Bolos: Honor of the Regiment Part 4

Ricky and a few of his friends ran after Kenny, over the broken stalks of wheat in the field, I was suddenly deeply afraid. I had insisted that we bring the Bolo here. Now I could see a future where it would destroy everything that had made Camelot the most beautiful place in all the human worlds. Kenny could kill us all, scorch our earth, with a casual discharge from one of his lesser guns.

And I couldn't tell anyone else. No one on Camelot, with the exception of Frederick, could possibly understand. The natives of Camelot had never heard of the Bolos and had experience with only the most basic psychotronic machines. The idea of a self-willed killer was beyond their comprehension.

Even the other refugees couldn't comprehend the full horror of it. They had never seen the great machines in action. Or, worse, if they had, they had seen them as saviors. No Regiment of the Dinochrome Brigade had ever failed in its objective. Ever.

And so Frederick was the only person in all of Camelot who could understand. Even better than me, really, since he was a psychotronic tech and I was merely one of the Commanders.

We had plenty of training in the history and psychology of the Bolos, but the techs always understood the nuances better. They had to. After all, the Bolos had been built to make it easy for us to command them. They were always eager, always ready, perfectly loyal and able to overcome any challenge.

But I never lost sight of them as machines. Big, dangerous machines that were capable of learning and adapting to the situation, but were essentially under human control at all times. That was the essential thing.

So I told Frederick about how I saw our Kenny, wondering aloud over a tankard of ale whether we had done worse than any of us ever thought by bringing him back here. It was the kind of talk anyone has after a hard day caring for the trees and the animals and the children, after a good dinner with pie for dessert.

Isabelle had noticed that I was distracted and seemed worried. She had suggested that I come down to the alehouse for a pint with Frederick and the other refugees. She looks at me oddly at those times, as if she knows there are things beyond Camelot that she doesn't wish to know and that I cannot help. And that only others who have lived in the side universe out there can understand and share my fears, and maybe help me put them aside.

So I was talking to Frederick about Kenny. William was serving, standing with the group playing dice near the fire. It was warm enough here in the corner. And it was private.

Frederick leaned back against the wall and looked at the beamed ceiling. "It was still the best choice," he insisted after more than a moment of silence. "Because once we destroy those pirates we'd better be able to defend ourselves. That's one thing no one in Camelot ever thought about. That with the wars over there are a lot of displaced people out there. Like we used to be, you know, pretty hard and with no place to go, no one to go to. Took a long time to thaw out. Some of them never do, I guess. Just go raiding. It's all they know how to do."

I nodded sagely and kept my mouth shut. I hadn't been like Frederick, his world traded to the Enemy for a three day truce, his home a blasted cinder by the time the war was over. If anyone had reason to be bitter, to have gone bad, it was him. But maybe he was just too big a guy to ever go bad, to let the bitterness turn him.

The group by the fire burst out into laughter. Frederick and I glanced their way. These were our neighbors, our friends. Now they seemed truly alien, from another dimension. They didn't know enough to fear what we had brought. What could destroy our lives, our Camelot, like every other Camelot in all the stories.

Frederick put his tankard down. "You know, Geoffery, I think maybe there's something . . . Maybe we can handle this. Maybe. Let me think about it."

I nodded agreement. When he had been Fidel, he had been the best d.a.m.n psychotronic tech, bar none, in the whole history of the Dinochrome Brigade. If Frederick thought he had an answer then I could go home and sleep soundly this night.

The next day Thomas organized what had been the militia to build a shed for the Bolo. It took longer than putting up a barn and was far larger, though less st.u.r.dy. A Bolo doesn't really need a shelter. This was strictly speaking a matter of surprise. The pirates shouldn't know that we were any better prepared than we had been three months ago. And Frederick went to work.

Almost a week later I came in and asked how it was going. For a week I'd minded my own business and tried to stay out of everything else. I had the trees and the cow and the children to care for and that was enough. It was as much of the world as I wanted.

