Mythicals

by Dennis Meredith

  “What do you care about the Alliance? You and your fellow . . . creatures . . . have worked against that very Alliance . . . against the other species.”

  The Alpha opened his claws, signaling an eagerness to embed them in the mercenary’s neck, to tear out his throat. “We have been faithful to the Alliance. We have done what we believed necessary to preserve the planet Thera for the Alliance.”

  “You have no power to stop us from closing those wormholes,” said Roberson. “But you do have the power to enable us to trigger the generators. Give us the codes. We will cleanse the planet. You will have revenge. We’re not endangered by termination chips.” Leveling his rifle at the Alpha, he signaled two of the mercenaries to seize the hulking werewolf, dragging him to a chair and binding him.

  Now Christopher felt brave enough to approach the restrained Alpha. “Your race engineered the Palliation,” he said. “We can make it succeed. After all, the Therans murdered your comrades.”

  “That was a military action against praetorians who had pledged their lives to service. Your missiles will kill innocents, trap Mythicals species on Thera to die, destroy their cities. I will not give you the codes to aid your depraved plan.”

  Christopher nodded to Roberson, then turned to leave. “This is your operation. You do what must be done.”

  Roberson pulled out a knife, leaned close to the Alpha’s face, smiling. He slowly, excruciatingly pushed the knife into the flesh of the Alpha’s shoulder.

  The Alpha roared in both agony and defiance, as black blood flowed from the wound down his furred chest. He peeled back his lips to defiantly bare his fangs, straining against his bonds and snapping viciously at the mercenary.

  • • •

  The Alpha’s roar reverberating from the building spurred Flaktuckmetang to even greater speed in escaping. Hearing the rattle of gunfire, he stopped at the building’s corner and peered around to the praetorian encampment to see the violent turmoil of a massacre. Mercenaries fired their assault rifles at captive praetorians, hauling their bodies into a bleeding pile. Two mercenaries strode among fallen werewolves, firing rounds into the writhing bodies of the wounded. Enraged howls arose from the wounded survivors when the mercenaries slammed their boots down on the heads of the fallen, crushing them, preventing forever their display in the Hall of Heroes,

  Flaktuckmetang took a deep breath to calm himself, deciding his next move. Two alternatives. He could attack. Or, he could wait until nightfall. Then he could kill as many mercenary guards as possible, avenging the praetorians, earning the Alpha’s acceptance, perhaps even honor.

  He chose a third; to run.

  He pulled out the small, silver memory chip that the Alpha had given him and contemplated it. It held the EMP generator activation codes, which would make him a prime quarry in an intensive search, and also the subject of torture by the mercenaries. And even if he gave the codes up, he would receive a quick, casual bullet to the brain.

  He backed away from the corner, figuring a plan. He had to think ahead. He was probably safe from the other Mythicals. But they were smart. So, there was a slight chance they might somehow transit through the Pilgrim wormhole to this hell of a planet. If they did, he could use his hostage to bargain for his life, maybe even for safe passage. So, he needed to keep the Theran indenture alive, to bring her with him.

  The mercenaries were still occupied with murdering wounded praetorians, so he could easily sneak around to the back of the airdome barracks where he had chained Meri.

  He sprinted swiftly to the structure, and taking out his knife, slit the fabric, taking care not to puncture any of the air cells that maintained the dome’s shape. Meri was huddled on the floor beside his bunk, her food and water bowl beside her, the chain around her ankle.

  “Make a sound and you die,” he hissed, unlocking the chain and transferring it to her wrist. He attached the other end to the belt of his harness.

  “Where are we going?” she asked in a voice weakened by the trauma inflicted upon her. “I am no use to you. I have no information. Let me go.”

  “You are of use to me,” he said. “We’re leaving.” He drew his knife from its scabbard. “If you slow me down, I can quickly detach that small wrist.”

  He wrenched the chain, dragging her out through the slit in the tent. She whimpered in pain, and he turned and clutched her throat, punching her hard in the face.

