“By doing this, I’ve placed myself in danger, so you have to trust me. I’ll be pulling for you at the court martial. Once you’re discharged, I’ll be in contact.”
“Assuming I’ll be discharged,” whispered Peter.
“I don’t think Ramses wants you imprisoned, but I’m not sure why.”
“Sounds like a lot of guessing to me, sir.”
“There’s something going on. I agree with you. The army’s going rotten from the inside, and I plan to find out why.”
“Why risk all of this?”
“Not all of us are bureaucrats and wannabe politicians, son. I’m a patriot like you.”
Before Peter could say anything else, Betancourt winked at him and whisked out of the room like a tornado. He felt a burning sensation in his veins that made him arch his back and clench his fists in his restraints.
Then just like that, it stopped. He suddenly became very calm, medicated calm. He fought the drowsiness, trying to process what had just transpired. He played and replayed Carl’s last words to him in his head, struggling to make sense of them, because there was a reason Peter was still alive. We are one, although we are many.
In the end, his mind succumbed to numbness and he drifted off to the drumming of his own pulse inside his head. All the while, he swore someone was watching him behind the glass…
For some reason it was like one of those dreams where he was looking down on himself.
***
“I am telling you, he’s unstable,” said Al Razi, his voice trembling.
Kojic was frowning. “He has been very different, ever since Italy.”
“Different? He’s barely even human at this point. And he’s changed the entire direction of the organization. All of this talking of true believers. In what?”
“He still believes in the cause,” answered Kojic quickly, his eyes shifting around the room nervously as if he was afraid they would be overheard.
“And which cause is this, now? Liberation? Anarchy? He speaks of these Outworlders like he’s some kind of half-assed Scientologist.”
“It is not as if they don’t exist. Just look at him. He appears to be in their image.”
“Then we are all doomed. What if these Outworlders come? What happens to us? Slavery…death?”
Kojic truly did not know the answer to this question that had crossed his mind more than a few times since Italy. Belmont was dead, murdered at the hands of this Kafka. Yvette was dead, murdered by his brother. “So what are you saying?”
“I am saying that we should not stray from Belmont’s mission. He is the original founder of the Order. It is his vision we must follow, not this monster’s.”
Kojic started at that last word and became even more uneasy. “You must keep your calm,” he urged through clenched teeth. “You know he can hear from far away.”
“I am frightened, Kojic.” He was. He did not think twice about strapping a bomb to his chest, stepping out into a public square, and pressing the detonator…for the cause. But Kafka represented worse horrors and unspeakable possibilities.
Just then, Farooq entered the room, making both men jump out of their skins. He looked at them, perplexed by their reaction. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” answered Kojic with an artificial coolness that barely, if at all, passed for casual.
“He wants to see us,” announced Farooq.
“Kafka?” asked Al Razi.
“No, Santa Claus,” said Farooq reproachfully.
Kafka relished the thought of converting his big brother. All this time, Peter somehow escaped death, so many times that he now wished for it to come. However, Kafka granted him the irony of an immortal existence, an eternity to suffer with his survivor’s guilt.
In time, Peter would shed his humanity and embrace the existence of the Outworlders, for theirs was an existence of conquest and infinity, not frailty and limits.
His mini-com sounded off. “Yes.”
“We have a problem.”
“What is it, General?”
“It’s Colonel Betancourt. He is suspicious. This business about court marshaling your brother. He’s not buying it.”
“He doesn’t need to. My plans for Pete have nothing to do with him.”
“Well, he went and made it his business by injecting your brother with the antidote serum R&D was working on.”
Kafka became irritated. “I thought you disposed of the serum.”
“I did, or was about to. He somehow got his hands on it and injected it into your brother.”
“No matter. It’s not a cure. It will only prolong the inevitable.”
“What about Betancourt?”
“Oh, I’ll take care of him personally. Just stick to the plan.”
“Yes, Kafka.”
“Fail me again and I’ll be taking care of you.”
He terminated the call to spare himself Ramses’ pathetic response.
There was a knock at the door. He could sense their elevated heartbeats; taste their anxiety, rolling it around on the back of his tongue like a fine wine.
“Come in.”
Three of his best OIL operatives entered the room at his bidding.
“You called, Kafka,” said Kojic reverently.
“Yes, I suppose I did. Please, sit down.” Kafka gestured to three chairs. Kojic, Al Razi, and Farooq all sat down. “You served Belmont well.”
They each nodded in loyal confirmation.
“Such a pity we lost him,” said Kafka without any pity, “but he died for the Cause.”
“He was a good man,” said Kojic.
“Which brings me to a very important question: what are each of you willing to do for the Cause?”
They looked at each other in confusion.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” replied Farooq.
“You’ve been in OIL for years, each of you, and you’ve climbed the ranks. You three represent OIL’s best men.”
The three men smiled uneasily, wondering just what point Kafka was trying to make.
“The point I’m trying to make,” said Kafka practically reading their thoughts, which clearly was uncomfortable for them, “is that I am asking whether or not you are willing to make the ultimate sacrifice.”
“Clearly, we are each willing to die for the Cause,” said Kojic.
