Old Guard Bolos Book #5
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ThreeI have detected ground vibrations at a range of sixty-two hundred meters. An infrared scan detects a squadron of eighteen Kezdai infantry attempting to infiltrate the front line. They are not moving. They have doubtless heard my approach, and are hoping to avoid detection. I slow slightly and turn away from them, to lull them into a sense of security. We are sixteen hours, thirty-two minutes, fifteen point nine seconds into our patrol, and my internal sensors reveal that Major Veck is sleeping in his command couch. I see no need to wake him. I load a cluster-bomb into my number three mortar and fire. Thanks to my noise cancellation circuitry, the shot is barely audible in the Command Compartment. I observe the round on my sensors as it arcs over, deploys its canister parachute, and begins to shed a swarm of independent bomblets, fluttering like maple seeds, each guided by its own heat-seeker. There are eighteen explosions spread over a period of four point seven seconds. I watch as the infrared signatures fade. Target terminated. The engagement has taken 37.9241 seconds. Major Veck stirs slightly in the crash couch, but does not waken. As of this moment, Major Veck has spent 82.469 percent of his time since planet-fall in my Command Compartment. While I have no direct experience with which to compare, it is my belief that this is unusual behavior, except under full combat conditions. While the current threat level is high, and the Kezdai have maintained a pattern of harassment attacks along the central front, we are not currently in a full combat situation. Logic dictates that the commander would wish that he and his human command were in a prepared, but rested condition should hostilities again escalate. The need for rest is not something with which I am directly familiar. When a Bolo is not needed it is put in a standby mode to conserve power, but this is a matter of practicality, not necessity. But my programming includes detailed information on human physiology. My Command Compartment can provide the minimal needs for human life, shelter, food, water, breathable air, and waste disposal, indefinitely, but my program leads me to believe that these provisions are truly minimal. The human machine requires rest, exercise, companionship, a myriad of physiological needs that I am at a loss to fully understand. What I am certain of is that my Commander has chosen a course of action that places him and his command at less than optimal combat readiness. While much of my attention is currently occupied with the mechanics of the patrol, as well as constantly updating threat scenarios and formulating probable responses, I am applying spare processor cycles to determining the cause of this behavior. Though Major Veck's course of action may seem contrary to logic, it is most probable that he has reasons unknown to me, or that are beyond a Bolo's understanding. But I must remain aware. There are protocols for refusing an order in extreme situations, or in lesser ones of alerting a commander's superior of a potential problem. While those protocols seem quite clear when examined in my hard memory, they become dauntingly complex when applied to real-world situations. Furthermore, I must consider one other possibility, that the reason for my Commander's behavior lies not in any fault in him, but in some deficiency in my own performance. Major Veck has called into question my hyper-heuristic capabilities and my battle assessments repeatedly, most recently, and most significantly when we came to the aid of Lieutenant Lighton. Though I have full diagnostic routines on all my systems and have discovered no malfunctions, I am troubled. In theory, any Mark XXXIV should be identical to any other when it leaves the assembly bay. But from that moment on, the personality gestalt of each Bolo is shaped by the experiences that it has, and its interaction with its commanders. Is it possible that I, in the short time of my existence, somehow evolved in an unfavorable way? This latter possibility seems inconceivable given my short operational life so far, and the fact that my experiences must have been much the same as my fellow Mark XXXIVs in the 1198th. Does Major Veck find them all deficient? Yet I have attempted to engage Major Veck directly with this question, and he denies that there is any perceived shortcoming in my performance. Logic draws me in circles. It is unreasonable to believe that my performance is defective, and yet I have insufficient cause to question my Commander's judgment. Some vague, possibly hyper-heuristic impression leads me to believe that the answers I seek are somewhere hidden in the incident where we rescued Lieutenant Lighton. Logically the Kezdai should have pressed the attack on Lieutenant Lighton's Bolo. Logically I should have been attacked when I lowered my shields in order to sprint to the battlefield. Neither of these events happened. On appearances, my Commander's assessment of the situation was correct, in utter defiance of logic. I must review this event until the facts can be reconciled. * * *
The intruder shoved Orren away, spinning him around as he went. Orren stood there, breathing hard, his heart pounding in his chest as he faced the old guy. "They teach you that move at the academy, ringknocker?" the intruder asked, smiling. Not laughing at Orren, just smiling. It was clear to Orren from the way the guy stood there, and the sound of his voice that he had only been defending himself from Orren's attack. And there was also no doubt that if Orren attacked again, the intruder wouldn't be so nice next time. "I'm Master Sergeant Blonk," the intruder said. "I assume you're Lieutenant David Orren, assigned to this monster of a fighting machine." Blonk pointed at Ziggy. Orren nodded, mostly stunned that the stranger knew his name and assignment. "You seem to be out of uniform, Sergeant." "Yup," Blonk said. "That I am. Just getting off medical leave and trying to make my way back to the fighting." Blonk pulled up his pants leg and showed Orren where his lower leg and knee had been rebuilt. The skin was still pink and the incisions clear. "Got this when my maintenance depot was attacked by a pair of Kezdai commandos," Blonk said, shaking his head at the memory. "Me and my crew fought them hand to hand. Sneaky bastards cut up three of my boys and girls and chewed up my leg with one of them `shredder' rifles before we took `em down." "So how'd you get into the cargo bay here?" Orren asked, still not completely trusting the old man. Blonk just laughed. "Son, it's a starship, full of ducts, tunnels and