I am Automaton 3: Shadow of the Automaton

by Edward P. Cardillo

  “Are we supposed to push the button?” asked Vllasi.

  Bejko reached out with his right index finger to press the button when the doors creaked open, startling them both. They looked at each other and Bejko stepped inside first. Vllasi, terrified that the figure might return, jumped in right behind him.

  They waited for a moment, but the doors remained open.

  “Press the button,” said Vllasi nervously, wiping his chin with the palm of his trembling hand.

  “Which one?” snapped Bejko.

  Then they heard the shuffling coming from the dark corridor that the shadowy figure retreated down. It was coming back in their direction. Before long, the figure reappeared cloaked in the shadows, its horrible countenance revealed for a second at a time as it passed windows.

  Bejko looked up and saw a camera mounted inside the elevator car. “Which floor?” he called out to whoever was on the other end watching them.

  There was no answer.

  The shuffling grew louder and the shape larger as it was almost at the elevator. Bejko and Vllasi heard wheezing and what appeared to be a low growl.

  Bejko began to push buttons—second floor, third floor, fourth—he didn’t care at this point. Nothing happened.

  “Bejko, do something!” cried Vllasi.

  Bejko put his hand on Vllasi’s arm, his signal to him not to have an itchy trigger finger with the C4, and he pulled out an AK-47 without the stock. “Get back!” he commanded the figure.

  However, it pressed on unimpressed by his display of firepower.

  “Stay back! I warn you!” He shoved the barrel of the gun outside of the elevator. Vllasi grabbed his arm in terror, like a younger brother looking for protection in the dark from the bogeyman. It looked as if the figure was going to walk right into it.

  There was the grating of metal on metal and the elevator doors began to creak closed. Bejko pulled the barrel of his AK inside the elevator car as the doors closed. A hand reached out for them but didn’t make it in time. There was a loud ding and the elevator slowly began to rise.

  “Jesus!” shouted Bejko, unnerved. He looked up at the camera. “What the hell was that about?”

  There was no answer.

  “Maybe Kojic was right about this Kafka,” said Vllasi.

  “Shut up, Vllasi.”

  “There’s something wrong with this Kafka. This isn’t normal.”

  “Shut up, Vllasi! This elevator is probably bugged! He’s probably listening to every word!”

  Vllasi clutched his hand over his mouth at the realization that Bejko was probably right. If Kafka was watching, why wouldn’t he be listening?

  “Mere theatrics!” bellowed Bejko in a poor attempt at bravado, the tremor in his voice betraying him. “It’s all part of the illusion.”

  The elevator came to a stop on the third floor, but the doors didn’t open. Bejko pressed the Open Doors button, but nothing happened. The PA system crackled.

  Place your weapon on the floor and leave it behind.

  “It was a test,” said Bejko annoyed. “He was testing to see how we would react. Now he knows I’m armed.”

  He placed the AK-47 on the floor of the elevator car and there was another loud ding. The doors scraped open and both men stepped out. The doors closed behind them and they heard the elevator descend…with the AK-47.

  Bejko was now unarmed.

  Please, down the hall, last door on your right.

  “At least he’s not sending another one of those things,” said Vllasi.

  Bejko shot him a disapproving look, and Vllasi shrank. Bejko began to walk down the hallway lined with doors, offices over a factory it seemed. Vllasi followed at a distance behind him, happy to let Bejko lead.

  As they passed windows looking out over the fenced in area in the back, they saw dozens of people milling around. The way they were walking was odd, like their shadowy escort downstairs, and they were bumping into each other. It was like a yard full of very drunk people.

  Bejko stopped to look out one of the windows. “Look, Vllasi. Look at those people down there. What’s wrong with them?”

  There was no answer.

  “Vllasi.” He tore his gaze away from the window in annoyance at his cowardly…

  Vllasi was no longer with him.

  He was gone, vanished, and Bejko thought he saw one of the office door digi-locks re-engaging.

  “Vllasi! Where are you?”

