“What are you suggesting?” Efram accused more than asked. “That the government is harvesting innocents to create these drones?”
“Perhaps I am. The point is, we don’t know, and the military isn’t being forthcoming.”
“Carlos brings up a good point,” said Efram, glossing over the man’s implication. “Are these drones unnatural? How do religious groups feel about using the undead?”
Pie charts started to appear on the screen.
“Although 85% of those who identify themselves as Christians do not agree with the technology of using undead,” Efram continued, “92% think it is necessary to combat enemies of the United States, 98% of those who identify as Jews disagree with the technology, but 66% think it is necessary; 99% of those who identify as Muslim disagree with the technology, and only 3% see its utility.”
“That’s probably because of the heavily radical Muslim influence in the Order for International Liberation,” the portly man with glasses speculated.
“Good point, Pat,” said Efram. Mr. Birdsall then recognized Pat as Pat Endicott, Conservative radio host.
“Or maybe,” interjected Carlos, “Muslim groups tend to be the targets of these infantry drones.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” spat the woman. “Cartels and OIL have been the targets of these drones. The cartels are Mexican, and OIL is a diversified group of terrorists. But the fact that there is a heavy radical Muslim influence speaks volumes.”
“And what of this Man from Tora Bora?” asked Efram, changing the topic. “Patriot or pariah?”
“The Automaton? Oh, I think he’s a hero,” said the woman. “A true patriot protecting our interests. I don’t care how he does it.”
“How can you not care how he does it?” asked Carlos in disbelief. “Talk about unnatural. They say he can communicate with the undead.”
“Carlos brings up a good point,” said Efram. “How does he do it? Some in the media are painting him to be some kind of freak.”
“Maybe he’s God’s answer to all of the chaos in our great land,” said the woman. “The economy’s in the toilet, unemployment is through the roof, our enemies grow stronger every day…this Automaton is someone with a gift to help us, someone we can all get behind.”
“A gift?” Carlos said with exasperation. “You call communicating with the dead a gift from God?”
“Jesus Christ raised Lazarus from the dead,” she retorted.
“Yeah, but Lazarus didn’t then go around eating people,” Carlos chided. “Is this woman for real?”
“The point is,” said Pat Enicott, “since this Automaton came on the scene, the attacks on U.S. soil have stopped. He had our enemies watching their own backs. However, with the UN Security Council’s resolution, our enemies will only be emboldened. Our hands are tied. Now the Liberals want to tie our hands with border defense. Why don’t we just open up our borders and let everyone in to destroy our country?”
Barry switched to the Celebrity Channel. Docutainment Now! was on.
“Who is this Automaton, the latest sex symbol to hit our military?” asked a young woman in a scanty outfit. “Women want to know.”
He turned off the television and sat there in silence, catching his breath. What can of worms had Carl opened? He was anything from a hero to an abomination to a sex symbol. The country was going mad, and Carl was stoking the flames.
The truth was Barry was worried for Carl’s safety. Not just from terrorists, but from the media and his own government. The already polarized country had become even more divided. Although OIL attacks had ceased, there were riots breaking out over the country. The unemployed were stuck on welfare, the middle class were being taxed into oblivion, and people were losing their homes…
Barry was wondering what was preventing the government from using the drones on its own citizenry. It was a time of great civil unrest. Alaska and Texas were filled with Separatists, and the specter of revolution loomed on the horizon. He didn’t want to think what would happen if the drones were used to restore order.
The President was issuing one executive order after another, skirting Congress for the supposed greater good. This was a man who was willing to use a strong hand in uncertain times.
Since Carl’s scourge in Tora Bora, things have gotten out of hand. Barry wondered how Carl was doing, and if Peter was looking after his brother.
***
Peter slammed Carl into his locker, “Are you out of your frakking mind?”
Carl’s back caved in the locker behind him, but he appeared unfazed…amused even.
“Oh, come on, Pete. I was giving them good television, showing them what the infantry drones can do.”
“What you did was make it appear that we weren’t in control,” Peter scolded. “Someone could’ve gotten hurt.”
“By the way, who was the weird reporter off to the side by himself?” Carl asked.
Peter was startled by the question. “I didn’t see a reporter off to the side by himself, Carl.”
Carl looked sheepish. “No one was going to get hurt…besides the pigs that is.”
Peter went nose to nose with his little brother. “It’s not funny, Carl. Betancourt is going to have our asses for this. We made the President look like a fool.”
“The President is a fool, Pete.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Peter pointed an admonishing finger.
“Oh, come on,” Carl said. “The country’s a mess. He’s a weak President, and the world is laughing at us.”
“And now they’re afraid of us, Carl. If they become afraid enough, we are going to have problems.”
“What, the UN?” Carl snickered. “They’re a bunch of pansies. They don’t give a shit about America.”
“Carl, we are soldiers. It is not our place to make policy. We carry it out, even if we personally disagree with it.”
“So we’re just blunt instruments, is that it?”
