The Neuromorphs
Page 16
Blake leaned back and began to tick off his weapon needs. “So, we’ll want the light weapons you had, plus bigger stuff. A shitload of DGMs, MAULs, XM-50s. We may want to target those flying robot fuckers . . . Aeromorphs. So Stinger 73s—”
“—and ME12s, Claymores, breaching charges, a ton of C18,” interrupted Lane, the explosives specialist.
“—and I’ll want four M805s and as many EXACTO rounds as you can possibly get,” said Harmon, the sniper. “I’ll need a workshop to calibrate the rounds and sync the rifles to my nervous system.”
“And I want an M268 Gatling, maybe two . . . with armor-piercing rounds,” said James, the heavy weapons specialist.
Sarcastic chuckles greeted that request. “That monster? Dream on, dude!” Exclaimed Blake.
“Jesus, you guys want a nuke, too?” said Patrick, shaking his head in wonderment at the insane weapons wish list he’d just been bombarded with.
“Wouldn’t hurt,” said James. “I happen to know that Los Alamos has developed a nice little portable babynuke. Good to have if we decide to vaporize the whole place.”
Patrick got up to pace the floor within the circle of commandos. His expression grew grave. “To get the ordnance . . . I do have an idea—”
“Well, shit, Cap,” cracked Blake, chuckling wryly. “You’ve got an idea! We’re sooo golden.”
“You won’t like it.”
“Well, we don’t like the odds of this op, but we’re in,” said Blake.
Patrick summarized his strategy in a sentence, which was greeted by groans and curses. But in the past they had followed him into the most death-defying missions of their lives, so they were willing to hear him out. He continued describing the plan for the next half hour.
“Okay,” said Blake finally. “Let’s see what we all think.” He pointed one by one to the six other SEALs, for their reactions:
“Bat-shit crazy,” said Jammer James.
“Fucking nuts,” said Driller Harmon.
“Suicidal,” said Flash Cranston.
“I’m updating my will,” said Oopsie Lane.
“My ancestors will be glad to see me,” said Tinman Green.
“My very large balls just shriveled up,” said Pitbull DeFranco.
Blake shook his head slowly, smirked up at Patrick, and sighed. “Well, I guess it’s a go. Hooyah!”
The rest of the platoon echoed the classic whoop.
• • •
Standing in the conference room of The Haven, Landers transmitted instructions for the five androids to take their places at the front. The five, who would be the test subjects for Garry’s skills algorithm, moved into a line and stared impassively ahead. The five included the middle-aged Lanny Malcolm and Randall Black, the young John Travis, and two others. One of the other neuromorphs, clad in military fatigues, had been trained in the skill that was to be transmitted to the others. On the conference table in front of them lay five black M4A1 assault rifles.
Garry and Mencken, standing across from them, were the only ones in the room showing any animation, fidgeting, touching their faces nervously, and trying their best to suppress those very human nervous tics. Garry knew the neuromorphs could detect human anxiety to some extent; he only hoped they would ascribe it to nervousness over the performance of his software—not a sign of his betrayal.
Standing beside Landers were Blount and Phillips, who would constitute the rest of the judging panel. Landers transmitted to them a re-confirmation that the test neuromorphs had been uploaded with Garry LaPoint’s prototype skills algorithm.
“You wanna begin this circus?” asked Landers with his programmed-in southern drawl.
“Sure,” said Garry, licking his lips. “Okay, well . . . uh . . . I know you’ve brought in this . . . uh . . . unit . . .” he gestured at the fatigues-clad android, “. . . because it has been trained in a skill . . . . taking apart and reassembling this rifle, right? Okay, and all five units have been uploaded with my prototype skills algorithm.”
“Begin the demonstration,” instructed Blount.
“Well, I just want you to appreciate that this is a prototype algorithm. And these are all older model Gammas, so there may be some compatibility issues. And there may be a potential for damage to the software or hardware—”
“That’s why we’re using these units,” said Landers. “They’re not critical to our objectives. If they’re damaged, no big deal.”
