Chapter Twenty-Four: The Clinic

The robot Claudio, unaccustomed as he was to emergency situations, had nevertheless taken command admirably when it became clear that the Skinners were in danger. His conclusion that Mr. Douglas/Gunther had been deceiving him hadn’t convinced the bionic that the man meant any immediate harm to Dr. Cole or Dr. Constance. But the fact that Gunther had brought Claudio to the Spiral Gap under false pretenses was evidence enough that the robot’s efforts to aid the professors should be carried out free of the man’s interference, if at all possible.

It had been simple enough to gain the help of a security-bot who gave Claudio access to information about the Skinners’ disappearance, as well as their attempt to board a ship bound for Generaton. Determining the couple’s exact whereabouts on the station had been a much larger undertaking. Fortunately, Claudio had contact with very resourceful friends who were more than eager to thwart the designs of Morgan Maestromus. The corpulent kingpin surrounded himself with bionic servants, making him all the more transparent to the gaze of Claudio’s benefactors.

The outbound cargo ship he’d arranged for their passage to Generaton was, of course, fully crewed by robots and A.I. units—no human pilots or attendants to worry about once the professors were smuggled aboard. And even if one of the crew-bots questioned their presence during the flight, Claudio would reassure it by his near-human appearance and the authority of his borrowed security uniform that all was well.

The robot deftly fingered the latch release on the side panel of a squat, vented cargo box marked “Livestock—GENERATON”. As the panel popped open, Cole Skinner put away the stun pistol he’d “borrowed” from Captain Case, relieved to see the welcoming plasticene face of his bionic assistant—a signal that all was well and that he and his wife could get out and stretch their cramped limbs.

“I take it from the straw in the bottom of the carton that we have been stand-ins for pigs or chickens?” he asked, pulling Connie to her feet and turning to smile at his robot friend.

“Goats, actually, Professor,” Claudio replied, mimicking the professor’s whimsical tone in characteristic fashion. “It took me the better part of my arrangement time for your rescue just locating a non-human cargo ship that had live creatures on its manifest. Otherwise there would have been no need for adequate life support.”

“So,” Connie said, brushing bits of fodder from her dress hem, “that would officially make us a pair of old goats, Darling.” She looked around the dimly lit hold and wrinkled her nose at the noticeably pastoral smell. “I take it the gravity we are feeling is centrifugal force?”

“Correct,” Claudio agreed. “Five cargo carriers rotating around a central axis. All of the ‘passengers’ are sedated before being loaded, which is why I advised you to be extremely still. Space flight—especially by vortexial leaping—is very disconcerting to most non-human species, even with artificial gravity. So the animals are put in deep hibernation mode for shipment. I did double check for security monitors in this hold, but didn’t find any. Apparently it is assumed that none of the livestock will awake during the flight. I had no time to check the crew complement list, but I strongly doubt that they’ll have a spare crew-bot making rounds of the cargo holds. We are almost certainly safe from disturbance or discovery.”

“I’ve got to say,” Cole said, patting Claudio fondly on the shoulder, “I’m amazed at your resourcefulness, my friend. I realize that I programmed you to develop your own patterns of behavior and reasoning, but I confess that you are the last person I expected to come to our aid! How on earth did you even come to be way out here?”

After Claudio filled the Skinners in regarding Gunther’s subterfuge, Cole looked meaningfully at Connie and gave her hand a squeeze. “One of these days,” he said, “I’ll learn to listen to you and trust your instincts. At Kitterman’s soiree, when you took me aside and shared your misgivings with me about Ansel Gunther, I confess I dismissed them as simply a negative first impression on your part. I suppose that I was inclined to think the best of him because he was Thomas’s aide…should have known better than to doubt you, Spylah.”

Connie smiled and batted her eyes at him. “Well…a delayed admission of fault is better than none at all, Darling.” Then she winked.

“Claudio,” Cole said, “you say that Gunther interviewed Bob Jackson as well?”

Claudio nodded. “Yes. And the fact that he had access to Earth’s governmental security coding for his fallacious communiqué could mean that he has obtained other sensitive information as well.”

“I take it that Mr. Gunther interrogated you fairly thoroughly, Claudio?”

Cole couldn’t help smiling back at the robot’s satisfied expression as Claudio replied, “Yes, indeed. He was seemingly focusing his questions on my interests and operations, but I was unable to escape the impression that his true goal was to discover information about you and Dr. Constance that wasn’t available from published sources. Actually, it was the deftness of his inquisition that convinced me at last that he wasn’t who he claimed to be. The fact that none of his statements or queries touched on any of the data Dr. Jackson divulged in their interview was simply too striking a contrast to be mere coincidence. The possibility of two inquiries about the same person—especially one as well known as yourself—being that disparate from each other, could only mean that both inquiries were conducted by the same inquirer. Therefore, it was obviously Ansel Gunther seeking to fill in the gaps left by his previous investigation.”

