I am Automaton 3: Shadow of the Automaton Page 12

  “You know what I say, Skylar? I say that your plan reeks of Social Darwinism. Such a policy, already being applied by several states, affects certain socio-economic groups. This is government-designed natural selection weeding out certain groups of undesirables in favor of a dominant class. 75,009 hits on Tylerblog agree. What say you?”

  “Dominant class? Really, Tyler. Tell me, if there is a shrinking group of tax paying producers pulling a large cart of growing dependents, how are they a dominant class? They are being taxed into oblivion to support an ever growing number of nonworking, nontax-paying leeches. The non-producers have been exponentially outpacing the producers in reproduction rates. The producers are being punished for hard work and success. This system of government dependency cannot sustain itself. 78,095 hits on Skylarblog agree. What say you?”

  “I say, where is your humanity, brother? Not all of those receiving public assistance are lazy. What about the ever-growing number of those unemployed or underemployed, victims of the Great Rollercoaster Recession? Are you saying that they want to be dependent on the government for a pittance that barely puts food on their table? 82,529 hits on Tylerblog agree. What say you?”

  “Oh, please, Tyler. They get a heck of a lot more than a pittance. They collect food stamps that studies show are being used at restaurants and movie theater concession stands rather than for groceries. They get free, top of the line mini-coms and cable television with all of the premium channels. What motivation do they have to go out and work when all of their basic needs are already taken care of for them?”

  “Skylar, I think that those individuals that you are referring to are a minority. There is always waste in public programs. That is unavoidable, but we don’t want to throw away the baby with the bathwater. I think it’s only fair that those who are fortunate enough need to pay in a little more, a small price to pay for the success that is elusive to so many. 84,291 hits on Tylerblog agree. What say you?”

  “Tyler, I do not wish to punish the unfortunate victims of the Great Rollercoaster Recession. I am fully aware that there are many talented, skilled individuals who wish to work and be productive. I just don’t want these unsuccessful people to have children. It would just mean more mouths to feed on the public dime. To be honest, if you are not a tax-paying producer, it would be irresponsible of you to reproduce. In fact, unless you are a tax-payer and even a property owner, you shouldn’t even be able to vote! 87,083 hits on Skylarblog agree. What say you?”

  “Skylar, brother dear, are you suggesting that the government employ voter suppression tactics on the lower socio-economic groups?” More boo’s and hisses than cheers. It all blended after a while into indistinguishable, collective outrage directed against both sides of the argument.

  “Tyler, I am saying that if you don’t have any skin in the game, you shouldn’t be given the opportunity to direct policy that affects the greater whole. The significant portion of the population dependent on public assistance will never vote to end it. Why work when the government will support you for free? I think that the current politicians know this, and they use entitlements as currency to garner votes. 92,199 hits on Skylarblog agree. What say you?”

  “Skylar, I don’t think there is an easy solution to this problem. It wasn’t enough that a great fence patrolled by drones on the Mexican border reduced the amount of illegals flooding our ranks to practically nil. Now you want the government to decide who should and who shouldn’t have children.”

  “Tyler, we largely fixed the immigration problem, but those who were already here have already reproduced, growing exponentially in just a few generations. Add that to the already dependent welfare culture fostered in this country and we have a real problem of solvency. The Baby Boomer generation already decimated Social Security and nearly destroyed Medicare.”

  “Well, Skylar, that concludes another evening of docutainment. We’d like to remind everyone that tomorrow is monthly Take You Parents to Work Day. Do you have a pain in the ass boss that you just don’t have the nerve to stand up to? Have you wanted to demand that raise or promotion that you deserve, but the right opportunity never arose? Well, why not ask Mommy or Daddy to do it?”

  “That’s right, Tyler. Your parents have raised you since birth, feeding you, putting a roof over your head and clothes on your back. They’ve kept you safe and looked out for you all of these years. Why stop now? They love to do it anyway.”

  Tyler waved and threw his arm around his brother, kicking up his heel. “Thank you, and good night.”

  ***

  10:35 HRS

  “It is finished,” announced Kojic, rubbing his eyes.

  Kafka studied the man with all four eyes, cocking his head slightly to the right as if pondering something. “You look like shit, Kojic. Rough night?”

  “You might say that.”

  “How’s the wife?”

  Kojic didn’t believe Kafka’s audacity to ask such a thing. The fact that he even asked out of the blue indicated that he knew damned well how his wife was.

  “Not so good,” was all he could muster.

  Kafka let the words hang out there displaying Kojic’s anguish for all in the room to see. Then at last, he answered. “Let’s see what you’ve brought me. Then I might be able to help you.”

  It was all Kojic could do to keep himself from breaking down. He was sleep deprived and exhausted from the arduous night prior. He resented and was grateful to Kafka all at once. The bastard gave him what now plagued his wife…if she was even still his wife, but maybe it wasn’t as bleak as it appeared. Maybe Kafka would offer some bit of comfort about Marina’s condition.

  “First the apparatus.”

  Kafka displayed a toothy mockery of a smile and all eyes blinked simultaneously. Kojic thought he noticed two sets of eyelids.

