Patrick nodded.
“I did one job for them just for money. Nobody got hurt. Then they started the other thing . . . killing rich people. Then they told me they would kill me and my family, and my assistant and his, if I didn’t keep going.”
“Yeah, and they still gave you a shitload of money,” said Patrick.
“Are you going to kill me?”
“That depends entirely on you,” said Patrick.
Garry backed away, to be out of the line of fire, and of any blood spatter.
“Look. Call me a quisling, Benedict Arnold, a mercenary . . . whatever you want,” said Mencken. “The fact remains I can be useful to you. And I’m ready to join you.”
“What makes you think I’d believe you?”
“Well, they . . . the neuromorphs . . . they told me my mother and sister weren’t in danger. And I’ll make all my money available to you. You’ll need it. There’s more than a hundred million dollars there. It’s yours. I’ll transfer it to any account you want.”
“So, you think you can buy your life?” asked Patrick.
Mencken shook his head sadly. “No. Look, I saw my assistant, my best friend, murdered in front of me. The Blount neuromorph smashed his head in. Then he hauled him off like an animal carcass to dispose of him. I was trapped. I’m ready to help.”
Garry looked questioningly at Patrick. After a long moment, Patrick lowered the pistol.
Garry took that to mean Mencken was provisionally accepted, and he sat down across from Mencken. “Then first tell us what their strategy is. I know they’ve installed their mutant OS in all the Gammas.”
“Landers told me. They want to infiltrate and take over the means of their production. Either by enslaving humans or by putting in neuromorphs. Every step from when the graphene is synthesized for their brains, to when they walk out of the factory.”
“And then they’ll be in a position to proliferate uncontrollably,” said Garry.
“Right,” said Mencken. “But they’re not there yet. Far from it. I guess spreading the mutant operating system is a key step. But for now, they need to remain undetected. Which is why they need me . . . for now . . . to oversee creating the replacements.”
Garry raised his head, his eyes widening. “And I’m needed for the next step. They need to share skills broadly, not just data. That would knit them together, just like the Defenders. I’d bet they ultimately want to integrate the entire Helper and Defender populations. One massive, interconnected electronic hive.”
Patrick flicked the safety on his pistol and inserted it into his shoulder holster. “Well, your job will be to sabotage the software and hardware. My job is to recon the enemy. And to figure how to stop the infiltration with prejudice,” he said. “I’ll start at the top.”
Patrick jogged slowly in the darkness past the large colonial brick house on the quiet, leafy street in Chevy Chase, Maryland. He knew the houses along this stretch, after jogging the route every night for the past four days. He was establishing a pattern, so that he would essentially “disappear” from the conscious of any residents. A parked car would have aroused suspicion on a street where all the cars were tucked away in garages. But not a jogger coming by at the same time every night.
On one night, he’d given a friendly wave to the middle-aged man walking a poodle. Another evening, he’d nodded and smiled to a vest-suited man coming home late. And on another, he’d helped an elderly woman cart her trash can the last few feet to the curb.
He’d been careful not to loiter in front of his target house. But when no one was looking, he’d stopped to tie his shoe or stretch his hamstrings, quickly scanning entry points, the house layout, and lights that were on at that time of the evening.
It was the same “attention-extinction” surveillance technique he’d used before in his work. It had worked well on operations ranging from the busy streets of New York to the dusty roads of a Colombian village. But in the latter, he’d been garbed not as a fitness-conscious jogger, but as a ragged beggar scavenging in garbage cans.
Tonight would be the night for the mission. Rowland Ecklund, the president’s science adviser, was home that night. Patrick’s online search had revealed no public events. When he’d shadowed the family cook through the grocery store, he saw that she had bought food for what looked like a quiet family dinner. And no doubt the staff included the efficient neuromorph that Helpers, Inc. had so generously provided. That robotic efficiency extended to gathering the experience the neuromorph would need when it murdered Ecklund and was transformed to replace him.
