The Chrysalid Conspiracy Read online

  Contents

  Dedication

  Synopsis

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Book Two Preview

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my wife, (my best friend and mentor,) and our extended family for their support, encouragement and extreme tolerance, with a special thanks to Amelia Jayne, my inspiration, for her courage and determination in the face of her disability.

  Synopsis

  Two adolescent school girls discover they are victims of a genetic experiment to enhance their faculties. Although forced to keep a low profile at school, witnessing their Headmaster’s suicide accelerates their development drawing them into conflict against powerful enemies; where science and myth are almost indistinguishable. Joined by a third ‘victim’, the trio become confused and frightened by a burgeoning telepathic sense, and as the body count rises they form a hypothesis; that they are being prepared by the remnants of an ancient ‘super race’ to rescue mankind from some impending mass extinction event? And can they face the destiny thrust upon them?

  There are no runes or angry gods, only the stars like sand.

  Will she who guides the ‘Mill’ return, Once more to seed the land.

  (Nordic Mythology)

  Chapter One

  Amelia knew she was dreaming, at least at first, but who remembers the beginning of a dream? It’s as if some somnolent personal cataclysm triggers a response, leaving the sleeper dropped in at some crisis point trying to find a logical reference to an illogical concept.

  Fortunately, or unfortunately, this wasn’t Amelia’s first experience with this particular dream, but on this occasion that thin layer of reason, the barrier that protects the conscious from the subconscious during sleep, was swept away by an almighty crash of thunder, screaming its age-old warning out of the darkness. Travelling from the base of Amelia’s neck and using her skull as a resonance chamber the amplified sound sliced through her overloaded senses, peeling away her very being before lodging in her temples. The violent flashes of lightning surrounded her as if searching for a target and the combined bone wrenching thunder told her the storm was directly overhead. It made her mouth taste of fear, as though she’d eaten something, which had been dead for a very long time; with fur.

  Forcing her eyes open she squinted through wind driven rain, each drop as cold as iced needles with the after effect of a bee sting. It lashed at her body, her only protection being her inadequate nightclothes; T shirt and boxer shorts. Standing on a wide tree branch she was unable to decide whether it was instinct or something more primordial that prevented her from looking down.

  Turning towards the trunk she found herself looking at a wall of ancient gnarled bark with a torrent of rainwater pouring down the maze of indentations and growth furrows in a bid to reach the roots first. Needing something solid to hang on to she took an unsteady step forward, slipped and plunged into the bole formed by the join to the main trunk. A mass of rotting vegetable matter, insects and animal faeces turned to primordial soup by the rain left her on the edge of hysterics as she climbed out. With humans never having evolved beyond this level of tolerance her only response was to retch in disgust, the only up-side being the driving rain scouring her free of the repulsive slime. Foliage lashed at her relentlessly while she crouched on the branch of this giant tree while she tried to piece her mind back together. She felt more than heard her name being called, again?

  “Amelia!” Although the cry wasn’t loud, it was heavy with fear and she knew she had to hurry, but where to? Which way? Where was she? With the thunder reverberating in every bone in her body, rain lacerating her skin and the wind trying to force her into the abyss below her, she used the almost continuous flashes of lightning to make her way along what seemed to be a well-worn path. Looking back to where the trunk should have been, she could just make out through the chaos of the storm that the branch and the path curved away and down into the darkness to vanish into a three dimensional tangle of giant branches and foliage, flash lit by the lightning and stretching out in all directions into the night. The trunk had vanished and once again panic reached out to her, perspective toyed with her mind and she could no longer judge distance or time.

  The panic dissipated as quickly as it had arrived to be replaced by an almost uncontrollable fear as she felt a presence. Some instinct, or was it a memory, warned her there was someone or something close by, above her. Trying to control the madness clawing at her mind she realised she was being hunted and fled, not knowing from what or to where.

  Leaping from branch to branch with a practised ease, swinging and diving through and over secondary growth she was moving with a strength and balance with which she was as confident as she was unfamiliar. There was no fear of falling as she moved through the tree – it was as if she were born to it, and as her body adapted itself to this new dimension her mind grappled with reality to try and control the situation.

  The terrain under her feet changed. She was now running on grass; in a tree? There were shrubs and plants, a patch of freshly dug earth. She was in a garden, speeding past a crude dwelling of some sort; an open-fronted structure of woven branches covered with broad leaves. The noise of the rain hitting the hollow shelter was deafening.

  Amelia skidded to an ungainly stop. A small fire lit up the interior of the hut revealing a woman sitting on a stool among the curious angles and shapes in the shadows and that she was of all things, playing a cello. As the bow drew slowly across the strings the sonorous sound somehow undermined the storm, stealing its intensity, offering hope. By the light of the fire she was astounded to see that the bow was actually a long, flat-bladed sword. All other dangers suspended, Amelia stood spellbound by this bizarre scene.

