Sleeping Player (Project Chrysalis Book 3) by John Gold (novel24 TXT) 📕

of the civilized world, has heard about me. Better leave before they lock me up.

“Thanks. I’ll see myself out.”

The alarm sounds even before I leave the room, the sirens almost deafening me. I have to run in stealth mode, hiding from the staff as they scour the clinic. The first floor and all the exits are blocked by orderlies. Instead, I have to jump off the balcony on the second floor, quietly landing on the soft grass. The antiportal field is up and running, so they don’t think I’m going to leave through a portal.

After grabbing the clothes I filched, I head off for my meeting with Femida.

Logout

***

Hello there, real world! I’m back.

But the first thing I feel is horror at the state of my body. The miserable med capsule is barely maintaining it—all that’s left of my muscles are ligaments and a network of veins. I’m ravenously hungry, my head is spinning, and there’s a taste of… I don’t want to think about what my mouth tastes like. The life support system looks to be doing a terrible job.

The last thing I expect when I open my eyes is for my muscles to crunch. How can an eyelid crack? There’s too much salt in my body—my skin is thick and papery.

I look around to find myself in some kind of warehouse with hundreds of capsules arranged in rows. As soon as my eyes adjust to the semi-darkness, I see a sign pointing the direction to the exit. That’s not what I need, however, as there could already be people waiting for me; I need the elevator to the city. I need a public terminal with infonet access.

Crawling out of the capsule leaves me flopping on the floor. My head is still spinning, and I retch the remains of the medical solution. My hormones are going crazy—I want sex, blood, sleep, food, salt, sugar. I’m really going to have to rebuild my strength soon.

My wet clothes and I crawl in the direction of the elevator, as I’m so weak that I can’t hold my own weight up. But I’m alive. And I got out of Project Chrysalis.

Hanging onto life, happiness, and the real world, I crawl toward the exit from this hell.

Wait, am I in the morgue? Why are there so many capsules? Why is it so quiet?

It takes me almost an hour to find the elevator, and I pee out the last of the solution on the way. That’s enough to send me into a fit of laughter and a new round of retching. I’m not sure how this could get any worse, but I’m going to get out of here.

The elevator takes me up to Arpa’s business district. Skyscrapers, hotels, flying shuttles, and the sky, which I’ve missed so much, all loom above me. Nobody pays the least bit of attention to the skinny guy next to the elevator wearing a hotel robe. A robot street cleaner helps me get to the nearest café, from which I get in touch with Femida.

“This is the worst. I want to get some food in me, sleep, and go see a doctor. Where’s my premium capsule? I miss my orphanage.”

“Pull yourself together, you wimp! What do you think this is, a pity party for you? Where are you now?”

“Arpa, business district, a café called Quidditch, capsule forty-seven. Have you sent the hitmen out yet?”

“You’re hilarious. I’ll think about that,” Femida replies, trying to make her laughter as evil as she can. “Sagie, send me the money, and I’ll have you taken somewhere safe. Nobody will find you there.”

“Are you sure a place like that exists?”

“Believe me, nobody will look there.”

“Fem, are you going to send me to Pluto?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” she replies with more evil laughter. I guess she likes that.

Twenty minutes later, an elderly man leads me from the capsule to an inconspicuous aerocar and takes me to the space port.

Femida made sure there was food and new clothes for me. God, this is the best soup I’ve ever eaten. “Drink” would probably be more fitting, of course, seeing as how my jaw isn’t quite working yet.

The driver doesn’t introduce himself, saying that he doesn’t want to know anything about me. His job is just to get me to my destination and not ask questions. Does Femida scare everybody, or is this just professional etiquette?

There’s an old interplanetary shuttle, a Viral, waiting for us at the space port. They were replaced by the newer Mosquitos more than ten years ago. Their only upside is that the crew is guaranteed survival no matter what happens.

The aerocar driver carries me to the cabin and disappears, though the captain shows up and straps me to the seat.

“What’s that for?”

“Your own safety. You’re too weak.”

“I’m not that weak?”

“We’re going to get thrown around a little during the flight.”

“How is that possible? We’re in space.”

The captain looks at me sternly.

“Believe me, we’re going to hit some turbulence.”

A couple of hours after we leave Arpa, the engines cut out, and I hear a wild crash. Artificial gravity shuts off; the emergency system locks the doors. Is this what he was talking about? Our whole tail fell off!

The captain glances in through the window in the door to the corridor and knocks on the glass. He’s wearing a pressure suit and starts to open the door. Oh, god, the vacuum! He’s going to kill me!

Jerking a little, I remember that I’m buckled in.

The door opens, and I let loose the longest string of curses I can remember from my time working in the space port. The captain’s parents and their mental capacity get an honorable mention, I stop to describe a number of sexual deviations, and finally, the spotlight turns on the captain himself. He’s still