He felt so strange that he didn’t even notice. Helen thought he was home sick, or at least that was what he told her. Maybe he was really sick. Maybe that buzzing in his brain was a tumor.
But it didn’t matter. Once he reached Manhattan, nothing would matter anymore. Helen could go run off with Bart; they deserved each other.
It was a twenty-or-so-minute ride into Grand Central Station. He found the rundown of the Bronx brownstones flashing past the windows a little more disheartening than usual, the ruins of a better civilization.
He looked around the train car. Some were checking their cell phones and mini-coms. Others were paging through items on their tablets. Holographic ads danced around the car, white noise in the hustle and bustle of rush hour.
When the train came to a stop, he grabbed his large bag and strolled off the train and onto the platform, blending in with the crowd, mindlessly moving as one large school of fish.
The stroll to Times Square was a pleasant one. It was a bright, warm, sunny day, not a cloud in the sky. He relished the feeling of the warm sun on the back of his neck as he meandered through the crowd, dodging and sidestepping like the pro that he was. The Manhattan streets were old hat to him.
He reached West 47th and Broadway and saw the bleachers. He placed his bag down at his feet, wearily rubbed his eyes, and then massaged his temples with his two forefingers. The buzzing from all of the giant monitors and holographic advertisements inciting a hell of a migraine, tearing up Bill’s poor, overtaxed brain.
As he reached the bleachers and climbed to the top, horrible memories from his youth filled his consciousness. He took a seat, placing his large black bag next to him on the bleacher, and looked out over the bustling crowd.
They all looked like ants to him, and for all intents and purposes, they were ants to him. It was watching an ant farm, like children do, as the ants go about their busy day, unaware of being observed by the children.
Yet, with all of the buzzing from the monitors and holographs, Bill felt like he too was being observed, and by a malevolent presence no less. The sensation was disquieting, and as Bill gazed down upon the harried pedestrians, he envied their ignorance.
However, he was no longer blissfully ignorant. He had been painfully aware that he had eyes on him for quite some time now, and he didn’t like it. No, he didn’t like it one bit.
It was time.
He swiveled over and unzipped his large, black duffle bag. He hesitated as one of New York’s Finest passed in front of the bleachers. After the police officer passed him by, he reached inside his bag and pulled out an AR-15, purchased after the latest expiration of the assault weapons ban.
Bill stood up, took aim at the nearest monitor looming over Times Square advertising lingerie, and pulled the trigger again and again until the monitor projected disjointed fragments of its video advertisement.
There was a delayed reaction on the street and sidewalk below. At first, people were startled by the gunfire, stopping in their tracks and looking around. A few looked up in horror and pointed at Bill, but he continued to shoot at the monitors.
A police officer—the one who passed by the bleachers moments ago—was shouting something at him, but the buzzing in his brain and the gunfire drowned it all out. The officer drew his gun, but Bill got to him first. The officer went down clutching a hole in his chest.
Government employee. Government enforcer. Bill mused that he got what he deserved. The government couldn’t expect to reach into their lives, snoop into their most private memories, and not expect some kind of pushback.
There were more officers coming, but the crowd was running every which way in a panic, obstructing their progress. Bill took the opportunity to fire into the crowd at the police officers, sometimes tagging an innocent bystander.
The ants were scurrying around the farm. They noticed their observer, who was now imposing his will on them, and all they could do was scurry. There was no queen to protect, only drones. They were all drones.
Overhead, an armed autonomous aerial vehicle (AAAV)—an armed domestic drone—received data on Bill’s position. Its camera trained on Bill firing into the crowd below the bleachers, placing him in its cross hairs. It received a transmission to lower its altitude and engage.
As it dropped between the skyscrapers into the city and approached street level, it received authorization to neutralize the target. It screeched over cars, taxicabs, and pedestrians, zeroing in on Bill until it achieved tone.