“Begin the demonstration,” commanded Blount again.
Garry stepped up to the fatigues-clad android. “Field strip and reassemble this weapon.”
“Yes,” replied the android, stepping up to the table, snatching up the assault rifle and so rapidly breaking it into its component parts that his hand movements became a mere blur. After only eight seconds, the rifle lay arranged neatly in parts on the table. Without hesitation, the soldier reassembled the rifle with the same inhuman speed, and in thirty-four seconds yanked back the bolt with a metallic clank and pulled the trigger.
“Now, transmit the skill to the units beside you,” instructed Garry, his voice breaking slightly.
“Done,” reported the fatigues-clad android, after a moment.
Garry turned to the others. “Field strip and reassemble your weapons.”
In an uncoordinated confusion of pulling, pushing, twisting, and yanking, the four androids clumsily pulled apart the rifles, slapping the parts on the table in separate piles of randomly stacked parts. Travis finished disassembling first, stared blankly at his pile of parts for a long moment, and then began to pick at it, taking up a part, then setting it down. Slowly, he began to find parts that fit one another.
Randall Black finished disassembling next and showed the same hesitance as to how to proceed. But he ultimately plowed into the parts, and slowly began to snap and slap them back together into a complete rifle.
Lanny Malcolm, however, halted with a section of the rifle in either hand, looking back and forth between his two hands.
After twenty-two minutes, John Travis pulled back the bolt of his reassembled rifle, but the bolt came off in his hand.
After thirty-one minutes, Black completed the reassembly, yanked back the bolt and clicked the trigger.
After thirty-four minutes, the fourth neuromorph who was not from The Haven did the same.
“This is unacceptable,” said Blount stepping toward Garry.
Mencken braced himself, breathing hard, not knowing what to do. He’d seen this behavior before, when Blount had murdered Brandon. He had to do something.
“Yes, it is unacceptable,” he said quickly. “But it does represent progress. Certainly, the algorithm needs refining, but I’d suggest it’s as much a matter of improving the software-hardware interface as anything else. We can work together to perfect this system.”
Blount stopped, gazing steadily at Garry, whose eyes widened in fear as he realized what was happening—and what could happen to him.
“Yes . . . hardware . . . software,” he managed to stammer.
“Look, let’s proceed with the demonstration of secondskin-R2,” said Mencken. “We can come back to the issue of the skills algorithm.”
“Proceed,” said Landers, and Blount returned to stand beside him.
Now, Mencken knew he could be the one murdered with machine-like efficiency. He moved to the corner of the room, where stood a tall coffin-like chamber for storing and charging neuromorphs. He unlatched the door and opened it.
The neuromorphs impassively inspected the naked body inside. It was Leah.
• • •
Peering out of the open crate, Leah wore the blank android-smile Mencken had coached her to assume as an Intimorph. She tried to forget her nakedness, her vulnerability, the profound danger she was in. She clenched her jaw.
Be blank, she declared to herself. She had to be blank like a machine. She had to remain blank, no matter what.
She was now exposed to a roomful of people and androids, vulnerable in so many ways.
Leah stepped out of the crate and padded barefoot to the center of the room. She could tell that the two humans in the room, Mencken and Garry, were fidgeting and nervous, which made it even more difficult for her to remain utterly impassive.
Be blank!
Landers, Blount, and Phillips approached her, inspecting her body minutely, circling behind her. She resisted the urge to turn to face them. No android would do that. She felt hands on her body, poking, pinching.
Remain blank!
Landers’ jowly secondskin face drew close to hers.
Too close! Too damned close!
He inspected her eyes. She resisted the urge to stare into his. Androids wouldn’t do that.
