'Wait a minute!' Stanton cried.
Two padded clamps darted out, pulled his arm aside and pinned it to the chair arm. He felt the broken bone grinding inside and yelled more in shock than in pain.
Sylac looked round at him. 'I do have other things to do, man. You only have a broken arm,' he said.
A sharp pain in his shoulder, and Stanton looked around at the disc now pressed there. His arm went completely dead: nerve-blocker. Stanton looked over at
Arian, but me Separatist had his concentration fixed on Sylac, who was inspecting the black device.
'What do you want with this, Pelter?' he asked.
'I want it connected into a military aug, and I want that interfaced with my optic nerve,' said Pelter, and so saying he peeled the dressing from his face.
Sylac looked at the ruin of his face with something like disinterest. 'I'll have to do some grafting there, but your payment covers that,' he said.
Pelter went on. 'I also want my finger and handprints removed and my retinal print changed.'
Fascinated as he was by this exchange, Stanton could not concentrate on it. The robot now removed the splint and bandages from his arm with a scuttling of curved scalpels. This would have been bad enough in a proper hospital, but here? It then split his shirt sleeve and parted it… only, Stanton suddenly realized, it wasn't just his shirt that the machine had opened. He looked away quickly from the neatly snapped bone he could see mere, and cringed at the sound of small tubes sucking away the blood that started to well up. There was movement next, but no pain, then came the reassuring drone of a bone welder. Stanton could not say he was impressed with Sylac's bedside manner.
'What will you be linking to?' Sylac asked Pelter, the pebble object now held up close to his eye.
'That is my concern.'
Sylac shrugged and held out the object. 'This control unit I can slot inside your skull widiout creating too much pressure,' he said, then turned and picked up a grey aug from the bench. It was the shape of a kidney bean and about five centimetres long. He continued.
'This is a big ugly piece of hardware, Arian Pelter, and you're not going to look pretty with that optic interface.'
'I don't really care, just make sure it works,' Pelter replied.
Stanton looked at him. This was not the Pelter he knew. Where was his acclaimed vanity? The man had spent a fortune on cosmetic alterations during the time Stanton had known him. He looked to Sylac to find the surgeon gazing back at him. He felt a sudden tug at his shoulder and a deep ache returned to his damaged arm. He glanced down and saw that the wound had now been welded shut.
'I have work to do,' said Sylac, 'so I'd rather you did not sit there all day.'
Keeping a wary eye on the robot, Stanton slid from the chair. He flexed his fingers expecting more pain, but found none. Pelter moved to occupy the chair in his place as Sylac walked over, his cyber-arms opening out, the complex glittering fingers of their hands revolving. Pelter turned to Stanton. 'There's something I need to do, John. Meet you in the Starport Boulevard in two days, at the Saone, usual time. When I meet you there, I'll want to know who he was and where he went,' he added.
So that was it. 'You'll be all right?' asked Stanton.
Pelter just stared at him for a moment, then turned away. Of course he would be all right. If Sylac had wanted them dead, they would never have got this far, and if he had wanted to kill them here, there was nothing John could do to prevent it. He watched for a moment as the robot shoved the nerve-blocker up against Pelter's neck. Then he turned away and got out of there, wishing
Gridl inked he could close his ears to the sounds that then proceeded.
Once free of Cheyne III, the shuttle's antigravity was displaced by the dirust of ionic boosters. Through the portals, star-strewn space faded in to replace the last orange-and-blue phosphorescence of atmosphere. Cormac felt himself slowly sag into his seat as gravity of one G was eased on for the benefit of the passengers.
'Come on, get that belt off. Time for a drink.'
Cormac released his belt and woodenly followed Blegg to the shuttle bar. As he watched the old man elbow other passengers from his path, he just stood back and waited. He was finding it difficult to keep himself under control, for he had suddenly acquired the almost overpowering urge to ask Blegg why he had such a ridiculous name.
'I'll have a large Scotch,' said Blegg, then, turning to Cormac, asked, 'You?'
'Albion water, please.'
'Barman! Two large Scotches!'
Cormac shook his head and studied the interior of the shuttle. The bar stood at the rear of this particular wing. Ten metres to his left was the bulkhead, behind which engines purred and the shutde's AI that controlled the craft with but a fraction of its ability. Beyond that bulkhead was the other thick-sectioned wing containing another thousand passengers. Too many lives here to entrust to a mere human pilot. Cormac returned his attention to the bar and watched as webbed hands poured out their drinks. A machine could have done that so much more efficiendy. He took the drink Blegg handed him, and followed him back to their seats. As they sat down, Blegg gestured to the barman, a seadapt.
'You know, a machine could do that job much more efficiently, but why should the shuttle company pay for the expensive hardware when people like him are prepared to do the job for the fun of it, for the free passage?'
Cormac stared at Blegg with deep suspicion. 'I was told you are to brief me.'
'Your arse is so tight I'm surprised you bother eating.'
Cormac sipped some of his Scotch to stifle his desire to reply.
'Briefing,' said Blegg.
Cormac looked at him and suddenly found himself gazing into eyes resembling nailheads. Suddenly the sounds all around him receded, and something cold touched his spine. A new voice then spoke in his mind.
There has been a buffer failure at the Samarkand runcible facility.
Cormac drank more of his Scotch.
Is that you?
'Of course it was me,' said Blegg. 'Did it sound like the usual silicon moron? Now think about what I just told you.'
Cormac immediately accessed a runcible tech site and began downloading figures. Something black encroached at the edges of his vision, and everything he had been pulling in was corrupted. He saw files just fading out and draining away. Then something thumped inside his head, and the connection was gone. He experienced an hallucination, part visual and part tactile. A twisted illusion. He was groping about inside his own head, lost and panicking. A hand slapped on his shoulder and pulled him back.
'I said, 'said Blegg, 'think about what I just told you. Think.'
Cormac stared again into those eyes. He felt the tug of power there and he made an effort of will.
Stupid to panic. Use your mind.
He did as Blegg suggested, and applied the simple mental calculating techniques he'd been taught longer ago than he cared to remember. Figures started to come up and, after rechecking, he started to put together a nightmare scenario. And somehow, because he had worked this out for himself, it all seemed more real.
'Anyone coming through would have done so at near light speed,' he said, and in his mind's eye - that facet he normally used for downloaded images - he saw what must have happened.
It is called imagination, Ian Cormac.
Cormac looked at Blegg, but Blegg had turned away from him, watching as one of the other passengers walked by. As he began his reply, he slowly swung his gaze back to Cormac.
'Before it was destroyed, the Samarkand runcible AI managed to transmit for point three seconds. Major structural breakdown, not detected in time to prevent reception. A runcible technician by the name of Freeman came through. He most certainly would have known nothing about it. Thirty megatons, conservative.'