Hawthorne nodded his acknowledgment, waved, and set off. Actually, exploration was the last thing on his mind; it was just an excuse. His real intention was to outwait the others until lack of air forced them back to the submarine. Then he planned to wreck the control mechanism so that it could not be detonated. He would then head for the surface and contact the task group that was in the area. They would force the submarine to the surface, using depth charges if necessary, and escort it back to Pearl Harbor. If the sub refused to come up, they would sink it, to prevent it from getting away, but while Hawthorne imagined that Dexter might be willing to die, he doubted the rest of the cabal or their naval cohorts were of like mind.

Still, he had time to kill, so he decided to do a bit of sightseeing. Even up close the buildings refused to resolve themselves. Yet he could see enough to get a decent impression. The buildings were all of various sizes, but even the smallest was gargantuan, while the largest were cyclopean. Yet Hawthorne reminded himself that, while from his human perspective they were impressive and majestic, to the beings who built them they might have been no more interesting than an outhouse would be to him. Yet that thought sent a shudder down his spine, and he was not the type to surrender to fancies.

The time crawled by, but eventually he started hearing Dexter call for him. As the minutes ticked away, her calls became more frantic, even desperate, but finally their time was up, and the divers started heading up. He waited until they were out of sight, then he checked his gas gauge. Still another ten minutes; plenty of time. Hawthorne had prepared for this trip well. The backpack he wore contained two normal tanks, but also a hidden reserve, that he had filled himself during a night shift on the submarine. On top of that, the pack contained a rebreather unit, which would extend his air supply even longer. While ten minutes wasn't technically long enough to get to the surface with decompression stops, he would risk getting the bends.

The panel on the device was laughingly simple to bypass, which made him a bit suspicious, but when he found no booby traps or other security devices he decided Dexter hadn't believed sabotage was a likely threat, and so saw no reason to setup any safeguards. Once he had the panel off, it was a simple matter to cut a few wires, pull out a few circuits — which he smashed with the pummel of his knife — and finally cut open a protective sack, exposing an electrical device to the seawater. Lifting the dangling panel, he saw with satisfaction that the LEDs were now dead. The device could not now detonate, not without retrieving it, drying it out, and replacing the damaged elements.

When Hawthorne turned around, however, he was surprised to see a group of armed divers behind him. He was even more surprised to see Dexter at their head. He had of course considered the possibility that, since he failed to return with them, she would send out fresh divers to retrieve him, but it should have taken them longer to reach him. And if they had been sent down earlier, in anticipation of his actions, why had they not shot him? She should not have been with them in any event, unless like him she had devised a special tank pack of her own. But he had no time to figure it out now. Besides, he may not have been able to escape, but at least he had the consolation of knowing the device was kaput.

Once they were back on board, they all spent the first few hours in decompression, the men in one chamber and Dexter in another, by which time the submarine was already underway. When they were let out, he expected to be placed in the brig, or at least under guard in his own cabin, but instead he was escorted to Dexter's cabin. Nonetheless, she locked the door after shutting it after him.

She was wearing a robe, as he was; he had not been given a chance to change first, but apparently she had chosen to remain undressed as well. The reason became apparent when she opened and dropped the robe as soon as she stepped away from the door. Being as the cabin was quite small, she had him in her arms before he could get away from her. Yet this was not the passionate lover's embrace he expected. Her grip was like a vise, crushing the wind out him; her lips literally felt hot and they burned his mouth, while her breath scalded his tongue; her own tongue slithered its way down his throat past his larynx, choking him. He struggled, but he couldn't break her grip. Then suddenly she pushed him away back onto the bed with enough force to bounce him off the bulkhead.

He lay there, stunned, trying to catch his breath. He looked up at her. Her scarlet tongue, dangling from her mouth, was a foot and a half long; her hair stood out from her scalp, the locks writhing like snakes. Her eyes had grown to three times normal size and were pupilless, but they glowed with a sickly chartreuse light. Her coloration had gone flat black, not the black of melatonin-saturated tissue, but the absolute, albedoless black of night. Even in the bright light of the cabin she was only a silhouette with twin green spots in her face. And a spot that glowed a dull red at the intersection of her inner thighs.

