Bolo Brigade (37 page)

"A Bolo?" Wood said with a brittle chuckle. "Not likely. Not without an explosion that we'd have heard all the way down here. I think old Freddy just needed to get out of the direct line of fire for a while. Did you see how he capped the Malach spy sats? That was so they couldn't follow his movements either. He doesn't want them seeing what he's up to."

"So what's the enemy doing?" Phalbin demanded.

"They seem to have been hit pretty hard," Ferraro said. He used a laser pointer to trace across the map display with a ruby-bright point of light. "Bolo 96876 was operating throughout this region, hitting their main landing sites—Invasion Zones Alfa, Bravo, Charlie, and Echo."

"Not Delta?"

Ferraro flicked the laser light to a small red stain tucked in between the Windypeak Mountains and a fjord. "That's here, at Glenntor Castle. We were picking up radio calls from Lord Delacroix for a while there, beamed at the Malach, asking for surrender terms. A couple of Malach landers set down there a few hours ago, and that's the last we've heard."

"Damn him."

"He probably didn't have much choice, sir."

"All right. What's the status on the Bolo?"

"According to our telemetry, he took some damage, but nothing serious. He has destroyed several hundred enemy combat walkers and fliers, however, as well as several of their larger landing boats. His strategy has been to break up any formation of Malach units he can reach, then evade and escape before the survivors can close in and trap him."

"So what now?" Phalbin said. "If he's hiding, the Malach are likely to get their act together and move south."

"Maybe," Wood said, studying the map. "Maybe he's swinging south through the sea, too."

"Who knows what the thing's doing!" Phalbin said, pudgy fists clenching at his sides. "Ragnor deliberately disobeyed my direct orders! I'll have his—"

"With all due respect, General," Wood interrupted, "we have to survive the battle first. Let's wait and see what Ragnor . . . and Freddy . . . have up their sleeves."

"What's the tacsit on the other Bolo?"

"Ferdy's been pretty much duplicating Freddy's little song-and-dance act up by Simmstown, but against much smaller numbers." Wood pointed. "He's here, blocking Kinkaid and the spaceport from the Malach landings to the east. Invasion Zones Sierra and Tango."

"Can he handle it?"

"He seems to be a bit slower than Freddy," Wood said. "But he's holding them. So far, anyway."

"Slower? Why?"

"I don't know, sir. Something else . . . we've been getting lots of radioed queries from Ferdy. Things like requests for permission to cross public land, stuff like that."

"But not from the other one?"

Wood shrugged. "That's mostly wilderness up there. I guess he's not trespassing on anybody's back yard."

"But this one down by Kinkaid is still responsive to orders?"

"Yes, sir. As much as a Bolo in combat can be. Sometimes it takes our orders more as suggestions . . . but that's because its tactical logic centers tend to override orders that it considers dangerous in the middle of a battle." He sounded uncertain. "Lieutenant Ragnor could tell us more."

"But the lieutenant is out of communications, isn't he? He just disobeyed my orders to move south and moved himself out of communications! I wouldn't be surprised if he's pulling the old radio trouble scam!"

Phalbin turned away, angry. Somehow, somehow the battle had just slipped right through his grasp, and he was no longer in control. He didn't like that.

And if they got out of this mess, somebody was going to pay. With his bars. With his
career
. . . .

It has been .9311 standard hour since my last contact with Bolo 96876 or my Commander, and I continue to operate independently. For the past 2.7224 standard hours, I have served as a solitary blocking force, intercepting, by my count, twelve separate Enemy probes toward either Kinkaid, north of Starbright Bay, or the starport and military base to the south. Though the Enemy has been making a determined effort, I have so far been able to smash and repulse each advance.

The terrain is in my favor. The land east of Starbright Bay is rugged and, in places, mountainous. The peaks of Ironwood Ridge rise no higher than 800 meters, but the western slopes are quite steep, dropping from the Lyon Plateau in vertical, rock-faced cliffs in places, while in others they are heavily forested—ironwood and redtowers, for the most part—which means the terrain must be classified as difficult. Two valleys grant access through Ironwood Ridge, to the north, the valley of the Kinkaid River, and in the south, Founder's Valley. I have been using my on-board remote drones to monitor Enemy movements in Invasion Zones Sierra and Tango on the far side of the mountains, repositioning myself in front of one valley or the other as soon as I ascertain which route the Malach forces intend to use for their primary thrust. A number of times, they have tried penetrating both valleys simultaneously, but I have been able so far to shatter the decoy force with missile fire, while dealing with the main body at medium to close range.

