She lowers her arm and strides toward me. She doesn't stop until she's less than a yard away. "I was scared, Adam. Scared and confused and depressed. Every time I looked at myself, I was horrified. I couldn't think straight."

"Why didn't you say something? My dad could've helped you."

"No, not really. He could've adjusted my circuits, I guess. And maybe that would've made me feel a little better. But he couldn't solve the real problem. He couldn't make me human again."

My anger fades. I'm starting to understand. I remember what I did right after I became a Pioneer-how I stormed out of the laboratory and down the corridors until I found my dead body still lying inside the scanner. I remember the aching loss.

"But you know what?" Jenny adds. "I feel better today. Maybe because we went flying. I guess it gave me a different perspective."

She was the last Pioneer to come down from her Raven, I recall. Obviously she enjoyed the experience. "Yeah, it was pretty cool," I say.

"Or maybe I'm just getting accustomed to my situation. If you give it enough time, maybe you can accept anything, no matter how crazy." She lifts her arms at the shoulder joints, shrugging. "But whatever the reason, I feel better. So now I'm doing what I should've done a week ago. I came here to thank you."

"You don't have to-"

"What you did was very brave, Adam. You didn't know what would happen when you jumped into my circuits. Your files could've been deleted. You could've disappeared."

"You're giving me too much credit. I just-"

"No, it was brave. And now I want to be brave too. I'm ready to get the memory back."

She doesn't have to specify which memory she's talking about. It's the one that nearly killed her, the memory of being trapped in a pitch-black closet when she was two years old. I still have it in my circuits, the image of toddler Jenny staring at herself in the mirror, and then the sudden terror as her older brother shoves her into the closet and locks the door. I'm not surprised that it paralyzed her circuits when she awoke inside her Pioneer. In fact, I'm afraid it might shut her down again.

"Are you sure?" I ask. "You can wait a little longer, you know."

"I'm ready. It's a piece of me, an important piece. And I want to be whole again."

"Well, I guess I could put the memory in a separate folder and transfer it to you wirelessly. Then you could put it back in the right place in your files."

Jenny pauses. "I might need some help with that. Is there any chance you could jump into my circuits again? You know, just in case I have a problem?"

She says this in a casual, offhand way, but I can tell she's worried. She really, really wants me to help her. For a moment I wonder if I should get Dad involved. He's the expert on neuromorphic circuits. But then I dismiss the idea. Dad may have designed our electronics, but he doesn't live in them. At this point I know more about the circuits than he does.

I go to the corner of my room where Pioneer 1A stands and pick up the data cable that lies by its footpads. Then I return to Jenny and plug one end of the cable into her data port. "I have just one request." I plug the other end into my own port. "Promise you won't hit me in the turret and break my camera again."

Jenny holds up her right hand. "I promise. No hitting."

"All right. Here goes."

I initiate the transfer. As my data rushes through the cable I feel the familiar nausea, but it's not as bad as before. In less than a second I'm inside Jenny's Pioneer and occupying a vacant section of her circuitry. Her electronics are utterly calm, which is a stark contrast from last time. She gives me a moment to settle down, then sends a message from her side of the circuitry to mine.

Welcome back. Do you like what I've done with the place?

I move toward her, venturing into the circuits between us.

Yeah, it's nice. Very quiet.

You see, you're helping me already. I was nervous a second ago, but now I'm fine. Do you have the memory?

I retrieve it from my files and move a little closer. There's less than a millimeter of empty circuitry between us.

Okay, I'm going to hand it off. Just like a football. Here it comes.

Our minds touch, and it's like seeing Jenny's whole life in front of me. Unlike last time, though, all her memories are neatly organized now. There are folders for every person, place, and thing. Most of her recent memories are in the high-school folder, which is divided into hundreds of categories: soccer practice, tenth-grade geometry, junior prom, and so on. Older memories are in the elementary-school and preschool folders.

I see images of her friends, her arguments with her brother, her favorite TV shows. She knows how to play the flute and speak French and ride a horse. She was hoping to become a lawyer, like her dad, and she was about to start filling out her college applications when she learned she had brain cancer. I see her memory of the doctor telling her the news. She's sitting on an examining table and staring at her hands. She's trembling in disbelief.

At the same time, Jenny's viewing my memories. I can sense her presence in my files and feel her reactions to what she's seeing. Although she's sympathetic and understanding, it still makes me uncomfortable. I want to end this as quickly as possible and get back to my Pioneer.

I give Jenny the traumatic memory from her childhood. A tremor runs through her circuits as she accepts it, but the disturbance doesn't last long. She puts the file into her folder of early memories, and it becomes part of her again, shaping who she is.

Thank you, Adam. That wasn't hard at all.

Glad to help. Though I don't think you really needed me. You handled it perfectly.

No, you helped a lot. Now I want to give you something. To show my appreciation.

Jenny, you don't- Here. I want to share this with you.

