Bolo Brigade (39 page)

"I wasn't surrendering," she said. "I was trying to stop your . . . your men from killing the children."

What did it mean when that pink-worm mustache rippled outward from the center?

"Why."

"Damn it, you don't kill children, even in war! Not deliberately, anyway!"

"Why."

This, Alexie thought with a tired shake of her head, was not going to get them anywhere. Worst of all, she couldn't tell whether the thing's expressionless lack of understanding was genuine, or a pose designed to draw her out, to make her tell them more about herself. Hell, she couldn't even tell how much of her own words carried meaning for these monsters, or even what that meaning might be.

"Look," she said. "Your soldiers were trying to kill some children. Understand? We don't do that. We wouldn't deliberately kill your young. It's not . . . not civilized."
Damn! What do these things know about civilized?
she thought, a little wildly. "I wanted to stop them. I told them not to. That's all." She didn't add how very surprised she'd been when one of the Malach had dropped a net over her. She'd been so close to death in that moment.

At the moment, with those tortured corpses hanging nearby, she was very much afraid that she would soon be wishing the Malach
had
killed her on the spot.

The lizard on the couch behind her questioner hissed and snarled something. The interrogator turned, raising its chin high, and barked something in reply. Turning again to face her, the Malach said, "You . . . understand . . . sssubmit. You . . . not . . . female."

Again, it took Alexie a moment to understand that the Malach was asking a question in that flat, hissing, and uninflected voice. She had the distinct impression that, as it spoke one word, it was searching through its memory for the next, literally translating word by word without a clear understanding of each.

It was asking if she was female. No . . . it was wondering if she could be a female, given that she'd surrendered to the soldiers.

What did being female have to do with anything?

The Malach on the couch—Alexie was getting the definite idea that that one was the boss here—snarled again. Again, the interrogator saluted by lifting its chin . . . and Alexie decided that it was a gesture of submission among these beings.

Understanding dawned. Among humans, bowing was the gesture for showing submissive behavior, a way of saying, "Look! My head's down! I can't see you, but you can see me and you could whack me with a club if you wanted to." With dogs, she knew, the animal might roll over onto its back . . . again, a way of making itself seem helpless to a stronger pack member. For the Malach, though, raising those heavy chins, exposing the throat to bite or claw-slash, that was what meant "I'm vulnerable, I yield to you."

Was it as simple as that? She thought back to her capture, remembering her stance, hands on hips, looking
up
into the Malach soldier's face.

It had completely misread her body language . . . and Alexie suddenly knew that the mistake was all that had saved her.

Deliberately, she raised her chin, looking at the ceiling. "I . . . submit." Somehow, she had to establish two-way comprehension enough with these beings to start exchanging meaningful information. If they wanted her to "sssubmit," fine.

"You . . . female."

"I'm female. Yes."

"Female . . . no . . . sssubmit."

Had she done it wrong? Where was the confusion here? Heart pounding, she looked steadily at the ceiling. "I submit."

The interrogator strode over to the hanging bodies, its claws
click-clicking
on the stone. Reaching up with one of its smaller, upper arms, it touched one of the dead women on the hip. "Thissss . . . female."

Alexie swallowed, making herself look. "Yes. Female." Did she know the woman? She looked familiar. And very dead.

The interrogator moved to the next body in line, and touched it as well. Alexie shuddered. It was one of the PGPH guys she'd argued with a few nights ago, the redheaded man whose family had owned this castle. What was his name? Dela something or other.

"Thisss . . . male."

"Yes."

The interrogator turned, and the body swayed alarmingly, twisting back and forth on its chain. The jaw, she thought, had been dislocated, and she was terribly afraid that if it tore loose and the body dropped into that puddle of blood on the floor beneath, she was going to be sick.

"Male . . . think."

"What?"

"You . . . maless . . . think . . . sssame . . . femaless."

It's a question. Think of it as a question. It wants . . . "Oh! You're asking if human males are . . . are intelligent?" She thought fast, then risked a question of her own. "Malach males! Are they intelligent?" The creature blinked at her, mustache rippling, and she realized she'd confused it. "Uh . . . Malach males think, yes?"