“Bravo,” Cole told him. “Very well-reasoned, my friend. How much do you believe this curious fellow has uncovered?”

“From his specific questions, it appears that he strongly suspects you and Dr. Constance of having close personal ties with the TransOcean research team, perhaps even the Copetskis themselves. Naturally I did all I could to discount that idea, even though he didn’t actually touch on it in so many words.”

I hope, Cole thought, that my bionic friend’s mannerisms didn’t come across as “protesting too much” to be believed. He knew that Claudio’s capacity for sinuosity was excellent for a robotic brain, but even the best biscoms had their limitations and, from what he now knew of Gunther’s aims and abilities, he didn’t want to make any excessively hopeful assumptions. Despite his fondness for Claudio, he had to risk the implication of incomplete trust, just this once. His tone became businesslike.

“Don’t take this as an insult, Claudio, but I would like to hear your entire conversation with Mr. Gunther played back in its entirety. Just to be safe.”

Claudio matched Cole’s new tone and manner impeccably and began to recite.

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Vincennes’s mental-fixed “Faithful Fifty” had been dispatched to their assignments all over the inhabited face of the planet. Each one of them was serenely content to be the nanite-controlled pawn of Generaton’s new ruler. And the longer a pawn remained under his control, the more that person’s memories and drives and desires would be rewritten in favor of his or her new programming.

Deep inside the psyches of Goldie Fretz and Jesse Sparks, images of prior lives—friends, families, likes, dislikes, duties and dreams—swirled around like butterflies trapped in a gradually shrinking glass prison. Little by little those images diminished and threatened to disintegrate as the molecule-sized robots demanded more devotion and assent from their brains. Already the bionic control of their motor functions was absolute. But soon, even the dimmest hint of a motivation to resist that control would be wiped clean.

In his stateroom on board the Conquistador, John Paul watched the departing landing shuttles as they glided away into their appointed flight paths to the various cities of Generaton. A part of him regretted the necessity of using such absolute mind control over this primary group of emissaries. But what it amounted to, he assured himself, was the most efficient use of material to achieve the maximum potential for humanity. In any newly dawning age, there were inevitable upheavals; the genius of his own plan for the race was that such upheavals would be carefully planned out and controlled. That planning would mean the difference between the loss of freedom to a thousand people and the loss of life to millions.

And the new age that would emerge—“the Vincennian Era,” perhaps—would be a step forward of Olympian proportions. Human beings would be improved in ways that had never been dreamed of. Mental abilities alone would be enhanced to the point where “genius” itself would become a superfluous, meaningless term. Artificial and biological differences would be eradicated to the point where every person would be a true work of art both physically and technically. Once humanity was awakened to its true potential, the old taboos about nature being sacred and inviolate would evaporate—any improvement would be possible…any enhancement permissible!

This vision of man’s future was gently and obsessively and endlessly replaying in the minds of the Fifty. Jesse and Goldie heard it soothing the edges of their excitement as they drifted away from Vincennes’ ship into a lower orbit from which their tiny shuttle would achieve planet-fall. Their leader’s prophetic litany created a backdrop of loyalty and contentment for the step-by-step directives of the nanite hive-mind that appeared on the stage of their consciousness. From his super-orbital perch on the Conquistador, John Paul Vincennes gave out his marching orders to the fledgling leaders who would soon have the political control of all the major domed cities well in hand.

“Terramount Landing Control, this is P.H. Armed Legion shuttle ten enroute to you from the starship Conquistador. Inform Mayor Yanek that we expect him to receive us at coordinates PQ449 at precisely thirteen-thirty hours. Respond.” Goldie handled the communications console of the shuttle effortlessly, although she couldn’t remember ever working such equipment before. One of the thrills of her new identity as a PHAL Legionary was her newfound ability to perform many technical and tactical functions with almost instant proficiency. With every duty successfully performed, the hive-mind echoed a chorus of congratulation that pumped the pleasure centers of her brain with waves of self-esteem.

After a four-second pause a reply sounded on the shuttle’s speakers. “Pilot Legion shuttle ten: be aware that the coordinates you specify are those of a recent battle zone here in the city. Recommend that you relocate meeting with mayor at a more secure site, such as the Terramount municipal complex. Over.”

