“Enough to clear the main gun,” Rheinhardt said. “And hurry, it can still serve us well.”
“What’s it going to do?”
“Tell General Lambert that it has one clear shot at the aliens’ bacterial spacecraft. If it can make that shot, the aliens will never be able to destroy us.”
“Giscarde, Martin! Get that damned tractor unit over here! And get the others, too! Hook ’em up, we don’t have much time!” The officer shouted in a flurry of galvanized action. “You! Call HQ and tell them that the Bolo can take a shot at the enemy!”
“I thought you were gone,” Rheinhardt confided softly to the Bolo.
“By all standard operating categories, I am no longer considered combat capable.”
“One last shot, eh?” Rheinhardt muttered with a grin.
“I hope,” the Bolo agreed. “It is not clear that it will suffice.”
“Get their bacterial ship, that’s all we ask.”
“Telemetry indicates that it is lining up for its run.”
“But?”
“There are two ships lining up in suitable trajectories.”
“Scheisse!” Furiously Rheinhardt pulled the Combat Helmet over his head. The main display was dark, broken. But the left side display gave him a distorted orbital view. Two dots on an identical track glowed a fierce red.
“I am curious,” the Bolo said, “does the use of native invective over foreign invective indicate greater or lesser concern?”
Rheinhardt was relieved of the need to reply by the interruption of the recovery team’s leader. “Sir, we are ready.”
“Pull away!” Rheinhardt and the Bolo called in unison.
“You will need to visit a decompression chamber soon, Colonel,” the Bolo said above the groan of cables stretched taut.
“Decompression?”
“You went from two thousand meters to sea level in short seconds,” the Bolo explained.
“That explains the headache.”
“Probably, although you were bounced around a lot,” the Bolo concurred. “Movement. Tell them a bit more.”
“A bit more!” Rheinhardt called out.
“Yes sir!”
“That’s it!” the Bolo said. “Just in time, here they come. There are two targets, nearly in line. Tell the recovery team that I am going to traverse.”
“The Bolo’s going to traverse its main gun, stand clear.”
“Yes sir,” the recovery officer replied. “The enemy is attacking again.”
“Clear your men out, monsieur.”
“If you permit, I should like to stay with you.”
“I have far more protection than you could possibly achieve,” Rheinhardt replied. “Go with your men. Return, if you can.”
“You may depend on it.”
“The recovery team is clear,” the Bolo said a few moments later. “They have retreated to a hillock some four kilometers from us. They should be relatively safe from interference.”
“That’s a relief,” Rheinhardt said. “I appreciate their efforts.”
“Enemy on the horizon. The lead craft is clearly the assault craft and shielding the bacteriant,” the Bolo decided, “I shall fire at the second craft. Elevation computed, set. Main gun charging.”
Rheinhardt listened to the huge whine of the plasma gun warming up. The second ship, protected by the assault force. The Bolo’s power displays. The amount of energy required for the orbital shot. Elevation. Tracking. Enemy acquired. Wait! Aloud, Rheinhardt shouted: “Bolo, wait!”
A bright ray pierced the sky and was lost in the distance.
“Target destroyed,” the Bolo reported. The drone of its discharging main gun was pierced by a metallic whang.
“Main turbine bearings destroyed, main gun inoperative,” the Bolo reported. “You said wait, why?”
Rheinhardt groaned. “The first craft is the bacteriant, not the second.”
There was a long pause. “Confirmed, bacteriant still on course,” the Bolo agreed, “there is much communication between the remaining ships. Also, I detect an assault force aligned for another run against this unit.” The Bolo paused, “Could you explain how you arrived at your conclusion?”
“From your reconstruction of the previous engagement and what we’ve seen so far, the enemy are not very valorous. Seeing the bacteriant ‘giving them cover’ would hearten the ground assault troops,” Rheinhardt explained. “They have a reserve assault ship so they will still be able to defeat us. Without the bacteriant” -Rheinhardt’s brow narrowed as a thought struck-“how are you getting your information about enemy traffic?”
“The communications satellites,” the Bolo responded. “They’re very efficient. They’ve nearly cracked the enemy’s communications codes.”
“Those aren’t satellites!” Rheinhardt exclaimed, he slammed his hand down on the Mayday button. Rheinhardt pulled the shattered Combat Vehicular Communications helmet off his head, and found the handmike. The “transmit” light glowed feebly as he called, “Mayday, Mayday, Bolo Das Afrika Korps requests and requires assistance!”
“The enemy are on final run, now,” the Bolo informed him. “I have no response to the Mayday. Ten seconds and no response. Power critical! ENEMY ASSAULT IN TWELVE . . . ELEVEN . . . TOTAL SYSTEM FAILURE IN FIFTEEN SECONDS . . .”
“BOLO DAS AFRIKA KORPS, THIS IS SURVEILLANCE BOLO US SEVENTH CORPS, DESCRIBE NATURE OF EMERGENCY,” A VERY AMERICAN VOICE CALLED OVER RHEINHARDT’S HELMET.
“BOLO DAS AFRIKA KORPS, THIS IS SURVEILLANCE-NO, COMBAT BOLO ZHUKOV. ARE YOU PREPARED TO COPY?”
“BOLO DAS AFRIKA KORPS, BOLO INDEFATIGABLE HERE,” A CLIPPED ENGLISH ACCENT INTONED PRECISELY. “I WISH TO REPORT HOSTILE SPACECRAFT.”
“ALL UNITS ENGAGE ALL SPACECRAFT, ALL UNITS ENGAGE!” RHEINHARDT ORDERED.
“REQUEST CONFIRMATION,” BOLO ZHUKOV SAID.
