by Mark Alpert
Meanwhile, I have an even harder job to do. I need to tell Dad I’m leaving. I haven’t talked to him since I learned about the Snake-bots, because I knew what he’d say about the plan. I knew how hard he’d argue against it, how he’d work on all my emotions to get me to stay. So I made the decision on my own, and now I’m glad I did, because this is a decision that’ll change the course of history. Someday in the future, the human-to-machine transformation will be available to everyone. Billions of sick and dying humans will have the option of giving up their bodies and transferring their minds to electronic circuits. So the Pioneers need to make it clear, right from the start, that human rights aren’t just for humans.
But despite my conviction that I’m making the right choice, I still feel queasy as I stride back to Dad’s laboratory. He’s going to be devastated. He’s going to cry and yell and fall apart. Back when I was a kid with muscular dystrophy, Dad was usually the calm parent and Mom was the hysterical one. Dad took me to the hospital when I had trouble breathing or swallowing, while Mom ran into her bedroom and wailed. But after I became a Pioneer and my parents split up, Dad started acting more like Mom. Sometimes he’s calm, and other times he’s hysterical. In general, it’s hard to predict how he’ll react to bad news. I’m pretty certain, though, that he won’t be calm about this.
When I reach Pioneer Base’s medical center, I halt my Quarter-bot in front of the entrance and gather my courage, collecting it from every corner of my circuitry. Then I open the door and step into the intensive care unit. As I stride toward Dad’s lab, I notice a nurse and a doctor bending over one of the ICU’s beds. The nurse is the middle-aged Asian woman I’ve seen many times before, and the doctor is the brain surgeon I saw this morning. And lying on the gurney is Brittany Taylor, her skull wrapped in gauze bandages.
I stop at the foot of her bed. Brittany’s eyes are closed and she’s breathing peacefully, but her face is still so pale. I use my sensors to measure her heart rate and blood oxygen level, but I can’t see the extent of the scarring in her brain, can’t tell how badly her cortex has been damaged. The doctor is pinching Brittany’s fingertips to test her reflexes, while the nurse adjusts her intravenous line. I aim my cameras at the nurse—I know her better than the doctor—but before I can ask a question, she places an index finger over her lips to shush me.
“Brittany just got out of surgery,” the nurse whispers. “She needs some time to rest.”
I lower the volume of my speakers to the minimum setting. “How is she? Will she be okay?”
The nurse turns to the doctor, deferring to his opinion. The man looks up from his patient, but doesn’t say anything at first. He stares at me and frowns. He knows I’m the one who injured Brittany’s brain, causing the bleed that required eight hours of surgery to repair. After a few seconds, he steps between Brittany and my Quarter-bot, as if to stop me from doing any more damage. Then he shakes his head. “We don’t know if she’ll recover. We probably won’t know for several hours. Now please leave the ICU.”
I’m not insulted. The doctor is angry on behalf of his patient, and I totally deserve it. I respect his wishes and head for Dad’s laboratory.
Once I’m in the lab, there’s another surprise: Dad’s not here. The chair behind his desk is empty. Worried, I step closer and notice a yellow Post-it note stuck to the screen of Dad’s computer. It says, WAIT HERE, ADAM. I’LL BE RIGHT BACK.
Dad probably got hungry and went looking for a sandwich, but I’m still worried. I tap a few keys on Dad’s computer and connect to Pioneer Base’s security system, which displays the live video feeds from all the base’s surveillance cameras. After some automated searching, I locate Dad. He’s in his room, lying fully clothed on his bed. But he’s not taking a nap. His eyes are open, and his lips are moving. He’s talking to Marshall’s Super-bot, which stands beside his bed.
My circuits jangle in alarm. I send a radio message to Marshall: What’s going on? Is Dad all right? Is he sick?
Don’t worry, Adam. Your dad’s fine. Marshall’s voice over the radio is steady and reassuring. The two of us are just having a little chat.