But every time Ricky went out to the fields alone, every time Margaret toddled out to the chickens on her own, I thought of a Mark XXIV bearing down on them, crushing the life out of them, seeing them as the Enemy. So I had to know. And I went to the shack where Frederick was still hard at work, the electron wrench like an extension of his own hand.

He was smiling. "I think I've got our problem licked," he said. "Have to field test, of course, but I do think that we might . . . But you'll have to give the Command, you know. You know all the recognition codes. I think if you explain it, he'll listen."

And Frederick produced a black communications box, just like the one I used to keep clipped to my belt. I carried it to the side of the shack and opened the old Command channel, complete with recognition oscillation built in. I hoped the old Mark XXIV knew the Mark x.x.x codes. According to the legend of the regiment they had never been changed, broken or duplicated, but that was the kind of thing people said late at night when they'd had three or four too many.

"Combat Unit Seven twenty-one, this is Command," I said firmly. "You have a new mission directive. Our task is to protect this town site from invasion. Copy."

I held my breath. This site is not strategic. Even a Mark XXIV can see that easily. The Bolos will accept direct orders, but they are more than simple weapons. They can learn from mistakes, they can a.n.a.lyze a situation independently and come to a solution. And their programming is entirely tactically based. There is no room for outside consideration.

"What is the significance of this site?" Kenny asked.

Fair enough. Bolos learn, and they are programmed to request information that will make them more effective.

"This is Camelot," I heard myself say. "Vital psychological advantage. Access your records."

There was the barest hint of a hesitation, a fraction of a second delay in the answer. "For the honor of the Regiment," Kenny answered. And I knew we were safe. For a while at least. Until this first wave of the Enemy was dead.

But what could we do with a live Bolo and no Enemy to face? That thought scared me more than the imminent arrival of pirates who were already so outgunned that I almost felt sorry for them.

The pirate ship arrived less than a week after. We all saw the streak across the sky as the entire population of Camelot worked on the harvest. I was in the pear trees with Isabelle and Ricky and Isabelle's brother Cedrick. The trees were thick with heavy yellow fruit, some of it already falling to the ground for the animals to eat before we could collect it. I looked at all the pears and thought not only of the fresh fruit, which we sold at good profit, but of all the preserves and comfits, the sun-dried pears and the pear jelly candy that Isabelle would make that we could sell come spring, when people were tired of eating winter preserves and desperate for the taste of fruit.

Ricky yelled out first. "It's a star," he screamed. "It's falling, it's falling."

We all looked up. Cedrick and Isabelle had never seen a ship land. They had no reason to go Dover Port. I, on the other hand, knew who this was without thinking. Their approach was sloppy, bad angle, and they were burning the hullcoat and leaving a smoky trail through the sky.

I jumped out of the tree from the lowest branch, and gathered up Isabelle, Cedrick and the children. "Stay in the root cellar," I said, hustling them into the house. "No matter what you hear. This should all be over quickly and no harm done, but stay until I tell you it's safe anyway. Anything could happen. Nothing in the house is worth your lives."

Cedrick looked like he was going to protest, but Isabelle gave him a sharp look. She took Ricky by the hand and gathered Margaret up to her shoulder. "We won't move," she said simply. "We'll wait. We'll be fine, I promise. We'll all be fine."

Cedrick mumbled something like a.s.sent and didn't look up at all. But I remembered when I was twenty-two, older than Cedrick but still impulsive and romantic and believing in glorious absolutes. I would have resented being locked up with the children at nineteen too. So I took pity on him and handed him the pitchfork. "You can do more good here," I said vaguely. "Stay with them. If you hear anything strange overhead, help Isabelle keep the kids quiet. It's up to you to protect them."

Cedrick's eyes got quiet and brave. "Oh," he said softly but distinctly. "Don't worry, Geoffery. I'll take care of them for you."

He didn't see the look Isabelle pa.s.sed me over his head, and just as well.

