Bolos: Honor of the Regiment Part 8

Beside Fife, Major Durant was sitting hunched over the readouts from Jason, face pale. "I can't believe he's still fighting," she said softly. "I can't . . ." She trailed off, then looked him in the eye. "With the whole regiment, we'd be invincible. . . ."

He nodded his head slowly. "Maybe so. The Legura have better AI systems than Jason, they say. But I don't think their machines could match him when it comes to spirit."

Another wave of missiles impacts around my position, and my pain center registers the hits. The pain is very great now, but I focus my waning abilities on sustaining h.e.l.lbore fire against enemy forces attempting to return up the pa.s.s from the friendly side of the mountains. I have noticed an increasing number of such attempts in the last 4,987 seconds. It should be possible to make an estimate of enemy situations and intentions based on this datum, but I find it impossible to project such information any longer. All that exists now is the pa.s.s, the need to hold it at all costs . . . the enemy that continues to attack, though in a disjointed and dispirited fas.h.i.+on now.

A part of me is aware that 26,135 seconds have now pa.s.sed since my first engagement, and I know I cannot maintain an effective resistance much longer. I have fallen short of my original estimate of combat sustainability due to a miscalculation of the total firepower of enemy forces attacking me. It seems that there are incalculables in warfare beyond the ability even of a Bolo combat unit to resolve. This explains, at long last, the many inconsistencies I have pondered in my study of military history. If a Bolo computer cannot calculate all possibilities, than neither can a human general. Humanity, I have discovered, is more fallible in many ways than my own kind, and yet they have a quality, an intangible something, which I can seek to emulate but now know I will never understand. . . .

Another swarm of missiles strikes my position. The barrages are more ragged and uneven now, but still dangerous. The contingent of human troops who rallied to my aid early in the fight are long since dead, proof of the fact that the modern battlefield is no place for human frailty. But they have given their lives in the defense of their homes and families, and I have been careful to record their transponder serial numbers so that they can be enshrined as heroes once the fight is over.

My on-board damage a.s.sessment center reports serious injury to my reactor coolant system. Soon I will be forced into shutdown, or if I attempt override of my fail-safe systems I will risk a core meltdown. That will no doubt put a final end to the enemy's attempts to retake the pa.s.s, but it will also render the area uninhabitable for a period of centuries . . .

In either event, my mission is almost done. I terminate the independent action mode subroutines that prevent acceptance of contact with my compromised headquarters. I will accept the risk now of having messages intercepted by the enemy, since it can no longer matter to my ability to resist.

Before the battle ends, I wish to speak once more to my commander.

"Unit JSN of the Line to Command," I transmit. "Request permission to file VSR."

His reply is uncharacteristically slow. Evidence of an enemy trick? I do not know . . . and all that matters, at this juncture, is that it is his voice I am hearing when he finally does answer.

"Jason! G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Jason, I didn't think you'd still be able to transmit!"

"Request permission to file VSR," I repeat. When he grants the appeal, I run through as detailed a summary of my condition as damaged sensors can provide. "Requesting relief force," I conclude. "Unable to sustain further combat operations. . . ."

"The cavalry's on the way, Jason," my commander tells me. "It's over. Revert to minimum awareness mode until we can do a repair a.s.sessment, see what we can salvage. . . ."

I am suspicious of his words. Perhaps the enemy still thinks to force me to shut down prematurely and intends to take advantage of my weakness.

Then my surviving sensor array tracks a fresh round of artillery and missile fire, and I brace myself for the inevitable impact. . . .

And realize it is pa.s.sing over my position, directed beyond the mountains at the enemy batteries I was unable to silence before exhausting my counterbattery howitzers. I tap into the satellite feeds with a last, difficult effort, and see the cl.u.s.ter of friendly IFF beacons registering near the foot of the pa.s.s, advancing rapidly to my relief.

Then I relax my control over peripheral systems, at long last allowing myself to fade into the oblivion of minimum-alert down-time. . . .

"Report, Lieutenant," Smith-Wentworth said wearily. He didn't really need a verbal report to tell him what the computer maps had already revealed, but he went through the forms anyway. He was drained, emotionally and physically, and there was solace in empty routine.

"The a.s.sault has failed, Father Hand," Lieutenant Bickerton-Phelps said quietly. "The Bolo isn't firing any more, but our forces beyond the pa.s.s have been routed by an infidel counterattack. And thanks to your efforts, we no longer have the strength to reverse the situation once more. . . ."

