Six (18 page)

Panic floods my circuits.
I'm finished! I'm toast!
In midstride I catch a glimpse of the shell hurtling toward me from the left. It's a bullet-shaped projectile about three inches wide and nine inches long, with six steel fins at its tail end. The fins are there to stabilize the shell's flight, like the foam-rubber fins on the tail of a Nerf football. Then my electronic mind makes a terrified leap and retrieves a memory from earlier in the day, when DeShawn threw the Super Bowl football at me and I turned on my radar to measure the ball's speed.
Of
course! You idiot! Turn on your radar!

It takes three hundredths of a second for my electronics to start transmitting radar signals, which echo against the shell and bounce back to my antenna. According to the readings, the projectile is moving at 650 miles per hour, which means it'll hit me in less than a quarter-second. But when I calculate the shell's direction I see that it's off-center. I can dodge it by jinking to the right. It's a classic football maneuver, and for a moment I feel like a quarterback again, like Eli Manning dodging a defensive lineman. As soon as I make the move, though, I realize it won't do me any good. I've stepped into the path of the second shell, the one speeding toward me from the right.

That's why they call it a kill zone. They can get me from both directions.

My system freezes as the shells close in. I try to access information on the amount of explosives packed into an M136 shell, but my circuits won't cooperate. All I can see are the radar readings and the paths of the projectiles, which I picture as a pair of white lines slanting downward from the guard towers.

That's when I realize my mistake. I forgot about the height of the shells! I switch to a three-dimensional view and see that the second shell is aimed a bit high. Pitching my torso forward, I dive for the ground. My acoustic sensors pick up a loud whistle as the first shell flies past me, and then an even louder whoosh as the second shell speeds overhead, just inches above my turret. Then I hit the ground and my torso slides fifteen feet through the mud.

The shells strike the ground forty feet away, but to my surprise I don't hear any explosions. Using my robotic arms to lever myself upright, I get back on my footpads and turn my turret to see where the projectiles landed. Splattered across the mud are two new splotches of Army-green paint. The M136 shells were dummy rounds, full of paint instead of explosives.

It makes sense once I stop to think about it. The dummy rounds won't damage the Pioneers, but they'll show a direct hit by splattering paint on our armor. And until the moment of impact, they look realistic enough to terrify us. I can just imagine how Shannon must've reacted when she was on the course a few minutes ago. And Jenny, she must've been scared out of her mind. I'm so angry at Hawke I want to throw one of the fake shells at him, but instead I stride toward the barracks. I'm going to finish this obstacle course, and then I'm going to tell the general what I think of his stupid exercise.

I pick up speed as I head for the first row of Quonset huts. I'm sprinting forward at thirty miles per hour when I see a soldier step from behind one of the barracks. He holds another M136 anti-tank gun, but now I know what to do. I angle to the left and take a flying leap, using my momentum to scramble up the curved wall of the Quonset hut. With the help of the new sensors attached to my footpads, I gain traction on the hut's corrugated steel. I charge over the top of the barracks and slide down the other side, landing with a thud next to the soldier. Then I rip the M136 out of his hands and crush its barrel with my steel fingers.

The soldier stumbles backward, petrified. I feel a rush of satisfaction—
Are
you
scared, tough guy? Had enough?
But the feeling sours as I stare at his quivering face. He's one of General Hawke's pawns, just like me. He doesn't want to be here any more than I do.

Tossing the gun aside, I race past the next two rows of barracks. I don't see any other soldiers, but they could be hiding inside the Quonset huts. In a few seconds I reach the large building with gray concrete walls. I'm facing the back of the building—there are no doors on this side and only a few windows—but when I look closely at the base of the concrete wall I see a small arrow drawn in red paint. It points to the left.

I turn left and run. The wall is marked with splotches of green paint, and the ground is littered with the broken casings of anti-tank shells. There was clearly a lot of shooting here when the other Pioneers ran the course. Then I see another red arrow on the wall, this one pointing at a lone window seven feet above the ground, the same height as my turret. The window has no glass; instead, it has a grate of thick steel bars.

