“Yes, sir. I’ve prepped the men myself.”
“Excellent. If any OIL are flagged at the door, the bouncers snatch them up and take them in the back as quickly and quietly as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The only people in here that should be armed are our own. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir. The local roadblocks will fall into place as soon as Kafka enters the bar. Our men will form a wide perimeter. All air traffic above the bar has been diverted.”
“Good. No way out. We’ll only have one chance at this.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excellent, work,” said CIA Agent Kickuchi imperiously. She, too, was dressed in plain clothes, but she was acting like she was running the show. Technically, she was, but Betancourt was managing the details. The devil was always in the details. “Kafka will never know what hit him.”
Betancourt pressed his finger pensively to his lips as if reviewing a list in his head. This was all too easy. Kafka was too clever to be caught this way. Betancourt smelled a rat. He was sure this was a trap…but set by whom?
Either way, Betancourt was anticipating a problem and he wasn’t about to take any chances. He wasn’t a betting man—his ex-wife forbade gambling—but he would bet solid money that by the end of tonight he would receive confirmation on what he already suspected about Ramses.
Once he had proof, he was going to nail that slimy bastard to the wall.
“There is some activity at the bar,” said Farooq into his cell. “Some kind of technicians.”
“I see,” said Kafka on the other end. “Do they look like government?”
“I am not sure. Maybe something broke. It says Garrett Electricians on the side of the van.”
There was a pause on the other end as Kafka researched the company name. “It looks legitimate. Any cell communication in or out of the bar?”
Farooq looked down at the portable tower of the RGT unit. “None yet.”
“Well that’s odd, don’t you think? These electricians didn’t call anything in to the office the whole time?”
“No.”
“It’s like they’re avoiding using their cells.”
“You might say that.”
“It’s the government. Ramses said they’d be trying something. Some added security or something. No matter. We will proceed as planned.”
“Yes, Kafka.”
***
Peter was rummaging in the closet of his old room in his father’s house. He found his duffle bag and unzipped it. He produced a digi-locked box and keyed in the security code. He opened the box and removed his Desert Eagle handgun.
He looked it over and loaded the clip. He made sure the safety was on and shoved it under his waistband in the back. He took two extra clips in his right hand and shoved the box closed with his left. The digi-lock automatically engaged.
If Kafka really was going to show up at Frisky’s tonight, Peter was going to blow his brains out all over the bar. If there was any truth to what Kafka said in Peter’s vision today, he had to be taken out.
He thought he sensed something and turned around on his heel, training his gun, but there was no one in the room with him.
He turned his eyes to the window and saw it.
His doppelgänger was outside the window grinning at him and scratching the glass. Peter stood up and rounded the bed, but by the time he reached the window, it was gone.
He looked down into the backyard, but it was empty. He heard movement downstairs. He quickly and silently slipped out of his room and stood at the bannister at the top of the stairs.
He trained his gun down below as he heard some shuffling. Someone was definitely moving around downstairs. He reached out with his senses and felt that the other presence was in the kitchen.
He slowly crept down the carpeted stairs, careful to avoid the fourth one up that creaked, stepping over it. He rounded the bannister, training his gun on the kitchen.
He jumped into the room as his father stepped in his way, the two of them yelling as they collided.
“Jesus, Pete. It’s just me.”
“Dammit, Dad, I almost killed you.” He backed away from his father, engaging the safety and shoving the gun in his waistband again.
“I left the store to see how you were doing. Something’s not right, Pete.”
“I know that, Dad. Something definitely isn’t right.”
“It’s your brother. He’s contacted you.”
“I can’t discuss it now, Dad.”
“But where will you go?”
“Away from here. Trust me; it’s for your own safety.”
“What’s for my own safety? Will you please explain to me what the hell is going on here?”
“It’d be better for you if you didn’t know.”
Suddenly Barry slapped his son. Peter stopped in his tracks, the side of his face stinging.
“Dammit, I’m your father and you will tell me what the hell is going on!”
Peter regarded his father clinically, the way he was trained to regard civilians in confidential matters. All business. “Sorry, sir. I have to go.”
Peter pushed passed him and then out the front door.
Barry stood in the kitchen helpless to do anything to help either of his sons. He regretted slapping Peter the moment he did it, but he didn’t know what else to do. One thing was for certain, he could no longer treat either of his sons like children anymore.
They were both grown men, and both made their own decisions. There was nothing Barry could do about it except stand by and watch, hoping both men did the right thing.
Chapter 7
University of Texas at Dallas
13:04 HRS
“Can anyone tell me what the message or moral of Frankenstein is?” asked Dr. Grotsky clutching a digital copy and pushing her reading spectacles back up the bridge of her nose.
“It is about good versus evil,” offered a student in the second row. “The monster is pure evil.”
“Not quite,” said Grotsky tapping her lips thoughtfully with her right index finger. “While it’s true the monster is pure evil, a true abomination, one can hardly say that Dr. Frankenstein was good. In the book, he dabbles with dark science, creating life from death, something considered very profane in Mary Shelly’s time.”