“Yes,” Peter shouted, “it’s the way it’s always been. It’s what you signed on for when you enlisted, like it or not. You’ve become drunk with power. Just because you ran all over Major Lewis, doesn’t mean that you are above the chain of command. Just because you are all over the news and Docutainment Now! doesn’t mean you are a celebrity. You are a soldier.”
Carl smirked. “Oh, come on, big brother. Are you sure you aren’t jealous? Now I’m the popular one, and it’s burning your ass. I’m stronger now and you can’t handle it.”
“It’s not about that, Carl. I know you had it rough growing up.”
“Rough, Pete? I was beaten up and ridiculed most of my childhood, and where was my big brother? You were too busy with your friends.”
Peter, frustrated, ran his hands through his hair. “That’s not what this is about, Carl. The army isn’t a place to resolve your childhood conflicts, and it’s certainly not a place for ego. If you have issues, you need to discuss it with the shrink.”
“That asshole? You’ve got to be kidding.”
Peter was about to retort when Kettle barged in.
“What is it, Nolan?”
“Betancourt wants us to report to his office. He’s mighty pissed, sir.”
Peter stood there glaring at Carl, his mind racing. “Okay, let’s go gentlemen. Time to face the music.”
Kettle left the locker room. As Carl passed Peter, Peter put out his arm to stop him. “This isn’t over.”
“Let’s not keep the Colonel waiting, Pete.”
Peter removed his arm and let Carl pass. He didn’t know what got into Carl, but he was scared. Carl was behaving recklessly. He was losing his discipline, and Betancourt had Peter’s finger over Carl’s kill switch.
He knew Carl had issues. He was the nerd who was always picked on, but he kept his nose in the books through it all with the promise of success. That promise went unfulfilled when he dropped out of college, and his dreams of becoming an engineer were on hold.
Then there was Xcaret. Peter knew what it was like to lose
your entire unit. He wondered if Carl had become unhinged from his traumatic experience. Then there were these abilities. Peter cursed them.
Why had Carl been singled out? Peter didn’t see these abilities as gifts. They were eating away at his brother, changing him. He was becoming more powerful, and the only check and balance was the kill chip in his skull.
Peter followed behind his brother and dreaded what Betancourt was going to say. They screwed up big time, and Carl’s life was up for grabs and he didn’t even seem to care.
***
“Goddammit, what in the hell were you thinking?” Betancourt boomed sitting forward in his chair behind his desk.
Peter looked at Carl. “There was a…miscommunication, sir.”
“A miscommunication, Captain? Please, enlighten me. What was the nature of this miscommunication?”
Peter cleared his throat and prayed Carl would behave himself. “Sergeant Birdsall thought that we were supposed to demonstrate the drones’ full capability, sir.”
“Oh he did, did he? By tearing live hogs apart in front of reporters?”
“Yes, sir, apparently.”
“And did you issue that order or elaborate such instructions before the training exercise, Captain?”
“No, I didn’t, sir.”
“And you,” turning to Carl, “what in the hell were you thinking, having those drones attack the pigs?”
Peter held his breath awaiting Carl’s response.
“Sir, I was operating under the assumption—”
“I’m sorry, son, under the what?”
“The assumption—”
“Sergeant, we don’t assume in the army.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We follow orders. Did Captain Birdsall order you to override the AI kill switches and have the drones attack the pigs?”
“No, sir. He didn’t.”
“Did he make it clear that, during the training exercise, you were to simulate apprehending targets without casualty?”
“Yes, sir. He did.”
“Then at what point,” Betancourt’s voice began to rise and his face turned purple, “did you think it was a good idea to put on a horror show for the press? You, of all people, who helped fight to make this program what it is today.”
Peter bit his lip. Carl looked the Colonel in the eye, “I guess I wasn’t thinking, sir.”
“Oh, you were thinking all right, Sergeant, but you aren’t paid to think. Thinking is above your pay grade.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t interrupt me, goddammit. You are a soldier. You are paid to follow orders without thinking. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“One more stunt like this and you’re getting a one-way ticket back to Gitmo. Don’t forget that I have my finger poised over your kill switch.”
“Yes, sir.”
“One week in solitary should remind you of what your priorities are. You can think all you want there. Get it out of your system.” After Betancourt said that, he pressed a button on his desk and two MP’s came in. “Any trouble out of you and I’ll press that button without hesitation, am I clear?”
“Crystal, sir.”
One of the MP’s gestured for Carl to stand up, and he did. They shackled his hands and feet. Carl found it amusing since the threat was not from his limbs but his mind, but he played along.
They marched him out of Betancourt’s office. Peter and Nolan looked at each other nervously.
“Had to be done,” Betancourt declared. “He’s undisciplined and he’s dangerous. We need to keep him focused…we wouldn’t want to have to pull the trigger…” He let those words hang out there in space like the threat it was intended to be.
“Yes, sir. I understand,” answered Peter. However, the truth of the matter was that he didn’t understand. He didn’t understand any of this. He didn’t understand what was happening to his little brother. He didn’t understand what the brass was doing with him.
