EXOSKELETON II:
TYMPANUM
by Shane Stadler
2015
Dark Hall Press
A Division of New Street Communications, LLC
Wickford, RI
Copyright 2015 Shane Stadler
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Except for brief quotations for review purposes, no part of this work may be reproduced in any form without the permission of Dark Hall Press, a division New Street Communications, LLC.
Published 2015
Dark Hall Press
darkhallpress.com
A Division of New Street Communications, LLC
Wickford, RI
CHAPTER I
1
He was going to end the world.
William Thompson didn’t know where the thought came from, but he wiped it from his mind.
Black smoke from burning electronics and flesh billowed to the high ceiling of the treatment room and rolled back to the floor. Noxious soot coated his throat and mixed with the sweat on his naked body. He coughed, making him jerk violently against the tight frame of the Exoskeleton.
Sparks discharged in all directions from the blue-metallic extremities of his Exoskeleton while arcs of white-hot electricity cracked like whips as they struck the room’s surfaces and the people who were scurrying about. The unfortunate ones were burned alive, from the inside out. Will was unmoved by their screams.
His concentration sharpened to a level of enlightened perception, as if viewing a maze from above while everyone else was lost below its walls. He focused on a man making his way closer to him, weaving to avoid the whirlwind of debris. He was carrying a gun in his right hand.
Barely avoiding a falling ceiling tile that might have killed him, the man dashed to the wall opposite Will, faced him, and extended his arm. An instant later, the muzzle of the gun flashed.
Time stopped. Silence.
Like a taught rope in the empty space between his body and the gun’s muzzle, the trajectory of the bullet was clear – he could see it. It threaded through the titanium bars of his head cage, terminating just above his right eye. It was going to kill him. The man was trying to kill him.
Anger welled in Will’s mind – his soul – and boiled to an uncontainable pressure. He focused on the man and released his rage with a scream.
White light saturated his vision, and a high-pitched ringing made his ears itch in pain. His sight returned seconds later, shrouded in darkness interrupted by intermittent flashes of white light, like lightning in a fog. Freezing air rushed through the Exoskeleton and over his body, clearing the area of smoke and powdered concrete. There was a gaping hole in the outer wall of the building, extending to the floors above and below. Sunlight illuminated the red brick wall of an adjacent building. The man and the bullet were gone.
The ceiling groaned above him, and his Exoskeleton tipped sharply to the right, barely hanging from its support on the ceiling. After a moment of awkward calm, the floor rushed toward him.
2
Saturday, 14 February
(6:55 a.m. Central Standard Time – Chicago, Illinois)
An orange-pink hue warmed Will’s mind. The morning sun beamed on his closed eyes through the window of the hospital room. As he savored the warmth, he struggled to accept that the recurring nightmare from which he’d awakened was a perfectly accurate account of events that had occurred two weeks prior.
He’d come to realize many things since his release from the facility. The world had changed. And it wasn’t just that he viewed it differently. It was different. He was different.
He’d seen elements of reality that had been concealed from humanity. They were facets of existence that, he believed, were purposely hidden, although he didn’t know why, or by whom. His most profound discovery was that he existed beyond the physical world. And so did everyone else.
This knowledge had been obtained at great cost – to him and others – and the question now was what he was going to do with it, and the accompanying abilities. Thinking about it always led him to feelings of predetermination, not unlike those he’d had before being incarcerated. Considering what he’d just gone though, it was absurd that his future now seemed even darker than before. He couldn’t explain why – it was just a feeling.
He dozed off for a few more minutes and then opened his eyes against the brightness. Carts rattled past his closed door, and the odors of antiseptic and static-charged hospital blankets reminded him of where he’d been for the past ten days.
They had operated on his broken right femur the day he was brought to Chicago from the crumbling detention facility in Detroit. He had no recollection of the trip to Chicago, or of the first two days in the hospital. His leg still throbbed in the cast, but it was minor compared to the pain in the rest of his body. The treatments in the Red Box had taken their toll. But he was checking out today – no matter what.
He gently patted his forehead with his fingers to see if the bandages had remained intact over the night. Two days earlier, plastic surgeons had repaired holes from two bolts that had been screwed into his skull during his incarceration, one above each eye, on his forehead near the hairline. Only minor repairs had been made to two similar wounds on the back of his head. They’d told him the scars from those would be concealed when his hair grew back.
He turned his head in the direction of a soft knocking to his right.
A young woman with long, dark hair stood in the doorway with a black duffle bag slung over her shoulder. She was as much a reminder of his new freedom as was the morning sun. It was Denise Walker, one of the lawyers who had helped to free him from the Compressed Punishment facility.
“Clothes,” she said, smiling.
She peeled the bag from her shoulder and set it on a chair next to the bed. A light sweat gleamed on her brow as she pulled her hair back into a ponytail and wrapped it in a green elastic band. She wasn’t tall, perhaps 5’ 4”, but was willowy strong. She was 34, about seven years younger than Will, but looked to be in her mid-twenties.
