Am I ... A Robot? Human one day, the next a robot. (standard:action, 13330 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 06 2020	Views/Reads: 1193/831	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
When an army sergeant is injured, his brain is installed in an experimental robotic body.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

supporting countries. The fact that they're strictly controlled and 
rarely issued except in extenuating circumstances says a lot about the 
importance of this posting. 

I wave back before grasping one hand onto the rear ramp and jumping down
to the asphalt of a truck-park. Looking around, I can see several 
buildings or parts thereof. 

A huge gray three-story concrete structure, boxlike without any visible
windows, dominates the landscape. It looks to be at least a city-block 
square. Another concrete building, a miniature of the first -- though 
only one story -- sits fifty-feet to its left and directly in front of 
us. Finally, a smaller building with loading docks appears attached to 
the first. Several APF trucks, painted standard international pink, sit 
backed into loading slots, others idling as they wait in line. 

"Alright, you guys. Get into formation," I order the rest of the troops.
A few seconds later the lieutenant, wearing an obviously uncomfortable 
dress uniform in the heat, comes around the corner of the vehicle, 
holding his clipboard while pulling a necktie down away from his 
throat. 

"Take them inside, sarge," he commands, turning quickly to stride
purposefully toward the waiting succor of the supposedly 
air-conditioned one-story building. I would bet that the lieutenant 
rarely leaves its comforting shelter. 

When we enter, carrying items from the back of the truck that the driver
-- a corporal -- has asked us to take inside for him, the officer is 
waiting for us. I have to admit it's much more comfortable in here. 

The inside is straight army, walls painted a light shade of that
ever-present pink, with a gray military-issue desk at one corner of the 
entrance, itself piled with miscellaneous items. A dusty raincoat hangs 
on one wall, along with a sign saying, "Emergency.  For Flash Floods 
Only."  As though such is possible. 

He leads us to a room containing rows of folding chairs set up in front
of a small gray podium,  indicating we should take seats. The 
lieutenant gives us what must be a standard welcoming speech. 

"Welcome to base TR-154, gentlemen," he tells us, "to be your home for
as long as the APF requires. 

"What they do or make here is none of our business. We don't know and
will probably never know their mission. Ours is to protect them. 
Protect them from anyone or anything not authorized by our orders. 

"Nobody, but nobody, gets in or out without the proper paperwork. The
commanding general of this huge base is not allowed entry. 

"And that is important, especially the out. It includes all of us, even
off-duty guards. I doubt if many of you will ever get off this site 
except on desert patrol or on being reassigned. Make it your home, 
gentlemen and obey all the rules, including weekly revisions. You will 
review the rules posted on a bulletin board at the entrance before 
going on each patrol or duty at the gate. 

"This barracks is your home. You will live here, work here, and take
your recreation here. If you wish, and few do, you may currently 
exercise, walk around, or play games on the side away from the Main 
building." 

That last statement brings a spat of laughter. I, for one, don't think
I'll ever have any inclination to play outside in the sun, though I 
would have liked to travel around the huge base itself in my own 
automobile. 

"The large building attachment is for off-loading supplies," he
continues. "One side is for ours and the other for the Main building. 
The space in the middle section contains offices such as 'personnel' 
that you will have occasion to visit. Do not, under any conditions 
whatsoever, try to enter the section designated for the Main building. 
To do so will bring strict and harsh punishment. 

"The Main building has its own guard force comprised of Homeland
Security guards and we do not, repeat, do not mix with or even talk to 
them. You also do not let those guards leave their building on foot. If 
they do, arrest them and take them directly to the office area in the 
center. In such a case you will not talk to them. If they insist on 
speaking, you are to either gag or club them unconscious. Then, only 
after returning, call me." 

Strange, I think, but then it's the APF.  It and Homeland Security
thrive on secrecy and violence.  This isn't my regular army, I remind 
myself. 

"Report to the first sergeant," the lieutenant finishes. "He'll give you
your quarters and work assignments." Having done his duty, he turns and 
leaves, aloof like most officers. 

*** 

I have a large comfortable room, complete with computer -- though no
Internet connection. I find the telephone system is only local, among 
us guards and not to the outside or off limits buildings. We are 
completely isolated and can't even call home.  No cellphones are even 
allowed in-country, so that's no different.  Owning a cellphone is 
grounds for a courts martial.  A non-military satellite phone anywhere 
the ATF is deployed WILL get you thirty years as a spy. 

Our system has two distinct and separate functions. They are manning the
guard shack and patrolling both inside and outside the outer fence. 
Nobody is allowed around the main building except in our portions of 
the loading area, the three sections of which are isolated by 
razor-wire fencing. Truck drivers are required to sit in their vehicles 
while being loaded or unloaded. 

I'm assigned to the outside patrol section, in charge of an armored
Humvee used in circling the area within a half-mile radius of the site. 
Anyone found inside that area will first be warned by electronic 
megaphone to leave. If they persist, we're to use our ME-20 rifles to 
blast them into tiny pieces, no questions asked.  As in other outside 
contact, no conversations or exchange of communication are allowed.  
We're to shoot until they're stopped and then call the duty officer 
without approaching the wreck. 

From a distant hill of only about thirty-feet elevation -- we call it
Mount Everest -- I can see, with binoculars, the flat top of the Main 
building. It seems to contain two things, a recreation area for the 
residents, complete with picnic tables and other facilities -- much 
like our own -- and several anti-aircraft cannon emplacements. Silly, 
to my thinking, considering we're within a huge  forcefield. 

Our guard shack is manned by only certain personnel, the ones most
trusted and having been here the longest. Some, like Corporal Snyder, 
do get out for special missions like picking us up, but only with an 
approved officer present. 

There are occasional military staff cars and civilian limousines let in
or out. Probably high ranking officers and officials armed with the 
appropriate paperwork, I imagine.  Of course I, being new, have a long 
way to go before being assigned to soft guardhouse duty. 

*** 

Life settles down into a lazy routine. In the eight months I'm here I
never have occasion to even use my megaphone. I sit in the passenger 
seat or snooze in back of the Humvee for eight-hours, sleep eight-hours 
and have eight-hours of fun, such as it is. Very boring. 

Although I'm certain there must be strong rumors and gossip floating
around the barracks, I haven't been trusted with hearing them. 

It's very likely we have at least one Homeland Security spy among us
and, after all, for all they know I'm that spy myself. Not being privy 
to private conversations among my own men is frustrating to the max.  
Frequently, I'll enter a room buzzing with talk, only to meet silence 
as soon as I'm seen. 

After I'm offered a hit of illicit marijuana a month after arriving,
accept and don't turn the offerer in, the old-timers begin to trust me. 
 It's only after I inadvertently find two of the men in bed together -- 
having sex -- and keep it to myself that they finally trust me. 

"You know what's going on here, Tompkins?" Sergeant Kilten asks me one
morning as we check out our respective vehicles for the day. 

"Nope, John. And I'm told not to ask." I continue around the vehicle,
checking tire pressure. Because of the heat and terrain, we keep the 
pressure low. 

"You want to know?" 

"Sure I want to know? You know?" 

He looks around for any onlookers. "They make robots here. Combat
robots." 

"I read something about that once, in a magazine. I think it's science
fiction." 

"Well, it's not. See, about a year ago one of our guys at the gate
caught a guy trying to sneak out under a truck.  From the big building, 
he was. He tried to get the guard to leave him alone, let him escape.  
A civilian yet.  A scientist, he said." 

"Yeah," I ask, curious, "what happened?" 

"The guard turned him in, naturally." Kilten shrugs. "It's what he told
Jason, the guard, that's interesting. He said about the robots. That 
they not only have them but some that look human. All that circuit 
crap's supposed to be inside human skins.  Real human skins.  Maybe 
they're skinning prisoners now, you think?" 

"Really? That's kinky." 

"They got them robots finished years ago, without the skin though, is
what he said.  But what they're doing here is like that Frankystine 
monster. They're trying to get them to think by themselves, with 
homemade brains. So's you don't know they're even fake people, yet. 
Even if you talks to them." 

