I Am Automaton 2: Kafka Rising Page 19

  Night Stalker walked over to Belmont and whispered into his left ear. When he was finished, he backed away and continued to read the screen.

  Belmont smiled. “It appears that the army’s attempts to find you have failed.”

  Carl wanted to wipe the smile off the smug bastard’s face. Night Stalker was distracted. It would only take a second.

  Carl leapt from his seat as he heard a tone go off in his helmet, but there was no pain. It wasn’t from Night Stalker’s button.

  Before anyone knew what happened, Carl had hurdled the desk and was on top of Belmont with his hand wrapped around his throat. There was a message flashing across the inside of the visor of his helmet.

  The bodyguards in the room had laser sights trained on Carl, red dots gliding up and down his body. Night Stalker fumbled for the button to induce electrical charges in Carl’s helmet, but Belmont put out a hand to halt him.

  “What the hell is this in my helmet?” Carl asked without loosening the grip on Belmont’s throat. The man’s eyes looked like they were going to pop.

  “You hear the tone?” Night Stalker asked smirking.

  “There’s a message inside my helmet: transmission successfully blocked.” It dawned on him what had almost just happened, and he slowly released his grip on Belmont’s throat.

  “I told you,” Belmont wheezed, “you were a loose end. That helmet that we took the liberty of providing you just saved your life.”

  Carl crouched on top of Belmont’s desk dumbfounded. The pulses of everyone in the room thundered in his head like a cacophony. They did it. They really did it. Peter, Fiona, Betancourt…they had all betrayed him. A couple of failed attempts to find him and they gave up on him just like that.

  If they were going to write him off so easily, what were they going to do to his poor father? If Peter had allowed the army to harm his little brother, could he…would he protect his own father?

  He put his left palm on the desk and quickly shifted his weight, sliding gracefully off the desk. Every time he moved, everyone’s pulses accelerated in the room…even Night Stalker’s.

  “Will I ever be able to take this helmet off?”

  “Not as long as the signal is being transmitted to your kill chip,” Belmont said softly, almost sympathetically. “I would imagine that they will transmit for a while to make sure it is done.”

  Icy thoughts filled Carl’s head and then, just like that, they cleared. Something had taken over him. A switch had flipped. No rage, no betrayal, no sadness. Rather, a clinical detachment washed over him, like in Xcaret when he was surrounded by hordes of rogue undead drones…but more profound.

  “You would like this helmet to stay on, wouldn’t you?”

  “Actually,” Belmont said, standing up and leaning forward, resting both of his palms on his desk, “I would like you to join us of your own free will. We have done nothing to harm you.”

  “I will take my father back.”

  “Yes, and we will help you. By helping us obtain the RGT, you will be helping your people. You see, now, how your government operates. They are not to be trusted.”

  “Where do we start?”

  “First, we must make you stronger.”

  “I am strong enough. I could’ve killed every one in this room before any of your men could’ve gotten a shot off.”

  “Be it as it may,” Belmont said, “you can be stronger. If you are going to get your father back and punish those who have betrayed you, you will need to be as strong as you can be.”

  “Who’s to say that once you get your RGT, you won’t try to dispose of me like the army?”

  “Number one,” said Belmont, “if I had wanted you dead, you’d be in the ground already.” Carl chortled at the bold remark. “Number two, I have just offered to make you stronger. If I were planning to discard you, why would I do that? I’m not one of the oppressors now, Carl. I, like you, have been awakened. Join us. Help us punish the corrupt. Help your father.”

  “So how do we make me stronger?”

  “It won’t be pleasant,” Belmont said candidly. “You will gain power every time you sustain trauma. You will lose a little more of your old self each time.”

  His old self. What a joke. Was Belmont referring to the wimpy science geek living with his parents or the duped soldier who was fool enough to think that he was doing something good for his country?

  No, he wanted to fully embrace his inner hunter. He was a perfect killing machine. Mercenaries like this Night Stalker had nothing on him, and now the army was going to pay for what they did to him.

  “Nice office. Is it yours?”

  Belmont smiled. “What better place for a man in my position than to be liberating young minds?”

  Carl reached across the desk and righted the toppled desk sign that read PRINCIPAL.

  “A long way from raping and pillaging,” Carl remarked.

  “I, too, have come a long way, Carl. Let me guide you there.”

  “So what is Night Creepy, the gym teacher or something?”

  “Go with him,” Belmont instructed. “He will take you to one of our safe houses. With you presumed dead, they will soon call off the searches and checkpoints and we’ll be able to get you out and ready.”

  Carl nodded. Night Stalker gestured towards the door and one of the bodyguards opened it. Carl started to walk out, but he stopped in the doorway.

  “What is it?” Belmont asked.

  Carl chuckled bitterly. “This is the first time I’ve ever been in the principal’s office.”

  Part III

  Retribution

  Chapter 11

  Fort Bliss

  Texas

  08:21 HRS

  “Permission to speak freely, sir.” Peter was trembling with anger, barely keeping his composure.

  Colonel Betancourt was stoic as ever. He anticipated this reaction the moment he pressed the button. “Go ahead, Captain Birdsall. But before you do, for the record, I was following orders from General Ramses.”

