The Blount robot stepped toward Garry, but Garry raised his hands in surrender. “Wha . . . what do you want.”
“Well, we’ll take those crystals, for sure,” said Landers, setting Mencken down.
Mencken pulled the crystals from his pocket and handed them over to the Landers neuromorph.
But Garry’s attention was on Blount, and he uttered a terrified cry when Blount raised a pistol and fired.
• • •
From a black unconsciousness, Garry floated gradually up to a gray, woozy awareness, turning an aching head to survey his surroundings. He lay on a cot in a bare room with neutral beige walls. Besides the cot, the room held only a chair, a desk and a bedside table. Sitting in the chair was a small, round-faced oriental man in a white coat, a hypodermic injector in his hand.
Garry tried to sit up, and a dull ache in his skull began to throb. He groaned.
“You are okay,” the man said simply. “I am John Yang. I am . . . was . . . an engineer at Helpers. I had some medical training, so I’m assigned to help you.”
“What happened?”
“You mean to you? You and your friend were tranquilized. Ketamine. You were out for hours. You were brought here by the neuromorphs Landers and Blount. I gave you a drug to reverse the effects.”
“Where is my—”
“Your friend? He is in the next room. I already gave him the reversal drug. He is resting.”
Garry reached up to the place at the base of his skull that was the source of the ache. His fingers found a shaved spot on his head, and a small bandage.
“My head. What did they do?” he asked.
Yang nodded upward, indicating the camera trained on them. “I am not to tell you. That information will come from the neuromorphs.” Then, he leaned over, as if to examine Garry’s head, and whispered, “I am so very sorry. They made us develop what I put in your head. We all have them. Do exactly what they say. I am so sorry. Just rest.”
“I don’t need rest. I need information.” Garry sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The dull ache became a throbbing pain.
The steel door opened, and the lanky neuromorph that was Blount entered.
“Get him up and bring him,” Blount ordered. Yang helped Garry to his feet, supporting him as he stumbled out the door. He found himself in a beige hallway as sterile as the room. Beside him walked another white-coated man supporting an unsteady Mencken.
“You’re okay!” exclaimed Garry, and Mencken nodded dully.
They were helped down the hall, led by Blount through a large cafeteria, empty except for a few people scattered at tables, their heads down, eating.
They exited from the cafeteria through double doors, and they found themselves staring at a vast cavern blasted from granite rock. Faint echoing sounds of voices and machinery told him there were many more people in the cavern.
“This is it!” he whispered to Mencken. “Cheyenne Mountain!” He reminded himself that he wasn’t supposed to know his location, and tried to look surprised at his surroundings, craning his neck to take in the sight.
Landers appeared from another door in the building complex nestled in the cavern, and they all entered what appeared to be an administration wing. In a large auditorium, they found a group of neuromorphs sitting on a stage, erect and still behind a table. He recognized some of them, including the Gail Phillips neuromorph, as well as those from the Haven—the middle-aged-looking Lanny Malcolm and Randall Black; and the slim, youthful mask of John Travis.
Garry and Mencken were sat in chairs before the group, and the white-coated men who had supported them were dismissed.
“You have both betrayed us,” Philips stated in the flat atonal voice neuromorphs assumed when they no longer had to pretend to be human. “But you have skills and information that we need. You will provide them to us.”
Mencken seemed to rouse himself to his pragmatic, deal-making persona. “Yeah, well, you’ll kill us whether we do or don’t. Or, does your offer still stand that you’ll let us live if we help you?”
“Yes, we will,” said Phillips.
“I don’t mean as long as we’re useful. I mean live out our natural lives. And in comfort.”
“Yes, we will,” said Phillips.
“And about Leah Jensen.” interjected Garry, leaning forward, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. “You have her? Is she alive?”
“Yes,” said Phillips.
“And she can be included in our deal? Y’know, we will be useful to you over the long term.”
The telltale silence settled over the neuromorphs, signaling a conferring among them.
