A Puppet’s Soul

By Joseph Swope

SPRING 2005 EXCEPTIONAL SHORT STORY CONTEST WINNER - SECOND PLACE

Through her designer glasses, Dr. Elizabeth Lightfeld watched the monitors with clinical calm. No observers, especially her few superiors and many subordinates, would see any sign of the rush of excitement she felt. Years of planning and working had led her to this moment.

She allowed herself no show of triumph. With a flick of her black pumps, she sent herself spinning in the standard issue office chair. Once around was enough; lest someone see her. It would not do to have anyone think of her in any way but the image she had carefully crafted. Even something as slight as having someone watch her in a harmlessly embarrassing moment could be used against her.

She had worked for years to prevent any such thing. Avoiding giving away leverage while gaining leverage against others went hand in hand with the project that was just now beginning to wake. It was amazing to her that no one else had the imagination to foresee what this project would mean.

As she got up from the barely padded chair, she quickly checked her reflection in the glare of the computer monitor. The rhythmic sound of her heels on the polished tile masked her need to rush through the sterile government facility.

The project, in fact everything, was really about power. She had been a student of power since she was a young girl. The lessons of power or the lack of it were painfully and repeatedly taught to her by her older brother. Countless times, he had used the advantage of his age and strength to torment her. It might have been a simple game to him. She had, since then, read countless stories of sibling rivalry. But, she believed that her brother enjoyed tormenting her. It wasn't that he wanted to cause her harm necessarily; it was that he simply enjoyed using his power over her.

It didn't take her precocious mind long to find ways to stop him from exerting his will over him. The flip side of that discovery was that she could then exert her will over her brother.

From her brother to her classmates, her knowledge of leverage over others grew quickly and more importantly unnoticed. It would not do to have her teachers and parents know how she read Machiavelli while other girls read books about ponies.

As she had grown, she had learned other levers to get what she wanted. Along with her intelligence that she hid, came a stunning body and an innocent face that were very versatile tools. Even now, her lab coat was a bit too tight around the bust. It was a standard lab coat, given to her when she began to work at this place of secrets. No one would guess that she had the buttons moved a bit by her drycleaner. It was a subtle change, but the all-male staff with whom she worked definitely noticed it.

To counter any extreme notions of her femininity, she made sure they knew she had paid her dues. It was only after her time in the Marine Corps that she had attended Princeton. Physically, the paunchy, over-educated doctors knew she was more than a match was for any of them was. Her extreme training in martial arts gave her advantages that few could match. Still, there were too many who could scoff at her physical abilities. Men. Always her instructors and sparring partners could beat her with ease. If she had more skill or more endurance, they would simply use their strength to hit her harder or throw her around.

She had money, looks, and education that would make most three times envious. Still, she felt like she was a mugging victim waiting to happen. The more she learned about power, the more ways she discovered she was vulnerable.

That was why what awaited her in the hospital cell made her jittery with anticipation. It was more than a lottery jackpot. Money could bring some power, but power could bring money and more. In the end, there was nothing else. Power. It was with that thought that she exited her dimly lit office and headed to claim her prize.

#

The fog of sleep was gradually replaced with a disturbing haze of confusion. His emotions cried out for reassurance as his mind desperately sought to soothe his increasing fear. Without lifting his head, he looked around.

The room was practically bare. The walls and floor were dull steel that diffused the stark florescent light from above. He turned his head from side to side, to gather more information. The back of his head rubbed against the canvas cot that held him.

As, he did so, disturbing information flooded his mind and filled his soul with icy dread. Not from the views provided by turning his head but rather from the strange feeling he received from the back of his head. There was too much feeling. He had no hair. Worse than that was the awkward stump of something metal jutting from his head.

He lifted his hand to confirm his fear. It wasn't a quick motion, though it was driven by fear. It was a slow motion, hampered by exhaustion. With trepidation he felt in his gut, he gently felt the once inch ridge of metal and plastic that was protruding from the top of his head. The skin around it felt raw. Whatever it was, had to have been inserted recently. As he explored, his fingers found with horror, that it spanned his head from ear to ear in a perpendicular mohawk.

He let his hand drop back to his side in despair. It landed listlessly on the green fabric of the cot. Thoughts and fragments of thoughts swarmed in his mind. Despite his exhaustion and the probable residue of sedatives, his disciplined mind made order from chaos.

A small shudder of fear rippled through him as he focused on what he truly needed to know. How helpless was he and how could he free himself of this room. A part of his mind wondered if whether he was simply assuming being in the room was bad. He did not know and not knowing was always a cause of fear. His ordered mind warned against acting from fear, but fear had kept him alive before.