Smoke fills the Kinkaid Valley with a heavy fog impenetrable at optical and near-infrared wavelengths, though I can track moving targets easily enough by radar. Forces are approaching at 32.4 kilometers per hour, and I have identified them with 99.4 percent probability as another Malach force.

The 0.6 percent uncertainty represents what humans refer to as "fog of war." It is possible, if highly unlikely, that human units have managed to penetrate the Lyon Plateau and are moving down the Kinkaid Valley now toward my present position. This confusion would be confounded by the fact that they do not possess working IFF gear, and their radio communication is out.

All of this is unlikely in the extreme, of course, but my programming forces me to allow for numerous unlikely possibilities. Chaos theory, as well as the random unpredictability of the chance effect humans refer to as Murphy's Law, guarantee that during battle, unlikely possibilities frequently become reality.

Being forced to deal with such possibilities, however small, has slowed my operational capability by an estimated 74.1 percent. I am disturbed by this extreme loss in efficiency, but the Rules of Engagement under which I am operating force careful consideration of each move, frequently compounded by the need to refer the matter to the Command Authority. In this instance, for example, I am operating under ROE 4:

4: Bolo units will determine the friend/foe status of unknown targets with 100 percent probability before engaging them in combat.

It is, in fact, impossible to determine friend-foe status with 100 percent probability unless those forces are actively engaged against friendlies, or unless a visual identification can be made.

Bolo 96876 of the Line informed me when our Commander gave him the order to drop his ROEs, and I wonder if he is functioning with greater efficiency because of it. It seems likely that he is.

I move into the middle of the river. The Kinkaid is broad and relatively shallow—even in the center my road wheels are only half submerged—and I derive little cover from it. However, I am determined to make use of every cover available, since my operational orders do not permit great flexibility in terms of maneuver or offensive action.

I risk the use, once again, of my battle radar, exposing myself for just .002 second, enough to get clear returns on the suspected hostiles and to plot their current positions. I note five targets moving together that have a 98.6 percent probability of being Malach walkers, now at a range of 1.95 kilometers. Normally, I would have taken them under fire, but I must either take fire from them first in accordance with ROE 1 or challenge them verbally, in accordance with ROE 17. I judge that the probable hostiles' approach indicates that they are not certain of my position, despite my brief radar emissions, and that I therefore might gain significant advantage by ambushing them. I will not give a verbal challenge but will wait until I have positive visual ID.

It is risky, but I have no other choice.

Chaghna'kraa the Blade-Fanged was leading four of her pack-sisters along the river bank, moving swiftly toward the probable location of the human
gr'raa'zhghavescht
-machine. The other three were dead, their machines smashed in earlier attacks. To Chaghna'kraa, it seemed that the Great Spiral was turning, that events were repeating themselves, as they always did.

She remembered the attack on the
gr'raa
at the last planet invaded, on the world the Malach called Lach'br'zghis. Half of her octet had died there, too, before the alien machine had been conquered. She had a feeling that she was going to lose more this time.

"One
tairucht
to the point where the radar pulse originated," Jir'lischgh'gu the Rapid-Runner said over the tactical link. Then she added, "she's close. I can
smell
her."

"Steady," Chaghna'kraa ordered. "Weapons at ready. When we see it, a quick, hard rush. Push through here, kill the
gr'raa
, and we have a clear route both to the big city and to the spaceport."

The battle smoke was thickening, hanging like a fog over the twisted and charred debris of numerous earlier attacks. How many Malach had died already?

Victory in battle meant superiority in evolution. That simple equivalence had been drummed into Chaghna'kraa since long before she'd graduated to Hunter status, since she'd been in the crèche, in fact. For the first time in her life, however, she was beginning to doubt the idea.