  “Another sound, you die.”

  Then, taking care not to alert the mercenaries, he loped across the compound to the line of armored personnel carriers the Pilgrims used to venture outside the compound. Meri managed to keep up, limping along on bare, bloodied feet.

  Flaktuckmetang ducked from one vehicle to another along the line, stopping to allow a sentry to pass by.

  Then, a minor problem dawned on him. Actually, a couple of problems. For one thing, the Theran mercenaries were after him. And for another, the compound gates were built to withstand any vehicle impact. So, even if he managed to steal a vehicle, he would be trapped!

  Hauling Meri to his side by her chain, he crouched on the ground, pondering what to do next.

  The rumble of vehicle engines starting up caused him to stand up to see exhaust billowing from the front three armored carriers in the line. They were leaving! Luck!

  He ducked along a row of parked carriers until he reached the last one in the line.

  More luck! No guards patrolled near the idling vehicles, all of them occupied with killing the werewolves or searching for him. He yanked open the back cargo door of the last carrier and dragged Meri in. He drew his knife and leaped forward, holding it at the throat of the driver, who gasped in terror.

  “I just want to get out,” he whispered, his muzzle close to the driver’s ear. “Get me out, I free you with no harm.”

  The driver nodded gingerly, given that the knife was hard against his throat.

  Flaktuckmetang grinned. He would relish—once the convoy was well away from the compound—burying his fangs in the driver’s throat and tearing it out. And making a meal of the driver. He was hungry. And he hadn’t tasted human flesh, only Theran.

  No doubt he would survive just fine, perhaps even prosper, on this planet of weak, degenerate creatures.

  “You can go back to Thera,” Sam said gently, her small arm encircling Jack’s waist. “The werewolf is gone. The trigger is gone. We’re sure.”

  “Yeah, well, they say the body forgets pain,” said Jack, standing with her before the airlock door of the ogre wormhole. “It’s not true. I’ll never forget that feeling, like a hot poker stabbing into my brain.”

  “I understand if you don’t go through.”

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t. I’ll try to forget the pain. But I will remember the hell that monster put me through . . . what he put everybody through. And I’ll remember that he still has Meri. I’ll go.”

  With that, he pulled open the airlock door, and they stepped into it and through the inner door to stand before the wormhole. The interdimensional bubble hovered in the center of the chamber, drifting slowly back and forth, held by the magnetic fields produced by the metal probes encircling it. The faint swirling aurora of colored lights played about its edges.

  “We’ve flattened the exit zone,” said the voice over the speaker. They could see that the magnetic field had been adjusted to warp one side of the hole into a flat surface that wormhole-travelers could safely traverse without being sliced by the infinitely sharp interdimensional edge.

  Jack and Sam stepped through to find themselves outside the main defense control center of the Theran nation, Califana. Walking through its doors, they found that the huge hall resembled the now-destroyed center of the Confederated States. It held rows upon rows of glowing monitoring consoles crowded with images, arrays of constantly changing numbers, and the hieroglyphics of equations. Each station was manned by an engineer who alternately scrutinized his individual screens and glanced nervously up at the array of wall-sized displays depicting the
Califanan defense installations. One screen in particular attracted the most attention. It showed the map of the Theran globe encircled with blinking red dots marking the remaining EMP generators. Another screen that warranted frequent scrutiny showed a fleet of missiles poised on their launch pads. The row of white obelisks resembled some arcane historical monuments, but the missiles’ tips held the latest nuclear warheads capable of obliterating cities—or hopefully orbiting EMP generators.

  Wendy approached them wearing a physician’s white jacket, her snowy wings extending through slits in the back.

  “No buzzing,” Jack breathed thankfully to her, taking a deep, relieved breath and letting it out.

  “Excellent,” said Wendy. “We have procured the device to extract the chip. We found it in the werewolf camp when we searched for Meri. We hope this torture will be over for you.”