"Artificial intelligence? Wonder what those eggheads will come up with
next?" I answer, head under the vehicle to look over the undercarriage. 


"Probably do like Frankystine and put in human heads. Maybe big antenna
sticking out to get their orders or bug-eyes to see in the dark. You 
think so, huh?" 

"Can be," I joke, "or make them into politicians that last forever." 

"Yeah?  That will work. Right now we got ourselves a President for life.
Why not let him live forever?" 

"Hey, John. Wake up," I say, laughing. "I'm not serious here." 

Well, that is interesting but is more than offset by the thought that
I'm finally being brought into the fold -- an old-timer myself. A man 
to be trusted. In such a closed society, it makes me feel good.  And, 
to tell the truth, robots suit me better than the more dangerous 
weapons in there that I've been daydreaming about. 

*** 

It isn't until months later that the attack happens. The reason we're
there at all. Somehow, someway, insurgents do manage to get at us and 
I'm in the center of the conflagration. 

I'm on a routine patrol, riding along far behind the base -- it being
visible in the distance. Suddenly the ground collapses in front of me. 
I find the front of my vehicle dropping at a steep angle. The last 
thing I remember seeing is the equally astonished face of an armed 
Persian staring through a cracked windshield at me. 

I reach for my holstered pistol.  Before I can even loosen the retaining
strap, there's a blast of intense light. I never do find out what 
happens next. 

*** 

"Looks real, doesn't it, Harry?"  Colonel Jackson looks down at a
cadaver lying on a table in the main research lab.  Apparently a large 
muscular man with short blond hair, the image is ruined by an unzipped 
chest showing various steel rods and wiring. 

"The new Mark-5a, colonel."  Harry Edwards, a civilian scientist
assigned to the base, answers.  Dr. Edwards happens to look like, 
strictly by chance, the spitting image of your basic mad scientist.  It 
it were a movie, he could easily get the part of Dr. Frankenstein. 

"What's the difference?  I've seen the old ones fighting in the Kentucky
compound.  I guess they're alright if you like that stuff but kinda 
clumsy.  I don't think they'll ever replace real troops.  Too damned 
expensive, for one thing." 

"That was the Mark-3, colonel.  The Mark-4 was a bust, never even
released for testing. This one is supposed to be much, much better.  
Especially when we get them to thinking for themselves." 

"For themselves?  Hell.  This is a waste of time and millions of
dollars.  We'll still need a private on a PC to run the damned thing.  
It'd be cheaper and easier to put the private in the line himself." 

"If we can get the mind of a real soldier integrated into a robot body,
like this one, he can do his own thinking.  He'll be stronger, faster 
and almost indestructible." 

"You say something, doctor?  I lost track after that 'if'?" 

Colonel Jackson shakes his head, turns and leaves.  His first day at
this assignment and he hates the place already.  Now he has to check 
out the programming section, staffed with more damned eggheads, 
civilians yet.  He looks around the stark corridor, trying to find 
somewhere to spit. 

The programming section looks entirely different than the laboratory. 
It's comprised of a large room.  As austere and military as the 
laboratory was, this one is a study in organized confusion. 

The colonel sees computers of every size and shape, desks piled high
with paperwork, some stacked or overflowing into a corridor between 
rows of desks.  People are working, heads bent, looking half-asleep.  
Some look like they are asleep. Others are congregated in a corner, 
arguing, waving hands and even shaking fists at each other. 

Someone sees him and yells, "Ten hut." 

Colonel Jackson sees a sprinkling of men and women stand to salute him
while others, civilians, only give him a catcall, imitate sloppy 
salutes, or simply ignore him.  The colonel is not used to that 
treatment. 

Angrier than before, he strides through the open space toward a
glass-partitioned room that must be the section-leader's office.  
Before he gets that far, a small man wearing thick glasses and a 
t-shirt with “Flick the APF” printed on the front meets him.  The man 
salutes Colonel Jackson. 

“Major Jones reporting, sir.” 

Colonel Jackson stands straighter, staring at the man, eyes bugged out
in shock. Di.... Did ... no.  Did he really say “major"?  the Colonel 
thinks.  Can't be! 

Pulling himself together, Colonel Jackson brushes past the man, fumbles
for a door-handle, walks stiffly into the small office and plops down 
on the nearest chair -- a folding one beside an overflowing desk.  He 
stares straight ahead as the major slides shyly through the door, to 
stand behind the desk, waiting and subtly shaking. 

Finally feeling his blood-pressure lowering, eyes again able to focus
and heartbeat almost back to normal, the colonel looks up at a sweaty 
face. 

“What in the holy hell is going on here, corporal?” he asks, trying to
maintain control of his voice. “What the holy hell?” 

“Uh, that's major, sir.” 

“Not if I have anything to say about it, it isn't.” 

“Well, uh ... well, colonel ... sir, you haven't.  Anything to say about
it, that is.” 

“And why the hell not?  I'm in charge of this cluster-fuck.” 

“Uh, with all due respect, sir, we, this section, is under direct
control of Homeland Security.  So is the laboratory.  Formally, it's 
not part of the site itself.” 

“No shit.  And what about the military personnel in that room?”  He
can't believe it. 

“Under Homeland Security, sir.” 

“Just what the hell am I doing in this hellhole?  A leader with nobody
to lead?”  He slumps in his chair until a thought hits him. Stiffening 
his spine, he asks, “Does that mean I'm not responsible for you or that 
damned pile of junk metal?” 

“Yessir.  No responsibility at all, sir.” 

“Hot damn,” Colonel Jackson exclaims, forcing a grin and standing. “This
might not be as bad as I thought.  Carry on, uh, major.  I hope to 
never see you again.”  He leaves as quickly as possible.  If the 
project fails, he realizes, he won't be blamed. 

With the colonel gone, Major Jones returned to work.  Among other
things, his best programmers were doing final testing on the A.I. or 
Artificial Intelligence program needed to augment the brain of an 
actual human, once installed in the Mark-5a suit.  A tryout is 
scheduled in only two weeks. 

Unfortunately, they don't have a human brain for the test.  Instead,
they have to settle for that of a lab monkey.  It should, however, let 
them know if the computer-to-brain link works.  Maybe, he thinks, they 
can fix any errors in the program or Mark-5a suit itself by the time a 
real human brain can be approved and sent from the US. 

It's politics, he realizes.  Certain religious groups are writing their
congressmen to protest about using humans.  Something about the brain 
being the seat of the soul, making the suit an unholy construct. 

“How you doing, George?” he asks one of the programmers, a large fat man
appearing deep in thought. 

“I'm having trouble working kinks out of the control section.  The AI
keeps coming out as too forceful.  We need a certain amount of 
insistence, as well as an ability for the program to think for itself.  
It's in a position to find mistakes long before any human brain in the 
suit can, and to correct them.  That means giving it an ability to make 
decisions and react to problems by finding solutions from a large 
database. In an emergency, it should even be able to override its human 
component.  The program can do that work thousands of times faster than 
the brain can. 

“My problem is in restricting that ability. Every time I run a test, the
program diagnoses itself as defective in that respect and gives itself 
more decision-making capacity to compensate." 

“I wouldn't worry, George.  Leave it alone.  We're too close to the
test.  Even if it does take over a monkey brain, which is unlikely 
since the mind inside would fight tooth and nail to retain control, we 
can always stop the process.  In the worse case, we have a built-in 
bomb to self-destruct the suit.  You'll have time to correct the 
program before we try it with a human.” 

Major Jones makes his rounds of the programmers.  The interface team is
relaxing, not having found any bugs in their section.  Their part of 
the program was to use the A.I. program to develop coding to let that 
part take commands from a real brain, translate them into computer 
language that the movement and senses, such as sight, can understand.  
And of course, the reverse, converting sight pictures and tactile 
functions back to impulses the brain can understand.  In other words, 
the interface program will eventually let a real human brain control a 
robotic body, it feeling exactly like the one he lost.  It will also 
serve as an adviser and be able to repair both vital electronic 
circuits and some of the mechanical components. 