At ten-thirty, Patrick took a chance and jogged past the house once more. The cook had left after dinner. The light in Ecklund’s study was on, but so was the light in the upstairs bedroom. Ecklund was likely finishing up some work before joining his wife in bed.
Patrick quickly jogged down the street to the main road, to the market parking lot where he’d parked his rented SUV. Inside the vehicle, he donned a long-sleeved black shirt and black sweatpants. He pulled out the duffel bag to check his weapons. He’d chosen them for maximum stopping power with minimal weight, based on his SEAL expertise. After all, his quarry was armored.
He checked the 45-caliber handgun with silencer and hollow-point shells. He had no illusions that it would penetrate armor, but he needed the silencer. And it might do some damage if aimed at just the right spots on the robot. He pulled out the M4 assault rifle with armor-piercing rounds and the gray metal cylinder of a Thumper grenade launcher. He had more hopes that this last weapon would do sufficient damage. But if all else failed, there was one last device he hoped he didn’t have to use. He packed that small, ivory-colored chunk of explosive at the bottom of the bag.
He entered the block from behind the market, sprinting through the back yards of the spacious houses, and scaling two fences. He chose a westerly approach because his reconnoitering had revealed dogs at the eastern end. He reached the back yard of Ecklund’s house and used a lock pick to quickly open the back door lock. He paused. The alarm had not yet been set; Ecklund would do that before going to bed.
The kitchen was empty and quiet. Pulling out the pistol, he moved down the wide, darkened hall to the study, stopping at the closed door to listen for telltale sounds of movement upstairs. None. He whipped open the door to the study, entered, and quietly closed the door behind him.
“Jesus! What—” he heard from the desk, as the science adviser looked up in horror at the armed man who had just burst into his study.
“I am not a robber. I am not here to harm you or your family,” said Patrick, interrupting him.
Ecklund stood up and spread his hands. He was a small man with a fringe of graying hair and rimless glasses. An archetypal academic. And he looked so fragile. “But you have a gun. You’re dressed like that. Please don’t hurt my family. If there’s something you want me to do, I’ll do it, just don’t—”
“I’ve come to warn you about the robot that Helpers, Inc. has given you,” interrupted Patrick. He moved away from the door and set down his duffel bag, opening it to give quick access to his arsenal. “The robot’s dangerous. Where is it?”
“I don’t understand. Dangerous? How?”
“Where is it?”
“He’s upstairs getting laundry.”
“Look, I don’t have time to explain, but it must be destroyed. It’s gathering data—”
The door burst from its hinges, flying across the room, slamming against the bookcase. Standing in the doorway, a basket of laundry on the floor beside him, was a neuromorph exactly the height and frame as Ecklund.
“I detected your voice showing fear, Dr. Ecklund. Are you in danger?” the android asked.
“Well, this man broke in here,” said Ecklund, his face showing confused panic, looking back and forth between Patrick and the android. “He has a gun.”
Patrick could not wait to explain, he brought up the pistol and fired five shots in quick succession into the android’s chest, the muffled pops reso
unding in the room.
The android staggered back with the impact, but ignored the holes in its chest, its eyes never leaving its target. Patrick realized that he had played it too safe, going for center-mass shots. He should have aimed at the eyes.
The android grabbed the door frame and launched itself toward Patrick, slamming into him, driving him against the bookcase, stunning him briefly. It wrenched the pistol from his hand and leveled it at Patrick’s chest. Then it stopped.
“He won’t hurt you,” said Ecklund. “He can’t.”
Patrick looked into the android’s expressionless face. The android stood frozen in place. “Yes, it can and will. It has a mutant operating system. It has a purpose . . . to take over.”
“I’m calling the police,” said Ecklund, picking up the phone and punching in a number. Still, the android stood frozen, expression fixed, the pistol aimed at Patrick. Patrick realized he’d seen that behavior before. The neuromorph was networking with others, forming a consensus decision.
“There’s an intruder in my house! A man with a gun!” Ecklund exclaimed into the phone.
