I don't get it. How does this fit into the plans for attacking Tatishchevo? "Sir, I don't-"

"I'd love to talk about it, Armstrong, but we don't have the time. We can stay outside for only two hours today, and I want everyone to get a chance to operate the tank." He turns away from me and points at Zia. "You're up first, Lieutenant Allawi."

"Yes, sir!" She salutes him, of course, and begins the transfer.

The other Pioneers break into groups as Zia radios her data to the T-90. Marshall chats with DeShawn while Jenny leans toward Shannon and whispers something I don't catch. It makes me nervous to see the two girls talking. I'm glad Jenny's feeling better, but I'm worried she'll tell Shannon what happened yesterday.

I don't know why I feel so guilty. I didn't do anything wrong. I did a favor for Jenny, that's all. Then we shared a memory-or a dream, or whatever it was. And yes, we kissed, but it's not like we're going to start dating or anything. I mean, it's absurd, right? Robots can't date. All they can do is exchange signals. Now that I think about what happened, it just seems kind of sad. We were pretending we were still human.

So I did nothing wrong and have nothing to feel guilty about, yet I know Shannon will get upset if Jenny tells her. I increase the sensitivity of my acoustic sensor and strain to hear what they're saying. Anxiety carves a deep gouge in my circuits.

Then Zia completes her transfer and takes off in the T-90, zigzagging across the basin. I don't really feel like watching her drive the tank, so I turn my turret in the opposite direction. Then, unexpectedly, I see Dad. He's walking quickly toward me. His shoes are splattered with mud.

I don't know what he's doing here, but I'm happy to see him. We didn't get a chance to talk yesterday, and I want to tell him about my letter to Mom. As he gets closer, though, I notice he's agitated. He's breathing hard and his pulse is racing. Being worried is Dad's natural state, his default emotion, but now he seems truly freaked out. I leave the other Pioneers and stride toward him. "Dad? Are you okay?"

He stops in his tracks, huffing and puffing. "I just heard...that the truck arrived." He points at the semitrailer, now emptied of its heavy load. "Did Hawke tell you...when you're leaving?"

"Leaving?"

"Yes, in the truck. You're going to Buckley Air Force Base tonight." Dad looks puzzled. "He didn't tell you?"

"No, he said nothing." I feel a surge of panic. "We're leaving tonight?"

"You're flying to Russia. In a transport plane, a C-17. My God, why is he keeping it secret?"

Turning my turret around, I aim my camera at Hawke. He's holding his radio and shouting instructions to Zia. As I stare at his ruddy face, my panic turns to anger. There's a reason why Hawke won't tell us anything: he doesn't trust us. He's treating us like children.

"He's impossible," I say, turning my turret back to Dad. "He won't even explain this exercise we're doing. He's making us transfer to the T-90, but he won't say why."

Dad shakes his head. "I hate all this secrecy. I really do." Frowning, he glances at the T-90, which is making left and right turns under Zia's control. Then he steps closer to me and lowers his voice. "If Hawke won't explain it, I will. When we looked at the satellite photos of Tatishchevo, we saw that Sigma was bringing its tanks to the automated factory next to the base's computer lab. And when we studied the photos of the T-90s more closely, we saw that their antennas were being replaced."

"Replaced with what?"

He points at the antenna rising from my turret, the long pole with a dozen crossbars. "The new antennas on the T-90s are like yours. They can transmit and receive huge amounts of data. We concluded that Sigma was installing neuromorphic control units in the tanks. This would allow the AI to put itself inside a T-90 instead of just operating it by remote control."

"But why?"

"Our best guess is that it's part of Sigma's backup plan. Just like you, the AI can't occupy two separate computers at the same time. If the computer lab at Tatishchevo comes under attack, Sigma will have to transfer itself to another machine before our missiles blast the place. So it's modifying the T-90s to be its escape pods. Because there are so many of the tanks and they're all identical, we'd have a hard time figuring out which one holds the AI." Dad pauses and then, to my surprise, he smiles. "But there's a bright side to all this. If Sigma can transfer to the T-90s at Tatishchevo, so can a Pioneer. All you need to do is get close enough to the tank."

