Hunter appeared on September 14, as promised. Sturdy, close-cropped hair, with a slight limp—a consequence of the grenade explosion. Despite his wounds and lung problems from exposure to chemical agents, he looked as if he could dismantle a tank with his bare hands. His family was a military dynasty: a distant ancestor had commanded a Confederate regiment, his grandfather took part in the Normandy landings, his father fought in Vietnam, and his brother, a Marine, died in Afghanistan. Hunter himself spent ten years in an assault-sabotage platoon until the grenade put an end to his combat career.
For a few days, we spent time talking about childhood, school, our dreams. He recalled how he defended me from bullies, and I—how we made plans to conquer the world. But he was evasive about his work in the Intelligence Directorate, changing the subject every time. I sensed his visit wasn't accidental. Something in his gaze, in the pauses between words, hinted at a hidden purpose. My intuition, honed by years of working with data, suggested: Hunter knows more than he's saying. And in a world where borders shift daily and tension threatens to escalate into a global conflict, this couldn't be just a friendly visit.
Immediately upon arriving, Hunter kicked into high gear. His energy seemed capable of powering the entire ATLAS. He demanded data on the quadcopter, and although ATLAS BLOCK B was still considered a secret development, I trusted Hunter. We'd been through too much to doubt his reliability. I printed out a brief manual on operating the machine, removing anything related to Alice's military applications. And Hunter, sitting on the pull-out sofa, immediately buried himself in the papers while simultaneously sorting through boxes of food and special gear. The house in Alaska, which I'd bought six months ago, had been empty for years, and of course we needed many basic supplies, but Hunter seemed to be preparing for life in the wilderness as if we were embarking on an expedition to Mars.
He'd managed to procure heated sleeping bags, tents, hunting rifles with optical sights, and crates of ammunition. The supplies were such that they would last not a week's vacation but a year of survival. I watched his preparations with mild bewilderment. ATLAS stood on the pad by the covered hangar, and every hour delivery trucks pulled up, unloading crates and boxes. There were so many that our neighbors started giving us sidelong glances, suspecting we were preparing not for a vacation but for a trip outside the USA. At some point, unable to bear it, I looked inside the refrigerator, packed with meat, and the ATLAS cargo hold, where crates of canned stew, rice, and long-term storage foods were piled high.
"Hunter, explain, why do we need so much food?" I asked, trying not to show my irritation.
He gave me a strange look and muttered, "Let it be. What, not enough room in this beast?"
I shrugged and stepped over the gear scattered between the seats. The ATLAS cabin was trimmed with expensive synthetic material, resistant to dust and wear. The floor was covered with hygienic-composite carpeting, and the control panels glowed with a soft light. But Hunter's boxes disrupted this sterile harmony, and I felt my mood souring.
I left the cabin to calm down, but returning an hour later, I felt a heavy stone settle in my soul. For the first time in weeks of anticipation, the idea of the trip seemed like a mistake. I wanted to ditch everything, stay home, and immerse myself in work on Alice. I returned to the ATLAS cabin, where Hunter was fiddling with the front panel, and couldn't hold back my irritation:
"These boxes are in my way; they block the view," I said, pointing at the crates.
"When ATLAS lifts off, the nose will rise, and the view will be clear," Hunter replied calmly without looking up from checking the equipment.
I sighed. His composure only heightened my irritation. But I decided to test the machine before the long journey. With that much cargo, we needed to ensure the hydrogen fuel cells could handle it. I pressed the engine warm-up button. From the back came a soft buzzing, similar to the sound of a blowtorch. As the four super-powered electric motors gained strength, the cabin began to tremble slightly. Alice, managing the computational systems, kept the turbines under control. Gradually, the RPMs stabilized, the shaking ceased, and ATLAS smoothly lifted vertically, following the programmed test flight.
Sitting in the pilot's seat, I watched the holographic screen where Alice displayed system status data. The test flight was proceeding smoothly, but my thoughts were far away. I thought about the Alice project, which was almost complete. Fifteen years of work, sleepless nights, millions of lines of code—all to create an AI capable of changing military tactics. Soon, I was to report to the leadership of "Sigma-7," and I felt the pressure. This trip, this vacation—it all seemed frivolous. Maybe I should have stayed and polished the final details? But deep down, I knew I needed a break to look at the project with fresh eyes. Hunting or fishing in Alaska was unlikely to interest me, but time for reflection there would definitely be.
ATLAS, having reached an altitude of one hundred meters, began gaining horizontal speed. I wanted to grab my work laptop from the locker but stumbled upon wooden crates blocking the aisle. Irritation flared up again.
"What's in these crates?" I asked, nudging one with my foot.
"Ammo," Hunter replied, and his tone, it seemed to me, held a strange inflection.
"Ammo? Why so much?" I couldn't believe my ears.
"It'll come in handy," he said, and his smile seemed unnatural to me. "I'm not asking why you loaded a million files into Alice when we're going to repair a house."
I was taken aback. Yes, I had copied several work projects into Alice's memory to work on in Alaska, but a million? That was an exaggeration. Approaching the console, I quietly asked Alice to display data on the uploaded files. A number appeared on the screen—973,000 files, work archives, and drafts. I shot a wary glance at Hunter. He was reclining in his seat, tall, muscular, with his hands resting on his knees, looking at me with that same strange smile. Something about him worried me, but I couldn't figure out what.
"We might have overloaded the machine," I said, trying to change the subject.
"That's from overwork," Hunter replied, not losing his calm. "You've worked non-stop for years, Ork. And now, just before the most important stage, you suddenly decide to take a week off."
His words stung. But as always, he was right: I'd hardly rested, consumed by Alice. But his tone, his gaze—everything hinted that he knew more than he was saying. I noticed a box by the main screen and decided to distract myself.
"And what's this?" I asked, pointing at it.
"A satellite emergency beacon," Hunter replied. "You press the red button, and the signal goes to thousands of 'SOS' stations worldwide. Rescue ships will get our coordinates immediately."
I looked at the ceiling, imagining signals from ATLAS going through antennas to the satellites that had crowded Earth's orbit in recent years. The satellite network in the 20..s was so dense that it sometimes seemed space had turned into a technological junkyard. But this system, linking drones, ships, and rescue services, was an engineering marvel. I couldn't help but feel respect for those who created it.
Hunter moved to Alice's main panel and turned on the large screen—a meter by a meter and a half. The cabin filled with voices: someone arguing, someone laughing, then the melody of a famous American band, sad and drawn-out, began to play. Hunter nodded at the screen.
"Can't break the habit," he said. "After the failed operation in Afghanistan, I was posing as a local. Worked as a shepherd in a mountain village, sometimes not seeing people for weeks. Music was the only comfort."
"Is it really possible to pass for a local in Afghanistan?" I asked, trying to picture Hunter among mountains and pastures.
He turned down the volume.
"Where I was, the pastures belonged to an influential Taliban leader. We had an agreement: I covered for him, he didn't give me away. The borders were guarded; strangers didn't go there. But in spring and summer, the grass is knee-high, and in winter, everything freezes. The livestock died, and I paid for the losses out of my own pocket. Had to slaughter animals, roast meat over a fire. But you can't eat it all, can you?"
His words sounded matter-of-fact, but I felt there was more behind them than he was willing to tell.
The test flight ended. Hunter checked the route mapped in Alice's computer and sharply turned ATLAS toward the city, to our landing pad. Everything was ready. It was 11:30, and we planned to depart at 16:15. We had time for lunch before the journey.