Free Shattered Sky by Neal Shusterman Page B

down in an exoskeleton of tempered titanium. Sometimes Bussard would take the time to brief him on the nature of the “therapy session.” Other times he wouldn’t bother, since it was Dillon’s presence, and not his comprehension, that mattered. Then from his custom-built remote control, Bussard would open the door to the guest waiting area, and the circus would begin.
    Usually it was the dignitaries and statesmen of any and every nationality. Some walked in under their own power, others were so weak from the ravages of disease that they needed to be wheeled in. Bussard would then show off Dillon like a trophy to those conscious enough to care. They would be allowed the honor of basking in Dillon’s peculiar incandescence for up to an hour. Then, regardless of how they came in, they would walk out under their own power, their vitality restored. They would then go for blood tests and MRIs elsewhere in the plant, tests administered by military physicians who, like everyone else, were insulated from the purpose of their task, never seeing those test results, or knowing their significance.
    â€œFunny that people come to a nuclear plant to get cured,” Dillon had once commented during a well-attended session. Bussard didn’t find it funny, however, and when the guests were gone, he had hit the red button on the side of his remote, sending a surge of raw electricity through him. Now Dillondidn’t say anything during the sessions. He saved his comments for those times he was left alone with Bussard.
    â€œWhat do you get from these people?” Dillon once asked him, for it was obvious that this kind of operation was not an altruistic endeavor—but Bussard merely invoked the “it’s a matter for military intelligence” clause, and left it at that. But Dillon really didn’t have to ask—he knew; he could read the pattern in the parade of visitors. Thanks to Dillon, life was now a bankable commodity. Every second spent in his presence was a quantum of health doled out with due diligence to those whose health best served the interest of American security. What diplomat or world leader would not mortgage their nation for a shot at eternal life?
    And now there was a dead horse; a lump of flesh and bone not ten feet away from Dillon’s exoskeletal chair. Not even Bussard could stand the stench, covering his mouth and nose with a handkerchief drenched in cologne. But the stench quickly faded, and a cold wind swooped down the wide throat of the cooling tower to clear its residue. It only took but five minutes, and the horse whinnied in terror. Bussard quickly called in a team of wranglers as the animal flipped itself off the gurney, sending it clattering against the concrete wall.
    â€œSubdue it,” Bussard instructed, “and bring it to the loading dock.” No doubt there was a horse trailer waiting. The men set themselves to the task. By the unremarkable look on their faces, it was obvious that these men did not know the horse had been dead just minutes before; they were only given orders to remove a horse. And the zeroid never knew there was a horse at all.
    Once the animal was removed, Dillon spoke.
    â€œWhy? Why this , of all things?”
    He half expected Bussard to ignore him, but today Bussarddeigned to give him a response, perhaps more out of embarrassment than anything else. “It belonged to the daughter of the senior senator from Texas. We were asked to give it treatment, as a special favor.”
    â€œI didn’t know you took requests.”
    Bussard considered the punishing red button on his remote control, but didn’t depress it. Instead, he hit the button that unlocked the ready room, where the zeroid waited to wheel Dillon back to his plush little cell. His dinner would be waiting for him there, cold as always. But at least now he knew the face of the one who delivered it. She was young—only a few years older than he. Twenty-two,