  He walked over to the door and turned the doorknob, but it was locked. He then knocked on the door and waited. No response. He put his ear up to the door and listened.

  Silence.

  The last door on the right. Please.

  The voice made him jump out of his skin. The out dated public address system gave the voice an unnerving, tinny quality, but there was something else…something shrill about the voice itself. Something that had his subconscious screaming for him to turn and run.

  He was unarmed and lost his compatriot armed with enough C4 to blow them all to kingdom come, but he had to see it through. He had his combat training. Plus, Petrela was on the rooftop next door. If he had to run, he had coverage.

  At last, he reached the final door on the right. He reached out to open the door, but the digi-lock disengaged and the door slowly swung open.

  Bejko looked in and saw a tall, lanky man…with four eyes…standing behind a desk. “Please, come in. Have a seat.”

  Bejko swallowed hard and entered the room. Kafka gestured for him to sit in one of the chairs in front of the desk. As he sat in the chair to his left, he heard the door to the office close and the digi-lock engage behind him.

  “You must be Kafka.”

  Kafka sat in his chair and smiled. Bejko though he looked like a cross between a lizard and a praying mantis…with four eyes. Kojic said he’d have four eyes. The man actually had four eyes.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “It is good to meet you. I’ve heard stories—”

  “All good, I hope,” quipped Kafka, but his humor was lost on the petrified Bejko.

  “You are something of a legend.”

  “Thank you…what shall I call you?”

  “Bejko.”

  “Ah, yes, Bejko. So you’re from one of the other cells?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how, Bejko, did you find me?”

  Me, not us. Bejko saw this as possible confirmation that Kafka was the only one left in this cell, as Kojic had explained. Alone…except for those things milling around out back.

  “We were told to make contact by a courier from Ishmael Irani.”

  Kafka heard this name before. Belmont had mentioned him—he was some kind of bigwig, but Kafka sensed Bejko’s pulse quicken.

  He was lying.

  “Oh, Ishmael Irani. Well, why didn’t you say so?”

  Bejko looked around the office, trying to look casual but failing miserably. “So this is your base of operations. Very nice.”

  “Yes, it serves its purpose,” said Kafka. Bejko realized that it wasn’t the PA system. This man’s voice was really that creepy in person. “The Rollercoaster Recession has left a veritable wasteland where the manufacturing sector once was. These factories are great. They are sturdy, have limited access points, and are easy to defend. And spacious! Let me tell you about spacious!”

  Kafka’s expression, if it could be said that his face had expressions, quickly changed. “But I take it you’re not here for a tour.” There was a hint of menace in his tone, an unvoiced threat that sent a chill down Bejko’s spine.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “So what brings you by, Bejko?”

  “Ishmael Irani heard of Belmont’s death and he wanted a report on who was taking his place.” Quickened pulse. Another lie.

  “I see,” said Kafka. “As you may have heard, Belmont, in his last hours, entrusted his mission to me.”

  “Where do you come from? No one has heard of a Kafka coming up in the ranks until recently.”

&nbs
p; “Belmont recruited me,” said Kafka without missing a beat. “You know how he likes to collect people.”

  Bejko managed a smile. “He had a reputation. And what of Yvette? She was his right hand.”

  Kafka’s expression soured. “She was murdered by an American. An army soldier. She was…indispensable.”

  Bejko found Kafka’s reaction intriguing. It appeared this monstrosity was exhibiting some kind of emotion…sentimentality.

  “I am sorry to hear that,” replied Bejko. “She was a true believer. One of the best among us. So what have you been working on?”

  “These are an awful lot of questions coming from another cell. The whole point of decentralized cells is that if one is compromised, the activity of another is not.”

  “This is for Ishmael Irani,” Bejko reassured.

  “Ah, yes. I forgot. The only thing I find strange about…well, you—not to put too fine a point on it—is that usually couriers from the higher ups are not members of other cells. They’re usually independent. This way if they are compromised, they can’t give up any of the cells.”

