The Alien Creator

by Michael Miller

  The humble brain ambles to the podium, not used to the spotlight and praise. He starts by thanking those who made this day possible. While excited beyond measure of expectations, the proud scientist tears up before speaking.

  "Pardon my anxiety," he murmurs, wiping moist eyes with fingers. "I'm so proud of the men that confronted war-bots in city streets and those traveling aboard the X-37D. Watching that battle live gave me goose bumps as the struggle to survive, much less win, unfolded. I'm sorry to report that two Delta Warriors succumbed to wounds during this terrible ordeal. Some in this room attended their funerals. However, I'm not here to dwell on that part of this epic story, although additional ways to commemorate these selfless warriors is underway. Instead, I'm going to focus on the future, one requiring sacrifice by most of us in this space. Right now, we're in early stages of organizing an all star transport team that will travel to Andromeda, helping Zote and Cyborg return home safely. Our primary mission is to reenergize and to save Creators, the brilliant engineers and scientists who built this fabulous spacecraft and various kinds of robots. Saving Creators will be a huge step for humans. As a scientist, I look forward to the time we share ideas. Therefore, without further adieu, I'm asking you for help today. I'm asking that many of you to take on this challenge and return to Andromeda. Let's save Creators and build scientific knowledge faster than any of us imagined."

  The crowd of engineers and scientists erupt with joy and jubilation as prospects for new research, challenges, and space travel none thought possible before now. "Today, we will begin sign-up and multi-task duty rosters that re-prioritize and re-organize efforts at Area-51. A list is currently being developed we'll soon have to lend talents, either as mission control and support experts or outright space travelers. For those winning coveted seats aboard Navi," he says pointing to the ship behind them, "I can't guarantee you'll ever see Earth again, as risks are huge and uncertain. It may be that your end happens during the long journey, or while on the planet in Andromeda, or during the return flight, all of which are extremely dangerous, unpredictable, and time-consuming. I can't say when you'd come home. I can't say families will see you again for those taking this monumental trip. Yet, I do know we're living at the right time and right place when many of our fantasies and dreams are possible."

  Catcalls and jokes from the audience add gaiety as the mix of highly intelligent workers ignores Metz's warnings, instead focusing on the challenge. "Stop trying to talk us out of going, Metz," one prankster yells. "I'm tired of living underground like a worm." Another scientist follows up, "Yeah, and stop trying to scare us; we're not afraid of aliens."

  "Oh, I see," Metz counters grinning. "You say you're not afraid of aliens. Let's find out; shall we? Cyborg, if you'd be so kind, please come on the stage and introduce yourself."

  As most in the throng anticipates first glimpses of the alien spaceship commander that replaced Zote, the crowd grows antsy waiting for Cyborg to appear. When loud stepping noises behind them echo in the large cavern, the group turns in their seats. Approaching is a giant being most can't decide what it is. As Cyborg moves down an aisle between rows of folding chairs, scientists look up at Cyborg with mouths and eyes gaping. Startled by his unusual eyes, bulk, size, strength, appearance, and demeanor, most are immediately intimidated as the Andromeda hybrid moves past them.

  A terrifying sight the first time, the creepy bionic creature with multi-core processors, skeletal muscle tissue, flexible web-polymer skin, piercing cobalt-blue eyes, vice-grip hands, dexterous fingers, and piezoelectric properties strolls toward the stage. The creature, perhaps a cross between animal, human, and mechanics, defies definition and logic. Before stepping on stage, Cyborg turns around and approaches front row scientists with a stern face, reinforced by terrifying bass reverberating growls as if suddenly off the reservation. Most avoid direct eye contact as Cyborg erases the gap then bends on one knee facing an older scientist responsible for many Area-51 patents.

  Slowly extending a vice-grip hand with dexterous fingers, Cyborg addresses the nervous human. "I am Cyborg, Professor Gaston. Are you the person to see about playing games of chess?"

  Gaston gulps, not understanding Cyborg is demonstrating a new ability to communicate. "I....I..., yes, that would be me. Are you a player?" he responds feebly taking the giant's hand, hoping thin fingers aren't crushed like grapes.

