Rourke's heart sank. Fifteen minutes. It sounded more like a life sentence.
"Your turn, Jake."
The tone of the words shocked Rourke back to reality. The medic had said them casually, almost playfully, like the questions were stimulating it. He said, "Do you have a name?"
"Doctor Zealoto called me Mychild."
"Mychild. A nice name. An honest name. Do you feel sacrifice, Mychild?"
"My receptors are currently experiencing an excruciating level of sacrifice."
Rourke went cold. So they did feel. They did suffer. The threads of hatred knotted through his brain loosened slightly. "Can't you take something, morphine?"
"Morphine? I do not recognize that word. Please explain."
"It's . . ." Rourke cursed Zealoto with all his might. Of course it didn't know what morphine was. Morphine was Zealoto's enemy. Besides, how could it analyze all those chemical markers if it was doped up? It couldn't analyze anything. Zealoto was sacrificing this thing just as callously as he was sacrificing the test subject. Had Hunter been picked randomly? Or was it more sinister, was he actually chosen?
And how many other Beta 3.70s were out there gathering calibration information right now?
"How does the sacrifice affect you, Mychild?"
"It interferes with my thought process. Is this what is supposed to happen?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"It is our survival mechanism. Do you know why you feel it?" Rourke stared at the medic and suddenly, inexplicably, imagined he was looking at a wounded dog he'd just hit with his car.
"Doctor Zealoto said it was my duty. He said he would relieve me of my duty when the calibration was finished."
Struck by this cool, innocent response, Rourke struggled to reply. What was this thing feeling right now? How could it bear so much pain and still keep talking?
"Did he not . . ." His words were drowned out as two F-32s shot past overhead, the scream of their engines chasing them like angry demons. The world blurred as his hip turned to fire.
"Which of the following . . ."
"Bearable!" Rourke sucked in a deep breath and held it until the fire subsided. "Isn't it your duty to take sacrifice, not inflict it on your comrades?"
"Comrade? I do not recognize that word. Please explain."
"I am your comrade. We're on the same side."
"Doctor Zealoto's instructions cannot be overridden."
Rourke spat out a mouthful of pasty saliva. Maybe he should try and dig the razor tooth out himself. But how? Without pain, he had no idea where it was. All he knew was that it was somewhere around his upper femur. The constant, rattly vibration of the engine was traveling up along his bones and into his skull like some mocking, indecipherable code.
The migraine flared again, its roar insanely painful and debilitating, an angry beast wanting to grow into one of those monsters that sometimes forced him to bed in a darkened room until 50 or 100mg of Imigran kicked in.
"I . . ." the medic said. "I will . . . I will tell . . ."
Rourke held his breath again, this time with a sense of shocked hope. So the migraine was affecting it. It was overloading. If that was the case then what would more pain signals do? He gripped the M9 tight and aimed it at the meaty flesh of his calf. Would another bullet tip it over, overload it completely?
"I will . . . tell . . . Doctor Zealoto you were a valued subject," the medic said.
Rourke's finger froze on the trigger as the migraine sank away. This was insane. He couldn't shoot himself. No matter what the circumstances, he couldn't do it. Besides, even if it did work, what would he do until the medivac arrived. He stared at his watch. Six minutes since Bieber's message. Could he stand the pain of a razor tooth for nine minutes, five minutes, a minute? Beads of sweat rolled down his face. Did he need the very thing that was now slowly killing him?
The medic said, "I have released more epinephrine to counteract a drop in your blood pressure."
Rourke's pulse stabilized. He let the pistol slip from his hand.
"Have you any more questions for me, Jake?"
"Yes." Suddenly Rourke wanted to know what would happen when Bieber's medivac arrived. He didn't waste the question because every part of his brain was already screaming the answer. There'd be no witnesses. The instant the medic realized what was happening it would kill him.
"How old are you?" he asked.
"Sixteen months."
Rourke whistled inwardly. Sixteen months. Impressive. What a pity Zealoto hadn't . . .
An image unfolded in his mind's eye, an image of a bizarre debriefing in some dark place beneath Ingencorp's HQ. Zealoto and a half a dozen other white-coated crackpots were gathered around a lab desk. The medic sat on a frame in the center of the table. They were talking to it. Like a cracked egg, the cap of the medic was gone. The raw brain was gray and lumpy under the sterile light. It had a mouth, a tiny, wiry mouth that was opening and closing, talking to Zealoto, telling him . . .
A long, lunatic laugh exploded from Rourke's mouth.
"What is wrong?" the medic asked.
Rourke laughed again. Damn, but that thing had actually sounded worried just then. Almost human-in a very childlike way. Maybe he could talk to it. Maybe he could reason with it, convince it to ease up.
A ray of hope penetrated the cloud swirling around his mind. Maybe, just maybe, he could distract it long enough until the medivac arrived. Then, if he put a round from the M9 into his calf, it might overload the medic and give him time to tell the medivac team what had happened. But what then? He had to bring word of this back with him. He had to expose Zealoto, and overloading the medic might kill it. He'd have no evidence. Zealoto would find out and immediately instigate a cover up.
Before he tried to overload the medic, he needed to find out more.
"Mychild. What did Doctor Zealoto's training involve?"
"He trained me to speak using an automated speech program. The onboard computer converts my thoughts into the sounds you hear."
"And the attachment mechanism?"
"The computer controls it. Doctor Zealoto's team will disconnect it when they arrive."
"But I will be dead then?"
"It is necessary."
"Mychild. Are you not curious as to why you are here?"
"It is the doctor's wish. He is my . . ."
"Father."
"Father? I do not recognize that word. Please explain."
"He's the one that gave you life."
"Life?"
Rourke's stomach tightened so abruptly a dribble of saliva leaked out of his mouth. Could he educate it about life? If he explained what it was like to actually live, could he turn things around and show it that taking life was bad. It seemed impossible. How could he make it understand what animals, humans, and landscapes looked like?
How could he describe a bird?
He ran his fingers over the medic. Besides, what was there to see here? The trees that had lined Kaimi Street were matchsticks now. The buildings were smoking hulks and the sky was stained filthy with dust and smoke. Even if the medic could see what was outside, it might just decide there wasn't much to living anyway.
In a fit of giddy spontaneity he pursed his lips and started to whistle Gershwin's "Summertime."
"That is a pleasant sound," the medic said.
"Yes, Mychild. It is. This is part of what life is about. Enjoyment."
"Enjoyment?"
"Yes. Enjoyment is when there is no pain, no worry, no nothing but a blissful feeling in your heart that life is good."
"I have no heart, yet I think I understand. The song makes the sacrifice seem slightly distant."
Rourke glanced at his watch. Two minutes since the last calibration test. His distractions were working. If only he could show it pictures of home, of the forests, and how Summerton Lake glimmered so beautifully in the summer. If only it was possible to . . .