Siege (12 page)

I need to figure out what to do. If I were human, I'd take a deep breath, but I don't have a mouth or a pair of lungs. So I adjust my internal clock instead, slowing my thoughts. I'll analyze the situation step-by-step.

Dad must've told Mom about the outbreak in Yorktown Heights and that Jack Parker was one of the few survivors. Then Mom must've caught an overnight flight from New Mexico to New Jersey and met Mrs. Parker at Newark Airport. I'm sure General Hawke didn't want any civilian visitors to come to McGuire right now, but Mom obviously got Dad to change Hawke's mind. Dad didn't think she'd run into me at the treatment center because he didn't expect me to spend the whole night here. And Dr. Ayala doesn't even know who I am, so he didn't anticipate this problem.

And it
is
a problem. My mother has seen me only once since I became a Pioneer, and that meeting was a disaster. The sight of my robot horrified her, and when I called her “Mom,” she recoiled and looked sick. She told me never to call her that again, because her son was dead. Then she cut the meeting short and basically ran away.

In the months since then I've written her fourteen letters, each carefully worded to ease her fears. To avoid upsetting her, I've agreed with her argument that I'm a copy of her son and not the real Adam Armstrong. I've told her how proud I am to possess her son's memories, and I suggested that we meet again so we could talk about the best ways to continue Adam's legacy. But I was lying to her. I believe with all my being that I'm the real Adam Armstrong, the same kid she gave birth to and raised for seventeen years. And I guess she saw through my lies, because she never answered any of my letters.

Now she's here. I could stride across the ward in two seconds and say hello. It would probably be distressing for her, maybe even worse than our last meeting, because this time she hasn't had a chance to prepare herself. Dad told me how fragile she is, how she's still struggling with depression and grief. And yet I have to do
something
. I can't just stand here in the same room and not say a word to her.
She's my mother
.

I finally decide to compromise. I'll say something from where I am. And I'll try to stay calm.

“Uh, Mrs. Armstrong?”

I say it loud enough to get her attention, but I don't shout. Mom and Mrs. Parker turn at the same time, and though they're forty feet away and the visors on their moon suits are only six inches wide, I can see their faces. Mrs. Parker's cheeks are pink and tear-streaked, and her glasses are slipping down her nose. Mom's eyes are dry, but her face is very pale, which makes her look even more devastated than her friend. She squints behind her visor but doesn't recognize me. For one thing, the robot I'm in now is a different model from the one I had when I last saw her. And she probably can't hear my synthesized voice clearly from inside her moon suit.

She steps toward me, still perplexed by the machine that called out her name. Then she looks at Brittany, lying unconscious on the gurney beside me, and Mom's eyes widen in recognition. She's making the connection, figuring it out. Her whole body trembles as she realizes who I am.

She's shaking so much I'm afraid she'll collapse. What if she damages her moon suit when she falls? What if she tears a hole in the yellow protective material, allowing Sigma's anthrax to attack her? I want to charge forward and protect her, but I'm worried that'll just make things worse.
Oh God, I don't know what to do!

“Please, Mrs. Armstrong.” Standing in place, I raise my steel hands to show I'm unarmed and harmless. “There's no need to be frightened.”

Mrs. Parker comes to the rescue, wrapping her arm around Mom's waist to lend support. At that moment I'm immensely grateful to the woman and ready to take back all the negative things I've ever thought about her or her son. But then she points her right hand at me and frowns. “Is that the one?” she asks, tilting her visor toward Mom's. “The robot that pretends to be…?”

She doesn't finish the question, doesn't say my name, but Mom grimaces in response and nods.

Mrs. Parker's face turns ugly. She curls her upper lip. “Stupid machine! Don't say another word!” She turns to Dr. Ayala. “Get that robot out of here! It's disturbing Mrs. Armstrong!”

Ayala is already glaring at me. He steps between me and the visitors. “Didn't I tell you to keep quiet? Is something wrong with your memory banks?”

Anger flares across my circuits.
Who does this doctor think he is?
I clench my hands into fists and start to stride toward him, but then I stop myself.
Don't lose it, Adam. He doesn't realize what's going on.
“I know these people,” I explain. “They're from my hometown.”

Mrs. Parker points at me again. “What's this thing doing here? Why is it in the same room as my Jack?”

