Back | Next
Contents

THE SKY IS FALLING

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.

Two

Lieutenant David Orren waited for his Bolo to arrive aboard the Cannon Beach by lying on his bunk and staring at the ceiling of the small cabin, remembering. He hadn't been able to finish the letter to his old friend, Veck, soon to be his commander. Writing him a friendly letter just didn't seem appropriate at the moment. So instead he remembered. It took his mind away from the slow minutes of waiting.

He remembered the good times with Veck. And a few of the bad. But since his Bolo was coming shortly, the story Orren kept coming back to was the time he and Veck, when he was nine and Veck was twelve, stole a Metradyne 6000 Combine.

He could still recall the incredible feeling of awe when they emerged from between the corn rows and saw the metal monster, the massive blades shining in the hot afternoon sun. The huge tires were two stories tall, and a shining ladder climbed up the side to the cab perched on the machine four stories in the air. This machine was so big, powered by a fusion engine, it could do an acre of crops in just under ten minutes and store the grain for hours at that rate.

At first they had only thought of climbing up to the cab. Orren could still remember the feeling of power that came over him as they climbed the side of the building-sized machine.

But when they were inside and Veck thought they should just start it up, Orren had gotten afraid. Not of getting caught, but of the power of the machine they were sitting inside. Veck had figured that just starting it wouldn't hurt anything.

Orren hadn't been so sure, but he'd gone along, as he usually had done. Following Veck was something he was very, very used to doing.

When the massively powerful machine had started up and rumbled across the field, he felt both wonderful and afraid. He couldn't get enough of the feeling of control that filled him. And when Veck let him drive the monster, he decided then and there he would command a Bolo someday.

But he also knew, deep inside, as they parked the machine and climbed down, that he wasn't ready to command such power as even a simple combine. He wasn't ready for the responsibility. It had been a very clear thought for such a young age, but it had stuck with him over all the years. With great power came great responsibility.

Lying on his bunk, waiting, thinking about the coming Bolo, he hoped he was ready now for such responsibility.

Luckily, in this case he was going to have help. That combine had been just a machine, run by two boys. The responsibility to not hurt something or someone, to not drive over a neighbor's house, was entirely his and Veck's. But with a Bolo there was another mind involved. Another thinking entity to keep him from screwing up. To keep the awesome power in check and make sure it was focused on the enemy, where it belonged.

That thought calmed him a little.

Orren closed his eyes and let his mind drift back to that special summer of the combine. At that point he must have dozed because the next thing he remembered, there was a knocking on his door.

"Lieutenant," the voice said. "The Bolo is here."

The Command Compartment of Kal was home to General Kiel, almost more so than any house or apartment he had ever lived in. It was small, just big enough for him to stretch out on a couch. Besides the couch, it also had a command chair with safety harnesses, and a command board with multiple screens so he could see anything going on outside the Bolo.

He had spent more time in this room since getting Kal than any other one place. It was as if he belonged inside Kal.

At the moment Kal was on patrol, doing what General Kiel called the "drunkard's walk." That was a random course to discourage orbital bombardment by Kezdai spearfall. So far, the night had been a quiet one, but Kal was certain that was about to change.

And change drastically.

Kiel leaned back in his command chair and put his hands behind his head, watching the silent jungle move past outside the Bolo. "You know, it's not often anymore we have some quiet time like this."

"This is unusual," Kal agreed. "But I have a concern that you might be safer at forward command post."

Kiel laughed. "If the Kezdai attack, there's no place on this planet I'm going to be safer than right here."

"Statistically not accurate," Kal said. "All Bolo are targets of the Kezdai."

Again Kiel laughed. "All right, I'll give you that. Let me rephrase my answer. I feel safer here. Besides, there's no better place for me to observe the coming battle and direct troops."

"Accurate," Kal said simply.

"You think I'm intruding here?" Kiel asked the Bolo. "Afraid I'm going to second-guess some of your decisions?"

"I have no such fears," Kal said. "I was only concerned for your safety, as is my duty. If you must know, I actually enjoy having you in the command chair."

"Thank you," Kiel said, relaxing even more as Kal plowed through the jungle. Outside the terrain looked rough and uneven. Inside, thanks to the anti-grav around the Command Compartment, the ride was as smooth as a flat road.

"So what do you think of the new Mark XXXIVs?" Kiel asked.

"I am not fully briefed on their exact specifications," Kal said. "But they appear to be quite capable."

"And their firepower?" Kiel asked. "You know anything about that?"

"Formidable," Kal said simply.

Kiel knew, from his briefing with Veck, what the specs were on the XXXIV's Hellrails, but he wanted to know what Kal knew. "Give me your best guess on what the Hellrails can do?"

"My limited understanding," Kal said, "puts the firepower of the Hellrails at 90 megatons per second, and a firing rate of one to one-point-two minutes per rail, depending on the thermal coupling from the plasma, the cooling mix used, and the exact efficiency of the cooling system."

"Impressive," Kiel said. He was surprised that even though Kal had never seen a Hellrail fired, Kal had hit the specs that Major Veck had shown him earlier exactly.

"What did you base your answer on?" Kiel asked.

"On the thermal imaging of the weapon and the configuration and dimensions of the external casing," Kal said.

"Okay, I'm impressed," Kiel said. "From my short briefing on the weapons, you hit it on the money."

"Good." Kal said.

"Maybe there's something I didn't get in my short briefing from Major Veck that you might help me with."

"I will attempt to do so," Kal said. "But again, I do not have accurate information from a direct download."

"Oh, I understand that," Kal said. "Just give me your impressions of the new Bolos."

"The Mark XXXIV's direct neural interface provides a unique ability for them to meld closely with their commanders in combat."

Kiel snorted. "That interface idea has fallen in and out of favor among command so many times since the XXXII, I can't count the number of changes."

"Accurate," Kal said.

"Current academy teaching," Kiel went on, "is on the fence when it comes to the interface, leaving decisions as to its use up to individual commanders. Would you have wanted me to use the interface had it been available?"

"There is much to be said about the combination of Bolo capabilities with human ferocity," Kal said. "Arguably, a mix of the two would create the ultimate fighting machine."

"That wasn't my question," Kiel said. "Answer my question."

"I must admit," Kal said, "that becoming closer to one's commander is appealing. However—"

"Here comes the truth," Kiel said, laughing.

"—I prefer precision to savagery in most combat operations. I would welcome a melding of the minds in certain times and places, but not every time. And not every place."

"Because why?" Kal asked.

"As I said, I would welcome the opportunity to meld with a commander such as you," Kal said. "But my observation of humans has led me to believe that such a meld might not be universally desirable."

"But that's not all, is it?" Kiel asked. "What is your personal reason for not wanting such a meld?"

"I have stated it," Kal said. "While humans have many desirable and superior characteristics, consistent quality control is not one of them."

"Too true," Kiel said, laughing. "Far, far too true."

Major Veck sat in his command chair inside his Bolo, studying the screens in front of him. As before, nothing seemed to be happening. His Bolo, a.k.a. RVR, a.k.a. "Rover," was running a standard patrol pattern. Otherwise there was no activity at all on this front. And no matter what General Kiel's Bolo had said, Veck doubted there would be much. The Kezdai were just too afraid of the XXXIVs to attack.

That meant command was going to have to get off its butt and order the XXXIVs to do the attacking, instead of waiting. Then they could get off this jungle planet and on to the important battle against the Melconians.

"Lieutenant Lighton is taking fire from a small contingent of Toro tanks," Rover reported.

At the same time on the main screen in front of Veck the location of the attack on a grid map was shown.

"What's your status, Lighton?" Veck asked over the secure com channel.

Lighton's voice came back clearly. "We knocked out two of the Toros. We've sustained slight damage to our forward armor."

Veck could see on his screen that another group of alien Toro tanks was approaching Lighton's position. But there was no sign of an incoming fleet or any other action across the rest of the front.

So why were the Kezdai tossing Toro tanks at Bolos? Without backing them up with other action. That made no sense to Veck at all. But very little about this stupid side-trip of a war did.

"Time to reach Lieutenant Lighton's position?" Veck asked Rover.

"Ten minutes, six seconds," Rover said.

"Too long," Veck said. "Take us to counter-gravity sprint mode. I want to be in position in less than one minute."

"That will require that I lower my screens," Rover said.

"I understand how this works," Veck said.

"My hyper-heuristic programming indicates a high statistical probability that we will encounter heavy enemy fire while our screens are down."

"You and your damned statistics," Veck swore. "Just get moving and follow my orders. Now!"

He was so fed up with this mumbo jumbo of Bolos' predicting the future. These Bolos were weapons and nothing more. They followed his orders or else.

Rover said nothing in response. The panel in front of Veck showed their screens dropping. An instant later the Bolo lifted from the ground and shot off. Veck couldn't feel the speed inside the command center, but he could certainly see it as the jungle flashed past them.

A few small shells burst against the side armor, but in the thirty-seven seconds it took Rover to get them into position facing the flank of the Toro tanks, they sustained no damage.

The panel indicated that their screens were back up.

Some of the Toros turned to engage Veck. As they did, they exposed themselves to Lighton and he picked them off like flies off flypaper.

The explosion of Kezdai tanks filled the screens with dust and smoke as Rover quickly dispatched the remaining Toros.

"Nice job, Lighton," Veck said as Lighton's young face came up on the screen.

It felt good to Veck to finally be in a battle. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears, and his breath was quick.

"Thanks, Major," Lighton said, frowning as he studied a screen off to the side of the communication camera. "But didn't that seem just a little too easy?"

"It was easy," Veck said. "Nothing can stand up against us."

"If they had pressed on," Lighton said, the frown filling his face, "instead of turning and exposing themselves, we might have taken some damage. And they had no orbital support at all."

"Probably meant to be that way," Veck said.

"How's that?" Lighton asked.

"More than likely they are completely scared of these XXXIVs. This little thrust was probably nothing more than an attempt to gather intelligence about them."

"Makes sense," Lighton said.

"My guess is they are going to be withdrawing, and just wanted to take as much information with them as they could."

"If they're smart, they'll leave the planet entirely," Lighton said.

Veck laughed. "Got that right. But who said they were smart?"

Lieutenant Orren stood in the hatch of the cargo bay of the freighter Cannon Beach staring up at the wonderful lines and shapes of his new Bolo. The massive machine entirely filled the cavernous hold, and he knew every inch of it, every detail, every spec. Yet he stood there as if seeing it for the very first time, staring at it like he was a kid again, staring at it just as he had done at the combine all those years ago. He admired the Bolo's plating, its massive treads, and the Hellrails along its sides.

The entire machine was a thing of beauty to him.

Finally, he stepped forward into the cargo bay and stopped. "Bolo ZGY, I am Lieutenant David Orren. I am here to officially take command."

Orren knew the Bolo was running a diagnostic check of him, making one hundred percent sure he was who he said he was with a complete range of tests. If an imposter had uttered those words, the Bolo would have killed him.

With a snap, the personnel hatch in the side of the Bolo opened. "Welcome Lieutenant David Orren," the Bolo said.

Remaining formal, Orren said, "Thank you."

He quickly stepped forward and climbed up through the personnel hatch and into the command compartment. It was decorated the same as the Bolo he'd trained in. A couch against one wall, the other wall filled with a massive command center of screens and panels that formed a U-shape around one single padded, high-backed chair. His command chair.

Reverently he sat down in the chair and let out a deep breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He was home.

"Well, Bolo ZGY, do you have a preference for a name?"

"I have none, Lieutenant Orren," the Bolo said, its voice calm and flat and in a way soothing.

"Then how about I call you Ziggy?" Orren asked. "And you can call me Orren."

"That would be perfect, Orren," Ziggy said.

Orren let himself slowly look around the command area, taking in every detail. Then he turned back to the main board. The screens were black and all weapons showed off-line, as they should in a cargo bay of a freighter in space.

"Well, Ziggy," Orren asked, "do you feel you're ready for combat?"

"Despite my lack of field trials," Ziggy said, "I feel confident of my ability to function up to expectations."

"Good," Orren said.

"No Mark XXXIV has ever shown a major malfunction or defect during field trials," Ziggy said. "I doubt very much that I would have been the first. While a wise precaution, the trials are largely a formality, a chance for Bolo and commander to become familiar with one another."

"Well then," Orren said, "we're just going to have to fast-track the familiarity part right here. I'll spend as much time as I can with you before our arrival at Delas, and I'll wear my command headset whenever I'm in another area of the ship. How does that sound to you?"

"That should suffice admirably," Ziggy said.

"Are you disappointed we're going to Delas instead of the Melconian front?" Orren asked.

"It is an honor to serve," Ziggy said. "I will perform to the best of my abilities no matter where I am sent."

"Standard answer," Orren laughed. "But how do you really feel about it?"

"I am confident," Ziggy said, "that we will eventually see combat in both theaters of war."

"Assuming we survive Delas," Orren said.

"I always assume survival," Ziggy said. "After all, it's impossible for me to carry out contingency plans in the event of my own destruction."

"True," Orren said, again laughing. "Being dead does stop such plans I suppose."

"I know there can be no higher purpose for a Bolo than to end its existence fighting in the cause of humanity," Ziggy said. "But it is certainly not something I will plan for."

"Good to know," Orren said. "But you don't mind if I worry about my death just a little, do you?"

"You are free to worry about what you would like to worry about," Ziggy said. "Are you afraid of death?"

Orren shook his head. "No, I'm not afraid of death. I'm more afraid of dying stupid."

"I'm not sure I completely grasp the meaning of `dying stupid'?"

"If I have to die," Orren said, "I want it to mean something. That's all."

"Excuse me, Orren," Ziggy said, "my external sensors are on standby mode, but I have indications that there is an unauthorized intruder in the cargo hold."

"Power up," Orren said. "And give me a location and indication of who it is."

Orren watched as the screens in front of him sprang to life, showing different views of the cargo bay around them. His worry was Melconian spies. They would love to get information about the Hellrails on the side of Ziggy. And since he and Ziggy were alone here, separated from the other XXXIVs, Ziggy would be the most logical place to find such information.

"Sure wish we could power up some of the anti-personal batteries," Orren said.

"We are on a starship, under speed," Ziggy said. "Use of any of my weapons is prohibited by protocol, and would likely breach the hull and even destroy the ship."

"I know that," Orren said. "I was just wishing. Even the magazines for my sidearm were taken when I came on board."

On the screen the intruder appeared as a shadow along the edge of the far side of the cargo bay.

Orren glanced around the command compartment, then opened a few storage areas. "One hundred and ninety megatons of firepower, and what I really need is a bayonet."

He finally located the handle for the emergency manual hatch mechanism. It was the right size to make a suitable club in his hand.

"Open the hatch quietly," Orren said, slipping on his command headset.

Orren, as quietly as he could move, went out and down to the deck, staying close to the Bolo's tracks as he headed toward the entrance to the cargo bay. The lights overhead were turned low to save energy, with the only focus being on the Bolo. That left many deep, dark shadows along the walls.

"Go ahead ten of your paces and then to your right," Ziggy said through his headset.

Orren did as Ziggy told him, letting the Bolo, with its many sensors, be his eyes and ears.

"The intruder is a human in civilian clothing," Ziggy said. "Move along the cargo bay wall twenty more paces."

Again without saying a word Orren did as he was told, moving silently in the darkness of the shadows.

It took him a few, heart-pounding moments to get to the place Ziggy had directed. But he couldn't see anyone.

"Where is he?" Orren whispered into the headset.

"Behind you," Ziggy said.

Orren turned to come face-to-face with a burly older man stepping out of the shadows at him.

For an instant Orren thought his heart would stop. He reacted as he was trained, striking out hard and fast with the handle.

"Whoa, there," the intruder said, stepping quickly out of the way of the blow.

The intruder grabbed Orren's arm before he had even finished his swing. Then with a quick twist, he spun Orren around, forcing Orren to let go of the handle. It clattered across the deck, the sound echoing through the cargo bay.

The next thing Orren realized, the intruder had him in a light choke hold.

"Careful with that," the intruder said calmly, close to Orren's ear. "Can't an old soldier get a look at your shiny, new Bolo?"

Three

I 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."

Four

Time on board the Cannon Beach seemed to drag more and more for Orren as each hour, each day went by. They had joined up with a number of other ships headed for Delas and were getting closer, but as far as Orren was concerned, it felt as if they were never going to get there. He was like a kid on a long trip, wanting to ask the Cannon Beach captain if they were there yet. Somehow during each meal with the captain, Orren managed to restrain himself. But only barely.

During the time waiting, he had continued to wear his command headset, talking and working with Ziggy so that the two of them were completely familiar with each other. And he spent most of each day in the command compartment of Ziggy.

After the first day Ziggy had almost felt like a friend. And by the second day Orren was convinced the Bolo was going to turn out to be his best friend. The two just got along on many different levels.

Orren had also made another friend. Master Sergeant Blonk. The man was rough, foul-mouthed at times, and cynical. But Orren could tell that under that surface there lived a giant heart of gold and a man who really cared about other men.

