Chunk 23

cold surfaces testified this wasn't a dream.

"Why am I naked?"

"Are you cold?" the woman asked, not thinking to explain anything.

"What does that have to do with... Give me clothes..."

"What are you feeling right now?"

A stranger question at that moment couldn't have been imagined.

"That you're all perverts," I said quietly, looking at the floor, and for a moment was even frightened by my own audacity.

Something clicked loudly. I raised my head. The door opened. A person entered in combat armor with the Corps of Conquistadors emblem. The rifle in their hands was aimed at my head. A girl followed. I saw her face through the transparent visor. In her hands were clothes. Hospital scrubs, as I understood from the idiotic pattern. So I'm in a hospital?

"Can I have normal clothes?" I asked.

"What kind?" the woman clarified.

"Conquistador uniform. I'm still an officer."

I wasn't entirely sure about the latter. Maybe this is a tribunal... Could they have put me under tribunal? In my head for some reason sounded a confident "could," but if they'd asked me then what for—I couldn't have answered.

"Bring them," the woman said.

"What did you inject me with?"

"We didn't inject you with any drugs."

The girl entered again. This time with neatly folded uniform. The guy with the rifle still aimed at me. Two people in suits began removing the handcuffs.

"Do you want me to turn away?" the woman asked, and in her voice barely noticeably slipped mockery.

"Either you turn away or let everyone else leave. Your choice."

She turned away. The girl who brought the clothes also turned.

"Glad your sense of humor returned," the woman responded.

"Glad to hear I had one..."

The handcuffs were unfastened from the chair, and they helped me dress. Then they sat me down again, silently and quite roughly, and fastened me. The guy

with the rifle immediately lowered it. It seemed to me, with relief.

"Is this necessary?" I asked. "The handcuffs."

"For now, yes," the woman answered. "Everyone out!"

The "snowmen" immediately organized and left—I think they trudged into the room behind the mirror. It turned out there was another chair here—right across from mine.

"So, let's begin," the woman said, sitting down.

I was silent. She was in no hurry, studying something on a tablet. The light blinked again. One of the panels hummed discontentedly above us, trying to gain proper power, its flickering was sharp to nausea. I closed my eyes.

"What's wrong with your electricity?" I couldn't help myself.

"Interruptions," the woman put the tablet on her knees and raised her eyes to me. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"First I'd like to understand who you are and why I'm here," I said as delicately as possible.

"Do you know where we are?"

I automatically surveyed once more the iron box where we were, as if I could find the answer on the ceiling.

"No."

"Can you at least guess?"

"Tokyo headquarters? And why can't you just tell me?"

She frowned:

"My answer will give nothing until you at least partially restore your memories."

"And why am I in handcuffs?"

"Because you're here for murder."

Something unpleasant responded in my memory. As if a fat earth toad stirred.

"And who did I kill?"

"A general. Commandant of one of the space colonies. Does that tell you anything?"

I shook my head:

"No..."

"But you're a conquistador officer. You said it yourself. Can you name your last mission in the Corps?"

I thought, trying to find in my memory at least some image. Corps... Last mission... I'm an officer... At least something related to this... No. Empty. I shook my head.

"And how long have you been in the Corps?"

"I don't remember."

"At least approximately. Are you a veteran? Or a rookie?"

"I don't remember... Why did I kill him?"

The woman looked at me, obviously calculating whether I deserved at least one answer, or if questions alone would suffice for now.

"For no reason," she finally said. "He got in your way, that's all. You'll remember everything yourself. Let's not waste time."

"Okay," I nodded.

"Good," she repeated. "Then I'll ask again. What's the last thing you remember?"

I thought, trying to dig up something in my head, but it was as if stuffed with cotton.

"Nothing... I don't even have anything to grab onto."

"I see..."

She was silent for quite a while. Then she stood and left. I remained alone.

The lamps flickered again and hummed disgustingly. I caught myself thinking the flickering wasn't just unpleasant. It frightened me.

The woman returned. Sat across from me again. Looked at me attentively through the mask.

