"How could I forget you?" Will replied sarcastically.
"And what about me? Do you remember me?" Hatley asked with the same degree of sarcasm, and a smirk.
"Have we met?" Will shot back, deadpan.
Hatley's lips dissolved into a thin line, revealing the pent up anger inside her. Will honestly wondered what was wrong with the woman—what had happened to her? Had she been abused, or was she just a natural sadist?
"Enough of the niceties," Colby said, grinning. "We have only today to get the basic procedures done—good thing we don't have to worry about anesthetics." He turned to Hatley and said, "We'll start with the root canals so we can have the caps made before the end of the day. Let's start with the lower right."
Colby retrieved the jaw-jack and adjusted it as he'd done over three weeks earlier. It stretched Will's jaw to the brink of tearing the muscles, but it seemed he'd developed a higher pain threshold since their last encounter.
"Ms. Hatley, the tongue-tie please, while I assemble the drill," Colby ordered.
"Yes, doctor," she replied as she retrieved the item, then reached inside the Exo's head-cage. Will was tempted to bite off the woman's fingers, but restrained himself. Hatley tied his tongue off to the left, which cleared a wide space on the right side for Colby to work.
Colby tested the drill, the high-pitched whine echoing throughout the room, and then plunged in without hesitation. Will's vision dimmed and went black. When he regained consciousness, he heard Colby saying, "Maybe that was a little too quick."
As the procedure resumed, Will heard voices over the speakers periodically giving updates on his bio status—pain level and heart rate.
When the drilling was completed, Will knew the reaming was about to start. The reamers, which looked like grooved wires, were inserted deep into the root canals in order to remove all of the material—including the nerves. He felt Colby press a reamer deep into his tooth, and the pain spiked as if the dentist were stabbing a red-hot needle into his jawbone. The pain quickly increased beyond tolerance but then, suddenly ...
... It was gone.
Instantly Will was watching himself from above—viewing the scene from about six feet overhead. He could see the tag on the back collar of Hatley's lab coat, and the bald spot on the top of Colby's head. He saw his own contorted face and the whites of his own eyes—he looked like hell. And he could hear them speaking ...
"Okay, he's out again, Ms. Hatley. Let's give it a moment," Colby instructed. He paced back and forth, and looked up to the glass. After a short time, he called up, "Hey, are you guys paying attention up there?"
A voice boomed down, "What's the problem? Everything's reading normal. The pain level was fluctuating around nine, but falling. Heart rate's 130."
"He's passed out," Colby yelled.
There was a brief pause before the reply. "Not according to our sensors. He's just not screaming—the muscle sensors read high tension, and all other indicators read normal."
"He should be screaming his head off—he has to be out. Look ... " Will saw Colby take a new reamer and clean out another root. A minute later Colby turned back to the booth, "Nothing. Not even a twitch. What do you say to that? That was a fresh nerve."
Again there was silence, this time for more than a minute, before the reply. "Just keep working—we'll monitor the vitals. He seems okay—he's just not screaming."
Colby turned to Will and yelled to him, "Thompson!"
Will heard Colby's scream from two places simultaneously: from his position above the scene, and from his body. He then felt himself being dragged back to consciousness—back to the Exoskeleton. He awoke to horrific pain, his body convulsing wildly.
"He's awake now, but you better wait a few minutes—his heart rate is through the roof," the voice said from above.
"Then what the hell was going on before?" Colby asked.
"Don't know, Doctor, but we'll have to write it up as an incident when you're finished today."
"What?" He seemed confused and flustered. "Write what up?"
"Any strange incidents need to be documented—this qualifies," the voice replied.
"Fine," Colby yelled, and then turned to Hatley, "We have a lot of work to do today, let's get rolling."
*
Will suffered on as Colby performed two root canals that morning, and replaced five fillings in the afternoon. The newly fabricated porcelain caps were fitted and installed by the end of the day. Will had been on the verge of blacking out through most of the process, and had one more hallucination during the day. During this last hallucination, he observed that the room seemed to be uniformly illuminated—even the dark corners were fully visible, which wasn't the case when viewed from his body.
When it was all over, and his mouth was cleaned up, Colby pulled off his gloves and said, "We'll be seeing you next week for those wisdom teeth. Bet you'll be glad to get rid of those."
Will said nothing in return.
*
Will's mouth felt much better after his feeding. It still throbbed, but not nearly as bad as earlier in the day. The pain had nearly subsided, and he was on the border of sleep, when he was startled by the voice of Landau.
"You left your body again today," Landau stated.
"How do you know that?"
"It doesn't matter how I know. What do you think you were experiencing?"
"It does matter how you know, and I think it was a hallucination. Now, how do you know about it?" Will repeated.
"Our time is limited, and there are things you still need to resolve." Landau replied. "Do you think that what makes you you are just the atoms that make up your body?"
"What do you mean "our time is limited?' Seems we have all the time in the world," Will said, ignoring the question.
"You need to answer my questions or our conversations are going to end."
