There was a brief silence. The media men made a pathway for him.
“I’ll see you are broken for this!” snarled someone.
Conrad did not even bother to look who it was. He gave a grim smile. “There is nothing more you can do to me.” He walked slowly out of the ante-chamber.
He badly needed a drink. Should he go to his room at Squadron Control and send out for a bottle and sit on his bed and get smashed and feel sorry for himself? No, by God! They would think he was hiding, that he had taken a beating and had crept away to lick his wounds. Let them all see—the ubiquitous them—that James Conrad, Commander U.N.S.S. ret. (he determined to write his letter of resignation before he hit the booze) was not ashamed of himself. Or, at least, not ashamed of his attempt to take off the crew of the Einstein.
Later, as he sat at a table at the Jupiter Bar—the most fashionable rendezvous in Luna City—he began to regret his decision. The bar was crowded, but the seats at the tables near to his were vacant. He had a half empty of 140 proof Polish White Spirit in front of him. He didn’t have to call for ice or tonic water. Whenever he needed them, they were delivered unobtrusively. The waiter who delivered them looked as if he were approaching an A-bomb with a short time trigger.
Conrad sipped his eighth drink and smiled to himself. He was aware that many eyes followed his every movement. He realised that the management was hoping he would pass out quietly without attempting to wreck the joint. He had no intention of becoming violent—but let them enjoy their suspense.
Somebody approached him. Brave fellow!
“Captain Conrad, may I have a word with you?”
By that time, Conrad wasn’t focusing too well. But he could still register the cut of the clothes. Goddamned civilian!
“Haven’t they told you. I’m a bogyman. Go away.”
“I also am a bogyman, Captain Conrad. And I do not wish to go away.”
“I’m a commander now, stupidhead.”
“O.K. Commander.”
“Ex-Commander.”
“O.K. Ex-Commander.”
“If you operate for the media, I’ll probably bust your ribs. I have a good track record.”
“I don’t work for the media, and if you try to bust my ribs I’ll break your one good arm for starters.”
Conrad laughed. “So, we understand each other. Have a drink.”
“Fine. I like Polish White Spirit. It saves a lot of time.”
“Right.” Another glass appeared miraculously. Conrad filled it with White Spirit, but he did not add any tonic. “I’m ahead. Catch up. Then tell me what you want.”
The civilian downed his drink in one. Conrad raised an eyebrow. “You are going to regret that, my friend.”
The civilian grinned. “Possibly. But I am playing for high stakes. My name is John Doe—no, really, it is—of the Extra Solar Commission. Conrad, how would you like a new start?”
“A new start in what, funny man?”
“Deep-space exploration. Your own command. Absolute authority.”
“I still think I can break your ribs before you get my arm.”
John Doe shrugged. “Let us hope it doesn’t come to the test. I’m serious… Face it, Conrad. As of now you are expendable. We need expendable people. Talented people. That means you.”
“For what?”
“Planet-proving. A very hazardous business. We don’t have any reliable statistics yet on the mortality rate, but I think they may be high.”
“Keep talking, Mr. John Doe. And, for your health’s sake, pray that you interest me.”
EVENT TWO Sleeping Beauty
Conrad felt good. He had been out of suspended animation for more than six hours. Now he was no longer physically dependent on a computer-controlled programme or the efficiency of six robots. He was in command of the Santa Maria once more. And, as a good commander, his first duty was to see to the safety of his ship. He was almost disappointed to find that vessel and cargo were in virtually perfect condition. The only damage was what he had been briefed to expect. Pressure meters revealed some distortion of. the emergence shield. He had been warned that when the ship emerged from sub-space, there would be a moment— less than a millionth of a second—when the “impact” of normal space produced tremendous stress. Conrad, who had a master’s degree in astrophysics, could not understand how the emerging of a body into almost perfect vacuum could produce stress. But the mathematicians of ExPEND had given him a going-over; and he came out of it dazed, unconvinced, but resigned. He was mildly annoyed to discover that the mathematicians had been proved right.
