The Neuromorphs

by Dennis Meredith

  They had arrived on foot hours earlier, and remained absolutely motionless, absolutely silent for those hours, watching, listening. Their training enabled such extraordinary patience, as did their understanding of the tactical value of such patience. Not with them were Blake, Harmon, Lane, and James.

  A faint rustle of brush thirty yards away to the left caught their attention. Patience rewarded. One of the SEALs crept away toward the sound. After twenty-two minutes, from that direction came a grunt and the soft thump of a body hitting the ground. Two faint snaps of twigs transmitted the subtle signal that the foray had been successful.

  From across the road came the sound of two men whispering. Two other SEALs stole silently across the road and eight minutes later, the sounds of thrashing bodies penetrated the darkness . . . the sounds of brush being cracked and crushed. Silence again. Two telltale twig snaps.

  Patrick heard the faint crunch of footsteps on desert sand to his left, about ten yards away. It was his turn. He backed slowly farther into the brush, taking exquisite care not to disturb as much as a pebble. He slowly made his way to the left, until he saw the glow of a crouching body in his night vision, its back to him. The man was also wearing googles, no doubt giving him night vision. He turned his head back and forth. But as with the other intruders, he would need more than simply being able to see his surroundings. Patrick brought up his pistol and fired. The faint poof of the dart gun made the man jerk to attention, but he was not quick enough to evade the dart that buried itself in his back. He thrashed about, trying to pull it out, but finally collapsed in a heap. Patrick reached up and grabbed twigs, snapping them between thumb and forefinger.

  They waited another half hour, until the blackness gave way to the glow of approaching headlights, and the desert stillness was broken by the sounds of truck engines.

  Three large trucks followed by two SUVs roared into sight, halting with the creaks of heavily loaded springs. Floodlights from the SUVs banished the darkness, and Patrick stowed his googles, stood up, and stepped into the road.

  “Only you have come?” asked Anatoly Fyodorov hauling his bulk down from the lead truck and into the glare.

  Patrick disappeared into the brush and reappeared dragging the body of the man he had tranquilized. “Fortunately, you made sure I had company,” he said.

  The three other SEALs appeared, dragging three more unconscious bodies, pitching their inert forms onto the road.

  Fyodorov inspected the bodies impassively. “Dead?” he asked.

  “No, drugged. You were attempting an ambush?”

  Fyodorov shrugged. “Contingency planning.” He gestured to the other SEALs. “So, there are now only five of you? That is not many.”

  “There are others. With sniper rifles. We do contingency planning, too.”

  “And they will shoot us? It will be messy on both sides.” He gestured at the SUVs, from which emerged eight men armed with assault rifles.

  “Perhaps. But it will be quick.” Patrick coolly surveyed the armed men, who were fanning out on either side of the road. “I’d say under a minute . . . with you first. My men are quite motivated to kill you.”

  “Why?” asked Fyodorov.

  “You damned well know why. By the methods you used to procure the weapons. The fine soldiers you killed.”

  “Necessary for what you wanted.” Fyodorov shook his head in feigned sadness. “We did bring all the weapons you wanted. All except soldier suits.”

  Patrick gave a signal, and the three SEALs shoved their way past the gangsters and climbed into the trucks. After tense minutes, they reappeared and gave thumbs-up signals.

  “Okay, looks like the shipment is what we specified,” said Patrick. “But we still have more checking to do. If we’re as much as a bullet short, you’ll have more trouble than you thought possible. Leave the trucks. Get in your vehicles and go. We will agree not to kill you . . . for now.”

  “And you will agree to use those weapons to avenge my son . . . avenge all the others. To destroy those machines.”

  “We still have that mission in common. But only that mission.”

  “But then you will come after us?”

  “That is a pledge I made to my men, to myself.”

  “Why do you not just kill us all now? You have weapons you wanted.”

  “Not optimally strategic,” answered Patrick. “Besides, I doubt all those are here who should be killed.”

