Brother, Frank

by Michael Bunker

  The tears are flowing now, and he chokes out a gasp. Just a little one, probably not noticeable to Brenda, but he fights it back and puts his hand over his mouth, clamping it down tight.

  “You there?” Brenda says.

  And that’s when he sees it. Someone has started a back trace. The timer clicks forward to thirty seconds and starts to count down. The numbers fill in as the trace reaches each server jump.

  “I have to go,” Carlos says. “The day is dawning.” It’s their code. She knows he’s being tracked. “I’m going to call you tomorrow. Take out the trash, get a new bag, and I’ll call you tomorrow night.”

  “All right,” she says. “I love you.” And she clicks off the line.

  Take out the trash—her clue to get rid of the burner phone and activate another one. She’ll drive to a nearby town to dump the old one. Not taking any chances. Carlos has given her the altered Blackberry phones and specific instructions on how to utilize the secure client and the plugins he’s adapted to make the connection invisible. Or at least as invisible as possible.

  He realizes he didn’t have the opportunity to tell her that he loves her too. The computer trace stops. He closes the laptop and sobs into his hands.

  CHAPTER 18

  So this is what it feels like to really be Amish.

  I’m working with Mose, repairing the old barn, and it seems to me like the most natural thing in the world. Which is odd, considering the reality of the situation. Cutting boards by hand with an old saw instead of plugging in and using the circular saw feels... well, it feels right. I’ve never done it before, and believe it or not, you can’t just whack away at a board with a saw. There’s a technique to it. I can’t believe I didn’t know how to use a handsaw!

  We made a gap in the barn siding where the wood had started to rot away, and now Mose is at work with the hammer, nailing the boards that I cut for him across the hole. I bet the Amish know a technique for hammering nails, too. Mose never misses, and most of the nails are fully in and flush with only two swings. No wonder these people can put up a barn in a day.

  Ben and I haven’t been to town in weeks, and now that we’re established at the Shetlers’ farm, I feel certain that the search must have moved elsewhere. There’s been no further word of agents or “strangers” being sighted in Drury Falls, and I’m pretty sure if my adversaries had any idea where to find the HADroid, an attack or raid would have happened already.

  Maybe they’re trying to figure out how to take Ben without a fight.

  Maybe, but it’s not likely. Unless they’ve captured someone like Carlos or Patrick, someone high up in the BDD, they can’t even know what Ben is capable of. All of the specs were hidden or deleted. It was all compartmentalized. They know he’s a badass killer robot, of course. But as to the specifics, they can’t plan for things they don’t know.

  They’re smarter than you think they are. You always were an arrogant man. Underestimating everyone. Thinking you knew everything.

  Thanks, Cruella. Now go away.

  So here we are, only days from the big decision, and maybe it’ll work out that we can just live out our lives among the Amish. I can think of worse things to do, and frankly I’m starting to love the life.

  And there it is...

  The. Big. Decision.

  Is there even a decision to be made? I ponder it. Flip it over in my mind like deciding between life and death is purely an intellectual exercise. It’s not. Could I kill Ben now, after all we’ve been through? Could I pull the plug? Flip the switch that puts an end to my friend?

  Probably not. At least, not considering how well things have gone lately. Ben hasn’t changed since that day in the barn.

  Deep down, I’m surprised that we haven’t yet been discovered. But an even bigger surprise is how well Ben has managed to control himself. How he’s been able to put down the tendency to want to change. Even when the bull chased John out of the pasture the other day.

  That was a scary one.

  But Ben quashed his impulse to change. To run to John’s defense. I could only watch from the porch as Ben’s fists rose and his hands clenched behind the hat perched on his head. Not a single skin panel wavered or started to flip. No rocket launchers deployed, even if they are unarmed. I was surprised. And happy, too.

  Ben looked over at me once John was safely out of the paddock... and he nodded. An acknowledgement of the accomplishment. A shared recognition of what could have happened but didn’t. And just then the wind came up and blew Ben’s hat right off his head, and he and John raced after it, laughing like the children they really are.

