CHRYSALIS Read online

  “Elevator,” Conlin said. “All the conveniences.”

  The elevator door opened and they stepped in. The door closed, and a bell sounded distantly above them. They reached the bottom in a few seconds and heard another bell, somewhere outside the cab. The door opened and they stepped out, into a bleak and dank anteroom, bare of anything resembling an amenity. Metal mesh covered the light fixtures deeply recessed into the concrete ceiling. The steel door in the far wall had no visible handle or hinges. After a short interval a horn sounded, and the door in the far wall swung open.

  “Through the door,” Conlin said sharply, and led the prisoners through. The door led to a short concrete corridor, as bare as the anteroom, with another metal door at the far end.

  “Is the Director afraid of something?” Simon grinned. “Security seems a bit redundant.”

  “Elemental precaution,” Conlin said evenly. The door swung open and they went through. The room had painted walls and carpeting, several sofas and chairs, and a number of shaded lamps on small tables.

  A door opened and a young officer appeared. “The Director congratulates you,” he said to Conlin, “and says to deliver the Avenger to his office at oh seven hundred hours. In the meantime, you’re to see to his needs, and prepare him for the meeting.”

  “Sounds ominous,” Simon said, when the young officer disappeared behind the closing door.

  “Not really,” Conlin smiled. “A bath, some food and a change of clothing. I daresay you could do with all three.”

  “A bath, certainly, after being so close to your boss's latest handiwork. The Director's old buddy, Gaeton Thon, wasn't it? I think I met him once before, in a dungeon, though only briefly.”

  Conlin smiled, showing an array of perfect teeth. “Had it not been brief, Governor Thon would not have found himself in his present state.”

  “I gather it serves him right.”

  “The Director is not disposed to accept failure.”

  The door opened again and a young woman said, “Follow me, please, Major,” and swung away without waiting for a reply. They went through the door and down a narrow corridor with doors leading off it at irregular and widely spaced intervals. At an intersection the young woman led Shallcross and Pearlman away.

  “Where is she taking them?” Simon said. “The rules of war are quite explicit.”

  “Enlisted men’s quarters,” Conlin shrugged. “They’ll be well looked after. We’re not barbarians.”

  Simon and Conlin continued down the corridor. Not a word was said. They turned down another corridor and stopped before a door indistinguishable from the many others they had passed. Conlin opened the door and motioned Simon inside.

  The room appeared to Simon to be a standard hotel or motel room, a single bed, a small dresser, a closet, and a bathroom.

  “No windows,” Simon said. “I prefer a room with a view, don't you?”

  “Shower first,” Conlin said, not smiling. “There's a kit in the bathroom, soap, towels, razor, toothbrush. We’ll take your clothes. There's a uniform in the closet. Put it on. I'll send for something to eat while you're in the shower. Any preferences?”

  “The breakfast special will do nicely.”

  “Fine. Now into the shower. And by the way, I'll take the emerald now.”

  “No problem,” Simon said. “Either it’s out of juice, or the lightning bugs have died. Right now it's just a piece of green glass.”

  “The Director has a way of canceling an opponent's advantage,” Conlin smiled. “Don't ask me how. Probably the medusa.”

  “So that part is true, eh?” Simon said. He sat on the bed and began to untie his boots.

  “Yes, that part’s true,” Conlin said, “though mind you, I’ve never seen her, and from all accounts I don't ever want to.”

  “Add some orange juice to that order,” Simon said, walking to the bathroom.

  The shower was hot and wonderful. Simon stood under the needle spray for a long time, washing away the stench and the touch and the slime of Gaeton Thon, but he couldn't wash away the picture of those maggots rushing out of the open mouth, covering the face in a mass of writhing horror. He shook his head as if to fling the memory from his mind and stepped from the shower. The cool tile floor felt good, it reminded him he was alive, capable of experiencing sensation. He brushed his teeth and shaved quickly. He was ravenously hungry.