  Bejko’s pulse quickened again, faster than before. “My cell has moved on without me. I don’t know its location, nor do they know mine.” This was the truth. “I am working with Ishmael Irani now.” This was a lie.

  Bejko quickly tried to change the subject. “So what are all of those people wandering around out back? What is wrong with them?”

  Kafka smiled like a vampiric used car salesman. He liked to toy with his prey before eating it. “They’re drones.”

  “Drones?”

  “Yes, infantry drones. More specifically, United States Army Infantry Drones.”

  “I thought that program was discontinued after the incident in Siena, Italy.”

  “It was, but through American military mismanagement, I was able to obtain some from Mexico and Italy.”

  “Why aren’t they wearing drone uniforms?”

  Kafka grew serious, his eyes glaring.

  “Why, Bejko, it sounds like you’re accusing me of something. I don’t know if I like the tone of your questioning.”

  “No, Kafka. Please. I did not mean any disrespect. It was merely an…observation.” Kafka found Bejko’s racing pulse intoxicating at the moment, and his fangs began to extend from under his top lip like a horrific erection.

  Bejko wasn’t sure if he was seeing correctly. Kafka laughed, as Bejko did a classic double take. “Wh-what is that?”

  Kafka pointed to his protracted fangs with an abnormally long finger. “What, these? I’m just happy to see you.”

  Bejko knew the ruse was up. He stood up, flung his chair over the desk, hitting Kafka clear in the face, and he made a run for the door. Only Kafka was faster than Bejko and caught the chair before it hit him…

  …and the office door was still locked.

  “Shit!” cried Bejko as he pulled on the doorknob, snapping it off in his hand.

  Kafka stood at an impressive six-foot seven or eight and loomed over Bejko. “What kind of guest treats his host like this?”

  Bejko was pounding his fists on the door. “Vllasi! Vllasi, where are you?”

  There was a large explosion a few rooms away that shook the entire office. Bejko held onto the wall and a dusty plastic office tree in a pot to steady himself. His ears rang as Kafka was upon him.

  He struggled in hand-to-hand combat, blocking, striking, and twisting out of Kafka’s grip, but Kafka was too fast and too strong. Kafka pulled him close in a horrible embrace, too close for Bejko to strike back or slip out of it, and he sank his teeth into Bejko’s neck, his four eyes rolling back into his skull in ecstasy.

  Petrela heard the explosion from inside the abandoned factory. He trained his sniper rifle on the windows where his tracker said Bejko’s mini-com was located, but it was inside an interior room, so he couldn’t get a visual

  Petrela’s mind raced to make sense of what was happening. Vllasi triggered his suicide bomb, which must have meant that the meeting went wrong. Yet, he was still receiving a clear signal from Bejko’s mini-com. Had Bejko survived the blast?

  He waited, watching the windowed corridor through his scope. There was no movement from within. He scanned

  the perimeter of the building, even the fenced in back area with those strange people shambling around.

  Nothing.

  He checked his watch anxiously and did one more sweep of the exterior of the building with his scope. Nothing. Finally, he decided to pack it up.

  He exited the building and ran for his van parked at the curb. He threw his rifle inside and hopped into the driver’s seat. He looked around nervously to see if he had garnered the attention of any by-standers, and then he sped off.

  ***

  “So you’re saying that this thing is always with you, like a voice in your head?”

  Peter sighed. “It’s kind of like a voice, but it’s more like an intrusion of ideas into my mind.”

  “Well, we now know of another weakness,” said Betancourt. “If they run out of hosts and can’t transport themselves they become…inert.”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Well, if Kafka is going to do what I think he’s going to do, he’s going to be spreading digital copies of these aliens to everyone.” The Colonel took a deep breath and held it for a moment. “What I am about to tell you is highly classified. It could very well end my career.”

  “No offense, sir, but you aided and abetted a fugitive—me—and you are wanted for the murder of a four-star general. Anything that happens to your career, at this point, would be an improvement.”