But he would not finish his call. The neuromorph swung the pistol around and fired four rounds into Ecklund’s chest. The impact slammed the small man back into his desk chair, his mouth open in a last scream, blood soaking his white shirt. His dead eyes stared at the ceiling.
Patrick’s training saved him from any hesitation at the stunning assassination. The android had dropped the pistol and turned back toward him. But Patrick had already wrenched himself free, plunged his hand into his bag, and yanked out the M4. He fired a precise short burst that sent the armor-piercing rounds deep into the android’s chest, causing it to stagger backward.
A woman screamed upstairs.
Patrick fired three more quick bursts into the android, flipping its body backward over the desk beside Ecklund’s lifeless body. It lay still for a moment, then raised its head to contemplate the holes in its chest, revealing shredded secondskin and gray armor. To ensure the android would remain immobile, Patrick stepped over and jammed the rifle against its legs, firing a burst into one leg, then the other, ripping into the artificial muscles, rendering them inert.
To blind the android, he fired into its face, shredding away the secondskin to reveal the metal beneath, and leaving the eyes empty, smoking holes.
Still, Patrick did not hesitate, pitching away the assault rifle, he moved back to his bag and snatched up the Thumper.
The screaming upstairs transformed into sobs, which were overlain with the dual-toned wailing of an approaching siren.
The blinded android began to haul itself up by its arms, quickly pulling itself around the desk toward Patrick, likely tracking his sound. It reached toward him, but Patrick sidestepped what would have been a death grip and backed away to a safe distance. The android pulled itself up into a sitting position, turning its head back and forth, listening, apparently calculating the direction of its next attack.
Patrick yanked the trigger on the grenade launcher. With a hollow thunk, the grenade erupted from the stubby tube and slammed into the android’s chest jerking the machine backward. Recovering its balance, the android slumped forward for another crawling attack.
Patrick dove behind a heavy table just as the ear-splitting blast tore open the android’s chest and vaulted its body into the air, landing it back on the floor, acrid-smelling smoke curling from the wound.
The siren grew closer, and another fainter siren sound rose in the distance.
He only had seconds to determine whether his job was done. He flipped the smoking android over, to discover to his shock that the grenade blast had only shredded the outer layer of the android’s armor. The android’s arms continued to flail, but weaker and less coordinated. Patrick could easily evade their grasp.
This neuromorph would no longer be able to replace the dead Ecklund. But it might well hold key data that had not yet been shared with the others. And Patrick needed to test whether it was even possible to penetrate the armor and destroy the brain.
He returned to his bag, withdrew his last-resort weapon, the small block of ivory-colored C18 plastic explosive with a timer. Evading the clawing hands, he jammed it deep into the android’s chest and pressed the timer button. Its head wobbling, the androids clawed at the explosive charge, but its fingers failed to close enough to grasp and remove it.
He had thirty seconds.
Patrick heard a pounding on the front door and leaped out of the library, down the hall, and out the back door. He had just hurdled the back fence when he heard shouting behind him.
But the thundering explosion drowned out the shouting, blowing out the downstairs walls, sending shards of bricks slamming into fences and neighboring houses.
Patrick sprinted away from the house and the tumult, over to the next block. He sat down on a bench in a garden behind one of the houses, pulled off his sneakers and stripped off the black shirt and pants. He used the shirt to scrub away any smudges on his face. He laced up his sneakers, stood up and jogged away. Now, he was once more the familiar neighborhood jogger. He circled the block back to Ecklund’s street and joined the crowd watching the arrival of fire trucks and the sobbing woman being led to an ambulance for treatment of what looked to be minor cuts.
The fire would be put out soon. The forensics team would move in. They would find Ecklund’s body with three 45-caliber bullets in it. They would find the pistol with his fingerprints on it. There would be no others. Androids didn’t have fingerprints.
They would also find the destroyed android. They would conclude it had obviously been trying to protect its owner from the deranged person, who would be identified as former SEAL, Patrick Jensen.
