I Am Automaton 2: Kafka Rising

by Edward P. Cardillo

  …until now. Maybe his father was right. Maybe the world had lost its humility and was going to hell in a hand basket. Maybe it deserved a little spring cleaning from other worldly beings.

  What Kafka didn’t understand was how this all played into Belmont’s agenda. He and Yvette didn’t seem to put much stock in an imminent threat from Outworlders. They, like the United States government, believed this technology to be found, not planted, and they hoped to exploit it for their cause.

  If Kafka’s feelings were correct, OIL, the United States, the UN—they were all going to be played for fools. He knew that every time they used the RGT, something else was watching. He could feel it. He felt it the day Fiona used it on him.

  Something else was taking note of the planet’s superpowers and its defenses. Perhaps this was the plan all along. Plant the technology and count on humanity’s ambition and adversarial nature to apply it. They were all pawns in a greater scheme, at least that’s what Kafka felt down to his core. He couldn’t explain why, but he knew it.

  The old Carl would’ve done something to throw a monkey wrench in the works and save humanity. However, he started to realize that, for quite some time, he no longer felt like a part of it. He never fit in, but now he had his own military trying to kill him despite all that he had done to protect his country.

  Because of them, he had become something else. It wouldn’t have been his first impulse, but they pushed him into it. They made him, they took away everyone he cared about, and they turned on him. To them, he was a monster, like the characters in the archives. Something to be persecuted and destroyed.

  In reality, he felt more than human. He was superior in every way. He was the next stage in evolution. There were new selection pressures in place, and he and his kind were going to survive. The humans were going to go the way of the dinosaur, and Kafka was no longer sympathetic to their continued existence.

  ***

  Somewhere In Between Fontebecci and Siena

  15:45 HRS

  “Local law enforcement helped us locate an access shaft right outside of Siena,” said Lieutenant Kettle into his mini-com. “We are about to enter the Bottini.”

  “Good,” said Betancourt. “Maintain radio silence from here on. Texting only.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They dropped rope into the hole in the ground. It was one of those sections in poor repair that partially caved in. They began to repel down into the dark tunnel. They switched on their shoulder lights and Nolan led them into the tunnel.

  The tunnel was narrow and tall, the rock hewn smooth. They sloshed around in water and mud as they worked their way into Siena proper. Everyone was silent, save for the splashing of their feet.

  Kettle double-timed it because he knew time was of the essence. He had to reach the bank before Peter even stepped into the city. They had to be ready to move out of various ventilation shafts and take down the drones quickly before they harmed any hostages.

  ***

  Peter stood outside the city walls of Siena dressed in Carl’s suit. Lieutenant Farrow was outfitting him with the visor that would stream data in the form of pics and videos back to Colonel Betancourt.

  “Are you sure this is going to work?” asked Peter dubiously.

  “You look just like him, especially with your eyes covered by the visor. I think there’s enough of a resemblance,” answered Betancourt.

  “So, what now, I just walk in and surrender myself?”

  “Just walk into town slowly. My guess is that you won’t make it very far before you are intercepted.”

  “But we don’t know how they are going to react,” said Peter. “They might just kill me where I stand.”

  “I don’t think so,” replied Betancourt. “They’re terrorists. They’re going to want to keep you for a while until they figure out some way they can humiliate and kill you in a grand spectacle.”

  “They took a whole city hostage,” said Peter, “they took control of the oldest bank in the world, and they’re going to have me. It doesn’t get grander than this.”

  ATTACK FORCE IN POSITION, flashed Betancourt’s mini-com multi-tasker.

  “They won’t have you for long,” said Betancourt. “Kettle’s team is in position.” Images began to flash back to Betancourt’s multi-tasker. “He’s transmitting a route back. It appears that there weren’t any significant cave-ins that would block travel along that route.” Betancourt sent it to Peter’s multi-tasker. “If the shit hits the fan, enter the Bottini and follow this route back.”

