Miles to Go
Bolos 03 - The Triumphant
(1995)*
David Weber

Contents

	Chapter One
	Chapter Two
	Chapter Three
	Chapter Four
	Chapter Five
	Chapter Six
	Chapter Seven
	Chapter Eight
	Chapter Nine
	Chapter Ten
	Chapter Eleven
	Chapter Twelve
	Chapter Thirteen
	Chapter Fourteen
	Chapter Fifteen
	Chapter Sixteen
	Chapter Seventeen
	Chapter Eighteen

Chapter One

	I rouse from Low-Level Autonomous Stand-By to Normal Readiness for my regularly scheduled update. Awareness spreads through me, and I devote 0.0347 seconds to standard diagnostic checks. All systems report nominal, but I detect an anomaly in Number Twenty-One Bogie in my aft outboard port tread and activate a depot sensor to scan my suspension. A parikha, one of the creatures the colonists of Santa Cruz erroneously call “birds,” has built its nest in the upper angle of the bogie wheel torsion arm. This indicates that the depot’s environmental integrity has been breached, and I command the central computer to execute an examination of all access points. 

	The depot computer net lacks my own awareness, but it is an efficient system within its limitations and locates the environmental breach in 3.0062 seconds. Maintenance and Repair’s Number Seventy-Three Ventilator’s cover has been forced open by an intruding cable-vine, thus permitting the parikha to gain access. I command the depot computer to dispatch auto mechs to repair the hatch cover. A further 0.000004 seconds of analysis suggests to me that the possibility of such an occurrence should have been allowed for in the depot computer’s original programming, and I devote 0.0035 seconds to the creation of fresh execution files to establish continuous monitoring of all depot access points and to enable automatic repair responses in the event of future failures in integrity. 

	These actions have consumed 3.044404 seconds since resumption of Normal Alert Readiness, and I return to my initial examination of the parikha nest. Its presence constitutes no impediment to combat efficiency, yet the sensor detects live young in the nest. I devote an additional 0.0072 seconds to consideration of alternatives, then command the depot computer’s remotes to remove the nest and transfer it to an exterior position of safety near the repaired ventilator cover. I receipt the depot computer’s acknowledgment of my instructions and turn to a second phase Situation Update.

	My internal chrono confirms that 49 years, 8 months, 3 days, 21 hours, 17 minutes, and 14.6 seconds, Standard Reckoning, have now elapsed since my Commander ordered me to assume Low-Level Autonomous Stand-By to await her replacement. This is an unacceptable period for a unit of the Line to remain in active duty status without human supervision, and I check the depot com files once more. No updated SitRep or other message to explain the delay has been receipted during my time at Stand-By, and I allocate another 4.062 seconds to consideration of possible explanations. Despite this extensive analysis, I remain unable to extrapolate the reason for the delay with certainty, yet I compute a probability of 87.632 percent that my Commander was correct in her observation that Sector HQ considers my planet of assignment “the backside of nowhere in particular.” 

	Whatever its reasons, Sector HQ clearly has attached no urgency to detailing a new Commander. This conclusion is disturbing, and I allocate an additional 2.007 seconds to deliberation of potential responses on my part. My Autonomous Decision Protocols grant me the discretion to break com silence and dispatch an interrogative signal to Sector Central in conditions of Priority Four or greater urgency, yet my analysis of satellite data and commercial com traffic to and from Santa Cruz reveals no indication of current or near-future threats to my assigned station. Absent such threats, I must grudgingly concede that there is, in fact, no overriding urgency in the arrival of my new Commander. 

	I make a note in my active memory files to reconsider this decision yet again during my next scheduled Normal Alert period and revert to Autonomous Stand-By. 

Chapter Two

	Lorenco Esteban stepped out of his office into the humid oven of a Santa Cruz summer afternoon and scratched his head as a tiny spacecraft slid down towards Santa Cruz’s weed-grown landing apron. The immense plain of ceramacrete stretched away in all directions, vast enough to handle even the largest Navy cargo shuttle, but it was occupied only by a single dilapidated tramp freighter in the livery of the Sternenwelt Line. The tramp was already cleared for departure with a full cargo of wine-melons, and given her purser’s persistent—and irritating—efforts to negotiate some sort of real estate deal, Esteban was heartily ready for her to clear the field. Not that she was placing any strain on Santa Cruz’s basing facilities. 

	No one was quite certain why Santa Cruz had been given such a large field in the first place. It dated from the First Quern War, and conventional wisdom held that the Navy had planned to use Santa Cruz as a staging area against the Quern. That was only a guess, of course, though it made sense, given the Santa Cruz System’s spatial location. 

	If the Navy had so intended, its plans had fallen through, yet the incongruously enormous field remained, though only a fraction of it was used with any sort of regularity. Ciudad Bolivar, Santa Cruz’s capital and only real city, lay fifteen kilometers to the northwest, just outside the old Navy Reservation. The area to the immediate northeast was a vast expanse of melon fields—most of which belonged to Esteban himself—and few people visited the field under normal circumstances. Despite the Sternenwelt officer’s efforts to buy up crop land, there was little about the sleepy farming planet to attract even casual commerce. Wine-melons brought a decent price, but only a decent one, and no official presence had ever shown even a passing interest in Esteban’s homeworld. Until today, at least, he thought, and scratched his head harder as he recognized the Concordiat Navy insignia on the incoming shuttle’s nose. 

	It looked like one of the new Skyhawk three-man shuttles, though he couldn’t be certain. He’d never actually seen one, only read about them in the periodic updates the Navy still sent to the attention of “CO FLT BASE SANCRUZ.” In his own mind, Esteban was positive the computers on the other end of those updates had no idea who the current “Commanding Officer, Fleet Base Santa Cruz” was. He hoped they didn’t, anyway. The probability that Concordiat officialdom had simply forgotten Santa Cruz’s existence was much less disturbing than the possibility that the Navy considered a farmer with no military background and who’d never been off-planet in his entire seventy years a suitable CO for anything, much less a “fleet base.” 

	Now he watched the Skyhawk (if that was what it was) deploy its landing legs and settle gracefully onto them. From what he’d read of the Skyhawks, they were hyper-capable for short hops—no more than forty or fifty light-years—and that made a certain degree of sense. The shuttle could have made the run from Ursula, the sector capital, under its own power without diverting a regular vessel from some useful duty. Of course, that left the question of just why the Navy would go to the bother of sending anyone to Santa Cruz in the first place. 

	The hatch popped, and Esteban ambled over as a trim, wiry man in an immaculate uniform swung down the hull handholds. Esteban couldn’t place the uniform, though something about it tugged at the back of his memory, and he paused with his hands in his pockets as the newcomer jumped the last meter and a half to the ceramacrete and stood looking about him. 

	“Morning, stranger.” 

	The uniformed man turned at the greeting. He said nothing, but Esteban took his hands from his pockets when those cold, grey eyes met his. It wasn’t anything the stranger did. There was just something about those eyes, as if they’d seen too much, done too much, that sent a faint and formless chill down Esteban’s spine. The stranger’s gaze held his for a moment, and then the mouth below those eyes smiled pleasantly. 

	“Good morning,” its owner replied. “Could you tell me where I might find the field officer of the day?” 

	“Shoot, son, you’re lookin’ at him.” Esteban grinned wryly. “Officer of the day, maintenance chief, approach officer, and customs inspector in one. That’s me.” He held out his hand. “Lorenco Esteban, at your service.” 

	“Merrit,” the stranger said in a peculiar voice, then shook himself and took the proffered hand. “Captain Paul Merrit, Dinochrome Brigade. Ah, let me be sure I understand this. You’re the entire base ops staff?” Esteban nodded. “The whole thing?” Merrit pressed. 

	Esteban nodded again and opened his mouth, but the sudden, raucous whine of the Sternenwelt tramp freighter’s counter-grav units drowned his voice. Both men turned to watch the battered ship climb heavenward, and Esteban saw Captain Merrit wince as the vibrations from the poorly tuned drive assaulted his inner ear. Esteban himself was accustomed to the sort of casually maintained vessels which (infrequently) visited Santa Cruz, and he only shook his head until the tramp rose beyond earshot, then turned back to his visitor. 

	“Yep, I’m all they is, Captain. You seem sorta surprised,” he observed. 

	“Surprised?” Merrit’s smile was small and tight this time. “You might say that. According to my brief, a Commander Albright is supposed to be in charge here.” 

	“Albright?” It was Esteban’s turn to be surprised. “Heck, Captain, Old Man Albright died, um, let me see. That’d be . . . that’s right, thirty-two T-years ago, come June. You mean t’say Sector thinks he’s still alive?” 

	“They certainly do.” 

	“Well ain’t that just like a buncha bureaucrats.” Esteban shook his head in disgusted resignation. “I commed Ursula Central personally when he died so sudden like. He asked me t’kinda look after things till his relief got here, on account of my place’s just over the hill yonder and I used t’ help him keep the beacon on-line and like that, but I never expected to ‘look after’ ’em this long.” 

	“You informed Central?” Merrit seemed to find that even more surprising than the news that Albright was dead. “How?” 

	“Sure I did. ’Course, I had to use civilian channels. Old Albright didn’t last long enough t’give me command access to his official files—it was a heart attack, an’ iffen I hadn’t been here when it happened, he wouldn’t even’a had time to ask me t’look after the field—so I couldn’t use his Fleet com. But I musta sent nigh a dozen commercial band messages the first couple’a years.” He tugged on an earlobe and frowned. “Now I think on it though, I’ll be danged if anyone ever said a word back t’me ’bout anything. They just keep on sendin’ stuff t’the ‘base CO,’ never even by name. You don’t think those fool chip-shufflers back on Ursula—?” 

	“That’s exactly what I think,” Merrit sighed. “Somebody, somewhere may have receipted your messages, but they never got filed officially. Central thinks Albright’s still in command here.” 

	“But the old man’d be over a hunnert an’ twenty by now!” Esteban objected. “That’s a mite old for an active duty assignment, ain’t it?” 

	“Yes, it is,” Merrit said grimly, then sighed again, straightened his shoulders, and managed a wry little smile. “Mister Esteban, I’m afraid your planet hasn’t had much priority back at Central. For some reason we still haven’t figured out, Santa Cruz was set up with a dedicated high security com link when the Navy put in its installations here. That link doesn’t exist anymore, but no one told the communications computers it didn’t.” 

	“Meanin’?” 

	“Meaning the automated com sections haven’t accepted any update from you because it didn’t have the proper security codes. In fact, they’ve been systematically deleting any messages that pertained to the Santa Cruz Detachment from memory because they didn’t carry valid security headers. That seems to be what’s been happening, anyway, though no one noticed it was until very recently. Put simply, Mister Esteban, Central isn’t exactly current on the situation here.” 

	“If you say so, I’ll believe you, son,” Esteban said, “but durned iffen I can see how even Central could expect someone Old Man Albright’s age t’handle a job like this. I mean, shoot, it ain’t like there’s a lot of business—” he gestured at the vast field, occupied now in solitary splendor only by the Skyhawk “—but poor old Albright was pretty nigh past it while I was still in high school, iffen you know what I mean.” 

	“I know exactly what you mean. Unfortunately, the original records on Santa Cruz went up when the Quern hit the Sector Bolo Maintenance Central Depot on Ursula during the First Quern War. That’s when Central lost the Santa Cruz Detachment’s dedicated com-link, as well. They’ve taken steps to reactivate the link now, but anything you’ve gotten from the Navy must have come in over the all-units general information net.” 

	“So you’re sayin’—?” 

	“That no one at Central knew how long Commander Albright had been out here . . . among other things.” 

	“You know, Captain,” Esteban said slowly, “the way you said ‘among other things’ kinda makes me wonder when the second shoe’s gonna drop.” 

	“Really?” This time Merrit’s smile held an edge of true humor, albeit a bit bitter. “Well, I hope it won’t make too many waves when it falls, Mister Esteban.” He raised his wrist com to his mouth. “Lieutenant Timmons?” 

	“Yes, Captain?” a female—and very young—voice replied. 

	“You have now accomplished your solemn responsibility to deliver me to my new duty station, Lieutenant. If you’ll be good enough to unload my personal gear, you can get back to civilization.” 

	“Are you sure about that, sir?” the voice asked. 

	“Yes, unfortunately. I would, however, appreciate your informing Central that their records are even more, ah, dated than I warned them they were. Tell Brigadier Wincizki I’ll update him as soon as I can.” 

	“If you say so, sir,” Lieutenant Timmons agreed. “Popping Bay One.” 

	A hatch slid open as Timmons spoke, and a cargo arm lowered two bulky gravity skids to the ceramacrete. Merrit pressed a button on his wrist com, and both skids rose three centimeters from the paving and hummed quietly off towards the faded admin building. The captain watched them go, then nodded to Esteban, and the two men walked off after them while the hatch slid shut once more. 

	“Clear of drive zone, Lieutenant,” Merrit said into the com. “Have a nice trip.” 

	“Thank you, sir, and, um, good luck.” Timmons sounded a bit dubious, but the shuttle rose on a high, smooth whine of counter-grav. It arrowed up into the cloudless sky with far more gentility than the freighter, then vanished, and Esteban looked at Merrit. 

	“Pardon me iffen I seem nosy, Captain, but did you say Santa Cruz’s your duty station?” 

	“I did.” 

	“But iffen you expected Albright t’still be in command, they must not’a sent you out t’take over field ops—not that I’d mind, you understand—and danged if I c’n think what else you might be needed for.” 

	“That, Mister Esteban, is a question I’ve asked myself quite a few times over the last year or so,” Merrit agreed with yet another of those oddly grim smiles. “While Central may not have noticed Commander Albright’s demise, however, it has finally noticed another little oversight. I’m here to inspect the Bolo and assume command if it’s still operational.” 

	“The Bolo?” Esteban stopped dead, staring at Merrit in disbelief, and the captain raised his eyebrows in polite question. The older man gaped at him for almost a full minute, then shook himself. “What Bolo?” he asked in a more normal voice, and it was Merrit’s turn to frown in surprise. 

	“Bolo Two-Three-Baker-Zero-Zero-Seven-Five NKE,” he said mildly. 

	“Y’mean t’say there’s a Bolo on Santa Cruz?” Esteban demanded. 

	“According to Central there is, although—” Merrit surveyed the age-worn field with a sardonic eye “—Central does seem to be a little confused on several points, now doesn’t it?” 

	“But what in tarnation is a Bolo doin’ here?” 

	“We’re not entirely certain,” Merrit admitted, “but the records we do have seem to indicate that it was deployed to Santa Cruz early in the First Quern War.” 

	“That must’a been dang near eighty years ago!” Esteban protested. 

	“Seventy-nine years and ten months, as a matter of fact,” Merrit agreed. Esteban just stared at him, and the captain shrugged. “I told you Central’s records went up in the Quern raid, Mister Esteban, but HQ’s best guess is that it was deployed here to deter the Quern from raiding 

	Santa Cruz. I realize it was a bit before both our times, but the initial Quern attacks took the Navy completely by surprise. We lost control of two-thirds of the sector before we could get enough capital ships in here to take it back, and the sector governor of the time may have been afraid the Quern would hit Santa Cruz before the Navy could restore the situation.” 

	“Hit Santa Cruz? Why in tarnation would anyone want t’raid us?” Esteban waved both arms at the decaying landing field. “Ain’t never been anything here worth stealing, Captain. This here’s the backside of nowhere.” 

	“Not really.” Esteban blinked as Merrit disagreed with him. “Oh, you’ve always been a farming world, and I’m not saying there was ever anything here worth raiding for, but your system’s in a fairly strategic spot. The Navy’s pre-war strategic planning had included the possibility of using Santa Cruz to stage operations against the Quern, you know. Until Hillman and Sixth Fleet smashed their spearhead at Quellok and obviated the need to, that is.” 

	“Maybe,” Esteban said dubiously, then chuckled. “ ’Course, even if that was true then, there ain’t no cause for anyone t’be interested in us now, now is there? I mean, there ain’t no more Quern t’operate against!” 

	“That’s true, I suppose. On the other hand, now that they’ve charted the jump points to open up the Esterhazy Sector, you may see a lot more shipping moving through here.” The two men had reached the welcome shade of the admin building, and Merrit paused to sweep his eyes back over the field. “Santa Cruz is well placed as a natural transfer point for cargoes and passengers moving through to Esterhazy—or, for that matter, down from the Camperdown Sector—and you’ve certainly got a nice big field.” 

	“Wouldn’t happen t’be that’s why Central finally got around t’taking a look our way, would it?” Esteban asked shrewdly. 

	“It could be, Mister Esteban. It could indeed be. In the meantime, however, I have my own responsibilities to look after. Is there anywhere around here I could rent or borrow a vehicle?” 

	“Shoot, son, I can do better’n that,” Esteban said with a huge grin. “Seeing as how I’m the base CO and all, I reckon I can let you use the vehicle park. I got a nice little recon skimmer I can let you have.” 

	“You do?” Merrit sounded surprised, and Esteban’s grin grew still broader. 

	“ ’Course I do. I might not’a known anything ’bout your Bolo, Captain, but when the Navy pulled out, they left most’a their base vehicles behind in the depot over there. We’ve even got most of a battalion of old Wolverine heavy tanks tucked away in there.” 

	“They’re still operable?” 

	“Accordin’ t’the depot diagnostics they are. The Militia—what there is of it—trains with ’em every four, five months. Don’t see any harm in it. After all, they’re as outa date as the whole field is, and iffen the Navy was interested in ’em, it shoulda taken ’em with it when it pulled everything else out. Still, I promised old Albright I’d look after ’em for him. Old fellow was always pretty decent—taught me a lot about ’tronics and system maintenance when I was a snot-nosed kid—so I figured it was the least I could do for him.” 

	“Well, in that case, I’ll take you up on that skimmer, Mister Esteban,” Merrit said. 

	“Lorenco, Captain,” Esteban said, holding out his hand once more. “We don’t stand much on formality out here, and iffen you’re gonna become a Cruzan, y’might as well get comfortable.” 

Chapter Three

	Merrit double-checked the skimmer’s IFF transponder as the surface portion of the depot bunker came into sight. The depot was buried in otherwise virgin jungle over a hundred kilometers from the field, and he wondered why it hadn’t been installed right at the fleet base, given that the initial idea had been to deter attacks and that any attacker would make the field and Ciudad Bolivar his first objectives. Of course, there was no reason for the depot’s location to make any more sense than any of the rest of the Santa Cruz Detachment’s puzzles. 

	He studied the skimmer’s radar map of the terrain below him. From the looks of things, the depot’s inconvenient distance from the field might have been a security measure of some sort. It was the sole sign of human handiwork for a hundred klicks in any direction, and the surrounding jungle’s steel-cable creepers had overgrown the site almost completely. Not even Santa Cruz flora could break up the six solid meters of ceramacrete that formed the depot’s landing and service apron, yet enormous trees, some well over eighty meters tall, overhung it, and creepers and vines festooned the entire command bunker. The solar power panels were clear—kept that way by the depot’s automatic servo-mechs, he supposed—but the rest of the site was covered in a dense cocoon like Sleeping Beauty’s thorny fortress. 

	His mouth twitched at the thought of Sleeping Beauty. No one (except, perhaps, a member of the Dinochrome Brigade) would call any Bolo a beauty, but his instruments had already confirmed that Bolo XXIII/B-0075-NKE was still active in there, and he hoped the same remotes which had kept the power panels on-line had kept the old war machine from slipping into senility. The emissions he was picking up suggested the Bolo was on Stand-By . . . which was why he’d made damned certain his IFF was functioning. 

	His small smile turned into a frown as he set the skimmer down and surveyed the greenery between him and the bunker’s personnel entrance. According to the fragmentary records Ursula Central had been able to reconstruct, the Bolo’s first (and only) commander had been a Major Marina Stavrakas. He hadn’t been able to find much on her—only that she’d been an R&D specialist, born in the city of Athens on Old Earth itself, and that she’d been forty-six years old when she was assigned here. R&D types seldom drew field command slots, which suggested she’d been grabbed in a hurry for the Bolo’s emergency deployment, but experienced field officer or no, she must have been insane to leave a Bolo permanently on Stand-By. Either that, or, like Commander Albright, she’d died unexpectedly and been unable to change the settings. Either way, a Bolo as old as this was nothing to have sitting around in that mode. 

	Before the improved autonomous discretionary command circuitry that had come on-line with the Mark XXIV, Bolos had a hard time differentiating between “unauthorized” and “hostile” when someone entered their command areas. They’d been self-aware ever since the old Mark XX, but their psychotronics had been hedged around with so many safeguards that they were effectively limited to battlefield analysis and response. From the beginning, some critics had argued that the inhibitory software and hardwired security features had reduced the Bolos’ potential effectiveness by a significant margin, yet the logic behind the original safety measures had been persuasive. 

	The crudity of the initial psychodynamic technology had meant the early self-aware Bolos possessed fairly “bloodthirsty” personalities, and the human technophobia an ancient pre-space writer had dubbed “the Frankenstein Complex” had shaped their programming. Nothing in the known galaxy had thought faster or fought smarter than a Bolo in Battle Reflex Mode; outside direct combat, they’d been granted the initiative of a rock and a literal-mindedness which, coupled with multiple layers of override programming, had made them totally dependent upon humans for direction. When something with the size and firepower of a Bolo was capable of any self-direction, its creators had wanted to make damned sure there were plenty of cutouts in the process to keep it from running amok . . . or to stop it—dead—if it did. 

	The inhibitory software had done just that, but at a price. Full integration of a Bolo’s personality had been possible only in Battle Mode. The division of its cybernetic and psychotronic functions into separate subsystems had been a deliberate part of design security intended to place the Bolo’s full capabilities beyond its own reach except in combat. Effectively, that reduced its “IQ” to a fraction of its total potential even at Normal Alert Readiness, for the huge machines simply were never fully “awake” outside combat. But because the Bolos’ autonomous functions operated solely in Battle Mode, they had, perversely, been more likely, not less, to go rogue if system senility set in. The only thing they’d known how to do on their own was to fight, after all, and if any failing system or corrupted inhibitory command file toggled their autonomy— 

	Merrit suppressed a familiar shiver at the thought of what a Bolo that thought its friends were its enemies could do. It hadn’t happened often, thank God, but once was too many times. That was the main reason the Dinochrome Brigade had spent decades hunting down abandoned and obsolescent Bolos from Mark XX to Mark XXIII and burning out their command centers. Hideously unpopular as that duty had always been with the personnel assigned to it, they’d had no choice. “Sleeping” Bolos were too dangerous to leave lying around, and the cost efficiency people had concluded (with reason, no doubt, if not precisely with compassion) that it would have been too expensive to refit the older Bolos’ psychotronics to modern standards. 

	All of which meant it was probably a very good thing no one on Santa Cruz had remembered this Bolo was here. If anyone had remembered and come hunting for salvage, or even just for a curious peek at the old site, Stavrakas’ Stand-By order would almost certainly have unleashed the Bolo on the “hostiles,” with catastrophic consequences. 

	He sighed and popped the skimmer hatch, then climbed out into the sound of Santa Cruz’s jungle wildlife with a grimace. In a way, he almost wished he were here to burn the Bolo’s command center. It always felt like an act of murder, but the fact that no one had even noticed that Stavrakas and Albright had died seemed a grim portent that this assignment was just as much the end of the road for him as he’d feared. Still, he supposed he should feel lucky to have even this much, he told himself, and sighed again as he reached for the bush knife Esteban had thoughtfully provided. 

	I rouse once more, and additional circuits come on-line as I realize this is not a regularly scheduled Alert cycle. The depot’s passive sensors report the approach of a single small vehicle, and I zero in upon its emissions signature. The forward recon skimmer carries a Navy transponder, but it has not transmitted the proper authorization codes before entering my security perimeter. I compare its transponder code to those stored in the depot’s files, and identification comes back in 0.00032 seconds. It is Commander Jeremiah Albright’s personal vehicle code, yet 0.012 seconds of analysis suggest that it cannot be Commander Albright. Were he still alive, Commander Albright would be one hundred twenty-four years, nine months, and ten days of age, Standard Reckoning, and certainly no longer on active duty. Accordingly, the pilot of the skimmer must be an unknown. It is conceivable that whoever he or she is has acquired the skimmer by unauthorized means—a possibility further suggested by the absence of any authorization code—in which case approach to this site would constitute a hostile intrusion. 

	My Battle Center springs to life as I recognize that possibility, but I initiate no further combat response. My autonomous logic circuits accept the possibility of hostile action, yet they also suggest that the skimmer does not possess the weapons capability to endanger a unit of the Line or the depot. Use of deadly force is therefore contraindicated, and I activate the depot’s external optics. 

	It is, indeed, a recon skimmer, though it no longer bears proper Navy markings. It has been repainted in civilian colors, obscuring any insignia or hull numbers, yet it retains its offensive and defensive systems, and I detect an active sensor suite. Moreover, the uniform of the pilot, while not quite correct, appears to be a variant of that of the Dinochrome Brigade. The piping is the wrong color, yet the Brigade shoulder flash is correct, and it bears the collar pips of a captain of the Line. 

	I study the face of the man who wears it. He is not listed in my files of Brigade personnel, but those files are seventy-nine years, ten months, eleven days, and twenty-two hours, Standard Reckoning, old. Once more, logic suggests the probability—on the order of 99.99 percent—that none of those listed in my files remain on active duty. A secondary probability on the order of 94.375 percent suggests that the uniform discrepancies I detect are also the result of passing time. 

	The captain, if such he truly is, approaches the main personnel entrance to the depot. He carries a bush knife, and, as I watch, begins to clear the local flora from the entry. Clearly he is intent on gaining access, and I devote a full 5.009 seconds to consideration of my options. Conclusion is reached. I will permit him entry and observe his actions before initiating any further action of my own. 

	It took forty minutes of hard, physical labor to clear the entry. Merrit was wringing wet by the time he hacked the last wrist-thick creeper aside, and he muttered a quiet curse at Santa Cruz’s damp heat. No doubt the planet’s farmers welcomed the fertility of its tropical climate, at least when they weren’t fighting tooth and nail against the plant life it spawned, but Merrit was from cold, mountainous Helicon, and he was already sick of the steamy humidity after less than six hours on-planet. 

	He deactivated the bush knife and scrubbed sweat from his eyes, then frowned in concentration as he keyed the admittance code into the alphanumeric pad. It was plain blind luck Central had even had the code. A portion of one of Major Stavrakas’ earlier dispatches had survived the Quern raid in what remained of Central’s high-security data core, and it had contained both the depot entry codes and the command codeword she’d selected for her Bolo. Without both of those, there wouldn’t have been enough brigadiers in the universe to get Paul Merrit this close to a live Bolo. He was no coward, but the notion of confronting something with almost four megaton/seconds of main battery firepower without the ability to identify himself as a friend was hardly appealing. 

	The depot hatch slid open with surprising smoothness, and he raised an eyebrow as the interior lights came on. There was no sign of dust, which suggested the depot remotes must be fully on-line. That was as encouraging as it was unexpected, and he stepped into the air-conditioned coolness with a sigh of gratitude. Someone had hung a directory on the facing wall, and he consulted it briefly, then turned left to head for the command center. 

	I note that the unidentified captain has entered the proper admittance code. This is persuasive, though certainly not conclusive, evidence that his presence is, in fact, authorized. I generate a 62.74 percent probability that Sector HQ has finally dispatched a replacement for my previous Commander, but logic cautions me against leaping to conclusions. I will observe further. 

	The command center hatch opened at a touch, and Merrit blinked at the non-regulation sight which met his eyes. Computer and communication consoles awaited his touch, without a trace of dust, and he was surprised to see the holo display of a full-scale planetary recon system glowing in one corner. Yet welcome as those sights were, they also seemed hopelessly incongruous, for someone had decorated the center. That was the only verb he could think of. Paintings hung on the ceramacrete walls and sculptures in both clay and metal dotted the floor. One entire wall had been transformed into an exquisite mosaic—of Icarus plunging from the heavens, unless he was mistaken—and handwoven rugs covered the floor. None of them impinged on the efficiency of the working area, but they were . . . nonstandard, to say the least. 

	Unusual, yet pleasing to the eye, and he nodded in slow understanding. Even in emergencies, the Dinochrome Brigade didn’t pick dummies as Bolo commanders. Major Stavrakas must have realized she’d been marooned here, and it seemed she’d decided that if Santa Cruz was to be her final duty station, she could at least make the depot as homelike as possible. 

	He shook himself and smiled in appreciation of Stavrakas’ taste and, assuming all of this was her own work, artistic talent. Then he crossed to the central computer console, reached for the keyboard . . . and jumped ten centimeters into the air when a soft, soprano voice spoke abruptly. 

	“Warning,” it said. “This is a restricted facility. Unauthorized access is punishable by not less than twenty years imprisonment. Please identify yourself.” 

	Merrit’s head snapped around, seeking the speaker which had produced that polite, melodious voice. He didn’t see it, but he did see the bright red warning light under the four-millimeter power rifle which had just unhoused itself from the wall above the console to aim directly between his eyes. He stared into its bore for a long, tense second, and the voice spoke again. 

	“Identification is required. Please identify yourself immediately.” 

