he had undergone the final implant surgery, he needed his medication to stave off the discomfort and the pain of those damned things inside his body. The implant team back at the base had explained that it would take time for his system to accept the implants, and as long as he continued with his medication it wouldn’t be a problem. Now those people were gone. Dead, and his medication was lost. So he was going to have to keep going under his own steam.
The first real twinges started to make themselves known after the first hour. Deep-seated discomfort that became nagging aches radiated throughout his body. Buchanan kept moving, trying to ignore the sensations that were alien and scary. This was the first time he had really felt the implants. Up until this night the medication had kept the discomfort under control, deadening the feel of implants. It began to feel as if he had living things inside him and they were waking from a long slumber. They made the skin of his arms and hands itch where some of the implants lay just below the surface. It was almost like experiencing tiny electric shocks, and he imagined the implants bursting through his skin and exposing themselves. The thought unsettled him. It was only now, in his current position, that he gave thought to what he had allowed to be done to him. And he had allowed it, volunteered to be the first to undergo the radical surgery that was vital to the project. He had been chosen as much for his service skills as for the inescapable fact that he had advanced cancer. The Air Force doctors had given him no more than eighteen months before the disease took him. They had then given him an option—the Zero Option—a way that he might live longer while still being a useful member of the Air Force. Buchanan had been intrigued, and had asked to know more.
When it had all been explained, they gave him time to digest it all. It meant time alone, sitting in his lounger, staring out the window at the spread of the country beyond his house and letting the information seep slowly into his mind. He went over it again and again, at first finding it almost impossible to believe what he had been told.
Reason had made its plea and Buchanan, never one to deny what was staring him in the face, took the decision that would—if everything worked out according to his briefing—alter his life in a number of ways. Acceptance of the program would deny the cancer its victory, but Buchanan’s existence would take on a new form. True, he would be alive, but he would be bound, both physically and mentally, to the machines that gave him that life. Buchanan chose his path because he wanted to stay alive per se, and he was also curious to experience this radical technology. He was, if nothing else, a romantic in that he viewed the future with open eyes and a willing heart. The thought of space travel and the machines that would take man there fascinated him. And this opportunity he had been presented with would allow him to be one of the first to taste this innovative technology. If it worked for him, it could later be adapted for deep-space exploration. A way of overcoming long-distance travel for future generations.
If it worked.
Buchanan had been given the downside of the project. It wasn’t guaranteed to be one hundred percent infallible. His participation was as a guinea pig. He would be monitored on a 24/7 basis. Every breath, every movement would be recorded, discussed, analyzed, until there was a definitive answer one way or the other. His private life would be near nonexistent, and even when he slept his vital signs would still be monitored. There would be nothing he would say or do that would go unrecorded in some way. There would also be discomfort during the initial stages. It would take time for him to become used to the implants as they slowly integrated with his own system, remaining dormant until the time he took up his position within the project itself and became as one with the machine that would assimilate him.
The concept scared the hell out of Buchanan at first, and he had some sleepless nights. But he was man full of curiosity and he threw himself into the Zero program. As well as his innate need to know more, his being part of the project meant he had little time to dwell on his developing cancer. The mass of information he needed to absorb took over his waking hours. The project medical team also had him on a course of drugs designed to hold back the pain of his disease, so the weeks following his acceptance of the offer were extremely busy ones, allowing no time out for self-pity or periods of reflection on what might have been.
The weeks passed in a blur, leaving Buchanan little time to think about anything else. Much of his waking time was spent with Dr. Saul Kaplan, the man who had both created and helped direct the entire project. Kaplan was a man of many talents, one of them being his ability to be able to both sympathize and to stimulate Buchanan when the strictures of his disease and the effects of the Zero treatment became overwhelming. The two men had become good friends. Buchanan had looked on Kaplan as his mentor, his adviser, and he was both shocked and dismayed when he was informed that Kaplan had withdrawn from the project. Something had made the creator of Zero step back and analyze what he was doing. For whatever personal reasons Kaplan had gone, leaving no indication of where he had gone, or why, or whether he would be back.
Buchanan had felt betrayed. Lost. His only contact with reality had deserted him. He spent a few days in contemplation of his future before his natural optimism returned and he had, for want of no other avenue, thrown himself back into the project. Gradually things had returned to normal, or whatever passed for normal in Doug Buchanan’s new world. With his implant surgery behind him, Buchanan allowed himself to be immersed in the next stage of the project, spending hours connected to the computer database as it filled his head with information and instructions, the neural net inside his body drawing in the streams of data and filing them away for when they would be needed.
And then the attack had come. One quiet night, when even Buchanan was relaxing.
As with most surprise attacks it came suddenly, shockingly, the New Mexico night ripped apart by explosions and autofire. The crackle of guns and the blast of explosions. Now he hoped he could stay alive long enough to alert his superiors.
The temperature had dropped considerably, the desert air chilling him. He tried to keep on the move, knowing that if he stopped too often, for too long, he might not be able to resume his walk. With his medication long overdue, Buchanan’s pain had become extreme. It was, he assumed, like drug withdrawal. His body cried out for relief and he was alternately hot, then cold, his joints aching where the implants were blending with his own living tissue, the neural network beginning its slow, agonizing transformation.
When he checked his watch he saw he had been on the move for three hours. He wasn’t sure just where he was, but after a position check he knew he was walking in the right direction. The highway was dead ahead. It had to be. Doug Buchanan was no beginner when it came to search-and-locate procedures. It was something the Air Force drilled into its pilots from the start of their training. How to walk out of enemy territory with the minimum, or total lack, of any guidance equipment. They learned the location of stars in the night sky, the way to insure they were on course without the aid of a map or compass. So no matter how hurt he might be, as long as Buchanan could use his eyes and determine his position, he would locate the highway.
If he had been in prime physical and mental condition, Buchanan would have heard and seen the old red Dodge truck coming. He had just come across a dusty, tire-marked dirt road, when his dulled senses warned him of danger.
It was a shade too late.
The instincts that had walked him across trackless miles of empty desert failed him at the last moment. Maybe he was tired. Weary from fighting off the effects of the change taking place inside his aching body, he didn’t see the pickup truck. It came barreling out of a dip in the trail, tires throwing up clouds of dust as it crested the rise only yards from him.
The unexpected glare of the headlights engulfed Buchanan, pinning him against the desert backdrop like a butterfly to a collector’s board. He half turned, throwing up his hands to shield his eyes from the light. All he saw was the wall of light, then he picked up the roar of the engine as the driver stood on the brakes. The pickup dipped and rose like a bucking mustang. The rear slid from side to side, then it was on him. Buchanan put out his hands to
