by Mark Alpert
The big challenge, though, will be convincing Dad that it’s safe. He’s staring at a computer screen that shows my sensors’ images of the chip, but he can’t analyze the wiring as fast as I can. He leans closer to the screen and lifts his glasses to his forehead, which is creased with anxiety. He’s going along with my plan, against General Hawke’s orders, because he knows he can’t stop me. But he doesn’t like it one bit.
I’m about to tell him that I’ve finished my analysis when I get an urgent message on my Quarter-bot’s radio. It’s from Shannon.
Come outside, Adam! Zia’s in trouble! We’re a hundred yards in front of the base’s entrance!
Without a microsecond of hesitation, I bolt out of the laboratory. I barrel past the intensive care unit, then head for the emergency stairway, which is the fastest route to the surface. I radio Shannon as I charge up the stairs.
What’s going on? What’s wrong with Zia?
She’s almost out of power! Even her reserve batteries are empty!
That definitely qualifies as an emergency. Because the human mind is dynamic—it never stops generating signals, even when it’s asleep—it can’t survive without power. Just as a human brain needs oxygen, a Pioneer’s neuromorphic control unit needs electricity. If it’s deprived of power for more than a few seconds, the circuits will lose their data, and the mind inside the robot will disappear.
Can’t you give her a jump? Every Pioneer is equipped with built-in jumper cables. You have enough extra charge in your batteries to share with her, don’t you?
I tried, but I can’t plug in the cable. Her port is broken. She must’ve damaged it last night. Hurry, okay?
After another three seconds I burst out of Pioneer Base. Shannon stands in the desert next to Zia’s fallen War-bot. Shannon is holding one of the War-bot’s thick arms and dragging the huge machine toward the base’s entrance, but the War-bot is very heavy, more than fifteen hundred pounds, and Shannon’s Diamond Girl is built for speed, not strength. She’s not making much progress. Her diamond-chip armor blazes in the desert sun, and the face on her video screen is frantic.
“Help me!” Shannon calls. “Zia’s completely unresponsive! We have to get her inside the base and replace her broken port!”
I race over and grab the War-bot’s other arm. With both of us pulling, the robot slides quickly over the sand, but it’ll take us at least a minute to reach the base and several more minutes to get the War-bot to the repair station. And Zia doesn’t have that much time. According to the LED screen on her armor, she has only fifty-eight seconds of power left in her batteries.
Up ahead, Marshall and Amber come running out of the base to help us, but even with all four of us carrying the War-bot, we still won’t make it to the repair station in time. We need to think of another plan. I search my Quarter-bot’s databases, scrutinizing all the information on Pioneer electronics. I rummage through the thousands of blueprints and circuit diagrams that are stored in my files. I’m looking for anything that could be useful.
Then I find something in an electrical engineering database. It’s called inductive coupling.
I let go of the War-bot’s arm. “Shannon! Change of strategy! Stop dragging her!”
“What are you—”
“I’m gonna transfer power to her wirelessly.” I lower my Quarter-bot to the ground, first dropping to my knee joints and then resting the back of my torso on the sand. “My antenna needs to be as close to Zia’s as possible. Give me a push!”
Shannon kneels on the sand and shifts my Quarter-bot a few inches, positioning its head right next to the War-bot’s turret. “This won’t work, Adam! Our electronics aren’t designed for wireless power transmission.”
“I just need to adjust the frequency of my radio signal. It’ll generate an oscillating current in Zia’s antenna, and then her circuits will need to convert the current from AC to DC so she can use the power.”
“I told you, she’s unresponsive! She can’t adjust her circuits! She can’t even hear us!”
“I know, I know. I’m gonna transfer myself to her circuits and take control of her machine.”
“No! Adam, that’s a bad idea. You—”
But I don’t wait to hear Shannon’s warning. I load all my data into my Quarter-bot’s radio transmitter and fire myself out of the antenna.
