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NecroTek by Jonathan Maberry









Many have fallen, nations destroyed, but earth itself is in imminent danger from a force, an ancient battalion of Shoggoths serving the Outer Gods there will be Shoggoths’ chimeras up against the NecroTeks.
Lost, a crew the Lost Souls, and an ai with consciousness are the last hope.
A terror ancient and of present danger descending upon the characters amidst this cosmic tale with the dead awakening and necromancy cycling, a phenomena ensuing with a metamorphosis afoot in an epic tale.
A grande cosmic extravaganza undertaken with a band of warriors named lost souls embracing necrotek in this first instalment in a brave bold new world beyond the known Jonathan Maberry has crafted with cosmic war, horror, mechanical monstrosities and ancient gods.

An odyssey with all the needed ingredients and elements laid down with the great orchestrations of a well crafted author into a prose that was a joy and ease to read, along with all the cosmic philosophy, the complexities and aspects that come with it, masterful laid down with care and clarity.
Something just getting started with this first book that will have you waiting with great joy for its continuation, of which the author is crafting at this moment.

You have or have not read Hyperion, Dune, and The Foundation, and you may want to read NecroTek by Jonathan Maberry.

This would convert well to screen and hope someone does adapt it and do a good job of it.
By the time he has written and published the second instalment I will have hoped to read and completed Hyperion, Dune, and The Foundation.
Check some links here maybe in a few months for second book review and my review of other related tales.





The last day of the dying universe would look like this, he knew. When all warmth had been leeched away into the void and there was no one left to offer even the token gift of living heat. When the last surviving planets failed and faded, admitting defeat in any struggle to sustain life. When all higher forms were gone and even the durable champions of survival—the fungi and bacteria—could eke no sustenance. This was what would be left.
A place.
A rock in space that offered no shelter, no future, and no hope. Planets whose suns had died without expanding into supernovae and had merely burned themselves out.
Soren stood on the edge of a shelf that was too flat, too orderly to have been formed by any process of nature’s tumult. There was not a ripple or lump or edge—merely flatness. It was a place for him to stand. A place, he knew, was put here by someone for a moment like this.
A place to witness.
To behold.
To believe that a message was being shared, even if its form was cryptic beyond any chance of his understanding.
And so, he stood. He beheld. He looked out across a gulf of distance to where it stood. His space suit—breathing for him—kept the bottomless cold away, providing no need for full weight of outward observation.
He stood on the shelf and looked out across a gulf of distance to where it stood.
The thing was at least four kilometers away, and yet he could see every detail with clarity. It rose seven or eight kilometers into the air. Taller than the surrounding mountains, its cyclopean scale was beyond his understanding. How could such a thing ever have been built? No science he knew of could have accomplished it. No builder of his race could have imagined it or yearned to do it. Not even a priest would envision a tribute on this scale.
It was a figure.
……. “The Shrine of the Penitent.”

One of that group, Lady Jessica McHugh—an Irish woman and mystic from Galway—stood beside Soren. She was the fifty-eighth person to hold the title of chief priestess of the Church of Shades. For nearly two thousand years that church had hidden from public light, driven to secrecy by various forms of the Inquisition and witchfinders. Many women of that order had been burned at the stake, crushed under rocks, or drowned in rivers while strapped to dipping chairs. The chief priestesses had for centuries been nicknamed ‘Lady Death,’ a nod to the ancient beliefs and practices of necromancy that were part of the Church of Shades.

Sibyl watched the two of them through her many electronic eyes.
She tried so many times to speak with them.
But something had stolen her infinite voices. Then suddenly she felt a wave of cold darkness sweep through her. It violated every part of her, stealing through wires and relays, clawing its way into both her RAM and storage. It owned and dominated her. It subjugated and humiliated her, and all the time it whispered to her in languages she did not know and could not identify.
“Tekeli-li,” it cried. “Tekeli-li!”

The screen was crowded with worlds. Each with uncountable moons. Beyond them were two suns. One was a fierce white and a smaller yet bloated red-brown. Stars filled the rest of the vista.
But they were the wrong stars.
“Where . . . where are we?” begged Bianca. Doctor Soren did not answer because at that moment Sibyl’s voice spoke from the hidden speakers. It was not the calm, reassuring, normal voice of the AI. Instead it was as if Sybil had gone completely mad. With great clarity the AI said: “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
Sybil’s words hung burning in the air.

