Bolo Brigade (5 page)

"Uh . . . about seven or eight days, sir."

"For a job that normally logs thirty hours. Doesn't sound like half the time to me."

"Well, it's not like there's a rush on, is it?" one of the men, a skinny kid who must still have been in his teens, piped up. "I mean, what's the hurry, huh?"

Donal whirled on the kid, eyes blazing. "The hurry, son, is in whether or not we're gonna be ready if hostiles decide to jump us! What's your name?"

"Uh . . . Kemperer, sir. Private First Len Kemperer."

"Well, Private Kemperer, let me tell you something. Right now, this machine wouldn't be able to defend us from an army of little old ladies armed with tea pots and galoshes, much less a
real
threat."

"Is there a threat?" the one they'd called Willard wanted to know. His eyes were wide. "I mean, sir, we haven't heard any—"

"I suppose hostiles in this part of the Galaxy always warn you before they hit you, huh?"

"Take it easy, Lieutenant," Sergeant Blandings said. Donal recognized the tone, that of a mother whose kids are being scolded by a stranger. These
were
Blandings' people, after all, and he would resent an outsider dressing them down or bringing them grief. "This isn't the Concordiat, y'know."

Donal studied the sergeant for a moment. "No, Master Sergeant. It isn't. And I suppose you resent Concordiat officers being dropped on you like unpleasant surprise packages. But when it comes to Bolos, especially the higher Marks, like this one, Concordiat Bolo Command likes to make sure their property is being taken care of. Your Bolos are a
loan
, Master Sergeant. A very long-term loan, perhaps, with no payback . . . but those Bolos are still on the Concordiat military's records, and Bolo Command still feels a certain responsibility for them. That's why they insist that tactical officers like me are assigned to keep an eye on them. You have no idea how dangerous this machine could be if it is not properly maintained and serviced."

"Shoot, sir," a short, skinny corporal with greasy black hair said. "Ol' Freddy here won't hurt us. We're buddies!"

Donal stared the man down. "You don't really know what you're playing with, do you?" He jerked a thumb at the massive bogie wheel behind him. "With two megatons-per-second firepower, one of these Mark XXIV units could level Kinkaid in the blink of an eye, without even working up a sweat. If that AP cluster mounted up there above your head was armed, and if the unit security programming got it into its one-track mind that you were hostile, there wouldn't be enough of your miserable carcass left to scrape off the floor with a spatula. Bolos work superbly when they're properly cared for. Looking at this one . . . and at the condition of this vehicle depot, I seriously doubt that it has been cared for properly. If its psychotronic functions have become unstable, it could be deadly."

"Ah, all the self-protect hardware was disabled, Lieutenant," Willard said. "It would have t' be, y'know? If we wanted to even get close to this monster."

"I see. And what does the Bolo have to say about it?"

"It's a
machine
, Lieutenant," Sergeant Blandings said, shaking his head. "It's not like ol' Freddy's alive, y'know?"

"How long have you worked with . . . 'Freddy'?"

"Long enough," Blandings replied. He eyed Donal appraisingly. "Look, Lieutenant. You're ticked, I know, about how we're kind of laid back, here. But this ain't the Concordiat. Things are different out here, less hectic, y'know? Things'll go a lot smoother if you kind a', well, hang back and get a feel for the big picture."

"Don't make waves, is that it?"

"Sure. That's it, Lieutenant. Don't make waves!"

"From what I've seen here, Master Sergeant, we
need
a fair-sized tidal wave to sweep this pigsty clean. I'll tell you what I'm going to do. Since my arrival was such a surprise, and because neither of us wants to get off on the wrong foot with the other, I'm going to take your advice and hang back."

He could feel the ease in the tension, see eyes exchanging sly winks, mouths quirking in tiny, secret grins.

"I'm going to hang back," he continued, "until First Hour, First Watch tomorrow. At that time, I'll come back,
officially
. At that time I will expect to see this vehicle bay looking like a military facility and not like a Kinkaid back alley." He glanced up at the massive wheels at his side. "You will also have the port-forward track remounted on this machine."

