Six

by Mark Alpert

  It makes sense once I stop to think about it. The dummy rounds won’t damage the Pioneers, but they’ll show a direct hit by splattering paint on our armor. And until the moment of impact, they look realistic enough to terrify us. I can just imagine how Shannon must’ve reacted when she was on the course a few minutes ago. And Jenny, she must’ve been scared out of her mind. I’m so angry at Hawke I want to throw one of the fake shells at him, but instead I stride toward the barracks. I’m going to finish this obstacle course, and then I’m going to tell the general what I think of his stupid exercise.

  I pick up speed as I head for the first row of Quonset huts. I’m sprinting forward at thirty miles per hour when I see a soldier step from behind one of the barracks. He holds another M136 anti-tank gun, but now I know what to do. I angle to the left and take a flying leap, using my momentum to scramble up the curved wall of the Quonset hut. With the help of the new sensors attached to my footpads, I gain traction on the hut’s corrugated steel. I charge over the top of the barracks and slide down the other side, landing with a thud next to the soldier. Then I rip the M136 out of his hands and crush its barrel with my steel fingers.

  The soldier stumbles backward, petrified. I feel a rush of satisfaction—Are you scared, tough guy? Had enough? But the feeling sours as I stare at his quivering face. He’s one of General Hawke’s pawns, just like me. He doesn’t want to be here any more than I do.

  Tossing the gun aside, I race past the next two rows of barracks. I don’t see any other soldiers, but they could be hiding inside the Quonset huts. In a few seconds I reach the large building with gray concrete walls. I’m facing the back of the building—there are no doors on this side and only a few windows—but when I look closely at the base of the concrete wall I see a small arrow drawn in red paint. It points to the left.

  I turn left and run. The wall is marked with splotches of green paint, and the ground is littered with the broken casings of anti-tank shells. There was clearly a lot of shooting here when the other Pioneers ran the course. Then I see another red arrow on the wall, this one pointing at a lone window seven feet above the ground, the same height as my turret. The window has no glass; instead, it has a grate of thick steel bars.

  Pointing my camera between the bars, I see a wide, high-ceilinged space inside the building, with a dozen Army trucks and Humvees parked on the concrete floor. It’s a garage for fueling and repairing the vehicles. Some of the Humvees have their hoods raised, exposing their diesel V8 engines. On the other side of the garage, three roll-up doors are open, giving me a view of the muddy basin outside the fake prison camp.

  This is the way out. This is the exit Hawke mentioned. But when I clamp my hands around the steel bars of the grate and try to yank it out of the window, it won’t budge. I brace myself against the wall for leverage and increase the torque in my elbow motors, but the grate doesn’t move, no matter how hard I pull. I take a step backward and notice that the steel bars are firmly anchored in the concrete around the window. Then I get a warning from my radar system. Another M136 shell is rocketing toward me.

  I have just enough time to throw myself to the ground. The shell smashes into the grate as I roll away from the wall. Lying in the mud, I train my camera on the soldier who just fired at me. He drops his gun and runs away, but then another soldier steps forward and takes careful aim with his own M136. I extend one of my arms, grab a fragment of the shell that just shattered against the grate, and fling it at the anti-tank gun. The impact knocks the M136 out of the soldier’s hands, and the guy races for cover behind one of the barracks.

  More soldiers are coming, though. My acoustic sensor picks up the noise of their boots clomping through the mud. I’ve bought myself some time, but not much.

  I right myself and turn back to the grate. Unfortunately, the shell did no damage to the steel bars other than coating them with green paint. I clench my mechanical hands into fists and pound the wall, hoping to loosen the bars, but all I can do is make a few shallow dents. What’s more, I notice other dents in the concrete, obviously made by the Pioneers who ran the course earlier. This strategy didn’t work for them, and it’s not going to work for me either.

  Out of ideas, I stare through the grate at the Humvees in the garage. I’m frustrated and furious. Why did Hawke give us this impossible assignment? Does he get his kicks from watching us fail? And why should I care so much about this exercise anyway? I’m not doing myself any favors by playing Hawke’s game. I should just let the soldiers splatter me.

