Six (20 page)

The room falls silent. Marshall retracts his arm. We aim our cameras at each other, but neither of us speaks. I don't know what to say.

Then DeShawn breaks the silence. “What you said before, Marsh? About the giddiness? I know something about that.”

Marshall turns his turret toward him. “Don't tell me you got tipsy from that sip of beer your mother gave you.”

“Nah, this is something else. Something I discovered just yesterday.” DeShawn taps his fingers against his torso's armor, pointing at the spot where his neuromorphic circuits are. “I was playing around with my files, trying to see how fast I could perform some complex calculations. And then by accident I activated a pathway I didn't know was there. That's what caused the giddiness.”

“Really?” Marshall trains his camera up and down, giving DeShawn a careful once-over. “This is intriguing. Exactly how giddy were you?”

“It only lasted a hundredth of a second, but it was pretty intense. The pathway must have some strong connections to the positive emotions—you know, happiness, delight, that kind of thing. I felt joyful, on top of the world. Like I'd just won the lottery or something.”

Now I aim my camera at DeShawn, studying him just as carefully as Marshall did. I remember the sensations I felt a few days ago when I went into sleep mode and dreamed of my mother. DeShawn's discovery is better, though. He's talking about a shortcut for altering his emotions. “How did you do it? Where was the pathway you activated?”

“It's in the same folder where the sensory functions are. Here, I'll show you.”

An instant later I receive a radio message from DeShawn detailing the exact location of the pathway in my electronics. To activate it, all I need to do is send a thought down those circuits. I'm eager to give it a try, but also a little wary. “Were there any aftereffects?” I ask. “Any permanent changes to your electronics?”

DeShawn lifts his steel shoulders in a shrug. “Sure, there were changes. But our circuitry is changing all the time. After every experience we make new connections.”

“But were the changes good or bad?”

“It didn't hurt me. But if you're worried about it, you don't have to—”

Marshall interrupts him by clanging his hands together. The noise echoes against the walls. “I'm not worried, DeShawn. Send me the same message you just sent to Adam.”

DeShawn turns on his radio again and transmits the message. “Here you go.”

Marshall folds his arms across his torso. He's clearly reading the message and inspecting the pathway. “Well, it looks simple enough. And God knows, I could use a little giddiness right now.” He raises his right hand and curls the steel fingers, pretending to hold a glass. Then he brings the hand toward his turret, like a man about to take a drink. “Cheers!”

Marshall's torso shudders as he activates the pathway. I watch him for several milliseconds. Then I push my fears aside and do the same.

I feel a rush of elation. It's Christmas, it's my birthday, it's Super Bowl Sunday. The New York Giants have just won Super Bowl XLVI and all my friends are cheering. Ryan Boyd picks me up by the waist and carries me around our living room. Brittany Taylor does a handstand and falls to the carpet, laughing. Her eyes are blue one moment, grayish-green the next.

The joy grows so fierce that it's almost unbearable. And then, after exactly eleven milliseconds, it shuts off. The emotion doesn't fade; it vanishes instantly. For a moment I'm distraught. I feel abandoned and empty. I want to activate the pathway again,
right
now
.

But I don't do it. There's a reason the elation disappeared so abruptly. The extreme emotion must've tripped some kind of self-protection circuit. The bliss was too strong. Strong enough to drive you crazy.

I need another few milliseconds to compose myself. Then I turn my turret toward DeShawn. “Wow, you were right. That was intense.”

He doesn't respond. Instead, he aims his camera at Marshall. I turn that way too and see Pioneer 5 thrashing. Marshall swings one arm to the left and the other to the right, as if whipping an invisible enemy. I stride backward, getting out of the way. “Marshall! What's wrong?”

I don't think he can hear me. He's flailing his arms the same way Jenny did right after her procedure. He's lost control of his Pioneer.

DeShawn steps backward too. “Stop it, Marshall!” he shouts. “Disengage your locomotion circuits!”

Marshall keeps flailing. His right arm slices the air and slams into the wall, shredding two of the posters. I have to stop him before he hurts himself. I observe Marshall's movements and calculate the safest way to restrain him. “I'm going in!” I yell at DeShawn. “Get ready to back me up!”

But just as I'm about to lunge across the room, Marshall stops thrashing. All at once he lowers and retracts his arms. His torso vibrates for a moment, then goes still.

“Marshall?” I take a step forward, still ready to restrain him if I have to. “You okay?”