I ignore her and focus my cameras on Mom. She backs up against Jack's gurney and scans the room, as if she's searching for the quickest way back to the air lock. I've seen this frantic look on her face before, and it triggers a pang of sympathy in my wires. Mom's depression makes her vulnerable to hysteria, and when we lived in Yorktown Heights, she had panic attacks almost every week. It wasn't so bad when it happened at home; I could usually think of a way to calm her down, even from my wheelchair. But this treatment center is the absolute worst place for her to lose control. If she gets hysterical now, she might even try to rip off her moon suit. I have to make sure that doesn't happen.

I raise my hands over my head again, surrendering. “All right, I'll go. I'll leave.”

The only problem is that I have to walk past Mom to get to the air lock. I plot a course that maximizes the distance between us, striding close to the wall on the left side of the room. Dr. Ayala moves out of the way, clearly satisfied by my departure. But just as I'm about to pass Jack Parker's gurney, his mother steps in front of me.

I don't understand why Mrs. Parker is stopping me—she's the one who demanded that I leave—but I can see she's worked up about something. She tilts her head back to stare at my Quarter-bot, which towers over her moon suit. I'm two feet taller than her and five hundred pounds heavier, and yet it looks like she's ready to punch me. Then she turns to Dr. Ayala and gives him an equally hostile look.

“Are you planning to do the same thing to my Jack?” She points a gloved finger at the doctor. “You're waiting for my son to die, aren't you? Then you'll copy his brain and build another robot like this one?”

Ayala shakes his head, scowling behind his visor. “No, of course not. We're—”

“You're lying!” Mrs. Parker advances on the doctor. “I want Jack moved out of here! Take him to a real hospital!”

“Ma'am, we can't—”

“If you can't save my son's life, then let him die! Because that's God's will! But don't you dare play games with his soul! If Jack dies, his soul is going to God!”

Ayala backs up against the wall, retreating from Mrs. Parker. But I don't really care about either of them. I keep my cameras trained on Mom, who's still leaning against Jack Parker's gurney. I focus on her pale face and the awful panic that's building behind it. At any moment I expect her to let out a scream and start tearing off her protective suit, and if that happens, I'll have to restrain her. So I watch her carefully, waiting.

But she doesn't scream. She doesn't flail. She stands perfectly still as she stares at my Quarter-bot. She's looking directly at the lenses of my cameras. As if she's trying to see behind them. Trying to see
me
.

And then I do something stupid. Really, really stupid. I take a step toward her and whisper, “Mom?”

Her mouth opens in pain. It's like a ghostly hand just reached through the visor of her moon suit and slapped her. I want to apologize, but I'm too scared to synthesize another word.

After a couple of very long seconds, she shakes her head. “You're not my son.” Her voice is quiet. “Please, stop writing letters to me.”

She isn't crying. Her eyes are dry. But they're so full of hurt that I can't bear to look at them.

I turn my Quarter-bot away from her and march as fast as I can toward the air lock.

• • •

Two minutes later I'm back in the decontamination room. There's no one else here to help me decontaminate myself, but by extending my robotic arms I manage to spray liquid bleach on every part of my armor.

When I'm finished, I drop the nozzle of the pressure sprayer and just stand there, dripping disinfectant on the floor. The day is just beginning, and there's lots of work to be done—tracking down the rest of Sigma's Snake-bots, analyzing the satellite photos of Yorktown Heights, developing new weapons for the Pioneers to use in our next battle. But right now I can't even bring myself to move. I feel empty, like I don't have a single volt of electricity in my Quarter-bot, even though my batteries are almost fully charged.

Then I hear movement in the air lock that leads outside. The door slides open, and Shannon's Diamond Girl comes straight toward me. Her stride is so swift and purposeful, so full of urgent concern, that at first I think she's here to console me. Shannon knows all about my mother and her attitude toward the Pioneers. We've had many long, emotional talks about it, and there's a good chance Shannon heard that Mom was at McGuire. Now that Shannon sees me standing here, dripping and alone, she probably guesses what happened between Mom and me. She swings her glittering arms as she approaches, and for a moment I think she's going to spread them wide and wrap them around my Quarter-bot's torso.

But she stops six feet away from me and stands at attention. She's not going to hug me. That was just wishful thinking. She probably knows nothing about my mother's visit.

My circuits, which were pulsing with anticipation just a millisecond ago, turn cold and still. I'm such an idiot. Even if Shannon knew about Mom's visit, she wouldn't hug me. She wouldn't even touch my Quarter-bot. She's not my girlfriend anymore.

She points her cameras over her Diamond Girl's shoulder to make sure that no one followed her. Then she turns back to me. “I'm going to send you an encrypted radio message,” she says. “Are you ready to receive?”

I'm baffled by the precautions she's taking. “Hey, what's going—”

“Stand by for the message, please.”

