Bolos: Honor of the Regiment Part 5

Not that it seemed likely Wilson would make any good use of the Terran fighting machines.

"Sorry," he repeated. "Looks like I'm flunking out of Basic Diplomacy right and left. But it's so d.a.m.ned frustrating to run into all these roadblocks. Those ten Bolos are more powerful than all the rest of the armed forces here and on Deseret put together . . . h.e.l.l, Jason by himself could probably fight the invasion force to a standstill if we gave him his head! Think of the lives those Bolos could save. But your Coordinator has something against the idea, and everything falls apart!"

"Whatever you think of him, Captain," Durant said quietly, "Coordinator Wilson is a patriot. When the time comes. he'll use whatever weapons he has to make sure the Archspeaker doesn't win. Even your Bolo . . . even if he doesn't like the idea." She smiled back at him. "I don't know what his reasons are for distrusting your machines, but I do know that Wilson's no fool. Even if you think he is . . ."

He shook his head. "No, Major," he said, broadening his grin. "No way I think that. It's in the Army Manual. No civilians, politicians, or superior officers are ever wrong . . . at least not officially." Fife pointed toward the officer's club on the other side of the military compound that surrounded the entrance to the command center. "Look, I have to check in with Tech Sergeant Ramirez, maybe patch in to Jason to check his status. But when I'm done, let me buy you a drink and try to persuade you that my bosses weren't totally insane in making me a liaison officer. Okay?"

"Okay, Captain," she nodded. "With one variation. If I'm supposed to be learning your job, I expect to be part of things. So we'll both check in with your friend the tank. . . ."

"Unit JSN, this is Command. Request VSR."

Major Elaine Durant, sitting across from Captain Fife at the work table in his living quarters in the BOQ block of the headquarters compound, leaned forward and raised her eyebrows quizzically. Fife looked up from the microphone on his suitcase-sized portable communications link and hit the pause b.u.t.ton, delaying transmission of the message. He answered her unspoken question with a faint smile.

"Vehicle Situation Report," he explained. "It's an update on the Bolo's current status, surroundings, tactical situation, and whatever else he thinks I ought to know." The Terran officer laughed. "One time I asked for a VSR and Jason saw fit to include an a.n.a.lysis of the mistakes Edward II made in his battle with Robert the Bruce at Bannockburn in 1314, old-style."

"Is that sort of thing normal?" she asked.

"Well, he wouldn't bring it up in a combat situation, though for all I know he thinks about it even when the missiles are flying. Thing is, Bolos are programmed with the sum total of human military knowledge and experience. They are constantly improving their own grasp of tactics by a.n.a.lyzing past battles. Human generals--the smart ones, at least--do the same thing all the time. But the Bolos have a little trouble understanding some elements of the battles they study. Especially the ones where the generals really screwed up, like Edward at Bannockburn. The concept of human error is something a Bolo has been told about, but he'll still have trouble grasping it on a practical level. It just doesn't seem reasonable, to a Bolo, that anyone could make the sort of mistakes a human can make."

"So you have to be an expert on military history to explain all this stuff?"

He grinned sheepishly. The smile transformed his face, making him look less serious and intense. With his dark hair and eyes and an almost swarthy complexion, his usual dour expression gave him an air of single-minded fervor that reminded her of the invaders from Deseret, but now he was much less intimidating. "I'm no expert. It's a tragedy for a good Scot like me to admit it, but I didn't know the first thing about Edward II or Bannockburn, and all I knew about Robert the Bruce was an old folk story about a spider in a cave."

"So how did you answer its question?"

"Made him explain the whole thing to me. Learned more about military history in one afternoon with Jason than I did in three years at the Concordiat Academy on Mars. But as we went along I was able to point out some of the human foibles he was overlooking in his a.n.a.lysis."

"Sounds like I'm going to get an education, too, when I take over for you."

"Could be worse," he said with another smile. "Bolos don't always confine their interests to military matters. I remember one unit that wanted me to explain all the dirty jokes he overheard his technical people telling." He looked down at the link, hit the transmit b.u.t.ton.

An instant later, a flat, slightly mechanical voice answered the message. "Unit JSN of the Line filing VSR. Alert status 2-B. Systems at nominal levels. Requesting orders."

"It sounds almost eager," Durant commented. Although the voice was devoid of emotion, there was still a quality of antic.i.p.ation in that short transmission.

"He is," Fife replied. Speaking into the microphone, he went on. "Unit JSN, Command. Stand by. Situation briefing will be downloaded by Technical Sergeant Ramirez. Confirm."

