Mythicals

by Dennis Meredith

  “You asked me if I made a decision.” Jack reached over to his bedside table and picked up his computer. He swung it around so Sam could see the screen. It displayed an article with the headline. “Werewolves Plan Devastating EMP Attack.” A subhead read, “Other Mythicals Battling to Save Thera.”

  Laying his finger on the touchpad, he moved the cursor to a button on the screen marked “Send.” He tapped his finger.

  His body tensed, the vampire Warden stood gazing out the window across the vast plain below his government’s mountaintop citadel. The planet’s dim sun was setting, and he was thankful for the coming darkness. He felt more comfortable in the gloom.

  The other Wardens would arrive soon, and he had just dispatched a hunter to harvest one of the stubby-legged grazers for their dinner. It was a welcome distraction, watching a harvest. The Council meeting could be disastrous, marking the end of the Alliance, perhaps even war. And vampires had held themselves to be neutral thus far about the Palliation. But that couldn’t last.

  A rotary-wing flier thundered out of the launch bay of the black marble castle, swooping down to skim above the herd of grazers, which began to stampede at the onslaught from above.

  “I will designate,” instructed the Warden.

  “Order received,” came the answer from the hunter, and the flier paused, hovering.

  The Warden made a gesture with his fingers, and the window transformed into a magnified display of the landscape. A wave of his hand triggered the display to scan across the herd. He spied a particularly large cow and gestured with his finger to designate it. Very nice. The werewolf Warden would enjoy the fresh, raw meat, as would the vampire, perhaps making the discussion that would accompany the meal go more smoothly. But some meat would have to be cooked for the ogre and troll Wardens—a distasteful task for the chef.

  But the fairies and several others would need imported fruits, and the pixie Warden would need that peculiar gelatinous concoction that his species preferred when not on their planet. As for the elf, the angel, and the leprechaun Wardens, they seldom ate at a Council meeting. The elf always complained that the food was not adequate; the angel never ate in public, as was the custom. And the leprechaun was usually too skittish to do anything but fidget.

  The Warden watched as the flier began to swerve back and forth, tracking the fleeing target animal, and the hunter efficiently stunned it with an anesthetic arrow. The animal collapsed onto the ground and was quickly hoisted aboard.

  “Good capture,” thought the Warden. The animal would be alive until it was butchered, fresh enough for any werewolf or vampire.

  The distraction was short-lived. A wormhole silently materialized from the depths of the slate-gray clouds, its interior lights agleam. A shimmering aurora of evanescent reds, yellows, and blues played about its surface. Its hissing and crackling rising from the background noise, it sailed into the citadel’s hangar bay below, and the vampire Warden quickly made his way down to greet the delegation.

  After the usual ceremonial Warden greeting, they seated themselves at the long onyx table covered by red cloth, the food placed before them. The hunter barely had time to recite the prayer honoring the fallen animal before the werewolf had begun to feed. He ignored the others, who waited for a tank to be wheeled in, and the mermaid Warden transferred into it, floating gracefully inside, ogling them with his large, limpid eyes.

  This was a rare full Council meeting, including not just the usual Wardens—vampire, werewolf, fairy, pixie, troll, ogre, elf. Even the Wardens who hated to travel via wormhole had attended—angel, leprechaun, mermaid, demon, gnome, bigfoot. Most brought their own native foods, not trusting the likes of a vampire to meet their needs.

  The leprechaun wasted no time in challenging the werewolf. “You murdered one of our exiles!” he exclaimed in the high, keening voice.

  The werewolf waved a bloody rib in the air gruffly declaring, “An exile. What do you care about exiles?”

  The leprechaun leaped onto the table, preparing to scramble its length to confront the werewolf. But the angel Warden gently restrained him, settling him back in the chair.

  “Besides, these beasts . . .” said the werewolf, waving his claw at the bigfoot. “. . . these beasts killed many of our praetorians.”

  The bigfoot Warden leaned forward, eyes glaring, and began a rumbling speech. He touched his translation medallion, replying “I would be most happy to add one more to the count. Your unprovoked attack was reprehensible.” His pungent aroma wafted across the room.

