Mythicals

by Dennis Meredith

  Jack stood unsteadily for a long moment, mouth agape, stunned into immobility by what he had seen. Then, his reporter’s instinct kicked in and he lurched to the window, leaning out into the bracing, crisp night, peering upward.

  Nothing. He saw nothing but dark sky lit from below by the glow of the city’s lights.

  But he had seen something. Really something!

  A’eiio sat slumped on the side of the bed staring into space, her wings drooping, when her husband burst into the bedroom, panic on his face.

  “Sweetheart, what happened?” he asked. Still in his flesh-suit and tuxedo, he sat down beside her and enfolded her in his arms. He gently smoothed back her silver hair.

  She looked up at him with a stricken expression. “An accident. My face was ripped. I sneaked upstairs to fly out. Somebody saw me. Without the suit.”

  “Oh, no,” he breathed, holding her tighter. “Did they take any pictures?”

  “I don’t think so. It happened too fast. But he got a good look at me. I don’t know who it was.”

  “Was your flight seen?”

  “I stayed over parks and roofs. I had to fly low, but I flew fast. I would have only been a flash in the sky to anybody watching.”

  “Good . . . good . . . and our neighborhood has a safe approach pattern. That’s why we picked it.”

  “You know what could happen if this gets out? Prison!”

  He stood up and took off his clothes, pressing the button that triggered his flesh-suit to relax from his body. He stripped it off and dropped it into the nutrient canister. He saw that her suit still lay crumpled on the floor by the window and immersed it in its own canister. Now, he could comfort her as one fairy to another.

  “I’m sure it won’t get out. You know these kinds of sightings never do. At most, they end up in the tabloids, and nobody gives them any credence.”

  “We still have to report it. The Wardens will find out somehow.”

  “Okay, okay, that’s true. But we need to do it the right way. This has happened to other exiles. The Wardens let them stay and relocate, if they identified the witnesses and took steps to discredit the report.”

  “That would work?”

  “Yes, absolutely. What did the witness look like? Was it somebody with the embassy?”

  “Young guy, lot of hair, staggering, looked drunk.”

  He stared up at the ceiling for a moment. “Yes, right! I think I met him. At the bar. He was drunk. That’s good! Really good!” He knit his brow in concentration. “He said his name, I’m pretty sure. But I couldn’t understand him.”

  “I know what to do,” she said, her expression brightening. “I’ll have Adele ask for the guest list. Make it a routine request through channels. I’ll have her say it’s for our files.” Then, her expression clouded again. “But my suit. The face is split.”

  “Not to worry. Remember, it’s living cells. It’s got repair programming built in. Cuts and abrasions heal. I’ll access the repair instructions. We’ll just bind the rip, leave it in the nutrient bath, and give it time. At most you’ll only have to stay out of sight a couple of days.”

  Her confidence returning, she rose, wings quivering with renewed energy, taking up her tablet computer and tapping out a message.

  “Yeah, and I’ll message Adele now,” she said. “And I’ll set up a news monitor to see if any media reports show up. I’m sure it will be fine.” Her husband joined her, and she paused to hug him with one arm. “E’iouy,” she said, using his fairy name, “You keep me sane; you keep me so happy. Tomorrow, we fly, sweetheart.”

  • • •

  “Please, Anna, please,” begged Jack, leaning over the restaurant table, trying to look as penitent as he could.

  Anna flipped her long blond hair back and glared at him. “You made a fool of yourself!” she exclaimed. “You come running down the stairs in the middle of all the important people. And you rave on and on about this creature you have seen upstairs. This creature with wings that flew out the window. As if being drunk weren’t bad enough!”

  “I know you’re disgusted with me, and you have every right to be. And I know you think I’m delusional. But I am apologizing, and I am saying that it won’t ever happen again. The drinking. I was crushed by being laid off. I was stupid. If you do this one thing for me . . . just this one thing . . . I promise to make it all up to you.”

