The Silence

by Mark Alpert

  After another twenty minutes, my cameras detect the lights from Pioneer Base, less than a mile ahead. As my Quarter-bot jogs closer, I spot the hardened concrete bunker that serves as the entrance to our headquarters, which is mostly underground. All our computer labs and machine shops and training rooms are hundreds of feet below the surface, buried deep to protect us from aerial attacks or incoming missiles. The headquarters also has an underground command center and barracks for the fifty human soldiers who share the base with us. A dozen Army vehicles are parked outside the bunker, including General Hawke’s armored Humvee, which is marked by a red license plate with three silver stars. And two hundred yards farther south is our airfield, which has a mile-long runway for our unit’s planes and helicopters.

  Just beyond the airfield is a small fenced-off plot that’s been consecrated as a military cemetery. The shattered robots that were once occupied by Jenny Harris and DeShawn Johnson are buried there. Jenny’s grave has a black headstone, weathered by six months of desert winds. Next to DeShawn’s grave is a fresh slab of marble, sunk into the ground only a few hours ago.

  I remember my resolution: Focus on the future, not the past. I’m going to stride into our headquarters and take the elevator down to the medical lab and find my dad so we can talk about Brittany. But when I’m about a quarter mile from the base, my acoustic sensors pick up an unusual noise. I stop jogging so I can hear it better. In the distance, someone is reciting poetry.

  O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done,

  The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

  The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

  While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

  But O heart! Heart! Heart!

  O the bleeding drops of red,

  Where on the deck my Captain lies,

  Fallen cold and dead.

  It’s Marshall Baxley. I recognize his synthesized voice, which has a British accent. Although Marshall isn’t from England (he grew up in a small town in Alabama, actually), he programmed his robot to speak like a Shakespearean actor, with perfect grace and intonation. He’s an arts-and-humanities type, a joker and a dreamer, which makes him unique among the Pioneers. Shannon, Amber, and I are math and science geeks, more practical and logical. Zia—and she’d be the first one to admit this—is simply a brawler.

  Even for Marshall, though, reciting poetry in the pitch-black desert is a little strange. I can’t see his robot, but my acoustic sensors indicate that his voice is coming from behind the aircraft hangar on the other side of the runway. I turn my Quarter-bot and step quietly in that direction, trying to make as little noise as possible. I should probably leave him alone, but I’m too curious.

  O Captain! My Captain! Rise up and hear the bells;

  Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

  For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

  For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

  Here Captain! Dear father!

  This arm beneath your head!

  It is some dream that on the deck,

  You’ve fallen cold and dead.

  I know the poem. My circuits hold thousands of gigabytes of information on every conceivable topic, including nineteenth-century American literature, and in a millionth of a second I retrieve all the relevant details: “O Captain! My Captain!” written by Walt Whitman in 1865, first published in Sequel to Drum-Taps, later collected in Leaves of Grass, inspired by the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. But I don’t fully understand why Marshall is reciting it until I stride across the runway and sidle around the aircraft hangar and catch a glimpse of his robot.

  He’s in the cemetery, standing next to DeShawn’s grave. Marshall’s robot is a lot like mine, but there’s one big difference. His machine has a realistic, humanlike face with plastic skin and glass eyeballs and fiberglass teeth. His camera lenses are inside the eyeballs; his loudspeakers are behind the teeth; and there are motors beneath the skin to make his face smile, frown, grimace, and glower. The motors manipulate Marshall’s plastic lips as he recites the poem’s last stanza.

  My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

  My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

  The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

  From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

  Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

  But I with mournful tread,

  Walk the deck my Captain lies,

  Fallen cold and dead.

  The lights from Pioneer Base glint on Marshall’s robot, and I can see that the cheeks of his humanlike face are wet. Tears made of glycerin trickle from hidden nozzles next to his eyeballs.

