The Abdominal Snowman

"And what about these renegades, Director McMurtey? Will you push for prosecution? Slander?"

"No, Betsy. They may not have hearts, but I do. I've already forgiven them for the lies they spread."

"Such compassion," Betsy wiped at a nonexistent tear in the corner of her eye. "And even though the military fleet is oppressing the knowledge rights of my loyal viewers, an anonymous source reported that you had personally approved an aid and reparation program for the snowman tribe that was... invaded? What do the people of the world need to know about this extreme charity?"

"Now, Betsy," McMurtey chuckled. "You know I can't divulge classified information. But, I can confirm our assistance in the matter. Once the privacy issues are dealt with, I'd love to give you an exclusive look at the assistance we're giving the creatures."

Chastity turned off the television and gave the remote control a disgusted toss back onto the bedside table. "That wasn't even good acting," she said.

"He's covering it up," Chauncey said.

"He's good at that."

"He always seemed so nice at the fundraisers. Pauline always spoke highly of him. Now I understand why." Chauncey paused before adding, "Has there been any word? Has she been found?"

It was clear in his voice that he already knew the answer.

"No. After I..."—she made a chopping motion with her hand and nodded at his arm—"did that and sent out the emergency rescue alert from the transport pod, she and her people scattered. They haven't been located yet."

"Did they find the remaining cryophage canisters?"

"No. Or, if they did, the government is keeping it quiet."

"And the other items?"

"Hidden."

Chauncey nodded, keeping with the secret agreement they set out before leaving Antarctica. "Director McMurtey named all of them. Pauline. Allie. Doug. Amanda. That murderous little letch whose name I can't recollect—he tried to kill me, so I don't feel bad about that lapse at all. But he left our names out. Why?"

"I don't know," Chastity said. "It can't be good."

"I suppose he has plans for us, dear girl. And knowing what I do of the man now, I don't think that can be good at all."

*

Chastity wandered into the apartment and collapsed on the sofa next to Leo. She leaned against him without truly leaning into him. If he noticed the subtle differences—the slight distance in the way she touched him—he didn't mention it. He only pulled her close with a muscled arm that was warm and heavy, and, now, less comforting. He had been a rock for her since the rescue from Antarctica and she appreciated the efforts he was making.

"It's normal," he said, ignoring the chaos of brown hair that the summer humidity and Diablo winds had left her with this afternoon, and kissed the top of head. "I see it a lot in my business. Trauma changes people."

"Do they ever change back?" Chastity asked the question just fill the silence. She already knew the sad truth of the answer. She would never be the person she was before the virus, before Chamfield and Antarctica. That person was gone forever, and every day she had less and less idea of who she was now.

"Sure," he lied. "It just takes time."

"I think Chauncey knows," Chastity said. "He asked about the cryophage again. He's trying to give me an opening to tell him the truth."

"That's just paranoia talking." Leo paused and added, "You could tell him. He would understand."

"He would blame himself."

"He saw what that monster was capable of. It was the right thing to do."

"I know," Chastity said as she loosened herself from Leo's embrace and stood. "It's been a long day. I'm going to take a shower." She walked from the living room before he could ask if she wanted him to stay the night.

Chauncey wouldn't understand—just like Leo wouldn't understand if she told him about the soul-scorching desire she had felt with Khor, and would likely never feel with him. Monster or no, if Chauncey knew that she made Khor lead her to the grotto so she could activate and pitch every last cryophage canister into the water so it could lock the creature into a frozen mass for the next century? He would blame himself for even telling her what the cryophage was capable of.

Caleb had been an accident and the rescue team assured her they would transfer him to a specialized hospital to have the nanites deactivated before any long-term damage could be done, but intentionally using the cryophage? She knew that deep inside, no matter how much he might want to, Chauncey didn't have that depth of forgiveness. She forced herself to push the issue away. If she didn't, it would lead to an emotional quagmire would keep her awake for the rest of the night.

