PART 2.
------
Matthew Regrave adjusted the reticle over his left eye. Most people used these devices to display weapons related targeting information, but his was different. It displayed a constant stream of data related to his cybernetic implants. The implants allowed him to monitor and supervise all manner of things in his body from blood pressure to bile production.
It was very important for Redgrave to have up-to-the-minute information on his health at all times. He was dying. Without direct supervision his body functions would break down. Matthew was not the kind of man to leave such things in the custody of others, and his vast financial resources and his legal prowess made many things possible. Not the least of which was The CyberDyne Corporation, one of the worlds premier providers of powered armor to military and law-enforcement interests.
He didn't look like other sick people. True, his hair had all fallen away long ago, and he was of rather pale complexion, but he was a strong-looking man. Broad of shoulder, and his body was not gaunt. He simply did not let himself waste away. It was an act of pure will, but then, for him, so was everything else.
"Mr. Redgrave," a female voice buzzed through the intercom, "Doctor Baker is here to see you. He doesn't have an appointment."
Matthew looked out the window of his penthouse office, down at the city street far below with his hands clasped behind his back. His metal arm felt cool against the skin of his left hand. He sighed. Scientists were only ever good for two things when they showed up; Bad news, or looking for money. He stretched his neck and prompted his implants to generate 5% more endorphines for the next minute. That should help get him through this meeting.
"Send him in," he answered gruffly. It wasn't like Baker was interrupting anything.
A moment later the door opened, and Don Baker slid timidly into the office. A notebook computer case was held protectively to his chest.
"Have a seat, Dr. Baker," Matthew said without any other form of a greeting.
"Thank you, sir," the doctor offered his hand.
Redgrave reached out with his skeletal robotic arm and shook it. He did so love the looks that crossed peoples faces at that moment. A guilty pleasure, perhaps, but a pleasure nonetheless.
"You don't look well, doctor," Matthew observed, "You should take better care of your health. Take it from me; If you haven't got that, you haven't got anything."
"I suppose not, sir."
He wanted to shoot this scientist in the head already. Maybe throw him out the window. Sycophantic imbecile. Get to the point already!
Sensing the silence was bothering his host, Don opened up his laptop and started explaining.
"I'm sure you're aware of the strange results from the AISCONIX: Blue-suit test by now. The PTE was off the chart, at a level that up until that point I'd have said was scientifically impossible. But, well, I've been trying to figure out why what happened, happened, and I can't seem to get access to the information I need. The tech crew has it on lockdown, so I. . ."
"Was the problem based on the physical function of the suit, or on the design?" Redgrave cut him off.
Don stammered a bit, not nowing what to say, "I-I'm sorry, sir?"
"Was the irregularity you observed related to the physical operation of the prototype, or was it a fundamental design flaw or oversight?"
"Well, I suppose it was a physical abnormality, but clearly it could have been both."
"So the suit didn't work? I suppose the pilot was killed? I hadn't heard that. I'll have to send his widow my condolences."
"No sir, he's fine."
"Oh, so the principle of the prototype was sound. It was just a strange reading in the instrumentation?"
"well. . . Yes."
"So, clearly this problem is for the tech department, not the design department."
". . ."
"I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you."
"Yeah."
"Well then, thank you for bringing this to my attention, Dr. Baker. I'm most pleased to know that my technical department is doing their job correctly. Have a good day,"
Don scooped up his laptop and walked out the door. It closed heavily behind him. He stood in front of the secretary's desk with a confused look on his face.
"What just happened?" he asked himself. Clearly the secretary was trying not to laugh.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was late.
Don and his bottle of Jameson's whiskey hadn't gotten very much further in thier attempt to diagnos the PTE mystery, but at least one of them was feeling a lot lighter.
"I dun' c're what an'one says," he slurred as his upper body swayed back and forth. "Futurama is better'n the Sim'sons." He emphasised his point by dramatically pointing at the brightly colored cartoon on TV, though quickly he fell back into a seated position.
Baker slumped down on the couch, staring at the flickering colors. He couldn't really keep track of what was going on, the world around the television was spinning too fast to let him concentrate.
"But Fry get's frozen! Frozen! 'f 'e 'ad one'a our Blue-suits e'd notta g't frozen. Course. . . then th' show would suck."
Baker examined his bottle. It wasn't quite empty; a condition that was quickly remedied.
". . .wait a minute. . ." he thought out loud, glancing back at the screen, "If th' show'd suck, tha' means. . . maybe some people're s'pose t'get frozen?