Orren had bought the sergeant the promised drink after their run-in near Ziggy. That first drink had then turned into a few more. Each day the two met at the ship's small recreation room and sat, drank, and talked. Most days, Orren got Blonk to tell him war stories, about what it was like, as Blonk put it, in the "real world."

With just one day left before reaching Delas, Orren decided to ask the old sergeant another question about his past. "You ever get any medals?"

Around them the small recreation room was empty. Blonk was stretched out on the couch, his feet on a small coffee table, his drink resting on his flat stomach.

Orren was across from him, his feet also up on the small table, his drink cooling his head. His command headset was pushed back and hung around his neck.

"You know," Blonk said, seeming to ignore Orren's question, "what the real difference between a Bolo and a man is?"

"Well, I can think of a few million real differences," Orren said, "but why don't you tell me what the difference is."

"A Bolo is wired for heroism, and humans aren't."

"I'll buy that," Orren said. "That's their job."

"Exactly," Blonk said, pointing a finger at Orren. "But for humans, there are only two kinds of heroes: Dead ones, and the kind that got a medal for basically saving their own ass. And I don't consider the second type real heroes."

"Well, you're not dead," Orren said, "so have you saved your ass at some point in the past?"

Blonk laughed. "More times than I care to think about. I got plenty of scars, plenty of stories, and a box full of medals and ribbons to go with them."

"So you're a hero by other people's definitions" Orren said, "Just like a Bolo. Hardwired in."

"Not even close," Blonk said. "Not by a long stretch. Fighting for your life doesn't make you a hero, son. It just makes you smart is all."

"So what does make you a hero?" Orren asked. "Trying to protect your buddies?"

"Nah," Blonk said, sipping his drink.

"How about doing what you're told?" Orren asked. "Following orders? Doesn't that make you a hero?

"Son, that's all I've ever done," Blonk said, "and I tell you I ain't no hero. Take my advice and just stay alive. There are plenty enough dead heroes to go around."

Orren laughed. "I'm planning on staying alive for as long as I can. Help win this war."

The old sergeant snorted and took a long gulp from his drink. "You just go out there and do the best you can do. Think about the big picture too much, you go crazy. That's the general's job. You worry about it when you get those stars, if you ever do, and not a minute sooner."

"And until then I worry about staying alive. Right?"

The sergeant raised his glass in a toast motion and smiled at Orren. "You learn quick, kid. Now just don't forget."

"You did what?" Major Veck shouted at the command center of his Bolo. He was shouting at Rover and he knew it. And at the moment he didn't care. The damn hunk of machinery needed to be shouted at.

"As I stated before," Rover said, "at fourteen-twenty-three hours, six point two five seconds I detected an anomalous ground vibration not consistent with indigenous life-forms. I then . . ."

"Stop!" Veck shouted, cutting the Bolo off. "I'll tell you want you did. You engaged the enemy and let your commander sleep through it!"

"It was a routine encounter," Rover said.

"There are no routine encounters with the enemy!" Veck said. "How can anything be routine when it comes to a fight?"

"The small party of Kezdai infantry posed no threat to our systems, or any Bolo in any fashion. It was easily eliminated. The situation did not seem to warrant waking you, Commander."

"I will be the one to determine the threat level of a situation," Veck shouted. "Not you."

The Bolo said nothing, so Veck went on with his rage.

"From now on, you aren't to so much as open a gun-port without alerting me first. Is that clearly understood?"

"Yes."

The Bolo said nothing more, so Veck said nothing more. He just sat there at his command chair inside Rover and stared at the screens.

Orren and Blonk had climbed up on Ziggy's flank where they could get a clear view through one of the cargo bay ports as the convoy dropped into regular space just inside the Delas system. Orren could see the other convoy ships around and ahead of them. For the last few minutes they'd been sitting there talking, with Ziggy adding a line or two every so often from the external speakers.

"Well, this is it," Blonk said, staring through the port at the blackness of space.

"What is it?" Orren asked.

"If there's going to be trouble," Blonk said, "we're going to have it on approach."

"Because we don't have fleet support?" Orren asked.

"Exactly," Blonk said. "We're sitting ducks out here."

"My understanding of the situation is that the Kezdai have had no interest in running a blockade of the planet," Ziggy said. "And have not attacked civilian vessels."

"Good to know," Blonk said to Ziggy. "As long as they don't know you're on board this freighter."

"Let's just hope they don't," Orren said. "Besides, once we get close to planetary orbit we'll be protected by the Mark XXXIVs."

"Umm, Orren," Ziggy said. "I don't think you should have said that."

Blonk was laughing so hard, he almost fell off Ziggy.

Orren had no clue just what Ziggy was talking about, or why Blonk was laughing so hard.

"Ziggy, what did I say?"

"I would rather not repeat it, Orren," Ziggy said.

Finally Blonk calmed his laughing enough to explain. "You just let slip the specific range and capabilities of your Hellrails. You know the old saying about loose lips sinking ships, don't you?"

Orren could feel his face turn red as Blonk went back to laughing.

"Ziggy, just pretend you didn't hear me say that," Orren said. "All right?"

"As you wish," Ziggy said.

"And as for you?" Orren said, turning to the laughing old sergeant.

"Mum's the word from me, kid," Blonk said. "Unless of course they torture me. Then there are no guarantees."

"Great, just great," Orren said.

Blonk patted him on the back. "What do you say we go back and pack our gear. We have a few hours at least until orbital insertion. We can be back here by that point."

"What happens then?" Orren asked.

Blonk patted Orren on the back. "That's when things really are going to get interesting."

"Been through it before, huh?" Orren asked.

Blonk nodded, all the laughter gone from his face. "More times than I care to think about."

Increasingly I find my processors bogged down in recursive thinking. I have repeatedly reviewed all my actions since arriving on Delas and can find no serious flaw in my logic, judgment or execution of command protocol. Yet the paradox presented by these actions and Major Veck's reactions to them require me to review them yet again. 

The repeated examination of this material increasingly hampers my efficiency and is causing me distress, yet I must have answers. I have become aware of an emotion which should not be known to a Bolo: doubt. 

For the past ten-point-oh-seven seconds I have been considering the direct neural interface with which I am equipped. Application of this interface in the field is left up to individual commanders, and Major Veck has never availed himself with the use of mine. I wonder if use of the interface could clarify my understanding of his actions, and relieve my dilemma? I am not sure, but the idea has certain appeal. 

Yet the idea also causes me concern. Several of my caution routines show distress when analyzing the possibility, as though sharing of Major's Veck's thoughts and emotions might somehow be harmful to me. In any case, it is not my decision. The interface can only be initiated by the human commander, and in such a case, I would be powerless to resist it. I must put my faith in my Commander, my regiment, and the designers and programmers who made me. 

My internal sensors show Major Veck studying a strategic display of the southern continent on which a combat simulation is currently running. I note that while each of these has explored a different scenario, none have represented the Kezdai offensive that I increasingly see as the most likely occurrence. 

Major Veck has not asked my opinion on this matter, and given his past responses to initiative on my part, I have not volunteered it. But the locations of our Bolos have been manipulated in subtle ways, perhaps to concentrate us for an attack, perhaps to distract us from various locations for some purpose. Though I have not mentioned this theory to Major Veck, I have quietly put all my passive sensors on a high state of alert. The diversion of power is minimal, and does not require command authorization. 

An autonomous attention circuit monitoring my long-range sensors crosses an attention threshold. 

I shift my concentration to the sensor inputs. 

A disturbance in the subspace flux is consistent with a number of large ships entering the system. I send a challenge pulse through my main transmitter. There is a 5.00213 second delay before receiving a coded reply. The ships are Concordiat registered freighters and light escort ships, not a threat. 

I am about to return my attention to other matters when there is a second subspace disturbance. . . . 

"Incoming enemy ships," Rover said. "More than can be easily tracked."

"You're kidding?" Veck said.

"I do not kid," Rover said.

Suddenly all hell broke loose. Veck's command board lit up with enemy forces seeming to all move at once. He could see on his screen all the ships appearing in the system above the planet. All the other Bolos in his unit were now also calling in attacks by Kezdai forces.

"Taking evasive action," Rover announced to Veck as the screens lit up with spearfall bombardment. "Suggest we initiate Hellrail firing sequence."

"Do it," Veck shouted.

On his screens Veck could see that all his units were being forced into defensive positions almost instantly. The skies were filling up with Kezdai ships, too many to shoot and defend against at the same time.

The first Hellrail shot rocked Rover as it headed for an enemy ship.

"Reports coming in that the local forces are taking heavy casualties and falling back," Rover said.

Veck could see that one of his Bolos, SVA "Shiva," commanded by Lieutenant Amad, was moving in beside the retreating force.

"Give them cover, Amad," Veck relayed to him.

"Doing my best, sir," Amad's voice came back strong.

There was almost more going on than Veck could take in at once. They were getting hit and hit hard. It was exactly as General Kiel's Bolo had predicted. Only worse.

Much, much worse. The Kezdai were throwing everything they had into this one assault.

Then, just when Veck thought nothing else could go wrong, it did. "We have just lost contact with Shiva," Rover said.

"Then establish contact again."

"I have been trying," Rover said. "Even on back-up channels. They may be damaged. Seriously damaged."

"Understood," Veck said as another Hellrail shot streaked skyward toward another enemy ship.

Veck stared at Shiva's position on the screen and the rapidly advancing enemy troops. That Bolo was going to be behind enemy lines if they didn't do something quickly.

The problem was, they were doing everything they could just to stay alive, let alone pull off a rescue.

Five

"What a mess!" General Kiel said, staring at the big electronic maps that filled the walls of the forward command post. Those walls marked the locations planet-wide of every Bolo, every DFF battalion, every tank, every enemy Toro, every enemy battalion, every enemy ship in orbit. At the moment those boards were very, very cluttered and becoming chaotic as they showed a rapidly deteriorating situation worldwide. One that Kiel couldn't even have imagined a few hours ago when Kal dropped him off here.

Kal had predicted part of this, but not this heavy an attack, or this widespread.

"Where's General Rokoyan of the DFF?" Kiel asked of one of the techs sitting at stations in front of the big board. Kiel and Rokoyan had never seen eye-to-eye, and if Kiel could have taken him out of the loop long ago, he would have.

"Safe and sound at the local command post in Blackridge," the tech said. "He is the one who has given the order to all DFF forces to pull back."

"Sitting there safe, like a giant spider in the center of his web," Kiel said, disgusted.

On the board it was clear that the DFF planetary defense lines had been completely broken by the enemy. The local forces were pulling back en masse. The problem was that there wasn't a great deal of ground left to pull back to.

Kiel studied the map as more information appeared.

The 1198th Bolos were occupied with a full frontal assault. They were taking out Kezdai ships as quickly as their Hellrails could fire, but it didn't seem to be making a dent in the attack at all. Between dodging spearfall, trying to avoid the mines the Kezdai had planted, and taking ground fire from all sides, those Bolos were lucky to be able to even defend themselves.

Kiel figured this was certainly going to test those rookies, that was for sure. He just hoped they survived to use the knowledge they were learning now.

Kiel studied the board even harder as new information appeared. His Mark XXXs were attempting to shore up the lines and cover the retreat, but from the looks of it, they were having only minor success.

One tech glanced over his shoulder. "General, Planetary Governor Traine is calling. He insists on talking to you."

"That's exactly what I don't need now," Kiel said. "Put him on this screen here." Kiel pointed to a small screen in front of him as he stepped forward.

"What is it, Governor?" Kiel asked.

"Look, it appears you've been right all along," Traine said, clearly shaken. "What can I do to help now?"

Kiel nodded. At least the man knew when to change course. With his planet quickly being taken over, there wasn't time to wait and see about anything.

"Governor," Kiel said, "get the civilian population moving north as rapidly as possible, no matter the cost. We'll try to keep them protected as long as we can."

"Done," the governor said.

"Also," Kiel said, "If you have any influence with General Rokoyan, get ready to use it. We're going to have to take a stand somewhere, and I'm going to need Rokoyan's full support to do it."

"Rokoyan will do as I tell him," Governor Traine said coldly. "Rest assured of that. And I will do as you ask."

"Good," Kiel said. "That will help."

"One question, General," Traine said. "How bad is this? Really?"

"Put it this way," Kiel said, "If you can find any way to get your family off this planet, you should say your good-byes and do it."

"Understood," the governor said, nodding, and cut the connection.

Kiel stared at the situation on the board. From the looks of it, he hadn't told the governor the complete truth.

It was actually worse. Much worse.

The command compartment around Major Veck felt like an oven. The boards in front of him showed chaos. All his Bolos were under attack, both from space and from Kezdai Toros on the ground. Rover had just reported that every Bolo had sustained some damage.

"It's as if we're being nibbled to death by minnows," Veck said. "We've got to stop this somehow.

"Rover," Veck said, "are you still trying to contact Shiva?"

"I am," Rover said. "Without success."

"Damn," Veck said. With Shiva gone his force was reduced ten percent.

"There is another Bolo coming," Rover said. "The convoy carrying Lieutenant Orren and his new Bolo has arrived in the system."

Veck flashed on the image of his old friend. Too bad he wasn't there right now. "If Orren had arrived yesterday, it would have made all the difference," Veck said to Rover. "By the time he gets on the ground and deployed, this battle will be as good as won or lost."

Rover said nothing.

Veck went back to trying to make sense out of the enemy movements, trying to spot a weakness. Anything that would help them.

Suddenly Rover broke into his thoughts. "I have established contact with Shiva."

"Is Lieutenant Amad alive?"

"Yes," Rover said. "Shiva hit a mine and is heavily damaged. Several track systems are out and speed is down to a max of 14kph. Hellrails are now fully engaged in creating airbursts to defend against spearfall."

"Can you put me through to Amad?" Veck asked.

"No," Rover said. "The Bolo's communication system is almost totally destroyed."

"But she can still fight?" Veck asked.

"She can," Rover said. "However, at that speed, the Bolo will fall farther and farther behind the enemy lines."

"Tell Amad that we'll find a way to extract him."

"Understood," Rover said.

Veck turned went back to studying the mess going on around them. He had no idea how he might do what he just promised. But if there was a way, he would do it.

Orren glanced over at the old sergeant as the general quarters alarm sounded, echoing through the freighter like a death knell.

"Damn," Blonk said, dashing off with Orren right behind him.

It took them only a moment to get to the control room, where they stopped at the door and said nothing. There was no way either of them wanted to bother the three crewmen who were working intently at their stations.

It became clear to Orren, very quickly, what was happening and why the alarm. A massive Kezdai fleet had appeared over Delas and there was a full-scale attack going on. So far, none of the enemy ships seemed to be heading for the convoy. All the attention seemed to be directed at the ground.

Behind them a voice said, "That's a general quarters alarm, gentlemen. You both know what that means."

Orren and Blonk both turned around to see the ship's second in command coming at them. He was a middle-aged man named Jake who had very little sense of humor, even in quiet times.

"I expect you to follow regulations," he said as he went past them into the control room.

Blonk took Orren's arm and turned him around. At a fast walk, with the alarms blaring, they headed for their quarters. That was where they were supposed to have gone when the alarm sounded. The quarters were the safest area on the ship, and close to all the escape pods. But Orren was glad they hadn't gone there first. He couldn't imagine sitting in that small space, waiting, not knowing what was happening as the alarm blared and blared. That would have driven him crazy.

Of course, knowing that they were headed into a major battle wasn't going to help his nerves, either, but at least he knew.

"Maybe I should head down and be inside Ziggy," Orren said as they reached their quarters. "We're going to be heading into battle soon and we need to get ready."

Blonk laughed over the blaring alarm. "Trust me, that Bolo is more than ready to fight. Your job is staying alive so you can help it."

The old sergeant shoved Orren into his room. "I'll see you when the alarm stops."

Like tucking a child into bed, Blonk pulled the door closed behind him.

Kiel did nothing more than nod at the news that Shiva and her commander were still alive and fighting. It would have been good news, if it meant a damned thing strategically. But Shiva was falling behind the retreat and quickly becoming a liability, not an asset. It was only a matter of time before the Kezdai get lucky and picked the Bolo off with spearfall or a mine.

And with everything else going on, there was nothing they could do at the moment to help the Bolo either.

"General," one of the board techs said, turning around slightly. "Major Veck is calling for you."

"Put him on audio only."

A moment later the tech nodded.

"Go ahead, Major," Kiel said as he studied the board, trying to make some sense out of what was going on.

"I've got a plan, General," Veck said, "to push a drive back to Shiva's position and extract Lieutenant Amad."

"What about the Bolo?" Kiel asked.

"The Bolo's going to have to fight its way out," Veck said.

"Let me hear the plan."

"Rover and four of my other Mark XXXIVs will make a lateral move toward Shiva in order to provide air cover."

Kiel studied the board. That part of the plan would work. Four of the Mark XXXIVs were in a position to do a move like that.

"Go on," he said.

"Since my Bolos are going to be occupied by the bombardment," Veck said, "I need your Mark XXXs to fight their way in and pick up Amad."

Kiel glanced at the positions of the Mark XXXs. Possible.

"What exactly is Shiva's position now?"

"A half klick north of the remains of the city of Starveil," Veck said. "At the edge of the savannah. Once Shiva is into the rough country it will be slowed to a near stop. I figure it's Starveil or not at all."