The Gatling minigun began to spin as bolts of light flew out and pelt the bleachers at a rate of two thousand rounds per minute.
Sparks flew as bullets tore holes into the bleachers and Bill, reducing both to Swiss cheese. Bill’s blood splattered everywhere as his riddled body shimmied on the bleachers. After a brief forty-second burst, the firing stopped, the drone zoomed past overhead, and Bill’s mangled body dropped off the back of the bleachers.
The last thing he saw on this earth was the flashing lights of the Gatling munitions streaking towards him and silence…
…the buzzing had finally stopped.
***
Tyler-Skylar Show
Docutainment Network
Los Angeles, California
The effeminate twins sat in tall stools on the stage of their cramped studio in front of their live audience, their poofy hairdos with blond highlights lending them the appearance of two oversized poodles.
“Skylar, 11,020 hits on Skylarblog agree with me that all guns should be banned in this country. They’re primitive, they’re obsolescent, and completely unnecessary. What say you?”
There were cheers and jeers from the live studio audience. This was docutainment, what passed for news in this day and age.
“Dear brother,” said Tyler with a dismissive flip of a well-manicured hand (his cuticles were flawless), “apparently you haven’t heard of the Second Amendment to the United States Constitution…something about the right to keep and bear arms.”
“Tyler, I don’t think that right applies to you. Please, put those batwings away. At least wear a sweater or something.” There was more noise from the audience and a very artificial laugh track played over the din. “But seriously, the Second Amendment. How archaic. We don’t have any foreign standing armies to contend with…that is unless Canada grows a set and invades. But I find that highly unlikely.”
“13,908 hits on Tylerblog agree that the Second Amendment is still valid. Guns are as American as tobacco and apple pie.”
“Tyler, brother, tobacco kills people.”
“Skylar, tobacco doesn’t kill people. People who smoke tobacco kill themselves.”
“Tyler, guns were a part of our history when we were a frontier nation. Back then, settlers had to worry about wild animals and Native Americans. In modern society, we don’t have to worry about those things. 14,158 hits on Skylarblog agree with me. What say you?”
“Au contraire, brother of mine,” replied Tyler. “We in modern society have to fear the most dangerous animal of all…our fellow man. Our fellow citizens have been going off the deep end lately. Mass murders from shootings are on the rise.”
“Exactly my point, Tyler. The fact that guns are legal and easily accessible are the very reason for these atrocities.”
“Chew on this for a moment, Skylar: Just think, what if in any of these shootings, the innocent victims were armed? The shooter in each case would’ve been taken down before too many lives were taken. What say you?”
“Tyler, are you suggesting that we use guns to fight guns? The last thing I think we need is more guns. 14,572 hits on Skylarblog agree with me.”
“Skylar, there will always be guns out there. Even if there is a ban, the government can’t just go around confiscating weapons from the citizenry. Weapons that were purchased legally and within the proper parameters. No, realistically those already in possession will be grandfathered in, leaving the rest of us defenseless against them when they decide to go postal. 15,672 hits on Tyler
blog agree with me. What say you?”
There were shouts and hoots of agreement mixed with jeers of dissention as camera four panned across the audience. Audience members were shouting at each other, and a few isolated shoving matches began to break out.
Skylar nodded to the production engineer, who in turn hit a red button. Quiet Please signs began to flash over the audience, and after a few moments, an uneasy hush fell over them.
Skylar flipped his permed hair flippantly at his brother. “Tyler, your paranoia about your fellow man astounds me. Do you mean to tell me that you don’t feel that you can walk down the street in modern society and not feel safe unless you’re packing heat? This isn’t the Wild West, you know.”
“First of all, Skylar, I don’t know how you know what I’m packing…”
“I’m your brother, we grew up together, we shared a bedroom and bathroom…” There were ooh’s and hoots from the audience at the bawdy reference. “…but we’re talking about guns, remember?”