“An entire wardrobe?” Will jibed.
Denise raised an eyebrow, walked to his side, and put her hand on his. “Ready to get out of here?”
He flinched at her touch.
She seemed to notice his reaction, but didn’t remove her hand.
“You and Mr. McDougal have done enough for me already,” he said.
“I told you not to worry about it,” she said and walked back to the duffle and unzipped it. “And you can call him Jonathan now.” She pulled out a pair of khaki shorts, a white cotton shirt, tube socks, a pair of sneakers, and blue boxer shorts. “Hope these fit.”
“I think they’re one-size-fits-all,” he said, pointing to the underwear.
She laughed. “I meant the khakis. They’re oversized to get over that cast. And so are the boxers.”
“Good thing it’s not cold out,” he said and nodded towards the snow on the sill outside his window.
“It’s already the middle of February,” she said. “When your cast is removed it will be warmer, and shorts will be perfect. Besides, you’ll be in a nice place on the north side. Completely self-contained – you won’t have to go outside very often.”
He shook his head. He knew that apartments in that suburb of Chicago were expensive. “I could’ve stayed with my parents.”
“We’ve been through this,” she said. “They’re two hours away. We need you around for the investigation. Besides, the Foundation is paying for everything.”
Headed by Denise’s mentor, Jonathan McDougal, the DNA Foundation used biological evidence to overturn false convictions. Will had been fortunate that they’d chosen his case two months ea
rlier. Other than freeing him, their investigation led to the shutdown of the entire program. It had been touted as an experiment in corrections called Compressed Punishment – a conspiracy-riddled government project that subjected inmates to horrific physical and psychological treatments. DNA Foundation investigators were now trying to uncover the hidden objectives of the program, but had so far made little progress.
“You should remain inaccessible for a while,” Denise added. “For the reasons we’ve talked about.” She raised her eyebrows, waiting for a response.
He nodded and put up his hands. “Okay.” She was right. People were going to search for him. The FBI agents who had dropped in on him during his first conscious night in the hospital – just a week ago – had told him the same thing.
“Breakfast?” he asked.
“Here?” she responded with an expression of mild disgust.
He shook his head and laughed. “Don’t like hospital food?” he asked and swung his legs off the bed and down to the tile floor. “Let’s see if I can dress myself without falling down.”
As Denise walked out and closed the door, he hobbled over to the chair and sorted through the clothes she’d put out for him. He examined his image in the mirror on the wall above a chest of drawers. He looked like shit: scars on his forehead, pale, unshaven, and generally unhealthy. His blue eyes stared from bruised, discolored sockets. His light brown hair was a few millimeters long now, but was patchy because of the closely shaved areas from the surgery. His body was thickly muscled and lean, but the weeks in the Red Box had aged him well beyond his 40 years.
As he dressed, he thought about what Denise and Jonathan had done for him. It was a debt that would be impossible to repay, but he’d try. He just wasn’t sure there was enough time.
3
Wednesday, 18 February
(7:44 a.m. CST – Baton Rouge, Louisiana)
Zhichao Cho’s black shoes clacked on the damp concrete as he made his way across the parking lot to the office building. The breeze that flapped his suit coat like a loose sail was brisk on his face, but not uncomfortable. He’d try to enjoy the cool spring in Baton Rouge before the Louisiana summer arrived.
He stopped at the entrance of the ten-storey building and checked his reflection in the glass. Convinced he looked the part, he tugged the handle of a tall glass door and swung it open. Warm air infused with the aromas of coffee and bagels rushed through his short hair and fogged his glasses.
He strode through a short hallway, stopped in a tile-floored foyer, and squinted at a large chandelier in the central atrium as he cleaned his glasses. It was the first thing he’d remove, he thought.
Cho took a deep breath and got his mind set for the meeting. He didn’t want to overplay his position, but he knew his offer beat those of his competitors, and exceeded the worth of the company’s physical holdings by more than 10 percent. The physical assets were important, but not the priority. He wanted the company’s priceless intellectual properties. Their value was something the current holders didn’t seem to appreciate.
This morning he was meeting with the Chief Executive Officer of Syncorp, Inc. The massive biotech company had been a U.S. defense contractor until just weeks ago, when it suffered a severe security breakdown. Within days, everyone involved had scurried like rats. A week later, the company was on the market. And now Zhichao Cho, a so-called entrepreneur, would take over. He knew countries other than his beloved China used similar tactics to acquire sensitive technologies. He wondered how many were vying to collect Syncorp.
Ever since Syncorp had been exposed, its upper management distanced themselves from it and its government partners. According to Chinese intelligence, it was the most important U.S. defense contractor of them all. It developed technologies that were more sensitive than missiles, computer networks, and even nuclear weapons.
