EXOSKELETON - A Novel

by Shane Stadler

  The Exoskeleton twisted and leaned, and even turned completely upside down at one point. After a few minutes, the soap and water mixture turned to pure water, then to some type of disinfectant—which made Will's eyes burn— then back to water again. After a final rinse, the nozzles retracted.

  For a few seconds, all was quiet except for the sound of dripping and draining water. The calming sound was then interrupted by the rumble of two massive doors opening—one to Will's right, the other to his left. The Exo turned to face one of the newly exposed openings, leaned forward, and spread its arms and legs as if it had jumped out of an airplane.

  Then began the whine of what sounded like an accelerating turbine. Hot air, rushed though the large doors, through the Exo frame, and over and around Will's wet body.

  Everything was dry in less than a minute, and the doors began to close as the turbine slowed. Before the doors were fully closed, another—opposite the one he initially came through—descended into the floor. The track above rumbled and clicked as it moved the Exo through the opening. It stopped in the geometric center of a large, cubic room, as the door closed up behind, and the Exoskeleton repositioned itself horizontally, so that Will faced the ceiling.

  The room was illuminated by a deep, blue light, the source of which Will could not locate—it seemed to be coming from all directions. A minute later, the light dimmed to near darkness, leaving a purple-haze afterglow in his mind, and a computer-generated female voice said, "Sleep time." The Exoskeleton then began to rotate slowly about an imaginary horizontal axis. Will estimated that it went through one revolution per minute, like the second hand of a clock. He now understood what Coates meant by "putting him into rotation.'

  The longest and worst day of his life was finally over. The longest and worst so far, he corrected himself.

  III

  Day One

  Will awakened. It took him a few seconds to realize where he was, and he had no idea how long he'd been sleeping. He was still and faced the ceiling in a horizontal position—he was no longer rotating—and the room was now dimly bathed in a deep red light. As if it sensed he was awake, the Exoskeleton repositioned him upright, and turned him to face a door that was beginning to recede into the floor. Once the door had fully retracted into the threshold, Will was transported into a new room, which was identical to the one he'd just left. The door closed behind with a metallic clank, leaving him to stew in his thoughts.

  After about ten minutes, the quiet was violated by the blast of a booming male voice. It resounded off the walls, and there was no way of determining its origin.

  "Affirm that you are William Thompson by lifting your right arm and saying, I am," the voice commanded.

  Will instinctively moved his arm without thinking of his confinement to the Exoskeleton. As he raised it, he heard the high-pitched spinning of servo-motors and the hiss of pneumatics, and realized the machine was assisting his motion. "I am," Will replied.

  The voice continued, "You have been convicted of rape and attempted murder, and were sentenced to twenty-five years in prison. You have opted instead for a three hundred and sixty-five day treatment in the compressed punishment system. You have made this choice without threat or coercion. With your right arm raised, say I agree."

  With his arm still raised, Will repeated, "I agree."

  "Your treatment will start in twenty minutes, and will not stop until the program is complete, or you expire. You will not be released for any reason. Say I understand."

  "I understand."

  His attention was then drawn to a humming sound coming from below him. He looked down to see a small hatch open in the floor, and watched as an object rose up through it. It stopped in front him, at chest-level; it was a metal post with a glass ball on the top.

  The voice boomed again, "All patients are given the option of self-deliverance. The glass case on the device in front of you will retract to reveal a button. Pressing that button will release a poisonous gas into the room, and you will die in less than three minutes. It is painless. You now have seventeen minutes to make your decision. If time expires and you have not actuated the system, your treatment will begin. You will not be given this option again. Your right arm is mobilized so that you may actuate the device."

  The glass case retracted to reveal a large, red button. A small projector lowered from a slot in the ceiling and projected the time remaining on the wall across from him: it read 16:43, and was ticking down.

  Will was stunned. Suicide? Although he'd considered this on his own, he was astonished to be offered the opportunity so directly. He didn't know how to react, his emotions were all mixing together—but eventually it was anger that won out. He finally yelled, "Fuck you! I'm not giving up—you'll have to kill me!"

  Will waited and listened, but there was no response. He stared in disbelief at the countdown clock: 11:43. His heart pounded and he released a scream of rage—no words, his mind reeling. Die painlessly, or go through a year of what? Torture? He'd probably be driven insane within the year anyway—especially being confined to the Exoskeleton.

  The time ticked down to under two minutes, and Will shivered from the cold sweat that coated his body. His thoughts ricocheted back and forth between life and death. He argued both options to their respective ends a dozen times. Should he fight and try to start life over in a year? What did he have to look forward to in this world anyway—what was the rest of his life really worth? The decision became firm with a minute still left on the clock: his choice was not for life, but against death.

  When the clock hit nineteen seconds, Will's right arm—the Exoskeleton's right arm—moved. Initially confused about what it was doing, he suddenly realized it was heading for the button. He resisted it with all his strength, but couldn't counter its motion even slightly. "You bastards!" he yelled, and continued to fight desperately against the arm.

