Mythangelus

by Constantine, Storm

  ‘I hope so,’ Nina said.

  I’ve seen nothing that indicates paranormal activity, she thought. I’ve seen a star, a hero, nothing else. No matter what Chantal thought, no matter what she said in her report, Nina intended to phone the DPR shortly and tell them Emory Patrick was clear. Powerful and charismatic as an individual, yes; a little crazy, quite possibly; but in all other respects completely normal. If he was a threat to the authorities because of his influence, it was not a problem that fell under the DPR’s sphere of activity. Let someone else deal with it. Let someone else uncover the charade that had made a man appear to rise from the dead.

  Then Linford Brown came charging towards them, and Nina’s world tilted on its axis, never to right itself again.

  ‘Illa, there’s trouble!’ he gasped.

  ‘What? What trouble?’ Iliana was high on the power Emory had invoked. She didn’t stop smiling.

  ‘The crowds at the fence. They’re going berserk. Breaking down the wire. There’re riot squads homing in. We’ve got to get Emory off-stage and out of here!’

  Iliana seemed dazed. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes! For God’s sake, prepare yourself. I’m going to get the power cut!’

  He leapt off the steps and disappeared. Iliana and Nina stared at each other for a few moments.

  ‘Is this real?’ Nina asked.

  Iliana stood up. ‘Come on.’

  They sprinted back up the steps and Iliana, with her official capacity, got them past the security men to the very edge of the stage. At that moment, the music stopped dead.

  There was a moment’s stasis. The band looked surprised, confused, while the crowd poised open mouthed, arms raised, bodies contorted in mid-dervish chaos. In that moment of utter silence, horrendous sounds could be discerned coming from the boundary fence.

  ‘Emory!’ Iliana yelled.

  He seemed dazed, and she had to shout twice more to get his attention.

  ‘Come here!’

  The crowd had now started to yell and jump around, still good-natured, because they believed this to be a temporary halt to the proceedings. Their ears were buzzing. They had not yet deciphered the sounds rising behind them.

  Emory paused to adjust his mike stand and then sauntered over, ignoring Iliana’s frantic gestures for him to hurry. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked. ‘Can they get it fixed?’

  Iliana shook her head. ‘No. It’s not fixable. The people at the fence are rioting. It’s all very ugly. You’ll have to leave now.’

  He smiled. ‘No, Iliana.’

  ‘Emory, I know you’re enjoying yourself, but this is a dangerous situation.’ She grabbed his arm. ‘Come along. We’ll go to the car quickly. We’ll be out of here before anyone realises you’ve gone.’

  Emory stared at her for a moment and then addressed Nina. ‘What’s happening?’

  Nina shrugged helplessly. ‘Exactly what she said.’

  ‘Mori, please, let’s go!’ Iliana’s voice had become desperate. She was afraid.

  ‘I can’t,’ Emory said. He glanced back over his shoulder.

  Linford Brown came hurrying towards them, his habitually pale face quite red. ‘Water cannon!’ he gasped. ‘It’s on the video monitors. It’s like a fucking massacre!’

  ‘What!’ Emory roared.

  Linford pointed at the distant fence. ‘Police everywhere, shields, horses, the lot. And water cannon. They’re firing on the cripples.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Iliana said in a restrained voice, as if to refute a small piece of scandal.

  At that moment, the convention of Future Light transformed into pandemonium. Having broken through the fence, all the non-paying spectators, able-bodied and otherwise, poured into the site, followed by the riot squads, who’d been trying to drive them in the opposite direction. Even from this distance, Nina could see the high, razor-topped fences falling like the walls of Jericho. An ugly surge was spreading down towards the stage as panic was kindled among the crowd. Police horses were cantering into the melee. Nina’s camera was to her face, the shutter firing, film winding, too slow to capture what she was seeing. It was so medieval, like a scene from hell. Terrified people were struggling to find safety, clawing at each other, trampling each other underfoot. Some were trying to break through the security barrier in front of the stage in an instinctive attempt to be on higher ground. Nina caught the image in her viewfinder of a lone wailing child, seconds before the child disappeared in a jumble of panicking bodies. She took another shot of two teenage girls, weeping and clutching each other, a senseless third lolling between them, blood on her face. They were tiny images, picked out and magnified by her camera, in a landscape of insanity too big to take in as a complete picture. Nina could hear the sound of cars, four-wheeled drive vehicles and limos, starting up from behind the stage as staff tried to make an exit.

