Myths of the Modern Man

by Jacqueline T Lynch

  MYTHS OF THE MODERN MAN

  by Jacqueline T. Lynch

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2011 Jacqueline T. Lynch

  All rights reserved by the author. Unauthorized copying is prohibited.

  CHAPTER 1

  Colonel John Moore’s newest obsession: watching the thin trickle of blood from Brian K. Yorke’s lip. Seconds ago Moore had kicked him in the face, having observed Yorke’s vulnerability. Vulnerability appealed to Moore. It was such a useful gauge for so many things.

  Yorke, despite being the stronger, younger man, held no advantage over John Moore’s powers of observation. Moore knew when to plant his foot on Yorke’s sternum and when to put his thumb in Yorke’s eye. Recognizing vulnerability was sometimes secondary to causing it.

  Moore thought of his rival as “Brian K. Yorke,” always by his full name, perhaps because that was how Yorke introduced himself to people, and was meticulous about putting his rank of Colonel first. Moore cared nothing for rank.

  Yorke reared in pain like an animal from the thumb in his eye, and angrily flailed at Moore, pushing him against the wall of the cell, thrusting Moore’s head against it. Moore, despite his near-concussion, knew he had him then. Yorke had thrown his whole powerfully built body against Moore, allowing Moore to plant his knee in Yorke’s groin, his hands on Yorke’s neck, and his celebrity in Yorke’s face.

  The personnel standing on the mezzanine above them watched, businesslike in their lack of emotion. Moore’s and Yorke’s demonstration appeared to them to be done in silence, due to the soundproofing of the cell in which they fought, separated by the clear resin ceiling from the arena-like observation deck. Dr. Eleanor Roberts watched, along with her colleagues Dr. C.C. Ford, and General Andrew English. There were others present at this demonstration who Dr. Roberts did not know, from the Committee most probably, she guessed, though they had not yet been introduced to her. The other figure she knew only by reputation and from the photo on her press kit bio.

  Her first glimpse of Dr. Cheyenne L’Esperance surprised Eleanor. More than the woman’s tall, graceful, rather muscular and athletic figure, Eleanor was taken by the unexpected reactions of this newcomer. While all others watched the fight below with quiet, detached interest, and Eleanor herself felt not a little boredom over it; after all, it would not affect the ultimate decision of the Committee because that had already been made, she was assured -- Dr. L’Esperance openly wept.

  The others noticed her crying as well, exchanging uncertain, embarrassed glances. They politely looked away out of what could only have been respect for Dr. L’Esperance’s reputation and abilities. Surely even a genius was capable of some faults, and this must account for such a formidable scientist making a complete ass of herself in public.

  Eleanor could not help but feel secretly pleased at the discovery of her rival’s weakness. She was certainly a rival. Of that much Eleanor was sure, though nobody said anything to her about it, not yet. There had been no surprise interoffice memos or grave meetings with the Committee to officially notify her that she would be monitored by this newcomer, perhaps even be expected to share authority with her. Still, Eleanor owned up, because she liked to face facts, that Dr. L’Esperance was nothing if not a rival.

  From the confines of his cage, John Moore glanced up from his opponent’s long-hoped for collapse and let his gaze wander on all the faces above, beyond the clear resin, sound-proofed ceiling. He felt momentarily like an insect that has been caught by a child and placed in a glass jar for inspection. Like a firefly that he used to catch on his father’s front lawn on summer nights as a boy. Or were he and Brian K. Yorke crickets, where one always eats the other if left alone overnight in the child’s jar, and the child inevitably wonders the next day why there is only one bug left in the jar when he distinctly remembers putting two in there.

  Moore searched instinctively for Eleanor’s face. He spotted her, but she was not looking at him. He noticed her expression of incredulity approaching sarcasm, and followed her gaze over to the tall dark-skinned woman with her hand wiping tears from her eyes. Moore, like Eleanor, was also struck by the unknown woman’s evident distress, so out of place in this environment. Their eyes met, and she seemed to nod to him with something like sympathy and understanding, an action also out of place here. He put his hands on his hips, grinned and nodded back.

