by Dean Koontz
Chameleon neither reproduced nor ate. For the duration of its existence, it drew upon its own substance for energy. When its weight declined from twenty-four pounds to eighteen, Chameleon weakened and died, though of course it had no awareness of its fate.
Computer models suggested that each Chameleon, released in an urban environment, would be able to kill between a thousand and fifteen hundred targets before expiring.
“Through you, Earth and everything upon it will submit to me, and as the whole of Earth serves me, so will it serve you, because I have made you and sent you forth in my name….”
Chameleon began to move closer—one foot, two feet, three—as Victor pulled open the middle drawer and felt through the contents, his stare focused on the would-be assassin.
Just eight feet away, Chameleon stopped. When it decided to move again, it would surely close the remaining distance and rip into its target’s legs, his torso, clip off his fingers when he struggled to resist, as it climbed frantically toward his face.
Victor glanced down into the drawer. He saw the bottle of pale-green fluid and plucked it out as he returned his attention at once to where Chameleon had been.
No ripple deformed the floor.
Victor extracted the stopper from the bottle.
Chameleon scuttled forward.
Victor splashed half the contents of the bottle on himself as he quickly sidestepped to his right.
Because the fluid contained New Race pheromones kept in the desk in the unlikely event that Chameleon escaped from its sack in the freezer, the lethal mimic halted short of attack. Victor no longer smelled like a target but instead like one of the New Race.
“You live because of me, you live for me, and my happiness is your glory….”
After a long hesitation, Chameleon turned and crawled away into the laboratory, seeking targets.
Victor had not allowed himself anger while the threat remained, but now he felt his face flush with fury. He was eager to know how Chameleon had escaped its cold prison and who should be punished for allowing it to roam free.
At the computer keyboard, he directed the audio-video system to terminate The Creed. The Hands of Mercy fell silent, and the images of the Frankensteinian future vanished from the computer as well as from all other screens in the building.
Instead of displaying the basic menu, however, the computer presented four digits—07:33.
The Dresden clock. Seven and a half minutes, and counting down.
Because he had expected to destroy the Hands of Mercy only in the event of the most extreme and irreversible biological calamity, and because he wanted none of his creations to be able to countermand his decision to destruct once the countdown commenced, the clock could not be stopped. In little more than seven minutes, Mercy would be a seething hell of fire.
His anger gave way to a cool and practical consideration of the circumstances. Having survived two centuries, he could count on a well-exercised survival instinct.
The linked bricks of incendiary material placed throughout the walls and ceilings had been developed by the world’s third-most tyrannical government, refined by the world’s second-most tyrannical government, and brought to exquisite perfection by the world’s most tyrannical government. This was a pyromaniac’s dream fuel.
In the event those governments ever fell and those regimes were in danger of being brought to justice, the press of a button would ensure that their concentration camps, which they denied existed, would burst instantly into flames of such white-hot intensity that even the guards would be unable to escape. The temperatures produced by this incendiary material were not equal to the average surface temperature of the sun; but this stuff would produce the second-hottest fire in the solar system, virtually vaporizing all evidence.
Victor hurried to a cabinet near his workstation and pulled open a door, revealing what appeared to be a large suitcase. Data-transmission cables connected the luggage to outlets in the back of the cabinet. He quickly disconnected all lines.
The Hands of Mercy would be reduced not to rubble and char but instead to ashes as fine as thrice-milled flour floating in a pool of molten bedrock no less hot and fluid than lava from a volcano. Not one splinter of bone or any other source of DNA would survive for forensic pathologists to analyze.
The suitcase contained backup data files of every experiment ever conducted in the Hands of Mercy, including work done within the past hour.
The countdown clock read 06:55.
Carrying the suitcase, Victor hurried across the lab toward the hall door, Chameleon forgotten, the entire staff forgotten.
He had been enamored of the incendiary material now awaiting detonation, and he had been impressed with himself for having the contacts to acquire a large volume of it. In fact, he had kept on his computer an e-mail sent to his supplier, the most tyrannical dictator in the world, expressing his gratitude, saying in part, “… and if it could be revealed that your three nations worked together to perfect this effective and reliable material, the revelation would make fools of cynics who claim your good selves are not capable of international cooperation.”
As Victor knew too well from centuries of disappointments, the worst thing about the sudden relocation of the enterprise following a catastrophic occurrence was the irretrievable loss of correspondence and other mementos that reminded you of the personal side of a great scientific undertaking. His work was not always solitary and somber. He built many friendships over the years, and there were balmy days in places like Cuba and Venezuela and Haiti and the old Soviet, when he had taken the time to share laughter and memories with longtime friends and discuss the important issues of the age with new friends of like mind. In the firestorm to come, so many small but precious things would be destroyed that he risked a disabling seizure of nostalgia if he dwelt too much on the forthcoming loss.
When he stepped out of the main laboratory, something to his right, about sixty feet farther along the hall, drew his attention. It was big, perhaps as large as four men, with six thick insectile legs, like the legs on a Jerusalem cricket much enlarged, and a riot of other anatomical features. Numerous faces appeared to be embedded in the body, some in the oddest places. The face nearest to where a head belonged—and obviously the most dominant of the group—rather resembled Werner.