  The answer made the werewolf pause in his feed and bare his fangs.

  “As host, I am interlocutor of the meeting,” warned the vampire. “And I would ask that we focus on the broader issue of the Palliation. As I’ve indicated before, the vampires have been neutral in this matter—”

  “As have the leprechauns,” interrupted the leprechaun.

  “However . . .” continued the vampire emphatically, “. . . while we had previously believed it was a rogue operation, a matter for your species to handle, it is now clear that this Palliation is sanctioned by your species. The equipment and the warriors you have committed show that. You have lied to the Council.”

  The elf skrittered an angry declaration, translated by the pixie as, “We have proof that you brought your soldiers through a wormhole.”

  “We were forced to take unilateral action,” said the werewolf. “The Council is allowing Thera to be devastated by the Therans themselves. So, the Palliation offers a way to preserve the planet.”

  “By devastating the population?” asked the fairy Warden. “The Therans now know of the Palliation. They are outraged, fearful. They wanted to launch an attack on you. But we told their leaders that any assault will risk the enmity of all Mythicals, who have already suffered from internment and will not tolerate another persecution. We pointed out that Mythical technology is powerful, and Therans would risk a devastating war.”

  “We have a new ally,” said the werewolf, finishing the rib, and as was the custom, rubbing the remaining blood on his pelt. He took up another clawful of meat and began to gnaw on it.

  “You can’t mean Therans,” said the fairy.

  “I mean a previously unknown species called humans,” said the werewolf. “We’ve long suspected an unidentified interdimensional-traveling species existed but did not know for sure. The group calls themselves Pilgrims.”

  “And why would they become allies in the Palliation?”

  “Their planet is beyond saving. They have been covertly colonizing Thera. They propose to become caretakers of the planet. To preserve it for the remaining Therans, for themselves, and for the Mythicals.”

  “And they would countenance the death of billions of Therans?” asked the fairy.

  “They are like us. They see no other way,” said the werewolf.

  “You shall not proceed!” declared the fairy Warden, his wings beating furiously, lifting him above the group.

  “I have a solution,” said the vampire. “Give the Therans some time . . . say ten of their days . . . to decide on the Remediation. If they are still determined to ruin their planet, then the case for the Palliation is stronger.”

  The werewolf pitched down the chunk of raw carcass and stood. “They will not agree to the Remediation. They are fools. But we will give them those days. Then, we will bring our engineers through our wormhole to trigger the EMP generators.”

  The fairy Warden immediately launched himself out the door and toward the wormhole, to transit back to his planet. He had a dire message to deliver.

  • • •

  “You killed our indentures!” snarled Flaktuckmetang. He glared out from the view screen at Vladimir, his werewolf’s black lips curling back to show ivory fangs. Behind him in the cavern of the werewolves’ polar base, the massive praetorians moved about the business of helping their wounded comrades into their wormhole.

  “We were protecting a friend,” said Vladimir, standing easily before the screen in his ho
use, the other vampires lounging behind him in his large, windowless living room.

  “Jack March is no friend. He revealed the Palliation. He has made our plan more difficult.”

  “Well, first of all, as you said yourself, we only killed indentures. What do you care about them? They were not the praetorians that the other Mythicals killed in battle. The ones whose heads they destroyed. You know we were not involved in that battle. We have remained neutral. And we ask your help.”

  “You do not need our transport,” said the werewolf. “You are taking care of your own.”

  “Yes, many of our kind are evacuating worldwide. They’re ones the Wardens decreed were far enough along in their sentences. But you know there are simply not enough wormholes for us all to transit in time. And we know you are using your own to move your exiles to safety. Look at it this way. By launching the Palliation, you are risking the collapse of the Mythicals Alliance. But if you show good faith by helping to save other exiled Mythicals than your own . . . specifically us . . . it may yet still hold. We vampires . . . ,” Vladimir gestured around the room at the others “. . . have at least some sympathy for the Palliation.”

