Mythik Imagination #1, Page 3

  “And it doesn’t always work,” Shanda said. “But when it does, not only does it give mental immunity, it also gives that power you so spectacularly witnessed. The power to finally, overwhelmingly, overcome the other side.”

  “So it was all a trick. Just another covert skirmish in the endless war.”

  Darian shook his head. “No. It is a way of ending the war. More and more agents like Kila are successfully gaining the power from your Prison inmates. Soon we will have enough to put an end to this once and for all and move on.”

  “It was all a lie.”

  Shanda put a hand on Zinj’s shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on her. She was just doing her job. And she did save your life. Once we get to Torjal, she’ll have her memory wiped. She just wanted to see you one last time. As for you, you’d be a liability if left behind; we couldn’t have you leaking our secret.”

  He didn’t say anything. After a short awkward silence, Darian and Shanda left him alone.

  At least Torjal was bigger than Prison. He wondered how long the trip would take.

  * * *

  Zinj stared blankly at the wall. He’d struggled briefly with the seat restraints, then finally gave up after he’d realized that, even if he somehow worked his way free, he wouldn’t have been able to do anything.

  Zinj. The thought suddenly appeared in his mind. It was Kila. Zinj?

  He took a deep breath. What?

  Listen, she thought, I don’t have much time. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t let the others know. It was all I could do just to get you on this ship.

  He didn’t know what to think.

  Zinj, please; we’re almost to Torjal. I can help you use the power.

  I don’t need to be your little pawn anymore. So just go ahead and fight your little wars and play your mind games . . .

  No, it’s not like that. Look, when we get to Torjal, they’ll give me the memwipe, and you will become a lab specimen. Zinj, they will take your brain apart. They were just telling you all that crap about living a normal life for my benefit.

  Forget it.

  This is our only chance. Right now.

  He could feel her energy flowing in to him.

  Zinj, you can stun everybody on this ship—they’re Torjalian. Just like I did to the Arilan prisoners and guards on Prison. Then we can take a lifepod and escape to Torjal. I’m their best agent. I can make sure we’ll never be found . . .

  His pulse was pounding now. The pain in his head had been overcome by a warm, easy feeling of absolute calmness. Flickering crackles of electricity seemed to dance at the edge of his vision, and everything seemed ultra clear and magnified.

  We have to do it now, Zinj.

  For the first time in his life, he had a real choice.

  No, he thought.

  But— her thoughts were a jumble of stunned, desperate confusion.

  We need to go back to Prison, he thought to her. With our combined power, we should be able to take it over. We have to convert everybody there, the prisoners and guards of both sides. They need to become one of us. Not Torjalian, not Arilan, but like us. Like you and me. Can your lifepod get us there?

  I . . . I think so.

  Good. Then let’s do this.

  Suddenly her mind was completely and utterly open, more so than ever before. Every part of her being seemed to surround him.

  He smiled, closed his eyes, and began to concentrate.

  THE END

  THE FIGMENT OF DOOM

  I woke up in a gutter, facedown in a pool of muck. It was a miracle I hadn’t drowned. I spit out some sludge, coughed, slowly sat up and considered the situation.

  It was raining, and I was soaked, freezing and aching all over, but my head and feet especially hurt. It was dark, and I was on some deserted city street I didn’t recognize. The only light came from a feeble streetlamp that projected an icy cone of illumination in the rainy mist across the street.

  Oh yeah, I had absolutely no idea how I got there or even who I was. My pockets were empty. I was wearing cowboy boots. That was odd. They were also about two sizes too small. I guess that explained the aching feet. As a matter of fact, the torn jeans, t-shirt and leather jacket all seemed too small. Either I had spent so much time in this rainstorm that my clothes had shrunk, or I was a man with a serious wardrobe problem.

  Over the soft patter of rain I heard footsteps. I stood up and felt a blazing pain in my head. I made a note to miss the gutter mudpuddle if I fell back down, but managed to stay on my feet. Okay, this was a headache the size of New Hampshire. Why did I think that? Was I from New Hampshire? Had I ever been to New Hampshire? This really sucked.

