Old Guard Bolos Book #5

Three

Veck didn't much care one way or another anymore. He had resigned his commission. He was going somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was away from here. He knew for a fact he'd never get over the memories of what he'd done, though. His stupidity had killed his best friend. And he was going to have to live with that for the rest of his sorry life.

"Major?" General Kiel said, storming up and throwing a computer clipboard into Veck's lap. "You want to tell me just what the meaning of this is?"

A few people close by looked shocked, then turned away, trying to mind their own business.

"It's fairly clear, General," Veck said without looking up. "I'm resigning." He tried to hand the computer clipboard back to the general, but Kiel wouldn't take it.

"Oh, no you're not," Kiel said. "I'm refusing your resignation." He pushed the clipboard away.

Veck looked up into Kiel's face. "I don't think you can do that, General."

"I can do just about any damn thing I please," Kiel said. "I'm a general, remember?"

"And if I go ahead and get on the transport?" Veck asked. "Then what will you do?" He was getting angry. All he had wanted to do was slink away, drown the memories in some drinks, and try to find something to keep living for, if that was possible.

Kiel laughed. "Don't you know enough by now to not challenge a superior officer? You get on that transport and I'm going to report you AWOL. I'll send the military police after your sorry ass and you'll be spending years at hard labor."

"I don't understand," Veck said, shaking his head and staring through the window at the ruined terminal in the distance. "Why are you doing this? You want to keep me around just for personal revenge?"

"Oh, hell," Kiel said, "if I wanted to kick someone, I got lots of people higher on my list than you."

"So what is it? Why do you want me to stay? Especially after what I did?"

Kiel nodded and sat down next to Veck. "Fair question. There's no doubt in anyone's mind that you screwed up."

"Nice way of putting it," Veck said.

"And make no mistake about it," Kiel said, "there will be a hearing when this is all over, and it may not go well for you. But right now, I can't afford to lose an officer, much less a trained Bolo commander. You forget there's a war on? I need every hand."

Veck nodded, but said nothing. What could he say? He really didn't want to stay, yet at the same time he did. More than anything.

"I'm demoting you to lieutenant and placing the 1198th under my direct command," Kiel said, "But I want you and Rover back on the lines where you belong."

Veck was stunned, and suddenly filled with doubt. He didn't know if he could ever climb back in Rover after what he'd done.

"Look," Kiel said, his voice getting softer. "I know about your friendship with Lieutenant Orren. I know how you must feel."

"Do you really?" Veck asked. He couldn't imagine how anyone could understand the pain that was ripping him apart.

Kiel nodded. "Let me tell you the ugly secret about command. Sometimes you give a bad order, like you did, and people die."

Veck nodded.

Kiel went on. "Or you give no order and people die. Or you give a good order and people die. But the really ugly truth is, sometimes the best order, the order that will win the objective, is not the order where the fewest people die. In fact, it almost never is."

Veck looked at the older man. It was clear in the general's eyes that he had given far too many of the types of orders he was talking about.

"The problem with responsibility," Kiel said, "is that it simply provides a greater opportunity for your own human weakness to cause damage."

"You've made mistakes like I did?" Veck asked.

"Not like that, no," Kiel said, smiling. "But I have an entire set of my own. The problem is that our mistakes often cost lives, and we have to live with that the rest of our lives."

Veck nodded, Orren's face filling his memory, then floating away again.

"But," Kiel said, "you'll also have to live with the consequences of your successes as well."

"Haven't had too many of those yet," Veck said.

"Not true," Kiel said. "Bottom line is that your idea stopped the advance. Never mind that it won't bring one person back to life, it saved Lieutenant Amad and thousands of others. Maybe most of us, to be honest with you."

Now Veck was completely stunned. He was trying to let the general's words into his mind, but his self-pity seemed to be blocking them.

"Look, Veck," Kiel said, "this is a major setback for you, but it could also be an important lesson. Your career doesn't necessarily have to be over, unless you really want it to be."

Veck nodded, not knowing what to say.

Kiel patted him on the shoulder as he stood. "You coming? We got a war to fight, remember?"

Again all Veck could do was nod. And get to his feet to follow the general.

* * *

Then he shoved the seyzzar's legs and claws into the coals, covering them over with dirt. In about two hours they were going to taste wonderful.