  “I see your point, Major…”

  Peter waited expectantly as Betancourt became momentarily lost in his own thoughts, as if he had never realized his situation until Peter pointed it out. “…Area 51 houses the master console for Retinal Gateway Technology through which all transmissions in the country are filtered and analyzed.”

  “How can all of the RGT transmissions in the country be filtered through one location?”

  “It’s the ship,” said Betancourt. “The entire craft serves as a magnet or beacon for the transmissions.”

  “That makes total sense,” said Peter. “These aliens are nothing if not efficient. They travelled to this planet in the craft that would become their apparatus for pandemic infection. Waste not, want not.”

  “Kafka’s likely move would be to access that apparatus and interface with it…”

  “And convert everyone into alien zombies with his new trick,” said Peter finishing the thought.

  “He’d communicate backwards through the broadband, and Assistant Director Wolff will let it happen undetected,” added Betancourt.

  “So what do we do, sir? I take it we can’t just waltz into Area 51 and tell them that the notorious terrorist, Kafka, is coming to use their space ship to turn everyone into zombies.”

  “No, we can’t. It’s not that they wouldn’t necessarily believe it,” said Betancourt, “for Chrissake, they’re guarding an alien space craft. For one, as you have so graciously pointed out, we are wanted for the murder of a four-star general.”

  “Right…that small matter,” said Peter wryly.

  “The other thing is that Area 51 has state-of-the-art security. I’m talking stuff no one even knows exists, even within our own military.”

  “So they’ll think they can handle whatever Kafka throws at them,” said Peter thoughtfully.

  “Something like that.”

  “Sir, have you ever been to Area 51?”

  “Once. And let me tell you, the security is amazing.”

  “I heard that the site is no longer used for anything.”

  “That’s what the government would have you believe, but the Janets still take off from Las Vegas and land regularly on the Area 51 air strip.”

  “Janets, sir?”

  “The white airplanes with the red stripes that bring Area 51 employees into the site.”

  “Whatever securi
ty they have won’t be worth a damn,” said Peter. “Kafka can use his new trick with the portable RGT to turn guards into zombies as he waltz’s right into the base.”

  “Exactly. So our best bet is to stop him when he makes his attempt.”

  “How are we going to do that? There’s only two of us?”

  “Yeah, but you’re more powerful than one soldier,” said Betancourt.

  “But I’m not as strong as Carl,” reminded Peter. “In a straight out fight he would win. He saw to it that all of his little clones are watered down versions of himself.”

  “What about your little friend inside your head?”

  “He pretty much confirmed that Carl is stronger, and he’d never help me. In fact, to get out of his limbo he’d probably tell me how to get killed, so he’d be released from his purgatory.”

  “Nevertheless, keep your ears…uh, mind open. He may accidentally tip you off to something crucial.”

  “Or he may lead me to believe that he let something accidentally slip to get me killed, but I get your drift, sir.”

  “I think our primary objective is not to kill your brother,” said Betancourt. “We just have to get to the ship first and destroy it before he can use it. Then we deal with him.”

  “What about Elicia and her sister? We can’t drag them into this. They’re civilians.”

  “Actually, I think the mighty Tronika can come in handy given our situation,” said Betancourt.

  “I don’t follow, sir.”

  “We have to consider the very distinct possibility that we are going to fail.”

  Peter looked down thoughtfully. “Yeah, that’s crossed my mind on more than one occasion.”

  “We need Elicia to fire up her blog and get the word out. She needs to tell everyone to drop off the grid.”

  “That would be suicide!” said Peter. “They’d track her, find her.”

  “Peter, I know that your first instinct is to protect her, but we are at war. This is all bigger than any one person. We’re talking about the fate of the whole human race.”

  Peter stood up and turned away from Betancourt. “I don’t like it. We saved her life so that now we can use her.”

  “You don’t have to like it, son.”

  Peter turned on Betancourt. “I’m not your fucking son. I bet you had this planned out from the beginning. I bet it’s why you changed your mind about going back to save Brittany. You figured if we saved her sister, she’d be willing to play her part.”