I am Automaton 3: Shadow of the Automaton

by Edward P. Cardillo

  As he saw the ad flicker, the store and its shelves disappeared. At first, all he saw was the light patterns. Then, memories that weren’t his began to flood his mind.

  His back and neck became rigid as sights and scenes rushed before him. Somewhere in the distance he heard his father rambling on about something, which was strange because last he saw, he was standing next to him.

  Suddenly, he was in a setting vaguely familiar to him…

  He was inside the dance club in Tijuana where Kafka infected him with a bite on the neck. It was dark except for strobe and neon green laser light effects flickering in tune with the glitchy holographic advertisement. Even the stenches of sweat and sex were present. Was this a dream or some kind of illusion?

  Across the expansive dance floor, where hundreds of young hormones bumped and grinded up against each other to a rapid beat of techno music in tune with the lights, Peter saw Kafka standing on the main stage. There were scantily clad women around him writhing to the beat.

  Peter began to push his way through the crowd. Oddly, the interior of the club felt larger than he remembered. He snaked his way through the crowd, his progress slow, but never taking his eyes of Kafka, who stood amongst his entourage like an emperor.

  His progress was slowed as girls reached out for him, placing their hands all over his body, beckoning with sultry eyes containing the promise of all kinds of depravity. He called out to his brother.

  “Carl! Carl!”

  The music was too loud. With his newfound abilities, Peter reached out and felt the crowd around him. Or they reached out and found him. He wasn’t sure which exactly.

  What at first felt like the scattered beats of individuals quickly coalesced into a thundering tribal beat of a human forest that pounded in time with the music, as if the DJ were directing all of their vitals.

  The feeling was overwhelming, and Peter was caught up in the waves of rising and falling human beats, a tide of life exploding all around him.

  After some time, he reached the stage. When he looked up at Kafka, he saw a large pyramid looming behind him, as if the back wall of the club had opened up on some other dimension revealing an ancient scene. Two other pyramids flanked the middle one, but set back a little further in the distance.

  Kafka looked down and saw Peter, calling his name without actually using his voice. Pete. It was more of an idea that entered Peter’s mind without tone or timber. He reached out a lithe hand and snatched Peter up out of the crowd, pulling him onto the stage.

  Peter had always been taller than his brother, but now Carl towered over him with inhuman features. For the first time Peter was intimidated by his younger brother.

  Pete, welcome.

  Suddenly the tone of the music shifted, the tide of the vibe emanating from the crowd shifting with it. It became more explosive and darker in tone. The effect was disconcerting.

  “Carl, where are we?”

  We are at the dawning of a new era. The Endgame is about to begin.

  “I don’t know what you mean. What is the Endgame?”

  You will reap the rewards of having joined a superior race. The Outworlders have come.

  “What Outworlders? What are you talking about, Carl?”

  There is no Carl, only Kafka. I, the Harbinger of Doom, the Deadly Lieutenant, the Opener of Floodgates, am to usher their arrival on this planet. And you will be by my side. I have seen to it.

  “What are you talking about? Invasion?”

  For centuries, the Outworlders have made contact with our kind, planting the seeds for their arrival, but fear and superstition have chased them out before their plans could come to fruition.

  Now, in the modern age, with the rise of secularism and timeless superstitions forgotten, our seeds are now ripe and the great Reaping will begin.

  “What are you saying? That these Outworlders planted technology on this planet to make way for their arrival?”

  Throughout time, they have bestowed the gifts of knowledge and mastery of technology in the hopes that one day, the gate for their arrival would be opened.

  “The RGT.”

  Kafka nodded emphatically.

  The pyramids, the printing press, the internet, all gifts bestowed by them unto us. RGT is the most modern example. The Outworlders knew that our kind’s propensity for paranoia and domination would one day assist them in the development of the tool needed to open the Floodgates between our worlds.

  “If these Outworlders are so powerful and advanced, why don’t they just come on their own?”

  Kafka pointed a long, bony finger at the crowd. Peter was horrified by what he saw.

  The crowd of young dancers was now a crowd of writhing undead. Milky, glazed over eyes glared at him from down below as they wheezed and swayed to the dark music.

  Kafka shoved Peter so hard he fell backward into the sea of undead like a crowd surfer at a concert. Hands reached up and groped for him as he was engulfed in a collective moaning.

  Terrified for his life, he screamed and struggled out of their grasps and fell between them to the floor. He felt their terrible vibrations, an antithesis of the vitals he felt before, thunder through his mind like a horrible cacophony. All he could do was crawl up into a ball.

  They will not harm you, for you are one of us.

  After a moment, when he realized that he wasn’t being eaten alive, Peter began to uncurl. He rolled over on his stomach and slowly pushed himself up on his palms. The sea of undead parted around him as he stood up.

  “What about Dad? What’s going to happen to him?”

  Look.

  Peter saw Barry standing right in front of him in the clearing. He was wearing his hardware store uniform.

  He must join us.

  “I-I don’t understand.”

  Suddenly, Peter felt an alien hunger seize his body, surging through his veins like liquid fire. He felt his features change, and his father shrunk back in reaction.

