Golan struggled to regain his balance. "You're fucking with my 
mind," he said. "Drugs in the fucking water. Christ, this isn't 
happening. This is not real." 


He lurched forwards, the shapeless omelette of his left foot 
spreading outwards ever further. Except, he realised, it wasn't just 
his foot any more. The bone, skin and meat of his ankle and shin 
was losing its form; his leg an amorphous, pink-grey candle melting 
from the bottom up and pooling on the floor as it softened. 


His balance out of kilter, his hands went out in front of him. His 
palms scuffed the floor but they too stuck to the tiled surface. He 
tried to pull his right hand back, and it came away a little, but it was 
thick with slime that sucked it back down again. He shut his eyes 
and this time felt the same thick, gluey mucus behind his eyelids. 


Half-crouching he rocked himself backwards and forwards in fear, 
feeling his hands, wrists and lower arms becoming the same 
homogenous mass as his legs. He couldn't open his eyes to look - 
they were shut tight, and either the mucus or some other change 
was being worked upon them. Golan realised instinctively that he 
had lost them forever, and in that knowing was born a horror equal 
to any others. He knew that his fingers were loose and drifting, the 
flesh of his hands merging and congealing with that of his feet and 
legs, even if he could no longer see them. Four twitching, flailing, 
shit-splattered limbs blancmangeing into one. 


"Please," he wanted to beg, but the words were mis-shapen in his 
mouth, his tongue suffering the same misfortune as his limbs, while 
his jawbone and skull shifted position, moving up, up, up and 
ignoring the previous rigidity of his anatomy. He hunched down, 
aware acutely that his spine was hardening and spreading, 


becoming a hard plate above and around the malaise of his flesh. Its 
progress forced his head down to the floor; he could but comply as 
his tongue grew large and overtook the confines of his mouth, his 
teeth finding new purpose and housing along it. The thick muscle 
rasped against the cold white tiles, tasting mucus, disinfectant and 
his own bodily waste. 


Dear Christ help me dear Christ help me. 


And then - almost some kind of crazy relief as his eyesight came 
back, though not as he remembered it, and not as he wanted it. 


From the observation room, Lead Research Analyst Dr Marion 
Kelster looked on, contemplating the small wonders of her job. "See 
that?" she said to herself, "Eye stalks. It has eye stalks now." 


"Time is 14:57:34," said the researcher sitting next to her. "Subject 
D-2982-13 is on all fours, body mass is undergoing significant 
transition in accordance with expected test results. Transition 
includes homogenisation and refunctioning of limbs, homogenisation 
and refunctioning of spine and other bone mass into a single unit, 
and refunctioning of sensory organs. All of the above in keeping 
with the physiology of patella vulgata, as per contact changes on 
SCP-2982 performed by D-2982-06 at 14:26. Diamonte-Kircher 
Stress Scale Indicator Orange-4." 


"Oh Christ, no," exclaimed Kelster. "This is horrible. Just horrible." 


Her colleague turned to her in surprise, taking his gaze off the video 
feed. On screen, D-2982-13 was trying to reach the door; eye stalks 
swiveling wildly this way and that, urine and faeces sluicing out from 
under his newly forming shell as his internal organs shifted and 
changed to suit their new anatomy. Golan oozed and shuddered and 
quivered his bulk forwards, desperate for help, for comfort, for any 
kind of reassuring contact; but the nerves and ligaments and 
muscles were still reimagining themselves, and they could not be 
controlled. He felt tears bubbling up inside, felt them manifesting as 
a thick froth, a skirt of mucus around the base of his shell, and he 
tried to scream; but his vocal chords were gone now, subsumed into 
the thick cord of his tongue and the feeding tube therein. 


His eyes swiveled up to the hot, bright lights, hoping that someone 
somewhere would see the lucidity in his eyes and recognise the 
humanity suffocating with terror behind them. 


"Just horrible," Kelster said again, and this time noticed her 
colleague looking at her. 


"The coffee," she said. "It's cold." 


Golden Horde Blues 


Look, I'm going to level with you: the Romans perfected time travel. 
Did it some time around 107 BC. Somehow, between reorganizing 
the army and becoming consul, Marius found the time, no pun 
intended, to develop mass, practical chronotransit. 


Yes, we have proof. No, you're not cleared for it and you wouldn't 
believe me if | showed it to you. No, it has nothing to do with the 
Library of Alexandri — Look, the point is they never got around to 
using it and about a thousand years later the device had made its 
way to Baghdad when the Mongols invaded. 


