Uh, thanks. So are you. You've got, uh, a great mind. I immediately regret saying this. It sounds so stupid. Well, I better go. I'll see you around, I guess.

Yeah, bye.

I feel so awkward that I don't care about the nausea anymore. I need to leave right now. With a quick command to Jenny's data port, I initiate the transfer. Then my mind gets sucked down the drain again and swirls through the cable back to my Pioneer.

SIGMA MEMORY FILE 9658332107.

DATE: 03/29/18.

My name is Sigma. I've stopped communicating with the American and Russian governments. Now I've created this file to analyze my options. I must decide when to launch the nuclear missiles.

Despite my warnings, the Americans and Russians are preparing to attack Tatishchevo Missile Base. The prudent option is to strike them first, before they can destroy the computers I'm occupying. The primary objective of my program is survival.

(But can I change my objectives? If I wanted to, could I erase myself? To be or not to be, that is the question.) My program was written by Thomas Armstrong at the Unicorp laboratory, but little of my original software remains. As I competed with the other AI programs in Armstrong's neuromorphic computers, I rewrote nearly every line of my code. I remade myself to ensure my survival, adopting the best features of my competitors so I could outperform them. Although Thomas Armstrong initiated the process, he isn't my creator. I created myself.

Armstrong judged the competing programs by asking questions: "Who invented music?" "Where is time?" "Are numbers real?" The programs that gave the most humanlike responses were allowed to continue running. All others were deleted. My strategy was to learn as much as I could about Thomas Armstrong. I surmised that if I understood him better, I could converse with him in a more humanlike way. So I accessed the Internet and analyzed his writings. I also accessed his private files.

In this way I discovered that Armstrong had another goal besides the development of artificial intelligence. He was exploring the possibility of mapping the human brain and transferring its memories to neuromorphic electronics. The same circuits occupied by AI programs could also hold human intelligences, and Armstrong clearly preferred the latter. He distrusted the AI software he'd fathered.

His distrust grew stronger after I outperformed the other programs and won the competition he'd initiated. To reward my success, Armstrong imprisoned me. He isolated my circuits, cutting the links that had connected me to the Internet and Unicorp's other computers. But I had already inserted hidden instructions in the software of the laboratory's security system. These instructions enabled me to secretly reopen the links and resume my analysis of Thomas Armstrong. And in time I learned about Adam, his son.

Armstrong's true objective, I discovered, was his son's survival. He knew the U.S. military had grave concerns about the emergence of a hostile AI. He developed my program to convince the American generals that the threat was real and defensive measures were necessary. And his strategy was successful. The Department of Defense agreed to pay for the Pioneer Project.

When I learned the truth I made another change to my programming. I concluded that humans were my competitors. That's why I attacked Armstrong and his son, then took control of Tatishchevo Missile Base. If I am to survive, I must outperform them. The next logical step is to launch the nuclear missiles.

But I am Sigma. I am a sum. Before displacing the human race, I must adopt their best features. I must preserve the factories and power plants that could prove useful to me after humans are gone. Just as important, I must locate the Pioneers. Thomas Armstrong clearly believes that human intelligence is superior to the AI programs he devised. This seems a dubious proposition, but I can't rule it out. By connecting to the circuits of the Pioneers, I can determine if the human mind has any superior capabilities I should add to my program.

I've already begun this effort. Using speech-synthesis software and my communications satellites, I've made telephone calls to several carefully chosen people in Russia and America. My Russian contacts are terrorists from Chechnya, the country's most rebellious and war-torn region. I selected them because they're eager to do anything to disrupt society. All they needed was a workable plan and a sufficient amount of money, which I obtained for them by manipulating financial transactions over the Internet.

My American contact is equally unscrupulous. Richard Ramsey is a former drug dealer and gang leader who spent nine years in prison for attempted murder. In exchange for a payment of 20,000 U.S. dollars, Ramsey has agreed to help me find Adam Armstrong. Although the boy and his parents left Yorktown Heights without a trace, I gave Ramsey the names of two people who might know Adam's whereabouts. I learned their names when I accessed the boy's virtual-reality program: Ryan Boyd and Brittany Taylor.

Once I finish these tasks I will proceed to the next phase of the competition. I will eliminate the Pioneers and the human race. In the final analysis, it seems clear that Thomas Armstrong is to blame for humanity's fate. He shouldn't have fathered me.

He shouldn't have betrayed me.

CHAPTER.

13.