I feel a stretching, disorienting, nauseating sensation as my software spreads outward at the speed of light. But because Zia’s antenna is so close to mine, in less than a billionth of a second my packets of data converge and reassemble inside her radio receiver. She has just twenty-nine seconds of power left, but I’m not worried. It’ll take me less than a thousandth of a second to make the needed adjustments to Zia’s electronics, and only another five seconds to build up enough DC power to run her control unit. This’ll be a cinch.
But as soon as I enter her neuromorphic circuits, I know something’s wrong. I feel like I’ve fallen into a pit of quicksand. My signals seem to be moving through a suffocating slurry that dulls my thoughts and delays my reactions. Instead of zipping through Zia’s electronics, I’m creeping along her wires. It takes me a full five seconds just to get my bearings, and the effort is exhausting. Because Zia’s batteries are so low, her circuits have gone into a power-saving mode that slows all their functions. At this rate, I’m going to need at least half a minute to make the needed adjustments. That’ll be too late for Zia.
And too late for me as well. My software is stuck in her circuits. I don’t have enough time to transfer back to my Quarter-bot. When the War-bot’s power runs out, my mind will disappear at the same time as Zia’s. That’s what Shannon was trying to warn me about.
But strangely enough, I’m not terrified. Everything is so sluggish in Zia’s wires that I can’t build up any fear or frustration. All I feel, besides the crushing fatigue, is a slow, dull regret. I can’t believe I’m going to die now. God, I’m so stupid.
Then I see I’m not alone. Zia’s signals are crawling right next to mine, so close that I can sense her thoughts on the nearby wires.
He killed them, Adam. Hawke killed my parents.
She’s not panicking. She doesn’t even sound angry. Sadness and resignation are her only emotions, and they move with excruciating slowness in her circuits.
Okay, Zia, we need to work together. You need to help me adjust your—
I have proof. Hawke hid the file on his laptop, but I downloaded it. Here, take a look.
She slowly pushes the file toward me, transferring it to the circuits I’m occupying. It’s a video file, but I don’t have enough time to view it. The power in the War-bot’s control unit will run out in fourteen seconds.
Listen, we have to move fast. We—
No, it’s too late. We’re out of time.
She’s right. I’m fooling myself. Even if we work together, there’s nothing we can do at this point.
I don’t get it. Why did you let your batteries run down? How could you do this to yourself?
I wanted revenge. I was going to kill Hawke. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t murder him in cold blood. So I ran and ran, and then I came back to Pioneer Base. So Hawke would see what he did to me.
Now I understand. Because Zia couldn’t murder Hawke, she decided to kill herself instead. I don’t like what she chose to do, but I see why she did it. She can’t live with what she knows. She’d rather die than accept it.
I’m sorry, Adam. I didn’t think anyone would jump into my circuits to help me.
Again, all I feel is regret. Just six seconds left now. What a horrible waste. There was so much I wanted to do, so many things I could’ve accomplished. And the same goes for Zia.
But the worst part is what’s going to happen to Brittany. Once I’m dead, who’s going to cure her? She’ll spend the rest of her life in bed. Staring at the ceiling.
Which is even worse
than dying.
No! I won’t let that happen! I won’t!
I feel a spark shoot through Zia’s electronics. Even though there’s barely any current in her War-bot, in my desperation I’ve managed to collect all of it. I channel the electricity into one last thought, a simple instruction to realign the War-bot’s circuits. Then, with the last of my remaining strength, I heave this thought across the dead wires.
I’m totally drained. My voice falls silent, and so does Zia’s. Our millions of memories start to dim. All our observations and realizations, all the insights and epiphanies and hard-won lessons, are blurring and fading. The world is losing something precious, our vast array of unique perceptions and experiences. They’ll never be repeated, not in the same way, even if the universe lasts for another trillion years.
It’s like the burning of an ancient library. All those irreplaceable scrolls going up in flames. All that secret wisdom lost forever.
Blackness descends. My mind shuts down…
Then I wake with a painful jolt.