There was a sudden outburst from the others, groans, complaints, and protestations.

One of the women looked especially angry. "Hey! What gives you the right to come in here and—"

Donal pulled out a small, flat, gray case, the transport container for a crystal memory pack . . . a set of programs and memory feed instructions for a Mark XXIV Bolo. "This gives me the right. I'm the new Tactical Officer for both of these machines, and that means you will care for them according to
my
specifications and directives. Do I make myself clear?"

More protests sounded. "Sir," Blandings said, shouting to be heard above the noise. "Uh . . . maybe you don't know how our schedules work on Muir, yet, you bein' new to the planet, and all." He glanced at the chrono set in a ring on his forefinger. "We're just wrapping up the afternoon watch now. Then it's a sleep period. First Watch starts in just six more hours. My people couldn't possibly—"

"I
know
how your watches work on Muir, Master Sergeant," Donal said coldly. "Six hours is exactly right."

"But we can't clean this whole bay in six hours and remount a track too! And we need to sleep, and get somethin' t' eat, and mebee have some private down-time, and—"

"Obviously, Master Sergeant, you will need to decide which of those activities you've just listed for me are expendable, and drop them from your schedule in order to get the job done. What is
not
expendable is having this facility look like a military installation instead of a combat zone . . . nor do I want my Bolos sitting around helpless on their bare road wheels in case of an enemy surprise attack. Those two are your priorities for the next six hours. Do you read me?"

Blandings' jaw worked for a moment, before he managed a harsh, "Yes, sir."

"I will expect you all to be presentable, in the proper uniform of the day." He looked at the woman in the ill-fitting T-shirt. "That's in the proper and properly worn uniform, incidentally. Jewelry will be regulation. We'll worry about details like haircuts and such later, after we've sorted out the more important stuff." He nodded toward the Bolo. "If any of you have any questions, I'll be in there."

"Sir . . . in the Bolo?"

"Evidently, Master Sergeant, I have some work to do before I
officially
arrive as well. If you need me in any unofficial capacity, you know where to find me. Otherwise . . ." He let his face slip into a grin at least as fiendish as the one displayed by Blandings earlier. "I'll see you all at Hour One!"

Without another word, he turned and strode toward the front of the Bolo.

I have, of course, been listening to the conversation taking place beneath my left side, and I find myself somewhat at a loss as to how to interpret it. This new arrival, Lieutenant Ragnor, certainly has a military bearing and tone of voice that speak well of his leadership abilities.

Even so, haircuts and proper uniforms have nothing to do with a unit's ability to perform well in combat. My military reference library has 724 distinct references to different units throughout recorded history that, while both professional—as opposed to guerrilla units or rebels—and elite in terms both of their effectiveness as soldiers and of their morale, did not bother with formal uniform codes and regulations or, indeed, gloried in an absence of such regulations. Rogers's Rangers, Merrill's Marauders, the United States Navy SEAL Teams, and the Terran Cobra Units are four obvious and well-known cases in point. It is possible that Lieutenant Ragnor is simply what they call a stickler for regulations, a by-the-book officer who will enforce a narrow interpretation of the regulations without markedly reducing the very serious defects in morale, in priorities, and in matériel extant at this facility.

I am also concerned because of the apparent disregard for security exhibited by the personnel charged with my maintenance. This newcomer could easily be an enemy agent, and he should have been challenged at the depot's entrance. As it is, I will have to challenge him inside my fighting compartment, which leaves me vulnerable. Nor is this a good way to meet the man who may well be my new commander.

Still, I have very little latitude now in the courses of action open to me. I await developments.

Donal walked around to the front of the Bolo, glancing up at the massive armored cliff of the glacis rising fifteen meters above his head, then stooping to make his way beneath the slanting overhang of the huge machine's prow. The belly hatch had been left standing open—another violation of any strict interpretation of the Bolo maintenance field manual directives—and the crew access ladder lowered. Light spilled from the open hatchway, illuminating a rectangular patch beneath the vast machine's ventral plate. Several smaller access plates had been removed between the massive, erect cylinders of the depot's hydraulic jacks, and the wiring and mechanical workings of the Bolo's left-side suspension system were exposed. Tools were scattered on the floor, along with bolts, fasteners, and spare parts, and he had to watch where he stepped. Crouching low—the Bolo cleared the ground by only a meter and a half—he made his way to the ladder and scrambled up into the fighting compartment.