  Peter glanced down and saw the route downloading. “So I guess this is it.”

  “You’ll be fine,” reassured Betancourt. “Just remember your mission. Don’t get caught up in looking for your brother.”

  “Yes, sir. Don’t worry. I’ll be busy trying not to get dead.”

  “Atta boy, Captain. Good luck.”

  Peter was unarmed, to save Kafka’s men the trouble of disarming him or getting spooked and killing hostages. He began to walk through the entrance in the city’s massive walls. Siena was truly a marvel, a fully fortified city in the middle of the Tuscan countryside.

  He entered the first very narrow gray street. He looked up at the beige and burnt orange buildings towering on either side. The street slanted upward.

  He turned a corner and was met by several drones waiting for him. Betancourt was right. It didn’t take long. They surrounded him. Peter’s heart was in his throat. He’d been in this position before, and it usually didn’t end well.

  One of the drones reached out and snatched the visor off his face, threw it to the ground, and stomped on it. Great. So much for that part of the plan.

  Then one gestured with its arm for Peter to walk forward, its milky eyes cold and expressionless. Peter looked around at the others, who gazed back at him unblinking. They were apparently not going to harm him at the moment, but he was certain that if he made a move to resist, they’d end him quickly.

  He began to walk up the narrow street and, as he did so, he felt eyes on him from windows above. Kafka had snipers placed by the entrance to the city. Smart. He must’ve had military or paramilitary training.

  ***

  An OIL operative entered the archives. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but the drones have intercepted a soldier impersonating you.”

  “I know,” said Kafka not looking up from his documents, “it’s my brother.”

  The operative did a small bow and did not waste time in leaving the archives. Kafka stood up and arranged the documents, shoving them into a file.

  So, the prodigal son has returned. Kafka would kill the fatted calf to honor his return, the hostages cowering in the storefronts and cafes. All to honor his brother’s return.

  First, a little show.

  Peter was led to the fan-shaped Piazza del Campo. As he entered the square, he saw people huddled into the center of the square surrounded by undead drones standing watch. Kafka was mocking the Palio, only there wasn’t going to be a horse race.

  Peter was led to the flat base of the seashell-shaped plaza where one of the drones held out its hand for him to stop. Peter saw the terrified looks on the faces in the crowd. They were gawking at him. Some seemed to recognize him for who he was supposed to be, others just stared at him in wide-eyed anticipation.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please,” crackled a tinny voice over a loudspeaker in the plaza. Kafka. “I would like to introduce our guest who flew in all the way from America…”

  Peter looked around. The media was present with cameras rolling. Kafka had allowed them in. This was the spectacle that Betancourt said they were waiting for.

  “Dammit!” shouted Betancourt. “They destroyed the visor. We’re going to have to guesstimate this.”

  “Sir,” said Lieutenant Farrow. “The Italian media is broadcasting from inside the city. It looks like the Piazza del Campo.”

  “Show me,” said Betancourt.

  They walked over to a tent with four laptop
s sitting on a table. They were all streaming broadcasts from various local news stations.

  “That’s Captain Birdsall,” Farrow pointed out.

  “What in the hell is Kafka up to?” asked Betancourt, thinking out loud. “He looks like he gathered all of the hostages in the plaza. This makes it easier for our strike force. Relay the positions of the drones to Kettle. Tell him to focus on the Piazza del Campo.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Farrow grabbing his multi-tasker.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, the Automaton.”

  There were gasps as the crowd stirred. There were looks of confusion. Was he here to save them? Why did he have the drones corral them into the plaza?

  “The Automaton came all of this way to meet the citizens of Siena.”

  Two drones stepped forward into the crowd and selected four people: two women and two children. The zombies escorted them out of the huge throng and before Peter.

  Peter looked at them tentatively. The children, a boy and a girl, were clinging to the women terrified. The women were crying. They pleaded with him desperately in Italian, one woman getting down on her knees and begging.

