Bolos: The Triumphant Part 11

She crawled uneasily to her feet, but the Bolo sat motionless. The only hint that it had ever come to life was the slightly different angle of its main guns. She brushed dirt out of her hair and jumpsuit, cast one last, uneasy glance over her shoulder, then headed for home. She had nothing to show for her adventure except bruises, but she didn't care any longer about the Pig and his stupid challenges.

She'd gone one-on-one with a deranged Bolo and come out alive. That ought to be enough for any lifetime.

Two days later, Kalima left school to find a group of colonists cl.u.s.tered near the Council building. She edged her way closer and discovered a serious debate underway.

". . . can't repair it? We've got to have that power unit on line within ten hours or the backup generators will go down!"

"We don't have the tools needed to fix a fusion unit. We've got to wait for the supply ship."

"But the hospital!"

Near the far edge of the crowd, someone said, "What about a solar rig?"

"That's ancient technology!"

"Yeah, but it works," someone else said thoughtfully. "We've got the supplies to build a pretty big solar collector and Fred's a good electrical engineer. You could rig a converter, couldn't you, Fred?"

"Yes, that'd work temporarily. We could divert part of the power to backup batteries for emergency use until the supply ship-"

Kalima had stopped listening. Sunshine. Solar energy. Power . . . The Bolo needed recharging!

She whirled and slipped away without being noticed.

-7-.

The thud of conifer cones is very distant. Power reserves are critically low. My Emergency Survival Center functions; my outer sensors hardly at all. Soon, the darkness will return permanently. I have not been visited again by my new Commander. I calculate that 2.7 days of my remaining three days of power have elapsed, without further command contact. It would have been good to receive a last command; but I am without purpose and have disgraced my unit. This ending is to be expected. Still, it is a lonely end. I miss the voices of my fellow Dinochrome Brigade units. I miss the laughter of my Commander. I- Low-ultraviolet Y-Band radiation floods my external power-grid panels. Energy surges through my Action/Command center and floods into my backup power cells. Outer sensors regain receptivity. Memory cells I had long forgotten resonate once again. Euphoria floods my ego-gestalt Introspection Complex circuitry. I am alive! Damage a.s.sessment is automatic, requiring 1.73 seconds to determine that I am immobilized, incapable of speech, and unable to function in more than 75 percent of my original design functions. My memory crystals are intact in places, damaged in others. Many connections between banks of data cells have been damaged, so that much of my memory, while intact, remains inaccessible.

My armaments are low, but I sustained crippling damage before on-board munitions stockpiles were exhausted. If I am able to repair the damage to my motor control functions, I will be capable of fighting.

Although my main fission plant remains cold, backup power reserves are restored. I swivel forward sensors and locate the small human who is my Commander. I attempt to communicate.

"Gonner. Gonner."

"Uh, hi. Hi, Gonner. I, uh, thought you might need power."

The voice is female, young. She is my first female Commander. Sensor probes indicate medical-design equipment near my treads. I am unfamiliar with the specific configuration of the machine, although its medical purpose is clearly indicated by the symbols stamped onto its hull. This equipment is emanating Y-Band radiation as a flood of waste energy. My manufacturers built into my design the ability to absorb Y-Band radiation and convert it to battlefield energy. I am grateful for the delay of oblivion. I attempt to come to attention. I rotate my h.e.l.lbore guns and lift them in a salute.

"Gonner, Gonner, Gonner."

I must repair my speech centers. Can my Commander understand my need for depot maintenance?

"Is that the only word you can say? No, you said sunshine. That's how I figured out you were low on power."

I am pleased. My new Commander is capable of extrapolating from slim clues.

"Uh, my name is Kalima Tennyson, Gonner."

Kali-Ma, ancient Hindu G.o.ddess of Death and Rebirth, Consort to Shiva the Destroyer. My Commander was well chosen. I await Current Situation input.

"In case you're wondering, it's been about two hundred years since you, uh, since the battle with the Deng."

My Commander knows of my failure.

"I think it's pretty awesome, what you did. You should see the battle damage on your hull. When I was coming out here, three years ago, the captain of our transport ship told me all about the battle for Donner's World. They named it after your old Commander, 'cause the colony fought so bravely, my Dad said. That was before he got killed in the battle on Hilltop Gap. My Dad even knew about you, Gonner. You're famous. They put a medal on your hull and left you here, where you fell standing against the Deng. Just like Leonidas at Thermopylae."

I know this battle. It is part of my battlefield archives, which have sustained no damage. I access the file. The Spartan three hundred, under King Leonidas, held the gap between the mountains at Thermopylae against invading Persians. The Spartans were killed to the last man. Persia overran Attica and sacked Athens; but Greek forces rallied at Corinth and finally drove the Persians from Greek soil.