From this reprehensibly undisciplined creature came a dozen or two dozen voices, eerily childlike, all of them chanting the same grossly offensive word: “Father … Father … Father … Father …”
CHAPTER 48
IN THE LIBRARY of the Helios mansion, Erika Five said, “I found it by chance yesterday.”
She slid her hand along the underside of a shelf and flicked the concealed switch.
A section of bookshelves swung open on pivot hinges, and ceiling lights revealed the secret passageway beyond.
Jocko said, “This feels bad to Jocko. You want Jocko’s opinion. Opinion is—not good.”
“It’s not just the passageway. It’s what lies at the other end of it that’s the bigger issue.”
“What lies at the other end?”
Crossing the threshold, she said, “Better you see it than I tell you. I’d color my description, no matter how I tried not to. I need your unbiased opinion.”
Hesitating to follow her, Jocko said, “Is it scary in there? Tell Jocko true.”
“It’s a little scary, but only a little.”
“Is it scarier than a dark, damp storm drain when you don’t have your teddy bear anymore?”
“I’ve never been in a storm drain, but I imagine one would be a lot scarier than this.”
“Is it scarier than Jocko’s teddy bear being full of spiders waiting for bedtime so they can crawl in his ears when he sleeps and spin a web in his brain and turn him into a spider slave?”
Erika shook her head. “No, it isn’t that scary.”
“Okay!” Jocko said brightly, and crossed the threshold.
The floor, walls, and ceiling of the four-foot-wide p
assageway were solid concrete.
The secret door in the bookshelves closed automatically behind the troll, and he said, “Jocko must really want that funny hat.”
The narrow corridor led to a formidable steel door. It was kept shut by five inch-thick steel bolts: one in the header, one in the threshold, three in the right-hand jamb, opposite the massive hinges.
“What’s locked in there?” Jocko asked. “Something that might get out. Something not supposed to get out.”
“You’ll see,” she said, extracting the bolts one by one.
“Is it something that will beat Jocko with a stick?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Is it something that will call Jocko a freak and throw dog poop at him?”
“No. That won’t happen here.”
Jocko did not appear to be convinced.
The steel slab swung smoothly away from them on ball-bearing hinges, activating lights on the farther side.
The subsequent twelve-foot-long passageway ended in a door identical to the first.
Scores of metal rods bristled from the walls, copper on Erika’s left, steel or some alloy of steel on her right. A soft hum arose from them.
“Uh-oh,” said the troll.
“I wasn’t electrocuted the first time,” Erika assured him. “So I’m pretty sure we’ll be okay.”
“But Erika is luckier than Jocko.”
“Why would you say that?”
The troll cocked his head as if to say, Are you serious? “Why would Jocko say that? Look at you. Look at Jocko.”
“Anyway,” she said, “there’s no such thing as luck. The universe is meaningless chaos. That’s what Victor says, so it must be true.”
“A black cat crossed Jocko’s path once. Then it came back and clawed him.”
“I don’t think that proves anything.”
“Jocko found a penny in the street after midnight. Ten steps later, Jocko fell down an open manhole.”
“That wasn’t luck. That was not looking where you’re going.”
“Landed on an alligator.”
“An alligator in the storm drain? Well, all right, but it is New Orleans.”
“Turned out to be two alligators. Mating.”
“You poor thing.”
Indicating the rod-lined passageway, Jocko said, “You go first.”
As on her previous visit, when Erika entered this new corridor, a blue laser beam scanned her from top to bottom, to top again, as if assessing her form. The laser winked off. The rods stopped humming.
Reluctantly, Jocko followed her to the next steel door.
Erika extracted five deadbolts and opened the final barrier, beyond which lamplight swelled to reveal a windowless, twenty-foot-square space furnished as a Victorian drawing room.
“What do you think?” she asked the troll.
In just the second day of her life, Erika had arrived at a crossroads. Perplexed and irresolute, she needed another opinion of her circumstance before she could decide what she must do.
Jocko did a little moonwalk on the polished mahogany floor and said, “Smooth.” He squinched his toes in the antique Persian carpet and said, “Soft.”
Putting his peculiar nose to the William Morris wallpaper, he inhaled deeply, savored the smell, and said, “Paste.”
He admired the ebonized-walnut fireplace and licked the William De Morgan tiles around the firebox. “Glossy,” he said of the tiles.
Cupping his left hand around his left ear, he leaned close to one of the lamps that featured fringed shades of shantung silk, as if he were listening to the light. “Wednesday,” he said, but Erika did not ask why.
He jumped up and down on the wingback chair—“Springy”—studied the deeply coffered mahogany ceiling—“Abundant”—squirmed under the Chesterfield on his back and made a peeping sound.
Returning to Erika, he said, “Nice room. Let’s go.”
“You can’t just ignore it,” she said.
“Ignore what?”
She pointed to the focal point of the chamber, an immense glass case: nine feet long, five feet wide, and more than three feet deep. It stood on a series of bronze ball-and-claw feet. The six panes of beveled glass were held in an ornate ormolu frame of exquisitely chased bronze.