  Soon the observation mezzanine cleared as the audience drifted away, and Moore brought his attention back down to Yorke, who sat up now, his breathing heavy, rhythmic, his face glistening with sweat and soiled with his own blood. The orbital areas around his eyes began to swell slightly. Moore extended his hand to Yorke.

  “Want to go for a beer?” He was being only slightly sarcastic.

  Yorke pulled himself up, using the wall as a support. He licked the blood off his lip.

  “Let’s not make friends, Moore,” he said, not disguising his weariness. “One of us is going to die.”

  Moore understood that Brian K. Yorke was not necessarily referring to which of them chosen for the mission. The man left behind in the safety of this complex was hardly safe from death, either. His career certainly would be over, at least.

  “I’ve misjudged you. You have more on the ball than I thought.”

  “Thank you.” Yorke, after a confused moment, found the door out.

  ***

  “D-Day minus one,” General English said as he approached Dr. Eleanor Roberts, clapping his hands together. He beamed from Eleanor to Dr. Ford and gestured with his glance over to the unknown man talking with members of the Committee, who had stood by his side at the observation deck.

  “So far, so good,” General English said.

  “General, who is that gentleman?” Eleanor asked. Ford’s eyes darted from Eleanor to General English. General English sized Eleanor up before speaking, something he inevitably did before speaking to anyone and she had long since stopped taking it personally.

  “My guest. Possibly my eventual superior,” he said, sounding ominous. “That is all I am at liberty to say. You’re aware there is a bit of shuffling going on? Well, consider his presence among us as evidence that we are attracting notice, people, important notice.” He said this with a note of pride, and brightened, and Ford smiled courteously. Eleanor did not smile. She did not like mysteries.

  “As soon as Accommodations is finished with Dr. L’Esperance, I’ll introduce you.” General English continued, “It’s about time you met, Eleanor. You’ll be working closely. You have a lot in common.”

  “Do we?”

  “Well,” he said, in awkward effort to be jovial, “you’re both women for a start.” Dr. Ford smiled with his customary unrelenting courtesy at General English again. Eleanor wondered what beyond breasts and ovaries General English thought she and Dr. L’Esperance possibly had in common. He would not elaborate, but perhaps he could not. His thinking really was rather limited and always had been. Why he had been chosen to head this fledging department she could only guess. His relative ignorance and lack of imagination for her work had thus far proven fortunate; it kept him largely out of her way. Lately, though, he was taking far too close an interest for her to be comfortable. She liked her independence.

  “Dr. L’Esperance will be staying on site, then?” Dr. Ford finally spoke up, pleasantly, as he always did everything pleasantly.

  “Yes,” General English replied, “although down the road she may have other plans. At least right now she prefers to arrange for quarters in the compound. It will certainly keep her close to things.”

  “I hope she did not find the exhibition between Colonel Moore and Colonel Yorke too distressing?” Eleanor’s pointed inflection was obvious even to General English. />
  The general’s expression clouded over and he cleared his throat.

  “One of course forgets the sensibilities of outsiders. She will lose some of her…sensitivity in time and become a very valued member, I’m sure.”

  “I’m sure,” said Dr. Ford.

  “I’m sure,” said Eleanor. “By the way, General, I’m not too clear myself on the purpose of the demonstration. Surely this close to mission time the candidates should not have risked injury. This didn’t have anything to do with the ultimate decision of who would be in the field? Surely, the Committee has already made that judgment based on criteria, not some silly staged fight.”

  “Let me tell you something about criteria sometime, Eleanor.” The avuncular persona reappeared.

  “It carries the day only to a point. When the chips are down, you need a man who can think fast and fight like hell. Mathematics and what all don’t count.”

  “Then if Colonel Moore was the winner of the fight, are you seriously going to place him first above Colonel Yorke, whose profile is far superior? Based on what?”

