“Well, as I’m sure you know, I guess the board liked us. They wanted to fill the vacancy. The deal was fantastic. And the paperwork went very quickly.”
“Ah . . . good,” said Kuznetov rather curtly, perhaps a touch of annoyance in his tone. “The board is sometimes . . . well . . . deliberate in these decisions. I see they weren’t in your case.”
“Can we offer you something to drink? Perhaps some wine and cheese.”
“Wine and cheese?” Kuznetov asked the question with some hint of surprise. “No, really, I must go. I just want to introduce myself. Here is my card.” He handed them a holocard containing, no doubt, the full information on the company, as well on as the swarthy, tense man.
He shook hands with them and departed. Patrick shut the door, his sober expression portraying his concern. He hugged Leah, and for the first time in months, she embraced him, as well. He had sensed the same air about this man that he’d encountered in some of the soldiers he’d served with.
It was the cold-blooded capability to kill with no hesitation, no remorse.
• • •
His expression foul, Mikhail Fyodorov was immersed in a phone conversation when Kuznetov slid into the back seat of the SUV beside him. He ended the call.
“What the fuck is going on, Dimitri?” he demanded of Kuznetov. “How the fuck did the people get into the place? There is no way that they could be there.”
Kuznetov shook his head. “They said board interviewed them. The board let them in. The board lowered the price. They made the paperwork go fast.”
“THE FUCKING BOARD IS FUCKING ROBOTS!” Bellowed Fyodorov. “ROBOTS DO NOT DO ANYTHING THEY ARE NOT PROGRAMMED TO DO!”
“Mikhail, I told you we should have destroyed the robots after we had their owners’ money.”
“And I told you that disappearance of any of the people after they had moved their money would look suspicious. And we might need the replicas for additional transactions. More important, what the hell happened?”
“It could be something that Blount put in the operating system. He perhaps made error.”
“Or maybe he did something on purpose.”
“Did you find him?”
In disgust, Fyodorov plucked the cell phone earpiece from his ear. “I call Gianni. He went into Blount’s house and found crew of mechs from co-op moving rugs and furniture out and painting the place. Mechs from my fucking co-op! So, somehow Blount is connected with co-op!”
“Maybe Blount was just spending some of the money we give him. Maybe he was moving to The Haven, too.”
“Doesn’t make any fucking sense that Blount connected with co-op. Then I tell Gianni to contact the robot company and find out what is going on with Blount. But he is not there.”
“So, should we kill them . . . the couple?”
“Nyet! That would only bring police to the place. Can you imagine them questioning all those fucking robots?”
“Of course. They would only recite what they saw, like any good machines.”
“Find fucking Blount! And go talk to fucking robots. See what they say. They’re not supposed to be able to lie, but something funny is going on. I want to find out what the fuck is going on. At some point, those robots may have to disappear.”
Garry spent the next week huddled in his cubicle, trying to suppress attacks of heart-pounding panic, pretending to work on his assigned tasks. But his mind was deluged with questions, despite his fear.
Nothing made sense! There was no report of Blount’s death. Only that he was taking a week off. At least his brother . . . whom Garry had never heard of . . . called to say that Blount had a medical problem that required taking leave. True, being ripped apart limb from limb was a medical problem.
To make things scarier, if that was possible, two really nasty-looking guys started showing up every day to ask about Blount. Probably the mobster’s guys; and Garry still couldn’t figure out how Blount was connected with them. The first time they came, Blount’s assistant told them that Blount was ill. But they kept showing up every day, anyway.
Garry’s panic was soaked in a huge dose of indecision about what to do. He couldn’t very well go to the police about the horrific scene he had witnessed—and whose memory still made him nauseated with fear. There was no evidence of a crime. When he’d gotten the courage to drive by Blount’s little house, everything seemed perfectly normal.
