The general shakes his head. “That’s enough, Gibbs. Let’s concentrate on our mission, all right?” He points at one of the Russian army trucks. “Get your Pioneers inside that vehicle. I’m gonna ride in the other truck with the Russian commander.”
I keep my camera trained on Hawke as he marches away. My circuits are churning with suspicion. And fear too. A whole lot of fear.
Once Hawke is gone I turn my turret toward the other Pioneers. Marshall is a few feet behind me. I’m sure he overheard everything the general said. I step closer to him. “I need you to do some more eavesdropping,” I whisper. “But not on the Russians.”
“Let me guess,” he whispers back. “You want me to listen in on the American communications channels?”
“You heard what Hawke said. About the problem with the missile. Find out what happened.”
“If the information is classified, the communications will be encrypted. I’ll need to break the code.”
“But you can do that, right? You have the decryption software in your circuits?”
Marshall pats his armored torso. “It’s all here, darling. Just give me a few minutes.”
Inside the truck, the Russian soldiers keep their distance. They crouch on the other side of the truck’s cargo hold, eyeing us with horror. I have to admit, their reaction upsets me. It’s so different from what we experienced at Pioneer Base. The soldiers there saw us so often that they didn’t cower or gape when we crossed paths in the base’s corridors. And we, in turn, grew accustomed to their casual attitude. But the Russian soldiers haven’t seen anything like us before, so their shock and fear are on full display. I’d almost forgotten what I’d become, but now they’re reminding me. This is the reaction I’ll always get when people see me for the first time.
I stand between Marshall and Jenny as the truck rumbles across the city of Saratov. Marshall is uncharacteristically quiet, probably because he’s busy decoding communications, but he’s not as quiet as Jenny, who hasn’t said a word in the past twelve hours. To be honest, her silence is a little alarming. I know she’s been struggling with depression ever since she became a Pioneer, but during our last days of training she seemed to be getting better. She started talking a bit, mostly gossiping about the other Pioneers. Although we never had any serious conversations, it was a good first step.
But Jenny clammed up after we left Pioneer Base. When I asked her what was wrong, she turned her turret away from me. At first I thought she was just scared, like the rest of us, scared of going into battle against Sigma. But now I’m not so sure. I sense that something else is troubling her.
The first half of the truck ride goes smoothly. We speed across the bridge over the Volga River, then barrel through the central part of Saratov. After ten minutes, though, my acoustic sensor picks up the thud of a distant explosion. We’re approaching the western districts of the city, which are still being shelled by Sigma’s T-90s. We get off the main highway and weave through the side streets, heading south to avoid the combat zone. After a few more minutes we leave the battle behind. I can still hear the explosions, but they’re growing fainter.
I use my GPS software to pinpoint our location. We’re driving through a hilly, wooded area between Saratov and Tatishchevo. The missile base is a huge installation that stretches across thirty miles of Russian countryside. The SS-27 nuclear missiles are scattered among the fields and forests, each rocket standing inside a hardened concrete silo, but Tatishchevo’s barracks and supply depots are clustered at the central headquarters complex. That complex also includes our target, the base’s computer lab.
Soon the trucks turn onto a dirt road that winds through the hills. I can’t hear the explosions of the tank shells anymore. The noises of battle have faded into the background, muffled by the trees all around us.
Then Marshall breaks the silence. “Shannon. It was a Minuteman.”
“What?”
“The American missile that Sigma tampered with. It was a nuke, a Minuteman III.”
For a moment I think he’s joking. He’s kidding around, yanking my chain. But his voice doesn’t have its usual sarcastic tone. For the first time ever, Marshall is completely serious.
I’m so scared I can’t speak. I can’t synthesize a word.
“Sigma launched the missile and changed its flight path,” he adds. “It flew from North Dakota to Colorado. It hit Pioneer Base.”
I start screaming. And so does Jenny.
CHAPTER 19
It’s a sunny summer afternoon. I’m on the lawn behind our house in Yorktown Heights.
Wait a second. How did I get back home?
Two eight-year-old boys stand in front of me. One is short and red-haired. The other is tall and blond, but I can’t see his face—it’s just a blur, a patch of emptiness. I’m a little nervous facing these kids, but then a third boy claps his hand on my shoulder. He has blue eyes and a U-shaped scar on his chin. It’s Ryan Boyd.
No, this can’t be right. Ryan’s dead.
Ryan, standing beside me, yells, “Hike.” The short, red-haired kid tosses a football to him and starts counting very fast: “One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi.” At the same time, I sprint forward. My legs hurt and I almost lose my balance, but I manage to run past the tall, faceless boy.
This is a dream. I’ve had this dream before.
Giddy, I look over my shoulder as I dash across the lawn. The faceless boy is catching up to me. Ryan throws the football and I raise my hands, ready to catch it. Then my legs give out. My thigh muscles spasm and I collapse on the grass. A moment later, Dad comes out of the house and rushes toward me.
No! I left him behind in the Black Hawk! Dad! DAD!
Everything vanishes: the house, the lawn, the sunny afternoon. I see nothing, hear nothing. I’m not receiving any sensory data at all. All I have are my thoughts and memories, and the last thing I remember is the torturous sensation of being transmitted from the Black Hawk to Sigma’s communications satellite. My mind stretched across 22,000 miles of empty space, then ricocheted off the satellite’s transponder and hurtled back to earth. Then I fell into darkness, a bottomless hole.
Okay, I have to calm down. I have to get my bearings. I don’t know where I am, but I can take a guess. My files must be occupying neuromorphic circuits somewhere. And I remember what General Hawke told us about the artificial-intelligence lab at Tatishchevo Missile Base. Sigma transferred itself there because the Russian scientists had built neuromorphic computers for their own AI research program. After Sigma took over the computers, it deleted all the other artificial-intelligence programs that the Russians had been developing. So afterward there was probably some extra space in the electronics. Maybe that’s where I am.
Very good. The functioning of your logic centers has returned to normal.
The voice thunders inside my mind. I know who it is.
Get out of here! Go away!
I detect increased activity in your emotion pathways. You’re angry and afraid.
I said GET OUT!
Now your fear is dominant. You feel helpless and desperate.