Little Dog Gone
Bolos 03 – The Triumphant
(1995)*
Linda Evans

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 One

	My position is precarious, my flank vulnerable. Class One Yavac fire from high ground to my left damages pain sensors along my entire side. The Enemy advances into the teeth of my return Hellbore and infinite repeater fire. I destroy one, two ...Four take their place. My ablative armor takes multiple direct hits. Layers are blown away, leaving my flintsteel war hull increasingly vulnerable to Enemy fire. I send a distress call on the Brigade band, at emergency strength. Silence is my only answer. I grieve for a precious 0.007 seconds. Without the assistance of my brothers, I am forced to withdraw. As I move back, firing left, right, forward, I register on my sensors a division-strength force of Class One Yavac Heavies advancing over the top of the ridge. They will flank me and sweep down across the base before I can disengage from my current position. 

	I inform my Commander of the threat this represents but receive no reply. This concerns me more than the silence of my Brigade brothers. I take a precious 0.01 picoseconds to perform diagnostics on my transmission equipment. I cannot afford to lose contact with my Commander. I am the only survivor of the Dinochrome Brigade on Planet XGD 7798-F. Without me, the Enemy will certainly destroy the colony. The mineral resources of XGD 7798-F are too valuable to risk loss. I discover my transmitter functions perfectly. Base still does not answer. I take withering fire from both flanks. Pain sensors overload. A burst transmission from Command Base reaches me at last. The sound of my Commander's voice brings short-lived joy to my Pleasure Complex circuitry. 

	"Gawain, return to Base, stat. We are under direct attack. The compound is not expected to hold." 

	I register stress in my Commander's voice. Response requires 0.002 seconds. The delay distresses me, for I am proud of my efficient service; but I must wait to complete a Current Situation update scan of battlefield conditions. 

	"Unit Six Seven Zero GWN of the Line to Command, I am under heavy fire. The Enemy has cut my line of retreat. I have received no reply from the remaining nineteen members of Third Dinochrome Brigade. Base is currently receiving fire from left flank and rear. Your right flank will come under fire in approximately 0.5 seconds. I will attack at their weakest point, vector 045, and attempt break-through." 

	"Unit Six Seven Zero GWN, understood. In extremis, Gonner." 

	The code translates, "I am not expected to survive. Your next Commander knows your personal code. If the Base is destroyed, your Commander will transmit code to burn your Action/Command section." 

	I do not desire death. No soldier does. But my duty is clear. I cannot be captured and used against my own forces. I will make every effort to prevent the destruction of my beloved Commander, despite discouraging odds. The situation does not suggest my own survival will last more than another 10.37 minutes. 

	I transmit, "Understood. Unit Six Seven Zero GWN of the Line, out." 

	I disengage, sweeping around to strike the Enemy between my position and the Base compound. My right flank comes under fire as I forge ahead at emergency speed. My Hellbore fire cripples one Class C Yavac Armored Scout. Its jointed legs, blown clear by the explosion, arc outward for a distance of 50.87 meters from the main body of the armored vehicle. My concentrated Hellbore fire destroys another. I turn my armaments against a Class One Yavac Heavy and fire with both Hellbores and infinite repeaters. The turret explodes. Its treads blow clear of its tracks. 

	A narrow opening appears between my position and the Base compound. My plan may succeed. My sensors register Enemy personnel advancing from my rear. They are dog-sized, eight-appendaged creatures, quick on the attack. I discharge anti-personnel explosive mines and small-arms fire from my rear guns. The Enemy falls back behind cover of their Class C Yavac Scout units. 

	Emergency speed has carried me into the midst of the Class One Yavac Heavies flanking the Base compound. My systems are overheating. I continue firing both energy repeaters and Hellbores. I plow through their ranks under extreme fire. I lose rear sensors and am blinded on my right rear quarter by a direct hit. Ablative armor blows away in a four-foot patch along my flank. Pain sensors scream a warning. I ignore it. The Enemy will give no quarter. That was discovered on Millbourne's World. It is why I am here, to prevent another massacre. 

	The compound walls withstand the bombardment with difficulty. I am glad my Commander ordered them reinforced with flintsteel. My war hull beneath the ablative-metal armor is comprised of the same material. Neither the wall nor my war hull is without damage, but we hold. Enemy fire concentrates on the weaker compound gates. My sensors detect structural stress in the hinges. Another direct hit will bring the gates down. Enemy infantry surges forward. Their shouts, alien to my data banks, register on my forward sensors. I hear explosions within the compound as Enemy fire clears the wall and damages structures beyond. 

	The gates vanish in a glare of light. Debris pings on my outer hull. The gate is breached. Enemy Class One Yavacs roar ahead. I take fire from all sides as I charge between two Yavac heavy units. The gap in the wall must be closed. I detect movement inside the compound. My Commander is ordering agricultural equipment into the opening. It will not withstand a single salvo. He knows this. I know this. I run my engines deep into the red zone and clear the intervening two hundred meters in 1.37 seconds. Enemy infantry falls under my treads. A Yavac fires point blank into my right side. Pain sensors explode across my prow and side. My ablative armor is gone in a seventeen-foot section across my bows. I sustain damage to my flintsteel war hull. But I have gained the gate. 

	I pivot and turn Hellbore fire into the Yavac at a distance of five meters. The Yavac unit takes a direct hit to the turret. The explosion scatters debris across my back and into the compound. The fire I have taken before is as nothing. Pain sensors overload and burn out. My internal diagnostics program screams that I suffer severe internal damage. I cannot absorb the total energy of their combined Y-Band energy bolts. I overheat. My hull glows. More systems burn. But I must continue to hold. 

	I am still firing when a direct hit against my hull strikes through previous damage. An explosion tangles my internal psychotronic circuitry. Malfunction warnings and remaining pain sensors scream through shattered hard-wired boards and cracked crystal memory banks. I begin a message to my Commander and am not certain I complete it. 

	I have failed my Commander. Failed the Brigade. Failed my mission. For the first time in my career, I know the meaning of shame. 

	Another explosion against my hull sends a concussion through my awareness circuitry. Extreme damage blows connections, fuses internal leads. Unable to continue fighting, I retreat in desperation to my Survival Center. 

	As multiple impacts of alien feet thud across my hull, darkness swallows my awareness. 

Chapter Two

	"Mama, what's that?" 

	Indira Tennyson followed her daughter's pointing finger across the valley, to a tangle of rotting walls, old crater scars, and ancient trees whose feathery crowns towered above the broken wall. That battle was a long time ago, Indira told herself. Nothing to fear now. Just the ghosts of dead defenders. 

	"That's the old fort, 'Lima." 

	"The one the spodders took?" 

	Indira sighed, silently so her daughter wouldn't hear it. "Yes, the one the Deng captured." 

	"Captain said they killed everyone on the whole planet. Even the Bolos. She said, if you go over there, you can still see the one they didn't bury, the one Dad said they left as a monument, sitting in the old gate." 

	Indira frowned. She had told the captain she didn't want 'Lima's head filled with tales from that bloody fiasco. The wheedling tone in her daughter's voice disturbed her. She would not encourage the girl to follow in her father's footsteps and go running off to join the Navy. Indira had suffered enough distress thanks to the Navy. Besides, the Deng war was old history, fought two hundred years ago. They were here to start a new life together. She didn't want the lingering wreckage of the last war to start any foolish, romantic illusions of glory in her only child's mind. 

	"Forget it, 'Lima. Those machines are dangerous, even when they look harmless. We have work to do. Don't you want to help with the new puppies?" 

	Her daughter cast one last look over her shoulder, toward the ruined fort, then trotted obediently at her heels. Indira was deeply thankful when 'Lima began chattering excitedly about the litter of puppies that had arrived early, while they were still aboard ship. Indira still winced at the expense of transporting Sufi; but leaving her behind would not only have precipitated war in their little household, it would have meant at least a six-year setback in Indira's research. 

	She had a feeling Sufi's puppies were going to change the colonists' lives forever. She smiled in anticipation and grabbed the handle of the servo-truck which held their luggage. 

	"Can you find our new house?" she asked it. 

	"Proceed three blocks east, turn left and proceed seven blocks. You have been assigned the last house in the cul-de-sac. It is painted green, with black roof and shutters." 

	'Lima giggled. Indira grinned. It was good to see her daughter smiling again. "Well, don't just stand there. Let's go home and see what it looks like!" 

Chapter Three

	I do not know how much time has passed. I return to awareness and fade again, how many times I am unable to calculate. This inability disturbs me. I probe during consciousness for damage. I find it everywhere I investigate. My internal linkages are so battered I am unable to scan for damage in many sections. One of my forward sensors still functions. I am able to see the battlefield which I recall in shattered fragments. My crystal memory banks are clearly damaged beyond repair. Power reserves continue to drain in frightening increments from my fission reactor, wasting irreplaceable fuel, as intermittent shorts drain my power plant. I am forced to shut down all diagnostic and other non-essential activity and retreat again into my Survival Center. Perhaps with sufficient power, I could determine the extent of my injuries; but I am not certain even unlimited power reserves would allow me to run full diagnostics. 

	I do not understand why my new Commander did not transmit the coded order to engage my Command Override circuit, thus completely burning my Action/Command center. The passage of time and the hazy recollection of enemy forces around me suggests that no new Commander survived to transmit the code. Perhaps I am too badly damaged even for the Enemy to have made use of me. During recent periods of near-awareness, I recall only the sounds of empty wind. No Enemy activity has been detected during the last dozen times I have awakened into solitude. 

	Other sounds come to my sensors. My shattered data banks register them as falling conifer cones bouncing against my hull. There were no trees inside the compound. A very long time has passed, if mature conifers drop cones on me. Has the Enemy completely destroyed humanity? The shame I feel at my failure to carry out my mission skitters through broken wire-ends and jumps spark gaps into other memory cells. If humanity has survived, then I have been abandoned. I am irreparable. I am alone. A sizzle sputters somewhere in my vocal circuitry and my voice stutters into the silence, uncontrollably. 

	"Yavac. Yavac. Yavac. Yavac. Yavac ... Hold. Hold. Hold ..." 

	The sizzle fades. 

	Darkness returns, with the sound of cones falling against my scarred back. 

Chapter Four

	"Double-dog dare you!" 

	"I'm not going!" 

	Bradley Dault laughed in that derisive way little boys manage when dealing with all lesser beings. Kalima Tennyson glared at him, hating Bradley for relegating her to that status. 

