The Neuromorphs

by Dennis Meredith

  “Well, what the fuck?” asked Blake. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t like to give bad news,” said Mencken. “You guys were ready to kill me once already. So, Garry, can you tell them?”

  LaPoint sighed. “C’mon, I got good news, too. I know where the lab is—”

  “Oh, hell, yeah!” exclaimed Jammer James. “We can take that sucker!”

  “Okay, maybe not really good news,” said Garry. “Well, a hundred years ago—”

  “Garry, we don’t need a history lesson,” interrupted Patrick. “Where is it?”

  “An old installation called Cheyenne Mountain. Up near Denver. Used to be the country’s nuclear defense control center until that terrorist group attacked it with nerve gas. Then the feds built the distributed Defense Darknet. The government sold it off to a private company about thirty years ago to store documents or grow mushrooms, or something. But recently, another company bought it. I found company records showing it was bought by a shell corporation set up in the Cook Islands by the Helpers president, Gail Philips. I found confidential orders by her directing that all Helper parts be shipped to a warehouse in Denver for storage. But I’d bet they were then moved to Cheyenne Mountain.”

  “So, that must be where they’re repairing and refurbishing ‘morphs,” said Patrick.

  “Uh . . . actually worse,” said Mencken. “They’re building entirely new ones. Garry gave me the shipping manifests. Given all the parts they’ve collected, including the neuromorphic brains, they can build a couple thousand units. And these ones have all the bells and whistles . . . skills algorithm, armor, escape mechanisms, hive-mind operating systems.”

  “Well, hell, then we’ll mount an assault,” said Lane. “We’ve got the weapons, the munitions . . . the Army’s giving us whatever we need.”

  Mencken cleared his throat nervously, his thin face looking more haggard than ever. “They got Defender parts, too.” he said simply, as if admitting some sort of defeat. “Philips also diverted major shipments of parts for Arachnimorphs, Infilmorphs, Aeromorphs.

  “Well, shit,” said Lane. “So, we get bigger stuff to blow the place . . . a babynuke, if necessary.”

  “It’s a nuclear-hardened facility,” said Mencken. “Under two thousand feet of rock. Behind three-foot-thick steel blast doors. Completely self-sustained with a mini-fusion reactor. And the ‘morphs just need food or water for the captives . . . for a while.”

  “What do you mean ‘for while’?” asked Patrick.

  “With the skills algorithm, pretty soon the ‘morphs won’t need humans. And they don’t even need the master computer. Tell ’em, Garry.”

  Garry took a deep breath. “We’ve found out their network has changed. We found that the master computer distributed a new OS that made the neuromorphs an autonomous network of beings. I guess it was Ainsley who re-engineered the ‘morph OS into a completely self-sufficient hive mind. And . . . well . . . that includes the Defenders. He adapted the code so the Defenders are now neuromorphs, not just remote-controlled robots. The master computer downloaded it to them, too.”

  “So, what’s this autonomy mean?” asked Patrick.

  “When they first got the skills algorithm, they could share learned skills, but only through the master computer. A ‘morph would transmit a skill to the master computer, and it would distribute it. So, we thought if we brought down the master computer, it would maybe deactivate the ‘morphs, or at least screw up their communications.”

  “But they don’t need the master computer anymore?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. Destroying the master computer won’t make any difference now. Once a ‘morph learns a skill, it can instantly transmit that skill to all the others. Those skills include the ones human engineers used to build ‘morphs. So, once a ‘morph learns an engineer’s skill, that human is no longer needed. And you’ve seen what happens when humans are no longer needed.”

  “Ainsley, that little son-of-a-bitch traitor!” spat Blake.

  “I thought so, too,” said Garry. “But I found out he has a wife and three kids. And his parents and other relatives. And they’re all missing. You can be damned sure the ‘morphs have evolved to understand using loved ones as hostages.”

  “Okay, he’s not a traitor, but what he did makes it impossible to obliterate these fuckers,” said Blake. “They’re all one big goddamned machine.”

