"What?" said Yallow, in what was rapidly becoming an annoying habit.
"I think," Cormac said muzzily, "that the Prador have been lured into a trap, and we were here to bait the hook: one apparently old man and two raw recruits to open up this Sanctum."
"We're being used as decoys?" said Yallow disbelievingly.
"Outstanding," said Dent.
Cormac gazed with suspicion at the facsimile human—that was one of Olkennon's favourite comments, so perhaps their Golem unit leader was controlling Dent?
Yallow now turned and gazed at the hardened breach sealant.
"A trap," she repeated.
"Hazon nerve gas, I would guess," said Cormac.
Yallow's expression became grim. "We could have died out there," she said flatly.
"Sort of comes with the territory," Cormac replied.
From out in the corridor, despite the thickness of the door, could be heard the sound of heavy objects crashing about violently. Prador were certainly rugged—it took a long time for even that highly toxic gas to kill them.
The pedestal-mounted autodoc crouched over his injured leg like a chromed horseshoe crab feeding on the wound. With a nerve blocker engaged at the base of his spine, Cormac could feel nothing, but his hearing was fine, unfortunately. He kept his eyes averted from the mechanical surgeon's messy work, but could not block out the liquid crunching or the two-tone notes of bone and cell welders.
Olkennon, gazing at a screen mounted on the rear of the 'doc, also insisted upon giving him a description of what was going on—neglecting not one single gory detail.
"It's finished removing the fragments of metal and is now welding up the shattered kneecap. Dissolving clamps will go in next, since welded bone is always a bit weak. We wouldn't want all this coming apart on you again."
Cormac guessed Olkennon so relished describing this stuff because she didn't want her recruits becoming too blasé about such injuries. Yes, the medical technology was available to put together a broken human with the ease of repairing a broken toy, but some breakages could not be fixed and autodocs were not always available.
"There, the clamps are in—calcium fibre staples. Cell welding now and neutral cellular material and collagen to replace all that dead icky stuff it's sucking out."
Yeah, Cormac could now hear a sound like that made by someone sucking up the dregs of a drink through a straw.
As he understood it, ECS had once experienced problems with recruits becoming careless of injury and, at that time, the idea had been mooted that such repairs as this should be made without killing the pain—just to drive the point home. Too crude, however. The AIs had thereafter used subtle psychological manipulation, part of which involved making the autodocs look just plain scary, another part being the design of training regimens that included real pain. Cormac winced at the memory of hand-to-hand combat resulting in broken bones, ruptures, torn ligaments and gouged eyes. Pain was certainly a good learning tool, however, too much pain could make a soldier averse to doing a job which was, after all, one requiring those who were less than realistic about mortality.
"Weaving muscle fibres now and joining up the broken blood vessels. All the small capillary clamps coming off now. Oops, some clotting there—it'll have to cut that bit out."
Thanks, Olkennon, thought Cormac. I really needed to know that.
He said, "So you used us as decoys?"
"They would have seen through any emulation I could have made," she replied. "They're good at detecting metals."
"Who was running the facsimile?"
She focused on his face for a moment. "The AI in charge of the excavation." Returning her attention to the autodoc screen she went on, "It's closing up the skin now—layer by layer. It'll feel weird while the nerves heal, but there should be no pain." She looked up and gave him a smile. Certainly the Prador would have recognised her as Golem and known to keep away. Her emulation wasn't very good at all.
With a hissing sound and smell of burnt hair, the autodoc raised itself from his knee and began folding its sharp legs and other surgical cutlery into its body for sterilization. It looked rather like an insect grooming itself after eating something rather messy.
Cormac gazed down at his knee and saw it was bright red as if sunburned, and hairless. No sign now of torn flesh or broken bones. Of course, ECS medical technology had to be good. It was all about efficiency, for the time a soldier spent in hospital was wasted time.
Abruptly feeling returned. He felt odd. In his mind lay knowledge of a serious injury juxtaposed with evidence of none. The leg itself felt hot and cold—a local flulike phenomenon—and it also felt full of unfamiliar lumps as if a bag of marbles had been sewn in underneath his skin.
From beneath his lower back the autodoc retracted one more limb: a long, flat, hinged affair terminating in a platen for extruding nanofibres which until then had been engaged with his spinal nerves to cut all feeling below his waist. The autodoc pedestal now moved back from the surgical table, turned and folded down into itself, finally presenting nothing but smooth mirrored surfaces. Stepping round it, Olkennon dropped a sealed pack of paperwear clothing on Cormac's stomach. "Get dressed."
Warily, even though he knew there should be no problem, Cormac sat upright. The area of the wound pulled slightly like a strained muscle and the lumpiness felt something like a cramp. Muscle tension had yet to readjust and toxins saturating the area needed to be cleared. He swung his legs off the side of the surgical table and peered over at his envirosuit, bagged and lying in a corner, ready to be either repaired or scavenged for useable components. Standing, he tore open the package of paperwear and dressed, trying to ignore Olkennon's unwavering stare since, after all, she was a machine and not a woman.
Finally dressed he met her gaze. "We were put in danger—used as decoys—but there's something more to all this."
"The AI observed you both through the facsimile."
Being closely watched by AIs often resulted in substantial changes. He knew of troops who had come under such scrutiny and been summarily dismissed from ECS, and of others who ended up in the Sparkind, while still others, it was rumoured, simply disappeared.
"I can't say I'm happy to hear about that," he replied.
Olkennon studied him for a moment longer, then continued, "You understand that there are Separatists on this world who would very much like to get their hands on a Prador warhead?"
"You're stating the obvious."
"Yes… presume yourself bored, presume you feel under-utilized by ECS, under-appreciated."
"Okay, I'm presuming."
"Perhaps you want greater material wealth."
Silly, really, when in the Polity every need could be catered for and the greatest ill of society was boredom.
"No," he said. "I'm hooked on my own adrenaline, looking for further excitement, and I feel no inclination to get intervention to wean me off my addiction."
Olkennon bowed her head for a moment. She was smiling. Cormac did not allow himself to react to that—it was only emulation after all. Olkennon raised her head. "Eminently plausible, considering your psyche reports."
"I don't get to read them."
"Of course not… now let us go and see Carl."
They left the room to traverse the aseptic corridors of the medical centre. Cormac knew when they had come to Carl's room because few other rooms here possessed coded locks. Olkennon moved in close to the lock to deliberately block his view of it and rapidly punched in a code, before opening the door and stepping inside. Following her, Cormac gazed across at the bed on which Carl lay motionless, a life-support shellwear enclosing his chest with various tubes and optics trailing from it to an autodoc pedestal.