“I'm fine.”

He's no longer speaking with an amused British accent. Marshall's voice is monotone, truly robotic. I take another step toward him. “What happened? Did you activate the—”

“I'd rather not talk about it.”

Now DeShawn steps forward. “Look, if there's a problem, you should tell us. We still don't understand how our circuits—”

“Please leave. Both of you.” Marshall raises his right arm and points at the door. “I want to be alone.”

I can tell that arguing with him won't do any good. Activating the pathway clearly had a different effect on Marshall than it had on me or DeShawn. And he definitely doesn't want to talk about it.

Reluctantly, I head for the door. A moment later I hear DeShawn's footsteps clanging behind me. Just as I grasp the doorknob, though, Marshall lets out a synthesized sigh. I turn my turret around and see him waving good-bye at us.

“Sorry to be so inhospitable.” His voice softens. “I enjoyed your company very much.”

I wave back at him, flapping my mechanical hand. The gesture looks a little silly when performed by an eight-hundred-pound robot. But it works.

The next morning the Pioneers learn how to fly. We take the freight elevator up to the surface again and march to the runway on the other side of the basin. There's a hangar beside the runway, and through its open doors I see a helicopter, a UH-60 Black Hawk. Its weapon racks are loaded with a pair of Hellfire rockets, and a long antenna extends from the chopper's tail. Zooming in on the antenna with my camera, I notice it's connected to a neuromorphic control unit. A surge of excitement lights up my circuits. I picture myself soaring over the basin in the Black Hawk, maybe even launching one of its Hellfires.

But the helicopter isn't ready for action. Its rotor blades are folded and tied down, and there are no soldiers in the hangar to prepare the aircraft for flight. Instead, all the soldiers are on the runway, standing in a circle. As we get closer I see what's at the center of the circle: six miniature airplanes sitting on the tarmac.

They're sleek and black, made of shiny fiberglass. Each has a five-foot wingspan and a three-foot-long fuselage containing a battery compartment and an electric motor. Hanging from the belly of each plane is a video camera, and at the tail is a long antenna. The planes look similar to ordinary remote-control models, the kind that hobbyists pilot from the ground using radios, but each fuselage has an extra compartment that's wired to the motor and antenna. This compartment, I'm willing to bet, holds a neuromorphic control unit.

I feel a jolt of disappointment. We're going to transfer our minds to model airplanes? That's ridiculous. Those things aren't weapons. They're toys. Their top speed is maybe fifty miles per hour, and they're too light to carry any guns or missiles. What's the point of training in that thing? How in the world will it help us fight Sigma?

The soldiers step aside as we join the circle. The other Pioneers also seem puzzled by the miniature planes. Zia turns her turret to Marshall, who lifts his robotic arms in a shrug. I turn to Shannon and DeShawn, but neither says a word. (I don't bother Jenny, who's standing by herself as usual, silent and unapproachable.) Then General Hawke enters the circle and everyone salutes. The general halts beside the planes and points at the nearest one, which has the number 3 stamped on its fuselage. All the planes have numbers, just like us.

“This is an RQ-11 Raven,” Hawke says. “Our troops have used these small drones for surveillance in Iraq, Afghanistan, and other combat zones. The Ravens usually fly at an altitude of five hundred feet and send video images of the battlefield to our men on the ground, who steer the drones by remote control.” He crouches next to the plane and points at its fuselage. “We've modified these Ravens so they can carry a few extra pounds. We miniaturized the neuromorphic control unit and put a steel case around it to protect the circuits if the plane crashes. In today's exercise my men will launch the Ravens, and then the Pioneers will wirelessly transfer themselves to the control units while the planes are in flight. All the information needed to fly the Ravens is already loaded in the units. Once you're inside the planes, I'll send you further instructions by radio.”

Hawke straightens up and steps away from the Ravens. “Before we start, are there any questions?”

I raise my hand. “Sir, could you explain the tactical advantages of attacking Sigma with this kind of aircraft?”

“Your question is premature, Armstrong. First you're gonna learn how to fly the Ravens. Then we'll discuss their advantages and disadvantages. Any other questions?” Hawke pauses, but no one else raises a hand. “All right, the commander goes first. Lieutenant Allawi?”

Zia steps forward. At the same time, one of Hawke's soldiers picks up Raven Number 3, carries it outside the circle, and starts its motor, which whines and buzzes as it turns the plane's propeller. I assume he's going to set the plane on the runway for the takeoff, but instead the soldier flings it into the air. The Raven climbs at a steep angle, and within seconds it's hundreds of feet above the ground. It may be just a miniature plane, but the takeoff is pretty cool.

