by Mark Alpert
But when I check my radar again, I see something disturbing. Eight miles ahead, the squadron of F-35 jets splits into two smaller formations. Three of the jets veer off to the west while the other three fly directly south. The pilots have obviously recognized that Amber’s Jet-bot has some pretty serious defenses, so they’re going after easier prey: the slow-moving Reaper drone with the War-bot clinging to it. They’re steering around us so they can shoot down Zia.
Oh God! What do we do? If they come at Zia from two different directions, we won’t be able to shield her from their missiles!
Amber answers me by swerving her Jet-bot to the north, putting us on an intercept course with one of the formations. We’re gonna follow a little strategy called divide and conquer. First we’ll bust up this trio of jets on the north side, then we’ll go after the other three on the south.
This sounds like a good plan, but I need some clarification. What do you mean by “bust up”?
I’ll fly real close to the formation, and then you’ll unleash one of your surges, a really big one. The fighter jets will cruise into the fireball and explode just like their missiles did.
But that’ll kill the pilots. They won’t have time to eject from their planes.
Well, what do you want? Either those pilots die or Zia does. You have to make a choice.
Amber is talking in that cold-blooded tone again. There’s not one iota of sympathy in her voice. It sounds like she hates humans as much as Sumner Harris hates the Pioneers.
I vibrate uneasily in Amber’s embrace. I almost wish she’d let go of my Quarter-bot and let me fall to the desert floor. She responds by hugging me closer to her Jet-bot’s belly. Her arms clamp so tightly around my torso that they dent my armor. Look, Adam, it’s a tough situation. She softens her tone a little. If you have a better plan, I’d love to hear it.
I don’t have a plan, but I have an idea. Ever since I developed the ability to generate a surge, I’ve been struggling to figure out how to control it. Because the energy comes from my most desperate emotions, it’s really hard to dial it down. I assumed I’d gradually learn more about the phenomenon and eventually discover how to use the surge for something besides large-scale destruction. But now I need to speed up the learning process.
Keep up with the jets, but stay at least a couple of miles away. I’m gonna try something new.
Something new? What—
A different kind of surge. Let me think for a second.
I start by thinking of the pilots in the fighter jets. I imagine them sitting in the cockpits of their F-35s, each airman gripping his jet’s control stick, each wearing a helmet with a heads-up screen that puts the navigational data right in front of his eyes. Each pilot has trained for hundreds of hours with the plane, learning all its quirks and flaws and capabilities. Most of all, each pilot knows the terrible might of his machine, the destructive power of its missiles and bombs. In that way, the airmen are like Pioneers. They’re not our enemies.
Nevertheless, I have to stop their aircraft. I have to disable the machines without killing the pilots inside them. My thoughts generate a new current that starts coursing through my wires, a surge completely unlike the ones I’ve created before. It’s composed of anger and empathy, panic and hope, fear and pity. It scythes through my circuits, lacerating my thoughts, scarring my mind. But despite all my efforts, I can’t make the surge strong enough to leap out of my Quarter-bot. Rescuing and protecting the airmen is a lot harder than murdering them. I can imagine it and wish it, but I can’t make it happen.
Okay, we’re flying parallel to the jets that are north of us, three miles away. The other formation is ten miles to the southeast, but pretty soon they’re gonna have a clear shot at Zia. Is your new surge ready?
No, not yet. I’m still—
You gotta hurry, Adam. What’s the holdup?
Amber is making me nervous, and that isn’t helping. Her urgency is messing up my balance of emotions, the carefully calibrated mix of positive and negative. I just need another—
Listen, I’m coming over there to help you.
As Amber sends me this radio message, she shifts one of her Jet-bot’s arms, moving it a few inches up my torso. Now her mechanical hand is next to my Quarter-bot’s cable port, which is kind of like the USB port on a computer. It’s the socket where I can connect a fiber-optic cable if I want to transfer my data to another machine. Amber extends her own transfer cable from one of her steel fingers and plugs it into my port.
