then, understanding he’d been found out. “Are you...also an alien?”
“To this world? Oh, I’m as human as you are. But enough about me—this is all about you, my arboreal friend. Like I said, you’re an opportunist. When that whole debacle went down a few months ago at the time of Silas Wayne’s death, the murders and the summoning of the Shining One, and the birth of the latter’s squirming spawn, you stepped through, didn’t you? You crossed through from that same nebulous oblivion that bred the father of those loathsome parasites. You Domitaar dwell in that otherdimensional shadow-kingdom, plotting and brooding alongside legions of other monsters.”
“You’re very knowledgeable indeed, meat-creature,” said Wayne. “Now that you have me...what are you going to do to me, if I may ask?”
“To answer that question, we’ll have to go back in time,” the doctor said. “1946 is no place for us! 1940 has what we need.”
“What? Nobody can go back in time—not even my people.”
“But I am hardly nobody, my friend!” Maubeuge made a gesture, and the metal straps released. In that moment, Wayne considered using his newfound freedom to kill his captor. But as he sat up he chose to stay his hand. “Through my sponsors,” Maubeuge said, “I have means to take us to any time period we wish.”
“And—and what sort of incredible sponsors are those?!”
“Oh, I have many people backing my plans for you—the mining heiress Sarah Hendel, for one—the cyborg warlord Ido Danda—the mad scientist Richard Wizard—the brilliant Dr. Omega—”
“I have never heard of these people.”
“They’re all after your time.” Then, after a pause: “I’m certain you’ll find time-travel to be a very enlightening experience.”
Wayne started to grin. “Of that, I’ve little doubt.”
“Come with me, then, Mr. Wayne. Let the ultimate splicing begin…”
* * *
“Slaughter Slade?”
“Yes—I—am—he.”
“You have a visitor.”
The titanic convict raised a blond eyebrow. Who could possibly be coming to visit him on this, the night of his execution?
The guard admitted his guest, who stood shrouded in shadows. Slowly, the visitor stepped forward, until Slade, who was otherwise nearly unflappable, gasped loudly.
“It—is—you,” he said, in his stilted monotone. “Professor—Universe.”
The bearded, bespectacled, balding man did not betray a single iota of emotion on his face.
“Slaughter Slade,” Professor Universe said. “You have misused my book.”
“I—have—not. I—used—your—book—to—empower—Dr.—Allirog.” Dr. Allirog was a gorilla that Slade had surgically and genetically modified to possess the intelligence of a human. He had recently used a machine to implant in Allirog’s mind the complete contents of Universe’s Human Knowledge, a colossal book containing every fact known to man, with the hopes of making Allirog his hyper-intelligent Vice President upon completing his violent conquest of the United States. Needless to say, due to divine forces beyond his control, Slade was not President, nor was Allirog his VP—in fact, Allirog was dead, having fallen from a high building during a battle with the forces of law. Those same forces of law had sent Slade to prison like a common crook—when he had been raised to be the greatest human mind of all time.
“It was not easy to assemble that book,” Professor Universe went on. “I had to acquire no less than nine different volumes in order to compile the information contained therein. Of course, it helped that I was a monk of the order which kept those nine precious volumes—but it was still hardly an easy task.”
“I—never—learned—how—you—became—a—genius—Professor—Universe. Please—elucidate—me…”
“I was not born under the name of Universe, as you might expect. Once, I called myself Cyprian. That was before I became a servant of the Nine Unknown. You’ve heard of them?”
Slade was taken aback; for the first time in his life, the sweat of terror broke out on his brow.
“You—serve—the—Nine—Unknown—Men?”
“I did, before I rebelled against them. You see, though I’m grateful for them restoring my youth, and for ultimately (albeit unwillingly) granting me access to their nine volumes of knowledge, I eventually discovered that they had forced me into their service, by modifying my memories. I was once an enemy of theirs, you understand, and they found slavery and the destruction of my identity to be appropriate punishments for my transgressions against them.”
“But—you—restored—your—old—self—and—rebelled—against—them.”
