Floor 21- Dark Angel Page 22

  Tommy frowns. “Why don’t we have that for use in the field?”

  “Do you realize how weak magnets are in most cases? The power we’re drawing upon in the lab to apply these deflective fields would drain conventional energy sources in seconds.”

  “Again, whatever you say, doc,” he says as he switches out his gun for the rifle. “So, she’s going to be safe even when I’m firing this thing at her?”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out, now isn’t it?”

  Tommy looks more than exasperated as he points the rifle down range. This time, the kid’s a little less hesitant to pull the trigger, and soon he’s unloading a full magazine that takes maybe a few seconds to empty. Every shot just goes bouncing off of Jackie’s body. The whole time, she’s still standing there, smiling. When he’s done, she walks back toward us. “Didn’t I say that the armor’s bullet proof?”

  Watson waves his finger. “Not entirely true. It’s resistant to some types of firepower, yes, and at certain ranges. Larger caliber rounds can penetrate the armor.”

  “I know. I was joking. I mean, I’m the one who’s actually been wearing this out there.”

  Dodger shakes her head. “Wait. So your armor’s been punctured before?”

  She looks at her friend. “Mm hm. A couple of times.”

  “I don’t see any damage. Did you repair it, or replace it, or . . . ?”

  “It healed.”

  “What the what?”

  Watson turns over his shoulder to look at Dodger. “The armor’s self-healing, much like the human body. Once it detects damage, it draws on materials stored in Pocket Space to begin the repair process. Of course, given the fine electrical components that are a part of the suit, the repairs can take an extensive amount of time when the damage is overwhelming.”

  Jackie nods. “Well, let’s just say that I’m happy it never got that bad.”

  “Ah, do you mind if I inject you with something for the next phase of testing? Nothing intrusive, just some nanobots that will let me monitor your vital signs during your stress testing. They’ll, ah, ‘flush’ directly out of your system during your next, hm, your next visit to the facilities.”

  “You mean the next time I go to the bathroom?”

  “Precisely,” he says with a wink before raising an injector. “Delivered right through the skin, of course.”

  “Sure, why not?” she says with a tap at her wrist, her armored gauntlet and the jumpsuit underneath vanishing in a second. With her arm exposed, the doc pushes the injector to her skin, and we all listen to the release of the spray as it’s delivered into her blood stream. A second later, blue light passes over her arm, and her gauntlet’s back in place. The doc taps at the injector.

  “The nanobots are being delivered in a neutral solution. No harm done.”

  “Hey, if Tommy trusts you, then I trust you.”

  “Yes, well, please feel free to step over to the weights,” he says with a wave toward that machine that’s sitting in the middle of the room. There’s some sort of overhead hydraulic piston hanging from the ceiling, plus a bunch of plated weights being held up by the machine’s arms. “The device will automatically load weight as we test your upper strength limits.”

  “I get it.” She says it like it’s nothing before standing inside the machine. For a second, she runs her arm over the long bar in the center. “So, do you want me to lift this first?”

  Watson waves absentmindedly at her while he’s tapping at the computer keyboards. “Yes, yes, whichever you prefer. I’d like to start with a squatted lift. Do you know how to do one?”

  “Well, yeah? Squat down and lift the weight on your back and shoulders.”

  “Precisely what I need you to do.”

  Jackie shrugs as she ducks down and tucks the bar behind her shoulders, her hands clutching the grips. “You said the machine’s going to load the weight?”

  “Doing . . . so . . . now.” We all watch as the machine’s arms unload two plates and slides them onto the bar, which is still locked in place to the machine. “The average, untrained female can squat anywhere between 75 to 100 pounds of weight. When the clamps release, it will be entirely up to you to carry the weight. Are you ready?”

  “Can we just start?” She looks bored as the clamps release and leave her standing there, holding the weight on her shoulders. It’s nothing too impressive to watch as she dips low and then stands up straight. The weight doesn’t even seem to bother her. “To be honest, I probably could have lifted that when I was 16 and playing baseball back in the Tower.”

