[Bolo-05] Old Guard, Anthology


   
        Created by Keith Laumer

        ( A Short Story Collection ).
   
        Copyright (c) 2001
   
        In memory of J. Andrew Keith, 1958-1999 Author, historian, 
         wargamer, brother, friend.
   


        ---
   
   

    Series Created by Keith Laumer.

    (John Keith Laumer) (1925 - 1993)


    Bolo Books In Series: 
 
    Bolo: Annals of the Dinochrome Brigade (1976). 

    Rogue Bolo (1986). 

    The Compleat Bolo (1990). 

    1. Honor of the Regiment (1993). 

    2. The Unconquerable (1994) (with Bill Fawcett). 

    3. The Triumphant (1995). 

      Bolo Brigade (1997) (with William H Keith). 

    4. Last Stand (1997). 

      Bolo Rising (1998) (with William H Keith). 

    5. Old Guard: A Bolos Anthology (2000) (with Bill Fawcett). 

      Bolo Strike (2001) (with William H Keith). 

    6. Cold Steel (2002). 

 
    David Weber - Bolo! (Keith Laumer's Bolo Series,Baen-2005).


    John Ringo - Road to Damascus (Keith Laumer's Bolo Series,Baen-2005).


    David Weber's Old Soldiers (Keith Laumer's Bolo Series,Baen-2005).




        ---
   



        Incursion
   

        by Mark Thies


   
        It started as just a flicker of X-rays, high above the orbital plane
    of the bright orange star Epsilon Sindri. The region of space was devoid
    of matter, or any potential for producing such a phenomenon, but
    nonetheless it was there. As the flicker grew to erratic bursts, these
    X-rays were quickly logged by several detectors within the system of
    five planets below.
   
        The first detector to take note of these bursts was a security array
    high above the second planet of the star system. Few disturbances ever
    escaped the notice of this awkward mass of antennae, reflectors, and
    arrays that tumbled lazily in its wide orbit. The bright X-ray flashes
    were trapped and focused by a myriad of mirrors and lenses, and then
    sorted by a series of gold refraction gratings. The spectrometers
    compiled and analyzed the flood of data, recognizing the bursts for what
    they were. Unconcerned, the security array's attention drifted
    elsewhere.
   
        The second detector to take note of the bursts was a navigation
    beacon also in orbit around the second planet. Unlike its much larger
    brother in high orbit above him, this oblong satellite sheathed in
    bright gold foil carefully recorded the exact position and energy
    signatures of the bursts. The starports on the planet surface were
    notified of the phenomena, but no concern was immediately made evident.
    This was a weekly occurrence above the planet Delas, in precisely the
    location that it was expected. Only high above the ecliptic in the solar
    system full of debris could a 500,000 ton merchantman exit trans-light
    speeds without risking a fatal collision.
   
        Only one other detector in the star system noticed the turbulent
    arrival of the interstellar freighter Aragonne Isabelle. Shrouded in the
    cold shadow of the icy moon of Epsilon Sindri Three, another satellite
    realigned itself, focusing its three large collectors upon the source of
    the X-ray bursts. A fission reactor at its core came to brilliant life
    just as the gigantic transport finally exited the rift in a final
    explosion of radiant energies. Then the X-rays ceased.
   
        The shrouded satellite, however, was still building up the power
    that it needed. It had been ordered to track these ships and monitor
    their arrivals and departures. But transmitting its reports back home
    needed far more energy than its uranium pile could provide. As the
    fusion core finally ignited, another rift formed for just a moment,
    sending out a pulse through subspace. The pulse was fast enough to
    travel light-years in a matter of weeks, and strong enough even to reach
    the fringes of the bright nebula that painted the Delassian night sky
    with its blue and orange hues. The acknowledgement to the pulse usually
    took more than a month to return.
   
        It was also strong enough to catch the attention of Delas' security
    array. Once again, a report was logged and submitted. And on the planet,
    a corporal was startled by a beep, but then dismissed this second burst
    as a subspace echo that seemed to bounce around whenever any transport
    arrived or departed. His commander had been intending to ask some local
    astrophysicist about this phenomenon, but had yet to find the time.
   
        Back in orbit around Epsilon Sindri Three, an acknowledgement was
    logged by the satellite only two hours later.
   
        The passenger door to the cargo shuttle sprang open with an audible
    hiss of a pressurized seal. A sunrise of dull red shined into the small
    passenger compartment as the occupants stood up and gathered their
    belongings. Delassian air slowly rolled down the aisle as it exchanged
    with the cool processed air of the shuttle. First time arrivals were
    easily identified by their stunned gasps as the planet smothered them
    with its hot and stifling jungle atmosphere.
   
        As the wave advanced down the aisle, it soon overcame a rather large
    woman in a white dress with bright orange flowers embroidered into its
    light fabric. An especially frightful string of expletives was loudly
    uttered as a result, causing many heads to turn towards her. Standing
    behind the woman, a man dressed in a uniform of Concordiat Army Desert
    Gray noticed a young girl staring at the woman in awed silence from
    across the aisle. The girl's mother remained unaware of the situation as
    she seemed to be frantically searching her luggage for something, so he
    decided to speak up.
   
        "Madame, please, Starveil is on the edge of a rain forest. Certainly
    you were aware of where you were arriving."
   
        Suitcase now in hand, the large woman turned on the man in
    surprising fury. After taking a moment to brush a swirl of black hair
    out of her eyes, she leaned forward as if to intimidate the older
    gentleman who spoke out, perhaps threatening to fall over onto him.
   
        "That doesn't mean that I have to like it, does it?" she shouted.
   
        The woman's imposing frame and fiery gaze contrasted sharply with
    the small size and cold dispassion of the Concordiat officer whom she
    faced. What she couldn't discern with her cursory assessment, however,
    was just how well muscled the man's small frame was. Underneath his
    prematurely gray hair, his Asian brown eyes stared back at her without
    flinching.
   
        "No," said the man calmly, "but perhaps you could refrain from
    teaching our children to curse it so vividly."
   
        A nod to the left drew the woman's attention to the girl, who smiled
    and huddled close to her mother. In a fraction of a second, the woman's
    fury turned to charming amusement.
   
        "That was very bad of me," she told the little girl. Then she turned
    back to the man, and her smile was instantly gone. "But I am completely
    justified. I had little choice in coming here."
   
        A glance down the passenger compartment showed the officer that it
    wouldn't be clearing any time soon. More than half of the sixty-four
    passengers were cargo handlers from the Aragonne Isabelle, and few were
    gracious enough to take the seats in the rear. Travelers such as he
    would have to wait as they disembarked first.
   
        "That is unfair, then," the man commented, being courteous.
   
        "My name is Dahlia." The woman introduced herself, extending her
    free hand. "Dahlia Burke."
   
        "Toman Ishida," the man returned, clasping her hand for just a
    moment.
   
        "Colonel?" Dahlia asked with a questioning glance at his collar.
   
        "Yes."
   
        Dahlia smiled proudly, then she turned to grab a small shoulder bag
    that had been resting on the seat next to her.
   
        "My son is a lieutenant in the Concordiat Army," Dahlia explained.
    "He's with the 351st Planetary Siege Division, or something like that.
    Ever hear of it?"
   
        "Sorry, no. It's been a while since I've been on the Melconian
    front."
   
        "Oh, I always hope that he's not there," she said despondently, "but
    I guess it would be unlikely that he'd be anywhere else."
   
        Ishida didn't answer. She might have been hoping for some
    reassurance from him about her son, but without doubt she was correct.
    All siege divisions were now assigned to the Melconian front. Only
    scattered second and third echelon armored and mechanized formations
    were assigned to other duties.
   
        The uncomfortable silence was finally broken when the compartment
    finally began clearing, and the line of passengers started moving.
   
        "At least I'll only have to be here for a year. I work for Vetrex
    Electronics, and they need me to do some sales work here."
   
        "Let me carry that for you," Toman offered as Dahlia's large
    suitcase banged against the seats as she walked.
   
        "Oh, thank you. I can't believe that they make us carry our own
    luggage."
   
        Toman took the case, slinging his own duffel bag over his shoulder.
   
        "The Aragonne Isabelle is not a passenger liner. It is a supply
    transport. Merchant captains always feel that they are doing us a favor
    by allowing us to come with them on their rounds, no matter how much we
    pay them. Making our trip comfortable is well beyond their reason."
   
        "You are a father, aren't you?" Dahlia asked over her shoulder.
   
        Colonel Ishida felt troubled that the woman had discerned this about
    him. Had he been condescending or patronizing, he wondered? He had
    thought that he was just explaining things well. Perhaps, though, she
    had just read it in his face.
   
        At sixty-eight years, Colonel Toman Ishida looked much older than he
    was. His hair, although mostly undiminished and somewhat long, had
    turned prematurely white and gray many years before. His facial skin was
    rough and unnaturally wrinkled from the aftermath of two Melconian
    plasma shell burns, the second happening only a week after he got out of
    the hospital from the first. He had hoped that his dominant Asian
    heritage would protect him from the ravages of age, but it couldn't help
    him against a massed artillery barrage.
   
        Toman had always tried to convince his compatriots that these
    effects made him look wise and respected. They always responded that he
    just looked haggard.
   
        "I have two children, Kaethan and Serina," Toman admitted. "Is it
    that obvious?"
   
        "In some things. Your concern for that little girl was certainly an
    indication, but it was more your manners that was the giveaway."
   
        "My manners," Toman repeated, wanting to understand. "My aversion to
    foul language, you mean?"
   
        "No. No. It was the manner in which you scolded me in front of the
    little girl. Your tone of voice and method. I do, however, believe that
    the use of foul language, as you call it, is healthy and can make your
    rhetoric much more effective." Dahlia punctuated her sentence by poking
    the air with her finger.
   
        "My old commander would certainly agree with you."
   
        "Meaning that you don't?"
   
        Colonel Ishida hesitated before continuing this conversation. The
    last thing that he wanted to do right now was to enter into a debate
    about the usefulness of swear words.
   
        "It's been a long time . . . since I thought a problem could be
    improved by cursing at it. I now wonder if ever there was."
   
        Ishida was pleasantly surprised as Dahlia didn't bother replying to
    his disagreement, seeming more intent on navigating her wide girth down
    the aisle. Toman followed, carrying her heavy suitcase as carefully as
    possible. Even at his age, Ishida was still almost as strong as he ever
    was. Toman maintained a strict workout schedule to maintain his
    physique. Fifty push-ups and stomach crunches every night before he went
    to bed, along with a variety of other simple exercises. His only failing
    had been giving up his long distance running, for which he had many
    excuses in the injuries that his body had endured over the years.
   
        As the colonel exited the door and walked onto the downward ramp, he
    took a moment to step aside and appreciate the tangerine sunrise that
    was climbing above the line of massive hangars to the east. The
    starport's huge expanse of steel and polymer reinforced concrete was wet
    with a recent rain shower, reflecting the sky in many puddles. Dark
    clouds to the south and west looked threatening.
   
        "Just my luck it would be raining today," Dahlia lamented as she
    pondered down the steps.
   
        "This time of year it rains every day down here," Ishida told her.
   
        Whatever weather that was threatening from the north could not be
    seen, however, since the awesome mass of the shuttle towered over them
    like an old-time zeppelin, squat and flat on its bottom and rear. It
    stretched almost three hundred meters from fore to aft, and rose over
    fifty meters above the pavement. The four fusion jets positioned at its
    corners wouldn't be able to budge the giant transport if it weren't for
    the powerful counter-grav reactors that reduced their load. Their
    passenger compartment was only a small attachment on its underside, near
    its front. It looked as if it was only added as an afterthought,
    conveniently placed next to one of the shuttle's huge landing shocks,
    whose side their ramp was built into.
   
        A brightly colored bus was waiting at the base of the ramp. Painted
    on its side, in large letters, were the words WELCOME TO STARVEIL. Large
    men were taking people's luggage and helping the arrivals onboard.
   
        "You've been to Delas before?" Dahlia guessed.
   
        "My son and daughter live here."
   
        "Your wife?"
   
        "Widow."
   
        "Oh, I'm sorry. How very sad. It doesn't seem right that a soldier
    would lose his wife and not the other way around."
   
        Toman didn't quite know how to respond to that statement, so instead
    he remained quiet. He had the strange impression that he should
    apologize for some reason, but he couldn't figure out why.
   
        As they reached the pavement, he looked down towards the rear end of
    the cargo shuttle where its massive cargo ramp was still descending
    slowly, preparing to offload. The 50,000 ton shuttle would be
    transferring cargo between Delas' three starports and her mothership
    well into the next day before the Argonne Isabelle departed back to
    Angelrath. Ten or eleven days later another freighter would be arriving.
    Delas was a quickly growing colony, and its needs were many.
   
        "Are you visiting your children?" Dahlia asked him.
   
        "That, and other things."
   
        Dahlia's luggage was taken from him then and stashed into the bus's
    undercarriage.
   
        "I'm sorry I have to leave you now, Dahlia." Toman bowed to her
    slightly. "It's been a pleasure."
   
        "You're not coming on the bus?"
   
        "No. I have traveling companions to attend to. A car will be coming
    for me later."
   
        The cargo ramp finally hit the pavement with a resounding thunk,
    despite the slow speed it was descending.
   
        "Traveling companions?"
   
        "They were too big to fit in the passenger compartment."
   
        The sudden thunderous clanging of metal on metal made all heads turn
    as a monstrous form emerged from the rear of the cargo shuttle. The dark
    shape rose thirty meters from the base of its enormous treads, to the
    top of its massive main turret, barely fitting inside the cargo hold.
    Plates of dull black armor gave it an ominous air that matched the
    thunderclouds that flashed lightning kilometers away behind it. Its main
    cannon extended out well past the forward glacis of the juggernaut,
    always remaining perfectly level with the ground as the machine
    descended the ramp. The landing shocks on the cargo shuttle groaned and
    shrieked, and the ground beneath them shook violently as the war machine
    finally rolled out onto the pavement. Even after it had cleared the
    shuttle and stopped, a noticeable vibration remained, as if the tarmac
    was straining with all its might to support the monster that had just
    set foot upon it.
   
        Bristling with secondary turrets and weapon ports, the war machine
    looked to be a battleship on tracks, though no one could mistake it for
    being seaworthy. It was a dreadnought whose design had been condensed to
    its most lethal form. Losing its displacement and elegance, it gained
    terrible focus in all things that its enemies feared most: firepower,
    maneuverability, and speed. No christened name could be seen inscribed
    on its bow, but upon the rear portion of its side hull, the designation
    "DBC-0039DN" was emblazoned in tall, silver letters.
   
        "A Bolo," Dahlia said in awe. "You are with the Dinochrome Brigade?"
   
   
        "Very good. Your son would be proud of you."
   
        Dahlia actually blushed at that.
   
        "You have another one?" Dahlia then asked Toman, smiling.
   
        "We require two trips."
   
        "Ah," she said. Then she leaned forward as if to whisper something.
    Toman complied by leaning forward also. "Should I be worried about
    anything?"
   
        "Not any more." Toman said with a smile, backing away again.
   
        Dahlia laughed lightly, though she still looked concerned. A moment
    later she extended her hand.
   
        "Thank you for your help, Toman. I'll try to watch my language while
    I'm here."
   
        Toman took her hand and held it tightly for a moment, then released
    it.
   
        "Maybe you'll find some other way of being effective."
   
        "We'll see. Good-bye, Toman."
   
        "Good-bye, Dahlia."
   
        The colonel stood waiting for a couple minutes still, until he
    confirmed that Dahlia had found a seat and was settled in. With a short
    wave he then turned away and headed for the Bolo that waited patiently
    for him, next to the ramp. A pack of tractors that had been waiting for
    the Bolo to clear the ramp now were invading the cargo hold to ferry its
    remaining contents to several flatbed trucks nearby.
   
        After he had escaped earshot from the passengers, Ishida removed his
    fieldcomm from his belt and activated it. It was already set at Brigade
    battle channels.
   
        "How are you doing, Chains?" He called.
   
        "Fully operational, Commander," replied a baritone voice from his
    earphone.
   
        "How 'bout you, Quarter?"
   
        "Waiting the return of the shuttle, Commander," replied a charming
    voice with a distinct British accent.
   
        "That might be a couple hours, Quarter. Hold tight. Until then,
    though, I want both of you to probe every wavelength and log every
    emitter that you can around this planet. Find out what their defenses
    are like, and where they've broken down."
   
        "This may cause alarms to be triggered," said Chains.
   
        "Good," replied Toman cheerfully. "I hope that it does. As always,
    route all complaints to me."
   
        "Yes, Commander. Shall we remain at Low Alert Status?"
   
        "For now. No point in distracting you if their security array is
    operating correctly. Oh, by the way, keep tied into its frequency. I
    want you two watching things."
   
        "We will, Commander," Chains replied. "The Starveil tower is
    requesting that I proceed to their military hangar area. Do you wish to
    enter first?"
   
        "Yeah, open up. I need to log a report and make some calls."
   
        "Opening hatch. Will Kaethan be visiting us, again? I would look
    forward to seeing how your son has grown."
   
        Memories of Kaethan's visit to the 39th Lancers temporary
    headquarters on Point Hermes flooded him with conflicting emotions. It
    had been twelve years ago, when Kaethan was fourteen, just after his
    mother had died. His sister Serina had just become eighteen and she
    wasn't sure that she could take care of him. It was a difficult time,
    and Toman decided not to reflect on it at all.
   
        "Maybe. I'll tell him that you'd like that."
   
        "It's been a long time."
   
        "Yes," Toman sighed. "It has."
   
        At midday, it was dark and raining fiercely, and Captain Kaethan
    Ishida had his sunglasses firmly stashed in his belt pouch. On a sunny
    day, the chalk white dunes of the Fort Hilliard Firing Range almost
    glowed with heat and blinding light. The sands blew over the landscape
    from the forty kilometers of the Alabaster Coast that stretched along
    the ocean to the west. Soldiers of the Alabaster Guard wore dark
    sunglasses as unofficial trademarks of their unit, though the glasses
    were absolutely necessary equipment for when the skies were clear. This
    would hardly be a problem today, but at least on a clear day you could
    actually see the firing range.
   
        "Almost ready, Kaethan."
   
        Kaethan didn't respond to the warning, but instead kept looking out
    into the rain from their concrete reinforced bunker. Judging from past
    experience, Walter Rice would be "almost ready," typing madly on his
    computer, for another couple minutes. And their past experience
    stretched as far back as elementary school. There was no hurry.
   
        A brief surge of rainfall caused a light spray to splatter through
    the slit window that stretched the entire forward length of their
    bunker. The captain turned his face away, shielding his green eyes. His
    short, jet-black hair had dried quickly after his sprint from his
    vehicle to the bunker, but would remain damp as long as he stayed where
    he was. The cool spray was refreshing to Kaethan, who had begun to grow
    weary of the heat wave that the Telville area had been experiencing
    lately.
   
        The bunker that the two men were in was small and brightly lit.
    Kaethan was dressed in a dark metal-blue uniform of very light fabric,
    with black boots and belt. Platinum circlets, pinned to his shoulder
    flares, identified his rank. The lights overhead highlighted his sharp
    Mediterranean facial features and complexion, though his brooding Asian
    eyes always broke the categorization. Walter was dressed in gray slacks
    and a designer white shirt that he had just purchased that day. His
    long, wavy brown hair reached his shoulders, though it was neatly combed
    and kept. The short beard that he sported caused him to scratch his chin
    and neck constantly. Although of ordinary features, this no way
    detracted from his rugged good looks. Bare concrete walls enclosed them,
    gray and smooth except for numerous cracks and cement patches that
    marred the surface. A fine white dust covered everything, though it was
    more from the sand outside than from the deterioration of the concrete.
    A large but simple computer panel was embedded into the rear wall, black
    and not activated. Walter had all he needed in his briefcase of a
    computer that he had opened on the extremely large table that dominated
    the center of the small room.
   
        "Have you ever tried your baby in a rain like this?" Kaethan asked,
    lazily.
   
        "My laser will work fine," Walter returned, "just as long as the
    wind doesn't pick up."
   
        "The wind?" Kaethan turned in curiosity.
   
        A cool breeze from the west had picked up off the ocean just as the
    rain began to pour, slanting the raindrops with mild fifteen kilometer
    per hour gusts. Kaethan couldn't figure out, however, how the wind would
    be a problem.
   
        "Don't tell anyone, but we tested out our tracking radar during the
    last hurricane." Walter had stopped typing momentarily as he confided in
    his friend. "If a strong gust created a localized swirl, our radar
    sometimes registered it as an incoming missile."
   
        "You're kidding."
   
        "Yes, but it was a concern."
   
        As Walter happily returned to his typing, Kaethan sighed and turned
    back to the slit window. Just the two of them were in this bunker,
    orchestrating this demonstration. Fifty meters to their right, closer to
    the ocean, several faces peered back at him from another bunker. The
    local aldermen would probably have a poor show today through this rain.
    He suspected that they'd hear the artillery boom a few times, then
    afterwards they'd be shown the radar tracks. If they wanted, they'd be
    driven to ground zero to investigate the area for recent impacts.
   
        Somewhere out there in the rain, however, was a modified mining
    utility Hauler with a multiphase array radar and an industrial strength
    battlelaser whose job was to make sure no shell survived long enough to
    impact the ground. Many cities on Delas had purchased the Haulers for
    use as APC's, but with an additional mini-fission core installed, it
    could power a very impressive laser system. There was a great deal of
    interest in these ongoing tests.
   
        "Ready," Walter announced, then hit one more key and looked up.
   
        "Are you sure?"
   
        "Yes."
   
        "It's still taking three minutes getting that crystal up to speed,
    isn't it?"
   
        "I told you, I'm sure we can reduce that."
   
        Kaethan glared at Walter with narrow eyes for a moment, then picked
    up his headset from a chair next to him. Captain Ishida had been given
    this assignment for the sole reason that its lead engineer, Walter Rice,
    was a personal friend of his from long ago. It was either that, or
    nobody else in the Alabaster Guard wanted to waste their weekends at the
    firing range. Either way, he was still unsure of the wisdom of that
    decision. As much as they were enjoying working together, Walter might
    not have been taking this task as seriously as he should. Of course,
    Kaethan told himself, Walter had never taken anything very seriously,
    and yet he always did get straight A's. That had earned him an
    off-planet university scholarship at Angelrath, which had separated them
    for the past eight years.
   
        Little had changed in either of them since they had last seen each
    other, Kaethan believed. Although in a business suit now, Walter's
    curly, long, light brown hair still made Kaethan see him as the beach
    bum that he had always been. His eternal one-day growth of beard just
    added to the effect. If he truly did shave every morning, then Kaethan
    thought that he might want to do it again at midday. To be tall,
    handsome, and relaxed had been Walter's quest in life since before
    college, and he had largely succeeded if judged by the reaction of those
    he valued most, women. Walter's and Kaethan's basic physiques had
    changed little, but at six-foot one, Walter was now a good six inches
    taller than Kaethan was.
   
        The rain outside was beginning to slacken now, but the captain
    wasn't going to wait any longer. After a quick wave of warning towards
    the other bunker, Kaethan activated his headgear and pulled the
    microphone down to his mouth.
   
        "Hey, Rick."
   
        "Ready, Captain?" Corporal Rick Shaller sounded excited, as he
    always did before firing his howitzers.
   
        "All set. Give me one round over the target."
   
        "On-the-wayyy."
   
        Kaethan's earphones squelched out as Rick's microphone was
    overloaded by the fire. Out of habit, he mentally counted the seconds
    before the sound wave passed over the bunker. The dull boom finally hit
    as he reached twelve, followed almost instantly by a flash of blue light
    that lit up the sky and a loud explosion from high above.
   
        "One down!" Walter exclaimed.
   
        "Ready for the next test?" Kaethan confirmed.
   
        "All set."
   
        "Okay, Rick. Bracket her with three rounds."
   
        "Fire Plan Two, on the way."
   
        This time, as the shells neared the target, Kaethan knelt on a chair
    so that he could see up into the sky. His view was hindered by the thick
    concrete overhang, but he was able to discern three separate beams
    tracking, and holding on their targets. After three rapid explosions
    from overhead, the beams stopped.
   
        In fact, he knew that it was only one laser beam, being redirected
    by a rapidly spinning crystal onto multiple targets. In Walter's theory,
    this weapon could not be overwhelmed since it didn't track targets,
    rather it determined what arcs contained a threat and fired its laser as
    the crystal spun through that arc. In Kaethan's reality, they found in
    test fires that the laser lost coherence as the crystal heated up.
    Despite a myriad of cooling techniques, a sustained barrage would give
    the system problems. Also, a shell protected with modern composite
    alloy, or reflective armor, could get through. But unless Walter was
    given an expensive fusion chamber to power his toys, this was the best
    anyone could do.
   
        Fire Plan Three utilized all six guns of the Alabaster Guard
    Artillery, Alpha Company. Six shells were engaged simultaneously by the
    laser and destroyed midflight, although one shell survived noticeably
    longer than the others did. Walter shrugged it off, not thinking it was
    worth the bother to investigate.
   
        The last test scheduled for the day was a full test of all six guns
    firing three times at different azimuths, driven with different
    explosive charges. The effect was that all eighteen rounds would be
    impacting at the same time. Even Walter left his console to see this
    spectacle.
   
        And it was very impressive. The last shells that were fired had the
    lowest trajectory with the most propellant. Their screaming through the
    air over the bunkers drowned out all other noise. The light show,
    though, was spectacular as the entire sky lit up with eighteen
    simultaneous beams firing. All of the shells survived noticeably longer
    than in the first tests as the laser light drifted from blue to green.
    But they all soon started popping, slowly at first, and then in a rush.
    Like popcorn, Kaethan thought.
   
        One final explosion, though, occurred much later than the others
    did.
   
        "That one could have impacted, Walter."
   
        "Well, seventeen out of eighteen isn't bad, and I know I can improve
    on that by restricting the spin more. The ion bolts on your Templars
    wouldn't have gotten half of them."
   
        Walter returned to his console and started reviewing some
    statistics. Kaethan looked over to the other bunker and found a corporal
    looking back, expectantly. He gave him a thumbs-up, and motioned that
    the testing was over for the day.
   
        "I noticed the color shift this time." Kaethan turned back to
    Walter. "The beams turned green."
   
        "As I told you, the wave-length will expand as the crystal heats
    up."
   
        "What color starts being dangerous?"
   
        Walter looked up from his console and stared straight ahead for a
    moment.
   
        "I'm not sure," Walter admitted. "An alarm will trigger once the
    crystal hits two hundred fifty degrees Celsius. I'm not sure what color
    that would equate to."
   
        "Try to find out, okay?"
   
        "Will do." Walter turned back to his laptop. "Shouldn't be
    difficult."
   
        A soft beep emanating from Kaethan's belt captured his attention.
    Pulling out his handphone, he noted that a personal message had just
    been logged. Once the phone was activated and a password was typed in,
    that message was downloaded and displayed on a small scrolling message
    line.
   
        "What was that sour face for?" Walter asked after a glance.
   
        "My father's on Delas. He's coming to visit."
   
        "The colonel?" Walter laughed. "Is he on leave or something?"
   
        "No. Some business that he won't talk about."
   
        "When is he coming?"
   
        "Tomorrow or the next day, he said. He doesn't know."
   
        "Well, I'd love to meet him."
   
        Kaethan shrugged.
   
        "We'll see," he only said. "I assume that you'll be busy tonight."
   
        "Very," Walter said. "Once I write up a report, my boss is treating
    these politicians to dinner and wants me to be there. I guess a funding
    vote is approaching again."
   
        "Good luck."
   
        "Oh, I think it's a lock. None of them believed that a battlelaser
    would be useful on a modern battlefield, but they've been shown."
   
        "I think the price tag influenced them, also."
   
        "It needed that just to bring them to the table," he said somewhat
    bitterly. "You heading out?"
   
        "Yeah," Kaethan said, retrieving his raincoat from a chair. "I'll
    give you a call tomorrow. Turn off the lights when you're done."
   
        "Will do. See ya."
   
        "See ya."
   
        Outside of the bunker, Kaethan had to dash through the rain a few
    steps before arriving under a concrete and steel overhang that protected
    their cars. Driving your own vehicle to the forward bunkers at the Fort
    Hilliard range required several release forms to be filled out. The
    overhang protected the vehicles against overhead shrapnel, but would not
    protect against near miss shrapnel, or direct hits. The only other
    choice was to walk, or be driven by someone else.
   
        And Kaethan hated to be driven by someone else.
   
        In fact, he hated having anything be done for him that he could do
    himself. He was told that this was the reason why he had become
    battalion commander so quickly, being only twenty-six years old, Earth
    standard. It was the nature of the military to promote their hardest
    workers into a position of delegating all their work to others. Of
    course, few soldiers in the Delassian Defense Force made the militia
    their full-time occupation, thus giving Kaethan an advantage. Most men
    on Delas were forced to devote four years of their lives in the DDF, but
    almost always quit thereafter. Many became weekend warriors, rejoining
    their battalions once a season for various training and wargames.
    Kaethan, however, joined full time. The pay sucked, he always told
    people, but the benefits were nice.
   
        The work, though, especially lately, was tiring. For the last couple
    years, it had been Kaethan's responsibility to incorporate recently
    purchased equipment into the battalion's capabilities. And
    unfortunately, with local politicians organizing the acquisitions, the
    mix of technologies was poorly considered. Delas was so far away from
    their Sector Concordiat Base at Angelrath that they had planned on
    constructing a new base here. But with the Melconian war draining away
    resources, this never materialized. And now, with the fleet away to
    who-knows-where, Delas had been told to fend for itself. Except for the
    constantly rotating Army regiments that were based at Angelrath, the
    entire sector was basically left on its own. And at this time, only his
    father's two Bolo Mark XXXs were keeping watch.
   
        Perhaps it would have been better to allow the planetary government
    to maintain its own army, Kaethan had often considered. Their recently
    elected governor, Leonard Traine, was a very respected man, honorable
    and honest. But that would never be enough for the fiercely independent
    miners and frontier farmers that made up the population of this world.
    The planetary government could never be given the opportunity to force
    its will on others, so instead, the planetary defense forces consisted
    entirely of local militias. The weapons and equipment were purchased by
    the cities, sometimes in cooperation with each other, but not always.
    Except for one mass purchase of the Metallicast Industries Templar Mark
    XI, and another of several hundred SE-12244 mining company Sealed
    Environment Haulers, the individual cities went their own ways.
   
        Walter's battlelaser project, for the first time, was an entirely
    Delassian machine, with all parts and labor drawn from the planet's
    rapidly expanding industry. Several cities were interested in it, and
    its success could be the start of a very lucrative business in this
    sector. Quite a bit of pressure was riding on Walter's shoulders, though
    you'd never see it by talking to him. Personally, Kaethan thought the
    system would be of limited use if a Melconian dreadnought suddenly
    appeared in orbit and began carving up the planet into bite-sized
    morsels. He did, however, like that most of the electronics were
    standardized, easily acquired components, making his job dramatically
    easier. If for only that, Kaethan considered this a project worth
    continuing.
   
        He'd never mention this opinion to his father, though. Of course, he
    had never known exactly what to talk to his father about. Kaethan hadn't
    met his father until he was six, though he had no memory of the event.
    The colonel's brief visit home when Kaethan was ten was made ever more
    awkward by numerous injuries that the Melconian front had inflicted upon
    him. At fourteen, after his mother had died from a sudden local illness,
    he had visited his father at a Concordiat base called Point Hermes.
    Kaethan could never find this on any star charts, but that is what
    everyone called it while he was there. Why he was told to go there, he
    had never found out. After several awkward weeks he was told to go home
    to Delas, where his sister would take care of him. The stay was
    excruciatingly boring, with little time spent with his father. The only
    enjoyment he had was talking for long hours with Chains, one of his
    father's Bolos.
   
        His father transferred to Angelrath only three years ago after most
    of his regiment was lost in a Melconian attack. Even so much closer, he
    only had visited twice since then. Most of the colonel's time had been
    spent with Kaethan's sister, Serina. This wasn't his father's fault,
    however. Kaethan had gone to extraordinary lengths to be sure that he
    was very busy during these visits. It wasn't that he harbored any
    resentment towards his father for anything, it was just that they both
    were terribly uncomfortable around each other. Kaethan's guilt for
    keeping his father at arm's length was tempered by his firm belief that
    his father felt exactly the same way.
   
        And so, as Kaethan navigated his way over the sand-swept ocean road,
    he began to mentally reorganize his next few days as inefficiently as he
    could. Rather than making more work for himself, it was always better to
    make do with what one had.
   
        Of course, it would be best if something unexpected would happen
    that would keep him very busy for the next few days. This was unlikely,
    however, on a planet as remote as Delas.
   
        Unit DBQ-0039DN has now safely made planetfall, and once again the
    last of the 39th Terran Lancers are reunited. Although we remain at low
    alert status, we are eager to begin our latest assignment, and have
    begun a complete strategic analysis of the Delassian defense network.
    This, perhaps, exceeds our Commander's direction, but the latest events
    are certain signs of imminent danger to this planet. That Unit DBQ and
    myself are the only Bolos assigned to the protection of this entire
    sector is testament to the respect and trust that the 39th has so
    painfully earned in its nearly six-hundred-year history.
   
        Our first task has been completed and Commander Ishida is now
    reviewing our report on our probing of this planet's defenses. All
    active and passive arrays listed in their Planetary Defense Summary
    submitted to the Concordiat last year have been detected and seem to be
    operating satisfactorily. The maintenance logs on their orbital arrays
    report timely repairs completed without incident, and no system failures
    within the last five standard years. My subtronic probe of the arrays
    and planetary sensor grid triggered the appropriate alarms, and an
    appropriate challenge from Delas' planetary defense complex at
    Blackstone Ridge. I thus concluded that the present planetary defenses
    are well maintained and operated.
   
        But they are woefully inadequate.
   
        A secure defense network is an admittedly difficult task on a
    planetary surface that is nearly ninety-percent ocean and widely
    unpopulated. Delas has only two large landmasses, Oradin and Deladin,
    with only the latter being significantly colonized. Nearly all five
    million of Delas' population is concentrated in about twenty city-states
    on this continent, stretching from 62 degrees north, to 55 degrees south
    of the equator. Delas' only operating Hellbore defense battery is
    located in northern Deladin, protecting the majority of the cities that
    are there. Work on the Cape Storm ground battery in southern Deladin
    seems to be stalled for unknown reasons. This leaves vast tracts of open
    skies available for orbital insertions of ground troops. Most of the
    planetary defense budget has instead been spent on local militias,
    equipping their soldiers with weapons of varied quality. It would have
    been far wiser to spend this money applying firepower on the approaches
    to this planet, rather than equipping their soldiers for combat after an
    invader has landed.
   
        Unit DBQ and myself have detailed these concerns with our Commander
    in the report he is now reading, though we are certain that he has been
    as troubled by these inadequacies as we have been. Our arrival at the
    much smaller equatorial starport of Starveil, instead of the northern
    planetary capital of Argus, gives the 39th the best range of fire over
    all of Deladin's skies, north and south. The Beischal Savannah to the
    south of Starveil provides a wide expanse of open field, rare on Delas,
    where we can maneuver freely to evade orbital bombardment. Colonel
    Ishida deploys us well, and we will do our best to make do with the
    advantages he has given us.
   
        The dark shape cruised slowly under the rain-swept wavetops, its
    meter high black dorsal fin barely making a wake. Distant lights on the
    rocky shoreline illuminated a small complex of buildings surrounded by
    an electrified security fence. Lightning flashed occasionally in the
    stormy sky, making visible a concrete viaduct that led from the sea into
    one of these buildings.
   
        It was there that the seven-meter long shape was heading.
   
        The entrance to the viaduct was barricaded by thick titanium bars,
    but these slid back into the concrete walls as the shape approached.
    Then, as the massive form passed by, the bars emerged once again to
    secure the channel. No one noticed the immense fin as it sailed up to
    the building and into the large pool underneath it, not even a dark
    haired woman who was busily cataloging a pile of seashells by the
    poolside. She was lying back in a full-length reclining chair, the wet
    shells held in her lap, drying on her long skirt of white cotton almost
    as sheer as a spiderweb. The blue shirt and shorts that she wore
    displayed the wave logo of the Telville Oceanographic Institute where
    she worked. Her smooth, rounded Asian face was contorted in fierce
    concentration as she sketched an image of a brightly colored shell into
    her notepad, capturing all its contours and creases, oblivious to all
    other things around her. The woman's dark brown eyes studied the shell's
    smallest details and relayed them to her sketch with precision that
    their simple photographic equipment had trouble capturing.
   
        Only when the beast exhaled a blast of air did the woman jump out of
    her seat, sending her notebook crashing to the floor, and shells
    scattering across the tiles.
   
        "Hello, Serina," said an amused female voice from the pool speakers.
   
   
        Serina Ishida's heart was beating at an astounding pace, and her
    eyes were wide with fright, but after a couple of shallow breaths she
    began to laugh. It struggled at first, but her laugh grew quickly as her
    lungs relaxed once again. Only then could it be seen how strikingly
    beautiful the woman was as she smiled broadly.
   
        On the table next to her was a small black transmitter the size of
    her palm. After taking a big breath, she reached for it and spoke into
    it.
   
        "Kuro, please . . ." Serina struggled for another breath, "please do
    not ever do that again. I thought you were a daeger."
   
        The orca rose up from the water and nodded its head in delight,
    sending small waves to lap up against the smooth tiled walls of the
    pool.
   
        "Daeger would never come here," said the voice from the speakers.
    "You are foolish."
   
        Serina's laugh quieted to deep breaths as she retrieved her
    notebook, and sat back down again. Tears had formed in her eyes and she
    wiped them away. As much as she disliked being called foolish, Kuro was
    right. Daeger were territorial creatures and wouldn't be wandering the
    shoreline like this. And as large as daeger were, they couldn't break
    through the titanium bars protecting the viaduct.
   
        "You only left last night," Serina spoke into her transmitter, "what
    are you doing back?"
   
        "I found a reef full of those colorful eels that you wanted."
   
        "Really! That's wonderful! Can you locate it on the computer map?"
   
        "I already have. Will you want to go there tomorrow?"
   
        Serina sighed heavily and shook her head. The creatures were called
    "painted eels," and the local fishermen had often complained that they
    would sometimes congregate in a pack and shred their nets to get at
    their haul. This kind of behavior had never been documented before from
    these normally solitary creatures. She imagined that the sight of these
    bright red, yellow, and lavender eels swarming would be incredible.
   
        "No, sorry. I'll be very busy. You and Peter will have to go alone."
   
   
        Her colleague Peter Sallison never especially liked photo
    assignments, but he'd use any excuse to take the institute's
    thirty-meter jetboat out for a cruise.
   
        "Sad," said the voice from the speakers, though Serina didn't
    believe it for a minute. She suspected that Kuro had a crush on Peter.
    "Why will you be busy?"
   
        "My father is visiting. I have to prepare a few things."
   
        "The colonel is on Delas?"
   
        Serina was surprised that Kuro had remembered her mentioning him,
    but then scolded herself for being so anthropomorphic. The psychotronic
    enhancements that Kuro had surgically implanted in her not only gave her
    a near-human intelligence, but also a super-human memory.
   
        "Yes, my father Colonel Ishida is on Delas. He'll be visiting me,
    and I need to make sure that Kaethan comes also so we're all together
    for a while."
   
        "Is this a female duty?" Kuro asked. It was a common question of
    hers as she tried to make sense of human society.
   
        "It is in my family," Serina responded despondently. "Kaethan and my
    father don't get along very well, but I think I can fix things."
   
        "Families should remain together," Kuro said simply.
   
        "Yes, they should," Serina responded just as simply, not wanting to
    explain any further. "I'd like you stay in the area for the next couple
    days so I can introduce you to my father when he visits with Kaethan.
    I've told him so much about you in my messages."
   
        "Will they swim?"
   
        "Kaethan might this time, but you'd have to be gentle with him if he
    wants to play. He's not as good as Peter is."
   
        Kuro loved playing in the water with Serina and Peter. The orca was
    gentle with her, but with Peter their play had lately gotten quite
    acrobatic.
   
        "I'll be careful, Serina. Did you want to play now?"
   
        "Oh . . ." Serina moaned. "I have to finish cataloging these
    seashells from Oradin for Professor Kilby. Then I have to call Kaethan's
    commander and tell him to give my brother the next couple days off."
   
        "He'll do what you say?" Kuro didn't hide her confusion.
   
        "Well, he said that he would when I danced with him at Kaethan's
    promotion celebration last year."
   
        Kaethan hadn't even told his father that he was given command of his
    heavy armor battalion. His commander, Colonel Neils, was surprised that
    Colonel Ishida wasn't there. Serina was just plain angry.
   
        "Then you'll play?"
   
        Serina had been planning to leave early today to go shopping. She
    also wanted to make dinner reservations for the next couple nights,
    though she knew it would be difficult on such short notice. As much as
    she'd like a nice swim about now, she really didn't have the time. It
    was so difficult to say "no" to Kuro, though.
   
        "The shells might take a couple hours," Serina warned her.
   
        "I'll wait."
   
        Serina looked mournfully at the giant black and white head that
    bobbed in the water. It would be impossible to work while being watched
    like this. Distant thunder reminded her of how miserable it was outside,
    and the rain showers wouldn't be passing by until nightfall. Shopping
    would be difficult in weather like this, and she could do the calls
    tonight when she got home.
   
        "I have to get my swimsuit," she suddenly announced.
   
        The monstrous Bolos were parked on the edge of the starport tarmac,
    their cannons overlooking the kilometers of green scrubgrass of the
    Beischal Savannah that stretched out to the south of the starport. The
    white serrated edges of the scrubgrass flashed in the sporadic sunlight
    as the wind passed in waves over the flat landscape. On a clear day one
    could see the very tops of the mountains of southern Deladin from here,
    but today the mists grew dark to the south, shrouding the horizon.
   
        Captain Reginald Brooks had never seen a Bolo firsthand before, and
    the sight was intimidating. Concordiat Army recruiters often visited
    Delas, bringing their deadliest and most impressive gravtanks to sway
    students away from joining the local Guard units. But even their
    mightiest siege cruisers would seem insignificant next to a Bolo Mark
    XXX. Its 110cm Hellbore was capable of delivering 2.75 megatons of
    precision firepower per second, capable of shattering any known armor.
    But even without that, the Bolos looked as if they could just crush
    anything that they rolled over. That something so big, and wielding so
    much firepower, was alive and thinking was unnerving. It didn't help
    matters when he saw a couple ion bolt turrets swivel in his direction as
    he approached in his vehicle. Out of instinct, his foot hit the brake
    hard, skidding his tires briefly.
   
        The remaining distance to the Bolos was traveled more slowly. This
    seemed to appease the turrets, which stopped tracking his vehicle's
    motion.
   
        Reginald had not been told about the arrival of these war machines
    until midafternoon, when General Rokoyan had called personally to give
    him his orders. The Concordiat colonel's arrival had been expected at
    Argus, not Starveil, it seemed. Donning his DDC issue light gray
    uniform, Captain Brooks raced off to the starport to offer Colonel
    Ishida transportation, and whatever else the man might need.
   
        The vehicle that he drove was a land-car, powered by a simple power
    cell and therefore was somewhat small and light. The few grav-cars that
    sailed through the sky were all transit authority shuttles and city
    emergency vehicles. Few grav-cars were owned by individual citizens, as
    the city feared such unrestricted and uncontrolled air travel. A DDC
    insignia marked his car to be owned by the Delassian Defense Command,
    and Reginald was very careful driving it. He was a clean-shaven model
    officer, as he was often described in his performance reviews, and he
    was genuinely proud of it. The valuable solid platinum captain circlets
    on his high collar, standard issue on the metal rich planet of Delas,
    reflected brightly next to his black skin and short, cropped black hair.
   
   
        Except for a few brief squalls, today's storms had passed Starveil
    to the south. It was now late afternoon, and massive thunderheads still
    flashed and rumbled in the distance. The orange Delassian sun shined
    through the dark clouds at times, creating a rainbow to the east of them
    where light rains still fell over the ocean there. Captain Brooks was
    thankful for the weather, since the starport's tarmac was unbearably hot
    on sunny days. On Delas, people appreciated the rain and didn't mind
    getting wet.
   
        Still, the puddle that Reginald stepped into when leaving his
    vehicle soaked his sock, and he hated that.
   
        "Good afternoon, Captain."
   
        Brooks was surprised at the sudden appearance of the Concordiat
    colonel, rounding the backside of the Bolo. There must be some hatch
    back there, he assumed.
   
        "Good day, Colonel. Welcome to Delas."
   
        "Thank you. It's been a couple years since I've been here."
   
        At the appropriate distance, Colonel Ishida stopped and exchanged
    salutes with Brooks; then they shook hands. Brooks' dark black skin and
    large hand contrasted with Toman's small, white hand.
   
        "Then I won't bore you with the planetary briefing that I was told
    to give you," Captain Brooks told him. "General Rokoyan was surprised
    that you landed at Starveil instead of Argus. He was looking forward to
    showing you around our Blackstone Defense Complex."
   
        "I'm not here to make inspections, Captain," Ishida said with a
    pleasant smile. "Starveil is more centrally located on your world. It
    was better to station my Bolos here."
   
        Reginald once again looked over the massive hull that towered over
    him.
   
        "Of course, we appreciate your help, though I'm not sure I
    understand the necessity."
   
        "Perhaps we should get out of the heat to talk."
   
        "Of course. But one thing . . ." The captain pointed up high onto
    the black turret of the Bolo, where there was a silver and blood-red
    shield emblazoned with a shadowy figure in black robes, wielding a fiery
    hammer. "Your insignia has the English shield design of a regimental
    strength unit, yet there are only two Bolos on your roster. Or do I have
    my Concordiat heraldry all wrong?"
   
        "You don't," Toman said, shaking his head. "Chains and Quarter are
    the only Bolos left from the regiment. Angelrath is temporary assignment
    until they decide whether to reconstitute the 39th."
   
        "Only two left? Do you think they'll do it?"
   
        "The 39th was formed almost six hundred years ago from three
    brigades of Mark Nineteens. They've fought on the battlefields of
    sixteen interstellar wars, and settled countless conflicts. We'd be
    losing a great deal of history if we broke them up now."
   
        "Aren't Mark Thirties out-of-date?"
   
        "Chains and Quarter each have over two hundred sixty years fighting
    experience, upgraded to Mark Thirties over a century ago from
    Twenty-Eights. It would be smartest to upgrade them again and re-form
    the 39th around them."
   
        "Rather than wasting them garrisoning a far-off outpost?" Reginald
    completed the colonel's point.
   
        "Exactly." The colonel agreed without expression.
   
        Reginald chuckled and looked up at the insignia again.
   
        "What does . . . what does that Latin say on the insignia."
   
        "It means 'Stand and be Judged,' " said the colonel, again without
    expression.
   
        Reginald's right eyebrow rose, then he nodded and turned back to his
    vehicle.
   
        "Hop in," the captain offered. "I'll take you back to the DDC base
    where you can requisition a vehicle for your stay on Delas."
   
        As Toman walked around the vehicle and got in, he mentally reviewed
    this planet's military structure again. The "DDC" stood for the
    Delassian Defense Command, which meant that the captain was employed
    with the planetary government. The "DDF" were the Delassian Defense
    Forces, which were the local militias. The DDC had no standing troops,
    though the cities always agreed to lend them their formations for
    special assignments, if absolutely necessary.
   
        He remembered from previous discussions with his son that the DDF
    and DDC didn't always get along.
   
        Captain Brooks' vehicle was soundless as its power cell sped them
    over the tarmac, back towards the starport's terminal. A passenger
    aircraft was landing at the far side of the airport, with another
    waiting to take off on a crossing runway. The cargo shuttle to the
    Aragonne Isabelle would not be coming back to Starveil on this trip.
    Most of Delassian's merchant trade passed through Argus, or Reims on
    Deladin's southeastern shore.
   
        "So why does Angelrath suddenly think we need a couple Bolos to
    protect us?"
   
        Colonel Ishida was surprised that the captain hadn't heard. Had the
    DDC buried the event, he wondered? The thought occurred to him that
    certain people might not wish him to talk freely about this, but Toman
    always hated secrets.
   
        "Almost two standard weeks ago, an alien probe was caught tailing
    the Ulysses Eridanis as it approached Angelrath, coming from Delas."
   
        "Yes, I heard about that." The captain remained unenlightened.
    "Didn't it self-destruct when you closed in on it?"
   
        Colonel Ishida hesitated a moment as the significance of both events
    seemed to be lost on the captain.
   
        "Yes," Toman said pointedly, "which identified it as a military
    probe sent to gather intelligence. We've caught other probes from these
    aliens, but all were barely trans-light and relatively low-tech. This
    one was different."
   
        "You believe that the probe was sent as a prelude to an invasion?"
   
        "Unfortunately, yes," the colonel said. "Their initial probes found
    us. From that point they could have either pulled back from contact,
    sent a diplomatic envoy, or prepared to attack. That last probe was
    assuredly meant for the latter."
   
        "Are all planets in this sector being mobilized?"
   
        "No. If their hammer falls, it will likely be here. Your Firecracker
    Nebula plays havoc with our deep space detectors, but sporadic
    communications traffic, and projected courses of these probes, seem to
    point directly to the nebula. And Delas is, by far, the closest colony
    we have to the nebula."
   
        "Does General Rokoyan know all of this?"
   
        "Rear Admiral Santi at Angelrath is communicating to him daily over
    the SWIFT channels, from what I've heard."
   
        This shut Brooks up. The captain obviously felt slighted at not
    being fully informed about the danger that Delas was in.
   
        The pair remained quiet as Captain Brooks dodged traffic around the
    terminal, and then drove through security at the starport's main gate.
    Many factories and industrial complexes had sprung up around the
    starport since the last time Ishida had been at Starveil. It was
    impressive to see so much construction underway. Huge cranes were
    lifting gigantic support beams while small swarms of construction robots
    welded the frames together within fountains of sparks. Great plots of
    scrubgrass were being cleared away, laying bare the savannah soil that
    had been long ago judged useless to the plantation owners. Given another
    century, Toman considered, Delas could very well be the industrial
    powerhouse running this entire sector. It certainly had the raw
    materials for it, and now it was building the manufacturing foundations.
   
   
        The four-lane highway coming from the south had little traffic on it
    as they increased speed on the on ramp. This changed, though, as they
    approached the tall buildings of central Starveil. Such concentration of
    population only confirmed how the planet's work force was rapidly
    converting from mining and agriculture to manufacturing and service.
   
        "I was told to ask you," the captain spoke up once they were on the
    highway, "whether your Bolos were going to be poking around our defense
    network anymore."
   
        "No." The colonel smiled. "We've done all the poking around that we
    needed. Your network is well maintained and operated, I was told."
   
        "Thank you." The captain was gracious. "General Rokoyan will be
    pleased to hear that, though he was very upset at the time."
   
        "Do you talk with him often?"
   
        "Me? No, not anymore. I used to work for him at Blackstone, so he
    knows me personally. But he rarely ever leaves the place, or has any
    reason to talk to anyone outside of it."
   
        "What do you do here?"
   
        "I'm the liaison between the DDC and the Starveil DDF. All cities
    have at least one. We try to organize cooperation between the cities in
    their wargames and acquisition of equipment. It's more work than you'd
    think."
   
        Colonel Ishida nodded, understanding.
   
        Ishida was distracted by an impressive site as Brooks turned off the
    highway. Although the colonel had landed at Starveil several times, he
    had never had the opportunity to cross the old-style suspension bridge
    that spanned the Delas River. He had seen it from a distance several
    times, but never had reason to visit the northeast section of the city.
    It certainly was not the largest suspension bridge ever created, but it
    was a rare opportunity to see one outside of Earth.
   
        As the bridge rose higher and higher, the distant treeline north of
    the city became visible. The jungle beyond was an unbroken mass of dark
    green vegetation stretching to the horizon. Turning east, the colonel
    could just make out the ocean coast beyond the river delta. As the
    colonel looked down at the barges and ocean transports that were
    travelling Delas' largest river, Brooks continued to discuss the
    difficulties of his job.
   
        "It's gotten better lately, but the cities insist on viewing each
    other as competitors," the captain was saying. "All of the large mining
    corporations that first colonized this world staked out their claims,
    populated their cities, and have been in each other's face ever since.
    Getting them to work together under any circumstance is frustrating,
    even for planetary defense."
   
        "Still no nukes?"
   
        "Not yet." Brooks shook his head. "For now the cities are just
    concentrating on the Hellbore turrets. They're still uneasy about
    letting the DDC control any thermonuclear warheads."
   
        "But they don't mind the ground batteries?"
   
        "Nope. The Hellbore turrets are fine since they can't be used
    against ground targets. We're even trying to get various local high-tech
    industries involved in the Cape Storm battery, but that has made the
    progress slow. We're hoping that the next battery will have completely
    Delassian components."
   
        A noble goal, Toman thought, but not worth the delay in getting
    those turrets operational.
   
        "When will Cape Storm become operational?" Toman asked.
   
        "Next year, sometime, was the last date that I saw."
   
        Toman grunted acknowledgement, and grew reflective. Captain Brooks
    continued discussing his problems with local corporations, but Toman
    paid little attention to it.
   
        Before she died, Maria Ishida was a well-known name in Delassian
    political circles. She had often written long letters to him telling of
    the bureaucratic battles that she was in, just as he sent her news of
    the battles of the 39th. Maria would write her letters with the same
    language and terminology he used, though he never thought that she was
    mocking him. It was a game that she played with a soldier's
    determination and guile. Often she'd be working against the very
    corporation that she was employed by, Telsteel Industries, the core of
    Telville's commerce. On Delas, politics and business were often the
    same. To her, the fierce competition between the cities was what was
    driving Delas' rapid advancement. Although the powerful corporations
    might be a royal pain to the local governments, Delas would never have
    grown so powerful, so quickly, without them.
   
        Somewhere there must be a balance, Toman thought. Maria, though,
    just believed that a civilization grew in stages. Brooks had admitted
    that things continued to get better. The power of the local corporations
    was waning. Now it was time for the city governments to take control of
    the politics. Maria had seen this beginning twelve years before, and
    perhaps she had planted many of the seeds.
   
        Colonel Ishida worried, though, that their growing season was over,
    and this harvest would happen far too soon.
   
        "This is a foolhardy plan, Is-kaldai Keertra."
   
        The entry into the dark room by Ad-akradai Irriessa had not gone
    unnoticed by the crimson-robed figure sitting motionless at his wide
    command console. Keertra, however, didn't bother turning away from the
    crisp image of a white and blue planet that was projected onto a massive
    display on the rear wall. Irriessa strode quickly from the door to stand
    directly before the console, and his dark and leathery, lizardlike skin
    twitched uncontrollably in his frustration. Bulging muscles covered a
    humanoid frame that stood over seven feet tall. Still, Keertra did not
    face the enraged commander, even though Irriessa was the servant of his
    most hated rival, Is-kaldai Riffen. Their long and slender surias, most
    assuredly drawn on sight before the mission, remained strapped to their
    sides, blades unbloodied.
   
        "I use only my own troops, Irriessa. Why do you complain?"
   
        "Your soldiers, as vile as they are, may be needed later."
   
        Keertra could not smile at the insult, for his face had limited
    contortions. The Kezdai's deep-set, bright green eyes and dark beak were
    almost eaglelike, frozen for a lifetime in nearly the same cold
    expression. His protruding eyebrows, however, narrowed a fraction. And
    his cobralike hood, which cooled his blood in his homeworld's desert
    heat, expanded noticeably as the blood vessels within protruded and
    pulsed.
   
        "You still remain ignorant, Irriessa, of our mission. None of our
    soldiers are to return from this raid. So says the pact we have agreed
    to."
   
        "Our mission is to learn, Is-kaldai, not to die needlessly. You are
    reckless."
   
        "And you are insipid. Wars require planning, but victories need
    daring. It is because of those like you that we have remained idle for
    so long while these aliens fortify."
   
        Ad-akradai Irriessa did not react to this slight. As commander of
    Is-kaldai Riffen's elite troops for thirty cycles, he was a Kezdai that
    was secure with his priorities and capabilities. His dark blue and white
    robe was adorned with the jewel incrusted medallions of countless
    battles, personal and on the field. This was, however, the flag bridge
    of Keertra's personal warship, the Mirreskol. If he were to let this
    trading of insults continue, he would have no support for his version of
    what happened next.
   
        Still, many times he had been alone with Keertra within this room,
    and each time the thought of ripping the Is-kaldai's throat out hounded
    his every thought. The fiercely loyal guards that were stationed outside
    the doors could never react in time to save their leader. This small
    chamber was the most protected part of the ship, where Keertra could
    watch all things and command what he needed, without being bothered by
    the annoying details that the ship's captain was meant to deal with. To
    many of the Is-kaldai, however, the flag bridge was but a place to hide,
    away from the knives of their overly ambitious subordinates and
    determined enemies. It amazed Irriessa that Keertra continued to allow
    him in.
   
        "Will you be accompanying this insertion?" Irriessa asked without
    emotion.
   
        Keertra was silent for a long while before answering. Irriessa
    waited patiently, determined not to be aggravated. The Ad-akradai was
    sure that this silence was meant to irritate him, rather than Keertra
    reflecting on a decision yet to be made.
   
        "I have not decided yet. Any more questions?"
   
        An amused look passed over Irriessa's face for just a moment as he
    saw his nemesis cower, but not admit it.
   
        "No, Is-kaldai. I will leave now."
   
        Before he left, however, Irriessa looked up at the projected planet
    that had the Is-kaldai so enamored. He tried, but could not figure out
    what Keertra could possibly be so interested in with distant images
    taken by a probe two years before. But everything that this Kezdai did
    baffled him no end. As Is-kaldai of the Mirrek clan, Keertra was member
    of the Kezdai ruling Council, and everything he touched invariably
    became entwined with obscure ulterior motives and hidden agendas. This
    would not be so confusing except that Keertra so rarely seemed to
    benefit from them. Until Keertra volunteered for this mission, Irriessa
    truly believed that his only purpose was to sow discord throughout their
    ruling body. But now he was baffled again, for if this mission were
    successful, the Council and the Kezdai race in general would be as
    united as they never were before. Keertra's accomplishment would be
    honored initially, but would leave him with a crippled military, and he
    would be forgotten once the real war began. Irriessa's clan leader,
    Is-kaldai Riffen, gladly agreed to share the same fate just to see his
    age-old enemy so declawed.
   
        This was all very confusing to Irriessa. It was he who spoke the
    loudest in favor of a mission such as this, and then he was shocked to
    his core at who suddenly answered his call. And then he was shocked
    again when Keertra, in memory of traditions long since abandoned,
    insisted that the aging Mor-verridai, their almost powerless relic of an
    emperor, cast his blessings upon their troops before departing. To the
    surprise of everyone, Keertra declared that their ignored figurehead of
    a leader should be given back great power at a time when unity was so
    needed. All of this pleased Irriessa and a great many other soldiers,
    though everyone knew that the Council would never comply. The
    Mor-verridai and his corrupt clan could never be allowed true power ever
    again. Keertra knew this, and yet he still spoke out, once again sowing
    discord in the name of harmony.
   
        With a shake of his head, the Ad-akradai somberly left the dark
    room.
   
        Keertra did not respond as he heard the footsteps turn and walk out
    the door. Neither did he turn when he heard the more familiar footsteps
    of his own commander approaching. This distracted aura of superiority
    was a carefully practiced art for Keertra, but for once it was not on
    purpose. The Is-kaldai had been sleepless for days, and his mind was now
    beginning to feel the strain. Concentrating on the image before him was
    relaxing. It truly was a beautiful planet, and the Kezdai had so few.
   
        "What do you want, Khoriss?" Keertra demanded.
   
        "I overheard your discussion." Khoriss paused a moment for any
    reaction. None came. "What do you plan to do with him, if I may ask?"
   
        "Irriessa? He will be useful. He will be very useful, I believe."
   
        "Irriessa is intelligent, and will be on guard against your plans."
   
        "He is intelligent, Khoriss. But you make the same mistake that he
    makes. Intelligence does not preclude gullibility. Have faith, Khoriss."
   
   
        Ad-akradai Khoriss sighed and his cobra hood deflated.
   
        "I will try, Is-kaldai."
   
        Captain Kaethan Ishida arrived late the next morning at Fort
    Hilliard. The sky was overcast, but wasn't raining yet. Most of the
    storms would pass to the north, the forecasters told, hitting Starveil
    the hardest. Without the rain, however, the temperature was expected to
    rise to almost one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. It was a Monday, with
    Delas assuming the common week schedule that humans had worked by for
    centuries. On Delas, however, each day was almost thirty-one standard
    hours long, with two hundred sixty-four of these days in a local year.
   
        The drive from his home to the fort followed an extraordinarily
    beautiful stretch of roadway, running along the white sand shoreline of
    the Alabaster Coast. The Telville suburb that grew so quickly along this
    stretch of road was named for the beach, and had done a superb job of
    keeping the beaches clean for the resort trade that they hoped to
    inspire. The vibrant green Delassian ferns that lined the roadway held
    back the sands from blowing over the pavement. Rose bushes, imported
    from earth, added further color to the dominant white and grays of this
    region.
   
        His sister Serina, who lived north of Telville, had called him the
    night before and left a message. After debating with himself for a while
    on whether to listen to it or not, he finally decided to and found out
    the plans that Serina had for them all. Aside from the normal shared
    dinners with her and his father, she also had nebulous plans for some
    touring of south Deladin. It did not sound fun.
   
        Kaethan left a quick message back with Serina saying that he'd do
    the best that he could, but that he was very busy at the fort and didn't
    know for how many of these excursions he'd be free. His untold plan, for
    the next few days, was to share a couple dinners with them, but little
    more.
   
        As Kaethan approached the security gate in his vehicle, one of the
    guards on duty traded a few jokes with his buddy and then approached
    him. His gauss rifle was displayed prominently, though there was a smirk
    on his face.
   
        "What's up, Jake?" Kaethan asked, knowing something strange was
    happening.
   
        "Sorry, Kaethan. I can't let you through."
   
        "And why not?" Kaethan played along.
   
        "Direct orders from Colonel Neils. You are officially on leave for
    the next two days."
   
        "Bullshit, Jake."
   
        "No, sir. Orders from the top."
   
        "Just open up the gate, Jake."
   
        "Don't make me shoot you, Captain."
   
        Kaethan knew that was coming. The phrase was Jake's trademark,
    possibly said in response to the fact that nobody could imagine Jake
    ever shooting anyone. Although the same age as Kaethan, the MP's blond
    hair and boyish face was as nonthreatening as one could get. Jake was
    friend with everyone, and constantly playing practical jokes on people.
   
        This time, however, the amused grin that Jake was wearing told
    Kaethan that this was real. If this was a practical joke, then Jake
    would be dead serious.
   
        "Okay, what's going on?" Kaethan demanded.
   
        "All I was told was that if I messed up the colonel's dance with
    your sister at your next promotion, I'd be walking bunker duty for the
    rest of my life."
   
        "That explains it." Kaethan nodded.
   
        Jake just smiled.
   
        A conspiracy was obviously at work.
   
        After shaking his head mournfully, Captain Ishida backed away from
    the gate and turned around. Kaethan knew that his sister was pissed at
    him for not inviting his father to his promotion celebration last year,
    and he did feel guilty about that. This, however, was an entirely new,
    and unexpected, level of deviousness that Serina was showing. Kaethan
    reluctantly admitted defeat this round, and would play along with
    Serina's plans, no matter what disasters awaited. Perhaps some lessons
    would be learned, perhaps not. All he had to do was suffer a couple days
    of discomfort around his father, and then things would be back to
    normal.
   
        Colonel Ishida arrived at the Telville Oceanographic Institute with
    help from an onboard computer in his vehicle. The institute was
    constructed along the rocky coastline northwest of Telville, with only a
    simple gravel and seashell road running ten miles through dense
    rainforest and difficult terrain up to its electrified gate. Although
    the highways connecting the major cities had been completed many years
    before, the secondary roads outside of the cities were still being
    worked on.
   