A male receptionist met Cho at a coffee kiosk in the lobby and led him through security to a top-floor conference room. The room’s shape paralleled that of the oval conference table it housed, and floor-to-ceiling windows lined its outer walls. The morning sun glinted off the polished wood table and into his eyes, blinding him for an instant as he walked.
A woman he recognized as Marigold Reddington, the Syncorp CEO, sat with three men whom he assumed to be Syncorp lawyers. His own lawyers had arrived earlier to hash out the final details of the contract.
Reddington stood and walked to him with her hand extended. “Mr. Cho,” she said and seemed to force a smile.
They exchanged niceties for a minute, and then took their seats at the table with Syncorp on one side, and Cho and his two lawyers on the other.
“Your supervisory board approved our offer,” Cho said, getting to business.
“Yes,” Reddington said. “But I don’t think we can fulfill your requirement regarding the information transfer in the time allotted.”
He knew this would be a problem. The large volumes of classified electronic and physical files were stored at satellite companies scattered about the country. Their massive relocation could draw attention that Cho couldn’t afford. It would arouse less suspicion if the current management handled the task. “What’s a reasonable time?”
“Six weeks,” Reddington replied.
“We’ll give you four,” Cho said, “with penalties if there are further delays.”
“Agreed,” Reddington said.
Cho nodded in approval. He knew Reddington could deliver them in less than three weeks, but he didn’t want the conditions to threaten the deal. He couldn’t have the Syncorp management bail out, but he couldn’t seem too compliant, either – it would draw suspicion. It shouldn’t appear to the other side that the files were important to him. After all, he was supposed to be developing a nutrition and medical technologies conglomerate – nothing to do with defense research. “Work up an amendment to our contract reflecting these new details,” he said to his lawyers and then turned to Reddington. “We’ll meet this afternoon to execute the deal.”
After agreeing on a meeting time of 2:00 p.m., Cho excused himself and drove to a coffeehouse ten minutes away, on Bluebonnet Boulevard. He ordered a green tea, sat at a table, and gazed at the foot traffic through a window.
His official business plan for the takeover was to centralize all of the resources – including information – from Syncorp’s satellite companies, and then shut them down. To the current Syncorp management, and the U.S. Government, it would look like a prudent restructuring.
His real objective was to gather all of the Syncorp files and get them to China. The physical files would be digitized at the Syncorp site, and then transferred electronically. The originals would be shipped later, or destroyed.
Syncorp’s technologies could be reverse engineered – and this process was already happening in China – but technical plans would accelerate their progress. He’d make sure the company kept producing the most important parts, which was carried out at the Baton Rouge site, and delivering them to the homeland. That would persist until he ultimately burned the place to the ground.
When he had what China needed, he’d destroy all of the remaining technical and intellectual materials. This meant files, computers, and people instrumental to the American efforts. He’d leave the United States with nothing.
A flaw of the American government was that it disowned anything that threatened its politicians. They were trying to bury something that had been taking place since the end of World War II, when the Red Wraith project had begun. They were discarding priceless information that had been collected over a half of a century. Such stupidity didn’t occur in China; the government had control of everything and wasn’t afraid to keep its creations, regardless of who found out about them.
Over a year ago, when he’d learned about Red Wraith, Cho had used every contact he had to get appointed to the head of the Chinese equivalent. He recalled first hearing the details of the American project and thinking it was a ruse – science fiction. Then Chinese intelligence had
informed him that the Americans had scaled up research and were already operating large-scale facilities. To this day he didn’t know if he’d been trembling in fear or excitement when he’d learned that the rumors had been confirmed. Even more disturbing, or exciting, was the rumor that the Americans had observed a successful conversion. He shuddered.
He smiled to himself as he thought about signing the final papers to take over Syncorp. Now China would have its own program. His Red Dragon project would be the only active one of its sort in the world.
His objectives were clear: copy, steal, buy, or reverse engineer everything developed in the American Red Wraith program. Remove or destroy any information that could be useful to the Americans. Finally, identify the man who was the Americans’ lone conversion and either acquire him, or kill him.
4
Thursday, 19 February
(3:34 p.m. Eastern Standard Time – Antarctic Circle)
Tanya Beck threw the microphone and buoy over the railing of the science vessel, Yonkers Belle. They splashed into the dark Antarctic sea and the orange Styrofoam spheroid bobbled in the waves.
It was their final observation. They’d start the long trip back to Deception Island the next day, and fly out of Buenos Aires for the States a few days after that. Once she was back home in the northern hemisphere, it would be a semester of writing her dissertation, and then coasting through one more term that would conclude with her Ph.D. defense.
One thing she’d learned in the past three months was that she’d never again travel to Antarctica – at least not willingly. The idea of studying whales and other creatures that inhabited the frigid waters was fascinating. The practice of actually doing such a thing, however, was more uncomfortable and fatiguing than she’d ever imagined.
EXOSKELETON II: Tympanum Page 1