So, he decided to do what he did best: Hack. He would appear to do his regular job, but continue to delve into that weird, mutated operating system that Blount had constructed. He’d have to be even more careful. So, he hid his tracks even more by further tweaking of the company security system to ignore his incursions. That accomplished, he first plunged into the commercial Helper OS.
Thankfully, he found no sign of the mutant subroutines there. That wasn’t much comfort, given that only a little finagling would be needed to insert the mutant OS subroutines as an update that was routinely transmitted to all Helpers.
But then, as if his fear couldn’t get any worse, came the discovery of the stunning mistake Blount had made in the mutant OS. While analyzing Blount’s code, Garry found a glitch that made him literally bolt from his cubicle, rush past startled co-workers outside and slump down against an isolated corner of the building, near to tears.
Blount . . . the arrogant, sloppy Blount . . . hadn’t locked the mutant autonomy subroutines against morphing!
Neuromorphic brains could morph their structure to adapt to new demands. The capability enabled a Helper to adapt to new tasks, new owners, and new environments. Unless that morphing was prevented, the neuromorphic would alter itself.
Okay, Maybe Blount didn’t lock the subroutines on purpose, so he could get them to improve themselves on their own. That had been the case with some subroutines.
But it was incredibly stupid in this case! Since the autonomy subroutines were linked to the motivational subroutines, Helpers could evolve their OS to give them totally new capabilities. Dangerous capabilities that extended beyond the control of their human makers.
Shit! The capabilities could even metastasize like some digital cancer to create robots with survival instincts and strategic abilities beyond humans!
And the robots could form a hive mind, since they all had wireless communication with one another. A new capability evolved in one autonomous robot could instantly spread to others with the mutant OS brain.
Garry’s own brain was churning with the implications of what he’d realized. But intruding into this mental turmoil came the faint sound of a voice that made him doubt his own senses. To give himself quiet to think, he had gone outside and retreated around the corner from the building entrance. So, to follow the sound of the voice, he slid his bulk up the wall to a standing position and edged to the corner.
It was Blount! The lanky, hawk-nosed man was strolling up to the front door as if everything were normal! And all his limbs were intact! And beside him waddled the fat android that had a week earlier ripped Blount’s body limb from limb!
Garry retreated back around the corner, shaking, sweating. Okay, let’s just go through the facts, he told himself to try to calm down. The android hadn’t seen him when it killed Blount. So, the android wouldn’t go after him. And clearly, this new Blount-like creature walking into the building was a neuromorph.
And both of them could pass for real humans. So, this was a huge plot of some kind that involved constructing Helpers that were more realistic than anybody dreamed possible.
But why? How?
Garry knew one thing for sure: He could not possibly bring himself to face this Blount-android. He would crumble. He needed time to process.
But there was one thing he could do that would be useful; would give himself time to calm down and figure things out.
He could follow the fat android when it left. Sure, maybe it would only go back to the gangsters’ headquarters. That wouldn’t tell him anything new. He already knew the thugs were involved.
But maybe the a
ndroid would go somewhere else that would tell him something.
Patrick ran at nearly his full speed along the quiet street, relishing the visceral satisfaction of working off the tension of the day and his worry over Leah. He ran fast enough to test his stamina, but not so fast that he couldn’t mull over the events.
He hadn’t wanted to leave Leah alone in the apartment. But they’d agreed that any break from their routine might cause suspicion. The dry, cool desert air flowing over his body, evaporating the sweat, felt good, so he decided to give himself over to the moment, to the sensory pleasure of his run. It had been a couple of miles, and the feel-good endorphins were kicking in.
But a burst of adrenalin overwhelmed the endorphins when vaulting from behind a bush ahead of him, holding a knife, appeared a pudgy, nervous man with a wild, disheveled look.
“Stop!” the man commanded, pushing up his glasses with one hand and extending the knife with the other. “Stay still. Don’t move.”
