J. Steven York &
Dean Wesley Smith
Section One
EVENTS IN MOTION
[exclamdown]
One
I am born.
As my personality routines integrate for the first time with the rest of my systems I recall memories mine and yet not mine, of months of assembly and testing leading up to this moment, each dutifully recorded and logged by my various subsystems, and before that, by the assembly bay computers. It is a curious sensation to recall every detail of my own creation, from the laying of my durachrome keel to the final installation of my 90 megaton Hellrails, already test-fired at the White Sands range.
I access another file and remember those tests. For that matter, I can trace the history of every plate and fastener in my being back to its place of origin. The novelty of it all distracts me for a leisurely 0.027 seconds.
But this, this is the moment of my birth. With the activation of my personality gestalt, I am more than the sum of my parts. I am Unit R-0012-ZGY of the Dinochrome Brigade, Mark XXXIV of an ancient and proud lineage.
I am Bolo.
The assembly bay fires off an extensive program of one-point-two million diagnostic pulses though the service umbilical into my systems, which takes a full five seconds to progress. I use the advantage of the interim to scan my surroundings.
The walls of the assembly bay are heavily shielded against my long-range sensors, with good reason. The details of the General Mechanics Bolo plant are not to be taken to the battlefield where they might fall into enemy hands. Instead, I scan my surroundings in more limited optical and audio wavelengths.
The assembly bay is barely large enough to contain my ninety meter length, its surgical white walls lined with retractable scaffolding and catwalks, from which a skeleton crew of hard-hat wearing technicians watches my progress with intense interest. A female technician smiles in the direction of my A turret sensors and waves. I finish the final six thousand diagnostic routines in the time it takes her fingers to transverse thirty degrees of arc. A spectral analysis reveals that her ring is made of the same endurachrome alloy as my hull plates.
Seventeen minor problems have been located and isolated by the diagnostics, none critical, all within the capabilities of my on-board repair mechanism to handle. I receive the green "go" signal and the umbilical pops away from my hull. I snap my service port closed and transverse my main and secondary turrets through their entire range.
It is good to move for the first time.
I note that a command inhibitor has been placed on my Hellrail launchers, and that they have been hidden from casual view by sixty-meter tarps lashed down tightly with break-away cord, a logical security precaution, but restricting none the less.
The Battle Anthem of the Dinochrome Brigade resounds from hidden speakers and the great door before me parts in the middle, revealing a golden shaft of sunlight.
I apply fractional power to my drive systems and advance through the doors. Spectators, wearing their blue and gold General Mechanics coveralls, line the ceramacrete runway emerging from the factory.
Ahead, the gleaming silver towers of Motor City beckon, but this is not my destination. Two hundred meters from the factory the runway makes a ninety-degree left turn and disappears into the arched vestibule of a tunnel, which my programming tells me leads directly to the spaceport.
Even as I apply power to my tracks, I receive a Situation Update over my command channels. It contains unexpected news. Rather than being sent by suborbital shuttle to White Sands for trials, as is tradition, I will take a shuttle to the freighter Cannon Beach. My new Commander will meet me there, and we will proceed together to a combat theater, not the Melconian front, but the planet Delas, where another alien incursion is in progress.
I am honored that this duty has been entrusted to me, and will strive to live up to the confidence that my creators have placed in me.
I unfurl the flag of the Concordiat banner from my sensor mast and proceed dead-slow along the runway. The runway clears my six meter outer tracks by only two meters, but the civilians standing there do not shrink from my passing. I make the turn in my own length, my prow passing within a few meters of the assembled crowd, but they show no fear. My psychometrics routines detect weariness, pride, hope, and desperation in their faces, emotions that my programming allows me to name, but not truly understand. Doubtless the long war with the Melconians has taken its toll on them. I will put on my best show for them.
I up my speed slightly, sharply finishing the turn into the spaceport tunnel. My prow swings within a few meters of the assembled crowd, the barrel of my forward Hellbore swinging over their heads. They have built me well and with great precision.
I am their hope for the future.
I am Bolo.
I will not fail them.
* * *
Lieutenant David Orren eased back from the small desk built into the wall of his room and stretched. Around him the freighter Cannon Beach was quiet It waited in orbit for its main cargo, the Bolo. His Bolo.
The thought of his own Bolo made him both excited and slightly fearful in the same moment. Would he be able to handle the Bolo? Could he do his job right? He shook off the thought, stood and stretched. At six feet tall, he could touch the cold gray of the ceiling. At night the bed was barely big enough for him and there was no closet, so his personal belongings were in his bag against the wall. Besides the bed, the only piece of furniture in the room was the small desk, built into the wall, and one chair, designed to be secured under the desk. This ship was a freighter, not a passenger ship. He had been lucky they even had an extra crew's quarters for him.
