CHRYSALIS Read online

  “One minute forty,” Melissa said, “data indicates plus one twenty six,” indicating the transfer would be complete in a total elapsed time of two minutes and six seconds.

  “Slo-mo, Amanda,” Thorstenssen said.

  Amanda added a slow motion channel to the normal real time recording.

  “Two minutes six,” Melissa said, “transfer complete.”

  “Transfer complete,” Amanda said, “red lights running.”

  They stared intently at the monitor, but Juan Marie did not appear.

  “Plus twenty,” Melissa said shakily, counting off the seconds since completion of the transfer.

  “Perhaps he’s still behind the camera,” Amanda said. “Perhaps he’s discovered something very interesting.”

  “Plus forty,” Melissa said, voice quivering.

  “Check the readouts, Amanda,” Thorstenssen barked.

  “Everything correct,” Amanda said, the voice betraying her fear. “The telemetry indicates he arrived and was reconstituted successfully.”

  “Then where is he?” Thorstenssen demanded.

  “One minute twenty,” Melissa said, her voice holding steady only by a great effort of will.

  “Get Tomas in here!” Thorstenssen cried. “We need an expert to recheck this data. We might be missing something!”

  “You're damned right we're missing something!” Amanda screaned. “We're missing my brother!”

  31

  Enveloped in darkness, Juan Marie fell freely through the void. It’s all right, he thought, it’s all right. He felt the wild beating of his heart, and a small tingle he recognized as fear filled his bladder and loosened his bowel. He controlled the fear, something he’d always been able to do, by recognizing it for what it was, a very reasonable and quite understandable momentary fear of the unknown.

  He heard nothing from outside. He remembered Thorstenssen's words that the process would seem instantaneous, though there seemed nothing instantaneous about it. He continued to fall, but he now recognized this as illusion, for he was aware of the constraining presence of the cabinet around him. He was aware as well of his body, and had the sense he was no longer vertical. He felt a tightening, a constriction, as his body was slowly grasped in iron bands.

  He was aware his heart was slowing down, aware of blood rushing through his arteries. With growing interest he watched his slowing heart expand, filling the entirety of his interior space. The cabinet vibrated fiercely, and rumbling sound bounced off the walls, filling the space behind his eyes with rolling, pulsing oscillation. With painful clarity he recognized the vibration and rumbling as his slowing heart. To his astonishment, it was all perfectly visible, the low vibration of the in-stroke, the long pause, and then the low rumble of the contraction. He saw the blood being expelled, heard the low roar as his veins and arteries and capillaries filled, and watched in fascination as the blood sped to every part of his being, touching every part of him before circling back to begin the journey anew.

  Light-headed, floating in a blood-red nothingness, Juan Marie had the disconcerting feeling he was coming apart, that his molecules were having a difficult time staying together. He noted with interest he was disassembling, rushing into an ever-blacker blackness, his atoms and molecules stringing out behind him. Able to view himself with detachment, he saw he was stretched into a thin filament of matter, about to become what Thorstenssen had described as pure energy, a thought he found most entertaining.

  His molecules gave way, broke apart, the molecular bond coming unglued with a loud crack, leaving nothing but individual atoms. The atoms in turn came apart, fragmenting into electrons and protons and quarks. He lost consciousness of himself as a coherent structure. The pulsing of his blood slowed, then stopped. In the silence he heard the low, deep attenuated sound of his heartbeat, until, finally, that too was still.

  When he woke, moments later, he lay still, collecting his thoughts. His eyes were open, he could feel them, but the darkness was profound. He expected the bedroom to be light, but it was possible he was still in the black hole, inside the event horizon, which would certainly explain the absence of light. They hadn’t told him what it would be like upon arrival, and he had to assume everything was all right, he had only to step out of the portal and into the light of 14LQ638. The problem was, he didn’t seem to be able to move, and furthermore, he had a terrible pain in his side, a dull, throbbing pain that extended to all parts of his body, making breathing difficult.

  He tried to move his arms, and was astonished to discover they didn’t seem to be in their proper place. He tried to move his head, but was much too weak, and so he lay there, eyes open, feeling the weight of his surroundings press in upon him. He remembered the admonition of risk, and for the first time thought there might very well be something wrong.

