Chimera (54 page)

“Stay in front of me,” Chapel said, gesturing for the chimera to walk ahead of him on the path.

“You don't trust me,” Ian said. “I don't blame you. You met some of the others. Malcolm, and Quinn, and Brody. I'm different.”

“I met your old gang,” Chapel pointed out. “The ones who helped you kill Alan and his gang.” Ian said nothing. For a while they just kept wading through the snow, headed south, toward the road. Chapel thought about Samuel. The Voice had told Ian to kill Samuel, and Ian had refused. Maybe—just maybe—there was something to what Ian claimed. Maybe he was different from the others. Maybe he could control his impulses. Maybe that meant Chapel couldn't treat him like the others. Couldn't treat him like a monster.

That was a dangerous line of thought. But if Ian really was able to control himself, to act like a human, then Chapel had to treat him like one, too.

“I met Ellie Pechowski, too,” Chapel said, finally.

“Miss P,” Ian affirmed.

“Yeah. She said you were different. And I'll admit, you showed a lot more leadership potential than the others. A lot more emotional stability. But you're still a chimera. You're still genetically programmed for violence and aggression.”

“You're still a human,” Ian said. “You're still programmed for mercy and compassion. It didn't stop you from killing the others.”

“I did that to protect other humans,” Chapel said. “You did what you did—why? So you could escape from Camp Putnam? See the real world for once?”

“Would that be an unacceptable reason to you?” Ian asked. “Would you have done any differently?”

Chapel thought about it. The chimeras had been created for a purpose they didn't understand. Then, simply because of what they were, they'd been locked away from the world forever. In that situation, yeah. He would have done almost anything to get his freedom. But he would have wanted something else, too.

“They gave you books to read in there. Did they ever give you
Frankenstein
?”

Ian shook his head.

“I read it after I lost my arm. I felt like I was made out of spare parts, then, and I thought maybe I'd find some answers there. It's the story of a man, a scientist, who creates a new life form. In the book he builds it out of parts of dead people. Dead humans. Then he animates it with life, but he's so horrified at what he's done that he runs away from his own creation. Refuses to accept it. The creature ends up killing everyone he loves, and then pursuing him halfway across the world to hound him to his death.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Ian asked.

“If I was that creature, I'd want to kill my creator, too.”

Ian was quiet for a while. The two of them waddled through the snow, not covering much ground. There was no sound but the crunching of the snow. No smell in the air but the smell of snow.

Maybe the weather would help them, in the end. Maybe it would slow down the CIA even more than it slowed down Chapel.

When Ian spoke, it was like the air had frozen and his words broke the ice. “But that's not true. You don't want to kill God, do you?”

“What?” Chapel asked. “That's insane.”

“You were created by God, weren't you? Do you want to kill him? Look at what he's done to you. He took your arm.”

“That wasn't God. That was the Taliban.”

Ian shook his head as if it didn't matter. “This creature, in your story. He's upset because his creator was horrified by what he'd done. His creator hated him. Your God loves you, I'm told. He created you and he loves you for it. Don't you think he's proud of you?”

“I . . . I guess I hope he is,” Chapel said.

“Dr. Taggart is proud of me,” Ian said. “He sees in me what I am, and to him, that's good. Worthy.”

“The reason you were created doesn't exist anymore. You were supposed to replace us in case of nuclear war. But there was no war.” Chapel glanced up at the mountains, at the sky. He reached for his cell phone, but that meant putting away his weapon.

Too late he realized he'd made a mistake. Ian was already moving, already rushing toward him.

“I'm sorry,” Ian said. “It has to be this way.”

Chapel dropped the phone and reached for his pistol. He managed to draw it from its holster—but even as he brought it around to fire, Ian smacked it out of his hand. It went spinning off into the snow.

Ian's other hand was already coming toward his face. It was balled into a fist.

