“Tell them again, dammit! Just breaching is not an option! They can’t overpower Landers and Blount. They have to blow the place. Tell them what they’re up against.”
Garry began to explain to Felton about the neuromorphs. He was obviously met with disbelief, because he shouted “It’s true! It’s true!” Over and over to Felton.
Finally, with distant gunfire resounding through the building, Patrick gestured to be connected to the call.
“Look, Garry is right,” he said. “Those two are not human. They’re neuromorphs and they’re practically indestructible. If you just breach, they’ll kill anybody who tries to enter. And they’ll send more Defenders all over hell. I know you’ll have to kill the people inside if you take out that room. But there’s no other way. Take out the whole control center. Do it, or you die. We all die!”
“We understand now,” said Felton. “One of the controllers managed to get a message out. They’ve already killed some, to force the others to make the rest cooperate.”
Just then an Infilmorph rounded a corner and launched a grenade with a hollow thump. It skittered across the concrete floor, exploding beside two soldiers behind an office wall, launching their bodies across the room. Again, the group retreated farther back into the building.
Another round from an Infilmorph made Mencken scream in agony, as the bullet tore a gash in his calf. Patrick dragged him behind a pillar and quickly wrapped the leg with a bandage. A bullet slammed into him, ricocheting off his RheoArmor, but throwing him forward onto the floor.
“Boys, you know what we have to do?” asked Patrick over the comm.
“Well, basically, bring the whole fucking place down around us,” answered Blake over the comm.
Lane answered immediately. “This is Oopsie. I’m planting structural charges.” Patrick knew that Lane had, in fact, been rigging the building all along, just in case.
“Me too,” said DeFranco, the breacher. “I’m at the master computer. It’s set.”
“XM 50 is loaded,” said James, the heavy weapons specialist. “I’m in position to take out the entire production line.” With the grenade launcher, James could launch a rapid-fire volley of fifty fragmentation and incendiary grenades throughout the factory, quickly reloading to launch another volley—if they were not all dead by then.
“I’m hit!” cried Lane. “Leg! Robot’s approaching our position. Should I blow?”
Patrick touched a button on his wrist to bring up Lane’s vital signs data on his helmet display. Lane was basically okay. His armored suit had automatically applied pressure to the wound to slow the bleeding.
“Hold for a countdown,” he instructed Lane. He turned to Garry. “This is it. I hope your guy had the balls to do what was needed. I’m giving the destruct order in ten seconds. We need to complete this mission.”
“But we’ll all—” began Garry, but stopped. The outcome was too obvious to express.
“Countdown,” said Patrick holding up ten fingers. He began ticking them down. “Nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . six . . . five . . . four . . . three . . .”
“DONE! DONE! DONE!” shouted Garry. “THEY’VE BLOWN THE OP CENTER!”
“Cap, the little fuckers have stopped moving!” reported Blake.
“Everybody come back,” asked Patrick over the comm. “Are the ‘bots neutralized?”
Variations on “Hell, yeah!” answered him.
“Then make sure they stay that way.”
Shortly, a succession of booms resounded throughout the vast building, as shaped charges blasted the inert Infilmorphs to scrap.
“Okay, now let’s see what the hell’s been going on in this joint,” said Blake.
• • •
“Eyes open,” warned Patrick, as the platoons of SEALs and soldiers scouted their way into the depths of the factory complex from different directions. “Hold fire unless you see a clean target.”
Patrick knew the command was unnecessary, but Leah might be a hostage somewhere in the building, and he wanted to make damned sure she wasn’t harmed. On the other hand, the haunting image of Cranston being killed drove a cold-blooded need for revenge, even if the enemy were machines.
“Still no ‘morphs,” reported Blake from the far side of the factory floor, two football fields away. “This is goddamned strange.”