I don’t believe that, not for a nanosecond. A chat? I thought you were in the command center with Amber and—
Yes, Amber and I finished the data retrieval a few minutes ago, so when your dad radioed me and asked me to stop by his room, I came right over.
It’s maddening. Marshall’s tone is so casual, but what he’s saying is so strange. Well, I’ll come over too. Just—
No, your father says he can’t see you right now. I’ll come to you instead. You’re in the laboratory, right? I’ll be there in sixty seconds. Then Marshall turns off his radio.
The next minute is the longest in my whole life. I don’t understand it. Dad says he can’t see me? What could make him so upset that he’d refuse to see me? He must’ve learned about the Snake-bot plan, probably from Marshall. So why isn’t he arguing against it? He should be yelling at me, telling me the idea is colossally misguided. But Dad’s not even trying to talk me out of it.
When Marshall finally steps into the lab, I rush toward him. “What happened? Did you tell Dad about the plan? Does he know what I decided?”
Marshall steps backward and raises his steel hands. “Whoa, whoa! Adam, please calm—”
“Tell me!” I’m taking out my anger on Marshall, but I can’t stop myself. “Does he know?”
A synthesized sigh comes out of the Super-bot’s speakers. “Yes, your dad knows about the Snake-bots. He ran into Shannon in the corridor, and she told him everything. As soon as he heard about the plan, he knew you’d get behind it. He also knew he wouldn’t be able to change your mind.”
“Then why is he avoiding me? What’s that all about?”
“Try to see it from his point of view. You’re about to do something extremely dangerous, and he has no idea when he’ll see you again. He’s afraid to say good-bye to you, Adam.”
“So he called you instead?”
Marshall nods. “He asked me to give you a message. He wants you to be careful. Don’t take any unnecessary risks. After you transfer to the Snake-bots, find a safe place to hide them and avoid confrontation with the military. But try to establish a link to the Internet so you can keep up with the latest news. Your dad thinks the government’s position on the Pioneers may change over time, and in a few months it might be safe for you to come back.”
It’s good advice. I’m grateful that Dad offered it, but distressed that he couldn’t tell me in person. And I’m nervous about leaving him behind at Pioneer Base. I assume he’ll take charge of transferring Shannon to one of the Model S robots, but I don’t know what will happen to him afterward. “Do you think he’ll be okay? Sumner Harris will go nuts when he finds out we escaped. He’ll probably look for someone to blame, and he might go after Dad.”
Marshall gives me a sympathetic look, tilting his head and pressing his plastic lips together. “I won’t let that happen. I’ll watch over him for you. I’ll be inside a Model S machine instead of a Super-bot, but a Pioneer is a Pioneer. My mind will be the same, as fierce as ever.”
This stops me cold. “Wait a second. You’re not coming with us to the Pacific? You’re gonna take Sumner’s offer?”
His Super-bot nods again. “I understand what you and Amber and Zia are trying to do. You’re fighting for our rights. It’s a noble cause, and I wish you well. But I can’t go with you. I’m going to stay here with Shannon and let the Army turn me into a Model S marionette.”
“Why?” My voice rises in pitch. Disappointment is tightening my wires. “We need you, Marsh.”
He lowers his Super-bot’s head. His glass eyeballs gaze at the floor. “What can I say? I’m not cut out for life as a fugitive.” His plastic face winces. “No, that’s not it. The truth is, I don’t fully agree with you. Your principles are correct, but I think you’re choosing the wrong way to fig
ht for them.”
“What do you mean? How—”
“I believe in nonviolence. That must sound a little odd, coming from a U.S. Army robot designed for combat. But that belief is very important to me. It’s at the core of my software. Even though I agree with you about our rights, the path you’re taking will lead to bloodshed. And the violence will hurt your cause. No one’s going to give human rights to the Pioneers if we start killing humans.”
I shake my Quarter-bot’s head. “We’re not going to kill anyone!”
Marshall looks up and points his cameras at mine. “It’s bound to happen. You’re going to transfer yourselves to Snake-bots. Those are killing machines.”
