Cyborg 01 - Cyborg

by Martin Caidin

  Or the other way around: The cybernetics laboratory under Killian developed such systems on a scale far below their application to the everyday world; they were more akin to the sub- and microminiaturization techniques of military electronics systems and those developed by the space agency, where reliability and light weight were as vital as the ability to perform. Understanding the nerve patterns of the human brain enabled one to perfect artificial nerve patterns as well, which in turn gave one the advantage of superfast artificial brains to break down in the most exhaustive detail the nerve patterns of living creatures. It was a mutual activity, and Killian’s utilization of cybernetics extended in both directions—from the large brains that could squeeze a century of tracing nerve patterns into only a few minutes of computer operation to the creation of small servosystems that functioned much in the manner of living systems.

  The benevolent despot who ran the bionics and cybernetics laboratories, Dr. Michael Killian, was preeminent among the medical researchers in human systems. Much of Killian’s work involved the nerve circuits of the human body and the brain. The thousands of billions of cells that involve message transfer and reaction throughout the body do not necessarily follow repetitive pathways but vary greatly, and take up strange and unexpected nerve tributaries throughout the body. To analyze the potential number of pathways was a numerical task beyond the lifetimes of a thousand mathematicians. But not beyond the capacity of a great computer, the macro part of the cybernetics laboratories that could produce within minutes an answer that would have taken a thousand human lifetimes. Thus the electronic brains functioned as superfast detectives to trace the almost infinite number of neural avenues within the brain and the body. The answers they provided enabled Killian’s staff to design their man-made counterparts.

  And so the second key—bionics. It was in this area particularly that Rudy Wells was no stranger. His own association had evolved from a combination of research disciplines—both basic and applied—and the rehabilitation programs in which he had for years participated. In the earlier days, when doctors and scientists were still trying to define their new areas of research, the Air Force explained bionics as the “science of systems that function after the manner of, or in a manner characteristic of, or resembling living systems.” A bionics arm, then, would be an artificial limb that functioned much as did the original before its loss to the owner. But in their early research, when they were even adapting the biological systems of beetles to create artificial indicators to judge the speed over the ground of aircraft, they felt they were mixing the craziest part of biology with the most outlandish of concepts in electronics.

  The term itself, bionics, still found ready understanding within only a limited area. Originally it was coined by Major Jack E. Steele, who had been a research psychiatrist at the Aerospace Research Laboratory in Ohio. Dr. Steele was a combination electrician, engineer, medical doctor, psychiatrist, pilot, and a flight surgeon. He created the word bionics as a combination of the Greek bios, meaning life, and the suffix ics, meaning after the manner of, or resembling. Steele taught his coworkers that the scientific goal of bionics was to acquire specific biological knowledge, then reduce that knowledge to mathematical terms (again with the indispensable computers) that would be meaningful to an engineer, who would then produce what the doctors, or the bionicists, if the term was preferred, requested. As Rudy Wells came to participate in the revolutionary field, bionics represented a remarkable step forward because it adapted biology to a new dimension. Until bionics studies came about, biology was mostly a descriptive science. It sorted and labeled the parts of living systems. With bionics, biology advanced to an analytical science that dealt with the specifics of the chemistry and physics involved in the biological processes.

  Now Rudy Wells knew he would be reaching the culmination of his several decades of work as a medical doctor, flight surgeon, psychologist, and bionicist. It all centered in Steve, and the experience would introduce to Wells new dimensions of responsibility. On him would be all the weight of physiological and psychological agony that Steve would know. If they proved successful with Steve, they would open new worlds to thousands of others. Oscar Goldman had come to them from an agency dealing internationally in deceit and secretive terror, and from such an agency’s interest in Steve Austin there might emerge unprecedented hope for many savaged by the violence of accident.

  God help us, Wells thought, especially Steve Austin.

  CHAPTER 7

  “I don’t want you in the room when it happens.”