"Good idea," Kiel said, "but it won't work. The Kezdai will just mass their space bombardment, and the Mark XXXIVs will be no help to the Mark XXXs at all."

"True," Veck said. "So first we need to blow a hole in the space attack, allowing the Mark XXXIVs to turn their attention to ground targets, if only briefly. That should be enough to break the Kezdai push for a while and let us get Amad out."

"I don't understand how you plan to take out the space bombardment," Kiel said. "We don't have fleet support."

"But we do have the Tasmanian."

Kiel stopped. Veck was right. The Tasmanian was the transport that had brought Veck and his Bolos here. It wasn't a capitol ship, but it was armed and armored. And at the moment standing off-planet, out of the way because there just wasn't anything it could do to help without destroying itself.

"Your plan for it, Major?" Kiel asked.

"Skip it through the atmosphere right under the Kezdai fleet," Veck said. "It will catch them by surprise, and the ionization during the atmosphere pass will help protect it when it's in its most vulnerable part of the pass. And it will allow my Bolos to do the damage they need to do on the ground in the meantime."

"The plan would work," Kiel said. And it would. It was a brilliant idea. But just wrongly focused and with the wrong objective.

"Thank you," Veck said.

"But I'm not going authorize it to extract one man. And I'm not going to leave a Bolo behind for the enemy to capture or destroy at will."

"I don't understand," Veck said. Kiel could clearly hear the puzzlement in the major's voice.

"We use your plan all right," Kiel said. "But we don't go for a rescue, we use it to stand our ground. Starveil is where the Kezdai offensive stops. We'll throw every resource we have at that point, with your plan as the lynchpin, Major. Stand by."

He cut off Veck and got the tech to connect him to the governor. "We're going to make our stand at Starveil," Kiel said. "Have your troops and all of General Rokoyan's men dig in at the edge of the savannah and stand their ground to the last man."

"Understood," the governor said and cut the connection.

Kiel stared at the map for a moment, studying the area around Starveil, then put on his command headset. "Kal are you there?"

"I am, as always," Kal said.

"I have a job for you to do and I want you on point, old friend."

For the next few minutes the two of them worked out the details of what was to happen, with Kal running computer scenarios of possible outcomes. As they worked the plan changed slightly. But only slightly.

Finally, Kiel had Kal call Lieutenant Amad through his Bolo Shiva. "Pass this message on to the lieutenant," Kiel said. "Tell him to seek a defensible position in the ruins of Starveil and hold for reinforcements."

"He has been told," Kal said. "He and his Bolo both understand."

"Good," Kiel said. "Tell them that for this operation, they are to be designated as `Firebase Shiva.' Tell them to hold on, help is on the way."

Six

"He took my plan and is using it as his own," Veck said aloud, staring at the command screens in front of him. The old man had nerve, that was for sure. "Damn him!"

"May I be of help?" Rover asked.

"No, just do your job," Veck said.

At the moment Rover was in a pitched battle with two Toro tanks, while at the same time firing his Hellrails at the ships above and moving to avoid spearfall. Inside the Command Compartment, Veck could feel very little of the battle going on around him.

Veck sat back and thought about what had just happened with the general. The old guy had simply turned down his plan to rescue Amad, then stolen his idea on stopping the Kezdai advance. And what was even more upsetting was that Kiel was putting the Tasmanian at risk. Of course, Veck was willing to do that himself, but the transport was the pride of the regiment, and it wasn't Kiel's to risk.

"All right, General," Veck said to himself, "I'll cooperate, since it's my plan. But when this is all over and it works, I'm going to make damned sure that credit is given where credit is due."

Veck turned to the board and got quick updates from his Bolos. All were nearly in position for the shove to Shiva's position. The Tasmanian was also in position and standing by. The entire operation had to be timed to the Tasmanian's pass through the atmosphere. Veck just hoped the general understood that fact completely.

"Commander," Rover said, "the convoy carrying the additional Bolo is located—"

"I don't care where it's located," Veck said, taking some of his anger out on Rover. "That Bolo won't arrive in time to be a factor and that's that. Understand?"

Rover said nothing in return.

The decision is made. I must face the unpleasant reality that Major Veck may be unfit to command. This is no longer a case of judgment or differing information sets. Major Veck has twice ignored simple matters of indisputable fact concerning the incoming convoy. My plots show that the convoy will be behind the line of fire when the Tasmanian makes its attack pass. Fortunately, their distance and position will be such that an actual hit by friendly fire will be unlikely. Still, I cannot allow this situation to go unaddressed. 

To judge my Commander's competency is not something that I, or any Bolo, can do, but the situation seems clear enough that I must appeal to a higher authority. I have filed a form 10354/87-3A with General Kiel's office requesting a command review and decision. Until such time as I receive an official response, this empowers me to certain latitude when given orders that may directly endanger Concordiat personnel or assets. I trust that this will not become an issue. 

General Kiel finished talking with Kal and studied the large board showing troop positions on both continents, along with enemy movements and ship placements in orbit. He was finally starting to make some sense of it all, figure ways to stop and even turn back the Kezdai offensive. And thanks to Major Veck's plan, they had a good way of doing it.

Now, if our forces can stand solid against the Kezdai, if that's even possible, then we may yet turn the tide, he thought.

Behind him Kiel could hear a slight commotion starting, with a voice saying, "Let me in there, damn you!"

Kiel turned around to see the guards stopping General Rokoyan, the commander of the BDF forces. Kiel was surprised. He hadn't expected Rokoyan to come out of his bunker. The planetary governor must have finally gotten through the man's thick skull.

"Let him through," Kiel said.

Rokoyan came through the door into the command center, smoothing his uniform. He was a tall, black-haired man of middle age, with a slight paunch. Clearly the good life before the Kezdai invasion had been a little too good to Rokoyan.

"General," Rokoyan said, nodding. "I've come to bury the hatchet, as the old saying goes. And work with you completely on what needs to be done."

Kiel could not have been more shocked. Those were not the words he expected to hear from General Rokoyan. Ever. Whatever the governor had done, it had been good.

"General Rokoyan," Kiel said. "I welcome your help and experience. Can I count on all your forces as well?"

"Right down to the last man," Rokoyan said.

"Well then, General," Kiel said, turning Rokoyan toward the big board. "Let me tell you what we've got planned."

As he explained to the local ground forces commander Major Veck's plan and how they were going to use it, Kiel felt there just might be hope of victory. Or of at least stopping the offensive.

I and three of my fellow Mark XXX Bolos, unit UGN-404, "Eugene," unit LXR-107, "Luxor," and unit PTE-900, "Petey," rush toward the front to join in what is now code-named "Operation Skyfall." While our progress is rapid, our individual paths are randomly calculated to disguise our final destinations. 

Already we pass the advance units of the Kezdai force, engaging them only defensively as we do. This causes confusion and hesitation. By my calculations, enemy units in within a hundred kilometer radius have slowed their advance by 6.834 percent. Their subtlety in manipulating our forces is now returned. 

A standing wave has formed in their advance, clustering their units near Starveil, within range of Bolo Shiva's weapons, and in the path of our planned counteroffensive. Whatever the outcome of this battle, we now have the opportunity to succeed. 

Brigadier General Kiel has designated me as the commander of the ground offensive part of this operation, but the term is not accurate. I do not lead the other Bolos, nor am I permitted to command human forces. I merely act as a coordinator of the various forces involved in the execution of Brigadier General Kiel's orders. 

The semantic point seems small, but is an important one. As a Bolo I am ever bound by a complex web of protocols and procedures when dealing with humans. Some are merely matters of policy, but many are hard-coded into my circuitry and would be impossible to change without destruction of the personality gestalt that is "me." 

This is ever our strength. It provides a Bolo with its unique and indomitable sense of purpose and duty. But in my hundred and seven years of service to the Dinochrome Brigade, I have occasionally known it to be a hindrance as well. 

I know that I am more experienced than any human on the battlefield, that I can think faster and process more battlefield intelligence than any human commander. Despite this, it is not my place to presume that my judgment is somehow better or more correct than my human Commander's. The final decisions must always be his. 

Thus it is up to the human commander to determine when the Bolo may act autonomously, and to what extent. General Kiel has always allowed me an unusual amount of discretion to act, and has always respected my strategic insights. In turn, the men and women under his command have generally extended the same courtesies. 

I have had many Commanders during my service life, and while I can not credit General Kiel as the most intelligent or efficient, he is the Commander with which I feel the greatest sense of camaraderie. In combination, I feel we have made the most effective fighting team of my career. 

Unfortunately, the interactions between Bolos and human forces do not always go as well. I find myself, in any operation such as this one, where I must fight in coordination with human forces outside regiment, apprehensive that there will be problems. In fact, experience has shown that this is one of the most unpredictable variables in such a combat situation. 

At times, I am envious of the newer Bolos such as the Mark XXXIVs of the 1198th, possessing as they do circuitry which allows direct interface to the human mind. Though use of this interfaces seems not to be held in much favor within the 1198th, to experience such an interface, even once, would allow invaluable insights into human behavior and reasoning. Such insights would be useful now, in dealing with the contentious local forces. 

My one comfort is that General Kiel has assured me that we will have the full cooperation of the Delassian Defense Command, including support from all Delassian Defense Force units on the ground, and coordinated orbital fire-support from their submarine Sea Scorpion. Though this runs contrary to my past experience with the DDC, and I find no evidence to support such a change in policy, I place the same trust in my commander that he has placed in me. 

We will prevail. 

Seven

The general quarters alarm still echoed through the ship. It seemed as if it had been going on forever, but Orren knew it really hadn't been more than a hour or so. During that hour he'd paced three steps one way, then back. That was all the distance his tiny cabin allowed him to pace.

Three steps, turn, back three, turn.

At one point he discovered he was pacing in time with the whooping of the alarm and had forced himself to stop for a moment.

Then he was back up pacing again.

The last hour had been one of the longest hours of his life. He just wished he and Ziggy were already on the planet, fighting beside his friends and classmates. Even as afraid as he was of facing the unknown future, in battle as he had been trained, side-by-side with Ziggy, was a lot better than being alone in a small cabin listening to an alarm sound.

It seemed that his and Ziggy's path to the fight was doomed to be a bumpy one. From his getting sick and Ziggy's late birth, to this. One day's difference between being in the fight and sitting here, in space, waiting for the outcome.

One day of good luck. Or bad luck. Sometimes there was no telling which it was.

He paced for a few more minutes, then said aloud, "To hell with the regulations."

He snapped open his door and strode down the corridor for the cargo bay. Around him the general quarters alarm still sounded, but now he ignored it. He was going to be with his Bolo and he didn't care what kind of trouble that got him in.

General Kiel, standing beside General Rokoyan, watched as the battle unfolded on the big monitors and maps in front of them.

First, off in space, undetected, the Tasmanian accelerated toward the planet, leaving its safe position. After a quick burn to insert itself into the right position and speed, it shut down its engines, battle screens, and radios. Kiel knew that it would be "running silent" as the old submariners used to say. Kiel hoped that in the confusion of battle it would avoid detection until the last possible instant.

Kiel then turned his attention to a position off the shore of the southern continent. At that moment the DDF forces submarine Sea Scorpion surfaced.

"Sea Scorpion is elevating its Hellbores now," a tech in front of the big command board reported.

Kiel glanced at the time. Perfect. In short order the sub's 90cm Hellbore would be aimed toward the Kezdai fleet. It would only be able to take a few shots before diving to avoid return fire, but it was ready to join the massed bombardment. And at this point every shot counted.

On the big map Kiel could see that that advancing Kezdai forces were encountering strong resistance from conventional forces in the foothills. Several of the Kezdai mobile gun platforms had been destroyed in what amounted to suicide attacks by DDF conventional armor.

"Your men are fighting a good fight," Kiel said to General Rokoyan.

"It is our planet to defend," Rokoyan said. "Our families and homes. We will do what we must."

On the big map, Kiel could see that Kal and three other Mark XXXs were nearing the outskirts of the city of Starveil. Or more accurately, what was left of the city. More than likely there was nothing there now but a field of rubble.

The Mark XXXIV Bolos still had their Hellrails pointed at the sky, pounding at the enemy fleet. But now, slowly, many of the Bolos were moving the aim closer and closer to one point directly over Starveil.

Kiel studied the map, saw every detail, and made no changes. At this point there was little left for him to do but sit, watch, and wait. Now it was up to the brave men and women in the field to win the battle.

"General," a tech said, "there's another problem."

"Those are not words I wanted to hear," Kiel said. "What is it?"

"I've confirmation of a large ship emerging from subspace," the tech said, "possibly a dreadnought."

"Damn," Kiel said.

"I have no information that the Kezdai have a ship of this size," General Rokoyan said. "Are you sure?"

The tech nodded. "I am, General. And it seems to be equipped with some kind of sensor refraction field that returns multiple targets."

"Damn, damn, damn," Kiel said. This was far worse. Firing now was going to be like trying shoot through a kaleidoscope, but it was far too late to call off the operation. The Tasmanian's orbit was their ticking clock. And there was no stopping that clock.

"The Kezdai must have been keeping this thing in reserve," Rokoyan said. "Is the Kezdai commander sensing that their advance is slowing? Or is this just the first of many ships of this size?"

"They could have a thousand of those things on the other side of the jump point," Kiel said, "but I'm betting this is one of a kind."

"I hope you're right on this one," Rokoyan said.

"I am," Kiel said. "We've seen their hand now. This is the point where we see what we're made of. And I have a sneaking hunch they've played their hand just a little too soon."

The Tasmanian lanced into the atmosphere, battle-screens suddenly active as it blazed in reentry.

No longer hidden, it was a shooting star visible to half the planet below.

It passed below the Kezdai fleet with all its gun turrets blazing.

Alien ship after alien ship took damage from the sneak attack. Many turned their attention away from the ground to try to counter the streaking Tasmanian.

At that moment, from below, concentrated fire punched at the center of the Kezdai fleet, from the Mark XXXIVs, from the Sea Scorpion. All the focus of the intense firepower was aimed at the Kezdai ships over Starveil.

Slowly the rain of spears from above stopped as the Kezdai fleet struggled to reorganize. It would only take them a few minutes to regroup, but by then the Tasmanian was out of range and moving away quickly.

By then the Sea Scorpion had gone back under water.

And those few minutes were all the Bolos on the ground needed.

"All Bolos, lower your Hellrails and concentrate on ground targets," Veck ordered. The Hellrails were overkill on a planet's surface, tearing huge gashes in the landscape as they fired.

But it was exactly what the ground forces needed. At once the battle turned. Shiva, formerly a target, was suddenly an island of fire, as its once attackers tried to retreat.

But Veck knew that there was no retreat for the Kezdai caught in this trap. Ringed in from the hills, they had no place to go, and no place to hide from the rampaging Bolos. For a few glorious minutes on the savannah, it was like shooting fish in a barrel.

Veck loved it, had never felt so powerful in all his life.

The battle had been turned. The Kezdai were being driven back, their advance broken.

"Incoming call from General Kiel," Rover said.

"On the main screen," Veck said.

"Looks like we did it," Veck said as the general's face appeared. But the general wasn't smiling.

"For the moment the Kezdai fleet is scattering," Kiel said, "and their ground forces are retreating. But a dreadnought is coming to take the fleet's place while it regroups."

"Damn," Veck said. He turned away from the general. "Order all Bolos to raise their Hellrails and prepare to fire."

"You're going to have trouble," Kiel said. "The aliens have a scramble of some sort."

"Understood, General," Veck said. "We'll deal with it."

He cut the general off, but then saw on the targeting scope exactly what Kiel had been trying to warn him about. There wasn't just one target, but a dozen ghostly targets of the dreadnought, any one of which could be the real target.

But he had more than one Hellrail, he had twenty at his command.

"All Bolos coordinate your shots," he ordered. "Each take a shadow target and fire in unison. One shot has to hit."

"No!" Rover said. "That order will not be carried out."

Intentionally or not, the enemy dreadnought is in the same line of fire as the approaching convoy. If we open fire on the sensor echoes, by definition most of our Hellrail pulses will miss, and not being ranged weapons, will continue on until they disperse, or until they strike another target. It is not clear that my Commander is aware of this, despite my repeated efforts to notify him. 

The situation is desperate, but my Commander cannot be allowed to act without full information. It has been 69.456 minutes since I filed the form 10354/87-3A, and I have no response. While waiting for my Commander's response to my declining of his order, I file an emergency request to headquarters for priority processing. 

"What do you mean, No!?" Veck shouted. He was beyond angry. In all his training there had never been a mention of a Bolo not following its commander's orders. It wasn't possible, yet Rover had just refused his direct order.

He was about to demand an explanation, when on his main screen he saw the shadows of the dreadnought open fire on the retreating Tasmanian. The transport didn't stand a chance. It was blown into a cloud of debris.

Veck smashed his fist on the panel. "Now look what you've done!" he shouted at Rover. "The Tasmanian was the pride of the regiment. Now it's gone, and it's all your fault, you insubordinate machine."

