The Human Blend - Alan Dean Foster [62]
Traktacs.
Marveling at the pulsating, lambent representation of a living part of himself that was as much an advance over the old MRI as the X-ray was over imperfect pencil sketches drawn from life, he swallowed. A couple of the tiny transmission devices had penetrated deeply into his body. “How—how are you going to get them out?”
“I have a flock of trained ravens that will peck them out of your flesh.” Confronted with a stare of incomprehension, she rolled her eyes and explained. “Just take off your shirt, go over to the exam table, and lie down on your left side. Raise your right arm and put it across or behind your head, whichever is more comfortable.”
Whispr did as he was told, wondering not for the first time if coming here had been such a good idea. He was placing himself at the mercy of this woman. Suppose there was now a reward out for him? Suppose she knew, or suspected, that such was the case? She could inject him with anything, knock him out, and have him all nicely sedated and packaged for the police while she waited for them to arrive and pick him up.
He had little choice. The traktacs had to go. He had to trust somebody. Her back was to him as she busied herself placing selected equipment in a sterilizer cabinet.
“You’re not going to have to cut me, are you?”
She glanced back over her shoulder at him. “Where do you think you are—some back alley in Katanga?” Turning, she approached the table holding gleaming instrumentation in both hands. He saw that she was now wearing gloves.
“Taking them out won’t null the stall, will it? It won’t do me any good if the procedure nulls the stall.”
She made a face at him. “I have no idea, Mr.… Whispr. This isn’t the sort of infection I usually find myself dealing with. I’ll get them out. After that you’ll just have to take your chances.” Her eyes met his. “Unless you want to climb off that table, pull down your shirt, and leave.”
“No. No,” he mumbled disconsolately. “I have to lose them. You’re my best hope.”
“Lucky me.” Her voice dropped to a murmur as she bent toward him. “You’re going to experience a chilling sensation. It’s the usual combinant disinfectant-anesthetic spray. I think we can get by with a local.”
He was relieved to hear it. At least she wasn’t going to knock him out. His wits had been all that had saved him numerous times in the past, and he wanted them about him now. As far as he was concerned, so long as she removed the traktacs he was ready for her to proceed without the aid of any kind of anesthetic.
Something hissed like a student whispering in class and his side went numb from underarm to waist. The application stung a little, as if he had inadvertently pressed wet skin against an open freezer. Inquisitive as always, he strained to follow the procedure as she began to work.
As she flipped the surgical lenses down over her eyes and began probing with the extractor, Ingrid noted his interest. Scrawny but tough, she decided. The typical patient undergoing this kind of multiple extraction would by now have turned their head away from the site or at least closed their eyes. Not this Whispr fellow. When she made the first insertion he continued to track the probe with almost as much intensity as the doctor.
Sliding into his flesh, the slender probe’s integrated ultrasonic rejuvenator induced temporary metabolic stasis in the muscles and nerves it pierced. Using her lenses to peer far inside the patient’s body, Ingrid aimed the tip of the probe toward the traktac that had penetrated the deepest. The choice was standard for invasive outpatient surgery. When extracting foreign objects, be they splinters, screws, or bullets, always remove those presenting the greatest danger first in order to minimize trauma and the risk of complications.
Whispr said nothing, did not so much as flinch as he watched the probe slowly squeeze into his body, linger for a moment, and then slide back out. As the procedure was repeated, one traktac after another