“That may be, Coordinator,” Kyle said. “But the problem still stands. They’re not equipped to stand up to a major assault, choke points or no.”
“Well, what can we do to even the odds, then?” Wilson demanded.
Before Kyle could respond Fife stepped forward from his corner. “My lighter could set the Bolo down there an hour after you gave the order, Coordinator,” he said quickly. “All the armor your men will need to stop the attack.”
Wilson turned a cold stare on him. “Still pushing your fancy toys, Captain? If I want your Bolo I’ll ask you for it.” He turned back to Kyle. “Well, General?”
Kyle pursed his lip, his face creased in a black frown. “That Bolo might be the best option, Coordinator,” he said slowly. “It will take at least ten hours to get the nearest uncommitted reserves to the pass. In ten hours the ANM could already be pouring through to attack us here.”
Wilson didn’t respond right away. Finally he stepped closer to the map and jabbed a finger at one of the symbols a few centimeters from the flashing unit identification that represented the beleaguered Mobile Infantry. “What’s the status of this unit?” he demanded, voice sharp.
Kyle checked his own monitor. “Second Montana Mechanized Regiment,” he said. “Colonel Chaffee. They’re the ones who tangled with the first invasion wave and escaped across the mountains afterward.”
“Can they back up our boys in the pass in time to make any kind of difference?” the Coordinator asked, turning away from the screen.
“Sure . . . but they’re blocking the Alto Blanco route. Pull them out and the Deserets are sure to take advantage of it. There have been a few small demonstrations in that direction already.”
“I know that, man!” Wilson snapped. He turned his glare back on Fife. “Can this tank of yours hold Alto Blanco?”
“Coordinator . . .” Fife bit off an angry response. “Yes . . . of course it can. But I don’t see why you don’t just send it in to where it can do the most good. Why fly it in one place so it can relieve your men to march somewhere else?”
Wilson sat down heavily in a padded chair set well away from the banks of monitors and computer keyboards, looking tired. “Captain, I know you have confidence in that armored behemoth of yours, but I don’t. I just don’t.”
“But —”
The Coordinator held up a hand. “Spare me the ~arguments about what a triumph of technology the blasted thing is. Look, Captain, I’ll spell it out for you. It’s a machine. Blessed with the best AI programming there is, granted, but still a machine. A calculating ~machine that runs the equations of military science the way the computers in our science lab run physics and math. It’s cold and efficient, and I’ll grant you it probably thinks and plans a hell of a lot better than I do.”
He leaned forward, as if for emphasis. “But what does a machine know about patriotism, Captain? About defending homes and families? It may have the intelligence of a man and then some, but it doesn’t have a soul. If that machine weighs the odds and says the situation is hopeless, it’s programmed to break off and fight another day. Isn’t that right?”
Fife bit his lip. Since the very first of the self-aware Mark XXs had been field tested, the machines had shown an incredible ability to confound their programmers by unexpected, often illogical actions. They didn’t always act on pure calculation, but on concepts like duty and honor as well. But that was an aspect of the Bolo the Concordiat military didn’t like to advertise, for a variety of reasons. It made ignorant people nervous to think those awesome platforms of military firepower might somehow ‘run amuck’ against their programming, and it would have seriously hurt interstellar sales of the combat units to let their full abilities become known. And then there had been that civil rights group that had gotten hold of the information that Bolo computers were sentient and tried to organize a movement to abolish what they called ‘military servitude by an intelligent minority species.’ It had taken a lot of money to quiet down that little scandal, twenty years back. . . .
Finally he gave a short, noncommittal nod. “They’re supposed to calculate the odds, Coordinator. But they are also supposed to carry out their orders. Instruct him to stand firm, and Jason’ll do just that.”
“Don’t you understand? Don’t you see? Or has all your fine technology blinded you Terrans to the things that matter? I don’t want soldiers just going through the motions, Fife. I want their hearts, their minds . . . their souls engaged in this fight. That’s how you win wars, by morale and dedication. Didn’t Napoleon say something about that once?”
Kyle looked up. “The moral is to the physical as three to one,” the Chief of Operations supplied. He didn’t sound happy.
“It sounds good in political speeches, Coordinator,” Fife said softly. “Very inspiring stuff. But all the devotion in the world won’t stop bullets. If it did, those fanatics from Deseret would be invulnerable. The truth of the matter is, you’re throwing away the best hope you’ve got of breaking the ANM, and along with it you’re needlessly throwing away the lives of a hell of a lot of the young men and women you’re supposed to be leading. And all on a philosophical argument that can’t really be proven one way or the other.”
The Coordinator looked back at the wall screen. “I guess it’s true. You Terrans really don’t know how much of your own humanity you’ve really lost . . . But my decision stands. Will you abide by it, Captain? Or do I order Major Durant to relieve you?”
“With all due respect to the Major, Coordinator, she isn’t ready to serve as a Battle Commander for a Bolo unit yet. Even a unit of one. The Bolo is self-directing, yes . . . but it takes an experienced officer to recognize the priorities and choose the tactical data to feed in so he can make a rational decision. I’ll do what you order, Sir. But I still think you’re making a mistake.”
“A human prerogative, Captain,” Wilson said with a weary smile. “I don’t pretend to mechanical perfection. But I dare say I know more about the human condition than your machine . . . maybe more than you, come to that.” He turned back to Kyle. “Give the necessary orders, General. Let’s get this show on the road.”
* * *
“Ready to execute Phase Two, Father Hand.”
Hyman Smith-Wentworth held up a hand, but kept his attention focused on the monitor. The command van was crowded now, with a dozen technicians tracking force movements, maintaining contact with the diverse elements of the assault force, and processing intelligence information as quickly as it could be assembled and filtered through the on-board tactical computer. But the Hand’s voice cut through the babble, sharp and clear. “Hold until I give the order, Lieutenant,” he said. “And tell the Third Chief of Staff to prepare to implement alternate plan three . . .”
He was studying the satellite images carefully. Even enhanced and processed by one of the most powerful computers Deseret’s technology could produce, the ~details of the enemy movements were not complete. Their response to phase one was still not entirely clear, and until he was certain that the feint toward the Hot Springs Pass had done its job the Hand of the New Messiah was unwilling to commit his forces to the sudden change of attack his carefully prepared principal battle plan called for.
There were signs that the position at Alto Blanco was being reinforced, and that perplexed Smith-Wentworth. He had been careful to keep the apparent attentions of his troops focused almost entirely away from the Alto Blanco route, but something was going on there. A ship had lifted from the spaceport near Denver Prime and touched down minutes later near the foot of the pass. And the troops holding Alto Blanco had been showing signs of preparing to move out. Could they be so desperate to hold the Hot Springs line that they would actually risk weakening the neighboring pass? Maybe the transport had been brought in to carry troops directly to the threatened sector. . . .
Something was moving near the grounded ship. Something big, stirring up one Satan’s-spawn of a dust cloud. The Hand touched a keypad to his left to ~increase the magnification and heighten the enhancement of the view.
Then he saw it. More than thirty meters long, perhaps half that in height, massing 330 metric tons, the Bolo Mark XX was a behemoth of steel and ablative armor, bristling with more weaponry than Smith-Wentworth had ever seen on a single fighting machine before. It raced from the open cargo bay of the transport like a greyhound on treads, faster than something that huge should ever have been able to move.