  He took her hand, and she did not withdraw it. He knew he still had some sympathy from her. He knew she would remember the fun they had together, the way his irrepressible, slightly irresponsible behavior had brought a spice of adventure into her otherwise dead-serious life.

  “I don’t know if I can get permission to release the guest list.”

  “You’re the assistant social secretary. You don’t have to get permission. It’s not a state secret. And besides, nobody will ever know it came from you. You’re a source. Reporters don’t reveal their sources.”

  “You’re not a reporter.” Now, she withdrew her hand, but slowly.

  He shrugged, his grinning in embarrassment. “Well, I’m a freelance reporter, now. Same thing.”

  “And you hope this guest list will let you find out more about this flying creature you think you saw.”

  Jack decided the best course was to lower the craziness level of his claimed sighting. “Well, okay, I was drunk, but I did see somebody go out the upstairs window. And that’s suspicious, you have to admit. Wouldn’t it be a good thing for you if I helped you identify somebody who did something strange at the dinner? I mean, it could have been a thief . . . or a spy.”

  Her glare faded to an expression of mild exasperation. “Okay, it could have been some kind of security breach. And it would be helpful to know about that . . . for me to find that out. Look, I’ll ask around. I’ll ask the staff if anybody left the dinner early.”

  He smiled amicably, but it was also a calculating smile. He’d successfully used his reporter’s wiles to make his request seem beneficial to his source. It was only a slightly underhanded trick to play on his girlfriend—if that’s still what she considered herself.

  “It sure would help. And I promise I won’t tell anybody where I got the list. And when I start making inquiries about what . . . uh . . . who it was in that bedroom, I’ll report anything I find out right back to you.”

  • • •

  Her body tensed, Senator Bright sat in the cramped office that was of the level assigned to a junior senator and stared intently at the list on the computer screen. Who on this list had seen her in that bedroom?

  She had already eliminated the servers. They all wore uniforms. She also crossed off the women guests. And the people she had met before and knew by sight. She scanned the result. Ten names left. They were either male staffers or escorts of invited guests.

  Now, she could search the online image databases, to see if she recognized any of the faces attached to these ten names as the shocked one that had witnessed her removing her flesh-suit.

  She shivered and touched the flesh-suit face that had been ripped. It had healed so nicely over the last few days. No scar at all, thanks to Marc. He’d found in the flesh-suit instructions a section on mending rips. It said to add growth factors to the liquid nutrient medium that bathed the living cells. He’d canvassed other exiles to find another fairy who had a supply of growth factors. He’d meticulously bound up the rip and added the growth factors, and it worked.

  She typed the first name into the Image database entry box:

  John Duckworth . . . middle-aged guy. No.

  Lanny Leslie . . . another middle-aged guy. No.

  Paul Stock . . . younger guy, but not the one. No.

  Kelley Montoya . . . young guy. Again, no.

  Three more names. All no.

  Then she came to the name Jack March . . . a common name. She found lots of photos online. She scrolled through them. An old guy . . . no. A baby . . . no. Another old guy . . . no.

  Then, there he was! Smiling out at her was t
hat young face topped by the blondish hair that she had seen in the bedroom. She went to the online site where that face was featured and read the biographical sketch.

  She groaned at the information, taking out her phone and calling Marc, who was at work at his law firm. He answered, and she skipped the usual how-are-you preamble.

  “His name is Jack March,” she said. “He’s the worst possible person to have seen me. He’s a reporter!”

  “Yeah, right! I’m sure that’s the name he said. Send me the picture.” She did so, and after a moment, he exclaimed. “Damn! Yeah, that’s the guy at the bar. Maybe he won’t pursue it.”

  “Did you look at the most recent entry for his background information? He was with the Capital Herald. He was a technology reporter. It says he has an engineering degree, but he decided to become a reporter.”

  “I see. It says he’s a freelance. What does that mean?”