I left the lot in Isabelle's capable hands and ran down to the Bolo shed. Frederick and Kenny were waiting for me, Frederick pacing madly and Kenny calm, his lights steady and a gentle whir coming from deep inside. The Mark XXIV was in perfect prime. The sound indicated perfect calibration, contentment. Outside his hull gleamed dully and the row of enameled decorations welded to his turret glistened with all the bright heraldry of military reward.

Frederick handed me the speaker. He had made the box a permanent attachment in the shed. "Combat Unit Seven twenty-one. Our Enemy is in sight. Your task is to destroy the Enemy ship and all invaders. Protect Camelot. This is your overall strategic goal. Protect Camelot."

Then I gave him the coordinates for the field where the pirates had landed before and where I a.s.sumed they'd land again. Not that there was any guarantee from their sloppy flying that they would be in the same vicinity. The only reason I a.s.sumed they would return to their earlier landing site was that they probably hadn't bothered with an update on their navigationals.

Frederick and I rode on Kenny's high fender. There was something comforting about sitting on this mountain of alloy and ordnance that moved at a determined pace toward the Enemy. And there was power, as well. It was impossible not to be aware of the Mark XXIV's potential, feeling the smooth action of the treads and the whirring of the power concentrated inside.

The pirates had landed back in the same place. They had already disembarked, the leader sitting on the riser leading up to the hatch.

Frederick and I shouted at the people to get away. Some of them heard us and ran for the sides. Others, seeing their comrades bolt, followed. Pandemonium reigned.

Pirates tried to follow, tried to run. Kenny's anti-personnel projectiles peppered them as they tried to move from front to side. Elegant restraint, I thought, as the Bolo targeted only the Enemy and managed to delicately avoid old Malcolm, who was slowed by arthritic knees.

The maypole clad leader stood up. Even through the a.s.sault suit his knees were shaking visibly.

"Now let's not do too much damage to the wheat field here," I said, thinking of it as a joke.

"Protect Camelot," Kenny replied in the deep rumble that was the bolo voice. "It is my mission to protect Camelot. I have never failed in my mission."

"That's right, Unit Seven twenty-one. You have never failed," I told him. I had forgotten how literal these units were. And how much they enjoyed the rea.s.surance they were achieving their goals.

What I enjoyed was seeing the pirate suffer. For a moment I wondered whether it would be a better idea to let him go, to tell his unsavory cronies not to bother with Camelot. That we were too well defended.

I decided against that. Destroy the Enemy. Destroy them all. We can't let Command know we have Mark XXIV. They would come and decommission Kenny and we'd be without any protection at all. Besides which, it would be fine if all the greedy thieves and pirates in the whole universe came down here and found themselves facing a Bolo. We could wipe out all the piracy in this sector without thinking about it. The thought pleased me greatly.

"Okay," I said.

With a precision that was breathtaking in such a great hulk, Combat Unit Seven twenty-one let go with an energy blast that reduced the pirate ship to slag and the maypole to memory. The wheat around the smoking remains wasn't even singed.

"Objective accomplished," Kenny said, and there was a shading of satisfaction to his tone.

"Well done," I said. "Excellently well done. Let's go home."

But as we covered the ground back into town, I was still worried. This Bolo had saved us from a real menace. And there was no guarantee that these were the only raiders in the sector. In fact, I would bet half my acres that there were plenty of others who would be only too happy to prey on our prosperity.

But that didn't make the Bolo any less of a threat to Camelot itself. I had taught Kenny that the new Enemy was human. In time, I thought, he was bound to do something that would hurt us all. He was a Combat Unit, he had no permanent place in Camelot.

As Frederick started the post-operation check, I turned off the box so Kenny couldn't hear. "What are we going to do with him now?" I asked. "We can't decommission him. There's always the possibility of another threat. I'm not going to have my children grow up in fear. But he could be a bigger danger to us than any pirates. You said it would be all right, but not how."

Frederick smiled broadly. "Why not ask him?" he said, and shrugged. "Ask who he is. I think you'll find the psychotronic shifts very . . . interesting.

I switched the communications gear back on. "Unit Seven twenty-one, identify yourself," I ordered.

