65
A low hum throbbed through the interior of the Rho Ship, completely contained within the shielding mechanisms so that it, like the power surge that produced it, remained well beyond the detection capabilities of the feeble human instruments that clung to the ship's outer skin. But Raul could feel it.
His connection with the ship had improved drastically since he had moved the umbilical cable from the base of his spine. The operation had taken a good deal of time, the complications having nothing to do with Dr. Stephenson's crude attachments. What had made things difficult was the need to maintain a connection to the ship's neural net while he performed the operation on the base of his own skull.
Raul couldn't just sever the old connections and move the cables up to be reconnected. That would have severed his link, leaving him without the knowledge to perform the brain operation that would reconnect him. So he had left the old connections in place while he began a separate operation at the base of his skull.
For several hours he had worked to implant a much more sophisticated device, one that extended a half inch out the back of his brain pan, just enough to provide an easy place to re-hook the umbilical after he removed it. This outer hookup had to be simple. Once he disconnected the umbilical from his leg stumps, he would be on his own, cut off from the augmentation of the massive neural network that enhanced his mind. The task of reconnecting had to be accomplished while he remained in that reduced state.
Unfortunately, an unanticipated problem had almost brought a disastrous end to his efforts. After cutting away the umbilical connections to his lower spinal cord, Raul had experienced several minutes of self-doubt, accompanied by a feeling of great loss. Thoughts of Heather had bombarded his mind, leaving him nearly suicidal and almost robbing him of the will to reconnect. Only a sudden flash of hope had renewed his strength of will, a hope that had transformed into a new goal as the neural network connection had been restored.
It had been a close thing, but the danger had been worth the risk. The connections directly into his brain were so far superior to the previous ones that there was no comparison.
Dr. Stephenson's response upon seeing him the following day had been enlightening. The physicist had eyed him with interest, but there had been no hint of surprise in the man’s mannerisms. If anything, he seemed pleased.
Well, what Stephenson thought hardly mattered. Raul hadn't even seen the man in two days and, with his improved mental augmentation, that had been plenty of time to do what had to be done.
Raul let his thoughts drift to the machinery that powered the stasis field, the one that Dr. Stephenson had used to hold him immobilized during the operations that had removed his eye and both legs. With a slight shift of his thoughts, Raul brought the machine online, manipulating the stasis field's lines of force as easily as he could wiggle his own finger.
A small scalpel rose from its resting place, steadied in midair, and then shot across the room, coming to a stop a half inch in front of Raul's face. It hung there, quivering as if it had just sunk its blade into a tree trunk. Once again Raul changed his visualization, the field compressing the metal scalpel with such force that it collapsed in upon itself, running like liquid mercury to form a shiny metal ball.
Raul let the ball fall to the floor as his torso floated into the air and began moving across the room, the umbilical cable attached to his skull trailing along behind him.
No. Stephenson wouldn't be bothering him—ever again.
66
Most people found the inside of the Henderson House mansion more bizarre than the exterior, its freestanding, spiral staircase occupying the center of the huge open foyer. The staircase went well beyond eccentric. It somehow managed to be simultaneously beautiful and hideous.
Built entirely of mahogany, it wound its way upward to a spot twenty feet above the marble floor, where it terminated at a platform supported by three archways. Narrow wooden walkways led outward along the tops of the arches to the inward facing balconies that provided access to the hallways on the upper floor. Where the wood of the staircase connected to the metal arches, the faces of one man and two women were carved into the wood. The wooden faces contorted in expressions of agony, giving the clear impression that the touch of the metal arch was torture.
Even long-time staff often paused at the sight. Dr. Stephenson passed it by without a second glance, making his way directly toward the library.
A white-clad Henderson House staff member opened the heavy wooden door as he approached the room. As odd as most of the mansion was, the library could have been one of hundreds of similar rooms, a relatively small reading area, walls lined with bookshelves accessible via a sliding ladder. Seated at the circular table in the room’s center, three men awaited him.
Dr. Anthony Frell, the chairman of the Henderson House Foundation, was on the right, rising from his chair and extending his hand in greeting. It was a gesture Stephenson ignored, turning his hawkish gaze on the man seated in the center.
He was Hispanic, his dark hair worn shoulder length, his mouth outlined with a Fu Manchu style mustache and beard. The man's expression was one of thinly masked aggression, a look that was matched by the large man standing to the left. Jorge Esteban Espe?osa, the leader of the largest Colombian drug cartel, never went anywhere without his personal bodyguard.
Dr. Stephenson did not bother to sit down. "This meeting does not please me."
Espe?osa leaned back in his chair, bringing his booted feet up to rest on the table. "And I don't give a shit."
The drug lord extracted a cigar from his jacket pocket, snipping the end with a small cigar cutter. Striking a match on the side of his embroidered cowboy boot, Espe?osa drew in several puffs, blowing the smoke out in Dr. Stephenson's direction.
"It seems to me that you need a little lesson in who you are dealing with." Espe?osa smiled. "Don't get me wrong. The doses of the nanite formula you provided for me are most acceptable. But somehow, you seem to have gotten the notion that you can command me. Nobody commands Jorge Espe?osa. Comprende?”
Espe?osa exhaled another large puff of smoke, bringing his feet off the table and leaning forward. "And I don't like the inflated price you’re charging for the formula. It cuts into my profits."
At a nod from the cartel boss, the bodyguard moved around the table, taking up a position just behind and to the left of Dr. Stephenson.
"It's bad for business. I'm sure you understand that." Espe?osa rolled the end of the cigar over his tongue, savoring the rich taste of the Cuban leaf. "So, from now on, I’m going to set the price. All I have to do is let word of our arrangement leak out and your government would kill you for me. Don't forget whose cajones are in the vice."
Dr. Stephenson's face showed no sign of emotion.
Suddenly, the bodyguard screamed, a sound that brought Espe?osa to his feet and sent Dr. Frell scrambling back into the far corner.
The bodyguard staggered forward, falling to his knees as his fingers clawed at his face, his fingernails ripping out large chunks of flesh. As the man looked up at his boss, his brown eyes exploded like grapes squeezed in a press, squirting out of their sockets in twin jets that splattered the front of the drug lord's shirt.
"Madre de Dios!" Espe?osa gasped as he staggered away from the dying man.
The bodyguard screamed again, a sound that degenerated into a gargle as his bones dissolved beneath his skin. Within seconds, the only thing that remained of what had once been a human being was a stinking, wet mess on the beautiful hardwood floor.
Both Dr. Frell and Jorge Esteban Espe?osa remained frozen in place, unable to speak, their backs pressed firmly against the bookcase.
Dr. Stephenson stepped forward, his eyes locking with Espe?osa’s.
"I don't think I will be accepting your terms."
As he turned and began to walk from the room, Dr. Stephenson stopped to look back.
"By the way, if anything unfortunate happens to me or should I become displeased, then you have just seen a glimpse of your future. But your death will take considerably longer."
Moving out into the grand foyer, Dr. Stephenson paused momentarily, his eyes studying the spiral staircase, as if for the first time.
It really was a thing of beauty.