“Good.” The CID turned its massive armored head toward Brad. “I’m proud of you, son,” Patrick said. “I’ve seen it in hundreds of e-mails from all over the world: people are impressed with your leadership in driving this project forward, building a first-class team, and gathering technical support. No one can believe you’re a first-year undergrad.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Brad said. “I hope I can achieve even a little bit of the success you’ve had in the Air Force.”
“I think your path will be totally different than mine,” Patrick said. He turned back, facing the rear of the aircraft. “I always wished I had leadership skills like yours. My life might have been so much different if I had your skills and learned how to use them. You obviously learned them from someone other than your dad, or maybe from Civil Air Patrol.”
“But you were . . . I mean, are a three-star general, Dad.”
“Yes, but my promotions came about because of the things I did, not because of my leadership skills,” Patrick said, the pensiveness in his voice still obvious despite the CID’s electronic voice synthesis. “I had a couple command positions over the years, but I never actually acted as a real commander—I acted like I always did: an operator, an aviator, a crewdog, not a leader. I saw a job that needed to get done, and I went out and did it. As a field-grade or general officer, I was supposed to build a team that would do the job, not go off and do it myself. I never really understood what it meant to lead.”
“I think getting the job done is the most important thing too, Dad,” Brad said. “I’m an aerospace engineering student, but I can barely make sense of most of the science I’m expected to learn. I muddle my way through it by finding someone to explain it to me. But all I really want to do is fly. I know I have to get the degree so I can attend test-pilot school and fly the hot jets, but I don’t care about the degree. I just want to fly.”
“Well, it’s working for you, son,” Patrick said. “Keep fixated on the goal. You’ll make it.”
The Sherpa landed about two hours later at General Dick Stout Field, fourteen miles northeast of the city of St. George in southern Utah. The airport had been greatly expanded over the past few years as the population of St. George grew, and although Stout Field was still a nontowered airport, the west side of it had blossomed as an industrial and commercial air hub. The black Sherpa taxied to a very large hangar on the south side of the industrial side of the airport, and was towed inside the hangar before anyone was allowed to disembark. The massive hangar contained a Challenger-5 business jet, a Reaper unmanned aerial vehicle with weapons pylons under the wings, and a smaller version of the V-22 Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft, all painted black, of course.
Patrick led his son to an adjacent building. Brad immediately noticed that the ceiling was higher and all of the doors and corridors were wider and taller than normal, all obviously constructed to accommodate the Cybernetic Infantry Device that was walking through them. Brad heard a lock automatically click open as they approached a door, and they entered a room in the center of the building. “This is home,” Patrick said. It was nothing more than a bare windowless room, with just a table with some of the nutrient canisters sitting on it, a spot where Patrick plugged himself in for recharging . . .
. . . and, in the far corner, another new-model Cybernetic Infantry Device robot. “I see I’m getting a replacement,” Patrick said woodenly. “It usually takes another day or so for us to run a full set of diagnostics on the new CID before they do the transfer.”
“Then I’ll be able to see you, Dad.”
“Son, if you’re sure that’s what you want to do, then I’ll allow it,” Patrick said. “But it’s not pretty.”
Brad looked around the room. “Sheesh, they don’t even let you have pictures on the walls?”
“I can get all the pictures I want, anytime I want, played right inside my consciousness,” Patrick said. “I don’t need them on the wall.” He replaced the nutrient canisters in his chassis with the new ones on the table, then stood in a specified spot in the center of the room, and power, data, hygienic, nutrient, and diagnostic cables automatically descended from the ceiling and plugged themselves into the proper places on the CID. Patrick froze in place, standing straight up, looking very much like the unmanned robot in the corner. “The sergeant major will be by in a few hours to get briefed and talk to you about what happened, and then he’ll take you to a hotel,” he said. “He’ll bring you back in the morning, and we’ll set you up so you can do some studying.”
Brad thought about what he was going to say for a moment in silence; then: “Dad, you told me that you’re still you inside that robot.”
“Yes.”