Goldie glanced at Jesse Sparks with an amused and knowing smile. Her companion shook his head tolerantly as she again toggled the send switch on her console. “Negative, Landing Control. Please be advised that the meeting will take place as we have indicated, and no place else. Your mayor’s compliance is an unconditional factor to avoid further terrorist activity. The robot attacks will continue if we encounter any lack of cooperation. Inform Mayor Yanek that we will expect him to be prompt. Over and out.”

She broke the connection, stretched her willowy limbs with a rush of renewed confidence, and settled back into her seat as Sparks fired up the rockets to power their descent.

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The first clear memory that came to Maggie as consciousness returned was a brief fit of coughing inside the cramped, dark chamber just before she blacked out. Then she remembered the soft hiss of the gas being pumped in. Then… there was something else that she knew was there—was supposed to be there.

But just now, in the present, there was pain. There was a general achiness in her arms and legs, probably muscle memory of the claustrophobic prison that had carried her here—wherever “here” was. Then there was the pain of the light around the edges of her eyes, eyes that didn’t want to open to the flood of illumination that awaited them. And pain behind her eyes as well, that throbbed and whined like a magnetized screw being tightened by degrees as more and more wakefulness returned to her.

And besides all that, there was something digging into the hollow of her right ankle that was rubbing it raw inside her boot.

Finally, her mind was able to piece some recent history together, although some instinct told her to remain as still as possible—to try to be invisible as she got her bearings. She had to be prepared for something. Prepared for anything.

She let in a sliver of the blinding light, and took about a billion seconds to adjust to the pain as it assaulted her. As her head was cocked to one side already she didn’t have to move it. When her vision cleared she saw a room full of chairs—reclining, clinical type chairs each holding an unmoving occupant. Each person strapped in. It looked like a hundred people or more. She kept staring through the sliver of light, finally realizing that the rising and falling of people’s chests gave evidence that at least most of the occupants were alive.

When it dawned on her that she, too, must be strapped into one of these chairs, she almost began straining against her restraints in a panic, but stopped herself in time. She wasn’t yet ready to reveal her wakeful state to anyone who may be watching. Not until she discovered where she was and what was going on.

Don’t react, she insisted to herself. Be patient. Be strong. Stay alive. For Papa, for Brucie, for Goldie. Be ready for anything.

She wondered if the others were here as well, strapped into one of the reclining things like she was. She wondered how the kidnappers had found them and overpowered Bru and Kevin—they’d all been so certain they were safe at Bogie Grayson’s condo. All the precautions they’d taken…all the weaponry they’d brought…

Then, she remembered. In her boot. The shock emitter. Snug against her right ankle, bruising her and rubbing her raw. It felt wonderful.

I’ll get a chance…when they come to get me. When they unstrap me for whatever they have in mind, I’ll have a chance to use it. Kevin Ragg showed us how to fire it. Three-meter range, he told us—target within three meters. Wide setting to disorient… focused setting to render unconscious…pulse setting for bionic targets. Got to remember, be ready for anything.

On the far side of the room, Maggie detected strange movements and at the same time she could make out the low humming of automated machinery. What appeared to be a large, bulky robot was rearing up from a crouching position to an upright one. While it moved, what Maggie was witnessing caused her stomach to churn in protest.

As the thing became erect, it was disgorging a prone figure from inside itself onto a flattened version of one of the clinical chairs. Whether the figure was male or female wasn’t clear, but she could tell it was human.

Apparently, the mystery of how she had come to be here in this roomfull of chairs was being explained before her eyes.

After the huge robot had deposited its victim onto the recliner, Maggie heard the faint click of body restraints snapping into place. Then, as if responding to the clicking sound, a voice began to murmer and mutter in the same general area of the “clinic.” The words weren’t clear enough for Maggie to make them out, but obviously somebody was monitoring the unconscious captives for signs of revival. For, not more than fifteen seconds after the muttering began, a smaller robot came speeding along on bearings or wheels down one of the aisles between the rows of seats, stopping dead next to the awakened speaker.

Maggie did her best to remain motionless while she squinted in the harsh light of the clinic, trying desperately to determine what the bionic attendant was doing to the person on the recliner. Abruptly, however, the murmuring halted and was followed by a short-lived cry of pain. Then, she heard a final, soft, desperate syllable trailing off into silence:

“No-o-o-o-o. . .”

Then, nothing.

Several minutes passed, and the robot remained beside the victim’s chair, possibly waiting for some expected reaction to its ministrations. Maggie’s eyes were riveted to the scene being played out before her. Then, when she began to lose track of the minutes, she heard another click, and a whirring sound as the recliner on the far side of the clinic began to assume an upright position. Its occupant was now free of the restraints and stood up as straight as a soldier at attention. As the robot spun around and began to exit from the clinic, the medium sized man fell into step behind it without any sign of instruction or other communication.

