EXOSKELETON - A Novel

by Shane Stadler

  "I tried to call you last night ... I was just trying to keep my head on ... I had to think-"

  "Denise, take it slowly—tell me what happened." He took a seat across from her.

  She wiped her face and took a deep breath, steadying herself.

  "The DNA test facility burned to the ground last night. When I arrived, they were trying to put out the fire, but the place was already wiped out—completely ... My contact, Kristine Camden ... I think she might be dead ... "

  "My god," Jonathan said as he stood up and retrieved a remote control from his desk. He opened a large cabinet between two massive book shelves to reveal a large TV, and turned it on. "I don't know if the local news will cover the southern part of the state, but we'll see. It comes on at eight o'clock. If not, we'll check CNN or something—maybe it made national news." He took a seat across from Denise and poured her a cup of coffee.

  Denise took the cup, and another tear rolled down her cheek. "I know it has something to do with our case ... When I got to the lab I was chased by two men in a black SUV ... Oh God, maybe if I'd been more careful-"

  "This is not your fault," Jonathan said, cutting her off. "You can't think like that, because it just isn't true."

  Denise nodded. She understood, but still felt guilt.

  "We've been nosing around on this case, and others, for months—requesting files, and so on," Jonathan explained. "Our adversaries, whoever they are, aren't stupid. They're watching us; they know what we're doing ... I got a phone call-"

  He was distracted by the television and grabbed the remote to turn up the volume.

  " ... Now let's turn it over to Gillian Stevens, reporting from West Frankfurt, Illinois," the news anchor said.

  "Thanks Todd," a young, female reporter continued. "The bodies of two female employees were found in the burnt wreckage of the StanTech Solutions building, a DNA testing facility here in southern Illinois. The women have been identified as Kristine Camden, a resident of West Frankfort, and Lynn Crebbs of Benten, Illinois. Initial reports indicate foul play: both women were shot, doused with accelerant, and burned along with the building ... Police have no suspects as of yet ... "

  *

  "I knew it," Denise cried as she stared at the women's pictures. She recognized Kristine's face, but not that of the other woman.

  Jonathan shook his head slowly and grasped one of Denise's hands across the table. "We're in pretty deep now."

  "I know," she replied. She had a dark feeling, like falling into a well. But she had to let it go—she had to press on. "You were saying something about a phone call?"

  Jonathan let go of her hand and sat back. "Yes—a man called and threatened me about investigating the Thompson case."

  Jonathan turned off the TV and turned to Denise, looking her directly in the eyes.

  "I'm going to ask you a very important question now ... Knowing the stakes, considering the fact that two people are now dead, do you want to continue with this?"

  "Of course I'm going to continue," she shot back, almost yelling. "Of all things—I'm not a quitter ... I'm seeing this through, Jonathan."

  "Okay, okay ... " he cut her off and seemed to smile in relief. "I had to ask. You're my intern, my student, I'm responsible for you."

  "You don't want to quit, do you?"

  Jonathan answered with a loud laugh.

  "So what's the plan?" Denise asked.

  "Without the DNA, we're in trouble—the Thompson case is probably dead for us," Jonathan admitted. "We need to reevaluate our plan of attack. But right now I'm more concerned about the men who came after you ... How did they know you? How did they find you?"

  With her mind on the chase, and the demise of Kristine Camden, Denise hadn't fully realized the implications of the previous night. What kind of people were they dealing with?

  *

  The submersion process repeated until the room filled to a depth of about ten feet—halfway to the ceiling. That's when the lights went out. In the pitch darkness, the Exo took Will on a hellish ride during which he was slammed on the surface of the water, and repeatedly dunked at varying speeds and intervals. His perception of his orientation was so skewed he couldn't predict when he was approaching the water, or when he was about to surface. When out of the water, he gasped desperately to fill his lungs—so that he might survive the next excursion into the dark depths.

  *

  Bergman answered his phone, "I saw on CNN you took care of that business in Illinois." He was not pleased it made national news.

  "We had to move quickly—one of the women hit an alarm," Lenny explained.

  "So we're clear then?"

  "Yes and no," Lenny replied. "If the DNA was still in the building, it's destroyed ... But we know there was someone poking around the place the day before ... One of McDougal's ... They may have been at the lab that night as well."

  Bergman perked up. "Who?"

  "A woman, Carmen Davis. We got a copy of her driver's license and a business card off one of the lab techs. The license is fake, but the card says she's an employee of the DNA Foundation."

  "And what about the contact information?" Bergman asked.

  "McDougal's info was handwritten. Her phone number is unlisted," Lenny replied. "It's a pre-paid phone. But we might get something from her email."

  "Have security hack it," Bergman instructed. "We'll discuss our next move once you're back."

  He hung up the phone and sat down at his desk. It was always going to be like this, he thought, always plugging little holes in the dike. If they could just get one positive event, he'd be able to justify quitting. He'd revel in glory as they refined the program, and found new ways to utilize new human weapons. He'd be famous, within certain circles anyway, and free... But there was still so much to be done.