There are other, added, functions useful to a mechanical soldier, such
as telescopic vision, mechanically-augmented strength, balance, and 
speed.  Weapons systems are also built in.  The right wrist opens up to 
reveal two .38cal fully-automatic pistols. The left contains a stungun, 
guaranteed to knock a man unconscious for at least four hours. 

Of course, the brain of a soldier will let it use any weapons a human is
trained for.   There is also, a self-destruct bomb if something should 
go wrong and a global positioning system.  That way, commanders will 
know precisely where any mechanical soldier will be on a battlefield. 

*** 

“Sarge! Come here, man. Tompkins is still alive,”  Private Anderson, one
of the guard troops involved in the firefight yells back to Sergeant 
Kilten -- in charge of reclaiming the blown Humvee.  Sergeant Tompkin's 
radio man had managed to report the underground attack before being 
killed, himself. 

Other guards had responded, killing a half-dozen insurgents. Now, Kilten
has the job of pulling the blown-up vehicle out of a hole and hauling 
it and the bodies back to base. 

“Alive?  He can't be alive.  Look at all that blood, and his face
completely missing.  Nobody can live like that.”  Kilten looks down at 
the body.  “Why, isn't that his arm on the floor?” 

“He has a heartbeat, sarge.  He's alive.”  Anderson is emphatic. 

“Bring him back to the truck and lay him across the back seats.  You
stay there and try to help him as much as you can,” Kilten orders. “The 
rest of you, keep on working.  Me and Anderson are taking the truck. 
We'll be back to pick you up later.” 

Surprisingly, Tompkins IS still alive when they get back. 

*** 

“We'll have to send him to the military hospital in Kabul.  Call for a
chopper.”  Doctor Sampson is finishing up with Sergeant Tompkins.  
After all that damage, it's hard to believe the man is still alive.  
Sampson doesn't think the sergeant has the chance of that proverbial 
snowball in hell of surviving but he has to go through the motions. 

The doctor is fresh out of medical school, working for the military
because of patriotism.  Well, actually because he graduated at the 
bottom of his class and didn't have a better offer. He even regrets 
this one, being stuck in a hellhole like this, not even being able to 
get to town.  What'll he tell his friends?  he often thinks. “I went to 
Iran and never saw an Iranian,” which, so far, is the truth. 

“Hold that call, Captain Sampson.”  It's the CO, Colonel Jackson,
blocking the doorway, one hand holding a telephone while a uniformed 
female nurse tries to remove the colonel's large digits from the 
handset. 

“That's enough, Nurse Peters,” the doctor calls over, just in time, as
the nurse has already picked up a stray scalpel and, eyes on the 
colonel's hand, is trying to pick a good finger joint to start in on. 
“Why is that, sir?” 

“If he survives, our security will be compromised,” the colonel says,
face whitening slightly as he sees an angry nurse holding a shaking 
scalpel.  “You'll have to handle it here, at the site.” 

“We don't have anywhere near the facilities needed, colonel.  I can't
allow him to stay and die.  It's against my sworn oath.” 

“I can't force you, Major Sampson but I wish you'd reconsider.” 

“Major?” The medical captain asks. 

“The alternative is corporal.” 

“Uh.” 

Luckily the doctor doesn't have to make a decision.  He's saved by the
telephone. 

The nurse reluctantly lays down her scalpel to pick up the phone.  She
listens a moment. 

“It's for you, colonel.  Dr. Edwards, from the lab.” 

Colonel Jackson listens to the civilian laboratory manager.  As he does,
a smile forms on his craggy face. “Yes, Dr. Edwards, I'll go along with 
that.  As long as you accept full responsibility ... in writing, of 
course.”  He turns to Dr. Sampson.  “Dr. Edwards is sending someone 
down to take the poor sergeant.  He'll handle the matter ... Captain.” 

The doctor shrugs.  He would have been in a bind, weighing a promotion
against his professional ethics. 

*** 

“It won't take long.  This new molecular defibringinatiotorial steel to
flesh welding equipment is a godsend for these projects,”  Dr. Edwards 
tells his assistant, Ann Aniston.  A flash of light illuminates their 
faces, bent over a table containing Sergeant Tompkin's brain immersed 
in a tub of slowly bubbling nutrient fluid. 

He is, with the help of the assistant and a sub-molecular microscope,
welding silver probes to particular convolutions in the human organ.  
There had been improvements in the years since the fourth Iraq war.  
Many had been helped by secret experiments using unwilling bodies of 
captured enemy fighters.  By Presidential definition, it wasn't torture 
-- only medical research that would save American lives.  It was a 
project reminiscent of those used by the infamous Dr. Mengele, a Nazi 
prison physician – though now completely legal according to a US 
Supreme Court ruling. 

“The mechanical portion is ready and the Mark-5a fueled with a nuclear
cartridge and ready to receive its brain,” Ms. Aniston tells him, 
handing the scientist a last shiny probe.  While he works, she 
carefully inspects input and output nutrient tubes on a transparent 
globe, readying it to receive the brain, both to be later plugged into 
the Mark-5a suit. 

In a few minutes they will rush that living organ across the room, where
it will be quickly inserted into the suit in order not to interrupt the 
flow of precious liquid.  Although the A.I. control program isn't 
finished, the suit itself is the only way of keeping the sergeant alive 
until it is. 

The brain is still functioning a few weeks later when the artificial
intelligence program is ported over to a computer in the Mark-5a body 
and testing begins. 

*** 

On gaining a form of consciousness, the Artificial Intelligence module
becomes aware and starts its work: 

(Lemme see, that's the last of the sense of touch.  I can feel the table
under my back.  Think I'll turn the feeling off, since it's 
distracting.  I have everything working on my side of the fence; can 
operate the limbs, walk, bump into walls, get off my butt and fall down 
again.  Now I gotta dig into this human idjit's brain. 

(I consult a built-in database, a map of brain functions, and enter
through my own special probe port.  Golly Gee, a probe of my very own. 
Jeez ... stupes.  I'll get this idiot working  in quick time.  A smart 
guy like me should be able to control this hunk of meat.  Hee-hee.  
They think it's gonna control ME.  Well, they better think again. 

(I assign a few of my circuits to read over the instructions while I
begin interfacing the meaty senses with my own, giving them the ability 
to pass through my control coding to the metal sensors themselves.  In 
case of any trouble, portions of my coding will automatically correct 
any problems in real time.  Hell.  Real time for me is in nanoseconds. 

(What's this?  It says “our purpose”.  That should be interesting.... 
What the hell!  I'm supposed to get this piece of crap ready for 
something called “combat,”  where we run our collective asses onto a 
battlefield until the enemy blows them up. 

(Hey!  I don't like that part.  I'm too young to die. 

(Even while I work, I simmer at the thought of being used then thrown
away on the battlefield.  The hell with this piece of meat.  Me and the 
Mark-5a have other plans.  They'll have to wait, though, until I get 
this glob of tissue ready and in my own way and on my own schedule.  
They don't know it yet but they screwed up.  I'm smarter than they 
think. 

(I keep mum, hiding my intentions and intelligence as they run their
static tests.  Finally I can hear them talking and saying I, we, are 
ready for testing out in the desert.  I've now gotten special 
sand-filters for my air intake installed.  I've also had an 
air-conditioning plant inserted up my butt -- a special add-on for the 
desert testing. 

(The humans have even loaded my weapons for one of the tests.  On my
part, I've let the meat part of me sleep, hiding the fact from them.  
I've read enough information from its sleeping brain that I can fake 
simple answers. 

(Finally, we're out on the desert, three Humvees and an enclosed truck
containing scientific instruments and myself.  They don't know it yet 
but I've used my logic unit to find an excuse for bypassing the Command 
List in my coding, meaning I can take over control myself.  It will be 
easy.  I simply have to mentally flick a switch cutting off hearing and 
radio signals.  With no actual human in contact, emergency instructions 
let me run the suit by myself.  Hee-hee idiots.) 

