“I’ll sort it out immediately.”
“Thank you, General.” Shortly the guards moved aside and opened the gates. The Bolo moved through without any additional orders.
“One question, Colonel-” General Wiesen’s voice was lost in a rush of static.
“Communications signal lost, shall I reconnect?” the Bolo asked.
“No,” Rheinhardt replied, “that won’t be necessary. Wiesen’s a nosy old busybody. Just continue with the operation and inform me if we get any contact from the General Staff.” A flashing red light in the left display distracted Rheinhardt.
“What’s that?” Even before the Bolo could react, the colonel swore to himself and amended, “What’s that red light flashing on my left display?”
“Switching left display to main display,” the Bolo replied.
Rheinhardt blinked as the main display shrank and moved left while the left display grew and moved directly in front of him. The red light, grown larger with the change of display position, flashed, .
“Checksum error?”
“Data provided to processor D did not agree with the checksum for the data,” the Bolo explained. “Either the processor is suffering a recurring failure on some of the data address lines or the checksum address lines are faulty.”
“Is this normal?”
“It is outside of standard operating parameters,” the Bolo said. “Since reactivation, this combat unit has had numerous checksum errors occur on all processors.”
“Can you work around them?”
“For the present,” the Bolo replied. “However, within the next ninety-eight point four-three hours, the probability of critical failure is within operational parameters with command supervision.”
“‘Command supervision’? What do you expect of me?”
“In the event of a failure of one or more of the subprocessors, this combat unit will require command input.”
“I see,” Rheinhardt said, “your computer systems work with a five-lobe voting system. The majority vote wins.”
“That is essentially correct,” the Bolo agreed. “There is a 99.98% probability that one or more processors will fail permanently before the completion of the assigned mission. In that event, I have arranged to receive your input as a supplement.”
“What happens to me if your systems fail completely?”
“The most catastrophic failure for a command supervisor would be total annihilation of this unit,” the Bolo said. “In that case there is a zero point zero one percent chance that the Command Supervisor would survive.”
“I was thinking of something less . . . catastrophic,” Rheinhardt said. “What if your systems fail completely?”
“In the event of a processor failure, the power systems will be crippled and the interlocks on your combat position will be released,” the Bolo informed him. “You can then manually remove the headset. Directly above you will see a yellow-striped black handle. Pull it down to activate the explosive ejection system.”
“Ejection system?”
“It is designed to eject you and the command chair you sit on safely in all circumstances barring complete fusion of the compartment hatch to the exterior hull.”
“Hmm, I see,” Rheinhardt said, with a slight loss of enthusiasm.
“There is one more safety feature for that instance,” the Bolo continued, “but I doubt it would be much assistance to you.”
“What is it?” Rheinhardt asked, glancing around the various displays.
“An emergency command frequency beacon,” the Bolo responded. “It broadcasts a Mayday on all Bolo comm frequencies. Any Bolo receiving a broadcast must respond and render aid.”
“Hm.” Given the chance of a nearby Bolo, Rheinhardt was unimpressed.
“In combat it has proven that even a heavily damaged Bolo managed to retrieve a trapped Commander.”
General of the KriegsArmee Friedrich Marcks hovered impatiently over the communications console in the headquarters command center. “Well?”
The harried communications officer looked up at him bleakly, rubbing his haggard face and wishing that his morning relief would come. “Still no luck, sir. We have been unable to raise the Bolo on all combat frequencies.”
General Marius, standing behind his commander-in-chief, nervously muttered, “We’ve heard nothing since Wiesen last spoke to them.”
Marcks turned to him, his unshaven face at odds with the intensity of his expression. “General Wiesen is certain that the Bolo went east?”
Marius nodded slowly. “Colonel Rheinhardt ordered him to open the gate himself.”
General Marcks turned to General Sliecher, his head of Intelligence. “Have you got a fix on them yet?”
“No, sir, the Bolo leaves a surprisingly small trail behind it.”
“Wiesen’s men clocked it moving at over one-thirty,” Marius added in amazement.
Major Krüger frowned sourly. “At that rate, it’ll be in the mountains in six hours.”
Marcks’ face went white. He snapped his fingers at the Major. “What weapons do we have against the Bolo?”