The Hand looked up, his eyes meeting the younger man's cold gray stare. "I'll thank you to remember your place, boy," Smith-Wentworth told him harshly. "You're in no position to pa.s.s judgment."

Bickerton-Phelps touched a stud on the clasp of his belt, his expression unchanging. "You were a good officer once, Third Commander," he said. "But after today . . ." He shook his head slowly and turned away.

A pair of burly guards in the dress black uniforms of the Holy Order had appeared in the door of the command van. Bickerton-Phelps detached the front cover of his belt clasp and held it out for one of the guards to examine. "I am Executor-Captain Bickerton-Phelps. This officer is relieved of duty and placed under arrest for offenses against the Lord. Take him away."

Smith-Wentworth looked from the guards to the young Holy Executor. The suggestion that his aide might have been an agent of the Archspeaker's religious inquisition would have shocked him a few hours before. But now nothing could surprise him. In fact it seemed somehow right, a fitting end.

Hyman Smith-Wentworth was laughing as the soldiers led him away.

It took six more weeks and the threat of a Concordiat blockade to bring the war to an end, but when all was said and done the failure at Hot Springs Pa.s.s marked the true high tide of the Army of the New Messiah, on New Sierra and elsewhere. Though Deseret remained a potential threat to the security of the region, the activation of the rest of the Bolos of the First Robotic Armored Regiment guaranteed that they would not be back anytime soon.

The technical staff on Fife's team p.r.o.nounced Unit JSN of the Line as beyond reasonable hope of salvage and refit. The intensive pounding the Bolo had taken during the battle hadn't left much beyond the core electronic subsystems, and the damaged fusion plant was ordered shut down and removed to avoid the dangers of a meltdown.

Captain David Fife was on hand for that final task, though Technical Sergeant Ramirez and his crew were fully capable of dealing with the job without him. In fact, there were a score of senior civilian and military officials at the site, including Coordinator Wilson, General Kyle, and Major Elaine Durant.

Before the final shutdown procedure, there was a short ceremony in front of the battered Bolo. No parades, no reviewing stands or cheering crowds. Just a cl.u.s.ter of dignitaries come to do the final honors for the hero of the battle of Hot Springs Pa.s.s.

Most of the dignitaries gave speeches, full of lavish praise for the heroic men and women who had fallen here mixed with solemn vows that the bloodshed would not turn out to have been in vain. But when it was Coordinator Wilson's turn to speak, his words were in a different vein.

"Many brave men died here when Deseret tried to conquer our planet," he began, his voice husky with emotion. "Their sacrifice will always be recognized. But I hope that no one forgets the true hero of this battle for as long as the men of New Sierra look back on the fight for freedom waged here at the very roof of the world. No flesh and blood hero was Unit JSN, but a machine made of metal and electronics components, built by men, programmed by men, our servant and surrogate constructed solely for war. But this battle machine, this Bolo tank, was more than the sum of chips and programs, much more. No man, from New Sierra or any of the other far-flung worlds of the human expansion, could ever have shown greater initiative, greater courage, greater patriotism, than this machine that proved anything but 'mere.' Unit JSN of the Line . . . Jason . . . proved himself worthy of our respect. As a fighting machine . . . as a hero . . . as a man."

They solemnly welded the decoration to the Bolo's turret, according to the longstanding custom of Terra's Dinochrome Brigade, New Sierra's Legion of Merit. It was the highest award any citizen of the Republic could receive, and there was a sprinkling of applause from the a.s.sembled dignitaries.

Then Major Durant gave the nod to Ramirez, and the final shutdown procedure began.

David Fife stepped close to one of the Bolo's few surviving input/output cl.u.s.ters. He knew that there was no alternative left, but that didn't make it any easier to endure. Jason was still conscious, still functional at minimum awareness level, but too far gone to bring back in this or any other body. Fife knew that his pain center was still signalling the machine's crippling injuries, and the shutdown would be a relief from an unimaginable h.e.l.l of electronic suffering. . . .

A visual sensor moved slowly, focusing on Fife. The Bolo spoke, a rasping, mechanical sound. "Unit JSN . . . of the line . . . to command . . ." he said haltingly. "I am . . . pleased . . . I have done my duty." There was a long pause. Fife heard one of the technicians report to Ramirez that the fusion plant was off line. Only a few seconds of backup battery power remained. Then Jason would be gone.

