She looked at Hyeon and found him distracted with floating 
wireframe visuals of the probe's quantum computer circuitry, likely 
tuned out of the conversation he'd tried starting. Not bothering to get 
his attention, N.J. slid over to her desk. Another flick of the keycard 
and it awoke from its slumber. The monitor lit up to extend 
luminescent text boxes into the air, relaying information sent by the 
probe's AIAD unit on the status of the Bifrost Engine. 


All systems nominal. 


She pressed a button to send the GO signal. A green light flashed 
above her monitor. Dozens more appeared as the other researchers 
confirmed all was well. A timer appeared on one of the screens in 
the front, every word read out by the simulated voice of an 
announcer. 


T-minus 60. 
T-minus 59. 
T-minus 58... 


The seconds ticked by like hours. N.J. nervously fidgeted with the 
pouches on her coveralls, clicking their buttons together and apart in 
a monotone rhythm. The Foundation was no newcomer to faster- 
than-light travel, having used probes outfitted with Lang Distortion 
Drives to explore neighboring stars since the 2020s, but they always 
went wrong. The thaumaturgic rituals they relied on were too prone 
to failure, once sending an autonomous station far out of the galaxy 
into an intergalactic void. At best they could only bring you a few 
light-years away in a year. 


T-minus 20. 
T-minus 19. 
T-minus 18... 


lt was too costly to keep using. 


She glanced at Hyeon. He wiped sweat from under his brown hair. 
After so much effort they couldn't afford a problem. Ehlers-001 had 
to work. 


T-minus 10. 
T-minus 9. 
T-minus 8... 

She took a deep breath. 


This mission had to work, so she could figure out why the Division 
needed it to later. 


It had to work. 
T-minus 3. 
T-minus 2. 
T-minus 1. 
T-minus 0. 
Bifrost Engine start. 


On the screens, light twisted. The space around Ehlers-001 arced 
into impossible circles, light passing through the wavering spacetime 
and presenting magnified views of the Neptunian backdrop and the 
probe, like it was refracting through the water of a tumultuous sea. 
The circles bent to form a sphere around the probe, creating a 
pocket of spacetime only the probe would inhabit. Ehlers-001 was 
now out of sight, wholly replaced by the magnified views. In 
nanoseconds, the views vanished too. Monitors announced the 
detection of high-energy gravitational waves, but there was no trace 
of the probe left. 


Reserved cheers. Murmurs. Silence. A new timer appeared, one 
that would finish its countdown in seven days. Seven days until they 
would know if they had succeeded. 


Ehlers-001 was surrounded by darkness as its bubble of spacetime 
carried it through the cosmos. Aside from the probe all that was 
present was heat it gave off, gradually dispersing into the matterless 
void. Despite the isolation from the universe, flickers of far off things 
emerged in the distance. Vague billowing masses that seemed like 
creatures yet weren't, ethereal glows forming shapes wrong enough 
to break a human mind, gray spirals — scraping past something 
beyond reality. 


An alert rang out deep in the supercooled quantum computers. 
Hyperborean.aic — digitized pilot of the probe — had to take action. 
The Bifrost Engine vibrated the vessel as it began to strip away 
layers of the bubble, reverting it back into regular spacetime. The 
impossible imagery vanished in an instant as light seeped in from 
outside. Slowly but surely the universe came into view. 


Ehlers-001 was in the interstellar expanse of a star cluster, 27,000 
light-years from Sol. In the visual light range the sky seemed lighter 
than normal, the stars more tightly packed together than in Earth's 
skies. Switching to the full EM radiation spectrum brought a 
cavalcade of data. Thousands of radiowaves, X-rays, and gamma 
rays sped from star systems, bundles of data in tow. Each hit the 
probe's communications dishes and was decoded by Hyperborean, 
unveiling countless messages of alien civilizations. Warnings, 
diagrams of weapons, seven and four-fold fractals. Most were 
untranslated but the origins were clear. 


Within a subsection of the probe, a vial of blood dripped droplets into 
a chamber filled with intricately carved occult symbols. Mechanical 
arms spun and flailed about, moving ritual artifacts through and 
around the fluids in well-orchestrated patterns, accompanied by a 
loudspeaker's recording of a thaumaturge's chants. Existence bent. 
A metal panel folded inwards to form a Way to another universe. 
Transmitters beamed status reports into the purple skies past the 
Way, sent to any Foundation outposts built there, and deactivated 
soon after. Aetheric energy quickly bled out, leaving the metal panel 
to reform while destroying the Way. 


The status reports were short, miniscule in comparison to the 
reports compiled by past probes venturing to extrasolar shores. Yet 
they carried all the weight in the world. 


N.J. forced her head off her pillow. She gently flicked a switch above 
the bedside table and watched the holographic display of a 
forested area by her bed melt away. It churned and solidified 
into a view of a Europan ice mine, the mass of Jupiter looming over 
its metal domes; a live feed lagging by the 207 minutes light took to 
reach her. A second hologram emerged above the sight of a 
spherical cargo drone descending to a landing pad. A message. 