  "I would like a game and heard you are the champion at Area-51. I downloaded and tweaked chess software and hope to test algorithm changes."

  Enjoying the spontaneous demonstration, Dr. Metz smiles as the amazing hybrid demonstrates human qualities and personality. "As you can see," Metz speaks, "Cyborg is quite flexible and looks forward to working with us. I'm asking everyone to overcome his terrifying features and work with him. His goal, like ours, is saving Creators and bringing them back to Earth where they'll live in peace and harmony."

  Department of Defense, Virginia, Operation Linebacker

  William Bull Greer, Secretary of Defense and sixth in pecking order to Presidency, asks participants to settle down as the secret meeting commences. With White House staff listening via conference line inside the Oval Office, the discussion for what to do with Andromeda assets under their control begins. Surrounded by Joint Chiefs and CEOs from major defense contractors, Bull offers an opinion about priorities.

  Nodding to an assistant that puts up a picture of a war-bot on the large wall screen, Greer grabs everyone's attention. "Two of these robots are now part of the American arsenal, ladies and gentlemen. Efforts at Boeing, Raytheon, General Dynamics, Intel, and others have begun studying how we replicate these robots. The other two war-bots will return with the Andromeda spacecraft. Our goal today is divvying the workload, developing aggressive timelines, and finding where we stand. Before beginning, I'll remind you that all of this is special access material, level above top secret. Only President Wilford has authorization to allow access beyond this select group. I'm authorized to say that any breach will be met with jail time without trial since we want to avoid leaks. Please bear this in mind as you write emails, send texts, and discuss Operation Linebacker. Chinese and Russian spies are immediate threats so be advised any new contacts will be looked at with biased suspicion. Anyone caught violating rules faces grim consequences. All right, with that good news behind us, let's start with Raytheon. Mr. Kennedy, please provide an update."

  The CEO remains seated at the large oblong table and begins a prepared briefing. "Thank you, Mr. Greer; Raytheon is tasked with dissecting and replicating war-bot weapon sensors and armaments. I've assigned tiger teams to handle primary analysis, thereby limiting exposure of the alien technology. All work is in sealed chambers with workers getting retinal and fingerprint scans entering and leaving secure underground facilities after clothes exchanges. In addition, we have cameras and security monitoring activities as it proceeds inside translucent polymer glass. For the alien technology, helium-neon laser power supplies have tightly compacted strands of gold nanowires. These ultra-thin human hair-width wires are weaved inside gel electrolytes then encased in allotrope carbon similar to graphene. This radical design features hexagonal honeycomb lattice in modular systems similar to military computer chips. That intelligence can be shared with authorized silicon wafer makers if this committee gives approval."

  DoD Bull Greer interrupts CEO Bill Kennedy as he continues explaining Raytheon's rigor, progress, and methods. "Bill, how fast is their design? Are chips faster than what we have?"

  "That's not an easy comparison. In general, alien speed is about triple what AMD and Intel dual core and dual thread designs generate. Single core thread is comparable speed but it can't handle complex, multi-task computations needed for controlling rockets, satellites, and laser weapons in our current arsenal. Their improvement focuses on lesser numbers of transistors and more multithreads like we've done for superscalar designs, most notably by Cray and IBM."

  Bull cringes, "Most of us aren't techies, Bill. What does that mean in
caveman English?"

  Kennedy nods, "We're maybe fifty to seventy-five years behind. It's hard telling, but putting this design in major airborne systems will give huge advantages, far more than now. I recommend taking extra care blocking electronic access."

  "What extra care are you thinking of, Bill? Holy cow, doesn't that go without saying?" Greer presses.

  "I'm talking about using extreme bias in who works on these projects. Lie detectors and veterans should exclude Chinese-Americans or ethic groups we have suspicions."

  "We'll strain the Constitution unless we have something other than heritage," the DoD Inspector General adds. "Several generals and admirals have Chinese heritage."