  “That’s what I like about you, Kojic. Straight to business. I can see why you were Belmont’s right hand.”

  Farooq stirred uncomfortably in the corner, which made Kafka grin wider. His statement was for Farooq’s benefit. He liked to keep things competitive amongst his lackeys. If they were preoccupied fighting each other for his favor they didn’t have time for mutiny.

  “Let’s see now,” said Kafka, eyes wide, as he walked over to the table on which the portable RGT apparatus sat. “Farooq, get me a few of our men. Any three, I don’t care.”

  Farooq stood up, nodded, and briskly left the room.

  “I like what you’ve done here, Kojic.”

  “Thank you, Kafka.”

  “And it is completely portable?”

  “Yes, but the tower must accompany the headpiece. I made it small with a handle for easy transport. The case is as small as I could make it without interfering with cable management. I installed a state of the art heat synch.”

  “Excellent.” Kafka truly looked pleased. There was a strange, guttural clicking that seemed to come from him. “The parts Assistant Director Wolff was so kind to provide were adequate?”

  “We can pick up cell communications from all of the major providers, DBS and DTH signals between 12.2 and 12.7 GHz, the Cell Broadcast Channel, tapping into Galaxy-18 and 19, AMC-4, Satmex, and all of the Atlas satellites, the internet, television broadcasts—”

  “I get it. Well done, Kojic. What’s the radius?”

  “Within 3.63 miles, adjustable downward.”

  “Private military feeds?”

  “Yes.”

  Farooq returned with three men as Kafka requested and awaited further instruction.

  “Leave us,” commanded Kafka looking at Kojic and the Farooq. The two men glanced tentatively at each other and then excused themselves from the room.

  Kafka was alone with the three men he requested. He looked up from the RGT apparatus and smiled menacingly at them.

  “Himmel,” he addressed the one furthest to the right, “do you know why I have summoned you here?”

  The young man thought about it for a moment, uncertain of how to answer and, more to the poin
t, terrified of answering incorrectly. “No, sir.”

  “Of course you don’t,” whispered Kafka. “The three of you all have something in common. Do you know what that is, Tsang?”

  Tsang took a good look at the other two men. “We are all young, sir?”

  “Yes, that is true, but it wasn’t what I was thinking of.” Kafka was like a cat toying with its prey right before it brutally ended its life. It was unbearable. “How about you, Mikos?”

  Mikos swallowed hard. “I don’t know, sir. I am Greek, Tsang is Chinese, and Himmel is German. I can’t think of anything we have in common.”

  “There is one thing…one significant thing you all have in common,” said Kafka, the clicking rising softly.

  All three men looked at him expectantly.

  “None of you have been infected,” Kafka stated, as if the answer should’ve been obvious to them.

  All three men stirred uneasily. Although none of them were infected, they had heard stories about some of the higher ranking operatives. Men like Kojic and Farooq.

  Kafka picked up the headset to the RGT apparatus and gently placed it on his head, the electrodes making contact with his jet black, oily skin. The visor slid over all four eyes but only appeared to line up with the inner two.

  He reached out, powered up the tower, and began turning a dial. “Bear with me. This will only take a minute.”

  The three men glanced at each other uneasily, unsure of what to anticipate. Kafka finished turning the knob and pressed another button. All at once, the three men’s cell phones went off. They looked down at their pockets quizzically.

  “Well, go ahead. Answer it.”

  Each man reached into his pocket and produced his cell phone. The screens were flickering…

  Kojic and Farooq waited outside in the hallway.

  “What do you think he’s doing in there?” asked Farooq.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You should know,” demanded Farooq. “You were working on it all night.”

  “He asked for a portable RGT unit. He didn’t tell me anything about what he planned to do with it.”

  “Do you think he will tell us?”

  “I don’t know, Farooq. I’m sure he will. Whatever it is, it’s something important to him.”

  Suddenly the door opened, and both men made way as Kafka stepped into the hallway, closing the door to the room behind him.

  “Farooq, ready one of the vans with tinted windows. Slap on a decal for a florist or something and commercial plates.”

  Farooq nodded and stalked down the hallway, a man on a mission. Kojic was looking at the door to the room beyond and nearly jumped out of his skin when Kafka slapped a bony hand on his shoulder.

  “You’ve done well, Kojic. So now I will tell you about your wife.”

  As Kojic wondered how he knew about Marina, Kafka began to lead him down the hallway away from the room with the closed door. Kojic made a cursory glance over his shoulder at the room that was quiet as a tomb.

  “You killed your wife before the infection was complete, my friend.”

  “But how? How do you know?”

  “Because I can feel her, Kojic. She is one of my children now. She has a condition known as Kluver-Bucy Syndrome. I learned about it when I was in the military. It will make her hyper oral, hyper aggressive, and hyper sexual.”

  This explanation conjured several unpleasant images in Kojic’s mind’s eye.

  “You are a lieutenant,” Kafka continued, “but she is a soldier. It doesn’t make her any less important.”

  “Is there a way to help her?”

  “I am afraid there is nothing you can do. She will not regain her ability to speak, and she has lost the capability for higher order cognition.” Kafka saw the look of horror and barely contained outrage on Kojic’s face. “My friend, I never told you to try to murder Marina. That was your doing.”

