"For now; renovations start in the next couple of months—we'll have to be out by then," Jonathan replied. "Let's get started."
After a moment of hesitation and a small sigh, Jonathan opened the first of many small boxes he'd packed with files to make the transport more manageable. The files had been roughly organized by their respective sources, and he and Julia were careful to try to keep some order to their unpacking. They stacked them in piles, each about a foot high, on one of the large tables.
After about twenty minutes of careful unloading, they stopped and gazed at the files and binders. Jonathan examined the seals and labels that identified their various origins. There were many with the Nazi SS seal—from Auschwitz, Dachau, Treblinka, Ravensbrück, and more. Others were from DARPA, the US Department of Defense, the Israeli Defense Department, the CIA, and some from various American and foreign universities. He estimated there were over fifty thousand pages of material—it was going to take quite some time to get through them. They'd have to read day and night.
During the day Jonathan had pondered whether or not to drag Denise into reading the files. It was a dilemma for him: she was just starting in law, and getting caught up in something like this could very well ruin her career. In the end, he resolved to let her make her own decision. She'd probably elbow her way in even if he tried to stop her. He called to fill her in on the situation, and as he expected: she was most certainly in.
After he'd hung up with Denise, Jonathan noticed that Julia had picked up a file. He walked over to get a better look, peering over her shoulder. The page she was reading had the SS emblem and another strange swastika—like symbol as part of the letterhead. Each document had a corresponding English translation clipped to it, and some of the pages had notes scribbled on them. The title page read, in English, Results of Absolute Threshold Experiments at Auschwitz Medical Laboratory. The subsequent pages were cluttered with graphs, tables, and lists of data that related time of exposure, temperature, humidity conditions, age of subjects, and "time until death."
"This one describes experiments they did at Auschwitz. Hypothermia." She put the file back on the table. "I'm not sure I ... "
Jonathan saw Julia's eyes tear up, and he immediately understood why. At just eight years old, Julia's mother had witnessed her parents and two sisters die at the hands of the Nazis. If they'd managed to evade capture for just a few more weeks, they would have survived the war. Her mother had been rescued from Auschwitz, but wrestled with survivor's guilt for the rest of her life. This guilt had somehow been passed down to Julia, and Jonathan was sensitive to it.
He hugged her. "I'm sorry, darling ... Don't look at any more of that ... Are you okay?" he asked and kissed her head.
"I'll be fine," she replied. A tear rolled down her cheek. "But what could those old experiments have to do with the compressed punishment program? Are they doing tests like that here—in America?"
"I don't know, but the answer has got to be in here somewhere," he said as he looked over the pile.
"Denise is coming?" Julia's eyes looked hopeful.
Jonathan nodded. "Day after tomorrow—she's out of town for her mother's birthday. In the meantime, you and I should dig in.
Julia agreed, and they worked into the early hours of the morning.
*
Day Twenty-three was the day Will found out about the death of his sister and her family. It was also the day of extreme exposure treatment. At first it was strange to see snow indoors, and to feel the air blowing as hard as it was—but the novelty wore off quickly. It reminded him of the night he was delivered to the roof of the Red Box, only worse.
The treatment was horrible: it was dark and cold and he was occasionally sprayed with water. As awful as it was, there were times when Will had almost fallen asleep. He supposed that's what it was like to freeze to death; you'd feel pain for a little while, but then just slowly fade away. During the worst parts of the treatment, he again hallucinated that he was near the top of the room, looking down on his shivering body. He saw his pale skin and blue lips, and the frosted, caked blood around his head bolts.
It was difficult to eat meal two, and Will could hardly speak when they asked him for a number; he could hardly move his lips, and he shivered uncontrollably. There was never a response after he gave a number, and he was growing tired of the exercise.
When his torture was done for the day, they slowly warmed Will with moist air—which caused a deep, aching pain in hands, feet, and joints. He was fed once more—the food paste served warm, accentuating some of the more unpleasant flavors, and leaving him nauseated.
After meal three came the dead time before the start of sleep rotation, and as Will expected, he heard the voice of Landau.
"Been waiting for you," Will said.
"Is that so?"
"You seem to appear every time I hallucinate."
"So you still believe those to be hallucinations?"
"Yes, and I still believe you're a hallucination as well."
Landau changed the subject: "Have you given some thought to our last discussion—about making a replica of your body, atom by atom?"
Will had thought about it, but he wanted to know why Landau was asking that question, as well as the question of where Will was before he was born.
"Yes—as I said, I would know which body was mine because I was looking through my own eyes."
"Right, but what if you were somehow transferred to that other body—how would you know then?"
Will answered, "I guess I couldn't know—everything would be exactly the same."
"So, you could move from one body to the other, and you wouldn't know the difference?"
"I suppose so, yes. Why are you asking me these questions?" Will asked. "Are you trying to say that my consciousness is mobile, or transportable, or something?"
"Your soul can't stay in your body forever—the body is temporary," Landau replied. "Unless, of course, you really do believe you cease to exist after you die, and didn't exist before you were born."