  I remembered the footsteps and tried to focus. Yeah, across the street was a man standing under the light. He wore a trench coat and some kind of hat. He looked like somebody out of a Mickey Spillane novel. He gave me a quick glance and pulled something out of his coat.

  Uh oh. If I had some kind of lightning-quick superpower reflexes in my mysterious past, they better kick in now. Yep, it looked like he had a gun. As I stood there dumbly, he pointed the gun at the street light. There was a soft popping sound, then a crack and the light flickered off.

  Damn it was dark. Through my mental fog, I dimly realized that I should probably do something since I happened to be alone on a dark deserted street in a less-than-upscale part of town with a gun-toting thug taking potshots at city property.

  Suddenly a long, low, black car roared down the street, headlights blazing. As if I could use another gallon or so of H2O, it splashed me good as it screeched to a stop about 10 inches away from my aching toes. The suicide door was thrown open, and I could barely make out a dark figure behind the wheel. Over the gurgling engine I heard the driver speak. A woman’s voice. Not urgent. Not calm. If anything, she sounded a tad annoyed. “If you want to find the key, get in.”

  I didn’t know jack about any key, but given the choice of getting in or hanging around and being used for Mr. Trench Coat’s target practice, I got in the car. Besides, I could barely walk in these miniature boots, much less run. The woman jammed the car into gear, and we took off. I slammed the door closed and looked out the back window. Couldn’t see any sign of Trench Coat in the darkness.

  “You look like hell,” the driver said as I dripped onto her tuck-and-roll upholstery. By the eerie green glow of the dashboard lights I could see she was 30-something, with dark hair, and wore a red jacket.

  “Uh, yeah. I feel like it, too.” I looked around the car. I couldn’t figure out the make or model, or even the year, but there was definitely something weird about it.

  “Thanks for the ride. Um. What key are you talking about?”

  “The key to your existence.”

  As I digested this little tidbit, she shifted gears and blew through a red light. Worn-out, darkened buildings flashed by. The only lights were the occasional dimly glowing neon signs that had letters I recognized, but seemed to spell out gibberish. We had yet to encounter any other cars.

  “Where did you get those cowboy boots?” She suddenly asked. That reminded me of my aching feet, and made me forget about this mysterious key. Being foggy-brained is not easy. I wiggled my toes. It didn’t help.

  “Beats me.”

  “Well they look ridiculous on you.”

  “Why is the steering wheel over there?” I asked, suddenly realizing what was so strange about this car.

  This seemed to surprise her more than anything else so far. “What? You think it should be on your side?”

  “No. Where I come from, it should be in the middle.”

  She stared at me for so long I thought for sure we’d swerve into oncoming traffic. But there wasn’t any oncoming traffic. She finally just said, “What side of the street do you drive on, where you come from?”

  “Depends on the time of day.” This conversation belonged in a loony bin and was only getting worse.

  She swore. At least, I think she did. I wasn’t familiar with the word, but it clearly convey
ed the attitude of a sailor frustrated at closing time in his favorite harbor-side dive bar. “This is worse than I thought,” she added.

  “Do I know you?”

  She ignored the question. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  That was a tough one. I couldn’t remember anything specific. Obviously I remembered how to talk. I knew a state named New Hampshire existed. I seemed to be aware of traffic laws that were different here, wherever “here” was.

  Apparently, I was taking too long with my lip-biting, imaginary-Jeopardy-theme-inducing concentration.

  “Well, do you even know your name?”

  “Afraid not. All I know is that five minutes ago I woke up in an urban nightmare. Then you came to my rescue just before some 1950s gangster with an intense hatred for lightbulbs could take aim at me.”

  She kept looking from the road to me and back again, almost in time with the windshield wipers. The strange, unknown city streets still seemed deserted.

  “Well, do you have any memories of childhood? A favorite color? Any allergies? Do you follow any sports teams, or have a job? Anything?”

