Goliath

BECAUSE OF YOUR BEAUTY YOU OWE THE WORLD A RECOMPENSE—

Inhuman cries for help echo through the weapons bay, the dying wail finally suffocated beneath a blanket of unconsciousness.

Silence now, save for the whirring of the saw as the revolving steel teeth continue spitting out blood and bone fragments from the line of incision along Thomas Chau’s gushing forehead.

The two Iranian brothers escort Gunnar and Rocky through the upper-level passageway. Covah leads them aft to the watertight door labeled “Surgical Suite.”

“Sorceress, open the surgical suite.”

With a double click, the hatch swings open, revealing an antisepticlooking operating room. Green tile covers the walls, floor, and ceiling. Sophisticated monitors, equipment, and life-support systems line two walls. A Lexan door marked LAB is situated to the right of the entranceway.

At the very center of the surgical suite, anchored to the floor, is an operating table.

Installed on the ceiling directly above the surgical table are two robotic arms, similar to the targeting drones located in the weapons bay, but infinitely more delicate. The hands of these eight-fingered prosthetics are composed of a scalpel, forceps, retractor, suture, drill bit, probe, suction hose, and a surgical laser. A small sensor orb is mounted atop each appendage’s wrist. Unlike the eyeballs located throughout the ship, these sensors contain multiple scanners, including X-ray and ultrasound.

Covah turns to Rocky. “Ladies first, Commander. Up on the table please.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Gunnar says. “I told you, the implant’s in me.”

“Gallant of you, Gunnar, but we can’t take any chances. Up on the table, Commander.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Just a quick physiological exam.”

“Forget it.”

The electrical shock seizes her, sending her writhing on the green tile floor.

“Simon, stop!” Gunnar kneels beside her as the current ceases.

“Place her on the table, Gunnar. No harm will come to her, you have my word.”

Gunnar helps her onto the table. Instantly, one of the surgical appendages springs to life, extending out over Rocky’s body, scanning her with its wristmounted sensor orb.

EXAMINATION COMPLETE. NO IMPLANTS PRESENT.

Gunnar helps Rocky down, the woman’s limbs still quivering from the electrical shock.

“Take her to her quarters,” Covah orders.

One of the Iranians helps her out.

“You too, Jalal. I’ll be fine.”

The Arab leaves, the watertight door closing behind him.

Gunnar lies down on the table, allowing the surgical eye to scan his body.

The robotic appendage stops at his right hip.

TRANSMISSION DEVICE LOCATED. RIGHT HIP FLEXOR, 2.96 CENTIMETERS DEEP.

“Sorceress, remove the device.”

DOES THE PATIENT REQUIRE ANESTHETIC?

“Gunnar?”

Gunnar tugs the Chinese uniform down past his hip. “Just do it.” He looks the other way and grimaces.

The mechanical hand rotates, extending a surgical finger composed of a razor-sharp scalpel. With a flash of steel, the blade plunges toward the exposed flesh, quickly slicing a precise incision through the still-healing scab, stopping just before the thick muscle.

The second appendage moves in at lightning speed, pushing a small set of forceps into the oozing wound. Gunnar groans as the forceps retract, brandishing a bloody hard plastic device the size of a dime.

As the second robotic appendage places the homing device on the table, the first extends a needle and thread and begins closing the wound.

In less than a minute, seven perfect stitches have been sutured in place.

Covah hands Gunnar a bandage. “An incredible machine, wouldn’t you agree?”

Gunnar winces as he covers the wound. “Not much of a bedside manner.”

Covah picks up the tiny wafer-thin transmitter and washes the blood off in a nearby sink. He examines it under an inspection lamp. “Clever. I give the NSA staff credit. Sorceress would have discovered most tracking devices the moment you set foot on the ship.” He pockets the device, then heads for the door marked LAB and enters.

The laboratory is a brightly lit chamber festooned with equipment racks and dedicated computers, all anchored to the tile floor, which is crisscrossed with metal tracks. A small robotic drone, its gears fitted within the tracks, remains inanimate along the far wall in front of the door to a tall aluminum walk-in refrigerator.

Simon Covah’s eyes glaze over as the image jars a distant memory.