Orphan of Mythcorp

by R. S. Darling

  “Um, sir?” Pells said. “Do you know if the rumors about the Mythcorp chimera are true? Did it really escape back in Twenty-Fifteen and—”

  Wes held up a hand. Pells fell silent. “You are not to mention that corporation or anything associated with that corporation.”

  “Does that mean we can’t talk about ourselves—or you?” I asked, earning a few laughs.

  Wes strolled towards us. The others parted, leaving me the only one in his path. Jerks. Wes bore down on me, his gait crooked, as if he’d been shot in the leg, his head cocked slightly to the right. I couldn’t see his peepers behind the chem-shades, but I could see the fingers of his left hand wrapping around the sick-stick, ready to yank it out if I provoked him.

  I considered provoking him. Such an act would make me a total badass.

  Wes stopped when he was only two feet away. We were the same height, but he had at least sixty pounds on me, and who knew how much experience. He might have been one of the dudes to have hunted our parents during the Purge.

  “You the smart mouth of the group?” he asked. I didn’t think it was a question. “You know what we used to do with smart mouths?”

  “Clone them?”

  SMACK! His callused hand wracked my head to the left. Ears rang as I massaged my cheek. Ava gasped and Galahad shuttered behind me. Were they really allowed to hit us?

  Wes scrutinized me as I stood up straight and lowered my hand. He stroked his chin. “You remind me of someone . . .” The way he said it, I didn’t think this someone had been a friend.

  “Ahem,” a deep-voice behind Wes. “Mr. Dodds, right?”

  Wes turned from me. He raised his right arm, tapped his watch. “You’re late, Mr. Frigg. Watch the smart-ass here,” meaning me, of course. True, maybe, but still better than being a dumb-ass. Wes limped away down the hall.

  “Looks like you’re making friends already,” Ava tittered in my ear.

  “Not my fault the guy’s a total zipperdick,” I retorted. I was about to march up to this Frigg fellow, a brother whose well-developed muscles seemed uncomfortably at odds with his baby-face, when Ash c-blocked me. With his hands clasped before him, he nodded in mockery of a bow.

  “My name is Ash. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Frigg.”

  What. A. Clown.

  “What a clown,” Ava sneered. She’s very smart.

  “Yeah,” Frigg said. “Call me Damien. Come on.” He waved an oversized hand and we followed him down the hall, Ash first. Damien didn’t bother with the tour guide shtick.

  We were trailing the silent muscle-head around the corner at the end of the hall, when the doors burst open behind us and students started marching single file though the metal detectors. They were all forced to deposit their FAD’s and other devices into small numbered lockers behind the Iconocops.

  Metal detectors. I wondered if guns were as dangerous as letting Morai enter the school.

  At the corner near the end of this hall, a few feet to the right of an exit door was a concrete staircase seven feet wide. To the right of this staircase, partitioned by a wall, was another stairway, this one three feet wide. Damien led us up this narrower staircase. At the top he stopped, dug a key out of his jeans front pocket. He slid the bugger into the lock, wriggled it until the lock clicked. He shoved and then stared at the thirteen of us waiting on the steps.

  “Your . . . apartment,” he procured a big gushy smile that made me think of a shark.

  Ash was the first inside after Damien. I had to nudge my way past Pells, who was busy scanning the hall behind us. “Hey boys, did you hear that? I think it was something breathing. Something big.”

  “Get off it,” Lot retorted.

  Pellinore seemed ready to descend to go questing after his imaginary beastie, but Gareth grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. “Relax, Pells, it’s just some fatty-patty’s.”

  I turned. Sure enough a group of seven or eight students, including two fat boys, was rounding the corner.

  A red-headed chick, kind of hot with a busy cluster of dark brown freckles, noticed us first. She stopped the others and uttered something too low to be heard. They stood staring up at us.

  “Well,” Gareth said after a tick, “I feel like a horses butt.”

  “You look like a horses butt,” Ava pointed out. “Come on. Let’s check out our new digs.”

  I felt only a smidgen of guilt for realizing that the students had barely noticed me. I may have the Morai gift, but I look normal—pretty much.

