Bolo Brigade (12 page)

"Yes indeed, they are that. Some people who come out here find them disturbing, you know. All that emptiness out there."

"I can imagine. Still, that's all in the head, isn't it? What does it matter if the next nearest star is four light years away, or four thousand? As long as you have a good piece of ground to stand on right here."

"Well, well, General!" Chard said, turning to Phalbin. "Our newest officer is a philosopher as well!"

"That was neatly put," Phalbin said, grudgingly. "But it takes—eh?"

A gaudily uniformed aide, gold aiguillettes spilling from her left shoulder, moved to Phalbin's side and whispered something in his ear. He started as though pinched. "What? When?" he demanded.

The aide whispered something else, and Phalbin shook his head. "Who would have believed it?"

"Is there trouble, General?" Chard asked mildly.

"Um . . . harrumph, well, possibly. Possibly. Governor? May I see you privately for a moment?"

The two men stepped aside, conversing in low and urgent tones. Donal looked at Lieutenant Colonel Wood, one eyebrow cocked higher than the other in an unvoiced question.

"Probably running short of wine," Wood said, a mildly acid edge to his voice. "They're wondering if they have to break out the good stuff they were saving for themselves."

"You don't much like this posting, do you, sir?"

"Is it that obvious?" He shrugged, then took a sip from his glass. "I wonder, sometimes, how in God's name humans can imagine they're the pinnacle of creation. I seem to remember reading something, somewhere, about a notion called 'survival of the fittest.' "

Donal chuckled. "Don't think we're going to make it?"

"Frankly, I'm astonished we've made it this far." He studied the governor and the general for a moment with evident distaste. "Any evolutionary system that allows people who can't see past the end of their nose to rise to positions of power . . ."

"Are you talking about the governor, sir? Or General Phalbin?"

He shook his head. "Forget I said that. But it's damned frustrating, sometimes. I keep wondering what happens when we come up against a race that's smarter, faster . . . and just plain
meaner
than we are."

"I always thought humankind was pretty nasty, sir. We've had the evolutionary monopoly on nastiness so far, anyway."

"The only trouble is that too often somebody has to come along and smash us in the face a few times before we wake up and recognize that there's a problem at all."

"The rumors? About something out in the Gulf?"

He shrugged. "Probably just that. Rumors. But God help these people if there's ever a
real
threat to our security. Everyone spends so much time worrying about covering his own tail that we could find ourselves in real trouble someday, and with no one to blame. The cold, dead hand of Darwin doesn't distinguish between social classes, and it damned well doesn't wait for openings in engagement calendars."

Donal guessed that Wood had been trying to get something out of Phalbin or the governor, an appropriation, perhaps, or access to needed supplies, and had been refused. A coldness brushed across the back of his mind, raising his hackles. For the past week he'd been deluging Wood's office with requests for service and maintenance parts for the Bolos. Had those requisitions been turned down? Ignored? Had Wood been called on the carpet because of them?

"Trouble with the hierarchy, sir?"

"Mmm. Let's just say that—" He stopped abruptly. Phalbin and the governor were coming back. Phalbin was glowering; Chard looked rattled. "Bad news, Governor?"

"The base is going on alert, Colonel," Phalbin said bluntly. "You'd better inform your men."

"I'm sorry to have to end the evening's festivities," Chard added. "But this is . . . distressing."

"What is it, sir?" Donal asked. "If we're going on alert, it would be nice to know what's threatening us."

"That's just it," Chard said. "We don't know. Nothing but vague and panicky guesses. Fear-mongering. Hysteria—"

"It has just been reported," Phalbin said, cutting in, "that a large and definitely hostile force has landed on Wide Sky. We haven't been able to learn anything, save that the enemy force appears to be a species unknown to us, and possessing superior technology and firepower."

"Superior technology?" Donal asked, eyebrows raised.

"Superior enough to destroy the Mark XVIII that was based there," Phalbin said. "It seems one of your vaunted Concordiat Bolos, Lieutenant, didn't even have sense enough to know it was outclassed. They took it to pieces in just seconds."

Wood pursed his lips and gave a low whistle. "Where did they come from?"

"Unknown at this time," Phalbin said.