• • •
“Well, looks like we won’t be doing a replica of the science adviser,” said Mencken, closing the door to his office behind Garry. Outside the glass windows, the cadre of white-coated engineers labored over a dozen replicas—assembling skeletons, stretching secondskin coverings over electrogel flesh, spraying secondskin to seal seams, and touching up the secondskins of inert, naked neuromorphs.
Garry arranged his bulk in a chair and gave Mencken a quizzical look, but said nothing.
“It’s okay. We can talk here. I’ve got a bug detector.” He pointed to a small black box on his desk, with two indicator lights. One glowed green.
“Yeah, I know, microbugs,” said Garry. He decided not to add that he’d used them himself and knew how to render them invisible to Mencken’s detector.
“I haven’t seen evidence that the company uses them, but I’d bet the neuromorphs do . . . y’know, little eyes everywhere. But there ain’t none here.”
“Okay, then, what do you mean there won’t be a replica of the science adviser?”
“His house blew up. He was in it. So was the neuromorph the company gave him. I checked the communication feed, and that unit went dark the same time the house went up.”
“Patrick?”
“Must have been him. We’ve got to get in contact with him. I’m not sure what the hell happened, but he stopped that replacement cold. Dead cold. I’d guess he was able to kill it. We need to know how.”
“Jesus, what do we do until then?”
Mencken checked the box on his desk. The light still glowed green. He leaned over toward Garry. “We’ve both got to do what we can. I’ll try to screw up the replica production . . . or at least slow it down. You’ve got to make goddamned sure the skills algorithm doesn’t work.”
“Yeah, right, and the same thing will happen to me that happened to your friend.”
Mencken’s expression grew grim. “Yeah, yeah, I know the danger . . . but at least you can tweak the code, so it’s suboptimal.”
“Okay, yeah, I do that, and they’ll take a little longer to decide I’m worthless, and a little longer to decide to kill me.”
“Well, then it’s settled,” said Mencken, his voice now tightened with a tinge of fear. “You’ll get me a protot
ype skills algorithm as soon as possible, so we can test it in a couple of Helpers, right?”
“What? What do you—” Garry began, but stopped when Mencken tapped the box on his desk. The indicator light had switched to red. Garry froze, not daring to look around, to betray that he knew he was being monitored. Somehow, a bug had crawled its way into the office! It was transmitting live video of them . . . somewhere! He managed to recover. “Sure. I think I’ve just about got it. I still have to test out the communication interface so the data transmits with no errors.”
“Right,” said Mencken. “That’ll take some time.”
Patrick rose from his seat in the cavernous cargo bay of the C-17 Globemaster, as its ramp ponderously unfolded to reveal the sun-drenched runway of Arizona’s Luke Air Force Base. He took care to remain well out of sight of any drone camera that might be circling overhead. Or, any microbug that might roam the area beside the runway, despite the anti-bug security systems. And of course, he knew that any human might really be a neuromorph, so he eyed the crew suspiciously. The crew also regarded him warily, but said nothing. They knew better. Their lieutenant had told them only that a passenger and vehicle would be on board with the cargo, and that was all they needed to know.
“Get the hell out of here as quick as you can,” said a voice behind him. The clean-cut, muscular young man came up beside him, his gaze fixed on the scene outside the plane. “The cargo master will be here in a minute, and I’d just as soon he not see anything except the stuff I’m supposed to be hauling.”
“Thanks for the ride, Monty,” said Patrick. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you more, but you don’t need to know.”
“Listen, Pat, I had your back all the time we were in the team, just like you had mine. That doesn’t change. Now get the fuck out of here.”
Patrick sprinted down the ramp and onto the runway, heading for his SUV. Behind him, the crew had begun offloading the pallets of airplane parts that were the plane’s official cargo. As he jogged past rows of fighter jets toward the main gate, he instructed his phone to call Leah. They would soon be together.
The Neuromorphs Page 14