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1
Swift and Hawk to the Rescue
This was an emergency. Caleb Quinn and Zen Rafiq—code-named Swift and Hawk—were strapped into the seats of a specially converted Aston Martin, watching the British countryside race by at close to one hundred miles per hour. They were heading for a research facility in Cambridge, owned by the American robotics company SolTec. Some kind of cybersecurity breach had occurred, and their mission—as Professor Clay had explained to them back in London—was “to stop an embarrassing mess from turning into a very public disaster.”
Caleb and Zen both went to a special computing and technology school called the ARC Institute, which stood for AI, Robotics, and Cybertech. A few months earlier, they’d been recruited into the Möbius Program—a secretive organization run by Professor Clay, the ARC’s deputy principal, that used the unique skills of the ARC’s pupils to solve high-tech spy problems. Today, Clay had personally taken them out of their morning classes and scrambled them into one of the ARC’s prototype electric cars.
“Why are we helping SolTec, exactly?” Caleb had asked.
“It’s a favor,” Clay had replied. “Call for backup if you need it. Mr. Mitchell will get you there.”
And it was Lance Mitchell who was now at the wheel of the car—weaving in and out of the regular highway traffic with incredible precision, anticipating gaps and accelerating into empty lanes—all at heart-stopping speed. Mitch, as everyone called him, was the new head of security at the ARC Institute. Six foot four, white, with a square jaw and short dark hair, he’d been a US Navy SEAL and then a special agent with the CIA, before going freelance at the age of forty-seven.
The tires squealed as the car flew across three lanes, racing down the hard shoulder. Caleb could not stop himself from wincing and grabbing at the dashboard. He glanced in the rearview mirror; Zen was reading the briefing Clay had given them at the ARC, completely unconcerned.
“You know,” he said, “I think it would be way better if this was a self-driving car.”
Mitch grinned as he eased back into the middle lane between two tractor trailers. “Welcome to old-school ops, kid. Back in the day, we solved all our problems with gasoline and guns.” He stood hard on the accelerator. “Let’s give this baby some gas.”
“It’s an electric car, Mitch,” Caleb said. “There is no gas.”
“And your generation didn’t solve any problems,” said Zen from the back seat, without looking up. “You just made everything ten times worse.”
Mitch shook his head. “You ARC kids . . . you’re too smart for your own good.”
He yanked at the wheel and dragged them down the outside of a luxury bus. The gap between it and the barrier was almost too tight—but they shot through before it could close any farther.
“If this is how you handle our security,” Caleb said, “I’d hate to see you on a reckless streak.”
An even, synthesized voice spoke through the car’s speakers. “Our journey would be seventeen minutes faster if we exited at the next police ramp.”
It was Sam, Caleb’s artificial intelligence program. The name was short for Simulated Autonomous Medic; Sam had originally been coded by Caleb’s dad, Patrick, as a medical AI. After his dad passed away two years ago, Caleb had significantly upgraded and expanded the program. Sam mostly interacted with the world via a special handset Caleb had made, which he called the Flex.
“This route leads through the back of a farm,” Sam continued, “and then along some very minor roads. But we would avoid a considerable amount of congestion ahead.”
“Let’s do it,” Caleb said. “We need all the time we can get.”
Mitch was now tailgating a plumber’s van with some intensity. “Please don’t tell me that we’re going to let that Alexa thing of yours give us directions.”
“Be nice, Mitch,” Caleb said. “Sam is a thousand times more sophisticated than Alexa and Siri put together.”
“The ramp is five hundred feet ahead,” the AI said. “Just off the hard shoulder.”
The car cut through a gap in the traffic, picking up speed.
“Given the weight of this car and its occupants,” Sam said, “we will need to hit the ramp at an angle of twenty degrees off center and a velocity of seventy-nine miles per hour to clear the fence and land safely on the track on the far side.”
“What?” Mitch exclaimed. “Who said anything about jumping a fence?”
“Come on, Mitch,” said Zen, putting the Möbius briefing aside. “I thought we were doing this old school.”
“You guys have no idea what it takes to pull off a car jump so that we don’t roll and crash,” said Mitch through gritted teeth. “No idea.”
“You are quite heavy for your height and age, Mr. Mitchell,” said Sam. “We will need to accelerate if we are to clear the fence and make the track.”
“I won’t take that personally,” Mitch said. “OK, hold on. Here we go.”
Caleb was pushed back into his seat as the car sped toward the small ramp of the police-only vantage point, off to the side of the hard shoulder. They soared into the air, flying over the low fence at the edge of the highway. Caleb gripped the ceiling handle above his head—the car was surely going to crash into the field beyond. But then a farm track appeared, and half a second later they were bumping down again, bouncing forward, careening from side to side.
Mitch hit the accelerator and fought with the wheel, trying to bring the car under some kind of control without sliding into a nearby ditch.
“Nice!” Caleb cried.
“You’ve got some serious driving skills, Mitch!” said Zen.
“I’m getting too old for this,” muttered the security chief. “Now what, Sam?”
“Proceed straight past those trees ahead,” the AI replied. “Then follow the dirt track to the right—among the farm buildings that you will see in roughly thirty seconds’ time.”
The sleek black car shot by a copse and jolted over a cattle grid into a farmyard. Just as they rounded the corner of a barn, however, a tractor appeared, driving directly toward them with prongs lowered. Caleb ducked in his seat, certain they were going to be impaled. Somehow, though, Mitch was already executing a hand-brake turn—sending them sliding through a towering heap of . . . horse manure.
For a moment, everything went dark—then the wipers came on, clearing wide crescents in the muck. Caleb looked out through the one-way glass. The farmer was gazing down from his tractor with pure astonishment at what must have looked to him like a cross between a stealth bomber and some of the fastest-traveling horse dung in the world.
“Great route, Sam,” said Mitch. “Really great.”
“Is that sarcasm, Mr. Mitchell? Should I engage my sarcasm-learning subroutine, Caleb?”
“Not right now,” Caleb said. “We need some new directions.”
The AI guided them out of the farmyard and along a series of narrow, twisty lanes. They reached a main road heading into the center of Cambridge. Mitch accelerated again, tearing along before swerving deftly across a busy rotary, to a chorus of angry horns. Shortly afterward, the car was racing alongside a perimeter fence.
“I think this is the SolTec facility,” said Zen, peering through her filth-splattered window.
“That is correct, Zen,” said Sam. “The entry road is on the left. I am detecting a security gate. Should I—”
“Hack it, Sam,” Caleb told him, gripping the dashboard as Mitch threw them into a screeching left-hand turn. “Get us in.”
They whizzed along a short driveway as the gate slid open up ahead. The gap was only just wide enough, but Mitch squeezed them through without slowing down. A large white-and-blue sign flashed by, saying, Soltec: Robotics for Tomorrow.
Caleb saw Zen roll her eyes. “Nice slogan,” she said. “Totally original.”
“More sarcasm there, Sam,” Mitch said with a grin. “You’re going to have to learn it someday. Might be the defining human characteristic.”
The manure-plastered car skidded to a halt in front of the compound’s main building, reflected in the dark, mirrored glass that covered its facade. A sandy-haired man with a goatee, rimless glasses, and a shiny black SolTec shirt was standing by the front entrance. He’d been talking into a smartphone but was now staring at them in utter mystification.
“I’m guessing he’s the welcoming committee,” said Caleb.
“Facial scans indicate that he is Dr. Aiden Lennox,” said Sam, “the director of this facility.”
Mitch turned off the engine, straightened his black tie, and adjusted the holster under his jacket. “Stay close, you two,” he said. “Let me handle this.”
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