Actually, he had been both lucky and unlucky in many ways over the past month.
He straightened his uniform, then did a few quick bends. After the academy, he'd been in the best shape of his life, thin and very muscled. Now he was even thinner, and it felt like he needed to build back up his strength. He'd have time on this trip, but finding a way to exercise on a freighter was going to be hard. He'd have to be creative.
He glanced back at the letter on the desk. So far it was a short note to Major Boris Veck. Orren and Veck had been friends since childhood. Veck had been three years older than Orren, and Orren had followed him everywhere growing up. Their parents thought they were inseparable. Now his older friend Veck was going to be his commander.
Orren had signed up when he was old enough, just as Veck had done, and followed his friend to the academy and now into space. But in the three years that separated them, Veck had moved up to the rank of major, being one of the youngest in the service to ever get his command.
After graduating as a fresh cadet, Orren had been assigned a Bolo and put in Veck's regiment along with the rest of his class out of the academy. And his Bolo was a brand new, highly classified Mark XXXIV. He'd been trained completely on every detail of the new model.
But just before shipping out on the Tasmanian to Delas with the rest of his classmates to form the 1198th Armored Regiment under Veck, Orren had come down sick. The doctors were afraid his sudden sickness was what they were calling the Melconian Flu, a biological weapon that had been rumored to be spreading through human space. He was rushed into isolation and had spent weeks there.
Orren still remembered, even through the fever, that Veck had come to the viewing window of his hospital room right before shipping out. But they hadn't talked. Orren had been too sick. Veck had simply snapped off a salute, turned and left.
At that moment Orren figured he'd never see his old friend and his classmates again. He learned later that the Bolo that was assigned to him had been assigned to another cadet. And that there was little chance Orren would get a new Bolo assignment. There just weren't that many Bolos.
But then he had gotten lucky again. His disease hadn't been Melconian caused, just a very nasty case of standard influenza. And just when they were releasing him, there was a new Mark XXXIV coming off the assembly line late.
The very last one.
He was late. His Bolo was late. They matched perfectly.
They were still going to be part of the 1198th under Veck once they caught up with the regiment. The freighter Cannon Beach was going to take them there.
He glanced at the letter again. He knew Veck would know he was coming with the new Bolo. But Orren had just wanted to flash him a personal letter first. The problem was, what could he say to his commander, no matter how long they had been friends as kids? How could Orren tell him how proud he was to be a soldier, how happy he was to get a chance to serve under Veck? How glad he was to actually get a Bolo.
He glanced at his watch. The Bolo wasn't due in the cargo bay just yet. He had time to figure out what to say in the letter.
He brushed his short hair back with one hand, did a few more deep-knee bends, then sat back down at the desk. He was about to take charge of a Bolo. If he could do that, he could figure out what to say to an old friend, commander or not.
* * *
The armored contergrav staff car took the bumps of the rough road and smoothed them into almost gentle, slight hills as it sped through the trees and brush. The air conditioning and environmental units kept the temperature and humidity perfect inside for the two passengers, while a soft music played in the background.
Soft disgusted Major Veck. He was used to a much more rough, out in-the-dirt type of existence. He didn't much like some of the perks that came with command. But his companion in the staff car, Brigadier General Kiel certainly did.
The two of them were like day and night. Veck was short, muscular, with black hair and dark eyes. His reflexes were quick and he didn't much like talking. Kiel on the other hand was tall and rail thin, with silver hair and twinkling eyes. He clearly liked to laugh and told jokes often.
It had been Kiel who had asked Veck to dinner tonight. In the month the 1198th had been on Delas, tonight was the first time the two had done any more than talk about orders. Kiel had brought him all the way off the defense lines on the northern continent for this social get-together, as Kiel had called it.
Veck called it a waste of time.
Of course, Kiel didn't agree, making the invitation almost an order. But halfway through the strained conversation news had come in about Kezdai activity after a long silence. A very odd silence, but Veck figured the long silence on the enemies' part was because they were afraid of his unit.
And they should be.
But now the Kezdai were on the move again.
"Glad we finally have some action," Veck said as the staff car cleared a small hill and plunged down into the trees. Around them the night was more like a painted evening, as the sky was clear, letting the Firecracker Nebula bathe everything in a faint red light.
"Why's that, Major?" Kiel asked.
"The Kezdai show their hand, we clean them up," Veck said. "That way I can get my regiment up to the Melconian front and some real war."