He glanced around his camp. It was nothing more than a couple of starship cargo modules converted by the miners into cabins and labs, and a minehead where an electromagnetic elevator stood empty. Bessy sat nearby, staying near Jask like a loyal puppy.

In the fading light, Jask took the things he had taken from the man out of his pack. The golden Bolo pin seemed to glow, even in the dimming light. He so wanted to pin it on his chest, but he didn't.

There was also a little radio earpiece that didn't seem to work. He felt guilty for having the things, but he had had to undress the man to treat his wounds. Besides, he was just holding the things. He would return them all, if the man survived.

He had no idea if the man would or not. Jask's parents had taught him first aid almost from the moment he could walk. They had traveled from world to world, and field site to field site. They had dealt with unstable rocks, explosives, drilling lasers, dangerous local life-forms, and sometimes even more dangerous locals. They had taught him to fight, to take care of himself, and to deal with wounds. But he had never seen anyone as badly hurt as this man. At least anyone who was still alive.

While the man was still in the box Jask had managed to stop the bleeding. Then he had bandaged the wounds and administered the prescribed drugs from his dwindling stocks. Then with the man strapped on Bessy, he had brought him back here and put him in the mine shelter.

He had done everything he could to save the man. But he had already also planned where in the mine shaft he would bury the man. Just in case he needed to.

He heard a faint moaning from the shelter, so with one last check to make sure the coals weren't too bright, he headed to see what the man needed.

The guy was stirring, mumbling to himself.

Jask moved over and touched his skin. The man was very hot, his flesh pale and moist. His skin felt awful, and Jask jerked away.

The man's other things sat on top of an empty instrument case in the corner where Jask had put them. He picked up a shiny plate that had been on the man's uniform. "Orren."

"Is this your name?" he asked.

The man only moaned.

Jask moved closer and leaned over him. "Mr. Orren. Is that your name? Can you hear me?"

The man mumbled, then opened his eyes a little. He seemed to focus on Jask. "Where . . . ?"

"You're in the mountains, in a building outside a mine shaft," Jask said. "I found you and brought you here."

The man tried to move, but then just moaned again. But he didn't close his eyes.

"I bandaged you up," Jask said. "I had to take your clothes and these off of you." He held up the pin and the headset.

The man tried to reach for them, but only got a weak hold on the headset.

Jask let him have it.

The man fumbled the earpiece loosely into his ear. "Lieutenant Orren to Bolo ZGY. Come in Ziggy."

He faltered. "I need you Ziggy. Hurt bad. Need you to come."

Then the man passed out, his head lolling backwards.

Jask took the headset and stared at it. The man had tried to contact his Bolo. Through that headset.

Jask was so thrilled at the thought, he almost dropped the headset.

* * *

The signal is so weak, so distant, that it almost passes below my threshold of perception. It fluctuates from moment to moment, wavering in time with my own period of rotation, filled with static, but it comes over my coded command channel. It is likely a spurious signal source, or worse, some trick of the enemy, but I cannot ignore it. 

My receiver is fused and so I am unable to refine its reception, but I can reroute the output signal for additional processing. I boost power to the receiver as high as I dare, then route the raw output down to an auxiliary optical processor. By transferring backup code modules from my emergency core, I am able to turn it into a makeshift broadband signal processor and enhancer. 

I filter noise from the signal, enhance, amplify, filter again. The resulting output is unrecognizable. 

I dwell on the problem for 0.6931 seconds. 

A legitimate command code would contain a constantly repeating mask of code bits. If I assume these are part of the incoming data-stream, they may provide a key to extracting the rest of the signal from the noise, rather the way a reference laser was used to reconstruct some primitive holograms. The effort requires diversion of five percent of the capabilities of my hyper-heuristic processing nodes. This is of no consequence, as I have nothing else for them to do at present. 

It is a voice message on automated loop, the sort of loop that would be generated by a command headset whose voice recognition circuitry detected a distress message. 

An analysis of the transmission confirms, with a confidence of 89.9343 percent that it is my Commander's voice. The first entire word I recognize is my Commander's unofficial designation for me, "Ziggy," a further assurance that the transmission is genuine. 

But then the words that follow fill me with distress. 

"Hurt bad. Need you to come."