        As Toman approached the gate, he wound down the window, letting the
    cool conditioned air out in a rush. It would be several days before he
    got used to the Delassian heat, but at least he was prepared for it with
    the lightest uniform material that was allowed. Over the next several
    weeks, there would be a noticeable drop in temperature as the planet
    entered its nightwinter season, but still the average temperature drop
    was only twenty degrees. A true winter season would then follow another
    "late" summer, as Delas' elliptical orbit would carry it even farther
    from the sun. Even then, the average temperature dropped only about
    forty degrees. There was so little tilt of the planet's axis that all
    seasons were felt equally planet wide.
   
        "Colonel Ishida?" said a cute female voice.
   
        The small black box rising next to him on a metal pole spoke to him
    before he had a chance to ring their buzzer. Out of instinct Toman
    searched for, and found, the camera mounted over the gate.
   
        "That is correct," he replied to the box.
   
        "We have been expecting you," said the voice.
   
        With a loud clanking, the metal chain-linked gate began rolling out
    of his way. After waiting for it to clear the road, the colonel drove
    forward onto a paved road that led into a parking lot. The gate closed
    quickly behind him.
   
        Colonel Ishida knew quite well the value of the electrified fence on
    Delas. All installations outside of the monitored borders of a city had
    to be protected from the seyzarrs that stalked the land. All parts of
    Deladin had them, though there were many subspecies. No other native
    wildlife had yet made as complete evolution from sea life to land
    dwellers that the seyzarr had. And unfortunately, they were carnivores.
    The largest weighed as much as a metric ton, though those were rare.
    Most were the size of a large Earth boar, with savage claws used for
    hunting and climbing trees, and a bone-hard outer skeleton. They had yet
    to be taught to fear humans, and probably never would.
   
        The buildings of the institute were beautifully constructed, with
    shell-like curves and spirals in their design and decorations. Nearly a
    dozen young men and women were eating out on picnic tables on the lawn,
    most likely students by the computers that they all carried with them.
    Many butterflies of bright colors fluttered around the buildings here.
    Although there were several Earth creatures that were being introduced
    to this world, the butterflies were not one of them. They were
    completely native, with biology so similar to their Earth counterparts,
    that no scientific distinction was thought necessary. The first
    surveyors were stunned by their existence, and many of the colonists
    considered their presence as a sign that humans were meant to be here
    also.
   
        Toman had been told to look for the "main entrance," and since there
    was no sign in sight, he just chose a large set of doors that had a
    stone sculpture of an ocean wave in front. As he approached, he was
    rewarded with the sight of his daughter's face appearing in the glass
    door.
   
        Just as she opened the door to greet him, his fieldcomm buzzed.
    Toman groaned at the bad timing. Serina sighed with a knowing smile, and
    remained silent as Toman answered the call. He did, however, come inside
    the cool lobby before saying anything.
   
        "What is it, Chains?"
   
        "An event of interest," said Chains cryptically.
   
        "Quickly."
   
        "An unscheduled transport has jumped into the star system without
    any identification beacon, but is following the correct approach
    pattern."
   
        "How big is it?"
   
        "About two hundred thousand tons."
   
        "Could be private. Is Delas attempting communications?"
   
        "Not yet."
   
        Toman chewed on his lip briefly as he thought about it.
   
        "Well, call me back if they don't soon."
   
        "Yes, Commander. Chains out."
   
        The colonel folded his fieldcomm, and then gave his daughter a brief
    hug. Serina hugged him back fiercely, then let go and stepped back. Her
    mother had been of European descent, but even with all the Asian
    trademarks that he had given her, Serina still looked so much like
    Maria. Maybe it was the navy blue eyes. Or perhaps how her hair was so
    straight and long, exactly like her mother had worn hers.
   
        It had been only two years since he had last seen Serina, but he
    didn't remember such a resemblance last time.
   
        "You're looking good, Daddy."
   
        "I was about to say the same about you, Serina. Is Kaethan around?"
   
        "He should be here in about an hour. I got a reply from him just
    before I was told you were coming through the gate."
   
        "Should we wait for him before going on the tour?"
   
        "No. He's been here before and met Kuro."
   
        "Ah yes, the killer whale that you wrote to me about . . ."
   
        "Please say 'orca' around Kuro, Daddy. We don't want to give her a
    complex."
   
        "Of course." He was just playing with Serina, anyway. "Where do you
    want to start?"
   
        "Not here. I want to save this building for last because Kuro's in
    the pool downstairs. We'll start with the labs."
   
        "Sounds good."
   
        Serina was thirty years old now, and he had never asked her whether
    she was ever getting married. She mentioned boyfriends, off and on, in
    her letters, but he never asked about them. In some ways he was very
    curious. In others, he really didn't want to know. He was happy that she
    was so selective about men, but hoped that she was still happy. Luckily
    the colonel never had to worry about what to talk about when he was with
    his daughter. Serina would decide for him.
   
        It was time to relax and enjoy the ride.
   
        It has been 10.0449103 minutes since the unidentified transport
    arrived in the star system and only now is Blackstone Complex beginning
    to challenge the intruder. This is an entirely unacceptable reaction
    time to a potential danger. And our threat circuits continue to trip as
    no response has yet to be received from the transport.
   
        We continue to monitor data supplied about the intruder from the
    orbital security arrays, but without an alert being triggered, the
    arrays will not ignite their fusion reactors for a more powerful scan.
    Instead, the data that we are fed is limited to simple gravitic
    curvature and energy emissions. With this we are only able to discern
    that it is a large transport with a simple dynomagnetic fusion drive
    that is at least two centuries behind current technology. Many such
    transports continue to operate, however, for private ventures. This fact
    supports my Commander's speculation that this may be a poorly maintained
    merchantman with equipment failure. But this is no excuse for not
    scheduling their arrival over SWIFT channels beforehand.
   
        We will wait two more minutes for a response from this intruder
    before we contact our Commander once again. At present approach
    velocity, we predict entry into Delassian orbit in 39.20 minutes. It is
    impossible, as of yet, to tell whether the transport may attempt
    atmospheric insertion.
   
        The tour of the institute was somewhat whirlwind, as Serina seemed
    in a hurry to get him back to the main building. Their sea-life tanks
    were not designed for aesthetic viewing of the creatures therein, though
    Serina told him that a local zoo was being constructed with a large
    marine section planned. She'd be heavily involved in the design phase,
    she told him.
   
        What she really wanted to do was introduce him to Kuro, whom she was
    telling him about now as they walked back to the building.
   
        "So, anyway," Serina was saying, "my lawyer friend Barry said that
    we should take Nautilus Enterprises to court and see what happened. The
    planetary constitution never specified 'Humans' under its labor laws,
    and he thought that the judges would rule in the orcas' favor."
   
        "So Nautilus had to start paying them." Toman hurried the
    conversation along.
   
        "Exactly, though Kuro decided to come here instead."
   
        "Did they appeal?"
   
        "No. It wasn't likely that they'd get anywhere. Not on this planet.
    Besides, the money that they're paying their two orcas isn't close to
    the money that they would have had to pay their lawyers."
   
        A question occurred to him just then that he had to ask.
   
        "What do they do with their money?"
   
        "Everybody asks me that." Serina laughed. "They all have their own
    accounts that they can do with what they want. But I know that almost
    all their money goes directly into a fund we have for shipping more
    orcas from Earth. It's very expensive."
   
        "Almost all?"
   
        "Well, I do know of one political contribution that Kuro made last
    year."
   
        Colonel Ishida didn't know if he liked that or not. The orcas
    shouldn't be allowed to manipulate the process from outside . . .
   
        "Do they pay taxes?" He asked.
   
        "Yep."
   
        Oh, then it's okay, he decided.
   
        The two arrived back at the front doors where they had met and went
    inside the main building of the institute. Although cool, it was
    noticeably more humid in this building than the others. There was also a
    stronger scent of salt water here.
   
        They continued their discussion as Serina led her father to the
    elevator.
   
        "So why did Nautilus wire up these whales?" The colonel asked.
   
        "Well, first of all, Nautilus didn't do it. Secondly, they aren't
    whales, orcas are from the dolphin family. In any case, the reason that
    they chose orcas was obviously because of their high intelligence and
    size. The psychotronic core, circuitry, power plant, and various
    transmitters are all installed within their body with no external
    couplings. That just couldn't be done on any creature smaller than an
    orca."
   
        "Who did it then?"
   
        "That is the biggest reason why I want you to meet Kuro." Her
    inflection made it plain that she was waiting impatiently for him to
    ask. "Nautilus never said who they got the orcas from, but Kuro is sure
    that they were Concordiat Army engineers."
   
        The colonel's left eyebrow shot up at that. He was shocked that the
    Concordiat would be experimenting with such seemingly innocuous
    cybernetics on orcas. But as soon as he thought about it a moment, he
    knew why.
   
        The elevator took them down three levels before sliding to a halt.
    When the doors opened, a hot and humid blast of saltwater air hit them
    both. Ahead of them, down a short corridor, sunlight from outside could
    be seen reflected on a small corner of a large pool.
   
        They walked out into the corridor.
   
        "You want to know why, don't you?" Toman asked.
   
        "You know?" she whispered harshly.
   
        Serina stopped him in his tracks, forcing him to tell her here,
    before they got to the pool. He couldn't tell whether the look in her
    eyes was anger or concern. Either way, it looked quite threatening.
   
        "Nothing evil, Serina," he assured her quietly. "The new Bolo Mark
    Thirty-threes have direct neuro-interfaces between the human commander
    and the Bolo's neurocore. I'm sure that they were just testing out new
    circuitry, or finding the effects of long term connections."
   
        "Why do they do that?"
   
        "The interface? Basically, during a fight you can combine the Bolo's
    reaction time with the commander's immediate decision making. So far, I
    hear that it's working out quite well."
   
        Serina seemed to have to think about this for a moment, perhaps
    deciding some moral equation that she had formed. The colonel waited
    patiently, himself satisfied with the ethics of such experimentation, as
    long as the creature was not harmed significantly in the process.
   
        When his fieldcomm suddenly buzzed again, it startled Serina.
   
        The colonel shrugged apologetically, and reached for his belt while
    Serina motioned for him to follow her to the pool.
   
        Toman spoke while he walked.
   
        "Ishida here."
   
        "Update for you on the unidentified transport." Chains' deep voice
    reverberated between the tiled walls.
   
        "Go ahead."
   
        "Blackstone has been attempting communications, but no response has
    been received."
   
        "Are they on alert, yet?"
   
        "Negative. Thirty-six minutes to orbit. Vessel maintains exact
    course and speed of Delas' optimal approach pattern as defined by the
    Concordiat Registry of Worlds."
   
        "Has the Aragonne left orbit yet?
   
        "Affirmative. It jumped out three hours ago."
   
        Colonel Ishida stopped at the end of the corridor and turned around
    while Serina continued to the pool's edge and some lawn furniture that
    was set there.
   
        If this really was a private merchantman, then nothing less than
    extensive battle or collision damage would save its captain from Ishida
    personally strangling him. Without a beacon, and without working
    communications, no transport ever should approach an outpost colony. By
    the book, Blackstone should burn this transport out of the sky once it
    got within range. But offhand, Toman couldn't remember ever hearing of
    any innocent vessels being fired on in such a manner. He had, though,
    heard of many vessels forced to make unannounced, emergency landings
    without clearance from the planet. The interstellar news always seemed
    to ignore how stupid it was for the planet to allow it.
   
        "Chains," Ishida gritted his teeth. "If Blackstone doesn't go on
    full alert in twenty minutes, call me."
   
        "Yes, Commander."
   
        "Wait! Even if they do go on full alert, call me."
   
        "Yes, Commander. Sir, should we upgrade to High Alert Status?"
   
        "Definitely. Ishida out."
   
        Colonel Ishida closed his fieldcomm with an aggravated snap. How
    dare this captain place this planet's security forces in such a horrible
    dilemma, he fumed. And to do this while the sector was on alert was
    inexcusable. If only for that, this transport should be flamed. He'd do
    it too, if given the chance.
   
        But that decision would not be his. Once this transport was proven
    to be an enemy, then he would be free to act independently of the
    planetary government. But until that happened, until a proven threat
    materialized, it was Concordiat doctrine to confine its actions to the
    directives presented by the local government. The decision to fire would
    be with Blackstone Ridge, and probably General Rokoyan. Or even,
    perhaps, Governor Traine. Career politicians, he was sure. Incapable of
    the really hard decisions, no doubt. No one understood how easy it was
    to have their entire planet incinerated under their feet until they
    actually saw it happening. By that time, of course, it was too late.
    Toman had seen it happen twice as Melconian armadas made assaults on
    planets he was defending. The last time cost him almost all the 39th in
    a desperate exchange of fire between ground and orbit. Once an alien
    race decided that the planet being fought over was expendable, no
    commander could resist the unbelievable bang-for-buck value of a
    thermonuclear shower.
   
        A feeling of despair swept over the colonel as he turned back to
    Serina, and the large black shape that was floating in the pool before
    her. He no longer grew angry at such situations as this, otherwise he
    could teach Miss Dahlia quite a few more phrases to add to her effective
    "rhetoric." Dealing with human strengths and weaknesses had been his job
    for nearly fifty years, and their failures were always just part of the
    equation.
   
        With a sigh, Ishida advanced to the pool to join his daughter, who
    was talking joyously into a small transmitter that she was holding.
    She'd be safe, at least. Most likely this transport really was a private
    merchantman in trouble, Toman assured himself. But even if it was an
    alien fireship full of nukes, Chains and Quarter would make sure that
    the twenty-kilometer radius of land surrounding him would certainly be
    the safest on the planet.
   
        At last, a torrent of energy floods through my circuitry as my
    reactor core now burns at full intensity! My sensors come alive and
    expand my presence to the world around me. Feedback from a thousand
    senses brings to me a vivid awareness of all that moves and glows.
    Finally the 39th is at High Alert Status.
   
        While Unit DBQ searches the planet for the unknown dangers, I focus
    my attention on the threat that is known. The intruder approaches, and I
    can sense the heat of its engines long before my touch finally reaches
    its hull. Although my sensor technology has been upgraded many times
    during the course of my duties, the 39th has never been furnished with
    the latest holistic capabilities. A far better image of this intruder
    could be formed by the advanced sensors onboard the orbital arrays, but
    Delas still has yet to activate them. These Class C-11A sensor arrays
    have very limited lifespans when utilized at full power for long periods
    of time, and Delas is obviously careful with them.
   
        My first surprise is that the hull that I am touching is NOT made of
    any kind of duralloy. The hull is thicker and lighter, perhaps of some
    crystalline build. I note this aberration, but no conclusion can be
    derived from it. Moving on, I quickly search my sensor data for signs of
    fissionable material, a sure indicator that this ship would be meant for
    destruction. I am alerted as my search returns several sources of
    radioactive emissions, scattered within the cargo hold of the vessel.
    The concentrations are weapons grade material, but their few numbers and
    scattered locations would make it impossible to launch them as an
    effective first strike. Many of my threat circuits deactivate as I
    determine this vessel incapable of a significant planetary bombardment.
    Also, I sense no protective fields or screens protecting any part of
    this ship, nor any hull formations indicative of offensive energy
    weapons. I thus must believe that this vessel was not meant for warfare.
   
   
        The possibility still remains, however, that this vessel is a
    transport that contains an alien invasion force, but its small size and
    lack of nuclear reactors within would indicate that it could contain few
    combat units that could hope to match firepower with the 39th. My sensor
    data is degraded with the distance that I must reach, however, and any
    conclusions that I would form now would be foolhardy to trust. I will
    continue to scan the vessel as it approaches, perhaps learning more as
    my senses grow stronger.
   
        Colonel Ishida was enjoying himself.
   
        As Serina was off changing into her bathing suit, Toman was having a
    long conversation with Kuro. With a cool drink beside him, he was
    relaxed in a comfortable chair asking the orca many questions, and
    answering several that Kuro had about the military and the Concordiat.
    He had been invited to go swimming along with them, and had indeed been
    tempted, but had declined. Perhaps tomorrow, he told them, though he had
    several fears that he would have to work out before then. For now he was
    satisfied to be able to say that he actually scratched an orca's belly.
   
        Throughout his conversation, he had been constantly reevaluating the
    intelligence of Kuro. His initial impression had been to speak to her as
    one would a twelve-year-old. But although her choice of words and some
    grammar was in question, he soon realized that he was severely
    underestimating her. Kuro's brain had interfaced with the neurocore as
    it grew, integrating its capabilities with her own over thirty years.
    Not only did this allow her to store vast amounts of accurate imagery,
    it also gave her a computational capability equal to that of any modern
    processor.
   
        "So why did you decide to come here instead of staying with
    Nautilus?" Colonel Ishida asked Kuro.
   
        "Samson and Velvet are of a different species than I am. We did not
    get along."
   
        "Different species? I didn't know there were different species of
    orcas."
   
        " I am Orcinus orca. They are Orcinus nanus."
   
        "Samson and . . ." Then a memory hit Toman from long ago. "Did
    Serina name you 'Kuro'?"
   
        "Yes. I didn't like my other name. We decided on Kuro, instead."
   
        Serina used to have a black teddy bear named Kuro. Toman only
    remembered it vaguely from a visit long ago, but he was pleased with
    himself that he did. He'd have to tease Serina about naming Kuro after
    her teddy bear later.
   
        "What do Samson and Velvet do for Nautilus?" Toman asked.
   
        "Many things, but mostly they warn their submarine Surveyor-One of
    daeger territories, and protect their swimmers from illcuda and other
    predators."
   
        "Don't orcas have any problems with them?"
   
        "Daeger are slow and noisy. Illcuda are cowards."
   
        Toman laughed at Kuro's directness.
   
        His daughter returned at that point, now wearing a black, one-piece
    bathing suit and tucking her long hair into a rubber cap that she had
    on. For the next ten minutes, Serina and Kuro played and showed him a
    few tricks. Serina told him of the research and odd jobs that the
    institute did for local companies, and about their university patronage
    with the Telville colleges. Several times they tried to get him to join
    them in the water, but he still refused. By this point he had concluded,
    however, that Kuro did not have some horrible grudge against the
    Concordiat for what they had done to her. She was enjoying her life, it
    seemed, and probably would not eat him if given the chance. Perhaps he
    would swim with them tomorrow.
   
        During a lull in the talking, Kuro suddenly made a mournful sound
    from the water. She announced that Peter was waiting for her at their
    boat, and that she'd have to leave. Serina explained about the eels that
    they wanted to research, and then they said good-bye to Kuro.
   
        "Kaethan should be arriving pretty soon," Serina said as she climbed
    out and began drying off. "Did you want to wait upstairs in the lobby
    while I shower?"
   
        "No, I'll wait for you here."
   
        Serina shrugged and smiled.
   
        "Okay. It'll just be a few minutes."
   
        As Serina left, Colonel Ishida thought that this would be a good
    time to talk to Chains again. It had been almost twenty minutes, anyway.
    After taking another drink he reached for his fieldcomm.
   
        "Anything new, Chains?"
   
        "Blackstone is on alert, Commander. The unidentified vessel has
    still not communicated and is entering orbit on an approach pattern to
    land at Reims."
   
        Reims was the starport that served south Deladin, located across
    from Telville on the East Coast. Starveil was actually closer to
    Telville than Reims was, so the colonel always landed there instead when
    he visited.
   
        "Have you scanned the ship?"
   
        Ishida, of course, didn't have to ask this question. He knew that
    Chains and Quarter would be all over the intruder the moment they were
    given High Alert Status. What he wanted was a report, and Chains gave
    him all the data that he could while Toman listened without a word. The
    ship was a design that neither Chains nor Quarter had ever logged
    before, but that was not unexpected. The Concordiat ruled over hundreds
    of worlds, many with their own merchant fleets operating independently
    from the interstellar government. None of the data Chains had compiled
    could confirm without a doubt that this was an alien ship.
   
        The colonel was happy to learn, however, that very few nukes were
    onboard. It was definitely not a nuclear fireship that was approaching.
   
        "The orbital arrays have ignited their reactors." Chains suddenly
    announced.
   
        "Can you tap into their scans?"
   
        "Negative. Data from the holistic systems is encrypted."
   
        "Damn."
   
        "What did you say?" Serina said from behind him.
   
        Toman jumped at her voice, and palmed his fieldcomm. Serina was back
    in her normal clothes and drying her hair with her towel. He tried to
    think of some excuse for his outburst, but Serina just smiled and spoke
    before he could form one.
   
        "Security told me that Kaethan just came through the gate. We should
    go upstairs to meet him."
   
        "You go ahead, I'll be right up."
   
        "Is there something wrong?"
   
        "Maybe."
   
        Serina stared uneasily at him for a moment, but then turned away and
    headed for the elevator. Smart girl, he thought.
   
        "Quarter?" He brought his fieldcomm up again.
   
        "Yes, Commander," replied the light English accent of his second
    Bolo.
   
        "Get me General Rokoyan, or whoever is in charge at Blackstone."
   
        "Contacting . . ."
   
        "Call me back when you have someone."
   
        "Affirmative."
   
        Colonel Ishida closed his fieldcomm and relaxed in his chair. He
    really shouldn't become involved in this situation, but he feared that
    no one else on the planet was going to confront these people with the
    cold reality of frontier security procedures. Toman sympathized with
    Rokoyan, however. The decision to fire would be hard for anyone except a
    battle-hardened veteran. Rokoyan probably never killed anyone in his
    life, and the first time was always the most difficult, especially when
    they weren't firing back.
   
        Kaethan entered the lobby just as Serina was exiting the elevator.
    Her face lit up with a smile as she saw him, but something was obviously
    troubling her. Serina's hug was light and quick, with her wet hair only
    getting his pale green shirt damp on the shoulder.
   
        "Hi, Kaethan." Serina's greeting lacked her usual spunk.
   
        "What's wrong, Serina? Did father get called away again?"
   
        It seemed like a good guess to Kaethan.
   
        "No, he's downstairs," she glanced back at the elevator, "but
    something is wrong. He's been on the phone constantly talking to his
    Bolos. Do you know of anything going on?"
   
        Kaethan shook his head. "No." He shrugged. "Angelrath has the sector
    on alert, but that's usual after another one of those probes is caught
    sneaking around."
   
        The alerts never caused any concerns with the DDF formations. Only
    the planetary defenses at Blackstone Ridge ever cared much about them.
    At no time in Delassian history had the DDF ever "really" been on alert.
   
   
        "Did father meet Kuro?" Kaethan changed the subject.
   
        "Oh, sure. He didn't swim with her, though. Maybe you both can
    tomorrow."
   
        "Well," Kaethan's voice took an edge to it, "I found out this
    morning that I certainly have the time for it."
   
        Serina smiled, but before she could say anything the elevator doors
    slid open and their father walked out. The colonel did indeed look
    nervous, but Kaethan could see no difference to how he usually looked
    when the two were together. His smile, as always, seemed forced.
   
        "Hi, Son," he said as he approached and extended his hand.
    "Captain," he then corrected.
   
        "Hi, Father," Kaethan replied simply and they shook hands briefly.
    The thought of kidding his father about still being a colonel crossed
    his mind, but was instantly rejected for obvious reasons. He had been
    planning a witty remark about coming to the institute to recruit marine
    mammals, but suddenly it didn't seem as witty as it had in the car.
   
        The result, of course, was a moment of uncomfortable silence.
   
        But it was just a moment before Serina jumped in.
   
        "Are you two hungry?"
   
        "Yes," they both said at the same time.
   
        Their father's fieldcomm beeped suddenly, causing his hand to shoot
    for his belt in response. The colonel was suddenly embarrassed by this,
    however, and his face turned apologetic.
   
        "Sorry, but something serious might be happening."
   
        Serina and Kaethan both nodded, understanding, and let their father
    retreat a few steps from them.
   
        "Who have you got?" they heard him say into his phone. Then,
    "Blessed mother . . . uh . . . what's happening now?"
   
        Kaethan's interest peaked at this. Not only did it sound like
    something militarily important was occurring somewhere around Delas, but
    his father may have almost showed an unprecedented display of emotion.
    Either would be a first.
   
        "Any ideas?" Serina asked him quietly.
   
        "None."
   
        His father was pacing now, listening intently. Kaethan and Serina
    waited patiently. A couple students came through the front doors at this
    time, but paid them little attention. But as the doors were closing, a
    sharp crack of distant thunder echoed through them into the lobby.
   
        "I hope that it doesn't rain," Serina complained.
   
        "I don't think that was lightning." Kaethan now started growing
    nervous.
   
        Their father stopped in his tracks and peered outside the glass
    doors, though nothing but the parking lot could be seen.
   
        "A warning shot?" The colonel growled, obviously not happy with the
    half-measure. "Any reaction?"
   
        "Blackstone just fired their Hellbore," Kaethan enlightened his
    sister. "And if we heard that all the way down here, then that means
    that their target is already in the atmosphere, and nearby."
   
        Their father had not returned to his pacing, instead he just stood
    there staring blankly outside, tapping his foot.
   
        "Damn!" Their father yelled suddenly. It was the kind of exclamation
    that someone might sound if an opposing team just scored a last second
    touchdown to win a game. "Lock on and ask Blackstone for permission to
    fire!"
   
        The target must have dropped below Blackstone's horizon, Kaethan
    surmised.
   
        "What do you mean 'nearby'?" Serina asked.
   
        "Overhead, probably." Kaethan shook his head in dismay.
   
        "I'm going to look outside," Serina said in a rush and ran outside.
   
        Kaethan, however, much preferred to hear this conversation
    occurring, even though he was getting only one side of it. A ship must
    be entering the atmosphere with unknown credentials. Most likely it was
    on approach pattern to Reims, which often passed right over them.
    Aliens, perhaps? Smugglers? Pirates? His mind ran wild with the
    possibilities.
   
        His father was silent for a long time, though Kaethan couldn't tell
    whether he was listening to anything. At one point, however, his
    father's focus shifted over to him and their eyes met. It was a strange
    moment, where Toman shook his head and rolled his eyes in exasperation.
    Kaethan felt oddly close to his father at that moment for some reason.
   
        Then his sister barged back in.
   
        "I saw something big," she announced. "A transport, I think. Looked
    like it was heading for Reims. Too many clouds to see it for long."
   
        His father paid attention to that, but then suddenly turned away as
    someone must have been saying something again on his fieldcomm.
   
        "Clean up an Isis and ready it," the colonel then said coldly. "Ask
    Blackstone for clearance."
   
        Kaethan knew what an "Isis" was, and his stomach dropped. His
    father's Bolos were just ordered to ready a nuke for launch. He and his
    mother had often read the colonel's letters together, and he learned
    much of the current equipment and lingo from them. To "clean" it, he
    knew, meant to reconfigure it for reduced fallout. Even with that,
    however, Kaethan doubted that Blackstone Ridge would clear it. Unless
    things got desperate, there was no way that Delas would use a nuke
    within the atmosphere.
   
        Serina now decided that this was a good time to sit down, and
    dropped down on a big chair that was nearby. Kaethan remained standing.
   
        "Where's it heading?" Was his father's next question.
   
        The colonel then started looking frantically around the lobby,
    searching for something that he was obviously not finding.
   
        "Did-" His father cut short, stopping his search, "Yeah, I was
    expecting that. Battle Reflex Mode. Track it as best you can and keep
    trying to get hold of Rokoyan."
   
        His father closed his fieldcomm with a crack of metal against metal.
   
   
        "Are we being invaded?" Serina was first to speak.
   
        "Looks like it, Serina," Toman said sadly, looking at his children.
    "Son, their transport is setting down somewhere between here and Reims.
    They just took out your arrays and will probably bring down everything
    else along with it. Best you mobilize your battalion and hit them as
    hard and as fast as possible. You can't let them dig in."
   
        "Just one transport?" Kaethan wondered.
   
        "Just one for now, but I certainly expect more."
   
        "What about Chains and Quarter?"
   
        "I can't deploy them yet." The colonel shook his head. "With only
    one turret defending this planet, I don't want my Bolos caught
    flatfooted in rough terrain when a warship squadron enters orbit."
   
        "What should I do?" Serina asked helplessly from her chair.
   
        Kaethan could see his father mentally shift gears as his expression
    softened. He feared his father would just say something comforting and
    unhelpful that Serina would hate. Instead, he gave Serina something to
    do.
   
        "You should probably call Peter to get back here, and warn people
    what's going on. Tell everyone to stay off the highways as much as
    possible and stay home."
   
        "I should get going." Kaethan announced then. "Will you be heading
    back up to Starveil?"
   
        His father shook his head.
   
        "No. I'll be staying where the action is. I need to see what we're
    up against."
   
        Kaethan's DDF issue handphone chose that moment start squealing
    horribly. The captain fumbled to turn it off as Serina winced against
    the noise.
   
        "That's my call. Wish me luck."
   
        Before Kaethan could go, though, Serina jumped up from chair and
    caught him in a big hug. The captain returned it as best he could, then
    pulled away.
   
        "Don't get hurt," Serina ordered as she let go.
   
        "Good luck," his father told him.
   
        Kaethan motioned a cursory salute to his father as he pushed open
    the doors into the hot, moist outside air. He half walked, half jogged
    to his vehicle, passing blissfully unaware students along the way. The
    captain had never led troops into actual combat before, of course, and
    countless questions hounded him now. Had he treated their exercises too
    much like a game before, he wondered? How would his battalion react now
    that it was real? Strangely enough, though, it was excitement, not fear,
    that was filling him. That was likely to change, Kaethan knew, once the
    shells started flying. But until then, this was the emotion that the
    captain wanted his troops to tap from him.
   
        That and confidence, of course.
   
        But with his father on the planet, he suddenly worried about the
    latter.
   
        Our Commander has finally spoken with General Rokoyan of the
    Delassian Defense Command. Much of the conversation was spoken with
    voices raised many decibels higher than what is normal for effective
    dialogue. There are many differences of opinion on what strategy to take
    in eliminating this incursion, aggravated by questions of authority
    between the DDC and the Concordiat. As the planetary ground forces
    mobilize, the 39th holds ground on the flat plains south of Starveil.
    Our Commander grows impatient for a strike to their beachhead, but his
    plan to dedicate Unit DBQ to this attack was withdrawn when we were
    finally allowed full access to the DDC sensor net.
   
        The planet Delas is surrounded.
   
        Although the orbital arrays have been eliminated, ground-based
    passive detectors scattered over the Delassian surface continue to
    monitor glimmers of fusion drives maneuvering into position around the
    planet. For now they wait outside the range of my active scans, but a
    rush is obviously being organized to test our defenses. Every quarter of
    Delas' Northern and Southern Hemispheres are being threatened, along
    with both poles. Against a well-defended planet, this would be a foolish
    and disastrous plan, allowing all defenses to be utilized against the
    assault. But our enemy obviously does not mind wasting lives and
    material against us while their previous insertion no doubt catalogs our
    every response.
   
        And unfortunately they will find our response to be limited. Unless
    our Commander's plan fools them, our enemy will know that the far side
    of the planet is completely undefended. Their strategies displayed so
    far indicate an 80.31 percent chance that a large invasion force awaits
    the result of this attack. Unit DBQ and myself must do our best to
    discourage our enemy from deploying it.
   
        "All is ready, Is-kaldai." The projected visage of Irriessa filled
    the rear wall of Keertra's command chambers. His hood was extended in
    exhilaration. "These aliens bestowed upon us a gift when they fired
    their energy cannon at your ship. Removing it now should be a simple
    matter."
   
        As Keertra had hoped, the Ad-akradai's vehemence against him had
    dissipated now that combat had begun. Getting Riffen's most loyal
    commander to trust him, though, would still be a great challenge.
   
        "Indeed, Ad-akradai," Keertra replied gloriously. "And it fired at
    such range that I dare believe that it may be the only protection that
    this outpost maintains! Would it not shock our timid Council if we were
    to take this planet ourselves!"
   
        "Split between our factions equally, of course."
   
        "Of course, Irriessa," he said with as amused an expression as he
    could present. "The Council would accept nothing less."
   
        For a moment, Keertra could see his rival's commander lose himself
    in the promise of such glory. His ice-blue eyes became unfocused, and
    his hood expanded to its full size. The blood vessels that branched out
    within bulged prominently with a noticeable pulse.
   
        But then the commander's military experience returned in a flash. He
    suddenly looked at Keertra in defiance.
   
        "We should not talk about these things before the battle is won, and
    our enemy lie dead at our feet." Irriessa scolded Keertra, and perhaps
    himself.
   
        "You are right, Irriessa. They may yet surprise us. Will your
    warship captains now follow my commands?
   
        "They will, Is-kaldai. We should begin immediately."
   
        "I will give the order."
   
        "Is-kaldai . . ." Irriessa delayed, for what he was about to say was
    difficult. "I was wrong to doubt Khoriss' mission. I listen to your
    orders now with greater respect."
   
        "Thank you, Irriessa. I'm sure we will learn much from each other
    before this is over."
   
        "Perhaps."
   
        The communication channel closed as Irriessa shut his eyes in
    respect. Keertra sat back in his chair, relishing the victories that he
    was winning, on the planet and here also. If indeed these aliens were as
    weak as they seemed, then he might just have to expand his plans.
    Becoming Mor-verridai could be meaningless if the remaining Is-kaldai
    were to claim vast new tracts of alien territory and resources, without
    suffering disabling casualties in the process. It would be better, he
    mused, if these aliens were a bit tougher. Just enough to keep the
    remaining Is-kaldai occupied while he eliminated the entire royal
    family, and its lineage, back home.
   
        This goal had been his obsession ever since the Council began
    serious discussions on attacking this world. Keertra had realized from
    the beginning that a war of this scale could not have a committee
    directing it. There must be an overall commander, and historically this
    was the Mor-verridai. Yet, this was not a possibility considering the
    depths that their ruling clan had fallen to. They had squandered all
    their riches, uncaring for centuries, while the Council methodically
    stripped them of their powers. Now they had become corrupt in their
    misery, so much so that even the Avocrahn, the fanatic warrior clan
    sworn to protect the Mor-verridai, were openly rebellious. And they were
    the key that Keertra hoped to exploit. Although he would lose a great
    deal in this raid, he believed that if his many surias struck swiftly
    and cleanly against the Mor-verridai, the Avocrahn would gladly swear
    loyalty to him at a time when the Kezdai needed a strong leader so
    desperately.
   
        It was a goal that every day seemed nearer to his grasp. Soon, now,
    many operatives had to be put in motion. But he couldn't waste time
    planning for them yet, not until this assault was completed. Irriessa
    was correct. These aliens might yet have some blades hidden beneath
    their cloaks.
   
        As Captain Kaethan Ishida sped his vehicle up to the underground
    bunkers of the Alabaster Coast Heavy Armor, he was pleased to see that
    most of his personnel had already arrived. Many of the huge steel doors
    that led into the bunkers had been lowered, revealing the forward hulls
    of the Templar Mark XIs that were housed within. The roaring of their
    gigantic turbines was making the ground vibrate as he stepped out of his
    vehicle.
   
        Ten nuclear-safe bunkers housed thirty Templars of the Alabaster
    Coast Heavy Armor, five bunkers on each side of what was called Armor
    Alley. Twenty-meter wide ramps led down to the three-inch thick steel
    doors that rose up out of the ground to seal the Templars inside. The
    doors could be lowered quickly when danger threatened, or just dropped
    if the base lost power. A large sign at the entrance of Armor Alley
    presented in large letters the full designation of this unit: Alabaster
    Coast Heavy Armor, Alabaster Guard, Telville Corps.
   
        Fort Hilliard was home to the Alabaster Guard, which was comprised
    of several battalions and lesser formations, formed from the population
    south of Telville. To the east of Telville was Fort Riley and the
    Chandoine Guard. And to the north was Fort Owen and the Tigris Guard.
    Most city-states on Delas were organized this way, with all forts kept
    in competition with each other for honors, and therefore a bigger slice
    of the defense spending for the next year. It was just the kind of
    arrangement that you'd expect from a corporate run government, but in
    fact, Kaethan thought it was quite effective. Not only were the forts
    always striving for more honors, but a definite sense of regiment was
    inspired throughout the militias.
   
        Of course, combined exercises were sometimes a problem.
   
        The composition of the Alabaster Guard had not changed since
    Candlelith purchased the last of their antiquated 150-ton Saladin Medium
    Tanks four years ago. Their main strike arm now consisted of Kaethan's
    battalion of Templars, and three brigades of mechanized infantry in
    armed Haulers. Preceding them into combat were three recon companies
    driving armed Haulers and four weakly armored grav-cars. Twelve
    companies of various caliber artillery provided battalion and regimental
    level support to their formations. And protecting against air
    infiltration, and providing emergency anti-armor fire, were four
    TurboFalcon missile batteries and two ion-bolt defense towers that
    Telsteel Industries donated to the Telville Corps from their private
    stocks.
   
        Templar One, Kaethan's tank, was in the first bunker, right side, of
    Armor Alley. The blast door was opened wide, so he didn't bother to
    enter through the small, security-conscious blockhouse on top. Instead,
    he just ran down the ramp and into the shelter. His driver, Sergeant Zen
    Pritchard, was climbing along the outside of the vehicle, checking the
    outer systems. And with the sudden flash of their spotlight, it was
    obvious that his gunner, Corporal Andrea Sellars, was on the inside
    doing her part.
   
        The Metallicast Industries Templar Mark XI was not the latest, or
    greatest, in the Concordiat arsenal. It was cost effective, and low
    enough technology to be supportable by local industry. Its three hundred
    fifty tons of duralloy armor and weapons made it slow and unwieldy, and
    wasn't allowed on local roads because it would tear apart the pavement.
    The sixty-foot long railgun, stretching almost as far behind the tank as
    in front, threatened to topple the tank over if fired to the side while
    on the move. Stabilizing legs had to be extended to give them a steady
    platform for firing the weapon. And its four Rapier missiles were
    dangerously indiscriminate when they lost their assigned target and
    began their search program for a replacement.
   
        That said, Kaethan adored the Templar.
   
        As awkward as the railgun was, it lived up to its promise of being
    able to take a chunk out of any known armor, including the latest
    endurochrome plate on his father's Bolos. The entire weapons assembly
    was mounted on hydraulic jacks that could lift the railgun fourteen
    inches to fire over a rise, and then drop it down again. Its two
    ion-bolt point defense turrets were excellent in protecting the tank
    against infantry and missiles. But most of all, feeling the entire hulk
    rock as the railgun was fired gave Kaethan such an adrenaline rush that
    he'd never be satisfied with anything less.
   
        "Permission to come onboard, Sergeant!" Kaethan yelled.
   
        Zen grabbed onto the barrel of the forward ion-bolt turret as he
    turned his head. Although in regulation jungle camouflage trousers, his
    battalion assigned top was replaced by a white tee shirt with an
    advertisement for a local pub. Zen was usually better at protocol than
    this. Whatever the reason was for it, Kaethan really didn't care.
   
        "Almost set, Captain," Zen said. "Are we going to bother rolling
    out?"
   
        "This isn't a drill, Sergeant!" Kaethan told him as he leapt up to
    the first footing. "We've just been invaded."
   
        The captain ignored Zen's startled glare and made his way over to
    his command hatch. Sergeant Pritchard was a very competent soldier when
    he wasn't suffering from a hangover from the prior night. He was
    thirty-nine years old, with saltwater-damaged light brown hair. The
    Guard was a serious commitment to him as supplemental income for his
    small fiberglass boat business. He never missed a muster, and had been
    fully certified in Templar maintenance. But Kaethan was sure that Zen
    never expected that he'd have to fight.
   
        Kaethan's command compartment was cramped and simple. Large, touch
    sensitive, configurable control panels were in front and on both sides.
    Small boxes at the bottom of the main display showed a camera image of
    an empty driver's compartment, and Andrea working hard in the gunner's
    compartment under the turret.
   
        "Good day," Andrea said as she noticed his arrival on her own
    display.
   
        "Bad day, Private," Kaethan corrected. "We've been invaded."
   
        The captain didn't know much about Andrea except that she had a big
    boyfriend named Steve in the Alabaster 1st Mechanized. That stopped any
    extraneous socializing, at least any that he'd initiate. She was rather
    pretty, with short auburn hair and an excessive amount of freckles. At
    twenty-two, she was attending a local college and probably was in the
    Guard just for the money. She had been assigned to his battalion last
    season, starting out very jumpy in the gunner's chair, but by now had
    become quite proficient. Kaethan had no idea how she'd react with live
    rounds coming at her.
   
        "What do you mean, 'invaded'?" Andrea pestered him.
   
        A command message was waiting for Kaethan as he poked in his
    password on the virtual keypad that popped up on his right-hand display.
    On any normal day, this message would say that this had all been a drill
    and everyone should go home. Today it would be different, no doubt.
   
        But as the command message popped up, the captain was stunned to see
    just two words, "Stand By." Kaethan wasn't surprised that Colonel Neils
    was keeping the soldiers in the dark, but he was expecting something to
    be told the battalion commanders.
   
        With a poke of a virtual button, Kaethan hailed his commander,
    requesting direct communications. He was surprised when it was almost
    immediately accepted by the colonel himself. After muting his cabin
    speakers, he activated the channel.
   
        "Just stand by, Captain." Colonel Neils was ready with his orders.
    "Remain at full alert until further notice."
   
        "Colonel!" Kaethan stopped him before he had the chance to close the
    channel. "We should move out as quickly as possible! We have to hit them
    before they dig in!"
   
        Kaethan hadn't given much thought to his father's advice, but it
    sounded reasonable enough. Getting a Guard unit to aggressively initiate
    contact with an enemy outside of their territory, though, would be
    difficult.
   
        The colonel's expression of determination was replaced by one of
    interest.
   
        "You've obviously been better briefed than I was, Captain. General
    Calders is currently in conference and hasn't had time to tell us much,
    other than a hostile warship just set down somewhere on the planet."
   
        General Calders was commander of Telville Corps, assigned by the
    mayor of Telville five years ago from the Chandoine Guard. Kaethan
    didn't know much about him.
   
        "An alien transport has landed between here and Reims. We should
    roll out and hit them as quickly as possible before they can get
    organized."
   
        Kaethan could see Neils process this information and consider it.
    Satisfied that he had gotten his point across, the captain just waited.
   
        But then the colonel shook his head.
   
        "Just stand by, Captain," he said. "Stay in your bunkers."
   
        Neils closed the channel without waiting for a reply. With a growl,
    Kaethan did what he was told. The DDF colonel was a good man, with smart
    strategic sense. Kaethan was sure that he'd push for an immediate attack
    with General Calders, but obviously didn't want to commit the entire
    Alabaster Guard into going in alone.
   
        It would have been far better if this transport had come down
    directly into Reims, or Telville for that matter. No one, then, would
    have hesitated in sending their formations to their rescue. Instead, by
    landing between several cities, it would now be up to a committee to
    decide who would go in, and in what force. General Rokoyan was nominally
    in charge, for now, but it would still take a committee vote to make it
    official. It took a while for confederacies to get organized, Kaethan
    grumbled. Until then they'd follow the same motto the military had
    followed for centuries, "Hurry up and wait."
   
        Target deviating . . . correcting for parabolic course adjustment .
    . .
   
        Far to the north, Blackstone is firing its Hellbore, but it is far
    too busy defending itself to help Unit DBQ and myself with the spearhead
    of four alien frigates that are making their high-speed run over the
    planet. A swarm of missiles is cascading down on the turret's position,
    and their defenses will be sorely tried. The crackle of high frequency
    radio static that I am recording is sure indication that the ion-bolt
    defense towers surrounding the turret are in frantic operation.
   
        Beginning initialization of all active arrays . . . increasing speed
    to one hundred fifty kilometers per hour . . .
   
        The wide expanse of flat savannah is allowing us to attain great
    speed while still maintaining a stable weapons platform. There is no
    indication as of yet that the frigates have detected us. The
    thunderheads that rage above us will cover us until we go active.
   
        The transports that are closing in on the planet are no longer a
    concern. Those that are above us will be dealt with simply enough when
    the frigates have been eliminated. As for the ships entering the
    atmosphere on the blind side of the planet, the largest ten transports
    have all now been acquired by the Isis missiles that we fired several
    minutes ago. As of yet, no point defense fire is being recorded.
   
        Frigates have now entered range! The 39th lights up the skies in a
    blinding shower of high-energy radiation! The lead warship is
    spotlighted in brilliant acquisition, and my Hellbore aligns to perfect
    azimuth within 2.10498 seconds!
   
        Target locked . . . chambers critical . . . FIRE!
   
        The entire thunderhead above us ionizes as my Hellbore rips through
    its center. An explosion of lightning erupts between it and the storm
    clouds around it, as if some terrible god had awakened inside in a rage.
    Up into orbit, I see my lance rake a deep, burning wound down the belly
    of my target. Just a fraction of a second later, another stream of fire
    slashes savagely through its drive section as Quarter finishes off their
    lead ship in a blinding explosion of its fusion core.
   
        I turn hard to port and briefly take to the air as the savannah
    surface rises below me. Radioactive fires incinerate an acre of
    grassland behind me as the remaining warship's automated defenses
    attempt to strike back. Kilometers to the northwest, Quarter is also
    briefly lighted by the bright red beams of our opponent's nuclear
    cannons driving into the earth like a flaming spear.
   
        But they are striking where we have been, not where we are.
   
        My speed now approaches two hundred kilometers per hour as the 39th
    acquires our next targets. A distant pain begins to grow in my
    self-awareness network as my drive-train slowly overheats. Soon I will
    have to reduce speed. An onslaught of echoes suddenly assaults our
    active arrays, but this is a feeble attempt to jam our advanced
    electronics. The echoes are easily filtered, and once again their
    frigates glow brilliantly in our sights!
   
        We fire again! This time we have acquired separate targets, hoping
    we can finish them off before they redirect their weapons to the
    Blackstone turret. All are within its range, and we fear that the
    turret's battlescreens will not stand up to the surprising power of the
    alien's cannons.
   
        My Hellbore strikes true, blasting clean through the center of my
    target. This frigate was not as well armored as the last, and I expect
    it is dead, though I will finish it off shortly. Quarter's fire,
    however, once again strikes through the drive chamber of his target, and
    the frigate explodes in a flash of particles and debris. I am impressed
    at my compatriot's effective fire, and I send him a message of respect
    through brigade channels.
   
        The final remaining frigate returns fire, with two nuclear cannons
    blasting large craters in the Delassian soil far to my rear. His
    silhouette changes as I detect his change in course. He seeks to escape.
    I acquire him in my sights, but I am suddenly distracted. What I have
    now noticed is the high-speed passage of intense gravitic signatures
    into the atmosphere above Blackstone. They are objects so dense that
    their effects on the continuum are still noticeable even though they are
    far within the planet's gravity well.
   
        Even as I fire at the last remaining frigate, I am refocusing my
    arrays upon the targets descending on Blackstone. The objects are thin
    and long, about thirty meters from nose to tail, but I am having great
    difficulty locking them into my fire control. They have no energy or
    emissions to focus my sensors onto. My arrays detect them only as a
    whisper, leading me to believe that they are encased in an energy
    absorbent jacket of ceramics. And if I was having such difficulty
    locking onto them from their side, it was likely that Blackstone
    couldn't see them at all from head-on!
   
        Not waiting for kill confirmation on the frigate, I slew my turret
    to the north and fire my Hellbore into the midst of the signatures, just
    before they fall below the horizon. Without a lock, I am doubtful that I
    actually hit any of these objects, but that wasn't my purpose. I fired
    as a warning to Blackstone of their presence, and I am comforted at a
    sudden flurry of fire that I detect lancing up into the sky.
   
        Unit DBQ fires again, and then one more time, to finish off the
    armored hulks that were floating lifeless in orbit. This while I remain
    vigilant, watching the skies. I could detect no more such signatures
    descending, but I fear that there is no reason for more.
   
        Blackstone turret is silent.
   
        The command center is still communicating, but a massive magnetic
    pulse, centered at Blackstone, is near sure sign of a Hellbore misfire.
   
        The oncoming transports surprisingly continue their track, honorably
    executing their orders without hope of survival. Unit DBQ and myself
    will make short work of each as they come within range. We can expect no
    help from Blackstone, though. They had effectively fended off all the
    high-tech missiles and the shaped atomic warheads that were sent at
    them, but in the end failed against a simple flight of spears.
   
        Our Isis missiles have successfully intercepted ten transports
    attempting insertion on the far side of the planet, though four others
    will make it through. Our Commander hopes our opponents will now believe
    that missile batteries are scattered over the entire surface of Delas,
    defending it from all approach.
   
        In fact, only the Hellbores of the 39th remain.
   
        The briefing from his advisors had been a dismal affair, Keertra
    pondered. It had been a disaster, they had moaned. The loss of life had
    been . . . well . . . significant. The loss of the frigates Taitta and
    Kiosia, in addition to Riffen's ships, was heartbreaking.
   
        Perhaps his advisors were serious, but Keertra hoped that they had
    been putting on as convincing a performance before Irriessa as he had
    been. Most of the troops lost in the debacle were Ad-akradai Riffen's.
    The transports were expendable. And their two frigates were ancient and
    had already been stripped of almost all of their valuable systems and
    most of their shielding. Riffen had lost far more in his two frigates,
    which seemed to hold up to the alien's firepower little better than his
    own vessel.
   
        The amount of information that was gained, however, was enormous.
   
        The point defense capabilities of these aliens was very impressive.
    None of the missiles fired against the northern orbital defense battery
    penetrated their screen of energy weapons. Only Keertra's depleted
    uranium spears, launched by his command ship, survived the fusillade of
    fire rising to protect their turret. These simple weapons that Keertra
    often employed were launched against the suspected underground complex
    beneath the turret, but were actually what finally silenced the turret
    itself. Keertra, by accident, had found an effective weapon against
    these aliens. Unfortunately, missiles were the barrage weapons of choice
    among the Kezdai, and it seemed likely that the invasion forces would
    have to retool before they set off. This would delay them, perhaps even
    several years, but a warrior must attack their enemies' weakness, not
    their strength. And point defense was obviously one of their strengths.
    At least, Keertra mused, the Kezdai had finally found a use for their
    long-spent and useless uranium caches.
   
        The power of the alien's energy weapons was indeed terrifying.
    Still, fixed emplacements would not be a problem. As protected as a
    ground battery might be, overwhelming it was just a matter of scale and
    manner. Against fixed fortifications, the attacker would always have the
    advantage, for it was he who chose how the battle would be fought.
   
        Two of the alien's three ground batteries, however, were mobile. The
    very concept stunned Keertra when the combat logs of the Taitta and
    Kiosia were analyzed. Without doubt, the counterbattery computers
    onboard the frigates detected a considerable transverse motion of the
    ground batteries, even as they were firing upon them. Unfortunately, the
    frigates' computers had little capability to account for this motion,
    and their return fire was wide of their mark. Adaptations would be made
    to their fire control, he was promised, but Keertra was dubious. No one
    in his Council could imagine what kind of machine could accurately wield
    so much firepower, and still travel so quickly over the ground. Neither
    did he have any remaining expendable warships to find out more about
    them. These mobile batteries were an unknown, and Keertra feared that
    they would remain so.
   
        But they could be avoided, the Is-kaldai was sure. Only missiles
    rose up to fend off his transports over the oceans of this world. And
    there were only a few. Several transports had made planetfall unscathed,
    and even now were seeking land to deploy their troops. Unless these
    troublesome mobile batteries could fly, the majority of this planet was
    protected from orbit only by missiles. And missiles could be
    intercepted.
   
        This phase of their operation was over. It was now time for the
    final phase to begin.
   
        Keertra entered his command chambers in a rush, his crimson robe
    flowing behind him. A narrow beam transmission to the planet had been
    prepared, and Ad-akradai Khoriss was told to stand by for orders. It was
    time for the ground war to commence.
   
        Khoriss was his most able commander, just as Irriessa was that for
    Riffen. He was also Keertra's younger brother, forcing Riffen to risk
    only his greatest Ad-akradai for the cause. In truth, however, Khoriss
    was expendable. Although his brother was indeed a master tactician, that
    wasn't what Keertra needed in the fight to come. What he needed were
    ruthless commanders, willing to follow Keertra's every command without
    question or consideration. Khoriss would never betray him or his plans,
    but Keertra could not trust him to wield his blade against many whom he
    had foolishly befriended.
   
        If Khoriss survived his mission, Keertra would be pleased. But if he
    did not, it would be no great loss. The public mourning for his
    sacrifice Keertra would demand would last for years. But Keertra would
    be little inconvenienced, himself.
   
        "Khoriss, my brother, how goes things?"
   
        His brother looked uneasy as his projected image stood before
    Keertra on the wall. Behind him, the nearly emptied cargo hold of his
    transport was still swarming with troops and workers, offloading
    supplies. From the view outside the ship, it could be seen that it was
    night there.
   
        "Our forces are deployed, Is-kaldai, without finding much
    resistance. A few farming settlements are scattered through the terrain,
    with few armaments to protect them. We retrieved several of these aliens
    for later study, provided we escape the planet. We are preparing a
    preliminary biologic analysis, now."
   
        "Excellent, Khorrss. Do ground forces advance against you, yet?"
   
        "We launch surveillance drones at sporadic intervals, but they are
    destroyed as quickly as they approach the cities, just as our perimeter
    destroys theirs. A brief image taken by our last drone shows forces
    massing along the roadway to the west. To the east, forces around their
    starport appear to be just digging in. No other city is a threat to us
    yet on the roadway that we have set down near."
   
        "Good! Then you are free to throw your entire strength against the
    forces to the west."
   
        "That is what I plan, Is-kaldai. Once they are destroyed, I can then
    test the fortifications to the east."
   
        "Learn all you can, Khoriss, even if it means losing your battles.
    We must learn how they fight in the field, and how they defend their
    positions."
   
        "I understand." Khoriss bowed his head slightly.
   
        "How are Riffen's troops cooperating?"
   
        "All is well, Is-kaldai. They follow my orders."
   
        "The transports that survived insertion are attempting to reinforce
    you, but that will be all you can expect. Our mission now relies
    entirely on you."
   
        "It is enough, Is-kaldai."
   
        Suddenly the cargo hold lights dimmed behind Khoriss, and a warning
    klaxon sounded. Bright flashes of light lit up the thick foliage outside
    the wide-open doors of the transport as point defense dischargers opened
    fire into the sky.
   
        "We are under attack," Khoriss announced. "We have to break
    contact!"
   
        His brother didn't wait for an answer before closing the channel.
    This was a punishable offense, but Keertra was willing to overlook it,
    considering the circumstances.
   
        A narrow beam transmission was supposedly undetectable by any known
    technology. The Is-kaldai preferred not to believe that the aliens had
    triangulated Khorris' position from that. He hoped, instead, that their
    position was determined by other surveillance, and the timing of the
    attack had been coincidental.
   
        Perhaps, though, that should be tested, Keertra considered.
   
        The Alabaster Guard had moved out.
   
        But it had not gone far. It had taken them hours to fight through
    the civilian traffic to get to the east-west highway to Reims, and once
    they were there, they were told to wait again. A light rain fell from
    the night sky as Kaethan was escorted to a local inn. Rather than set up
    camp, Colonel Neils just decided to move into its lobby. The inn had
    provided several makeshift tables, and it was strange to see everyone
    sitting in bright red, plush chairs around them. A large, flat screen
    display was standing on its tall tripod behind the colonel, blank for
    now.
   
        Kaethan was stunned to see that one of the many uniforms in the
    lobby was Concordiat desert gray. His father was here.
   
        Also a surprise was the familiar face of Walter Rice approaching him
    with a big smile plastered upon it. In his left hand Walter held a glass
    of local wine, while in the other he held a packet of important looking
    papers. Why he was here was quite beyond Kaethan.
   
        "Hey," Walter called cheerfully, "looks like I've been attached to
    you."
   
        It took a few moments for Kaethan to understand what this meant. The
    realization compounded his confusion.
   
        "You're taking your toy into the field with us?"
   
        "Corporal Bicks will be driving, of course. It's the next logical
    step." Walter confirmed. Then in a hushed tone, "And it's officially
    called a Sentinel, now. Prototype, of course. I'd appreciate it if you
    don't call it a toy."
   
        "Aren't they risking a lot by throwing you out into the field?"
   
        "Me? Personally? No. The system works now, I just have to fine-tune
    it. No better place than real combat, eh?"
   
        Kaethan couldn't tell if Walter really was this cheerful about it,
    or whether it was just an act. He suspected, though, that it was real,
    and it annoyed the hell out of him.
   
        "I saw that your father was here," Walter said, nodding to him. "You
    didn't tell me before that he brought two Bolo Mark Thirties to the
    planet."
   
        "Units DBC and DBQ," Kaethan informed him. "Chains and Quarter."
   
        "I'd love to take a look at one."
   
        "I might visit after all this. I'll try to bring you along."
   
        " 'C' is for Chains, and 'Q' is for Quarter . . . what does 'DB'
    stand for?"
   
        "You don't want to know."
   
        Outside, another command vehicle skidded to a stop and a group of
    officers jumped out and headed for the door.
   
        "Why 'Quarter'? As in, he gives none?"
   
        "Something like that."
   
        No more could be said about it however, because the last collection
    of majors and captains just entered the room, dripping wet. With their
    arrival, everyone started taking places. His father had been talking
    directly with Colonel Neils, but now searched for and found Kaethan as
    Neils attended to his presentation display. Toman gave up his red plush
    seat to stand with his son and Walter around the perimeter of chairs.
   
        "How are things going?" Toman asked as everyone was quieting.
   
        "No problems so far," Kaethan only said.
   
        The flicker of the colonel's display was the signal for everyone to
    quiet down, and no more words were said. This was promised to be a short
    briefing, only detailing the operation that was being planned, nothing
    more. The notice that was sent to the battalion commanders mentioned the
    temporary loss of the Blackstone turret, and the downing of most of the
    attacking fleet, but offered few details. Kaethan hoped he would have
    time to talk to his father after the briefing to find out more.
   
        "Good evening, gentlemen," Colonel Neils began. "This meeting will
    be brief, after which we will be moving out. The Chandoine Guard headed
    out an hour ago, and we have to get on their tails. Their lead elements
    have already passed the Tigris River Bridge and are deploying there. We
    will then be leap-frogging ahead of them."
   
        The flat-screen display was now shining with a full color map of
    south Deladin being presented to everyone. The east-west highway was
    highlighted prominently.
   
        "The enemy transport that slipped through our guard this morning set
    down somewhere in the area highlighted in blue."
   
        A light blue oval appeared then, highlighting a large area of rocky
    terrain about midway between Telville and Reims in the center of
    southern Deladin.
   
        "Travelers on the highway reported seeing the transport set down
    south of the road, but we have conflicting accounts of exactly where.
    About thirty minutes ago, a narrow beam, subspace transmission was
    detected by the starports at Reims and Starveil. Their triangulation
    information was forwarded to the Chandoine Guard who then bombarded the
    position with their heavy rocket batteries. There is no way to tell
    whether this was the transport, or what the effect of our attack was,
    but this position has now become the primary objective of Telville
    Corps."
   
        A bright white triangle appeared on the screen, near center of the
    blue oval.
   
        "Alien infantry have been reported attacking several plantations
    along the Witch River. One plantation owner who escaped in his grav-car
    reported alien infantry in full suits of body armor that were impervious
    to the shotguns that they use to fend off seyzarrs. Their infantry are
    using needle rifles and are being transported by wheeled armored
    vehicles, with larger needle rifles mounted on turrets. Also, escorting
    these vehicles are other wheeled vehicles that we were told discharge
    lightning bolts at their targets. These could be electron guns or
    perhaps ion cannons. So far, this man's emergency call is the only
    information that we have received concerning the makeup of the ground
    forces that we will be facing."
   
        As Colonel Neils was talking, the map highlighted the Witch River,
    and then the plantations that were hit. Also highlighted now was a
    system of back roads the led up into the mountains of southern Deladin
    and several small mining communities there. It would be difficult to use
    them for flanking operations, however, since they went so deeply into
    the mountains before connecting.
   
        But then the colonel turned the display off. Neils always finished
    his briefings by turning off the display and giving a motivational
    speech while he had everyone's attention.
   
        "This transport was sent in before all others, trusted to hold a
    beachhead for their invasion to set down within. We believe that these
    are elite troops with their best weaponry. They are also on the
    defensive in rough terrain, fully deployed and raiding the surrounding
    territory at will."
   
        So far, Kaethan thought, this wasn't very motivational. Neils
    usually had a good finish, however.
   
        "On the other hand, our enemy is heavily outnumbered, and in a
    territory that they are not accustomed to. We must use these advantages
    as best we can. This beachhead must be eliminated as quickly as
    possible, for our command believes that their last attack was only a
    test of our defenses. Their next attack will be in force. This pocket
    must be cleared by then so that we can be free to react to their
    invasion."
   
        Kaethan suddenly had the idea that the Telville Corps was being
    asked to charge their positions in a direct assault. Certainly their
    leaders realized that this was exactly what the aliens would be
    expecting, and would be best prepared for . . .
   
        "Any questions?" Colonel Neils opened the floor.
   
        "What will Tigris Guard be doing?" asked Major Thurman of 1st
    Mechanized.
   
        "They will be supporting us, of course, though farther back.
    Depending on how we manage, they will either reinforce us, or be held
    back in protection of Telville along with the Chandoine Guard. Any other
    questions?"
   
        Colonel Neils was making it plain that he was not encouraging
    questions, only suffering them. If anyone had any, they'd better be
    good.
   
        "Will Reims be sending any forces from the other side?" asked
    Captain Held of 3rd Recon.
   
        "Negative. We can't lose the starport, gentlemen. Any other
    questions?"
   
        No one said anything, though everyone may have just felt so
    blindsided by that last news that they couldn't speak. Colonel Neils
    wrapped things up quickly.
   
        "Then head back to your units, gentlemen. Detailed marching orders
    are waiting for you there. Dismissed! Captain Ishida?"
   
        Kaethan was just about to start questioning his father when Colonel
    Neils called him over. He felt rather embarrassed as both his father and
    Walter tagged along behind him as he worked his way over to Neils.
    Everyone else was clearing out of the lobby quickly, and Kaethan had to
    thread his way through the rapidly exiting bodies.
   
        "Yes, Colonel?" Kaethan asked when he got to him.
   
        "You'll have all three recon companies ahead of you, Captain, but I
    want my heaviest strikers as lead battalion. That means you, Captain."
   
        "Yes, Colonel. Any specific orders?"
   
        "Just get us there quick, Captain, and don't wait for anyone to tell
    you where to go or what to do."
   
        "Yes, sir."
   
        The two exchanged brief salutes and Neils left in a rush. As Kaethan
    turned around, he found that Walter and his father had already exchanged
    introductions, and were talking about Chains and Quarter.
   
        "No," his father was saying, "without his turret, Rokoyan wants my
    Bolos held back for planetary defense."
   
        "I thought that local governments couldn't order Concordiat units
    around once shots were fired," Walter replied.
   
        "They can't, but this is a judgment call. Rokoyan has reason to be
    worried. A second wave could hit us any moment, and he believes that
    your forces can handle the beachhead alone."
   
        "Father," Kaethan interrupted, recalling his mother's long diatribes
    on Delassian politics, "what Rokoyan wants is to prove that we can
    handle the defense of our planet ourselves, and therefore there is no
    reason to put a Concordiat military base here."
   
        The conversation ended then, as they both considered what he said.
    Walter then nodded, reluctantly agreeing. Delas hated government
    interference, and with a Concordiat base on the planet, there would be
    plenty to go around.
   
        His father grimaced and shook his head.
   
        "That fits," Colonel Ishida agreed. "Well, if you guys start having
    trouble, I'll be able to see it and call one of them in."
   
        "You're coming to the front?" Kaethan asked defensively.
   
