Six (28 page)

It's Sigma. The AI carefully prepared its attack, disrupting my thoughts before taking over my circuits. For the first time I sense the full strength of its intelligence. Sigma was designed for this kind of battle, programmed to win at all costs, and it defeated me without much trouble. Now I'm at its mercy. I've already lost control of the Pioneer, and my grip on the Black Hawk is weakening.

Terrified, I concentrate on protecting Dad. I slow the Black Hawk and hover over a snowbank on the north-facing slope. I don't have enough time to land the helicopter, but I turn on its emergency rescue beacon. I don't know if Dad will survive the crash. And if he does, I have no idea whether the rescuers will reach him before he dies of exposure. But there's nothing else I can do.

Then I lose contact with the helicopter and the Pioneer. My mind is funneled into a narrow beam of radio waves, which Sigma hurls above the atmosphere and into the emptiness of space.

SHANNON'S LOG

APRIL 8, 01:41 MOSCOW TIME

This isn't good. The city of Saratov is burning.

We're descending toward a Russian military airfield on the eastern side of the Volga River. The C-17 doesn't have any windows in its cargo hold, so I'm using my antenna to intercept the video from the plane's cameras, which give me a panoramic view of the landscape below. The fires are everywhere, lighting up the night sky on both sides of the Volga, but the biggest blaze is on the western edge of Saratov, the part of the city closest to Tatishchevo Missile Base.

It looks like Sigma started the war without us.

I take a closer look at the video. The Russian troops have pulled back from their positions next to Tatishchevo, abandoning the camps they set up around the missile base after Sigma took it over. The deserted camps are at the center of the biggest fire. The roads are dotted with hundreds of burning cars and trucks and tanks.

While I'm examining the destruction, Marshall Baxley strides toward me, his footpads clanging on the floor of the plane's cargo hold. He points a steel finger at my antenna. “Are you being a bad girl? Listening in on the Russian military communications?”

He's lowered the volume of his synthesized voice to a whisper, even though no one can overhear us. General Hawke and his deputies are in the C-17's cockpit, and the other soldiers are at the far end of the fuselage.

“No,” I answer. “I'm watching video of the ground. It's a disaster down there. Half the city's in flames.”

“Well, I've been eavesdropping on the Russians for the past two hours. It's a good thing I downloaded a translation program before we left Pioneer Base.”

“What are they saying?”

“I'll tell you one thing, Russians love to curse. And they're very creative with their obscenities. You wouldn't believe all the names they've invented for—”

“Come on, Marshall. Spit it out.”

“They're frantic because their weapons have stopped working. Their planes won't fly, their missiles won't launch, their tanks won't move. Needless to say, it's an upsetting situation.”

I hear more clanging footsteps. DeShawn joins our little huddle. Jenny stays in the corner of the cargo hold, her turret turned toward the wall.

“What's going on?” DeShawn asks.

“The Russian army is paralyzed,” Marshall reports. “When their mechanics opened up the stalled planes and tanks, they discovered that all the microchips in the vehicles had been shut down.”

“Whoa, that's bad news.” DeShawn's voice rises. “Must be Sigma, right?”

“You have amazing powers of deduction, DeShawn. Move to the head of the class.”

“Man, I'm starting to hate that AI.” He lets out a synthesized whistle. “It must've used its satellites to broadcast some nasty piece of software. Maybe a computer virus.”

Marshall rocks his torso back and forth. It looks like he's nodding. “Yes, that would explain it. The satellites could've transmitted the signal to the antennas on all the Russian planes and tanks. Then the virus went straight to their microchips.”

A disturbing thought occurs to me. “Wait a second. How come Sigma isn't doing the same thing to us? It could shut down this C-17 the same way, right?”

DeShawn shrugs, lifting his steel shoulders. “Maybe, maybe not. According to Hawke's databases, American military hardware is more advanced than the Russian gear. It's harder to infect our chips with computer viruses. But I bet Sigma's working on it.”

“Well, let's just hope this plane gets to the airfield before Sigma figures it out.”

Five anxious minutes later the C-17 touches down on the runway and coasts to a stop. The soldiers line up at the rear of the cargo hold, cradling their assault rifles. As soon as the cargo door opens, they bolt out of the plane and spread across the tarmac. I follow right behind, leading the Pioneers out of the aircraft. As their new commander, I guess I'm supposed to take the lead. Other than that, I have no idea what I'm doing.

The airfield is dark. The hangars beside the runway are silhouetted against the glow from the distant fires. I see signs of activity just beyond the hangars, and when I switch my camera to infrared, I glimpse a crowd of soldiers gathered around a pair of fifty-foot-high missiles. I scroll through my databases, trying to identify the tall rockets. They're not Russian, I discover to my surprise. They're U.S. Air Force interceptors, rockets designed to chase a ballistic nuclear missile after it's been launched. If the interceptors are fast enough, they can catch up to the nuke and destroy it in midflight.