She rubbed her eyes, then lifted up to read it. 


Got a signal from Ehlers-001. It's made it to Terzan 2 
right on time. Not an error in sight. Division Head wants 
us to get this show on the road (still won't let us know 
why we're in this star cluster of all places) so get your 
butt down to ComCent 2. 


Sent by Hyeon 3Mun, 1 Hr 30 Min ago 


A new era of interstellar exploration was beginning. 


/ 
Ad Astra Per Aspera 


SCP-3417 


Father Iron 


The man in the suit wiped the sweat from his brow. Christ, he hoped 
that they would wrap it up soon. The chanting grew more intense. 
"Father Iron, King of War!" the crowd sang in Haitian creole, "Lord of 
Fire! Hear us! Ride your horse!" The chwal was shaking in time with 
the music, the fabric of her long red dress flowing a split second 
behind her limbs. 


He had always loathed these expeditions. The heat, the ignorant 
jabbering of the yokels, the way it reminded him of the old toothless 
man who sold charms and "elixirs" back in Libreville. The fact that so 
far the entire expedition had been a wild goose chase did nothing to 
improve his attitude. Five ceremonies so far and nothing to show for 
it other than one of his suits ruined by a stray spurt of chicken blood. 
The thought had occurred that O'Conner might just be using this an 
excuse to get rid of him. But then again, if O'Conner wanted 
someone gone, there was no ambiguity about it. 


The chwal screamed and began to spasm. The chanting was 
growing to a fever pitch now. The man rubbed the ring with his 
thumb, reassuring himself that it was still there. All of a sudden, the 
woman fell to her knees, her head bowed. The chanting stopped 
instantly. There was no noise now besides the soft crackling of the 
torches. Even the ever-present crickets seemed to have grown silent 
in respect for the spirit. The man in the suit rolled his eyes. 


"My balls! My balls are cold. Fetch me rum!" the priestess cried in a 
voice deep and gravelly. A member of the congregation silently 
offered her a clay jug. She snatched it from his hands and put it to 
her lips. She sucked down the mixture of rum, chili, iron filings, and 
gunpowder, draining the vessel in a single go. She gave a satisfied 
sigh as she smashed the jug against the earthen floor. "Ahhhh, it's 
been a while since I've been called this deep into the backwoods. 
Usually you yokels cry for help to some Rada bitch! What brings 
Papa Ogun to you tonight?" 


The supplicants began shouting in Creole to the priestess, asking for 
help with the law, with a rival, with killing rats. The man in the suit 
stepped forward into the circle. 


"Father Ogun!" the man cried in French, "I request a favor!" 


The priestess whipped around to face the man. He caught her eyes 
and knew that this was a real one. He wasn't talking to some 
backass Vodou wannabe high on crowd hysteria. He was talking to 
a loa. He was talking to Ogun. "You speak proper to me, gason 
pomdete!" Ogun answered in an exaggerated French accent, "| 
remember little ones like you during the Revolution! Little shits, who 
had a little cash and thought they could pass as French! Forgot all 
about Papa Ogun as soon as you had a piece of land and a slave to 
fuck!" 


The man considered several retorts before biting his tongue. It did 
not seem like a wise choice to insult a god, especially one from 
whom one is requesting a boon. He forced a smile instead. "Your 
godhood, | request a favor. You are King of War, yes? You saved 
the slaves from the French, you fight for right against might, no? 
Myself and my brothers, we seek your favor in a struggle against 
those who w-" 


"| Know who you are, Maurice Soglo. | know all about your fight 
against your masters. | know all the sneaky tricks little fucks like you 
tried to pull. Hiding, like little rats in mountains and caves and cities. 
Using your toys instead of fighting like men! Too scared to fight a 
better warrior head-on. | know how your idiotic revolt got started! 
Who do you think put the idea in their heads? But you failed, 
because you were weak" Ogun spat. His face twisted into a 
mirthless smile, filled with teeth. Maurice noticed that the chwals 
teeth seemed much sharper than they had been at the beginning of 
the ceremony. "Give me one reason why you should have my help!" 


Maurice took his hand from his pocket, displaying the ring to the 
god. "Because of this. One of the seals of King Solomon. If you don't 
help us, | can seal you inside an empty beer bottle for the next ten 
thousand years." He spoke slowly and deliberately to keep his voice 
from quaking. 


SCP-845: Liquid Polecat 


Item #: SCP-845 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: Specimens of SCP-845 are to 
be contained in a hermetically sealed chamber at least 4x6x3 
meters in size with no more than 7 individual specimens kept in a 
single chamber at any given time. The bottom of each chamber 
should be covered to 15 centimeters with clay-rich soil save for a 
reservoir of fresh water, as well as a dispersal of sticks and logs. 
The chamber should be brightly lit during daylight hours and dimly lit 
at night. The reservoir should be continually stocked with small fish 
for feeding, as SCP-845 will not recognize non-living fish as food. 


