Mythicals

by Dennis Meredith

  “Oh, right.”

  “And you eat embryos.”

  “No we don’t!”

  “Eggs?”

  “Oh.” Jack took a drink of his cocktail and considered the relativism of cultural dietary preferences. Getting tipsier by the minute, he examined his black-garbed dinner partners.

  “Do you have jobs?” he blurted out. “How can you hold down jobs? I mean, you can’t come out in the daytime.”

  Vladimir smiled tolerantly. “Well, I tend to my business at the slaughterhouse largely at night. Doing the night shift.”

  “And I work the night shift at the hospital,” said Radomir.

  “Blood bank?” asked Jack.

  “Emergency,” said Radomir. “Blood doesn’t bother me . . . obviously.”

  “Night watchman,” volunteered Milorad, raising his glass.

  “I’m a cop,” said Gennady. “Love the graveyard shift!”

  The vampires all chuckled at the old joke.

  “Well, I guess you could pull off regular jobs,” said Jack. “You look . . . normal.”

  “Hardly normal for our liking,” said Milorad sourly. “You mean we look like your race. For us, this is disfigured.”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “It took some work, some pain,” he said. “There’s an Ally dentist who grinds down our fangs. And a plastic surgeon who rounds our lovely pointed ears to nubs. And the skin? Spray tans . . . every week, damned spray tans.”

  “You don’t think our skin is handsome?”

  Milorad made a disgusted face. “Pink, beige, brown . . . they look like skin that’s not been cared for. And, oh how your species make such a big deal about skin color! This is what skin should look like!” The portly Milorad struggled to his feet, turned around, and dropped his pants to show a substantial, fish-belly-white butt.

  The diners roared with laughter and derision, some flinging rolls at him.

  “And now . . .” announced Gennady, standing up and unzipping his fly “. . . for the white whale!”

  “NO!” came back the shouted chorus, and Vladimir held up a butter knife to fend off the white whale, should it be unleashed.

  “Your loss,” shrugged Gennady, zipping back up.

  Next, the increasingly tipsy vampires went around the table giving a succession of vampire toasts, each of which required a healthy drink.

  “May you never reach body temperature!”

  “Here’s to our favorite relatives. Blood relatives!”

  “Here’s to never failing your blood test!”

  “Here’s to never suffering a tan!”

  Finally, they had exhausted their toasts, their wine, and their laughter, which was replaced with occasional outbursts of satiated, happy chuckles.

  “It’s nearly dawn,” said Vladimir tiredly to his fellow vampires. “We need to rest. We’ll meet next Wednesday for the flight to the Convocation.” An impish smile rose on his face, and he turned away, popping out contact lenses. He whipped back to reveal fiendish, glowing red eyes.

  “Shit!” exclaimed Jack.

  “We’re taking the redeye!” exclaimed Vladimir, to a new wave of guffaws.

  “What’s the Convocation?” asked Jack.

  The room abruptly grew silent.

  “Oops,” whispered Milorad. Jack sensed that a secret had nearly been revealed.

  “You and Sam take our car,” said Vladimir, ignoring the question. “We’re going to sleep in the basement. And before you ask . . . no, we don’t sleep in coffins. Very nice air beds.”

  Shortly, Jack and Sam were comfortably ensconced in the limousine, gliding through the capitol mall, past its many memorials.

  “They were fun,” said Jack. “Not what I expected. I’ll admit, I was freaked at first.”

  “A’eiio wanted you to meet them.”

  “To intimidate me?”

  “Not at all. To educate you. To show you that those whom you think are the worst are really good.”

  But Jack’s attention had fully diverted from the vampires, riveted on the slim, beautiful, blue-eyed pixie seated so close beside him. “Sam. Is that short for Samantha?”

  “No, it’s Sam.”

  A cloud of worry descended on his face. “You’re not really a male, are you?”

  “No, it’s a joke among pixies. Female pixies take male names and males take female names. We’re poking fun at your tendency to be so absolutist about sex roles. Pixies don’t make the distinctions you do, which has led your race to discrimination, even persecution.”

