“Warlock. High Moon. Status?” radioed War Prince.
Warlock struggled to her feet. As she stumbled towards High Moon, she noticed the crack in her face plate had grown in length and width
“Warlock. High Moon. Status?” War Prince urgently requested. “I’m coming.”
“Hold your position,” directed Warlock as she reached down to check the vitals on the Sky Element.
High Moon’s chest armor bent inward and the Sky Element gasped trying to pull air into her lungs. After snapping the quick release on the armor piece, Warlock forced it from the cavity in the Sky Element’s chest. Scooping High Moon up in her arms, Warlock jogged towards the gunship.
Chapter – 12 The Holy White Hawk
“Go, go, go,” Diosa ordered as she handed the injured Striker up to War Prince. Then she crawled into the gunship and pulled the hatch closed. “Rib damage, difficulty breathing. Get her helmet off and...”
“I’m on it,” Gurvan assured her as he unsnapped the helmet and placed an oxygen mask over High Moon’s face. “What about you?”
“Shaken but undamaged,” reported Warlock.
The gunship lifted and spun to face the opening.
“This is going to be ugly,” Warrant Officer Metta warned.
“I told him about the ship-busters,” War Prince explained.
With the drive rattling up, the gunship shot forward. The gravity of the tramp steamer pulled the Strikers back as the vessel fought to break the bond and assume its own gravity. Then, the pressure released as they left the landing bay and put distance between the gunship and the Osamu Kaito.
“Hold on for exterior evolution,” Metta announced. “The Glynis Gavin has begun her exterior evolution and we can’t catch her before she’s fully under exterior drive.”
“Metta. Get along side of her and stay with her for as long as you can,” instructed Warlock as an idea formed in her mind.
“You know Striker, we only have a yellow ion drive,” Metta explained while the interior drive powered up to match the starting power level of the exterior drive. “I can’t keep up with the red ion drive of a Battleship. If I try, I’ll fry our ion cannon wall and we’ll never escape the blast radius, the gamma rays, or the nuclear electromagnetic pulse.”
“Warrant Officer Metta, Striker Gurvan Mael might not have been clear when he talked about ship-busters,” Warlock described. “There are six nuclear devices. If we can’t catch the Glynis Gavin, we might as well turn sideways, open a hatch, and enjoy the fireworks.”
“Let me make an adjustment and figure a vector. This is going to be close,” Metta warned. “We’re aiming for the side of the Glynis Gavin. I apologize in advance if my math is off. Stand by for exterior elevation.”
Yellow ions flowed from the ion propellent tube, rolled back, and covered the front screen of the gunship. Five seconds later, Metta eased back on the exterior drive, the screen began to clear, but the ion wall vibrated the entire vessel. Clanging like rocks in a steel drum rolling down a hill, Metta ignored the damage being done to the drive. He held the interior drive at maximum.
The front screen resembled an abstract painting - a gray background smeared with red streaks flashing and sparkling vertically down the side of the Battleship.
“We’re losing her,” announced Metta as the Battleship’s hull began to slide forward. They could see the last intake tube but it moved forward as they lagged behind. The pilot exhaled loudly and offered, “We gave it a good shot.”
“There’s a maintenance access port aft of the intake tube,” Warlock explained. “Breach, breach, I’m opening the gunship’s hatch. Put us against her flank. Gurvan, put Moon’s helmet on and help me find a wrench.”
With no other option, Metta closed the distance separating the tiny gunship from the towering hull of the Battleship. As the two vessels neared, the red ion flow wrapped around the gunship and pulled it along while snugging it against the alloy of the hull.
“Down, five meters,” directed Warlock. “and let her slide back about ten.”
“It’s not as if I have a lot of control,” pleaded Metta. “But, here we go.”
Orange sparks from the mixture of the yellow ions and red ions filled the cabin as the side of the gunship slammed into the battleship and the alloy of the smaller vessel wore away. The hatch disappeared and the frame vanished from the scraping as Metta reduced power and adjusted his ion cannons. With sections of the hull seeming to rise and move forward, the gunship traveled down and backwards.
