KREBS

“Christel Krebs,” Frankovich said, hunching forward gloomily over the cafeteria table. “She’s Wo’s ultimate revenge on us.”

Muzorawa nodded glumly. Even O’Hara looked worried. The four of them unconsciously leaned their heads together and whispered like conspirators. The cafeteria was only half filled, yet echoing with the noise and clatter of other dinner conversations. Still, they whispered to one another.

Frankovich was a short, roundish, balding man. Grant had seen the biochemist often enough in his days as a lab technician, but the man had hardly spoken six words to him before this.

“What are they doing to Egon?” Grant asked. “What’s the surgery that Krebs spoke of?”

“Wiring the biochips into his legs,” Muzorawa said.

“And teaching him to breathe underwater,” added Frankovich, with a shudder.

Grant knew that the crew would be immersed in a thick perfluorocarbon liquid during the mission. It was the only way they could withstand the enormous pressures of the Jovian ocean. They would be living in their own high-pressure liquid environment, breathing oxygen from the perfluorocarbon, hoping that the pressure inside the cells of their bodies could be raised high enough to balance the pressure outside their ship. It worked in theory. It worked in tests. During the first mission into Jupiter’s ocean, though, one crew member had been killed and the others injured. Wo had never recovered from his mangling; Grant wondered if Krebs was fully recuperated.

“Poor Egon,” O’Hara said. “He was terrified of having this happen to him.”

“Couldn’t he refuse?” Grant asked. “I mean, we’ve still got our legal rights.”

With a shake of his head, Muzorawa replied, “Egon doesn’t. Technically, he’s a convicted felon, serving out his sentence here.”

“That’s why Krebs picked him. He can’t refuse.”

“I’m just glad it wasn’t me,” Frankovich said fervently.

“It’s not that bad,” said O’Hara. “Once you get over the surgery, once you’re connected to the ship.”

“Connected?” Grant wondered aloud.

“The biochips link you to the ship’s systems,” Muzorawa explained. “Instead of using keypads or voice commands, your nervous system and the ship’s systems are directly linked.”

Grant felt his eyebrows hike up.

“It’s … different,” O’Hara said. “Sort of a feeling of power, you know. You feel the ship’s machinery. You and the ship become one.”

Muzorawa nodded. “I’ve never experienced anything like it. It’s …” He groped for a word.

“Intimate,” said O’Hara.

“Yes. A sort of out-of-body experience, yet it’s happening within your own skull.”

“Almost like sex,” O’Hara said.

“Better,” said Muzorawa.

“Better, is it?” she challenged.

Muzorawa smiled knowingly. “It lasts longer.”

Grant changed the subject. “But what about Krebs? Who is she? Where did she come from?”

“She was on the first mission,” Zeb answered. “She was Wo’s second-in-command.”

“She actually piloted the mission craft,” said O’Hara, “and she got pretty badly smashed up in the accident.”

“Some people claim she caused the accident,” said Frankovich. “And now Wo’s put her in command.”

“I thought she was at Selene,” Grant said.

“She was,” O’Hara replied. “Recuperating from the accident, don’t you know.”

“She must be fully recovered,” Muzorawa offered.

Frankovich shook his head. “Physically, perhaps. But did you get a look at her eyes? Like a homicidal maniac.”

Neither Muzorawa nor O’Hara replied.

Another question rose in Grant’s mind. “If you were linked with the submersible’s systems when the accident happened, what did it feel like? Did you feel pain? What?”

Muzorawa closed his eyes briefly. “Lane and I were off duty when it happened.”

“Thank the saints in heaven,” O’Hara whispered.

“Jorge Lavestra was killed. Krebs and Dr. Wo were badly injured.”

Frankovich hunched forward in his chair and clasped his hands on the tabletop. “From what I hear, Lavestra had just plugged into the ship’s systems. He wasn’t physically injured. He died of a cerebral hemorrhage.”

“A stroke?”

“Yes, that’s true,” said O’Hara. “Being linked to the ship at the wrong time can be fatal.”