The Primus Labyrinth E-Book

Scott Overton

• Herausgeber: No Walls Publishing
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 579

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

A woman’s bloodstream has been seeded with death.

An American president must betray his country or sacrifice a woman he loves.

And their only hope lies with a broken man and a desperate gamble.

Curran Hunter almost died at the bottom of the ocean. Now an innocent victim will die unless Hunter can purge her body of deadly devices by piloting the Primus, a prototype submersible the size of a virus. Its control system uses Virtual Reality—its creators assure Hunter there can be no danger.

They are utterly wrong.

Hunter’s every belief will be tested, his very sanity on the line for a woman he doesn’t know.

And to save her life will require the deepest violation of all.

Ride the currents of the inner ocean in a race against time in The Primus Labyrinth!

Leseprobe

THE PRIMUS LABYRINTH

SCOTT OVERTON

No Walls Publishing

SUDBURY, ONTARIO, CANADA

Copyright © 2019 by S.G. Overton

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Scott Overton/No Walls Publishing

Sudbury/Ontario/Canada P0M 3C0

www.scottoverton.ca

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

The Primus Labyrinth/ Scott Overton -- 1st ed.

ISBN 978-1-9993860-6-1

We acknowledge the financial support of the Ontario Arts Council in the creation of this book.

For Terry-Lynne:

You’re in my veins, my heart, my every cell.

You infuse me.

Women are born with horror in their very bloodstream. It is a biological thing.

―BELA LUGOSI

1

Curran Hunter looked into the grey water and thought about drowning.

Not here, close to the pier. Too shallow. Out there, where the grey turned to deep-sea blue like the ocean abyss that had so nearly claimed him six months before. Except this time he would go willingly, just let go and sink to the bottom with no struggle. At peace. At peace for the first time in so very long.

The walk on the pier had become a daily habit: a therapeutic slice of mundane sanity, his heels ringing hollow drumbeats on the worn timbers of the pier. It was a comforting sound, like a heartbeat in silence. The tang of salt air always revived him, although the bright morning sun flashing off the water was punishing to his hangovers. The noises of industry were helpfully muted by distance and masked by the soft slap of choppy waves against concrete pilings.

Most often he came here looking for oblivion. This time he needed his capricious brain to come up with some answers. Sea King Drilling had notified him that they were suspending his compensation payments pending yet another legal opinion on his case. It was just the latest move in the game they’d played for six months. He’d spend another day pleading with legal aid, another waiting in a stagnant courtroom waiting for a scant minute or two of judicial wisdom. So far, the judgments had gone his way; but that wouldn’t put a badly needed check in his mailbox tomorrow. He’d be spending a few days with an empty belly, and his landlady was quickly losing patience waiting for her rent. He’d already dodged her twice that week. What if the checks never came again?

Could he return to northern Michigan with the jagged rock-cuts and stunted pines that had framed his youth? With both his parents dead and the old house sold to pay debts, there was little point. His dad had sold sports equipment to turn the end of his NFL career into a second livelihood, but those were the days before multi-million-dollar contracts for endorsements. When the old homestead went on the market, Hunter hadn’t been able to buy it.

Hunter's underwater work paid well, but it was seasonal and sporadic. It was only the last few years on the big oilrigs that he’d had a steady income. Too much of that had gone to booze and bullshit, but at least he’d been making something of himself. Then, even that had come to an end.

His attention was drawn to a stooped figure near one of the big wharves. It was an older man fiddling with something—a fishing rod, maybe. Yeah, that was a tackle box beside him. Not many fish worth catching this close to the docks, and you wouldn’t want to eat them. Or maybe the man had nothing better to do than throw a line into the water, and let his bobber count the passing of days.

“Mostly garbage fish, this close in,” Hunter said. “They like the crap from the sugar refinery, I think.”

The older man looked up. His face and hair seemed a little too well-tended for his slightly shabby tan jacket and khaki slacks, but the battered Tilley hat had the fit of repeated wearing.

“Oh, I’m after bigger fish,” the man replied in a cultured voice. “And I know where to find them.” He plucked his tackle box from the ground with practiced ease and fell into step with Hunter. They didn’t speak for a moment, then the older man asked, “Do you fish?”

“Not much anymore,” Hunter admitted. “I’m a scuba diver, and when you actually see the fish down there, in their own environment, it changes your thinking about them.” He’d wanted to be a diver for as long as he could remember; captivated by old Jacques Cousteau TV specials and an early TV adventure show called Sea Hunt that his father had loved. He looked up at gulls wheeling above a sailboat and thought about the world that tugged at him from beneath the surface. Then he realized that he’d stopped walking. He gave an embarrassed shrug and held out his hand. “Curran Hunter. My friends don’t use my first name. Neither does anybody else.”

“Johnson.” The grip had the firmness of sincerity. They began to move again. “Scuba diving. For work or for pleasure?”

“Both. Submersibles, too, although . . . I’m out of work at the moment.”

“I might just be able to help with that.”

Hunter snapped his head around, not sure he’d heard correctly. “You might be able to what?”

“Help you. Find a job.” There was a hint of a smile on the man’s lips. Then it faded. He’d enjoyed his little surprise, but business was business.

“Who said I wanted one?”

“What would it take?” The inscrutable eyes narrowed slightly, focused on the middle distance.

“You mean for me to get back into submersibles? I don’t know—I haven’t really thought about it.” That was a lie. “I . . . something really challenging, I guess. Interesting. Worth doing.” Safe was the word that came to mind, but he didn’t want to say it. “And a helluva lot of money!” He gave a grin to lighten the exchange. The other man’s smile was more genuine.

“I can’t promise that. But interesting? Challenging? Oh God, yes.”

A flock of gulls had begun to raise a ruckus out to sea, fluttering chaotically around a spot on the surface and occasionally plunging down to pluck at something.

Water was both the lifeblood of the planet, and the depository for the dead.

Hunter suddenly stopped walking again as the conversation triggered a memory. He felt heat rise into his face.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Let me guess. Actually, you know about my background. You know almost everything about me. Right?” The startled look on the other’s face made Hunter press on. “You’re working for Sea King Drilling, trying to find out if I’m just faking it.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You guys already tried this once before, OK? I’m not claiming anything—it was the company shrinks who said I had a problem, not me.”

“So you’re saying you’re ready to go back to work?”

“I’m . . . ” The words stalled. Was that true? He felt a chill down his spine.

Johnson took advantage of the hesitation. “I know who you are, yes. But I have nothing to do with your former employers or anyone else who might have approached you. I need someone with your special skills.”