Will sensed impatience in Landau's voice. He answered, "The whole is greater than the sum of the individual parts, and I think we don't understand this very well. But, yes, I think we are just atoms."
"Understanding physics as you do," Landau said "would you say that atoms of a given type—same atomic number and same isotope—are indistinguishable? Meaning, for example, that a gold atom here in Detroit is exactly the same as one on Mars, and no one could tell the two apart if they were next to each other?"
"Yes," Will replied. This, he knew, was accepted as fact in modern physics.
"And the same for Molecules?"
"Yes, of course," Will answered. "All water molecules are the same if made from atoms of identical isotopes. All glucose molecules are the same, etcetera ... where is this going?"
"In principle then, I could make a brain and body that was, in all physical respects, absolutely identical to yours?"
"In principle, yes," Will replied.
"Suppose I do that, and put your new perfect copy next to you. Could anyone tell the two of you apart?"
"I suppose not."
"What about yourself?"
"Yes, of course, I could tell."
"How?"
"I would be looking out through my own eyes," Will replied. He wondered why Landau was leading their discussion in this direction—he knew where it was headed. He'd heard variations of this argument before, back in college.
"The thing to which you refer as "I' in your response, is your soul. There is a clear distinction between what is matter—atoms—and what is your soul," Landau explained. "I want you to give this some thought. It's important."
"Why?"
"Because there are certain things you need to be convinced are real," Landau responded. "And you need to give some thought to where you were in 1952."
"Yes, you said July nineteenth, 1952. Is there some significance to that date?"
"None, except that it was before you were conceived."
"Then the answer would still be: I didn't exist," Will answered in a tone of finality.
"In that case, why do you exist now?" Landau asked.
&nbs
p; "What the hell does that mean?" Will felt he'd had enough of the conversation, but it didn't matter: it was the last he heard from Landau for the night. Landau, Will tried to convince himself after some thinking, was an entity his mind had created to help him cope with the solitude and agony of this place; a subconscious defense mechanism. Since his current situation wasn't something he could explain well with science or common sense, his mind was forced to dig deeper. Maybe this was the onset of psychosis—or maybe he was already in the thick of it.
VI
Revelation
On January 23rd, Jonathan McDougal navigated the mid-morning Chicago traffic from the campus to his house. He pulled into the driveway and got out of the car, retrieving his briefcase from the back seat. He had a full schedule for the day, but had promised Julia he'd stop home for a quick brunch.
Julia met him on the front porch, and he kissed her loudly on the lips. "Hey, good lookin'," he said, kissing her again on the cheek.
"We have bagels. Are you home for the day?" she asked.
The look in her made it clear she wanted him to stay—but he couldn't, there was work to be done. Since the Thompson case was hopeless, he had to reopen the search for new cases—CP sentences were not widely publicized, surely by design.
"I have to pick up some new case files, and I have a meeting this afternoon on campus, but I won't be home too late. For dinner, maybe we can make those steaks your brother gave us."
Julia smiled and shook her head. "Too late, I got the slow cooker all set up for a roast."
"Even better."
Jonathan had started on his way into the house when Julia said, "Oh, you should take a look at the package in the garage before you do anything else."
"What package?"
"You weren't expecting anything? It's a huge crate."
Jonathan shook his head. He noticed some alarm in her expression. "Is something wrong?"
"It's just a little strange, that's all," she replied. "The man who delivered it had to use a dolly to get it in."
Jonathan raised the garage door, and standing in the middle of the floor was a large cardboard box. It was cubic, four feet by four feet, and was strapped to a wooden pallet with high-tension plastic binders.
"Holy crap," he said, "What the hell is this?" He walked over to the box and examined it. "There's no name on it—to whom was it addressed?"
"The man who delivered it said it was for you," Julia replied.
"Did you have to sign for it?"
"No."
"Was it UPS or Federal Express?"
"It was just a man with a rental van."
"Did he say anything about it at all? Who it was from?"
"No dear, just what I told you." She laughed. "Why don't you quit asking me questions, and just open it?"
Jonathan walked around the crate and examined it more carefully. "There's nothing written on it at all." He retrieved a utility knife from a tool drawer and cut the plastic binder tapes. The box slumped slightly to one side due to the reduced support, and he strained to slide the box and pallet against the wall.
"Geez, this thing is heavy—must be over two hundred pounds."
With one side of the box propped against the wall, Jonathan sliced the tape that held the top two flaps together, and pulled them apart. He did the same to a second layer of flaps, revealing a tightly packed assortment of folders, binders, and envelopes. On top of the contents was a handwritten note:
This information should help you with your investigation. Your telephone has been bugged, and all of your email accounts have been compromised. If it gets out that you have these files, your very life (and those of your colleagues) will be in danger. Move quickly! -- A Friend
"Jesus," Jonathan whispered. He handed the note to Julia and she read it quickly.
"Our phones are bugged?" she asked, alarmed.
Distracted, he replied, "Yes, we'll have to deal with that." He pulled a random file from the box and opened it. The first thing he noticed was the TOP SECRET stamp. Next he examined the seal: DoD, which he knew stood for Department of Defense. He fanned through it and quickly realized that many of the pages had a common phrase in the heading or subject lines: Punishment Compression Experiments.
