“He? He who?”
“Him,” Martindale said, and he motioned to the cargo ramp of the aircraft just as it emerged. It was a Cybernetic Infantry Device—a manned robot, developed for the U.S. Army as a battlefield replacement for a standard infantry platoon, including the latter’s mobility, versatility, and all of its firepower—but it was unlike any CID Brad could remember. This one somehow seemed sleeker, lighter, taller, and more refined than the one Brad had piloted a few years back. The twelve-foot-plus-tall robot had a large torso that sloped from broad shoulders to a slightly thinner waist, more slender hips, and rather spindly-looking arms and legs attached to the torso. There were sensors mounted seemingly everywhere—on the shoulders, waist, and arms. The head was a six-sided box with sloped sides and no eyes but only sensor panels on every side. It seemed slightly taller than the one Brad had piloted.
The sensory experience of piloting a Cybernetic Infantry Device was nothing like Brad had ever felt before. First he got his nervous system digitally mapped and uploaded to the robot’s computerized control interface. He then climbed into the robot through the back, lay spread-eagled onto a rather cold, gelatinous conducting mat, and stuck his head inside a helmet and oxygen mask. The hatch was sealed behind him, and everything went dark and quickly became a little claustrophobic. But within moments he could see again . . . along with mountains of data derived from the robot’s sensors being presented to him visually and inserted into his body’s sensory system, so he was not just reading information on screens, but images and data were appearing in his consciousness, like a memory or actual inputs from touch, vision, and hearing. When he started to move, he found he could run with amazing speed and agility, leap several dozen feet, kick down walls, and overturn armored vehicles. A dazzling array of weapons was interfaced with the robot, and he could control all of them with breathtaking speed and pinpoint accuracy.
“A CID,” Brad remarked. “It looks brand-new. New design too.”
“It’s the first copy of a new model CID force we plan on deploying,” Martindale said.
“Cool,” Brad said. He waved at the robot. “Who’s the pilot? Charlie Turlock? She taught me how to pilot one a couple years ago.” To the CID he said, “Hey, Charlie, how are you? Are you going to let me take it for a spin?”
The CID walked up to Martindale and Bradley, its movements frighteningly humanlike despite its size and robotic limbs, and in an electronic humanoid voice said, “Hello, son.”
It took a few moments for Brad to realize that what he had just heard was the real thing and for the realization to sink in, but finally Brad’s eyes widened in surprise and shock and he shouted, “Dad?” He reached out to the CID, unsure of where to touch it. “My God, Dad, is it you? You’re alive? You’re alive!”
“Yes, son,” Patrick McLanahan said. Brad still couldn’t figure out where to touch the robot, so he had to settle for clutching his own abdomen. He started to sob. “It’s okay, Bradley,” Patrick said finally, reaching out and embracing his son. “My God, it’s so good to see you again.”
“But I don’t get it, Dad,” Brad said after several long moments in his father’s embrace. “They . . . they told me you had . . . had died of the injuries . . .”
“I did die, son,” Patrick said in the electronically synthesized voice. “When they pulled me from the B-1 bomber back on Guam after you landed the B-1, I was clinically dead, and everyone knew it, and that’s the word that was passed around. But after you and the other crewmembers were evacuated to Hawaii, they loaded me onto an ambulance and started resuscitation, and I made it back.”
“They . . . they wouldn’t let me stay with you, Dad,” Brad said between sobs. “I tried to stay with you, but they wouldn’t let me. I’m sorry, Dad, I’m so sorry, I should have demanded—”
“It’s okay, son,” Patrick said. “All casualties had to wait for assessment and triage, and I was just one more casualty out of hundreds that day. Local medics and volunteers took over the casualties, and the military guys and contractors were taken away. They kept me alive in a small clinic off base for a day and a half, parked far away from everything. The first responders to arrive were locals, and they didn’t know who I was. They took me to another little clinic in Agana and kept me alive.”
“But how . . . ?”
“President Martindale found me, a couple days after the attack,” Patrick said. “Sky Masters could still track me through the subcutaneous datalink. Martindale was monitoring all of Sky Masters Inc.’s activities in the South China Sea region and had a plane sent to Andersen Air Force Base to collect intelligence and data on the attack. They eventually found me and secretly spirited me off to the States.”