The commandos suffered from an understandable affliction known as Cheetah Syndrome. They were too focused. They behaved just like a cheetah so intent on the kill that it will ignore other opportunities that may arise for the chance at easier prey. Because of their training, which would normally make them so formidable, the team members of Operation Zephyr were so immersed in their upcoming mission that it took them precious seconds to react to this sudden, unexpected threat. That hesitation proved deadly.
A black human-shaped shadow seemed to leap from the cockpit and over Evans’ body. It turned and sprayed an ugly green beam at Private Barnes. He had managed to raise his submachine gun, but his fingers relaxed lifelessly before they could squeeze the trigger. His falling body interrupted the aim of another commando. Cynthia didn’t hesitate, though. Even though this was totally unexpected, she was ready for anything. Three commandos were already down. She leaped to the other side of the plane while firing a burst at the shadow. But the shadow was gone.
There was another loud pop, and a sickly green lightning bolt flew from the back of the plane and struck Captain Sloan in the neck. His body convulsed, blood poured from his eyes, then he toppled over. Cynthia and the last commando both turned and fired at the same time. At that range it would seem impossible to miss, but the bullets appeared to have no effect on the shadow. Cynthia dove low at the black shape.
Another green flash went over her head, and the last commando screamed behind her. She smashed the butt of her gun against the legs of the shadow. This, at least, seemed to have some effect. The shadow staggered back, but before she could move again, she was lifted up and thrown to the deck. The wind was knocked out of her, and as she gasped for breath, the shadow pointed at her. Her vision filled with a blinding green glow that seemed to surround her and blot out everything else.
* * *
June 3, 2023
11:43 PM
Ghost Station #12
Abandoned Nike Nuclear Missile Base
Mount Disappointment, California USA
The small project room was deathly silent. Three people watched intently, barely daring to breath. It would not be an exaggeration to say this particular spot contained the most advanced machinery on the planet. The center of their attention was a holographic 3D display situated on a small table in the middle of the room. The display showed an extremely detailed and realistic view of the interior of a World War II era B-17 bomber in real time.
The faces of the observers were dimly lit by the holo-display and a few strategically placed soft lights. Thomas Dupree sat at the single control console facing the display. He fidgeted with his I/O headset. His part in the drama had been finished, and all he could do was watch. The rest was up to Cynthia.
The other two watchers were Mrs. Rose, a stoic-faced woman of indeterminate middle age who radiated a calming power that few could resist. The other was a tall man in an expensive suit who was one of those few. Dupree hadn’t been given the man’s name, and simply thought of him as Mr. Suit. All three of them were entranced by what transpired in the 3D display.
The holographic image was connected to the brain of Cynthia Rodriguez. She was unconscious and reclined tranquilly on a special chair next to the 3D image. She seemed to be peacefully sleeping. Branching from the chair were multiple panels which monitored all of her vital stats. Wirelessly connected to both the display and Rodriguez was a series of quantum computers deep underground. This atmospherically controlled room with its nondescript gray walls and peaceful mood lighting was the hub to more computing power than the entire Internet and more electrical power than the West Coast could use in a year.
A covert and shielded nuclear detonation deep under the Nevada desert had seismologists scratching their heads, and had kick-started the quantum computers into action. The original temporal connection had been made at the beginning of this particular project. Now that connection was continuous to a point in time almost exactly 80 years in the past. Or at least to some version of the past. Like an extremely massive door, it only needed to be nudged to open at will. Of course, that was a heck of a big nudge.
Mr. Suit spoke without taking his eyes off the 3D image. “Why doesn’t she just take the package now? It seems stupid to go through all this nonsense.”
Dupree took his cue from Mrs. Rose’s subtle nod. “A Ghost can only interact through a Zombie. You see, we don’t actually travel back in time, per se. It’s more like a representation of Cynthia’s brain in that time period. Um, which is, strictly speaking, no longer our past, but a different universe entirely as soon as a Ghost interrupts the locality—”
“And the package?” Mr. Suit didn’t hide his impatience.
“She could have the Zombie take it. But it’s not like she could bring it back or anything. There’s no actual physical interaction. We have to rely on the help of the locals. We’ve been cultivating this particular relationship for a long time now.”
Now it was Mrs. Rose’s turn. “Which is why,” she began, “it is so important to continue our work. We’re almost to the end result. I don’t need to say how important this should be to the Institute.”
For the first time, Mr. Suit looked away from the image to Mrs. Rose. “It’s not about the money or the resources, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said softly, yet with a certain amount of menace. “The question is whether or not we approve of your so-called ‘end result.’ ”
“The transfer is almost complete,” Dupree said mechanically.