"Ready to continue?"

"Do I have a choice..."

She nodded.

"Good. Then I'll propose this: a word association game. Our psychologists say this will help start. I'll say a word or several, you—an association. The first image that comes to mind. Doesn't matter which, important to answer quickly."

The woman removed the watch from her hand and launched the "stopwatch" program. Then opened a word list on the tablet. Raised her eyes to me questioningly.

"Ready?"

I nodded. Let's go.

"Reaper?"

"Wheat."

"Three Crowns of Cortez?"

"Some beer?"

She cast a short glance at me through the mask. It seemed to me, dissatisfied.

"Think less. Contour?"

"Silhouette."

"Neuroconstructor?"

I involuntarily thought.

"Don't know... Computer game."

She raised her eyes again, stopping the stopwatch.

"This won't work. You're thinking. Try to answer much faster."

"Okay. I'm ready."

The stopwatch beeped.

"What was the artillerist's name?"

"Hans."

"Why Hans?"

"Don't know... First thing that came to mind."

She nodded and wrote something on the tablet.

"Forest devil?"

"Uh... Fairy tale."

"Okamura?"

"Is that a name?"

"Answer."

Something elusive flashed in memory. Something too fleeting to take any form. At the same time the association was very clear. Strange but undeniable.

"Cocoon."

She nodded again.

"Vandlik?"

I thought.

"Hmm... Nothing at all... Is that some term?"

"This isn't a quiz. Name associations."

"I'll try... Next."

"Chimera?"

I thought again.

"Look for an image," she prompted. "Don't try to remember, just look for an image. Any. Sound, smell, picture. Anything."

I even closed my eyes. The lamp light through my eyelids turned darkness into flickering gray murk... Image... Anything... Smell, sound... "ONLY GOD JUDGE ME"—surfaced in my head. Where's this from? Some song? No, rather an inscription. Inscription where? Don't know.

I remember black bags. And the sound they make when unzipping. Long "z-z-z-ip" again and again. What are these bags? Don't remember. They're in a hangar. And outside on the wall—a strange bas-relief in the form of a screaming woman.

"Rosalyn!" I exclaimed, and the woman flinched as if I'd slapped her.

"Good," she said, but in her tone for some reason slipped agitation. "More!"

I closed my eyes again and this time saw a completely different Rosalyn. Not a gray statue on the wall, but alive, in an army "coyote"-colored nylon t-shirt. But this memory didn't lead anywhere... As if it wasn't mine... How strange.

But then somewhere in the dark depth of memory where sunlight doesn't penetrate, something large stirred. Something truly important... Something terrible. It seemed to float closer to the surface, generating an unclear, barely perceptible disturbance of shadows. I almost caught it, but the memory slipped through my fingers... Butterflies—for some reason butterflies came to mind... Black-and-orange sunspots in meadows where they're building a house. No, this of course isn't a memory, it's a dream. But the memory's also somehow connected... Either with butterflies or with meadows... Here again is the mold-sculpted bas-relief of Rosalyn... A dozen identical, like two peas in a pod, dead men with the tattoo "ONLY GOD JUDGE ME" on arms crossed on their chests... Object "Two Zeros"! We had to take the mutagen. And then... Then in my memories are butterflies. And meadows. Or even a vacant lot. A vacant lot on a scorching day, and feather grass swaying in the wind. Like ripples on a sea surface. And I stand, arms spread, and look at the sky. And then I fall on my back into this grassy sea so it gently catches me. "I'm not here!" "I'm not here! I'm not here!"—children's voices echo. Now I need to get up and run play more, but I can't. Because above me, on a blade that bent toward my face, is something black. Large as an overripe cherry. And this something is ready any moment to fall down my collar.

Karakurt.

"Elza!!!" I immediately remembered the nightmare of the last seconds in the corridor of the abandoned complex and jumped from the chair. My little girl reaches out to me so I'll save her.

"Where's my daughter?!"

It seems the woman smiled there under the mask, and I wanted to strangle her.

...Irma and I returned from the forbidden city around five in the morning.