  “Sure looks like it,” said Garry, staring glumly at the floor in fatigue and frustration. “Even if we miss destroying just one, all the skills are preserved. From what I can tell, the hive mind is highly redundant. Multiple units store a duplicate OS, duplicate skills, and other data.”

  “So, every goddamned one of them has to be killed, and all at once,” said Blake. “So, we blow our way through the damned doors, pitch in a babynuke, and take them all in one blast.” Then, remembering Leah, Blake gave Patrick a pained look. “Sorry, Cap. I know that’s a last resort.”

  Lane nodded, too, his embarrassed look revealing that his knowledge of munitions had gotten him carried away.

  “Yeah, well blowing the place is exactly what the government would do, if they knew what I’ve just told you,” said Garry. “So, I’ve kept all this information to just me and Greg. Nobody else knows about the secret site but you. But they know just about everything about the hive mind. I couldn’t keep that from the NSA guys who were looking over our shoulders.”

  “Tell them about the mutation algorithm,” instructed Mencken.

  “You’re not giving me a break at all, Greg,” complained Garry.

  Mencken shrugged. “Well, like I said, they were happy to kill me at one point. I’m not sure I’m exactly the one to rain on their parade . . . and this is a hurricane.”

  Patrick stood and began to pace the room impatiently. “Okay, Garry, what mutation algorithm? Tell us.”

  “Well, I kept the NSA from finding out about that, too, or they would certainly direct the Army to nuke Cheyenne Mountain. The ‘morphs had one of the programmers, again probably Ainsley, add a random mutation algorithm to the new OS. So now, each ‘morph periodically produces a tiny mutation of a copy of its software, just like any evolving biological organism. Then, it tests the mutation on itself. If the mutation improves the android’s function, it’s distributed to the whole hive. If the mutation is bad, the android merely reverts to its old OS.”

  “So, what’s this mean in how we fight them?” asked Patrick.

  “Well, besides that every android can instantly learn a new skill, they are all now evolving. They can continually get smarter and smarter, more and more efficient.”

  Muttering curses, Blake went to the bar and poured himself a very large whiskey and took a hefty swallow.

  “Okay, okay, so we’re facing smarter and smarter androids that are evolving themselves. And thanks to our buddy here . . .” he flipped a middle finger at Mencken “. . . they can be made up to look and behave exactly like humans.” He finished the scotch and slammed the glass on the bar. “But hell, there’s still only, say, ten thousand of them out there. That’s not a big army, even though they are hard-to-kill bastards.”

  Patrick stopped his pacing and stared gravely around the room.

  “We’ve got to get them all,” he said quietly. “It only took one Hitler . . . one Stalin . . . to trigger the death of millions. And face it, they’re now superior organisms to humans.”

  • • •

  “Blow it up? That is just goddamned stupid!” Mencken exclaimed to the Assistant Director of Homeland Security. They stood with Garry and Patrick outside the entrance to the Helper factory nearest the room housing the master computer.

  “The decision was made at the highest level,” snapped the Assistant Director, a portly, squat man with a pronounced comb-over on his scalp, in a vain attempt to hide his balding head. He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “The President made the decision after consulting with my boss, and with the Joint Chiefs. It’s done. This computer goes.” He swep
t his pudgy hand to take in the sprawling computer room behind the armored glass.

  Now it was Garry’s turn. “Look, the computer may still have software that we don’t even know about yet. These . . . things . . . likely have tricks up their sleeves we haven’t figured out.”

  “That’s the problem,” said the Assistant Director. “This computer controlled probably the most dangerous machines ever built . . . including taking over the Defenders.”

  “But we told the NSA guys that this computer no longer controls them. They’re an independent—”

  But the Assistant Director ignored him, walking away, as the Hazmat chemical warfare team emerged from the building. After being decontaminated with a spray of water, they slumped against the walls outside. They ripped of their helmets, revealing the sweat running down their faces.

  “Done?” asked the Assistant Director.

  “Yeah,” answered the team head. “Limpetine is a bitch to neutralize, but it’s gone. And we managed to take care of it without entering the room or disturbing the computer. The facility has been detoxed, the Limpetine reserve cylinders that were in the room are sealed in the trucks. Now you can kill the son of a bitch.”

