November 30, 2009

Gerhardt entered the conference room carrying his tablet and the small carrying case. He felt a buzz of exhilaration that he did not bother to mask. Placing both items on the table, he glanced at the others seated around it before even sitting down. Actually, he did not feel like he could sit down without wanting to leap to his feet again. It had been a long time since he had felt this amount of excitement about his work.

He saw Kincaid and one of his technicians, and several members of his own staff. He smiled at all of them and, grinning widely, opened the case and withdrew the sleek sensor glove.

"I think," he said, studying the limp form of the glove, "that we should be proud that at least one part of this project has exceeded our expectations."

There were murmurs and nods of agreement from the others gathered at the table.

"I have some refinements in mind," he went on, "although the results of our first attempt are nothing short of astounding." Gerhardt tended to steer clear of hyperbole. In this instance, though, he felt that it was more than warranted. Providing Nicholas with a "skin" would provide the boy with further hope that he might someday regain more than a rough metal resemblance of his lost humanity. Gerhardt had not lied to him when he had told Nicholas that the material could be tinted to nearly any color; it had simply not been a concern for the prototype. Hell, Gerhardt considered, there was no reason that every square inch of it could not be painstaking handcrafted to look as much like real human flesh as possible.

Gerhardt take a breath, attempting to slow his racing thoughts. He recognized that he was getting ahead of himself. They had made a single set of test, with only a small prototype surface created of material—but it seemed so damned promising.

He tapped the surface of his tablet, bringing up a simple outlined schematic of the glove. The image was replicated on the semi-transparent display in the center of the table.

"We used an even distribution of sensor nodes across the entire surface," he said, tracing an invisible line down the length of the hand. "That makes sense," he went on, "considering that we were working with the raw material we developed." He tapped at his tablet while studying the floating display. "Jerome," he addressed one of the technicians, "is it possible to change the density of the sensor matrix before embedding it in the material?"

Jerome, a thin young man with dark, somewhat unruly hair, and a sliver of a beard that outline his jaw line, nodded. "Sure," he answered. "We figured this density would be good enough, but it can be set to almost anything you want." His expression grew thoughtful. "You'll want to be careful that you don't make it so tight that the nodes cause interference with each other." His mouth formed a grimace. "A feedback cascade would be . . . bad."

Gerhardt nodded his agreement with that assessment. "Agreed," he said. "But that's not quite what I had in mind." His stylus began to trace a spiral on the palm of the outlined hand. "I'd like to have increased density only in certain areas," he explained. "In the palm," he said, the stylus moving to the ends of the fingers, "and here. Where there would be additional nerve clusters in a natural hand."

The slight widening of eyes and additional nods told Gerhardt that many of those present had caught on to what he was proposing.

The thoughtful frown on Jerome's expression deepened. "At this point in our manufacturing process, such as it is," he said, "we'll probably have to manually weave the mesh of different sensor densities together by hand."

"But it's possible?" Gerhardt prompted the young technician.

Jerome nodded slowly, evidently thinking through the process. "Yeah," he answered finally. "Time-consuming, but we can do it."

Gerhardt's smile widened. "Good."

Jerome turned and began to converse quietly with the young woman next to him. Gerhardt could see that they had tuned out the rest of conversations around them.

"David," Gerhardt said, turning toward the technician who had been present at the test. "Has anything shown up in your readings that we need to be worried about?"

The young man consulted his own tablet before answering. Shaking his head slightly, he replied, "Nothing that we didn't expect, Doctor." He looked up at Gerhardt. "Actually," he continued, "the results are much cleaner than we had anticipated."

Gerhardt accepted that news with a pleased smile. "It just keeps getting better, doesn't it?" he asked to no one in particular. The answering smiles from around the table told him that the others present shared his enthusiasm.

"How soon before we can run another test?"

Jerome, who apparently was paying attention to part of the conversation going on around him and his partner, looked up with a startled expression. "A few days at least," he said. "We'll need to build a whole new mesh layer, test it, and then mold the . . ."

Gerhardt raised a hand gently. "I get the picture," he said, chuckling softly. "There's lots of work to be done." He tapped a control on his tablet and the suspended image vanished. "And I guess we'd all better get back to it."

The buzz of murmured conversations as the staff members left the conference room caused Gerhardt to smile. He could hear the renewed interest in their voices, something he had not experienced—in his opinion—for far too long. He replaced the glove in the case, closed it, and picked up his tablet. It was then that he realized that Kincaid had remained in the room, still seated in his chair.

Gerhardt's smile faded to a frown. "Something on your mind, Lewis?"

"I don't know," Kincaid admitted. A wary concern was evident in his voice. He breathed a quiet sigh. "I just hope we're not rushing him," he said. "Or raising his hopes too far too soon."

Gerhardt's lips formed a tight line. So caught up in his own excitement, he had failed to consider the impact on the very boy he was trying to help. He had, of course, not shared any of this with Nicholas, but had planned to soon. Looking back at Kincaid, he knew that the researcher was right. As much as Gerhardt disliked it, it was time to involve that psychologist again. They were planning to make promises to Nicholas that just might not quite live up to their billing. As much as their own Pinocchio wanted to be a real boy again, it was simply not going to happen. No amount of wishing would make it so, and they were fresh out of magic fairy dust . . . or fairies, for that matter.

Nodding slowly, Gerhardt looked down at the tabletop. "Yeah," he admitted. "You're right. Steady as she goes."

Kincaid stood, gathering his own belongings, pausing to stand beside Gerhardt. "We're doing the best we can for him," he said with quiet sincerity. "But I'm beginning to wonder whether our best is good enough."

Gerhardt heard the door close behind him as the researcher left the room. He knew that Kincaid had not intended to burst the bubble of his elated mood. Nonetheless, the man had spoken the truth.

For several long moments, Gerhardt stared down at the empty table, unable to find the answers he needed.

#

Gerhardt stood, arms crossed, waiting with barely restrained impatience. A curtain separated him from Nicholas, where he was being attended to by among the best in the field they had been able to find. Security clearances had been an issue, so they had lied to the specialists, fabricating for them a story that bordered on plausibility, while resolutely refusing to answer any more questions than were absolutely necessary to ensure that the job got done to their satisfaction.

Kincaid was seated in a chair next to him, having the foresight to bring his tablet along. He diligently worked at something, but the glare from the overhead lights kept Gerhardt from getting a clear view of the tablet's display.

From the other side of the curtained-off area, Gerhardt could hear the quiet murmurs of conferred conversation. The voices remained quiet, achingly just out of his understanding. While he had every right to enter and supervise the procedure personally, but he had made a promise that he would not. He had even gone so far as to schedule a status report with Adamson at the some time to ensure that he remained occupied, but the Director had cancelled that meeting that morning without explanation. So, he had been left with the option of doing what he liked least: waiting.

He noticed that Kincaid glanced up at him periodically. He wondered if the man found his fidgeting to be distracting. If so, then the brain researcher could go try to work somewhere else. Gerhardt had no intention of leaving the area until he saw what had been done to Nicholas.

A hush descended suddenly. Gerhardt swallowed in anticipation, experiencing a familiar sensation as if the lights had dimmed and the curtain was about to open at a play. The narrow wall of fabric before him shifted, but it did not move aside. From behind it stepped a pale, hawk-faced man with dark hair that fell in thick waves to his shoulders. Gerhardt prided himself on trying not to succumb to stereotypes, but everything about this man, from his gait to his attire, screamed his sexual preference.

The man's smock was covered with a kaleidoscope of smeared pigments. He looked both exhausted and radiant. Considering the fee he had commanded, Gerhardt thought irritably, he had better be. Gerhardt was still not yet how he was going to explain the expenditure to Adamson. He had secretly hoped that she might ignore it, but he was certain that Cockburn would call it to her attention somehow. The weaselly little man had not been pleased with the extra work involved in getting the temporary credentials for these specialists. Maybe he can get a date out of it, Gerhardt thought sourly, and listened intently for the specialist's report.

"That's a very difficult medium to work with," the man said, wiping his hands on his smock. They seemed to Gerhardt to just exchange one set of smeared pigments for another. The specialist did not seem to notice. "I wish you could have gotten us more samples to work with before we came."

"It wasn't possible," Gerhardt responded tightly. They had been over this before.

The specialist waved a hand at Gerhardt's obvious annoyance. "Whatever."

The man just stood there then and said nothing, futilely attempting to remove pigment from his fingers.

"Are you done?" Gerhardt finally asked, his gruff tone making no attempt to hide his impatience.

The specialist turned his head toward the curtain. "In a few more minutes," he answered blithely. "I left my assistant to finish cleaning up."

A temptation to lunge at and throttle the man washed over Gerhardt. They were both saved by the motion of the curtain. A young woman, probably in her late twenties, but looked older, Gerhardt had decided, stepped out, wiping her hands clean on a surgical towel. She nodded curtly to the specialist, who turned to Gerhardt with a narrow, almost mocking grin.

"Now," he said. "We're done."

With an exaggerated flourish, he slid the curtain aside.

Even though Gerhardt had seen the simulations, and had been an active part in planning this procedure, none of it truly prepared him for the reality of what he witnessed now. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. He heard Kincaid rise from the chair, but could not turn away from the sight in front of him.

Although it was not an exact recreation, there was little doubt that someone looking at Nicholas now would recognize him. Gerhardt had feared that the end result, while possibly human-looking, would have the appearance of a waxworks dummy or, worse yet, a department store mannequin. What he saw now surpassed even his highest expectations.

