But even as I reflect on this possibility, I am also reminded of a human phrase which I never expected to be applied to my own computations, but which may well fit the circumstances.
Is it possible that I could actually be guilty of “wishful thinking”?
Hyman Smith-Wentworth, Hand of the New Messiah and Third Commander of the Lord’s Host, stroked his flowing beard thoughtfully as he studied the latest real-time satellite imagery of the mountain line that shielded the infidels entrenched around Denver Prime. So far the invasion plan was running smoothly. But the next few hours would determine the outcome of the entire campaign, and though the Hand had faith in the Lord he intended to do all he could to further the Lord’s work through strategy and guile. The Council of Speakers and the Archspeaker himself were inclined to regard Deseret’s domination of the infidels around them as the inevitable outcome of God’s favor, but Hyman Smith-Wentworth had been a practical soldier almost as long as he had been a convert to the New Messianic Movement, and he knew better than to leave the conduct of a war entirely to the attentions of the Divine.
“A difficult situation, Father Hand,” his aide, Lieutenant Orren Bickerton-Phelps, was diffident as he studied the computer monitor. They were alone in the back of the large headquarters van of the ANM assault force, less than fifty kilometers from the front lines, and the aide seemed willing, for a change, to take ~advantage of the informality and frankness Smith-Wentworth encouraged in his immediate entourage. “The ground favors the infidel as long as they remain on the defensive. And time is against us, with the Outsiders preparing to take sides.”
The Hand smiled sagely. “Come, Lieutenant. You don’t think we would undertake this operation if we didn’t have confidence in the outcome, do you?”
Bickerton-Phelps swallowed uncertainly. He was young and inexperienced, a scion of some privileged New Jerusalem family who had used their political influence to maneuver the young man’s appointment to a staff post in the Lord’s Host. “Uh . . . I meant no disrespect, Father Hand. Nor any doubt in the Divine . . .”
“Don’t worry, boy, I’m not one of the Holy Executors, sent to trap you.” Smith-Wentworth held up a hand as the young officer blanched. The Archspeaker’s corps of inquisitors was pledged to keep society pure in the doctrines of the New Messiah, but old-line military men like the Hand didn’t have much use for their zealous pursuit of orthodoxy. The best logistician in the ANM had been relieved and arrested the day before the invasion fleet lifted from Deseret, and Smith-Wentworth would gladly have put up with a little heresy to ensure that his troops were properly supplied and supported in the field. But those were sentiments best kept unspoken. “We’ve planned this invasion very carefully, Lieutenant. That’s all I meant.”
“But if we don’t break their lines quickly, Father Hand, the Outsiders will have time to mobilize their Godless robots. I’ve heard about those. Even the shield of the Divine wouldn’t . . .” The aide fell silent, suddenly aware of the danger of saying more.
The Hand chuckled. “Don’t be afraid of their Bolos, boy. They won’t save the infidels.”
The younger man looked skeptical. “Father Hand, I know it could be taken as blasphemous, but I don’t see how we could survive if those machines were sent against us. Faith is still no shield against a Hellbore.”
“Compose yourself, boy, in the Light of the Divine,” the Hand said, half-sarcastic. “Look at the facts before you go off half-cocked. First off, it will take time for all the Bolos to be activated, and if we’re not through in forty-eight hours we’ll never be through. Second, consider our opponents. Not just as infidels, but as people. The Coordinator is not the kind of man to take to robot tanks as the instrument of his salvation. Strangely enough, he clings to faith more strongly than the Archspeaker, although his faith is misplaced in ~human nature rather than the principles of the Divine. Even if he deploys one or two of those tanks, I don’t think it will be to a critical sector. And finally, no matter what the defenders do or don’t try, they won’t be expecting our . . . hidden assets. I almost wish the Bolos would be put into the path of our main thrust. When the infidels discover that loyalties are never guaranteed, the blow will be devastating. Their resistance will evaporate . . . depend on it, boy. Those Bolos that aren’t destroyed in the fighting will end up being useful new weapons in our arsenal.”
He looked back at the monitor map. “Now leave me. Post the orders for a full war council in . . . two hours. After the evening service. And keep this in mind, boy; tomorrow night we’ll celebrate our prayer service in Denver Prime. Or the Holy Executors will have us under restraint for failure. One way or ~another, tomorrow will be the day of decision.”
The insistent shrilling of his field communicator made David Fife jerk awake and roll out of his cot. He groped for the compact transceiver, his mind still fighting through the sleepy fog. “Fife,” he said, rubbing his eyes with his free hand.
Elaine Durant didn’t sound the least bit groggy. “It’s started,” she said over the fieldcomm. “Deseret’s on the march.”
“Any orders yet, Major?”
“Nothing. But I think you should get to the command center. If you’re going to get the regiment into this, you’ll have to convince the Coordinator tonight.”
“On my way.”
I sense a heightened state of alert around me, but still have received neither orders nor a detailed tactical briefing. My unease continues to mount.
Incredibly, though I have been combat-ready for 51,853 seconds, I remain in the service berth at Denver Prime Starport where I was activated. The technical staff, Terrans from the Fourth Battalion and locals alike, have been rechecking my combat loads and running additional diagnostics on my own circuits, rather than devoting their full attention to the reactivation of my comrades. The atmosphere of urgency is coupled with what I can only regard as indecision and inefficiency. Had I been deployed immediately, my presence on the front would surely have reduced whatever threat is now worrying the technical crew. But if the object is to prepare maximum firepower, either against the Enemy’s offensive or in preparation for a decisive counterstrike of our own, then surely the preparation of other Bolo combat units would be a better investment of time and effort.
I resolve to study human reactions yet again, in hopes of understanding the phenomena.
Meanwhile the preparations—and the unease—go on.
“What have we got watching the pass from Hot Springs?”
David Fife slipped into the crowded Command Center in time to hear Coordinator Wilson’s question. Elaine Durant looked up briefly, then returned her _attention to a computer monitor. Fife muttered a curse on his own careless tongue. He’d offended the woman with his stupid crack about local yokels the night before, and that wasn’t a good idea when he needed every ally he could find to carry out his orders from the High Command.
General Sam Kyle, Wilson’s Chief of Operations, pulled up a computer map from his console and displayed it on the screen that dominated one wall. “The Third Colorado Mobile Infantry’s dug in along the pass, Coordinator,” he said crisply. Fife studied the man thoughtfully, wishing that the decision to employ the Bolos might have been in his hands rather than Wilson’s. Unlike his superior, Kyle was a career military man, his manner and bearing and even his recruiting-poster features all giving him the appearance of competence and professionalism. But his function was purely executive. Policy and overall strategy were firmly in Wilson’s hands, with men like Kyle advising and carrying out the civilian Coordinator’s orders. “Four thousand men in all, but they’re lightly armed. No armor or heavy weapons. And I’d say they only have a company or two in place at any given time.”
“Even a few hundred men ought to be able to hold the pass,” Wilson said. “I mean, at the briefing the other day you told me that one was the most difficult route Deseret could try. Too many . . . choke points, I believe is the way you put it.”
“Yes, Coordinator,” Kyle agreed, sounding unwilling to discuss the subject. “But if you’ll recall, I also urged you to deploy one of the heavier regiments up there. The Eighth Appalachia, for instance. The proper role for the Mobile Infantry is as a ready response force. It’s too late to do anything about it now, but if we don’t act fast there won’t be a regiment left to hold that pass.”
“I still stand by my decision,” Wilson said sharply. “Those boys are defending their own turf, and that has to count for something. The Appalachia bunch is a good enough outfit, I guess, but they don’t have near as much at stake.”