Walkyr in flight

Eagerly, the tubes of the Nightmare Engine burrowed into the heart of Walkyr's engine. This was the symbolic core of the war machine, and in magecraft, symbols mattered.

Archer had told me the name the Nazis had given to this class of spaceship. Psychometry was useful for getting details like that, and for piloting a spacecraft with controls unknown to me.

I didn't stay to watch as the corruption spread. The Nightmare Engine was a single-use Mystic Core, designed as a vector for demonic possession—a signal for a pair of demons, the Nightmares that pulled Kheumra's chariot.

I was tempted to examine the ship further. The technology the Nazis had created during their exile on the Moon looked obsolete, almost absurd. And yet, they'd managed to build spacecraft with it—superior to anything on Earth, using vacuum tubes, no less.

But I had samples from the ruined craft they'd left behind in their last attack. And I had no time to linger.

Moans greeted me as I passed the space my student had claimed. Their bodies writhed, entwined as they explored each other. Some would prefer asceticism, meditation, denial as the path to psychic powers. That was not my way. Sensation, indulgence, flesh… It was the path I walked, and the one I taught.

My apprentice, Damien, was at the centre—both physically and psychically. He was the linchpin of their gestalt, the anchor around which they were bound together. Helena straddled him, eagerly impaled, while Sen moved behind, impaling him in turn. Lukas completed the circle, his manhood in Damien's mouth.

This wasn't mere sex; it was an act of fusion, a ritualistic melding of minds and bodies. Their thoughts bled into each other, their desires and emotions flowing in a closed circuit. Together, they formed something greater than the sum of their parts—a union of flesh and spirit, amplifying Damien's power.

I didn't linger.

Corruption had overtaken the bridge and was spreading rapidly. The red veins crawled over the metal walls, tendrils writhing like living roots. The vacuum tubes seemed to swirl with sand, and the harsh German labels on the consoles had twisted into sinister hieroglyphs—each symbol an exact translation, but bearing an ancient, forbidden weight that forced its meaning directly into the mind, even for someone unversed in Egyptian mysteries, unlike me. It was as if the ship itself had summoned a demonic translator, ensuring that no one could look away or misunderstand.

The commander's chair had transformed into an imposing throne, a grotesque fusion of metal and pulsing flesh. Tendrils snaked from the back and arms, obscene and alive, replacing the safety harness. They reached out, ready to grip, to hold tight, to bind deeper.

To allow myself to be slightly molested by the ship was a small price to pay for the power it offered. We had one ship against many, and we needed every advantage we could get.

I glanced over at Archer, already seated in the pilot's chair, which had transformed in a similar manner. His very visible muscles were accentuated by the slime-armor I had crafted. The armor clung to him like a second skin, leaving little to the imagination—just enough to be more tantalizing than pure nudity. I considered that a feature, not a bug.

As I watched him, a pulse of something primal stirred within me, raw and insistent. The Nightmares drawn by the Nightmare Engine sensed it, feeding on the mounting energy inside me. Their purpose was to draw Khenumra's chariot and my desire, spurred by Archer's ritualized entanglement, was fuel. Even my mere observation, my desire, added to the Nightmares' strength, the emotions within me building, swirling, rising like a tide.

It was like giving a sugar cube to a horse before taking it for a ride. A small, sweet offering to prepare it for what was to come.

"We have a problem," Archer said, as if he'd been expecting it all along. "We're missing a radio operator."

There was an implied rebuke, since I'd been the one to assign duties on the stolen Walkyr. "Why do we need one? I don't see the point in chatting with Nazis."

"Someone has to signal to open the door to the base," he replied, just as I felt the press of gravity as the ship lifted off. "And it's a bit too thick to just ram through."

The Walkyr was about twenty meters across, large enough to accommodate several compartments. For that reason, an old-style handheld microphone was attached to the command chair, with a simple switch to communicate with different sections of the ship, should the commander need to issue orders to gunners or other crew. The microphone, however, had gone all fleshy—transformed into an actual human ear, wired to exposed nerves. But that was merely cosmetic. It still worked.

"Damien, we need the gate to the outside opened," I said, giving a simple order. "Acknowledge."

"Yesss," came the reply, accompanied by a moan from Sen's voice through the loudspeaker, which had transformed into a sensual, open mouth. It wasn't unexpected that Damien would use Sen's mouth to reply—they were mentally linked, after all, and Damien's own was… occupied.

"You didn't actually tell them how to do it," Archer said, his tone dry. "Or are we going with the classic 'figure it out as you go' approach?"