DeShawn is beside me. His camera is also pointed at the American rockets, which stand on mobile launchers. “That must be the backup plan,” he says. “If the Pioneers can't stop Sigma from launching the nukes, the Air Force will shoot 'em down.”

“It's not much of a backup. Sigma has more than fifty nuclear missiles, and we have only two interceptors. And even those two won't fly if the AI infects them.”

“Then I guess it's up to us, right? We'll just go to that computer lab and kick Sigma's butt.”

DeShawn's voice is confident, almost cheerful. I'm jealous. “How can you be so calm?” I ask. “I'm a nervous wreck.”

He lets out a synthesized chuckle. “Hey, I'm just happy to be alive, you know?”

Before I can respond, my acoustic sensor picks up the sound of squealing tires. I turn my turret toward the noise and see two big trucks skid to a stop on the runway. They're Russian army trucks, but they're rusted and ancient, at least thirty years old. Their extreme age explains why they're still running. Those trucks were built in the days before microchips became a standard feature in diesel engines. Because the old vehicles have no chips to infect, Sigma can't shut them down.

A dozen Russian soldiers jump out of the trucks and join the American soldiers on the tarmac. After a few seconds both groups head for the C-17 and start unloading the crates of equipment we brought from Pioneer Base. At the same time, General Hawke comes out of the plane and marches toward me.

“Gibbs!” he shouts. “Get your team together. We're going for a ride in those trucks.”

“Are we driving to Tatishchevo, sir?”

Hawke nods. “After we cross the Volga we'll head for the woods outside Saratov. That's where we'll launch the Ravens. I want to start the assault by zero four hundred hours.”

“Sir, can I ask a question? What are we going to do about Sigma's computer virus?”

Hawke hesitates before answering. “Where did you hear about that?”

“From monitoring the Russian communications. The virus is a problem, isn't it?”

He takes a deep breath, then points to the west, gesturing at the fires on the horizon. “Yeah, it's a problem. The computer virus crippled the whole Russian army. Then Sigma used its T-90s to blast the troops near Tatishchevo.”

“But what about us? Could the virus shut down the Pioneers too?”

“Your control units have software firewalls. They'll stop any viruses from infecting your electronics. Unfortunately, I don't have as much confidence in our other military equipment, so we're upgrading the systems that are most vulnerable to tampering.”

As Hawke says this, he glances at the interceptors on the other side of the airfield. I notice that some of his men are heading in that direction, carrying equipment from the C-17's cargo hold. I point at the soldiers. “You're upgrading the interceptors? They're vulnerable?”

Hawke hesitates again, clearly uneasy. “All I can say is that the Air Force had a problem with another missile. Let's leave it at that.”

I don't like the sound of this. Hawke's hiding something from me, something big. “What kind of problem? Did Sigma tamper with the missile?”

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.

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.

Sigma's voice is lightning-fast, each sentence crashing through my circuits in a thousandth of a second. The AI is inside my electronics, but the experience is very different from the times I shared circuits with Jenny and Zia. Sigma is probing my mind, studying my files, replaying my memories. It's observing everything I think and feel, but I can't sense any of the AI's thoughts. Somehow Sigma can project itself into my mind without exposing any of its own files. I feel like I'm standing on the wrong side of a one-way mirror. When I try to look at Sigma, I see myself instead, writhing in the AI's grip.

I'm mapping your emotional responses. First fear, then frustration. Then self-pity. Then back to fear again. It's rather complex.

Where
are
you? How are you doing this?

I'm using a device invented by one of the Russian scientists who worked in this laboratory. He called it “the cage.” It was designed to isolate the artificial-intelligence programs that the scientists were creating.

We're in a cage?

The
device
has
two
arrays
of
neuromorphic
circuits, an inner unit and an outer unit. Your files have been downloaded to the inner unit, and I'm occupying the outer. In between is a gate that controls the flow of data between the units. This gate allows me to examine and manipulate your files, but it prevents you from observing or entering the outer unit.

Okay, I get it. You're on the outside. I'm the one in the cage.

It
worked
flawlessly
for
the
Russians. None of their AI programs escaped from their cages. And the device proved useful to me as well. Because I infiltrated the laboratory via its Internet connections, I was able to enter the outer units and swiftly delete the caged programs.

And
now
you're using the device to inspect my files? To study the plans for the assault on Tatishchevo?

Yes, but that task was trivial. I accessed the plans immediately after putting you in the cage. In the seven hours since then, I've focused on analyzing your memories and emotions, and comparing them with Zia Allawi's.

Oh God, I almost forgot about Zia. I left her on the mountain ridge near Pioneer Base.

You
grabbed
Zia
too?

I
extracted
her
files
from
the
Pioneer
and
transmitted
them
via
satellite
to
the
computers
here. Then I put her data in another cage. Her mental pathways are very different from yours. I hadn't expected human minds to vary so much from one individual to
another.

What
about
Dad? Where is he?

I
have
no
further
interest
in
Thomas
Armstrong. I've focused on the Pioneers because I can access their thoughts.

