The Silence

by Mark Alpert

  Luckily, two things stop me from killing her. The first is horror. I can’t believe I’m even thinking about this. Revulsion and disgust swamp my circuits, stopping the surge in its tracks.

  The second thing that stops me is the fact that Zia is on to something. She’s right to be suspicious. When Amber jumped into my circuits thirty minutes ago, she was totally ready to help me with the surge. She didn’t need any practice whatsoever. Maybe this shouldn’t seem so surprising—Amber had shared circuits with me twice before, so she already knew my memories and feelings about the surge. She knew exactly what to expect when she jumped into my mind for the third time. But that doesn’t explain her eagerness. She dove into the whirlpool without hesitation.

  I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know who I should confront, Zia or Amber. But before I can make that decision, Amber disconnects her Jet-bot from the cockpit equipment. “I’m going to figure out how to close the bomb bay doors. We need to start preparing for the next phase of the operation.”

  She heads for the ruptured bulkhead between the cockpit and the bomb bay. Amber wrenches the broken steel wall, enlarging the hole I made, and slips her Jet-bot through the gap.

  I watch her leave, then pivot my cameras back to Zia. She raises her War-bot’s arm and points at me again.

  “Mark my words, Armstrong. Something funny is going on.”

  Chapter

  18

  We can’t use the plane’s radio, of course. If we transmit any signals from the B-2, they’ll reveal the bomber’s position. I can’t send a message to Pioneer Base, can’t talk to my dad, can’t tell him I’m okay. And I can’t find out what’s happening with Shannon and Marshall.

  I have to rely on my imagination instead. Luckily, my electronic brain is good at imagining things. I can envision hundreds of possible scenarios, then use my logic circuits to determine which are the most realistic. I picture Dad in the Danger Room, having another videoconference call with Sumner Harris and General Hawke. Sumner will be furious about our escape from Pioneer Base and the hijacking of the B-2 bomber. He’ll try to bully Dad and Hawke into helping him find the missing Pioneers. But Dad won’t betray us, and Hawke won’t be inclined to do Sumner any favors. In all likelihood, it’ll be a very unpleasant call.

  If Dad’s smart, he’ll avoid talking about the escape and focus on transferring Shannon and Marshall to the Model S robots. Sumner won’t like the idea, but he’ll also see the danger of allowing two Pioneers to die while three others are on the loose and capable of exacting revenge. So he’ll give the go-ahead for the transfer, and after Shannon and Marshall are trapped in the tin puppets, he’ll send the codes that’ll keep them alive. The Army units surrounding Pioneer Base will retake control of the facility and free the soldiers we handcuffed.

  I’m not certain that these events will actually occur, but it’s the most-likely scenario. The picture isn’t as clear, though, when I try to imagine what will happen to Amber, Zia, and me. Even with all my computing power, I can’t predict what we’ll do once we reach the Snake-bots.

  By 3:00 a.m. the B-2 is cruising over the Pacific Ocean, seven hundred miles west of California. My Quarter-bot is still linked to the electronics in the cockpit, and all the plane’s systems are functioning normally. My acoustic sensor picks up a loud banging noise from the plane’s bomb bay, but it’s not a sign of mechanical trouble. Amber is dismantling the bomb rack and the dummy missiles and using the parts to build something new. Although I’m curious about what she’s constructing, I don’t go to the bomb bay to ask. I’m afraid to talk to her.

  Zia has finished repairing her knee joint, and now she’s examining the B-2’s instrument panels. Her War-bot slinks across the cockpit, tilting forward to prevent her turret from banging into anything. She stopped grunting and cursing about an hour ago, and her speakers started playing music, but it’s not very soothing. It’s a jarring, disjointed medley, with bits and pieces of songs randomly spliced together.

  It’s the robotic equivalent of humming, I guess. Zia has a ton of songs stored in her memory, and her taste is pretty similar to my own. She likes Kendrick Lamar, Drake, Kanye West. After a while she starts swinging her massive arms in time with the music. She’s playing the songs to psych herself up for whatever’s coming next.

