Mythicals

by Dennis Meredith

  “How can you do this?” asked Nathan. “How can you allow them to create such ruin on this planet? Why have you not allowed us to go public?”

  “Never forget that we are alien to this planet just like these Mythicals. Just like them, we would be seen as enemies; identified, hunted down, eliminated. This planet’s inhabitants are full of prejudices and hatred . . . unfortunately more like us than I care to admit.”

  “Let’s say we do accept what you say. What about the Mythicals? They could become our enemies.” David regarded him coldly, strategically.

  Christopher shrugged. “We will bargain with them. We will agree that they can bring back their exiles. Until the time is right.”

  “What do you mean?” asked David.

  “Once the beasts have destroyed the planet’s infrastructure, we will pledge to rebuild it. We will pledge to restore the planet’s ecology. We will restore our own population. Then, when we are of sufficient numbers, we will ‘palliate’ the Mythicals . . . here, as well as on their home planets. We have historically been quite effective with our thermonuclear technology. We can confidently predict that a missile directed through a wormhole will devastate the other side and unleash an electromagnetic burst that will close the hole. And, we would ask that you two lead the entire effort.”

  A red-faced Nathan, pacing back and forth across the large room, started to speak. But David waved a hand at him to calm him.

  David nodded his head resignedly, and said, “I think I speak for my brother in saying that we will give this new direction serious consideration.”

  • • •

  A’eiio slumped on the cot in her cell, head bowed in despair, wings folded tight against her naked body. Where was her husband? She trembled at the memory of the horrifying sight of him plummeting to the ground. And what had happened to Sam? The pixie would die in captivity, she knew. But she could do nothing. The other Mythicals? Her friends? She had only inklings of the fate, since she had been shot with the tranquilizer gun. She had been barely conscious when she had been carried from the emergency van to the cell and left there.

  No sound caused her to look up. Only a sense of presence. E’iouy! He stood at the solid steel door peering through the small window. She leaped to the door.

  “How did you . . .? What has . . .?” she could not even form a coherent question. But he knew what that question was.

  “Well, our friend Jack persuaded his employer that getting us a lawyer would be good business. And that lawyer persuaded a judge that, since I’m the lawyer for the Mythicals here, I should be free to advocate for them. There are some minor restrictions.” He gestured at his neck, which had a large black rectangle strapped to it. Behind him stood a guard holding a remote.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “A stun collar. If I try to fly away, I get zapped.”

  “That could kill you!”

  “Don’t worry about me. We need to get you out. We need to get you all out.” He looked back at the guard expectantly. The guard nodded his assent and stepped back, waving to another guard in a control room overlooking the cell block. The cell door clicked to unlock, and A’eiio shoved it open and rushed to embrace him. They stood for a long time, not speaking, taking comfort in that embrace.

  “The others?” she finally asked. “What’s happened?”

  He caressed her face sadly. “Robin,” he whispered, shaking his head.

  Her lip trembled; tears welled in her eyes. “What happened?”

  “They went to take her. She was on a roof. She tried to fly. They shot her. Not with a tranquilizer. With a bullet.”

  He embraced his wife, as her body sagged in grief, and she began to sob.

  “Is this happening all over?”

  “Yes, globally. All the governments have conducted roundups. They’re calling it ‘precautionary detainment.’ Some Mythicals are in prisons, others in camps. Thousands of us. But some aren’t.”

  “They escaped?”

  He smiled grimly. “Some hadn’t revealed themselves in the first place. So, they got away. And, well, you know, nobody can keep a troll where he doesn’t want to be. They managed to keep Steve in a cell for about an hour before he broke out. They can’t find him. And Ryan and the other elves keep screwing up the alarm systems, the surveillance cameras. They couldn’t find Vlad and the other vampires. Maybe they do turn into bats.”

  She smiled through the tears. “Not surprising. And Wendy?”

  “They went to capture her, but there were some religious types among the agents. They just couldn’t bring themselves to capture an angel. They hesitated long enough for her to take off.”

  “Good. Besides Sam, she’s another who couldn’t take confinement. And Flaktuckmetang?”

  “Still missing. In fact, almost all the werewolves avoided capture. And some of the ogres. And others of various races.”

  “So, do you think they are working with the werewolves?”

  “Likely. And they’re certainly preparing the Palliation. We’ll have to deal with that, but first, we have two tasks. We need to get you out. Especially because you’re pregnant. And second, I’m filing a writ with the Supreme Court to demand all Mythicals’ release.”

  • • •

  “We absolutely have the best interests of the country in mind,” declared Adrian Brenner, the “policy director” of the Clark brothers, picking up the bottle of very, very expensive sparkling wine. With his meticulously manicured hand, his wrist showing his very expensive watch, he poured the icy effervescent liquid into the senate leader’s crystal goblet, smiling. The opalescent string of perfect, tiny bubbles spiraled to the surface of the liquid, as befitted a wine that cost more than the senator made in a month.

  “I’m sure you do,” said the senator, nodding amicably and taking a sip, raising his eyebrows in appreciation. Indeed, he had deeply appreciated the excellent meal at one of the capitol’s most exclusive clubs.