As far as Veck was concerned, everyone knew who the real enemies were. The Melconians. Fighting them was the real war, not this backwater border skirmish with the Kezdai. The 1198th was needed fighting the Melconians and he was going to see that he got it there as quickly as possible. And quick didn't include social calls on his superior officers.
"Real war?" Kiel asked, turning to stare at Veck.
"Yeah," Veck said.
Kiel snorted. "I could show you a valley full of headstones, Major. Each with the name of a good solider on it. And plenty of them were friends of mine. Ask them if this war is real. Trust me, it's as real as it gets."
Veck stared at the older man in the dim light for a moment. The general was right. Fighting was fighting. His job was to go, win the fight, and move his regiment on to the next fight.
"I'm sorry, General," Veck said. "Of course, you're right. Still just not past the shock of not having my regiment sent to the Melconian front."
Kiel laughed. "I remember when I was your age. All I wanted to do was get into the action, too. Trust me, that mellows in time. Or you don't live to care."
Veck said nothing as the staff car crested another ridge and sped out into a meadow, sliding to a halt in the middle.
He was about to ask Kiel what they are doing when he felt the ground rumble, and he knew the answer. They were here to meet a Bolo.
Veck climbed out one side of the staff car as the general went out the other. The night air was humid and warm, the light of the nebula bright enough to see details in the jungle around them.
The rumbling was coming from Veck's right and he faced that way as the trees near the edge of the clearing shook. Under his feet the ground was rumbling hard now. A moment later the Bolo smashed through, not even bothered by the six foot diameter trees it mowed down like twigs.
Veck recognized the Bolo instantly as an old Mark XXX. General Kiel's Bolo, Old Kal.
"You here to take charge of it?" Veck asked as the Bolo rumbled to a stop and shut down its engines, letting the night silence again close in around them.
"Nah," General Kiel said. "Old Kal can take care of himself. So can your fancy new XXXIVs, even as green as they are. You need to trust them and they won't let you down."
Veck said nothing. He didn't trust his Bolo, or any Bolo for that matter. Humans were the ones who built them and he was going to stay in charge of them. They were just weapons and as far as Veck was concerned, a weapon needed a finger on the trigger.
General Kiel muttered something that Veck couldn't hear. It was clear that he was talking to his Bolo through his bone-conduction ear-piece. That way Veck couldn't listen in. And Veck didn't like secrets being kept from him.
"General," Veck said. "Is this about something I should be aware of?"
"Oh, sorry," General Kiel said. He moved over to the car and routed the communication from the Bolo through the car's receiver so Veck could be a part of the conversation with the Bolo.
It turned out that Kal had been the one who had brought them away from their dinner and out here to the front. The old Bolo had detected certain changes in enemy communications traffic and had observed changes in enemy deployment. The Bolo had a "hunch."
"What is it?" General Kiel had asked.
Veck had been on the verge of laughing at the idea of a Bolo having a hunch. But he didn't, since General Kiel was taking what the Bolo was saying very seriously.
The Bolo believed there was a high probability that the Kezdai were alarmed at the Mark XXXIV's anti-ship capabilities, and that those fears of the new Bolos was going to push the Kezdai into making a desperate offensive to take the rest of the southern continent.
"I have no doubt the Kezdai are worried about my Bolos," Veck said. "Shows they have some smarts."
General Kiel nodded. "If Kal's prediction is correct, we'll have a massive influx of ships into local space just before the offensive begins, both to support the offensive, and to distract the Mark XXXIVs."
"To allow the Kezdai ground forces freedom to act," Veck said. "Makes sense."
"Exactly," General Kiel said.
The general thanked Kal and sent him back on patrol, then the two climbed back into the car and headed for the forward command bunker.
"Do your Bolos have the firepower to deal with the influx of ships Kal predicts?" Kiel asked after they got under way. "And still fight a ground war at the same time? They're so damned new, I don't know much about them."
"No one does, General," Veck said. "The specs on those Hellrails are extremely classified."
"And just how do you think I should plan our defense," the General asked, his gaze boring into Veck, "when I don't know what my own weapons are capable of?"
Veck laughed. "Good point, General. When we get to forward command I'll pull all the specs up for you. But trust me, those Hellrails on the new Bolos can take anything out of low orbit. We can fight on the ground while taking care of the sky."
The general nodded and said nothing more.
But Veck had a few questions of his own. "Just how dependable are your Bolo's ideas about the coming attack?"
"As sound as they come," the general said. "Better than mine."
Veck said nothing to that. There was nothing he could say to a superior officer. As far as Veck was concerned, following a Bolo's hunch was just plain stupid. He was going to have to keep his eye on General Kiel. The old guy clearly wasn't playing with a full deck.
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