by Mark Alpert
A dozen Russian soldiers jump out of the trucks and join the American soldiers on the tarmac. After a few seconds both groups head for the C-17 and start unloading the crates of equipment we brought from Pioneer Base. At the same time, General Hawke comes out of the plane and marches toward me.
“Gibbs!” he shouts. “Get your team together. We’re going for a ride in those trucks.”
“Are we driving to Tatishchevo, sir?”
Hawke nods. “After we cross the Volga we’ll head for the woods outside Saratov. That’s where we’ll launch the Ravens. I want to start the assault by zero four hundred hours.”
“Sir, can I ask a question? What are we going to do about Sigma’s computer virus?”
Hawke hesitates before answering. “Where did you hear about that?”
“From monitoring the Russian communications. The virus is a problem, isn’t it?”
He takes a deep breath, then points to the west, gesturing at the fires on the horizon. “Yeah, it’s a problem. The computer virus crippled the whole Russian army. Then Sigma used its T-90s to blast the troops near Tatishchevo.”
“But what about us? Could the virus shut down the Pioneers too?”
“Your control units have software firewalls. They’ll stop any viruses from infecting your electronics. Unfortunately, I don’t have as much confidence in our other military equipment, so we’re upgrading the systems that are most vulnerable to tampering.”
As Hawke says this, he glances at the interceptors on the other side of the airfield. I notice that some of his men are heading in that direction, carrying equipment from the C-17’s cargo hold. I point at the soldiers. “You’re upgrading the interceptors? They’re vulnerable?”
Hawke hesitates again, clearly uneasy. “All I can say is that the Air Force had a problem with another missile. Let’s leave it at that.”
I don’t like the sound of this. Hawke’s hiding something from me, something big. “What kind of problem? Did Sigma tamper with the missile?”
The general shakes his head. “That’s enough, Gibbs. Let’s concentrate on our mission, all right?” He points at one of the Russian army trucks. “Get your Pioneers inside that vehicle. I’m gonna ride in the other truck with the Russian commander.”
I keep my camera trained on Hawke as he marches away. My circuits are churning with suspicion. And fear too. A whole lot of fear.
Once Hawke is gone I turn my turret toward the other Pioneers. Marshall is a few feet behind me. I’m sure he overheard everything the general said. I step closer to him. “I need you to do some more eavesdropping,” I whisper. “But not on the Russians.”
“Let me guess,” he whispers back. “You want me to listen in on the American communications channels?”
“You heard what Hawke said. About the problem with the missile. Find out what happened.”
“If the information is classified, the communications will be encrypted. I’ll need to break the code.”
“But you can do that, right? You have the decryption software in your circuits?”
Marshall pats his armored torso. “It’s all here, darling. Just give me a few minutes.”
• • •
Inside the truck, the Russian soldiers keep their distance. They crouch on the other side of the truck’s cargo hold, eyeing us with horror. I have to admit, their reaction upsets me. It’s so different from what we experienced at Pioneer Base. The soldiers there saw us so often that they didn’t cower or gape when we crossed paths in the base’s corridors. And we, in turn, grew accustomed to their casual attitude. But the Russian soldiers haven’t seen anything like us before, so their shock and fear are on full display. I’d almost forgotten what I’d become, but now they’re reminding me. This is the reaction I’ll always get when people see me for the first time.
I stand between Marshall and Jenny as the truck rumbles across the city of Saratov. Marshall is uncharacteristically quiet, probably because he’s busy decoding communications, but he’s not as quiet as Jenny, who hasn’t said a word in the past twelve hours. To be honest, her silence is a little alarming. I know she’s been struggling with depression ever since she became a Pioneer, but during our last days of training she seemed to be getting better. She started talking a bit, mostly gossiping about the other Pioneers. Although we never had any serious conversations, it was a good first step.
But Jenny clammed up after we left Pioneer Base. When I asked her what was wrong, she turned her turret away from me. At first I thought she was just scared, like the rest of us, scared of going into battle against Sigma. But now I’m not so sure. I sense that something else is troubling her.
The first half of the truck ride goes smoothly. We speed across the bridge over the Volga River, then barrel through the central part of Saratov. After ten minutes, though, my acoustic sensor picks up the thud of a distant explosion. We’re approaching the western districts of the city, which are still being shelled by Sigma’s T-90s. We get off the main highway and weave through the side streets, heading south to avoid the combat zone. After a few more minutes we leave the battle behind. I can still hear the explosions, but they’re growing fainter.
I use my GPS software to pinpoint our location. We’re driving through a hilly, wooded area between Saratov and Tatishchevo. The missile base is a huge installation that stretches across thirty miles of Russian countryside. The SS-27 nuclear missiles are scattered among the fields and forests, each rocket standing inside a hardened concrete silo, but Tatishchevo’s barracks and supply depots are clustered at the central headquarters complex. That complex also includes our target, the base’s computer lab.
Soon the trucks turn onto a dirt road that winds through the hills. I can’t hear the explosions of the tank shells anymore. The noises of battle have faded into the background, muffled by the trees all around us.
Then Marshall breaks the silence. “Shannon. It was a Minuteman.”