“Hold. Maintain your position,” ordered Warlock as the corner of an access hatch appeared in the expanding opening in the side of the gunship. “Gurvan, did you fine a tool.”
War Prince handed her a hatch wrench and Warlock used the handle to pry on the access hatch. When it lined up, the raised frame of the hatch was inside the gunship.
“Nicely done, Warrant Officer Metta,” Warlock said as she spun off a nut, dropped it and began unscrewing another.
“We’re nosing down,” Metta alerted her to the tilting deck. “The only thing keeping the hatch in place is it’s caught in our frame. Not to be the bearer of bad news. But when the Glynis Gavin nears half exterior drive, we’ll be flung clear in a gunship that’s partially eroded away.”
“Have you always been a positive person?” inquired War Prince.
“I don’t understand the reference?” Metta stated as a big hand reached over his shoulder and slapped the release on the pilot’s harness.
“Really. I like positive people,” War Prince explained as he plucked the pilot from the seat, took half a step pushed Metta towards the curtain of orange sparks. “And I really like great pilots. So, thank you.”
With that, the big Striker shoved Warren Officer Metta through the curtain and into the Battleship.
“Your turn Warlock,” War Prince declared.
“No. Take High Moon and go through,” ordered Warlock as a gap opened between the maintenance hatch and the gunship. Diosa reached out with a leg and hooked it on the frame of the access hatch while gripping the edge of the chewed up gunship. Another shift and she was face up as the deck tilted. The Gunship was attempting to corkscrew away. “Go. Go. Go!”
War Prince cradled High Moon against his chest to protect her where her chest plate was gone. He stepped on the back of the pilot’s seat. With a look of despair, Gurvan leaped onto the side of an ammo drum.
Warlock stood spread eagle in the widening gap between the gunship and the Battleship’s access hatch. Orange ions swirled around her body and she spasmed from the effort and convulsed under the cloak of ions. But most disturbing was the sight of orange ions breaching the crack in her face plate. Even with her squeezing both eyelids tight, the right eye blinked open and close involuntarily as the eye muscles reacted to the ions.
War Prince braced his legs, hugged High Moon to his chest and just as the ions began to separate, he leaped through curtains of yellow, orange and red ions.
***
Warlock’s muscles contracted painfully as her arms and legs stretched further and further apart. But a throbbing ache in the right side of her head overrode the skeletal agony. As if someone were probing her eye with an electrified wire, she wanted to cry out. But her throat muscles didn’t respond. Trapped and waiting to be torn in half, her only thought was, at least in death the pain would end.
Something yanked at her waist. Another hard tug and her leg and hand pulled away from the gunship. Briefly, the vessel hung beside her before it flipped over and vanished. Her waist bent towards the Battleship and she was sucked through the red ion curtain.
Hands caught her as she fell through the access hatch.
“Sorry about using the docking hook,” a man’s voiced stated. “But there was no way I was reaching through an ion flow.”
“Shut up, idiot. She can’t hear you whine or brag or whatever you were doing,” a woman chastised the man. Then softly, the woman said, “A medical team is on the way. You hang in there.”
“Now look who’s talking to the unconscious,” accused the male voice. “And look at her right eye. It’s glowing orange.”
***
The Glynis Gavin evolved into a red comet and departed the sector. On board the Osamu Kaito a fanatic, after breaking High Moon’s seals, reached the ship-busters trigger. As if a sun inhaled before sneezing, the six devices smashed atoms and collapsed the enormous tramp steamer. Then the nuclear blasts ballooned outward in an expanding field of electric and magnetic waves, gamma rays, and particles of alloy from the tramp steamer.
The only ships damaged by the electromagnet pulse were three late departing pirate shuttles. All the electronic circuits within the ships instantly fried, causing them to lose flight control, life support, and sensors. Because of the size of the energy sphere, none of the microscopic remnants of the tramp steamer struck the vessels. And, the pulse passed through the pirates’ bodies too quickly to do damage. It was the gamma rays that destroyed their cells and left three disabled shuttles, filled with dead bodies, floating in space.
