The migraine flared again, its roar insanely painful and debilitating, an angry beast wanting to grow into one of those monsters that sometimes forced him to bed in a darkened room until 50 or 100mg of Imigran kicked in.
"I . . ." the medic said. "I will . . . I will tell . . ."
Rourke held his breath again, this time with a sense of shocked hope. So the migraine was affecting it. It was overloading. If that was the case then what would more pain signals do? He gripped the M9 tight and aimed it at the meaty flesh of his calf. Would another bullet tip it over, overload it completely?
"I will . . . tell . . . Doctor Zealoto you were a valued subject," the medic said.
Rourke's finger froze on the trigger as the migraine sank away. This was insane. He couldn't shoot himself. No matter what the circumstances, he couldn't do it. Besides, even if it did work, what would he do until the medivac arrived. He stared at his watch. Six minutes since Bieber's message. Could he stand the pain of a razor tooth for nine minutes, five minutes, a minute? Beads of sweat rolled down his face. Did he need the very thing that was now slowly killing him?
The medic said, "I have released more epinephrine to counteract a drop in your blood pressure."
Rourke's pulse stabilized. He let the pistol slip from his hand.
"Have you any more questions for me, Jake?"
"Yes." Suddenly Rourke wanted to know what would happen when Bieber's medivac arrived. He didn't waste the question because every part of his brain was already screaming the answer. There'd be no witnesses. The instant the medic realized what was happening it would kill him.
"How old are you?" he asked.
"Sixteen months."
Rourke whistled inwardly. Sixteen months. Impressive. What a pity Zealoto hadn't . . .
An image unfolded in his mind's eye, an image of a bizarre debriefing in some dark place beneath Ingencorp's HQ. Zealoto and a half a dozen other white-coated crackpots were gathered around a lab desk. The medic sat on a frame in the center of the table. They were talking to it. Like a cracked egg, the cap of the medic was gone. The raw brain was gray and lumpy under the sterile light. It had a mouth, a tiny, wiry mouth that was opening and closing, talking to Zealoto, telling him . . .
A long, lunatic laugh exploded from Rourke's mouth.
"What is wrong?" the medic asked.
Rourke laughed again. Damn, but that thing had actually sounded worried just then. Almost human-in a very childlike way. Maybe he could talk to it. Maybe he could reason with it, convince it to ease up.
A ray of hope penetrated the cloud swirling around his mind. Maybe, just maybe, he could distract it long enough until the medivac arrived. Then, if he put a round from the M9 into his calf, it might overload the medic and give him time to tell the medivac team what had happened. But what then? He had to bring word of this back with him. He had to expose Zealoto, and overloading the medic might kill it. He'd have no evidence. Zealoto would find out and immediately instigate a cover up.
Before he tried to overload the medic, he needed to find out more.
"Mychild. What did Doctor Zealoto's training involve?"
"He trained me to speak using an automated speech program. The onboard computer converts my thoughts into the sounds you hear."
"And the attachment mechanism?"
"The computer controls it. Doctor Zealoto's team will disconnect it when they arrive."
"But I will be dead then?"
"It is necessary."
"Mychild. Are you not curious as to why you are here?"
"It is the doctor's wish. He is my . . ."
"Father."
"Father? I do not recognize that word. Please explain."
"He's the one that gave you life."
"Life?"
Rourke's stomach tightened so abruptly a dribble of saliva leaked out of his mouth. Could he educate it about life? If he explained what it was like to actually live, could he turn things around and show it that taking life was bad. It seemed impossible. How could he make it understand what animals, humans, and landscapes looked like?
How could he describe a bird?
He ran his fingers over the medic. Besides, what was there to see here? The trees that had lined Kaimi Street were matchsticks now. The buildings were smoking hulks and the sky was stained filthy with dust and smoke. Even if the medic could see what was outside, it might just decide there wasn't much to living anyway.
In a fit of giddy spontaneity he pursed his lips and started to whistle Gershwin's "Summertime."
"That is a pleasant sound," the medic said.
"Yes, Mychild. It is. This is part of what life is about. Enjoyment."
"Enjoyment?"
"Yes. Enjoyment is when there is no pain, no worry, no nothing but a blissful feeling in your heart that life is good."
"I have no heart, yet I think I understand. The song makes the sacrifice seem slightly distant."
Rourke glanced at his watch. Two minutes since the last calibration test. His distractions were working. If only he could show it pictures of home, of the forests, and how Summerton Lake glimmered so beautifully in the summer. If only it was possible to . . .
"Please, Jake. I wish to hear more."
Rourke pursed his lips again. But now his mouth was dry and tight with tension. All that came out was a whoosh of air. He lubricated his lips with water. Still nothing. It was like trying to whistle through a rag.
"What is wrong, Jake?"
"Fear. Another side of life."
"I think I understand. I always felt restless before each of Doctor Zealoto's tests"
"He tested you. For what?"
"To accustom me to sacrifice. There was . . ."
The ache in Rourke's temple flared briefly before sinking away.
"There was," the medic continued. "No enjoyment in those tests."
"How did he test you?"
"People were brought to the laboratory. Strange people. I did not understand their language. When I asked Doctor Zealoto about it he said I didn't need to understand. I just needed to absorb their sacrifice and accustom myself to it."
The breath froze in Rourke's lungs. Prisoners! Was Mychild talking about POWs?
"They screamed, Jake. I did not enjoy their screams."