	"You're skeered!" he taunted, fists planted on hips, legs akimbo in the faded autumn sunshine. 

	"Am not!" 

	" 'Lima's a 'fraidy cat! 'Lima's a 'fraidy cat!" 

	She took a threatening step forward. "I am not afraid! It's just stupid! There's nothing over there but a bunch of rusted, burned out old ruins." 

	"Hah! That's your mama talking, not you. Your daddy wouldn't be skeered to go, Kah-Lima Tennyson!" He emphasized the first half of the name her father had given her—the half her mother wouldn't use. Her mother had come to despise everything which remotely smacked of violence, including her ancient ancestors who had worshipped as Thuggees. 

	Bradley was dancing around her like a disjointed marionette, chanting, "Kalima's a chicken! Kalima's a chicken! I'll bet your big famous daddy was really a chicken, too!" 

	Kalima was under express orders never to fight, no matter what the provocation. 

	Bradley's face glowed with evil glee. He poked at her while shouting, "Chicken, chicken, chic—" 

	She put her whole seventy-one pounds of thirteen-year-old muscle behind the punch. The blow landed squarely on Bradley's nose. He squealed and flipped backwards in the dirt. She stood over him, fists still clenched, jaw stiff. 

	"Don't talk about my dad! Ever!" 

	Then she whirled, ignoring the sting and ache in her knuckles, and left Bradley sucking blood up his nose. Bradley Dault was a pig. The whole colony knew it. He deserved everything Kalima could think up to do to him. And she was not afraid to explore the old ruins! It was just plain stupid, was all. Just as she'd told Bradley. The ruins were dangerous and not only because of the old Bolo jammed into the gates. The ancient fighting machines had been known to short out, go berserk, and inflict terrific casualties against civilian populations before running out of power. 

	Their Bolo, however, the one lodged in the old fortification's gates, had been inert for the entire three years she'd been on Donner's World. Everyone said it had been dead for two centuries, killed in the last battle with the Deng before they overran the planet. No one in the whole colony believed their Bolo was any more dangerous than the pine cones falling on it. But the wall around the old colonists' compound continued crumbling under its flintsteel sheath, which meant that occasionally whole sections came down with a thunderous crash where the war had cracked the black-violet alloy casing. 

	Kalima didn't want to be under any of that wall when it came down. 

	Still, the Pig had issued a challenge. She would lose stature in the eyes of the other kids if she didn't respond suitably. And the taunt about her father stung more than she cared to admit. It wasn't easy, Kalima scowled as she jogged over the broken valley toward the distant ruins, being the only child of a genuine war hero. 

	She had been aware most of her life that her mother had never forgiven Major Donald Tennyson for getting himself killed. Kalima wasn't sure what she thought about her father's death. She remembered sitting on her father's lap, listening for hours to the stories he told about combat duty and the Navy and the wonder of the newest Bolos. After school lessons, she'd spent hours reading everything she could about the Bolos, about the worlds her father's unit had seen, about the Navy. For a long time, she'd wanted to grow up and follow him into service. 

	Then, shortly after her eighth birthday, the message that had changed her mother into another person and left a giant hole in her own life had arrived, along with the posthumous medal for valor. Her mother had thrown the medal away and immersed herself in her work. Kalima had secretly rescued it again and hidden it in her personal belongings; then she had spent a lonely couple of years trying to keep herself interested in schoolwork that was suddenly the dullest thing she had ever been forced to do. 

	But her mother's work had paid off, handsomely. The result had been not only a new home on Donner's World, where they could start fresh, but also a companion that took everyone's mind off the past. 

	Behind her, faint in the distance but growing rapidly closer, Kalima heard an emphatic series of barks. She knew what that particular code meant. She kept going anyway. Sufi would track her without difficulty, but not even the dog was going to stop her this time. She'd prove to everyone, including her mother, that Major Tennyson's daughter was no coward. 

	The Bolo really was jammed into the crumbling gates. The closer she jogged to the ruined walls, the larger the ancient fighting machine loomed. It was at least fifty feet from treads to turret. Gaping holes in its armor revealed the extent to which it had suffered damage doing its duty. The enormous Hellbore guns were silent, coated in a reddish scale of rust. Her father had told her eye-popping stories about Bolos, about how difficult they were to kill. 

	Was this one really dead? Just because everyone thought it was ... 

	She paused well outside its anti-personnel-charge range and scooped up a rock. Kalima heaved with all her strength. The rock thudded into the dirt a few feet short of the Bolo's right tread. No movement creaked anywhere on the machine. It sat staring blindly forward, a metallic corpse left to lie where it had fallen. 

	"Huh. Maybe it really is dead." 

	A low growl behind her was followed by three short, sharp barks. 

	"You're a bad girl," was the message. 

	Kalima turned toward her nursemaid. "I'm not a little girl anymore, Sufi. I'm thirteen and I know exactly what I'm doing." 

	Sufi's short tail wagged once. That message was clear, too: Humor her. 

	"Huh. I'm going closer to the Bolo." 

	Sufi barked once, warningly; then tried to interpose her body between Kalima and the defeated engine of war. 

	"Forget it, Sufi. I'm going to get a good look at it. The Pig isn't going to get away with calling me a chicken." 

	Sufi's ears pricked, then her jaws opened in a canine laugh. 

	Kalima stalked away, conscious of her own wounded dignity. The closer she drew to the dead Bolo, however, the slower her footsteps shuffled. Old bomb craters pitted the ground, overlapping one another until the footing was so rough she stumbled at every other stride. 

	"Must have been some battle, huh, Sufi?" 

	She tried to picture it and decided not even her vivid imagination could do justice to what must have taken place here. The Bolo's long, chilly shadow stretched over her head and left her shivering at the foot of its enormous treads. Each tread was ten feet from edge to edge. She had to tilt her head to look up at the war hull. The whole surface was uneven, where special armor—her Dad had called it "ablative"—had blown off in layers under Enemy fire. 

	Each little section of special armor was six-sided; the combined effect of interlocking pieces reminded her of the honeycombs built by the colony's bees. Most of the honeycomb-shaped armor was gone. Forlorn scales and patches remained. In places the layers ran at least four deep. Most of the Bolo's exterior was naked flintsteel, its iodine hue having long since lost any vestige of polish. Kalima wondered how many layers of armor had been blown away, even in the patches where it remained four layers deep? 

	She tilted her head back farther, trying to see up the imposing prow. 

	"There's a designation up there," Kalima muttered. "I'm going to see if I can find it." 

	The dog whined sharply when she put her foot on the nearest rung and started to climb. Kalima paused, waiting to see if the Bolo would respond; but it just sat there, rusting away under the late autumn sun. She climbed higher. The designation ought to be right about ... 

	There. Mark XX Model B, Tremendous, Unit Six Seven Zero GWN, Dinochrome Brigade Three. "Wow. Look at those battle decorations!" 

	Despite the rust and the battle scars, she counted six, each from a different world. 

	"Poor old Bolo." She climbed higher, up to the turret. The war machine was twice as long as it was high, jammed so solidly into the gates, it didn't look like anything, not even a nuclear blast, would ever budge it loose. "Mr. Hickson told us the Navy didn't even bother burning your Action/Command center. The Deng did it for them, two hundred years ago. It's kind of sad, I think, hunting out the members of the Dinochrome Brigade, just to wipe out their brains. It's not a very nice way to treat a combat veteran." She stroked the pitted hull. "Maybe," she sighed, outlining a long, jagged scar with her fingertip, "maybe it is better you got killed in battle." 

	Kalima glanced over the top of the mighty war machine's turret, into the compound itself. Every building inside had been smashed open, burnt out, obliterated. Not even skeletons remained of the hapless colonists who had died here. 

	"It's too bad you were a gonner, Unit Six Seven Zero. I'll bet this was a nice place before the Deng came." 

	On the ground, Sufi emitted a shrill yelp, then barked frantically to get her attention. At first, Kalima wasn't sure what had agitated her genetically enhanced nursemaid. Then she felt the tremor. Earthquake? Her eyes widened and she grabbed for the nearest rung to scramble down before the wall on either side of the Bolo collapsed. 

	A metallic screech, like bending rebar, half deafened her. She stared around wildly for the source—

	The Hellbore guns were moving. 

	They tracked jerkily, halted, then moved another two inches. Somewhere in the depths of the critically wounded Bolo, an engine groaned and wheezed. The sound died away, leaving Kalima shaking atop the uppermost rung. 

	"It isn't dead! It isn't dead at all and I'm stuck up here ..." 

	If she tried to jump down, the Bolo might trigger anti-personnel charges. What if she couldn't get down, ever? No one would even be able to rescue her, get close enough ... 

	Then she heard a sound that made her hair stand on end. 

	The Bolo was talking ...

Chapter Five

	I become aware of sunlight and the sound of machinery close to me: over the nearest ridge, no farther than the next valley. The Enemy has returned! 

	Then a human voice enters my awareness. My Commander is gone, has been dead for many, many years. Has a new Commander sought me out at last? The voice nears; then I feel a human hand on my war hull. My forward sensor is still functional. It is a human, a small human, with another creature that I should know but do not. My data banks are too damaged to recall the information once stored in that memory cell. 

	The small human climbs nearer to my turret. I will not open myself to it. I await the private code, which my long-lost Commander has told me to wait for. It seems unlikely to me, even in my battered, power-weakened state, that a new Commander can know my private code after such a long passage of years. I search through what remains of my memory cells and recall the voice of my beloved Commander, lost to me through my own failure and the weight of unknown years. 

	"Unit Six Seven Zero GWN, everyone's taken to calling you Gawain. I think that's a fine name, don't you?" 

	"Agreed. Gawain was a noble warrior, worthy of a place in the Dinochrome Brigade." 

	My Commander's rich laugh fills my sensors. "If I didn't know better, I'd say someone programmed a sense of humor into your Introspection Complex. I'll tell you what, though, Gawain. We've got to work out a private code between us, to ensure proper transfer of command. How about something that rhymes with my name. Any ideas?" 

	I consider the challenge. "Donner. This name rhymes with honor, gonner ..." 

	"Hey, Gonner. I like that. It's even close to your designation, but not close enough to be obvious. Donner's Gonner, 'cause when we hit 'em, they're gonners! How's that sound?" 

	"I will file the code word Gonner as my Commander's private security access code." 

	"Hah, you don't fool me. You like it just fine ..." 

