EXOSKELETON - A Novel

by Shane Stadler

  "Can I help you?" the woman asked.

  "I'm Carmen Davis. I have an appointment with Kristine Camden," Denise replied, using her alias.

  "She's in the lab. I'll tell her you're here," the woman said, and then disappeared behind the door.

  Denise walked over to the unattended reception desk and noticed a sign-in ledger. Curious, she paged through it. At that moment, the restricted access door opened.

  A small woman wearing light-blue scrubs and holding a pair of plastic goggles walked into the reception area. She itched the side of her head through her short brown hair, where the bands of her safety goggles must have been just minutes before. "Ms. Davis?" the woman asked.

  "Yes."

  "I'm Kristine Camden, nice to meet you," she greeted Denise and shook her hand.

  "Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice. I'm surprised you're open on New Year's Day."

  "We work every day except Christmas and Thanksgiving. Who are you with again?" Kristine asked.

  "The DNA Foundation."

  "Oh, right. Why don't you sign in," she said and nodded towards the ledger, "and I'll need to make a copy of your ID."

  "Sure," Denise replied as she handed the woman her fake license.

  Kristine made a copy, and handed the ID back to Denise. "Now, how can I help you?" Kristine asked as she crossed her arms and sat on the corner of the reception desk.

  "We're interested in the William Thompson case," Denise explained as she put the ID back into her wallet. "Are you familiar with it?"

  Kristine nodded and replied, "Of course, we were supposed to handle the testing for it. But that was a rape case; I thought you only took capital cases." Her facial expression changed from friendly to wary.

  "We're also interested in cases where the sentences involve Compressed Punishment facilities."

  "Compressed punishment?" Kristine seemed surprised.

  Denise nodded.

  "He just went into the Red Box two days ago—Detroit."

  "So ... I can guess what you are looking for here."

  "The DNA sample taken off the victim's body."

  Kristine was silent. After a few seconds, she got up and walked over to a small office. She invited Denise to come in and sit down, and then closed the door. "I'll try to help you," she said as she sat down behind a small desk. "But I'll have to get a formal request to do it officially."

  "I'll arrange it as quickly as possible," Denise replied.

  "I can tell you few things—off the record—okay?" She was almost whispering.

  Denise nodded and leaned in closer.

  "The entire case, at least as far as StanTech was involved, was a complete disaster," Kristine explained. "A new technician, a novice, was responsible for those tests, a young woman—maybe twenty-two years old. She misplaced the samples."

  "How many samples were there?"

  "Five—two for the victim, blood and hair, the same for the suspect, and one from the rape kit, sampled from the girl's body immediately after the crime," Kristine explained.

  "The most important one is the rape-kit sample—it can't be replaced."

  Kristine closed her eyes and nodded. "Of course. They're all missing—either mislabeled or disposed of."

  "I suppose you looked pretty hard for them," Denise said. It was a question.

  "I didn't look for anything—the girl who lost them did. It wasn't my case," Kristine said. "But she was fired not long after that; completely incompetent."

  "Do you think we could have another look?"

  "You mean you want to go into the facility and search for those samples?" Kristine asked. Her eyes expressed doubt.

  "Yes, but not alone, of course," Denise replied. "It's a long shot ... But a man's life is at stake."

  "Of course," Kristine said and nodded. "I'll have to ask my supervisor, but I can't guarantee anything ... If it were up to me, we'd go in there right now, but-"

  "Don't worry," Denise cut in, "clear it with him first. If he gives you trouble, tell him to call this man," Denise said, pulling out one of her alias business cards. She wrote down Jonathan's name and number on the back, then turned it over and showed Kristine her information on the front. It had the number of the pre-paid mobile phone she'd purchased the day before, and a dummy email address she'd set up to forward everything to her real Foundation email.

  "Do you think you could give me a call, or send me an email, when you know something? I'll be here for a few more days."

  "I will. In the mean time, I'll see if I can dig up those samples myself," Kristine said, and handed Denise her own business card. "I wouldn't get my hopes up if I were you, but I suppose it couldn't hurt to look again."

  Denise thanked her and said goodbye. She got into her car and headed for the city of Marion, a half hour further south.

  *

  Even though the medical and dental tests of the day before had been horrific, Will thought the first day of real treatment was far worse due to the duration; the torture lasted the entire day. During the afternoon session, they had to insert a rubber mouthpiece because he'd bitten his lip several times, and continually ground his teeth together. He struggled so hard that his head bolts had bled, the blood trickling down his face in streams.

  By the end of the treatment they had methodically addressed every body part, of which the feet were by far the worst. The arch and heal were particularly sensitive, and they finished the day by pulverizing the soles of his feet. The rod was pneumatically actuated, like a kill gun in a slaughter house, and it pounded away like a pool cue. The pain persisted after the treatment had stopped, his feet throbbing as they swelled and pressed against the surrounding metal of the Exo.