It's one of her memories, a fairly recent one. I see a wide green valley on a sunny summer day. There are rolling hills in the distance and a red barn and a gray silo. Jenny's lying in the grass, and the air smells of clover and horses. Someone else lies nearby, a brown-haired teenage boy. Probably Jenny's boyfriend, although I didn't see any images of a boyfriend in her folder of high-school memories. Then the boy turns his head toward Jenny and I recognize him. His legs are paralyzed and so is his left arm. It's the boy I used to be. It's Adam Armstrong.

What's going on? This can't be a memory.

Well, part of it's a memory. I went to a horse farm in the Shenandoah Valley last summer. It was a wonderful place.

But I wasn't there.

I added your image to the scene. I figured out how to do it a couple of days ago. It's like using Photoshop on a regular computer. You can take an image from one memory and insert it into another.

So this is more like a dream than a memory?

Yes, that's right. It's a dream. A beautiful dream.

Jenny turns to me, propping her elbow on the grass. She resembles the girl I saw on my first visit to Pioneer Base, the pale, bald girl sitting beside her parents in the auditorium, except in this image she's neither pale nor bald. It must be a memory of how she looked before she got cancer. Her eyes are bright blue and her cheeks are full of color and her hair is long and blond and lustrous. Like Brittany. She reminds me of Brittany. I get a little worried as I notice this similarity, because I know Jenny can see all my thoughts, but the comparison doesn't seem to upset her. She stretches her arm toward me and clasps my right hand. I feel the pressure of her grip, which surprises me. My mind is participating in Jenny's dream, responding to everything she does.

I like you, Adam.

Uh, thanks. I like you too.

Do you like me as much as you like Shannon?

This also surprises me, although it shouldn't. Jenny can see my memories of Shannon, all the conversations we've had. Nothing is hidden here, and maybe that's a good thing. This is a place where it's impossible to lie.

I like both of you. Is that okay?

I don't know. I guess so. She squeezes my hand. I want to kiss you. Would you like that?

Circuits crackle all around me. If I had a heart, it would be pounding. I never kissed a girl before. I never imagined it could happen. I thought I'd live my whole life without it.

Wow. Definitely. But is it, like, possible? I mean, in this dream?

Let's find out.

April 5, 2018 Dear Mom, Please don't rip up this letter. I just want you to know that I respect your feelings. You believe that I'm a copy of your son, and the truth is, you may be right. Although it doesn't feel that way to me-I believe with all my being that I'm Adam Armstrong-I can't prove it. And I realize how painful it must be to get a letter from someone you think is an impostor. But I'm begging you to read this letter to the end and send something in response-a note, a postcard, whatever. Even if I'm just a copy, I have feelings too.

I miss you so much.

Adam From: The National Security Adviser The White House, Washington, DC To: General Calvin Hawke Commander, Pioneer Base Cal, we just got the green light. The Russian Army has agreed to go along with our plan, but only on the condition that we launch the assault on Tatishchevo by April 8. That means we need to get the Pioneers on a transport plane to Russia by tomorrow morning. I know this is sooner than expected, but we don't have a choice. The Russians are demanding that we attack Sigma before it can release the anthrax bacteria that the terrorists smuggled into Tatishchevo. The Russian bioweapons experts are now predicting that the stolen anthrax could kill more people than all the nuclear missiles COMBINED.

We've already dispatched a semitrailer truck that should arrive at Pioneer Base by twelve hundred hours today. To maintain the secrecy of the operation, the vehicle will have the same markings as the trucks that deliver the base's weekly supplies. But it'll also have an extra-wide trailer, specially outfitted for transporting Pioneers. You'll be able to load the truck tonight and head for Buckley Air Force Base. A C-17 will be waiting there to fly your unit to Saratov.

I'm sorry we couldn't give you more time, Cal. As a consolation, the Army National Training Center is sending you the special package you requested. It wasn't easy, but they managed to fit the darn thing into the oversize trailer of the truck that'll come to your base today. Your Pioneers will be able to train with it for a few hours before they leave for Russia.

One more thing. I know you don't need another distraction right now, but I have some bad news. Ryan Boyd, the seventeen-year-old friend of Adam Armstrong, was found dead last night in Yonkers, New York. He was shot once in the head, execution style, and his body dumped in a vacant lot. Pinned to his shirt was a photo of a girl in her late teens, and under her picture was a note, presumably written by the killer. It said, "I HAVE BRITTANY. TELL ADAM TO COME OUT OF HIDING, OR I'LL KILL HER TOO."

The police have identified her as Brittany Taylor, a runaway from Yorktown Heights. If you happen to know anything about her relationship to Armstrong, please put the information in your next memo and order Colonel Peterson to deliver it to me immediately, but DON'T question Armstrong about it or tell him what happened to his friend Ryan. Sigma clearly arranged this atrocity to antagonize Armstrong and draw him out of Pioneer Base. The AI hasn't been able to find the base, so it's trying other ways to disrupt our plans. At this critical point, we can't allow that to happen. To be on the safe side, don't say anything to Armstrong's father either.

Good luck, Cal. God bless you and the Pioneers.

SIGMA MEMORY FILE 9725484853.

DATE: 04/06/18.

S: Good morning. How's the weather in Maryland?

R: Why do you always ask about the weather, Unc? Don't you know it's a terrible way to start a conversation?

