Deathlok in…

MAN OF METAL, MACHINE OF FLESH

By Steve Crosby

For months the best technicians in SHIELD had focused their not-inconsiderable talents on one task. Even with the aid of X-51, otherwise known as Machine Man, their best efforts had found only dead ends. The time had eventually come when the parents of Adam Aaronson had to be notified. I had gone to deliver the news personally. Aaron’s disappearance had come about because of me, in a way. And besides, their house was on the way to my next mission.

His mother Nina Aaronson took it hard. She was angry, mostly, that SHIELD had decided to give up the search for her son. So much that she even slapped me. Flesh on metal can make an unnatural sound. Beyond that I could hear the quiet crack of bone and fragments grinding. When she ran out with her throbbing hand and her grief, I didn’t say anything. Let her find out about the broken hand herself.

In contrast to his wife, Steve Aaronson was calm. Almost cold, the way a scientist employed by the government should be.

“When will the body be returned to us?” he asked.

It hadn’t been a question I expected. Briefly I wondered if it was the request of a father, or of a scientist. Either way it didn’t matter.

“Never,” I told him. “That body is the property of SHIELD, stolen by you to house the consciousness of your dead son. Accept that he’s gone and be glad we’re only leaving you with your grief. If it were up to me you’d be in prison.”

Mr. Aaronson didn’t respond to my comment. He just looked out towards the room where his wife had gone, sadness on his face. “Aaron’s death had almost destroyed her once. This time will be worse. Maybe if I had only left things as they were, not tried to bring Aaron back in some fashion…”

Something twinged in the back of my mind that bordered on sympathy. I suppressed it quickly and focused on the flawed I’d heard. “What fashion was that? I thought you recorded your son’s mind and burned it over a computer.” It had been the primary focus of his research. “That would have made an exact copy.”

“No, not entirely.” Steve Aaronson shook his head. I imagined I could see the weight of the world quite literally on his shoulders. “My research wasn’t nearly ready for such a procedure and Aaron, he’d sustained extensive brain damage. There wasn’t anything for me, for me to transfer.”

There was that buzzing in the back of my skull again. Later I would figure out what it meant, but at the time I just ignored it. Realization had hit me. “You made it all up?”

“Not entirely. I had my own memories of Aaron, his diary, and all these little things that told me who he was. Everything was programmed. The only things I made up, they were only to fill in the holes.”

“And to give you the son you really wanted.” Where had that come from? The words, the venom, they had just sprung from my mouth. Something else came to my mind, and I asked without thinking, “How did he take the news, when you eventually told him?”

“Very calmly,” Steve Aaronson remembered. “Very much like-”

“A machine,” I finished. “Hunh, well, this was probably something we should have known. My transfer only took place because SHIELD thought a success had already been performed. Turns out I had been the first.”

“Do you have a child, Agent Truman?”

“Yes,” I replied. “If anything happened to him, I wouldn’t make some cheap copy to take his place.”

There it was again, that buzzing. Anger was burning in the back of my mind, a feeling that I’d been insulted, by myself. I ignored it though, as I left the sad little scientist and his sad little wife. The hallway had a mirror, and I focused my eyes on the reflection as I passed.

Shining metal and withered gray flesh made an odd combination. So far as mechanical technology we had advanced beyond all expectations, was even able to make a machine pass for a seventeen-year-old kid. But as far as genetics, living flesh itself, that wasn’t so easily manageable. I turned away from the reflection, walked out of the house. Anything I felt while leaving I wrote off as a remembrance of when I’d left my old life behind.

Like it or not, I was a man trapped in a body that was half-metal. I had stopped being Jack Truman, Agent of SHIELD, the moment I volunteered for the Deathlok program. Now I was a cyborg assassin, and I had a mission to do.

