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of Zia’s War-bot. I open a radio link to DeShawn’s neuromorphic circuits and share the data from my radar.
    â€œDo you see the KN-09, DeShawn? It’s turning this way. I think it’s locking onto our position.”
    â€œNo doubt, no doubt. But don’t worry. I got this.”
    DeShawn juices the engines, and the quadcopter soars over the base’s fence. The B-2 bomber is five miles above us and twenty miles to the east, which means we’ll have to fly for another fifteen minutes before we can match the bomber’s speed and rendezvous with the plane. But instead of climbing toward the B-2, DeShawn cuts the power to the rotors and we start to slow and sink. At the same time, the KN-09 artillery piece launches all twelve of its rockets. Fiery plumes of exhaust trail from the missiles as they zero in on the quadcopter.
    â€œMayday!” I scream over the radio. “Incoming! There’s—”
    â€œChill, Adam.” DeShawn is as calm and cheerful as always. “It’s all good.”
    â€œAll good? What are you talking about? It’s a freakin’ blizzard of rockets!”
    â€œWhy do you think I started descending? We’re lower than the fence now, bro.”
    He’s right—we’re flying just ten feet above the ground. Five of the rockets hit the fence behind us. They explode on contact, mangling the chain-link but getting no farther. The other seven missiles sail high above our rotors.
    Relief floods my circuits, mixed with admiration and a little envy. I don’t know how DeShawn does it. “Oh man. If I still had a digestive tract, there’d be a big mess in my pants right now.”
    â€œThe best part is, those idiots shot all their missiles at once. Now they’ve got nothing left. We can cruise to the rendezvous point without any worries.”
    DeShawn juices the engines again and we zoom skyward.
    â€¢ • •
    I manage to control my anxiety about Shannon until the quadcopter reaches the B-2 and docks inside the plane’s bomb bay. But as soon as Zia carries our Snake-bots into the cockpit, I start giving orders via radio to the other Pioneers. I have no authority to do this—DeShawn is the second-in-command of our platoon, not me—but I take charge anyway.
    â€œZia, put Shannon’s Snake-bot on that console and hook it up to the diagnostic systems. Marshall, is all the equipment ready? I want you to x-ray her hardware and get a full picture of the damage.”
    â€œYes, yes, everything’s ready,” Marshall assures me. His memory files are inside the neuromorphic control unit that’s piloting the stealth bomber. As he steers the plane away from North Korea and toward the Pacific Ocean, he also powers up the diagnostic console that’s designed to make emergency repairs to the Pioneers. “Her radio isn’t functioning at all?”
    â€œNo response on any of the channels,” I reply. “The bullets shredded her antenna, and maybe her transmitter too.”
    â€œAll right, let me think. If her radio’s broken, I’ll go around it. I’ll link to her directly by cable.” Marshall sounds nervous, tentative. He’s an expert in communications, not hardware repair. “Just be patient and give me a chance to work. I’ll send you a data feed so you can see what I’m doing.”
    Zia connects Shannon to the diagnostic console. The War-bot’s steel fingers grasp a fiber-optic cable and insert it into the Snake-bot’s port. Then Marshall gets to work. He manipulates a robotic arm that takes X-rays of all the bullets that penetrated the Snake-bot’s armor. Then he runs hundreds of tests on Shannon’s hardware. I try to follow the data feed that shows the tests he’s running, but I can’t concentrate. My thoughts are in an uproar, a billion desperate prayers and pleas ping-ponging across my electronics: Come on, Shannon, wake up! After