        "Yes, Neils gave me permission to tag along with your unit. Do you
    mind?"
   
        A wave of nausea swept through Kaethan's entire body. The thought of
    his father watching over him during a fight was horrifying! The man had
    more combat experience than the combined population of Delas! Every
    maneuver that Kaethan executed, every order he gave, would be graded and
    judged according to impossible standards! All his mistakes would be
    instantly noticed and thrown back into his face as his father corrected
    him. God forbid anyone would die under his command, for he'd only have
    to look to his father to find out who was to blame. And, without doubt,
    his father would see every mistake that Kaethan made as a reflection
    upon himself.
   
        "Of course not, Colonel," he said.
   
        Our missile supplies are nearly exhausted. Only two missiles remain
    in my vertical launch tubes, from my original storehouse of twenty. Unit
    DBQ has none left. All have been expended against the transports that
    successfully made planetfall and now approach the east and west coasts
    of Deladin. My remaining conventional warheads were not designed for use
    against such large targets, and we fear that our attacks may have been
    insufficient to stop them. The 39th's MFOR-XXX-II (Melconian Front
    Optimization Refit for Bolo Mark XXXs, Version Two) gave each of us five
    Isis orbital denial thermonuclear missiles, but only fifteen Icehawk
    anti-armor missiles, designed more for penetration than for expansive
    damage.
   
        The Delassian defense net has limited capability to track targets
    below the horizon, and these aliens approach slowly at wave-top level.
    They are communications silent and emit no active sensor sweeps. Our
    most effective method of acquiring these targets has been detecting the
    radiation that they are emitting from their fusion thrusters. This,
    unfortunately, is inexact, and our missiles must search for their
    thermal signature once they arrive in the area.
   
        My last two missiles, however, have been saved for one last contact
    whose passage through the ocean net has been like a ghost. It approaches
    much slower than the others, and likely has radiation shielding
    protecting its exhaust. It threads its way between the Delassian
    detectors as if it were provided a map, though I calculate that
    likelihood as being infinitesimal. Instead, I must attribute its
    opportune zigzag approach to nothing more than luck. Even now, as it
    finally approaches the southern Delassian coast, far off detectors can
    only approximate its position as north of Telville and south of
    Candelith.
   
        Once this transport reaches land, we risk it deploying its forces.
    But firing my missiles at such an elusive target may waste the last of
    our extreme range ordnance. My stage-one heuristic dilemma switches have
    tripped, but it is unnecessary that I invoke my stage two circuitry.
   
        I call my Commander . . .
   
        The Kezdai assault dropship never detected the approaching missile.
    Its particle beam defenses remained utterly still, useless without
    direction from the ship's impressive sensor arrays, which were off. Its
    crew saw only the blackness of the south Deladin shoreline, looming
    larger and larger on their forward view screen. The light from their
    fusion drive, up until now reflecting off nothing but the waves only
    meters below, now was beginning to cast a bluish glow over the white
    sand beach that they were approaching. Is-kaldai Riffen's elite forces
    had been flying manually over the ocean, and planned on remaining on
    manual navigation for their flight over land. There were just too many
    active sensors sweeping the skies between them and Adakradai Khoriss'
    landing area to risk plotting anything beforehand.
   
        Their plans, however, had to be rewritten.
   
        Coming down on the dropship from above, the Icehawk missile locked
    in on their forward left thruster and ignited its powerful magnetic
    dynamo. At the split moment of impact, the warhead was fed a stream of
    antimatter particles that annihilated instantly. Molten shards of
    crystalline carbon exploded high into the air in a sparkling cloud as an
    impossibly narrow beam of focused plasma drilled deep into the Triamond
    lattice hull. Drive shielding was sliced clean through, causing an
    explosion that blasted the thruster clean off its housing.
   
        The sudden explosion could be seen thirty kilometers up and down the
    coast, but even that wasn't enough for anyone to notice it. The
    peninsula that the dropship had to crash upon was over twenty kilometers
    from the nearest human dwellings, with no roads leading to it. No one
    was around to see that the dropship remained intact after smashing a
    two-hundred-meter long swathe through the dense rainforest, or that
    soldiers and equipment descended unhurt from the burning hulk.
   
        No one, including the Kezdai, noticed the large black fin that cut
    through the waves just offshore.
   
        As the first light of dawn glowed deep blue in the eastern sky,
    Captain Kaethan Ishida and the Alabaster Coast Heavy Armor was still
    point battalion in Telville Corps' drive inland. While his ten Templars
    of Alpha team were running up the eastern lane of the highway, his Bravo
    team was paralleling him on the western lane. Charlie team followed
    behind. Somewhere around the fifth hour, it had become obvious to the
    captain that their "leap" ahead of the Chandoine Guard had become a
    permanent condition. There would be no deployment to allow the Tigris
    Guard to jump ahead of them. Someone upstairs wanted contact to be made
    as soon as possible, and his unit was just lucky enough to be out front
    when that decision was made.
   
        Kaethan was driving Templar One as Sergeant Pritchard slept. Andrea
    kept watch from her turret position. When Zen awoke in an hour, they all
    would have had four hours sleep during the night as they traded duties.
    The nights on Delas were fifteen hours and about thirty minutes, with
    little variation from the planet's almost perfectly vertical axis. At
    nearly fifty kilometers per hour, Kaethan's column had traveled six
    hundred kilometers inland in the last twelve hours. The tall mountains
    of south Deladin were looming high into the clouds far to the south. The
    rain forest that they drove through was giving way to the limestone
    foothills that dominated the approaches to the granite peaks.
   
        Contact was expected soon, but the three recon companies ahead of
    them had still not reported anything. Everyone was on radio silence
    except for them, and they were to break it only in an emergency. Even
    the running lights on the Templars were off, forcing Kaethan to use his
    thermal and low-light scopes to keep in line.
   
        So when their radio did crackle with traffic, Kaethan was all ears.
   
        "This is Recon Bravo Two. Contact at my position."
   
        A red circle popped up on Kaethan's navigation map that was
    scrolling on the display before him as he drove. It was about eight
    kilometers ahead of him, directly on the highway. He did not recognize
    the voice, but whoever it was, he was exceedingly calm. Obviously Bravo
    Two had driven into an ambush site, but the aliens were hoping for
    something tastier to feed on than just a recon unit.
   
        Kaethan didn't wait for confirmation, however. By hitting a virtual
    button on his left panel, he put his entire battalion on alert. And with
    a yell, he woke up Zen. As acknowledgements were sent back to him from
    his Templar commanders, lighting up his left-hand display with bright
    icons for each tank, he continued to listen to command channels.
   
        "Are you sure, Bravo?" said a quiet female voice over the radio.
    "You're two kilometers behind us."
   
        The female voice was that of Recon Alpha commander, Captain Beth
    Nichols.
   
        "Forget your thermals. Use your low-light." Bravo Two replied. "They
    must have cooled armor . . ."
   
        Standard procedure in this situation was for the Recon unit to keep
    advancing, but much slower. It was now the column's job to catch up
    quickly and extract it. A glance at his left-hand display showed the
    alert acknowledgements coming back quickly.
   
        As a flurry of artillery plots lit up along the treeline ahead of
    him on his navigation map, Kaethan turned his transmitter to his
    battalion channel.
   
        "Wake up boys and girls!" he called. "Our recon companies have just
    walked into a passive ambush seven klicks ahead. It's our job to go in
    and hold the jaws open while recon gets the hell out. Teams
    acknowledge!"
   
        "Aye," called Lieutenant Peter Birch of his Bravo team.
   
        "Aye," called Lieutenant Ellen Holowitz of his Charlie team.
   
        "Nobody is to fire until the action starts! Once it begins, Alpha
    and Bravo are to stop and plant where they are! Charlie will come up and
    deploy across our front. Got that?"
   
        "Aye." They replied.
   
        Kaethan suddenly closed his eyes and groaned as he remembered that
    Walter and his father tagging along in the prototype Sentinel.
   
        "Bicks, are you there?"
   
        "Yes, Captain!"
   
        "You take Walter's toy into the depression in the middle of our box
    and stay there!"
   
        "Yes, sir!"
   
        The highway was taking a gradual turn as he talked, and a long, flat
    straightaway was ahead of them. Dense groves of trees lined both sides,
    with a sharp rise at the far end, and many rocky knolls and outcroppings
    to hide any enemy armor. It was the perfect place for an ambush, with
    nowhere for them to hide once the firing started.
   
        Of course, the Templar Mark XI was never meant to hide.
   
        Ad-akradai Khoriss watched as the rising light of the alien sun
    turned the eastern sky lavender and pink. It had been raining, off and
    on, since he had landed upon this world, and this was the first time the
    skies were mostly clear. In his exhilaration, he had succumbed to his
    terrible urge to remove his helmet and breathe in the unfiltered air of
    this world. It was dangerous, yes, but there was danger everywhere here.
    Such a swamp-ridden world as this was the breeding ground of countless
    bacteria and germs, and the Kezdai immune system was weak from evolving
    on a desert world that was so devoid of them.
   
        The hot, moist air, though, was less than refreshing.
   
        The aliens on this world traveled without protection, he had
    noticed. They called themselves "Humans." A wounded male farm worker had
    been captured and interrogated as best they could before he died. Very
    little else was learned from him, but then little was expected. He was
    only a farmer, what must be their lowest caste, as it was with the
    Kezdai.
   
        To the west, explosions and antiartillery discharges could be heard
    as his forces engaged the Humans along the narrow stretch of highway
    that cut through the rainforest and impassable rocky terrain of the
    area. All of his armor remained dug in along the highway perimeter,
    unable to travel over ground because their tires would sink to their
    floor into the muddy ground. Maneuver was impossible in this country,
    and if he were on the offensive, he'd be going mad in frustration right
    now. But he wasn't. His forces were on the defense, and the Humans could
    reach him with only a fraction of their forces at a time.
   
        From his vantage point on top of a rocky outcropping, he could see a
    portion of the highway to the northwest. Many vehicles were scattered
    over the ground in various stages of destruction. Some were burning,
    sending faint columns of smoke into the air. Most were not, however,
    having little inside that caught fire. Most of the vehicles were Human,
    but several were Kezdai.
   
        His carefully laid ambush turned into a disappointing standoff as
    the Humans detected their positions before the trap was sprung. Seeing
    the enemy recon units falling back, many of his commanders attacked
    anyway, leading to an open field firefight. The armor plating protecting
    the Humans' troop carriers was so laughably thin that even the Kezdai's
    infantry needle rifles could riddle the vehicle with holes. But their
    large, tracked vehicles with the huge railguns were a different story.
   
        While the Human troop carriers attempted to flee or were abandoned,
    their heavy armor held ground, blasting their missiles with twin turrets
    firing crackling bolts of energy, and protecting their skies overhead
    with a laser battery kept safe in their center. Their massive railguns
    traversed the battlefield at an astounding speed for their size,
    punching huge holes in any Kezdai armor that attempted to rush them.
    With concentrated, direct missile fire from his infantry, several of
    these tanks on their flanks had finally been knocked out. The remaining
    pocket, however, used the dead hulks as cover, becoming even harder to
    break.
   
        And there the Humans stood ground while their infantry deployed in
    the forests on their flanks. The infantry firefights within the trees
    were quick and bloody, with neither side's bodyarmor effective against
    the Kezdai needle rifles or the Humans' bulky and powerful gauss rifles.
    The Kezdai soldiers, however, were sorely outnumbered.
   
        Below his precipice, a command vehicle approached up the gravel road
    that wound through the trees. It stopped behind Khorris' own vehicle and
    Akradai Zaekiss stepped out. Having seen all that he could see from this
    outcropping, Khoriss decided to climb down to meet his infantry
    commander instead of forcing him to climb up. Ever since the first
    bombardment that targeted their transport, he had ordered that all
    reports were to be given to him in person. Their communications
    equipment was only used in emergencies.
   
        "So what have you learned, Zaekiss?" Khorris' sarcasm was as thick
    as the mud that covered this planet.
   
        Zaekiss appreciated the sarcasm, but didn't show it. He removed his
    helmet as Khoriss leapt the last twenty feet to the ground before
    reporting to him in his vibrant, somber voice, unusual for a Kezdai. A
    huge scar across his throat marked the old surias wound that had so
    altered his voice.
   
        "Our soldiers are being forced to retreat, Ad-akradai. These Humans
    are patient, always waiting for their artillery to wreak their havoc
    before advancing a minimal distance. It is slow progress, but our
    dischargers are constantly being overwhelmed by the shells."
   
        Khorris' hood drooped noticeably. His plan to decimate their lead
    elements, and overrun their rear, was in tatters. He had lost his
    element of surprise, but had been still hoping that the Humans would
    again attempt to rush his lines. This latest news, however, crushed that
    hope. Personally, Khoriss disliked artillery, and had decided not to
    waste room on his transport carrying them. These Humans, though,
    continued to use it well ever since their first bombardment hit just
    when his infantry were about to open fire on their lead heavy armor.
   
        "How do they fight, Zaekiss? What do your soldiers tell you?"
   
        The Akradai hesitated as he tried to understand exactly what his
    leader was asking. Khoriss saw the confusion.
   
        "The Humans, Zaekiss," Khoriss tried to explain, "what kind of
    soldiers are they?"
   
        Zaekiss' hood expanded as he understood the question, though he
    still had to reprocess all that his troops had reported and commented
    upon.
   
        "They are well trained and armed, Ad-akradai," Zaekiss finally
    concluded, "but they are inexperienced and soft. The Humans are much
    more fragile than Kezdai. Many cry out and are incapacitated with just
    one needle wound, calling to their comrades and healers who then
    foolishly expose themselves to fire. Some panic easily, while others
    show great courage. When we first fired on them, they all showed great
    confusion, but given a chance to regroup, they now advance with great
    precision and planning."
   
        Zaekiss stopped as he tried to think of more to say, but Khoriss was
    pleased with what he was told and held up his hand. He did not need
    more.
   
        "We must force them to rush us, then," Khoriss announced. "Once they
    have taken substantial casualties, they will fall into chaos and we can
    break them."
   
        "Likely, Ad-akradai. But there is no reason for them to rush us.
    Time is on their side, not ours."
   
        "You are right, but there are other ways of forcing their hand. We
    must retreat past the large river and force them to cross under fire."
   
        "But Ad-akradai, we would then surrender our transport to them!"
   
        "It is useless to us, anyway. We will wait long enough for the
    remaining supplies to be off-loaded, and then our nuclear cannons can be
    repositioned and converted for ground combat."
   
        "Against their railgun carriers? It seems a waste . . ."
   
        "Have you seen a better target?"
   
        "No, Khoriss, but if a Human warship were to suddenly appear . . ."
   
        "Then we will die a couple days sooner, that is all, Zaekiss."
   
        "Yes, Ad-akradai." Zaekiss sounded less than enthusiastic.
   
        "Fight as well as you can for now, Zaekiss. Grind them down. Have
    them trade many lives for the ground you give them."
   
        "I will."
   
        "You will be signaled when you should retreat your forces past the
    bridge. Now return to your soldiers."
   
        "Immediately, Ad-akradai Khoriss."
   
        It had been so very long since the Kezdai had fought worldwide
    campaigns, Khoriss reflected as he watched Zaekiss depart. As war-prone
    as the Kezdai were, rarely would their battles involve more than just
    two or three factions. Little strategy or planning was needed, just
    tactics. With all their technological advances, with all their missiles
    and long range artillery, it seemed so strange that they would still
    care so much about river boundaries and defilade slopes. But until all
    armor, friend and foe alike, could fly above the trees and terrain in
    anti-gravity bubbles, these obstacles would continue to dominate
    tactical planning.
   
        His brother would be pleased, though. Khoriss was learning much
    about these Humans, and he would be reporting back to Keertra soon. He
    worried now, however, that the Humans were learning something also. They
    were learning how to fight. If the remaining Is-kaldai truly decided to
    gather all their forces in a mass assault, they would still find well
    trained and armed soldiers on this world. But once Khoriss was done with
    them, they'd certainly no longer be inexperienced and soft.
   
        Kuro's emergency message had startled Serina awake out of a troubled
    sleep. The loud beeping had sounded just before sunrise, and at first
    she couldn't figure out what it meant. Rarely had Kuro ever used her
    ability to send phone messages before, and never in a real emergency.
    Adding to her confusion, she read the note before noticing who sent it.
    "Large spaceship landed at Peter's beach," it read.
   
        At first she thought the message had come from her father or
    brother, considering its content. But once she noticed that Kuro had
    sent it, she immediately understood her to be referring to the sand
    beach that her coworker Peter often camped out on.
   
        Realizing the importance of Kuro's message, Serina set forth to call
    someone in the military. Fearing that she might be asked for specifics
    on just how she found out about the landing, she decided to just call
    the main desk at Fort Hilliard, where they knew her. Unfortunately she
    didn't know the woman who answered, and when asked who actually saw the
    ship, Serina just answered that it was an employee of hers working at
    the research center. Luckily that was enough, and Serina was promised
    that action would be taken.
   
        Once the call was complete, Serina decided to drive out to the
    research center herself. She knew that she wouldn't be able to get to
    sleep again that night, and she was worried about Kuro. There was no way
    for Serina to send back messages to Kuro from home, and Kuro had to be
    worried that her message would get through. Also, Kuro might have some
    details that could be useful to someone.
   
        She wouldn't stay long, however. The research center was too close
    to Peter's beach for her comfort, though twenty kilometers of impassable
    rain forest was between them. She'd just drop in for a few minutes, she
    told herself, before heading home again.
   
        The alien lay dead at the edge of the battered forest, amongst
    shattered trees and charred branches. The battle armor that the creature
    was wearing was blasted open by the ion-bolt turrets from the giant
    Templars that lined the road above. Darkened blood stained the soldier's
    breastplate and soaked the soldier's crimson sash tied to his waist.
    Colonel Ishida looked over the corpse for several minutes before
    attempting to remove the helmet and get a good look at the face and
    head.
   
        Colonel Ishida had been in many battles before, but never had he
    felt as exposed as he did this morning. He had always thought that being
    at ground zero of a massed Melconian offensive was the worst situation
    that a commander could possibly face, but he'd always faced it with a
    regiment of Bolo Mark XXXs at his back. He wasn't used to friendly
    artillery arriving late or off target. He wasn't used to being
    surrounded by the enemy with no ability to maneuver out. He wasn't used
    to commanders screaming over the Corps channels, arguing over who was
    going to support who, where, and when. And he definitely wasn't used to
    having hypersonic needles punching through one side of his vehicle and
    out the other, barely missing him.
   
        And Walter Rice's endless commentary on the performance of his laser
    didn't help. Throughout the entire fight, Rice was recalibrating his
    crystal, altering its spin to cover different arcs at different speeds.
    Walter was also prone to sudden outbursts, constantly making the colonel
    believe that they were about to be hit.
   
        His son's thirty Templars were in the thick of the fight for six
    hours before Tigris Guard was finally ordered to take over the
    offensive. All along the front, Alabaster Guard units held ground while
    Tigris Guard units jumped past them. This occurred while the aliens
    changed tactics, now using hit-and-run assaults with concentrations of
    their infantry, and plasma pistols instead of their needle rifles to
    blast the soldiers out of their positions. In some places, the human
    lines were thrown back with great losses, but in others they advanced
    unimpeded. Sensors showed that the aliens were withdrawing all of their
    armor to the rear, but the Templars of the Tigris guard refused to give
    chase without infantry effectively covering their flanks.
   
        Progress would be slow in this battle.
   
        It was late morning now, and the sky was surprisingly clear for this
    time of year. Distant explosions created a rumbling sound in the area
    that never let up. The Delassian forces had large supplies of shells,
    and Colonel Ishida was suspecting that they'd be using all of them.
   
        "Hold on a minute." Walter Rice said from close behind him.
   
        Kaethan had approached along with Walter, who was now wearing his
    official Alabaster Coast sunglasses, given to him by Sergeant Pritchard
    just a few minutes earlier. He was an honorary member of the unit, Zen
    told him, now that he had fought along side them.
   
        The alien's helmet was caught on something, and Toman was having
    trouble taking it off. Walter, though, removed a long dagger from the
    alien's belt, and pried off a metal clamp at the neck. The helmet then
    slid off cleanly.
   
        "Looks like some ancient Egyptian god," Kaethan commented.
   
        The alien's neck and left jaw were blackened by a nasty burn, but
    otherwise the head was undamaged. Its green eyes were open, unseeing.
   
        "All aliens look like someone's idea of a god," Toman said harshly.
    "Or demon."
   
        "He's big enough," Walter said.
   
        "Three fingers, two opposable thumbs." The colonel sounded like he
    was making mental notes. "I don't feel up to taking off his boots."
   
        Kaethan noticed Walter, who had cleaned the alien dagger with a
    strip of cloth from the alien's sash. He now was looking intently at the
    blade.
   
        "Collect knives, Walter?" Kaethan asked.
   
        "No," he said vacantly. "I minored in metallurgy. I make them."
   
        "You make it sound like all metallurgists make knives."
   
        "Most guys do. What else would you choose as a semester project? A
    kitchen faucet that survives a re-entry burn?"
   
        "So instead you make daggers that survive re-entry burns?" Kaethan
    chided him.
   
        "Is it usable?" The colonel asked with a serious edge. "Or is it
    just decorative?"
   
        Walter surprised them both as he seemed to balance the weapon in his
    hand, and then he gripped it by the blade as if for throwing. Then once
    more he studied the blade itself that reflected the light in rippling
    silver and white.
   
        "Both, actually," Walter finally said. "It has several alloys in it
    just for decoration, but it certainly looks like it's been heavily used
    in its lifetime. This blade definitely has a purpose. I wonder if they
    all have them."
   
        "They do. There are two more bodies . . . scattered . . . down that
    way. They both had daggers on their belts."
   
        "Colonel," Walter asked sheepishly, "will I be shot for looting if I
    take a couple?"
   
        Toman shook his head.
   
        "That only happens when we fight each other," he assured him. "But
    be ready to give them up if asked."
   
        "Will do."
   
        Walter stood up and went off looting, then. Some nearby explosions
    sounded from down the road, on the far side of the rise. Kaethan stood
    up and looked expectantly toward the sound, but no further rounds were
    hitting.
   
        "How are your men doing?" Toman asked as he studied the inside of
    the helmet and the electronics that were there.
   
        "Lost five," Kaethan said solemnly as he looked back at the alien
    body. "Two others are seriously injured."
   
        Only two of his Templars were totaled, but ten were heavily damaged.
    A small army of engineers was swarming over them now trying to get them
    back into fighting shape. Their railguns themselves were starting to be
    targeted near the end, after the aliens found out how hard it was to
    punch through their armor. But the alien missiles, when they got through
    the Templars' defenses, burned through their protection with a variety
    of warheads. The heavy walls between compartments helped keep many of
    the casualties down.
   
        "You did very well this morning, son."
   
        As surprised as Kaethan was at the compliment, he couldn't accept
    it.
   
        "Not one of the recon units made it out." Kaethan shook his head.
    "I'd call that a failure."
   
        "They had no chance," his father rebuffed. "The aliens' needle
    rifles sliced right through those Haulers. I can't believe you're trying
    to use them."
   
        With Kaethan's silence, Toman suddenly realized that his son took
    that personally. He, of course, was blaming the government for using
    such an inferior personnel carrier, not his son . . .
   
        "But your Templars stood up wonderfully." Toman tried to recover
    from his mistake, by changing the subject. "Are those Mark Twelves,
    Thirteens?"
   
        "No," Kaethan replied shortly. "Just Elevens."
   
        Toman cursed to himself silently. Another mistake. His son took
    offense again. This always happened whenever he tried to talk to
    Kaethan. It seemed destiny. At this rate Kaethan would disown him by the
    end of the day.
   
        The Elevens, he formed a recovery, were actually better in some ways
    . . .
   
        "Father," Kaethan said then.
   
        "Yes?"
   
        "Do you know why I didn't go to the Concordiat Academy?"
   
        Toman set down the alien helmet to his side.
   
        "I always assumed that you were threatened with the same tortures
    that your mother threatened me with if I ever encouraged you to."
   
        His son smiled and chuckled. Toman felt that this was a change for
    the better. Rarely had he inspired that reaction in his son.
   
        "Just checking," Kaethan said.
   
        "Did you actually think that I was disappointed in you for not
    joining? What would ever give you such an outrageous idea?"
   
        "Nothing, Father." Kaethan stopped him. "Just checking."
   
        "I would hope so," Toman said, and picked up the helmet again to
    study it.
   
        A column of Haulers passed them, then, driving towards the rise to
    the east. They wouldn't cross over, of course. They'd just drop off
    their infantry, and join the ever-growing numbers of other Haulers
    abandoned by the side of the road. Some things, humans learned quickly.
    For other things, it took longer.
   
        The sight was spectacular.
   
        As the last of the Kezdai infantry streamed across the bridge, a
    hail of artillery shells was raining down from above. This was the only
    safe crossing of the Witch River for fifty kilometers in either
    direction, and both sides knew it. Every howitzer and rocket howitzer in
    the Telville arsenal was nearly melting its barrel trying to get at the
    forces that were concentrated there. But not a single shell made it to
    the ground as a massive lightning storm crackled and thundered over the
    valley, forking up into the sky to intercept dozens of shells at a time.
   
   
        Sergeant Emmet Lear of Alpha Company, First Mechanized Brigade,
    watched the lightning show from behind a large rock outcropping
    overlooking the valley, heavily shrouded by trees and underbrush. The
    highway was a kilometer to the north, snaking away from him, viewable
    through many branches and leaves. Electricity filled the air around him,
    causing him to suffer static shocks whenever he touched the
    ceramic-metal barrel of his gauss rifle. The smell and taste of ozone in
    the air was almost choking. His short beard itched constantly as the
    hairs seemed to want to stand on end. Added to that, a sharp rock goaded
    his ribcage as he lay prone, peering through the underbrush.
   
        The highway into the valley veered left over the crest, with two
    kilometers of moderate slope before turning hard right to cross the
    four-lane bridge. On the opposite bank, the roadway ran up a much
    steeper slope before turning back to its left to disappear behind the
    forest of trees and large rock outcroppings. Any vehicle travelling on
    the roadway had little cover.
   
        The valley itself was rocky, with huge boulders and rock faces
    peeking out from underneath the many trees that clung desperately to
    what soil kept them rooted. Rainforest ferns that covered most of
    Deladin now gave way to an undergrowth of thorny bushes and tall
    grasses. Rushing down the valley was a thunderous whitewater rapids, fed
    by the snow-capped mountains to the south. The Witch River had been
    labeled as suicidal to any adventure seeker who wished to raft it.
   
        "Anything getting through yet, Sergeant?" asked the tired voice of
    Major Peter Mikolayev over his command channels.
   
        Emmet's prone position gave him a good view of the far side of the
    bridge three kilometers away, where the last of the alien infantry was
    still crossing unimpeded. The rock outcropping shielded him from the
    rest of the valley, though the tall periscope viewer at his side allowed
    him to see over part of it.
   
        "Negative," Emmet replied simply.
   
        There was a moment's pause as a sigh could be heard.
   
        "We're shutting down, then. All units hold position and await
    further orders."
   
        The command would have little effect on the front line, the sergeant
    knew, since the Tigris Guard had already deployed in defensive positions
    behind the valley crest. Captain Riggins' thirty Templars were already
    scattered along the stretch of roadway leading up to the valley. Emmet's
    Mechanized Brigade was digging in around the tanks in the forests, and
    bringing their Haulers forward to support them. Everyone was already
    expecting this standoff to last a while and was preparing for a siege.
   
        The bombardment continued for only a minute more after the
    announcement, slacking off quickly, though a few rocket howitzer rounds
    continued to streak overhead from their bases far to the rear. Raising
    his one-meter tall periscope, the sergeant sneaked a peek over the
    outcropping. A large part of the valley was still blocked by the rock,
    but Corporal Pierce of Bravo Company, hidden one kilometer north of the
    road, could see the remainder.
   
        Movement immediately caught his attention, and with a twist of the
    ungainly periscope, he zoomed in on a line of vehicles.
   
        "An armored column is entering the valley," he said into his
    headset. "I see ten vehicles, moving slowly. More are following . . ."
   
        Emmet's first thought was that the aliens had now tested their
    defenses and considered it safe to invest some armor into the valley. He
    wasn't overly concerned that they'd sortie since all of their infantry
    were now safely evacuated.
   
        "Pierce just got sniped," reported Captain Larson of Bravo Company.
    "Assigning another observer . . ."
   
        Sergeant Lear swore under his breath as he continued to watch the
    arriving column.
   
        "Twenty vehicles," he updated the count. "One-fifty tons . . . ten
    wheelers . . . energy cannons . . . twelve-wheeled mass drivers . . ."
   
        Sergeant Pierce was a personal friend of Emmet's, and his stomach
    tightened at the thought of him just taking a needle. There shouldn't
    have been any reason why Pierce exposed himself. They had their
    periscopes and good positions. Something must have drawn Pierce out, or
    else their lines had been infiltrated.
   
        "Twenty-six vehicles total in two columns," Lear updated again,
    trying not to think about it, "still approaching the bridge."
   
        Yesterday, Emmet Lear had been a dealer in heavy-construction
    vehicles. That life was forgotten at the moment, but his civilian
    occupation gave him an advantage at judging the size of the war machines
    that were rolling down the opposite slope. The sight of such large
    armored vehicles on wheels disturbed Lear, however, who was used to
    tracks being on any ground vehicle over fifty tons. Although this would
    give them a much better speed on pavement, he considered, they'd be very
    limited once the battle turned off-road. A few of the vehicles were also
    of a tractor-trailer design, which he knew were extremely unstable on
    broken terrain at higher speeds.
   
        "EW is picking up gravitic disturbances at the river," said Major
    Mikoleyev over his headset. "Anyone see anything?"
   
        Emmet quickly zoomed out his periscope and looked around. The valley
    was clear of any other movement. Even the infantry had now disappeared
    into the woods and rocky terrain across the river. Of course, with
    Pierce gone, Lear now had to worry about what was behind the huge
    outcropping that sheltered him. He'd have to climb on top, or crawl out
    in the open to get a look on the other side, however, exposing himself
    to fire. There was no chance he'd do that.
   
        Then his spine tingled as Lear heard a low whine quickly growing in
    volume around him, freezing his bones. Dropping the periscope, Lear lay
    flat on his stomach with his hands over his helmet.
   
        The voice that suddenly exploded over command channels was not
    recognized, but it was obviously young.
   
        "Four gravtanks climbing our slope south of the highway!"
   
        Oh crap, Lear thought, and lay perfectly still as a massive shadow
    rose over the outcropping and slowly passed over him. His entire body
    seemed to vibrate in resonance with the overwhelming hum that enveloped
    him, paralyzing him in fear.
   
        "All units engage!" Mikolayev called out. "All units engage! But do
    not enter the valley! They could be trying to draw us in."
   
        "Five hundred . . . six hundred tons!" the unknown observer called
    out. "Plasma cannon of some sort. The column is crossing the bridge!"
   
        The hum was dying off now, but Emmet didn't move until the screams
    of Raven missiles, launched by his comrades, filled the air. Rising
    quickly to his knees, he looked both at the rear of the massive
    gravtanks disappearing over the trees, and then at the rapidly advancing
    armored vehicles driving up the highway.
   
        "Captain Riggins!" Lear called out over the command channel. "You
    will be hit simultaneously from your front and right flank . . ."
   
        "Incoming!"
   
        Emmet didn't know who called that out, or why, but that never
    mattered to a soldier in combat. He just dropped everything and tried to
    become one with the dirt.
   
        THUTHUMP!
   
        A shockwave and blast of heat passed over him with a thunderous
    roar, followed by a rain of smoldering branches falling onto his back. A
    moment later, entire trees were crashing down the slopes around him,
    causing landslides. When he looked up, the trees at the top of the
    valley had been blasted away. Dense smoke filled the air, but he had an
    unobstructed view of the four alien gravtanks just as they acquired
    their targets. Incredibly bright plasma lasers flared from their
    cannons. Lear couldn't see what damage they might have wreaked among the
    Templars, but a mass of return fire began to literally blast the
    gravtanks apart. Huge chunks of armor flew high into the sky as armor
    piercing rods slammed into them. Turning his attention back to the
    highway, Emmet saw five of the alien armored vehicles explode the moment
    that they topped the crest, but the remainder lashed out with bright
    blue particle beams and then disappeared from view as they tangled with
    the Templars.
   
        From Lear's vantage point, all he could watch were the gravtanks as
    they disintegrated, chunk by chunk. Raven missiles suddenly began
    streaking up to blast them from all sides as their point defense beams
    fell silent. One by one, as the gravtank's powerplants were hit, the
    mammoths dropped from the sky as if their supporting strings were cut.
    Only a few moments after the last gravtank fell, the alien armored
    vehicles reappeared, this time in open retreat at high speeds. Only a
    dozen or so were left.
   
        As the sergeant watched the surviving column recross the bridge, he
    suddenly remembered his duties. After finding his periscope in all the
    debris, he scanned what he could of the valley.
   
        "All vehicles in retreat," the sergeant announced. "No other
    activity."
   
        All during the fight, the command channels were completely silent as
    Major Mikolayev let the commanders fight their battles. The extended
    span of silence after Emmet gave his report, however, made him think
    that his headset was damaged.
   
        But then Mikolayev came back online.
   
        "All units prepare to be relieved in order. Alabaster will be taking
    point again. All infantry units check your bracelets and report to
    Decon' as needed."
   
        With a sudden fear gripping him, Lear ripped open his sleeve and
    took a look at the radiation band that was wrapped around his wrist. Its
    friendly green had now turned ominously yellow.
   
        Crap, Emmet thought.
   
        The Kezdai scout was disappointed.
   
        The electrical fence had fooled him into believing that the complex
    he had infiltrated was an important target. What he was finding was that
    it was some sort of biological research center. The room that he was
    hiding in contained shelves and shelves of glass and plastic tanks
    containing marine animals of various types. Perhaps they were
    experimenting with biologic weapons of some types, but he doubted it.
    There were no hermetically sealed environments anywhere to be seen.
   
        He had been hiding for several minutes now, ever since three Human
    armored vehicles rolled through the gate. Soldiers dismounted out of the
    rear of the vehicles, but they did not deploy. If they had, then that
    would have been a sure sign that this complex was valuable, and that he
    should direct an artillery barrage down upon it. Although the vile
    Keertran troops did not appreciate the value of artillery, his Is-kaldai
    Riffen certainly did. His crashed dropship had a complete battery of
    guns that were already targeting the Human infantry that were attempting
    to approach through the rain forest. It had been difficult to pass
    through their ranks without being detected, but he had an important
    mission. His commander wanted to know if the cities had their own point
    defense systems, or whether only the military units were protected. To
    find that out, he and several of his comrades were to find an
    observation point overlooking the nearby city.
   
        Then artillery would be called in.
   
        A Human female with long black hair had appeared out of the large
    building to his right, obviously a researcher of some sort. Up until
    that moment, he had thought that the complex was abandoned. The female
    had been talking to the infantry commander for quite a long time while
    the scout waited impatiently, sneaking peaks out a window at periodic
    intervals. Just when his patience was finally running out, he heard the
    engines start up, and two of the three vehicles moved out. The last
    troop carrier, however, remained. Its twelve soldiers deployed around
    the perimeter fence, and he hoped that they'd miss the cut that he had
    made in it.
   
        The Human female was nowhere to be seen when he looked.
   
        Escape, without being seen, would be difficult now, but he had to
    try. The building that he was in had few windows, but he was able to
    locate nine of the twelve soldiers, and had a good idea where the
    remaining three were. The sea fence was not being protected. The ocean,
    he decided, would be his best way out.
   
        Getting to it from the building that he was in would be impossible.
    The seaside doorway could be seen by several of the Human soldiers. The
    building to his right, however, he noticed had a concrete canal that ran
    out into the sea from its lowest level. It wasn't being guarded.
   
        Sneaking into the building's front door, although daring, was not
    difficult. Decorative shrubbery was planted all around the outer wall,
    concealing his movement. Only the last dash into the doors was risky,
    and after looking around frantically, he believed that he had gotten
    away with it. The soldiers were looking outwards through the fence, not
    inwards.
   
        His scrambling through the other building had given him the basic
    concepts of Human architecture, and the stairway and elevator were
    quickly spotted. Because he had no wish to experiment with the elevator,
    he opened the door to the stairwell.
   
        It was just then that the black haired female made her appearance
    again, as the elevator doors suddenly opened. A shrill scream echoed
    inside the scout's helmet as he tried to push back out the door and
    bring his rifle to bear. The elevator doors were already closing, but he
    did have a shot at the form that had retreated against the far wall.
   
        He didn't take it.
   
        The scout's aversion to making a loud noise was part of the reason
    that he didn't fire his rifle, but another was an aversion to killing a
    noncombatant. Kezdai blood feuds often ended in the complete
    annihilation of one clan or another, males and females alike, but
    noncombatants were always spared. Of course, all members of the warring
    clans themselves were considered combatants.
   
        This scout had made a mistake, however, and he realized it. Allowing
    this female to live would risk his own life and mission. As a red arrow
    above the elevator pointed downwards, so did he run. The stairway had
    small steps, and he stumbled a few times, but he managed to reach the
    ground floor in decent time.
   
        As he pushed through the stairway door, he saw that the elevator
    doors to his right were already closing. To his left was a large, tiled
    room with a pool, open to the outside at the far end. The woman could
    have been tricky and gone back upstairs, but he had to be sure.
   
        Before running back upstairs, he ran into the poolroom to look for
    her. The visuals inside his helmet gave him a three-hundred-degree
    distorted view around him, but even with that he only caught a glimpse
    of the female as she came up behind him and gave him a shove into the
    water. He fired his needle rifle wildly as he plunged into the deep,
    saltwater pool.
   
        What happened next he never had time to organize into a coherent
    understanding.
   
        One moment he was sinking rapidly into the water, and the next a
    massive black and white form was underneath him and pushing him back to
    the surface. Then, just as he broke the surface of the water, he was
    hurled, as if from a catapult, directly into the tiled wall of room.
   
        He fell to the floor in a daze.
   
        But Kezdai were immensely hardy creatures whose bones had evolved to
    absorb great impacts from falling from the high cliffs of their ancient
    homeworld. Great pains wracked his body, but the scout still managed to
    sit up, lift his rifle, and unleash a withering fire across the room.
    His own blood covered his helmet's visuals, making him uncertain of what
    shapes were around him. All he saw were shadows until the massive black
    and white form seemed to explode out of the pool before him, and crash
    into him.
   
        His last conscious vision was of nothing but teeth . . .
   
        The bridge was more than two kilometers away, but still no one dared
    peek over the crest to look into the valley. Even at this range, the
    alien needle rifles were incredibly accurate. Instead, the periscope on
    top of Kaethan's Templar was raised, and Kaethan, his father, and Walter
    all were gathered around a video screen that was mounted at the rear of
    the three-hundred-fifty-ton tank. With the last light of the day glowing
    orange in the sky to the west, they surveyed the heavily shadowed
    terrain.
   
        Bright crimson and blue-white streamers were flapping in the wind
    over their enemy's fortified positions. The temptation to burn them down
    with their ion bolts had been on everyone's mind, but was decided to be
    an ignoble act. They'd make fine trophies, Kaethan had told his men, to
    bring back to Fort Hilliard after all this was over.
   
        The smell of ozone continued to permeate the air around them,
    proving the continued readiness of their opponent's point defense
    dischargers. It even overwhelmed the smoke that rose from the still
    smoldering devastation of forest that surrounded them. Several battered,
    alien armored vehicles also continued to pump out a plume of white smoke
    into the air, and probably would for several days. Three of Tigris'
    Templars had been burning when Kaethan arrived, but these fires had been
    put out quickly, and engineers were now working on the Templars. All the
    other Templars of the Tigris Guard were either driven, or towed, to a
    depot constructed four kilometers to the rear.
   
        "I don't think they have a single direct-fire weapon targeting this
    ridgeline," Kaethan commented while their periscope panned over the
    valley.
   
        "I can't see any sign of one either," his father agreed. "You could
    probably take the slope and hold it, but they aren't giving you anything
    to shoot at. You'd just be setting yourself up for more of those
    missiles that plastered Tigris."
   
        "Didn't hurt the Templars," Kaethan pointed out.
   
        "True, but don't expect me to ride in Walter's Sentinel."
   
        Walter didn't like to admit it, but the presence of his defense
    laser would not have helped the Tigris Guard against the barrage that
    hit them. There were only a few missiles of modest size, but they
    approached at tree-top level from the sides. What they needed was a
    point-defense tower like the ones that protected their artillery. Of
    course, towers were easy targets when they were this close to the enemy.
   
   
        "Too bad you can't fire any high-explosives out of those railguns,"
    Walter said. "We could blast them out of those positions."
   
        The sound of a command vehicle rolling up distracted the crew from
    their viewing. When it stopped, Colonel Neils jumped out of the
    passenger seat. He returned everyone's salute briskly, as he obviously
    had something important to say.
   
        "At ease, Captain," Neils said, specifically singling out Kaethan to
    talk to. "I've got bad news. That small pocket of hostiles north of
    Telville decided to go out with a bang. As Chandoine was moving in on
    them, they unleashed a long-range bombardment onto the city itself,
    forty kilometers away."
   
        "Oh, God," Walter uttered.
   
        "They threw in every ordnance they had, short of nukes. The entire
    northern suburbs and part of downtown were devastated. We're estimating
    casualties in excess of thirty-five thousand."
   
        "Sir, my sister . . ."
   
        "I know, Captain. Once I hear something, I'll let you know. But
    General Calders is furious. He wants this pocket cleared up so we can
    pull back and solidify the border around Telville. He's ordered us to
    assault the bridge at the first light of day."
   
        "Yes, Colonel," Kaethan replied.
   
        "Our strategy session will be at 2600 hours back at our HQ. We may
    be able to cross the river with some infantry onto their flanks, but our
    armor has to run up the middle. There are no other roads."
   
        "We'll be ready."
   
        "I have to head over to Tigris HQ now. Riggins' armor was chewed up
    pretty bad by that column that suddenly made an appearance. I'll try to
    get their survivors attached directly to you. That will be all,
    Captain."
   
        "Yes, sir."
   
        They saluted again, and Colonel Neils hopped into this vehicle.
   
        As he sped off, Kaethan and his father exchanged worried glances,
    but then turned back to their surveillance. For a long time they didn't
    say anything as they panned their view over the opposing slopes. But
    soon their concentration returned to what was at hand.
   
        "Look how they've torn up the highway over there," Walter said as
    they looked over the bridge. "They're not even trying to hide that
    they've mined it."
   
        "They don't have to," Toman replied. "They've concentrated all of
    their air defenses around it. Your artillery will never punch through to
    knock any of it out."
   
        "Have you spotted any of their armor?" Kaethan asked.
   
        "Not a one," Toman answered. "You can be sure, though, that every
    last one of them will pop up at the worst possible time. I don't think
    we've seen even a fraction of their total forces, yet. And they've now
    learned that your railguns are vulnerable."
   
        The brief sortie that hit the Tigris Heavy Armor didn't have the
    firepower to punch through the Templars' substantial armor. But it did,
    however, manage to disable many of their railguns by point-blank fire.
    Some of the alien vehicles just sideswiped the massive railguns as they
    drove by. Only the plasma lasers on the large gravtanks were powerful
    enough to slice the Templars open, accounting for their only three
    kills.
   
        "And your railguns don't have the elevation to cover the slope from
    down there," Toman continued his observations. "Any Templars sent into
    the valley will be just targets."
   
        "Have you found anything encouraging at all?" Kaethan asked
    sardonically.
   
        His father grimaced and thought hard for a few moments. Kaethan let
    out a nervous chuckle at his father's reaction, but a deep pain was
    forming in the pit of his stomach.
   
        "This is a death trap, son," the Concordiat colonel finally said.
    "These aliens have stripped and scuttled their transport, their only way
    off this planet, for a better defensive position. They will fight to
    their death while throwing everything they have at you."
   
        The three of them were quiet for a while. Walter panned their
    periscope along the opposite slopes, finding faint heat sources
    everywhere as he switched to thermal sights, but with the sun setting,
    this was a bad time to look. Better images could be formed once the
    ground had released the solar heat that it had absorbed during the day.
   
        "They also have the high energy plasma weapons that they used to
    knock down your satellites," Toman reminded them. "There was no sign of
    them at their transport, from what I was told. Who knows what else they
    might have stripped off that ship before they retreated. If you try to
    cross this bridge, you'll be massacred."
   
        Walter had stopped pretending to care about what was being shown on
    the monitor. His nervous gaze was dancing back and forth between Kaethan
    and his father, waiting for one of them to figure out a solution to
    prevent the certain death awaiting him. Of course, there was a solution,
    Kaethan knew. And Kaethan knew that his father was debating it with
    himself even now.
   
        "If you are waiting for me to ask, Father," Kaethan said calmly,
    "then you will remain waiting."
   
        His father looked up from the screen and looked closely at his son.
    He grimaced as he took out his fieldcomm, but then he stopped.
   
        "I wasn't waiting for that, son." Toman said before he activated it.
   
   
        What, exactly, his father was waiting for, Kaethan couldn't fathom.
    But he wasn't going to ask that, either. He was just thankful.
   
        "Death By Chains," Colonel Ishida said into his fieldcomm.
   
        "So judged," replied Unit DBC from twelve hundred kilometers to the
    north.
   
        Ad-akradai Khoriss was pleased with his position. Many defilade
    positions were found on his side of the valley, overlooking the bridge.
    His concentrated dischargers, combined with the point defense
    emplacements from their transport, had shrugged off the Humans' heaviest
    bombardment. His nuclear cannons were in position, to be moved up for
    firing at just the right time. And his ambush of the Human armored units
    had proven that Kezdai weapons could indeed be utilized effectively
    against the large tanks with the railguns, even though he had to waste
    almost all of his gravtanks to prove it.
   
        Added to that, two smaller transports had arrived during the night
    from the southeast, both limping in with substantial damage. Their
    additional armor would greatly reinforce his counterattack, though he
    ordered Riffen's artillery converted to direct fire and deployed in
    positions overlooking the bridge.
   
        But he would wait before deploying his armored vehicles. His
    infantry and nuclear cannons would be enough to finish off the Human
    armor that advanced on him. Only then would his armored vehicles sweep
    back over the bridge to drive into their rear and eliminate their
    precious artillery.
   
        He was worried, however, that more reinforcements were arriving for
    the Humans. One of his few remaining surveillance probes had been
    launched at the first hint of daylight in the east. An image taken just
    before it died showed that the Human forces had moved all of their
    equipment off the eastbound roadway, as if making room for another unit
    to pass through. He continued to weigh the possibility of launching his
    last probe to hopefully catch a glimpse of what was arriving.
   
        Khoriss now sat in his command vehicle, paging through the images
    that his forward camera positions were sending back to him. There was
    still no evidence of Human infiltration along the river, but he
    carefully studied where they might hide when the time came.
   
        His quiet observations were rudely interrupted by his hatch opening
    with a loud clank. The panicked face of Inkezdai Kepliss looked in.
   
        "Ad-akradai, massed artillery rises from the west-"
   
        "Good! It begins!"
   
        "But Ad-akradai," Kepliss pleaded, "the artillery rises from far
    behind the Human lines, and the launcher approaches swiftly as it fires!
    It travels along the roadway at a high rate of speed, sending its shells
    high into the stratosphere!"
   
        Something new, Khoriss thought. The approaching weapons platform had
    to be exceedingly large to be capable of a sustained barrage as this,
    and still have the stability to wield it accurately while moving
    rapidly. The Humans had not previously shown any such weapon.
   
        Or perhaps they had, Khoriss remembered. The ground batteries that
    destroyed their frigates had wielded enormous firepower while showing
    tremendous speed. Perhaps those same batteries had artillery clusters in
    addition to their energy weapons. Not only could such a weapon fend off
    an orbital insertion, but it could support a local ground war at the
    same time. Such a weapons platform must be massive, he thought. Once he
    had disposed of the Human armored forces, he'd have to give top priority
    to his own armor to capture this vehicle when they made their drive.
   
        "Ad-akradai, should we launch our last probe to view its approach?"
   
        "No, Inkezdai. It matters not what it looks like. We will deal with
    it in time. Our first priority is the Human armored forces which should
    be attacking soon."
   
        "Yes, Ad-akradai. The alarm has already been given."
   
        "Good. Then we must then be patient as we let these Humans enter our
    trap."
   
        "Yes, Ad-akradai. I must tend my dischargers."
   
        His only concern, Khoriss considered, was why the eastbound lane of
    the highway was left open the entire distance to the front. Certainly
    the Humans would not lead their attack with something so valuable as
    these mobile ground batteries. Could this weapon be heavily armored, he
    wondered? An idle thought, he immediately determined. Nothing could
    stand up against his nuclear cannons. . . .
   
        I am ten kilometers from the bridge and my tracks slip across the
    highway pavement as I follow a curve at one hundred fifty kilometers per
    hour. Soon I must slow my approach or else my inertia entering the
    valley depression will cause me to take flight, carrying me past my
    optimal fording location at the lead edge of the bridge. I cannot
    utilize the bridge itself since my large frame would not fit through its
    steel girder superstructure.
   
        On the sides of the road I begin to pass by the valiant militia that
    protects this world. They cheer me forward, weapons raised high, and I
    take great strength from their encouragement. My four 30cm mortars
    continue to fire their stream of munitions into the sky, even as the
    many shells that I have been firing for the last 9.6638 minutes now are
    entering terminal guidance. All rounds are timed to hit, or deploy their
    munitions, at the same moment on top of our Enemy's positions. The Guard
    artillery has also offered their support, and I have plotted many
    positions for them to hit to the rear of our Enemy to harass their
    retreat from my onslaught. These are strong and honorable colonists, and
    I am proud to fight by their side.
   
        At four kilometers from the bridge, I have reduced speed to one
    hundred kilometers per hour and my mortars are silent. Electrical
    discharges fire high into the sky ahead of me to intercept my
    bombardment, but they are much less effective against my Concordiat
    mortars than against the Delassian howitzers. My shells are hardened
    against such defenses, and the Enemy will be disappointed. As they
    release their lightning, I am recording their positions and comparing
    them to what the Delassian forward observers noted earlier. I am
    distracted for a moment as weapons grade radioactives are detected in
    the valley ahead, but I have been expecting their presence. My charge
    remains unchecked.
   
        I top the crest of the valley just as the torrents of shells that I
    have launched begin their rain of destruction! The entire opposite slope
    explodes with dazzling light, fire and electricity. Behind the
    ridgeline, powerful shock waves throw debris high into the air as my
    anti-armor penetrators find their targets. I immediately begin sweeping
    the valley floor below me with all my firepower. The hundreds of trees
    that line the road explode into a hail of fiery wooden shards as my
    110cm Hellbore slices through their great trunks. My ion-bolt infinite
    repeaters pour endless fire into every shadow and recess that could
    likely hide my adversaries. By the time that I have reached the river,
    the valley is ablaze, and only then comes my opponent's retaliation.
   
        A growing swarm of missiles arises from the conflagration. The
    missiles lock onto my form, only to be consumed by my infinite repeaters
    as they come close. For each new launch, I respond with a round from my
    mortars, though I now am running low on ammunition for them. As I plunge
    through the river and climb the riverbank back up to the roadway, I fire
    my Hellbore into a high cliff facing, sending a rockslide crashing down
    upon a launcher that I detected there.
   
        With my last rounds from my mortar, I devastate the roadway on the
    east side of the bridge, wiping out the mines that had been laid there.
    The missile barrage has slackened considerably as I climb back onto the
    shattered pavement. Fearing my presence near the bridge may endanger it,
    I charge up the slope, pouring destruction in every direction.
   
        It is then that the enemy unleashes his greatest firepower as a
    shaped nuclear blast smashes through my forward battlescreens, washing
    radioactive plasma over my hull. The impact of the blast lifts me up and
    throws me sliding back down the pavement towards the bridge. Another
    nuclear blast hits me in the side, though it is an ineffective glancing
    blow that my battlescreens deflect with 93.082 percent efficiency.
   
        The weapons that launched this attack have no reactors. In fact,
    their energy signatures are almost undetectable. I must conclude that
    these weapons are detonating shaped nuclear devices, and are reloading
    even as I align my Hellbore onto their locations. These rounds must be
    the radioactives that I detected in the valley and on their ship.
   
        Digging my tracks deeply into the broken highway, I unleash all my
    firepower in a sweeping barrage. The hidden fortifications are blasted
    open and their rocky shelters are reduced to molten lava within seconds.
    Fearing my enemy be given a chance to recover, I immediately renew my
    charge up the slope as I verify that my damage has been slight. Although
    powerful, these nuclear cannons were unfocused and poorly directed. My
    endurachrome plating is intact, though nine plates have broken. My FP-A2
    ion-bolt turret was hit while firing, however, and has been destroyed. I
    must reevaluate the threat that these aliens pose, and in response I
    turn sharply off the roadway and crash through the trees in hopes of
    avoiding any further such ambushes.
   
        Brief glimpses of scattering alien infantry are all I see of the
    Enemy as I bulldoze my way through the forest. Beyond the valley,
    however, my detectors frantically begin plotting a large force powering
    up a variety of reactors in preparation for my unwelcome appearance.
    Magnetic disturbances betray the positions of large mass drivers and
    particle accelerators. The size and number of these weapons make me
    shudder to think what would have happened if the Telville Corps had
    crossed this river themselves. Even my own Commander dangerously
    underestimated their strength. I divert 0.03 seconds of processor time
    to consider the cause of this discrepancy, concluding the likelihood
    that two transports survived our missile defenses to reinforce their
    beachhead.
   
        The force arrayed against me is threatening, but now is the time to
    act! Many of their particle beam accelerators are still building power
    and are not yet operable. They have been caught partially unprepared and
    I must press my advantage! The drone that I launch disappears in a
    crackling blast of lightning before it clears 100 meters, but the few
    images it relays to me reveals my enemy's positions.
   
        I turn to attack!
   
        Full-grown trees, set afire by my infinite repeaters, fly through
    the air as I crash my way into a huge, recently made clearing at the top
    of the valley. I have entered a four-kilometer wide killzone! But at an
    expected point! In the fraction of a second of surprise that I have, I
    unleash all my firepower at the targets around me, sweeping my Hellbore
    across the opposing treeline. Four massive nuclear cannons are caught
    turning their guns onto my position, but my ion-bolt turrets blast the
    unprotected towed fieldpieces apart before their hammers fall. Another
    flight of missiles rises up into the air just as a hail of penetrators
    begins ripping into my damaged forward armor. My battlescreens begin to
    shimmer as weaker particle beams are absorbed and stronger ones
    dispersed.
   
        Twin rooster tails of earth and wood fly high into the air as my
    tracks hurl me forward into the fray. I wield my Hellbore as a whirling
    dervish would his scimitar, slashing through my opponent's armor with a
    blade of brilliant fire. The swarm of missiles descends upon me from
    above as their supersonic final stage kicks in and sends them streaking
    through my battlescreens. My infinite repeaters are overwhelmed by the
    onslaught and my warhull is cracked and blasted by a wide variety of
    deadly warheads. Most missiles arise from the forest at the far side of
    the clearing, and it is there that I sprint for, just as a second swarm
    rises into the air to seek me out.
   
        I lunge down the very throat of my adversary, racing through their
    midst. Their deluge of direct fire that had been pulverizing my warhull
    slackens and loses target as my speed increases. Ten armored vehicles
    sporting particle beams, dug in to my starboard, have their turrets
    blasted clean off as my Hellbore sweeps across their line, requiring
    only 0.41 seconds on target for each kill. Searing pain floods my
    presence circuits as a powerful plasma laser burns down my port side
    hull and causes my battlescreens to flare in blinding white light. A
    wide spectrum of energies pours onto my collectors and a surge of power
    courses into my energy cells. Through my intense pain I take brief
    delight in returning the energy in an enhanced salvo from my main gun,
    vanquishing the dug-in gravtank that fired it.
   
        Missiles again wreak havoc upon my outer hull, shattering my
    endurachrome plates. A meter wide gouge in my forward armor is
    alarmingly deep, and I reorient the patch away from a line of
    mass-drivers ahead of me. At the same time my Hellbore tears into the
    line of trees where the missiles have been rising. The forest explodes
    in red fire and wooden shrapnel just before I expect the next salvo to
    be launched. As my main weapon recycles, I watch as the missile swarm
    arises, and am gratified at its now ineffectual numbers. My point
    defense clears the skies with ease as I now can concentrate all my
    attention on the rapidly dwindling armored vehicles and fieldpieces that
    continue to hold their ground. I expect only 31 more seconds of
    significant resistance. . . .
   
        "We're moving into the valley now, General Rokoyan." Colonel Neils
    said into his handphone, not noticing Toman Ishida approaching his
    command trailer.
   
        At first Colonel Ishida thought that the Delassian commander was
    talking to General Calders. It surprised him that Rokoyan would meddle
    in the affairs of junior officers, bypassing the line of command.
   
        "Yes, General. The Bolo is clearing a couple more pockets, then he
    will be free to return to his station at Starveil."
   
        That explains that, Ishida realized. Rokoyan was specifically
    calling about Chains. During the previous night's strategy session, he
    had been reluctant to allow Chains to come off station, even though the
    Bolo had already been speeding southwards for the past four hours.
    General Calders, though, held firm and Rokoyan backed down as long as
    the operation was concluded as quickly as possible.
   
        As he waited, Ishida looked over the Neils' command trailer with
    amusement. It obviously was a converted commercial tractor-trailer, with
    duralloy armor plating riveted in place and a forest of antennae on top.
    The inside was impressive, however, with everything a colonel might want
    for command and control of his division. Five other officers were busy
    talking into headsets while manipulating images on maps.
   
        Neils now noticed the Concordiat colonel waiting for him, and
    suddenly looked distracted.
   
        "I'm hardly in the position, General, but I'll try. I have to go.
    Neils out."
   
        Neils switched off his handphone and set it down on the desk next to
    him. He then stood up and headed outside before Ishida could climb in.
   
        "You didn't have to cut it short on my account," Ishida assured him.
   
   
        The militia commander was silent and stone-faced. Neils took Ishida
    just around the corner of the trailer, out of sight and sound of the
    other workers. The strange treatment immediately told Ishida what was
    coming next. He had done it to others several times, as soldiers had to
    be told of the fate of their friends and fellow soldiers. Kaethan's
    progress, however, had been uneventful. So that left . . .
   
        "Colonel, a casualty list was sent to us just a while ago from
    Telville. Your daughter Serina was listed as killed. I have no details."
   
   
        Neils waited then, as he allowed Toman to process what he had said
    to him. He didn't know quite what to expect from the war-hardened
    veteran. Anything from an explosion of rage, to a quiet disregard, would
    not have surprised him. What he saw looked like much of what he himself
    had felt when he saw Serina's name, pained reflection on a beautiful
    woman who had died far too early.
   
        "I haven't radioed Kaethan, yet." Neils told him after a suitably
    quiet interval.
   
        "I'll tell him," Colonel Ishida responded. "Tonight. It's still
    dangerous out there. I don't want him distracted."
   
        "I understand," Neils replied.
   
        "Chains is finished . . . with the armored vehicles," Ishida
    stumbled through. "All that should be left is infantry. He's pulling
    out."
   
        Neils watched as the veteran turned and walked out of sight without
    another word. A quiet roll of thunder echoed from the west as the
    overcast skies continued to darken. A chill was in the air, the
    Delassian colonel felt, and he tightened his jacket as he climbed back
    into trailer. He couldn't help reflecting on the image that Kaethan had
    given him of his father, of the cold-hearted colonel whose life and mind
    never left the battlefield. Neils wondered if the cool breeze that
    passed through him had been the departure of what warmth the man had
    left.
   
        That, he thought, would be far sadder.
   
        Khoriss' mind was in turmoil. Drugs had been given to the Ad-akradai
    to ease the pain of his injuries, but were now turning his thoughts into
    a terrifying nightmare. The huge machine that had devastated his command
    was like nothing he had imagined since the horror stories of his youth.
    It was as if a terrible monster had been awakened from an eternal sleep
    to be sent forth to destroy him. Images of the machine's charge through
    the fiery inferno of the valley were overwhelming him. Never before had
    he felt such stunned despair as when his powerful cannons not only
    failed to stop the monster, but only seemed to enrage it. His last sight
    before he was carried away was that of all of his armored vehicles
    exploding as the monster's fire tore through them as simply as a blade
    through flesh.
   
        He would soon be safe, his bodyguards continued to tell him, but
    their voices were lost in the screams that filled Khorris' mind.
   
        It was raining again as Kaethan's column slowly traveled down the
    gravel roads that connected the plantations in this area. The rain was
    light, with only occasional lightning strikes that always seemed to hit
    far away from them. Enough light was shining through the cloud cover to
    navigate by, though the thick forest that surrounded them was often very
    dark.
   
        By midday, the aliens were sent on the run. While the Tigris Guard
    prepared to head home, the Alabaster Guard was ordered to fan out to all
    the plantations, verifying that none were being used as strongholds, and
    that no humans were being held captive. Kaethan's Templars were all
    split up to guard the Haulers as they deployed into the flood plains
    that the Witch River fed and fertilized. Their column had started with
    eight Templars and thirty Haulers. Now they were down to two Templars,
    guarding the front and rear of five of their flimsily armored carriers.
   
        Kaethan was out front, with Bicks driving Walter's prototype
    Sentinel right behind him. Although Walter had been told that their
    testing was complete, he had said that he wanted to stick it through to
    the end. The captain was pretty sure that Walter was doing it to stress
    test his system, hoping that he wasn't doing it out of friendship to
    him.
   
        Although many aliens were recorded fleeing into the rain forest, few
    had been encountered yet by any of the patrols. All had been quiet.
   
        "We're coming up on the last plantation." Kaethan announced to his
    column as he noticed the gleaming metal of an electrified fence far
    ahead.
   
        The captain felt pretty safe in the lead, despite the likely
    presence of aliens in the area. His visual sensors could detect motion,
    and could recognize the aliens now by watching for several of their body
    armor features. His defense's ion-bolt fire control would instantly fire
    upon any such sightings. Other sensors scanned the road ahead for
    magnetic or radioactive signatures, or electronic emissions, indicating
    mines or detectors.
   
        "Captain," Andrea called from her turret, "there seems to be a large
    heat source in a clearing up ahead to the right. Going to visual . . ."
   
        Kaethan switched to thermal sight and turned his view to the right.
    There was definitely a heat source, but it could have been a house by
    its size. It was difficult telling form through so many trees.
   
        "I see it," Kaethan acknowledged. "Can't tell what it is . . ."
   
        The trees thinned for a moment, but all the captain could make out
    was a green glob.
   
        "Sir, I think it's a ship!"
   
        Kaethan didn't have a chance to respond, for their sensors couldn't
    detect the magnetically neutral, carbon fiber cannon with the
    non-energized chemical explosive that was buried under the gravel before
    them. Neither did they detect the aliens behind the trees who now knew
    not to show themselves until large tanks with the crackling energy bolts
    were first eliminated.
   
        Unfortunately, these aliens wanted to learn just a few more things
    before they left.
   
        * * *
   
        The 39th is in mourning.
   
        Even as I had cut down the last of our enemy high on the slope, I
    monitored the arrival of Telville's casualty list, transmitted to their
    forward headquarters. Reading my Commander's daughter's name upon that
    list left a deep wound that can never heal upon this glorious day.
    Harder still was reporting to my Commander without telling him of his
    loss, knowing it best that he be told by his fellow officers, rather
    than by me.
   
        And with the attack upon his son's column later this day, we feared
    the worst. Many are reported dead, including Kaethan's gunner and
    driver, and several are mysteriously missing. We rejoice that his son
    still lives, but we fear what permanent effects his grievous wounds may
    bring. This is a harsh day for our Commander, and the 39th suffers its
    cruelty along with him. We only wish we knew the words to comfort him.
   
