I have watched anxiously over John, doing my limited best to help, but I am only a Bolo. Help is difficult to render when I do not possess a human soul, leaving me incapable even of understanding the full scope of the problem. But John Weyman, even in his silence, is a fine commander, brilliant and courageous. Whatever I have been capable of doing, I have done, gladly.
And now, as we ride to battle with an enemy of unknown strength and capability, the one person John Weyman tried so hard—and failed so wretchedly—to help tops a list of people most likely to become fatalities. Bessany Weyman’s research station sits dead last on Sector Command’s list of priority defense sites. There is no Bolo available to defend a facility with only fifty-three people in residence, nor is there any military reason to send a Bolo there, since the mines are the critical facilities on Thule.
Without military help, Bessany Weyman will certainly die under enemy guns. The more I brood on it, the more I wonder, anxiously, where my commander has gone.
I learn the answer when the CSS Darknight’s communications officer attempts to raise Eisenbrucke Station via SWIFT. I am plugged into the Darknight’s data net, which allows me to overhear the transmission. When there is no response, not even the autoresponder code that should have acknowledged the incoming signal, the communications officer tries to raise the closest human habitation to the research facility. This second SWIFT message races across vast interstellar distances and is answered within one point three minutes.
“CSS Darknight, this is Seta Point Colony, responding. Do you copy?”
“Seta Point, we copy. Communications Officer Tabbert here. We’re trying to hail Eisenbrucke Station. Their SWIFT unit appears to be down. Have they sustained an enemy assault?”
“We can’t raise them either, but I can’t believe it’s due to any Tersae attack. A blizzard howled across the whole eastern half of the Chak Upthrust almost a week ago, well before the attacks came. Hurricane-force winds and snow more than a meter deep. Nothing’s moving across open ground out here. When the station dropped off-line, we figured it must be storm damage to their communications equipment.”
It is a plausible explanation. Not entirely reassuring, but plausible enough to restore hope. If the blizzard continues to hold off Tersae attacks long enough for us to arrive, we may be able to secure Seta Point and send an armed force to evacuate the research station. Still, I continue to worry, uncertain whether or not anything listens to soldiers’ prayers—or if that something would bother listening to a machine. This does not stop me from hoping, deep in the privacy of my own thoughts, that something watches over both John Weyman and his sister-in-law. For now, it is the best I can do.
I fear it is not nearly enough.
Chapter Seven
In the aftermath of my unhappy first encounter with Captain DiMario, I have busied myself studying the mission briefing files on the conflict we are soon to join, partly to prepare myself for combat and partly to distract myself from worry over my new commander’s unorthodox behavior. The files are not overly large, however, and the review does not take long.
I therefore turn my attention to internal diagnostics, trying to determine the extent of changes to my psychotronic circuitry, weapons systems, and war hull. I am still occupied with this self-evaluation when the cargo lift hums again, signaling the approach of another human. I turn my attention to the lift doors and am startled when my new commander emerges, moving purposefully in my direction. She carries a heavy duffle, presumably containing her personal gear. Given the grim set of her face, I brace myself for further unpleasantness.
Captain DiMario pauses directly in front of my war hull. I have spent many years learning to read human emotions based on the movements of facial muscles and skin. Unless I am mistaken, my commander is embarrassed. I doubt the accuracy of my analysis. Then—unexpectedly—she clears her throat, the sound uncertain in the vastness of the cargo hold.
“Hello again,” she says in a low voice. “I’m afraid I owe you a fairly serious apology.”
I am so surprised, I cannot even find words to answer.
“I won’t try to excuse my behavior, which was fairly hideous. I . . . Oh, hell, there just isn’t any easy way to say it. I came aboard this transport directly from a hospital ship. I should still be on it.” I detect fine tremors in both her body and her voice. A sheen of sweat has appeared on her skin. My commander is clearly suffering deep emotional distress. I listen silently, trying to understand.
“I spent more than three months on the front lines, fighting the Deng from world to world. Three weeks ago, my Bolo was destroyed. I knew the risk was high. Terribly high. But I couldn’t see any other choice. I lie awake nights, wondering if there might have been some option I missed, some other way out that wouldn’t have involved ordering Danny to his death.” She blinks rapidly; wetness trembles on dark eyelashes. Three months is a long time for a human to spend in constant combat. I am keenly aware of the human need for periodic rest from the stress of battle, without which even the strongest soldier begins to experience psychological dysfunction. I begin to understand.
“After the salvage engineers cut me out of the wreckage, the surgeons fixed most of what was wrong. And the psychiatrists pumped me full of drugs, trying to fix the rest of it . . .” She draws a deep breath. I feel a deep and unexpected pity for her, watching this struggle and realizing the cost of this admission, made to me in an unmistakable gesture of apology. “When word came of another Deng breakthrough, the command went out to scrape together every officer capable of fighting, to put into active service every Bolo that could be pulled out of mothballs and refitted for combat. All I could think, when they sent me out here to rendezvous with this transport, was that I was going back to the front lines, when I knew I wasn’t in any shape for it. And going back in a Bolo that wasn’t . . .”
Her voice breaks, raggedly. I say, as gently as possible, “I am old, Commander, and my war hull may be flintsteel, but that flintsteel is still quite strong and duralloy ablative armor has been added for extra protection. I will endure against even direct fire from Yavac Heavies.”
A strange sound emerges from her throat, defying interpretation. “I’m sure you would, if we were still assigned to the Deng front lines. That’s the other reason I came back down, with my gear.” She lifts one shoulder, over which she has slung the heavy duffle. “We’re dropping out of hyper-L in about fifteen minutes, to rendezvous with a fast courier. We’ve been reassigned.”
“Reassigned?” I repeat, deeply startled.
“There’s been an unexpected attack on the saganium mines at Thule.”
“By Deng?”
“No.” She gives me a strained smile. “By a sentient native species nobody knew existed. I’ve got the new mission files with me. I’ll copy them to your Action/Command Center before we off-load. We’ll transfer to the new courier ship together, with me tucked into your command compartment. Captain Roth and his Bolo will be shipping out with us.” She manages another strained smile. “Colonel Tischler can spare only two of his battle group for the Thule relief effort. He asked for volunteers.”
I understand. Profoundly. My commander is doubtless correct that she is not fit for front-lines combat, leaving me with a feeling of deep unease. But I am a fully self-aware and self-directing Bolo, capable of carrying out even complex battle plans without human guidance. If my commander collapses, I will not be crippled and neither will our mission. For her sake, I hope that we do not see the kind of heavy fighting that would doubtless tip her back into a state of psychological breakdown.
“Understood, Commander.”
She nods, slowly. “Thank you, SPQ/R-561. Permission to come aboard?”
“Of course, Commander.” I open my hatch with a hiss of pneumatics. She climbs aboard and stows her gear in one of the command compartment’s storage bins, then powers up the command chair, straps in, and feeds the new mission files into my Action/Command Center. I scan rapidly, satisfied with the completeness of the data. I begin to look forward to the coming mission, which holds out the promise of being far more interesting than mere combat against Deng Yavacs.
As my commander runs through the systems check required of any ship-to-ship transfer of my war hull, she says, “I can’t keep calling you SPQ/R-561. It’s too long, for one thing. And I don’t want to use whatever nickname your last commander used. That’s a little too personal. If you miss your old commander the way I—” She breaks off, biting one lip.