I realize why Dad's smiling. This is the assault plan he conceived for the Army. "And we're going to use the Raven drones to get close?" I ask. "We'll glide into Tatishchevo, circle above the T-90s, and transfer to their control units?"

Dad nods. "The beauty of it is that the drones can fly into the base unnoticed. You won't make a sound or appear on any radar screens."

"And what happens then? What do we do once we're inside the tanks?"

"That'll depend on the positions of the T-90s on the night of the assault. In the best-case scenario, several of the tanks will be near the computer lab. The Pioneers will take control of them and blast Sigma's computer to smithereens. If that's not possible, we'll use the tanks to destroy Tatishchevo's communications network. That should prevent Sigma from launching its nukes, or at least delay the launch for a few minutes. And that'll give the Russian Army enough time to fire its cruise missiles at the computer lab and finish the job."

He's still smiling. Dad seems quite pleased with himself. And he should be pleased-it's a good plan, a clever surprise attack. But it's not perfect. I see problems. "What if Sigma's already inside one of the T-90s? And what if one of us transfers to the tank that Sigma's occupying?"

Dad's smile wavers. "That's definitely a risk. Sigma would delete any Pioneer that tries to enter its control unit. And we'd also lose the element of surprise. But the sacrifice wouldn't be in vain. The loss of radio contact with one of the Pioneers would alert all the others, and it would tell them exactly where Sigma is. Then it would be five tanks against one, and those are pretty good odds."

This makes sense, but I'm still not satisfied. There are other problems with the plan. So many things could go wrong. I don't mean to sound critical, but I can't help but think that the Pioneers could've come up with something better if they'd been allowed to participate in the planning process. And maybe it's not too late, maybe we can still make changes. I want to ask Dad if that's possible, but I don't want to hurt his feelings, so I take an extra hundredth of a second to figure out what to say. But before I can synthesize the first word, an enormous explosion rocks the basin.

My acoustic sensor measures the noise at one hundred fifty decibels, the loudest sound I've ever heard. Half a second later I hear another explosion that isn't quite as loud but still makes the ground tremble. I shift my legs, planting my footpads as firmly as I can in the mud, and turn toward the noise. I'm sure that Sigma has attacked us. The AI must've targeted the group of Pioneers behind me, most likely with a guided missile or bomb. As I turn my turret, I brace myself for the sight of the wreckage, the twisted shards of the robots scattered across the ground.

But instead I see the Pioneers standing next to General Hawke, all facing the T-90. A plume of smoke drifts upward from the muzzle of the tank's main gun. Another plume rises from one of the snow-covered ridges, about a half a mile away. Now I realize what happened: the first noise was the firing of a shell from the tank's gun, and the second was the shell's detonation on the mountainside. Zia has successfully completed the training exercise, and the other Pioneers are applauding her well-aimed shot. I can hear their synthesized cheers amid the echoes from the two explosions.

Hawke shouts, "Good job, Allawi!" into his radio. Then he points at me. "Your turn, Armstrong. Get over here."

I'm so distressed I don't even say good-bye to Dad. As I stride toward the general, Zia transfers back to her robot, and the others gather around her, still cheering. But I can't shake the image that just swept through my circuits, the vision of twisted, smoking wreckage, the awful premonition of the end of the Pioneers.

Driving the T-90 and firing its gun should've been one of the highlights of my robotic life, but my bad mood spoils everything. I go through the motions, steering the tank across the basin, but it doesn't seem a whole lot different from driving the Humvee. And there's nothing particularly fantastic about shooting the main gun-you just measure the wind speed, calculate the trajectory, and pull the trigger. I complete the exercise in seven minutes, then transfer back to my robot. Then I watch four more Pioneers do the same thing.

After the training session, while the others are striding back to the freight elevator, I approach Hawke and ask him again if he's heard any news about Ryan. The general shakes his head and gives me the same line about the police and FBI being "on the case." I want to ask him what this means exactly, but he marches off before I get a chance.

