“Many brave men died here when Deseret tried to conquer our planet,” he began, his voice husky with emotion. “Their sacrifice will always be recognized. But I hope that no one forgets the true hero of this battle for as long as the men of New Sierra look back on the fight for freedom waged here at the very roof of the world. No flesh and blood hero was Unit JSN, but a machine made of metal and electronics components, built by men, programmed by men, our servant and surrogate constructed solely for war. But this battle machine, this Bolo tank, was more than the sum of chips and programs, much more. No man, from New Sierra or any of the other far-flung worlds of the ~human expansion, could ever have shown greater ~initiative, greater courage, greater patriotism, than this machine that proved anything but ‘mere.’ Unit JSN of the Line . . . Jason . . . proved himself worthy of our respect. As a fighting machine . . . as a hero . . . as a man.”
They solemnly welded the decoration to the Bolo’s turret, according to the longstanding custom of Terra’s Dinochrome Brigade, New Sierra’s Legion of Merit. It was the highest award any citizen of the Republic could receive, and there was a sprinkling of applause from the assembled dignitaries.
Then Major Durant gave the nod to Ramirez, and the final shutdown procedure began.
David Fife stepped close to one of the Bolo’s few surviving input/output clusters. He knew that there was no alternative left, but that didn’t make it any easier to endure. Jason was still conscious, still functional at minimum awareness level, but too far gone to bring back in this or any other body. Fife knew that his pain center was still signalling the machine’s crippling injuries, and the shutdown would be a relief from an unimaginable hell of electronic suffering. . . .
A visual sensor moved slowly, focusing on Fife. The Bolo spoke, a rasping, mechanical sound. “Unit JSN . . . of the line . . . to command . . .” he said haltingly. “I am . . . pleased . . . I have done my duty.” There was a long pause. Fife heard one of the technicians report to Ramirez that the fusion plant was off line. Only a few seconds of backup battery power remained. Then Jason would be gone.
“My only regret . . .” Jason continued. “My only regret . . . is that we will not . . . be able to discuss . . . the human equation any longer.” Again, the machine paused, and then spoke his last words so softly that Fife had to strain to hear them.
“Go tell the Spartans . . .”
PLOUGHSHARE
Todd Johnson
PROLOGUE
(i)
“And now, ladies and gentlemen-Senator-you come to the heart of the Bolo. If you’ll step this way, please. Remember to leave all your food and drink outside. And for those of you who still have the habit, no smoking, please.” The group tittered politely. The tour guide led the group into the White Room. Workers clad in white overalls moved purposely about, carrying trays and making microscopic examinations. The room smelled antiseptically clean. “It is here that the psychotronic circuits are produced and tested.”
The tour guide pointed to racks where completed circuit boards awaited shipment. “Each one of those circuit boards represents a complete- Uh, young man! Oh, you’re the Director’s son, aren’t you? Take your milkshake outside, please. We can’t allow any liquids in this room, there’s too much danger of-madam, if you’d move aside-NO! Not that way!”
(ii)
“Well, the lab tests are as extensive as we can make. There appears to be no damage, all the same-” the Test Manager reported.
“No damage? Excellent! I expected that new cleansing agent-what is it called? DK-41-would solve the problem,” the Project Manager said.
“Great news! The cost of replacing all those circuits, not to mention the impact on the schedule, would be disastrous,” the project’s Financial Officer added. He smiled congenially at the others in the austere conference room as he ruminated over the millions that had been saved. The difference between profit and loss.
“Well, I’m still not entirely certain-” the Test Manager hedged. The Financial Officer looked up, eyes widened, and sought the eyes of the Project Manager imploringly.
The Project Manager caught the look and hastily assured the Test Manager, “Don’t worry, Ted, we’ll keep an eye on ’em through integration.”
(iii)
“I don’t see what the fuss is all about, they all passed their final tests with flying colors. Admittedly, they produced unique solutions to problems than we’ve seen recently, but that could easily reflect the greater-knowledge databases we’ve endowed them with. No, gentlemen, I believe that the C group of the Mark XVI’s is completely ready in all respects for export and assignment,” the Project Manager declared cheerfully.