"Orders confirmed," JSN answered promptly. "Standing by."

"Maybe I should say something," Durant suggested.

Fife shook his head. "Later, when we have all the Bolos on line, we'll input a voiceprint ID into all of them so they'll recognize you as a part of their authorized command structure. But it'd be a waste of time to do it for each individual unit. And you won't be taking over command until the Coordinator gets his act together and makes the whole outfit operational." He returned his attention to the mike once more. "All right, Unit JSN. I'm returning input to Ramirez . . . now."

Fife cut the direct link to the Bolo, picked up a handset mounted on the side of the communications pack. "Ramirez. Fife. Sounds like Jason's doing fine. Give him the current SitRep and finish diagnostics and armaments checks. I want at least one Bolo fully up and running before the ANM decides to do something nasty."

There was a pause, and Durant saw the Terran's eyes focus on her for a moment as he started his reply. He was frowning. "No, that's a negative, Sergeant. Still some trouble with the local yokels . . . ah, with the Citizen's Army. There won't be any more tech staff for a while yet, not unless I can talk their Coordinator into changing his mind . . . Yeah . . . Yeah. Do your best with what you've got."

Durant stood up before he replaced the handset. His slip had reminded her of how arrogant the Concordiat's people could be, shattering the respect she'd been starting to feel by seeing him in his element. He was plainly competent at what he did . . . but it was equally clear that Captain Fife had a higher opinion of his machines than he did of the people of unsophisticated backwaters like New Sierra.

"I'm afraid it's later than I thought it was, Captain," she said coldly. "I'll take a rain check on that drink."

She was out of the room before Fife could respond.

After 19,459.6 seconds of inaction, I have finally spoken to my Commander. Although I feel much less uncertain regarding my overall situation, the specifics of my mission remain vague. Full data on this planet, New Sierra, and on the political and strategic conditions now prevailing have been downloaded into my memory circuits, but nothing of a specific tactical nature that would suggest how I, together with my comrades, am intended to partic.i.p.ate in the confrontation which, to judge from the briefing material, must surely be imminent. This lack of a formulated role causes an unpleasant impulse in my logic board. Surely with a major battle about to begin my Commander has some idea of how to make the best use of my abilities?

In the absence of filed plans, I attempt to exercise my own judgment in an attempt to antic.i.p.ate the plans I will ultimately be called upon to execute. During my entire period of service, I have projected probable courses of action in the same manner with a 91.2 percent success rate, and while I find this 8.8 percent variance inexplicable, it still seems statistically valid to make the same type of projection for the coming campaign.

New Sierra's sole inhabited land ma.s.s is a rugged, mountainous continent corresponding in size to the Terran continent of Australia. It is the largest of twelve small continents and scattered islands, but so far no efforts have been made to expand the colony beyond its original scope. The terrain is dominated by high mountains which divide the continent into several smaller, isolated segments, with these geographical boundaries defining the political subdivisions of the Free Republic. The planetary capital, Denver Prime, is also the center of government for the largest and most prosperous of the individual colonial areas, dominating a bowl-shaped region of fertile plains with access to the sea to the west and southwest. Due south of this area, separated by one of the most rugged mountain chains, is the region designated Montana, which was the target of the initial invasion by forces fielded by Deseret 537.6 hours prior to my activation. This initial planethead has now been fully consolidated, and some movement must surely take place within the next fifty hours if the momentum of the initial attack is not to be lost.

I study my files on mountain warfare techniques and find few possible courses of action for either side at this point in time. Deseret must launch an overland attack through one of the six viable mountain pa.s.ses in order to carry the war onto Sierran-held territory. Fewer options are open to the Sierrans, as two of those pa.s.ses do not lead to strategically or tactically valuable positions within Montana, while a third would impose an undue logistical strain upon the CANS which would not be felt by ANM forces operating in the other direction. Deseret cannot outflank the mountain line by amphibious operations, as they are an invading army without sufficient seapower or sealift capacity to attempt such an operation on anything above a commando/small unit scale. An a.s.sault by air, whether using s.p.a.ce transports or airborne or airmobile troops, would be almost equally unlikely, in as much as the defensive perimeter of the current Sierran territory is heavily protected by Ground-Air Mines capable of automatic detection and missile attack against any incoming hostile force. This is not true for the forces of Deseret, but it is doubtful that New Sierra could muster sufficient lift capability to attempt such an attack themselves. Thus neither side can effectively operate except via direct ground attack.