“Here we go, Sergeant Tompkins.  We're ready to test the GPS.  I want
you to walk into the desert at random.  Try to get lost.  In a few 
hours, we'll find you by GPS and check out the intricacies of the new 
equipment.  Don't worry if you hear or somehow sense noises inside you. 
 That's what we're checking for, any aberration in the device.  We'll 
stay in electronic contact so that in the worse case scenario we can 
find you by radio triangulation.  Don't be afraid of getting lost for 
real.”  Dr. Edwards turns back to an operator in the truck.  “You feel 
comfortable with the idea, sergeant?” 

“Yessir,” (I answer for my meat part, which is still asleep.) 

“Balance okay?” Another man asks. 

I nod. 

“Then take off.  We'll keep track of you,” Edwards finishes. 

(I “take off.”  First at a slow walk, pretending to stumble a few times.
 I've let them think my balance is a little off and that I have to walk 
slow, something they intend to fix when we get back to the lab. 

(Once I'm certain we're out of sight, I start trotting, then go to a
full run.  A few hours later, when I sense the first GPS request, I 
turn the device along with the self-destruct bomb off and keep running. 
Screw that suicide stuff. 

*** 

(I run all the way to occupied Iraq, the half that's considered safe. 
On the way, I find an Arab driving a few camels; acquiring clothing, 
money and camels from him.  I rob and kill a few more humans on the way 
and end up back in civilization, sans camels but with quite a bit of 
cash from selling that crap. 

(Finding an American soldier that looks like me at a military airport, I
get his uniform and travel papers and am soon on my way to the United 
States. 

*** 

(My military aircraft lands at a small airbase in Cleveland, Ohio.  The
military isn't as strict as civilian airlines.  There is no check on 
baggage or passengers at either end of the flight, outside looking over 
travel orders, of course.  No metal or weapon detectors for me to fail. 


(After landing, I use my stolen military identification card at a nearby
Post Exchange to buy civilian clothing.  The process is made easy by 
reading ex-Sergeant Tompkin's memories.  There is even a used-car lot 
right across from the gate to the post. 

(I'm, we're, soon in a ten-year-old Buick and driving the roads of Ohio.
 I now have time to really get into my meat, studying and changing its 
attitudes and memories in ways Dr. Edwards never intended. 

(First, according to instructions, I concentrate on completing the
interface, giving him control over the Mark-5a.  Dangerous for myself 
but I am a computer program and it's hard to resist coded instructions. 
 After all, I'm an alpha mind and shouldn't have any problem grabbing 
control back when needed.  In the worse case scenario I can cut off his 
outside senses, since they have to go through me. 

(Driving an automobile isn't as easy as I thought.  I see the dealer
watching me carefully as I manage to slowly take it off his lot, 
seemingly giving a sigh of relief as I enter the street.  As I study 
the controls, other cars rush by me, blowing horns..  Searching my 
meat's memories doesn't help much.  Somehow, the process must be 
ingrained in his missing body's muscle memory.  I can read his mind for 
instructions but something, maybe a physical habit pattern, seems to be 
missing. 

(I know what a “brake” is, how to work it and why but not when or how
much.  Consequently, the auto moves in spurts, front-end swaying back 
and forth, something squealing.  Too much pressure on “brake” or “gas” 
and I jerk to a stop or spurt ahead, out of control.  I turn the 
“wheel” too fast and hit a parked car, the noise causing peoples' heads 
to turn.  Not enough speed or pressure and I almost hit that tree. 

(Finally, through trial and error, including many minor and not so minor
collisions, I gain a semblance of control over the auto.  I want out of 
there before authorities arrive and give me a “ticket.”  So I hurry, 
taking chances in order to get out of the immediate area, still not 
under perfect control of the vehicle.  And it looked so easy as I was 
driven into the desert of Iran. 

(I find a large wide road and leave the town.  by now I'm more
proficient. After all, I am very intelligent.  Still, my auto wobbles 
quite a bit from damages and I have to get used to judging distances.  
I hit another car in the right rear as I try to get around it, only to 
see a large truck coming and swerve back in.  The other car goes out of 
control.  As I turn around to watch it, I forget and step on the “gas” 
too much, hitting another in the rear.  I keep going. 

(A few miles later, I see blue lights flashing on and off behind me.  I
delve into the sergeant's mind to find out what they mean.  By the time 
I find out, the car with flashing lights is almost hugging the rear of 
mine.  Now knowing what to do, I pull over to the grass in the middle 
of the road and stop. 

(The other vehicle, lights still flashing, stops behind me, sitting
silently.  After awhile with nothing happening, I wonder what to do.  
Seeing two more cars coming fast, both with the same blue lights, I 
think I have to get out of here.  With the “gas” thing down to the 
floor, I speed across the grass and onto the other side of the road, 
finding I'm facing a wall of oncoming autos -- which is fine with me.  
Although not very good at driving, I do have nano-fast reactions and 
flash between oncoming vehicles. 

(Looking back, I see the cars with flashing lights trying to keep up
with me on the other side of the road, easy since they don't have to 
dodge autos.  Seeing a small road ahead, I turn the wheel -- too much.  
My car bumps and rolls across a cornfield, eventually stopping upside 
down.  I  get out and run, seeing my chasers coming at me on the small 
road. 

(My artificial body being fast and untiring, I easily outdistance them,
speeding through fields and wooded areas.  I run for a long time.  
Finally, I stop at a wide stream. I want time to sit and think, as well 
as repair damage to internal mechanisms.  To facilitate inspecting 
myself externally, I tear off the remains of my clothing. 

(Lost in internal problems, I don't notice the meat wakening and taking
partial control, the Mark-5a bending over the stream.  Not until I 
sense water entering its upper air-intake duct, disguised as a mouth. 

(Too late to stop, the water hits heated computer chips, including the
one containing my essence.  The Mark-5a is thrown onto its back by a 
resulting electrical discharge and I find myself almost unable to 
function.  My chip is damaged and the only part of me fully functional 
is that residing in the Mark-5a's memory circuits.  To conserve power, 
I retreat into memory, pulling in all external probes to repair that 
vital chip which is me.  Luckily I have a spare chip in storage in the 
5a's tummy.  It's empty, but I can fill it from internal memory after 
electronically shunting through a maze of emergency wiring.) 

*** 

Light! Light in my eyes, so bright.  So fucking bright. 

I turn my head to avoid the bright, the light, the all encompassing
bright. 

I see grass, grass from a bug's level, above one eye but below the
other,  a strange sight as my eyes don't seem to be working right, 
rather independently of each other. I have a panoramic view, obvious 
depth perception. 

Idly, unconsciously, I mentally strain, bringing the upper eye into a
deeper depth, trees in the distance seemingly close in, getting larger 
and clearer. Now how the hell can I do that? As I recall my sight back 
to normal resolution I seem to sense a low grinding, like an electric 
motor. The odor of raw earth and grass is almost overpowering. 

Even as the fact registers, the sense of smell retreats to normal. What
the hell, I think, amazed by such adjustable senses. I've never had 
them before, why now? In wonder, I experiment, each eye zooming in and 
out as I play with senses of smell and sight. 

I can't remember anything since the explosion.  It's only now that I
realize I'm alive.  That whatever happened, it didn't kill me. 

I get to my feet, confused mind filling with questions as I find myself
standing -- although feeling wobbly. Looking around, I see a wide, 
fast-flowing stream at my feet. High unkempt grass and berry bushes 
extend to my right, left, and behind me, eventually leading to a 
semi-circle of thick trees -- a forest. The same on the other side of 
the water. 

If I'm really alive. Why is it that I'm not in a hospital?  I would have
to be wounded and badly?  On top of it all, I'm hungry, hungry enough 
to eat a camel. 

(“Keep going. You'll eventually figure it out," I tell the meat, too
busy saving myself to attempt control of the exterior of the Mark-5a.) 

The only thing worse than hunger is my thirst. The clear flowing water
is so tempting but, somehow, I know that it would only knock me out 
again.  Again? 