My last thought, transmitted five interminable seconds ago, has successfully adjusted the War-bot’s circuits. Electric current flows from my Quarter-bot’s antenna to Zia’s and then to her control unit. Our minds brighten and revive, feeding on the power.
I feel a rush of energy and enthusiasm and relief. I send a loud, joyous message to Zia. Hey, hey! It worked! I’m a freakin’ magician!
Zia’s reply, when it finally comes, is a lot less enthusiastic. Yeah, you’re a genius. But if it ever happens again, stay out of my robot, all right?
I don’t like the sound of that.
So this was a waste of time? You’re gonna try to kill yourself again?
I’ll do what I want. As Zia’s circuits ramp up to full power, her anger also makes a comeback. It’s my life.
You know, your decisions affect more than just you. We’re all—
Shut up, Adam. Her voice turns dangerous. I can sense her mind throbbing in the nearby circuits, ready to explode. Go back to your own machine.
I don’t have a choice. If I don’t exit her War-bot within the next millisecond, I’ll be in serious trouble. I stream my software to her radio and transmit myself to my Quarter-bot.
As soon as I’m back in my own circuits, I turn on my cameras. I’m still lying on the ground next to the War-bot. Amber, Marshall, and Shannon tilt their robots over me. The face on Shannon’s video screen is still frantic, and Marshall’s Super-bot is biting its plastic lip with its fiberglass teeth. I can’t read anything in the blank steel face of Amber’s Jet-bot, but her hands are vibrating.
“I’m okay.” I put a cheerful tone in my robotic voice. “And Zia’s okay too. My radio’s powering her up.”
Marshall synthesizes a sigh of relief, while Shannon shakes her Diamond Girl’s head. “My God, you scared us.” Her voice is shaky. “We thought we were gonna lose both of you.”
Amber says nothing. Her hands are still quivering. I want to say something special to comfort her, but I can’t do it in front of the others.
I keep up the good cheer instead. “Yeah, it was touch and go for a minute there, but Zia and I worked it out. She—”
Zia interrupts me by levering her War-bot to a sitting position, then rising to her footpads. At the same time, she turns off her radio, breaking the wireless power link. “I don’t need any more juice. I have enough to get to my recharging station.”
She doesn’t offer a word of thanks or apology. She doesn’t even point her cameras at me. She simply strides toward the entrance to Pioneer Base.
Shannon shakes her head again and mutters, “Unbelievable.” Then she hurries after the War-bot. “Wait up, Zia! I’ll help you with your repairs!”
While they return to the base, Marshall extends a steel hand and helps me stand up. “So, was I right? Was it a mental breakdown?”
I don’t know what to say. I can’t gossip about Zia’s suicide attempt. But I can’t invent another explanation either. Confused, I turn to Amber instead. Her silence is starting to worry me. “Hey, are you okay?” I take a step toward her. “I’m sorry if I—”
“Idiot. You almost ruined everything.”
Amber’s voice is cold. And hollow too, as if it’s coming from an immense emptiness inside her. I assume she’s angry at me for risking my life. It’s a natural reaction, I guess, when you’re in a relationship. I want to explain why I did it, but I’m afraid I’ll say something that’ll hint at my feelings for her, and I can’t do that with Marshall listening. So I just stare at her, silently hoping for forgiveness.
It’s not going to happen. After a few seconds, Amber turns away and follows Shannon and Zia back to headquarters.
Marshall raises one of his Super-bot’s wiry eyebrows. “Very interesting. Care to comment, Adam?”
Once again, I don’t know what to say.
Chapter
7
Transferring all that power to Zia seriously drained my Quarter-bot’s batteries, so before returning to Dad’s laboratory, I go to my room to recharge. The process takes exactly six minutes, and it’s not a lot of fun. For a Pioneer, recharging is the equivalent of eating, but electricity doesn’t have much of a taste and storing it in your batteries isn’t nearly as satisfying as gorging on a good meal. But you get used to it.