"My students are capable enough," I replied. They could possess or mind-control the officer in charge, or perhaps a technician. They could telekinetically manipulate the controls, or even just force the doors directly. Each approach had its own advantages and disadvantages. "I see no need to micromanage."

"Ah, yes, the old 'trust them to figure it out' strategy," Archer said as the Walkyr lurched upward. With his back to me, I couldn't see his face, but from his tone, I could imagine a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. "I'm sure nothing could possibly go wrong."

"If they fail, there's always Joe and Steve," I shrugged. "Railguns make excellent door-knockers."

"Railguns." He gave a wry nod. "Subtle. And if subtlety fails?"

"Singularity grenade," I said simply. "Even better skeleton key than a Hand of Glory. Hopefully, it won't come to that. I'd like to save it for later."

Piloted by Archer, the Walkyr rose steadily through the air. The docking chamber was cylindrical and impossibly tall, as if the entire base were a hollow shell. Other ships of the Walkyr class sat on platforms lining the walls, but I saw none of the massive carriers they'd used in previous operations.

As we approached the ceiling of the vast chamber, a pair of heavy, ship-sized metal doors came into view.

"So… railgun?" Archer asked, a hint of anticipation in his voice.

I reached for the microphone to give the order, but then the massive doors began to slowly open. I lowered my hand. "I don't think that'll be necessary."

"That probably drew more attention than we'd like," Archer commented as he guided the ship into the airlock. "If we had someone on the radio, we could try to bluff our way through."

"I don't see how that would work," I replied as the door began to close behind us. "We don't know enough about these Moon Nazis." Archer snorted at the term, but it was a useful shorthand. "Without understanding their culture and protocols, it's unlikely they'd grant us passage. Besides, I don't think Steve would make a convincing Nazi."

"Sen can be very convincing," Archer countered as the air began to vent.

"Not over the radio. His vocal mental interference doesn't propagate through electronics—I tested it," I said. "And removing him from the gestalt would reduce its strength. We need everyone linked for maximum effectiveness."

I couldn't see his face from my seat, but the smirk was unmistakable in his voice. "I'm sure Damien could survive with one… hole left unfilled."

I rolled my eyes at Archer's crude humor. "Sen's affinity is useful for both dominating and linking minds. That's why he's better off as part of the gestalt, making everything run smoother, rather than being used as a radio operator. It's a matter of priority."

The second door began to open, revealing the black expanse of space above the Moon's surface. The light was harsh and cold, casting long shadows.

"They probably have anti-air guns ready," Archer said. "This is going to get rough."

I nodded and picked up the microphone, setting it to general broadcast. "Attention all. Brace yourselves for high-G maneuvers."

I wasn't worried. Steve and Joe's positions—gunner and loader, respectively—came with pre-rigged safety harnesses. While those harnesses might have morphed into tentacles like mine, they still worked. Possibly even better. And from our impromptu orgy, I knew the slime armor had an adhesive mode. They could just stick themselves to the floor if needed.

Gravity pressed me down as the Walkyr shot out of the airlock like the proverbial bat out of hell. The tentacles tightened in response, anchoring me as Archer immediately veered the ship into a barrel roll, presumably to avoid incoming fire. Not that we had any way of knowing if they were actually shooting at us.

There was no sound in the vacuum, and railguns—the Nazis' preferred weapon—didn't have muzzle flashes. Their projectiles were too small and too fast to be visible.

The only way to be certain we were under attack was to get hit. And the first direct hit might also be the last.

I'd ordered the gestalt to raise a telekinetic shield, but the question was whether they could manage it in time, given the additional tasks I'd assigned. And even if they did, I wasn't sure it would be enough. Blocking bullets from infantry weapons was one thing; stopping anti-spacecraft railguns was another.

Archer threw the ship into a series of evasive maneuvers—a barrel roll, a twist, a sudden zigzag. Dozens of moves to evade fire, yet all we were met with was the empty silence of lunar space.

With each maneuver, we pulled farther from the Nazi Moon base, until it was just a small metallic dot pinned against the pale surface of the Moon. It looked like the Moon itself had been awarded a badge for loyal service to the Fourth Reich. And yes, they'd actually built their base in the shape of a swastika.

I suppose that's the pot calling the kettle black, considering our base on Io was built like the Aperture logo.

I pushed forward, pressing something like a periscope against my eyes. The corruption here was minimal—only a few red veins marred the edges. It was actually a cluster of periscopes combined into one device. By twisting a series of dials, I could switch perspectives, and with another dial, I could zoom.