  Then Zia suddenly switches off her music and turns away from the instrument panels. She points her cameras at me. “What do you think Hawke’s doing right now? You think the Army fired him yet?”

  I shake my Quarter-bot’s head. I’m not surprised she asked about Hawke. She’s still obsessed with him. “No, they can’t fire him yet, because they need his help to find us. He knows more about the Pioneers than anyone else. He won’t want to help Sumner, but he probably will. It’s that duty thing.”

  “But eventually they’ll fire him, right? They’ll blame him for everything that went wrong with the Pioneers?”

  Now I think I see what’s motivating her. She wants Hawke to suffer. She tried to kill herself because she knew he’d be devastated, but our escape from Pioneer Base has given her an even better way to hurt him. The man dedicated his life to the U.S. Army, so what punishment could be worse than being drummed out of the service?

  If I had a face, I’d grimace. I’m losing patience with Zia. “Yes, he’ll probably be forced to resign. Will that be enough to satisfy you?”

  She turns her turret clockwise, then counterclockwise. “No. But it’ll be a start.”

  “Don’t you think you’re being a little—”

  “You saw Hawke’s confession, right? You watched the video I gave you?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Then you know why I hate him. It’s not because of anything he did to me. It’s because of what he did to my parents.”

  I probably shouldn’t say anything else. I have no interest in defending Hawke. And I know how agitated Zia can get when anyone disagrees with her. But I can’t stop myself. “Hawke tried to make up for what he did. He could’ve forgotten the whole episode after the war in Iraq ended. But he didn’t. He never forgot about you.”

  A hiss of contempt comes out of Zia’s speakers. “So what? It didn’t do me any good. All those years I was in foster care, he didn’t do a thing for me.”

  “But he was keeping tabs on you, watching over you from a distance. And when he heard you were dying, he tracked you down and told you about the Pioneer Project. He thought that’s what your parents would’ve wanted.”

  Zia strides toward me. “But he lied about what happened to them! He should’ve told the truth!”

  I raise my Quarter-bot’s arms over my head in surrender. “You’re right. But if he told you the truth before you became a Pioneer, you never would’ve agreed to the procedure. You would’ve rejected it in an instant, because you would’ve been so angry at him.”

  “What are you saying?” Her voice booms out of her speakers, making the B-2’s airframe tremble. “You think Hawke actually—”

  “He’s a liar, but he saved your life.” I lower my arms and point at Zia. “And biologically at least, he’s your father. If I were you, I’d keep that in mind.”

  I know these words will slash at her circuits. Something inside her War-bot starts vibrating, making a loud, high-pitched whine, a noise full of mechanical distress. Zia clenches her huge steel hands, and for a moment I’m certain she’s going to pound me. She’ll hit me so hard that my Quarter-bot will burst through the bomber’s fuselage, tumble out of the plane, and plummet eight miles down to the ocean.

  But after a couple of seconds, the whine inside her War-bot stops. She stands absolutely still. “Let’s stop talking about Hawke, okay? Right now, our bigger problem is your girlfriend.”

  I’m surprised she changed the subject. It’s the first time I’ve seen Zia choose evasion over confrontation. Maybe she’s developing some flexibility. That would be a big step forward for her.

&
nbsp; I pivot my cameras toward the bulkhead between the cockpit and the bomb bay. I can’t see Amber, but I can hear her banging away in there, still hard at work on her construction project. I turn back to Zia. “Listen, you need to learn to get along with her. We can’t work as a team if you’re constantly sniping at Amber.”

  Zia turns off her War-bot’s loudspeakers and sends me a radio message. It’s encrypted so Amber can’t hear it. She’s lying to us, Armstrong. I don’t know what her game is, but she’s definitely hiding something.

  I turn on my radio too. Why are you so suspicious? Where’s your evidence?

  There’s the surge, for one thing, how she figured it out so quickly. How can you explain—

  It’s simple. She’s smart and she has unbelievable amounts of computing power, just like you and me. It’s not so hard to understand. My messages are getting testy. I’m really annoyed. You could probably figure out how to generate a surge too. You definitely have enough rage in your circuits.

