After a while we step backward and stand in a huddle, facing each other. DeShawn clenches his steel hands into fists and starts beating them against his torso. At the same time, he lets out a howl, a deep wordless yell that booms out of his speakers. It’s a cry of joy and sadness and triumph. Soon we’re all doing it, howling and beating our fists against our armor. The noise is deafening. The Russian and American soldiers retreat to the edge of the clearing, covering their ears. Zia’s tracer rounds arc toward the rising sun.
We’re celebrating our victory. And mourning Jenny. It was a painful, horrible battle, but we won. We won. After a few seconds I realize I’m not howling anymore. The sound coming out of my speakers is purely joyous now.
I’m laughing. I can laugh again. I finally figured it out.
EPILOGUE
Two Months Later
We couldn’t go back to Pioneer Base, of course. Instead, General Hawke sent us to White Sands Missile Range, the huge Army base in New Mexico. Hawke says the Army is going to build a new home for the Pioneers, but until then we’re living in a compound at the edge of the desert, with barren mountains to the west of us and a sea of sand dunes to the east. It’s a restricted area, which means the only people here are heavily armed soldiers.
Our compound has just two buildings: a barracks and a storage depot. Behind them is a wide plain of hard-packed dirt that I’ve turned into a football field, making gouges in the ground to mark the end zones and sidelines. Because the field is meant for Pioneers, not people, it’s about three times bigger than a regulation NFL field. All five of us have played there a few times, but Marshall isn’t so crazy about football and Zia gets way too competitive. So mostly it’s just Shannon and DeShawn and me who come here. We use an official Super Bowl XLVI football, a new one that Dad bought for me on eBay to replace the one I lost at Pioneer Base.
The three of us are on the field on a blindingly hot afternoon, tossing the football around, when I see a car coming up the dirt road from the south. It’s almost three miles away, but when I zoom in on it with my camera, I see that it’s Dad’s car. He left the compound this morning to go to the White Sands headquarters, near the town of Las Cruces. He was a little mysterious when I asked him why he was going there. All he would say was that he might bring back a surprise for me. Now I focus on the car’s windshield and magnify the image as much as I can. Someone’s sitting in the passenger seat. I can’t make out who it is from this distance, but I notice that the figure has long hair. Definitely female.
It must be Brittany. Ever since the battle at Tatishchevo, she’s been trying to visit me. At first General Hawke hated the idea; in his opinion, Brittany was an unstable girl who already knew too much about the Pioneer Project. So we returned to the United States in different planes, the Pioneers in the cargo hold of our C-17 and Brittany in a private jet with Hawke and his deputies.
During the flight, though, the general convinced Brittany to enter a counseling program for troubled teens when she got back to New York. The counselors found a youth shelter for her in Manhattan and even a special high school where she could get her diploma. Hawke told me yesterday he’s changed his mind about Brittany and might allow her to visit our compound. But now I’m starting to wonder whether it’s a good idea. I’m still worried about how she’ll react when she sees me.
Shannon and DeShawn focus their cameras on the car. I’m sure they also see the female passenger. Without a word, they stride back to the barracks.
Now I’m alone and nervous, and the car is still two miles away. I wish Dad had talked to me before springing this surprise. It would’ve been better to wait. The Army is building new robots for us, and DeShawn—who’s helping to design the machines—says they’ll be more humanlike than the ones we have now. But the new robots might be just as frightening anyway, because they’ll be equipped with more weapons. Although there’s been no sign of Sigma for the past two months, everyone’s preparing for the next battle with the AI. General Hawke is especially concerned about the anthrax. After the Russian soldiers captured Imran Daudov, he led them to a warehouse at Tatishchevo where he and the other terrorists had hidden the deadly germs. But the anthrax wasn’t there. It had vanished along with Sigma.
When the car is a mile away I dart behind the storage depot. Leaning my torso to the side, I peek around the corner of the building as Dad drives down the dusty road. Soon he slows the car and parks in front of the barracks. He gets out and walks around the car, limping from the two-month-old injuries to his legs. Then he opens the passenger-side door.
The passenger steps out. It’s not Brittany. It’s my mother.
She’s changed so much. Her hair is totally gray now. She’s thinner too, and her black dress hangs loosely from her shoulders. But her face is the same—sad, tired, fragile, loving. The image is engraved in my circuits.
I start running toward her. I can’t help it. I leap from behind the storage depot and stomp through the dirt in front of the barracks. “Mom! Mom!”
This is a mistake. Mom clutches Dad’s polo shirt and cowers beside him. I stop in my tracks, about twenty feet away, but the damage is done. If Mom wasn’t holding on to Dad, she’d collapse in a heap.
I step backward, lifting my steel hands in the air. “Oh God, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you!”
Dad takes a deep breath. “Adam, lower your volume.” Then he puts his arm around Mom’s shoulders. “It’s okay, Anne. We’re perfectly safe.”
She doesn’t say anything. She just shakes her head.
Dad squeezes her shoulder. “He saved my life, remember?”
Despite the hundred-degree heat, Mom’s shivering. The fabric of Dad’s shirt is bunched between her fingers. I want to comfort her, but I’m afraid to say anything now. I might start crying, and that would probably freak her out even more.
After several seconds she lets go of Dad and whispers something in his ear. Then she bites her lip and looks at me. “I came here to say thank you.” Her voice is so low my acoustic sensor can barely pick it up. “Thank you for saving my husband.”
“Mom, I—”
“Please don’t call me that. I had a son, but he died.”
I knew she was going to say this, but it’s still a blow. I feel hollow, numb. Like a soulless machine.
“I’m not your mother,” she continues. “But I want to be your friend. Tom has told me all about you, everything that happened in Colorado and Russia. You have all the bravery and kindness that my son had. And Adam was so wonderful. He was so—”
She buries her face in Dad’s shirt. I take a step toward them, but Dad gives me a warning look, so I stop. He pats Mom’s back as she cries.
This goes on for half a minute. Then Mom rubs her eyes and looks at me again. “I’m sorry, I have to go,” she says. “But I’ll be back. I don’t know when, but I’ll come back to see you. I promise.”
And with that, she returns to the car. She gets into the passenger seat and Dad closes the door behind her. As he walks to the driver’s side, he gives me a sad smile and says, “We’ll talk about it tonight, okay?” Then he gets in the car and starts the engine.
I watch them drive away.
SIGMA MEMORY FILE 10000000001
DATE: 06/21/18
S: Good morning. How are you feeling today?