The Book of Chimera

      Rica Clayton yawned and opened her eyes. The sun was already high and shining through the white curtains: she overslept extremely. Certainly, her parents had got up at dawn and were already working by the sweat of their brows. Literally, by the way, ‘cause even in her room with an air conditioner, Rica felt the sun burning mercilessly. Even though its rays were coming through the white net lace.       Rica smiled. Her father had been wondering all the time why her mom needed these sorry curtains: all the windows were covered with mosquito nets anyway. But she stood her ground firmly. Even if they came home God knows when, once in a week, but this home had to be comfortable. Even more so — the room of their daughter.       Rica stretched herself and gave another soft yawn. Something could be gotten at Mom sometimes… She wanted her daughter to be a girly girl, not some savage from the savannah. And to wear fancy dresses, not her comfortable hiking pants — only when they came back to town, obviously. Hearing all this, Dad snorted, wrinkled his nose, and informed Mom instructively that, first, Rica was already sixteen and her phase dress-like-a-doll was long gone, and second — why asking for the moon from the daughter of two zoologists who specialized in beasts of prey? But one dress was still hanging in Rica’s wardrobe. Only one. Of that impossible green color that could never be seen in the savannah, even in spring.       Some bold sunlight dapple dashed against the mirror on the bedside table and reflected just into the girl’s face — as if it hit her in the eye with its heel. Rica puckered her face and sneezed funnily. Then she touched her nose carefully, and nodded with satisfaction — the skin didn’t peel off this time! — and then she jumped out of bed folding her blanket back.       First things first! Start with the shower, everything else — later. One of the main commandments of any resident of Africa, and it concerns not only those who spend most of the time out in the open. If there’s any chance to have a dip in the water and rinse off the sweat, you should use this opportunity. And Rica’s been spending most of her life out in the open. With such parents, that is.       Actually, Henry and Joan Clayton were from someplace in Europe. They had lived in a quite real big city, graduated from a quite real university, and, supposedly, even earned some degree in zoology. They met at the conference dedicated to the feline family, began dating, and then upped and went to Africa. To the RSA. To some small town in quite a distance from Cape Town. To earn their money by organizing game viewings to study lions as they liked. And they studied them so hard that their daughter was born.       At first, Joan sighed dreamily: well, their girl would certainly grow up and become an actress! Why, Charlize Theron did so, and she’s from South Africa, too. And two of them are of the same color: blonde with grey-green eyes. Although their kid’s face wasn’t a cosmetologist's dream, but decent pretty still, with thin features. Beauty is only skin-deep in Hollywood, and the figure would come with time… But it didn’t work out. The youngest Clayton showed a firm interest in the business of her parents, and after she learned to talk cohesively, she began to demand that they take her with them into the savannah. Anyway, Henry claimed that was the fact. Joan kept her patience for a long time, but she was so fed up sitting home with a child while her lucky husband was watching the pride, that she let it go. Her dreams of an acting career for her daughter went up in smoke from the old shaman’s pipe, but then they had someone to give all their know-how and skills to.       The girl was named Federica.       The savannah was her home. Exactly the savannah, not this town which name she obviously knew but preferred to call it just the Town. She opposed it to the nature she lived amongst rain and shine, both under the starry sky and under the blazing sun. Her parents taught her what they knew themselves: zoology and survival, focusing on practice but without disregarding theory. Rica knew the behavior of all the species of mammals, birds, and reptiles that inhabited their part of Africa, and remembered the Latin names of those species. She knew how to build a fire and to read tracks, to live on packed lunch and roasted snakes (and she didn’t shrink from grasshoppers and maggots), to find water, and to drive her Dad’s car.       The Claytons were welcomed by the fires in the bushman village nearby, and Rica liked it there more than in the Town. She ran with her age mates chasing each other, played knives and shot a bow with boys, gathered berries and made grass bracelets with girls — and listened spellbound to the tales and legends of the old witch doctor. She thought of it as enough level of socialization. Mom grumbled with displeasure, but Dad assured her that their girl would manage to find friends among white people. The more so because Rica didn’t resemble a Mowgli in any way. She communicated without problems both with locals in the Town and with tourists that came for safari. She didn’t shy away from the tech, knew her way around the Internet, watched modern films (rarely but right on target!), read books, and listened to music. Besides native English, the girl fluently spoke French, Afrikaans, and a bit worse — a couple of Bantus languages, native in this area.       And the most important thing — Rica knew the principles of behavior in the savannah. Especially, when predators were around.       