"When was that?" Jonathan asked.
"About three years ago, when the previous person who held this position ... disappeared," Richard responded. "My guess is she found herself in the same position I'm in now—in moral conflict—and was found to be a security risk. Bergman cleans up problems quickly."
"I still don't understand why they would go through all of this trouble just to torture someone. What's the goal?" Denise asked.
"They're after something very specific—you were revealing a hint when I walked in, Denise."
"What? The massacres—the incidents?"
"Yes," Richard answered, and shook his head. "I never thought I'd have to explain this to people on the outside." He stood and nodded towards the coffee maker. "Do you mind if I have a cup? I drove all night to get here." It was the second time in less than a week, he wanted to add.
Jonathan nodded, and Richard walked over to the coffeepot.
"Let's start with some background: the idea started with the Nazis ... "
"The Red Falcon Project," Jonathan chimed in.
Richard nodded, and sat down again. "It was well known that Hitler was obsessed with the occult; if there were larger forces on his side, his army would be invincible—that sort of thing. But it was a German scientist named Gunther Nessler who convinced Hitler to create Red Falcon. He theorized that the next step in human evolution was to develop a quasi-physical presence outside of one's body. Nessler made two conjectures: first, that every person has this ability lying dormant; second, that the genetic evolution of this so-called ability can be coaxed to activate by extreme environmental conditions. He convinced Hitler that those who had the ability to separate would have unmatched power over the physical world—telekinetic abilities and beyond."
"What do you mean by separate?" Jonathan asked.
"It means the separation of soul and body." Richard waited for a reaction, but all three of his listeners appeared dumbfounded, and were silent. "I know it's hard to believe ... "
"It's preposterous," Jonathan said, almost laughing.
"I understand your skepticism," Richard said. "As a scientist, I felt the same way, even after reading the horrific incidents reported by the Nazis. I was skeptical right up until I found out that one of our subjects is showing signs."
"Signs that his soul left his body?" Julia asked, her expression doubtful.
Richard could tell that none of them were having it. "Well, he's showing preliminary behaviors identical to those that occurred just before the Nazi massacres." He pulled a folder from his briefcase and handed it to Denise, saying, "These are the incident reports that have been submitted in the last two days for Thompson; compare them to those you read from the Nazi files."
"William Thompson is the one showing signs?" Denise asked, shocked.
Richard nodded.
"Why did you come here, Richard?" Jonathan asked.
"I needed to relay the urgency to you. I didn't know things were going to move so quickly."
"I don't understand—because the man is showing signs?"
"Yes," Richard replied. "What you need to understand is that if Red Wraith has just one success—we will never stop the program. And if word got out, other countries would surely start their own programs just to keep up."
"Isn't it too late already?" Julia asked.
"I haven't passed the positive reports on to Bergman," Richard replied.
"But isn't it just a matter of time before he finds out?"
"By then I hope it will be too late ... Either Thompson will be dead, or you will have found a way to blow the thing wide open ... If I lead you to some particularly damning information ... " Richard thumbed towards the mound of files. "Could you use your contacts to move on this immediately?"
Jonathan nodded. "Show me."
*
The pain of the dental treatment still coursed through Will's body and mind, but now there was something else he wanted to forget: the memory of the screeching phantom that had chased him.
Before the Exo went into the sleep rotation, Will sensed Landau's presence and spoke. "Landau, thank God you're here."
"You are frightened of what you saw this morning," Landau said.
Will had given up asking Landau how he knew such things, so he continued.
"I don't know what happened ... It was so awful."
"Did you think it was going to harm you?"
"I certainly got that impression."
"I'm certain that it looked menacing," Landau said. "But let me assure you, no harm can come to you when you are separated ... What you saw was the soul of a man a few rooms down. He was separated, like what you've been doing—but for his first time. He went into a rage, and was about to ... "
"About to what?" Will asked.
"I cannot say. Just know that everything has been resolved now."
"I have no idea what you are saying. What do you mean resolved?"
"He has moved on to the next world," Landau replied. "He won't be back."
Will thought he understood. If he separated, maybe he could just keep going further and further away, and never return to his body.
"Is that what dying is?"
"The body will die, yes," Landau affirmed.
Will couldn't tell if that was really an answer to his question, but Landau was already gone. His thoughts faded as the motors hummed, and the slow orbit of the Exo put him to sleep.
*
Jonathan and the others had sorted through the massive piles of folders and binders for hours, and it wasn't until the late afternoon that Richard found the file he was seeking. He handed Jonathan a thick folder labeled: Compressed Punishment: Final Phase, and told him to read it while he got a few hours of sleep—he needed rest for the long drive back to DC.
Jonathan took the file to his office two floors down, and read the report in a little over three hours.