	The small human climbing on my hull speaks again. "... you were a gonner, Unit Six Seven Zero ..." 

	Deep inside my command center, sparks flutter. I come to attention. My Hellbore guns move with extreme slowness. It takes 9.7 seconds to lift the guns seven inches. More sparks dance across broken connections. 

	"Unit Six Seven Zero GWN of the Line, reporting for duty." 

	This is what my Action/Command center begins to say. My sensors pick up the sound of my own voice, which crackles and sputters, "Gonner, gonner, gonner, gonner ..." 

	I shift attention for 0.027 seconds in an attempt to locate the difficulty. My power level is critically low. I am operating on emergency backup batteries. My fission unit is completely cold. If I continue to communicate or attempt movement without a recharge during the next three days, I will cease to exist. My internal diagnostic becomes baffled by a haphazard tangle of broken circuitry and smashed crystalline retrieval centers located to the lower left of my command center. 

	I can think coherently. But I cannot speak coherently. 

	The shame of failure to my Brigade and to my new Commander deepens. I attempt again, this time to communicate the need for power. The statement, "Unit Six Seven Zero GWN of the Line, reporting. I request immediate recharge of all energy systems" comes through my speakers as "Sunlight. Sunlight. Sunlight." 

	The small human who has come to take command reaches the ground. My Commander has given up on me. There is little to be gained by further effort, for my emergency power reserves are failing. Oblivion will come a little sooner. I allow the Hellbore guns to drop and rotate them away from my departing Commander. It is the only salute of which I am still capable. It is not enough. My Commander leaves. 

Chapter Six

	The screeching sound of moving gun barrels sent Kalima sprawling into the nearest crater. She flung arms around her head, moving instinctively; but the Bolo didn't fire. Sufi pressed against her, whining softly in the back of her throat. 

	"Let's leave," the sound meant. 

	Slowly, Kalima lifted her head. The Hellbore guns hadn't tracked her. The Bolo had shifted them to one side. She frowned and sat up. 

	"How come it didn't try to shoot me?" 

	Again, Sufi whined to leave. 

	"Wait a minute, Sufi. This is strange. I need to think." 

	She'd made some silly comment, she could hardly recall what, and the Bolo had come to life. What had it said? Gonner, gonner, gonner? It had repeated what she'd said. One word, anyway. Then it had started babbling about sunshine. The sunlight on her shoulders, weak as it was in autumn, warmed a little of the chill from her bones. 

	"Why would it say sunshine?" 

	She glanced skyward and frowned again. Why sunshine, after two centuries? The most logical answer was simply that its Action/Command center was damaged. The machine was, effectively, senile. But if it were senile, why hadn't it fired on her? Maybe it was out of ammunition? No ... It hadn't even tried to fire on her. None of its impressive array of guns had cycled. And why sunshine? 

	She crawled uneasily to her feet, but the Bolo sat motionless. The only hint that it had ever come to life was the slightly different angle of its main guns. She brushed dirt out of her hair and jumpsuit, cast one last, uneasy glance over her shoulder, then headed for home. She had nothing to show for her adventure except bruises, but she didn't care any longer about the Pig and his stupid challenges. 

	She'd gone one-on-one with a deranged Bolo and come out alive. That ought to be enough for any lifetime. 

	Two days later, Kalima left school to find a group of colonists clustered near the Council building. She edged her way closer and discovered a serious debate underway. 

	"... can't repair it? We've got to have that power unit on line within ten hours or the backup generators will go down!" 

	"We don't have the tools needed to fix a fusion unit. We've got to wait for the supply ship." 

	"But the hospital!" 

	Near the far edge of the crowd, someone said, "What about a solar rig?" 

	"That's ancient technology!" 

	"Yeah, but it works," someone else said thoughtfully. "We've got the supplies to build a pretty big solar collector and Fred's a good electrical engineer. You could rig a converter, couldn't you, Fred?" 

	"Yes, that'd work temporarily. We could divert part of the power to backup batteries for emergency use until the supply ship—" 

	Kalima had stopped listening. Sunshine. Solar energy. Power ... The Bolo needed recharging! 

	She whirled and slipped away without being noticed. 

Chapter Seven

	The thud of conifer cones is very distant. Power reserves are critically low. My Emergency Survival Center functions; my outer sensors hardly at all. Soon, the darkness will return permanently. I have not been visited again by my new Commander. I calculate that 2.7 days of my remaining three days of power have elapsed, without further command contact. It would have been good to receive a last command; but I am without purpose and have disgraced my unit. This ending is to be expected. Still, it is a lonely end. I miss the voices of my fellow Dinochrome Brigade units. I miss the laughter of my Commander. I—

	Low-ultraviolet Y-Band radiation floods my external power-grid panels. Energy surges through my Action/Command center and floods into my backup power cells. Outer sensors regain receptivity. Memory cells I had long forgotten resonate once again. Euphoria floods my ego-gestalt Introspection Complex circuitry. I am alive! Damage assessment is automatic, requiring 1.73 seconds to determine that I am immobilized, incapable of speech, and unable to function in more than 75 percent of my original design functions. My memory crystals are intact in places, damaged in others. Many connections between banks of data cells have been damaged, so that much of my memory, while intact, remains inaccessible. 

	My armaments are low, but I sustained crippling damage before on-board munitions stockpiles were exhausted. If I am able to repair the damage to my motor control functions, I will be capable of fighting. 

	Although my main fission plant remains cold, backup power reserves are restored. I swivel forward sensors and locate the small human who is my Commander. I attempt to communicate. 

	"Gonner. Gonner." 

	"Uh, hi. Hi, Gonner. I, uh, thought you might need power." 

	The voice is female, young. She is my first female Commander. Sensor probes indicate medical-design equipment near my treads. I am unfamiliar with the specific configuration of the machine, although its medical purpose is clearly indicated by the symbols stamped onto its hull. This equipment is emanating Y-Band radiation as a flood of waste energy. My manufacturers built into my design the ability to absorb Y-Band radiation and convert it to battlefield energy. I am grateful for the delay of oblivion. I attempt to come to attention. I rotate my Hellbore guns and lift them in a salute. 

	"Gonner, Gonner, Gonner." 

	I must repair my speech centers. Can my Commander understand my need for depot maintenance? 

	"Is that the only word you can say? No, you said sunshine. That's how I figured out you were low on power." 

	I am pleased. My new Commander is capable of extrapolating from slim clues. 

	"Uh, my name is Kalima Tennyson, Gonner." 

	Kali-Ma, ancient Hindu Goddess of Death and Rebirth, Consort to Shiva the Destroyer. My Commander was well chosen. I await Current Situation input. 

	"In case you're wondering, it's been about two hundred years since you, uh, since the battle with the Deng." 

	My Commander knows of my failure. 

	"I think it's pretty awesome, what you did. You should see the battle damage on your hull. When I was coming out here, three years ago, the captain of our transport ship told me all about the battle for Donner's World. They named it after your old Commander, 'cause the colony fought so bravely, my Dad said. That was before he got killed in the battle on Hilltop Gap. My Dad even knew about you, Gonner. You're famous. They put a medal on your hull and left you here, where you fell standing against the Deng. Just like Leonidas at Thermopylae." 

	I know this battle. It is part of my battlefield archives, which have sustained no damage. I access the file. The Spartan three hundred, under King Leonidas, held the gap between the mountains at Thermopylae against invading Persians. The Spartans were killed to the last man. Persia overran Attica and sacked Athens; but Greek forces rallied at Corinth and finally drove the Persians from Greek soil. 

	If my Commander speaks the truth—and why would she not?—then the Deng have taken Planet XGD 7798-F and lost it again. Humanity has not fallen to the Enemy. It pleases me that the planet has been renamed in honor of my Commander. James Donner was a valiant officer. My new Commander has said I am honored. This seems impossible; but my Commander would not lie to a Unit of the Line. Perhaps my mission was not a failure. Humanity has survived. 

	I attempt again to request assistance at a maintenance depot. 

	"Monkey. Monkey." 

	My Commander's voice is understandably puzzled. "Monkey?" 

	I try again. "Slick." 

	"Monkey? Slick? Gonner, I wish I knew what was wrong with your brain." 

	I attempt further diagnostics and find only broken tangles which my on-board repair functions cannot fathom. Without a maintenance depot, I will not be capable of telling my Commander what is wrong with my internal psychotronic circuitry. 

	My sensors detect the approach of another life form. I go to Battle Reflex Alert Status. My Commander must be protected. I swivel anti-personnel guns and lock onto the target. 

	"Gonner! No! Don't shoot!" 

	I halt the anti-personnel-response program and await further commands. 

	"This is Sufi. She's my dog." 

	I study the life form which has joined my Commander. It is smaller than she, quadrupedal. My Commander's hand rests on the animal's head. The animal is of a different configuration than my fragmented memories of the Deng Enemy. The Sufi dog has half as many appendages as the Deng, although its body is slightly larger. The shape and arrangement of head, body, and legs differs significantly. I switch from Battle Reflex Alert to Active Service Alert Status. This introspection and alert-status change requires 0.013 seconds. I still function slowly. 

	My Commander continues her Current Situation update. "Sufi is a special dog. My mother does genetic research. Sufi's nearly as smart as I am; she just can't talk. She and her puppies, they're grown up now, they babysit us kids, so the adults don't have to watch us all the time. The colony gets a lot more work done now than we used to. Of course, I don't really need a nursemaid anymore, but Sufi's my friend." 

	I file Sufi in my memory banks as authorized personnel permitted to approach this Unit. My Commander's friend emits two sharp sounds. 

	"That means my mother's looking for me, Gonner. Two sharp barks close together means, 'Go home, your mother wants you.' She probably needs this Entero-Scope Field Generator that I, uh, borrowed, back in the lab. I'll be back, Gonner, okay? Maybe not today, but I promise I'll be back. You just sit tight and don't shoot anyone." 

	A command! I respond with intense pleasure. "Hold! Hold! Hold!" 

	My new Commander smiles into my sensor pickup. "Yeah, that's right, Gonner! You did a great job, holding. Just keep holding the fort until I come back and don't shoot any of the colonists." 

	My Commander departs with her friend and the equipment which has restored my backup power levels to full battle charge. She has commanded me to remain at Active Service Alert Status. I survey the valley and scan with my sensors. I await my next command. I have a restored purpose. Even in my damaged condition, I am again useful. I am content. 

