Siegfried had also faced retirement, for the same reason. Outmoded. He had specialized in weapons-systems repair, the specific, delicate tracking and targeting systems.
Which were now outmoded, out-of-date; he had been deemed too old to retrain. He had been facing an uncertain future, relegated to some dead-end job with no chance for promotion, or more likely, given an “early-out” option. He had applied for a transfer, listing, in desperation, everything that might give him an edge somewhere. On the advice of his superiors, he had included his background and his hobby of military strategy of the pre-Atomic period.
And to his utter amazement, it had been that background and hobby that had attracted the attention of someone in the Reserves, someone who had been looking to make a most particular match. . . .
The wind died; no one with any sense moved outside during the heat of midday. The port might have been deserted, but for a lone motor running somewhere in the distance.
The Bolo was utterly silent, but Siegfried knew that he—he, not it—was watching him, examining him with a myriad of sophisticated instruments. By now, he probably even knew how many fillings were in his mouth, how many grommets in his desert-boots. He had already passed judgment on Siegfried’s service ~record, but there was this final confrontation to face, before the partnership could be declared a reality.
He cleared his throat, delicately. Now came the ~moment of truth. It was time to find out if what one administrator in the Reserves—and one human facing early-out and a future of desperate scrabbling for ~employment—thought was the perfect match really would prove to be the salvation of that human and this huge marvel of machinery and circuits.
Siegfried’s hobby was the key—desert warfare, tactics, and most of all, the history and thought of one particular desert commander.
Erwin Rommel. The “Desert Fox,” the man his greatest rival had termed “the last chivalrous knight.” Siegfried knew everything there was to know about the great tank-commander. He had fought and refought every campaign Rommel had ever commanded, and his admiration for the man whose life had briefly touched on that of his own ancestor’s had never faded, nor had his fascination with the man and his genius.
And there was at least one other being in the universe whose fascination with the Desert Fox matched Siegfried’s. This being; the intelligence resident in this particular Bolo, the Bolo that called himself “Rommel.” Most, if not all, Bolos acquired a name or nickname based on their designations—LNE became “Lenny,” or “KKR” became “Kicker.” Whether this Bolo had been fascinated by the Desert Fox because of his designation, or had noticed the resemblance of “RML” to “Rommel” because of his fascination, it didn’t much matter. Rommel was as much an expert on his namesake as Siegfried was.
Like Siegfried, RML-1138 was scheduled for “early-out,” but like Siegfried, the Reserves offered him a reprieve. The Reserves didn’t usually take or need Bolos; for one thing, they were dreadfully expensive. A Reserve unit could requisition a great deal of equipment for the “cost” of one Bolo. For another, the close partnership required between Bolo and operator precluded use of Bolos in situations where the “partnerships” would not last past the exercise of the moment. Nor were Bolo partners often “retired” to the Reserves.
And not too many Bolos were available to the ~Reserves. Retirement for both Bolo and operator was usually permanent, and as often as not, was in the front lines.
But luck (good or ill, it remained to be seen) was with Rommel; he had lost his partner to a deadly ~virus, he had not seen much in the way of combat, and he was in near-new condition.
And Bachman’s World wanted a Reserve battalion. They could not field their own—every able-bodied ~human here was a farmer or engaged in the export trade. A substantial percentage of the population was of some form of pacifistic religion that precluded bearing arms—Jainist, Buddhist, some forms of Hindu.
Bachman’s World was entitled to a Reserve force; it was their right under the law to have an on-planet ~defense force supplied by the regular military. Just ~because Bachman’s Planet was back-of-beyond of ~nowhere, and even the most conservative of military planners thought their insistence on having such a force in place to be paranoid in the extreme, that did not negate their right to have it. Their charter was clear. The law was on their side.
Sending them a Reserve battalion would be expensive in the extreme, in terms of maintaining that battalion. The soldiers would be full-timers, on full pay. There was no base—it would have to be built. There was no equipment—that would all have to be imported.
That was when one solitary bean-counting accountant at High Command came up with the answer that would satisfy the letter of the law, yet save the military considerable expense.