It was half past eight when he returned to the library. Denise and Julia were sitting at a large table, and Richard was crashed out on a couch in a dark corner.
"Has he gotten up at all?" Jonathan asked, and thumbed in the direction of the couch.
"No," Denise replied. "Should I wake him?"
"First let me fill you in on the report," Jonathan said.
Jonathan felt exhausted. The report was filled with so many strange ideas that he'd had to read through some sections multiple times. It wasn't that he didn't understand the material; it was his disbelief in what was being stated: it was as if his mind simply refused to accept it. If it wasn't some kind of hoax, he was certain there was enough in the document to sink the CP program in one shot.
"So tell us," Julia said, looking weary but interested.
Jonathan nodded and began, "As Richard explained, the idea is to controllably force the very soul of a human being out of his body, and into a limbo state where it is capable of immense violence and destruction. To separate the soul from the body."
"They actually refer to the soul?" Denise asked.
"Yes ... I know it sounds crazy."
"I agree," a voice came in from the dark.
Jonathan saw the silhouette of a tall, thin man, backlit by the evening lighting that shone through the windows on the southern wall. "Welcome back, Richard," Jonathan said.
Richard continued to speak, squinting as he came into the light near the table. "It sounds unbelievable, but the research actually has a crude foundation in science—or at least employs the methods of science. Based on the incidents reported by the Nazi's, they made one profound conjecture: if unbearable pain was inflicted upon the body, but it wasn't killed or damaged too badly, the soul might temporarily separate from it—to avoid the torment. When in this state, the subject's soul, his consciousness, would essentially be without physical limitations, and could wreak havoc on the physical world—as revealed in the Nazi files. Imagine what the military could do with this. Imagine a spy that could be completely invisible, have unlimited strength, pass through walls, and who knows what else. He'd essentia
lly have superpowers."
Denise gasped, "I can understand the military's interest—but I can't believe our government is doing this right now, to citizens."
"It is the government," Richard replied, "but it's unclear who's in on it and who's not. The program runs independent of the administration—it's self-perpetuating, and hidden deep in the budget somewhere."
"If it didn't work for the Nazis, what makes our government think they can do it?" Julia asked.
"What makes you think it didn't work for the Nazis?" Richard replied. "If we had reproduced even one of their incidents, we wouldn't be having this conversation; it would already be too late—Red Wraith would be unstoppable. But from an application perspective, you are right, the Nazi program—Red Falcon—did fail. Even though a few of their subjects had been able to separate for a short time, they all died. None of them survived to retain their abilities—that's the ultimate goal."
"And the American program will be able to do this?" Julia asked.
"The answer to that is in the report I just read," Jonathan cut in. "The Red Wraith project is different than the Nazi program in some key aspects. The Nazi's made crucial errors. First, they mutilated their subjects. The Americans believe this was a mistake, as the soul might leave—go to the next place, wherever that is—rather than return to a severely damaged body. Second, the psychological state of the subjects in the Nazi project was an issue—they knew they were going to be killed in the end. No reason for the soul to stay ... Third, the Nazi methods were too crude and impatient—the subjects died too soon. They made the incorrect assumption that, since the incidents they had observed occurred after thirty or forty days of torture, all of their subjects would either exhibit such phenomena in that amount of time, or they would die. They estimated that one in seven thousand were capable of separation."
"How does Red Wraith deal with these problems?" Julia asked.
Jonathan nodded to Richard to continue.
"There were a number of improvements," Richard replied. "First, the body is kept healthy—in fact, very healthy. The subjects are on healthy diets, the treatments they undergo actually supplement physical exercise, and they do no permanent damage. In fact they fix many things—although painfully."
"And I suppose the subjects don't believe they'll be killed, either," Denise added.
"They are made aware of the risks, but are assured a definite time limit on their torment—exactly one year—giving them hope ... The torture methods have also been refined. The Exoskeleton is capable of holding a subject near death almost indefinitely."
"How did these improvements translate?" Jonathan asked.
"The Americans estimated that one in a thousand would transform, a factor of seven improvement over the Nazi estimate," Richard replied. "But Red Wraith has not produced one incident since its inception—until Thompson, that is. His case has not yet produced a confirmed separation, but it fits in perfectly with the statistical predictions for the new facilities. It will come soon."
"No incidents since the beginning; how many have they tortured?" Julia directed the question to Richard.
"Since 1947," Richard replied, "including all of the earlier experiments, around twenty thousand. To this day, we—they—are confused as to how the Nazis got so many incidents to occur using their unrefined methods, and in such a short time frame."
Jonathan changed the subject. "Why didn't you just send us this Final Phase report, rather than the entire crate?"