Chapter Eight

	"Mom?" 

	"Hmm?" 

	Her mother was busy at the gene-sequencer, which was good. She should be able to ask her question, get an answer, and get away again without rousing suspicion. 

	"What kind of brain damage would cause someone to answer questions in one-word answers, you know, like not a direct answer, but it sort of makes sense if you think about it?" 

	Her mother glanced up. "Sounds like global aphasia. Got an assignment?" 

	She nodded. 

	Her mother went back to the sequencer. "I've got a medical library in the study. Read up on it and show me a copy of your report when you're done." 

	Relieved, Kalima made her escape to the study. Global aphasia, she discovered, was a condition in which people were capable of fully rational thought, but could not articulate anything but nonsense. The disorder had become an obscure one ever since Dr. Collingwood had discovered how to culture immature nerve tissue. 

	"Bet that's what's wrong with Gonner," she muttered, chewing one fingernail. "He almost makes sense. Wonder what 'monkey' and 'slick' refer to?" 

	She made a list of synonyms for each word, and started a computer cross reference, looking for anything that might make sense. Eventually, she came up with a possibility. "Grease monkey: mechanic." 

	"He needs maintenance, of course!" 

	Dismay followed at once. How? 

	She couldn't notify the Navy or Sector. They'd simply destroy him. He was a war hero, like her father had been, and no one was going to hurt him. Gonner had been hurt enough already. She couldn't fix him. And she couldn't tell anyone in the colony, either, because any adult who found out would call in the Navy or Sector representatives and Gonner's life would end, abruptly. 

	She thrust out her lower lip, in the expression her mother despairingly called, "Your father's look." She was only thirteen; but she had the manuals and things her father had given her about Bolos and she could learn everything the colony had to offer about mechanics, electrical systems, and engineering. 

	She could always tell her mother and the school officials she wanted to become an engineer. She just wouldn't mention that she wanted to become a combat engineer. The decision made, Kalima spent the rest of the evening studying everything in her mother's library on brain disorders. She wrote the required composition, which she then carefully smudged and marked "B–" in a fair approximation of her teacher's handwriting. 

	The next day she told her teacher she'd decided on a career choice, after all, and scheduled as many math, engineering, and mechanical practicum courses as they'd let her cram in with her other academics. 

Chapter Nine

	Six months later, Gonner's outer sensor arrays had been fully repaired. That wasn't as difficult as Kalima had first thought. She'd found a compartment with spares and had studied the existing, burnt-out units carefully before replacing them. Gonner had responded by saying, "Bird! Bird! Bird!" about a dozen times in rapid succession. 

	She laughed. "Bet it does feel like flying, after you've been blind for a couple of centuries. Or ..." She canted her gaze into the bitter-white winter sky "... is there a bird somewhere up there, too far for me to spot?" 

	Gonner hummed in silence. Kalima grinned. "Well, that's one repair job done and about a million more to go. At this rate, we'll never get you back up to ratings." 

	"Bird," was all Gonner said. 

	She patted his pitted war hull. The icy cold of the flintsteel seeped through her insulated gloves. "I gotta go, Gonner. Last thing we need is for me to get caught sneaking out here. Mom would never understand. She'd insist they come melt your Action/Command center. I'll be back as soon as I can." 

	She slid over to the rungs of the ladder and climbed down. It was a long way to the cratered ground. Evening shadows stretched coldly away from Gonner's giant treads. Icicles clung like a beard to the bottom edge of his purple-black war hull. Dirty grey ice had formed in the ancient crater depressions. It splintered and cobwebbed underfoot as she started back toward home. She had taken only five steps away when a snickering voice spoke from the shadows of the crumbling wall. 

	"So, this is where the famous Kalima Tennyson spends her spare time." 

	She whirled, going first hot then icy cold inside her therma-suit. 

	Bradley Dault. Suited up and lying in wait. 

	"What are you doing here?" 

	"I wondered where you sneak off to. So I followed you this time." 

	"You got no right following me, Bradley Dault!" 

	"It's a free world." He shrugged, infuriating her; then stepped closer. More ice crunched underfoot. "Your mama know you come here?" 

	"None-ya!" she grated. 

	He grinned. "Didn't think so. Don't worry, 'Lima. I won't tell. Not so long as I can come along, too, and watch the Bolo. Can I go inside, too?" 

	Kalima's fists clenched, all by themselves. "No! And if you ever follow me again, I'll make him shoot you!" 

	Above their heads, the anti-personnel guns swivelled with a scream of freezing metal. The sound brought Bradley Dault six inches off the ground. His face went pasty white, the color of old ice. His eyes bugged, staring at the gun barrels now levelled squarely at him. A brisk wind sprang up, whipping around the end of the wall toward the broken gates and the shadow of the crippled Bolo. 

	"I didn't mean nothin', 'Lima, honest! I just wanted to see the Bolo, too! Gad, it's still alive!" 

	"You say a word—a stinking word—and you won't be! My Mom's a geneticist—I got dozens of ways to kill you, hideous-like, if you even breathe." 

	He nodded, still staring wide-eyed at the anti-personnel guns. "Not a whisper. I swear. Cut my tongue out, if I'm lying." 

	She relaxed a little. "Well ... okay. But don't try to come out here alone. Bolo knows me. He won't know you." 

	Again, Bradley nodded without taking his eyes off the big guns. "Can you talk to it?" 

	"Yes. But he was hurt pretty bad. He can talk, sort of; but there's a lot of damage to the circuits in his speech center. It's called global aphasia. He can think just fine, but he can't talk very well." 

	"Make him say something." 

	Scorn filled her voice. "You don't make a Bolo Mark XX Model B Tremendous unit do anything. They do their assigned duty. Unit Six Seven Zero GWN's duty is guarding this colony. He's still doing it." 

	That got a response from Bradley. He glanced over his shoulder. "You gotta be kidding. He just sits there, getting rusty." 

	She stepped forward, fists clenched at her sides. "Want me to command him to shoot you?" Her breath went to ice on the cold wind. "All I gotta do is tell him you're the Enemy. Personally, I think we'd be better off without you, Bradley Dault. You're a pig." 

	She expected him to get mad or make some wise, smart-mouthed crack. Instead, he just clamped his lips tighter and went white around the edges of his face. 

	"What? Something I say hit home?" 

	"No." That came out sullen. He dropped his gaze and turned away from the Bolo. "Can I leave now, 'Lima?" 

	She hesitated. He looked almost ... hurt. She decided he was play-acting, just to get her sympathy. 

	"Yeah. Sure. Get out of here." 

	He hunched his shoulders against the wind and turned to go. Overhead, one of the tall native conifers cracked with a report like gunfire. Bradley jumped and went down flat in one of the old war craters. Kalima started to laugh—

	Then froze. The tree crashed down, broken halfway up its immense length. The trunk smashed against the old wall. A sixteen-foot section cracked, slipped sideways along an ancient fissure in the battered flintsteel casing, and began to fall—directly toward them. 

	"Run!" 

	Bradley rolled, came up faster than she would have thought possible, and launched himself straight at her. His tackle brought her down, almost in the shadow of the Bolo's treads. Screaming metal and the sound of falling concrete and flintsteel filled her ears. But they weren't crushed. 

	She looked up and gasped. 

	The wall had fallen against the Hellbore gun barrels. The Bolo had swivelled them to catch the wall. 

	"Run! Quick!" 

	Bradley grabbed her hand and hauled her up. She dove for cover behind the Bolo and hauled him with her. Overhead, the massive Hellbore gun barrels caught the glint of winter sunlight. They groaned, then moved a few inches as the ancient turret rotated the barrels out from under the wall. The broken section crashed down right where they'd been standing. 

	In the immense silence which followed the thunder of falling debris, Bradley stuttered, "It s-s-saved our lives." 

	Kalima just nodded, jerkily, unable to find her voice at all. She placed a shaky hand against the Bolo's fender and leaned her forehead against it. 

	"Oxygen," the Bolo's metallic voice said, twice. 

	"Oxygen?" Bradley repeated. "What's he mean?" 

	She thought about it. She was getting better at interpreting Gonner's inscrutable messages. "Oxygen's a gas. Can't see it, but you need it to survive. Can't see it! Of course. It's clear. He just said, 'All clear.' " 

	"Oxygen," Gonner said again, confirming the guess. "Hold. Hold." 

	"Job well done, Unit Six Seven Zero GWN. Yes, continue to hold position. Report any Enemy activity detected." 

	"Hold, hold, hold." 

	Bradley mouthed, "Wow!" soundlessly. 

	That was when she noticed the rip in his therma-suit. He'd torn it down the shoulder at some point during their scramble for safety. She reached out to see how bad the damage was and was shocked speechless when he flinched in pain. 

	"Ow! Dammit, don't look!" 

	"Hey! Sit still! You're hurt." 

	"Am not," he growled, sounding genuinely dangerous. 

	"Then how come I see bruises and ... and welts ..." 

	The bruises were liver-colored, at least several days old, not new injuries from the falling wall. The implications hit Kalima hard. Bradley didn't say anything. 

	"Your dad?" 

	He stared coldly into the distance. 

	"Bradley—" 

	"He's not my dad." 

	She opened her mouth; then shut it again. This was getting deep, a little too fast. 

	Bradley's face had flushed; he wouldn't look at her. "Mom died before you got here and ... he ... never knew she slept around. He thought I was his kid. We did that genetic experiment in school last week? Well, I'm not. He always was mean to me, but ..." 

	Despite the extreme chill of the frozen ground, she discovered a need to sit down beside him. "I didn't know. I'm sorry." 

	"Don't be. I'm just Bradley the Pig." He stood up and shoved gloved hands into his pockets. "Gotta go," he mumbled. 

	"Wait." 

	He stopped without turning around. 

	"You wanna see the passenger compartment?" 

	"I—" He stopped and didn't say anything for a moment. Then, very low, "Later?" 

	"Sure." 

	He took off at a dead run. 

	Above her head, Gonner's metallic voice broke the silence. "Brimstone." 

	Brimstone. She thought about that for a little while. Then said, "Yeah, Gonner, you're right." 

	She wished she could ask the Bolo for advice on what to do next. 

Chapter Ten

	Brad avoided Kalima Tennyson for several months. He was ashamed, without quite knowing why, and was grateful that she said nothing. He wanted to talk to her and ask her more questions about the Bolo, but didn't quite have the nerve. They'd both turned fourteen and she was pretty by any standards and smarter than he was, and the Bolo thought of her as its commander. 