  Leaving the gawkers behind, we climbed the last few steps and crossed the threshold into our new digs. “Holy crap,” Ava burst. “What’s that nasty stench? Smells like a dead pig barfed up a dead skunk.” The others were echoing her sentiments—only in less colorful terms.

  “Yeah, that would be the formaldehyde,” Damien informed us. “Last year the PUP’s—Parents for Unsung Professions—forced the school to offer undertaker classes, and there was an accident.” He snorted, ran his hand over his shaved scalp and headed for the door. “Classes start at eight. Your schedules are over there.” At the door he turned and procured his shark smile. “Good luck, mofo’s.”

  With the sound of hundreds of feet rumbling below us, we began examining the upper room that previously processed corpses. Folded cots lined one wall. They looked like giant lint catchers with all the dust on them.

  “Charming,” Lot sneered.

  Dong-Dong. A grandfather clock embraced by layers of cobwebs sprang to life in the corner. Dust motes puffed from its interior as it gonged. Three ticks later the infinitely louder school bell chimed. It was, without a doubt, the most macabre sound in the world. A stampede below as everyone scrambled for homeroom. Ash marched over to a wooden stand, grabbed our schedules.

  “Okay, I got Gareth’s here, ah, Lamorak, Galahad, Pells . . . Where’s Pellinore?”

  “Who knows,” Ava shrugged. “But we got to go. I doubt they’ll be lenient on us our first day.” She swiped her schedule out of Ash’s hand and skipped down the stairs. I grabbed my own schedule and followed her, sans the skipping, relieved to discover that the sheet boasted a map of the school on the back.

  Ash followed me down the steps and out into the rapidly emptying hallway. “Room Fourteen, Mr. Bick?”

  “Yeah,” I sighed. Just great, we were in the same homeroom. As we approached it in the nearly empty hall, I turned to Ash. “So what did that kook say to you out at Lincoln Park?”

  “Huh? Oh, nothing, he just wanted to know why we were being transported. Better hurry.”

  “Right,” I whispered to myself. Why the heck would Ash lie about what the Hunter said?

  Chapter 3

  With Ash, Lamorak and Gareth in the same homeroom, I received only cursory glances and a single goggle from a girl who had obviously undergone the Change early. I returned her goggle. Probably mine came off as creepy, because after delivering it, the girl gave me a dirty look.

  “All right class, settle down,” Mr. Bick said. “Adam, stop staring at our new students. Eyes up front, people.” And then Mr. Bick did what I’d been dreading since Mr. Monmouth told us we would be coming here: he began to read off from the attendance sheet.

  All three Morai received titters as their names were called. They had it easy; at least their names sounded tough. When everyone was declared present, the teacher’s peepers fell on me. “Um, Morgana?” The classroom grew decidedly warmer. As Mr. Bick stared and everyone else laughed, I unbuttoned the top of my blue flannel shirt.

  “That’s a typo,” I lied smoothly. “It’s actually just Morgan.”

  “Sure, okay,” Mr. Bick said.

  “He looks like a dick,” a dumpy looking fat boy announced. “I think we should call him Dick.” Laughter erupted from his cronies and from smaller boys who were likely his victims trying to get in his good graces.

  “That’s enough,” Mr. Bick snapped his fingers. “Mister Groothius, I’ll see you after class.” So, the punk obsessed with dicks was Bruno Groothius
. (Mr. Monmouth had given us a student manifest.) With a name like Bruno Groothius, was it any surprise he was the school bully?

  “Just one announcement,” the teacher roared as first period bell rang, “Water Purification Society students, you will need to bring your blood-water samples in by Friday. We’ll test for Wormwood levels then. That’s all.”

  And so it began. Off to my first class. Bruno made a point of shoulder-slamming me on my way out. Having poured over all the YA novels at the Home, I knew I needed to handle this immediately.

  I swiveled on my heels, fought a wave of cowardice, and faced Bruno the goon.

  “Apologize.”

  “Ha! Get a load of Dick here,” he fist-bumped his secondary goon. But when he brought his hazels back to me, I gazed into them, unblinking, unwavering. The Mesmer. I’d only attempted it twice before, with mixed results. I’d become convinced three-word phrases were the key to making a Mesmer really shine.