  Watson looks up from his monitors. “It’s merely a baseline, Jackie.” The clamps on the machine wrap around the bar and secure it even with Jackie still holding on. “Now, the next set of weights is the average weight squatted by a relatively athletic and trained female. 150 pounds. Are you ready?”

  “As much as I was when we started.” Again, the clamps release, and Jackie’s left standing there for a moment. She bends to her knees, comes back to a standing position, and lets the bar lock into place. “You’re going to have to go a lot heavier, doc.”

  “Yes, your biotelemetric readings indicate you’re not remotely close to exerting yourself. Spectacular. Let’s accelerate, shall we? At 250 pounds, this is the weight we’d expect a relatively trained male to be able to lift.”

  “That’s too low.”

  He glances over at her. “What’s that now?”

  “I mean . . . have you seen what I can do?”

  Watson stares at her for a second, stuck somewhere between a smile and a stare. “Very well, then. Let’s try something a professionally dedicated male would lift. Some 600 pounds, perhaps?”

  Tommy glances over at the doctor. “Doc, I can’t even lift 600 pounds. I’m not sure I could ever lift that much”

  “Yes, well, you’ve never torn the roof off of a tank with your bare hands either, have you?”

  Tommy shakes his head as he looks back at Jackie. Multiple plates are loaded onto the bar, the clamps release, and Jackie takes her dip. She’s back up in a second and loading the bar back in place. “Do your computers tell you I’m not even sweating yet?”

  Watson’s eyes are glued to the monitors. “Jackie, the weight you just now squatted . . . Most men in their wildest dreams will never be able to lift it, let alone do so without exerting themselves.”

  “So, heavier?”

  He nods. “1,300 pounds.”

  Now it’s Martin that looks over at him. “Watson.”

  Jackie interrupts. “It’s fine. Really.” Then she grabs hold of the bar again. “Give it to me, doc.” We watch as rows of weights as long as my torso are loaded onto the ends of the bar, and I can actually hear everyone holding their breath as the clamps release. But, again, Jackie just walks forward, finishes off the squat, then puts the weights back on the clamps. Everyone releases a breath while she’s standing there, looking like she wants to laugh at us. “Did . . . did you guys think that was supposed to be heavy?”

  Watson’s not smiling anymore. “That’s all the weight we can safely load onto the bar. If you’ll examine the piston above you, it’s meant to apply downward pressure so that we can determine the exact amount you’re capable of holding up.”

  “Cool,” she says as she raises her hands and locks her fingers around the edges of the piston. “So, this thing’s just going to push down?”

  “Applying force until your biotelemetrics indicate we should stop.”

  “Why didn’t we just start with this?”

  The doc shakes his head. “I needed to be sure it was justified. This is an experiment, not an assassination attempt.” His fingers tap at a keyboard for a few seconds before he looks up. “Applying pressure now.” We all listen as a whining noise fills the room, followed by a hum. I can tell by looking at the piston over Jackie’s head that it’s trying to push downward. Watson keeps looking up at her then back down at his computer as he talks to her. “You’re currently holding up the equivalent
of fifty pounds of weight.”

  “I can’t even tell it’s pushing.”

  “Oh, you will.” After that, the humming starts to get louder. “100 pounds of weight.”

  “Still can’t feel it.”

  “We’re going to move to your squatting weight slowly before ramping up.”

  “I mean, that’s fine and all, but I’m just telling you that I can’t feel it.”

  “500 pounds of weight.”

  “Can’t feel it.”

  “800 pounds of weight.”

  “Okay?”

  “1,000 pounds of weight.”

  Mike’s shifting around, trying to play it off but completely unable to hide just how uncomfortable he looks. “I mean, this is cool. Nothing she didn’t just show us she can do already.”

  Watson ignores him. “1,500 pounds of weight.”

  Jackie doesn’t look like she’s even straining. “Anytime you’re ready to get started, doc.”

  The doctor just shakes his head. “1,800 pounds of weight . . . 2,000 pounds of weight . . . 2,200 pounds of weight . . .”

  Martin’s staring at the piston, and he’s seeing the same thing I am. The whole thing’s shaking. His hand’s covering his mouth as he watches, but I can hear him mumbling. “She’s holding up one ton of weight . . . like it’s nothing.”