Chard shrugged. "It's possible, I suppose, that they are from the Void after all."

"
Highly
unlikely, sir." The general pursed his lips and gave Donal a swift, sidelong glance. "Undoubtedly we are dealing with raiders, refugees, perhaps, from strife somewhere within our Galaxy."

"Melconians, possibly?" Wood asked. "Seeking easier targets?"

"Possibly." Phalbin looked at his drink, as though attempting to divine the answers there. "They are a long way from home, if they are."

"Apparently," Chard went on, "we lost all contact with Wide Sky several hours ago. Our last message from them indicated that the military base there was on the point of being overrun. Evidently, their SWIFT equipment was captured or destroyed."

"Could have been the relays between here and there, too," Phalbin said. "This deep inside the Cluster, SWIFT needs relays every few light years just to keep up the signal strength."

Chard's eyes widened. "Eh? But that means they might be on their way here. Knocking out our faster-than-light comm links could be the prelude to an invasion."

"That's why we're going on alert, of course. Not that invasion is all that likely. . . ."

"I understand we've also lost contact with Endatheline, General," Donal said casually. "Seems a bit much to expect mere raiders to knock out two of the other worlds of the Cluster in such short order, don't you think?"

Phalbin's face darkened, and he was about to say something curt, but Chard spoke first. "What's your point, Lieutenant?"

"That we could make better decisions if we knew exactly what this threat was. Who they are, what they want." He looked at Phalbin. "And where they come from."

"And how would we do that, Lieutenant?" Phalbin said.

"By going there, of course," Donal said. "I volunteer."

"He's got a point, you know," Chard said. "We need to know what the hell is going on out there."

"Yes, sir, but—"

"If it's just raiders or bandits, riffraff like that, we won't need to alarm people here unnecessarily. I'd hate to upset the political status quo."

Phalbin digested this. "You would go by yourself, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir. Well, I'll need transport, of course. I don't think we want to wait for the next freighter or passenger liner due in-port. Maybe a military courier or a mail packet—"

"There's a regular Space Service courier run scheduled for two days from now," Wood said. "We might even bump that up a day."

"Could you leave tomorrow, Lieutenant?" Phalbin asked.

"Certainly. And a courier would be ideal. Fast enough to keep out of trouble if things are bad in Wide Sky orbit. I could at least get close enough to use standard radio or use a SWIFT link-up without having to go through the relays. One way or the other, we'd know."

"What about your work here? With the Bolos?"

"Frankly, General, there's not a lot more I could get done staying here." There'd been some foot-dragging with the depot crew, certainly—not to mention someone taking detours around the usual chain of command—but work on the Bolos was pretty close to back on schedule now. And the way things seemed to work around here, Donal was beginning to think he'd prefer to get the intel he needed to work with himself, rather than wait for it to trickle down the line from someone else. It was surprising, he thought, how quickly he was getting excited by the prospect of getting out of Kinkaid and off of Muir for a few days. He grinned. "If you send me, General," he said, "I'll promise not to submit any more parts requisitions until I get back."

"Harrumph," Phalbin said . . . but then he managed a quirk of a smile. "We
do
need to know what's happening at Wide Sky. Very well, Lieutenant. I'll write up your orders. But let me remind you, this won't be an annual leave. No paid vacations. I expect you to go in, see what's happening, talk to the local authorities if you can raise them, and then get back here, at once."

"Yes, sir." He frowned.

"Something, Lieutenant?" Wood asked.

"Just a thought, sir. You people should probably make plans in case I don't return."

"Eh?" Chard said. "What do you mean?"

"Sir, from what we've heard, we have hostiles out there who eat Mark XVIII Bolos for breakfast. If I don't return on schedule, well, you'd better just assume that I've run into something really nasty out there. Something that you're going to want to be prepared for when it reaches Muir."

"Pleasant thought," Wood said.

Donal gave him a thin smile. "Just thinking about Darwin, sir. And the survival of the fittest."

Work continues unabated to get both Bolo 96875 and me fully back on-line, but I sense that in some inherently indefinable way that work has taken on a new sense of urgency. This, we agree, must be related to the new reports—and the sudden SWIFT silence—from Wide Sky, and we both feel a quickening that in an organic life form would be interpreted as growing excitement.