With an effort that almost sent him back to unconsciousness, he lifted himself to one elbow. Waves of dizziness threatened to knock him back to the cot. He gripped the edge of the aluminum frame and forced himself to a sitting position. Flashes of pain exploded in his head. With a white knuckled grip and iron determination, he remained sitting. Nausea assailed him at the same moment his gaze drifted across the steel toilet across the room.

With deep breaths and well-practiced thoughts of relaxation, he quieted the pain. Nausea receded into the depths of his gut. His body was secondary.

His mind was primary. It was his tool, his weapon. With a stable platform and a calm background, he focused his thoughts. He found the part of his mind that existed just before he moved or thought voluntarily. It was the part that allowed him to do, to move, to be more than a vegetable. Without it he wouldn't have existed. It was his will.

Most took it for granted that the mind and the body were permanently intertwined. He had learned differently. His thoughts could be directed down a path that was different than that which led to his body or other areas of his mind. It led outside of his mind and even his body. He could focus his will, his thoughts on anything he wanted. The term for his ability was telekinesis.

He went down the mental path to find his power. It wasn't easy. Perhaps it was the drugs that might still be in his system. Perhaps it was the metal intruder that jutted obscenely from his skull, but something was blocking him. He could not push his will into the outside world.

Desperately, he tested his failure. He concentrated and formed his thoughts into a golf-ball-sized sphere in front of his chest. Tentatively, he waved his hand through the area. Nothing. No invisible ball could be found. Nothing, not even the slightest resistance that would tell him he was affecting something. Without his mind, he was helpless.

An electronic whir stirred him from his morose thoughts. The featureless door slid into the wall with mechanical precision. A woman in a white lab coat stepped through the door.

"Mr. Patrick Calhoun?" She had a smile that did nothing to comfort his fear. Despite the hint of sexuality her legs and shoes gave, he knew she was all business.

He did nothing to respond.

"I am Dr. Lightfeld. I am here to answer questions as well as to ask some." Again, she impatiently gave a smile that barely held a wave of aggression. Her arms were folded across her chest and held a dull metallic laptop. With practiced ease she opened it and pressed a button. Another electronic whir accompanied a chair that slowly swung down from the wall.

As she sat, he could get a better view of her. Definitely attractive. Beautiful even, but in the way a frigid vista of a glacier was beautiful. Her long legs extended out in a way that let him know she was completely comfortable. Her thin glasses hung on her nose as she ignored him and focused on the computer. After what were enough moments to shake even his confidence, she looked up.

"Now we can begin." There was no trace of a smile. "Mr. Calhoun, you possess certain abilities that are of interest to all who know of them. I know of them. Therefore, I am interested in them. Extremely interested in them." She paused.

He knew enough to know she paused for effect, drawing out his discomfort at not knowing. Though he knew what she was trying to do, he could not ignore its effectiveness. He wanted to know. Knowledge was power and he had neither.

"Mr. Calhoun, this computer is a rather complex transmitter. It can send an almost infinite number of signals. You might learn to appreciate how complex it truly is. The receiver is attached to your skull. It has an almost uncountable number of connections to parts of your brain."

With mental discipline he had learned through years of intimate working with hidden parts of his mind, he successfully hid the flash of panic her words evoked.

"You see, from the top of the head and moving down towards each ear are the sensory strip and the motor strip. Every time you feel something or move something a group of nerves in those areas fire. It leads to a truly an interesting question."

Again, she paused. She was savoring the delicious position of power.

"You see, do people have thoughts because their nerves fire or do nerves fire because people have thoughts? You are going to help me answer that question." Her smugness was another manifestation of her power. She wielded it like a whip.

His groggy mind had come to a course of action whose failure would leave him no worse. Its success might provide an avenue of escape. Slowly, with feigned clumsiness, he moved his legs into position.

With a lunge that was barely possible given his weakened state, he assailed her. Though his body made it across the cramped room, his attack was clumsy. His hands did not make it to her throat. They were shunted aside and managed only handfuls of lab coat.

After an initial start, Dr. Elizabeth Lightfeld appraised the situation with her customary clinical coolness. With her left hand she grabbed the man's right and twisted. At the same time, she dug her thumb in between the ribs on his left side. It was a simple move. Patrick Calhoun's body had no choice but to roll off her and land painfully on the floor.

"Mr. Calhoun, we have work to do. This is not helping. I hope you will take me at my word when I say you are powerless in this situation. Please return to your bed and I will demonstrate."