  Watson taps at the computer. “Jackie, we’re going to start ramping up more frequently now. The minute you feel like you’re straining, please inform me. I will, of course, be keeping an eye on your biotelemetrics.”

  She actually shrugs while she’s holding the piston up. “Yeah. Okay.”

  “3,000 pounds of weight . . . 5,000 pounds of weight . . . Jackie, we’re accelerating quickly now. Reaching 10,000 pounds of downward pressure. You’re currently holding up the equivalent of three cars.”

  “I feel like I used to feel when I held a box of groceries or something.”

  “You . . . you believe you can hold up more?”

  “Oh, I know I can hold up more. No problem.”

  “Increasing pressure to 15,000 pounds . . . 20,000 pounds . . . Jackie, you’re not feeling any strain?”

  “Well, I am now, a little. It’s like holding a bunch of books over my head.”

  Martin looks over at the doc. “How much pressure does this machine of yours apply?”

  “Far more than I’m willing to test. However, her biotelemetrics confirm what she’s saying. There’s only mild strain in her arms and legs. If you held a 20-pound weight over your head, you’d be straining yourself less than she is right now.”

  Jackie looks over at the doc. “Can we keep going now?”

  “Ah, yes, of course. We’re past 30,000 pounds now, which is heavier than some of the military transport vehicles used by the militia. We could ask you to lift a metal floorboard with ten people aboard the top, and you’d be able to move them about like a vehicle.”

  “A little awkward though.”

  He ignores her. “35,000 pounds . . . 40,000 pounds . . . Jackie, I’m starting to see signs of strain in your muscles. How are you feeling?”

  “It’s starting to get heavy, but I can hold up more.”

  I can hear Tommy whisper next to me, “Jackie . . . how strong are you?”

  Somehow, she hears it. “Honestly? I don’t actually know.”

  Watson interrupts. “Just a little more weight. 45,000 pounds . . . 50,000 pounds . . . Jackie?”

  For the first time, I can see a bead of sweat roll down under her helmet. She smiles. “I think that’s starting to get pretty heavy.”

  “It should be. You’re holding up 25 tons of weight, or the equivalent of a small tank, in your hands. How long do you think you can sustain it?”

  “A few minutes,” she says as she exhales. She’s starting to suck wind as she’s standing there. “Honestly, it feels . . . kind of good. I haven’t felt like I’ve really worked out in a while.”

  “Yes, well, endurance beyond any human understanding and the strength to lift a military vehicle over your head would make it hard to find a suitable, stressful work routine.” His eyes flicker down at the screens. “Alright, Jackie, I’m releasing the pressure from the press now.”

  She nods, and we all hear the sound of the piston as it withdraws back up into the machine. When Jackie lets go, it takes her a second to recover. She’s flapping her arms like she’s trying to get feeling back into them. “Wow. That was pretty insane.”

  Martin looks over at the doctor. “How good did she do, doctor?”

  Watson’s eyes are still on the computer screen. “Good is a subjective, qualitative judgement. Your definition of good may very well prove to be vastly different than mine.”

  “Alright then, how much more pressure could the machine have put out? How much did she hold up compared to what the piston can do?”

  “A better question than your first. Jackie was able to hold up against about twenty percent of the machine’s maximum output.” He looks up and over to us. “I’d wager there aren’t any other of you who’d like to attempt similar?”

  I laugh at the idea as I adjust my uniform. “No thanks, doctor. Nobody’s saying that. We’re just trying to figure out what she can actually do.”

  “She can lift some of your heaviest vehicles off the ground and still have enough strength to throw them. To put it simply, if I were a betting man, I’d rather bet on the team with her on it than the one without.”

  “So would I. Just as a quick recap, she’s not only bullet proof, but she’s stronger than anyone else on the planet.”

  That statement makes even the smallest trace of a smile on the doc’s face vanish. “I said no such thing. Do not put words into my mouth.”

  It doesn’t take me off guard since I’m already used to his outbursts. “Calm it down there, doc. I’m just trying to see if I have my mind wrapped around what she can do.”