  I’m about to turn around and surrender when I notice something odd under the hood of one of the Humvees. A shiny steel case, about the size of a shoe box, has been installed next to the vehicle’s battery. An orange cable connects the case to the V8 engine, and another cable runs to the Humvee’s antenna. I’ve seen this setup in Hawke’s databases about weapons and electronics. The steel case is a neuromorphic control unit. It’s similar to the control units designed to operate fighter jets and helicopters, but this unit can control the Humvee.

  That’s it! That’s the way out! I can escape from the prison camp by transferring myself out of my Pioneer and into that control unit!

  With a burst of new hope, I turn on my transmitter. Sending the data wirelessly takes longer than using a cable; I’ll need about half a minute to finish the transfer. I feel a weird stretching sensation as my antenna starts transmitting the radio waves that carry the data from my memory files. Part of me is traveling outward at the speed of light, bouncing through the barred window and reassembling at the Humvee’s antenna, while another part of me remains in the Pioneer, maintaining control over the robot’s sensors and motors until the transfer is complete.

  I turn the Pioneer around and wait for the soldiers to show up. After fifteen seconds one of the men pokes his head around the corner of the nearest barracks. I fling another shell fragment in his direction, and the soldier pulls back.

  After ten more seconds he jumps out of hiding and hoists his M136 to his shoulder. But by the time he aims the gun at me, I’m no longer inside the Pioneer. I’ve escaped the camp. I’m in the Humvee’s control unit.

  Once I’m inside the new circuits, I find the file that has the instructions for operating the vehicle. I start the engine and take control of the Humvee’s driverless navigation system, which uses built-in cameras to detect obstacles in the vehicle’s path. I put the Humvee in reverse and back out of the garage. Then I shift gears and gun the engine in triumph. Strangely enough, I feel comfortable inside the motor vehicle. It reminds me of my old motorized wheelchair. Except the Humvee is more maneuverable, of course, and a heck of a lot faster.

  I speed away from the garage and zigzag across the basin, allowing myself a few seconds of celebration. Then I zoom back to the fake prison camp. As I approach the empty headquarters building, the Humvee’s cameras detect several obstacles to my right. I slow down and turn toward them to get a closer look. Although the vehicle’s built-in cameras aren’t as good as the ones in my robot, I can tell what’s in front of me: General Hawke and the five other Pioneers.

  Hawke applauds as I pull to a stop. I can hear him clapping. The Humvee’s navigation system is equipped with an acoustic sensor, most likely to detect car horns and sirens. “Nice work, Armstrong,” the general says. “You did better than I expected. When people are shooting at you, it’s not so easy to think clearly, is it?”

  I can’t respond in words—the vehicle has no system for speech synthesis—so I honk the horn instead.

  “My men are retrieving your Pioneer,” Hawke adds. “You’ll have to transfer back to the robot for the tiebreaker.”

  Tiebreaker? What’s he talking about? I aim the Humvee’s cameras at the other Pioneers, trying to figure out what’s going on. I notice that four of them are splattered with green paint, but one robot is clean.

  “You weren’t the only one to complete the course,” Hawke explains. “Another Pioneer su
ccessfully transferred to the Humvee. So we need a tiebreaker to pick the leader for your unit.” He points at the clean robot. Its armor is marked with the number 3 and a crude etching of a snake. “You and Zia are going to have a little race.”

  • • •

  The tiebreaker is a half-mile sprint around the prison camp. I have no idea why Hawke chose this kind of competition. Because Zia’s Pioneer is almost identical to mine—well, except for her circular saw and welding torch—we should be able to run a half-mile in about the same time, right? If one of us finishes slightly ahead of the other, a sensible person would chalk it up to luck. But the general seems to think otherwise.