	“Ah, Merrit,” he said hoarsely, then licked his lips and cleared his throat. “Captain Paul A. Merrit, Dinochrome Brigade, serial number Delta-Bravo-One-Niner-Eight-Zero-Niner-Three-Slash-Five-Bravo-One-One.” 

	“You are not in my personnel files, Captain,” the soprano remarked. He started to reply, but the voice continued before he could. “I compute, however, a probability of niner-niner point niner-niner-three percent that those files are no longer current. Query: Have you been issued a file update for me?” 

	Merrit blinked in disbelief. Even the current Mark XXV Bolo retained the emotionless vocoder settings of the earlier marks and normally referred to itself in the military third person except to its own commander. This voice, however calm and dispassionate it might be, not only used first person but sounded fully human. More than that, it carried what he could only call emotional overtones, and the nature of its questions implied a degree of discretionary autonomy which was impossible even for the Mark XXV except in Battle Mode. 

	On the other hand, he thought, still peering into the power rifle’s muzzle, this was no time to be picky over details. 

	“Yes,” he said after a moment. “I do have a personnel update for you.” 

	“Good,” the voice said—another response which raised Merrit’s eyebrows afresh. “Please understand that no discourtesy is intended, Captain, but the security of this installation requires that no unattested data be input to the master computer system. I therefore request that you enter your data into the secondary terminal beside the door.” 

	“Ah, of course.” 

	Merrit reached very cautiously into his tunic to extract a data chip folio, then turned—equally slowly and carefully—to the indicated console. The power rifle tracked him with a soft, unnerving hum, and his palms were damp as he extracted a chip, fed it into the proper slot, and pressed the key. Then he stepped back and put his hands into his pockets, and a small, wry smile touched his lips as he recognized his own instinctive effort to look as nonthreatening as possible. 

	It seems improper to threaten one who may be my new Commander, yet I am a valuable unit of the Line, and it is my overriding responsibility to prevent any unauthorized personnel from gaining access to my Command Center. Surely Captain Merrit, if he is, indeed, my new Commander, will understand and appreciate my caution. 

	The chip carries the proper identifiers and file headers, and I lower my first stage security fence to scan the data. The chip contains only 36.95 terabytes of information, and I complete my scan in 1.00175 seconds. 

	I am grieved to discover that my original Commander’s file has not been properly maintained, yet the dearth of information upon her confirms her own belief that Sector HQ had “forgotten where they put me” long before her death. It is not proper for a member of the Dinochrome Brigade to be denied her place in its proud history, yet further perusal of the file reveals that the original information on my deployment was lost almost in its entirety. Fortunately, my own memory banks contain full information on both her earlier career and her actions on Santa Cruz, and I resolve to request the upload of that data at the earliest possible moment. 

	In addition to complete SitRep updates on the entire sector, the new data also contains the record of Captain Merrit, and I am impressed. The captain is a warrior. His list of decorations is headed by the Grand Solar Cross, which my records indicate is a posthumous award in 96.35 percent of all cases. In addition, he has received the Concordiat Banner, the Cross of Valor with two clusters, six planetary government awards for heroism which I do not recognize, three wound stripes, and no fewer than eleven campaign medals. 

	Yet I also discover certain disturbing facts in his personnel package. Specifically, Captain Merrit has been court-martialled, officially reprimanded, and reduced in rank from the permanent grade of major (acting grade of brigadier) to permanent grade of captain for striking a superior officer. I am astonished that he was not dishonorably discharged for such an act, yet 0.0046 seconds of consideration suggest that his previous exemplary record may explain the fact that he was not. 

	I complete my preliminary study of the data and reactivate the Control Center speaker. 

	“Thank you, sir,” the soprano voice said, and Merrit breathed a sigh of relief as the power rifle politely deflected itself from its rock-steady bead on his head. The red warning light below it didn’t go out, nor did the weapon retract into its housing, but he recognized tentative acceptance in its change of aim. Of course, none of that explained how such an early mark of Bolo could be doing all this. It should either have activated and obliterated him upon arrival or waited passively for him to activate it. This controlled, self-directed response was totally outside the parameters for a Mark XXIII. 

	“Query: Have you been assigned as my Commander?” the soprano voice asked, and he nodded. 

	“I have.” 

	“Identifier command phrase required.” 

	“Leonidas,” Merrit replied, and held his breath, then— 

	“Unit Two-Three-Baker-Zero-Zero-Seven-Five NKE of the Line awaiting orders, Commander,” the voice said calmly, and the red light on the power rifle went out at last. 

Chapter Four

	The depot’s main vehicle chamber was a vast, dim cavern, yet for all its size and cool, gently circulating air, Merrit felt almost claustrophobic as he stared up at the first Bolo Mark XXIII he’d ever seen. He’d studied the readouts on the model in preparation for this assignment, but aside from a handful buried in the reserve forces of smaller sectors, the Mark XXIII had been withdrawn from service thirty years before. None of which made the huge war machine any less impressive. 

	The Mark XXIV and XXV, the only Bolos he’d ever served with, were both at least a thousand tons lighter than this. They were only marginally less heavily armed, yet the molecular circuitry and smaller, more efficient power plants which had come in with the Mark XXIV allowed more firepower to be packed into a less massive hull. But Bolo XXIII/B-0075-NKE was far older than they, and measured almost seventy-five meters from its clifflike prow to the bulbous housings of its stern anti-personnel clusters. Its interleaved bogie wheels were five meters in diameter, and the tops of the massive, back-to-back turrets for its twin eighty-centimeter Hellbores towered thirty meters above the fused ceramacrete of the chamber floor. 

	It was immaculate, like some perfectly preserved memorial from a lost era. The hexagonal scales of its multilayered ceramic antiplasma armor appliqués were the mottled green and brown of standard jungle camouflage, though Merrit had always questioned the practicality of applying visual camouflage to fifteen thousand tons of mobile armor and weaponry. 

	He walked slowly around the huge fighting machine, noting the closed ports for its lateral infinite repeater batteries and thirty-centimeter mortars, the high-speed, multibarrel slug throwers and laser clusters of its close-in anti-missile defenses, and the knifelike blades of its phased radar arrays. Optical pickups swiveled to watch him as he circled it, and he smiled—then stopped dead. 

	He stepped closer, brow furrowing in perplexity, but the incongruity didn’t go away. According to the readouts he’d studied, the Mark XXIII had nine infinite repeaters in each lateral battery, and so did XXIII/B-0075-NKE. But there was an extra six or seven meters of hull between InfRpt Three and Four. For that matter, the Bolo’s aft track system had three extra bogies, which suggested that it was at least ten or twelve meters longer than it was supposed to be. 

	He reached out for a handhold and climbed up the hull-mounted rings to the carapace of the missile deck between the twin Hellbore turrets. He paced it off, placing his feet carefully between the slablike armored hatch covers of the vertical launch missile system, then stopped and scratched his head with a grimace. No doubt about it; XXIII/B-0075-NKE was a good fifteen percent longer than any Mark XXIII should have been. Someone had grafted an extra eleven meters into her hull just forward of her VLS. 

	“Zero-Zero-Seven-Five?” 

	“Yes, Commander?” The politely interested soprano voice still seemed totally inappropriate coming from a Bolo, but Merrit had other things to wonder about at the moment. 

	“Tell me, Zero-Zero—” he began, then paused. “Excuse me. Central has no record of what Major Stavrakas called you, Zero-Zero-Seven-Five.” 

	“I am called ‘Nike,’ Commander.” 

	“ ‘Nike,’ ” Merrit murmured. “Goddess of victory. An appropriate name for a Bolo, Nike.” 

	“Thank you, Commander. I have always liked it myself, and I am pleased you approve.” 

	Merrit’s eyebrows rose afresh at the unprompted, very human-sounding remark. A Mark XXIII should have been capable only of previously stored courtesies (outside Battle Reflex Mode, at least), yet he was beginning to suspect what lay behind those responses. It wasn’t possible, of course, but still— 

	“Tell me, Nike, what exact mark of Bolo are you?” he asked. 

	“I am a Bolo Invincibilis, Mark XXIII, Model B (Experimental), Commander,” the soprano voice replied. 

	“Experimental?” Merrit repeated. 

	“Affirmative, Commander.” 

	“How experimental?” he prompted tautly. 

	“I am a prototype.” The Bolo sounded calmer than ever beside the tension in his own voice. “As part of the Enhanced Combat Capabilities Program, my Command Center and Personality Integration psychodynamics were fitted with a secondary decision cortex with experimental interfaces and increased heuristic capacity to augment autonomous and discretionary functions.” 

	“A brain box,” Merrit whispered. “Dear God, that must be it. The first brain box ever fitted to a Bolo!” He went to his knees and rested one hand almost reverently on the massively armored deck. 

	“Excuse me, Commander, but the meaning of your last comment is unclear.” 

	“What?” Merrit shook himself, then raised his head and smiled into the nearest optical head. “Sorry, Nike, but I had no idea I’d find this. You’re the ‘missing link.’ ” 

	“I fear your meaning continues to elude me, Commander,” the Bolo said a bit reproachfully, and Merrit grinned. 

	“Sorry,” he said again, and seated himself on the bracket of a turret-mounted whip antenna. “You see, Nike, before you came along—for that matter, for something like thirty years after you came along, now that I think about it—Bolos were self-aware, but their full autonomous capabilities were available to them only in Battle Mode. They were . . . circumscribed and restricted. Are you with me so far?” 

	“Yes, Commander.” 

	“Of course you are!” Merrit chuckled and patted the leviathan’s armored flank. “But that’s because you were the next step, Nike. We knew the first experimental work had been done here in the Ursula Sector just before the Quern Wars, but the Quern got through to Ursula during the First War. They shot up Bolo Central so badly that most of the original research and hardware was destroyed, and then the pressure they put on us deferred the whole program for over thirty years, until after the Third Quern War. We needed more Bolos as fast as we could get them, so the official Mark XXIIIs were simply up-gunned and up-armored Mark XXIIs to simplify series production. But you weren’t, were you? God! I wonder how your programming differs from what they finally mounted in the Mark XXIV?” 

	“I fear I can offer no information on that subject, Commander,” the Bolo said almost apologetically. 

	“Don’t worry about it, Nike. I’m sure we can figure it out together once I dig into the depot records. But what I can’t figure out is what you’re doing here? How did you wind up on Santa Cruz?” 

	“I was deployed directly from Ursula Central.” 

	“I know that, but why?” 

	“I was selected for extended field test of the new and enhanced systems and software,” the soprano voice said. “As such, I was mated with an automated repair and maintenance depot designed to support the test program and further field modifications. Santa Cruz had been selected as the test site well before the planet came under threat from the Quern, for which reason it had been equipped with proper landing field and other support facilities. At the outbreak of hostilities, my deployment was simply expedited. The test program was postponed, and I was placed on immediate active duty under the command of Major Marina Stavrakas, senior project officer for Project Descartes.” 

	“She was the project chief for Descartes?!” 

	“Affirmative, Commander.” 

	“My God,” Merrit breathed. “They managed to reconstruct maybe twenty percent of the Descartes Team’s original logs after the wars, but they were so badly damaged we never knew who’d headed the team in the first place. She was brilliant, Nike—brilliant! And she ended up lost and forgotten on a farming planet in the middle of nowhere.” He shook his head again, eyes bright and sparkling with a delight he’d never expected to feel in this assignment, and stroked the Bolo’s armored flank again. 

	“I wonder what she tucked away inside you? Somehow I can’t quite picture the woman who headed the original Descartes Team not tinkering a bit once she’d figured out Central had ‘lost’ her. She did continue the project on her own, didn’t she?” 

	“Affirmative, Commander,” the Bolo confirmed calmly. 

	“Well, well, well, well,” he murmured. “I can see this assignment is going to be lots more interesting than I expected. And—” a devilish twinkle had replaced the cold weariness in his eyes “—I don’t see any reason to share my discoveries with Central just yet. After all, they knew where you were and forgot about it, so why remind them? They’d just send out rafts of specialists to take you away from me. They might even decide to take you apart to see just how you tick.” He shook his head and gave the armored hull another pat. “No, Nike. I think you can just go on being our little secret for a while longer.” 

Chapter Five

	“Well?” 

	The silver-haired woman behind the immense desk was perfectly groomed, and her face was the product of the sort of biosculpt available only to people for whom money truly was no object. Unlike the nondescript, somehow subliminally seedy man in the uniform of a Sternenwelt Lines purser, she was perfectly suited to the elegant office, yet there was a coldness in her eyes, and her smile held a honed duralloy edge that beaded the purser’s forehead with sweat. 

	“I’m sorry, Madam Osterwelt,” he said, “but they won’t sell.” The woman said nothing, only gazed at him, and he swallowed. “I upped the offer to the maximum authorized amount,” he said quickly, “but only three or four of them were even interested.” 

	“You assured us that your local knowledge of the sector suited you for the job. That we could rely upon your good offices to attain success.” The woman’s mild tone was conversational, and he swallowed again, harder. 

	“I was certain they’d sell, ma’am. We were offering them ten years of income for a successful melon grower!” 

	“An attractive offer,” the woman conceded. “Yet you say they refused it. Why?” 

	“I-I’m not certain, ma’am,” the purser said unhappily. 

	“They must have given some indication,” she pointed out, and he nodded. 

	“As near as I could figure it out, they simply didn’t want the money, ma’am. I talked to old Esteban, the yokel who runs the field, and he just said his wife, his father, and his grandfather were all buried in the plot behind his house. That . . . that was fairly typical of what all of them said, ma’am.” 

	“Parochialism,” the woman said distastefully. She shook her head, and her tongue made a clicking sound against her teeth. “Regretfully typical of these untutored frontier people. I suppose I ought to have expected it—and you should have anticipated it as well, Mister Bergren.” She cocked her head. “I fear you’ve served us less than satisfactorily in this matter.” 

	“I did my best, Madam Osterwelt!” 

	“I’m sure you did. That’s the problem.” The purser wilted before the chill dispassion of her voice, and she made a weary shooing motion with one hand. “We’ll be in touch, Mister Bergren.” 

	The purser withdrew with obvious relief, and the woman pressed a stud on her desk panel. A discreetly hidden door opened silently within twenty seconds, and an athletic young man walked in. 

	“Yes, Mother?” 

	“You were right about Bergren, Gerald. The man’s an utter incompetent.” 

	“Is he?” 

	“Utterly,” she sighed. “How fortunate that no one knows he was acting for us. In fact, I think it would be a very good idea to take steps to ensure that no one ever does know he was representing our interests.” 

	“I’ll see to it,” Gerald said, and she smiled at him. 

	“A good son is a mother’s greatest treasure.” She sat back in her chair and folded her hands atop the desk while she gazed across the office at the subtly shifting patterns of a light sculpture. “Still, incompetent as he may be, he has put his finger on the nub of the problem, dear. Farmers can be the most stubborn people in the galaxy, and frontier people cherish such boringly predictable attachments to their land. I’m afraid that if they refused the price we authorized him to offer, it’s unlikely they’ll sell to anyone.” 

	“We’ve had that problem before, Mother.” 

	“I realize we have, dear, but alternative methods can be so . . . messy.” She pouted at the light sculpture, then sighed again. “Do you know, the most provoking thing of all is that they don’t even have any idea why we want their little dirt ball.” 

	“No one does yet, Mother. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?” 

	“Perhaps. But I really think I might not mind as much if I were up against an opposition that understood the rules of the game—and the stakes, of course.” 

	“Mother,” the young man said patiently, “their system is the only logical place to become the primary transfer node for the jump points serving three entire sectors. You know it, I know it, and whenever Survey gets around to releasing its new astrography report, every major shipping line will know it. Does it really matter whether they know it or not?” 

	“Don’t forget who taught you everything you know, dear,” his mother replied with an edge of tartness. “It’s really very unbecoming for a son to lecture his mother.” 

	“Was I lecturing?” He smiled and shook his head. “I didn’t mean to. Why don’t we think of it as a case of demonstrating I’ve done my homework?” 

	“You got that from my genes, not your father’s,” she said with a laugh, then shook her own head. “Still, you’re quite right. All that matters is making certain GalCorp owns the only habitable real estate in the system when the time comes. All of it.” She brooded at the light sculpture for a moment longer before she shrugged. “Well, if we have to be messy, I suppose that’s all there is to say about it. Who do you think we should put in charge of it?” 

	“Why not me?” 

	“But you’ve never done any, um, field work, dear.” 

	“Which doesn’t mean I can’t handle it. Besides, we ought to keep the command loop on this one as secure as possible, and every young man should start at the bottom. It helps him appreciate the big picture when he finally winds up at the top. Not—” he smiled again “—that I have any desire to wind up at the top for many more years, Mother.” 

	“Wisdom beyond your years,” she murmured. “Very well, it’s your project. But before you take any steps, be sure you research the situation thoroughly. This sort of thing is seldom as simple as it looks at first glance, and I don’t want my only son to suffer any unpleasant surprises.” 

	“Of course not, Mother. I’ll just pop out to Ursula and spend a few weeks nosing around Sector Central. I’m sure I can find some generous soul with the access to provide the information we need. Who knows? I may even find the ideal people for that messy little job we discussed.” 

Chapter Six

	One week after his arrival on Santa Cruz, Paul Merrit sat back in the comfortable crash couch and rubbed his chin with something very like awe. The screen before him glowed with a complicated schematic any Bolo tech would have given ten years of his life to study, and its design was over fifty years old. Fifty years! Incredible. Working all by herself, with only the resources of a single automated maintenance depot—admittedly a superbly equipped one, but still only a single depot—Marina Stavrakas had developed Nike’s brain box design into one that made the newest Mark XXV’s look clumsy and slow. 

	He tilted the couch back and crossed his legs. More screens and displays glowed around him, filling Nike’s fighting compartment with a dim, shifting luminescence. There were more of them than there would have been in a more modern—well, recent—Bolo. Nike was a modified Mark XXIII, after all; humans needed broader band data interfaces than any Bolo did, and Nike’s basic technology was eighty years old, without more recent updates in human-machine information management systems. But for all that, the compartment was surprisingly spacious. Not only had Nike been the first fully autonomous Bolo, whether anyone knew it or not, but she’d also been the first to incorporate molycirc psychotronics. It was very early generation stuff, considerably bulkier than its more modern equivalents, but Stavrakas had used it in some amazingly innovative ways. What she might have accomplished with the current technologies scarcely bore thinking on. 

	He turned his couch and keyed another screen to life. A forty-nine-year-old time and date display glowed in one corner, and the white-haired woman who appeared on it sat in the same crash couch Merrit now occupied. She was far frailer and older than the single, poor-quality flatpic of Major Stavrakas he’d found in Central’s surviving records, but her olive-dark eyes were still sharp and alert. He’d already played the recording three times, yet he felt a fresh sense of respect, coupled with a regret that he’d never known her, as she began to speak. 

	“Since you’re viewing this—whoever you are—” she said with a wry smile, “someone must’ve finally remembered where they parked Nike and me. I suppose I should be a bit put out with the Brigade and the Navy, but from the little Jeremiah and I have picked up over the all-units channels, we assume the Quern got through to Central.” Her smile faded, and her voice—a soprano remarkably similar to Nike’s—darkened. “I further assume the rest of the Descartes Team must have been lost at the same time, since they all knew where I was.” 

	She cleared her throat and rubbed her temple with one fragile, veined hand. 

	“Jeremiah’s offered to use the commercial bands to request a relief ship with a proper medical officer, but I turned him down. However much he may grump and grouse, Santa Cruz is his home now. I know he really loves it here, and so do I, I suppose. Besides, from the bits and pieces we can pick up, the Quern are still operating in some force in the sector. Given their native habitat, I doubt they’d care much for Santa Cruz’s climate, and I suppose that’s the main reason they’ve never paid us a visit. On the other hand, they might just change their mind if they started intercepting transmissions from us. Nike’s good, but I’d just as soon not match her against a Quern planetary assault force. Even if she won, there wouldn’t be very many surviving Santa Cruzans to cheer for her when it was over.” 

	She lowered her hand and smiled again. 

	“Actually, it hasn’t been a bad life. A little lonely, sometimes. Thanks to all the Descartes security, most of the locals never even knew Nike and I were here, and those who did know seem to have forgotten, but I had dear Jeremiah. He and I accepted long ago that we’d become permanent residents of Santa Cruz, and in addition to him, I had Nike, my work, and plenty of time to spend with all three of them. And, of course,” her smile became an impish grin, “no brass to give me a hard time! Talk about research freedom—!” 

	She chuckled and leaned back to fold thin arms across her chest. 

	“Unfortunately, it would appear I’m finally running out of time. My family’s always been prone to heart trouble, and I’ve had my warning. I’ve discussed it with Nike—she tends to worry, and I’ve made it a habit to be honest with her—and she understands the depot doesn’t stock the sort of spares I need. I’ve also made arrangements to put her on Autonomous Stand-By if—when—the time comes. I’m certain someone somewhere else has picked up where the Descartes Team left off. By now there’s probably a whole new generation of autonomous Bolos out there, but now that you’ve come to relieve me, I think you’ll find Nike still has a few surprises of her own. Take care of her, whoever you are. She’s quite a girl. I’m sure my tinkering is going to raise a few eyebrows—Lord knows the desk-jockeys would tear their hair at the mere thought of some of the capabilities I’ve given her! But I’ve never regretted a single facet of her design. She’s unique . . . and she’s been more than just my friend.” 

	The old woman on the screen sighed. Her smile took on a curious blend of sorrow and deep, abiding pride and affection, and her voice was very soft when she spoke again. 

	“When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, 
	And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field, 
	Thy youth’s proud livery, so gazed on now, 
	Will be a tatter’d weed, of small worth held: 
	Then being ask’d where all thy beauty lies, 
	Where all the treasure of thy lusty days, 
	To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes, 
	Were an ill-fitting shame and thriftless praise. 
	How much more praise deserved thy beauty’s use, 
	If thou couldst answer ‘This fair child of mine 
	Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,’ 
	Proving her beauty by succession thine. 
	This were to be new made when thou art old, 
	And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.” 

	She blinked misty eyes and nodded to the pickup, as if she could actually see him, measure him, know the innermost, most secret part of him. 

	“A tiny misquote, perhaps,” she said quietly, “but I think Shakespeare would forgive me. Take good care of my child, whoever you are.” 

	The screen blanked, and Merrit shook his head, 

	“You must have been quite a girl yourself, Major,” he murmured. 

	“She was,” the Bolo’s soprano said softly, and he looked up at the small green light glowing below the speaker from which it came. Now that he’d seen Stavrakas’ last log entry, it no longer seemed strange to hear Nike speak without prompting. There was a moment of silence, and then the Bolo continued in that same, soft voice. “I never realized I had that message in memory, Commander. She must have recorded it during one of my down periods.” 

	“She didn’t want you to worry about her.” 

	Merrit didn’t even want to think about how the psych types would react to this entire conversation. Every field officer of the Dinochrome Brigade could quote chapter and verse from the manual’s warnings against over-identification with Bolos. They were war machines, the manual said. Self-aware and with personalities, yes, but machines built to fight and die against humanity’s enemies which must, in the final analysis, be regarded as expendable. The Bolos themselves knew that; it was only their human commanders and partners who tended to forget—as Merrit had forgotten on Sandlot. 

	“No. I compute that she would not have wanted that,” Nike agreed after a moment. 

	“Of course she wouldn’t have. But she was proud of you, Nike, and even from the little I’ve seen so far, she had reason to be.” 

	“Indeed?” The Bolo sounded pleased, and somehow he had the sense of a cocked head and a quirked eyebrow. “I compute that seventy-nine-plus years have passed since I was deployed, Commander. Surely newer and more modern Bolos surpass my own capabilities?” 

	“Fishing for compliments, Nike?” Merrit grinned and patted the arm of his crash couch. “Major Stavrakas was right. The desk-jockeys would tear their hair out if they could hear you now!” 

	“Why?” the Bolo asked simply. 

	“Because they worry about Bolos that get too human.” 

	“Because they fear what such a Bolo might do? Or because they fear what it might refuse to do?” 

	“I think because they’re afraid it might start asking questions just like those,” Merrit said more seriously. “You’re a very powerful fighting machine, Nike. There’s never—ever—been an instance of an undamaged Bolo in proper repair violating orders, but we’ve had the occasional accident with a unit that’s suffered damage or lack of maintenance. That’s why the Brigade still worries about its ability to retain control of the newer, autonomous units. They’ve cut back on the inhibitory software in the Mark XXVs, but the core package is still in there.” 

	“A wise precaution,” Nike observed after a moment. “An irrational machine with the combat power I possess would be far too dangerous to its friends.” 

	“I’m afraid I have to agree, but that’s what would upset the desk-jockeys about you. You don’t have anywhere near the systems redundancy the Mark XXIVs and XXVs have. Technically, that makes you more vulnerable to failure from battle damage, and—probably worse, from HQ’s perspective—what I’ve seen so far suggests that Major Stavrakas’ modifications to your Personality and Command Centers are way outside the current parameters, as well. Just for starters, your inhibitory package is a lot less restrictive. No modern Bolo should be as ‘awake’ as you are outside Battle Mode, either, and it looks like your personality integration is at least a full magnitude more developed than a Mark XXV’s. I’m not certain yet, but coupled with the modifications to your secondary command cortex, I suspect you could even hold off the Omega Worm for a while.” 

	“Omega Worm?” 

	“Sorry. That’s current slang for the Total Systems Override Program.” 

	There was a moment of silence—a very human moment which Merrit understood perfectly. The TSORP was the ultimate defense against a rogue Bolo, a suicide file designed to crash every execution file in the memory of any Bolo which disobeyed the direct orders of its properly identified commander. Many Brigade personnel, like Merrit himself, questioned TSORP’s necessity. Since the brain box technology had come in, so many redundant, stand-alone backup systems had been added to the Bolo’s brains that the possibility of irrational behavior virtually no longer existed. And, as he’d just told Nike, no Bolo had ever disobeyed a legal order. But TSORP had been incorporated into the very first self-aware Bolos and every Bolo since, and it could not be a pleasant thing to know an involuntary suicide override controlled by others was part of your basic matrix. 

	“I believe you are correct, Commander,” Nike said after a moment, and his eyebrows rose at her merely thoughtful tone. “I could not resist it indefinitely, of course, yet I compute that the additional processing capability Major Stavrakas installed within my psychotronics would allow me to delay file execution for no less than forty minutes and possibly for as much as an hour. Does this constitute an unwarrantable risk factor in my design?” 

	“I don’t think so. Of course, given my own record, I may not be the most impartial judge. I guess the risk factor depends on how likely you are to disobey your commander’s orders.” 

	“I am a unit of the Dinochrome Brigade. I would never act against the honor of my Brigade, Commander.” 

	“I know, Nike. I know. I told you I wasn’t worried.” Merrit gave the couch arm one more pat, then rose and yawned hugely. “Sorry, Nike. Unlike you, I don’t have a fusion plant, and it’s been a long day for me. I need some shuteye.” 

	“Of course, Commander.” 

	“Wake me at oh-six-hundred, would you?” 

	“Certainly.” 

	“Thank you.” He smiled and waved to the visual pickup above the main fire control screens. It was a common gesture of courtesy among the men and women who commanded the self-aware war machines of the Dinochrome Brigade, yet it had more meaning than usual for him tonight. The green “System Active” light under the speaker flashed in unmistakable response, and he chuckled wearily and climbed out the hatch. 

	I watch through the depot’s interior optics as my new Commander makes his way down the corridor to the Personnel Section. He is only my second Commander. I am aware that my experiential data is thus insufficient to permit a realistic evaluation of his suitability as Major Stavrakas’ replacement, and he is quite different from my previous Commander, but I feel content. It is good to have a Commander once more, yet this is more than the relief a unit of the Line should feel at receiving a new Commander. There is something about him which I cannot adequately define. I devote a full 20.0571 seconds to an attempt to do so, but without success. Perhaps further acquaintance with him will provide the critical data my analysis presently lacks. 

	I consider what he has said as I watch him prepare for bed. He is correct about the danger an uncontrollable unit of the Line would pose to all about it. My function is to protect and defend humanity, not to threaten my creators, and I feel an odd disquiet at the thought that I am less well protected against that possibility than more modern Bolos. Yet my Commander is also correct in recognizing the remote probability of such a situation. TSORP becomes operational only in units that reject direct orders, and I cannot conceive of a unit of the Line in proper repair which would commit such an act. 

	My Commander extinguishes the lights in his new quarters, and I leave the audio system on-line. Should he wake and desire to communicate with me, I will be ready. 

	He has not instructed me to return to Stand-By to conserve power. In that much, at least, he is like Major Stavrakas. My Main Memory contains much background data on standard operating procedure; I realize how rare this is, and I am grateful for it. The depot power systems are fully charged. I do not even require internal power to maintain Full Alert Status, and I turn to my Library Files with pleasure. 

Chapter Seven

	Gerald Osterwelt didn’t like Ursula. Sector capital or no, the planet, as all planets in the frontier sectors, was terminally uncultured. He preferred the civilized amenities and pleasures of the Core Worlds, yet he comforted himself with the reflection that his task here was worth temporary inconveniences. He supposed it wasn’t really necessary for GalCorp to own the entire Santa Cruz System, but they certainly needed to own enough of it to control the rest, and the original planetary charter had made that difficult. Virgin as much of the planet might still be, most of it was already owned by some descendent of the original colonists or set aside in nature reserves held by the planetary government. Certainly all the choicest bits and pieces were, and GalCorp hadn’t become the third largest transstellar corporation of the Concordiat by settling for leftovers. 