"My only regret . . ." Jason continued. "My only regret . . . is that we will not . . . be able to discuss . . . the human equation any longer." Again, the machine paused, and then spoke his last words so softly that Fife had to strain to hear them.

"Go tell the Spartans . . ."

PLOUGHSHARE.

Todd Johnson

PROLOGUE.

(i) "And now, ladies and gentlemen--Senator--you come to the heart of the Bolo. If you'll step this way, please. Remember to leave all your food and drink outside. And for those of you who still have the habit, no smoking, please." The group t.i.ttered politely. The tour guide led the group into the White Room. Workers clad in white overalls moved purposely about, carrying trays and making microscopic examinations. The room smelled antiseptically clean. "It is here that the psychotronic circuits are produced and tested."

The tour guide pointed to racks where completed circuit boards awaited s.h.i.+pment. "Each one of those circuit boards represents a complete- Uh, young man! Oh, you're the Director's son, aren't you? Take your milkshake outside, please. We can't allow any liquids in this room, there's too much danger of--madam, if you'd move aside--NO! Not that way!"

(ii) "Well, the lab tests are as extensive as we can make. There appears to be no damage, all the same-" the Test Manager reported.

"No damage? Excellent! I expected that new cleansing agent--what is it called? DK-41--would solve the problem," the Project Manager said.

"Great news! The cost of replacing all those circuits, not to mention the impact on the schedule, would be disastrous," the project's Financial Officer added. He smiled congenially at the others in the austere conference room as he ruminated over the millions that had been saved. The difference between profit and loss.

"Well, I'm still not entirely certain-" the Test Manager hedged. The Financial Officer looked up, eyes widened, and sought the eyes of the Project Manager imploringly.

The Project Manager caught the look and hastily a.s.sured the Test Manager, "Don't worry, Ted, we'll keep an eye on 'em through integration."

(iii) "I don't see what the fuss is all about, they all pa.s.sed their final tests with flying colors. Admittedly, they produced unique solutions to problems than we've seen recently, but that could easily reflect the greater-knowledge databases we've endowed them with. No, gentlemen, I believe that the C group of the Mark XVI's is completely ready in all respects for export and a.s.signment," the Project Manager declared cheerfully.

"But their names! Who's ever heard of a Bolo wanting to be christened Das Afrika Korps?" the Test Manager asked.

"That is a bit odd," the Project Manager conceded, "but I see nothing wrong with a Bolo wis.h.i.+ng to acquire the tradition and heritage of the US Seventh Army Corps-"

"And Marshal Zhukov of the Soviet Union? And just who the heck is General Corse?"

The Project Manager drummed his fingers on the table top. "Ted, do they pa.s.s or not?"

The Test Manager sighed. "They pa.s.s, Jim. They just leave me a bit nervous. After all, those were logic circuits that got contaminated."

"And cleaned again with DK-41. No, Ted, you don't have anything to worry about."

"Well, I suppose," the Test Manager agreed with a sigh, "I just wish we'd done more tests with DK-41 before we used it on a production batch."

"You worry too much, Ted," the Project Manager said, "but that's your job."

(iv) "There! The first combat results are back for the C batch! Amazing!" the Bolo Division's Strategist exclaimed. "Those software upgrades are certainly something!"

(v) CONFIDENTIAL.

FOR BOLO DIVISION INTERNAL USE ONLY.

FROM: Manager, Chemical Decontamination Department TO: All Managers, Bolo Division SUBJECT: DK-41 Decontaminant Recent test results on long-term exposure to DK-41 decontaminant show evidence of sub-layer doping with carbon and iridium carbide. While the implications of these findings are being determined, all managers are advised to discontinue use of DK-41 as a decontaminant immediately.

- I -.

A war, even the most victorious, is a national misfortune.

-Helmuth Von Moltke

General Danforth von der Heydte, G-1, in charge of personnel, eyed the rusty hulk disdainfully. "This is worth a division?"

"Or three or four," Colonel Rheinhardt, G-3 in charge of operations, replied. "Its effectiveness has not yet been determined."

The group of officers stood at the bottom of a deep excavation. It was night and, under the cover of camouflage netting, lights around the partially excavated war machine illuminated workers frenetically digging. Smells of dark earth and rusted metal mixed in the chill air.

While General von der Heydt kept his distance from the war hulk, Colonel Rheinhardt examined the exposed parts meticulously, noting the inferior quality of the attached bulldozer blade, marvelling at the partially exposed barrel of the h.e.l.lbore.