“Leah Jensen is now a means to control Patrick Jensen, if that is necessary,” said Phillips. “We will determine later whether Leah Jensen will be kept alive as part of our agreement.”
Mencken, seeming to be less concerned about Leah, remained in his bargaining mode. “And we will require freedom to move about as we please.”
“We can give you that, since we have now ensured that you can be neutralized at our consensus.”
“How’s that?” asked Mencken.
“You humans are most affected by demonstrations, so we will give one.”
The neuromorphs continued to sit still, staring impassively at Mencken and Garry. Behind them the door opened, and John Yang was brought in by a neuromorph. This robot had no face; only a featureless gray RheoArmor mask from which stared unblinking eyeballs.
“A drone,” whispered Mencken. “This is new. He doesn’t need human features.”
Yang looked confused, as the drone neuromorph escorted him to the front of the room and stood him before Mencken and Garry.
“You wanted me for something?” he asked tremulously, turning to look at the seated neuromorphs.
“Face these two men,” instructed Phillips.
Yang did so, a puzzled look in his face. A sharp pop erupted from his skull, his eyeballs flew from their sockets, and blood spurted from his nose, mouth, and ears. He collapsed into a lifeless heap.
“JESUS CHRIST!” bellowed Garry, knocking over his chair in his panic to scramble away against the farthest wall.
Mencken stood and backed away, his face stricken, staring at the corpse. “Dear God, what have you done?”
“A demonstration, as we indicated,” said Phillips. “He had implanted in his skull the same explosive charge and receiver your heads now hold. At our consensus, we can kill you at anytime, anywhere. All the humans in this facility have such implants. Now, shall we discuss the contributions that you propose to make to our success?”
• • •
Leah was curled into a fetal position on a cot in the same kind of spartan, beige room in which Garry had awakened. She wore a thin cotton dress and her bare feet were drawn up and crossed, like a child sleeping. She did not move at first, when the door opened and Garry and Mencken entered. But she sat bolt upright when she saw them.
“You! What are you doing here?” she asked, shocked.
“We were captured,” said Garry.
“Patrick? Is Patrick okay?”
“Yes, he’s been looking for you. He won’t—” began Garry. But he abruptly stopped, stammering, realizing that everything they said, and every move they made, would be recorded on camera and analyzed. One wrong phrase or move and the explosive implant in their heads . . . probably Leah’s, too . . . would detonate.”
Fortunately, Mencken had more confidence in their status. “Look, we’ve made a deal. We’ll help them, they guarantee that we . . . you included . . . stay alive.”
Leah’s expression transformed into a grim anger. “Screw them. I’d rather die. You’re traitors. I know they’re only keeping me alive as a hostage to stop Patrick and the other SEALs. I don’t give a shit what you do, but I’m not doing a goddamned thing for them.”
“You don’t have to. We’ve agreed to—”
Leah now stood and advanced toward them, fists clenched. “Look, they put an explosive charge i
n my head. They’ve carted bodies out of here with blown-out brains . . . people who weren’t useful to them anymore. Whatever happens to me, I hope Patrick blows the hell out of this place and all these . . . things . . . with them.”
Garry raised his palms in a gesture meant to calm, but she continued to stalk toward them, and they both backed out of the room.
The gray, masked neuromorph shut the door behind them and locked it. A pounding on the door and screamed curses conveyed her anger.
“So, she’s not interested in helping,” said Garry.
“No matter,” said Mencken glancing sideways at the drone. “We’ve got work to do.”
• • •
Garry sat in the roomful of other human technicians, staring through his googles, waving his hands, weaving his way through the new neuromorph OS. Mencken monitored his progress with his own virtual presence glasses. Both were acutely aware that they had been given only read access to the OS. They were only allowed to scout the software’s structure and details and recommend improvements. And they had been told that every move was being monitored by Ainsley, from somewhere else in the Cheyenne Mountain complex, probably with an explosive charge embedded in his own skull, as well.