  Fyodorov chuckled darkly. “Well, I have survived until now.” He gestured to the SUV, and the gnome-like man appeared with his tablet computer. Patrick took the tablet and transferred the remaining money owed the Russians.

  Fyodorov then muttered a command in Russian, and the drivers descended from the trucks and carried their unconscious henchmen to the SUVs. The Russians all climbed into the SUVs.

  Fyodorov was the last to get in. He turned to Patrick, smiling sardonically. “Who knows? Perhaps you will come to realize the wisdom and necessity of my actions. Perhaps in all this, we might turn out to be comrades.”

  “Fuck you,” said Patrick.

  • • •

  “Stuff is happening!” The terse text message from Garry flashed onto Patrick’s googles, as he followed the weapons-laden trucks back to the safe house in an SUV.

  “What stuff?” texted Patrick back.

  “Can’t say now. Can U come get me? I need to get out!”

  “No. Stay. We’ll come talk. Can U exit facility?”

  Patrick turned to Harmon, the sniper, who was driving the SUV. “LaPoint’s got information. We need to figure out what the hell is going on.”

  “You can’t call him?” asked Harmon.

  “We need to see him in person. Make sure they haven’t captured him. The guy is pretty fragile.”

  “So, then, what?” asked Harmon.

  “Head for the Helpers complex. We’ll figure something out.”

  As Patrick notified the others to take the trucks and other SUV to the safe house, Harmon navigated toward Phoenix and Helpers, Inc.

  He quickly called Blake, who had stayed at the safe house to organize unloading the weapons and monitor the house’s security system. Blake had insisted on staying behind, declaring that he would otherwise kill “every one of those murdering bastards,” the minute he had the chance.

  “I’m sending the trucks to you. Is the house secure?” he asked Blake.

  “I’m in the control room,” said Blake. “Nothing on the infrared cameras.”

  “Okay, listen. I’m going to Helpers, Inc. to get Garry. We may have been compromised. If we get into a situation, I don’t want to worry about Leah. Get her out now.”

  He disconnected the call and immediately called Leah, telling her of the possible danger, that he loved her; that he needed her to get out.

  “No,” she said with a stubborn finality. “I’m staying with you. We’re in this together.”

  “Sweetheart, it’s not just that you’d be safer out of the line of fire. You’ll give us a mobile recon capability.”

  Lisa chuckled. “Dear, don’t try to bullshit me with your military jargon.”

  “Okay, that’s jargon, but it’s true. If you’re out there, you can do things we won’t be able to, if we’re under attack.”

  “All right. I’ll get out. But I’ll want a reward later. And I don’t mean a medal.”

  “I love you,” he said.

  “I love you, too, General Patrick.”

  “You know the Navy has admirals.”

  “Okay, Admiral Patrick. See you.”

  Patrick had decided on a plan, texting Garry, “Can U exit facility without being missed.”

  “Think so,” came the instant reply. “But I need to get out. I’m sure I’m in danger!” He named a street intersection near the Helpers, Inc. complex as a rendezvous point.

  Within thirty minutes, Harmon had eased the SUV down a darkened alley at the designated intersection.

  Garry emerged from the gloom and leaped into the back s
eat, hunkering down, panting with fear.

  “Get me out! Get me out of here! They must know!”

  Patrick joined him in the back seat, as Harmon pulled away. Then to Harmon: “Any microbugs?” Harmon checked the detector beside him on the console and shook his head.

  “Calm down, Garry,” he said. “Just take a breath. How would they know?”

  “Ainsley. Blount asked him to poke around in my skills algorithm. I’d bet he found out how I’d crippled it. He’s told Blount. Either Ainsley still thinks Blount is human, or he’s working for them. I don’t know which.”

  “Look Garry, we’ll take you out if you’re sure they’re onto you. We’ve got a safe house.”

  “Don’t be so sure. I intercepted a communication about some kind of deployment, but I couldn’t get details. They’re sending out their new models. It may be to find you. The new models have better armor, enhanced weapons capability. Oh yeah, and an escape mechanism for the brain.”

