by Mark Alpert
• • •
Driving the T-90 and firing its gun should’ve been one of the highlights of my robotic life, but my bad mood spoils everything. I go through the motions, steering the tank across the basin, but it doesn’t seem a whole lot different from driving the Humvee. And there’s nothing particularly fantastic about shooting the main gun—you just measure the wind speed, calculate the trajectory, and pull the trigger. I complete the exercise in seven minutes, then transfer back to my robot. Then I watch four more Pioneers do the same thing.
After the training session, while the others are striding back to the freight elevator, I approach Hawke and ask him again if he’s heard any news about Ryan. The general shakes his head and gives me the same line about the police and FBI being “on the case.” I want to ask him what this means exactly, but he marches off before I get a chance.
Hawke has scheduled a briefing for later this afternoon, at sixteen hundred hours. I assume that’s when he’ll announce that we’re leaving for Russia. In the meantime, Zia leads us to the gym on Pioneer Base’s lowest level. We take the freight elevator downstairs, and when the doors open, I do a double take—six Pioneers are already lined up on the concrete floor. They stand there like statues, silent and motionless, their torsos stamped with the labels 1A, 2A, 3A, and so on. They’re the evil twins, the empty, lifeless robots usually kept in our rooms. I have no idea why they’re here.
Zia steps out of the elevator first, then turns her turret around to face the rest of us. “Listen up, Pioneers. We have a problem. General Hawke ordered you to practice the wireless data transfer at least thirty times a day. That’s why he put the A-series robots in your rooms. But when we checked the data logs on the machines, we found that some of you are neglecting your duties.” She trains her camera on me. “Armstrong, you’re the worst offender. You transferred to your 1A unit only seven times on Wednesday and only five times yesterday.”
I synthesize a groan. This is ridiculous. “Come on, Zia. I practiced enough. I got my transfer time down to fourteen seconds.”
“An order is an order. This is serious business. We have to cut our times to the absolute minimum.”
“How fast can you transfer? Can you beat fourteen seconds?”
“All right, enough chatter. We’re gonna spend the next two hours practicing.” She points at the line of evil twins. “Everyone, pair up with your A-series robot. First do a set of twenty transfers at a distance of five meters. Then do another set at ten meters, and a third set at twenty. When you’re done, repeat the sequence.” Zia strides toward Pioneer 3A, her own evil twin. Just like Pioneer 3, it has a circular saw attached to its left arm and an acetylene torch on its right. “Okay, move out!”
With great reluctance, I stride toward Pioneer 1A. I know Zia’s right—a lower transfer time could be crucial in a combat situation. If your machine comes under fire, you might need to switch to another control unit immediately. But practicing the transfer is so freaking boring.
Because the A-series robots are lined up in numerical order, I find myself next to Pioneer 2, Jenny Harris. I expect her to turn her turret away from me out of nerves or embarrassment, so I’m surprised when a cheerful “Hi, Adam” comes out of her speakers. If she had a face she’d be grinning. I retrieve a memory of the dream we shared yesterday, an image of the blue-eyed, blond-haired Jenny lying on a grassy hillside in Virginia. It’s a nice memory, but it makes me uncomfortable. I’m worried about where this is going.
“Uh, hi,” I respond.
She turns her turret toward Pioneer 2A and powers up her wireless system, as if she’s getting ready to transfer her files to her evil twin. But instead she sends me a radio message, encrypted in such a way that only I can decode it.
I noticed that Zia didn’t answer your question. About whether she could transfer as fast as you can. I bet she can’t.
It’s a little strange to communicate by radio with someone who’s standing right next to you. Although it’s not as intimate as sharing circuits with Jenny—I can’t see her thoughts now and she can’t see mine—I still feel anxious as I compose my own coded message and radio it to her.
Zia likes to give me a hard time. I have no idea why.
It’s simple. She’s jealous.
Jealous of me? You’re kidding, right?
It’s so clear, Adam. She hates the fact that you’re smarter than her.
I turn my turret clockwise, then counter. No, I think there’s more to it. Something weird is going on inside her head. Inside her circuits, I mean.