“Yes. And I did so with a touch of irony. I had been forced to become a monk at the Temple of the Manus—the Manus being the First Men in Hinduism. To outsiders, it would appear that the monks of that Temple worshipped gorillas, despite such creatures not being found in India. But these Manus were actually the Hyumongonauts, a nearly-extinct species of hominids who once ruled ancient Earth. They were the first sapient civilization on this planet, and I made an alliance with one of the last survivors, a member of the diminished subspecies known as the Taurans. As a joke on being mistaken for a gorilla, this individual called himself…Dr. Allirog.”
“No—! I—created—Dr.—Allirog—from—a—gorilla! He—is—my—creation—”
“That’s what he and I led you to believe. Just as we led your father to believe in the necessity of creating a physical and intellectual super-son through the power of science. This was over twenty years ago, Slade. And you are barely over twenty yourself…”
Slaughter Slade found he couldn’t speak. Now he was trembling. The implications of Universe’s words were staggering.
“Why—would—you—have—my—father—create—me—?”
“Initially Allirog and I wanted a super-soldier to fight against an alien foe of ours, Dahksa Vahjj—we had your father copy the training Vahjj underwent when raising you. But fate has had other plans for you, and so I’m afraid I’ve no choice but to declare you a failed experiment.”
Only then was Slade aware of a presence behind him, inside his cell. Hot breath touched the back of his neck, and a foul, bestial smell touched his nostrils. He turned around slowly, already knowing what he would find.
“Dr.—Allirog—!”
Slade’s former colleague, and his creator, lunged at him, tearing him to shreds as thoroughly as he would have President Roosevelt had their plans come to fruition.
No one would ever learn that it was Allirog who had gained access to Slade’s cell, and dealt him his death. In fact, the state hardly investigated Slade’s demise. Whoever had ripped him limb from limb had done them a favor by sparing them the expense of finding an electric chair that would accommodate his colossally muscled frame.
Upon leaving the prison, Professor Universe sent his simian colleague to make contact with his fellow Hyumongonauts on Pharamündeaux Island, to begin spreading his agenda to their colony. Once Allirog departed his presence, the Professor signaled to his secret sponsor that all was in readiness—he’d upheld his part of the bargain.
* * *
Under the bright lights of the laboratory of Dr. Maubeuge’s curious vessel, Professor Universe studied the cell scrapings from “Peter Wayne”’s body. He was forced to conclude that no other organism in the universe had the adaptive power of the Domitaar. The tree-like aliens had shaped themselves to be the ultimate infiltrators, going so far as to boast that they could worm their way into ideas and concepts. Both he and Maubeuge doubted that claim, but it was clear that Wayne would only benefit from being fed imprints from outside sources—with one in particular offering unique potential.
“Think of it,” Maubeuge told his charges, as they sat in the control room of his impossible ship. “You could become the ultimate force for order in the universe. The greatest of impostors joined with the greatest of geniuses!”
“I recognize that combining two tremendous powers likely represents a chance of attaining…yet greater power,” Professor Universe said—and Wayne nodded as he said it. “But at the same time, it seems rather…random, does it not? I mean, an arboreal alien spy combined with a supergenius trained and reconditioned by a secret society of Hindu monks? There’s an element missing, and even with my great vocabulary, I can’t find a word that fits what I mean besides…‘theme.’”
“Yeah, I thought about that,” Wayne said. “You combine us into a single being, but—who’s to say we’ll mesh satisfactorily? I almost have to wonder if you’re doing this based on a preconceived notion of something.”
“You’re a time-traveler,” said Universe. “Have you seen what we become?”
Maubeuge’s bearded face held no glimpse of his inner feelings. “You will work together just fine, I’m sure,” he said. “Remember that there is always an imperceptible element to any narrative, even with this ‘real life,’ as you primitives call it. Sometimes there are elements within meta-chronality that cannot be perceived by three- or even fourth-dimensional organisms. Perhaps there is something that joins you together that none of us can describe.”
“If it is truly indescribable,” Universe wondered, “does it really matter?”