It was a purely mechanical device, a complex combination of mirrors and lenses. Like much of the Nazis' technology, it was an odd blend: surprisingly advanced in some aspects, shockingly obsolete in others. Probably a consequence of their isolation and limited population.

Through the zoom, I could see the Moon base in detail—a structure with four wings forming a swastika, topped by a dome where the launch gate was located. It remained closed.

"No pursuit for now," I said to Archer, pulling back from the periscope and checking the radar display.

"Either our exit was quieter than I thought," Archer replied, shifting the Walkyr into a steady upward glide from the Moon, "or using telekinesis to open the door caused it to jam."

"Either works," I replied. "But I can't locate the Götterdämmerung. A ship that size should be visible on radar, even from this distance."

"That's because you're looking in the wrong direction," Archer said, lifting one hand from the controls to point at a pale "star" in the Moon's dark sky.

"That's not the way to Earth—or the near side," I exclaimed in surprise. But I trusted Archer's eyes and immediately shifted the periscope toward the star. It only took a few zooms to see that it was no star, but an enormous ship. The Götterdämmerung, the Nazi superweapon.

The Götterdämmerung was much farther out than the Moon base—and significantly larger. It had traveled a considerable distance while we fought our way through the Nazi Moon base, moving from the very edge, where we'd seen it launch, to a space dock near the center.

Only now, as the tension drained from my body, did I realize how much I'd been holding in. Secretly, I'd been terrified we'd be too late, that the Nazis would unleash something catastrophic. The Götterdämmerung's primary weapons were dual ultra-heavy relativistic kinetic nuclear howitzers—technically capable of firing from the Moon to Earth. I wasn't sure how accurate they'd be, but with nuclear weapons, there's no such thing as a "near miss."

Even worse than the physical damage would be the provocation. We'd been lucky with the Missing Mile incident—that had been only a single explosion, and a relatively small one at that.

But if a nuclear detonation occurred without a clear source, nations on Earth would likely blame their usual suspects. Tensions would flare, and the consequences would be unimaginable.

I'd kept that fear to myself, since there was nothing anyone could have done about it. That was the burden of leadership—carrying the fears and doubts alone.

But even if they were heading in the wrong direction—moving away from the Moon instead of clearing its horizon—the problem remained the same. We couldn't let the Nazis keep a weapon like that.

Sure, a nuclear catastrophe might tank Black Mesa's stock so low we could buy it with bottle caps, and send sales of Standard Construction Template Cores through the roof, but that would hardly be a victory.

"Follow that star," I ordered.

I knew Archer wouldn't be able to resist. Sure enough, he rolled his eyes and muttered, "Second star to the right, and straight on till morning."

"Hopefully we'll get there sooner," I replied dryly.

At my command, the blood vessels in the index finger of my right hand burst, staining the nail a deep, blood red. The blood then hardened and extended, forming a claw-like stylus at the tip.

I used the blood-tipped stylus to inscribe symbols onto the radio display, writing in my own blood. First, I drew a circle with a square inside it. At each corner, I marked a name: Damien, Sen, Helena, and Lukas. Surrounding each name, I added additional symbols—each one representing aspects of their essence, their character, their past, even their blood type.

In the center, I drew an eye, then added another symbol to represent the Walkyr and the radio itself.

For linkage, I used hieroglyphs to denote demons—the ones who pull the chariot of Prince Khenumra, son of the son of Ra. When he was alive, he was a prince, son of a pharaoh, claiming descent from the sun god himself. I added further marks to indicate deception, for in the end, demons were always lies.

Then I began the calculations to stabilize the spell, filling out the formula with precise intent. I added our current position—the Moon—and today's astrological map, invoking forces that would strengthen the spell and barring those that would weaken it.

Finally, I added limits, both for safety and to control the duration of the linkage.

I checked all the calculations again, ensuring there were no conflicts or unintended consequences.

Even with my blessing that allowed technology to serve as an ingredient in spellcraft—and vice versa—this might not have worked if the Walkyr weren't already possessed. But demonic possession made it malleable, and the Nightmare's alignment with dreams and the mind made the process easier.

Satisfied, I reached for the microphone and set the dial to Damien's channel, where he and the others were gathered. "Damien, I'm linking you and the others to the radio. This should increase your range but it may feel a bit strange. Are you ready?"

"We're ready," four voices answered in unison. It seemed they'd stopped copulating, as expected; simultaneous climax among the participants would stabilize the link. Now that the link was stable, they only needed to stay close, maintaining contact to keep it active.