“I’m not talking about death,” growled Kafka. He noticed their pulses flutter, for he knew they heard the rumors of Kafka’s conversions.
“W-we are prepared to do what is required,” said Kojic, swallowing hard.
“Does Kojic speak for the rest of you?”
Al Razi and Farooq nodded in unison, wide-eyed.
“Good. Kojic, come here.”
Kojic looked at the other two and then stood looking like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands. He tentatively stepped around Kafka’s desk and stood in front of him.
“Kojic, Serbian national, world renowned computer hacker, way to step up to the plate.”
Kafka rose very suddenly, practically causing poor Kojic to jump out of his shoes. He reached out and caressed the back of Kojic’s neck with long fingers.
Then, moving with great speed, he lunged and sank his teeth into Kojic’s neck so that it appeared as if he barely moved. Kojic began to convulse in Kafka’s arms.
Farooq cowered in a corner of the small room, and Al Razi turned heel and bolted out of there as fast as his legs would carry him.
Kafka released Kojic from his bite and glared at Farooq in the corner, his face demonic. “Go fetch Al Razi or you’ll pray for death by the time I finish with you. Time to join the family like Kojic here. The pay sucks but the fringe benefits are to die for.”
Chapter 3
Two Weeks Later
Birdsall Homestead
20:12 HRS
Peter had recovered remarkably quickly, in time for an expedient court martial. As promised, Colonel Betancourt vouched for him, but in the end, Peter was handed a dismissal with a forfeiture of al
l pay and allowances.
He had moved back in with his father who, despite the circumstances of Peter’s stay, was happy to have one son home.
“You’re better off,” Barry insisted in between draws from his beer. “You can come to work at the hardware store. At least no one will shoot at you there.”
Peter ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation. A big part of him was relieved, yet it was beginning to dawn on him that he was now a civilian. He abruptly went from being a Major in the U.S. Army Special Forces, commanding multi-million dollar equipment and highly trained soldiers, to a boomerang kid living with his father.
Christ, now he knew how Carl must’ve felt.
“What do you think he’s doing now?” Barry asked, reading Peter’s mind.
“Damned if I know, but he got what he wanted: me out of the picture.”
“It could’ve been worse, Pete. You could be dead.”
His father was right. He could’ve been dead, but truth be told, he felt better than he ever had before. However, strange things were happening to him…changes.
For one, he felt his father’s heartbeat across the table. He also became faster, not just physically, but mentally. “I suppose you’re right, Dad.”
“Working at the hardware store will be good for you. Hell, with everything that’s been going on, it’s the only thing keeping me going.” He smiled warmly at his son. “And now I have you.”
“I don’t think we’ve heard the last of Carl though,” said Peter, feeling his father’s heartbeat accelerate from the comment. “I’m scared, too, Dad.”
Barry looked puzzled. How did he know?
Peter didn’t want to tell his father about the changes. It wasn’t a matter of top secret classification. Not anymore. He just didn’t want to frighten him by telling him that he was going through the same changes that Carl was going through, because they both knew what Carl became.
“Do you think we’re in danger, Pete?”
Peter knew Barry was in danger, but probably not from Carl. He had to come clean, for his father’s safety.
“Dad, I’ve been going through these changes.”
Barry smiled in a fatherly way. “Your whole life has been uprooted and twisted around. You’ll bounce back.”
Peter sat forward, his palms flat on the kitchen table. “No, I mean changes. Like what Carl went through.”
Barry looked like his skin went suddenly cold. “Oh. I see. Changes.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“You, too? But how?”
“During a mission in Tijuana I ran into Carl…and he bit me.”
Barry almost dropped the beer right out of his hand. “Wh-what do you mean, he bit you?”
“I mean he sprouted fangs and bit me. On my neck.”
Barry didn’t know what to say. He knew what Carl looked like, what he had become, but this was too much.
“There were other men,” Peter continued, “his men, and they also had fangs.” He felt comfortable speaking freely. After what had happened, his father had thrown away his television, and their mini-coms were powered down.“Jesus,” gasped Barry. “What do you think this means? That Carl is some kind of monster? Like Dracula?”
“There was what the press called an animal attack in Maryland. The building where it occurred happened to be NSA.”
“So you don’t think it was an attack,” Barry said.
“Exactamundo,” replied Peter.
“But Carl wasn’t bitten, was he?”
“That’s exactly what bothers me. He wasn’t. Not in Xcaret. Not during training.”
“And what about you?” Barry gestured to Peter with both hands. “You mean to tell me that you were bitten, and the army just let you go?”
“Especially after what happened to Carl,” Peter added. “That doesn’t sit well with me either.”
“Maybe they’re using you as bait…for Carl,” Barry offered. “Thinking he’ll come back for you.”
“Maybe,” said Peter thoughtfully. “The thought did cross my mind. That may be the reason for the public disgrace. If Carl believes that I’m out—truly out—he’d come back for me.”
“What do you think, Pete?”
“I don’t think Carl is that stupid. He bit me before any of this happened. This is their reaction after the fact. He could’ve killed me, easily. I think that he bit me for a reason, and it’s for that reason that he won’t be coming back.”