(Voice analysis confirms that the speaker is Richard Ramsey. His cell phone is linked to a wireless tower near Baltimore-Washington International Airport.) S: I assume you just dropped someone off at the airport?

R: Yeah, I handed Brittany over to your boys. The two big guys with Russian accents.

S: And their Learjet departed on schedule?

R: Oh yeah. It must've cost you a bundle, renting that private jet. Are you Russian too, Unc? One of those Russian billionaires?

S: What was Brittany's condition?

R: I gave her a sleeping pill to keep her quiet during the car ride. She was still snoozing when your boys carried her aboard the plane.

S: And what did she say when you questioned her? Anything about Adam Armstrong?

R: Well, she cursed a lot and scratched my face, but she didn't tell me anything interesting. She said she hasn't seen Adam since last June.

S: Do you believe her?

R: I didn't at first. She got nervous when I mentioned the kid's name. I thought she was lying to protect him. But then I realized she was ashamed. She begged me not to tell Adam what had happened to her, why she ran away from home. I guess he was like a kid brother to her. She didn't want him to know she was living on the street.

(Conclusion: Both Adam Armstrong and Brittany Taylor are highly emotional, even for humans. But are these emotions an advantage or a disadvantage? This remains an open question.) S: And what about Ryan Boyd? Did he offer any more information about Adam when you held the gun to his head?

R: Not a word. He was crying too hard. It looks like we've hit a dead end, Unc.

S: No, I've discovered another way to locate Armstrong. And you can assist me.

R: You don't give up easily, do you?

S: Please hear me out. I believe Adam is being held at a U.S. Army base. While analyzing the video from security cameras in Washington, DC, I recognized the face of an army officer, a colonel in the U.S. Cyber Command.

R: Whoa, how did you- S: His name is Peterson. I saw him a few weeks ago at the research lab run by Adam's father. It appears that Peterson is currently acting as a courier, delivering classified documents to and from the White House. I believe if you questioned the man, he could tell you where Adam is.

R: You've gone off the deep end, Unc. You want me to interrogate a freakin' colonel?

S: He's accompanied by other officers most of the time, but on certain nights when he's in Washington he goes alone to an establishment called the Secret Pleasures Lounge. All you have to do is wait for him there. I'll email you a recent picture of the man.

R: Look, if you're serious about this, you're gonna have to- S: I'll pay you another $200,000. Go to the lounge tonight and look for Peterson.

R: And if I find him?

S: Take the colonel to a secluded location and ask him about Adam.

CHAPTER.

16.

We ride the freight elevator to the surface the next morning, heading for another training exercise. As I step outside with the other Pioneers I see an extra-wide semitrailer truck parked in the middle of the basin. I focus my camera on the truck, marveling over its unusual size. Then another vehicle emerges from the rear of the trailer and clanks down a ramp to the ground. I recognize it from one of the databases General Hawke ordered us to download. It's a Russian T-90 battle tank.

The tank picks up speed as it moves away from the trailer. Despite its tremendous weight, it races across the muddy basin. One of Hawke's soldiers rides in the turret, which is shaped like a clamshell and painted desert-camouflage brown. The tank has two machine guns-one for firing at infantry and one for shooting down aircraft-and a fifteen-foot-long main gun, which fires high-explosive armor-piercing shells. The clamshell turret rotates atop the tank, and the main gun sweeps around like a clock's second hand, pointing at the snow-covered ridges that encircle the basin.

The Pioneers stand in a line, all six of us, and stare at the T-90. After a couple of minutes the tank turns around and heads straight for us. I'm getting ready to leap to the side when the T-90 stops, less than ten yards away. The soldier in the turret takes off his goggles and helmet and clambers down to the ground. It's not one of Hawke's soldiers, I realize. It's Hawke himself.

"Surprised?" The general grins, holding his helmet under his arm. "I used to be a tank commander in the First Armored Division. But I have to admit, I never rode in a Russian tank before."

Two more soldiers climb out of the turret. They go to the back of the T-90, open a compartment there, and start making adjustments. Hawke points at the tank. "You're probably wondering, how the heck did the U.S. Army get its hands on this thing?" He grins again. "Well, the details are classified, but the Army National Training Center acquired it a few years ago. I had it brought here today because you need to see how it works. All the automated tanks at Tatishchevo are T-90s."

I scroll through my files, remembering everything Hawke told us about the automated regiment at Tatishchevo. To defend the missile base, the Russian Army built a hundred unmanned T-90s, all designed to be operated by remote control. But after Sigma transferred itself to Tatishchevo's computer lab, it sent its own instructions to the tanks. The AI used them to massacre the base's soldiers.

"Sir?" I raise a steel hand. Hawke will probably yell at me for asking another premature question, but I can't stop myself. "How are we going to fight the T-90s? With anti-tank guns?"

He shakes his head. "Negative. You're jumping to conclusions. Fighting the tank isn't the goal of today's exercise." He points again at the armored behemoth behind him, and this time I notice the long antenna rising from its turret. "We've installed a neuromorphic control unit in this T-90. You're gonna take turns transferring to the tank so you can practice driving it and firing its gun."