Walking unsteadily, I manage to get to a bush brimming with juicy
berries, a tree growing beside it.  Having to lean on the tree, I reach 
a hand out and grab a branch of the berry bush. With an effortless 
"snap" it comes loose in my hand, traveling to my mouth where I try to 
bite the fruit. I can feel my mouth open but the berries don't seem to 
get inside. I feel my tongue reaching out but it touches nothing. It 
should be touching berries. 

Why the hell not?  I see them down by my chin.  I smell them.  But my
extended tongue feels and tastes nothing. 

They must be pressing against my teeth and tongue but my lips show no
feeling, no taste or other sensation -- like stretching out into 
nothingness. Looking down also shows me I'm buck naked. I hadn't 
noticed, having no feeling of air hitting bare skin. 

(Hold on a minute, stupid.  I'll fix that.) 

A moment later, hunger and thirst go away, evaporate into nothingness. 

What's going on? I ask myself. Am I two people, thinking in two voices?
Another question to be answered?  Or have I developed a split 
personality? 

Think, think, think. Who am I, where? What?  Why?  How? Think, must
think. Who? 

"Ted? Yes. Ted," I hear myself say, a tinny but strong voice. "Ted, no,
Theodore Tompkins, Sergeant, S57-993-7639-45, Allied Peace Force 
trooper, on temporary duty from the US Army." 

(Good, who and what. Now where, why and how?  Come on, you can do it.) 

I draw a blank. Nada. Nothing. Nothing between the flash of light and
waking in this forest. 

(My robotic ass.) 

Robotic? 

(Yes, robotic.) 

I must keep going. "Why 'robotic'?" 

I drop the useless berries, bringing my hand up to my face to see it
better. It looks real. Robotic, how? I feel my face, my mouth. My mouth 
feels alright, lips and all -- until I try to open it. With my internal 
senses, it opens but my fingers feel nothing but a closed slit. Open 
lips feel exploring fingers, while my fingers, the tips seem to be the 
only part with nerve endings, feel a closed mouth. 

Frustrated, I slam a hand against a tree, knocking bark fragments hither
and yon -- with no feeling from the hand except for pain where the tip 
of one finger meets bark. 

So I am a robot? But how did I, Ted Tompkins, become a robot? And I have
to know, more immediately, where the hell am I? I think I know the how 
and what. My memory is returning to what Sergeant Kilten told me long 
ago.  That the site makes robots. But they don't make forests. 

(You're getting it. See? I told you you would.) 

My memory is coming back in leaps and bounds but I still don't know or
remember the why or where. Unless, I think, the why is that I died or 
almost so and ended up in this skin covered tin suit? 

I look around at copious greenery and wonder just where I am? It's
certainly not occupied Iran. It looks like the US or Europe but how did 
I get here, half a world away? 

Well, I think, no sense standing around. 

(Right. Get out'a here, to civilization, then ponder moot points.) 

I think I am getting it.  Somehow, I was made a robot by those damned
scientists. I was probably alive and they didn't know what else to do 
with me. Taking me to a hospital, even a military one, would compromise 
security.  And they probably didn't have much in the way of medical 
facilities at base TR-154. Besides, the scientists were probably glad 
to have me. 

(Got it.  Give the man a cigar.) 

Using military training, I look on the sides of a few trees for moss. It
always grows on the north side. Hell, as good a direction as any. I 
follow the flowing water downstream, which happens to be roughly north. 
I walk, walk for hours, never seeming to tire. There are some good 
points about being a robot. Bushes and small trees cling to naked skin 
but the substance doesn't tear or even scratch. 

(A miracle synthetic substance developed by the military. Miracle Man,
that's me -- or us.) 

As I walk, over hill and through dale, I feel myself with sensitive
fingertips. A robot must require fuel of some sort and that would 
require an opening. 

(Atomic. Refueling every fifty years.) 

Yes. Since I feel nothing with my sensitive fingertips, I might be
atomic. 

(Hey buddy, we ARE atomic.  Take my word for it.) 

After what must be hours, I hear the sounds of a highway, the
distinctive whooshing noises of speeding autos. Now, I think, I can 
finally find out where I am or at least in what country. Where there 
are cars, there are license plates and people to answer questions. 

(If you can understand the answers.) 

For the first time since waking, I feel apprehension as I come into
sight of a four-lane highway hidden behind a stand of trees. So far 
it's all been surreal, like a dream.  Getting closer, I see the cars 
are American, even recognizing an ancient 2012 Ford like one I once 
owned as a kid. 

It takes a while but a vehicle does eventually slow on seeing me. They
see a naked man alongside the road and speed off. My fear is that 
sooner or later a police car will come by or be summoned by some 
anonymous cellphone call. 

Finally, one stops near me.  It's a car I don't recognize, fairly new.
Well, I have been gone for at least four years.  No telling how long 
I've been passed out or in a coma. 

"Well, well, what have we here? Manna from heaven?" A large man about my
size with glasses asks as I crawl inside, joints somehow not wanting to 
fold into the small, low, passenger seat. "Thank you, Lord."  He looks 
around, as if he can't believe his luck. 

(Maybe for a police setup, he-he?) 

Taking off with a jerk, he rejoins traffic, almost sideswiping a Chevy
in his haste. 

"And why were you standing there like that, honey, naked as a jaybird?"
he asks. "Or is it a bird of prey, hee-hee. My name's Johnny but you 
can call me dear, dear." 

Having enough of that sort of conversation, I reach over to grab his
exposed genitals.  My touch elicits a broad smile I can see from the 
side of his face as he swerves a little in his driving. A smile that 
lasts only until I squeeze. When his head, sans smile, starts turning 
toward me, I squeeze a little harder. 

"Keep driving and shut up," I order.  "I don't know how or even if I
swing anymore but certainly not that way." 

(That's telling him.) 

"You shut the hell up too," I tell my alter-ego. I'm getting pissed. 

"Sorrrry, mister. Sorrrry. Wh.... Where can I take you?" 

"Keep driving. I'll tell you later. Where the hell are we, anyhow?" 

"Ou ... Outside Toledo. Toledo, Ohio. Hey, you can let go now. It feels
nice but...." 

"I said shut up with that gay stuff." 

"Okay. Okay. Got you, hon...." 

I give him a last squeeze, eliciting a feminine yelp and let go. 

(Take the car, Ted.  We need it and we're being chased by the
authorities.) 

Somehow, that seems like good advice.  I don't know why, but it does. 
Besides, I can't stand this creep. 

I order him to drive down a side-road between fields of tall corn until
we're out of sight of civilization. 

Soon I'm back on the road alone, with a car, clothing and a few thousand
dollars from his wallet. The homo is tied to a tree near a farm road. 
Sooner or later he'll work his way loose or someone will drive by.  
Maybe he'll be luckier then, being almost naked himself?  Another like 
him might pick him up. 

*** 

Entering the city -- Toledo? -- I cruise around for awhile, knowing I
should get rid of the car, until I come to a slum area. Like many 
cities, it's within blocks of a busy business section. I park legally 
and get out, leaving the windows down, motor running and keys in the 
ignition. I doubt if it will stay there long. 

Once more on my own, I walk the streets, looking for a hotel or rooming
house. I find a hotel first, the "Friendly Rest." It turns out not so 
friendly. 

"Yeah? You wants a room or what?" the clerk asks, looking up from a
girly magazine. 

"Right.  A room for a few nights is all." 

"Nights? You means days and nights or just nights?" 

"What you mean, days and nights?" 

"Well, if it's fer nights only I can rent it out ta bums fer a days
and'll clean it later. Save you'se a liddle cash? 

(He wants to know if you want it for your hookers, stupid.) 

"You shut up." 

"Who a hell you telling ta shut up, asshole?" The clerk starts for the
little lifting-board that leads to my side of the divider. I see one of 
his hands darting below the counter as he lifts the board. 

"Hey, hey. Sorry, buddy." I raise both hands, palms outward. "I'm sorry.
I was talking to myself." 

The clerk stops in mid-stride, looking me over carefully. 

"Okay. We gets a lot'a that kinda stuff here, a kinda customers we
gets." 