  Bruno shut up quick and did not blink as I sent my will plummeting into his mind. For a glimmering tick I felt the hallow nature of his noodle, the pointless inane existence he called a life. And I pitied him. And I had him. I pulled away before his laughing pals could catch me in the act. Blinked four times to dispel the unpleasant aftertaste of Bruno’s psyche. I wondered if the Morai suffered likewise.

  ‘Ooh, look at the fat one,’ Marie burst onto the scene, skipping and weaving among the boys like a ballet dancer on speed. ‘He looks set to cry. What did you say to him, you big cur?’

  I restrained a come-back and was about to leave, when Bruno gripped my shoulder. “I’m sorry about the shoulder thing, and the dick stuff.”

  ‘Dick stuff?’ Marie wondered. ‘What did I miss?’ She resumed her dancing, floating up and away.

  “No worries.” I fled before his pals could ask me what the fug had just happened. At this point they likely figured I was just an orphan who’d hitched a ride with the Morai, and not a Mythcorp product with extra-human gifts. It was best if I let them continue thinking that.

  Feeling weak and disgusted, I made my way to room 214 on the second floor. Internet History with Mrs. Deem. I didn’t know jack about the Internet except that accessing it without Mr. Monmouth’s supervision would earn you three stripes and a week in Solitary.

  Chatter and laughter. Rumors and lies. Mrs. Deem ordering the class-holes to sit down.

  Ash was in this class too. I was beginning to think I was in the middle of a conspiracy. When we were all seated and the teacher had taken roll call, giving everyone another opportunity to laugh at my girlie name, we got down to the important business of learning.

  ‘Why they teach Internet History?’ Charles, the hairy spook who appears whenever I am feeling particularly glum, asked. I hate old Charles most of all the spooks who haunt (annoy) me because he insists on running around in the buff. It doesn’t take much imagination to figure out what he was doing when he croaked.

  What a charming life I lead.

  Thirty minutes in: we were learning interesting stuff—like the fact that Bill Gates didn’t actually invent the internet, and that civilization existed long before the advent of the computer. Who knew? Just as I was starting to nod off, Ash spoke up.

  He was using his usual caressing voice, sounding like a girl. No one spoke when he did.

  “Mrs. Deem, do you think it would still be open and operational if the Mythicon Tom Sawyer had been allowed to continue running Mythcorp?”

  A collective sharp wheezy as he mentioned the no-no word. What was Ash thinking?

  “Um,” said Mrs. Deem. It was the usual response to Ash. “Ash? Listen dear. We don’t mention . . . that place. Now, as I was saying, according to the Zuckerburg Principle—”

  “What if someone were to forge another Tom Sawyer,” Ash persisted in that same tranquil manner. “And they reopened Mythcorp with him in charge. Wouldn’t that be like . . . okay? Wouldn’t it be better to have a corporation around that could forge Mythicons—Morai, even—who could protect us? With all the bombings going on and the Tesla Arms Race, it just seems we could use people who have real power to keep the peace.”

  Jeez frigging Louise, even I was buying it. It wasn’t a Mesmer, not exactly. But with the innocent timbre of his voice, the baby cheeks, and his wise words, who could argue with Ash?

  Mrs. Deem, apparently. “That is quite enough. No more talk like that or I’ll send you –”

  “He’s right,” Gareth said. “I always wondered why they didn’t just put someone else in charge of Mythcorp after the end of the war.” His long white locks danced as he gestured. “And if they’re never going to reopen it, why haven’t they razzed the place? The real estate’s got to be primo.”

  Mrs. Deem exhaled loudly. “We are not having this conversation.”

  “You should send them all to the principal’s office, Mrs. Deem,” a pretty brunette said. “They’re Alexander-lovers. Bringing them here was just stupid. I mean, their parents worked for that despot.”

  Impressive. Who knew snide high school girls had such vocabularies.

  More voices joined in until the entire class was sharing their opinions in the loudest, most annoying debate I’d ever heard. ‘Look at him,’ Marie chimed beside me. ‘Look at Ash. He’s smiling. Do you think he intentionally provoked this little UN summit?’