As he proceeded on his tour of inspection, memories came back to him thick, fast, heavy. Sometimes like ever-changing patterns in a kaleidoscope. The psychologists had warned him that, even under suspended animation, he would not completely escape the trauma of Faster Than Light drive, or the sub-space jump, as the younger scientists called it.
He was irritated to find that the psychologists had also been dead right. As he inspected the ship, he was able to concentrate fully on the tasks before him. But, on another level, his mind was piecing together fragments of memory as a man might put together the pieces of a jig-saw puzzle. The psychologists had warned him that total recall was impossible. Something would always be lost under extreme trauma. Probably they were right there, too. But the torrent of memories was vivid—as if, somehow, Conrad were desperately asserting his own identity… I remember, therefore I am me…
He lined the robots up and inspected them. Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Peter and Paul. Since Matthew had command circuits, Conrad made him put the others through basic reflex and response tests. They all functioned perfectly.
“Sir, do you wish now to proceed with the resuscitation programme?” suggested Matthew.
Conrad thought about it carefully. The shock of coming out of suspended animation in an orbiting ship was bad enough for a trained spaceman who was used to having to walk on bond-fuzz carpeting in a field of zero gravity. How much worse would it be for groundlings who would have to learn many new tricks? Besides, he still felt weak himself. Too weak as yet to cope with much in the way of abnormal reactions.
“We will resuscitate Lieutenant Smith only, for the present,” he said at last. “If she reacts well, we will proceed with the others when she has recovered her strength—and memory.”
“Decision noted. Shall I enter it in the log, sir?”
“Dammit, I am commander of this vessel, and I write my own log,” snapped Conrad irritably.
“Yes, sir. Decision noted. Resuscitation of Lieutenant Smith will now begin. Will you rest until she is conscious?”
“No. She will need to see a human face when she comes out of S.A. I will be present for the entire procedure… My god, I’m hungry. Can any of you bloody machines knock up eggs and bacon?”
“Query, sir. Please define the term ‘knock up’.”
“Cook, damn you… I’m. sorry. I’m tired.”
“We are all multi-programmed,” said Matthew. “I regret that our responses to idiomatic use of language are imperfect. All of us can prepare hot or cold food. In what condition do you wish the eggs to be and how many do you desire?”
“Two, soft.”
“And the bacon, sir?”
Conrad remained irritable. “Bacon, rashers, three, crisp, hot—execute. Coffee, hot, black, sweet. One half litre—execute.”
Matthew said: “Decision noted. Mark will execute. Where and when do you wish this food to be delivered, Commander?”
“To the resuscitation chamber, fifteen minutes from now. Execute.”
“Decision noted, Commander.’*
“Let’s go,” said Conrad. “I want Lieutenant Smith brought out of S.A. with minimum trauma. You read me?”
“Request noted, sir,” said Matthew imperturbably. “Optimum techniques will be applied.”
Lieutenant Indira Smith looked very small and fragile as Matthew, wearing the thermal gloves, gently massaged the pallid flesh. Small, naked, de
fenceless… Like a drowned child…
Because her body was still very cold, Conrad could see clearly the joining of living thighs to prosthetic legs. The legs were a miracle of engineering, limb design and brilliant surgery. He hoped she would learn not to resent them too much. The ringers of his own prosthetic arm twitched as he became self-consciously aware of its existence…
Matthew began to massage dose under her breast. With his other hand, he gripped the small fleshy bulge near the nipple in what seemed to be a strangely crude fashion. Conrad suppressed an immediate sense of outrage, realising that Matthew was only bringing heat and expert massage close to the heart. The robot was totally indifferent to the female body of Indira Smith.
