Metal Man

by Ben Stevens

  6

  The required daily report for Operation Metal Man having been made, Wilhelm Reinhardt left his department’s bunker, taking the large elevator to the surface.

  A cobbled courtyard was formed by the surrounding, nondescript buildings, which housed several offices but also the garage for the large military lorry that was currently being converted so that it could transport the Metal Man to wherever this machine was sent.

  Yes – machine, thought Reinhardt firmly. That parts of a human brain including the cerebrum and cerebellum would be required in constructing the Metal Man did not give it any kind of soul.

  It would be an automaton, obeying every order it received without any extraneous thought, designed and created purely to kill…

  Reinhardt almost shuddered. Despite his enthusiasm for the project as a whole, he’d trouble accepting that the Metal Man would not be entirely mechanical.

  But Jonas Schroder had informed him, right at the start, that there was no other way. For this project to be successful, parts of a recently-deceased soldier had to be utilized.

  Sections of the brain, mainly, but also…

  Reinhardt shook his head, refusing to think about this matter any further.

  He approached the barrier, beyond which was a busy street, and perfunctorily showed his identification card to the soldier manning the small booth as he passed through.

  It was evening. Slowly getting dark. Again, Reinhardt had worked a twelve-hour day. He was exhausted. He’d get a couple of drinks and something to eat at an excellent little café he knew, and then return to the apartment nearby where he lived alone.

  Like most Berliners, Reinhardt was alert to the possible sound of the air-raid siren as he walked the city streets. Bombing attacks by the British were coming more frequently now; and there was muttered talk of the Russian and American forces, who were steadily retaking foreign territory previously occupied by the Germans at the same time as they made their slow, but determined advance towards Germany itself…

  Reinhardt entered the café, and gave his coat to one of the attractive waitresses. She showed him to a small table and presented him with a menu. Reinhardt ordered trout with asparagus and new potatoes, and a large glass of white wine. Rationing didn’t even apply in a place like this – not if you could afford the prices.

  There were a few other customers occupying the several other tables. Reinhardt recognized one or two of them by sight – they were all regular, equally well-heeled patrons – and he nodded his greeting.

  He liked to come here, where everyone knew him. This in turn meant that this was a place where his disfigured face didn’t attract any attention. He’d suffered his injuries when he’d still been a baby; but whenever he met anyone for the first time, he was conscious of them noticing his face and thus secretly wondering what had happened to cause such damage…

  The bell attached to the door of the café rang as another customer now entered. Reinhardt looked idly towards the source of the sound – and then felt his blood freeze.

  A skull-like face gave a tight smile in his direction. The other diners quickly looked anywhere but at this man, who was wearing a black coat and hat.

  The waitress approached him with barely-concealed reluctance, but the man simply waved her away as he advanced on Reinhardt’s table.

  ‘Heil Hitler,’ he greeted as, unbidden, he sat down opposite Reinhardt.

  ‘Fleischer,’ said Reinhardt, attempting to keep his voice even. ‘What can I do for you?’

  For several seconds, the Gestapo member said nothing and just smiled. It was a smile that turned many a man’s guts to water, and Reinhardt was no exception. The smile somehow carried the impression of deep, soundproof cellars… The ones which had a solitary chair in the middle of the stained, concrete floor, and a meat-hook hanging close to the harsh, naked light-bulb…

  Everyone in Germany had heard such rumors by now. You just tried not to think of them – that was all.

  Suddenly, Reinhardt found that he had absolutely no appetite.

  ‘Captain Reinhardt,’ said Fleischer finally, his voice soft and with a very slight lisp. Just the sound of it caused Reinhardt’s testicles to tighten.

  ‘I am… disappointed,’ continued the Gestapo Major, his eyes small and bright as they stared into Reinhardt’s face.

  ‘In what?’ returned Reinhardt curtly.

  ‘In you, my dear Captain,’ said Fleischer. ‘Yet again, you have forced me to release one of my suspects.’

  ‘Only one – and this time the order comes directly from the Fuhrer,’ said Reinhardt, forcing himself to meet Fleischer’s stare. ‘Perhaps you would care to take it up with Herr Hitler himself?’

  ‘No, no – of course not,’ said Fleischer, as Reinhardt found himself wondering if the Gestapo member smiled that damn smile even in his sleep.

  ‘But several times now, you have… interfered… in the performance of my duty,’ said Fleischer in his soft, chilling voice. ‘The Nuremberg Laws are quite specific – and yet, once again, you find a way for one of your… employees… to be able to circumnavigate them.’

  ‘Major Fleischer,’ said Reinhardt, forcing a note of tired irritation into his voice. ‘I have already said that Jonas Schroder was released upon the orders of Adolf Hitler himself. So, do you really wish to continue this conversation?

