The maintenance team tasked with completing the checks on my port-side suspension have evidently decided to take an extended break. Six of them are seated in a circle beneath the overhang by my aft port-side drive wheel and are engaged in a strangely ritualized series of social behaviors centered on the element of chance as applied to fifty-two small cardboard rectangles printed with various numerals, symbols, and icons. The rest are standing around the six, watching and exchanging pointed comments among themselves.
Bolo 96875 has explained at length to me the nature of "games," as enjoyed by humans, but I confess that I do not as yet understand the interest humans have in the subject. The concept is similar in some respects to various simulations—"war games," in fact—designed to test battle plans, tactics, and strategies on various levels. Indeed, the ancient human game "chess" is a useful tool in sharpening strategic understanding, and I have enjoyed playing it with several humans and with Unit 96875 in the past. What this wild shuffling and collecting of pasteboard cards can have to do with combat tactics or strategy, however, I have not yet discerned, despite many seconds of thought dedicated to the problem.
In any case, the game carried out beside my stripped-down wheel train seems to have been enjoined purely for the recreational diversion of Tech Master Sergeant Blandings and his men, not in preparation for any military endeavor. I cannot ignore the fact, however, that the completion of my repairs and my return to full combat capability must have an extremely low priority among the humans charged with maintaining my efficiency at peak levels. This affects me in a manner that humans might think of as emotional, though it does not and cannot reduce my efficiency as would almost certainly be the case with humans.
I wonder why they bother to maintain me at full awareness levels. Sometimes, I believe that the fact that I have not been set to autonomous standby reserve power levels has left me with too much time to think. . . .
A door at the end of the vehicle bay opens; through Security Camera 16, I can see that it is Lieutenant Ragnor, arrived, no doubt, to inspect his new command.
I doubt very much that he will be pleased with what he finds here.
Donal was not at all pleased with what he found inside the vast and cavernous vault of the Bolo Depot Vehicle Bay. There were no guards posted by the door through which he entered, and no Bolo security check point, though a small security camera mounted on an arm extended from the ceiling swiveled to track him as he walked across the ferrocrete floor toward the nearer of the behemoth war machines parked inside. At least someone was aware he'd just entered what ought to be the most secure installation on this entire base. Trash was littered about the floor, including crumpled beverage cans and wads of paper, discarded rags and shavings from a metal lathe, bits of candy bar wrapper and a jumble of discarded computer printout.
He saw a small group of people far off across the floor, huddled in the shadow of the near Bolo. Disgusted, he strode toward them.
The Bolo dominated the huge room, filled it like some immense idol of cast iron and chromalloy in a cavern shrine. A second Bolo rested close by, mostly obscured by the first, but Donal's eyes were held captive by the closer machine as the humans gathered in its lee threw its size and bulk into sharp perspective.
It was enormous, a building . . . no, a small, wheeled mountain of metal eighty meters long and towering a full twenty meters above the floor. Mark XXIII Bolos possessed two main armament turrets, fore and aft; the Mark XXIVs had been pegged back to a single MA turret, but that one low, flatly angled structure mounted a 90cm "super" Hellbore, a two-megaton-per-second beam weapon easily the equal of anything carried by the Space Arm's largest and most powerfully equipped dreadnoughts. Despite the modifications in hull and armament, the Mark XXIV was only a thousand tons lighter than its evolutionary predecessor; each of the Bolos in the depot's main vehicle chamber massed a full fourteen thousand metric tons.
Only as he drew closer did smaller details separate themselves from the larger bulk of armor. Staggered, bulbous swellings in the hull both above and below the side overhangs housed batteries of antipersonnel weapons. Nine secondary turrets, each sporting the stubby snout of an ion-bolt infinite repeater, were arrayed along each flank like the broadside turrets of a battleship. Hexagonal blocks of antiplasma reactive armor appliqués were everywhere, scattered around sensor ports, antenna arrays, field coils for disrupter shielding and battle screens, and secondary flintsteel armor block. The entire machine had been painted in subdued patterns of splotchy green and brown, a somewhat traditional and no doubt unsuccessful attempt to provide a measure of camouflage for a vehicle that was far too large to hide anywhere, even in the thickest forest. Skirts and tracks had been removed from both the fore and aft wheel train assemblies. The entire unit had been lifted just clear of the floor on massive hydraulic jacks rising out of the floor; each of the interleaved wheels in the Christie-mount chassis was over five meters tall, a vertical cliff of smooth metal very nearly three times the height of a man.
Work lights had been strung from the left hull overhang, illuminating a group of soldiers and technicians who seemed totally absorbed in a six-handed poker game.
"Call," one of the men challenged.
"Ah!" another, with the insignia of a tech master sergeant on his sleeve, said with mock disgust. "All I got is two pair."
"Read 'em an' weep, boys!" the first man said, laying out his cards. "Full house!"
"Beats me," another player said, slapping her cards down.
"Me too."
"Shoot. Busts mine."
"Y'got me."
"Ha! Love it!" The man with the full house began raking piles of Confederation scrip toward his side of the circle. "Come t' poppa, baby!"