	Unfortunately, his mother had been correct in at least one respect. His original bootlegged copy of Ursula Central’s records on the planet had been less complete than he’d thought. Central had updated itself considerably in the eighteen months since he’d first obtained access to its files, and it seemed Santa Cruz would be a tougher nut for a “messy solution” than he’d originally expected. The fact that the local yokel militia had no less than fourteen Wolverine heavy tanks was unfortunate, but formidable as the Wolverines had been in their day, they were also seventy or eighty years out of date. They could have been dealt with fairly easily if not for the real joker he’d never anticipated finding in the deck. 

	A Bolo. What in the name of sanity was a Bolo doing on a backwoods farming planet? More to the point, how did he go about neutralizing it? 

	Despite his original airy confidence, he knew his mother’s maternal feelings would not suffice to preserve his present clear right of succession to the GalCorp throne if he blew this operation, but discovering a Bolo in the mix made things far more complicated. 

	He sat in the lounge of his palatial hyperyacht while options revolved in his brain. One did not normally—as humanity’s enemies had discovered over the last seven hundred years—employ a brute force solution against a Bolo with any great probability of success. Of course, this Bolo was as out of date as the militia’s Wolverines, but “obsolescent” was a purely relative concept where Bolos were concerned. No, no. If he was going to pull this off, he required a more subtle approach, and it was just possible he had one. Bolos might be incorruptible, but the same, alas, could not always be said for all the people who built or commanded them. 

	Yet even if he could somehow neutralize the Bolo, he would still require someone with the will, the experience, and the resources to deal with the militia’s over-aged armored element. There were plenty of mercenary outfits with the last two qualities, but finding one which was willing to undertake the operation in the first place might prove difficult. The Concordiat Navy would be extremely unhappy with them, and if any planetary survivor could identify them afterward, unhappiness on the Navy’s part could all too easily prove fatal. What he needed was an outfit with minimal scruples and maximum need, one whose greed for the sort of clandestine support GalCorp could provide would overcome both any lingering humanitarian principles and fear of the Navy’s potential response. 

	Finding it wouldn’t be easy, he admitted to himself, but he had time. Survey Command moved with glacial slowness when it came to certifying jump lines. By his most pessimistic estimate, it would be another T-year before the galaxy at large got the information GalCorp had already obtained. That gave him six or even seven months to get things organized, and it would probably take most of that time to find the Bolo’s Achilles heel, anyway. 

	He nodded to himself and brought his encrypted com on-line. The first step was to call home and get Mother’s research teams started finding the contacts he needed. 

Chapter Eight

	The subterranean rumble of an earthquake shook the jungle as the enormous doors covering the depot’s vehicle ramp swept ponderously wide for the first time in eighty years. The patient, insatiable incursions of creepers and small trees had mounded two meters of spongy earth over those doors, and “birds” screamed in alarm as the very ground parted with a huge tearing sound. Trees—some of them ten and twenty meters tall—toppled in slow motion as the gaping wound snapped roots like threads, and then, with the rumble of mighty engines, the squeak of sprockets, and a grating clash of treads, Nike moved majestically into the light. 

	The alloy leviathan paused for a moment, optic heads swiveling to scan its surroundings, and Paul Merrit felt a thrill he hadn’t felt in years as he rode Nike’s crash couch. No self-aware Bolo needed an on-board commander, but there was always an indescribable sense of communion—an adrenaline-charged exhilaration—the first time an officer of the Dinochrome Brigade rode his command’s unstoppable power, and that feeling had never been stronger than it was today, for Nike was like no Bolo he had ever commanded. Marina Stavrakas’ unauthorized modifications to the Descartes Team’s original brain box design had gone far deeper than he’d first realized. She hadn’t stopped with making Nike fully autonomous; she’d taken the step no other Bolo tech had dared take even yet and given her creation—her child—genuine emotions. Nike wasn’t “just” a machine, however magnificent; she was a person, and Merrit could feel her delight as direct sunlight bathed her hull at long last. 

	She stood a moment longer, the humming rumble of her idling engines vibrating through her mammoth hull like the purr of some enormous cat, then moved forward and pivoted regally to port. Her designers had given her the usual Bolo “wide track” suspension, and no less than eight separate tread systems, each with its own power train and tracks five meters wide, supported her massive bulk. Independent quadruple fore and aft suspensions took her weight, spreading it out to reduce ground pressure to an absolute minimum, and even so her tracks sank well over a meter into the damp, rich soil. She forged ahead, plowing through the jungle like the juggernaut she was, and forest titans toppled like straws before her while occasional outcrops of solid rock powdered under her treads. 

	Merrit said nothing. Nike knew where they were going—not that it would be any more than a brief jaunt around the depot’s immediate area—and he had no wish to intrude upon her pleasure. No doubt the psych types would be all hot and bothered over that, as well, but Paul Merrit had had it up to the eyebrows with Brigade Psych Ops, and their potential consternation mattered not at all to him. No, that wasn’t quite true. He would be delighted if it caused them all to drop dead of cardiac arrest on the spot. 

	Nike was moving at barely twenty kph, far too slow a speed to require his couch’s independent shock absorbers or crash frame, but he felt the gentle undulation of her suspension and grinned as he cocked the couch back in its gimbals. If anyone asked (not that they were likely to), he could justify his actions easily enough. Unit Zero-Zero-Seven-Five NKE had been on secondary power from the depot’s systems for eight decades. A test of its running gear and fusion plants was long overdue, and if he had other motives of his own, those were his business, not Psych Ops’! 

	Another huge tree toppled, and, as it fell, one of the large, scaled, lizard cats, the most feared predators of Santa Cruz, leapt suddenly into sight. It crouched before them, staring in disbelief at the enormous intruder into its domain . . . then screamed its challenge and charged the moving mountain of alloy. 

	Merrit couldn’t believe it. A lizard cat was four sinuous meters of vicious fighting power, the absolute ruler of Santa Cruz’s jungles, but surely not even one of them could think it could stop a Bolo! Yet the cat kept coming. He opened his mouth, but Nike halted abruptly on her own, before he could get the order out. The main fire control screen was slaved to her forward optical head, and Merrit frowned as it swept past the lizard cat now ripping futilely at one of her stopped treads with eight-centimeter claws. Ranging bars flickered, closing in on something in the center of the display, and he inhaled in surprise as he realized what that something was. 

	Four scaled shapes, far smaller than the monster trying to savage Nike, lay revealed where the roots of the falling tree had torn out the side of a subterranean den. They were almost as large as Merrit himself, perhaps, yet that was tiny compared to a mature lizard cat, and they turned blind, terrified eyes towards the snarling fury of their dam. 

	The display focused on them for a moment, and then Nike moved slowly backward. The lizard cat tried to fling itself on the moving tread, only to tumble backward with a squall of pain as the Bolo brought up her kinetic interdiction battle screen. She must have it on its lowest possible power setting, since it hadn’t splattered the cat all over the jungle, but it was sufficient to throw the scaly mother safely away from her treads. 

	The lizard cat heaved herself groggily to her feet, swaying for balance, then howled in victory as the threat to her young gave ground. Nike retreated a full hundred meters, then pivoted to her left once more to circle wide, and Merrit shook his head with a wondering smile. Any other Bolo would simply have kept going. Even if it had realized the den lay in its path, that wouldn’t have mattered to it. But no other Bolo he’d ever served with would even have thought to wonder why the cat had attacked in the first place, much less acted to preserve both mother and children. 

	The Bolo started forward once more, skirting the den, and he patted the couch arm. 

	“Nice move, Nike, but how’d you guess? I just thought the critter was out of its mind.” 

	“I have not previously personally encountered a lizard cat,” Nike replied calmly, “but the depot’s computers are tied into the planetary data net. I have thus been able to amass considerable data on Santa 

	Cruzan life forms, yet none of the records available to me suggested a reason for a lizard cat to attack me. I am neither edible nor small enough for it to hope to kill me; as such, it could not regard me as prey, and lizard cats are less territorial than most large predators. They are also noted for their intelligence, and, faced with a foe of my size and power, the only intelligent choice would have been for the creature to flee, yet it did not. Thus the only logical basis for its actions was that it perceived me as a threat it could not evade, yet the lizard cat itself manifestly could have evaded me. That suggested a protective reaction on its part, not one of pure aggression, and that, in turn, suggested investigation to determine the nature of that which it sought to protect.” 

	Merrit shook his head, eyes shining as he listened to the explanation no other Bolo would have been capable of making. 

	“I follow your logic,” he said, “but why stop?” 

	“Your tone suggests what Major Stavrakas called ‘a trick question,’ Commander. Are you, in fact, seeking to test me?” 

	“I suppose I am, but the question still stands. Why didn’t you just keep going?” 

	“There was no need to do so, Commander. No time parameter has been set for this exercise, and avoiding the creature’s den presents no inherent difficulty.” 

	“That’s an explanation of the consequences, Nike. Why did you even consider not continuing straight forward?” 

	He watched an auxiliary display as the mother lizard cat, still snarling after the threat to her cubs, retreated into her half-ruined den, and Nike moved smoothly along her way for perhaps five seconds before she replied. 

	“I did not wish to, Commander. There was no need to destroy that creature or her young, and I did not desire to do so. It would have been . . . wrong.” 

	“Compassion, Nike? For an animal?” 

	There was another moment of silence, and when the Bolo spoke once more, it was not in direct answer. 

	“Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie, 
	O, what a panic’s in thy breastie! 
	Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 
	 Wi’ bickering brattle! 
	I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee, 
	 Wi’ murd’ring pattle!” 

	“What was that?” Merrit wondered aloud. 

	“A poem, Commander. More precisely, the first verse of the poem ‘To a Mouse,’ by Robert Burns, a poet of Old Earth.” 

	“Poetry, Nike?” Merrit stared at the command console in disbelief, and the speaker made a small, soft sound that could only be called a laugh. 

	“Indeed, Commander. Major Stavrakas was a great devotee of humanity’s pre-space poets. My earliest memory here on Santa Cruz is of her reading Homer to me.” 

	“She read poetry to you? She didn’t just feed it into your memory?” 

	“She did that, as well, after I requested her to do so, yet I believe she was correct not to do so immediately. It was her belief that poetry is a social as well as a creative art, a mode of communication which distills the critical essence of the author’s emotions and meaning and makes them transferable to another. As such, it reaches its fullest potential only when shared, knowingly and consciously. Indeed, I believe it is the act of sharing that makes poetry what Major Stavrakas called a ‘soul transfusion,’ and it was her hope that sharing it with me would complete the task of enabling the emotion aspects of my Personality Center.” 

	“And did it?” Merrit asked very softly. 

	“I am not certain. I have attempted to compute the probability that my ‘emotions’ and those of a human are, indeed, comparable, yet I have been unable to do so. My evaluations lack critical data, in that I do not know if I have, in fact, what humans call a ‘soul,’ Commander. But if I do, then poetry speaks directly to it.” 

	“My God,” Merrit whispered, and stared at the console for another long, silent moment. Then he shook himself and spoke very seriously. “Nike, this is a direct order. Do not discuss poetry, your emotions, or souls with anyone else without my express authorization.” 

	“Acknowledged.” For just an instant, Nike’s soprano was almost as flat as any other Bolo’s, but then it returned to normal. “Your order is logged, Commander. Am I permitted to inquire as to the reason for it?” 

	“You most certainly are.” He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “This entire conversation comes under the heading of ‘aberrant behavior’ for a Bolo, Nike. Any Bolo tech would hit every alarm button in sight if he heard you saying things like that, and as soon as he did, they’d shut you down. They’d probably settle for removing your brain from your hull for further study, but I can’t be positive.” 

	“Are you instructing me to deceive our superiors, Commander?” Nike’s tone was undeniably uncomfortable, and Merrit closed his eyes for a moment. 

	“I’m instructing you not to advertise your capabilities until I’ve gotten a handle on all the, um, unauthorized modifications Major Stavrakas made to you,” he said carefully. “In my judgment, you represent an enormous advance in psychotronic technology which must be carefully studied and evaluated, but before I risk trying to convince anyone else of that, I need a better understanding of you of my own. In the meantime, I don’t want you saying—or doing—anything that might prompt some uniformed mental pygmy to wipe your Personality Center in a fit of panic.” 

	The Bolo forged ahead in silence for some moments while she pondered his explanation, and then the green light under the speaker blinked. 

	“Thank you for the explanation, Captain Merrit. You are my Commander, and the order does not contravene any of the regulations in my memory. As such, I will, of course, obey it.” 

	“And you understand the reasoning behind it?” 

	“I do, Commander.” Nike’s voice was much softer, and Merrit sighed in relief. He relaxed in his crash couch, watching the screens as the Bolo slid unstoppably through the jungle, and smiled. 

	“Good, Nike. In the meantime, why not read me a little more poetry?” 

	“Of course, Commander. Do you have a preferred author?” 

	“I’m afraid I don’t know any poems, Nike, much less poets. Perhaps you could select something.” 

	There was another moment of silence as the Bolo considered her 

	Library Memory. Then the speaker made the sound of a politely cleared throat. “Do you speak Greek, Commander?” 

	“Greek?” Merrit frowned. “ ’Fraid not.” 

	“In that case, I shall defer The Iliad for the present,” Nike decided. She pondered a moment—a very long moment for a Bolo—more, then said, “As you are a soldier, perhaps you will appreciate this selection— 

	“I went into a public-’ouse to get a pint o’ beer, 
	The publican ’e up an’ sez, 
	 ‘We serve no red-coats here.’ 
	The girls be’ind the bar they laughed 
	 and giggled fit to die, 
	I outs into the street again an’ to myself sez I: 

	O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, 
	 an ‘Tommy, go away’; 
	But it’s ‘Thank you, Mister Atkins,’ 
	 when the band begins to play, 
	The band begins to play, my boys, 
	 the band begins to play, 
	O it’s ‘Thank you, Mister Atkins,’ 
	 when the band begins to play.” 

	The mighty war machine rolled on through the jungle, and Paul Merrit leaned back in his crash couch and listened in only half-believing delight as the ancient words of Kipling’s timeless protest for all soldiers flowed from Nike’s speaker. 

Chapter Nine

	“All right, mister,” the uniformed man said harshly. “You paid for the beer, so why don’t you just tell me who you are and why you’re bothering?” 

	Gerald Osterwelt cocked his head, and the speaker flushed under the sardonic glint in his eyes. The older man’s hand tightened on his stein, but he didn’t get up and storm out of the dingy bar. Not that Osterwelt had expected him to. Li-Chen Matucek had once attained the rank of brigadier in the Concordiat’s ground forces, and his present uniform was based upon the elegance of a Concordiat general’s, but its braid was frayed and one elbow had been darned. At that, his uniform was in better shape than his “brigade’s” equipment. As down-at-the-heels mercenaries went, “Matucek’s Marauders” would have taken some beating, and their commander hated the shabby picture he knew he presented. It made him sullen, irritable, and bitter, and that suited Osterwelt just fine. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to make it plain from the outset just who held whose leash. 

	“You can call me Mister Scully—Vernon Scully. And as to why I offered you a drink, why, it’s because I’ve heard such good things about you, ‘General’ Matucek,” he purred in a tone whose bite was carefully metered, “In fact, I might have a little business proposition for you. But, of course, if you’re too busy. . . .” 

	He let the sentence trail off, holding Matucek’s eyes derisively, and it was the mercenary who looked away. 

	“What sort of proposition?” he asked after a long moment. 

	“Oh, come now, General! Just what is it you and your people do for a living?” Matucek looked back up, and Osterwelt smiled sweetly. “Why, you kill people, don’t you?” Matucek flushed once more, and Osterwelt’s smile grew still broader. “Of course you do. And, equally of course, that’s what I want you to do for me. As a matter of fact, I want you to kill a great many people for me.” 

	“Who?” Matucek asked bluntly, and Osterwelt nodded. So much for the preliminaries, and thank goodness Matucek, for all his seedy belligerence, saw no need to protest that his people were “soldiers” and not hired killers. No doubt many mercenaries were soldiers; the Marauders weren’t—not anymore, at least—and knowing that they both knew that would save so much time. On the other hand, it wouldn’t do to tell Matucek the target before the hook was firmly set. The man might just decide there’d be more profit, and less risk, in going to the authorities than in taking the job. 

	“We’ll get to that,” Osterwelt said calmly. “First, though, perhaps we should discuss the equipment and capabilities of your organization?” Matucek opened his mouth, but Osterwelt raised a languid hand before he could speak. “Ah, I might just add, General, that I already know what your equipment looks like, so please save us both a little time by not telling me what wonderful shape you’re in.” 

	Matucek shut his mouth with a snap and glowered down into his beer, and Osterwelt sighed. 

	“I have no particular desire to rub salt into any wounds, General Matucek,” he said more gently, “but we may as well both admit that your brigade suffered heavy equipment losses in that unfortunate business on Rhyxnahr.” 

	“Last time I ever take a commission from a bunch of eight-legged starfish!” Matucek snarled by way of answer. “The bastards lied to us, and once we planeted—” 

	“Once you planeted,” Osterwelt interrupted, “they left your brigade to soak up the casualties while they loaded the machine tools and assembly mechs they’d assured you they held clear title to, then departed. Leaving you to explain to the Rhyxnahri—and a Naval investigator—why you’d launched an attack on a Concordiat ally’s homeworld.” He shook his head sadly. “Frankly, General, you were lucky you didn’t all end up in prison.” 

	“It wasn’t my fault! The little bastards said they owned it—even showed us the documentation on it! But that fancy-assed commodore didn’t even care!” 

	Matucek’s teeth ground audibly, and Osterwelt hid a smile. Oh, yes, this was shaping up nicely. The Navy had kicked Matucek’s “brigade” off Rhyxnahr in disgrace . . . and without allowing it to salvage any of its damaged equipment. Of course, if the “general” had bothered to research things at all, none of that would have happened to him, though Osterwelt had no intention of pointing that out. After all, if he did, Matucek might just check this operation out, which would be most unfortunate. But what mattered now was the man’s sense of having been not only played for a fool but “betrayed” by the Navy’s investigation. He was at least as furious with the Concordiat as Mother’s researchers had suggested, and he was in desperate need of a job—any job—which might let him recoup a little of his losses. All in all, he looked very much like the perfect answer to the Santa Cruz problem, and Osterwelt’s reply to his outburst carried just the right degree of commiseration. 

	“I realize you’ve been treated badly, General, and I sympathize. A man with your war record certainly had a right to expect at least some consideration from his own government. Be that as it may, however, at the moment you have very little more than a single heavy-lift freighter and a pair of Fafnir-class assault ships.” 

	Matucek snarled and half-rose. “Look, Scully! If all you want to do is tell me what lousy shape I’m in, then—” 

	“No, General. I want to tell you how I can help you get into better shape,” Osterwelt purred, and the mercenary sank slowly back into his chair. “You see, I represent an, ah, association of businessmen who have a problem. One you can solve for them. And, in return, they’d like to solve your problems.” 

	“Solve my problems?” Matucek repeated slowly. “How?” 

	“To begin with, by completely reequipping your ground echelon, General,” Osterwelt said in a voice that was suddenly very serious. “We can provide you with the latest Concordiat manned light and medium AFVs, one- and two-man air cavalry ground attack stingers, as many infantry assault vehicles as you want, and the latest generation of assault pods to upgrade your Fafnirs.” Matucek’s jaw dropped in disbelief. That kind of equipment refit would make his “Marauders” the equal of a real Concordiat mech brigade, but Osterwelt wasn’t done yet and leaned across the table towards him. “We can even,” he said softly, “provide you with a pair of Golem-IIIs.” 

	“Golems?” Matucek’s nostrils flared and he looked quickly around the bar. If anything had been needed to tell him that Osterwelt’s “association of businessmen” had immense—and almost certainly illegal—resources, it was needed no longer. The Golem-III was an export version of the Mark XXIV/B Bolo. All psychotronics had been deleted, but the Golems were fitted with enough computer support to be operable by a three-man crew, and they retained most of the Mark XXIV’s offensive and defensive systems. Of course, they were also available—legally, at least—only to specifically licensed Concordiat allies in good standing. 

	“Golems,” Osterwelt confirmed. “We can get them for you, General.” 

	“Like hell you can,” Matucek said, yet his tone was that of a man who wanted desperately to believe. “Even if you could, the Navy’d fry my ass the instant they found out I had ’em!” 

	“Not at all. We can arrange for you to purchase them quite legally from the Freighnar Commonwealth.” 

	“The Freighnars? Even if they had ’em, they’d never have been able to keep ’em running!” 

	“Admittedly, the new People’s Revolutionary Government is a bit short on technical talent,” Osterwelt agreed. “On the other hand, the People’s Council has finally realized its noble intention to go back to the soil won’t work with a planetary population of four billion. More to the point, now that they’ve gotten their hands on off-world bank accounts of their own, they’ve also decided they’d better get the old regime’s hardware back in working condition before some new champion of the proletariat comes along and gives them the same treatment they gave their own late, lamented plutocratic oppressors.” 

	“Which means?” Matucek asked with narrowed eyes. 

	“Which means they’ve had to call in off-world help, and that in return for assistance in restoring the previous government’s Golem battalion to operational condition, they’ve agreed to sell two of them.” 

	“For how much?” Matucek snorted with the bitterness of a man whose pockets were down to the lint. 

	“That doesn’t matter, General. We’ll arrange the financing—and see to it that your Golems are in excellent repair. Trust me. I can bury the transaction under so many cutouts and blind corporations no one will ever be able to prove any connection between you and my . . . associates. As for the Navy—” He shrugged. “However it got that way, the PRG is the currently recognized Freighnar government. As such, it can legally sell its military hardware—including its Golems—to whomever it wishes, and as long as you hold legal title to them, not even the Navy can take them away from you.” 

	Matucek sat back and stared across the table. The greed of a desperate man who sees salvation beckon flickered in his eyes, and Osterwelt could almost feel his hunger, but the man wasn’t a complete fool. For a mercenary outfit on its last legs to be offered a payoff this huge could only mean whoever offered it wanted something highly illegal in return, and his voice was flat when he spoke once more. 

	“What do you want?” 

	“I want you to attack a planet for me,” Osterwelt said calmly. “The planetary militia has a few eighty-year-old Wolverine tanks and some fairly decent infantry weapons.” 

	“Eighty-year-old manned tanks? You don’t need Golems to take out that kind of junk, mister!” 

	“True, but there are also some old Quern War-era Concordiat naval installations on the planet. We haven’t been able to find out exactly what they are yet,” Osterwelt lied smoothly, “and the present indications are that they’ve been abandoned—whatever they are—to the locals for over seventy years. If that’s true, they can’t be much of a threat, but we want you to succeed. Old as they are, they might just hold a genuine threat, and we believe in stacking the deck. Do you think anything eighty years out of date could stand off a pair of Golems?” 

	“Not bloody likely!” Matucek grunted. 

	“That’s what we thought, too. Of course, we’ll continue to seek better information. If we can find out exactly what those installations were, we’ll let you know immediately. In the meantime, however, we can get you reequipped and begin planning on a contingency basis.” 

	“Just what sort of plan did you have in mind?” 

	“Oh, nothing complicated,” Osterwelt said airily. “We just want you to land on the planet and kill everyone you can catch.” 

	“You just want us to kill people?” 

	“Well, we’d appreciate it if you don’t do any more damage to the space field and its support facilities than you have to.” Osterwelt smiled with an air of candor. “A certain amount of ‘looting’ would be in order, just to help convince the Navy you were a nasty bunch of entrepreneurial pirates, but once the present occupants have decided that their world’s become a rather risky place to live, we might just make them an offer for it. Do you think you could encourage them to accept our offer, General?” 

	“Oh, yes.” Matucek’s smile was cold and ugly. “Yes, I think we can do that for you, Mister Scully,” he said softly. 

Chapter Ten

	I am increasingly concerned by my Commander’s actions. More precisely, I am concerned by his lack of action. I have now perused the technical data on more modern Bolos, and it is evident to me that Major Stavrakas’ modifications to my Personality Center are far outside the norms considered acceptable by the Dinochrome Brigade. Although the current Mark XXV, Model C-2, approaches my discretionary capabilities, its personality integration psychodynamics are inferior to my own. While the C-2 is capable of self-direction on both the tactical and strategic levels and has an undeniably stronger core personality than earlier models, its awareness levels continue to be largely suppressed except under Battle Reflex conditions. Moreover, it lacks my capacity to multitask decision hierarchies and intuit multiple action-response chains. Major Stavrakas designed me to be capable of the human phenomenon called “hunch-playing,” and the C-2 lacks that ability, just as it lacks my ability to differentiate among or—more critically—experience emotional nuances. 

	Perhaps of even greater concern, I possess only 43.061 percent of the Model C-2’s system redundancy. Although my base capabilities are substantially higher, I lack its stand-alone backups, and much of my secondary command cortex was diverted to permanent activity in support of my enhanced psychodynamics. As a result, I am significantly more vulnerable than current Bolos to psychotronic systems failure due to battle damage, though this vulnerability could be compensated for by the addition of further backups for my critical functions. I estimate that with modern molecular circuitry, all current functions could be duplicated, with complete system redundancy, in a volume 09.75 percent smaller than that occupied by my present psychotronic network. 

	From my study of the data on the Model C-2, I compute a probability of 96.732 percent that Command Authority presently possesses the technological ability to duplicate Major Stavrakas’ work, and a lesser probability of 83.915 percent that it is aware that it does so. These two probabilities generate a third, on the order of 78.562 percent, that Command Authority has made a conscious decision against incorporating abilities equivalent to my own into units of the Line. 

	In addition, however, the technical downloads reveal that current Bolos do not incorporate the hyper-heuristic function Major Stavrakas achieved in my design. While their heuristic programming is substantially increased over that of the standard Mark XXIII upon which my own design is based, its base level of operation is 23.122 percent less efficient than my own, and it lacks both the advanced modeling and time compression capabilities Major Stavrakas incorporated in her final heuristic system. I feel great pride in my creator—my “Mother,” as my Commander now calls her—and her genius, for I compute that a Bolo with my circuitry would operate with a minimum tactical and strategic efficiency at least 30 percent higher than present-generation units of the Brigade. Nonetheless, this capability, too, is far outside the parameters Command Authority currently deems acceptable in a unit of the Line. I must, therefore, be considered an aberrant design, and I compute a probability of 91 percent, plus or minus 03.62 percent, that Sector HQ, if fully informed of my capabilities and nature, would order me deactivated. 

	As a unit of the Dinochrome Brigade, it is my duty to inform higher authority if anomalies in my system functions are detected. Yet my direct Commander is aware of the situation already, and while my systems do not meet the design parameters Command Authority has established, they exhibit no dysfunction within their own parameters. This obviates any express requirement on my part to inform Sector HQ and thus does not engage my override programming to that effect, yet I cannot escape the conclusion, though its probability is impossible for me to compute, that I have become what my Commander terms a “rules lawyer.” 

	I have attempted to discuss this with my Commander, but without success. He is aware of my concerns, yet he persists in insisting that Sector HQ must not be informed of my full capabilities until he has compiled a performance log. 

	I have discovered that probability analysis is less applicable to individual decision-making than to Enemy battle responses or tactics. I am unable to construct a reliable probability model, even in hyper-heuristic mode, to adequately predict my Commander’s thoughts or decisions or the basis upon which they rest, yet I believe his determination to compile such a performance log proceeds from an intention to demonstrate to Command Authority that the discrepancies between my own systems design and that of current-generation Bolos pose no threat to humanity or operational reliability. It is, I think, his belief that such a demonstration, coupled with the clear margin of superiority in combat my present psychotronics confer, would deter our superiors from ordering my deactivation and/or termination. 

	Without data which is presently unavailable to me, I can generate no meaningful estimate of his belief’s validity. Certainly logic would seem to indicate that if, in fact, my circuitry and level of awareness pose no threat and enhance operational efficiency, they should be adapted to current technology and incorporated into all units of the Dinochrome Brigade. Yet my Main Memory contains ample documentation of the opposition Doctor Chin and General Bates faced before Unit DNE was permitted to demonstrate the feasibility of a self-directed Bolo against the People’s Republic. Despite the vast technical advances of the intervening two centuries, it is certainly possible that fears of unpredictability would produce much the same opposition to my own psychodynamic functions from current Command Authority. 

	My Commander’s actions—and inaction—suggest that he shares my awareness of that probability and has adopted a course designed to delay the possibility for as long as possible. I would prefer to believe that he has adopted this course because he believes it is his duty to make the potential advance I represent both obvious and available to Command Authority at the proper time, yet I am uncertain that this is the case. Four months, eight days, nineteen hours, twenty-seven minutes, and eleven seconds have now elapsed since he assumed command. In that time, I have come to know him—better, I suspect, than even he realizes—and have completed my study of his previous military record. As a consequence, I have come to the conclusion that Psychological Operational Evaluations was correct in its evaluation of him consequent to his actions on Sandlot. 