  “Great!” With that, Jack began to follow the angel from the control center to the military base’s clinic. But Sam took his hand, squeezing it, in an unspoken message that she would come with him. He smiled in gratitude, and together they made the walk across the military base to the clinic building.

  Entering a surgical suite there, Wendy directed him to lay face-down on the operating table, while she positioned a small wand over the base of his skull. He felt the sting of a needle, as she administrated a local anesthetic.

  “What’s the wand do?” he asked.

  “Without the wand, the chip activates,” she said softly, as she leaned down to scrutinize the incision made to install the chip. “It’s why I can’t just go in and remove the chip surgically.”

  “Could it activate anyway?”

  She said nothing for a long, tense moment. “I have to be honest. We’re not sure the werewolves didn’t program a security code into the extractor. If such a code were not entered, there’s a possibility the device could trigger the chip. And it looks like the chip itself has a trigger that prevents tampering. Do you want me to continue?”

  Jack clenched his jaw. He felt Sam’s small hand on his back. “I have to get this thing out,” he said quietly. “Otherwise, I won’t be of use to anybody.”

  “All right, then,” said Wendy. “Here’s what I’ll do. I’ve studied the extractor, and I’m fairly sure I know how it works. It will pinpoint the chip and insert an extraction probe, attach it, inactivate the chip’s tampering trigger, and pull it out. Ready?”

  “Ready,” said Jack.

  He heard the whine of the extractor powering up, felt pressure on his anesthetized skin, felt his flesh being pierced.

  A faint buzz arose in his skull.

  Roberson limped down the row of monitors in the Pilgrim control room, peering over the shoulders of the mercenary technicians. The monitors showed the Pilgrim surface-to-air missiles, mounted on their wheeled carriers, arrayed around the globe. Some showed the missiles enveloped in the gloom of a local night, as faintly visible white cylinders rising vertically. Others showed the missiles gleaming brightly in the Theran daytime. At those sites, mercenaries were busily stringing cables leading to the control huts and plugging them in.

  “Tell them to hurry up!” Roberson commanded the technicians. “The Therans could have tapped our communications.”

  “No worries, sir,” said one of the technicians. “These guys want their revenge.”

  “When those missiles hit those wormholes . . . sweet, sweet revenge!” exclaimed another.

  The others nodded in grim agreement, still vivid in their memories were the devastating firefights in which Mythicals and Theran soldiers had wounded or killed many of their comrades.

  Roberson stepped outside to check on the missiles at his own site. They would not be needed. No Mythicals wormholes would show up here. If all went as planned, they would be lured to the military sites around the globe, to be destroyed by the missiles.

  Beyond the missile array, the Pilgrim wormhole now floated in a clearing in the thick woods of the Pilgrim colony in the Confederated States. It shimmered faintly in the moonless night.

  Satisfied that the missiles were ready, Roberson returned to the control hut, a barn on the colony’s outskirts. Now, the Clark brothers and Christopher had appeared, peering over the shoulders of the technicians.

  “Are they ready?” asked Christopher.

  “Nearly,” said Roberson curtly. “You can see as well as I can,” he said, gesturing at the technicians.

  Nathan Clark leaned against the barn wall, crossing his arms, staring coolly at Roberson. “You have failed so far. Let’s see if you can get this attack right.”

  “Failure? We successfully engaged the enemy,” Roberson shot back. “And we lost men. That’s the business we’re in. We account for losses in our plans.”

  David Clark chuckled wryly. “Yes, but not those kinds of losses. We’re here to review your plan, which we hope is adequate to accomplish the mission. We frankly don’t see how this plan will lure the Mythicals’ wormholes into missile range.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand military tactics,” said Roberson, intently scanning the monitors. “We will launch multiple simultaneous attacks on the Theran bases, precisely coordinated. I’ve dispatched a squad to each base. We know the last attack drew the creatures in. They will believe the new attacks are merely repeats. And, they will believe that since they repelled the first one by bringing in their wormholes, the same tactic will work again. And since all the launches are triggered from here, we can make them as close to simultaneous as possible, to avoid the creatures warning one another.”

