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fellowshippers2005-03-20 09:32 pm
pecos.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2005-03-20 09:32 pm
BDL 2: Lonely Hearts
My abject gratitude to everyone who has so kindly welcomed this new story, and who has been generous enough to comment and encourage.
Thus, I’m very pleased to offer:
TITLE: Beyond Design Limitations
CHAPTER: Two – Lonely Hearts
AUTHOR: Pecos – PecosPhil@sprintmail.com
WEBSITE: http://www.chimerafic.com
BETA: Gloria Mundi - viva_gloria@livejournal.com
RATING: Varies by chapter. This one is PG13
DISCLAIMER: I don’t make the toys, I’m only
playing with them. No money made, nor
disrespect intended. This is FICTION
WHAT IS IT?: RPS / AU
Sequel to ‘Prophecy: Destiny & Design’
WHO’S IN IT?: Sean Bean, Orlando Bloom,
Viggo Mortensen and other actors from
‘The Lord of the Rings,’ borrowed fictional
characters Mickey Kostmayer & Rollie Tyler
FEEDBACK: remember the golden rule, (please!)
ARCHIVE: I’d be honored, just tell me where
PAST CHAPTERS: ‘Prophecy: Destiny & Design’
can be found on my website, Chimerafic.com
and other stories can be found on my LJ at:
http://www.livejournal.com/users/pecos/
NOTE: Please forgive any intentional or
unintentional abuse of facts or history.
NOTE 2: I made up the Tree of Blessings, but the
rest of the conditions in that city are pretty
close to accurate
Beyond Design Limitations
Chapter Two: Lonely Hearts
Viggo
The mare’s name was Morgana, and she was the long shot running double for TJ. Not that TJ wasn’t fast enough, but the Paint stallion was frankly too valuable to the movie production to let him go hurtling pell-mell over the Dakota hills, especially with prairie dog holes and rocks and unfriendly scrub and myriad other risks to consider. Viggo was too valuable to the Disney pocket as well, but – unlike the horse – he had a say in the matter. Thus, there he was, astride Morgana in full Frank Hopkins regalia, surveying a route through the rough country, trying to ignore the far distant camera emplacements and the drone of the helicopter.
The mare tossed her mane and worried the bit, knowing what was expected of her from the rehearsal, done at a gentle canter. Morgana was normally white-coated, a lovely ivory sheen to her glossy hide. But she’d suffered the indignity of spray-painting for the sake of this movie, and now she was about to do more of the lead horse’s dirty work.
“The things you girls have to go through for the boys,” Viggo told her sympathetically, patting her neck, careful not to touch the painted hairs. Her ears flicked back, listening to his familiar voice, then forward again, eager to get this over with and return to her spot on the line, maybe with some oats as a reward. One of the cameras still had a red flag up – something wrong with the film path or the settings or any of a dozen technical glitches. Viggo tucked the reins under his thigh and dug for his tobacco pouch, rolling a cigarette expertly astride the impatient mare.
Morgana caught a whiff of the smoke and settled down, shifting to get more comfortable, ready now to wait. “Orlando’s horse was named Percy,” Viggo told the mare, not pausing to wonder why his thoughts had run off in this new direction. “Huge brute of a thing, didn’t look very bright – though he was – and not what you’d ever imagine an Elf riding. But of course the real world considerations of Orli’s weight, plus Brett, plus all the fiddly movie props and heavy saddle and so on meant that he had to be big and strong. Percy took to Orli like a puppy. Would follow him around the camp if he wasn’t tied up well enough. You’d see Orli asleep on the ground outside his trailer, Percy standing over him like a bodyguard.” Viggo snorted to himself with the memory, wishing he’d gotten a photo of that scene.
“I think Percy took it very personally the day Orli and Brett fell off, and the Puppy got hurt. You could tell the horse thought it was his fault. He sulked for weeks. I’ve never seen a horse look so ashamed of himself before. He’d stand in the paddock and just be depressed every day that Orli was off work. When Orli finally had another riding scene the first thing he did was run up to Percy and whisper in his ear. I was there with Uraeus, checking my tack. The kid was telling the horse he was sorry that he’d fallen, and that he was glad Percy hadn’t stepped on him, and that he hoped that Percy knew he would try harder not to be such a klutz.”
Viggo smoked for a while in peace, admiring the landscape. It was so easy to think that he was actually back in time on locations like this. After all, how much had it really changed since Frank’s day?
Morgana rumbled, one ear back. She’d been listening to his story, and probably wanted to know how it all turned out. “Oh, sorry. After that Percy was twice as careful with Orli. There were times when Peter wanted a running shot that was maybe a bit dangerous, and damned if that horse would change the course or slow down suddenly or do something to be more cautious. It was hilarious! There’s something about Orlando that just makes you want to take care of him, to look out for him. Especially since he’s not very good at knowing when to back off for himself. Hell...even the horses could see it!”
Tossing her head, Morgana seemed to understand. The red flag went down, then the green came up. Viggo lifted his foot from the stirrup so he could thoroughly stub out his cigarette on the sole of his boot, then he gathered up the reins. The green flag at the director’s location was raised higher.