  The woman moved and deftly threw the sword to her. It tumbled end over end and she caught it expertly by the handle. The weight and balance were perfect and Amelia knew, somehow, that it was her own weapon.

  “Quickly, hurry!” the woman shouted to her, Amelia turned and ran on. The sword felt as if it were part of her, moving with her rather than being a burden. She skidded to an abrupt halt just in time as the garden gave way to – nothing?

  An astronaut had once visited her school and explained that without gravity your concept of up and down was dictated by the position of your head and feet so, if you stand at the door of your spaceship and look ‘down’, you begin to realise that down is forever. Amelia knew now exactly what he’d meant; only this time someone had taken away the stars. This is all wrong, she thought as she stepped back from the abyss. Where am I? I want this over with, right now.
But the storm thundered around her, mocking her human fragility and confusion.

  The silent voice called her again, much weaker now and exhausted, and as her sense of predator grew sharper she knew she had to go on; there was no choice. Grabbing a hanging vine, she swung out into the darkness. What am I doing? Why me? She thought, half terrified.

  Someone laughed. It was a woman, and the laugh was one of sheer elation. You’re too late Amelia, she’s mine now. It called.

  Amelia heard the voice with its faint trace of a foreign accent inside her head. It seemed to come from outside the storm, somewhere between a dream and reality. She hoped it was a dream, otherwise she was already dead. Not knowing how, she used the silent sound as a direction finder and looking up saw a shadow swinging towards her, sword poised for attack. With a skill she was unaware of Amelia managed to deflect the initial blow and had time for a defensive slashed at the figure, but she was too late, agile as a cat the shadowy figure moved above her.

  There was a flash of reflected light as her sword sliced through the vine Amelia was on, and she was falling, falling down into the darkness which closed in around her. She could see nothing. The laughter had stopped and she felt the other voice again, somebody calling her for help. The voices, the storm, the cello – all faded away as she plummeted through a black abyss of fear. No sight or sound, no light or dark, not even time or space, just complete and utter emptiness. She tried to scream but no sound emerged.

  Landing on her back, pain tore through her body, she tried to roll but something was clawing at her legs. Dragging air into her lungs through the pain, she lashed out with her sword, but the creature clung more tightly. Panic verging on madness engulfed her as she kicked her way free and rolled clear. The thing seemed poised to attack her again. Was it moving? She could see its single large eye – a great glowing green eye that told her it was 2.47 a.m.

  The next flash of lightning showed up the straight lines and familiar angles of her bedroom. She was on the floor about to attack her crumpled, lifeless duvet with a hair brush. The thunder from outside laughed at her as she became fully awake.

  Struggling upright, her back hurting between the shoulders where she’d hit the floor, clammy with sweat and disorientated she stared reality in the face muttering, “Not again,” now fully awake.

  Getting up from the floor she made her way out to the landing and flicking on the hall light and ran down the uncarpeted stairs, leaping down the last few and, using the newel post to change direction she landed on the stone floor of the long wide corridor. Ignoring the cold medieval flagstones against her bare feet she didn’t break her stride as still shaking and breathless she broke into a run.

  Silently she passed the wide French window-style double doors on her left which opened onto her mother’s flower shop, then the kitchen and bathroom to her right and her mother’s bedroom at the end of the corridor.

  It was a large room, longer than it was wide – but with the traditional ancient oak beams, low ceiling and the dim light from the bedside lamp, it looked more like a cave. What furniture there was had been placed against the walls to allow her mother to manipulate her electric wheelchair and gain access to her dressing table and personal belongings.

  Moving over to the bed Amelia looked down at her mother’s slight figure; her light brown matted hair framing a face wet with perspiration, murmuring as her head moved from side to side and Amelia could see her eyes moving under her eyelids as she struggled through her own nightmare. Returning from the bathroom with a damp flannel and a dry towel, she folded the flannel and laid it across her mother’s forehead. Taking her hand, she gave it a gentle squeeze and the murmuring stopped. Her mother opened her eyes, dazed and confused. She reached up, felt the cool dampness on her forehead and gently wiped her own face.

  “Hello,” she said as her eyes focused on her daughter. “Where did you come from?”

  “Really mother, weren’t you paying attention during biology classes?” Amelia laughed.

  Lucille Jaxson gave her daughter a long look. “What would you prefer for your birthday next week? You can choose between adoption and a DIY euthanasia kit?” They both laughed and Lucy assured her daughter that she was fine and had no memory of any nightmare.

  “That’s a bad storm we’re having,” Amelia remarked with an anxious look.

  “That’s okay, love. This old house has stood here for a long time. I expect it’s seen worse than this,” said Lucy.

  “Well, Mum,” Amelia argued. “This building and that old stone bridge next door has stood here for almost two hundred and fifty years. They’ve got to go sometime.”