  “Are the missiles sufficient?” asked David Clark.

  “Three missiles are deployed near each base . . . thermonuclear. We have the targeting algorithm your technician developed programmed in to detect the wormholes and launch the instant any are in range.”

  “And if those missiles are inadequate? Or, if they’re destroyed?”

  “My men have shoulder-mounted missiles. If the wormholes approach the base, they can launch them to close the apertures. Not as much damage on the other side, but sufficient.”

  Nathan Clark added, “Well, you also failed to obtain the codes from the werewolf’s leader. That needs to be done while there are still enough generators to significantly damage the planet’s infrastructure. They are being rapidly destroyed.”

  Roberson resisted the urge to pull out his pistol and simply dispatch these annoying humans. A simple bullet to the forehead for each of these aliens.

  After all, he was a Theran, albeit a traitor to his species. He had done everything possible to extract the EMP generator activating codes. Every violent thing.

  He flashed back to the bloody, gutted corpse of the werewolf Alpha, sagging in the chair to which he was bound. He remembered the grisly business of crushing the creature’s skull in front of his captive soldiers, to persuade them to cooperate. He knew that was the ultimate, horrifying act to the creatures. They didn’t fear death, but they did fear not having their heads returned to their Hall of Heroes, to be displayed.

  But none of his tactics worked. Not even executing those soldiers, one by one, and crushing their skulls with an assault vehicle, while the others looked on.

  He answered Clark. “The missile attacks will serve two purposes. They’ll cut off the Mythicals. And, they’ll stop the destruction of the generators long enough for us to get the codes. After all, there is one werewolf left. He escaped your compound. He is somewhere on Earth and likely has the codes. Once the Mythicals’ wormholes are closed, and we risk no interference from them, we will pursue him.”

  With that, Roberson instructed the technicians to confirm once again that the mercenary-led human commando teams were in place at the other Theran defense sites. One after another, the technicians signaled readiness.

  “Launch,” commanded Roberson.

  • • •

  The specter of sudden death that had haunted Jack was gone! With Sam beside him, he strode back into the Califanan base control room with a renewed energy, a gr
im determination.

  “The chip is out!” he exclaimed, and A’eiio hugged him with relief.

  “More good news,” said the fairy. “We took out two more EMP generators. We’re down to a hundred or so. They’re still an active threat to many nations, but we’re getting there. And, there’s no evidence that werewolves are attempting to passage through the Pilgrim wormhole to trigger them.”

  Now crouching over the control consoles were Steve the troll, Ryan the elf, and many of their fellow Mythicals. They had joined the Califanan technicians at the monitors.

  The wall screens periodically showed a salvo of missile launches from a Theran base. They streaked toward another generator, leaving contrails in the azure sky. Moments later, another screen showed a generator’s destruction, as one of the missiles managed to penetrate the machine’s defenses. The cylinder silently exploded into a rapidly expanding cloud of metal pieces, its solar wings and parabolic reflector tumbling, glimmering away into space.

  E’iouy returned from checking the status of the monitoring stations. He shook his head in worry.

  “There are still many generators in stationary orbits over regions not reachable by the missiles,” he said. “And there are still the ones over nations that have already been attacked. If the Pilgrims get the operational codes, they could re-deploy the generators.”

  “So, there’s still the possibility of a global Palliation?” asked Jack.

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “How about using the Mythicals’ wormholes to take them out? Like the Pilgrim wormhole that attacked the control center?” he asked.

  “We can’t risk it. There’s the very real possibility that the generators have defenses against the wormholes. While we’re fairly sure wormholes can’t be detected at a distance, a generator could identify one up close. One EMP burst would close a wormhole, which would be catastrophic.”

  “Then use the wormholes to transport the missiles into range.”

  E’iouy shook his head. “They’re intercontinental missiles. Far too large to pass through a wormhole.”