“Yes, guns,” said Tyler, pretending to blush to the pleasure of the live audience. “The answer is no. I don’t feel safe. In fact, anyone can be a threat.” He stood up and walked over to a darkened part of the stage. Tyler gestured to a stagehand who came out holding a pink AR-15. He handed it to Tyler. There were gasps and the crowd began to stir with anticipation.
Tyler gestured to the darkened part of the stage, and the lights came up revealing a mockup of a quaint suburban scene. There were two facades of houses, with flowerbeds under the windows, two front yards with artificial green grass and white picket fences. In the window of one of the houses was a cardboard cutout of a housewife holding an AK-47. In the front door of the adjacent house was an old lady holding a shotgun. In the front yard was a mailman holding an uzi.
Tyler strode up to the set. “As you see, dear brother, a typical suburban neighborhood. But wait. Holly Homemaker in the window there isn’t putting a pie on the sill to cool. She’s packing heat and eyeing me suspiciously. I don’t much like the way she’s looking at me. Time to stand my ground.”
Tyler raised his pink assault rifle and fired into the window, blowing the cardboard cutout’s head clear off. The audience was on their feet and erupted in cheers and applause.
The Quiet Please lights began to flash and the audience quieted down in anticipation. Tyler flashed a mischievous grin as Skylar buried his face in his hands in an exaggeration of disgust with his brother.
“Hey, it was her or me, dear brother. Uh-oh, grandma’s off her meds today. She thinks she’s Davy Crockett and I’m a Mexican invading her fort. She’s demented and can’t be reasoned with. There’s only one thing to do…” Tyler put a hand to his ear as the audience egged him on, shouting “Stand your ground!” They knew what they wanted, and Tyler was going to give it to them.
He raised his rifle and fired at granny, taking off the tops of the pickets and spraying the front of the house with holes. The audience went wild.
“Well, there’s one less Medicare recipient draining our tax dollars,” quipped Tyler. The audience roared with hysterical laughter, drunk with bloodlust and vicarious pleasure.
The sign flashed and the audience hushed in momentary anticipation.
“What’s that I see? Postal Pete is about to go…well, postal!” He looked expectantly at the audience who responded with shouts to blow the mailman away, “Stand your ground!”
“It’s either him or me.” He raised the rifle and tore the postman cardboard cutout apart. “Return to sender, bitch.” The audience exploded in cheers and thunderous applause.
Skylar wailed in outrage. “Enough, brother. We get your point. But do you need automatic weapons for protection? 20,040 hits on Skylarblog agree that they are unnecessary for protection and are overkill.”
“Skylar, brother, these guns aren’t just used for protection. There are many Americans who hunt with them as well.”
“Hunting?” Skylar was dramatically incredulous. “Why would one need an assault rifle to hunt? There’d be nothing left to mount on your wall.”
Tyler put an index finger up as if telling his brother to wait. A dark part of the stage next to the suburban set lit up revealing a stuffed deer posed on two legs and holding a rifle. There was an American flag on the floor next to it that suddenly went ablaze. The audience gasped collectively.
“Look, Skylar. Bambi’s packing heat, and he’s burning an American flag.” The audience responded with boo’s and hissing. “There’s only one patriotic thing to do. Don’t tread on me!”
Tyler raised his rifle and shot at the stuffed deer, blowing bits and pieces away until there was nothing left but a heap of wasted taxidermy. Stagehands came out onto the stage with fire extinguishers and put out the flame.
The crowd went wild, standing in the aisles, yelling and gesticulating wildly.
Skylar went to stand by his brother, who struck a rather unconvincing manly pose with his pink assault rifle. “And that’s all the time we have for today. Thank you for watching America’s number one docutainment show. Be safe, and don’t forget to spay and neuter your pets.”
Tyler raised his rifle one last time and shot the deer in the crotch, blowing off its member as the camera cut to a commercial.
