Event Horizon (Hellgate) (97 page)

“Their
what
?” Travers demanded too loudly.

“If you’re clean, come on in,” Grant invited.

“Thanks. Oh, a doomsday bomb was something theorists used to play with, back in the days of some bullshit they called ‘mutually assured destruction,’” Jazinsky said acidly as she, Fargo and Inosanto began to cycle the quarantine lock-in, lock-out capsule at the side of the Infirmary. “Both sides armed right up to the back teeth, till no war could ever have a winner, so nobody ever pushed the button to start one. Back on Earth,” she added.

“Where else would one expect such insanity?” Shapiro said acerbically. “And Lai’a has been searching for any sign of this so-called doomsday bomb. Lai’a?”

The AI remained tranquil. “There is no hint of any such weapon, General Shapiro. I estimate that if it existed, it would have been triggered before this time. The first swarm strike on target alpha will take place in 40 seconds.”

“Stream data to Physics 2 – redesignate as Operations,” Shapiro said in an odd voice, devoid of emotion. “That’s where we’ll be. Mark?”

“I’ll join you there directly.” Mark’s own voice was bleak.

“Doctor Sherratt, I repeat the query,” Lai’a said in a musing tone, “do you wish to transmit to the platform where life signatures were detected?”

“Of course.” Mark paused. “But, do we want to transmit at this moment? I believe I’d prefer to wait until repairs have been made, Number 3 generator is online, ammunition stores are up to
at least
80% … and, ideally, Richard is conscious.”

“Swarm strike on target alpha,” Lai’a announced. “Standby.” Several seconds passed and Travers held his breath, listening to each hammer stroke of his heart before the AI added, “Target alpha is eliminated. The moon has partially imploded; mass remains identical but its volume has decreased by 22.4%. Swarm strike on target beta will take place in 35 seconds.”

“Lai’a,” Jazinsky called sharply as the inner lock opened, admitting her, Fargo, Inosanto and the sled carrying Hubler and Queneau in a muddle of armored limbs. Tim Inosanto went to work on Hubler immediately, while Queneau asked only for her helmet to be removed. Fargo manhandled her into a sitting position against the wall and was lifting off the helmet as Jazinsky said tersely, “Lai’a, if the Zunshu are ever going to deploy some kind of super-weapon, some doomsday bomb, this would be their chance.”

“I am alert to the possibility,” Lai’a acknowledged. “At this time neither tracking nor sensory data provide any substantiating evidence for your hypothesis.”

The Infirmary was suddenly full, little space left to move. Vidal aimed the handy at the newcomers, but they were fully decontaminated. Grant gave him, Travers and Marin a dark glance. “You guys want to strip, or bugger off out of here?”

“Got to go,” Travers told him. “We ought to be in Ops … give us one more minute, then we’ll ... bugger off.”

The last armor segment released almost as he spoke. It fell to the deck as Lai’a announced, “Swarm strike on target beta. Standby.” Again, several seconds lapsed while data transmitted over enormous distance before the AI added, “Target beta is eliminated. Number 3 generator will restart in four minutes. All guns are online. All Arago projectors are viable.”

“Ammunition stores?” Mark asked.

“At 52%,” Lai’a told him. “I have noted your desire for 80% capacity before contact is attempted. Is your concern that deliberate comm establishment may inspire a further barrage, or the deployment of a weapon such as Doctor Jazinsky hypothesizes?”

“Yes.” Mark said baldly. “In fact, as I said, I’d like to wait for Richard to be conscious.”

Grant made a face. “Conscious is one thing.
Coherent
is something else. The way he’s busted up, he’s going to be out of his head on Ibrepal, and even with accelerated healing you’re looking at days, minimum, before he makes much sense.”

“Neural damage, shattered bones, haemorrhage – we heard,” Mark mused. And then, in a tone of pure speculation, “Bill, did you ever read the materials I sent you?”

“The, uh, the papers on synthetic neural grafting?” Grant’s brows rose, creasing his forehead. “Sure, I read them. Page-turners, every one of ’em, couldn’t wait to see how they turned out. But I couldn’t do the work, Mark, not if you held a gun to my head.”

“Perhaps not,” Mark allowed. “But I believe Lai’a could.”

The suggestion fetched a sheen of fresh sweat across Travers’s face. He had not considered the proposition – that the surgery could be performed remotely by drones under the control of a Resalq AI whose database was loaded with very different and much older technologies.

“Lai’a?” Jazinsky had lifted off her helmet and was dragging her fingers through the tangle of sweat-damp hair. “Is this right? You could wrangle surgical drones to do this?”

“Quite correct, Doctor Jazinsky. Synthetic neural grafting is a well understood procedure among Resalq surgeons, and equally applicable to human tissue, with high degrees of success. Synthetic materials are spun according to scan patterns, and transplanted before the grafts are fused in accelerated healing techniques by purpose-specific nano. In Captain Vaurien’s case, the process may be too delicate to be attempted by a living surgeon, who would require more than 20 hours to complete the procedure. However, six surgical drones under my control could complete the same procedure in approximately four hours.

“The nerves connecting the surgical sites can be temporarily severed to discontinue pain during healing; these nerves can be reconnected with synthetic bridging when healing is complete, after which residual pain may be controlled with low-level drugs permitting proper brain and physical function.”

The loop had lapsed into silence which Jazinsky broke at last in a voice like a whipsaw. “You know this, Mark, for sure – in humans? No gaffes – healing isn’t something unique to the Resalq biology?”

