It has been three minutes and sixteen seconds since I was ejected from the cargo bay of the Lexington. I will see combat sooner than I had ever expected. My commander and I, along with two other Bolos and their commanders were diverted from our original mission to the Tilla M outpost by a distress message from the recently established mining colonies on Thule. The settlements are under attack by a force or forces unknown. Due to the circumstances, we have been deployed from the Lexington in a non-optimal trajectory, while the ship hurriedly makes another jump with the rest of our unit to complete its original mission.
It is an exciting time. My first assignment was to a purely defensive post at the Depoe Shipyards, far from the lines of the Deng conflict, and while Tilla M has seen intermittent raids by well-armed pirates, any conflict would doubtless consisted of brief defense against space-based hit-and-run attacks. This is the kind of conflict for which I was designed and constructed, engaging a powerful enemy on a battlefield of planetary scope.
Our "hot" insertion and the limited intelligence available to us add to the challenge of the assignment, but I am unconcerned. I am unit VCK, a Bolo of the Line, Mark XXV, bearer of the proud tradition of the Dinochrome Brigade. I am proud be the first of our forces to land on Thule. I am confident that I will do my duty, and do it well.
It has been four minutes and three seconds since ejection. Broken transmissions indicate that any ship attempting to land may come under ground attack, therefore our individual assignment is to deploy and clear a landing zone. My commander will monitor the situation from my assault pod, which will wait in orbit, along with the other Bolos in their pods, and a trio of shuttles loaded with emergency gear. Instead of my usual deployment, I am strapped to a sandwiched pair of contra-grav cargo sleds and mats of ablative material forming a makeshift, but completely expendable, landing craft.
I fire the guidance thrusters on the cargo sleds, to roll my makeshift heat shield to face the atmosphere, and adjust the upper sleds contra-gravs to conserve power for the final braking. The contra-gravs on the lower sled are set to full output, as there will be no opportunity to utilize unused power later.
Five minutes and eighteen seconds since ejection. A faint vibration through my treads tells me that I am encountering the edge of Thule's atmosphere. I take the opportunity to make a long-range scan of the planet below me. I immediately detect the various colony installations in the expected locations, but the central installation shows none of the energy output I would expect of a functioning colony. Instead, I detect only the heat of residual fires, plus a chemical signature consistent with large-scale combustion and the early decay stage of biological matter. The damage is even worse than we had been led to believe. I also detect flames and weapons signatures from the most northern colony. It too is under attack.
I adjust my trajectory to move my landing site as far north as possible. I maintain communications silence, but there are distress calls coming from the Rustenberg Colony on several bands, some live, some via automated beacon. I monitor, trying to get some sense of our enemy, but other than descriptions of large humanoids, there is little else of strategic value, intelligence about their mounted and airborne weapons platforms, descriptions of their armored and mechanized divisions.
I am entering the planet's atmosphere now, and ionization is making my sensors unreliable. It must be, as I can detect none of the signatures I would associate with the enemy. I find no bases or roads, no radiation sources consistent with fusion power plants, no towns or bases, no armored columns or spaceports. The situation is most puzzling. It is almost as though the enemy does not exist.
The buffeting is quite heavy now. I am surrounded by an ionized curtain of superheated air, and flaming chunks of ablative mat are breaking off and flying past like fireworks. I must be putting on a spectacular show for anyone watching on the ground, but my signature will not be consistent with a Bolo assault pod. The enemy will doubtless hesitate before firing on me, consulting with their specialists to determine if I am an attack craft or a natural meteor. By the time they come to a decision, I should be safely near the ground.
Or not. I am emerging from the ionization blackout, and I detect, three—now five—now seven missile traces arching up from diverse points across the continent. They seem to be light nuclear interceptors, unlikely to do me serious damage, but they could destroy the contra-grav sled I need to make my landing. My first duty, however, is to secure the landing zone. I begin cycling my main Hellbores from launch point to launch point, targeting them with a multikiloton blast. Though I can detect no fixed installation at any of these points, someone there will pay the price for the folly of firing on a Bolo of the Dinochrome Brigade. I am hardly a defenseless drop ship.
There is a sudden lurch, and then I am in near freefall. The first sled has given out, either its power cells depleted, or damaged by a reentry burn-through. No matter. There is one last use I can make of it. I remotely fire the links holding the lower sled to the upper. My audio detectors pick up the rending of metal even in the thin air. Then the sled slides out from under me, a metal mattress the size of a schoolyard, its bottom charred and still glowing white hot in places. I transverse one of my secondary batteries, lock onto the sled, and fire a half-second pulse.
