Bolos: The Triumphant Part 9

Talking was agony. But Red sounded so panic-stricken, he drove himself to speak around the pain in his face. "Red . . ."

"Yes, Willum?"

"No use . . . Chelate me . . . if you want; but it's no use. Not gonna make it."

Willum had never heard a psychotronic unit go into a state of panic. Until now. Red began to babble frantically, voicing aloud alternatives to chelation treatments, blaming herself for every one of her crew members' deaths, pleading with him to hold on just a little longer. That was the worst of all. He couldn't bear it. But when she whimpered that she would die with him, that she'd drive herself off the edge of the nearest canyon, Willum knew he had to stop her.

"No . . ."

He fumbled with the catches on the webbed restraints she'd used to keep him from falling off the makeshift operating table. He slid off, stumbled, caught himself with outstretched hands against a blood-spattered wall. Can't let you do that, Red. Not your fault. . . .

Her inboard armatures attempted to grasp him. Willum tried to elude and fell flat. Pain jolted through him despite the drugs in his system. He lay flat for long minutes, lost in the grip of pain and confusion. When his mind cleared a little, he realized Red couldn't reach him on the floor. She was still pleading with him. "Willum, please, you must get back to bed!"

He belly-crawled toward the Command Compartment.

"Willum, get back into bed, please, you're not rational, the radiation poisoning is affecting your mind, I must begin treatments immediately-"

He was in desperate pain and so sick he wanted to curl up and vomit out his guts; but he remembered her specs. And he remembered how to program and rig dead-man switches and leave embedded codes and commands in her psychotronic circuitry. He blinked hard, trying to keep his vision clear, and finally reached the Command Compartment. Willum crawled into it and slammed shut the pneumatically controlled door. Red's armatures were trapped outside. He threw a mechanical lock, keeping her out. Can't let her suicide over us . . .

He remembered that midnight canasta game and Red's poignant warning to beware asking for more than you were equipped to handle. He'd wanted to be needed.

Well, he was now.

Red needed him, more than anyone had ever needed him, as an engineer or a friend. He couldn't fail her.

"Willum? Willum, what are you doing? Please tell me." Although her armatures were trapped outside, her video pickups and voice were in here with him. He crawled through Doug Hart's remains and gained Banjo's chair at the Action/Command console. "Willum, please come back to the emergency Medi-Unit. This is my fault, I should never have engaged the Enemy, I'm not built for it, but they would have killed everyone. Willum! Come back to the Medi-Unit! Please . . ."

His hands trembled violently. So hard to think. To write the lines of code. To reason out what had to be done first, how to phrase it, how to tap into the neural net, how to properly interface- "Willum Sanghurst DeVries! Belay that and come back to the Medi-Unit this instant!"

"Red . . ." he said hoa.r.s.ely, trying to distract her from panic. " 'Member that . . . canasta game?"

He embedded another code in his program, typing in the word "CANASTA" with unsteady fingers.

"Yes, Willum . . ." She sounded uncertain, but more like herself. Good, keep her mind off it, keep her talking about something besides suicide.

"Gonna let me . . . finish that game . . . right? I'm down a . . . shipload of points. How many? Don't remember . . ." Pain jolted through his whole face with every word. Involuntary tears streamed from his good eye, all but blinding him.

"You currently trail me by one thousand fifty points, Willum. Please come back to the Medi-Unit. We will finish the game soon, after your treatments. . . ."

Willum didn't bother blinking this time. Even without the wetness, his vision was d.a.m.n near shot anyway. He typed by feel. He could see the program in his mind: the moment his lifesigns went null, the dead-man switch would trigger a series of commands. Red would halt instantly. A viral worm would travel through her memory banks. It would erase enough to keep her from recalling what had happened on that ridge. It would copy that memory data into a largely empty portion of her games-database, with programmed blocks to keep her from accessing it. It would embed trigger codes to allow for retrieval of that missing data by the Navy, would embed other trigger codes to access rewritten versions of what happened to her crew.

Willum's hands trembled as he struggled to write commands to restructure those memory files. Can't let her remember what really happened, she'll suicide if they restart her with that intact. . . . He typed commands for the worm to install the sanitized version in Red's experience data banks once she was safely picked up at the rendezvous point. He typed commands to leave instructions for the Navy on how to repair the worm's temporary damage.