The tongue disappeared into the mouth, which glowed like a red-hot coal, and her image wavered in the heat distortion of her breath. When she spoke, the voice was hers, but chorused with a thousand others, and deepened to a stentorian rumble like thunder. Hawthorne could also hear, faintly, the sound of pipes playing a monotonous tune.

"Your plan was well conceived, Khuranes, as usual, but as usual I knew you instantly."

Hawthorne knew her was well: she was the avatar of Nyarlathotep known as the Black Whore. He had met her repeatedly over many millennia, in different guises, but always she was the same. Unfortunately, he could not make the same boast as she.

"Still, you are too late," he replied. "The bomb cannot be detonated, and you are being tracked by a carrier task group on the surface. Your plan is finished, so why not abandon that shell and depart, while you have the chance."

"From Ambrose I took his body, true, but it was my seed that 'he' planted in the womb of his bitch, not his own. This body is mine, and it will remain mine for the remainder of its natural existence."

Hawthorne felt sick. He must have looked it, because the Whore responded, "Why so disgusted? I thought you liked my body?" As she said the words, the shadow that was her current form dissipated like mist, revealing once again the naked flesh of Abigail Dexter. She advanced towards him, holding out her arms, her manner exuding desire like a musky scent. "Come, my love," she cooed in dulcet tones of passion, "embrace me one last time. Let your life be extinguished in a conflagration of intense sensual pleasure."

Unable to control himself, Hawthorne stood up and shed his robe. He stepped into her arms and enfolded her in an embrace. He pressed his mouth against hers and played his tongue along hers. His sex stiffened and sought hers.

Then a monotonous piping broke through the fog of his lust. He jerked his head back and saw the green glow behind her eyes. With a bellow of horror he pushed her away. She crashed into the door, laughing uproariously.

"You will have no victory this day!" he cried, but he shook with the realization of how close he had come.

"Won't I?" she replied; the form had not changed, but the chorused, thunderous voice was back. She laughed again, and the cabin shook. "You are strong, well trained and disciplined, Khuranes, but I know your mind, while you know not mine. I knew what you were about even after you left Shrewsbury, even before you knew it yourself. So I modified my device. I isolated the detonator from the control panel, and connected it to a timer. I set the timer before we left San Francisco. It will detonate in under sixty seconds."

"No!" Hawthorne shouted. An underwater explosion would be worse than an airburst; even at full speed minimum safe distance would still be hours away!

"Yes, Khuranes, you have failed! Cthaeghya will be released from her tomb. She will be free to release Great Cthulhu, and together they will free the Old Ones and their allies. This world will be scoured and they will claim it for their own, and from it they will sweep across this puny universe, driving their enemies before them. When they reach its walls they will break them down. This universe will pop, like an infected boil. Azathoth and the Outer Gods, the Old Ones, the traitorous servitors and their allies, will then go forth into the Beyond, draw power from Nu, destroy the Elder Beings, and wrest the cosmos from Tum Himself. And finally they will rule the whole of creation, as is their Destiny!"

At the sound of that word, the submarine shook as if it were a rattle in the hand of a baby. The bulkheads buckled, seawater began pouring in, and the lights flickered and went out, plunging all into darkness. Hawthorne fought the rushing water, as he struggled to get free of the room, but he knew there was no hope of escape. He was too deep and he was being sucked down with the bulk of the now-shattered vessel. He struggled for breath and knew he was drowning.

Then he felt himself being borne through the water at a tremendous speed. He broke the surface, flailing and gasping, and saw a monstrous winged shape hurtling into the bright, blue afternoon sky. As he turned around in the water, trying to get his bearings, he saw on the horizon towards the west a mushroom cloud rise slowly and stately towards the sun.

