by Sahara Foley
Breathlessly, she scolds me. “I told you I didn't want that.”
“Sorry, I did.” I'm not going to admit I'm having intermittent problems with my powers. And to be honest, she just had an orgasm, by me, in a way she'll never experience with anyone else. Score one for me.
“And do you always get what you want?” she asks sternly, eyes flashing with indignation.
“Yes, Ruth, I do,” I say with a self-congratulatory smile. With her cuddled up next to me, I'm enjoying the moment. I watch as a few birds flit from tree to tree, singing out to each other.
Her head on my shoulder, her breathing settles down. “Oh damn, now I'm all wet, I'll have to go clean up before dinner.”
“Good. I'll watch you shower again,” I tease.
She backs away from me. “No, you stay away from me, or so help me, I'll have you out of here. Do you hear me?”
I draw her into my embrace, holding her tightly, “I doubt it, Ruth. I think you're stuck with me, for a while at least. Now, close your eyes and relax.”
“Why?” she asks cautiously.
“Just do it,” I order. After she shuts her eyes, I focus on her room and BLIP! we land on her canopied, four-poster bed. “Okay, open your eyes.”
Her eyes widen, mouth dropping open. “What?”
“Relax, you're okay.”
“But I felt nothing, nothing at all,” she says in wonder.
I explain to her about my first teleportation trips, and how sometimes I'd rematerialize feeling dizzy. “Once, I reappeared inside a wall, and another time inside a tree,” I say with a chuckle. When my powers began manifesting, the first year was a long and frightening one for me.
“Really? How did you get out?” she asks in amazement.
“Well, at first, I panicked. After I calmed down enough to think, I realized my mental thoughts were what made me teleport, so I just reversed the process. And later, I learned I could never get 'stuck' in anything, as my molecules won't mix with foreign molecules.” As Ruth ponders that, I say, “In fact, I can stay in any object and watch for as long as I want, then leave.” I softly kiss her cheek. “I can become a part of your shower curtain, and you'd never know I was there. So, go on with your ordinary life. I may be around, but you won't know it.” I flash a lascivious smile.
“This is creepy,” she admits with a shudder. I can't fault her choice of words. If anyone had told me any of this as little as four years ago, that's about what I would've said too.
I continue my explanation. “I've teleported to China, Russia, Japan, and other places around the world.”
“How long did it take you to travel there?” she asks, becoming the professional again.
“Oh, about two blinks I would say.”
“How do you know where you'll reappear at?”
“Sometimes I don't. But usually, I can pick my spot before I materialize.” I'm oversimplifying the process, but the simple explanation is all that's needed for government work. “Well, enough of the parlor tricks for now. I'll go and leave you to your own devices.”
“And how will I know that for certain?” she asks, cocking her head with a quirked brow.
“Because, I just told you so.”
With a thoughtful look, Ruth says, “Well, having you around will be an interesting experience, kind of like having my own ghost.”
* * *
Later, we're eating dinner alone in the spacious dining room. It has a vaulted ceiling, and the walls are dark, burnished wood, with elegant, family portraits placed discreetly around the room. Ruth and I are sitting at the head and foot of a mahogany dining table that seats eight. A shimmering chandelier graces the ceiling directly over the table. Every time the air conditioner kicks on, the air current causes it to tinkle with a soft, melodious sound.
Ruth is dressed in black jeans, with a pearl white, satin blouse. The only ornaments she wears are the wedding bands on her finger and necklace. Between mouthfuls, Ruth resumes her questions. “Do you think your abilities can be genetically inherited?”
“You mean like sire a superbaby?” I ask between a bite of steak, which is cooked just the way I like, medium rare.
“Yes, sort of,” she says, gesturing with her fork.
“I have no idea,” I admit, “but I've made myself temporarily sterile. I've been planning on studying my chromosomes for defects, but haven't gotten around to doing it yet. No hurry, I guess,” I end with a shrug.
Ruth has an enthusiastic look on her face, and a mouth full of green beans. “I think you should, Arthur. You could start a super race of men.”