Hawke has scheduled a briefing for later this afternoon, at sixteen hundred hours. I assume that's when he'll announce that we're leaving for Russia. In the meantime, Zia leads us to the gym on Pioneer Base's lowest level. We take the freight elevator downstairs, and when the doors open, I do a double take-six Pioneers are already lined up on the concrete floor. They stand there like statues, silent and motionless, their torsos stamped with the labels 1A, 2A, 3A, and so on. They're the evil twins, the empty, lifeless robots usually kept in our rooms. I have no idea why they're here.

Zia steps out of the elevator first, then turns her turret around to face the rest of us. "Listen up, Pioneers. We have a problem. General Hawke ordered you to practice the wireless data transfer at least thirty times a day. That's why he put the A-series robots in your rooms. But when we checked the data logs on the machines, we found that some of you are neglecting your duties." She trains her camera on me. "Armstrong, you're the worst offender. You transferred to your 1A unit only seven times on Wednesday and only five times yesterday."

I synthesize a groan. This is ridiculous. "Come on, Zia. I practiced enough. I got my transfer time down to fourteen seconds."

"An order is an order. This is serious business. We have to cut our times to the absolute minimum."

"How fast can you transfer? Can you beat fourteen seconds?"

"All right, enough chatter. We're gonna spend the next two hours practicing." She points at the line of evil twins. "Everyone, pair up with your A-series robot. First do a set of twenty transfers at a distance of five meters. Then do another set at ten meters, and a third set at twenty. When you're done, repeat the sequence." Zia strides toward Pioneer 3A, her own evil twin. Just like Pioneer 3, it has a circular saw attached to its left arm and an acetylene torch on its right. "Okay, move out!"

With great reluctance, I stride toward Pioneer 1A. I know Zia's right-a lower transfer time could be crucial in a combat situation. If your machine comes under fire, you might need to switch to another control unit immediately. But practicing the transfer is so freaking boring.

Because the A-series robots are lined up in numerical order, I find myself next to Pioneer 2, Jenny Harris. I expect her to turn her turret away from me out of nerves or embarrassment, so I'm surprised when a cheerful "Hi, Adam" comes out of her speakers. If she had a face she'd be grinning. I retrieve a memory of the dream we shared yesterday, an image of the blue-eyed, blond-haired Jenny lying on a grassy hillside in Virginia. It's a nice memory, but it makes me uncomfortable. I'm worried about where this is going.

"Uh, hi," I respond.

She turns her turret toward Pioneer 2A and powers up her wireless system, as if she's getting ready to transfer her files to her evil twin. But instead she sends me a radio message, encrypted in such a way that only I can decode it.

I noticed that Zia didn't answer your question. About whether she could transfer as fast as you can. I bet she can't.

It's a little strange to communicate by radio with someone who's standing right next to you. Although it's not as intimate as sharing circuits with Jenny-I can't see her thoughts now and she can't see mine-I still feel anxious as I compose my own coded message and radio it to her.

Zia likes to give me a hard time. I have no idea why.

It's simple. She's jealous.

Jealous of me? You're kidding, right?

It's so clear, Adam. She hates the fact that you're smarter than her.

I turn my turret clockwise, then counter. No, I think there's more to it. Something weird is going on inside her head. Inside her circuits, I mean.

Well, whatever the reason, you shouldn't let it bother you. I'm on your side, and so is DeShawn. And Shannon too, of course.

The mention of Shannon sends a bolt of alarm through my circuits. She can't overhear us, but I turn my turret toward her anyway. She's busy practicing her transfers, sending her data to Pioneer 4A and then back to Pioneer 4. She's concentrating so dutifully on the exercise that she doesn't see me aim my camera at her. But Jenny does. She sends me another message.

Don't worry. I won't tell Shannon what happened between us.

I swiftly turn my turret back to Jenny. Uh, good. I mean- I know you like her more than me. Because you knew her before.