  “Criteria, Eleanor, criteria,” General English whispered like a conspirator, winked and stepped briskly away, spotting Dr. L’Esperance down the hall in the act of being about to get lost in the maze of corridors.

  “What do you think, seriously?” Eleanor said in sotto voice to Dr. Ford as General English strode over to shepherd Dr. L’Esperance.

  “Well, I can’t help but think her living here is a big mistake. The apartments here are dismal. Just being on site is like being in jail. I’m glad when I can pass through the gates every evening and get the hell out of here.”

  “Not about her living here,” Eleanor said, not bothering to disguise her irritation. “I mean about what part she plays in all this.”

  “She’s only here to observe.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I wondered if you knew anything more than I did.”

  “That’s not very likely.” Dr. Ford’s face lit up with his practiced pleased expression when General English escorted Dr. L’Esperance toward them.

  General English stopped short in front of them, nearly with a hint of a soldierly clicking of his heels, and nodded to Dr. L’Esperance, who had evidently washed her tear-stained face in the interim, and appeared composed and cordial.

  “Dr. Eleanor Roberts, Dr. C.C. Ford, may I present Dr. Cheyenne L’Esperance?” He said, “Dr. L’Esperance, Dr. Ford is the chief coordinator of ancient studies, and Dr. Roberts is our top physicist, directing this mission.”

  Dr. L’Esperance beamed at the two of them, though seemed not to notice their extended hands awaiting the inevitably required handshake. Instead, she cupped her hands on either side of Dr. Ford’s face and drew him to her, warmly kissing him on both cheeks, and then enveloping him in a gentle hug, holding him closely against her body.

  “Dr. C.C. Ford,” she said, “I am pleased to meet you.” Her voice low, soft and sounding vaguely musical.

  Eleanor’s surprise at the sight kept her from realizing she was momentarily to receive a similar reception, which she woodenly withstood when Dr. L’Esperance kissed her and embraced her, fairly cooing,

  “Dr. Eleanor Ford, I am happy to meet you.”

  General English glowered at the floor again, evidently not surprised at Dr. L’Esperance’s style of greeting, but clearly disapproving. Perhaps he, too, had previously received such a greeting from her.

  “Perhaps you could show her the lab, Eleanor,” he said, “and then Dr. Ford can explain the mission parameters in more detail.”

  “I read your synopsis, Dr. Ford,” Dr. L’Esperance said, “and was very much intrigued.”

  “Thank you.” Dr. Ford beamed. He was the only one who seemed quite pleased with her.

  “Should we introduce Dr. L’Esperance to the two candidates, General?” Eleanor asked the question with what all save Dr. L’Esperance perceived were wicked intentions.

  “I can ascertain if they are fit to receive visitors after their fight.”

  Dr. L’Esperance lowered her eyes with an expression of pain.

  “No. You may familiarize her with their histories, if Dr. L’Esperance feels she might gain from that information. Otherwise there is no need to expose her to the operatives. Thank you.” General English strode off in a hurry, perhaps, Eleanor wondered, to avoid any emotional goodbye ritual Dr. L’Esperance might practice.

  The three stood, expectant and awkward for a moment, then Eleanor took the lead and proceeded down the hall to her laboratory. They passed the department administrative office where a small, tight unit of secretaries, librarians and transcriptionists, and her own administrative assistant, Milly, eyed them as if they were celebrities. Eleanor always enjoyed that, and knew that in his quietly egocentric way, Dr. Ford did, too. Dr. L’Esperance smiled and nodded at them all, not seeming to understand that taking notice of them should have been beneath her. Eleanor hustled her along lest she pause to make new friends with her unique way of saying hello. They waited in the anteroom to swipe their ID cards, and receive verification through retina and fingerprint analysis before the doors would open to this sector.

  “Briefly then,” Eleanor began, wanting to crush the leaden silence between them as they were being processed, “Colonel Brian K. Yorke is the far superior of the two in terms of testing and personal service record, as well as physical fitness. However, it would be his first mission. Colonel Moore has been with us since the inception of this project, though despite his experience, has a tendency to become an anomaly at times.”