They had captured an expression of calm attentiveness. The lips had a faint upward curve, but did not quite form a smile. They were parted so just enough so that the absence of teeth beyond them would not be noticed. The eyes, although the lids were fixed open, had lashes and even brows above them. The hair was neatly brushed, but not perfect, recreating even the sharp angle at the part.

The skin itself was a marvel of painted illusion, varying in shade and seeming to vary in texture as well. Gerhardt was certain that if he reached out and touched it, he could feel the pores. He did not, though, not wanting to dissolve the illusion.

He heard Kincaid's sharp intake of breath and realized that the head researcher was as struck by the creation as he was. Let Adamson complain as bitterly as she wished; the money had been well-spent.

The makeup specialist smiled, pleased in a smug sort of way by the reactions of the two men. "You see," he said. "When you pay for the very best, you get the very best."

It was something in the man's voice that drew Gerhardt's attention from Nicholas' new features. He made a mental note to have the man's belongings—and the man and his assistant themselves—searched thoroughly before they left the facility. Security agreements aside, Gerhardt could not believe that the man would willingly abandon such a creative effort without attempting to sneak at least a few images of it out with him, even if the specialist believed that it was lifelike automaton created for training purposes.

Were he given the choice, Gerhardt would have rather simply had the entire skin shipped out under tight security and then returned to be fitted. The specialist had argued, and rightly so it now appeared, that their satisfaction with the end product of such an arrangement could not be guaranteed. Gerhardt could not argue with the results.

He wondered how Nicholas was going to react. The boy had been fully briefed on what to expect, but Gerhardt wondered what the young man had truly anticipated the results would be. It might be wise, he decided, to have O'Connell nearby when Nicholas looked in the mirror for the first time. By necessity, he had been disconnected from his body to avoid even the remote chance that one of his systems might get activated and further compromise the security issues brought about by just bring the makeup specialist and his assistant here.

"I can see that you're pleased," the man said, smiling in a way that reminded Gerhardt of a scavenging predator. "I presume payment has already been arranged?"

Gerhardt nodded. He had arranged for a cashier's check to be held at the main security station. Finally rousing himself from his earlier stupor, Gerhardt inspected the rest of the man's work. So far, he found no fault with it. Were those light freckles on the sides of the nose? Shaking his head slowly in amazement, he walked outside to tell the two guards stationed there to escort the specialist and his assistant away, and to search them thoroughly before allowing them to leave the premises.

He returned to find Kincaid still staring at the incredible handiwork.

"Yeah," Kincaid said softly. "I had almost forgotten about the young man beneath the metal." A look of great and sudden sadness came over him. He glanced at Gerhardt and then away. "I'll be back shortly."

Gerhardt was certain that he heard a definite catch in the head researcher's voice. He watched as Kincaid left, wondering what other burdens the man bore.

November 29, 2009

If she remembered correctly, there were three levels below the main one. The door at the first was locked and refused to respond to her card. She shrugged with annoyance, and then continued down to the next one. It was too refused to open to her access card. She tried the door anyway, but it was definitely locked. One more floor to go . . . She tried not to think about what her options were if she found that secured as well.

As she descended the final flight of stairs, she found the last door propped completely open. She paused and stepped back, hoping that she had not been seen and that she was sufficiently hidden by the sharp turn of the stairway. She crouched down and peered toward the open doorway again. Nothing moved on the other side and she heard no one. That did not mean that there was not someone there, she knew. They might simply be beyond the range of the doorway. She had no idea how far the corridor stretched away inside.

Crouching there, though, only further increased her need to locate a restroom. She shifted her position, but none of them brought her more than a moment of relief. Soon, she would need to decide whether to chance entering that hallway, or climb at least four flights of stairs to presumably safer level. Unless she was heard entering, she figured that one on this level might be just as safe as any other.

She waited, and when she heard no sounds of movements for a while, she made her way to the open door. Feeling mildly foolish, but able to think of nothing else, she pressed herself against the wall next to the doorway. She paused there for a moment, but still heard nothing from within. Peering around the corner, she saw only a vacant corridor and, to her great relief, signs pointing to the restrooms. Moving quickly, she dashed down the corridor and darted inside, pulling the door so that it closed silently. Breathing a quiet sigh, she entered one of the stalls, hung her backpack on the inside hook, and hoped that she would not take long. Being discovered there—whether by someone friendly or not—had major embarrassment written all over it.

A few minutes later, she was done. She breathed much easier now, for several reasons, only the least of which was that no one had entered. She turned, about to flush the toilet, and jerked her hand back. It violated every sense of etiquette, but the noise might make it more than obvious that someone else was here. As reached for her backpack, there came a noise from behind her, and it took her clenching her fingers convulsively on the strap to keep it from falling to the ceramic floor.

Damned automatic devices, she swore silently, holding her breath. There was nothing she could do it about it now but wait, and see if anyone made an entrance. She considered climbing onto the seat, as she had seen done in far too many movies, but she was not at all confident of her balance. So she froze in position, with the can of pepper spray held at the ready.

The sound of the water, echoing far too loudly in the otherwise empty restroom, finally faded. Cynthia waited in silence, certain that she would hear footsteps coming through the door at any moment.

For several long minutes, all she heard was the sound of her own breathing. Finally, she managed to calm herself, coming to the conclusion that she did want to spend the remainder of the day in that stall. It was then that she realized that the alarms could not be heard in there. She was certain that the acoustics would make it seem deafening. It seemed odd, as even people using the restroom would need to know if there was an emergency.

She listened carefully, but could not hear the alarms coming from outside either. The room did not seem to be that soundproof, so somebody must have finally shut them off. With a deep breath of relief, she grabbed her backpack and headed back out into the corridor. She made it only a few paces before she stopped abruptly. At the intersection of the corridors ahead, someone in a gray security uniform lay sprawled on the floor.

#

Cynthia’s first instinct was to head back into the restroom and hide until someone came along. She then thought about heading back into the stairwell, but the only way was up. Someone had left those doors open, which meant they intended to either come back that way or to let other people follow them inside. That person was probably the same one who had left that guard there. For a moment, Cynthia wondered if it was the same one who had creeped her out in the elevator. She found that she had mixed emotions about that one. From where she stood, she could not see his head or features, so had no idea if he even remotely resembled that guard.

Curiosity finally won out over caution. After hearing nothing for what seemed like several minutes, she crouched down and, as quietly as she could, made her way over to the fallen guard. She was relieved to see that he had dark, almost black, hair, freeing her of any guilt for wishing the fate upon her earlier escort. Part of his neck was exposed above the collar of his uniform jacket. She started to reach down to feel for a pulse when she froze. From somewhere down one of the adjacent corridors came the sound of heavy footsteps and muffled conversation. Her eyes darted toward the doorway, wondering if she could make it before they arrived. Most likely, though, if it was not someone looking for the guard, they would be heading out through that doorway. She needed somewhere else to hide. The restroom, she suspected, was now too far away and would be in view of anyone entering from the stairwell. Was that another set of voices she heard, coming from that direction?

November 28, 2009

The next door was secured and Cynthia began to seriously wonder whether she might really end up trapped in the narrow stairwell until what emergency had occurred was over. She had not seen any signs of food or water, but that was to be expected, she supposed. After all, this was intended to be an emergency exit, not an emergency shelter. She did see several first aid kits, flashlights, and the occasional portable stretcher, none of which were of any particular help to her.

With growing relief, she saw that the numbers on the doors were growing smaller as she descended. She assumed that the main lobby would be labeled either “1” or “Lobby” or something similar. If so, she only had a few more levels to go. That was good, for her feet were beginning to hurt. She had worn short boots. There were intended for fashion, not for walking down a few hundred stairs.

Through the walls, she could still the faint sound of the alarms. Whatever was going on in the complex was still happening—or no one had yet returned to the building yet to turn them off. She started to wonder what she might find when she got there. (She already knew exactly where the restrooms were located.) Even if everyone had not gathered there, they would surely not far outside, even if out in the parking lot.

She made only half-heartedly attempts to open the next two doors, finding them locked as expected. By that time, she was close enough to the lobby level that she did not really care if she could get into any of the other floors.

The landing before the lobby-level doors were clearly marked with a 1-L. Cynthia assumed that it was to make it clear to anyone that it led to both the first floor and the lobby, regardless of which name they used for it. The door was also slightly larger than the other ones had been, which made a certain kind of sense. In an emergency evacuation, you would not want the last exit door to be the bottleneck for escaping employees.

The door was secured, but not locked. She had to work the latch first, but then the handle moved easily. She guessed that was to provide a minor deterrent to people who should not be using the door for regular access. Her hand still gripped the handle when she paused, wondering about the warning that the door had an alarm that was set to activate if it were opened. She could hear the other alarms still sounding, so she doubted that this one would necessarily be heard over the din. But did she want to call unnecessary attention to herself?

She had seen some doors like this used before. On some of them, the alarm shut off immediately after the door was closed again. She hoped this one operated that way. If she moved fast enough, the alarm might only sound for a moment and no one might notice. Taking a deep breath, she shoved the handle and rushed through.

Nothing happened at first and she thought maybe she was safe. Then, she heard a shrill beeping noise issuing from somewhere near the doorway. She pulled the door closed, straining against the pneumatic closing mechanism. An alarm started to sound and then stopped abruptly as the door clicked shut.