***
“Usually, I’d recommend removing the eye but her optic nerve is excessively active,” the neurologist explained.
“That’s why I asked for the consultation,” the ophthalmologist replied. “She’s suffered traumatic retinal detachment in the right eye. It’s suspended in the intraocular fluid like a crumpled-up piece of paper. Enucleation is the standard procedure but the blood vessels are pristine. It’s almost as if a laser removed the retina.”
“What are you going to do?” inquired the neurologist. “I’d love to do a research paper on her optic nerve.”
“Her records show she’s recently undergone cell therapy,” the ophthalmologist added. “Could there be residual juvenile cells?”
“That would explain the robust nature of the retinal ganglion axons and glial cells,” the neurologist ventured. “While the juvenile cells could repair the cranial nerve, I don’t see them helping with the retina or giving her vision in that eye. I think you need the advice of a Molecular Surgeon.”
“And listen to an hour lecture on the possibilities of cell injections?” complained the ophthalmologist. “But you’re right. I’ll ask for a consultation.”
“Let me know what you decide,” the neurologist said as he walked out of the patient’s room.
After sending a message to the Molecular department, the ophthalmologist headed for the doorway. Before he reached the threshold, he received a reply and walked back into the room. To his surprise, a Molecular Surgeon was already on the way to see him.
“Master Sergeant Diosa Alberich underwent cellular rebuilding of her thigh and shoulder girdle at a facility on planet Dos,” the Molecular Surgeon explained as he walked through the door. Without looking at the patient, he rushed to the medical screen and began flipping through the scans. “There is a possibility of active repair cells. What are you calling the incident that caused her injuries?”
“I thought about ion radiation poisoning but her battle suit protected most of her body,” the ophthalmologist answered. “Other than her eye, orthopedics reported only minor tissue and ligament strains. I really don’t know what to call exposure to a combination of yellow and red ions to a single eye. Our normal procedure calls for removing the eye to prevent infection.”
“Wait seventy-two hours and let’s see what the cells do,” suggested the Molecular Surgeon. “These scans show the eye and connection to the optic nerve are healthy. I’d like to observe and watch for any progression.”
“She’s sedated and comfortable. And the internist has enough antibiotics in her that I’m not worried about infection,” agreed the ophthalmologist. “You’ve got seventy-two hours. Then the eye comes out.”
“Fair enough doctor and thank you,” the Molecular Surgeon said as he continued scrolling through the scans.
***
“You want me to do what?” the ophthalmologist asked in disgust. “It’s butchery. And unprecedented.”
“In the last seventy-two hours, we’ve begun growing an eye matrix,” explained the Molecular Surgeon. “You remove most of her eye. All we’re asking is you leave a small section with the nerve endings and enough blood vessels to feed the cell growth.”
“I’ve reviewed the proposal and it’s a sound procedure,” the neurologist assured him. “I can attach the optic nerve to the neural interface.”
“So, you grow her a Frankenstein eyeball that is as blind as a glass eye,” stated the ophthalmologist. “All this because her optic nerve has increased in size from one point ninety-two millimeters to over three millimeters. All you are proposing is attaching a live nerve to a dead eye.”
“Not exactly. The eye will be a stable framework with an active electrical to biological link,” described the Molecular Surgeon. “We’re working with the Ion Electronics’ Maintenance Department on the appropriate apparatus.”
“You have a mechanic building a mini camera to use in a surgical procedure?” the ophthalmologist blurted out. “You are all crazy!”
“Fine! Then the alternative is you perform the enucleation,” the neurologist said in frustration. “And because the optic nerve is mutating, I’ll do a neurectomy and remove a length of it.”
The Navy ophthalmologist saved vision, repaired damage, reattached retina, and fixed injures from foreign objects in the eye to acute scratches of the cornea. Never before in his career had it been suggested or warranted to partially removal an eye.
