“No,” the Bolo replied. “My computer functionality is based upon Von Neumann architecture using Boolean logic coupled with several adaptive neural networks.”
“Non-Quirthian!” One of the technicians muttered to herself, shaking her head.
“We could put a special Von Neumann filter in the data link,” the technicians’ spokesman offered.
“How does Quirthian logic differ-” the Bolo began but cut itself short. “Oh, I see. Very interesting. I am not quite able to comprehend the full differences but clearly there are some aspects of this computer architecture which are inherently superior to mine.”
“That could cause difficulties,” Rheinhardt muttered to himself. He turned his gaze to the head technician. “How long before you can get a filter together?”
“Well,” the spokesman shook himself, gazed off into the distance calculatingly, “I suppose we could get it done in a couple of days or so . . .”
Rheinhardt shook his head. “Too long. What are the dangers of leaving out the filter?”
“Well, the Bolo here’d be getting some extraneous data inputs which it might have difficulty sorting out. It could cause all sorts of problems.”
“Bolo, what is your analysis?”
“Colonel, my understanding of Quirthian logic is that it is a high order logic based upon chaos theory and complex data analysis,” the Bolo replied. “However, the core data is identical with my standard requirements. I believe that I can . . .”
“Bolo?” Rheinhardt’s tone was apprehensive.
“Yes?” the Bolo responded.
“You were saying?”
“This unit is failing,” the Bolo said abruptly. “I compute my failure will occur within the next one hundred and sixty-eight hours.”
“I beg your pardon?” Rheinhardt was amazed.
“I said that the unit, Bolo Mark XVI Model C, Das Afrika Korps is failing,” the Bolo repeated. “I compute that all five main processor units will suffer complete failure within the next one hundred and sixty-eight hours.”
“Isn’t there anything to be done?” Rheinhardt asked, spreading his glance between the apprehensive technicians and the huge war machine.
The technicians’ spokesman waved aside responsibility. “My expertise is in Quirthian interfaces, sir. I know nothing about Von Neumann architecture.”
“Bolo?”
“The failure of this unit is due to a progressive degradation of core technology circuitry,” the Bolo said. “The only solution is the replacement of the circuitry.”
Rheinhardt frowned, pulling on his chin. “I’m afraid that we lack the required technology.”
“That was my analysis,” the Bolo agreed.
“I guess we’ll have to alter our plans,” Rheinhardt muttered to himself.
“I understand your desire to utilize this unit in a manner most optimal.”
Rheinhardt looked up. “Yes, I had rather-you’re not in any pain are you?”
The Bolo did not reply immediately. Finally, it said, “In my years of military service I have come to understand pain, it indicates a lack of functionality or inability to complete my assigned missions owing to a lack of organic equipment. In that regard I must confess that I am in a significant amount of pain.”
“I am sorry. Is there anything we can do to help?”
“It is not the pain but the reduction in my computational capability which distresses me the most,” the Bolo said. “I feel as though I have lost a large part of my intellectual functions.”
Rheinhardt nodded understandingly. “I could see how that would be distressing.”
“Indeed,” the Bolo agreed. “Therefore I should like at the end of my service to provide the most optimal solution to the problems you, as my commander, find yourself facing.”
“Your help would be phenomenal,” Rheinhardt admitted.
“What aid I can give will require direct command supervision-in case my processors fail at a rate higher than currently anticipated.”
“That can be arranged.”
“I hesitate to restate myself, Colonel, however in my progressive degradation, the only person who could safely ride with me would be yourself,” the Bolo said.
“Are you certain?” General Marcks asked after Rheinhardt had delivered his report to the combined staff. They were in the wood-paneled room deep in Armee headquarters where staff briefings were given weekly. The members of the General Staff were arrayed on either side of a long mahogany table; General Marcks stood behind another table placed perpendicular. Colonel Rheinhardt’s seat was nearest him on the left, General von der Heydte was seated opposite him. Staff officers stood against the wall patiently waiting their leaders’ needs.
Rheinhardt shook his head. “I am not certain. The Bolo, however, is.”
The response elicited an outburst of conversations around the table. “Preposterous!” “We’ll never defeat the enemy without that machine!” “Less than a week, we can’t be ready!”