“Sir, you cannot think that Colonel Rheinhardt would betray us!”
“No,” the General replied sadly, “not at all. I am afraid that the Bolo has gone insane. We must destroy it. What weapons will do that job?”
“I know of none, sir,” Major Krüger said after a long, painful pause.
“The first thing is to immobilize it,” Marcks decided. “How can we do that?”
“Perhaps a tank trap,” Major Krüger suggested.
“First we have to find it!” General Marius exclaimed.
“True,” General Sliecher agreed.
“It’s your job,” Marius said accusingly.
Sliecher’s eyes gleamed wickedly. “Indeed. General Marcks, perhaps my Noufrench counterpart would be of assistance?”
“Oh, I’m sure he’d love to help us destroy our Bolo!”
“All operatives assure me that this is a genuine request,” General Jean-Paul Renoir, Chef d’Intelligence de l’Armée du Noufrance, told the general staff as he stood before them. He had traveled throughout the night from the satellite control station to headquarters but there was no hot coffee or croissants to greet him-only cold, tired faces.
“They want our bombers to destroy their nightmare,” General Villiers, Chef du Material, said with outrage.
“I fear it is not just their nightmare, Jacques,” General Cartier, Chef d’Armée, said, laying a calming hand on the rotund general’s shoulder. “We have been aware of its existence for some time. The Bolo attempted to penetrate into our military network.”
He paused while his generals absorbed this information. “Fortunately, we detected it and set up an elaborate ruse to misinform the machine. This effort was led by General Lambert who is still at the satellite control station, just north of Nouparis.
“The operation has only been in existence for some days now. We feel that it has proved successful.” He paused, his lips drawn into a thin line. “Our success may well prove to be our undoing. It appears we have driven this thing mad.”
General Renoir noted, “There is a chance that we can work this to our advantage. A combined operation, if successful, would strengthen ties between our two military establishments. If we help destroy this metal monster, our enemy will be honor-bound to deal with us peacefully.”
“You are so mad for peace?” General Villiers mocked.
“Peace, particularly on our terms, is always preferable to war,” the Chef d’Intelligence returned scathingly.
“I say let the Bolo wipe out our enemies for us!”
“And once it has done that, will it stop?” Renoir snapped in rejoinder. “No, better destroy it now when our combined air force has a chance than let it destroy us piecemeal.”
General Cartier, who had listened to the whole exchange intently, made up his mind. “We shall help the Bayerische. We will make them pay for the ammunition, n’est-ce pas?”
General Villiers gave in reluctantly, “We have little enough ammunition as it is.”
* * *
– III –
For to win one hundred victories in one hundred battles is not the acme of skill. To subdue the enemy without fighting is the acme of skill.
-Sun Tzu
“One must always study the enemy, Scratche,” Jyncji Fleet Admiral Baron Rastle Speare said to his adjutant, Midshipman Jenkis Scratche.
“Study the enemy,” Scratche repeated dutifully, as though committing the admiral’s sage advice to memory. In fact, the young Jyncji officer had heard this speech so often that it already was committed to memory. But he knew that his chances of independent command and advancement depended upon staying in the Admiral’s good graces.
“Yes,” Speare repeated, “study the enemy. Understand their logic, learn from them.”
“Learn from them,” Scratche murmured dutifully. Use their tactics against them, the young Jyncji thought to himself. They were on the battle bridge, preparing to jump from the distant fringes of the human system to the lush, warm, desirable green planet fourth from the sun. A planet soon to be theirs.
Scratche could imagine the wealth of his very own Jyncji-formed lands. Count Scratche, or Earl Scratche, what shall I be, the Midshipman mused. The actinic glare of the harsh battle lights did not prevent him imagining the lush warming rays of an orange sun.
Scratche could count on his Admiral to be generous. And if he could not-he would find ways to ensure such generosity. In the meantime, he would keep his spines to himself, his snout firmly lowered, his claws sheathed, and his tone deferential. It was a difficult position for a Jyncji-not to be attacking with tooth and claw, nor yet to be huddled inside the defensive shield of sharp spine that lined his back. Scratche felt his spines tingling with fear, while his blood flowed hot with war-lust.