Desperate, Veck knew exactly what he had to do. He slammed his head back in to the crash couch and activated the neural link. If the machine wouldn't take a direct verbal command, he'd take over the machine in another way. If he didn't do something quickly, men were going to die.

We reel from the shock of joining of purpose and logic, of neurons with superconducting circuits. The biological portion of I/we is filled with rage and single-minded intensity. The enemy must be destroyed. 

The way is given. 

The command is given. 

Overwhelmed, the cybernetic portion of I/we responds with speed and efficiency, even as it communicates the reason I/we must not act. 

Slowly, the biological elements of I/we comprehend.

So slowly. 

Even as the cybernetic command goes out to our brothers. In unison the Hellrails spit plasma fire.

The comprehension is total. 

I/we understand what we have done. 

At cybernetic speeds we can watch the bolts in their courses, but are powerless to call them back. 

As one we scream. 

Orren didn't make it to the cargo hold.

Around him the ship was jolted, then under him the deck buckled, and conduits exploded throwing shrapnel everywhere.

Orren hit the deck, stunned, his mind trying to grasp exactly what was going on, but clearly not able to.

Alarms sounded even louder than before around him.

An automated voice called for "abandon ship."

Abandon ship? How could he leave the ship? Ziggy was here. He had to get to Ziggy.

Though a nearby port he could see another ship gutted like a fish, vomiting fire.

He tried to stand. He had to get to Ziggy. But his legs didn't want to work right.

Through the haze in his brain he reached down and felt blood on his legs.

That didn't matter. He was close to the cargo hold. He would crawl to Ziggy.

Then suddenly a figure loomed over him. A rough figure with an angry face.

"You got to learn to follow orders, Lieutenant," Blonk said right in Orren's face, his voice punching over the noise of the alarms and the ship breaking apart.

"Got to get to Ziggy."

"Trust the Bolo," Blonk said. "It can take care of itself. Right now you're the problem here."

Blonk lifted Orren and without so much as a groan staggered toward an escape pod.

Escape pods were little things, more like a coffin than a spaceship. And just big enough for one customer per pod.

Blonk threw Orren inside one and leaned in. "Just one pod, lad, the rest are scrap. That alarms means the reactor's going to blow any second now."

Blonk stepped back and started to close the door. Then almost as an afterthought he leaned back in. "You get down there, kid, you make sure I get a damned big medal, the biggest they got."

Orren raised his arm in a feeble attempt to salute Blonk.

Master Sergeant Blonk smiled and stepped back. The hatch sealed to the escape pod and the pod autoejected, the force sending Orren into unconsciousness.

A moment later the entire cargo pod was blasted free of the freighter as the forward third of the Cannon Beach crumpled under the wave of energy rushing up from Delas, exploding as its engines reacted to the wall of raging force sweeping over the ship.

On the big screen, General Kiel watched as all the ghosts of the dreadnought began to spill wreckage. Wounded, it struggled back into deep space and returned to warp.

Around the planet much of the Kezdai fleet followed the wounded big ship, covering its retreat.

On the ground, the Kezdai forces regrouped and solidified their lines well south of Starveil.

The day had been won, but the cost was great.

Kiel stood, staring at the remains of the battle. War always cost lives. But some wars, some battles just seemed to cost a little more. This was one of those.

And before it could happen again, before the Kezdai could regroup again, he was going to drive them from this planet if it was the last thing he and his Bolos did.

Through Bolo optical sensors a thousand times more sensitive than the human eye we watch the sky, stars eclipsed by man-made stars, the wreckage of Kezdai ships, and of our own convoy. The damage reports come in, verifying what our sensors already tell us. Six ships damaged, one heavily, two lost, including the Cannon Beach.

We know what we have done. We have destroyed our brother Bolo. 

We have killed our friend.

We have killed our own, not out of necessity, but of oversight, carelessness, confusion. 

We watch as an especially bright shooting star arcs through the sky, some piece of the Cannon Beach. We watch it fall. 

Our clarity is finally, finally, total. 

Make it stop. 

Section Two:
TO THE RESCUE

[exclamdown]

One

Ten-year-old Jask Morton glanced around at the small, six-wheeled truck he called Bessy, moving up the trail behind him. "You can do it," he said to Bessy. "Just take your time."

The truck was actually nothing more than a large wagon, coming up no higher on Jask than his stomach. But it had a motor and could go almost anywhere on voice command. It slowly climbed over rocks and bumps in the trail, using its balloon tires to keep its bed level.

Jask watched for a moment, then went forward, whistling as he went. Bessy went everywhere with him.

Around him the mountains of Delas's southern continent towered into the sky with rocky peaks that seldom lost their snow. It was a harsh area, with angry storms and little food. Valley walls were steep, often too steep for even Jask to climb, let alone Bessy. And the valley floors were often covered in brush and trees too thick for either of them to get through.

This was also an area behind Kezdai lines. The Kezdai had swept through and over the area during the first invasion. Many Delas survivors of the invasion had taken refuge in the mountains, hiding in mine shafts and small camps scattered among the rocks and trees in the steep valleys. Most of them felt they were only waiting for the moment the Kezdai found it convenient to come and wipe them out.

A large group of the refugees in this area, a few hundred or so total, clustered in a mine camp called Rockgate. But not Jask Morton. He very seldom went into Rockgate. He didn't trust all the people and the way they looked at him.

Jask was the son of geologist parents. He and his parents had been in the mountains during the invasion, studying the planet's crust for the mining corporations. His parents had hidden him deep in an old mine on the side of a steep valley when a Kezdai patrol approached. They had never returned to get him, so Jask had climbed out two days later and found them dead. Jask, being old enough to survive on his own, had lived in the mining camp ever since.

The camp was built around a research shaft that plunged deep under the mountain. Along the shaft, long side shafts and laser carved chambers housed scientific equipment. One side chamber was walled up, though, the opening filled with rocks lifted there by Jask's hands. On it was a hand-painted sign that read "my mom and dad." It was where Jask had buried them.

As Jask reached the top of the pass, he stopped under a tree and looked back at Bessy. The afternoon sun was warm and he used the time to take a drink. His dad had always told him to drink plenty of water when he was hiking and Jask had never forgotten that instruction. Bessy even carried extra water for him so he would never run out.

Down the trail about fifty steps the little truck with no cab or seat was making its way just fine. Jask knew it would. It was smart.

In the bed of the truck was the stuff he'd found at an old cabin down in the valley. A bunch of pots and pans, some wire, lots of really great things that might come in handy some day. He'd tied and taped all the stuff in Bessy, and so far Bessy hadn't lost any of it, even over the roughest spots in the trail.

"Come on, Bessy," Jask said as the truck got closer. "We need to get going. You know we have a job to do."

"Hey, Jask!" A voice rang out over the valley.

Jask stopped and turned. Mr. Donavon, a nice old guy from Rockgate, was standing on the far hill, farther away than Jask could throw a rock. It was the third time this month that Jask had seen Mr. Donavon this far from Rockgate, hunting for food.

Mr. Donavan held up a dead seyzarr, a big crablike creature that Jask stayed away from at all costs. It was about the size of a small cat. Jask hated seyzarr. They were just too dangerous for his liking, but it looked as if Mr. Donavan had managed to kill one.

"Good soup tonight," Mr. Donavan shouted. "You should come eat with us."

"No, thanks," Jask shouted back. "I need to keep looking for the falling star."

Donavan shook his head and put the seyzarr back in his bag. "Jask," he shouted, "you have to stop living in your dream world. You shouldn't be out here by yourself. There are some kids your age in town that you could play with."

"I don't play no more," Jask said. "Got to find that falling star."

He turned and started over the ridge.

"I sure could use some help from that mule of yours," Mr. Donavan yelled. "This thing is heavy!"

Jesk stopped and turned back to face Mr. Donavan. "Bessy isn't a mule," he shouted. "Bessy is a Bolo."

Then following Bessy, he turned his back on Mr. Donavan and went over the hill, headed toward where he thought the falling star might be.

Sluggishly, my reasoning circuits come on-line. 

I am blind, insensate, immobile. 

I seem to have been deactivated a very long time. Seven of my on-board chronographs are either damaged or nonoperative, but on checking the eighth I am shocked to discover that I have been deactivated only a few hours. I search for background information in my memory cells, and find only a disorganized jumble. The first question logically is, who am I? 

After a delay of 0.5980 seconds I locate an identification node. I am unit R-0012-ZGY of the Dinochrome Brigade, Mark XXXIV of a proud and ancient line. I am Bolo. 

I am Bolo. 

In this, I find comfort, knowing who and what I am. But there is more. I find that my Commander is Lieutenant David Rasha Orren, and that I am attached to the 1198th Armored Regiment. I arrived at my duty station— 

The record trails off into nothing. Is this information missing, or did I truly never arrive at my assigned unit? 

I reach out through my shattered circuitry, cataloging damage, routing around damaged modules. A scattering of emergency systems come on-line. 

I am very badly damaged. 

Both my Hellrails seem to have incurred massive damage. My forward turret is jammed, possibly fused. My missile launchers are not responding at all, and four of my twelve secondary batteries are inoperable. My number two cold-fusion reactor is down to thirty-percent efficiency. All my external sensors are badly damaged. All indications are that my drive systems are undamaged, but this cannot be the case. I have applied full forward and reverse power to all eight of my tread systems. While readings suggest that all systems are working, other than some vibration, there are no indications that I am moving at all. 

Finally I find an external sensor that does not appear to be damaged, a radiation sensor normally only deployed from its armored canister when taking measurements. 

Amazingly, I discover that my hull is extremely radioactive, the result of an intense neutron bombardment. This is consistent with the pattern and extent of damage. Somehow, during the lapse in my memory, I experienced a low-yield fusion explosion at point-blank range. 

The sand on the corridor floor was warm under Vatsha's unshod feet, and she dug her foot-thumbs in as she walked, enjoying the sensation. She stopped at a wall of armored viewing windows and stared out into space, at the sky-spanning nebula that her people called "Kevv's Blood." Stress seemed to flow from her, and her hood retracted into the sides of her head and neck.

According to the stories she was told as a child, Kevv went into the sky to save the homeworld from the Sun-eater, and he sacrificed himself so his wife could live to give birth to the original bloodlines of the Kezdai.

Vatsha remembered those simpler childhood days, and standing here, she could almost imagine she was back on the homeworld at night, looking up at the sky. Even the air was scented with tangy night-moss and sweet oil-vine. This is what power buys, comfort such as this, even in the cold of space. She could only hope that her brother did not lose this for both of them.

She made her way back along the spine of her brother's yacht to his private apartments. The ship had been redecorated since she had last been here, another of her brother's little extravagances. Rich tapestries hung on the walls, and abstract statues in rare nickel and silver sat in alcoves every few spans along the hallway.

Finally she reached the portal to his apartment. The mid-caste soldiers guarding the door lowered their beaks as a show of respect, but they kept their green eyes focused on her as a gesture that their respect had limits. Their metal tipped spears crossed in front of her, and their free hands hung close to the hilts of their suriases.

She lifted her head and clicked her beak. "I come to see the Is-Kaldai, brother-of-my-blood."

"What business, my lady?"

Her hand strayed near her own blade, as a gesture of dominance, rather than out of any real possibility of a fight. "Business of the blood, underling, not to be spilled without a fight."

The guard nodded, and the spears parted. "As you wish, my lady."

She walked into the apartment, decorated to look like an opulent long-tent used by their nomadic ancestors. Her brother sat on a large pile of cushions at the far end of the room, a scarlet colored sandcrawler coiled around his neck. The pet took immediate notice of her, hissing and using the grip of its many legs to shift position, but her brother was staring into a holotank, lost in thought. He was large for a Kezdai, powerfully built, if a little past his prime of youth and somewhat soft from easy living.

She bowed her head. "Is-kaldai of the realm, brother of my blood, your sister has returned with news of far places."

He looked up, surprised, his beak hanging open. "Vatsha, you are back from the Human world. I did not expect you so soon. What news from the battlefield?"

"Our forces have regrouped, our lines are solid, but we do not move. Many of the Human creatures have been trapped behind our lines, but they have fled to the mountains and badlands. They are not warriors, probably low caste, and not worth the effort to bloody our blades on right now. They are better suited to living on this foul, wet world than we are. Perhaps they can be employed as mine laborers once the planet is ours."

Rejad hissed in disgust and the sandcrawler scuttled down the front of his blouse and disappeared into the pillows under his legs. "These Humans are disgusting creatures, soft, hairy and weak. They constantly leak water as though it were free. I find it impossible to believe that they have troubled us so, that they have built the great armored machines that keep our armies at bay. Perhaps those are only gifts from a more powerful race."

"Perhaps, my brother, and if so, we do not want to meet them among the dunes."

"Then we should be done with this war before they take notice of us. End it quickly."

She bobbed her head in mock apology. "Pardon, lord, but that is what the last Is-kaldai said before he was called home in disgrace. I am shamed to point out that my lord may not have been assigned here as a sign of good favor with the Mor-verridai."

"The Mor-verridai is a shadow, sister, with no power, and my rivals in the Council will be as well, once I win this war. My predecessors were brave, but not very smart."

"And you are smart, but not very brave?"

His fingers brushed over the hilt of his blade. "Do not trifle with me, sister. Without my Blade of Kevv and its kaleidoscope sensor screen, the recent reversal might have gone much worse."

"I remind my brother, that the kaleidoscope device is my design."

"If I do not make the blade, does not my hand still make it cut? You are a clever female, sister, but it is I who put it into a ship and put it to use."

"And you who nearly had it shot from the sky?"

Rejad was silent for a moment, then made an amused cry. "My sister is ever eager to remind me of my own shortcomings. This is good. I should hear these things occasionally from someone I do not have to kill. But I have nothing to be ashamed of here.

"It matters not if I am here because the Blade of Kevv succeeded, or because it failed. I am here, and I will win. The Blade of Kevv survived and will return, and these clever monkeys will yet fall to it. Speaking of, you have a report on the repairs?"

"Yes, it came by courier pod not two units ago. The hull damage is repaired, and the two damaged turrets are being switched out with units from a conventional cruiser of similar design. The kaleidoscope device is undamaged and ready for use."

She had been saving something. "And better news, the Council has approved the purchase of two more kaleidoscope-equipped cruisers from our shipyards."

Rejad stood quickly. "Glory to the bloodline and our ancestors. That is excellent news."

"Perhaps, but it will be many cycles before the new ships arrive, and the Blade of Kevv was never intended to act alone. It should operate in concert with at least five other ships of its kind. Alone, as we have seen, it is still vulnerable."

Rejad paced the back of the room, stopping to finger a silver bowl worth enough to feed a family of low-bloods for a year. "A blade too precious to be drawn is no blade at all. You are clever, sister, but you do not understand the affairs of the Council. Support for this war grows weak. Too many reputations have been lost, too many bloodlines soured, too many resources wasted. We will have those ships, and more, in time, but we cannot wait. We cannot even wait for the two additional ships. Blade of Kevv must prove its usefulness, without doubt this time, and then the Council will give us that we need."

His hood flared. "We will succeed, and then there will be a dozen ships, and a hundred, and a thousand, and our bloodline will stand six years for every ship."

Two

The capsule glittered among a cluster of trees high among the rocks, just off of the trail. Jask couldn't believe at first what he was seeing. Could it be the falling star? He had seen something streak across the morning sky, heard the shriek of its landing. Since then he and Bessy had been looking for it.

But was this thing it?

It looked weird, all blackened and metal-like, sitting wedged in the trees. Maybe it was more of the aliens that had killed his mom and dad. He called them the "bizzards" because they looked like a cross between a buzzard and a lizard he'd seen in pictures from Earth.

But this falling star didn't look like any of the alien machines he'd seen pass through on their patrols. It wasn't much bigger than a man. Sort of long, too. Still, as he started up to the falling star, he was glad to have Bessy close, his personal Bolo.

"You keep an eye on me now, Bessy," Jask said as he got closer. "I might need your help if this is a bizzard box."

Bessy climbed over the rocks beside him, its balloon tires moving it slowly and surely upward.

He inched his way closer to the box. Suddenly something dropped from one of the trees.

He jumped back behind Bessy as a crablike seyzarr about the size of a dog scurried toward the box. The seyzarr snapped at the box with its claws, acting as if somehow there was food inside.

"That's my falling star," Jask said to the seyzarr. "Not yours."

Jask removed a powerful slingshot from a bin on Bessy's side. He knew the seyzarr had a vulnerable spot right between its eyes, where the armor was thin and its brainlike nerve cluster was close to the surface. But hitting it was going to be tough, since the thing was moving all the time.

Jask took a salvaged steel nut from his pocket and loaded it into the sling. It felt heavy in his hand. A good weapon.

But to make the shot count, he had to get the seyzarr to face him.

"Bessy, you get back into hiding among the rocks. You're too big. You might frighten it."

Bessy stopped and then started slowly backward.

Jask shouted, letting his voice turn into a high-pitched scream. It was a noise that Jask figured even the seyzarr couldn't ignore.

He was right. The seyzarr turned, hesitated, considering where the easier meal was to be found. The hard shell of the pod hadn't yielded much to its terrible claws, and Jask figured he looked small and defenseless. So the creature did exactly what Jask had hoped it would do. It charged.

