“Nearly a month.”
“You said this implant is four days old. How did…?”
Byrne rolled up his other sleeve and exposed a series of six scars, some healed more than others, on his forearm.
“And you’re saying this same technology can be used with soldiers to move exoskeletons?” The scene in Aliens of Sigourney Weaver using the giant exoskeleton to fight the mother alien came to mind. That, and the perhaps more applicable and contemporary example of Iron Man fighting other exoskeleton-equipped bad guys.
But even in the movies, the characters needed to move their muscles to manipulate the robotic exoskeletons. This bionic technology that Thad was looking at was in an entirely different league.
Byrne said, “With the lightweight exolimbs we’re working on, direct brain-machine interfaces, targeted muscle reinnervation, and electrodes that are embedded in all four extremities, tomorrow’s soldiers will be able to carry three-hundred-pound packs at sprinting speeds while exerting 90 percent less energy than they would if they were running with no pack at all.”
“And”—Thad was musing aloud—“even if they get shot or lose the use of one or more limbs, they’ll still be able to move the exolimbs through their thoughts.”
“Eventually, that’s what we’re shooting for, yes. Paralysis will no longer be a detriment to battle readiness.”
Thad evaluated that. Yes, the people he worked for were going to be very interested in this indeed.
He knew Plyotech did some contract work for the Department of Defense’s research and development branch: DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. And that might prove to be a problem here.
“And the Pentagon?”
“They’re aware of our research but know nothing about our progress. You’re the first group we’ve contacted.”
As Thad was considering how to tell the colonel that he and his men would be needing to come with them now, tonight, he heard a heavy thud in the hallway. It was a sound he knew well — that of a body falling to the floor.
He gestured for the mercenary behind him to check it out, and the man whipped out his Glock and stalked toward the doorway.
Byrne watched silently from across the table.
Thad unholstered his own gun, but even as he did, he heard his man collapse behind him and felt himself becoming waveringly dizzy. He snapped around and saw the former Green Beret lying on the floor convulsing.
Thad spun and leveled his gun at Byrne, who was pulling on a pair of latex gloves.
“What did you do?” Despite his best efforts, Thad felt his arms growing heavy and slack.
Byrne spoke softly. “Put down your gun, Thad, before you hurt yourself.”
He was about to squeeze the trigger, but before he could, both arms fell limply to his sides, causing his weapon to topple harmlessly to the floor.
“The coffee?”
No, that doesn’t make sense because—
“No.” Byrne shook his head.
“The grips,” he muttered, “of the guns, you coated them…”
“With Dalpotol.” Byrne stood and approached him. “Yes.”
“But how did you… get to…” He was slumping in his chair now and finding it increasingly difficult to form his thoughts. His hands began shaking involuntarily.
“You and your men had an escort visit your room last night, my friend.” He rose and kicked the gun aside. “You shouldn’t have left her alone, even for a minute. And you should have perhaps checked your weapons this morning. You can never be too careful about the people you trust.”
A wave of convulsions began wracking Thad’s body, and Byrne unpocketed a pill. “This is to stop the seizures.” He placed it on Thad’s tongue. “Do your best to swallow it.”
Thad actually believed him, yet in an act of defiance he tried to spit it out, but the pill had mostly dissolved already and his muscles were relaxing, the convulsions dissipating — however, none of that offered him any strength to go after Byrne.
The colonel walked past Thad toward the downed man. A moment later a handgun’s report echoed sharply through the room, and then Byrne returned and lowered Thad gently to the floor.
His head lolled to the side, and he saw that his man had been shot at point-blank range in the temple and was most definitely not twitching any longer.
Byrne straightened out Thad’s arms and legs, and though he tried his hardest to stop him, he was unable to fight him off, to stand, to resist at all.
“Do you know what the problem is with most medical research?” Byrne asked him.
Thad’s mind was reeling, his thoughts shifting across themselves, sliding into and out of focus. He tried his hardest to concentrate on what was happening, but he didn’t feel like he was able to bring his attention back into alignment at all. “What is…?”
“The problem. With most medical research today. Do you know what it is?”
Thad tried to sit up but found it impossible. “The…”
“Human trials. It simply takes too long for a drug or a treatment strategy to be approved for human trial. Monkeys, yes. Mice, no problem. But in this case, we need to know if it’s possible for someone who has four paralyzed limbs to be able to use his thoughts to move the robotic ones, and we need to find out as promptly as we can if we’re going to move forward with this project. To do that we have to test the implants in that situation, and since this research hasn’t exactly been made public yet, we couldn’t just pull in any quadriplegic off the street for the experiment. You can see why it’s necessary to use a volunteer from the inside. You have the honor of being that volunteer.”
The realization of what was happening finally struck Thad, and struck him hard.
Four paralyzed limbs.
Four paralyzed—
He heard another gunshot in the hallway and recognized it as coming from the 9mm SIG P226 his other man had been carrying. However, he did not hold out much hope that he’d killed the doctor, but rather guessed he’d met the same fate as the former soldier lying fatally shot just a few feet away.
“There are different ways we could do this,” Byrne went on. “For most people it happens through an accident — horseback riding, a car wreck, sometimes a football player has a head-on collision and snaps his neck. I think you’ll appreciate that I want to get this right the first time. Here”—he touched Thad’s spine near where it connected with the base of his skull—“a scalpel is much more precise, more reliable, and you shouldn’t leave something like this to chance. We tried drugs on two other people. Neither made it through without needing a ventilator, and that’s just not the result we’re looking for here. A scalpel is really the way to go.”
The door to the hallway opened and Dr. Malhotra appeared, accompanied by two orderlies in scrubs, rolling a gurney.
“The people… I work for…” Thad struggled to get that much out, but then his voice faded away into silence.
Byrne nodded and continued Thad’s sentence as if he were the one who’d started it: “Have spoken with me, and we all agreed you’d make a suitable subject. Good musculature, adequate intelligence, no close family. No one to miss you.”
No, this wasn’t happening, this could not be happening.
They’re going to paralyze you.
They’re going to—
“Technically, you’ll be a C4 tetraplegic, or a quadriplegic, if you prefer that term. We’re aiming for neck movement, so you should be able to turn your head, maybe even shrug slightly. You’ll need assistance, of course, with dressing, bathing, self-care; you’ll no longer be able to control your bowel or bladder functions, but we’ll have people here to attend to you. With the implants, you should be able to learn to control your exolimbs. With time.”