I knew what he would say. Combat Unit Seven twenty-one of the Dinochrome Brigade, first regiment. Maybe he would give me some of the regimental history, or tune in his music circuits for the regimental hymn. And so I was surprised.

"I am the protector of Camelot," Kenny said slowly. "I am a sentient in armor. There are records of such in the history of Camelot. There are currently none resident. It is the duty of the armored sentient, identification as knight-errant, to protect the weak and use strength in the service of justice. My name is not Kenny. That is not a name proper in Camelot. I am Sir Kendrick. It is my mission to protect Camelot."

I must have blinked. In all my life, growing up and in the Service and here on Camelot, I have never been so surprised. It must have taken me minutes to recover my voice. "How did you think of this?" I asked Frederick shakily.

He just shook his head. "It was your idea, really. You told Kenny to access records of the historic Camelot. I never even thought of knights. Though it does make a kind of sense, you know."

I had to agree. It did make sense. And it still made sense two weeks later, when we welded the latest and probably the last awards to Sir Kendrick's fighting turret. A pair of golden spurs, far too small for the mammoth Mark XXIV, glinted in the sun. And Father Rhys inscribed a refugee who was now accepted as a resident in our Doomsday book just as all the other refugees had been recorded, one Sir Kendrick Evilslayer.

Take that, Command. No one can decommission him now. By the law of Camelot, this Bolo is not only our knight protector, but a citizen. But it is not merely a trick of the law. Sir Kendrick has become truly human.

THE LEGACY OF LEONIDAS.

J. Andrew Keith

Go tell the Spartans, you who read: We took their orders, and are dead.

I become aware of my surroundings.

In the first 0.572 seconds following my return to consciousness, a complete status check shows that all my on-board systems are performing within nominal limits. I note a slight variation, on the order of 0.0144, in the antic.i.p.ated output of my fusion plant, but as this remains well within both safety and performance limits I merely file this datum away for future maintenance review. In all other respects my purely mechanical functions are exactly as they should be.

My sensors inform me of my environment. These readings are at significant variance with the most recent reports stored in my short-term memory banks, suggesting that I have experienced a prolonged period at minimum awareness level, during which time either my position or my environs have undergone a change. The gravity here has dropped from previous readings by a factor of 0.0151, atmospheric pressure is considerably lower than in my last sampling, and the star my visual receptors show just above a line of jagged mountains to magnetic east of my current position is a cla.s.s K5V, smaller and less energetic, but much closer to this planet than the cla.s.s F9V sun of Kullervo, my last recorded duty station. All indications are that I have been transported to another star system, another planet, during my extended down-time.

I probe my memory banks for further confirmation of this hypothesis and find a disturbing discontinuity. My memory circuits have been reconfigured! The sensation is most disturbing, and I spend a full .04 seconds contemplating the uncertainty this generates in my survival center.

A Bolo Mark XX Model B cannot undergo a complete memory erasure without destroying the basic ident.i.ty of the unit, and that clearly has not happened in this case. I am still Unit JSN of the Line, with a full memory of 50.716 standard years of service, not counting down-time for transport or repairs, in the Dinochrome Brigade on one hundred three worlds. But parts of that ident.i.ty have been overlaid with new programming, and it is this that causes me to spend such an inordinate amount of time in self-a.n.a.lysis. No longer do I belong to the Dinochrome Brigade, it seems, or to the Fourth Battalion of that unit. I know a feeling of genuine loss at this realization. The Fourth Battalion was a proud unit, tracing its ancestry directly back to the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards of pre-s.p.a.ceflight Terra. The continuity of belonging to this ancient combat unit, which had contributed to the victories of Waterloo and Desert Storm and New Edinburgh and so many other hard-fought battles, had always been an important part of who and what I, Unit JSN of the Line, was. Now that was gone, replaced by allegiance to some new unit with no history, no battle credits, no past at all . . .