  ‘Also,’ continued Reinhardt, ‘this is not the first time you have accosted me in this manner. I’m still ignorant as to why you should have informed me of the exact whereabouts of Jonas Schroder’s mother, for example. This simply will not do, Major Fleischer!’

  Fleischer rose slowly from the table, his eyes never leaving Reinhardt’s face.

  ‘My dear Captain! I’d no idea you object so vehemently to what I thought were these friendly, informal chats between the two of us,’ he declared. ‘But I have to say… I do not like to be made to look like a fool.

  ‘And again, you have caused me to look foolish – no matter who it was who gave the actual order to release the half-Jew. It came about at your instigation; of that I have no doubt.

  ‘So I say to myself, maybe I can only… tolerate… so much…’

  Fleischer chuckled, low in his fleshy throat.

  Then Reinhardt almost gasped as the smile abruptly disappeared and he founded himself staring into two hard, hate-filled eyes that were moving steadily closer to his own.

  ‘…provocation.’

  Fleischer virtually whispered this last word, close to Reinhardt’s right ear. The final syllable seemed almost to hang in the air, tainting it like the sweet smell of corruption.

  With more effort than he considered he’d ever exercised in his life before, Reinhardt managed to say, ‘Are you… threatening me, Major Fleischer?’

  The smile was back, as the Gestapo member replied, ‘Oh, I never threaten, Captain Reinhardt. Ever.’

  With that he turned his back on Reinhardt, and moved at a leisurely pace towards the door of the café. One of the waitresses hurried to open it for him, thanking him and wishing him a pleasant evening even as she avoided looking at his sharp little eyes.

  Reinhardt felt the curious glances of the other customers, and fought to keep his breathing steady and his expression neutral.

  I have a secret he thought. Oh Christ, do I have a secret. And if that bastard ever finds it out…

  At that moment, Reinhardt’s meal arrived. He looked down at the plate and swallowed hard.

  He wanted to vomit. He’d never felt so scared in his life, Fleischer’s parting words echoing in his mind –

  Oh, I never threaten, Captain Reinhardt.

  Ever...

  7

  Jonas Schroder sat alone by his creation. It was lying on a large metal table in the centre of the room which was the size of a tennis-court. It was fully covered by a white sheet, which would be removed tomorrow when the Metal Man’s internal batteries had been fully charged and it received its first order to arise…

  Only two of the many st
rip-lights on the ceiling were shining, directly above the large table upon which the machine was lying. A machine which only he, Reinhardt and a handful of others (including, of course, the Fuhrer) knew incorporated parts of a deceased soldier.

  Not even the white-jacketed scientists at this secret underground laboratory, who’d set up the banks of equipment and who worked directly under the half-Jew Schroder, had any idea. It was one of the most strictly classified parts of the whole project.

  Surrounded by the banks of machinery with the flickering dials, which now lay shrouded in darkness, Schroder said suddenly –

  ‘Were you a good soldier?’

  He was surprised himself by his question, which he directed towards the area where the machine had its listening apparatus on its right-hand side.

  Then, Schroder realized that he wished to continue –

  ‘Yes, I bet you were. A real, loyal, dyed-in-the-wool Nazi fighter,’ he said, his voice tight and the eyes burning behind his glasses. ‘Well, now you get a chance to live again – a thousand times stronger and tougher than you were before.

  ‘Only, you’ll never know that, of course – I mean of how you were… before…’

  Schroder breathed deeply, fighting off another wave of exhaustion. Being in ultimate charge of the construction of this super-soldier for the Third Reich had left him in a state of near-collapse. Everyone knew that he routinely worked sixteen-hour days – and yet they were unaware that he’d often continued working long after everyone had left.

  And it was during these lonely hours that he’d incorporated certain things into the Metal Man’s design that were not on any blueprint or design specification...

  Why he had done this, he was not entirely certain himself. Psychological reasons, perhaps – yet another field in which Schroder had considerable expertise.

  Chances were the things Schroder had secretly added would never even be used – or, rather, seen…

  But, was the Metal Man one day ever to realize that he’d once been –

  Impossible.

  Schroder admonished this line of thought as being ridiculous and instead prepared himself to get a few hours’ precious sleep.

  The Metal Man had no soul; he – it – was just a Machine. A Machine created to kill and destroy, whenever and wherever it was given the order.

  ‘But I built you,’ said Schroder softly in parting, as he stood up from his chair. ‘I built you – so just you remember my voice. And if one day I ever have reason to give you an order, obey that order above anyone else’s…’

  Confused himself as to just why he should have said such a thing, and by now near-dead with fatigue, Schroder walked towards the large double-doors, flicking off the two strip-lights before leaving the colossal room.

  The humming noise was loud in the darkness, the Metal Man continuing to charge.