  He ran the questions through his nimble mind. Why do I feel so weak? Why can’t I move? Why is there so much pain? He went through them more than once, but was unable to come to any rational conclusion, other than the possibility he might still be in the singularity, which, being a point of infinite mass density, must also, by definition, have infinite gravity. Or at least so he assumed, and if he were right, if he was still in the singularity, having infinite gravity pressing in on you would certainly account for any felt weakness, for not being able to move, and probably for a great deal of pain.

  He didn’t think he was still in the singularity, however, for he was certain he heard external sounds, like voices, and occasional low rumblings and explosions in the distance. He lay still, listening, and came aware of other impressions as well, as smells quite unfamiliar to him registered on his brain. He breathed shallowly, collecting his thoughts, cataloguing his impressions, determining his course of action. Something, he knew not what, pressed in upon him, enclosing him, and with a surge of painful effort he tried to free himself.

  The movement brought a fresh torrent of smells, vivid and vibrant. Air-borne particles moved slowly across his nasal membrane, and he realized he was not smelling these new smells, he was tasting them. He wondered at this, wondered how he could taste a smell. Other memories intruded, whose he did not know, identifying and quantifying each new scent. To his delight, he tasted the sweet, damp loam of freshly turned earth, tasted the segmented redness of worms crawling slowly by, tasted the white, waxy fatness of grubs and larvae.

  New memories, once admitted, brought other memories, other emotions. They came flooding in, lapping at the edges of his consciousness. Something tapped lightly at his nervous system, and after a moment of quiet thought he recognized the misty green aura of the emerald, long forgotten, but now returned. He concentrated on the aura, tried to determine where the emerald was, and in an instant he had it. The emerald was in Linngard! And that meant Tal Avenger was in Linngard.

  He wondered at the reappearance of the aura, for he hadn’t felt the aura since leaving the emerald with Tal Avenger. He had certainly not felt its warmth and comfort and power since medusa had betrayed him to Kosh. The thought of medusa triggered other memories, memories that seared and overwhelmed him. He felt a sudden surge of fierce anger in the bottom of his belly, a rage that grew with the growing memories into a roaring, consuming fire, a searing fury that sent spasms of pain wracking through his body. He remembered it all very clearly now, the pictures forming in his mind. He saw the darkness, the piercing stake, the shovels singing in the earth, the smell of sulfur and the scent of rain.

  He remembered it now. She had called him, the snakes had sung to him, the emerald had grown warm and insistent, urging him, demanding his obedience, and he’d gone to her, as he knew he must, as she knew he would. He had left Tal Avenger, to whom he’d sworn allegiance, to whom he had given his sacred honor, but he’d left the emerald with him, knowing that without the emerald he was safer from medusa's caprice, but more vulnerable to his enemies.

  They parted, the Avenger urging caution, and he began the long journey to Linngard. He had thought it fortunate to find a Federation ai
rcar shortly after crossing the frontier, but he knew now it had been arranged, it wasn’t accidental. The medusa had betrayed him, had turned him over to Kosh and his henchmen, to be buried as part of a scheme to entrap the Avenger. These memories came back to him, side by side with his other memories, his Juan Marie memories. “There’s something here I don’t understand,” he marveled. “I am Juan Marie Albergest, a science writer, a civilized and educated man.”

  His protestations rang weakly, for with terrible clarity and insight, he recognized he was now part of the transparencies, part of the comic book world, as was, he now understood, the Tal Avenger, the man on the floor. Pictures formed in his mind, pictures of crawling snakes, of kneeling in the darkness, of medusa enveloping him in her dark and hideous love.

  He knew now he was more than Juan Marie Albergest, he was also a large, black hound named Old Bo. He knew where he was, for he remembered being buried in the lava fields, with the sharp yellow smell of sulfur in the air. He saw himself as he’d seen himself on the comic book cover, eyes blazing and snarling defiance, boldly drawn and garishly colored. The knowledge of who and where he was caused him to close his eyes in despair, for Tal Avenger was in mortal danger. The emerald had sought him out, had called to him for help, help neither Juan Marie Albergest nor Old Bo was capable of giving.