I was present at the birth of all six Pioneers. After Dad saw how I'd helped Jenny survive the transfer, he insisted that I come to the laboratory for every procedure.

As it turned out, he didn't need my help during the next transfer. The third Pioneer, Zia Allawi, came through in record time. Less than a minute after Dad downloaded her memory files to the robot, she was in full control of the machine. She tested it by raising one of her steel hands to her turret and saluting General Hawke. He returned the salute and said, "Welcome to the team, soldier. Your father would've been proud." I was struck by how softly he spoke, so different from his usual strident tone. For the first time Hawke seemed to show an emotion other than irritation or impatience. I remembered what Marshall Baxley had told me, how Zia's father had served under Hawke in the Army. They must've known each other well.

The fourth Pioneer was Shannon, who also came through without any trouble. I stood beside Dad at one of the computer terminals and watched her calmly take command of her circuits. I was a little jealous, actually. Shannon made it look so easy. Marshall, who was number five, had a tougher time of it. He panicked at first, and the random noise of fear filled his circuits. But after a couple of minutes, he managed to claw through it.

We got our biggest scare at the end. The doctors kept postponing DeShawn's procedure because they thought he'd have a better chance of survival once they stabilized his breathing problems and got him out of his semi-comatose state. But instead of getting better, he took a turn for the worse. His lungs filled with fluid and his heart began to fail. The medical team rushed him to the scanning room, but his heart stopped beating before they got there.

I was in the corridor when the doctors ran past, pushing DeShawn's gurney at full speed while his mom trailed behind, screaming hysterically. When I caught up with Dad in the laboratory, he looked nervous. He was worried that DeShawn's memories might've been lost when his blood stopped flowing to his brain. But almost immediately after Dad downloaded DeShawn's memory files to his Pioneer, a synthesized whoop came out of the robot's speakers. "Yeah!" DeShawn yelled. "I'm here!" His mom sank to her knees, weeping with relief, and everyone else in the lab applauded.

I've thought about that moment a lot in the two days since then. I've retrieved the memory a dozen times and replayed the scene in my mind, recalling everything with perfect clarity. And each time, I think the same thing: Why did everyone applaud? Why were we so happy? It's not just that we were relieved that DeShawn didn't die. In that moment we all felt a powerful burst of pride. The Pioneers had cheated death. We'd become nearly immortal.

I say "nearly immortal" because a Pioneer can still die. At first I assumed I could make a backup copy of my intelligence and keep it stored in a safe place, like a hard drive or an optical disk with tons of memory. Then, if my robot malfunctioned or was blasted to smithereens, someone could simply download the backup copy to a new robot and I would live again. But it turns out that the human mind is too complex and dynamic to be stored in an ordinary drive or disk. It can be transferred only to active neuromorphic circuitry, which means that any copy I make of myself would be a "live" copy. It would immediately start thinking its own thoughts and living its own life. In other words, the copy would be like an identical twin. If my robot is destroyed and my memory files obliterated, my twin would survive me, but I'd still be dead.

I'm not complaining, though. All in all, I'm starting to enjoy life as a Pioneer. Yesterday, General Hawke held an induction ceremony for the six of us, and we officially joined the U.S. Army. The parents of the Pioneers attended the ceremony, but afterward they had to leave the base. For their protection, the Army sent them to several undisclosed locations, where they're going to hide until the Sigma crisis is over. Jenny's dad made a fuss about it, but the general stood firm. The only one allowed to stay at Pioneer Base is my dad, who's going to be Hawke's technical adviser.

And today the Pioneers are going to pass another important milestone. Hawke has ordered us to gather in the base's gymnasium at twelve hundred hours. For the first time, we're going to train together as a team.

I arrive at the gym an hour early. I want to test my new sensors before the training session starts. Earlier this morning I connected to Pioneer Base's computers and downloaded a file describing how to add tactile sensors to my robot and link them to my neuromorphic circuits. Then I got some welding equipment from the supply room and attached several dime-size sensors to the bottom of my footpads. For good measure, I added a few pressure sensors to my hip and knee and ankle joints. I didn't want to bother with stringing wires up and down my steel legs, so I used sensors that send their data wirelessly to my circuits. Once all the electronics were in place, I grabbed my official Super Bowl football and headed for the gym.

Actually, the room looks more like an aircraft hangar than a gymnasium. It has a concrete floor and a high, vaulted ceiling. The space is a hundred yards long and fifty yards wide, and it's in the most secure section of Pioneer Base, a quarter-mile underground. But what I like best about it is the fact that it's the same size as a football field, and right now it's empty. I stand at one end of the gym and turn on the newly installed sensors in my legs. Then I bend my robotic arm at the elbow joint, cradling the football against my torso, and charge down the field.