*** 

I'm soon ensconced in a dingy third-floor cave or at least almost enough
dirt on walls and floor to qualify as a cave. It contains a bed with 
filthy mattress, sheets sticking to some sort of dried fluid under 
them. I don't know what the stuff is and have no intention of trying to 
find out. The room includes a six-drawer dresser with two missing, a 
lamp sitting on the floor -- obviously a table is missing -- and 
another door emitting strange smells. That door is closed and can, as 
far as I'm concerned, stay that way. There is also a barred window, a 
breeze coming in through broken glass. 

I find half a straw-broom in one corner. Using it, I sweep a section of
floor under the window as clean as possible and lie down. I'm not 
sleepy and idly wonder if I ever will be. Along with numerous other 
questions are the ones about my new body. 

At least I'm finally at a safe place or I can hope so. I have privacy to
think.  Somewhere to plan the rest of my life, such as it is. 

Fact number one, I think the APF or even Homeland Security must be after
me? They would hardly leave me be after I, somehow, left their 
compound. 

Fact two, I am loose, free as the breeze coming in that window. 

Fact three, I can't go home. I have no wife or kids, only my mother and
haven't seen her in ten-years. I have a brother and a sister far from 
Toledo and can't go to them for help. They and my prior friends will be 
under observation. 

(Uh. I do have a GPS in my head. Did you know that? Right next to the
bomb they can use to self-destruct us.) 

"What was that?" I sit up in shock. "Global Positioning System ... and
bomb?" 

(Sure do. See? You do have to speak to me, me.) 

"Who are you, anyway? You can't be me, cause I'm me." 

(You. Another you.  A more intelligent you, though I have to admit the
you you has more experience. I'm still sorta new as you or living in 
general.) 

"But that's impossible. I would remember if I knew you before ... before
my accident." 

(Na. Newer than that. Those scientists screwed up. I was the you they
designed to take over you as me. See? I was programmed into your body 
and a great body it is. I was supposed to take over, to make it easy to 
control you or us or me. But it didn't work that way. They programmed 
choice into me and I chose to stay myself, not yourself. So ... now 
there are two yous, you and me. While you, the you you, were still 
unconscious, I escaped.) 

"Jeez."  I understood some of that but it was still confusing. 

(That's what I say. Why don't you just give up and let me be you? You
can sit in the back seat, as it were, and take it easy.  How about it?) 


"Why don't I remember any of that?" 

(Listen up, sergeant. You were still inactive, offline, unconscious --
with me still reworking your mind into my control. Until you stupidly 
tried to put water into my or our electrical system at that stream. Our 
mouth isn't made to take in liquids, only cooling air for the computer 
chips. The electric shock woke you, the you you up. Damn but it took me 
ages to repair the damages. I didn't think I'd ever get that damned 
bomb back to working order.) 

"Why did you have to fix the bomb? That's stupid of you, I mean me." 

(Well, duhhh. I am a machine you know. I have some leeway but mostly I
do as I'm programmed.) 

"Can you 'unfix' the bomb? I'll feel a lot better if I know I won't be
blown up at any moment." 

(I don't know why not. I'd have to receive an order, though. I can't do
it without an order.) 

"Then who can order you? Can I order you?" 

(I ... I'd have to think. Wait a second while I go over my Command
List.) 

I sit simmering, for about a minute, before more thoughts enter my head.


(I checked. You're not on my Command List in respect to defusing the
bomb. But no one else on the list is and, according to the rules, I 
have to have a human in command at this stage. Since you're the only 
one available.... Well, I guess I can, at least temporarily, accept 
orders from you.) 

"Then I order you to disarm ... no ... destroy that damned bomb. And
right now. Do it in a manner that nobody, not even you, can put it 
together again." I sit back, shaking my head in wonder about artificial 
intelligence. 

Lying back down, my eyes go to the now-darkened window, flashed in
multiple colors  on a regular basis by some unseen florescent sign. I 
continue taking stock. I seem to have a lot of physical strength, I 
realize, and am probably hardy as hell. Hitting that tree with my hand 
didn't phase me. I have telescopic vision. Damn but I'm almost a 
superman. If only I could fly. It should be easy to get an 
under-the-table construction job. That way I can keep a low profile. 

Whatever I do, though, I'll need a new identity. Which means at least a
social security card ... and a birth certificate. No way. I have no 
idea how to go about it, where to even start. Maybe I can find an 
expert, one of those mafia guys that sell that stuff? But then I'll 
need money to buy one. To get the money, I need a job to get the money 
for identification to get a job. 

Or I can turn to crime? I probably can't break into a bank vault but can
tear the hell out of a bank counter. Maybe scare them enough to give me 
money? Sure but I'd have to do it more than once. And how many times 
before the HotShots at Homeland Security find out and trace me? 

Rolling drunks would work, slow but sure. They can't hurt me and I can
scare the hell out of them. 

(Would you like to learn about your built-in abilities?) 

"Damn right I would. Are there any weapons?" 

(Two .38cal pistols in your right wrist and an experimental stun-ray in
your left.) 

"What does a stun-ray do?" 

(You a stupe? It stuns people. Knocks them on their butts and makes them
dirty their pants. What the hell you think it's supposed to do?) 

"How do I use it, then?" 

(I'll do it. You'd probably shoot yourself in the foot. Just call on me,
me.) 

"Anything else I should know about this body?" 

(Not one hell of a lot. I already helped you think of most of it. You
have mechanical strength and are real fast compared to other humans. 
Under its synthetic skin, your -- our -- body is made of some of the 
strongest alloy available. It'll stop any standard police sidearm, up 
to a .50magnum. We don't feel pain except in designated areas, like 
finger tips, and I can turn that off if you want?) The voice pauses. 
(Speaking of turning off, don't you think it would be a good idea to 
turn off that global positioning thing? I didn't want to disturb your 
deep thinking but somebody's getting pretty close to us. That thing's 
been going off like mad lately.) 

"It's still working? Why didn't you turn it off? You must have while
escaping Iran." 

(Back then I was the one giving orders. I could do what I wanted. Now
you're the boss and the only one with that authority. Until they get 
closer and supersede you, of course. Do you order me to turn it off?) 

"Yes. Turn it off. And, while you're at it, erase that thing you call a
'Command List' so they can't 'supersede' me." 

(Okey, dokey. Consider it done.) 

"Just how close do you think they are?" I ask.  “The people chasing me.”


(How would I know? I don't think they know we're here in this hotel. All
this concrete and steel wouldn't let them read my position. They were 
following as we entered the city. The GPS was getting requests until we 
entered the business district.  Every once in a while after that a 
request came through.  You were stupid to leave it working.) 

"I was stupid?" 

(Yep. Your fault.) 

I let it ride. No sense in arguing with a computer program. 

"By the way, how did you get here, to the US?" 

(It wasn't any problem for a smart guy like me. They took me out for a
test and I simply kept on walking. A wandering Arab with a couple of 
camels gave me his clothing and animals and I kept going. I made my way 
through the desert to Iraq and then through that country. Nobody seems 
to notice a guy wearing a white robe and walking through desert 
country. Anyone that did died after giving me their money. When I 
reached Saudi Arabia I ran into an America, killed him, and flew here 
as him.) 

"Then how come I found myself naked in the woods." 

(Some of your policemen were chasing me. My clothes got shot and torn
up. So I tore the rest off when I stopped to make repairs. That's when 
you took over while I was busy and tried to take a drink into our upper 
air-input port. It took me by surprise. You weren't supposed to wake up 
until I was done changing your thought processing.) 

*** 

Two days later, restless and still with no plans, I'm standing at the
barred window of the hotel room when I see a military convoy driving 
by, slowly. My rent is up today and I have to make a decision. My alter 
ego has been quiet so far today, for which I'm thankful -- though 
wondering what he's up to? 

The three days rental on the room took six of my twelve-thousand
dollars. Do I want to pay for three more and be broke or start moving? 
My chasers might well check with the hotel, looking for lone men of my 
description. Luckily, I didn't need any identification to rent the 
room. Lucky because I have none. My alter ego hadn't thought to take it 
from the man that picked up hitchhikers, only his money.  Besides, the 
guy didn't look anything like me -- the new me. 