"Thank you!" kissing me, she satisfiedly patted the metal thermos sticking from her pocket. "In two weeks the commandant will personally help us pack—just to fly away faster."

"That would be good... But you're insane, I told you?"

Smiling (as if it were a compliment!), Irma walked away, swaying her hips in a womanly way.

On the way home I thought about stopping by the cafeteria—to get from the machine coffee that tastes like burnt tar. For me and Vira. True, I'm not dressed in uniform. Mine—completely covered in cobwebs and torn—had to be taken off, and now I was in a biologist's uniform from "Artillerist Hans." Though... There's no one in the cafeteria at this time anyway. And from far away no one will tell the difference.

Suddenly I surprisingly caught myself thinking: "Did Vira take the coffee maker for repair?"—as if I'd been gone a month. But only a day has passed! Just yesterday I knew nothing about an alien city. Yesterday! By the way, Vira was supposed to take Elza to the doctor. And I could use it too... Though actually I unexpectedly improved—the numbness retreated on its own. My fingers tingled slightly at touch, but overall the hand became as before. Therefore, however I feel about pollen, I must admit the effect exceeded my expectations. All the way to base I wanted to ask Irma for more black powder. But I never dared. We'll see.

The lock on our door beeped. I entered. Silence. Everyone's asleep. Now I'll wake my Virunchik, and we'll drink coffee together. Like before... Once I woke her this way every morning. Then Elza was born,

Vira started having headaches, and the joy of the morning ritual disappeared: my wife always woke in a bad mood. At best, drank coffee silently, sullenly looking into the cup. At worst, expressed her dissatisfaction—didn't matter about what. And bringing her morning coffee lost its appeal... But since Vira got rid of the headache, why not try again. She's generally changed quite a bit here on Ix Chel. Maybe not become completely ideal, however... And this whole pollen story spoiled our relationship... And yet the eternally dissatisfied granny Virka remained somewhere there on Earth.

First I looked in on Elza. She slept sprawled on her little bed. I squatted before her and carefully, barely touching with my lips, kissed her fragrant cheek. And went to wake Vira. I'll say: "Time to drink coffee, dear!" and stick the cup under her nose so she'll smell the aroma. Or no, I'll say: "Virka, your coffee's getting cold." Or even not like that. I'll say in her ear: "Virunchik, I love you"...

The cups fell to the floor, making a double plastic "pock-pock." I saw with peripheral vision how lids slowly flew off them, jumping up competitively. I tried to jump back from hot splashes, but coffee had already splashed on my legs, scalding my skin. Probably scalding, because at this moment I feel nothing. All these attempts to dodge spilled boiling water are just dances of my subconscious performing its work independently of my "I." My "I" is no longer here. It froze in horror in an uncertain near future. In the future where I'll need to do something about what my eyes see now.

Above our bed with Vira in the corner under the very ceiling lurked a huge fat cocoon that pulsed barely noticeably.

2

My first reaction—to rush to it. Tear it open to pull my Virka out, save her. But having taken two steps, I stopped. And then what? Who will be there, inside? Vira? What will she do—say "thank you"? Or attack me? Or maybe transform into another woman with an axe? No, first I must take care of my daughter...

In two minutes I was already walking down the street, carrying Elza wrapped in a blanket in my arms.

She woke only for a second, smiled at me and immediately fell asleep again. I almost ran. I'll make it. The cocoon hasn't burst yet, which means the process there, inside, isn't finished. I'll make it...

Irma opened the door, letting me and Elza inside.

"What's wrong with her?"

"Not with her," I whispered in reply. "At our home... A cocoon."

"Lord... Your wife?"

"Yes. Watch Elza, please."

I laid my daughter right on Irma's bed. She slept just as sweetly. Irma already at the door took me by the elbow.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'll see..."

"They'll declare quarantine here. If only information about the cocoon spreads, they'll lock us up like in an aquarium! Until everyone dies."

"I know."

"I need two weeks to work with the mutagen. Only two weeks!"

"I know."

