Dreamland Bunker B, Computer Lab

18 February, 1600

JENNIFER GLEASON PULLED THE LAPTOP CLOSER TO her, punching the function buttons to redisplay the graphs. Sometimes it was easier to use the visual displays of the different control segments to catch anomalies in the programming, but the graphs were smooth.

The fact that C3 had turned off the safety protocols bothered the hell out of her. The fact that she couldn’t figure out why bothered her even more. But she believed she could isolate the problem; there was a flood of integer overflows in the code mandating approval of the pilot that either accounted for the error or would show where it started.

More worrisome was C3’s decision to ram the aggressor.

Assuming it had been C3. Tracking Madrone’s commands through the electroencephalogram graphs and the gateway registers could be tricky and time-consuming; ANTARES kicked up a lot of back-and-forth and superfluous code. But the major commands were all marked out clearly.

There was no indication C3 had given the command either.

Jennifer slid over to another display, keying up a set of numbers that corresponded to command flags originating in the robots themselves. Even when flown directly by the remote pilot, the Flighthawks actually carried out many of the flight functions themselves. To lessen the communications burden between the main computer—C3—and the planes, most of these were precoded in the robots’ onboard brains. The Flighthawks, for example, could be told to land at such and such a place and would do so without further instruction, setting their own speed, trimming control surfaces, etc. Several two-and four-plane formations were hardwired in, as was the command to close on another plane’s tail. Combining different commands would lead the planes to recognize an enemy, close to gun range, and fire.

Perhaps the error was in the fire command itself, or the combination, she realized. It seemed far-fetched, since the presets had been thoroughly tested without incident for nearly two years.

The fire flag was not depressed.

But that didn’t make sense—it should have been set by C3 at the top of the exercise.

The flags directing the planes to close weren’t set either.

C3 could have sent a flow of commands to the planes for each movement. In other words, it had either not realized the command was in its library—unlikely—or decided not to bother with the preset—even more unlikely.

Jennifer wound a thick stalk of hair at the back of her neck around her forefinger and pulled at the roots. She was going to have to dump all of the coin code from that sequence and go over it line by line. And she was going to have to do it on hard copy. It would take all night, at least.

Wearily, she punched in the commands and went to make sure the big laser printer was on. As the printing drum sucked up the first sheet of paper, Jennifer walked to the far side of the lab where Mr. Coffee sat alone on a long work bench. She took the carafe and started toward the door to fill it in the rest room down the hall. But then she realized she had the printer running; security regulations forbade her from leaving the room until it was finished, which wouldn’t be for quite some time.

Fortunately, she had a jug of water for just such emergencies. She retrieved it from the bottom filing cabinet next to the old Cray and emptied it into Mr. Coffee, leaving it out on the bench so she’d remember to refill it later. Then she spooned some grinds into the paper filter and started the machine.

Only two more filters left. Have to remember to pick some up.

Waiting for the coffee to brew, she thought about her visit back home for Christmas. Her family lived in a large farmhouse in frigid northern Minnesota. As a girl, she’d stood before the front window with its sixteen small panes of glass, watching the sun rise over the glittering field across the road, the brown heads of weeds fluttering with the wind. The light flooded into the house from the window, turning everything bright and blurring the face of the grandfather clock near the fireplace.

She missed the sun, but not the cold.

Although Nevada could be damn cold too. She shivered a little, sliding her coffee cup across the black Formica top of the table as Mr. Coffee began doing his thing.

The door to the lab whooshed open behind her. Jennifer glanced back and saw Kevin Madrone standing awkwardly just inside the doorway.

“Kevin, come on in,” she said, pulling out the carafe. A drip of coffee slipped past the drip guard on the hot plate. “Want some coffee?”

“How about aspirin?”

“Aspirin?” She filled her cup and slid the pot back into place. The coffeemaker spat a pent-up stream into the carafe, hissing loudly. “I think there’s aspirin in the ladies room down the hall. Want me to get you some?”

As she turned back to face him, she realized he wasn’t by the door anymore—he was next to her, so close he startled her. He started to say something, his hand reached for hers; confused, she jerked her hand up, forgetting she had the cup in it. The liquid flew wildly, splashing all over Madrone.

He stepped back, stunned for a moment. Then he plucked at the top of his flight suit and cursed.

“Shit! Shit! This is hot!”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” she said, putting the cup down on the bench. “You just—you startled me.”

“Why did you do that, you bitch?” said Madrone. His face turned red and his whole body seemed to rise up. Jennifer froze, overwhelmed and suddenly powerless to move. Madrone raised his right hand, and the space seemed to shrink to nothing, her world evaporating into a void of fear. Jennifer felt her throat click; she tried to raise her hands to fend off the oncoming storm, but could not.

“What’s going on?”

The loud, sharp voice froze everything. Jennifer took a step back, glancing toward the door. Colonel Bastian was standing in the doorway.

“I uh, I spilled some coffee on me by accident,” said Madrone.

Jennifer looked up at his face. Had she imagined his anger? He looked small and meek, completely perplexed. The top of his flight suit was soaked with the hot liquid; a few drops plopped down onto the floor.

“Actually, 1 spilled it,” Jennifer heard herself say. “I was working and I didn’t quite hear Captain Madrone come in. When I turned around he was there and I’m afraid he startled me. I’m sorry, Kevin. Here, there are some paper towels right here.”

But Madrone had already started away, head down, passing Bastian and continuing out into the hallway.

“Something wrong here?” the colonel asked her.

“Oh, no.” She smiled weakly, then retrieved the paper towels to clean up the coffee from the floor.

God, he must think I’m a loony, she thought to herself.

“I was—I get wrapped up in my work sometimes,” she said. She bent to the floor and began wiping up the mess. “I can be a real slob. I think I burned him.”

“We can get someone to clean that up,” suggested Bastian.

“By the time they clear security it’ll evaporate,” she said, trying to joke. Jennifer rubbed the sodden towel on the floor, scraping her fingertips. She pulled the roll close to her, worked her way slowly across the puddle. After watching for a while, Colonel Bastian bent, picked up the pile of wadded towels, and carried them dripping to the wastebasket.

She wanted to jump up and kiss him, feel his arms around her.

Wouldn’t that be the topper—then he’d know she was crazy.

Bastian picked up her plastic coffee mug and refilled it as she finished cleaning the mess.

“Vikings, huh?” he asked, handing it to her.

It took a second for her to realize he was referring to the logo on the mug.

“Oh, yeah. Well, I’m from Minnesota.” She looked into his steel-gray eyes for a moment, then glanced to the floor.