After a hundredth of a second, Shannon's coded message comes through, and my circuits decipher it:
I have a classified assignment for you. It's a direct order from General Hawke, and it has the highest priority.

I use my encryption software to send a coded message back to her:
Don't you think you're going a little overboard with the security?

This is serious, Adam. You can't share this information with anyone. Not even your father.

What? That's ridiculous. I can't keep secrets from Dad.

You have to. There's a traitor in the Pioneer Project. Someone here is talking to Sigma. That's how the AI got our engineering plans.

Whoa, hold on. Didn't Hawke say he shared those plans with other generals in the Pentagon? And that's how Sigma got them?

That was a lie. Well, technically it's called disinformation. Hawke wants the traitor to believe that the Army suspects someone else. It's a classic counterintelligence trick: if you create fake suspects and pretend you're investigating them, then the real culprit becomes less guarded and easier to catch.

And does Hawke have any idea who the real culprit is?

The only people who had access to the engineering plans were the general, your father, and the Pioneers. But Hawke ruled out himself, of course, and he also ruled out you and me. The general will send you a file that explains his reasoning.

Dad's not a traitor either. I can tell you that right now.

Hawke agrees with you, more or less. He thinks it's very unlikely that your dad would share information with Sigma. Hawke's focused on two suspects, but he needs help to identify which one is the informant. That's your assignment, to help the general.

Who are the two suspects?

Shannon doesn't respond right away. Although she's explained things in a measured way and tried to give the impression that she's in command of her emotions, I sense she's just as stunned and agitated as I am. Finally, she overcomes her distress and sends me another coded message.

The informant is either Marshall or Zia.

An hour later I get a text message from General Hawke, but it has nothing to do with my new assignment. The message goes out to all the Pioneers, ordering us to report to the military base's airfield. Amber Wilson, the newest member of our team, is flying in from New Mexico, and Hawke wants us to officially welcome her to Joint Base McGuire.

We meet the general at the end of the airfield's runway and assemble behind him in our usual formation, standing shoulder to mechanical shoulder in the order in which we became Pioneers. I was the first to undergo the procedure, so I stand at the left end of the line. To my right is Zia, then Shannon, Marshall, and DeShawn. But the second person to become a Pioneer wasn't actually Zia—it was Jenny. If she were still alive, her robot would be next to mine. That's why I feel so uncomfortable whenever we stand in this formation. I sense Jenny's absence. And that sense of loss is especially strong today, because we're about to meet her replacement.

Soon my cameras zoom in on a small black jet approaching from the southwest. It's still a mile above the ground but descending at a rate of eight hundred feet per minute. Judging from its size and its outline against the sky, I figure it's a military version of a private jet, like the Gulfstreams and Learjets used by rich businessmen to crisscross the country. The other Pioneers are also observing the plane and measuring its altitude and velocity and rate of descent. That's what we do when we're nervous: we turn on our sensors and take thousands of measurements.

I pay special attention to Marshall and Zia. Over the past twelve hours, they've both repaired their robots. Zia has replaced her pitted armor with shiny new steel, and Marshall has attached new plastic lips to his robot, restoring his Superman face. They look just like they did before the battle with Sigma, and they've gone back to their usual annoying habits. While we stand in formation, still and silent, Zia sends a radio message to the rest of us:
So we're all agreed that I'm in charge of Amber Wilson's training, right?

Marshall is the first to respond:
Hmmm, this sounds familiar. Didn't you already ask General Hawke if you could babysit the new girl?

Hawke is standing just two yards in front of us, but this is a Pioneers-only conversation. The general stares down the runway, his hands clasped behind his back, while our radio communications zip through the air all around him. Shannon transmits the next signal:
Did Hawke respond to your request, Zia?

Zia shakes her War-bot's head.
No, but that doesn't mean he's against it. The general has enough to worry about right now. I think this is a decision we should make on our own.

There's an awkward silence that lasts about a hundredth of a second. Then DeShawn breaks it with a joke. He tilts his Einstein-bot's head and turns on the motor that extends its plastic tongue out of its mouth. He's imitating a famous photograph of Albert Einstein making the same face.
Hey, here's an idea. Why not let Amber make the decision? She can decide which one of us she likes the best.

Zia takes a step forward and pivots toward DeShawn. Clearly, she's not amused.
This isn't a popularity contest. I'm the best qualified to train her. I can teach her all our tactics and codes and maneuvers.

Wow, our tactics and codes, how fascinating.
Marshall transmits a recorded noise over the radio channel, the sound of someone gagging in disgust.
If you dump all that info on Amber, she'll probably die again, this time from boredom.