Bright flecks of light exploded in Chapel's head. He could feel the cartilage in his nose snapping, feel the bones of his skull shifting on their sutures. He flew backward, propelled by Ian's inhuman strength, and landed on his back in a snowdrift, dazed and unable to move.

“You would have killed me, eventually,” Ian said. “You would have had to.”

Chapel waited to die.

But he didn't. Nothing more happened. Eventually he regained enough strength to lift his head, to look around.

He saw nothing but snow, nothing but pure white light reflected back at him by a trillion crystals of ice.

Ian was gone.

DENALI NATIONAL PARK AND PRESERVE, ALASKA: APRIL 15, T+84:14

“What's taking Chapel so long?” Julia asked. She was pacing back and forth in front of the door of the laboratory shack, holding CPO Andrews's pistol in both hands. She'd been doing so almost every second Chapel and Ian had been gone.

Behind her, her father was busy tending to his experimental animals. If he had to leave his lab behind, he'd said, he at least wanted to make sure his pets were healthy and had plenty of food and water in case they woke up. He seemed to think he'd be coming back in a day or two. Julia hadn't bothered to tell him otherwise.

“I wouldn't worry,” her dad said. “He has Ian with him.”

“That's a reason for me to
not
worry?” Julia asked.

“Ian's quite strong and capable,” Taggart replied. “If your friend gets stuck in a snowdrift or falls over and can't get up, Ian will help him. For a chimera he's really quite helpful. Can you hand me that spray bottle?”

Julia looked around and found the bottle he wanted, a plastic spray can half full of something straw colored. She tossed it to him. “You lived with them. For years. You spent every day at Camp Putnam. And then you would come home from work and I'd get back from school and we'd sit down to Shake 'N Bake pork chops or maybe Mom's stew for dinner. And you would ask me about my day and what I was learning.”

“I remember that time fondly, dear,” Taggart replied. He spritzed a little of the yellow liquid on the wings of a caged bat. “The happiest time of my life.”

“I never thought to ask you anything about your day,” Julia said. She couldn't believe this. She couldn't believe what her life had become. “I could have asked how many of my brothers died that day. How many of them tore each other to pieces.”

“You never had any brothers,” Taggart said, with a little sigh.

“It's hard not to think of them that way. You and Mom spent more time with them than you did with me.”

Taggart put down the bottle and dragged a stool over so he could sit and look at her. “You're an adult now, Julia. You're almost thirty.”

Her eyes went wide. “I've been thirty for a couple years, now,” she said. “You can't even remember how old I am?”

“Old enough, I am certain,” Taggart said, “to stop blaming everything in your life on your horrible parents.”

Julia wanted to scream. She wanted to throw something at him. “I'm not allowed to blame you? I'm not allowed to blame you because one of your experiments killed Mom? I'm not allowed to be angry that one of them tried to kill me, and maybe infected me with his tiny weird-eyed babies?” She put the gun down so she didn't accidentally shoot him in her rage. “I'm not allowed to be upset that now the CIA wants to kill my entire family?”

“I assure you, if I'd know any of that in advance—”

“Oh, no. Oh, no, you don't get off that easily. Let's put aside what you've done to my life. I know what you did to those women, Dad! I know how you took advantage of all those women, those mentally ill women. And I know what you did to the chimeras—studying them, testing them—and then walking away when they got too violent. I've found out all your little secrets. I know exactly what you've done, and now—now—you—”

Tears crowded up in the corners of her eyes and refused to spill over. She was shaking with rage, filled up with excruciating anger. She had to get it out of her body, had to vent it or she would explode.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she demanded. “Why would you do those things? Didn't anybody, even once—didn't Mom ask if what you were doing was moral? Not even once?”

“Your mother was my partner in all of it,” Taggart said, in a very small voice. Clearly he'd never expected this. Everything he'd done had been top secret. He'd never expected that anyone would call him on his actions. Much less his own daughter.

But who else had the right, more than she? Julia felt like she was a sword of vengeance wielded by some indignant archangel. She was going to make him pay. She was going to get even for all those women. She would—

“You want to know why I did it?” he asked, finally.