That phrase echoed in his mind, and he knew he had heard it before today. The memory was old, small, dusty, and unreachable. Was it in a book about some other culture? Perhaps an island nation or a people deep in the Amazon rainforest? Or Innuit?
Something went skittering along the back wall of his mind, quick as a cockroach.
No, he thought. Not Innuit. And yet . . .
Yet what?
Soren refused to move, letting his body go still, allowing his arms to hang limp and his breathing go shallow. All to keep from distracting his thoughts.
Like many scholars, Soren had his own version of the old Greek concept of a memory palace. It was an indexing system involving both mnemonics, keywords, and a sensible orderliness.
Tekeli-li. Tekeli-li.
There was an association of coldness to that strange word. Snowy, cold, remote.
The Arctic? The connection was the Antarctic, and he lunged at it, grabbed it, pulled the memory close. It resisted him, trying not to make sense of itself.
In a book. And then he had it. It had been something from a book. An old novel by Edgar Allan Poe. The title was there on the spine of the book as it stood on a shelf in his mind palace. In a library of memory constructed on the pattern of the one in his family house.
The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym.
“Yes,” he said, and then wondered why that book and that phrase? In the story—which he barely remembered—it was a cry uttered by strange birds in the Antarctic.

Up until that moment Soren thought he understood fear and horror, he believed that terror was a known quantity. It was a terrible thing to become immediately and acutely aware of that level of naivete, that degree of ignorance.
This was terror. Pure, unfiltered, and absolute. His knees buckled and he dropped down painfully into a posture of defeat. Staring open mouthed at a thing that was beyond anything that had come before. Not because of its ungainly and grotesque aspect, but because Soren understood what it was that confronted him there in the lonely corridor.
This thing was not of Earth. It was not a nightmare or a hallucination. He could feel that, knew it to be true.
This creature whose body was made of wreckage, was a ghost. A true spirit of the dead. That was not the worst part, though. This was the ghost of something that had never set foot on Earth or any of its sister planets in the Sol system.
This, in short, was an alien.

As he climbed, he thought about the strange language Lost had spoken. It was ugly and ungainly, but it was weirdly familiar. The tekeli-li cries had brought Poe’s book to mind; but what Lost said triggered a different memory, though it too was literary. He chewed on it for several flights before he found it on a dusty shelf of his mind palace. Books and stories written not in the 19th century, as Poe’s had been, but in the early 20th in what was called the pulp era. Magazines published very cheaply during a time of great economic depression. Escapism in its purest form, varying from poorly written potboilers to significant but outré works of greater literary merit. Several names came into his mind. August Derleth. Robert Bloch and Robert E. Howard. Clark Ashton Smith.
They were close, but not on the mark.
Then he remembered.
The language had a name. R’lyehian. An invention of the early 20th century pulp writer, H.P. Lovecraft. Part of a cycle of stories that he, and his followers, crafted about cosmic monsters and immortal beings so powerful they were indistinguishable from gods. Cthulhu, Hastur, Yog Sothoth, Nyarlethotep. Fanciful stuff.

“We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far,” continued the AI. “Snacks and beverages will be served before we are consumed by the nothingness.”

“What has risen may sink, and what has sunk may rise. But will it help us in the war? Text your answers for a chance to win a ski trip to Vale.”

“Ah,” said Soren, “I see where you’re going with this, my dear. There have always been various sudden and intense movements of art, literature, music, and dance that seemed to spring out of nowhere. And you think this is because those artists were having visions of life in other parts of the galaxy?”
She nodded. “Yes. Poe, a leader in the establishment of horror fiction, was well-known to have drawn on various moments of intense personal tragedy and powerful dreams in the creation of his works. Rameau speculated that he took to drink to either recapture certain moments or bar his mind from assaults of things it could not bear to witness.”
Soren leaned forward, elbows on thighs. “And Lovecraft?”
“Well,” said McHugh, “with Lovecraft we have what might have been something Rameau called a ‘clear channel.’ Someone who was able to see more clearly and remember more fully. His tales of the Great Old Ones, the Outer Gods, the Elder Things were not entirely dark fantasy but were a kind of surrealist science fiction. The monsters, demi-gods, and gods in his stories were actually travelers from distant parts of the universe. Cthulhu, Hastur, Yog-Sothoth, the Mi-Gos and all the rest.”

“They are the shapeless ones. They are what you fear and, if you do not fear, they will become the thing that teaches it to you.”

“The Shrine of the Penitent was built using technology so old that even my people knew only its smallest secrets. Like the gods of my people to whom it was built in tribute, it does not exist within this or any world. It has no physical existence at all, but rather is imposed across the infinite worlds and through the limitless realms of dream.”

Rage did not own her. It wasn’t that. Nor was it hate. This wasn’t even punishment.
It was love.
Love of her friends who had died. Love of the people aboard Asphodel who would die if she failed. Love for her homeworld so far from there. Love was always more powerful than hate.
Love was the secret that all warriors cherished. They did not fight for flags or parties or causes. No real warrior ever really had. They fought for the person next to them. They fought for those at home who could not fight for themselves. They fought for the unborn who would never live if they lost. And they fought because the enemy wanted to take all that away, crush it, spoil it, use it, defile it. Exterminate it.
Love was something the ancient AI had not understood. Now it did.