  I transfer myself back to my Pioneer and approach the starting line, which is in front of the empty headquarters. Then I shake out my steel legs and take a few practice strides, imitating the warm-ups I’ve seen Olympic runners do before a race. Zia, in contrast, just stands there behind the line, motionless. I extend my right arm, offering to shake hands, but she doesn’t respond. For a second I try to imagine what’s going through her circuits. Does she hate me for no reason, or is there something behind it?

  Then Hawke yells, “Go!” and we both take off.

  The trickiest part is dealing with the mud. My footpads start to slip as I build up speed. If I fall down I’ll never catch up to Zia, so I have to make sure I don’t stumble. I carefully control my acceleration as we leave the headquarters behind and make the first left turn at the northwestern corner of the camp. My circuits calculate exactly how fast I can go without losing my footing. Zia is obviously doing the same thing, because after turning the first corner, we’re running neck and neck alongside the prison fence.

  By the time we reach the southwestern corner, though, I’ve pulled ahead. I lean into the second turn, pumping my arms, and steadily build up my lead as we race past the Humvee garage. I’m running faster than Zia because of the wireless sensors I installed in my legs. The sensors at the bottom of my footpads are measuring the firmness of the ground, allowing me to maximize my speed. I can safely pick up the pace whenever I hit a dry patch. I’m almost twenty feet ahead of Zia when I reach the southeastern corner.

  I feel a surge of exhilaration as I make the third turn and sprint north alongside the fence. Now I realize why I didn’t give up on the obstacle course, why I worked so hard to win. I want to be the leader of the Pioneers. For some reason it’s important to me. Maybe because I think I can do a better job than Hawke. Or maybe because I simply want to impress the others. It sounds a little conceited, I guess, but that’s the way I feel.

  I’m more than thirty feet ahead by the time I reach the northeastern corner. The headquarters comes back into view, and I can see Hawke and the other Pioneers standing by the finish line. But just as I make the final turn, I feel horrific pain in both of my legs. My knee joints feel like they’ve caught fire, and my footpads sting as if I’ve just stomped on a bed of nails. The pain is so fierce I lose control of my motors. My legs lock up and my momentum tips me over. My Pioneer careens into the mud.

  The pain keeps tormenting me as Zia turns the corner and rushes toward the finish line. For a moment I suspect she used her welding torch on me, but when I run a diagnostic check on my systems I see that everything’s normal. There’s nothing wrong with my footpads or the motors in my leg joints. Then I realize that I’m feeling pain only in the places where I installed the wireless sensors. When I turn off the antenna that’s receiving the signals from the sensors, the pain disappears.

  I get back on my footpads and start running again, but Zia has already won the race. What she did was very clever. She must’ve intercepted my sensors’ signals, figured out their frequency, and then transmitted a barrage of radio noise on the same channel. Basically, she hijacked my wireless nervous system to deliver a burst of pain to my circuits.

  By the time I cross the finish line, Hawke is already congratulating Zia. For a moment I consider complaining to the general, but I know it won’t do any good. I can’t prove that Zia cheated. And besides, it’s as much my own fault as hers. Shannon had warned me, back in the gym, about the dangers of leaving myself vulnerable. But I didn’t listen.

  “We have a winner,” Hawke says. “I’m promoting Zia Allawi to lieutenant. She’s now in charge of the Pioneers, at least when I’m not around. And I’m promoting Adam Armstrong to sergeant. He’ll be the second-in-command.” He gives me a magnanimous look, as if he’s doing me a great favor. Then he looks at his watch. “All right, in thirty minutes one of Sigma’s spy satellites is going to pass over Colorado, so we better get back inside the base. We’ll regroup in the briefing room at sixteen hundred hours.”

  He nods at Zia, then marches toward his men. Zia salutes him as he walks away. Then she turns her turret and aims her camera at me. “You heard the general, Armstrong! Get the others in line!”

  I have no choice. I have to obey her.

  From: The National Security Adviser

  The White House, Washington, DC

  To: General Calvin Hawke

  Commander, Pioneer Base

  Cal, I have more information on the firefight at Tatishchevo Missile Base, so I’ve ordered Colonel Peterson to fly to Colorado and deliver this message to you. The news isn’t good.