“Okay, Allawi, you can transfer now,” Hawke says.

“Yes, sir!” Zia says, saluting him again. Then she turns on her data transmitter.

The general tilts his head back to gaze at the Raven, which looks like a tiny black cross against the sky. After half a minute he glances at Zia's Pioneer, which powers down after it finishes transmitting its data. Hawke grabs a radio from his belt, holds it up to his mouth, and shouts, “
Allawi, are you up there
?
”

There's no answer at first. Hawke waits about ten seconds, then shouts into the radio again. “
Please
respond, Allawi. Are you all right
?
”

After five more seconds, her reply comes back. “Affirmative, sir. I'm piloting the Raven. Everything is functioning normally.”

The general seems relieved. He purses his lips and lets out a long breath. Then he turns to me. “You're next, Armstrong.”

“Uh, sir? Could I launch the plane myself?”

Hawke cocks his head. “Have you already downloaded the instructions for the RQ-11?”

“No, sir, but I observed the soldier do it, and I can imitate him exactly. And it would be useful to practice launching the Ravens. Just in case we have to do it in the field.”

He thinks it over for a moment. “All right. Just don't slam it into the ground. Believe it or not, each of those little planes costs fifty thousand dollars.”

I'm amazed he's actually letting me do it. I stride toward the Ravens, pick up Number 1, and turn on its motor. The plane vibrates in my steel hand as I draw my arm back, readying for the throw. Then I hurl the Raven at a sixty-degree angle and it shoots right up into the sky. I watch it climb for a few seconds, then turn to the other Pioneers and do a little bow, tilting my torso forward.

Marshall and Jenny just stand there, but Shannon and DeShawn applaud, their fingers clinking.

“Nice pass, Armstrong,” Shannon says. “But where's your receiver?”

“I'm my own receiver. It's every quarterback's dream.” I glance at Hawke, who gives me a nod, and then I turn on my data transmitter.

I feel the weird stretching sensation again. It's even more disorienting than when I transferred myself to the Humvee, because now I'm transmitting my data over a much greater distance. The radio waves from my antenna spread in all directions, sweeping across the floor of the basin and rising hundreds of feet into the air. In a millionth of a second they reach the antenna at the tail of my Raven, but the signal is weak. Because the waves have spread across such a huge area, it takes longer for all my data packets to reassemble in the Raven's control unit. For nearly a minute I'm sprawled across the Colorado sky, my mind arcing dizzily above the Rocky Mountains.

And then I'm inside the Raven. I connect to the plane's video camera and see the mountainous landscape below. The Raven also has an acoustic sensor, and when I link to it, I hear the buzz of the motor and the whistling of the wind. Last, I connect to the plane's accelerometers, which monitor the four forces acting on me: gravity, lift, thrust, and drag. I'm perfectly balanced between these forces, and the feeling is incredible, like riding the world's best roller coaster. I retrieve the instructions for the RQ-11 and switch the plane from remote-control flight to autonomous operation.
Now
I'm flying!

There are no flaps on the Raven's wings, so I have to rely on the rudder and the elevator at the plane's tail. First I test the rudder, turning the plane to the left and right. Then I angle the elevator upward, which lowers the tail and lifts the plane's nose. An instant later I rev up the motor, and the Raven goes into a steep, thrilling climb. A strong wind from the west buffets and jostles me, but I tweak the controls and keep aiming for the clouds. I level out at two thousand feet above the ground, then point the video camera downward so I can get a good view of the countryside. The basin is directly below, a muddy brown bowl with a snow-white rim. All around it are the endless peaks of the Rockies.

Then I get an incoming radio signal, encrypted for security reasons. My circuits decode the message, which is a voice communication from General Hawke.

“You okay, Armstrong?”

Adjusting the lens of the plane's camera, I zoom in on the general and the Pioneers. They look so tiny down there.

“Big affirmative, sir,” I reply, transmitting my synthesized voice over the radio channel. “This is the best day of my life.”

“Take it easy with the aerobatics. If you lose control at that altitude, you'll hit the ground pretty hard.”

I focus the camera on the ridges surrounding the basin. Falling on the snow-covered ground probably wouldn't be so bad, but there are also sections of exposed rock on the slopes. Then another worry occurs to me. “Sir, I think I've gone too high. I can see for miles around, and that means anyone down there can see me too.”