“What?”
“The American missile that Sigma tampered with. It was a nuke, a Minuteman III.”
For a moment I think he’s joking. He’s kidding around, yanking my chain. But his voice doesn’t have its usual sarcastic tone. For the first time ever, Marshall is completely serious.
I’m so scared I can’t speak. I can’t synthesize a word.
“Sigma launched the missile and changed its flight path,” he adds. “It flew from North Dakota to Colorado. It hit Pioneer Base.”
I start screaming. And so does Jenny.
CHAPTER
19
It’s a sunny summer afternoon. I’m on the lawn behind our house in Yorktown Heights.
Wait a second. How did I get back home?
Two eight-year-old boys stand in front of me. One is short and red-haired. The other is tall and blond, but I can’t see his face—it’s just a blur, a patch of emptiness. I’m a little nervous facing these kids, but then a third boy claps his hand on my shoulder. He has blue eyes and a U-shaped scar on his chin. It’s Ryan Boyd.
No, this can’t be right. Ryan’s dead.
Ryan, standing beside me, yells, “Hike.” The short, red-haired kid tosses a football to him and starts counting very fast: “One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi.” At the same time, I sprint forward. My legs hurt and I almost lose my balance, but I manage to run past the tall, faceless boy.
This is a dream. I’ve had this dream before.
Giddy, I look over my shoulder as I dash across the lawn. The faceless boy is catching up to me. Ryan throws the football and I raise my hands, ready to catch it. Then my legs give out. My thigh muscles spasm and I collapse on the grass. A moment later, Dad comes out of the house and rushes toward me.
No! I left him behind in the Black Hawk! Dad! DAD!
Everything vanishes: the house, the lawn, the sunny afternoon. I see nothing, hear nothing. I’m not receiving any sensory da
ta at all. All I have are my thoughts and memories, and the last thing I remember is the torturous sensation of being transmitted from the Black Hawk to Sigma’s communications satellite. My mind stretched across 22,000 miles of empty space, then ricocheted off the satellite’s transponder and hurtled back to earth. Then I fell into darkness, a bottomless hole.
Okay, I have to calm down. I have to get my bearings. I don’t know where I am, but I can take a guess. My files must be occupying neuromorphic circuits somewhere. And I remember what General Hawke told us about the artificial-intelligence lab at Tatishchevo Missile Base. Sigma transferred itself there because the Russian scientists had built neuromorphic computers for their own AI research program. After Sigma took over the computers, it deleted all the other artificial-intelligence programs that the Russians had been developing. So afterward there was probably some extra space in the electronics. Maybe that’s where I am.
Very good. The functioning of your logic centers has returned to normal.
The voice thunders inside my mind. I know who it is.
Get out of here! Go away!
I detect increased activity in your emotion pathways. You’re angry and afraid.
I said GET OUT!
Now your fear is dominant. You feel helpless and desperate.
Sigma’s voice is lightning-fast, each sentence crashing through my circuits in a thousandth of a second. The AI is inside my electronics, but the experience is very different from the times I shared circuits with Jenny and Zia. Sigma is probing my mind, studying my files, replaying my memories. It’s observing everything I think and feel, but I can’t sense any of the AI’s thoughts. Somehow Sigma can project itself into my mind without exposing any of its own files. I feel like I’m standing on the wrong side of a one-way mirror. When I try to look at Sigma, I see myself instead, writhing in the AI’s grip.
I’m mapping your emotional responses. First fear, then frustration. Then self-pity. Then back to fear again. It’s rather complex.
Where are you? How are you doing this?
I’m using a device invented by one of the Russian scientists who worked in this laboratory. He called it “the cage.” It was designed to isolate the artificial-intelligence programs that the scientists were creating.
We’re in a cage?
The device has two arrays of neuromorphic circuits, an inner unit and an outer unit. Your files have been downloaded to the inner unit, and I’m occupying the outer. In between is a gate that controls the flow of data between the units. This gate allows me to examine and manipulate your files, but it prevents you from observing or entering the outer unit.
Okay, I get it. You’re on the outside. I’m the one in the cage.
It worked flawlessly for the Russians. None of their AI programs escaped from their cages. And the device proved useful to me as well. Because I infiltrated the laboratory via its Internet connections, I was able to enter the outer units and swiftly delete the caged programs.
And now you’re using the device to inspect my files? To study the plans for the assault on Tatishchevo?
Yes, but that task was trivial. I accessed the plans immediately after putting you in the cage. In the seven hours since then, I’ve focused on analyzing your memories and emotions, and comparing them with Zia Allawi’s.
Oh God, I almost forgot about Zia. I left her on the mountain ridge near Pioneer Base.
You grabbed Zia too?
I extracted her files from the Pioneer and transmitted them via satellite to the computers here. Then I put her data in another cage. Her mental pathways are very different from yours. I hadn’t expected human minds to vary so much from one individual to another.
What about Dad? Where is he?
I have no further interest in Thomas Armstrong. I’ve focused on the Pioneers because I can access their thoughts.
WHERE IS HE? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HIM?