  ‘Emory, let’s get of here,’ Linford pleaded. ‘Now!’

  Emory did not answer.

  He glanced coldly at Nina, who had lowered her camera. The glance went on too long, and there was certainly a message in it, but not an obvious one.

  Emory tried to pull away from Iliana, failed, and was therefore obliged to drag her with him as he strode back to the microphone. The band and dancers, more sensible, had vanished.

  ‘The mike’s dead,’ Linford said to Nina. ‘What’s he fucking playing at? They won’t hear him.’

  A high-pitched whistle filled the air.

  ‘Enough!’ roared Emory Patrick. ‘Enough! Enough!’ His arms were raised. His voice, amplified a thousand times, boomed out like the cry of a god.

  Nina fell to her knees, as a sour wind knocked the breath from her belly. She felt Linford drop down and huddle against her. Her hair was whipping across her face, her eyes were stinging, but she could just see the statuesque shape of Emory Patrick looming on the stage, Iliana crumpled at his feet. The air was a seething mass of dust motes that writhed like a leviathan over the crowd.

  Emory screamed.

  The helicopters, careening overhead, were suddenly flung aside, not crashing, not falling, not bursting into flames, but simply blown away to new skies. Nina saw them go. Emory gestured wildly, as if he was throwing power outwards. Nina could hardly breathe. Everything was too confused. It was like a nightmare. And then time froze. Nina closed her eyes. She was alone in a desolate place, completely alone. A wind was blowing from far away, carrying memories, fragments of dreams. She had always been alone, for eternity. Alone with her purpose, her secret, shameful purpose.

  Then a warm, living hand touched her face. ‘Hazel!’ She opened her eyes. Linford was staring at her, wide-eyed, strings of hair hanging over his eyes. ‘Help me,’ he said. ‘Help me get him out of here.’

  ‘Can we move?’

  ‘Try!’

  They could move, but only sluggishly.

  Hanging on to each other, as if fighting against a gale, Nina and Linford stood up and struggled on to the stage. The crowd was, once again, held in stasis. Nina wanted to look, to understand, but Linford dragged her forward relentlessly. But in one glance, she had witnessed enough. What had she seen? Horses frozen in mid-air, people in mid-fall. Limbs tangled and rigid like the limbs of trees. A thousand expressions of dismay, terror and bewilderment caricatured in a complete lack of animation. A cataract of water turned into a shining bridge. Debris thrown into the air and caught there as if held in rock. A multitude of agonised individuals, the component parts of the hungry beast, were caught in freeze-frame. Reality had become a tableau, a single frame of a movie. It was a power that spread out from Emory Patrick’s staring eyes, Emory Patrick’s outflung arms. Everyone who’d been standing behind him had been unaffected, and the majority of them had fled the scene.

  Iliana was kneeling on all fours, blinking through her dishevelled hair, a shunned handmaiden at the feet of a manic deity. Emory Patrick’s body was rigid, his arms held above his head, his dark eyes round and wild.

  Somehow, and later the memor
y would be incomplete and fragmented, Nina and Linford manhandled Emory Patrick towards the side of the stage. Iliana tried to assist, but was too shocked and confused to be of much help. Nina did remember, and would always remember, having the courage to look into Emory’s eyes and say, ‘You’re coming with me.’ She had projected her Talent, but only slightly, terrified that in some way it might rebound on her from the face of Emory Patrick. He returned her gaze, only half aware, only one foot in this world. Then, his body went limp and they could take him, drag him away. Simultaneously, a tide of movement and hysteria swept back over the crowd. Nina did not turn to see it.

  Only one car was left back-stage. It might have been the one they arrived in, but there was no driver with it now. Everywhere was eerily deserted. Litter blew along the ground. Nina remembered Chantal, and with a twinge of guilt hoped she had got away all right. She shut off her mind to the sounds of terror and panic that had once again come to dominate the day.