Well, whatever the reason, you shouldn’t let it bother you. I’m on your side, and so is DeShawn. And Shannon too, of course.
The mention of Shannon sends a bolt of alarm through my circuits. She can’t overhear us, but I turn my turret toward her anyway. She’s busy practicing her transfers, sending her data to Pioneer 4A and then back to Pioneer 4. She’s concentrating so dutifully on the exercise that she doesn’t see me aim my camera at her. But Jenny does. She sends me another message.
Don’t worry. I won’t tell Shannon what happened between us.
I swiftly turn my turret back to Jenny. Uh, good. I mean—
I know you like her more than me. Because you knew her before.
No, that’s not true. I like both of you.
I’m okay with it, Adam. Really. Don’t feel bad.
Jenny, I—
Listen, we better get to work. Zia will have a fit if she sees we’re not practicing.
Before I can say anything else, Jenny begins transferring her files to Pioneer 2A. I stand there for a couple of seconds, feeling foolish and guilty. Then I face Pioneer 1A, my own evil twin, and force myself to make the leap to its circuits.
I feel even more uncomfortable now, and I suspect that Jenny isn’t happy either. As we transmit our data back and forth, our Pioneers gradually move apart, taking a few strides after every transfer. Within a few minutes I’ve moved both my robots to the other side of the gym. Now I’m near Pioneers 6 and 6A, DeShawn and his evil twin. This maneuver also maximizes my distance from Zia, who’s panning her camera across the gym, constantly checking on the rest of us.
DeShawn raises his arm when he sees me, and I hear a surprising noise come out of his speakers. It’s laughter. He’s only the second Pioneer to figure out how to do this. His laugh is deep and sonorous—very different from Marshall’s laugh, which is sharp and grating—and just the sound of it is enough to cheer me up. But I’m also jealous. I want to laugh too. I’m starting to wonder if it’ll ever come back to me.
“Yo, Adam, check it out.” DeShawn straightens his arms and bends his legs at the knee joints, putting Pioneer 6 in the exact same posture as 6A. The robots stand side by side like mirror images. “Like two peas in a pod, right? Which one’s the real me?”
“Oh boy, tough question. Maybe the one that’s talking? That’s just a wild guess, though.”
“How about now? Want to change your guess?”
My acoustic sensors detect something unusual. DeShawn’s synthesized words are coming from the speakers of Pioneer 6 and Pioneer 6A. “Whoa, what the—”
“That’s not all. Watch this.” As DeShawn’s voice booms in stereo, both of his robots extend their right arms. Moving in perfect synchrony, Pioneers 6 and 6A raise their steel hands to their turrets and snap off a salute. “Private DeShawn Johnson, reporting for duty, sir.” Then both robots step forward and simultaneously swing their arms. Pioneer 6 slaps his right hand against the left side of my torso, and Pioneer 6A slaps his left hand against my right side.
Unfortunately, the clanging gets Zia’s attention. “Hey!” she shouts from the other side of the gym. “What’s going on over there?”
DeShawn waves at her. He’s moving just Pioneer 6 now. “Sorry, Zia. We’re taking a break.”
“You’ve only been practicing for five minutes! Get back to work!”
“Okay, no problem!” DeShawn keeps waving till she turns her turret away from us. Then both his robots step closer to me and speak in unison again. “I hate that girl. She’s no fun at all.”
“How are you doing that?” I ask. “How can you control both of them at once?”
“I just figured it out this morning. It’s like a balancing act. Instead of transferring my data files, I copy them. Then I send the copies to the other robot.”
I glance at Pioneer 6, then at 6A. “Wait a second. All your files are in both robots?”
“Yeah. Crazy, huh?” Each robot wraps one of his arms around the other’s waist. “We’re brothers. Tight as can be.”
“But if you copied everything, wouldn’t you turn the other robot into a clone? Like an identical twin, but with all your memories? And wouldn’t it start thinking for itself?”
“Yeah, that would happen if you transferred the copies and did nothing else. But there’s a second step, the balancing. While I’m sending the data to the other robot I’m also coordinating their thoughts. The signals jump back and forth by radio, constantly moving between the two Pioneers. As long as they stay in radio contact, they can share the same mind.”