“It’s a story about betrayal, the killing of the primal father,” offered another student scrunching up her nose in thought. “Frankenstein is the father, and his ‘son’ wants to murder him. It’s a playing out of Freud’s Oedipal Complex.”
“I can see that,” said Grotsky, “but it’s not the main message. Anyone else?”
“It’s an indictment of modern technology, namely medicine, as unnatural and something to be feared,” offered Elicia.
Grotsky stood up straight from leaning on her podium. “Exactly! Frankenstein used what in the story is considered modern technology to create life from death, and the exercise backfires terribly on him. Frankenstein is a cautionary tale.”
“Kind of like the undead drones our military was using?” asked a student in the back.
Grotsky removed her spectacles and chewed on one of the arms thoughtfully. “Well, yes, actually. That’s the perfect example. Our government used what many might consider an unnatural technology to combat terrorism, and ultimately it did backfire on us.”
“What about the Automaton?” another student asked. “He’s done this country some good, and he hasn’t backfired on us.”
“The Automaton is a perversity of government technology,” said Elicia cynically, “and how do we know he hasn’t backfired on us? We don’t even know where he came from or why he has his powers.”
“This Kafka character is a real villain,” added Robert, a jock sitting next to her. He was on the lacrosse team, as evidenced by his stick lying next to his right foot.
Grotsky was encouraged by the discussion. It was validation that the students were truly listening and thinking about the material. “Yes, R
obert, but we didn’t create Kafka.”
“Yeah, we don’t know where he came from either,” added Elicia. “For all we know, he and the Automaton may be the same person.”
Robert chortled. “That’s ridiculous. Kafka’s a terrorist. A mass murderer. The Automaton is a hero.”
“That’s not what Afghanistan would say. Did you forget Tora Bora?”
“Yeah, but that was a military operation. He killed terrorists.”
“I’m sure, to OIL, Kafka’s actions are military operations for their Cause.”
“Okay, well let’s relate this all back to the story, shall we?” doddered Grotsky, afraid the conversation that was becoming a debate was derailing the lecture.
“So, what are you for, OIL?” asked the student sitting in front of her turning around.
Elicia rolled her eyes. “All I’m saying, in line with our discussion of Frankenstein…” Grotsky nodded her gratitude, “is that the Automaton represents a technology that is lethal and likely unnatural.”
“Thank you, Elicia, for bringing us back to Mary Shelly’s work.”
Elicia nodded in reply, and Grotsky began to drone on about the novel. She resumed her presentation on the Smartboard, and as she did so, Elicia stared at the screen and became lost in thought.
She thought about the Automaton, who had been discussed frequently but had also remained relatively unseen. She thought about the government monitoring its populace in the name of national security under the Second Patriot Act. She also thought about her podcasts and how she missed them. She wondered if Mary Shelly would’ve understood her message.
Then, curiously, her mind drifted to Matt Brauer. She recalled her exchange with him in the computer lab and her humiliation. She thought about her roommate Darcy and how she blew off going out that Friday night at the end of the semester when she promised she’d go out with her.
Then in a stream of consciousness, she thought about her sister Brittany, who never had any problems meeting boys. She remembered when Brittany had found her a date for the senior prom in high school, a friend of hers named Bret.
Her face again became hot with embarrassment as she recalled a night of being neglected by him as she sat by herself sipping stale punch, only to find him making out with Britanny’s friend, Lara, by the lockers. When she ran out of the auditorium upset, Brittany had caught up with her and, trying to make Elicia feel better, told her that she was pissed at Bret because she paid him to take her to the prom.
She remembered in eighth grade, after winning first place in the middle school science fair, running over to her crush, Joe Soretto, to show him her ribbon only to find him fawning all over her sister.
She remembered sixth grade when she was the first sixth grader to win the middle school spelling bee in the history of the middle school, only to have her books thrown on the floor and stomped on by the cheerleading squad. When she went home to tell her mother, her mother dried her tears and told her that it wouldn’t hurt to play up her looks like her sister. Maybe then, the other girls would treat her better.
Elicia thought of all these things as a loud humming rang in her head louder and louder until it was almost unbearable. Resurfacing from her private reverie, the classroom came back into focus and Grotsky’s voice became distinguishable words again.
However, the daydreaming curiously left Elicia with a headache. She found herself staring at the Smartboard, from which the now faint electronic hum was emanating. She stretched and looked around the room to find all of the other students staring straight ahead, mesmerized.
If she wasn’t mistaken, they were all looking at the Smartboard in unison. Grotsky, oblivious to the sudden groupthink (or lack thereof) was content to drone on and be entertained by the sound of her own voice.
Elicia, unable to bear any more, abruptly stood up almost knocking her desk over. Dr. Grotsky ceased her dissertation and all of the other students gawked at Elicia.
“Excuse me,” she said sheepishly and left the room.
She closed the classroom door behind her and strolled down the hall to the restroom, her footsteps echoing down the hallway. She stepped into the restroom and walked over to the sink. She ran the cold water and began to splash her face, looking at herself in the mirror.
Jesus. It was summer session and all, and a warm one at that, but she had never lost her concentration to that extent before. Her 4.0 GPA was a testament to that.