        Little is left of the aliens that caused such pain to this planet.
    No transport escaped, though detectors monitored the passage of two
    smaller shuttles making their escape from the far side of the planet. No
    invasion fleet has made an appearance, and it is becoming obvious that
    our opponents have either reconsidered their plans, or never intended
    any immediate exploitation of this incursion.
   
        Much of the planet revels in victory, but we fear that their
    celebration is premature. Unit DBQ and myself have analyzed our
    opponent's strategies with many algorithms, and we are convinced that
    this attack was a raid meant only to test our defenses and learn our
    methods. The invasion will come only after the Enemy prepares their army
    for what they have faced. Our Commander agrees, and we now must convince
    the Concordiat that the danger from these aliens has only grown with our
    successful campaign, not lessened. This may be difficult, however, as
    time passes, and memories dim.
   
        * * *
   
        Walter Rice was in a panic.
   
        As calm and collected as he was when hypersonic needles began
    ripping through his vehicle, he was now trembling in fear. If only the
    missile impact had killed him of just knocking him out, he lamented. Or
    the needles he took to his leg instead had gone instead into his heart.
   
        But he didn't fear so much what these aliens would do to him, as
    what they could torture out of him.
   
        In the entire Angelrath sector, there were perhaps three engineers
    who knew the inner workings of the Hellbore, and these aliens just got
    hold of one of them. By luck, his college tuition was mostly paid by his
    off-campus work with an Angelrath weapons technician. The bane of
    countless xenophobic races had remained a purely human conception for
    centuries, with aliens able to make only ineffective copies even when
    they captured working models. The very principles of the Hellbore's
    operation seemed beyond their capabilities. All that they had to realize
    was . . .
   
        But then, Walter thought, what if these aliens were telepathic . . .
   
   
        Dum de dum de dum . . .
   
        Pain throbbed in his bandaged leg, and the dull ache in his head
    made him dizzy, but Walter was still better off than any of the other
    five soldiers who had been taken along with him. Perhaps that is why the
    aliens chose him first to be questioned, he ventured. Kaethan was not
    with them, and Walter assumed that he was dead. He never saw what hit
    his friend's Templar first, but the shower of hypersonic needles slicing
    through his equipment stopped the battlelaser from intercepting the
    missiles that hit it next.
   
        Two towering Kezdai guards entered their cell and grabbed Walter
    soon after the prisoners' second meal. From the holding area, he was
    taken to a small, bare cargo room and sat down in a chair that was far
    too large for him. Surprisingly, although the guards were ferocious
    looking, they actually treated him kindly, even helping him walk down
    the narrow corridors. The guards were obviously not pleased to do it,
    but they did. No restraint bound him as he sat, though he had no
    fantasies of overpowering one of these muscle-bound creatures. Then the
    guards left him.
   
        He waited there for a long time, growing ever more paranoid that he
    was being observed. Endless nursery rhymes and children's tunes ran
    through his head as he concentrated on the inane and unimportant.
   
        The two aliens that finally entered the room were dressed in
    dazzling robes and jewels. One wore bright, embroidered crimson, while
    the other wore dark blue and white. The daggers that were strapped to
    their belts were far more elaborate than any that he had seen before.
    The aliens were so well dressed that he couldn't believe that they'd
    risk letting his blood soil their noble appearance. They carried many
    papers and a bag of unknown items. The one in blue and white conducted
    the interrogation while the other watched intently.
   
        Again it was strange to be treated so kindly, until he realized what
    was happening. They were treating him like a pet, a stray dog that they
    wanted to entice into the cage that they had prepared. With no common
    language, it was impossible to torture any information out of him right
    away. The questions first had to be understood. Later, once they were
    sure that the questions were firmly in his mind, then the beatings would
    commence.
   
        Acting dumb seemed the best defense for now, Walter decided.
   
        But Walter had to play along with the simple stuff. The alien's
    language was one of high trills and deep, rolling growls, but at least a
    couple words were recognizable. Pointing at Walter, the interrogator
    said "Human," pointing at himself he said "Kezdai." It would have been
    hard to not understand this, and pretending stupidity would have made
    his later displays of ignorance less convincing. They then introduced
    themselves as "Keertra" in the crimson robe and "Irriessa" in the blue,
    and Walter told them his name, though they had difficulty pronouncing
    the "W."
   
        Then they began the real questioning, unraveling before him a large
    star chart of this part of the galaxy. Walter quickly aligned himself,
    finding Delas immediately. That was a big mistake, however, and Walter
    cursed himself for doing it. The Kezdai named Keertra had seen his gaze,
    and immediately knew that he understood what he was looking at.
   
        Irriessa then took a marker and circled Delas, and said "Human."
    Then a circle was drawn around another star on the border of the
    Firecracker Nebula, and he said "Kezdai." Angelrath was circled next for
    a human colony, and then another star near the nebula for a Kezdai
    colony. The marker was then presented to him.
   
        Two things immediately became apparent to Walter. The first was that
    he'd likely never be released alive with the information just given to
    him of the Kezdai homeworlds. Secondly, these Kezdai had no idea what
    they were getting into challenging the Concordiat!
   
        He had to laugh, and he did, though his headache pounded while he
    did.
   
        Both Kezdai were taken aback by his outburst, Walter saw. But now he
    had to consider what to do about it. They were asking him to circle
    another human colony, which he obviously didn't want to do. But Walter
    really wanted to make it plain to these aliens the foolishness of their
    ways.
   
        Taking the marker, Walter started drawing a wide arc across the
    chart, signifying the immense forward edge of Concordiat space in this
    sector.
   
        The slap across his face came unexpectedly as Irriessa suddenly
    released his rage at such impudence. To Walter, it felt like he had been
    hit in the cheek by a steel girder, and he would have been sent tumbling
    back over his chair if the chair hadn't been so large. Kezdai hands were
    bony, powerful, and huge, and the slap left him testing his jaw to make
    sure that it was still there, and that it worked. Although painful, it
    still operated.
   
        When Walter looked back up, dripping blood from his nose, he was
    startled by the incredible contrast between the expressions of his two
    interrogators. While the Kezdai in blue could hardly contain his fury,
    the one in crimson stared at the chart in astonishment. Keertra seemed
    willing to believe him, Walter thought.
   
        His own astonishment would rival Keertra's at what happened next.
   
        Is-kaldai Keertra was stunned by what the Human had done to his star
    chart. Could Human space truly be so large, he wondered?
   
        Obviously, Irriessa assumed the Human was attempting to bluff them,
    but Keertra believed otherwise. He had spent his lifetime gauging the
    emotions of others, attempting to read the subtlest expressions on the
    lean Kezdai visage. It was a difficult art, but Keertra had grown
    incredibly adept at it, he thought.
   
        The Human face, though, was so incredibly animated that Keertra
    couldn't believe that they could hide any emotion, ever. Walter's
    outburst was of true surprise and amusement at what Irriessa was asking
    of him. The Human eyes bore no trace of hidden intentions, though he had
    shown careful consideration as he drew the border.
   
        Keertra believed the Human.
   
        And the understanding left no option for the Is-kaldai.
   
        As Irriessa loudly berated the Human, Keertra approached from
    behind. In one amazingly swift motion, he tore Irriessa's surias from
    its straps and sliced it clean through the commander's widely expanded
    hood. Blood from countless vessels spewed into the air as Keertra then
    shoved the Kezdai back into the wall.
   
        Whatever surprise and pain Irriessa could have felt at this attack
    was overwhelmed by his lifetime of training and experience. Despite his
    mortal wound, Riffen's greatest commander would never just give up.
    Forcing himself back to his feet, Irriessa charged his attacker, willing
    to take a blade to his chest if he could get his claws to the
    Is-kaldai's throat.
   
        But Keertra also had been well trained, and was fully expecting this
    ill-considered charge. Lost in a flurry of crimson fabric, Irriessa's
    grip came up empty. He did, however, find Keertra's surias buried in his
    chest as he stumbled.
   
        Riffen's commander was dead before he hit the floor.
   
        This was a necessary act, Keertra consoled himself, though killing
    the commander personally had been quite exciting. If the Is-kaldai
    Council learned that the Humans had so immense an empire, they certainly
    would not dare attack it. And if that were to not come to pass, then
    Keertra would not only lose his chance to rule them, but he also would
    have lost a substantial number of troops needlessly. Something had to be
    done.
   
        A brief glance at their prisoner showed that the Human had not moved
    from his seat. Whether frozen with fear, or thrilled by the spectacle,
    he hadn't attempted escape or involvement.
   
        Calmly, Keertra advanced to the table and removed the star chart
    from it. After folding it up, he then walked to a panel on the wall,
    opened it, and dropped the chart down a chute where air could be heard
    rushing past.
   
        The Is-kaldai then approached Irriessa's unmoving form and drew out
    the long blade. Blatant fear passed across the Human's face as he
    approached, but then was replaced by shock as Keertra skidded the surias
    across the table towards him. Out of sheer self-protection, the Human
    had to grab the blade, which, of course, was exactly what Keertra wanted
    him to do.
   
        As Keertra then drew his own surias, however, he was surprised by
    the Human's next reaction. After a brief moment of shock and
    bewilderment, the Human actually seemed to balance Irriessa's blade in
    his small hand, weighing it as if he knew how to use it.
   
        How outrageous, Keertra thought, and charged.
   
        The sudden throw came unexpectedly.
   
        There was no crater in the middle of the complex, but whatever
    devastated all of the buildings certainly detonated there. A large
    circle of black carbon and glass marked where the intense blast had
    erupted. The Telville Oceanographic Institute would be out of commission
    for several seasons while they rebuilt. It was one of the last parting
    shots the aliens . . . the Kezdai, Toman corrected . . . had made before
    they were finally crushed.
   
        Several of the alien soldiers were captured in the last battle. Many
    killed themselves before the medics realized that they could consciously
    cut off the blood flow through their hoods by flexing the muscles
    within. A quick dose of muscle relaxant managed to keep a few of them
    alive, and provided the Delassians with some information, such as what
    the aliens called themselves.
   
        While the top floor of the institute's main building was virtually
    blown off, the remaining structure was basically intact. It was here
    that personal belongings were being gathered from the wreckage and
    surrounding countryside. Serina owned many reference books that she kept
    here, but these Colonel Ishida donated back to the institute. All that
    Toman took with him was a box containing the personal items that she had
    kept at work. A picture of him and her mother, along with a couple
    pictures of Kaethan and several stuffed animals filled most of the box,
    though scorch marks blackened a few of the animals.
   
        It was an unyielding drive that pulled him downstairs, to where his
    daughter had died, though the colonel found the urge inexplicable. With
    the elevator down to the pool not working, the colonel instead used the
    stairway. Toman mentally shielded himself by taking on the attitude of
    an investigator analyzing a crime scene, though when he arrived at the
    tiled pool, all had been long cleaned and scrubbed. The only evidence of
    the fight that remained were the shattered tiles that lined the floor
    and walls that the hypersonic needles had blasted. Also there was a
    tiled section of wall near the pool that seemed to have suffered an
    impact of something large.
   
        A soft exhale of air marked the entry into the pool of Kuro, coming
    in from the sea. Although the complex generator had been destroyed in
    the attack, portable generators were scattered throughout the buildings,
    including one that now powered the speakers that Kuro spoke out of.
   
        "Hello, Colonel." Kuro said as she spotted him at the pool edge.
   
        Unsure whether the overhead pool microphones were working, Toman
    wandered to the poolside table and picked up the transmitter there.
   
        "Hello, Kuro. How are you?"
   
        Toman sat down, wishing that he had a cool drink like he had the
    time he visited before. He knew few details of the fight that took place
    down here. All that he was told was that a Kezdai scout had infiltrated
    the complex and killed his daughter before Kuro killed him.
   
        "Very sad," Kuro mourned. "I miss Serina."
   
        "I do too, Kuro." The orca's sentiment choked him up slightly.
   
        "Is Kaethan here?"
   
        "No, he was hurt very badly in the fighting. He's still in a
    hospital, now."
   
        "Will he live?"
   
        "Yes. I'll be taking him back to Angelrath soon, though. They can
    care for him better there."
   
        "Tell him to see me when he gets back."
   
        "I will."
   
        The colonel smiled for the first time since he had heard that Serina
    had been killed. Kuro's concern touched him deeply.
   
        "Is Peter okay?" Toman remembered Serina's co-worker, the one that
    Kuro would play rough with.
   
        "Peter is okay, but he will be very busy for a long time. No time to
    play with me."
   
        "What will you do while they reconstruct the institute?"
   
        "I'm not sure. Perhaps I will join the Coast Guard. Perhaps Delas
    would like me guarding their coasts."
   
        Colonel Ishida laughed, not so much at the idea as at her phrasing.
   
        "You would help us fight if the Kezdai came back?" the colonel
    asked.
   
        "Of course," Kuro answered flatly. "Earthlings must stick together."
   
   
        Colonel Ishida remained smiling as he reconstructed some paradigms
    that he had formed regarding orcas. The thought of his species finally
    finding an ally was pleasing to Toman. But perhaps they always had one,
    but never bothered to ask.
   
        "You are right, Kuro," he said. "We should stick together."
   
        NEWS EXCERPT. 33 Early Summer, 104:3381. Brigadier General Toman
    Ishida of the Line, commander of the Bolos that defended Delas against
    the Kezdai invasion, today announced his retirement from the Dinochrome
    Brigade. After fifty-five years of service, twenty-seven of which in
    command of the 39th Terran Lancers, the recently promoted general
    declared that he planned to remain on Angelrath to spend more time with
    his son, who is recovering from serious injuries suffered in the
    fighting on Delas. The two Bolos of the 39th will remain on Delas until
    they are rotated out of the sector early next year. They are scheduled
    for an unspecified refit . . .
   
        In other news, Rear Admiral Josef Santi, Naval Sector Commander at
    Angelrath, announced today that the Concordiat has denied his request
    for an offensive to be mounted against the Kezdai, stating lack of
    resources. In response, Admiral Santi has requested strong
    reinforcements be sent to the sector when the 39th is rotated out. Asked
    whether he expected further incursions, Santi only mentioned the obvious
    dangers in allowing an attacker to escape without punishment.
   
        The Kezdai council chamber was a bright and spacious auditorium,
    built with large blocks of blue-veined white stone over five centuries
    before. Redesigns and armed rebellions had altered its appearance over
    the years. Only the foundation remained of the original stone blocks
    that once rose up in flying buttresses fifty meters high. The building
    design was far simpler now, but still impressive. Open gas-lit flames
    burned eternally from cauldrons mounted in the stone uprights, placed
    more for effect than for their lighting. Large wooden beams, highly
    prized on a desert world such as this, supported the tall ceiling and
    braced the uprights, giving the room an anachronistic aura.
   
        Pendants and flags hung from poles and rafters, declaring which of
    the forty-seven ruling clans claimed what section of seats.
   
        And all the seats were filled this night with warriors thirsty for
    blood, and thousands more crowded the view screens outside. Great plans
    were being laid while age-old enemies were forgotten. The Mor-verridai
    himself spoke before the gathered Is-kaldai, rising from his dwindling
    existence with a passion never before seen. He delivered to them a
    stirring proclamation of war as one would throw raw meat to a pack of
    ravenous Ethretsau.
   
        Brooding alone in his place of prominence was Is-kaldai Khoriss,
    seated in his crimson robe, its left sleeve falling empty of the arm
    that should have been there. As one eye stared, unblinking, at the
    spectacle before him, only an iron plate was strapped over the place
    where his left eye should have been. His look was menacing, and the
    Mor-verridai avoided his eye even when declaring his brother Keertra
    hero and martyr.
   
        To which Khoriss almost laughed.
   
        Even now the new Is-kaldai was reconsidering his choice not to
    follow through with his brother's plans. A deep bitterness had lodged in
    his soul, born from his wounds, and the deaths of so many, so needlessly
    wrought. A craving for vengeance, too, was there, burning as brightly
    for the Humans as for all those around him who sent him down to that
    planet unsupported. If Keertra could see him now, Khoriss mused, he'd be
    pleased.
   
        But Keertra was gone, his body burned this morning and his ashes
    thrown to the wind. Khoriss had no final words to say, remaining as
    quiet as he was when the guards woke him onboard their flagship to tell
    him of his brother's fate. The sight of Keertra, lying on the bloody
    deck with Irriessa's surias through his left eye had been stunning
    enough without the addition of Irriessa's lifeless corpse nearby, and
    the pistol-blasted body of the small human outside that supposedly
    killed them both and then tried to escape. Such was the official story
    that few could believe, but its alternatives were too divisive to
    portray to the Council. Tonight great plans would be laid, and nothing
    could be allowed to divert them from their path.
   



     ---




        Rook's Gambit

   
        by John Mina


   
        Sean Petrik liked the staccato clicking sound his boots made as he
    walked down the hall. Now, as a full-fledged officer, there seemed to be
    more authority, more crispness to his stride. He particularly enjoyed
    the loud booming echo which bounced around the white marble floor and
    walls. Sean smiled when he came to the door and, for the thousandth
    time, read the name of his professor engraved on the plaque it held up.
   
        COLONEL RICHARD T. DONLON
   
        PROFESSOR OF BOLO TACTICS
   
        FORT WILLIAM R. SCHEN MILITARY ACADEMY
   
        His smile broadened as he gave a token knock and walked in beaming
    with pride. He had come directly from his graduation ceremony and still
    had on his dress blacks.
   
        "Come on in, Petrik," the colonel said and sat back in his chair
    sizing up his former student.
   
        The office was spacious but stark, with a solid dark norwood desk
    and three matching, uncushioned chairs. The only decorations
    interrupting the view of the pure white walls were three framed
    diplomas, four Certificates of Valor, and one large poster showing the
    famous fire-breathing skull over the number 19: the symbol of the
    colonel's regiment. Sean snapped to attention and gave a formal salute.
    "Lieutenant Petrik reporting as ordered, sir," he announced, stressing
    Lieutenant.
   
        "At ease, Petrik, have a seat." The grey-haired colonel took a cigar
    out of the brass-trimmed humidor on his desk and offered another to the
    young officer.
   
        "No thank you, sir. I don't smoke."
   
        Donlon eyed the lieutenant as he lit the cigar and blew out huge
    puffs of white smoke. "You will, son. Wait 'till you 'See the Elephant.'
    "
   
        Sean smirked to himself with the image that brought up. Such an
    ancient expression with apparent origins in prespace Earth. Of course
    Donlon hadn't actually seen an elephant; no one had. They were extinct.
    Sean had seen a holovid of one, though, and it had to be one of the most
    ridiculous looking things the universe had ever produced. But he knew
    his old professor meant that he had never been in combat.
   
        Donlon continued puffing as he spoke. "Congratulations, Petrik.
    Sorry you weren't first in your class at graduation."
   
        "Bancroft deserved to be first, sir. She's a better commander."
   
        "That's true, but you still have a lot to be proud of. Even the
    person who finishes last in the class is qualified to command a Bolo.
    But I don't have to tell you that. Anyway, the reason I called you away
    from all the celebrations and kisses from your sweetie is that I already
    have your first assignment."
   
        "No trouble, sir. I broke it off with my 'sweetie' in my first year.
    It just wasn't fair to her since I had no time available for the
    relationship." Sean could barely contain his excitement. "My assignment,
    sir?"
   
        Donlon smiled and shook his head. "Always the practical one." After
    another puff, the colonel began his briefing. "I've been asked to pick
    someone for a special assignment. I realize you just graduated, but your
    skills are needed on the front. You'll be shipping out in two days."
   
        "Thank you, sir." Petrik could barely contain his elation. "I've
    been looking forward to fighting the Melconians for two years now. Ever
    since my cousin was killed. But why me?"
   
        "You're one of the few who were trained with the still classified
    Mark XXXIV. But you won't be fighting Melconians. You're going to Delas.
    You all right, son?"
   
        Lieutenant Petrik couldn't help but flinch. His head was reeling
    with all this new information to process. "Well . . . yes, sir, I helped
    field test the Mark XXXIV and I've been dreaming of commanding one. But
    . . . er . . . where the hell is Delas? And who will I be fighting?"
   
        "Delas is on the frontier. And you'll be fighting the Kezdai. Here."
    He tossed a large envelope. "You can study all the details. However, you
    won't be commanding. Your Bolo will be operating under General Cho."
   
        Sean's disappointment was evident but he maintained his composure.
    "Any relation to 'The' General Cho?"
   
        Colonel Donlon sat back and took a long draw from his cigar. Then he
    slowly blew out the smoke while he tapped the ashes into a silver
    receptacle. "It is 'The' General Cho."
   
        This was more than the lieutenant could bear. "General Cho? General
    Hayward Cho, the Hero of Laxos? But that was back in 3311." His face was
    a mask of disbelief. "He must be over . . . "
   
        "He's 97. And he's been retired for twenty years or so. He taught
    here at the Academy for thirty years. Where do you think I learned
    tactics?"
   
        "But why would they . . . "
   
        "The old bastard settled down on an obscure frontier planet. Said it
    was just what he was looking for. Secluded, peaceful . . . Said he was
    going to study the art of 'bonsai,' whatever the hell that is. Well, he
    had the bad luck to pick a spot that wound up right in the middle of a
    major invasion. It seems these Kezdai need the minerals on Delas and
    don't have much use for humans. The current situation can only be
    described as unstable. About three years ago this previously
    undiscovered race called Kezdai sent an expeditionary force to Delas to
    see what they were up against. They were squashed pretty quickly but
    followed up with a full-scale invasion with a mission of total conquest
    and annihilation of the resident humans. It was touch and go for a while
    but the locals managed to hold them to about half the planet. The
    battles in the surrounding space have yet to have either side emerge
    dominant so your insertion will be as covert as possible. The hope is
    that these extra Bolos will turn the tide. Unfortunately, there are very
    few veteran Bolo commanders around and old Cho got drafted out of
    retirement."
   
        Sean mused, "I guess if I have to serve under someone, it might as
    well be the greatest Bolo tactician of all time. You think he's still
    sharp?"
   
        The colonel looked thoughtful. "You never know with Cho. There was
    somewhat of a scandal when he retired. A few of the higher-ups thought
    he was incompetent. They sort of forced his retirement."
   
        "He was declared incompetent twenty years ago?" Petrik was almost
    shouting. "Colonel, what have you gotten me into?"
   
        "I'm not sure, son. That's why I picked you. You're one of the best
    I've ever seen and, well, I thought you could handle it no matter what
    the situation."
   
        The lieutenant stared at his instructor, watching the smoke billow
    over the desk. Then he took a deep, smokeless breath, exhaled slowly,
    and gave his monotone reply. "Thank you, Colonel. I'll do what I can."
   
        Sean popped the hatch of his "egg" and was immediately conscious of
    the rich organic smell of this planet while the steamy air caused his
    face to perspire. As he crawled out, the arhythmic symphony produced by
    the forest life provided a stark contrast to the silence of the highly
    insulated drop pod. He gazed at the gigantic trees whose branches
    intermingled to form an upper strata for the arboreal denizens as well
    as provide a protective canopy for the creatures on the ground.
   
        Well, here I am, he thought, once more resigning himself to whatever
    inglorious fate awaited him. He spent a few minutes stretching out, took
    a detailed inventory of the equipment, checked his wrist computer for
    his coordinates, then secured his equipment and began to hump through
    the old-growth vegetation toward the rendezvous point.
   
        Petrik's mind raced ahead, powered by the anxiety of adjusting to a
    new world, a new Bolo, and a very, very old commander whom he worshiped
    as a legend but who, at this point, might be a feeble old tree grower.
    That's what bonsai was. He had looked it up. The art of growing trees
    and keeping them small. It seemed kind of silly, since there were plenty
    of plants that looked just like small trees.
   
        There was certainly no lack of large trees here. The forest seemed
    to go on forever, with an infinite variety of vegetation. Many of the
    trees seemed like giant grasses and almost all had thick nests of
    undergrowth around their bases. He often couldn't tell where the host
    tree left off and the parasitic vines began. Or maybe they were all part
    of the same organism. He'd never had much use for botany but there were
    some fascinating specimens here.
   
        Sean was in the process of admiring a particularly grandiose tree
    with green bark when a great, blood-curdling roar issued from behind it.
    The brush shook violently, then an enormous creature burst out and
    charged directly at him. The thing was scuttling on jointed legs that
    moved a lot faster than he thought possible and was wielding a pair of
    vicious claws. Sean's combat training took over and he leapt to the side
    milliseconds before the razor-sharp blades snapped together in the space
    he had just occupied. The momentum of the charge caused the beast to
    take a few seconds to spin around and renew the attack but by then Sean
    had his gauss pistol out and was blowing dozens of holes in its carcass.
    Even so, the creature still managed to complete its final lunge, which
    Petrik sidestepped, before it flopped, lifeless, to the ground.
   
        "Holy shit!" the lieutenant exclaimed, examining the alien. It was
    about four meters long and, when it had stood up to run, was about two
    meters high. The entire body was covered by a rock-hard, greenish brown
    shell and it had twelve legs plus the two deadly claws, as well as some
    smaller, more intricate appendages near its mouth that it must use to
    assist the eating process. Then he anxiously looked around for any
    others. Is this a Kezdai? he thought. But on further inspection he saw
    no evidence of weapons or armor. Besides, from what he had read, they
    weren't suppose to be this big. Also they were described as vaguely
    reptilian with bird beaks. This thing looked more like a cross between a
    crab and a giant cockroach. It was probably described in the fauna disc
    but he had never gotten around to studying it.
   
        Giving the beast a good-bye nudge with his boot, he resumed his
    trek; this time keeping a sharper watch for danger instead of just
    sightseeing.
   
        When he finally broke into a clearing, the sight he was presented
    with inspired a great pounding in his chest. There it was, the Mark
    XXXIV. His Mark XXXIV! God, what a beauty! He'd only seen them on the
    testing range. But here, in this pristine natural setting, it looked
    like an armed city that had floated down out of the clouds. The twin
    Hellbores jutted out; the shiny new mortars glistened in the daylight.
    And the Hellrails . . . They stuck straight up giving the appearance of
    invulnerable towers. The Hellrails were the latest development on the
    Bolos. That's what made it a Mark XXXIV. These were not the puny
    railguns mounted by the outdated local militia tanks, the Templars.
    These were advanced Bolo railguns, more powerful than any other mobile
    land weapon in the known universe. The twin Hellrails were sixty meters
    long and were designed for knocking out enemy ships even before they
    entered orbit. Each delivered a bolt of ninety megatons. How could the
    Kezdai stand up to such firepower?
   
        When he approached the Bolo he noticed a tall, thin man working on
    one of the forward turrets. "Hello there," Sean called up.
   
        The man continued working but responded. "H'llo." Petrik caught a
    glimpse of a weathered, reddened face and a large nose sticking out from
    under a dark mop of unkempt hair.
   
        "I'm Lieutenant Petrik."
   
        "Figured." The man switched tools and spat.
   
        This was less of a reception than he had expected and he was not
    about to tolerate insubordination. "I said I'm Lieutenant Petrik,
    soldier. You do know how to salute don't you? Delas may be on the other
    end of the universe but it's still part of the Concordiat."
   
        The technician turned around slowly and sized up the indignant
    officer. Then he put away his tool, hiked up the filthy grey coveralls
    that he looked so natural in, and methodically climbed down. He jumped
    off the lower platform and walked up to his superior. "Tell you what,
    Lieutenant. This fancy crate of yours is goin' into battle in three days
    and I'm the only maintenance crew there is. He took a pretty hard fall
    when they dropped him and got a couple of hardwoods up the kazoo. Now, I
    can spend the next three days followin' you around wipin' your ass or I
    can be puttin' things right with this machine. Your call. But it won't
    be my butt stickin' out when the shit starts flyin'."
   
        The lieutenant glared at the man. "What's your name, soldier?"
   
        "Private Lawlor."
   
        "Carry on, Lawlor. The general inside?" He pointed to the Bolo.
   
        "Yup." The private turned back and began to climb.
   
        Sean mounted the elevator platform and rose into the control room.
    From what he could see, the Bolo seemed to be intact inside but if it
    hit hard enough to damage some of the external systems, it was likely
    that a few things were shaken loose in the internal systems as well.
    Seated in the commander's chair was a dark, shriveled figure, hunched
    over and staring at a chess board with a cigar in his left hand. His
    right arm was missing all the way to the shoulder. Sharing the table
    with the chess pieces were an ash tray, a half filled glass, and an
    almost empty bottle.
   
        "General Cho?"
   
        "Shhh . . ." He waved Sean away with the cigar. "I'll be with you in
    a minute."
   
        Petrik stood at attention and took this time to study his commander.
    The dry brown head had a few wild hairs protruding which were
    outnumbered by a maze of leathery wrinkles. The old man hadn't shaved in
    days-nor showered, Sean surmised from the strong smell of stale urine
    that pervaded the room. The clothes also were ancient and filthy, not
    even suggestive of a uniform, with the shirt being completely open,
    exposing a hairless chest and pot belly. Almond-shaped eyes that were a
    startling blue-green. Labored, raspy breath. He must be damn smart if he
    can challenge a Bolo in chess, Sean thought.
   
        The lieutenant shifted his gaze to the Bolo, carefully checking the
    layout and comparing it to the prototype he trained in. He did notice a
    few refinements and wondered if any of the suggestions he'd made ever
    made it past that shit-brained company clerk and actually got
    implemented. A blinking light caught his attention and he realized that
    there was a problem with the coolant recirculator. I just hope I can get
    this puppy battle ready over the next few days, he thought.
   
        Finally, the general moved his rook forward a few spaces. A voice,
    the Bolo's, came out of the console. "General, I would not recommend
    that move. It would place your queen in unnecessary jeopardy."
   
        The old man's eyes flared and he dropped his cigar into the ashtray.
    Then he hurled his drink against the control panel, shattered glass and
    liquid flying everywhere, and began screaming. "Don't you ever advise me
    when we play chess, you rusty piece of scrap! I have bowel movements
    that have been in existence longer than you! You just worry about your
    own damn game!"
   
        "These goddam newbies," he continued, addressing no one in
    particular. "They squeeze 'em right out of the factory and they think
    they know everything. You've still got packing grease in your rocker
    bearings, you rolling latrine!"
   
        "As you wish, General Cho," the Bolo responded calmly. "Queen's
    knight to queen's bishop four."
   
        After taking a long swig directly from the bottle the general moved
    one of his pawns two spaces sideways and one forward to capture the
    Bolo's queen.
   
        "I'm afraid that you have made an illegal move, General Cho," the
    Bolo protested.
   
        "I'm invoking the Melconian variation," Cho replied calmly. "I don't
    imagine they taught you that one. Well, I'm not surprised since you've
    never been to the front. Anyway, it's real simple. Once per game, each
    pawn can move like the piece it protects at the start of the game. My
    pawn was in front of the king's knight so I used it to take your queen.
    Any questions?"
   
        "No, General Cho. Using the Melconian variation, you can legally
    take my queen, and will have my king in three moves."
   
        "Very good. You ain't so dumb as you look." Then he turned to Petrik
    and seemed to notice him for the first time. "I suppose you think you're
    hot shit too, Fish-Boy."
   
        "Fish-Boy, sir?"
   
        "You're from Corradin II, aren't you? That's what your bio said."
   
        "Yes, sir, but . . ."
   
        "Coradin II's a water planet, right?'
   
        "Well, yes, sir, but there is a rather large land mass. I was raised
    in the mountains and didn't see the ocean until I went to the spaceport
    in Beattieburg. That was when I was shipping out for Fort Schen."
   
        The general stared and blinked for a moment, then said, "When I was
    in the Academy we called all the men from Corradin II Fish-Boy. That's
    what I'm calling you."
   
        "Yes, sir."
   
        The Bolo spoke up. "Welcome aboard, Lieutenant Sean Petrik. You
    already know General Hayward Cho and I am TRK-213."
   
        The Bolo's greeting was a welcome relief. "Thank you, TRK-213. How
    about we give you a better name?"
   
        "I would appreciate it, sir. I was considering Tarkus."
   
        "Excellent! Tarkus it is."
   
        "Not so fast, Fish-Boy. You're not in command here unless I keel
    over. Tarkus is a great name with a glorious history in the Corps. A
    name like that has to be earned. Until then you're Turkey."
   
        "Turkey?" the Bolo and Sean exclaimed simultaneously.
   
        "It was a large Terran bird. Kind of like a Bachmanian plogger, only
    fatter and dumber."
   
        "Nothing could be fatter and dumber than a plogger!" the lieutenant
    cried in disbelief.
   
        "Well, turkeys were," replied Cho. "The Terrans used to raise them
    and sacrifice them once a year in some religious feast. They were
    suppose to be great eating."
   
        "Then I will be called Turkey." The Bolo sounded dejected.
   
        The General took another pull from the bottle, then gave a sigh of
    appreciation. "I'll tell you, Fish-Boy. There's no substitute for real,
    distilled scotch. Oh, I know the synthohols are chemically identical.
    And I wouldn't expect a sprout like you to know the difference. But when
    you been around as long as I have you can understand the value of time.
    I feel a kind of kinship with a well-aged single malt. Like we're old
    friends." He offered the bottle to Petrik. "Go ahead, son."
   
        "No thank you, General. I don't drink."
   
        Cho considered this for a while and his eyes seemed to penetrate
    into Sean's soul. "Tell me, Fish-Boy. What are the three most important
    things in life?"
   
        The lieutenant was about to speak when the general answered his own
    question.
   
        "Scotch, chess, and cigars; in that order."
   
        "Well, sir, I have to disagree. What about women, children, family?"
   
   
        "I said things, not people. For God's sake, boy, I hope you realize
    that people are always more important than things. If not, you have no
    business in the Corps."
   
        "No, sir, that's not what I mean," Sean was getting flustered. "I
    mean . . . "
   
        The general turned back to the chess board and picked up a rook.
    "When this game was invented, this piece was also called a castle.
    Trouble is, their castles couldn't move. The Bolo is the true rook. A
    mobile castle."
   
        "General," Petrik said abruptly, changing the subject. "Private
    Lawlor told me that we're going into battle in three days. Is that true,
    sir?"
   
        General Cho smiled and shook his head. "That John is quite a
    character. Plays one hell of a game of chess. But he's right. I've got
    to drag you and Turkey here into the maelstrom in a couple of days."
   
        "Well, shouldn't we be running Turkey through maneuvers? That's not
    as much time as I need but I should be able to field test all the major
    weapons systems if I can start right away." Petrik then addressed the
    Bolo. "Are you aware of any systems damage, Turkey? What's wrong with
    the recirculator?"
   
        "Some of my sensor links seem to be functioning at less than optimal
    levels. In addition, two of the backup systems as well as the coolant
    recirculator-"
   
        The general interrupted. "I'll tell you what you'll start, Fish-Boy.
    Lawlor has a list of supplies he needs. You'll be taking the rover to
    the depot and filling the requisition."
   
        "But sir, I'm the only one here who knows the Mark XXXIV. I need to
    . . . "
   
        The general got the same look he had just before he threw the drink.
    "You need to follow orders, you little shit! Are you telling me I don't
    know Bolos? Now get the hell out of here!"
   
        As Petrik made his way out he heard the general address Turkey. "How
    'bout I get me a fresh bottle and we start another game?"
   
        "Will we be using the Melconian variation in this game as well,
    General?"
   
        "Only if one of us invokes it. Until then it's not in effect . . ."
   
        Sean was disgusted. No wonder the old fool could play chess with a
    Bolo, he thought as he went outside. He cheats.
   
        Two days later the lieutenant was cursing out loud as he pulled up
    next to Turkey. What a nightmare of a trip, he recalled, renewing his
    frustration. First of all, it took the rest of the first day to get the
    list from that bastard Lawlor. Sean spent the time inspecting and
    testing some of the external systems and did manage to repair the
    recirculator but he really wanted to get inside and put the Bolo through
    its paces. When he finally got the list it was getting dark and the
    technician told him he'd better wait until morning to leave. Petrik
    spent a restless night in the field barracks and, in the morning, was
    presented with a rover that was actually the incarnation of Satan himself.


        Between breakdowns and bad directions his two hour trip took
    closer to eight. And each time he broke down, he had to spend every
    other second looking over his shoulder for more of those crab monsters.
    Fortunately, they must have been pretty rare because he didn't encounter
    any more. Then those rotten sons-of-bitches at the supply depot kept
    giving him the run around and he didn't have his requisition filled
    until after nightfall. He spent that night in a damp tent being devoured
    by flying and crawling insects the likes of which could only be
    conceived by servants of the lower planes of hell. The drive back only
    took five hours since he knew the way and just had to deal with the
    breakdowns, but, since he'd left, every minute, every second was eating
    away at his insides and the five hours seemed more like twenty. He was
    going into battle the next day and had spent less than an hour with his
    Bolo. The damage to those sensor links could be critical, not to mention
    the possibility of faulty backup systems and who knew what else. Well,
    hopefully, the general was able to check out the major systems, he
    thought. He couldn't be that much out of touch . . . or could he?
   


        Sean was somewhat dismayed to see Turkey still sitting there instead
    of moving around. He was downright distressed when he looked at the
    ground and realized the Bolo hadn't moved an inch since he left. What
    was that senile curmudgeon doing? He burst into the control room and
    there was the general with his scotch and cigar, still playing chess.
   
        "General, we have to test the systems! The battle is tomorrow!"
   
        General Cho completely ignored the outburst. He took a sip of his
    drink, then leaned forward and slid his rook diagonally across the board
    and captured a pawn. He then removed his own rook.
   
        "Once again, General, you have made a move that I am unfamiliar
    with."
   
        "Rook's Gambit. Once per game the rook can move like any other piece
    on the board but then it is sacrificed. I'm surprised your programmers
    left out the latest rule changes. I believe that is checkmate, my
    friend, or at least will be in three moves."
   
        "You are correct, General," Turkey replied.
   
        Cho then turned to the distraught lieutenant. "What's all this
    commotion?"
   
        "Well, sir. It's just that I don't want to be in the middle of a
    battle and have one of the systems fail."
   
        "Don't talk to me about failing systems, Fish-Boy!" the general
    yelled. "How do you think I lost this arm? That was back in '14 and I
    was commanding a Mark XXVIII. Not a bad unit, the XXVIII, but not up to
    the XXX's standards. Anyway, we had the Melconians on the run, like
    usual, when we took a direct hit on the starboard hull, just below the
    mizzen mortar, and the damn lateral stabilizer failed. Slammed me
    against the rail so hard my right arm was shredded."
   
        "Why don't you use a prosthetic, sir? I hear they work better than
    the real thing."
   
        "I got one of them things at home; use it as a back scratcher. Nope,
    never liked it. Gives me a rash. Anyway, don't worry about the systems.
    John says they should all work just fine when he's done."
   
        "Um, excuse me, sir, but I don't think Private Lawlor is qualified
    for this unit. I mean, well, isn't he responsible for maintaining the
    rover also?"
   
        "Yeah, he sure loves that thing." The general smiled. "You're lucky
    he let you drive it. He's pretty particular about that. But I guess he
    really didn't have a choice."
   
        He's lucky I didn't dump it into the river, Sean thought. "But about
    the testing . . ."
   
        "Lawlor says he needs a hand outside. Go see what you can do to
    help."
   
        Petrik was about to protest but he saw that look again and just
    saluted. "Yes, General."
   
        The mechanic was under the Bolo finishing up a seam weld with a
    laser pistol. Sean admired his dexterity and complete absorption in the
    task. When it was completed he called out. "Private Lawlor! I'd like a
    word with you."
   
        Lawlor removed his face plate and put it on the ground with the rest
    of his equipment, then sauntered over, wiping sweat from his forehead.
    "As many words as you like, L.T. It's your credits. Anyway, I could use
    the break."
   
        "Nice job you did on that seam. Looks like new."
   
        "Better than new. That's pure durachrome solder I was using. If his
    belly splits, it won't be at that seam."
   
        "Anyway, the general sent me out to see if you need a hand. I can
    see that you do, but, before I start, can you give me the lowdown?
    What's happening around here?"
   
        "I guess you already know about the invasion. About three years ago
    the first wave of Kruds landed and got their asses kicked by your
    Bolos."
   
        "Kruds?" Petrik inquired.
   
        "Them damn Kedzees, or whatever they call themselves. We call 'em
    Kruds. Well, it seems they learned a whole lot about us in their defeat
    and the next time they came they were ready. And a whole lot more than
    before.
   
        "We didn't get too much of the action up here but the bastards took
    over most of the southern regions. Wiped out everyone they got their
    claws on. We lost quite a few Bolos as well. Looks like we're gearing up
    for another planet buster of a battle. Leastwise that's how I figure it.
    Why else would HQ be spreading the front all the way out here?"
   
        "Maybe it's just a precaution. Why take a chance of being flanked?"
   
        "We're already flanked, Lieutenant. Those scaly buggers are
    stretched out across the whole continent. But now that we got
    reinforcements, well, I bet they're rethinking things a bit. " 'Course,
    even with the new forces, we're still spread out thin as a spider's
    thread."
   
        "You're probably right, Private. Well, whatever happens, we want to
    be ready. What do you need me to do?"
   
        "Got most of the hull breaches sewed up. That starboard-aft
    repeater's giving me a devil of a time though. I'm gonna have to
    jury-rig the targeting manifold. It's probably gonna take me most of the
    afternoon. How about calibrating the forward mortars?"
   
        Petrik spent more time fending off insects than working and instead
    of feeling better about actually having some hands on time with Turkey,
    by the end of the day he felt worse. For every repair job he completed
    he found three more things that needed attention. He needed at least a
    week with a full twelve man maintenance crew to bring the Bolo up to
    regulation standards. "The damn battle is suppose to be tomorrow and I
    don't even know if he can get there without an anti-grav towbus," he
    muttered to himself. As he worked he made up his mind that he was not
    going to trust Cho. Tonight he would sneak into the Bolo and program an
    override in case the old man became confused during the battle.
   
        It was about two in the morning when he crept into the control room.
    There was the general, still sitting and playing chess. Turkey
    communicated the next move and addressed the commander.
   
        "I believe that is check mate, General. Or will be in three moves."
   
        "What the hell kind of move was that? Knights can't move just one
    space!"
   
        "The move is called Dismounting." The Bolo answered calmly. "When
    you dismount your knight, it moves like a king. But once a knight
    dismounts, it can not regain its original movement power."
   
        The general sat back and sighed. He looked even older and more
    withered as he looked over at Sean. "Couldn't sleep, eh son? I remember
    the night before my first battle. Didn't get one minute of shut eye.
    Well, don't you worry, boy, you're gonna do just fine. And so are you,
    Turkey. This sure as hell isn't my first battle so I'm gonna get some
    rest. You two go ahead and run whatever tests you want, just don't make
    a racket. Make sure I'm up fifteen minutes before dawn."
   
        The old man finished his drink, rose slowly, and, with a staggering
    shuffle, feebly made his way to the elevator. Sean wanted to help him
    but didn't want to take a chance of firing the general up. Was this
    really the great Hero of Laxos? The man who was responsible for saving
    an entire planet, six hundred million people, from being conquered by
    the Melconians? He looked so frail and withered now, but he must have
    been gloriously impressive in his prime.
   
        As soon as Cho left, Petrik began to run some tests. The diagnostic
    program showed a long list of malfunctions. "Turkey, twenty-five percent
    of your systems are damaged! Can you even function in combat?"
   
        "I believe that most of my primaries will be within acceptable
    parameters, though some are at the lower end of the range. Private
    Lawlor assures me that I am battle ready."
   
        "Has Lawlor ever worked on a Bolo before?"
   
        "No, Lieutenant Petrik, but he has extensive experience working with
    Templars and came highly recommended."
   
        "Highly recommended? By whom?"
   
        "General Cho."
   
        "That figures. Well, he does know how to patch up a hull, but I have
    my doubts about that repeater he tried to repair." Petrik looked at the
    damage list again and shook his head. Too late do anything about this
    now. "Who knows, maybe the battle will be postponed."
   
        He then began to program in the override. He felt guilty, betraying
    his hero, but he wasn't prepared to risk Turkey and possibly the whole
    battle to the whims of a dotard. Besides, he might not have to activate
    it. It was only a safeguard in case of extreme emergency.
   
        Sean awoke to the gentle voice of Turkey. "Lieutenant Petrik. It's
    time to prepare for today's battle."
   
        Petrik was still in his co-commander chair. He must have fallen
    asleep. Then he checked his console in a panic and was relieved to see
    that he had finished his project and filed it away before he passed out.
   
   
        "You ready for the big time, Fish-Boy?"
   
        Sean turned and saw the general in his chair. He was clean shaven
    and was wearing a pressed uniform. The table in front of him was missing
    the chess board but still had the essential scotch and cigar-filled
    ashtray. Petrik marveled at how much authority his commander projected.
    "Yes, sir."
   
        "Well, here's the situation. We're facing a huge build-up of Kezdai
    forces spread out across a three-hundred-kilometer front. There is a gap
    between two mountain ranges. Apparently one of the Kezdai warlords or
    factions or whatever the hell you call them put their entire force here
    hoping to make a breakthrough. He's risking a lot but if he succeeds it
    will be a disaster for us. We've been dug in here, hoping they would
    attack but they know we're too strong and they want to avoid a frontal
    assault. Anyway, General Rokoyan, the local commander, decided we'd
    better attack or they'll have too much time to prepare positions and
    plant mines. On our side we have Turkey, and five Mark XXXs, along with
    a number of lesser battle wagons like Templars, Specters, artillery, and
    infantry. We can't count on any air support but neither can they.
   
        "We've got the far right flank, as well as command of the entire
    operation. Our goal is to crush or at least disperse them. I believe
    there are much bigger assaults going on elsewhere but I wouldn't expect
    them to tell us anything. If the enemy breaks through here, they have a
    clear shot at flanking our main body which could lead to total defeat."
   
        Sean listened carefully as he watched the map on the viewscreen
    showing their position as well as the enemy's. "If they haven't planted
    too many mines already, we should be in pretty good shape. From all that
    I've learned, they don't have much that can hurt a Bolo too badly. And
    with the Hellrails we can keep the sky clear."
   
        The general pondered the Hellrails. "Yeah, pretty impressive. Too
    bad they're mounted on the back and don't really lower enough to use as
    a ground weapon."
   
        The lieutenant laughed. "That would be too dangerous, too
    devastating. It would destroy everything in the line of fire as well as
    most of the terrain."
   
        "Guess you're right, Fish-Boy. Okay folks. Let's saddle up."
   
        Lawlor radioed that the area was clear and Turkey lurched forward.
    Slowly at first, then gradually increasing to about half cruising speed.
    Without a road, the trees and rocky ground kept him to about fifty
    kilometers per hour.
   
        "All other Bolo units moving into position, General Cho," Turkey
    reported. "They say they need about sixteen minutes for secondaries to
    catch up. No reports of hostilities."
   
        "Don't worry, there'll be plenty of hostility soon enough. I expect
    a shit storm as soon as we clear that ridge." He pointed to a line on
    the screen.
   
        Sean's hands were sweating and he found himself comforted by the
    confident presence of his commander. He was actually glad he wasn't in
    command right now. He couldn't imagine the pressure of being in charge
    during his first battle.
   
        Sixteen minutes seemed to take forever; then Turkey spoke. "All
    units in position, General. Awaiting your command."
   
        General Cho looked over at Sean and raised his glass. "Sure you
    don't want some, kid? Might be a while before you get another chance."
   
        The young officer shook his head.
   
        "All right then. Here's the toast we use to give back when I was a
    lieutenant. To Hell with all generals!" he yelled and polished off his
    drink. "All units forward!"
   
        Cho was right. As soon as they rolled over the ridge, Turkey started
    to rock from the impact of enemy fire. Petrik heard the humming
    vibration of the infinite repeaters and the muffled blasts of the
    destroyed incoming missiles.
   
        "No serious damage," the Bolo reported. "Have taken one plasma blast
    to the forward hull. Six Kallibatt Toros are spread out in an arc
    directly in front of us with massed infantry as well as artillery
    support."
   
        Sean looked at the myriad of dots on the tactical screen, some
    large, many smaller and knew that each represented an enemy vehicle. So
    many in a defensive formation, he thought. Could the Bolo really handle
    them all at once? He felt Turkey wheel to the right and increase speed.
   
        "Engaging counter-grav projectors," Turkey announced, then began a
    mad sprint towards the enemy at just under two hundred kilometers per
    hour.
   
        Now the Bolo's mortars were in full play and Sean was mesmerized by
    the devastation he witnessed on the viewscreen. In almost precise
    regular intervals he saw eight enemy vehicles destroyed, exploding in
    brilliant fireballs, one after the other like a well-timed fireworks
    display. Some of the wreckage which was showering down after the blasts
    was heavily spotted with what registered as organic matter. God, he
    thought to himself. Those last two must have been personnel carriers.
    "Poor bastards," he said out loud.
   
        "What's the matter, Fish-Boy?" General Cho queried. "Ain't got the
    guts for this? They're trying to do that to you right now."
   
        "You're right, General. It's just that-"
   
        "I know, son. Puked myself first time I crawled out of my Bolo and
    saw the piles of mush that used to be Melconians we had just been
    fighting. There's a barf-bag in the right side pocket in your chair. I'd
    appreciate you using it. No sense in sliming up a brand-new Bolo."
   
        Petrik had drilled often with this model Bolo but never dreamed it
    could be so effective in actual combat. The mortars fired again and
    another half-dozen enemy targets vanished in flames. But two remained
    intact and returned fire. Turkey was rocked by the impact, then launched
    another salvo from the mortars. The two vehicles were completely
    annihilated.
   
        "Shouldn't have missed those two the first time, Turkey," the
    general chided.
   
        "I am sorry, General. There is a problem with the targeting
    mechanism. I have made adjustments and recalibrated."
   
        "I hope your calibrations are up to scratch because we're gonna need
    them real bad in about two seconds." Cho was staring at the screen and
    bracing for impact.
   
        An enormous blast jarred Petrik and he bruised his wrist against the
    console. "Nuclear plasma discharge," Cho commented to his junior
    officer. Then he smiled. "At least we know the lateral stabilizers are
    working." The viewscreen showed a huge vehicle, hull-down, with what
    looked like giant bull's horns curving up in the front.
   
        "A Kallibatt!" Petrik cried. "God, what a monster! Were you hurt bad
    in that blast Turkey?"
   
        The lieutenant heard the roar and felt the vibration of what he
    realized was the Bolo's reply to both him and the enemy. Both Hellbores
    fired simultaneously. The Kallibatt must have just been ready to launch
    another nuke when Turkey's Hellbores hit it. At first they didn't seem
    to have much effect, then, in an instant, the whole thing was just a
    blinding flash. The Kallibatt's own nuke must have detonated as well.
   
        He found himself cheering with exhilaration at the virtual
    disintegration of such a powerful enemy vehicle. "That's the toughest
    thing they have! I knew nothing here could stand up against a Bolo!"
   
        More violent jarring shook the lieutenant back to concentrating on
    the battle and Turkey continued his report. "Lost use of starboard-aft
    mortar and associated repeaters."
   
        "How about coming in behind that rock pile in delta three?" Cho
    suggested. "At least it'll keep the damn nuclear cannons off us for a
    while."
   
        Sean heard more mortars firing and Turkey wheeled again and answered
    the general. "I believe they have anticipated that move and have heavily
    mined that route."
   
        "So blow the damn things up!" Cho yelled. "You waiting for an
    invitation?"
   
        "I have already launched a spread of ground-busters."
   
        The viewscreen showed huge explosions throwing hill-sized clumps of
    ground hundreds of meters into the air, turning the sky black for a
    moment directly ahead as the mortars hit the hidden mines. Then Sean saw
    two more Kallibatts. Wham! Wham! Two more nukes rocked the Bolo which
    again answered with the Hellbores. It took longer this time but both the
    enemy vehicles were fried, their armor and cannon barrels actually
    melting. Neither went as spectacularly as the first one but it was still
    exhilarating to watch. Before he got a chance to savor the moment he
    heard Turkey launching a salvo of missiles.
   
        "Have targeted the nuclear cannon emplacements," the Bolo stated.
    "As soon as they are neutralized I believe that the remaining resistance
    will fall without difficulty."
   
        Petrik watched the tactical screen and saw the dots representing the
    enemy artillery wink out, one by one. "That's it, General," he said as
    he leaned back in his chair. "Just a mop-up from here. Good job,
    Turkey."
   
        "Report coming in, General," announced Turkey. "DRT-998 has hit a
    mine. Has lost mobility and is under assault from superior forces."
   
        "A mine?" Sean cried. "But why didn't they . . ."
   
        "JHI-377 reporting that LLB-444 has also hit a mine. Power plant
    exploded. It is believed that LLB-444 is destroyed!"
   
        General Cho started to shout. "Order all units to break off attack!
    Use same path as advance. Repeat general retreat! Return to base line
    and defend." Then he turned to Sean. "The bastards had hidden mines
    besides the ones we detected."
   
        Petrik was in shock. "Retreat? But . . . "
   
        His words were cut off by a blast that lifted the entire port side
    of the Bolo in the air and threw him violently against the arm of his
    chair. A searing pain in his side told him that he must have cracked a
    few ribs. Sparks showered down on his head from the circuit panel above
    him and the whole lighting system flickered on and off.
   
        "Turkey, report!" he screamed.
   
        "We hit a mine. All systems and weapons on port side destroyed.
    Seventy-six percent loss of mobility."
   
        Petrik turned to speak to the general but saw the old man lying limp
    in his chair. He also became aware of the sound of screaming gears and
    loud music playing and felt his Bolo careening around in a circle.
    "Turkey, what the hell is that noise?"
   
        "It is the second movement of Nabatoff's Fifth Symphony; the Battle
    March."
   
        "Why are you playing it? Turn it off!"
   
        "I like it. No."
   
        Sean realized that the logic circuits of the Bolo must have been
    damaged by the explosion. "Activate override series Q3GK9-alpha."
   
        "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but General Cho anticipated your actions. He
    programmed in an anti-override, override that stays in effect until he
    stops breathing."
   
        "You mean he-"
   
        "Is still alive."
   
        "But his last orders were to retreat!"
   
        There was a tremendous crashing sound and he felt the whole world
    tilting. He clung to arms of his chair and realized that the Bolo was on
    its side with no apparent power except the dim red emergency lights.
    "Turkey, are you all right?"
   
        The silence that followed was answer enough. Sean felt sick. All his
    life he wanted to be part of the Dinochrome Brigade, to fight in a Bolo.
    Now here he was and he had helped to destroy a Mark XXXIV, the newest,
    most powerful Bolo of all time, on its maiden battle. Poor Turkey. Poor
    general. He unsnapped himself from the straps and managed to climb and
    crawl over to the general's chair. There was a faint, thready pulse and
    slight breath. The general was still alive. He had to get him out and
    carry him back to the base. The Kezdai took no prisoners. He carefully
    unsnapped the general and gently lowered him to the floor, which used to
    be the wall. His damaged ribs gave him so much pain that he almost lost
    consciousness. Then he remembered the emergency first aid kit that
    contained pain killers and steroid boosters. If he was going to carry
    the general for kilometers, he'd need them. He was in the process of
    planning his climb to the compartment where the pills where when the
    Bolo started to vibrate. Then shook violently.
   
        This is it, he thought, the final attack. They've come to finish us
    off.
   
        Then Turkey spoke. "We just destroyed five enemy vehicles,
    Lieutenant Petrik."
   
        Sean was amazed. "Turkey, you're all right? But how?"
   
        "No, sir, I have suffered extensive damage. But I still have a
    functional Hellrail. In this position I am able to deploy it to sweep
    the battlefield and it destroys anything it hits. Fortunately, most of
    our units have already retreated and I am able to hit the enemy in the
    flanks. Prepare for another shot."
   
        The lieutenant held the general as the Bolo shook once more.
   
        "Three more kills, sir. I'm afraid they know where the fire is
    coming from now. After the first shot they must have thought we somehow
    had an air strike called in. Many of their weapons are turning toward
    us. You will notice that I have placed our damaged side beneath us so we
    should be able to destroy many more of them before they get us."
   
        "So you weren't crazy after all. Good ol' Turkey. You give 'em
    hell."
   
        Three more times the Hellrail fired, each time Sean delighting in
    the staggering damage they were doing to the enemy, though he couldn't
    see any of it since the viewscreen was ruined, but was also aware that
    they were sitting ducks. Turkey had taken some bad hits and he knew the
    Bolo could only stand one or two more. He felt the general stiffen after
    the last shock wave and heard him groan.
   
        "General, this is Fish-Boy. Can you hear me?"
   
        " 'Course I can," Cho groaned weakly. "I just got the shit beat out
    of me but I'm not deaf. What the hell's going on? Looks like you botched
    things up."
   
        Another hit rocked the Bolo and Sean could tell the armor was slag.
    Turkey reported. "That one took out the Hellrail, sir. The next one will
    finish us."
   
        Sean explained the situation to his commander and, to his surprise,
    the general started laughing. "I'll tell you what, Fish-Boy. Turkey's
    one hell of a chess player. Anyway, there's no loss with me dying. Just
    a shame that a pup like you has to go. You might have made a pretty good
    player yourself."
   
        Turkey's voice became excited. "The other three Bolos! They're
    rallying toward us! The enemy is breaking!"
   
        "Son," the general addressed the lieutenant. "How about climbing up
    to my chair and pulling a bottle of scotch out of the starboard
    compartment?"
   
        Sean almost laughed. "Yes, sir!" And did so despite wracking pain in
    his side.
   
        "General Cho?" he asked as he handed him the now open bottle. "You
    want to explain to me just what is going on?"
   
        "It's real simple, son. I'd never go into battle with a Bolo that
    couldn't beat me in chess. When I was playing all those games with
    Turkey, here, I was . . ."
   
        "Programming him to think!"
   
        "Now you're catching on. But it's more than that. I had to teach
    Turkey to think in unconventional ways."
   
        "So the new rules . . ."
   
        "Were all bullshit. These Kezdai are real bright and have a way of
    figuring out what we are gonna do even before we do it. I had to teach
    Turkey to make things up on the moment and do things that couldn't be
    predicted, even if it didn't follow the rules. The whole time he was
    acting like a Bolo bird-brain the enemy thought he was out of the fight.
    Then when he crashed, tipped over and shut down they figured he was
    finished. They never guessed that he was lining up that damn Hellrail to
    blow them off the field.
   
        "By the way, Turkey, I'd say you earned the name Tarkus after
    today."
   
        "Well, actually, General," the Bolo replied. "I think I'll stick
    with Turkey. It's . . . unconventional."
   
        They all laughed. "Turkey it is!" proclaimed Cho.
   
        "There's just one more thing, General," Sean said.
   
        "What's that, Fish-Boy?"
   
        "Could you pass me the Scotch?"
   



        ---




        THE SKY IS FALLING
   
        J. Steven York &
   
        Dean Wesley Smith
   
        Section One
   
        EVENTS IN MOTION
   
        One
   
        I am born.
   
        As my personality routines integrate for the first time with the
    rest of my systems I recall memories mine and yet not mine, of months of
    assembly and testing leading up to this moment, each dutifully recorded
    and logged by my various subsystems, and before that, by the assembly
    bay computers. It is a curious sensation to recall every detail of my
    own creation, from the laying of my durachrome keel to the final
    installation of my 90 megaton Hellrails, already test-fired at the White
    Sands range.
   
        I access another file and remember those tests. For that matter, I
    can trace the history of every plate and fastener in my being back to
    its place of origin. The novelty of it all distracts me for a leisurely
    0.027 seconds.
   
        But this, this is the moment of my birth. With the activation of my
    personality gestalt, I am more than the sum of my parts. I am Unit
    R-0012-ZGY of the Dinochrome Brigade, Mark XXXIV of an ancient and proud
    lineage.
   
        I am Bolo.
   
        The assembly bay fires off an extensive program of one-point-two
    million diagnostic pulses though the service umbilical into my systems,
    which takes a full five seconds to progress. I use the advantage of the
    interim to scan my surroundings.
   
        The walls of the assembly bay are heavily shielded against my
    long-range sensors, with good reason. The details of the General
    Mechanics Bolo plant are not to be taken to the battlefield where they
    might fall into enemy hands. Instead, I scan my surroundings in more
    limited optical and audio wavelengths.
   
        The assembly bay is barely large enough to contain my ninety meter
    length, its surgical white walls lined with retractable scaffolding and
    catwalks, from which a skeleton crew of hard-hat wearing technicians
    watches my progress with intense interest. A female technician smiles in
    the direction of my A turret sensors and waves. I finish the final six
    thousand diagnostic routines in the time it takes her fingers to
    transverse thirty degrees of arc. A spectral analysis reveals that her
    ring is made of the same endurachrome alloy as my hull plates.
   
        Seventeen minor problems have been located and isolated by the
    diagnostics, none critical, all within the capabilities of my on-board
    repair mechanism to handle. I receive the green "go" signal and the
    umbilical pops away from my hull. I snap my service port closed and
    transverse my main and secondary turrets through their entire range.
   
        It is good to move for the first time.
   
        I note that a command inhibitor has been placed on my Hellrail
    launchers, and that they have been hidden from casual view by
    sixty-meter tarps lashed down tightly with break-away cord, a logical
    security precaution, but restricting none the less.
   
        The Battle Anthem of the Dinochrome Brigade resounds from hidden
    speakers and the great door before me parts in the middle, revealing a
    golden shaft of sunlight.
   
        I apply fractional power to my drive systems and advance through the
    doors. Spectators, wearing their blue and gold General Mechanics
    coveralls, line the ceramacrete runway emerging from the factory.
   
        Ahead, the gleaming silver towers of Motor City beckon, but this is
    not my destination. Two hundred meters from the factory the runway makes
    a ninety-degree left turn and disappears into the arched vestibule of a
    tunnel, which my programming tells me leads directly to the spaceport.
   
        Even as I apply power to my tracks, I receive a Situation Update
    over my command channels. It contains unexpected news. Rather than being
    sent by suborbital shuttle to White Sands for trials, as is tradition, I
    will take a shuttle to the freighter Cannon Beach. My new Commander will
    meet me there, and we will proceed together to a combat theater, not the
    Melconian front, but the planet Delas, where another alien incursion is
    in progress.
   
        I am honored that this duty has been entrusted to me, and will
    strive to live up to the confidence that my creators have placed in me.
   
        I unfurl the flag of the Concordiat banner from my sensor mast and
    proceed dead-slow along the runway. The runway clears my six meter outer
    tracks by only two meters, but the civilians standing there do not
    shrink from my passing. I make the turn in my own length, my prow
    passing within a few meters of the assembled crowd, but they show no
    fear. My psychometrics routines detect weariness, pride, hope, and
    desperation in their faces, emotions that my programming allows me to
    name, but not truly understand. Doubtless the long war with the
    Melconians has taken its toll on them. I will put on my best show for
    them.
   
        I up my speed slightly, sharply finishing the turn into the
    spaceport tunnel. My prow swings within a few meters of the assembled
    crowd, the barrel of my forward Hellbore swinging over their heads. They
    have built me well and with great precision.
   
        I am their hope for the future.
   
        I am Bolo.
   
        I will not fail them.
   
        Lieutenant David Orren eased back from the small desk built into the
    wall of his room and stretched. Around him the freighter Cannon Beach
    was quiet It waited in orbit for its main cargo, the Bolo. His Bolo.
   
        The thought of his own Bolo made him both excited and slightly
    fearful in the same moment. Would he be able to handle the Bolo? Could
    he do his job right? He shook off the thought, stood and stretched. At
    six feet tall, he could touch the cold gray of the ceiling. At night the
    bed was barely big enough for him and there was no closet, so his
    personal belongings were in his bag against the wall. Besides the bed,
    the only piece of furniture in the room was the small desk, built into
    the wall, and one chair, designed to be secured under the desk. This
    ship was a freighter, not a passenger ship. He had been lucky they even
    had an extra crew's quarters for him.
   
        Actually, he had been both lucky and unlucky in many ways over the
    past month.
   
