"Chalker, Jack L - A Jungle Of Stars" - читать интересную книгу автора (Chalker Jack L)

"But how will I know you?" Savage asked, almost calling after the Voice. "To whom will I go?" He almost said: "To whom do I belong?"
"I call myself The Hunter, for that's as good as any, more descriptive of what I am and far less enigmatic than my brother's name, The Bromgrev, the meaning for which has escaped everyone. The Savage will recognize the Hunter: there is destiny in those linked names." The Voice paused for a second, then concluded, "It is ended. I shall see you in time."
Savage was alone once again, but now there was a change. He sensed that he was returning, going back, even though the term had no meaning. He also sensed the others, rising from their incubators and going to join this new, metamorphosed creature he knew surrounded him.
His world picture had been drastically changed. The Earth was one of many planets, perhaps millions, circling their suns, incubating components for the truly superior evolutionary creature of each world. Mystics through the ages had glimpses of the truth, but they could not comprehend -- or did not want to comprehend -- and misinterpreted what they had seen.
But there were still holes. Just what did these -- gods -- do? If the metamorphosis occurred repeatedly in nature, it was necessary to survival. But whose? And against what did it guard?
He would have time to ask the right questions now, he mused. All the time in the world.
There was light, but everything was blurry. He ached like hell, his right arm throbbing as he had never known before, his every cell screaming at what had been done.
He blinked repeatedly, and the scene came into focus, along with the fetid smells of the dead and its grisly contents.
He was in a human meat locker, stored with the rest of the dead until they could be prepared and shipped home by Graves Registration.
His lips felt dry and cracked, and he could not seem to generate any saliva in his mouth. Even so, he managed some movement, painful though it was -- and managed to croak out one word in such a way that, if any had been able to hear in that terrible room, there would be no mistaking its intent.
"McNally," he said.


3


THE PAIN SUBSIDED gradually.
He was suddenly aware of the cold, and be struggled to get up. A stabbing pain went through him as he tried to rise by balancing himself on his right hand, and he fell off the little table on which he lay and went sprawling onto the floor. Pain tore through his back, rump, and the underside of his left arm. He shook his head violently from side to side to clear it, and looked at his left arm.
Parts of the flesh had been ripped away where his newly warmed body had touched the cold metal table. He stared at the damaged area for a little while. He couldn't take his eyes off it.
Slowly, methodically, and visibly, the skin was regrowing over the injured area. It reminded him somewhat of the stop-action photography of a plant opening and closing. As the skin repaired itself, the pain subsided, then vanished completely. Soon only a few flecks of dried blood remained to show that any damage had ever been done.
His back and rump no longer hurt, either.
So that was how it would be.
A sudden, sharp, incredibly intense pain struck him in the middle of his back, so severe and unexpected that he cried out in agony. Then, just as suddenly, it was gone. He heard a tiny noise of something hard striking the floor. He looked down and stared at it.
It was a jagged, spent M-16 bullet.
Reaching out with his right hand, he was intending to pick it up and for the first time became fully conscious that all was not the same. Like his arm and backside, the skin had grown over the area where his right hand had been. Only it wasn't there, his hand. Merely an ugly-looking stump, ending almost exactly at the wrist.
He exhaled, his breath causing tiny crystals to form in the air. The Hunter had said he could be taken to a place where he might get a new hand -- no, grow a new hand, he'd said. Until then, it was something that could be lived with.
He got up and threaded his way through the stacks of bodies on their metal shelves until he reached the door. A thermometer at its side read 25°F. He felt the bitter cold, but it didn't seem to be lethal, just uncomfortable. His internal body heat, he realized suddenly, was being kept at a high level. Where did the energy come from?
If from himself, it would be bound to do damage at some later time -- or run out.
This was Power. For the first time, he realized the enormity of the forces with which he bad allied himself.
He found the edge of a wheeled cart and sat down to think for a minute.
The word "alien" came to mind -- not the greenscaled monsters of the science-fiction covers, but "alien" in its purest form. As rational, conversational, and human as the Voice had sounded, it was none of these.
'You can think of me as God. . . an angel. . . or the Devil,' this thing called The Hunter had said. But it had admitted to having far less than God's powers or omnipotence, and angels were surrogate humans. The Devil had always been the most human of all. And God created Man in His own image.
Alien.
He must remember that, always.
He decided to get out from among the corpses, if he could. He got up and examined the door, not even noticing the same flesh-tearing sensation when he rose. He knew now. that it would go away.
The door had a bright red handle and there had at one time been a decal superscription next to it in typical military fashion, but the wording had long since worn away. He pulled down on the handle. The door swung open and he fell out into the hallway, a blast of warmth bathing him.
A young soldier was walking up the hallway with a sheaf of papers in his band as Savage plunged out the door and collapsed, half in and half out of the locker.
The soldier suddenly stiffened as if shot. He stared at the apparition that had just come plunging out of the dead locker at him. His eyes were wide, staring.
"Oh my God!" he said, and screamed for help.
Men poured out of nearby labs and offices and ran down toward Savage and the still-immobile soldier.
Savage felt suddenly sick, dizzy, cold, in pain, miserable. He groaned and passed out, oblivious to the hands turning him over, lifting him up, and carrying him to the examining table of a nearby autopsy room.
He passed into a deep, dreamless, almost coma-like sleep.


He heard the sound of a radio playing acid rock. The electric guitars seemed to be keeping time with the pounding in his head. He turned and moaned in agony.
"Hey! Doc! I think he's coming around!" someone yelled, and there was the sound of feet running up a tiled hallway toward his room.
For a few seconds, he thought he'd had the damnedest nightmare in all creation. He opened his eyes to a typical gray-and-white military hospital room. Quickly, he lifted his right arm up and out in front of him. The hand was still gone.
A young man in medical whites entered, followed by a simiiar man with sergeant's stripes on his white sleeves. The first man came over and stood by Savage's bed, looking at him. The sterile hospital smell, ever-present, was suddenly permeated with the odor of foul sweat and bad tobacco. The doctor had obviously had a bad night.
"Are you awake?" the doctor asked pleasantly. "Can you hear me?" He was almost drowned out by the radio playing in the next room. Realizing this, he turned to the medic and said, "Get them to shut that damned thing off, will you?"
The medic disappeared and soon they heard loud talking in an angry, argumentative tone, muffled by the walls and the radio. Then all was peace and quiet, except for some loud cursing from next door.