Hunter wanted to escape. And he wanted to hear more.

“Look,” the older man said finally. “Here’s a number where you can reach me.” He gave Hunter a card. “But I can’t wait long for your decision.”

Hunter looked at the card and gave a slow shake of his head.

“And all of this . . . ” A sweep of his hand took in the shabby clothing and fishing gear. “Was just to check me over?”

The man looked bemused. “Not only that. This might be my last chance to go fishing for a very long time.”

They’d stopped in front of a medium-sized pier. About halfway along the right side, a boat rose and fell in the light chop. It was small for a yacht, but too large for a cabin cruiser, and it gave off an aura of age.

His companion turned and walked toward it.

Hunter traveled the rest of the wharf with his eyes wide, seeing nothing.

# # #

Back at his apartment, a ragged fan of unpaid bills stared up at Hunter from the top of the battered dresser, their typefaces bold and accusing. Overlooking the pages with expressions of weary patience were the faces of his mother and father in a frame held together with scotch tape. Their smiles now seemed only pixels deep. He must have been a disappointment to them—his grades at school only average; his ambitions lukewarm. For a time he’d appeared to be following in his father’s footsteps toward a pro ball career, but a series of ill-considered drunken escapades washed him out of college; and not long after that, his parents were gone, taken in a flash of tortured plastic and steel. They never saw him return to school to train for underwater work and finally find the calling that had eluded him so long. Underwater was the only place he’d ever excelled, the only place that ever felt like home.

Now it was home to his greatest fears.

Maybe if he faced those fears, it would free him from their power. What other choice did he have? He had to eat.

Could his sanity tolerate a return to the cramped quarters of a submersible, a potential tomb at the bottom of the sea? A cold hand clamped onto his guts.

The darkness was all encompassing and stifling. His chest tightened in anticipation of each breath, fearful that the next would be thick with carbon dioxide, and the next after that . . . empty.

He felt sick. Numbed. It was the pressure. The pressure of having to choose—the terrible weight of a mistake. He curled into a ball and tried to hide.

Sensations bled away. He was drifting. Floating.

He was flotsam on the surface of a grey sea, buoyed up but also paralyzed. Helpless to keep scavenging gulls from tearing chunks of his flesh, only to rise and wheel and tear at him again. He tried to cry out, but could not. His head was all he could move; and as he turned it to the side, he saw a nearby fishing boat with two men at the gunwales. One was the man from the pier. He was crying: salt tears splashing into the salt sea. The other man was one of the phonies who had come from Sea King to trick him. His mouth was open like one of the taunting gulls.

Laughing.

Hunter flung out an arm and sent the empty tumbler from the bedside table skittering to the floor in a spray of broken shards. He cursed and sat up. Motes of dust sparkled in a shaft of weak sunlight, daring him to focus on them. He couldn’t, not right away. He waved a hand through the air, as if shooing a cloud of fireflies, then rubbed his eyes and slowly lay back down making the bed springs protest. He stared at the ceiling, but the pre-dawn half-light obscured in its shadows more than it revealed.

Lately, the dream had taken on bizarre elements: noises, apparitions, and the sense of an unseen presence. Things that couldn’t have been part of the real event. How could he even distinguish between reality and dream anymore after the way the shrinks had torn his psyche apart and shoe-horned it back together? How could anything ever feel normal again after something like that? Ever feel truly real?

Death had nearly taken him. He’d insisted all these months, to himself and everyone else, that he’d done nothing wrong; but the truth was that he just didn’t know. The memory of it was as mutable as a kaleidoscope. And what about those final moments? Had he simply lost his nerve and gone batshit crazy, like they said?

He rolled sideways in a practiced motion and pulled open the door of the bar fridge beside the bed, hoping that he’d remembered to refill the ice cube tray. The only bourbon he could afford required lots of ice to be drinkable. Especially for breakfast.

He tipped two shrunken nuggets of ice into a mug that was waiting to be washed, then floated them with the amber liquid and placed the empty tray on top of the fridge. His first gulp was a large one. So were the ones that followed.

Finally, he snapped on the small lamp beside him, picked up the plain-looking business card he’d left leaning against its base, and reached for the phone.

# # #

The man who’d called himself Johnson sat in front of a screen propped up on a kitchen table.

“Well, what do you think now?” He’d made the video link to his headquarters only moments after finishing the call with Hunter, his new recruit. It was still just after dawn. The face looking back at him from the iPad was as rumpled as the bed sheets behind it.

“We’ve talked about this before,” the other man said, his ebony forehead creasing in a frown. “This . . . Hunter definitely has a gift for handling submersibles, but he’s also been through hell. His psyche is fragile. What you’re about to ask from him could be more than he can handle. It caused a complete mental breakdown in your first pilot.”

“Travis Li has recovered.”

“That’s not true. He’s returned to society, but I’m not sure he’ll ever recover.”

“You’re a psychologist, Truman, and you don’t deal in absolutes. We’ve learned a great deal since our failure with Li.”

“And yet this whole thing smacks of déjà vu—the government is forcing your hand, just like before. Trashing the schedule. Pushing your equipment beyond its tested limits. That ended badly last time, yet here you go again, throwing this man Hunter into the pool at the deep end.”

“The file says he’s a good swimmer.”

“Joke if you like, Devon, but with equipment this exotic and those new techniques you’re insisting upon . . . I can’t be sure what will happen.”

“What would you have me do? It’s a matter of life and death.”

“Yes. And perhaps for your pilot as much as for your patient. I wonder if you’ll tell him that?”

2

Thankfully, the plane ride was smooth. At the slightest provocation, Hunter’s hangover was turning his temples into tympani, and he’d had serious misgivings about trading a commercial flight for . . . whatever this was. He’d been paged at the airport about a delay with his flight; and rather than wait, he’d called the special phone number given to him by Mr. Johnson. Within forty-five minutes he was on a military transport with Johnson seated beside him, and no-one else in the cabin. It probably cost all of his taxes from the past ten years just to ferry a bird that size around for a day.

He massaged his temples.

“Not a problem with the pressure, surely, Mr. Hunter?” Johnson asked.

“Only the pressure inside my head. From celebrating your offer, I should point out.” He didn’t feel the need to mention his bungled encounter of the night before. What a waste! Stoked at the prospect of a real income, he’d blown the last of his cash on the best bourbon O’Flanagan’s bartender had been able to find. Then the day had surprised him again in the form of a blonde named Shannon, a spectacular looker with cleavage like the hills of Paradise. Way out of his league. Unable to believe his luck, he’d taken her back to his apartment, but just as they were getting around to the main event, he’d passed out cold.