All eyes were back on the holo-display. “What we’re most concerned with,” Mr. Suit continued, “is the interference you’ve reported.”
Mrs. Rose considered that for a moment. “Yes, there have been indications of an outside adversary. Together with the locals, we’ve been monitoring all possible breaches in our program.”
“I doubt the locals share your confidence in your program,” he said dryly.
For the first time, Mrs. Rose was openly flustered. She wasn’t used to this level of hostility from anybody. “They don’t have much choice if they want to win their war.”
“And that,” Mr. Suit replied, “is exactly what we are worried about.”
“Okay,” Dupree announced. “We’re going live.”
Cynthia’s sleeping face twitched, then was still. The other three watched as the display brightened. The miniature 3D representation of the inside of the B-17 came to life. The watchers were silent until the black shadow suddenly appeared in the cockpit. At the first green blast, Mrs. Rose took a sharp, sudden intake of breath. Dupree swore, and the man from the Institute shook his head slowly.
“What the hell is that thing?” Mrs. Rose asked quickly.
Dupree swore again and made some gestures in the empty space around his head. “There wasn’t a spy on board after all,” he said, almost to himself. “It looks like a Phantom. Until now, we weren’t even sure this was possible, even in theory.”
Mrs. Rose was much more in her element with an emergency of this sort than dealing with company bureaucrats. “Bring her back.”
Dupree seemed to ignore her as his eyes focused on things only he could see. “I’m trying,” he said quickly. “There is a slight delay. Cynthia’s not equipped to deal with this. Even if she was, this Phantom has caused a huge disturbance merely by being there.” His eyes left his personal space and turned to the 3D view. He watched with horrified fascination. “Look—it is somehow able to interact with the environment.”
The holo-display showed the Phantom as it hurled the Nale/Cynthia Zombie to the deck.
“Your so-called Phantom,” Mr. Suit said, “Is interacting your team to death.”
Mrs. Rose had had enough. “Bring her back. Now!”
Dupree shook his head. “I already did. I mean, I tried. It’s up to her.”
All the commandos were dead. The Phantom pointed at the Zombie, and Nale/Cynthia was engulfed by a vortex of green light. The Zombie lay still on the deck as the light faded away. Then the Phantom moved with i
ncredible speed to the body of Captain Sloan. There was a quick flash of green, and the Phantom held up the package, free from the chain. It looked at the brown box for a moment, then held it tightly and seemed to walk right through the fuselage and disappeared.
The holo-display crackled and popped with static, then winked out.
Cynthia’s eyes shot open and she began coughing up blood. Multiple alarms in the vital stats monitors began beeping and ringing. A door opened, and two medics appeared and quickly wheeled Cynthia, still in the chair, out of the room. Dupree followed them.
The sounds of the alarms slowly faded down the hallway as the door closed. Mr. Suit turned to Mrs. Rose. “I’ve seen enough. The Institute will have no part of this. Consider your operation terminated immediately.”
The tall man pushed his way out the door. Mrs. Rose silently watched him leave, then looked at the blood on the floor.
* * *
June 3, 1943
11:58 PM
Somewhere Over Occupied France
Sergeant Nale felt the sudden jolt as the parachute opened in the darkness. Even though the fabric of the ‘chute was dark, it still seemed way too bright under the moonlight. That was just one last bit of bitter icing on this cursed cake of a mission. He slowly floated down to the French farmland crawling with enemy troops.
He was one man, surrounded in hostile territory. It was going to be a long trip home. And other than the death of his comrades and friends, the worst part of it was that he had no idea what had happened or how it had happened. Even if he did miraculously make it home, nobody would ever believe him.
THE END
Author’s Note
Thanks for reading Mythik Imagination #1. If you enjoyed these stories, be sure to check out Mythik Imagination #2, coming soon:
The next issue will be a special Weird West edition.
In classic pulp style, the next issue will have a Readers’ Forum where your email comments will be highlighted. Please feel free to send any questions or comments to
[email protected] If you enjoyed these stories (or even if you didn’t) please consider writing a review to let others know what you think.
For more information about upcoming projects, check out the blog at www.jonmac.me and join me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/JonMacWriter
About the Author:
Jon Mac writes SF/Fantasy with a pulp spirit, something he calls "Mythik" fiction. He's had jobs picking raspberries, babysitting Coyote pups, working in a recycling plant, directing live TV newscasts, and encoding HD video for Blu-Ray discs. He likes dancing and shopping. No, that's not really true. He's still waiting for flying cars and videophones to become popular. He lives in Los Angeles with his lovely wife and their wonder dog, Baxter.
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