"Malach . . . malesss . . . urrr." It seemed to be groping for a word. "Malesss . . . make . . . more . . . Malachsss. No . . . think. Femalesss." One upper hand smacked against a scaly chest. "Femaless. Warriorsss. Think."

Sexual dichotomy. In Malach culture—hell, in Malach
biology
—the females did the fighting, the food gathering, and the thinking too. Males were there for reproduction and probably not much else. You didn't need brains if all you did was copulate.

She was reminded of a fish she'd read about once, a creature that lived in the deeps of old Earth's seas. Males attached themselves to the larger female's body, turning parasite, eventually shriveling up until they were little more than a wart on the female's skin. This situation wasn't that extreme, but it carried the same idea. There was, she admitted, a certain biological efficiency in the arrangement.

"Human males are intelligent," she said. "Uh . . . human males think. Human
females
think. All same."

"You . . . female."

Back to that again. "
Yes
, damn it! I'm
female
!"

"Femalesss . . . no . . . sssubmit."

She was beginning to understand that part of the problem lay in the Malach interrogator's limited vocabulary, and the rest in its inability to comprehend a system different from its own. Submit, as he . . no, as
she
was using the word might mean one of two things . . . simple surrender in the face of overwhelming force, or the ritual gestures of rank and respect this race seemed to use. They seemed to be having trouble accepting that she was a female and that she'd surrendered. That must be the trouble.

Carefully, making no sudden moves, she unsealed the long, black leather jacket she was wearing. Underneath she was wearing a white, fairly tight knit sweater that showed off the gentle swelling of her breasts to good advantage. The Malach in the room watched her impassively and didn't seem to understand. She grimaced, biting off a foul word. Of course they didn't understand. These lizards didn't have mammaries and didn't associate them with femaleness. What did their young eat, she wondered? She wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer to that.

And she didn't know how to prove that she was female. She suspected, though, that the Malach were confused about her sex, and that could be dangerous. If they associated maleness with blind instinct, with lack of intelligence, even with just plain, old-fashioned stupidity, she might be in real trouble. . . .

The boss Malach spat something, and the interrogator advanced, reaching out to close the claws of one upper hand on her jacket, tugging. "Remove."

"Hey, wait just a damned minute!"

"You . . . remove. Show . . . female."

The boss snarled again, and another Malach grabbed her arms from behind, holding her immobile as the inquisitor continued tugging at her clothing.

She managed not to scream as they gave her body a close, rough, and embarrassingly thorough examination.

I have been seriously damaged, though not incapacitated. As I defended my position in the Kinkaid River Valley, one of the Enemy's nuclear penetrators struck me on my starboard side midway back along and just above my forward-right track assembly. The front-right skirt has been blown away, the track broken, and several of the right-forward road wheels rendered useless. Worse, the cooling unit for my number one fusion plant was badly damaged, forcing me to shut that power system down entirely to avoid meltdown. As a result, my available power is down to 66 percent, not counting charge plate and battery reserves. Perhaps most serious of all, the Enemy weapon ruptured my reserve cryo-hydrogen tank, destroying its coolant system and allowing most of the hydrogen slush to boil away. Not only is this fuel for my fusion power plants, it is the reserve from which I draw the frozen hydrogen-ice pellets that generate fusion in Hellbore ignition sequencing. Suddenly, fuel and ammunition have become urgent concerns. I will need field servicing, and quickly.

I try to raise headquarters on my radio.

"Bolo 96875 of the Line!" a voice crackles over my tactical net before I can make my report. "This is the Military Command Authority! What is your status?"

It is not the voice of my Commander, but the signal possesses the proper code authorizations. I tell them the extent of my damage. "I have held the Enemy," I conclude, wondering if I have put too much into the words of the emphasis humans call pride. "The Enemy threat in the Southern Sector appears to be neutralized."