  She lowered the limousine’s partition and told the driver to pull over. “This is near where I live.” She opened the car door, preparing to leave.

  “Can I come up?” Jack asked hopefully.

  She smiled sweetly. “If we made love, you would become hopelessly lost in me.” She stated it matter-of-factly, not as a boast. She kissed him. On the lips. And it supported her statement. His head began to swim, perhaps due to the alcohol, more likely her pheromones, and also because of his blossoming feelings toward her.

  “Does that mean you like me?” he asked woozily.

  But she was gone.

  • • •

  The badly hungover Jack understood what a vampire must feel like. He cringed at the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the offices of the Environmental Action Council. It seemed to penetrate like needles through to his brain, generating a throbbing ache. Fortunately, he had brought his sunglasses, which had been the only reason he had made it down the sunny streets to the transit station, and after an excruciating, noisy train ride, there to the offices.

  However, the glasses didn’t filter the sunny disposition of the pert receptionist, when he asked for Marc Bright. He smiled wryly when he said the name. Must everything be “bright” on the afternoon after an all-night partying binge!

  Marc appeared, dressed in a dapper, dark suit and bright yellow tie. Would there be no comforting cloudiness in this day?

  Marc took one look at him and asked the receptionist to fetch him a “vat” of coffee. “Deborah tells me you had quite a time with our mutual friends last night.”

  “How did she . . .” He didn’t finish. The sound of his own voice rattled his skull.

  “She and Sam have been conferring . . . about you.”

  Marc thankfully closed the curtains when they settled into his small office, and Jack thankfully sipped the hot, strong coffee. “Why did she want to meet me here?”

  “Privacy,” said Marc. “You cannot be seen together in public, and certainly not in her Senate office.”

  “I did a computer search on you,” said Jack, struggling to make some minimal conversation, while the caffeine kicked in. “You’re a big-time environmental lawyer.”

  “I try to make a difference. That’s what our kind try to do while we’re here.”

  “What are you in for?”

  Marc shook his head in a warning. “A bit of advice,” he counseled. “Never ask a Mythical what they did to be here. None of us wants to talk about what we did.”

  Deborah appeared, smiling, and kissed her husband. They closed the office door. Jack was recovering quickly, and fortifying himself for the bargaining that was to come.

  “You look a bit the worse for wear,” said Deborah. “Our friends do like to party.”

  “They are pretty stalwart.”

  “Well, you’ve seen an awful lot of us now. You have to make a decision. You have two good choices.”

  “Two choices that you’ve forced on me.”

  Deborah’s eyes narrowed in accusation. “Remember, you brought on the situation.”

  “Well, I did what I learned to do. Investigate.”

  “Still . . .” She was impatient to get on with their discussion. “I talked to my Warden about your unorthodox proposal. He raised the issue with their Council. They decided to give you a trial run. We will give you full access to our exiles and our activities. And we will give you independence to report as you see fit, sh
ould the Council authorize it.”

  “That access includes the Convocation,” he said. It was an old reporter’s trick. Put a source off balance by hitting them with something unexpected.

  “How did you hear about that?” asked Marc, anxiety tinging his voice.

  “Does it include the Convocation?” Jack emphasized. “Can I attend it?”

  Now Deborah paused, her expression grave, her lips pursed. “It is possible. But since it would be an unprecedented step, you would have to agree to an unprecedented step.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You must agree to implantation of a termination chip.”

  Jack gingerly felt the base of his skull for the incision, which still hurt from the insertion of the termination chip. The incision for the adjacent coma chip had healed. He was now doubly controlled by the Mythicals.

  He took little comfort that Wardens needed a unanimous vote to remotely trigger the termination chip to kill him. Nor was it comforting that he would be warned to stop whatever transgression he was committing by a shrill buzzing, like a bee embedded in his brain. If he did not comply with their wishes, a small explosive charge would sever his brain stem, causing instant death. He pondered whether the possibility of instant death was worth being at the Convocation of Mythicals. He wasn’t even sure what this Convocation was, but it was clearly a major event for the Mythicals, and thus one he needed to attend.