  No. How could I kill him now?

  If all goes well, the last day when Ben can be turned off forever will pass us by and I won’t even take notice of it. Maybe it’ll be just another day in Amish country.

  “Here come the boys,” Mose says. He nods toward the approaching duo. He always calls them “the boys” now, which is appropriate when you think about it.

  “I wonder what they want?” I say.

  “Probably looking for permission to go to the Market Days, I reckon,” Mose says. “They didn’t get to go last time, and John hates to miss it.”

  And he’s right. That’s exactly what they want.

  “Can we go?” It’s Ben asking. John just sits back and hopes. He’s smiling, and the edges of his eyes squint enough to make it look like he’s certain we’ll say yes.

  “You know what kind of trouble can happen. What if someone recognizes you?” I say.

  Mose looks over at me and interjects. “As far as what all I’ve heard, they don’t even know what Ben looks like. When the Englischer strangers were in town they were looking for you, Doc.”

  “I suppose.”

  “So you can’t go,” Mose says. “But I can’t see any reason why the boys can’t, if Sarah takes them.”

  The boys take that as permission, and Ben smiles at me as the two run toward the barn to harness the horses.

  I look at Mose and shake my head.

  I’m not sure I feel good about it, but I don’t suppose it can hurt. And if Ben’s going to live this life, he’ll need to be fully embedded in the community. In fact, it might look weirder if he doesn’t go.

  Yes, by all means. Send the killer robot to the fair!

  Cruella, if I wasn’t well on my way to becoming a pacifist, I’d climb inside my own head and kill you.

  * * *

  As the boys leave for the market in their best clothes, I wave and stop them on the driveway. “I need to remind you of a few things,” I say.

  “Okay.” Ben grins as if to say Don’t be such a worrier, or something like that.

  I smile back, but only for a split second. Then I get serious. “Listen, Ben. You’re not a kid. Not on the outside. People don’t know you and they think you’re an adult. A full-grown Amish man. When you’re in town, you can’t act like you do here. You have to act grown up. Don’t be running around and playing. It’ll look weird, and you’ll draw attention.”

  “Of course,” Ben says. He shifts on the bench and holds the reins up as if he’s done talking and is ready to go. “Anything else?”

  “Take care of John and Sarah, and if you feel nervous or if something doesn’t feel right, you all just come on home.”

  “Gotcha,” Ben says, and snaps the reins. The wagon pulls away, and he waves at me as he goes. Down around the bend and then up to the road they go, and the sound of laughing and carrying on drifts back to me on the air.

  “They’ll be all right,” Mose says as he walks up to meet me on the gravel.

  “I know.”

  But inside, I only have hope.

  * * *

  “Where are you now?” Carlos asks.

  “I’m back at the house,” Brenda says as she pours herself a cup of coffee and sits down at the table. It’s the next day, and her hands shake slightly as she tries to muster courage in her voice despite the trouble and pain. The separation sits on her like a weight. She can’t
seem to free herself from it, even when she hears his voice and knows that he’s okay. For now. “Maybe I can come to you?” she says. “You know... be with you.”

  “That’ll only make it harder for both of us,” Carlos says. “There are things I need to do, and I won’t focus or think clearly if I’m worried about you.”

  “I could help.”

  “I know you could.”

  “So let me meet you somewhere.”

  “We can’t do that, amor, and I can’t tell you everything that’s going on.”

  There is silence on the line for a while, and as Carlos watches the scan tracker on his laptop, his anxiety rises. He hopes the constant switching of burners and the advanced software he’s running will give him more time.

  “Hold on,” Brenda says.

  “What is it?”

  Carlos sits up in his chair, straining to hear. His alarms are going off, and he feels his heart begin to race.

  “Brenda?”

  There is a loud crash on the other end of the line, and then what sounds like a struggle.

  “Brenda!”