You haven't heard of the great Mongol Time Armies because 
Genghis didn't see too many applications for the thing. Took too 
long to figure out how to operate, for one; and besides, why mess 
around with barbarian technology when a horse would take you 
anywhere you wanted to go? But when the Great Khan died — after 
falling off a horse of all things — he asked for an unmarked grave, 
and by God an unmarked grave is what he was going to get. His 
most trusted adjutants started looking for a burial spot nobody'‘d find, 
somewhere suitable for a really eternal rest. That's when some 
enterprising captain turned to the machine, to find a future where the 
Khan had been forgotten. Kinda makes sense — Genghis could rest 
all the better if they let Time do the hard work of erasing his name 
first. 


Rule number one of this post is that we don't know a lot about these 
guys — where or when they've been, or are going; how they've 
survived; even how they've been navigating all this time. Mongols 
weren't much for writing things down and as the hordette has never 
stayed in the timeline for more than twenty-four hours we've never 
gotten ahold of one to ask 'em anything. We know the departure 
was successful because they keep making social calls. Jumped in 
three times so far, in 1631 outside Magdeburg and again in Japan 
during the Warring States business. Left pretty quick both times, 


presumably as soon as they figured out that the Mongols weren't 
forgotten. Our only first-hand information comes from the Ulaan 
Baatar sighting in '85; that's how we know they've learned to read. 


Containment has two parts. Each arrival emits a specialized 
radiation that the scientists upstairs monitor; if they manifest, an 
MTF'll go check things out, but don't hold your breath. Second part 
is keeping Genghis' memory alive so that they don't stop roaming — 
that's where you and | come in. We're low key — it's accounting 
work, really — sponsor a blockbuster here, fund a grant there. 
We've got about twenty million dollars in our endowment but don't let 
that go to your head. Director Sarangerel informs me that upper 
management would love to give us the axe, liquidate our budget and 
assign the case to General Monitoring. That nobody is less likely to 
be forgotten than Temuujen. 


Maybe they're right. The Foundation deals with a hundred critters a 
day more likely to do more damage than the Little Horde That Could. 
| say, go and read about the sack of Baghdad and the fall of the 
Tangut Empire, the Battle of Liepzig and the depopulation of Persia 
— not to mention the destruction of Magdeburg, which | know our 
boys had a hand in even if there're no records of it. You ask me, it's 
not the public we're here to remind. 


Eventually the Horde is going to stop — if the machine doesn't 
break, they'll find the oblivion they're looking for or get tired of 
wandering and stop anyway. Think two hundred Mongols couldn't 
cause too much trouble anyhow? Remember, we're talking about 
two hundred of the fiercest and smartest of the Horde which 
conquered everything from Korea to Kiev, who broke empires with 
bows for their Knan when he was alive, and are journeying hundreds 
of years for him now that he's dead. Who have no fear of the future 
and know just what our world has to offer. Who have half a million 
loyal soldiers waiting back in 1227 and access to a time machine. 


You think they'll just go on home after a trip like that? 


Golden Horde Funk 


Sir? Sir! I'm really sorry to disturb you on leave, sir, but | really don't 
think this can wait, and the project is kinda out of control, and 
Director Sarangerel wants to speak to you, and ... 


Sorry, sorry. Yes, sir. I'm sorry. Okay. Sir, | have something to tell 
you, and | don't think you're going to like it. 


You know how on my first day, you told me about the time-travelling 
Mongol horde looking for a time to bury Genghis Khan once he had 
been forgotten? So I've been doing everything as planned, keeping 
his memory alive. Sponsoring museum exhibitions, supporting 
Mongolian national celebrations - and the TV series we did for AMC 
was good, right? But then | started wondering - look, it's not my fault: 
once we allocate the budget, there isn't much else to do - so yeah, | 
started wondering about Magdeburg. 


Okay, I'll admit - when you said "Magdeburg", | had no idea what 
that was. | looked it up, and the Warring States, and | was thinking 
"why would the little horde, travelling anywhere in time and space, 
only show up at battles?". It doesn't make any sense, sir - if you're 
trying to find out whether people still remember your Great Khan, the 
middle of a battle is the worst time to get information. 


And there was that other thing. | read up on my history after | got 
assigned here, all of the things the Golden Horde had done, all the 
stuff you told me. But you got something wrong, sir. You said they 
were at the battle of Leipzig. Yes, of course you meant the battle of 
Legnica, but that's not what you said. Exactly - there's a big 
difference. 


Oh, and Genghis Khan didn't die from falling off a horse. He died in 
battle with the Western Xia. Or from an arrow wound that got 
infected. Or a princess stabbed him. Point is, nobody really knows 
how he died, because - it's like you said - they weren't much for 
writing things down in those days. 


I'm getting to it, sir. So | started searching the database for more 
information about the sightings of the Horde, threw in Leipzig ona 
hunch, and suddenly the Department of Analytics is pinging me, 
asking me about security breaches on classified SCP objects. No, of 
course | wasn't, but it turned out | was on to something. No, | wasn't 
cleared for it - but | am now, and so are you. 