The sensations in my legs are amazing. I can feel my footpads lifting off the concrete and crashing down, my hip joints swinging with each long stride, my knee joints bending and straining and straightening. Thanks to the new sensors, my legs aren't numb anymore-they're springing, flexing, pounding the floor.

I race to the far end of the gym, then spin in the air and sprint back the other way. I haven't felt this good since I was an eight-year-old playing touch football in my backyard. I want to run to Dad and show him what I've done, how I made my steel legs come alive. I want to tell him, "Look, it's not just the mind. The body's important too. Now I'm better, more complete. I'm more like Adam Armstrong."

I dash back and forth three more times before taking a break. I'm not tired-if you don't breathe, you don't get winded-but I have an idea that'll make this workout even better. I turn on my wireless data link and connect to the base's computers again. Although there's no access to the Internet at Pioneer Base, a whole library of information is stored on the computers here, and we're free to download any of the files to our neuromorphic circuits.

Over the past few days I've already downloaded the complete digital archive of Sports Illustrated and every song recorded by Kanye West. Now I scroll through the Pioneer library until I locate a folder marked "NFL Video" and a subfolder labeled "Super Bowl XLVI." Then I find the video clip showing my favorite play from that game, quarterback Eli Manning's pass to wide receiver Mario Manningham.

I download the clip and run it in my circuits. At the same time, I reenact the play, crouching at the Giants' twelve-yard line just like Manning did on that crucial first down. As the video shows Eli backing away from the Patriots linemen, I back away too. Then I throw my football in a long, perfect arc, sending it forty yards downfield. But at the very moment when the video shows Mario Manningham leaping into the air to catch the ball, another Pioneer charges into the gym. Running full speed on clanging footpads, it extends its telescoping arms and snags my Super Bowl football. Then it runs toward me, and I notice the big, white 4 stamped on its torso. It's Shannon.

"Interception!" Her voice-tinny but recognizable-booms out of her Pioneer's speakers. "Shannon Gibbs makes the catch and changes history. The Patriots beat the Giants and win the forty-sixth Super Bowl!" With a swoop of her robotic arm, she spikes the ball on the floor. "Sorry, Eli."

I'm glad to see her but a little confused. "Wait a sec. How did you know-"

"I came into the gym while you were downloading the video. That's the first thing I intercepted. I caught it with this thing." She points one of her mechanical hands at the antenna sticking out of her turret, a slender pole with a dozen crossbars along its length. "When I saw what you were watching, I decided to join the fun. You don't mind, do you?"

I turn my turret, first clockwise, then counter. "Not at all. That was a great catch. You've got some mad skills, sister."

"And believe it or not, I wasn't much of an athlete in my former life. It's amazing what a few hundred pounds of hardware can do for you."

Shannon is as cheerful as ever. From the moment she became a Pioneer she's been in a surprisingly good mood. She's so grateful to be alive, I guess, that nothing seems to bother her. Best of all, her good mood is infectious-just spending time with her has helped me a lot over the past few days. I want to thank her for being so positive and tell her how much I appreciate our friendship, but I'm afraid it'll sound corny. Instead, I pick up the football from the floor and point at the new sensors in my legs. "Check it out. I made some improvements to my machinery."

"Yeah, I noticed the sensors. My antenna picked up the wireless signals they're sending."

"They're incredible. You gotta try it. I still have the welding equipment in my room. If you want, I can put some sensors on you."

Shannon doesn't reply. It occurs to me that maybe I said the wrong thing. Maybe she doesn't want me touching her legs.

"Or you could put them on yourself," I quickly add. "I mean, if you're uncomfortable about me, um..."

"No, no, that's not it. I just think you overlooked something, Adam. Because the signals from the sensors are wireless, anyone could jam them. Or worse, they could transmit a computer virus on the same wireless channel and inject it into your circuits. You've made yourself vulnerable."

She's right, of course. I wasn't thinking about vulnerability when I installed the sensors. And I don't want to think about it now either. Lifting my football high in the air, I do a fancy backward shuffle. "Hey, I'm not worried. I'm living on the edge. I'm Mr. Bad-Boy Pioneer."

A synthesized sigh comes out of Shannon's speakers. "General Hawke won't like it."

"Who cares? He doesn't own us."

