Jupiter

if it would clog the shower drain, then realized that he really didn’t give a damn.

No matter how many times he told himself that it was all right, that he’d be able to breathe the liquid PFCL just the way Lane and Zeb and all the others did, Grant felt the fear rising inside him. And resentment, growing into anger. I don’t want to do this, he thought, but Wo’s given me no choice. He points his finger and I get dunked into the drowning tank. It’s just as Egon said: Wo pulls the strings and we puppets dance. No questions, no appeals, no help.

He found himself praying as he washed the antisepticsmelling cream off his legs, his arms and armpits, his groin. He prayed for understanding, for acceptance, and above all for courage. Don’t let me make an ass of myself when it’s time to go into the immersion tank, he asked silently. Don’t let them see how scared I am.

Well, he told himself, if Egon can go through with it, I can. Still, his hands shook.

The harsh buzz of the phone startled him so badly he dropped the washcloth.

“Answer phone,” he called out.

From the lavatory, Grant couldn’t make out whose face it was on his desktop phone screen, but he heard the guard captain’s coldly insolent voice. “The surgical team is waiting for you. Should I send some of my men to fetch you?”

“I’m almost ready,” Grant answered, the heat of anger flushing his face. “I’ll get there on my own.”

“Ten minutes,” said the captain. “Otherwise I’ll have to come after you.”

Grant finished his washing as best he could, then pulled on a fresh set of coveralls and moccasins. He went to the door, hesitated. You’ve got to do it, he told himself. You have no option.

Seething with irritation and a growing, helpless apprehension, he yanked the door back and strode up the corridor toward the immersion center. As he stalked along, his anger gave way more and more to outright fear.

The Lord is my shepherd, Grant said silently. I shall not want…

By the time he reached the immersion center, he’d repeated the psalm a dozen times.

The captain and half a dozen guards were waiting for him. Sheena was there, too, hunkered down on the floor by the tank, munching on a pile of celery stalks. She hauled herself up onto all fours and knuckle-walked toward Grant.

“Hello, Sheena,” he said tightly.

“Grant swim,” the gorilla rasped. “Like fish.”

He swallowed hard.

The guard captain came up. “We’re running late.”

“Sorry,” Grant muttered, kicking off his moccasins. Then he unzipped his coveralls.

One of the guards whistled as Grant stepped out of his clothes. “Nice legs.”

The others snickered.

“Let’s get started, then,” said the captain.

“Wait a second. I want to—”

They didn’t wait. The captain pushed him toward the edge of the big tank.

“No, wait,” Grant said, his chest heaving with fright, his eyes wide, darting.

Sheena grabbed Grant’s right arm; she was careful not to snap his bones, but her powerful grip was painful all the same. Two of the guards held his left arm while a third wrapped him around the middle and still another lifted his bare feet off the deck so he couldn’t get any leverage for his wild-eyed struggles.

None of the guards said a word. Grant could hear his own desperate, panicked gasping, the scuffing of the guards’ boots on the cold metal of the floor, the hard grunts of their labored breathing.

The guard captain grimly, efficiently grasped Grant’s depilated head in both his big meaty hands and pushed his face into the tank of thick, oily liquid.

Grant squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath until his chest felt as if it would burst. He was burning inside, suffocating, drowning. The pain was unbearable. He couldn’t breathe. He dared not breathe. No matter what they had told him, he knew down at the deepest, most primitive level of his being that this was going to kill him.

Reflex overpowered his mind. Despite himself, despite the terror, he sucked in a breath. And gagged. He tried to scream, to cry out, to beg for help or mercy. His lungs filled with the icy liquid. His whole body spasmed, shuddered with the last hope of life as they pushed his naked body all the way into the tank with a final pitiless shove and he sank down, deeper and deeper.

He opened his eyes. There were lights down there. He was breathing! Coughing, choking, his body racked with uncontrollable spasms. But he was breathing. The liquid filled his lungs and he could breathe it. Just like regular air, they had told him. A lie. The perfluorocarbon liquid was cold and thick, utterly foreign, alien, slimy and horrible.

But he could breathe.

He sank toward the lights. Blinking, squinting in their glare, he saw that there were other naked hairless bodies down there waiting for him.

“Welcome to the team,” a sarcastic voice boomed in his ears, deep, slow, reverberating.

Another voice, not as loud but even more basso profundo, said, “Okay, let’s get him prepped for the surgery.”

They strapped him down onto the surgical table.

“Christ,” rumbled a disgusted voice, “you were supposed to depilate yourself.”

Grant tried to say that he’d done the best he could, but he gagged instead.

“We’ll have to shave him, goddammit.”

“Get the lawnmower.”

Someone put a mask over Grant’s face and he quickly, gratefully, slipped into unconsciousness.

When he awoke he was lying on his back in a narrow cubicle enclosed with what looked like flimsy plastic screens. The infirmary, Grant realized. Medical monitors hummed and beeped softly somewhere over his head.

I’m breathing air!

The surgery didn’t work, was his first thought. I won’t be going on the mission. He wanted to laugh, but disappointment and shame washed out his sense of relief.

His legs ached. Lifting his head took some effort, but when he did he saw that he was wearing a loose-fitting green hospital gown that reached to his mid-thighs— and his legs were studded with metal electrodes. The flesh around them was puckered, red, raw-looking.

With trembling hands Grant reached up to his neck. Plastic ports for the intravenous feeding tubes had been inserted just behind his ears. They were hardly bigger than penny coins, yet they made his skin crawl, feeling those … those things inserted into his flesh. He knew that beneath his skin the ports were plugged into his jugular veins.

“How do you feel, my friend?”

Turning slightly, Grant saw Muzorawa sitting beside his bed. Zeb was smiling slightly, tentatively, like a man hoping for good news.

“Kind of dizzy,” Grant said, letting his head sink back on the pillow.

“That is normal.” Pointing toward the monitors lining the wall, Muzorawa said, “Your condition seems fine.”

“How long have I been unconscious?”

“About six hours, I believe.”

“You’ve been sitting here all that time?”

Muzorawa chuckled softly. “No, we took turns. I only arrived here a few minutes ago. If you had awakened sooner, it would have been Lane sitting with you.”

“Oh.”

“The surgery went smoothly,” Muzorawa told him. “You were an excellent patient.”

“That’s good, I guess.”

“Better than you know.” Then Muzorawa’s smile evaporated. “While you were under, we got Irene’s autopsy report.”

“What did it show?”