  *

  Will consumed meal two and afterwards was suspended horizontally, facing the water, for forty-five minutes. There was usually about an hour of down time during lunch, and a fifteen minute break in the afternoon. He knew that there had to be people behind the glass, controlling and observing the treatments. He figured the down times were probably for their lunch and breaks.

  Will wondered about the degree of human control in the treatments, as their nature allowed little room for error. He thought it might be better for him if they did screw up—he'd be spared the remaining torment.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a female voice over the intercom, it said, "Tell us the number."

  Wanting to avoid a shock, Will immediately shouted the number seventeen. There was no response, and he wondered what the point of this exercise was. Were they playing games—was this part of the psychological torture? He admitted it did cause some added anxiety.

  They started the afternoon session, and the remainder of the day involved similar, but more violent water play than that of the morning. At one point he woke up with a tube down his throat and blood coming out of his nose. He'd accidentally taken a breath at the wrong time, and they'd had to revive him. He could easily have died right then and there, but the program wouldn't let him off that easy.

  When the treatment was over, Will was forced to consume a double dose of food at meal three to make up for all he'd vomited during the day.

  After the feeding, the Exo positioned him horizontally for the brief period before the sleep cycle began. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Will thought he heard a voice. Somehow close, but distant at the same time.

  He felt a chill, and his skin puckered into goose-pimples. For the next full minute he barely breathed, listening intently—but all he heard was the pounding of his heart. After a few more minutes he concluded that it must have been his imagination. The lights dimmed to cold blue, and then to black as the sleep cycle started.

  V

  Genesis

  On Day Ten, Will got his first announcement: "Your house, and its contents, have been sold at auction," the voice on the intercom informed him. "The balance of what you owe will be covered by a federal loan in your n
ame, with interest to be accrued retroactively to the day of your insertion."

  He figured the balance was a large number; but he didn't care. "Good luck collecting," he scoffed. Will was angered by the thought of his possessions being auctioned—he had a vintage classical guitar, given to him by an old, now deceased, friend. The item had great sentimental value to him ... But he currently had more pressing things on his mind—like what unknown horrors were planned for him on this new day.

  The controller gave Will the standard opportunity to confess, he gave them his usual response, and then it started. The Exo stretched out his left arm as though he were reaching for a door knob, and spread out his fingers. Two appendages lowered from a port in the ceiling and passed a few feet from his face: they were complex, robotic hands, a left and a right. They were sleek in design, and had a flat-black finish. One of them positioned itself near Will's outstretched hand, and a glistening, curved blade popped out of one of its fingertips—the thumb. It moved in slowly, and all Will could do was watch as it approached.

  He felt cold metal touch his skin, and the blue-metallic blade slowly sliced its way under his left thumbnail, vibrating as it moved. It dug in about half way to the cuticle, and stopped. His thumb throbbed and burned at the same time, and the pressure mounted even though the blade remained still. After about five minutes, it continued on its path to the nail bed, and paused. His legs and arms twitched uncontrollably, but the blade remained stationary.

  A few minutes later, another blade popped out from the mechanical hand, and slowly carved a path under his left index fingernail. It took another five, long minutes to reach the nail bed.

  Will screamed sporadically, his voice diminishing to a raspy whisper, as the procedure was repeated for each of his fingers.

  After about two hours, the machine had finished inserting blades into the ten nail beds, and the program paused as the pressure in his fingertips increased. The fluid that oozed from under his nails had gone from blood to a clear liquid, and he heard it drip on the floor.

  Just as Will's nerves were beginning to settle, the bladed, mechanical fingers started to tap. Tap tap tap ... the machine played a tune of pain. Every muscle in his body convulsed with each minute percussion of the blades.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the program reached a final phase: the twisting of the blades. Will whimpered pitifully, continually on the verge of passing out.

  *

  The blades finally retracted, and his bleeding fingertips were dipped in an antiseptic fluid. While his fingers stung horribly in the chemical solution, the controller asked Will for a number, and he gave him one. As usual, there was no response, and it was time for meal two.

  On the morning of January twelfth, Richard heard Lenny mention something about StanTech, and the "Illinois facility" to Bergman. That afternoon he ran a quick internet search on StanTech and was mortified by what he found; evidently they were now killing civilians.

  Richard knew he'd had enough. First, he decided, he would have to come clean with his wife: he'd tell her everything about the project. It was the only way to convince her to leave, and even if she divorced him, at least she and the girls would be safe. Second, it was time to set his plan in motion: Bergman had supplied him with the perfect contact: Jonathan McDougal. It was time to roll the dice.

  *

  The morning of day fifteen was no different to Will than other days—but the announcement he was given caused him more pain than he'd ever known.

  The voice over the speakers said, "Two days ago, both of your parents were killed in a car accident. It was a head-on collision, and both were pronounced dead at the scene. The other driver is in stable condition. Reports indicate that your father was legally drunk at the time of the crash. The funeral is this afternoon." An electrostatic click ended the announcement with a dead sense of finality.