Raw outrage swept through Rourke's mind. And with it came a terrible truth. He couldn't overload the medic now. He couldn't take the risk. It was a witness. Yes, a witness to something much worse than Zealoto's field tests. He had to get back. He had to find out where Zealoto was holding the prisoners and who was supplying them. The medic had to survive. He had to survive. And if that meant taking a little pain, then . . .
"I do not enjoy your screams either, Jake."
"Then why do this?"
"It is my duty."
"No, Mychild. Zealoto is wrong."
"Impossible."
Rourke gritted his teeth as his thigh began to burn. "It's true."
"I am sorry, Jake," the medic said slowly, almost consolingly. "But I must continue the calibration now."
Rourke's entire body bucked sideways when the fire tore through him, scorching every nerve, tendon, and muscle in his torso.
"High! High! Stop it. Please."
He sank back and sucked in air as the pain receded. A pipe had burst somewhere and water was spilling into the crater, turning the dust and dirt into a mucky, lumpy porridge that reminded him horribly of what the meat of his thigh must look like by now.
He checked his watch and snatched up the M9. Two minutes to pickup. Could he last that long? Should he just try and knock this thing out right now and pray the overload wouldn't kill it. Then again, how many bullets would it take: one, two, a whole magazine full? Would he kill himself in the process? And what about its consciousness? In a very unique sort of way, Zealoto's modifications had made it human. If he killed it, would his conscience consider it murder in some warped way?
No. Not murder. Self defense. Justifiable self-defense; just like he'd be killing an assassin.
He rolled on top of the medic when another shell smashed into the bank and chunks of concrete thudded down around him.
But this thing was no assassin. This thing didn't even realize what it was doing. Killing it would be like killing a child.
"Jake, it is your turn to ask a question."
Rourke barely heard the words. A child. Yes. That's exactly what it still was. A child with all the sensibilities and raw innocence of a five year old. That's why it didn't have a conscience or couldn't fully reason. It hadn't developed those skills yet. Zealoto was rushing things.
"Jake. It is your turn to ask a question?"
And now Rourke detected a note of nagging insistence in the medic's voice he recognized. Impatience. The thing was behaving just like his nephew behaved when he asked a question and he didn't have the answer fast enough.
A rush of natural adrenaline surged through his body.
Sometimes, even when he'd had the answer, he'd made Stuart wait to teach him some patience. Could he keep this thing waiting? Was it possible to make it wait because, if it only learned what a deal was a few minutes ago, there was a major, major chance the concept of breaking a deal was alien to it.
"Jake . . ."
"I'm thinking. Bear with me." He took a deep breath and pressed the barrel of the M9 into his calf.
"I require your question. Otherwise I will finish the calibration."
Rourke tried to block the words. But it was impossible to block out that innocence, that childish curiosity. From somewhere close behind he heard voices. American voices. Someone was calling his name. He raised his free hand and waved it until he heard a confirmation shout. He pulled out his notebook and scribbled.
Need morphine. Medic's malfunctioned. Remove immediately.
"Jake, is there a problem?" The medic's voice was louder and more insistent now. "Please ask your question."
He passed the note to the first trooper that dropped into the shell hole, a wiry sergeant who stared at him briefly before retrieving the medic removal apparatus from his medical pack.
"Jake," the medic said. "I need your question. Otherwise I must continue the calibration."
Rourke sucked in deep breath and curled his finger tighter around the trigger of the M9. "I understand. Please. Have some patience."
"Patience. I do not understand that word. Please explain."
"Yes. It's . . ." Rourke flinched when the sergeant eased a cone shaped device over the medic's attachment clip. More men were piling into the shell hole now. Two were unfolding a stretcher. Another was pushing a needle into his arm.
"Jake! What is happening? I sense a . . ."
"It's okay, Mychild. It's okay. I'm going to look after you now."
The sergeant shot a glance towards him, but said nothing. There was a loud click. Then the attachment clip was loose in the sergeant's hand and he was rolling up the umbilical.
"I'm sorry, Mychild," Rourke whispered to nobody. "I'm so, so sorry. But we'll speak again soon. Somehow."
"You okay, sir?" the sergeant asked.
Rourke nodded and smiled through the pain as they eased him onto the stretcher. He grabbed the sergeant's hand when the man reached for the medic. "I'll take it. It's . . . a personal thing."
He lay back, held the medic to his chest, and wondered if he was ever going to speak to it again. And, more importantly, what he was going to say to it? Apologize? Reason with it? Coax vital information from it?
Would it even talk to him?
And once Zealoto was called to account, what then? Would the medic be "retired"? Would anyone want to recognize its human aspects and accept the moral uproar that followed? After all, it was human. Its consciousness defined that. Though it didn't have a body, it was as human as he was. Yet, to expect the military to go public with this in the middle of a major conflict was probably too much. This wasn't a story for Leatherneck, National Geographic, or Scientific American.
Not yet.
He closed his eyes and hugged the medic tighter.
Somehow, he'd force them to let him keep it. He'd take care of it, take it home, teach it things, and let it know more about the world it was now a part of.
Maybe . . . maybe someday he might even find a way to show it a tree.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-3bf12b-0d99-ed49-c8a2-8306-29e7-ea1038
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 18.12.2011
Created using: calibre 0.8.31, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
Document authors :
Paula Goodlett
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Grantville Gazette 35 gg-35 Page 29