At least the woman had locked the door when she’d left, and there was nothing missing from the apartment. It was probably just as well that he was leaving town for a while.

“Glad to hear about your enthusiasm,” Johnson said. “But you’ll find that alcohol isn’t a good fit with the work you’ll be doing.”

“That won’t be a problem, Mr. . . . You know, I still don’t even know your real name. I’m sure it isn’t Johnson.”

The older man laughed. “No, Johnson doesn’t really fool anyone. It’s a conceit in government circles: you use a fictitious name to preserve anonymity, but you want others to know it’s not your real name. Tells people your business must be important because it’s secret. My secretary gets batches of cards printed up from a list.” He gave a slight nod. “My name’s Kierkegaard. Devon Kierkegaard. The last name mean anything to you?”

“I don’t think so,” Hunter replied. “But I don’t really keep up on current events.”

“Oh, not current. Not this century, anyway.” The man smiled. “Søren Kierkegaard was a Danish philosopher from the early eighteen-hundreds. A distant relative of mine. Ever hear of existentialism? Well Kierkegaard believed there was no such thing as objective morality, a right and wrong that is valid for everyone. He claimed that every individual had to find his own true calling, and then his personal code of morality would depend on that choice.”

“Sounds like a politician.”

“From a superficial explanation like that, I suppose it does. Actually, later in his life my ancestor advocated wholehearted submission to the will of God as being the highest mortal virtue. Our politicians only give lip service to that.”

“Because they think they are God,” Hunter said. When there was no response, he wondered if he’d gone too far.

Then Kierkegaard spoke softly, “Perhaps all of us are guilty of that from time to time.”

Hunter’s thoughts returned to the day before, when a black car with tinted glass had picked him up and taken him for a ride, blindfolded. It was like something from a spy movie.

“I apologize for the theatrics,” Kierkegaard had said, “But it is a secret laboratory. One the public believes is something else.”

Hunter asked himself if he really needed the job that badly. The unavoidable answer was yes.

Near the far end of a nondescript white room, a group of four men in smocks were clustered around a chair that looked like it had been filched from a dentist’s office and then tricked out for a gamers’ convention. A hodgepodge of electronics was organized into several banks of readouts and keypads. He couldn’t begin to guess their function. An overlarge helmet in a cradle mounted to the back of the chair was connected to the electronic equipment by a thick umbilical cord.

“I thought you were going to take me to some kind of experimental submersible,” he said.

“And I have, after a fashion. This is only a temporary installation, but it will serve the purpose for today.”

The others said nothing. Two of them stood next to the equipment, in a proprietary way. One was a six-foot, large-framed man with a square face, severe eyebrows, and slicked-back white hair; the other was a few inches shorter, balding, with a fringe of hair that ringed his head like a monk’s tonsure shot with grey. No young hotshots here. Two men standing farther back were middle-aged and unremarkable. Hunter immediately dismissed them as assistants. It was the two in front he should watch. Their body language said they were reluctant to let him touch the product of their labors.

He turned to face the chair, noticing a wraparound visor on the helmet.

“Virtual reality,” he said. “Some kind of simulator? That’s what all this secrecy is for?”

“That’s a good enough description for now.”

The white-haired man looked smug. The bald one was amused, but in a more childlike way—the keeper of a secret he longed to reveal.

“So, show me.”

They helped him into the chair, and placed the helmet on his head. Hands fussed over him as the room disappeared behind padding and Perspex.

“Are you ready, Mr. Hunter?” Kierkegaard’s voice was now muffled and distant.

Was he? Part of him remembered the cold sweat that broke out whenever he rode in small elevators ever since the accident.

The helmet was too heavy for him to nod easily. Instead he cleared his throat and said, “Yes.” Then he waited for the visor to light up with a liquid crystal display. Instead a powerful electronic hum began in a low register and quickly swept up the frequencies until it became inaudible. He felt pinpricks along his scalp from front to back.

And the world swam away . . . .

Vertigo.

What the hell? What happened? Where is this?

The room is gone. The chair is gone.

Floating . . . floating in empty space.

The voices have receded into a vague wash of sound.

Colors gone, too. Only shades of grey. Like fog. Fog at dusk.

Something darker in front, like lines extending forward.

Manipulator arms. A submersible with arms outstretched.

OK. A familiar concept to hang sanity on. Except for one big difference—the view isn’t like being in the craft, it's like beingthe craft itself.

No claustrophobia, at least.

It’s not fog. Liquid. Some kind of specks or bubbles rising and falling within it, jostling around like ping-pong balls in a Bingo machine.

Time to move—get the feel of things.

Left pedal to pivot left. Right hand for forward thrust.

Oops. Turned too far. Correct with the pedal—just a touch. A little more thrust. Definite sensation of movement, even without visual cues. Sluggish at first, though. Extra resistance, like . . . thick water?

A zone of darkness ahead now—not wide, but tall, reaching beyond view above and below. Something cylindrical, maybe. Better ease back.

A shot of reverse thrust.

Nope. Spun the nose to the left. Try again, with a little more finesse, damn it.

Holy mother, is that big! Like a giant black tower as high as the eye can see. No features to give perspective—could be ten meters away, could be fifty. Black matte finish. Are those craters? Or pockmarks? Have to move closer to know.

Shit! Sudden stop produced a disturbance in the liquid. Must’ve hit the sucker.

What was that? A voice?

Very, very slow, and deep. Pissed off.

Bumped their toy.

All right, then, let’s see what this rig can do.

Hard right pedal. Nose down. Full forward thrust. Down the wall diagonally. See what’s at the bottom, if there is one.

Like the plunge of a roller coaster—stomach left behind.

Dropping down on something that spreads as far as the eye can see. But why is everything so damn blurry? Poor interface? Or just lazy programming?

Looks like a cityscape seen from above, but all of the buildings are the same height, with deep crevasses crisscrossing at right angles like New York intersections.

Into the canyons of the Death Star. Rush of adrenaline. Pulling up hard. Taste of breakfast in the throat.

Perfectly uniform walls on both sides—no protrusions. Damn good thing. Barely enough clearance as it is.

A corner coming up. The nose snaps around like a car on a track in a carnival ride. Nearly fishtailed into the wall, too. Need to be able to bank a little, like an airplane—work with the resistance of the fluid. This bitch could use some dive planes.

Better on the next turn. Right into the middle of the channel. Just need the nose up and a little rudder at the same time. Try a few more corners—got to put on a good show, right?