  8

  ‘Sir,’ said Private Klim Konev, squinting through his binoculars into the darkness. ‘Sir – there’s something out there…’

  Commander Georgy Krylov walked over, cigarette cupped carefully in one hand. Just another half-derelict Polish village he and his men had to take over, as they made their slow but steady advance towards Germany and ultimately Berlin itself.

  The poorly-equipped, half-starved, ragged SS soldiers and the like were out there, somewhere in the darkness. A motley band of rabble being pushed ever-backwards, their number constantly dwindling.

  Although, Krylov had been almost surprised by the sheer ferocity of the German resistance. Even secretly respectful of it. These SS men fought as Soviet troops did, seemingly uncaring even as they faced almost certain annihilation.

  So what a shame, in a way, that these two sides now had to be enemies…

  Still, this was hardly any concern of Krylov’s. He and his unit were making excellent progress, with very few casualties. All of which served to place Krylov in a most excellent light with his own superiors.

  ‘Someone looking to surrender?’ demanded Krylov, as he unholstered his pistol. He hoped to try a little marksmanship in the dark; just something to sharpen his aim.

  He was determined: no prisoners.

  ‘Can’t really see, sir,’ replied Konev.

  Which was hardly surprising, given that it was nighttime with very little moonlight. Peering through a set of field binoculars, no matter how powerful these were, was hardly likely to help matters.

  Now other men in Krylov’s unit were becoming alert to the fact that something was moving through the ruined buildings and piles of bomb-shattered rubble that lay all around. They could hear it now – for somehow, a slight, mechanical-sounding ‘whine’ was being emitted by this soldier(or whoever it was) as he walked.

  ‘Challenge it – and then shoot,’ ordered Krylov.

  The first part of the command was given only on the off-chance that this might actually be one of his men, somehow got drunk and lost in the dark.

  Konev barked out the challenge, but that strange whining noise only increased in volume. Whoever it was also sounded extremely heavy-footed, their footsteps crunching on the rubble all around…

  For some reason feeling suddenly nervous, Krylov said –

  ‘Fire – fire!’

  Konev’s machinegun was one of a number to emit a deadly chuckle, lighting up the night with their flashing muzzles. The strangely large, masked and goggled-eyed figure that was now just visible maybe fifty yards distant took the brunt of most of the rounds fired.

  Krylov grunted with satisfaction, and mentally admonished his strange display of nervousness. Whoever had been advancing was dead now (Krylov hardly needed to actually see the figure falling to the ground to be certain about this).

  But why had someone approached his unit like this in the first place? Had they actively been seeking suicide? Had no one in the German force sought to stop them…?

  ‘Sir!’ Konev’s voice again, high and almost panicky – ‘Sir, it’s still coming!’

  Yes, Krylov could hear that whining sound again. The crunching of those – metal? – boots on the rubble.

  The moon broke suddenly through the clouds and fully illuminated the dark figure marching towards them. It moved in a curiously slow and steady manner. It looked to be fully covered in some sort of gleaming, jet-black armor, head to toe.

  What the hell is this? thought Krylov frantically.

  Aloud, he said, ‘Fire again!’

  A multitude of weapons now opened up, more and more Soviet troops spreading out behind the ruined walls and buildings.

  Whatever it was barely paused as the bullets ricocheted off its armor.

  Krylov now observed that the black-armored figure was carrying its own weapon, cradled in its right arm with the left, thickly-gloved (was that a glove?) hand holding the area close by the muzzle.

  But this gun looked huge – more like something you’d expect to see attached to the underside of a wing of a fighter-plane…

  Slowly, as though in a nightmare, Krylov saw the figure – bigger than any man he’d ever seen, although maybe that was the effect of the armor – bring this strange, outsized gun up to bear...

  ‘Keep firing – use your grenades!’ the Soviet officer all but screamed, as the massive gun erupted into life.

  Instantly Private Konev’s head exploded, splattering Krylov with blood and fragments of bone.

  The commander gave a wild yell, as he continued firing with his own pistol until the hammer was clicking on an empty chamber.

  A man to his left began shrieking with agony, his left arm gone at the shoulder, other men desperately trying to stem the spurting blood as they called for a medic.

  The old walls and torn-down buildings, used as cover by Krylov’s men, were being blown apart by whatever incredible weapon the armored figure was wielding.

  Krylov snatched a wild glance around. Everywhere his men seemed to be falling, screaming as the nightmare figure clad in that impenetrable black armor continued its remorseless march forward, firing all the while�
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  Then a grenade exploded in a great ball of flame and blew the thing right off its feet.

  Krylov gave a yell of triumph. Thank God – the thing was impervious to all conventional weaponry, it seemed; but still there were ways in which its awful steady progress could be checked.

  A silence fell. The thing was close enough now to be observed by every Soviet soldier, even in the dark.

  It lay still for a few moments.

  As though dead.