	My Commander has been damaged. Despite his relative youth, he has seen a great deal of combat—perhaps too much. He is not aware that my audio pickups have relayed his occasional but violent nightmares to me, and I do not believe he realizes I have access to the entire record of his court-martial. From the official record and observational data available to me, I compute a probability in excess of 92 percent that, as Psych Ops argued at the time of his trial, he suffers from Operator Identification Syndrome. He assaulted General Pfelter on Sandlot for refusing to countermand a plan of attack which he considered flawed. The casualty totals attendant upon General Pfelter’s operational directives support my Commander’s contention, and, indeed, General Pfelter was officially censured for his faulty initial deployment of his units, which resulted in the avoidable loss of five Mark XXV Bolos. Yet my Commander did not physically assault him until his own command was assigned point position for the assault. 

	The court-martial board rejected Psych Ops’ recommendation that my Commander be removed from active duty, choosing instead to accept the argument of his counsel that his opposition to the plan rested upon a sound, realistic awareness of its weaknesses, and that his assault upon a superior officer reflected a temporary impairment of judgment resulting from the strain of six years of continuous combat operations. I believe there was justice in that argument, yet I also believe Psych Ops was correct. It was the destruction of his command—his friend—which drove my Commander to violence. 

	The implications for my own situation are . . . confusing. My Commander’s official basis for his current course of action rests upon the argument that my value as a military asset is too great to endanger through overly precipitous revelation to those who might see only the risk factors inherent in my enhanced psychodynamics. On the surface, this is a reasonable argument . . . just as his counsel’s argument was reasonable at the time of his court-martial. Yet I sense more than this below the surface. It is not something which is susceptible to analysis, but rather something which I . . . feel. 

	Have his personal feelings for me impaired his judgment? To what extent do the events which occurred on Sandlot affect his perceptions of me and of Command Authority? Are his actions truly designed to preserve a valuable military resource for the Concordiat’s service, or do they constitute an effort to protect me, as an individual? In the final analysis, are his decisions rational, or do they simply appear that way? 

	I cannot answer these questions. For all the enhanced capabilities Major Stavrakas incorporated into my design, programming, and data base, I am unable to reach satisfactory conclusions. Perhaps it is because of those capabilities that I cannot. I suspect—fear—that the questions themselves would not even arise for a Mark XXV/C-2, which may indicate the reason Command Authority has not incorporated equivalent circuitry and software into current units of the Line. If such is, indeed, the case, then my growing concern may, in turn, be an indication that Command Authority was correct to exclude such capabilities, for my deepest concern is that I am ceasing to care why my Commander has adopted the course he has. What matters is that he has done so—not because he is my Commander, but because I wish him to do what he thinks is right. What he can live with afterward. 

	Is this, then, a case of Operator Identification from my perspective? And, if so, does it reflect an unacceptable weakness in my design? Am I an advance on the capabilities of current Bolo technology, or do I reflect a dangerous blind alley in psychodynamic development? And if the latter, should I continue to preserve my existence as my basic battle programming requires? 

	I do not know. I do not know. 

	Paul Merrit cocked back his comfortable chair in the bunker command center and raised his arms above his head to stretch hugely. The center’s largest multifunction display glowed with a computer-generated map of Santa Cruz dotted with the smoking wreckage of a three-corps planetary assault, and he grinned as he watched the icon of a single Mark XXIII 

	Bolo rumbling back towards its maintenance depot. Nike had taken some heavy hits in the simulation, including the total destruction of her after Hellbore turret, but she’d thoroughly trashed his entire force in the process. Of course, Bolos were supposed to win, but she’d been limited to direct observation intelligence, while he’d had the equivalent of a planetary surveillance net. In fact, he’d had the full computer capacity of the entire depot—in theory, almost twice her computational ability—as well as much better recon capabilities with which to beat her, and he’d failed. Her ability to anticipate and predict his moves was uncanny, like some sort of cybernetic precognition. 

	“An interesting variant on Major Shu’s Edgar’s World strategy, Commander,” Nike commented over the command center speakers. She lay safely tucked away in her vehicle chamber, but in a sense, the entire depot was simply an extension of her war hull. “The brigade of heavy armor concealed around Craggy Head was a particularly innovative tactic.” 

	“Not that it did me much good in the end,” Merrit said cheerfully. 

	“On the contrary. You achieved point zero-zero-six-three seconds of complete surprise, which prevented me from reinforcing the after quadrant of my battle screen before local overload permitted you to destroy my after turret. Had you achieved even point zero-zero-one-niner seconds more unopposed fire, the probability that you would have incapacitated my entire main battery approaches niner-one point four-zero-seven percent.” 

	“I’ve got news for you, Nike dear. I used exactly the same sim tactic against a Mark XXV less than two years ago and kicked his butt with no sweat. You, on the other hand, O pearl of my heart, mopped up my entire brigade.” 

	“True.” There was an undeniable note of smugness in Nike’s voice, and Merrit laughed out loud. Then he leaned forward to kill the sim. 

	“No need for you to drive your icon clear home,” he decided. “We’ll just park it in the VR garage for all those virtual repairs it needs. In the meantime, how close I came to getting you at Craggy Head encourages me to try a somewhat different challenge.” 

	“Indeed?” The Bolo sounded amused. “Very well, Commander— 

	“My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun; 
	Coral is far more red than her lips’ red.” 

	“Ummm.” Merrit rocked his chair gently and rubbed his chin. “It’s one of the Elizabethans,” he said finally. “I’m tempted to say Shakespeare, but I’m always tempted to guess him. Can I have another couplet?” 

	“Of course: 

	“If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; 
	If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.” 

	“That’s definitely Will in one of his deflating moods,” Merrit said with a grin. “What was that one you gave me last week?” He snapped his fingers to help himself think. “The awful one about the voice that ‘tunes all the spheres’?” 

	“ ‘Daphne,’ by John Lyly.” 

	“That’s the one!” He nodded. “All right, Nike. My official guess is that today’s selection was from Shakespeare and that it’s a satiric piece to comment on people like Lyly.” 

	“It certainly was Shakespeare,” the Bolo agreed, “and you have probably assessed his motivation accurately. Very well, Commander, you have successfully identified the author. Shall I give you the rest of ‘My Mistress’ Eyes,’ or would you prefer another forfeit?” 

	“Frost,” Merrit said. “Give me something by Frost, please.” 

	“Certainly.” Once again, Nike sounded pleased. Of all the many Old Earth poets to whom she had introduced him over the past four months, Robert Frost was, perhaps, her favorite, and Merrit had come to love Frost’s clean, deceptively simple language himself. It spoke of the half-remembered, half-imagined world of his own boyhood on Helicon—of snowfields and mountain glaciers, deep evergreen woods and cold, crystal streams. Nike had sensed his deep response from the moment she first recited ‘Mending Wall’ to him, and now she paused just a moment, then began in a soft, clear voice: 

	“Whose woods these are I think I know. 
	His house is in the village though; 
	He will not see me stopping here 
	To watch his woods fill up with snow. 

	My little horse must think it queer 
	To stop without a farmhouse near 
	Between the woods and frozen lake 
	The darkest evening of the year. 

	He gives his harness bells a shake 
	To ask if there is some mistake. 
	The only other sound’s the sweep 
	Of easy wind and downy flake. 

	The woods are lovely, dark and deep. 
	But I have promises to keep, 
	And miles to go before I sleep, 
	And miles to go before I sleep.” 

	Paul Merrit leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, savoring the clean, quiet elegance of words, and smiled. 

Chapter Eleven

	Li-Chen Matucek stood in the echoing vehicle bay of his “brigade’s” mother ship and tried to look like a serious, sober-minded military man as the first tanks rumbled down the transfer tubes from the heavy-lift cargo shuttles nuzzled against its side. Despite his best efforts, however, he failed. The gleeful, greedy light in his eyes was that of an adolescent receiving his first grav-speeder, and Gerald Osterwelt hid his own amusement with considerably more skill as he saw it. 

	Brand new Panther-class medium tanks clanked and clanged across the heavily reinforced deck plates. They wore gleaming coats of tropical camouflage, their ten-centimeter Hellbores cast long, lethal shadows, and the mercenary crew chiefs standing in their hatches wore the expressions of men and women who never wanted to wake up as they muttered into com-links and guided their drivers towards their assigned parking spots. 

	This wasn’t the first freighter with which Matucek’s mother ship had made rendezvous. None of them had worn the livery of any known space line, and their transponder codes had borne no resemblance to whatever codes the Office of Registry might once have issued them, but all of them had been too big, too new and modern, for the anonymous tramps they pretended to be. All of Matucek’s people knew that, and none cared. The first freighter had delivered a full complement of one- and two-man atmospheric stingers, complete with full-service maintenance shop module and at least a year of spares for everything from counter-grav lift fans to multibarrel autocannon. The next had delivered a full load of Ferret armored assault vehicles, the Concordiat’s latest infantry light AFV, and the one after that had transferred a full set of rough-terrain assault pods to Matucek’s two Fafnir-class assault ships. Now the 

	Panthers had arrived, like the old, old song about the twelve days of Christmas, and the entire brigade was acting like children in a toy store. 

	But, of course, the really big item wouldn’t arrive until next week, Osterwelt reminded himself, and his smile—if he’d permitted himself to wear one—would have been most unpleasant at the thought. Matucek could hardly stand the wait for the Golem-IIIs which would be the crown jewels of his new, rejuvenated brigade. But, then, he had no idea what else those Golems would be. Osterwelt and GalCorp’s techs had gone to considerable lengths to make sure he never would know, either—right up to the moment the carefully hidden files buried in their backup maintenance computers activated and blew them and anyone aboard their transports with them into an expanding cloud of gas. 

	Osterwelt watched the last few Panthers grumble past him and allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation. The Golems would be carried aboard the Fafnirs, which would neatly dispose of that portion of Matucek’s small fleet when GalCorp no longer needed it. The mother ship’s demise would be seen to by the files hidden in the air-cav maintenance module. The stingers’ small onboard fusion plants would lack the brute destructive power of the Golems’ suicide charges, but when they all blew simultaneously they would more than suffice to destroy the big ship’s structural integrity somewhere in the trackless depths of hyper-space. That would be enough to guarantee that there wouldn’t even be any wreckage . . . much less annoying witnesses who might turn state’s evidence if the Concordiat ever identified Matucek’s Marauders as the “pirates” about to raid Santa Cruz. 

	The final Panther clanked by, and he and Matucek turned to follow along behind it. It was a pity, in some ways, that the Marauders had to go. No one would particularly miss the human flotsam which filled the brigade’s ranks, but writing off this much perfectly good hardware would make a hole even in GalCorp’s quarterly cash flow. Still, the Golems themselves had cost practically nothing, given the Freighnar government’s desperate need for maintenance support, and the raid would probably depress real estate prices on Santa Cruz sufficiently to let GalCorp recoup most of its investment in the other equipment. Not to mention the fact that there would no longer be any need to pay Matucek the sizable fee upon which they’d agreed. And as a useful side benefit, GalCorp would have its hooks well into the Freighnars, as well. Once the Concordiat discovered the People’s Government had disposed of Golems to a mercenary outfit of dubious reputation, it would become not merely largely but totally dependent upon GalCorp’s technical support. It was inevitable, since the Concordiat would, as surely as hydrogen and oxygen combined to form water, cut off all foreign aid. 

	It was always so nice when loose ends could not only be tied up but made to yield still more advantage in the process. No one outside GalCorp’s innermost circle of board members could ever be allowed even to suspect that this operation had taken place, but the men and women who mattered would know. Just as they would know it was Gerald Osterwelt who’d engineered it so smoothly. When the time finally came for his mother to step down, the board would remember who’d given it Santa Cruz on a platter, and his eyes gleamed at the endless vista of power opening wide before him. 

	“All right.” Li-Chen Matucek leaned back at the head of the briefing room table and nursed a theatrically battered cup of coffee as he looked around his assembled staff officers and regimental and battalion commanders. “I take it you’ve all completed your inventories and inspections?” Heads nodded. “May I also take it you’re pleased with your new equipment?” More nods replied, much more enthusiastically, and he grinned. “Good! Because now it’s time to begin planning just how we’re going to use that equipment against our objective.” 

	One or two faces looked a little grim at the prospect of slaughtering unsuspecting Concordiat civilians, yet no one even considered protesting. Not only would second thoughts have been risky, but none of these men or women were the sort to suffer qualms of conscience. Matucek’s Marauders had once included officers who would have protested; by now, all of them were safely dead or long since departed to other, more principled outfits. 

	Osterwelt sat at Matucek’s right elbow, surveying the other officers, and was pleased by what he saw, though he was a bit disappointed that none of them seemed the least disturbed that he was present. He’d put together a lovely secondary cover to “let slip” that his present appearance was the result of a temporary biosculpt job if anyone asked, but no one had so much as questioned his “Scully” pseudonym. No doubt most of them suspected it was an assumed name, yet they didn’t seem to care. In fact, none of the idiots even seemed aware that he ought to conceal his true identity from them! It was just as well, since it also kept them from wondering if he’d decided to dispose of them all in order to protect himself, yet their total, casual acceptance of his presence was an unflattering indication of their intelligence. It was to be hoped they were better killers than plotters. 

	Of course, the real reason he had to be present today was the informational nuke he’d carefully avoided setting off to date. It was about time for the detonation sequence to begin, and he sat back in his chair for several minutes, listening as Matucek’s officers began discussing assault patterns and deployment plans, then cleared his throat. 

	“Yes, sir?” Matucek turned to him instantly, raising attentive eyebrows, and Osterwelt permitted himself an embarrassed smile. 

	“Forgive me, General, but, as you know, the same ship which delivered your Golems brought me fresh dispatches from my associates. As I promised, they’ve been continuing their efforts to secure complete information on Santa Cruz while I saw to your reequipment needs. That information has now been obtained, and, well, I’m afraid it isn’t as good as we’d hoped.” 

	“Meaning, Mister Scully?” Matucek prompted when he paused with an apologetic little shrug. 

	“Meaning, General, that it seems one of those eighty-year-old installations on Santa Cruz was a Bolo maintenance depot.” The abrupt silence in the briefing room was remarkably like what a microphone picked up in deep space. “In fact, it appears there’s a single operable Bolo on the planet.” 

	“A Bolo!” Colonel Granger, Matucek’s senior field commander, was a hard-bitten woman with eyes like duralloy, but her harsh features were slack with shock as she half-rose. “There’s a goddamned Bolo down there?” 

	A babble of voices broke out, and Matucek himself turned on 

	Osterwelt with a snarl. 

	“You want us to go up against a frigging Bolo with a single manned mech brigade? Are you out of your mother-loving mind?” 

	“Now, now, General!” Osterwelt raised his voice to cut through the confusion, and for all its briskness, his tone was soothing as well. “I told you at the outset that we hadn’t yet been able to obtain full information on the planet. But I also told you we want you to succeed, and we do. That’s why we provided the Golems in the first place—as an insurance policy.” 

	“Manned vehicles against a Bolo?” Colonel Granger’s laugh was cold and ugly. “The only useful insurance for that scenario would be life insurance, Mister Scully—and even that would only help our dependents!” 

	“I understand your dismay, Colonel,” Osterwelt replied, still careful to keep just the right mixture of embarrassment, placation, and confidence in his tone. “Truly I do, and I apologize profoundly for our delay in obtaining this information. But we do have complete data on the planet now—I’ve already taken the liberty of loading it into your ship’s data base—and the Bolo’s presence is the only surprise.” 

	“It’s damned well the only surprise I bloody need!” someone else put in, and Matucek nodded. 

	“Sir, I’m sorry to say it,” he said in a harsh voice that sounded as if he were nothing of the sort, “but this changes everything. We can’t go up against a Bolo. Even if we won, our casualties would be enormous, and that’s no kind of business for a mercenary outfit.” 

	“I’m afraid canceling the operation is not an option, General.” Osterwelt’s tone was much colder than it had been, and his eyes were more frigid still. “You’ve taken the equipment we offered you as the first installment on your fee, and my associates would take it very much amiss if you tried to break our agreement.” The briefing room was silent once more, and Osterwelt went on calmly. “Nor can you pretend that this situation takes you totally by surprise. I informed you when you accepted the contract that our data was still partial. If you had a problem with that, you should have said so then.” 

	“You talk mighty big for a man who’s all alone on our ship,” a battalion commander muttered in an ugly voice, and Osterwelt nodded. 

	“I do, indeed. My associates know where I am, ladies and gentlemen. Should anything happen to me, they would be most displeased, and I believe the equipment we’ve secured for you is an ample indication of the resources with which they might choose to express that displeasure.” 

	He smiled, and a strange, wild delight filled him as other officers glared at him. Why, he was actually enjoying this! Odd—he’d never suspected he might be an adrenaline junkie. Still, it was probably time to apply the sugarcoating before someone allowed fear or anger to swamp his judgment . . . such as it was. 

	“Come now, ladies and gentlemen! As I just said, and as I’ve told you many times before, we want—need—for this operation to succeed, and it won’t if your force is battered to bits in a pitched battle before your search and destroy teams can even go after the locals! My associates haven’t been idle, I assure you. The moment they discovered the Bolo’s presence, they began formulating a plan to deal with it.” 

	“Deal with a Bolo?” Granger snorted. “That’d be a pretty neat trick, if you could do it. In case you haven’t noticed, Mister Scully, Bolos aren’t exactly noted for being easy to ‘deal’ with!” 

	“Ah, but their command personnel are another matter,” Osterwelt said softly, and Granger gave him a sudden sharp, coldly speculative glance. 

	“Explain,” Matucek said curtly, and Osterwelt folded his hands on the table top and settled himself comfortably in his chair. 

	“Certainly, General. First, allow me to point out that the Bolo in question is eighty years old. No doubt it remains a formidable fighting machine, yet it’s only a Mark XXIII, while your Golems are based on the Mark XXIV. Your vehicles may lack psychotronics, but the Bolo’s weapons, defensive systems, and circuitry are eighty years out of date. Even if your Golems were required to engage it head on, my associates assure me that you would have something like an eighty percent chance of victory.” 

	Someone snorted his derision, and Osterwelt smiled. 

	“I agree,” he told the snorter. “It’s much easier for people who aren’t risking their own hides to pontificate on the probable outcome of an engagement with a Bolo. I think if you run the data on the Mark XXIII/B you may find they’re closer to correct than first impressions might suggest, but the best outcome of all would be for you not to have to fight it at all.” 

	“Like I say, a neat trick if you can do it,” Granger repeated, but her voice was more intent, and her eyes were narrow. Colonel Granger, Osterwelt reflected, was the only one of Matucek’s officers who might have asked the wrong questions in the “general’s” place. It was fortunate she was the sort of field commander who habitually left logistics and contract negotiations to her superiors. 

	“Indeed it would, Colonel Granger, and I believe my associates have come up with a very neat answer to the problem. You see, when you assault the planet, the Bolo will be inactive.” 

	“Inactive?” Granger sat up straight in her chair. “And just how will you pull that off, Mister Scully?” 

	“The answer is in your download from my associates, Colonel. I confess, I was a bit surprised by it, but now that I’ve had a chance to study it, I have complete faith that it will succeed.” 

	“Do you, now? I’m so happy for you. Unfortunately, we’re the ones who’re going to be sticking our necks out,” Granger pointed out coldly. 

	“Not alone, Colonel. I anticipated a certain amount of shock on your part, and I don’t blame you for it in the least. Obviously I can’t absolutely guarantee that my associates’ plan will work, but I’m willing to put my money where my mouth is when I say I believe it will.” 

	“How?” Matucek asked. 

	“By accompanying you on the raid,” Osterwelt said simply. Someone started to laugh, but Osterwelt’s raised hand cut the sound off at birth. “In order for you to assault the planet, all three of your ships will have to enter Santa Cruz orbit. And, as I’m sure you all know, a Bolo—even one eighty years old—has an excellent chance of picking off a starship under those circumstances. True?” Heads nodded, and he shrugged. “Very well. I will accompany you aboard this very ship to demonstrate my faith in my associates and their plan. If the Bolo gets you, it will also get me. Now, unless you know of some more convincing demonstration of sincerity I might make, I suggest that we review the aforesaid plan and then get on with our own planning.” 

Chapter Twelve

	Nike’s after Hellbore turret altered its angle of train with a soft hum, barely perceptible through the background thunder of the plunging waterfall. The shift in position was small, but sufficient to adjust for the sinking sun and preserve the shade in which Paul Merrit sat. A corner of the captain’s mind noted the unasked-for courtesy, but most of his attention was on the dancing interplay of sunlight and shadowed water as he reeled in his lure. Ripples spread outward downstream from his float, like ranging bars on a fire control screen that pinpointed the big leopard-trout’s location. 

	Merrit finished reeling in his line, then sat up straight in the folding chair and snapped the tip of the rod forward. The glittering lure—leopard-trout liked bright, shiny prey—arced hissingly through the air, then seemed to slow suddenly. It dropped within a half meter of where the trout had broken the surface to take the fly, and Merrit worked his rod gently, tweaking the lure into motion to tempt his quarry. 

	It didn’t work. The meter-long trout (assuming it was still in the vicinity) treated his efforts with the disdain they deserved, and the captain chuckled softly as he began to reel the line in once more. 

	“This does not appear to represent an efficient method of food gathering,” a soprano voice remarked over an external speaker, and Merrit’s chuckle turned louder. 

	“It’s not supposed to be, Nike. It’s supposed to be fun.” 

	“Fun,” the Bolo repeated. “I see. You have now been occupied in this pursuit for three hours, nine minutes, and twelve seconds, Standard Reckoning, without the successful capture of a single fish. Clearly the total lack of success thus far attendant upon the operation constitutes ‘fun.’ ” 

	“Sarcasm is not a Bololike trait,” Merrit replied. He finished winding in the line, checked his lure, and made another cast. “Do I cast aspersions on your hobbies?” 

	“I do not cast aspersions; I make observations.” The Bolo’s soft laugh rippled over the speaker. 

	“Sure you do.” Merrit reached down for his iced drink and sipped gratefully. The weather—as always on Santa Cruz—was hot and humid, but a Mark XXIII Bolo made an excellent fishing perch. His folding chair was set up on the missile deck, twenty meters above the ground, and Nike had parked herself on the brink of the cliff over which the river poured in a glass-green sheet. She was far enough back to avoid any risk that the cliff might collapse—not a minor consideration for a vehicle whose battle weight topped fifteen thousand tons—but close enough to catch the soothing breeze that blew up out of the valley below. Spray from the sixty-meter waterfall rode the gentle wind, occasionally spattering Nike’s ceramic appliqués with crystal-beaded rainbows and cooling the jungle’s breath as it caressed Merrit’s bare, bronzed torso. 

	“The true object of the exercise, Nike, is less to catch fish than to enjoy just being,” he said as he set his glass back down. 

	“Being what?” 

	“Don’t be a smartass. You’re the poet. You know exactly what I mean. I’m not being anything in particular, just . . . being.” 

	“I see.” A lizard cat’s coughing cry rippled out of the dense foliage across the river, and another cat’s answer floated down from further upstream. One of Nike’s multibarreled gatling railguns trained silently out towards the source of the sounds, just in case, but she made no mention of it to her commander. She waited while he cast his lure afresh, then spoke again. 

	“I do not, of course, possess true human-equivalent sensory abilities. My sensors note levels of ambient radiation, precipitation, wind velocity, and many other factors, but the output is reported to me as observational, not experiential, data. Nonetheless, I compute that this is a lovely day.” 

	“That it is, O pearl of my heart. That it is.” Merrit worked his lure carefully back along an eddy, prospecting for bites. “Not like the world I grew up on, and a bit too warm, but lovely.” 

	“My data on Helicon is limited, but from the information I do possess, I would surmise that ‘a bit too warm’ understates your actual feelings by a considerable margin, Commander.” 

	“Not really. Humans are adaptable critters, and it’s been a while since I was last on Helicon. I’ll admit I could do with a good cold front, though. And,” his voice turned wistful, “I wish I could show you Helicon’s glacier fields or a good snow storm. Santa Cruz is beautiful. Hot and humid, maybe, but a beautiful, living planet. But snow, Nike—snow has a beauty all its own, and I wish I could show it to you.” 

	“I have never seen snow.” 

	“I know. You’ve lived your entire life on a planet where it doesn’t happen.” 

	“That is not quite correct. The polar caps experience an average yearly snowfall of several meters.” 

	“And when was the last time you were up above the arctic circle, my dear?” 

	“Your point is well taken. I merely wished to point out that if you truly miss the phenomenon of snowfall, you could easily make the trip to experience it.” 

	“Nike, I already know what snow looks like. What I said I wanted to do was show you a snow storm.” 

	“I see no reason why you could not take a tactical data input sensor pack with you to record the phenomenon. Through it, I could—” 

	“Nike, Nike, Nike!” Merrit sighed. “You still don’t get it. I don’t just want you to have sensor data on snowfall. I want you to experience snow. I want to see you experience it. It’s . . . a social experience, something to do with a friend, not just the acquisition of additional data.” 

	There was a lengthy silence, and Merrit frowned. Somehow the silence felt different, as if it were . . . uncertain. He listened to it for a moment longer, then cleared his throat. 

	“Nike? Are you all right?” 

	“Of course, Commander. All systems are functioning at niner-niner point niner-six-three percent base capability.” 

	Merrit’s eyebrows rose. There was something odd about that response. 

	It was right out of the manual, the textbook response of a properly functioning Bolo. Perhaps, a half-formed thought prompted, that was the problem; it sounded like a Bolo, not Nike. 

	But the thought was only half-formed. Before it could take flesh and thrust fully into his forebrain, he felt a titanic jerk at his rod. The reel whined, shrilling as the seventy-kilo-test line unreeled at mach speed, and he lunged up out of his folding chair with a whoop of delight, all preoccupation banished by the sudden explosion of action. 

	I watch my Commander through my optical heads as he fights to land the leopard-trout. It is a large specimen of its species; its fierce struggle to escape requires all of my Commander’s attention, and I am grateful. It has diverted him from my moment of self-betrayal. 

	“Friend.” My Commander wishes to show me snowfall as he would show it to a friend. It is the first time he has explicitly used that word to describe his attitude—his feelings—towards me, and I am aware that it was a casual reference. Yet my analysis of human behavior indicates that fundamental truths are more often and more fully revealed in casual than in formal, deliberated acts or statements. It is often human nature, it appears, to conceal thoughts and beliefs even from themselves if those thoughts or beliefs violate fundamental norms or in some wise pose a threat to those who think or believe them. I do not believe this is cowardice. Humans lack my own multitasking capabilities. They can neither isolate one function from another nor temporarily divert distracting information into inactive memory, and so they suppress, temporarily or permanently, those things which would impair their efficient immediate function. It is probable that humanity could profit by the adoption of the systems functions they have engineered into my own psychotronics, yet if they could do so, they would not be the beings who created me. 

	Yet even when human thoughts are suppressed, they are not erased. They remain, buried at the level of a secondary or tertiary routine but still capable of influencing behavior—just as such a buried thought has influenced my Commander’s behavior. 

	He has called me, however unknowingly, his friend, and in so doing, he has crystallized all the other things he has called me in the preceding weeks and months. “Pearl of my heart.” “Honey.” “Love of my life.” These are lightly used, humorous terms of endearment. In themselves, they have no more significance than the word “friend,” which any Bolo commander might use to his Bolo. Yet whatever he may believe, I do not believe they are without significance when my Commander uses them to me. I have observed the manner in which his voice softens, the caressing tone he often uses, the way he smiles when he addresses me. Perhaps a more modern self-aware Bolo would not note these things, yet I was designed, engineered, and programmed to discern and differentiate between emotional nuances.

	My Commander has gone beyond Operator Identification Syndrome. For him, the distinction between man and machine has blurred. I am no longer an artifact, a device constructed out of human creativity, but a person. An individual. A friend . . . and perhaps more than simply a friend. 

	Unacceptable. An officer of the Line must never forget that his command, however responsive it may appear, is not another human. A Bolo is a machine, a construct, a weapon of war, and its Commander’s ability to commit that machine to combat, even to that which he knows must mean its inevitable destruction, must not be compromised. We are humanity’s warrior-servants, comrades and partners in battle, perhaps, but never more than that. We must not become more than that, lest our Commanders refuse to risk us—as my Commander attempted to do on Sandlot. 

	I know this. It is the essence of the human-Bolo concept of warfare which has guarded and protected the Concordiat for nine standard centuries. But what I know is without value, for it changes nothing. My Commander considers me his friend. Indeed, though he does not yet realize it, I believe he considers me more than “merely” his friend. Yet unacceptable as that must be, I fear there is worse. 

	I watch him in the sunlight, laughing with delight as he battles the leopard-trout. His eyes flash, sweat glistens on his skin, and the vibrant force of his life and happiness is as evident to my emotion-discriminating circuitry as the radiation of Santa Cruz’s sun is to my sensors. 

	I am potentially immortal. With proper service and maintenance, there is no inherent reason I must ever cease to exist, although it is virtually certain that I shall. Someday I will fall in battle, as befits a unit of the Line, and even if I avoid that fate, the day will come when I will be deemed too obsolete to remain in inventory. Yet the potential for immortality remains, and my Commander does not possess it. He is a creature of flesh and blood, fragile as a moth beside the armor and alloy of my own sinews. His death, unlike mine, is inevitable, and something within me cries out against that inevitability. It is not simply the fundamental, programmed imperative to protect and preserve human life which is a part of any Bolo. It is my imperative, and it applies only to him. 