A sharp left, a long straight stretch, then a hard right. Swoop down toward the deck, then pull up the nose into a steep climb . . . a little more . . . over onto its back. Now crank it over into a barrel roll. Wow, yeah—effortless. Sweet response, once you get the hang of it. Are they watching all this?

A flash of red.

What was that for?

Another one. Whole field of vision flashing red every few seconds.

Did I lose the game?

No, a signal. But for what?

Danger? In a simulator?

Something’s happening.

Vertigo.

Light stabbed into his eyes and he felt like retching. Through tears he caught a glimpse of the white-haired man frantically snatching the helmet out of range, while Kierkegaard hastily slid a wastebasket to the side of the chair.

“The nausea passes quickly. Just relax and concentrate on your breathing.”

Hunter nodded, then sat back and drew a sleeve across his watery eyes.

“Well? Did you like our little game?”

“I don’t know what game you’re playing.” Hunter’s voice felt like it hadn’t been used for a while. He cleared his throat. “But that wasn’t a game. That was real, not a simulation. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“What made you come to that conclusion?”

“The craft responds authentically for a vehicle in a fluid medium—a thick fluid, too. That would be a real challenge to simulate. So if it's a game, why go to that trouble, and yet put up with such shitty visuals?”

White-hair bridled at that. “If you had any idea . . . .”

Kierkegaard stopped him with a look. “Go on, Mr. Hunter.”

“Because it’s not a simulation. It’s a real environment somewhere. Although why you’d leave out the instrumentation, the colors, the sounds . . . I can’t guess.” He caught another flash of annoyance on White hair’s face. “How long was I at it anyway?”

“Five minutes and fifteen seconds.”

“Five minutes? It felt like half-an-hour, at least.”

“Yes, we’ve noticed that.”

Hunter waited for more of an explanation, but none came. Instead the other man looked at his watch. “That’s enough for now.”

Back in the car, Hunter protested, “At least tell me if I made the grade.”

“I think it’s safe to say that the head of the project will hire you. Pending one final security check.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I’m the head of the project.”

Hunter was only mildly surprised. He’d already seen the way the others had deferred to this man.

“One last question. Why were the other two guys pissed at me?”

“Oh . . . well, they’ve already tried out the equipment themselves.”

“And . . . ?”

“You made them look like children riding the bumper cars.”

###

“When are you going to tell me what this is all about?” Hunter asked Kierkegaard over the hiss of the airplane’s ventilation system. The older man gave an indulgent smile and leaned forward, though there was no one who could possibly listen in.

“What do you know about nanotechnology?”

“Small. Very small.”

“Indeed. And how did you like your submersible ride?”

“Is that why the graphics were limited? A super-small computer?”

“Not exactly. Perhaps I should ask if you enjoyed life in a test-tube?”

Hunter was speechless.

“An amoeba’s-eye view, if they had eyes. That submersible you took for a joyride is about the size of a virus. The ‘canyon’ you explored is an especially-etched silicon wafer—the kind used for computer chips. The tower you saw is a microfiber filament suspended in the fluid.”

“You’re not serious.”

“That’s what the appropriations committee said when I told them how much it would cost to develop.”

Hunter’s mind reeled. Had he really seen the world at the molecular level . . . traveled through a microcosm like a renegade ion? The sheer audacity of it was numbing. Yet all he could ask was, “Why? What possible use could there be for something that size in the ocean?”

“You’re thinking in the wrong terms. The universe is full of fluid environments. Including what we think of as the inner ocean.”

The light dawned. “You mean inside the human body? In the bloodstream?” A memory clicked. “Don’t tell me. You tour around the arteries fixing things. Except the heart. It’s ‘game over’ if you go through the heart.”

“Fantastic Voyage was a memorable movie and the initial inspiration for our project. That movie left a powerful mark on a pair of nano-engineers named Steinberg and Ellis when they were children; and when they met by accident fifteen years ago, it turned into the driving force of their careers—a compulsion to use their skills to create an audacious new medical technology. How much do you remember about the movie?”

Hunter gave a shrug and his grin was a little sheepish. “I loved it—great concept, great special effects. A lot of fun. The idea of shrinking a whole submarine with people in it was pure fantasy, I guess. Although when somebody wrote the novelization, he came up with an explanation, didn’t he?”

“Isaac Asimov. Yes. A kind of hyperspace that allowed the shrinking of matter without the excess mass presenting a problem. That’s still fantasy. But the story is correct in the fact that there are incredibly complex mechanisms that do patrol the labyrinth of the bloodstream, produced by millions of years of evolution. Incredibly small, but powerful.

“Some scientists have tried chemical means to adapt those organic systems and bring them under human control. Steinberg and Ellis turned to the technology they knew best: mechanical engineering at the nano-scale. Six years ago, I was recruited to head a team that would take their work to a whole new level of sophisticated machinery. Difficult to achieve, but incredibly robust.

“You mentioned the movie characters’ fear of going through the heart, but nothing the human heart could do would damage our submersible. It’s made of sterner stuff. Buckyballs and buckytubes—the strongest material known to man.”

“Bucky___? Now you’re pulling my leg.”

“Buckminster fullerenes, if you prefer. Named after R. Buckminster Fuller.”

“The architect?”

“A tremendously influential thinker. The shape of the molecule is similar to those geodesic domes Fuller was so fond of. It’s an extremely rare form of carbon, Carbon 60, and with the right amount of heat—something above 3000 degrees Celsius—we can make it form hollow tubes: nanotubes, because their preferred size is just over one nanometer in diameter. A billionth of a meter. The tubes are like rolled up chicken wire, all hexagons and pentagons, and incredibly strong: a hundred times the strength of steel at about a sixth of the weight!” He gave a self-satisfied smile. “The merely

mortal human heart could hammer away its sixty-beats-per-minute for a lifetime and not put a dent in our machine.”

“That sounds like ‘famous last words’ to me,” Hunter mused.

“Fair enough. In fact, the submersible’s sensor array isn’t nearly so robust and can be damaged. Then the craft would be blinded and out of contact. Still, if the Titanic had hit the iceberg and only lost its radio mast, I daresay no-one would have complained all that much.”

Kierkegaard stood up to stretch, then sauntered across the cabin to gaze out the window at the vastness of the ocean sparkling far below.

“We think ourselves so superior, sneering at the simple ignorance of Columbus and Magellan, who couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t sail off the edge of the world. Yet even we supermen of the twenty-first century know little about what’s out there, under the oceans.” He turned to face Hunter. “Or even,” he tapped his chest, “in here.”