  The outside noises returned, and he shut off the memories, for he knew that despair would doom him to his shallow grave, and doom Tal Avenger to a darkness deeper than any tomb. He lay quietly, gathering his strength, determined to make one last effort to free himself. There would be no snarling now, no defiance now. He willed himself to effort, for the stake had penetrated his lung, and he heard the bubbling with each shallow breath. He closed his eyes and steeled himself, gathering all his strength. With a final, supreme effort, he raised himself from the grave, heaving himself upright, the mounded earth cascading off his quivering back. Shaking with fatigue and pain, Juan Marie Albergest stood by his grave, head down, tail down, eyes closed, mouth open in silent agony.

  He stood there for some minutes before he opened his eyes, but he knew, from the pressure on his eyelids, that it was daylight. A warm breeze blew, carrying with it the noxious sulfur stench. He lifted his muzzle in the air, searching for other scent, danger scent, friend or foe scent. The sound of the sulfur cones was loud in his ears, the hissing of yellow gas into the air almost overwhelming after so long in the silent grave.

  Determined to stay on his feet, he splayed his legs to give himself better balance. He turned his massive head and gripped the stake in his jaws, worrying it loose, shooting searing flames of pain through his shuddering body. He closed his eyes again and willed himself to continue. He adjusted his hold on the stake, gripping it tightly in his teeth close to his body. With a quick snap of his head he pulled the stake free, tearing loose the encrusted scabbing, letting forth a freshet of bubbling, frothy, pinkish-red lung blood. He collapsed then, on top of the mounded earth that had been his grave, and gasped for breath. He lost consciousness. When he woke the sun was high in the sky, several hours past the vertical, mid-afternoon, and it was getting very hot. A faint tendril of breeze brought the sharp scent of water.

  Mind and body seared with thirst, he staggered forward, but collapsed again at the first lava runnel, having not the strength to climb over it. He was lying against the runnel, eyes closed and breathing feebly, when they found him.

  “Leave him, Sandy,” the first man said, “he's a goner, that 'un.”

  “Well, I'll just take a look,” Sandy said, and knelt beside him, stroking the hound's head. The man took his water bottle and poured some in the palm of his hand, and gave it to the hound to drink. The scent was tantalizing, but the hound had not the strength.

  “I told you he's a goner.”

  Sandy held the hound's head and poured a trickle of water down his throat. He was a pudgy man, with sandy hair and a face full of orange freckles. He smiled at the hound and said, “My name's Fred, for Frederick, though most call me Sandy. I expect you have a name, and as soon as you get well we'll talk some more about it.”

  Juan Marie whispered Thank you, my friend, thank you, as the life giving water slowly filled his mouth. He managed a swallow, bringing a smile to Sandy’s face.

  “Come on, Sandy,” the first man said, with some annoyance. “The truck's gonna be back, and we ain't even got him dug up yet.”

  “He'll wait,” Sandy said. “That one's dead and this one ain't. He's in bad shape, though, and that's a fact.”

  “He's just a dog,” the other grumbled, and turned away. “I expect I'm gonna have to dig up that other one myself.”

  “Hold on, I'm with you in a minute. This here hound ain't got nobody but me right now, and I wouldn't feel right just walkin' off.” He continued to trickle water into the hound's throat, and was much impressed with the improvement.

  “Sorry I can't get you any shade,” he said, “but it won't be for long. When the truck gets here I'll see what they have in the medical box. That wound looks pretty bad. How'd it happen to you, boy?” He patted the hound's head again and said, “You stay right there, now.” He gathered up his water bottle and his shovel and joined his companion, who had already begun digging up the mortal remains of Gaeton Thon for transport back to Linngard, though why the Director wanted the stinking mess was beyond the comprehension of the two decent family men sent to do the job.

  The truck arrived an hour later, and the two men heaved the canvas wrapped body of Gaeton Thon onto the back.

  “Hold on a minute, will you?” Sandy said to the driver. “I need the medical box, there's a bad hurt old hound over by the runnel.”

  The driver nodded, but said, “Not to be too long, now, they not be likin' it for that aircar to sit around and wait.”

  “I won't be but a minute,” Sandy said. He grabbed the medical box and hurried over to the hound.

  He was still lying on his side, up against the runnel, where he’d left him, and as he approached he saw the hound try to lift his head.

