Orphan of Mythcorp

by R. S. Darling

  I sidled another three steps closer, emerging from the shadows and into the very light that was illuminating her . . . assets. It was quiet; like, you could hear the school settling into its foundation.

  “I know you,” Izzy said. “You’re that new boy, the one came with the Morai. Morgan, right?”

  Sweat dripped from my pits, slithered down my torso. It took all my considerable self-control not to reach out and shake that tiny finger she was pointing at me. “That’s what they call me. I’m sorry for staring, Izzy, but this is my first time seeing a real dw . . . little person.”

  She turned back to the computer screen on the table. “And how was your first time?”

  “I need to sit,” I quipped, earning a snort. I pulled a chair from the table beside Izzy and sat. “Why are you here so late?” I couldn’t stop goggling. She was so tiny I wanted to eat her up; which was the wrong thought to entertain. Good thing I was sitting down.

  A real live dwarf. How lucky was I?

  She was typing, moving her hands over the keypad in her own special little person method. She had to joggle her hands a lot to compensate for tiny digits. “Imagine thirty of you here, and me trying to get work done. Bunch of navel-gazing dickwads asking me nasty questions. Some people have no decency, asking me about my . . .” she looked over at me. “Never mind. What are you doing out at this hour anyway? I thought you had a curfew, or was that just for your albino pals?”

  “I ah—”

  ‘Why not tell her the truth? Who’s she going to tell?’ Naked Charlie wondered. He’d popped up in the Mystery section. I wondered how long he’d been eavesdropping.

  “You ‘ah’ what?” Izzy asked. Apparently when I listen to my spooks, time still goes on its merry way, making me look the fool. Ava really should’ve informed me of this.

  “I needed some time away from Camelot. That’s what we’re calling the place where they used to scrounge around inside dead people.”

  “The morgue?” she sounded appalled.

  “Yeah, the place has been totally corpsified, but at least AH!”

  Marie had appeared between me and Izzy, and the spook looked terrible: her face sported a bruise and her body was all wavy, as if she were a heat ripple. I’d never seen even the slightest change in any spook before. I mean, they’re dead, how could they ever change? Marie looked on the verge of tears. I could read fear in her bruise-rimmed peepers, usually so pale. For the first time in at least fifteen years of after-life, Marie looked dead.

  “What?” Izzy asked. “What was that about?” She was facing me again, looking a smidge frightened by my inexplicable outburst.

  I stood. “I, ah . . . saw a spider. A daddy-long leg. Why don’t you look for it while I go check the Theorics section. I’m falling behind in class.” I’m sure my back was a darn fine sight and all to Izzy, but I really doubted she noticed, probably too busy trying to decipher my behavior.

  A few ‘come-along-with-me’ gestures prompted Marie to follow me to the Theorics section. The darkness here did nothing to dispel the flickering light of her essence. Whatever she’s composed of, the light and darkness of the living world have no effect on her.

  “What happened?”

  ‘They didn’t like me watching him.’

  It took me ten ticks to riddle this out. “Sanson’s spooks did this to you?’ I asked. Marie nodded. “How is that even possible? I didn’t know your kind could hurt each other.”

  ‘They were so angry. I thought they were going to kill me.’

  Moving on from that baffling statement, I said, “But did you find anything out about Sanson?” Cruel to press her for answers in this state, I know, but spooks don’t hang around long and their focus evaporates even quicker. “Why is Ash interested in him?”

  She was starting to leave, her light flickering, threatening to bleep out of existence.

  “Tell me what they’re doing, or I’ll ignore you for a month. Don’t you dare wig out on me.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Izzy’s voice reached me from beyond the stacks. “Are you alright? You sound buggered.” Then, quieter, as if to herself: “He’s a kook, probably. That would just be my luck—”

  “Marie,” I hissed. “Please.”

  ‘The dead boy was researching,’ she managed through wracking heaves. I hadn’t known spooks could cry. Sanson’s haunters were a whole different breed from mine. Marie looked up, met my eyes. ‘Researching about the city records building. He wrote down a time: eleven tomorrow night.’ With that she faded away.