“Ready, baby?” he asked the mare. She gathered herself like a thoroughbred in the starting gate. The flag dropped, and Frank Hopkins and Hidalgo surged across the plains like a blur of unexpected color in a monochromatic world.
Rollie
Some time after two in the morning, Atlantic Time Zone, Rollie Tyler finished downloading schematics into his on-site equipment and clicked off the net, relieved that the local phone service had been up to the task. It had been slow going, but one of his satellite connectors still hadn’t turned up at the island’s only airport. He decided against perusing his mail on the basis that there wouldn’t be anything he could really do about any of it in the next couple of hours, and hoped that maybe a quick stroll around the grounds would get his mind into more of a mood for sleep. Pulling back on the dirty white tee shirt he’d worn all day, Rollie quietly left his room and wandered off.
It was still quite warm. The movie location was on the leeward side of the island, which meant that while they had calm waters in the bay, the cooling breezes off the Atlantic didn’t reach the lowlands. Lights burned here and there on the hotel grounds, and some little species of frog was making a really big amount of noise. Rollie used his ear to finally locate one of the singers on a low branch, and it turned out to be smaller than the end of his thumb.
“Damn,” Rollie muttered to himself, watching the little guy move off before puffing up and continuing to sing after being so rudely interrupted.
“Coqui,” said a human voice, right behind him.
Tyler spun to find Orlando Bloom sitting on the stairs leading up to the second floor. He hadn’t been there a second ago. Bloom was wearing loose cotton sleep pants and a bunch of charms around his neck – nothing else. “Pardon?” Rollie asked him.
“Coqui. That’s what they call them up in Puerto Rico. I think it’s also the sound they make. He’s supposed to be pining for a lost love. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten the whole story just now, but it’s all romantic and shit. Probably meant to keep you from just stepping on them when they get to be too much to sleep through.”
Rollie smiled down at the younger man. “That your story tonight? Too much frog to sleep?”
“Only been back from the set for twenty minutes. Gore wanted to use this moonlight for a couple of beach shots. Bloody unlikely they’ll come out right, though. You can’t photograph good moonlight. You can only enjoy it.” Orlando seemed to realize that he was babbling, and quickly amended that by babbling some more. “On the neighboring island, Dominica, they have these really huge fucking frogs up in the hills, size of a salad plate. Big, ugly things. They call them Mountain Chicken.”
“I’m guessing that’s not because they cluck.”
“No, it isn’t,” Orlando said with a grin. “I guess I better try to get some sleep. Fight practice early tomorrow.” He stood up and turned to go, but lost his balance and staggered.
If Rollie hadn’t been there he was sure Orlando would have gone down. His knees apparently gave at the same moment he was tipping. Rollie’s big hands caught the young man around the ribs, and by the time he’d steadied him he realized that while Orli didn’t seem to smell of alcohol, he was clearly acting more than a bit drunk.
“Oh, fucking hell,” Orlando complained, grabbing the railing of the stairs for support. His knuckles went white, then he let Rollie get him straightened up and got his bearings back.
“Are you all right?” Rollie questioned, knowing that the lad clearly wasn’t.
“Yeah, uh, just landsick. You know...spend all day on a rocking ship, and you find you can’t walk a straight line anymore.”
“Sure,” Rollie agreed, thinking that Orlando had just told him they’d been filming on the beach all night. Maybe it wasn’t alcohol, but something a bit more chemical?
Orlando pulled away from him firmly and started up the steps, hand clutching the railing tightly. “Good night, Mister Tyler,” he called back without turning around.
“Rollie,” he encouraged. “Maybe I’ll see ya tomorrow, mate.”
“Maybe,” Orli offered, turning to take the next flight of steps. His face had noticeably paled from the climb. Then he was out of view.
“Co-qui, co-qui, co-qui....” sang the little tan frogs.
Orlando
He closed the door to his room carefully, since Geoffrey across the hall had ears like a dorm floor monitor. Leaning his head against the rough wood for a moment, Orli cursed himself soundly. What was Tyler going to think of him now? His left hand came up to sort through the collection of tokens hanging from his neck, and his fingers found the honey-colored stone that Sean had given him back in New Zealand. He stroked the smooth round shape for a few moments before lifting it to his mouth, cupping the cool, comforting reminder between his lips, pressed against the front of his teeth.
Reassured, Orli found the strength to straighten up and cross the big room to his bed, which was already turned down. He flopped onto the soft sheets and made no move to cover himself. The ceiling fan spun lazily, stirring the air just enough to make you think it was cooler than it actually was in the closed room.
Sucking on his pendant, Orli stared at the turning fan. His mind was on a similar path tonight, without even the benefit of moving air around. Orli turned his head to look at the light switch across the room, back near the door. He lifted his hand and made a small motion.
The room went dark.
Dominic
He felt curiously proud of himself, hefting a papaya, judging the weight it would add to his basket. Dom had refused to get a trolley because he knew he was going to have to carry every single thing he bought back to his apartment on two different buses and about five blocks of walking in the unseasonable sunshine and typical California smog. This kept a pretty tight rein on what he was buying – lots of dried dinner items, pastas, little cans of fish and so on. Bare essentials only, he reminded himself, and the papaya had to go back on the pile.