  Wells studied her carefully, trying to judge the woman, to measure her steel. “Understood, Miss Manners?”

  “I understand, doctor.”

  “Good.” He wanted to be absolutely certain of this woman. Jean Manners, RN. On their arrival in Colorado, Killian had brought her to the hyperbaric chamber personally, saying that Miss Manners was the best nurse he’d ever known. Killian simply didn’t offer accolades. Nor did he bother to explain that much. “I am assigning her to you full time,” he added. “If you need anything, Rudy . . .” He let it hang, then turned and left the room. Killian would not be involved for some time with Steve. Not until they began surgery. That disturbed Wells. He wanted the program begun as quickly as possible. He had already made up his mind to move ahead faster than anyone expected.

  She stood tall and willowy, and his appraisal took in small but firm, high breasts, the straw-colored hair, and a face on which freckles had run their wild course. But there was more; much more. He shook his head. He would make his evaluation later. He would not accept any nurse on first meeting. Not for Steve. This was going to be a long haul, and no matter that Killian broke his own rules to offer her with what was, for him, a stunning recommendation. That would do for the moment. He would decide later.

  Her initial conversation impressed him. She was already fully conversant with Steve’s case. She explained it quickly; Killian had notified her of the decision to bring Colonel Austin to Colorado. She would be assigned to the case, as direct aide to Doctor Wells. She had already checked out Steve’s records, obtained the details of the crash, received the medical records.

  She knew. That went a long way with Wells. He wasted no more time.

  “Colonel Austin will have a full staff with him in the hyperbaric chamber. I would like you to rest during the day. Tonight, at approximately eleven o’clock, I’ll bring Steve Austin back to . . . awareness. I would like you to be with me during the preparatory stages. We will maintain the hyperbaric condition for an indefinite period. After we attend to the initial stage, I would like you in the adjoining chamber. I assume there is a microphone pickup in the main chamber. I want you in that adjacent chamber. I want you to listen to everything that goes on, to observe what you can. However, I don’t want you in the room when it happens. It could be far worse that way. Do you understand that?”

  She said she did. It could be vital.

  She was with him well before eleven that night. He made a thorough examination of Steve, forcing from his mind as much as it was possible to do so the personal relationship. He must be both doctor and psychologist now. Together they strapped the unconscious form to the surgical table. Impossible to predict a physical reaction, what might happen. Steve had that right arm. He could move with it, apply leverage. The straps went across the chest, his groin, the lower one just above the knees where they had amputated. There would be an awareness of those straps. It would help.

  They adjusted the lights carefully. It wouldn’t do for the lights to be streaming into his eyes. Better for low-keyed lighting. A side-lighting effect would be best, would illuminate Well’s own face, provide a point of immediate recognition. That was important. Comprehension could come in fits and starts.

  Wells had Jean Manners prepare a hypodermic of paraldehyde for immediate injection if it proved necessary. He noticed her brows arch when he specified the drug to knock him out.

  “It’s old-fashioned,” he said to her unspoken question, “the
sort of thing you use for belligerent drunks. It applies in this instance,” he said with a sudden ill-temper. “It’s nondepressive in terms of the respiratory system.” She nodded, placed the hypo within easy reach of his hand should it be needed.

  Then it was time. God, he needed a sedative for himself. She saw it, too. She hesitated at first, then decided candor was best. He didn’t appreciate her question but he respected her intent when she asked if she might get him something. His response was curt, even nervous. She felt with him, accepted his mood.

  “All right, Miss Manners,” he said finally. “Time to start.” They stopped the trickle of alcohol into his system. They waited a while as Wells examined his patient. Finally he nodded to Jean Manners, told her to carry out the next step. Her hands were firm, skillful.

  She administered the thyroid. Intravenous. Time again to wait. The thyroid would burn up the alcohol. As it did, Steve would emerge from the deep well of unconsciousness.

