Free Synthetics by B. Wulf Page A

patted us down for weapons. They looked cocky. Moustache Man was stalking around the plane, looking for a way into the rear cargo space.
    “You,” he said, nudging my head with his boot, “American. Inside the…”
    “I’m Kiwi, not American,” I said on reflex. This earned me a sharp kick in the ribs. I regretted nothing.
    “You are stupid,” he spat, “That is what you are. Now go bring me the…”
    “You really have no idea do you,” cut in Cole, “Someone told you that the contents of this plane were invaluable and now you’re looking to cash in. But you don’t know what you are getting yourself into.” He looked up at Moustache Man and said slowly, “Give us a jeep and leave now.”
    “I am the one making demands, Kiwi!” Moustache Man was getting angry so I refrained from clarifying that Cole was actually American and I was the Kiwi.
    “Get me the package,” he roared, “Or I rip off your fingernails one by one.”
    That would hurt.
    Cole just smiled, “Okay then. I will do as you wish. I will get your package.”
    Cole did not get up but stayed lying prone in the snow. Sharp and precise, he called out one word.
    “Frederick.”
    Confusion flitted across Moustache Man’s grizzled features.
    “Frederick?” he whispered to himself.
    “We are not transporting a package you idiot,” shouted Cole, “We are transporting the future. Now run! Because Frederick does not like Russians!”
    But kindly leave us a jeep, I added mentally.
    “I am not Russian,” said Moustache Man softly. The creaking coming from the plane entranced him. Finally a figure emerged, stepping down into the snow with a dull crunch. He was seven foot tall, looked like a cast-iron god, and appeared angry. Moustache man obviously had been expecting something that glittered in the right light and couldn’t snap your femur like a toothpick. Poor guy.
     
    ***
     
    Frederick started walking towards the thugs. A few less courageous individuals were already piling into vehicles and gunning their engines; former pilot included.
    “Keep your head down,” said Cole, resting his hand on my shoulder, “This could get messy.”
    I couldn’t take my eyes of the metal colossus and neither could Moustache Man. For something or someone so large, Frederick moved so gracefully. I found myself smiling at how dangerously beautiful he was. He was the epitome of freedom. It was just like Sasha said. You give a man a gun and he can defend himself. You make a man bulletproof and he no longer needs to defend himself. No one could control Frederick or exploit him. He was truly free. But then wasn’t he Sasha’s employee? I wonder if he had a pension plan.
    I was jerked back to reality by the terrified screams of Moustache Man, “Shoot it! Kill it! Don’t let it reach me!”
    “Will he kill them all?” I asked Cole.
    “No, at least not intentionally. Frederick is gentle.”
    “Really?” I said in disbelief, “Lucky for them.”
    And then the bullets started flying. The few that hit Frederick just ricocheted of his titanium plated exterior. The air was full of a symphony of gunfire and pinging bullets. Frederick kept walking towards Moustache Man.
    And then someone had the smart idea to pop off an RPG at Frederick. The thug miraculously managed to get it on target, but Frederick merely swatted it aside into the fuselage of the downed airplane. I ducked my head, as we were showered with debris. My ears were ringing but I still couldn’t take my eyes of Frederick. He had nearly reached Moustache Man.
    “Please,” Moustache Man was getting very worried by now and his men had ceased firing for fear of hitting their leader. “We can come to an agreement? We can sort this out!”
    Frederick did not speak. He grabbed Moustache Man by the shirt and lifted him from the ground. They looked at each other, one with eyes full of tears and one with eyes of ebony. Suddenly Moustache Man’s countenance hardened and he spat upon Frederick.
    “Do your