  He stepped out of the bathroom and Conlin pointed to the closet. Simon put on a one-piece red uniform and a pair of soft leather ankle high slippers. He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the breakfast table alongside.

  “Not bad,” he said. “Fresh orange juice. Very impressive. Bacon crisp, eggs just right. My compliments to the chef. Too bad there's not an extra cup, I'd offer you some coffee.”

  “You have fifteen minutes,” Conlin said. “Bon appetit.”

  Simon finished his breakfast, took a last sip of coffee and pronounced himself fit for travel.

  “Does the Director always get up this early?” he asked.

  Conlin smiled and said, “The Director never sleeps.”

  21

  They flew north, the yellow sulfur sky of New Jersey far behind. Sunrise flooded the sky with light, showing the ground close beneath her. They flew just above the trees, one above, one to either side, the closeness of the ground giving her no room for maneuver.

  The radio came alive. “Hills coming up,” the flight leader said easily. “Climb to fifteen hundred.”

  “Eff you,” she said shortly.

  When she didn’t follow them they had no choice but to continue at their present altitude, with the hills coming ever closer. Her two wingmen pointed ahead and then up, indicating they wanted more altitude. She smiled at them and shook her head, reasoning they were under orders to deliver her alive, since it would’ve been the simplest thing in the world to have shot her down as she tried to escape from the mudflat.

  The approaching hills gave her a chance, possibly her only chance. She had to give these bozos the slip. The hills came closer, and all the while she was slowly losing altitude. Her captors were aware of her slow descent, and she smiled at their attempts to stop her. There didn’t seem to be anything they could do about it, short of shooting her down, or following her straight into the hills.

  Her eyes were on the rapidly approaching hills, looking for a sudden opening, hoping she’d spot it before her escort could react, hoping they would lose their nerve and climb.

  “Let's see how good you are, guys,” she said, fighting back the beating of her heart, watching the rocks and the trees and the solid hillside fill her windscreen, coming toward her with frightening speed. She kept her eyes on the escort, waiting for them to lose their nerve, waiting for them to break. At the last moment they did, bursting up at a steep angle, climbing rapidly to clear the hills. With an elated “Gotcha!” she dived for the ground, for she’d seen a shadow, a break in the trees, which looked like it might be a small valley. She banked sharply and headed for it, throttle wide open, trusting to luck and her own sharp instincts. In a moment she there, following the narrow valley, twisting and turning as it followed the contours of the hills, dodging trees and overhangs.

  “Goddam!” she cried happily. “We’ll show you smartass fighter jocks a thing or two!”

  In her element now, footwet height, she skimmed the dew-covered ground, racing for the exit, looking for another valley to duck into. She found it, and turned into a sharply angled defile at breakneck speed. The defile twisted into an impossible turn, and she shot up, above the crestline. Her captors were nowhere in sight! She banked sharply, heading down the backside of the hills, hoping the escort had lost sight of her, hoping she’d put enough distance between them that when they did see her, they would never catch her. Heart pounding, she headed for open sky, knowing the fighters were no match for the big aircar in open space. She boomed up out of the defile and they were there, waiting for her.

  “Damn!’ she said resignedly. They were good, those
fighter jocks, as good as she.

  The flight leader’s voice came over the radio. “Nice flying,” he said, “but if you try it again we’ll have to shoot you down.”

  “Can’t blame a girl for trying,” she said, and lined up with her escort. “Where’re we going?”

  “Not far. Lake Champlain.”

  She straightened out and followed them north, regaining altitude. Her mood was not improved when one of the pilots edged close and gave her a thumbs up, recognizing her as a member of the fraternal order of fighter pilots.

  At cruising altitude she put the big aircar on autopilot, stretched her legs and considered the future. Lake Champlain. Linngard, the city beneath the lake. What awaited her there? Impulsively, she took steps to protect herself. She checked to see where the fighters were, and quickly scanned her instruments. Satisfied everything was all right, she left her seat and opened the medical kit. She took out a small syringe and examined it thoughtfully.