  “There were other options,” Peter launched right into it. “We could’ve used the drones to find him.”

  “We have been monitoring the drones from the moment you reported him missing,” Betancourt said. “Just in case he was going to send a message through them. There was nothing. No movement, no signals.”

  “Why wouldn’t he have sent out a signal?”

  “Maybe he didn’t have the chance.”

  “But, sir, I don’t understand why the button had to be pushed.”

  “It wasn’t my call, Captain.”

  “Well then, I’d like to speak to General Ramses.”

  “Not a good idea,” stated Betancourt frankly. “Do you want to end up in the brig? He gave an order, and I followed it. We both know what the General’s rationale was.”

  “But it was wrong.”

  “Careful, Captain. I can appreciate that this was your brother and all, but to question a General’s order is unacceptable.”

  Unacceptable. The fact that his whole family had been snatched from him in one way or another, and being powerless to do anything about it, was unacceptable. The fact that he was somehow supposed to soldier on alone, yet again, and take his licks was unacceptable.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I am sorry for your loss, Captain.”

  “Does my father know?”

  “Not yet. He will be informed.”

  “Great. He gets to hear the news and suffer with it all alone.”

  “There’s a full complement of medical and psychiatric staff where your father is,” Betancourt added, but it was no consolation to Peter.

  “What is going to happen to my father?”

  “He is going to be held in protective custody.”

  “But Carl is dead—”

  “Captain, as far as the public is concerned, your brother is still alive. As long as the public thinks he is still alive, your father is in danger.”

  “What about the program?”

  �
�We will suspend all missions. You and the drones will continue to train here at the airfield.”

  “Oh, I see,” Peter said. “So now we’re the weapon the U.S. has ready to be deployed at any moment but never is. Like the stealth bomber or the nuke.”

  “For all anyone will know, you are standing ready.”

  “So all of the funding, the research, the training…”

  “We are about to be given the green light to develop another technology,” Betancourt said.

  “RGT,” Peter said.

  “The hope is that with this new technology, we won’t need the Infantry Drone Program.”

  “I don’t understand,” Peter said. “So the government is going to spy on every household in America looking for terrorists?”

  “I cannot discuss this with you any further,” Betancourt said curtly. “You will continue training exercises on the base.”

  “Can I talk to my father?”

  “Not at this time.” Betancourt saw the look on Peter’s face. “You will at some point but, given where he is at the moment, it is impossible.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Once his body is found, we will hold funeral proceedings for your brother.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Peter tried to conceal his bitterness, “but what if we never find his body?”

  “If OIL has him, I’m counting on them giving us back the body and taking credit. That would be a major blow to our morale. Your brother became a symbol of sorts.”

  “So, you are counting on the media knowing eventually.”

  “I’m counting on nothing, Captain. If OIL gives his body up, we’ll use it as a rallying cry to double our efforts.”

  “You mean make my brother a martyr to push RGT,” Peter needled.

  “Or,” Betancourt continued, ignoring the remark, “they never come forward and we find the body. Your brother will again become a rallying cry for RGT.”

  “Either way my brother is a martyr and you win.”

  “Win, Captain? How exactly do we win? We just lost the key to the Infantry Drone Program’s success after all of the hurdles to keep this program running.”

  “My brother is a martyr, sir, but he wasn’t killed by OIL.”

  “He would’ve been…or worse. We spared him that.”

  “With all due respect, sir, we really don’t know what the outcome would’ve been.”

  Betancourt shook his head. “The outcome would’ve been inevitable. Your brother is a hero.”

  “Hearing you say it cheapens it, sir.”

  Betancourt frowned at Peter. “Easy, Captain,” he said menacingly. “Remember, it wasn’t my call. I happen to agree with you that perhaps more could have been done before hitting the kill switch.”

  Peter was surprised by the admission. To do so would be to question General Ramsey. Betancourt could burn for it.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now get back to your unit. I expect training to commence within the hour.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  “So what did he say?” Nolan looked concerned.

  “He said that he was only following orders from General Ramses,” Peter replied.

  “What about using the drones—”

  “Negative. We’ve been enough trouble.”

  “What about the program?”

  “We’re to continue conducting training exercises. But we’re off the border, or any other mission for that matter.”

  Nolan stroked his chin thoughtfully. “RGT.”

  Peter sighed deeply, “Yeah.”

  “So what, we’re chopped liver now?”

  “And Carl is going to be a martyr.”

  Nolan became incensed at this. “They kill him, and then they’re going to call him a martyr. Let me guess, to push the RGT.”

  “Exactomundo. They’re going to say OIL did it.”

  “That’s bullshit, sir. Carl deserved better.”

  “Thanks, Nolan.”

  Nolan leaned against the wall and looked up at the ceiling. “I remember this one time during Basic; we were doing Ground Fighting Technique. It was the final session.”

  “Ah, yes,” Peter recalled. “Each platoon selects a man for combat in front of the drill sergeant.”

  Nolan smiled. “Yeah, we had this real hard-ass, Maddox.”

  “They’re all hard-asses, Nolan.”

