The Deathworms of Kratos [The Expendables 1]

by Richard Avery

  “Emergency, sir. Mr Kwango fails to respond to resuscitation procedure. All available techniques have been applied.”

  “Then apply them again,” snapped Conrad. “I’m damned if I’m going to touch down with one of my team already dead.”

  “No, wait!” There was suddenly a note of command in Indira’s voice. “What is the oesophageal temperature Luke?”

  “Thirty-six point nine degrees, Lieutenant.”

  “Get it down fifteen degrees as quickly as you can. Hurry.”

  Somehow, Luke contrived to look pained. “Temperature reduction is already commencing, Lieutenant.”

  “I’m sorry.” Indira had forgotten that the robots were radio linked.

  “Query, Lieutenant. Why are you sorry? Decision is being executed.”

  “Cancel statement,” said Conrad, more familiar with the ways of the robotic mind. He turned to Indira. “What are you going to do?”

  “First, I am going to examine my patient,” she said. “Then I shall either decide upon a second attempt at resuscitation or perform a heart transplant… Luke, get the theatre ready in case we need it.”

  “Decision noted. Execution in progress.’*

  “You are in no shape to make a heart transplant,” exploded Conrad. “You are only just out of S.A. yourself. You are still shaky and weak.”

  “It is my duty to do the best I can for my patient,” she retorted coolly.

  “And it is my duty,” said Conrad, “to do the best I can for my entire team. You are weak, you lack energy, you need food and rest. Until I am convinced that you are in optimum condition, you will not even look at Kwango. That is an order.”

  “Very well, Commander.” Her voice was hard. She spoke once more to Luke. “Continue temperature reduction to standard S.A. level.”

  “Decision noted, Lieutenant.”

  “And then stick him back in the cooler,” added Conrad. “After which, proceed with resuscitation of Mr Andreas.”

  “Decision noted, sir.”

  “Then execute!” grated Conrad unnecessarily. He turned to Indira. “You are going to eat a well-done steak—or whatever else you want—and drink a couple of glasses of wine. Then you are going to rest for at least six hours. After that, we’ll review the situation.”

  “I am no longer hungry.” Her voice was angry. “It is my professional opinion, Commander Conrad, that I should attend to my patient now.”

  “And it is my professional opinion, Lieutenant Smith, that you should eat and rest. I will enter your protest in the log. But you will obey my order.”

  “Yes, sir!” she saluted insolently.

  Conrad sighed. It was going to be a long time before he held Indira Smith’s hand again. Not that it mattered…

  FLASH THREE The Team

  Conrad looked at the faces he had come to know so well—the six other people who would form his team of Expendables. This was the first time he had brought them all together. He had given them their preliminary briefings individually. Now, sitting on the mats in this gymnasium, and wearing light track suits, they were assembled. Would they make a successful team? He had to find out fast.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I know all of you intimately. But you do not know each other. We will rectify that. Because if we, are to work as a team, there can be no secrets among us. First, I will declare myself. I am a disgraced space-captain—or was. I was court-martialled for refusing to obey orders and thereby endangering lives. Several people died because I made a wrong decision. I drink too much and tend to be violent, but never when on duty. The psychiatrists claim that I have a paranoid mind. This is all I have to say about myself. The rest you will discover later. Now let us begin the process of introduction. As I call your name, please stand up. Lou Andreas.”

  The big man lifted himself to his feet. He looked at the rest and grinned good-naturedly.

  “Lou Andreas is an American,” said Conrad. “He is kind and considerate, and he likes children. Unfortunately, he managed to kill a fair number in a freeway accident by driving his turbocar dangerously because he’d quarrelled with his girl-friend. Lou is a first class engineer, but a little temperamental. Let’s hope he gets less temperamental because some day our lives may depend on him. Thank you, Lou.”

  The big man shrugged and sat down again.

  “Fidel Batista.”

  A slender, nervous-looking man stood up.

  “Fidel Batista is Cuban. He was a professional political assassin and was sentenced to life imprisonment in Algeria for the assassination of President Gallienne. He is a good man to have for you, and a bad one to have against you. He is a weapons and explosives expert. Thank you, Fidel.”