“It does, within the Great Pattern of things,” Maubeuge said. “You will see. Now, let us consider the temporo-genetic limitations of the process…”
“Yes, let’s,” Universe agreed.
“You’re really going to do this, Professor?” Peter Wayne asked.
The sinister master of all knowledge nodded, sure as anything.
Hours later, Maubeuge was shaving off what remained of the Professor’s hair. All that he had left was a thin stripe down the center of his scalp, which served a ceremonial purpose among the monks of the Temple of the Manus. Losing it was not a pleasant experience. By the end of it, Universe felt as though he bore an uncomfortable resemblance to the mad scientist nemesis of the supernatural being who had imprisoned Slaughter Slade.
That was only the beginning. At the end of the day, the shaving was but a symbolic gesture, a faint piece of ritualistic sleight-of-hand. But in the grand schemes of things it served its purpose.
Next, the two subjects were injected with a solution whose invention Maubeuge credited to one Pieter Hausmann of Berlin. Besides calling him a brilliant geneticist, Maubeuge also said that he was “one of the finest clones” he had ever created. On this he did not elaborate.
“You’ll still need something a little extra if the fusion is going to work,” Maubeuge murmured then. “A little piece of me. Despite being separated biologically from my original species, I still possess the faint hum of restoration within my veins. Exposure to energy from my cells will complete the bonding, and seal you together permanently.”
“What will our physical form look like?” Universe asked.
“That could prove problematic. You could end up fused into one body, like some sort of circus freak—or one of your appearances could end up dominating over the other. It’s also possible that the renewal energy will create a quantum bond between the two of you, such as that which affects the so-called ‘Thunderchildren’—a class of being that includes Slaughter Slade’s conqueror.”
“You mean we could switch back and forth between the two of us, by means of...what, a magic word?”
“Or some analogous spatial-symbolic formula, yes. Provided, the renewal energy you possess would be finite, as it always is. You couldn’t change all the time, not without one of you getting stuck.”
“And during that time, we’d share our thoughts, our abilities?” Wayne said.
“You would be as one being, yes. One being in two bodies.”
“Well, let’s hope for that outcome, then.”
“We cannot closely control the process,” Maubeuge cautioned, “but I remain convinced that you will not end up horrifically deformed.”
“How reassuring,” Universe growled.
Maubeuge held out a rubber-gloved hand towards them, and tore the glove from his skin. A celestial fire, born of Time itself, began to brew within his veins.
“Witness your Omega!” Maubeuge exclaimed. “Your finality!”
And he knew then that he had manufactured a gift that would please his own sponsor immeasurably.
* * *
The following text was retrieved from a chat log shared between two chronoships, one operated by Renegade Codename: Maubeuge (aka “Ytallie”), and the other by Renegade Codename: Omega (aka “[DATA CORRUPTED] Curiously, the two vessels appear to share a single chronal signat[DATA CORRUPTED]
Ω: —and this is not the first time you’ve besmirched my good name, mind. There have been plenty of other incidents that have inclined me to disassociate myself from you. And in quite literal fashion, I might add!
M: The number of human bodies I’ve expended is inexcusable, it’s true, but I don’t see the problem.
Ω: oh if only I was in your timezone right now, I’d—
Ω: Ahem. The problem is that you have been supremely rash with the transmission of biodata. Your bizarre Domitaar-Human hybrid has begun impersonating me! In both of his distasteful forms! Whether he calls himself the Bald Man, Professor Quod, Dr. Reaper, Dr. Deathdemon, or Ogilvy Hu, he’s a dangerous freak who should have been destroyed long ago.
M: He’s slipped out of my control, I’m afraid. He’s setting up his own little empire of crime on 20th Century Earth, with the backing of his synthetic Hyumongonaut.
Ω: Yes, because building giant robots is a worthy goal. He’s also taken the name of—an individual he should not take the name of. For a laugh. The dolt!
Ω: It goes deeper. Because he was once a member of a monastic order, there are individuals who have begun confusing me with an airline attendant named Steve! [DATA CORRUPTED]
M: I don’t see the correlation.