between-hull spaces. You can get anywhere if you know your way around. And trust me, I know my way around. I've been in space since you were in diapers." "So that answered how," Orren said. "Now why are you here?" "Bored, mostly," Blonk said. "Decided I wanted a look at the new Bolo I heard was down here, so I just came down." "Without permission?" Orren asked. Blonk shrugged. "No big deal." "Sergeant, the 1198th has their own maintenance crews trained for the Mark XXXIV," Orren said. "This Bolo is classified." Blonk laughed, the deep sound echoing through the massive cargo hold around Ziggy. "Secrets make the desk jockeys feel secure, but I'll bet you anything, son, that the Melconians already know all about the Mark XXXIV." Blonk laughed again, then went on. "And I'm sure right about now the Kezdai are finding out more than they want to know." Exasperated, Orren decided to try another approach. "Sergeant, I'm your superior officer. I order you to salute and leave this cargo hold at once." Blonk just grinned. "I'm going to do you a favor, ringknocker. I'm gonna teach you something they never teach you at the academy, which is how things work out here in the real universe." Orren just stared at the old sergeant, stunned at the insubordination. "Lesson one," Blonk said, "I don't kiss your candy ass just because you stayed awake in class long enough to get those bars of yours. You can bust my butt back to nursery school if you want, but you want a salute from me, you earn my respect." The power of the sergeant's voice made Orren nod. "Then there's lesson number two," Blonk said. "And just what might that be?" Orren asked, almost afraid of the answer. "Lesson two," Blonk said, "is simple. Buy the master sergeant a beer, and he'll tell you what lesson two is." * * *
General Kiel stood in the open door of the conter-grav command transport watching Kal plow through the jungle below at fifty kph. The warm wind whipped at him, trying to pull him into the air, but for the moment Kiel wasn't ready to go. Kal was nearing a fairly flat stretch of ground ahead. That would be the best time to do this transfer. Kiel had just been to see the planetary governor and now needed to be back in Kal on the front lines. As far as he was concerned, this was the best way to get there fast. He glanced around at one of the flight crew behind him. "Ready?" he asked over the sounds of the wind. The crewman gave him a thumbs-up signal, so Kiel turned and stepped out into the air, keeping his arms at his sides and his feet together as if he were jumping into a deep pool of water. The radar-controlled cord that was attached to the harness around his chest unreeled freely behind him as he fell toward the Bolo's hull. Twenty meters above Kal, a radar controlled brake slowed him quickly and perfectly, just enough that Kiel could land, knees bent, like a skydiver, on the top of Kal. The cord released automatically as soon as his feet touched the hull. Perfect. Beside him the hatch snapped open and he climbed quickly inside, letting Kal bang the hatch closed behind him. A few steps down and he flopped onto the Bolo's crash couch, panting. "Man, that was fun," he said. "Humans have a very strange sense of entertainment," Kal said, his voice clearly showing his disapproval. "I could have withdrawn to a safe zone so that you could have boarded in a more conventional fashion." Kiel stood and headed for his command chair. "There are only thirty-six Bolos on this planet, and open hostilities could break out at any moment. Sooner, if the planetary governor will get off his fat ass and put us back on the offensive." "But at the moment there are no hostilities," Kal said. "Beside the point," Kiel said, dropping down into his command chair. "I can't have one Bolo retreating from the combat theater just to play taxi for an old general. Even if that general is me." He could feel his heart pounding and his breath still hadn't returned to normal. He wiped the sweat off his brow and then laughed. "I guess I'm not that old, if I can still do a speed drop like that." "You are your age," Kal said. "I suppose," Kiel said. "But doing something like a speed drop keeps me young." "I don't see how," Kal said. "I have seen no sign of time reversing around you." "Sarcasm is unbecoming in a Bolo." "I have been in service to humans for over one hundred years," Kal said, "and nothing has been able to lead me to an understanding of why humans derive enjoyment from unnecessary risk." "After a while," Kiel said, "a person gets used to danger, and the thrill that goes with it. It's different for a Bolo. Danger, combat, these are just functions the Bolo was built to perform, just as it was built to guard, to serve, to protect humans." "But a Bolo does not willingly add danger into a situation." "True," Kiel said, using his shirt tail to finish wiping the sweat off his brow. "But humans get bored easily. A Bolo could stand guard duty until his tread corroded away under him, and as long as he felt like he was performing a useful duty, he would be satisfied." "Accurate statement," Kal said. "Well, we don't stand and wait well at all," Kiel said, "and to be honest with you, I'm tired of waiting right now. The Kezdai are up to something behind their lines, and as long as our forces just sit and wait, we give the enemy the advantage." "I agree," Kal said, "but the planetary governor is legitimately concerned about the civilians trapped in the southern continent." "And he has good cause to be," Kiel said. "If the governor had begun evacuations when he should have, those people would at least be safe in a refugee camp somewhere in the north." Kiel stood and paced behind his command chair. "You can't have a planetary invasion and expect business as usual. This is a war, damn it, and it's going to get a little more than `inconvenient' before it's all over." "Then I assume your meeting with the governor did not go well," Kal said. "I honestly don't know," Kiel said. "This war has more challenges behind the front lines than in front of them. I've got a planetary governor who wants to play amateur general, yet is afraid to move, a planetary militia that is loosely organized and contentious, and a green regimental commander who thinks this war is just a practice run." "And I take it," Kal said, "your request for fleet support has again been turned down." Kiel dropped into his command chair and watched on the screens as Kal covered ground quickly, always moving, always turning, never giving the enemy much of a target. "I'm afraid that when this goes down, and it will, we'll have to handle it ourselves. I just hope we're not all tripping over each other when it happens." |