November 7, 2009

What he was not at all clear on was the purpose behind his new orders. Certainly, he could understand the desire for a lighter, more portable version of the exoskeleton. However, most of the efforts to reduce its weight would also decrease its effectiveness in offering protection as armor. He was going to need to talk to someone as well about the interface specifications. Who that someone was, it was not clear.

His orders for this project had been signed by Director Adamson herself. That was not, in itself, all that unusual, but he had no idea who his other points of contact were, and the project requirements documents did not say. The specifications he had received were similar to the ones he had originally developed, and later refined, for his original design. They also had, though, an additional level of complexity to them that he did not yet understand. What were they planning to plug into this? he had wondered. An IBM mainframe? He planned to read the requirements later in more detail, after he had completed this initial inspection of his early prototype.

As his eyes surveyed the prone, semi-humanoid shape of the prototype exoskeleton, his thoughts began to wander along the possible uses for the modified version. The models he had created were designed to respond to gross muscle movements, intended primarily to engage the drive systems of the joints. They were never designed for fine motor control, although he had considered it was a possible refinement for some future design. That had not been part of the military’s original requirements for the project, so it had been out on hold and then dropped entirely when the project was cancelled. Gerhardt did not see why, though, that this new design could not be modified to support that as well. It seemed that, on his initial reading, that the new interfaces might support it.

His imagination leapt swiftly ahead to applications of the enhanced, lighter-weight exoskeleton allowing paraplegics and disabled children to walk again and participate in activities formerly denied them simply because their brains and muscles refused to communicate properly. Decades of research had already been done in the fields of prosthetics and bionics, trying to interface artificial limbs with the human brain. The results had been mixed, with no clear indications on why some cases worked and some did not. Most experts fell back on the theory that every individual’s brain was wired slightly differently, meaning that an almost entirely custom implementation might be required every time. That these solutions would be both time-consuming and cost-prohibitive did not bother Gerhardt in the least. His goal was to make it possible, not make it affordable—yet.

His thoughts were disturbed by the shrill chime of his phone. He had programmed several custom ringtones into it, so he knew immediately that it was not a close friend or a member of his family. For that, he felt a minor annoyance at the interruption. Pulling the phone from its clip on his belt, he glanced at the display, but recognized neither the name nor number of the caller.

“Gerhardt.”

“Dr. Gerhardt?” an unfamiliar voice queried. There was an odd flatness to the voice, which meant that the caller was some distance away, the call passing through several global networks, or it was under high-security scramble.

That would also explain the lack of visuals, Gerhardt decided. He still held nearly all of his high security clearances. While it was rare that someone with the need to exercise those protocols would contact him using them, it was not unusual enough to cause him immediate alarm.

“Sometimes,” Gerhardt replied without a hint of humor.

When he left the military behind him, he had chosen to eschew titles of any kind except under very specific and special circumstances. Both his wife and one of his daughters had tried more than once to argue that he had earned the advanced degree and deserved to be called by the honorific. (Actually, his wife had only broached the subject once. She had learned long ago how to deal with him when his mind was made up. It was his daughter that still occasionally attempted to convince him.) To him, “Doctors” were life-saving professionals with stethoscopes, needles, and scalpels. The closest thing he came to handling something that resembled scalpel was a screwdriver—or a carving knife at Thanksgiving dinner.

There was lengthy pause, as if whoever it was at the other end did not know how to deal with his unexpected response.

“Dr. Gerhardt.” This time it was a statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

Another pause. Gerhardt tried to suppress just a hint of a smile. He had no doubt that whoever was at the other end of the connection was not amused by this little game, but he felt little sympathy for them. They had obviously reached the right person, so he wished that would stop stalling and get to the point so he could get back to work. If their intention had been to pique his curiosity, they had missed their opportunity now by annoying him.

“Dr. Gerhardt,” the voice returned. This time it continued with, “We would like to meet with you to discuss an . . . opportunity.”

