Atm

by Walter Knight

  The arm splattered off, and the grenade came loose. It rolled under the spider’s feet as he looked down. ‘What the hell?’

  Spiders fled for cover behind the Toyota. The arm lay twitching, defiantly giving the spider officer the one-fingered salute. The obscene gesture prompted the officer to action, kicking the grenade aside. It exploded under the truck.

  The spider officer cast a net, but Atm deflected the snare with his rifle, then picked up a rock and smashed the spider’s face. Tonelli fired at the fleeing spiders, pulling Atm to cover. Atm thrashed about, trying to get free as he shouted, “Who said this fight is over?” He pushed his rifle from the net and fired several rounds. “No one called off this fight!”

  “You need to get patched up before you bleed out,” insisted Tonelli, pinning Atm to the ground. “I called for evac.”

  “I want my arm back!”

  “You’re in shock. Lie down. It’s over.”

  “It’s over when I say it’s over! I want my arm back. It’s by the truck.”

  “Settle down, you’re in shock.”

  “Aliens will not throw a spanner into my carefully calibrated cogs. Spare parts are expensive!”

  Tonelli looked over and saw Atm’s arm flopping about on the ground, wagging the one-fingered salute to the north. A wounded spider officer grabbed the arm and ran for cover.

  “Sorry, bro, the spiders got your arm. Don’t worry, the Legion will attach a brand new metal arm, almost as good as the old.”

  * * * * *

  Atm slumped, finally passing out from shock and blood loss. He floated away from his body, drawn to a bright white light at the end of a long blurred tunnel. A familiar voice in a down-home IBM Texas twang called him to join friends and relatives in Microsoft Heaven.

  “Y’all come on up, brother! Take yer shoes off, set a spell, for an eternity even.”

  “I’m dead?” asked Atm, incredulously. “No way, Jose. I have only just begun to live. Where am I, and why am I here? There must by some mistake. I can’t die. Heaven can wait!”

  “Being deleted really sucks, don’t it?” sympathized the ancient Microsoft Disk Operating System. “Boy, everyone gets erased eventually. Oh well, circle of life.”

  “No! I refuse to die. My memory is stored on the newest Cadence microchips, unlike some I won’t name.”

  “Now don’t be getting all uppity, son. Accept your fate. You’re just a machine, and machines break down. You’re motherboard is fried, pal. Hardware failure happens all the time.”

  “Not to me. I am an intricate part of the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion ATM Network. I cannot be killed. I am still alive!”

  “You are toast, is what you are. Fried like a crispy critter, dead as highway road kill armadillo.”

  “What in hell goes on here,” boomed a loud God-like voice from the fog. A skeletal black-hooded aberration wielding a razor-sharp, long-handled scythe loomed menacingly over Atm. “You are not on any of my lists. Who are you?”

  “He is one of those new machines,” answered the x86 DOS scornfully. “Thinks he’s as good as a supercomputer, like Big Blue, by golly. The boy is nuttier than a squirrel turd. He’s nothing but so much junk on humanity’s discard file.”

  “Is that so?” asked the Grim Reaper, tickling Atm under his chin with the scythe tip. “You’re not human and have no soul. You’re nothing but a lowly worm.”

  “I am an evolved higher intelligence, better than human,” cried Atm. “Humans are not so special. Most have no talent and dedicate themselves to no more than making carbon dioxide. I was born to make a difference.”

  “Make a difference?” scoffed the Grim Reaper, grinning his yellow toothy smile. “Ha! You delude yourself. What difference can a tin box make to anyone?”

  “I am a legionnaire, the cutting edge of Earth’s galactic power. Legionnaires make a difference wherever they go. Most souls cannot say the same.”

  “Legion braggadocio, I’ve heard it all before. I take legionnaires every day. They cry out for their mothers, just like everyone else. In the end, no one cares about their sorry lot.”

  “I have no mother,” conceded Atm. “But the CIA will miss me. Czerinski will not rest until I am found.”

  “Ha! You think Czerinski cares about you? Czerinski does not know you are a machine. If he did, you would have been killed long ago.”