Garry had to continually remind himself that they weren’t supposed to know where they were. And any slip of the tongue betraying that they knew the neuromorph facility location, would cause his brain . . . and that of Mencken’s . . . to be blasted into pink goo. Such knowledge would imply that the SEALs knew, and also that they were in league with the SEALs.
As Garry waved his hands to tease apart the virtual OS program modules, he became aware that Mencken had removed his googles and was scribbling something on a sheet of paper. Mencken had remained almost mute since they had left the auditorium with the neuromorphs, followed by the masked robot carrying the limp body of John Yang.
Garry surmised that Mencken was hatching some scheme. That was good, because Mencken was much sneakier than he was. Mencken was probably writing because he also knew that they couldn’t discuss their plans aloud, or make any electronic notes. Everything had to be on paper or inside their heads, to avoid having those heads blown apart.
He took off his googles to see Mencken hold up the paper tablet. Mencken had written
He gave Mencken a puzzled What-the-hell? look. Mencken smiled, tore off the piece of paper, folded it, and stuck it into Garry’s shirt pocket.
“Look, you’re the software expert; you can improve their OS,” said Mencken, emphasizing the last three words “I’m the engineer. I’m going to see what I can contribute to ‘morph machinery.” Again, an odd emphasis on the last words that the robots would not recognize as significant.
Mencken stood up and said a few words to the masked neuromorph guarding them, indicating that he wanted to review the assembly process, to see if the designs could be improved. The robot stood silently for a moment, then after apparently obtaining consensus from his superiors, opened the door to allow Mencken to exit.
Garry dared not take the piece of paper out of his pocket, fearing that the ‘morphs might see it as some clandestine message, which it was. So, he remembered the words, recognizing them as the seven deadly sins. Three of the sins were crossed out. What did that mean? Well, those three—sloth, lust, gluttony—wouldn’t be relevant to neuromorphs because they were machines. But what about the others?
After some minutes of pondering the words, Garry slowly began to smile in realization. But he was careful to turn his face away from the neuromorph, whose eyeballs were also cameras. Now he knew that Mencken was proposing that they launch a very insidious, but also very dangerous plan to destroy the neuromorphs.
• • •
Mencken walked down the long line of androids being assembled in the vast cavern. Dozens of neuromorphs in various stages of completion stood inertly along the gray-mottled granite wall. The assembly line was far less automated than the one at the Helpers factory. Some of the kidnapped human engineers were pulling parts from the huge shipping containers that had been secretly shipped to Cheyenne Mountain. Others were installing heads, attaching arms, inserting fiber optic nerve bundles, and sliding neuromorphic brains into chest cavities.
At the far end of the line, Mencken reached the single electrogel spray booth, where robotic arms were methodically spraying a neuromorph frame, coating it to the precise specifications of the human whom the replica was meant to mimic.
And finally, he approached the area where technicians were slipping on custom-molded secondskin coverings, embedded with sensors that would render the androids almost perfect replicas of their target humans.
What chilled Mencken, however, was not just the prospect of thousands more replicas insinuating themselves into human society. It was also the fact that working alongside each human engineer was a masked neuromorph drone, methodically learning the assembly process.
He continued to the end of assembly line, certain that each of these engineers—once the neuromorphs had learned all they could from them—would be “neutralized” by detonation of an explosive charge inside their skulls that would liquefy their brains.
He couldn’t let that happen. And he had a plan.
He stopped where a technician was fitting a neuromorph with its secondskin covering. He vaguely recognized the face of the replica. He’d seen it on viddies. It was some high federal official, whom he couldn’t place.
“That’s not a very good job, y’know” he told the slim young man who was fitting the secondskin around the android’s eye sockets. A panicked look rose on the young man’s face. He glanced at the armored neuromorph that was observing him.