  “The smaller rounds we used against her armor are ineffective from almost any distance. Up close, rifle fire potentially can cause damage, particularly larger rounds, such as the large caliber rounds used for piercing armored vehicles.”

  “So, she can actually get hurt?”

  “Oh, yes. Quite so. Despite her phenomenal strength, Jackie is not immune to rifle fire, unless you’ve found Creepers out there in the Deadlands I’m not aware of. She has all the same vulnerabilities. She can exert a tremendous amount of force, but her body itself is not impervious to gunfire.”

  Jackie leans in. “I mean, I do heal just as fast as a Creeper when I get shot. A little faster, actually.”

  Watson nods. “Correct. Jackie’s enhanced cellular activity and nearly endless energy limits grant her the most impressive regenerative capabilities.”

  “But if I could just take a second to remind everybody that getting shot still does hurt. A lot. I might be able to take a bullet, but I don’t want everyone starting to think that I can’t get hurt.”

  “Or that she can’t die,” Watson warns. “We’re currently unaware of just how extensive the damage would have to be to cause Jackie’s body to shut down, but I don’t believe that’s a test we want to conduct today.”

  I shake my head. “No. Of course not. As long as we know what she can and can’t do. I needed to know what I can send her into.”

  The doc’s smile finds its way back in a hurry. “Mr. President, with all due respect, Jackie could single handedly deal with almost any combat situation that a dozen of your men would struggle with.”

  Tommy’s Recording 17

  We came to some agreements about Jackie today. Martin’s alright with having her around, even if seeing her hold that piston up scared the hell out of him. Jackie’d been sleeping on my couch . . . Well, is it my couch or me and Dodger’s couch? She spends almost all her time at my place these days. Anyway, we finally got Jackie a room down the hall. The agreement is, and Jackie really wanted this, that nobody know she’s the Dark Angel. Can’t say I blame her. Come on, would you want people following you around all d
ay? She’s got admirers, there’s no getting around that, but I think she wants something resembling a normal life for a while.

  We also briefed her on everything going on in the Deadlands. She got the rundown on the Tank and all the raiders south of us. See, the problem is, even with her help, we just don’t have the firepower to hold out against them. Branagh nearly lost his presidency, again, because of what happened. The only reason he didn’t is because our former president, Nikola Dravic, defended him. Again. It’s like President Branagh’s entire administration exists because Dravic gives it the okay. It’s not a strong position to be in, and Branagh knows it. So, when the council demanded we reach out to Fort Silence . . . I mean, what could the president say?

  The big difference when we go negotiate with Fort Silence is that this time, we have Jackie. She’s going to be coming with us when we head north to meet with General Yousef, the Golden Jackal himself. The president, Colonel Martin, me and her are going are all going to ride up there together in one of the military transports. I hate leaving Dodger behind, but she’s a grown woman. I do kind of feel like protecting her all the time, but she doesn’t need me to do that. While we’re gone, I know she’s going to be keeping up with her recuperation. She’s getting involved with the residents here in the apartment, trying to make living around the neighborhood a little easier. I’m not sure when she’s going to return to service, but I’m not going to rush her. She’ll make that decision whenever it’s time.

  The trip up north won’t take too long, but for some reason . . . I don’t know. I guess I’m a little bit nervous. I haven’t spent this much time with Jackie in a year. I know she’s the same, but at the same time . . . seeing her hold up the weight of a tank . . . It’s just a little scary to think about. I do feel pretty terrible saying that. Enough people look at her weird, like they don’t know whether she’s a hero or a freak. You could see it when we were at the garrison the other day. I mean, that’s why she doesn’t want anyone in the apartment knowing she’s the Dark Angel. She doesn’t want people looking at her like some monster.

  Ah, I’m being stupid. I know there’s no reason to be nervous. I’m just looking for reasons to freak out. I mean, it’s weird having someone you loved comes back from the dead. The last couple of days have moved so fast, I haven’t really had a chance to digest all of it. I think that’s the only reason why I’m having second doubts about going north. That, and not really knowing what to expect when we meet up with General Yousef. I just have to keep reminding myself that this is still Jackie. She’s got enough people looking at her funny. She doesn’t need her friends doing the same thing.