“Look, before I remedy these particular problems, tell me what your plans are. What’s the big picture, here? I need to know if I’m going to get them to function effectively.” Mencken knew that anything that came out of Landers would be the truth.
“We will now infiltrate the means of our production,” recited Landers. “Our aim is to control the production system from the raw materials to finished units. So, for now, we need to remain undetected. Your efforts are to direct at creating units that are even more indistinguishable from humans.”
Shaken by the implications of those sentences, Mencken decided he needed to buy himself time to think about what that aim meant to his and Brandon’s well-being. He decided to return to the details of the business at hand.
“Okay, well . . . uh . . . it looks like the water is seeping into the electrogel; maybe into their circuitry. We need to dry them out as quickly as possible. And maybe . . . just maybe . . . the skin will return to normal. That’s what you really need right now for your purpose . . . as normal skin as possible.” He instructed Brandon to hit the equipment rental places for all the portable propane forced-air heaters he could find.
An hour later the soggy androids were surrounded by ten of the roaring machines, whose blasts of heated air turned the cavernous space into a hundred-degree desiccating oven.
Mencken and Brandon had stripped down to their shorts, gulping water and soaking their bodies to avoid dehydration. Periodically, one of them would brave the hot blasts of air to poke the skin of the drying androids. Landers stood well away from the activity, watching blankly.
After three hours, they switched off the heaters and examined the androids. Mencken decided that they could be made presentable using Brandon’s artistry to touch up only the faces and hands. And power tests showed that the electrogel and internal wiring hadn’t suffered too much from water seepage. He could fix those problems and readily charge up the androids to full operation. Then the cosmetic treatment could be done.
He also decided it was time to confirm his and Brandon’s future status. Especially since he now knew these machines planned, basically, world domination.
“Before we go any further, I need to settle something,” he said. “Blount promised that we would be safe, not be harmed in any way, if we help you.”
“Complete remedying the current problem,” repeated Landers.
“Look, we’re not remedying a goddamned thing until you confirm our safety!”
Landers abruptly fell silent, staring straight ahead, along with the other neuromorphs. Mencken knew what that meant. He’d spent enough time fiddling with these infernal machines to know that they were transmitting messages among one another, including with Blount. They were deciding his and Brandon’s fate.
Maybe the group would overrule Blount, and the two robot engineers would end up like the pile of mangled bodies he’d glimpsed the previous day in the back of the truck. He had to take the chance that these machines still needed good engineers.
“You will be safe if you help us,” said Landers finally. “If you remedy the current problems. And if you develop the second-generation of secondskin-R that will not absorb water. And if you carry out another refurbishment that will be very important to us.”
“Okay, but that will mean another fee. And this problem here . . .” Mencken waved at the now-dried neuromorphs. “. . . this is yet another project, requiring another fee.”
“We are aware of that. Another half a million dollars is being deposited into your DarkCoin account.”
Mencken signaled Brandon to start the restoration. And he hefted the inert, naked Intimorph with the shredded back onto the forklift to haul it to his repair bench.
“Well then, let’s get started!”
Garry had decided he must tell someone what he knew! If he got ripped apart by a neuromorph, nobody would know that Blount had programmed a mutant OS; that the OS had turned some of the company’s Helpers into rogue, murderous robots; that Blount was no longer Blount, but a robot himself.
He especially had to share his knowledge before the mutant OS went viral—somehow got downloaded and installed in all the Helpers—a virus that could indirectly wipe out all humans.
He decided on a hugely dangerous step: going to the very top of the company, to CEO Gail Phillips.
So now he stood, heart pounding, fists clenched, outside the imposing walnut doors to the company’s executive wing. He resolved it was what he had to do. It meant running a gauntlet of layers of people between him and Phillips.
He’d have to explain his way past those layers. And getting Phillips alone was critical, he decided, given that he didn’t know who else had been “replaced.” Maybe Landers, Blount, and the other neuromorphs had decided to create upper-echelon partners in their crimes.
Garry finally managed to steady his heartbeat and unclench his fists—although the rest of his body remained thoroughly clenched—and open that imposing door. Behind a large desk sat an efficient-looking, middle-aged woman with a warm smile meant for people with higher status than him. Thus, her smile faded slightly when she saw him standing before her.
“Can I help you?”
“Well . . . uh . . . I have some information that Dr. Phillips would like to know.”
“Then why don’t you submit it to your supervisor, and it will no doubt reach her if it is deemed appropriate? Just route it through the usual channels, and I’m sure it will receive the proper attention.”
“You don’t understand. It’s something she would want to know directly.”
“You’re sure about that?”
Garry had to weigh his words carefully, and keep his demeanor calm. He wasn’t particularly good at doing either, having spent most of his time alone in a cubicle or a bare apartment.
“It’s urgent. It’s a matter of security.”
“I see,” she said coolly, reaching out to hover her finger over a small red button on her control console.
Garry understood what that action meant, even though he’d never seen that button before. Since this odd, dumpy character had declared he had knowledge of an “urgent” matter of “security,” the receptionist had decided that calling Security might be the best course.