  He was distracted from his worrying by his company in the limousine and the passing sights outside its window. Beside him sat the alluring Sam, and across from him Marc and Deborah in their flesh-suits. They watched the crowds streaming along the sidewalks, and the resort city’s blazing, swirling, vivid panoply of lights. This was only the beginning of a weeklong celebration that featured throngs of costumed revelers. The private jet had taken them over the vivid light show as it landed, and now he watched it from ground level.

  The limousine left the main street and pulled up to the site of the Convocation, the Convention Center, where the driver quickly opened the doors for them. They negotiated the streaming crowd through the Grand Lobby to the North Hall, past a series of signs warning “Private Event, Invitation Only.”

  A burly, unsmiling guard passed them, clutching the arm of a skinny young man dressed like a large-headed alien, leading him away.

  He protested, “But this is a costume ball, right? I heard that. And I’m wearing a costume.”

  But the guard forged ahead, escorting him to the Main Hall.

  “We hold the Convocation a week before the city’s main costume balls, to avoid dealing with the heaviest crowds,” said Deborah. “The timing gives us cover. If somebody saw us out of our flesh-suits, they’d just think it was some early arrivals.” She and Marc went ahead of them to confer with the phalanx of other black-garbed guards, who formed a solid wall of muscle to discourage outsiders.

  “So, you’ve been given guard duty to watch over me?” he asked Sam.

  “Yes,” she said simply.

  “Why? Did you volunteer?”

  She tossed her head and smiled. “Because they know that I can handle you better than anybody else. Female pixies have that power over males of your species.”

  They reached a metal detector that didn’t resemble any that Jack had seen before. It was a luminous blue archway that looked as if it had arrived from another planet . . . which it probably had. Deborah and Marc passed through ahead of them, and a guard on the other side, standing at a console, waved them through.

  “It detects your chip,” said Sam. “It knows who you are.”

  “Great,” said Jack, wryly. “Under my alien masters’ thumbs . . . or whatever passes for thumbs.”

  He entered a huge curtained room lined with hundreds of silver barrel-sized vats. There, Mythicals were shedding flesh-suits to reveal an alien menagerie—fairies, pixies, trolls, werewolves, elves, ogres, and a welter of creatures he did not recognize. They were carefully immersing the suits into the vats. They were exercising wings, stretching massive furred muscles, scratching gray-green skin, and generally chattering in a confusion of alien languages and enjoying the freedom from the disguises. The aroma was a sweetish, organic mélange of the nutrient liquid and of the bodies newly shed of their covering. A hint of spice from fairies, the animal musk of werewolves, a sour tang of ogres.

  A’eiio and E’iouy approached Jack and Sam, their wings fluttering with pleasure and their lithesome alabaster bodies comfortably nude.

  “I hope you’ve become used to our preference for lack of clothing,” said A’eiio.

  Jack started to speak, but was rendered temporarily mute by the mesmerizing sight of Sam, who had shed her dress, as well. “Uh, I’ll try to adjust,” he murmured.

  “Well, that will be the least of your adjustments,” said Sam, padding along, slim and barefoot, as they passed through the curtained area, into the main hall. “We’ll be meeting with our own kind, and there will be an area for Allies. To your right.”

  “Just as well, I’m not sure I could take—” Jack stopped short, eyes widening.

  Before him spread a vast hall crowded with a menagerie of Mythicals. In one area, fairies flitted about the girders of the two-story ceiling, their gossamer wings glimmering in the light. They sang to one another, their voices adding a melodic undertone to the crowd noise.

  Another area was dark brown with a furry pack of werewolves, snarling at one another in some sort of angry debate.

  Far across the vast hall, Jack could see the pure white of the feathery wings of angels, stretching magnificently, flapping, some soaring smoothly aloft, to circle and land.

