Changer (Athanor) (72 page)

“Let’s offer.  That way we can avoid the charge that we were forced into taking them out.”

“Needless to say, that opens us to the charge that we are trying to steer where they do and don’t go.”

“So we lose either way.”  Arthur shrugs.  “I’d rather err on the side of generosity.”

“They should be arriving today,” Eddie says.  “I’ll call over to the hotel and make our offer to their liaison.”

“Good.”  Arthur frowns.  “Who
is
their liaison?  Is it this Moderator?”

“No.”  Eddie shakes his head decisively.  “I asked him when we talked, and he flatly denied it.  He wouldn’t identify himself.  I have the impression he’s not completely happy about his job.”

“Interesting.”  Arthur makes a note.  “We may be able to play on this during the meetings.”

“How formal do we want the meetings to be?” Eddie asks.

“I want to model them on the Lustrum Review,” Arthur says promptly.  “There must be no protest raised that we are treating the theriomorphs any differently than we do other athanor.”

“Well, that will make things easier,” Eddie says, “or maybe more difficult.  We won’t need to worry about a change of format, but to realistically parallel the Review, we should have sent out invitations to all the rest of the Harmony.”

“We can’t do that,” Arthur says, “not on such short notice, nor do I think it would serve any of our needs.  However, let’s make certain we have video cameras set up and make regular postings to those members of the Harmony who are on-line.”

Eddie nods, his mind racing as he considers all the different things he will need to do to prepare.  Vera won’t be available to help—not with acting as liaison for visiting royalty.  Anson might help and Jonathan…

“I think we can pull it off,” he says, hesitantly, “but if you want full coverage, we’re going to need help.”

“Let’s not worry about full coverage,” Arthur decides easily.  “We’ll be able to brief folks later.  It isn’t like this is a proper Review.”

“Okay,” Eddie says, relieved.

Neither Arthur nor Eddie realize that they have just made a tactical error.

Getting off the small plane at an airfield on the northern edge of Albuquerque, Rebecca Trapper sniffs air so dry that her nose aches.  She grabs Bronson’s hand tightly.

“Look how bright the stars are!” she says rapturously.  “And how broad the sky is!”

Hiero, their
tengu
pilot, chuckles.  He still resembles a Japanese street punk, but he has added a black bomber jacket over his tee shirt and a white bandanna printed with a red sunburst is tied about his brow.

“It’s a good sky,” he says, “but there are lots of them around the world.  Come along.  Monk should have a van waiting.”

Monk, back to looking like a punk himself, is waiting at the edge of the airfield in a silver-grey van.  He welcomes them warmly, admiring how well they wear their green robes.

“You’re the last of the crew,” he says.  “The yeti handled most of their own transportation.  We just shuttled them in the last leg.  The fauns and satyrs took the public airlines.  Demi saved the day when Loverboy pinched a flight attendant on the…”

He catches Bronson’s warning glower, “… tail.”

“How many are there in all?” Bronson asks.

“Snowbird and Swansdown brought their daughter Dawn, their infant son, and someone they call Great Uncle Winter.  There’s another Alaskan yeti family that I haven’t met yet.”

Bronson interrupts.  “That must be Joelle Buxkemper’s group.”

“That sounds right,” Hiero says.  “Then there is the Olsen clan from up your way.”

“And the Moderator?” Rebecca says hesitantly. “Is he here?”

“He isn’t yet.  We’re to start the meetings without him.”  Something in Monk’s voice keeps them from asking more.

Monk has taken an entire floor at the hotel, selecting one with several conference rooms.  It is in one of these that Rebecca finally has the opportunity to meet the people who have become her closest friends.

Loverboy proves to be a hulking, olive-complected fellow with wild hair and beard.  He wears baggy black pants belted low on his hips, a loose pink shirt, and cowboy boots.

He greets Rebecca with a bellow of delight and an appreciative leer.  When he sees Bronson, he becomes somewhat less openly enthusiastic.

“Baby, baby, baby!” he shouts, loping over to her, a glass of beer in one hand, the other hitching up his pants.

“Loverboy?”

“You know me, sweet fuzzy lady!” he answers.  “But here you call me Georgios, okay?  Let me introduce you to my
compadres
.”

Rebecca hangs back.  Even though she is several inches taller than Georgios, he is an intimidating figure.

“Maybe in a moment,” she hedges.  “I was hoping to meet Demetrios.”

“And I have wished to meet you,” a courtly voice says, coming from around Bronson’s towering bulk.

Demetrios is a natty fellow with neatly combed, reddish brown hair cut stylishly long to the nape of his neck and a matching goatee.  Clad in tweed trousers held up by tan suspenders and a white shirt, he might have been a particularly short college professor were it not for the curling goat’s horns jutting back from his forehead and the tidy goat’s hooves peeping from under his trouser cuffs.

He puts out his hand for Rebecca’s and, although she could have easily engulfed his hand in her own, he raises her hand to his lips and kisses the air just above it as if she is the finest lady in the land.  Then he bows to Bronson.

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, sir,” he says.  “You wife speaks of you frequently and with great fondness.”

Bronson, who had been prepared to dislike this confidant of his wife, bows as well.  “I am pleased to meet you as well, Demetrios.  How was your trip?”

“Exhausting,” Demetrios admits.  “I was traveling with three of my more rural brethren.  Additionally, we were escorting five satyrs.  Those horse-tailed fools could have gotten themselves in serious trouble.”

“Oh?”