  “Pete, are you all right? What’s wrong?”

  Peter’s mind raged with a sadistic appetite, ebbing and flowing with Barry’s pulse that was quickening in front of him.

  Barry reached out for him. “Son, what’s wrong?”

  Peter snapped his jaws at him, bearing sharp fangs, like a rabid animal. Barry was so startled he fell backwards.

  “No! I won’t do it!” shouted Peter as he turned away from his father. Barry’s pulse beckoned him like a dinner bell.

  You must, brother. If you don’t, his fate will be much worse.

  Peter hunched over with hunger pangs, his heart beating in his throat. Kafka was implanting these impulses in his mind. He was sure of it. He had to clear his mind.

  He began to think of his mother.

  What are you doing, Pete? Stop that.

  Peter closed his eyes and just thought of his mother. He thought of her smile, the way she made a fuss cooking for him and his brother. The way she always made them feel cared for. Warmth began to spread over his body, a feeling that he could only describe as home.

  Stop that. Save Dad. You must do it. He will suffer, Pete.

  Peter opened his eyes and stood up straight, pointing a finger at Kafka. “Why don’t you do it?”

  Kafka only shook his head disappointedly.

  This was your opportunity to save Dad. Now his fate will be on you.

  All at once, the whole scene vanished. The nightclub, the music, the pyramids, the sea of undead. All gone.

  Peter found himself in the aisle of the hardware store with his father and the two contractors staring at him in disbelief.

  “Are you okay, pal?” one of them asked.

  Peter looked at his father, who just stood there trembling.

  “Dad, are you all right?”

  Barry backed away from Peter.

  “Did you see any of that?”

  Barry was incredulous. “Any of what, Pete?”

  Peter looked around. Apparently, he never left the hardware store. What he saw must have been some k
ind of private event. That was why Kafka couldn’t infect their Dad. He was never here.

  “What’s wrong with your face?” asked the other contractor.

  Peter reflexively reached up with his hands and felt his face. Sharp ridges were beginning to recede as his features began to smooth out and return to their original configuration.

  What the hell had just happened to him? Had he changed in front of his father and these two contractors? It wasn’t entirely a private event. Carl wanted him to infect their father. He was attempting to command it remotely.

  Damn, he was powerful. They now shared some kind of connection, but it wasn’t foolproof. He was able to chase it all away with the thoughts of his mother. Peter wasn’t sure if it was the warm feelings that dispelled Carl’s commands or if there was still a human side of Carl that was vulnerable to thoughts of their mother.

  Carl did refer to the human race as our kind, meaning that despite his transformation he still identified himself as human. Either way, it was a weakness. One that he could exploit.

  Then there were all of the titles Carl had for himself. He was a human that was selected for a very special role in what was to be an alien invasion.

  He stepped out of his own head for a moment and saw his father and the two men gawking at him.

  “I’m going to call 911,” said one contractor. “This boy needs help.”

  Peter held out a hand. “No, I’m all right. Don’t do that.”

  The man held his mini-com out in front of him, frozen, not sure if to take Peter’s objection as a threat.

  “Dad, I’m leaving. I have to go.”

  “But, Pete,” Barry began to protest.

  “I-I have to go. I’ll explain later.”

  Peter ran out of the hardware store before anyone could say anything else.

  ***

  Kafka sat back in his chair behind his desk contemplating his interaction with Peter when there was a knock at the door. He checked his watch.

  “Illumination at ten percent.” The lights in the office dimmed until it was shrouded in shadow. Then he switched on a copy of the therapeutic ambience program that Ramses pilfered for him from the late Captain Fiona London’s office.

  The office transformed. The exposed brick and cracked plaster now looked covered and new. There were a couple of digital paintings on the wall and a holographic representation of a cybernetic digital desktop on his desk.

  Kafka, himself, was transformed into a raven-haired, handsome man with a thin mustache in a pin-striped suit. He looked like Clark Gable.

  “Come in.”

  There was a tone and the door opened. Two Chinese spies, with whom Kafka had recently been in contact with, entered, followed by Kojic.

  “Please, gentleman, have a seat,” said Kafka cordially, never leaving his seat. His voice retained its tinny reverberation, lending it an inhuman quality.

  The two Chinese glared at his obvious gesture of disrespect and then took seats in the chairs in front of Kafka’s desk. Kojic sat in a third chair to their right.

  One of them started to speak, but it was in Chinese. Kafka put up his long finger to tell him to wait.

  “Translation mode, Chinese, scan for dialect.”

  The digital décor in the room glitched as the program waited for a sample of speech to analyze.

  “Go ahead,” said Kafka, gesturing with an open palm for the man to continue.

  After about a sentence of more Chinese, the man’s words were translated and re-spoken by the ambience program.

  “…seen the facilities, as shown by your man, Kojic, but we want to know exactly what we are investing in.”

  “Mr. Joeng, your government has been hacking into the American’s networks for decades. However, the access I am offering is unprecedented.”

  “What kind of access are we talking about?” asked the other man.

  “Mr. Kao, as you have probably heard, the United States government has been employing the use of Retinal Gateway Technology.”

  “Yes, what is it, exactly?” asked Joeng.