"Some people. . . s'pose t'get frozen. . ." Baker repeated as he stumbled out of his quarters.
PART 3.
------
A distant sound.
Thunder, perhaps, on the horizon.
A baby cried out in the night.
The pounding noise did not relent.
"Jack," Wilma's voice.
A hard shove.
"JACK!"
"Nnnnnhhhhh. . . " he protested.
"Wake up! There's somebody trying to break the door down."
"I gotta. . . what?"
"The door, Jack! I'm trying to calm the baby, go find out who's at the door."
Jack Parker fumbled at the clock.
"S' ten after two."
"I know that. Family, protect. Door, go!"
He nodded, sliding open the case that contained the loaded .44 magnum that he kept under the bed for just such an emergency. When the kids were older he'd have to teach them all about guns and gun safety. Right now, that was the furthest thing from his mind.
Jack made his way to the front room, hefted the satisfying weight of the gun into his left hand, and pushed the intercom button.
"Who are you and what the hell do you want?"
"Jack, op'n th' door."
". . . Don?"
"Yeah. Lemme in. Some people are s'ppose t'freeze."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Jack demanded as he opened the door. The scientist and the test pilot started talking over each other.
"Don't you get it? Isn' it clear. . ."
"Oh, man, you reek of booze. . . "
". . . there can be no future without freezing. . ."
". . . Did you drink that whole bottle. . ."
". . . we're going to unmake the future!"
". . . You're out of your tree! I nearly shot you. What's the big idea, scaring my family like that in the middle of the damn night? Wilma thought you were trying to break in."
"Didn't you hear me? We're destroying tommorow! Some people need to freeze!"
"You're drunk. And not just regular drunk, either. You're, like, stark raving [censored]-faced. Go home, sober up. We can talk in the morning."
"No, no, no. . . There won't be a morning, Jack! Not unless somebody freezes. It's all so clear now."
"Don't move," Jack said with a resigned sigh. He walked back into the bedroom where Wilma had managed to rock the baby back to sleep. She was just placing their newest child back in the crib when he entered. He scooped up a pair of pants and pulled them on.
"Is everything ok? Who was it?"
"Eh. It's Don Baker. One of the research guys," Jack replied quietly as he fastened his belt, "He's totally smashed. Not suprised. He's been takin' the test weirdness pretty hard. Like it's personal for him or something. I'll take him walking around for a bit, let him rant for a while. Sober up. Whatever. I'm tellin' you, babe, after that dang test, and now this nut-job, I'm seriously thinking I might just go back in the army. It's probably safer."
Wilma nodded as Jack left the room. What kind of company was he working for if being in the army seemed safer than test piloting under controlled conditions?
"What the . . .?!" Jack said from the other room.
"What is it, honey?" she asked. Wilma peeked her head into the hallway, then pulled on a robe over her nightgown and inched towards the living room. Jack was shutting the door when Wilma caught sight of him.
"He's gone. Just up and left."
"Come back to bed, then."
"Yes, ma'am!"
~~~
Matthew Redgrave had given up on sleep long ago. Since his cybernetic implants allowed him to manually control every aspect of his body functions, he could gain all the regenerative benefits of sleep without actually surrenduring consciousness. He was never really fond of the idea of wasting a few hours each day to do nothing anyway. Doubly so now that he needed to constantly monitor his own biometrics.
After business hours he did, however, retire to his personal chamber. It was not particularly large, nor was it appointed with any sort of luxury. It was just a dimly lit, windowless room with a large leather chair in the center. Matthew would sit upon the chair, and hook all manner of jacks and cables into various ports on his robotic arm and neck. Then he would be The CyberDyne Corporation.
He could read each and every bit of information stored anywhere in a CyberDyne computer, see and hear through any camera in the building. And, of course, he could squeeze himself out through one tiny port in the company firewall that only he knew about. Then he would be free to roam the internet, to find his way into anything that was stored there.
In this way Redgrave conducted his industrial espionage personally, and left no paper trail. His business was hailed as an example of modern business ethics. If only they knew!
Then something odd caught his attention. He slipped back through his little port and closed it fast. Someone had used their ID at a non-standard time. All the CyberDyne ID cards were 'smart' cards, they kept track of the comings and goings of their holders, and determined the patterns they were in. If a users ID scan deviated from it's pattern by a certain percentage it sent a red flag up the system.
Redgrave accessed the cameras in that sector; Prototype Storage. It was a strictly secure area, so all his interest was suddenly focused very sharply indeed.