  “It’s not done too badly really,” countered her mother. “Although I don’t suppose they could have imagined the volume of traffic it would have to take. Still, it seems to be coping well,”

  “It was probably the thought of forty-ton, Eighteen-wheelers belting over it that drove poor old King George Mad.” replied her daughter.

  “You have a point I suppose,” said Lucy. “Would you change my top pillow please, love? It’s damp.” Amelia did as she was asked, then settled her mother down.

  “Do you want me to turn you?”

  “No thanks, I’m fine. It’s nearly time to get up anyway. Go and get some more sleep, that’s if you can in this”. Lucy gestured towards the window, which was defending them gallantly against the elements.

  Back in her room Amelia’s clock told her it was 3.06 a.m., and picking up her ‘dead’ duvet she climbed into bed and lay there thinking about the night’s events. It wasn’t really surprising that these dreams, or rather nightmares, always occurred during violent thunderstorms, but hers was almost always the same one; not that she could tell at the time, the same unheard voice urging her on, a predator, the same sword and that terrifying fall.

  She knew it was her mother calling to her, begging the question; was it her own dream or her mother’s?

  Amelia was reminded of one particular night when, after that final fall, she’d landed right next to her mother’s bed, just in time too as her mother had been thrashing around in her sleep and was about to fall out of bed, not so good if you’re paralysed from the waist down. How could they both be in the same dream? Even more worrying was how she had managed to get out of bed and downstairs before she’d woken up?

  She always recognised the tree she was in; there was one in her mum’s workshop, or ‘lab’ as she called it. A Bonsai, a specially-cultured miniature, one of several different types her mother owned and it was this hobby, profession and special skill that had made her one of the foremost tree experts in the county.

  As a young child Amelia had gazed at the ‘Monkey Pod’ tree imagining tiny people living in its branches. She had no idea where ‘Yucatan’ was, but she’d vowed to go there someday and find a real one, with long sweeping lower branches that she knew could grow wider than it was tall. She’d spent a long time visualising a tree over eighty feet tall. Most of all, she wanted to meet a tree that could close its leaves to let the rain pour through.

  Mother, she thought, if you’re messing with my head, could you please cut out the nightmares? That fall is dead scary, not to mention painful and her last thought before she fell asleep was Why a sword?

  ***

  I hate Fridays,” Amelia was saying even before she was awake. She lay in bed listening to the rain hammering at the window as if demanding access. The inflated river sounded like a demented wild animal as it tumbled down through the High Lakes gorges, passed under Amelia’s bedroom window and gave a thunderous roar as it dived for freedom under the old stone bridge.

  Sometimes she imagined how nice it would be if the house lost its grip on the river bank and they could all float away together. She loved that river. Particularly at this point, where it squeezed itself under the bridge then slowed to conceal its power like some resting beast.

  Salmon had once fought their way up to their breeding grounds, but the lakes were now officially a ‘Government Research Station;
’ in reality a fish farm making a lot of money for somebody who already had a lot of money

  She smiled as she remembered winning the primary school competition with her ‘River’ poem, and receiving a beautiful pencil case as first prize.

  A few days later someone had stolen it.

  Her alarm clock intruded violently into her gentle meanderings, as was its way. Sitting up, she turned it off and flicked on her bedside lamp. It flickered and died and she sat in the dark, staring at the green numbers of her clock, which was silently screaming at her to get out of bed. Why let clocks run our entire lives? She thought. Allowing them to tell us what to do and when to do it? Hurry-up, catch the bus, and get to school. Alice in Wonderland’s rabbit popped into her mind, pushing away the mood, which was in danger of settling in.

  Wouldn’t it be nice to live in a world with no clocks? She thought. No need to measure time in tiny inconsequential bits. To do things when you wanted to, or when they needed to be done. Free from the rigid structure of a controlled environment. “Vote for cosmic anarchy! That’s what I say.” She said to the little digital clock, raising a fist to the heavens.

  Putting on the main light, she looked around her room. Cat-swinging wasn’t an option, but it was okay as she didn’t have a cat. If she tried to exercise, which she did a lot, she found if she wasn’t very careful she’d scrape her knuckles on the old cracked and uneven ceiling. The floor wasn’t much better and would one day probably collapse into the living room below. The whole building was well past its sell-by date. The outside front and shop was a picture postcard country village florist, but behind the facade it had been badly treated as it had lurched from owner to owner over the last two and a half centuries.

  When Amelia had asked to move upstairs this had been the only usable room. She had planned to redecorate, but for some reason her mother had refused point blank to spend any money on anything except the shop and her own disabled needs. This was fair enough, but Lucy hadn’t reckoned with her daughter’s expert nagging and well-rehearsed ‘spontaneous’ tantrums.