If my Commander speaks the truth--and why would she not?--then the Deng have taken Planet XGD 7798-F and lost it again. Humanity has not fallen to the Enemy. It pleases me that the planet has been renamed in honor of my Commander. James Donner was a valiant officer. My new Commander has said I am honored. This seems impossible; but my Commander would not lie to a Unit of the Line. Perhaps my mission was not a failure. Humanity has survived.

I attempt again to request a.s.sistance at a maintenance depot.

"Monkey. Monkey."

My Commander's voice is understandably puzzled. "Monkey?"

I try again. "Slick."

"Monkey? Slick? Gonner, I wish I knew what was wrong with your brain."

I attempt further diagnostics and find only broken tangles which my on-board repair functions cannot fathom. Without a maintenance depot, I will not be capable of telling my Commander what is wrong with my internal psychotronic circuitry.

My sensors detect the approach of another life form. I go to Battle Reflex Alert Status. My Commander must be protected. I swivel anti-personnel guns and lock onto the target.

"Gonner! No! Don't shoot!"

I halt the anti-personnel-response program and await further commands.

"This is Sufi. She's my dog."

I study the life form which has joined my Commander. It is smaller than she, quadrupedal. My Commander's hand rests on the animal's head. The animal is of a different configuration than my fragmented memories of the Deng Enemy. The Sufi dog has half as many appendages as the Deng, although its body is slightly larger. The shape and arrangement of head, body, and legs differs significantly. I switch from Battle Reflex Alert to Active Service Alert Status. This introspection and alert-status change requires 0.013 seconds. I still function slowly.

My Commander continues her Current Situation update. "Sufi is a special dog. My mother does genetic research. Sufi's nearly as smart as I am; she just can't talk. She and her puppies, they're grown up now, they babysit us kids, so the adults don't have to watch us all the time. The colony gets a lot more work done now than we used to. Of course, I don't really need a nursemaid anymore, but Sufi's my friend."

I file Sufi in my memory banks as authorized personnel permitted to approach this Unit. My Commander's friend emits two sharp sounds.

"That means my mother's looking for me, Gonner. Two sharp barks close together means, 'Go home, your mother wants you.' She probably needs this Entero-Scope Field Generator that I, uh, borrowed, back in the lab. I'll be back, Gonner, okay? Maybe not today, but I promise I'll be back. You just sit tight and don't shoot anyone."

A command! I respond with intense pleasure. "Hold! Hold! Hold!"

My new Commander smiles into my sensor pickup. "Yeah, that's right, Gonner! You did a great job, holding. Just keep holding the fort until I come back and don't shoot any of the colonists."

My Commander departs with her friend and the equipment which has restored my backup power levels to full battle charge. She has commanded me to remain at Active Service Alert Status. I survey the valley and scan with my sensors. I await my next command. I have a restored purpose. Even in my damaged condition, I am again useful. I am content.

-8-.

"Mom?"

"Hmm?"

Her mother was busy at the gene-sequencer, which was good. She should be able to ask her question, get an answer, and get away again without rousing suspicion.

"What kind of brain damage would cause someone to answer questions in one-word answers, you know, like not a direct answer, but it sort of makes sense if you think about it?"

Her mother glanced up. "Sounds like global aphasia. Got an a.s.signment?"

She nodded.

Her mother went back to the sequencer. "I've got a medical library in the study. Read up on it and show me a copy of your report when you're done."

Relieved, Kalima made her escape to the study. Global aphasia, she discovered, was a condition in which people were capable of fully rational thought, but could not articulate anything but nonsense. The disorder had become an obscure one ever since Dr. Collingwood had discovered how to culture immature nerve tissue.

"Bet that's what's wrong with Gonner," she muttered, chewing one fingernail. "He almost makes sense. Wonder what 'monkey' and 'slick' refer to?"

She made a list of synonyms for each word, and started a computer cross reference, looking for anything that might make sense. Eventually, she came up with a possibility. "Grease monkey: mechanic."

"He needs maintenance, of course!"

Dismay followed at once. How?

She couldn't notify the Navy or Sector. They'd simply destroy him. He was a war hero, like her father had been, and no one was going to hurt him. Gonner had been hurt enough already. She couldn't fix him. And she couldn't tell anyone in the colony, either, because any adult who found out would call in the Navy or Sector representatives and Gonner's life would end, abruptly.

She thrust out her lower lip, in the expression her mother despairingly called, "Your father's look." She was only thirteen; but she had the manuals and things her father had given her about Bolos and she could learn everything the colony had to offer about mechanics, electrical systems, and engineering.