Cynthia released the breath that she did not realize that she had been holding. The momentarily breached door might show up on a security display somewhere, but she was relieved not to have to listen to yet another alarm going off—this one at close range.

She looked around and realized that the door had led, not the lobby itself, but to a small antechamber. There were three doors leading from it: the one that she had just exited and two others. The one almost straight ahead led to the main lobby area, slightly to the left and behind the security station. The other door was unmarked other than indicating that it led downward. There was a security access panel mounted next to this one.

Relieved to have finally reached the first floor, she headed for the door that led out the lobby. It was not marked as being alarmed and, at that point, she really did not much care. She was all but safely out of the building now. A few more steps and she might find out what was going on . . . and have access to a restroom.

Something made her pause as she started to open the door. There was someone stationed at the guard station with his weapon out. It took her a moment to consciously recognize what had stopped her. The person was in uniform, but it was not the dull gray outfits that the security personnel here usually wore. The weapon, she also now realized, seemed to be some kind of semiautomatic rifle, not the small handgun that the security usually carried. She shrank back slowly from the lightly frosted glass of the door, hoping not to be seen.

She leaned against the wall, back out of sight of the lobby area. The uniform she had seen had not seemed to belong to any law enforcement agency that she recognized. It had a military feel to it, although she was not certain. Her knowledge in that area was limited to her small number of encounters with campus police and highway patrol officers. Whatever organization the person belonged, the weapon he held carried serious intentions of harm.

Cynthia looked to the other two doors again. She did not particularly want to go back up to another floor. In addition, she would have to trigger the emergency exit alarm again, and the next time she might not as lucky in having it ignored. That left the door that led to lower levels. She knew from what her father told her that there were additional secure laboratories down there, as well as maintenance passageways. In either case, there were certain to be restrooms and other possible hiding places.

She studied the doorway quickly. Other than the security panel, there was no indication that it was alarmed. The only access card she had was her permanent visitor’s badge. She doubted that it would permit her past that door, but she saw little harm in trying. She did not think it would raise any major alarms, unless she maybe tried it multiple times without success. I’ll try it once, she decided, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll figure out what to do next. Her other options seemed clear: head back up to a higher floor, or take her chances in the lobby. Each of those choices held limited appeal for her.

Cynthia swiped her badge in front of the panel. The status light glowed amber for a moment and then, as she had expected, turned red. She swallowed, realizing again how thirsty she was. Out of frustration, she tried the handle anyway. She released it and jumped back in surprise when it moved inward. She had not heard it unlock, which had meant that it not been locked—or perhaps not closed all the way and she had not noticed it. There was evidence that someone had attempted to tamper with the locking mechanism, but she could not tell whether the scrapes and scratches were new or from some long-ago maintenance.

She peered through the partially open doorway. The passage way beyond seemed to be lit the same way as the emergency stairway had, so the failure of the lock did not seem to be the result of a power failure. She glanced back toward the lobby door and, with a resigned sigh, headed through the doorway.

The door, she discovered, did not lead directly to another stairway. It opened onto a short corridor that housed several offices, one of which she noted was the main security. Others seemed to be storage rooms. There was also a rear access to one of the main elevators. A few of the doors were open, but the interiors appeared dark as she passed them. She caught the bright glow of a display from two of them, as though their occupants had left in a hurry and then the overhead lights had turned off.

There was another door at the end of the corridor on the right side with a symbol that indicated that it led to a stairway. It did not specify which direction it might lead. It was possible, she decided, that it could provide access to both upper and lower floors. This door also had a security panel, but it was visibly open. As Cynthia got closer to it, she saw that someone had dropped a narrow strip of some kind of metal on the floor so that it wedged the door open just slightly.

The discovery caused Cynthia’s already simmering unease to boil to the surface. Why had someone propped that door open? Was it someone involved in today’s events? Or a minor security breach by one of the employees for their own convenience? She then remembered that she had been lugging her backpack with her during your entire trek down the emergency stairwell. Opening the front pouch, she started rummaging through it, trying to remember if she still had that canister of pepper spray in there. They had been distributed free to all students with night classes who had requested them. She had never used, except as the occasional mock threat against other students when they teased her.

After several moments of tense digging, she did locate it. She checked to see if there was any kind of expiration date on it, but could find none. Not that it mattered, she decided. No one seeing her hold it up at them would be likely to wonder about it. She resealed her backpack, tossed it back over her shoulder and, with the spray canister in hand, moved toward the doorway.

#

Cynthia found no one inside, nor any sign that anyone had passed through there recently. Not that she would be readily able to tell, she realized. Unlike the dusty interior of the emergency stairwell, this corridor had the polished, well-kept look as did most of the sections of the complex she had seen. Unless someone spilled their coffee on the floor, or tracked through with mud on their shoes, she doubted that she could tell if one person or hundred had walked through in the past hour.

The door opened onto a short platform. From there, as she had hoped, stairs leading both upward and down to the lower levels were available. Having already experienced the excitement that was the upper floors, she took the ones that would lead her downward. From what she could see as she peered over the railing, there seemed to be much fewer levels below her than there were above. She had suspected that was so; she was pleased to see to it confirmed.

November 27, 2009

He swiped his card over the security access panel and waited next to her for the doors to open. It felt to her as though he was standing uncomfortably, but there was no real way for her to move away except forward into the closed elevator doors or completely out of the way. The latter seemed to be a bit obvious, so she mentally gritted her teeth, silently counting the chimes as the elevator car moved toward them.

She had reached thirteen when what should have been the next one did not sound. The doors slid open a few seconds later and the guard—Joel, she remembered—gestured for her to enter. For a moment, she thought he might just let her go alone, but he followed her inside, passing his card again over the inside panel. He reached past her and pressed for the level for her father’s office and then stepped back. Cynthia shot him a quick, insincere smile of gratitude and waited for the short ride to be over.

In that brief moment of eye contact, she caught him looking at her. She never before really understood the meaning of “undressing someone with their eyes”, but that was exactly what she saw in his. It might have been her imagination, or an alert expression he always wore, but it gave her chills inside. She was grateful that she had chosen to wear a coat against the autumn chill; she knew the sweater beneath did little to hide her feminine curves. Focusing one the glossy surface of the door in front of her, she did not allow her mind to consider what he might have been thinking then.

The doors finally slid open and she stepped out into the familiar corridors of her father’s level. Actually, she wondered if they might not all look equally familiar, for she could only recall ever being on one other floor and it had looked very similar to this one. She began heading in the direction of her father’s office and then stopped. Although she could not see him, she had the uncomfortable sense that the guard was watching her walk. He seemed to be only slightly older than she was, so could not even mentally consider him a dirty old man (and she had seen that look before as well). She simply considered him to be a pig and waited eagerly for the moment when he would leave.

His expression told her nothing as he walked past her and headed down the corridor. Cynthia narrowed her eyes in a quick glare before following him.

The route they followed pretty much matched the one she had thought they needed to take. There was an extra right turn near the beginning that she had forgotten about, but she was certain that she would still have managed to find it on her own. When they reached her father’s office, it was still empty. The desk lamp was on, telling her that he had been there at some point during the day. He was extremely conscientious about not leaving lights on; Cynthia had learned that growing up with him. Whatever had called him away from his office had evidently required more of his time than he had anticipated.

The guard ushered her into the office, after ensuring that it was, in fact, empty.

“Here you go, miss,” he said. His tone sounded completely professional, for which she was grateful. Had it come out any other way, she was not certain that she might not have reacted rudely.

Cynthia flashed him a quick smile, hoping that it carried absolutely no hint of warmth. The last thing she needed was him thinking that she was even remotely interested.

He seemed to get the point. “I’m sure your father will along shortly,” he said, giving her a quick nod before departing.

Cynthia realized that it said something about her father’s position here—or perhaps an overall attitude about this place—that he would have dared look at her that way without fear of reprisal. On the other hand, if she did complain to her father—and he took it seriously—what would she say? He looked at me funny?

Shaking her head with annoyance, she settled back in one of the two guest chairs and looked idly over the contents of the office. It was reasonably well-organized, but it was apparent that her father had been busy. Several items were stacked not quite nearly enough and there was a small pile of unopened mail in a tray on his desk. The rest of the room was much as she remembered it from her small number of previous visits. What physical reading material there was to be found in the small office consisted mainly of scientific reports and technical journals. She found an entertainment magazine that was only a few weeks old, so settled for that as a starting place to keep herself distracted until her father arrived.

#

Cynthia had not been waiting long when the overhead lights flickered. Not sure whether it had actually happened at first, she was certain when they dimmed again. She had convinced herself that it was simply some of kind power fluctuation when the alarms sounded. She was puzzled at first because they did not sound like any kind of fire alarm or any other kind of evacuation signal she had ever heard. There was a definite urgency about it, but was uncertain whether to stay put or head for the nearest exit.

Echoing from out in the corridor came the sounds of locks engaging on the doors from several of the other rooms. Cynthia looked up as the door to her father’s office disengaged from the magnetic clasp holding it open and began to swing closed. She hesitated for a moment and then, grabbing her backpack with one hand, darted through the narrowing gap. Slowing to a halt in the hallway, she heard the door close and the lock engage behind her. Looking in every direction she could, she discovered that she was alone in the corridor. Everyone else must have stayed inside their offices or headed for an exit, but then she recalled that she had not seen that many people in the area before the alarm had sounded.

The smartest thing to do, she supposed, was to make her way to an exit and try to get out of the building. If the building itself was sealed, she was certain to encounter someone who knew what was going on and would tell her the right thing to do, even if it was that creepy young security guard.