  Kojic looked down at his feet, his face hot with rage. Kafka was right. He had never ordered him to murder Marina. He couldn’t have known about her and the neighbor downstairs. That piece of shit, Yuri.

  “I-I have a body that needs to be disposed of.”

  “Ah,” said Kafka grinning sympathetically, “the paramour who violated your marriage.”

  Kojic nodded.

  “You were right to kill him.”

  “Actually,” Kojic corrected, “Marina killed him.”

  “But you let it happen?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did it feel, to let your undead wife eat the man who destroyed the sanctity of your marriage—who questioned your manhood—alive?”

  “I-I don’t know…”

  “Oh, come on, Kojic. How did it feel? I mean how did it really feel.”

  “It…it felt right.”

  “Of course it did,” said Kafka triumphantly. “It was right.”

  “But Marina…” said Kojic trailing off.

  “She probably had it coming,” said Kafka, adding insult to injury. The words were daggers in Kojic’s stony heart. He knew it was true. “She will be much easier to control now. All you have to do is focus.”

  “Control her how?” Kojic was suppressing hot tears, but they streamed down his dirty face. “What am I to do with her?”

  “When the time is right I will call on her. Until then take comfort in knowing that she will be spared a horrible fate.”

  However, Kojic couldn’t imagine anything that was worse than her current fate

  “Go home, be with her. You have done well. Rest up, for tonight we will bring my brother into our fold and tie up a dangerous loose end. It will be a night for family to be together again before we go to war.”

  Kojic only nodded, choking back sobs. He was like a small child being consoled by a parent. He didn’t quite believe what Kafka was saying, but he had no choice but to accept it.

  “Soon you will be part of a new dominant race that will end oppression in the world. We will end pain and suffering and become part of something bigger.”

  Kojic heard talk like this before. When he spent time in Albania, he heard communists talk like this. That everyone would be the same and cared for by the few chiefs in the communist party, but the end result was the chiefs feathering their own nests at the Indians’ expense.

  “Remember,” added Kafka, as if reading Kojic’s mind, “you are a chief. You are my chief. Do not forget that. And anyone who is not one of us will convert or perish. It is our way.”

  Kojic nodded, drying his eyes with his sleeve. This part sounded familiar. He was about to wage a jihad, a much bigger one than he had anticipated, and he was a member of what was surely to be the winning side.

  “In the next few hours, you will begin to see an exact replica of yourself. Do not be afraid.”

  Kojic looked at him confused.

  “You will see. When it happens, do not run from it. Embrace it. It will make you powerful.”

  Kojic nodded obediently, not having the faintest idea what Kafka was talking about. He remembered the man in his apartment building that he shoved past, failing to get a good look at him in his haste. Kojic had an idea this was a part of his own transformation, a progression of the infection. Kafka’s gift.

  “Good. Bring me your body if there is anything left. I will take care of everything. Not to worry, my friend.”

  Kafka slapped him on the back and continued down the hall leaving an anguished Kojic to his thoughts.

  ***

  Birdsall Hardware

  11:47 HRS

  Peter found working at the hardware store blissfully distracting. He was helping his father repair a holographic advertisement in the aisle containing plumbing equipment. Other than a couple of contractors roaming the store, they were alone.

  “Jesus, Dad. You weren’t kidding when you said you were all by yourself.”

  “I appreciate your help,” said Barry. “Hand me the video card.”

  Peter reached into the advertisement kit that came in a box of plumbing join
ts and nipples and pulled out a video card wrapped in plastic. He handed it to Barry.

  “How do you know how to assemble these things?”

  “Your brother isn’t the only one in the family who’s good with electronics,” said Barry, who then became lost in thoughts of Carl. “I wish he were with me now, helping me out, too.”

  Peter sensed the two contractors roaming around the aisle with T-squares and dry wall saws. He thought about Carl’s invitation. He wanted to tell his father about it, but the meeting wasn’t going to be a social call. He had to kill Carl tonight, or die trying.

  He quickly changed the subject. “I’m impressed. Really.”

  “Well,” said Barry snapping the card into its slot, “you just learn as you go. The manufacturer makes the directions pretty simple. They want their wares properly advertised. They want to be first to catch the customer’s eye. It increases sales.”

  “What about competing brands? Who gets what placement on the shelves?”

  “They actually pay for shelf placement. It’s part of my revenue. The money’s good. Pass me the screwdriver.”

  Peter grabbed it off the floor and slapped it in his father’s palm like a nurse handing a scalpel to a surgeon. Barry replaced the outer cover of the holo-projector and screwed it in place.

  “Okay, let’s get it on the shelf and turn it on.”

  Peter nodded and watched as Barry placed it on the designated shelf and flicked a switch. The holographic ad began to flicker in mid-air.

  “Oh, shit,” complained Barry. “Gotta open it up again.”

  As he unscrewed and removed the outer casing, he began to fiddle with the components inside. Peter just stood there, mesmerized by the flickering holograph. It was the pattern of the flickering. It registered on his retina and seemed to render him immobile.