  "We don't know how many of our best designs end up in Beijing," Boeing's CEO argues. "I agree with Bill. They've stolen F-22s, F35s, and Predator technologies using contractors. I don’t trust Chinese or Russians."

  Bull steps back, "Gentlemen, computer hackers, not soldiers, are responsible for thefts. I don't disagree with limited access but ethnic bias alone won't fly."

  "Let's not be naïve and politically correct. Subcontractors are the problem and Chinese lobbyists, some American, have deep claws in Congress. If we keep their oversight away, we'll fare better," Boeing CEO Clifford Bell asserts. "Spies are everywhere and many Americans on the take. Our Senate Majority Leader is a prime example, along with his wife. A lot of the money flows through children and relatives so it's hard tracking and many turn blind eyes."

  "All right," Wilford interrupts, "I'll review with added scrutiny anyone deemed threatening to this project before authorization. Let’s proceed with caution then we'll open up as we go. If we see leaks, the process reverses. Let's hear from Lockheed. What's happening with the robotic side of the equation, Mary? There must be a lot of subcontractors in that arena."

  Mary Henson, newest member of the elite group from Bionics LTD, frowns at the question's setup. "We have ten subcontractors working on military robots. Most are entities with low profiles for just that reason. However, I'm not deaf to your concerns, Mr. President. One of our main concerns is university links. Once into that idealistic space, leaks often multiply."

  "How do you plan overcoming that challenge, Mary? I don’t want agenda-driven nuts blabbering about our work," Greer needlessly pushes back. "With these stakes, it could get somebody killed."

  "I'm aware of the risk, Mr. Greer. Sequester is the only good way. We must take them out of circulation until the finished product stage."

  "Are you doing sequestration?" Greer rebounds, unaffected by her implicit criticism.

  "Not yet; ranks of qualified specialists dwindle when we ask for that level of commitment."

  "Then what are you talking about? Greer snarls. "Which is it, Mary?"

  Backtracking and in the hot seat, Henson qualifies her previous statements. "Work is only beginning. Nothing important was released so far. Besides, we’re trying to steal talent to avoid sequestration. That kind of news is red flags for spies."

  "Can we do all key work at Area-51?" Wilford poses. "Protection is already in place and the remote nature of Groom Lake is perfect."

  "We can't move most manufacturing, Mr. President," Boeing's CEO argues deflecting attention from Mary Henson, "but research and prototypes can be done remotely. Fabrication could be handled in modules to block full access, perhaps assembly as well."

  "All right, let’s table further discussion until we get an assessment from Dr. Metz," Wilford steps in. "Space might have to expand due to the alien spacecraft's size. I'd like each of you coordinating with Metz to see what's possible. He has a whiz kid working for him that can grease the skids."

  "What whiz kid," Henson rebounds, "how old is he?"

  "Dr. Billy Goddard is a young phenom on loan from Global Space, but don't let age, hair, or tennis shoes get in the way of business. He's smart as they come and his value was proven several times during the last few months."

  "Ok, we'll all work with Metz and Goddard," Greer answers. "I'll vouch for him."

  Oval Office

  Work forges ahead as several defense firms and Area-51 give White House staff confidence the aggressive timetable for a fall launch to Andromeda is on time, not quite a year after the war-bot debacle. Despite wild rumors, spy apparatus, and mined network chatter, President Wilford is relieved leaks to date are minor. Up until today, he's riding on cloud nine until a morning New York Times article hits the market.

  "What's this?" Wilford snarls at National Security Agency Director Jim Franks sitting across his desk holding up the famed newspaper. "You said last week leaks were under control. What are you smoking in the Puzzle Palace?"

  "I can't explain it, Jack. I'm baffled by the detail in the article."

  "Well, if you're baffled, think what I am. This leak is bigger than Hoover Dam, so what are you doing about it?"

  "Jack, this was a cyber attack, probably Eastern Europe or Chinese due to sophistication. I doubt it came from an employee; penalties are too severe."

  "Why do you think it’s an outsider?"