Evolution. The changing in form of organisms through adaptation, mutation, survival of the fittest. Malach belief held that the Race was the most highly evolved of all species, but sometimes, lately, she'd wondered if that wasn't a mere baying at the moons, a statement as empty of substance as the vacuum between the stars.

What would a being
more
highly evolved than the Malach be like? Doctrine said there were none such, though with no solid evidence or reasoning that Chaghna'kraa could see. And the Malach possessed many evolutionary hangovers from earlier and more primitive forms. Their slasher claws, for instance, their dorsal ridge, their tails, the lusts and drives of
Urrgh-shcha
, even the second stomach that helped them digest raw meat, all were holdovers from an earlier era. Had they encountered another species with claws and fangs, horns and armor, a species, in fact, with the same evolutionary holdovers as the Malach, Chaghna'kraa wouldn't have felt so uneasy. But she'd seen humans, and their pathetic helplessness, their lack of claws or weapons or decent teeth or strength or speed or any natural weapon possessed by the Race . . . it all seemed to suggest that they'd evolved
further
from their nonsentient and animalistic predecessors than the Malach had from theirs and not, as the Malach Deathgivers taught, that they were more primitive.

Such thoughts were heretical, Chaghna'kraa knew, sufficient to have her status as warrior revoked. For such a crime, she could well lose her name and be forced to join the ranks of the
tsurgh'ghah.

She wondered if humans had evolutionary holdovers from their pasts. It was hard to tell. They were so
different
. . . .

"Prey!" Jir'lischgh'gu shouted, and she leaped forward on the attack. The artificial
gr'raa
was a few eights of
erucht
ahead, squatting in the river, its broad, flat turret already pivoting to cover their approach.

"Attack!" Chaghna'kraa yelled. "
Ghava'igho
, now!"

Her upper hands closed on the weapons controls, and the long, slender javelin of a
ghava'igho
dropped from beneath her wing and arrowed toward the target. Swiftly she squeezed the trigger again, sending her second warload after the first. Jir'lischgh'gu loosed two nuclear penetrators, as did Ghrel'esche'ah Claw-Blooder and Chu'rrugh'eserch Throat-Tearer; Ra'aasgh'resh Meat-Gulper launched one, and then the alien machine's main plasma weapon flared with a blinding radiance that vaporized the upper half of Ra'aasgh'resh's Hunter.

At a range of scant
erucht
, the nuclear lances swarmed toward the alien machine. Laser fire snapped and hissed; ion cannons spewed streams of burning starpoints across the landscape. Two missiles were knocked down . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . but then one struck home with a dazzling flare that seemed to engulf the enemy vehicle, disrupting its magnetic shielding long enough for the next missile in line to smash through, though the prey's reactive armor broke up the penetrator jet before it could properly form. Another missile downed, and then another hit, this time close beside the smoking, red-glowing crater in the upper armor left by the earlier hits.

Striking at a point already weakened, and where the external reactive-armor add-on plates had already been triggered, the second missile fired its plasma lance cleanly into vaporizing armor. The small, nuclear warhead followed the path of vacuum left by the beam, smashing into molten flintsteel before detonating in a savage, high-energy flash.

The robot machine was kicked back several meters, rocking heavily to one side before settling back in the seething cloud of steam sent boiling into the sky from the river's surface. The vehicle's deadly main weapon fell silent.

Chaghna'kraa was no longer in a position to care, however. A tenth of a second or so before the penetrator had exploded, she and her companions had been killed, their Hunters wrecked, in a final flurry of plasma bolts from the stricken enemy vehicle.

The smoke over the river valley thickened as the Hunters burned.

There was a lot of commercial submarine traffic on Muir. Consequently, the undersea region off the west coast had been thoroughly mapped and the resultant electronic charts uploaded to several different computer systems in and around Kinkaid. Donal had downloaded several sets of those charts into Freddy's memory. He just hoped they were up to date on bottom conditions. According to the charts, the bottom was hard-packed sand between the beach east of Simmstown almost all the way to Point Johannson. Beyond that, there was soft bottom in patches, due mostly to the alluvial deposits of the Singing River, but beyond that it was solid again all the way into Loch Haven.