"Suppose that is what I believe?"
"Then you'd be living a finite, hopeless existence," Landau answered, his voice revealing a hint of frustration. "But then the question would still remain as to why you are here now. And I am not referring to your purpose; I mean why do you exist? Where did you come from? You think the atoms that assembled to make your body in your mother's womb made your self-aware soul? Your body could function very well in this world just as it is—without you being in it—and no one would ever know the difference."
Will caught himself mouthing the last few words of Landau's rant as they were being spoken. It was strange: had he been hallucinating again? Had he been speaking to himself? "Landau?" he called out.
There was no answer. A few seconds later, the rotation started.
*
Denise climbed the stairs to the old law library at about 8:00 p.m. She hadn't been in the library in over a year, ever since the university had moved everything to the new building, and was immediately struck by how large the place looked with most of its contents removed. The familiar scent of coffee and cherry pipe tobacco permeated the air; the aroma of her usual work environment.
Julia greeted Denise with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and led her deeper into the vacated library, where Jonathan was buried behind a mound of papers at the end of a large mahogany table.
He stood up. "Glad you're here, Denise. We need another set of eyes to get through all this."
"Why are you in here?" Denise asked.
"People might come looking for the files at some point, so I couldn't have them at the house or in my office," Jonathan replied. "And, as you can see, we needed some space."
Denise acknowledged with a nod. "You said there was a lot of material, but I didn't imagine this." She was astounded at the volume of files on the table. From the reflection in the large window, she saw even more stacked on the floor behind Jonathan's chair.
"Grab some coffee and let's get starte
d," Jonathan said, pointing to a coffeepot on the table behind her.
"It's getting a little late for coffee, isn't it?"
"We've been up past three in the morning for the past two nights," Julia explained. "And we'll probably be at it for a while. Trust me, you won't have a problem staying interested."
"What do you have so far?" Denise asked.
Jonathan and Julia explained how the files were delivered, the implications of the seals on the file folders, and the note.
"We have a huge knowledge gap," Jonathan said, "and it's going to take us some time to fill it in. Whoever sent this to us may have saved our entire effort. Do you realize how long it would take us to replace the Thompson case?"
"We may never find another one," Denise acknowledged.
"The information here seems to be comprehensive," Julia explained. "We have files that date from the Nazis to present day."
"The Nazis? What are you talking about? ... " Denise was startled.
"This is much deeper than I had anticipated," Jonathan said. "DARPA, or the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, which funds high-risk projects, has been funding the so-called Compressed Punishment research since 1947. It funded research in bio-sensors, biomechanics, abnormal genetics, pain-management—including torture and, of all things, research on various religions and the paranormal—debunking ghost stories, in particular. The main accomplishment up to this point has been the development of an integrated bio-system, called an Exoskeleton."
"Sounds pleasant," Denise said and shuddered.
"Some of the DARPA documents refer to an American project called Red Wraith," Jonathan continued, "and they also make reference to certain incidents that have occurred throughout history. The Nazi's are mentioned the most, but so are the Russians under Lenin and Stalin, and there are even references to the Catholic Church, and to witch trials and burnings. All of these had one thing in common: torture. But there's still a lot of information missing—some major gaps: I haven't been able to find reports on any of the incidents mentioned—so I have no idea what they entail. Maybe we'll find something in the SS documents—that's where I'd like you to start, Denise. There are hundreds of them."
Denise took a cup from the table and filled it with coffee. She felt as if she were in a dream, or playing a part in a movie; the plot was becoming more and more convoluted, but also more exciting.
"Julia is tackling that pile of CIA files," Jonathan said. "And I'm up to my eyeballs in DARPA documents."
They filtered through the enormous collection of papers, and worked until they could no longer see straight. The chime of a large clock, located high above the entrance inside the grand library, rang out four bells before they called it a night.
*
Richard placed his empty travel mug on a filing cabinet and logged on to his computer. He sighed at the sight of the large envelope on his desk. Today was January 26th, and there should have been two such envelopes; the New York facility was late again. Nevertheless, it was time to write up the report summary. He turned his attention back to the computer and opened a template document. He had standard responses that he could cut and paste, always expressing the same undeniable point: NTR. Nothing to report.
He opened the envelope and pulled out a large binder: it was the Red Box report, as he had predicted. He went straight to the cover page for the summary, and his eye was quickly drawn to the number "2' for total Number of Incidents. Richard's heart skipped a beat. This number had been nonzero before, but they always turned out to be mistakes. In one case, the room medic who had written the report mistakenly thought that sleep-talking was considered an incident.
Next to the entry were the words "see page 24." Richard went to the page and was surprised to find the report for Patient 523: William Thompson. He read it carefully, and found himself somewhat relieved. If anything, the controllers had observed precursors to incidents: Thompson hadn't responded to pain stimuli. As a scientist, Richard should have been excited; as a human, he was downright frightened. He thought he could get away with summarizing the information as NTR in his report to Bergman, but the urgency of the situation had just leapt a few quanta. He had to get McDougal moving.