"Willum . . . Please . . ."

Red's voice pleaded with him, faint and very far away.

Almost . . . Almost . . .

There!

"Execute 'Null-Null String.' " His own voice was a shadowed whisper through the pain in his face.

But it was done. . . .

Red was safe.

He fell trying to get out of Banjo's chair. He didn't have the strength to stand up again. The deckplates sloped sharply.

"Red? What-" Panic smote him. He was too late, she was going to jump. "Red, the deck's tilted-"

They slipped and slid backwards, gained ground again. Red's independent-drive wheel controls screamed protest. She kept going.

"Please don't be alarmed, Willum. We're approaching pickup point. The slope is quite steep: 50.227 degrees. Please, please come back to the Medi-Unit. I can't reach you where you are."

It wouldn't do him any good; but it would make Red feel needed for these last few, critical minutes. One thing Willum still knew, and knew in his bones: how achingly powerful a thing it was to be needed.

He opened the door.

And began to crawl.

On level ground, he might have gone the whole distance.

Uphill, Willum made it as far as the empty deckplates at the foot of Red's emergency Medi-Unit table.

-III-.

1.

Ish Matsuro sat in semi-darkness, staring at the screen of his portable battle computer. He couldn't speak. He could barely see, had to blink rapidly again and again to clear his vision. It was all there. Every harrowing, heartbreaking second. For a long, long time, Ish simply sat there, staring at the answers he'd found.

DeVries--injured, dying of radiation poisoning--had saved Red from suicide. Ish had scanned the lines of code. DeVries' programs had worked beautifully, given the conditions under which they'd been written. Ish had found only two critical errors in DeVries' code. The viral worm had not stopped at the designated point in Red's experience data banks. It had continued copying and deleting, copying and deleting, farther and farther back into her memory, until her main experience data banks were blank and her games data section was full. When the games data section filled up, the program crashed.

Typed commands to leave instructions for the Navy on how to repair the worm's temporary damage were in the section which had crashed. It hadn't implanted that final message to Red's next commander. The second error would--if Red's memory were to be restored now--permit her access to both sets of memories which recorded the deaths of her Dismount Teams. Ish closed his eyes. He understood--G.o.d, he understood--the impulse to protect her. But Ish wasn't sure which fate was worse: suicide or amnesia. Suicide would at least have been quick.

As for what Red had done, going into combat for which she was not designed . . .

Soon, Ish would make his report on the psychological stability of Mark XXI Special Units. Would note that their programming for a high degree of responsibility had--under battle stress--essentially forced Red to take the steps she'd taken to rescue her crew, engaging when engagement seemed an insane course of action, driven by her responsibility circuitry to grieve so deeply that she had dared anything to rescue even one of her crew alive.

He would recommend that Unit LRH-1313 be awarded the highest honors for valor in the face of overwhelming odds. He would also recommend that all active Bolo Mark XXI Special Units be reprogrammed immediately to correct this glitch. Would ask, humbly, that Unit LRH-1313 be exonerated of all pending charges and be retired honorably from service.

The one thing he wouldn't put into words was his conviction that Red had wanted to die simply because-in the manner of mothers who have lost children-she had loved her crew too much to continue living without them.

Ish knew exactly how she felt.

He closed up the battle computer. Disconnected the backup mission module they'd taken from her. Left the office and flagged down the nearest available transport.

He'd make that report soon.

But first, he had to say goodbye.

2.

I search all compartments within reach of my interior armatures. I discover manifest-listed medications, sterile injection units, plasma-bandages, antiseptic sprays, pre-prepared foods--and in a compartment inside the head, a compartment which is not listed in my official configuration manual, I find three non-listed sets of matched playing cards. I find another non-listed object, a small booklet of instructions which matches two of the card decks. I read the t.i.tle aloud.

"Canasta."

An astonishing chain of events follows that single word. An entire data bank I did not realize existed opens up. It contains Experience Data! I am flooded with memories. They are jumbled. Bits and pieces of some are missing. Whole years are missing. But I begin to know who I used to be. I am Red. My children's names return to me. I know who Douglas Hart is, who Banjo and Willum DeVries are. I grieve for them. I have halted my forward movement. I know Gunny and Eagle Talon Gunn and Crazy Fritz and Icicle . . .