  And then, suddenly, they were there. Below her a concrete forest rose above the glistening waters of Lake Champlain. At the edge of the forest stood a platform, a landing pad. Determined to be as professional as they, she led her captors on a full throttle run over the platform, kicking up a brisk chop on the lake. She circled to come in again, just off the water, still at full power, climbing gently as she approached the platform. She cleared the edge of the landing pad and cut the engines, throwing on the thrusters. She hovered briefly above the landing bullseye, the ship vibrating violently with the force of the sudden deceleration, and she put the big, black aircar with the big white star onto the platform as pretty as you please.

  She stepped onto the platform to be greeted by a trio of hefty guards, and as she looked skyward for what might be one last time she saw the three little fighters doing lazy eights overhead, follow the leader. She waved and they waggled in return, the morning sun glinting off the silver sides, and then they kicked in the power and took off in a steep climbing spiral. She looked away then, and turned to the three bullyboys.

  “After you, gentlemen,” she said.

  At the bottom of the elevator a matron patted her down for weapons and a young woman smiled and said, “Follow me, please.”

  Marianna tried to remember the turnings, but she was soon lost. They climbed a stair tower to the next level, down another corridor, and stopped in front of a door not unlike any of the other doors she saw around her. The door had no number, no sign that the room was identified in any way.

  Two matrons stood outside the door. The guide smiled and said, “I’ll have breakfast sent up right away.”

  One of the matrons opened the door and went in the room, and the other motioned Marianna to follow. She did, and found herself in a rather unremarkable hotel or motel room, a fairly large room containing a double bed, a table and two chairs, a small settee and a bathroom.

  “Change of clothes in the closet,” one of the matrons said curtly.

  “Do you have a name?” Marianna said pleasantly.

  “Yes. Towels and soap in the bathroom if you want to shower. If not, change your clothes anyway. We'll be right here. You can change in the bathroom if you like, but we have to search you first, just in case they missed something.”

  That brought a smile from the other matron, who said, “Mostly they don't miss anything, but sometimes they don't always search in the right places.”

  “I'm taking a shower,” Marianna said, “and if one of you so much as touches me, you get a knee in the crotch.”

  “Touchy,” the first matron said.

  Marianna went into the bathroom and closed the door. She looked around for something that might be used as a weapon, and was not surprised to find nothing. She took a quick, hot, wonderful shower, dried herself, and marched naked into the room, defying the matrons to so much as look at her. She put on the one-piece red uniform she found hanging in the closet and took a towel to her hair, drying it as best she could.

  “Purty,” one of the matrons said, and the other smiled and said, “Real purty.”

  Breakfast arrived, delivered by a pleasant young man in a white kitchen uniform, who set it up on the table. He was followed almost immediately by a red uniformed officer, equally young, who smiled hello and said, “May I come in?”

  “Two’s company, three’s a crowd,” Marianna said. “Shoo the Bobbsey twins out of here.”

  “Outside,” the officer said. The matrons picked up Marianna’s blue Air Force uniform and left without a word.

  “I'll be back in an hour to pick up the cart,” the kitchen man said to Marianna. “I'll bring a lunch menu for you.”

  “Gonna be here that long, am I?”

  “And possibly for dinner as well,” the officer smiled.

  “Terrific. Do I get to bring a date?”

  “You’ll find it isn't so bad here, ma'am. Incidentally, I'm Captain Morales. I’m one of the few non-Anglos, so I’m easily recognized, just in case you need me for something.” He said it easily, and with a smile he obviously meant to be disarming.

  “I'm starved, Captain,” she said, recognizing an Intelligence officer when she saw one. “Do you mind if I have my breakfast while you interrogate me? I'll pour us both a cup of coffee and make it a whole lot easier.”

  “Thank you. I accept. But this isn’t an interrogation, Marianna. I have come to tell you what to expect of us, to tell you what we expect of you, and to ask you to listen to what the Director has to say with an open mind.”

  “I’m going to see the Director?”

