X's for Eyes by Laird Barron Page A

your worst self. It has changed you irrevocably.
    Mac was assailed by an image of the horrible giants that crouched in the ziggurat maze. “Potentialities? Roads not traveled?”
    You can only hope. The black sun’s timbre shifted and became a perfect match for Dr. Bravery’s husky tones. Perhaps you’re wondering why I called you to this dead world.
    “Doesn’t require a sleuth, Emperor. Must be boring, trapped for eons. Pulling the wings from flies is probably all you have.”
    My boredom is unfathomable.
    “Sorry to hear it . . . From boring to annoying—where is my brother?”
    Alive and well. I sent him on. You and I need a few moments of privacy.
    “I’m all ears.”
    The structure you entered is a projector. You remember Tom, yes? He designed it. We should talk about him.
    “Tom, he’s a handy fellow. Gets around like the village bicycle.”
    My prodigal son in exile. He lost his country club privileges.
    “Tom’s not welcome on the property, eh? He mentioned something to that effect.” Mac glanced around. The shadow pack continued to pace him; forms yet indistinct, eyes a scatter of coals against the night.
    On his own awful little world he’s worshipped as a demigod. A black magician unrivaled in all history. On yours, his abilities are vastly diminished. Clever, though. His ziggurat is a machine quite similar in theory to the apparatus Arthur Navarro rigged to examine the NCY-93’s data cores. With a push from Black, Arthur’s impromptu device was capable of transferring complex patterns of electromagnetic energy. The soul, as you primates say. Tom’s projector is more powerful by orders of magnitude. It transfers body, brain, and spirit. The whole enchilada. In the good old days, these projectors were active on a thousand worlds in a thousand conjoined universes. A stream of delectable souls cycled through them and were remanded into my loving care.
    “Somebody’s been reading our mail.” Mac had scant insight into the psychology of alien gods who communicated through black suns. He was, however, perceptive enough to guess when someone, or something, as the case might be, intended to play him for a fool. First Labrador with his queer insight into every move Sword Enterprises made and now Mr. Gray’s complete knowledge of the disaster in the barn. He filed his suspicions away for further examination. “Hanging around in mortal form with us “primates” has to be a real come-down for a god. There must be a reason he doesn’t use the projector to return to his “awful little world.” Or have I misunderstood the situation?”
    The conduit reflects true images of its occupants. Tom’s true image is an abomination. A glimpse of his reflection would obliterate him. He works through intermediaries, for safety and to test my resolve with provender. I have a meat tooth.
    “Intermediaries. As in cultists. They’ve infiltrated my family business and sought to kill me and my brother for NCY-93’s memory data.”
    Infiltrated? The black sun shook with laughter. Ahem . My gaze falls upon them at various, rigid intervals—certain phases of the moon, solar conjunctions, et cetera. Keyholes open between the material realms and the Great Dark and a brief exchange can occur. A dry hump, in human terms.
    Mac glanced at the crystal lodged in his gut. He realized it somehow reflected in the evil gaze of the following pack—it pulsed and so did their many sets of eyes. “In the interest of saving ourselves some pain, let me lay it on the table. I won’t help revive you.”
    Fear not. My revivification cannot be completed by mortal rituals or mortal bloodshed. Perhaps the stars themselves can affect my ascendance. Your own sun will have dwindled to a cinder.
    “Be that as it may, the cultists seem quite sure of their mission.”
    Tom is a bit of a false prophet. His favorite trick is to twist weak minds, to convince them he’s a herald for my numinous majesty rather than an exiled brat. These men wish