  Batista flashed an insolent glance at Conrad and sat down.

  “Elizabeth James.”

  A well-built, attractive but not beautiful woman stood up. She had short dark hair and a rounded face.

  “Liz James is British.”

  “Welsh, Commander.”

  Conrad smiled. “All right, Welsh. Like Fidel, she has a weakness for violent politics. Like Guy Fawkes, she tried to put the British parliament in orbit. Like Guy Fawkes, she failed. Perhaps because basically she is a biologist. Thank you, Liz.”

  “Thank you, Commander.” Despite the track suit, Liz managed to sit down as if she were inviting someone to seduce her.

  “Chantana Le Gros.”

  A dark, petite and very beautiful woman stood up.

  “Chantana Le Gros is Vietnamese-French. She looks fragile, but isn’t. She was married twice, and poisoned both husbands—for personal reasons. She was under sentence of death when recruited. She is a chemist of distinction.”

  Chantana rewarded Conrad with a faint smile and resumed her position on the mat gracefully, appearing to withdraw into contemplation.

  “Kurt Kwango.”

  A black man of imposing stature stood up. He flexed his muscles as if anticipating combat.

  “Kurt Kwango is Nigerian, but his mother was German. As you see, the negro genes are dominant. Kurt has a long history of violence including attempted murder, grievous bodily harm and rape. He is also an outstanding ecologist. Try to be nice to him. We may need his talents.”

  Kurt Kwango laughed. “Thank you, suh, Massa Boss.”

  Conrad said evenly: “Sit down, Kurt. You are overplaying it.”

  Kurt grinned. “Allus willin’ to oblige de white master.” He sat.

  “Kurt also has a dreadful sense of humour,” added Conrad. “It may keep us horrified during the tedium of trying to tame an unknown planet… And now our final guest appearance. Surgeon Lieutenant Indira Smith, late of the Terran Disaster Corps. Stand, Lieutenant Smith and let them see you.”

  Indira stood.

  “Unlike the rest of us,” went on Conrad, “she has committed no crime against society. Her luck ran out with a bunch of so-called freedom fighters in Brazil. They liberated her body then cut off her legs. But, as you can see, she has new legs. She is my second-in-command. She is a good surgeon. Let us hope none of us will need her services.”

  A hand shot up. Kurt Kwango spoke. “What fo’ you take a woman second-in-command, Mass a Boss? Is you all plumb crazy or does you shack up wid de pretty little gel?”

  “Stand, Kwango!” Conrad’s voice seemed to have a cutting edge. “And cut the Uncle Tom stuff. We need you. But you are not irreplaceable.”

  Kurt Kwango stood. “Yes, suh,” he mocked. “Ah understands you good and plenty.”

  “You fancy Lieutenant Smith—even though she has artificial legs?”

  “Yes, suh,” grinned Kurt. “De tin legs don’t worry me none.”

  “Then take her, black man. She’s all yours. Who knows, you may be good enough to be my Number One.”

  The rest of the team moved back and left the mats free. Indira stood still, slightly crouching, facing Kurt. He made some feinting moves. She did not respond.

  Lou Andreas jeered. “You’re not so hot, Kwango. You get your bangs in the geriatrics ward?”r />
  Kurt growled angrily, and lunged forward, his arms outstretched, hoping to throw Indira to the mat. She waited almost until he was about to connect. Then, suddenly, she wasn’t there. Her legs seemed to straighten like pieces of spring steel as she leaped nearly three metres into the air.

  Kurt stared up in amazement. It was a mistake. As Indira came down, she expertly tapped him on the chin with her foot. He fell backwards like a log, and lay on the mat twitching. Indira landed perfectly.

  Conrad glanced at Kurt Kwango with a faint smile. “I hope you didn’t hurt him too much, Lieutenant Smith.”

  “No,” said Indira quietly. “It would have been easy to separate his head from his body, but I didn’t hurt him… I hope he is a good ecologist.”