  The right index finger of the Exo made contact with the button and pressed it. Will felt his ears pop, and a sweet-smelling gas filled his nose and lungs. He had to close his stinging eyes, and everything went black.

  *

  It was so dark that Will couldn't tell whether his eyes were open or closed, and he could not sense his physical orientation. He felt like he was suspended in space with zero gravity, or in some sort of limbo. He squeezed his hand, couldn't make a fist, and concluded that he must still be in the Exo. His head throbbed with a hangover-like headache and he felt nauseous. "Where am I?" he yelled. The only answer was the immediate echo of his voice.

  After waiting for an amount of time he couldn't quantify, the space around him gradually illuminated in dim, red light. A few minutes later, brighter red light poured in from above him. He realized he was oriented vertically, and saw parts of the Exo head frame in his field of view. The light came from a balcony above him, and the silhouette of a man came into view.

  "Welcome to Hell, Mr. Thompson," the stranger said. His voice was loud and deep. "Did you really think you could escape punishment for your sins?"

  Will was confused and couldn't respond.

  "Now you can add suicide to your list."

  Will recounted the events, despite the clouding headache. "I remember what happened. You can't trick me. I'm not dead."

  "Dead is difficult to define, isn't it?" the man responded. "I'm sure even you, an arrogant scientist in your former life, suspected there could be life beyond death. Alive, dead—it is difficult to know. All that really matters is that you are here now."

  "I'm alive. I'm still inside this fucking machine you put me in."

  "Couldn't that machine be a part of your Hell?" the man asked and chuckled. "It would be logical to think that experiences from your former life might influence such things. No matter, you will come to your own conclusion in time."

  "Who are you?" Will asked.

  "I am in control. That is all you need to know."

  The light in the booth brightened, and the figure that formed the silhouette was revealed: the man was tall and b
road. Will couldn't tell if his face was red, or if it was just the red light with which it was illuminated. His hair was dark, and slicked back.

  "Introductions are over ... From now on you will be interacting with my ... employees ... who will conduct your torment. Good luck, 523," he said, then turned and walked out of view. The balcony went black.

  Will's eyes readjusted to the dim conditions, and he looked around impatiently. He could tell there was glass up high on the wall, to the left of the balcony and about fifteen feet up—a one-way window, he figured.

  A male voice crackled from speakers on the wall, above the window. "We start each day with announcements," the voice said. "There are none today, except that it's New Year's Day."

  The room suddenly lit up in white fluorescent light, forcing Will to squint his eyes tightly. The Exo hummed and vibrated, and he couldn't tell what it was doing until he felt a pull on his lower back; it was stretching. In a span of thirty seconds, every vertebra in his back had cracked, which felt good initially. But it kept going ... and going ... and the pain quickly became unbearable. Cold sweat rolled into Will's eyes.

  "This is pain level six," the voice said.

  The Exo hummed again, and Will's only reaction was an involuntary hiss that quickly built into a scream. He still heard the voice from the speakers over his own.

  "This is PL 8.2," the voice said. "It will stay above eight most of the time."

  After what seemed like an eternity, the pain decreased, and his screams faded. But he was unaware of any relaxation of the Exo. It hummed again, and this time it bent him slowly to the right, at the hip. Being already stretched near his maximum vertically, the strain on his side was immense. The muscles between his ribs stretched to the point of tearing, and it felt like one of his ribs might snap and poke through the skin. It held him in this state.

  "That should give you a taste of what is planned for today," the voice said. "Since you continue to maintain your innocence, you will regularly be given the opportunity to confess your crimes. If you do, your treatment will be suspended for the remainder of the day. However, you'll be moved to the next treatment unit the following day, and your program will resume."

  The Exo contracted and straightened, and the pain ceased. Will exhaled a breath of relief.

  "Do you understand?" the voice asked.

  "Yes." There was no way he was going to confess.

  Thirty seconds passed and the voice boomed through the room again. "Did you rape Cynthia Worthington?" After a minute of silence, the question was repeated.

  "Fuck off," Will finally replied.

  "Very well." The message ended with an electrical click.

  Will was more frightened than he had ever been in his life. If there had been any ambiguity as to the function of the Exoskeleton, it was gone now.

  The Exo hummed again, only this time it lifted his arms to the sides, ending in an "iron cross" configuration. A second later the arms stretched slowly outward. It was like having a horse tied to each wrist, pulling in opposite directions. But rather than ripping him apart, it seemed the Exo would stop right at the tearing point. It twisted and bent—whatever it took to keep the pain level above eight. Will wished for death.

  *

  Richard watched as Bergman waited for the phone call; the man seemed to be under great stress. When the phone finally rang, Bergman leaned forward at his desk and hit a button activating the speaker-phone.

  "What happened?"

  "He didn't confess," a man replied. Richard recognized the voice as that of the Red Box Warden, Jack Halbreath.

  "Damn," Bergman said and sighed in disappointment. "Did he push the suicide button?"

  "No. He was quite defiant, actually."