When debris from the Cairnsford finally reached the surface, he constructed a makeshift raft, onto which he crawled and clung for three days. After the first day, he was assailed by nightmare visions that flooded into his mind unbidden: scenes of vast cities against a bloated, blood-red sun, with cyclopean towers of alien geometry, filled with eldritch monstrosities that worshipped even more hideous, blasphemous entities; followed by scenes of apocalyptic destruction, in which the cities of men burned as the same entities, now with their "gods" beside them, strode in silhouette against the flames, while above it all towered a terrible anthropoid figure with no head but a tendril in its place, howling silently at a seething, writhing, pulsating globe of chaos that gibbered and bubbled obscenely. Though they flashed through his mind in only moments, that was enough to drive all reason from his head, and he curled into a fetal position as darkness swept in behind the images.

He was barely aware when a Sikorsky Seahawk hovered over him, or when he was hauled up into it, or when he was flown back to the task group carrier. He was barely aware of the trip back to Hawaii, or his flight to the Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, DC. In fact it was more than a month before he finally returned to full sense, and the first sight he saw was Shrewsbury sitting beside his bed.

"You had me worried, my friend," the scholar remarked casually.

He lay still for a moment, collecting his strength, then sat up gingerly. His head swam, but it quickly passed. Shrewsbury watched him intently, but did not interfere.

"What day is it?" he asked after getting settled.

"November twenty-fourth."

Hawthorne looked up in surprise. "That late? Who won the election?"

"Reagan," was all Shrewsbury said.

Hawthorne only shrugged. It made no difference to him who was president; Black Omega would continue regardless. Still, he felt sorry for Carter; he always thought he was a good man in a lousy job.

He stayed silent for some time then. "By now you've heard," he finally said.

Shrewsbury turned grave. "Yes, I was briefed by the Foundation three weeks ago." He meant the Templeton Foundation, incorporated earlier that same year. It was dedicated to the study of the Cthulhu cult and the mythology of the Old Ones. Shrewsbury served on its board of directors, as did Hawthorne.

"Nothing has been made public, of course," Shrewsbury continued. "Fortunately, the seamount was far enough away from any inhabited region that no one witnessed the explosion or saw the cloud. The Soviets, of course, know of it; their satellites detected it, but so far the government is denying any responsibility. The navy has been monitoring the fallout, but so far there is no sign of radiation. They did send a task group to investigate the seamount as soon after as they could, but when they arrived they found that the whole top of the mountain was gone, revealing an empty chamber inside."

Hawthorne gave him a weary look. "So Cthaeghya is now free." Shrewsbury nodded. "What happens now? How long do we have before she begins her work?"

"She has already started," he replied, confirming Hawthorne's worst fears. "On the day she broke free, people all over the world went mad and rampaged through their cities and towns."

Hawthorne groaned.

"It wasn't many," Shrewsbury continued, "mostly residents of insane asylums, or overly sensitive types, the troubled, the neurotic, and those with strong psychic abilities."

"I felt it; it nearly drove me mad. As it was, it put me in that catatonic state."

"I saw it in my dreams," Shrewsbury confirmed, "but fortunately only vaguely."

"Was there much damage?"

"For the most part, no, but Arkham was severely hit, and Miskatonic University was burned to the ground."

"What about the books?" he asked anxiously.

Shrewsbury raised a calming hand. "The books are safe; they were in their protective vault. And strangely Cairnsford was virtually untouched, so the archives at Garthyme University are intact."

Hawthorne collapsed with relief.

"The media is calling it 'The Scourge', but only the Foundation and Black Omega know the cause. It was, however, a major factor in Carter's defeat, on top of the hostage crisis."

"It was Dexter; she was the Black Whore." And Hawthorne proceeded to tell him of his encounter just before the submarine was destroyed.

Shrewsbury nodded when he had finished. "I believed as much."

Hawthorne started, and gave the scholar a withering look. "You knew? And you didn't tell me?"

Shrewsbury raised his hand again. "Let's say I suspected, strongly, but I wasn't completely sure. Still, it was logical to presume that Nyarlathotep was involved somehow, and since Dexter was supplying the means to destroy the Sign and break the tomb seal, it seemed logical to presume that she was an avatar, or in league with one."

Hawthorne nodded wearily. "Yes, I agree, that makes sense. You know, she saved my life."

Shrewsbury frowned. "But why?"