  There were times during the day he pleaded to go back to conventional prison—he would've taken life imprisonment just to make the pain stop. At those points they'd again given him the opportunity to confess his crimes in exchange for relief; but he'd refused. They'd taken his name, his freedom, his life—he would not forfeit his innocence.

  Will figured that they would take him to that point every day—the breaking point. Then again, he thought, the term breaking point had no real meaning; they would not stop just because he had a nervous breakdown. The program would keep running with complete indifference as to who it was contained within the Exoskeleton, or what they were feeling.

  *

  It was almost 11 p.m. when Jonathan's pipe went out for the last time, and he decided it was time to pack up and go home. There seemed to be no one else in the law building, and he was startled when the phone rang—the office landline. He answered, to find it was his wife, Julia. She wanted to know when he was coming home, and he told her he'd be leaving right away. He hung up, and sorted a few files he hoped to read in bed, if he could find the energy.

  He twitched as the phone rang a second time. It was probably Julia again, he thought—she forgot something. He answered.

  "Jonathan McDougal?" a gruff voice asked on the other end.

  Startled, Jonathan replied, "Yes, who is this?"

  He didn't recognize the voice.

  "Drop the Thompson case immediately—or there will be consequences. This is your only warning."

  The line went dead.

  Jonathan checked the phone display, which read Blocked ID. Evidently, someone was aware that he was investigating the case—someone who perceived the action as a threat.

  His thoughts moved to Denise, and he felt his stomach tighten—he'd call her as soon as he got home. Was she in danger now? Was the phone call in response to her probing the DNA lab? It made him nervous, but he concluded that they should proceed as planned—Denise would just have to work quickly.

  Jonathan sighed, grabbed his coat and briefcase, and started the long walk home in the bitter cold.

  *

  The feeding process was messy, and Will estimated that nearly a third of what they'd forced on him had fallen to the floor. Nonetheless, he'd felt his stomach fill very quickly, and it was close to full capacity
when the feeding had stopped. He was told that he had to make up for calories lost from vomiting during the day. Following a cleanup/sterilization process, the Exo lowered him into a low, horizontal position. A door opened, and four men in red overalls walked in, each carrying a tool kit. They didn't speak a word as they made some small mechanical adjustments, and changed out an electronics module. They were in and out in less than five minutes.

  The Exo then moved Will to the middle of the room, and into a position about ten feet above the floor, facing the ceiling. All was silent; he only heard the white noise static of his own eardrums. The dim, blue light had appeared, and the uniformity of the room made the corners between the walls and the ceiling blend together. It gave him the impression of a vast, empty space with no boundaries.

  Will was exhausted, but couldn't sleep. The anxiety of what might happen the next day kept his brain whirring. His thoughts finally converged on his parents, as they often had in the past year. He thought about all the sacrifices they had made for him, and now: all the wasted time. Having kids was a gamble: regardless of the effort, one could raise a serial killer—or a rapist. Or they could be lost to fluke circumstances—a car accident, or some other horrible thing.

  Will had been ruined by fluke circumstances—wrong place, wrong time. And he wasn't only being robbed of his future, but also his past; all of his hard work, the respect of his family, his fiancee, career, and friends ...

  Will's thoughts were interrupted by a burst of loud clicking sounds. It startled him, but he quickly dismissed it as electrical discharge through the speakers in the room—there must have been a power surge. He felt the hair on his legs and arms raise, and he suddenly felt extremely cold—even seeing wisps of his own breath. Then something happened that sent a deeper chill through him: he thought he heard a voice—a whisper—maybe over the speaker system. It lasted just a few seconds, ended with another burst of clicks, and everything went back to normal, warm and quiet.

  Will listened intently for a full minute, but heard nothing. He decided it was probably all in his head, he concluded. The Exo began its slow rotation, and the faint blue light went deeper, leading him down into sleep.

  *

  Denise checked into the Marion Ramada Inn, then drove around town in search of a place to eat. It was getting late, but she found a fast food restaurant and took some food back to the hotel. She watched the local news while she ate, and saw that the top story was about William Thompson. His mug shot appeared behind the anchor man.

  "Late yesterday evening," the anchorman explained, "Dr. William Thompson, a former local university professor, was taken by helicopter to St. Louis, and then transported to a private, maximum security prison in Colorado. Though details are limited, we understand he is to participate in a new correctional program for sex offenders." The footage showed Thompson, dressed in an orange prison jumpsuit and escorted by prison guards, boarding a helicopter. "Thompson was convicted of the rape and attempted murder of a local minor. Now, off to commercial ... "

  Denise was startled by the ring of her cell phone. It was Jonathan.

  "How are things are progressing?" He asked.

  "Things went smoothly at the lab—did you get my voice message?"

  "Yes, we faxed the formal request for the samples just a few minutes ago. Should be all set ... I assume you'll head back to the lab in the morning?"

  "Still waiting to hear from Kristine Camden, but it should be soon," Denise replied. "I'll let you know when we get started."

  "Should you find the samples, I want you to come back immediately—even if you have to leave in the late evening. Understand?"

  "Okay," she replied. The seriousness in Jonathan's voice frightened her a little. "Is something wrong?"