Her eyes searched the ceilings for an illuminated green exit sign, knowing those should show her the way out. She then remembered that, in most buildings, the elevators would be deactivated except for use by emergency crews. The only way down would be the stairways. Cynthia could not remember exactly how far down it was to the main floor, but she was certain that it was much further than she would ideally want to climb down. The alternative would be to wait until the alarms stopped and hope that she would all right. Since she had no idea what the klaxons indicated—or anyone to ask—it seemed the least wise of her possible choices.

Fine, she decide, the Hearst Castle Tour it is. The thought reminded her of a family trip to San Simeon to visit the legendary. She had been old enough to read, but did not understand why each of the tours that they could choose had the number of stairs in the description. Her father had chosen one of the shorter tours, much to her disappointment. It had seemed reasonable to her, at that young age, that if it cost more money, that they should be allowed to climb more of the steps.

The first exit door that she located seemed to be locked, which she was certain was a violation of several safety codes. It then occurred to her that the lockdown of the building might be intended to keep its occupants detained inside. In that case, the locked exit door seemed a reasonable enough action. It did, however, feed her slowly growing panic. She was trapped inside the building, with one else in sight, under security conditions that she did not understand. It would be nice, she thought irritably, is someone would just get on the public address system and explain what was going on. She paused for a moment. Did this building even have a P.A. system?

She continued searching for another emergency exit door, on the chance that the first one had really supposed to have been locked. She found it two corridors over from where she had started. The door on this one opened easily, almost as though the handle had been broken. She shrugged. It was a way out—and far better than roaming this floor alone in the hopes of finding someone who knew what was going on.

The narrow stairway was surprisingly well-lit. There were bright spotlights at key points along the way. This left small parts of the stairway in shadow, but not in any way that Cynthia considered dangerous. She risked a look down over the rail, but between the angles of the stairs and the lighting, she could only see about two floors below her. It was probably designed that way, she considered, so that frightened people forced to evacuate this way would not become more so because of either the height or the long distance downward that they needed to travel to presumed safety.

She started downward, hoping that the floors would be clearly marked from the inside so she would know when she could exit. From what her father had told her, there were several levels below that of the street. She had no intention of climbing any more steps than she absolutely had to.

#

The first door she found was indeed labeled with a floor number. It, however, refused to open for her. After several attempts, she finally noticed the security access panel partially hidden in the wall shadows. Oh great, she considered wryly. I’ve escaped from being locked inside an office to being sealed inside the emergency stairwell. At least the office had been comfortable . . . with chairs. She eyed the metal and concrete steps. Yes, she could sit and rest there for a bit if she needed to, but she was certain that it would be hard and uncomfortable, even with being able to rest her back against one of the walls.

She continued downward, pacing herself as she was certain that there were many floors to go. The next two doors she encountered also seemed to be locked. She moved on down to the next level to find that one locked as well. More than being simply worried about being trapped inside the stairwell, she now had to forcibly push aside the now-physical reminders that she needed to locate a bathroom.

November 26, 2009

“It’ll be all right,” she said quietly, trying to reassure herself as much as the unseen person on the other end of the microphone. She did not think that she had spoken loud enough for her word to be picked it up. Her belief was proven false a few moments later.

“No.”

“Yes, it will,” she countered quickly, trying to believe it herself. She had a strong urge to sit on the ground next to the door. Her more rational side won out, telling her that the window in it was heavily opaque and the interior dark. Anyone walking by would not know she was inside unless she triggered the lights again. They would, hopefully, be more far more interested in the guard outside.

She considered trying to figure out how to turn off the speakers, but was reasonably certain that sounds it produced would not carry into the corridor. That would, she decided, defeat the purpose of the seeming privacy of the room. Besides, it was a voice for her outside the confines of the room, even it seemed as uninformed as the turn of events within the complex as she was.

There was very little she could, Cynthia realized, but wait. Security at the front desk had passed her through, so they knew that she was somewhere inside the building. Eventually, someone would come looking for her. She just hoped that it was the right someone.

And where was her father? Her security escort had said that he was inside the building somewhere. Why had he not tried to contact her? She paused, feeling mildly embarrassed. Why hadn’t see she tried to contact him?

Cynthia pulled out her phone and checked the display. No calls and no messages of any kind. That was not all that unusual, but she did find it a little surprising. She had been away campus for several hours. Certainly someone had wanted to talk to her. A moment later, she realized why. The status bar showed that she was currently receiving no connection signal within the building. Her father had often mentioned that, but she had usually considered it an excuse for not remembering to call her. If anyone, including her father, had tried to reach her, they would have been unable to. Nor would she be able to send a message of any kind out to anyone else. Maybe her unseen acquaintance could . . .

“Do you have a name?”

“Yes.”

She sighed, wondering why it seemed to be taking everything she said so literally. And why was it giving her such short answers? She felt a little guilty as she considered that thought, recognizing that it might be someone who, for some reason, had difficulty speaking and that was why there were here.

“What is it?” she tried again.

“Nick.”

The odd intonation—or what it interference from the speaker system—made her uncertain what she had heard. Was it said “Nick” or “Mick”? She knew of very few people that used the second one, outside of an ancient rock star that her father sometimes listened to, so she decided that she had heard the first. If she was wrong, she was sure that the person would correct her and she would apologize.

“Hello, Nick,” she said lightly. “My name is Cynthia. Cynthia . . .” trailing off as she began to offer her last name. She had intended to provide it and name of her father, but what if this “Nick” was somehow connected to what was happening or if they were overheard. Although she doubted that her father was directly involved in whatever was going on, it was possible that he was. She did not want to put herself or him in any more danger than they might already been in. Her movie-going experience told her that her father could be forced to perform actions rather than see her harmed. Possibly ridiculous and far-fetched, she decided. But why take the chance?

Instead, as she stopped speaking, she felt slightly foolish at the cadence of her voice. She winced slightly, for it sounded to her as though she were addressing a very young or mentally disabled child, sounding out her name for them. She had a feeling that he was neither. If Nick noticed, though, he said nothing.

She waited in silence for what seemed like several long minutes. No further sounds issued from the room’s speaker and she wondered if her invisible companion was still there. He did not seem to speak unless spoken to first, which she found slightly annoying. She hated having to start conversations. It was either that, though, or sit in dark quiet until he did decide to say something . . . if he ever decided to say something.

“Are you still there?” she finally said, sighing at the lame question.

Nick’s answer came quickly.

“Yes.”

Cynthia felt mild relief at that. She was also at a loss, having no idea what to say next. It had been so long since she had talked to someone who was not in one her classes, or had shared some other experience in common, that she had no idea what to say next. So far, Nick had shown no initiative of his own in that regard, so their earlier silence resumed.

To her surprise, it was Nick who broke it a few moments later when he said.

“Scared.”

Cynthia frowned. She had been afraid of that. If Nick was a child, or someone unable to communicate well, she could understand why they might be frightened by whatever might be happening.

“Are you scared?” she asked gently. She was pleased that her own voice quavered only slightly.

“No.”

A puzzled expression replaced her earlier frown. Before she could speak, though, Nick offered up another word.

“You.”

Her gaze swept the room again. Nothing in it even remotely resembled a camera, at least based on her experience. How had he known then? She thought that she had managed to keep it out of her voice, certainly enough that anyone who could not see her would not be able to tell.

Cynthia sighed quietly. What was the harm in admitting it? If Nick was involved with any terrorists, or whoever had invaded the building, he knew she was inside it anyway. If he tried any psychological tricks on her, she could always leave. The guard’s badge could probably get her into any number of rooms to hide in.

“Yes,” she confessed quietly, “I am . . . a little.”

“Yes.”

Cynthia found herself laughing softly, whispered to herself as she responded with, “Thanks for the confirmation.”

Moving one of the chairs so that it faced the door, she sat down at the table; she was tired of standing. She was also beginning to get thirsty, and was certain that she would need to use the bathroom soon, but tried to dismiss both of those items from her mind for the moment.

“Have you been here long?”

There was a long pause and she began to wonder if she asked something particularly troubling to the boy, or if they had been cut off from one another.

Finally, his oddly flat voice returned.

“Yes.”

And then a moment later.

“No.”

#

“Have you been here long?”

The girl’s question was not only unexpected, but it caught Nicholas unprepared to answer it in several different respects. His sensation of the passage of time had finally acquired a certain amount of synchronization now that he could see and a regular schedule had been established. Although he could not witness for himself the transition from night to day within the building, he now had access to clocks once again. He also knew, from what Kincaid and Gerhardt had told him, how long it had been since the accident that had taken his father’s life and, in a way, taken his own as well.

How long was long under these conditions? How long had it seemed to him? Would it seem like a long time for someone else? Nicholas found it once more maddeningly frustrating that his communication still remained so limited. Both Gerhardt and Kincaid had reassured him several times that the problem was being worked on, but that it was very difficult “nut to crack”, as Gerhardt had put it, and the progress had been much, much slower than either of them had anticipated. Only his realization that it must be equally frustrating for them kept Nicholas from getting truly angry about it—at least most of time.

What answer could he give Cynthia that would be meaningful? None at all, he finally decided, when limited to the current vocabulary he had. So he answered as best he could, wondering if she would ask him more about it. And what was it that she was frightened of? Was it him? He did not think so, for she had not yet asked any of the questions that would make him think that she could actually see him or knew what he truly was. Would she stop speaking to him if she found out? He truly hoped not.