  When Will was finally able to process the information, he screamed at the top of his lungs. No words, just guttural, agonized screaming. A sense of profound emptiness engulfed him. He didn't believe it—he couldn't believe it. His father didn't drink—at least not before he had been arrested.

  Will's sadness turned to shear rage, and he tried to shake himself free of the Exo. The effort was violent but futile; his struggling only made his head bolts bleed, and the tantrum was put to an abrupt end by a harsh and prolonged shock that nearly knocked him out.

  A minute later the Exo hummed and positioned Will to face the glass. The voice on the intercom asked, "Did you rape the girl?"

  Will didn't reply; his anger had paralyzed him.

  The voice continued, "Did you rape Cynthia Worthington?"

  Will spoke calmly and deliberately. "Fuck you. When I get out of here, I'm going to find you. All of you."

  After a short delay with no response, the Exo hummed, and Will felt something adjust on his left leg. The Exo had an extra joint—at the midpoint above his knee and below his hip—right in the wrong place. He understood immediately what he was in for. The "thigh joint" on the Exo flexed and Will felt his femur begin to bend in small increments. The machine hummed, then stopped. Hummed, stopped. After the fourth iteration, his quad muscles quivered uncontrollably, and the pain deepened. He noticed other Exo joints now; in the middle of his shins, arms, and forearms.

  *

  The technician flinched when Warden Halbreath slammed his fist on the control room table.

  "Damn! This one usually breaks them."

  The tech never had the Warden come into his control room so early in the morning. And he'd certainly never seen him look worried.

  Halbreath addressed the tech, and the medic sitting next to him. "I want you to keep the pain level as close to nine as you can. Offer him the afternoon off again in exchange for a full confession—and double check that the recorders are on. We need to break this guy."

  The tech and medic nodded in unison.

  "We can't have patients getting this far without confessing. Do you understand?"

  "Yessir," the tech responded.

  Halbreath looked at the medic, "Give me an update after you make the offer."

  The medic nodded.

  Halbreath whirled to leave, his jacket blowing a Styrofoam cup off the technician's desk as he nearly ran out of the room.

  "What the hell?" the medic said under his breath. "Ever have that happen?"

  "Nope," the tech replied, shaking his head. "But I haven't seen a patient make it this far without breaking, either."

  "We're at PL-seven," the medic informed. "Let's inch it up" He stepped up to the control panel and turned down the volume for the treatment room microphone—the screaming was getting to be a bit much for so early in the morning.

  *

  "What?" Richard was confused for a moment. "No." He almost wished it had been something like that. "No, it's about work." He looked at her face and realized he'd missed a joke. She was trying to lighten the mood, but it didn't make things any easier.

  "Are you losing your job?"

  "Please, Claire, let me talk," Richard said in a serious, yet shamed tone. "What I do for a living isn't exactly what you think I do—at least not anymore." He shook his head. "It's turned into something else entirely."

  Claire's expression turned to confusion. "You're still a bioengineer, right?"

  Richard nodded.

  "You're still lead engineer on the DARPA project?"

  "Yes," Richard replied, and nodded again. "But the project has gotten out of hand, along with the people who run it."

  "Aren't you still developing the Exoskeleton?"

  Richard motioned with his hand for her to keep her voice down. "Yes, we are. But not for the reasons you think."

  "You mean it's not for helping accident victims?"

  "It started that way—at least I thought it did—when I was at Syncorp," Richard explained. He remembered being recruited by Syncorp right out of grad school under the premise he'd be working on a new bio-interface system, for medical purposes. It was designed
for rehabilitation: spinal injuries, nerve damage, muscular atrophe, etc. The Exoskeleton could keep bones set, supply spinal traction, administer medications, monitor bio-data, and so many other things. From the very beginning, he knew that Syncorp was a government subcontractor; which had made the position even more attractive. He knew the funding would be plentiful, and he'd have the opportunity to develop a state-of-the-art system that would actually help people. When he was offered a position with DARPA, he jumped at the opportunity—he had no idea where the work would eventually lead.

  "What is the Exoskeleton used for now?" Claire asked.

  "Can I see your phone?"

  "What? Why?" she asked as she handed it over.

  Richard quickly took out the battery and the SIM chip, then did the same to his phone. He knew there were ways to monitor conversations through cellular devices. He didn't want to take any chances.

  "What the hell's going on, Richard?"

  He could tell Claire was frightened, and found himself thinking it might be a good thing. She needed to understand the gravity of the situation, and the consequences of what he was going to do. He proceeded to tell her everything, even about the murders.

  *

  While trying to get the taste of meal two out of his mouth, Will thought he wasn't going to survive the afternoon. In the morning treatment, the Exo had methodically worked over his left femur, shin, upper arm, and forearm. Each had been extremely painful, but the femur had been the worst by far. On occasion he thought he actually heard the cracking of his bones. He was sure the stress must have produced a multitude of hairline fractures.