  “He is quite resourceful and creative in his own way,” Dr. Ford said to defend him, “but one almost senses that he loses his detachment too easily.”

  “Yes.” Eleanor said, glad they agreed on something.

  “Do you mean to say he becomes involved with the story line?” Dr. L’Esperance asked.

  “The problem is,” Eleanor responded as the doors opened for them, “Colonel Moore always thinks the story is about him.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Colonel John Moore’s narrative:

  I sneaked a peek at the report on my emotional instability. It was written in the typically terse and sterile verbiage of Dr. Eleanor Roberts, dictated into a hand-held recorder and transcribed the next day by her administrative assistant, Milly. It didn’t make for very good reading, but then Eleanor was not good with a yarn. She was, I sensed, almost intentionally boring. All animals have their modes of protection.

  Milly slapped the folder shut in my face and frowned at me for invading her turf. Still, she was on my side. Milly did not like Dr. Roberts. Milly told me so on several occasions, by her body language, which included some vulgar hand gestures when Dr. Roberts’ back was turned, and also by some indirect, tearful threats to either quit, complain to somebody higher up, or just plain kill her some night in the parking lot. It seemed comical to me that such a tall, rugged-looking young woman like Milly could be so bullied by such a tight-assed little shrimp like Eleanor. Eleanor had that presence, I guess. A personality like the strong scent of musk, and she marked her territory with directives. Milly was physically strong but emotionally weak, and Eleanor was just the opposite.

  I laughed, patted Milly’s hand with her strong typist’s fingers and told her to just punch Eleanor in the face the next time she wanted a week’s worth of work in three hours. Milly smirked, exhaled in relief that somebody understood her, and that was all she really wanted. She giggled and waved me away. She never realized I meant it.

  My own run-ins with Dr. Roberts were more even-handed. Eleanor needed me. I was her pet project, the time-traveling astronaut on whom so much faith, energy, planning, and trillions of dollars were invested. I reminded her of this fact when she most disgusted me, which was happening a lot lately.

  Dr. Ford walked into the lab in an expensive pair of very shiny shoes and set down his constant companion, a cup of coffee. He sa
t on the metal stool by the lab table and rubbed his eyes. Dr. Roberts turned from her notes and gave him a prolonged glance of concern. Concern? Anxiousness? Tenderness? Desire? I could never tell. I always wondered, but I could never really tell.

  “It’s Colonel Moore, or nothing,” he said at last, looking up at her with his habitual rueful smile. She probably found that smile boyish and charming. She was that unimaginative.

  “That’s what they said?” Dr. Roberts looked close to a pout.

  “That’s what they just released to the press.”

  “Even before confirming it with us?”

  “General English made the move.”

  Dr. Roberts turned back to her digital note pad, refusing to share her disappointment with us just as she shut us out of her thoughts. I could sense, rather than see, the sharp frown working on her delicate features, a kind of benign budgerigar ferocity in her pale blue eyes, eyes so pale as to give the impression of having faded from some more brilliant former color.

  Brian K. Yorke sat opposite me in the same coarse trousers, tunic and neck torque of the ancient Celtic warrior as me, our hair now grown to shoulder length. We gave up haircuts when we were assigned to prepare for this mission. During months of physical training and education on the ancient Celts, Gauls and Romans our hair grew freely, which was the easiest part of the assignment. His hair was jet black, thick and curly, and mine was still partly brown where it had not already turned gray. Even with the bruises from the fight, he looked like Hercules at twenty-eight. I looked like a vagrant, and much older than thirty-eight. They chose me.

  Brian K. Yorke bit his lip, jerked his head down into his lap for a split second of wounded pride, the picture of an athlete in defeat as he might have been captured in a Michelangelo sculpture, then looked up, flexing his neck muscles in brave resignation at his fate. He looked at Dr. Roberts with rigid, square-jawed respect, like he was pledging allegiance to the flag, but she looked away. She was as uncomfortable with his display of dignity as she was with expressions of her own disappointment that he had not been chosen.