  "First, the firewall is extremely tight for outgoing communication and most of this related detail is handled at Groom Lake. Second, IP footprints suggest use of foreign satellites. Our guess is also based on odd grammar, computer syntax, and off phrases. For example, typical colons are replaced with parentheses. Second, use of hexadecimal instructions aren’t widely known, mostly object-oriented Java and more specifically bytecode jump instructions. Third, leaks indicate inherent knowledge of war-bot superstructures. Descriptions are specific to metamaterials and references to poured molds, magnetic feet, deflector shield, thrusters, and polarized hull plating. Odds of these terms being in one New York Times article are ten billion to one."

  "That sounds convincing, Jim, but I wanna know how close you are to catching this weasel. I want results, not tech-jargon and explanations after the fact. When can we interrogate this hacker? I want him."

  "I can't say when we'll find him, Jack."

  "Who will you call when we find this hacker? What if he's overseas? Who goes after him?"

  "We'd call National Protection and Security Service. In particular, I'll request Agent Richard Ricks," Jim Franks answers referencing an ultra-secret entity charged with guarding and protecting dignitaries with death threats hanging over them. With practically unrestricted 007-type rules of engagement, the force is the best at what they do.

  "Why him?"

  "Richard's their best agent. We've used him before and he's never failed."

  "All right, but I want results. By next week, I want this hacker at an offshore black site. Raise the bounty if needed. I'll find the money and if you can't get access to Ricks, call me. I want all communication from Area-51 offline until we solve the problem. Use couriers; this isn't a typical hacker."

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Black Site, Montenegro

  urrounded by Balkan nations of Bosnia, Serbia, and Albania along the Adriatic Sea, NPSS agent Richard Ricks taps on a rustic door with the tip of an expensive short barrel .357 Sig Sauer. Moments later, a small slit slides open with partial face and bushy moustache staring back. Without speaking, the man behind the thick steel door waits for a phrase.

  "Red light district," Ricks breathes as the quiet monitor studies a bleeding face looking at him.

  After a short pause, the electronically sealed door opens to the hideaway tucked in mountains near the Bay of Kotor. Shoving a beaten captive inside ahead of him, Ricks moves inside a dim hallway and watches as the door locks.

  "This way," the burley bearded door monitor murmurs. "We're prepared for your arrival."

  "Are Bullock and Murphy here?" Ricks murmurs.

  "They're waiting for your guest."

  Tom Bullock and Audie Murphy

  A tall, bulky Marine wearing civilian Harley-Davidson Biker gear greets NPSS agent Richard Ricks while his partner, Audie Murphy, sits patiently next to him. After minor pleasantries from less than chatty patriots, the Master Sergeant
introduces his ninety-pound German shepherd to the agent.

  "To jest przyjaciel; przywitaj się z Audey'em," Bullock tells the highly trained canine.

  Ricks notes Bullock's Biker blue jeans, black t-shirt, and jump boots while taking Audie's outstretched paw as the intelligent animal sits on hind legs and yips.

  "Miło cię poznać, Audio," Ricks answers, his crisp Polish response impressing the veteran interrogator. "I've heard great things about this tag-team."

  "We do our job, Agent Ricks, nothing more, nothing less," Bullock replies humbly. "The real star is Audie; he scares the little devils more than me. Did you have trouble finding and bringing our guest? I hear he's an accomplished hacker and appears he put up a fight based on face and knuckles."

  "A little," Ricks breathes, "he had Russian bodyguards."

  "I'm told he has cuts and abrasions; anything I should know?"

  "Nothing significant," Ricks breathes, "though I can’t say that about the others."

  "That's good to hear; I need him to be relatively healthy when we begin. I don’t want to disappoint Audie," Bullock sneers. "Anything about him we can use for leverage; the file they sent is pretty thin. Did you get his name?"

  "I don’t know for sure, but it could be Taras. An 8x10 of his girlfriend with a sexy greeting was on his desk with that first name. Interpol identified him as Taras Shevchenko. I also tracked his squeeze to this address," Ricks explains passing a recent color photograph lifted from the edge of his fancy downtown Kiev bedroom mirror with a handwritten note on the back. "Her name is Katya Nevena, a high price hooker born in Moscow."