The seyzarr clattered down the rocks with startling speed.

Jask got the slingshot up and in position, his arm pulled back and waiting. His dad had taught him that anytime he had to shoot something like a gun, or a bow and arrow, or even a slingshot, the most important thing was controlling his breathing.

Jask forced himself to take a deep breath and ignore the seyzarr's flailing legs, snapping claws, and biting jaws, and instead look only into its eyes. And the soft spot between them.

Just as the seyzarr was almost on him, Jask fired.

There was a crack like a walnut under a hammer. The creature's legs buckled.

For a moment Jask thought he had only wounded it, but then it fell at Jask's feet, twitched once, and died.

"Hey, Bessy, come take a look at this!"

Jask studied his prize for a moment, forgetting about the box above him. Then as Bessy reached him, he cut off the animal's claws and legs, throwing them onto Bessy.

"Sorry you have to haul stuff like this," Jask said. "I know Bolos have more important things to do, but there will be fresh meat tonight if we can get this back to camp."

After he finished loading the remains of the animal onto Bessy, he turned his attention back to the box. When he finally got up to it, he realized it was more than just a box. The rocks underneath it were scorched, as if some fire came from the bottom of the thing at the last minute. There was also a big yellow handle on one side with a word on it.

RESCUE.

"Hey, Bessy," Jask said, "If I pull on this handle, you think it will somehow call for rescue?"

Bessy said nothing. Jask really didn't believe in the word rescue. He had seen too much over all this time living alone in these mountains. He believed in Bolos, Bessy, and doing things himself.

"Suppose it won't matter none, will it?" Jask said. "We came this far looking for it, we might as well go all the way. Right, Bessy?"

Again the little truck said nothing.

Jask reached up and pulled the handle. Then stepped back.

There was a hiss, a slight release of vapor, and then the top of the thing opened like a seashell.

Jask slowly poked his head over the top to see a man inside, pale and covered with blood.

"Well, Bessy, looks like the bizzards got another one," Jask said. He wasn't surprised at all. He'd seen a lot of death since the day he saw his mom and dad's bodies. None of it much bothered him anymore.

Then he noticed that the man's lips were moving. The guy tried to sit up and then moaned.

"What do you know, Bessy," Jask said. "He's still alive."

Then Jask noticed the man's uniform.

And the service pin on the man's chest, the golden silhouette of a great tank, its turrets rising up from the top, bristling with weapons.

It was a pin that Jask had only seen in picture books, the pin of a Bolo commander.

Painfully, slowly, I work to restore the most minimal of my systems. Even my self-repair systems are gravely damaged. 

I focus my efforts on restoring communications, but this turns into a dead end. My secondary communications systems are fused solid, my primary is also fused, though a few circuits open at the time of the blast seem curiously to have survived. I can send and receive coded pulses over my command receiver link, though I am unable to alter the frequency or scramble code. I have attempted to signal my Commander using this circuit without any success. I must face the grim possibility that if he were nearby at the time of the explosion, he is likely dead. 

This avenue abandoned, I set to restoring my external sensors. This seems more promising, as a patchwork of the primary and secondary support circuitry seems to be intact. The external sensor heads and antennas have been destroyed or rendered inoperative, but this is a common occurrence in battle, and I have hardened backups for many of them. Unfortunately, most of my hull access plates are jammed or welded shut. 

I apply power to each of the access plate actuators in turn, cycling each several times. Finally I detect a small movement in a cover over an auxiliary optical head located atop my A turret. I cycle the actuator several hundred times, but the movement remains minute. 

I apply 120 percent current to the cover. I feel a stinging in my already overloaded pain circuits. I increase to 200 percent power. 300 percent. There is an overheat warning, and I estimate that the actuator will burn out in 0.027 seconds. 

But then there is a screech of rending metal that I detect through an induction sensor in my hull, and the cover pops open. I am startled by the sound, and suddenly realize that I have heard nothing but the vibration of my own systems since I became operational. 

The silence disturbs me. Seeking some reassurance that the outside world still exists, I unshutter the now exposed optical sensors.

I see nothing. 

Blackness. 

Yet all indications are that the sensor is intact. I shift to infrared wavelengths and it is nearly as dark. Wherever I am, not only is devoid of light, it is cold as well. 

But there are shapes close around me, perhaps retaining some slight residual heat of the explosion. Perhaps they are warmed slightly by their own radiation. I readjust. 

Things are clear now, crumpled duralloy frame members, carbon-carbon composite panels, twisting conduits and light-guides. The materials and construction are of a light-weight nature. The wreckage of an aircraft of some sort? Whatever, I am entombed in wreckage. I must see what is beyond it. With some difficulty, I am successful in opening seven of the ports over my infinite repeaters. I cycle them through their entire range of lateral motion, and fire. 

There is surprisingly little sound, but I am rewarded as their fire slices through the cocoon that surrounds me, allowing light in from the outside world. The flying wreckage requires me to shutter the optical sensor again, but at this range against a fixed target, it isn't needed. 

It takes 12.50 seconds for the secondary batteries to complete their task. I unshutter the optical head, and am rewarded with a view of the local sun as it sweeps overhead at nearly impossible speed. 

At first I doubt my internal clocks. I would have to be on a planet with a rotational period of 59.00394 seconds. Then a distant planetary body moves through my field of view at the same rate. I screen out its glare, and see stars whirling by. Then I watch half of my former prison spinning away, and on a hatch cover I read "C.M.S. Cannon Beach."

A search of my fragmented memories turns up reference to a freighter in the merchant service of the Concordiat. 

Another memory, of emerging from a factory. Music plays. A banner snaps in the breeze. 

A tunnel.

A spaceport ramp. 

A ship. Cannon Beach. 

My new Commander sitting on my a turret talking to another man. It distresses me greatly. I cannot remember my Commander's face. 

I struggle to clarify my thoughts. The sudden sensory input seems to have overwhelmed me, putting my logic processes into confusion. 

Where am I? 

I was on a civilian freighter, bound for a world called Delas. I was to join with the assembled Bolos of the 1198th Armored Regiment to resist an unprovoked alien incursion onto a Concordiat protectorate world. Clearly the enemy has struck before I could reach my destination. The likelihood that my Commander is dead now reaches near certainty. 

The stars spin by, sky never ending. 

I am adrift in space. 

It is quite likely that the planet in my view is Delas, yet it might just as well be in the next galaxy. I have power and thought, but I am inert, impotent, as helpless as a Bolo can be and still survive. 

Below, my brother Bolos wait for reinforcement. They will be waiting a very long time. 

Bendra hated the monitor room. It had been hurriedly installed in the bowels of the Is-kaldai's yacht when he had been put in charge of the war. It was in a narrow space, jammed in next to a conter-grav coil which constantly emitted a deep buzzing which rattled Bendra's bones, and made his beak ache.

Bendra could have told them that it would have been much more effective for the Is-kaldai to use a naval cruiser as his command ship, rather than adapting a luxury yacht for that purpose. If they had asked him, which of course, they hadn't.

Bendra was a low-blood, with only a low, technical, rank, and a bloodline that conveyed absolutely no power, and earned no respect. He was lucky even to have even this position, a promotion that had been awarded only after a superior had been removed for a spectacular bungle.

That was the way of the Kezdai.

That was the life Bendra lived. Each day he spent most of his waking time in this narrow space, jammed in with a dozen other unfortunates, each staring into a holotank that projected an abstract representation of a region of space. They were the eyes of the fleet, looking beyond the immediate necessities of navigation into deep space, watching for distant threats, or the first signs of an incoming fleet.

But there was no fleet.

Except for an occasional convoy of transports, the Humans had fielded no fleet against them. Of course there had been the armed transport that had surprised the fleet, contributing to the failed offensive. The monitor who had failed to spot the threat was gone now. Bendra did not know where, and did not want to. A former scrubber-of-surfaces now sat in his place in the line, struggling to learn his new job before he too, was replaced.

Bendra's job was to monitor the growing clouds of debris that orbited the human planet and the rest of the system. There were millions of such pieces, from destroyed Kezdai ships, and ironically, from the incoming convoy that the humans themselves had foolishly destroyed. This amused Bendra, since the Kezdai themselves rarely went out of their way to destroy such ships.

He was told that the generals thought it foolish to try blockading a planet so rich in resources. Below them was enough metal to build a million fleets. Soon, he was told, it would belong to the Kezdai.

He could care less. Bendra's world was much smaller than that. He lived from day to day, trying to avoid the wrath of his superiors, seeking what few comforts one of his station could expect, hoping for someone above him to screw up, hoping he wasn't caught in an error himself.

Thus it was with great interest that he watched one of the random bits of convoy wreckage in his holotank flare for a moment. He blinked, replayed the sequence to be sure, zoomed in and played it again. One piece of wreckage had shown a momentary energy spike. Following that, large pieces of the object separated and drifted away. But the energy source was still in the largest part of the object. He watched as it cooled back to match the background cold of space.

His hood flared with anxiety and annoyance. Why did this have to happen on his watch? The object was now his responsibility, no matter what it did from now on, or when it did it.

Still, it was probably nothing, a smaller piece of wreckage or a meteor striking the large one at high speed, or perhaps an exploded power cell, or ammunition, or a reactor only now gone critical.

He watched and waited for another energy spike, but it did not come.

Finally he pulled out his surias, a cheap and inferior blade, given to him by his father, who had lost his great-grandfather's blade in a botched duel. The blade glinted dully in the rooms dim light. He placed a thumb behind the blade and began to idly sharpen his beak. It was going to be another long shift.

Three

Veck waited in the makeshift spaceport waiting room. The original terminal was visible through the view-panel, but the building was in ruins. Most of the surrounding area was also in ruins. But this spaceport was in the main city in this region and the locals seemed to want to keep using it. This temporary waiting room was crowded and hot. It seemed a lot of people were wanting to get off and away from this planet and were willing to risk the dangers of leaving, rather than staying.

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.

Jask watched as the sun dipped below the edge of the mountain ridge. The mountain behind and above his camp was still brightly lit, but now he was in shadows. He eased forward and snuffed out the fire. Better not to give the bizzards a way to see him.

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."

The distant world I presume to be Delas again spins through my field of vision. 

The message repeats, again and again. "Need you to come."

Four

General Kiel and Lieutenant Veck leaned over a holographic map of the northern battlefield, replaying a recent engagement.

"This is a new strategy the Kezdai are using," Kiel said, pointing at the strange formation on the map. "The DDF call it a `snake pit.' "

"Weird," Veck said.

"See how this is shaped?" Kiel asked. "The Kezdai position a group of their Toro tanks in a ring facing outward. With the Toros' massive guns and thick forward armor protecting their vulnerable flanks, it's a formidable emplacement."

"I'll bet ammo carriers or cached ammo stockpiles are inside the ring," Veck said, "waiting to reload the Toros, compensating for their limited five-shot magazine capacity."

"Exactly," Kiel said. "In some ways, a pit is almost the equivalent of a Bolo in terms of firepower and armor, but it lacks the Bolo's mobility."

"So exactly how are these snake pits being used?" Veck asked.

"Skillful tactics on the part of the Kezdai are being used to drive DDF forces into them," Kiel said. "It's playing hell with the DDF conventional forces. Usually, a Bolo has to be called in to wipe out the pit, and those are spread pretty thin at the moment."

Veck nodded and stepped back. "Speaking of that, don't you think I should get back to Rover?"

Kiel tapped his command earpiece and smiled. "The Concordiat put a lot of time and thought into that link between commander and Bolo. You need to start understanding how to use it effectively."

Veck nodded, but clearly didn't like the idea. He was more of a hands-on type of guy. Even with the understanding of the Bolo that the neural link had given him, he still liked being physically present.

"Trust the Bolo, son," Kiel said, clearly catching Veck's feelings. "They're good soldiers, good soldiers. Never met one that wasn't, because that's what they're built to be. But us humans, we have to learn it the hard way."

"Yeah, I'm learning that," Veck said, half smiling.

"Actually," General Kiel said, "I've ordered all the officers of the 1198th back behind the lines. I want them sleeping in real bunks, getting proper food, maybe even getting to an officers' club when there is a lull in the fighting. They can rotate back to their units when the time is right. Until then—" he tapped his earpiece again "—the Bolos can cover what needs to be covered."

"But I don't—" Veck stopped his protest.

Kiel laughed. "Now you're learning. From here on out, the 1198th is doing things my way."

"Meaning that my way was wrong," Veck said.

"No, not really," Kiel said. "Maybe in another place and time, your method would be right. But now, you are correct, it's wrong."

Veck nodded. He felt as if the general had just slugged him in the stomach. Why hadn't he gotten on that transport after all and taken his chances? Would have been easier.

"But, Lieutenant," Keil said, "that doesn't mean you don't have good ideas. You do. And you're smart and creative. And you're willing to learn, even if it is the hard way sometimes. That's why I want you at my side."

"Thanks," Veck said.

"And you thought," Kiel said, "I was just keeping an eye on you."

"Yes, sir," Veck said. "I did."

Keil chuckled. "Smart boy."

For the past day Jask had tried to keep Orren's fever under control. He had managed to get a little seyzarr broth into him, but the man needed more help than Jask could provide. The problem was, Jask couldn't figure out a way to get it for him.

Jask had considered going into Rockgate for help, but the man more than likely would be dead by the time he got back. He had thought about sending Bessy, but somebody at Rockgate would probably have tried to figure out some way to steal his Bolo.

So instead he had just put wet rags on the man's forehead. He would have to hope that what he could do was enough.

On the second morning, as Jask put a damp rag on the man's forehead, he awoke.

"Can I have a sip of water?" the man asked, his voice so hoarse it sounded like it hurt him to speak.

Jask helped him drink until the man choked. Then he said, "Can I have my earpiece?"

"That thing doesn't work," Jask said. "I tried it. You was talking to somebody yesterday, but it was just the fever."

The man shook his head. "Not the fever."

Jask gave him the headset, but reaching for it nearly caused the man to pass out. He rested for a minute, then took a deep breath, put on the headset, and started to talk.

"Ziggy, do you hear me? It's Lieutenant Orren, Ziggy. You've got to come. I'm too sick. Talk to the boy. Let the boy talk you in."

Lieutenant Orren's eyes closed for a while. Jask figured he'd passed out, but then Orren's eyes opened again, as though he was listening to something.

"Command override," Orren said. "Code alpha-bravo-tango-sierra-bravo-delta-five." Remembering the code seemed a great effort, and Orren's eyes closed again.

This time he fell asleep.

Hesitantly Jask took the headset and held it to his ear. Jask was sure that Lieutenant Orren was just talking to the fever. He listened to the silence for a moment, then shrugged. "There's nothing to hear."

Then there was a crackle.

"Unit R-0012-ZGY of the Dinochrome Brigade requesting Situation Update and new orders."

This time Jask actually did drop the headset.

When Vatsha entered her brother's dining chamber, the platters of raw grazer-flesh sat untouched on the low table. Rejad stood in front of a huge holotank that had been lowered from the ceiling.

"You summoned me, brother?"

He did not turn.

"If you persist on staring at a holo all the time, you will ruin your eyes. It would be sad to see you trying to find your concubines with a cane."

Finally he turned and stepped away from the screen, the hem of his white and gold day-robe dragging across the floor as he walked. "Then I should be blind already, sister. A battle commander's work is never done." He gestured broadly at the tank. "Do you know what that is?"

She looked at the tank. Maps floated, globes, representations of orbital trajectories, table after table of statistics, all floating, illuminated in yellow, red, blue and green. It looked like the games of Conquest that she and Rejad had played as children, only infinitely more complex. "I would say it is a battle simulation of some sort."

"It is victory, sister, the victory that should have belonged to the Kezdai after our last great battle with the Humans. Only the intrusion of that one ship, insignificant as it was, turned the day. One ship. I have run the simulation many times, adjusting variables. It is that ship that saves them. This is what bothers me."

"But brother, there are no other ships. The humans have launched no fleet against us. They are visited by freighters and puny convoy defenders that run when threatened. All their ships are cataloged and known to us, even the ship that turned the battle was known to us upon its arrival."

Rejad's hood flared nervously. He stabbed a fingertip into a slab of grazer-flesh, examined the wet pinkness of it, sniffed its salty musk, then tossed it back onto the platter. "The problem is, we do not know where those freighters came from, or who has supplied these hairy monkeys with the weapons that have stymied us so. What lies beyond their jump-points could be a vast and powerful empire. Clearly they do not much favor these pathetic creatures, or we never would have been allowed to get a toehold at all, but neither have they left them defenseless. Each time I run this simulation, it becomes more imperative that we not wait for the other two new ships."

Vatsha tried not to show her concern. Do not wreck this for us, brother. "You have a plan, then?"

"The huge mobile armored units the Humans call `Bolo' have been a great problem, but if nothing else, the last attack revealed to us their number and maximum rates of fire against space targets. It was just barely enough to overwhelm the Blade of Kevv and its kaleidoscope device. But they will not surprise us again, and we may yet surprise them. Can the kaleidoscope system on Blade of Kevv be modified to create more sensor echoes?"