No, that's not true. I like both of you.

I'm okay with it, Adam. Really. Don't feel bad.

Jenny, I- Listen, we better get to work. Zia will have a fit if she sees we're not practicing.

Before I can say anything else, Jenny begins transferring her files to Pioneer 2A. I stand there for a couple of seconds, feeling foolish and guilty. Then I face Pioneer 1A, my own evil twin, and force myself to make the leap to its circuits.

I feel even more uncomfortable now, and I suspect that Jenny isn't happy either. As we transmit our data back and forth, our Pioneers gradually move apart, taking a few strides after every transfer. Within a few minutes I've moved both my robots to the other side of the gym. Now I'm near Pioneers 6 and 6A, DeShawn and his evil twin. This maneuver also maximizes my distance from Zia, who's panning her camera across the gym, constantly checking on the rest of us.

DeShawn raises his arm when he sees me, and I hear a surprising noise come out of his speakers. It's laughter. He's only the second Pioneer to figure out how to do this. His laugh is deep and sonorous-very different from Marshall's laugh, which is sharp and grating-and just the sound of it is enough to cheer me up. But I'm also jealous. I want to laugh too. I'm starting to wonder if it'll ever come back to me.

"Yo, Adam, check it out." DeShawn straightens his arms and bends his legs at the knee joints, putting Pioneer 6 in the exact same posture as 6A. The robots stand side by side like mirror images. "Like two peas in a pod, right? Which one's the real me?"

"Oh boy, tough question. Maybe the one that's talking? That's just a wild guess, though."

"How about now? Want to change your guess?"

My acoustic sensors detect something unusual. DeShawn's synthesized words are coming from the speakers of Pioneer 6 and Pioneer 6A. "Whoa, what the-"

"That's not all. Watch this." As DeShawn's voice booms in stereo, both of his robots extend their right arms. Moving in perfect synchrony, Pioneers 6 and 6A raise their steel hands to their turrets and snap off a salute. "Private DeShawn Johnson, reporting for duty, sir." Then both robots step forward and simultaneously swing their arms. Pioneer 6 slaps his right hand against the left side of my torso, and Pioneer 6A slaps his left hand against my right side.

Unfortunately, the clanging gets Zia's attention. "Hey!" she shouts from the other side of the gym. "What's going on over there?"

DeShawn waves at her. He's moving just Pioneer 6 now. "Sorry, Zia. We're taking a break."

"You've only been practicing for five minutes! Get back to work!"

"Okay, no problem!" DeShawn keeps waving till she turns her turret away from us. Then both his robots step closer to me and speak in unison again. "I hate that girl. She's no fun at all."

"How are you doing that?" I ask. "How can you control both of them at once?"

"I just figured it out this morning. It's like a balancing act. Instead of transferring my data files, I copy them. Then I send the copies to the other robot."

I glance at Pioneer 6, then at 6A. "Wait a second. All your files are in both robots?"

"Yeah. Crazy, huh?" Each robot wraps one of his arms around the other's waist. "We're brothers. Tight as can be."

"But if you copied everything, wouldn't you turn the other robot into a clone? Like an identical twin, but with all your memories? And wouldn't it start thinking for itself?"

"Yeah, that would happen if you transferred the copies and did nothing else. But there's a second step, the balancing. While I'm sending the data to the other robot I'm also coordinating their thoughts. The signals jump back and forth by radio, constantly moving between the two Pioneers. As long as they stay in radio contact, they can share the same mind."

If I had a mouth, it would be gaping. This is incredible. "My God, DeShawn. You're a genius! How did you figure it out?"

Pioneers 6 and 6A turn their turrets, first clockwise, then counter. "Nah, it was just trial and error. I tried different things until something interesting happened. If you want, I'll transmit the instructions to you. Then you'll see how simple it is."

I'm dying to try it. "Can you send the instructions right now?"

"Coming right up."