"...And then we can fly from here forever!"

"I know, Irma!" I said for the third time. "No one will know about the cocoon! I promise."

"You must destroy it. The chimera in the cocoon hangs head down. Shoot slightly below the middle third with spread approximately two palms wide—that way you'll definitely hit the main brain."

She gave this instruction clearly and indifferently. As if it were about shooting at a target. But there wasn't a target. There was my wife.

In three minutes of frantic sprint I ran into the house.

The cocoon was still intact. Having made sure of this, I first went to the kitchen, grabbed the biggest knife and returned to the room.

Wait, rifle...

It should be at hand. Brought it from the corridor and placed it on the bed. Now everything. Only approaching the cocoon did I realize it was too high. Damn! Precious seconds fly one after another. I run to the kitchen again. Bring a stool.

I hesitantly examine the dense weave... Then something barely noticeably moved inside. Sudden nausea covers me, twisting my stomach in a knot. I close my eyes to collect myself. My mouth fills with saliva with a disgusting metallic aftertaste. I breathe deeply several times. Better. And then I carefully touch the cocoon with my palms.

The web was very thin and gentle to touch. Fluffy. Like rabbit-fur mittens. I immediately felt the cocoon seemed to breathe. But this time I didn't feel nauseous—I collected myself. Probably Vira presses against the walls with her back and shoulders, and this is the echo of her breathing... Just a little more, Vira, just a little more... Hang on.

I began cutting from the very top and very carefully led the knife, trying not to deepen it more than a centimeter. The whole time I was afraid to cut too deep and wound... Wound my Vira.

Having passed about half a meter, I opened the cut with my hands. Still nothing visible. I lead the knife down again. The web is a bit sticky, the knife goes slower and slower, but still cuts. Every moment I subconsciously fear feeling under the blade something denser than the cocoon. After a few more painful seconds the blade enters the lower third. Then something moved inside and opened the cut. I almost dropped the knife and froze, ready for anything. But no more movement... Then I carefully put the knife on the stool, straighten and take the edges of the cut with my hands. Again nausea treacherously approached. No, now that's unnecessary, completely unnecessary. There's my wife. Mother of my daughter. Our Elza. I must save her... And I slowly spread the cut.

She was in some whitish semi-transparent sac, like amniotic. As soon as I spread the edges, Vira moved, her elbow clearly protruded through the film. Nausea, contrary to reason's arguments, still approached my throat. I wanted to take the knife again to cut the disgusting sac, but changed my mind. Trying to hold back nausea, I slowly thrust my palms inside the cocoon... There it was warm. From awareness of this fact my stomach did some somersault. I clenched my teeth with all my might. Nothing, better disgusting than scary. Even convenient, by the way: so nauseating there's no strength left to be afraid...

With these thoughts I thrust my hands almost to the shoulders and embraced the sac. Fortunately, easily recognized by touch Virchina's delicate figure, and I felt relieved. Hang on, dearest... Without letting myself doubt, I resolutely dumped the cocoon's contents onto our bed.

The sac fell on the bedding and immediately stirred—Vira tried to throw off the damn film! Alive! She's alive.

"Now, Vira!"

I jumped on the bed and grabbed the knife again. Carefully cut where the film stretched between my wife's palms. The sac burst with an unpleasant sound, and Vira immediately "surfaced" from it. She sat up, tearing the remains from her face, and breathed deeply as if there was nothing to breathe there.

"Virunyou..."

She's silent. Only breathes heavily and looks around, as if not understanding where she is.

"Vira..."

But Vira's gaze wanders around the room and doesn't hear. I carefully remove the whitish film from her shoulders and arms. She seems not to see me.

"Everything's fine, Vira..."

Her gaze wanders. Silent. In her eyes only confusion and fright.

"How are you?" I take her by the shoulders and turn her slightly toward me, trying to catch her gaze. "Vira, do you hear me?"

It seems only now she notices me and stops moving her eyes along the walls. But looks for some reason not at my eyes but at my mouth. As if she really doesn't hear and tries to read my lips.