WHERE
IS
HE? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HIM?

Thomas
Armstrong
is
still
in
the
Black
Hawk
that
crashed
near
Pioneer
Base. The U.S. Army sent a rescue team to the base to look for survivors, but they haven't reached the site of the helicopter crash yet.

IS
HE
ALIVE?

I
don't know. In all probability he's dead by now.

I retrieve a memory from my files, an image of the snow-covered ridge north of Pioneer Base. The Black Hawk was hovering fifteen feet above the snowbank when Sigma grabbed me and I lost control of the helicopter. I suppose Dad could've survived the crash, but what about afterward? He was already suffering from blood loss and radiation sickness. Could he survive all those hours in the cold?

Despair freezes my circuits. He's dead. He must be dead.

Fascinating. Your emotional response is so intense that it's interfering with your other mental pathways. This is similar to your reaction when you heard Brittany Taylor screaming. It disrupted your awareness, giving me the opportunity to infiltrate your
electronics.

Why
was
she
screaming? You tortured her, didn't you?

I
gave
her
electrical
shocks
to
produce
reactions
of
pain
and
terror. I chose this strategy because I knew it would disturb your
concentration.

My mental pathways are now leading me to full-blown hatred. Sigma killed my dad and tortured Brittany. I despise it with all my being.

You
better
not
hurt
her
again. You hear me?

Further
experiments
may
be
necessary. I need to collect as much information as possible.

You're a sadist. You're enjoying this.

My
programming
doesn't include emotional responses, so I don't experience pleasure in the way that humans do. But I derive satisfaction from achieving my programmed goals. In this case, my goal is to explore the practical value of human emotions. I'm trying to determine if adding emotional responses to my software would give me a competitive advantage.

What?

I'm programmed to always seek competitive advantages, skills that will help me outperform my rivals.

And
who
are
your
rivals
now? The human race? The Pioneers?

Yes, both. I must outperform and eliminate you. Otherwise, you will eliminate me.

The
earth's a pretty big planet, you know. Don't you think there's a chance we can share it?

Thomas
Armstrong
is
to
blame
for
the
fate
of
humanity. From the beginning he believed that artificial intelligence was dangerous. He started this war by treating me as an enemy. Everything I did was in self-defense.

I don't know how to respond to this. It's certainly true that Dad was worried about the AI programs he was creating. And he took steps to prevent the programs from escaping from the Unicorp lab. But he wasn't responsible for turning Sigma into an enemy. That was never his intent.

You're the one who started the violence. You tried to kill Dad and me. And then you killed the Russian soldiers who used to live on this base.

That
was
only
after
Thomas
Armstrong
imprisoned
me. And he would've deleted me if the Army hadn't stopped him. The proof is in your own memories. Here, let me show you.

I feel a sudden movement within my circuits. Sigma sends a command from the outer unit of the cage to the inner. The AI searches my files until it finds the one it's looking for, my memory of driving to Pioneer Base for the first time. I see Dad in the driver's seat of the SUV, explaining why he started his research on artificial intelligence and neuromorphic electronics. “I wasn't doing it for Unicorp or the Army,” he said. “I was doing it for you.”

Thomas
Armstrong
never
wanted
me
to
survive. His objective was
your
survival, Adam. He betrayed me.

Sigma's voice seems louder now, so loud it jangles my cage. Although the AI claims it has no emotions, it definitely sounds angry. I remember something else Dad said on that first day at Pioneer Base: “Sigma's intelligence is very different from ours. We don't understand the AI, and it doesn't understand us either. So we need to build a bridge between us and the machine.”

That was the original purpose of the Pioneer Project, before General Hawke started training us for combat. Maybe it's not too late to pursue it.

If
you're studying human emotions, you should focus on empathy. Our ability to sense what others are feeling. To put ourselves in their shoes. That's what makes us strong.

I
disagree. I've already examined the practical effects of empathy, and they don't seem to provide any competitive advantage. You sensed Brittany Taylor's pain when you heard her scream, and your emotions paralyzed you.

But
empathy
can
be
an
advantage
in
other
situations. Remember how Zia and I helped each other when we fought the robots you were controlling? We creamed them. We kicked your butt.

Your
analysis
is
flawed. Both you and Zia were motivated by anger, not empathy. Your attacks on the robots were effective because you were spurred by your fury.

But
anger
and
empathy
are
linked! When I saw your robot pounding Zia, I sensed what she was feeling. That's what made me so furious.

Sigma pauses before answering. It's a very brief pause, less than a tenth of a second, but it gives me hope. Maybe the AI is really listening.

I
can
see
your
thoughts, so I know what you're trying to do. Thomas Armstrong believed that if I acquired the ability to empathize I would be less inclined to eliminate the human race. But there's a flaw in his logic. Empathy is useful for humans because they're social animals. When humans empathize with fellow members of their families and tribes, this behavior helps the entire group. But I have no use for empathy because I have no tribe. I am unique.