“CONFIRMATION REQUIRED,” BOLO US SEVENTH CORPS AGREED.
“THIS IS COLONEL KARL RHEINHARDT OF THE BAYERISCHE KRIEGSARMEE-” THE “TRANSMIT” FADED OUT. NO MORE POWER. THE RADIO WAS DEAD.
“CONFIRMATION REQUIRED,” BOLO INDEFATIGABLE REITERATED IN TONES THAT MADE IT CLEAR RHEINHARDT’S STANDING MEANT NOTHING.
IN FEEBLE ANGER, RHEINHARDT BEAT THE COMBAT HELMET AGAINST HIS RESTRAINTS. OVER! IT WAS ALL OVER. FOR NOTHING.
“WELL, BOLO DAS AFRIKA KORPS, WE TRIED,” HE SAID AT LAST. “IT WAS A GOOD TRY BUT WE FAILED IN OUR MISSION.”
OUTSIDE, ABOVE HIM, RHEINHARDT HEARD THE RISING ROAR OF THE INCOMING ATTACK CRAFT.
RHEINHARDT STARTED AT A CRACK AND HISS. THE SPEAKER! THE “TRANSMIT” LIGHT WAS ON AGAIN! HE LEANED FORWARD, PLACING HIS EAR OVER THE SPEAKER GRILLE. FAINTLY, FEEBLY CAME, “THIS IS BOLO DAS AFRIKA KORPS CONFIRMING ORDERS OF COMMANDER RHEINHARDT.”
“RIGHTO, THEN, LET’S BE ABOUT IT,” BOLO INDEFATIGABLE CALLED TO THE OTHERS. “YOU HEARD THE COMMANDER. GET THE BIG BUGGERS FIRST, THEN THE LITTLE ONES.”
FAR UP IN SPACE, MECHANISMS THAT HAD NOT MOVED IN CENTURIES ENGAGED, MOVING WITH UNWORN PRECISION. LIKE SPIDERS MOVING ON A WEB, THE BOLOS DETACHED FROM THEIR COMMUNICATIONS ANTENNAE, BROUGHT THEIR IMMENSE FUSION REACTORS TO FULL POWER, CHARGED WEAPONRY, AND SCANNED THE SKIES AROUND THEM.
“THERE’S AN ASSAULT FORCE ON FINAL RUN FOR YOU, DAS AFRIKA KORPS, CAN YOU HANDLE IT?” BOLO US SEVENTH CORPS ASKED.
“NEGATIVE,” THE BOLO REPLIED.
RHEINHARDT GRABBED THE MIKE, “ASSIST US ONLY IF YOU CAN DESTROY THE ENEMY ATTACK. AND SPEAK UP, I’M DEAF.”
“UNDERSTOOD,” BOLO US SEVENTH CORPS REPLIED.
“TALLYHO!” BOLO INDEFATIGABLE SHOUTED GLEEFULLY. “I GOT THE FIRST ONE.”
“I HAVE SIGHTED ON THE COMMAND SHIP, AM ENGAGING,” BOLO ZHUKOV REPORTED.
“I HAVE ENGAGED . . . AND DESTROYED THE BACTERIOLOGICAL SHIP,” THE BOLO INDEFATIGABLE REPORTED. THEN, IN SHOCKED TONES, “THE BUGGERS ARE RUNNING AWAY!”
“RE-TARGETING,” THE DRAWL OF BOLO US SEVENTH CORPS INFORMED THEM. “TARGETS ACQUIRED, TARGETS ENGAGED.”
ABOVE HIM, RHEINHARDT COULD HEAR THE APPROACHING WHINE OF THE ENEMY ASSAULT FORCE. A SERIES OF SONIC BOOMS BURST THE AIR. WHEN HIS HEARING RETURNED, THE WHINE WAS GONE.
“ALL TARGETS DESTROYED,” THE BOLO US SEVENTH CORPS REPORTED.
“THOSE THAT DIDN’T RUN AWAY,” BOLO INDEFATIGABLE HUMPHED BAD-TEMPEREDLY.
IN THE STILLNESS THAT FOLLOWED, RHEINHARDT’S BUZZING EARS DID NOT CATCH THE FINAL FAINT WORDS. “BOLO DAS AFRIKA KORPS REPORTS, MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. . . .”
GHOSTS
Mike Resnick and Barry N. Malzberg
The Mark LX looked across the battlefield, and felt a sudden sense of disorientation. This was something beyond its experience, beyond its programming, and it searched its data banks, looking for clues, for ways to interpret the situation-and in the process, tapped into a racial memory and withdrew a ghost. . . .
Into the depths of the Ardennes Forest, the Mark LX, then a Panzer unit, rolled, its crew struggling to hold on as it lurched across the terrain amid the high and terrible sounds of ordnance exploding all around them.
The Mark LX was barely sentient then, aware of its surroundings only in the dullest, most simplistic way. The thunder of the exploding shells hardly impinged upon its consciousness as it sent one incendiary after another into the heat and the distance, trusting implicitly in its spotter, not even wishing to take command of its own actions.
Now, at a distance of millennia, the LX realized that in that battle, amid the noise of the shells and the screams of the dying, it had achieved a sense of security, a contentedness which it was sure it had never known again . . . and then, even as it reveled in the feeling of purposefulness and fulfillment, it had taken a direct hit. Its electrons began to disassociate in ways that would not be understood or remedied for many centuries. The LX swerved sharply, collided with a tree that turned out to be much sturdier than it looked, and then blew up, its pieces flung in large, majestic scoops to the level of high branches, seizing the glint of the sun and then falling onto the heaving, twitching bodies of the men surrounding it.