I recall their deaths. I recall them in two versions. One is brutal. One is detached and less painful to recall. I examine this anomaly and discover the reason for it. I locate a worm virus. Willum tried to spare me pain. He was a good boy. It is not his fault he failed. I sit in the sunlight and grieve. A keening sound shrills through my vocal processor. Wind blows emptily across my hull. If grief is madness, then it is proper to condemn me. I sit motionless for a full 5.97 minutes and keen my misery to the empty wind and rock.

I begin to think of Ish. My new Commander. My memory retains gaps. I do not recall the Experience of 6.07 years after my commissioning. But I recall enough. I recall midnight conversations in the privacy of the head, the only compartment on board which provides privacy. I recall the woman Ish loved and eventually married. I recall his whispered confession that he loved another besides her. I recall the sense of panic in my Responsibility circuitry and the search for a solution. My child cannot love me as a man loves the woman he is to marry. Ish must not stay with me.

I speculate that Ish Matsuro has come to be my Commander once again because s.p.a.ce Force would want an investigating officer who is closely acquainted with my systems. s.p.a.ce Force does not know how Ish feels. Ish knows what I know. He remembers more than I remember. His pain will be greater. If he speaks with me again as the Red he recalls and loves, he will destroy his career trying to save me.

I cannot allow this. He is my only surviving child. I will protect him. I rewrite Willum's worm virus, deleting the lines of code which copied my Experience Data before erasure. This time, there will be no hope of restoring my personality. The Red Ish loves will die. In the distance, I see a s.p.a.ce Force flier settle to the ground. Ish emerges. I am ready.

Goodbye, my son.

I speak.

"Execute 'Null-Null String.' "

Little Dog Gone

by Linda Evans

-1-.

My position is precarious, my flank vulnerable. Cla.s.s One Yavac fire from high ground to my left damages pain sensors along my entire side. The Enemy advances into the teeth of my h.e.l.lbore and infinite repeater fire. I destroy one, two. . . . Four take their place. My ablative armor takes multiple direct hits. Layers are blown away, leaving my flintsteel war hull increasingly vulnerable to Enemy fire. I send a distress call on the Brigade band, at emergency strength. Silence is my only answer. I grieve for a precious 0.007 seconds. Without the a.s.sistance of my brothers, I am forced to withdraw. As I move back, firing left, right, forward, I register on my sensors a division-strength force of Cla.s.s One Yavac Heavies advancing over the top of the ridge. They will flank me and sweep down across the base before I can disengage from my current position.

I inform my Commander of the threat this represents but receive no reply. This concerns me more than the silence of my Brigade brothers. I take a precious 0.01 picoseconds to perform diagnostics on my transmission equipment. I cannot afford to lose contact with my Commander. I am the only survivor of the Dinochrome Brigade on Planet XGD 7798-F. Without me, the Enemy will certainly destroy the colony. The mineral resources of XGD 7798-F are too valuable to risk loss. I discover my transmitter functions perfectly. Base still does not answer. I take withering fire from both flanks. Pain sensors overload. A burst transmission from Command Base reaches me at last. The sound of my Commander's voice brings short-lived joy to my Pleasure Complex circuitry.

"Gawain, return to Base, stat. We are under direct attack. The compound is not expected to hold."

I register stress in my Commander's voice. Response requires 0.002 seconds. The delay distresses me, for I am proud of my efficient service; but I must wait to complete a Current Situation update scan of battlefield conditions.

"Unit Six Seven Zero GWN of the Line to Command, I am under heavy fire. The Enemy has cut my line of retreat. I have received no reply from the remaining nineteen members of Third Dinochrome Brigade. Base is currently receiving fire from left flank and rear. Your right flank will come under fire in approximately 0.5 seconds. I will attack at their weakest point, vector 045, and attempt break-through."

"Unit Six Seven Zero GWN, understood. In extremis, Gonner."

The code translates, "I am not expected to survive. Your next Commander knows your personal code. If the Base is destroyed, your Commander will transmit code to burn your Action/Command section."

I do not desire death. No soldier does. But my duty is clear. I cannot be captured and used against my own forces. I will make every effort to prevent the destruction of my beloved Commander, despite discouraging odds. The situation does not suggest my own survival will last more than another 10.37 minutes.

I transmit, "Understood. Unit Six Seven Zero GWN of the Line, out."