"It will have to be recharged," said General Marius, G-4 in charge of supply. His tone was a mix of proud possessiveness battling against the miserly concern of a bookkeeper.

"The Bolo Model XVI are rumored to have been used in lieu of a full corps in various encounters," General Sliecher, G-2, Intelligence, commented. His cadaverous face, small eyes, hawk nose all lent credence to his professional calling. But his frame was bent, the hair that hung limply on his skull was white. His strength had been whittled away; his intellect remained.

"Hmmph," von der Heydte snorted. "It's missing two of its four tracks-"

"But, fortunately, on either side," Rheinhardt interjected, bending down to peer intently at the remaining tracks. Just like every military officer, Colonel Rheinhardt had read about the Bolos in his cla.s.ses on military history as a cadet. Later, as an instructor, he had taught strategy and tactics based on several of their more memorable actions. Unlike most other officers, he had always itched for a chance to employ one. Legend even had it that some had been brought to their planet of Freireich over two centuries ago, mostly stripped of weaponry, for use as heavy machinery--earth-movers and the like--not as war machines.

He reached a hand back behind him as he bent lower. "Major."

Major Kruger, his blond lantern-jawed aide, wordlessly placed a handlight in the outstretched hand.

Colonel Rheinhardt, Chief of Operations for the Bayerische KriegsArmee, soon became bespattled with dirt and mud as he pored minutely over the exposed expanse of armored track. His lithe body moved with a wiriness that belied the silver which crowned both temples. His movements were not the precise controlled movements of a man tired with age, nor were they the quick darting movements of a youth careless with his energy. His inspection over, the Colonel returned the handlight to the orderly, straightened up within arm's distance of the ancient war machine, and without seeming to, carefully removed the dirt on his uniform. Shortly he was again immaculate, proud and ready for action.

Von der Heydte glared sourly at the G-3, continuing, "Who knows what shape its weapons are in, or even if it has any-"

"We've recovered some weaponry as well," General Sliecher supplied.

"And how are we going to recharge it?" von der Heydte demanded.

"Our records indicate that it can take a direct charge from our electrical grid. We shall recharge it at our Grammersdorf nuclear reactor," General of the KriegsArmee Kurt Marcks replied. "Really, Dan, you must leave operations to myself and Karl."

General von der Heydte eyed the young Colonel Rheinhardt with the same disdainful glare he had previously bestowed upon the Bolo. But his words to General Marcks, his commander, were obedient. "As you wish, Herr General."

Von der Heydte snapped for an orderly to help him out of his field chair. Age and excessive girth had long since rendered him incapable of performing such feats unaided. Even in the cold night air, the exertion was sufficient to bring beads of sweat to his forehead which he wiped off hastily with a gloved hand.

General Marcks regained his youthful jubilance, his mouth curving up in a boyish grin, blue eyes twinkling under hair still mostly blond as he confided to the others, "The Colonel and I have produced a plan."

"My goodness, Marius, what an amazing difference three weeks have made," Colonel Rheinhardt was effusive with his praise of the crusty supply officer. The Bolo sat in the center of a huge unused aerostat hangar, looking almost in scale with its surroundings.

"Your men have performed quite a miracle." Rheinhardt examined the near-gleaming hull of the once derelict Bolo. The ill-designed, hodgepodge bulldozer blade and other earth-moving attachments had been gracefully removed. Broken track pads had been replaced with gleaming new replicas. The war machine again looked able to live up to its potential. "How did you manage such miracles?"

General Marius basked in the praise. He fairly beamed at the praiser. "Well, Colonel, we applied several different methods to remove corrosion from the exterior, ultimately relying on sandblasting for the final finish. For the computer circuitry, we found an old supply of a decontaminant-"

Marius glanced expectantly at an underling who expanded, "DK-41, mein Herr."

"-which proved quite effective in clearing up the corrosion and other contaminants."

"Impressive. And now?" Colonel Rheinhardt knew well enough that General Marius' genial form hid a capable officer whose ability in supply stemmed more from getting his subordinates to "save him" than from long hours of drudgery. Marius' girth made it evident that he liked his food, and barracks gossip allowed that he did not stint on his drink or fraternizing. None of this bothered the Colonel, who was more interested in things getting done than in how they were done.

"Now, we attach our electrical cables here," Marius nodded to his underlings who moved to obey, "and here. Then I throw this lever and-" The lights dimmed. Marius frowned.

"Is that supposed to happen?"

Marius licked his lips and glanced nervously towards his underlings who shrugged their helplessness.