“Four can be. We should put our resources into the next generation of control computers,” said Rubeo. Tall and rangy, in certain lights he looked like a young Abraham Lincoln.

This wasn’t that kind of light. He looked and sounded a bit like an out-of-control animatronic character at Disney World.

“ANTARES made C3 possible,” said Geraldo.

“Piffle.”

“You’re suggesting that the computers would completely fly the planes,” said Geraldo.

“They already do,” said Rubeo.

“You cannot remove human beings from the equation.” Geraldo held out her hands and looked at Bastian triumphantly, having played her trump card.

“I can’t say I disagree with that,” admitted Dog, “though I’m not sure I accept ANTARES as fully human.”

“It’s as human as language,” said Geraldo. “That’s all ANTARES really is—a very special language. A way of talking to a computer, which happens to control an airplane. Or several.”

“Piffle,” repeated Rubeo. “It takes over three quarters of the subject’s brain. Tell me that’s human—tell me that’s better than using computers as tools designed to do a specific job. Computers that we can document every function of, every byte of information and logic.”

Bastian leaned over the table toward Geraldo. She reminded him a bit of the dean of students at his college, an almost matronly sort who could outdrink any sorority on campus.

“If we build on the previous program, what would be the next step?” he asked.

“First, we need a subject. My preference would be someone who is ‘clean,’ someone who not only hasn’t worked with ANTARES before, but who doesn’t know how to fly. If we work with a clean slate, we won’t have barriers or bad habits to break. I believe from my review that the biggest hurdle to joining with the computer has been the learned patterns associated with flight. To use my language metaphor again—when you learn a new language, the old one gets in the way. And that goes for ANTARES as well. 1 would propose a whole host of changes from the old program, including some bio enhancements.”

“Drugs,” sputtered Rubeo.

“Yes, drugs,” said Geraldo. “Supplements actually, designed to enhance neural and other brain functioning. The tests have already been conducted.”

“Mmmm,” said Dog noncommittally.

“On the other hand, using someone already familiar with the procedure would cut down on the start-up time.” Geraldo nodded as if responding to an argument Dog hadn’t made. “At present, there’s only one person on base who has used ANTARES, and that is Major Jeff Stockard.”

Geraldo opened the folder in her lap, consulting her notes. “I’d prefer to have someone else,” said Bastian. “Jeff is the only pilot presently assigned full-time to the Flighthawks.”

He also didn’t want to waste him on a project that, in his opinion, might—or should—end up being a dead end.

“But a non-pilot?” he added. “I don’t know. What if something goes wrong? Who takes over the plane?”

“C3,” said Geraldo. “The computer defaults have been well tested. C3 is very capable, Colonel; I actually agree with Dr. Rubeo that for all intents and purposes it could fly the planes. Just not as well.”

She smiled at Rubeo, but he wasn’t buying the bouquets.

“And unlike DreamStar, the ANTARES pilot will not actually be aboard the U/MFs,” Geraldo added. “So there really is no necessity for the subject to be a pilot.” She glanced at her folder notes. “I have also recorded a steep learning curve for pilots transitioning to the Flighthawk program. According to the records, there were three test pilots who washed out before Major Stockard. The last full-time pilot, Jim DiFalco, had a great deal of trouble right up until he transferred out of the program, and he had been a civilian test pilot. My suspicion is that the problem is very similar to the one with ANTARES—my language metaphor.”

Dog nodded. DiFalco—a top engineer as well as a highly rated test pilot—had earned the nickname “Rock” while with the program.

“According to the simulation exercises,” continued Geraldo, “with the exception of Major Stockard, the best raw scores in the Level 1 qualifying tests for the U/MFs were compiled by non-pilots.”

“Exactly,” said Rubeo. His face was no longer red, though he couldn’t quite be called calm. “If a pilot has difficulty controlling the planes, then logically—”

“Logically we try someone other than a pilot,” said Geraldo. “I’ve already worked up a likely profile. Thirty years old, male, single, technically oriented, in reasonable but not athletic shape, with a slightly beta-male outlook, someone willing to follow rather than lead. On the other hand, he would need to have survived conflict, so that he could draw on that experience for confidence. And of course, he will have to have volunteered, so he can use that as motivation.”

“Witchcraft dressed up as psychobabble,” muttered Rubeo.

“Let’s give it a try,” said Bastian, even though part of him agreed with Rubeo.

Dreamland, Range 2

10 January, 1205

MACK HAD NINE HUNDRED KG OF FUEL LEFT, OR JUST under two thousand pounds in American measurements. That was enough to fly the Fulcrum’s goosed engines roughly a hundred miles, landing at his theoretical base.

But the way he looked at it, his base wasn’t a hundred miles away. In fact, he could run the damn engines dry and glide down from here.

Almost. And almost was good enough at the moment, because he was going to nail that stubborn cheating SOB Stockard even if it meant getting out and pushing the MiG home.

Knife let his left wing roll down slightly, tucking into a circle behind the remaining Flighthawk, trying to get the bastard in his boresight. The small plane couldn’t outrun him, but its tight turning radius made pursuing it tricky. Mack took a quick snap shot as the Flighthawk slashed right. But he was going too fast—he nosed down desperately as the smaller plane jerked to his right, trying to get a shot off before sailing beyond the Flighthawk. He lost his enemy, guessed where he’d be, goosed the throttle and shoved down, just ducking Hawk One’s barrage.

Firing the cannon cost the robot considerable flight energy; it started to wallow as it angled to pursue Mack through a hard series of turns. Knife gained momentum, then flung the MiG back around, getting off a shot before the Flighthawk barreled away.

The helicopters were escaping south.

So be it; it was Zen he wanted.

As Knife banked to regroup, he found the tail end of the Flighthawk at the top of his HUD, just out of range. He squeezed the throttle for more power, nearly unsocketing his elbow as he jerked his arm.

He had the bastard now.

“TERMINATE,” SAID MADRONE CALMLY OVER THE common frequency.

Zen flicked his stick, flashing the Hawk’s nose upward before jerking into a steep dive, complying with Madrone’s order.

Even if the engagement hadn’t been terminated, he was confident he would have escaped—at best, the MiG could only get off four or five shots before sailing past the pesky Flighthawk.

Mack cursed in his ears as he swung his wings level. “You’re a fuckin’ cheater, Stockard. Twig saved your ass.”

“I’m a cheater? You’re about six hundred kilos past bingo. You’re walking home.”

“At least I didn’t resurrect a plane.”

“You didn’t hit it.”

“Oh, yeah, right. The Alamo missed. Two Alamos—the other was in the same frickin’ area and would have caught a whiff.”

“Hey, ask the computer.”

Mack’s curse was cut off by another transmission from Madrone, calmly congratulating everyone for a successful “event.”

That was one of the reasons Zen liked Madrone. Had someone else—anyone else—been running the gig, he would undoubtedly have scolded them.

Probably they deserved to be scolded, since they had pushed the envelope of the exercise, but that was how you learned, wasn’t it?