If I had a mouth, it would be gaping. This is incredible. “My God, DeShawn. You’re a genius! How did you figure it out?”
Pioneers 6 and 6A turn their turrets, first clockwise, then counter. “Nah, it was just trial and error. I tried different things until something interesting happened. If you want, I’ll transmit the instructions to you. Then you’ll see how simple it is.”
I’m dying to try it. “Can you send the instructions right now?”
“Coming right up.”
An instant later I’m reviewing them. DeShawn has written a program that alters the flow of thoughts in our circuits, funneling them into a rapid stream of data that can be transmitted back and forth between two Pioneers. Because their circuits are linked so closely and share so much information, the two robots think and act as one. A single mind occupies both machines.
Without saying another word, I load the program into my own circuits and start copying my files. Then I turn my turret toward Pioneer 1A and transfer the copies. I feel the stretching sensation again as the copied files move in waves toward the other robot, but this time the sensation doesn’t end when the transfer is complete. Instead, it gets more intense. I feel bigger, taller, towering over everyone. I feel like I’ve taken a huge stride across the gym and now I’m standing, a bit unsteadily, on two robotic stilts.
I see why DeShawn called it a balancing act. Now I have two of everything. My two cameras provide me with two views of the gym. I have to combine the perspectives to make sense of the data. Same thing with my acoustic sensors and radar systems.
Maneuvering both Pioneers is also a challenge. At first they do everything simultaneously, their movements perfectly mirroring each other, but after a while I figure out how to send a different order to each robot. It’s kind of like patting your head and rubbing your belly at the same time—it requires some concentration. While I raise Pioneer 1’s right arm, I order 1A to bend his left leg. Then I order Pioneer 1 to punch the air while 1A throws a kick. Then I get the robots to stride toward each other and bump fists. This is cool!
“Not bad,” DeShawn says. “Now do something crazy. Go wild, dude.”
I have an idea. I go to my memory files and retrieve “Power,” my favorite Kanye West song. While blasting the song from the robots’ speakers, I order Pioneer 1 to fold his arms across his torso and rock up and down. At the same, Pioneer 1A swings his arms back and forth while hopping from one footpad to the other. I’m trying to imitate the dance moves I’ve seen on Kanye’s music videos. I think I’m doing a pretty good job, but DeShawn turns his turret clockwise and counter.
“No, no, stop,” he says. “Sorry, Adam, but you’re the worst dancer I’ve ever seen.”
“Come on, give me a break. I’m just getting warmed—”
“Armstrong!”
It’s Zia, of course. She’s only ten feet away. She must’ve crossed the gym while I was dancing. “What are you doing?” she shouts. “Playing games again?”
I switch the music off and turn both my turrets toward her. Now that I think about it, I’m glad Zia interrupted me. She needs to know what DeShawn has done. This new ability he’s discovered could change everything. “Okay, you’re not going to believe this, but I’m inside both of these—”
“Didn’t I tell you to get back to work? That was a direct order, Armstrong.”
“Yeah, I know, but I got something to show you. We should get Hawke down here too.”
“Are you deaf? You’re disobeying a direct order!”
This is frustrating. Can’t she see what’s going on? To make things as clear as possible, I order both my robots to stride toward her, Pioneer 1 from the right and 1A from the left. “Look, Zia. Just shut up for a second and look what I can do.”
I expect her to be impressed, but instead she gets alarmed. She takes a step backward and raises both her arms, pointing her acetylene torch at Pioneer 1 and her circular saw at 1A. “Get back!” she yells. “I’m warning you, Armstrong! Don’t mess with me!”
“Hey, calm down. I’m trying to tell you something important. We need to show Hawke what DeShawn figured out. It could give us some new options for the Tatishchevo mission and—”
“I said get back!” Zia screams. Then she turns on her circular saw and fires up her torch and charges toward Pioneer 1.