The sled explodes into flaming chunks just as the first missile closes on my position. I watch as the missile, and two of its companions, alter course to home in on the false target I have provided for them, their nuclear fireballs blossoming a safe kilometer above me. That still leaves four missiles closing on my position. I increase my battle screens to full power, and compute firing solutions for the remaining missiles. I begin to transverse my secondary batteries. I have four point three seven seconds until the first missile is in blast radius. Plenty of time.
Suddenly the missiles begin to take high-G evasive maneuvers. I detect a pattern to their movements, but this requires a critical one point-three seconds of observation and analysis. I am able to bring my batteries to bear on three of them. I begin a roll program, placing my own hull between the missile and the sled, selectively reinforce my battle screens, and shutter my more sensitive sensors against the blast.
The explosion rattles my structure, subjecting me to a momentary peak acceleration of 19 G's. It is fortunate that my commander remained safely in orbit, but I am unharmed. The energy from the explosion sizzles against my battle screens, and in a moment I can feel the converted energy surging into my storage cells. There has been a one point two percent degradation of my upper turret armor, but I am otherwise unharmed. The critical question now is, did the explosion damage the second contra-grav sled?
My visual sensors unshutter, and I see the horizon growing less curved by the second. I have been in freefall too long. Even with full sled function, I am in danger.
I tentatively apply power to the sled, alert for any problem, but the contra-gravs engage smoothly. I am slowing, but not quickly enough. I increase power to one hundred percent, then into overload, one hundred and ten, one hundred and twenty, one hundred and thirty.
The cells are draining at an alarming rate, and I am detecting an overheat condition in the contra-grav accelerator coils. The situation is critical, but there is little I can do. I must trust that the contra-grav sled is flawless in its manufacture and maintenance, that it was not damaged by the missile, reentry, or by the separation of the first-stage sled.
I take one last opportunity to do aerial deep scans with my sensors, focusing on the dead central colony, looking for any sign of my elusive enemy. I detect the remains of many ground vehicles, several shuttles trapped on the ground, large mining and construction machinery, and one other trace, an armored durachrome war hull—
Two point three four seconds to impact. I am still falling too fast. Below me, I see a green carpet of jungle canopy, a silver thread of river slicing through the trees. I retune my battle screens. In theory, they can absorb some of the kinetic energy of my landing, acting as a last-resort shock absorber, but to the best of my knowledge this has never been tested.
My last thought before I hit the ground is of those final sensor readings. No matter what happens, they give me hope. I do not know how, but the readings were unmistakable. There is already a Bolo on Thule.
Lord Whitestar moved through the night jungle by instinct, navigating by the smell of certain plants, by the echoes of his own footfalls off the trunks of trees, and the occasional flashes of starlight through the canopy above. The Ones Above had warned them that they must show no light to the sky above, no fire, no torch, as the devils would be watching. Even the wonderful weapons that the Ones Above had given them had to be taken into the nests for repair. The lights-of-function that showed when a given part was functional or should be replaced, even showing one of those to the sky could give them away.
He could hear quiet chants of victory all through the jungle, and he knew that chanting just like this spread through the jungle for several days' walk, to wherever the men of his widely dispersed clan made camp. They had cut deep into the enemy's vitals today, raided one of his nests, killed all his warriors, all his hatchlings.
Whitestar's fur bristled with satisfaction and pride. The Ones Above would be pleased, and would favor their blessings on his clan above all others. It had been promised that, when the time came, they would be shown where even more powerful weapons were hidden, shown how to use the ones they had in even more deadly ways.
He stopped, taking a deep breath. He smelled her before he heard her voice. She carried the brooding smell, the smell of one caring for eggs. It made his blood burn, but did not excite him. Instead it brought out instinctive, protective urges. It made him want to kill the human devils even more, to sweep the world clean of them to protect his eggs. "Are you there, Whitestar?"
"This way," he said. Her senses would be tuned for the eggs now, for the hatchlings. She could hear their cries of help across a raging river, or smell an illness before they would even feel it, but it made it more difficult to travel in the jungle at night.
She stepped closer, the smell of her stronger, the outline of her smaller form just visible in the starlight. "What are you doing here, Sweetwater? The eggs—"
"The second-wife warms them, my lord. As first-wife, it is my right to take a rest occasionally. I came looking for you."
"I was returning to the nest."
"Then I will follow you. I hear your victory was great today."
Whitestar clicked his bill in affirmation, and returned to walking, slower this time so she could keep up.
"Then Twostone is dead?"
"He took the Fist of the Ones Above to a place where it would disable their defenses. Take away their machines. They are soft and weak. Not like us. By nightfall, we had returned them all to their foul maker. Twostone died well. He did not die for nothing."