“Maybe they’ve retreated behind hostages,” answered Patrick. He, along with Garry, a limping Mencken, and four soldiers made their way along the glass-walled hallway that flanked the assembly line. It was dead still, with a long row of Helpers in various stages of assembly. Their parts hung from feeder lines, poised to be installed.
Mencken stopped and leaned against the glass wall, grimacing from the pain in his leg. “If they’re anywhere, they’re in the lab,” he panted. “It’s just ahead.”
“You two stay back,” said Patrick. He ordered DeFranco to stay at the main computer, ready to detonate his charges if necessary. Distant echoes of rifle fire from the roof told them Harmon was still targeting remaining inactivated Infilmorphs, now lying inertly on the asphalt parking lot.
They reached the lab door and Patrick burst through, taking cover behind a lab bench. The soldiers followed, fanning out, weapons ready, the traumatic memory of their dead comrades still fresh.
All was silent. Patrick waited for some response—gunfire or an assault by neuromorph—but there was none.
“LEAH!” he shouted. No answer. He stood warily scanning the facility, motioning for the soldiers to search the individual offices and lab rooms. He heard a steady succession of “Clear,” as the rooms were entered. Behind him, Blake had arrived, pushing through the door with seven men and beginning their own search.
After long minutes, Patrick heard one of the soldiers call out, and he followed the voice to find two dead engineers, their white-coated bodies broken like rag dolls, eyes staring, necks snapped.
“I know them,” said Mencken, who had hobbled up to the scene. “They’re techs. Junior-level.”
“No other bodies,” reported Blake.
“There were about forty engineers and techs here,” said Mencken. “I’d bet they’ve all been taken. The ‘morphs would need them to repair damaged units and make replicas. My guess is these two were killed as lessons for the others.”
Garry appeared, his face blanching at the sight of the shattered corpses of the techs. He continued to stare at them as he said “I just got word from the Defender center. Landers and Blount survived the explosion and got away. Felton said their skin and electrogel flesh were blasted off, but their armor protected them. They broke through a wall and killed seven soldiers before disappearing.”
“Where would they have gone?” Patrick asked Mencken.
“I’m sure to that secret lab I heard they set up. It would have all the facilities they’d need.”
“Okay, then, let’s get you tended to. And next step, we get Garry to the main computer. He needs to see if he can locate all the ‘morphs and find out what’s going on with their software.” Patrick spoke into the comm to Lane and DeFranco. “Stand down on the munitions. We’ve got the place nailed down. It needs to be preserved. There’s invaluable intelligence here.”
• • •
Garry stood in the Helpers, Inc. computer center, shaking his head, peering through the clear wall at long rows of six-foot-tall, crystal-clear rectangular blocks. Embedded in each huge crystal was an intricate network of optoelectronics, a labyrinth of fibers and circuitry emitting a faint golden glow.
“That’s it?” asked Patrick.
“That’s it,” answered Garry. “Two hundred networked solid diamond quantum computers. And they’re integrated with the self-learning neuromorphs. That’s the master computer.”
“So, can you hack into it, see what the ‘morphs have been up to?”
“Well, hacking into it . . . not likely. They’ve probably closed the back door I used. I also can’t spoof the identity of the programmer, Ainsley, like I did before. They fi
gured that out. And there’s something else . . .” Garry’s head-shaking became more emphatic.
“What?”
“Well, I haven’t been down here for a while. So, I didn’t know they’d made the room blast-proof. This wall is made of ArmorClear.”
Garry next pointed at an airlock into the huge computer room and then at rows of nozzles along the ceiling. “When the ‘morphs took control of the company, I’d heard they were doing stuff like this.”
“Like what?” asked Patrick.
“Installing protective measures,” said Mencken coming up beside them. “Those nozzles are gas ports that sprayed nerve gas into that room, probably Limpetine. See, they can send ‘morphs in there to do any maintenance. And the robots aren’t bothered by the nerve gas. But it makes damned sure no human messes with the hardware.”
“And we can’t just somehow decontaminate the place?” asked Garry.
