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 successfully 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.