Yet, she wondered why her mind had wandered to such unpleasant places and she felt hung over. Why had her mind leapt from Frankenstein and Kafka to her failed social exploits and embarrassing moments?
To Elicia, it didn’t feel like her mind was wandering. It was hard to explain, but it was as if the memories were being pulled from the edges of her consciousness into the light. She shook her head, dismissing the notion as ridiculous.
She took a paper towel and blew her nose like a trumpet. She tossed the paper towel in the trash receptacle, took a deep breath, and decided to return to class.
When she entered the classroom, she drew a few looks, but Grotsky was droning on about the book they had read prior, drawing a comparison.
“Remember The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, another cautionary tale about the dangers of curiosity, self-exploration, and wanton hedonism. The relentless pursuit of pleasure without conscience.”
“Sounds like Friday nights,” quipped Robert, earning a few stifled chuckles. Grotsky rolled her eyes.
Elicia had already read that book in high school. She thought about the portrait that bore Dorian Gray’s sins, a perfect record of all his dalliances and transgressions for all to see.
“On the contrary,” Elicia interjected, “the tale was totally about the burden of conscience. He possessed the very record of all he’d done and had to hide it away.”
To her surprise, rather than being delighted by the participation, Dr. Grotsky looked annoyed at being corrected. Yeah, she was one of those professors.
Grotsky cleared her throat. “Yes, well, it was Dorian’s social experimentation, his thirst for carnal knowledge, which led to his record in spite of conscience.”
Oh, it was on. Elicia loved professors like this. Or she loved challenging their pedantic interpretations. When they had huge, fragile egos, it only made it more fun.
Elicia smelled blood in the water. She leaned forward in her seat. “But still, it was the knowledge that the portrait, i.e. his conscience, was sitting right upstairs from him under the constant danger of being discovered that eventually led to his demise.”
Grotsky pursed her lips, her eyes darting around behind her glasses. “Yes, well, we were comparing The Picture of Dorian Gray to Frankenstein—”
Elicia didn’t miss a beat. “If The Picture of Dorian Gray were to be written today, it would be both a cautionary tale about conscience and technology.”
“How could it possibly be about technology?” Robert chortled. “It’s about a painting.”
“The Victorian version used a painting as a metaphor for conscience…”
“Miss Corti,” Grotsky interrupted, “I think I established that it was about the unscrupulous pursuit of pleasure.”
Elicia ignored her and continued. “…but a modern version would use Dorian’s hard drive. You see, there is a record on our hard drives—and on servers for that matter—of everything we look at on the internet. Every site, every keystroke. A modern-day Dorian, in his relentless quest for pleasure…” Grotsky nodded in recognition of her own idea “…would be agonizing over the guilt of what was indelibly recorded on his hard drive. He’d become paranoid about hackers and the FBI and it would drive him mad until he destroyed it.”
“You sound like that Seditious Blogger, Tronika,” chided Robert. Grotsky regarded her with an expression that Elicia could only call imperious contempt.
“Yes, well your analogy has one serious flaw, Ms. Corti,” said Grotsky with no small measure of self-satisfaction. “Destroying the hard drive would not cause his dem
ise.”
Elicia sat back pondering this point. Grotsky was right about that. Still, she thought her analogy to hold water regardless.
“But a valiant effort,” Dr. Grotsky added as a backhanded compliment.
Elicia’s head began to hurt again, and she counted the minutes until class was over.
***
Kojic’s Apartment
14:24 HRS
Luka Kojic walked through the door to his apartment and looked around the living room. It was empty and the furniture all askew as he had left it. He stepped into the kitchen, flicking on the light switch. He heard something coming from the bedroom.
It was a strange wheezing…and slapping sounds.
Thinking of his poor, dear Marina, he ran into the bedroom to find Yuri, half-eaten, plugging his wife on the bed.
“Marina, no!” Luka yelled, but the couple did not stop their disgusting relations.
Even in death, she couldn’t remain faithful. In a futile gesture, Luka rounded the bed and tried to pull Yuri off of his wife. A significant part of Yuri’s midsection was eaten away and his ribcage exposed, and he was slick with bodily fluids. Getting a secure grip on the man was impossible.
Luka stood there running his hands through his hair as he listened to the rasping exertion of the two zombies in his marriage bed. He was in agony as he saw Yuri attack his Marina, literally, with all he had left.
Luka ran into the kitchen and selected a large knife out of a drawer. He ran back into the bedroom, leaned over the side of the bed, and plunged his knife into the back of Yuri’s head.
Yuri reached frantically with both hands to the back of his head, pulled out the knife, dropped it behind him, and continued to stab way at Marina underneath him.
Luka cried out in torment at the futility of his intervention. He rounded the bed once more, opened the closet, and pulled out his shotgun. He cracked it open, loaded two shells, and snapped the double barrels back.
He reached out and poked Yuri in the side of his cheek with the tip of the barrels. Yuri turned his head and opened his mouth, but Luka shoved the tip of the barrels in his mouth.
I am Automaton 3: Shadow of the Automaton Page 14