tests. During the first mission into Jupiter’s ocean, though, one crew member had been killed and the others injured. Wo had never recovered from his mangling; Grant wondered if Krebs was fully recuperated.
“Poor Egon,” O’Hara said. “He was terrified of having this happen to him.”
“Couldn’t he refuse?” Grant asked. “I mean, we’ve still got our legal rights.”
With a shake of his head, Muzorawa replied, “Egon doesn’t. Technically, he’s a convicted felon, serving out his sentence here.”
“That’s why Krebs picked him. He can’t refuse.”
“I’m just glad it wasn’t me,” Frankovich said fervently.
“It’s not that bad,” said O’Hara. “Once you get over the surgery, once you’re connected to the ship.”
“Connected?” Grant wondered aloud.
“The biochips link you to the ship’s systems,” Muzorawa explained. “Instead of using keypads or voice commands, your nervous system and the ship’s systems are directly linked.”
Grant felt his eyebrows hike up.
“It’s … different,” O’Hara said. “Sort of a feeling of power, you know. You
Muzorawa nodded. “I’ve never experienced anything like it. It’s …” He groped for a word.
“Intimate,” said O’Hara.
“Yes. A sort of out-of-body experience, yet it’s happening within your own skull.”
“Almost like sex,” O’Hara said.
“Better,” said Muzorawa.
“Better, is it?” she challenged.
Muzorawa smiled knowingly. “It lasts longer.”
Grant changed the subject. “But what about Krebs? Who is she? Where did she come from?”
“She was on the first mission,” Zeb answered. “She was Wo’s second-in-command.”
“She actually piloted the mission craft,” said O’Hara, “and she got pretty badly smashed up in the accident.”
“Some people claim she
“I thought she was at Selene,” Grant said.
“She was,” O’Hara replied. “Recuperating from the accident, don’t you know.”
“She must be fully recovered,” Muzorawa offered.
Frankovich shook his head. “Physically, perhaps. But did you get a look at her eyes? Like a homicidal maniac.”
Neither Muzorawa nor O’Hara replied.
Another question rose in Grant’s mind. “If you were linked with the submersible’s systems when the accident happened, what did it feel like? Did you feel pain? What?”
Muzorawa closed his eyes briefly. “Lane and I were off duty when it happened.”
“Thank the saints in heaven,” O’Hara whispered.
“Jorge Lavestra was killed. Krebs and Dr. Wo were badly injured.”
Frankovich hunched forward in his chair and clasped his hands on the tabletop. “From what I hear, Lavestra had just plugged into the ship’s systems. He wasn’t physically injured. He died of a cerebral hemorrhage.”
“A stroke?”
“Yes, that’s true,” said O’Hara. “Being linked to the ship at the wrong time can be fatal.”
NEW ASSIGNMENTS
Grant woke up the next morning soaked in a cold sweat, his bedsheet twisted and tangled around his legs. Vaguely he remembered a dream, a nightmare, about strangers pinning him down and slicing away his flesh with sharp scalpels while he struggled and screamed for mercy.
It was early, he saw. He phoned Karlstad, but there was no answer. Recovering from his surgery, Grant guessed as he showered, then pulled on his slacks and shirt and headed for the cafeteria. It was nearly empty at this hour, although Red Devlin was laughing and chatting with a few of the early birds. He must sleep behind the counters, Grant thought.
It wasn’t until the next evening, at dinner, that he saw Karlstad again. Egon entered the cafeteria, walking uncertainly, his legs sheathed in the same kind of studded black leggings, wearing the same kind of turtleneck pullover that O’Hara and Muzorawa always wore, his head completely hairless.
Grant left his half-finished dinner and rushed to Karlstad.
Egon smiled halfheartedly as Grant came up to him.
“Well,” he said shakily, “I survived the surgery, at least.”
“Are you all right?”
Instead of answering, Karlstad pulled down the collar of his turtleneck pullover. “Meet Frankenstein’s monster,” he said.
There were circular plastic gadgets inserted into either side of his neck. The skin around the things looked red, inflamed.
“What’re those?”
“Feeding ports. When we’re in the soup we can’t eat regular food. We get fed intravenously.”
“For how long?”
Letting the turtleneck collar slide back into place, Karlstad answered grimly, “For as long as we’re on the mission.”
“My God,” Grant muttered.
“I’ll live through it—I think.”
Grant stayed with him as Karlstad selected a meager salad and a mug of fruit juice. The man tottered slightly as he walked back to Grant’s table.
“Where’s Lainie and Zeb and the others?” Karlstad said as he slowly, carefully, sat down.
“Not here yet.”
“Um.” Karlstad picked at his salad.
Grant tried to finish his dinner, but he’d lost interest in eating.
“You want to know what it’s like, don’t you?” Karlstad said, his voice flat, dead.
“I don’t want to pry.”
“Pry away, I don’t mind. The worst is over. They sliced me up and put their damned chips into me. But first they drowned me.”
“Drowned…?”
“It’s all done underwater. Or in that fucking perfluorocarbon gunk. It’s like trying to breathe soup. Freezing cold soup, at that. Easier to prevent infection while they slice away at you, they claim.”
Karlstad spent the next quarter hour describing in horrendous detail everything they had done to him. Listening to him, Grant lost his last shred of appetite.
“So now all I have to do is learn to walk again,” he finished bitterly.
“You seem to be doing fine,” Grant said.
“For an outpatient, yes, I imagine so.”
Desperately trying to lighten his friend’s mood, Grant asked, “What I don’t understand is why they put the biochips in the legs. Wouldn’t it make more sense to put them in the brain?”
Karlstad gave him a pitying look. “Not enough room inside the skull. They’d have to break through the bone, the way they want to do with Sheena.”
“Oh.”
“The chips are connected to the brain, though. I’ve got fibers running up my spine right into my cerebral cortex. Whatever those electrodes in my legs pick up is transmitted to my brain. Very efficient.”
“There he is!”