***
Central Security Service:
Liaison Between National Security Agency and the Service Cryptologic Elements of the US Armed Forces
Woodlawn, Maryland
11:00 HRS
In an air-conditioned room, technicians were poring over the countless streaming transmissions of Retinal Gateway Technology (RGT), monitoring memories transmitted from cell phone screens, computers, and television sets, as monitors interfaced with brainwaves of the unsuspecting populace. The center was one of many nodes throughout the country empowered by the Second Patriot Act for surveillance to detect the operations of terrorist agents.
A young agent in his mid-twenties scratched his head as something gnawed at the back of his mind. Something in the patterns of brainwave transmissions didn’t quite sit right with him, but he was unable to put his finger on it. He picked up the phone.
“Hi, Marty. What’s up?”
“Fred, there’s something strange about the noise in the transmissions.”
“What, exactly?”
“I’m not sure, but it has to do with the signal-structure. There appears to be something within the wideband.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Fred appeared moments later in Marty’s cubicle. “So show me what you’re talking about.”
Marty called up the wideband signal structure on his computer. “Here is the wideband. See?” Fred nodded. “Well, if you apply a signal detection model to this particular transmission source, look what happens.”
Fred watched the screen intently. “There’s a pseudorandom spreading across the bandwidth.”
“Exactly,” said Marty. “Someone’s attempting to transmit backwards through the broadband.”
“How? Direct-sequence spread spectrum? Time-hopping? Chirp?”
“All of them, Fred.”
“Jesus. How didn’t we know about this?”
Marty rubbed his eyes with his index finger and thumb, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ve been so occupied with securing the transmissions from outside detection that we never thought to look to see if someone was hiding communications from us within the transmissions.”
“We’ll get on it, isolate the source.”
“That’s not all,” Marty interrupted.
“What is it?”
Marty typed furiously on his keyboard calling up multiple broadbands. “It’s not just that one transmission…it’s pretty much all of them.”
“Low probability of intercept,” said Fred gravely. “Right under our noses. Good work, Marty. I have to notify the NSA.”
“Right.”
Fred stalked through the bullpen of cubicles back to his office. His secretary, Nancy, looked up at him. “Sir, General Ramses is here
. He’s passing through security now.”
He looked at his watch. “We don’t have a scheduled meeting, Nancy.”
“No, sir. You don’t.”
“Well, tell him he has to wait. I have to attend to something urgent.”
“Yes, sir.”
He entered his office cursing General Ramses’ timing under his breath. He closed the door behind him, plopped himself in his leather chair behind his desk, and picked up his phone. He activated the encryption grid and hit speed dial.
“Assistant Director Jon Wolff, please. This is Agent Fred Eberhardt, identification number 0489270, Codename: TEMPEST.”
Fred looked up, startled by some kind of commotion in the bullpen.
“We are locating Assistant Director Wolff for you, sir.”
There were thrashing sounds from outside the office. Fred stands up and walks around his desk, taking his cordless phone with him. He hears Nancy emit a high-pitched shriek.
“What in God’s name…” He was in here dealing with a potential national security crisis and they were carrying on outside. He flung the door open to see red all over the walls.
In the seconds it took him to register that the red was high volume blood spatter, he saw Nancy slumped over her desk, red pooling on her desk from where her throat—or what was left of it—rested.
He dropped the phone at his side as he saw General Ramses standing before him, as if he had just noticed he was even in the room. He wasn’t there before, was he? There was something…different about Ramses. His eyes were feral, and he flashed a toothy grin. His teeth were coated in red.
Ramses picked his teeth with a rather long fingernail. “Hello, Fred. Thought I’d drop by.”
“Connecting with Assistant Director Wolff,” a faint voice said from the phone at Fred’s side.
Ramses looked at Fred expectantly. “Well, go ahead. Answer it.”
Fred nodded slowly, like a child being instructed by a parent. He put the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
I am Automaton 3: Shadow of the Automaton Page 2