"Okay," another voice says, and this one I recognize as that of Colonel Wood, the Brigade Commander. "You've done well. Very well. But there's another threat now. We don't have any Malach forces in your area. You've gotten them all. But there's more coming down from the north, and they're heading straight for Kinkaid. You're all we have to stop them!"

I feel a stab of alarm at that. What has happened to Bolo 96876 of the Line and our Commander? I attempt to reach them, without result. "What is the status of Bolo 96876 of the Line?" I ask.

"Damn, your guess is as good as ours. They entered the ocean almost an hour ago. We haven't heard from them since."

Which means Bolo 96876 may not be destroyed. I am . . . relieved.

"What are my orders?" I ask.

"You got Criton Pass on a map?"

I assume the question is rhetorical. I have extensive maps of all of Muir's surface terrain. Criton Pass is a major valley leading south through the Grampian Mountains. A surface-vehicle roadway, Route 1, traverses the pass about halfway between Kinkaid and Simmstown.

"Bolo? Do you copy?"

I realize that the question was not rhetorical after all. Can these officers be so unaware of Bolo operations and capabilities? "I copy. I have Criton Pass on my map display."

"The Malach are coming south, right down Route 1. We estimate approximately one hundred of their walkers, moving on foot. At their current speed, they'll reach the pass in three hours."

I already have the Enemy forces plotted, downloaded from HQ's intelligence web. "Two hours, fifty-eight minutes, fifteen seconds," I reply, "assuming no change in course or speed." I consider the situation for several seconds, as I cross-check calculations, run another series of diagnostics on my own systems, and calculate the evaporation loss of my remaining stores of hydrogen.

"I can reach the southern end of Criton Pass in 2.257 hours," I report. "In time to intercept the enemy. However, I need my service team to make field repairs and to patch and refuel my reserve cryo-H tank."

"Right." The voice is crisp, professional, and I am glad. At first, I thought I could hear panic there, and panic could interfere with the smooth operation of HQ's command and control responsibilities. Colonel Wood sounds like a competent officer, though I've not worked directly under him before. "Can you move?"

"Affirmative." I hesitate again, weighing variables. "However, I must point out that to reach Criton Pass in time, I will have to pass through Kinkaid, preferably on the main street through the center of town, which feeds directly into Route 1, but I am explicitly prohibited from doing this by ROE 10, and possibly also by ROEs—"

"It's okay! On my authority, I order you to disregard that ROE. If you have to come straight through town, you do it."

"Colonel Wood!" another voice says, and I compute a 78 percent probability that this is General Phalbin, the Confederation ground force CO. "What the devil are you doing?"

"This isn't a
political
issue any more, General," the Colonel replies. "It's a matter of survival!"

"Harrumph! You can't just—"

The communications link snaps off abruptly, and I am left wondering what is going on. It sounds as though there is still some confusion—not to mention dissension—within the HQ staff.

"Ah . . . Bolo," Colonel Wood's voice says a moment later. "You still there?"

"Affirmative, Commander." He is my Commander now, since Lieutenant Ragnor is out of communications and possibly MIA. "Bolo 96875 of the Line, awaiting orders."

"Look, there's no time to waste. You just start moving north, okay? We'll hash this thing out on our end, and get back to you. All right?"

"Affirmative."

The escaping super-cooled hydrogen has frozen the river around me. I am encased in a block of ice. By exerting myself—and putting a further drain on my power systems—I shatter the ice prison and lurch forward. Water flows again, carrying chunks of ice downstream, together with some of the corpses of the Enemy. I make my way out of the river and onto the bank, swinging onto the road leading northwest toward Kinkaid.

Wood turned to face Phalbin, his fists clenched tight as he fought to control his rising anger. "Sir," he said, his voice steady. "With all due respect . . . you are an idiot! Sir!"

"Harrumph! You can't talk to me like—"

"It's about time someone did, even if it costs him his career! Right now, General, that Bolo is the only damned thing on this planet that has a prayer of even slowing that Malach horde down. If we don't ditch those moronic ROEs you and Chard and the peace-puppies put together and ditch them fast, they're going to be our epitaphs!"