The law had been written stipulating, not numbers of personnel and equipment, but a monetary amount. That unknown accountant had determined that the amount so stipulated, meant to be the equivalent value of an infantry battalion, exactly equaled the worth of one Bolo and its operator.
The records-search was on.
Enter one Reserve officer, searching for a Bolo in good condition, about to be “retired,” with no current operator-partner—
—and someone to match him, familiar with at least the rudiments of mech-warfare, the insides of a Bolo, and willing to be exiled for the rest of his life.
Finding RML-1138, called “Rommel,” and Siegfried O’Harrigan, hobbyist military historian.
The government of Bachman’s World was less than pleased with the response to their demand, but there was little they could do besides protest. Rommel was shipped to Bachman’s World first; Siegfried was given a crash-course in Bolo operation. He followed on the first regularly-scheduled freighter as soon as his training was over. If, for whatever reason, the pairing did not work, he would leave on the same freighter that brought him.
Now, came the moment of truth.
“Guten tag, Herr Rommel,” he said, in careful German, the antique German he had learned in order to be able to read first-hand chronicles in the original language. “Ich heisse Siegfried O’Harrigan.”
A moment of silence—and then, surprisingly, a sound much like a dry chuckle.
“Wie geht’s, Herr O’Harrigan. I’ve been expecting you. Aren’t you a little dark to be a Storm Trooper?”
The voice was deep, pleasant, and came from a point somewhere above Siegfried’s head. And Siegfried knew the question was a trap, of sorts. Or a test, to see just how much he really did know, as opposed to what he claimed to know. A good many pre-Atomic historians could be caught by that question themselves.
“Hardly a Storm Trooper,” he countered. “Field-Marshall Erwin Rommel would not have had one of those under his command. And no Nazis, either. Don’t think to trap me that easily.”
The Bolo uttered that same dry chuckle. “Good for you, Siegfried O’Harrigan. Willkommen.”
The hatch opened, silently; a ladder descended just as silently, inviting Siegfried to come out of the hot, desert sun and into Rommel’s controlled interior. Rommel had replied to Siegfried’s response, but had done so with nothing unnecessary in the way of words, in the tradition of his namesake.
Siegfried had passed the test.
Once again, Siegfried stood in the blindingly hot sun,this time at strict attention, watching the departing back of the mayor of Port City. The interview had not been pleasant, although both parties had been strictly polite; the mayor’s back was stiff with anger. He had not cared for what Siegfried had told him.
“They do not much care for us, do they, Siegfried?” Rommel sounded resigned, and Siegfried sighed. It was impossible to hide anything from the Bolo; Rommel had already proven himself to be an adept reader of human body-language, and of course, anything that was broadcast over the airwaves, scrambled or not, Rommel could access and read. Rommel was right; he and his partner were not the most popular of residents at the moment.
What amazed Siegfried, and continued to amaze him, was how human the Bolo was. He was used to AIs of course, but Rommel was something special. Rommel cared about what people did and thought; most AIs really didn’t take a great interest in the ~doings and opinions of mere humans.
“No, Rommel, they don’t,” he replied. “You really can’t blame them; they thought they were going to get a battalion of conventional troops, not one very expensive piece of equipment and one single human.”
“But we are easily the equivalent of a battalion of conventional troops,” Rommel objected, logically. He lowered his ladder, and now that the mayor was well out of sight, Siegfried felt free to climb back into the cool interior of the Bolo.
He waited until he was settled in his customary seat, now worn to the contours of his own figure after a year, before he answered the AI he now consciously considered to be his best friend as well as his assigned partner. Inside the cabin of the Bolo, everything was clean, if a little worn—cool—the light dimmed the way Siegfried liked it. This was, in fact, the most comfortable quarters Siegfried had ever enjoyed. Granted, things were a bit cramped, but he had everything he needed in here, from shower and cooking facilities to multiple kinds of entertainment. And the Bolo did not need to worry about “wasting” energy; his power-plant was geared to supply full-combat needs in any and all climates; what Siegfried needed to keep cool and comfortable was miniscule. Outside, the ever-present desert sand blew everywhere, the heat was enough to drive even the most patient person mad, and the sun bleached everything to a bone-white. Inside was a compact world of Siegfried’s own.