  Brenner was certain their conversation would not be overheard, ensconced as they were in the very private room of the very private club. However, Brenner also accepted reality that he did not have the full attention of the senate leader or the other guest, the vice president. He did not mind one bit. The two middle-aged politicians’ attention was understandably distracted by their two lovely young companions for the evening.

  The women had been chosen and procured per the details of the senator’s and vice president’s preferences in women, which had been extracted from Brenner’s private data base. And that data base had been compiled by extensive investigations of the two men by the security firm owned by the Clark brothers. For the senator, there was a willowy, long-legged blond; for the vice president, a redhead with flawless ivory skin.

  The vice president, a dumpy, balding man, briefly diverted his attention from the redhead to Brenner. “I take it you have discussed the matter with your counterparts elsewhere.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Brenner, smiling the smile of one confident of the influence the massive wealth of the Clark brothers could buy. “My colleagues have been in discussion with leaders worldwide. They agree that these absurd proposals . . . the so-called Remediation . . . by these aliens do not merit serious consideration. And, of course, the arrests of the past week have proved that they are not to be trusted.”

  The slightest look of concern clouded the senate leader’s deeply tanned face. “But still, the environmentalists, the scientists, they have confirmed the data these creatures provided.”

  Brenner made an offhanded wave. “Not to worry. My office has transmitted to you a set of talking points that speak to those issues.”

  He realized that he had only a brief window to discuss the subject before the two men departed with their companions. He ticked off the points on his fingers, keeping them simple:

  “The Zero Carbon Law will profoundly disrupt our energy economy; the Biodegradability and Health Law will devastate our critical chemical industry; the Ecosystem Preservation Law will render vast t
racts of land unavailable for development. And the Genetic Fitness for Leadership Law . . . well . . .” He paused, grinning. There was no need even to complete the sentence to persuade the two male leaders of the folly of that law.

  Indeed, the senate leader and the vice president both chuckled and raised their glasses in tacit agreement.

  “Gentlemen, I am delighted that you could join me this evening,” said Brenner. He glanced at his assistant, who had entered the room, nodding. “I believe your limousines are waiting. And I trust you will let me know if there’s anything I can do to assist you in ensuring that our country remains strong and its economy vibrant.”

  Again, he glanced at his assistant, who seemed to have a mild itch in his left eye, for he gently rubbed it. That telling signal reassured Brenner that the cameras had been installed in the bedrooms of the two palatial suites that the men would occupy that night with their willing and beguiling companions.

  Geniato Belligrado gave his round little mother a warm hug and took the lunch she had packed for him. He smiled because he knew it would include that very special sandwich she made for him; and she commented how nice it was to see him smile for the first time in a month.

  And it had been a harrowing, exciting month. After his stunning encounter with the angel in his shabby room, and the life-changing offer the angel made, he had journeyed back to his little hometown of Vallipitano and shocked his mother with the news that he was taking her to his adopted country. At last he had the money, thanks to an angel. She had been puzzled at the last declaration. But he would not discuss the angel further.

  He had presented her with all the necessary immigration papers, which had appeared mysteriously in his mailbox. He also proudly announced that he was now the owner of a small store at the other end of the country from where he had been working before. That information had also appeared in his mailbox, as part of the packet that included access to his new bank account and the information on his new life.

  The angel had told him he could have his heart’s desire, but he wasn’t greedy. All he wanted was to run a family store. And, in return, he became what they called an Ally.

  So, today, he walked out of the small house they had just moved into, and opened the door of the used car he’d gotten a good deal on.

  “DOWN!” commanded a voice behind him, and he turned to see two suited men standing beside a black car, guns drawn and leveled at him. “DOWN ON YOUR KNEES, HANDS UP!”

  “What—” he had begun to ask, when his mother scurried out of the house, a horrified look on her face.

  The larger of the two men, swung his gun around and pointed it at his mother, causing her to scream. He moved forward, grabbing her and throwing her to the ground.

  Geniato raised his hands, “Don’t hurt my mother!”

  Without explanation, the men handcuffed them both, shoved them into the back of the car, and sped away.

  Geniato leaned toward his sobbing mother, trying to comfort her as best he could with his hands cuffed behind him. Where were they going? What had he done? He prayed that the angel would come to help them.

  • • •

  The shimmering wormhole sailed somewhat erratically over the craggy, black peaks of the polar mountains that thrust up from their snowy base. The hole reduced its altitude in awkward jerks, aiming toward the yawning entrance to the cavern blasted out of one of the sheer faces of the volcanic rock.

  In the control room on the other side of the wormhole, the werewolf pilot poked tentatively at the controls, as the Warden glared at him. Werewolves were not nearly as adept at piloting the holes as elves. But after the EMP weapon deployment, the elf leaders had refused to cooperate further. Even the threat of a war with the fierce werewolves did not sway them. And the werewolves knew better than to further alienate a species with such technological capability.

  “Are you finally stable?” asked the Warden. “Can you hold this course?”

  “There are always magnetic anomalies,” replied the pilot.