  “Escape? How?”

  “Not sure. Mencken knows. But I haven’t been able to see him. They’ve kept me in the programming area. Y’know, he said he was going to screw up the replica production . . . but . . . well, he apparently didn’t. I found out he perfected the new secondskin. He’s overseeing installation of all the upgrades. Replicas are being produced as fast as they can make them. All kinds of top people.”

  “The bastard!” exclaimed Patrick.

  “I knew we couldn’t trust him,” said Harmon. “We all did.”

  “Okay, Garry, I know this is a lot to ask,” said Patrick. “But we need you to go back in. Act as if nothing has happened. Remember, you’re human. You can lie. And remember what’s at stake.”

  Garry began to recover himself. “Yeah, yeah, I have to remember. I know their programming. They’re not good at detecting lies if I’m convincing. It’s just I’ve spent my whole life keeping my head down. I’ll go back in.” He opened the SUV door, then turned back.

  “Oh, I should tell you. There’s something else going on with making the replicas.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I poked around in the administration communications. There was a message from Gail Phillips to Mencken. Phillips told him to transport some key people to a high-security facility outside headquarters, where they were going to build more replicas. The message told Mencken not even he could go there. Blount was to oversee it. I’d bet they’re building replicas of people so famous they didn’t want anybody in the factory knowing about them.”

  “Like who, do you think?”

  “Maybe they’re doing top political leaders, military brass, and so forth.”

  “That’s scary as hell,” said Harmon.

  “Well, that facility has to be our next target,” said Patrick. “After we get Mencken, the son-of-a-bitch. Can you locate him for us?”

  “I’ll try. I’ll figure out a way.” Garry glanced nervously around, then exited the SUV and hurried away into the blackness of the alley leading to the Helpers complex.

  During the ride back to the safe house, Patrick called Leah. He sighed in relief when she answered as if nothing were going on.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Great! I assume you’re mobile.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Well, stay that way. I’ll give you the all clear if the safe house isn’t compromised.” He felt relieved enough to try a joke. “And I hope you have a fork.”

  “No, but I’ll get one.”

  He ended the call, mostly relieved, but with a nagging uneasiness. She sounded stiff, formal, like perhaps she was under duress. Of course, she was under duress! She was driving around alone, largely defenseless, not sure whether she would suddenly be attacked!

  It was three a.m., still hours before sunrise, when he drove beyond the lights of Phoenix into the mountains and down the dirt road to the safe house.

  They reached the compound, and the massive steel gates swung open to admit them. Patrick eased down the long driveway and pulled the SUV up beside the trucks and other SUV in the large parking area at the side of the house.

  He joined Blake inside at the security console. “Any problems?”

  “Nope. The boys just about have the ordnance functional. We’ll know for sure when we start pulling triggers.”

  “Well, Garry told us that neuromorphs are being sent out on a mission, probably to find us. So keep sharp.”

  “Remember my name, Cap?” asked Needle Blake wryly.

  Patrick clapped him on the back and joined the others to help unpack and check the weapons, disassembling and reassembling them and loading them. After a while, he decided to check back with Blake.

  “Any sign of perimeter incursions?”

  “Nah. IR sensors are showing a few small animals at the fence.”

  A faint sense of unease haunted Patrick. Humans would show a considerable heat signature; small animals a much fainter one. But what about robots? Maybe the motors powering them would emit faint heat radiation. What would their signature look like?

  He was still pondering the question, as he joined Tinman Green outside, to help unload final boxes of ammunition from the truck.

  “Everything there?” asked Patrick.

  “As far as we can tell,” said Green, hoisting the ammunition box off the truck. “Those Russian bastards even got us—”

  The crack of a rifle shot exploded from the woods and Green’s torso burst nearly in half, shredded by an explosive round. He collapsed, his blood and tissue soaking the gravel drive, his expression blankly uncomprehending his death.