  Guilt rushes through my circuits. I shouldn’t be watching this. I step backward, quietly retreating toward the other side of the hangar. But before I can move my Quarter-bot out of sight, Marshall turns from the grave and looks straight at me.

  “Don’t be shy, Adam.” The synthesized voice coming from his speakers is unembarrassed. “You can come out of the shadows.”

  Now I don’t have any choice except to step forward. “Hey, Marsh, I’m sorry. I was just—”

  “No need to apologize. You’re here to honor the dead. It’s a noble duty.” He waves his steel hand, urging me forward. “Come stand by my side, and we’ll mourn together.”

  I’m a little confused by Marshall’s tone. I can’t tell whether he’s joking or serious. But I stride toward the graveyard anyway. As I pass through the opening in the wooden fence, I see the inscription on the new headstone: DESHAWN JOHNSON, BELOVED SON, 2001–2018. More guilt rushes through me. I swiftly turn my camera lenses back to Marshall.

  When he was human, Marshall suffered from Proteus syndrome, the rare fatal illness also known as Elephant Man’s disease. It deformed his face and body so badly that his mother kept him hidden in the basement of their home. So after he became a Pioneer, he wanted to create a handsome, unblemished face for his robot. He based his design on pictures of Superman, the original Man of Steel. Marshall called his machine the Super-bot and gave it a square jaw, a dimpled chin, and shiny black hair made of slender wires. As I halt beside his robot, he curves his plastic lips into a grin. A lock of wiry hair dangles in front of his smooth forehead.

  “What did you think of the poem?” he asks. “Was it an appropriate choice?”

  Again, I’m confused. There’s always an undertone of sarcasm in Marshall’s voice. I decide to be cautious. “Well, it’s about death, right? So I guess that makes it appropriate.”

  “I’m not so sure. Whitman wrote the poem about Lincoln, a hero who dies at the end of a war. But DeShawn wasn’t exactly a hero, was he?” Marshall stops grinning. He points at DeShawn’s grave. “He betrayed us. He gave Sigma weapons that killed thousands of people. And at the same time, he managed to convince everyone that I was the traitor. That’s hard to forgive.”

  I force myself to look at the grave, my cameras reluctantly turning toward the headstone. DeShawn was a good friend. He was a nerd just like me, a tech geek who loved to tinker with the Pioneer hardware. He designed new kinds of robots for us, amazing machines with awesomely powerful weapons. He was the smartest of us all, by far. That’s why Sigma chose him to be its ally.

  I shake my Quarter-bot’s head. It’s so painful to think about this. “Sigma tricked DeShawn. It made him forget who he was, made him turn against his true nature. That’s what I’ve decided to believe. It’s the best way to remember him.”

  “I suppose you’re right. There’s no point in holding a grudge. DeShawn paid for his sins.”

  “Yeah, he did.” I clench my mechanical hands into fists. I’m remembering DeShawn’s last moments. In my memory files
is an image of the surge that killed him, a white-hot arc of charged particles shooting from my Pioneer robot to his. The guilt chokes me. “I made him pay.”

  Marshall focuses his camera lenses on mine. The irises of his glass eyeballs are deep blue, like Superman’s. “Stop blaming yourself. You did what you had to do. If you hadn’t, we’d all be dead.”

  Now there’s no trace of sarcasm in Marshall’s voice, and no British accent either. He’s talking like the human kid he used to be. I’m grateful for that. It softens the pain and eases my guilt. “I wish it hadn’t happened. I wish I could go back in time and change everything.”

  “So do I.” Marshall puts a sympathetic look on his robot’s face. “I wish DeShawn were here.”

  I’m a little surprised by Marshall’s behavior, which usually isn’t this compassionate. I point a steel finger at him. “What’s come over you? You’re so nice all of a sudden. You haven’t made even one snide remark.”

  He shrugs, raising his shoulder joints. “Recent events have reshaped my circuitry. Certain things I used to worry about don’t bother me now. If I were still human, you’d probably say I was maturing. But please don’t say it. I hate that word.”