"Look at this." He showed Julia the seal and the file. He pulled out another one, also labeled "Top Secret," but this one had the DARPA seal on it, and a contact address: DEFENSE ADVANCED RESEARCH PROJECTS AGENCY, 336 Overlook Ave. S.W., Mailstop 2304, Washington, DC 11415.
"What is all of this?" Julia asked. Her face was pale.
"I'm not sure ... Something to do with the CP program," Jonathan speculated as he pulled another file. He opened it and was stunned by what he saw, staring in bewilderment until his wife broke his trance.
"What is it, Jonathan?"
He slowly turned the folder so Julia could see the emblem on the front. When she saw it, her eyes widened and she put a hand over her mouth.
It was a swastika.
*
Jonathan drove his car towards Schaumberg, just outside of Chicago, to pick up three newly discovered case files from a colleague. The crate of files and the note were on his mind the entire time. He'd closed up the box in his garage and decided to take some time to think carefully about how to proceed. He knew the consequences of reading classified documents without proper clearance, and had to decide whether or not to take the chance.
His thoughts quickly converged: of course he would take the chance. His objective was to crack the program wide open—whatever the risk. The laws he broke now were irrelevant; the end more than justified the means, even if he went to jail. Those files being sent to him, especially with the note, meant there was something very dark going on indeed, and he would be the one to expose it. Thankfully there was someone else, someone who was also taking a risk, who felt the same way.
Fifteen minutes later, Jonathan met with Brian Taggert, his longtime friend and fellow lawyer, at his house in Schaumburg. Even though he wanted to run out of there and speed home to explore the new information, Jonathan chatted with his old friend for an hour over coffee. He had to be on campus in the afternoon for a committee meeting anyway, so he thought it better to just be patient. He was anxious to dig into Taggert's new files as well, but knew his success depended on the contents of the crate in his garage.
*
William Thompson was changed forever during Day minus one, and had continued to change in large quanta every day since. But it was the out-of-the-ordinary lunchtime announcement on Day 23 that made him realize he was completely alone in the world.
With its usual absence of emotion, the voice said, "Your sister, Andrea Marie Cramer, and your two nieces, Tabitha and Tia, were brutally murdered three days ago by your brother-in-law, Terrence Cramer. Mr. Cramer then took his own life. The incident was ruled a murder-suicide. Mr. Cramer's family indicated that the couple had recently been arguing about Mrs. Cramer's half of your parent's estate. As a consequence, the money has been willed to you, and has therefore become the property of the Federal Government, to be applied against your debt."
Will felt sick but remained quiet; no tears, no screaming. There was nothing left to cry about. Everything and everyone was gone.
The voice came back, "If you confess your crimes, you will be spared the day."
"Fuck off," Will said, more quietly than usual.
Today, he welcomed the distraction of pain.
*
Jonathan got home from his committee meeting around 5:45 p.m., and was tired and hungry. Julia served a large pot roast with onions, carrots, mashed potatoes and gravy—and it all would have been better had Jonathan's mind not been elsewhere.
He was raring to get at the files, but first he'd have to get them to a safe place. He'd already solved the phone bug problem: he'd instructed Denise to get a new temp phone, and he'd done the same. They would also need new, anonymous e-mail accounts.
"You're thinking about that crate in the garage, aren't you?" Julia asked.
/> "Yes, and many other things," Jonathan replied, forcing a smile.
"I've been thinking about it, too, and I'm curious: we could get into a bit of trouble for reading those files, couldn't we?"
"We could get into more than a bit of trouble for just having them," Jonathan replied.
"I thought so." A mischievous smile formed on her lips. "So when do we start?"
"I knew I married the right woman," Jonathan said and laughed. "We can have a look at them tonight, but we're going to move them to campus first—I've arranged a special place in the law building where they'll be safe."
"You're worried they'll be taken?"
"Not too much," Jonathan replied, "but better safe than sorry. I'll heed the warning on the note—people are watching us."
"What if they come after us?"
Jonathan shrugged. "We'll just have to be careful." He changed the subject. "It's going to take us weeks to get through that many files, and I'm not even sure what we're looking for. But there's something in there, something that ties the whole thing together—and we're going to find it."
"What on earth were those documents with the SS symbols and swastikas?" Julia asked.
"No idea—but I'm sure we'll learn soon enough."
Ninety minutes later, they were out of breath and standing in the old law library, which was located in the same building as Jonathan's office. A dozen or so wooden tables ran down the center of the enormous room, illuminated by stained-glass lamps that hung from the twenty-foot, arched ceiling. Some of the lights were burned out, leaving patches of dark that blended into the rows of empty bookshelves down either side of the library. The wall on the far end, opposite the entrance, was entirely glass, framing what Jonathan thought was the most beautiful view of the campus.
Julia seemed skeptical. "They'll let us work in here?"
EXOSKELETON - A Novel Page 15