"Hold it right there, Willard," the master sergeant said, grinning evilly. "I said I got two pair."
"Hell, Sarge," Willard replied, looking up. "A full house beats a crummy two pair any day of the week!"
"Not when what I got is one pair of jacks, along with another pair of jacks!"
Willard groaned and relinquished the pile. The sergeant cackled wickedly as he began scooping up his winnings.
"I do hope I'm not disturbing anything important," Donal said casually, walking closer to the edge of the light.
"Who the hell are—" Willard started to say, but then his eyes fastened on the rank insignia on Donal's collar and widened. "Comp'ny!" he snapped. "Atten-hut!"
The group scrambled to attention, some remaining on the floor just long enough to scoop up fistfuls of Confederation cash before making it to their feet. A sudden hush descended over the vehicle bay, heightened by the soft rasp of breathing men. Donal stepped into the light; the men, though standing at attention, were facing in several directions, rigid, eyes fixed ahead, as though terrified of betraying the slightest movement.
"I am Lieutenant Donal Ragnor," he said quietly, looking from face to face, reading the emotions he saw there—fear, surprise . . . and a lot of resentment.
The group numbered sixteen—eleven men, five women—some in greasy dungarees, some in military-issue shorts and T-shirts, three of them in civilian clothing. As he noted facial expressions, he noted, too, details of hair too long, of jewelry, of personal adornment. Willard, he saw, wore a neck chain with a large ankh hanging from it outside his partly unbuttoned dungaree shirt. One of the women wore a faded olive-drab T-shirt with a collar so torn and stretched out it exposed rather more of her substantial upper chest than was strictly permitted by military regs. One of the men wore dangling earrings in the fashion currently popular with the Kinkaid party-hard set.
"I have been assigned as Tactical Officer to this pair of Mark XXIVs," he continued after a moment. "I gather this is my maintenance company."
"Fifteenth Gladius Bolo Maintenance and Transport Company, Muir Detachment, Tech Master Sergeant Blandings reporting," the sergeant said. "Sir!"
"Is this everyone?"
"We have four on the sick list," Blandings rasped out, "seven more back in the barracks or somewhere, and, uh, three who, uh, well, I guess they're AWOL. Sir."
"You guess you have three men absent without leave?"
"Three men have not reported for duty since last week," he said stiffly. "Sir."
"Mmm. How about the rest of you. Is anyone doing any work around here?"
"Sir, this is our down period. Recreational, you know?"
Donal nodded, as though considering this. With one toe, he nudged one of the piles of cards scattered on the floor, sliding a queen off of the three of hearts. "I wouldn't want to think," he said quietly, "that any of you men were actually gambling. As I understand it, that's strictly contra-regs. Am I right?"
There was no immediate reply, though several sets of eyes exchanged worried glances. Donal stepped in front of Sergeant Blandings, staring for a moment into a seamed and experienced face. He looked down at Blandings' hands, both of which were clenched into white-knuckled fists clutching bundles of money. Slowly, he removed his service hat and held it out. "In here."
"Sir—"
"In here!"
Reluctantly, Blandings dropped both fistfuls of bills into the hat. Turning, in place, Donal extended the hat to each of the other men holding the games' stakes. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "if I don't see you with any money in your hands, I can't bring charges against you for gambling. Right?"
One by one, the men dropped handfuls of bills into the hat, until it was nearly overflowing. "This," Donal said when the last man had made his contribution, "will make for a nice enlisted men's fund, don't you think?"
"It was just a friendly little game, sir," Blandings said, resentment in his voice.
"Uh-huh." Donal glanced up at the huge, trackless road wheels rising at his side. "What's the word on this Unit? Why is it down by two tracks?"
"Suspension train maintenance, sir. Routine."
"But why two tracks? The drill is to pull 'em one at a time."
"Shoot, sir," Blandings said. "It's more efficient this way, y'know? We do one whole side, then we do the other. Get the job done in half the time."
"Mmm. And how long has this Bolo been up on the jacks?" Blandings started to reply, and Donal spoke again, cutting him off. "I will be checking your maintenance logs, Sergeant, so give it to me straight."
"Uh . . . about seven or eight days, sir."
"For a job that normally logs thirty hours. Doesn't sound like half the time to me."
"Well, it's not like there's a rush on, is it?" one of the men, a skinny kid who must still have been in his teens, piped up. "I mean, what's the hurry, huh?"
Donal whirled on the kid, eyes blazing. "The hurry, son, is in whether or not we're gonna be ready if hostiles decide to jump us! What's your name?"
"Uh . . . Kemperer, sir. Private First Len Kemperer."
"Well, Private Kemperer, let me tell you something. Right now, this machine wouldn't be able to defend us from an army of little old ladies armed with tea pots and galoshes, much less a real threat."
"Is there a threat?" the one they'd called Willard wanted to know. His eyes were wide. "I mean, sir, we haven't heard any—"
"I suppose hostiles in this part of the Galaxy always warn you before they hit you, huh?"
"Take it easy, Lieutenant," Sergeant Blandings said. Donal recognized the tone, that of a mother whose kids are being scolded by a stranger. These were Blandings' people, after all, and he would resent an outsider dressing them down or bringing them grief. "This isn't the Concordiat, y'know."