"Cat and mouse, Laban. The Black Whore and I have been at odds for over a hundred thousand years. I think it's become a sort of game to her. She wants to see me destroyed, yes, but she wants to do it herself, and she wants me to give myself freely to her. It would give her no satisfaction if I died when the sub was destroyed, so she rescued me. Also," and here Hawthorne paused for emphasis, "she wants me to witness what is going to happen. She wants me to engage in a futile struggle against the inevitable, only to give into despair when I finally fail and the Old Ones arise. Then she expects that I will surrender myself to her."

Shrewsbury leaned forward and placed a hand on Hawthorne's shoulder. "My friend, I do not envy your longevity. Just the short number of years I have lived have wearied me to the point where I just want to live out my life in peace and quiet. Yet at least I know that one day my existence will end. You do not have even that."

Hawthorne gripped Shrewsbury hand in response. "You're wrong, Laban. I know, better than even you, that my existence will come to an end. What's worse, I know precisely how it will end, if not when. And that is a worse burden than simply being immortal."

Shrewsbury withdrew his hand and the two men sat for a time, deep in their own thoughts.

"You know, sometimes I wonder if it's all worth it," Hawthorne remarked. "The universe is, what, 15 billion years old? And Cthulhu and the Old Ones have been around for almost as long? And they will still be around for at least as long after we are gone. Compared to that the span of my life is only a quarter of a second in a whole day. And the age of the Earth is only one day in a week. How could I, much less you or anyone else, expect to prevail against them? Even if we could hold them at bay, they only need to wait one tick of the cosmological clock and we would be gone. And as you pointed out they have the power of gods, or as near to it as anything can come. How can we even hope to be any kind of significant obstacle to them?"

Shrewsbury made no reply. He simply watched Hawthorne passively.

Hawthorne shook his head in despair. "Having lived as long as I have, I understand better than anyone the futility of human existence. Theism fails because there is no benevolent god to give existence meaning and purpose. Atheism fails because man as a machine is devoid of self-consciousness and self-determination. Science fails because the universe is too vast and incomprehensible for us to understand. Philosophy fails because we cannot even know whether what we think we know is real or an illusion. Morality fails because beyond guilt there is no standard against which to judge the correctness of human behavior, and guilt is an insoluble problem. Even life fails, because in the end there is the inevitability of death, when most everything a man has accomplished turns to dust and is revealed to be delusion. And even those few real accomplishments are irrelevant to a universe that man cannot comprehend, control, or even influence. All that is left is the anti-mythology of Cthulhu and the Old Ones, which in turn leads to nihilism and the extinction of value."

"Everything you say is true, Ethan," Shrewsbury casually remarked.

"So why even try to fight back; for that matter, why even keep on living? If existence has no purpose or meaning, if all we have to look forward to is pain and misery, failure, and finally death, if there is nothing we can do to change any of that, for ourselves, for our neighbors, or for posterity, then why not end it all, now, and pass into peaceful oblivion?"

Hawthorne paused and chuckled grimly. "You know, if the Elder Beings or their servitors were good and the Old Ones evil, at least that would give us some kind of foundation upon which to act. But both sides do what they do for their own selfish designs, and because each hates the other. Neither have any more concern for us than we do for ants; in fact, both sides would use us or destroy us as necessary to accomplish their goals. Well, I say let the Old Ones and the servitors fight it out if they want; let them blow the cosmos to perdition. Why should we care; why should we even be involved?"

Shrewsbury again said nothing. He only waited on Hawthorne in stoic silence.

Hawthorne eyed Shrewsbury suspiciously. "You haven't answered my question, Laban: what happens next?"

"I can only speculate," he lectured, "but no doubt Cthaeghya will begin by gathering support among the Deep Ones and the other aquatic races, and among men, aided no doubt by the Mighty Messenger. Then she will free the Cthulhi still imprisoned, especially Cthulhu's chief acolyte and majordomo, Tdhathu. Next they will almost certainly release the Sons of Rahb, and then together they will work to free their master, Cthulhu."

"And then the carnage will begin."