It was a bit amusing how the requirements for a psychic gestalt encouraged healthy sexual practices. After all, a cuddle afterward was a nice upgrade from the usual "wham, bam, thank you, ma'am."

Turning off the connection, I began to recite the aria crafted specifically for this spell: "Eye in darkness, open and behold the glory. Eye of flesh, Eye of mind, Eye of metal. All are one in the nightmare."

These weren't just words I was speaking—they were carefully crafted visions, each one linked to a precise part of the spell's formula written in blood. With each word, I held the visualization in my mind, channelling my focus as the spell took shape.

The blood began to glow softly, merging and flowing toward the center. For a moment, it took the shape of four shadowy figures, before sinking into the radio display.

The display mutated, twisting into the form of a giant, pulsing eyeball—an unnatural fusion of metal and flesh. From its center, a sphere projected outward, slightly larger than a human head, with a single, glaring dot in the middle, no bigger than the tip of a needle.

The sphere represented the field of detection, with the tiny dot at its center symbolizing the Walkyr itself.

"Done," I said, satisfied. There was a certain glow that came with solving a complex problem.

"Great," Archer replied with a snarky tone. "Now we'll be able to see exactly when they start shooting at us—which they will, since we don't have a communications officer to convince them we're on their side."

"They'd shoot at us anyway," I replied, watching the image of the Götterdämmerung grow larger as we approached. It looked as big as the Moon appears from Earth, though only because we were still very far away.

It was unlikely they'd use their primary weapon on a small ship like ours. That would be like swatting a fly with a tank shell. The dual ultra-heavy relativistic kinetic nuclear howitzers were designed for less mobile targets, and they wouldn't bother with secondary weapons either. The dorsal and ventral sides each featured thirty-three 35mm ion plasma guns, mounted in turrets for engaging heavily armored, fast-moving targets—not something one would waste on a small vessel.

What concerned me was their anti-air—or rather, anti-space—defense.

There were manually operated 105mm Zwilling flak guns, mounted in pairs on the upper hull near the docking bay, specifically positioned to intercept smaller threats. Then there were computer-operated mini-turrets equipped with 20mm flak guns for close-range defense. —assuming the computers that operated them were up to the task, which was doubtful.

If this Götterdämmerung was anything like the one I'd examined—the intact debris from an unrealized timeline—then I had a rough idea of its capabilities.

Of course, there could be differences, especially since that version had come from an alternate future. I hadn't seen much in the way of advanced computers among the Moon Nazis—not ones capable of managing defenses like these. But it was possible that this Götterdämmerung had a more advanced prototype supercomputer, with unique technology that existed only on that ship.

Not only possible but even likely – because this one was operational.

"You've gone quiet," Archer commented. "Penny for your thoughts."

"Cheap," I joked. "They're worth more, but I'll give you a discount. I was just thinking about how every Nazi on that ship could be aiming at us. Assuming it's the same model as the one we've seen."

"Shame we couldn't bring that one with us," Archer replied. "Instead of playing David against Goliath."

"Well, you're an archer too," I said, smirking. "But we didn't have the time—and besides, the refits are still ongoing. Automation, modern electronics…"

Because the one we had was not operational.

The Götterdämmerung's immense size and unnatural weight created a unique problem—it generated its own gravitational effects, pulling toward nearby masses. Even in zero-gravity environments, the ship would drift toward the closest large object, making it inherently unstable. To counteract this tendency, an enormous gyroscope was fitted at the top of the vessel to keep it balanced.

All the calculations for the gyroscope's adjustments had to be managed by a computer, but the analogue computers installed on the version I had examined were simply not powerful enough for such a complex task.

Making it operational would require a complete refit. And there was the issue of finding a crew.

"Would go faster without all the secrecy," Archer said. "But I suppose that's true for a lot of things."

"Secrecy does have its own perils," I admitted. It was true; secrecy limited both our workforce and the materials available for the refit. On the other hand, I doubted the American government would be thrilled about it. The Second Amendment might give citizens the right to bear arms, but I doubted it extended to a massive spaceship armed with nuclear weapons.

"Sometimes I think we let old habits steer us in the wrong direction," Archer muttered. "What works on one world might not be the best solution in another."

"Perhaps we should re-evaluate some of our strategies," I agreed, "but now's hardly the time. Not when we're about to be shot at with enough firepower to take out a medium-sized country."

"Look on the bright side," Archer said dryly. "They're so big and we're so small, they can't use all those weapons on us at the same time."