	He avoided home, too, as much as possible. 

	Brad spent a lot of time working with the nursemaid dogs Kalima's mother had bred. The animals fascinated him. One of the young bitches which had been born on the ship, before Kalima and her mother had arrived, had littered, giving him a chance to work directly with new pups. They were smart, even at a young age. They matured more slowly than normal dogs, which meant they stayed longer than normal dogs at the age when learning came most easily. By springtime, the pups were barely a third grown and had already learned the coded verbal "language" by which the nursemaid dogs communicated with their human charges. 

	He found himself spending most of his spare time at the nursery, watching the dogs watch the kids, and discovered that he enjoyed playing with the little ones. Their older brothers and sisters stopped calling him "Pig" and started listening when he told stories about the Deng war and the colonists' last stand on Donner's World. 

	His grades in history and biology improved dramatically. 

	His "dad" still hit him regularly, but Brad found ways to avoid home most hours of the day. 

	Spring had melted gloriously into early summer, leaving grass knee-deep in the wide, crater-scarred valley, when Kalima appeared at the nursery. 

	"Bradley?" 

	He glanced up, surprised to hear her voice. 

	"Yeah?" 

	"Uh ... Can we talk?" 

	"Sure." He retrieved the ball with which he'd been playing catch and tossed it over to little Joey Martin, then said to Ganesha, "Gotta go. Your turn to play fetch." 

	The dog panted happily and chased down the ball. 

	"What's up?" 

	She didn't answer, just led him a roundabout trip through the woods behind town, over the ridge that separated the new colony from the ruined one, and headed for the Bolo. 

	"Kalima?" 

	"I started to think you'd never ask to see inside him. So I thought I'd offer again." 

	"Really? Are you serious?" 

	She glanced over her shoulder. "I never joke about Unit Six Seven Zero GWN." 

	He hurried to catch up. "Thanks. I mean it." 

	They walked in silence for a few minutes, toward the broken wall which had nearly killed them. 

	"I heard some of your stories about him," she said at length. 

	He flushed and stared at the ground. "I did some reading." 

	"I know. You're good. The little ones really love it. I liked listening, too." 

	Brad couldn't remember the last time someone had told him he was good at anything. And Kalima had liked something he did. His whole face went hot, clear down into his neck. 

	They arrived at the shattered gate and stood gazing up at the Bolo for a moment. 

	"He's bigger than I remembered." 

	She looked over at him. "You didn't come back out?" 

	He ducked his head. "You said he wouldn't know me. I ain't stupid, Kalima." 

	"Didn't say you were. C'mere." She grabbed his hand and dragged him closer. "Unit Six Seven Zero GWN, this is Bradley Dault. He is my friend." 

	The huge Hellbore guns shifted. Brad wanted to break and run, but held his ground. The guns circled, lifted two degrees, then halted. 

	"That's his salute," Kalima whispered. 

	"Oh. Uh ..." 

	He saluted awkwardly, after disengaging his hand from Kalima's grip. "Bradley Dault, sir. Pleased to meet you. And, uh, thanks for saving my life, you know, last winter." 

	"Oxygen." 

	All clear. 

	"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." 

	"Unit Six Seven Zero GWN, I'm bringing Brad aboard for observation." 

	"Hold. Hold." 

	Brad grinned. "Thank you, sir!" 

	They climbed, Kalima going first. The hatch didn't creak when she opened it. 

	"You've been working on him." 

	She nodded. "Every chance I get. I read everything I can find. Dad left me some stuff and the library's got a little, but most of the stuff I really need's classified. He was hurt pretty bad. I can't fix everything." 

	He understood the frustration in her voice. He wanted, very badly, to see this machine at its full fighting potential. 

	Then they climbed into the turret and he forgot everything else. "Wow!" 

	The inside of the Bolo wasn't anything like he'd imagined. He'd thought it would be a vast space, filled with glowing lights, ranks and banks of instruments. The interior was crowded, with scant room for a passenger in a small compartment in the center, under the turret. Crawl spaces snaked off to allow maintenance access. Battle damage was visible even this deep inside the Bolo, in the form of blackened boards, tangled wires and conduit cables, cracked and darkened crystal components. Daylight flickered through one crawlspace, where something had blown completely through the armor. 

	"Whew! He really got ripped apart, didn't he? No wonder they gave him that medal." 

	Kalima had hunkered down in one of the crawl spaces, leaving the observer's chair for him. 

	"Unit Six Seven Zero GWN, activate observation screens." 

	Two dull panels flickered, then a view of the valley sprang up in full color on one. Ranges and other esoteric data he didn't understand appeared along the edges of the screen. The other view was aft, into the battered compound the Bolo had tried to defend. 

	"Am I asleep?" Bradley wondered aloud. "This has gotta be a really great dream." 

	Kalima just grinned. "That's how I felt, first time I got a look around inside." 

	"I'm scared to touch anything," he admitted with a rueful grin. 

	She just nodded. "Me, too. I study like crazy, then ask him all the questions I can think, and try to figure the answers ten different ways before I touch anything. I don't want those Hellbore guns to discharge and I don't want to fry any more of his psychotronic circuits." 

	"Is there any way to get him talking right again?" 

	She looked unhappy. "Let me show you." 

	He got down on hands and knees and followed her toward the distant light pouring through the hull. 

	"See that?" 

	She pointed to a tangle of destruction the size of his torso. 

	"Yeah. Pretty bad, isn't it?" 

	"That's his vocal processor center." 

	"Yipe. That's dire." 

	"Maybe, if I study long enough, I'll figure a way, but ..." 

	It looked hopeless. 

	"Any danger he'll go berserk, like some of those Bolos you hear about?" 

	She bit her lower lip, looking suddenly vulnerable. 

	"I don't know. His Action/Command center wasn't hit, so I don't think so, but I'm scared, anyway. He's my friend, Brad." Her eyes, luminous and wide in the shadows of the crawlspace, sought his gaze. "I don't want to lose him, too." 

	It took him a minute, but he finally caught on. "Hey, at least you knew your dad. I still don't know who mine is." 

	She sniffed once and nodded. "Sorry. I really am. Does he still hit you?" 

	He shrugged. "Yeah." 

	"You ought to report him." 

	He stared toward the distant rip in the Bolo's hull. "Colony needs him," was all he said. "They'd only deport him for reconditioning and then where'd we be? Can't go without a surgeon for a year, waiting for someone to come out on the next transport." 

	She scowled. "Still ought to report him. Beating a minor's a serious crime." 

	"Dying's worse," he countered laconically. "You wanna risk a bust appendix while he's gone?" 

	Her lower lip came out, reminding him of a photo he'd seen of her father in a recent-history text. 

	"Just don't say nothin', okay? I only gotta put up with him for another four years and I'm not home much now, as it is. I won't talk about the Bolo and you won't talk about him. Deal?" 

	He stuck out one hand. 

	With every evidence of reluctance, she took it. They sealed the bargain with a vigorous handshake. Afterward, he felt better than he had in months. 

	"You want one of Sufi's puppies?" she asked unexpectedly. 

	He looked up quickly. "What?" 

	"You want one of the puppies?" 

	"I—" He closed his mouth before he could blurt out how desperately he wanted one of the beautiful, smart dogs. "But they're really expensive!" 

	"Mom said I could have one. I'd rather you had one. You're better with them than I am, and, well, it wouldn't be such a bad idea, having a nursemaid to watch your back. I'll bet not even Davis Dault would hit you, with a dog like Sufi between you and him. And he's sure not stupid enough to kick one of Mom's dogs. They'd tear his leg off at the knee and the whole colony would approve." 

	Brad wanted to grin. But the enormity of the offer overwhelmed him so deeply, his throat closed. All he could manage was a feeble, "Thanks." 

	"Come on, then. Let's say goodbye to Unit Six Seven Zero GWN and go pick up your dog." 

	As they walked away from the massive hulk of the Bolo, Brad felt like he was dancing on air. 

Chapter Eleven

	"This really is a tangled mess, Gonner. I've been studying everything in the colony archives, everything my dad left me on Bolo design and psychotronic circuitry; but this ..." 

	Kalima let her voice trail off. Five years of intensive study had allowed her to restore many of the Bolo's systems, but she hadn't quite dared tackle his speech defect yet. 

	"Are you sure you want me to try and fix this?" 

	The Bolo's metallic voice responded in a fashion she'd grown accustomed to interpreting over the years. 

	"Worms." 

	Translation: "I'd rather be dead and eaten by worms than go on this way." 

	"Okay, big guy. I apologize in advance if I really blow this one." 

	Out in the passenger compartment, Brad's voice said, "Go for it. If you don't get it right, no one can." 

	Her hands were already sweating, but she knew she had to at least try. She turned on the high-speed resonant cutter. Over in the opening to the crawlspace, Shiva laid back his ears at the sound. Brad chuckled and called the dog over to him. Kalima bent over the tangle of two-hundred-year-old damage, took a deep breath, and began the surgery. She cut away damaged boards, squared off ragged explosion damage, exposed raw connections which had lain half buried under fused droplets of flintsteel from the outer hull. Then came the delicate job of trying to reconnect and splice boards whose purposes she only vaguely understood. 

	The stink of hot electrical connections tickled the back of her throat. 

	Out in the passenger compartment, Shiva pinned back his ears and whined, but stayed put. Time trickled past. She sat back periodically and wiped sweat with an arm. Brad handed in water and a sandwich about halfway through. Her hands were less than steady when she set the cutter aside. 

	"Thanks. This is good." 

	"Made it myself." 

	"How much time's gone?" She wasn't wearing a watch, for fear of damaging the delicate circuitry she was exposing. 

	"A little more than two hours. Want a shoulder rub?" 

	She emerged from the crawl space. "Sounds great." 

	Bradley Dault's fingers dug into tight knots. "Ow! Ooh, that's good ..." 

	When he'd finished, he stole a kiss. She grinned. "Naughty! I've still got a good two hours' work left in there. Hang on, big guy," she told the Bolo. 

	"Hold." 

	She patted Shiva and earned a hand-washing, then dried her hands carefully. "Okay. Back to work." 

	The job took more than five hours, altogether. Kalima conducted frequent tests, asking Gonner questions to which he either responded in his usual murky fashion or—more ominously—to which he didn't respond at all. 

	"Don't worry," Brad told her. "Just keep going." 