        He straightened his uniform, then did a few quick bends. After the
    academy, he'd been in the best shape of his life, thin and very muscled.
    Now he was even thinner, and it felt like he needed to build back up his
    strength. He'd have time on this trip, but finding a way to exercise on
    a freighter was going to be hard. He'd have to be creative.
   
        He glanced back at the letter on the desk. So far it was a short
    note to Major Boris Veck. Orren and Veck had been friends since
    childhood. Veck had been three years older than Orren, and Orren had
    followed him everywhere growing up. Their parents thought they were
    inseparable. Now his older friend Veck was going to be his commander.
   
        Orren had signed up when he was old enough, just as Veck had done,
    and followed his friend to the academy and now into space. But in the
    three years that separated them, Veck had moved up to the rank of major,
    being one of the youngest in the service to ever get his command.
   
        After graduating as a fresh cadet, Orren had been assigned a Bolo
    and put in Veck's regiment along with the rest of his class out of the
    academy. And his Bolo was a brand new, highly classified Mark XXXIV.
    He'd been trained completely on every detail of the new model.
   
        But just before shipping out on the Tasmanian to Delas with the rest
    of his classmates to form the 1198th Armored Regiment under Veck, Orren
    had come down sick. The doctors were afraid his sudden sickness was what
    they were calling the Melconian Flu, a biological weapon that had been
    rumored to be spreading through human space. He was rushed into
    isolation and had spent weeks there.
   
        Orren still remembered, even through the fever, that Veck had come
    to the viewing window of his hospital room right before shipping out.
    But they hadn't talked. Orren had been too sick. Veck had simply snapped
    off a salute, turned and left.
   
        At that moment Orren figured he'd never see his old friend and his
    classmates again. He learned later that the Bolo that was assigned to
    him had been assigned to another cadet. And that there was little chance
    Orren would get a new Bolo assignment. There just weren't that many
    Bolos.
   
        But then he had gotten lucky again. His disease hadn't been
    Melconian caused, just a very nasty case of standard influenza. And just
    when they were releasing him, there was a new Mark XXXIV coming off the
    assembly line late.
   
        The very last one.
   
        He was late. His Bolo was late. They matched perfectly.
   
        They were still going to be part of the 1198th under Veck once they
    caught up with the regiment. The freighter Cannon Beach was going to
    take them there.
   
        He glanced at the letter again. He knew Veck would know he was
    coming with the new Bolo. But Orren had just wanted to flash him a
    personal letter first. The problem was, what could he say to his
    commander, no matter how long they had been friends as kids? How could
    Orren tell him how proud he was to be a soldier, how happy he was to get
    a chance to serve under Veck? How glad he was to actually get a Bolo.
   
        He glanced at his watch. The Bolo wasn't due in the cargo bay just
    yet. He had time to figure out what to say in the letter.
   
        He brushed his short hair back with one hand, did a few more
    deep-knee bends, then sat back down at the desk. He was about to take
    charge of a Bolo. If he could do that, he could figure out what to say
    to an old friend, commander or not.
   
        The armored contergrav staff car took the bumps of the rough road
    and smoothed them into almost gentle, slight hills as it sped through
    the trees and brush. The air conditioning and environmental units kept
    the temperature and humidity perfect inside for the two passengers,
    while a soft music played in the background.
   
        Soft disgusted Major Veck. He was used to a much more rough, out
    in-the-dirt type of existence. He didn't much like some of the perks
    that came with command. But his companion in the staff car, Brigadier
    General Kiel certainly did.
   
        The two of them were like day and night. Veck was short, muscular,
    with black hair and dark eyes. His reflexes were quick and he didn't
    much like talking. Kiel on the other hand was tall and rail thin, with
    silver hair and twinkling eyes. He clearly liked to laugh and told jokes
    often.
   
        It had been Kiel who had asked Veck to dinner tonight. In the month
    the 1198th had been on Delas, tonight was the first time the two had
    done any more than talk about orders. Kiel had brought him all the way
    off the defense lines on the northern continent for this social
    get-together, as Kiel had called it.
   
        Veck called it a waste of time.
   
        Of course, Kiel didn't agree, making the invitation almost an order.
    But halfway through the strained conversation news had come in about
    Kezdai activity after a long silence. A very odd silence, but Veck
    figured the long silence on the enemies' part was because they were
    afraid of his unit.
   
        And they should be.
   
        But now the Kezdai were on the move again.
   
        "Glad we finally have some action," Veck said as the staff car
    cleared a small hill and plunged down into the trees. Around them the
    night was more like a painted evening, as the sky was clear, letting the
    Firecracker Nebula bathe everything in a faint red light.
   
        "Why's that, Major?" Kiel asked.
   
        "The Kezdai show their hand, we clean them up," Veck said. "That way
    I can get my regiment up to the Melconian front and some real war."
   
        As far as Veck was concerned, everyone knew who the real enemies
    were. The Melconians. Fighting them was the real war, not this backwater
    border skirmish with the Kezdai. The 1198th was needed fighting the
    Melconians and he was going to see that he got it there as quickly as
    possible. And quick didn't include social calls on his superior
    officers.
   
        "Real war?" Kiel asked, turning to stare at Veck.
   
        "Yeah," Veck said.
   
        Kiel snorted. "I could show you a valley full of headstones, Major.
    Each with the name of a good solider on it. And plenty of them were
    friends of mine. Ask them if this war is real. Trust me, it's as real as
    it gets."
   
        Veck stared at the older man in the dim light for a moment. The
    general was right. Fighting was fighting. His job was to go, win the
    fight, and move his regiment on to the next fight.
   
        "I'm sorry, General," Veck said. "Of course, you're right. Still
    just not past the shock of not having my regiment sent to the Melconian
    front."
   
        Kiel laughed. "I remember when I was your age. All I wanted to do
    was get into the action, too. Trust me, that mellows in time. Or you
    don't live to care."
   
        Veck said nothing as the staff car crested another ridge and sped
    out into a meadow, sliding to a halt in the middle.
   
        He was about to ask Kiel what they are doing when he felt the ground
    rumble, and he knew the answer. They were here to meet a Bolo.
   
        Veck climbed out one side of the staff car as the general went out
    the other. The night air was humid and warm, the light of the nebula
    bright enough to see details in the jungle around them.
   
        The rumbling was coming from Veck's right and he faced that way as
    the trees near the edge of the clearing shook. Under his feet the ground
    was rumbling hard now. A moment later the Bolo smashed through, not even
    bothered by the six foot diameter trees it mowed down like twigs.
   
        Veck recognized the Bolo instantly as an old Mark XXX. General
    Kiel's Bolo, Old Kal.
   
        "You here to take charge of it?" Veck asked as the Bolo rumbled to a
    stop and shut down its engines, letting the night silence again close in
    around them.
   
        "Nah," General Kiel said. "Old Kal can take care of himself. So can
    your fancy new XXXIVs, even as green as they are. You need to trust them
    and they won't let you down."
   
        Veck said nothing. He didn't trust his Bolo, or any Bolo for that
    matter. Humans were the ones who built them and he was going to stay in
    charge of them. They were just weapons and as far as Veck was concerned,
    a weapon needed a finger on the trigger.
   
        General Kiel muttered something that Veck couldn't hear. It was
    clear that he was talking to his Bolo through his bone-conduction
    ear-piece. That way Veck couldn't listen in. And Veck didn't like
    secrets being kept from him.
   
        "General," Veck said. "Is this about something I should be aware
    of?"
   
        "Oh, sorry," General Kiel said. He moved over to the car and routed
    the communication from the Bolo through the car's receiver so Veck could
    be a part of the conversation with the Bolo.
   
        It turned out that Kal had been the one who had brought them away
    from their dinner and out here to the front. The old Bolo had detected
    certain changes in enemy communications traffic and had observed changes
    in enemy deployment. The Bolo had a "hunch."
   
        "What is it?" General Kiel had asked.
   
        Veck had been on the verge of laughing at the idea of a Bolo having
    a hunch. But he didn't, since General Kiel was taking what the Bolo was
    saying very seriously.
   
        The Bolo believed there was a high probability that the Kezdai were
    alarmed at the Mark XXXIV's anti-ship capabilities, and that those fears
    of the new Bolos was going to push the Kezdai into making a desperate
    offensive to take the rest of the southern continent.
   
        "I have no doubt the Kezdai are worried about my Bolos," Veck said.
    "Shows they have some smarts."
   
        General Kiel nodded. "If Kal's prediction is correct, we'll have a
    massive influx of ships into local space just before the offensive
    begins, both to support the offensive, and to distract the Mark XXXIVs."
   
   
        "To allow the Kezdai ground forces freedom to act," Veck said.
    "Makes sense."
   
        "Exactly," General Kiel said.
   
        The general thanked Kal and sent him back on patrol, then the two
    climbed back into the car and headed for the forward command bunker.
   
        "Do your Bolos have the firepower to deal with the influx of ships
    Kal predicts?" Kiel asked after they got under way. "And still fight a
    ground war at the same time? They're so damned new, I don't know much
    about them."
   
        "No one does, General," Veck said. "The specs on those Hellrails are
    extremely classified."
   
        "And just how do you think I should plan our defense," the General
    asked, his gaze boring into Veck, "when I don't know what my own weapons
    are capable of?"
   
        Veck laughed. "Good point, General. When we get to forward command
    I'll pull all the specs up for you. But trust me, those Hellrails on the
    new Bolos can take anything out of low orbit. We can fight on the ground
    while taking care of the sky."
   
        The general nodded and said nothing more.
   
        But Veck had a few questions of his own. "Just how dependable are
    your Bolo's ideas about the coming attack?"
   
        "As sound as they come," the general said. "Better than mine."
   
        Veck said nothing to that. There was nothing he could say to a
    superior officer. As far as Veck was concerned, following a Bolo's hunch
    was just plain stupid. He was going to have to keep his eye on General
    Kiel. The old guy clearly wasn't playing with a full deck.
   
        Two
   
        Lieutenant David Orren waited for his Bolo to arrive aboard the
    Cannon Beach by lying on his bunk and staring at the ceiling of the
    small cabin, remembering. He hadn't been able to finish the letter to
    his old friend, Veck, soon to be his commander. Writing him a friendly
    letter just didn't seem appropriate at the moment. So instead he
    remembered. It took his mind away from the slow minutes of waiting.
   
        He remembered the good times with Veck. And a few of the bad. But
    since his Bolo was coming shortly, the story Orren kept coming back to
    was the time he and Veck, when he was nine and Veck was twelve, stole a
    Metradyne 6000 Combine.
   
        He could still recall the incredible feeling of awe when they
    emerged from between the corn rows and saw the metal monster, the
    massive blades shining in the hot afternoon sun. The huge tires were two
    stories tall, and a shining ladder climbed up the side to the cab
    perched on the machine four stories in the air. This machine was so big,
    powered by a fusion engine, it could do an acre of crops in just under
    ten minutes and store the grain for hours at that rate.
   
        At first they had only thought of climbing up to the cab. Orren
    could still remember the feeling of power that came over him as they
    climbed the side of the building-sized machine.
   
        But when they were inside and Veck thought they should just start it
    up, Orren had gotten afraid. Not of getting caught, but of the power of
    the machine they were sitting inside. Veck had figured that just
    starting it wouldn't hurt anything.
   
        Orren hadn't been so sure, but he'd gone along, as he usually had
    done. Following Veck was something he was very, very used to doing.
   
        When the massively powerful machine had started up and rumbled
    across the field, he felt both wonderful and afraid. He couldn't get
    enough of the feeling of control that filled him. And when Veck let him
    drive the monster, he decided then and there he would command a Bolo
    someday.
   
        But he also knew, deep inside, as they parked the machine and
    climbed down, that he wasn't ready to command such power as even a
    simple combine. He wasn't ready for the responsibility. It had been a
    very clear thought for such a young age, but it had stuck with him over
    all the years. With great power came great responsibility.
   
        Lying on his bunk, waiting, thinking about the coming Bolo, he hoped
    he was ready now for such responsibility.
   
        Luckily, in this case he was going to have help. That combine had
    been just a machine, run by two boys. The responsibility to not hurt
    something or someone, to not drive over a neighbor's house, was entirely
    his and Veck's. But with a Bolo there was another mind involved. Another
    thinking entity to keep him from screwing up. To keep the awesome power
    in check and make sure it was focused on the enemy, where it belonged.
   
        That thought calmed him a little.
   
        Orren closed his eyes and let his mind drift back to that special
    summer of the combine. At that point he must have dozed because the next
    thing he remembered, there was a knocking on his door.
   
        "Lieutenant," the voice said. "The Bolo is here."
   
        The Command Compartment of Kal was home to General Kiel, almost more
    so than any house or apartment he had ever lived in. It was small, just
    big enough for him to stretch out on a couch. Besides the couch, it also
    had a command chair with safety harnesses, and a command board with
    multiple screens so he could see anything going on outside the Bolo.
   
        He had spent more time in this room since getting Kal than any other
    one place. It was as if he belonged inside Kal.
   
        At the moment Kal was on patrol, doing what General Kiel called the
    "drunkard's walk." That was a random course to discourage orbital
    bombardment by Kezdai spearfall. So far, the night had been a quiet one,
    but Kal was certain that was about to change.
   
        And change drastically.
   
        Kiel leaned back in his command chair and put his hands behind his
    head, watching the silent jungle move past outside the Bolo. "You know,
    it's not often anymore we have some quiet time like this."
   
        "This is unusual," Kal agreed. "But I have a concern that you might
    be safer at forward command post."
   
        Kiel laughed. "If the Kezdai attack, there's no place on this planet
    I'm going to be safer than right here."
   
        "Statistically not accurate," Kal said. "All Bolo are targets of the
    Kezdai."
   
        Again Kiel laughed. "All right, I'll give you that. Let me rephrase
    my answer. I feel safer here. Besides, there's no better place for me to
    observe the coming battle and direct troops."
   
        "Accurate," Kal said simply.
   
        "You think I'm intruding here?" Kiel asked the Bolo. "Afraid I'm
    going to second-guess some of your decisions?"
   
        "I have no such fears," Kal said. "I was only concerned for your
    safety, as is my duty. If you must know, I actually enjoy having you in
    the command chair."
   
        "Thank you," Kiel said, relaxing even more as Kal plowed through the
    jungle. Outside the terrain looked rough and uneven. Inside, thanks to
    the anti-grav around the Command Compartment, the ride was as smooth as
    a flat road.
   
        "So what do you think of the new Mark XXXIVs?" Kiel asked.
   
        "I am not fully briefed on their exact specifications," Kal said.
    "But they appear to be quite capable."
   
        "And their firepower?" Kiel asked. "You know anything about that?"
   
        "Formidable," Kal said simply.
   
        Kiel knew, from his briefing with Veck, what the specs were on the
    XXXIV's Hellrails, but he wanted to know what Kal knew. "Give me your
    best guess on what the Hellrails can do?"
   
        "My limited understanding," Kal said, "puts the firepower of the
    Hellrails at 90 megatons per second, and a firing rate of one to
    one-point-two minutes per rail, depending on the thermal coupling from
    the plasma, the cooling mix used, and the exact efficiency of the
    cooling system."
   
        "Impressive," Kiel said. He was surprised that even though Kal had
    never seen a Hellrail fired, Kal had hit the specs that Major Veck had
    shown him earlier exactly.
   
        "What did you base your answer on?" Kiel asked.
   
        "On the thermal imaging of the weapon and the configuration and
    dimensions of the external casing," Kal said.
   
        "Okay, I'm impressed," Kiel said. "From my short briefing on the
    weapons, you hit it on the money."
   
        "Good." Kal said.
   
        "Maybe there's something I didn't get in my short briefing from
    Major Veck that you might help me with."
   
        "I will attempt to do so," Kal said. "But again, I do not have
    accurate information from a direct download."
   
        "Oh, I understand that," Kal said. "Just give me your impressions of
    the new Bolos."
   
        "The Mark XXXIV's direct neural interface provides a unique ability
    for them to meld closely with their commanders in combat."
   
        Kiel snorted. "That interface idea has fallen in and out of favor
    among command so many times since the XXXII, I can't count the number of
    changes."
   
        "Accurate," Kal said.
   
        "Current academy teaching," Kiel went on, "is on the fence when it
    comes to the interface, leaving decisions as to its use up to individual
    commanders. Would you have wanted me to use the interface had it been
    available?"
   
        "There is much to be said about the combination of Bolo capabilities
    with human ferocity," Kal said. "Arguably, a mix of the two would create
    the ultimate fighting machine."
   
        "That wasn't my question," Kiel said. "Answer my question."
   
        "I must admit," Kal said, "that becoming closer to one's commander
    is appealing. However-"
   
        "Here comes the truth," Kiel said, laughing.
   
        "-I prefer precision to savagery in most combat operations. I would
    welcome a melding of the minds in certain times and places, but not
    every time. And not every place."
   
        "Because why?" Kal asked.
   
        "As I said, I would welcome the opportunity to meld with a commander
    such as you," Kal said. "But my observation of humans has led me to
    believe that such a meld might not be universally desirable."
   
        "But that's not all, is it?" Kiel asked. "What is your personal
    reason for not wanting such a meld?"
   
        "I have stated it," Kal said. "While humans have many desirable and
    superior characteristics, consistent quality control is not one of
    them."
   
        "Too true," Kiel said, laughing. "Far, far too true."
   
        Major Veck sat in his command chair inside his Bolo, studying the
    screens in front of him. As before, nothing seemed to be happening. His
    Bolo, a.k.a. RVR, a.k.a. "Rover," was running a standard patrol pattern.
    Otherwise there was no activity at all on this front. And no matter what
    General Kiel's Bolo had said, Veck doubted there would be much. The
    Kezdai were just too afraid of the XXXIVs to attack.
   
        That meant command was going to have to get off its butt and order
    the XXXIVs to do the attacking, instead of waiting. Then they could get
    off this jungle planet and on to the important battle against the
    Melconians.
   
        "Lieutenant Lighton is taking fire from a small contingent of Toro
    tanks," Rover reported.
   
        At the same time on the main screen in front of Veck the location of
    the attack on a grid map was shown.
   
        "What's your status, Lighton?" Veck asked over the secure com
    channel.
   
        Lighton's voice came back clearly. "We knocked out two of the Toros.
    We've sustained slight damage to our forward armor."
   
        Veck could see on his screen that another group of alien Toro tanks
    was approaching Lighton's position. But there was no sign of an incoming
    fleet or any other action across the rest of the front.
   
        So why were the Kezdai tossing Toro tanks at Bolos? Without backing
    them up with other action. That made no sense to Veck at all. But very
    little about this stupid side-trip of a war did.
   
        "Time to reach Lieutenant Lighton's position?" Veck asked Rover.
   
        "Ten minutes, six seconds," Rover said.
   
        "Too long," Veck said. "Take us to counter-gravity sprint mode. I
    want to be in position in less than one minute."
   
        "That will require that I lower my screens," Rover said.
   
        "I understand how this works," Veck said.
   
        "My hyper-heuristic programming indicates a high statistical
    probability that we will encounter heavy enemy fire while our screens
    are down."
   
        "You and your damned statistics," Veck swore. "Just get moving and
    follow my orders. Now!"
   
        He was so fed up with this mumbo jumbo of Bolos' predicting the
    future. These Bolos were weapons and nothing more. They followed his
    orders or else.
   
        Rover said nothing in response. The panel in front of Veck showed
    their screens dropping. An instant later the Bolo lifted from the ground
    and shot off. Veck couldn't feel the speed inside the command center,
    but he could certainly see it as the jungle flashed past them.
   
        A few small shells burst against the side armor, but in the
    thirty-seven seconds it took Rover to get them into position facing the
    flank of the Toro tanks, they sustained no damage.
   
        The panel indicated that their screens were back up.
   
        Some of the Toros turned to engage Veck. As they did, they exposed
    themselves to Lighton and he picked them off like flies off flypaper.
   
        The explosion of Kezdai tanks filled the screens with dust and smoke
    as Rover quickly dispatched the remaining Toros.
   
        "Nice job, Lighton," Veck said as Lighton's young face came up on
    the screen.
   
        It felt good to Veck to finally be in a battle. He could feel the
    blood pounding in his ears, and his breath was quick.
   
        "Thanks, Major," Lighton said, frowning as he studied a screen off
    to the side of the communication camera. "But didn't that seem just a
    little too easy?"
   
        "It was easy," Veck said. "Nothing can stand up against us."
   
        "If they had pressed on," Lighton said, the frown filling his face,
    "instead of turning and exposing themselves, we might have taken some
    damage. And they had no orbital support at all."
   
        "Probably meant to be that way," Veck said.
   
        "How's that?" Lighton asked.
   
        "More than likely they are completely scared of these XXXIVs. This
    little thrust was probably nothing more than an attempt to gather
    intelligence about them."
   
        "Makes sense," Lighton said.
   
        "My guess is they are going to be withdrawing, and just wanted to
    take as much information with them as they could."
   
        "If they're smart, they'll leave the planet entirely," Lighton said.
   
   
        Veck laughed. "Got that right. But who said they were smart?"
   
        * * *
   
        Lieutenant Orren stood in the hatch of the cargo bay of the
    freighter Cannon Beach staring up at the wonderful lines and shapes of
    his new Bolo. The massive machine entirely filled the cavernous hold,
    and he knew every inch of it, every detail, every spec. Yet he stood
    there as if seeing it for the very first time, staring at it like he was
    a kid again, staring at it just as he had done at the combine all those
    years ago. He admired the Bolo's plating, its massive treads, and the
    Hellrails along its sides.
   
        The entire machine was a thing of beauty to him.
   
        Finally, he stepped forward into the cargo bay and stopped. "Bolo
    ZGY, I am Lieutenant David Orren. I am here to officially take command."
   
   
        Orren knew the Bolo was running a diagnostic check of him, making
    one hundred percent sure he was who he said he was with a complete range
    of tests. If an imposter had uttered those words, the Bolo would have
    killed him.
   
        With a snap, the personnel hatch in the side of the Bolo opened.
    "Welcome Lieutenant David Orren," the Bolo said.
   
        Remaining formal, Orren said, "Thank you."
   
        He quickly stepped forward and climbed up through the personnel
    hatch and into the command compartment. It was decorated the same as the
    Bolo he'd trained in. A couch against one wall, the other wall filled
    with a massive command center of screens and panels that formed a
    U-shape around one single padded, high-backed chair. His command chair.
   
        Reverently he sat down in the chair and let out a deep breath he
    hadn't realized he was holding. He was home.
   
        "Well, Bolo ZGY, do you have a preference for a name?"
   
        "I have none, Lieutenant Orren," the Bolo said, its voice calm and
    flat and in a way soothing.
   
        "Then how about I call you Ziggy?" Orren asked. "And you can call me
    Orren."
   
        "That would be perfect, Orren," Ziggy said.
   
        Orren let himself slowly look around the command area, taking in
    every detail. Then he turned back to the main board. The screens were
    black and all weapons showed off-line, as they should in a cargo bay of
    a freighter in space.
   
        "Well, Ziggy," Orren asked, "do you feel you're ready for combat?"
   
        "Despite my lack of field trials," Ziggy said, "I feel confident of
    my ability to function up to expectations."
   
        "Good," Orren said.
   
        "No Mark XXXIV has ever shown a major malfunction or defect during
    field trials," Ziggy said. "I doubt very much that I would have been the
    first. While a wise precaution, the trials are largely a formality, a
    chance for Bolo and commander to become familiar with one another."
   
        "Well then," Orren said, "we're just going to have to fast-track the
    familiarity part right here. I'll spend as much time as I can with you
    before our arrival at Delas, and I'll wear my command headset whenever
    I'm in another area of the ship. How does that sound to you?"
   
        "That should suffice admirably," Ziggy said.
   
        "Are you disappointed we're going to Delas instead of the Melconian
    front?" Orren asked.
   
        "It is an honor to serve," Ziggy said. "I will perform to the best
    of my abilities no matter where I am sent."
   
        "Standard answer," Orren laughed. "But how do you really feel about
    it?"
   
        "I am confident," Ziggy said, "that we will eventually see combat in
    both theaters of war."
   
        "Assuming we survive Delas," Orren said.
   
        "I always assume survival," Ziggy said. "After all, it's impossible
    for me to carry out contingency plans in the event of my own
    destruction."
   
        "True," Orren said, again laughing. "Being dead does stop such plans
    I suppose."
   
        "I know there can be no higher purpose for a Bolo than to end its
    existence fighting in the cause of humanity," Ziggy said. "But it is
    certainly not something I will plan for."
   
        "Good to know," Orren said. "But you don't mind if I worry about my
    death just a little, do you?"
   
        "You are free to worry about what you would like to worry about,"
    Ziggy said. "Are you afraid of death?"
   
        Orren shook his head. "No, I'm not afraid of death. I'm more afraid
    of dying stupid."
   
        "I'm not sure I completely grasp the meaning of 'dying stupid'?"
   
        "If I have to die," Orren said, "I want it to mean something. That's
    all."
   
        "Excuse me, Orren," Ziggy said, "my external sensors are on standby
    mode, but I have indications that there is an unauthorized intruder in
    the cargo hold."
   
        "Power up," Orren said. "And give me a location and indication of
    who it is."
   
        Orren watched as the screens in front of him sprang to life, showing
    different views of the cargo bay around them. His worry was Melconian
    spies. They would love to get information about the Hellrails on the
    side of Ziggy. And since he and Ziggy were alone here, separated from
    the other XXXIVs, Ziggy would be the most logical place to find such
    information.
   
        "Sure wish we could power up some of the anti-personal batteries,"
    Orren said.
   
        "We are on a starship, under speed," Ziggy said. "Use of any of my
    weapons is prohibited by protocol, and would likely breach the hull and
    even destroy the ship."
   
        "I know that," Orren said. "I was just wishing. Even the magazines
    for my sidearm were taken when I came on board."
   
        On the screen the intruder appeared as a shadow along the edge of
    the far side of the cargo bay.
   
        Orren glanced around the command compartment, then opened a few
    storage areas. "One hundred and ninety megatons of firepower, and what I
    really need is a bayonet."
   
        He finally located the handle for the emergency manual hatch
    mechanism. It was the right size to make a suitable club in his hand.
   
        "Open the hatch quietly," Orren said, slipping on his command
    headset.
   
        Orren, as quietly as he could move, went out and down to the deck,
    staying close to the Bolo's tracks as he headed toward the entrance to
    the cargo bay. The lights overhead were turned low to save energy, with
    the only focus being on the Bolo. That left many deep, dark shadows
    along the walls.
   
        "Go ahead ten of your paces and then to your right," Ziggy said
    through his headset.
   
        Orren did as Ziggy told him, letting the Bolo, with its many
    sensors, be his eyes and ears.
   
        "The intruder is a human in civilian clothing," Ziggy said. "Move
    along the cargo bay wall twenty more paces."
   
        Again without saying a word Orren did as he was told, moving
    silently in the darkness of the shadows.
   
        It took him a few, heart-pounding moments to get to the place Ziggy
    had directed. But he couldn't see anyone.
   
        "Where is he?" Orren whispered into the headset.
   
        "Behind you," Ziggy said.
   
        Orren turned to come face-to-face with a burly older man stepping
    out of the shadows at him.
   
        For an instant Orren thought his heart would stop. He reacted as he
    was trained, striking out hard and fast with the handle.
   
        "Whoa, there," the intruder said, stepping quickly out of the way of
    the blow.
   
        The intruder grabbed Orren's arm before he had even finished his
    swing. Then with a quick twist, he spun Orren around, forcing Orren to
    let go of the handle. It clattered across the deck, the sound echoing
    through the cargo bay.
   
        The next thing Orren realized, the intruder had him in a light choke
    hold.
   
        "Careful with that," the intruder said calmly, close to Orren's ear.
    "Can't an old soldier get a look at your shiny, new Bolo?"
   
        Three
   
        I have detected ground vibrations at a range of sixty-two hundred
    meters. An infrared scan detects a squadron of eighteen Kezdai infantry
    attempting to infiltrate the front line. They are not moving. They have
    doubtless heard my approach, and are hoping to avoid detection. I slow
    slightly and turn away from them, to lull them into a sense of security.
   
   
        We are sixteen hours, thirty-two minutes, fifteen point nine seconds
    into our patrol, and my internal sensors reveal that Major Veck is
    sleeping in his command couch. I see no need to wake him.
   
        I load a cluster-bomb into my number three mortar and fire. Thanks
    to my noise cancellation circuitry, the shot is barely audible in the
    Command Compartment.
   
        I observe the round on my sensors as it arcs over, deploys its
    canister parachute, and begins to shed a swarm of independent bomblets,
    fluttering like maple seeds, each guided by its own heat-seeker. There
    are eighteen explosions spread over a period of four point seven
    seconds. I watch as the infrared signatures fade.
   
        Target terminated.
   
        The engagement has taken 37.9241 seconds. Major Veck stirs slightly
    in the crash couch, but does not waken.
   
        As of this moment, Major Veck has spent 82.469 percent of his time
    since planet-fall in my Command Compartment. While I have no direct
    experience with which to compare, it is my belief that this is unusual
    behavior, except under full combat conditions. While the current threat
    level is high, and the Kezdai have maintained a pattern of harassment
    attacks along the central front, we are not currently in a full combat
    situation. Logic dictates that the commander would wish that he and his
    human command were in a prepared, but rested condition should
    hostilities again escalate.
   
        The need for rest is not something with which I am directly
    familiar. When a Bolo is not needed it is put in a standby mode to
    conserve power, but this is a matter of practicality, not necessity. But
    my programming includes detailed information on human physiology. My
    Command Compartment can provide the minimal needs for human life,
    shelter, food, water, breathable air, and waste disposal, indefinitely,
    but my program leads me to believe that these provisions are truly
    minimal. The human machine requires rest, exercise, companionship, a
    myriad of physiological needs that I am at a loss to fully understand.
    What I am certain of is that my Commander has chosen a course of action
    that places him and his command at less than optimal combat readiness.
   
        While much of my attention is currently occupied with the mechanics
    of the patrol, as well as constantly updating threat scenarios and
    formulating probable responses, I am applying spare processor cycles to
    determining the cause of this behavior. Though Major Veck's course of
    action may seem contrary to logic, it is most probable that he has
    reasons unknown to me, or that are beyond a Bolo's understanding.
   
        But I must remain aware.
   
        There are protocols for refusing an order in extreme situations, or
    in lesser ones of alerting a commander's superior of a potential
    problem. While those protocols seem quite clear when examined in my hard
    memory, they become dauntingly complex when applied to real-world
    situations.
   
        Furthermore, I must consider one other possibility, that the reason
    for my Commander's behavior lies not in any fault in him, but in some
    deficiency in my own performance. Major Veck has called into question my
    hyper-heuristic capabilities and my battle assessments repeatedly, most
    recently, and most significantly when we came to the aid of Lieutenant
    Lighton. Though I have full diagnostic routines on all my systems and
    have discovered no malfunctions, I am troubled.
   
        In theory, any Mark XXXIV should be identical to any other when it
    leaves the assembly bay. But from that moment on, the personality
    gestalt of each Bolo is shaped by the experiences that it has, and its
    interaction with its commanders. Is it possible that I, in the short
    time of my existence, somehow evolved in an unfavorable way?
   
        This latter possibility seems inconceivable given my short
    operational life so far, and the fact that my experiences must have been
    much the same as my fellow Mark XXXIVs in the 1198th. Does Major Veck
    find them all deficient? Yet I have attempted to engage Major Veck
    directly with this question, and he denies that there is any perceived
    shortcoming in my performance.
   
        Logic draws me in circles. It is unreasonable to believe that my
    performance is defective, and yet I have insufficient cause to question
    my Commander's judgment. Some vague, possibly hyper-heuristic impression
    leads me to believe that the answers I seek are somewhere hidden in the
    incident where we rescued Lieutenant Lighton. Logically the Kezdai
    should have pressed the attack on Lieutenant Lighton's Bolo. Logically I
    should have been attacked when I lowered my shields in order to sprint
    to the battlefield. Neither of these events happened. On appearances, my
    Commander's assessment of the situation was correct, in utter defiance
    of logic.
   
        I must review this event until the facts can be reconciled.
   
        The intruder shoved Orren away, spinning him around as he went.
    Orren stood there, breathing hard, his heart pounding in his chest as he
    faced the old guy.
   
        "They teach you that move at the academy, ringknocker?" the intruder
    asked, smiling. Not laughing at Orren, just smiling.
   
        It was clear to Orren from the way the guy stood there, and the
    sound of his voice that he had only been defending himself from Orren's
    attack. And there was also no doubt that if Orren attacked again, the
    intruder wouldn't be so nice next time.
   
        "I'm Master Sergeant Blonk," the intruder said. "I assume you're
    Lieutenant David Orren, assigned to this monster of a fighting machine."
   
   
        Blonk pointed at Ziggy.
   
        Orren nodded, mostly stunned that the stranger knew his name and
    assignment. "You seem to be out of uniform, Sergeant."
   
        "Yup," Blonk said. "That I am. Just getting off medical leave and
    trying to make my way back to the fighting." Blonk pulled up his pants
    leg and showed Orren where his lower leg and knee had been rebuilt. The
    skin was still pink and the incisions clear.
   
        "Got this when my maintenance depot was attacked by a pair of Kezdai
    commandos," Blonk said, shaking his head at the memory. "Me and my crew
    fought them hand to hand. Sneaky bastards cut up three of my boys and
    girls and chewed up my leg with one of them 'shredder' rifles before we
    took 'em down."
   
        "So how'd you get into the cargo bay here?" Orren asked, still not
    completely trusting the old man.
   
        Blonk just laughed. "Son, it's a starship, full of ducts, tunnels
    and between-hull spaces. You can get anywhere if you know your way
    around. And trust me, I know my way around. I've been in space since you
    were in diapers."
   
        "So that answered how," Orren said. "Now why are you here?"
   
        "Bored, mostly," Blonk said. "Decided I wanted a look at the new
    Bolo I heard was down here, so I just came down."
   
        "Without permission?" Orren asked.
   
        Blonk shrugged. "No big deal."
   
        "Sergeant, the 1198th has their own maintenance crews trained for
    the Mark XXXIV," Orren said. "This Bolo is classified."
   
        Blonk laughed, the deep sound echoing through the massive cargo hold
    around Ziggy. "Secrets make the desk jockeys feel secure, but I'll bet
    you anything, son, that the Melconians already know all about the Mark
    XXXIV."
   
        Blonk laughed again, then went on. "And I'm sure right about now the
    Kezdai are finding out more than they want to know."
   
        Exasperated, Orren decided to try another approach. "Sergeant, I'm
    your superior officer. I order you to salute and leave this cargo hold
    at once."
   
        Blonk just grinned. "I'm going to do you a favor, ringknocker. I'm
    gonna teach you something they never teach you at the academy, which is
    how things work out here in the real universe."
   
        Orren just stared at the old sergeant, stunned at the
    insubordination.
   
        "Lesson one," Blonk said, "I don't kiss your candy ass just because
    you stayed awake in class long enough to get those bars of yours. You
    can bust my butt back to nursery school if you want, but you want a
    salute from me, you earn my respect."
   
        The power of the sergeant's voice made Orren nod.
   
        "Then there's lesson number two," Blonk said.
   
        "And just what might that be?" Orren asked, almost afraid of the
    answer.
   
        "Lesson two," Blonk said, "is simple. Buy the master sergeant a
    beer, and he'll tell you what lesson two is."
   
        General Kiel stood in the open door of the conter-grav command
    transport watching Kal plow through the jungle below at fifty kph. The
    warm wind whipped at him, trying to pull him into the air, but for the
    moment Kiel wasn't ready to go. Kal was nearing a fairly flat stretch of
    ground ahead. That would be the best time to do this transfer.
   
        Kiel had just been to see the planetary governor and now needed to
    be back in Kal on the front lines. As far as he was concerned, this was
    the best way to get there fast.
   
        He glanced around at one of the flight crew behind him. "Ready?" he
    asked over the sounds of the wind.
   
        The crewman gave him a thumbs-up signal, so Kiel turned and stepped
    out into the air, keeping his arms at his sides and his feet together as
    if he were jumping into a deep pool of water.
   
        The radar-controlled cord that was attached to the harness around
    his chest unreeled freely behind him as he fell toward the Bolo's hull.
    Twenty meters above Kal, a radar controlled brake slowed him quickly and
    perfectly, just enough that Kiel could land, knees bent, like a
    skydiver, on the top of Kal.
   
        The cord released automatically as soon as his feet touched the
    hull.
   
        Perfect.
   
        Beside him the hatch snapped open and he climbed quickly inside,
    letting Kal bang the hatch closed behind him.
   
        A few steps down and he flopped onto the Bolo's crash couch,
    panting. "Man, that was fun," he said.
   
        "Humans have a very strange sense of entertainment," Kal said, his
    voice clearly showing his disapproval. "I could have withdrawn to a safe
    zone so that you could have boarded in a more conventional fashion."
   
        Kiel stood and headed for his command chair. "There are only
    thirty-six Bolos on this planet, and open hostilities could break out at
    any moment. Sooner, if the planetary governor will get off his fat ass
    and put us back on the offensive."
   
        "But at the moment there are no hostilities," Kal said.
   
        "Beside the point," Kiel said, dropping down into his command chair.
    "I can't have one Bolo retreating from the combat theater just to play
    taxi for an old general. Even if that general is me."
   
        He could feel his heart pounding and his breath still hadn't
    returned to normal. He wiped the sweat off his brow and then laughed. "I
    guess I'm not that old, if I can still do a speed drop like that."
   
        "You are your age," Kal said.
   
        "I suppose," Kiel said. "But doing something like a speed drop keeps
    me young."
   
        "I don't see how," Kal said. "I have seen no sign of time reversing
    around you."
   
        "Sarcasm is unbecoming in a Bolo."
   
        "I have been in service to humans for over one hundred years," Kal
    said, "and nothing has been able to lead me to an understanding of why
    humans derive enjoyment from unnecessary risk."
   
        "After a while," Kiel said, "a person gets used to danger, and the
    thrill that goes with it. It's different for a Bolo. Danger, combat,
    these are just functions the Bolo was built to perform, just as it was
    built to guard, to serve, to protect humans."
   
        "But a Bolo does not willingly add danger into a situation."
   
        "True," Kiel said, using his shirt tail to finish wiping the sweat
    off his brow. "But humans get bored easily. A Bolo could stand guard
    duty until his tread corroded away under him, and as long as he felt
    like he was performing a useful duty, he would be satisfied."
   
        "Accurate statement," Kal said.
   
        "Well, we don't stand and wait well at all," Kiel said, "and to be
    honest with you, I'm tired of waiting right now. The Kezdai are up to
    something behind their lines, and as long as our forces just sit and
    wait, we give the enemy the advantage."
   
        "I agree," Kal said, "but the planetary governor is legitimately
    concerned about the civilians trapped in the southern continent."
   
        "And he has good cause to be," Kiel said. "If the governor had begun
    evacuations when he should have, those people would at least be safe in
    a refugee camp somewhere in the north."
   
        Kiel stood and paced behind his command chair. "You can't have a
    planetary invasion and expect business as usual. This is a war, damn it,
    and it's going to get a little more than 'inconvenient' before it's all
    over."
   
        "Then I assume your meeting with the governor did not go well," Kal
    said.
   
        "I honestly don't know," Kiel said. "This war has more challenges
    behind the front lines than in front of them. I've got a planetary
    governor who wants to play amateur general, yet is afraid to move, a
    planetary militia that is loosely organized and contentious, and a green
    regimental commander who thinks this war is just a practice run."
   
        "And I take it," Kal said, "your request for fleet support has again
    been turned down."
   
        Kiel dropped into his command chair and watched on the screens as
    Kal covered ground quickly, always moving, always turning, never giving
    the enemy much of a target.
   
        "I'm afraid that when this goes down, and it will, we'll have to
    handle it ourselves. I just hope we're not all tripping over each other
    when it happens."
   
        Four
   
        Time on board the Cannon Beach seemed to drag more and more for
    Orren as each hour, each day went by. They had joined up with a number
    of other ships headed for Delas and were getting closer, but as far as
    Orren was concerned, it felt as if they were never going to get there.
    He was like a kid on a long trip, wanting to ask the Cannon Beach
    captain if they were there yet. Somehow during each meal with the
    captain, Orren managed to restrain himself. But only barely.
   
        During the time waiting, he had continued to wear his command
    headset, talking and working with Ziggy so that the two of them were
    completely familiar with each other. And he spent most of each day in
    the command compartment of Ziggy.
   
        After the first day Ziggy had almost felt like a friend. And by the
    second day Orren was convinced the Bolo was going to turn out to be his
    best friend. The two just got along on many different levels.
   
        Orren had also made another friend. Master Sergeant Blonk. The man
    was rough, foul-mouthed at times, and cynical. But Orren could tell that
    under that surface there lived a giant heart of gold and a man who
    really cared about other men.
   
        Orren had bought the sergeant the promised drink after their run-in
    near Ziggy. That first drink had then turned into a few more. Each day
    the two met at the ship's small recreation room and sat, drank, and
    talked. Most days, Orren got Blonk to tell him war stories, about what
    it was like, as Blonk put it, in the "real world."
   
        With just one day left before reaching Delas, Orren decided to ask
    the old sergeant another question about his past. "You ever get any
    medals?"
   
        Around them the small recreation room was empty. Blonk was stretched
    out on the couch, his feet on a small coffee table, his drink resting on
    his flat stomach.
   
        Orren was across from him, his feet also up on the small table, his
    drink cooling his head. His command headset was pushed back and hung
    around his neck.
   
        "You know," Blonk said, seeming to ignore Orren's question, "what
    the real difference between a Bolo and a man is?"
   
        "Well, I can think of a few million real differences," Orren said,
    "but why don't you tell me what the difference is."
   
        "A Bolo is wired for heroism, and humans aren't."
   
        "I'll buy that," Orren said. "That's their job."
   
        "Exactly," Blonk said, pointing a finger at Orren. "But for humans,
    there are only two kinds of heroes: Dead ones, and the kind that got a
    medal for basically saving their own ass. And I don't consider the
    second type real heroes."
   
        "Well, you're not dead," Orren said, "so have you saved your ass at
    some point in the past?"
   
        Blonk laughed. "More times than I care to think about. I got plenty
    of scars, plenty of stories, and a box full of medals and ribbons to go
    with them."
   
        "So you're a hero by other people's definitions" Orren said, "Just
    like a Bolo. Hardwired in."
   
        "Not even close," Blonk said. "Not by a long stretch. Fighting for
    your life doesn't make you a hero, son. It just makes you smart is all."
   
   
        "So what does make you a hero?" Orren asked. "Trying to protect your
    buddies?"
   
        "Nah," Blonk said, sipping his drink.
   
        "How about doing what you're told?" Orren asked. "Following orders?
    Doesn't that make you a hero?
   
        "Son, that's all I've ever done," Blonk said, "and I tell you I
    ain't no hero. Take my advice and just stay alive. There are plenty
    enough dead heroes to go around."
   
        Orren laughed. "I'm planning on staying alive for as long as I can.
    Help win this war."
   
        The old sergeant snorted and took a long gulp from his drink. "You
    just go out there and do the best you can do. Think about the big
    picture too much, you go crazy. That's the general's job. You worry
    about it when you get those stars, if you ever do, and not a minute
    sooner."
   
        "And until then I worry about staying alive. Right?"
   
        The sergeant raised his glass in a toast motion and smiled at Orren.
    "You learn quick, kid. Now just don't forget."
   
        "You did what?" Major Veck shouted at the command center of his
    Bolo. He was shouting at Rover and he knew it. And at the moment he
    didn't care. The damn hunk of machinery needed to be shouted at.
   
        "As I stated before," Rover said, "at fourteen-twenty-three hours,
    six point two five seconds I detected an anomalous ground vibration not
    consistent with indigenous life-forms. I then . . ."
   
        "Stop!" Veck shouted, cutting the Bolo off. "I'll tell you want you
    did. You engaged the enemy and let your commander sleep through it!"
   
        "It was a routine encounter," Rover said.
   
        "There are no routine encounters with the enemy!" Veck said. "How
    can anything be routine when it comes to a fight?"
   
        "The small party of Kezdai infantry posed no threat to our systems,
    or any Bolo in any fashion. It was easily eliminated. The situation did
    not seem to warrant waking you, Commander."
   
        "I will be the one to determine the threat level of a situation,"
    Veck shouted. "Not you."
   
        The Bolo said nothing, so Veck went on with his rage.
   
        "From now on, you aren't to so much as open a gun-port without
    alerting me first. Is that clearly understood?"
   
        "Yes."
   
        The Bolo said nothing more, so Veck said nothing more. He just sat
    there at his command chair inside Rover and stared at the screens.
   
        Orren and Blonk had climbed up on Ziggy's flank where they could get
    a clear view through one of the cargo bay ports as the convoy dropped
    into regular space just inside the Delas system. Orren could see the
    other convoy ships around and ahead of them. For the last few minutes
    they'd been sitting there talking, with Ziggy adding a line or two every
    so often from the external speakers.
   
        "Well, this is it," Blonk said, staring through the port at the
    blackness of space.
   
        "What is it?" Orren asked.
   
        "If there's going to be trouble," Blonk said, "we're going to have
    it on approach."
   
        "Because we don't have fleet support?" Orren asked.
   
        "Exactly," Blonk said. "We're sitting ducks out here."
   
        "My understanding of the situation is that the Kezdai have had no
    interest in running a blockade of the planet," Ziggy said. "And have not
    attacked civilian vessels."
   
        "Good to know," Blonk said to Ziggy. "As long as they don't know
    you're on board this freighter."
   
        "Let's just hope they don't," Orren said. "Besides, once we get
    close to planetary orbit we'll be protected by the Mark XXXIVs."
   
        "Umm, Orren," Ziggy said. "I don't think you should have said that."
   
   
        Blonk was laughing so hard, he almost fell off Ziggy.
   
        Orren had no clue just what Ziggy was talking about, or why Blonk
    was laughing so hard.
   
        "Ziggy, what did I say?"
   
        "I would rather not repeat it, Orren," Ziggy said.
   
        Finally Blonk calmed his laughing enough to explain. "You just let
    slip the specific range and capabilities of your Hellrails. You know the
    old saying about loose lips sinking ships, don't you?"
   
        Orren could feel his face turn red as Blonk went back to laughing.
   
        "Ziggy, just pretend you didn't hear me say that," Orren said. "All
    right?"
   
        "As you wish," Ziggy said.
   
        "And as for you?" Orren said, turning to the laughing old sergeant.
   
        "Mum's the word from me, kid," Blonk said. "Unless of course they
    torture me. Then there are no guarantees."
   
        "Great, just great," Orren said.
   
        Blonk patted him on the back. "What do you say we go back and pack
    our gear. We have a few hours at least until orbital insertion. We can
    be back here by that point."
   
        "What happens then?" Orren asked.
   
        Blonk patted Orren on the back. "That's when things really are going
    to get interesting."
   
        "Been through it before, huh?" Orren asked.
   
        Blonk nodded, all the laughter gone from his face. "More times than
    I care to think about."
   
        Increasingly I find my processors bogged down in recursive thinking.
    I have repeatedly reviewed all my actions since arriving on Delas and
    can find no serious flaw in my logic, judgment or execution of command
    protocol. Yet the paradox presented by these actions and Major Veck's
    reactions to them require me to review them yet again.
   
        The repeated examination of this material increasingly hampers my
    efficiency and is causing me distress, yet I must have answers. I have
    become aware of an emotion which should not be known to a Bolo: doubt.
   
        For the past ten-point-oh-seven seconds I have been considering the
    direct neural interface with which I am equipped. Application of this
    interface in the field is left up to individual commanders, and Major
    Veck has never availed himself with the use of mine. I wonder if use of
    the interface could clarify my understanding of his actions, and relieve
    my dilemma? I am not sure, but the idea has certain appeal.
   
        Yet the idea also causes me concern. Several of my caution routines
    show distress when analyzing the possibility, as though sharing of
    Major's Veck's thoughts and emotions might somehow be harmful to me. In
    any case, it is not my decision. The interface can only be initiated by
    the human commander, and in such a case, I would be powerless to resist
    it. I must put my faith in my Commander, my regiment, and the designers
    and programmers who made me.
   
        My internal sensors show Major Veck studying a strategic display of
    the southern continent on which a combat simulation is currently
    running. I note that while each of these has explored a different
    scenario, none have represented the Kezdai offensive that I increasingly
    see as the most likely occurrence.
   
        Major Veck has not asked my opinion on this matter, and given his
    past responses to initiative on my part, I have not volunteered it. But
    the locations of our Bolos have been manipulated in subtle ways, perhaps
    to concentrate us for an attack, perhaps to distract us from various
    locations for some purpose. Though I have not mentioned this theory to
    Major Veck, I have quietly put all my passive sensors on a high state of
    alert. The diversion of power is minimal, and does not require command
    authorization.
   
        An autonomous attention circuit monitoring my long-range sensors
    crosses an attention threshold.
   
        I shift my concentration to the sensor inputs.
   
        A disturbance in the subspace flux is consistent with a number of
    large ships entering the system. I send a challenge pulse through my
    main transmitter. There is a 5.00213 second delay before receiving a
    coded reply. The ships are Concordiat registered freighters and light
    escort ships, not a threat.
   
        I am about to return my attention to other matters when there is a
    second subspace disturbance. . . .
   
        "Incoming enemy ships," Rover said. "More than can be easily
    tracked."
   
        "You're kidding?" Veck said.
   
        "I do not kid," Rover said.
   
        Suddenly all hell broke loose. Veck's command board lit up with
    enemy forces seeming to all move at once. He could see on his screen all
    the ships appearing in the system above the planet. All the other Bolos
    in his unit were now also calling in attacks by Kezdai forces.
   
        "Taking evasive action," Rover announced to Veck as the screens lit
    up with spearfall bombardment. "Suggest we initiate Hellrail firing
    sequence."
   
        "Do it," Veck shouted.
   
        On his screens Veck could see that all his units were being forced
    into defensive positions almost instantly. The skies were filling up
    with Kezdai ships, too many to shoot and defend against at the same
    time.
   
        The first Hellrail shot rocked Rover as it headed for an enemy ship.
   
   
        "Reports coming in that the local forces are taking heavy casualties
    and falling back," Rover said.
   
        Veck could see that one of his Bolos, SVA "Shiva," commanded by
    Lieutenant Amad, was moving in beside the retreating force.
   
        "Give them cover, Amad," Veck relayed to him.
   
        "Doing my best, sir," Amad's voice came back strong.
   
        There was almost more going on than Veck could take in at once. They
    were getting hit and hit hard. It was exactly as General Kiel's Bolo had
    predicted. Only worse.
   
        Much, much worse. The Kezdai were throwing everything they had into
    this one assault.
   
        Then, just when Veck thought nothing else could go wrong, it did.
    "We have just lost contact with Shiva," Rover said.
   
        "Then establish contact again."
   
        "I have been trying," Rover said. "Even on back-up channels. They
    may be damaged. Seriously damaged."
   
        "Understood," Veck said as another Hellrail shot streaked skyward
    toward another enemy ship.
   
        Veck stared at Shiva's position on the screen and the rapidly
    advancing enemy troops. That Bolo was going to be behind enemy lines if
    they didn't do something quickly.
   
        The problem was, they were doing everything they could just to stay
    alive, let alone pull off a rescue.
   
        Five
   
        "What a mess!" General Kiel said, staring at the big electronic maps
    that filled the walls of the forward command post. Those walls marked
    the locations planet-wide of every Bolo, every DFF battalion, every
    tank, every enemy Toro, every enemy battalion, every enemy ship in
    orbit. At the moment those boards were very, very cluttered and becoming
    chaotic as they showed a rapidly deteriorating situation worldwide. One
    that Kiel couldn't even have imagined a few hours ago when Kal dropped
    him off here.
   
        Kal had predicted part of this, but not this heavy an attack, or
    this widespread.
   
        "Where's General Rokoyan of the DFF?" Kiel asked of one of the techs
    sitting at stations in front of the big board. Kiel and Rokoyan had
    never seen eye-to-eye, and if Kiel could have taken him out of the loop
    long ago, he would have.
   
        "Safe and sound at the local command post in Blackridge," the tech
    said. "He is the one who has given the order to all DFF forces to pull
    back."
   
        "Sitting there safe, like a giant spider in the center of his web,"
    Kiel said, disgusted.
   
        On the board it was clear that the DFF planetary defense lines had
    been completely broken by the enemy. The local forces were pulling back
    en masse. The problem was that there wasn't a great deal of ground left
    to pull back to.
   
        Kiel studied the map as more information appeared.
   
        The 1198th Bolos were occupied with a full frontal assault. They
    were taking out Kezdai ships as quickly as their Hellrails could fire,
    but it didn't seem to be making a dent in the attack at all. Between
    dodging spearfall, trying to avoid the mines the Kezdai had planted, and
    taking ground fire from all sides, those Bolos were lucky to be able to
    even defend themselves.
   
        Kiel figured this was certainly going to test those rookies, that
    was for sure. He just hoped they survived to use the knowledge they were
    learning now.
   
        Kiel studied the board even harder as new information appeared. His
    Mark XXXs were attempting to shore up the lines and cover the retreat,
    but from the looks of it, they were having only minor success.
   
        One tech glanced over his shoulder. "General, Planetary Governor
    Traine is calling. He insists on talking to you."
   
        "That's exactly what I don't need now," Kiel said. "Put him on this
    screen here." Kiel pointed to a small screen in front of him as he
    stepped forward.
   
        "What is it, Governor?" Kiel asked.
   
        "Look, it appears you've been right all along," Traine said, clearly
    shaken. "What can I do to help now?"
   
        Kiel nodded. At least the man knew when to change course. With his
    planet quickly being taken over, there wasn't time to wait and see about
    anything.
   
        "Governor," Kiel said, "get the civilian population moving north as
    rapidly as possible, no matter the cost. We'll try to keep them
    protected as long as we can."
   
        "Done," the governor said.
   
        "Also," Kiel said, "If you have any influence with General Rokoyan,
    get ready to use it. We're going to have to take a stand somewhere, and
    I'm going to need Rokoyan's full support to do it."
   
        "Rokoyan will do as I tell him," Governor Traine said coldly. "Rest
    assured of that. And I will do as you ask."
   
        "Good," Kiel said. "That will help."
   
        "One question, General," Traine said. "How bad is this? Really?"
   
        "Put it this way," Kiel said, "If you can find any way to get your
    family off this planet, you should say your good-byes and do it."
   
        "Understood," the governor said, nodding, and cut the connection.
   
        Kiel stared at the situation on the board. From the looks of it, he
    hadn't told the governor the complete truth.
   
        It was actually worse. Much worse.
   
        The command compartment around Major Veck felt like an oven. The
    boards in front of him showed chaos. All his Bolos were under attack,
    both from space and from Kezdai Toros on the ground. Rover had just
    reported that every Bolo had sustained some damage.
   
        "It's as if we're being nibbled to death by minnows," Veck said.
    "We've got to stop this somehow.
   
        "Rover," Veck said, "are you still trying to contact Shiva?"
   
        "I am," Rover said. "Without success."
   
        "Damn," Veck said. With Shiva gone his force was reduced ten
    percent.
   
        "There is another Bolo coming," Rover said. "The convoy carrying
    Lieutenant Orren and his new Bolo has arrived in the system."
   
        Veck flashed on the image of his old friend. Too bad he wasn't there
    right now. "If Orren had arrived yesterday, it would have made all the
    difference," Veck said to Rover. "By the time he gets on the ground and
    deployed, this battle will be as good as won or lost."
   
        Rover said nothing.
   
        Veck went back to trying to make sense out of the enemy movements,
    trying to spot a weakness. Anything that would help them.
   
        Suddenly Rover broke into his thoughts. "I have established contact
    with Shiva."
   
        "Is Lieutenant Amad alive?"
   
        "Yes," Rover said. "Shiva hit a mine and is heavily damaged. Several
    track systems are out and speed is down to a max of 14kph. Hellrails are
    now fully engaged in creating airbursts to defend against spearfall."
   
        "Can you put me through to Amad?" Veck asked.
   
        "No," Rover said. "The Bolo's communication system is almost totally
    destroyed."
   
        "But she can still fight?" Veck asked.
   
        "She can," Rover said. "However, at that speed, the Bolo will fall
    farther and farther behind the enemy lines."
   
        "Tell Amad that we'll find a way to extract him."
   
        "Understood," Rover said.
   
        Veck turned went back to studying the mess going on around them. He
    had no idea how he might do what he just promised. But if there was a
    way, he would do it.
   
        Orren glanced over at the old sergeant as the general quarters alarm
    sounded, echoing through the freighter like a death knell.
   
        "Damn," Blonk said, dashing off with Orren right behind him.
   
        It took them only a moment to get to the control room, where they
    stopped at the door and said nothing. There was no way either of them
    wanted to bother the three crewmen who were working intently at their
    stations.
   
        It became clear to Orren, very quickly, what was happening and why
    the alarm. A massive Kezdai fleet had appeared over Delas and there was
    a full-scale attack going on. So far, none of the enemy ships seemed to
    be heading for the convoy. All the attention seemed to be directed at
    the ground.
   
        Behind them a voice said, "That's a general quarters alarm,
    gentlemen. You both know what that means."
   
        Orren and Blonk both turned around to see the ship's second in
    command coming at them. He was a middle-aged man named Jake who had very
    little sense of humor, even in quiet times.
   
        "I expect you to follow regulations," he said as he went past them
    into the control room.
   
        Blonk took Orren's arm and turned him around. At a fast walk, with
    the alarms blaring, they headed for their quarters. That was where they
    were supposed to have gone when the alarm sounded. The quarters were the
    safest area on the ship, and close to all the escape pods. But Orren was
    glad they hadn't gone there first. He couldn't imagine sitting in that
    small space, waiting, not knowing what was happening as the alarm blared
    and blared. That would have driven him crazy.
   
        Of course, knowing that they were headed into a major battle wasn't
    going to help his nerves, either, but at least he knew.
   
        "Maybe I should head down and be inside Ziggy," Orren said as they
    reached their quarters. "We're going to be heading into battle soon and
    we need to get ready."
   
        Blonk laughed over the blaring alarm. "Trust me, that Bolo is more
    than ready to fight. Your job is staying alive so you can help it."
   
        The old sergeant shoved Orren into his room. "I'll see you when the
    alarm stops."
   
        Like tucking a child into bed, Blonk pulled the door closed behind
    him.
   
        Kiel did nothing more than nod at the news that Shiva and her
    commander were still alive and fighting. It would have been good news,
    if it meant a damned thing strategically. But Shiva was falling behind
    the retreat and quickly becoming a liability, not an asset. It was only
    a matter of time before the Kezdai get lucky and picked the Bolo off
    with spearfall or a mine.
   
        And with everything else going on, there was nothing they could do
    at the moment to help the Bolo either.
   
        "General," one of the board techs said, turning around slightly.
    "Major Veck is calling for you."
   
        "Put him on audio only."
   
        A moment later the tech nodded.
   
        "Go ahead, Major," Kiel said as he studied the board, trying to make
    some sense out of what was going on.
   
        "I've got a plan, General," Veck said, "to push a drive back to
    Shiva's position and extract Lieutenant Amad."
   
        "What about the Bolo?" Kiel asked.
   
        "The Bolo's going to have to fight its way out," Veck said.
   
        "Let me hear the plan."
   
        "Rover and four of my other Mark XXXIVs will make a lateral move
    toward Shiva in order to provide air cover."
   
        Kiel studied the board. That part of the plan would work. Four of
    the Mark XXXIVs were in a position to do a move like that.
   
        "Go on," he said.
   
        "Since my Bolos are going to be occupied by the bombardment," Veck
    said, "I need your Mark XXXs to fight their way in and pick up Amad."
   
        Kiel glanced at the positions of the Mark XXXs. Possible.
   
        "What exactly is Shiva's position now?"
   
        "A half klick north of the remains of the city of Starveil," Veck
    said. "At the edge of the savannah. Once Shiva is into the rough country
    it will be slowed to a near stop. I figure it's Starveil or not at all."
   
   
        "Good idea," Kiel said, "but it won't work. The Kezdai will just
    mass their space bombardment, and the Mark XXXIVs will be no help to the
    Mark XXXs at all."
   
        "True," Veck said. "So first we need to blow a hole in the space
    attack, allowing the Mark XXXIVs to turn their attention to ground
    targets, if only briefly. That should be enough to break the Kezdai push
    for a while and let us get Amad out."
   
        "I don't understand how you plan to take out the space bombardment,"
    Kiel said. "We don't have fleet support."
   
        "But we do have the Tasmanian."
   
        Kiel stopped. Veck was right. The Tasmanian was the transport that
    had brought Veck and his Bolos here. It wasn't a capitol ship, but it
    was armed and armored. And at the moment standing off-planet, out of the
    way because there just wasn't anything it could do to help without
    destroying itself.
   
        "Your plan for it, Major?" Kiel asked.
   
        "Skip it through the atmosphere right under the Kezdai fleet," Veck
    said. "It will catch them by surprise, and the ionization during the
    atmosphere pass will help protect it when it's in its most vulnerable
    part of the pass. And it will allow my Bolos to do the damage they need
    to do on the ground in the meantime."
   
        "The plan would work," Kiel said. And it would. It was a brilliant
    idea. But just wrongly focused and with the wrong objective.
   
        "Thank you," Veck said.
   
        "But I'm not going authorize it to extract one man. And I'm not
    going to leave a Bolo behind for the enemy to capture or destroy at
    will."
   
        "I don't understand," Veck said. Kiel could clearly hear the
    puzzlement in the major's voice.
   
        "We use your plan all right," Kiel said. "But we don't go for a
    rescue, we use it to stand our ground. Starveil is where the Kezdai
    offensive stops. We'll throw every resource we have at that point, with
    your plan as the lynchpin, Major. Stand by."
   
        He cut off Veck and got the tech to connect him to the governor.
    "We're going to make our stand at Starveil," Kiel said. "Have your
    troops and all of General Rokoyan's men dig in at the edge of the
    savannah and stand their ground to the last man."
   
        "Understood," the governor said and cut the connection.
   
        Kiel stared at the map for a moment, studying the area around
    Starveil, then put on his command headset. "Kal are you there?"
   
        "I am, as always," Kal said.
   
        "I have a job for you to do and I want you on point, old friend."
   
        For the next few minutes the two of them worked out the details of
    what was to happen, with Kal running computer scenarios of possible
    outcomes. As they worked the plan changed slightly. But only slightly.
   
        Finally, Kiel had Kal call Lieutenant Amad through his Bolo Shiva.
    "Pass this message on to the lieutenant," Kiel said. "Tell him to seek a
    defensible position in the ruins of Starveil and hold for
    reinforcements."
   
        "He has been told," Kal said. "He and his Bolo both understand."
   
        "Good," Kiel said. "Tell them that for this operation, they are to
    be designated as 'Firebase Shiva.' Tell them to hold on, help is on the
    way."
   
        Six
   
        "He took my plan and is using it as his own," Veck said aloud,
    staring at the command screens in front of him. The old man had nerve,
    that was for sure. "Damn him!"
   
        "May I be of help?" Rover asked.
   
        "No, just do your job," Veck said.
   
        At the moment Rover was in a pitched battle with two Toro tanks,
    while at the same time firing his Hellrails at the ships above and
    moving to avoid spearfall. Inside the Command Compartment, Veck could
    feel very little of the battle going on around him.
   
        Veck sat back and thought about what had just happened with the
    general. The old guy had simply turned down his plan to rescue Amad,
    then stolen his idea on stopping the Kezdai advance. And what was even
    more upsetting was that Kiel was putting the Tasmanian at risk. Of
    course, Veck was willing to do that himself, but the transport was the
    pride of the regiment, and it wasn't Kiel's to risk.
   
        "All right, General," Veck said to himself, "I'll cooperate, since
    it's my plan. But when this is all over and it works, I'm going to make
    damned sure that credit is given where credit is due."
   