“I hope you’re right,” Barry said with a shiver, the thought of his prodigal son returning giving him the willies. However, it wasn’t just that. He knew that if he did return the army would kill him. Although he didn’t have—or for that matter want—his son home, he took some consolation in the fact that Carl was still alive.
“Carl’s reason for biting me can’t be good,” said Peter gravely. “I just wish I knew what it was.”
Barry stood up, clearly tired of the direction the conversation was heading in. “Well, it’s late and I’m heading up for bed. I suggest you do the same. You can bring all of your magic powers with you to the store tomorrow. I could use the help.”
Peter sat back in his chair nursing what was left of his beer. “Good night, Dad.”
“Good night, Pete.” Barry lingered for a moment; drinking in the sight of his son like it was going to be the last time he was ever going to see him that way again. It made Peter uncomfortable.
Barry left the kitchen, and Peter heard his father’s footsteps up the stairs. He heard the water turn on and the pipes become noisy. It was June and already hotter than the hell itself. His Dad was taking a shower before bed.
Peter finished his beer, got up, shuffled his way to the fridge, and got himself another. Before he knew it, another turned into three more and he was working on a good buzz.
He felt his father’s pulse slow down and become regular, the throes of slumber. Peter was tired, but a weary kind of tired, not the sleepy kind. He wanted to go to bed, but he was in the grip of a nasty insomnia that all the beer in Texas wouldn’t fix.
He looked out the deck door off the kitchen and almost did a double take. He thought he saw someone looking in at him. He slammed his beer bottle down on the kitchen table and rubbed his eyes, but the shadow was still right outside the deck door.
“Who is it?” Peter cried out to the darkness just outside. He reached out with his senses, like Carl said he used to—it was remarkably easy, like reaching out for a beer—but he felt nothing.
The presence was oddly familiar and disconcerting at the same time. He knew it was this goddamned doppelgänger that was following him around for the past two weeks. It was like it was secretly keeping tabs on him in the most private of moments, but every time he went to confront it, it vanished.
“Leave me alone,” Peter demanded, his speech slurring slightly.
He stood up with heavy feet and left the kitchen. He trudged up the stairs slowly, one-by-one, until he reached the top. He didn’t know why, because he knew sure as shit he wasn’t going to sleep.
Then the idea occurred to him out of thin air, plucked from the night: he wondered what it would look like if he finger-painted with his father’s blood all over the walls of Barry’s bedroom.
The idea came so quickly, like second nature, that he was overcome with nausea and repulsion at the very notion. Where the hell did that come from? He chastised himself silently in the dark hallway.
Yet there it was again. The idea of murdering his father, ceasing that heartbeat of his and tasting his blood. Peter wretched in the hallway. Composing himself, he stomped down the stairs, went back into the kitchen, unlocked and flung the deck door open, and ran out into the night.
He wanted to see him, the sick bastard who planted these evil thoughts into his head. He searched the shadows by the moonlight for him and by-God, if he found him he was going to wring his neck, this thing that wanted him to become like Carl.
Peter laughed horribly in the moonlight, like a demented miscreant with sin on his soul. H
e felt the anti-dote serum pumping through his veins, fighting the THV that Carl gave him, the diabolical gift that kept on giving.
He had to leave his father’s house or he couldn’t be held responsible for what was going to happen. He was dangerous. A weapon, planted by his brother.
His life had become a ticking time bomb. It was only a matter of time before he lost control, before he turned into a monster like Carl.
He looked up and saw a man standing there in front of him waiting. He didn’t even hear the guy approach. “Can I help you?”
When he looked up, he saw his own face. He was looking at him looking at himself. What? His weary brain raced to process the sight before him—
“Are you all right, Son?”
Peter was startled by his father’s voice behind him, but he suppressed the reflex to turn around. He was still getting used to his heightened senses and, distracted, had not detected his father’s presence. He didn’t want his father to see him in his current condition. He couldn’t see himself, but he knew he had at that very moment changed…transfigured.
“I’m fine, Dad,” he called over his shoulder as he stared straight ahead at the perfect image of himself. It was leering at him. Did his father see it?
His father was silent for a moment, and Peter could sense his concern behind him as he wrestled down his homicidal impulse to eviscerate the man where he stood. After a brief moment, Barry turned and went back inside.
Peter, who didn’t realize he was holding his breath, gasped for air as he relaxed, the primal urges subsiding for the moment. He realized his twin was gone.
It was then that he realized that it was unsafe for him to stay with his father. He would have to come up with some reason to leave, and his father likely wouldn’t understand, but it had to be done.
He walked over to the patio set and dropped wearily into one of the chairs. He decided he would spend the night outside, away from his father. Then he thought twice about it, stood up, stepped through the sliding door and into the kitchen, and locked the sliding door behind him.
He reached into his pocket, fished out his now civilian issue mini-com multi-tasker, and placed it on the kitchen counter. He left the kitchen, exited the house through the front door—locking it behind him—and walked back around to the backyard patio set.
I am Automaton 3: Shadow of the Automaton Page 7