A millisecond later, before I can protest, her mind floods my Quarter-bot. This time, though, she doesn’t appear as an avatar in a virtual-reality simulation. I simply sense her software at the other end of my neuromorphic control unit, occupying an empty section of circuitry. She fires off a message toward the wires that hold my own software.
All right, I’m ready. Let’s get to work on this surge.
Wait, who’s flying the Jet-bot?
Don’t worry. I put it on autopilot. Her software flows across the control unit, moving closer to mine. I think we’ll work better together if we share the same circuits. Then our thoughts will be in sync.
Amber, I have to warn you. Generating a surge can be painful. It—
I can take it. Come on, let’s do this. We don’t have much time.
She’s right about that. I can’t create this new kind of surge on my own. And every second, the F-35s fly hundreds of yards closer to Zia.
Okay, come over here.
Her software crosses into my circuits. For the third time, our thoughts come together and our minds turn transparent. Amber can see everything in my databases, all the distant memories from before I became a Pioneer and all the billions of perceptions I’ve added to my files since then. And I can see everything in Amber’s mind except for the memories she’s still not ready to share. Because we’re not running a virtual-reality simulation now, I don’t see the black cube that represents her locked-up files, but I can sense those unseen memories flowing in my circuits, an ugly chunk of data surrounded by a firewall.
In less than a nanosecond, Amber sees what I’ve been trying to do, the careful construction of a surge that combines opposing thoughts and feelings. She automatically adds her emotions to mine, her sympathy and arrogance, her affection and disdain. We work in concert, our minds perfectly meshed, and the surge grows stronger. Working together, it’s much easier to find the right mix of impulses and assemble them into a clear instruction, a command that can transcend my circuits. I hardly feel any pain as it whirls inside me. Then Amber and I release the surge from my Quarter-bot, and it speeds along the invisible wires of the universe.
The surge billows into a humongous sphere, more than ten miles across, but this time it’s not a fireball. It’s a less destructive but more intricate electrical disturbance, carried along the molecules in the air. It strikes all six of the fighter jets and streams into their electronic controls. It shuts down their engines and avionics and weapons. The momentum of the jets keeps them on course, but after a couple of seconds, they start to slow and sink, gliding downward.
But the surge doesn’t deactivate the planes’ pilot-ejection systems, because those mechanisms don’t require electricity—they use solid-fuel rockets to eject the pilots’ seats from the planes. Over the next five seconds, all the airmen pull their ejection handles and ignite the rockets, which catapult their seats from the disabled F-35s. I point my cameras downward to watch the parachutes unfurl from the plummeting seats. The six pilots drift slowly down to the desert while their planes crash into the empty sands, exploding brilliantly but hurting no one.
A whirlwind of joy starts spinning through my circuits, sweeping up my thoughts and Amber’s. We did it! We did it!
Oh, Adam. You’re like a little kid. Look how happy you are!
Amber’s voice sounds different—softer, sadder, more wistful. To my surprise, some emotions are leaki
ng from her hidden data. Her feelings are trickling through her firewall. I get the sense that she might be ready to lift that barrier. She finally trusts me enough to share her most painful secret: the traumatic memories of her mother’s suicide.
But before she can take that step, a radio message rushes into my Quarter-bot’s antenna. It’s from Zia.
Hey, lovebirds? You finished smooching yet? Or whatever you’re doing over there?
Even Zia can’t spoil the moment for me. I’ll tell you what we’re doing. We just took on the U.S. Air Force’s best fighter squadron and kicked their flyboy butts. Did you see it on your radar?
Yeah, I saw it. But you’re celebrating too soon. You know how many Air Force bases there are between here and the Pacific Ocean? They’re probably fueling up a hundred more jets to intercept us.
Now Amber speaks up. Chill out, okay? We’re only a few minutes behind schedule. If we speed it up a little, we can still make our connecting flight.
She says good-bye to me in a digital whisper—Later, baby—and transfers her software back to her Jet-bot. Then she throttles up the engine on the back of her torso and streaks toward the Reaper drone carrying Zia.
