Episode 25, “Not Recovered”

 

[image error]“He’s rebooting now,” said the medical tech. His name tag declared him “Foster” and bore a serial number.

VanClef looked up from where he sat reading reports on a pocket tab. He tucked away the device and went to stand next to Foster.  His boots rang on the white tiles of the government medical center, located in a heavily guarded and classified annex of Hongkongtown’s largest private hospital.

On a hydraulic table wide enough to accommodate a ground car, ORN84821796 lay quietly.  The armored carapace of the battle machine was streaked with oxidation. VanClef ran one gloved finger across this. His fingertip left a runnel in the orange lattice.

The “patient,” if that word applied here, was surrounded by the armatures of robot medical equipment.  Various tubes and couplings were connected to access ports on his metal frame.  There were open pods on his shoulders and forearms.  Refueling hoses snaked to his legs.

“What is his prognosis?” VanClef asked.

“Good,” said Foster.  “You realize that once they’re decommissioned, they’re not supposed to be recoverable.”

“I’m aware,” said Vanclef.  “He’s viable nonetheless?”

“He will be,” said the tech.  “I’m running a glucose and stimulant suspension through his organic systems now.  It should shake off the cobwebs and get him fully conscious again.  The mental conditioning appears stable, and his brainwaves show no sign of degradation.  Once we designate you as his unit commander, he’ll follow your orders with… reasonable reliability. I can’t guarantee that his cognition hasn’t suffered. His brain has been in the equivalent of a coma for several years. There’s always some fall-off of higher function.”

“How will that affect him?”

“His reaction times will be slow,” said Foster.  “Reflexes will be similarly retarded. It shouldn’t affect his heirarchal protocols.”

“Good,” said VanClef.  “Slow is not a problem. Insubordinate… that would be a problem.”

“I still haven’t received the necessary authorization paperwork,” said Foster.

“It’s coming through channels,” said VanClef.  “You’ll have it.”

“I hope so, sir,” said Foster.  “Without it I’m obligated to report the misappropriation of military resources. We’re not licensed to field this equipment.”

“It’s being taken care of,” said VanClef.  “The weapons pods will function?”

“Once you’ve supplied the necessary munitions,” said Foster.  “They can’t be had commercially. This model is obsolete.”  He handed VanClef a plastic print.  “These are the specifications.”

“Yes,” said VanClef.  “I anticipated as much.”  He gestured to the door of the surgical chamber.  “And our guest in the next room?”

Foster sighed.  He gestured for the Intelligence agent to follow.  The door slid quietly aside as they approached.

The smell of chemical antiseptic stabbed his nostrils. Undergirding this was something much worse, something rotten and cloying.  He coughed.  From his pocket he took the black silk handkerchief he always carried.  This he placed over his mouth.

“The damage is considerable, as you can see,” Foster reported.  The man in the hospital bed was swathed in pressure bandages and wore an oxygen helmet. Machines breathed for him; machines processed and treated his blood and bodily wastes. Several machines whose purpose VanClef could not divine were connected to the squat figure’s limbs, chest, and pelvis.

“Will he live?”

“The better question, Agent VanClef,” said Foster, “is whether you want him to.”

“It’s that bad?”

“Yes, sir,” said Foster.  “You should consider euthanizing him, in my professional opinion.”

“As long as Temken is alive,” said VanClef, “his salary accrues in my operating budget.”

Foster shrugged.  “That’s your call to make, of course.  Mister Temken’s skull has been cracked and his brain evulsed.  We’re fairly certain he is awake in there, to the extent that he retains higher brain function, but there is almost certainly some damage.  I’m circulating a full spectrum of painkillers through him, as much as we can without risking renal failure.  As it is we’ve had to install heart and lung machines.  The trauma he endured provoked several organ failures. There’s also the long-term risk of infection.”

“Is that why he smells so badly?”

“We’re fighting a necrotizing bacteria in his extremities,” said Foster.  “That’s something he picked up here in the hospital, to be honest.  He should be dead already. I’m astonished he survived the medivac here.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a living man as badly damaged as this.”

VanClef pressed his handkerchief more tightly to his face and leaned over Temken’s helmet.  “Where are his eyes?”

“Not recovered,” said Foster.

“The pressure of having his skull split did that?”

“I assume as much.”

“All right,” said VanClef.  “How much pain is he in?”

“As much as there is,” said Foster.

“Pity,” said Foster. “Let me know if his condition changes.  In the meantime I want you to conduct an analysis of Ian Peyton’s physical specifications.  Find me a weakness.  Any weakness.  His metabolism makes it extremely difficult to tranquilize him, for example. If you can concoct something we could use to do that, I can close this case.”

“You want to take him alive?”

“It would be preferable,” said VanClef.  “But it is not a requirement. And let me remind you that Peyton’s specifications are classified.”  He took a print from his coat and handed it to Foster.  Foster held it up to the light.

The outline of a hypertrophic man dominated the print. Several call-outs indicated organ locations and contained columns of statistics.

“I may not find anything,” said Foster.

“Every system his a weakness,” said VanClef. “So does Peyton.”  He shot a last glance at Temken and then swept from the room.

The medical tech shook his head.  Looking more closely at the medical records VanClef had given him, he realized that the patient’s name was not listed as Ian Peyton.  It said, instead, “Stillwater, William.”

Foster frowned. He would just ignore the discrepancy.

The schemes of Intelligence agents were none of his concern.