Read Online EXOSKELETON II: Tympanum by Shane Stadler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Shane Stadler
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“There’s no way the Exoskeleton was energized to thousands of volts.” The seed of distrust for the FBI, which up to this point had been dormant, sprouted in his mind.
“Our engineers say otherwise.”
“Are you forgetting that I’m a physicist?” Without waiting for a response, Will continued. “There’s a higher probability that magic was the cause.”
Fordham looked down and didn’t respond.
“How do you explain the numbers? The probability of doing that was literally one in a trillion ,” Will argued, referring to a daily “guess-the-number” exercise he was forced to carry out during his incarceration. “Magic again?”
Fordham responded by fingering through the folder and pulling out a report. “Says here you only guessed correctly once—the first time. After that, the room controllers were so shaken that they’d forgotten to turn off the microphone. You heard them speaking.”
Will remembered seeing the numbers, not hearing them. He’d read a three-digit number between 0 and a 999 on a digital display, well out of his physical sight. He did it four times in a row, and could have continued indefinitely. “Are you suggesting that I’m lying?” Will asked. His temples pounded.
Fordham didn’t respond, but just rolled his mustache and looked blankly at him.
Will had no doubt that it was to the government’s advantage to prove him either insane, or a liar. Although it was inconceivable that they could eliminate the thousands of people involved in the colossal Compressed Punishment program – including over 1200 inmates , and two giant facilities – he knew they’d try. If government leaders hadn’t been aware of the secret program before, they certainly were now, and had probably concluded that it’s in their best interest to bury it all. If the truth got out, there’d be serious problems – political and otherwise.
Although elements within the FBI had been partially responsible for bringing down the Red Wraith project and extracting him from the horrible Red Box facility, other elements seemed to be turning on him. He thought it strange, the FBI being fractured in such a way, but now he imagined a similar disjointedness in other entities – such as the CIA. It was disconcerting.
Fordham collected the documents, put them back in the file-folders, and pushed them to the side. He sat up straighter, put his elbows on the table, and interlaced his fingers in a ball in front of him. His voice indicating that he guessed what Will was thinking, he said, “I understand that you’ve gone through some horrific things, both physically and mentally. Without a doubt, such things could trick you into believing that certain events had actually occurred, even hearing voices.”
“All of that really happened,” Will responded. And it was only one voice, he didn’t add.
“I believe that you believe that,” Fordham replied. “But the only way I could ever believe it is to see it for myself. And my colleagues feel the same way. We were a little surprised at the clean bill of health reported by our psychiatrists. Our psych evaluations have become less stringent with time.”
Will rubbed his eyes. Maybe a demonstration would convince him. He closed his eyes and concentrated on a specific pain experience from the Red Box – oral surgery, no anesthetics. His perspective began to move upward from his body.
He stopped. If he’d learned anything from the witch trial where he’d been convicted on no physical evidence, it was to control his urge to prove himself to people. He’d failed proving his innocence during the trial, and there was nothing that was as high stakes as that.
He collected himself and opened his eyes. “If you want to see it for yourself, Agent Fordham, perhaps you could ask them to restart the program and fit you for an Exoskeleton,” he suggested with unveiled sarcasm. “Just make sure they record everything. Otherwise people have a tendency to not believe
“Our engineers say otherwise.”
“Are you forgetting that I’m a physicist?” Without waiting for a response, Will continued. “There’s a higher probability that magic was the cause.”
Fordham looked down and didn’t respond.
“How do you explain the numbers? The probability of doing that was literally one in a trillion ,” Will argued, referring to a daily “guess-the-number” exercise he was forced to carry out during his incarceration. “Magic again?”
Fordham responded by fingering through the folder and pulling out a report. “Says here you only guessed correctly once—the first time. After that, the room controllers were so shaken that they’d forgotten to turn off the microphone. You heard them speaking.”
Will remembered seeing the numbers, not hearing them. He’d read a three-digit number between 0 and a 999 on a digital display, well out of his physical sight. He did it four times in a row, and could have continued indefinitely. “Are you suggesting that I’m lying?” Will asked. His temples pounded.
Fordham didn’t respond, but just rolled his mustache and looked blankly at him.
Will had no doubt that it was to the government’s advantage to prove him either insane, or a liar. Although it was inconceivable that they could eliminate the thousands of people involved in the colossal Compressed Punishment program – including over 1200 inmates , and two giant facilities – he knew they’d try. If government leaders hadn’t been aware of the secret program before, they certainly were now, and had probably concluded that it’s in their best interest to bury it all. If the truth got out, there’d be serious problems – political and otherwise.
Although elements within the FBI had been partially responsible for bringing down the Red Wraith project and extracting him from the horrible Red Box facility, other elements seemed to be turning on him. He thought it strange, the FBI being fractured in such a way, but now he imagined a similar disjointedness in other entities – such as the CIA. It was disconcerting.
Fordham collected the documents, put them back in the file-folders, and pushed them to the side. He sat up straighter, put his elbows on the table, and interlaced his fingers in a ball in front of him. His voice indicating that he guessed what Will was thinking, he said, “I understand that you’ve gone through some horrific things, both physically and mentally. Without a doubt, such things could trick you into believing that certain events had actually occurred, even hearing voices.”
“All of that really happened,” Will responded. And it was only one voice, he didn’t add.
“I believe that you believe that,” Fordham replied. “But the only way I could ever believe it is to see it for myself. And my colleagues feel the same way. We were a little surprised at the clean bill of health reported by our psychiatrists. Our psych evaluations have become less stringent with time.”
Will rubbed his eyes. Maybe a demonstration would convince him. He closed his eyes and concentrated on a specific pain experience from the Red Box – oral surgery, no anesthetics. His perspective began to move upward from his body.
He stopped. If he’d learned anything from the witch trial where he’d been convicted on no physical evidence, it was to control his urge to prove himself to people. He’d failed proving his innocence during the trial, and there was nothing that was as high stakes as that.
He collected himself and opened his eyes. “If you want to see it for yourself, Agent Fordham, perhaps you could ask them to restart the program and fit you for an Exoskeleton,” he suggested with unveiled sarcasm. “Just make sure they record everything. Otherwise people have a tendency to not believe
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