• • •
Among the many gigabytes of classified data we retrieved from Pioneer Base was a document from Global Strike Command, the Air Force branch in charge of America’s long-range bomber jets. The document was a schedule of Global Strike’s operations for the week, including hundreds of training flights for the bomber crews. At least a dozen of their planes crisscross the country every night, and when we checked the schedule for that particular evening, we found a flight going from Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana to Vandenberg Air Force Base in California. The plane was expected to pass over New Mexico between 10:45 and 11:30 p.m.
Amber and I spot the bomber after the Jet-bot zooms past Zia’s drone and soars another hundred miles west of Pioneer Base. We wouldn’t have found the plane at all if we didn’t know its flight path. The bomber is sleek and black and has wings shaped like a bat’s. Its metal skin is coated with high-tech materials that make it impossible to detect the aircraft with radar. It’s a B-2 Stealth bomber, the sneakiest plane ever built, designed to fly unseen into even the best-defended airspace. In other words, it’s the perfect vehicle for a trio of Pioneers trying to slip past the U.S. Air Force and reach the Pacific Ocean.
Hitching a ride on the B-2 might get tricky, though. There are two pilots in the plane’s cockpit, and I don’t think they’ll be happy about taking on passengers.
Amber ascends to 40,000 feet, positioning her Jet-bot fifty yards behind the bomber and just ten feet below it. She’s pretty sneaky herself, and it looks like the B-2’s pilots haven’t noticed us yet. She pulls up until we’re flying directly below the plane’s bomb bay, and then I clamber to the top of her Jet-bot. My Quarter-bot sits upright, my steel legs straddling Amber’s torso and my arms raised above my head. I extend my hands toward the bomb bay’s rectangular doors.
Amber, are you sure about this? The bombs inside this plane aren’t nukes, are they?
No, they’re dummy bombs. It’s a training flight, so it’s not gonna carry live weapons. Why are you so nervous?
Well, I don’t want to bust into this bomb bay and set off a nuclear warhead or something. That wouldn’t be good.
God, you’re such a worrywart! Stop being so ridiculous, all right?
A pulse of irritation runs through my circuits. I don’t like being called ridiculous. Amber’s abrasive side is showing again, and now it seems even more jarring since she was so nice to me a few minutes ago. What’s with this girl?
I suppress my irritation and slam my hands into the bomb bay’s doors, jamming my steel fingers into the narrow gap between them. I dig my hands in deep enough to get a good grip on the doors, then wrench them downward to open the bomb bay. When I raise my cameras, I see sixteen long missiles hanging from a rack, like enormous bullets inside the chamber of the world’s biggest gun.
I grab the bomb rack and hoist my Quarter-bot into the B-2. Amber’s Jet-bot drops away from the bomber, descending several hundred feet, while I climb to the top of the rack, scrambling around the dummy bombs like a kid on a jungle gym. An alarm goes off inside the plane, alerting the pilots that the bomb bay doors are open, but I ignore it and head for the front of the aircraft.
Between the B-2’s bomb bay and cockpit is a slanting bulkhead, a steel wall strong enough to hold the greater air pressure inside the cabin. I punch through the wall and peel back the steel, tearing a hole big enough for my Quarter-bot. Then, fighting the blast of air rushing out of the cabin, I pull myself through the hole and enter the rear section of the cockpit, which is crowded with electronic equipment. I extend a fiber-optic cable from the index finger of my right hand, plug it into the equipment, and take control of the B-2. At the same time, I wave my left hand at the pilots sitting in the front of the cockpit.
“Hey, guys. I’m really sorry about this, but we need your plane.”
Both airmen look over their shoulders at me. They’re wearing helmets with dark visors, so I can’t see their faces, but I can imagine how surprised they are. They sit there in shock as I change the B-2’s flight path and shut down the bomber’s radio and turn off the transponder that allows the Air Force to track the plane. Then the pilot on the right—I think he’s the commander—reaches into his flight suit and pulls out a handgun. It’s an M9 Beretta, the pistol carried by all Air Force pilots in case they wind up in enemy territory.