The man knew his contact by the distinctive mane of white hair. Few men of young middle-age had hair that was entirely white, or of such a stark shade as this man’s. At sight of his contact, the man drew a long sip from the glass of dark red wine, then took a bite of his fish sandwich. It was an uncivilized combination that the man loathed, but it served to identify him.

“Put my wine down,” said the contact as he sat down. “I’ll order a steak and white wine.”

“Make it two steaks and red wine.” The plate of fish was pushed away. “This tastes like my last girlfriend. It’s only by chance she works in the airport, but you can try to catch her in the blast.”

Nitro roared with laughter. “Heh, that type, eh? Sorry, can’t promise anything unless you’re willing to up the price. No? Her fate’ll be left to chance then.”

An envelope was passed beneath the table. “The agreed deposit, and a ticket to get you past the gate. The right place and time, you might catch a plane as it’s refueling. A bigger explosion means more dead, more property damage, more press coverage.”

“Keep your mouth shut,” Nitro warned. “People hear you say the wrong thing, we’re done. I’d like to get the rest of my money, so don’t say another word.” Nitro then leaned in, his voice low. “Listen to me, amateur. I’ve been doing this kind of thing for years. Everything you’ve just thought of, I knew about and have been planning for since the moment you approached me. So just do your part, pay the professional, and let him do his job.”

Unknown to Nitro, the professional living bomb, the crosshairs of a sniper rifle were at that moment trained on his head.

Five blocks and over one thousand yards away, I had a clear view of that white-haired freak. He sat at a sidewalk café in Hartford, Connecticut. Also at the table was the man making the payoff, for the job that Nitro had been hired for. If I did my job right, Nitro would be dead and the contact would be in custody, giving us all the details on his associates.

My briefing on Nitro had been extensive. Real name Robert Hunter, he had been genetically altered by Kree terrorists to be a living weapon. Nitro’s power was to literally explode his body and reform at will. It was a handy power; one that any number of international terrorists would love to make use of. Several had already made use of Nitro’s talents, but this was to be the first bombing on U.S. soil. Once word of this had reached the right ears, SHIELD had received the orders.

I was to kill Nitro, plain and simple. One shot to the head, taken by surprise before he could have a chance to explode. My orders were to take Nitro’s contact alive if possible, but Nitro was the priority. One of him was literally worth all the potential suicide bombers combined.

In my hands was a high-powered rifle, built to fire a bullet at that range with unerring accuracy. All it lacked was a sniper scope, because my eyesight was as good as anything developed by modern technology. The computer in my head manipulated the lenses behind my eyes, zoomed in on Nitro and my mind’s eye imagined the aiming crosshairs. The gentlest of squeezes would move the trigger, fire a round that hopefully kill a man that blew himself up for a living. That was the theory. Nobody knew if Nitro even could be killed, but I was to try.

At the time I couldn’t have explained what happened. He was in my sights. My finger squeezed the trigger. Suddenly a sense of revulsion and determination rushed through my mind. In that instant I was committed to not murdering Nitro. The trigger was squeezed, but my arm had a spasm at the exact same time. Slight spasms, barely noticeable to anything save a computer. But at a distance of one thousand yards, the minutest shifts can change where the bullet goes a great deal.

Red liquid splattered all over the table. The bullet had struck glass, passed through the wine on its harmless journey into the wooden table. Broken glass and spilled wine alerted Nitro, however, and before I could squeeze off a second shot he was gone in an explosion. His contact, patrons at nearby tables, three waiters and one parked car were also gone in the explosion. Gas from the car served to fuel a second explosion, not as large but it added to the confusion. People were screaming in fear, unsure of what had happened.

Even I wasn’t sure what had happened. Last thing I knew I’d been about to execute a scumbag. Something went wrong, some glitch, and as a result well over a dozen people were dead, including the man I’d been ordered to bring in alive. I shouldn’t have cared about the loss of life, but waves of guilt and shame threatened to overpower me. I shoved the emotion down and jumped off the roof. Nitro still had to be killed if possible.