  “Mighty Automaton, here standing before you are women and children of Siena. What is your bidding?”

  Oh, shit. Peter suddenly saw where this was going. Kafka meant to execute them in front of all to see. The video would be broadcast all over the world making it look like Peter, appearing as the Automaton, had ordered their execution.

  Peter stepped forward and reached out to the children, pulling them away from their mothers. He drew them into himself protectively. The drones surrounding him stepped forward and began to attack the women, biting and clawing at their flesh.

  “NO! STOP!” Peter tried to cover the eyes of the children as best he could. They were now screaming and crying into his suit.

  Blood pooled on the ground underneath the drones and the screams of pain and terror from the women ceased quickly. Peter was horrified by what happened, but he felt powerless to do anything to stop it.

  “Jesus tap-dancing Christ,” gasped Betancourt. “Kafka just made it look like Captain Birdsall ordered the execution of those women. I’m sending in the strike force now, before this gets even further out of hand.” He texted the following order to Kettle:

  ALL FORCES CONVERGE ON THE PIAZZA DEL CAMPO NOW. DRONES SCATTERED ALONG THE PERIMETER OF THE CROWD.

  “If Kafka wanted to make us look bad, I think he just succeeded,” said Farrow ominously.

  The crowd was in a panic. It shifted in waves within the perimeter of the undead drones, but none dared to breach that perimeter.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please.”

  The crowd was startled by the voice on the loudspeaker. They began to settle down in horrid anticipation of what was to come next. Peter huddled the two children closely around him with his arms.

  “Stay back!” he yelled at the impassive drones. “No more! No more!”

  “The Automaton is not pleased with what your city has to offer,” crackled the reptilian voice. “Automaton, what is to become of the crowd?”

  One of the drones, on cue, stepped forward dramatically and stuck out its right arm with its thumb extended out horizontally. Kafka was now mocking the spectacles at the Coliseum where the Emperor determined the fate of a gladiator with a thumb up or down. Only he wasn’t asking the crowd. He was targeting the crowd and making it look like Peter’s choice.

  “Do they live or do they die, mighty Automaton?”

  The crowd was stunned into silence as they looked at Peter expectantly, awaiting his answer. There were looks of horror, desperation, and even anger and outrage. The news cameras were broadcasting them all for the world to see.

  “Let them live!” shouted Peter desperately. He wasn’t going to play along with the charade. “They must live!”

  The drone looked at Peter, as if it was listening to his directive, and it slowly began to point its thumb down. The crowd now writhed in terror, shouting and yelling, crying out for justice, but knowing none was coming.

  The drones surrounding Peter began to come for the children, and Peter yanked them behind him. The drones surrounding the crowd began to move in when gunfire erupted from somewhere outside the plaza.

  Lieutenant Kettle and several soldiers were shooting in the air with their rifles. Instinctively, the crowd ducked and covered their heads. This was what Kettle wanted.

  “Headshots!” he commanded. His team surrounded the crowd and took out the drones, aiming high above the crouching hostages and shooting them in the heads.

  Peter took the children and ran towards one of the cafes. He threw open the door and shoved them inside. “Stay here. STAY HERE.”

  They nodded their understanding. He opened the door and ran back outside into the fray. There was pandemonium as Kettle’s team dispatched the drones. When enough of the drones were down, the crowd began to disperse, preventing them from firing on the remaining undead.

  The dozen drones that were left began to grab fleeing Sienese. Kettle and his team infiltrated the crowd and took them down with bayonets and baton, one-by-one.

  Kettle saw Peter. “Captain!”

  Peter turned and saw Kettle. “What the hell took you so long?”

  Kettle tossed him his assault rifle.

  “Is anyone taking the bank?” asked Peter.

  “No,” shouted back Kettle. “Betancourt ordered all forces to converge here.”