“No way,” said Patrick. “We were briefed on dealing with Limpetine. And the basic rule we learned is that you don’t. It’s a devil’s brew. It’s made up of airborne particles that stick to surfaces. And it’s incredibly long-lived.”
“Can we just unplug the computer?” asked Mencken.
“It has a backup power source, or at least enough battery power to enable it to make some major mischief,” said Garry.
“So, what do you make of all this?” asked Patrick.
“Look . . .” said Garry. “. . . this whole system . . . this whole factory . . . you have to consider it an intelligent entity. The armored room, the gas . . . that means it’ll protect itself.”
“So, we can’t just blow up the computer, for example?” asked DeFranco, who had joined them.
“No way,” said Patrick. “It would unleash a nerve gas cloud that would kill everybody in Phoenix. And since it’s persistent, Phoenix would be unlivable for years.” He turned to Mencken and Garry. “Look, you two do what you need to, to get the information we need. We’ll worry about taking out the computer.”
“You know we’re walking on eggshells here,” said Mencken, and Garry nodded in assent. “Since that thing on the other side of the wall is intelligent, it will be watching for any intrusion.”
“Well, just stay invisible,” said Patrick.
Their faces grim, Mencken and Garry disappeared into the nearby console room.
• • •
For the next week, Mencken and Garry all but confined themselves in the room housing the computer console. They emerged only to use the bathroom. The SEALs stacked field rations in the room, but the two ate little. They spent the time either staring blankly into space through their googles, or waving their hands as they tried to navigate their way ever-so-covertly through the three-dimensional virtual jungle of software in the master computer. Or, they gingerly manipulated the multitude of buttons and joysticks in the consoles, seeking some insight into what was going on in the computer’s vast neuromorphic “mind.”
The only interruption was by a cadre of National Security Agency cyberwarfare experts. They arrived in force, declaring that they were taking over the analysis of the computer.
Mencken and Garry argued that they would face no ordinary computer, but a huge, sentient neuromorphic complex. One false move and it would become aware of the attempts to glean its secrets. And nobody knew what the consequences would be.
One horrific scenario was that they could easily trigger the release of God-knows-what software onto the world, should they blunder into a system they didn’t know the first thing about. To illustrate the military consequences, Mencken showed virtual viddie of the havoc the Defenders and the replicas had wrought. Then he told them of the potential for unleashing an immense, lethal cloud of nerve gas that would wipe out all of Phoenix.
The NSA experts retreated, deciding that letting the two fools take the lead was probably best for their careers. They settled outside the console room to wait for any developments.
As the SEALs shared their knowledge of the neuromorphs, bedlam erupted throughout the world. They gave a virtual briefing to the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Interpol, and the Department of Homeland Security on the threat. They showed a virtual tour of the factory, along with viddie from their violent battles with the neuromorphs.
They emphasized the grave danger posed by the possibly tens of thousands of lethal, mutant neuromorphs disguised as benign Helpers. And worse, they warned of the replicas that may have infiltrated government, the military, and law enforcement.
When they finished each briefing, the reaction was invariably shocked silence, followed by an eruption of epithets not usually uttered in formal meetings of high-level leaders. The Secretary of Homeland Security immediately issued an order to deactivate or destroy all Helpers.
“Every last goddamned one, in every last home and business in the country,” he had commanded.” Similar orders were given around the world.
In the US, the Chief of the National Guard Bureau ordered mobilization in all fifty-two states to aid destruction of the Helpers.
As soon as news of the renegade androids exploded in the media, all Helpers became the objects of mass destruction. Calls flooded in from owners asking for help destroying them.
Some owners took matters into their own hands. In Memphis, a man gave his Helper a routine order to clean the house. The owner then lit a candle, turned on the gas stove and left. Thirty minutes later, the house exploded in a fiery blast. Combing through the wreckage, firefighters found the charred remains of the Helper. It was determined that the Helper had not been infected by the mutant OS.