Chastity turned on the shower so the sound of running water would provide cover against Leo's exceptional ears, and knelt in front of the sink and took out the bottom cabinet drawer. She lifted it off its tracks carefully to expose her secret hiding place—where she had kept the pheromone inhibitors back when she still needed them. The niche held a mystery now she and Professor Adams would have to solve in secret. She reached into the open rectangle of space and took out the seal-stomach sack that Khor gave her. A gentle and diffuse blue glow radiated from what was contained inside—the blue crystals that were abandoned in the nylon and metal remains of Allie's cast off clothing. They were, Chastity knew but was mindful not to reveal to Chauncey, that they were the same as what was speckled throughout the monster's wet home in the grotto. What they were, neither knew. But she was afraid they would need to find out quickly to save herself and her friends from whatever The Think Tank, Ashford, or Pauline had planned next.

*

Charles McMurtey exited the elevator and stepped into one of the many top-secret sub-basement labs. It was his least favorite—cold with sterile white walls, and, more often than not, the one that the loudest screams came from. Today it was pleasantly quiet, except for the enthusiastic chatter of the two men standing in the center of the room, side by side at the stainless steel dissection table.

"Doctor Frye. Doctor Ashford," he said as he approached. "I hope the extraction process is going well."

"Beautifully," Georgie Ashford said. He raised his eyes—magnified behind his glasses—from his latest work in progress and smiled at McMurtey. "The area of contamination was small but Tom and I have modulating the activity of the cryophage nanites to allow for a controlled spread. The data we are getting is incredible. The life form isn't digesting the subject—I don't know that we have an appropriate word for the process yet—it reshapes flesh and bone on multiple levels—even the molecular. It's a kind of biological philosopher's stone. Here, observe the area of metamorphosis on the subject's chest.

McMurtey stepped to the side of the dissection table and inspected the frozen body of Caleb Burns. Stripped naked and less human than he had been a week ago.

"Tom, dial down cryophage activity in the initial infection site to five percent. Surface level to oh let's say half an inch. That should suffice, don't you think."

Tom Frye, the mad scientist's nephew, ran his finger along the screen of the control pad he held. The thin layer of frost disappeared from an area about the size of a deck of cards on the subject's left pectoral. The skin had tumorous, black and grey outgrowths that quivered as they thawed. The flesh melted and an inhuman eye bulged up and considered each man in turn.

"It's completely functional," Ashford said. He toggled a switch on the dissection table and the light above flared bright. The irregular gash of a pupil constricted before the eye liquefied and sank away. "Whatever this organism is, it can create and disassemble organ systems as the need arises. It made a mouth earlier and snapped at Tom's little finger when he got carelessly close."

It didn't sound as if Ashford would have been heartbroken if the thing had actually torn a piece off his nephew. "Is there an intelligence to it, or are these a manifestation of some primal instinct?"

"As yet to be determined," Ashford said as he let out a maddening giggle. "But it'll be so much more fun if there's an intellect."

"Yes. Well. You know our motto: Experiment and explore. Do what you have to for science, Doctors." McMurtey turned to leave.

"Charles?" Ashford's voice lost the air of lunacy that was characteristic of those affected by the mad scientist gene. "I hope that my Chastity is well?"

McMurtey paused, caught by the unsettlingly calm nature of the man's words, and the way the rise and fall in his voice made it clear he wasn't really asking a question.

"She is. We have her under constant surveillance. On a typical day she spends most of the morning at the hospital with Adams, wanders about town for errands, then goes home."

"Good. Please make sure she stays that way."

McMurtey started again to the elevator.

"And, Charles, it isn't good for her to be at home with that blond hulk all the time—she needs something to occupy her time. I see from the news that there are recent openings at that college she was once refused an adjunct position at. Arrange for a position for her. Full-time. Tenure track. A decent starting salary. No expeditions for now—she should be close. You will arrange that, no?"

"She'll have an offer by the end of the day."

"You're as lovely and kind a man as that droll Betsy Chase tells the masses, Director McMurtey," Ashford said, breaking out into a soft, sardonic cackle.

McMurtey pressed the elevator button, not rising to the jab.

He watched the two men and straightened his shirt cuffs as the doors slid closed, wondering to work out exactly when he had lost control and how exactly he could wrest it back.