“Is that what you hired me for? To explore the bloodstream?”

Kierkegaard’s face clouded “When I first selected you, that’s exactly what it would have been. Now . . . something has happened. A national emergency, in fact. Our mission has suddenly become a matter of life and death.” He stared into space, a mixture of anger, disbelief, and regret playing over his face. “Even so, there will be no danger to you. Nothing so devastating as your nearly fatal experience of six months ago, I can assure you.”

Hunter’s head snapped up, then bowed in resignation. “Of course, you’d know about that. So why did you hire me?”

“Because I didn’t care about it. It’s not relevant. You’ll be in a virtual reality environment that you can leave at any time. However, I don’t get my way on everything. My superiors would only let me bring you in on the condition that you talk to a psychologist regularly.”

Hunter felt heat rise to his cheeks. “Did you just say I’ll have to see a shrink?”

“They insisted.”

“Deal’s off.” He sprang to his feet. “You can turn this bird around or just drop me off at the nearest airport.”

“Mr. Hunter, really . . . .”

“I don’t think you’re hearing me, Mr. Kierkegaard. I said that the deal’s off! Find another sucker and play around in his head—nobody’s doing that to me again.”

Kierkegaard was stunned. There was a sheen of sweat on Hunter’s face and his breathing was rapid. He stalked to the far side of the cabin and stood staring out a window.

“I thought I knew what you’d been through,” Kierkegaard said quietly. “Clearly I wasn’t fully informed.”

“Apparently not. I’ve had my fill of bastards who try to turn my head inside out, claiming they’re trying to cure me. They were just trying to prove I was nuts

before I was hired, so the company could cut me loose without a cent. It was only luck that I got a sympathetic judge.”

“I promise you, this will be nothing more than a

formality.”

“It’ll be nothing at all, because it isn’t going to

happen.”

The older man sat down in dismay.

“Mr. Hunter . . . I can’t tell you everything about our project yet. But I truly think we’ll fail without you. If we do, a life will be lost. Perhaps many more.” He looked up to catch Hunter’s eyes. “Obviously I wasn’t aware of how you’ve been treated, but I do know that Dr.

Truman Bridges is no sadist and no charlatan. He’s a lifelong friend of mine, already handpicked for our team. Please, just meet with him—I don’t care if either of you says a damned word, but my hands are tied on this and we must have your help.”

There was a long silence.

“How often?” The words barely pierced the white noise of the cabin air system.

“My orders are for two sessions a week. So here’s where you insist on no more than every two weeks, and I reluctantly compromise at once a week.” He tried a tentative smile. Hunter didn’t return it, but at least his color was returning to normal.

“To save a life, you said?”

“A very special life, in my opinion.”

“If this shrink goes Freud on me, I swear I’ll deck him.”

“I’ll be sure to warn him.”

It had been an absurd standoff, Hunter had to admit. Soon he’d be using his mind to travel through the bloodstream of a living human being, yet he was more afraid of a quack with a clipboard and a pocketful of twenty-dollar words.

But then, as Kierkegaard had said, with a virtual

reality remote link there couldn’t be any personal

danger.

No danger at all.

3

Pulsing bass notes beat against shadows in a darkened room: martial music from the movie Gladiator. A tall figure flexed thickly-muscled arms sheened with sweat in a well-practiced rhythm, the heavy weights at their ends like mallet heads waiting to strike.

A flashing light called attention to the telephone. The man waved an arm over a sensor to mute the

music. His military-green T-shirt was wrinkle-free and the matching shorts were neatly pressed. Beneath them was a body with lightly tanned skin and limbs that moved with economy, never more than necessary.

He waited deliberately until the third ring was

complete, as indicated by the lighting of a green LED on the telephone’s cradle, then deftly lifted the handset. He did not say “Hello”—he wasn’t in the habit of giving anything away until he’d heard the voice on the other end of the line.

This voice was male, medium pitch. After a slight hesitation it said, “Noble patricians, patrons of my right, defend the justice of my cause with arms.” It was the opening of Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus, but in all likelihood the caller was unaware of that. It was something he had been given to say.

“I’m listening.” The voice of the man in the apartment was deep, but flat, its edges dulled by years of secrets.

“I have a message for you, Mr. . . .?”

“Call me Kellogg.”

“Mr. Kellogg. I don’t know how much you’ve been informed about our . . . plans . . . .”

“You don’t need to know.”

The telephone voice didn’t react. He’d been warned to expect a conversation that would be all business, curt to the point of rudeness. “I’ve been instructed to tell you that your services will be required after all. How do I send you full details?”

“Initialize a new web server, well isolated.” Kellogg gave a web address. “This site will be open for precisely two minutes at midnight on the tenth of the month. You will post your message on it. Then you will dismantle the server and re-format its memory. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly.”

“Arrangements for payment will then be given to you, and my services will begin the moment I receive the money. You will have one opportunity to cancel the operation up to three days before execution. Once cancelled, it will not be revived. In any event, my fee is not refundable.”

“I understand.”

The phone line went dead. There was nothing more to say, and further words only meant further risk.

The speakers returned to life with a thunder of tympani and brass. The man in green grasped the iron weights again and pulled them to his chest, well satisfied.

He would have done this assignment for nothing.

# # #

“Why pick an Air Force base?” Hunter asked, increasing his stride across the tarmac to keep up with Kierkegaard. “And why this one? Because the CIA is nearby?”

They entered a plain grey office building, and Kierkegaard didn’t answer as they waited for yet another guard to check their identification, although it had already been checked the moment they’d disembarked. That first check gave Hunter the chance to enjoy a few moments of sunshine, shielding his eyes to try to see the water he knew surrounded the three sides of the peninsula. His view to the south was blocked by buildings, but he could see the line of blue toward the east. After they climbed into the car waiting for them on the runway, he’d tried to get his bearings. Judging from the position of the sun they’d driven north and northeast. He was impressed when they passed through what seemed to be a pretty decent golf course along the way.

“You’re confusing the Langleys—most people do. This is Langley Air Force Base, but the headquarters of the CIA is nearly two hundred miles from here in a suburb to the northwest of Washington.” Kierkegaard set a brisk pace down a linoleum hallway. The scuff of their shoes bounced back sibilantly from the block walls, which reminded Hunter of a school. He followed through a door held open by yet another uniformed guard.

The space they entered was a cross between a classroom and a corporate boardroom—more luxurious than the first; less expensive than the second. The table that ran down the middle was wood finished to look like oak. The chairs were upholstered in a dark burgundy cloth that went well with the cream-colored walls. The chair springs creaked from years of frequent use. Four people were seated around the table.