Pointing my camera between the bars, I see a wide, high-ceilinged space inside the building, with a dozen Army trucks and Humvees parked on the concrete floor. It's a garage for fueling and repairing the vehicles. Some of the Humvees have their hoods raised, exposing their diesel V8 engines. On the other side of the garage, three roll-up doors are open, giving me a view of the muddy basin outside the fake prison camp.

This is the way out. This is the exit Hawke mentioned. But when I clamp my hands around the steel bars of the grate and try to yank it out of the window, it won't budge. I brace myself against the wall for leverage and increase the torque in my elbow motors, but the grate doesn't move, no matter how hard I pull. I take a step backward and notice that the steel bars are firmly anchored in the concrete around the window. Then I get a warning from my radar system. Another M136 shell is rocketing toward me.

I have just enough time to throw myself to the ground. The shell smashes into the grate as I roll away from the wall. Lying in the mud, I train my camera on the soldier who just fired at me. He drops his gun and runs away, but then another soldier steps forward and takes careful aim with his own M136. I extend one of my arms, grab a fragment of the shell that just shattered against the grate, and fling it at the anti-tank gun. The impact knocks the M136 out of the soldier's hands, and the guy races for cover behind one of the barracks.

More soldiers are coming, though. My acoustic sensor picks up the noise of their boots clomping through the mud. I've bought myself some time, but not much.

I right myself and turn back to the grate. Unfortunately, the shell did no damage to the steel bars other than coating them with green paint. I clench my mechanical hands into fists and pound the wall, hoping to loosen the bars, but all I can do is make a few shallow dents. What's more, I notice other dents in the concrete, obviously made by the Pioneers who ran the course earlier. This strategy didn't work for them, and it's not going to work for me either.

Out of ideas, I stare through the grate at the Humvees in the garage. I'm frustrated and furious. Why did Hawke give us this impossible assignment? Does he get his kicks from watching us fail? And why should I care so much about this exercise anyway? I'm not doing myself any favors by playing Hawke's game. I should just let the soldiers splatter me.

I'm about to turn around and surrender when I notice something odd under the hood of one of the Humvees. A shiny steel case, about the size of a shoe box, has been installed next to the vehicle's battery. An orange cable connects the case to the V8 engine, and another cable runs to the Humvee's antenna. I've seen this setup in Hawke's databases about weapons and electronics. The steel case is a neuromorphic control unit. It's similar to the control units designed to operate fighter jets and helicopters, but this unit can control the Humvee.

That's it! That's the way out! I can escape from the prison camp by transferring myself out of my Pioneer and into that control unit!

With a burst of new hope, I turn on my transmitter. Sending the data wirelessly takes longer than using a cable; I'll need about half a minute to finish the transfer. I feel a weird stretching sensation as my antenna starts transmitting the radio waves that carry the data from my memory files. Part of me is traveling outward at the speed of light, bouncing through the barred window and reassembling at the Humvee's antenna, while another part of me remains in the Pioneer, maintaining control over the robot's sensors and motors until the transfer is complete.

I turn the Pioneer around and wait for the soldiers to show up. After fifteen seconds one of the men pokes his head around the corner of the nearest barracks. I fling another shell fragment in his direction, and the soldier pulls back.

After ten more seconds he jumps out of hiding and hoists his M136 to his shoulder. But by the time he aims the gun at me, I'm no longer inside the Pioneer. I've escaped the camp. I'm in the Humvee's control unit.

Once I'm inside the new circuits, I find the file that has the instructions for operating the vehicle. I start the engine and take control of the Humvee's driverless navigation system, which uses built-in cameras to detect obstacles in the vehicle's path. I put the Humvee in reverse and back out of the garage. Then I shift gears and gun the engine in triumph. Strangely enough, I feel comfortable inside the motor vehicle. It reminds me of my old motorized wheelchair. Except the Humvee is more maneuverable, of course, and a heck of a lot faster.