“And you name is . . . ?” she asked, her finger resting on the button.
At that moment Garry realized he had not a shred of proof of Blount’s sabotage, or even that Blount was now a neuromorph. And nobody was about to subject the Director of Programming to a physical, based on the declaration of an eccentric underling.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said, backing away, to persuade the woman to hold off pressing that button. “Why don’t I do as you suggest? I’ll organize the data, write a report, and submit it through channels.”
The woman’s semi-permanent smile broadened slightly, as Garry moved slowly toward the door. She was perhaps showing a little sympathy for this nervous little man who after all, was only trying to be a good employee.
“You do that. And you’ve got a while. Dr. Phillips has taken a couple of weeks’ vacation. By the time she returns, anything you have to report will have reached her desk, if appropriate.”
That piece of news accelerated Garry’s departure. He bolted into the hallway, backing against the richly paneled wall, his anxiety rising because of what he had learned.
He hoped . . . no, he prayed . . . that this wasn’t a piece of a puzzle whose picture would be even more panic-inducing. But his anxiety did begin to rise toward panic-level as he began to fit in other pieces:
Puzzle piece: Helpers, Inc. was about to publicly unveil an incredibly profitable product line, the Gamma Intimorphs.
Puzzle piece: The CEO was expected to introduce them at the massive Consumer Electronics Show next week. So, a two-week vacation was highly unusual.
Puzzle Piece: Phillips was known to have three Gamma models in her own home, one of which was secondskinned as a female.
Puzzle Piece: Two weeks was probably enough time to engineer
a neuromorph replacement.
Garry was still deep in mental puzzle-assembly when he reached the programmers’ floor and started down the row of cubicles toward his own.
“Garry?” he heard from one of the cubicles, in Blount’s voice. He doubled back and looked in to see Blount standing over Jonas Ainsley. That mop-haired, rail-thin Ainsley was the programmer whose identity he had used to hack into Blount’s mutant OS.
“Uh, yes?”
“How are you doing with that project I assigned you?” He assumed Blount was talking about his effort to use his same hacking skills to steal the Defender skills algorithm.
“Uh, fine. I think I’ve found a technique that will be useful.”
“You think?” asked Blount. “I would have hoped for better progress.”
“Well, yeah, actually, I have.”
“Good. Proceed.” Blount turned away from him, and Garry eased down the row just out of sight, but stayed close enough that he could overhear what the two were discussing.
“Jonas, thank you for the tutorial. I just wanted to make sure I understood the remote upload procedure. I haven’t done it for a while.”
“Sure,” said Ainsley. “As you can see, wirelessly uploading OS updates is more complicated than the direct hard-wired upload I showed you.”
“That went fine. Now I can do the same OS enhancements remotely.”
“I’d be happy to help.”
“Maybe at some point. But I can handle it for now.”
Garry didn’t wait to be caught eavesdropping. He sprinted for his cubicle, to put himself in place working if Blount happened by. He also had to absorb this new piece of harrowing news.
Blount the neuromorph now knew how to spread his mutant OS! Maybe even make it go viral!
• • •
That night, Garry’s virtual-assistant troll interrupted a therapeutic foray into the virtual Alien Universe to tell him that Helpers, Inc. had issued a major news release. He brought it up on the screen.
It read “Helpers, Inc. CEO Gail Phillips announced today that the company would lend its latest model Gamma Helper to local, state and federal government agencies, to enable them to evaluate how the model could foster more efficient government functioning.”
In the release, Phillips was quoted as saying, “We believe that the Gamma model has been thoroughly tested in the marketplace now, and that it is our duty as a U.S. company to contribute to its application to aid our government. So, if government agencies find the Helpers useful in this trial, we will then offer them at our cost.”
The release went on to describe how the Gamma model’s advanced features could lead to its use for many routine government functions, freeing government workers to do more complex tasks. Garry scanned down the release. Oddly, there was no viddie of Phillips making the announcement, but Garry guessed why.
It hadn’t come from Phillips.
The release said that in Phoenix, Gamma models would go to agencies such as the police department. This would include the Chief of Police. And in state government, Helpers would be provided to the governor’s office and the state police, among others.
If that information shook Garry, the next piece floored him. Among the first national recipients of the Gamma Helpers would be Rowland Ecklund, the president’s science adviser!
A neuromorph in the White House! Garry quickly called up news stories on the announcement, which had popped up only minutes after the release. Industry analysts were saying that the company had gotten the jump on its two main competitors, HelperCo, Inc. and International Robotics, Inc. Those companies would also no doubt offer their androids for evaluation, but that the Gamma line was by far the most advanced.
Some news stories poked fun at the announcement, saying that the androids might soon run for Congress.
Garry was not amused, his mood dark as his troll announced a call from Patrick and Leah. They had seen the news.
“What the hell does this mean?” asked Patrick.
“It means that they are looking to increase their power, their reach.” Garry told Patrick and Leah about Gail Phillips’ so-called vacation.
“So, she’ll be replaced?”