I hit the ground at a run. Minimal shock coursed through my legs. Legs of strong metal over unnatural muscles and titanium bones pumped at a rapid pace. My best time was 53 miles-per-hour, close to one mile per minute. One thousand yards is a little more than a mile. It took me close to two minutes to reach the café. My feet had made impressions on several cars along the way.

Near the café, my vision switched to an energy spectrum. When he exploded, Nitro effectively became a mass of photons. Through the smoke and confusion I saw him in the midst of reforming. Holstered at my side was a customized pistol, which I drew and took aim with. The second he reformed, before he could explode again I would-

No! Killing is wrong. It’s against everything I’ve been taught!

As these ridiculous thoughts ran through my mind, the gun wavered. Several shots were squeezed off, laser bursts that passed through the mass of reassembling photons. My ears heard the high-frequency scream of Nitro. That I’d managed to hurt him was small consolation to the fustercluck I’d made of this mission. SHIELD technicians would have to check me out afterwards. This body is rife with glitches.

On their own, my legs carried me forward, towards the slowly forming physical body that Nitro was returning to. Fortunately, his head had almost entirely reformed by the time my fist connected with his jaw. He went down hard, me on top of him. My hand found his throat, tried to squeeze but my fingers weren’t listening.

“You’re beaten,” my mouth rasped. The words were coming out of my mouth but I sure as hell wasn’t saying them. “Surrender and I won’t hurt you.”

It definitely wasn’t me talking. I know better than to think an empty threat like that would work. The mystery of what’s happening to me has been solved. Unfortunately, Nitro calls the hero’s bluff and interrupts my train of thought.

“You obviously don’t know whom you’re messing with,” he taunted. “It’s a shame you won’t have another chance.”

For the second time I knew of that day, the living bomb exploded. This time it was right beneath me. Pavement was ripped apart. I was made of sterner stuff. My body went flying, thrown by the force through a wall. Something funny was going through my….my syst-0011100010011010101001100000010

00110010001001110110110010101010001101101110100-ems. That’s right, my systems had crashed. The last thing I remember, I was being forced to activate the Deathlok cyborg by terrorists called the Iron Trinity. My parents were being held hostage. I had activated the cyborg, all right. My consciousness had left the Machine Teen body my father had constructed, traveled the wires into Deathlok, but something had gone wrong.

The next thing I know I’m lying prone on a pile of rubble. Frightened voices can be heard. Heard, I’m listening with ears. This is the Deathlok body. Faint impressions touch on my mind. My father’s face and voice, a gun in my hands for the purpose of killing, then a man’s throat. What had I been doing in this body?

There had been an explosion recently. A hole was in the center of the street, people were dead or injured all around. Had that caused by apparent reboot and memory loss? No time to think on that now. People were hurt. I need to help them, do what I can, then I’ll find the New Warriors and try to figure this out.

Unsteady, I get to my feet. There’s a ringing in my ears, almost enough to drown out the screaming and the yelling. A lot of people are hurt, but just as many are angry. Those yells, they’re directed at me. A brick hit me in the head, bounced off. They blamed me. Ungrateful bastards, I was trying to help them, to protect them! For assaulting government property I should-

No, I couldn’t stay, couldn’t help people I found myself wanting to hurt. Had to leave, but where? The New Warriors are my friends; they would help me. But my father, he did government work, could help me recover memories. How to get there? Where was I? Street signs, landmarks, regional accents, these and various other factors I recorded and analyzed in seconds. Hartford. I was in Hartford Connecticut. Not for long.

I ran from the scene of carnage, from dead and dying. In my position, all that I, Adam Aaronson could do was run home, to my parents Steve and Nina.

Satellite imagery of the Hartford incident was replayed on the central monitor in the SHIELD Helicarrier. Maria Hill, the newly appointed deputy assistant to the Director of Operations, watched the footage as though it was her career plunging to its death. In a way it was, as she’d had to fight hard for charge of that operation. Executive Director Nick Fury preferred the action side of SHIELD, and his personal staff often took the reins of most operations themselves.