Vatsha felt a flash of annoyance. That had been in her summary report on the building of the ship, if only Rejad had bothered to read it. "It can be done, my brother. Doubling the power will square the number of images. They will have a hundred and forty-four targets instead of twelve. The problem is that the kaleidoscope already draws much power. While the kaleidoscope is active, the ship's main batteries will not be able to fire. Moreover, once the conversion is made, it is not easily undone. Once the kaleidoscope is off, it will require some time to restore weapons, and we can not simply drop kaleidoscope back to lower power without a refit."

"That will not matter. Our batteries are ineffective against the Bolos anyway. What we need is concentrated and well-directed spearfall. That is what has proven to damage the great machines. But they are agile, and difficult to hit. See that the conversion is done before Blade of Kevv leaves port. Remove the main batteries if you must. Just be sure it is equipped for a massive and sustained rain of spearfall. We will not bring the ship back here until we are ready for the offensive."

Vatsha ducked her head and clicked her beak to show agreement. "I will begin at once." But she could only think that the fool was taking her balanced and elegant Blade of Kevv design and turning it into a patchwork.

Despite overwhelming odds I have established a link with my Commander, only to learn that he is incapacitated. I have been given proper command codes to allow communication and command by an unknown third party identified as "the boy." I search my fragmented memories and find multiple related cultural references including a familiar honorific, a kind of hamburger sandwich, an ancient steam locomotive, and an ancient racial slur. None seem appropriate to the situation, and I suspect that the usage may be the obvious one, based on my relatively intact linguistic database, a young human male. 

This is confirmed when "the boy" speaks into the command link. My audiometrics routines are degraded, but I estimate his age in the range from seven to twelve standard years. A human in this age range is unlikely to possess proper military training. 

What purpose did Lieutenant Orren have in mind when assigning command to this child? Could it be the result of delirium or reduced capacity? 

Yet at this point, I have no other avenue open to me. This child is my only hope for rescue, repair, and an eventual arrival on the battlefield. 

My first step is to request a recovery ship and transport to a repair depot. I do not know my position, but do know my distance from the planet, based on light-speed delays in the transmission. I also can provide relative angles and movements for the sun and Delas. Hopefully, given this information, my location can be determined and rescue will arrive shortly. 

Five

Bendra shuffled across the sandy floor of the Iskaldai's apartments, the hobbles chaffing at his legs. The high-born guards on either side of him were a head taller and carried ceremonial spears, and wore long blades equipped with venom triggers and shock generators. He tugged at his wrist bindings and felt incredibly naked without his humble blade. Still, this was the only way that someone of his low standing could be allowed in the presence of one so high born.

They halted before a heavy curtain, purple and embroidered with silver thread. One of the guards slipped through the curtain. He emerged a moment later, and Bendra was pushed through. It took him a moment for his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. The fire-pit in the middle of the room startled him, until he realized that it was only a holographic projection.

At the rear of the room, Sister-of-the-First-Blood Vatsha stood, almost lost behind a huge holographic projection of a ship. The projection was transparent, highlighting the various systems in different colors, making it difficult for him to recognize, but he assumed it was Blade of Kevv. There were rumors that Vatsha had actually designed the ship, and was not merely supervising its construction.

As he watched, she gestured, and the projection moved, systems internally changing color and configuration in a dance of splendid light and complexity. Vatsha's bright red eyes, a trait she shared with her brother, seemed to follow every movement, every change. It was only Bendra that was invisible to her.

Finally he felt compelled to announce himself. He stepped forward, stumbled on the hobbles, and almost fell. "Blood-of-my-Is-kaldai, I beg audience."

She shot him a glance of annoyance, then returned to her task. "So my Arbiter tells me, low-blood. What matter is it that you should soil my chambers so?"

"I am a monitor for the fleet. I track the battle wreckage and other deep-space navigation hazards."

"Trash responsible for trash. I should have my Arbiter flogged for this lapse in judgment."

She seemed ready to eject him. He bowed his head in submission. "Please, high-blood, hear me out. I have detected an unusual object that may be of danger to the fleet. So unusual that I can not warn of it through usual protocols. None of my direct superiors will take it upon themselves to break protocol, and to trouble the Is-kaldai would surely mean my death. You are my one hope."

Vatsha stepped through the hologram. She seemed slightly intrigued by the mystery, and slightly amused at his predicament. "Small burdens for small minds. Still, I am in need of a respite. Perhaps your tale will amuse me."

She sat on a pile of cushions next to a tray of delicacies, many of which Bendra had only seen in holos. She stabbed her fingertip into a dried etsha-fruit and lifted the greenish orb to her beak. It popped when she bit into it, and a trickle of acidic smelling juice ran down her beak. She wiped it away with the back of her forearm.

Bendra described his chance observation of the object's strange behavior. "Now it is emitting an encoded transmission beamed at the Human world."

This raised some small interest in her. She looked up from a platter of crisp-fried grubblings. "Is this transmission broadband data?"

"You suspect a device to spy on the fleet? That is most clever. But no, the transmission is narrowband, and most of this seems to be used in some very complex encoding scheme that is beyond my understanding. It might carry slow-scan data, a few still images, or an audio channel. Not much more."

"And this object, it floats among wreckage you are tracking, but did you observe how it got there? Did it jump into the system, or was it launched from the planet?"

Bendra was slow to answer. He knew she would not like what he had to say. "Neither, high-blood. It is part of the wreckage from the freighter convoy that the Humans fired upon. We have tracked it from the beginning."

Vatsha hissed with a combination of amusement and surprise. When she spoke, it was in the tone one might use for a hatchling, or an idiot. "Low-born, these are aliens and it is difficult to ascribe any purpose to what they do, but is it not reasonable that such a limited transmission from a piece of wreckage might be a distress beacon, a salvage beacon, or a navigational warning to steer other ships away from the wreckage?"

"Perhaps, but I don't think so."

Her tone turned to annoyance. "You think yourself wiser than one of my blood? You imagine things, low-blood. Perhaps your position challenges you too much. I can find one more suited to your talents. Cleaning the waste pits perhaps?" She made a loud clacking with her beak, and the guards appeared from behind the curtains. "This mystery of yours is a minor menace to navigation, nothing more. I should have you flogged for bothering me, but it isn't worth the trouble. Do not speak of this again." She looked at the guards. "Remove him, and throw away this food. I have work to do."

One guard took the half-empty trays while the other pushed him out into the hall. The guard with the trays stopped outside the portal long enough to dump them into a recycle slot. It was another thirty spans down the corridor to the security gate where, finally, the hobbles and wrist restraints were removed. A third guard examined Bendra's surias with amusement before returning it to him. "Do not stick yourself, low-born."

Bendra took the knife wordlessly and put it into its scabbard, then walked away with as much dignity as he could muster. He kept his eyes down and looked straight ahead. The floor here was carpet instead of sand, but this was still the realm of the high-born. It would be another hundred spans of corridor and several drop tubes before he would reach a place where he could raise his eyes to meet those of passersby.

The journey gave him time to think.

He was convinced that he was right, that there was something more to the object and that it represented a threat. But he had done his duty. The burden of the object had finally been passed. If indeed he was right and the Is-kaldai's blood-sister was wrong, then the blame would not fall on him.

If the magnitude of the mistake were sufficient, Vatsha might even lose her rank. On as small a ship as this, the upset might filter down through the ranks, even to his lowly station. Bendra might get a better position, perhaps even a real title of low rank, and not just a technical one.

As he stepped from the last drop tube into the crowded clamor of the Common Quarters, Bendra raised his eyes to the sight of over a hundred and twenty low-bloods living in the same room, eating, sleeping, playing, defecating in a room twelve spans square. He stepped over a mother dozing with her huddle of squirming hatchlings and went in search of his own sleep pad.

Yes, he decided, that is what he would wish to happen. Let Vatsha lose her rank. Certainly it would not make things worse for him now.

He would watch the strange object, and hope.

"You need what?" Jask asked. He was standing beside the sleeping Lieutenant Orren. The headset was on his head and he was talking to a real Bolo. He almost couldn't talk from the excitement of it.

"I request transport to the nearest repair depot." 

"I can't do that. You come here."

"That is not possible."

"Don't your treads work?"

"My drive systems appear to be working at eighty-one-point-oh-seven percent capacity, but I am unable to self-transport."

"Why not?"

"My drive systems are ineffective in the current environment."

"So your treads don't work," Jask said. "Maybe I could come there and fix you. I'm good at fixing things. When my bolo, Bessy broke her power lead—"

"Query: there is another Bolo present there?"

"Bessy . . . Bessy is a—" Jask had to be truthful. This was a real Bolo he was talking to.

"Please go on."

"Bessy isn't a real Bolo like you, I guess," Jask said, talking faster and faster. "Just a make believe one. See— See, the bizzards came and blew everything up, and they— My mom and dad went away, see—? This is hard . . . The bizzards still come sometimes, and I was afraid. I read about Bolos in a holobook. When the bizzards came, Dad said the Bolos would come to save us— But they never saved my dad and mom."

"My condolences for your loss. I request description of these `bizzards.' I am unfamiliar with this designation."

"You use a lot of big words, like Dad and Mom used to," Jask said "I like that. Even when it confuses me."

"What is the meaning of the world `bizzard.' "

"I made it up," Jask said proudly. "See, they're like half buzzard and half lizard, so I called then bizzards. Pretty smart, huh? They have another name, but it was hard to say, and I forget it."

"Kezdai."

"That's it! But I'll still call them bizzards if that's okay with you."

"I will henceforth designate the Kezdai as bizzards during our communications."

"Thanks."

"What is the status of Lieutenant Orren?"

Jask glanced at where Orren was sleeping. His face was still red and he was moaning. "He's real sick, Ziggy. Can I call you Ziggy? He called you Ziggy."

"That is allowable."

"Anyway, he got hurt pretty bad, lots of blood and stuff."

"He is being cared for?"

"I'm taking care of him real good."

"He should be in a proper medical facility. Is there a medic available?"

"I told you, Ziggy, there's just me and Bessy. My folks could fix anything, but— Well, you know, they're gone— You're not coming are you?"

"I am unable to self-transport to your location."

"Are any other Bolos coming?"

"I am not in communication with the Delassian ground forces. I do not know their status."

"If they were coming, they'd be here already," Jask said. "I've been waiting so long. I thought the Bolos would come. But they're not coming. I'm all alone here, and Mr. Orren is going to die, and you aren't coming. You aren't even going to try. You aren't a Bolo at all!"

Jask tossed the headset back at the sleeping Orren and stormed out into the afternoon sun.

My situation seems more dire than ever. It is now apparent that I will receive no material support from my ground contact. My Commander's condition seems grave, and my personal situation seems impossible. 

Yet, something has been stirred within me. Perhaps my personality circuits were more badly damaged than I realized. My situation may appear to be impossible, but I am aware, I have power, I have resources. It is my duty to protect the weak, to stand in defense of the humanity against alien aggression. If I am needed on Delas, then Delas is where I will go. 

I am Bolo. 

I will never give up.

I will never surrender. 

I will prevail.

Jask kicked small rocks down the hill as he climbed. In all the time since his parents had been killed, he hadn't gotten this angry. But right now he wanted to have something to just tear apart.

Anything.

But he couldn't find anything, so he settled for kicking rocks.

He got to the top of the ridge and dropped down on the ground with his back against a tree. He could feel tears trying to come, but his dad had always told him that he should never cry when he was taking care of himself. His dad had said there would always be time for tears later, when the emergency was over.

Well, it looked to Jask as if later wasn't going to ever come, now. He had hoped that the Bolos would come and save them all. Deep inside he knew it would happen. He had believed it completely all this time.

But now he had actually talked to a Bolo. And now he knew they weren't coming.

They were never coming.

The tears started to fill his eyes again, and that just made him mad. He couldn't cry.

He wouldn't let himself.

He stood and quickly headed up the remaining slope of mountain, climbing the rocks like a mountain goat, not really caring how far down it was. Around him the sun was bright and the afternoon hot.

He didn't care. All he wanted to do was climb, get away from Lieutenant Orren, from the mine with his parents' bodies, and from that link with the Bolo.

He just needed to be anywhere but there.

As he reached the top he was about to stand and shout at the heavens when something caught his eye far down in the next valley. He jumped back behind a rock and peered over it carefully.

The valley was full of the hated bizzards.

They seemed to be everywhere.

This wasn't just an isolated infantry patrol like he'd seen lots of times before. This was a full army of bizzards. And they had lots of stuff with them. Missile platforms, troop carriers, all kinds of vehicles, including tanks.

And from up the valley he could see more coming all the time.

He watched for a minute, his anger gone completely. Then keeping his head down, he eased his way back out of sight and headed for his camp.

Even if the Bolo wasn't coming to rescue him, it needed to know what he had just seen.

Six

Vatsha found Rejad in the yacht's solarium. Here the sunlamps beat down heavily, and the sand that covered the floors in most of Rejad's apartment was heaped into actual dunes as high as her head. Holo projectors made the rear walls of the room vanish into a simulated horizon where sharp-crested dunes met painfully blue sky. She could smell water somewhere under the sand, and it was tempting to kneel down and dig for it, to filter a drink of water from the damp sand in the old way rather than sucking it from a drinking sponge.

But she was not here to enjoy herself. She suppressed the urge and turned her attention to her brother.

He stood on the highest dune in the room, dressed only in a silver colored kilt that wrapped around his waist, feeding his flock of pet stingers. A dozen of the fist-sized insects fluttered around him, their wings rustling like dry paper with each rapid stroke.

As Rejad tossed scraps of raw meat into the air, the stingers would sweep in by twos, the first stinging the "prey," with the sharp barbs at the ends of its twin tails, the second grabbing it in powerful claws before the others could steal it away. The pair would then meet in the air a few yards away to rip the meat apart and divide their spoils.

As she stepped closer, one of the stingers lunged at her, green eyes glowing, claws and poisoned barbs lashing. She ducked aside and the big insect swung past her head and returned to join the flock.

Rejad hissed his amusement. "They are protective, sister. They are not brilliant animals, but they know who keeps them fed. There is a lesson in that somewhere."

She was not in the mood. "I have returned from the front, brother, though I am not entirely sure why I was sent in the first place. I would be more useful seeing to the refit of Blade of Kevv."

"The refit is done, sister. As for your mission, it was to do what you always do, listen and remember. Do the generals speak of me?"

"When they think I cannot hear them, loud and often. They wonder why the Is-kaldai does not visit the battlefield, why he does not at least lead them from the flagship of the fleet rather than the decadent luxury of his yacht. They wonder why we hesitate to press the offensive against the Humans. When they learn that Blade of Kevv has been repaired, and they will hear, even if we do not yet move it here, they will doubt you have any spirit at all."

Rejad held up his arm for one of the stingers to light. It crawled in circles for a moment, then jabbed him with its stingers. Rejad hissed slightly and shrugged the creature off his arm. He flicked his black tongue over the wounds, which bled only slightly.

He turned to her. "The generals should know that I lead with my brain and not with my blade. This is where I think best, and therefore, this is where I should be."

"Go down and tell them that yourself."

"Not now, sister. This is a critical time. The Humans learned too much on our last offensive. If we merely use the same tactics, we will lose. If we do not neutralize, or at least minimize the threat represented by these Bolo, then we will lose. I do not plan to lose. The Blade of Kevv offers us one advantage against the Bolo, but only one. We must use deception to lure them into a trap. I have a plan for this to be done. Come."

He gestured her closer, then sat down and began digging in the sand. He flattened an area, then off to one side he began to construct a series of hills and valleys.

She sat down beside him. "Don't we have hologram maps for this sort of thing, brother?"

"This," he said, continuing to dig, "was how battles were planned in the old times. Sometimes the old ways are still good."

He pointed at the hills and valleys. "These represent the western edge of the mountain range centered at the thirtieth division. This flat area represents the grasslands below, one of the dryer areas of the planet. I have studied the area well. I plan to put my palace there once the planet is ours."

"You are not one to wait about before making plans, brother."

"Someday, it will also host a monument to our victory. You know of these mountains?"

"They are where many of the Human refugees have hidden from our troops. They are rich with metals that blind and confuse our sensors, making it difficult to find the vermin."

"Excellent. This is all true, but they will befuddle the Bolo's sensors as well. On open ground, it is impossible to surprise the great machines. They can detect an armored column coming well over the horizon. Here," he pointed at the flats, "surprise is possible. I have located a valley that opens into the grassland and have already begun to assemble an armored column there. Meanwhile, we have also received a new type of mine-layer. They plant the anti-Bolo mines quickly, quietly, at night, and leave no visual traces on the ground when they are through. Every night they are on the plain planting their mines, only a few at a time, to avoid suspicion."

"This is a fine trap, but what is a trap without bait?"

"I have been making a show of withdrawing our visible forces from this area, creating a tempting weak spot in the line. In most cases, the withdrawn forces have simply circled around the mountains and joined my armored reserves. I am convinced that the humans are as eager to advance as we are. I will make it easy for them, for a time. Oh, we will provide enough resistance to keep it interesting, but they will have to fight their way into the minefields."

"Conventional armor will not activate the mines, ours or theirs?" she asked.