  The werewolf shifted slightly, betraying some discomfort with the situation. He was not used to handling political issues. He preferred killing. Then, he seemed to recover his authority, declaring, “I will consult with our Warden and the Alpha praetorian. We will determine whether we have the capacity, and the inclination.”

  “Fine,” said Vlad. “We will await your decision. But I ask your Alpha to consider the consequences of refusing.”

  The screen went blank, and Jack appeared from the other room, followed by Sam and Ryan. Ryan was busy chattering in the squeaky tones of elvish into his phone.

  “Did the werewolves believe your ruse?” asked Jack.

  “Vampires are pretty good liars,” said Vladimir. “I think they’ll ultimately agree to bring their wormhole within range.”

  “From what I’m told, Therans have the missile technology to destroy it. But the reverse is also true.”

  “And that is?” asked Vlad.

  “Since we plan to destroy their wormhole with missiles, they could just as easily do the same to the Mythicals’ apertures. You need some way to protect your wormholes. I think I’ve figured how to engineer such a defensive system.”

  Finishing his phone call, Ryan skrittered an elvish answer, which Sam translated as, “He has proposed your defensive technology to the Wardens and the trolls. They can engineer it.”

  “Do they know whether the werewolves are preparing to launch the Palliation?” asked Jack.

  The elf squeaked out an extended answer, which Sam translated: “The elves and trolls can’t tell from the orbital scans whether the werewolves have transited their engineers through to Thera. That is necessary to trigger the EMP generators. But he says they have not moved their wormhole to orbit, which would also be an indication they plan to launch the Palliation. Now, they appear to be only evacuating their exiles. But we need to know for sure. If their engineers are on this side, they can still devastate the planet.”

  “But in the end, we have to close that hole,” said Jack. “We have to shut them off from Thera.”

  “It’s up to you to persuade the Therans to help us do that,” said A’eiio. She placed her hands on Jack’s shoulders, her sapphire eyes staring into his. “You are the only one to do it. They still believe you are one of them.”

  “True, the Therans don’t know of the Pilgrims . . . of humans,” said Jack. “And I won’t tell them. If they knew I was human, they would think I was betraying them somehow. And in any case, there are appeasers among them . . . those who do not want any aggression against the werewolves; those who will see our plan as provoking the werewolves . . . as triggering the Palliation.”

  “Well, then, make them see they have no choice.”

  Vladimir smiled an ivory-fanged vampire smile. He had allowed his teeth to grow to their natural length since the revelation of the Mythicals’ existence on Thera. The towering vampire spoke into the radio to Jack, as he stood in the welcome gloom with his fellow vampires in the broad parking lot outside his meatpacking plant.

  “The beasts will be quite attracted to this landing site,” he said. “We have activated fans from the building. Now the place smells of raw flesh. And it will mask the other scents.”

  Normally, the building bustled with the carnivorous daytime traffic of carcasses being hauled in, and butchered meat shipped out. But tonight it was quiet, except for the hum of the compressors from the lines of refrigerator trucks parked at the loading docks. The sound added an ominous undertone to the scene.

  The vampires counted on this noise and the darkness of the moonless night to mask the stealthy maneuvers now taking place around the plant.

  The vampires intently scanned the sky. After a long wait, the werewolves’ wormhole appeared as a faint blotch in the distance, growing rapidly. Its faint-colored aurora defined it against the ink-black sky, as it dropped toward them. Abruptly, its lights switched on, and the vampires winced at the light. Milorad donned sunglasses against the glare.

  The hole slowed its descent coming to a stop above them, and a ladder extended down. The furred form of Flaktuckmetang descended from it, and he was followed immediately by the Alpha, leading a squad of praetorians, who fanned out around the hole, their bulky, ornate rifles at the ready, aimed outward.

  “You are ready to depart?” asked the Alpha, peering around suspiciously raising his snout to sniff the air.

  Vladimir shrugged. “We have to settle an issue first.”

