Bachman’s World had little to recommend it. That was the problem.
“It’s a complicated issue, Rommel,” he said. “If a battalion of conventional troops had been sent here, there would have been more than the initial expenditure—there would have been an ongoing expenditure to support them.”
“Yes—that support money would come into the community. I understand their distress.” Rommel would understand, of course; Field Marshal Erwin Rommel had understood the problems of supply only too well, and his namesake could hardly do less. “Could it be they demanded the troops in the first place in order to gain that money?”
Siegfried grimaced, and toyed with the controls on the panel in front of him. “That’s what High Command thinks, actually. There never was any real reason to think Bachman’s World was under any sort of threat, and after a year, there’s even less reason than there was when they made the request. They expected something to bring in money from outside; you and I are hardly bringing in big revenue for them.”
Indeed, they weren’t bringing in any income at all. Rommel, of course, required no support, since he was not expending anything. His power-plant would supply all his needs for the next hundred years before it needed refueling. If there had been a battalion of men here, it would have been less expensive for High Command to set up a standard mess hall, buying their supplies from the local farmers, rather than shipping in food and other supplies. Further, the men would have been spending their pay locally. In fact, local suppliers would have been found for nearly everything except weaponry.
But with only one man here, it was far less expensive for High Command to arrange for his supplies to come in at regular intervals on scheduled freight-runs. The Bolo ate nothing. They didn’t even use “local” water; the Bolo recycled nearly every drop, and distilled the rest from occasional rainfall and dew. Siegfried was not the usual soldier-on-leave; when he spent his pay, it was generally off-planet, ordering things to be shipped in, and not patronizing local merchants. He bought books, not beer; he didn’t gamble, his interest in food was minimal and satisfied by the R.E.M.s (Ready-to-Eat-Meals) that were standard field issue and shipped to him by the crateful. And he was far more interested in that four-letter word for “intercourse” that began with a “t” than in intercourse of any other kind. He was an ascetic scholar; such men were not the sort who brought any amount of money into a community. He and his partner, parked as they were at the edge of the spaceport, were a continual reminder of how Bachman’s Planet had been “cheated.”
And for that reason, the mayor of Port City had suggested—stiffly, but politely—that his and Rommel’s continuing presence so near the main settlement was somewhat disconcerting. He had hinted that the peace-loving citizens found the Bolo frightening (and never mind that they had requested some sort of defense from the military). And if they could not find a way to make themselves useful, perhaps they ought to at least earn their pay by pretending to go on maneuvers. It didn’t matter that Siegfried and Rommel were perfectly capable of conducting such exercises without moving. That was hardly the point.
“You heard him, my friend,” Siegfried sighed. “They’d like us to go away. Not that they have any authority to order us to do so—as I reminded the mayor. But I suspect seeing us constantly is something of an embarrassment to whoever it was that promised a battalion of troops to bring in cash and got us instead.”
“In that case, Siegfried,” Rommel said gently, “We probably should take the mayor’s suggestion. How long do you think we should stay away?”
“When’s the next ship due in?” Siegfried replied. “There’s no real reason for us to be here until it ~arrives, and then we only need to stay long enough to pick up my supplies.”
“True.” With a barely audible rumble, Rommel started his banks of motive engines. “Have you any destination in mind?”
Without prompting, Rommel projected the map of the immediate area on one of Siegfried’s control-room screens. Siegfried studied it for a moment, trying to work out the possible repercussions of vanishing into the hills altogether. “I’ll tell you what, old man,” he said slowly. “We’ve just been playing at doing our job. Really, that’s hardly honorable, when it comes down to it. Even if they don’t need us and never did, the fact is that they asked for on-planet protection, and we ~haven’t even planned how to give it to them. How about if we actually go out there in the bush and do that planning?”
There was interest in the AI’s voice; he did not imagine it. “What do you mean by that?” Rommel asked.
“I mean, let’s go out there and scout the territory ourselves; plan defenses and offenses, as if this dustball was likely to be invaded. The topographical surveys stink for military purposes; let’s get a real war plan in place. What the hell—it can’t hurt, right? And if the locals see us actually doing some work, they might not think so badly of us.”
Rommel was silent for a moment. “They will still blame High Command, Siegfried. They did not receive what they wanted, even though they received what they were entitled to.”
“But they won’t blame us.” He put a little coaxing into his voice. “Look, Rommel, we’re going to be here for the rest of our lives, and we really can’t afford to have the entire population angry with us forever. I know our standing orders are to stay at Port City, but the mayor just countermanded those orders. So let’s have some fun, and show ’em we know our duty at the same time! Let’s use Erwin’s strategies around here, and see how they work! We can run all kinds of scenarios—let’s assume in the event of a real invasion we could get some of these farmers to pick up a weapon; that’ll give us additional scenarios to run. Figure troops against you, mechs against you, troops and mechs against you, plus untrained men against troops, men against mechs, you against another Bolo-type AI—”
“It would be entertaining.” Rommel sounded very interested. “And as long as we keep our defensive surveillance up, and an eye on Port City, we would not technically be violating orders. . . .”
“Then let’s do it,” Siegfried said decisively. “Like I said, the maps they gave us stink; let’s go make our own, then plot strategy. Let’s find every wadi and overhang big enough to hide you. Let’s act as if there really was going to be an invasion. Let’s give them some options, log the plans with the mayor’s office. We can plan for evacuations, we can check resources, there’s a lot of things we can do. And let’s start right now!”
They mapped every dry stream-bed, every dusty hill, every animal-trail. For months, the two of them rumbled across the arid landscape, with Siegfried emerging now and again to carry surveying instruments to the tops of hills too fragile to bear Rommel’s weight. And when every inch of territory within a week of Port City had been surveyed and accurately mapped, they began playing a game of “hide and seek” with the locals.
It was surprisingly gratifying. At first, after they had vanished for a while, the local news-channel seemed to reflect an attitude of “and good riddance.” But then, when no one spotted them, there was a certain amount of concern—followed by a certain amount of annoyance. After all, Rommel was “their” Bolo—what was Siegfried doing, taking him out for some kind of vacation? As if Bachman’s World offered any kind of amusement. . . .
That was when Rommel and Siegfried began stalking farmers.
They would find a good hiding place and get into it well in advance of a farmer’s arrival. When he would show up, Rommel would rise up, seemingly from out of the ground, draped in camouflage-net, his weaponry trained on the farmer’s vehicle. Then Siegfried would pop up out of the hatch, wave cheerfully, retract the camouflage, and he and Rommel would rumble away.
Talk of “vacations” ceased entirely after that.
They extended their range, once they were certain that the locals were no longer assuming the two of them were “gold-bricking.” Rommel tested all of his abilities to the limit, making certain everything was still up to spec. And on the few occasions that it wasn’t, Siegfried put in a requisition for parts and spent many long hours making certain that the repairs and replacements were bringing Rommel up to like-new condition.
Together they plotted defensive and offensive strategies; Siegfried studied Rommel’s manuals as if a time would come when he would have to rebuild Rommel from spare parts. They ran every kind of simulation in the book—and not just on Rommel’s computers, but with Rommel himself actually running and dry-firing against plotted enemies. Occasionally one of the news-people would become curious about their whereabouts, and lie in wait for them when the scheduled supplies arrived. Siegfried would give a formal interview, ~reporting in general what they had been doing—and then, he would carefully file another set of emergency plans with the mayor’s office. Sometimes it even made the evening news. Once, it was even accompanied by a clip someone had shot of Rommel roaring at top speed across a ridge.