Ω: I can’t explain it officially, but follow the breadcrumbs. The point is, I have a reputation to uphold. And your quantum-bond abomination is dragging that reputation through the mud!
M: He’s become like a living cancer, when he was to be my gift to you.
Ω: i would sell my nonexistent soul to STRANGLE YOU
Ω: I do not require gifts. I do not require offerings. And I HATE surprises. Furthermore, I hate liars. I know you have been concealing that THING from me and I will kill you if I have to
M: That is unwise, given [DATA CORRUPTED]
Ω: [DATA CORRUPTED] this, you dirty [DATA CORRUPTED]
M: [DATA CORRUPTED]
M: [DATA CORRUPTED]
Ω: [DATA CORRUPTED]
M: [DATA CORRUPTED]
Ω: [DATA CORRUPTED]
M: [DATA CORRUPTED]
Ω: [DATA CORRUPTED]
Ω: [DATA CORRUPTED]
Ω: I’m pulling the plug now, I’ve had enough
M: [DATA CORRUPTED]
Text log ends.
* * *
The water heaves and seethes around the doomed ship, and aboard its bridge, Dr. Reaper is dying.
This time, there will be no escape for him. Having expended his ability to transform into his bald, shrunken Professor Quod form, he is unable to heal from the crushed ribs inflicted by the heavy desk that has battered his aged body. The betrayed Hyumongonaut outside shakes the ship to and fro, splashing water around Reaper’s bleeding form, which slumps pulped to the floor in a bruised heap. If he tries to jump overboard, and swim ashore, the Hyumongonaut will crush and kill him.
In that moment, time stops.
And a gray-haired woman, dressed in a strange skintight suit of violet hues, strides towards him.
He remembers her from when he was Father Cyprian. She was the ostensible avatar of Kali who captured him, and turned him into Professor Universe.
Liar.
“I’d say you’re just about done,” she muses. “Almost cooked through.”
“I’ll be cooked for sure if I don’t get off this ship,” he sputters. “Help—help me.”
“Oh, I will help you, Doctor. I will save you from your intended fate. But in return, you owe me something.”
“I’ll do it—anything you ask.”
“It’s a strange request, I’ll warn you. Don’t be afraid to ask clarifying questions.”
“Just tell me! Before it’s too late!”
She grins.
“All the changes you end up making to this universe of ours,” she says, “must be credited to me. Whatever great or terrible accomplishments you achieve with your renewed life—they must be signed with my name.”
“But—why?”
“There are Patterns even your makers—and mine—could never glimpse. It is time to bring those to fulfillment. To make it happen, I have to co-opt your narrative.” She raises her hand, as Maubeuge had when he fused two into one. “I can offer you a third life. An amalgamation of both your constituent parts.”
“And you’ll get me away from that—that giant ape?”
“I’d speak more kindly of Earth’s original masters, if I were you, but yes, I will get you away from him.”
“Then it’s a deal.”
“Splendid! I know already that the Witches of Nekromanteia—discarded dregs of the Sisterworlds—are in dire need of your qlippothic improvement.”
She digs deep into his cells, and brings out the last lingering traces of Maubeuge’s donated energies—tapping into his history too as she does so.
Maubeuge, Professor Universe, Peter Wayne, the Bald Man, Dr. Reaper, Dr. Omega…
A little bit of each of them goes into what comes next. The resultant entity is born of cancer, and yet his Mal-Function has a certain aura to it…
An aura of malleability.
No, this won’t be like cancers who came before—not like Petey the Potoroo—not like that clown of a demon, Rofocale, who worships the slumbering madman Ted Rogers like it will make him a High Priest of some forbidden cosmic cult…
This is the dawn of something different.
“Now what shall I call you…?” the Goddess of Creation and Destruction whispers. “Dr. Alpha? No, that’s not quite right. How about…” She laughs a little. “...Omicron.”
She snaps her fingers, and Dr. Reaper perishes from the Earth. A new being stands in his place. A young man of as-yet indefinite features. He will take shape as his history congeals…
But even before then, Liar knows she’s gotten what she wants.