  “This isn’t Brenda, friend,” a cold voice says. The voice alteration software also changes this man’s voice, whoever he is, but the menace comes through loud and clear.

  “Who is this?” Carlos shouts into the phone. “Who—Put Brenda back on!”

  “Brenda is occupied.”

  “What the...” His mind races, and he stands up and walks to the window.

  “Just shut up and listen,” the voice says. “We need to meet.”

  “That’s not going to happen, pal,” Carlos says, “and you know it.”

  “Do you know what’s about to happen to your wife?”

  “I know what people like you are capable of, but...”

  “But what?” the voice says.

  “Who is this?”

  “I apologize for the interruption, but it couldn’t be helped. My name is Cyrano Dresser, and I’m holding a gun to your wife’s head.”

  Carlos steels himself. His whole body is in panic mode, but his mind clicks through options. Giving himself up is not one of them. He and Brenda have talked about this before: someone threatening to use her to bring down the BDD, or holding one of them hostage to make the other talk. And they both know and have agreed that the bigger battle is too important to give it up for one life. Still...

  “We need to meet, Carlos,” Dresser says in a menacing whisper.

  “I can’t do it,” Carlos says, “but listen closely to what I’m about to say.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Carlos takes a deep breath and tries to force down the fear and rage that are gripping him like a vise.

  “I suppose you know what I’m capable of,” Carlos says. He almost growls and begins to pace the floor. “You wouldn’t be there with my wife if you didn’t know, so mark my words... If you touch her. If you harm her in any way...”

  “What? You gonna kill me? Like you did to Patrick? That was you, wasn’t it?”

  Carlos pauses for a few seconds. Thinking. Committing himself to a course of action from which he knows he cannot back away.

  “You’ll what?” Dresser says again. Goading him.

  “I’ll rain down hellfire and brimstone on you and your whole damned system.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “It is,” Carlos says. “And it’s a promise I can keep.”

  “We’ll see.”

  There is silence, some muffled voices, then a gunshot. A few seconds later, Dresser comes back on the phone.

  “Well, that wasn’t pretty.”

  “What did you do?” Carlos asks. He doesn’t yell or scream. He is angry but resigned, and he feels what is coming next in his bones. He is a machine now. All pretext of free will fled from him when he heard the shot.

  “Your wife is dead, Carlos, and it’s your fault. That’s what happens, man. I believed you when you said you wouldn’t give yourself up. You’re a fanatic—why would you? An extremist. Of course you’re not going to surrender to me just to save the woman you love. So I just killed her. Payback of sorts. For Patrick. He’s the one who told us how to locate her, by the way. Before you killed him. Not exactly where to find her, but how. You see, I’ve been dealing with extremists for a long time now, and I’ve learned that extremism needs to cost something. And this here, this is just a down payment. I’m going to get you next, my friend. Only I’m not going to kill you. Not at first. I’m going to let you live awhile so I can find Doc and the HADroid. Then I’m going to kill you, just like all the other terrorists I’ve killed. And believe me, I’ve killed plenty of your kind.”

  Carlos hangs up the phone and tosses it onto the sofa. His hands are shaking as he brings them to his face. Only this time, he stops. He looks at his hands and wills them to stop shaking. He steels himself. There are no tears. There is only a promise to be kept.

  * * *

  Cyrano Dresser stands before a large map spread across a meeting table. Two sides of the map are held down by a stapler and a tape dispenser, but it still curls up at the corners. As usual, Dresser’s not happy, and everyone in the room knows it. In the days since he returned from his trip down south to try to capture the terrorist named Carlos, he’s been on edge. Even more so than usual.

  “This is un-freaking-believable!” he shouts. The wrath seems to ooze from his pores. “We found Osama Bin Laden in Pakistan with half the man-hours we’ve expended trying to find a single nerd civilian scientist and his pet robot! And we’re not in some third-world backwater where everyone hates us and wants us out of the country, either. We’re searching in America, for crap’s sake!”