“Healing is healing, in both species. The process is the same, as is neural function.” Mark was terse with stress and frustration. “There are never any absolute guarantees, Barb – even among Resalq, sometimes surgery just won’t work. Lai’a, can you estimate the probability of the procedure succeeding in the case of Captain Vaurien, given the severity of his injuries and the resources at your disposal?”

“At least 75%,” Lai’a said shortly.

“Based on what?” Travers demanded.

“The Infirmary is configured as impeccably as a major hospital,” the AI said without hesitation, “and Captain Vaurien is exceptionally strong for a human. He is in excellent health; his biosigns are acceptable and he has been on life support since arrival in this facility. His brain does not appear to have been compromised by an estimated 2.75 minute discontinuity in life function; nano administered by Doctor Grant are currently restoring cerebral tissue to optimal function.

“Also, Captain Vaurien has successfully undergone similar procedures. His cloned hand and the repair of his right leg involve similar techniques, including neural bridging, albeit using cloned nerve tissue rather than synthetic. However, the difference between cloned and synthetically generated tissue is too little to be registered by the human body. Synthetic tissue is currently used in seven out of ten procedures involving humans. The surgery should be successful, with failure potential less than 25%.”

Jazinsky cleared her throat with an odd choking sound. “And if the surgery isn’t successful? Options, Lai’a.”

Again, the AI did not hesitate. The information was given frankly. “His left limbs will be removed. Collar bone, ribs and pelvis will be welded. Nano will remove bruising from internal organs. Body and brain chemistry will be balanced artificially. Prostheses may be fitted to serve him until limbs are cloned. If his life functions collapse, he will be transferred to cryogen pending cloned organs and glands.”

“Like Jai Serrano,” Marin whispered. “And Roark, with his biocyber legs. Like – do you remember
Avi
Hersch
, back in Hydralis, missing an arm, hoping to get a cloned limb after the war.”

“Oh, I remember,” Vidal said softly. He looked gravely at Jazinsky. “What are the risks of life functions collapsing, Lai’a?”

“Minimal but not insignificant,” Lai’a said bluntly. “He will be suspended in cryogen for up to sixteen months, waiting for cloned organs. He would not be allowed to perish, but resuscitation in the immediate future would be impossible.”

“Cryogen’s not an option,” Jazinsky said harshly. “We need him
now
, not two years from now.”

“Synthetic organs?” Inosanto wondered.

“Risky,” Marin mused. “They offered me synthetic organs as a quick fix after I … the
Argos
. Everybody knows the story, right? They also told me, the organs have a nasty failure rate. If they go bad when you’re way out of reach of a hospital or a cryotank, you’re history. Given a choice, nobody in his right mind would accept synthetic organs – and Richard has a choice. He’s on life support in a Grade One medical facility.”

“Bottom line alternatives.” Vidal’s lean face might have been carved from stone. “Lai’a?

“Double amputation,” Lai’a told him without preamble. “Severed nerves curtail pain. He can be functional in a day. Prostheses in three days, after accelerated wound healing.”

“Maimed.” Jazinsky closed her eyes. “Jesus Christ, Mark, can I do that to Richard, to get him functional in a day? This is
Richard
!”

“You’re asking,” Travers said, “how badly do we need him? Do we need him so bad, we’ll maim him to get him back to work?”

“I … yeah.” She looked from Travers to Grant and back, and spoke to Sherratt over the loop. “Lai’a says four hours, Mark, and a 75% chance of success.”

“It’s got to be worth a shot, kid,” Vidal whispered. “Richard wouldn’t hesitate to option the work. The left hand, the legs – he’s done it before.”

“They’re good odds,” Marin said almost soundlessly. “Better odds than I had, or you, Mick. We both came back. And you have to believe Richard wants to live. He’ll fight for this, tooth and claw.”

“I believe he will,” Mark said readily.

Jazinsky was looking down at the pale, waxen face. Grant had slid a pad under his head, caught up the red hair, bound it, and covered the bruised torso with a silver thermal sheet. In the Infirmary’s unforgiving lights, Travers saw threads of silver in Vaurien’s hair, and his heart gave a peculiar lurch. Richard Vaurien had always been one of life’s constants, a value, not a variable. Neil had never given a thought to Richard’s mortality, but seeing it now, here, made him feel his own mortality keenly.

“Neil?” Jazinsky frowned at him with dark, gimlet eyes. “You and Richard go way back, long before he met me. We do this, or we don’t?”

“You’re asking me?” Travers swallowed hard on a dry throat as he looked down at Vaurien. “If it was up to me – I’d say, do it. Mark, Harrison, Curtis, Mick, myself – Dendra Shemiji, Fleet, Daku, Resalq … goddamn it, if we can’t cover for him for long enough to give him the chance for surgery that’ll save his limbs, there’s something bloody wrong with us!”

For a moment the Infirmary was silent, frozen into a tableau, and then Grant clapped his hands. His voice cut like a razor. “Okay, everybody
git
. This place is sterilizing for surgery. Lai’a! Mobilize your drones, tell me what you need. Judith, move Tor’s cryotank – just shove it into the morgue to make space. Tim – give me a report on Hubler.”

It was Vidal who said, “Concussed as all get out, and one of the biocyber legs has gone offline. Means he can’t stand, and he’s a
tad
bit more cross-eyed than usual.” He dropped a hand on Grant’s shoulder. “I checked with Medic Inosanto while you guys were sweating over Richard … and Neil’s right. We ought to be in Ops.”

He was leaving as he spoke, pausing only to look down into Hubler’s groggy face, where he lay beside Queneau, between the morgue and the quarantine airlocks. He cycled the lock on his way out – the rest of the habitation module was still at zero pressure – but Travers lingered a moment longer. He stood with Jazinsky, frowning over Vaurien, and at last it was the woman who said,