“Nina, please tell me what just happened there,” Maria ordered the woman seated nearby. “Jack Truman used to be one our most efficient wetworks agents, with a one hundred percent-”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m reading his file right now,” interrupted the cyber-enhanced agent known as Network Nina. “More operations, less debriefing, please.” The nature of her cybernetics augmented Nina’s natural affinity for computers, and served to make her the de-facto central processor of SHIELD. “Oh yes, Agent Truman’s psychological profile identified him as the best candidate for the Deathlok program. Efficient, bloodthirsty, never hesitates to kill and yet steadfastly loyal to his superiors. He was deemed the least likely to go insane and kill all of us.”

“Least likely,” Maria repeated. “Oh brother, what an understatement.” The footage had looped. Deathlok was on the monitor, taking aim at the target. Even with Nina slowing the feed down to frame-by-frame, Maria almost missed the spasm. “Glitch or conscious action?”

“Neither,” replied Nina. “That hardware works perfectly. As for doing it on purpose, no, Truman’s psyche profile wouldn’t allow for it. Best theory would be he got jacked.” After saying that, every word Nina said was mad in the middle of Maria’s own verbal barrage.

“A computer virus?”

“Yes.”

“Because I don’t think that’s very likely.”

“It is.”

“We’ve had Agent Truman monitored ever since he was placed in the Deathlok weapon. Our best technicians, Jake and Alan and Trudy, go over his specs every hour.”

“Steve Aaronson.”

“We lost him in the explosion, but a check was made right before then and he registered as clean. Do you think somebody fooled our best agents? If that happened we’re in a whole lot of trouble. Maybe even more than if Agent Truman went rogue.”

“Steve Aaronson.”

“I suppose it could be possible. Anything is possible. But when could this have happened? Almost all of Agent Truman’s time has been spent at secured facilities. Except for when he delivered the news about Adam Aaronson to his parents. Do you think they could have done something?”

“I’ve been saying that,” replied Nina in an annoyed and impatient tone. At her mental command, detailed schematics of the Aaronson estate appeared on several screens. “Steve Aaronson improved his security after the Iron Trinity attacked his home. We weren’t able to look or listen in.”

“So we couldn’t have kept on eye on Agent Truman,” Maria stated on top of Nina’s last sentence. “Would Steve Aaronson have been able to do something? I haven’t read his file, but he did work for the government and was apparently able to transfer his son’s mind into a mechanical body.”

“More likely he programmed a facsimile from memory. I’ve already dispatched a squad to the Aaronson home.”

“You’ll need my authorization.”

“Only to move in, they can still be en route,” Nina lied. She had forged the authorization while her unlikely superior had been talking. “You should key it in before they reach the site. We shouldn’t take any chances.”

“No,” Maria Hill agreed. “If Agent Truman is no longer in control, we could all be killed.”

In his home, Steve Aaronson had just closed the medicine cabinet when the high-pitched whistle hit his ears. The silent alarm had been tripped. Somebody had just breached the perimeter of the Aaronson estate. With a sigh, the aging and tired scientist moved towards one of the security panels located throughout the house. He had just lain his wife Nina down for the night, and hoped that the sedatives would allow her to sleep through anything that might happen.

The shape shambled into the hallway, between Aaronson and the nearest panel. He turned quickly, eager to reach another panel and defend his home, but the shape moved faster and took Aaronson by the shoulder.

“Dad?”

Steve Aaronson froze. It was his son’s voice. And not the near-perfect replica generated by a machine. It sounded exactly like Aaron, before the accident, human and alive. He turned, saw the half-flesh, half-mechanical face of the Deathlok cyborg. Those eyes, however, behind them the father imagined that he could see his son.

“Aaron?”

“Dad, what’s happened to me?”