Patrick Calhoun lay on the cold metal floor for a few moments. The shock he had felt at being thrown was quickly replaced by burning humiliation. He knew he should be beyond it, but the woman was attractive. It wasn't simply the ease with which she handled him, it was her confidence. Rage burned inside of him, but he realized that until he had more information, she was right. He was powerless.

He returned to his bunk and stared at her. He sealed his anger inside one of the many rooms of his mind and waited for her to speak. It didn't take long for her to being anew.

"You see, the question of where the mind stops and the brain begins has long plagued mankind. You, I think, are my key to answering the question. Your mind has found a way to turn your thoughts into matter. Oh, I know that you would like nothing better than to insert your thoughts into my chest or maybe form your thoughts into a fist and hit me. I, too, would like that to happen, but, of course, not to me."

Patrick Calhoun allowed himself to blink naturally, but he submerged all emotion into insulated parts of himself. Gloating or not, she was giving him information. It might not be of use, but it was all he had.

"Think Mr. Calhoun, how many desperate people, prisoners, cripples, victims of violence have struggled or even prayed for what you have discovered. It really shouldn't be possible. I understand that thoughts are energy and energy is matter. A simply ounce of radioactive matter can generate tremendous energy, as I'm sure you know. But, your brain should not be capable of generating the amount of energy needed to create matter from the millivolts of your neurons."

He had examined it countless times. He did not know why he could do any more than he knew why his arm would move when he willed it to do so.

"It doesn't look like you plan on being cooperative with me, so let me show how this machine and the devices in your head work." After only a few keystrokes she looked up.

Despite his iron control over his thoughts, he could not help but react to the hand that suddenly gripped his left ankle. It seemed to be coated with a glove of sharp pins. He slapped his own hand on his ankle and quickly looked under the bunk. There was nothing.

"Ah, it works." It was the first semblance of true emotion he had seen from her. It did not reassure him. Instantly, he began to understand the peril that faced him.

Several large waves of thoughts and emotions crashed upon him. He knew they warred across his face. He knew she enjoyed watching him absorb what it all meant. Even for pride's sake he could not hide his fear.

"Unfortunately for you, there is much testing to be done. It will no doubt be unpleasant. I would by lying, though, if I said I wasn't looking forward to it. Even in your position, you can see the medical and technological possibilities." Though it might have been phrased as a question, she did not care to hear anything he might say. She continued to ignore him as she typed rhythmically on the instrument that was to cause him untold amounts of despair.

"It was your left ankle that was stimulated, yes? How far up?"

He did not answer. Whether it was from defiance or fear, he did not know.

"No matter, I will soon have this finely calibrated. The less you help, the longer and worse it will be for you."

With that, it began in earnest. His left pinkie toe began to itch. Quickly it turned to a mild burning and then to pain. He tried to resist it. He could see nothing was wrong with it. He knew pain was truly only a thought and all thoughts could be ignored. But, this was too much too fast. He had had no time to prepare.

With a reaction that almost shamed him, he reached down to grab the afflicted toe. Mercifully, the pain evaporated. He sat on the edge of the cot, in a type of pajamas, holding his left foot awkwardly. As quickly as he had snatched it from the floor, he dropped it.

It moved. He had wiggled his toes before. But, this was unnatural. His five left toes each flexed in a different direction. He watched in horror as they continued their gruesome dance on the tiled floor.

The woman's cold voice came again. "My apologies. Too much too soon. You see, I am trying to isolate each muscle of each toe. With a few more clicks of the keyboard it was only his pinkie toe that moved like a worm in the immediate moments after its body had been severed.

Slowly, methodically, she worked her way across first the left foot and then the right. After a few hours, the alternating itch, pain and contractions crept to his knees.

He simply asked. "Why?"

"You have something I want." Was her simple reply.

With that, he realized there was no possibility of mercy, compromise, or bargaining.

"Control of your body is an ancillary benefit. I have not much use for a living breathing puppet. Though interesting, you will require food, waste removal, and general upkeep. That, I do not want."

He again waited for her to continue. Truly explaining to him was of little importance. He interrupted her as the sensations tickled his right thigh.

"So why are you doing this to my body?" He said through clenched teeth as his quadriceps flexed themselves into a rock hard coal of agony.

"Your body is expendable. A free trial, if you will. With this program, I am mapping some of your neural pathways. Soon, I will be able to combine several individual sensations into a larger complex one. I expect, in a few days, that I will have you walking about. All from the little pain you are about to feel in your hamstring. Then we will move onto your mind itself. I think with time, we can find the root of your telekinetic ability."

"Please make it stop." He was surprised and embarrassed at his plea.

"No." She said with all of the empathy of the computer she balanced on her skirt. "But, we will break for a few minutes."