~~~
Don still wasn't quite sober when he slid open the panel that contained the AISCONIX: Blue-suit. It was, as the name implied, a bright blue enviro-suit. The thing was quite bulky. After all, it did need to properly insulate the wearer from temperatures so cold that they would be instantly fatal to any living thing.
His ID, to his suprise, was of sufficient clearance level to access the suit. He thought for sure that they'd have re-coded the ID's by now to keep things like this from happening. Can't let the mighty jusrisdictional boundries be traipsed upon, after all! He opened up his laptop and shuffled through the case for the cable to download the master file database, and put an end to this mystery once and for all.
It wasn't there.
"Oh, come on! You've got to be kidding!" he barked. If this stunt didn't work he just knew he would get fired. Probably go to jail, too. If he didn't get the files he needed then all was lost.
Dr. Baker fumbled around in the case, then just poured it out on the ground and dug through all the attachments and wires.
"No, no! It's got to be here!"
He could hear the sound of the cameras turning to watch him.
"Oh no! What am I going to do?"
An alarm sounded.
"Crap!"
He had to hide, but where?!
"Cold room," he said, "They can't follow me in there!"
Don tried to lift the Blue-suit off the rack, but it was too heavy. Then he remembered the release. A tremblng hand jammed down on large button, and he stretched his body out to reach the distant lever and pul it down. The Blue-suit was lowered to the ground. Don mashed in the code for the airlock to cycle before he hurriedly pulled on the suit. It was too heavy to lift, so he slid himself into it on the floor.
The airlock door pulled open with a hiss. Armed guards sped into the chamber, weapons drawn, as Don pulled on the helmet. He felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck and the strange sensation of sudden pressurization struck him in the ears. It made the world spin.
"Stop right there!" a guard ordered.
A message flashed across the visor. Please look up.
It was the new pilot neural interface program. It was mapping his brain functions. It was designed to enable the pilot to operate the Blue-suit effortlessly. It seemed like an awful lot of effort at the moment! The guards advanced on the suit as Don went through a very long series of basic commands. Look Down. Look Left. Look Right. Flex Right Hand. Bend Left Knee.
"Right arm green! For goodness sake," Don sputtered as the security personelle began nudging the suit with their batons. The speakers weren't transmitting, so it was doubtful they could hear anything he said.
Interface Initiation Cycle Complete, the visor displayed, Do you wish to proceed?
"Yes, yes, proceed," Don called out.
The Blue-suit powered up. Don felt a rush of coolness wash over his body. It must have been the BTU converters kicking on. Suddenly he was half sitting up, his weight supported on his arms. He could see the information on the visor, but he could also see the guards in front of him. And the airlock behind him. There was no optic display on the suit, it could send information directly to the brain!
His brain told the suit to scuttle back into the airlock. He didn't waste time standing up.
"Come out of there," a guard said forcefully.
Don wasn't listening. One fist quickly smashed the inner airlock cycle closed, and the heavy doors slid closed. Inner doors ground open a moment later, and he scampered inside. It didn't occur to him until that very moment that he had just trapped himself in a sealed room!
((Right. I wrote some stuff. There's not a whole lot of action, it's mostly character development. So if you want to read something exciting this is probably not for you. Anyone not afraid of character driven narrative might enjoy this story. In fact, I hope they do. Please send comments/criticisms to me in PM form. If anyone is remotely interested I might just force the rest of you to endure more of this.
))
PART 1.
------
". . ."
">beep< Ok, The voice recorder is running now. Check your mic for me again."
"Test?"
"Gotcha. Sounds great. Looks good on the levels, too."
"Alright."
"Ok, the airlock is fully cycled and we're about to proceed with the Artificially Intelligent Servo-Computer Operated Neural Interface Experimental Cryo-Protection Suit (AISCONIX: Blue-Suit), manned test number one. Temperature in the test area is currently 73 degrees Kelvin, verified by the test pilot."
"Confirmed at 73 Kelvin."
"So now let's open up the airlock. For safety reasons this test will be conducted for three minutes, with the airlock being cycled out for two minutes to prevent temperature contamination from outside."
"Entering test area."
"Looking good so far. How's it feeling in there?"
"Toasty as a bug in a rug."
"That's good news. Go ahead to the simulated break point and begin repair procedure on the. . . Well this isn't right."
"I don't like the way that sounds."
"Don't worry. It's just an anomalous reading. Nothing to worry about yet."
"Alright. Did you double check the intrumentation?"
"Triple checked, yeah."
"Are you sure the reader isn't just faulty? Can you verify the reading through an alternate source? And how's the AI acting, my head feels funny."