The command deck fighting compartment was an evolutionary holdover from the distant past, like a human's vermiform appendix. Once, a thousand years before,
men
had ridden these machines into battle, serving their guns and manning their steering controls. Long after Bolos had become totally autonomous, with no need for human supervision at any level, the big machines retained these vestiges of organic control. A massive, thickly padded shock-mounted seat filled much of the chamber, which was made hazardous by wiring clusters and feedlines, conduits and piping snaking everywhere across the uncomfortably low ceiling. There were no windows or vision ports, of course, this deep within the Bolo's inner workings. Instead, a toroidal vid display, now blank, circled the chair completely, providing all-round vision for the chamber's occupant. Several small computer displays were positioned at different points around the seat, but there were no visible controls. Bolos were generally given their orders by voice command.

"Warning," a voice said from an unseen overhead speaker. It was a neutral voice in the tenor range, lacking any expression or emotion that Donal could detect. "Access to this Unit is restricted. Please identify yourself."

A red light gleamed from a dilated aperture in a small box high up in one corner of the compartment, painting a ruby-red spot squarely in the center of his forehead, and Donal was uncomfortably aware that the snub-snout of a high-power antipersonnel laser was trained directly at the aim point.

"Lieutenant Donal Ragnor," he replied slowly, making each word carefully distinct. He'd not been exaggerating with the corporal outside; a neglected Bolo could be dangerous if the programming—
especially
the programming dealing with self-defense and threat assessment—had become corrupted. That sort of thing didn't happen often unless the Bolo's higher psychotronic centers had been exposed to more ionizing radiation than was healthy for them, and he doubted that there was in fact a problem. Still, it didn't hurt to be damned careful in how he answered. "Bolo Command, Concordiat Army Reserve, on temporary assignment to Bolo Command, Strathan Confederation Military Command. Service number 2524-265-17821."

"Please face the computer display for laser and retinal scan verification."

A white dot winked slowly in the center of the computer terminal. Leaning forward, he stared at the dot, holding his face motionless and expressionless. There was a green flash, and a gridwork of lines glowed against his face, recording each crease, each angle, each plane of his somewhat craggy face. A computer-painted image of his face appeared on a second screen to his right, rotating to show his head from every angle, revealing dark brown hair, squared-off jaw, gray eyes, somewhat disapproving quirk to the corners of the mouth. As he continued to stare at the blinking dot, a green light flashed from a small retinal scan unit mounted on top of the display terminal, dazzling him, leaving him blinking for a few seconds against the drifting purple blurs obscuring his vision. Another screen lit up, showing the twisting, interlacing red streams and tributaries of the blood vessels at the back of his eye. The Bolo, he knew, would be comparing both his facial features and his retinal prints with the records he'd uploaded to headquarters that afternoon.

"Identity confirmed," the voice said, as comparison points flickered rapid-fire across the retinal scan image, and the word match flashed on. "Good afternoon, Lieutenant Ragnor. Bolo Unit of the Line 96876 FRD awaiting orders."

"Good afternoon, Bolo Unit," Donal said. He was relieved to note that the laser's aiming light had winked out and the weapon's muzzle had retracted and the aperture closed. Slowly, he pulled the computer memory transport case from his uniform pocket. "I have complete files on myself, a copy of my orders, and an intelligence update for the entire Eastern Arm here."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. We have already taken the liberty of downloading your files and orders from the base communications net, but an intelligence update would be most welcome. Our only source of outside information, including data with a bearing on the local strategic situation, is the daily intelligence briefings that are both simplistic and incomplete."

"I . . . see." The Bolos had been eavesdropping on electronic communications? Was that part of their built-in need for as full an intelligence picture as possible? Or had someone ordered them to do that?