	She connected a splice between two damaged sections—

	And sparks jumped and skittered through a whole series of cables and junctions. The Bolo emitted a high-pitched keening sound and jerked spasmodically on its treads. 

	"Ow!" Kalima's arm throbbed clear to the elbow. Her fingertips were reddened from the shock. 

	Bradley dove down the crawlspace and hauled her out. "Are you hurt?" His face was actually ashen. 

	"I'm fine. Gonner! Gonner, what happened? Talk to me!" 

	For a long, breathless moment, there was no sound save a dying sputter somewhere in the connections behind her. Then—

	"Unit Six Seven Zero GWN of the Line, reporting for duty." 

	"Gonner!" 

	"That is my security clearance code, Commander Tennyson." 

	Both of them whooped aloud. Shiva barked joyously and danced at their feet. 

	"You did it!" Bradley was abruptly kissing her, very thoroughly. 

	When they unclutched, they both panted for air and grinned like fools. Bradley's face swam wetly in her vision. 

	"He can talk! Brad, he can really talk!" Then she cleared her throat, recalling her position as Gonner's commanding officer. "Unit Six Seven Zero GWN, please report damage assessment." 

	"Affirmative, Commander Tennyson. Diagnostics indicate that the connection between my Action/Command center and my vocal-processing unit is repaired. However, a short has now developed in my motor control function. I cannot track my guns accurately. Is there a maintenance depot available, Commander Tennyson?" 

	She exchanged a glum look with Bradley. 

	"Great," she muttered. 

	He squeezed her waist. "Maybe it's not too bad?" 

	Kalima gulped. "Let's hope not. Uh, Gonner, I'm afraid I am the maintenance depot. I can't request official help. If I do, the Navy will just send someone out to burn out your Action/Command center. They're trying to find all the old Bolo field units to destroy them. They, uh, think you're already dead, Gonner." 

	"Understood. I cannot function properly in my current status." 

	"Let me see what I can do. It took five years, but I finally fixed your voice." 

	She went hunting, prompted by Gonner, and found the trouble. 

	"Oh-oh." This didn't look good. The short had melted a solid-state unit in the Bolo's fire-control center. "Uh, Gonner, this doesn't look like something I can fix. Unless you have a spare part stashed somewhere?" 

	"You have already exhausted all replacement units which I carried on board. My sensors now function at proper battlefield capacity. The damage to my psychotronic circuitry has been repaired. I no longer experience intermittent power drains from my emergency reserve batteries. I am able to retrieve 68.935 percent of my stored memory capacity and your additions of data crystals and new input have enhanced many of my losses. There is no replacement for this fire-control module." 

	Out in the passenger compartment, Brad muttered, "How'd I know you were going to say something like that?" 

	"Was it ..." She hesitated. "Was this damage caused by something I did?" 

	Gonner actually hesitated at least half a second—an eternity for a Bolo. 

	"Affirmative. I am pleased to have my speech centers repaired, Commander. It may be possible to bypass the fire-control module. I will need to conduct a thorough search of my memory banks. Stand by." A few instants later, he said, "I cannot access certain data crystals, but my memory shows no rerouting possible under existing circumstances. May I obtain additional technical data?" 

	"On what?" Brad muttered. "We don't have clearance for Bolo technology." 

	"Well, no, but we can give him everything in the colony library, everything in Mom's library archives. We've already uploaded some of it, into those new memory crystals we swiped." 

	Bradley grinned, clearly remembering the consternation caused by discovery of the theft. The little kids had been blamed for it, after one of the crystals, carefully planted, turned up as "pirates' treasure." No one had gotten into serious trouble and Bradley had agreed to pay for the replacements, since he had "encouraged" the kids to play pirate games. The loss had been replaced on the next supply ship—and Gonner had gotten a badly needed memory supplement. 

	"It couldn't hurt to try," Kalima decided. 

	"All right. You get a copy of your mother's stuff and I'll bootleg a copy of the library archives." 

	They climbed out of the Bolo, Brad carting Shiva over one arm since the big dog couldn't negotiate the steep rungs, and jumped down the last rung to land in knee-deep grass. The big dog trotted to one side and sat laughing at their feet. He adored visiting the Bolo with them. He'd kept their secret even from the other dogs. 

	Kalima paused and gazed across the valley. "Sometimes, you know, I try to imagine what it must have been like, that day. They must've known it was hopeless, once Gonner was crippled. He was the last Bolo of the Dinochrome Brigade stationed here. The Deng had already killed the others." 

	Brad slipped an arm around her shoulder. "Yeah," he said softly. "Thank God the Deng were beaten back years ago." 

	She shivered and leaned against him. "Yeah." 

	"Come on, let's go. I'll cook dinner at my place after we finish stealing the archives for Gonner." 

	Kalima grinned. Brad had moved out the moment he hit eighteen and had built his own place out at the edge of town, closer to the ruined fortress than anyone else had built. All that was required now for an unnoticed excursion to work on Gonner was a quick exit from Brad's back door. Then they simply cut through the woods and climbed the ridge. 

	"It's a deal." 

	They headed back to town, hand in hand. 

Chapter Twelve

	The additional data provided by my Commander and Bradley Dault has proven of unique interest. A great deal of this information is medical, giving me great insight into the nature of biological life forms. Commander Tennyson's parent has acquired considerable skill in genetic manipulation. Dault has provided additional data on surgical skills, including results of his own studies. I note that he bears the same name as the colony surgeon and shares an interest in surgery. I also note that in his personal files he indicates no direct genetic link with this other Dault. Human relationships continue to puzzle me. 

	I search for possible information to resolve my current disability. I find none which appears viable. Commander Tennyson's data includes information on techniques attempted approximately fifty years ago which proved of limited success. I study these notes more carefully and extrapolate possibilities. There is a 27.35 percent chance that such a cybernetic interphase linkage might serve as a substitute fire-control center. I have lost that portion of my psychotronic network which monitors and manipulates the primary controls for the Hellbore system and the energy repeater guns. Anti-personnel charges and guns are under my control, but my main weapons systems respond erratically. A secondary brain, under intelligent control and tied into my psychotronic nervous system, would be capable of taking my directions and manually controlling the weapons systems. With proper cybernetic connections, it would be possible for such a system to translate leg and arm movement commands from the brain center into traversing and firing commands for my weapons systems. 

	I anticipate a 99.85 percent probability that no human volunteer will be found for such an attempt. Nor does the current situation require such measures. I am incapable of fighting, but my sensors monitor the security of this colony. I will know before any human on Donner's World what dangers may threaten human survival. It is less than my original commission requires; but I am a member of the Dinochrome Brigade. I will serve to the best of my ability. I note the required procedure and file the data for reference. I will speak with my Commander of this when she returns. She will decide the proper course of action for this unit. 

Chapter Thirteen

	A knock at the outer door interrupted Kalima's concentration. "It's open!" 

	Brad's voice followed the sound of the squeaking door hinges. "Kalima? Have you seen Shiva?" 

	She glanced up. "No. He never comes here unless you're with him. What's wrong? Has one of the young bitches gone into heat?" 

	He shook his head. "No. I checked. He left about an hour ago, through the woods, and hasn't come back. He didn't come when I called." 

	Kalima scooted her keyboard aside and stood up. "That's odd. Mom! I'm going for a walk!" 

	"Be careful, dear." 

	Kalima rolled her eyes. "Brad's going along!" 

	"Hello, Bradley! Have a nice walk!" 

	"Thank you, Dr. Tennyson." 

	He didn't smile, which thoroughly alarmed Kalima. She whistled and called for Sufi. The dog she'd grown up with bounded into the living room. 

	"Let's go for a walk, Sufi." 

	Sufi swished her tail and barked once. 

	They headed for Brad's house and walked through the deep conifer needles to the back. 

	"He trotted off that way." Brad pointed. 

	"Sufi, Shiva's missing. Can you find him?" 

	Sufi barked emphatically and bounded off into the trees. Brad jogged after her and shed his jacket, which he draped over a tree limb at the edge of the yard. Kalima noticed uneasily that he'd thrust a gun into a holster on his belt. She hadn't noticed, earlier. 

	"Brad, what gives? There haven't been any ybin attacks in years." 

	"Something's happened to Shiva," he said grimly over one shoulder. "Do you really want to go one-on-one against a ybin without a gun?" 

	"Uh ... no." 

	Two hundred yards into the trees, Sufi halted and sank down onto her belly, growling low in her throat. Brad went to ground behind her. Kalima ate pine needles, then scooted forward cautiously to peer over the dog's shoulder. 

	Her breath caught. 

	Shiva lay about ten yards ahead. The dog's head was turned away from them, but even from this distance Kalima could tell the animal was dead or critically wounded. Blood had spattered everywhere and soaked into the pine straw under his dark fur. 

	"What happened?" she whispered. 

	Brad's jaw muscles looked like iron. A soft snick reached her ears. He'd drawn the gun and slipped off the safety. 

	"Stay here. You're not armed and I am." 

	He inched forward. Sufi was still growling. 

	A flash of sunlight on metal caught Kalima's attention. Before she could yell a warning, Shiva whined sharply and tried to lunge toward the trees. His back legs didn't move. Brad yelled something and fired wildly. Kalima heard a scream of metal on metal; then an energy bolt slammed into a tree trunk less than a millimeter from Brad's ear. He dove behind the tree and fired again. Something slammed solidly into another tree trunk. Shiva was whining hysterically. Sufi snarled low in her throat and lunged out of Kalima's grip. 

	"Sufi! Down!" 

	Another energy beam sliced through the trees. Sufi yelped, but kept going. Brad lunged for the dog and fired again at something Kalima couldn't quite see. Then Sufi snarled and the sound of bending metal squealed through the trees. 

	"Got it!" Brad snarled. He lunged to his feet and dove forward. "Mother of—" 

	Kalima covered the intervening ground in half a heartbeat. 

	"What—" She broke off with a horrified gasp. 

	The thing was small, not even as large as Sufi's torso. Eight mangled, spike-like appendages dangled from it. Two holes through its—body? head?—leaked a thin, foul-smelling fluid. Kalima saw dark, blue-black hair under its body armor. A bulge on one side was completely encased in metal, although two lenses reminded her of goggles. An alien weapon, resembling a long, thin rifle, lay in the pine straw under Sufi's paw. The dog still snarled over the inert body, fangs bared. 

	"My God," she whispered, "it's a Deng. An advance infantry probe. My God." 