“That's already been tried. Don't you remember Hitler?” I reply sardonically.
“No, I mean good people,” she disagrees with a frown.
“And how long before they begin controlling the ordinary people?” I ask with a smirk, taking a sip of my wine.
“You don't know that, it might never happen,” Ruth argues, shaking her head. She has a valid point. I've had the same argument before, with myself.
“I think it's too risky,” I dismiss with a shake of my head.
“Just think, if the free world had six people like you, nobody would ever bother us,” she points out.
“That's politics, and I won't get involved in that mess.”
“Sure, because you're way above our petty affairs,” she scoffs. “But what about all us lowly, normal mortals, don't we get a chance at peace and a quiet, safe life?”
Not wanting to get into a political debate, I keep my trap shut and finish my delicious dinner.
Over some weird pudding-like-stuff that's dessert, Ruth continues her interrogation. “What would happen if a nuclear bomb detonates near you?”
“Nothing,” I say flatly. That statement induces a long unblinking stare.
Finding her voice, she asks with wonder, “Not even at ground zero?”
“No.” God, how can she eat this stuff? The pudding is a nasty brown color and smells like old, well used socks, with a lumpy texture, leaving a gooey coating on my tongue.
“What would happen to you, if you were at ground zero?” she persists.
Obviously she isn't going to stop, so at least if I'm talking, she can't. Besides, then I can forget my pudding. With that thought, I finish my wine and slide the brown, yucky pudding farther away from me.
“All right, Doctor, I'll try to explain the process to you. Not in technical terms, because none of the nuclear physicist experts have a clue of what actually happens to me.”
There, the pudding is pushed away, and as I rise from my chair, I drop my napkin over the bowl. Perfect. If big fancy estates like this one have cockroaches, they'll be in for one hell of a nasty surprise if they eat the pudding. I almost feel sorry for them. Almost.
I stroll to the bar and pour a brandy, then sit next to Ruth. Trying to wash the terrible taste away, I swish some brandy around in my mouth. Better, but my tongue still wants to stick to the roof of my mouth. Taking another sip, I continue, “The reason a nuclear blast won't hurt me is because of my force-field.” Ruth gives me another long, unblinking, quizzical stare. “When I became fairly proficient at matter transference, I placed a force-field beneath my skin. It's one-thirty second of an inch below the surface, and though I've been through and around several nuclear explosions, all I've lost is that one-thirty second of an inch of skin. My tan fades, that's about it.”
I also lose my hair on every part of my body. Unfortunately, I can't figure out how to remedy that problem. “For the record, I can stop, direct, or even reverse a nuclear blast. I can detect radiation for miles, and it won't harm me. At Cal Tech, I let those guys run all sorts of nuclear tests on me. When they ran out of ways to try to destroy me, I became bored and left.” As Ruth opens her mouth to launch into more questions, I tell her, “Whoa, quiet. Eat your pudding.” Yuck.
Ruth holds her hand up with a green sparkle in her eyes and a suppressed smirk. “Do you mind if I bring it out?”
“What?” I stare back stupidly.
/> “Well, I should've realized you would know what we're having for dessert, but may I ask a question?” She heads for the kitchen door, trying to hold back a laugh. “In your country, do they eat the snack the cook leaves out for the dogs?” Doubling over with laughter, she disappears through the swinging door.
What!? I study the bowl of pudding, which she hasn't touched. Dog food? The bowls were sitting there; I figured it was dessert, so I ate almost half just to be polite. I can hear Ruth in the kitchen, loudly laughing away. Dog food.
Ruth stumbles back out carrying two bowls, tears in her eyes. Her sides are still shaking from suppressed laughter. “I usually eat alone and feed Romeo and Juliet in the dining room,” she explains. “They enjoy their food, but not as much as you did.” With a impish look, she adds, “At least you won't have to worry about worms, Merlin. The bowls were laced with dog-wormer.” Laying her head on her arms, she laughs so damn hard the whole table is shaking. And it's a big table.
I sit there with a big T-bone steak, green beans, potatoes and gravy, and dog wormer, like a hot rock in my stomach.