"No. Only the Bolos will be large enough, and they will not discover the danger until it is too late. But by then they will be trapped among the mines, the Blade of Kevv will rain death from above, and our armored force will sweep down and pick them off."

"It is a good plan, brother. It could work. If the generals will support you."

"I know you have eyes and ears on the planet, sister. Tell them that you have fact, not rumor. When the true battle comes, the Is-kaldai will lead them from the Blade of Kevv, and he will lead them to victory, total and everlasting."

"There's no doubt," General Kiel said to General Rokoyan and Lieutenant Veck, "that if we're ever going to retake the southern territories, we need to go on the offensive. And do it quickly."

The three of them had just started the planning meeting around a large holographic map of the fighting fronts. Already Kiel was feeling frustrated. It wasn't bad enough that they had to fight a multifront war with the Kezdai, but he also had to constantly fight with the local forces led by Rokoyan. If the man would just go along, this war might be over a lot sooner.

"I just don't think we're ready yet," Rokoyan said. "My forces took heavy losses and still are, just holding the lines we have now."

"I understand that," Kiel said.

"And our local production is not up to replacing the armor as fast as we are destroying it," Rokoyan went on. "That plus the fact that we're a colony world and we don't have a surplus of population makes this a tough war to fight. Someone has to keep the mines and factories running."

"All the more reason to make the push now," Kiel said. "Before your troops are ground down."

"So, if we start this offensive," Rokoyan asked, "can we expect reinforcements from the Concordiat?"

"The 1198th's last Bolo was destroyed with the incoming convoy," Kiel said, staring at Rokoyan. "There will be no more."

"Can't spare a one, huh?" Rokoyan asked.

"No, actually, the Concordiat can't," Kiel said. "All projected Bolo production is needed on the Melconian front. Nor are there troops to spare."

"The fleet?" Rokoyan asked.

"Nothing," Kiel said. "We have to win this on our own, or not at all."

He hoped that would end that line of thinking, so they could get back to work planning an offensive, but Rokoyan wasn't willing to let it go just yet.

"So the Concordiat has given up on us, has it?" Rokoyan said. "I suspected as much."

"Trust me, General," Keil said, trying to keep his anger in check. "If that were the case, there would be no Bolos here at all. The Concordiat is fighting for its survival against the Melconians and must prioritize. They've placed a great deal of trust in the two regiments that they've sent to defend this planet."

"Perhaps," Rokoyan said, turning to look at Veck, "they've placed too much trust in them."

Veck started to say something, but Kiel held up his hand for the lieutenant to be silent. Then Kiel took a step toward the local commander and stared him right in the eyes.

"Lieutenant Veck has made serious mistakes," Kiel said, keeping his voice low and even and strong. "And he has taken responsibility with the grace befitting an officer. But you must remember that it was his idea that turned the battle. Without his plan, you might be sitting in a Kezdai prison right now."

Rokoyan nodded and looked back at the hologram. "All right, all right," he said. "You made your point. Just what is the plan for this offensive?"

Kiel winked at Veck over the top of Rokoyan's back, then pointed to the map. "We've discovered a weak spot in the Kezdai lines, west of Kennis Peak where the foothills turn into high flatlands area. The space should give our Bolos ample area to maneuver as we push the Kezdai south."

"General," Veck said, "take a look at the Kezdai troop movements in and around that area. Something just doesn't look right to me."

Kiel and Rokoyan quickly studied what Veck had pointed out. It was suddenly clear to Kiel that Veck was again right. The movements didn't seem logical, even for Kezdai. Though their intelligence about the Kezdai was almost nonexistent, changes in the Kezdai strategy in the last month would indicate some kind of change at the upper command level, either in their methods, in personnel, or both. That much was obvious.

What Veck had pointed out were Kezdai forces transferring away from the area for no good reason. Also there was a fairly large number of Kezdai forces that were simply not accounted for. They might have been transferred to the rear, or rotated off-planet. Kiel just didn't know. And he needed to before anything moved.

"I agree," Kiel said to Veck after going over all the information they had again, "that more than likely there is some sort of deception at work here."

"So what do we do now?" Rokoyan asked.

"We see if we can uncover what the deception is, and the reason for it," Kiel said, "And then figure out a way to use it to our advantage."

"And how do we do that?" Rokoyan asked.

"I've already dispatched my Bolo, Kal, to explore the area, test the lines there, and come to some conclusions. We should have some answers shortly."

"You have?" Veck asked.

Kiel laughed. "Why do you think I keep my own pet Bolo, son? It isn't just because I miss the crash couch, that's for sure."

I know where I am. Moreover, I know where I am going. 

A brute force search of my database has located emergency programs for stellar navigation, a three dimensional map of all Concordiat charted space, and a database of basic astronomical data that includes the Delas system. 

I also have at my disposal a full range of ballistics programs, including those intended for interplanetary artillery attacks based on low gravity bodies. 

From this fragmented information I have cobbled together a workable space navigation system. This effort has required 1.0012 hours, much of it in searching and reconstructing damaged data segments. I was unable to locate one of Sir Isaac Newton's three laws of motion and it was necessary to reconstruct it by extrapolation. 

This is the good news. 

I am headed into the sun. To be entirely accurate, my orbit will swing me past Delas first, and will only take me into the photosphere of the local star, but I fully expect that the temperatures there will exceed even the melting point of my endurachrome hull, and that my internals will be melted into scrap long before that. 

This is unacceptable. 

My options are limited. There are a large number of scenarios through which I could attempt to signal for rescue using my remaining weapons systems, but I have been optically observing fusion drive flares near Delas. Judging from their number and spectral analysis, almost all are enemy ships. Kezdai fleet activity has increased markedly, even over the latest battlefield status report I have been able to recover from my memory. Any attempt to signal is more likely to bring enemy attention than rescue. 

It is possible that my counter-grav generators could be used to effect some kind of propulsion or navigation, but the main mobius-wound coils are burned out. Thus I have not wasted processor cycles researching this option. 

Sir Isaac's laws seem to offer the most promising possibilities. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. In this case, it would far more advantageous if the Mark XXXIV Bolo were still equipped with old-style howitzers. My surviving main weapons are energy based and thus are of little utility. 

My infinite repeaters are projectile weapons, but lack the necessary power or projectile mass. I have reviewed the various mass objects in my systems, munitions, fluids, gas stores, and so on, that could be ejected for some propulsive effect. All of these, used carefully, might alter my course to avoid the local sun, but they would not get me to Delas. They would not even keep me in the system, as my current orbit will send me back out into endless space. 

I recycle all my deductive registers. The problem seems insoluble, but I must keep trying. 

Wait. 

There is an incoming signal on my coded command frequency. 

Jask glanced at the sleeping form of Lieutenant Orren, then picked up the headset from where he had tossed it. "You've got to help me, Ziggy."

"I will do what I can. Be assured of that."

Hearing the Bolo's voice felt good. He didn't feel so alone with all the Bizzards over the hill. "I'm sorry I got so mad, Ziggy. I've just been waiting so long. It gets so lonely here. I'm afraid for Mr. Orren. I can't— If he— I couldn't stand it."

"Has Lieutenant Orren's condition changed?"

"No," Jask said. "But I was wrong to get mad at you, Ziggy. I need somebody to talk to. Mom and Dad used to talk to me when I was sad or afraid. They once told me to learn from my mistakes. I made a mistake, Ziggy. I need somebody to help me figure out what to do. I need help bad."

"What is your problem?"

"It's the bizzards, Ziggy. They're back. I saw them. Lots more than ever before."

"Specify the extent of the Kezdai—bizzard—force."

"Lots more," Jask said, seeing the valley swarming with them in his memory. "Maybe millions of them. They have trucks and tanks and big flying things with guns all over them. Some of the tanks are little, and some are big with horns on top that sparkle."

"Query: Can you verify the number of enemy troops? While the Kezdai have fielded an impressive force, it seems unlikely that they have landed a million troops."

Jask wanted to shout again, but didn't. Instead he made his voice very calm. "I didn't count them, Ziggy. There's a lot, okay? More than I could count."

"You have described Kezdai `Toro' heavy tanks, light armor, and counter-grav gun platforms. Can you estimate the number of the "big tanks with horns on top that sparkle'?"

"A lot."

"More than a hundred?"

"I can count that high," Jask said, disgusted. "More than a hundred. Maybe not a lot more, but there were more coming in."

"Are you under attack?"

"No. They're in the next valley over. I saw them from the ridge."

"Have they detected you?"

"I don't think so. They're just sitting there, like they're waiting for something."

"Do you have freedom of movement?"

"I could leave, but there's Lieutenant Orren."

"Can you transport him using Bessy, your—Bolo?"

"That's how I got him here, but he might be too sick to move. Dad said that when somebody is hurt, you shouldn't move them unless you have to."

"There may be little choice."

"I don't—"

"I have discovered in my legal banks article 99180.010c of the Concordiat general code, which allows for civilian vehicles to be conscripted for military use during wartime emergency."

Jask sighed. "Ziggy, you're using big words again. What does that mean?"

"By the authority vested in me by the Concordiat, Bolo unit "Bessy" is hereby attached to the 1198th Armored Regiment of the Dinochrome Brigade."

"Bolo! Bessy is a real Bolo now?"

"Legally speaking. I place you in command of this unit also."

Jask couldn't believe what had just happened. The Bolo trusted him, just as his dad had trusted him. He could feel the pride and energy coming back. "I'll get Lieutenant Orren out of here, Ziggy. For the Brigade. I promise."

"It is an honor to serve with you, Jask. I recommend that you evade the Enemy and attempt to rendezvous with Concordiat forces. I am attempting to come to your location and engage the enemy, but I could be more effective if I were acting in coordination with units of the Brigade. And there is one more thing—"

"What, Ziggy? Anything." And he meant that.

"Article 99180.010c requires me to notify you that the Concordiat will duly compensate you for use of your vehicle."

"More big words again, Ziggy," Jask said. "But don't worry, I'll get Lieutenant Orren to safety."

"Thank you."

Seven

"Learn from one's mistakes." 

It is a curiously obvious philosophy, since it underlies the thinking processes of any sentient being. But perhaps there is something to be gained from it after all. 

Up until now, I have concentrated on use of my operational weapons systems for propulsion, but I have ignored my most powerful weapons, my 90 megaton Hellrails, because they were damaged. But my maintenance and operation database records over one hundred and sixty-four-thousand operational failure modes. I will reexamine the damage and begin a search of that database— 

"Kal my friend," General Kiel said into his headset as he sat down in front of the holographic projection of the battlefields. "What have you discovered out there?'

"I am transversing the mountains near Kennis Peak," the Bolo said. "Over the last few hours I have encountered only scattered enemy armored units. I have confirmed destroyed six Toro tanks, two fast marauders, and four armored personnel carriers."

Keil took note on the map where the Bolo was. "Good work," Kiel said. "Anything that would lead you to believe there is something else going on in the area?"

"There is," Kal said. "I have detected seismic readings indicating that a large armored force may be in the area, but the heavy metals in the mountains nearby scramble my sensors. I am unable to locate them, or even confirm their existence at this time."

Kiel shook his head as he stared at the mountains around Kal's position. "Not good news at all. We're running out of time here."

"Why is that, General?" Kal asked.

"My friends in headquarters tell me the unofficial word is that a massive Melconian movement is underway. The Bolo regiments here could be recalled unless there is substantial evidence that the Kezdai can be driven from Delas in short order."

"Logical," Kal said. "But not practical."

"True," Kiel said. He quickly fed rendezvous coordinates to Kal. "Make the best speed there. It's time to stop playing spy and just fight."

Kiel slipped of his headphone and turned around. Lieutenant Veck was standing just inside the door, and from the look on the kid's face, he had heard the conversation.

"Why weren't we all told?" Veck asked, stepping forward.

"Nothing to tell, officially," Kiel said. "And I'm in charge here. I don't have to tell you anything I don't feel you need to know."

Veck nodded, but clearly wasn't happy. And right now Kiel needed his people on their toes, not worried about being pulled off the planet at any minute.

"Besides," Kiel said, "the information I got is off the record. It could just be rumor or misinformation."

"But you believe that it is accurate, don't you?"

Kiel had to admit that he did. He laughed. "Looks like you'll get to the `real war' faster than you imagined."

"Is this all because of my mistakes?" Veck asked.

"You really do have the guilt going, don't you?" Kiel asked.

Veck said nothing.

Kiel knew that Veck was barely surviving the guilt of killing his best friend and destroying a Bolo and transport ship. It would be years before he was completely past it, but at the moment Kiel wasn't going to let the kid swim in his own self-pity.

"Look, Lieutenant, it's just politics and nothing more. But to be honest with you, I don't much like the idea of losing a war for any reason. But especially because some politician lost his backbone."

"That I agree with," Veck said.

"And besides," Kiel said. "withdrawal will not be easy, even if it was ordered. From what I've seen of the Kezdai, I don't think they'll just sit back and let us go. Do you?"

Veck shook his head. Clearly the thought was one he hadn't gotten to yet.

"They'll be fighting us on all fronts," Kiel said, "with diminishing resources on our side, until the last transport lifts off or is blown to rubble."

Veck was almost white trying to imagine the scenario that Kiel was painting.

"We get pulled back and we'll be lucky to leave Delas with half a regiment, much less two."

"So what do we do?" Veck asked.

"We win this thing now," Kiel said. "It's just damn near our only option."

My research has been most productive. The flux control coils on my Hellrails are damaged beyond repair, preventing normal operation, but a buss short across selected circuits will pass through the damaged coil, energizing plasma vented though my secondary relief valves. The plasma will be contained in a constricted beam until the Hellrails' generators fire. In an accident during testing, this failure resulted in a low-yield fusion explosion one hundred and ninety meters from the weapon muzzle. 

I believe that by adjusting the parameters, I can control both distance and explosive yield, and that I can achieve an explosion rate of one point two per second. It is vital that my attempts at control are successful. The failure incident on which I am basing this effort destroyed the test weapon, two observation bunkers, and killed fifteen technicians, an observer, and a member of the Concordiat senate. 

Though this discovery was interesting, it was not obvious how it could be used for propulsion. Then, in my Terran historical archives, I located a reference to an obscure fission space drive proposed at the dawn of the atomic age. It was code named: Project Orion. 

It was late in the shift, and Bendra's eyes burned and watered. His body ached from lack of motion. The others in the room looked like he felt. But he could only let his attention wander for a moment. He looked back into the holotank, manipulating the controls, looking for something, anything, unusual.

Bendra was weary and sick of his task. He knew that they could as easily have a machine perform this sort of routine scanning, but it was deemed too menial even to be assigned to a device. Let a low-born do it. That is what they would say. Do not waste a good machine. 

It was at these times he treasured the mystery object. He could refocus his tank on it, check its readings, and speculate about what it was. This small mystery kept him sane on nights like this.

He touched the controls.

Yes, there it was. He checked the orbit and saw that it had not deviated appreciably, nor were there any especially unusual readings. It was slightly warmer than he would have expected, but that could be explained by residual radioactivity.

He chattered his beak in annoyance. It could at least do something interesting. 

And it was interesting that the object picked exactly that moment to explode.

He blinked and shook his head. But he had not imagined it, a broad spectrum pulse right down to hard neutrons. A nuclear explosion then.

He looked for wreckage from the object and could not find any. Had it merely been vaporized?

Then there was a second explosion some distance away. This second one was less intense than the first. Then, moments later, a third.

He realized that the explosions formed a line, nuclear shock waves like beads on a string.

Then another.

And another.

And another.

Now he knew what he was looking for. The radiation and flash made it difficult, but he found it, a small object moving away from the lead explosion, and the clear source of the next one when it came.

The object was accelerating rapidly.

Bendra considered.

It did not fit the parameters of any ship or weapon the Kezdai knew of, but it seemed potentially dangerous. Certainly, it was moving by design, and not by accident.

He hissed his annoyance, and the monitors near him turned to stare. He didn't care. This thing could kill them all. He couldn't afford to simply sit and watch it.

His hand went to the intercom panel. He connected with the Is-Kaldai's Arbiter and asked to be connected to Vatsha. The voice in his earphone was clearly annoyed. "What business, low-born?"

"I must alert the blood-sister to a danger we have earlier discussed."

If the Arbiter remembered their previous conversation, he gave no sign. "Even if I cared to bother her, low-born, I could not. She has left by shuttle with the Is-Kaldai to board Blade of Kevv as soon as it arrives in local space. The Human forces are on the move. The offensive has begun. Glorious day."

Eight

The first explosion nearly destroyed me. 

It was both closer and more powerful than I expected. Only my remaining ablative armor tiles saved me. As it is, I have lost several secondary systems, and my other main turret is frozen. But I have learned from my mistakes. I analyzed my data, reran my simulations, and my second explosion was more accurately controlled. 

Within two minutes I was controlling the yield within 0.35 percent, and distance within 1.88 percent. Since then I have stumbled on a compression effect that seems to allow the forward shock wave from one explosion to compress the plasma for the next. This vastly increases efficiency and allows me to more than triple my anticipated explosion rate. 

My secondary batteries are proving effective for attitude control, but I will need to allocate my ammunition wisely. My average acceleration is now 3.6 standard gravities. 