Demetrios sighs.  “I’ll spare you the details.  I’m simply pleased we arrived here without one or more of the satyrs getting arrested.  Would you like a glass of wine?  There’s a fine red on the table by the window.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Rebecca says, tucking her hand into Bronson’s.  “I want to look out over the city lights.  I’ve never seen so many.  And where are the yeti?”

“They’ve gone to bed,” Demetrios says.  “They had a longer trip than many of us, came by small plane in jumps with stops for refueling.  Your Aunt Swansdown asked me to give both of you their love and to say that they’ll see you in the morning.”

Rebecca nods.  “I’m tired myself, but I’m too excited to settle down.”

Demetrios continues, “Not all of your relatives have retired.  The Olsens are here.”

Bronson nods, a smile lighting his broad face.  “I see Netherton and Arel over talking to the
kappa
.”

Pouring them all wine, Bronson listens as Demetrios and Rebecca chat.  She sounds so very happy.  He decides that they have done the right thing coming here after all.

As if she can read his mind, Rebecca reaches out and squeezes his hand.  Despite his hands being even bigger than hers, their fingers fit together quite neatly.

The next morning, the first session of the meeting begins with the roll call of those who have died before.  Perhaps it is due to the group gathered in the conference room, but Arthur is acutely aware of how many of those who are dead were theriomorphs—all of the dragons, the minotaurs, the largest of the giants.  Only those who could hide or shift shape or blend into the changing world seem to have survived.  Some of this must be the  natural course of evolution, but he feels obscurely guilty.

Then he calls for introductions all around.  This is a slight departure from the usual Lustrum Review procedure, but so many of those gathered here have known few but their own isolated communities.  In any case, the members of his staff have not met many of these people for centuries.  A reminder may save an awkward
faux pas
.

Vera surprises him by asking Demetrios the faun with unfeigned cordiality after a number of women of whom Arthur has never heard.  When he inquires, she tells him that they are dryads, naiads, and oreads, the female counterparts—in some sense—of the fauns and satyrs.

“They have long withdrawn from contact with most members of the Harmony, as have the naturals in many regions,” Vera says calmly, “but they take part in Harmony nonetheless.”

Arthur, who still views these creatures as myths, does not contradict her, but reminds himself to chide her privately for adding yet another element to the morass confronting them.

The meeting then progresses to a formal statement by Rebecca Trapper and Demetrios Stangos of the business that they have brought before him.

“Simply, Your Majesty,” Demetrios says, hands on his hips, “we would like Harmony to consider a change in policy regarding the theriomorphs.  We are weary of being hidden away, unable to participate in the world around us.”

“And what a world it is!” Rebecca adds, enthusiasm making her dark eyes shine.  “For the first time, it is possible for anyone to fly, to go beneath the seas, to visit all the places of the Earth.  And,” she continues darkly, and a touch too theatrically, “to destroy them.”

Arthur swallows a groan.  Not another eco-nut!  He listens patiently, however, and is rewarded by the pair keeping their introduction brief.  That, at least, is a pleasant change from Isidro Robelo and his partners.

When they take their seats, he rises and clears his throat.  “Thank you both for that
concise
introduction.”

He smiles warmly and is rewarded with a some chuckles—and the soft whistles that are the same for the yeti and sasquatch.  Organizing his next statement, he realizes how long it has been since he looked out over an audience where the participants did not appear human.  The nonverbal cues are harder to read on faces that are broader, furred, more heavily ridged with bone.  

Yes, he has visited them in small groups within their own communities—gone ice fishing with the yeti, danced with the fauns, pretended to haunt ancient ruins with a laughing-eyed
pooka
who then transformed into a wild steed and carried him along the beach.  Yet in each case, he was the honored guest and they were trying hard to make him welcome.  This time the situation is different.  He is on the spot.  He must make them welcome, make them accept his policies.

Oh, my.  Omah.  He puts on his most fatherly expression and begins.  “I think the first question we need to raise in considering this issue is that for many centuries the theriomorphs who are not shapeshifters have
wanted
to be hidden.  In effect, the Harmony’s policy regarding the theriomorphs grew out of a desire to accede to your own wishes.”

He and Eddie had designed this approach during the many brainstorming sessions that followed Bronson Trapper’s call.  Effectively, it puts the responsibility back on their heads.

Demetrios raises his hand.  “Your Majesty is absolutely correct.  In fact, many of us still desire a certain amount of privacy.”

Georgios the satyr interjects, “Not us!  We want to bring joy to the babes.  We’re ready to go out and plant the seed!”

His pals start guffawing and making lewd gestures in the direction of their groins.  Demetrios sighs.  Bronson Trapper silences them with a dark glower.

Arthur nods.  “So am I to understand that you are not united as to exactly what level of exposure you desire?”

Rebecca Trapper frowns at Georgios and sighs.  “I suppose that is so, Your Majesty.”

The King says softly, but firmly, “And have you considered that we may not be able to grant you these varying desires?  I am a king—in this age little more than an administrator—not a god.  I cannot grant wishes.  I can only advise policy.”

Bronson Trapper’s deep voice dominates the murmured responses.  “I, at least, understand this all too well.  I hope that everyone here realizes that this meeting should not be expected to change policy overnight.  These issues are ones that will affect all the Harmony.”

“But,” Rebecca says angrily, waving a massive fistful of computer printouts, “the world is ready for a return of the creatures of myth and legend!  Many first world nations have lost the underpinnings of faith that gave them a cultural unity.”