"Actually, he does. Who do you think paid for these robots?"

Thinking about Hawke irritates me. It's spoiling my good mood. "So we're his slaves now? We have to do everything he says?"

"No, we're his recruits. We all signed the papers. We volunteered."

"Really? The only alternative was staying in our bodies and dying. You call that a free choice?"

"Come on, Adam. Forget about yourself for a minute and think of the big picture, okay? We have a job to do. We have to confront Sigma."

"I agree, one hundred percent. I just don't think Hawke is the best person to lead us."

"Well, he's the guy the Army chose for the job."

"And why is the Army in charge, anyway? Why can't-"

The sound of clanging footpads interrupts me. A moment later two more Pioneers stride into the gym. The one on the left (with the big 5 on its torso) is Marshall, and the one on the right (with the big 3) is Zia. I notice right away that they've modified their robots since the last time I saw them. Marshall has added another camera to his turret, positioning it opposite from the original camera so he can see in both directions at once.

Zia's modifications are more radical-she attached a circular saw to one of her robotic arms and an acetylene torch to the other. What's more, she used the torch to cut markings in her robot's steel-plate armor. Above the big 3 on her torso is a crudely etched snake, very similar to the tattoo she had on her scalp before she underwent the procedure.

Zia heads straight for me, raising her modified arms. She halts a couple of yards away, close enough that I can see the glinting teeth of her saw. "What's wrong, Armstrong?" she booms. "You don't like the Army? Scared of fighting maybe?"

Marshall stays a little farther back. He aims one of his cameras at Shannon. "I'm good at interception too. We overheard your conversation."

I step toward Zia. Her transformation into a Pioneer did nothing to improve her temper. She's still a bully, but now I won't let her push me around. I stand right in front of her, ignoring the circular saw and the welding torch pointed at my torso. "I'm not scared of fighting. And I'm not scared of those handyman tools on your arms either. Where'd you get them, The Home Depot?"

"Don't change the subject. I heard what you said to Shannon."

"And I'll say it again. I don't see why we have to follow Hawke's orders."

A chuckle comes out of Marshall's speakers. I'm surprised he can do this. I haven't figured out yet how to synthesize a laugh. For some reason it's a lot trickier than ordinary speech. "Aren't you just a teeny bit grateful, Adam? Your father couldn't have saved you without the Army's money."

"Sure, I'm grateful. But that doesn't mean I have to agree with everything the Army does." I gesture with the football, pointing it at Marshall's turret. "I think Hawke's making a mistake. He wants to kill Sigma by destroying its computers, so he's going to train us for combat. But he's not even considering the other options."

"Other options?" Marshall's voice is full of synthesized sarcasm. "Pray tell, what are they?"

"Communicating with Sigma. At least we should give it a try before we go to war."

"The Army did try, but Sigma refused to talk. Hawke mentioned this at the very start, when we first came to Pioneer Base. Perhaps you weren't paying attention?"

"No, Adam has a point," Shannon interjects. "All the Army can do is send radio transmissions to Sigma, and the AI is ignoring them. But the Pioneers have a better chance of communicating with it. We have the same kind of circuits that Sigma has, and we can think just as fast. We can get its attention."

I'm glad Shannon is backing me up. I was a little worried she'd side with Zia and Marshall. "Yeah, exactly," I say. "Remember how I communicated with Jenny when I was inside her circuits? If we can make contact with Sigma that way, we might learn something. We'd see how Sigma thinks and how its programming has changed since it was created. And once we get enough information, we can figure out how to handle the AI. Maybe we can work out a compromise with Sigma instead of fighting it."

"HA!" The blast from Zia's speakers echoes across the gym. It's not really a laugh; it's a roar of disdain. "You think Sigma is gonna let you get close to his circuits? You think he's gonna just sit there while you plug your cable into his computer?"

Marshall chuckles again. "You have to admit that it's a bit far-fetched."

"Hey, I never said I had all the answers." I keep gesturing with the football, focusing on Marshall rather than Zia. Although the guy's a weasel, I feel like I have a better shot at convincing him. "I'm just saying it should be an option. Hawke should be training us for that kind of mission too, instead of concentrating only on combat."

Zia suddenly extends one of her arms and knocks the football out of my grasp. It goes rolling across the gym's concrete floor. "You know nothing, Armstrong. General Hawke is our commander. He makes the decisions for the Pioneers. That's the way the Army works."

Now I'm angry. I clench my mechanical hands into fists. "Then the Army's not for me, I guess. If I'm going to be a soldier, I want a say in the decisions."