  I turned my head to peep at Ash. The little zipperdick was sitting just as calm as you please, not a care in the world. His whites bore into Mrs. Deems blue peepers. She blew a whistle. Everyone shut up lickety-split. “Okay class. Ash has a point. Perhaps with someone else at the helm, M-Mythcorp could be a useful safeguard.”

  And then someone uttered the dreaded phrase: “He’s mesmerized her!”

  The teacher raised her hand, tucked strands of golden hair behind her ears. “No, no he has not. I am completely in control. I just think he has a good point.”

  The bell rang, proving there was a god.

  The debate raged on though as everyone exited room 214. Mrs. Deem received numerous sharp looks, questioning glances. Hushed whispers of “Do you think she’s been mesmerized?” accompanied the class as they bustled away.

  ‘Maybe you won’t be sleeping on them grungy cots after all’ Marie tittered. ‘Maybe it’s back to the Home for you.’

  On the way out I asked Ash the obvious question.

  “Of course not.” The lie rolled right off his tongue, like liquid butter. “Mrs. Deem just happens to be smart enough to get where I’m coming from.”

  “Right,” I cinched the backpack around my shoulder. “Ready to tell me what that kook in the Park said to you?” Ash paused in the hallway, inhaled, and then looked up at me. “I told you. Now don’t ask again. See you around.” He may or may not have called me a dick as he picked up the pace. I might just have been hearing one of my spooks; Castor, probably. He loves cussing me out.

  I could still hear the Internet History guru’s debating down the hall as I checked my schedule. “Debate Team,” I groaned.

  ‘At least you know how it’s done now,’ Marie pointed out. ‘Holy freaking crap,’ she said. I looked up. For once she was not dancing among the living. I followed her gaze to a chestnut-haired guy. His stoic expression, unnatural good posture and the close proximity of his eyes to each other were all very interesting, but these things paled in comparison to what surrounded him.

  “Are those . . . all spooks?” I asked Marie. Her jaw was drooping in awe—as was mine, no doubt.

  ‘I’ve never seen such an assembly on this side before. Even around you,’ Marie said.

  “Yeah, no kidding,” I agreed. “What does it mean? Can he see them?”

  Marie didn’t answer. Her aura or ectoplasm or whatever it is that comprises her existence, was flickering. It does that whenever she’s about to disappear. “Hold up,” I grabbed at her shoulder. Sheesh. Fifteen years and I still had the occasional brain-fart. “Go and talk to them.”

  Marie hesitated. Meanwhile, it occurred to me that I was standing
here chatting away with a woman no one else could see while staring at some guy. If I wasn’t careful, I’d come off as a complete loony-tune.

  ‘They look angry,’ Marie said in a scared little girl voice. ‘I think I’ll just go back to Limbo.’

  “Don’t you dare—hey! Stop that flickering! I’ll start ignoring you again unless you float over there right this instant and talk to those spooks.”

  As she reluctantly floated over to the cluster of spirits, I yanked the student manifest out of my back pocket and scanned it. Ten ticks later I found the picture of the spook-magnet and read his name below it. “So, what is your deal, Charles Henri Sanson?”

  Chapter 4

  Sanson

  Being unoriginal, my parents christened me Charles Henri Sanson, the sixth in my family line with this name. Or maybe the seventh. I can never remember. Either way, the name is cursed and everyone knows it. Students avoid me in the halls. That’s fine. It means I don’t have to avoid them. All I want is to find a way to lift this curse so I can get me a girl who won’t run screaming or get stricken with a sudden bout of lesbianism when she learns my family history.

  Oh, and technically, I’m dead. Not six-feet-under dead. Just an extremely-rare-disorder-has-left-me-pulse-less dead.

  I was situating my books in my locker—number 666, naturally—when I happened to look up. Some black-haired black-jeaned yahoo was staring at me. I’d never seen him before.

  I grabbed my copy of advanced Theorics and stole down the hall towards the yahoo. He caught me approaching, swiveled, and began to flee the opposite way. I picked up my pace, and shuffled around in front of him. There was something strange in his expression.

  “Were you watching me?” I asked. He didn’t answer. “What’s your name?”

  His head dropped and he sighed. “Morgan.” He seemed embarrassed—understandably.