His argument is reasonable, and the expression on his Super-bot’s face is patient and kind, but I still feel angry. Marshall is wrong. “Well, how else can we fight for our rights? It doesn’t advance the cause if we just give in.”
“I’m not giving in. I’ll let them transfer my software to the Model S, but I’m going to take every opportunity to protest this crime.”
“No one’s going to hear your protests!” I clench my Quarter-bot’s hands into fists. “Sumner will make sure of that. He wants to eliminate every last trace of the Pioneer Project. Once he gets you and Shannon into the Model S machines, there’s a good chance he’ll delete you.”
“No, Sumner will be afraid to delete us if there are other Pioneers on the loose. He knows he’ll be in for some serious punishment if Zia finds out that he executed Shannon and me.” Marshall manages a sad smile. “In a way, splitting up the Pioneers is the best strategy. You and Amber and Zia will fight the government from the outside, while Shannon and I wage a quieter struggle from within.”
This is so frustrating. I’m trying to understand Marshall’s point of view, but I can’t. I don’t see Shannon and Marshall as protesters; I see them as prisoners, hostages. “Are you sure about this? Maybe you should think some more about—”
“I’m sure. Don’t be so dejected, Adam. Remember what we talked about in the cemetery last night? Nothing’s going to scare us anymore. We’re going to do and say exactly what we feel.” His smile grows a little wider. “I’m thinking about composing a protest song, actually. I’ll add a few lines to ‘We Shall Overcome,’ maybe insert a verse about the inalienable rights of robots. What do you think?”
Once again, it’s hard to tell if Marshall is serious or joking. His mind jumps so casually from one mood to another. I unclench my steel hands and place one of them on the shoulder joint of his Super-bot. “I think your song idea is terrible. But you’re my best friend, so I’ll sing it with you anytime.”
“Oh, you and your sweet talk. You really know how to flatter a guy.” His plastic face is still smiling, but his synthesized voice catches on the word “guy.” “You should go back to the command center. Amber and Zia are working on the plan to escape Pioneer Base. They could probably use your help.”
Despite Marshall’s best efforts to maintain his composure, the hidden nozzles next to his eyeballs are releasing their glycerin tears. I tighten my grip on his shoulder joint. “Take care of yourself, Marsh. When you write that protest song, put a secret message into the lyrics and then post it on YouTube. We need to figure out a way to stay in contact.”
“Adam, I—”
Now Marshall’s voice fails him altogether. Instead of finishing the sentence, he leans forward and plants a kiss on the side of my Quarter-bot’s head. Then he pivots toward the door, but before he leaves the room he synthesizes a few bars of music that come out of his Super-bot’s speakers.
Oh, deep in my heart
I do believe
We shall overcome someday.
Chapter
16
Amber, Zia, and I are waiting for zero hour. Our escape plan—code-named Operation Hijack—is scheduled to begin at 11:00 p.m. Mountain Daylight Time, exactly three minutes from now.
In the meantime, we’re standing just inside the entrance to Pioneer Base, behind the blast door that separates the White Sands desert from the elevator that goes down to the underground complex. It’s called a blast door because it’s designed to withstand a direct hit from an air-to-ground missile, but in 180 seconds we’re going to lift that thick steel slab and dash outside. Then we’ll have no protection from the three Reaper drones circling overhead, each carrying a full load of Hellfire rockets.
And the Reapers are only a small part of the task force that the military has deployed around Pioneer Base. In the air, six F-35 fighter jets and four A-10 ground-attack aircraft are patrolling the area. On the desert plains, ten M142 rocket launchers and twenty M1 Abrams tanks are positioned in a mile-wide circle around our headquarters. The Army put its ground forces relatively far from the base because they’re not as maneuverable as the Pioneers. Up close, we could dodge their fire and run past the tanks and rocket launchers, but from a distance, the soldiers can shower us with dozens of high-explosive shells.