  Linford climbed behind the wheel of the car. Fortunately, the keys were still in the ignition. Future Lighters were trusting; they did not steal from one another. Iliana and Nina shoved Emory into the back seat and sat on either side of him, gripping his arms. He did not speak or move, did not even blink. Iliana was weeping. Her forehead was cut, but not badly. Blood had stained the ash blonde waves hanging over her eyes. Linford cursed as the car refused to start. Perhaps that was why it had been left behind, abandoned in favour of more reliable transport, like feet. Then, the vehicle roared into life and shot forward with a jolt, catching the guy ropes of a nearby marquee and nearly dragging it behind. Both women buried their faces against Emory’s shoulders as Linford put his foot down and accelerated forward through what was left of the fence. Things bumped the car. Nina dared not look. Things were under the wheels. She dared not even think.

  After a nightmare journey, as Linford tried in vain to remember the route, they eventually arrived back at the hotel, through sheer luck rather than strategy. They clambered dazedly out of the car, leaving the doors hanging open, and ran into the lobby, dragging Emory between them. Nina was alert for the presence of police, but it seemed all efforts must still be concentrated on the convention site. Other Future Light personnel, who’d fled the site earlier, were hanging round the reception desk. Some appeared to be checking out hurriedly.

  Linford wanted Nina to come up to their room. He implied they’d need help with Emory, who had still not spoken.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Nina said. ‘I will. Soon. Just let me check to see if Chantal made it back. OK?’ There was a call she had to make first.

  Even before she’d unlocked the door, Nina knew Chantal would not be inside. The Dutch girl’s clothes were still thrown over her bed, a pair of sneakers lay on their side in the middle of the floor. Nina did not look at them too long. She sat down on her own bed and picked up the phone, requesting the secure emergency line to the DPR. She stared at her hands while she waited for the connection, the phone jammed between shoulder and jaw. Her hands were shaking. They were bloodstained. She’d lost her camera, her purse. Oh God!

  ‘Nina?’

  ‘Gervase? Gervase?’ She could only say his name.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. His voice was low and soothing. ‘We’ve seen the bulletins. Are you hurt?’

  ‘No...’ The sound of concern over the line seemed to burst the shield she’d constructed around her emotions. She began to cry, her chest convulsing in great heaving sobs. Allerby let her weep, making appropriate comforting sounds down the phone.

  ‘You’re so far away,’ Nina said. ‘So far.’

  ‘Nina, remember the Dallywell shoot.’

  She held her breath, even her sobs cut short. It was a code between them, a slap in the face.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Allerby said. ‘But it’s imperative you regain control. You can regain control. You know you can.’

  She laughed shakily. ‘Thanks for the cold shower.’

  ‘That’s better. Now listen to me. Other personnel are already on their way. Loric himself will be with you shortly.’

  ‘You want us to get Patrick out, right?’ She wiped her face, wishing she could light a cigarette, even though she’d given up smoking three years previously.

  ‘Nina... Events have progressed in a direction everyone hoped they wouldn’t. This is too big. Too... awkward. We’re really concerned about it, Nina. Very concerned. Therefore, we feel it is necessary for you to bring us a picture of Mr Patrick.’ He didn’t say anything more, but she could feel him in her mind. Remember the Dallywell shoot. Remember your training. Now, you are machine. Nothing more. She glanced towards the chair under the window where her other camera lay, its lens reflecting the sun. Too hot for it there. Stupid. Should have moved it.

  ‘OK,’ she said, and hung up.

  Iliana answered Nina’s knock on the door. She enfolded Nina in a close embrace, pressing her wet bloodied face against Nina’s cheek. Nina raised one arm half-heartedly.

  ‘Oh, this is terrible, terrible,’ Iliana said, dragging Nina into the room. It appeared to be packed out with a confused and terrified bunch of Future Light personnel. Some of them were suffering from minor injuries, patching each other up from a ridiculously small first aid case. ‘We’ll probably be thrown in jail!’ Iliana cried. ‘Linford is trying to make reservations on the next available flight. Oh Hazel, I’m scared, actually scared. I’m wondering if we’ll ever get home.’

  ‘How’s Emory?’