#

Cynthia considered Nick’s answers for several moments before giving up. They seemed contradictory, yet she suspected that he was trying to answer her question. With a quiet sigh, she admitted, “I don’t understand.”

 

#

Cynthia walked up to the security desk in the front lobby and handed the guard there her identification card. Her father had arranged for her to receive a permanent Guest pass, but she was still required to have it verified every time she entered the building. She did not recognize the guard who was processing her identification, but the one standing next to the rear desk was familiar. He gave a quick smile, more with his eyes than with his lips, lingering for just a moment, before turning his gaze toward a small group of people entering the foyer.

“Here you go, Ms. Kincaid,” the first guard said, handing her back her identification card. “Please keep it visible at all times.”

Cynthia retrieved her card from the woman’s hand and nodded. It did not seem worth giving a verbal acknowledgment as well.

“Your father does not seem to be in office,” the guard continued. “You can wait here until he returns,” she said. “Or you can be escorted there to wait.” Her tone implied that the first choice would be the most convenient as far as she was concerned.

Cynthia considered the two options for only a moment. She had not anticipated having to wait for her father, so she had brought nothing other than her phone to entertain her while she waited. Her father’s office would at least have some magazines or journals, and maybe some food. She made the latter choice for those reasons, but also because she suspected that it would annoy the snippy guard. The duty guard refused, she would be no worse off.

“I’d like to wait in my father’s office, please,” Cynthia answered smiling, in as sweet a tone as she could manage.

The duty guard’s mouth worked as if she were chewing something bitter. She turned her head slightly in the direction of the other guard. “Joel,” she said flatly. “Please escort Ms. Kincaid to her father’s office.”

The other guard stepped away from the wall. “Yes, ma’am.” He walked over and opened the short, waist-high door and waited while it closed itself behind him. He gave Cynthia a genial smile. “If you’ll come with me, miss.” He gestured toward the short hallway that led to the elevator.

Cynthia gave the duty guard a tight smile, but did not wait for a response. Turning, she allowed the other guard to guide her to the elevators.

November 25, 2009

She spread her files out before her on the table and consulted her pad one more time before speaking.

"Hello, Nicholas."

"Hi."

Belinda glanced toward Gerhardt, but his face still revealed nothing. The briefing she had received had informed her to expect the use of a speech synthesizer. Her mouth worked slightly.

"My name is Dr. O'Connell," she said, working to make her voice sound more casual and reassuring. "I'm a psychologist. I've been asked to talk to you." She paused for a moment. "You can call me Belinda, if you'd like."

There was only silence from the room's speakers.

"Can you hear me, Nicholas?" she asked after several moments.

"Yes."

"Oh, okay," she said, feeling slightly sheepish, and hoping that the faint burning of her cheeks was not visible. "That's good." She took a slow, quiet breath before continuing. "Dr. Gerhardt and Dr. Kincaid are here with me," she said. "Do you want them to leave?"

"No."

She looked up, expecting to see at least a hint of smugness in Gerhardt's eyes. Instead, she received only his intent gaze. Hell of a poker player, I bet.

This was going to turn out to be a bit more difficult than she had originally thought, she decided. The briefing materials she had been provided had told her that, for the time being, Nicholas could only communicate using a limited vocabulary of one-syllable, single-sound words. There should be improved communication in the future, the report had said, but it did not define when. Why couldn't they have waited until then to bring her in? Belinda wondered. It would have made her job easier. That was not the point, she recognized. For reasons that were still unclear to her, they had wanted her to begin this now.

Ideally, she wanted to ask open-ended questions, but those tended to be difficult to answer with single words. She was going to need to do a lot of verbal exploring to get anywhere, she realized. Already, she could tell that it was going to be tedious. She had dealt with a small number of limited functioning patients before, but she had always been allowed in their physical presence. Being able to read their facial expression, and even subtle changes in body language, often provided her with as much—if not more—information than what they said, however they said it.

Belinda leaned back slightly in her chair, her eyes tracking down the list of her standard opening questions. Almost none of them could be answered simply. She needed to devise an entirely new approach. She would preferred to postpone this session and came back after having had a chance to prepare again, but she suspected that they might choose another psychologist and, for some reason she could not define, she did not want to lose this opportunity—even given its restrictions on later publication of her findings.

She looked down at her tablet and then at her notes. It was possible, she decided, that she could postpone the usual preliminaries and return to them later after she had a better feel for how this method of communication was going to work. Glancing quickly up toward Gerhardt and Kincaid, she saw that they seemed to waiting for her patiently, but she did not know how long that patience would bear out.

"Nicholas," she started again. "Are you aware of you what has happened to you?"

There was a short pause before his voice answered her.

"Yes."

"Are you in any pain?"

The pause was longer this time.

"No."

Nearly everyone she had talked to on the project—and a few others outside it—had reassured that her that Nicholas should be feeling no direct physical discomfort at all. Any pain or sensations he might be experiencing would like be similar to the familiar "phantom limb syndrome", as he currently lacked any means to carry pain signals to his . . . brain.

Belinda sighed. It was truly an unusual way of thinking. The briefing materials had been very specific about this aspect of the situation. She could even remember the faintly squeamish sensation she felt upon reading it for the first time. (It had, in fact, taken her several readings to produce her desired level of objectivity on the subject.) Some of those feelings returned now, being faced directly with the being that had once been the young man Nicholas Jorgensen.

She forced herself to focus on the immediate problem of having a meaningful conversation with him. Although open-ended and leading questions would have made getting information from him much easier, she would have to work with what she had. She skimmed the list of opening questions again, mentally transposing them into ones that could be answered more simply with either a "yes" or "no".

Eyeing Gerhardt and Kincaid, she saw what she thought might be faint bemusement in Gerhardt's eyes. Kincaid seemed either bored or frustrated with her lack of activity; she was not entirely certain which.

With a look of renewed determination, she began again.

"Nicholas, are you sad about what happened to you?"

"Yes."

"Are you sometimes angry about it?"

"Yes."

"Are you frightened?

"Yes."

#

[much later]

Cynthia remained crouched near the security guard's body. He was not moving, but she was not certain whether or not he was dead. His heavy uniform jacket made it difficult to tell whether he was breathing and she had no intention of turning him over to find out. She was afraid what she might find if she did so.

This section of the corridor was blocked off at the end by a large, complex door that looked like an airlock from some science fiction film. The doors on either side looked far more traditional, but mounted next to each was a security access panel. Cynthia did not hear any footsteps, but that did not mean that whoever had shot down the guard was not nearby and that they would not be back.

She spied the corner of his ID badge clipped to his waist. It was attached to a metal spool that would extend the badge if needed and then return it to its place. Cynthia grabbed the badge and yanked on it, pulling it toward the door to her right. The thin cable ran out several centimeters short of the security panel, preventing the badge from entering the pickup range of the sensor. She tried again with the door on the left side, but the guard had fallen almost in the center of the hallway, making both panel out of reach.

Taking a deep breath against a rising wave of queasiness, Cynthia reached under the man's belt and unfastened the clip. She breathed easier when she encountered nothing but fabric, none of the slippery gore that she had feared.

Sliding across the floor on her legs, wanting to stay low and hopefully out of sight, she made her way back to the left access panel, as it was now the closer of the two. She waved the badge in front of it rapidly. A moment later, she heard a reassuring click and began to relax. She reached up and pulled the handle. This time, it moved easily, and the door opened.

Ducking inside the room quickly, she remained crouching low, and waited until the door closed and locked itself again before daring to stand up. The light flickered on around her and she looked frantically around for the switch, afraid that they would reveal her presence. She finally located it and slapped at it with her hand, returning the interior of the room to near darkness.

She was glad that the small room was not completely dark. There seemed to be some indirect lighting coming from above somewhere, probably exactly for that reason. From what she could see, it looked like an empty office, lacking even a telephone. There was almost nothing else in it except for some chairs, a workstation, and what looked like a microphone sitting on the room's single table. She wondered what the microphone was connected to and whether she could use it to call for help.

Searching until she located its power switch, she turned it on, relieved to see a small green light begin to glow near the base. She hesitated, not entirely sure what to say, or who might hear it. Before she could gather her courage to try, she heard someone at the other end speak.

"Hi."

Cynthia stared at the microphone as if it were a sleeping cobra come to life. She was not certain if what she had heard was a word or a sound. It could have been an accident, a burst of static that sounded like a word.

"Hi."

She froze, still staring at the microphone. At that moment, it would have surprised her less to see something gaseous and evil issue forth from the microphone mesh. Too many horror movies, she scolded herself silently. Swallowing, she forced herself to respond.

"Hello?"

Her voice came out even more tremulous than she had feared it would.

"Hi."

Cynthia began to wonder if she had stumbled on some kind of strange recording. The word was coming out exactly the same every time. There was no inflection in it, so she could not telling it was simply responding to her or also asking the same question of her existence and identity.

"Do you work here?"

"No."

Cynthia's heart sank. Was it some child somewhere in the complex? Part of one of their experiments?

"Are you okay?"

There was a long silence. Cynthia thought they had gone away when the voice returned again.

"Yes."

"Do you know where you are?"

"Yes."

"Are you in this building?"

"Yes."

To her surprise, Cynthia found that this answer reassured her. Whoever it was, they were somewhere inside the complex as well, but seemed to be unaware of what was going on. Or were they?

"Do you understand what's going on?"