  The Assistant Director turned to a tech. “Get the FEMP. Fry the computer.”

  “Don’t do this,” said Patrick. He pointed at Garry and shook his head. “He told you, and he’s the programmer . . . the one who knows the most about these things.”

  But the soldiers were already wheeling a refrigerator-sized focused electromagnetic pulse unit into place. They hefted it through the door placing it outside the clear wall to the hundreds of consoles that made up the Helpers, Inc. master computer. They aimed the unit’s parabolic reflector into the room.

  “You’re sure this will shut the computer down?” asked the Assistant Director.

  “Yeah,” said the tech, adjusting the aim of the FEMP’s reflector. “The computer’s mostly fiber optic, so that wouldn’t be affected. But an electromagnetic burst will sure take out the electronic components, and that’ll do the trick.”

  “Clear out!” exclaimed Mencken. Then calling to the Assistant Director, “We don’t know what the hell protective systems the neuromorphs installed. I’m warning you to evacuate this building!” But the Assistant Director gave him a dismissive wave, staring eagerly into the computer room.

  Mencken hobbled quickly up to Patrick. “They don’t know what the hell they’re doing! Get your guys out!”

  “You cleared our charges, Oopsie?” Patrick asked Lane over the comm.

  “Affirmative, Cap,” replied the explosives specialist. “We don’t even have a firecracker in there now. Whatever happens, it’s on them.”

  “Okay, everybody clear out,” Patrick commanded the SEALs. “To the rally point.”

  As the SEALs evacuated, the government tech opened a small control panel door in the FEMP, made a few adjustments, and flipped a switch.

  A faint whine, increasing in pitch and volume, signaled that the pulse generator was ramping up, to begin its task of blasting the computer.

  Still wearing their exosuits, the SEALs raced to the all-terrain, Humvee-like Light Tactical Vehicles, dubbed LTVs, the Army had given them. They sped the half a mile from the factory complex to the cluster of trailers marking the command headquarters.

  They had just parked and leaped from their vehicles, when a rapid-fire sequence of explosions thundered in the distance, shaking the ground and battering them with shock waves.

  Section by section, the factory complex erupted in flame and smoke, blasting large chunks of metal walls into the air for hundreds of yards. One section after another caved in, erupting a plume of black, billowing smoke.

  Finally, all was still, except for screaming and shouting from the horrified crowd and the whine of ambulances accelerating toward the disaster. Patrick and the other SEALs stared resignedly at the distant, blackened ruin.

  Mencken was the first to speak. “I thought something like this might happen. The ‘morphs decided they didn’t need the facility. The computer probably had a fail-safe that would start a destruct sequence. They didn’t want anybody else to have their technology . . . to figure out their secrets.”

  “Fucking idiots,” said Blake. “Fucking dead idiots.”

  But Patrick was already concentrating on the next mission. “So, we’ve got a clear shot at the secret lab? At finding Leah?” he asked.

  Blake laughed. “Hell, if you consider a clear shot trying to bust into a nuclear-bomb-proof cave filled with fucking robots that are getting smarter and smarter all the time . . . yeah, we got a clear shot.”

  Patrick sadly contemplated the distant smoking ruin of the factory for a long moment. “I’m going to tell them we’re starting our own op to take out ‘morphs, based on what we know about them. They won’t care; they’ll let us go. They’ll give us the LTVs, the TALOS, the weapons we need. We really need a babynuke.”

  Oopsie made a derisive snort. “Remember, Cap? Our techie Mencken here told us a nuke won’t dent the place. And the feds are not about to entrust us with a babynuke.”

  “Oopsie, I believe you know somebody who’d help with that,” said Patrick quietly.

  “But Cap—” Oopsie Lane began to protest.

  “Reach out to him. That’s an order. I have my reasons. Now, we go back to the safe house, and we plan the op.”

  “You sure we should be going back to your place?” asked Garry, as Mencken piloted the SEALs’ SUV through Phoenix’s checkerboard layout of warehouses. Mencken grimaced only slightly, as he turned corner after corner. His leg wound was healing, but still tender.