Using our private channel, we have discussed at length the apparently easy destruction of the Mark XVIII Bolo stationed on Wide Sky. Though Mark XXIV Bolos are far superior in every way to older and more primitive marks, we agree that the unknown hostiles on Wide Sky must possess either an impressive weapons technology or a considerable numerical advantage, or both, to have so easily defeated even a Mark XVIII. The
Gladius
may be old, limited both in overall intelligence and flexibility, and verging on obsolescence in many areas, but it would still require several direct hits or extremely near-misses by multiple nuclear warheads in the half- to one-megaton range to disable it, and its antimissile defense system is very nearly the equal of my own. The reports that we have intercepted, that a Mark XVIII was disabled in a firefight lasting something less than thirty seconds, are disquieting.

This, we assume, is the reason that our new Commander has boarded a military courier and left for the Wide Sky system. This is regrettable. While we understand our Commander's desire to acquire military intelligence first-hand, his departure could adversely affect the efficiency of the maintenance crews working to bring us back on-line. He does seem to have instilled in them a willingness to continue their work in order to get the job done quickly, but I detect a sullenness in some individuals that could interfere with the schedule.

The work proceeds so much more smoothly when Lieutenant Ragnor is present. I hope he returns soon.

Though Bolos are not subject to such emotions as loneliness or worry, both Bolo 96875 and I believe that our full availability and functionality will be necessary in the very near future, and Lieutenant Ragnor's presence may be directly necessary to achieve this.

"What is this?" Tech Master Sergeant Georg Blandings said, hands on hips, feet apart as he leaned over the edge of the Bolo's main deck and bawled at the group of men and women eight meters below. "A holiday? Nobody said you people could stop workin'!"

Private First Class Len Kemperer glared up at him, arms crossed. "Aw, c'mon, Sarge! Give us a break! The old man's gone! An' when the cat's away, and all like that—"

"Can it, Lennie," Blandings said. "We've got a sched to keep, and we're gonna keep it."

Corporal Debbie Hall laughed. "What's with you, Sarge? You going hardliner on us all of a sudden?"

"Maybe it's time someone did," he growled. "Now listen up, and listen sharp. You might not like the new CO, and you might not agree with him . . . but he is the Man and we're gonna play it by the book, see? I got my orders, which means you got
your
orders, and by Bolo you guys're gonna carry 'em out. Y'hear me?"

"Sheesh, Sarge!" Corporal Steve Dombrowski ran a hand through his greasy hair. "The guy's tryin' to work us to death! We can't get all of these torsion suspension assemblies balanced by Third Watch! It's inhuman!"

"Yeah, Sarge," Hall added. "Cut us some slack, huh?"

"Look!" Blandings yelled, his voice echoing off the high, wide ceiling of the depot. "I don't wanna hear it! The lieutenant's not gonna like it if he gets back and finds these babies still high and dry with their tracks off and their suspensions in pieces! He'll be very unhappy, and that means
I'll
be unhappy . . . and you just don't know how unhappy that's gonna make
you
! Now get the hell to work!"

The maintenance crew grumbled, but they went back to their jobs.

Thirty light years from Muir, the KR-72 Lightning-class courier made the final preparations to emerge from transpace. Donal shifted uncomfortably in his acceleration seat. Glad as he was to escape the confines of Muir, he would be happier still when this journey was complete. He glanced to his left at the courier's pilot. Commander Kathy Ross, he imagined, would be glad to be rid of him too.

The KR-72 Lightning was the product of fairly recent advances in ship-design technology. FTL-capable, it could make the thirty-light-year hop from Muir to Wide Sky in a little less than a week, though the cabin was so cramped that Donal wasn't able to move around very much during that time. He slept in the bridge acceleration couch reserved for supercargo, leaving its close embrace only to use the tiny fresher at the rear of the cabin, or to prepare a self-heating meal packet from the stores locker. Kathy Ross, he learned, a hard-eyed, black-skinned, gray-haired woman of about fifty, liked her command precisely because she got to spend so much time alone—and having to share with a passenger a compartment that was small for one person was decidedly not her idea of a good time.