It seemed like a victory to have found a food store at all, and he wasn’t going to quibble that ‘Sarah’s All Organic’ was hardly a mecca of American excess...unless you counted the pretentiousness aspect. Were there really people in the world who gave a flying fuck if the cocoa beans in their chocolate bar were grown on south-facing slopes and picked by indigenous people? Well...okay...probably SOMEONE in California would, if anywhere, but Dom was nearly starving, and frankly anything that didn’t reek of gasoline was going to be fine by him. He caved on a couple of apples, especially since they were on the small side.
A girl popping blue bubblegum and wearing an apron which proudly boasted that it was made of hemp fiber was opening fruit boxes to stock the produce. Dom squeezed by her to give the grapes a peek, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when she let loose with a high-pitched scream and waved her box-cutter like a deadly weapon. He ducked the flailing arms as she bolted past him down the aisle and through the swinging doors into the stockroom, shrieking “Dave! Dave! There’s a tarantula!”
That piqued Dom’s interest quicker than the scent of bacon would stir a slumbering Hobbit, and he leaned over the box she’d just opened. It was full of some sort of fancy lettuce – kale or something – and climbing sedately up one of the bunches was an absolutely gorgeous (and admittedly huge) lime-green praying mantis. “Hello darling!” Dom cooed, reaching down to scoop the beautiful bug up. He smiled at her, watching her antennae flick as she delicately cleaned them, then Dom eased the mantis gently into his jacket pocket. He was two aisles away by the time Dave erupted from the back room with a broom, a butcher knife, and a fire extinguisher, intent on defending the innocent shoppers of Sarah’s from the ravages of the wild kingdom.
Dominic coaxed the mantis out of his pocket as he sat at the bus stop, his purchases (in their recycled plastic bags) neatly kept off the dirty ground by holding them between his feet. The mantis had suffered no ill-treatment, and all legs and appendages seemed accounted for. She obviously liked being in the sun, and climbed up his arm to perch on his shoulder, preening in the bright light and shining like a living emerald. “Just how far have you traveled to end up here?” Dom asked the mantis, admiring her shamelessly. “You almost wound up smashed, you know?”
The bus came in a few minutes, and the driver didn’t even blink an eye that the little guy getting on had a giant bug sitting on his head.
Hey, this was L.A.
Mickey
He looked up at the grim, industrial building and suppressed a shudder. The laughter of children carried to him from behind the ramshackle fence on the right, but that cheery sound did nothing to quash the unease in the retired CIA operative’s heart. No...this dread he felt was something worlds away from a career’s worth of dirty-doings and wrongs committed in the pursuit of right. At the moment he was girding himself to face one of the few demons that still haunted his dreams, a ghostly memory that he’d never quite been able to put behind himself.
“Why did it have to be nuns?” he sighed.
But Mickey Kostmayer was nothing if not brave. He took a deep breath and marched up the steps. The reception area was clean, though ridiculously bare. He crossed to the crisply uniformed young sister behind the single desk, and spoke carefully in Mongolian Chinese. “I would like to speak to the Mother Superior.”
The Tree of Blessings Orphanage was located near the heart of Ulaanbaatar, the capitol city of Mongolia. It was a bustling collection of traditional ger encampments and newer buildings, over a half million people, boasting almost all of the country’s drivable roads, motorized vehicles and citizens who had ever seen a cell phone, let alone owned one. In a pastoral land of immense blue-sky beauty, wide-open plains and stunning mountains, Ulaanbaatar was the closest thing to modern – and that meant ugly and dirty and incongruous. A giant industrial steam production plant rose right in the middle of the city, supplying heat to the buildings through giant conduits and a network of pipes beneath the streets. In a country struggling to catch up to the rest of the world, a lot of important things got left behind. In Ulaanbaatar, those things included children.
Orphaned and abandoned, simply lost or given up in desperation, the city was home to a huge population of children, some so young they couldn’t even walk. The kids tried to take care of each other, existing in a sub-culture of horrifying poverty, petty crime and appalling mortality. The really lucky ones found their way into the Tree of Blessings Orphanage, where the accommodations were only marginally better, but the kids were fed and clothed and given some degree of medical attention.
Mickey was eventually shown down a long hallway, which had been decorated with a festive mural of scenes both pastoral and festive; imaginary shining cities and joyous celebrations, all done in crayon and reaching only to about waist-high. Mickey was hard-pressed not to retreat into a cold facade of impersonal professionalism...but he knew that the Mother Superior would use her supernatural powers to spot his reticence, and it would go much harder for him. He had plenty of experience with nuns. They passed a high-ceilinged room which had sleeping mats stretched from wall to wall, no room to even step between them. Some of the smaller children were still inside, playing with each other quietly. One little girl looked over at him, smiling around the horrifying disfigurement of a cleft palate. His heart clenched, and he smiled back.
“Mister Kostmayer,” said a gravelly voice, and the Mother Superior looked up from the piles of paperwork on her desk as he was shown through the door. “What can I do for you?” she asked in an English heavily accented with Italian. She was younger than he would have imagined, though most nuns seemed frozen in time to him – frozen somewhere around ‘creepy old aunt who you only meet once and she pinches your cheek and calls you Michael and smells of cats’. He fought down his internal demons and extended a hand, which was taken with a grip of pure steel. The Mother Superior gestured toward the only other seat in the room, a steel chair that would be great for interrogating unwilling witnesses.