I speed away from the garage and zigzag across the basin, allowing myself a few seconds of celebration. Then I zoom back to the fake prison camp. As I approach the empty headquarters building, the Humvee's cameras detect several obstacles to my right. I slow down and turn toward them to get a closer look. Although the vehicle's built-in cameras aren't as good as the ones in my robot, I can tell what's in front of me: General Hawke and the five other Pioneers.

Hawke applauds as I pull to a stop. I can hear him clapping. The Humvee's navigation system is equipped with an acoustic sensor, most likely to detect car horns and sirens. “Nice work, Armstrong,” the general says. “You did better than I expected. When people are shooting at you, it's not so easy to think clearly, is it?”

I can't respond in words—the vehicle has no system for speech synthesis—so I honk the horn instead.

“My men are retrieving your Pioneer,” Hawke adds. “You'll have to transfer back to the robot for the tiebreaker.”

Tiebreaker? What's he talking about?
I aim the Humvee's cameras at the other Pioneers, trying to figure out what's going on. I notice that four of them are splattered with green paint, but one robot is clean.

“You weren't the only one to complete the course,” Hawke explains. “Another Pioneer successfully transferred to the Humvee. So we need a tiebreaker to pick the leader for your unit.” He points at the clean robot. Its armor is marked with the number 3 and a crude etching of a snake. “You and Zia are going to have a little race.”

• • •

The tiebreaker is a half-mile sprint around the prison camp. I have no idea why Hawke chose this kind of competition. Because Zia's Pioneer is almost identical to mine—well, except for her circular saw and welding torch—we should be able to run a half-mile in about the same time, right? If one of us finishes slightly ahead of the other, a sensible person would chalk it up to luck. But the general seems to think otherwise.

I transfer myself back to my Pioneer and approach the starting line, which is in front of the empty headquarters. Then I shake out my steel legs and take a few practice strides, imitating the warm-ups I've seen Olympic runners do before a race. Zia, in contrast, just stands there behind the line, motionless. I extend my right arm, offering to shake hands, but she doesn't respond. For a second I try to imagine what's going through her circuits. Does she hate me for no reason, or is there something behind it?

Then Hawke yells, “Go!” and we both take off.

The trickiest part is dealing with the mud. My footpads start to slip as I build up speed. If I fall down I'll never catch up to Zia, so I have to make sure I don't stumble. I carefully control my acceleration as we leave the headquarters behind and make the first left turn at the northwestern corner of the camp. My circuits calculate exactly how fast I can go without losing my footing. Zia is obviously doing the same thing, because after turning the first corner, we're running neck and neck alongside the prison fence.

By the time we reach the southwestern corner, though, I've pulled ahead. I lean into the second turn, pumping my arms, and steadily build up my lead as we race past the Humvee garage. I'm running faster than Zia because of the wireless sensors I installed in my legs. The sensors at the bottom of my footpads are measuring the firmness of the ground, allowing me to maximize my speed. I can safely pick up the pace whenever I hit a dry patch. I'm almost twenty feet ahead of Zia when I reach the southeastern corner.

I feel a surge of exhilaration as I make the third turn and sprint north alongside the fence. Now I realize why I didn't give up on the obstacle course, why I worked so hard to win. I want to be the leader of the Pioneers. For some reason it's important to me. Maybe because I think I can do a better job than Hawke. Or maybe because I simply want to impress the others. It sounds a little conceited, I guess, but that's the way I feel.

I'm more than thirty feet ahead by the time I reach the northeastern corner. The headquarters comes back into view, and I can see Hawke and the other Pioneers standing by the finish line. But just as I make the final turn, I feel horrific pain in both of my legs. My knee joints feel like they've caught fire, and my footpads sting as if I've just stomped on a bed of nails. The pain is so fierce I lose control of my motors. My legs lock up and my momentum tips me over. My Pioneer careens into the mud.

The pain keeps tormenting me as Zia turns the corner and rushes toward the finish line. For a moment I suspect she used her welding torch on me, but when I run a diagnostic check on my systems I see that everything's normal. There's nothing wrong with my footpads or the motors in my leg joints. Then I realize that I'm feeling pain only in the places where I installed the wireless sensors. When I turn off the antenna that's receiving the signals from the sensors, the pain disappears.