  “We got us some morphia, boy,” Sandy said, “and we got us some good dustin' powder, sulfanilamide they call it. Oughtta clean up that wound pretty good, or leastwise keep it from gettin' any worse.”

  He knelt beside the hound and examined the wound, touching it gingerly with his fingers, feeling the scabbing and the fresh blood.

  “Looks bad, and that's a fact,” he said. He sprinkled a full packet of sulfa on the wound. “I won't try to clean that, boy, but that stuff ought to keep it from goin' to gangrene on us. I'm gonna give you a shot of morphia now, happy juice we call it. It's gonna stick some, but you'll feel better in a minute or two. We got a long ride, up to Maguire, but when we get there we'll get you to a vet. But that there happy juice will keep you goin' till then.”

  He plunged the hypodermic in the hound's side and watched him for a moment. Satisfied the morphia was taking hold, he signaled the truck to come ahead. The truck started up with a great shifting of gears, and crawled slowly over the soft earth of the furrow.

  “Help me get him on a tarp,” Sandy called to the truck, and his digging companion leaped out and came to him, dragging a square of stout canvas.

  “Blamed foolishness,” he groused, but he helped move the hound onto the canvas, and together they put him on the back of the truck, next to the mortal remains of Gaeton Thon.

  “Thanks,” Sandy said to both men. They nodded acknowledgment and the driver threw the truck in gear. With much effort, the ancient truck rumbled across the furrow to the high road and headed north.

  “Nice old hound,” Sandy said, as if to explain his odd behavior, “hurt bad, too. But we’ll have him right as rain soon enough. The boys will sure be tickled.”

  “Growin' boys need a dog,” the driver agreed, and the three of them settled back in the cab for the two-hour ride to Maguire Air Base.

  The morphia had greatly eased the pain, and Juan Marie found himself able to think without the background agony, though the bounc
ing back of a flatbed truck was not the most comfortable place he’d ever lain. Still, he thought, considering the alternative, he was glad to be here.

  Juan Marie had no idea where they were taking him, though Sandy had said something about a place called Maguire. Whatever Maguire was, it was apparently the intended destination of whatever was in the canvas shroud next to him. He had no idea what that might be, but he knew it was dead, whatever it was, to judge from the overpowering stench. Luckily, the wind created by the swiftly moving truck blew most of it past him, but it was still headily powerful stuff.

  Sandy also said he’d get him to a vet when they got to Maguire. He hoped they wouldn’t keep him long. He had to get to Linngard. Tal Avenger needed him, and from what the emerald told him, he was needed desperately.

  The morphia kicked in, and Juan Marie dozed fitfully. His intermittent waking moments were filled with thoughts of medusa, thoughts that swung wildly from raging hatred to desire, for even now he remembered the deep sensual pleasure of the crawling snakes. A picture of the enveloping tent came unbidden into his mind, and a tingling wave of sensual pleasure came rippling over him. He tore himself away from her, vowing her power would soon be ended, his honor redeemed, his fury assuaged, and Tal Avenger delivered.

  How odd though, Juan Marie thought, that his cold and murderous anger was directed entirely at the medusa, for he knew it was Kosh who had requested her to call him home, it was Kosh who baited the trap for the Avenger, it was Kosh who had imprisoned him in the grave, it was Kosh who had ordered the stake through his body. Yet he felt no anger toward him, for it was medusa who had betrayed him, it was the snakes that sang to him, calling him into the trap. He had loved her beyond all counting, and now he knew her for what she was, a dark and loathsome thing. She had betrayed his honor, and it was the betrayer he would return to Linngard to kill.

  He slept, finally, overcome, and when he woke it was early evening of a clear blue summer day, the yellow sulfur clouds a distant smudge on the southern horizon. The truck had turned into a military compound of some kind, and he came fully awake, reasoning it must be Maguire. They bounced along a secondary road leading into the base, a road parallel to the main runways, and in the distance Juan Marie saw a large transport aircar, its huge, curving sides glinting in the sun, the big double eagles of the Federation stark and black against the gleaming silver sides. She was big, even at this distance, and to Juan Marie she looked like nothing so much as half a watermelon, sliced lengthwise, flat side down. Sleek and powerful looking, she sat silently at the end of the runway in the early evening sun.