	Brad stomped the thing, making certain it was dead, then checked Sufi's injury. "Spodders are back," he said, through clenched teeth. "Got Shiva and waited for someone to come looking for him. Sufi's burned across the shoulder, here; but she's not critical. Can you walk, girl?" 

	The dog barked an emphatic affirmative. Brad confiscated the spodder's weapon and tested it against a nearby tree trunk. Bark sizzled and chipped loose. The burn scar stank. So did Shiva's blood. Kalima glanced through the gloom in the deep woods, hunting for any hint of Deng activity, any glint of sunlight on metal. The silence, which she had always enjoyed, was suddenly ominous. 

	"If they were laying a trap," she said softly, "then they wanted a captive. Information. My God—We've got to get Gonner." 

	"He can't fight." 

	"He's the best we've got!" 

	Brad glanced at the crippled dog at their feet. Pain filled his eyes. 

	"Let's take him to Mom first," Kalima decided. "If anyone can help him, Mom can. I'll bring the ... the Deng's body. We're going to need proof. Then we'll warn Gonner." 

	Kalima tucked the shattered Deng infantryman under her belt, so that it dangled by half its broken legs, then scooped up Shiva without asking. Brad was armed. She wasn't. He couldn't afford to have his hands encumbered with anything but his weapon. Sufi, limping but alert, brought up rear guard. They ran most of the way. 

	"Sufi," she gasped, as they jolted past Brad's house, "go get Hal Chin. I don't care what he's doing, get him here. We've got to inform Sector and the Navy ..." 

	The dog bounded away. Brad held the door for Kalima. 

	"Mom! Mom, we got big trouble!" 

Chapter Fourteen

	I become aware of an energy pattern which does not fit the configuration of colony transmissions. I compare it with known patterns in my Experience Section data banks. I find a damaged memory cell where the information I seek should be stored. This energy source functions on W-Band radiation. There is a reason this puts me on heightened alert status, but I can no longer retrieve the information which would tell me why. 

	I broaden the range of my sensor scan. A thousand-meter, 360 degree sweep reveals more such energy transmissions, all in the W-Band. This is sufficiently disturbing to place myself on Battle Reflex Alert Status. I call my Commander. There is no answer on the Base receiver which she has rigged to communicate with my Action/Command center. I am now alarmed. My previous Commander died in action due to my failure. I will not repeat this error. My engines have been repaired. I move forward and pull free of concrete debris without difficulty. My treads are rusted but functional. I swivel my turret scanners and pick up further sources of W-Band transmissions. 

	I move in the direction of these transmission sources. I will discover the cause of my heightened alert status. I call my Commander again and receive no reply. Alarm deepens in my Introspection Complex ego-gestalt circuitry. I fear for my young Commander's life and I fear the return of shame and failure. 

	A forest has grown on the ridge during the time I have spent guarding the former compound gates. I push aside sixty-foot trees and grind their branches under my treads. It is good to move again. I seek the cause of the W-Band transmissions. My long-range sensors pick up metallic shapes. I zoom-focus. Enemy! I identify Deng Class One Yavac Heavy units in the valley behind the former Base. I see Deng Class C Yavac Scouts in the forest. The Class C Scouts move on jointed appendages. They resemble their makers, moving quickly on multiple legs. The forest proves no barrier to their mode of transportation and offers concealment. They are followed closely by Class B Light-Armored Yavac units. 

	These units do not enter the forest. I analyze their battle formation and interpret their plan of attack. They will wait until the lightly armored Class C Scout units strike in a diversionary force through the forest. Once the colony's attention is diverted, the heavier Class B and Class One Yavacs will cut through the forest in a swathe that will flank the colony and encircle it. I attempt to turn my guns and they rotate out of control. I cannot bring my weapons to bear. I call my Commander again. 

	"Unit Six Seven Zero GWN to Base. Report." 

	"Gonner! Where are you? We found a Deng infantry probe in the forest!" 

	"Affirmative. I observe a force of six Class One Yavac Heavy Units, fifteen Class B Light-Armor Yavac Units, eleven Class C Yavac Scouts and approximately seven hundred infantry and forward infantry probes forming classic wedge-shaped attack formation seven hundred yards west of the former Base. I anticipate a diversionary attack on vector 085 by the Class C Yavac Scouts. The main attack force will then flank on vector 097 and encircle the colony. I have taken position a thousand yards south of the main attack force. My weapons systems remain inoperational. I await orders." 

	I do not recognize my Commander's next words. She speaks briefly in a language for which I have not been programmed. She then says, "I don't know how to fix you, Gonner." 

	"There is a 27.35 percent possibility that I have discovered a way to bypass my damaged fire-control circuits, using a cybernetic biological replacement unit." 

	My Commander does not answer. 

	"Unit Six Seven Zero GWN of the Line, awaiting orders, Commander Tennyson." 

	"Uh, Unit Six Seven Zero GWN, report to Base immediately. That's, uh, my house. Can you find it?" 

	"Affirmative." 

	I pivot and retrace my route. I use Emergency speed to reach the edge of the new colony. A crowd of humans has gathered in the street. I have never seen this town, but my data banks contain information uploaded from my Commander. I find her house and assume a guard position beyond the door. 

	"Unit Six Seven Zero GWN, reporting as ordered." 

	The door opens. I know my Commander. I know Dault. I know the dog Sufi. I do not see the other dog, Shiva. I do not know the woman who follows my Commander into the street. 

	"Unit Six Seven Zero GWN, report. What is the procedure you mentioned that might fix you?" 

	I give my Commander a full report. 

	"Unthinkable!" This is the other woman. " 'Lima, this is madness—" 

	"Those are Deng warriors out there, Mother! I don't intend us to become another Donner's Party! You heard the Navy's response—we're on our own out here! No one can get to us in time." 

	Another voice I do not know speaks from my left flank. " 'Lima, Donner had this Bolo and lost. And it's crippled. There's not much we can do." 

	Dault speaks. I hear stress in his voice. "You filthy coward! You can beat up on a kid half your size, but a real fight's too much for you? You'd better get your surgery ready, then. You're going to be busy." 

	The other man departs, in haste. 

	"Mom, can you do it?" 

	"I will not dissect a human being—" 

	"Gonner, does it have to be a human being?" 

	My Commander's question is a valid one. There is another suitable sentient being besides humans in the colony. I calculate the odds. 

	"Probability drops to 25.89 percent if a genetically enhanced dog is used in place of a human being. I cannot fight under current conditions. If I cannot fight, the Deng will eliminate this colony." 

	Again, I detect stress in Dault's voice. "Use Shiva. He's crippled. We'll need the other dogs." 

	"Mom?" 

	I detect no audible answer. My Commander's parent enters the house. I await further commands. 

	"Gonner, what do we do while you're in surgery? We've got to stall, buy enough time for Mom to try this." 

	I review archival information my Commander has provided. 

	"Agricultural and earth-moving equipment will not withstand direct hits. They may slow down the Yavac Heavy and Light-Armored Units. They should provide a barrier against infantry. Dig pits and fill them with ore-cleaning acid. Cover the pits. There will be very little time before the diversionary strike begins. The main assault will follow in approximately 5.03 minutes after the diversionary strike. You will need to situate most of your forces to counter the main attack, in case the surgical procedure on my fire-control circuits fails. Commander Tennyson, Deng are methodical. They will follow battle plans to the death. If the surgical procedure is a success, I will attack the main assault force from the rear. This will not be expected. It is our best chance of defeating a Deng force of this size." 

	"You heard him. Dickson, get that earth-moving equipment going. We need pits, pronto. Sally, how much of that acid does your plant have in stock?" 

	"Five hundred thousand gallons, give or take." 

	"Commandeer any heavy equipment you need to move it. There isn't much time. Sufi, you're pretty vulnerable without armor, but you can take out their advance infantry scouts and you can form ambushes in places too small for us. Take your pups and their pups and position yourselves here, here, and all along here." 

	My Commander points to a map of the colony. Her decisions are tactically sound. My new data tells me her father is a war hero. I am proud to serve under his daughter. 

	"Gonner, I've got to go. I'll stay in touch over your Command Link. Mom's going to have to enter your personnel hatch. Brad will go with her. He's a good surgeon and he loves Shiva." 

	"Understood. I will advise you of my status." 

	My Commander leaves. Dault climbs to my turret, carrying Shiva. I ask the dog if he will agree to this procedure. He barks an affirmative. He is a brave fighter. My Commander's parent joins Dault. The procedure begins. I wait. 

Chapter Fifteen

	"Easy, boy, easy." 

	Brad could hardly bear to look after completing the surgery he'd already been required to perform, but he kept his hand on Shiva's neck and continued to murmur softly to him. 

	"All done." Dr. Tennyson's voice was dead flat. 

	He risked a look and gulped. 

	There wasn't much left of Shiva. His skull sprouted hardware and leads that fed directly into the Bolo's psychotronic system. His legs were similarly tapped into the fighting machine's systems. His body ... 

	Brad had suspended him permanently in a steel cradle, to help cushion him from battle shocks. It was attached directly to the Bolo's internal frame at each rib. Effectively, Shiva was now part of the Bolo, which is what Gonner'd said was required. 

	Dr. Tennyson's voice cut into his awareness. "I've hooked his digestive system through here, to void waste. He'll require intravenous feeding—if the Bolo lives through the battle. The spinal block should be wearing off. I've put in a pain block, directly through his brain. He'll be able to function without the distraction of pain. If I've made all the proper connections, Shiva's now tied directly into the Bolo's psychotronic circuitry. All we have to do now is see if this crazy plan works." 

	On the Bolo's view screens, Brad caught a glimpse of the pitched battle being waged at the edge of town. Another house went up in a fireball. 

	"Gonner, how about it?" 

	The Bolo spoke. "Shiva, move right paw. Stop." 

	"Well?" 

	"My Hellbore guns and energy repeaters track satisfactorily. The arrangement is not efficient, but it is functional." 

	Brad probably should have whooped in satisfaction. All he felt was grief and fear. 

	"Well, that's that. Let's go." Dr. Tennyson glanced around the Bolo's passenger compartment, then climbed out. Brad hesitated. 

	"Bradley?" Dr. Tennyson called down. "You're delaying the Bolo." 

	He started for the ladder. Shiva whined and tried to thrash inside the steel cradle. Brad returned to his friend and laid his hand on the dog's neck again. It was just about the only spot of fur left on him Brad could touch. 