Ruth's trying to talk through her laughter and I can barely understand her as she pushes the real pudding towards me. “Want some pudding–Rover?”
Grabbing the brandy bottle and my glass, I stomp into the library. I haven't blushed in a long while, but I can sure feel the heat now. Her laughter is echoing from the dining room. I'm glad no one else was here. Two things I've never been good at emotionally handling, receiving a present, or being the butt of a joke. Faulty upbringing, I guess.
To drown out the laughter, and there's plenty of it, I browse over the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books. What an impressive library. Looking over the books, I notice several older tomes in leather bindings that seem to be valuable. I keep my search to the less expensive section of the library. Many of the books I've read, some I've never heard of. And here's a group by good old Dr. Tober, case studies from the Institute. I pull out several books about the old legends from long ago and faraway England, where a knight in shining armor would've cut off Ruth's head for laughing at him like that.
One of her dogs is sleeping under the desk. As I seat myself, it rolls up on its feet, nuzzles my leg, then heads off to the dining room. “Go eat my pudding, buddy, and believe me, you owe me one.”
I open the first volume. I saw many titles about the same topic on the shelves; King Arthur and Camelot, Merlin, and of course Excalibur, King Arthur's sword. These are some of my all-time favorite stories, besides Steven King and a few other ethereal writers. When I changed from my real name to Arthur Merlin, a book similar to this one is how I chose my nom de plume. I could've used one of King's stories, but who wants to be called Cujo? I think about that. Damn. If I'd used that name, Ruth would probably have had a heart attack over the dog food fiasco. Gee. Lucky me.
I glance up, studying the titles again. There are many books around this time period, and several volumes about a St. George, and Excalibur. Why would anyone have eleven books about a mythical sword, by eleven authors?
The book I'm reading has three hundred and forty-seven pages of facts and maps. Every battle the mythical sword had been used in, where it came from, and where the rock was located. There were several chapters about the Lady of the Lake and where the lake was reported to be located by the knight who presumably threw the sword in the lake for King Arthur, this St. George. It's pretty interesting reading.
Chapter Six
I'm halfway through the third book and about that far into the brandy, when Ruth sticks her head into the room. “Hmm, Arthur, may I disturb you?” she asks cautiously.
I glance up. I swear there are still laugh lines showing on her face. “Do you always ask after you do something?” I ask peevishly.
“Please, I have an important matter to discuss with you,” she implores with knitted brows and a frown. She doesn't advance into the room, so I meet her at the doorway. “Did you hear the phone ring?”
I'd been too engrossed in the book. “No, I didn't.”
Turning, she glides back to the dining room phone. The receiver is lying on the sideboard. “It's Commander Dobie, and I think you should listen to him. Please?” The beseeching look Ruth gives me reminds me of those old Marlena Dietrich movies, where everything's so important. You know, end of the world, bounced checks, or the grocer's out of caviar. Now me, I worry about toilet paper. Have you ever tried to use one of those corn cobs? No wonder the pioneers were so tough.
Picking up the antique receiver, I acknowledge, “Yes, Dobie, go ahead.”
“Uh, Merlin, er Arthur, we have a situation at Heathrow Airport, and the doctors think you may be persuaded to help.” Dobie doesn't sound as pretentious now.
“Spell it out, Dobie. I'm all ears,” I say snidely. Placing her hand on my arm, Ruth shakes her head no. With a sigh, I say, “Sorry, Commander, go ahead.”
“About forty minutes ago, a plane began boarding for Tehran. Several terrorists got on board, or maybe they already were, with weapons and explosives. They're demanding we bring their leader out to the plane and release him. They claim they'll kill one passenger every five minutes until he's released. They've already killed one man and dumped his body from the plane.”
Rubbing my forehead, I look down at Ruth. “How many terrorists are there?”
“We think four, maybe five,” Dobie answers. “Their leader is in prison for murder, terrorism, and attempted skyjacking. All capital crimes.”
“Commander, you don't have capital punishment,” I remind him with a frown.