  “There are no issues to settle. We have agreed to evacuate you . . . to give you the privilege of using our aperture. Board now.” The werewolf stepped back and gestured impatiently with a taloned claw for the vampires to climb the ladder to enter their world.

  “Oh, but there is an issue as far as the Therans are concerned,” said Jack, appearing from behind one of the trucks. “They want to stop this horrible thing you plan.”

  The Alpha crouched into an attack posture, and the praetorians swung their rifles around to aim at Jack.

  “What are you doing here? I can have you killed!” snarled Flaktuckmetang.

  “I know . . . Flak,” said Jack, using the truncated version of the werewolf’s name, knowing it was a profound insult. He spread his hands to show that he held no weapon. The werewolves likely didn’t shoot unarmed people. But they could take him prisoner, and the Alpha signaled two of his guards to do just that.

  But as they moved forward, Jack backed away, and a squad of Theran soldiers materialized in the broad circle of light cast by the glowing wormhole. Their own weapons at the ready, they encircled the werewolves. The vampires backed away, as well.

  The Alpha’s ears pricked up, and he bellowed a command in the guttural language of his race. The praetorians began a retreat to the ladder, weapons still aimed outward at the much larger encircling force.

  “I should have known you would betray us!” exclaimed Flaktuckmetang. “We will never—”

  A brilliant flare erupted from the gloom beyond the lighted circle, followed instantly by the loud whoosh of a rocket launch. Trailing its blazing exhaust, the rocket streaked like a fiery lance toward the wormhole.

  The missile penetrated the wormhole, detonating with an ear-shattering blast that flung the werewolves back.

  The wormhole was enveloped by a blinding fireball, but only for an instant.

  The wormhole vanished, its magnetic containment destroyed, leaving only utter darkness, the pungent aroma of smoke, a disconcerting stillness.

  Blasts of wild gunfire shattered that stillness, erupting both from the blinded werewolves and their equally blind Theran enemy. Screams of wounded soldiers and the explosions of grenades punctuated the gunfire.

  A sudden glare of light overhead flooded the area, revealing a bloody scene of dead and dying Therans and werewolves.

  It also revealed Jack and the v
ampires hunkered down, frozen by the sudden assault.

  “It’s another wormhole!” exclaimed Jack, peering upward, squinting at the light. He held the radio to his mouth. “Can you target it? Can you hit it?” he asked the Theran missile team.

  From the hovering wormhole erupted a fusillade of gunfire that raked the Theran soldiers, wounding and killing many, and scattering them, opening a way for the werewolves to escape.

  Before Jack could receive an answer from the missile team, the werewolf Flaktuckmetang loomed before him, raising a rifle, leveling it at him and Vladimir.

  “We thought you might try something like this!” he exclaimed. “Now you’ll pay!”

  Jack and Vladimir both steeled themselves for death, as the werewolf pulled the trigger.

  But with a bellowed “NO!” a large form leaped in front of them, shuddering as the bullets impacted his body. The werewolf ceased firing, as gunfire from the Therans drove him back. He and the praetorians shot their way out of the ring of Theran soldiers and toward the glowing wormhole, as it lowered to the ground, enabling them to climb its ladder.

  Unbound by gravity or inertia, the wormhole streaked into the black sky, shrinking to a star before blinking out.

  Lights from the Theran soldiers flicked on, playing over the bodies of their fallen comrades, tending to the wounded and beginning to evacuate the dead.

  The Theran colonel approached, shining a light on Jack and Vladimir. The light also revealed the bloody corpse of Milorad, his eyes fixed, his mouth gaping open, now silent. Radomir bent over him, searching in vain for any signs of life. He looked up at them with a grim expression, and shook his head.

  “He saved us,” breathed Jack.

  “I would have expected nothing less,” said Vladimir, tears welling in his eyes as he knelt over his fallen friend. Gennady knelt beside Vladimir, putting his arm around him.

  Jack stood and surveyed the scene, his brow knitted in puzzlement. Then he realized.

  “The Pilgrims! It was their wormhole! The werewolves have enlisted them!”