	"Easy, boy. I'm not going anywhere." He tilted his head. "Get clear, Dr. Tennyson. We have a battle to fight. Gonner, please inform your Commander that we're ready for battle." 

	"Understood. Welcome aboard, sir." 

	Overhead, the hatch sealed with a faint hiss of pneumatics. 

	Brad strapped into the observer's chair and maintained contact with his dog's fur. 

	"Let's go." He tried to smile. "Dog-Gonner ready for battle." 

	Shiva emitted a faint whine of eagerness. 

	The Bolo pivoted and cleared a path out of town, taking off the corner of one burning house to gain maneuvering room. Brad glued his gaze to the observation screens and tightened his hand through Shiva's fur. 

	"Go get 'em, boy." 

	As the Enemy Yavac units came into focus on the observation screen, Bradley said as offhandedly as he could, "Did I ever tell you about the moment I started falling in love with Kalima Tennyson, Gonner? She punched me in the nose ..." 

Chapter Sixteen

	From behind her hastily-dug entrenchment, Kalima watched the advancing Deng through Gina Lin's survey lens. The distance was telemetered automatically from the size-scale comparison computer. Fred Howlett had tried using an active-system laser range finder and the Deng had locked onto it and blown it up. Fred hadn't survived. The passive-system survey scanner was far more primitive equipment, but it was effective and kept the Deng from locking in on her position. 

	The main assault force had struck through the trees on the ridge and now rolled down across their defensive perimeter. Over on the edge of town, where the diversionary force had struck first, they were losing ground in enormous bites. Several buildings—homes, the school—were fiercely ablaze. 

	"We're not holding," she muttered. "Gonner, where are you?" 

	The Bolo had reported battle readiness more than five minutes previously. Meanwhile, the Deng had blasted through the barricade of heavy equipment they'd set up. Several Class C Yavac Scouts and some of the forward infantry had fallen into acid pits; but the heavier Class B and Class One Yavacs which followed them avoided the carefully laid traps. Infantry units, also skirting the remaining acid pits, were pouring through the gaps in their defenses. Fighting down there was hand-to-hand—and their side was dying. 

	Trees at the crest of the hill swayed and toppled. Kalima held her breath ... 

	Hellbore guns thundered above the deafening sound of Yavac fire. The first salvo had little effect. On the second blast, a Yavac was hit directly in the turret. The Deng unit exploded in a brilliant fireball. A ragged cheer went up. Gonner sped forward. Rear infantry units went down under a blaze of lethal anti-personnel fire. The massive Hellbores tracked, corrected slightly, and belched fire again. Another Yavac unit exploded. 

	The rearmost Yavac pivoted its guns and fired back. Gonner rocked under the concussion, but kept coming. Other heavy Class One Yavacs turned and blasted the Bolo with deadly fire. Gonner's purple-black flintsteel hull began to glow, as his energy panels attempted to absorb the murderous energy beams and convert them to useful battle energy. Blue fire streaked out from his turret's infinite repeaters. A Yavac Class One caught the blast at its turret juncture and blew open. Fire exploded out of it. Kalima bit her lips. She could see pieces of Gonner's ablative armor blown clear as Yavac Class B units turned and added their fire to that of the remaining Yavac Heavies. Gonner charged down the ridge toward town on a relentless, unstoppable course that took him past one dying Yavac after another. Several units retreated fatally into open acid pits behind their positions as they attempted to avoid the onrushing Bolo. 

	"Look! They're scattering! They're breaking formation!" 

	Dogs broke from hiding all along the enemy flank. Deng infantry went down under snarling canine jaws. Kalima glued her gaze to the surveyor's lenses and snarled in satisfaction. The dogs chewed off legs and arms, bit into unarmored, hairy Deng bellies. Weird, alien screams floated down the street. The Hellbores barked again. A final Yavac Heavy died. Gonner turned on the smaller Class B and C Yavacs and blasted them with brilliant blue repeater fire. On the opposite flank, colonists rose behind barricades and earthen embankments and fired small arms into the mass of panicked Deng. Kalima fired her own rifle with lethal effect. 

	The army stampeded toward the remaining camouflaged acid pits, trying to retreat the way they'd come and stumbling into the lethal traps they'd avoided on their way in. 

	"They're going for 'em!" Kalima yelled. "They're going right for 'em!" 

	Within ten minutes, there were only scattered wounded left of the Deng invasion force. Most of their infantry had plunged into the acid pits. The heavily armored Yavacs were burnt-out hulks—or dissolved bits of metal at the bottom of the acid pits. On the forested slope—now denuded, deeply scarred from the terrible battle—Yavacs still burned fiercely. Colonists rose on all sides, cheering spontaneously. 

	Kalima rose on shaky legs and started down the street. She gripped a rifle in one hand, her radio link to Gonner in the other. 

	"Gonner, report." 

	"Enemy neutralized. I have sustained serious damage." 

	Heart in her mouth, Kalima closed the distance to the enormous war machine. 

	New gouges tore into Gonner's war hull. One of his treads was missing. He must've sustained damage to it and blown it clear. Anti-personnel guns along his right flank were twisted, ruined. His turret was badly gouged, canted on its swivel. 

	"Unit Six Seven Zero GWN and Unit Shiva reporting, as ordered. Bradley Dault requests assistance disengaging. My passenger compartment and hatch have sustained damage." 

	"Bradley? My God—is Bradley in there with you?" 

	"He refused to leave. Unit Shiva required Bradley Dault's presence to maintain battle-ready efficiency." 

	She understood, in a flash of insight. Poor, terrified dog ... 

	"Gonner, how can I get to him?" 

	"The pneumatics on my turret hatch no longer function. You will require an explosive charge to clear the hatch from my hull. The battle damage which penetrated into the passenger compartment is not sufficiently large to extricate an adult human." 

	Kalima swallowed hard, then called Gina Lin over. She explained what was needed. 

	"Sure. Take, uh, maybe ten minutes." 

	"Gonner, what other damage have you sustained?" 

	"An explosion through previous battle damage has destroyed my backup emergency power cells. I am operating on residual charge from my hull-plate grid. I cannot discover any method of repairing this damage in the time which remains before this charge drains. I estimate another fifteen minutes before critical failure occurs. Unit Shiva has sustained fatal injury to spleen and kidneys as result of shrapnel damage. We request permission to retire from the field as soon as Bradley Dault has been safely extricated from my passenger compartment." 

	No backup power cells left. And there never had been a way to refuel his fission plant. No one here was qualified to install a new one—even if one had been available. There was nothing—not a thing—she could do to save him. 

	The words caught in her throat. "Permission granted." 

	Lin was setting the explosive charges. Kalima climbed up to help. She talked to Gonner the whole time. 

	"Remember that first day, Gonner? You scared me half to death. Never thought we'd see battle together, big guy. I'm sure proud of you, though, more than I was that day you kept the wall from crushing us ..." 

	She was babbling and didn't care. She was losing a friend—two friends—and no one knew yet how badly injured Bradley was in there. He could be dying, too ... 

	"All set. Get clear, 'Lima." 

	They skinned down the ladder and took refuge behind a scarred fender. 

	The charge blew. Smoke engulfed them. Kalima was climbing even before her ears stopped ringing. 

	"Brad! Brad, can you hear me?" 

	"Com-coming up ..." 

	She hovered at the lip of the hatch. He moved slowly, awkwardly. His right arm didn't appear to be functioning properly. Tears streaked his face. Halfway up, his breath caught sharply. He clung to the ladder. 

	"I'm coming down to help." 

	"No ... I'm okay. See?" He climbed higher. 

	Shock made her go cold. 

	Blood covered his whole right side. She could see ribs in one spot. But he was still climbing. His face and arms were burned, blistered in places from the heat of the sustained Yavac attack. She got an arm around his shoulders. He snaked his good arm around her and kissed her raggedly; then groaned and leaned heavily against her. 

	"Gotta ... get down ... or I'll fall ..." 

	Kalima steadied him down. He slid to his knees the moment his feet touched ground. 

	"Did it, Gonner," he whispered hoarsely. "We did it." 

	"It was my honor to serve with you, Bradley Dault. Commander Tennyson, I estimate another 4.07 minutes before critical power failure. Unit Six Seven Zero GWN and Unit Shiva of the Line, retiring as ordered." 

	The Bolo pivoted awkwardly on its remaining track. The machine clanked and rattled up the ridge and into the trees. Parallel gouges in the soft earth marked his trail. Someone, she wasn't sure who, had pulled Bradley onto a stretcher. He caught her hand, urged her down. 

	"Go with him," he whispered. "Nobody should die alone." 

	Her eyes filled. She kissed Brad very tenderly. Her voice went husky. "Don't you dare die on me, too, Bradley Dault. This ... this won't take long." He squeezed her hand. Then she broke and ran. 

	Kalima found Gonner in his former position, atop the shattered gates at the old compound. 

	"Gonner?" 

	The Hellbores tracked disjointedly in a ragged salute. 

	She climbed doggedly and slid down through the blasted hatch. A hole had been punched straight into the passenger compartment. Relays and boards she'd spent years repairing were twisted, broken beyond anyone's capacity to repair. Her breath caught when she saw Shiva. The dog whined, very faintly. 

	"Good boy," she whispered, burying her face in the dog's blood-spattered neck fur. "Brad's okay, Shiva. You did a good job. The town's safe." 

	Shiva licked her hand very weakly. Then what remained of his body sagged in the steel cradle. Kalima turned away and dragged the back of a dirty arm across her eyes. 

	"You did a good job, Gonner," she choked out. The whole passenger compartment reeked of blood, smoke, fried electrical connections. 

	"I have done my duty. It is a beautiful day for victory, Commander." The observation screens flickered and went dim. "Bradley Dault spoke at length of you, Commander, as we went to meet the Enemy. He is a good officer. I am glad he was not damaged fatally. He loved Shiva. He loves you." 

	"I love you, Gonner," she whispered. "I—Thank you for ... for ..." 

	She couldn't get it all out quickly enough, with the result that everything she wanted to say got stuck in her throat. 

	"It has been my honor to serve you, Commander Tennyson. I will hold ..." 

	The screens went dark. 

	Very, very slowly, Kalima climbed out of the blasted passenger compartment. The great Hellbore guns drooped, silent. Warm summer wind whistled across the pitted war hull. 

	Gonner didn't speak again. 

	But he had held, to the last. 

The End