Donal studied the sergeant for a moment. "No, Master Sergeant. It isn't. And I suppose you resent Concordiat officers being dropped on you like unpleasant surprise packages. But when it comes to Bolos, especially the higher Marks, like this one, Concordiat Bolo Command likes to make sure their property is being taken care of. Your Bolos are a loan, Master Sergeant. A very long-term loan, perhaps, with no payback . . . but those Bolos are still on the Concordiat military's records, and Bolo Command still feels a certain responsibility for them. That's why they insist that tactical officers like me are assigned to keep an eye on them. You have no idea how dangerous this machine could be if it is not properly maintained and serviced."
"Shoot, sir," a short, skinny corporal with greasy black hair said. "Ol' Freddy here won't hurt us. We're buddies!"
Donal stared the man down. "You don't really know what you're playing with, do you?" He jerked a thumb at the massive bogie wheel behind him. "With two megatons-per-second firepower, one of these Mark XXIV units could level Kinkaid in the blink of an eye, without even working up a sweat. If that AP cluster mounted up there above your head was armed, and if the unit security programming got it into its one-track mind that you were hostile, there wouldn't be enough of your miserable carcass left to scrape off the floor with a spatula. Bolos work superbly when they're properly cared for. Looking at this one . . . and at the condition of this vehicle depot, I seriously doubt that it has been cared for properly. If its psychotronic functions have become unstable, it could be deadly."
"Ah, all the self-protect hardware was disabled, Lieutenant," Willard said. "It would have t' be, y'know? If we wanted to even get close to this monster."
"I see. And what does the Bolo have to say about it?"
"It's a machine, Lieutenant," Sergeant Blandings said, shaking his head. "It's not like ol' Freddy's alive, y'know?"
"How long have you worked with . . . 'Freddy'?"
"Long enough," Blandings replied. He eyed Donal appraisingly. "Look, Lieutenant. You're ticked, I know, about how we're kind of laid back, here. But this ain't the Concordiat. Things are different out here, less hectic, y'know? Things'll go a lot smoother if you kind a', well, hang back and get a feel for the big picture."
"Don't make waves, is that it?"
"Sure. That's it, Lieutenant. Don't make waves!"
"From what I've seen here, Master Sergeant, we need a fair-sized tidal wave to sweep this pigsty clean. I'll tell you what I'm going to do. Since my arrival was such a surprise, and because neither of us wants to get off on the wrong foot with the other, I'm going to take your advice and hang back."
He could feel the ease in the tension, see eyes exchanging sly winks, mouths quirking in tiny, secret grins.
"I'm going to hang back," he continued, "until First Hour, First Watch tomorrow. At that time, I'll come back, officially. At that time I will expect to see this vehicle bay looking like a military facility and not like a Kinkaid back alley." He glanced up at the massive wheels at his side. "You will also have the port-forward track remounted on this machine."
There was a sudden outburst from the others, groans, complaints, and protestations.
One of the women looked especially angry. "Hey! What gives you the right to come in here and—"
Donal pulled out a small, flat, gray case, the transport container for a crystal memory pack . . . a set of programs and memory feed instructions for a Mark XXIV Bolo. "This gives me the right. I'm the new Tactical Officer for both of these machines, and that means you will care for them according to my specifications and directives. Do I make myself clear?"
More protests sounded. "Sir," Blandings said, shouting to be heard above the noise. "Uh . . . maybe you don't know how our schedules work on Muir, yet, you bein' new to the planet, and all." He glanced at the chrono set in a ring on his forefinger. "We're just wrapping up the afternoon watch now. Then it's a sleep period. First Watch starts in just six more hours. My people couldn't possibly—"
"I know how your watches work on Muir, Master Sergeant," Donal said coldly. "Six hours is exactly right."
"But we can't clean this whole bay in six hours and remount a track too! And we need to sleep, and get somethin' t' eat, and mebee have some private down-time, and—"
"Obviously, Master Sergeant, you will need to decide which of those activities you've just listed for me are expendable, and drop them from your schedule in order to get the job done. What is not expendable is having this facility look like a military installation instead of a combat zone . . . nor do I want my Bolos sitting around helpless on their bare road wheels in case of an enemy surprise attack. Those two are your priorities for the next six hours. Do you read me?"
Blandings' jaw worked for a moment, before he managed a harsh, "Yes, sir."
"I will expect you all to be presentable, in the proper uniform of the day." He looked at the woman in the ill-fitting T-shirt. "That's in the proper and properly worn uniform, incidentally. Jewelry will be regulation. We'll worry about details like haircuts and such later, after we've sorted out the more important stuff." He nodded toward the Bolo. "If any of you have any questions, I'll be in there."
"Sir . . . in the Bolo?"
"Evidently, Master Sergeant, I have some work to do before I officially arrive as well. If you need me in any unofficial capacity, you know where to find me. Otherwise . . ." He let his face slip into a grin at least as fiendish as the one displayed by Blandings earlier. "I'll see you all at Hour One!"
Without another word, he turned and strode toward the front of the Bolo.