  He hesitated. "No ... Just better to get back as soon as you can."

  Denise agreed and they hung up. Her level of anxiety ratcheted up a notch.

  She sat back on the bed and took out a file folder. It was the background information that the prosecution had dug up on Thompson during the trial. The picture clipped to the first page struck her: it was recent, and he looked boyish. His eyes were friendly and intelligent, and they were of the darkest blue she had ever seen. She flipped through and found more pictures that ranged from his college days to his prison mug shot.

  Thompson's appearance hadn't changed much since college. He was five foot ten, two hundred and fifteen pounds, with an athletic build and short brown hair. He was an All-American football player in college, and team Captain his senior year. He'd earned a doctoral degree in Physics from Louisiana State University, and then worked for the Department of Defense briefly before accepting a teaching position in Illinois. He did charity work in his community, received a teaching award from the university, and won a prestigious research grant from the National Science Foundation ... Denise could see why Sorrensen's mother wanted her to marry him: on paper he seemed perfect.

  But that was all irrelevant. The only thing that mattered now was finding the DNA evidence—and from what Jonathan had told her about the CP system's survival rate, even that might not be enough to save Thompson.

  IV

  Numbers and Voices

  Six electric shavers simultaneously weaved their way through the Exoskeleton, over every accessible part of Will's body; something he would have to get used to as part of the morning maintenance routine. His joints ached from the treatment he'd been subjected to the day before, and although he could not see them very well, he knew his feet were particularly bruised and swollen from the abuse they had endured.

  He waited in extreme anxiety, haunted by the thought of what this day might bring. After about twenty minutes, a door slid down in front of him, and the Exo was transported to a new room. The chamber was identical to the one in which he had suffered the day before—except for the odor of vomit and feces, partially masked by disinfectant. It was a combination he was sure he'd smell often, but knew he'd never get used to.

  The transport appendage positioned him vertically in the geometric center of the room, and paused. Cold sweat trickled down Will's back.

  Then it started: the Exo rocked from side to side, and up and down, like a boat on rough seas. He felt okay for about twenty seconds, but the motion quickly became more complex; random combinations of tilts and bobs. Violent twists were added—then sudden free-falls. The motion then became progressively more dramatic, with accelerations and decelerations that seemed to mimic collisions. It was not long before Will felt like his brain was sloshing around in his head. The nausea followed shortly thereafter, and he vomited a horrible acidic fluid—his partially digested breakfast. The kinetic torture went on for over an hour until the Exo slowed and came to a stop. Will was anxiously awaiting the next subroutine when the Exo turned him upside down, and the lights cut out.

  *

  Richard Greene was relieved the presentation was over, but he knew from experience the real show had yet to begin. He peered out at the small audience, about a dozen people scattered about a conference room that seated fifty. The civilians wore dark suits, the military men donned respective uniforms, and not a soul spoke. Richard felt terribly awkward; at thirty-seven years old he was by far the youngest person in the room, and some of these men had been involved with the project before he was even born.

  An ancient military man finally broke the silence.

  "So let me get this straight: we've spent twenty-three percent of DARPA's total budget on this project, and we have nothing to show for it?"

  "Admiral Sparkes," Richard replied. "Despite our lack of progress, it's too early to draw any definitive conclusions. The data we've collected-"

  "Data? What fucking data? Tell me, why should we keep pumping billions of dollars into this sinkhole of a project? The risk is off scale."

  A man in the back of the room spoke from the darkness.

  "Admiral," Bergman said, "we'll keep funding this project because its success would be epic and transformative. The impact on our military supre
macy would be similar to that of the Manhattan Project ... It took the Germans three years of constant testing—at a rate that more than doubled ours—to get just four positive results. If they could do it, so can we; just like they started developing the A-bomb, and we finished it. This research is a low-yield process—like finding diamonds. Remember, the current objective is to refine the search process—and then to optimize the yield. It might mean just one success out of thousands of attempts. And, as you know, the quality of the starting material might slow things in our case."

  "Bergman," the Admiral replied, "so far the total yield is zero. We've been in the testing phase for two years now—more than two years—and there's nothing reported that even resembles the predictions. Not one event. And even if we do have a successful conversion, what the hell are we going to do with it?"

  "We'll study it. We'll determine what we did right, and try to develop it," Bergman replied, and looked out to the rest of the audience. "You all know that the plug could be pulled on this project at any time. Between the press, private organizations, even the new President, things are starting to get a little hot. Some people are already campaigning to shut down the facilities. If that happens, we'll never get a chance to do this again. Never."

  Bergman walked to the front of the room. "As you know," he said as he turned on the lights, "DARPA funds high-risk, high-potential research. This project constitutes both—both the risk and the potential gain being ... well ... unlimited. As the leader of this project, I've decided to keep the facilities running as they are for at least another year. We have the funds to do that, but all of you must renew your agreements for the supply of human subjects ... As the risk is increasing for everyone, your compensation packages will be increased by fifteen percent for this renewal."