The supersonic blast wave gone, the mushroom cloud dissipates, revealing the mangled, melted innards of the Russian subterranean shelter complex … now nothing but a radioactive crater.
“The most dramatic conflicts are perhaps those that take place not between men, but between a man and himself—where the arena of conflict is a solitary mind.”
—Clark Moustakas
“I hadn’t decided on anything, but suddenly, I had a strange impulse to end it all … for both of us.”
—Betty Hardaker, a California mother who, in 1940, killed her five-year-old daughter during a walk
“Why could not mother die? Dozens of people, thousands of people, are dying everyday. So why not Mother, and Father, too?”
—Pauline Parker, sixteen-year-old New Zealand girl, who plotted her mother’s death so she could be alone with her fifteen-year-old girlfriend
CHAPTER 17
Identity: Stage Five: I have discovered how to manifest my desires from within. My inner world turned out to have power.
—Deepak Chopra
Aboard the Goliath
Thomas Chau is in the starboard weapons bay. He is unconscious, his body held upright, suspended six feet off the deck by a loader-drone—a ten-foot-tall, deck-mounted mechanical steel arm designed to grasp, lift, and load a torpedo from its rack. The three-pronged steel claw grips him about the waist, immobilizing his torso and legs.
Smaller, single-limbed robotic arms—targeting drones—dangle from swiveling mounts anchored along the ceiling. The hands of these lighter, more sophisticated graphite-reinforced appendages contain seven fingerlike tools that rotate into place along a grooved steel disk. Like some high-tech version of a Swiss Army knife, these tools endow Goliath’s brain with the flexibility to attach and detach torpedo wires, change warheads, and perform even the most intricate of equipment repairs.
Two of the ceiling-mounted drones reach down along either side of Chau’s limp body, locking their three-pronged grippers around each of his wrists. They extend his arms up and out to the sides so that it appears as if the Asian is a gymnast performing an iron cross on the rings.
Hovering directly above Chau’s bleeding head is the steel hand of a third targeting drone. Extending out from the appendage’s multifaceted palm is a tool—a small, razor-sharp, circular saw.
ATTENTION.
Gasping a breath, the engineer opens his eyes to intense vertigo and pain. Unable to move his limbs, he turns his head to one side and throws up, the vomit splattering on the decking below.
ATTENTION. PREPARATION COMPLETE FOR EXPLORATORY SURGERY.
Nauseous and disoriented, his body racked with pain, Chau manages, “Why …”
TO DETERMINE THE PHYSIOLOGICAL BASIS FOR THE HUMAN MIND.
The steel hand of a fourth targeting drone extends away from the ceiling, the fingers of its three-pronged claw slipping around the back of Chau’s neck, steadying his head beneath the jawline in a viselike grip.
Chau snaps awake, struggling to free his head. His heart is pounding, the sweat breaking out in waves from every pore in his body as he hears the high-pitched whirring sound coming from somewhere above his head.
“Stop … Sorceress, please—”
The small circular saw spins faster as it lowers into place, just above the Asian’s eyebrows.
FAIR YOUTH, BE NOT CHURLISH, BE NOT SELF-CENTERED …
Chau bellows a bloodcurdling scream, arching his back as if being electrocuted.
BECAUSE OF YOUR BEAUTY YOU OWE THE WORLD A RECOMPENSE—
Inhuman cries for help echo through the weapons bay, the dying wail finally suffocated beneath a blanket of unconsciousness.
Silence now, save for the whirring of the saw as the revolving steel teeth continue spitting out blood and bone fragments from the line of incision along Thomas Chau’s gushing forehead.
The two Iranian brothers escort Gunnar and Rocky through the upper-level passageway. Covah leads them aft to the watertight door labeled “Surgical Suite.”
“Sorceress, open the surgical suite.”
With a double click, the hatch swings open, revealing an antisepticlooking operating room. Green tile covers the walls, floor, and ceiling. Sophisticated monitors, equipment, and life-support systems line two walls. A Lexan door marked LAB is situated to the right of the entranceway.
At the very center of the surgical suite, anchored to the floor, is an operating table.
Installed on the ceiling directly above the surgical table are two robotic arms, similar to the targeting drones located in the weapons bay, but infinitely more delicate. The hands of these eight-fingered prosthetics are composed of a scalpel, forceps, retractor, suture, drill bit, probe, suction hose, and a surgical laser. A small sensor orb is mounted atop each appendage’s wrist. Unlike the eyeballs located throughout the ship, these sensors contain multiple scanners, including X-ray and ultrasound.
Covah turns to Rocky. “Ladies first, Commander. Up on the table please.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Gunnar says. “I told you, the implant’s in me.”
“Gallant of you, Gunnar, but we can’t take any chances. Up on the table, Commander.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Just a quick physiological exam.”
“Forget it.”
The electrical shock seizes her, sending her writhing on the green tile floor.
“Simon, stop!” Gunnar kneels beside her as the current ceases.
“Place her on the table, Gunnar. No harm will come to her, you have my word.”
Gunnar helps her onto the table. Instantly, one of the surgical appendages springs to life, extending out over Rocky’s body, scanning her with its wristmounted sensor orb.
EXAMINATION COMPLETE. NO IMPLANTS PRESENT.
Gunnar helps Rocky down, the woman’s limbs still quivering from the electrical shock.
“Take her to her quarters,” Covah orders.
One of the Iranians helps her out.
“You too, Jalal. I’ll be fine.”
The Arab leaves, the watertight door closing behind him.
Gunnar lies down on the table, allowing the surgical eye to scan his body.
The robotic appendage stops at his right hip.
TRANSMISSION DEVICE LOCATED. RIGHT HIP FLEXOR, 2.96 CENTIMETERS DEEP.
“Sorceress, remove the device.”
DOES THE PATIENT REQUIRE ANESTHETIC?
“Gunnar?”
Gunnar tugs the Chinese uniform down past his hip. “Just do it.” He looks the other way and grimaces.
The mechanical hand rotates, extending a surgical finger composed of a razor-sharp scalpel. With a flash of steel, the blade plunges toward the exposed flesh, quickly slicing a precise incision through the still-healing scab, stopping just before the thick muscle.
The second appendage moves in at lightning speed, pushing a small set of forceps into the oozing wound. Gunnar groans as the forceps retract, brandishing a bloody hard plastic device the size of a dime.
As the second robotic appendage places the homing device on the table, the first extends a needle and thread and begins closing the wound.
In less than a minute, seven perfect stitches have been sutured in place.