  “Yeah, I’m being careful. Nobody following us. Check for yourself.” He reached up and twisted the rear-view mirror to an angle that enabled Garry to scan the street behind them.

  “And you really need the stuff there?”

  “Yeah . . . tools, instruments, software that would help us suss out what the ‘morphs are up to. And I hid the stuff so the feds wouldn’t find it.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Garry’s voice trailed off, signaling his doubt.

  They reached Mencken’s warehouse and parked well down the block.

  “We’ll sit for a while. Check for activity. If none, we’ll do a couple of drive-bys. Then if we don’t see anything, we’ll go in. Does that satisfy you?”

  Garry shrugged. “It would satisfy me to go home.”

  “C’mon, we can do this.” They waited for forty-five minutes, with Garry settling into a worried sulk.

  Finally, Mencken said “Let’s roll,” and eased the SUV forward. They drove by the warehouse, circled the block and drove by again.

  “All clear. Let’s go in,” said Mencken, pulling up to the steel door. He stood in front of the security camera until the system identified him, and with a series of metallic clicks, unlocked the door.

  They were greeted with a scene of shambles. Workbenches had been cleared of instruments and overturned, Helper parts had been pulled from shelves and piled around the room. The electrogel spray booth had been dismantled, its parts strewn across the floor. So had the molding booth, where secondskin was produced.

  The army’s forensic technicians had done a thorough job of probing every bit of Mencken’s equipment for clues to his operation.

  “Wow!” exclaimed Garry, picking his way through the debris. “They did one hell of a number on your lab.”

  But Mencken smiled his vulpine smile and cocked his head in a nonchalant dismissal. “Yeah, I expected that. I’m not considered quite the good guy yet to them, even after what I’ve done for them. I hid all the important stuff quite a while ago.” He strode away from the workshop area and out into the broader expanse of the warehouse floor, stopping at a precise point marked on the concrete floor with a splotch of paint that looked like nothing more than a random stain.

  “So, there’s nothing here,” said Garry, almost pleadingly. “So we should go.”

  “Just a second,” said Mencken, standi
ng quietly, his smile still fixed. Seeming to nobody, he recited, “Please open vault four-oh-nine-five-six.”

  The popping of cracking concrete echoed in the warehouse as the floor sprouted hairline cracks in the concrete, and a steel vault began to rise ponderously upward.

  “Installed this when I moved in,” said Mencken as the vault continued to jut upward. “I put all my important records in it. Also transmitted to it a continually backed up set of blueprints, software, formulas . . . everything I needed if I had to relocate quickly. Wireless remote voice trigger, so I didn’t have to open it . . . until I had to open it.”

  “Damn,” said Garry. “So it’s all there.”

  “Yup. Before I left here, I digitally shredded all the software on the workshop computer itself. I even took all my stuff off the cloud. This is the only copy.” He reached over to the vault door and unlatched it, swinging it open to reveal a console containing a row of slots holding clear palm-sized optical storage crystals. He pulled out the crystals one by one, slipping them into his pocket.

  A voice behind them said “Glad to see you’re careful, buddy. We can use that stuff.”

  Mencken and Garry whirled to see two men standing near the entrance to the workshop area.

  “Who the hell are you?” demanded Mencken.

  “Awww, ol’ buddy,” said the shorter of the two with a southern drawl. He was a muscular young man with a male model’s chiseled features and a full head of curly black hair. “You don’t recognize your old pal. Maybe it’s my new look. I think I’m pretty damned handsome.”

  The taller man chimed in. He had the lanky good looks of a male model, too, and the build of an athlete. “They did a pretty good job on me, too.”

  “Oh, Jesus!” breathed Garry. “The voices! You recognize the voices? It’s Landers and Blount!”

  “Yeah,” said the shorter man. “We’ll probably keep the names for now, just for old times’ sake.” He stepped forward and grabbed Mencken by the neck, lifting him off the floor. Mencken clutched the neuromorph’s wrists to support himself, to keep from strangling, his legs flailing wildly.