  Zia turns her turret clockwise and counter again. That’s not the only thing. Remember how she acted during the videoconference call in the Danger Room? How she hid in the corner, even when the soldiers pointed their antitank guns at us? And then she rushed toward the video screen and screamed at Sumner Harris? Yelling about Jenny, of all things?

  I remember, of course. Amber’s behavior seemed strange at the time, but there were so many other things going on that I didn’t think about it much. It still seems kind of trivial compared with all the other challenges we’re facing. What are you trying to say? Amber got scared, then she got angry. What else do you think is going on?

  I told you, I don’t know what she’s hiding. But I think it has something to do with Sumner Harris. When Amber yelled at him, she wasn’t just angry. She had this weird, intense tone. And what she said was really personal and really full of hate. Like the two of them had some kind of horrible secret.

  A secret? I still don’t get what you’re saying.

  Zia shrugs, lifting her War-bot’s shoulder joints. Maybe Amber is Sumner’s spy. She might be leading us into a trap.

  Oh, come on. We couldn’t have escaped from Pioneer Base without Amber. She literally carried us away from Sumner’s troops. How could she be his spy if she’s working against him like that?

  Maybe it’s a different kind of secret then. Look, I know you’ve shared circuits with Amber. But has she showed you everything in her memory files?

  I hesitate before responding. Then I realize I don’t have to respond at all, because my hesitation has already revealed my answer to Zia. Now she knows Amber walled off some of her memories. And I can sense Zia’s reaction to this news without any radio communication between us. She thinks I’m a gullible idiot.

  Am I, though? Why would Amber lie to me?

  She didn’t show me her memories of her mother’s suicide. She said they were too painful to share. So she put a firewall around them.

  But you don’t know for sure what’s inside that firewall, do you? She could be hiding anything in there.

  She promised she’d show me all those memories. Very soon.

  Zia synthesizes another hiss. Armstrong, you’re not so bright when it comes to relationships. First you messed things up with Shannon, and then you let Amber make a fool out of you. You have a bad track record. You know that?

  I don’t transmit a response. Zia’s questions are making me doubt myself. Have I misjudged Amber? Do I believe her only because I need her so much? Am I willing to believe anything she says, just to be close to her?

  Several seconds of radio silence pass. I expect Zia’s next message to be blistering. I expect her to call me an imbecile, a dunce, the dimmest robot ever built. But her message, when it finally comes, is emotionless and matter-of-fact. Go talk to Amber about it. Before it’s too late.

  • • •

  I squeeze through the hole in the bulkhead and enter the B-2’s bomb bay, but I don’t see Amber. Her Jet-bot is hidden behind an enormous steel cone.

  The cone is hollow and twelve feet high. It hangs pointy-end down from four thick cables attached to the cone’s rim, a circle of steel that’s eight feet wide. The cone’s tip is suspended a few inches above the gap between the bomb bay doors, which have been repaired, closed, and locked into their horizontal positions.

  The structure looks like a gigantic, metallic ice-cream cone. I do some quick arithmetic in my circuits and calculate that this cone can hold ten thousand gallons of ice cream. Maybe twenty thousand, if it’s a double scoop.

  Or it can hold three Pioneers and take them to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.

  Amber steps sideways so I can see her. Her Jet-bot stands on the locked doors, which provide a sturdy floor for the bomb bay, at least for the time being. She waves one of her long black arms at me as I clamber down from the hole in the bulkhead. “What do you think, Adam? I just finished putting it together.”

  I hop to the floor and step toward Amber. “I was wondering what all the banging was about. How did you make this thing?”

  “I took apart the sixteen dummy bombs, peeled off their steel casings and hammered them into curved panels. Then I welded the panels together.” She points at the welded seams running up and down the length of the cone. “There’s just enough room inside for you, me, and Zia.”

