Tin Man

by Dale Brown

  happened?"

  "The appeals court said there wasn't enough evidence

  that the suspects had anything to do with the

  shooting."

  "Then they must know who they are," Patrick

  said. "Did they say?"

  "They're former German soldiers," Jon said.

  Patrick nodded-he had figured that professional

  soldiers were involved in the attack. "Let me guess:

  They work for some mercenary group or drug gang,

  and they sneaked into the country and planned the

  robbery . . . "

  "Nope. What Chandler said that night on the

  tape is true; they have valid Canadian entry and

  work visas, and a valid Canadian residence and employer

  . All verified. They said they were visiting

  friends in Sacramento and didn't know they needed

  a visa to visit here from Canada."

  "That's bullshit! It's gotta be bullshit!" Patrick

  exclaimed. "Didn't the police check out their stories

  ? Where were they staying? What were they doing

  ? Where were they going?"

  "They claim they were walking down some road,

  the Garden Highway I think they said, heading from

  the riverfront to the apartment complex where

  they're staying, and got hit by a truck," Jon responded

  . Patrick's mind flashed to what he remembered

  of the Garden Highway. It paralleled the

  Sacramento River and was very desolate in spots.

  The Northgate section of town, just off Northgate

  Boulevard and the Garden Highway, had a large

  German-immigrant population, so large that it was

  known as Little Berlin. There were numerous immigrants

  from Eastern Europe in some of the other

  apartment complexes in the area too; and with several

  families often occupying a single apartment

  unit, it was almost impossible to keep track of the

  residents.

  "They said someone picked them up after the accident

  and brought them back to the apartment,"

  Jon went on. "No one reported it because they were

  afraid they or their friends might be deported. But

  when their injuries turned out to be so serious, they

  were dropped off at the hospital by an anonymous

  Good Samaritan who didn't want to be identified

  because h e's an illegal immigrant too."

  "But all the media reports of their arrest said

  their injuries were consistent with their being

  struck by the police car," Patrick protested. "The

  broken bones in their legs and rib cages matched

  perfectly with'the dimensions of the squad car Paul

  was driving

  "Yeah-well, apparently the press folks were

  talking through their asses," Jon said disgustedly.

  "It turns out the police can't prove anything. The

  injuries are consistent with their getting hit by

  some vehicle, but they can't say for sure it was a

  police car.

  "So the appeals court's decided the murder and

  attempted-murder charges are unsupported and

  they've thrown the case out of court. The only

  charge that's sticking is violation -of immigration

  laws. The worst that will happen to them is they'll

  be put on a plane and flown back to Canada, or back

  to Germany if Canada won't take them back-that

  is, if the city or county can afford to deport them. In

  the meantime, the county of Sacramento will pick

  up all their hospital bills."

  Patrick shook his head. "It's a nightmare," he

  said, his voice reflecting his anger and frustration.

  "A goddamn nightmare. I thought for sure they

  were involved in the shootout." Apparently Masters

  heard something in Patrick's tone that made him

  flash back to the previous day, because he looked

  worried, even scared. Patrick noticed. He gave Jon a

  nod, a silent "I'm okay. Don't worry."

  Paul noticed too. "Everything okay, bro?" came a

  voice. "You sound pissed off enough to kill someone

  ."

  Stunned, Patrick stared at his brother. "Paul?

  Was that you?"

  "Damn straight!" Paul smiled proudly.

  Patrick's face glowed with wonder. "The electronic

  larynx works! You did it, Jon! How does it

  work?"

  "Sensors in the trachea attached to the muscles

  that normally control the vocal cords activate lasers

  that duplicate the actions of the vocal cords," Masters

  explained. "The laser pickups activate an electronic

  voice-box that translates the vibrations of

  laser light into speech-pattern sounds, then broadcasts

  the sounds through the throat, mouth, and nasal

  passages. We can very nearly duplicate Paul's

  natural voice because the sound still emanates from

  his mouth, just like normal speech. Fitting the

  hardware was the easy part-it's tuning the system

  to closely match his natural voice that's been hard."

  "Incredible," said Patrick. "Just incredible. Congratulations

  ! "

  "I wish Dr. Heinrich were here to hear this,"

  Paul said. As he spoke, the technician put a device

  up to his throat and made some fine adjustments.

  The results were even more startling-Paul's voice,

  although obviously artificial, sounded remarkably

  lifelike, like a medium-quality tape recording of his

  natural voice. "Dr. Masters said you had an accident

  yesterday,3"

  Patrick kept his eyes averted. "Another experi-

  ment that didn't go as well as we wanted," he, said.