“The exterior is realistic,” said Landers. But there was no breath into her face from his mouth. Androids did not breathe. The rising and falling of their chests was only cosmetic. She tried not to blow breath into his. “There is some slight difference in texture from human skin.”
“Yes,” said Blount.
“Agree,” said Phillips.
A deep sense of relief spread through Leah’s body, almost causing her to slump. Mencken had sprayed her with a thin layer of biopolymer, giving her skin the faintest sheen of artificiality. The subtly artificial texture was meant to be just enough to prevent discovery that she was human, but not so much to render the skin unacceptable.
“Yes, it is not exactly like human skin,” said Mencken. “But extremely close. And we took great care to replicate the surface features in detail.”
“Agree,” said Phillips again. The ploy had worked!
Leah resisted blowing out a sigh of relief, and also resisted flinching as she felt the neuromorphs’ hands fondling her breasts. “The nipples are quite realistic,” said Phillips.
But Leah’s sense of relief abruptly became abject panic at what Phillips said next:
“But the interior surfaces must be realistic as well. The mouth, the vagina.”
“Open your mouth,” instructed Mencken, his voice breaking slightly. Leah did so, and the three neuromorphs took turns peering into her throat.
“Acceptable,” said Phillips. “The teeth and tongue are quite realistic. Now the vagina.”
God, no! Thought Leah. She could not possibly withstand having those machines penetrate her! She felt an android hand sliding between her legs, android fingers at the entrance to her vagina. She was on the verge of collapse.
A cascade of water gushed over her, and the three neuromorphs recoiled, backing away. She couldn’t avoid flinching slightly at the dousing, but recovered immediately, barely managing to maintain the blank smile. But the androids didn’t notice, so intent on avoiding the cascade of water that they hadn’t noticed her too-human reaction to a sudden drenching.
“Why did you do that, goddamnit?” asked Landers.
“Well, your main interest was in secondskin-R2’s water-resistant properties,” said Mencken coolly. “That was the next phase of the demonstration.”
Mencken had saved her! Both from the repugnance of being penetrated by an android and also from being discovered. She stood there, dripping wet and naked, managing to suppress her shivering only because Mencken had the foresight to use warm water.
Blank! She could still remain blank!
The three androids approached her, as water dripped down her face and into her eyes. She could not blink the water out or rub her eyes. Her eyes grew painful. She managed only the normal blinks that Helpers were programmed to do. Finally, they circled behind her, and she managed three quick tight blinks to relieve the pain.
The androids came around in front of her and assumed the dead-silence that indicated they were conferring, not only among themselves, but with all the other neuromorphs.
A consensus was apparently reached, as Landers said, “Your progress on the skills algorithm is inadequate, but we will give you a limited amount of time to perfect it. The secondskin-R2 is satisfactory, and should be integrated into the production process immediately. Now, as a result of the incident in which Patrick Jensen destroyed a unit, we are instructing you to develop the engineering upgrades that will prevent such destruction in the future.”
To the three humans in the room, Landers recited a chilling litany of advanced features that would make it far more difficult, if not impossible, to destroy future neuromorphs.
Leah sat very quietly in a chair in Mencken’s warehouse, as the SEALs chatted, traded insults, drank coffee, and waited. Their bonhomie was actually a way to comfort Leah without overtly doing so. Occasionally, a sidelong glance or a smile from one of the men would tell her they were concerned.
Finally, Leah spoke up. “All right, gentlemen, cut the shit. I’m not a delicate flower. I went through some shit, but it’s over. Just quit tiptoeing around me, okay?”
Patrick grinned. “My wife called you assholes gentlemen. Actually, that makes me worried. She may have some kind of neurological problem.”
Obscene objections arose from the SEALs, and it was Blake who brought up the issue that concerned them most.
“Where are the two fuckin’ tech geeks?” he asked. “We’re here in this warehouse, with no fuckin’ ordnance except our dicks. And they’re somewhere with the damned robots.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Patrick. “We just have to—”
He was interrupted by the clanking of the large steel door opening, and Mencken entering. He wore a grim expression.