  Iliana shook her head. ‘He’s gone to his room to pack. Linford’s with him. He’s making the calls from there. I don’t know how Emory’s feeling. He’s calm, but he hasn’t said much. I’m just thankful he’s doing what I tell him. Do you think we’ll get out of here, Hazel?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Iliana clutched at Nina’s arm. ‘Thank you for what you did. I’ll never be able to repay you.’

  ‘It’s OK. Don’t worry about it. Can I see Emory?’

  Iliana shrugged. ‘That’s up to him.’

  ‘Right. I’ll go see, then.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Nina looked into Iliana’s eyes. ‘No.’ Iliana dropped her arms, flinched.

  Then Nina walked out of the door.

  Emory Patrick’s room was full of peace. There was no other way to describe it. Linford Brown’s voice was an insistent whisper against the phone, but had little effect on the atmosphere. Emory himself was carefully folding shirts and putting them into a case. Nina had simply knocked on the door and walked right in.

  ‘I was waiting for you,’ Emory said.

  Nina shrugged and touched the camera hanging round her neck.

  ‘Linford, could you conclude your business elsewhere?’ Emory asked.

  ‘I’ve finished,’ Linford said, putting down the phone. ‘If all goes well, we should be out of here by tonight. Took some doing, but...’

  ‘Thank you Linford.’ Emory’s soft remark was a dismissal.

  Linford fled.

  Emory and Nina faced each other across a small space. He folded his arms. ‘Why are you so afraid?’ he asked.

  Nina said nothing. She knew she shouldn’t speak. She raised the camera to her eyes.

  ‘So it’s come to this,’ Emory said. He turned his back on her, walked away, began packing again.

  ‘Emory.’ He did not look up. ‘Emory, look at me.’

  He paused, then did so. She began to raise the camera again.

  ‘You don’t need that,’ he said. ‘Or is that your shield, the shield across your perception. Can’t you bear to see what you do? It’s like shooting me in the back.’

  Ignore it, she thought. Don’t listen. She summoned her Talent, projected it into the viewfinder, felt it slide off the mirror inside the camera, slither into the lens itself.

  ‘They made a monster of you,’ Emory said, still packing. ‘So much so, you don’t even have the capacity to think about it anymore.’

  She felt the power go, felt it sizzle like
a laser from her mind. Emory looked up at her. She felt her power enter his body, felt the resistance of muscle and bone giving way. He walked towards her and tore the camera from her neck. She cried out and stumbled, momentarily stunned, the breath squeezed from her throat. Her neck was burning.

  ‘At least have the decency to return the look you demand of me!’ he said.

  She shook her head to clear it, rubbing the skin of her neck. Very well, if that was the way he wanted it. She raised her chin. If it was to be a contest, then so be it. He folded his arms and smiled. His eyes were as dark as infinity, unfathomable. And suddenly, she was not seeing him at all. She was peering through a long lens at a woman posturing for the camera. She hated that woman. It was the person who had tried to destroy her, undermine her career with lies, steal her lover. Simone Dallywell. As she pressed the shutter, she was thinking, Die you bitch, die! And then there was blood everywhere, blood from the eyes and nose, and a strangled croak. There was death. It had been the first time.

  ‘Coercion,’ said the voice of Emory Patrick, ‘to the point where you can order a person’s own nervous system to destroy the body it services. No trace of murder. That’s some Talent, Nina Vivian.’

  She blinked, and the image of Emory Patrick swam back into her field of vision.

  ‘I just wanted you to know I’m aware of the truth,’ he said, in a gentle voice. ‘That’s all. What happened with the Dallywell woman was an accident, Nina. Everyone has murderous thoughts like that sometimes. You were not to know you could make them real. Neither are you to blame for what you are now, but the people who fucked your head over after the Dallywell incident certainly are!’

  Nina could not speak. The image of the Dallywell shoot was still too strong in her mind.

  ‘I knew why you were here even before you did,’ Emory said. ‘But, I feel there is one thing you should know. Your instincts were right: I’m not one of your kind.’

  ‘You are,’ Nina said, speaking in spite of the unwritten rule she had created for herself never to converse with her subjects once the process had begun. ‘I saw what happened at the site, and you’ve just proved you’re a telepath. My instincts were wrong maybe, but I know a Talent at work when I see one.’