Patrick stopped and raised his hands obediently, still breathing hard from his run. He couldn’t help shaking his head at the absurdity of the situation. This guy looked like he belonged at a geek-fest, not on a dark street trying to mug somebody. And instead of the standard mugger’s pistol, he held what looked like a kitchen butcher knife.
“Sure, sure, whatever you say,” said Patrick. “You want money?” Patrick was far from fearful. SEALs had been trained to ignore fear. He considered using his hand-to-hand combat skills to disarm the man. He could have, easily. But there was something more to this guy than a mugger. Patrick’s curiosity trumped his defensive instinct . . . for the moment.
“Hold out your hand,” said the man, a nervous tremor quavering his voice.
“What?” This had to be the oddest mugging ever.
“Palm up,” demanded the man.
Patrick complied. And with a quick downward thrust, the man sliced a shallow wound in his palm.
“SHIT!” shouted Patrick drawing back his hand. “WHAT THE HELL—”
“Show me the blood.”
“Look, pal, if you’re going to kill me or something—”
“Just show me the blood.”
Patrick complied, extending his bleeding palm. He’d suffered worse wounds in SEAL training, and his curiosity still held sway. That curiosity was piqued even more when the man took out a packet of wound-sealing powder and handed it to him.
“Put that on. It’ll stop the bleeding.” Then the man offered a packet of gauze pads and surgical tape. And to Patrick’s continued surprise, he handed Patrick the knife.
“Hold out your hand and let me dress it.” The young man proceeded to apply the pad, holding it firmly and beginning to wrap Patrick’s hand with tape. “I looked online. This is how I think you’re supposed to do this.”
“I know how to dress a wound.” Patrick withdrew his hand, finished the taping, and backed away. Now he had the knife and the advantage. He pointed it toward the man. “Okay, now it’s my turn.”
“I’m sorry. I just needed to make sure you’re human.”
“Human? Oh, this is totally nuts! Pal, you really need help.”
“I’m Garry. You live there, right?” He pointed at the distant, lit tower of The Haven.
“Yeah, and . . . ?”
“And the others who live there. They’re different than you, right? Peculiar?”
Patrick pondered for a long moment before answering. “Well . . . yeah.”
The pudgy man launched into a rapid-fire answer. “See, they’re not human. They’re Helpers . . . robots. I tracked one here and did some investigation into the rest. Okay, they’re all Helpers that look just like humans. Exactly. I figured you were human because you’re jogging. They don’t. I’ve checked on you and your wife. I know you just moved in. I know where you both work. I’m taking a chance you’re not in on whatever the hell they’re doing.”
Patrick didn’t even try to suppress a sarcastic laugh. “Okay . . . it’s Garry, right? Okay, Garry, I’m just going to back away, and—”
“I work for Helpers, Inc.” Garry fumbled in his pocket. “Here’s my card. I’m a programmer. I’ve found out things you need to know.”
In the distance, the lights in the windows of the high-rise blinked out nearly simultaneously, until all were dark . . . except for the window Patrick knew was his and Leah’s apartment.
Garry pointed at the tower, his hand shaking. “That’s a default power-down program. They all turn off environmental lighting at the same time, unless their owners specify otherwise. The ones in your place haven’t taken into account that humans don’t do that. But they also turn off lights for another reason. If you looked at the building power drain, you’d see that it goes way up. They’re recharging overnight. They use induction power transfer.”
“Garry, this is just getting weirder and weirder.”
“I know, I know, I know. I can’t tell you everything now. You’ve got to get back. You have to stay on a routine. If even one of them sees you doing something out of the ordinary, they’ll all know it. It’s hive mind.”
“Hive mind? What—”
“Tomorrow. Meet me tomorrow. My cell number is on the card. Text me a time and place where you’ll be comfortable meeting. It’ll have to be somewhere we won’t be seen. Please. It’s all at stake. Everything.”
The round little man disappeared into the bushes, leaving Patrick holding his card. He had to tell Leah.