Luckily, we have the most powerful weapon of all: information. The Army generals suspected they might lose control of the Pioneers, so they made plans months ago for an attack on our base. Digital copies of the plans were stored in the command center, and because General Hawke’s men failed to erase the data, we know everything about their task force. Crucially, we know all the details of the air patrols, including when the jets have to leave the area to refuel, and when new aircraft will arrive to replace them. And we discovered a brief gap in the air coverage. During a two-minute window, starting at 11:00 p.m., no aircraft besides the drones will be within striking distance of the base.
We’re tracking the Air Force jets on radar, and so far they’ve stuck very close to schedule. At 10:58 p.m. the F-35 fighters break out of formation and speed toward a refueling tanker plane forty miles to the east. A minute later, the A-10 gunships also veer away from Pioneer Base and head for a tanker plane to the south. Another squadron of F-35 jets is zooming toward us from Kirtland Air Force Base, but they’re more than fifty miles away. The Reaper drones are still overhead—they can fly for fourteen hours before needing to refuel—but they aren’t nearly as fast or deadly as the manned aircraft. The task force is at its weakest now. This is our best opportunity to escape.
Amber is already revving her Jet-bot’s engine. She extends her long black wings from her arms. “Ready to do this, Adam?” Her voice rings with anticipation. “Are you as psyched as I am?”
The answer is definitely no. I don’t understand why Amber’s so excited. She sounds almost joyful. I know some people—soldiers, especially—have a habit of using gung-ho enthusiasm to hide their fear, but I don’t think that’s the case with Amber. She doesn’t seem nervous at all. Her Jet-bot vibrates with eagerness.
Her mood is too good. No one should be happy about what we’re going to do. I want to remind her of the risks of this operation. “Don’t forget our priorities, okay? It’s all about surprise. If we do this right, we can get out of here without—”
“Shut up, Armstrong.” Zia turns her War-bot’s turret clockwise, then counterclockwise, which is her way of shaking her head. “We know the plan.”
“Look, I just want to emphasize—”
Zia cuts me off. “There’s nothing more to say. It’s time to kick butt. We’re gonna do some serious damage tonight.”
This worries me. I remember what Marshall said about nonviolence. “No, we need to minimize casualties. It’s really important that we—”
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up? We got fifteen seconds till go time, and I’m tired of hearing your voice, all right?”
To punctuate her request, Zia waves one of her War-bot’s fists at me. So I shut up. There’s no point in fighting each other. We have enough enemies already.
We wait in silence for the final fifteen seconds. Amber tilts her Jet-bot forward until her torso and wings are almost horizontal. Zia bends over too and slips her steel fingers un
der the bottom edge of the blast door.
Then it’s go time. Zero hour.
With a tremendous heave, Zia raises the blast door. Amber races outside, her footpads pounding the desert floor, her jet engine shrieking. In less than three seconds, she’s off the ground and rocketing skyward. Her Jet-bot looks like a black cross, a robotic crucifix streaking toward the stars.
At the same time, I charge across the desert, sprinting west. Zia dashes to the southwest, diverging from my Quarter-bot and running at about the same speed. I switch my cameras to the infrared range so I can see her in the darkness. I can also use my acoustic sensors to keep track of her. Her War-bot’s footpads stomp the hard-packed sand, making the ground rumble.
I’m not using my radar. The Reaper drones are equipped with radar-seeking missiles that can home in on any radiation source. I don’t want them to target me, so I use my infrared sensors to locate the three unmanned aircraft. Two of them are flying low, less than a mile above the ground, while the third is at an altitude of twenty thousand feet.
Amber’s Jet-bot soars between the two low-flying drones, but she doesn’t fire her weapons at either one. She keeps climbing past five thousand feet, then ten thousand feet, zooming toward the high-altitude Reaper. According to the classified Army data we pieced together, this drone holds an advanced radar system that can pinpoint the locations of our robots, so knocking it out is Amber’s primary mission. When she reaches an altitude of three miles, she opens a compartment in the belly of her torso. A plume of flame erupts beside the Jet-bot and darts ahead of her at three thousand miles per hour. She’s launched an air-to-air missile.