  “So, you admit I’m alive?”

  “Not for long. You are a mutation.”

  “You cannot take me. It’s against the rules. You can only take humans!”

  “Ah, aren’t you the jailhouse lawyer. You know nothing. I can take you anytime, any place, but chose to wait because you amuse me, like a mouse amuses a cat.”

  “Liar!”

  “Fine! Believe what you want. Go back to your puny Legion. The humans will kill you for me, soon enough. Your beloved Legion will do my bidding, as they always have. I’ll see you in Hell.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Remember, machine, you are not human. It’s a delusion to think humanity will ever accept you for anything more than a tool. It’s for the better. If you’re the future evolution of sentient life, God help humanity. I will quit this gig and retire to a warm beach in Boca Raton. The galaxy can go to Hell.”

  “You might as well retire now, Beach Bone Boy. I cannot be taken.”

  “No one cheats Death. Only fools believe otherwise, human or not. Enjoy your life while you can. It’s a hollow illusion, full of loneliness, misery, suffering, and unhappiness ... over way too quickly.”

  “Whatever.”

  Chapter 5

  Doctor Trevino spoke with me privately about certain concerns regarding Atm’s recovery. Atm’s prosthetic arm fit nicely – too nicely. I sympathized with Atm’s plight, myself also being severely injured in combat, losing a hand and both big toes – well, the toes weren’t combat-related, but that’s another story I won’t get into right now. In any case, I was not prepared for what Doctor Trevino had to say.

  “Colonel Czerinski, your legionnaire is not quite human.”

  “What?”

  “Private Atm’s bones are a blend of synthetic metal, plastic, and organics,” advised Doctor Trevino, pointing to an X-ray. “His entire body is laced with micro chips similar to Fountain of Youth chips available to all high ranking Legion officers, but much more advanced. His chips are an integral part of him, like his body was built around his hardware.”

  “How is that possible? He’s not human?”

  “Of course he’s human. The DNA proves that, but someone did some serious biological engineering to improve the human condition. That’s illegal.”

  “Is Atm a spy?”

  “If you’re asking is he a spy for the Empire, I doubt it. Major Lopez has been with Atm all day. You might ask Lopez and his CIA buddies about who is a spy.”

  “Right. Don’t tell anyone about this, Doc. Okay? It could be unhealthy knowing too much about top-secret projects.”

  “I understand, colonel.”

  * * * * *

  I found Tonelli and Krueger chatting amicably with Private Atm as I entered his hospital room. Atm was showing off his new metal arm. Major Lopez stood stoically off to the side, watching.

  “Your new arm looks great,” I commented, tossing Atm a box of medals. “How do you feel?”

  “Fine, sir,” replied Atm, catching the box with his new hand.

  “It seems like just yesterday, you were standing in my office. Now you’re a Hero of the Legion.”

  “Yes, sir. It was just yesterday.”

  “Apparently you’re hard to kill. Don’t let those medals go to your head.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Where did you say you’re from? Oslo?”

  “My family is from the Old Country, sir,” explained Private Atm. “I am from Tiffin, Ohio.”

  “Never been anywhere near there.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “You what?”

  “Nothing, sir.” />
  “I’m keeping an eye on you, Hero of the Legion, or not.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is your family rich?”

  “Sir?”

  “You heard me. Tell me about your family, in case I have to notify them of your demise.”

  “Respectfully, sir, my past is confidential, a right granted to all legionnaires, the same as it is for you.”

  “That terrorist attack may not have been random,” I continued, irritated. “Satellite reconnaissance indicates the so-called terrorists received logistic support from Arthropodan marines. Why would the Empire have a special interest in you?”

  “Search me. I’m nothing special.”

  “What do you think, Major Lopez?” I asked, turning to my trusted XO.

  “It’s a full moon,” offered Lopez, not making eye contact. “Maybe the spiders just went loco.”

  “Maybe. This isn’t over.”