He didn’t understand why Fiona wasn’t there. Of all the times she was needed…
“You go operational as scheduled with or without Sergeant Birdsall. Understood?” demanded Betancourt.
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
***
Carl sat in his ten-by-ten cinder block cell alone with his thoughts. After his mother was murdered in the explosion at the mall and then he lost his entire unit in Xcaret, it was if he had suddenly developed a kind of clinical detachment, as if his feelings had been boxed up and shoved into the back of his consciousness to collect dust. It was what got him through the fiasco at Xcaret.
However, now emotion came in waves, lapping at the shores of his sanity, eroding it slowly. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. He didn’t know what his purpose was.
He wasn’t destined to graduate college or work as an engineer. His whole life he had been an outsider, the underdog, and now when he thought he had finally found purpose, that he was doing good for the world, his own government treated him like a recalcitrant child.
He thought he deserved some recognition. He survived treasonous agents from within the military, he survived the Navajas cartel, and he hunted OIL. He thought of his brother, who had his share of suffering and survivor’s guilt. He, too, was a hero.
However, Carl knew that he could do things his brother couldn’t even imagine. He was getting faster and stronger every day. He could coordinate the drones better than the shepherding dogs or radio signal tags ever could. He had OIL on the run.
Yet, here he sat with a kill chip in his head, the thanks he got for a job well done. To add insult to injury, he had to report to his older…weaker brother, because he was still “green.” He killed more terrorists in Tora Bora than a whole squad of Seal Team 6. They couldn’t have achieved maximum penetration of the cave system. No one could have.
He knew that the only thing keeping him from being locked away permanently, or worse, was all of the media attention. He supposed he had the President to thank for that. After the successful operation in Tora Bora and the attacks on U.S. soil ceased, it would be a tough case to persecute the Automaton.
Yet he knew that Betancourt and Peter were right about his lack of discipline. He couldn’t explain it, nor could he help it. The broadcast from Tora Bora, how he had the drones attack the pigs in front of the reporters, his snarky attitude…it was like he was an unruly teenager with raging hormones that at times made him irrational.
Ironically, when Carl was a teenager, he was a model son and student. He didn’t have any angst or rebellion in him. He always did what he was supposed to…what was expected of him.
Now he was departing from what was expected of him. Hell, he didn’t know what to expect of himself. This was all new to him, and the army was treating him as if he was some kind of science experiment.
Once again, rationality gave way to rage in short order, and he punched the cinder block wall of his cell. Pain radiated from his knuckles up his arm, and the feeling synergized with the fury in his brain.
He held up his hand to the light and saw that his hand was busted. His fingers were beginning to swell, and some of them were dislocated at the knuckle, jutting out at odd angles. Panic began to wash over him at what he had done, and he stifled a scream.
He gingerly took his dislocated index finger between his index finger and thumb of his other hand and began to pull it back into place. The pain was sharp and the feeling of the finger shifting back into location peculiar and unnerving. It slid back into place.
He felt the pulse of his blood vessels in his hand and wrist. At first, he thought it was the throbbing of pain, but then he realized it was something else…something more. He could sense his own rhythm…feel it, like he never could before.
Curious, he began to pull his other fingers back into place one-by-one, swallowing the pain in the back of his throat. When all of his digits were back in place, the swelling in his hand went down. It wasn’t possible, but then again, none of h
is other “abilities” were possible either.
He wondered why all of this was happening to him. It was as if his body had a mind of its own, and he was along for the ride. Was he sick? Was this some kind of rare illness? The tumor couldn’t have anything to do with his joints.
Just as the rage and fury came on, it receded almost as quickly, leaving him with that clinical detachment he had become familiar with. He sensed the guards down the hall from his cell. He felt their electrical activity…neurons firing in sequence, exciting some while inhibiting others. Their heartbeats were like the rhythm of a primitive beat, a tribal drum.
He couldn’t help but view them as weak…almost insects, unaware of his detection like prey unaware of a lurking predator. It was then that he realized that his humanity was slipping away from him. He was becoming something other than human…more even. It was a feeling he had that he could not articulate, as if a sentiment had been downloaded into his mind from a remote collective unconscious.
He lay back on his bunk and closed his eyes, the rhythm of the guards lulling him to sleep. Their presence was comforting from his being in tune with their vitals…from the heightened awareness of everything around him. He felt plugged into his surroundings, and the stimulation was soothing.
That night he dreamed that he was running down streets, his undead guard around him. He hacked, slashed, leapt, pounced, and shot. Bodies fell all around him. He felt pulses cease as the undead took to their grisly task of consuming lives.
The feeling was exhilarating, all set to that tribal backbeat. He ended lives as if it was second nature to him. His bloodlust raging, the killing was like sex. In his dreams, he knew his purpose, and it gave him power. He was the harbinger of death, the bringer of doom to his enemies, a general of an undead army…
…a pathfinder.
Part II
Metamorphosis
Chapter 6
I Am Automaton 2: Kafka Rising Page 8