Looking at the compact form, slack now yet still extraordinary graceful, Conrad wondered once more if he had been wise to choose a woman as his second-in-command. True, Surgeon Lieutenant Indira Smith had already demonstrated her physical toughness; but could she be mentally tough also? In the event of his death or incapacitation, would she be strong enough to assert her authority, command the loyalty of the team, and carry out the proving programme? He wished there had been time to get to know her better, to break through the barrier that had been set as a result of her horrific experiences in Brazil.
But, apart from that complication, women, in Conrad’s experience, were vastly different from men in their emotional and intellectual responses. Their logic was different, they played by different rules, they accepted different values. Trying to anticipate a woman’s reaction to any given situation, he thought cynically, was like playing Russian roulette. You pressed the trigger, never knowing if the gun was going to go bang or click.
Maybe he should have got her to bed—drunk or sober—before he recruited her for the Expendables. In bed, he reflected, women are always more naked than men. He would have discovered much… But, in view of the Brazilian episode, that would have been a tough proposition. A very tough proposition. Besides, there just hadn’t been the time.
So now, here he was, committed to the proving of Kratos with a second-in-command, who might or might not flip her lid at the first real crisis. Big deal! He realised it had been unfair to push her into a position of such responsibility. Silently, he cursed his own impulsiveness.
“How goes it, Matthew?”
“Temperature is still several degrees below independent life-support, Commander. I record intermittent heart response. The breathing cycle is still unactivated. Condition normal for this stage.”
Conrad glanced once more at Indira’s blank face and began to pace up and down.
“You have been at it now for over one and a half hours. How much longer?”
“Resuscitation procedure is being carried Out at normal pace. Satisfactory resuscitation may take between one hundred and one hundred and eighty minutes, depending on mass of subject and physical condition. Procedure should not be accelerated except in case of emergency. Query. Is the situation now designated as an emergency, Commander?”
“No, blast you. I’m sorry, Matthew.”
Without interrupting his movement, Matthew said: “Query. What are you sorry for, Commander.”
Conrad was annoyed with himself. He should have known it was futile to apologise to a robot. “Cancel statement. Continue normal procedure.”
Presently, the breathing cycle began. The compact breasts rose slightly, seemed to assume a flicker of independent life. Matthew opened the woman’s mouth gently, then applied the oxygen mask. The responses strengthened. Her eyelids flickered, opened. Her eyes rolled vaguely, then the lids came down once more. Her breasts heaved and she groaned deeply—a muted cry of outrage.
Presently, her eyes opened and stayed open. She began to focus. She tried to move, and exhausted herself with the effort. She groaned once more.
She saw a body bending over her. She tried to focus on the face. She saw it was a man’s face, and did not recognise it. There was something covering one of the eyes. It seemed to shine malevolently. She shivered, and screamed.
Somebody, or something, she could not see, said in a cold metallic voice: “Lieutenant Smith is responding normally, sir. Shall I begin the primary briefing?”
“No, I’ll do that.” It was the sinister-looking man bending over her who was speaking.
And then Indira Smith began the painful process of recall.
FLASH TWO The Man with the, Silver Patch
Surgeon Lieutenant Indira Smith, late of the Terran Disaster Corps, was feeling distinctly nervous. She was sitting on the edge of her chair in a small room in the offices of the Extra-Solar Planets Evaluating and Normalising Department (ExPEND), which was part of a U.N. project of which, until recently, she had never heard.
She had seen the ad while she was recovering from an abortive suicide bid. Her psychiatrist claimed she hadn’t really wanted to commit suicide, only to call attention to her predicament. She was inclined to agree with him. As a surgeon she ought to have known how to cut her own wrists efficiently. But, then, not too many surgeons try to operate with nail scissors when they are three parts drunk.
The ad was interesting. It said simply: Is your I.Q. high? Are you in good health? Have you one or more special skills? If you are bored with dear old Earth, if an end game in the geriatrics ward doesn’t grab you, if you have no family ties or connections, call us. Maybe we can make life interesting.