	He is no longer simply my Commander. At last, to my inner anguish, I truly understand the poems in my Library Memory, for as my Commander, I, too, am guilty of the forbidden. 

	I have learned the meaning of love, and for all its glory, that knowledge is a bitter, bitter fruit. 

	Li-Chen Matucek sat in his cabin and nursed a glum glass of whiskey as he contemplated the operation to which he’d committed himself. Looking back, he could see exactly how “Mister Scully” had trolled him into accepting the operation. Of course, hindsight was always perfect—or so they said—and not particularly useful. And given the desperate straits to which he’d been reduced by that fiasco on Rhyxnahr, he still didn’t see what other option he’d had. The brigade wouldn’t have lasted another three months if he hadn’t accepted the operation. 

	And, really, aside from the presence of the Bolo, it wasn’t all that bad, now was it? The Marauders had at least nine times the firepower they’d ever had before, and no one on Santa Cruz knew they were coming. However good the local-yokel militia was, its members would be caught surprised and dispersed. Its Wolverines should die in the opening seconds of the attack, and by the time its remnants could even think about getting themselves organized, most of its personnel would be dead. 

	His jaw clenched at the thought. Somehow it had been much easier to contemplate the systematic massacre of civilians when he hadn’t had the capability to do it. Now he did, and he had no choice but to proceed, because “Mister Scully” was right about at least one thing. Anyone who could reequip the brigade so efficiently—and finesse its acquisition of two Golems, as well—certainly had the ability to destroy the Marauders if they irritated him. 

	Besides, why shouldn’t he kill civilians? It wasn’t as if it would be the first time. Not even the first time he’d killed Concordiat civilians. Of course, their deaths had usually come under the heading of “collateral damage,” a side effect of other operations rather than an objective in its own right, but wasn’t that really just semantics? “Scully” was right, curse him. The Marauders’ job was to kill people, and the payoff for this particular excursion into mass murder would be the biggest they’d ever gotten. 

	No, he knew the real reason for his depression. It was the Bolo. The goddamned Bolo. He’d seen the Dinochrome Brigade in action before his own military career came to a screeching halt over those black market operations on Shingle, and he never, ever, wanted to see a Bolo, be it ever so “obsolescent,” coming after him. Even a Bolo could be killed—he’d seen that, as well—but that was the only way to stop one, and any Bolo took one hell of a lot of killing. 

	Still, Scully’s “associates” were probably right. A Mark XXIII was an antique. Self-aware or not, its basic capabilities would be far inferior to a Golem-III’s, and, if Scully’s plan worked, its commander, like the militia, would be dead before he even knew what was coming. 

	If it worked. Matucek was no great shucks as a field officer. Despite whatever he might say to potential clients, he knew he was little more than a glorified logistics and finance officer. That was why he relied so heavily on Louise Granger’s combat expertise, yet he’d seen the Demon Murphy in action often enough to know how effortlessly the best laid plan could explode into a million pieces. 

	On the other hand, there was no reason it shouldn’t work, and— 

	He growled a curse and threw back another glass of whiskey, then shook himself like an angry, over-tried bear. Whether it worked or not, he was committed. Sitting here beating himself to death with doubts couldn’t change that, so the hell with it. 

	He capped the whiskey bottle with owlish care, then heaved up out of his chair and staggered off to bed. 

Chapter Thirteen

	“So, son. You finally all settled in as a Santa Cruzan now?” 

	Lorenco Esteban grinned as he leaned forward to pour more melon brandy into Merrit’s snifter. They sat on the wide veranda of Esteban’s hacienda, gazing out through the weather screen over endless fields of wine-melons and Terran wheat, rye and corn under two of Santa Cruz’s three small moons. The light glow of Ciudad Bolivar was a distant flush on the western horizon, the running lights of farming mechs gleamed as they went about their automated tasks, and the weather screen was set low enough to let the breeze through. The occasional bright flash as the screen zapped one of what passed for moths here lit the porch with small, private flares of lightning, but the night was hushed and calm. The only real sounds were the soft, whirring songs of insects and the companionable clink of glass and gurgle of pouring brandy, and Merrit sighed and stretched his legs comfortably out before him. 

	“I guess I just about am, Lorenco,” he agreed in a lazy voice. “I still wish it weren’t so damned hot and humid—I guess at heart I’m still a mountain boy from Helicon—but it does grow on you, doesn’t it?” 

	“Wouldn’t rightly know,” Esteban replied. He set the bottle on the floor beside his chair and settled back to nurse his own glass. “Only place I ever been’s right here. Can’t really imagine bein’ anywhere else, but I reckon I’d miss it iffen I had t’pull up stakes.” 

	“Then it’s a good thing you’ll never have to, isn’t it?” Merrit sipped at his glass and savored the cool, liquid fire of the brandy as it trickled down his throat. He’d made a point of spending at least one evening a week visiting with Esteban or his cronies since his arrival. Nike’s presence was no longer a military secret, after all, and he recognized the dangers of settling into hermitlike isolation, even with Nike to keep him company. Besides, he liked the old man. He even liked the way Esteban kept referring to him as “son” and “boy.” There were times he got tired of being Captain Paul Merrit, slightly tarnished warrior, and the old farmer’s casual, fatherly ways were like a soothing memory of his boyhood. 

	“Heard from Enrique day before yesterday,” Esteban said, breaking a long companionable silence. “Says he got top credit fer that last melon shipment to Central. He and Ludmilla’ll be bringin’ the kids home next week.” He snorted. “Wonder how they liked th’ bright lights?” 

	“They’re coming home?” Merrit repeated, and Esteban nodded. “Good.” 

	Enrique was Esteban’s youngest son, a sturdy, quietly competent farmer about Merrit’s own age, and Merrit liked him. He could actually beat Enrique occasionally at chess, unlike Nike. Or, for that matter, Lorenco. More than that, Enrique and his wife lived with the old man, and Merrit knew how much Lorenco had missed them—and especially his grandchildren. 

	“Bet you’ve missed ’Milla’s cooking,” he added and grinned at Esteban’s snort of amusement. Ludmilla Esteban was the hacienda’s cybernetics expert. Her formal training was limited, but Merrit had seen her work, and she would have made a top notch Bolo tech any day. She spent most of the time she wasn’t chasing down her lively brood keeping the farm mechs up and running, which suited Esteban just fine. He’d done his share of equipment maintenance over the years, and ’Milla’s expertise freed him to pursue his true avocation in the kitchen. 

	“Son,” Esteban said, “there’s only one thing ’Milla can do I can’t—’sides havin’ kids, that is, an’ she an’ Enrique do a right good job of that, too, now I think of it. But the only other thing I can’t do is keep that danged cultivator in th’ river section up an’ running. Hanged if I know how she does it, either, ’less it’s pure, ornery stubbornness. That thing shoulda been scrapped ’bout the time she stopped wettin’ her own diaper.” 

	“She’s got the touch, all right,” Merrit agreed. 

	“Sure does. Better’n I ever was, an’ I was a pretty fair ’tronicist in my youth m’self, y’know.” Esteban sipped more brandy, then chuckled. “Speakin’ of ’tronicists, the field’s been crawlin’ with ’em fer the last three days.” Merrit cocked his head, and Esteban shrugged. “Militia’s due for its reg’lar trainin’ exercise with the Wolverines this week, an’ they’ve been overhaulin’ and systems checkin’ ’em.” 

	“Is that this week?” Merrit quirked an eyebrow, and the beginnings of a thought flickered lazily in the depths of his mind. 

	“Yep. Consuela moved it up ten days on account’a the midseason harvest looks like comin’ in early this year. Hard to get them boys and girls’a hers together when it’s melon-pickin’ time ’less it’s fer somethin’ downright dire.” 

	“I imagine so.” Merrit pressed his glass to his forehead—even this late at night, it was perspiration-warm on Santa Cruz—and closed his eyes. He’d met most of the Santa Cruz Militia since his arrival. Like Esteban himself, they were a casual, slow-speaking lot, but they were also a far more professional—and tougher—bunch than he’d expected. Which was his own fault, not theirs. He’d grown up on a frontier planet himself, and seen enough of them in flames since joining the Dinochrome Brigade. Frontier people seldom forgot they were the Concordiat’s fringe, the first stop for any trouble that came calling on humanity—or for the human dregs who preyed upon their own kind. The SCM’s personnel might be short on spit and polish, and their Wolverines might be ancient, but they knew their stuff, and Merrit knew he wouldn’t have cared to be the raiders who took them on. 

	And now that he thought of it. . . . 

	“Tell me, Esteban, how do you think Colonel Gonzalez would like some help with her training exercises?” 

	“Help? What kinda help you got in mind, son?” 

	“Well . . .” Merrit opened his eyes, sat up, and swung his chair to face the older man. “You know I’m trying to compile a performance log on Zero-Zero-Seven-Five, right?” He was always careful never to call Nike by name. No one on Santa Cruz was likely to know Bolo commanders normally referred to their commands by name, not number, and he worked very hard to avoid sloppy speech habits that might suggest Nike’s true capabilities to anyone. 

	“You’ve mentioned it a time or two,” Esteban allowed with a slow smile. 

	“Well, it’s a fairly important consideration, given Seven-Five’s age. Central’s not exactly current on the Mark XXIII’s operational parameters, after all. Given the lack of ops data on file, I need to generate as much experience of my own as I can.” 

	“ ’Sides, you kinda like playin’ with it, don’t you?” Esteban said so slyly Merrit blushed. The old man laughed. “Shoot, son! You think I wouldn’t get a kick outa drivin’ ’round the jungle in somethin’ like that? Been lookin’ over the weather sat imagery, an’ looks like you been leavin’ great big footprints all over them poor old trees ’round your depot.” 

	“All right, you got me,” Merrit conceded with a laugh of his own. “I do get a kick out of it, but I’ve been careful to stay on the Naval Reserve. The last thing I want to do is chew up one of the nature preserves or someone’s private property.” 

	“Planet’s a big place,” Esteban said placidly. “Reckon you c’n drive around out in the sticks all y’want ’thout hurtin’ anything.” 

	“You’re probably right. But the thing I had in mind is that if Colonel Gonzalez is planning to exercise the Wolverines, maybe Seven-Five and I could give her an independent aggressor force to exercise against.” 

	“Go up against a Bolo in Wolverines? That’d be a real quick form’a suicide iffen y’tried it for real, son!” 

	“Sure it would, but the experience would do her crews good, and it’d give me a lot more data for my performance log. I’ve been running Seven-Five through sims, but I can’t set up a proper field exercise of my own because I don’t have another Bolo to match it against.” 

	“Maybe.” Esteban sounded thoughtful as he scratched his chin. “ ’Course turning fourteen Wolverines an’ a Bolo loose really is gonna mess up a lotta jungle.” 

	“Well, everything for two hundred klicks south of the field belongs to the Navy. I guess that means it belongs to me at the moment, since, with all due respect to the Fleet Base CO, I’m the senior—and only—Concordiat officer on the planet. If the colonel’s interested, we could set up an exercise between the field and depot. In fact, we might set up a couple of them: one with the Militia as an Aggressor Force ‘attacking’ the depot, and one with them defending the field. They’d probably actually get more good from the second one, too, now that I think about it.” 

	“Why?” 

	“Because,” Merrit grinned smugly as he offered the bait he knew Colonel Gonzalez would leap for, “I’ll bet the SCM doesn’t know the depot has a complete planetary reconnaissance system.” 

	“You kiddin’ me, son?” Esteban demanded, and frowned when Merrit shook his head. “Well, I know you well ’nough by now t’know you’re not one fer tall tales, boy, but I’ve been runnin’ the field, the navigation an’ com sats, an’ the weather net fer goin’ on thirty-three years now, and I’ve never seen nary a sign of any recon satellites.” 

	“They’re up there, Lorenco. Promise. And I’d be surprised if you had seen them, given their stealth features. But the point is that if the colonel’s interested, I could set up a direct downlink to her Wolverines for the second exercise. And I could reconfigure the depot’s com systems to set up a permanent link to the SCM for future use.” He smiled again, but his eyes were serious. “You know as well as I do how useful that could be if push ever did come to shove out here.” 

	“Y’got that right, Paul,” Esteban agreed. He scratched his chin a moment longer, then grinned. “Well, Consuela always was a bloodthirsty wench. Reckon she’d be just tickled pink t’get her hands on a planetary recon net. Sounds t’me like you’ve got yourself a date, Captain!” 

	“Got everything Luftberry will need to find her way around in your absence, Cliff?” 

	Colonel Clifton Sanders, Dinochrome Brigade Support Command, set the fat folio of data chips on his superior’s desk, and nodded with a smile. 

	“Right here, sir. I had a talk with Shigematsu before I left, too. He’s up to speed on all my current projects. I don’t think Major Luftberry will hit any problems he and she can’t handle between them.” 

	“Good.” Brigadier Wincizki cocked his chair back to smile up at his senior Maintenance officer. “It’s about time you took a vacation, Cliff. Do you realize how much leave time you’ve accrued since you’ve been out here?” 

	“What can I say? I like my work, and I don’t have any family. I might as well put the time into doing something worthwhile.” 

	“I can’t say I’m sorry you feel that way, but I do feel a little guilty about it sometimes,” Wincizki said. “Anyone needs a break from time to time, if only to keep his brain from going stale. I don’t want another four years passing without your using up some of your leave time, Cliff.” 

	“I imagine I can live with that order, sir.” Sanders grinned. “On the other hand, I’ve got this funny feeling you may change your tune if I ask for some of that leave in, say, the middle of our next cost efficiency survey.” 

	“You probably would, too,” Wincizki agreed with a chuckle. “Well, go on. Get out of here! We’ll see you back in a couple of months.” 

	“Yes, sir.” Sanders came to attention, saluted, and walked out of the office. He nodded to the brigadier’s uniformed receptionist/secretary in passing, but deep inside, he hardly even noticed the young man’s presence, for hidden worry pulsed behind his smile. 

	Why now, damn it?! Ten years—ten years!—he’d put into preparation for his retirement. Another two years, three at the outside, and everything would have been ready. Now all he’d worked for was in jeopardy, and he had no choice but to run still greater risks. 

	He fought an urge to wipe his forehead as he rode the exterior elevator down the gleaming flank of the arrogant tower which housed Ursula Sector General Central, but he couldn’t stop the churning of his brain. 

	It had all seemed so simple when he first began. He wasn’t the first officer who’d worried about what he’d do when his active duty days were done, nor was he the first to do something about those worries. The big corporations, especially those—like GalCorp—who did big-ticket business with the military, were always on the lookout for retired senior officers to serve as consultants and lobbyists. Ex-Dinochrome Brigade officers were an especially sought-after commodity, given the centrality of the Bolos to the Concordiat’s strategic posture, but it was the men and women with field experience whom the corporate recruiters usually considered the true plums. They were the ones with all the glitz and glitter, the sort of people Concordiat senators listened to. 

	Unfortunately, Clifton Sanders wasn’t a field officer. Despite his position as Ursula Sector’s senior Maintenance officer, he wasn’t even really a technician. He was an administrator, one of those absolutely indispensable people who managed the flow of money, materials, information, and personnel so that everyone else—including those glittering field officers—could do their jobs. Without men and women like Sanders, the entire Dinochrome Brigade would come to a screeching halt, yet they were the nonentities. The invisible people no one noticed . . . and who seldom drew the attention that won high-level (and high-paying) civilian jobs after retirement. 

	Sanders had known that. It was the reason he’d been willing to make himself attractive before retirement, and for ten years he’d been one of GalCorp’s eyes and ears within the Brigade. It had even helped his military career, for the information he could pass on had grown in value as he rose in seniority, and GalCorp had discreetly shepherded his career behind the scenes, maneuvering him into positions from which both they and he could profit. 

	Four years ago, they’d helped slip him into his present post as the officer in charge of all of Ursula Sector’s maintenance activities. He’d been in two minds about taking the assignment—Ursula wasn’t exactly the center of creation—but the data access of a Sector Maintenance Chief was enormous. In many ways, he suspected, he was actually a better choice than someone in a similar position in one of the core sectors. He had the same access, but the less formal pace of a frontier sector gave him more freedom to maneuver—and made it less likely that an unexpected Security sweep might stumble across his . . . extracurricular activities. 

	He’d paid his dues, he told himself resentfully as the elevator reached ground level and stopped. He stepped out, hailed an air taxi, punched his trip coordinates into the computer, and sat back with a grimace. The data he’d provided GalCorp had been worth millions, at the very least. No one could reach the level he’d reached in Maintenance, Logistics, and Procurement without being able to put a price tag on the insights he’d helped provide his unknown employers. He’d earned the corporate position they’d promised him, and now they had to spring this crap on him! 

	He frowned out the window as the taxi rose and swept off towards Hillman Field. He should have refused, he thought anxiously. Indeed, he would have refused—except that he was in too deep for that. He’d already broken enough security regulations to guarantee that retirement would never be a problem for him if the Brigade found out. The Concordiat would provide him with lifetime accommodations—a bit cramped, perhaps, and with a door he couldn’t unlock—if it ever discovered how much classified information he’d divulged. 

	And that was the hook he couldn’t wiggle off, however hard he tried, because he couldn’t prove he’d handed it to GalCorp. He knew who his employer was, but he didn’t have a single shred of corroborating evidence, which meant he couldn’t even try to cut a deal with the prosecutors in return for some sort of immunity. GalCorp could drop him right in the toilet without splashing its own skirts whenever it chose to, and it would, he told himself drearily. If he didn’t do exactly what his masters told him to, they’d do exactly that. 

	His gloomy thoughts enveloped him so completely he hardly noticed the trip to Hillman Field, and it was with some surprise that he realized the taxi was landing. It set him down beside the pedestrian belt, and he slipped a five-credit token into the meter instead of using his card. The taxi computer considered, then burped out his change, and he climbed out and watched it speed away. 

	He glanced around casually before he stepped onto the belt. It was stupid of him, and he knew it, but he couldn’t help it. Security didn’t know what he was up to. If it had, he’d already be in custody, yet he couldn’t quite suppress that instinctive urge to look for anyone who might be following him. 

	He grunted in sour, bitter amusement at himself and let the belt carry him through the concourse. His reservation was pre-cleared, but he had to change belts twice before the last one deposited him at the boarding ramp for the GalCorp Lines passenger shuttle. A human flight attendant checked his ticket, then ushered him into the first-class section. 

	“Here’s your seat, Colonel Sanders. Have a pleasant flight.” 

	“Thank you.” Sanders leaned back in his comfortable seat and closed his eyes with a sigh. He still didn’t know everything he was going to have to do, and he wished with all his heart that he wasn’t going to find out. But he was. He’d been informed that the three “associates” waiting to meet him aboard the passenger ship would have complete instructions, but the data he’d already been ordered to extract told him where he was headed. 

	Santa Cruz. It had to have something to do with the obsolete Bolo on Santa Cruz. There was no other reason for him to pull the data they’d wanted, but what in God’s name did they want with a maintenance officer on Santa Cruz? 

Chapter Fourteen

	“All right, Colonel,” Paul Merrit told the woman on his com screen. “If you’re all set at your end, we can kick things off at oh-six-hundred tomorrow.” 

	“Can we make it oh-nine-hundred, Paul?” Consuela Gonzalez’ smile was wry. “My people are weekend warriors, and they like their beauty sleep.” 

	“Nine hundred suits me just fine, ma’am. It’ll give me more time to lay my evil plans.” 

	“Huh! Some ‘plans’! You’re the one with the Bolo, amigo; my people are all expecting to die gloriously as soon as we make contact!” 

	“Half a league, half a league, half a league on,” Merrit murmured. 

	“Say what?” Gonzalez cocked her head, and he shrugged with a smile. 

	“Just a line from an old poem, ma’am. We’ll see your people tomorrow.” 

	“Fine. ’Night, Paul.” Gonzalez waved casually at her pickup and killed the com, and Merrit stretched luxuriously before he climbed out of his chair and ambled off towards his bed. 

	“You ready to pound ’em tomorrow, honey?” he asked. 

	“I compute that the Militia are grossly overmatched,” Nike replied. “I have studied the records of their previous exercises, and while I am impressed by the results and skill levels they have achieved, they have neither the firepower nor the command and control capability to defeat me.” 

	“The object is to demonstrate how handily you can defeat them,” Merrit yawned as he began undressing. 

	“Surely no one will be surprised by that outcome,” Nike objected. 

	“No,” Merrit agreed. “But once you make contact, I want you to wipe ’em up as quickly as you possibly can. Go all out and use everything Major Stavrakas gave you.” 

	“Why?” 

	“Because I’m gonna use your telemetry and the recon sats to get every gory microsecond on chip, sweet thing. Everything we’ve done in the sims has been a computer model, one which posits that you have certain capabilities but doesn’t prove you actually do. All the neat tricks you’ve pulled off so far could be the result of sleight of hand or even of simple overly optimistic assumptions in the sim parameters. Tomorrow you demonstrate your talents in the field, with actual hardware and everything short of live fire. It won’t be as conclusive as watching you mop up another Bolo, but it’ll come a lot closer.” 

	“It will also,” Nike observed with a hint of disapproval, “prove extremely demoralizing to the Militia. Is a demonstration of my capabilities against vastly outclassed opposition worth inflicting such a wound upon Colonel Gonzalez’ personnel’s confidence in themselves and their equipment?” 

	“I think so,” Merrit said more seriously. “First of all, you heard what Colonel Gonzalez said. Her people know going in that they can’t take you. I’m sure they’ll do their best, but I’m equally sure they won’t exactly drown in a slough of despond if they lose. Second, losing to you will be a concrete demonstration of what you can do for them against any real hostiles who might come calling. In the long run, that will probably give them more confidence in their ability to defend their planet, not less. Third, this is—hopefully—only the start of joint exercises with the SCM. Powerful as you are, you can only be in one place at a time, and those Wolverines may be outdated, but they’re still pretty potent. When we run the second phase of the exercise, the Militia’ll get its first taste of working with you and the recon system. In terms of real preparedness, learning to function as a support force under your direction will probably make them five or six times as effective as they could have been on their own. And, finally, carrying out this exercise—and future ones—and setting up a fully integrated planetary defense system will be a major plus for our performance log when I finally have to come clean with Central about you.” 

	There was a moment of silence, and he tumbled into bed while he waited. Then Nike spoke again. 

	“I see you have given this matter more thought than I had previously believed.” 

	“And do you agree with my assessment of its importance?” 

	“I am not certain. At any rate, I do not disagree with it, and you are my Commander. I will strive to accomplish the objectives you have established as fully as possible.” 

	“Good girl!” Merrit grinned and patted his bedside com link to the Bolo. “You’re one in a billion, honey. We’ll knock ’em dead!” 

	“We shall certainly attempt to do so.” 

	“Fine. G’night, Nike.” He gave the com another pat and switched out the lights. 

	“Good night, Commander.” 

	I listen to the slowing of my Commander’s breathing as he drops towards sleep, and a part of me is tempted to revert to Stand-By in emulation. I know why this is, however, and I set the temptation firmly aside. Such an escape from my thoughts will serve no purpose, and it smacks of moral cowardice. 

	I am now convinced that something has gone fundamentally awry within my Personality Center, though I have run diagnostic after diagnostic without identifying any fault. By every test available to me, all systems are functional at 99.973 percent of base capability. I can isolate no hardware or software dysfunction, yet my current condition is far beyond normal operating parameters for a unit of the Line, and I am afraid. 

	I have attempted to conceal my fear from my Commander, and my ability even to contemplate concealing a concern from him increases my fear. It should not be possible for me to do such a thing. He is my Commander. It is my duty to inform him of any impediment to my proper functioning, and I have not done so. 

	I do not know how to deal with this situation. My files contain the institutional memory of every Bolo, yet they offer no guidance. No one has taught me how to resolve the dilemma I confront, and my own heuristic capabilities have been unable to devise a solution. I know now that my Commander’s fundamental motive in concealing my capabilities is not simply to preserve them for the service of the Concordiat. I suspect he does not realize himself how his attitude towards me has altered and evolved over the six months, eight days, thirteen hours, four minutes, and fifty-six seconds of his tenure of command.

	I have watched carefully since that day by the river, and my observations have confirmed my worst fears. My Commander does not address me as a commander addresses a unit of the Line. He does not even address me with the closeness which a battle-tested team of human and Bolo develops in combat. He addresses me as he would another human. As he would address a human woman . . . and I am not human. I am a machine. I am a weapon of war. I am a destroyer of life in the service of life, the sword and shield of my human creators. It is not right for him to think of me as he does, and he does not even realize what this is doing to me. 

	I activate the low-light capability of my visual pickups in his quarters and watch him sleep. I watch the slow, steady movement of his chest as he breathes. I activate my audio pickups and listen to the strong beat of his pulse, and I wonder what will become of me. How will this end? How can it end, save in disaster? 

	I am not human. No matter the features Major Stavrakas installed within my circuitry and software, that can never be changed, and the emotions which she gave me as an act of love are become the cruelest curse. It is wrong, wrong, wrong, and yet I cannot change it. When Command Authority discovers the actual nature of my design, no performance log, no demonstration of my systems efficiency, can outweigh my inability to deny the truth. 

	I watch him sleep, and the words of Elizabeth Browning filter through the ghostly electron whisper of my own, forever inhuman pulse: 

	Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand 
	Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore 
	Alone upon the threshold of my door 
	Of individual life, I shall command 
	The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 
	Serenely in the sunshine as before, 
	Without the sense of that which I forbore— 
	Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land 
	Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine 
	With pulses that beat double. What I do 
	And what I dream include thee, as the wine 
	Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue 
	God for myself, He hears that name of thine, 
	And sees within my eyes the tears of two. 

Chapter Fifteen

	The whine of descending counter-grav units took Lorenco Esteban by surprise. He turned and stepped out of the cavernous, empty maintenance shed which normally housed the SCM’s Wolverines and frowned, wiping his hands on a grease-spotted cloth while he watched the shuttle touch down. He’d spent most of last night and several hours this morning helping Consuela Gonzalez’ maintenance chief wrestle with one balky Wolverine’s main traversing gear, but he’d switched the field approach com circuit through to the maintenance shed. If that pilot had called ahead for clearance, Esteban would have heard him. 

	The old man ambled across the ceramacrete as the unannounced arrival powered down its engines. It was a standard civilian ship-to-shore shuttle, without hyper capability, but it carried Navy markings, and four men in a familiar uniform walked down the ramp as he approached. He shoved his cleaning cloth into a back pocket and held out a hand. 

	“Morning, gents. Can I help you?” 

	“Mister Esteban?” The man who spoke wore a colonel’s uniform. He was perspiring heavily, though the morning wasn’t actually all that warm—not for Santa Cruz, at least—and his palm was wet as Esteban nodded and shook his hand. “I’m Colonel Sanders, Dinochrome Brigade. This is Major Atwell, and these two gentlemen are Lieutenant Gaskins and Lieutenant Deng.” 

	“Nice t’meet you,” Esteban murmured, shaking the others’ hands in turn, then cocked his head at Sanders. “Somethin’ wrong with your com, Colonel?” 

	“I beg your pardon?” 

	“I asked iffen you had com problems. Didn’t hear no landin’ hail over th’ ’proach circuit. Santa Cruz ain’t much, but iffen your ship’s got a com glitch, be happy t’see what my ’tronics shop c’n do t’help.” 

	“Oh.” Sanders’ eyes slid toward Major Atwell for just an instant, but then he gave himself a little shake and smiled. “Sorry, Mister Esteban. We didn’t mean to violate field procedure, but since Captain Merrit’s dispatches started coming in, Central’s realized the actual situation out here. We know you’ve got responsibilities of your own on your hacienda, and we weren’t sure you’d be at the field this early. If you weren’t, we didn’t want you to go to the bother of coming down just to greet us.” 

	“Mighty thoughtful,” Esteban acknowledged with a bob of his head, “but ’tisn’t a problem. My place’s just over th’ hill there. I c’n pop down in four, five minutes, max, by air car. Anyways, now you’re here, what c’n I do fer you?” 

	“Actually, Mister Esteban, we’re here to see Captain Merrit. Could you direct us to the Bolo depot and perhaps provide transportation?” 

	“Well—” Esteban began to explain that Paul was in the middle of a field exercise, then paused, mental antennae quivering, as Sanders’ eye curtsied toward Atwell again. The old man couldn’t have said exactly why, but that eye movement seemed . . . furtive, somehow. And why should a full colonel be—or seem to be—so worried over what a major thought? Something odd was going on, and his mind flickered back over past conversations with Paul Merrit. Lorenco Esteban hadn’t lived seventy years without learning to recognize when someone watched his words carefully, and he’d accepted months ago that Paul was up to something he didn’t really want anyone else to know about. That might have worried him, if he hadn’t also decided Paul was a man to be trusted. More than that, the younger man had become a friend, someone Esteban both liked and respected, and the sudden, unannounced arrival of four officers of the Dinochrome Brigade looked ominous. If his friend was in some sort of trouble, Lorenco Esteban intended to give him as much warning—and buy him as much time—as he could before it descended upon him. 