“I’ll get right to the point, Mother,” he said carefully, choosing his words for simplicity. “I am looking for a young man. He would be about 26 years old now. I have information that he may have been in this instit-- uh, in your care at some point.” He reached across the desk to slip a photo into her waiting hand. “This is his brother. I believe that they looked very similar. Identical, even.”
There was no mistaking the spark of recognition in the keen blue eyes. “Simon,” she said softly. There was obvious fondness in the tone.
“Simon? You know him then?” Mickey asked hopefully.
“Knew him, Mister Kostmayer. When he was brought to us he said his name was Sy. That’s no kind of good Christian name, so we called him Simon. I’m sorry to tell you that he is in the Lord’s care now. He died over a year ago.”
Mickey’s heart lurched again. Another failure. “What can you tell me about him?” he asked, letting his face show some of his disappointment.
“Perhaps you know that he was found in a plane wreck near Saynshand, quite a way south of here. Some of our nomadic people found him. He was the only survivor. They took him with them as they traveled the plains, raising their herds of camels and goats. When their wanderings took them near a settlement they sent him into the city with a truck driver. He knew no Mongolian or Chinese, and since he was obviously a foreigner I think that everyone was eager to remove him. The native hospitality is immense, but these are very poor people who could not afford to feed someone who had no skills to contribute.
“He ended up here, and I was able to determine that he had no wish to come to the attention of our local authorities. He seemed very frightened of even the idea of anyone trying to find his family. But he had an amazing gift in handling the children, so he proved useful to us.” She paused for a moment, obviously reflecting. “He was a gift from God. Such a gentle soul. Even the littlest ones flocked to him. No language barrier, nothing but honest compassion. He did everything he could....”
Mickey grimaced as he watched the Mother Superior collect herself. This was worse than he’d suspected it would be.
She pulled herself together and finished her story with a firm tone. “Simon would go beyond our walls, trying to feed the children, to find the ones who were desperately ill. He would go into the underground, where I forbid the Sisters to go.”
“Underground?”
“You’ve seen the steam plant? The pipes travel beneath our streets. That’s where most of the orphans live. They go down the sewers and access tunnels and live in the dark. It’s hellish, but it’s warm in the winters. And that’s where Simon would go to find them. He was killed when a conduit ruptured. Six children were trapped as well, the youngest just three. Have you ever seen a steam explosion, Mister Kostmayer? It was horrible. The children, mercifully, died almost immediately. Simon lingered for a few days. We did what we could, but the doctors gave up on him. We prayed for his soul, and he finally went to Jesus’ arms.”
Mickey had a hard time swallowing around the lump in his throat. That was the end of another trail, another of the lost and scattered clones. Psi, or the Greek letter Ψ had been this one. He would never know what special gifts this boy had carried with him, what was lost now. Or maybe he did...compassion? Was that a gift?
“What brings you here looking for him, Mister Kostmayer?” the Mother Superior questioned, trying to hide her renewed sorrow.
“I agreed to the search for a friend, someone who knows his brother.”
“This man?” she asked, waving the photo of Orlando ‘Gamma’ Bloom, an unidentifiable sadness in the expressive brown eyes. That particular photo was one of Viggo’s, taken in a house in New Zealand. “He does look like him. May I...may I keep this picture?”
“Yes, I guess so.” What harm could it do? After all, pictures of Orlando Bloom were hardly a rare commodity, and he hadn’t told her too much. Besides, if you couldn’t trust a nun, who could you trust?
“You are a Catholic, Mister Kostmayer?” she asked.
“Yes ma’am. Polish father, Irish mother. My brother is a priest in New York City.”
“New York,” she said wistfully. “Is there anything else I can help you with? Do you want to know where we buried him? I’m afraid there was no money for anything but a pauper’s grave. But he would have wanted to be with the children he was trying to help, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure he would. Thank you, Mother,” he said, rising. “I’ve taken enough of your time.” He started toward the door.
“Mister Kostmayer,” she called, her voice showing a bit more of the iron he’d been expecting. “Is there anything else you would like to do? I’m sure you realize how great our need is here.”
“Oh, of course,” Mickey stammered. Damn. He turned back, reaching for his wallet. He didn’t escape until she had nearly every last tugrik he’d been carrying, and all of his American Express traveler’s checks as well. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
Back on the street again, Mickey trotted toward his hotel. He didn’t have enough money to catch a cab back, although every car that passed offered. As the streets became more fashionable and the passers-by better dressed he finally took a cell phone from an inside pocket and dialed a number.
“Bad news, I’m afraid. This wasn’t the one,” Mickey said when the call was answered. “Yeah, he was here all right. But he’s dead now. I have no reason to doubt the intel, though I’ll check the whole thing out tonight as best I can. But I think this is another dead end. Sorry. Oh, and you need to send me some more money. I got mugged by a penguin. Yeah...I’ll tell you the rest later.”