“It seems to me like an enormous jewel box,” Erika said.
After smacking the flaps of his mouth, the troll said, “Yeah. Jewel box. Let’s go.”
“Come take a close look at the contents,” Erika said, and when he hesitated, she took his hand and led him to the mysterious object.
A semiopaque reddish-gold substance filled the case. One moment the contents seemed to be a fluid through which circulated subtle currents, but the next moment it appeared instead to be a dense vapor as it billowed against the glass.
“Does it contain a liquid or a gas?” Erika wondered.
“One or the other. Let’s go.”
“See how the gas or liquid absorbs the lamplight,” Erika said. “It glows so prettily throughout, gold and crimson at the same time.”
“Jocko needs to pee.”
“Do you see how the internal luminosity reveals a large, dark shape suspended in the middle of the case?”
“Jocko needs to pee so bad.”
“Although I can’t see even a single small detail of that shadowy form,” Erika said, “it reminds me of something. Does it remind you of anything, Jocko?”
“Jocko is reminded of a shadowy form.”
Erika said, “It reminds me of a scarab petrified in resin. The ancient Egyptians considered scarabs sacred.”
This seemed like a quintessential H. Rider Haggard moment, but she doubted the troll would be able to appreciate a literary allusion to the writer of great adventures.
“What is … scarab?”
“A giant beetle,” she said.
“Did you hear? Jocko needs to pee.”
“You do not need to pee.”
“Better believe it.”
Putting a hand under his chin, turning his head, forcing him to meet her stare, Erika said, “Look me in the eyes and tell me true. I’ll know if you’re lying.”
“You will?”
“Better believe it. Now … does Jocko need to pee?”
He searched her eyes, considering his answer, and tiny beads of sweat appeared on his brow. Finally he said, “Ah. The urge has passed.”
“I thought it might. Look at the shadow floating in the case. Look, Jocko.”
Reluctantly, he returned his attention to the occupant of the big jewel box.
“Touch the glass,” she said.
“Why?”
“I want to see what happens.”
“Jocko doesn’t want to see what happens.”
“I suspect nothing will happen. Please, Jocko. For me.”
As if he were being asked to press the nose of a coiled cobra, the troll put one finger to the glass, held it there a few seconds, and then snatched it away. He survived.
“Cold,” he said. “Icy.”
Erika said, “Yes, but not so icy that your skin sticks to it. Now let’s see what happens when I touch it….”
She pressed a forefinger to the glass, and within the luminous substance, the shadowy form twitched.
CHAPTER 49
“FATHER … FATHER … FATHER …”
The Werner thing progressed clumsily, knocking against the east wall of the corridor, then colliding with the west wall, staggering back four or five feet before advancing seven or eight, as though its every movement required a majority vote of a committee.
This creature was not only an abomination, but also a vicious mockery of everything Victor had achieved, intended to deride his triumphs, to imply that his life’s work was but a crude burlesque of science. He now suspected that Werner wasn’t a victim of catastrophic cellular metamorphosis, not a victim, but instead a perpetrator, that the security chief had consciously rebelled against his maker. Indeed, judging by the composition of this many-fa
ced travesty, the entire staff of the Hands of Mercy had committed themselves to this insane commune of flesh, reducing themselves to a mutant mob in a single entity. They could have but one reason for re-creating themselves as this lumbering atrocity: to offend their maker, to disrespect him, to dishonor him, to make of him a laughingstock. By such a vivid expression of their irrational contempt and scorn, these ungrateful wretches expected to confuse and dishearten him, to humiliate him.
Flesh is cheap, but flesh is also treacherous.
“Father … Father … Father …”
They were meat machines who fancied themselves philosophers and critics, daring to ridicule the only intellect of paramount importance they would ever know. Victor was transforming the world, and they transformed nothing but themselves, yet they thought this miserable degradation of their well-crafted forms made them his equal, even his superior, with license to jeer and insult him.
As the Werner thing ricocheted from wall to wall and staggered backward in order to stumble forward, Victor said to it, to all of them tangled within it, “Your pathetic bit of biological theater means nothing to me, discourages me not at all. I haven’t failed. You have failed, you have failed me, betrayed me, and you have also failed to discourage me in the slightest. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
His outrage thus expressed, Victor spoke the death phrase, the words that would shut down the autonomic nervous systems of these anarchic fools, reducing their mocking many-faced grotesquerie to a heap of lifeless flesh.
The Werner thing kept coming, in its tedious fashion, ranting the one word that it knew—that they all knew—would most infuriate Victor.
He had little more than six minutes to escape the Hands of Mercy and get out of the neighborhood before the place flared into a molten imitation of the sun. The coming conflagration would obliterate the Werner thing, answering their blasphemy with purifying fire.
The elevator lay between Victor and the shambling mob-in-one. The stairs seemed more advisable.
Carrying the suitcase that contained every minim of his historic work in Mercy, he hurried away from the Werner thing, slammed through the staircase door, and raced down to the lowest level.