  Richard knew about ten percent of the subjects pushed the suicide button, although it wouldn't really kill them—it just knocked them out with some nonlethal gas ... Although he had learned to hate every aspect of the CP program, he understood the significance of this initial event. It served two purposes. First, it was a test. If the subject pushed the suicide button, they would know he was susceptible to certain things—and the treatment would be adjusted accordingly. The second purpose was to instill fear and confusion in the subject; a few really thought they had died and gone into the afterlife. Incidentally, those were also the ones that seemed to end up in high-security, mental health facilities following their release. The illusion was more difficult to impose when the Exo had to force a subject to push the button, but it usually served its purpose: it set the tone for the psychological torment that would come later.

  "The confession is not always an indicator," Richard said. He knew what Bergman was hoping for: confessions came early from those who were truly guilty. Bergman was looking for some reassurance, but it didn't come.

  "A confession would have been nice to hear," Bergman replied. "We'll have to clean this up another way."

  To Richard, Bergman's words had the darkest of connotations.

  *

  Will's throat and sinuses burned from hours of screaming. His muscles and tendons were inflamed, and his head felt like it was pressurized. He'd never imagined the pain one could feel from having their hands stretched to the brink of bursting apart. He figured his legs must be next—they hadn't done much with them yet.

  A voice announced that it was "feeding time." He wondered how and what he would be fed, even though he hardly felt like eating. His questions were answered when a panel slid open in the ceiling, through which two tubes lowered and stopped directly in front of his face. The Exo adjusted its position, and tilted his head back, so that one of the tubes touched his mouth.

  "Open your mouth and consume," a computer-generated voice ordered.

  "What is it?" Will yelled.

  A horrible shock jolted Will's body. "What the fuck?" he yelled. It hurt like hell.

  "Open your mouth and consume," the voice repeated, coldly.

  "Okay, okay," Will yelled, and opened his mouth. The tube went in, the "food" oozing out of it in spurts. Its texture was like that of oatmeal, but it had the smell of ground up multivitamins. The taste was awful—bitter—and he had to swallow without chewing, his stomach filling quickly. The first tube was removed, and the second moved in to deliver a fluid that tasted like an electrolyte drink. Finally, the tubes retracted and it was over. He felt like a caged, force-fed animal.

  Will was already exhausted, but he knew the day was far from over. He hoped they would hold the treatment while the food settled in his stomach. While he waited, the only thing he could really do was to think, and his thoughts floated on a sea of fear.

  He wondered why the Exo pushed the suicide button. What did that mean? Could I really be dead? He believed he wasn't, but how could he know what being dead was really like? And what was the purpose of the treatment—just to torture him? That didn't make sense: why would they need such an elaborate piece of machinery just to torture him?.

  Will's thoughts were disrupted by the stiffening of the Exo's joints: stepper motors hummed, pneumatics sighed, and hydraulics hissed. It was time for the legs.

  *

  Denise was out of the city and onto the southbound highway before noon. The roads were clear of ice once she got south of Urban-Champaign, and the traffic on Interstate 57 was sparse. It was a perfect time to think.

  She'd never considered that working for the Foundation might be dangerous: Jonathan had given her a gun, and the thought of it had been in the back of her mind ever since. She knew how to use a firearm—Jonathan knew that—but she never thought she'd be carrying one. And it was illegal in Illinois—at least it was for her, as she didn't have a license.

  Jonathan had explained that, as far as he could tell, the CP program was run by elements of the Federal Government; not the Bureau of Corrections like most other prisons. The problem was that it wasn't clear which elements of the government were actually involved.

  Two hours into the trip, Jonathan called to let Denise know he'd arranged an appointment at the
DNA test center, and gave her the name of the contact. A few hours later, the GPS system warned her that the exit to West Frankfurt was coming up on the right in one mile. She pushed a button on the display to zoom in on the target destination, and took a sip of coffee. Just a couple more miles to the DNA test center. She was starting to get nervous.

  A minute later, she exited the highway and pulled into a gas station. She needed fuel, but she really stopped to gather her thoughts before the impending meeting, and possible confrontation. What authorization did she really have to be there? The case hadn't been reopened, she wasn't law enforcement, and she wasn't legally involved in any manner. The DNA Foundation was a private organization; what authority could they have?

  She finished pumping the gas and used the bathroom, then pulled her Jeep Cherokee back out to the road and drove west, into the late afternoon sun. A few minutes later, she approached a plain white building on her right. It seemed to be of relatively recent construction, and of modern design, but it looked out of place with the surrounding scenery—especially with respect to the broken-down convenience store across the street, with its oil-stained gravel parking lot. The DNA facility had large, tinted windows in the front, and a brick sign on the brown lawn that read StanTech Solutions, LLC.

  Denise pulled into visitors' parking, retrieved her briefcase from the back seat, and walked into the building. The front door led to a lobby with a few chairs and an unattended reception desk. Her eyes were drawn across the room to a metal door with an illuminated sign above it that read Restricted Access. There was a card slot with a flashing red light on the wall next to the door handle.

  Her hands were sweaty, and she slowly paced and gathered her thoughts one last time. When she was ready, she knocked on the restricted access door. A moment later, a tall, pale woman in her late forties opened it and stuck her head out. She was wearing a white lab coat and latex gloves.