• • •
The next morning, Garry assiduously avoided taking any route through the vast cubicle complex that would pass anywhere near Blount’s office. He just wasn’t ready to encounter what he knew was an android version of a human he’d witnessed being ripped into bloody pieces only a week before. He knew his horror would show, when he stared at the artificial face of a dead man. He took little comfort in the fact that the android might not notice if he even minimally disguised his disgust—that robots were not particularly adept at gauging the subtleties of human expressions.
But he wasn’t to have the relative comfort of refuge. At ten o’clock precisely, a message appeared on his display screen to report to Blount’s office.
The “Blount-bot” sat behind his desk, his hands folded in front of him in a prim pose that the human Blount would never have assumed. But the sound that came out of his mouth was precisely Blount’s. Apparently, whoever built the android had done considerable research on Blount’s speaking manner—probably reviewing viddies showing Blount moving and talking. Even Blount’s wardrobe was accurate, down to the short-sleeved shirt and cheap tie. But obviously, the machine had no inkling of Blount’s past mocking animosity toward Garry; because the Blount android smiled at him. A cold smile.
“Garry, please sit down. I need to talk to you about a project I’m working on. I need your help.”
It took all of Garry’s willpower not to laugh at the irony of the android’s friendliness.
“Sure, Mel. Anything I could do.” Calling the human Blount “Mel” would have set off a wave of sarcastic chewing-out. But the android showed no reaction, accepting the nickname as if it were usual.
“I’d like you to start work on an OS for a new Helper series. An augmented version. I think it would be a good product for the company. I’ve asked marketing to analyze the sales potential.”
“How’s it different?”
“Well, y’know, the Helpers are big sellers . . . for domestic work, unskilled labor, caring for elderly, babysitting, and so forth. But I think there’s a significant shortcoming in their capabilities.”
“I’ve not been aware of any customer data about that.”
“Well, being a programmer you wouldn’t be. But I think adding a home-defense capability would be attractive to customers. Give them a sense of security. We’d call the new line the Helper-Guardian.”
“You mean like an android that would clean windows, but also stop burglars trying to break in through them.”
Blount ignored the subtle dig. Robots d
idn’t do humor.
“Well, I’d like you to incorporate some Defender capabilities into the Helper series. Y’know, threat assessment and response.”
“Response?”
“Passive and active.”
Garry knew damned well what “active” meant. A standard Helper could at best only block an attacker from entering a home. But an “active” Helper-Guardian could kill for its owner—or even more frightening, murder as an autonomous being. His palms grew moist and he rubbed them against the arms of the chair. Now, he knew exactly what the purpose of replacing Blount was:
To create an autonomous, self-motivated, neuromorph that was an adept, lethal killer! And it would be indistinguishable from humans!
• • •
Patrick had thought strategically when he arranged the rendezvous with Garry. He set the meeting for the Heard Museum of Native Cultures and Art. He reasoned that robots seldom visited museums. And museums employed highly attentive security guards. Museums were also public without being too public. Finally, museums were quiet on weekdays during early hours when school groups were not likely to be trooping through.
So, he’d chosen lunchtime at the museum cafe to meet with the strange man who had slashed him the night before. He had already researched Garrison LaPoint, establishing that he really was a programmer at Helpers, Inc., and also an MIT-trained genius. The only hitch in Patrick’s plan was that Leah insisted in coming with him. She’d emphatically insisted in a tone that told him he had no choice.
As they huddled at the courtyard table of the café, LaPoint’s first statement was a jarring one. “I think you’re an experiment,” he said.
“What? Why the hell would somebody like Mikhail Fyodorov want us there as some kind of experiment!” exclaimed Patrick, trying his best to keep his voice down.
“Okay, you know about Fyodorov. I didn’t realize that. But not him. Them.”
Leah shook her head in confusion. “Them? The Helpers? They’re machines. Machines don’t conduct experiments.”
“These do,” said Garry. “You know about neuromorphic brains?”
The Neuromorphs Page 8