The Origami Dragon And Other Tales by C. H. Aalberry

The Origami Dragon And Other Tales

  C. H. Aalberry

  Copyright 2012 C. H. Aalberry

  Cover Art by Malice Bathory

  Edited by Eve Proofreads

  This book is dedicated to Lill, my loving family and beagles everywhere.

  Contents

  Mr Sunshine

  Noah’s Park

  Rob Echosoul And the A.lice I.nvestigation

  Truth In politics

  The Anomaly

  The Origami Dragon

  Aventur And The Griffin

  Rob Echosoul And Moon’s Children

  Don’t Fear The Reaper

  Long Shot

  Rob Echosoul And The Clone Rebellion

  Grendel

  Jonah And The Interdimensional Being Named Wail That Swallowed His Escape Pod

  And Now A Brief Word From The Author

  Mr Sunshine

  The rain pours down, cascading off the gargoyle’s head, flowing past stone claws, dropping in streams to resume its fall. A hand reaches up, grabs the gargoyle confidently, holds tightly. The hand is protected by a leather glove. It only has three long fingers.

  A thin body pulls itself upwards over the side of the roof, lies panting.

  I’ve never met a gargoyle I don’t love. It’s the passion that goes into intentionally creating something ugly, I think. I can understand that kind of passion.

  The man rests for a moment, looks over the side of the building at the engorged river below. The gargoyle is over a hundred storeys above the ground. It was a long climb; the intruder is tired. He doesn’t rest for long. He pulls open a hatch in the roof, drops through, disappears.

  A little about me? Locked doors are my friend, rain my accomplice, darkness my ally.

  The thin intruder crawls through air vents too small for a man, making his way quickly through the tight spaces like he was born to them. He moves through grills that should be locked, opens grates meant to be welded shut. It is a silent invasion, an impossible incursion into the building’s secret places.

  I like long walks on the beach at dusk, old Gothic-style houses, art museums. I don’t like chilli.

  He opens a panel beneath him, drops down into the room below. He looks like a scarecrow’s ghost, impossibly slim, tall, ragged. The room is alarmed in a hundred different ways; his entry goes unnoticed. He walks in bursts of quick movement that are inelegant, cautious, sudden. He sees a camera filming him, turns his back to it with disdain. Security equipment worth millions of dollars watches without issue as he opens the door they guard, slips through.

  My picture doesn’t resolve on camera. I don’t know why.

  There are more cameras, alarms, locked doors. They are nothing to him, insubstantial as shadows.

  My skills suit unsavoury tasks. For the last two years I have worked for the company. You may think you know who I am talking about. You are wrong.

  He is an intruder here, a virus in the building’s soul. He walks down a long corridor. As he does so a door opens, a security guard walks out. The thin man pushes himself against a wall, watches the guard walk past, close enough to touch. The guard is lucky in his ignorance.

  My favourite artist is Michelangelo, my favourite colour: dark green.

  The intruder enters a room filled with computers. For a second the sight overwhelms him. He spends a minute deciding which computer is his target. He picks one near the centre of the room, walks over, inserts a small chip into its side.

  I hate computers; my love is for marble, not silicon.

  The computers hum as they argue. He waits patiently for the electronic war to end. The computer beeps twice; it is done. He pulls the chip out, pockets it, makes for the door. As he turns the computer lights flash red; malevolent eyes that watch his exit. He is let down by his electronic ally; he doesn’t realise this straight away. The alarms are silent, the guards waiting for him in the corridor. They open fire without warning, the bullets falling towards him like a cloudburst of steel droplets.

  I am thin, tall, athletic, pessimistic. I like greyhounds. My sister says I look like one. I could be so lucky.

  Somehow the guards hit nothing except the walls behind their target. Then the man is amongst them, his long arms flailing in wild strokes that send even the bulkiest guard flying. The intruder pulls open a door at random, enters into what must be a meeting room. There is a large window overlooking the river. He eyes the flowing river below him warily. The water is deep, black, fast.

  More guards burst into the room. This time some of the bullets find him, driving him against the window as bullets explode through it. The man slumps down, seemingly dead. There is no blood, no movement, no resistance. The guards stop shooting. A man in a silver suit pushes past them, swears loudly, pulls out a gun. This weapon is different; there is real danger here. The scarecrow man moves his head so quickly that the first bullet misses. Then he is up, rising, ducking under the second, taking the third in his chest with a sound of metal tearing through wood.

  He reaches a decision, throws himself at the damaged window, crashes through it. This is not the exit he had hoped for. He falls with the glass around him as bullets bite at his feet.

  Some people in my position can rely on gadgets to save them.

  The glass brushes him as they fall together towards the water.

  There may be some who can fly, for whom falling holds no fears.

  He is weightless for an eternity, the darkness around him lit by his reflections on the glass, the air whispering secrets in his ears.

  Some might even have a team waiting in the wings to rescue them.

  The dark waters fly towards him. He falls, face-first, towards them.

  I am not like these people. I am not blessed like they are.

  He readies himself for the flood of pain, the cold in and around his body, the burn of water in his lungs.

  All I can do is jump, hoping to hit the water.

  The river steals him from the sky with barely a splash, swallowing his body and its glass escorts in a second. The river will be searched. Not even the glass will be found.