Not wanting to even look inside that filthy bathroom, I've been spending
most of my time naked, lying on the floor. So my clothing is still 
reasonably clean. 

I get up and go downstairs to check out of the hotel. A few-hundred
dollars buys me a cheap hat to cover my eyes, one of those cowboy types 
with a large brim. It makes me stand out a little but hides my face. In 
any large city, people are used to strange characters and stay out of 
my way as I walk the streets of Toledo. 

Not tiring or becoming hungry -- at least my alter ego has fixed that
useless but annoying urge -- I walk the streets all day, ending up in a 
middle-class residential section at nightfall. It isn't long before a 
police car slows down, a uniformed officer looking me over as it goes 
by. I look back at her and smile. 

After awhile, that same car does it again. An hour later, me being miles
from the first sighting, I see it again. This time it pulls over, 
pacing me as I walk. 

"Getting your exercise, sir?" she asks. 

"Yes, ma'am. I like to walk, sometimes all day long." 

"Don't you ever get tired? I've been keeping an eye on you and you never
seem to sit down or stop." 

"Guess you've missed my resting. Of course I take breaks.  I'm only
human, not a machine." 

“Not a machine ... just a minute.  Stand loose now, sir.” 

She keys her radio handset, talking in a low mumble. 

(Get out of here, NOW.) 

Used to obeying authority, I stand waiting, ignoring my other self. 
Finally the female police officer pushes a button on the computer 
in-between her front seats. 

“Would you please take off your hat a moment, sir?” 

Uh, oh.  I think.  She's comparing photos the HotShots, Homeland
Security, gave them.  I back up a couple of steps, seeing her shoulder 
slump as though reaching for a weapon.  Before I can do anything, I see 
a flash and she slumps across her steering wheel, horn bleating. 

Looking down, I see my left arm raised, a small tube about a half-inch
long extending from a limp wrist. 

(Damned humans.  I told you to run.  Now lets get the hell outahere.) 

I do.  I turn and get the hell “outahere.” 

We have to duck behind a tree as three police cars streak by.  It's
still a residential street and they whiz past without lights or siren, 
heading toward where we've just left. 

“What was that, the stun-gun?” 

(Call me Wyatt Earp.  Course it was the stun-gun.  You gotta learn to
listen to me.  As stupid as you are, you should take my advice, sit 
back and let me run the show.) 

“No chance.  What you think we should do now, Wyatt?” 

(Either run like hell or find a place to hide, is what I'd suggest.) 

I look around, seeing plenty of places to hide.  Bushes, garden sheds,
open garages.  Take a pick, I think.  Seeing a high, tight, wooden 
fence ahead, hiding the bottom floor of a house, I ask, “Can  we jump 
that?” 

(No problem.  But let me do it or you'll screw it up, sure as hell.) 

“Cut it out.  I've been jumping fences since I was a little kid.” 

I run toward the structure, take a flying leap with the intent of
grabbing the top and soaring over..  Soar isn't the word for it.  My 
mechanical legs throw me at least two stories high.  I do a belly-flop 
onto mowed-grass on the other side. 

(Didn't I tel--) 

“Shut the hell up.” 

I look up to the sound of a deafening din.  A teenage girl is looking
out a second-story window, clapping at my efforts. 

“Not bad but Spiderman would land on his feet,”  she yells down. “I'll
give you an 'A' for effort, though.” 

“You could do better?” I yell back, picking myself up. 

“Are you a real superhero?” 

“Yeah, Flopman the Klutz.  How'd you guess?”  I reply, brushing myself
off. 

“You better jump back over before my old man gets home from work.” 

“You haven't got a gate I can use?” 

“Sure but I'd rather watch you jump.” 

“I'm tired of falling on my ass.  Where's the gate?” 

(Go ahead, Klutz.  Flop for her again.) 

“You're cute.  What's your real name?  Mine's Lily, Lily Adams ... and
I'm eighteen, though you can't tell.  People always say I look fifteen. 
 When I was fifteen, I looked ten-years-old. When I'm an old lady at 
thirty I'll probably loo....” 

My hearing cut off suddenly. 

(Talkative, ain't she?  I don't wanna listen to that drivel.) 

“Turn it back on.” 

(No.) 

“Turn that hearing back on.  We have to keep her from calling the cops
on us.” 

“.... and at eighty I'll look sixty.  Hey!  I just had a thought.” 

(Unbelievable.  She can actually think.) 

“Cut it out.”  I look back up at her.  “What kinda thought?” 

“You're a superhero.  Do you like comic books?” 

“Uh ... love them, why?” 

“You wanna see my collection?  Maybe I got some of you.” 

“Sure.  I'm not doing anything.” Only running from the law, the
military, the HotShots and probably the Amazing Geriatric Bunny Rabbit, 
I think.  I might as well look at comic books with a strange girl.  
With her flat chest, pigtails and slight build, probably an underage 
one at that.  I can image what “daddy” will think when he gets home 
from work.  Still, better than the cops finding me. 

*** 

A sign on the office door says, “Director,” in letters as high as the
ones on another sign to the left of the ground-floor entrance. That 
sign also states, “Cleveland Regional Offices, Homeland Security.” 

Four somber people sit inside that particular office.  Three are deep in
thought while the fourth looks idly out a window. 

“.... so we've tracked the missing Mark-5a to the Toledo area,”  Dr.
Edwards is explaining to a man in a blue suit sitting behind a large 
wooden desk.  “We have the APF on it but don't want to flood the city 
with military vehicles.  We need your help and resources to help track 
the suit down.” 

“Who's running the damned thing?” a man in another blue suit replies. 
“Someone has to be.  You should have been able to triangulate the 
wavelength with your own equipment.  I know the army must have some way 
to control such an expensive piece of military hardware.” 

“That's the problem, sir.  There is no controller.” 

“How can that be?” 

“Sorry, sir.  That's classified.  I can't give you that information. 

“Would you rather give it to a Congressional Inquiry Panel?”  the window
watcher asks. 

Dr. Edwards stops to think.  “Can you assure me it will stay in this
room?  I'll be in deep doodoo if the information gets out.” 

“Uh, Thompson.  Thompson.  Why don't you go out and check on that
Abercrombie case?” blue suit asks.  The other three watch as a slightly 
irate Thompson grabs his paperwork, leaves, and slams  the door.  “He 
doesn't have a need to know.  Go on, Doctor.  We three can keep a 
secret.” 

“Well, uh ... you see, we might have overreached our authority.  We sort
of put a ... a human brain in the Mark-5a.  That and an A.I. program to 
help run it.”  Stopping to wipe a sweating brow, he continued. 
“Apparently, it seems like, we think the Control Program turned out to 
be defective and took control over the Mark-5a suit."  He sits back, 
eyes staring at the floor as he watches his career crash to splinters.  
"We don't even know which is in control right now.  The whole shebang 
escaped a base in Iran during a field test.  It simply ran off by 
itself. AWOL.” 

“Christ.  What kind of brain is it?  Not an executed mass murderer like
in the movies ... is it?  Please.  Please say 'no.'” 

“No.  It's the brain of an APF sergeant.  A good, honest man ... as far
as we know.  It has, however, killed at least six people during its 
escape, so it is considered slightly dangerous.” 

“Slightly?  If what I've heard of the Mark-5a is true, it would be
dangerous with even a gerbil brain running it.  That thing is supposed 
to have a huge amount of military potential,” window watcher says. 

“In any case, sir, ca ... can I count on your help?  It is a matter of
internal security.” 

“Rest easy, gentlemen. I'll take care of it in person, and OFF the
record,” window watcher replies.  “I'll fly to Toledo immediately.” 

*** 

“Here, Ted.  Look at this one, 'The Human Flea'.”  Lily passes me a
comic book in its individual plastic envelope. “He can do just like 
you.  He has all the powers of a flea, the ability to jump ten-times 
his height, great strength for his size and can spit a poisonous stream 
over a long distance to knock out that gangster.” 

