"I have redirected your sacrifice. I have also connected an emergency intravenous feed and administered epinephrine to steady your blood pressure."
"Sacrifice. You mean my pain?"
"Pain? I do not recognize that word. Please explain."
A pinprick of pain flared briefly in Rourke's temple, right where his migraines usually started. Using his wrist control pad, he flicked through the headset channels. Nothing. Dead. The red indicator on the GPS was dead, too.
"What do you feel?"
Rourke sucked in a long, slow breath. "How do you think I feel?"
"My sensors detect a high level of chemical markers indicating stress. Please relax and answer my question."
Rourke stared at the medic's case. That certainly hadn't sounded like any automated program speaking. "Why do you want to know how I feel?"
"It is my duty."
Duty. Something in Rourke's mind amplified the word until it sounded loud and abrasive in his skull. The medic had said it so automatically, so passionately, it couldn't have come from any program. Surely he wasn't hearing the brain. No. It was something else, some onboard receiver relaying the voice of some distant controller.
"Who am I speaking to? Where are you based?"
"Please answer my question. Otherwise I must encourage you by ceasing the sacrifice relief."
The pain in Rourke's thigh grew into a savage, snapping animal. "What!"
"What do you feel?
The animal in Rourke's thigh bit hard and hot. "Hopeful! I feel hopeful."
The instant the animal settled, Rourke promised himself that, busted leg or not, he'd personally deal with whoever was on the other end of the receiver the moment he got back.
"State your name, rank, and serial number," the voice said.
"No. Wait. Who are you? What's your rank?"
"I am your medic. Beta version 3.70. Once I have gathered the basic information I will begin calibration of the new system."
"Impossible. You can't talk."
"Version 3.70 is developed for contact. Doctor Zealoto taught me."
Rourke cursed under his breath. Zealoto. He'd heard the name before. Wasn't he the ex-junkie genius who'd developed the medics for Ingencorp? Yes. A former major who'd lost an arm in Baghdad years ago. Said he'd come up with the idea because he never wanted anyone to get hooked on morphine again.
The medic said, "State your name, rank, and serial number."
Some primal instinct told Rourke it mightn't be wise to give his name. They'd given this medic to a grunt, a kid barely out of school who'd probably have answered anything without question. If Ingencorp were behind this obscenity, and they realized an officer was connected, then . . .
He fished the kid's dog tag from his pocket. "PFC Jake Hunter. SE1046374."
"Thank you, Jake."
The idea that he'd now assumed the identity of a dead kid whose mother was probably on her knees twenty-six hours a day praying for his safety, made Rourke's stomach turn. Bile burned his throat. He gulped a mouthful of warm water from his canteen and promptly threw it up.
"What is your opinion of the war, Jake?"
Rourke clenched his teeth when the animal stirred again. For several terrible moments he didn't know which was worse, the pain, or the idea that Zealoto was using a casualty to fine-tune his latest creation. It was sick. Really, really sick. Surely Zealoto knew he'd be called to account once the casualty got back. Surely he . . .
"Of course," a voice cried from the back of his mind. "But only if the casualty makes it."
Every muscle in Rourke's body froze.
"What is your opinion of . . ."
"I hate it. It's wrong. We have no business here."
The pain sank away.
"What do you feel toward your superiors?"
Rourke choked back an insane laugh. "I wish they were right here shitting in their pants." The weight of guilt in his mind eased, like he'd just given Jake Hunter a voice from beyond the grave.
"Thank you."
For the next few minutes the questions rolled smoothly and relentlessly. Was he hungry, thirsty, sick, or calm? Was basic training sufficient? Was the medic's voice adequately comforting? Had he made a will?
That last question made Rourke's chest tighten until it was difficult to breathe. "Should I have made a will?"
"I will now begin the calibration. The results will be analyzed with your medical records to provide invaluable research information toward the war effort."
The throbbing sparked up again in Rourke's leg.
"Which of the following words describes the sacrifice: bearable, high, or excruciating?"
"The will," Rourke hissed through gritted teeth. "Why ask about a will?"
The throbbing in his thigh turned to a hot burning, like someone had tapped open a vein and pumped in acid. His vision blurred. He slammed both fists into the ground. "The will! Should I have made a will?"
The ache in Rourke's temple flared up again, sharp and blinding.
"I am confused," the medic said. "Do you have a head injury? My sensors detect . . ."
"Yes, yes I have. Fix it."
The migraine sank away.
"Which of the following words . . ."
"Okay! Okay!" Rourke grasped the M9 tight and suddenly wanted to shoot something, anything. "I'll do a deal. An answer for an answer."
"Doctor Zealoto did not mention this. I must follow my instructions."
"No. Wait. Isn't your aim to gather information?"
"Correct."
"And the more you can gather, the happier Doctor Zealoto will be?"
"A rational assumption."
And now the medic's voice was no longer cold and neutral. Now Rourke thought he detected an underlying tone that could have been a trace of humanity buried deep within the words. "Then tell me if I should have made a will and I'll answer anything you like."
A short silence followed. "Yes. You should have made a will. The calibration will continue until your vital organs cease to function."
Hot bile flooded Rourke's mouth. He grabbed for the umbilical. The instant his fingers made contact with it, the attachment teeth flexed and bit deeper into his flesh.
The medic said, "If the contact is removed you will die immediately."
"A medivac is coming."
"I have negated your GPS signal and issued a separate evacuation order to my superior. I have also blocked any further communication through this headset. Doctor Zealoto's team will recover me once the area is secure."
Rourke's migraine flared up angrily, brutally. He grabbed his head in both hands.
"My sensors detect more cranial disturbance. I will relieve you." The ache faded. "I will now recom . . . recom . . . recommence the cal . . ."
For the next few moments it was like some great tussle was going on in Rourke's head. Every time the migraine faded, the medic's words wavered. In the midst of this confusion, that voice in the back of his mind was screaming that this was significant.
But how?
Was the migraine somehow overloading the medic? Had Zealoto's modifications to allow it a consciousness diverted resources away from its original purpose? It sounded crazy, but no crazier than a talking medic.
Once the migraine settled, the medic's voice returned loud and clear.
"I will now recommence the calibration sequence."
"Wait!"
"An answer for an answer. Wasn't that our deal?"
Rourke stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth and bit down hard. "Do it!"
This time when the fire was stoked, it flared right up through his chest.
"Which of the following . . ."
"Bearable," Rourke hissed. The word was now like a password, a life-giving thing. He slipped the phone from his pocket and tapped out a text message to Bieber.
GPS gone. Need medivac. Hurry.
The reply was instant.
Medivac in fifteen.