Shrewsbury suddenly grew thoughtful. "Not necessarily. The secrets of the Elder Beings were imparted by the Old Ones to Rahb, but Rahb was split into Cthulhu and Hastur. It is possible that, until the split is healed and Rahb is reformed, the knowledge to free the Old Ones will be incomplete. And according to the ancient lore, the earth will not be cleared until just before the Old Ones are to be released."

Hawthorne caught Shrewsbury's drift. "So you think the Xothians will ignore mankind at least until Cthulhu and Hastur are recombined into Rahb?"

"There is that hope, yes. Meanwhile, the more we can learn, the better the chance we have of defending ourselves."

But Hawthorne shook his head. "Laban, all of this is based on information that may not even be reliable. What makes you so certain that the books you study know what they are talking about?"

Shrewsbury flashed him a macabre smile. "I'm not, my friend. I cannot even be certain that man has the capacity to learn what is needed, or has the time to do it in; as you pointed out, not only our science but even our philosophy may not be enough. But what choice do we have: fight or surrender? The former at least gives us the slim hope of a faint chance, while the latter offers no chance at all."

Shrewsbury leaned forward, as if to emphasize his point. "Everything you said about the loss of purpose, of value, and thus of meaning, is true, but only up to a point." He reached out and pinched Hawthorne on the arm, who jerked away in annoyance. "Yes, man is made of matter; yes, man is a machine. But man is special: he knows he is a 'he' and not an 'it.' Your reaction just now; it was not merely a reflex action, but a choice. You chose to react to it rather than accept it passively. You chose to treat it not just as an objective reality, but as a subjective value: you didn't like it, and so you expressed your displeasure. In other words, you were conscious of your own self and you decided your reaction based on that self awareness. Ergo, you make yourself what you are every time you make such a decision. That in turn means that you are free to establish your own nature and destiny.

"Yes, the greater objective universe stands against you, and your subjective consciousness sees it as absurd, so you feel despair at the futility of finding any kind of value in it that we can accept as real. But that is when you must rebel against that absurdity and create your own value. As Kierkegaard pointed out, there comes a time in the life of every person when logic and reason become incapable of providing the answers we seek, when the objective world fails and is revealed to be absurd. At that point a person is faced with only two choices, if he wishes to avoid the trap of nihilism: ignore the absurdity, pretend it doesn't exist, and retreat further into the objective world, which is effectively cowardice, and leads ultimately to madness; or deny the absurdity and take a leap of faith into the subjective world, and make a conscious choice. We both have made that leap, my friend, long ago, and we must live with the consequences of our choice, no matter how hard they become."

Hawthorne looked unconvinced. "But do we actually rebel against the absurdity, or merely engage in another form of delusion, and how can we tell the difference?"

"We decide what the difference is, and we act upon it."

Hawthorne opened his mouth to object that that was simply sophistry, but then a nagging doubt suddenly blossomed and made him hesitate. Instead, he asked tentatively, "And what do you make of the prophecy of the Black Whore? Or the visions of Cthaeghya? What do you decide about them?"

Shrewsbury considered his answer carefully for a moment, then with a mischievous smile he said, "Let us say they are wishful thinking, or at best 'the shadows of things that may be only', as Dickens put it."

Hawthorne was about to say more, but was forestalled when Shrewsbury unexpectedly stood up. "I think I should go, I have tired you enough. I will be by tomorrow, we can talk more then. And I will let everyone know you are awake and well. Just keep in mind what Sartre told a young man who asked his advice: 'You're free, choose, that is, invent.'" And with that, Shrewsbury gripped his shoulder in farewell and left.

Hawthorne spent much time after that thinking about what the scholar had said, but as he grew tired and laid down to sleep, he decided that Shrewsbury was right after all. It would be too easy to give into nihilistic despair and simply give up, or pretend the menace was beyond his power and so ignore it. Neither were in his nature. He had indeed chosen long ago, when faced with the meaninglessness of existence, to take a leap of faith and invent his own meaning, despite the seeming futility of his decision. It was what he still did, every day, and it was what he planned to continue to do.

That gave him some small comfort as he drifted off to sleep, and he had pleasant dreams for a change.

Created: October 28, 2006