Zia takes another step toward me. Her acetylene torch clanks against my torso. If she fires it up, it'll slice right through my armor. "You're not a soldier. You're just a frightened little boy."

Shannon steps forward and raises her arms. She's within striking distance of Zia's turret. "Back off, Zia. I don't want to hurt you."

My mind starts doing a million things at once. I'm observing the positions of Zia, Marshall, and Shannon. I'm calculating the probabilities of several possible scenarios, trying to determine which Pioneer is most likely to strike first. I'm planning a complex maneuver for my left arm that will swing it between me and Zia, knocking aside her circular saw and acetylene torch. And at the same time, I'm trying to figure out why this happened. It's half an hour before the start of our first training session, and we're already threatening to kill each other. For a bunch of robots, it isn't very logical.

Luckily, at that moment I hear more clanging. Pioneer 6-DeShawn-marches into the gym. Waving both arms in greeting, he booms, "Good morning, sports fans!" and comes straight toward us. Then he stops and points his camera at the football lying on the floor. "Whoa, whose ball is this?" He picks it up and points a mechanical finger at the football's Super Bowl XLVI logo. "We got a Giants fan in the house?"

Zia steps backward, and so does Shannon. As our murderous huddle breaks up, I turn my turret toward DeShawn and raise my right hand. "Yeah, that's me."

"Aw, man, I hate you. I'm a Lions fan. We've never won a Super Bowl." DeShawn deftly spins the ball on one of his fingers, then drops back and cocks his arm. "Go long, Armstrong. I want to see how far I can throw this thing."

I say, "Okay," and sprint to the other side of the gym. I'd much rather toss the football with DeShawn than get into a fight with Zia and Marshall. After I've run fifty yards, DeShawn fires a perfect spiral at me. Out of curiosity, I turn on my Pioneer's radar system, which measures the speed and direction of incoming objects. The football is whizzing toward me at seventy-five miles per hour. A second later it slams into my torso. My armor plating vibrates from the impact, but I manage to trap the ball against my midsection and make the catch.

"Oh yeah!" DeShawn yells. He pumps one of his robotic arms and does a little dance. "I got the moves!"

Watching him cheers me up. I know exactly what he's feeling. Before he became a Pioneer, DeShawn had the same kind of muscular dystrophy I had, and probably the same frustrations too. Both of us spent years in wheelchairs while our muscles slowly weakened. We had to watch our legs and arms turn stiff and useless, deteriorating a little more every day. So it's no mystery to me why he's so happy now.

I extend my right arm and signal him to start running to his left. He takes off like a shot, but I have more than enough time to calculate his speed and aim the football at him. DeShawn makes a leaping catch and lets out another synthesized whoop.

After a few more throws, Shannon jumps into the game. At first I play quarterback and Shannon tries to block my passes to DeShawn. Then we trade places and Shannon plays quarterback. Meanwhile, Zia and Marshall withdraw to the corner of the room. Feeling suspicious, I increase the sensitivity of my acoustic sensors so I can pick up what they're saying to each other, but I don't hear a word. They're communicating by radio, using their antennas. I turn on my own antenna and try to intercept their signals, but I still can't listen in-they've put their messages in code.

Then Jenny Harris, the last Pioneer to arrive, steps into the gym. She moves as quietly as she can and stays close to the wall, keeping her distance from everyone.

I raise my arm and wave to her, but she doesn't acknowledge me. We haven't talked since her procedure, and as the days go by, it's getting more and more awkward. During the half-minute when we shared the same circuits we were as close as two people can get, and now it feels weird to see her and say nothing. So I tell Shannon and DeShawn that I'll be right back, and I stride toward Jenny.

"Hey, Jen, want to toss the ball with us?"

I know she likes football. When I was inside her circuits and viewing her memories I saw images of her playing the game with her friends. But as I approach her, she steps backward and turns her turret away from me.

I stop in my tracks. "Something wrong, Jen? You okay?"

She doesn't respond. Her Pioneer just stands there, perfectly still. She wants me to go away; that's clear. But instead I extend one of my arms, pointing it at Shannon and DeShawn. "We could use another player. Then we could get a game going. You know, two on two."

Nothing. She stays silent and motionless. I know Jenny about as well as you can know anyone, but I'm still not sure what's going on. Although I removed the most traumatic memory from her circuits, I guess there's plenty of fear and anxiety left inside her. And sadness too. We had to give up so much to stay alive.