"Did he have to die at all, Whitestar?"
"Not this again, woman. The devils we have been raised to fight are finally here. This is the time of destiny. We are lucky to be alive to see it."
"Your eldest hatchling is lucky to be alive to see it. I watched you from afar when you fought Twostone. You showed him mercy. Could you not do as much to your own hatchling, your eldest?"
"Blackspike would not yield, woman. He would have killed me. Only my skill saved me from killing him. I saved him from spilling his own blood in battle, like Twostone. I saved him to take my mantle as lord when I am gone."
"He is hot-blooded, Whitestar. All the young ones are, as the old women say your generation is hotter blooded than your fathers. It is like a creeping madness."
"It is our strength. It is what helps us kill the devil humans." This was a very sore subject between them. The old women remembered too much, talked too much, caused too much trouble. Some days he thought he should just have his warriors kill them. But there was truth to it, especially among the highborn who were blessed with the teachings of the Ones Above. It was the duty of the lowborn fodder to spill their blood against the devils. It was the duty of the highborn not to die without using their teachings, and without passing those teachings on.
They had to deny the heat of their own blood. He stopped outside the nest and turned to her. "Have you placed the eggs in the blessing chamber yet?" The blessing chambers were among their most sacred artifacts. Each new clutch of eggs was to spend two days in its warm, shuttered interior. It was there that the blessing of the Ones Above was delivered onto the clan.
She hesitated. "No, my lord, I have not. The old women say that is where the blood of our males becomes poisoned. The eggs are returned with tiny punctures in the skins. The old women say that is where it goes in, like venom from a sting-lizard's tongue."
"The old women make up stories to frighten the likes of you, first-wife. Forget what they tell you, and deliver our eggs for their blessing before it is too late."
"I speak these things because the lord should know what the females think. It is not just the old women. They tire of seeing their family males driven to madness by the fire within. They tire of losing their mates, their sons and brothers to duels, to challenges, and now to war. They fear that we will only anger the devils and that they will come and kill us all."
"If it's the will of the Ones Above that we die in our war against the devils, then so be it. But we are taught that one clan will rise above the others and show the Ones Above where the human devils are weak, where they can most easily be destroyed. That is why the clans must not mingle, why we must be different of custom and of form, so that we may demonstrate which is best. And once that clan has the devils on the run, then the Ones Above will sweep down from the skies and finish the job. The clan that shows the way will be our clan, and honored will be our place in the heavens at the side of the Ones Above."
"Who will be left to sit at their side, lord? You? Will your sons live to see that day? Remember that you have another one. Will you spill his blood too?"
"Is that what you really came to talk about? Sharpwing is barely out of the egg."
"Sharpwing is old enough at least to think he can fight, and he is younger, his blood burns hotter yet than his brother's. He is furious at what you have done. He longs to die for the Ones Above. I think he will challenge you. Perhaps soon."
"Then I will do what I must do. Blackspike will heal. He must become lord of the clan, for the good of all. Sharpwing is my chick, but he is no leader. I will do what I must."
There was silence for a time. "Do not kill Sharpwing, husband. If you kill him, Whitestar, I will never forgive you. You will still be lord, but I will be sure that your time is never happy again."
Then she turned and left him alone in the darkness.
Alone with his own thoughts. "As though my time is happy now," he said quietly.
Tyrus awoke in darkness, head pounding, his face against cold, smooth, metal.
"Remain still and silent."
The words seemed to fill Tyrus Ogden's head, making the pain even worse. It took him a moment to remember what had happened. The explosion, the massive maintenance building trembling and collapsing around him. He had tried to get in the Bolo. Had he made it? The agonizing voice in his head suggested that he had.
"Do you wish me to turn on the lights?"
"Please," he whispered, knowing the Bolo would hear him. Then thinking about it, "dim lights."
A faint, red light bathed the area. He was in some sort of narrow machine space. A drive shaft as big around as his body punched through the compartment. Behind him was the closed hatch. Ahead was a tube with a sloping ladder that led up into darkness. "Where am I?"
"My number two ventral maintenance access. My internal sensors are fully intact, and indicate that you have a mild concussion. I do not believe that you will die."
"Thanks for that happy bit of news." He reached up to feel the large knot on top of his head, and winced. It least he didn't seem to be bleeding much. He tried to move his arm under his body to push himself up into a sitting position. He had to get to his wife and children, to make sure they were all right.
"If you must move," the Bolo's voice said, "do so quietly. The enemy is near, scanning the debris for survivors. There have been a number of patrols since the attack."
"How long was I unconscious?"
"Twelve hours, fourteen minutes, and either nineteen or thirty-eight seconds, depending on your definition of conscious."