  Ah, at last, a lead. The game was afoot.

  I would’ve smiled but for the recollection of Marie’s face. A disturbing thought, this revelation that spooks could hurt spooks. I couldn’t help but wonder if Sanson had ordered the attack. He didn’t seem to be aware of his haunters, but then, he could be acting for all I knew.

  While trying to figure a way to sneak out to intercept Sanson, I turned around.

  And nearly bowled over Izzy. She’d snuck up on me and got tangled in my legs. The tiny girl shoved against my thighs (incidentally thrilling me) and backed up. The top of her head only reached to the bottom of my sternum. Seeing her up close and personal only added to her peculiar hotness: she was a developed woman but in a smaller, cuter package than most women.

  I resisted the urge to pick her up and squeeze her to my chest. If I’d been on my doojee, the urge would’ve won and I’d have earned myself a punch in the stones and a lifetime of enmity.

  “I’m sorry, Izzy,” I said, bending down. “I didn’t see, or ah, I didn’t hear you come.”

  “No one does,” dusting her jeans and pink t-shirt. I was suddenly curious where she found clothes to fit—but not curious enough to ask. “When I come, I am very quiet—usually,” a mischievous smile curling her lips.

  It took about five ticks for my noodle to catch up, but when it did, a laugh escaped from my lips. “Right.” Thoughts raged between this alluring dwarf and my need to uncover Sanson’s business. “Listen, I know we just met and all, but, I wonder if you could help me.”

  “Yeah, your wardrobe could use a woman’s touch,” she mocked. “Help you what?”

  “I need directions to the city records building. But I don’t know jack about downloading them from the computer.”

  “Well, downloading is my specialty.” She turned and headed back toward the table. Every part of me wanted to help her up into the chair as she struggled into it, but presuming any such move on this feisty little-un was clearly ill-advised. Eventually she made it up and plopped her rump down on the cushioned seat. Her fingers (or rather, her arms) flew over the keyboard, hands bouncing up and down in lieu of long digits.

  Fifty ticks later she tapped one final key and the chitterlings of a printer sounded from the Admit Desk. Izzy looked up at me. Red locks fell over her eyes, hiding freckles and framing a miniscule nose. “Why do you need this? Are you up to no good?”

  “If I was, would that bother you?” It was weird, but bantering came easy with this girl.

  Izzy sighed, reached up to close her laptop. It was a stretch. “Only if it got me in trouble. Tell me one thing before you run back to your Morai pals. Do you think Mythcorp was evil?”

  I scratched my nose: the DT’s setting in. “No. I don’t think Mythcorp was inherently good or evil. It’s like, it’s like any corporation or gun; it was only dangerous in the wrong hands.”

  Izzy climbed down. Looked up at me. “But who’s to say who the wrong hands belong to? You?”

  I shrugged and smirked. “I’m as good a judge as anyone, I think.”

  She grabbed her laptop and headed for the door. “A social and political entity as powerful and influential as Mythcorp, it’s only a matter of time before someone reopens it. When that happens, it will be up to us to decide if the one who opens it is the right man for the job.”

  “Or woman, you want to be PC about it,” I quipped.

  “No,” Izzy said. “A woman would not be dumb enough to open tha
t Pandora’s Box. Happy hunting, Morgan.”

  Chapter 10

  Sanson

  Mom and Pop conked out at 9:00, Pop from his meeting with Jack Daniels, Mom from her affair with Miss Cooking Cherry. A night like any other.

  Except I was heading out to break into a public building, to steal classified documents.

  Anything to get my curse lifted.

  I’d Gated the weather channel on the Net: Forty-two degrees this April evening. When your continued ability to remain upright depends on manually regulating your body temp, you pay attention to the ambient air. Before stepping outside I chugged a whole bottle of nuked Nanex.

  The heated supplement would raise my temp a good six or seven degrees. Keep my body from seizing up for the night.

  The 407 bus runs till midnight, tracing the circumference of Alpha Circle, 80th Street to 151st Street. My house on 89th was a good two blocks from the nearest bus stop. I checked the chrono on my left wrist. “Quarter to eleven. Cutting it close, you yahoo,” I chastised myself. I’d have to hump it down to the little glass depot on the corner of 87th and Alpha.