  Yet another area held a scritchy-screeching gaggle of elves, chattering to one another and bent over a collection of consoles.

  Beyond them, a black-clad clot of vampires, toasting one another from a bar. Only a few days earlier, Jack would have been chilled at the sight. Now, he would have looked forward to their jolly company.

  Other gangs of gnarled trolls and gnomes hunkered down among the taller creatures. Towering over all were the hideous ogres, looking like some living, gray-green outcropping, their booming growls reverberating through the hall. Marching past him into the hall came a cadre of small, orange-bearded creatures, like elves, but hairier and scruffier. Leprechauns, he guessed.

  The far end of the huge hall held a stage, and standing on it was a representative of each species, distinguished as Wardens by the gold chains and control medallions around their necks. They sagely scanned the crowd as would creatures who had absolute control.

  To the right, Jack spied a group of about fifty of his kind sitting around tables, and looking far more mundane than the crowd of exotic creatures surrounding them. They leaned together and talked quietly among themselves with some diffidence, no doubt intimidated by the stunning array of species.

  He joined them, introducing himself as new to the business of being an Ally. He knew better than to whip out a tablet or laptop in front of this already skittish bunch. So, he did his best to remember names, and he passed out his cards with the name Capital Herald marked out. He received half a dozen in return—including a lawyer, a surgeon, a talent agent, and a hotel owner. If he could interview them, they would likely offer fascinating, even soul-shaking, stories of their first encounters with Mythicals.

  The babble of alien voices quieted as the elderly, imposing vampire Warden called the Convocation to order. He obviously never had to go out in public: He still had his fangs, and his skin was dead-white. He didn’t wear contacts, so his gleaming red eyes gave him a demonic glare.

  He and the other Wardens began a litany of Mythicals’ business—announcing new rules for the exiles, warning darkly of consequences for violating them, and discussing services for exiles to make their banishment tolerable.

  Jack paid rapt attention, trying to store as much as he could in memory, anticipating typing the information furiously into his computer as soon as possible. The exiles used an array of ghostlike displays floati
ng before them to take notes, perhaps to report to their fellows around the world who couldn’t attend.

  As the different Wardens raised their issues, the werewolves off to the left continued their loud, snarling discussion. Abruptly, one left the group and strode to the front of the hall, below the stage. The werewolf Warden bent down to him, and they had an intense, guttural discussion. The Warden mounted the stage, interrupting the elf Warden, who in strained, high-pitched English was discussing a new schedule for delivering supplies through wormholes around the world.

  The Wardens retreated to the back of the stage to confer. The werewolf Warden returned to the front and announced in raspy tones, “The Allies are to leave immediately.” The ogre Warden gestured at the mob of ogres, who moved ominously to herd the Allies from the hall.

  “This has never happened before . . . ever!” whispered the lawyer.

  “Something is going on!” exclaimed the surgeon, hurrying toward the exit before the looming ogres.

  Waves of alien chatter swept through the hall, as each species reacted to the abrupt evacuation of the Allies.

  Jack decided to take a very big chance. He took a deep breath and slipped off his jacket, reaching into the side pocket briefly, before bending down and slipping the coat beneath the hanging tablecloth. Fortunately, the closest Mythical was an approaching ogre, who was more interested in moving him from the hall than paying attention to his surreptitious action. He made for the exit with the rest, through the curtained area, out the door, beneath the luminescent archway and out into the Grand Lobby. There, the Allies discussed in dismayed tones what had happened, taking care not to be overheard by outsiders.

  Were the Mythicals making some fateful decision about the Allies? Were they debating steps they didn’t want the world to know about? Nobody had any firm idea, and Jack decided to return to the hotel, to pour his remembered experience into his computer.

  He would return later for his coat and its contents. If his subterfuge wasn’t discovered, maybe he would find out what was going on.

  • • •

  From his vantage point high on a forested hill, Senator Warren F. Lee, dressed splendidly in his camouflage hunting gear, stood in the soft glow of a full moon, looking out over the small village.