  I train my cameras on the structure and try to picture it in flight. I imagine the doors opening in the floor of the bomb bay and the cables overhead releasing the cone. It would fall like a warhead on its terminal descent, its tip pointed at the waters of the Pacific. “But won’t it be unstable? Zia’s robot is a lot heavier than yours and mine. When we’re inside the cone, it’ll tilt in her direction and spill us out.”

  “That’s why I added mass to the tip.” Amber extends her Jet-bot’s hand and raps it against the lower, narrower part of the cone. It makes a dull thud. “The bottom half is solid steel, almost fifteen tons. The weight at the bottom will stop the cone from tipping after it drops from the bomber. It won’t be in flight for very long anyway, because we’ll maneuver the B-2 close to the water before the release.”

  That makes sense. If the cone is dropped from a great height, it’ll hit the water too fast, and the impact will bludgeon the steel. But if the bomber is only a few hundred feet above the ocean, the cone will plunge into the water like a harpoon and speed down to the depths. I nod my Quarter-bot’s head in admiration. “So how long will it take to sink to the seabed?”

  “It’s hard to make an exact prediction because the drag force depends on the ocean currents. But it’ll probably take less than half an hour. We’ll sink at a rate of ten feet per second, more or less.”

  Now I picture the three of us inside the hollow cone, which will fill with water as soon as it hits the ocean. Our Pioneer robots are waterproof and heavily armored, but we’ll be descending more than three miles below the surface, and the water pressure will be tremendous at that depth. “Can our armor hold up under the pressure? We probably have some vulnerable spots, right?”

  “I already took care of it.” Amber steps closer and shows me a pair of thick steel caps she attached to her Jet-bot’s head, just above her camera lenses. “These caps will cover our lenses so they don’t crack. I made a pair for you and a pair for Zia. You should install them on your robots.” Then she strides back to the cone and points at its tip. “But this is my favorite part. Just watch.”

  She sends a wireless signal to a mechanism inside the cone, and hidden motors start to turn within the steel. The cone’s tip unfolds like a mechanical flower, separating into three drill bits, each as big as an automobile tire. They’re studded with sharp metal teeth.

  Amber points at the drill bits, which are connected to the rest of the cone by a vertical steel tube. “It’s a tunnel borer, the same kind of machine that Sigma’s Snake-bots used to drill underground. The teeth on the drill bits are made of tungs
ten carbide. Once we reach the seabed, they’ll dig right through the mud and bedrock.” She shifts her Jet-bot’s hand and points at the tube. “This pipe will turn the drill and deliver lubricant to the bits so they won’t overheat. They’ll tunnel a hole wide enough for the cone to slide through, and they’ll do it fast. After forty minutes of drilling, we’ll be within radio range of the Snake-bots.”

  I’m way beyond admiration now. I’m totally stunned by how much Amber has done. In three hours she designed and built all the tools we’ll need for the next stage of our journey. “Wait a second. How did you find the teeth for the drill bits and the motors for the borer? Were they all on the plane?”

  She shakes her Jet-bot’s head. “No, I planned ahead and brought some of the parts from Pioneer Base.” She slaps her hand against the storage compartment in her torso. “I stowed them right here.”

  Amber synthesizes a chuckle, a chirpy exclamation of delight. She’s proud of her efforts and wants me to know it. But instead of sharing her enthusiasm, I feel a creeping dread in my wires. She’s too prepared, too ready. Even with the help of her electronic brain, I don’t see how she could’ve accomplished so much in such a short time. She’s so incredibly confident about this mission, so skillful at foreseeing all the obstacles. It’s as suspicious as her expert handling of the surge. She’s too good at this. She’s succeeding too easily.

  But I don’t know how to confront her. I’m afraid of discovering the truth, whatever it may be.

  “Uh, Amber? This is going to sound a little strange, okay? But I want to share circuits with you again.”

  She lowers her Jet-bot’s arms and steps backward. “Share circuits? Now?”

  “Yeah, and that’s not all.” I say it fast. That’s the only way I can do this. “I want you to show me the memories you’ve been holding back.”