He closed the call and ducked into the lobby of his hotel. Air conditioning and cold, strong drinks were suddenly the most important things in Mickey’s life.
Thus, I’m very pleased to offer:
TITLE: Beyond Design Limitations
CHAPTER: Two – Lonely Hearts
AUTHOR: Pecos – PecosPhil@sprintmail.com
WEBSITE: http://www.chimerafic.com
BETA: Gloria Mundi - viva_gloria@livejournal.com
RATING: Varies by chapter. This one is PG13
DISCLAIMER: I don’t make the toys, I’m only
playing with them. No money made, nor
disrespect intended. This is FICTION
WHAT IS IT?: RPS / AU
Sequel to ‘Prophecy: Destiny & Design’
WHO’S IN IT?: Sean Bean, Orlando Bloom,
Viggo Mortensen and other actors from
‘The Lord of the Rings,’ borrowed fictional
characters Mickey Kostmayer & Rollie Tyler
FEEDBACK: remember the golden rule, (please!)
ARCHIVE: I’d be honored, just tell me where
PAST CHAPTERS: ‘Prophecy: Destiny & Design’
can be found on my website, Chimerafic.com
and other stories can be found on my LJ at:
http://www.livejournal.com/users/pecos/
NOTE: Please forgive any intentional or
unintentional abuse of facts or history.
NOTE 2: I made up the Tree of Blessings, but the
rest of the conditions in that city are pretty
close to accurate
Beyond Design Limitations
Chapter Two: Lonely Hearts
Viggo
The mare’s name was Morgana, and she was the long shot running double for TJ. Not that TJ wasn’t fast enough, but the Paint stallion was frankly too valuable to the movie production to let him go hurtling pell-mell over the Dakota hills, especially with prairie dog holes and rocks and unfriendly scrub and myriad other risks to consider. Viggo was too valuable to the Disney pocket as well, but – unlike the horse – he had a say in the matter. Thus, there he was, astride Morgana in full Frank Hopkins regalia, surveying a route through the rough country, trying to ignore the far distant camera emplacements and the drone of the helicopter.
The mare tossed her mane and worried the bit, knowing what was expected of her from the rehearsal, done at a gentle canter. Morgana was normally white-coated, a lovely ivory sheen to her glossy hide. But she’d suffered the indignity of spray-painting for the sake of this movie, and now she was about to do more of the lead horse’s dirty work.
“The things you girls have to go through for the boys,” Viggo told her sympathetically, patting her neck, careful not to touch the painted hairs. Her ears flicked back, listening to his familiar voice, then forward again, eager to get this over with and return to her spot on the line, maybe with some oats as a reward. One of the cameras still had a red flag up – something wrong with the film path or the settings or any of a dozen technical glitches. Viggo tucked the reins under his thigh and dug for his tobacco pouch, rolling a cigarette expertly astride the impatient mare.
Morgana caught a whiff of the smoke and settled down, shifting to get more comfortable, ready now to wait. “Orlando’s horse was named Percy,” Viggo told the mare, not pausing to wonder why his thoughts had run off in this new direction. “Huge brute of a thing, didn’t look very bright – though he was – and not what you’d ever imagine an Elf riding. But of course the real world considerations of Orli’s weight, plus Brett, plus all the fiddly movie props and heavy saddle and so on meant that he had to be big and strong. Percy took to Orli like a puppy. Would follow him around the camp if he wasn’t tied up well enough. You’d see Orli asleep on the ground outside his trailer, Percy standing over him like a bodyguard.” Viggo snorted to himself with the memory, wishing he’d gotten a photo of that scene.
“I think Percy took it very personally the day Orli and Brett fell off, and the Puppy got hurt. You could tell the horse thought it was his fault. He sulked for weeks. I’ve never seen a horse look so ashamed of himself before. He’d stand in the paddock and just be depressed every day that Orli was off work. When Orli finally had another riding scene the first thing he did was run up to Percy and whisper in his ear. I was there with Uraeus, checking my tack. The kid was telling the horse he was sorry that he’d fallen, and that he was glad Percy hadn’t stepped on him, and that he hoped that Percy knew he would try harder not to be such a klutz.”
Viggo smoked for a while in peace, admiring the landscape. It was so easy to think that he was actually back in time on locations like this. After all, how much had it really changed since Frank’s day?
Morgana rumbled, one ear back. She’d been listening to his story, and probably wanted to know how it all turned out. “Oh, sorry. After that Percy was twice as careful with Orli. There were times when Peter wanted a running shot that was maybe a bit dangerous, and damned if that horse would change the course or slow down suddenly or do something to be more cautious. It was hilarious! There’s something about Orlando that just makes you want to take care of him, to look out for him. Especially since he’s not very good at knowing when to back off for himself. Hell...even the horses could see it!”
Tossing her head, Morgana seemed to understand. The red flag went down, then the green came up. Viggo lifted his foot from the stirrup so he could thoroughly stub out his cigarette on the sole of his boot, then he gathered up the reins. The green flag at the director’s location was raised higher.
“Ready, baby?” he asked the mare. She gathered herself like a thoroughbred in the starting gate. The flag dropped, and Frank Hopkins and Hidalgo surged across the plains like a blur of unexpected color in a monochromatic world.