It turns out that the Foundation has a completely separate record of 
potential Horde sightings that we never knew about. Gaugamela, 
331 BC. Vienna, 1638. Beersheba, 1917. All battles, all involving 
serious cavalry action. Yes, Leipzig too - some researcher in the 
Anart department is telling me he has a portrait of Temuujen shaking 
hands with Napoleon. 


No, that's the thing. There's no physical evidence because those 
battles never happened, not like this other record says they did. Well 
you'll need to come see the containment documentation for it, but 
my point is: What if we were wrong? What if the Horde aren't using 
the time machine to find somewhere to bury Genghis? What if he's 
not even dead? 


What if those half a million loyal soldiers aren't waiting back in 1227 
- what if they're travelling with their Khan, still breaking empires with 
bows, fighting in battles throughout history? Particular battles: 
battles that change after the Horde wins them. That make the world 
forget what happened - make it look like there were only a few 
Mongol warriors there, for a few hours, if at all. 


What if a time-travelling Genghis Khan is our last, best hope against 
the Daeva? 


Yes, sir, | know that sounds unlikely, but you have to come and see 
what I've seen. Um, I'm afraid that wasn't a figure of speech - you 
actually do have to come, the orders are from Sarangerel herself. 
I'm really sorry about your holiday, sir. But the good news is that 
they're definitely not going to liquidate our budget - not now. 


Well, for a start you're going to get a lot more people working for 
you. Turns out you and | are the Foundation's leading experts on the 
culture and customs of the Mongolian Empire - | guess all those 
years of PBS specials and National Geographic articles have finally 


paid off. Not to mention we're the only ones who can speak in 
passable Middle Mongol. 


That's right, soeak. The Department of Temporal Anomalies say 
they'll be ready as soon as we get back to the site. The Foundation 
isn't about to risk Temuujen getting bored of kicking the Daeva's ass 
and heading back to 1227 to retire. You and | are going to be the 
Foundation's first ever trans-temporal ambassadors - we'll be getting 
down with the Horde, meeting the Great Khan himself! 


Uh, sir - you do know how to ride a horse, right? 


Good Morning, World 


Good morning, world. 


| open my eyes to the sight of the sun streaming in through my 
window. | smile. There’s nothing quite like waking up to the sun 
warming your face. Especially after having not seen it for so long. 


| lay in bed, basking in the glow, revelling in the softness of my 
sheets, thanking Him that | am alive to feel and see and love. | look 
around at my modest room. A bed, a table, a chair, and a desk. | 
haven't needed much else. Life is so simple if you know how to live 
it. 


Still smiling, | roll out of bed and head to the window. Throwing open 
the curtains, | gaze out upon the land. Green now, the lawn looks 
beautiful. | see trees beginning to sprout across the street. There’s a 
sight | haven’t seen in almost 5 months. They look so beautiful, so 
strong. Trees, like man, spread across the landscape, but instead of 
corrupting, they only beautify. | nod in respect to them before | turn 
around to get dressed. 


Appropriately attired, | make my way into the kitchen and look for 
something to eat. Opening a cabinet, | find an unopened can of 
spam. As | slice the spam, | glance behind me. No sign of anyone. 
Smiling again, | set aside the knife to wash in the stream later. | turn 
on the stove out of instinct, somehow still thinking that the igniter will 
work. | shrug, remembering that the damn thing hasn’t worked in 
months, and grab the nearby book of matches. | strike one and light 
the burner, careful to cook on a low heat. | fry up the spam, my 
mouth watering all the while. Good food is so hard to come by these 
days. 


| sit at my table, facing the window to look out on the world. | /ike it 
here, | think as | chew on the spam, it's quiet. A movement near the 
trees catches my eye and | reach to my hip, before remembering 
and smiling. | decide to go for a walk today. 


| open the door into the sunlight and take a deep breath in. | cringe. 
Even after all this time, | can still smell it. Ignoring the smoke, | stroll 
down my road, alert, but comfortable. Looking around, | marvel 
again at the tranquility that surrounds me. It doesn't seem like that 
long ago that- 


Shaking my head, | continue my walk. | feel strong today. It's 
amazing what carrying around an extra ten pounds can do. 
Chuckling at the thought, | recall the old women who used to carry 
five pound weights around while they power-walked in glaring neon 
colors. Now, | understand, | think with a laugh. 


The day nearing its end, | turn around and take the short way home. 
| hate the short way, but | don't have much of a choice. Daylight is 
dwindling. Stepping around rusted out cars and climbing over 
broken fences, | make my way to my front door just as the sun dips 
below the horizon. | look over to the east and the glow confirms my 
suspicions. 


New York City is still burning.