AI - Alpha Part 24

between his and the forward seat, but he just barely made it. He was close to the maximum height for an F-16 pilot, and this jet didn't have much more room. Alpha squeezed into the pilot's seat and sent the ladder-bot back to the hangar. It was hard to make out details with no light except for the controls, but it looked like she started a full set of preflight checks, much to his relief.

Now that he could see the Banshee up close, he realized its similarities to the F-42 were more external.

Inside, it diverged more from jets he knew, but aspects resembled an F-16 Falcon, what he had called a Viper. His seat had a console and tracking system, with its screen embedded in the back of Alpha's seat.

His stick had a dense arrangement of switches, some familiar and others he didn't recognize. It only took him a moment to verify that Alpha had locked him out of the controls. He could activate the holoscreen wrapped around the stick, though, and he quickly figured out the controls, even if he couldn't use them, including navigation, radar search modes, missiles and guns, and radio. If she were to release the lock, he thought he could fly the Banshee from here.

h.e.l.l, the Banshee didn't need him or Alpha. The stick had a backup console with its own AI. Not only could this jet fly itself, it could engage in a dogfight on its own. Whether or not an AI-controlled jet could win against a human pilot was another question, but pilots couldn't endure the maximum accelerations possible for modern jets, and decisions often had to be made faster than a person could think. They were headed into an era when fighters might engage each other with only android or EI pilots and no human being within miles.

The canopy covered the c.o.c.kpit like a bubble and provided a 360-degree view. Alpha activated a full- color heads-up display above her seat, which would let her read stats without having to look down at the controls. It could be vital during combat, when losing sight of an enemy for even a second could mean death. Thomas verified what he had suspected: the Banshee was armed to the teeth. It carried heat- seeking Winders, updated versions of the old Sidewinder missiles, and all-aspect Scorpions that could chase a target with merciless precision. All this, for a supposedly civilian aircraft.

"You ready?" Alpha asked.

"How many gees can this thing pull?" he asked.

She leaned around her seat to look at him. "I'll show you what it can do when we get in the air."

As much as he wanted just that, he couldn't. "Alpha, listen, an F-42 can pull far more than ten gees. But

eleven or twelve is the max most people can endure, and that's only with a g-suit, which I don't have. I'm sure you can take a lot more, but if you do even eight in this baby, I'll probably go into cardiac arrest."

"You don't want me to put her through her paces?"

"h.e.l.l, yeah. But it would kill me."

"You must be telling the truth about your heart," she said quietly. "From what I've read about you, death is the only reason you would give up seeing this aircraft strut her stuff."

He narrowed his gaze at her. "You were testing me."

She turned back to her controls. "Prepare for takeoff.""You realize you'll set off aeronautical warning systems all over the East Coast when you take this up.""No, I won't.""You register a flight plan?" He could just hear it: Excuse me, I'm taking my kidnapped general for a ride.

"No flight plan," she said.

He couldn't believe she was so blithe about it. "I don't know how you got out of the safe house in

Virginia. I don't know how you neutralized my sec-techs. But in this day and age, you can't just fly off without clearance."

"Don't worry. The Banshee is designed for stealth."

He leaned forward. "Better even than military detectors?"

She looked back at him. "You need to strap in."

"You need to tell me more."

"No, I don't."

"Do it anyway."

She looked as if she didn't know whether to be annoyed or impressed by his tenacity. "You must realize

Charon set up escapes for himself. We can easily leave here without detection, especially at night. Even if someone does notice us, we've a cover in the air control meshes.""For a jet fighter?""It won't register as a fighter.""Why not?""A lot of reasons. Strap in and I'll tell you."

Frustrated, he sat back and buckled his harness. "Done."

"No one will detect us because our radar cross section is smaller than a gnat." She paused as the engines growled into life. "We have less radio echo than your F-42 and better absorbent on the fuselage. We scatter ultraviolet and microwaves as well as radio waves. Programmable matter surfaces the canopy and masks c.o.c.kpit lights. The engines create half the heat and exhaust of an F-42. The Banshee morphs to minimize air drag and optimize the reflection or scatter of electromagnetic radiation. No contrails. The only way someone could find us is if they knew our specs and location, and even then it would be hard.

If they do find us, the hull can project images of sky or make us resemble a private airplane. We also have private civilian ID."

"G.o.d," Thomas muttered. If the Banshee could do everything she claimed, and do it well, its technology

could jump the Air Force years ahead in the development of the F-42.

The engines rumbled as she taxied forward. Lights from the Banshee showed a runway ahead, one long enough that the jet could take off without a steep or vertical climb. It would decrease the acceleration, which would help him withstand the pressure.