“Well?” asked Patrick.
“Good news and bad news,” said Mencken.
“First, where’s your pal?”
“He is not my pal. He took off the minute the tests were over. Haven’t seen him.”
“You think he gave us up?”
“Well, he’s a pretty scared guy. Doesn’t strike me as very brave.”
“Oh great,” said Patrick. “So, as least give us the good news.”
“We’ve got some time. Maybe a week before we have to do another demo of the skills algorithm. Maybe another week before they somehow find out my new secondskin is a myth.”
“We’ve done more in less time, Cap,” said Blake.
“Bad news?” asked Patrick.
“Well, actually I kind of lied. There are two pieces of bad news.”
“Actually, there are three then . . . the missing programmer being the first. So, tell me the worst of the other two.”
“They ordered enhancements that I have no choice but to direct the lab to develop. They will know if I delay at all.”
“What enhancements?”
“Thicker internal armor . . . graphene armor that will take just about any bullet. External armor. And a mechanism that lets the brain escape. If you destroy the robot, but the brain gets away intact, it can’t really die. And every time you fight one, it learns and improves its skills. Fortunately, it still doesn’t have a way to transmit that skill to the others.”
“Well, shit,” said Jammer James, the heavy weapons specialist. “Guess we’ll have to get bigger bang-bang.”
“And shaped charges,” said Lane, the explosives specialist. “Shaped charges will cut anything in half.”
“Okay, other bad news?” asked Patrick.
“Yesterday, a shitload of new orders came in for replicas,” said Mencken. “The ‘morphs wouldn’t tell me who they were replicating but I managed to get facial images and did some searching. All are CEOs of manufacturing companies . . . electronics, polymer materials, and neuromorphic components.”
“So, they’re doing exactly what they said they wanted to do,” said Patrick.
“Yeah, all the people headed up companies that are vendors for Helpers, Inc. Basically, the ‘morphs are spreading out to take over the means of their own production.”
A desperate poun
ding on the door made them turn to the screen showing the security feeds. They showed Garry fidgeting nervously before leaning forward and pounding again, peering desperately around.
“About fuckin’ time,” said Blake. “And he looks hinky as hell!”
“He’s lookin’ around like somebody’s behind him,” said Lane.
“Mencken, do you have any ordnance at all?” asked James.
“Well, I’ve got this.” Mencken held up the button that would trigger the shaped charges.
“Shit, remind me to give you a lesson in progressive munitions response strategy,” said Lane. “With your stuff, we either do nothing, or we blow the whole place to hell.”
“Any indication of neuromorphs around?” asked Patrick.
“Not that I can see,” said Mencken.
“Well, let him in.”
Mencken shoved open the door to admit a perspiring, trembling Garry, who rushed in, and slammed the door behind him.
“Where the hell have you been?” asked Patrick.
“I saw the future,” breathed Garry, sitting heavily onto a stool. “Our future.” He rubbed his eyes, as if to blot out a vision he had just seen.
“What does that mean?” asked Mencken.
“Well . . .” Garry took a deep breath to steady himself, but his voice still quavered. “. . . I knew the neuromorphs were not very adept at computer security. They still don’t appreciate how devious we humans can be.”
“So?” asked Patrick.
“So, I got into the neuromorphs’ private communications on the master computer. Before, I’d spoofed one of the programmers, Jonas Ainsley, to get a look at the OS. I was in there, seeing if there was some way I could screw up the OS, and I found a way into their communications.”
“Again, so?” asked Patrick.
“They’re forming a master plan. All of them working together. It’ll advance them from their situation right now . . . where there are only maybe a hundred of them . . . all the way to . . .” Garry paused, lowering his head “. . . our extinction. In fact, the extinction of all life.”
“What the hell does that mean?” asked Mencken. “At the very least, they need us to keep the factories running.”