  I shook my head at each question.

  “This is worse than I thought,” she repeated.

  She downshifted, and we suddenly made a hard turn into a skyscraper’s parking garage. I craned my neck to look, but the building disappeared up into the misty night. I should have put on my seatbelt. This lady didn’t know how to drive slowly. Luckily there didn’t seem to be any other cars around. Cold, fluorescent garage lights flickered on as we spiraled down a few levels, then screeched into a parking spot right next to an elevator.

  She killed the engine and opened the door. “Come on.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Look, thanks for lift and everything. But don’t you think I might have some questions for you? I mean, who are you? You seem to know something about me. Who was that guy back there? What’s this key you’re talking about?”

  “We can’t talk here. Come with me, and we’ll get this all sorted out. Trust me.”

  Now, even as a more-than-slightly befuddled man with no past, the words “trust me” raised all kinds of hurricane-force, wind-flapping red flags. But, as they say, any port in a storm. Of course, I couldn’t remember who says that.

  “Fine,” I said, and we both got out of the car.

  Then she paused. “Take off those boots.”

  Come on, was she kidding? “Enough. This is getting just too ridiculous.”

  “Just do it. If we have to move fast, you won’t be able keep up if you’re wearing those things. That also applies if you need to run to escape lil’ ‘ole me, right?”

  Begrudgingly, I complied. The left boot wasn’t easy, but finally came off. The right one was another story.

  “Hurry up.” She seemed to only have two tones of voice: mildly annoyed and very annoyed. She rolled her eyes and helped pull the boot off. She looked at it disdainfully.

  “Alligator skin. It figures.”

  She heaved both boots into the empty garage, and they bounced away with a hollow echo. She jabbed the elevator’s DOWN button.

  “You left your headlights on.” I pointed to the car.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  The elevator chimed, and as the door opened, the light inside came on.

  “After you,” she said.

  I shrugged and thought, what the hell. I stepped inside.

  There was only one button on the elevator panel. That was weird. She pushed the button and the doors closed.

  “What’s your name?” I asked, more to ease my claustrophobic elevator awkwardness than anything else.

  She put her finger to her lips. Okay, I thought, I’ll play along. For now.

  She just stared at the door throughout the long elevator ride. Damn, this was taking forever. I rubbed my head. At least the headache seemed to be going away. I looked down at my bare feet. Considering I had recently been napping in a mudpuddle, I guess it didn’t matter how clean the elevator floor was. It was nice not to be squeezed into those boots.

  At one point, the elevator paused, then shuddered, then continued. I looked over at Ms. Mysterious. She was short and pretty, but not pretty short. Her hair looked longer than it had in the car. I racked my waterlogged brain, but she didn’t look familiar at all. She glanced over at me, then looked back at the door. No smile, but not hostile either. She was unreadable.

  Just when I thought I wouldn’t be able to take much more of this, the elevator doors opened, and she stepped into the darkness. I don’t know why I felt so relieved. I followed her.

  The light came on with a buzz. We were in a small gray room. It appeared empty. I cast a quick glance around. No doors, just bare concrete walls. The elevator closed behind us with a quiet thump of finality.

  “Well I can certainly see what you mean about the need to run fast down here,” I said. I could have taken about three big steps, maybe two, to get across this overgrown broom closet.

  “Try to tone down the sarcasm and pay attention. Close your eyes.”

  And that was the last straw. “Look, Madam Voodoo,” I said. “We’re supposed to be able to talk down here, remember? I’m not playing any more of your weird games. As a matter of fact—”

  She grabbed me by the collar with more gusto than I would have guessed. “Just shut up and quit arguing. Do you want to find out who you are and what has happened to you, or not?”

  Oh yeah. That “key” nonsense. I stared down at her, and she let go of my collar. She didn’t look armed. She didn’t look like a serial killer. I suppose there must be easier ways to harvest my organs than to go through all this trouble with the amnesia, ‘gator skin boots, wacky old car, and elevators to the center of the earth.