  “Good, but wayward. Incidentally, his I.Q. is more than twenty points higher than yours or mine.”

  Kurt sat up, rubbed his jaw and looked rather foolish.

  Conrad surveyed the rest of the team. “Now you know one of the reasons why Lieutenant Smith is second-in-command. We all have a lot to learn about each other. Most important of all, we have to learn to trust and respect each other. We have two weeks to prove ourselves. This afternoon will be devoted to unarmed combat. Clear the mats.”

  EVENT FOUR The Resurrection and the Life

  Conrad had been looking for Indira all over the ship. She had not responded to intercom calls, and she was not in her cabin. The last place he thought of looking for her was the library. That is where he found her, running micro-film through the viewer.

  “Why didn’t you answer my calls? You must have heard them.”

  “I heard them,” she said coldly. “I was busy.”

  “Four hours ago I ordered you to relax for at least six hours.”

  “I know.” She gave him a thin smile. “I found it difficult to relax by order, Commander. What now? Are you going to have me drummed out of the service for insubordination? We are a long way from home.”

  Conrad managed to suppress his anger. He noted the signs of fatigue on her face. She was a woman who was driving herself hard. It would not help now if he added to her problems. But later, he promised himself, when the present crisis was resolved—one way or another— Indira Smith would get a taste of discipline.

  “Let’s stop fighting,” he said gently, “and go back to square one. What have you been doing?”

  She looked up from the viewer and faced him. ‘I did try to rest. But you can’t command a surgeon to relax when someone’s life is at stake.”

  “So?”

  “So I took a blood sample and analysed it. Some careless bastard back on Earth failed to give Kurt Kwango his sub-thermal shock injection.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Do you know anything about vintage cars, Commander?”

  The question took him by surprise. “I have had the privilege of driving a 1980 Rolls Royce in the London to Brighton race.”

  “Petroleum-powered?”

  “Of course. Hydrocarbon fuels were still available when it was built.”

  “Then, if I am not mistaken, it had a water-cooling system.”

  “Yes. What has this to do with Kwango?”

  “Bear with me. In winter, how would you protect the cooling system?”

  “Simple. I’d mix anti-freeze solution with the water.”

  “And if you failed to do so, and there was a heavy frost?”

  “Ice could form and eventually crack the cylinder block…” Suddenly, Conrad saw what she was getting at.

  “Unlike your Rolls Royce, we human beings don’t have cooling systems, we have heating systems. The blood we pump round is mostly composed of water. The sub-thermal shock injection has several functions; but, like your anti-freeze solution, it also lowers the temperature at which ice crystals will form. And, if you don’t use it, the consequences can be roughly the same… Kwango’s heart is ruined.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Wonderful, isn’t it? We can travel faster than light to Altair, but some cretinous medic sixteen light-years away puts the venture at risk because he forgot to give a sample shot.”

  “Maybe Kurt ducked it,” suggested Conrad.

  “Why should he do that?”

  Conrad shrugged. “How the hell should I know? It’s possible, that’s all. Kurt is a very temperamental character, as we have discovered. Maybe he doesn’t like needles being pushed into him… There are so many fail-safe procedures in space-flight preparation that I find it hard to believe a man’s life could depend on one medic’s absent-mindedness, or whatever.”

  “Well, it happened. To us, the reason why it happened can only be of academic interest.”

  Conrad asked a stupid question. “Can anything be done?”

  “Of course,” she snapped. “I’m the bloody surgeon of this crazy outfit. Among my stores there are three electro-mechanical hearts powered by micropiles, and three bio-hearts. If you will leave me alone, I’ll try to decide which is best for Kurt Kwango… Dammit, I’m not a heart surgeon and I have a lot of learning to do.”

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant Smith.” Conrad accepted his dismissal and turned to go. “You have had a rough awakening.”

  “Wait… I’m sorry, too, Commander. I’ll do my best. That’s all I can promise… How—how are things going?”

  “Lou Andreas and Liz James are now safely out of S.A. They ate well, and they are resting.”

  “Good. So that only leaves Chantana and Fidel. Can they wait?”