"Working on it. . . No, the reading is definitely on target, and there's no AI activity outside safety parameters. We're just trying to figure this variable out here. . ."
"Which variable is it? Is it too high? Too low? What? I'm getting dizzy! What's going on?"
"That's just from your elevated respiration. Remember, you're in a sealed suit, it can only cycle oxygen so fast. Calm down and take deep slow breaths."
"I'm not exactly feeling secure in this blue-suit knowing it's minus two hundred celcius in here and the readers are going wacky."
"I told you it's nothing to worry about. You're gonna need to relax for me just a little bit. Your heart rate is looking a little too quick, buddy."
"How the hell am I supposed to relax? You just told me something's not right. Get me outta here! I got kids, man. Release the airlock! I'll go back in once everything's ironed out, but I just don't feel comfortable in here if you're not going to tell me what's what."
"Calm down! The test is being aborted as we speak. It's just going to take a minute to cycle the airlock, so you're going to have to sit tight in the mean time."
"Screw you! What's happening to me?!"
"Nothing! Alright? Here's the deal. The suit is running at 107% power transfer efficiency."
". . ."
"Did you copy?"
"That's what you had me all freaked out about?! The damn thing is working -better- than it's supposed to?! Oh, you're an [censored]. I'm sending you the cleaning bill for this suit, man."
"No, you don't understand. The power transfer efficiency is supposed to, by definition, cap out at 100%. That would mean that all your emmited body heat is being used to power the suit."
"So what's it mean if it's higher?"
"I'm not sure. Anyway, the airlock is released. Get yourself out of there. I'll see if I can figure out what went wrong with the PTE, and what it might mean."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The playback ended for what must have been the hundreth time.
Dr. Don Baker leaned over the sink and splashed cool water on his face. HIs palms dug into the sides of his head, trying to rub out the tension, frustration, and confusion. Everything had been going so well with the blue-suit test! Except for the blasted PTE readings! After two days of diagnostic testing so intense that the system was practically taken apart and re-assembled it was concluded that the reading had to be accurate.
"One-hundred-seven bloody percent. . . " Don grumbled into the mirror. He was pale looking, probably from having gone for the last several days with little or no sleep. His beard was starting to look very scruffy indeed, as shaving had fallen to the wayside along with eating. He had been racking his brain for an answer to the test riddle, and had only come up with three possibilities.
One; that the suit was not just sustaining itself off the test pilot's body heat but actually siphoning it off. Of course, that wasn't possible since they were monitoring his core temperature and it didn't drop in the slightest.
Two; The pilot was a mutant, and somehow his body was generating more heat in response to the energy of the suit. That was impossible too. Genetic screening on test pilots was vital to accurately control experiments, and it was extremely thorough.
Or Three; The transfer rate really -was- operating above maximum efficiency. Blue-suit's AI had somehow actually been able to magnify the energy of the pilot's normal BTU output. Both Ockham's Razor and Sherlock Holmes Rule of Deduction pointed at this as the solution, but how on earth was it possible?
Dr. Baker made his way back to the computer as he toweled off his hands and face. With a swift move of the mouse and a single click he restarted the audio file. Again. Maybe this time he would pick up some clue that he had missed in his dozens of previous attempts.
By now he had become numb to the way that the sound of his own voice was so drastically different on tape from how it sounded to him. He didn't even recognize it as him at all anymore, nor the test pilots voice as his. He listened to the recording in the same detached fashion that one listens to a song that has been on the radio far too often. Don could recite along with every word and phrase, every cadence and inflection, and each miscellaneous sound and subtle nuance in the background.
He sat heavily in his office chair and leaned far back. His feet pushed against the floor, and he spun himself in lazy circles as he reviewed the recording yet again.
"It's got to be the AI," he groaned, "I've got to get a look at Blue-suit's master file database. It'll have the records of everything that it did over the course of those minutes. But those frikken techs still won't let me anywhere near it! The lack of inter-departmental cooperation on this project sucks!"
Project: Second Skin. It was being financed by some big para-military group. The rigamarole they put everyone through was ridiculous. ID's and retinal scans and fingerprint scans were all fine and dandy, but the daily x-rays had to be bad for your health.
They had very rigidly compartmentalized people working on different aspects of the project. Supposedly, it was to safeguard their secrets. If something leaked they'd be able to instantly know down to a handful of people who had access to the information. Unfortunately, that meant diagnosing a problem with the test model, which fell into three seperate jurisdictions, was damn near impossible.
"Wait a minute," Baker thought, "I know how I can access those files!"
He snatched up his laptop case and hurried out of the room.