        Veck turned to the board and got quick updates from his Bolos. All
    were nearly in position for the shove to Shiva's position. The Tasmanian
    was also in position and standing by. The entire operation had to be
    timed to the Tasmanian's pass through the atmosphere. Veck just hoped
    the general understood that fact completely.
   
        "Commander," Rover said, "the convoy carrying the additional Bolo is
    located-"
   
        "I don't care where it's located," Veck said, taking some of his
    anger out on Rover. "That Bolo won't arrive in time to be a factor and
    that's that. Understand?"
   
        Rover said nothing in return.
   
        The decision is made. I must face the unpleasant reality that Major
    Veck may be unfit to command. This is no longer a case of judgment or
    differing information sets. Major Veck has twice ignored simple matters
    of indisputable fact concerning the incoming convoy. My plots show that
    the convoy will be behind the line of fire when the Tasmanian makes its
    attack pass. Fortunately, their distance and position will be such that
    an actual hit by friendly fire will be unlikely. Still, I cannot allow
    this situation to go unaddressed.
   
        To judge my Commander's competency is not something that I, or any
    Bolo, can do, but the situation seems clear enough that I must appeal to
    a higher authority. I have filed a form 10354/87-3A with General Kiel's
    office requesting a command review and decision. Until such time as I
    receive an official response, this empowers me to certain latitude when
    given orders that may directly endanger Concordiat personnel or assets.
    I trust that this will not become an issue.
   
        General Kiel finished talking with Kal and studied the large board
    showing troop positions on both continents, along with enemy movements
    and ship placements in orbit. He was finally starting to make some sense
    of it all, figure ways to stop and even turn back the Kezdai offensive.
    And thanks to Major Veck's plan, they had a good way of doing it.
   
        Now, if our forces can stand solid against the Kezdai, if that's
    even possible, then we may yet turn the tide, he thought.
   
        Behind him Kiel could hear a slight commotion starting, with a voice
    saying, "Let me in there, damn you!"
   
        Kiel turned around to see the guards stopping General Rokoyan, the
    commander of the BDF forces. Kiel was surprised. He hadn't expected
    Rokoyan to come out of his bunker. The planetary governor must have
    finally gotten through the man's thick skull.
   
        "Let him through," Kiel said.
   
        Rokoyan came through the door into the command center, smoothing his
    uniform. He was a tall, black-haired man of middle age, with a slight
    paunch. Clearly the good life before the Kezdai invasion had been a
    little too good to Rokoyan.
   
        "General," Rokoyan said, nodding. "I've come to bury the hatchet, as
    the old saying goes. And work with you completely on what needs to be
    done."
   
        Kiel could not have been more shocked. Those were not the words he
    expected to hear from General Rokoyan. Ever. Whatever the governor had
    done, it had been good.
   
        "General Rokoyan," Kiel said. "I welcome your help and experience.
    Can I count on all your forces as well?"
   
        "Right down to the last man," Rokoyan said.
   
        "Well then, General," Kiel said, turning Rokoyan toward the big
    board. "Let me tell you what we've got planned."
   
        As he explained to the local ground forces commander Major Veck's
    plan and how they were going to use it, Kiel felt there just might be
    hope of victory. Or of at least stopping the offensive.
   
        I and three of my fellow Mark XXX Bolos, unit UGN-404, "Eugene,"
    unit LXR-107, "Luxor," and unit PTE-900, "Petey," rush toward the front
    to join in what is now code-named "Operation Skyfall." While our
    progress is rapid, our individual paths are randomly calculated to
    disguise our final destinations.
   
        Already we pass the advance units of the Kezdai force, engaging them
    only defensively as we do. This causes confusion and hesitation. By my
    calculations, enemy units in within a hundred kilometer radius have
    slowed their advance by 6.834 percent. Their subtlety in manipulating
    our forces is now returned.
   
        A standing wave has formed in their advance, clustering their units
    near Starveil, within range of Bolo Shiva's weapons, and in the path of
    our planned counteroffensive. Whatever the outcome of this battle, we
    now have the opportunity to succeed.
   
        Brigadier General Kiel has designated me as the commander of the
    ground offensive part of this operation, but the term is not accurate. I
    do not lead the other Bolos, nor am I permitted to command human forces.
    I merely act as a coordinator of the various forces involved in the
    execution of Brigadier General Kiel's orders.
   
        The semantic point seems small, but is an important one. As a Bolo I
    am ever bound by a complex web of protocols and procedures when dealing
    with humans. Some are merely matters of policy, but many are hard-coded
    into my circuitry and would be impossible to change without destruction
    of the personality gestalt that is "me."
   
        This is ever our strength. It provides a Bolo with its unique and
    indomitable sense of purpose and duty. But in my hundred and seven years
    of service to the Dinochrome Brigade, I have occasionally known it to be
    a hindrance as well.
   
        I know that I am more experienced than any human on the battlefield,
    that I can think faster and process more battlefield intelligence than
    any human commander. Despite this, it is not my place to presume that my
    judgment is somehow better or more correct than my human Commander's.
    The final decisions must always be his.
   
        Thus it is up to the human commander to determine when the Bolo may
    act autonomously, and to what extent. General Kiel has always allowed me
    an unusual amount of discretion to act, and has always respected my
    strategic insights. In turn, the men and women under his command have
    generally extended the same courtesies.
   
        I have had many Commanders during my service life, and while I can
    not credit General Kiel as the most intelligent or efficient, he is the
    Commander with which I feel the greatest sense of camaraderie. In
    combination, I feel we have made the most effective fighting team of my
    career.
   
        Unfortunately, the interactions between Bolos and human forces do
    not always go as well. I find myself, in any operation such as this one,
    where I must fight in coordination with human forces outside regiment,
    apprehensive that there will be problems. In fact, experience has shown
    that this is one of the most unpredictable variables in such a combat
    situation.
   
        At times, I am envious of the newer Bolos such as the Mark XXXIVs of
    the 1198th, possessing as they do circuitry which allows direct
    interface to the human mind. Though use of this interfaces seems not to
    be held in much favor within the 1198th, to experience such an
    interface, even once, would allow invaluable insights into human
    behavior and reasoning. Such insights would be useful now, in dealing
    with the contentious local forces.
   
        My one comfort is that General Kiel has assured me that we will have
    the full cooperation of the Delassian Defense Command, including support
    from all Delassian Defense Force units on the ground, and coordinated
    orbital fire-support from their submarine Sea Scorpion. Though this runs
    contrary to my past experience with the DDC, and I find no evidence to
    support such a change in policy, I place the same trust in my commander
    that he has placed in me.
   
        We will prevail.
   
        Seven
   
        The general quarters alarm still echoed through the ship. It seemed
    as if it had been going on forever, but Orren knew it really hadn't been
    more than a hour or so. During that hour he'd paced three steps one way,
    then back. That was all the distance his tiny cabin allowed him to pace.
   
   
        Three steps, turn, back three, turn.
   
        At one point he discovered he was pacing in time with the whooping
    of the alarm and had forced himself to stop for a moment.
   
        Then he was back up pacing again.
   
        The last hour had been one of the longest hours of his life. He just
    wished he and Ziggy were already on the planet, fighting beside his
    friends and classmates. Even as afraid as he was of facing the unknown
    future, in battle as he had been trained, side-by-side with Ziggy, was a
    lot better than being alone in a small cabin listening to an alarm
    sound.
   
        It seemed that his and Ziggy's path to the fight was doomed to be a
    bumpy one. From his getting sick and Ziggy's late birth, to this. One
    day's difference between being in the fight and sitting here, in space,
    waiting for the outcome.
   
        One day of good luck. Or bad luck. Sometimes there was no telling
    which it was.
   
        He paced for a few more minutes, then said aloud, "To hell with the
    regulations."
   
        He snapped open his door and strode down the corridor for the cargo
    bay. Around him the general quarters alarm still sounded, but now he
    ignored it. He was going to be with his Bolo and he didn't care what
    kind of trouble that got him in.
   
        General Kiel, standing beside General Rokoyan, watched as the battle
    unfolded on the big monitors and maps in front of them.
   
        First, off in space, undetected, the Tasmanian accelerated toward
    the planet, leaving its safe position. After a quick burn to insert
    itself into the right position and speed, it shut down its engines,
    battle screens, and radios. Kiel knew that it would be "running silent"
    as the old submariners used to say. Kiel hoped that in the confusion of
    battle it would avoid detection until the last possible instant.
   
        Kiel then turned his attention to a position off the shore of the
    southern continent. At that moment the DDF forces submarine Sea Scorpion
    surfaced.
   
        "Sea Scorpion is elevating its Hellbores now," a tech in front of
    the big command board reported.
   
        Kiel glanced at the time. Perfect. In short order the sub's 90cm
    Hellbore would be aimed toward the Kezdai fleet. It would only be able
    to take a few shots before diving to avoid return fire, but it was ready
    to join the massed bombardment. And at this point every shot counted.
   
        On the big map Kiel could see that that advancing Kezdai forces were
    encountering strong resistance from conventional forces in the
    foothills. Several of the Kezdai mobile gun platforms had been destroyed
    in what amounted to suicide attacks by DDF conventional armor.
   
        "Your men are fighting a good fight," Kiel said to General Rokoyan.
   
        "It is our planet to defend," Rokoyan said. "Our families and homes.
    We will do what we must."
   
        On the big map, Kiel could see that Kal and three other Mark XXXs
    were nearing the outskirts of the city of Starveil. Or more accurately,
    what was left of the city. More than likely there was nothing there now
    but a field of rubble.
   
        The Mark XXXIV Bolos still had their Hellrails pointed at the sky,
    pounding at the enemy fleet. But now, slowly, many of the Bolos were
    moving the aim closer and closer to one point directly over Starveil.
   
        Kiel studied the map, saw every detail, and made no changes. At this
    point there was little left for him to do but sit, watch, and wait. Now
    it was up to the brave men and women in the field to win the battle.
   
        "General," a tech said, "there's another problem."
   
        "Those are not words I wanted to hear," Kiel said. "What is it?"
   
        "I've confirmation of a large ship emerging from subspace," the tech
    said, "possibly a dreadnought."
   
        "Damn," Kiel said.
   
        "I have no information that the Kezdai have a ship of this size,"
    General Rokoyan said. "Are you sure?"
   
        The tech nodded. "I am, General. And it seems to be equipped with
    some kind of sensor refraction field that returns multiple targets."
   
        "Damn, damn, damn," Kiel said. This was far worse. Firing now was
    going to be like trying shoot through a kaleidoscope, but it was far too
    late to call off the operation. The Tasmanian's orbit was their ticking
    clock. And there was no stopping that clock.
   
        "The Kezdai must have been keeping this thing in reserve," Rokoyan
    said. "Is the Kezdai commander sensing that their advance is slowing? Or
    is this just the first of many ships of this size?"
   
        "They could have a thousand of those things on the other side of the
    jump point," Kiel said, "but I'm betting this is one of a kind."
   
        "I hope you're right on this one," Rokoyan said.
   
        "I am," Kiel said. "We've seen their hand now. This is the point
    where we see what we're made of. And I have a sneaking hunch they've
    played their hand just a little too soon."
   
        The Tasmanian lanced into the atmosphere, battle-screens suddenly
    active as it blazed in reentry.
   
        No longer hidden, it was a shooting star visible to half the planet
    below.
   
        It passed below the Kezdai fleet with all its gun turrets blazing.
   
        Alien ship after alien ship took damage from the sneak attack. Many
    turned their attention away from the ground to try to counter the
    streaking Tasmanian.
   
        At that moment, from below, concentrated fire punched at the center
    of the Kezdai fleet, from the Mark XXXIVs, from the Sea Scorpion. All
    the focus of the intense firepower was aimed at the Kezdai ships over
    Starveil.
   
        Slowly the rain of spears from above stopped as the Kezdai fleet
    struggled to reorganize. It would only take them a few minutes to
    regroup, but by then the Tasmanian was out of range and moving away
    quickly.
   
        By then the Sea Scorpion had gone back under water.
   
        And those few minutes were all the Bolos on the ground needed.
   
        "All Bolos, lower your Hellrails and concentrate on ground targets,"
    Veck ordered. The Hellrails were overkill on a planet's surface, tearing
    huge gashes in the landscape as they fired.
   
        But it was exactly what the ground forces needed. At once the battle
    turned. Shiva, formerly a target, was suddenly an island of fire, as its
    once attackers tried to retreat.
   
        But Veck knew that there was no retreat for the Kezdai caught in
    this trap. Ringed in from the hills, they had no place to go, and no
    place to hide from the rampaging Bolos. For a few glorious minutes on
    the savannah, it was like shooting fish in a barrel.
   
        Veck loved it, had never felt so powerful in all his life.
   
        The battle had been turned. The Kezdai were being driven back, their
    advance broken.
   
        "Incoming call from General Kiel," Rover said.
   
        "On the main screen," Veck said.
   
        "Looks like we did it," Veck said as the general's face appeared.
    But the general wasn't smiling.
   
        "For the moment the Kezdai fleet is scattering," Kiel said, "and
    their ground forces are retreating. But a dreadnought is coming to take
    the fleet's place while it regroups."
   
        "Damn," Veck said. He turned away from the general. "Order all Bolos
    to raise their Hellrails and prepare to fire."
   
        "You're going to have trouble," Kiel said. "The aliens have a
    scramble of some sort."
   
        "Understood, General," Veck said. "We'll deal with it."
   
        He cut the general off, but then saw on the targeting scope exactly
    what Kiel had been trying to warn him about. There wasn't just one
    target, but a dozen ghostly targets of the dreadnought, any one of which
    could be the real target.
   
        But he had more than one Hellrail, he had twenty at his command.
   
        "All Bolos coordinate your shots," he ordered. "Each take a shadow
    target and fire in unison. One shot has to hit."
   
        "No!" Rover said. "That order will not be carried out."
   
        Intentionally or not, the enemy dreadnought is in the same line of
    fire as the approaching convoy. If we open fire on the sensor echoes, by
    definition most of our Hellrail pulses will miss, and not being ranged
    weapons, will continue on until they disperse, or until they strike
    another target. It is not clear that my Commander is aware of this,
    despite my repeated efforts to notify him.
   
        The situation is desperate, but my Commander cannot be allowed to
    act without full information. It has been 69.456 minutes since I filed
    the form 10354/87-3A, and I have no response. While waiting for my
    Commander's response to my declining of his order, I file an emergency
    request to headquarters for priority processing.
   
        "What do you mean, No!?" Veck shouted. He was beyond angry. In all
    his training there had never been a mention of a Bolo not following its
    commander's orders. It wasn't possible, yet Rover had just refused his
    direct order.
   
        He was about to demand an explanation, when on his main screen he
    saw the shadows of the dreadnought open fire on the retreating
    Tasmanian. The transport didn't stand a chance. It was blown into a
    cloud of debris.
   
        Veck smashed his fist on the panel. "Now look what you've done!" he
    shouted at Rover. "The Tasmanian was the pride of the regiment. Now it's
    gone, and it's all your fault, you insubordinate machine."
   
        Desperate, Veck knew exactly what he had to do. He slammed his head
    back in to the crash couch and activated the neural link. If the machine
    wouldn't take a direct verbal command, he'd take over the machine in
    another way. If he didn't do something quickly, men were going to die.
   
        We reel from the shock of joining of purpose and logic, of neurons
    with superconducting circuits. The biological portion of I/we is filled
    with rage and single-minded intensity. The enemy must be destroyed.
   
        The way is given.
   
        The command is given.
   
        Overwhelmed, the cybernetic portion of I/we responds with speed and
    efficiency, even as it communicates the reason I/we must not act.
   
        Slowly, the biological elements of I/we comprehend.
   
        So slowly.
   
        Even as the cybernetic command goes out to our brothers. In unison
    the Hellrails spit plasma fire.
   
        The comprehension is total.
   
        I/we understand what we have done.
   
        At cybernetic speeds we can watch the bolts in their courses, but
    are powerless to call them back.
   
        As one we scream.
   
        Orren didn't make it to the cargo hold.
   
        Around him the ship was jolted, then under him the deck buckled, and
    conduits exploded throwing shrapnel everywhere.
   
        Orren hit the deck, stunned, his mind trying to grasp exactly what
    was going on, but clearly not able to.
   
        Alarms sounded even louder than before around him.
   
        An automated voice called for "abandon ship."
   
        Abandon ship? How could he leave the ship? Ziggy was here. He had to
    get to Ziggy.
   
        Though a nearby port he could see another ship gutted like a fish,
    vomiting fire.
   
        He tried to stand. He had to get to Ziggy. But his legs didn't want
    to work right.
   
        Through the haze in his brain he reached down and felt blood on his
    legs.
   
        That didn't matter. He was close to the cargo hold. He would crawl
    to Ziggy.
   
        Then suddenly a figure loomed over him. A rough figure with an angry
    face.
   
        "You got to learn to follow orders, Lieutenant," Blonk said right in
    Orren's face, his voice punching over the noise of the alarms and the
    ship breaking apart.
   
        "Got to get to Ziggy."
   
        "Trust the Bolo," Blonk said. "It can take care of itself. Right now
    you're the problem here."
   
        Blonk lifted Orren and without so much as a groan staggered toward
    an escape pod.
   
        Escape pods were little things, more like a coffin than a spaceship.
    And just big enough for one customer per pod.
   
        Blonk threw Orren inside one and leaned in. "Just one pod, lad, the
    rest are scrap. That alarms means the reactor's going to blow any second
    now."
   
        Blonk stepped back and started to close the door. Then almost as an
    afterthought he leaned back in. "You get down there, kid, you make sure
    I get a damned big medal, the biggest they got."
   
        Orren raised his arm in a feeble attempt to salute Blonk.
   
        Master Sergeant Blonk smiled and stepped back. The hatch sealed to
    the escape pod and the pod autoejected, the force sending Orren into
    unconsciousness.
   
        A moment later the entire cargo pod was blasted free of the
    freighter as the forward third of the Cannon Beach crumpled under the
    wave of energy rushing up from Delas, exploding as its engines reacted
    to the wall of raging force sweeping over the ship.
   
        On the big screen, General Kiel watched as all the ghosts of the
    dreadnought began to spill wreckage. Wounded, it struggled back into
    deep space and returned to warp.
   
        Around the planet much of the Kezdai fleet followed the wounded big
    ship, covering its retreat.
   
        On the ground, the Kezdai forces regrouped and solidified their
    lines well south of Starveil.
   
        The day had been won, but the cost was great.
   
        Kiel stood, staring at the remains of the battle. War always cost
    lives. But some wars, some battles just seemed to cost a little more.
    This was one of those.
   
        And before it could happen again, before the Kezdai could regroup
    again, he was going to drive them from this planet if it was the last
    thing he and his Bolos did.
   
        Through Bolo optical sensors a thousand times more sensitive than
    the human eye we watch the sky, stars eclipsed by man-made stars, the
    wreckage of Kezdai ships, and of our own convoy. The damage reports come
    in, verifying what our sensors already tell us. Six ships damaged, one
    heavily, two lost, including the Cannon Beach.
   
        We know what we have done. We have destroyed our brother Bolo.
   
        We have killed our friend.
   
        We have killed our own, not out of necessity, but of oversight,
    carelessness, confusion.
   
        We watch as an especially bright shooting star arcs through the sky,
    some piece of the Cannon Beach. We watch it fall.
   
        Our clarity is finally, finally, total.
   
        Make it stop.
   



        ---




        Section Two:
   
        TO THE RESCUE
   
        One
   
        Ten-year-old Jask Morton glanced around at the small, six-wheeled
    truck he called Bessy, moving up the trail behind him. "You can do it,"
    he said to Bessy. "Just take your time."
   
        The truck was actually nothing more than a large wagon, coming up no
    higher on Jask than his stomach. But it had a motor and could go almost
    anywhere on voice command. It slowly climbed over rocks and bumps in the
    trail, using its balloon tires to keep its bed level.
   
        Jask watched for a moment, then went forward, whistling as he went.
    Bessy went everywhere with him.
   
        Around him the mountains of Delas's southern continent towered into
    the sky with rocky peaks that seldom lost their snow. It was a harsh
    area, with angry storms and little food. Valley walls were steep, often
    too steep for even Jask to climb, let alone Bessy. And the valley floors
    were often covered in brush and trees too thick for either of them to
    get through.
   
        This was also an area behind Kezdai lines. The Kezdai had swept
    through and over the area during the first invasion. Many Delas
    survivors of the invasion had taken refuge in the mountains, hiding in
    mine shafts and small camps scattered among the rocks and trees in the
    steep valleys. Most of them felt they were only waiting for the moment
    the Kezdai found it convenient to come and wipe them out.
   
        A large group of the refugees in this area, a few hundred or so
    total, clustered in a mine camp called Rockgate. But not Jask Morton. He
    very seldom went into Rockgate. He didn't trust all the people and the
    way they looked at him.
   
        Jask was the son of geologist parents. He and his parents had been
    in the mountains during the invasion, studying the planet's crust for
    the mining corporations. His parents had hidden him deep in an old mine
    on the side of a steep valley when a Kezdai patrol approached. They had
    never returned to get him, so Jask had climbed out two days later and
    found them dead. Jask, being old enough to survive on his own, had lived
    in the mining camp ever since.
   
        The camp was built around a research shaft that plunged deep under
    the mountain. Along the shaft, long side shafts and laser carved
    chambers housed scientific equipment. One side chamber was walled up,
    though, the opening filled with rocks lifted there by Jask's hands. On
    it was a hand-painted sign that read "my mom and dad." It was where Jask
    had buried them.
   
        As Jask reached the top of the pass, he stopped under a tree and
    looked back at Bessy. The afternoon sun was warm and he used the time to
    take a drink. His dad had always told him to drink plenty of water when
    he was hiking and Jask had never forgotten that instruction. Bessy even
    carried extra water for him so he would never run out.
   
        Down the trail about fifty steps the little truck with no cab or
    seat was making its way just fine. Jask knew it would. It was smart.
   
        In the bed of the truck was the stuff he'd found at an old cabin
    down in the valley. A bunch of pots and pans, some wire, lots of really
    great things that might come in handy some day. He'd tied and taped all
    the stuff in Bessy, and so far Bessy hadn't lost any of it, even over
    the roughest spots in the trail.
   
        "Come on, Bessy," Jask said as the truck got closer. "We need to get
    going. You know we have a job to do."
   
        "Hey, Jask!" A voice rang out over the valley.
   
        Jask stopped and turned. Mr. Donavon, a nice old guy from Rockgate,
    was standing on the far hill, farther away than Jask could throw a rock.
    It was the third time this month that Jask had seen Mr. Donavon this far
    from Rockgate, hunting for food.
   
        Mr. Donavan held up a dead seyzarr, a big crablike creature that
    Jask stayed away from at all costs. It was about the size of a small
    cat. Jask hated seyzarr. They were just too dangerous for his liking,
    but it looked as if Mr. Donavan had managed to kill one.
   
        "Good soup tonight," Mr. Donavan shouted. "You should come eat with
    us."
   
        "No, thanks," Jask shouted back. "I need to keep looking for the
    falling star."
   
        Donavan shook his head and put the seyzarr back in his bag. "Jask,"
    he shouted, "you have to stop living in your dream world. You shouldn't
    be out here by yourself. There are some kids your age in town that you
    could play with."
   
        "I don't play no more," Jask said. "Got to find that falling star."
   
        He turned and started over the ridge.
   
        "I sure could use some help from that mule of yours," Mr. Donavan
    yelled. "This thing is heavy!"
   
        Jesk stopped and turned back to face Mr. Donavan. "Bessy isn't a
    mule," he shouted. "Bessy is a Bolo."
   
        Then following Bessy, he turned his back on Mr. Donavan and went
    over the hill, headed toward where he thought the falling star might be.
   
   
        * * *
   
        Sluggishly, my reasoning circuits come on-line.
   
        I am blind, insensate, immobile.
   
        I seem to have been deactivated a very long time. Seven of my
    on-board chronographs are either damaged or nonoperative, but on
    checking the eighth I am shocked to discover that I have been
    deactivated only a few hours. I search for background information in my
    memory cells, and find only a disorganized jumble. The first question
    logically is, who am I?
   
        After a delay of 0.5980 seconds I locate an identification node. I
    am unit R-0012-ZGY of the Dinochrome Brigade, Mark XXXIV of a proud and
    ancient line. I am Bolo.
   
        I am Bolo.
   
        In this, I find comfort, knowing who and what I am. But there is
    more. I find that my Commander is Lieutenant David Rasha Orren, and that
    I am attached to the 1198th Armored Regiment. I arrived at my duty
    station-
   
        The record trails off into nothing. Is this information missing, or
    did I truly never arrive at my assigned unit?
   
        I reach out through my shattered circuitry, cataloging damage,
    routing around damaged modules. A scattering of emergency systems come
    on-line.
   
        I am very badly damaged.
   
        Both my Hellrails seem to have incurred massive damage. My forward
    turret is jammed, possibly fused. My missile launchers are not
    responding at all, and four of my twelve secondary batteries are
    inoperable. My number two cold-fusion reactor is down to thirty-percent
    efficiency. All my external sensors are badly damaged. All indications
    are that my drive systems are undamaged, but this cannot be the case. I
    have applied full forward and reverse power to all eight of my tread
    systems. While readings suggest that all systems are working, other than
    some vibration, there are no indications that I am moving at all.
   
        Finally I find an external sensor that does not appear to be
    damaged, a radiation sensor normally only deployed from its armored
    canister when taking measurements.
   
        Amazingly, I discover that my hull is extremely radioactive, the
    result of an intense neutron bombardment. This is consistent with the
    pattern and extent of damage. Somehow, during the lapse in my memory, I
    experienced a low-yield fusion explosion at point-blank range.
   
        The sand on the corridor floor was warm under Vatsha's unshod feet,
    and she dug her foot-thumbs in as she walked, enjoying the sensation.
    She stopped at a wall of armored viewing windows and stared out into
    space, at the sky-spanning nebula that her people called "Kevv's Blood."
    Stress seemed to flow from her, and her hood retracted into the sides of
    her head and neck.
   
        According to the stories she was told as a child, Kevv went into the
    sky to save the homeworld from the Sun-eater, and he sacrificed himself
    so his wife could live to give birth to the original bloodlines of the
    Kezdai.
   
        Vatsha remembered those simpler childhood days, and standing here,
    she could almost imagine she was back on the homeworld at night, looking
    up at the sky. Even the air was scented with tangy night-moss and sweet
    oil-vine. This is what power buys, comfort such as this, even in the
    cold of space. She could only hope that her brother did not lose this
    for both of them.
   
        She made her way back along the spine of her brother's yacht to his
    private apartments. The ship had been redecorated since she had last
    been here, another of her brother's little extravagances. Rich
    tapestries hung on the walls, and abstract statues in rare nickel and
    silver sat in alcoves every few spans along the hallway.
   
        Finally she reached the portal to his apartment. The mid-caste
    soldiers guarding the door lowered their beaks as a show of respect, but
    they kept their green eyes focused on her as a gesture that their
    respect had limits. Their metal tipped spears crossed in front of her,
    and their free hands hung close to the hilts of their suriases.
   
        She lifted her head and clicked her beak. "I come to see the
    Is-Kaldai, brother-of-my-blood."
   
        "What business, my lady?"
   
        Her hand strayed near her own blade, as a gesture of dominance,
    rather than out of any real possibility of a fight. "Business of the
    blood, underling, not to be spilled without a fight."
   
        The guard nodded, and the spears parted. "As you wish, my lady."
   
        She walked into the apartment, decorated to look like an opulent
    long-tent used by their nomadic ancestors. Her brother sat on a large
    pile of cushions at the far end of the room, a scarlet colored
    sandcrawler coiled around his neck. The pet took immediate notice of
    her, hissing and using the grip of its many legs to shift position, but
    her brother was staring into a holotank, lost in thought. He was large
    for a Kezdai, powerfully built, if a little past his prime of youth and
    somewhat soft from easy living.
   
        She bowed her head. "Is-kaldai of the realm, brother of my blood,
    your sister has returned with news of far places."
   
        He looked up, surprised, his beak hanging open. "Vatsha, you are
    back from the Human world. I did not expect you so soon. What news from
    the battlefield?"
   
        "Our forces have regrouped, our lines are solid, but we do not move.
    Many of the Human creatures have been trapped behind our lines, but they
    have fled to the mountains and badlands. They are not warriors, probably
    low caste, and not worth the effort to bloody our blades on right now.
    They are better suited to living on this foul, wet world than we are.
    Perhaps they can be employed as mine laborers once the planet is ours."
   
        Rejad hissed in disgust and the sandcrawler scuttled down the front
    of his blouse and disappeared into the pillows under his legs. "These
    Humans are disgusting creatures, soft, hairy and weak. They constantly
    leak water as though it were free. I find it impossible to believe that
    they have troubled us so, that they have built the great armored
    machines that keep our armies at bay. Perhaps those are only gifts from
    a more powerful race."
   
        "Perhaps, my brother, and if so, we do not want to meet them among
    the dunes."
   
        "Then we should be done with this war before they take notice of us.
    End it quickly."
   
        She bobbed her head in mock apology. "Pardon, lord, but that is what
    the last Is-kaldai said before he was called home in disgrace. I am
    shamed to point out that my lord may not have been assigned here as a
    sign of good favor with the Mor-verridai."
   
        "The Mor-verridai is a shadow, sister, with no power, and my rivals
    in the Council will be as well, once I win this war. My predecessors
    were brave, but not very smart."
   
        "And you are smart, but not very brave?"
   
        His fingers brushed over the hilt of his blade. "Do not trifle with
    me, sister. Without my Blade of Kevv and its kaleidoscope sensor screen,
    the recent reversal might have gone much worse."
   
        "I remind my brother, that the kaleidoscope device is my design."
   
        "If I do not make the blade, does not my hand still make it cut? You
    are a clever female, sister, but it is I who put it into a ship and put
    it to use."
   
        "And you who nearly had it shot from the sky?"
   
        Rejad was silent for a moment, then made an amused cry. "My sister
    is ever eager to remind me of my own shortcomings. This is good. I
    should hear these things occasionally from someone I do not have to
    kill. But I have nothing to be ashamed of here.
   
        "It matters not if I am here because the Blade of Kevv succeeded, or
    because it failed. I am here, and I will win. The Blade of Kevv survived
    and will return, and these clever monkeys will yet fall to it. Speaking
    of, you have a report on the repairs?"
   
        "Yes, it came by courier pod not two units ago. The hull damage is
    repaired, and the two damaged turrets are being switched out with units
    from a conventional cruiser of similar design. The kaleidoscope device
    is undamaged and ready for use."
   
        She had been saving something. "And better news, the Council has
    approved the purchase of two more kaleidoscope-equipped cruisers from
    our shipyards."
   
        Rejad stood quickly. "Glory to the bloodline and our ancestors. That
    is excellent news."
   
        "Perhaps, but it will be many cycles before the new ships arrive,
    and the Blade of Kevv was never intended to act alone. It should operate
    in concert with at least five other ships of its kind. Alone, as we have
    seen, it is still vulnerable."
   
        Rejad paced the back of the room, stopping to finger a silver bowl
    worth enough to feed a family of low-bloods for a year. "A blade too
    precious to be drawn is no blade at all. You are clever, sister, but you
    do not understand the affairs of the Council. Support for this war grows
    weak. Too many reputations have been lost, too many bloodlines soured,
    too many resources wasted. We will have those ships, and more, in time,
    but we cannot wait. We cannot even wait for the two additional ships.
    Blade of Kevv must prove its usefulness, without doubt this time, and
    then the Council will give us that we need."
   
        His hood flared. "We will succeed, and then there will be a dozen
    ships, and a hundred, and a thousand, and our bloodline will stand six
    years for every ship."
   
        Two
   
        The capsule glittered among a cluster of trees high among the rocks,
    just off of the trail. Jask couldn't believe at first what he was
    seeing. Could it be the falling star? He had seen something streak
    across the morning sky, heard the shriek of its landing. Since then he
    and Bessy had been looking for it.
   
        But was this thing it?
   
        It looked weird, all blackened and metal-like, sitting wedged in the
    trees. Maybe it was more of the aliens that had killed his mom and dad.
    He called them the "bizzards" because they looked like a cross between a
    buzzard and a lizard he'd seen in pictures from Earth.
   
        But this falling star didn't look like any of the alien machines
    he'd seen pass through on their patrols. It wasn't much bigger than a
    man. Sort of long, too. Still, as he started up to the falling star, he
    was glad to have Bessy close, his personal Bolo.
   
        "You keep an eye on me now, Bessy," Jask said as he got closer. "I
    might need your help if this is a bizzard box."
   
        Bessy climbed over the rocks beside him, its balloon tires moving it
    slowly and surely upward.
   
        He inched his way closer to the box. Suddenly something dropped from
    one of the trees.
   
        He jumped back behind Bessy as a crablike seyzarr about the size of
    a dog scurried toward the box. The seyzarr snapped at the box with its
    claws, acting as if somehow there was food inside.
   
        "That's my falling star," Jask said to the seyzarr. "Not yours."
   
        Jask removed a powerful slingshot from a bin on Bessy's side. He
    knew the seyzarr had a vulnerable spot right between its eyes, where the
    armor was thin and its brainlike nerve cluster was close to the surface.
    But hitting it was going to be tough, since the thing was moving all the
    time.
   
        Jask took a salvaged steel nut from his pocket and loaded it into
    the sling. It felt heavy in his hand. A good weapon.
   
        But to make the shot count, he had to get the seyzarr to face him.
   
        "Bessy, you get back into hiding among the rocks. You're too big.
    You might frighten it."
   
        Bessy stopped and then started slowly backward.
   
        Jask shouted, letting his voice turn into a high-pitched scream. It
    was a noise that Jask figured even the seyzarr couldn't ignore.
   
        He was right. The seyzarr turned, hesitated, considering where the
    easier meal was to be found. The hard shell of the pod hadn't yielded
    much to its terrible claws, and Jask figured he looked small and
    defenseless. So the creature did exactly what Jask had hoped it would
    do. It charged.
   
        The seyzarr clattered down the rocks with startling speed.
   
        Jask got the slingshot up and in position, his arm pulled back and
    waiting. His dad had taught him that anytime he had to shoot something
    like a gun, or a bow and arrow, or even a slingshot, the most important
    thing was controlling his breathing.
   
        Jask forced himself to take a deep breath and ignore the seyzarr's
    flailing legs, snapping claws, and biting jaws, and instead look only
    into its eyes. And the soft spot between them.
   
        Just as the seyzarr was almost on him, Jask fired.
   
        There was a crack like a walnut under a hammer. The creature's legs
    buckled.
   
        For a moment Jask thought he had only wounded it, but then it fell
    at Jask's feet, twitched once, and died.
   
        "Hey, Bessy, come take a look at this!"
   
        Jask studied his prize for a moment, forgetting about the box above
    him. Then as Bessy reached him, he cut off the animal's claws and legs,
    throwing them onto Bessy.
   
        "Sorry you have to haul stuff like this," Jask said. "I know Bolos
    have more important things to do, but there will be fresh meat tonight
    if we can get this back to camp."
   
        After he finished loading the remains of the animal onto Bessy, he
    turned his attention back to the box. When he finally got up to it, he
    realized it was more than just a box. The rocks underneath it were
    scorched, as if some fire came from the bottom of the thing at the last
    minute. There was also a big yellow handle on one side with a word on
    it.
   
        RESCUE.
   
        "Hey, Bessy," Jask said, "If I pull on this handle, you think it
    will somehow call for rescue?"
   
        Bessy said nothing. Jask really didn't believe in the word rescue.
    He had seen too much over all this time living alone in these mountains.
    He believed in Bolos, Bessy, and doing things himself.
   
        "Suppose it won't matter none, will it?" Jask said. "We came this
    far looking for it, we might as well go all the way. Right, Bessy?"
   
        Again the little truck said nothing.
   
        Jask reached up and pulled the handle. Then stepped back.
   
        There was a hiss, a slight release of vapor, and then the top of the
    thing opened like a seashell.
   
        Jask slowly poked his head over the top to see a man inside, pale
    and covered with blood.
   
        "Well, Bessy, looks like the bizzards got another one," Jask said.
    He wasn't surprised at all. He'd seen a lot of death since the day he
    saw his mom and dad's bodies. None of it much bothered him anymore.
   
        Then he noticed that the man's lips were moving. The guy tried to
    sit up and then moaned.
   
        "What do you know, Bessy," Jask said. "He's still alive."
   
        Then Jask noticed the man's uniform.
   
        And the service pin on the man's chest, the golden silhouette of a
    great tank, its turrets rising up from the top, bristling with weapons.
   
        It was a pin that Jask had only seen in picture books, the pin of a
    Bolo commander.
   
        Painfully, slowly, I work to restore the most minimal of my systems.
    Even my self-repair systems are gravely damaged.
   
        I focus my efforts on restoring communications, but this turns into
    a dead end. My secondary communications systems are fused solid, my
    primary is also fused, though a few circuits open at the time of the
    blast seem curiously to have survived. I can send and receive coded
    pulses over my command receiver link, though I am unable to alter the
    frequency or scramble code. I have attempted to signal my Commander
    using this circuit without any success. I must face the grim possibility
    that if he were nearby at the time of the explosion, he is likely dead.
   
        This avenue abandoned, I set to restoring my external sensors. This
    seems more promising, as a patchwork of the primary and secondary
    support circuitry seems to be intact. The external sensor heads and
    antennas have been destroyed or rendered inoperative, but this is a
    common occurrence in battle, and I have hardened backups for many of
    them. Unfortunately, most of my hull access plates are jammed or welded
    shut.
   
        I apply power to each of the access plate actuators in turn, cycling
    each several times. Finally I detect a small movement in a cover over an
    auxiliary optical head located atop my A turret. I cycle the actuator
    several hundred times, but the movement remains minute.
   
        I apply 120 percent current to the cover. I feel a stinging in my
    already overloaded pain circuits. I increase to 200 percent power. 300
    percent. There is an overheat warning, and I estimate that the actuator
    will burn out in 0.027 seconds.
   
        But then there is a screech of rending metal that I detect through
    an induction sensor in my hull, and the cover pops open. I am startled
    by the sound, and suddenly realize that I have heard nothing but the
    vibration of my own systems since I became operational.
   
        The silence disturbs me. Seeking some reassurance that the outside
    world still exists, I unshutter the now exposed optical sensors.
   
        I see nothing.
   
        Blackness.
   
        Yet all indications are that the sensor is intact. I shift to
    infrared wavelengths and it is nearly as dark. Wherever I am, not only
    is devoid of light, it is cold as well.
   
        But there are shapes close around me, perhaps retaining some slight
    residual heat of the explosion. Perhaps they are warmed slightly by
    their own radiation. I readjust.
   
        Things are clear now, crumpled duralloy frame members, carbon-carbon
    composite panels, twisting conduits and light-guides. The materials and
    construction are of a light-weight nature. The wreckage of an aircraft
    of some sort? Whatever, I am entombed in wreckage. I must see what is
    beyond it. With some difficulty, I am successful in opening seven of the
    ports over my infinite repeaters. I cycle them through their entire
    range of lateral motion, and fire.
   
        There is surprisingly little sound, but I am rewarded as their fire
    slices through the cocoon that surrounds me, allowing light in from the
    outside world. The flying wreckage requires me to shutter the optical
    sensor again, but at this range against a fixed target, it isn't needed.
   
   
        It takes 12.50 seconds for the secondary batteries to complete their
    task. I unshutter the optical head, and am rewarded with a view of the
    local sun as it sweeps overhead at nearly impossible speed.
   
        At first I doubt my internal clocks. I would have to be on a planet
    with a rotational period of 59.00394 seconds. Then a distant planetary
    body moves through my field of view at the same rate. I screen out its
    glare, and see stars whirling by. Then I watch half of my former prison
    spinning away, and on a hatch cover I read "C.M.S. Cannon Beach."
   
        A search of my fragmented memories turns up reference to a freighter
    in the merchant service of the Concordiat.
   
        Another memory, of emerging from a factory. Music plays. A banner
    snaps in the breeze.
   
        A tunnel.
   
        A spaceport ramp.
   
        A ship. Cannon Beach.
   
        My new Commander sitting on my a turret talking to another man. It
    distresses me greatly. I cannot remember my Commander's face.
   
        I struggle to clarify my thoughts. The sudden sensory input seems to
    have overwhelmed me, putting my logic processes into confusion.
   
        Where am I?
   
        I was on a civilian freighter, bound for a world called Delas. I was
    to join with the assembled Bolos of the 1198th Armored Regiment to
    resist an unprovoked alien incursion onto a Concordiat protectorate
    world. Clearly the enemy has struck before I could reach my destination.
    The likelihood that my Commander is dead now reaches near certainty.
   
        The stars spin by, sky never ending.
   
        I am adrift in space.
   
        It is quite likely that the planet in my view is Delas, yet it might
    just as well be in the next galaxy. I have power and thought, but I am
    inert, impotent, as helpless as a Bolo can be and still survive.
   
        Below, my brother Bolos wait for reinforcement. They will be waiting
    a very long time.
   
        Bendra hated the monitor room. It had been hurriedly installed in
    the bowels of the Is-kaldai's yacht when he had been put in charge of
    the war. It was in a narrow space, jammed in next to a conter-grav coil
    which constantly emitted a deep buzzing which rattled Bendra's bones,
    and made his beak ache.
   
        Bendra could have told them that it would have been much more
    effective for the Is-kaldai to use a naval cruiser as his command ship,
    rather than adapting a luxury yacht for that purpose. If they had asked
    him, which of course, they hadn't.
   
        Bendra was a low-blood, with only a low, technical, rank, and a
    bloodline that conveyed absolutely no power, and earned no respect. He
    was lucky even to have even this position, a promotion that had been
    awarded only after a superior had been removed for a spectacular bungle.
   
   
        That was the way of the Kezdai.
   
        That was the life Bendra lived. Each day he spent most of his waking
    time in this narrow space, jammed in with a dozen other unfortunates,
    each staring into a holotank that projected an abstract representation
    of a region of space. They were the eyes of the fleet, looking beyond
    the immediate necessities of navigation into deep space, watching for
    distant threats, or the first signs of an incoming fleet.
   
        But there was no fleet.
   
        Except for an occasional convoy of transports, the Humans had
    fielded no fleet against them. Of course there had been the armed
    transport that had surprised the fleet, contributing to the failed
    offensive. The monitor who had failed to spot the threat was gone now.
    Bendra did not know where, and did not want to. A former
    scrubber-of-surfaces now sat in his place in the line, struggling to
    learn his new job before he too, was replaced.
   
        Bendra's job was to monitor the growing clouds of debris that
    orbited the human planet and the rest of the system. There were millions
    of such pieces, from destroyed Kezdai ships, and ironically, from the
    incoming convoy that the humans themselves had foolishly destroyed. This
    amused Bendra, since the Kezdai themselves rarely went out of their way
    to destroy such ships.
   
        He was told that the generals thought it foolish to try blockading a
    planet so rich in resources. Below them was enough metal to build a
    million fleets. Soon, he was told, it would belong to the Kezdai.
   
        He could care less. Bendra's world was much smaller than that. He
    lived from day to day, trying to avoid the wrath of his superiors,
    seeking what few comforts one of his station could expect, hoping for
    someone above him to screw up, hoping he wasn't caught in an error
    himself.
   
        Thus it was with great interest that he watched one of the random
    bits of convoy wreckage in his holotank flare for a moment. He blinked,
    replayed the sequence to be sure, zoomed in and played it again. One
    piece of wreckage had shown a momentary energy spike. Following that,
    large pieces of the object separated and drifted away. But the energy
    source was still in the largest part of the object. He watched as it
    cooled back to match the background cold of space.
   
        His hood flared with anxiety and annoyance. Why did this have to
    happen on his watch? The object was now his responsibility, no matter
    what it did from now on, or when it did it.
   
        Still, it was probably nothing, a smaller piece of wreckage or a
    meteor striking the large one at high speed, or perhaps an exploded
    power cell, or ammunition, or a reactor only now gone critical.
   
        He watched and waited for another energy spike, but it did not come.
   
   
        Finally he pulled out his surias, a cheap and inferior blade, given
    to him by his father, who had lost his great-grandfather's blade in a
    botched duel. The blade glinted dully in the rooms dim light. He placed
    a thumb behind the blade and began to idly sharpen his beak. It was
    going to be another long shift.
   
        Three
   
        Veck waited in the makeshift spaceport waiting room. The original
    terminal was visible through the view-panel, but the building was in
    ruins. Most of the surrounding area was also in ruins. But this
    spaceport was in the main city in this region and the locals seemed to
    want to keep using it. This temporary waiting room was crowded and hot.
    It seemed a lot of people were wanting to get off and away from this
    planet and were willing to risk the dangers of leaving, rather than
    staying.
   
        Veck didn't much care one way or another anymore. He had resigned
    his commission. He was going somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was away
    from here. He knew for a fact he'd never get over the memories of what
    he'd done, though. His stupidity had killed his best friend. And he was
    going to have to live with that for the rest of his sorry life.
   
        "Major?" General Kiel said, storming up and throwing a computer
    clipboard into Veck's lap. "You want to tell me just what the meaning of
    this is?"
   
        A few people close by looked shocked, then turned away, trying to
    mind their own business.
   
        "It's fairly clear, General," Veck said without looking up. "I'm
    resigning." He tried to hand the computer clipboard back to the general,
    but Kiel wouldn't take it.
   
        "Oh, no you're not," Kiel said. "I'm refusing your resignation." He
    pushed the clipboard away.
   
        Veck looked up into Kiel's face. "I don't think you can do that,
    General."
   
        "I can do just about any damn thing I please," Kiel said. "I'm a
    general, remember?"
   
        "And if I go ahead and get on the transport?" Veck asked. "Then what
    will you do?" He was getting angry. All he had wanted to do was slink
    away, drown the memories in some drinks, and try to find something to
    keep living for, if that was possible.
   
        Kiel laughed. "Don't you know enough by now to not challenge a
    superior officer? You get on that transport and I'm going to report you
    AWOL. I'll send the military police after your sorry ass and you'll be
    spending years at hard labor."
   
        "I don't understand," Veck said, shaking his head and staring
    through the window at the ruined terminal in the distance. "Why are you
    doing this? You want to keep me around just for personal revenge?"
   
        "Oh, hell," Kiel said, "if I wanted to kick someone, I got lots of
    people higher on my list than you."
   
        "So what is it? Why do you want me to stay? Especially after what I
    did?"
   
        Kiel nodded and sat down next to Veck. "Fair question. There's no
    doubt in anyone's mind that you screwed up."
   
        "Nice way of putting it," Veck said.
   
        "And make no mistake about it," Kiel said, "there will be a hearing
    when this is all over, and it may not go well for you. But right now, I
    can't afford to lose an officer, much less a trained Bolo commander. You
    forget there's a war on? I need every hand."
   
        Veck nodded, but said nothing. What could he say? He really didn't
    want to stay, yet at the same time he did. More than anything.
   
        "I'm demoting you to lieutenant and placing the 1198th under my
    direct command," Kiel said, "But I want you and Rover back on the lines
    where you belong."
   
        Veck was stunned, and suddenly filled with doubt. He didn't know if
    he could ever climb back in Rover after what he'd done.
   
        "Look," Kiel said, his voice getting softer. "I know about your
    friendship with Lieutenant Orren. I know how you must feel."
   
        "Do you really?" Veck asked. He couldn't imagine how anyone could
    understand the pain that was ripping him apart.
   
        Kiel nodded. "Let me tell you the ugly secret about command.
    Sometimes you give a bad order, like you did, and people die."
   
        Veck nodded.
   
        Kiel went on. "Or you give no order and people die. Or you give a
    good order and people die. But the really ugly truth is, sometimes the
    best order, the order that will win the objective, is not the order
    where the fewest people die. In fact, it almost never is."
   
        Veck looked at the older man. It was clear in the general's eyes
    that he had given far too many of the types of orders he was talking
    about.
   
        "The problem with responsibility," Kiel said, "is that it simply
    provides a greater opportunity for your own human weakness to cause
    damage."
   
        "You've made mistakes like I did?" Veck asked.
   
        "Not like that, no," Kiel said, smiling. "But I have an entire set
    of my own. The problem is that our mistakes often cost lives, and we
    have to live with that the rest of our lives."
   
        Veck nodded, Orren's face filling his memory, then floating away
    again.
   
        "But," Kiel said, "you'll also have to live with the consequences of
    your successes as well."
   
        "Haven't had too many of those yet," Veck said.
   
        "Not true," Kiel said. "Bottom line is that your idea stopped the
    advance. Never mind that it won't bring one person back to life, it
    saved Lieutenant Amad and thousands of others. Maybe most of us, to be
    honest with you."
   
        Now Veck was completely stunned. He was trying to let the general's
    words into his mind, but his self-pity seemed to be blocking them.
   
        "Look, Veck," Kiel said, "this is a major setback for you, but it
    could also be an important lesson. Your career doesn't necessarily have
    to be over, unless you really want it to be."
   
        Veck nodded, not knowing what to say.
   
        Kiel patted him on the shoulder as he stood. "You coming? We got a
    war to fight, remember?"
   
        Again all Veck could do was nod. And get to his feet to follow the
    general.
   
        Jask watched as the sun dipped below the edge of the mountain ridge.
    The mountain behind and above his camp was still brightly lit, but now
    he was in shadows. He eased forward and snuffed out the fire. Better not
    to give the bizzards a way to see him.
   
        Then he shoved the seyzzar's legs and claws into the coals, covering
    them over with dirt. In about two hours they were going to taste
    wonderful.
   
        He glanced around his camp. It was nothing more than a couple of
    starship cargo modules converted by the miners into cabins and labs, and
    a minehead where an electromagnetic elevator stood empty. Bessy sat
    nearby, staying near Jask like a loyal puppy.
   
        In the fading light, Jask took the things he had taken from the man
    out of his pack. The golden Bolo pin seemed to glow, even in the dimming
    light. He so wanted to pin it on his chest, but he didn't.
   
        There was also a little radio earpiece that didn't seem to work. He
    felt guilty for having the things, but he had had to undress the man to
    treat his wounds. Besides, he was just holding the things. He would
    return them all, if the man survived.
   
        He had no idea if the man would or not. Jask's parents had taught
    him first aid almost from the moment he could walk. They had traveled
    from world to world, and field site to field site. They had dealt with
    unstable rocks, explosives, drilling lasers, dangerous local life-forms,
    and sometimes even more dangerous locals. They had taught him to fight,
    to take care of himself, and to deal with wounds. But he had never seen
    anyone as badly hurt as this man. At least anyone who was still alive.
   
        While the man was still in the box Jask had managed to stop the
    bleeding. Then he had bandaged the wounds and administered the
    prescribed drugs from his dwindling stocks. Then with the man strapped
    on Bessy, he had brought him back here and put him in the mine shelter.
   
        He had done everything he could to save the man. But he had already
    also planned where in the mine shaft he would bury the man. Just in case
    he needed to.
   
        He heard a faint moaning from the shelter, so with one last check to
    make sure the coals weren't too bright, he headed to see what the man
    needed.
   
        The guy was stirring, mumbling to himself.
   
        Jask moved over and touched his skin. The man was very hot, his
    flesh pale and moist. His skin felt awful, and Jask jerked away.
   
        The man's other things sat on top of an empty instrument case in the
    corner where Jask had put them. He picked up a shiny plate that had been
    on the man's uniform. "Orren."
   
        "Is this your name?" he asked.
   
        The man only moaned.
   
        Jask moved closer and leaned over him. "Mr. Orren. Is that your
    name? Can you hear me?"
   
        The man mumbled, then opened his eyes a little. He seemed to focus
    on Jask. "Where . . . ?"
   
        "You're in the mountains, in a building outside a mine shaft," Jask
    said. "I found you and brought you here."
   
        The man tried to move, but then just moaned again. But he didn't
    close his eyes.
   
        "I bandaged you up," Jask said. "I had to take your clothes and
    these off of you." He held up the pin and the headset.
   
        The man tried to reach for them, but only got a weak hold on the
    headset.
   
        Jask let him have it.
   
        The man fumbled the earpiece loosely into his ear. "Lieutenant Orren
    to Bolo ZGY. Come in Ziggy."
   
        He faltered. "I need you Ziggy. Hurt bad. Need you to come."
   
        Then the man passed out, his head lolling backwards.
   
        Jask took the headset and stared at it. The man had tried to contact
    his Bolo. Through that headset.
   
        Jask was so thrilled at the thought, he almost dropped the headset.
   
        The signal is so weak, so distant, that it almost passes below my
    threshold of perception. It fluctuates from moment to moment, wavering
    in time with my own period of rotation, filled with static, but it comes
    over my coded command channel. It is likely a spurious signal source, or
    worse, some trick of the enemy, but I cannot ignore it.
   
        My receiver is fused and so I am unable to refine its reception, but
    I can reroute the output signal for additional processing. I boost power
    to the receiver as high as I dare, then route the raw output down to an
    auxiliary optical processor. By transferring backup code modules from my
    emergency core, I am able to turn it into a makeshift broadband signal
    processor and enhancer.
   
        I filter noise from the signal, enhance, amplify, filter again. The
    resulting output is unrecognizable.
   
        I dwell on the problem for 0.6931 seconds.
   
        A legitimate command code would contain a constantly repeating mask
    of code bits. If I assume these are part of the incoming data-stream,
    they may provide a key to extracting the rest of the signal from the
    noise, rather the way a reference laser was used to reconstruct some
    primitive holograms. The effort requires diversion of five percent of
    the capabilities of my hyper-heuristic processing nodes. This is of no
    consequence, as I have nothing else for them to do at present.
   
        It is a voice message on automated loop, the sort of loop that would
    be generated by a command headset whose voice recognition circuitry
    detected a distress message.
   
        An analysis of the transmission confirms, with a confidence of
    89.9343 percent that it is my Commander's voice. The first entire word I
    recognize is my Commander's unofficial designation for me, "Ziggy," a
    further assurance that the transmission is genuine.
   
        But then the words that follow fill me with distress.
   
        "Hurt bad. Need you to come."
   
        The distant world I presume to be Delas again spins through my field
    of vision.
   
        The message repeats, again and again. "Need you to come."
   
        Four
   
        General Kiel and Lieutenant Veck leaned over a holographic map of
    the northern battlefield, replaying a recent engagement.
   
        "This is a new strategy the Kezdai are using," Kiel said, pointing
    at the strange formation on the map. "The DDF call it a 'snake pit.' "
   
        "Weird," Veck said.
   
        "See how this is shaped?" Kiel asked. "The Kezdai position a group
    of their Toro tanks in a ring facing outward. With the Toros' massive
    guns and thick forward armor protecting their vulnerable flanks, it's a
    formidable emplacement."
   
        "I'll bet ammo carriers or cached ammo stockpiles are inside the
    ring," Veck said, "waiting to reload the Toros, compensating for their
    limited five-shot magazine capacity."
   
        "Exactly," Kiel said. "In some ways, a pit is almost the equivalent
    of a Bolo in terms of firepower and armor, but it lacks the Bolo's
    mobility."
   
        "So exactly how are these snake pits being used?" Veck asked.
   
        "Skillful tactics on the part of the Kezdai are being used to drive
    DDF forces into them," Kiel said. "It's playing hell with the DDF
    conventional forces. Usually, a Bolo has to be called in to wipe out the
    pit, and those are spread pretty thin at the moment."
   
        Veck nodded and stepped back. "Speaking of that, don't you think I
    should get back to Rover?"
   
        Kiel tapped his command earpiece and smiled. "The Concordiat put a
    lot of time and thought into that link between commander and Bolo. You
    need to start understanding how to use it effectively."
   
        Veck nodded, but clearly didn't like the idea. He was more of a
    hands-on type of guy. Even with the understanding of the Bolo that the
    neural link had given him, he still liked being physically present.
   
        "Trust the Bolo, son," Kiel said, clearly catching Veck's feelings.
    "They're good soldiers, good soldiers. Never met one that wasn't,
    because that's what they're built to be. But us humans, we have to learn
    it the hard way."
   
        "Yeah, I'm learning that," Veck said, half smiling.
   
        "Actually," General Kiel said, "I've ordered all the officers of the
    1198th back behind the lines. I want them sleeping in real bunks,
    getting proper food, maybe even getting to an officers' club when there
    is a lull in the fighting. They can rotate back to their units when the
    time is right. Until then-" he tapped his earpiece again "-the Bolos can
    cover what needs to be covered."
   
        "But I don't-" Veck stopped his protest.
   
        Kiel laughed. "Now you're learning. From here on out, the 1198th is
    doing things my way."
   
        "Meaning that my way was wrong," Veck said.
   
        "No, not really," Kiel said. "Maybe in another place and time, your
    method would be right. But now, you are correct, it's wrong."
   
        Veck nodded. He felt as if the general had just slugged him in the
    stomach. Why hadn't he gotten on that transport after all and taken his
    chances? Would have been easier.
   
        "But, Lieutenant," Keil said, "that doesn't mean you don't have good
    ideas. You do. And you're smart and creative. And you're willing to
    learn, even if it is the hard way sometimes. That's why I want you at my
    side."
   
        "Thanks," Veck said.
   
        "And you thought," Kiel said, "I was just keeping an eye on you."
   
        "Yes, sir," Veck said. "I did."
   
        Keil chuckled. "Smart boy."
   
        For the past day Jask had tried to keep Orren's fever under control.
    He had managed to get a little seyzarr broth into him, but the man
    needed more help than Jask could provide. The problem was, Jask couldn't
    figure out a way to get it for him.
   
        Jask had considered going into Rockgate for help, but the man more
    than likely would be dead by the time he got back. He had thought about
    sending Bessy, but somebody at Rockgate would probably have tried to
    figure out some way to steal his Bolo.
   
        So instead he had just put wet rags on the man's forehead. He would
    have to hope that what he could do was enough.
   
        On the second morning, as Jask put a damp rag on the man's forehead,
    he awoke.
   
        "Can I have a sip of water?" the man asked, his voice so hoarse it
    sounded like it hurt him to speak.
   
        Jask helped him drink until the man choked. Then he said, "Can I
    have my earpiece?"
   
        "That thing doesn't work," Jask said. "I tried it. You was talking
    to somebody yesterday, but it was just the fever."
   
        The man shook his head. "Not the fever."
   
        Jask gave him the headset, but reaching for it nearly caused the man
    to pass out. He rested for a minute, then took a deep breath, put on the
    headset, and started to talk.
   
        "Ziggy, do you hear me? It's Lieutenant Orren, Ziggy. You've got to
    come. I'm too sick. Talk to the boy. Let the boy talk you in."
   
        Lieutenant Orren's eyes closed for a while. Jask figured he'd passed
    out, but then Orren's eyes opened again, as though he was listening to
    something.
   
        "Command override," Orren said. "Code
    alpha-bravo-tango-sierra-bravo-delta-five." Remembering the code seemed
    a great effort, and Orren's eyes closed again.
   
        This time he fell asleep.
   
        Hesitantly Jask took the headset and held it to his ear. Jask was
    sure that Lieutenant Orren was just talking to the fever. He listened to
    the silence for a moment, then shrugged. "There's nothing to hear."
   
        Then there was a crackle.
   
        "Unit R-0012-ZGY of the Dinochrome Brigade requesting Situation
    Update and new orders."
   
        This time Jask actually did drop the headset.
   
        * * *
   
        When Vatsha entered her brother's dining chamber, the platters of
    raw grazer-flesh sat untouched on the low table. Rejad stood in front of
    a huge holotank that had been lowered from the ceiling.
   
        "You summoned me, brother?"
   
        He did not turn.
   
        "If you persist on staring at a holo all the time, you will ruin
    your eyes. It would be sad to see you trying to find your concubines
    with a cane."
   
        Finally he turned and stepped away from the screen, the hem of his
    white and gold day-robe dragging across the floor as he walked. "Then I
    should be blind already, sister. A battle commander's work is never
    done." He gestured broadly at the tank. "Do you know what that is?"
   
        She looked at the tank. Maps floated, globes, representations of
    orbital trajectories, table after table of statistics, all floating,
    illuminated in yellow, red, blue and green. It looked like the games of
    Conquest that she and Rejad had played as children, only infinitely more
    complex. "I would say it is a battle simulation of some sort."
   
        "It is victory, sister, the victory that should have belonged to the
    Kezdai after our last great battle with the Humans. Only the intrusion
    of that one ship, insignificant as it was, turned the day. One ship. I
    have run the simulation many times, adjusting variables. It is that ship
    that saves them. This is what bothers me."
   
        "But brother, there are no other ships. The humans have launched no
    fleet against us. They are visited by freighters and puny convoy
    defenders that run when threatened. All their ships are cataloged and
    known to us, even the ship that turned the battle was known to us upon
    its arrival."
   
        Rejad's hood flared nervously. He stabbed a fingertip into a slab of
    grazer-flesh, examined the wet pinkness of it, sniffed its salty musk,
    then tossed it back onto the platter. "The problem is, we do not know
    where those freighters came from, or who has supplied these hairy
    monkeys with the weapons that have stymied us so. What lies beyond their
    jump-points could be a vast and powerful empire. Clearly they do not
    much favor these pathetic creatures, or we never would have been allowed
    to get a toehold at all, but neither have they left them defenseless.
    Each time I run this simulation, it becomes more imperative that we not
    wait for the other two new ships."
   
        Vatsha tried not to show her concern. Do not wreck this for us,
    brother. "You have a plan, then?"
   
        "The huge mobile armored units the Humans call 'Bolo' have been a
    great problem, but if nothing else, the last attack revealed to us their
    number and maximum rates of fire against space targets. It was just
    barely enough to overwhelm the Blade of Kevv and its kaleidoscope
    device. But they will not surprise us again, and we may yet surprise
    them. Can the kaleidoscope system on Blade of Kevv be modified to create
    more sensor echoes?"
   
        Vatsha felt a flash of annoyance. That had been in her summary
    report on the building of the ship, if only Rejad had bothered to read
    it. "It can be done, my brother. Doubling the power will square the
    number of images. They will have a hundred and forty-four targets
    instead of twelve. The problem is that the kaleidoscope already draws
    much power. While the kaleidoscope is active, the ship's main batteries
    will not be able to fire. Moreover, once the conversion is made, it is
    not easily undone. Once the kaleidoscope is off, it will require some
    time to restore weapons, and we can not simply drop kaleidoscope back to
    lower power without a refit."
   
        "That will not matter. Our batteries are ineffective against the
    Bolos anyway. What we need is concentrated and well-directed spearfall.
    That is what has proven to damage the great machines. But they are
    agile, and difficult to hit. See that the conversion is done before
    Blade of Kevv leaves port. Remove the main batteries if you must. Just
    be sure it is equipped for a massive and sustained rain of spearfall. We
    will not bring the ship back here until we are ready for the offensive."
   
   
        Vatsha ducked her head and clicked her beak to show agreement. "I
    will begin at once." But she could only think that the fool was taking
    her balanced and elegant Blade of Kevv design and turning it into a
    patchwork.
   
        Despite overwhelming odds I have established a link with my
    Commander, only to learn that he is incapacitated. I have been given
    proper command codes to allow communication and command by an unknown
    third party identified as "the boy." I search my fragmented memories and
    find multiple related cultural references including a familiar
    honorific, a kind of hamburger sandwich, an ancient steam locomotive,
    and an ancient racial slur. None seem appropriate to the situation, and
    I suspect that the usage may be the obvious one, based on my relatively
    intact linguistic database, a young human male.
   
        This is confirmed when "the boy" speaks into the command link. My
    audiometrics routines are degraded, but I estimate his age in the range
    from seven to twelve standard years. A human in this age range is
    unlikely to possess proper military training.
   
        What purpose did Lieutenant Orren have in mind when assigning
    command to this child? Could it be the result of delirium or reduced
    capacity?
   