  Running when you’re dead is a real drag—it could kill you.

  I looked up at the black sky over Philicity. Wondered what it would be like to live in the country, or the suburbs, anywhere other than a metropolis. They say you can see stars in the hills. I turned on my heels and started jogging down the street.

  At the end I turned right, jogged passed Peter’s, the corner catchall store, continued on to 88th. I did not gasp for air (I don’t technically need to inhale; the nanites provide all the oxygen I need) but I could see wisps of breath before me as I jogged on. I crossed the street, reached 87th, saw the depot about a hundred yards ahead. The thermal on my right wrist read 64. I’d gained six degrees from the Nanex, lost four already.

  Hopefully the breaking and entering part of my evening would prove less stressful.

  I slowed as I neared the empty depot. On the white plastic bench I checked my chrono. Two minutes to spare. Man I was good. As I waited I began my visual inspection, checking my body for signs of swelling, bruising, and, God forbid, busted bones. Everything looked good.

  But for all I knew I’d sprained an ankle or pulled a muscle and would fall flat on my face later.

  The 407 arrived, humming along down the street right on schedule. A screech of brakes and a squeak of the door and I was in. An elderly woman, pudgy with scraggly gray hair eyed me as I boarded. She didn’t look away even when I returned her stare.

  I plopped down in the back seat, set my backpack beside me. Halfway through the job. My thermo caught my eye, it was blinking. “Sixty degrees,” I groaned. The hypospray gun was in my pack, but taking it out in public never goes over well, especially not with some goggling old bag watching my every move. I should’ve checked the thermo back at the depot, darn it. The trip to the records building would take eight minutes. I could tough it out.

  Maybe.

  I let the electronic drone of the engine and the whine of the wheels on the pavement wash over me. A few minutes later my thermo started beeping. Warning me to take my injection and quit caring what other people thought. Who cares if they know I’m a zombie?

  Most yahoos had probably read about me and Dr. Wilmuts experimental treatment in the Philicity Times a couple years back, anyway.

  Pressing the little red button on the side of the thermo may have shut off the alarm, but the digital readout—59 degrees—was still furiously blinking red.

  Some guitar fluff fluttered down from ceiling speakers. This trip was really starting to get on my nerves. And the old bag was still staring. A few minutes lat the bus driver pulled over to the depot on 98th. I breathed a sigh of relief. But when I tried to stand, I couldn’t. Not at first anyway. My joints had stiffened up.

  This was my body’s way of acclimating to the temperature around it. I massaged my thighs, knees, calves and arms—which was awkward with the old lady watching.

  “You getting off?” the bus driver asked. “Ninety-Eighth Street, right?”

  “Yeah,” I called out. “I just . . .” Another heave and I managed to stand. My movements were jerky. I felt like the Frankenstein Monster, but at least I was upright. As I shuffled past the old bag, I stuck my tongue out at her—and thanked God it didn’t freeze that way.

  Once the bus had vamoosed I sat down on the bench and looked around. I was alone except for a young couple getting their freak on in an alcove across the street. “Screw it.” I pulled the hypospray gun case out of my pack, set it on the bench. With joints so stiff they creaked when I used them, I injected myself with nanites.

  Two minutes later my body temp was back up to a safe 63. That was close. Mom would kill me she knew I was out alone. I packed up and headed down 98th. Someone had a wood fire going and I could hear a domestic argument brewing in the apartments to my right. This was the so called County Land, where the Genesee County Community Living apartments housed everything but a community, and where the Courthouse and Records buildings are situated.

  I reached the records building five minutes later. A spotlight was shining down from above the monstrous steel back door. How the heck was I supposed to get through this beast—even with some supposed helper?

  A shove against the door proved I was right: Heavy steel with flush-mount double-keyed electronic lock—locked. I banged on it with a palm. “Ash, you frigging owe me one.”

  “Sanson,” a raspy voice.

  I swiveled quick, glad I could no longer feel that cold rush of fear run through my body. “Yeah. Who are you?”