Kevin Ragg’s description of mental-fixing came rushing back into Maggie’s terror-gripped thoughts. She realized with ice-cold fear that that is what she had just witnessed; that that is what was in store for her and the scores of other captives strapped into the chairs around her.

I’ve got to find a way to avoid this. There’s got to be a way. Papa might be in here on one of these recliners. He may be next. Or Bru, or Kevin, or Goldie. Somehow I have to get free. I can’t let them take away our minds, our lives—our identities. There’s got to be a way!

Despite the even, moderate temperature in the huge clinic, she could feel herself sweating through her clothing—she felt the slickness inside her boot where the shock emitter rubbed against her ankle. If only she could reach that weapon, she had a fighting chance. But even to begin struggling against the restraints of the recliner was to risk alerting the robots monitoring the clinic. Would she have time to get a hand free to retrieve it, even if the restraints were weak enough to be forced open?

She desperately considered her options. She had to act quickly before one of her companions awoke and became the next zombie to be injected with the nanites. What if the shock emitter would function from inside her boot—would it discharge through the leather if she operated it with her foot? To attempt such a trick would require her to kick her leg forcefully enough to propel the small device down into the toe of the boot. But if she began kicking in that way, it would certainly attract attention and one of the bionic attendants would arrive at her chair in a matter of seconds.

Gently she tried jiggling the emitter around in the hollow of her boot. There seemed to be a small amount of leeway. If she shook the weapon down into the toe, she had to make sure the discharge end was toward the front of the boot, in firing position.

A bit less gently she shook her foot again, and felt the emitter slide down a bit more, next to her instep. She chanced opening her eyes wider and surveying a larger portion of the room. So far, her movements had caused no visible activity. Could it be that the robot monitors were only programmed to pick up auditory signals?

Another slight shake of her boot sent the thing well under her instep, wedging it there. Would it be too snug for her to kick it into the toe of the boot? For her to be able to press the firing stud on the device, Maggie knew she had to at least get the thing past the ball of her foot. To manage that position would require some vigorous kicking that would certainly alert the sentries.

Fighting down frantic feelings of hopelessness, she thought of the others. The time had come to weigh the risks they had all talked about, and she had no idea how much time she had to weigh those risks. The longer she took to make up her mind to act, the better the odds became that one of the others would be the next target for the nanite injection that would end life as they knew it. She had perhaps the only tool in their possession that might make a difference.

She squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth in concentration. If there was any other way, she couldn’t think of it—it was time to act.

At first she began rotating her ankle joint to dislodge the weapon and move it forward in the boot, but it refused to budge. Bracing herself with her elbows against the padding of the recliner, she tried moving her leg and found that the restraints were binding her at the knees. Quickly she cocked her one leg to the side and began to kick laterally outward with all her might. She thrust her foot outward again. And again.

Somewhere in the cavernous clinic she heard a door sighing open, then the distant hum of motor-driven wheels. One of the bionic attendants had entered the room. She kicked again. She heard the servos whirr and click as the robot turned a corner to approach her row of chairs. She strained against the pain of the restraints, elevating her head to get a glimpse of the thing’s approach. She kicked again.

The shock emitter was now under the ball of her foot. And the attendant-bot’s head was now visible, bobbing above the adjacent lane of seats, making its way relentlessly to Maggie’s row.

She stifled her panic and strained even harder against the straps, feeling her muscles cramp as she heaved her right foot forward, snapping her ankle like the end of a whip again and again and again…

The robot hummed around the last corner, now fully visible, as was the gleaming chrome of the syringe in its claw-fingered hand.

“I warn you, robot—I am armed! Do not come any closer!” Maggie cried out in a hoarse soprano, amazed that she was able to produce any sound at all. The warning made the attendant-bot hesitate for a couple of seconds, buying Maggie time for several more kicks, which finally forced the emitter into the cramped hollow in the toe of her right boot. She felt around with toes that were throbbing with the influx of blood from all the violent kicks they’d been subjected to. Then the robot was moving again, about twenty meters away. Awkwardly, she bent her knee and her ankle, pivoting her foot in a painful attempt to aim her toe at the approaching target.

Wait…wait for three meters…three-meter range, Kevin said. What mode? What setting was it? Wide? Focused? No…pulse, pulse setting for bionic target. Still ten meters away…wait, wait. Find the firing stud. Cock it back three times. One for wide setting…seven meters away. Two for focused…five meters away. Three for pulse setting. Ready now…three meters. Forward on the stud. FIRE!

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