*
Will listened to the morning announcement: "Your ex-fiancée, Pamela Sorrensen, is to wed Matthew Donavan on April 21st of this year," the voice said.
It was strange news. Will knew Pam had always liked Matthew, but he was surprised that his old friend was going to marry her. Evidently Pam was carrying on with life as if nothing had happened. This angered him even more than the fact that she was marrying his former college roommate.
"If you confess that you raped Cynthia Worthington, you will be spared treatment for the day," the voice continued.
"I'm running out of ways to tell you people to fuck off," Will replied.
"Very well," the voice said with finality. The intercom clicked off.
Will awaited the unknown horrors that lay before him.
*
On the eve of Day 26, Will was not fed. His stomach churned from hunger, and he was worried: missing a meal always preceded something horrible. There was no breakfast on Day 27, and Will was not surprised to see Dr. Colby and Ms. Hatley walk through the door that morning.
"Today is the day of wisdom," Colby said, smiling broadly as he rolled in a cart. "Remember me? I'm Dr.-"
"-Yes, Colby," Will cut him off. "Like the cheese. I remember." He'd seen the man just days ago, although he had lost count.
"Right. See? It works," Colby responded, and had an expression of approval.
It was exactly the same setup as for the previous "dental appointment" for the root canals and filling replacements, only there was an additional panel of hand instruments. There were scalpels, flat blades, and an assortment of curved pliers—all made from polished stainless steel. The drill motor had a head on it that looked like a small, circular blade.
Hatley inserted the jaw jack and tongue tie while Colby hooked up cables. She gave Will her evil wink and whispered, "Boy, are we going to have some fun." She stopped talking just as Colby got within earshot, and a few minutes later they started the procedure. No anesthetics meant no delays.
They worked on the upper left wisdom tooth first. Will felt Colby slice into the thick fleshy gum behind the last molar, and wedge a flat-bladed instrument down under the tooth. He moaned in response to the deep, dull pain as it surged through his entire skull, and leached into his neck, shoulders, and upper back. The first tooth was out in ten minutes, and Colby showed it to Will. It was a solid, but deformed, piece of white-polished ivory; a human-made pearl.
"That's one," Colby said and dropped it into a steel pan with a clank. "Would you like to extract the other upper, Ms. Hatley? It should be straightforward—it's floating."
"Absolutely," she replied.
Will heard the excitement in her voice. Strangely, without even feeling pain, he felt himself begin to fade away, but he didn't fade out completely.
He felt Hatley make the first incision; it was much larger and deeper than the one Colby had made to extract the first tooth. She then selected the sharp, hardened-wire instrument and poked it deep into the incision. It missed the tooth entirely and penetrated deep into Will's jaw bone. He squealed in pain.
"Ms. Hatley, what are you doing?" Colby asked.
"Locating the tooth," she replied.
"You're too far back, and too deep," he said.
"Sorry doctor," she said as she pulled the instrument out of Will's mouth. "I think I see where it is now." She selected a flat blade and drove it in deep under the tooth—again, too far.
This time Will faded out entirely. The next instant, he was looking down upon the operation. He felt no pain, although he sensed it in the background of his consciousness. He saw Colby look up to the window and ask a question. While the doctor had his back turned, he saw Hatley drive the flat blade in as deep as she could.
An uncontrollable surge of rage overcame Will, and suddenly
he swooped down, striking her bluntly on the side of her head. He didn't know exactly how he did that, but it was his intention—he just did it. He saw her fall to the floor, and a moment later he woke up again—back in his body. The pain was immense.
"Ms. Hatley," Colby yelled. He pulled the flat blade out of Will's mouth and hurried around the Exo to her side. "What happened? Are you all right?"
"I don't know, doctor—I must have gotten lightheaded or something."
"Did you bump your head?"
"I think maybe I hit it on the floor," she replied, feeling around her head with her hands.
Colby looked at her more closely. "But you fell to the left—there's a big bump forming above your right temple. Did you hit something on the way down?"
"I don't know ... " she said as she touched both sides of her head again. She looked disoriented.
"Take a break. I'll handle the other upper. You can join me this afternoon for the lowers, okay?" Colby looked up to the glass. "Did you see what happened?"
"No, but it will be on the video," a voice said. "We'll have a look at it before we write the report."
Hatley staggered out, and Colby finished extracting the remaining upper wisdom tooth. The pain was substantial, but not enough to put Will out again. The dentist packed the holes with something that felt like gauze, but tasted and smelled like a mixture of cloves and mint. He concluded the operation by removing the tongue tie and the jaw-jack. Will saw Colby's Rolex before the man left for lunch: it was just past 11 a.m., and Will was left to enjoy the lingering and evolving pain for the rest of the morning.
*
After lunch, more than an hour and a half later, Colby returned with Hatley, and Will knew the real fun was about to start. He remembered Colby saying that the lower wisdom teeth were impacted—connected deep into the jaw and pressed forward, against his other molars.
EXOSKELETON - A Novel Page 16