  Paul didn't press; he could see they weren't volunteering

  more. But when Patrick looked up, he found

  his brother staring at him, and knew he had sensed

  what he needed to know.

  While the technician went on working on the

  electronic larynx, a nurse brought in a stack of mail.

  In the first weeks after the shootout, letters had

  come in by the bagful; they had only recently dwindled

  down to a handful a day. The letter on top had

  been delivered by messenger, the nurse said, and

  Paul signaled Patrick to read it for him. Patrick's

  mouth dropped open. All eyes were on him. The

  technician stopped his adjustments. "Patrick? What

  is it?" Paul asked.

  "It's from the department-the personnel office,"

  Patrick said blankly. "Paul . . . you've been retired."

  "Retired?"

  "It says they considered light duty, but after consulting

  with the doctors, your injuries have been

  considered too serious. You will receive full pay and

  benefits for two months after you leave the hospital,

  then go on full medical retirement. Full medical and

  survivors' benefits, half your base salary tax-free

  for life. Your personal gear has been,sent to your

  home."

  Paul fell back against the pillow. "They cleaned

  out my locker already?" he exclaimed. "I only used

  it once!" He turned his head away, fighting back

  tears. "Man, I can't believe this. Not in person or

  even by phone-they sent me a letter telling me F rn

  out."

  The room was silent for a long time. Then Masters


  broke the strain: "This is good, Paul, because

  now we have time to work on the second phase.

  The next project, if you're ready for it, is to start

  work on your shoulder and arm. I don't think we'll

  be able to do much here. We should consider transferring

  you to our facility in San Diego." Paul said

  nothing. "Problem, Paul?" Masters asked.

  "I don't know," Paul said. "Leaving Sacramento,

  getting a . . ." He moved his good right arm, then

  glanced at the emptiness to his left.

  "It's a little intimidating, I know," Jon said. "But

  check this out." He reached into his briefcase, withdrew

  a videocassette, inserted it into the VCR in the

  television set, and closed the curtain over the door

  panel so no one in the corridor could peer in. "It's

  yours if you want it."

  What they saw on the screen astounded them. It

  was a human arm, or at least it looked and moved

  like one-but it was mounted on a metal stand. It

  was extraordinary in its detail, with a realistic human

  shape, dark hair on the forearm, a normallooking

  hand with healthily pink fingernails. As

  they watched, the arm reached down and picked up

  a pen sitting on an adjacent desk, held it between

  the thumb and fingers, and began to "write" in midair

  .

  "It's amazing," Paul said. "It looks so-so real."

  "It took three months of work just to get the mechanics

  down to pick up a pen," Masters said

  proudly. "Almost two years of research and development

  . It contains over three hundred individual

  microhydraulic actuators ranging in size from

  twenty-five millimeters in diameter to less than

  two millimeters. The joints and fittings-the artiflcial

  cartilage and tendons-are fibersteel. The arm,

  hand, and fingers have a much greater range of motion

  than normal appendages, but it would take a

  conscious act to make it perform unnaturally. Same

  with physical strength. The actuators are hydraulic,

  so they're many times more powerful than human

  muscles, but we didn't design the system to give

  you superhuman strength."

  Masters went on with more of the arm's features

  until he realized Paul was staring into space. He

  shut off the TV, rewound his tape, took it out of the

  VCR, and put it back in his briefcase. "Maybe you

  want to think about it some more," he said, nodding

  to the technician to wind up his adjustments.

  it

  Give me a 6all when you're ready to talk. See you

  later."

  When they were gone, the two brothers sat in

  silence. Patrick saw the tears in Paul's eyes. "It's

  going to be all right, bro," he said.

  "What is happening to me?" Paul asked, his electronically

  synthesized voice a startling reflection of

  the sadness in his heart. "I don't feel human anymore

  ." He looked at his older brother and added,

  And you . . . you don't feel human either. What

  is happening to us?"

  "Paul, all you have to worry about is getting

  well," Patrick said. "Everything else is

  "Don't give me that bullshit, Patrick!" Paul exploded

  . "You've been treating me like your kid

  brother for too long now. You don't have to protect

  me or spare me any grief. You told me everything

  was going to be okay when Dad died; you told me

  everything was going to be okay when you left Sacramento

  and I hardly ever saw you again; and I get

  my arm and my throat shot to shit and you're still

  telling me everything's going to be okay. Everything

  is still a secret with you, Patrick. I can feel the pain

  you're feeling, bro, but you're still shutting me

  out."

  His face turned dark. "I am turning out to be the

  thing I most hate, Patrick. I am turning into a machine

  ! I have lasers for vocal cords, microchips for a

  larynx, and now Jon wants to give me hydraulic ac-

  tuators for muscles and fibersteel for bones. I am

  turning into the thing I hate most in the world."