  “Nimrod.” That was it, as if ‘Nimrod’ explained everything. He sauntered up to me, a great bear-skin coat covering a teddy-bear torso. When he stepped under the light I recoiled. His right eye was an augmetic. It reminded me of the cyborg eyes from that classic flick The Terminator. Nimrod reached into his coat, withdrew a cloth bag and displayed it like it was the Holy Grail.

  “What’s that?”

  You could hear him breathing; each breath was followed by a slightly mechanical whooshing sound, like an air compressor pumping away.

  “Thermite,” he answered, with a smile that was going to haunt my dreams.

  Nimrod tied the pouch—Thermite, whatever that was—over the locking mechanism. The freak then pulled a Zippo out of another pocket and stepped back. He pressed a metallic hand to my shoulder and shoved me back too.

  Then, stretching out as far as he could, he flicked on the Zippo and set it to the baggie. The thermite lit instantly. Nimrod leaped back. A cascade of sparks lit up the night. It was so bright that I feared we’d be seen by half the ‘Community’. Fortunately the mini exploding sun winked out almost as quickly as it had ignited. I lowered my hand from my eyes. The reek of molten metal filled my nose and I hacked a bit on lingering smoke.

  “Holy crap!” I stepped toward the door. Sections of the lock had so completely melted that I could see inside. Nimrod grabbed my shoulder again.

  “Watch out for the slag,” nodding at the blobs of metal at my feet. The smaller pieces were still red-hot. Nimrod shoved me back and kicked the door in. I could swear his knee made a mechanical whining sound, like an old tailgate lift. After whisking aside the blobs of metal with his metallic hand, he gestured for me to enter.

  PLINK. The spotlight overhead exploded. Shards rained down.

  “Yerk!” Nimrod bellowed as something yanked him backwards into the night.

  I stood gawking into the darkness. What could’ve yanked that beefcake away?

  Grunts and cussing from the evening gloom, filling the night with disturbing sounds. “Oh man.” What could I do? I didn’t know this Nimrod from Santa Claus. For all I knew, whoever had taken him was in the right. And I needed to get my curse lifted. So, I stepped inside the records building.

  The grunts and cries died behind me.

  It was pitch black inside. Why hadn’t I brought a flashlight? Maybe because I’d never performed a B&E before, didn’t know the rule
s. This was nuts. “What am I doing?” Who was this Nimrod guy and how did Ash know him?

  I felt blindly along the wall, listening more than feeling for a light switch. “Dangit!” Something had snagged my foot. It received a well deserved kick. This wall was a lost cause. I backtracked, began feeling/listening along the left wall. “Ah, there you are.” The switch clicked and halogens flickered on. My eyes adjusted instantaneously. It’s one of the advantages of having nanites roaming around inside your head: they function as neurotransmitters and thus fire the appropriate synapses with preternatural swiftness. I marched across the open floor, heading for the wall of filing cabinets. There were about six blocks of these cream-colored buggers, each one comprised of nine drawers: this could take all night.

  Ten minutes later I complained, “This is taking all night.”

  I slammed the second ‘M’ drawer shut and grunted. Looked around. Wimpy fans tucked up in the iron-girder ceiling were spinning, their droning like engines in my ears. As I considered the idiocy of my search for classified files in public filing cabinets, my thermo beeped. Body temp had dropped two degrees. A press of the side button switched the body temp readout to room temperature readout.

  “Thirty-nine?” I said. “Jeez.” The air was getting colder quickly, for no apparent reason. Part of my curse, I figured, getting that creepy sense again that someone was watching me.

  I stretched—because Dr. Wilmut had told me to do that whenever I thought about it. Not being able to sense any pain or Charlie Horses or any of the thousand things normal’s whine about has its disadvantages too. Satisfied that I was okay, I glanced around the main office. If the files Ash wanted still existed, they wouldn’t be here, where any curious cookie could walk in and snatch them up. They’d be hidden under lock and key somewhere, someplace secure.

  A door with a brass placard reading BASEMENT caught my attention. The brass did not twinkle as it would in a movie, but it might as well have. I marched over to it, tried the handle.