“But their names! Who’s ever heard of a Bolo wanting to be christened Das Afrika Korps?” the Test Manager asked.
“That is a bit odd,” the Project Manager conceded, “but I see nothing wrong with a Bolo wishing to acquire the tradition and heritage of the US Seventh Army Corps-”
“And Marshal Zhukov of the Soviet Union? And just who the heck is General Corse?”
The Project Manager drummed his fingers on the table top. “Ted, do they pass or not?”
The Test Manager sighed. “They pass, Jim. They just leave me a bit nervous. After all, those were logic circuits that got contaminated.”
“And cleaned again with DK-41. No, Ted, you don’t have anything to worry about.”
“Well, I suppose,” the Test Manager agreed with a sigh, “I just wish we’d done more tests with DK-41 before we used it on a production batch.”
“You worry too much, Ted,” the Project Manager said, “but that’s your job.”
(iv)
“There! The first combat results are back for the C batch! Amazing!” the Bolo Division’s Strategist exclaimed. “Those software upgrades are certainly something!”
(v)
CONFIDENTIAL
FOR BOLO DIVISION INTERNAL USE ONLY
FROM: Manager, Chemical Decontamination
Department
TO: All Managers, Bolo Division
SUBJECT: DK-41 Decontaminant
Recent test results on long-term exposure to DK-41 decontaminant show evidence of sub-layer doping with carbon and iridium carbide. While the implications of these findings are being determined, all managers are advised to discontinue use of DK-41 as a decontaminant immediately.
– I –
A war, even the most victorious, is a national misfortune.
-Helmuth Von Moltke
General Danforth von der Heydte, G-1, in charge of personnel, eyed the rusty hulk disdainfully. “This is worth a division?”
“Or three or four,” Colonel Rheinhardt, G-3 in charge of operations, replied. “Its effectiveness has not yet been determined.”
The group of officers stood at the bottom of a deep excavation. It was night and, under the cover of camouflage netting, lights around the partially excavated war machine illuminated workers frenetically digging. Smells of dark earth and rusted metal mixed in the chill air.
While General von der Heydt kept his distance from the war hulk, Colonel Rheinhardt examined the exposed parts meticulously, noting the inferior quality of the attached bulldozer blade, marvelling at the partially exposed barrel of the Hellbore.
“It will have to be recharged,” said General Marius, G-4 in charge of supply. His tone was a mix of proud possessiveness battling against the miserly concern of a bookkeeper.
“The Bolo Model XVI are rumored to have been used in lieu of a full corps in various encounters,” General Sliecher, G-2, Intelligence, commented. His cadaverous face, small eyes, hawk nose all lent credence to his professional calling. But his frame was bent, the hair that hung limply on his skull was white. His strength had been whittled away; his intellect remained.
“Hmmph,” von der Heydte snorted. “It’s missing two of its four tracks-”
“But, fortunately, on either side,” Rheinhardt interjected, bending down to peer intently at the remaining tracks. Just like every military officer, Colonel Rheinhardt had read about the Bolos in his classes on military history as a cadet. Later, as an instructor, he had taught strategy and tactics based on several of their more memorable actions. Unlike most other officers, he had always itched for a chance to employ one. Legend even had it that some had been brought to their planet of Freireich over two centuries ago, mostly stripped of weaponry, for use as heavy machinery-earth-movers and the like-not as war machines.
He reached a hand back behind him as he bent lower. “Major.”
Major Krüger, his blond lantern-jawed aide, wordlessly placed a handlight in the outstretched hand.
Colonel Rheinhardt, Chief of Operations for the Bayerische KriegsArmee, soon became bespattled with dirt and mud as he pored minutely over the exposed expanse of armored track. His lithe body moved with a wiriness that belied the silver which crowned both temples. His movements were not the precise controlled movements of a man tired with age, nor were they the quick darting movements of a youth careless with his energy. His inspection over, the Colonel returned the handlight to the orderly, straightened up within arm’s distance of the ancient war machine, and without seeming to, carefully removed the dirt on his uniform. Shortly he was again immaculate, proud and ready for action.