“Yes,” she said, blazing with wrath.

“I did it for you,” he said.

DENALI NATIONAL PARK AND PRESERVE, ALASKA: APRIL 15, T+84:15

Ian didn't mind the cold.

He ran over densely packed snow, spreading his feet so he didn't sink through the crust, didn't leave footprints. He did this by reflex. There had been snow in the Catskills as well, and he'd spent plenty of time running there. His muscles remembered.

There was much about this place that resembled Camp Putnam. The trees, the rocks, the snow—all familiar. The birds and even the bears, there had been bears in the Catskills, though they were smaller and not so dangerous. The harshness of this landscape sang to him. It called to him. He had been built for a place like this, a land of winter. This place was a good place for him. He thought of his brothers, of Brody and Malcolm and Quinn. The Voice had led them into cities, into human places. Perhaps that was why they had failed.

Ian didn't mind being alone.

In the camp, he had fought all the time. He had never been at peace in the company of his brothers. He had never had a friend in the humans there, not even Miss P. He saw that now. It had not mattered. His biggest fights, his greatest war, had always been with himself. He had worked so hard, struggled daily, to make himself like the humans. To control his rages, to overcome his emotions. To be worthy of being free. In the end it turned out all that work had meant nothing.

Ian didn't mind that. The futility. Not too much, anyway.

He skidded down a steep hillside, grabbing at tree branches to check his fall. Powdery snow flicked down across his shoulders, danced off his scalp. At the bottom of the slope was a trickling stream. He thought of Samuel and how his fingers had turned black, how they'd died on his hands and had to be taken off. Ian leaped over the stream, not wanting to get his feet wet in that cold, cold water. Even he had limitations.

On the far side of the stream the ground rose again, toward a narrow ridgeline high above. From the trees up there he would be able to see for miles. He would be able to see where he had to go next.

Except . . .

That was the one thing that burned inside him. The question. Dr. Taggart had given him so many answers. He'd explained almost everything. Why Ian had been created. Why he had then been spurned. It made sense. It all made such perfect, crystalline sense in his mind, a graph with clear data points forming a straight line headed . . . headed toward somewhere. Somewhere he couldn't yet see.

He climbed the slope on all fours, grabbing at anything his hands could seize to help him gain more ground. He moved faster than any human could. Any bear. He was so strong. They'd given him that. They had made him strong, and fast. They had made sure the sun glaring on the ice would not hurt his eyes.

They were going to give him a world. A whole world where he would be king.

The last question was like a spiky thing, a worm with sharp-edged armor burrowing through his brain. There had to be an answer. There had to be a final point on the graph, a place where the line came to its end.

But how could he find it now, without Dr. Taggart? Who could tell him what came next? He had worked and fought and bled all his life for freedom. What was he to do with it now?

That was the one thing he minded. And it was tearing him apart.

Just before he reached the ridgeline he stopped. He was about to stand up, to make himself visible on that high ground. But his instincts, the instincts of some predator who had given him some small portion of his DNA, made him stop. He crouched low, cutting down his profile. Making himself invisible against the dark trees.

Perhaps he had heard something in the distance. Something so quiet his conscious mind did not register it. He lowered his third eyelids. He held his breath.

And then he saw it. Movement, very far away. Just now becoming visible. Something—several somethings—moving across the white land.

Others. Other humans, coming this way.

DENALI NATIONAL PARK AND PRESERVE, ALASKA: APRIL 15, T+84:16

Another concussion,
Chapel thought.

But no. This didn't feel the same. He'd had chimeras hit him before, and it had been enough to lay him out. This felt like he'd gotten the bad end of a fight in a bar. It felt like he'd fallen off a bicycle and did a face-plant. It did not feel like he'd been hit by a truck, or a jackhammer.

Ian had pulled his punch. He had been trying not to kill Chapel, just stun him a little and buy himself time to get away.