“You should get more creative with your lying too. I hear you’ve been ignoring Hawke’s orders.”
“What? Who told you that?”
“Marshall. But everyone’s talking about it.”
I retrieve an image of Marshall Baxley’s massive head. The guy’s a weasel. “Okay, he’s right. But I have my reasons.” I want to tell Shannon what I learned from the databases, how General Hawke is planning to turn us into weapons, but I don’t think it would be wise to shout this information through the door. “Look, I’ll tell you about it later, all right?”
“This is ridiculous, Adam.” Her voice rises in pitch. She sounds frustrated. “Why can’t I come inside now? I want to see you.”
It would be so simple to unlock the door. I wouldn’t even have to walk over there; I could just send a wireless signal to the automated locking mechanism, and half a second later Shannon Gibbs would step inside. The problem is, I can imagine all too well what will happen next. She’ll try to smile as she stares at my dull gray torso and steel legs and telescoping arms. She’ll fix her gaze on my turret, but there’s nothing to see there except a few antennas and the lens of my camera. And then her smile will fade, partly out of pity and partly out of fear. She’ll realize she’s looking at her own future.
I don’t want to see that look on her face. Not now, not ever. I won’t let her see me until she’s a Pioneer too.
“I’m sorry.” I try to think of something funny to soften the blow, but for once my circuits won’t cooperate. “I can’t let you in. Because I’m naked, that’s the problem. None of my old clothes fit anymore.”
No response. I hear nothing at all from the other side of the door. The silence lasts for fourteen seconds. Then Shannon lets out a sigh. “All right, have it your way. I’m going to the lab to wish Jenny good luck.” I hear her take a step away from the door, then another. But I don’t hear a third step. She seems to have stopped in her tracks. Another ten seconds pass.
Finally, I hear her voice again, but now it’s softer. “Adam, can I ask you a question? About the procedure?”
I stride closer to the door. After taking three clanging steps, I halt within reach of the doorknob. “Sure, go ahead. Ask me anything.”
“Marshall told me something else. He said there was some kind of problem right after they transferred you into your Pioneer.”
“Yeah, Dad had to delete the breathing commands. They were copied from the part of my brain that controlled my heart and lungs.” I adjust the timbre of my robotic voice to make it sound as reassuring as possible. “But that won’t be a problem from now on. When Dad does the procedure again, he’ll make sure to delete those commands right away.”
“But Marshall said the problem caused some damage to your memory.”
How the heck does Marshall know so much? Did he talk to one of the soldiers who work with Dad? “My system deleted about five percent of the total data in my memory. But we still haven’t figured out what I lost.”
“You haven’t noticed anything missing?”
“Dad says the information I lost might’ve come from my subconscious memory. Those memories influence the way you think and act, but you usually can’t recall them in any detail.”
“But do you remember what happened just before your procedure? What we said to each other? About the limbic system and emotions?”
There’s another long silence. Now I’m standing close enough to the door that my acoustic sensors can pick up the sound of Shannon breathing on the other side. It’s irregular and raspy, almost as labored as my own breathing was in the last days before my procedure. But as I listen to the sound, I can’t help but think how beautiful it is.
“Come on, Shannon. Of course I remember. And I still have all those feelings.”
She lets out a long breath, a loud whoosh of relief. Then, in an embarrassed rush, she says, “Okay, good, I’ll see you later, Adam,” and with a clatter of footsteps she heads down the corridor toward the laboratory.
Afterward, I resume pacing. At the same time, though, I resolve to do something I’ve avoided so far. It’s not one of General Hawke’s assignments. It’s something Dad suggested a couple of days ago and hasn’t brought up since. He said I ought to write my mother a letter.
Mom refused to come to Colorado, but she isn’t in Yorktown Heights either. Hawke said she wouldn’t be safe there. Although Sigma doesn’t know where Pioneer Base is, it knows I was chosen for the project and it could easily look up my old address. Hawke was worried that the AI might try to find me by wheedling or forcing the information out of my mother. He didn’t specify how Sigma might do this—would it try to kidnap her? Maybe by hiring a team of mercenaries?—but it seemed prudent to take precautions. So the Army moved Mom to an undisclosed location. The hiding place is so secret that Hawke won’t even reveal it to Dad. We can’t call or email her, but the general said his men could deliver written notes.
I create a new file in my memory for the letter. In some ways, writing is so much easier now—my circuits can compose hundreds of pages on any subject in less than a second. But this particular message is a challenge because I’m writing to a person who believes I’m dead. Mom thinks I’m just a copy, an electronic replica. She believes her son is in heaven now and I’m an artificial intelligence designed to think and act like Adam Armstrong. And who knows? Maybe she’s right. But I don’t want her to feel that way. I want her to come to Pioneer Base and be my mother. Somehow I have to convince her that I’m her son.
I start the note with “Dear Mom.” That’s easy enough. But after those words, I’m stuck. I can’t even think of the first sentence. I decide to devote more processing power to the problem, and soon a huge number of my circuits are engaged in the task of composing the letter. Within twenty seconds I’ve written more than two thousand messages. Some of them are long, tearful pleas, and others are short, angry tirades. But as I review them all, I can’t find even one that’s any good. It’s an unsolvable problem. No matter what I write, Mom will think it’s an imitation of what her son would’ve written. I can’t convince her I’m real.
In frustration, I give up on writing. Then it occurs to me that I could draw a picture for her instead. I scroll through my memory, searching for an image that would be especially meaningful to her. I retrieve dozens of memories from long ago, pictures of Mom in our swimming pool and at the ice-skating rink. I collect more recent memories too, some of them not so pleasant: an image of Mom crying as she drives me to the doctor’s office, a picture of her yelling at Dad in our living room.
I even retrieve my very last memory of her, when she came into my bedroom in Yorktown Heights and held my Pinpressions toy against her face like a mask. I could select any of these images, download it to a printer, and send the picture to Mom. It would prove that I’m alive, that Adam Armstrong still exists. If I can remember these scenes, then I must be Adam! But it would also prove that I’m not human anymore, because no human could reproduce those memories so faithfully.
I give up on drawing too. Instead, I try to imagine what Mom’s doing right now in whatever hiding place the Army has found for her. In all likelihood, she’s mourning me. I picture her wearing a black dress and standing in an anonymous motel room, staring out the window at an empty parking lot. A soldier comes into the room and hands her an envelope with the name “Adam Armstrong” written on it. She tears the letter to pieces without even opening it. Then she goes back to staring out the window.