  “WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!” bellowed Patrick, dropping to the ground beside Green’s inert body, as more rounds slammed into the truck inches from him and erupted the gravel around him. He knew Green was dead, but he checked anyway, and dragged his body out of the line of fire. He would mourn his comrade’s violent death later. Now, his training drove him to action.

  From the house erupted answering fire, as the SEALs zeroed in on the shooters in the darkness beyond the fence.

  The grounds’ floodlights switched on, bathing the fence line in a glare that revealed a dozen neuromorphs with rifles, all of which quickly retreated back into the brush, still firing. Patrick could make out that several of the fence’s steel bars had been cut out, leaving gaps for what would surely be a breach.

  The short bursts of gunfire from the SEALs’ assault rifles were punctuated by the steady sharp crack of Harmon’s sniper rifle, sending precisely aimed guided rounds into the brush. Several rounds produced fiery flashes, indicating they had hit targets.

  Patrick ducked into the house, taking up a position at one of the upstairs windows, grabbing a sniper rifle, adding his fire to the others’.

  From the brush came the hollow thunk of grenades being launched. Grenades landed in the courtyard, a billowing, white smoke expanding to obscure the view of the fence.

  “Get the XM-50 ready, and a Gatling” commanded Patrick.

  He heard affirmative replies in his ear, as James readied the grenade launcher and another SEAL took up a Gatling gun.

  “Hold a sec, Cap!” exclaimed Blake, who still manned the control room. “I got a heat signature, comin’ through the fence. Looks human.”

  “Hold fire,” replied Patrick, and the shooting stopped, leaving only the desert silence.

  The smoke began to clear enough to see a figure emerging—a slim, young woman in a short cotton dress, barefoot, running toward the house. She had dark hair and a slight smile on her face.

  “A hostage!” shouted James. “She must have escaped!”

  “C’mon sweetheart!” exclaimed Harmon. “Get in here! You’ll be safe!”

  The other SEALs urged her on, and she continued sprinting forward.

  “I’m opening the door,” said Lane. The sound of the door being unlatched rose from the front of the house.

  With a loud crack, a sniper round from Patrick’s rifle slammed int
o her chest, slamming her back onto the ground.

  “JESUS CHRIST, YOU KILLED HER!” shouted Lane. He leaped from the doorway toward the body.

  “Back in the house, Oopsie!” commanded Patrick.

  “Cap, she may be alive!”

  “She never was!” shot back Patrick.

  “Jesus!” exclaimed Lane as the woman stirred and pushed herself up to a sitting position, her chest smoking. The hole blasted in her chest revealed an underlying lead-gray layer of armor. Her face still wore the same blank smile. She stood up and continued to stride toward the house.

  Another round from Patrick’s rifle drove her back her again. “I’ve seen this before,” he said. “It’s an Intimorph. It has warm skin, like a human’s. This one’s armored. It can’t be allowed to get in the house.”

  Bursts of gunfire slammed into the android, shredding away the dress, leaving tatters of fabric and flapping shards of secondskin, revealing the translucent electrogel beneath. Still, the android continued to recover itself and move forward. Now, all its skin was blasted away, leaving only pockmarked armor. Half the face had been blown off, showing the metallic jaw beneath. The scalp had been ripped away, showing the black graphene skull.

  The bursts of fire had reduced the android to a limping mass of machinery, but still advancing.

  “The XM-50! The Gatling!” Exclaimed Blake.

  “Lemme blast the bitch!” shouted James, who was manning the Gatling.

  “Hold fire!” commanded Patrick. “I just realized. This was recon. The machines want to know what weapons we have. So, hold fire.”

  The SEALs instantly complied, and the firing stopped.

  And so did the neuromorph. It stood still, its shredded body resembling a collection of smoking, shattered metal parts, rather than a human mimic. A faint whine emanated from its body. It turned its back to the house.

  With a dull thump, a black sphere erupted from its chest arcing away toward the fence for several yards, landing and rolling to a stop. The android collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been snipped.

  “What the fuck!” exclaimed several of the SEALs simultaneously.

  “It’s the brain!” shouted Patrick. “Target it!”