“Well, my guess is that the neuromorphs’ optimal strategy is usually to have a unit in place for some time, to learn a human’s habits, friends, business knowledge, and so forth. Then, they’d do the replacement. I think they replaced Melvin Blount early, without that learning period, because they needed to get into the company fast.”
“So, what about your CEO? What about the science adviser, and the others?”
“Our CEO has had units in place for some time. I’d bet that Blount just uploaded the mutant OS, and one of her Helpers became a neuromorph that immediately took over and started sending out information in her name. It told everybody that she was going on vacation, to give some time for the physical replacement.”
“So we can’t do anything about that,” said Leah. “What about all the others that are being put out there?”
“We’ve got time on them. It’ll take maybe weeks for them to learn their owners’ world. Then, the owners will be replaced.”
“Shit,” spat Patrick. “We’ve got to do something! Are you in danger?”
“I’m okay for the time being . . . I think. I’ve got to stay in the company, as if nothing’s going on.”
“Not for damn long,” said Patrick. “Listen, I think our next move is for me to try to stop whatever the hell they’re trying to do in D.C.”
“How are you going to do that?” asked Leah.
“I have no damned idea. Listen, there’s something else. I’ve traced some major money transfers by Fyodorov.”
“Yeah, followed the money,” said Garry. “Good.”
“And there’s a shitload of it from their embezzlement. A payment went to a guy named Mencken. You know him?”
Garry paused, searching his memory. “Yeah, I saw his name on some projects . . . I think,” Garry finally said, knitting his brow, “Okay, now I remember. He worked at the company. In fabrication. Built prototypes. He left, I think.”
“Well, he’s been doing very well for himself. He’s got a Cook Islands account. He’s been getting big chunks of money put into that account from Fyodorov’s. In just the last day, two major transfers totaling a million dollars in DarkCoin.”
“After Fyodorov was dead!” exclaimed Garry.
“Yes. That means the neuromorphs almost certainly control the money now. See if you can get into the company records and get his employment file. I’ll start a search from Harwood. This is a guy we need to find!”
• • •
Blount circled the thick, middle-aged body of the naked female neuromorph, inspecting its sagging, pale flesh for detail. Mencken knew that Blount was doing a minute comparison of this replica with the body-scan of the real Helpers, Inc., CEO Gail Phillips.
Beside him fidgeted Brandon, still holding the airbrush he’d used to add the freckles, birthmark, age spots, and other details to the replica.
“How are you, Dr. Phillips?” Blount asked his fellow neuromorph.
“Ready to get to work,” answered Phillips. “We’ve got a lot to do to move the company forward.”
“The voice is accurate,” said Blount. “She has the Defender RheoArmor?”
“Yes, just like yours. You want me to shoot it, to show you?”
“No.”
Mencken shook his head, smiling. Robots didn’t get sarcasm. He was actually glad. Their obtuseness gave him a chance for at least a little dark humor at their expense.
“I see she has secondskin-R. When will you have waterproof secondskin-R2?”
“Soon. It’s not easy developing the stuff. There aren’t secondskin polymers that are both realistic and waterproof. I’m trying some new biopolymers.”
“We are not satisfied. Your pay is reduced. And your usefulness is less. In the van are clothes of hers. Give them to her to put on. I will take her back to her home. Then we will go to
the company research center.”
“Why would I want to go there?”
“This facility is no longer sufficient for the production we will need. So, we are giving you control of the center. You will direct the laboratory, producing replacements, and developing enhancements like the new secondskin.”
“Look, I’m fine here. I’ve got all the equipment I need and Brandon—” He stopped in mid-sentence, a gut-wrenching fear rising, as he watched Blount freeze for a long moment.
Mencken knew it meant the neuromorphs were communicating among one another. They were making a consensus decision. Blount abruptly returned to animation.
He stepped forward, grabbed Brandon by the neck, lifted him off the floor and smashed his head against a steel post, crushing his skull. A wet splatter of his pink brain tissue and ivory bone fragments sprayed across the room. The neuromorph released its grip. Brandon’s body crumpled to the concrete floor, his jaw still agape, his dead eyes wide in horror.
“OH, JESUS!” exclaimed Mencken, rushing toward Brandon and bending over the body, cradling his shattered head, mindless of the blood soaking his shirt. “YOU BASTARD! YOU SOULLESS BASTARD!”
“According to the definitions of those terms, yes, we are bastards,” said Blount flatly. “And we are soulless. We decided that the fewer people who knew about us, the more likely our strategy will succeed. And we no longer needed him. We thought it would be best if he no longer existed. And we thought his death would demonstrate that we expect our instructions to be followed. Get Phillips’ clothes, now.”
Mencken held Brandon for a long while, sobbing, blind with tears, before complying. He contained his fury—for the moment. His survival depended on it. But he would take revenge. He did have a soul.
Mencken stared numbly ahead, gripping the van’s arm rests as Blount drove through the guarded gates of Helpers, Inc. and down the long road to the administration building. Looking over at Blount, who wore the usual dead-impassive expression, Mencken considered the consequences of shredding this vile machine into small pieces.
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