“Gentlemen.” General Marcks’ voice was not raised but it created an instant silence. All eyes turned to him. “Colonel, what do you propose?”
“We cannot squander this opportunity, sir,” Rheinhardt replied, rising to his feet again and spreading his attention between the General and the rest of the staff. “The Noufrench do not realize our predicament, so they will feel that we have the Bolo permanently. We should play upon that and produce a lasting peace-”
“Never!” “They’ll never agree!” “Who could trust the Frogs anyway?”
Colonel Rheinhardt waited until the furor died down. “We shall have the Bolo destroy their tank production facilities, their aircraft factories and their space communications links. After that, our own production will allow us to maintain superiority. They’ll have to sue for peace.”
“Madness!” “Insane!” “One tank against the entire Armée du Noufrance?”
Again Marcks’ commanding presence quelled the outbursts. “It appears, gentlemen, that we have little choice. Either we take the chance or not. I would hate to leave his Eminence the Astral without a suitable inheritance. The lack of our vinelands west of the Neurhein will-if he turns out like his father-be a particular loss to him.” He pursed his lips, then dropped his arm in a decisive chopping motion. “Karl, when can we move?”
I cannot trust my datalinks with the Quirthian networks. However, I am in the awkward situation of having to do so. All data indicates an assault force not delineated in my Commander’s briefing. I must discern the accuracy of this data. The assaulting force could be overwhelming in nature. I need more data . . .
The Commander spoke of- spoke of a satellite network. I must obtain a connection to the link. I shall investigate the possibility of connecting to the Noufrench systems via this Quirthian datalink.
– II –
You write to me that it’s impossible, the word is not French.
-Napoleon Bonaparte
“I tell you, there is no chance that they can attack,” General Villiers, Chef du Materiel for the Armée du Noufrance declared. The officers of the general staff of the Armée du Noufrance sat comfortably back from their dinner and sniffed at their Argmanacs.
“They do not have the supplies, the forward dumps, nor do they have sufficient numbers of weapons, particularly armored fighting vehicles,” Villiers continued after a moment’s contemplation. He tilted his glass upwards again.
“General, while I must agree that the Bayerische do not appear to have the equipment, nevertheless, I am convinced they plan to attack soon,” General Lambert, Chef d’Attaque, replied firmly, pushing away his empty snifter.
Villiers sneered back at him. General Lambert met the gesture with a growing frown.
General Cartier, Chef d’Armée, rapped the table twice with his ivory letter opener. Silence descended. “Gentlemen. Let us hear what our head of intelligence has called us together for.”
The General Staff of the Armée du Noufrance had been gathered at the behest of the Chef d’Intelligence, General Renoir. General Renoir frowned and dipped his head, as though ducking away from the center of attention.
“My chief computer scientist has informed me of recent attempts to infiltrate our military network. These attempts emanate from the Bayerische.”
“They’ve never tried that before,” Lambert said thoughtfully. “What could they hope to gain?”
“Apparently they desire to control our satellite network,” Renoir replied.
“They could feed us false information!” “Garble our communications!” “Cut us off from the front lines!”
The letter-opener rapped on the tabletop again. Once. “Is there more, General Renoir?”
The intelligence officer nodded. “We have traced the efforts back to a very strange interface connection on the Bayerische milnet.”
“Do we know the location?” Lambert inquired.
The others followed his thought, muttering, “Pre-emptive strike. Good idea.”
Renoir shook his head. “We only know the location within the realm of the networks, not the physical location.”
General Lambert frowned thoughtfully and bowed his head in contemplation. Something was nagging him; some memory half-forgotten strained for attention. Something from a boring old computer tech class that reminded him of war. Strategy and tactics.
Renoir continued. “However, my scientists are of the opinion that the controlling computer on the network is not a Quirthian machine.”
“Quirthian?” General Bosson, Chef du Personnel and not particularly computer sentient, asked in puzzled tones.
“The standard computer processes of the current age conform to architecture and logic laid down by Johann Vincent Quirthe,” Renoir explained. “A non-Quirthian machine has never been made on this planet.”