Zia turns to Marshall and raises one of her War-bot's massive arms. But before she can threaten to peel him open like a tin can, General Hawke looks over his shoulder at us. Zia quickly salutes and steps back into line.

It's pretty comical, especially if you know these robots as well as I do. Since becoming a Pioneer six months ago, I've come to enjoy the absurd arguments that break out every time the five of us are together. There's something comforting in the fact that we're always fighting with each other. I like that it isn't logical. It proves we're still human. For a thousandth of a second, I forget all our troubles, and my circuits send a signal of delight to my Quarter-bot's loudspeakers, which begin the process of converting the signal to laughter.

But then I remember what Shannon said in the decontamination room, and the laughter dies within me before I can broadcast it. I aim my cameras at Marshall's Super-bot and Zia's War-bot, and the sight fills my electronics with revulsion. One of them is lying. One of them is playacting, faking emotions, following a script. One of them is conspiring with Sigma to kill the rest of us.

I can't stand to look at either robot. I know I'm not being fair, because one of them is innocent, but I can't control my reactions right now. My disgust and anguish and dread are too strong. I turn my cameras away from them and focus on the approaching plane, which is less than four hundred feet above the runway and coming in fast.

Now that the jet is closer, I see it's even smaller than I thought. Its wingspan is a mere ten feet. It has only one engine, and its fuselage is only eight feet long and two feet wide. I'm confused—I don't see how any human could fit into a space that small, much less a Pioneer robot. Then, as the plane makes its final approach and descends to a hundred feet above the runway, its fuselage suddenly tilts from horizontal to vertical, and its bottom end splits in two, opening like the blades of a pair of scissors. But when my cameras zoom in on the shafts of black steel, I see they're not blades. They're a pair of robotic legs, with sleek silver footpads.

The plane glides down to the runway, and the footpads hit the ground running. The robotic legs gallop down the airstrip, pumping furiously up and down, while the black wings lift their flaps to decelerate the aircraft. The plane slows to a walking speed, and then the wings retract, sliding back into a pair of long black struts that appear to be robotic arms. The aircraft itself is a Pioneer, a sleek, black robot that's bigger than my Quarter-bot but smaller than Zia's War-bot. Its jet engine retracts into a compartment at the back of the robot's torso, and an armored lid closes over it. The Pioneer's head is like mine—it has no plastic face, but its two cameras are positioned like a pair of eyes and its speakers are located where the mouth should be.

The robot strides to the end of the runway. Then it halts in front of General Hawke and raises one of its steel hands to salute him. “Amber Wilson reporting for duty, sir!”

Her voice is loud and has a bit of a Western twang, which I guess is the robot's approximation of Amber's Oklahoma accent. She sounds incredibly confident. This is pretty surprising when you consider the fact that Amber became a Pioneer just yesterday. Hawke returns her salute and so does Zia, but the rest of us are too dumbfounded to respond.

“Sir, may I have permission to speak?” Amber is executing a perfect salute, her robotic arm bent at precisely the correct angle. I remember that she comes from an Army family, so she's probably familiar with all the military customs and formalities. “I'd like to offer an evaluation.”

The general nods. “Go ahead, Wilson.”

Amber stops saluting and points at the runway on which she just landed. “The Jet-bot performed even better than we expected, sir. I reached a maximum speed of twelve hundred miles per hour and completed the flight from New Mexico in a hundred and nine minutes. And because of my lightweight and aerodynamic design, I used only half of the jet fuel in my tanks.” She lowers her arm and slaps her shiny black torso. “I gotta give some big creds to the engineers at White Sands base. They did an awesome job building this machine.”

She sounds cheerful, almost jubilant, and her movements are graceful and easy. Amber's been living inside a machine for less than twenty-four hours, but she's acting as if she's had years to adjust. I suppose the Army must've improved the transformation procedure, and that made things easier for her. And because an electronic mind is so efficient, capable of processing billions of thoughts in a second, Amber didn't need much time to master the mechanical details of robotic life. But what about the trauma of losing her body? And what about the horror she must've felt when she woke up inside her robot? After I became a Pioneer, I was so distraught that I hid in my room for three-and-a-half days. How did Amber process those emotions so quickly?

Hawke looks impressed, which is rare for him. Keeping his eyes on Amber, he half turns and points at Shannon. “This is Lieutenant Shannon Gibbs, the commander of the Pioneers. When I'm not around, you'll follow her orders.” Then he points at DeShawn. “And this is the second-in-command of your unit, Sergeant DeShawn Johnson. The others are Zia Allawi, Marshall Baxley, and Adam Armstrong. They're all corporals, and you're a private, so they outrank you for the time being. But once you've put in a few months of service, you'll get a chance to be promoted to corporal too.”