For .033 seconds I consider and discard the possibility that this is some trick of the Enemy, but this is clearly a low-ordered probability at best. All access codes and pa.s.swords have been properly entered in the course of the memory circuit alterations, and that means there is an overall 95.829 percent probability that this procedure was fully authorized by my Commander.

Still, the uneasiness remains, a nagging factor which has a detrimental effect to my overall performance. I find myself looking forward to a chance to confer with my Commander to learn more, perhaps, of the circ.u.mstances of these changes. . . .

"All I'm asking for is a little bit of cooperation, Coordinator," Captain David Fife said, trying to keep the exasperation from showing in his voice. "We've already got Jason on line. With a little bit of support from your technical people the rest of the company will be up and running in a day or two . . ."

"Jason?" Major Elaine Durant, Citizens' Army of New Sierra, interrupted gently.

Fife found himself blushing. "Sorry . . . Unit JSN. It's pretty common in the Concordiat Army, to give a human name to the Bolos, and their letter codes usually suggest a nickname we can use."

"Well, Captain, we're not in the Concordiat Army here." Coordinator Mark Wilson, the civilian Chief of Military Affairs for New Sierra, managed to convey his total disapproval of all things Terran in those simple words. He was a small man, short and slight, with prominent ears and a habitually severe expression, but Fife had learned not to underestimate the man because of his unmilitary appearance. Wilson was no military genius, but he was a canny politician with an iron will and little tolerance for opposition. "And I will not have anyone treating these machines of yours as if they were something more than what they are. It pleases your lords and masters to give us their obsolete gear, but I'll be d.a.m.ned if I'm going to alter our whole military operation to accommodate these monstrosities."

Fife cleared his throat uncertainly. His position on New Sierra was an uncomfortable one. The building hostilities between the world and its nearest neighbor, Deseret, had gone on for decades without attracting the notice of the Concordiat. Like other human-settled planets that still remained outside the Concordiat's political orbit, New Sierra and Deseret had been considered no more than minor annoyances . . . until a diplomatic crisis with the nonhuman Legura had thrust this region of s.p.a.ce into sudden strategic prominence. Terra needed a base in the region, and New Sierra was a lot more suitable than the fanatic theocracy that was Deseret.

So the Concordiat had been forced, reluctantly, to take an interest in the brewing conflict. Deseret's Army of the New Messiah was in the process of expanding the theocracy's sway in the region, and the almost equally fanatic Free Republic of New Sierra stood in the way of that expansion. The Sierrans had good reason to be wary of the Concordiat's help. They had been rebuffed often enough in the past when they had asked for arms and equipment. Now, very much at the eleventh hour, help had arrived at last . . . Captain David Fife and ten Bolo Mark XX fighting machines.

Unfortunately, the ANM had arrived in force nearly a week ahead of the Concordiat a.s.sistance, gaining a solid foothold on the southern portion of New Sierra's primary continent. The invasion considerably complicated Fife's job, and it had been difficult enough from the outset.

"Please, Coordinator," he said, trying to pick his way carefully through the minefield of the Sierran's prejudices. "I'm not asking for anything beyond a few extra electronics technicians to help get the Bolos activated and prepped. They won't do you any good as long as they're sitting at the starport, powered down and unarmed. But believe me, those ten Bolos by themselves could turn the tide against Deseret. I've seen them in action, sir. The word awesome doesn't even begin to describe a Bolo combat unit on the battlefield."

"Nonsense!" Wilson snorted. "Do you really think, Captain, that I have the least intention of entrusting the safety of my people to these machines? We asked the Concordiat for weapons, maybe some s.p.a.ce interdiction to keep those G.o.dd.a.m.ned religious fanatics out of our system. Instead they give us robot tanks. Obsolete ones, at that! If they're so d.a.m.ned good, how come they've been retired from the Concordiat Army, huh?"

"It's true the Mark XX is obsolete by Concordiat standards," Fife said carefully. "Unit JSN is almost eighty years old, one of the last Mark XXs off the a.s.sembly line. The new Mark XXIV models represent the cutting edge the Concordiat needs against hostile powers like the Legura. But even an old Tremendous outcla.s.ses anything in Deseret's a.r.s.enal. Ten of them would cut through the ANM like a hypership through N-s.p.a.ce."