I expect Hawke to get angry, but his voice stays calm. “It's a risk, but a small one. From this far away, you look like a bird. And we've restricted public access to the surrounding area.”

I start to descend anyway. Better safe than sorry. Lowering the elevator, I dip the plane's nose and cut back on the motor. I see Zia's Raven five hundred feet below me, flying in a wide circle. A quarter-mile to the west I spot a third plane climbing into the sky. From far away, they really do look like birds.

That's when I get my first inkling of Hawke's plan for attacking Sigma. I reopen the radio channel to the general. “Sir? What would the Ravens look like on a radar screen? They'd look more like birds than planes, wouldn't they?”

There's a pause of several seconds. When Hawke finally comes back on the radio, he sounds amused. “That's another premature question, Armstrong.”

“But am I right, sir? Have I identified one of the Raven's tactical advantages?”

“We'll talk about it later. Now stop bothering me. I have to get three more Pioneers into the air.”

I continue descending. Turning the rudder to the right, I go into a slow, clockwise corkscrew. Over the next fifteen minutes the other Pioneers zoom up from the runway, one by one. Pretty soon we're all circling the airspace over the basin. It's an amazing sight.

I don't want it to end, but the charge in my Raven's battery will only last for another fifteen minutes. I descend below eight hundred feet, which is the height of the ridges around the basin, and now I can no longer see the mountains beyond. Then I get another radio message from General Hawke. He's addressing all the Pioneers at once.

“So far, so good,” he says. “Now here comes the hard part. I want all of you to turn off your motors.”

After a few seconds of silence, Shannon's synthesized voice comes over the radio. “Could you repeat that, sir? I'm not sure I heard you correctly.”

“You heard me right, Gibbs. Shut down your motors.”

“But, sir?” This is DeShawn's voice. “How will we—”

“You're gonna glide the rest of the way down. All the necessary instructions are in your control units.”

He's right. According to the instructions, the Raven's design—long wings, sleek fuselage—makes it ideal for gliding. We can land the planes without power if we spiral down to the basin, using the rudder for steering and the elevator to control the descent. “Should we land on the runway, sir?” I ask.

“Negative. I want you to transfer back to your Pioneers while you're still gliding. First you need to descend to about three hundred feet to get within radio range. Then you have to keep the Ravens circling in the air until you complete the data transfer. After that, the planes will revert back to remote-control operation and my men will steer them to the landing zone.”

“Excuse me, General?” This is Marshall's voice, with its computer-generated British accent. “May I ask why we're practicing this particular maneuver?”

“No, you may not. Are your circuits malfunctioning, Baxley? Didn't you hear what I told Armstrong? No premature questions.”

“My apologies, sir. I didn't—”

“All right, enough chatter. Cut your motors right now. I'll give a nice, shiny medal to whoever makes it down first.”

For a moment I feel sorry for Marshall, but not because Hawke chewed him out. I feel sorry for him because he doesn't see what's obvious. The reason for today's training exercise becomes absolutely clear as soon as I turn off my motor. The electric buzz ceases and the propeller stops spinning and the only sound my acoustic sensor picks up is the whistling of the wind. The Raven is flying silently now. If it were nighttime, the plane would be invisible and untrackable. It could glide right into a Russian missile base and no one would be the wiser.

Without the thrust from the propeller the Raven lurches earthward, but after a couple of seconds it settles into a glide path. I'm five hundred feet above the ground, and at this rate of descent I'll be within radio range of my Pioneer in half a minute. But then I see another Raven streak past me. It's Number 3, Zia's plane, and it's diving fast. She clearly wants to be the first Pioneer on the ground. She's so hungry for General Hawke's approval that she'll risk smashing herself to pieces. Luckily, she pulls out of the dive at the last second and starts gliding in a wide corkscrew above her Pioneer.

But she made a mistake. Her corkscrew is too wide, almost five hundred feet across. My circuits do the math: although she's only two hundred feet above the ground, she's more than three hundred feet from her Pioneer. I can get closer than that. I know I can.

I tilt my Raven downward and go into a dive. This is insane, but I can't stop myself. My Raven's nose points directly at my Pioneer and I'm accelerating like crazy. My camera shows Hawke's soldiers looking up at me and scattering across the runway. The general himself doesn't budge, but he frowns in disapproval. If I survive this stunt, he'll probably demote me.