  As I stare at his Super-bot, I retrieve another image from my files, a memory from the battle against Sigma a week ago. It’s the moment when Amber and Marshall came to my rescue. “Yeah, you’ve changed. You’re not afraid anymore.”

  Marshall lifts his dimpled chin and gazes at the night sky. Then he nods. There’s a look of exhilaration on his plastic face. “You’re right… I’m not afraid. From now on, I’m going to be totally free and honest. I’m going to do exactly what I want to do and say exactly what I want to say.”

  I look up at the sky too. There are thousands of visible stars overhead, and when I increase the magnification of my cameras, I see the dimmer stars as well, a hundred million lights scattered across the darkness. I’m hoping to feel the same exhilaration that Marshall is feeling, and after a moment I do. “That’s a good plan, Marsh. I’m gonna stop being afraid too. Everything will be better now. The Pioneers are gonna change the world.”

  Marshall lowers his gaze and turns back to me. At the same time, he raises his Super-bot’s eyebrows, making himself look even more ecstatic. “I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, but I have to tell you something. I’m gay. I’ve known for years, but this is the first time I’ve come out to anyone.”

  I’m not completely surprised. Marshall’s been hinting at this for a long time, always telling me how I don’t really understand him. And now I think I know why we’re standing in this graveyard.

  I point at the new marble headstone. “So were you and DeShawn…? I mean, did you…you know…like him?”

  Marshall frowns. All at once he looks so disappointed. “No, you don’t get it. I like you, Adam. In fact, I think I’m in love with you.”

  This is more of a shock. I’m glad Marshall is being totally honest, but I’m still not prepared for it. Even with all my computing power, I didn’t see this coming.

  I put my electronics to work, trying to come up with a response. I want to let Marshall know I’m flattered, but I don’t feel the same way about him, and I don’t know how to say this without hurting his feelings. But Marshall shakes his Super-bot’s head, cutting me off before I can say anything. He’s not frowning anymore, but his face is serious. “I know you’re not into me like that. And that’s okay. Really. I’m not upset, and I don’t feel rejected. I just needed to tell you how I felt. I got tired of hiding it.”

  My circuits finally give me a response. “Wow.”

  “Yes, ‘Wow’ is right. Did I freak you out?”

  I’m not freaked out. It’s nice to be liked. But I’m also worried about how this will change our friendship. “Love” is a pretty strong word, and I don’t think Marshall is using it lightly. “You’re sure you’re not upset that I don’t have the same feelings?”

  He shakes his head again. “No, what’s the point? I like boys, you like girls, that’s the way it is. I accept that we’re different and that life isn’t fair. It’s like I told you… I’m maturing.”

  In a way, this reaction is more unexpected than Marshall’s confession. He’s a lot more logical and practical than I thought. If I were in his position, I doubt I’d be so reasonable. I don’t think I could ever control my emotions so well. “Okay then. If you’re not upset, I’m not upset. I’m still a little surprised, though. I had no idea.”

  “In many respects, Adam, you’re quite slow on the uptake.” Marshall smiles, and his characteristic sarcasm comes back into his synthesized voice. “Probably because you’re so preoccupied with your own romantic dramas.”

  For a millisecond I wonder if he knows about Amber and me. But Marshall doesn’t raise one of his wiry eyebrows or make any other insinuating gestures, so I assume he’s talking about my breakup with Shannon. I nod my Quarter-bot’s head. “Look, I’m sorry I’ve been so out of it.”

  “No, none of this is your fault. The problem is that there just aren’t enough of us. With only five Pioneers, the dating choices are rather limited.” Marshall folds his steel arms across his torso. “Especially for me.”

  He’s right. It’s not fair. But I guess the Army wasn’t thinking about relationships or gender preferences when it started the Pioneer Project. The generals probably assumed that when we gave up our bodies, we’d lose all our romantic ideals and yearnings. They might’ve even thought we wouldn’t identify as male or female anymore. But that’s ridiculous, of course. Those preferences were hardwired in our human brains, so they’re faithfully duplicated in the circuits of our robots.