With a few clicks, he heard another whir. From the wall an unpolished stainless steel toilet swung into position.

"Quickly" she commanded quietly and ruthlessly. "Use the facilities. We will soon be getting into more delicate areas and I do not want to work in filth."

Each time he thought he understood the depths of his position, he fell to new lows. In an effort to gain some of his self back, he refused.

Without a word, she clicked a few keystrokes, and his legs erupted in fire. White hot lightening streaked up and down. Though his eyes were screwed shut in agony, he knew nothing was wrong with them, but he could not block out the pain. Then, it was over.

"Now relieve yourself quickly." There was no emotion in her voice. Only a calm certainty.

Despite the weakness in his tortured legs, he hastened to get to the toilet. The fear of future pain outweighed his humiliation at having to perform in front of her. With deep shame he untied the draw string and sat down on the cold seat.

Relaxation of the necessary muscles would not come. He did not want to look at her and admit that he could not go.

After a few moments of humiliation, he again heard the tell-tale clicking that preceded something unpleasant.

"Let us see if this works." She said to herself and her laptop.

Immediately he felt himself release his wastes. That was even more humiliating than not being able to go. It hammered home the point that she controlled his body. With his increasing understanding, he realized his mind would not be far behind.

She looked up pleased. "Good. Now return to you cot unless you would like to continue on the toilet."

He pulled up his pants though he realized that it was a ridiculous gesture. Still he felt better with the thin layer of fabric covering himself.

"I think we now have an understanding of our work ahead of us. I know you hate this. You believe it is in your interest to thwart this. At this point it is not. First, a team of very special doctors who were schooled and paid in secret installed the actuator in your skull. Unfortunately, some have had accidents. Some will have accidents next week. There will be no one left on this earth with enough skill to remove it from you. Secondly, you do not know if I have programmed it with a failsafe. If I do not enter a password at a certain interval, something more than unpleasant might happen to your body and might continue to happen for hours, days or even weeks."

He struggled to find his center. He had endured pain before. He had ignored everything but his thoughts before, but this was different. Each time he felt as though he got his head above water, she threw another brick at him. He needed time. Surely she could not continue this without going home, or eating or something. A spark of hope began to glow.

"Now, I do have other responsibilities aside from you and this project. You have been through a lot and I want you to sleep. I understand that you might not be able to. I also understand that you might not want to. So I would like you to swallow this."

She pulled a rather large pill from the left pocket of her lab coat. "This will ensure that you sleep until I am ready for you."

His mind raced. He needed time to think. Outright refusal was pointless. The memory of the toilet was still flashing in his mind.

"I would like to try something that I think you will not hate so much. Nerves can transmit all types of sensations. Pain as well as pleasure.&"

With her clicks came a warmth that spread throughout his body. The warmth deepened. It did not become hot, but rather became fuller, more comfortable. He felt the muscles in his neck and back release. He face became slack. Despite the circumstances, he could not help but smile like a junkie who feels the first tingles of the hit in his blood. All traces of earlier pain were erased.

"I see you like this."

He did not respond. He did not care. He wanted to flop down onto his cut but he didn't want to disturb the feeling. His stomach felt pleasantly full, his muscles, even his skin felt warm and alive. As good as he felt, he began to notice a whole new level of pleasure evolving. Inside the thin pajama bottoms a wave of ecstasy was building.

He tried to fight it. It was not right. But, he could no more fight it than a starving man could resist a gourmet feast. The wave of rapture rose. It was much more than a sexual response. It was an inferno to the candle most knew sex as. He stopped thinking as he had during the waves of agony. He gave himself over to his body.

All at once it stopped. "Now Mr. Calhoun, would you like that to continue? Please swallow this pill."

He did not know how long it had lasted. Speaking, even thinking seemed to be too much effort. All that mattered was returning to the sublime feeling of pleasure. He reached out a shaky hand and grabbed the pill. Greedily, he shoved it in his mouth and swallowed.

Expectant eyes of a desperate man looked up at her. They held nothing of value to her. "Until next time then." Efficiently and crisply, stood up and exited the room. She left with the laptop. In it, he realized, was his body and soul..

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Joseph Swope is a Real Estate professional who has only recently experimented with writing. He has a BA in psychology and a MA in education from liberal arts colleges around the Washington, D.C. area. He lives in rural Maryland and has enough children to know that Barney videos can cause severe personality disorders in parents. He is a voracious reader who now realizes writing a story is much more cool than reading one. He will soon write a macabre tragedy involving literary agents, a pleasure yacht, a 3-hour tour, a storm, and being stranded on an island with nothing to read.