Amber pans her cameras across our formation, moving down the line until she's examined all of us. Then she turns back to Hawke. “What about opportunities for further advancement, sir? I hope I'm not being presumptuous, but I'd like to take a leadership role in this unit.”

If I had a face, I'd flinch. Less than half a minute after meeting her fellow Pioneers, Amber is already angling to outrank us. Even Hawke seems taken aback. He narrows his eyes. “We're in the middle of a war, Wilson. Your main concern now should be survival, not advancement.”

“Yes, sir!” Amber salutes again. “Heard and understood!” Her voice is still confident. The prospect of dying in battle doesn't seem to bother her. She doesn't sound worried, not in the least.

Zia's War-bot starts rocking from side to side. She's so anxious to speak that she can't stand still. She finally steps toward Amber. “Private Wilson, would you like a tour of our operations at McGuire? The Army moved all our computers and lab equipment here so we can keep developing weapons to use against Sigma. I can show you our preparations for the next battle.”

I train my cameras on Hawke, waiting to see if he'll intervene. If he thinks Zia might be the traitor, he wouldn't want her to be alone with Amber. But before Hawke can say anything, Amber shakes her Jet-bot's head. “I appreciate the offer, Corporal Allawi, but I have to say no. You and I are incompatible.”

“What?” Zia jerks backward, maneuvering her War-bot as if she's dodging a missile. “Incompatible?”

“Please, don't take this the wrong way. Before I left New Mexico, I studied all the biographical information about the Pioneers, so I know your personal histories and psychological profiles.” She pans her cameras across our formation again, then focuses on Zia. “You and I are too much alike. We're both stubborn and intense and competitive. I think we can serve in the same unit without any problems, but if we spend a lot of extra time together, there's a good chance we'll start to hate each other, you know?”

What she's saying may be true, but it's still pretty harsh. In addition to being intense and competitive, Amber's also brutally honest. Hawke told us she was a goth girl before she became a Pioneer, and for a moment I imagine what she must've been like: a rebellious kid who was always getting into trouble, someone who dressed in black and wore vampire makeup and deliberately set herself apart from all the other teenagers in her hometown. In other words, she's not a team player. I'm starting to wonder if Hawke made the right choice when he invited her to become a Pioneer.

Meanwhile, Zia is shaking her War-bot's head. If she's really the traitor, and if she was scheming to get close to Amber, she must be disappointed that her plan didn't work. But if Zia's not the traitor, she's probably feeling hurt and bewildered. I glance at Marshall and see a smile on his Super-bot's face, but I can't tell if his expression is cold and calculating or simply amused. My circuits are full of corrosive uncertainty. It's eating away at my wires.

Then, to my surprise, Amber raises one of her Jet-bot's arms and points at me. “If it's possible, I'd prefer touring the base with you, Corporal Armstrong. According to my analysis of your psychological profile, you and I are well matched. I think we can work together without much friction.”

Once again, I'm a little stunned by Amber's bluntness. She was way too mean to Zia, and now she's being way too friendly to me. What's more, her analysis is dead wrong—we're definitely
not
well matched. I'm already annoyed with her, and I can't imagine I'll like her any better in the near future.

But I'm not as blunt as Amber, so I don't say this out loud. Instead, I send a radio signal to Shannon, encrypting the message so that no one else can decipher it:
A little help, please?

Shannon responds by activating the video screen on the front of her Diamond Girl's head. To put Amber at ease, the screen displays Shannon's human face, wearing a welcoming smile. The morning sunlight blazes off her Diamond Girl's armor, and she looks even more dazzling next to the black Jet-bot. “Sorry, Adam's busy this morning. He and DeShawn are assigned to work in the lab on our new laser weapon. But I have a few minutes to spare. I'll give you a quick orientation and find an appropriate job for you.” She swivels her head toward General Hawke. “Sir, may I dismiss the Pioneers so they can resume their duties?”

Hawke nods, and a moment later we break out of our formation and disperse. As DeShawn and I head for the building where the Army has relocated our lab equipment, my acoustic sensor picks up Amber's voice again.

“See you later, Corporal Armstrong.” She waves one of her long black arms at me as she strides in the opposite direction with Shannon. “When you're not so busy, that is.”

My circuits cringe. I have an admirer. Amber is flirting with me in front of my ex-girlfriend.