She could always tell her mother and the school officials she wanted to become an engineer. She just wouldn't mention that she wanted to become a combat engineer. The decision made, Kalima spent the rest of the evening studying everything in her mother's library on brain disorders. She wrote the required composition, which she then carefully smudged and marked "B-" in a fair approximation of her teacher's handwriting.

The next day she told her teacher she'd decided on a career choice, after all, and scheduled as many math, engineering, and mechanical practic.u.m courses as they'd let her cram in with her other academics.

-9-.

Six months later, Gonner's outer sensor arrays had been fully repaired. That wasn't as difficult as Kalima had first thought. She'd found a compartment with spares and had studied the existing, burnt-out units carefully before replacing them. Gonner had responded by saying, "Bird! Bird! Bird!" about a dozen times in rapid succession.

She laughed. "Bet it does feel like flying, after you've been blind for a couple of centuries. Or . . ." She canted her gaze into the bitter-white winter sky ". . . is there a bird somewhere up there, too far for me to spot?"

Gonner hummed in silence. Kalima grinned. "Well, that's one repair job done and about a million more to go. At this rate, we'll never get you back up to ratings."

"Bird," was all Gonner said.

She patted his pitted war hull. The icy cold of the flintsteel seeped through her insulated gloves. "I gotta go, Gonner. Last thing we need is for me to get caught sneaking out here. Mom would never understand. She'd insist they come melt your Action/Command center. I'll be back as soon as I can."

She slid over to the rungs of the ladder and climbed down. It was a long way to the cratered ground. Evening shadows stretched coldly away from Gonner's giant treads. Icicles clung like a beard to the bottom edge of his purple-black war hull. Dirty grey ice had formed in the ancient crater depressions. It splintered and cobwebbed underfoot as she started back toward home. She had taken only five steps away when a snickering voice spoke from the shadows of the crumbling wall.

"So, this is where the famous Kalima Tennyson spends her spare time."

She whirled, going first hot then icy cold inside her therma-suit.

Bradley Dault. Suited up and lying in wait.

"What are you doing here?"

"I wondered where you sneak off to. So I followed you this time."

"You got no right following me, Bradley Dault!"

"It's a free world." He shrugged, infuriating her; then stepped closer. More ice crunched underfoot. "Your mama know you come here?"

"None-ya!" she grated.

He grinned. "Didn't think so. Don't worry, 'Lima. I won't tell. Not so long as I can come along, too, and watch the Bolo. Can I go inside, too?"

Kalima's fists clenched, all by themselves. "No! And if you ever follow me again, I'll make him shoot you!"

Above their heads, the anti-personnel guns swivelled with a scream of freezing metal. The sound brought Bradley Dault six inches off the ground. His face went pasty white, the color of old ice. His eyes bugged, staring at the gun barrels now levelled squarely at him. A brisk wind sprang up, whipping around the end of the wall toward the broken gates and the shadow of the crippled Bolo.

"I didn't mean nothin', 'Lima, honest! I just wanted to see the Bolo, too! Gad, it's still alive!"

"You say a word--a stinking word--and you won't be! My Mom's a geneticist--I got dozens of ways to kill you, hideous-like, if you even breathe."

He nodded, still staring wide-eyed at the anti-personnel guns. "Not a whisper. I swear. Cut my tongue out, if I'm lying."

She relaxed a little. "Well . . . okay. But don't try to come out here alone. Bolo knows me. He won't know you."

Again, Bradley nodded without taking his eyes off the big guns. "Can you talk to it?"

"Yes. But he was hurt pretty bad. He can talk, sort of; but there's a lot of damage to the circuits in his speech center. It's called global aphasia. He can think just fine, but he can't talk very well."

"Make him say something."

Scorn filled her voice. "You don't make a Bolo Mark XX Model B Tremendous unit do anything. They do their a.s.signed duty. Unit Six Seven Zero GWN's duty is guarding this colony. He's still doing it."

That got a response from Bradley. He glanced over his shoulder. "You gotta be kidding. He just sits there, getting rusty."

She stepped forward, fists clenched at her sides. "Want me to command him to shoot you?" Her breath went to ice on the cold wind. "All I gotta do is tell him you're the Enemy. Personally, I think we'd be better off without you, Bradley Dault. You're a pig."

She expected him to get mad or make some wise, smart-mouthed crack. Instead, he just clamped his lips tighter and went white around the edges of his face.

"What? Something I say hit home?"

"No." That came out sullen. He dropped his gaze and turned away from the Bolo. "Can I leave now, 'Lima?"

She hesitated. He looked almost . . . hurt. She decided he was play-acting, just to get her sympathy.