  “The elves have no such difficulties. You can be replaced.”

  The pilot issued a throaty grunt. Replacement would not only mean disgrace, but likely imprisonment. Werewolves had no tolerance for even the slightest mistake. It showed weakness.

  The wormhole slowly eased its way into the mountain’s depths, still wobbling unsteadily, nearly touching one of the walls, which would have brought a shower of debris pouring into the chamber surrounding the wormhole, possibly damaging the guiding magnets, possibly destroying the hole.

  “Incompetent mongrel!” exclaimed the Warden. “You are endangering the mission and the aperture!”

  The pilot said nothing, bent over the controls. He finally managed to bring the wormhole to a stop hovering within the cavern and activated the autopilot to hold station.

  “Stable, exit enabled,” he mumbled, and the Warden growled and nodded to the Alpha praetorian.

  “Deploy,” commanded the Alpha praetorian, a massive, gray-furred werewolf, who wore the chainmail tunic that marked him as leader.

  The Alpha wrenched open the airlock door into the chamber. Behind him stretched a line of one hundred praetorians, who began filing through the door into the large metal chamber enclosing the hole. They each hefted a full complement of weapons, and they took great care to lower themselves down the ladder onto the granite floor of the cavern base, on a planet that few of them had ever seen.

  Over three hours, the regiment exited the wormhole. Only twice did a praetorian blunder, falling against the infinitely sharp edge of the hole—its transdimensional discontinuity. One soldier sliced his arm off, dark red blood spurting from the stump. His comrades leaped to his aid, managing to stanch the flow long enough to haul him back through the hole to the home planet, where the arm would be reattached.

  The other praetorian was not so lucky. The wormhole sliced him in half—his upper torso falling back into their world; the lower torso into the cavern. The other soldiers impassively returned the two halves to their world for disposal. Praetorians showed no emotion, no remorse, no fear. They had been engineered that way. Their only reaction was a dark-humored debate over whether their body-severed comrade’s family would receive full or half pay for deployment in a battle zone.

  Finally all the soldiers had deployed, and they assumed formation in the cavern, their breath creating clouds of vapor in the bitterly cold weather. But they were perfectly comfortable, their thick pelts and armor offering sufficient protection, even against the frigid polar extreme.

  They stood at attention, as the smaller, lower-class, indentured soldiers hauled the heavier weapons and components through the wormhole, lowering the cylindrical cases to the ground, where they were hauled away.

  Because they were punier than the praetorians, and less able to handle loads, five indentures died in the process, sliced apart into bloody pieces when they stumbled into the transdimensional edges of the hole. Their bodies were hauled away to be burned. Indenture deaths didn’t warrant military funerals.

  Finally, the Alpha praetorian passed through, lowering his brawn down the ladder and onto the ground.

  He stood scanning the formation critically, as his chief lieutenant went through the arrival check using a virtual display screen floating before him. One after another, a sequence of glowing green symbols, body silhouettes, verified the telemetry signals from the praetorians. Thus, the Alpha would know instantly how many of his warriors were functional, how many wounded, how many dead. A separate set of symbols, werewolf skulls, glowed to life on the screen, signaling that the praetorians’ terminal chips were also activated. Prisoners, or even the extremely rare deserter, could be instantly dispatched.

  The signal status verified, the Alpha gave a brief, brusque call to arms to the assembled phalanx and was answered by the expected thunderous roar of approval. They then watched the wormhole wobble slowly away to the cavern entrance and into the pitch-black sky, suddenly accelerating skyward with the velocity of an object with no ma
ss.

  The praetorians turned to their preparation of the area for its defense. The base had been empty for decades, so it had been stripped of its armaments. Not that defenses were needed in the vast empty reaches of the frigid continent.

  As they installed the missile batteries and automated guns, they did so with the sense of satisfaction, even hope, that they would die on this strange planet, becoming martyrs to their species and heroes to their mates and pups.

  Meanwhile, the Alpha summoned his lieutenants to a chamber off the main cavern. Bringing up a virtual display of the planet, he assigned each lieutenant to a region.

  He formally gave the praetorians their mission: “Your assignment is to rid each region of any Mythicals who work for the Remediation and oppose the Palliation,” he instructed. “You will prepare for the return of the wormhole from deploying the final EMP weapons. It will then transport your assault squads to their destinations. If you fail, shame will be upon you and your clan.”

  • • •

  A’eiio sat beside Jack in her cell, her hands clasped tightly together, her wings folded. After Jack’s release, he had immediately come to make sure she was all right.

  “I have something terrible to tell you,” she said. “I’m not sure what to do about it, but you deserve to know. You all deserve to know.”

  “Deserve to know what?” he asked.

  “It’s about the Palliation.”

  “I heard that term at the Convocation. It sounds bad.”

  “It’s devastating. You know about the disaster in that village?”

  “Where all the electrical systems failed?”

  “Imagine that worldwide. Powerful electromagnetic pulses that could blanket the globe.”

  “That seems impossible.”

  “It’s not only possible, but likely. Imagine huge electromagnetic pulse weapons directed at the planet, like the one that hit the village. That was only a small test.”