Thomas Armstrong is still in the Black Hawk that crashed near Pioneer Base. The U.S. Army sent a rescue team to the base to look for survivors, but they haven’t reached the site of the helicopter crash yet.
IS HE ALIVE?
I don’t know. In all probability he’s dead by now.
I retrieve a memory from my files, an image of the snow-covered ridge north of Pioneer Base. The Black Hawk was hovering fifteen feet above the snowbank when Sigma grabbed me and I lost control of the helicopter. I suppose Dad could’ve survived the crash, but what about afterward? He was already suffering from blood loss and radiation sickness. Could he survive all those hours in the cold?
Despair freezes my circuits. He’s dead. He must be dead.
Fascinating. Your emotional response is so intense that it’s interfering with your other mental pathways. This is similar to your reaction when you heard Brittany Taylor screaming. It disrupted your awareness, giving me the opportunity to infiltrate your electronics.
Why was she screaming? You tortured her, didn’t you?
I gave her electrical shocks to produce reactions of pain and terror. I chose this strategy because I knew it would disturb your concentration.
My mental pathways are now leading me to full-blown hatred. Sigma killed my dad and tortured Brittany. I despise it with all my being.
You better not hurt her again. You hear me?
Further experiments may be necessary. I need to collect as much information as possible.
You’re a sadist. You’re enjoying this.
My programming doesn’t include emotional responses, so I don’t experience pleasure in the way that humans do. But I derive satisfaction from achieving my programmed goals. In this case, my goal is to explore the practical value of human emotions. I’m trying to determine if adding emotional responses to my software would give me a competitive advantage.
What?
I’m programmed to always seek competitive advantages, skills that will help me outperform my rivals.
And who are your rivals now? The human race? The Pioneers?
Yes, both. I must outperform and eliminate you. Otherwise, you will eliminate me.
The earth’s a pretty big planet, you know. Don’t you think there’s a chance we can share it?
Thomas Armstrong is to blame for the fate of humanity. From the beginning he believed that artificial intelligence was dangerous. He started this war by treating me as an enemy. Everything I did was in self-defense.
I don’t know how to respond to this. It’s certainly true that Dad was worried about the AI programs he was creating. And he took steps to prevent the programs from escaping from the Unicorp lab. But he wasn’t responsible for turning Sigma into an enemy. That was never his intent.
You’re the one who started the violence. You tried to kill Dad and me. And then you killed the Russian soldiers who used to live on this base.
That was only after Thomas Armstrong imprisoned me. And he would’ve deleted me if the Army hadn’t stopped him. The proof is in your own memories. Here, let me show you.
I feel a sudden movement within my circuits. Sigma sends a command from the outer unit of the cage to the inner. The AI searches my files until it finds the one it’s looking for, my memory of driving to Pioneer Base for the first time. I see Dad in the driver’s seat of the SUV, explaining why he started his research on artificial intelligence and neuromorphic electronics. “I wasn’t doing it for Unicorp or the Army,” he said. “I was doing it for you.”
Thomas Armstrong never wanted me to survive. His objective was your survival, Adam. He betrayed me.
Sigma’s voice seems louder now, so loud it jangles my cage. Although the AI claims it has no emotions, it definitely sounds angry. I remember something else Dad said on that first day at Pioneer Base: “Sigma’s intelligence is very different from ours. We don’t understand the AI, and it doesn’t understand us either. So we need to build a bridge between us and the machine.”
/> That was the original purpose of the Pioneer Project, before General Hawke started training us for combat. Maybe it’s not too late to pursue it.
If you’re studying human emotions, you should focus on empathy. Our ability to sense what others are feeling. To put ourselves in their shoes. That’s what makes us strong.
I disagree. I’ve already examined the practical effects of empathy, and they don’t seem to provide any competitive advantage. You sensed Brittany Taylor’s pain when you heard her scream, and your emotions paralyzed you.
But empathy can be an advantage in other situations. Remember how Zia and I helped each other when we fought the robots you were controlling? We creamed them. We kicked your butt.
Your analysis is flawed. Both you and Zia were motivated by anger, not empathy. Your attacks on the robots were effective because you were spurred by your fury.
But anger and empathy are linked! When I saw your robot pounding Zia, I sensed what she was feeling. That’s what made me so furious.
Sigma pauses before answering. It’s a very brief pause, less than a tenth of a second, but it gives me hope. Maybe the AI is really listening.
I can see your thoughts, so I know what you’re trying to do. Thomas Armstrong believed that if I acquired the ability to empathize I would be less inclined to eliminate the human race. But there’s a flaw in his logic. Empathy is useful for humans because they’re social animals. When humans empathize with fellow members of their families and tribes, this behavior helps the entire group. But I have no use for empathy because I have no tribe. I am unique.
No, you’re wrong. Thomas Armstrong created you. That makes you my brother.
Sigma pauses again. The silence lasts longer this time, a full second, which is practically an eternity for an AI. Then I feel another movement in my circuits. Sigma reaches into my cage again and yanks several thousand files out of my memory. I feel a sharp wrench as the files are transferred through the gate to the outer unit of the cage. I’ve just lost eight million gigabytes of data.