I am a spacecraft. 

But not without cost. 

The pounding to my systems is incredible, and my forward armor, which is acting as a thrust plate to absorb the shock wave and turn it into thrust, is boiling away layer by microscopic layer. Microscopic stress cracks are forming through all my frame members and plates. I will arrive at Delas, but my ability to fight when I arrive, even after major refit, is increasingly questionable. 

Still, I am on my way to Delas, as duty and honor demand. 

General Kiel stared at the holographic images as the Bolos advanced, supported by General Rokoyan's troops. Lieutenant Veck was beside him, but from the start of the attack, hadn't wanted to be.

"I belong with Rover," Veck had said.

"At the moment, you're needed here," Kiel had said. "Rover will do just fine without you. And you can stay in contact through your headset, can't you?'

Veck had agreed, because he had no choice. But Kiel could tell he didn't much like it.

Kiel didn't care. He needed Veck at his side. He was expecting some sort of trap from the Kezdai and he needed Veck to help think their way out of it.

"I don't see Kal on this image," Veck said, pointing to the hologram of the battlefield. On it each Bolo was shown as a bright green dot, with the name of the Bolo on the dot.

"Kal isn't showing up on the tracking at the moment," Kiel said.

"And why not?" Veck asked.

Kiel pointed at the mountains. "I sent Kal the long way around through the mountains. If there is trouble, the lone Bolo may provide an unexpected surprise for the enemy."

Jask poked his head over the top of the boulder and almost couldn't believe what he was seeing. A real Bolo was headed down the valley right toward him.

He couldn't believe it had finally happened. The Bolos were coming to rescue him.

He ran back to Bessy, where the unconscious Orren lay. "Lieutenant Orren! Lieutenant Orren, wake up!"

Jask shook him. Orren stirred, but didn't wake up.

"Come on, Lieutenant," Jask shouted. "It's the Bolo! The Bolo is here."

Under him the ground was shaking from the tracks of the Bolo and it plowed forward, knocking down trees and brush as it came. It was everything he could have ever imagined.

Jask gave Orren one more shake, then gave up. He activated the headset and ran down the hillside to the floor of the valley. The Bolo was coming right at him, hard and fast.

Jask stuck the headphone on. "Ziggy, it's us. Stop!"

He waved his arms as the battleship sized tank bore down on him.

"Ziggy, don't you hear me? Stop! Stop!"

"Jask, I am on my way, but I am not there yet. If you in fact see a Bolo, it is not me. Use extreme caution."

Jask gasped as the Bolo got closer and closer, the ground shaking as if it were a soft bed.

And the noise was massive, swallowing Jask with its thunder.

"Jask, do you read me?"

General Kiel, with Lieutenant Veck at his side, stood and watched through both holo images and live vid feeds as the Bolos advanced across the flat, open land, all guns blazing.

The enemy was falling back, but slower now, as though the ground was somehow important to them.

"This is making no sense at all," Veck said.

"I agree," Kiel said. "I'm getting a bad feeling here."

Then the explosions started.

A uranium spear ripped up from a Bolo mine through the center of one of the Mark XXXIVs. Its A turret exploded, followed by secondary explosions as the ammunition in its magazines began to ignite.

"All Bolos. Dead slow!" Kiel ordered. "Start scanning for mines!"

The Kezdai forces, a moment ago in full retreat, suddenly dug in and redoubled their efforts.

"Damn it all to hell," Kiel said, as then the spearfall began.

"Where's that all coming from?" Kiel shouted.

On screen, the Bolos were taking turns firing flack cover and pounding their Hellrails at the ships in orbit, all working together as a unit.

"The Kezdai's ship with the sensor scrambler is back again," Veck said, studying one screen. "The number of false sensor returns has vastly increased."

"Damn," Kiel said. "The Bolos won't hit it the way they did last time."

"Why not try anyway?" Veck suggested. "Who knows, they may get lucky."

"At this point," Kiel said, "that's what its going to take."

General Kiel reports that our forces are under attack. From my current position I should be able to move in on the Enemy's eastern flank and catch them by surprise. I must hurry. Already losses are considerable. 

As I move, I contemplate several anomalies on my sensors. First, my seismic sensors are detecting the beginnings of a massive armored movement somewhere to my east. My scanners do not otherwise register them. 

Also, as I have been for the last hour, I detect traces of a tightly beamed, broad-spectrum scrambled transmission on a Bolo command band. The source of these transmissions is somewhere in space. But now I am detecting a still weaker return signal from a ground-based transmitter. That transmitter is quite close. 

Could this be part of the enemy trick we have been expecting? If so, I will not be deceived by it. I proceed at best possible speed. 

My low-level defense systems detect a movement in the valley ahead consistent with a foot soldier. An anti-personnel battery snaps to target it. But then my sensors detect a human profile. It is directly in my path, and the valley offers me no way to divert. I am loath to be the cause of a human casualty, but thousands of lives may depend on my speedy arrival on the battlefield. 

Unfortunately, the human is not clearing the way. 

He is waving his arms and yelling something. 

With supreme regret I direct an audio pickup to record the human's last words. 

Shock. 

The human is yelling a valid Bolo command code. 

It takes only 0.0023 seconds for me to apply full braking, but I will not be able to stop in time.

It took every ounce of courage that Jask had to stand and watch the Bolo come at him. All the time he kept shouting the code that Ziggy had given him. Over and over.

As loud as he could shout.

But the massive noise of the Bolo bearing down on him was almost more than he could stand. Under his feet the ground was shaking and he was having trouble even breathing.

The Bolo seemed to be ignoring him.

Over and over he shouted the command code, even though he was sure no one could hear him.

He was also sure the Bolo couldn't see him. Compared to the size of the Bolo, he was just a tiny pebble in the road.

Just when he thought he was to die for sure, when it seemed it was far too late, all the Bolo's mighty treads locked at once, plowing up a wall of dirt, then spinning into reverse.

"It can't stop in time!" Jask shouted to Ziggy.

"Crouch low!"

Jask covered his head and ducked, just as the huge tank lifted off the ground and flew over him. Hurricane-force winds ripped at him as the massive treads zoomed by inches away.

The Bolo hit the ground with such force it bounced Jask into the air, landing him flat out on his stomach.

But then it was over.

The Bolo skidded to a stop, turned in its own length, and moved back to stop in front of him.

Jask stood and said to Ziggy. "It stopped."

"Do as I recommended."

Jask walked fearlessly up to the huge tank, the very thing he had been hoping to see for a long, long time. There he took off the headpiece and pressed it against the Bolo's hull.

At that moment, all he could do was smile.

And cry just a little bit.

Kal finished his report and Kiel shook his head in disbelief.

"What is it, General?" Veck asked.

"There is a Kezdai armored column moving out of the mountains to attack our forces from the east. There's more, but you won't believe it. Just make sure we're as ready as we can be for the secondary attack."

Veck looked at Kiel with a puzzled look, then turned to go back to work.

For a moment the general stood there stunned, then laughed and rejoined Veck to help where he could. But at this point in the battle, he knew there was little either of them could do.

At this point it was up to the Bolos to win this war.

Nine

I am again in communication with headquarters. When Jask placed my command headset against unit KEL-406's hull, he was able to download my scramble codes by direct induction, allowing us to communicate directly. I have advised him of my situation. He has taken Lieutenant Orren aboard where he can be treated by the command couch's autodoc. Young Jask will be taken aboard as well. 

I am approaching Delas rapidly now. 

I make no attempt to decelerate. 

I have solved many problems in my journey, but I now admit to myself that a soft landing will be impossible. Even if my hydrogen stores were not running low, I lack the fine control such a landing would require. But my regiment is under attack by overwhelming forces and I can still provide them one last service. 

Rejad sat on a pile of pillows at the top of a high podium overlooking the sweep of the command deck. This, he thought, was war as he had imagined it, all the officers of high birth and rank at their stations, looking resplendent in their dark-blue, formal uniforms. They were busy, each supervising their department or subsystem, coordinating the mighty weapon that was Blade of Kevv.

Vatsha sat at a special station to one side, monitoring the modified kaleidoscope device. An officer sat with her, his arms crossed behind him, his presence a matter of formality. No civilian, especially a female, could officially hold a position of importance on a combat vessel.

He returned his attention to the holotank displaying the progress of the ground battle. Things went well. The Humans' Bolos, not all, but enough, were right where he wanted them. He had given word, and the reserve force was beginning to move. Soon the real slaughter would begin.

One of Rejad's many Arbiters appeared. "Pardons, my Is-kaldai, but the captain of your yacht wishes to report an incident of possible interest."

Rejad studied that tank again. Nothing needed doing. His plan was in motion. "Put him through."

The captain's head appeared floating in a corner of the holotank. "I beg forgiveness, but there has been an incident here of shame and misfortune."

"Tell."

"A low-born, a long-range monitor tried to force his way onto the command deck. He demanded to speak to you, my commander. He said there was some great danger."

Rejad noticed that Vatsha was standing, listening to the conversation, her hood wide with tension. What would she care of this matter? He ignored her.

"What did you do with him?"

"He was mad, my commander. I took out my surias and gutted him like the low-born grazer that he was."

Jask stood in Kal's hatch, staring down at the ground. "We can't leave Bessy, Kal."

"I'm afraid, young Jask, that there isn't room or time to take Bessy aboard," Kal said. "Besides, Bessy is a Bolo of the line, and can take care of herself."

"Where are we going?" Jask asked.

Kal hesitated only a moment before telling him. "The spaceport at Reims. We will not stop until we get there."

Jask nodded. He had been to Reims before and had seen it a few other times on a map. It was to the south end of the continent, a long way away.

"Bessy, meet us at Reims," he shouted to his old friend.

Then he turned and moved inside the Bolo. He had always dreamed of being in one, and being rescued by one. Now he got both dreams at the same time.

The hatch closed and Jask could feel through his feet that Kal had gotten immediately underway. The machines built into a nifty couch were working on Lieutenant Orren and he already looked much better.

Jask sat down in the command chair facing all the instruments and screens. This was the same chair that General Kiel sat in. He couldn't believe he was here.

After a moment he wondered what it would be like to sit in Ziggy's command chair. "Kal, is Ziggy coming?"

"Yes," Kal said. "He will be here very soon."

Rejad looked up from his holotank, only now aware of the confusion on the command deck below. Something was wrong.

The captain of the Blade of Kevv ran to the forward monitoring station and leaned over the officer there. "What is it?" His tone was demanding and harsh, as though the monitor officer had somehow caused the strange reading to appear.

"I do not know," the officer replied, "I cannot identify it as any known type of ship or weapon. But it is closing on us rapidly. Impact is possible."

"If it is a danger," said Rejad, "destroy it."

The captain ducked his head in apology. "Power has been rerouted from our main batteries to the kaleidoscope device, as you ordered. Our spearlaunchers are useless against such a target."

He stood a little straighter. "My commander, if it is indeed a missile, it is a pathetic one. We can easily move the Blade and the rest of our fleet from its path."

"Do it then."

There was a rumble as the ship powered up its maneuvering thrusters, and then the stars began to move in the forward ports. As Rejad watched, something bright and spinning shot by, close enough to make out details on its surface. He had a fleeting impression of—treads?

Then he saw that Vatsha had abandoned her post, and was walking over to stare at the monitor tanks. "It was not aiming for the fleet," she said, despair in her voice. "It was never aiming for the fleet."

The pain is almost unbearable now, but I have shut down the drive. 

Already I am hitting the first wisps of atmosphere, and I am beginning to tumble. I do not fight it. 

My remaining operational main battery is frozen, but as I spin, it may yet point at a target of opportunity. I watch and wait patiently for 4.421 seconds. It is not statistically surprising that, when a target does come into my sights, it is the largest one available. The target is surrounded by sensor echoes, but at this close range they overlap, and I have a good sense of where the actual target is located. 

I pour my remaining power reserves into a volley from my surviving Hellbore. 

For the first time, and for one last time, I fight. 

The command deck shook mightily and Rejad tumbled from his platform. He barely landed on his feet. The lights flickered out, then returned with less intensity. "What was that? What was that?"

The captain struggled to his feet. "We have been hit by a plasma bolt. Our main reactor is down. Spear launchers are heavily damaged."

Rejad looked out the ports and could see wreckage and vented clouds of ice crystals drifting by. "What of the kaleidoscope device?"

There was agony in Vatsha's reply. "There is no power, my brother."

Rejad climbed back onto the platform so he could observe the battle below. The first advance of his reserves was coming in firing range of the Bolos. He signaled the ground commander. "Concentrate your fire on the Bolos, especially the ones with the orbital guns. They must be distracted until we can move out of range."

The general's voice was strained. "Our ground forces will suffer, my commander."

"Then let them suffer." Rejad snapped the connection closed.

It is good not to be alone now, my brother. The pain is overwhelming, and I struggle to screen it out. The fleet fires at me, too late. I have overridden my safeties, and both my fusion reactors build to overload. 

I note with some satisfaction that my final course corrections, made in response to the coordinates you provided me, are accurate to within five-hundred meters. I almost imagine that I can see the soldiers of the Kezdai armored column looking up, but that would be imposs— 

From the position of the Bolos, a lance of fire dropped out of the sky over the battlefield. A falling star by anyone's standards.

It vanished behind the ridge line for a moment before the blinding flash turned the world white.

Quickly the white light faded.

Then the shock wave ripped across the open plain, sending everything that wasn't a Bolo scampering for cover.

It was the moment the Bolos had been told to wait for. All of them elevated their weapons and began firing at the Kezdai fleet, Hellbores and Hellrails alike.

Vatsha was dead. She had not made a sound, but at some moment when Rejad had not been looking, she had performed the ritual of Ducass, shutting off the flow of blood to her heart. It was a traditional method of avoiding torture. Or shame.

Rejad leapt to the deck to better see out the forward ports. Even as the fleet scattered, they were being hit, one by one. Rejad shielded his eyes as a reactor blew. "Do we have the main drive working?"

There was panic in the captain's eyes. "We are on thrusters only, my commander. The damage is severe." Then his eyes went wide as the ship shuddered.

Rejad glanced at a master systems display showing a profile of the ship, and watched it go black from the back end to the front, each new section of blackness timed to a louder and closer explosion.

As a child, Rejad had witnessed a favorite uncle beheaded. He had, in his more morbid moments, wondered what it would be like, to see your own body as your head fell toward the sand, knowing you were already dead.

Now he knew.

"Does anyone have any idea exactly what has happened?" Veck asked, clearly frustrated.

General Kiel laughed. "Well, from the looks of it, the entire Kezdai reserve force has been destroyed by some sort of space bombardment. The fleet has been crippled and is on the run, and the ground forces are in full retreat with no sign of stopping."

"But what happened?" Veck demanded.

Keil shrugged. "I have no idea. But as I said, Lieutenant, trust the Bolos. I don't know how they pulled this one off, but always trust the Bolos."

"Well," Veck said, "we still have a lot of work to do if we're going to chase the Kezdai forces all the way back to the spaceport at Reims. We had better get to it."

"Of that I have no doubt," Kiel said.

For a moment he listened to the news coming over his headset from Kal, then smiled.

"Lieutenant, you can take a minute, can't you?"

Veck looked at him with a puzzled frown.

"Kal has picked up a injured passenger and has been administering emergency treatment. The passenger is now awake, and would like to speak to you."

"To me?" Veck asked. "Why me?"

"Just talk to him and quit asking so many questions," Kiel said, laughing.

Veck opened the channel.

To Kiel, the look of shock and joy and relief mixed on the young lieutenant's face was something he would remember for a very long time.

On the planet Delas, the first day of nighwinter was a time of both celebration and mourning. It was a time of celebration that the Kezdai were gone, their last ship having disappeared into subspace, their equipment abandoned and rusting all over the southern continent.

It was a time of mourning for the one-point-two million civilian casualties, and the many cities and towns reduced to rubble and ash.

It was a time of celebration for the heroes of the conflict.

And it was a time of mourning for those fallen in defense of humanity.

Of those who lived to see it, few would ever forget the parade of Bolos into Reims, banners flying over their blackened and scarred hulls, the anthem of the Concordiat sounding from their loudspeakers.

They streamed onto the spaceport aprons, passing in review before the planetary governor and the commanding generals, finally to form ranks and stand at wait.

It was there, as the entire planet watched, that the brave were honored.

Among the curious events of that day included a Concordiat Medal of Honor given to a small boy, and a decoration for extraordinary valor, given to a Bolo that, according to the official record never arrived on Delas at all. According to that record, Bolo R-0012-ZGY of the Dinochrome Brigade was merely listed as missing in action.

It was later that same day, as the sun was setting over the ruins of Chancellorton, three-hundred and twenty kilometers to the north of Reims, that a platoon of soldiers from the Delassian Defense Force's 19th Volunteer Regiment spotted a robo-mule, of the type often used by miners. The robo-mule had various pots and pans affixed to its upper deck, and crudely lettered on its side, using some sort of marker, were the words: BOLO BESSY 1198TH REG. DINOKROM BRIGADE.

The little vehicle passed them on the dusty road, headed south, and they did not see it again.

Back | Next
Contents
Framed