Indira had called the number given. A robosec questioned her, checked her Id, recorded her personal details and directed her to attend a London test centre for something called Universal Enterprises. At the test centre, she had been given an intensive physical examination. Then a psych team had grilled her for four hours. Then she had been given intelligence and initiative tests. Finally, she had been routed to this little office on the 140th floor of Park Lane Tower.
It was only then that she learned the name of the U.N. department that had run the ad. She was not much wiser. As far as Indira Smith knew, no extra-solar planets had yet been discovered. The title seemed meaningless.
As she waited patiently for the interview that would decide her future—if any—she felt a ghost pain in her left thigh. She knew it was not real; but it felt bloody real. Real enough to make her surreptitiously swallow an analgesic tablet when the girl behind the desk wasn’t looking. Real enough to give her the hundredth total recall of horror. She felt the sweat break out on her forehead. The cold sweat of absolute fear.
She had been taking part—a very small part—in the Amazonia rehabilitation project. Countless small primitive tribes were having to be catapulted quickly into the twenty-first century because of Earth’s voracious demand for energy and minerals. She had been working with Captain Ricardo Behar—the man she; had hoped to marry one day—in an isolated Indian community when the bandits struck. They called themselves guerrillas, rebels, freedom fighters, and other high-sounding titles. But they were just a bunch of sub-human sadists out for kicks. They made Ricardo watch while they raped her. Twenty of them, perhaps thirty. After the first three or four, she was beyond counting.
When they had finished, they gouged out Ricardo’s eyes. She could still hear the way he screamed. Then they made her chew something that would deaden all feeling. Then they bound leather thongs tightly round her thighs and cut off her legs. She watched them dully, not feeling anything. They laughed and joked, talking about the U.N. woman who would now no longer be desirable to any man. Then they threw her legs into the river.
Mercifully—or was it mercifully?— a U.N. chopper came in before she could die of infection, trauma and the returning agony. She hadn’t tried to commit suicide until nearly a year later, when the controls of a pair of perfect prosthetic legs had been wired perfectly into her nervous system, and she was ready to be discharged from hospital. The limbs were wonderful things of titanium and steel, powered by tiny atomic motors and covered in skin-tinted plastic that was barely distinguishable from living flesh. They were superb legs. They would run all day if she told them to. They could kick a h
ole in a concrete wall or enable her to move across a tennis court in a blur of co-ordinated action. But they weren’t a woman’s legs, they were only bi-integrated machines. That is why she got drunk and had a go with the nail scissors.
It might not have been too bad if Ricardo had survived. At least they could have shared their misfortune and perhaps have tried to make a life together. But Ricardo had been unable to bear what he had seen and endured. He had retreated into insanity. Finally, he had managed to briefly elude his nurses and had hurled himself through a seventh storey window.
So now, here she was, waiting to see if she was good enough for an unspecified job on a project of which she knew next to nothing. Big deal. Fatalistically, she already anticipated the verdict. She would be turned down. Who in his right mind would offer any responsible post to a failed suicide? The man in the next room would have on his desk her psychofile, medical reports, career summary and Id date. If he had any sense, he would already know that she was unstable and therefore not to be trusted. No matter. Next time the do-it-yourself surgery would be more efficient…
Despite the analgesic, the phantom pain still nagged at her. She popped another tablet into her mouth just as the secretary said: “The commander will see you now, Lieutenant Smith. Please go in.” The secretary gestured towards the door leading to the inner sanctum.
The room was sparsely furnished. Apart from the communications console and computer terminal, there was only a large desk and a couple of chairs. Sitting behind the desk was a man who wore a silver patch over one eye. He rose as she entered, and extended his hand across the desk.
“Please sit down, Lieutenant Smith. I am James Conrad.”
She shook hands, noting the cool hardness of his fingers, and sat down. Suddenly, she recognised his face.
“Thank you, Commander Conrad.”
The Deathworms of Kratos [The Expendables 1] Page 2