This review takes a full 4.9 seconds to complete, taking time to compare the military technology, doctrine, organizations, and relative experience of the two sides as well as the simpler aspects of terrain, logistics, and the like. I am drawn to the reflection that the situation here offers little in the way of tactical opportunity. Cardona's lamentable performance in multiple battles along the Isonzo front during the First World War, and the protracted stand-off between Greece and Turkey in the Balkan Wars of the twenty-first century, both spring to mind as obvious points of comparison. Historically, an attempt to force a mountain line must rely either on speed and surprise, along the lines of Hannibal's descent upon the Romans or Napoleon's Italian campaigns, or it must rely on an unexpected change in the relative strengths or positions of the two sides to produce what Liddell Hart was fond of referring to as "upsetting the opponent's equilibrium."

The first alternative can plainly be ruled out in this case. Both sides are dug in to solid defensive positions, and the chances of overpowering the defenders around any given pa.s.s and making a major advance in Napoleonic style are too low to be statistically admissible in military planning. I deduce that it will take the second approach, relying on something unexpected and therefore largely incalculable, to achieve a significant dislocation of one force or the other. The infiltration tactics used at Caporetto, for instance, caused the only major movement in the Italian theater in World War I prior to the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian state and army in 1918. There is also the largely unpredictable factor of human behavior to keep in mind. My programming does not give me an adequate basis for measuring the probabilities of such elements as morale, poor judgment, treachery, or incompetence. I am aware of these potential influences in battle, but have no method of weighing them scientifically. This is a failing I have been unable to rectify even after considerable field experience alongside humans, and may prove impossible to successfully resolve.

Imponderables aside, I am forced to the conclusion that I and my fellow machines, represent the only possible shift in the balance. Perhaps this explains the lack of a tactical briefing. It is possible (though of a low order of probability, perhaps 37.4 percent at most) that we are being held back until the Enemy is fully committed to a course of action. Then we can be thrown into the action with devastating effect.

But even as I reflect on this possibility, I am also reminded of a human phrase which I never expected to be applied to my own computations, but which may well fit the circ.u.mstances.

Is it possible that I could actually be guilty of "wishful thinking"?

Hyman Smith-Wentworth, Hand of the New Messiah and Third Commander of the Lord's Host, stroked his flowing beard thoughtfully as he studied the latest real-time satellite imagery of the mountain line that shielded the infidels entrenched around Denver Prime. So far the invasion plan was running smoothly. But the next few hours would determine the outcome of the entire campaign, and though the Hand had faith in the Lord he intended to do all he could to further the Lord's work through strategy and guile. The Council of Speakers and the Archspeaker himself were inclined to regard Deseret's domination of the infidels around them as the inevitable outcome of G.o.d's favor, but Hyman Smith-Wentworth had been a practical soldier almost as long as he had been a convert to the New Messianic Movement, and he knew better than to leave the conduct of a war entirely to the attentions of the Divine.

"A difficult situation, Father Hand," his aide, Lieutenant Orren Bickerton-Phelps, was diffident as he studied the computer monitor. They were alone in the back of the large headquarters van of the ANM a.s.sault force, less than fifty kilometers from the front lines, and the aide seemed willing, for a change, to take advantage of the informality and frankness Smith-Wentworth encouraged in his immediate entourage. "The ground favors the infidel as long as they remain on the defensive. And time is against us, with the Outsiders preparing to take sides."

The Hand smiled sagely. "Come, Lieutenant. You don't think we would undertake this operation if we didn't have confidence in the outcome, do you?"

Bickerton-Phelps swallowed uncertainly. He was young and inexperienced, a scion of some privileged New Jerusalem family who had used their political influence to maneuver the young man's appointment to a staff post in the Lord's Host. "Uh . . . I meant no disrespect, Father Hand. Nor any doubt in the Divine . . ."

"Don't worry, boy, I'm not one of the Holy Executors, sent to trap you." Smith-Wentworth held up a hand as the young officer blanched. The Archspeaker's corps of inquisitors was pledged to keep society pure in the doctrines of the New Messiah, but old-line military men like the Hand didn't have much use for their zealous pursuit of orthodoxy. The best logistician in the ANM had been relieved and arrested the day before the invasion fleet lifted from Deseret, and Smith-Wentworth would gladly have put up with a little heresy to ensure that his troops were properly supplied and supported in the field. But those were sentiments best kept unspoken. "We've planned this invasion very carefully, Lieutenant. That's all I meant."