Rollie
Some time after two in the morning, Atlantic Time Zone, Rollie Tyler finished downloading schematics into his on-site equipment and clicked off the net, relieved that the local phone service had been up to the task. It had been slow going, but one of his satellite connectors still hadn’t turned up at the island’s only airport. He decided against perusing his mail on the basis that there wouldn’t be anything he could really do about any of it in the next couple of hours, and hoped that maybe a quick stroll around the grounds would get his mind into more of a mood for sleep. Pulling back on the dirty white tee shirt he’d worn all day, Rollie quietly left his room and wandered off.
It was still quite warm. The movie location was on the leeward side of the island, which meant that while they had calm waters in the bay, the cooling breezes off the Atlantic didn’t reach the lowlands. Lights burned here and there on the hotel grounds, and some little species of frog was making a really big amount of noise. Rollie used his ear to finally locate one of the singers on a low branch, and it turned out to be smaller than the end of his thumb.
“Damn,” Rollie muttered to himself, watching the little guy move off before puffing up and continuing to sing after being so rudely interrupted.
“Coqui,” said a human voice, right behind him.
Tyler spun to find Orlando Bloom sitting on the stairs leading up to the second floor. He hadn’t been there a second ago. Bloom was wearing loose cotton sleep pants and a bunch of charms around his neck – nothing else. “Pardon?” Rollie asked him.
“Coqui. That’s what they call them up in Puerto Rico. I think it’s also the sound they make. He’s supposed to be pining for a lost love. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten the whole story just now, but it’s all romantic and shit. Probably meant to keep you from just stepping on them when they get to be too much to sleep through.”
Rollie smiled down at the younger man. “That your story tonight? Too much frog to sleep?”
“Only been back from the set for twenty minutes. Gore wanted to use this moonlight for a couple of beach shots. Bloody unlikely they’ll come out right, though. You can’t photograph good moonlight. You can only enjoy it.” Orlando seemed to realize that he was babbling, and quickly amended that by babbling some more. “On the neighboring island, Dominica, they have these really huge fucking frogs up in the hills, size of a salad plate. Big, ugly things. They call them Mountain Chicken.”
“I’m guessing that’s not because they cluck.”
“No, it isn’t,” Orlando said with a grin. “I guess I better try to get some sleep. Fight practice early tomorrow.” He stood up and turned to go, but lost his balance and staggered.
If Rollie hadn’t been there he was sure Orlando would have gone down. His knees apparently gave at the same moment he was tipping. Rollie’s big hands caught the young man around the ribs, and by the time he’d steadied him he realized that while Orli didn’t seem to smell of alcohol, he was clearly acting more than a bit drunk.
“Oh, fucking hell,” Orlando complained, grabbing the railing of the stairs for support. His knuckles went white, then he let Rollie get him straightened up and got his bearings back.
“Are you all right?” Rollie questioned, knowing that the lad clearly wasn’t.
“Yeah, uh, just landsick. You know...spend all day on a rocking ship, and you find you can’t walk a straight line anymore.”
“Sure,” Rollie agreed, thinking that Orlando had just told him they’d been filming on the beach all night. Maybe it wasn’t alcohol, but something a bit more chemical?
Orlando pulled away from him firmly and started up the steps, hand clutching the railing tightly. “Good night, Mister Tyler,” he called back without turning around.
“Rollie,” he encouraged. “Maybe I’ll see ya tomorrow, mate.”
“Maybe,” Orli offered, turning to take the next flight of steps. His face had noticeably paled from the climb. Then he was out of view.
“Co-qui, co-qui, co-qui....” sang the little tan frogs.
Orlando
He closed the door to his room carefully, since Geoffrey across the hall had ears like a dorm floor monitor. Leaning his head against the rough wood for a moment, Orli cursed himself soundly. What was Tyler going to think of him now? His left hand came up to sort through the collection of tokens hanging from his neck, and his fingers found the honey-colored stone that Sean had given him back in New Zealand. He stroked the smooth round shape for a few moments before lifting it to his mouth, cupping the cool, comforting reminder between his lips, pressed against the front of his teeth.
Reassured, Orli found the strength to straighten up and cross the big room to his bed, which was already turned down. He flopped onto the soft sheets and made no move to cover himself. The ceiling fan spun lazily, stirring the air just enough to make you think it was cooler than it actually was in the closed room.
Sucking on his pendant, Orli stared at the turning fan. His mind was on a similar path tonight, without even the benefit of moving air around. Orli turned his head to look at the light switch across the room, back near the door. He lifted his hand and made a small motion.
The room went dark.
Dominic
He felt curiously proud of himself, hefting a papaya, judging the weight it would add to his basket. Dom had refused to get a trolley because he knew he was going to have to carry every single thing he bought back to his apartment on two different buses and about five blocks of walking in the unseasonable sunshine and typical California smog. This kept a pretty tight rein on what he was buying – lots of dried dinner items, pastas, little cans of fish and so on. Bare essentials only, he reminded himself, and the papaya had to go back on the pile.