  Kafka was down in the computer center with Yvette. She was rigging the computers with C4. When she finished, she executed the technicians in the room in cold blood.

  “Our escape route has been cleared,” said Kafka.

  Yvette nodded and looked over at the fountain in the computer center that had been hacked to pieces with jackhammers, revealing an opening to the Bottini.

  “How did you know they would abandon their assault on the bank?” asked Yvette.

  “Because I put them on the defensive. They had to do everything in their power to protect the Sienese civilians.”

  “The explosives are in place,” said Yvette.

  “Then we go,” said Kafka.

  “What about your brother?”

  “Don’t worry. He’ll come to us.”

  Chapter 15

  “Take your team and storm the bank,” ordered Peter. “I need a squad.”

  “Where are you going?” asked Kettle.

  “If they were able to draw all of you out into the Piazza del Campo, I have a hunch they’re heading back out the Bottini,” explained Peter.

  “Then I should go with you,” insisted Kettle.

  “Negative. If I’m wrong, you’ll need every man possible to storm the bank. Get going.”

  Kettle nodded. He picked up his mini-com, “Alpha Squad, follow Captain Birdsall. The rest, converge on the bank.” He looked at Peter. “Good luck, sir.”

  Peter nodded. “C’mon, men. Follow me.”

  He texted his coordinates to Betancourt and informed him where he was going. He walked over to the fountain with the statues of dogs spitting out water and brilliant reliefs of women and children all around. He fired his grenade launcher at the fountain and it exploded, flinging shards of stone.

  “Into the hole!” Peter commanded.

  “Captain Birdsall just texted that he is going into the Bottini,” said Betancourt. “He thinks that Kafka is using the access at the computer center to make his retreat out the way we came. I want reinforcements at the access point where Kettle’s squad entered the Bottini outside of town. I want boots on the ground and drones in the air. Kafka has to pop up somewhere.”

  Peter led his squad down the Bottini in column formation, as that was all the space would accommodate. Peter consulted his muti-tasker. “This tunnel runs south of Siena,” he said, his voice echoing off of the smooth walls. “The tunnel from the bank runs north. The two intersect. We’ll blast through the wall and intercept the northbound tunnel.”

 
He hoped that in doing so, they’d either take Kafka by surprise or reach the intersection first and wait for him. They traversed the tunnel for some distance, Peter’s multi-tasker using echolocation to map the tunnel system. The drones would’ve been perfect for such an operation.

  They reached an area where the space widened and the ceiling rose higher. His multi-tasker indicated that this was where the two paths ran next to each other, separated by the wall.

  “Stand back,” ordered Peter. His squad stepped back, sloshing in the water, and he aimed his grenade launcher at the wall.

  Before he could fire, there was a loud bang and the wall blasted inward, filling the tunnel with a cloud of dust and raining debris everywhere. Peter and his men were thrown onto their backs in the water.

  A dark shadow passed through the dust and debris, moving quickly. One-by-one Peter’s squad was executed by this unnaturally fast shade whipping around the tunnel.

  When the dust began to clear, Peter saw a helmeted, lithe figure dressed in black standing over him. It snatched the rifle from Peter’s hands before he could react and rammed the stock into his face, knocking him out cold.

  Kafka grabbed Peter by the front of his suit and pulled him up, slapping the helmet off of his head. “You’re coming with me, brother.”

  Yvette and a few other OIL operatives came through the opening in the wall. “Is that him?” she asked.

  “Yes. I told you he’d come to us. They’ll be expecting us to go north, but we’re going south to Porta Camollia. Give me the clothes.”

  Yvette handed him a bag. He began to undress Peter. He then removed a regular outfit out of the bag and dressed Peter. When he was finished, he tossed the bag aside. “Okay, let’s move. We don’t have much time.”

  Lieutenant Kettle was entering the Palazzo Salimbeni. “Column formation, squad-by-squad. Once we enter the bank, fan out. Take out all drones.”