  “They just went through a round of layoffs, and he was fired. So, he’s an unemployed technology reporter. He’s hungry. He’s got time. He’s got connections. He was with Anna Wald at the dinner. She’s on the Congress staff.”

  “So?”

  “So, he’s going to get as much information out of her as he can. And out of the embassy staff and other guests. He may even figure out I was the guest who disappeared during the dinner.”

  “He needs to be stopped now,” said Marc. “You know how, right?” He answered his own question. “The same way that the Mythicals neutralized that patrolman when he saw Steve out in the desert. It saved him.”

  “You mean bring in Sam?”

  “Yes,” said Marc. “Sam will neutralize him. This Jack March won’t know what hit him. I’ll call Sam.”

  “Shit,” muttered Jack, as he poked the phone screen to end the call. He continued down the narrow, dark street, looking for the address of the server who’d been at the dinner. The call had been to a deputy undersecretary of state, a guest at the dinner, who had uttered only a terse “no comment” to his question about abrupt absences before hanging up on him.

  The guests all knew better than to talk to a reporter, much less him, about the event. By the time he’d called a few names on the list, word had almost certainly gotten around the gossip circuit that he was the clown who had been reeling around drunk. And, the one who had dashed down the stairs through the after-dinner crowd hollering about somebody having flown out an upstairs window.

  But now, he was pursuing a much better idea for sources: the servers. They were far more likely to sell him information. And the one he was looking for, Geniato Belligrado, seemed quite promising. The catering manager had told him, after having some money slipped into his palm, that one of the servers had some kind of accident with a guest. That guest had then disappeared into the women’s bathroom. And the server had taken off after that, said the manager. He had appeared shaken. It was unusual, and a prime rule in the reporters’ official rulebook was to go after unusual occurrences. Especially one involving a woman.

  For another bribe, the manager had given him Belligrado’s name and address. Anticipating more payoffs, Jack had taken more money out of his account, unfortunately drawing it down below his rent payment for the next month.

  He reached a set of worn stone steps and looked up to a battered wooden door with peeling green paint. Above it was the number 1719. It was the place.

  He paused before walking up the steps, looking uneasily back down the deserted street where he’d come from. He’d had the strange feeling that he was being followed, ever since he’d left his own apartment. He’d glanced back a couple of times, thinking he’d seen movement in the patchwork of shadows cast by the overhanging trees. And once, even movement up in a tree itself, which he persuaded himself must have been some bird settling in for the night. But now, he saw no movement in the shadows, or in the deeper gloom next to the rundown buildings.

  He shook off the feeling and entered, finding the name Belligrado handwritten on a smudged card stuck in the name slot on the battered mailboxes. The entry hall was littered with papers and had the musty smell of decades of neglect. He found the apartment up a flight of stairs and knocked.

  “Yes?” asked a muffled, accented voice through the door.

  “My name is Jack. I was at the dinner at the embassy. Benjamin gave me your name, said you would talk to me. I understand you had an accident.”

  “Am I fired?”

  “No.”

  “Are you police?”

  “No, I was at the dinner, too. Something happened to me there, too. I think the two things might be related.”

  “Nothing happened to me. Go away.”

  “Did you see something?”

  “Go away . . . please.”

  “Did you see . . . uh . . . like a mask . . . silver hair?”

  After a long pause, there was the metallic clunk sound of multiple locks being unbolted and a cautious opening of the door. The crack in the door revealed a slim, dark-eyed, young man with thick, black hair.

  “You saw my accident?” he asked.

  “No, but I think I saw the same person afterward. Look, I’ll give you money if you’ll just tell me your story. I’ll record it. But I’ll keep your name out of it.”

  “You saw her?” The young man opened the door wider and backed away, his head bowed. He waved Jack inside. It was a cramped one-room apartment with a kitchen area and a bathroom. The walls were encrusted with layers of old paint, the most recent of which had once been white, but was now a stained brownish. Three mattresses were propped against the wall.