"Yes."

Relief filled her, but it was short-lived. The voice returned a moment later.

"No."

Now she was puzzled. Which was it? Maybe it really was a child. If that was the case, she did not want to frighten them.

"Are you in a safe place?"

"Yes."

"Do you know where?"

"Yes."

Cynthia began to feel better again.

"Where are you?"

The answer came quickly.

"Here."

Instinctively, Cynthia glanced around the room. Even before she completed the action, she almost laughed at herself. She already knew that the room was empty, except for her own presence and its small amount of furniture.

"Can you be more a little more specific?" Cynthia asked, unable to keep all of the amusement out of her tone.

"Here."

Cynthia sighed. She was getting nowhere quickly with this conversation and, for a few moments, had actually forgotten why she was hiding in this room in the first place. It was probably no safer than almost anywhere else in the building, she knew. If she could get her hands on an access badge and get in, so could whoever else was roaming the halls taking down security guards.

November 24, 2009

Gerhardt looked up at the technician. "David, cycle it up two notches."

The technician responded with a puzzled expression. "Two, Doctor?"

Gerhardt gave him a reassuring smile. "Yes," he said. "Two, please."

"Yes, Doctor Gerhardt," the technician acknowledged, still looking slightly uncomfortably, but turned back to the console to make the requested adjustments.

Despite the time that had passed since he had left the military, and completed his advanced degree, it still very strange to be addressed as "Doctor". While it was entirely appropriate and deserved, in his mind, the honorific belonged to surgeons and other who worked medical marvels, not stuffy lab-coated researchers.

Gerhardt looked toward Kincaid. "Everything okay at your end?"

The lead researcher had just returned from talking to one of his own technicians. He nodded to Gerhardt. "There're some minor fluctuations that we can filter out in the next batch," he said, "but not nearly as bad as we expected." He glanced at Nicholas' hand. "It'll probably get worse when the signal cycled up," he went on. "But again, we should be able to filter it out moving forward."

Gerhardt nodded slowly, understanding the other man's implied warning. The initial tests seemed positive, but there remained the risk that something could go wrong, possibly badly wrong.

"Ready, Doctor Gerhardt," David announced from his platform.

Gerhardt turned toward the technician assisting Kincaid. She gave him a single nod of confirmation.

"Okay, Nick," he said, now addressing the young man. "We're ready to try again. Are you ready?"

The answer came quickly.

"Yes."

Gerhardt smiled. He had few doubts about the young man's determination.

He conducted the same tests on the surfaces of Nicholas' hand with the stylus. This time, he needed to apply a much smaller amount of pressure before Nicholas responded. When he was satisfied that they had gathered enough data, he turned to Nicholas.

"Nick," he said. "I'd like to try just a few more things and then we'd call it a day for these particular tests. Okay?"

There seemed to be an unexpected delay before Nicholas responded.

"Yes."

Once again, Gerhardt wished that Nicholas' voice carried some variation in tone that might provide clues to his emotional state. He made a mental point of checking in with that team as soon as they were finished here to see if they had made any progress since the last time he had talked to them.

"This'll just take a minute," he said. "The same thing as before, though," he instructed Nicholas. "Let me know if you feel anything."

"Yes."

Gerhardt extended his forefinger and ran it along the length of the back of Nicholas' hand, applying just the lightest of pressure. The stylus had provided essentially pinpoint contact with the surface of the artificial skin, registering on only a small number of sensors. Gerhardt wanted to see what happened if a larger collection of them were activated at the same time. He looked up toward Nicholas' face, but the young man said nothing.

Pressing with just slighter more force, he brought his finger back along the hand again.

"Yes." Nicholas said suddenly.

Gerhardt removed his finger. That was not the response that Nicholas had been providing during the previous tests.

"Not 'pain'?" Gerhardt asked him.

"No." Nicholas said.

Gerhardt frowned thoughtfully. "But you can sense something?"

"Yes."

The result was what Gerhardt had been half-expecting, but he had been uncertain how Nicholas would interpret. "Okay, Nick," he said. "Let me try one more thing." He looked up at the technician. "David, up one more notch."

The technician nodded silently and made the adjustment.

Gerhardt traced the same path down Nicholas' hand again, using a lighter pressure.

"Yes." Nicholas said quickly.

"But not 'pain' again?"

"No."

A tight, but definite, smile crept onto Gerhardt's lips. "Okay, that's good," he said. He gestured for the technician to deactivate the connection. He leaned back in the chair, studying Nicholas' hand intently. "Okay, Nick," he said after several moments. "We’re going to bring your visual systems back online. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

Gerhardt nodded toward the other technician, who made an adjustment on his station. Several indicators changed color. The halo-shaped irises in the small spheres that were Nicholas' eyes resumed their soft glow. Gerhardt had the oddest feeling that Nicholas experienced a mental sigh of relief to be able to see again.

His sight restored, Nicholas looked down at his hand, still covered with the slick, mottled-gray glove. He flexed the fingers again, as if reassuring himself that they still worked as before.

"Ugly."

Gerhardt turned his head to see where Nicholas was looking. He broke into a deep laugh as he realized what Nicholas was referring to. "It is, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Don't worry about that," Gerhardt chuckled. "It can be dyed to almost any color you want," he said. "We can even give you a permanent tan."

For a long time Nicholas did not respond. Gerhardt began to wonder if he gone too far, reminding the young man yet again of what he had lost. In all likelihood, he would never again feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, at least not in the same way he had before the accident.

"All right, Nick," Gerhardt finally said. "I'm going to remove this now," he said, his hand hovering above the glove of artificial skin. He gave Nicholas a reassuring smile. "There're some enhancements I want the lab to make before we try this again."

Gerhardt began to peel the glove from Nicholas' hand, starting from his wrist. It came away with a hollow sucking sound as it freed itself from the metal surface of Nicholas' fingers and hand. Nicholas' gaze remained fixed on his hand as Gerhardt finished removing the layer of artificial flesh. If Gerhardt did not know better, he would have thought that Nicholas watched with an expression of longing and disappointment.

"Give the boys and girls in the lab a few days to work their magic," Gerhardt said. "Then we'll try again."

There was a brief pause before Nicholas responded.

"Yes."

Gerhardt smiled and patted his arm. "Good boy." He rose and started to leave the room. "I think Dr. Kincaid wants to work with you for a bit," he said. "I'll be back in a bit."

"Soon."

Gerhardt's smile deepened. He nodded slowly. "Soon," he agreed, and left the room, taking the two pieces of material with him.

Kincaid stepped into Nicholas' view. "Nicholas," he said with a formal geniality. "I’d like to run a few test to see if there were any changes due to those tests we just ran."

When Nicholas did not respond, Kincaid set to work, beginning to attach leads from some monitoring system behind Nicholas. Nicholas allowed Kincaid to perform his work, for his thoughts were elsewhere. He imagined himself standing on a beach, as the sun shining brightly down on him, wearing a new skin.

#

[earlier]

Belinda entered the elevator with the two men and waited while Kincaid swiped his card over the access panel. The doors closed and the elevator began to move. She noticed immediately that it was descending, heading toward levels below those of the main lobby. That usually meant departments that required additional protection and security. While she appreciated the premium fees that her security clearances could command on occasion, she heavily disliked and distrusted the heavy secrecy that those assignments usually required. They were often the most interesting of her cases, but it was a nuisance that the security restrictions prevented her from ever publishing any work based on the situation.

The levels were not numbered on the elevator panel, or at least they were not legible to her from where she stood. She tried to count the chimes as the elevator descended, but they seemed to come at irregular intervals, so she gave, guessing that they had not passed thirteen floors. If it was a technique to prevent such an effort, it was effective, she decided.

She felt the elevator begin to decelerate, coming to a slow, barely noticeable stop. Kincaid swiped his ID card again. The doors opened onto a plain, utilitarian corridor. It was step above cinder blocks and concrete, Belinda determined, but not by much.

"This way, Doctor O'Connell," Kincaid said, gesturing her into the corridor. He took the lead, with Gerhardt close behind her.

They walked down what seemed to be the central hallway, passing only a handful of other people. What few they passed give them little attention. Belinda tried to keep her gaze fixed ahead, but could not completely resist trying to make out the meaning of the various signs through her peripheral vision as they passed. They made a left turn that lead to a stretch of corridor that ended with an imposing-looking door. It resembled an airlock, but lacked most of the toxic warnings that she would have expected.

Kincaid halted short of this complex portal, stopping at a relatively normal looking door on the left. He slid his card through the reader. Belinda heard the click of the lock and Kincaid opened the door, holding for her to enter. For a moment, she thought he and Gerhardt might leave her alone in this room, as she had been earlier in the conference room. He entered behind her, though, and waited for Gerhardt before closing the door behind them.

The room was nearly empty, reminding her uncomfortably of a police station interrogation room. She had seen her share of those throughout the years, although she had managed to evade most of those assignments in recent years. This room had that same barren, functional feel to it. It consisted of a small table and four chairs. On the table sat a small workstation display and a microphone. Belinda had the strangest feeling that they wanted her to provide a psychoanalysis of a purportedly self-aware computer program. As far as she knew, that still remained in the realm of science fiction, but she had learned never to underestimate what she might encounter at one of these installations.

She paused just inside the doorway, waiting for instructions for either of the two scientists. Gerhardt seemed to sense her hesitation and gave her a quick, understanding smile.

"Please, Doctor O'Connell," he offered, gesturing toward the table. "Take a seat."