  “All right,” I said. “But I’m not closing my eyes.” I leaned against the wall and folded my arms. Yeah, take that, mysterious wench.

  She looked at her watch. “I’m not surprised. Then we’ll do this the hard way.”

  She sighed and closed her eyes. I watched her carefully. So carefully, that it took me a while to notice that the walls seemed to be melting. Unable to speak, I could see the concrete slowly begin to ooze and drip away like candle wax. I jumped away from the wall and stood next to her in the middle of the crazy funhouse room.

  The lights flashed a few times, and all four walls, the ceiling and the floor all bubbled and dripped down. Then they were gone. I mean, totally and completely gone. We were literally floating in space.

  Above and below and all around us were stars: faint stars, bright stars, galaxies and nebulae, globular clusters and great gaseous clouds of interstellar matter surrounded us. By the starlight I could see her face. She opened her eyes, and for the first time, there was a faint hint of a smile on her lips.

  My stomach was doing flips and was in no condition to appreciate the beauty of the Universe. “I think I’m going to be sick,” I said.

  “I told you so.”

  “Thanks for the sympathy, doc. You know, your bedside manner could use some work.”

  She snorted. “That should be no surprise; after all, I’m your figment.”

  My eyes were shut tightly as I fought to get the vertigo under control.

  “Deep breaths,” I heard her voice. Did it sound more dreamlike, or was I just imagining that because everything else was too bizarre to contemplate? “Don’t panic,” she continued. “Just try to relax. That’s it.”

  I slowly opened my eyes. Yes, my insignificant self was still floating in the infinite Universe. “You know, you could have used that soothing voice on me a long time ago.”

  “We didn’t have time for that. I had to figure out how far gone you really were. Hopefully, it’s not too late . . .”

  “Wait a minute. Figment? You said you’re my figment?”

  She nodded. “Right now we are somewhere in your amygdala. Surprisingly picturesque, isn’t it?”

  I resisted the impulse to look around like the world’s first galactic tourist a
nd focused on her face. I was still about one wrong look away from from losing my lunch, whenever and wherever my last lunch may have been.

  She seemed to be enjoying this. “Just try to stay calm. This is real, but not what it seems.”

  Very helpful. “Okay, the amygdala. That’s part of the brain or something, right?”

  She nodded. “Now you’re getting it. Even though you don’t remember much, everything you do remember right now has been made up by your amygdala. It’s usually the source of dreams. When you sleep, your brainstem paralyses your body, and the amygdala provides emotions for your dreams and connects old memories with new stimulus.”

  She paused as we floated in space. “You’ve been through a grave trauma, and all of this—everything that you’ve experienced since you woke up in the gutter—has been part of your fight-or-flight response.”

  “Grave trauma?”

  “Yes. Luckily, you created me a long time ago, though. So I can overpower the rest of your brain, and bring you back.”

  “Back from where?”

  “Back from the dead.”

  The infinite amygdala universe seemed to shimmer and flutter around us.

  “I’m dead?”

  “For all practical purposes, yes. You already went through the life-flashing-before-your-eyes phase. Um, apparently that added extra trauma for some reason. Anyway, now you are at the point where your whole body will just shut down. Or you might just be in a coma forever. Either way, everything that’s happened to you since you woke up has taken just a fraction of a second in real time.”

  “If you’re a figment . . . What exactly does that mean? Am I talking to myself right now?”

  “Not exactly. Don’t worry, if everything goes as planned, you will remember everything. But for now, just know that I am a subconscious part of you that takes care of life’s little details that you are usually too busy to deal with. These days everybody has figments, even if they are off the grid.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We’re already doing it. First we needed to escape from your brain’s refuge.”

  “My brain’s idea of a refuge is having me facedown in a stinking gutter?”

  She shrugged. “Hey, just because I’m your figment doesn’t mean I understand your brain. It was probably the best it could do under the circumstances. Everything is symbolic to your amygdala. Or maybe it was just trying to revive you with the rain. The man in the trench coat was probably the person who killed you. He shot you in the head.”