We? Gerhardt considered. So it was an organization of some kind. Either this individual was not the leader of the group or it was run by a committee. In either case, it was important information. Opportunity. Just the way it was phrased, and the pause that preceded it, made Gerhardt think for a moment that he had somehow been cast in cut-rate espionage movie.

While it was not at all beyond the realm of possibility that one of his acquaintances might be inspired to pull a practical joke on him in this fashion, he knew that none of them would use a secure and scrambled line to do so. Whoever wanted to talk to—and to see—him was very concerned with being detected. That troubled Gerhardt.

“What kind of . . . opportunity?” While he mimicked the same hesitation in his response, but tried to keep any hint of suspicion out of his tone. He tried to sound casually interested, but was not sure whether the nuances carried over the flattening effect of the scrambled signal.

“I represent an organization that is very interested in continuing your research, Dr. Gerhardt,” the voice replied.

I? Why the switch? “I see.”

“Surely this would be of more interest to you than astronautic environmental systems.” It was presented as a statement, not a question. This, in Gerhardt’s mind, smacked of a certain arrogance. It did tell him, however, that the cover story that the institute provided to those who absolutely had a need to know about his research was being accepted as the covert truth.

“It’s a nice change,” Gerhardt remarked. “One can only do the same thing for so long.” For himself, he found that claim to be patently untrue. He had yet to tire of his area of research, and there enough new discoveries announced on a regular basis to keep it fresh and interesting.

“Perhaps so,” the voice agreed. Was that a faint French accent he was hearing? It was difficult to know for sure with the effects of scrambler. “Still, we think you might find hearing our offer to be worth your time.”

Gerhardt doubted that greatly, but did not say so. He then realized something that he had not recognized when he had first looked at the phone’s display. The call had come in directly to his office number. It was his general practice to forward his calls to his cell phone when he was down in one of the labs or otherwise wandering around the building. The display had indicated that the call had been forwarded, but he had been distracted enough by the interruption not to register it as important at the time.

All calls made to him at the institute—all calls—went through at the automated receptionist (who had long ago been nicknamed Tessie, after her acronym: Telephonic Security Interface). Her soothing and helpful contralto voice would answer, delaying the caller long enough to allow the location of the call to be traced and logged, before connecting them with the desired individual, if that person wished to receive calls. (It was not a sexist thing at all. Numerous studies had shown that people respond better to a female voice responding to their calls.) This one had been processed as an internal call; Tessie had not asked him if he wanted to accept the call. That both intrigued and alarmed him. He knew that no security system was perfect, but he had never heard of this kind of breach before in the institute, and the technology behind Tessie was some of the NSA’s best.

“Dr. Gerhardt?”

“Yes, I’m here,” he replied, suddenly aware of how long he had remained silent.

“We should arrange to meet.” Again, it was a statement.

“Where?”

“The Seaside Inn. Twelve-thirty. The reservations will be in your name.”

Gerhardt nodded silently to himself. He knew the location, although he had not been there often. It was a reasonably popular place, had reasonably decent food, and far enough from the institute that the likelihood of him being seen there would be greatly reduced.

“I’ll be there,” Gerhardt confirmed. The line went silent. “You’re welcome,” he muttered in response. He was certain now that he would keep that appointment. The question now was who he should tell about it, if anyone.

#

Nicholas awoke again. This time he was certain that he had slept, for he remembered dreaming. The images were fragmented and incoherent, like scenes from different movies projected into his mind with the aid of a strobe light. He recalled attending parties like that before; they had primarily given him a headache.

The images faded quickly from his consciousness, but they left him feeling vaguely disconcerted. He felt as though he should understand what the images meant, but they had appeared too quickly and then vanished before he could even grasp what they represented. He remembered sounds being associated with the visions, but they had provided only a strange cacophony, equally incomprehensible. There were now gone as well, leaving him once more in darkness and silence.