I paused for a moment, considering, then returned to an earlier topic. "It won't work. Talking to the Nazis."

"You mean because the Moon Base has probably already warned them that this ship isn't friendly?" he asked.

"That too, but I was thinking more about the effects of the Nightmare Engine," I replied. His back was to me, so there was no use gesturing, but he'd understand what I meant. The corruption was visible everywhere.

"You mean it's not just the inside of the ship that's changed?"

"Exactly. One function of the Nightmare Engine is to set intentional boundaries, marking everyone inside the vehicle as 'not-prey.' For us, the effect is mostly cosmetic—like the movement of the walls and the unsettling atmosphere. But on the outside, it has a powerful emotional component. Fear. Dread. Terror," I explained. "It might make it harder for them to aim at us, but it also makes this Walkyr… memorable."

"Humans often attack what they fear," Archer said dryly, pointing at a faint cluster of dots on the display. "And here's proof."

I looked through the corrupted periscope, and with magnification, the dots resolved into several Walkyr ships—pristine and uncorrupted—on an intercept course with us.

"Joe, Steve, prepare the railgun," I instructed, my tone steady. The detection sphere flickered in my mind, mapping the positions of the approaching Walkyrs. Small sparks appeared—enemy railgun rounds. Each one was precise, but I could sense a faint hesitation as they closed in, as if something was clawing at the back of their minds.

The corruption of the Nightmare Engine had warped our Walkyr, twisting metal into flesh, walls rippling faintly as if they were alive. The air felt heavier, charged with an oppressive energy that seeped outwards, touching even the enemy pilots. The sinister hieroglyphs etched into every surface didn't just mark our ship—they projected fear, unease, a subtle psychic message that seeped into those who dared approach.

"Incoming fire, four o'clock," I said calmly. "Gestalt, deflect."

The sphere pulsed as the gestalt nudged the incoming shot off course, diverting it into empty space. In the detection sphere, I saw one of the enemy Walkyrs waver, its movements erratic, almost stuttering. The pilot was feeling it—the mental pressure of approaching a corrupted vessel, of seeing our Walkyr twisted and inscribed with symbols that screamed warnings only the subconscious could understand.

"Archer, lead turn to starboard. Let them close in."

Archer adjusted course smoothly, rolling to give the impression of vulnerability. The enemy ships closed in, tightening their formation as they prepared to attack. But I could see it clearly on the detection sphere—the slight inconsistencies, the gradual unraveling of their formation as doubt seeped in. The corrupted hieroglyphs radiated fear, pressing in on their minds, each marking embedding a quiet command to flee, a warning that something was terribly wrong.

Joe's voice came through the comm, low and controlled. "Railgun charged and ready."

"Good. Hold fire until they're in range."

Another spark appeared—a projectile from one of the Walkyrs, but it was slightly off-target, an uncharacteristic miss for trained pilots. The fear was clawing at their minds, making it harder for them to focus. To them, our Walkyr was no longer just a ship; it was a twisted, haunted thing, a machine that exuded malice.

"Target approaching three o'clock," I said, my voice calm. "Archer, reduce speed. Joe, prepare to fire."

In the detection sphere, I watched as one of the Walkyrs drifted into our line of fire, its pilot slow to react, paralyzed by the oppressive dread we exuded. The railgun hummed, the familiar vibration rippling through our corrupted ship as Joe prepared to fire.

"Fire."

The railgun discharged with a violent shudder, and in the detection sphere, I saw the enemy Walkyr fracture, pieces scattering as the shot tore through it. The remaining Walkyrs hesitated, their formation loosening as they grappled with the overwhelming dread that seeped from our ship.

"One down," I noted softly. The final enemy pilot seemed to falter, their ship drifting out of formation, as though they could feel the psychic weight of our presence pressing down on them, amplifying their terror with every moment.

"Archer, spiral down. Let them come closer."

Archer executed the spiral maneuver, drawing the last enemy in. I could sense their panic building, each twisted hieroglyph and rippling surface of our Walkyr hammering an unconscious message into their mind: You don't belong here. The pilot's desperation peaked, and their next shot went wild, firing wide of us.

"Fire at three o'clock," I said softly, and Joe responded without hesitation.

The railgun fired, and the final Walkyr shattered, fragments tumbling into the void. With a low hum, our Walkyr pulsed, as if in satisfaction—a predator sated, at least for now, on the fear and chaos it had created.

"Let's move," I said, my tone never wavering. "We have a larger target to deal with."