Wild specimens of SCP-845 are to be captured and transferred to a 
suitable containment facility. Waterways believed or confirmed to be 
inhabited by SCP-845 should be sealed off from the public and 
carefully monitored for activity until such time it is believed that all 
specimens have been captured. 


Description: SCP-845 is a species closely related to both the 
European polecat (Mustela putorius) and domesticated ferret 
(Mustela putorius furo). Specimens of SCP-845 appear similar to a 
common hybrid between these sub-species, with dark fur, a pointed 
muzzle, and an elongated body. SCP-845 demonstrates greater 
prevalence of social behavior and diminished territorial instinct 
compared to European polecats. 


SCP-845's anomalous abilities manifest when a specimen is 
startled, hunting, or (rarely) when participating in play behavior. 
During such times, specimens are capable of fully converting their 
bodies into a liquid. In this state the specimen is a light brown liquid 
with a density slightly less than that of water. It will most often flow 
freely, but will change viscosity rapidly if it is in danger of being 
separated into multiple masses, which has been shown to invariably 


A murmur ran through the crowd and steadily grew into a chorus of 
angry shouts. How dare he threaten their god! That little French chi- 
manjeé! A few of the supplicants stepped forward to grab the man, 
but Ogun waved them back. He walked steadily towards Maurice, 
his eyes burning with rage. 


"You think you, you, some puny ant-fucker, can threaten me?" Ogun 
bellowed. Maurice could feel the god's glare burning through him. "I 
am war! Metal melts at my command! Fire devours at my whim! 
Empires rise and fall as it pleases me! And you dare to dream of 
threatening me, you little pédé?!" He was very close now, close 
enough for the man to smell the breath of the god as it looked down 
upon him. In some distant corner of his mind, he thought that the 
priestess had been at least a half meter shorter than he. 


"You may be a god, but even gods may die. Especially if they're 
helped along their way," Maurice replied as evenly as he could 
manage, "You are immortal now, but you can be trapped, where you 
can't answer prayers. How long, then, do you think your followers 
will wait? A decade, maybe two, before they move on to a different 
god. Then you will be mortal. Just a sad sack of rum and shit, alone 
and forgotten. Except by us. We make sure that everyone gets his 
due. Do you really want that?" The man's mouth went dry as he 
spoke. 


Ogun's nostrils flared as he considered the threat. He burst out 
laughing. 


"Ahahahaha! You threaten a god and you don't back down! That 
takes guts! | like you, pOmdeté, you've got a dick!" Ogun slapped the 
man on the back causing him to stumble forward slightly. "If only the 
other fighters had as much balls as you!" 


"All of you," Ogun said, making a sweeping motion to the assembled 
crowd, "should take note of this man! He fears nothing! Alright, 
pomdeteé, you shall have my blessing! Henceforth, your enemies will 
never be able to destroy you! They may hurt you, but you shall 
always recover. And in exchange..." The god paused for a moment, 
"| want some of your toys. Next time | see you, you had best have 
some prepared!" 


"But I-" Maurice started. 


"Pomdeté," Ogun said coolly, "you have already argued with a god 
once today. Do not attempt it again." 


"R-right" Maurice stammered. He made his way to the edge of the 
circle, which parted to let him pass. As he slipped away into the dark 
night, he heard the sound of the yokels pleading for Ogun's favor in 
rat-killing or law-evading, or whatever it was that they needed. After 
a minute of walking, he knew that he was alone. Suddenly, the 
enormity of what he had done hit him. He had bluffed a god. A god. 
And what was more, he had come out ahead. The stress and fear 
that he had pushed to the recesses of his mind came flooding back. 
His knees began to shake. Before he reached the car, he had 
vomited twice. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he started the car 
and began the four hour drive back to civilization. 


By the time he reached his hotel in Port-au-Prince, the sun was 
already rising, its light just creeping above the shanties of the outer 
city. He parked the car by the curb of the hotel and headed inside. 
Soon, he was in his room, dialing a number that he knew but did not 
know. The after the third ring, someone on the other line picked up. 
"Yes?" asked a soft voice. 


"He went for it. But there's a catch," Maurice said as he laid on the 
bed. 


"What catch?" the voice on the other end hissed. 


"Can't talk about it here. Nothing too big. We might have to 
rearrange some holdings is all. It was worth it," he said calmly. The 
only response he received was a click and a dialtone as the line 
went dead. He hung up the phone and went to run a bath. Fuck 
them, he thought. Let them try to bargain with the embodiment of 
war if they want to keep their "anomalous objects" so bad. Besides, 
it's not as though they could complain; the Chaos Insurgency now 
had its first patron. 


Father Of Lies