“Replaced with what?”
He points at the antenna rising from my turret, the long pole with a dozen crossbars. “The new antennas on the T-90s are like yours. They can transmit and receive huge amounts of data. We concluded that Sigma was installing neuromorphic control units in the tanks. This would allow the AI to put itself inside a T-90 instead of just operating it by remote control.”
“But why?”
“Our best guess is that it’s part of Sigma’s backup plan. Just like you, the AI can’t occupy two separate computers at the same time. If the computer lab at Tatishchevo comes under attack, Sigma will have to transfer itself to another machine before our missiles blast the place. So it’s modifying the T-90s to be its escape pods. Because there are so many of the tanks and they’re all identical, we’d have a hard time figuring out which one holds the AI.” Dad pauses and then, to my surprise, he smiles. “But there’s a bright side to all this. If Sigma can transfer to the T-90s at Tatishchevo, so can a Pioneer. All you need to do is get close enough to the tank.”
I realize why Dad’s smiling. This is the assault plan he conceived for the Army. “And we’re going to use the Raven drones to get close?” I ask. “We’ll glide into Tatishchevo, circle above the T-90s, and transfer to their control units?”
Dad nods. “The beauty of it is that the drones can fly into the base unnoticed. You won’t make a sound or appear on any radar screens.”
“And what happens then? What do we do once we’re inside the tanks?”
“That’ll depend on the positions of the T-90s on the night of the assault. In the best-case scenario, several of the tanks will be near the computer lab. The Pioneers will take control of them and blast Sigma’s computer to smithereens. If that’s not possible, we’ll use the tanks to destroy Tatishchevo’s communications network. That should prevent Sigma from launching its nukes, or at least delay the launch for a few minutes. And that’ll give the Russian Army enough time to fire its cruise missiles at the computer lab and finish the job.”
He’s still smiling. Dad seems quite pleased with himself. And he should be pleased—it’s a good plan, a clever surprise attack. But it’s not perfect. I see problems. “What if Sigma’s already inside one of the T-90s? And what if one of us transfers to the tank that Sigma’s occupying?”
Dad’s smile wavers. “That’s definitely a risk. Sigma would delete any Pioneer that tries to enter its control unit. And we’d also lose the element of surprise. But the sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain. The loss of radio contact with one of the Pioneers would alert all the others, and it would tell them exactly where Sigma is. Then it would be five tanks against one, and those are pretty good odds.”
This makes sense, but I’m still not satisfied. There are other problems with the plan. So many things could go wrong. I don’t mean to sound critical, but I can’t help but think that the Pioneers could’ve come up with something better if they’d been allowed to participate in the planning process. And maybe it’s not too late, maybe we can still make changes. I want to ask Dad if that’s possible, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings, so I take an extra hundredth of a second to figure out what to say. But before I can synthesize the first word, an enormous explosion rocks the basin.
My acoustic sensor measures the noise at one hundred fifty decibels, the loudest sound I’ve ever heard. Half a second later I hear another explosion that isn’t quite as loud but still makes the ground tremble. I shift my legs, planting my footpads as firmly as I can in the mud, and turn toward the noise. I’m sure that Sigma has attacked us. The AI must’ve targeted the group of Pioneers behind me, most likely with a guided missile or bomb. As I turn my turret, I brace myself for the sight of the wreckage, the twisted shards of the robots scattered across the ground.
But instead I see the Pioneers standing next to General Hawke, all facing the T-90. A plume of smoke drifts upward from the muzzle of the tank’s main gun. Another plume rises from one of the snow-covered ridges, about a half a mile away. Now I realize what happened: the first noise was the firing of a shell from the tank’s gun, and the second was the shell’s detonation on the mountainside. Zia has successfully completed the training exercise, and the other Pioneers are applauding her well-aimed shot. I can hear their synthesized cheers amid the echoes from the two explosions.
Hawke shouts, “Good job, Allawi!” into his radio. Then he points at me. “Your turn, Armstrong. Get over here.”
I’m so distressed I don’t even say good-bye to Dad. As I stride toward the general, Zia transfers back to her robot, and the others gather around her, still cheering. But I can’t shake the image that just swept through my circuits, the vision of twisted, smoking wreckage, the awful premonition of the end of the Pioneers.
Driving the T-90 and firing its gun should’ve been one of the highlights of my robotic life, but my bad mood spoils everything. I go through the motions, steering the tank across the basin, but it doesn’t seem a whole lot different from driving the Humvee. And there’s nothing particularly fantastic about shooting the main gun—you just measure the wind speed, calculate the trajectory, and pull the trigger. I complete the exercise in seven minutes, then transfer back to my robot. Then I watch four more Pioneers do the same thing.
After the training session, while the others are striding back to the freight elevator, I approach Hawke and ask him again if he’s heard any news about Ryan. The general shakes his head and gives me the same line about the police and FBI being “on the case.” I want to ask him what this means exactly, but he marches off before I get a chance.
Hawke has scheduled a briefing for later this afternoon, at sixteen hundred hours. I assume that’s when he’ll announce that we’re leaving for Russia. In the meantime, Zia leads us to the gym on Pioneer Base’s lowest level. We take the freight elevator downstairs, and when the doors open, I do a double take—six Pioneers are already lined up on the concrete floor. They stand there like statues, silent and motionless, their torsos stamped with the labels 1A, 2A, 3A, and so on. They’re the evil twins, the empty, lifeless robots usually kept in our rooms. I have no idea why they’re here.
Zia steps out of the elevator first, then turns her turret around to face the rest of us. “Listen up, Pioneers. We have a problem. General Hawke ordered you to practice the wireless data transfer at least thirty times a day. That’s why he put the A-series robots in your rooms. But when we checked the data logs on the machines, we found that some of you are neglecting your duties.” She trains her camera on me. “Armstrong, you’re the worst offender. You transferred to your 1A unit only seven times on Wednesday and only five times yesterday.”
I synthesize a groan. This is ridiculous. “Come on, Zia. I practiced enough. I got my transfer time down to fourteen seconds.”
“An order is an order. This is serious business. We have to cut our times to the absolute minimum.”
“How fast can you transfer? Can you beat fourteen seconds?”
“All right, enough chatter. We’re gonna spend the next two hours practicing.” She points at the line of evil twins. “Everyone, pair up with your A-series robot. First do a set of twenty transfers at a distance of five meters. Then do another set at ten meters, and a third set at twenty. When you’re done, repeat the sequence.” Zia strides toward Pioneer 3A, her own evil twin. Just like Pioneer 3, it has a circular saw attached to its left arm and an acetylene torch on its right. “Okay, move out!”