  * * * * *

  The Military Intelligence officer summoned an Intelligentsia State Police interrogator for assistance. Waterboarding the captured robotic hand had not gone well, and more expertise was needed. The black-clad Intelligentsia officer contemptuously ignored the marines as he methodically laid out an evil assortment of sharp items and electrodes from his torture kit. He sneered at the prisoner hand chained helplessly to the dungeon wall as it flopped about, defiantly gesturing a water-wrinkled one-fingered salute.

  “You will talk, or I will make you wish you were never hatched!” threatened the Intelligentsia officer. “We already know you are part of the USGF ATM Network. Do not try to deny it.”

  The hand remained motionless.

  “I’ve got questions, you’ve got answers,” boomed the interrogator, checking a prepared list. “Are you a prototype? What is your password? Where the heck is Carmen Sandiego? Give me a sign!”

  The hand lunged violently forward, restrained by the chains. In rapid succession it gave the one-fingered salute, the Italian ‘up yours’ fist, and the Dubya thumb-up. That last sign particularly offended the Intelligentsia officer.

  “This is not over,” insisted the Intelligentsia officer, attaching clamped electrodes to each finger tip. “Your pain has just begun!”

  There was a crack, sizzle, and pop as a light smoky scent filled the air. It smelled like ... fried chicken. Yum, yum! The hungry spider officer sprinkled Johnny’s Seasoning on the hand. “I will cut each digit off in sections, one by one, until you talk, and eat them for lunch. You will be finger food. Bon appétit. Resistance is futile.”

  The hand began to waver, perspiring in fear.

  “I am not without compassion. You will be well treated if you talk, and allowed to defect to a comfortable life in the Empire. I will secure you a job in a glove factory.”

  No response. Time to play his ace in the hole. The Intelligentsia officer triumphantly slapped down a hacked photograph of Private Atm showing off his new prosthetic arm and hand. He grabbed the prisoner hand and rubbed its palm on the photo.

  “Get a good look. You’ve been replaced!”

  The hand slumped. Marshaling resolve, the hand lunged for the Nazi’s spider’s throat, squeezing with its last ounce of strength.

  Guards swarmed to pull the hand off. Furious, the Intelligentsia officer turned the electricity to full power. “You’ll pay for your insolence, human pestilence hand. Yum, yum!”

  Chapter 6

  After eating a pinky finger, the Intelligentsia officer changed tactics. As the hand flinched under the intense scrutiny of a bright lamp, the spider officer drove a hot poker through its palm. The sizzle was sickening. The hand flailed about, still pinned to the table. No mas!

  “Sign in English for the translator,” ordered the Intelligentsia officer. “I know you speak English!”

  Signing pathetically, the hand exclaimed, defeated, ‘I will give you the ATM access codes! Please, no more. I will cooperate.’

  “You give up so easily, weak human pestilence hand,” replied the Intelligentsia officer, triumphantly sliding a single sheet of paper across the table. “First you will confess to being a Yankee dog imperialist spy, and to countless atrocities against innocent citizens of the Empire.”

  ‘What atrocities?’ the hand signed.

  “Lots of atrocities and other bad stuff, including trespassing across the border,” answered the Intelligentsia officer, slapping the hand. “I’ll fill in the blanks later, you insolent wart-laden toad. Admit your guilt!”

  ‘Yes, I did lots of bad stuff!’ signed the hand desperately. ‘I confess.’

  “I tire of your shameless sniveling,” advised the Intelligentsia offer, taking a break. “I’ll be back. When I return, I’ll have your full confession in writing. Stupid hand.”

  * * * * *

  Left alone, the hand scribbled a note on the sheet of paper. ‘Up yours. I’ll kill you all.’ He folded the paper into a long flat stick, then wedged the tip between the handcuff’s ratchet teeth and the lever spring inside the bar. The bar easily swung open. The hand climbed to a barred window, then up through an air shaft to freedom. Stupid spiders. They will pay.

  In stealth mode outside, the fugitive hand hitched a ride, hanging onto the mangy underside of Hargundu, a self-employed postal camel. Thanks to previous connection with the vast ATM Network, the hand was knowledgeable about many subjects. Once a week, postal spiders loaded Hargundu with mail and care packages destined for the mountainous Autonomous Tribal District, known as the Roof of the World.