  One of the several computer techs looking down on the map harrumphs.

  “What?” Dresser says. “Do you have something to say, genius?”

  “Well... if you don’t mind,” the tech says.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Seth Feinberg.”

  “Okay, Seth Feinberg,” Cyrano says, his voice dripping with a combination of amusement and disdain. “Tell me whatever you got, buddy. Let’s have it, because believe me, your input would be priceless right now. In fact, just this morning I was wondering to myself what Seth Feinberg thinks about our massive failure to do our jobs.”

  Feinberg winces. Everyone else in the room is staring at him now, not believing that he could be stupid enough to say anything—anything at all—when Dresser is deep into one of his rants. If there’s one thing they all know from recent experience, it’s that Cyrano Dresser doesn’t give a damn what any “pencil-necked nerd-ass geek” has to say.

  “Well...” Feinberg begins warily. “It’s not like the people in Amish country aren’t at all comparable to the religious zealots and goatherders in Afghanistan and Pakistan. I mean... the Amish won’t talk to us. Won’t help in any way. And they’re all off-grid, so it’s not like we can use technology to find these guys.”

  Dresser glares at Feinberg with unmasked hatred. But still he smiles a menacing smile.

  Excuses.

  It doesn’t matter that Seth Feinberg is only echoing things he’s already heard Dresser say. In fact, in Dresser’s eyes, that makes it worse, because Feinberg is using Dresser’s own words to make his weak excuses. The man is blaming the Amish for his own failure.

  Dresser’s smile fades and is replaced with a look of utter contempt. At this moment, Feinberg represents every technician, every wonk Dresser has ever hated. Feinberg is every officer who hesitates and gets men in the field killed. He stands as a cardboard cutout for every cover-your-ass president, every do-nothing congressman, every scumbag senator... every douche whose daddy got him a position in government or in the military so power could stay in the family.

  Feinberg represents the geeks. He is the whole culture of lily-livered, game-playing cowards who don’t have the guts to kill everyone and everything that opposes...

  What?

  Manifest Destiny.

  Whatever you need to call it
. Whatever you call the divine right of people like Dresser—people with the fortitude to do what must be done—to tell everyone else to get in line, act right, or go find their own planet to screw up.

  “Let me ask you a question, Seth Feinberg,” Dresser hisses.

  “Sure... sir.” It’s all that Feinberg can manage to say.

  “Have you ever been undercover in Afghanistan or Pakistan? Hm, Feinberg?” Dresser leans on the map with both hands and stares daggers at the computer tech. This flunky who dares answer back to him. “Have you ever been ambushed on the Khyber Pass? Or been held hostage by goatherders carrying AK-47s and rocket launchers? Terrorists who piss on your head and call you Satan? Have you ever had a friend beheaded while you sit there and watch... helplessly? Smelling like goatherder piss?”

  “Well... of course not.”

  “Then shut up, Seth Feinberg. Shut your nerd-ass mouth. Instead, why don’t you run and get me a coffee. Black. And don’t let me hear your voice again, or I’ll transfer your fat ass to Karachi tomorrow and then put out the word that you’re CIA, you got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Feinberg says as he sheepishly heads toward the coffee machine.

  “Anyone else want to compare the pacifist Amish from middle Ohio to Al Qaeda?”

  Not a sound.

  They’ve all heard Dresser call the Amish terrorists a dozen times, but they damn sure aren’t going to say so now.

  Deep inside himself, Cyrano does indeed believe the Amish are akin to Al Qaeda. He’s worked that out, and he believes the comparisons are valid. But he doesn’t need some geek trying to draw conclusions that he’s already made for himself.

  Dresser points to a circle on the map. At its center is the farm where the horse and buggy were stolen. “We know that within hours after leaving the pickup truck, our boys stole a horse and buggy right here,” he says. “The horse returned with the buggy later that night. So that tells us that the doc and his retarded weapon found sanctuary, at least for a little while, somewhere in this circle.”