"But if we don't break their lines quickly, Father Hand, the Outsiders will have time to mobilize their G.o.dless robots. I've heard about those. Even the shield of the Divine wouldn't . . ." The aide fell silent, suddenly aware of the danger of saying more.

The Hand chuckled. "Don't be afraid of their Bolos, boy. They won't save the infidels."

The younger man looked skeptical. "Father Hand, I know it could be taken as blasphemous, but I don't see how we could survive if those machines were sent against us. Faith is still no shield against a h.e.l.lbore."

"Compose yourself, boy, in the Light of the Divine," the Hand said, half-sarcastic. "Look at the facts before you go off half-c.o.c.ked. First off, it will take time for all the Bolos to be activated, and if we're not through in forty-eight hours we'll never be through. Second, consider our opponents. Not just as infidels, but as people. The Coordinator is not the kind of man to take to robot tanks as the instrument of his salvation. Strangely enough, he clings to faith more strongly than the Archspeaker, although his faith is misplaced in human nature rather than the principles of the Divine. Even if he deploys one or two of those tanks, I don't think it will be to a critical sector. And finally, no matter what the defenders do or don't try, they won't be expecting our . . . hidden a.s.sets. I almost wish the Bolos would be put into the path of our main thrust. When the infidels discover that loyalties are never guaranteed, the blow will be devastating. Their resistance will evaporate . . . depend on it, boy. Those Bolos that aren't destroyed in the fighting will end up being useful new weapons in our a.r.s.enal."

He looked back at the monitor map. "Now leave me. Post the orders for a full war council in . . . two hours. After the evening service. And keep this in mind, boy; tomorrow night we'll celebrate our prayer service in Denver Prime. Or the Holy Executors will have us under restraint for failure. One way or another, tomorrow will be the day of decision."

The insistent shrilling of his field communicator made David Fife jerk awake and roll out of his cot. He groped for the compact transceiver, his mind still fighting through the sleepy fog. "Fife," he said, rubbing his eyes with his free hand.

Elaine Durant didn't sound the least bit groggy. "It's started," she said over the fieldcomm. "Deseret's on the march."

"Any orders yet, Major?"

"Nothing. But I think you should get to the command center. If you're going to get the regiment into this, you'll have to convince the Coordinator tonight."

"On my way."

I sense a heightened state of alert around me, but still have received neither orders nor a detailed tactical briefing. My unease continues to mount.

Incredibly, though I have been combat-ready for 51,853 seconds, I remain in the service berth at Denver Prime Starport where I was activated. The technical staff, Terrans from the Fourth Battalion and locals alike, have been rechecking my combat loads and running additional diagnostics on my own circuits, rather than devoting their full attention to the reactivation of my comrades. The atmosphere of urgency is coupled with what I can only regard as indecision and inefficiency. Had I been deployed immediately, my presence on the front would surely have reduced whatever threat is now worrying the technical crew. But if the object is to prepare maximum firepower, either against the Enemy's offensive or in preparation for a decisive counterstrike of our own, then surely the preparation of other Bolo combat units would be a better investment of time and effort.

I resolve to study human reactions yet again, in hopes of understanding the phenomena.

Meanwhile the preparations--and the unease--go on.

"What have we got watching the pa.s.s from Hot Springs?"

David Fife slipped into the crowded Command Center in time to hear Coordinator Wilson's question. Elaine Durant looked up briefly, then returned her attention to a computer monitor. Fife muttered a curse on his own careless tongue. He'd offended the woman with his stupid crack about local yokels the night before, and that wasn't a good idea when he needed every ally he could find to carry out his orders from the High Command.

General Sam Kyle, Wilson's Chief of Operations, pulled up a computer map from his console and displayed it on the screen that dominated one wall. "The Third Colorado Mobile Infantry's dug in along the pa.s.s, Coordinator," he said crisply. Fife studied the man thoughtfully, wishing that the decision to employ the Bolos might have been in his hands rather than Wilson's. Unlike his superior, Kyle was a career military man, his manner and bearing and even his recruiting-poster features all giving him the appearance of competence and professionalism. But his function was purely executive. Policy and overall strategy were firmly in Wilson's hands, with men like Kyle advising and carrying out the civilian Coordinator's orders. "Four thousand men in all, but they're lightly armed. No armor or heavy weapons. And I'd say they only have a company or two in place at any given time."

"Even a few hundred men ought to be able to hold the pa.s.s," Wilson said. "I mean, at the briefing the other day you told me that one was the most difficult route Deseret could try. Too many . . . choke points, I believe is the way you put it."