  He scanned Patrick's face with a strange mixture

  of sadness and pity, and went on: "But the worst

  part, bro, is that I feel like I'm in danger of turning

  into you. I feel like my soul is being replaced by a

  machine. And the only thing I get from you is,

  'Don't worry. Accept it. Everything will be all

  right.,

  "I'm scared, dammit! I'm scared because I'm

  turning into a damned contraption, a collection of

  composites and microchips, and when I reach out to

  you for support and guidance and love, all I sense is

  another machine, an even more terrible machine,

  sucking me down even more." He stopped, waiting

  for his brother to speak, but there was only silence.

  "Talk to me, goddamn you! Talk to me or get the

  hell out."

  "Paul, I can't talk about it," Patrick said. "It's

  all . . . "

  "Don't tell me 'It's classified' or 'It's top-secret'

  or any of that nonsense," Paul shot back. "Something

  is driving us apart. We want to be together,

  connected, supportive, but we can't. We're both

  hurting. I know what hurt me, Patrick. What in hell

  has hurt you?" He closed his eyes, fiercely trying to

  establish the psychic connection that had once

  bound the brothers tightly together through vast

  differences in time and distance. Then he shook his

  head in resignation. "All I get from you is a ghost,

  Patrick, a gray ghost. Talk to me, Patrick! What happened

  ? What's going on?"

  There was still no reply. Paul threw his head

  back on the pillow. "God, first my real family splits

  up; and then my new family, the police department,

  kicks me out. Now you're pushing me away. Happy

  fucking New Year!"

  It would have felt so good, Patrick thought, so

  right, to tell Paul. everything. Not only about bugging

  the SID offices, or trying to find Mullins in the

  Bobby John Club, or about his failure with the Ultimate

  Soldier project. Everything, going way back:

  starting with Brad Elliott and Dreamland, the secret

  bombing missions, the top-secret projects, all the

  times the world almost went to war and his role in

  preventing it.

  But most of all, he wanted to tell Paul about the

  people, all those souls he'd encountered, good and

  bad, over the past eleven years. So many times, so

  many battles, so many lives that touched his and

  then were gone forever, while he lived on. He

  wanted to tell him everything . . .

  "I'm sorry, Paul," he heard himself say. "I can't

  tell you. I wish I could but I can't." Paul turned

  away. "Believe me, bro, everything is okay. The

  most important thing is for you to get better. Get

  some rest, and later I'll

  "Save it, bro. I'll be fine. Go and do whatever the

  hell it is, you do."

  Patrick stepped toward Paul, reaching out to

  him . . . but the connection was
severed. The person

  in the hospital bed before him might as well

  have been a stranger.

  I He turned and left the room, pushing his way

  through the reporters swarming around him

  clamoring for a statement. He'd had enough of this

  damn town. Time to take his family and go home.

  WILTON, CALIFORNIA

  THE SAME TIME

  The next meeting between Gregory Townsend and

  Sandman Harrison and his Brotherhood bikers

  was brief and to the point: "The chief says yes," the

  Sandman said. "Thirty meth cookers, ten grand

  each, charged against our first payments. You provide

  the training and keep 'em running and we pay

  one grand per pound. How will it happen?"

  "Good," said Townsend. "Next week, barring

  any unforeseen complications, we will deliver a hydrogenation

  unit to a location that you will advise

  me of while en route, in order to preserve total security

  . Each time, your men will pick up the unit, at

  which time a deposit of one hundred thousand dollars

  on each will be collected by myself or Major

  Reingruber.

  "Your men will take the hydrogenation units to

  your clubhouses or safe houses or whatever you call

  them," Townsend went on. "One of my men will

  accompany each unit. Once at the clubhouse, my

  man will instruct your chapter members present on

  the operation of the unit. After -the instruction period

  , you will deliver two hundred thousand dollars

  as our final advance deposit, to be applied against

  our share of the first batches prepared by each chapter

  . Agreed?

  "What about the chemicals?" Harrison asked.

  Bennie the Chef answered this. "The units will

  have enough chemicals on board for the first test

  batch, a little over twenty-five pounds. The colonel

  is supplying the chemicals just for the test batch.

  You want more, come to us."

  "Like hell we will," Harrison said. "We got our

  own connections."

  "We only guarantee the purity of the product and

  the safety and efficiency of the hydrogenators if you

  use our chemicals," Townsend said. "If you use inferior

  ingredients, we cannot be responsible for the

  outcome."

  "The cookers better work, asshole, or we'll use

  them as coffins for you and your men-after we get

  through chopping your sorry asses into little