"Vira..." I say and fear repeating my question. What if she really lost her hearing...

Lord, Virusya... Let everything be alright with her... Just let everything be alright.

"Vira," she suddenly repeats, not taking her intent gaze from my mouth.

"Thank God..." bursts from me, because her voice is as dear and familiar as always, and I embrace her, tightly pressing her to myself. Then I step back again and peer into her face to catch her gaze, but Vira still looks only at my lips.

"How are you, Virunchik? Does anything hurt?"

She tilts her head slightly, not for a moment taking her clinging gaze from my mouth.

"How are you, Virunchik? Does anything hurt?" she repeats this phrase, exactly copying my intonations.

"Virka... Do you hear me?"

"Virka... Do you hear me?"

I involuntarily pull back and immediately embrace her tightly again.

"Everything will be fine, Vira! I'm with you... Now everything will be fine!"

"Everything will be fine, Vira!"

I step back again. These repetitions are eerie.

"I'm with you," she says and dog-like tilts her head to the other side, looking unblinkingly at my lips. "Now everything will be fine!"

"Kill her," Irma's voice sounds behind me, and from surprise I shudder with my whole body.

"Irma! She's alive, just not..."

"Hugging a chimera is a bad idea, Lieutenant," metal sounds in Irma's voice. "The mycelium didn't arm her with your fears only because you pulled her from the cocoon before the term. But this is temporary. Soon she'll ripen. And start killing."

"Irma, I can't shoot my own wife!"

"This is no longer your wife. It's her biological fake. The chimera's goal is to destroy people. To seek out their weak spots and strike precisely there. If you can't do it yourself, I'll do it for you."

Irma's eyes burned with determination.

I slowly stood, about to say: "I won't let you." Won't let anyone. Even if I have to shoot half the camp. But at the last second I decided I should act differently.

"You're right," I say. "I'll do it... Just give me five minutes."

She nods, not sensing the deception:

"No problem. But better not stand so close to her. Just in case."

"Okay... Just leave us alone. Me... Okay? Don't want anyone watching..."

"I understand," Irma nods and adds, pointing at Vira with her finger: "Aim at the base of the skull. Right here."

"Okay. I'll do everything..." for convincingness I take the rifle and check the charge. "How's Elza?"

"She's sleeping."

"Stay with her, okay? Because she'll wake up... And get scared."

"Okay," Irma finally goes to the door. "Do it and return to your daughter. She's now the most important thing in your life."

I waited until Irma's shadow flashed past the window, then set the rifle aside.

"Here's what we'll do, Vira..."

"Here's what we'll do, Vira," she immediately echoed, and I faltered.

I helped her stand. She could hold herself on her feet quite well. Quickly brought her robe from the bathroom. She was in something white, like a newborn... Taking a clean towel from the closet, I wiped her. Put on the robe. Carefully taking her by the elbow, I led her to the kitchen. Vira obeyed wordlessly, only when walking she looked not at her feet but constantly at me. At my face... As if afraid to miss something.

"Sit," and I moved up a stool.

"Sit," she responded like some mechanical echo: clearly and always identically.

I moved her together with the stool to the kitchen cabinet so she could lean on it with her back. Then took duct tape and taped her legs to the stool legs. Not so tight as to disrupt circulation, but firmly. Just as firmly I taped her thighs to the seat. Then I moved up the table and pinned Vira to the cabinet. Now the arms... Reliably taped them to the table legs. I feared she'd start resisting, but Vira only followed me with her eyes.

"I'll feed you."

"I'll feed you..."

I raised my hand to interrupt this stream of repetitions. Strange as it is—it worked: my movement either distracted or frightened her. Vira pulled back and fell silent.

"Good," I said to myself in a whisper. "Let's be quiet."

The drill squealed, driving the longest of my screws through the table leg into the plastic floor. Three per table leg, two per stool leg. Vira still only observed, and I swear her face glowed with curiosity. I cut the last strip of tape, about twenty centimeters long, and leaned across the table to my wife.

"Forgive me, Vira," I said.