While I’m plugged into the charging station in my room, I scroll through my memory files, looking for something interesting to pass the time. That’s when I spot the video file that Zia gave me. She transferred it to one of my databases when I was inside her War-bot, and I took it with me when I jumped back to my machine. For a moment I wonder whether I have the right to open the file. She gave me permission to look at it, but she assumed we’d both be dead within a few seconds. And after I powered up her circuits, she probably forgot to ask me to return it.
But no, that can’t be right. Pioneers aren’t perfect, but we don’t forget things. Zia consciously allowed me to keep the video, and that means I still have her permission to view it. I don’t have General Hawke’s permission, because Zia stole the file from his laptop, but that doesn’t bother me so much. Hawke has lied to me on several occasions, so I don’t feel like I owe him anything.
The first thing I notice is that a dozen text documents are attached to the video. One of the documents contains a list of Hawke’s bank accounts. Another holds the passwords he uses for military and private communications. Yet another is labeled “Last Will and Testament.” The Army probably encourages all its soldiers to create documents like these, to be opened by the soldier’s survivors after his or her death. The video file itself is labeled “For Zia.” Hawke made the video for her, but he clearly didn’t want her to see it until after he was gone.
I hesitate before viewing it. Zia said it proves that Hawke killed her parents, so I’m imagining all kinds of horrible possibilities. Because both her father and mother served in the Army during the Iraq war, I assume the video shows combat footage. I brace my circuits for bloodshed: maybe a grisly firefight in an alleyway, or a tremendous explosion in the Iraqi desert.
But when I open the file, all I see is General Hawke sitting behind the desk in his office at Pioneer Base. According to the video’s time stamp, it was recorded three months ago using the camera built into Hawke’s laptop. He’s wearing his usual desert-camouflage fatigues, and he looks more or less the same as he did when I saw him an hour ago in Dad’s laboratory. His pose is a little odd, though—his hands are clasped together on the desk, the fingers entwined so tightly that the knuckles have turned white. He’s trying to appear relaxed and failing miserably. And when I examine Hawke’s face, I notice something even odder, at least for him. There’s a tear running down his left cheek.
He sits silently for fifteen seconds after the video starts recording. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. Then he turns his head, averting his eyes from the laptop�
��s camera.
“This is a message for Corporal Zia Allawi, recorded on July 29, 2018.” His voice is formal and strained. “If you’re watching this, corporal, it means I’m dead and buried. But I made this video while you still served under my command in the Pioneer Project, and I want you to know that I was impressed by your commitment to our mission. And I resolved that someday I would try to correct a terrible wrong I’d done to you.”
He unclasps his hands, then twines them back together.
“Zia, I lied to you about your parents. About how they died. I wish I could’ve told you the truth while I was still alive, but I was too ashamed. Some of my actions were less than honorable, and I bitterly regret them.”
He stresses the word “bitterly,” enunciating each syllable. He sounds sincere, but I’m skeptical. I know Hawke too well.
“First of all, you should know that your parents—Captain Tariq Allawi and Major Samantha Allawi—were both outstanding officers. Samantha was a military intelligence expert who knew more about Iraq than anyone else in the Army. She was one of the officers on my staff in the years before the war, when I was helping Central Command prepare for the invasion of the country. I got to know her husband, Tariq, when he served in a tank regiment under my command after the war was underway. And I got to know you from the pictures they showed me, little Zia Allawi, the four-year-old hellion.”
He glances down at the laptop’s keyboard. He’s kneading his hands, squeezing the life out of them.
“Because your parents were Iraqi immigrants to the United States, they had the language and cultural skills the Army needed after we occupied the country. Tariq was stationed with me at Victory Base in 2005, but I really needed a good intelligence officer, so I asked your mother to come join us. At first she said no, because of you, Zia. You were so young, and your mother didn’t want to leave you. But I finally convinced her to come to Iraq for a short while, just six weeks, and she left you at home with your grandmother.” He shakes his head. “That was a mistake. I didn’t know the situation with your parents. I knew they’d had problems in their marriage, and they’d even separated for a year, but I thought they’d patched things up since then. I was wrong. It was much worse.”