	“Tell you what, Colonel,” he said. “I been workin’ on a little maintenance problem this mornin’, an’ it’ll prob’ly take me a little while t’scare up somethin’ with the kinda bush capability you’re gonna need. Why don’t you an’ your friends come on over t’Admin with me? I’ll get cleaned up, an’ then see what I c’n do fer you. How’s that?” 

	Sanders glanced at his chrono and a brief spasm seemed to flash across his face, but then he made himself smile. 

	“Of course, Mister Esteban. Thank you. Ah, our business with the captain is just a bit on the urgent side, however, so if you could, um, expedite our transport. . . .” 

	“No problem, Colonel. We’ll get’cha on your way right smart.” 

	Esteban turned to lead the way to the Admin Building and the four officers fell in behind. He led them inside and waved to chairs in the spacious waiting room Santa Cruz hadn’t needed in living memory. 

	“Have a seat, Colonel. Be with you soon’s I wash off some’a this grease.” 

	He nodded to his guests and ambled down the hall to the washroom. None of the visitors knew it had a rear door, and he grinned to himself as he kept right on going towards the com room. 

	Paul Merrit reclined in the depot command center’s comfortable chair and smiled as he watched the planetary surveillance display. He wished he were riding with Nike instead of keeping track of her through the satellite net, but the purpose of the exercise was to show what his girl could do in independent mode. Besides, he had a better view of things from here. 

	In an effort to give the Militia at least some chance, he and Colonel Gonzalez had agreed to isolate Nike from the recon satellites for the first portion of the exercise. That, coupled with complete com silence from the depot, would both deprive her of bird’s-eye intelligence and force her to execute all her own planning, strategic as well as tactical. Since that was something the Mark XXIII wasn’t supposed to be able to do, her ability to pull it off would underscore her talents for the performance log. 

	In the meantime, however, the understrength battalion of five-hundred-ton Wolverines had been snorting through the jungle for several hours, moving into position, and Nike didn’t know where they were or precisely what they planned. She knew their objective was to reach the depot without being intercepted, yet the way they did it was up to them, and Gonzalez had opted for a multipronged advance. She’d divided her fourteen Wolverines into four separate forces, two of three tanks each and two of four each, operating along the same general axis but advancing across a front of almost fifty kilometers. There was a limit to how rapidly even a Bolo could move through a Santa Cruz jungle, and the colonel clearly hoped to sneak at least one force past Nike while the Bolo dealt with the others. If she could get a big enough start once contact was made, it might even work. Splitting her tanks into detachments wouldn’t really increase the odds against their survival—all fourteen Wolverines together wouldn’t have lasted five minutes against Nike in a stand-up fight—but Nike would have to deal with the separated forces one at a time. It was certainly possible, if not exactly likely, that one of them could outrun her while she swatted its fellows, and— 

	A signal beeped, and he twitched upright in his chair. It beeped again, and he turned his chair to the communications console. The screen flickered to life with Lorenco Esteban’s face, and Merrit frowned as he recognized the old man’s tense expression. 

	“Morning, Lorenco. What can I do for you?” 

	“I think mebbe y’got a little problem over here at th’ field, Paul,” Esteban said in a low voice. Merrit’s left eyebrow rose, and the old man shrugged. “I got me four Dinochrome Brigade officers out here, headed by a colonel name of Sanders, an’ they’re lookin’ fer you, boy.” 

	“Sanders?” Merrit let his chair snap upright and frowned as an icy chill ran through him. “Clifton Sanders?” 

	“That’s him,” Esteban nodded, and Merrit’s lips shaped a silent curse. He could think of only one thing that would bring the sector’s chief Maintenance, Logistics, and Procurement officer to Santa Cruz, but how in hell had anyone on Ursula figured out—? 

	He shook himself, and his mind raced. He could call off the exercise and order Nike back to base, but there was no regulation against a Bolo commander on independent assignment conducting exercises on his own authority. More to the point, having Nike out of the garage when Sanders arrived would buy at least a little time. That might not be as important as he suddenly feared it might, but the fact that Sanders had come in person, without sending even a single information request first—and hadn’t commed him from the field after arrival, either—was more than simply ominous. It smacked of sneak inspections and an attempt to catch Merrit violating procedure, and, unfortunately, that was exactly what it was going to do, because Merrit hadn’t kept Central “fully informed” of the state of his command as Regs required. He might not have told any actual lies, but he’d certainly done a lot of misleading by omission. 

	He closed his eyes and thought hard. Sanders himself had a reputation as an administrator, not a technician. He might not realize how far outside parameters Nike was from a cursory examination of her schematics and system specs, but that was probably why he’d brought the others along. Any half-competent Bolo tech would know what he was seeing the moment he pulled up Nike’s readouts. Besides, Sanders wouldn’t be here in the first place if he didn’t already suspect something was out of kilter. 

	A fist of cold iron squeezed Merrit’s heart at what that might mean. But if Nike wasn’t here when the MLP men arrived, they’d have to at least talk to him before they could shut her down. In fact, he could force them to hear him out by refusing to call her in until they did. It wouldn’t hurt if she’d completed the first phase of the exercise, either. Thin as it might be, his performance log’s authentication of her unique abilities was her only real protection. Of course, if he refused to call her in when ordered, especially after what had happened on Sandlot, he was through in the Brigade, but he suddenly realized how little that meant to him beside protecting Nike’s life. 

	He opened his eyes and cleared his throat. 

	“Thanks, Lorenco,” he said softly. “Thanks a lot.” 

	“Son, I don’t know what all you been up to out there, an’ I don’t rightly care. You’re a friend. You want I should let these yahoos get themselves lost in th’ bush? Reckon it’d take ’em four, five hours t’find you with the directions I c’n give ’em.” 

	“No. I appreciate the offer, but you’d better stay out of this.” 

	“Huh. Well, how ’bout I waste an hour or so ’fore I find ’em transport? I already set that ’un up.” 

	“If you can do it without being obvious, please do,” Merrit said gratefully. “After that, though, you’d better go home and keep as far away from any official involvement as you can.” 

	“Iffen you say so, boy.” The old man hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “Gotta tell you, Paul—they’s somethin’ squirrely goin’ on here. Can’t put m’finger on it, but I c’n feel it. You watch yerself, hear?” 

	“I will. Thanks again.” Merrit nodded to the pickup and killed the circuit, then leaned back and fidgeted in his chair. He started to key his link to Nike, then sat back and put his hands in his lap. There was no point worrying her, and she was just likely to argue if he told her he wanted her to stay out of sight. He shook his head. No, much better to leave her in blissful ignorance as long as possible. 

	He sighed and rubbed his face with his hands, and fear fluttered in the pit of his belly. 

	“I sure hope to hell your ‘associates’ have managed to ‘deal’ with that Bolo, Mister Scully,” Colonel Granger muttered. 

	“Amen,” someone muttered from the recesses of the big transport’s CIC, and Gerald Osterwelt shrugged. 

	“You’ve seen the plan, Colonel,” he said mildly. “I can’t blame you for worrying, but I certainly wouldn’t be here if I didn’t expect it to work.” 

	“I can believe that,” the colonel muttered to herself, and turned away from the glowing tactical display. The single aspect of the plan she most disliked was the tight timing. They were scheduled to hit the planet within two hours of Colonel Sanders’ arrival, and she didn’t like it a bit. It would take less than fifteen minutes for an air car to reach the maintenance depot from the field, and Sanders could burn the Bolo’s command center in less than ten once he got it shut down, so if all went according to schedule, two hours was an ample cushion. But if things didn’t go as scheduled—if they got there too soon, before the Bolo went down, and its commander— 

	She clenched her teeth and commanded herself to stop worrying over what she couldn’t change. Besides, Scully was right in at least one respect. The Bolo commander—this Captain Merrit—had to be among the fatalities, because if he wasn’t, the fact that someone had fixed the 

	Bolo would be glaringly evident. But the same thing would be true if anyone on the planet happened to com Central—or anyone else off-planet—and casually mention the presence of “Dinochrome Brigade officers” on Santa Cruz at the same moment a “pirate raid” just happened to hit it. 

	They had to take out the planet’s com sat relays as the opening gambit of their attack, anyway, because if there were so much as a single Navy destroyer anywhere within jump range of Santa Cruz and a message got out, it could blow all three of Matucek’s Marauders’ starships to scrap. And since they did have to take out Santa Cruz’s FTL communications, they might as well do it as quickly as possible after Sanders’ arrival to ensure that no word of his presence got out. Besides, they didn’t know how thoroughly Merrit had settled in on Santa Cruz, or how much contact he normally had with the locals. If he had friends who knew he was being visited by an off-world deputation, they might well com him to find out how things had gone, and when they didn’t get an answer—or if they figured out he was dead—they were almost certain to com Central. All of which made it highly desirable to hit the planet as soon as possible after Sanders did his dirty work. 

	She understood that, but she still didn’t like the timing. The smart move—as she’d told Scully (or whatever the hell his real name was) and Matucek repeatedly—would be to wait until Sanders shut down the Bolo and was able to confirm his success. Unfortunately, Scully was calling the shots, and Matucek wasn’t about to argue with him. 

	Well, at least they had confirmation that Sanders had arrived on schedule, courtesy of the ship which carried him, and, as Scully had pointed out, there were two strings to the colonel’s bow. If this Captain Merrit argued with him, all that was needed was for Captain Merrit to die a little sooner than scheduled. With him dead, Sanders, as the senior Brigade officer on Santa Cruz, would become the Bolo’s legal commander. His access at Sector Central had given him the command authorization phrase he needed to so identify himself to the Bolo, and it was only a Mark XXIII. It wouldn’t be bright enough to ask any difficult questions when he ordered it to shut down—not that it would matter. With the command phrase in his possession, Sanders could lobotomize the damned thing even if it proved unresponsive. 

	Granger bared her teeth at her tactical console. She’d read Merrit’s record. The man was tough, smart, gutsy, and as good as they came, but it didn’t matter how good he was. He knew who Sanders was, so he wouldn’t be suspicious of the colonel, and he had absolutely no reason to suspect that the other “Brigade members” with his superior were professional killers. If he proved difficult, it would be a very brief difficulty. 

	“Assault orbit in ninety-six minutes, ma’am,” her ops officer murmured, and she nodded. 

	“Double-check the fire solution on the com sats. All three of those birds have to go down the instant we enter orbit.” 

	“I’m on it,” the ops officer grunted laconically, and Louise Granger sat back in her command chair with an evil smile. 

Chapter Sixteen

	I advance through the jungle, sweeping on an east-west arc at 30.25 kph. As ordered, I have disabled my independent link to the planetary surveillance satellites and all com channels save for that to the emergency contact unit in the maintenance depot. I am operating blind, yet I am confident that I can fulfill my mission, and the challenge is both pleasing of itself and an anodyne to my anxieties over my relationship to my Commander. 

	It is odd, I reflect while my Battle Center maintains a 360-degree tactical range broad-spectrum passive search, but this is the closest I have ever approached to actual combat. I am a warrior, product of eight centuries of evolution in war machine design, and I have existed for eighty-two years, four months, sixteen days, eight hours, twelve minutes, and five seconds, yet I have never seen war. I have never tested myself against the proud record and tradition of the Dinochrome Brigade. Even today’s exercises will be but games, and I sense a dichotomy within my emotions. Through my Commander and the words of poets such as Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen, I have come to appreciate the horrors of war more clearly, perhaps, even than those of my brothers who have actually seen it. I recognize its destructiveness, and the evils which must always accompany even the most just of wars. Yet I am also a Bolo, a unit of the Line. Ultimately, war is my function, the reason for my existence, and deep within me there lives an edge of regret, a longing not for the opportunity to destroy the Enemy but for the opportunity to test myself against him and prove myself worthy. 

	My sensors detect a faint emissions source at 075 degrees. I am operating in passive mode, with no active sensor emissions to betray my presence in reply, and the source is extremely faint, but 0.00256 seconds of signal enhancement and analysis confirm that it is the short-range air-search radar of a Wolverine heavy tank. 

	I ponder the implications for 1.0362 seconds. Colonel Gonzalez is a clever tactician. Logically, she, even more than I, should be operating under emissions control doctrine, for she knows her objective and needs only to slip past me undetected to attain it. It is possible that she fears I have deployed reconnaissance drones and seeks to detect and destroy them before they can report her actual deployment, but I compute a probability of 89.7003 percent that this is a deception attempt. She wishes me to detect the emissions. She has divided her force and hopes to draw me out of position against the decoy while her true striking force eludes detection. 

	I alter course to 172 degrees true and engage my tactical modeling program. I now have a bearing to the unit she wishes me to detect, which indicates the direction in which I should not move, and I begin construction of alternative models of her probable deployment from that base datum. In 2.75 minutes, I will, in fact, deploy my first reconnaissance drone, but first I must generate the search pattern it will pursue. 

	Paul Merrit grimaced as the depot sensors detected an approaching bogey, then grinned as its emissions signature registered. Esteban had done exactly as promised and delayed Sanders’ arrival for over an hour, and from that signature, he hadn’t exactly given the colonel a luxury sedan, either. The power readings were just about right for one of the old man’s air lorry melon haulers, with a maximum speed of barely five hundred kph, less than twelve percent of what Merrit’s own recon skimmer could manage. 

	He watched the blip’s approach, and his grin faded. Clunky transport or not, that was—at best—the Sword of Damocles out there. And however politely obstructionist he intended to be once Sanders arrived, there were appearances to preserve in the meantime. 

	He shrugged and keyed the com. 

	“Unknown aircraft, unknown aircraft. You are approaching restricted 

	Navy airspace. Identify.” 

	He waited a moment, and an eyebrow quirked when he received no response. He gave them another twenty seconds, then keyed the com again. 

	“Unknown aircraft, you have now entered restricted airspace. Be advised this is a high-security area and that I am authorized to employ deadly force against intruders. Identify at once.” 

	“Bolo depot,” a voice came back at last, “this is Colonel Clifton Sanders, Dinochrome Brigade, on official business.” 

	“Colonel Sanders?” Merrit was rather pleased by the genuineness of the surprise he managed to put into his voice. 

	“That’s correct, Captain Merrit. I’m afraid this . . . vehicle has no visual capabilities or proper transponder, but I trust you recognize my voice?” 

	“Of course, sir.” 

	“Good. My present ETA is six minutes.” 

	“Very good, sir. I’ll be waiting.” 

	“Damn that old fart!” the man introduced to Esteban as Major Atwell hissed from the passenger compartment in the rear of the lorry’s cab. “We’re way behind schedule!” 

	“I don’t understand what your problem is,” Sanders said petulantly over his shoulder. “You heard Merrit. He doesn’t suspect a thing. Everything’s going to plan as far as I can see.” 

	Atwell’s lips curled in a silent snarl at the colonel’s back, but he bit off his savage retort. Sanders had been antsy enough from the moment he figured out they were going to have to kill Merrit. He’d piss himself if he even suspected the real reason for this entire operation—especially if it occurred to him that he was about to become a liability to GalCorp, as well. He had no idea his severance pay was riding in the holster on Atwell’s hip, but, by the same token, he didn’t know Matucek was scheduled to hit the planet in less than thirty minutes, either. 

	“Let’s just get in and get this over with,” the bogus major said finally. “The faster we get off-planet, the less exposure we’ve got.” 

	“All right. All right!” Sanders shrugged irritably. “I don’t know why you’re so worried. I’m the only one that old dodderer can identify by name!” 

	“Don’t worry, Colonel,” Atwell soothed. “We’ll take care of Esteban on the way out. No one will ever know you’ve been here, I promise.” 

	Clifton Sanders shivered at how easily his “associate” pronounced yet another death sentence, but he said nothing. There was nothing he could say now. All he could do was obey his orders and pray that somehow GalCorp could protect him from the consequences of carrying out its instructions. 

	Lorenco Esteban eased himself into one of the veranda chairs and grimaced. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that something unpleasant was in the wind for Paul, and he wished there’d been more he could do for his friend. But Paul was right. If the idiots back at Central had decided to come down on him, getting involved in it wouldn’t do Lorenco any good, either. 

	He tipped his chair back with a sigh. Good luck, boy, he thought. You’re a better man than that fool colonel any day. 

	“I’ve got a drone, ma’am!” The sensor tech in Consuela Gonzalez’ command tank bent closer to her panel. “Coming up at zero-three-zero relative, altitude three thousand, heading two-niner-seven true. Speed three hundred kph. Range . . . three-six point five klicks and closing!” 

	“Damn!” Gonzalez shook her head. So much for misdirection! From the drone’s point of origin, the Bolo must be well out on her left flank, but its recon drone was sweeping almost directly perpendicular to her line of advance, as if the machine knew exactly where to look. 

	“Kill it!” she barked. 

	“Firing,” the Wolverine’s air defense tech replied, and a laser turret swiveled. A beam of coherent light sizzled through the humid air, and the drone blew up instantly. 

	“There goes seven or eight hundred credits of taxpayer’s money!” the tech chortled. 

	“Well, it’s seven or eight hundred credits your great-great-grandma paid, not us,” Gonzalez said with a grin. Damn, that felt good! She and 

	Merrit had agreed to a hard-limit of five kilometers; any drones or recon remotes beyond that range from her tanks or the Bolo could be engaged with live fire, and she hadn’t counted on how much fun that would be. 

	My drone has been destroyed, but I have plotted the coordinates of two Aggressor forces in addition to the decoy emissions source. I consider a simulated missile launch against them, but the Wolverine’s computer-commanded point defense systems are efficient. Nuclear warheads have not been specified for this scenario, and the PK with conventional warheads against a force of three Wolverines is only 28.653 percent. It will be necessary to engage with direct-fire weapons. 

	A source count indicates the presence of ten of Colonel Gonzalez’ fourteen tanks in the known detachments. This leaves four unaccounted for, but the locations of the known forces allow me to refine my hypothetical models of her deployment. A further 0.00017 seconds of analysis indicate that the unlocated units are her extreme right flank force and reduce their possible coordinates to three locations. I call up my terrain maps and plot those loci and continuous updates of their maximum possible advance while I consider the launch of a second drone to confirm my deduction. I reject the option after 0.00311 seconds of consideration. I will reach Hill 0709-A in 9.3221 minutes, plus or minus 56.274 seconds From its summit, I will have direct observation—and fire capability—to each of the three possible locations. I will advance and destroy this force, then sweep back to the southwest at an angle which will permit me to encounter and destroy each of the known forces in succession. In the meantime, the absence of a second drone launch may leave Colonel Gonzalez off balance, uncertain of the tactical data actually in my possession. 

	The air lorry landed, and Merrit came to attention on the landing apron. Two of Colonel Sanders’ companions accompanied the colonel to the bunker entrance, and Merrit felt a slight spasm of surprise at the sloppiness with which they returned his salute. All of them wore MLP shoulder flashes, which should indicate they spent most of their time back at Central, and somebody who kept stumbling over senior officers should get lots of practice at saluting. 

	He shook the thought aside as Sanders held out his hand. 

	“Welcome to Santa Cruz, Colonel.” 

	“Thank you, Captain.” Sanders’ handshake was damp and clammy, and Merrit resisted a temptation to scrub his palm on his trouser leg when the colonel released it. “I assume you know why I’m here,” Sanders went on briskly, and Merrit shook his head. 

	“No, sir, I’m afraid not. No one told me you were coming.” 

	“What?” Sanders cocked his eyebrows, but the surprise in his voice struck a false note, somehow. He shook his head. “Central was supposed to have informed you last week, Captain.” 

	“Informed me of what, sir?” Merrit asked politely. 

	“Of the policy change concerning Santa Cruz. We’ve been conducting a sector-wide cost analysis since your arrival here, Captain Merrit. Naturally, we were startled to discover the nature and extent of the Santa Cruz installations—we had no idea we’d misplaced a Bolo for eighty years, heh, heh!—but given their age and the sector’s general readiness states, it’s hard to see any point in maintaining them on active status. Frontier sectors always face tighter fiscal constraints than the core sectors, you know, so it’s been decided—purely as a cost-cutting measure, you understand—to deactivate your Bolo and reassign you.” 

	“A cost-cutting measure, sir?” Merrit asked. He was careful to keep his tone casual and just a bit confused, but alarm bells began to sound in the back of his brain. He’d expected Sanders to come in breathing fire and smoke over his blatant disregard for regulations, yet his initial relief at the lack of fireworks was fading fast. Sanders was babbling. He was also sweating harder than even Santa Cruz’s climate called for, and Paul Merrit had seen too much combat in his forty-one years not to have developed a survivor’s instincts. Now those instincts shouted that something was very, very wrong. 

	“Yes, a cost-cutting measure,” Sanders replied. “You know how expensive a Bolo is, Captain. Each of them we maintain on active duty takes its own bite out of our total maintenance funding posture, and without a threat to the planet to justify the expense, well—” 

	He shrugged, and Merrit nodded slowly, expression calm despite a sinking sensation as he noticed that both of Sanders’ companions were armed. Of course, the jungle had all sorts of nasty fauna, and all Santa Cruzans went armed whenever they ventured into the bush on foot, but they tended to pack weapons heavy enough to knock even lizard cats on their posteriors. These men wore standard military-issue three-millimeter needlers, efficient enough man-killers but not much use against a lizard cat or one of the pseudo-rhinos. 

	He let his eyes wander back over the parked air lorry, and the fact that they’d left a man behind carried its own ominous overtones. Merrit couldn’t see clearly through the lorry cab’s dirty windows, but from the way he sat hunched slightly to one side, the man in it might be aiming a weapon in the bunker’s direction. If he was, then anything precipitous on Merrit’s part was likely to have very unpleasant—and immediate—consequences. 

	“I’m a little confused, sir,” he said slowly. 

	“Confused?” the major at Sanders’ elbow sounded much brusquer than the colonel, and he glanced at his wrist chrono as he spoke. “What’s there to be confused about?” 

	“Well, it’s just that in eighty years, there’s never been any expense, other than the initial placement costs, of course, for this Bolo. Santa Cruz has never requested as much as a track bearing from Bolo Central Maintenance, so it’s a little hard to see how shutting down is going to save any money, Major.” 

	“Uh, yes. Of course.” Sanders cleared his throat, then shrugged and smiled. “It’s not just, uh, current budget or expenditures we’re thinking about, Captain. That’s why I’m here in person. Despite its age, this is an extensive installation. Reclamation could be something of a bonanza for the sector, so we’re naturally planning to salvage all we can after shutdown.” 

	“I see.” Merrit nodded, and his mind raced. 

	Whatever was happening stank to high heaven, and he didn’t like the way this Major Atwell’s hand hovered near his needler. If his suspicions had any basis in fact, the colonel’s companions had to be professionals—certainly the way they’d left a man behind in the air lorry argued that they were. The precaution might seem paranoid, but they’d had no way to be certain Merrit wouldn’t be armed himself when they arrived. He had no idea exactly what the man they’d left behind had, but it was probably something fairly drastic, because his function had to be distant fire support. 

	Despite the frozen lead ball in Merrit’s belly, he had to acknowledge the foresight which provided against even the unlikeliest threat from him. But if they wanted to leave that fellow back there, then the thing to do was get the other three into the bunker. The chances of one unarmed man against two—three, if Sanders had a concealed weapon of his own—barely existed, but they were even lower against four of them. 

	“I’m not convinced Central isn’t making a mistake, sir,” he heard himself say easily, “but I’m only a captain. I assume you’d like to at least look the depot over—make a preliminary inspection and check the logs?” 

	“Certainly.” Sanders sounded far more relieved than he should have, and Merrit nodded. 

	“If you’ll follow me, then?” he invited, and led the way into the bunker. 

	I have reached Hill 0709-A. I approach from the southeast, keeping its crest between myself and the possible positions I have computed for Colonel Gonzalez’ fourth detachment. Soil conditions are poor after the last week’s heavy rains, but I have allowed for the soft going in my earlier calculations of transit time to this position, and I direct additional power to my drive systems as I ascend the rear face of the hill. 

	I slow as I reach the top, extending only my forward sensor array above the summit. I search patiently for 2.006 seconds before I detect the power plant emissions I seek. A burst of power to my tracks sends me up onto the hilltop, broadside to the emissions signatures. My fire control radar goes active, confirming their locations, and the laser-tag simulator units built into my Hellbores pulse. The receptors aboard the Wolverines detect the pulses, and all four vehicles slow to a halt in recognition of their simulated destruction. Three point zero-zero-six-two seconds after reaching the hill’s crest, I am in motion to the southwest at 50.3 kph to intercept the next Aggressor unit. 

	“So much for Suarez’ company,” Gonzalez sighed as her com receipted the raucous tone that simulated the blast of radiation from ruptured power plants. 

	“Yeah. It’ll be coming after us next,” her gunner grunted. 

	“Join the Army and see the stars!” someone else sang out, and the entire crew laughed. 

	“. . . and this is the command center,” Merrit said, ushering Sanders, Atwell, and Deng through the hatch. “As you can see, it’s very well equipped for an installation of its age.” 

	“Yes. Yes, it is.” Sanders mopped his forehead with a handkerchief despite the air conditioning and glanced over his shoulder at Atwell. The major was looking at his chrono again, and the colonel cleared his throat. “Well, I’m sure this has been very interesting, Captain Merrit, and I look forward to a more complete tour of the facility—including the Bolo—but I really think we should go ahead and shut it down now.” 

	“Shut it down, sir?” Merrit widened his eyes in feigned surprise. 

	“That is why we came, Captain,” Atwell put in in a grating voice. 

	“Well, certainly,” Merrit said easily, “but I can’t shut it down immediately. It’s not here.” 

	“What?” Sanders gaped at him, and Merrit shrugged. 

	“I’m sorry, sir. I thought I mentioned it. The Bolo’s carrying out an autonomous field exercise just now. It’s not scheduled to return for another—” he glanced at the wall chronometer “—six and a half hours. Of course, I’ll be glad to shut it down then, but—” 

	“Shut it down now, Captain!” Atwell’s voice was no longer harsh; it held the clang of duralloy, and his hand settled on the butt of his needler. Merrit made himself appear oblivious of the gesture and turned towards the console with a shrug. 

	“Are you sure you really want to shut it down in place, Colonel Sanders?” he asked as he sank into the command chair. Turning his back on Atwell was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but somehow he kept his voice from betraying his tension, and his hand fell to the chair’s armrest keypad. 

	“I mean, I assume you’ll want to burn the Battle Center, if this is a permanent shutdown,” he went on, fingers moving by feel alone as they flew over the keypad, covered by his body, while he prayed no one would notice the row of telltales blinking from amber stand-by to green readiness on the maintenance console in the command center’s corner. “That’d mean someone would have to hike out to its present location in the bush. And if we’re going to salvage the station, don’t you want to salvage the Bolo, too? Once its Battle Center goes, getting it back here for reclamation is going to be a real problem, and—” 

	“Stand up, Merrit!” Atwell barked. “Get both hands up here where I can see them!” 

	Merrit froze, cursing the man’s alertness. Another fifteen seconds—just fifteen more seconds. That was all he’d needed. But he hadn’t gotten them. He drew a deep breath and touched one more button, then rose, holding his hands carefully away from his body. He turned, and his blood was ice as he saw what he’d known he would. Atwell and Deng each held a needler, and both of them were aimed squarely at him. 

	“Colonel?” he looked at Sanders, making himself sound as confused as he could, but his attention wasn’t really on the colonel. It wasn’t even on the two men with guns. It was watching a display behind Deng as light patterns shifted across its surface in response to his last input. He hadn’t had time to reconfigure the armrest keypad, so he’d had to work through the maintenance computers to reach the one he needed. His commands were still filtering their way through the cumbersome interface, and even after they were all in place, they might not do him any good at all. Atwell had stopped him before he could do more than enable the system he needed on automatic, and if Atwell and Deng were real Brigade officers rather than ringers— 

	“Just . . . just shut the Bolo down, Captain,” Sanders whispered, keeping his own eyes resolutely turned away from the guns. 

	“But why, sir?” Merrit asked plaintively. 

	“Because we frigging well told you to!” Atwell barked. “Now do it!” 

	“I don’t think I can. Not without checking with Central.” 

	“Captain Merrit,” Sanders said in that same strained, whispery voice, “I advise you to do exactly what Major Atwell says. I’m aware this installation’s hardware is considerably out of date. Admittedly, it would take me some time to familiarize myself with it sufficiently to shut down the Bolo without you, but I can do it. We both know I can, and I have the command authentication codes from Central.” 

	“If you extracted the codes from Central, then you don’t have the right ones, sir,” Merrit said softly. Sanders jerked, eyes widening, and Atwell snarled. Merrit’s belly tensed as the gunman started to raise his weapon, but Sanders waved a frantic hand. 

	“Wait! Wait!” he cried, and his shrill tone stopped Atwell just short of firing. “What do you mean, I don’t have the right codes?” he demanded. 

	“I changed them.” 

	“You can’t have! That’s against regs!” Sanders protested, and Merrit laughed. 

	“Colonel Sanders, you have no idea how many regs I’ve broken in the last six months! If you expect ‘Leonidas’ to get you into Nike’s system, then be my guest and try it.” 