  Wells glanced at the wall clock. Twenty minutes to go. Wells imagined himself emerging from that sodden stupor. Steve’s last memory was of the crash. He would remember, first of all, the yawing, sickening motions. Maybe none of the impact. Impossible to tell. But he would remember that he was, or had been about to enter, into a crash situation.

  He had a brain. He would think; he would try desperately to think. A skip-and-bounce process as he emerged from his protective cocoon. Then, within the next half hour, more cohesive thought would follow. It had to be set up by the time when Rudy Wells must tell him. No kick in the head, but no dragging it out.

  Just about there. Wells stared at the face, waiting for the first signs of returning awareness. The muscles moved, twitched slightly. Any moment. He nodded to the nurse and she left silently, taking up position in the adjacent chamber.

  He turned back to Steve.

  His eye moved.

  At the last moment the thought came to him. Rudy Wells reached for Steve’s hand, held it in a firm clasp.

  Steve stared at him, not yet comprehending. Wells knew he saw with blurred vision, a matter of mental groping, of not having the reference points of depth perception with both eyes. The doctor moved slightly to his left, to adjust his position so he was closer to Steve’s right ear. The left was still swathed in bandages.

  “Steve.”

  Just the name at first. It would be difficult for him to talk at all. His jaw was wired shut. The teeth . . . so many of them gone. Keep talking to him, give him reference points.

  “Steve, it’s me. Doc. Doc Wells.”

  The eye closed. A long moment of . . . pain? Something there, something deep and with the first signs of pain reaching him. The pain will be good. He—

  Steve stared at him.

  “It’s Doctor Wells, Steve.”

  A sudden, cruel pressure against his hand. The eye opened wider. “Steve, listen to me carefully. You’re in a hospital. A hospital. Don’t try to move. You’re strapped down in your bed. You—”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Take it slowly, Steve. Very slowly. You can’t talk very easily. Do you recognize me, Steve? Just nod your head if you recognize me. That’s all. Take it very slow, just nod your head.”

  The eye closed. Wells held his breath.

  The head moved, ever so slightly. Steve had closed his eye, but his head moved. Several times Wells felt Steve’s hand pressure increasing, then slowly decreasing.

  “Listen to me carefully, Steve. It will be difficult to talk. Can you open your eye—eyes, Steve? Look at me if you can, fella.”

  A man stared at him from the depths of his soul. The thought processes were running faster now, joining together.

  “That’s good, Steve. Can you understand me better now?”

  “Y-yuh . . . I . . . I—”

  “Slowly, slowly,” Wells said soothingly. “Don’t take it too fast. Can you understand me better now? That’s good, son. Take it slowly. I’ll fill you in. Take a deep breath. Try to relax. That’s better. Breathe deeply. Some more. Good, that’s good.”

  The thyroid had taken its full effect now. The eye looking up at Wells was clearer, almost sharp. Lines had returned to the face. He was experimenting, feeling. Wells saw the tongue moving within the mouth, against the jaw, feeling the slight space between the teeth.

  “Do you understand now? Your, jaw is wired. It was broken. You can talk, but do it slowly, carefully. Do you understand me, Steve?”

  “Yes . . . yes.”

  “Good. Don’t try to move anything but your right arm. Only your right arm or your head. That’s all. Take it very slowly. You’ve been out for a long time, son. But you’re coming out of it. You’re . . . What? Say that again, Steve. Slowly, slowly.”

  “Where, doc? W—where are we?”

  “In a hospital, Steve, in Colorado.”

  “Colorado?” It came out muffled, forced through his teeth.

  “That’s right. We flew you up here yesterday from the test center.”

  “Wh—why Colorado?”

  “Special facilities.” Wells took a deep breath. Time to get into it. Dragging it too far with this man could be worse. Give him enough to let him start drawing his own conclusions. “We didn’t have what we needed for you at Edwards.”

  The eye widened, closed for a long moment, opened again. Then Steve Austin found himself, and the questions came faster and harder.

  “How bad, doc?” His hand squeezed.

  “Bad.”