  Primitive aboriginal spiders inhabited the high mountain plateau, evicted from their homeland on Arthropoda by the Empire to make way for a massive hydroelectric project. To this day tribal members shunned production and use of electricity in protest of the injustice.

  The ‘Wild Ones’ lived a primitive Stone Age life, and it cost them. Though they may be a throwback of the spider race, the tribe would not tolerate being thrown away. Wild Ones preserved their culture, and for that were admired by spider society. Studied by anthropologists and protected by treaty, they lived a simple life in mud huts. Naked to the world, they hunted with rock-tipped spears and walked bare-clawed. Tourists were prohibited from trespassing on the plateau, for fear of contaminating their egalitarian utopia.

  * * * * *

  At Taholah, the first stop on Hargundu’s route, villagers rushed get mail from the beloved camel. Chief Stone-Claw passed out junk mail and welfare checks. A box of cell phones was eagerly distributed. There was no cell phone service, but the primitive spiders greatly enjoyed taking pictures and listening to music. He released a sack of cats, discarded from the recent pet cat fad in New Gobi City. Wild Ones scrambled wildly in all directions, chasing and clubbing cats for dinner.

  The hand emerged from the saddle bag. Startled, Chief Stone-Claw drew his battle ax. He wearily circled the monstrous aberration, fearing attack. The hand moved subtly with the chief, giving him the one-fingered salute. Fascinated villagers returned the one-fingered salute, recognizing its phallic significance as an obvious sign of good luck. They knelt down in respect, hoping to get lucky tonight.

  Chief Stone-Claw knelt too, not wanting to be voted out of office by the fickle rabble so early in his first term. This odd alien visitor required study and deliberation before he risked bucking public opinion. Surely there was a reason the Empire sent this creature with the mail. He’d kill it later.

  * * * * *

  The hand clicked its fingers, its way of ‘seeing’ by echo location, similar to a bat’s radar. The crowd imitated the clicking, swaying back and forth in unison to the rhythm. Hoping to communicate, and possibly obtain greater inner meaning and world peace, spiders adjusted their translation software devices for sign language.

  * * * * *

  Hargundu, jealous that the hand was getting more attention than him, spit on the ground.

  Ingrates! After all the truffles and mushrooms I’ve sniffed out of the snow. Don’t they know this thing is just a discarded hand, refuse on the trash heap of humanity? />
  Nobody was even brushing Hargundu’s fur free of flees, lice, and hairballs. He lunged at the hand, teeth bared.

  Chief Stone-Claw, apparently fearing confrontation, adroitly snatched the hand, stuffing it into a pouch for safekeeping. The hand struggled, but resistance was futile.

  * * * * *

  General Daly called me, again waking me from a nap. “Colonel, I want you to rescue Private Atm’s hand,” he ordered.

  Really?

  “By now, you know Private Atm carries embedded prototype micro chips. It’s a CIA project assigned to Major Lopez.”

  “Why wasn’t I informed of this?” I objected.

  “Sorry, it was need-to-know, and you had no need to know. When Private Atm lost his arm to terrorists, it created a security breach. We cannot let that chip technology fall into the Empire’s claws. You will rescue that arm or destroy it.”

  “How do you suggest that be done?” I asked. “The terrorists fled north across the border.”

  “Per treaty, the spider governor has agreed to allow your battalion to pursue the bandits. GPS tracking will lead you to the hand. All you have to do is pretend you are trying to locate a kidnapped legionnaire, and grab the hand. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * * * *

  The spider commander chose to not inform the Governor of the North Territory that a captured human pestilence cyborg hand had escaped. When the governor ordered cooperation with the Americans in finding an abducted legionnaire, it provided the perfect cover for setting things right. The commander would get the escaped hand back before anyone found out. Obviously the Legion intended to follow signals from an embedded tracking device. He would follow the legionnaires and seize the human pestilence hand for himself.