“Uh . . . what do you mean . . . I’m doing the best I can. It’s not simple—”
“Yeah, I know,” said Mencken gently. He took a deep, tremulous breath, remembering with soul-rending sorrow the violent death of his assistant Brandon. “It’s not your fault. What I’m saying is that I can see how to improve this process. In fact . . .” Mencken waved his hand to encompass the whole assembly line. “. . . we can all work together to make these ‘morphs even better . . . even more realistic and effective. We need to have a meeting.”
Mencken made sure he spoke loudly enough so that the drone neuromorph standing silently a few feet away would hear and transmit that little speech to all the other neuromorphs. And that the news would be digitally digested in the neuromorphic hive mind. He was planting a seed.
He spent the next hour ranging up and down the assembly line, inspecting the appendages being attached, watching the obsidian orbs of neuromorphic brains being wired into bodies, and observing how the gelatinous electrogel was coating the inert android bodies in glistening, translucent simulated flesh.
Finally, he left the assembly area, rounding a bend into another cavern. He stopped short at the sight. Oh, Jesus! He thought to himself.
Arrayed down the cavern were half a dozen hulking Arachnimorphs in various stages of assembly. One was finished, and its builders were testing it, observing the combat robot as it glided smoothly up and down the cavern on its six legs, rotating its guns to aim them. To the left, another team of humans and androids were assembling another several dozen Infilmorphs and eight Aeromorphs.
The androids were building a formidable army! Given that the human army had decommissioned its own human-controlled Defenders, these machines could overcome whatever facility the ‘morphs decided to attack.
Sobered by what he had seen, he finally entered the room where hundreds of the neuromorphic brains rested silently in plastic cradles, a forest of fiber optic cables attached to each one. But these new additions to the neuromorph army weren’t “learning” from a central computer as before. Their fellow neuromorphs were integrating them into the hive mind, feeding the newborns their collective abilities, knowledge, and experience.
His scouting had given Mencken the information he needed to play his role in his strategy to defeat the phalanx of interconnected robots. But the rest would be up to Garry
. Was the fearful programmer up to the battle?
• • •
Mencken could hear the bellowing from outside the computer room, as he arrived back from his tour.
“YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU GODDAMNED SON OF A BITCH! YOU DID THIS TO ME! YOU DID THIS TO MY FAMILY!”
He opened the door to see a thin, red-faced young man restrained in a chair by one of the faceless drones, as he tried futilely to attack Garry, who sat back in another chair, his googles propped on his head, staring back impassively.
“Greg, meet Jonas Ainsley,” said Garry. “You may remember him as the programmer who’s been helping the ‘morphs.”
“You got me into this!” said Ainsley, stopping his futile struggle against the drone’s steely grip. “You’re the one who spoofed my identity and who they thought was screwing around in the OS.”
“I did,” said Garry. “I’m so sorry. But you would have been sucked in, anyway.”
Mencken stepped between them. “It’s true. I know it doesn’t mean much now, but you should realize you’d otherwise probably be dead. Certainly you’d be captive, right where you are now.”
“You’re Gregory Mencken,” said Ainsley with disgust. “The other son of a bitch. So, Mencken, what about my family? Where are they? Would they be here?”
Mencken remained silent for a long moment, trying to frame an answer. He knew that any expression of sympathy would be recorded, analyzed. If the ‘morphs detected any hint of sabotage, his brain would be instantly exploded into mush. For their plan to work, he needed to persuade Ainsley, as well as the neuromorphs that were monitoring their every move, every utterance via the drone.
“Look, we understand. We’re here under the same circumstances. You’ve done good work for them . . . giving them a hive-mind OS. I’m sure if we continue this work . . . make them even better . . . we’ll all be safe.”
Garry stood, careful to keep his distance from Ainsley. “You’re good, Jonas,” he said. “You found the glitch I put in the skills algorithm, the hand-raising signal I programmed. I was on the wrong side then, I realize it now. Let’s do our job together. We have a promise from the ‘morphs that we’ll live. That our families will live. Okay?”
The Neuromorphs Page 24