"Two reasons," Richard replied. "First, you're going to need all those files to back up the report in your hand. Otherwise no one is going to believe you ... Second; I want you to expose everyone. There are names, and leads to other names in that pile. You can get them all."
"Aren't you mentioned in those files as well?" Denise asked.
"I am ... But I don't care anymore ... This is something that needs to happen."
"You'll get leniency," Jonathan assured him.
"I suppose we'll find out," Richard said, looking at his watch. "It's time for me to leave. What are your plans?"
Jonathan had already formulated a strategy. "Time is of the essence here; we'd like to preserve Thompson's life if we can," Jonathan replied. "I have some contacts at the state level, and I'll have the report formally disclosed through the DNA Foundation."
"You might be arrested," Richard warned. "The files are classified."
"It's a risk I'm willing to take. And I'll keep their source a secret as long as I can," Jonathan promised.
"How can I contact you?" Richard asked.
"You tell us," Jonathan replied. "What don't they have bugged?"
"I assume you all have cash-paid cell phones?"
Jonathan nodded.
"That will work," Richard said, and they exchanged numbers.
The large door creaked softly as Richard left the library. Jonathan didn't know what the man's fate would be, but he admired him for coming forward. He just hoped it wasn't already too late.
*
The halt of the Exo's rotation roused Will from a light sleep. He was transported into the next room, and given the usual offer for his confession. He was waiting for a possible announcement, but then remembered something: they couldn't give him any more bad news. They could tell him that the world outside had become a nuclear inferno, and he just wouldn't care. He had no connection to anyone or anything out there. They had taken away everything they possibly could. What else could they possibly do to him?
Will heard a click and felt a sharp jab in his left bicep. He knew that the injection was not antibiotics.
Before the drugs took hold, he recalled something he'd heard long ago: the most dangerous man is the one with nothing to lose. There was a dark freedom in that realization.
But it seemed to Will, even in his growing state of drug-induced depression, there was still something he still possessed that no human could ever touch ... After everything else was stripped away, there was still something inside. The something he was when he left his body.
Will decided he would no longer tolerate the torture.
*
The next morning, Will still had a headache from the depressive drugs they'd pumped into him the day before. However, the conclusions he'd drawn while under their influence still remained valid: he was at the absolute bottom. They couldn't take anything else away from him—and now he would make the torture stop.
The Exo brought him to the next room, and a controller gave him the usual offer of relief, to which he replied with his usual response. A moment later a small iris opened in the ceiling, and Will heard a high-pitched hum. It took him only a second to realize what the noise was: millions of mosquitoes.
The insects smelled his nervous sweat, swarming him immediately. They filtered through the metal, tubes, and cables that made up the Exoskeleton, and attacked its sweet, fleshy innards. The itching alone was terrible, but the thought of millions of mosquitoes feasting on him was intolerable. Will summoned a pain memory from that now overdeveloped part of his brain. Even though he was still hesitant after being chased by the tortured soul of the man a few doors down, he exited his body, and was relieved of his suffering.
After a short time Will was drawn back, and awoke to a new feeling—a wooziness, like he was drunk, or poisoned. A loud click startled him, and a needle punctured his left arm, injecting something. He heard fan doors open, the air flowing rapidly, and he felt the mosquitoes being blown off of his skin.
After ten short minutes, the irises opened again, and a new wave of torment arrived: horse flies. Thousands. They bit as they landed, and their bites were by no means as gentle as the subtle injections of the mosquitoes. Will cursed in agitation, and separated once again. This time, when he saw his body black with flies, he swooped down, brushing them off. They scattered for a moment, but immediately returned. His frustration then turned to fury. He flushed them off again—only this time, while they were in flight, he burned them. Through his rage, he burned them all.
*
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"What the hell just happened?" the tech asked, bewildered. "Was there an electrical short?"
The medic stood up to look through the one-way window. "Not sure—and what was that snapping noise?"
"Better get the foreman on the phone," the tech said, then noticed his partner staring out the window with his mouth hanging open. "What are you looking at?" He stepped up to the window as well. "Holy shit."
"They're all dead," the medic said with an expression of confused disbelief. "How are they all dead?"
"They're all fucking burned, man," the tech replied. "Call the foreman, now." He couldn't take his eyes off the thousands of burnt flies, some of them still smoldering, scattered over the floor. Not one was moving. Not one had its wings. A smell like that of burnt hair was coming through the vents.
*
The tech jumped when Wendler, the foreman, stormed into the control room.
"What the hell's the problem here? And what's that smell?"
The tech pointed out the window.
Wendler walked over to it and looked out. "What the fuck? Was there an electrical short, or a fire?"
"I don't think either one would kill all the flies, sir. And the patient looks unharmed," the medic said.
EXOSKELETON - A Novel Page 19