A case in Los Angeles, however, did show the danger from the Helpers. A mutant Helper attacked its owner, the Chief of Police, who managed to escape to his SUV. The Helper pursued him to the driveway, ramming its arm through the windshield in an attempt to tear its owner’s head off.
Evading the Helper’s grasp, the chief drove three blocks with the Helper on his hood until he reached a concrete pillar of the Santa Monica Freeway. He rammed the pillar, crushing the legs of the attacking android. He then got out of the SUV, dragged the flailing android to the center of the lane and ran over it five times with the SUV until he was satisfied that it had been reduced to inert scrap.
The Army Chief of Staff also immediately ordered that all Defenders be destroyed, as well, to avoid the possibility that their military operating systems might be infected by the mutant neuromorph OS.
The most urgent hunt was for replicas in high posts. A tip from a suspicious lieutenant led soldiers to surreptitiously search the Georgetown townhouse of the Under Secretary of Defense for Technology. They discovered a Helper charging chamber.
That day, the Under Secretary was invited to attend a meeting at Aberdeen Proving Ground. He entered an isolated building at the proving ground to find Army demolitions specialists, who slapped a shaped charge onto his chest and bolted from the building. The blast shattered his body, splattering the walls with the translucent goo of electrogel and shredding his RheoArmor.
The blast triggered its neuromorphic brain to erupt from the chest and sprout legs. But before it could scramble away to safety on the spider-like appendages, the demolition team managed to stick on a second charge that blew it into shiny black shards.
Unfortunately, the Under Secretary replica apparently transmitted a warning message to other replicas, because after its destruction, no other neuromorph replicas were discovered. Those that were in place had apparently become far more careful . . . and thus far more dangerous.
Over the next week, news reports concluded that, although many mutant Helpers had been destroyed, hundreds had escaped and were at large. However, most of the experts appearing on the news reassured the public that since the machines could need recharging, many would simply run out of power after about a week.
After giving their briefings, Patrick and the other SEALs paid little attention to the tumult going on around them. Their first days were a time of mourning for their two lost comrades, Andy Green and Keshawn Crans
ton. The funerals of the two men honored their sacrifice and consoled their families. But for the SEALs, the ceremonies were like the tempering process that hardens steel. Their resolve was absolute, unbreakable. They would honor their lost brothers by obliterating the malevolent machines that had murdered them.
Now was the time for that mission.
• • •
“So, how many discharged ‘morphs did they find?” asked Patrick.
The SEALs sat around on the sofas and chairs in the safe house outside Phoenix. Its shattered windows, broken furniture and bullet-riddled walls reminded them what they were up against.
“Only three,” answered Blake, shaking his head. “That’s it. That’s all. The FBI, National Guard . . . everybody’s been searching for the rogue robots. But we told ’em the ‘morphs wouldn’t be found that easily.”
“Yeah, the brass just can’t get it through their heads that the ‘morphs share data instantly,” said Patrick. “So every escaped unit knows instantly where every charging chamber is and how to sneak in and get charged. And since they can travel without the need for food or water, they can steer clear of the places the cops usually find fugitives.”
“So, it looks like we’re going to be the main ‘morph hunters,” said Blake. “Just our little bitty group.”
“Yeah, Needle, I know the whole country’s looking for these things. But nobody’s come up against them like we have. And we have a score to settle. And, there’s Leah.”
The group silently nodded, aware of their leader’s anguish.
“I’ve canvassed everybody involved in the search . . . NSA, FBI . . . ,” said Patrick, rubbing his face tiredly. “And there’s still no clue to the location of the secret lab.”
A car pulled up outside the house, and Mencken and Garry hauled themselves out. Mencken looked haggard, still limping from his wound. But it was Garry’s face stubble, unkempt hair, and sagging face that told of his grueling past week spent in the darkened, ever-more-fragrant control room of the master computer.”
Both of them came in and slumped into chairs.
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