About NecroTek


From New York Times bestselling author Jonathan Maberry, NecroTek is a gripping sci-fi thriller full of ghosts, gods, and a battle for the soul of humanity.

Neither cosmic philosopher Lars Soren, hotshot pilot Bianca Petrescu, nor the high priestess Jessica McHugh—Lady Death herself—can say quite where in the galaxy they are. But after an experiment gone horribly wrong, one thing is clear: Asphodel Station isn’t in orbit around Jupiter any longer. Worse, the monsters that live out here—ancient eldritch beings thought only to exist in stories and nightmares—have now been alerted to Earth’s existence.

Their army of Shoggoths is coming for us next.

Humanity’s only hope for survival lies on the surface of the alien world of Shadderal, where a ghost named Lost, the last of an ancient race, still haunts the vast plains of the Field of Dead Birds. But hope has a cost. Lost tells Soren about ancient derelict spacecraft awaiting on Shadderal, shapeshifting machines that blend ultra-advanced technology with the dark powers of necromancy. These ships might just be nimble enough to defend mankind against the coming invasion.

But there’s a catch: they can only be piloted by the dead.

As human starfighters fall in battle, their spirits can be called back from death to pilot these ghost ships of a fallen race. But will this new necromantic technology—NecroTek—allow humanity to stand against the vast armies of the Shoggoths? And even if it can, is the war to save the human race worth the cost of its pilots’ immortal souls?




Praise For NecroTek


“In NecroTek, Jonathan Maberry has crafted a story so rich in horror, sci-fi, and the human spirit that it seems to defy all genres to create a niche for itself. The twists are unpredictable, the characters completely relatable, with a premise that defies believability and, yet, reads as absolute fact. It’s an exciting ride that plays like a movie in your head with a pounding soundtrack in your heart. Well done!”
-Steven L. Sears, producer and screenwriter of Xena: Warrior Princess, Superboy, and The A-Team

“What’s more horrific than dying in war? Jonathan Maberry issuing your soul a stop-loss order so you can fight some more. Buckle up, reader, because NecroTek is interstellar nightmare fuel.”
-Dayton Ward, New York Times bestselling author of the official Star Trek novels

“Nightmarish, visceral horror paired with fantastic sci-fi military action, NecroTek is the start of something amazing.”
-Peter Clines, New York Times bestselling author of The Broken Room

“From its bone-chilling start to creepy enigmas, to rollicking action, NecroTek takes you on an epic journey. Humanity might get better. But will we ever be better-enough? Maberry asks the hard questions amid a gripping tale.”
-David Brin, scientist and bestselling author of The Postman

“Fans of dramatic action sequences and charged emotional scenes will enjoy the short military vignettes, and Lovecraft devotees will find the lore intriguing.”
-Publishers Weekly

“Lovecraftian terror beyond the event horizon, complete with kick-ass space battles, gut-wrenching horror, and a diverse cast of fascinating characters caught up in the ultimate far-future war against cosmic annihilation!”
-Greg Cox, New York Times bestselling author

“A two-fisted, nonstop action ride of a space thriller. You don’t need to be a fan of space opera or military fiction to enjoy this mash-up of cosmic horror and Battlestar Galactica. Jonathan Maberry proves once again that he’s a master of the craft.”
-Alma Katsu, author of The Fervor

“With relentless pacing and ominous, evocative style, NecroTek is Jonathan Maberry at his best. Action, suspense, and cosmic horror collide in this cinematic tale of humanity facing off against powers it barely comprehends. Brace yourself: Jonathan Maberry just made space scary again.”
-David Mack, New York Times bestselling author

“If Alien scriptwriter Dan O’Bannon had teamed with H. P. Lovecraft to write a novel, it’d look a lot like Jonathan Maberry’s NecroTek, a cosmic adventure that’s both pulse-pounding and hair-raising. In space, only the ghosts can hear you scream.”
-Robert J. Sawyer, Hugo Award–winning author of The Downloaded

“Maberry paints a nightmarish picture of the future. Terrifying sci-fi/horror that blends Edgar Allan Poe’s bleak darkness with Stanley Kubrick’s haunting visions of soulless tech.”
-Scott Sigler, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Crypt and Infected




About Jonathan Maberry

Jonathan Maberry is a New York Times bestselling author, five-time Bram Stoker Award winner, anthology editor, comic book writer, executive producer, magazine feature writer, playwright, and writing teacher/lecturer. He is the editor of Weird Tales magazine and president of the International Association of Media Tie-in Writers. NecroTek is the first book in a new series of deep-space cosmic horror novels from Weird Tales Presents.