  “I saw somebody with wings,” said Jack.

  “Wings? I didn’t see wings.” Belligrado retreated deeper into the apartment, standing beside the open window, as if considering bolting out and down the fire escape.

  “Then what did you see?” Jack took out his wallet and counted out what would be a generous amount, holding the bills up in front of him.

  Belligrado stared at the money for a long moment before licking his lips nervously and answering. “I am carrying tray to kitchen. Lady come out of bathroom. Older lady. My tray hit her bad in the face, and I drop it. I look up, and it was like she had a mask that tore. Like you say . . . mask!”

  “What was beneath the mask?”

  “Very white skin. And like you say, silver hair.”

  “Would you recognize her if you saw her again?”

  “Oh, yes. I can never forget her. Never.”

  Jack took out his card, a Capital Herald card on which he had scratched out the newspaper’s name.

  “Okay, I’ll come back with pictures. Will you look at them and tell me if you recognize anybody?” He handed Belligrado the card.

  “You give me more money, and yes I tell you.”

  “Fine. And call me if you think of anything else. My number’s on the card.”

  Belligrado moved quickly to the door, opening it as he stuffed the money into his pocket, and waving his hand urgently for Jack to leave. In fact, Jack was eager to leave. He had work to do. He’d gather as many photos of the older women at the party as he could, and come back. This guy had seen the face of the woman . . . or whatever it was!

  He strode away down the street planning his next steps. He would go back to his apartment, search for photos, and upload them to his phone. He had just reached the small store on the corner of the main street, when his phone rang. He stopped in front of the store and answered it.

  “Why did you send somebody else?” he heard Belligrado whisper.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There is somebody . . .” Belligrado paused, and Jack heard a voice in the background, but he couldn’t make out the words. Then, Belligrado pleading, “Please! Angel! Please! Don’t take me, angel! My mother needs me!”

  “What’s going on!” he shouted into the phone. He heard the sounds of the door being unbolted, then a soft female voice in the background. “Geniato, do not leave. Geniato.”

  But he heard only a faint whooshing sound,
and the clunk of the phone being dropped. He stuffed his phone into his pocket and ran as hard as he could back to the apartment, bounding up its stairs to the second floor. The door was open and he rushed into the apartment. It was empty! He ducked into the tiny bathroom, finding it empty, too.

  He poked his head out the open window, then climbed out onto the rusty fire escape. Still nothing. Just an empty alley. The window sill showed what looked like fresh scratch marks on it. Something, or somebody, had been taken through it.

  He reentered the apartment, shaking his head. What should he do? Call the police? Yeah, sure, he thought to himself, and tell them he was here seeing a guy about some winged creature he’d seen while drunk at a party. And now the guy was gone and said something about an angel.

  The best step right now was just to leave. Leave and think. Go somewhere and think. And get a drink. Several drinks. His hands trembling with increasing paranoia, he wiped the doorknob clean of his fingerprints, and tried to think of anything else he had touched. Finally, his panic trumped his caution, and he sprinted out of the building and down the street, crossing over to avoid a couple walking a dog.

  On the way back to his neighborhood—and critically important to his favorite bar—he puzzled over what Belligrado had shouted. Why would he have called the intruder an angel? And why were there no signs of struggle, no chairs upturned, nothing broken? Just a vanished man—a young, strong man at that.

  He was very thirsty when he made it to the funky-cozy, safe neighborhood bar down the street from his apartment. He settled in on one of his three favorite stools, and prepared to ponder the mysteries that surrounded him with a glass of liquor in his hand.

  He would have nobody to talk to really. His work friends had cordially evaporated after he was laid off, as if they might catch some unemployment virus. His parents were at the other end of the continent and had not been happy with his choice of career. Anna certainly didn’t want to hear any more about his plight or his activities after his drunken display. And the other denizens of the bar were of the comfortably casual type one talked sports or weather with in boozy chatter.