It seemed like a victory to have found a food store at all, and he wasn’t going to quibble that ‘Sarah’s All Organic’ was hardly a mecca of American excess...unless you counted the pretentiousness aspect. Were there really people in the world who gave a flying fuck if the cocoa beans in their chocolate bar were grown on south-facing slopes and picked by indigenous people? Well...okay...probably SOMEONE in California would, if anywhere, but Dom was nearly starving, and frankly anything that didn’t reek of gasoline was going to be fine by him. He caved on a couple of apples, especially since they were on the small side.
A girl popping blue bubblegum and wearing an apron which proudly boasted that it was made of hemp fiber was opening fruit boxes to stock the produce. Dom squeezed by her to give the grapes a peek, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when she let loose with a high-pitched scream and waved her box-cutter like a deadly weapon. He ducked the flailing arms as she bolted past him down the aisle and through the swinging doors into the stockroom, shrieking “Dave! Dave! There’s a tarantula!”
That piqued Dom’s interest quicker than the scent of bacon would stir a slumbering Hobbit, and he leaned over the box she’d just opened. It was full of some sort of fancy lettuce – kale or something – and climbing sedately up one of the bunches was an absolutely gorgeous (and admittedly huge) lime-green praying mantis. “Hello darling!” Dom cooed, reaching down to scoop the beautiful bug up. He smiled at her, watching her antennae flick as she delicately cleaned them, then Dom eased the mantis gently into his jacket pocket. He was two aisles away by the time Dave erupted from the back room with a broom, a butcher knife, and a fire extinguisher, intent on defending the innocent shoppers of Sarah’s from the ravages of the wild kingdom.
Dominic coaxed the mantis out of his pocket as he sat at the bus stop, his purchases (in their recycled plastic bags) neatly kept off the dirty ground by holding them between his feet. The mantis had suffered no ill-treatment, and all legs and appendages seemed accounted for. She obviously liked being in the sun, and climbed up his arm to perch on his shoulder, preening in the bright light and shining like a living emerald. “Just how far have you traveled to end up here?” Dom asked the mantis, admiring her shamelessly. “You almost wound up smashed, you know?”
The bus came in a few minutes, and the driver didn’t even blink an eye that the little guy getting on had a giant bug sitting on his head.
Hey, this was L.A.
Mickey
He looked up at the grim, industrial building and suppressed a shudder. The laughter of children carried to him from behind the ramshackle fence on the right, but that cheery sound did nothing to quash the unease in the retired CIA operative’s heart. No...this dread he felt was something worlds away from a career’s worth of dirty-doings and wrongs committed in the pursuit of right. At the moment he was girding himself to face one of the few demons that still haunted his dreams, a ghostly memory that he’d never quite been able to put behind himself.
“Why did it have to be nuns?” he sighed.
But Mickey Kostmayer was nothing if not brave. He took a deep breath and marched up the steps. The reception area was clean, though ridiculously bare. He crossed to the crisply uniformed young sister behind the single desk, and spoke carefully in Mongolian Chinese. “I would like to speak to the Mother Superior.”
The Tree of Blessings Orphanage was located near the heart of Ulaanbaatar, the capitol city of Mongolia. It was a bustling collection of traditional ger encampments and newer buildings, over a half million people, boasting almost all of the country’s drivable roads, motorized vehicles and citizens who had ever seen a cell phone, let alone owned one. In a pastoral land of immense blue-sky beauty, wide-open plains and stunning mountains, Ulaanbaatar was the closest thing to modern – and that meant ugly and dirty and incongruous. A giant industrial steam production plant rose right in the middle of the city, supplying heat to the buildings through giant conduits and a network of pipes beneath the streets. In a country struggling to catch up to the rest of the world, a lot of important things got left behind. In Ulaanbaatar, those things included children.
Orphaned and abandoned, simply lost or given up in desperation, the city was home to a huge population of children, some so young they couldn’t even walk. The kids tried to take care of each other, existing in a sub-culture of horrifying poverty, petty crime and appalling mortality. The really lucky ones found their way into the Tree of Blessings Orphanage, where the accommodations were only marginally better, but the kids were fed and clothed and given some degree of medical attention.
Mickey was eventually shown down a long hallway, which had been decorated with a festive mural of scenes both pastoral and festive; imaginary shining cities and joyous celebrations, all done in crayon and reaching only to about waist-high. Mickey was hard-pressed not to retreat into a cold facade of impersonal professionalism...but he knew that the Mother Superior would use her supernatural powers to spot his reticence, and it would go much harder for him. He had plenty of experience with nuns. They passed a high-ceilinged room which had sleeping mats stretched from wall to wall, no room to even step between them. Some of the smaller children were still inside, playing with each other quietly. One little girl looked over at him, smiling around the horrifying disfigurement of a cleft palate. His heart clenched, and he smiled back.
“Mister Kostmayer,” said a gravelly voice, and the Mother Superior looked up from the piles of paperwork on her desk as he was shown through the door. “What can I do for you?” she asked in an English heavily accented with Italian. She was younger than he would have imagined, though most nuns seemed frozen in time to him – frozen somewhere around ‘creepy old aunt who you only meet once and she pinches your cheek and calls you Michael and smells of cats’. He fought down his internal demons and extended a hand, which was taken with a grip of pure steel. The Mother Superior gestured toward the only other seat in the room, a steel chair that would be great for interrogating unwilling witnesses.