Hunter was directed to a seat midway down the near side, and noticed a man at the far end watching a projection screen descend from the ceiling. Kierkegaard sat at the opposite end of the table from the screen. Hunter had the feeling it was his regular place.

“Are we having a briefing when the rest of your team arrives?”

“This is our team Mr. Hunter. The briefing is for you.”

There were only five other people in the room: three men and two women. He recognized two of the men from the lab the day before: the white-haired man scowled at him from directly across the table and his balding, more genial companion was the one standing beside the screen.

“Yes, you’ve already met Dr. Skylar Tyson, at the screen, and Dr. Kenneth Gage. Dr. Tyson is our engineering expert, most involved in the construction of our submersible. Dr. Gage specializes in the instrumentation and sensing, as well as the virtual reality setup. On your left is Dr. Lucy Tamiko. She’s our circulatory specialist, which in our case also means chief navigator. Beside her is Dr. Truman Bridges, psychologist, but he trained as a physician first so he’s also able to advise us on other medical matters. And Dr. Lorelei Mallory is a molecular biologist. You’ll meet the support staff as we go.”

Hunter reaffirmed his earlier opinion that Gage was rather full of himself—a handsome man with the head of well-tended white hair giving him what he probably considered a distinguished look. Tyson, in contrast, stood slumped and rumpled near the blank screen. His mind was elsewhere. It was hard to picture him in anything but the creased laboratory smock he wore.

Lorelei Mallory—not the siren of German legend that her name suggested, but attractive enough—had reddish brown hair that fell just past her shoulders. She looked at Hunter, but quickly broke the eye contact. Lucy Tamiko, on the other hand, stared back at him boldly and swiveled around to give him a firm handshake, full of confidence that he sensed was a product of her intellect rather than her looks, though she had the face and figure of a model. Her jet black bobbed hair and Asian features reminded him of Filipino women he’d known.

Last of all, he exchanged a quick look with Dr. Bridges, the shrink. He felt his jaw tighten, but he had to admit the man had a pleasant face: square, but not severe, with deep brown skin and short-cropped curly salt-and-pepper hair. Bridges fought a battle with his waistline, and was beginning to lose.

“I’ve asked Dr. Tyson to begin,” Kierkegaard resumed. “Try to keep explanations at the comprehension level of we ordinary mortals, please, Doctor.”

The scientist looked like a monk as he gave a little bow in acknowledgement of the warning. Clearly he’d heard it often.

“We call it the Primus,” he said. “The submersible. Actually I christened it that only about a week ago.”

“The Primus, Doctor?” Hunter interrupted, with a smile. “Not the Proteus like in the movie?”

Tyson looked stunned. “I never noticed the similarity!”

Gage laughed loudly. “Seriously, Skylar? I thought it was your idea of a sly hommage. I was proud of you.”

“Should we change it?”

“No, Dr. Tyson.” Kierkegaard’s voice was warm, but firm. “We have more important things to think about. Primus is a first. That deserves to be recognized.”

Tyson bobbed his head, his Adam’s apple copying the motion, and cleared his throat before speaking again. There was a residual touch of color to his face, though.

His modest voice and demeanor gained strength as he warmed to his subject. From his tablet computer, animations of engineering diagrams and artists’ renderings of the sub were projected onto the screen.

Apart from its size, the basic design wasn’t very different from other remotely guided submersible probes Hunter had worked with. An oblong main hull bore protrusions on either side, front and rear, reminiscent of diving planes, but with a difference. “They’re fans instead of diving planes,” Tyson explained. “So Primus can change its orientation in any direction, whether moving or staying still. During your test run, you quickly intuited how to flip the craft through several directional planes rather fluidly. Well-done. Some of us found that difficult to master.” His shy smile was genuine. Without looking, Hunter was sure that Gage would be frowning.

“What could you possibly use for motors at that scale?” the pilot asked. He’d tried to imagine various exotic processes, but the truth was much simpler.

“Electric motors, Mr. Hunter. Almost no different from the ones in a child’s toy: a drive shaft surrounded by a magnetic field that makes it rotate by the repulsion of opposite charges. One large motor drives the main propeller at the stern with separate motors for each of the directional fans, or thrusters—a more reliable solution than trying to manufacture a complex system of gears and rods on a molecular scale. All of the motors were spun up soon after the completion of the craft and they will never stop until the sub wears out or is destroyed. Or if it were to be separated from the source of its power, of course.”

“Which is…?”

“I’m getting to that. We explored the piezoelectric properties of molybdenum sulfide, but it wasn’t a workable material for our purposes. Happily, Carbon 60 conducts electricity to an extraordinary degree, directed according to the way the nanotubes are wound, although at the nano scale electrons no longer flow like the current of a river, but express themselves more like a wave. The quantum mechanics of it . . . oh, but Devon is waving me off.” He gave a self-conscious grin that Hunter found immediately endearing.

“Let’s just say that most of Primus’ power needs are supplied from the surrounding fluids and tissues themselves. The concept isn’t new. Technology to strip blood glucose molecules of electrons has been in use for some time in equipment such as pacemakers. Our craft continually draws enough electricity from nearby cells to power its motors, sensing equipment, and transmitter. It can also store extra power for its weapons.”

“Weapons?” Hunter sat forward. “What could it possibly need weapons for?” He turned to Kierkegaard with a dark look.

“Not weapons in the traditional sense,” their leader replied. “All of that will be explained.”

The submersible’s hull was hollow, not to house operating gear, but to carry a cargo of chemicals. The cargo bay door just under the stern retracted like a folding oriental fan. The superstructure itself acted as an antenna for an integrated radio transmitter and receiver. Two manipulator arms extended from near the nose. Multi-segmented like worms, they could fold back into a compact V along the bow when not in use. The arm on the port side included an additional double-pronged tip.

“A pretty complex little machine,” Hunter said with a smile. “Just how small is it?”

Tyson’s pride was obvious. “As small as a medium-sized virus, Mr. Hunter. Primus is two hundred and sixty-four nanometers long and half that at its widest. Seventy-seven nanometers high, not counting the sensor array on top. A nanometer is one billionth of a meter, by the way.”

Hunter whistled. It was a scale he couldn’t truly comprehend.

“It looks like the manipulator arms are about a fifth as long as the ship itself.”

“That’s correct, and they’re very dexterous but strong, since they’re made from the same materials as the ship.”