Belinda eyed the table and moved toward the chair that faced the doorway. There was no doubt that she was in a very secure location, but she could find no reason not to exercise her usual caution. She placed her briefcase on the table and glanced at each of the two men before taking a seat. Neither of them made any move to sit down as well.

"Whenever you're ready, Doctor," Gerhardt said, gestured toward the microphone.

Belinda studied Gerhardt for a moment, but his expression told her nothing about what to expect. If this was some kind of complex practical joke on her, he did not seem to be in on it.

November 23, 2009

Eventually, the chamber cleared out and Gerhardt and Kincaid were once again left alone with the technicians and other staff members.

Kincaid came to stand beside Gerhardt. "That went well, I think," he said.

Gerhardt nodded absently for a moment. "Well enough," he finally admitted. Certainly Adamson had seemed pleased by it, and if the Director was happy . . . He turned to Nicholas. "Well, Nick," he said. "Shall we head back to the lab?"

"No."

Gerhardt exchanged a surprised look with Kincaid.

"No?" Gerhardt asked, trying to figure out how to get more clarification from Nicholas based on their limited common vocabulary.

"More," Nicholas intoned.

Gerhardt looked incredulous at first and then began to smile. "You want to practice walking more?"

"Yes."

"You're not too tired?"

"No."

"Okay then," Gerhardt chuckled, "but we are. Give us ten minutes and then we'll get started. Okay?"

"Yes."

Gerhardt smiled at him and then turned to address the others. "Ten-minute break, everyone," he called out. "And then Nick wants to try again."

There were approving murmurs from nearly everyone present.

"Come on," Gerhardt told Kincaid, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. "I could use some good coffee." He smiled, glancing once more at Nicholas. "I'll buy."

#

Gerhardt entered Nicholas' room carrying an oblong, rectangular plastic case. Nicholas had not been expecting a visit from Gerhardt. The retired colonel had become very respectful of his privacy and time, making a point of scheduling most of his visits in advance. It was not as though Nicholas had a lot with which to fill his time, but he found that he appreciated the gesture nonetheless. The exceptions tended to be when Gerhardt had urgent news. Rarely was it good, but Gerhardt wanted Nicholas to hear it from him first before he heard it as a rumor in the halls.

Seemingly flushed with exhilaration, Gerhardt placed the case on one of the nearby utility tables. Nicholas saw that it somewhat resembled a plastic briefcase, but with an opaque exterior.

"Nick," Gerhardt said, "I have a surprise for you." The excitement was clearly evident in the man's voice.

Nicholas' gaze fixed on the case. He was trying to imagine what kind of pleasant surprise might come in such a container. It was not Gerhardt's usual briefcase, nor was it even remotely packaged like a gift.

Gerhardt released the latches on the case and opened it. He withdrew what looked like a sheet of mottled rubber or vinyl. It was various shades of gray and with a slick surface that reminded Nicholas of the hide of a dolphin. Gerhardt was grinning at him.

"Nick," he said. "Let me introduce you to your skin."

Nicholas stared at Gerhardt and then tilted his head slightly for a better look at what Gerhardt was holding up. He had a sudden mental image of his exoskeleton covered with layers of the material and him roaming the corridors looking like a giant walking shark.

Gerhardt spread it out on the surface of the tray. "It contains a mesh of filaments that connect a series of miniature sensors." His fingers traced imaginary lines on the substance's slick surface. "We believe we can use it to provide you with a sense of 'touch'," he explained. A slight frown formed on his expression. "At minimum, we're hoping it can provide you with at least minimal feedback regarding pressure and, hopefully, temperature changes. It should also be able to warn you if its surface has been compromised or otherwise damaged."

Gerhardt's grin returned and he dipped his hand into the container once more. "This is my pride and joy," he announced, lifting an item made of the same material from the interior of the case.

The object hung limply from Gerhard's hand and seemed to have several thick tentacles. Nicholas' first thought was that the researcher had made some kind of artificial squid and was showing off his handiwork. Gerhardt then turned the item and separated the wide tendrils from one another. Nicholas then realized that it was a glove, looking much like the thick, heavy ones he had seen used in the graduate chemistry labs at school.

"It should be just your size," Gerhardt told him, smiling. Gerhardt's eyes turned toward Nicholas' hand and Nicholas finally grasped the older man's meaning.

Nicholas' gaze now moved to his own hand as well. Gerhardt smiled. "Want to give it a try?"

"Yes."

Gerhardt grinned as he nodded. "I thought you might."

There was a sound at the door as two technicians entered pushing a large workstation on a cart. Gerhardt turned to look at them and then back to Nicholas. "That'll help us calibrate it," he explained, stepping out of the way as the technicians moved the cart closer to Nicholas' bed. He smiled again at Nicholas. "Ready?"

Nicholas slowly lifted his hand from where it lay at his side. His movements were still slow, but they were rapidly becoming more fluid, requiring less concentration to initiate. Gerhardt had told him that this was a good thing, that it meant that he was becoming more comfortable in his new body, and that its systems were adapting to him. He stopped the motion when the hand was several centimeters from the bed.

Gerhardt nodded, still smiling, and began the process of sliding the strange, eel-like skin over Nicholas' metal fingers. Nicholas watched the process, still finding it odd that he felt no sensation from the oily material against his fingers. He thought he knew what it should feel like, but the lack of any sensation remained disconcerting.

It took several minutes for Gerhardt, with the assistance of one of the technicians, to get the "glove" fitted over Nicholas' hand. The material, while flexible, did not seem quite as pliable as Gerhardt had hoped. He and the technician seemed to struggle with it around the joints of the fingers, but finally seemed reasonably satisfied with the results.

"There we go," Gerhardt said, and sat back with a sigh. "Try it out."

It took Nicholas a moment to realize what Gerhardt meant. Watching his hand as he did so, Nicholas slowly began to flex his fingers. As it stretched, the synthetic skin made a strange squeaking sound that bordered on irritating, in the same way that a marker screeching on a writing board was. Its appearance as it wrinkled around the joints, though, seemed reasonably realistic.

Kincaid entered while Nicholas was still examining his hand. Gerhardt turned, his face becoming expressionless for a moment when he heard the door open. His smile quickly returned when he recognized the intruder.

"You're just in time, Lewis," Gerhardt said. "We're just about to start calibrating the sensor matrix."

Kincaid nodded, looking intently at Nicholas' hand. Without asking, he stepped forward and began to examine it, prodding areas of it with his finger. Again, Nicholas found it unsettling to feel nothing.

Kincaid turned Gerhardt. "It looks like a good fit."

Gerhardt seemed pleased by the praise. "Now we'll see if it really works as we expect." He gestured to one of the technicians outside Nicholas' field of vision. "Okay, Nick," he said. "Remember how we had you connected directly into the wheelchair?"

"Yes."

"Good," Gerhardt nodded with a smile. "We need to do something similar to that today," he explained. "Just until we get it properly calibrated. Then we can hook it into your own systems. Do you understand?"

Nicholas did not entirely understand, but he also was in no mood for an informative lecture from Gerhardt. His impatience to find out what was going to happen won out. "Yes."

"Good, good," Gerhardt murmured. He looked in the direction of the technician, frowning. "Nick," he said, "I want to take your visual systems offline . . . just while we test this." He flashed Nicholas a reassuring smile. "I just want to make sure that your reactions aren't influenced by what you see and, therefore, think you should experience." He stared directly into Nicholas' eyes. "It'll be okay," he said calmly. "Your hearing will remain online. And I'll be right here. We'll all be right here."

There was a long pause before Nicholas responded.

"Yes."

Gerhardt gave Nicholas a pleased smile. His eyes moved in the direction of the technician. "Override the vision systems."

"Yes, doctor," came the quiet acknowledgment from behind Nicholas.

Before he could speak, Nicholas' world went black. It had been a long time since he had experienced this complete and total darkness, except in periods of sleep. He did not like it. He felt very alone.

"I'm right here, Nicholas," came Gerhardt's calm voice. "We're going to begin in a moment. We're connecting the circuits now."

Nicholas heard a series of murmured voices, but nothing he could make out distinctly. Gerhardt's voice then returned clearly. "Nick," he said. "Do you feel anything different?"

Nicholas paused a moment, trying to determine whether anything seemed different about his environment. Other than for his lack of sight, he did not sense anything that had not been there before.

"No."

"Good," Gerhardt said, sounding pleased. There was a long pause before his voice returned. "Okay, Nick," he said, "we're going to begin. I want you to let me know immediately if you sense anything new, anything at all. Is that clear?"

"Yes."

"Good, Nick," Gerhardt said. "Now keep your hand perfectly still. Don't move it until I ask you to, okay?"

Nicholas thought this was a stupid request. It was far easier for him to do nothing, than to make his limbs move.

"Yes."

Gerhardt gestured for the technician to hand him a pointed stylus. She passed it to him and Gerhardt studied it for a moment. Finally seeming satisfied with the instrument, he started to take Nicholas' hand and then drew his back. Chuckling softly to himself, he reached out with the stylus and traced an invisible line along the back of Nicholas' hand, applying only the lightest pressure. He lifted the stylus away and waited, looking toward Nicholas. When the young man did not respond, he repeated the same action across the surface of the surface of the palm. Again, this elicited no response from Nicholas.