  Again he retreated, came back with his own growing fear as he fixed his eye on Wells’s face, tried to read what hadn’t been said with words. “Tell me.”

  “Do you remember what happened, Steve?”

  His brow furrowed with sudden concentration. “I . . . yes, I think so. I flared . . .”

  “That’s right. You flared right on target, but the wind got under you. Remember? She rocked pretty badly and you dug in a gear. You—”

  “Yeah. Remember now.” The face grew vacant as he slipped away, back in time to the moment. “Yaw . . . that’s it. She yawed. Nose went up high and . . . and she got away, she yawed. I remember. Nothing I could do—”

  “Nothing anyone could have done without wings, Steve.”

  “Yeah. Nothing. I . . . I remember her when . . . hit. When I hit. How . . . how’s the ship?”

  The test pilot coming out in front. “Sorry, Steve. I’m afraid you totaled her.”

  “Yeah.” He started to experiment. He released his grip on Wells’s hand, lifted the hand before him, brought it closer to his face, flexed the fingers, balled them into a fist, flexed them again. “Looks pretty good,” he said finally, forcing the words through his wired jaw with greater strength. Wells waited for what must come next.

  Strain showed on Steve’s face. “How . . . come . . . I can’t move . . . other arm?”

  “You’re strapped down.”

  “Can’t move my legs, doc.”

  “I know, Steve.”

  He looked up at Wells. “You . . . know?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re . . . okay, aren’t they?”

  He shook his head slowly, extended his hand. Steve didn’t take it. His face hardened.

  “Spill it.”

  “Your legs were crushed, Steve.”

  It took a few moments.

  “Crushed?” He was bewildered. Wells knew he was going back in time. He’d seen other ships go in, knew what had happened to the people inside.

  “You mean . . . can I walk, Doc?”

  “I’m sorry, Steve. We had to amputate.”

  For an instant Steve struggled wildly. Wells glanced to his right, to the needle with the paraldehyde. The muted thrashing lasted several seconds. Steve looked wildly to his right and left, his head snapping back and forth. He fell back from the straps, then, knowing he was helpless.

  “What the hell did you let me live for!”

  Wells held his silence. He was strong. He’d come back by himself.

  Suspicion grew in Steve’s
eye. He tried to roll his vision to his left arm. “My arm . . . it’s not strapped down. Where the hell is my arm?”

  “It was crushed when you hit.”

  “Crushed?”

  “You lost your arm before we got you out of the ship.”

  “Both legs . . . my arm . . .”

  “Yes, Steve. You’ve lost both legs and your left arm.”

  He stared up at Wells, disbelieving. Again his mouth hardened. “There’s . . . more, isn’t there?”

  Wells nodded.

  “Get it over with, you bastard.”

  Wells didn’t even feel it. “You’re blind in your left eye, Steve. A piece of metal, the same thing that took your arm, severed the optical nerve.”

  And then he gave it all to him, in a desperate rush . . . internal injuries, broken ribs, pelvic injuries, possible damage to the main heart valve, slight concussion, jaw broken and wired shut, making speech difficult.

  “I’m one arm away from being a basket case and you let me live.”

  “Steve, we brought you to a special hospital in Colorado. The bionics laboratory. You know about it, we’ve talked about it before.” Wells groped for the other man’s hand, gripped it. “Dammit, Steve, I promise you, you’ll walk, as good as you ever did. I don’t mean just prosthetics. It’s something entirely new. You’ll walk and run and you’ll fly, as well as if not better than before. You—”

  “Get away from me.”

  Well, he had expected it. There wasn’t any other way. It had to come out. Better here, now.

  “Don’t come back, doc.”

  Wells leaned back in his seat, wrung out. He couldn’t leave. Not yet. There were things to do. He wondered about the paraldehyde. Too drastic. Yet he knew Steve would never let him do what was needed. Not now. Not until the fire burned through his brain. He looked up, where he knew Jean Manners would be watching him, could hear his voice.