“One more time, explain the issue with the optic nerve?” the ophthalmologist requested.
“The cranial nerve has grown considerably in the past seventy-two hours,” explained the neurologist. “And, it’s as active as if there were stimuli from a healthy retina. Based on the extreme activity, the Molecular Division came up with a theory. The nerve is seeking stimuli. And, with the increased density of axons and glial cells, her cranial nerve has the ability to carry massive amounts of information. At least that’s the theory.”
“And if her brain can’t handle the additional stimulation?” questioned the ophthalmologist.
“Then Doctor, you and I will wheel her into surgery and operate to remove the bionic eye,” promised the neurologist.
“When will the matrix be viable? And the mechanic finished wrenching on the camera?” asked the ophthalmologist.
“The frame requires another one hundred sixty hours in the nutrition bath,” advised the Molecular Surgeon. “And the mechanic is a technician with advanced degrees in the sensory sciences. It’ll be more than a camera.”
“Let’s hope it’s not more than Master Sergeant Alberich can process,” the neurologist stated.
He received an empathizing nod from the ophthalmologist.
Chapter – 13 Sensory Input
“Master Sergeant Alberich. As we explained before the surgery, if you experience mental trauma or feel discomfort and want to end the experiment,” the neurologist assured Warlock. “We will remove the device.”
“And leave me blind in one eye,” shot back Diosa. “Doctors, if I can handle Striker training, I can handle a camera in my eyeball.”
“Your perception will be different than a normal eye,” warned the ophthalmologist. “You may, at first, have difficulty deciphering the imagery from the camera. That’s to be expected. Eventually, we hope, you will begin to equate what your camera takes in with the object and how you envision it.”
“You make it sound ominous. Nevertheless, I’m ready when you are,” Diosa stated. “Let’s kick off this mission. Plus, I can’t see the eye with the smoky glass goggle. Does it look like a video cyborg? You know, the ones with a laser beam shooting from the rotating barrel in the android’s eye.”
“That’s one thing we can promise you, Master Sergeant,” the ophthalmologist informed her. “The eye appears normal. We matched the dark brown of your left iris. For all intent and purposes, cosmetically at least, it resembles a normal eye. Are you ready?”
“Alert, Doctor,” Wa
rlock barked out the Striker’s ready slogan.
With her left eye, Diosa saw the doctor wave a technician forward. The tech held a box in one hand. As he approached, the box disappeared around the right side of her head and began to vibrate loudly.
“It’s an electromagnet,” the neurologist described. “He’ll make two passes on the side of your eye and activate the…let’s call it a camera.”
“Let’s dance,” Diosa assured him.
“Excuse me, Master Sergeant?” the neurologist inquired. “Dance?”
“It’s an expression Doctor. It means things are about to get exciting so you might as well throw yourself totally into the situation,” Diosa explained. “In short, fire this beast up and let’s see what she sees. See what I did there, see what she sees?”
Buzzing drew close to her ear, faded slightly, and buzzed passed her ear again. Then, waves of pain rolled from behind her right eye, crossed the center of her skull, and flooded her mind with a vision. A twisting rainbow as if a wet towel were rung out and, instead of water drops, colors flowed over the knotted material and drops of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet dripped into blackness.
Involuntarily, her left arm shot up and she cradled the side of her head in her hand. The neurologist stepped to her right side and the ophthalmologist leaped to the other side of the hospital bed.
A light struck her left eye and the ophthalmologist ordered, “Follow the light with your eye.”
As she tracked the light up, down and to both sides, Diosa whined, “My right eye feels heavy. And my head aches.”
“Do you need something for the pain?” asked the neurologist. “On a scale from one to ten, what’s the intensity.”
“Doctor, I’m a Striker. We train to six and this is no worse than rat races,” Diosa informed him.
“I’m sorry, but what is a rat race?” inquired the neurologist.
Op File Revenge (Call Sign Warlock Book 1) Page 12