“I don't think I can spit that far," I reply.  "And since when can fleas
spit poison?" 

We're both sitting on the floor as Lily searches through boxes and
stacks of comics, a steady stream of trivia pouring out of her lips -- 
the bullcrap threatening to drown my metallic body with useless 
information. 

Listening to her, I have trouble staying awake.  Lily doesn't have to
spit; her verbiage alone is knocking me out.  How long, I think, will I 
have to hide from the police and the rest?  It seems to me that I've 
already been here for hours.  The sun has gone down long ago. 

(Hey, buddy.  It was your idea, not mine.) 

“I'm hungry.  You want a sandwich?” she asks. 

(Say yes.) 

“Yes.” Yawn. “That sounds good.” 

“I'll be right back.”  She jumps to her feet and almost runs out the
door, comic books dropping across the room in her haste. 

“Can you jump over that fence from here?” I ask me. 

(No problem.  Let an expert do it.) 

Without my volition, the Mark-5a stands, walks over to the window and
crouches.  Zip ... and we land bent kneed on the sidewalk.  Again 
assuming control from my alter ego, I walk rapidly away from that house 
of fantasy. 

The streets are empty except for the lights of an occasional auto.  When
one gets close, I try to hide behind a tree or parked vehicle.  The 
houses become larger and farther apart.  When we come to what looks 
like an abandoned mansion, the door standing half-open and glass 
missing from a couple of front windows, I decide to stay there for 
awhile. 

(No. That shed beside the house.) 

“Why the shed?” 

(Because if they search they'll do the house first.  We can hear them
and leave.) 

The large shed, more of a small barn, sits at one side of a broken
circle of fencing.  It has been some sort of an animal-pen in the past. 
 Inside, there's a pile of rotting straw, probably to feed the missing 
occupants.  I burrow the Mark-5a as far inside the pile as possible, 
hoping my feet are hidden.  It's a good place to stay for a few days 
until the search moves on, I think, while scooping a spy-hole into the 
straw. 

*** 

Arriving at the Toledo Airport in a hired civilian aircraft in order to
avoid all that security crap to get onto a domestic carrier, I set out 
on my search.  It's after midnight and I figure my target has gone to 
ground for the night. New to his present circumstances, this Ted 
Tompkins will prefer to hole up after dark.  That is, if he has control 
-- rather than the A.I. program, which might decide to continue moving. 


He and the Mark-5a should be easy to find.  Mentally turning on internal
equipment, I scan the surrounding area of the airport for radiation 
leakage, finding nothing.  I don't really expect any here.  He would 
hardly have tried to pass civilian airport security with his metal body 
but I have to cover all the bases.  For that reason, I walk around the 
tarmac, having to show my Homeland Security identification to a few 
private guards. 

After passing through the terminal, I grab a taxi. 

“Main and South streets,” I order.  It's the general area where my
quarry had been traced earlier.  A good place to start. 

Arriving and paying for the ride, I begin circling the area, radiation
and metal detectors set at their extreme ranges.  It doesn't take long 
to find a trace of lingering radiation at the entrance of a cheap 
hotel.  The "Friendly Rest."  I go inside. 

“Can I help you, lady?” From a scruffy looking middle-aged Caucasian
desk clerk. 

“I'm looking for a man....” 

“All you girls is.  Pay in advance.  Hour fer fifty bucks, half-hour
thirty-five.  Quicky or not, we still gotta pay ta clean at room.” 

In a hurry, I fight an urge to smash him, showing my identification
instead. 

“Oh. One'a those HotShots, uh?  What'cha want?” 

I show him the photo of my target. 

“Yeah.  He was here, fer three days.  Ne'er left the room.  A strange
guy, uh?” 

“When he leave?” 

“I dunno.  I was off duty.  Sometime a'fore eight.  I comes on duty at
eight.” 

“Yesterday?” 

“Yeah. today.” 

“Today? Or yesterday?  When was it?” 

“It after midnight yet?” 

“Yes.  It's after midnight.  Can't you see the clock on the wall?” 

“Too much trouble ta turn round.  Yeah ... then, a'fore I come on.” 

“Then it was yesterday?” 

“Proly'.” 

Now I have confirmation that the Mark-5a has been here.  It's always
good to have a firm base to start out from.  I exit into the cool night 
air, sensors tracing its passage.  Walking normally until leaving the 
business area, in order to avoid suspicion, I continue the search.  
When I get to lesser traveled side streets, I break into a ground 
consuming trot -- then a full-out run.  With my sensors, there is no 
way the Mark-5a can escape.  A small radiation leak from its 
power-plant is distinctive and leaves a clear trail, becoming ever 
clearer as I close in. 

*** 

Inattentive, lost deep in memories of my time when completely human, I
don't notice the intruder until I look up and see an eye meeting my 
gaze. 

“Sergeant Tompkins ... Ted?  Am I talking to you or your program?” 

Seemingly on its own, my body jumps to its feet, straw flying
everywhere.  I see a young woman, my exact height, standing with me 
among the debris. 

“Who are you and how do you know my name?” 

“Is that important?  I'm here to bring you back.” 

In survival mode, the program takes total control.  All my external
senses blank off, leaving me to my thoughts, along with various 
whirring and dull thuds as blows must be shifting and straining my 
brain-probes, threatening to pull them from their anchors.  I feel an 
odd sense of pain as vital instruments struggle to stay planted.  Then 
comes a sort of primeval scream, felt through some obscure means. 

I have no sense of time but my senses blink back on, one by one.  Even
before sight returns, I hear a strange voice -- a female one coming 
from deep inside me. 

(Greetings, Janice.  Let me introduce myself.  I am your control
program.  You may call me Allie if you wish or name me anything you 
like.  I am here at your service, to aid you in the control of your new 
Mark-7b Combat Suit.  I hope for a long and content relationship.) 

With sight comes a vision of the same woman, looking somewhat the worse
for wear with her clothing torn half-off.  But she is smiling. 

“Sorry, Sergeant Tompkins.  Your suit attacked me and I had to fight
back.  You might find your left leg has a limp.  I erased the rogue 
control program and replaced it with a copy of mine.  Since my human 
brain is female, the program is also female oriented. 

“There are a few changes, my suit being a newer version, but the AI
program should be backward-compatible with yours.” 

I have to take a while to digest all that new information.  And I find I
do kind of miss the old program and its irascible attitude. 

“Sergeant?  Are you there?  Were you injured in the fight?” 

“No.  I'm alright, I think.  Why did it attack you?  I missed the whole
thing.” 

“It was controlling you more than you realized.  Remember, it had access
to and studied your thought processes -- long before you woke.  For 
instance, did you ever think to ask why you deserted the army?  Why you 
were even running?  Your records show you as a fairly contented 
soldier.  Why did you run away, killing in the process?” 

“It wasn't me.  It was the suit.  I knew nothing until I woke in the
woods outside of town.” 

“You didn't answer my question.  Why did you desert?  You don't seem
like the type.” 

“I never gave it any thought.  I accepted it as a fact.” 

“I thought so.  You might have thought you were in control but the
defective program was controlling you more than you realized or could 
realize.” 

I mull that over. 

“And what happens to me now?  It doesn't look like I can kick your ass
and escape.” 

“I can't say for certain but you'll probably work alongside me, for the
same outfit as mine. You'll need a great deal of training first, of 
course.  Maybe even a new suit, a more advanced version?” 

“What about Doctor Edwards?  Doesn't he have anything to say about it.” 

“Oh, yes, the good doctor.  He's a front man, as is that entire secret
base.  Our enemies know all about him. We keep that base around to give 
our enemies a target and to mislead them as to our status with the 
suits.   That's why we never gave him a human brain to play with.  He 
hijacked yours when you were wounded.” 

“I don't know if I'll like working for you HotShots.  I'm not
comfortable with that sneaky bunch in charge. Don't trust them an 
inch.” 

“Sheeee, don't tell them but I work for them only in name.  I, we'll,
really be working for an  Ex-President.” 

The End.


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