  I’m trying to think of something positive to tell Marshall, some words of hope or consolation, when my acoustic sensor detects thumping footsteps coming from the direction of our headquarters. It sounds like a Pioneer is exiting the base.

  My Quarter-bot exchanges a look with Marshall’s Super-bot. Then, without a word, we stride stealthily out of the graveyard. We head for the shadows behind the aircraft hangar and peek around the corner of the structure to see who’s coming.

  It’s the War-bot, Zia Allawi’s machine. Her robot is the biggest of all the Pioneers, nine feet tall and three feet wide, with arms as thick as telephone poles and legs as powerful as pile drivers. Her torso is shielded with enough armor to stop an artillery shell, and her arms are bristling with rocket launchers and beamed-energy weapons. But the most intimidating thing about the War-bot is that it doesn’t have a head. Instead, it has a bulbous turret crammed with cameras and radar antennas and dozens of other sensors. Zia’s robot isn’t even remotely humanlike, but that’s the last thing she cares about. When she was human, she hated the vulnerability of her body, so she’s made herself invulnerable.

  She storms out of the headquarters, swinging her massive arms and stomping her footpads on the desert floor. At first, I think she knows where Marshall and I are, because she’s heading for the aircraft hangar. She doesn’t call out to us, but I can tell she’s angry from her pounding footsteps. I feel certain that she’s coming over here to give us a thrashing, maybe just for the heck of it. It’s her nature to be aggressive. Both her parents were in the Army, serving under General Hawke fifteen years ago, and both died in the Iraq war when Zia was just a little girl. She grew up in the foster homes and street gangs of Los Angeles, and her violent instincts served her well after she became a Pioneer. Even Sigma was afraid of her.

  To my relief, her War-bot halts about a hundred yards from the hangar. She sways on her footpads for a moment, as if she’s uncertain where to go next. Then she clenches her mechanical hands and raises them toward the night sky, and her speakers let out a guttural roar, so loud it makes my armor vibrate.

  Even though Marshall is standing right next to me at the corner of the hangar, there’s no way I could hear him speak over the noise. He sends me a message by short-range radio ins
tead: I knew this would happen. Zia’s losing it. She’s having a mental breakdown.

  But why? I keep my cameras trained on the War-bot as I transmit my message to Marshall. Did something happen at Headquarters after I left?

  I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since the funeral. But you know what Zia’s like. The girl’s a ticking bomb. It was only a matter of time before she exploded.

  She keeps roaring for half a minute. The noise echoes across the White Sands desert, startling the nocturnal snakes and scorpions. It’s so loud that the human soldiers inside our headquarters must hear it, even though they’re far underground. But no one comes out of the base to see what’s going on, which I guess is lucky. I can only imagine what Zia would do right now if she saw someone she didn’t like.

  The roar finally cuts off, and the ground stops shaking. Then the War-bot’s bulbous turret turns counterclockwise, and its sensors scan the surrounding desert. For a moment, I think Zia has detected the radio communications between Marshall and me, and now she’s trying to pinpoint the source. But after a couple of seconds she turns away from us and strides toward the Army trucks and Humvees parked in front of our headquarters.

  Zia heads straight for General Hawke’s Humvee, the one with the three silver stars on its license plate. Her War-bot stands in front of the vehicle for several seconds, as if she’s admiring its paint job or inspecting its tires. Then she swings her sledgehammer arms and slams her steel fists into the Humvee’s hood.

  The vehicle is wrecked after the first blow, but Zia keeps pounding it. She tears off its armor and demolishes its engine. She rips out its axles and pulverizes its chassis. She doesn’t stop until she’s smashed the Humvee into a million pieces of shredded metal. Then she lets out another roar, but this time I can make out what she’s saying.