  “Anyway, we had so many big guys in the platoon. Fromm was one of them.”

  “Yeah, I can see he’d be an obvious choice. Carl told me you went around the platoon and convinced them to choose him. Why?”

  “He wasn’t the obvious choice, which made him a profitable bet,” replied Nolan. “He had this fire in him…” His eyes welled up. “An intensity. I really believed he could do it. He fought Cronos.”

  “Jesus!” Peter laughed. “That sasquatch? No wonder he was pissed at you.”

  “He did okay at first, but Cronos caught him and put a choke on him. He should’ve tapped out. Anyone would’ve…but Carl didn’t. He held on until he blacked out.”

  Peter smiled to himself. “That’s my little brother. Stubborn as a mule.”

  “I visited him in the hospital. Snuck him Playboy mags even. He held a grudge for a while.”

  “He was lucky to have a friend like you, Nolan.”

  “Shit,” Nolan chortled, “I was lucky to have a friend like him. You should’ve seen him in Tora Bora, man, with the drones around him and all. He marched into that cave with no other living being and tore the ass out of it. He killed terrorists like it was free. Then there was his transmission from inside—”

  “I know,” Peter said, “it was foolish.”

  Nolan huffed. “It was the ballsiest damned thing I ever heard of.”

  “Yeah,” Peter said reconsidering, “I guess it was.”

  “He may’ve been your little brother, sir, but he was one tough bastard.”

  ***

  Two Weeks Later

  22:04 HRS

  Carl knelt on a concrete floor in a large, unfinished basement in an OIL safe house, his jaw broken and his mouth dripping blood onto a large crack in the floor. He had sprouted an extra eye above each of his original eyes, which added to his depth perception—all four of them red and stinging from mace.

  Night Stalker delivered another well-placed kick to Carl’s ribs with his black combat boot, and this time Carl felt something crack. He struggled to catch his breath, his chest cavity shuddering with pain each time he inhaled.

  Night Stalker walked over to a folding table and picked up a flame thrower, strapping it on slowly. “I would be lying if I said all this didn’t bring me some amount of pleasure.”

  Carl looked up with fierce eyes and spoke through gritted teeth, “Bring it on, asshole.”

  Night Stalker waved around the tip of the flamethrower as if he were conducting an orchestra. “As you wish.”

  He shot a stream of flames across the room and engulfed Carl, who screamed in rage and pain. Night Stalker cut off the stream quickly, careful not to put Carl out of his misery. The whole point was to maim Carl, not kill him, which of course appealed to Night Stalker’s sadistic nature.

  Carl crouched on the concrete smoking, parts of his skin charred black. He shuddered, and Night Stalker laughed as Carl was going into shock.

  “It’s days like this that I realize that I really love my job,” Night Stalker taunted. “Ready for more?”

  Carl looked up, his body quaking madly, and nodded deliberately. Night Stalker smiled and gave him another burst of fire.

  Yvette walked down the simple wooden staircase and stood next to Night Stalker. “He’s had enough.”

  “Oh, c’mon. He’s a tough guy. He can handle more.”

  She glared at him. “Any more and you’ll kill him. I said he’s had enough.”

  The two stared each other down for a few heartbeats, and then Night Stalker put his hands up in feigned surrender. “All right, all right. Hell hath no fury like a
woman’s scorn.”

  “You have no idea,” she replied icily.

  Carl was now squirming on the floor, grunting and coughing. His body was a roadmap of trauma. Yvette considered him clinically.

  “Place him in his cell,” she said. Then she walked back up the staircase.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Night Stalker said sarcastically to himself. He reached down, grabbed Carl by one of his ankles, and dragged him across the floor, leaving a smear of blood and fluid trailing behind. Carl screamed at the friction.

  Night Stalker opened up a door to a small room and dragged Carl in. He then stepped over Carl and looked down at him.

  Carl looked up, shivering violently, giving little yelps. Night Stalker smirked and delivered one final boot into Carl’s side, and the scream that resulted was deafening.

  “Nighty night, Mr. Automaton. Get nice and strong because one day soon, you and I are going to have it out.” Night Stalker slammed the door behind him as he left the room.

  Carl lay there on the floor in the dark. No light, no bed, no window. All of that was unnecessary. He just needed a space the size of a closet to spend the night in agony as his body healed itself and changed. This was the seventh day of a nightly treatment of trauma and torture. The more damage that was done, the stronger he became. After the healing, he was never the same as before.

  His skin had become obsidian, the trauma (especially the heat) resulting in increased polymerization. His form had become elongated, lithe but powerful. His eyes glowed red. He had become a walking nightmare, a killing machine with a singular purpose—to end lives.

  He found the strength to sit up against the wall. He felt his body restructuring itself. His skin tingled as it reorganized its molecular structure. His organs shifted, accommodating his thin frame. His muscles stretched painfully on his limbs and his fingers elongated.

  He sensed the heartbeats of the OIL operatives upstairs. He knew they were discussing him, but he didn’t care. He was getting stronger. For his father. For the retribution that the army had coming to it.

  “He should be ready after tonight,” Yvette declared.

  “Then I will make preparations,” Belmont said.