September 17, 2037, Saturday, began with the piercing sound of an alarm clock shattering the silence of my bedroom. I had set it for 5:45 AM, a bit earlier than usual, to have time to check my packed things before departure. Today my vacation was starting—a rare event, given my job. My name is Ork Ackerman, and on paper, I am a colonel of the secret military base "Sigma-7," hidden in the Nevada desert. But the rank is just a formality, dictated by a high level of access. In reality, I am a professor, a scientist who dedicated his life to artificial intelligence, not military operations. I have about as much relation to marching and tactics as I do to quantum poetry—that is, none.
Despite the vacation, I couldn't break my usual rhythm. After getting up, I headed to the bathroom to shave. Years on the base among military personnel had done their job: no disheveled hair or professorial beard. Every morning I look like a line officer—clean-shaven, trim, ready for inspection. In the mirror, a 42-year-old man in excellent shape looked back at me. After a difficult divorce three years ago, when I threw myself into work headfirst, I had hardly changed outwardly. Except maybe for the graying temples and slightly thinning hair. But in my eyes, which I carefully avoided examining closely, hid a weariness that couldn't be concealed.
The world of 2030 balanced on the brink of collapse. Beyond the walls of "Sigma-7," megacities like Los Angeles or Neo-Tokyo were drowning in the neon light of corporations. Drone couriers and even flying taxis had already become commonplace, filling the sky, while luxurious skyscrapers towered over slums where people fought for survival. Technology promised progress but in reality only deepened the chasm between the elite and everyone else. Here on the base, life was measured: concrete corridors hidden deep underground, the hum of power plants, the smell of ozone from electronics. But even in this isolated world, tension was palpable—a premonition of an impending catastrophe that wasn't spoken about aloud.
After shaving, I did my morning exercises—twenty minutes to keep my body in shape. Breakfast was quick: a protein bar and black coffee brewed by a smart coffee maker set to my taste. When I finished, I took the elevator down to the underground level of the residential complex, walked through the parking lot with rows of electric cars, and headed to the hangar for personal aircraft of senior officers.
Quadcopters, which had replaced helicopters and private planes after the technological boom of the 2020s, had become the new symbol of the era. Lightweight, running on lithium-ion batteries, they were everywhere—from delivery services and police units to the still few personal drones. But their main drawback—limited flight range due to the need for recharging—made them unreliable for long missions. Attempts to improve them with solar panels had failed: the energy was barely enough for basic systems. Hybrid gasoline engines were too heavy, and fuel only exacerbated the problem.
In the hangar, under the cold light of halogen lamps, stood my ATLAS BLOCK B, which in every sense was an exception, created for my experiments.
The ten-meter machine made of titanium alloy looked like the embodiment of the future: smooth lines, four powerful electric motors emitting a soft hum. Its main distinction was the experimental power system. Instead of the suitcase-sized small modular nuclear reactor engineers dreamed of, ATLAS was equipped with an advanced hydrogen fuel cell developed at our base. It occupied half of the cargo compartment but provided almost unlimited flight time, powering the motors and systems without the need for frequent refueling. Hydrogen cells were the breakthrough of 2029, but still rare due to the complexity of production. But most importantly, this technology allowed the installation of my main pride on ATLAS—the AI, Alice.
"Good morning, Ork," her voice came from the hangar speakers, soft, with a slight synthetic tinge. "ATLAS systems are nominal. Do you want to run a pre-flight diagnostic?"
"Check the fuel cells and load the route to Alaska," I replied, touching the machine's control panel.
"Done. Diagnostic complete, route ready," Alice responded. Her voice was so natural that sometimes I forgot it wasn't a human.
"Alice" is the result of fifteen years of my work. Her first version, created at the institute in 2014, was a primitive program on an old computer, capable only of basic calculations. But years of experiments, sleepless nights, and terabytes of code had turned her into something unique. Alice could analyze data in real time, make decisions, and even predict outcomes with an accuracy unattainable by humans. I managed to compress her code into a compact module that fit into ATLAS, opening limitless possibilities for the military: tanks, planes, drones equipped with copies of "Alice" could process information faster than any human crew. She didn't replace people, but gave them an advantage—a reaction speed that could decide the outcome of a battle. A tank with Alice could analyze the terrain and predict an enemy maneuver in fractions of a second. A plane with her evaded missiles as if reading the enemy's mind.
At home, I had a simplified version of Alice managing the smart house. It was she, unwittingly, who became the cause of my divorce. Three years ago, while I was finishing the senior "Alice" at the base, the home version recorded a conversation between my wife Lara and another man. I don't like to recall the details, but Lara, blinded by my "colonel" rank, married me expecting a life with a dashing military man. Upon learning that I was just a scientist, she quickly found solace in the company of base officers—the ones who actually looked like action movie heroes. The divorce was hard, but it pushed me to work. "Alice" became my salvation, my way of proving I was capable of more.
Standing in the hangar, I looked at ATLAS and thought about Lara. She was attracted to my position, but not to me. She wanted status, not a scientist who spent nights buried in code. The exposure, thanks to "Alice," was painful, but it made me stronger. The military is waiting for "Alice" to be in every tank, plane, drone. Her ability to analyze the situation in real time is the future of warfare. And I was close to giving it to them.