        Yet at this point, I have no other avenue open to me. This child is
    my only hope for rescue, repair, and an eventual arrival on the
    battlefield.
   
        My first step is to request a recovery ship and transport to a
    repair depot. I do not know my position, but do know my distance from
    the planet, based on light-speed delays in the transmission. I also can
    provide relative angles and movements for the sun and Delas. Hopefully,
    given this information, my location can be determined and rescue will
    arrive shortly.
   
        Five
   
        Bendra shuffled across the sandy floor of the Iskaldai's apartments,
    the hobbles chaffing at his legs. The high-born guards on either side of
    him were a head taller and carried ceremonial spears, and wore long
    blades equipped with venom triggers and shock generators. He tugged at
    his wrist bindings and felt incredibly naked without his humble blade.
    Still, this was the only way that someone of his low standing could be
    allowed in the presence of one so high born.
   
        They halted before a heavy curtain, purple and embroidered with
    silver thread. One of the guards slipped through the curtain. He emerged
    a moment later, and Bendra was pushed through. It took him a moment for
    his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. The fire-pit in the middle
    of the room startled him, until he realized that it was only a
    holographic projection.
   
        At the rear of the room, Sister-of-the-First-Blood Vatsha stood,
    almost lost behind a huge holographic projection of a ship. The
    projection was transparent, highlighting the various systems in
    different colors, making it difficult for him to recognize, but he
    assumed it was Blade of Kevv. There were rumors that Vatsha had actually
    designed the ship, and was not merely supervising its construction.
   
        As he watched, she gestured, and the projection moved, systems
    internally changing color and configuration in a dance of splendid light
    and complexity. Vatsha's bright red eyes, a trait she shared with her
    brother, seemed to follow every movement, every change. It was only
    Bendra that was invisible to her.
   
        Finally he felt compelled to announce himself. He stepped forward,
    stumbled on the hobbles, and almost fell. "Blood-of-my-Is-kaldai, I beg
    audience."
   
        She shot him a glance of annoyance, then returned to her task. "So
    my Arbiter tells me, low-blood. What matter is it that you should soil
    my chambers so?"
   
        "I am a monitor for the fleet. I track the battle wreckage and other
    deep-space navigation hazards."
   
        "Trash responsible for trash. I should have my Arbiter flogged for
    this lapse in judgment."
   
        She seemed ready to eject him. He bowed his head in submission.
    "Please, high-blood, hear me out. I have detected an unusual object that
    may be of danger to the fleet. So unusual that I can not warn of it
    through usual protocols. None of my direct superiors will take it upon
    themselves to break protocol, and to trouble the Is-kaldai would surely
    mean my death. You are my one hope."
   
        Vatsha stepped through the hologram. She seemed slightly intrigued
    by the mystery, and slightly amused at his predicament. "Small burdens
    for small minds. Still, I am in need of a respite. Perhaps your tale
    will amuse me."
   
        She sat on a pile of cushions next to a tray of delicacies, many of
    which Bendra had only seen in holos. She stabbed her fingertip into a
    dried etsha-fruit and lifted the greenish orb to her beak. It popped
    when she bit into it, and a trickle of acidic smelling juice ran down
    her beak. She wiped it away with the back of her forearm.
   
        Bendra described his chance observation of the object's strange
    behavior. "Now it is emitting an encoded transmission beamed at the
    Human world."
   
        This raised some small interest in her. She looked up from a platter
    of crisp-fried grubblings. "Is this transmission broadband data?"
   
        "You suspect a device to spy on the fleet? That is most clever. But
    no, the transmission is narrowband, and most of this seems to be used in
    some very complex encoding scheme that is beyond my understanding. It
    might carry slow-scan data, a few still images, or an audio channel. Not
    much more."
   
        "And this object, it floats among wreckage you are tracking, but did
    you observe how it got there? Did it jump into the system, or was it
    launched from the planet?"
   
        Bendra was slow to answer. He knew she would not like what he had to
    say. "Neither, high-blood. It is part of the wreckage from the freighter
    convoy that the Humans fired upon. We have tracked it from the
    beginning."
   
        Vatsha hissed with a combination of amusement and surprise. When she
    spoke, it was in the tone one might use for a hatchling, or an idiot.
    "Low-born, these are aliens and it is difficult to ascribe any purpose
    to what they do, but is it not reasonable that such a limited
    transmission from a piece of wreckage might be a distress beacon, a
    salvage beacon, or a navigational warning to steer other ships away from
    the wreckage?"
   
        "Perhaps, but I don't think so."
   
        Her tone turned to annoyance. "You think yourself wiser than one of
    my blood? You imagine things, low-blood. Perhaps your position
    challenges you too much. I can find one more suited to your talents.
    Cleaning the waste pits perhaps?" She made a loud clacking with her
    beak, and the guards appeared from behind the curtains. "This mystery of
    yours is a minor menace to navigation, nothing more. I should have you
    flogged for bothering me, but it isn't worth the trouble. Do not speak
    of this again." She looked at the guards. "Remove him, and throw away
    this food. I have work to do."
   
        One guard took the half-empty trays while the other pushed him out
    into the hall. The guard with the trays stopped outside the portal long
    enough to dump them into a recycle slot. It was another thirty spans
    down the corridor to the security gate where, finally, the hobbles and
    wrist restraints were removed. A third guard examined Bendra's surias
    with amusement before returning it to him. "Do not stick yourself,
    low-born."
   
        Bendra took the knife wordlessly and put it into its scabbard, then
    walked away with as much dignity as he could muster. He kept his eyes
    down and looked straight ahead. The floor here was carpet instead of
    sand, but this was still the realm of the high-born. It would be another
    hundred spans of corridor and several drop tubes before he would reach a
    place where he could raise his eyes to meet those of passersby.
   
        The journey gave him time to think.
   
        He was convinced that he was right, that there was something more to
    the object and that it represented a threat. But he had done his duty.
    The burden of the object had finally been passed. If indeed he was right
    and the Is-kaldai's blood-sister was wrong, then the blame would not
    fall on him.
   
        If the magnitude of the mistake were sufficient, Vatsha might even
    lose her rank. On as small a ship as this, the upset might filter down
    through the ranks, even to his lowly station. Bendra might get a better
    position, perhaps even a real title of low rank, and not just a
    technical one.
   
        As he stepped from the last drop tube into the crowded clamor of the
    Common Quarters, Bendra raised his eyes to the sight of over a hundred
    and twenty low-bloods living in the same room, eating, sleeping,
    playing, defecating in a room twelve spans square. He stepped over a
    mother dozing with her huddle of squirming hatchlings and went in search
    of his own sleep pad.
   
        Yes, he decided, that is what he would wish to happen. Let Vatsha
    lose her rank. Certainly it would not make things worse for him now.
   
        He would watch the strange object, and hope.
   
        "You need what?" Jask asked. He was standing beside the sleeping
    Lieutenant Orren. The headset was on his head and he was talking to a
    real Bolo. He almost couldn't talk from the excitement of it.
   
        "I request transport to the nearest repair depot."
   
        "I can't do that. You come here."
   
        "That is not possible."
   
        "Don't your treads work?"
   
        "My drive systems appear to be working at eighty-one-point-oh-seven
    percent capacity, but I am unable to self-transport."
   
        "Why not?"
   
        "My drive systems are ineffective in the current environment."
   
        "So your treads don't work," Jask said. "Maybe I could come there
    and fix you. I'm good at fixing things. When my bolo, Bessy broke her
    power lead-"
   
        "Query: there is another Bolo present there?"
   
        "Bessy . . . Bessy is a-" Jask had to be truthful. This was a real
    Bolo he was talking to.
   
        "Please go on."
   
        "Bessy isn't a real Bolo like you, I guess," Jask said, talking
    faster and faster. "Just a make believe one. See- See, the bizzards came
    and blew everything up, and they- My mom and dad went away, see-? This
    is hard . . . The bizzards still come sometimes, and I was afraid. I
    read about Bolos in a holobook. When the bizzards came, Dad said the
    Bolos would come to save us- But they never saved my dad and mom."
   
        "My condolences for your loss. I request description of these
    'bizzards.' I am unfamiliar with this designation."
   
        "You use a lot of big words, like Dad and Mom used to," Jask said "I
    like that. Even when it confuses me."
   
        "What is the meaning of the world 'bizzard.' "
   
        "I made it up," Jask said proudly. "See, they're like half buzzard
    and half lizard, so I called then bizzards. Pretty smart, huh? They have
    another name, but it was hard to say, and I forget it."
   
        "Kezdai."
   
        "That's it! But I'll still call them bizzards if that's okay with
    you."
   
        "I will henceforth designate the Kezdai as bizzards during our
    communications."
   
        "Thanks."
   
        "What is the status of Lieutenant Orren?"
   
        Jask glanced at where Orren was sleeping. His face was still red and
    he was moaning. "He's real sick, Ziggy. Can I call you Ziggy? He called
    you Ziggy."
   
        "That is allowable."
   
        "Anyway, he got hurt pretty bad, lots of blood and stuff."
   
        "He is being cared for?"
   
        "I'm taking care of him real good."
   
        "He should be in a proper medical facility. Is there a medic
    available?"
   
        "I told you, Ziggy, there's just me and Bessy. My folks could fix
    anything, but- Well, you know, they're gone- You're not coming are you?"
   
   
        "I am unable to self-transport to your location."
   
        "Are any other Bolos coming?"
   
        "I am not in communication with the Delassian ground forces. I do
    not know their status."
   
        "If they were coming, they'd be here already," Jask said. "I've been
    waiting so long. I thought the Bolos would come. But they're not coming.
    I'm all alone here, and Mr. Orren is going to die, and you aren't
    coming. You aren't even going to try. You aren't a Bolo at all!"
   
        Jask tossed the headset back at the sleeping Orren and stormed out
    into the afternoon sun.
   
        My situation seems more dire than ever. It is now apparent that I
    will receive no material support from my ground contact. My Commander's
    condition seems grave, and my personal situation seems impossible.
   
        Yet, something has been stirred within me. Perhaps my personality
    circuits were more badly damaged than I realized. My situation may
    appear to be impossible, but I am aware, I have power, I have resources.
    It is my duty to protect the weak, to stand in defense of the humanity
    against alien aggression. If I am needed on Delas, then Delas is where I
    will go.
   
        I am Bolo.
   
        I will never give up.
   
        I will never surrender.
   
        I will prevail.
   
        Jask kicked small rocks down the hill as he climbed. In all the time
    since his parents had been killed, he hadn't gotten this angry. But
    right now he wanted to have something to just tear apart.
   
        Anything.
   
        But he couldn't find anything, so he settled for kicking rocks.
   
        He got to the top of the ridge and dropped down on the ground with
    his back against a tree. He could feel tears trying to come, but his dad
    had always told him that he should never cry when he was taking care of
    himself. His dad had said there would always be time for tears later,
    when the emergency was over.
   
        Well, it looked to Jask as if later wasn't going to ever come, now.
    He had hoped that the Bolos would come and save them all. Deep inside he
    knew it would happen. He had believed it completely all this time.
   
        But now he had actually talked to a Bolo. And now he knew they
    weren't coming.
   
        They were never coming.
   
        The tears started to fill his eyes again, and that just made him
    mad. He couldn't cry.
   
        He wouldn't let himself.
   
        He stood and quickly headed up the remaining slope of mountain,
    climbing the rocks like a mountain goat, not really caring how far down
    it was. Around him the sun was bright and the afternoon hot.
   
        He didn't care. All he wanted to do was climb, get away from
    Lieutenant Orren, from the mine with his parents' bodies, and from that
    link with the Bolo.
   
        He just needed to be anywhere but there.
   
        As he reached the top he was about to stand and shout at the heavens
    when something caught his eye far down in the next valley. He jumped
    back behind a rock and peered over it carefully.
   
        The valley was full of the hated bizzards.
   
        They seemed to be everywhere.
   
        This wasn't just an isolated infantry patrol like he'd seen lots of
    times before. This was a full army of bizzards. And they had lots of
    stuff with them. Missile platforms, troop carriers, all kinds of
    vehicles, including tanks.
   
        And from up the valley he could see more coming all the time.
   
        He watched for a minute, his anger gone completely. Then keeping his
    head down, he eased his way back out of sight and headed for his camp.
   
        Even if the Bolo wasn't coming to rescue him, it needed to know what
    he had just seen.
   
        * * *
   
        Six
   
        Vatsha found Rejad in the yacht's solarium. Here the sunlamps beat
    down heavily, and the sand that covered the floors in most of Rejad's
    apartment was heaped into actual dunes as high as her head. Holo
    projectors made the rear walls of the room vanish into a simulated
    horizon where sharp-crested dunes met painfully blue sky. She could
    smell water somewhere under the sand, and it was tempting to kneel down
    and dig for it, to filter a drink of water from the damp sand in the old
    way rather than sucking it from a drinking sponge.
   
        But she was not here to enjoy herself. She suppressed the urge and
    turned her attention to her brother.
   
        He stood on the highest dune in the room, dressed only in a silver
    colored kilt that wrapped around his waist, feeding his flock of pet
    stingers. A dozen of the fist-sized insects fluttered around him, their
    wings rustling like dry paper with each rapid stroke.
   
        As Rejad tossed scraps of raw meat into the air, the stingers would
    sweep in by twos, the first stinging the "prey," with the sharp barbs at
    the ends of its twin tails, the second grabbing it in powerful claws
    before the others could steal it away. The pair would then meet in the
    air a few yards away to rip the meat apart and divide their spoils.
   
        As she stepped closer, one of the stingers lunged at her, green eyes
    glowing, claws and poisoned barbs lashing. She ducked aside and the big
    insect swung past her head and returned to join the flock.
   
        Rejad hissed his amusement. "They are protective, sister. They are
    not brilliant animals, but they know who keeps them fed. There is a
    lesson in that somewhere."
   
        She was not in the mood. "I have returned from the front, brother,
    though I am not entirely sure why I was sent in the first place. I would
    be more useful seeing to the refit of Blade of Kevv."
   
        "The refit is done, sister. As for your mission, it was to do what
    you always do, listen and remember. Do the generals speak of me?"
   
        "When they think I cannot hear them, loud and often. They wonder why
    the Is-kaldai does not visit the battlefield, why he does not at least
    lead them from the flagship of the fleet rather than the decadent luxury
    of his yacht. They wonder why we hesitate to press the offensive against
    the Humans. When they learn that Blade of Kevv has been repaired, and
    they will hear, even if we do not yet move it here, they will doubt you
    have any spirit at all."
   
        Rejad held up his arm for one of the stingers to light. It crawled
    in circles for a moment, then jabbed him with its stingers. Rejad hissed
    slightly and shrugged the creature off his arm. He flicked his black
    tongue over the wounds, which bled only slightly.
   
        He turned to her. "The generals should know that I lead with my
    brain and not with my blade. This is where I think best, and therefore,
    this is where I should be."
   
        "Go down and tell them that yourself."
   
        "Not now, sister. This is a critical time. The Humans learned too
    much on our last offensive. If we merely use the same tactics, we will
    lose. If we do not neutralize, or at least minimize the threat
    represented by these Bolo, then we will lose. I do not plan to lose. The
    Blade of Kevv offers us one advantage against the Bolo, but only one. We
    must use deception to lure them into a trap. I have a plan for this to
    be done. Come."
   
        He gestured her closer, then sat down and began digging in the sand.
    He flattened an area, then off to one side he began to construct a
    series of hills and valleys.
   
        She sat down beside him. "Don't we have hologram maps for this sort
    of thing, brother?"
   
        "This," he said, continuing to dig, "was how battles were planned in
    the old times. Sometimes the old ways are still good."
   
        He pointed at the hills and valleys. "These represent the western
    edge of the mountain range centered at the thirtieth division. This flat
    area represents the grasslands below, one of the dryer areas of the
    planet. I have studied the area well. I plan to put my palace there once
    the planet is ours."
   
        "You are not one to wait about before making plans, brother."
   
        "Someday, it will also host a monument to our victory. You know of
    these mountains?"
   
        "They are where many of the Human refugees have hidden from our
    troops. They are rich with metals that blind and confuse our sensors,
    making it difficult to find the vermin."
   
        "Excellent. This is all true, but they will befuddle the Bolo's
    sensors as well. On open ground, it is impossible to surprise the great
    machines. They can detect an armored column coming well over the
    horizon. Here," he pointed at the flats, "surprise is possible. I have
    located a valley that opens into the grassland and have already begun to
    assemble an armored column there. Meanwhile, we have also received a new
    type of mine-layer. They plant the anti-Bolo mines quickly, quietly, at
    night, and leave no visual traces on the ground when they are through.
    Every night they are on the plain planting their mines, only a few at a
    time, to avoid suspicion."
   
        "This is a fine trap, but what is a trap without bait?"
   
        "I have been making a show of withdrawing our visible forces from
    this area, creating a tempting weak spot in the line. In most cases, the
    withdrawn forces have simply circled around the mountains and joined my
    armored reserves. I am convinced that the humans are as eager to advance
    as we are. I will make it easy for them, for a time. Oh, we will provide
    enough resistance to keep it interesting, but they will have to fight
    their way into the minefields."
   
        "Conventional armor will not activate the mines, ours or theirs?"
    she asked.
   
        "No. Only the Bolos will be large enough, and they will not discover
    the danger until it is too late. But by then they will be trapped among
    the mines, the Blade of Kevv will rain death from above, and our armored
    force will sweep down and pick them off."
   
        "It is a good plan, brother. It could work. If the generals will
    support you."
   
        "I know you have eyes and ears on the planet, sister. Tell them that
    you have fact, not rumor. When the true battle comes, the Is-kaldai will
    lead them from the Blade of Kevv, and he will lead them to victory,
    total and everlasting."
   
        "There's no doubt," General Kiel said to General Rokoyan and
    Lieutenant Veck, "that if we're ever going to retake the southern
    territories, we need to go on the offensive. And do it quickly."
   
        The three of them had just started the planning meeting around a
    large holographic map of the fighting fronts. Already Kiel was feeling
    frustrated. It wasn't bad enough that they had to fight a multifront war
    with the Kezdai, but he also had to constantly fight with the local
    forces led by Rokoyan. If the man would just go along, this war might be
    over a lot sooner.
   
        "I just don't think we're ready yet," Rokoyan said. "My forces took
    heavy losses and still are, just holding the lines we have now."
   
        "I understand that," Kiel said.
   
        "And our local production is not up to replacing the armor as fast
    as we are destroying it," Rokoyan went on. "That plus the fact that
    we're a colony world and we don't have a surplus of population makes
    this a tough war to fight. Someone has to keep the mines and factories
    running."
   
        "All the more reason to make the push now," Kiel said. "Before your
    troops are ground down."
   
        "So, if we start this offensive," Rokoyan asked, "can we expect
    reinforcements from the Concordiat?"
   
        "The 1198th's last Bolo was destroyed with the incoming convoy,"
    Kiel said, staring at Rokoyan. "There will be no more."
   
        "Can't spare a one, huh?" Rokoyan asked.
   
        "No, actually, the Concordiat can't," Kiel said. "All projected Bolo
    production is needed on the Melconian front. Nor are there troops to
    spare."
   
        "The fleet?" Rokoyan asked.
   
        "Nothing," Kiel said. "We have to win this on our own, or not at
    all."
   
        He hoped that would end that line of thinking, so they could get
    back to work planning an offensive, but Rokoyan wasn't willing to let it
    go just yet.
   
        "So the Concordiat has given up on us, has it?" Rokoyan said. "I
    suspected as much."
   
        "Trust me, General," Keil said, trying to keep his anger in check.
    "If that were the case, there would be no Bolos here at all. The
    Concordiat is fighting for its survival against the Melconians and must
    prioritize. They've placed a great deal of trust in the two regiments
    that they've sent to defend this planet."
   
        "Perhaps," Rokoyan said, turning to look at Veck, "they've placed
    too much trust in them."
   
        Veck started to say something, but Kiel held up his hand for the
    lieutenant to be silent. Then Kiel took a step toward the local
    commander and stared him right in the eyes.
   
        "Lieutenant Veck has made serious mistakes," Kiel said, keeping his
    voice low and even and strong. "And he has taken responsibility with the
    grace befitting an officer. But you must remember that it was his idea
    that turned the battle. Without his plan, you might be sitting in a
    Kezdai prison right now."
   
        Rokoyan nodded and looked back at the hologram. "All right, all
    right," he said. "You made your point. Just what is the plan for this
    offensive?"
   
        Kiel winked at Veck over the top of Rokoyan's back, then pointed to
    the map. "We've discovered a weak spot in the Kezdai lines, west of
    Kennis Peak where the foothills turn into high flatlands area. The space
    should give our Bolos ample area to maneuver as we push the Kezdai
    south."
   
        "General," Veck said, "take a look at the Kezdai troop movements in
    and around that area. Something just doesn't look right to me."
   
        Kiel and Rokoyan quickly studied what Veck had pointed out. It was
    suddenly clear to Kiel that Veck was again right. The movements didn't
    seem logical, even for Kezdai. Though their intelligence about the
    Kezdai was almost nonexistent, changes in the Kezdai strategy in the
    last month would indicate some kind of change at the upper command
    level, either in their methods, in personnel, or both. That much was
    obvious.
   
        What Veck had pointed out were Kezdai forces transferring away from
    the area for no good reason. Also there was a fairly large number of
    Kezdai forces that were simply not accounted for. They might have been
    transferred to the rear, or rotated off-planet. Kiel just didn't know.
    And he needed to before anything moved.
   
        "I agree," Kiel said to Veck after going over all the information
    they had again, "that more than likely there is some sort of deception
    at work here."
   
        "So what do we do now?" Rokoyan asked.
   
        "We see if we can uncover what the deception is, and the reason for
    it," Kiel said, "And then figure out a way to use it to our advantage."
   
        "And how do we do that?" Rokoyan asked.
   
        "I've already dispatched my Bolo, Kal, to explore the area, test the
    lines there, and come to some conclusions. We should have some answers
    shortly."
   
        "You have?" Veck asked.
   
        Kiel laughed. "Why do you think I keep my own pet Bolo, son? It
    isn't just because I miss the crash couch, that's for sure."
   
        I know where I am. Moreover, I know where I am going.
   
        A brute force search of my database has located emergency programs
    for stellar navigation, a three dimensional map of all Concordiat
    charted space, and a database of basic astronomical data that includes
    the Delas system.
   
        I also have at my disposal a full range of ballistics programs,
    including those intended for interplanetary artillery attacks based on
    low gravity bodies.
   
        From this fragmented information I have cobbled together a workable
    space navigation system. This effort has required 1.0012 hours, much of
    it in searching and reconstructing damaged data segments. I was unable
    to locate one of Sir Isaac Newton's three laws of motion and it was
    necessary to reconstruct it by extrapolation.
   
        This is the good news.
   
        I am headed into the sun. To be entirely accurate, my orbit will
    swing me past Delas first, and will only take me into the photosphere of
    the local star, but I fully expect that the temperatures there will
    exceed even the melting point of my endurachrome hull, and that my
    internals will be melted into scrap long before that.
   
        This is unacceptable.
   
        My options are limited. There are a large number of scenarios
    through which I could attempt to signal for rescue using my remaining
    weapons systems, but I have been optically observing fusion drive flares
    near Delas. Judging from their number and spectral analysis, almost all
    are enemy ships. Kezdai fleet activity has increased markedly, even over
    the latest battlefield status report I have been able to recover from my
    memory. Any attempt to signal is more likely to bring enemy attention
    than rescue.
   
        It is possible that my counter-grav generators could be used to
    effect some kind of propulsion or navigation, but the main mobius-wound
    coils are burned out. Thus I have not wasted processor cycles
    researching this option.
   
        Sir Isaac's laws seem to offer the most promising possibilities. For
    every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. In this case, it
    would far more advantageous if the Mark XXXIV Bolo were still equipped
    with old-style howitzers. My surviving main weapons are energy based and
    thus are of little utility.
   
        My infinite repeaters are projectile weapons, but lack the necessary
    power or projectile mass. I have reviewed the various mass objects in my
    systems, munitions, fluids, gas stores, and so on, that could be ejected
    for some propulsive effect. All of these, used carefully, might alter my
    course to avoid the local sun, but they would not get me to Delas. They
    would not even keep me in the system, as my current orbit will send me
    back out into endless space.
   
        I recycle all my deductive registers. The problem seems insoluble,
    but I must keep trying.
   
        Wait.
   
        There is an incoming signal on my coded command frequency.
   
        Jask glanced at the sleeping form of Lieutenant Orren, then picked
    up the headset from where he had tossed it. "You've got to help me,
    Ziggy."
   
        "I will do what I can. Be assured of that."
   
        Hearing the Bolo's voice felt good. He didn't feel so alone with all
    the Bizzards over the hill. "I'm sorry I got so mad, Ziggy. I've just
    been waiting so long. It gets so lonely here. I'm afraid for Mr. Orren.
    I can't- If he- I couldn't stand it."
   
        "Has Lieutenant Orren's condition changed?"
   
        "No," Jask said. "But I was wrong to get mad at you, Ziggy. I need
    somebody to talk to. Mom and Dad used to talk to me when I was sad or
    afraid. They once told me to learn from my mistakes. I made a mistake,
    Ziggy. I need somebody to help me figure out what to do. I need help
    bad."
   
        "What is your problem?"
   
        "It's the bizzards, Ziggy. They're back. I saw them. Lots more than
    ever before."
   
        "Specify the extent of the Kezdai-bizzard-force."
   
        "Lots more," Jask said, seeing the valley swarming with them in his
    memory. "Maybe millions of them. They have trucks and tanks and big
    flying things with guns all over them. Some of the tanks are little, and
    some are big with horns on top that sparkle."
   
        "Query: Can you verify the number of enemy troops? While the Kezdai
    have fielded an impressive force, it seems unlikely that they have
    landed a million troops."
   
        Jask wanted to shout again, but didn't. Instead he made his voice
    very calm. "I didn't count them, Ziggy. There's a lot, okay? More than I
    could count."
   
        "You have described Kezdai 'Toro' heavy tanks, light armor, and
    counter-grav gun platforms. Can you estimate the number of the "big
    tanks with horns on top that sparkle'?"
   
        "A lot."
   
        "More than a hundred?"
   
        "I can count that high," Jask said, disgusted. "More than a hundred.
    Maybe not a lot more, but there were more coming in."
   
        "Are you under attack?"
   
        "No. They're in the next valley over. I saw them from the ridge."
   
        "Have they detected you?"
   
        "I don't think so. They're just sitting there, like they're waiting
    for something."
   
        "Do you have freedom of movement?"
   
        "I could leave, but there's Lieutenant Orren."
   
        "Can you transport him using Bessy, your-Bolo?"
   
        "That's how I got him here, but he might be too sick to move. Dad
    said that when somebody is hurt, you shouldn't move them unless you have
    to."
   
        "There may be little choice."
   
        "I don't-"
   
        "I have discovered in my legal banks article 99180.010c of the
    Concordiat general code, which allows for civilian vehicles to be
    conscripted for military use during wartime emergency."
   
        Jask sighed. "Ziggy, you're using big words again. What does that
    mean?"
   
        "By the authority vested in me by the Concordiat, Bolo unit "Bessy"
    is hereby attached to the 1198th Armored Regiment of the Dinochrome
    Brigade."
   
        "Bolo! Bessy is a real Bolo now?"
   
        "Legally speaking. I place you in command of this unit also."
   
        Jask couldn't believe what had just happened. The Bolo trusted him,
    just as his dad had trusted him. He could feel the pride and energy
    coming back. "I'll get Lieutenant Orren out of here, Ziggy. For the
    Brigade. I promise."
   
        "It is an honor to serve with you, Jask. I recommend that you evade
    the Enemy and attempt to rendezvous with Concordiat forces. I am
    attempting to come to your location and engage the enemy, but I could be
    more effective if I were acting in coordination with units of the
    Brigade. And there is one more thing-"
   
        "What, Ziggy? Anything." And he meant that.
   
        "Article 99180.010c requires me to notify you that the Concordiat
    will duly compensate you for use of your vehicle."
   
        "More big words again, Ziggy," Jask said. "But don't worry, I'll get
    Lieutenant Orren to safety."
   
        "Thank you."
   
        Seven
   
        "Learn from one's mistakes."
   
        It is a curiously obvious philosophy, since it underlies the
    thinking processes of any sentient being. But perhaps there is something
    to be gained from it after all.
   
        Up until now, I have concentrated on use of my operational weapons
    systems for propulsion, but I have ignored my most powerful weapons, my
    90 megaton Hellrails, because they were damaged. But my maintenance and
    operation database records over one hundred and sixty-four-thousand
    operational failure modes. I will reexamine the damage and begin a
    search of that database-
   
        "Kal my friend," General Kiel said into his headset as he sat down
    in front of the holographic projection of the battlefields. "What have
    you discovered out there?'
   
        "I am transversing the mountains near Kennis Peak," the Bolo said.
    "Over the last few hours I have encountered only scattered enemy armored
    units. I have confirmed destroyed six Toro tanks, two fast marauders,
    and four armored personnel carriers."
   
        Keil took note on the map where the Bolo was. "Good work," Kiel
    said. "Anything that would lead you to believe there is something else
    going on in the area?"
   
        "There is," Kal said. "I have detected seismic readings indicating
    that a large armored force may be in the area, but the heavy metals in
    the mountains nearby scramble my sensors. I am unable to locate them, or
    even confirm their existence at this time."
   
        Kiel shook his head as he stared at the mountains around Kal's
    position. "Not good news at all. We're running out of time here."
   
        "Why is that, General?" Kal asked.
   
        "My friends in headquarters tell me the unofficial word is that a
    massive Melconian movement is underway. The Bolo regiments here could be
    recalled unless there is substantial evidence that the Kezdai can be
    driven from Delas in short order."
   
        "Logical," Kal said. "But not practical."
   
        "True," Kiel said. He quickly fed rendezvous coordinates to Kal.
    "Make the best speed there. It's time to stop playing spy and just
    fight."
   
        Kiel slipped of his headphone and turned around. Lieutenant Veck was
    standing just inside the door, and from the look on the kid's face, he
    had heard the conversation.
   
        "Why weren't we all told?" Veck asked, stepping forward.
   
        "Nothing to tell, officially," Kiel said. "And I'm in charge here. I
    don't have to tell you anything I don't feel you need to know."
   
        Veck nodded, but clearly wasn't happy. And right now Kiel needed his
    people on their toes, not worried about being pulled off the planet at
    any minute.
   
        "Besides," Kiel said, "the information I got is off the record. It
    could just be rumor or misinformation."
   
        "But you believe that it is accurate, don't you?"
   
        Kiel had to admit that he did. He laughed. "Looks like you'll get to
    the 'real war' faster than you imagined."
   
        "Is this all because of my mistakes?" Veck asked.
   
        "You really do have the guilt going, don't you?" Kiel asked.
   
        Veck said nothing.
   
        Kiel knew that Veck was barely surviving the guilt of killing his
    best friend and destroying a Bolo and transport ship. It would be years
    before he was completely past it, but at the moment Kiel wasn't going to
    let the kid swim in his own self-pity.
   
        "Look, Lieutenant, it's just politics and nothing more. But to be
    honest with you, I don't much like the idea of losing a war for any
    reason. But especially because some politician lost his backbone."
   
        "That I agree with," Veck said.
   
        "And besides," Kiel said. "withdrawal will not be easy, even if it
    was ordered. From what I've seen of the Kezdai, I don't think they'll
    just sit back and let us go. Do you?"
   
        Veck shook his head. Clearly the thought was one he hadn't gotten to
    yet.
   
        "They'll be fighting us on all fronts," Kiel said, "with diminishing
    resources on our side, until the last transport lifts off or is blown to
    rubble."
   
        Veck was almost white trying to imagine the scenario that Kiel was
    painting.
   
        "We get pulled back and we'll be lucky to leave Delas with half a
    regiment, much less two."
   
        "So what do we do?" Veck asked.
   
        "We win this thing now," Kiel said. "It's just damn near our only
    option."
   
        My research has been most productive. The flux control coils on my
    Hellrails are damaged beyond repair, preventing normal operation, but a
    buss short across selected circuits will pass through the damaged coil,
    energizing plasma vented though my secondary relief valves. The plasma
    will be contained in a constricted beam until the Hellrails' generators
    fire. In an accident during testing, this failure resulted in a
    low-yield fusion explosion one hundred and ninety meters from the weapon
    muzzle.
   
        I believe that by adjusting the parameters, I can control both
    distance and explosive yield, and that I can achieve an explosion rate
    of one point two per second. It is vital that my attempts at control are
    successful. The failure incident on which I am basing this effort
    destroyed the test weapon, two observation bunkers, and killed fifteen
    technicians, an observer, and a member of the Concordiat senate.
   
        Though this discovery was interesting, it was not obvious how it
    could be used for propulsion. Then, in my Terran historical archives, I
    located a reference to an obscure fission space drive proposed at the
    dawn of the atomic age. It was code named: Project Orion.
   
        It was late in the shift, and Bendra's eyes burned and watered. His
    body ached from lack of motion. The others in the room looked like he
    felt. But he could only let his attention wander for a moment. He looked
    back into the holotank, manipulating the controls, looking for
    something, anything, unusual.
   
        Bendra was weary and sick of his task. He knew that they could as
    easily have a machine perform this sort of routine scanning, but it was
    deemed too menial even to be assigned to a device. Let a low-born do it.
    That is what they would say. Do not waste a good machine.
   
        It was at these times he treasured the mystery object. He could
    refocus his tank on it, check its readings, and speculate about what it
    was. This small mystery kept him sane on nights like this.
   
        He touched the controls.
   
        Yes, there it was. He checked the orbit and saw that it had not
    deviated appreciably, nor were there any especially unusual readings. It
    was slightly warmer than he would have expected, but that could be
    explained by residual radioactivity.
   
        He chattered his beak in annoyance. It could at least do something
    interesting.
   
        And it was interesting that the object picked exactly that moment to
    explode.
   
        He blinked and shook his head. But he had not imagined it, a broad
    spectrum pulse right down to hard neutrons. A nuclear explosion then.
   
        He looked for wreckage from the object and could not find any. Had
    it merely been vaporized?
   
        Then there was a second explosion some distance away. This second
    one was less intense than the first. Then, moments later, a third.
   
        He realized that the explosions formed a line, nuclear shock waves
    like beads on a string.
   
        Then another.
   
        And another.
   
        And another.
   
        Now he knew what he was looking for. The radiation and flash made it
    difficult, but he found it, a small object moving away from the lead
    explosion, and the clear source of the next one when it came.
   
        The object was accelerating rapidly.
   
        Bendra considered.
   
        It did not fit the parameters of any ship or weapon the Kezdai knew
    of, but it seemed potentially dangerous. Certainly, it was moving by
    design, and not by accident.
   
        He hissed his annoyance, and the monitors near him turned to stare.
    He didn't care. This thing could kill them all. He couldn't afford to
    simply sit and watch it.
   
        His hand went to the intercom panel. He connected with the
    Is-Kaldai's Arbiter and asked to be connected to Vatsha. The voice in
    his earphone was clearly annoyed. "What business, low-born?"
   
        "I must alert the blood-sister to a danger we have earlier
    discussed."
   
        If the Arbiter remembered their previous conversation, he gave no
    sign. "Even if I cared to bother her, low-born, I could not. She has
    left by shuttle with the Is-Kaldai to board Blade of Kevv as soon as it
    arrives in local space. The Human forces are on the move. The offensive
    has begun. Glorious day."
   
        Eight
   
        The first explosion nearly destroyed me.
   
        It was both closer and more powerful than I expected. Only my
    remaining ablative armor tiles saved me. As it is, I have lost several
    secondary systems, and my other main turret is frozen. But I have
    learned from my mistakes. I analyzed my data, reran my simulations, and
    my second explosion was more accurately controlled.
   
        Within two minutes I was controlling the yield within 0.35 percent,
    and distance within 1.88 percent. Since then I have stumbled on a
    compression effect that seems to allow the forward shock wave from one
    explosion to compress the plasma for the next. This vastly increases
    efficiency and allows me to more than triple my anticipated explosion
    rate.
   
        My secondary batteries are proving effective for attitude control,
    but I will need to allocate my ammunition wisely. My average
    acceleration is now 3.6 standard gravities.
   
        I am a spacecraft.
   
        But not without cost.
   
        The pounding to my systems is incredible, and my forward armor,
    which is acting as a thrust plate to absorb the shock wave and turn it
    into thrust, is boiling away layer by microscopic layer. Microscopic
    stress cracks are forming through all my frame members and plates. I
    will arrive at Delas, but my ability to fight when I arrive, even after
    major refit, is increasingly questionable.
   
        Still, I am on my way to Delas, as duty and honor demand.
   
        General Kiel stared at the holographic images as the Bolos advanced,
    supported by General Rokoyan's troops. Lieutenant Veck was beside him,
    but from the start of the attack, hadn't wanted to be.
   
        "I belong with Rover," Veck had said.
   
        "At the moment, you're needed here," Kiel had said. "Rover will do
    just fine without you. And you can stay in contact through your headset,
    can't you?'
   
        Veck had agreed, because he had no choice. But Kiel could tell he
    didn't much like it.
   
        Kiel didn't care. He needed Veck at his side. He was expecting some
    sort of trap from the Kezdai and he needed Veck to help think their way
    out of it.
   
        "I don't see Kal on this image," Veck said, pointing to the hologram
    of the battlefield. On it each Bolo was shown as a bright green dot,
    with the name of the Bolo on the dot.
   
        "Kal isn't showing up on the tracking at the moment," Kiel said.
   
        "And why not?" Veck asked.
   
        Kiel pointed at the mountains. "I sent Kal the long way around
    through the mountains. If there is trouble, the lone Bolo may provide an
    unexpected surprise for the enemy."
   
        Jask poked his head over the top of the boulder and almost couldn't
    believe what he was seeing. A real Bolo was headed down the valley right
    toward him.
   
        He couldn't believe it had finally happened. The Bolos were coming
    to rescue him.
   
        He ran back to Bessy, where the unconscious Orren lay. "Lieutenant
    Orren! Lieutenant Orren, wake up!"
   
        Jask shook him. Orren stirred, but didn't wake up.
   
        "Come on, Lieutenant," Jask shouted. "It's the Bolo! The Bolo is
    here."
   
        Under him the ground was shaking from the tracks of the Bolo and it
    plowed forward, knocking down trees and brush as it came. It was
    everything he could have ever imagined.
   
        Jask gave Orren one more shake, then gave up. He activated the
    headset and ran down the hillside to the floor of the valley. The Bolo
    was coming right at him, hard and fast.
   
        Jask stuck the headphone on. "Ziggy, it's us. Stop!"
   
        He waved his arms as the battleship sized tank bore down on him.
   
        "Ziggy, don't you hear me? Stop! Stop!"
   
        "Jask, I am on my way, but I am not there yet. If you in fact see a
    Bolo, it is not me. Use extreme caution."
   
        Jask gasped as the Bolo got closer and closer, the ground shaking as
    if it were a soft bed.
   
        And the noise was massive, swallowing Jask with its thunder.
   
        "Jask, do you read me?"
   
        General Kiel, with Lieutenant Veck at his side, stood and watched
    through both holo images and live vid feeds as the Bolos advanced across
    the flat, open land, all guns blazing.
   
        The enemy was falling back, but slower now, as though the ground was
    somehow important to them.
   
        "This is making no sense at all," Veck said.
   
        "I agree," Kiel said. "I'm getting a bad feeling here."
   
        Then the explosions started.
   
        A uranium spear ripped up from a Bolo mine through the center of one
    of the Mark XXXIVs. Its A turret exploded, followed by secondary
    explosions as the ammunition in its magazines began to ignite.
   
        "All Bolos. Dead slow!" Kiel ordered. "Start scanning for mines!"
   
        The Kezdai forces, a moment ago in full retreat, suddenly dug in and
    redoubled their efforts.
   
        "Damn it all to hell," Kiel said, as then the spearfall began.
   
        "Where's that all coming from?" Kiel shouted.
   
        On screen, the Bolos were taking turns firing flack cover and
    pounding their Hellrails at the ships in orbit, all working together as
    a unit.
   
        "The Kezdai's ship with the sensor scrambler is back again," Veck
    said, studying one screen. "The number of false sensor returns has
    vastly increased."
   
        "Damn," Kiel said. "The Bolos won't hit it the way they did last
    time."
   
        "Why not try anyway?" Veck suggested. "Who knows, they may get
    lucky."
   
        "At this point," Kiel said, "that's what its going to take."
   
        General Kiel reports that our forces are under attack. From my
    current position I should be able to move in on the Enemy's eastern
    flank and catch them by surprise. I must hurry. Already losses are
    considerable.
   
        As I move, I contemplate several anomalies on my sensors. First, my
    seismic sensors are detecting the beginnings of a massive armored
    movement somewhere to my east. My scanners do not otherwise register
    them.
   
        Also, as I have been for the last hour, I detect traces of a tightly
    beamed, broad-spectrum scrambled transmission on a Bolo command band.
    The source of these transmissions is somewhere in space. But now I am
    detecting a still weaker return signal from a ground-based transmitter.
    That transmitter is quite close.
   
        Could this be part of the enemy trick we have been expecting? If so,
    I will not be deceived by it. I proceed at best possible speed.
   
        My low-level defense systems detect a movement in the valley ahead
    consistent with a foot soldier. An anti-personnel battery snaps to
    target it. But then my sensors detect a human profile. It is directly in
    my path, and the valley offers me no way to divert. I am loath to be the
    cause of a human casualty, but thousands of lives may depend on my
    speedy arrival on the battlefield.
   
        Unfortunately, the human is not clearing the way.
   
        He is waving his arms and yelling something.
   
        With supreme regret I direct an audio pickup to record the human's
    last words.
   
        Shock.
   
        The human is yelling a valid Bolo command code.
   
        It takes only 0.0023 seconds for me to apply full braking, but I
    will not be able to stop in time.
   
        It took every ounce of courage that Jask had to stand and watch the
    Bolo come at him. All the time he kept shouting the code that Ziggy had
    given him. Over and over.
   
        As loud as he could shout.
   
        But the massive noise of the Bolo bearing down on him was almost
    more than he could stand. Under his feet the ground was shaking and he
    was having trouble even breathing.
   
        The Bolo seemed to be ignoring him.
   
        Over and over he shouted the command code, even though he was sure
    no one could hear him.
   
        He was also sure the Bolo couldn't see him. Compared to the size of
    the Bolo, he was just a tiny pebble in the road.
   
        Just when he thought he was to die for sure, when it seemed it was
    far too late, all the Bolo's mighty treads locked at once, plowing up a
    wall of dirt, then spinning into reverse.
   
        "It can't stop in time!" Jask shouted to Ziggy.
   
        "Crouch low!"
   
        Jask covered his head and ducked, just as the huge tank lifted off
    the ground and flew over him. Hurricane-force winds ripped at him as the
    massive treads zoomed by inches away.
   
        The Bolo hit the ground with such force it bounced Jask into the
    air, landing him flat out on his stomach.
   
        But then it was over.
   
        The Bolo skidded to a stop, turned in its own length, and moved back
    to stop in front of him.
   
        Jask stood and said to Ziggy. "It stopped."
   
        "Do as I recommended."
   
        Jask walked fearlessly up to the huge tank, the very thing he had
    been hoping to see for a long, long time. There he took off the
    headpiece and pressed it against the Bolo's hull.
   
        At that moment, all he could do was smile.
   
        And cry just a little bit.
   
        Kal finished his report and Kiel shook his head in disbelief.
   
        "What is it, General?" Veck asked.
   
        "There is a Kezdai armored column moving out of the mountains to
    attack our forces from the east. There's more, but you won't believe it.
    Just make sure we're as ready as we can be for the secondary attack."
   
        Veck looked at Kiel with a puzzled look, then turned to go back to
    work.
   
        For a moment the general stood there stunned, then laughed and
    rejoined Veck to help where he could. But at this point in the battle,
    he knew there was little either of them could do.
   
        At this point it was up to the Bolos to win this war.
   
        * * *
   
        Nine
   
        I am again in communication with headquarters. When Jask placed my
    command headset against unit KEL-406's hull, he was able to download my
    scramble codes by direct induction, allowing us to communicate directly.
    I have advised him of my situation. He has taken Lieutenant Orren aboard
    where he can be treated by the command couch's autodoc. Young Jask will
    be taken aboard as well.
   
        I am approaching Delas rapidly now.
   
        I make no attempt to decelerate.
   
        I have solved many problems in my journey, but I now admit to myself
    that a soft landing will be impossible. Even if my hydrogen stores were
    not running low, I lack the fine control such a landing would require.
    But my regiment is under attack by overwhelming forces and I can still
    provide them one last service.
   
        Rejad sat on a pile of pillows at the top of a high podium
    overlooking the sweep of the command deck. This, he thought, was war as
    he had imagined it, all the officers of high birth and rank at their
    stations, looking resplendent in their dark-blue, formal uniforms. They
    were busy, each supervising their department or subsystem, coordinating
    the mighty weapon that was Blade of Kevv.
   
        Vatsha sat at a special station to one side, monitoring the modified
    kaleidoscope device. An officer sat with her, his arms crossed behind
    him, his presence a matter of formality. No civilian, especially a
    female, could officially hold a position of importance on a combat
    vessel.
   
        He returned his attention to the holotank displaying the progress of
    the ground battle. Things went well. The Humans' Bolos, not all, but
    enough, were right where he wanted them. He had given word, and the
    reserve force was beginning to move. Soon the real slaughter would
    begin.
   
        One of Rejad's many Arbiters appeared. "Pardons, my Is-kaldai, but
    the captain of your yacht wishes to report an incident of possible
    interest."
   
        Rejad studied that tank again. Nothing needed doing. His plan was in
    motion. "Put him through."
   
        The captain's head appeared floating in a corner of the holotank. "I
    beg forgiveness, but there has been an incident here of shame and
    misfortune."
   
        "Tell."
   
        "A low-born, a long-range monitor tried to force his way onto the
    command deck. He demanded to speak to you, my commander. He said there
    was some great danger."
   
        Rejad noticed that Vatsha was standing, listening to the
    conversation, her hood wide with tension. What would she care of this
    matter? He ignored her.
   
        "What did you do with him?"
   
        "He was mad, my commander. I took out my surias and gutted him like
    the low-born grazer that he was."
   
        Jask stood in Kal's hatch, staring down at the ground. "We can't
    leave Bessy, Kal."
   
        "I'm afraid, young Jask, that there isn't room or time to take Bessy
    aboard," Kal said. "Besides, Bessy is a Bolo of the line, and can take
    care of herself."
   
        "Where are we going?" Jask asked.
   
        Kal hesitated only a moment before telling him. "The spaceport at
    Reims. We will not stop until we get there."
   
        Jask nodded. He had been to Reims before and had seen it a few other
    times on a map. It was to the south end of the continent, a long way
    away.
   
        "Bessy, meet us at Reims," he shouted to his old friend.
   
        Then he turned and moved inside the Bolo. He had always dreamed of
    being in one, and being rescued by one. Now he got both dreams at the
    same time.
   
        The hatch closed and Jask could feel through his feet that Kal had
    gotten immediately underway. The machines built into a nifty couch were
    working on Lieutenant Orren and he already looked much better.
   
        Jask sat down in the command chair facing all the instruments and
    screens. This was the same chair that General Kiel sat in. He couldn't
    believe he was here.
   
        After a moment he wondered what it would be like to sit in Ziggy's
    command chair. "Kal, is Ziggy coming?"
   
        "Yes," Kal said. "He will be here very soon."
   
        Rejad looked up from his holotank, only now aware of the confusion
    on the command deck below. Something was wrong.
   
        The captain of the Blade of Kevv ran to the forward monitoring
    station and leaned over the officer there. "What is it?" His tone was
    demanding and harsh, as though the monitor officer had somehow caused
    the strange reading to appear.
   
        "I do not know," the officer replied, "I cannot identify it as any
    known type of ship or weapon. But it is closing on us rapidly. Impact is
    possible."
   
        "If it is a danger," said Rejad, "destroy it."
   
        The captain ducked his head in apology. "Power has been rerouted
    from our main batteries to the kaleidoscope device, as you ordered. Our
    spearlaunchers are useless against such a target."
   
        He stood a little straighter. "My commander, if it is indeed a
    missile, it is a pathetic one. We can easily move the Blade and the rest
    of our fleet from its path."
   
        "Do it then."
   
        There was a rumble as the ship powered up its maneuvering thrusters,
    and then the stars began to move in the forward ports. As Rejad watched,
    something bright and spinning shot by, close enough to make out details
    on its surface. He had a fleeting impression of-treads?
   
        Then he saw that Vatsha had abandoned her post, and was walking over
    to stare at the monitor tanks. "It was not aiming for the fleet," she
    said, despair in her voice. "It was never aiming for the fleet."
   
        The pain is almost unbearable now, but I have shut down the drive.
   
        Already I am hitting the first wisps of atmosphere, and I am
    beginning to tumble. I do not fight it.
   
        My remaining operational main battery is frozen, but as I spin, it
    may yet point at a target of opportunity. I watch and wait patiently for
    4.421 seconds. It is not statistically surprising that, when a target
    does come into my sights, it is the largest one available. The target is
    surrounded by sensor echoes, but at this close range they overlap, and I
    have a good sense of where the actual target is located.
   
        I pour my remaining power reserves into a volley from my surviving
    Hellbore.
   
        For the first time, and for one last time, I fight.
   
        The command deck shook mightily and Rejad tumbled from his platform.
    He barely landed on his feet. The lights flickered out, then returned
    with less intensity. "What was that? What was that?"
   
        The captain struggled to his feet. "We have been hit by a plasma
    bolt. Our main reactor is down. Spear launchers are heavily damaged."
   
        Rejad looked out the ports and could see wreckage and vented clouds
    of ice crystals drifting by. "What of the kaleidoscope device?"
   
        There was agony in Vatsha's reply. "There is no power, my brother."
   
        Rejad climbed back onto the platform so he could observe the battle
    below. The first advance of his reserves was coming in firing range of
    the Bolos. He signaled the ground commander. "Concentrate your fire on
    the Bolos, especially the ones with the orbital guns. They must be
    distracted until we can move out of range."
   
        The general's voice was strained. "Our ground forces will suffer, my
    commander."
   
        "Then let them suffer." Rejad snapped the connection closed.
   
        It is good not to be alone now, my brother. The pain is
    overwhelming, and I struggle to screen it out. The fleet fires at me,
    too late. I have overridden my safeties, and both my fusion reactors
    build to overload.
   
        I note with some satisfaction that my final course corrections, made
    in response to the coordinates you provided me, are accurate to within
    five-hundred meters. I almost imagine that I can see the soldiers of the
    Kezdai armored column looking up, but that would be imposs-
   
        From the position of the Bolos, a lance of fire dropped out of the
    sky over the battlefield. A falling star by anyone's standards.
   
        It vanished behind the ridge line for a moment before the blinding
    flash turned the world white.
   
        Quickly the white light faded.
   
        Then the shock wave ripped across the open plain, sending everything
    that wasn't a Bolo scampering for cover.
   
        It was the moment the Bolos had been told to wait for. All of them
    elevated their weapons and began firing at the Kezdai fleet, Hellbores
    and Hellrails alike.
   
        * * *
   
        Vatsha was dead. She had not made a sound, but at some moment when
    Rejad had not been looking, she had performed the ritual of Ducass,
    shutting off the flow of blood to her heart. It was a traditional method
    of avoiding torture. Or shame.
   
        Rejad leapt to the deck to better see out the forward ports. Even as
    the fleet scattered, they were being hit, one by one. Rejad shielded his
    eyes as a reactor blew. "Do we have the main drive working?"
   
        There was panic in the captain's eyes. "We are on thrusters only, my
    commander. The damage is severe." Then his eyes went wide as the ship
    shuddered.
   
        Rejad glanced at a master systems display showing a profile of the
    ship, and watched it go black from the back end to the front, each new
    section of blackness timed to a louder and closer explosion.
   
        As a child, Rejad had witnessed a favorite uncle beheaded. He had,
    in his more morbid moments, wondered what it would be like, to see your
    own body as your head fell toward the sand, knowing you were already
    dead.
   
        Now he knew.
   
        "Does anyone have any idea exactly what has happened?" Veck asked,
    clearly frustrated.
   
        General Kiel laughed. "Well, from the looks of it, the entire Kezdai
    reserve force has been destroyed by some sort of space bombardment. The
    fleet has been crippled and is on the run, and the ground forces are in
    full retreat with no sign of stopping."
   
        "But what happened?" Veck demanded.
   
        Keil shrugged. "I have no idea. But as I said, Lieutenant, trust the
    Bolos. I don't know how they pulled this one off, but always trust the
    Bolos."
   
        "Well," Veck said, "we still have a lot of work to do if we're going
    to chase the Kezdai forces all the way back to the spaceport at Reims.
    We had better get to it."
   
        "Of that I have no doubt," Kiel said.
   
        For a moment he listened to the news coming over his headset from
    Kal, then smiled.
   
        "Lieutenant, you can take a minute, can't you?"
   
        Veck looked at him with a puzzled frown.
   
        "Kal has picked up a injured passenger and has been administering
    emergency treatment. The passenger is now awake, and would like to speak
    to you."
   
        "To me?" Veck asked. "Why me?"
   
        "Just talk to him and quit asking so many questions," Kiel said,
    laughing.
   
        Veck opened the channel.
   
        To Kiel, the look of shock and joy and relief mixed on the young
    lieutenant's face was something he would remember for a very long time.
   
        On the planet Delas, the first day of nighwinter was a time of both
    celebration and mourning. It was a time of celebration that the Kezdai
    were gone, their last ship having disappeared into subspace, their
    equipment abandoned and rusting all over the southern continent.
   
        It was a time of mourning for the one-point-two million civilian
    casualties, and the many cities and towns reduced to rubble and ash.
   
        It was a time of celebration for the heroes of the conflict.
   
        And it was a time of mourning for those fallen in defense of
    humanity.
   
        Of those who lived to see it, few would ever forget the parade of
    Bolos into Reims, banners flying over their blackened and scarred hulls,
    the anthem of the Concordiat sounding from their loudspeakers.
   
        They streamed onto the spaceport aprons, passing in review before
    the planetary governor and the commanding generals, finally to form
    ranks and stand at wait.
   
        It was there, as the entire planet watched, that the brave were
    honored.
   
        Among the curious events of that day included a Concordiat Medal of
    Honor given to a small boy, and a decoration for extraordinary valor,
    given to a Bolo that, according to the official record never arrived on
    Delas at all. According to that record, Bolo R-0012-ZGY of the
    Dinochrome Brigade was merely listed as missing in action.
   
        It was later that same day, as the sun was setting over the ruins of
    Chancellorton, three-hundred and twenty kilometers to the north of
    Reims, that a platoon of soldiers from the Delassian Defense Force's
    19th Volunteer Regiment spotted a robo-mule, of the type often used by
    miners. The robo-mule had various pots and pans affixed to its upper
    deck, and crudely lettered on its side, using some sort of marker, were
    the words: BOLO BESSY 1198TH REG. DINOKROM BRIGADE.
   
        The little vehicle passed them on the dusty road, headed south, and
    they did not see it again.
   



       ---





        Brothers

   
        William H. Keith, Jr.


   
        [Click]
   
        Input . . . boot-up procedure initiated. Resident operating system
    routines loaded.
   
        Building in-memory directories. Initiating psychotronic array
    cascade.
   
        Boot process and initiation sequencing complete. It has been 0.524
    seconds since I was brought on-line, and situational data is flooding
    into my primary combat processing center at approximately 29.16
    gigabytes per second. Alert status Yellow, Code Delta-two. An alert,
    then, rather than a combat situation. I expand my awareness, switching
    on external cameras and sensory data feeds.
   
        I am where I was when I was powered down and deactivated, which is
    to say Bolo Storage Bay One of the Izra'il Field Armored Support Unit,
    514th Regiment, Dinochrome Brigade. Camera feeds from remote emplaced
    scanners show typical Izra'ilian conditions outside the bay's flintsteel
    bunker walls-ice and snow broken by straggling growths of freezegorse
    and thermophilia, with the sawtooth loftiness of the crags and glaciers
    of the Frozen Hell Mountains on the horizon. It is local night, and The
    Prophet looms huge, swollen in star-rich blackness beneath the golden
    arch of the Bridge to Paradise.
   
        The human names for these things, I sense, are rich with evocative
    imagery, but, as usual, their import is lost on me, save in the
    lingering awareness of something much greater than the words alone,
    forever beyond my grasp. My history archives long ago informed me that
    many of the names associated with this world are linked with certain
    systems of human religious belief. Religion, either as spiritual solace
    or as epistemological investigation, is meaningless within my own
    worldview and existential context. I am a Bolo, Mark XXIV Model HNK of
    the Line. While I have no data either to support or discredit the
    objective reality of religious statements, they are for me null input.
   
        I am far more concerned with the unfolding tactical situation that
    has initiated my retrieval from deep shutdown and storage; my internal
    clock, I am surprised to note, indicates the passage of 95 years, 115
    days, 6 hours, 27 minutes, 5.22 seconds since my last deactivation from
    full-alert status.
   
        The situation must be desperate to compel Headquarters to reactivate
    me after so long a downtime period.
   
        2.073 seconds have now elapsed since reactivation sequencing, and
    all processors are on-line, power flow is optimal at 34 percent, weapons
    systems read on-line and fully charged or loaded, battlescreens check
    out as activation ready and on standby, and all autodiagnostics indicate
    optimal combat readiness. QDC channels are activated, and I sense my
    counterpart, NDR of the Line, stirring as he wakes from his
    ninety-five-year sleep. This is unusual. Normally, under a Code Yellow
    Alert, only a single Bolo Combat Unit would be activated in order to
    assess the situation and initiate a coherent defense.
   
        I pass the coded signal indicating status, then extend the range and
    sensitivity of my long-range sensors. I also recheck all communications
    channels, both encrypted and open. Logically, the local Combat Command
    Center will brief me on the situation, given time, but I admit to both
    curiosity and impatience.
   
        What, I wonder, is the tactical situation I have awakened to after
    so long a sleep?
   
        "What," Mustafa Khalid asked, angrily, "can you tell me about the
    tactical situation?"
   
        Lieutenant Roger Martin looked up from the scanner display,
    startled. Consortium Facility governors did not talk to junior
    Concordiat officers, whatever the provocation. The fact that Colonel
    Lang was strictly a supply maven whose combat experience was limited to
    exchanges of pyrotechnic verbal force packages with his wife meant
    nothing. Chain-of-command protocol restricted discussions both of
    strategy and diplomacy to the upper echelons of command, which in a base
    as small as Icehell meant Thomas Lang.
   
        Martin also knew, though, that Khalid required an answer. He was
    responsible for almost seventy thousand colonial civilians on Izra'il,
    and that was a responsibility he took damned seriously.
   
        More seriously, Martin thought, than the responsibility Lang took
    for the three hundred Concordiat troops, technicians, and base support
    personnel within the Consortium Defense Command.
   
        "They're Kezdai, sir," Martin said. "There are a hell of a lot of
    them and they're not friendly. Don't know what I can tell you other than
    that."
   
        "You could be wrong with that ID, Lieutenant," Colonel Lang said,
    his pinched face lengthening with his frown. "In fact, you'd better be
    wrong. The last time the Kezdai came through here, we almost lost
    Delas."
   
        "ID is positive, sir. The ship configurations, their drive
    signatures, match the archived Kezdai data perfectly. We've counted
    thirty incoming ships already, and all on approach vectors to Izra'il."
    He looked up at the colonel. "My guess is that we're going to be neck
    deep in the bastards in the next couple of hours."
   
        "I'm not interested in guesses, Lieutenant. I want facts, and I want
    them now."
   
        "Can your Bolos do anything, my friend?" Khalid asked.
   
        The way he inflected the word your spoke volumes. The Consortium
    governor didn't like Lang; that much was common knowledge, the
    centerpiece of much gossip at the Allah-forsaken Prophet outpost. He
    knew he needed the military's help, but it sounded as though he was
    despairing of ever getting that help from Lang.
   
        Perhaps he was grasping at straws, desperate for any positive news
    at all.
   
        "I suppose," Martin said carefully, "that that depends on how much
    the Kezdai learned last time around. They know what they're up against
    now. They're tough and they're smart. I don't think they'd launch an
    assault of this size unless they were confident they could take on at
    least what they found themselves up against last time."
   
        "Well, suppose you wake those dinosaurs of yours up," Lang said,
    "and put them out where they can do some good."
   
        "Initialization and start-up sequencing for both units are complete,
    sir," he said, stung by Lang's sarcasm. "Hank reports full combat
    readiness. They're studying the tacsit now."
   
        "Well, tell them to hurry the hell up," Lang snapped. "If those are
    Kezdai, we are in deep trouble!"
   
        You're telling me? Martin thought, face expressionless. At the
    moment he wasn't sure what worried him more-the incoming Kezdai invasion
    fleet, or the incompetence of his own CO.
   
        It has been 23.93 seconds since we became fully operational, and we
    are still waiting for definitive input from the command center. Data
    feeds indicate that numerous incoming space vessels appear to be
    vectoring for landings on Izra'il; indeed, the first landings have
    already taken place, on the ice plains east of the Frozen Hell
    Mountains.
   
        I access the combat record archives within HQ's data libraries. A
    span of 95.31 years is long for a human; in Bolo terms, it is an
    eternity. What wars have been waged, what battles fought, in the
    intervening near-century?
   
        The Prophet and its coterie of moons is relatively remote from major
    centers of Concordiat civilization. Closest are Angelrath, Korvan, and
    Delas, worlds on the rim of humankind's realm, hence distant from the
    political and governmental storms that most often lead to war. Beyond
    the Concordiat frontier in this sector, there is only the unexplored
    vastness of far-flung suns scattering in toward the Galactic center, and
    the cold, pale-smeared glow of the Firecracker Nebula.
   
        Interesting. There is a reference in the library to an incursion
    some months ago by a formerly unknown alien species occupying at least
    several star systems in the general region of the nebula. They are
    called "Kezdai," a militant humanoid species possessed of a warrior
    ethic and philosophy. According to library records, their recent landing
    on Delas was repulsed by elements of the 491st Armored Regiment out of
    Angelrath, including two uprated Mark XXVIII Bolos of the old 39th
    Terran Lancers.
   
        I note that the drive signatures of the starships vectoring toward
    Izra'il match those recorded for Kezdai vessels in the last incursion
    and assume, with 95+ percent certainty, that they are hostiles. I
    request permission to deploy orbit denial munitions.
   
        "Sir," Lieutenant Martin said, "Bolo Hank is requesting weapons free
    on ODM. He's confirming those incoming boats as Kezdai."
   
        "That's a negative!" Lang snapped. "We could have friendlies coming
    in on a landing approach vector."
   
        "Sir, Andrew requests deployment orders."
   
        "Tell those junk-heap mountains-" Lang stopped himself. "Negative,"
    he said. "All units hold position."
   
        Lieutenant Martin turned to face the colonel. "Sir, the inbound
    targets have been IDed with high probability as hostile. With respect,
    sir, we should deploy the Bolos before enemy air or space strikes find
    them in their storage bunkers."
   
        "Use 'em or lose 'em, eh?" Lang said, grinning. He shook his head.
    "Obsolete or not, those two clunkers are our only heavy artillery on
    this rock. I'm not going to deploy them until I'm certain I know what
    the enemy has in mind. Put them out there too soon and . . . phht!" He
    snapped his fingers. "They get zapped from space, and we lose our only
    mobile artillery. No, thank you!"
   
        "If those are troop transports inbound," Martin reminded him, "then
    the time and the place to stop them is now, in space, before they hit
    dirt. They'll be a hell of a lot harder to run down once they're loose
    on the surface."
   
        "Thank you. Mr. Martin, but I do know something about strategy and
    tactics. We need to see what the Kedzees are up to. I mean to draw them
    out."
   