  The incident began last night just outside Tatishchevo’s eastern gate. The Russian soldiers assigned to that area came under heavy fire from the base. At least sixty of Sigma’s driverless tanks emerged from the gate and advanced east along the highway that leads to the city of Saratov. The attack caught the Russians by surprise. When the unmanned tanks roared out of the base with their guns blazing, the troops panicked and retreated into the woods.

  Before the Russian commanders could organize a counterattack, a convoy of three trucks sped down the highway from Saratov, heading for the base. The trucks entered Tatishchevo, and then the tanks immediately pulled back behind the eastern gate and reassumed their defensive positions. The attack was apparently a diversion. Sigma launched it just to clear the highway so the trucks could get into the missile base.

  Unfortunately, it gets worse. Russian investigators have figured out who was driving the trucks and what was inside them. Twelve hours before the firefight there was an incident at the Russian army’s bioweapons laboratory, five hundred miles northeast of Tatishchevo. A group of terrorists, most likely from Chechnya, broke into the lab and captured a large supply of highly lethal anthrax bacteria.

  The Chechens also stole equipment that mixes the bacteria into an aerosol spray, making it easy to spread the germs over a large area. Witnesses at the bioweapons lab said the terrorists escaped in three Ural tractor-trailer trucks. That matches the description of the vehicles that entered Tatishchevo.

  So it looks like you were right when you said Sigma’s preferred strategy is to kill off the human race without destroying our machines. Spreading anthrax over our cities would accomplish that goal quite efficiently. The Russian army is pushing hard to attack Tatishchevo before Sigma can release the germs. We’ve given them the results of our analyses, all the studies showing that Sigma could easily launch its nuclear missiles long before our own missiles could hit the computer lab, but the Russians are growing impatient. If we want to pursue the Pioneer option, you’ll need to get your team ready soon. Even two weeks may be too long. We may have to load the Pioneers on a flight to Russia in just a few days.

  In the meantime, we need to be very careful. The attack on the bioweapons lab shows that Sigma can persuade people to carry out tasks that the AI can’t do by itself. It looks like Sigma made contact with the terrorists through its communications satellites, which give the AI access to the Internet and the telephone networks.

  And there’s evidence that Sigma has used this access to hack into the computer systems of several major banks. The AI has apparently stolen millions of dollars from the banks, electronically transferring the money to its own hidden accounts, and now
it can offer these funds to terrorists and mercenaries in exchange for their cooperation. The terrorists have no idea they’re dealing with an AI because it can mimic human speech so well.

  Worst of all, I’m worried that Sigma may be using human allies to help it find Pioneer Base. Just a few minutes ago I got a report from the FBI field office in New York. The parents of Ryan Boyd, the student at Yorktown High School who was once Adam Armstrong’s best friend, have reported the boy missing. Ryan disappeared last night while he was socializing with his friends behind Yorktown High School. His friends say he stepped into the woods to relieve himself, but he never returned. The FBI has assigned a task force to search for Ryan, but they have no good leads.

  I think we have to assume the worst: that someone allied with Sigma kidnapped the boy to find out where Armstrong is. I strongly recommend that you question Adam about this right away. If he told Ryan the location of Pioneer Base, you may have to evacuate the facility.

  I’m sorry to deliver so much bad news in one message. God bless you and the Pioneers.

  SIGMA MEMORY FILE 9685664301

  DATE: 04/04/18

  This is a transcript of a telephone conversation between the Sigma speech-synthesis program (S) and American ex-convict Richard Ramsey (R). The communications were transmitted via radio from Tatishchevo Missile Base to the Globus-1 satellite, then to the Verizon cell-phone network in Westchester County, New York.

  S: Good afternoon. How’s the weather in Westchester?

  R: Well, well. It’s my rich uncle again. How you doin’, Unc? I got that money order you sent me.

  (Voice analysis confirms that the speaker is Richard Ramsey.)