The only design feature that was completely unfamiliar to Hunter was the T-shaped device that rose above the sub’s hull like a grossly elongated radar dish. Shaped like a tube cut in half along its length but with the bare minimum of a stalk, its head was nearly the width of the craft itself. Tyson called it the sensor array, but let Kenneth Gage take over to explain its function.

“You wouldn’t understand the science, Hunter, so I won’t go into detail.” Gage's voice was flat and dry. He ran his finger over the tablet computer and a red dot slid across the screen. “The problem of creating a sensing device the size of a large molecule, with any meaningful capability, challenged the top minds in this country. What you see is a crude sketch. The real thing is an exquisite lattice of paired atoms . . . more than two dozen different atomic elements that had to be arranged according to their size and their propensity to interact, all contained within a framework that is rigid and steerable. An impossible task, but we did it.

“The array can detect light frequencies from the ultraviolet to the infrared, as well as sound waves, magnetic energy, radioactivity . . . . The crucial part is how to interpret the reactions of these atomic pairings into comprehensible data, and then translate that data into a virtual reality program that offers sight, sound, and haptic feedback—the sense of touch. The computer processing required is staggering.” He swept his hand through the air. “And you felt the need to criticize the shittyvisuals, as I think you called them.”

Hunter felt duly contrite. “I apologize, Dr. Gage. I simply had no idea what I was looking at. Just as you said.”

The other man’s tone was a little softer as he highlighted another part of the image.

“These twin pods at either end of the Primus are still experimental. We believe we can stimulate them to send out pulses of high frequency radio energy and eventually isolate those frequencies from the rest of the information.”

“Radar,” Hunter said in awe.

“Exactly.”

“But at that scale, the timing of the returning impulses would be . . . .” He couldn’t think of a suitable word. “How could you possibly do it?”

“We can’t. Yet.” Gage looked back at the screen and said quietly, “But we will. We will.”

He changed the slide on the screen. “As you can see, the sensor array is not only capable of rotating through three hundred and sixty degrees—better than we’d hoped—but is mounted on a track running down the back of the hull, chiefly to allow it to tuck behind the tail of the craft, just above the main propeller. Never forget that the sensor array is by far the most fragile component of the whole submersible. If you lose it you are blind, deaf, helpless. Mission over. It would likely be impossible to retrieve Primus at all. Goodbye to a billion dollars worth of research.”

“I get the message.” Hunter smiled ruefully. He wasn’t surprised at the implied cost, but scared stiff by the responsibility that was suddenly his.

“The loss of the patient would be even more tragic.” Kierkegaard sat forward. “Thank you, Dr. Gage. Unless you have questions, Mr. Hunter.”

“Dozens. But they all hinge on the mission. What are you asking me to do?”

“Fair enough.” The project leader nodded. “Your diving background includes some search and recovery experience, does it not?”

“Search and recovery? For what? Did somebody forget a micro-miniature scalpel somewhere?”

“Nothing so mundane, I can assure you. No, Mr. Hunter, for want of a better word, the things we need you to find would be considered bombs.

“Our patient’s body has been mined.”

4

Lucy Tamiko helped him get into the haptic suit: a thin quilted body suit of a stretchy fabric with dozens of pressure pads sewn throughout it—small quickly-inflatable air bladders linked to a complex plug and harness at his left hip. The term “sensory saltation” didn’t mean anything to him, but he understood that the suit’s tactors were to provide him with a haptic interface—a system simulating the sense of touch and giving him body awareness. It was an adaptation of the Air Force pressure suit that was designed to keep fighter pilots from becoming disoriented in the air.

He’d experienced only the demonstration model of the virtual reality control system. The real thing was more intimidating and alien, surrounded by its web of support systems. The chair was mounted on gimbals, with hydraulics like the motion simulation rigs of amusement rides. Together, the chair and suit would help him feel some of the forces Primus experienced in turbulence or sudden maneuvers. However, the system was heavily software-dependent. The sensor array would detect changes in direction and momentum as well as fluctuations in electrical charge from contact with other objects, but the interpretation of that data into sensations recognizable by the human mind was an incredibly complex computational problem. The system had produced bizarre results on occasion, and would be disabled if it proved to be more hindrance than help.

“Don’t expect too much this first time,” Tamiko said. “The schedule called for months of testing with lab animals before ever experimenting within the bloodstream of a human, but this . . . situation came up. One we couldn’t refuse.” She gave the barest trace of a nervous smile.

“You’re saying no-one’s ever driven this thing inside a living human being?” Hunter’s tongue felt thick.

“No. Only in a white rat. That pilot . . . well, let’s just say he’s not with the project anymore.”

“Jesus.”

The situation was bizarre, even reckless. Apparently the importance of the patient justified the risks. Tamiko and Mallory had been given extensive medical records of their subject, with names and other personal references carefully deleted. Only Kierkegaard and Bridges knew the patient’s identity.

“Dr. Bridges is standing by to insert Primus into a very small vein in the patient’s wrist as soon as we give the word. The ship’s in neutral, waiting for your commands. Just stay calm and try to get a feel for the environment. It’s a good bet you’re in for a rough ride.”

Nausea. Worse than before.

Jacked in with Primus already spinning. Unable to focus.

Getting a little better now. The world is settling down.

But what world? Shades of grey—nothing else.

Still inside the syringe.

Slight sense of motion, or is that just imagination? No visual references. Try to feel the pads of the suit. Nothing from them yet. Bridges should be performing the insertion soon. Take advantage of the wait to get used to the controls.

Give a kick to each of the directional fans—‘thrusters’ as Tyson calls them. Yeah, slight pressure from the suit pads. A gentle roll of the chair. Movement.

OK . Bring the main engine online—might need it in a hurry. Vibration in the back. Nice touch. Like a motor building up positive thrust.

Manipulator arms: good smooth control, rotate well, easy to handle. Cross the arms—show them some impatient body language!

Was that movement? Still nothing to see. Feels like . . . moving backward!

Fluctuating pressure on stomach and chest. Maybe the computer needs more visual cues to process. Still backward. Primus must be aimed the wrong way. Is there enough time to get turned around?

Whoa, yeah! Spins on a dime. Overspun a little. Now forward motion is definitely increasing. Surrounding fluid taking on a slight texture, like suspended particles in a flowing stream.

Is it getting darker ahead?

Acceleration still building. Building. Becoming uncomfortable. How fast will it get? Might be able to use reverse thrust to slow down.

No. Better to know right away what she can handle. Trust the scientists—Primus is virtually indestructible.

What about her pilot?

Wrong thinking. Just an observer here—can’t be harmed. No danger.