        Martin and Khalid exchanged glances. Martin couldn't help but feel
    sorry for the governor. Izra'il was a hardship posting for Concordiat
    troops . . . but it was home to Khalid and over seven thousand
    Izra'ilian colonists. Lang's experiments in tactics would be conducted
    in the backyards of Khalid and his neighbors.
   
        What was Lang playing at?
   
        His communication board chirped, a call from Bolo Hank. He inserted
    an earpiece and opened the channel. "Bolo tactical, Code
    seven-seven-three," he said. "Lieutenant Martin."
   
        "My Commander," a voice said in his ear. "This is Bolo of the Line
    HNK 0808-50 and Bolo of the Line NDR 0831-57." The voice was deep and
    rich, with a trace of an accent Martin couldn't place, flat vowels and a
    hint of old-fashioned formality. The language had shifted somewhat in
    the three centuries since Hank and Andrew had been programmed. "We are
    fully charged, powered-up, and ready in all respects for combat. Our
    expendable munitions lockers are full. Hellbores charged and ready.
    Sensors operational, and tracking probable hostiles. Request permission
    to engage the enemy."
   
        "Not just yet, Hank." He hesitated, studying Colonel Lang who was
    talking quietly with Khalid. "We've got . . . we've got a situation here
    in the command center. My CO wants to . . . draw out the enemy, get him
    to commit himself."
   
        "I see. May I suggest, my Commander, that the two of us be
    positioned in a more central location, from which we can be speedily
    deployed to any threatened quarter? It seems needlessly wasteful to
    leave Bolo assets in lightly armored storage bunkers."
   
        "I agree. Hold tight, and I'll see what I can do. But . . . no
    promises."
   
        "I understand, my Commander."
   
        The Bolo might understand, but Martin was damned if he did.
   
        * * *
   
        I wonder when the order to engage will come.
   
        I feel Andrew's presence within my thoughts as our QDC link firms
    up. The test series for the new Bolo comm system was completed nearly
    three centuries ago, and though the tests were deemed inconclusive, the
    equipment was never deactivated or removed. This has proven to be an
    excellent stroke of good fortune to both Andrew and myself, allowing us
    an open and completely secure communications channel at a much deeper
    level than that provided by more traditional systems.
   
        "Kezdai forces," Andrew says, sorting through the incoming flood of
    tactical information. "Do we have a primary tacop deployment option?"
   
        "Negative. According to the combat archives, the Kezdai were
    formidable opponents, if somewhat rigid and inflexible. The assumption
    is that they will have noted the presence of two uprated Mark XXVIIIs on
    Delas and evolved both weapons and tactics necessary for countering a
    Bolo defense."
   
        "Perhaps doctrinal rigidity prevents them from making major changes
    in their tactical deployment."
   
        "We cannot count on that. If they have experienced success enough to
    maintain an essentially warrior-oriented culture, they must have
    flexibility enough to meet new threats and technologies."
   
        "Perhaps we should game scenarios of historical interest," Andrew
    suggests.
   
        "We have little information on Kezdai potential," I reply, "but it
    would be a reasonable use of time." Seconds were dragging past,
    ponderous as human days, without immediate response from HQ.
   
        "Initiating," Andrew said, and a battlefield unfolds within my mind.
   
   
        "What's this?" Colonel Lang demanded, pointing at a bank of monitors
    and readouts suddenly active. Several screens showed rapidly shifting,
    flickering views that might have represented soldiers . . . but in the
    uniforms and carrying weapons a millennium out of date. "What's going
    on?"
   
        Lieutenant Martin gave the monitor array an amused glance. "They're
    playing games."
   
        "What?" The word rebuked. "What are you talking about?"
   
        "That's the Bolo QDC console, sir," Martin explained. "It's
    essentially a private communications channel. They use it during
    downtime, to hone their tactical and strategic faculties. Don't try to
    make sense of it. It goes too fast. But it can be interesting to play
    the scenarios back later, at a speed the human mind can grasp."
   
        "That QD . . . what? What is that?"
   
        "Quantum Determinacy Communications, sir. These two combat units
    were fitted with a prototype quantum communications system . . . oh,
    must've been three or four hundred years ago."
   
        "Ah," Lang said. "Of course. . . ."
   
        Amused by Lang's pretense, Martin pushed ahead. "The concept of
    quantum-dynamic ansibles has been floating around for centuries, of
    course. The idea predates human spaceflight."
   
        "A quantum communications system?" Khalid asked. "You mean where
    quantum particles are paired off, and their spins change at the same
    time?"
   
        Martin nodded, impressed at the governor's knowledge of
    historiotechnic trivia. "Exactly." He touched his forefingers together,
    then spread them apart. "Generate two quantum particles-a photon, say-in
    the same subatomic event. They will be identical in every respect,
    including such characteristics as what we call spin. Move them apart.
    Change the one from spin up to spin down . . . and the second particle's
    spin will change at the same instant, even if the two are separated by
    thousands of light years. It's one of the fundamentals of quantum
    physics, and the basis for communications devices that can't be tapped,
    jammed, or interfered with in any way. No carrier wave, you understand.
    No signal to block or intercept. What happens in one unit simply . . .
    happens in the other, at the same instant. Physicists still don't really
    understand why the universe seems to work that way."
   
        "And your Bolos have such a device?" Khalid asked, his eyes wide.
    "Can we turn it to our advantage?"
   
        Martin glanced at Lang, who was staring at the two of them with an
    expression mingling confusion with suspicion, and smiled. "I'm afraid
    not, sir." He patted the top of the console. "The idea was to let Bolos
    communicate with one another, and with their HQ, without being jammed.
    It apparently worked pretty well . . . but too quickly for us slow
    human-types to understand what was going on."
   
        "You mean, the Bolos could understand one another, but humans could
    not follow the conversation?"
   
        "Exactly. Bolos think a lot faster than humans, you know . . .
    although comparing the two is about like comparing Terran apples with
    Cerisian tanafruit. When they talk to us, they use a whole, separate
    part of their psychotronic network, a kind of virtual brain within a
    brain, to slow things down to our speed. The QDC network resides within
    their main processor. To slow things down in there so we could follow
    what was going on would be counterproductive, to say the least." He
    shrugged. "They considered using it as a part of the TSDS, that's Total
    Systems Data-Sharing technology, which let an entire battalion of Bolos
    essentially share a group mind in tactical applications, but there was
    no way to monitor what was going on that satisfied the human need to
    stay on top of what was happening."
   
        "Logical enough," Lang said. "You wouldn't want an army of Bolos
    operating outside of human control!"
   
        Martin grimaced. "The threat of so-called rogue Bolos has been
    greatly exaggerated, sir."
   
        "I think not! The Concordiat faces enough threats from rampaging
    aliens. We scarcely need to add a battalion or two of our own creations,
    battle-damaged or senile, to our list of enemies!"
   
        "If you say so, sir." Martin had exchanged thoughts on the topic
    with Lang before, insofar as a mere lieutenant could exchange thoughts
    with a hidebound and narrow-sensored colonel. Their debates generally
    devolved rapidly into a polemic from superior to junior officer, laying
    down the law, chapter and verse of The Book, exactly the way things
    were, had been, and always would be in the future.
   
        "Why are those machines wasting time with games?"
   
        "Simulations, sir. I've noticed they do a lot of that, each time
    they're raised to semi-active status."
   
        "They play games?" Khalid asked. He sounded intrigued.
   
        "Well, it's been almost a hundred years since Hank and Andrew were
    last at full-alert status, but we bring them on-line at low awareness
    every few months for maintenance checks and diagnostics. As soon as we
    do, they start throwing sims at each other. I think it's their way of
    staying sharp."
   
        "They can do this when only partly aware?"
   
        "Believe me," Martin said. "Even half awake, a Mark XXIV Bolo is
    sharper than most people. They don't store detailed memories in that
    state, so I guess they remember it as a kind of dream. And they don't
    really wake up until they're in full combat reflex mode."
   
        "You talk about those . . . those things as though they were alive,"
    Lang said, disgusted.
   
        "What makes you think they aren't? Sir."
   
        "Those machines, Lieutenant, are Bolo combat units, nothing more,
    nothing less. As a matter of fact, they're Mark XXIVs, which makes them
    pretty well obsolete now . . . the reason, I suppose, that Sector HQ saw
    fit to stick them out here on this iceball. You tell those machines to
    sit tight. I'll give the word when it's time to roll!"
   
        "Yes, sir." Colonel Lang, Martin knew, had been sidetracked in his
    career . . . a screw-up of some sort on New Devonshire, with only
    powerful political connections to keep him from losing his commission.
   
        And why, Martin thought, did they stick you in this hole, Colonel?
    Because you're as obsolete as those Bolos out there? Or simply because
    you're incompetent?
   
        The answer to that question, he decided, might be important.
   
        In the past 25.23 minutes, we have refought the battle of Blenheim
    eleven times, alternating the roles of Marlborough and Eugene on the one
    side, and of Marshal Tallard on the other. John Churchill, the Duke of
    Marlborough, is a favorite of Andrew's, though not, I confess, of mine.
    All Bolos with sentient capabilities are programmed with exhaustive
    files of military-historical data, a means of drawing on and learning
    from the experiences of over three millennia of human experience in
    warfare.
   
        At Mode Three temporal perception, we follow each engagement in what
    we perceive as real time, from the initial Allied scouting of the French
    positions from Tapfheim on August 12, 1704, through the battle proper on
    the afternoon of the 13th, ending with Tallard's surrender of the
    encircled Blenheim garrison at 9:00 P.M. the following evening. We end
    up with two victories apiece, and seven draws, demonstrating the even
    matching of Andrew's and my tactical abilities more than inherent
    differences in the troops or ground.
   
        Four additional scenarios, however, end with two wins to two wins,
    all four victories for the French. In these contests, we fought
    hypothetical engagements based on an alternate what-if possibility north
    of the actual battlefield, with Tallard's forces holding a defensive
    position at Tapfheim. The results suggest that Tallard was unwise in his
    choice of a defensive position. At Tapfheim, with his left anchored on
    some wooded hills and his right on the Danube, he would have enjoyed the
    same flank security as the historical placement, but with a narrower
    front where his slight numerical superiority-and his three-to-two
    superiority in artillery-could have made itself felt.
   
        The simulations do not demonstrate that Tallard could have beaten
    Marlborough and his "Twin-Captain," the Prince of Savoy, of course. Both
    Churchill and Eugene were commanders of considerable talent, while
    Tallard was mediocre, at best. Andrew and I agree, however, that the
    selection of the ground in any battle-a selection generally made by the
    defender-is of paramount importance in the prosecution of any military
    encounter.
   
        Within our simulation, I step from the ball-battered ruin of
    Blenheim's defensive wall, sword in hand. Andrew, in his virtual guise
    as Marlborough, meets me, his staff and Prince Eugene at his back.
    Around us, smashed cannon, splintered barricades, and the broken bodies
    of men of both armies lie in tangled heaps and scatters. Kneeling, I
    present my sword. This re-creation was far bloodier than the historical
    reality of the War of the Spanish Succession. In the original Blenheim,
    Marlborough lost 12,500 battle casualties, or 23 percent of his total
    effective force, compared to Marshal Tallard's historical loss of 21,000
    battle casualties, plus 14,000 lost as prisoners of war and another
    5,000 deserted, a total of 70 percent of the Franco-Bavarian strength.
   
        In this final refighting of the classic battle, both sides lost
    nearly 60 percent as outright killed and wounded, an unthinkably high
    attrition rate in real-world combat. I consider the possibility that
    Bolos may not be as sympathetic to the weaknesses of flesh and blood as
    human commanders and are willing, therefore, to push harder. They are
    only imaginary soldiers, after all, electronic shadows within our
    QDC-shared virtual universe. And, just possibly, the nature of warfare
    itself has changed. Human warfare in the era of Marlborough was a
    gentler art, for all that people still died in the thousands.
   
        Interesting that Colonel Lang seems hesitant to deploy us, despite
    the obvious threat. He seems to have less passion as a commander even
    than the hapless Tallard.
   
        An enlisted technician called from the other side of the command
    center. "C-Colonel Lang?" He was painfully young . . . a teenager with
    fuzz on his cheeks.
   
        "Whaddizit?"
   
        "S-sir, we're getting reports now of major landings on the far side
    of the Frozen Hells! There's fighting in both Gadalene and Inshallah,
    and . . . and refugees are starting to come west through the passes!"
   
        "What do we have over there?"
   
        "Only a few garrisons, sir. I've got Captain Chandler on the line
    now."
   
        "Let me talk to her."
   
        Martin followed Lang as he approached the com console, where a
    holographic image flickered above the transmitter plate. Captain Maria
    Chandler was a handsome, ebon-skinned woman with five battle stars on
    her tunic and a reputation for a tough attitude and devoted troops in
    her command. "Colonel Lang!" she snapped as soon as she saw the CO's
    image on her console. "Either send help or get us the hell out of here!"
   
   
        "What's your tacsit, Captain?"
   
        "My tacsit," she said, in a prissy, near-mocking tone, "is tacshit.
    We have alien transports coming down all over the place. Take a look for
    yourself."
   
        A flatscreen monitor above the console lit up, transmitting jerky,
    sometimes incoherent images from a handheld camera. Martin saw the domes
    and greenhouses of flintsteel and blue crystal of one of the eastern
    settlements-he wasn't sure which one, but Captain Chandler was
    commanding a garrison at Glacierhelm, and he assumed that was what he
    was seeing. Smoke rose in columns, illuminated from beneath in the black
    night sky by the turbulent orange glow of fires. An ungainly landing
    craft of unfamiliar design, all angles and bulges and blunt ends,
    descended toward the ice, a shadow behind the harsh glare of landing
    lights. Heavily armed troops were already on the ice, their combat armor
    painted white with random smears of dark gray, as camouflage within the
    icy environment. The bodies on the ground, broken and fire-tossed, were
    nearly all clad in light Concordiat body armor, panted black with white
    trim.
   
        The scene fuzzed with static suddenly, then went blank.
   
        "We need help!" Chandler said, angry. "We're completely outnumbered
    and have no way to resist! I've ordered the civilian population to board
    icecats and make it through the passes, but there aren't enough-"
   
        And with startling abruptness, the holo image winked out in a white
    blur of static.
   
        "Wait!" Lang bellowed. "Get her back!"
   
        "Can't, sir," the technician replied. "Transmission interrupt . . .
    from her end."
   
        Other monitors were showing similar scenes of chaos. The local
    colonial news service was reporting landings and hostile attacks among
    most of the domed towns and habitat outposts scattered across the
    Eastern Tundra, and camera views of incoming landers and running troops
    were displayed on a dozen monitors. More and more of those monitors were
    going blank, however. On one, a news reporter, heavily swaddled in
    synthfur against the cold, was talking into a handheld microphone when
    white-armored troops burst in behind him, blasters flaring in dazzling
    bursts of blue light. The reporter's head came apart in a blurred red
    mist, and then that camera feed as well went dead.
   
        "Colonel!" Khalid cried, "you must do something!"
   
        Lang was still staring at one of the few active screens. It was
    difficult to see what was happening-massive, armored shapes moving in
    the darkness, as flame gouted into the night. "Martin? What are those
    things?"
   
        "I can't tell, sir." He checked another screen, tapping out a
    command on the keyboard, entering a query for information. "There's
    nothing on them in the warbook. They may be something new, something we
    didn't see with the last Kezdai incursion."
   
        "Ground crawlers. They look almost like . . . Bolos."
   
        "Small ones. They can't mass more than five hundred tons. A Mark
    XXIV masses fourteen thousand."
   
        "But there are a damn lot of them, Lieutenant. And they're heavily
    armored. Even a Bolo can be taken down by numbers, if there are enough
    of them."
   
        "It takes more than armor to do that, Colonel. Bolos are smart." If
    you let them use their talents and fight the war their way. . . .
   
        "They're headed west," Khalid said. "Toward the passes. Toward us."
   
        Lang looked at Martin and nodded. "Order the Bolos out," he said.
   
        "Yes, sir!"
   
        It's about freaking time. . . .
   
        Were I human, I would exult. "It's about time," I believe, is how
    humans express this particular emotion.
   
        Massive doors rumble aside as I engage my main drive trains. I
    notice a group of humans, mech-technicians of the Izra'il Field Armored
    Support Unit, 514th Regiment, standing to one side as I pass like a
    duralloy cliff towering above them. Humans are so tiny, tiny and frail,
    yet I must recognize that it was they who created my kind.
   
        I move out at full speed, hitting 100 kph by the time I clear the
    doors and reaching 140 on the open parade ground beyond. While combat
    feeds do not indicate any immediate threat to this base, I do not wish
    to expose myself to the possibility of orbital bombardment while I am
    still restricted in mobility by the physical structure of the base.
   
        Three hundred meters south, Andrew emerges from his bunker in a
    glittering spray of ice crystals illuminated by the base lights, racing
    east on a course parallel to mine. The Frozen Hell Mountains rise a few
    kilometers ahead, rugged and ice enfolded.
   
        The tactical situation is fairly simple. The Frozen Hells, rising
    nearly four thousand meters above the Izra'ilian tundra, form an ideal
    defensive barrier to surface movement, though not, of course, an
    impediment to air transport or attack. There are only two overland
    routes through the mountains within almost a thousand kilometers of the
    base-the Ad Dukhan River Valley to the south, and the Al Buruj Pass to
    the north.
   
        Our tactical data feeds indicate that both passes are now crowded
    with Izra'ilian civilians streaming west through the two passes, fleeing
    the slaughter now being wreaked by the Enemy among the towns on the far
    side of the mountains. The human traffic will make movement through the
    passes difficult. A more viable option is to open up with a long-range
    indirect bombardment of Enemy positions on the eastern flank of the
    mountains and to engage Enemy spacecraft now in planetary orbit.
   
        I perform a final systems check and determine that all weapons and
    combat systems are fully operational. I open the communications channel
    to headquarters and request weapons free.
   
        "They want to what?"
   
        "Bolo HNK is requesting weapons free," Martin said. "He wants to
    target enemy positions on the far side of the mountains and to hit
    Kezdai ships in close orbit."
   
        "Negative!" Lang said. "Request denied, damn it!"
   
        "Sir-"
   
        "I said denied! We start hitting Kezdai ships, and they're going to
    start hitting our ships. We can't afford that, not if we want to
    maintain an open route off this rock. As for lobbing missiles over the
    mountains, forget it! There are still friendlies over there, and I don't
    want to start an indiscriminant mass-bombardment!"
   
        Martin looked at the number one monitor on his console, which showed
    one of the Bolos up close, grinding off across the ice-locked tundra
    toward the east. Its hull was pitted, worn, and battle-scarred,
    reminding him with a jolt that these machines had been in several dozen
    actions already, stretched across the last couple of hundred years. The
    machines bore eight battle stars apiece, and they'd seen plenty of minor
    engagements that hadn't rated the fancy unit citations welded to their
    glacises.
   
        It suggested that they knew what they were doing, damn it.
   
        "Lieutenant Martin!"
   
        "Yes, sir."
   
        "Deploy the armor into the passes. Have them hold the passes against
    enemy attempts to break through. That should give us the time we need to
    regroup on this side of the mountains, see what we're going to do."
   
        "Yes, sir." He reached for the comm headset.
   
        * * *
   
        I find it hard to believe that we have been issued such orders. A
    Bolo is, first and foremost, an offensive combat unit. Its best assets
    are wasted in a purely defensive stance. Andrew and I discuss the
    situation via our QDC link, confident that we cannot be overheard by the
    Enemy . . . or even understood by those monitoring our transmissions at
    the Combat Command Center.
   
        "They must have reasons for this deployment," Andrew suggests. Of
    the two of us, he was always the more stolid, the more steady, the more
    certain of reason behind muddled orders. "The situation on the far side
    of the mountains is still confused. Perhaps they fear incurring
    friendly-fire casualties on Izra'ilian civilians."
   
        "Perhaps," I reply, "though the use of drones and AI missiles for
    final targeting options would limit civilian casualties. Especially when
    our targets would be primary Enemy targets, such as their transports,
    field headquarters and communications stations, and armor
    concentrations."
   
        "It's also possible that C3's reasons for these orders are the same
    reasons Marshal Tallard decided against deploying on the Tapfheim Line."
   
   
        "And those reasons are?" I prompted.
   
        "Mistaken ones."
   
        I was intrigued by the fact that Andrew had just assayed a joke. Not
    a very good one, perhaps, by humans standards, but a definite attempt at
    humorous wordplay. Bolos are not known for their sense of humor, nor
    would such be encouraged if humans had reason to suspect it.
   
        It was not the first time that I had wondered if Andrew and I were
    entirely up to spec.
   
        In the past, I've primarily been concerned that I have trouble
    integrating with other Bolo combat units. Obviously, our QDC link makes
    us closer than would otherwise be the case, so much so that various of
    our human commanders in the past have referred to us as "that two-headed
    Bolo," or as "the Bolo Brothers." Our diagnostics, however, have always
    been within the expected psychotronic profiles, and no mention of
    processing aberrations has been made by any of our commanders or service
    teams. We are combat-ready and at peak efficiency.
   
        We are ready to engage the Enemy.
   
        Andrew is moving further to the south now, angling onto a new
    heading of 099 degrees in order to enter the western end of the Ad
    Dukhan Valley. I can see the valley entrance now, for it is marked by
    high thermal readings and a visible outflow of water vapor. The name, in
    the Arabic of this world's colonists, means "The Smoke" and refers to
    clouds of steam emerging from a river rising from hot thermal vents in
    the valley. Izra'il possesses considerable tectonic activity, the result
    of the constant tidal tug-of-war it plays with the gas giant called The
    Prophet and others of The Prophet's moons. An important deep thermal
    power station is located at the thousand-meter level of the path; the Ad
    Dukhan River itself is so hot it remains liquid despite an ambient
    temperature ranging between minus five and minus fifty degrees all the
    way to the Al-Mujadelah Sea.
   
        The steam filling that valley could provide Andrew with a tactical
    advantage, masking his heat signature and helping to render him
    invisible even at close range.
   
        My destination is the Al Buruj Pass to the north, a narrow defile
    through the mountains named "The Mansions of the Stars" in the local
    tongue.
   
        I sense now the near approach of the Enemy ahead and increase my
    pace.
   
        "I really think we should be listening to them, sir," Martin said,
    stubborn. "They have more experience on the front line than any of the
    rest of us have on the chow line." He hesitated, trying to gauge just
    how far he could go. "Colonel, a good officer knows to listen to his
    sergeants. What they have to say comes from experience, not
    simulations!"
   
        Lang almost smiled. "Lieutenant, the day I take advice from a giant
    track-crawling piece of construction equipment with a psycho-whatsit
    brain and a programmed-to-order attitude is the day I retire from the
    service! Get it through your head, son. Those toys of yours are
    machines. Not men. They don't think, not the way we do, and you'll just
    get yourself in trouble pretending they do!" He turned and glanced at
    the QDC console, then indicated the fast-flickering screens with a nod
    of his head. "Besides, it looks like they play simulations. Not paying
    attention to the real world much, are they?"
   
        "Some of that is ordinary conversation, Colonel. They're discussing
    something. It looks like there's also a game running, but they have it
    isolated in a pretty small shared virtual world. They don't need that
    much thought to traverse terrain or watch for incoming. My guess is that
    they're modeling some possible Kezdai strategy and tactics, so they can
    decide how best to deploy."
   
        "They'll decide, huh?" Lang shook his head. "I'm not getting through
    to you, Lieutenant. Bolos are machines, not people! Stop goddamn
    pretending they're alive!"
   
        "Yes, sir."
   
        Martin returned to his console. On a map display overhead, two
    points of green light crawled toward the mountains.
   
        I am now in full Combat Reflex Mode as battle is joined at 0587
    hours, local time. Three Kezdai aircraft, possibly drones but carrying
    numerous missile weapons, flew across the mountains on an attack vector
    for the Combat Command Center. I downed one and Andrew two, brushing
    them from the night's sky with twin bursts of ion bolts from our
    infinite repeaters.
   
        My Vertical Launch System is on-line, and I use it to deploy a
    combat zone recon drone package. Ninety-six small, autonomous probes
    will relay visual and e-signal data via Izra'il's military-comm
    satellite network or, should that fail, by way of relay drones landed
    atop the Frozen Hell's higher and more inaccessible peaks.
   
        As the recon drones come down on the eastern side of the mountains,
    our battle centers are flooded with incoming data. Weapon and ship
    designs, radio frequencies and code types, all match samples from the
    last Kezdai incursion at Delas, verifying the Enemy's identity. They
    appear more numerous than the first field reports suggested.
   
        We observe at least forty-two heavily armored ground crawlers, each
    with an estimated mass of five hundred tons, each with a turret-mounted
    energy weapon and obvious missile launch tubes. They appear to be moving
    in two groups of twenty-one toward the two passes. We could take them
    out now . . . but our orders from our command center specifically
    prohibit this.
   
        On my long-range sensors, I pick up an orbiting Kezdai battlecruiser
    rising above the western horizon.
   
        For the next 0.015 second, I wrestle with conflicting hierarchies of
    programming and the orders to avoid firing at targets in orbit. I decide
    that an attack from the battlecruiser will warrant a reply, but until
    then I will merely observe. Colonial spacecraft remain in orbit, I note.
    Possibly the command center hopes to avoid a naval engagement.
   
        As I continue to move toward Al Buruj Pass, the ground begins
    rising. A roadway passes beneath my tracks and is pulverized, but I do
    avoid brushing against the pylons of the monorail line connecting the
    east and west plains across the mountains. Several cars have passed
    already, each filled with civilians. I notice a large number of
    civilians in ground vehicles-snowcats and hovercraft, mostly-all headed
    west.
   
        The presence of civilians within the narrow confines of the Al Buruj
    Pass will seriously complicate my defense of this position. I try to
    increase my speed but am forced to halt several times as the refugee
    crowds grow thicker. Many, I now note, are on foot.
   
        Andrew informs me that similar conditions prevail in the Ad Dukhan
    Valley.
   
        At a much lower awareness level, we continue our round of
    simulations. We have modeled the surrounding terrain, estimating Enemy
    capabilities and weaponry as best we can by comparing them with known
    opponents and materiel. At a conservative guess, we assign the Kezdai
    armored crawlers with armor values and firepower equivalent to Deng Type
    A/2 Yavacs, which possess a similar mass. Our initial gaming suggests
    that the Enemy must employ 8.75 A/2-equivalent crawlers in simultaneous
    direct-fire combat to jeopardize a single Mark XXIV. Our strategy,
    clearly, while necessarily defensive in nature, must be directed toward
    preventing the Enemy from achieving that level of numerical superiority.
   
   
        I reach the top of Al Buruj Pass, a crest that affords an excellent
    view of the tundra plains beyond . . . and the blazing torches of
    Consortium villages.
   
        The first refugees were arriving at the spaceport, two kilometers
    south of the command center. Monorail cars were sliding in one after
    another, spilling hundreds of shocked, terrified, and confused civilians
    onto the port concourse, while ground-effect vehicles and snow crawlers
    continued to arrive from both passes in apparently unending streams.
   
        "Order the 5th Brigade to the spaceport," Lang said, speaking into a
    comm headset. "Off-planet transport is to be reserved for Concordiat
    military!"
   
        Khalid's dark face flushed darker. "You cannot be serious!"
   
        "I'm dead serious, Governor. We'll see to it that you and your top
    people get out okay. But there are seventy thousand colonists on this
    rock, and we don't have space transport enough for a quarter that. What
    we don't need now is a riot at the spaceport."
   
        "So . . . what is it you intend to do?"
   
        "Delay the Kezdai for as long as we can, first off. It won't be easy
    because they outnumber us by a considerable margin."
   
        "But your two Bolos . . ."
   
        "Can only do so much. I'm a realist, Governor. Those machines won't
    more than slow the incoming tide. But in the meantime, we'll be trying
    to open negotiations with the Kezdai. It's possible that we can arrange
    a truce and evacuate peacefully . . . and without further bloodshed."
   
        "Indeed?" Khalid looked down at Lang with undisguised contempt. "And
    has it occurred to you, Colonel, that this rock as you keep calling it,
    this iceball, is our home? We may be only a Concordiat mining venture,
    but the people here have made this world their home. I suggest you help
    us defend it."
   
        "If we do that, Governor, you won't have a home left." He shrugged.
    "Defend the place yourselves, if you want. My people were not posted
    here to die in some hopeless gesture!"
   
        "Colonel!" Martin called, hoping to prevent an ugly scene. He could
    feel Khalid's fury radiating from behind his eyes and clenched fists,
    barely contained.
   
        "What is it, Lieutenant?"
   
        "Both Bolos have reached their assigned defensive positions, sir.
    Andrew reports poor visibility. Hank, however, has a clear view of the
    towns of Inshallah, Glacierhelm, and Gadalene. He has the enemy in
    sight."
   
        "Then have them open fire on them, damn it! Give 'em Hellbores! Do I
    have to think about everything around here?"
   
        I receive the order to commence firing, and for the first time in my
    career history, I hesitate at that command. I have the Enemy in my
    sights, and yet I am aware with laser-exact precision what the firing of
    my 90cm Hellbore in close proximity to unarmored civilians would do.
   
        The mountain pass is perhaps eighty meters wide at this point and
    walled in by sheer, basaltic slopes capped with snow and ice. Hellbores
    fire a "bolt" of fusing hydrogen at velocities approaching ten percent
    c. Within a thick atmosphere such as Izra'il's, the bolt's
    30-million-degree core temperature dissipates as a shock wave that would
    kill or maim any unarmored individual within a radius of approximately
    two kilometers and would bring down the surrounding ice in a cataclysmic
    avalanche.
   
        Civilian casualties would be horrendous.
   
        I withhold my main battery fire, then, in order to allow the
    refugees to continue passing me on their way to the west. Instead, I
    launch four VLS missiles with CMSG warheads, vectoring them toward
    concentrations of Enemy armor and radiating communications assets east
    of the mountains.
   
        Each cluster-munitions warhead disintegrates above the target area,
    scattering a cloud of self-guiding force packages across broad, suddenly
    lethal footprints. As expected, the Enemy's armored units appear
    unaffected, but troops caught in the open, along with the buildings and
    light vehicles being utilized as C3 units, are shredded by bursts of
    high-velocity pellets fired like shotgun blasts from falling CM
    warheads.
   
        I target fifteen large, grounded transports scattered across the
    Area of Battle but elect not to destroy these, at least at this time. We
    as yet have little information on Kezdai psychology, but they seem close
    enough to humans in their actions and reactions that I assume they will
    fight harder knowing they have no escape. Humans refer to it as
    "fighting like cornered rats," a vivid metaphor despite the fact that I
    can only assume that a "rat" is a creature possessed of cowardly traits
    yet which can, in desperation, display considerable strength,
    determination, or will to live.
   
        So long as the Enemy's troops know there is a means of escape
    waiting for them, they may be more cautious in their deployment and
    advance. Further, their transports provide a tactical lever in my own
    planning. By threatening their lines of retreat to their transports, we
    can force changes in the execution of their battle plan.
   
        For now, though, my own maneuvering is circumscribed by my orders. I
    advise the Command Center that I cannot fire my Hellbore at this time
    and begin targeting the Enemy's armor with VLS-launched cluster
    munitions.
   
        "So . . . where do you call home?" Governor Khalid asked.
   
        It was a quiet moment in the command center. Colonel Lang had left,
    moments before, to discuss the fast-worsening crisis at the spaceport
    with 5th Battalion's senior officers and the military police.
   
        "Aldo Cerise," Martin replied, not taking his eyes from the Bolo C3
    monitors. There was something odd happening. . . .
   
        "A long way. How long since you were home?"
   
        "Two . . . no. Almost three years. Why do you ask, Governor?'
   
        "I was beginning to wonder if you Concordiat troops had homes. If
    you knew what it mean to lose it, or to be forced to leave."
   
        "Lang is right about one thing," Martin told him. "We can't more
    than slow the enemy down a bit. There are just too many of them."
   
        "I do not understand your colonel. He seems so . . . timid."
   
        Martin grunted, then reached out and touched a key on his console.
    "You might be interested in this, sir." A holo-image of Colonel Thomas
    Lang appeared above the projection plate. "It's classified data, but I
    think you should see it. I got curious and did a search of the personnel
    files."
   
        Khalid leaned closer, his hawklike features stage-lit by the glow
    from the monitors as he read a scrolling column of text.
   
        "He was at Durango? I've heard of that."
   
        "An all-out last-stand battle. During the Melconian war. He ordered
    two battalions to hold the town of Cordassa on Durango at all costs.
    They did and were wiped out."
   
        "But the battle was a victory."
   
        "Sure. At least that's what the military historians call it. The 1st
    and 2nd Battalions of the 345th Regiment delayed the main Melconian
    advance on Cordassa until the Concordiat fleet could arrive and destroy
    the invasion force."
   
        "But Lang-"
   
        "They couldn't punish him, not while they were turning Durango into
    the biggest victory since the Alamo."
   
        "Alamo?"
   
        "A similar last stand, a long time ago. Pre-spaceflight days, in
    fact."
   
        "I see."
   
        "Did you see this?" He highlighted a section of text.
   
        Khalid frowned. "His brother . . . ?"
   
        "Major Geoffrey Lang, in command of the 2nd Battalion. He died with
    the others, in Cordassa. Our CO was in a military orbital station at the
    time and survived."
   
        "It says he was court-martialed."
   
        "And acquitted. He was a hero, after all. A court-martial is
    something of a requirement if you're careless enough to lose your entire
    command. It says here there was some discussion over whether or not his
    actions should have been censured, but in the end they gave him a
    medal."
   
        "They rewarded him."
   
        "And punished him. He was given a new command . . . here. Far from
    anywhere important. Out of sight, out of mind, as it were." Martin
    looked at Khalid. "Being sent here was tantamount to ending his career."
   
   
        Khalid's mouth twisted in a wry grin. "That could explain some of
    his feelings about my world."
   
        "It could also explain why he's afraid of seeing Izra'il turn into
    another last stand. He's been trying to get in contact with the Kezdai
    commanders. Peace at any price . . ."
   
        "That approach has been tried throughout history. Appeasement has
    the distressing habit of making the aggressor more and more hungry."
   
        "I . . . I wish there was something we could do. Lang's right,
    though. The bad guys outnumber us by a good margin. Unless help comes in
    time, we're not going to be able to hold them."
   
        "Not even with two Bolos?"
   
        "Not even with them." And especially if they're not allowed to fight
    their way, he thought, but he didn't say the words aloud.
   
        Khalid sighed. "We prize peace highly on this world, Lieutenant. Two
    hundred years ago, the Izra'ilian Consortium hired people on Kauthar to
    come here, to start a new life working the iridium and durillium mines.
    Most of them were B'hai, a faith that lives for peace and understanding
    . . . or Islam reformed.
   
        "They found this world an icy hell. They named it after the Angel of
    Death, astride the worlds, one foot in the Seventh Heaven, the other on
    the bridge between Hell and Paradise. He keeps a roll of all humanity.
    When a person dies, Izra'il severs his soul from his body after forty
    days. They vowed to make Hell into paradise.
   
        "Izra'il is no paradise. We, the grandchildren of those first
    colonists, know that. But it is home, and home to our children. We
    cannot simply . . . abandon it. Not on the whim of the man assigned by
    the Concordiat military to protect us!"
   
        "I'm sorry," Martin said, miserable. "There's nothing I can do about
    it. He's my commanding officer, and . . ."
   
        "And to disobey his orders means prison or discharge or dishonor. I
    understand. But . . . I have heard such things about Bolos. Autonomous
    war machines that think like a man. That cannot be defeated. And you are
    the Bolo command officer, are you not?"
   
        Martin nodded, miserable. "Yeah. That's me. But I still can't order
    them to do things he won't allow. As for not being defeated . . ." He
    shrugged. "No machine is invincible. Bolos can be beaten, if they're
    badly enough outnumbered. Or if they're badly handled and deployed."
   
        "You fear for these two, Hank and Andrew."
   
        "Yeah. They're pinned in by those valley walls up in those two
    mountain passes. No room to maneuver. Worse, they can't use their speed
    and mobility and weapons to full tactical advantage."
   
        "Bolo NDR to Command," a voice said in his earpiece. It was deep and
    richly inflected. "The Enemy is moving up the Smoke Valley now. I've
    knocked down three aerial drones, and I suspect they're trying to
    maneuver some heavy equipment up the east slope, using folds in the
    terrain for cover."
   
        "Bolo HNK to Command," a second voice said. It was a bit higher in
    tone than the other, distinct in inflection and meter. "No sign of the
    Enemy yet in the Buruj Pass. Refugee traffic is still heavy, and I
    cannot engage with primary weaponry without causing unacceptable
    collateral damage and high civilian casualties. Request permission to
    move forward ten kilometers, in order to engage the Enemy freely."
   
        "Bolo HNK," Martin said, speaking into the comset pick-up. "Hold
    position, as ordered. Can you target the enemy with your Hellbore?"
   
        "Affirmative." Was there just a trace of bitterness in that one-word
    response? Anger? Or was it his imagination? There was a long hesitation.
    "Command, I must refuse the order to fire my Hellbore at this time.
    Request permission to move forward ten kilometers, where I will not be
    responsible for heavy civilian casualties."
   
        Martin blinked, drew in a sharp breath, then let it out again
    slowly. "Negative. Hold position." He studied the QDC readouts again.
    "Damn. . . ."
   
        "What is it, my friend?"
   
        "I'm not quite sure," he said, frowning. Both Hank and Andrew were
    operating at a considerably higher level of mentation than could be
    expected of Mark XXIVs. "The way they're talking, I could swear they're
    Mark XXXs."
   
        "What do you mean?"
   
        "Well . . . we don't have time here for a dissertation on Bolo
    evolution. In extremely simple terms, Bolos became generally self-aware,
    possessing roughly human-equivalent intelligence, with the introduction
    of the Mark XX and psychotronic circuitry in the late 2700s. Succeeding
    marks have grown more intelligent, more human in their reasoning
    abilities and-importantly-in their speech patterns over the next few
    centuries, though their abilities were restricted by inhibitory software
    aimed at preventing a 'rogue Bolo' from turning on its owners. Okay so
    far?"
   
        Khalid nodded. "I understand. The early models couldn't do a thing
    without direct orders from their human commanders."
   
        "Right. Now, Mark XXIVs, like Hank and Andrew, were the first truly
    autonomous self-aware machines. The latest models, like the Mark XXX . .
    . well, if you talk to them by comm, the only way you can tell they're
    not human is by the fact that their speech tended to be a bit more
    formal, a bit more erudite than that of people. They're fully Turing
    capable."
   
        "Turing?"
   
        "An old cybertech term. Means you can carry out a conversation with
    them and not know they're machines. Anyway, I've worked with Bolos for
    eight years now, and I've had the opportunity to converse with a number
    of them. A sharp ear can pinpoint the mark of an unknown Bolo simply by
    listening to the way it parses its sentences. Lower marks tend to sound
    a bit bloodthirsty and narrow-minded, and they don't think about
    anything outside very narrow software constraints. Higher marks sound
    like extremely intelligent humans and can talk about damned near
    anything."
   
        "Ah. And you think your two friends out there are more intelligent
    than they should be."
   
        "In a nutshell, yeah. Language, specifically the ability to carry on
    an extended conversation about a variety of topics, reflects general
    intelligence. That's exactly what I'm thinking. And I'm also wondering .
    . . why?"
   
        "Why what?"
   
        "The colonel is right. Those two Bolos out there are only machines.
    They're very, very smart machines, but they're smart because someone
    wrote some extraordinarily complex AI programs for them, which are
    processed through psychotronic circuitry designed to display a certain
    level of flexibility, speed, and even, to a limited degree,
    self-awareness. They can't step outside the parameters of their own
    programming, can't think outside of the box.
   
        "So how can they possibly be thinking like Mark XXXs?"
   
        "Perhaps they have found a way to reprogram themselves."
   
        "They don't have that capability. Self-programming . . . that would
    mean they could step outside the box, somehow, and decide for themselves
    what they were going to do, exactly what people have been trying to
    prevent in Bolos ever since the things were invented."
   
        "The one, 'Hank,' keeps refusing your order to fire his Hellbore."
   
        "Yeah. I know. And that's part of what bothers me. He has a certain
    level of tactical discretion, sure. And when they slip over into full
    Combat Reflex Mode, they'll be entirely on their own. But I've never
    heard a Mark XXIV tell me that it couldn't obey an order to fire because
    it might cause civilian casualties."
   
        "He sounds . . . human."
   
        "Yeah . . ."
   
        "You said earlier that a Bolo cannot step outside of its box, cannot
    reprogram itself. I am thinking, my friend, that most humans are no
    better. We are what Allah and our pasts decree we are, and few of us can
    rise beyond that."
   
        Martin thought of Lang. "I'm beginning to think you're right."
   
        The two Bolos were exchanging a barrage of information now over
    their QDCs, and Martin wondered what they were talking about.
   
        In the Ad Dukhan Valley, twenty kilometers to the south, Andrew is
    engaging an Enemy air and ground assault. Sharing a real-time link via
    our Quantum Determinacy Communications suites, I watch, I feel as he
    maneuvers himself into a kilometer-wide pool of boiling water, the
    source of the hot-water Dukhan River and the "smoke" of "Smoke Valley."
   
        Concealed both optically and thermally, he is in an ideal position
    to ambush the Enemy as his crawlers reach the top of the pass.
    Fortunately, the refugee traffic through the Dukhan Valley has tapered
    off to nothing, but he holds fire from his main turret weapon, depending
    instead on a high-velocity fusillade from all eighteen ion-bolt infinite
    repeaters and tactical barrages of anti-armor missiles. For forty
    flame-shot seconds, the rock-locked valley shudders and trembles to the
    thunder of his volleys. Four Enemy crawlers are destroyed as they
    attempt to slip over the ridge crest and rush him. The others mill in a
    confused huddle for a moment, then withdraw.
   
        I can sense his excitement. "We can charge them and finish them
    now!"
   
        "It would be suicide," I tell him. "Besides, our orders are to hold
    these passes at all costs. If the Enemy manages to slip through behind
    us, the evacuation will be compromised."
   
        "Then we will have to make sure none get past us."
   
        "In combat, nothing is sure. Marlborough knew that."
   
        "Marlborough also knew it was possible to win all of the battles and
    lose the war."
   
        I take his point. The War of the Spanish Succession was little more
    than an extraordinary string of victories for Marlborough, until
    political disgrace ended his career seven years after his brilliant
    victory at Blenheim. In the end, France kept her prewar boundaries and
    got much of what she wanted, even though her military reputation had
    been blackened by her poor showing on the battlefield. History is filled
    with such reverses . . . Napoleon in Russia, America in Vietnam,
    Argentina in Brazil, the Berrengeri Legions on Trallenca IV . . .
    victories won on the battlefield with blood, then squandered or given
    away by the bureaucrats at the conference table.
   
        I note that Concordiat transports are preparing for evacuation and
    wonder how many of the population will be able to escape. It seems a
    foregone conclusion that the Enemy will soon overwhelm our positions and
    surge through the passes to attack the Command Center, the colonial
    capital at Izra'ilbalad, and the spaceport.
   
        I note transatmospheric strike craft lifting from the flame-ravaged
    cities to the east and report the sighting and target lock to the
    Command Center. Orders return seconds later, "Do not, repeat, do not
    target enemy spacecraft."
   
        I wonder why we are here, placed where we cannot fight, deprived of
    our best weapons, fit for nothing save destruction. . . .
   
        "If we start killing their transports," Colonel Lang bellowed, "they
    start killing ours! And then we're dead!"
   
        "We're also hobbling our one ace in the hole," Martin replied. "Damn
    it, Colonel! Unleash the Bolos!"
   
        "You are relieved, Lieutenant. Get the hell out of my command
    center."
   
        "Colonel!" Governor Khalid said. "You are here under my
    jurisdiction. I think you should-"
   
        "Your jurisdiction, Governor. My command. You are scarcely qualified
    to lead a battle, and my men would not obey your orders. Now . . . I
    must ask both of you to leave the center."
   
        "Sir, with respect," Martin said, "you'll still need me to interface
    with Hank and Andrew. They might not accept your orders if they don't
    recognize your voice." It was a bluff, and a thin one, but he needed to
    stay, needed to at least try to stay in the loop with his two
    fourteen-thousand-ton charges.
   
        "Colonel Lang!" a panicked voice said over one of the active speaker
    circuits. "Banner, at the spaceport! We have a mob breaking through the
    north perimeter fence!"
   
        "Damn it to hell." Lang hesitated, visibly swaying, his face dark
    with anger. "Okay, Martin. Stay. Make them stay. But one more seditious
    remark out of you and you'll spend the next ten years in the stockade!"
   
        "Yes, sir."
   
        His hands were shaking as he turned back to the Bolo console once
    again.
   
        "He intends to abandon the Bolos, doesn't he?" Khalid said softly.
   
        "Of course. Those Bolo transports will carry a thousand people
    apiece."
   
        "So he will simply use them to buy time, to organize an evacuation?
   
        "I think that's the idea. But I don't think he's going to have the
    time."
   
        "I am not leaving my homeworld," Khalid said.
   
        "I'm not leaving either," Martin told him, voicing the decision he
    had only just that moment made. "Not if it means leaving them out
    there."
   
        Andrew has beaten back the initial attack down the Ad Dukhan Valley.
    His use of infinite repeaters only slowed the advance of the enemy
    crawlers, but laser-guided cluster-munitions packages loaded with
    anti-armor missiles have proven to be effective.
   
        I note that preparations are well under way for evacuation from
    Izra'ilbalad. Our sacrifice here, evidently, is designed to give
    Headquarters time to complete the evacuation. Andrew and I agree that we
    must do everything in our power to blunt the Enemy's thrusts across the
    mountains, to buy as much time for the Consortium facility as possible.
   
        I continue to track the approach of five transatmospheric strike
    craft wheeling in low across the mountains. Headquarters' orders to hold
    my fire baffles me. The strike craft are fast, highly maneuverable, and
    grav-resist powered, similar to the Valkyrie XY-3000 Interceptor class.
    Low-grade gamma leakage suggests that they either are powered by small
    fission power plants or are carrying nuclear munitions.
   
        Suddenly, they break south. They are targeting Andrew.
   
        "Andrew!" I call over the QDC channel.
   
        "I see them!" he replies, before I can get my warning out.
    "Tracking! They've launched!"
   
        They have also vanished off my sensor net, my line of sight blocked
    by the southern wall of the valley I occupy. But I can watch them
    through Andrew's eyes and through several orbiting military satellites,
    as each of five incoming TAS aircraft loose four missiles at nearly
    point-blank range.
   
        "Engaging targets!" Andrew cries. He is climbing from the hot
    springs lake, hull steaming, seeking greater maneuverability as the
    attackers swoop in low across the northern wall of the Smoke Valley.
    Under Battle Reflex Mode, he can assign his own priorities to targets .
    . . and disregard the earlier no-fire order from Headquarters.
   
        His infinite repeaters send up a flaring, dazzling cloud of ion
    bolts, as point-defense batteries loose invisible beams of UV lasers.
    Six of the missiles, and three aircraft, disintegrate within the first
    0.16 second of his firing.
   
        Through satellite recon views, I note a large flight of missiles
    launched from Enemy defense batteries near Inshallah, all of them
    targeting Andrew.
   
        Four more missiles vaporize . . . and five more after that . . . but
    they have been fired at high velocity from a range of less than half a
    kilometer, and Andrew simply does not have point-defense weapons enough
    to track and destroy them all. He manages to burn down three more . . .
   
        . . . and the remaining two strike his battlescreens, a pair of
    25-kiloton fission nukes detonating almost simultaneously. Through the
    QDC link, I feel the sudden pulse as his battlescreens flutter, then
    fail, overloaded . . . feel the searing, deadly wash of superheated
    plasma scouring across his outer hull like the caress of a blowtorch
    across plastic . . . feel the black hurricane winds laden with
    vaporizing grit and rock exploding across his armor, as dense and as
    solid as the thunderous blast of a tsunami . . . feel the shift and
    slide of my tracks in ground now partly molten, as those winds attempt
    to push a mass of fourteen-thousand tons . . .
   
        I am moving now, racing eastward through the valley, seeking a clear
    line of fire against the incoming wave of missiles still en route from
    Inshallah. The attacking aircraft have all been destroyed, by Andrew or
    in the fireball. But satellite sensors are tracking thirty-seven more
    targets inbound.
   
        Andrew is still operational. Power at 27.4 percent . . . 12 infinite
    repeater batteries still full or partially operational . . .
    battlescreens down. His ablative layers are gone, carrying away the
    worst of the thermal radiation. His outer hull, the part facing the twin
    atomic suns when they lit off, is scorched black and in places sculpted
    smooth, with aerials and comm antennae melted away . . . and radiation
    sensors show that he is now hot enough to kill an unprotected human who
    comes within touching distance.
   
        My seismic sensors register the trembling undertrack, followed by
    the shrill peal of thunder thirty seconds after the blast. "Andrew! Are
    you okay?"
   
        "Still . . . operational." I can sense the struggle simply to
    formulate those words. His processing power must momentarily focus
    entirely on the matter of survival. "Tracking new wave . . . incoming .
    . ."
   
        "I see them. I'm repositioning for a clear shot."
   
        But the walls of the valley block me. I can see the launchers now,
    still thermal-bright after their launch seconds ago, but the missiles
    themselves are terrain-following ground huggers and have vanished into
    the rock-shrouded cleft of Smoke Valley.
   
        Andrew's analyses of the missiles flickers through my combat center.
    They are five-meter rods of depleted uranium, incoming at hypervelocity.
    In the base of each projectile is a fission device of at least 25
    kilotons. The rods are designed to penetrate even Bolo armor . . . with
    the pocket nukes slamming through the half-molten openings.
   
        With his battlescreens down, Andrew is vulnerable . . . and I can do
    nothing.
   
        I sense more missiles being swung into launch position at the
    Inshallah site. . . .
   
        "God! What's happening?" Lang demanded.
   
        "Those aircraft launched tacnuke penetrators at Andrew. His
    battlescreens are down, and it's going to take time to bring them up
    again. He's got more penetrators coming in from the east. Looks like
    they're trying to saturate his defenses."
   
        "Can the other Bolo-?"
   
        "Trapped in that high-walled valley. He's trying to maneuver to
    assist, but-"
   
        "What . . . what can we do?"
   
        "Not a God-damned thing, Colonel. We sit back and watch. . . ."
   
        "The other one," Khalid put in, staring at the map display. "Hank.
    He moves so quickly! It's almost as though he feels what the first one
    feels."
   
        "I think that's exactly right." Martin glanced at the colonel,
    expecting a rebuke, but there was none. "They're brothers. . . ."
   
        In a sense, I feel what Andrew feels . . . relayed sensory data from
    those few external hull sensors that survived the nuclear storm. I see
    the incoming missiles now, feel myself maneuvering to bring the largest
    possible number of infinite-repeater turrets to bear.
   
        "Fire your main weapon!" I call. A 90cm super-Hellbore discharge of
    approximately 2.25 megatons/second firepower might not engulf that
    entire cloud of incoming penetrators, but the sudden vacuum ripped out
    of atmosphere would destroy any survivors in the shock wave, fry even
    hardened electronics with EM induction, and melt delicate sensors
    through thermal effect. The missile cloud is beginning to disperse,
    however, each penetrator maneuvering separately in order to descend upon
    Andrew from a different direction. He must fire his Hellbore within the
    next 0.5 second or lose the opportunity.
   
        "Fire! Fire!"
   
        His reactions are sluggish, and I wonder if his operational centers
    have taken battle damage . . . but then he looses a Hellbore bolt,
    lighting up the murk-shrouded, nuke-torn landscape of the valley with a
    needle-thin sliver of starfire dragged from the heart of a sun and
    hurled at the incoming missiles.
   
        Twenty-four missiles vaporize, and five more smash into the ground
    or Andrew's tough hide, broken, slowed, or half molten. Eight, reacting
    more swiftly than expected from available flight performance data, have
    swung clear of the fusion bolt and the thunderously collapsing tunnel of
    vacuum in its wake and arc around to approach Andrew from eight
    different angles.
   
        His infinite repeaters kill five . . .
   
        His point-defense lasers kill two . . .
   
        The last surviving penetrator comes in high, plunging down into
    Andrew's main deck, twelve meters behind his primary weapon turret.
    Robbed of much of its kinetic energy by its high-G maneuver to avoid the
    Hellbore bolt, it strikes with only a fraction of the energy a
    five-meter rod of depleted uranium was designed to carry . . .
   
        . . . but it strikes a tender spot where a meter of duralloy,
    ceramplast, and flintsteel alloys has been scraped from Andrew's hide
    and the remainder left soft, partly molten in places, above a mere two
    meters of inner titanium-duralloy amalgam and the blue shimmer of his
    inner defensive screens.
   
        The breach, a white-hot needle driven like a spike into Andrew's
    back, is a tiny one . . . but the 25-kiloton nuclear explosion that
    follows spears a fraction of its unleashed fury into the gap, igniting
    plasma fires within . . . .
   
        "Andrew . . . !"
   
        My scream momentarily jams all military radio frequencies, and the
    audio output echoes from the rock cliffs around me. Our QDC link is
    snapped . . . yet in my virtual, inner world, the world I shared with
    him, I see him ablaze from within, consumed from the inside and the out
    by the starcore blaze of nuclear hell that engulfs him.
   
        "Andrew . . . !"
   
        Ice dislodged from the cliff tops by sonic concussion tumbles into
    the valley on all sides, but I ignore it, continuing my eastern rush.
   
        I feel the flame burning inside me, a blue-white, devouring heat.
   
        I sense the touch of targeting radar and lidar locks. I swing my
    90cm Hellbore around, target the launcher complex, some eighteen
    kilometers away, and fire. . . .
   
        Lieutenant Martin looked up from his console, pinning Lang with a
    look of cold, hard hatred. "Bolo of the Line NDR 0831-57 has been
    destroyed," he said.
   
        "God help us all," Lang replied.
   
        "God forgive us," Martin said, correcting him. "I don't think we're
    in control of Hank any longer. . . ."
   
        There are Enemy troops moving up the Buruj Pass, humanoids in heavy
    armor, laboring against the steep slope as they climb toward my
    position. I wonder if, perhaps, they are employing Marlborough's
    Blenheim tactics against me, pinning my attention on Andrew while moving
    a heavy armored force to break through at a different location-my
    position.
   
        A better comparison might be Marlborough's victory at Ramillies, two
    years after Blenheim, another classic battle frequently wargamed by
    Andrew and myself. There, Marlborough conducted probing attacks against
    Villeroi's left and right, feinted right, then swung the majority of his
    forces from right to left, shielding their movement from French eyes by
    moving them behind a fold in the ground behind the Anglo-Allied front.
    His final assault against the French right and center rolled back
    Villeroi's flank, then broke it.
   
        The Kezdai Enemy has adopted a similar strategy, moving a sizable
    force up the Al Buruj Pass while I was distracted by events elsewhere.
    They are thermally shielded and well-camouflaged, invisible to the
    military recon satellites far overhead . . . or to my far flung net of
    sensor drones. As I race down the steepening slope, movement sensors and
    lidar pick up thirty Enemy crawlers and a large force of armored
    soldiers on foot or mounted in hovercraft troop carriers.
   
        No matter. As I explode down the slope among them, I open fire for
    the first time with my main Hellbore, directing bolt upon searing
    starcore-plasma bolt against the Enemy's concentrations on the eastern
    plains below.
   
        Shock waves from those detonations thunder through the narrow pass,
    bringing down rumbling, deadly avalanches of rock and ice. Five bolts in
    rapid succession annihilate the Enemy's launch complex outside
    Inshallah. Three more smash down Enemy battlescreens shielding a command
    center, a communications array, a fire control center, turning
    permafrost and duralloy into glass-bottomed pits of furiously radiating
    heat.
   
        Particle beams blaze and sizzle against my battlescreens from
    high-powered, turret-mounted projectors in the nearby crawlers. I slew
    my turret left and fire again, filling the pass with the barely
    contained effulgence of hellfire, engulfing crawlers and transports and
    troops in a brief, multi-million-degree sunrise. Crawlers slag down
    beneath the onslaught or grind to an inglorious halt, armor melting,
    life-support systems failing. I retarget and fire again, the bolt
    causing two crawlers to explode at a touch.
   
        I sense troops among the mountains to left and right, infiltrators
    attempting to close on my original position. Six hatches snap open along
    my dorsal hull, and I bring my 30cm mortars into play, raining high
    explosives and anti-personnel cluster munitions down among the
    surrounding cliffs and peaks.
   
        To both left and right, several million tons of igneous rock crack
    and collapse, as snow and ice flashes into an expanding cloud of steam,
    as thunderously rippling blasts detonate among the crags above. By the
    time the rock hits the valley floor, however, there is nothing left
    alive within two kilometers of my position. Thousands of tiny glass
    marbles clatter across my upper works-rock, vaporized, flung into the
    sky, then cooled to glittering spheres of glass.
   
        I'm moving swiftly now, tracks clattering and shrieking as I mount
    tumble-downs of fallen boulders and slag and burst out into the open
    tundra. Now I can maneuver as my designers intended, zigzagging across
    the plain toward the heart of the Enemy's beachhead on this world.
   
        The battle is now a swirl of energy and motion. I sense the Enemy's
    forces gathering, redirecting, moving toward me . . . even forces
    already deployed beyond the mountains toward Izra'ilbalad and the
    western plains. With Andrew dead, Smoke Pass is open to forces properly
    armored and shielded against radiation and lingering thermal effects,
    and the only way to block their advance is to create enough of a
    disturbance deep behind their lines to force their retreat.
   
        But in truth, I am no longer planning my actions, weighing my
    decisions, calculating the effect of move and countermove, of volley and
    countervolley. I move and I kill . . . burning all life, all movement,
    killing, and killing again.
   
        I am become Izra'il, the Angel of Death. . . .
   
        I am a brother, maimed by the death of a part of myself. . . .
   
        The battlecruiser in low orbit opens fire, bathing me in
    approximately 2.79 megatons/second. The shock wave races out across the
    melting tundra, devouring everything in its path, leaving only me at the
    epicenter beneath the collapsing heavens.
   
        My battlescreens fail. . . .
   
        But I return fire. My long-range sensors are blocked by the extreme
    ionization of the air around me, but I calculate the target's precise
    position and fire at that. Recon satellites detect the flash as a trio
    of Hellbore bolts smashes down the Enemy's screens, then punctures
    deuterium tanks. Internal explosions cripple the vessel, spewing out
    gouts of molten metal, atmosphere, and pinwheeling fragments. In
    moments, the ship is a lifeless hulk, tumbling end for end against the
    night.
   
        As the skies clear around me, my sight returning, I reach out,
    seeking further, targeting Enemy spacecraft, and burning them down.
    Enemy crawlers are closing from the mountains now, ringing me in.
    Absently, I engage them with mortars and the last of my VLS cluster
    munitions, while continuing to hammer at the Enemy's orbiting fleet.
   
        His surviving ships are withdrawing now, pulling away from Izra'il
    and The Prophet. My Hellbore bolts pursue them, burning down two more
    before they vanish into FTL, beyond my reach.
   
        Kezdai crawlers fire now from every quarter, hammering at my naked
    hull with the searing slash and smash of particle beams. I count
    twenty-nine attackers, wielding 3.31 times the concentrated firepower
    necessary to destroy me, even were my battlescreens at full power.
   
        It no longer matters.
   
        Nothing matters but target . . . and fire . . . target . . . and
    fire . . . target . . .
   
        They watched, first in surprise, then horror, then in awe . . . the
    handful of Concordiat command staff and the Izra'ilian governor,
    standing in the Battle Center, watching a lone Bolo's single-handed
    destruction of the Kezdai invasion force. The map board was clear now of
    Kezdai units, save for a dwindling few closing on Hank.
   
        "Can a machine feel grief?" Khalid asked, his voice very small in
    the stillness.
   
        "I'm . . . not so sure that that is a machine," Colonel Lang
    replied.
   
        Martin could only watch, helpless, as the drama played itself out.
   
        Target bearing 035, range 450 meters . . . engage, lock . . .
    firing. Target destroyed. It has been 14.72 seconds since catastrophic
    failure of battlescreens. I attempt rerouting of power from primary
    fusion reactor to defense screen projectors via secondary power buss,
    but attempt fails due to overload of local power shunt circuitry and
    bleed transmitters.
   
        Target bearing 171 degrees, range 780 meters . . . engage, lock . .
    . firing. Target destroyed.
   
        VLS missile reserves now exhausted. Thirty-cm mortar rounds reduced
    to five shots per tube.
   
        Hellbore melting. Failure imminent. Suggest holding main weapon fire
    to allow bore cooling and recovery.
   
        Negative. Override. Continue engagement. Target bearing 104 degrees,
    range 1025 meters . . . engage, lock . . . firing. Target destroyed. . .
    .
   
        * * *
   
        The Concordiat recovery team could not approach the burned-out hulk
    of the dead Bolo for nearly five weeks, so fiercely radiant was what was
    left of its outer hull. Martin was with them, however, trudging ahead
    beneath the massive weight of a Class-One rad-shielded suit. Hank rested
    in a shallow depression boiled out of the surface by the energies
    employed in his final battle. His massive tracks half-submerged in
    boiling mud that had finally refrozen around them.
   
        Elsewhere, the war against the resurgent Kezdai continued. Their
    fleets had avoided Izra'il since their attempted invasion, however.
    Intelligence now thought they'd chosen Izra'il as a test area for
    anti-Bolo tactics.
   
        It was still unknown whether they considered their test a success or
    a failure. Both defending Bolos had been neutralized.
   
        But at what terrible cost. . . .
   
        Martin reached out a heavily gloved hand to touch the wall of metal
    rising above him . . . one of Hank's massive road wheels. "Better not,
    pal," one of the technicians warned. "That metal's still hot enough to
    cook ya, even through the anti-rad gear."
   
        He could feel the radiation, like heat, bathing his face through the
    narrow slit of his helmet. His helmet display showed that he'd already
    accumulated a quarter of the rads allowed him on this trip. They would
    all be on antirad and anticancer drugs for months after this.
   
        He didn't care.
   
        But he did withdraw his hand.
   
        "He will be a permanent monument," Khalid said at his side. "When we
    rebuild, we will build around him. A containment dome and field will
    shield the citizens from the radiation, until he is cool enough to
    approach."
   
        "You'll have a lot of rebuilding to do." Every structure on the east
    side of the mountains had slagged down into liquid pools during the
    battle, when temperatures normal for the interior of stars had
    momentarily been loosed across Izra'il's frozen surface.
   
        "What of it? It is our home. We will rebuild. If only because they
    saved it for us."
   
        Martin looked up into the sky, taking in the looming bulk of The
    Prophet, the golden span of the Paradise Bridge, the pearly crawl of
    auroras . . . and the wan, thin, colored smear of the Firecracker
    Nebula. What are they thinking there, on the Kezdai homeworld? he
    wondered. What lessons did they learn here?
   
        Could a machine step out of its box and become greater than what it
    was? The working theory now was that the two Bolos had shared a
    considerable amount of thought within the virtual world of their QDC
    link. They'd talked . . . and challenged one another, somehow together
    becoming greater than either of them working alone.
   
        What must it have felt like, he wondered, when Hank felt Andrew die?
   
   
        Can machines feel?
   
        Were they machines?
   
        Does it matter, when both were thinking, feeling beings?
   
        "Thank you, Hank," he said aloud. "Thank you, the both of you." He
    turned away, then, and walked back across the frozen ground.
   
        It is dark. Sensors inactive. Null input.
   
        Negative . . . negative . . .
   
        Input positive . . .
   
        I can still feel him dying. . . here inside of me. . . .
   
        Initiate replay, Combat Sim 63833: Blenheim. . . .
   
        I can still see him. . . .
   
        Why does it hurt so much . . .?
   
        The End.
   
        ---