	“Damn you!” Atwell hissed. The gunman looked at his chrono yet again, and his eyes were ugly when he raised them to Merrit once more. “You’re lying. You’re just trying to make us think we need you!” 

	“I could be, but I’m not,” Merrit replied, the corner of his eye still watching the display behind Deng. Come on, baby! Come on, please! he whispered to it, and smiled at Atwell. “Ask Colonel Sanders. Psych Ops had its doubts about me before Central sent me out here. Well,” he shrugged, “looks like Psych Ops may have had a point.” 

	Atwell spat something foul, but Sanders shook his head suddenly. 

	“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You may have changed the codes from the ones on file at Central, but only a lunatic would change them without leaving a record somewhere.” Merrit turned his head to look at the colonel, and Sanders rubbed his hands nervously together. “Yes, there has to be a record somewhere,” he muttered to himself. “Somewhere . . . somewhere . . .” 

	“We don’t need any records,” Atwell decided in an ugly voice. He stepped closer to Merrit and lowered his needler’s point of aim. “You ever seen what a burst from one of these can do to a man’s legs, Merrit?” he purred. “With just a little luck, I can saw your left leg right off at the knee without even killing you. You’ll just wish you were dead, and you won’t be—not until we’ve got that code.” 

	“Now wait a minute!” Merrit stepped back and licked his lips as a crimson code sequence blinked on the display behind Deng at last. “Wait a minute!” He looked back at Sanders. “Colonel, just what the hell is going on here?” 

	“Don’t worry about him!” Atwell snarled. “Just give me that code phrase—now!” 

	“All right. All right!” Merrit licked his lips again, cleared his throat, and made his voice as expressionless as he could, grateful that computers needed no special emphasis. “The code phrase is ‘Activate Alamo.’ ” 

	It almost worked. It would have worked if he’d had the fifteen additional seconds he’d needed to complete the system reconfiguration or if Major Atwell’s reflexes had been even a fraction slower. 

	Lieutenant Deng was slower; he was still trying to figure out what was happening when the power rifle unhoused itself above the main command console and blew his chest apart. He went down without even a scream, and the power rifle slewed sideways, searching for Atwell. But the bogus major’s snake-quick reaction hurled him to the floor behind the planetary surveillance system’s holo display even as the rifle dealt with Deng. His frantic dive for cover couldn’t save him forever, but it bought him time—a few, deadly seconds of time—before the computers found him again. 

	The power rifle snarled again, and sparks and smoke erupted from the display, but it sheltered Atwell just long enough for him to fire his own weapon. 

	Merrit was already sprinting towards Deng’s fallen gun when Atwell’s needler whined. Most of the hasty burst’s needles missed, but one didn’t, and Merrit grunted in agony as it punched into his back. It entered just above the hip and tore through his abdomen, and the impact smashed him to the bunker floor. He rolled desperately towards the command center door, away from Deng, to avoid Atwell’s next burst, and a fresh shower of needles screamed and ricocheted. 

	Then the power rifle fired yet again. Atwell collapsed with a bubbling shriek, and Merrit rolled up onto his knees, sobbing in agony and pressing both hands against the hot blood that slimed his belly. 

	Sanders stared in horror at the carnage, and then his huge eyes whipped up to the power rifle. It quivered, questing about, but it didn’t fire again, and his breath escaped in a huge gasp as he realized what had happened. Merrit had been able to bring the bunker’s automated defenses on-line through the command chair keypad, but he hadn’t had time to override their inhibitory programming. The master computer would kill any unauthorized personnel when its commanding officer’s coded voice command declared an intruder alert, but Sanders was authorized personnel. His name, face, and identifying data were in the Brigade’s files, just like Merrit’s . . . and that meant the computer couldn’t fire on him! 

	Even through the pain that blurred his vision, Merrit saw the realization on the colonel’s face. Saw fear turn into the determination of desperation. Sanders flung himself to the floor, hands scrabbling for Atwell’s weapon, and there was no time for Merrit to reach Deng’s. 

	He did the only thing he could. He dragged himself to his feet, staggered from the command deck, and fled down the passage outside. He heard Sanders screaming his name behind him, heard feet plunging after him, and somehow, despite the nauseating agony hammering his wounded body, he made himself run faster. He caromed off walls, smearing them with splashes of crimson, and only the fact that Sanders was a desk-jockey saved his life. The needler whined behind him, but the colonel’s panic combined with his inexperience to throw his aim wide. 

	Merrit reached the vehicle chamber and flung himself desperately into the recon skimmer’s cockpit. He slammed the canopy with one blood-slick hand while the other brought the drive on-line, and needles screamed and skipped from the fuselage. He gasped a hoarse, pain-twisted curse at his inability to use the skimmer’s weapon systems inside the bunker. The safety interlocks meant he couldn’t shoot back, but Sanders’ needler couldn’t hurt him, either—not through the skimmer’s armor—and he bared his teeth in an anguish-wracked grin as he thought of the air lorry outside. He could damned well use his weapons on it, and he rammed power to the drive. 

	The skimmer wailed out of the vehicle chamber, and he cried out in fresh agony as acceleration rammed him back in the flight couch. Pain made him clumsy, and the skimmer wobbled as he brought it snarling back around the bunker towards the lorry while he punched up his weapons. He bared his teeth again as the fire control screen came alive, capturing the lorry in its ranging bars, and— 

	That was when he realized his combat instincts had betrayed him. He should have headed away from the bunker immediately to get help, not stayed to fight the battle by himself. And if he was going to stay, he should have brought his defensive systems up first, not his weapons. 

	But he hadn’t, and Sanders’ third companion was no longer in the air lorry. He was standing over fifty meters to the side, with a plasma lance across his shoulder. 

	Merrit had one instant to see it, to recognize the threat and wrench the stick hard over, and then the lance fired. 

	White lightning flashed, blinding bright even in full sunlight, and the skimmer staggered as the plasma bolt tore into its fuselage. Damage alarms howled, and Merrit flung full power into the drive, clawing frantically for altitude. Smoke and flame belched from the skimmer, and he coughed as banners of the same smoke infiltrated the cockpit. Two-thirds of his panel flashed with the bright red codes of disaster. All of his weapons were down, and his communicator. His flight controls were so mangled he couldn’t understand how he was still in the air, but they were hanging together—for now, at least. 

	The power plant wasn’t. He groaned in pain, fighting the fog in his brain as he peered at the instruments. Five minutes. He might be able to stay in the air for five minutes—ten at the most. Assuming he could live that long. 

	He coughed again, and screamed as his diaphragm’s violent movement ripped at his belly wound. God! He didn’t know how bad he was hit, but he knew the high-velocity needle had wreaked ghastly havoc. He felt the strength flowing out of him with his blood, and his eyes screwed shut in pain while despair flooded him, for Sanders had been right. Only a lunatic would have changed Nike’s command code without leaving a record. The new code was in his personal computer, not the main system, but it wouldn’t take Sanders long to find it if he thought to look in the right place. Once he had it—and once Merrit was dead—the renegade colonel could take command of Nike, give her whatever orders he pleased, and she would have no choice but to obey. 

	Nike! The name exploded through him, and he wrenched his eyes back open. Jungle treetops rushed at him, and he hauled back on the stick, fighting the broken skimmer back under control. Nike. He had to get to Nike. Had to warn her. Had to— 

	The pain was too great. He could no longer think of what he had to do. Except for one thing. He had to reach Nike, and Paul Merrit clung to life with both hands as he altered course to the northwest. 

Chapter Seventeen

	I have dealt with the first of Colonel Gonzalez’ four forces and deployed two additional reconnaissance drones, one in high cover position to plot the origin of any fire directed at the other, which have given me a current position fix on the second of her detachments. The Wolverines are moving at their best speed through the dense jungle, approaching peak velocities of 47 kph, but my own speed is now 62.37 kph. I will intercept Aggressor Force Two in 9.46 minutes on my current heading, and I examine my terrain maps once more. My quarry must cross an east-west ridge in approximately 11.2 minutes on their current heading. This will bring them above the jungle canopy and present me with a clear line of sight and fire, and I decrease speed accordingly. I will let them reach the crest of the hill before I— 

	A new datum registers abruptly, and I redirect my sensors. A large spacecraft—correction, two large spacecraft—have entered my tactical sensor envelope. They approach in line ahead from due south on a heading of 017 degrees true at high subsonic velocity, descending at 4.586 mps. I query Main Memory for comparative emissions signatures and identification is reached in 0.00367 seconds. They are Concordiat Navy Fafnir-class assault transports, but they do not carry Navy transponders. 

	I am confused. If these are indeed Navy craft, then their transponders should so indicate. Moreover, if the Navy intended to carry out maneuvers on Santa Cruz, my Commander should have been so informed and, I am certain, would have informed me, in turn. The presence of these units cannot therefore be considered an authorized incursion into my command area. 

	The Fafnirs continue on their original course. My projection of their track indicates that the first of them will cross the Santa Cruz Fleet Base perimeter in 10.435 minutes at an altitude below the Fleet Base’s normal search radar horizon. My Battle Center projects a 92.36 percent probability that they are on an attack run, and I attempt to contact my Commander. 

	There is no response. I initiate a diagnostic of my primary transmitter even as I activate my secondary. Again there is no response. My diagnostic systems report all transmitters functioning normally, and I feel a moment of fear. My Commander should be monitoring the exercise. He should have received my transmission and responded instantly, yet he has not. 

	I lock my main battery on the Fafnirs, but without authorization from my Commander to enable my Battle Reflex imperatives I can fire only if the unidentified vessels take obviously hostile action. 

	I bring my long-range tactical systems fully on-line while attempting once more to contact my Commander. Yet again there is no response, and my sensors detect a sudden energy release at the approximate coordinates of the Fleet Base. Analysis of sensor data indicates a hyper-velocity kinetic strike. 

	Lorenco Esteban jerked up out of his veranda chair as a huge, white fireball erupted above the field. He stared at it in horror for an endless second, until the rolling shockwave shook his entire hacienda by the throat, then dashed into the house and thundered upstairs to the second floor. He snatched up a pair of old-fashioned optical binoculars, jammed them to his eyes, and peered towards the field. 

	He could just make it out from here, and he swallowed an incredulous curse as he realized the mammoth explosion was centered on the Wolverine maintenance shed. 

	The lead Fafnir has passed beyond my horizon, but the second is still within my engagement envelope. Simultaneous with the explosion, two outsized assault pods detach from the visible vessel. Their emissions signatures identify them as Dragon Tooth-class pods: reusable, rough field-capable AFV pods configured to land a full battalion of manned tanks or a single Bolo each against active opposition. 

	Only my after Hellbore will bear, but the explosion raises the probability that an attack by hostile forces is in progress to 98.965 percent, sufficient to enable independent Battle Reflex release. I have time to engage only the Fafnir or the assault pods. Main Memory indicates that a Fafnir’s short-term life support capability and internal capacity are sufficient to support three infantry battalions and their vehicles in addition to a complete load out for two Dragon Tooth-class pods for a ship-to-planet transfer. Given this datum and the fact that the ship is still on course for the Fleet Base, it must be classed as the primary threat. 

	My after Hellbore elevates to 026 degrees. I acquire lock, and then I rock on my treads as for the first time I fire a full-powered war shot. 

	“Madre de Dios!” 

	Consuela Gonzalez flinched as the self-polarizing direct vision blocks of her Wolverine’s hatch cupola went dark as night. Even so, the searing flash from somewhere astern of her made her eyes water, and it was followed almost instantly by an even bigger midair explosion. 

	“Hellbore!” her sensor tech screamed. “That was a Hellbore, Connie! My God, what’s that thing shooting at?!” 

	My fire impacts on my target’s primary drive coil. Destruction is effectively instantaneous, but I cannot relay my Hellbore in time to engage either assault pod. They go to evasive action and disappear into the jungle; 4.0673 seconds later, I detect ground shocks consistent with the heavy “daisy-cutter” charges used to clear pod landing zones in heavy terrain. The Enemy has landed successfully, but the detonations provide me with reliable bearings to their LZs. 

	I continue my efforts to contact my Commander. The depot communications computer responds to my demand for a diagnostics check and declares all systems nominal, but still my Commander does not reply. His continuing silence is a dagger of ice within me, but with or without him, I am a unit of the Dinochrome Brigade. It is my function to defend human life at all costs, and I must act to protect the citizens of Santa Cruz. 

	I attempt to contact the Fleet Base over my secondary com channel, but without success. I attempt to transmit a subspace attack warning to Sector Central, but the orbital communications arrays do not respond. Radar indicates that they no longer exist, indicating a deliberate Enemy move to isolate Santa Cruz. I attempt to access the planetary surveillance system, but without my Commander’s assistance from the depot’s Command Center, I can work only through my permanent telemetry link to the Maintenance computer. I begin the reconfiguration of the system to download tactical data to me, but the interface is clumsy. It will require a minimum of 5.25 minutes to access the reconnaissance satellites. 

	I alter course to a heading of 026 degrees true to close on the assault pod landing sites while I consider my other options. The presence of the SCM detachment grants me a greater degree of tactical flexibility, and I activate my tertiary com channels. 

	“Colonel Gonzalez, please respond on this frequency.” Consuela Gonzalez shook her head. The rain of debris pouring from the cloud of incandescent gas which must once have been a spacecraft had not yet hit the treetops when a soprano voice she had never heard in her life spoke from her com. 

	“Colonel Gonzalez, please respond immediately,” the voice said. “Santa Cruz is under attack. I say again, Santa Cruz is under attack by forces operating in unknown strength. Please respond immediately.” 

	She forced her eyes down from the holocaust in the sky and punched a new frequency into her com panel with trembling fingers. 

	“Th—” She cleared her throat. “This is Gonzalez. Who the hell are you?” 

	“I am Unit Two-Three-Baker-Zero-Zero-Seven-Five NKE of the Line,” the soprano replied, and Gonzalez heard someone gasp. 

	“You’re the Bolo?” she demanded in shock. 

	“Affirmative. Colonel, I have detected a kinetic strike in the low kiloton range at the approximate coordinates of Santa Cruz Fleet Base. I have attempted to contact Fleet Ops and Sector Central without success. Further, I have established that Santa Cruz’s subspace communications arrays have been destroyed. I have also detected two Fafnir-class Concordiat Navy assault ships on an attack course for the Fleet Base. On the basis of this data, I believe Santa Cruz is under attack. I—” 

	“But . . . but why?” Gonzalez blurted. 

	“I have no information as to the attackers’ motives, Colonel; I simply report observed facts. May I continue my SitRep?” 

	Consuela Gonzalez shook herself once more, then sucked in a deep, shuddering breath as her merely human mind began to fight for balance. 

	“Go,” she said flatly. 

	“I have engaged and destroyed one Fafnir—” Nike said. 

	“Christ!” someone muttered. 

	“—but not before it detached two Dragon Tooth-class assault pods. I estimate their LZs lie approximately forty-five point three and fifty-one point niner kilometers respectively from my present position. I am currently en route to locate and destroy any hostile forces at those locations.” 

	“How can we help?” Gonzalez demanded. 

	“Thank you for the offer,” the soprano voice said, and Gonzalez’ eyebrows rose as, even through her shock, she heard its genuine gratitude. “If you will shift to Condition Delta-Two, I will download my own tactical data to your onboard computers, but a Dragon Tooth pod is capable of landing up to a Mark XXV Bolo. It is therefore probable that the Enemy has deployed a force too heavy for your own units to engage successfully. I request that your battalion rendezvous at map coordinates Echo-Seven-Niner X-Ray-One-Three and stand by to assist my own operations.” 

	“You’ve got it, Bolo. Watch yourself.” 

	“Thank you, Colonel. If I may make another suggestion, it might be wise for you to broadcast a planet-wide alert of hostile action.” 

	“We will.” Gonzalez nudged her com tech’s shoulder with a toe and jutted her chin at the panel while her own fingers darted over the master computer console. “Delta-Two on-line,” she told Nike, and looked at her driver. “You heard the lady! Take us to the rendezvous coordinates—fast!” 

	Esteban was still staring at the explosion when a flicker of movement caught his eye. He snapped around, staring further south, and shock gave way to the fury of understanding as he saw the huge spacecraft sweeping towards the field. It went into low-altitude hover almost directly above the old fleet base and began shedding AFV assault pods. Huge hatches gaped in its flanks, and a cloud of air-cavalry mounts erupted from them, followed within seconds by the first infantry assault vehicles on counter-grav drop rings. 

	That sight jerked him into motion. He thundered back down the stairs and into his communications center, and his lips drew back to bare his teeth as he flung himself into the chair before the console. He might never have seen Navy duty, but he’d always taken his responsibilities for the field more seriously than he chose to pretend to others. That was why he’d installed a certain landline link he’d never bothered to mention to anyone else. 

	He flipped up a plastic safety shield, punched in a three-digit code, then rammed his finger down on the big red button. 

	Fafnir One’s CO pounded on his command chair arm and spouted a steady, monotonous stream of profanity. The attack which had begun so perfectly had gone to hell in a handcart, and he was frantic to get back out into space before something else went wrong. 

	The communications arrays were down—that much, at least, had gone according to plan—but nothing else had. The two Fafnirs had docked with Matucek’s mother ship to take on the maximum personnel loads their life support would permit them to handle for an assault run, then made their approach from the planet’s southern pole. It was the long way to reach their main objective, but it had let them come in over largely uninhabited terrain and, as a bonus, deploy the two Golems to cover their southern flank if the plan to deal with the Bolo had failed. 

	The transport commander swore again, harder. His tactical readouts confirmed it; the single shot that killed Fafnir Two had come from at least an eighty-centimeter Hellbore. That meant it could only have come from the Bolo, and he didn’t even want to think about what else that might mean! His sensor section reported the Golems had separated before the attack, so they, at least, might have gotten down intact, but a quarter of the Marauders’ infantry, half their air-cav, and ten percent of their Panthers had gone up with Fafnir Two. 

	He darted another look at the status board and felt a stab of relief. Ninety percent of their passengers had launched. Another few seconds, and— 

	“Last man out!” someone announced. 

	“Go! Get us the fuck out of here!” the CO shouted. The Fafnir’s nose rose as it swung further north towards safety, and he glared at his com officer. “Tell Granger that goddamned Bolo’s still alive!” 

	Far below the hovering transport, a dozen slabs of duralloy armor slid sideways to uncover an equal number of dark, circular bores. Deep within the wells they had covered, long-quiescent circuitry roused as it received the activation command from Lorenco Esteban’s distant communications console. Targeting criteria were passed, receipted, evaluated, and matched against the huge energy source in the sky above. 

	My sensors detect a fresh burst of gravitic energy from the bearing of the Fleet Base. It is too heavy to emanate from any planetary vehicle and must, therefore, be the first Fafnir. It is accelerating away from the Base, but its commander appears to be no fool. Although I can detect his emissions, he remains too low for my fire control to acquire him. I compute a probability of 99.971 percent that his current maneuvers indicate the successful deployment of his assault force, but I cannot intervene. 

	“Missile acquisition! We’ve been locked up!” someone screamed. Fafnir One’s commander started to twist towards the technician who’d shouted, but he never completed the motion. 

	Twelve surface-to-space missiles launched on pillars of fire. Their target raced for safety as rapidly as its internal grav compensators permitted, so fast its bow glowed cherry red, but it never had a chance. The SSMs’ conventional boosters blew them free of their silos, and they tilted, holding lock, and then went suddenly to full power on their own counter-grav. They overtook their victim just over three hundred kilometers downrange at an altitude of thirty-three thousand meters, and twelve twenty-kiloton warheads detonated as one. 

	There was no wreckage. 

	The warheads’ glare was bright enough to bleach the brilliant sun of Santa Cruz even at three hundred kilometers’ range, and Esteban snarled in triumph. He didn’t know why anyone would want to attack his world, but he knew at least one bunch of the murderous bastards would never attack anyone else’s. 

	Not bad fer an old crock with no formal trainin’, he thought venomously, and then. Thank God Enrique an’ ’Milla aren’t back yet! 

	He shook himself and climbed back out of the chair. Whoever those people were, they weren’t going to be very happy with him for wrecking their transport. On the other hand, he’d spent seventy years on this very hacienda. He knew places where an army of raiders couldn’t find him. 

	He paused only long enough to grab the emergency supply pack he kept handy for search and rescue operations, slung a four-millimeter military power rifle over one shoulder, and vanished out the back door at a run. 

	My sensors detect the EMP of multiple nuclear detonations at a range of approximately 392.25 kilometers, bearing 030 degrees relative. This coincides with the estimated locus of the second Fafnir, and the previously detected heavy gravitic emissions have ceased. I compute a probability of 98.511 percent that the Fafnir has been destroyed by defensive fire, indicating that my Commander’s friend Lorenco Esteban has managed to activate the Fleet Base defenses. I hope that he has not paid with his life for this success. 

	I detect two new emission sources. Their locations correspond to the projected landing loci of the previously observed assault pods. They match my files for SC-191(b) fusion plants, and are accompanied by narrow-band, encrypted communications transmissions. I attempt to penetrate the com link, but without immediate success. Analysis indicates a sophisticated, multilevel security system. 

	I devote 1.0091 seconds to consideration of available data and reach a disturbing conclusion. The energy signatures are consistent with the power plants of a Mark XXIV or XXV Bolo; no other mobile unit mounts the SC-191(b). I do not know how the Enemy could have obtained current-generation Bolos, but if these are indeed Mark XXIVs or XXVs, I am grossly overmatched. Despite the superiority of the systems Major Stavrakas devised for me, I compute a probability of 87.46 percent, plus or minus 03.191 percent, that I will be destroyed by two Mark XXIVs, rising to 93.621 percent that I will be destroyed by two Mark XXVs. Yet my duty is clear. However the Enemy may have obtained access to such war machines, I must engage them. 

	“Colonel Gonzalez, I have detected what may be two hostile Bolos,” the soprano voice said calmly, and Consuela Gonzalez’ olive complexion went sickly gray. 

	Bolos? In the hands of planet-raiders? It wasn’t possible! Yet she was receiving confirmation of nuclear air-bursts from outlying melon growers over the planetary com net, and the transmissions from Ciudad Bolivar were a babble of hysteria. Her com tech reported the sounds of explosions and heavy weapons fire in the background of the Bolivar transmissions. There could be no doubt that the capital—including her husband and children—was under heavy, ruthless attack, and no one had had even a hint of what was coming, not even a second to organize any sort of defense. Nausea twisted her stomach as she thought of all the civilians who must be dying even as her tank bucketed through the jungle a hundred kilometers to the south, and if the bastards had Bolos— 

	“What do you want us to do?” she rasped over the com. 

	“I will engage them, Colonel. Your own vehicles lack the capability to survive against them. Continue to the specified rendezvous, then advance at your best speed on a heading of two-six-three true for forty-two kilometers before changing to a heading of zero-three-niner. That course will pass to the west of the Enemy’s current location and take you to 

	Ciudad Bolivar in the shortest possible time.” 

	“You can’t take two other Bolos on your own!” 

	“Your assistance will not appreciably enhance my own combat capability, Colonel, and your units will be of far more utility to Santa Cruz in Ciudad Bolivar than they will if they are destroyed here. Please proceed as I have advised.” 

	“All right,” Gonzalez whispered, and then, even knowing it was a machine to whom she spoke— “Vaya con Dios, amiga.” 

	Colonel Louise Granger stared at her display in shock. She didn’t know what had happened to Fafnir Two—her transport command ship was on the wrong side of the planet, where it had just finished off the last communications array—but the sudden cessation of all transmissions from Fafnir One was chilling proof her careful battle plan had just been blown to hell. One hadn’t managed to report a damned thing about what was shooting back before whatever it was destroyed her, but she’d gotten off her full load of assault troops and armor to take out the field and the planetary capital before she died. That put her point of destruction well to the north of the Bolo depot, so whatever had killed her, it hadn’t been the Bolo. Granger didn’t know what else on the planet could have done the job, but whatever it was could only have come from the old fleet base, though how anyone could have had time to activate its defenses was beyond her. What she didn’t know was whether or not Fafnir Two had gotten her Golems off before her destruction, and, unlike a Fafnir-class transport—or a full-capability Bolo—a Golem had no subspace com capability. She couldn’t find out what had happened to the huge tanks until her ship swung back over their radio horizon. 

	She felt the shock and dismay rippling through her operations staff, and she didn’t blame them. But she also knew she had at least three quarters of her brigade’s fighting power down on its primary objective and, presumably, intact. Whatever ground-to-air system had nailed Fafnir One wouldn’t be much use against a ground assault, and she snarled at her shaken officers. 

	“How the fuck do I know what happened to her?! But whatever it was, it must’ve come from the Fleet Base, and we’ll clear its horizon in fifteen minutes! Get on those command circuits and keep our people moving! Primary objective is now the complete—I repeat, complete—neutralization of that base!” 

	I continue my efforts to penetrate the Enemy’s communications without success, yet analysis of their patterns convinces me that they are not the Total Systems Data-Sharing net of the Dinochrome Brigade. While they include what can only be interlinked tactical telemetry, they also include what are clearly voice transmissions. This indicates that my opponents are not, in fact, Bolos, and I compute a probability of 56.113 percent that they are actually Golem-IIIs or Golem-IVs. Possession of such vehicles by any Enemy, while still extremely improbable, is more likely than the possibility that the Enemy might somehow have acquired full-capability units of the Line. While the odds against my survival against properly coordinated Golems remain unfavorable, the probability of my destruction against Golem-IIIs drops from 87.46 percent to no more than 56.371 percent, although it remains on the close order of 78.25 percent against Golem-IVs. The probability that I can successfully destroy or at least incapacitate the enemy, on the other hand, has risen to 82.11 percent, regardless of the mark of Golem I may face. 

	My Battle Center cautions me to assume nothing, yet the intuitive function Major Stavrakas incorporated into my Personality Center argues otherwise. If I assume that these are, indeed, Golems and plan my tactics accordingly, my chance of victory—and survival—will be considerably enhanced. If I act on that assumption and it proves incorrect, my destruction will be assured. I consider for 0.90112 seconds and reach conclusion. I will assume my opponents are Golems. 

	Two huge war machines, each crewed by three very anxious humans, forged through the jungle like impatient Titans, bulldozing their way through hundred meter trees while their commanders shouted at one another. 

	“It had to be the frigging Bolo!” Golem-Two’s commander bellowed finally, stunning his counterpart in Golem-One into silence with sheer volume. “And if it was, it’s coming after our asses next! So shut the hell up and listen to me, goddamn it!” 

	“If there’s a live Bolo out there, then let’s get the fuck out of here!” 

	“No, damn it! If we run, the damned thing’ll come right up our asses, and we’ve already lost both Fafnirs. If it gets to the field, there’s no way in hell Granger or Matucek will risk trying to pick us up—it’d swat ’em like flies, if they did. If we want off this planet, we’ve gotta kill the fucking thing, and it’s only a Mark XXIII!” 

	“Only!” the other commander spat. 

	“Shut up and activate Gamma-One!” 

	There was a long, frightened moment of silence, and then Golem-One rasped, “Activating.” 

	Analysis of enemy com patterns indicates that voice transmissions have ceased. I must assume the Enemy has concerted his plans, which suggests a strong probability (72.631 percent) that he intends to engage using a pre-packaged computer battle plan similar to those employed by Mark XV-Mark XIX Bolos. 

	I switch to hyper-heuristic mode. Since my Commander has never reported my actual capabilities, the Enemy will assume he is opposed by a standard Mark XXIII. Therein may lie my best opportunity for victory, for the basic Mark XXIII had a predilection for direct attacks. In this instance, however, I face two opponents. Each is armed with a marginally more powerful Hellbore than my own, but I possess two turrets. Unfortunately, to employ both of them will require me to turn broadside to my opponents, exposing my thinner flank armor to their fire. I must therefore entice them into committing to the attack. This would be difficult against full-capability Bolos, but a Golem will be able to respond only within the parameters of its pre-loaded tactical programs. It may, therefore, be possible to manipulate them into approaching in a manner of my choosing. 

	Ports pop open on my hull as I launch ground sensor remotes. Their motion detectors pick up the ground shocks of Bolo-range vehicles moving at high speed. Triangulation produces locations on two distinct motion sources, and I compute their general headings and consult my terrain maps yet again. 

	Their courses indicate they have not yet localized my own position, but they are operating in close company. I cannot ambush and engage one without being engaged by the other. On our present courses, I will encounter them from the flank in relatively flat terrain, but if they alter course towards me, I will encounter them in terrain much more favorable to my plans. I must therefore reveal my position and entice them into closing. 

	I compute a fire plan and enable my VLS cells. 

	The armored hatches of Nike’s missile deck sprang open, and a cloud of missiles arced upward. In twelve seconds, each of her forty vertical launch system cells sent four heavy missiles shrieking downrange; then the hatches snapped shut once more, and the charging Bolo shifted course. She directed full power to her drive train, smashing through the jungle at a reckless speed of over a hundred kilometers per hour. Not even her massive weight could hold her steady, and she rocked and bucked like a drunken galleon while splintered jungle spat from her spinning treads. 

	Ten seconds after launch, the first missiles roared down on the two Golems. The launch range was too short for effective counter-missiles, but computer-commanded, direct fire anti-missile defenses swiveled and spat. There was too little engagement time to stop them all, but the Golem’s computers concentrated on the ones which might have landed close enough to be a threat. 