“I’ll get right to the point, Mother,” he said carefully, choosing his words for simplicity. “I am looking for a young man. He would be about 26 years old now. I have information that he may have been in this instit-- uh, in your care at some point.” He reached across the desk to slip a photo into her waiting hand. “This is his brother. I believe that they looked very similar. Identical, even.”
There was no mistaking the spark of recognition in the keen blue eyes. “Simon,” she said softly. There was obvious fondness in the tone.
“Simon? You know him then?” Mickey asked hopefully.
“Knew him, Mister Kostmayer. When he was brought to us he said his name was Sy. That’s no kind of good Christian name, so we called him Simon. I’m sorry to tell you that he is in the Lord’s care now. He died over a year ago.”
Mickey’s heart lurched again. Another failure. “What can you tell me about him?” he asked, letting his face show some of his disappointment.
“Perhaps you know that he was found in a plane wreck near Saynshand, quite a way south of here. Some of our nomadic people found him. He was the only survivor. They took him with them as they traveled the plains, raising their herds of camels and goats. When their wanderings took them near a settlement they sent him into the city with a truck driver. He knew no Mongolian or Chinese, and since he was obviously a foreigner I think that everyone was eager to remove him. The native hospitality is immense, but these are very poor people who could not afford to feed someone who had no skills to contribute.
“He ended up here, and I was able to determine that he had no wish to come to the attention of our local authorities. He seemed very frightened of even the idea of anyone trying to find his family. But he had an amazing gift in handling the children, so he proved useful to us.” She paused for a moment, obviously reflecting. “He was a gift from God. Such a gentle soul. Even the littlest ones flocked to him. No language barrier, nothing but honest compassion. He did everything he could....”
Mickey grimaced as he watched the Mother Superior collect herself. This was worse than he’d suspected it would be.
She pulled herself together and finished her story with a firm tone. “Simon would go beyond our walls, trying to feed the children, to find the ones who were desperately ill. He would go into the underground, where I forbid the Sisters to go.”
“Underground?”
“You’ve seen the steam plant? The pipes travel beneath our streets. That’s where most of the orphans live. They go down the sewers and access tunnels and live in the dark. It’s hellish, but it’s warm in the winters. And that’s where Simon would go to find them. He was killed when a conduit ruptured. Six children were trapped as well, the youngest just three. Have you ever seen a steam explosion, Mister Kostmayer? It was horrible. The children, mercifully, died almost immediately. Simon lingered for a few days. We did what we could, but the doctors gave up on him. We prayed for his soul, and he finally went to Jesus’ arms.”
Mickey had a hard time swallowing around the lump in his throat. That was the end of another trail, another of the lost and scattered clones. Psi, or the Greek letter Ψ had been this one. He would never know what special gifts this boy had carried with him, what was lost now. Or maybe he did...compassion? Was that a gift?
“What brings you here looking for him, Mister Kostmayer?” the Mother Superior questioned, trying to hide her renewed sorrow.
“I agreed to the search for a friend, someone who knows his brother.”
“This man?” she asked, waving the photo of Orlando ‘Gamma’ Bloom, an unidentifiable sadness in the expressive brown eyes. That particular photo was one of Viggo’s, taken in a house in New Zealand. “He does look like him. May I...may I keep this picture?”
“Yes, I guess so.” What harm could it do? After all, pictures of Orlando Bloom were hardly a rare commodity, and he hadn’t told her too much. Besides, if you couldn’t trust a nun, who could you trust?
“You are a Catholic, Mister Kostmayer?” she asked.
“Yes ma’am. Polish father, Irish mother. My brother is a priest in New York City.”
“New York,” she said wistfully. “Is there anything else I can help you with? Do you want to know where we buried him? I’m afraid there was no money for anything but a pauper’s grave. But he would have wanted to be with the children he was trying to help, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure he would. Thank you, Mother,” he said, rising. “I’ve taken enough of your time.” He started toward the door.
“Mister Kostmayer,” she called, her voice showing a bit more of the iron he’d been expecting. “Is there anything else you would like to do? I’m sure you realize how great our need is here.”
“Oh, of course,” Mickey stammered. Damn. He turned back, reaching for his wallet. He didn’t escape until she had nearly every last tugrik he’d been carrying, and all of his American Express traveler’s checks as well. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
Back on the street again, Mickey trotted toward his hotel. He didn’t have enough money to catch a cab back, although every car that passed offered. As the streets became more fashionable and the passers-by better dressed he finally took a cell phone from an inside pocket and dialed a number.
“Bad news, I’m afraid. This wasn’t the one,” Mickey said when the call was answered. “Yeah, he was here all right. But he’s dead now. I have no reason to doubt the intel, though I’ll check the whole thing out tonight as best I can. But I think this is another dead end. Sorry. Oh, and you need to send me some more money. I got mugged by a penguin. Yeah...I’ll tell you the rest later.”
He closed the call and ducked into the lobby of his hotel. Air conditioning and cold, strong drinks were suddenly the most important things in Mickey’s life.