  “You are. Why else have you been brought here? Why else has Tal Avenger been brought here?”

  She jumped up, spilling the coffee. “Simon is here?”

  Morales glanced at his watch. “The Director will be having breakfast with him shortly. I imagine they’ll get along famously. After all, they’re much alike.”

  “As alike as a rose and a pile of horseshit,” Marianna said, wiping the coffee from her uniform. “Sorry about the spillage. I'm not usually so jumpy.”

  “I know. I watched your landing. Very impressive.”

  “Thanks. Just showing the jocks I can fly a little. Now, what's under this cover? Ham and eggs, I hope.”

  Captain Morales watched her eat, looking over the rim of his coffee cup, entranced by her green eyes and wild, auburn hair. Aware of the scrutiny, she gave him a good-humored, self-confident smile.

  “Yes,” he said to himself, “Neal Hernandez is a very lucky man.”

  22

  “Here’s the elevator,” Conlin said. The doors closed silently and they descended further into the lake.

  “Deep lake,” Simon said.

  “Deep, cold and only one way out.”

  “Do you know you always smile when you say something ominous?”

  “I’ll try to control myself.”

  “You know, Major,” Simon said, as the elevator began to slow. “I always knew I’d meet the Director one day, but I didn’t think it would be under these circumstances.”

  “The Director isn’t such a bad guy,” Conlin said seriously. “There’ve been a lot of stories, most of them untrue. He’s a hard man, but he has a difficult job, an important mission. Listen to him with an open mind, an open heart. Abandon your preconceptions. You might be surprised.”

  The elevator stopped and Conlin said, “I’ll leave you here. We’ll likely not meet again. Good luck.”

  The door opened and a young woman smiled and said, “The Director will see you now.”

  The elevator lobby was filled with delightful scent from tall, flowering plants. Natural sunlight shone brightly through the glass ceiling, though how, this far below the surface of the lake, he didn’t know. Birdsong warbled sweetly from the lobby forest.

  “How does sunlight get down here?” he asked.

  “There’s a shaft extending above the water,” she explained eagerly, “with a series of mirrors. The Director is very clever!”

  She led him through the lobby and down a wide corrid
or with oriental carpeting and carved wood paneled walls. She stopped before a pair of carved wooden double doors, and pressed a button, turning to flash Simon a dazzling smile.

  “How fortunate you are!” she said breathlessly. “To see the Director in his very own private study. Such a great honor. Very few are permitted here.”

  The door swung open and Simon stepped into a large, high ceilinged, sparsely furnished, drafty seeming space. The floor consisted of large squares of tightly fitted gray-green slate. The ceiling was quite high, and completely open, with huge smoke-blackened wooden trusses spanning the open space between the side walls. Above the rough cut trusses, hidden in the gloom, darkened wood planking formed the underside of a steeply pitched roof, angling up to a huge central ridge beam. The walls were whitewashed rough plaster, and each end wall was covered with a brilliantly colored tapestry. Sunlight came through stained glass windows in the sidewalls, and Simon began to understand the nature of the concrete forest extending above the lake.

  By an elaborately carved desk stood a tall, thin man in a silver uniform. Simon walked steadily toward the desk and stopped.

  “Good morning, Director,” he grinned. “You look just like your pictures.”

  Sariot Kosh smiled amiably and extended his hand. “Welcome, sir. I needn’t tell you it’s a sincere pleasure to meet at last the great Simon Pure, Tal Avenger.” Kosh smiled a deprecating smile, a brief flicker of dazzling white teeth, a smile Simon knew was intended to put him at ease, a smile he thought very reminiscent of the quick smile of a puff adder. “Please join me,” Kosh continued, the smile still in place. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a breakfast.”

  “How very kind.”

  “Not at all. Please be seated.”

  They sat facing each other for some moments, sizing one another up, until Kosh flashed another puff adder smile and said, “Please forgive me, I’m quite forgetting my manners. How was your trip from New Jersey?”