The Maya 1.11
Previously On The Maya...
The Maya—a living legend covert operative-for-hire that no one she encounters can remember.
George Kirkegaard—a former newspaper owner forced out of business by state government.
Eugenio Stavros—a shipping magnate on a trip to the mysterious Isle of Use to renegotiate a steel contract.
Amara Barclay—a savvy, independent multi-millionaire entrepreneur and socialite with unparalleled beauty.
Mr. Tic and Mr. Snake—two U.S. government officials running off-the-books dark ops involving The Maya.
George Kirkegaard boards the second luxury jet, only to feel very uncomfortable among his fellow passengers. They are obviously wealthy or of high society, while he is not. The jet itself does not help his mood as it is completely automated, with no pilots or crew. Just as he is getting upset, wondering what his friend Jim Layton has gotten himself into, someone asks if they can sit with him.
And now...the next installment of The Maya.
The languid female voice took him by surprise. He hopped, clunking the side of his head against the wall. When his eyes fluttered open, his vision was filled with the full-figured woman in the Crimson swimsuit.
She was pointing down at the aisle seat. Her words were perfectly spoken English—in fact, she sounded American—but it was the gesture which finally provoked his response.
"Y-yes. Be my guest."
The woman sat down, pivoted the seat toward him then leaned back. She didn't seem to care that he was looking at her, or what he could see.
"Are you American?"
Kirkegaard nodded. "You?"
"I am many things," she demurred, flashing her wondrous smile. Then she added, "Officially, my nationality is British, thanks to my adoptive parents."
"You sound American."
"I'll take that as a compliment." She folded her hands over her stomach and then added without pretext, "You look lost and confused."
Kirkegaard felt his face flushing, for too many reasons to count, but he managed a smile. Knowing his current condition didn't take much discernment on her part. He was sure a lack of understanding was written all over him.
"I was invited by a friend to stay with his family. He gave me directions to the airfield, but I thought it was to his house. Now I'm on this private jet without any idea where I'm going."
"Ah. That explains why you look like someone out of place. You are."
Kirkegaard wasn't sure how to take her statement, but the woman didn't appear to be judging him, just making an observation. Still, it stung, and Kirkegaard foundered for a response. He was bailed out by the woman, who continued on as if there wasn't an awkward silence forming between them.
"As for where we're going, I don't think any of us know that exactly, but the place is called the Isle of Use."
Isle of Use? The name did not ring a bell. Kirkegaard found little comfort in knowing he wasn't the only one clueless as to their destination. For all he knew, he had just been kidnapped. None of this made sense, but if it were all on the up and up, with a perfectly logical explanation, he had the suspicion Jim would get a big laugh out of it, if Kirkegaard didn't haul off and punch him first.
Kirkegaard shrugged. "I've never heard of it."
"Most, I guess, haven't. My companion," she thrust a finger toward the back, "has been there once, about three years ago. And the Japanese couple in front seem familiar with the process."
"Everyone else looks like they're going on business." Kirkegaard winced inwardly at his phrasing, but they were the only two not dressed for walking into a meeting. If the woman was offended, she did not show it.
She looked down at herself, then over to him. "I'm hoping to get some R and R. I didn't see a reason to get dressed up for that."
"Me, too," Kirkegaard agreed.
The woman regarded him for a moment with her large dark eyes, then she leaned in and extended her hand. "I'm Amara."
Kirkegaard took it, and they shook. "George."
"You must live around Eugene?"
"Up the freeway a ways. Do you know Oregon?"
Amara shook her head. "First time. Is it all rural?"
"A lot of it is. Smaller towns and cities, mostly. Other than Portland, of course."
"Of course." Amara paused, then added, "What do you do?"
Involuntarily, Kirkegaard stiffened. Sooner or later, he knew the question would come. It was normal enough to ask, after all. Before, he wore the answer as a badge of honor. Lately, not so much. Mustering as much politeness as he could, he said, "Right now, nothing."
"And before?"
"I owned a very small weekly newspaper."
"A publisher." Amara said it knowingly, as if she had her own experience with journalism.
"You, too?"
"No, but my adoptive father owns several dailies, a few weeklies, along with some radio and television stations. It's quite the operation. I thought about going into the field for a while. I suppose I still could."
"I don't know if journalism is all it's cracked up to be." There was a mixture of melancholy and bitterness in Kirkegaard's voice. "For me, it was the independence. Freedom. Being my own man. Determining my own fate through my hard work, rather than it benefitting someone else."
"There, I am with you, one hundred percent." Amara's smile radiated out again. There was something in her voice, though, that hinted at more. She matched his own self-determination, maybe exceeded it. "What happened to your business?"
Kirkegaard took a deep breath. No matter how many times he explained it, it never made him feel better. The anger and the futility were dredged up. He did his best to inform her, but as briefly as possible.
"That's horrible," Amara said, when he was finished. "I'd be absolutely livid, too."
"Sorry. I didn't mean to unload," Kirkegaard said. "It's still very raw for me."
"As it should be. No need to be sorry. Having something you worked hard for suddenly swept out from underneath you, like it was nothing. And I did ask, didn't I?" Amara gathered herself, as if she was getting ready to leave.
"Yes, you did," he said.
He would have stopped with that, and she would have returned to her companion, but Kirkegaard was enjoying himself, even if the conversation had gone into sensitive territory. It had been months since he'd spoken with a woman like this, and rarely with someone like Amara. He wasn't ready to see her go just yet.
He didn't even know who she was. With her robust physique, and man's predisposition, she could have fallen into any of a number of unsavory professions. But, beyond her ample exterior, if it were possible to put it aside, there was so much more to Amara than met the eye.
So, he quickly added, "Is there nothing you can tell me about the Isle of Use?"
Amara considered his question, then she relaxed and resettled in her chair. "I'll do what I can, though I'm positive I won't do it justice. I believe it's something you need to experience for yourself."
She then told him the story of Tuscon Sutton II.
'The Maya' now publishes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday in the evenings.
Copyright © Glen Anthony Albrethsen, 2014-2018. All rights reserved.
a very good post I liked her