At last, the universe has found an heir for one who survived the death of the Universe Before.
In Omicron’s flesh is reborn the soul of Adonis, Destroyer of the Anteverse.
And so a new era begins for this cosmos, where Jeunes-Vieillards stand enthroned; as cancer creeps across the Great Infinidad, it becomes clear that nothing will ever be the same.
TO BE CONTINUED
~ ~ ~
The Nine Unknown Men, Father Cyprian, and other elements from Talbot Mundy’s The Nine Unknown (1923) are in the public domain.
John Prendergast, the gorilla temple, and other elements from William Nigh’s film The House of Mystery (1934) are in the public domain.
Peter Wayne, aka Mister Who, is from Otto and Jack Binder’s story “Bulletman the Flying Detective and Mr. Who?” from Fawcett Comics’ Bulletman #14 (Mar. 1946), which has entered the public domain. Though DC Comics obtained the rights to many of Fawcett Comics’ characters in 1972, including the character of Bulletman, the copyright for Bulletman #14 was never renewed, and DC does not possess a trademark on the Peter Wayne character, making him free to use.
Dr. Maubeuge is loosely based on the title character of Norbert Jacques’ Dr. Mabuse, the Gambler (1921), which is in the public domain.
Silas Wayne is from Phil Whitman’s film The Wayne Murder Case (1932), which is in the public domain.
Sarah Hendel is from Gordon Hessler’s film Medusa (1973), which is in the public domain.
Richard Wizard / Warp Wizard first appeared in Steve Skeates and Mike Sekowsky’s story “The Origins of the Warp Wizard!” in T.H.U.N.D.E.R. Agents #6 (May 1965). All issues of the original run of T.H.U.N.D.E.R. Agents published after #1 were printed without copyright notices, placing them immediately in the public domain. In 1981 a judge granted the rights to the T.H.U.N.D.E.R. Agents team and logo to John Carbonaro, which remain the property of his estate, but no active copyright or trademark exists for the Warp Wizard, making him free to use.
Professor Universe, Slaughter Slade, and Dr. Allirog are from Bill Parker and C.C. Beck’s story “The Menace of Dr. Allirog” in Fawcett Comics’ Special Edition Comics (Aug. 1940), which has entered the public domain. See the DC Comics-Fawcett Comics agreement notice above. The copyright for Special Edition Comics was never renewed, and DC Comics does not possess trademarks on the aforementioned characters, making them free to use.
Dr. Omega is from Reed Crandall’s story “The Creations of Dr. Omega” from Quality Comics’ Blackhawk #19 (Jun. 1948), which has entered the public domain. Though DC Comics acquired the rights to many of Quality Comics’ characters in 1956, including Blackhawk, the copyright for Blackhawk #19 was never renewed, and DC does not possess a trademark on Dr. Omega, making him free to use.
Pieter Hausmann is an adaptation of Peter Houseman from George Eastman’s film Metamorphosis (1990), which is itself a ripoff of David Cronenberg’s The Fly (1986). Metamorphosis was released without a copyright notice and consequently was included in several public domain DVD releases in the early 2000s under the false belief that it was released prior to March 1, 1989, the last date on which works without either copyright registration or copyright notice would be eligible to enter the public domain in the United States. While no copyright for Metamorphosis has ever been registered in the United States, its 1990 release grants it immediate copyright protection, meaning that will become public domain in the U.S. no sooner than January 1, 2086. My brief use of the character is unauthorized, but this is meant to have thematic significance in a story about the nature of pastiches, ripoffs, and qlippothic fiction.
Ogilvy Hu was created by Adam Gorham, and is referenced with his kind permission.
Steve is from the film Old Mother Riley’s Jungle Treasure (1951), which is in the public domain in the United States.
The Witches of Nekromanteia were created by Austen Atkinson, and are mentioned with his permission.
Rofocale is from The Grand Grimoire, also known as Le Dragon Rouge, which may have first been printed in the 15th, 16th, or 18th Century.
Ted Rogers is from Thomas S. Alderman’s film The Severed Arm (1973), which is in the public domain.
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