"So you say, Captain," Wilson said coldly. "Nonetheless, I never asked for your super-tanks, and I'm not about to change anything in midstream just to include them. Maybe . . . maybe, I'll find a use for whatever machines you get into service as they become available. But as adjuncts to our own forces. The Citizens' Army is fully capable of taking care of itself without your Terran techno-toys." The Coordinator seemed about to say more, but his mouth clamped in a tight line and he waved an unmistakable dismissal.

Major Durant led the way out of the command center, a buried chamber bored into the heart of the mountains southeast of Denver Prime, New Sierra's capital and largest city. Less than a hundred kilometers away, the forces of Deseret were consolidating their initial planethead and preparing to drive through the high mountains that separated the invaders from their intended victims.

The Bolos would have been enough to stop them cold, with minimal casualties to the CANS. Fife emerged from the command center shaking his head, unwilling to believe that Wilson was foolish enough to ignore the advantage those Mark XXs offered.

"I suppose you think we're all hopeless," Durant said with a half smile. He hadn't realized she had stopped to wait for him outside the tunnel entrance. In the soft orange light of the world's K-cla.s.s sun, so much less intense than the artificial light of the headquarters complex, she looked too young to be an army major with degrees in electronics and cybernetic theory. The dossier he'd scanned on the long trip out from Terra had called her one of the New Sierran army's most intelligent and free-thinking officers, but it had left him expecting the stereotypical hatchet-faced schoolteacher instead of a young, attractive woman who spoke with studied eloquence and no small degree of pa.s.sion. "Perhaps you found it easier to get things done in the Concordiat, without all this irritating civilian meddling?"

"It's not that, Major . . . It's just . . . I don't know." He shook his head again and started to turn away.

"Look, Captain, what we've got on New Sierra isn't perfect. I'll be the first to admit that. The Coordinator is a civilian who's doing a job your army would give to a professional soldier. His judgment isn't always going to measure up to your expectations. But we've been cut off from home a long time out here, without any contact with the Concordiat . . . or any help. We've had dictators worse than the Archspeaker of Deseret, and we've seen what happens when the professional soldiers operate without civilian control. Around here, our rights as citizens come first . . . and we want a civilian commander calling the shots when the army is mustered."

He faced her again. "I'm all for making the army responsible to the people, Major," he said. "But your Coordinator's ignoring the best chance of a victory you people have got. And why? Because he doesn't like Terrans? Or he doesn't trust the Bolos? Why?"

Durant shrugged in reply. "The Concordiat isn't very popular around here just now," she said. "And I suppose there are some people who would be worried about turning those Bolos loose. They may be old hat to you, Captain, but we've never had self-aware combat units around here."

"Well, they're not going to turn on us," he said harshly. "If we'd created an army of robotic Frankensteins we would've found out about it by now. A Bolo's loyalty is a matter of programming, and there are plenty of safeguards built in to keep a malfunction from causing some kind of AI nervous breakdown. And as for your feelings about Terrans, Major . . ."

"Hold on!" she said, holding up a hand. "Hold on before you say something we'll both regret, Captain. Look, I wouldn't have volunteered for this job if I had any problems with it. With Bolos or Terrans. So save the speeches for the nonbelievers, please."

"Sorry," he said, grinning sheepishly. With a background in electronics and training in the more conventional military sciences, Major Durant had been selected as commanding officer of New Sierra's First Robotic Armor Regiment. Fife and his small contingent of technicians had only been sent to New Sierra to train locals to handle the Bolos. If everything had gone according to plan, he would have given the Major a quick course in working with the self-aware combat units while local computer and armor experts learned the care and feeding of the Mark XXs. Instead the Terrans had arrived in the middle of a full-fledged war. If the Bolos were to see any action at all, he would have to work with them himself. There would be no time for Durant and her staff to learn the job.