I disengage, sweeping around to strike the Enemy between my position and the Base compound. My right flank comes under fire as I forge ahead at emergency speed. My h.e.l.lbore fire cripples one Cla.s.s C Yavac Armored Scout. Its jointed legs, blown clear by the explosion, arc outward for a distance of 50.87 meters from the main body of the armored vehicle. My concentrated h.e.l.lbore fire destroys another. I turn my armaments against a Cla.s.s One Yavac Heavy and fire with both h.e.l.lbores and infinite repeaters. The turret explodes. Its treads blow clear of its tracks.

A narrow opening appears between my position and the Base compound. My plan may succeed. My sensors register Enemy personnel advancing from my rear. They are dog-sized, eight-appendaged creatures, quick on the attack. I discharge anti-personnel explosive mines and small-arms fire from my rear guns. The Enemy falls back behind cover of their Cla.s.s C Yavac Scout units.

Emergency speed has carried me into the midst of the Cla.s.s One Yavac Heavies flanking the Base compound. My systems are overheating. I continue firing both energy repeaters and h.e.l.lbores. I plow through their ranks under extreme fire. I lose rear sensors and am blinded on my right rear quarter by a direct hit. Ablative armor blows away in a four-foot patch along my flank. Pain sensors scream a warning. I ignore it. The Enemy will give no quarter. That was discovered on Millbourne's World. It is why I am here, to prevent another ma.s.sacre.

The compound walls withstand the bombardment with difficulty. I am glad my Commander ordered them reinforced with flintsteel. My war hull beneath the ablative-metal armor is comprised of the same material. Neither the wall nor my war hull is without damage, but we hold. Enemy fire concentrates on the weaker compound gates. My sensors detect structural stress in the hinges. Another direct hit will bring the gates down. Enemy infantry surges forward. Their shouts, alien to my data banks, register on my forward sensors. I hear explosions within the compound as Enemy fire clears the wall and damages structures beyond.

The gates vanish in a glare of light. Debris pings on my outer hull. The gate is breached. Enemy Cla.s.s One Yavacs roar ahead. I take fire from all sides as I charge between two Yavac heavy units. The gap in the wall must be closed. I detect movement inside the compound. My Commander is ordering agricultural equipment into the opening. It will not withstand a single salvo. He knows this. I know this. I run my engines deep into the red zone and clear the intervening two hundred meters in 1.37 seconds. Enemy infantry falls under my treads. A Yavac fires point blank into my right side. Pain sensors explode across my prow and side. My ablative armor is gone in a seventeen-foot section across my bows. I sustain damage to my flintsteel war hull. But I have gained the gate.

I pivot and turn h.e.l.lbore fire into the Yavac at a distance of five meters. The Yavac unit takes a direct hit to the turret. The explosion scatters debris across my back and into the compound. The fire I have taken before is as nothing. Pain sensors overload and burn out. My internal diagnostics program screams that I suffer severe internal damage. I cannot absorb the total energy of their combined Y-Band energy bolts. I overheat. My hull glows. More systems burn. But I must continue to hold.

I am still firing when a direct hit against my hull strikes through previous damage. An explosion tangles my internal psychotronic circuitry. Malfunction warnings and remaining pain sensors scream through shattered hard-wired boards and cracked crystal memory banks. I begin a message to my Commander and am not certain I complete it.

I have failed my Commander. Failed the Brigade. Failed my mission. For the first time in my career, I know the meaning of shame.

Another explosion against my hull sends a concussion through my awareness circuitry. Extreme damage blows connections, fuses internal leads. Unable to continue fighting, I retreat in desperation to my Survival Center.

As multiple impacts of alien feet thud across my hull, darkness swallows my awareness.

-2-.

"Mama, what's that?"

Indira Tennyson followed her daughter's pointing finger across the valley, to a tangle of rotting walls, old crater scars, and ancient trees whose feathery crowns towered above the broken wall. That battle was a long time ago, Indira told herself. Nothing to fear now. Just the ghosts of dead defenders.

"That's the old fort, 'Lima."

"The one the spodders took?"

Indira sighed, silently so her daughter wouldn't hear it. "Yes, the one the Deng captured."

"Captain said they killed everyone on the whole planet. Even the Bolos. She said, if you go over there, you can still see the one they didn't bury, the one Dad said they left as a monument, sitting in the old gate."