Her parents were of those bat-shit naturalists that ventured to try and enter the pride. And it worked for them. Rica promised herself that she would remember this moment until the end of her life when she’d touch a wire lion coat for the first time and breathe in the rich smell of the beast of prey that seemed to be a wild foul odor for touchy-feely Americans and Europeans. But for now, she wouldn’t let come near the pride. She was still too young. However, her mom wasn’t as lucky as her dad, too: she was a woman. And once a month she had to stay in the car anyway. And Henry laughed: he didn’t know where to hide from one heat female with lonesome eyes; now, when there were two of them…       Basically, this was one of the reasons why Rica was now bored in the Town while the Clayton couple was watching the pride migration. But only alone. And that’s why, while splashing in warm water, the girl came to a rueful conclusion that the last day of her suffering was gone and if everything were like before, she could ask the local police commissioner to bring her to her parents’ stand, tonight already. But alas… Even before Rica’s latest birthday, Mom drilled into her mind that the heiress of the Clayton family should go to a decent university, and before that — to the college, not African, if possible. Dad backed her up, and for three months by now, the girl had to study human more actively than before.       No, there was a school here. Joan didn’t want her daughter to be home-schooled only. But what a school could it be in a small African town quite a distance from Cape Town?       Rica spat toothpaste into the sink, sighed, and tied her hair into a ponytail so that it wouldn’t chill her shoulders and shoulder bones. According to her schedule, today she studied world history she was up to speed on more or less, and chemistry that she didn’t know— well, no beans, but something like that. Generally, because she clearly didn’t want to understand why she had to learn it on the zoology faculty in such amounts. Yes, if she had to study, then only to train as a zoologist. What else!? And again, she didn’t agree to leave Africa yet! Not in the least! It’s just that she should make her parents happy from time to time. And improving on written French wouldn’t hurt.       The girl quickly pulled on a tank top and hiking pants, thrust her feet into worn-out sneakers, and went tripping to the kitchen to cook her breakfast. On her way, she clicked a button on the remote from the TV that was hanging on the bracket at the wall and created a sound background. Soon, eggs and bacon began to sizzle on the pan, the coffee pot started its merry gurgling, and the toaster made an inviting ding informing her that the bread in its depths was roasted enough. One of the few channels that worked normally in this middle of nowhere broadcast across the kitchen of what was happening in the world on this nice March morning 2015.       While slicing Cherry tomatoes, Rica looked at the screen from time to time. Today’s news feed wasn’t so interesting. Some automobile show continued its work in Geneva, big deal. Some drug lord had been arrested in Mexico yesterday and wasn’t released until today. A spacecraft entered orbit around Ceres…       Suddenly, the news update was interrupted by a flashback (a new hot word used by tourists): they began to show the story dedicated to the anniversary of the disaster that had happened five years ago. Well, it was only logical: the space theme. The man-on-the-Moon program was kept on ice exactly after that accident. Something odd happened back then: the spaceship with an international 5-person-team went where they needed to, finished its mission successfully, and practically returned, when suddenly—       “Ow!”       Rica stared at the screen for too long and hit her finger badly with the knife. The blood gushed out, and the girl put her finger in her mouth in a hurry, and then put it under the cold tap water, having her eyes glued on the TV. And there, per TV, some pretty female speaker reminded the audience how the spaceship had already made a landing approach but suddenly began to emit smoke and sparkles — and crashed. They haven’t found any causes of this failure — or they did find something but classified it as a secret. Everything was classified back then: what had become of the crew, where all the wreckage went, and all the fans of conspiracy theories raised the topic of Area 51. It was so strange that this disaster was being remembered in so many details now. On the other hand, five years… and they wrapped up the story very quickly and passed on the actual news again.       Rica realized that her finger would soon begin to wrinkle from the water, shifted her eyes to the sink— and froze in utter disbelief.       There wasn’t any cut on her finger.       That is to say, nothing at all. It was a clean, smooth, tanned finger with a filed-down nail and a bitten hangnail. Rica put it to her nose, then stretched her arm, put it close to her face… Intact, as if nothing happened. But it did happen! Although the water in the sink wasn’t rosy anymore for everything was flushed away, it did hurt! The cutting board was splashed with blood—crimson stains among red tomatoes.       She had to check it out. Without flinching, Rica took a knife and poked her finger cushion with the nib. A crimson globule appeared on the skin instantly; the girl licked it off without thinking, and— the puncture mark vanished in the shortest time. Rica stayed still for a while being fully overwhelmed. Then she pressed her long-suffering finger on the tip of her nose and giggled silly. Holy cow! What do we face right now?       No, she knew about mutants and what they were. And she knew that their abilities manifested during puberty. But— but all of it was somewhere else, far away, in America, in China, in England with the world-famous school for gifted youngsters owned by Professor Charles Xavier, and Rica saw it sometimes on TV… But it was never here. Not in her familiar homeworld of dusty grass and cloudy water. Here and now she’d rather believe in shapeshifters and spirits that the bushman witch doctor often told of while sucking on his worn-out little pipe.       Then Rica realized something all of a sudden and giggled again, but tricky this time. That was interesting: they said on TV that mutations would run in the family on the maternal side. And what Mom had to say about it? Well, Mrs. Joan Clayton would have to answer some questions, and before too long, for that matter! And that meant what? That meant — good-bye, chemistry!       Inspired, the girl swallowed her breakfast in a flash (though it was cooled off now a little), cleaned the kitchen at break-neck speed, and shut down the TV. Then she threw on her jacket and a ball cap, stuffed some useful things in her pockets (money, phone, keys), ran out the door, and darted off to the police station.