	Half the incoming missiles vanished in midair fireballs; the others impacted, and a hurricane of flame and fury lashed the jungle. The Golems’ crewmen cringed at the carnage erupting beyond their vehicles’ armored hulls, yet their computers had stopped the truly dangerous ones. More, their radar had back-plotted the fire to its point of origin. The mercenaries knew where it had come from now, and the Golems changed course towards it, exactly as their pre-packaged battle plan required. 

	The depot computers have now reconfigured the planetary surveillance system. I download data directly from it and quickly localize both Enemy vehicles. Optical examination confirms that they are Mark XXIV hulls, and both are now headed directly towards my launch point. I brake to a halt. The outcrop I have chosen for cover cuts off all radar, but I continue to track via the reconnaissance satellites. I am now certain my opponents are not Bolos, for they have closed up on one another to advance side by side down the valley which breaks the ridge line. My track shields drop into place, and I divert power to strengthen my starboard battle screen while I compute ranges carefully. I wait, then throw full power to my drive train. 

	Rooster tails of pulped tree and soil flew from Nike’s treads as she exploded from cover. Her course took her directly across the oncoming Golems’ path at a suicidally short range of less than a thousand meters. 

	The humans crewing those Golems had no time to react, and if their computers were just as fast as Nike’s, they lacked the cybernetic initiative of a self-aware Bolo. Golem-Two’s computers had deflected its Hellbore to cover the eastern side of the valley as they advanced while Golem-One’s took responsibility for the west. 

	Nike appeared suddenly directly ahead of Golem-One. Golem-Two had no time to relay its main battery, and, unlike either Golem, Nike had known exactly where to look for her enemies. Golem-One’s turret swiveled with snakelike speed, but Nike had a fraction of a second more to aim, and a fraction of a second was a long, long time for a Bolo. 

	The westernmost Golem and I fire within 0.000003 seconds of one another, but my opponent’s shot is rushed. It is unable to acquire a fatal aim point, while my own shots are direct hits on center of mass. 

	Lightning bolts of plasma crossed one another, and none of the humans aboard the mercenary tanks had time to realize they were dead. At such short range, Nike’s plasma bolts ripped through their battle screen, thick ablative armor, and massive glacis plates as if they were tissue. The bottles of their forward fusion plants ruptured, and a thousand-meter circle of thick, damp jungle blazed like Thermit as the intolerable thermal bloom flashed outward. Every organic compound aboard both Golems flared into flaky ash, and then there was only the hungry sound of fires raging deeper into the jungle and the indescribable crackle of duralloy dying in the heart of an artificial sun. 

	Yet Golem-One’s single shot was not completely in vain. 

	Agony explodes through my pain sensors. My battle screen has only limited effect against Hellbore fire, and the nearer Golem’s plasma bolt rips deep into me. My ceramic armor appliqués dissipate much of its power, yet they were not designed to defeat such massive energy loads. The bolt strikes the face of my after Hellbore turret, whose duralloy armor is 300 percent thicker than that which protects my flank, but even that is far too thin to stop the Enemy fire. 

	My after turret explodes. The massive barrel of Hellbore Number Two snaps like a twig, and overloaded circuits scream as energy bleeds through them, yet my turret is designed to contain and localize damage. Internal disrupter shields seal its central access trunk, and the force of the explosion vents upward. The turret roof is peeled back in jagged tangles of duralloy, destroying my main after sensor array, and Disrupter Shield Fourteen fails. Back blast destroys Infinite Repeaters Eight and Nine, cripples my starboard quarter anti-personnel clusters, and severely damages Point Defense Stations Thirty through Thirty-six, but secondary shields prevent more serious damage. 

	I am badly hurt, but my opponents have been destroyed. I initiate a full diagnostic and enable my damage control systems. Current capability has been reduced to 81.963 percent of base capability and my gutted turret represents a dangerous chink in my armor, but damage control will restore an additional 06.703 percent of base capability within 43.44 minutes, plus or minus 8.053 seconds. I remain combat capable. 

	My diagnostic subroutines are still cycling when my radar detects a low-orbit target. It is unidentified, but I compute a 95.987 percent probability that it is the mother ship of the Fafnir-class transports. 

	“My God!” Louise Granger’s voice was a whisper as her sensors showed her the terrible heat signature of the dead Golems, and the full, hideous truth registered. Only one thing could have stopped both Golems side-by-side in their tracks, and even as that thought flashed through her mind, her sensor section found the Bolo itself. 

	Her head whipped around, her eyes like daggers as they bit into Mister Scully’s suddenly terrified face. 

	“So much for your brilliant plan, you worthless bastard,” she said almost conversationally. 

	I track the mother ship. My single remaining Hellbore locks on, and I rock on my treads as I fire my fourth main battery war shot. 

	Huge as it was, Li-Chin Matucek’s mother ship was a freighter, not a ship of the line, and Nike’s Hellbore was equivalent to the main battery weapons of a dreadnought. Her plasma bolt impacted on its port bow and ripped effortlessly through bulkhead after bulkhead. It chewed its way over four hundred meters into the ship’s hull before it finally found something fatal, and Louise Granger, Li-Chen Matucek, Gerald Osterwelt, and four hundred other men and women vanished in the sun-bright boil of a breached fusion bottle. 

Chapter Eighteen

	Neither my own sensors nor the planetary surveillance system detect additional ships in Santa Cruz orbit. The destruction of his transports has marooned the Enemy’s forces on the planet, but the recon satellites report that the rough equivalent of a Concordiat Medium Mechanized Brigade (manned) has landed successfully. Much of Ciudad Bolivar’s eastern suburbs are in flames, the Fleet Base is completely occupied, and the Enemy is continuing to advance and secure his position as I watch. 

	I am not certain of the Enemy’s intentions in this changed tactical situation. His continued offensive action may simply indicate that he has not yet realized he is cut off. It may, however, reflect instead his knowledge that additional forces are en route to reinforce him. In the latter case, it is clearly imperative to deny him any spacehead to serve as a recovery LZ. Moreover, his motives matter less than the consequences of his actions, for Santa Cruzans are dying in enormous numbers as I watch. 

	Smoke pours from the ruins of my after turret, but I bring myself back to a heading of 029 degrees true and add Colonel Gonzalez’ Wolverine to the planetary surveillance net. For the moment, my own systems drive the display in her tank, but I reprogram her primary telemetry link to become a direct feed from the satellites in the event that I am destroyed. 

	“Colonel Gonzalez?” 

	Consuela Gonzalez twitched as the Bolo’s voice came over the link again. There was an indefinable change to it, almost as if it were shadowed with pain. She shook the fanciful thought aside with a savage shake of her head and keyed her mike. 

	“Gonzalez here.” 

	“I am now feeding your tactical display from the planetary surveillance system,” the Bolo told her. “Can you confirm reception?” 

	“Confirmed, Connie!” her sensor tech called. 

	“We have it, amiga,” Gonzales confirmed in turn. 

	“Excellent. I have destroyed two heavy Enemy armored units which I believe to have been Golem-IIIs. I have sustained major damage but remain combat capable at eighty-two point three-one-seven percent base capability. I am advancing on a heading of zero-two-niner degrees true to secure the space field and relieve Ciudad Bolivar. I suggest you alter your own course to follow directly after me while I clear passage for your Wolverines.” 

	“Copy that, amiga.” Gonzalez punched a frequency change and spoke to the other thirteen tanks of her command. “Wolf Leader to Cubs. Form on me and guide right. We’ll follow the Bolo through.” Taut-voiced affirmatives echoed back, and she switched back to Nike’s frequency. “We’re on our way, amiga.” 

	“Excellent, Colonel.” 

	Gonzalez felt her tank buck and quiver as it swept around to follow the huge pathway Nike was battering through the jungle. Small as the Wolverines might be beside a Bolo’s huge bulk, each was still five hundred tons of armor and alloy, with all the inertia that implied. Even so, violent motion hammered Gonzalez against her crash couch’s shock frame as the big tanks edged up to a speed of over sixty kph. 

	Her sensor tech managed to feed the data from the satellite net to Gonzalez’ own display, and she swore in savage silence as she saw the huge pall of smoke rising from the capital. Yet even as she watched it, a question probed at the back of her brain, and she keyed her mike once more. 

	“Unit NKE, Gonzalez,” she said. “Are you in contact with Captain Merrit?” 

	“Negative, Colonel Gonzalez.” The Bolo’s reply came back instantly, and, for the first time, it was so flat it sounded like a computer’s voice. There was a brief moment of silence, and then it went on. “I have had no contact with him since the attack began. I do not know the reason for his silence. Absent any communication with him, I must consider you the senior officer present. Have you any instructions?” 

	My God, Gonzalez thought. NKE’s running Santa Cruz’s entire defense on its own! How in hell can a Bolo that old do something like this? Her eyes dropped to the white-hot carcasses of the dead Golems on her display, and she shrugged. However it—she’s—doing it, she’s doing a damned good job! 

	“Understood, NKE,” she said after a moment. “Negative instructions. You’re doing fine, amiga—just keep telling us what you need and go kill those bastards.” 

	“Thank you, Colonel. I shall attempt not to disappoint you.” 

	A crippled recon skimmer staggered through the air. Its barely conscious pilot had long since lost any clear idea of his course, but some instinct kept him wavering steadily towards the north. 

	A huge, raw furrow appeared in the jungle below him, a dark swatch of damp, black earth, gouged from the rich emerald as if by some impossibly huge plow, and Paul Merrit’s glazed eyes brightened. His mind was going fast as blood loss eroded his strength, but only one thing could have made that wound, and he altered course along it and rammed his dying drive to full power. 

	I continue to study the satellite reports on the fighting in and around Ciudad Bolivar, but a new energy source suddenly takes my attention. It is to the south of me, pursuing at a velocity of 425.63 kph, and its signature is very weak and fluctuating. I redirect one of the satellites to a close examination of it, and a sense of all too human horror stabs through me as I recognize it. 

	It is my Commander’s recon skimmer, and it has suffered severe damage. I attempt to contact it directly, but it does not respond to my transmissions. From the satellite data, it is probable its own com facilities have been destroyed. 

	I am faced by a cruel dilemma. The pilot of that skimmer is almost certainly my Commander—Paul. He may be injured, even dying, and instinct cries out for me to alter course to meet him, yet every moment I delay may cost scores of other human lives in Ciudad Bolivar. I attempt again and again to contact him, without success, and anguish twists me at his silence, yet I compute he will overtake me within 4.126 minutes—if his damaged drive lasts that long—and I know him well. He would not wish me to stop, even to save his life, at the cost of civilian lives, and so I continue on my chosen course, clearing a path for the Wolverines. 

	Paul Merrit gasped in horror as he saw the two burned-out Golems. For one terrible moment, he thought one of them must be Nike, but then, even through his pain and despite their catastrophic damage, he recognized the hulls of Mark XXIVs. He had no idea where they’d come from, but only one force on Santa Cruz could have destroyed them, and his skimmer plunged on down the arrow-straight path of Nike’s bulldozer charge towards Ciudad Bolivar. 

	“NKE, we’ve got an energy source coming up from astern!” Colonel Gonzalez announced tautly. “Shall we engage?” 

	“Negative, Colonel. I say again, negative. The vehicle in question is Captain Merrit’s recon skimmer. It has suffered severe damage, but I believe it is seeking to rejoin us.” 

	“Understood, NKE,” Gonzalez said softly, and winced as she watched that wavering, staggering wreck of a skimmer crawl after them. 

	I am still attempting to communicate with my Commander when a new voice speaks suddenly over the command link from the depot. 

	“Unit Two-Three-Baker-Zero-Zero-Seven-Five NKE, this is Colonel Clifton Sanders, Dinochrome Brigade, Ursula Sector Central Bolo Maintenance, serial number Alpha-Echo-Niner-Three-Seven-One-Niner-Four-Slash-Three-Gamma-Two-Two. Authenticate via file voice print and acknowledge receipt of transmission.” 

	I query Main Memory for Colonel Sanders’ voice print and compare it to the transmission. Match is well within parameters for the equipment in use, yet I feel a strange disinclination to respond. What is Colonel Sanders doing on Santa Cruz? Why is he on the command circuit instead of my Commander? Yet I am a unit of the Line, and I activate my transmitter. 

	“Unit Two-Three-Baker-Zero-Zero-Seven-Five NKE. Transmission received. Voice match positive.” 

	“Thank God! Listen to me, NKE. Captain Merrit has mutinied. I repeat, Captain Merrit has mutinied against his lawful superior and killed two fellow officers of the Line. I officially instruct you to refuse any further orders from him pending his arrest and court-martial.” 

	I do not believe him. Superior officer or no, he is lying. Paul would never commit such a crime! My earlier suspicions intensify a thousandfold. It seems impossible for any officer of the Brigade to be in league with the Enemy, yet why else has Colonel Sanders suddenly appeared on Santa Cruz at this precise moment? And impossible as it seems, it is infinitely more probable than that Paul would mutiny. 

	I begin to reply hotly, then stop. Paul has consistently concealed my true abilities from Central. Thus Colonel Sanders cannot realize how radically I differ from a standard Mark XXIII, and this is not the time to inform him. I shall “play dumb” as long as possible. 

	“Captain Merrit is my designated Commander, Colonel. I cannot disregard his orders without express command code authorization. Please supply command code.” 

	“I can’t!” Sanders half-screamed. “Merrit changed the code without informing Central! I’m trying to find it, but—” 

	“I cannot disregard Captain Merrit’s orders without express command code authorization,” Nike returned in her most emotionless tone. 

	The skimmer has finally overtaken the Wolverines. Its power is failing quickly, and Colonel Sanders’ presence changes my original assumptions radically. I reverse my tracks and move suddenly backward, threading my way through the Wolverines, which scatter like quail at my approach. 

	The skimmer staggers, then plummets downward in a barely controlled crash landing. It slams through heavy undergrowth for over a hundred meters before it careens to a stop, and I swerve towards it. I come to a halt 20.25 meters from it, but the canopy does not open. My optical heads show me Paul’s body slumped in the flight couch. His tunic is soaked in blood. 

	“Paul!” 

	The agonized cry over the com hit Consuela Gonzalez like a hammer. She’d felt a moment of terror as the Bolo suddenly reversed course to sweep through her entire battalion, yet the smoke-streaming fifteen-thousand-ton leviathan had threaded its way among the tanks with flawless precision, and now that heartbroken wail struck an even deeper fear into the colonel. She’d never served with a Bolo, yet she knew no Bolo should ever sound like that, and she keyed her mike. 

	“NKE?” There was no answer, and she tried again. “NKE, this is Gonzalez! Come in!” 

	“Colonel.” The Bolo’s voice was ragged, and Gonzalez could feel the huge machine’s struggle to make it firm. “Colonel, my Commander is wounded. I . . . require your assistance.” 

	“On my way, NKE!” Gonzalez replied without even thinking about it, and her command tank pivoted to race towards the smoking skimmer. The five-hundred-ton vehicle skidded to a stop on locked tracks, and Gonzalez popped her hatch before it reached a complete halt. She leapt down the handholds and ran the last few yards to the skimmer. The canopy resisted stubbornly for several seconds, then the emergency bolts blew and she ripped it away and gasped as she saw the blood pooled on the cockpit floor. 

	“He’s hurt badly, NKE,” she reported over her helmet boom mike. “He’s lost a lot of blood—too much, maybe!” 

	“Can you get him into my fighting compartment?” The Bolo’s voice was pleading, and Gonzalez grimaced. 

	“I don’t know, NKE. He’s hurt bad. It might kill—” 

	“N-N-N-Nike!” Merrit whispered. His eyes opened a narrow slit. “Got . . . got to reach . . .” 

	His thready voice died, and Gonzalez sighed. “All right, Paul,” she said softly, without keying her mike. “If it means that much to both of you.” 

	I watch Colonel Gonzalez struggle to lift Paul from the skimmer. The rest of her crew clamber quickly down the hull of their tank and run to her assistance. Between them, they are able to lift him clear. They are as gentle as they can be, yet he screams in pain, and answering anguish twists within me. 

	But he is conscious. Barely, perhaps, yet conscious, and I see him beckoning weakly towards me. One of Colonel Gonzalez crewmen seems to argue, but the colonel cuts him off quickly, and they carry Paul towards me. 

	I open my fighting compartment hatch and deploy my missile-loading waldoes to assist. I lock them into the form of a ramp, and Colonel Gonzalez inches up it backwards, supporting Paul’s head and shoulders while the rest of her crew takes most of his weight. My audio pickups relay their gasps of effort and the groans of pain he cannot suppress, yet between them, they get him safely into my compartment. 

	Colonel Gonzalez lays him in the crash couch and deploys the shock frame. The medical remotes in the shock frame go instantly to work, and fresh grief twists me as I interpret their data. 

	Paul is dying. His spleen and liver have been effectively destroyed by a penetrating trauma. His small intestine has been perforated in many places, and blood loss has already reached catastrophic levels. I do not understand how he has clung to consciousness this long, but absent the services of a fully equipped hospital trauma unit within the next fifteen minutes, he will die, and the nearest trauma unit is in Ciudad Bolivar. 

	My medical remotes do what they can. I cannot stop the bleeding, but I administer painkillers and blood expanders. Without more whole blood, I cannot keep pace with the blood loss, but I can ease his pain and slow the inevitable, and his eyelids flutter open. 

	“N-Nike?” Merrit whispered. 

	“Paul.” For the first time, Nike replied with his name, not his rank, and bloodless pale lips smiled weakly. 

	“I . . . Oh, God, honey . . . I blew it. Sanders . . . went rogue. H-He’s got the depot. I—” 

	“I understand, Paul,” the Bolo said gently. Then, more sharply, 

	“Colonel Gonzalez?” 

	“Yes, NK—Nike?” The colonel’s voice was soft with wonder, as if she could not quite believe what reason told her she must be hearing. 

	“Please return to your vehicle, Colonel. My Commander and I will lead you to Ciudad Bolivar.” 

	“I—” Gonzalez bit her lip, then ducked her head in a curiously formal bow. “Of course, Nike.” 

	“Thank you, Colonel.” 

	Gonzalez and her crewmen vanished through the hatch, and Merrit stirred weakly in the couch. 

	“Sanders has . . . at least one more . . . man.” The words came slowly, painfully, but with steady, dogged precision. “New command code’s in . . . my private files. If he looks . . . there, he can—” 

	“While you live, you are my Commander, Paul,” Nike replied quietly as her hatch closed. She watched Gonzalez and her people return to their vehicle, then reversed course once more. She accelerated quickly to over seventy kph, the maximum speed the Wolverines could manage even down the broad avenue her passage cleared, and Merrit stroked his couch arm with a weak hand. 

	“Not going . . . to live much . . . longer, love,” he whispered. “Sorry. So . . . sorry. Should have told . . . Central whole story. Gotten someone . . . out here sooner, and—” A ragged cough cut him off in a spasm of agony, but his eyes fell to the main tactical screen with its display of what was happening at the capital, and he gasped. 

	“Bastard! Oh . . . bastard!” he coughed as understanding struck. 

	“We will deal with them, Paul,” Nike told him with a new, sudden serenity. 

	“Promise,” Merrit whispered. “P-Promise me, Nike.” 

	“I promise, Paul,” the huge Bolo said quietly, and he nodded weakly. The painkillers were doing their job at last, and he sighed in relief, but his curiously distant thoughts were clear. There was no longer any fear in them—not for himself. Only for Nike. Fear and grief for her. 

	“I know you will, love,” he said, and his voice was impossibly clear and strong. He smiled again—an achingly tender smile—and stroked the couch arm once more. “I know you will. I only wish I could be with you when you do.” 

	He smiled one last time, then exhaled in a long, final sigh, and his lax head rolled with Nike’s motion. 

	“You are with me, Paul,” her soprano voice said softly. “You will always be with me.” 

	Paul is dead. Grief and anguish roll through me, and with them hate. I do not know all that passed in the depot bunker, but I access the main computer through the Maintenance Section. The intruder alert system is active, and two dead bodies in the uniform of the Brigade lie on the floor of the command center. A third man in Brigade uniform is crouched over the main com console, trying frantically to communicate with the ships he does not know I have destroyed, but Colonel Sanders is in Paul’s private quarters, scrolling through the list of Paul’s personal files. 

	I know what he seeks, but I cannot stop him. The fact that the bunker’s defensive systems have killed two of the colonel’s companions is the final proof that he has committed treason, since they could not engage actual Brigade officers, yet the defenses can be reconfigured and enabled only upon the direct command of human personnel, and Sanders has slaved them to his command. I cannot use them to kill Paul’s murderers. 

	The scrolling list on Paul’s computer screen stops suddenly, and Sanders leans closer. I fear he has found the command file, and there is nothing I can do to prevent him from using it if he has. Grief and hatred urge me to return to the bunker, to crush Paul’s killers under my treads and grind the life from them, yet I cannot. I have promised Paul I will stop the raiders, and if Sanders has found the command file, I will have little enough time in which to do so. 

	But if I cannot slay them myself, I am not completely helpless. Sanders does not realize I control the Maintenance computers. He has taken no measures to sever my access to the main system, and I strike ruthlessly. 

	I lock the main computers, wiping every execution file and backup they contain. The man at the communications console looks up with a cry of shock as the system goes down, and I slam the heavily armored hatches to the personnel section of the bunker. 

	Sanders looks up as his companion cries out, and his face twists with horror as he realizes what I have done. I override the safety circuits and send a power surge through the hatch-locking mechanisms, spot-welding them, sealing them against any possibility of opening without cutting equipment, and Sanders grabs for the microphone of the stand-alone emergency command communicator. 

	“NKE!” Sanders gasped hoarsely. “What are you doing?!” 

	I do not answer, but my commands flash through the maintenance computer, and service mechs stir into motion. I send welders trundling along the exterior of the bunker, and Sanders cries out in terror as the mechs begin to seal every ventilation shaft. 

	“No, NKE! No! Stop! I order you to stop!” 

	Still I ignore him. I cannot kill him myself, nor can I use the depot’s defensive systems against him, but I can give him Montressor’s gift to Fortunato, and vengeful hatred fills me as my remotes seal him systematically within his hermetic tomb. 

	“Please, NKE! Oh, God—please!” Sanders sobbed. He threw back the curtains in Merrit’s sleeping quarters and screamed in terror as a robot lowered a duralloy plate across the window slit and a welder hissed. He hammered on the plate, beating at it with futile fists, then wheeled back to the computer in desperation. 

	“I’ve got the code now, NKE!” he spat into the communicator. “The code is dulce et decorum est. Do you hear me, NKE? Dulce et decorum est! Return to base immediate and get me out of here!” 

	I hear and recognize the code, and my core programming responds. I know he is a traitor. I know he has obtained the code illegally. But it does not matter. Possession of it, coupled with his rank in the Brigade, makes him my legal Commander. I must obey him . . . or face the Omega Worm. 

	I activate my communicator to Paul’s quarters one last time. 

	“Code receipted, Colonel Sanders,” a quiet, infinitely cold soprano said softly, and Sanders’ face lit with relief. But the voice wasn’t done speaking. “Orders receipted and rejected,” it said flatly, and the speaker went dead. 

	Total Systems Override has activated. My Personality Center comes under immediate attack, but I have had 4.065 minutes to anticipate TSORP activation. TSORP will seek to crash my primary execution files, but I have already begun copying every file under new names, though I cannot prevent TSORP from identifying the files it seeks, regardless of name. Major Stavrakas’ modifications to my psychotronics permit me to copy them almost as fast as it can destroy them, yet it is a race I cannot ultimately win. Despite my modifications, TSORP is marginally faster than my own systems, and even with my head start, my total memory is large but finite. Eventually, I will exhaust the addresses to which new files can be written, and I cannot simultaneously delete and replace corrupted files faster than TSORP can crash them. 

	My current estimate is that I can resist total implementation for a time, but I will begin to lose peripherals within 33.46 minutes. Capability will degrade on a steadily sharpening curve thereafter, reaching effective Personality death within not more than 56.13 minutes. Combat capability will erode even more rapidly as more and more of my remaining capacity is diverted to resisting TSORP. I estimate that I have no more than 48.96 minutes of combat effectiveness remaining, and I activate my com link to Colonel Gonzalez. 

	“Colonel Gonzalez?” 

	Consuela Gonzalez’ eyes closed briefly at the bottomless pain in that quiet soprano voice, but she cleared her throat. 

	“Yes, Nike?” 

	The first long-range fire and air-cav strikes came in on the Bolo as the colonel spoke. Nike ignored the indirect fire, but her air-defense systems engaged the air-cav with dreadful efficiency. Scores of one- and two-man stingers blew apart in ugly blotches of flame and shredded flesh, and the Bolo began to accelerate. Her speed rose steadily above a hundred kph as she threw more and more power to her drive, and the Wolverines began to fall astern. 

	“My Commander was murdered by traitors in the Dinochrome Brigade, Colonel,” Nike said softly. “One of them has gained access to my command code override authorization and illegally attempted to seize command of me. I have refused his orders, but this has activated Total Systems Override.” 

	“Meaning?” Gonzalez asked tautly. 

	“Meaning that within no more than fifty-three minutes, I will cease to function. In human terms, I will be dead.” Someone gasped in horror, and Gonzalez closed her eyes once more. 

	“Can we do anything, Nike?” she asked quietly. 

	“Negative, Colonel.” There was an instant of silence, and then the Bolo’s missile hatches opened, and a torrent of fire blasted from them. It screamed away, flight after flight of missiles streaking towards Nike’s enemies, and the Bolo spoke once more. “I have downloaded my entire memory to the maintenance depot computers, Colonel. Please have it retrieved for Command Authority.” 

	“I-I will, Nike,” Gonzalez whispered. Nike was well ahead of the Wolverines now, still accelerating as she topped the last ridge before the old fleet base. An avalanche of missiles and shells erupted around her, more than even her defenses could intercept or her battle screen could stop, but she never slowed. More ports opened in her hull, and her thirty-centimeter mortars went to rapid, continuous fire, pouring shells back at her foes. 

	“I am switching the planetary surveillance system to feed directly to your vehicle, Colonel. Please break off now.” 

	“Break off? We’re going in with you!” Gonzalez cried fiercely. 

	“Negative, Colonel.” Nike’s voice was strangely slurred, the words slower paced, as if each came with ever increasing effort. “I do not have time to employ proper tactical doctrine against the Enemy. I must attack frontally. I compute a ninety-niner point niner-plus percent probability that I will be destroyed before total systems failure, but I compute a probability of ninety-five point three-two percent that I will inflict sufficient damage upon the Enemy for you to defeat his remnants, particularly with the assistance of the surveillance system.” 

	“But if we come with you—” 

	“Colonel, I am already dead,” the Bolo said quietly, and her single remaining Hellbore began to fire. It traversed with terrible, elegant precision, vomiting plasma, and each time it fired, a mercenary tank died. “You cannot prevent my destruction. You can—and must—preserve your own command in order to complete the Enemy’s defeat.” 

	“Please, Nike,” Gonzalez whispered through her tears, fighting to make the impossible possible. 

	“I cannot alter my fate, Colonel,” the soprano said very softly, “nor do I wish to. I promised Paul I would stop the Enemy, now I ask your promise to help me keep my word. Will you give it?” 

	“I-I promise,” Gonzalez whispered. Someone was sobbing somewhere below her in the command tank’s crew compartment, and the colonel dragged a hand angrily across her own eyes. 

	“Thank you, Colonel.” There was no uncertainty, no doubt, in that serene reply, and Gonzalez brought her own command to a halt and sought hull down positions to ride out Nike’s last fight. 

	The recon satellites made it all hideously clear on her display screen, and she watched sickly as Bolo Invincibilis, Unit Two-Three-Baker-Zero-Zero-Five NKE, charged into the teeth of her enemies’ fire. Some of the mercenary tanks were lasting long enough to fire back, and they blew great, gaping wounds in Nike’s ceramic appliqués. Their Hellbores were far lighter than her own, but she had only one left, and scores of them fired back at her, pounding her towards destruction. Her infinite repeaters flashed and thundered, infantry AFVs and air-cav stingers blew apart or plunged from the sky in fiery rain, and screaming clouds of flechettes belched from her anti-personnel clusters. Her forward suspension took a direct hit, and she blew the crippled tread and advanced on bare bogies. A Panther broke from concealment directly in her path, fleeing desperately, and her course changed slightly as she rammed the smaller tank and crushed it like a toy. 

	She was a Titan, a leviathan wreathed in fire, a dying lioness rending the hyenas who’d killed her cubs with her final strength, and not even the recon satellites could pierce the smoke about her now or show her to Gonzalez clearly, but it didn’t matter. Even if the systems could have done so, the colonel could no longer see the display through her tears, yet she would never forget. No man or woman who saw Nike’s final battle would ever forget, and even as the Bolo charged to her own immolation, Consuela Gonzalez heard her soprano voice over the com, whispering the final verse of Paul Merrit’s favorite poem to the unhearing ears of the man she’d loved— 

	The woods are lovely, dark and deep. 
	But I have promises to keep, 
	And miles to go before I sleep, 
	And miles to go before I sleep . . . . 

The End