An instant later I'm reviewing them. DeShawn has written a program that alters the flow of thoughts in our circuits, funneling them into a rapid stream of data that can be transmitted back and forth between two Pioneers. Because their circuits are linked so closely and share so much information, the two robots think and act as one. A single mind occupies both machines.

Without saying another word, I load the program into my own circuits and start copying my files. Then I turn my turret toward Pioneer 1A and transfer the copies. I feel the stretching sensation again as the copied files move in waves toward the other robot, but this time the sensation doesn't end when the transfer is complete. Instead, it gets more intense. I feel bigger, taller, towering over everyone. I feel like I've taken a huge stride across the gym and now I'm standing, a bit unsteadily, on two robotic stilts.

I see why DeShawn called it a balancing act. Now I have two of everything. My two cameras provide me with two views of the gym. I have to combine the perspectives to make sense of the data. Same thing with my acoustic sensors and radar systems.

Maneuvering both Pioneers is also a challenge. At first they do everything simultaneously, their movements perfectly mirroring each other, but after a while I figure out how to send a different order to each robot. It's kind of like patting your head and rubbing your belly at the same time-it requires some concentration. While I raise Pioneer 1's right arm, I order 1A to bend his left leg. Then I order Pioneer 1 to punch the air while 1A throws a kick. Then I get the robots to stride toward each other and bump fists. This is cool!

"Not bad," DeShawn says. "Now do something crazy. Go wild, dude."

I have an idea. I go to my memory files and retrieve "Power," my favorite Kanye West song. While blasting the song from the robots' speakers, I order Pioneer 1 to fold his arms across his torso and rock up and down. At the same, Pioneer 1A swings his arms back and forth while hopping from one footpad to the other. I'm trying to imitate the dance moves I've seen on Kanye's music videos. I think I'm doing a pretty good job, but DeShawn turns his turret clockwise and counter.

"No, no, stop," he says. "Sorry, Adam, but you're the worst dancer I've ever seen."

"Come on, give me a break. I'm just getting warmed-"

"Armstrong!"

It's Zia, of course. She's only ten feet away. She must've crossed the gym while I was dancing. "What are you doing?" she shouts. "Playing games again?"

I switch the music off and turn both my turrets toward her. Now that I think about it, I'm glad Zia interrupted me. She needs to know what DeShawn has done. This new ability he's discovered could change everything. "Okay, you're not going to believe this, but I'm inside both of these-"

"Didn't I tell you to get back to work? That was a direct order, Armstrong."

"Yeah, I know, but I got something to show you. We should get Hawke down here too."

"Are you deaf? You're disobeying a direct order!"

This is frustrating. Can't she see what's going on? To make things as clear as possible, I order both my robots to stride toward her, Pioneer 1 from the right and 1A from the left. "Look, Zia. Just shut up for a second and look what I can do."

I expect her to be impressed, but instead she gets alarmed. She takes a step backward and raises both her arms, pointing her acetylene torch at Pioneer 1 and her circular saw at 1A. "Get back!" she yells. "I'm warning you, Armstrong! Don't mess with me!"

"Hey, calm down. I'm trying to tell you something important. We need to show Hawke what DeShawn figured out. It could give us some new options for the Tatishchevo mission and-"

"I said get back!" Zia screams. Then she turns on her circular saw and fires up her torch and charges toward Pioneer 1.

What's wrong with her? In an instant she's turned into a homicidal maniac. Both my cameras focus on the jet of blue flame shooting out of her torch. According to my infrared sensors, the flame's temperature is 6,000 degrees Fahrenheit, twice as high as the melting point of steel. As Zia rushes forward she thrusts the torch at the exact center of Pioneer 1's torso, aiming for my neuromorphic circuits.

My survival instincts kick in. I order Pioneer 1 to leap to the right and Pioneer 1A to grab Zia from behind. But I'm still learning how to move the two robots at once, and my reactions aren't as fast as Zia's. Adjusting her course, she angles to the right and slams into Pioneer 1. I tumble backward and crash to the floor with Zia on top of me, her weight pinning me to the concrete.