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.
CHAPTER 15
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.”