I’m not worried about my own safety. A bullet from a handgun can’t penetrate my armor. But if the bullet ricochets off my Quarter-bot, it might damage the plane or hurt one of the pilots. So before the commander can point his pistol at me, I send a command through my fiber-optic cable to the B-2’s emergency systems. The signal opens the escape hatches at the top of the cockpit and ignites the solid-fuel rockets under the pilots’ ejection seats.
The seats shoot out of the plane through the open hatches. I connect my circuits to the B-2’s reconnaissance cameras and see the pilots’ parachutes billow open and drift downward. By this point, I’ve already put the bomber into a tight, banking turn. I’m circling back to the Reaper drone so I can pick up Zia.
• • •
Five minutes later, Zia steers the Reaper under the B-2, climbs into the plane’s bomb bay, and ditches the drone. Amber performs an even fancier maneuver, easing her Jet-bot into the cockpit through one of the open hatches at the top. Then I set a new course for the bomber, aiming for the location in the Pacific where the Snake-bots are.
Pretty soon, the Air Force will realize we’ve hijacked one of its stealth bombers, but it won’t be able to find us. We’re hidden in the vast skies over the American Southwest. I throttle up the B-2’s engines until we reach the bomber’s cruising speed, 560 miles per hour. We’ll reach our destination by 4:00 a.m., which means we’ll have two hours to get to the bottom of the ocean and transfer to the Snake-bots. No problem, right?
In the meantime, the three of us gather at the back of the cockpit and connect our robots to the B-2’s electrical system so we can recharge our batteries. Zia crawls into the cramped space and uses the built-in tools in her War-bot’s hands to fix her damaged knee joint. She points the index finger of her left hand at the joint, and an acetylene flame spurts out of the nozzle at her fingertip. Then she uses this welding torch to repair her battered armor.
As Zia works, a variety of grunts and curses come out of her speakers. After detaching the plates of armor from her knee joint, she shuts off her torch and points the nozzle at me. “So are you proud of yourself, Armstrong? You think you’re doing a great job as our new leader?”
Zia’s belligerence doesn’t surprise me, but her question does. I don’t think of myself as our leader. Amber made just as many decisions as I did. “Hey, we’re not in the Army anymore. Now we’re all the same rank.”
Amber shakes her Jet-bot’s head. “Everyone did as much as they could. Your War-bot was damaged, so you couldn’t—”
“It’s a little suspicious, don’t you think?” Zia ignores Amber and keeps her cameras trained on me. “Your girlfriend’s been a Pioneer for only ten days, and already she’s calling the shots. What’s her secret, Armstrong? She’s got natural leadership abilities or something?”
I feel a bolt of anger. It rattles my reenergized circuits, which are jumping with all the new current siphoned from the B-2. Zia has no right to say these things. “You know what? I think we should end this conversation. We’ve got a four-hour flight ahead of us, and—”
“Nah, I want to keep talking. I want to know what’s going on. Especially with that freaky surge of yours. I have to admit, Armstrong, I’m a little jealous of you and your surges. I wish I could make fireballs on command like that. I could have a lot of fun with that kind of power.”
“Believe me, it’s not so—”
“But here’s the thing. Until a few minutes ago, I thought you were the only robot who could pull off those pyrotechnics. Isn’t that why Sigma put you through that crazy test at the Unicorp lab? Because the AI wanted to figure out how you did it?” Zia keeps her cameras focused on me, but points her nozzle finger at Amber. “But you and your girlfriend did that last surge together, like a team. So how was that possible? Have you been training her? Maybe during your electronic make-out sessions?”
All at once, my bolt of anger becomes a raging storm. It roars through my circuits, howling in outrage, ready to punish Zia for what she just said. I could release the surge at any moment, and after what I’ve learned tonight, I feel confident I could control its energy and focus its effects. I could channel the surge into a fierce, tight beam that would strike Zia without damaging anything else in the cockpit. I could melt all her wires in an instant.