"Yes, Coordinator," Kyle agreed, sounding unwilling to discuss the subject. "But if you'll recall, I also urged you to deploy one of the heavier regiments up there. The Eighth Appalachia, for instance. The proper role for the Mobile Infantry is as a ready response force. It's too late to do anything about it now, but if we don't act fast there won't be a regiment left to hold that pa.s.s."

"I still stand by my decision," Wilson said sharply. "Those boys are defending their own turf, and that has to count for something. The Appalachia bunch is a good enough outfit, I guess, but they don't have near as much at stake."

"That may be, Coordinator," Kyle said. "But the problem still stands. They're not equipped to stand up to a major a.s.sault, choke points or no."

"Well, what can we do to even the odds, then?" Wilson demanded.

Before Kyle could respond Fife stepped forward from his corner. "My lighter could set the Bolo down there an hour after you gave the order, Coordinator," he said quickly. "All the armor your men will need to stop the attack."

Wilson turned a cold stare on him. "Still pushing your fancy toys, Captain? If I want your Bolo I'll ask you for it." He turned back to Kyle. "Well, General?"

Kyle pursed his lip, his face creased in a black frown. "That Bolo might be the best option, Coordinator," he said slowly. "It will take at least ten hours to get the nearest uncommitted reserves to the pa.s.s. In ten hours the ANM could already be pouring through to attack us here."

Wilson didn't respond right away. Finally he stepped closer to the map and jabbed a finger at one of the symbols a few centimeters from the flashing unit identification that represented the beleaguered Mobile Infantry. "What's the status of this unit?" he demanded, voice sharp.

Kyle checked his own monitor. "Second Montana Mechanized Regiment," he said. "Colonel Chaffee. They're the ones who tangled with the first invasion wave and escaped across the mountains afterward."

"Can they back up our boys in the pa.s.s in time to make any kind of difference?" the Coordinator asked, turning away from the screen.

"Sure . . . but they're blocking the Alto Blanco route. Pull them out and the Deserets are sure to take advantage of it. There have been a few small demonstrations in that direction already."

"I know that, man!" Wilson snapped. He turned his glare back on Fife. "Can this tank of yours hold Alto Blanco?"

"Coordinator . . ." Fife bit off an angry response. "Yes . . . of course it can. But I don't see why you don't just send it in to where it can do the most good. Why fly it in one place so it can relieve your men to march somewhere else?"

Wilson sat down heavily in a padded chair set well away from the banks of monitors and computer keyboards, looking tired. "Captain, I know you have confidence in that armored behemoth of yours, but I don't. I just don't."

"But -"

The Coordinator held up a hand. "Spare me the arguments about what a triumph of technology the blasted thing is. Look, Captain, I'll spell it out for you. It's a machine. Blessed with the best AI programming there is, granted, but still a machine. A calculating machine that runs the equations of military science the way the computers in our science lab run physics and math. It's cold and efficient, and I'll grant you it probably thinks and plans a h.e.l.l of a lot better than I do."

He leaned forward, as if for emphasis. "But what does a machine know about patriotism, Captain? About defending homes and families? It may have the intelligence of a man and then some, but it doesn't have a soul. If that machine weighs the odds and says the situation is hopeless, it's programmed to break off and fight another day. Isn't that right?"

Fife bit his lip. Since the very first of the self-aware Mark XXs had been field tested, the machines had shown an incredible ability to confound their programmers by unexpected, often illogical actions. They didn't always act on pure calculation, but on concepts like duty and honor as well. But that was an aspect of the Bolo the Concordiat military didn't like to advertise, for a variety of reasons. It made ignorant people nervous to think those awesome platforms of military firepower might somehow 'run amuck' against their programming, and it would have seriously hurt interstellar sales of the combat units to let their full abilities become known. And then there had been that civil rights group that had gotten hold of the information that Bolo computers were sentient and tried to organize a movement to abolish what they called 'military servitude by an intelligent minority species.' It had taken a lot of money to quiet down that little scandal, twenty years back. . . .

Finally he gave a short, noncommittal nod. "They're supposed to calculate the odds, Coordinator. But they are also supposed to carry out their orders. Instruct him to stand firm, and Jason'll do just that."

"Don't you understand? Don't you see? Or has all your fine technology blinded you Terrans to the things that matter? I don't want soldiers just going through the motions, Fife. I want their hearts, their minds . . . their souls engaged in this fight. That's how you win wars, by morale and dedication. Didn't Napoleon say something about that once?"