  Conrad smiled faintly. “I don’t think they will protest.”

  “Then I would like the theatre prepared for a transplant… It was Matthew, wasn’t it, who was given the extended med-programming?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Then he will know what to do. Tell him it’s a low-temperature job. I shall probably use thermal lances. I want the body and the environment at about two degrees Centigrade. But I also want infra-red and environmental heat available on command. And I want the heart-lung machine and the coronary pump readied. I will operate two hours from now.”

  “How many robots do you want attending?”

  “Matthew is the only one trained for theatre work.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Conrad patiently. “He has control circuits.”

  “Yes.” She brushed a hand over her head. “I forgot. I’ll have two besides Matthew.”

  “Would you like me to be present?”

  She threw back the question. “Do you want to be present?”

  “Yes. I’m not good for much but moral support, but I’d like to be there.”

  “If you pass out, Commander, you’ll only be a nuisance. But if you vomit, you’ll very likely release enough bugs to kill Kwango.”

  “I have a strong stomach, and I have dealt with badly wounded men.”

  “This is different. I shall systematically open the chest and cut out the heart of someone you know.”

  “If it won’t inconvenience you, I would still like to be there.”

  She gave him a thin smile. “It won’t inconvenience me. Now let me get on with my work, Commander. Matthew will instruct you in pre-op sterilising procedure.”

  “One question. Have you ever done this before?”

  “No, Commander. But then we Expendables have already stacked up quite a number of firsts, haven’t we?”

  Lieutenant Smith had finally decided to use a bio-heart. It had been donated by some unfortunate man who died in a hovercar pile-up sixteen light-years away. It was now resting in a fluid cradle, hooked up to a coronary pump. Oxygenated blood pulsed through the heart, causing it to beat with the illusion of independent life.

  On the operating table lay Kurt Kwango, his magnificent body curiously shrunken. Surgeon Lieutenant Smith had already opened his chest with a straight cut down the centre, cauterising the blood vessels. Now she took an electric saw and split the breast-bone. Steam rose from the open wound. Deftly Matthew inserted a retractor, drawing apart the rib cage.

  Conrad watched grimly. L
ieutenant Smith did not need to give many instructions. It was as if Matthew had an intuitive knowledge of her needs.

  The pericardial sac was exposed.

  Matthew handed Lieutenant Smith a pair of scissors. She opened the thin sac. Kwango’s heart was revealed.

  “Make ready for by-pass.” Indira’s voice was abnormally calm. The robot Mark instantly began to prepare the linkage with the heart-lung machine.

  Because the operation was being conducted in zero G, tiny globules of blood rose from the body and were immediately sucked up by the vacuum cleaner whose metallic mouth hovered over the operating table.

  Conrad, himself gowned and masked in irradiated and sterile fabric watched, fascinated, as Lieutenant Smith deftly continued her work of preparing for the by-pass. Presently, the arterial and venous tubes were connected. The time had come for Kurt Kwango’s dead heart to be removed from his body.

  “By-pass ready, Matthew?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant. By-pass ready.” Matthew’s gowned figure looked oddly human.

  Indira Smith straightened her back and met Conrad’s gaze. “Now we go for the big one.” She lifted a scalpel, and glanced briefly at Matthew. “Start the pump.”

  Electric motors began to whirr. Blood pulsed through plastic tubing and was pumped rhythmically into Kwango’s cardiovascular system. The oxygenated blood that, hopefully, would bring a dead man back to life.

  Until the dead heart had been removed and the donor heart fully implanted, the heart-lung machine was all that kept Kwango’s temporary death from being permanent.

  Conrad watched, fascinated. He did not know how long he watched. Time had become irrelevant. He was aware not of the passing of time, only of the occurrence of significant events.

  He saw Indira Smith lift the dead heart out of Kwango’s chest and place it almost reverently into a white pan.

  Later—was it minutes or hours? He did not know— he saw her disconnect the donor heart from its support system and place it in the cavity in Kwango’s chest. Then, after the suckers had drained the pericardium of blood, she began to sew up the aortic connections with ferocious intensity.