What’s wrong with her? In an instant she’s turned into a homicidal maniac. Both my cameras focus on the jet of blue flame shooting out of her torch. According to my infrared sensors, the flame’s temperature is 6,000 degrees Fahrenheit, twice as high as the melting point of steel. As Zia rushes forward she thrusts the torch at the exact center of Pioneer 1’s torso, aiming for my neuromorphic circuits.
My survival instincts kick in. I order Pioneer 1 to leap to the right and Pioneer 1A to grab Zia from behind. But I’m still learning how to move the two robots at once, and my reactions aren’t as fast as Zia’s. Adjusting her course, she angles to the right and slams into Pioneer 1. I tumble backward and crash to the floor with Zia on top of me, her weight pinning me to the concrete.
I can’t move my left arm. It’s trapped under my torso. I start to swing my right arm, but before it can hit Zia’s turret, she brings down her left, jamming her circular saw into my shoulder joint. The saw’s titanium carbide teeth bite into the softer metal of the joint, and my right arm goes dead.
But I still have Pioneer 1A, which strides toward the two robots grappling on the floor. With 1A’s camera, I see a shower of sparks erupt from the side of Pioneer 1’s torso. Zia’s using her acetylene torch like a knife, cutting into the armor surrounding my electronics. Molten steel pours from the cut and puddles on the concrete. Frantic, I hurl 1A at Zia, hoping to knock her off Pioneer 1. But as I reach for her, she twists her torso and swings her left arm around, telescoping it to its full length. The circular saw sweeps through the air like a cutlass and slashes 1A’s left leg at the knee joint. The robot loses its balance and crashes to the floor.
The other Pioneers rush toward us from all over the gym. DeShawn hollers, “Stop!” and lunges at Zia, but she forces him back with another swipe of her saw. Shannon and Jenny are coming too but they’re twenty yards away. They won’t get here in time. Zia’s torch has already cut through my armor. The jet of flame is melting my circuits, erasing my memories, terminating my thoughts. My mind is roaring with the random noise of fear, which drowns out all my other signals.
I have one option left. Within the circuits of Pioneer 1A, I use DeShawn’s program to funnel my remaining thoughts into a tight, furious stream. Then I fire this stream at Zia’s antenna and plunge into her mind.
As soon as I enter her circuits, everything grows still. Zia’s mind is a marvel of
quiet efficiency. All her thoughts are fixed on one thing, destroying my Pioneer. She’s so focused on this task that she doesn’t even notice my presence in her electronics. Racing forward, I dive into her neatly arranged files and try to disrupt her concentration. In a thousandth of a second I plow through her earliest memories—fuzzy images of her mother and father, a veterans’ hospital, a military funeral. I see the faces of foster parents and child-welfare workers, all the strangers who took over her life after her parents died. Then I see a long, cold walk down an empty street at night.
These memories are full of confusion and sadness, and Zia has walled them off from the rest of her files. But there’s one memory that’s so powerful it shapes everything in her electronics, warping the circuits around it like a magnet. It’s an image of Zia at twelve years old, facing two older boys in a deserted alley. One boy is tall and pale, and the other is hideously fat, and they’re both leering at her.
I see the fat boy step toward her from the left and the tall boy swoop in from the right, and now I know why Zia attacked me. There’s a link between this image and the memory of what happened a few seconds ago, right before she went crazy. When I ordered Pioneers 1 and 1A to approach Zia from both sides, I unintentionally reminded her of the worst moment of her life.
As I view the image she finally notices me, and all the activity in her circuits screeches to a halt. Her circular saw stops spinning and the flame in her torch goes out. She pulls away from the damaged torso of Pioneer 1 and for a moment she simply observes me with bewilderment. Then all her thoughts come screaming toward me in a roiling wave.
GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!
Her signals batter me from every direction, but I manage to hold on. I anchor myself to her circuits, digging in.
No! I’m not going anywhere!
GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!
I hold on for six more seconds, which is long enough for the other Pioneers to immobilize Zia. Shannon grabs her right arm and rips off the acetylene torch, while DeShawn tears the circular saw off her left. With immense relief, I withdraw from Zia’s circuits and transmit myself back to Pioneer 1A.