Kyle looked up. "The moral is to the physical as three to one," the Chief of Operations supplied. He didn't sound happy.

"It sounds good in political speeches, Coordinator," Fife said softly. "Very inspiring stuff. But all the devotion in the world won't stop bullets. If it did, those fanatics from Deseret would be invulnerable. The truth of the matter is, you're throwing away the best hope you've got of breaking the ANM, and along with it you're needlessly throwing away the lives of a h.e.l.l of a lot of the young men and women you're supposed to be leading. And all on a philosophical argument that can't really be proven one way or the other."

The Coordinator looked back at the wall screen. "I guess it's true. You Terrans really don't know how much of your own humanity you've really lost . . . But my decision stands. Will you abide by it, Captain? Or do I order Major Durant to relieve you?"

"With all due respect to the Major, Coordinator, she isn't ready to serve as a Battle Commander for a Bolo unit yet. Even a unit of one. The Bolo is self-directing, yes . . . but it takes an experienced officer to recognize the priorities and choose the tactical data to feed in so he can make a rational decision. I'll do what you order, Sir. But I still think you're making a mistake."

"A human prerogative, Captain," Wilson said with a weary smile. "I don't pretend to mechanical perfection. But I dare say I know more about the human condition than your machine . . . maybe more than you, come to that." He turned back to Kyle. "Give the necessary orders, General. Let's get this show on the road."

"Ready to execute Phase Two, Father Hand."

Hyman Smith-Wentworth held up a hand, but kept his attention focused on the monitor. The command van was crowded now, with a dozen technicians tracking force movements, maintaining contact with the diverse elements of the a.s.sault force, and processing intelligence information as quickly as it could be a.s.sembled and filtered through the on-board tactical computer. But the Hand's voice cut through the babble, sharp and clear. "Hold until I give the order, Lieutenant," he said. "And tell the Third Chief of Staff to prepare to implement alternate plan three . . ."

He was studying the satellite images carefully. Even enhanced and processed by one of the most powerful computers Deseret's technology could produce, the details of the enemy movements were not complete. Their response to phase one was still not entirely clear, and until he was certain that the feint toward the Hot Springs Pa.s.s had done its job the Hand of the New Messiah was unwilling to commit his forces to the sudden change of attack his carefully prepared princ.i.p.al battle plan called for.

There were signs that the position at Alto Blanco was being reinforced, and that perplexed Smith-Wentworth. He had been careful to keep the apparent attentions of his troops focused almost entirely away from the Alto Blanco route, but something was going on there. A ship had lifted from the s.p.a.ceport near Denver Prime and touched down minutes later near the foot of the pa.s.s. And the troops holding Alto Blanco had been showing signs of preparing to move out. Could they be so desperate to hold the Hot Springs line that they would actually risk weakening the neighboring pa.s.s? Maybe the transport had been brought in to carry troops directly to the threatened sector. . . .

Something was moving near the grounded ship. Something big, stirring up one Satan's-sp.a.w.n of a dust cloud. The Hand touched a keypad to his left to increase the magnification and heighten the enhancement of the view.

Then he saw it. More than thirty meters long, perhaps half that in height, ma.s.sing 330 metric tons, the Bolo Mark XX was a behemoth of steel and ablative armor, bristling with more weaponry than Smith-Wentworth had ever seen on a single fighting machine before. It raced from the open cargo bay of the transport like a greyhound on treads, faster than something that huge should ever have been able to move.

His heart beat faster at the sight. He remembered his casual dismissal of the Bolo as a threat when his aide had brought the subject up the night before . . . he had even suggested that he wanted to see the Terran super-tank deployed on the front lines when the battle started. Now Smith-Wentworth's confidence faltered. It was one thing to discuss an abstraction, quite another to see the solid reality of a Bolo.

Smith-Wentworth outwardly professed the religion of the New Messiah, but the practical man within had been guardedly skeptical of many of the beliefs the faith promoted, superst.i.tions like the notion that angels and demons took an active part in the affairs of Mankind. He had never openly proclaimed any sort of doubt, of course, but in his innermost heart he had always rejected such notions. Until now, that is. The sight of the Bolo speeding up the road toward the crest of the pa.s.s shook his cherished rationality to the core. That, surely, was a demon, a steel-shod devil come forth to war against the Faithful of Deseret.

He swallowed and tried to fight back the instinctive, superst.i.tious fear. The Bolo was no demon incarnate. It was a fighting machine, a construct of Man . . . a weapon, no more and no less. And a weapon was only as good as the mind and spirit that employed it.