Looking up, Gerhardt saw the technician shake his head silently at him. Gerhardt frowned slightly and turned his attention back the Nicholas' raised hand. He drew the stylus across the back of Nicholas' hand again, pressing slightly harder this time. Pausing, he waited for a response from Nicholas, but did not receive one. He tried again, applying much more pressure. The slick material furrowed deeply at the point of contact; Gerhardt feared that he might actually puncture it. He was about to withdraw the stylus again when he heard Nicholas speak.

"Pain."

Gerhardt, noting the depth to which the stylus was pressed, withdrew it. "Very good, Nick," he said. "We're going to make a few adjustments at this end and then we'll try it again. Okay?"

"Yes."

November 22, 2009

Gerhardt surveyed the technicians manning the various consoles throughout the room. Nearly all of them appeared anxious, with an edge of excitement. Each gave him a silent acknowledgment of preparedness. He exchanged a look with O’Connell, who gave him a tight smile of confidence. Gerhardt turned his attention back to Nicholas.

“Whenever you’re ready, Nick,” he said.

Quiet descended like a heavy blanket upon the room. The only sounds came from the various machines and monitoring stations positioned throughout the room. All eyes that were not staring at specific screens were fixed on Nicholas. Although he could not express it visually, Gerhardt wondered if he was feeling the tension and how he might be experiencing it. Without the sensation of muscles tensing, and blood pressure rising, what did he feel? Just a sense of mental distraction? Gerhardt wondered. That, of course, was the last thing they needed today. He had coached Nicholas all he could; now it was entirely up to him.

Nothing at all happened for several, long moments. Several feet shuffled quietly, but no one spoke. The eyes of most of those present remained on Nicholas, but a few had begun to wander around the large chamber, to those of other people or to the various screens positioned throughout the room.

Gerhardt kept his own eyes on Nicholas. He did not want to miss even the smallest motion—and he wanted to be ready to jump in quickly if something went wrong. His attention was drawn by what he thought might have been a hint of motion, but he could not be certain. They had designed the motors that functioned as Nicholas’ joints to be as quiet as possible. In the end, when everything in the exoskeleton was operational, he would not make the ominous “clunk, clunk” sound so often portrayed in countless science fiction and horror films. It was not merely a matter of aesthetics, but also of efficiency. A system that was noisy usually meant that it was being [overtaxed] in some way, increasing the likelihood of failure.

There was an also an element of pragmatism to it as well. Gerhardt was continually made aware that funding for the development of Nicholas’ new parts could be reduced or eliminated at any time. Gerhardt wanted to make sure they got it as close to right as they could the first time; there might not be any second time. He glanced over to one of the technicians. He nodded back at him, trying to suppress a wide smile. Gerhardt looked down at Nicholas’ legs. Yes, he saw, the foot had definitely been lifted about a centimeter, with the leg lower leg slowly beginning to pivot on the knee joint.

The foot stopped about ten centimeters from the floor. It remained there for several moments. The room had become quiet again as everyone else noticed what was happening. Some of the people were pointing out to others what had happened. They now all waited for the next hint of movement.

This next part was critical, Gerhardt knew. They had tested the combination of the systems in the lab and knew that they could work in unison, if the proper instructions were given to them in the proper sequence. Nicholas has learned how to do this with his arms and hands, but have never had a chance, until now, to do the same with his new legs. Gerhardt hoped that he understood what was necessary in order to make it happen.

The foot began to slowly descend to the floor until it rested on it again. There were general murmurs of disappointment and even Gerhardt felt his own confidence fade. In the testing lab, this would have been a more than satisfactory result. Here and now, it could be a profound disaster.

A sudden, excited hush fell on the room. Gerhardt looked at Nicholas, having been momentarily lost in his own thoughts. The foot has risen again to about the same height as before. It now began to rotate on the joint that functioned as its ankle, slowly and hesitantly at first, and then more smoothly. Gerhardt felt his earlier doubt vanish, replaced by a flush of growing pride in Nicholas’ progress. This was never about him, Gerhardt realized. Adamson could take away his management of his projects, cancel them, or even fire him. He did not care about any of that. He had his military pension and a few other benefits. The money was not an issue; it never had been. It had been about trying to help someone else succeed. That someone was Nicholas.

The foot ceased its movement, now stopped at a slight upward angle. Like the others, Gerhardt now watched and waited. He knew what needed to happen next, even if most of the others present did not. His eyes fixed their gaze at the larger joint that served as Nicholas’ hip. With the same, slow and deliberate motions as the ankle had performed, it too began to move. It swayed in a narrow arc, swinging the foot and leg like a slow pendulum. Nicholas was testing his control of the metal limb and its motor systems, Gerhardt guessed.

The leg slowed to a stop, with the metal “hip” angled slightly forward. The configuration looked about right, Gerhardt decided, but the job was only halfway done. His eyes darted over to Nicholas’ hands, where they gripped the horizontal supports. He half expected to find the fingers clenched around the metal, leaving indents as they had that one day when the hand’s feedback system had failed. Gerhardt nearly laughed at himself. That was not likely to happen today, as it would be primarily an instinctive response. Nicholas’ no longer had the same kind of reflexive reactions to certain situations. Since he no longer had an inner ear, or even an equivalent, he would not know that he was falling except from what he perceived visually. He would have long since hit the ground before he could react. Gerhardt had no doubt that, eventually, Nicholas’ would be able to reach the point where some movements became automatic. Getting to respond to the appropriate stimuli in quite that way might prove to be difficult, though.

Most adults, Gerhardt knew, did not understand the complex sets of movements required in order to simply walk. Their first steps were so far rooted in their earliest childhood days that he would be surprised if any of them had any memory of all of their first steps. As a military commander, he had seen soldiers going through rehabilitation, some even fitted with prosthetic limbs, learning to walk again. It was not until he had been forced to actually design the process for Nicholas that he grasped the amazing complexity required. It was astonishing, he remembered thinking, that we don’t still run around on all four limbs.

Nicholas was now doing something with his other leg. Gerhardt noted that he had started with his left leg. According to the records, Nicholas was right-handed. Gerhardt made a mental note to add to his ever-growing list that this seemed to reinforce the theory that “handedness” resided in the brain, not in the wiring of the body.

Nicholas’ upper body began to sway slightly from front to back. It was only the matter of perhaps a centimeter, but more than enough to get Gerhardt’s attention. He quickly studied the movement of Nicholas’ other leg and realized that the boy was attempting to repeat the series of actions that he just completed with his other leg. If he continued, he would either end up suspended by his arms from the support bars or, if his grip failed, failing on his metal ass.

Gerhardt started to take a step forward and then halted. Nicholas’ other leg had stopped moving and was back in its original upright position. Gerhardt waited, looking up at Nicholas’ face. He kept his expression mostly neutral, but hopefully with some degree of positive encouragement for the young man. Think it through, Nick, he urged Nicholas silently. Think it through.

He looked up to find Nicholas staring at him. Actually, the direction of the boy’s gaze had never changed, not even downward, Gerhardt suddenly realized. Why not? Wouldn’t he want to see what his feet where doing? It seemed very strange, and more than a little disconcerting, but now was not the time to distract the boy with questions. Gerhardt got the oddest feeling that Nicholas was smiling at him, although he knew that it was currently impossible.

Nicholas’ entire body suddenly began to shift forward. Gerhardt tensed, ready to leap in and prevent it from plunging to the floor. He checked himself at the instinctive reaction, despite the images that flashed through his mind. More than once, Nicholas had ended up the lab floor when he was not supposed and had, so far, not suffered any more than very minor cosmetic damage. In fact, he tended to chip the concrete, not the other way around.

Nicholas landed on his previously foot with a definite thud, but not as loud as Gerhardt might have expected. His other foot remained flat on the floor. Nicholas was now positioned with both hips slightly pivoted and the second leg now slightly behind. It now moved slightly ahead, gliding along as Nicholas’ hands pulled him forward. He stopped, both legs now straight as when he first started, but now several centimeters further along the horizontal support bars. For a moment, Gerhardt had the mental image of a young man panting heavily with exertion, looking tired, but glowing with triumph. Of course, Nicholas could express none of this, and his exoskeleton did not grow tired as an organic body would.

There was a long moment of silence as Nicholas, apparently for instructions from Gerhardt to continue. They were not needed. The gallery of people both inside the room and in the observation galley broke into applause. The small demonstration had been enough to prove their point. Gerhardt was relieved. Nicholas could practice refining his movements without the need for an audience.

Gerhardt glanced over at Adamson. The Director seemed quite satisfied with the results of the demonstration. He caught her eye for only a moment before she turned back to converse with one of the many dignitaries surrounding her. Both Gerhardt and Nicholas waited for the clamor to die down. It did so, slowly.

“Gentlemen and ladies,” Adamson announced. “That concludes our demonstration for now.” She gestured for the door to be opened. “There are refreshments for you in the main conference area where members of my staff and I will be available to answer your questions.”

Gerhardt had heard about the reception, but neither he or Kincaid—nor any member of their staffs that they knew of—had been asked to attend. What Adamson had apparently meant by “my staff” was her cadre of lawyers and public relations specialists. That was fine with Gerhardt, he decided. He was more concerned with Nicholas at the time, and what effects of this demonstration had had on him.

The room cleared fairly swiftly, but not quickly enough for Gerhardt’s taste. He waited quietly, exchanging a glance in silence with Kincaid, who had come to stand beside him. Together, they watched the crowd file out, still chatting excitedly with each other. Gerhardt had a bad feeling about this entire production, but had difficulty putting his finger on what exactly troubled him the most about it.