Tyrus considered for a moment, and decided that laying on the floor for a while longer was a pretty damned good idea. He felt nauseous, weak, from even trying to move. "What am I supposed to call you?"
"I am Bolo Mark XXIV, designation DRK. I believe that my previous commanders used to refer to me as 'Dirk.'"
He suddenly remembered that Dirk had already given his name, before the attack. He wondered how much damage the bump on the head had done, and why Dirk didn't seem to remember it either.
"Okay, Dirk, I'm in pretty bad shape. How about you?"
"I have been seriously sabotaged in a means I do not yet understand. My weapons systems have largely been removed or disabled, my sensors and battle screens extensively modified from their original configurations, new equipment of unknown purpose welded to my hull, and most seriously, my psychotronics and memory have been seriously compromised. I attempted to engage Full Combat Reflex Mode during the attack, and internal feedback nearly destroyed my higher mental functions. It appears that I will require orders from a human commander before taking direct combat action."
"They probably hardwired some sort of inhibitor into your combat reflex circuits. They were as worried about your going berserk as I was. Dirk, you haven't exactly been sabotaged, though the word 'butchery' might apply. You've been turned into a mining machine."
The machine was uncharacteristically silent for a time.
"That is illogical."
"Damn straight, but they did it anyway."
More silence.
"That at least clarifies my situation. It explains why my sensors have been modified to detect seismic disturbances and mineral concentrations rather than targeting data, why my screens have been optimized for low-velocity kinetic impacts, and why my combat communications array has been replaced with one for civilian wavelengths. I will need to analyze my new capabilities, and attempt to compensate for my loss of combat readiness."
"You mean, you think you can still fight?"
"I can move. I have awareness. I have power. With your help, I will fight to the best of my capabilities."
"Listen, Dirk, I'd love to help out and all, but my soldiering days are over. I just want to find my family."
"Your family were in the colony outside the hangar?"
"Yes."
"Then they are no longer there, or they are dead. I cannot determine which."
That was the thing he'd been trying not to think about. He vaguely remembered seeing the colony in flames, the apartments exploding. But there could be survivors out there somewhere, and he'd seen an air shuttle getting away. There was hope. There had to be hope. There were so many things he had yet to say. He had to apologize for bringing them to this place, for failing to have the simple courage to say "no" to his superiors when the time was right. The last time with his wife, they had been fighting. It couldn't end like that.
There had to be hope.
Besides, this crippled Bolo freely admitted that its sensors weren't working right. "Dirk, how can you be so sure that there are no survivors out there? Do you have visual?"
"Negative. When the explosion went off, a section of the hillside above the hangar collapsed. We are buried under eight to ten meters of loose rock."
That stopped him for a moment. "Then how do you know anything about what is happening outside?"
"I seem to be equipped with a suite of sensitive seismic detectors. I can detect any surface movements in the area. The patrols I have detected are too heavy, their stride wrong, for them to be human. I have detected no movement, either by foot or vehicle, that I can identify as potentially human. In fact, I have detected no vehicles at all."
That didn't make sense either. An attacking force should have lots of vehicles. All those alien soldiers he'd seen certainly hadn't walked here through a thousand kilometers of jungle.
Feeling a little better, he pulled himself up to a sitting position. His arm hurt, his head throbbed, there were little dark flecks in his vision when he moved, but he thought he would live. "You don't seem concerned that we're buried. Can you get us out?"
"Affirmative. Despite the so-called 'butchery' of my systems, I am still a Bolo of the Line. When you are ready, I can begin extracting us from the rubble."
He sighed. Despite Dirk's claim, he wouldn't be satisfied until they made a visual inspection of the colony. Failing that, the shuttle had been headed north. There was another colony off that way if he remembered correctly. He might find his family there, and this Bolo was his best chance of making the trip. "Start digging."
"I would recommend that you strap yourself into my command crash couch first. It is also equipped with a field autodoc that can treat your injuries. Can you climb up to my control room?"
He looked at the ladder. "I think so. Which way?"
"Up the ladder, right at the horizontal passage, around my main turret bearing, through the fore circuitry room, right on until the end of the passage." He started climbing the ladder, careful not to hit his bump on the low, metal ceiling. "I should warn you," said Dirk, "that as soon as I bring my systems up to full power, there is a good possibility we will be detected."
"We'll deal with it when we have to. See what you can do about getting us some functioning weapons, and I'll have a quick look at your circuitry room as I pass through."
"I will begin bringing power systems on-line."
"Not while I'm touching an exposed buss bar, please." He reached the central passage and started crawling forward. "Get ready to dig us out. I want to see some sunlight."
Around him the massive mining machine came to life.