  “It is an intelligence gathering technique that reads retinas and extracts memories. Under the Second Patriot Act, the government has been monitoring the populace through their television sets, cell phones, mini-coms, computers…anything with a monitor. It’s pervasive.”

  “And you are proposing that we can gain access into this network,” said Joeng.

  “Exactly.”

  “How?”

  “My man, Kojic here, has been developing an apparatus that allows a user to remotely gain access to this RGT network, but we have run out of funding.”

  “How close are you?” asked Kao.

  “We can gain access, but within a proscribed radius. Unfortunately, the radius is too small; hence the access isn’t as remote as we would like it to be.”

  “I see,” said Joeng. “How much?”

  “I will need twenty million.”

  Kao chortled and shifted in his seat. Joeng just glared at Kafka. “That’s a bit, as you would say, steep.”

  Kafka sat forward in his chair, flashing his digit million dollar smile. “C’mon, boys. I’m talking about unprecedented, pervasive, undetectable access into the thoughts and memories of billions of Americans. This includes military, law enforcement…”

  “How is it undetectable?” asked Joeng.

  “The NSA has not developed a means to track the usage of RGT other than their own because they think they are the only ones that have it.”

  “If you possess this kind of technology, why share it with us?” asked Kao, barely trying to conceal his suspicion.

  “Because I need the funding, remember?”

  “What about OIL?”

  “They don’t have that kind of money. You guys, however, have one of the strongest economies in the world. You can afford it.”

  “Do you have OIL’s blessing?” asked Kao.

  “OIL, sure! They hate this country as much as you do. If you could help bring it down, they’d be happy to help.”

  “Mr. Kafka, we are not terrorists. We do not hate America,” corrected Joeng.

  “I understand. I really do. You guys are the other big kid on the block. You’re rivals. I get it.”

  “Good,” said Kao. “As long as you understand our position. We do not normally consort with the likes of anarchists such as yourself.”

  “I know, I know,” reassured Kafka, “you guys are communists. I understand. But we have a common enemy, so why not…help each other out?

  “Of course, if you want to sit here in my office and insult me, I can always go to the North Koreans. They’d kill to have access to this kind of technology.”

  Although both men kept poker faces, Kafka felt their heartbeats flitter for a moment.

  “The North Korean government hardly has twenty million to offer you,” said Joeng with an edge of irritation in his voice.

  Kafka sat back and put up his hands in a gesture of resignation. “Hey, I’m an anarchist, right? What do I care about money? Maybe I just give it to them just to see what happens.”

  Joeng looked at Kao, who nodded his approval. Kafka found this interesting, as he was never sure from their communications which man was in charge.

  “Great!” shouted Kafka, making Kojic jump. “So we have an accord!”

  Both men nodded.

  “Excellent. Once the money is wired over we’ll be in touch.”

  “You can expect it within the hour,” said Kao.

  Kafka stood up. Kao, Joeng, and Kojic all followed suit. Kafka extended his hand. Koa took it, but when he felt Kafka’s long fingers, he looked down in shock and disgust. All he saw was a digitally perfect representation of a human hand.

  “We’ll get cracking on the remote access device for you right away,” said Kafka with a little too much enthusiasm. “Kojic, kindly show these fine gentlemen the way out.”

  Kao took his hand back and held it away from his body awkwardly as if he touched something filthy or ge
rmy. Kojic gestured to the door, and both men exited the office.

  Kojic paused before leaving.

  “Looks like we’re in business,” said Kafka.

  Kojic nodded and stepped out into the hall with Joeng and Kao, closing the door behind him.

  Kafka sat back in his chair behind his desk. “Terminate ambience program.”

  The office resumed its dilapidated appearance, and Kafka regained his terrible countenance. He thought about the factory floor below and the equipment that was being refurbished at that very moment, and he clicked in anticipation as he sat in the shadows.

  ***

  Frisky’s Bar

  12:21HRS

  “So let me get this straight,” said George Newman, owner of Frisky’s Bar, “you are taking over my bar. Under whose authority?”

  “The United States Government,” replied Colonel Betancourt coolly.

  George spat contemptuously on the ground at Betancourt’s feet. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to let Big Brother waltz on in here with some damned executive order seizing my bar. This is a private establishment.”

  “I understand, sir. This is a matter of national security.”

  “What matter?”

  “It’s classified, sir. Just know that you are doing a great service to your country.”

  “Now you wait just a goddamned minute. I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”

  “Please escort this nice gentleman off the premises and into protective custody.” Two soldiers dressed in plain clothes grabbed George under each arm and escorted him out the back.

  George shouted over his shoulder, “I didn’t even vote for Rubio!” A parting shot.

  Betancourt shrugged casually. “Lieutenant Farrow, install that metal detector and make sure the facial recognition equipment is operational. You need to be in and out so no one suspects anything. I am sure Kafka has this place under surveillance.”

  “Yes, sir. In and out.” Farrow was dressed like an electrician. His white electrician’s van was parked out front.

  Betancourt turned to Lieutenant Villanueva. “We are going to staff this place tonight. Bar tender, bouncers, busboys. Everyone know their jobs?”