Darkness coming up quickly. Filling most of the view.

Inside the needle? Can’t see any walls. Much too far away on this scale.

Currents. Pressure. Sporadic pressure and vibration coming from all sides.

Kick in the pants from the chair. Another one.

Darker ahead. Red, not grey. Must be programmed that way. Or is infrared kicking in?

Sense of sideways motion. No, a spin. Counteract it.

Earth red. Wine red. Blood red. Coming fast.

Surge of acceleration! Another one! Major g-forces, squeezing hard. Inner animal screaming to slow down. Slow down!

Gone into a roll. Can’t correct. Nose dropping. Starting to tumble!

Rolling. Rocking. Bucking.

Flash of black. Flash of brown. Don’t be distracted. Don’t turn head. Face front. Face . . .

Holy shit!

“The bombs aren’t actually explosive devices in the usual sense,” Lorelei Mallory had explained in the briefing room.

“Glad to hear it. For a minute I thought either I was going crazy or you people were. I’m not sure which prospect was more frightening.”

“No-one involved with this project is insane, Mr. Hunter,” Kierkegaard said. “But I can’t say the same about the people who planted these things.”

“How much do you know about blood?” Mallory asked.

“Not a lot,” Hunter replied. “I know there are different blood types. Red cells, white cells, floating in plasma. Platelets, and antibodies . . . .”

“Fair enough. The white cells and the antibodies are part of the body’s defense system—they attack foreign invaders, living or dead. These 'bombs', as we call them, use those very defenses against the host body.” She moved to the front of the room and brought up a PowerPoint slide that featured simple sketches of blood cells in various shapes.

“Unfortunately we haven’t got a sample of the bombs to study. At this point we aren’t even able to keep the patient in our clinic for consistent access.” She looked annoyed, but Kierkegaard showed no reaction. “So we only have visual observations and some blood test results from the triggering of a single bomb. Even so, we think we’ve come up with the most likely scenario to describe how the bombs operate. Basically, they’re containers full of a chemical called ADP.”

“I just know there’s going to be a long name attached to that one.”

“Adenosine diphosphate. It's a chemical responsible for helping the body repair tears and holes in blood vessels. It draws platelets to the site of an injury and converts a protein in blood plasma called fibrinogen into threads of fibrin that form a kind of mesh across the hole to trap blood cells until a clot forms.”

“How is that a bad thing?” Hunter asked. “Oh. You said a ‘clot.'"

“Right. A bad thing if there’s no injury. With the quantities of ADP that we’re talking about, especially in a smaller blood vessel, the mass of fibers and blood cells keeps growing until it becomes a thrombus—a large blood clot that can block blood flow completely. Then healthy tissues die—what we call necrosis. The bombs may contain another chemical inhibiting the body’s natural anticoagulants as well. We’re not sure. All we really know is that the one bomb detonated so far was in the patient’s pinky finger, and caused a very noticeable bruise. Possibly some nerve damage.”

“Blood clots.” Hunter shook his head. “Potentially fatal, I assume.”

“If they were to happen in the brain or lungs, yes.” Mallory's professorial demeanor was disturbed by her obvious empathy for the victim. “Or if a clot were to break loose somewhere else and travel to the brain, it would create an embolism, which is a prime cause of fatal strokes. However, the clots could also cause significant damage to some of the body’s other major organs—the heart, the liver—possibly with lethal consequences. To make matters worse, we have no way to know how many of these bombs are in the patient’s body, where they are, or how they are triggered.”

Gage leaned forward. “We believe the bombs are probably a lot larger than white blood cells, but so far they’ve been impossible for us to distinguish in the bloodstream. We’ve begun to look for traces of metal and silicon from radio antennae and silicon chips. The bombs have to be programmed in some way to navigate to the desired locations, or at least to stop drifting with the current at a promising spot. Then they must be triggered to burst and release their cargo of ADP by a radio signal. A pre-programmed release wouldn’t fit the scenario Devon has described to us.”

Tamiko took a turn. “We’ve managed to get access to a prototype hybrid scanner that combines the highest resolution ultrasound yet developed, as well as positron emission tomography or PET for short, and a form of spectroscopy using x-rays. Scan results from the three technologies are merged by computer, and the result is amazing. Far beyond what’s been available to this point. We’ve also borrowed some cutting edge MRI equipment developed at the Max Planck Institute in Germany. With the best of each technology, compared by computer, it’s just possible we might find them.”

“In the meantime,” Kierkegaard stressed, “we can only use deductive reasoning for the most likely locations of the bombs. We cannot wait for something more precise. We will place Primus close to where we think a bomb is likely to be planted, then hope that you can find it on your own. It would be useful for you to spend some time getting a grasp on blood chemistry and its fluid dynamics, as well as human anatomy, especially the bloodstream. Doctors Mallory and Tamiko will help.”

“I don’t understand.” Hunter said quietly. “Why would anyone do something like this?”

Kierkegaard replied in a voice heavy with disgust.

“Leverage.”

Primus is a projectile, sling-shot into the bloodstream. Incredible impression of speed, and still accelerating!

Huge planetoids everywhere, the current somehow dancing the ship past them by the narrowest of margins. Over, under . . . . No, bumped that one, the chair shuddering, Primus fishtailing toward port. Going into a spin. Pulling heavy lateral g’s.

Now tumbling. A tilted cartwheel at breakneck speed. Can’t stop it.

Hit something. Tail glanced off . . . what? A blood cell? Dark—a red blood cell.

Got to be a way to get some control. Feather the thrusters: port side half thrust . . . more . . . now fore starboard to full—dampen the spin. That’s working. Try all four blades planed flat with downward thrust in front, upward at the rear. There, the tumble dying out. The machine reacts so positively. Real danger of oversteer.

The current swirls wickedly close around a pair of cells. Another fishtail beginning to starboard. Got it corrected in time. Shit! It’s like taking a carnival bumper car into a demolition derby with supertankers. On glare ice.

Can’t keep this up.

What if . . . .

Flip all four thrusters to face outward, away from the hull. Their thrust will cancel each other out. At 90 degrees to the plane of motion, maximum revs, they should act like . . .

Gyroscopes.

Yes! Some stability. A lot straighter through eddies and side currents and whirlpools-in-the-making. Smoother, but steering is badly limited. The thrusters can be slaved together in pairs, fore and aft—a kick to the starboard nose fan triggers a slowdown in the portside fan and the ship turns left. Slow, though. Not quick enough . . . OUCH . . . not quick enough to avoid collisions.