“Capital punishment is life in prison,” he explains, sounding offended.
“If I get the terrorists off the plane, what will happen to them?” I ask, leaning one hip against the sideboard.
“They'll go to trial for murder and hijacking, life.”
“Unless their government protests, you mean.”
“No, Arthur,” the Commander disagrees, “the leader has been in custody for several months, and we'll not release him without good cause.”
Ruth still has her hand on my arm, with that pleading look in her eyes. “Please, Arthur; do this job for the passengers, for yourself, hell for me.” When she looks like that, I doubt the Devil could say no. Besides, I'm getting bored.
Rubbing my forehead again, I start formulating a plan. “Dobie, have the terrorist leader brought to the plane right away. Dr. Burns and I will be there shortly.”
“We've never given into terrorists before, Merlin,” Dobie protests.
“And you won't now,” I reassure him. “Just get him there. I'll also require ten men, armed and willing to shoot.”
You can hear the wheels in Dobie's head turning. “What are you up to, Merlin?” he asks guardedly.
“Commander, you called me. Now, if you want my help, get the leader and ten armed men at Heathrow, or else good-night.”
There's a short pause; I hear muted conversation in the background. “All right, he's on the way. When will you be here?”
“We'll be there as soon as we get off the phone.”
“Good, come then,” he orders, severing our connection.
Ruth looks at me with an arched brow. “Somehow, I knew you would help. It's like I'm feeling your emotions.”
“Is that right?” I ask distractedly. What's Dobie up to? Is he behind this scenario, to ensnare me? Government agencies will do whatever they deem necessary to get what they want. Even at the expense or death of the civilians they're sworn to serve and protect.
She backs away from me with a sheepish look. “I'm sorry about earlier.”
Startled from my distraction, I look down at Ruth. Why did she have to mention the dog food fiasco? My stomach is finally starting to settle down. I swallow a few times, trying not to remember the taste of the dog wormer, then ask, “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes.”
“Close your eyes,” I instruct her.
She moves farther back. “Can't we drive there?” she asks, with a nervous
smile.
“No, no time.”
She starts fingering her necklace. With a heavy sigh, she concedes, “Okay, I'm ready.” She closes her eyes, stiffening up, like she's waiting for me to hit her. An hour ago, that was something I was definitely thinking about.
Placing my hand on her arm, I focus on the airport terminal and BLIP! Teleporting to the airport is easy, since I was there earlier today. We materialize at the terminal gates, near a group of armed, tough, and capable looking soldiers, with black berets and submachine guns. These are the type of men mothers' dream of dating their daughters … in their nightmares. They look like English versions of Rambo.
Their leader is a tall man with white hair, no rank insignia, but a military bearing, squared shoulders and ramrod stiff backbone. An impeccably dressed man in an expensive suit is talking with them. “Said they would be here shortly,” he says haughtily to the taller man.
“Dobie,” Ruth says softly.
He turns at the mention of his name, his face tightening. “Merlin?” he asks with a measuring look.
“Yes, Arthur Merlin,” I affirm, giving the same appraising look.
“I'm Commander Dobie of MI6, in charge here,” he says in a deep, condescending voice, then waves to the men in his group, “and Major Breckenridge, leader of the Alpha Team and his terrorism response unit.”
The Major snaps a salute. “Sir.”
“Relax Major,” I tell him, “officially, I'm not here, and you probably outrank me anyhow.” Several of his men snicker softly. Turning to Dobie, I ask, “Commander, when will the terrorist leader arrive?”
He glances at his Rolex watch. “Should be any minute now, Merlin.”
“Major, have your men form up around me, at ease. Dr. Burns, wait over there, out of the way,” I instruct, shooing her away. With a frown, she stamps over several feet, then stands there, arms crossed, tapping her foot. “Gentlemen, I'm sure you've worked with Commander Dobie before. Everything you see, hear, or even imagine you see or hear, is classified,” I brief them. “How do you feel about terrorists? Not just any terrorists, but specifically the ones on that airplane. Speak freely, men,” I look around at the tough faces of Alpha Team.