As they sped up, he studied his screen. The color-enhanced images provided a better view of the runway even than he would have up front, looking out into the night. It felt strange. The jets he had flown were single-seaters, and neither the F-16 nor F-22 boasted the sophisticated meshes that controlled modern fighters. He had trained a bit in an F-35, but it couldn't compare to the F-42, and this Banshee was even more advanced.

Alpha handled the jet with unexpected confidence, given her claimed lack of experience. Perhaps he shouldn't be surprised. A machine operating another machine had no reason to suffer the nerves of a human pilot. Simulations weren't the same as experience, but that was a truism developed for people. As far as he knew, no one had researched it with formas. Maybe Alpha considered everything a simulation, one machine working with another; to her, even people operated by machinelike rules. But he couldn't think of her that way. The longer they interacted, the more convinced he became that she was evolving in ways Charon had never intended.

Within moments they were lifting off. Acceleration pressed him into his seat and a familiar exhilaration swept over him. He wanted the controls so much, he felt it in his bones. Night spread around them in a chasm of darkness and diamond-bright stars, and his awareness of their position intensified. When he had begun his training, decades ago, he hadn't understood why his instructors called him an instinctive pilot. They told him he had an unusually strong ability to process visual information and make split- second judgments. As he matured, he realized his "instincts" came from his knack for a.s.similating data, picturing what was going on around him, predicting its evolution, and reacting fast.

Thomas had always been able to sense the position of other aircraft relative to his, sometimes so well, he could envision the intentions of other pilots before they acted. It was like playing soccer at the academy.

He could judge the positions and strategies of other players even if he couldn't see them. Part of that ability came from spatial perception. His instructors had said he "hit the ceiling" when they tested his ability, which meant it was greater than they could measure. He also had excellent peripheral vision.

That wasn't all of it, though. He didn't know how to quantify an innate instinct for aerial combat, but it had saved his life on more than one occasion.

On the ground, too, his predictions often had spot-on accuracy. Although he never spoke of it, he had received the Medal of Honor after he rescued several downed transports during the 2012 Kurdistan uprising. Even after being shot down and injured, he kept going, making his way over fifty miles until he could get help for the soldiers trapped when the transports crashed. The doctors later told him he could have died many times over. Somehow, his elusive instincts had kept him alive.

With the Banshee, Thomas noticed a marked difference from other jets. It was quieter. Stealth fighters were designed to make as little noise as possible, but this one was in a cla.s.s by itself. He didn't even have to raise his voice to speak above its muted growl.

"I like this," he told Alpha.

"Good."

"Why?"

"If you're happy, I'm happy."

"I thought you didn't feel emotions."

No answer.

"I'd be happier if you took me back," Thomas said.

"Can't do that."

Big surprise. "Why is this Banshee so well armed?"

"Safety precaution."

"Against who?"

Silence.

He was getting nowhere. Given all he had seen of Charon's operations, he doubted he would get out of this alive. It wasn't necessarily illegal to build fighters, but as far as he knew, none of Charon's corporations had contracted with the military, at least not in the United State. This jet incorporated designs from aircraft Charon shouldn't have had access to and its weapons looked like military issue, which meant they were illegally purchased.

The Pentagon believed Charon had been creating an army of constructs that would obey him without hesitation, apparently even to the obsessive extent of carrying out his orders over and over after his death. Alpha's piloting ability implied he had been training formas to fly his superjets. Extreme acceleration, lack of oxygen, disorientation, nerves during combat: none of it mattered to an android.

With his prefabricated armies, Charon had been developing a spectacular product.

Even worse, whoever was running the organization now had access to a lieutenant general, someone who knew far too much for his own good. Thomas had training to withstand interrogation and his heart condition limited what they could do if they wanted him alive, but many methods of interrogation existed that wouldn't kill him.

He touched the ejection switch on his stick. Even if it worked, he wouldn't survive ejection at this high an alt.i.tude without helmet or oxygen. Which was probably the point. He laid his head back against the seat, exhausted and demoralized. He was so grateful Jamie was safe, it ached within him. His adrenaline rush had faded, and along with it, his thrill in the flight. His chest ached.

"Alpha," he said. "Do you have my pills?"

She looked around her chair at him. "You all right?"

He regarded her tiredly. "No."

She withdrew, then reappeared and handed him two bottles, one aspirin and the other nitroglycerine. He

took what he needed and put both bottles in his s.h.i.+rt pocket while he chewed the aspirin. Alpha watched the whole time.

"You should sleep," she said.

"You should pay attention to your driving."

"I am."

"You're looking at me."

"My mesh is linked to this aircraft. I can monitor its flight equally well whether I'm looking at the controls or you."

"How do you know that?"

"From simulator flights."

"Simulations are no subst.i.tute for experience, especially in emergencies."

"Maybe not." She didn't sound particularly concerned.

He leaned forward. "You should let me fly it."