I blow all remaining heat-ablative tiles with a small charge. They continue on the original trajectory and smash into the ground. They will look like a crashed decoy when found. I deploy our para-wing on schedule. I am unencumbered and vulnerable. I want to get down. Using controls on the para-wing, I spill air to change course toward the river as best I can. I cut the starboard lines to my trailing chutes and reel them in with the ribbon drag, leaving only the para-wing outside my hull to slow our descent.
We head for the river. We sway and drop. The course I hold takes us directly toward the target I have chosen, a spot that sensor scans indicate is the deepest available. At twenty-seven meters in depth, this is a good landing site, although I am constructed to withstand a drop onto bare rock if that is required.
At extreme sensor range I detect Deng airborne scoutships. My intelligence data on such scoutships indicates we are not yet in their sensor range. I have 3.88 seconds in which to disappear from their sensor sweeps. I activate Chameleon screens, taking on the outward visual, radar, and infrared signatures of an airborne Deng scout. It is the best I can do. We drop into the canyon. The walls are 321 meters high on the near rim.
I warn my crew: “Brace for landing!”
At the last possible moment, I attempt to climb in an effort to stall my para-wing, as I need to kill as much forward movement as possible and reduce speed to minimize any splash. When we enter the water the sharp slap recreates dizziness in my motion sensors. We slow. I reel in the trailing para-wing while still descending. My crew has suffered another jolt but appears to be in good health. I am relieved. Drop is a dangerous time. Even during a perfect drop, a crewman can suffer sprained neck muscles or dislocated shoulders. My crew is safe.
We touch bottom. My treads rest on clean-scoured stone. Water temperature is 2.7 degrees centigrade. Current flow is 0.6 meters per second. A swift current. The chilly water disperses our heat signature in a short-lived downstream plume. We are hidden from Enemy eyes.
“Doug, we have achieved a safe landing. I would recommend that we remain in this position for another twenty-four hours.”
“Agreed. Okay, you heard the lady. Time to break out the playing cards. We’re here for the duration.”
I am pleased. My Commander is satisfied with my performance. He calls me “the lady” when I have done particularly well. My crew and I are safe. That is all that matters for the moment.
“Brace for landing!”
Willum jumped at the sound of an astonishingly human female voice—then shut his eyes and hung onto the harness. To his shame, he yelled. . . .
The remaining fall wasn’t a long one. The shock of landing jarred everything, despite the harness that held him suspended. Webbing dug into flesh. He’d bruise in crisscross stripes—if he lived long enough to bruise. After that first, terrible jolt, they slowed to a gentle, eddying descent.
Water, Willum realized with a blink. We’ve landed in water.
They bumped a hard surface.
“Doug, we have achieved a safe landing,” that same female voice said out of the air. It’s the Bolo. . . . “I would recommend that we remain in this position for another twenty-four hours.”
Up in the Mission Commander’s chair, Doug Hart nodded. “Agreed. Okay, you heard the lady. Time to break out the playing cards. We’re here for the duration.”
Willum sagged in his harness. Thank God . . .
“All right, everybody unstrap,” Hart said, unsnapping his own harness. His boots thumped against the deckplates. “Good job, Red. Anybody hurt?”
“No, Doug,” the Bolo responded.
It gave Willum an odd feeling to know that his vitals were being monitored by his transport system. FTL ships weren’t equipped with that invasive feature. Dammit, I should’ve done more careful reading on those specs like we were told. He was certain the Bolo could provide him with whatever data he needed; but his incomplete information was dangerous. He’d fix that, pronto.
“That’s great, Red. You did a fabulous job getting us down in one piece. Run a complete systems check on yourself and report.”
Hart didn’t look nearly so grim, now that they were down. In fact, he had a nice, friendly smile. “You all right, DeVries?”
Willum poked a tongue at his teeth. “Yeah. I think they’re all intact.”
Hart laughed. “Unstrap. You have work to do. I want Red checked stem to stern.”
“Yessir,” he said, struggling with the harness release. Either he was fumble-fingered or it was stuck. He flushed, caught his breath, and tried again.
Hart glanced at a sensor eye. “Status, Red?”
“Systems check in progress. Chameleon screens reconfigured to match color and texture of surrounding sedimentary bedrock and water. Probability of detection by Enemy 0.093 percent unless tight-beam search sensors touch the Chameleon screens. My systems are functioning normally except for an alarm in my food-processor unit. I would like DeVries to look at it when there is time. Hopper—do you prefer Danny?—may I suggest breathing slowly and evenly through a fine-mesh cloth? Report to Medi-Unit, please, and I will assist you. Yes, Danny, that’s the console in the forward starboard corner next to the head.
“Doug, Target Prime lies 91.3 kilometers northwest of our current position. That would place it upriver of our landing site. A good map in my data banks suggests a direct route is available once we leave the confines of this canyon. According to my on-board colony maps, the canyon walls open onto a broad river valley 61.7 kilometers upstream. A boat landing for rented pleasure craft should provide excellent egress from this river. From there we can take a dirt access road to the main highway. I would suggest travelling during the day with Chameleon screens modified to approximate the heavy farm and mining equipment in widespread use on this world.”
“Very good, Red. We’ll let the furor die down before we try getting closer to Target Prime. A few days underwater will help convince the Deng they got all their incoming targets.”
Willum was all for that.
“Para-wing stowed. I’ll drain the water out of my tummy after we’ve come up for air.”
Out in crew quarters, several crew members chuckled. Willum paused in his battle with the stubborn harness buckle and stared at the nearest speaker grill. The Bolo’s voice was remarkable. She sounded like his grandmother. He could almost imagine a living surveillance tech reporting from a sensor-array display room in another compartment somewhere. Except there weren’t any other compartments: just the cramped Command Compartment and the jam-packed Crew Compartment. The reaction the Bolo’s voice set up in him was eerie, disturbing. He knew the Mark XXI was nothing more than a machine. Self-aware and fitting most definitions of sentience, perhaps; but a machine, nonetheless. Yet already he found himself wanting to think of it as her.
And why not? You think of your ship the same way.
Bonny’s programming wasn’t nearly as complex as a Mark XXI’s, yet Willum was deeply attached to Bonaventure Royale. He began to understand a little better why Mark XXI crews reacted as they did.
Hart had opened the bulkhead door between Compartments. The Mission Commander glanced his way. “DeVries, quit hanging around in harness and get busy on that food-processor alarm. Then break out your gear and double-check Red’s operational status. It’ll help familiarize you with her systems. Banjo, let’s perform a complete weapons check. Hopper, you especially, listen up. DeVries, move it!”
The Marine officers left him alone in the Command Compartment, still struggling with the unfamiliar drop harness, and closed the bulkhead door with a hiss of pneumatics. He finally unlatched his harness release. Willum sprawled ungracefully onto the floor. At least none of the crew had seen that embarrassing display. He made it back to his feet and willed rubbery legs to hold him.
“Wonder where this food processor is I’m supposed to look at?” he muttered aloud, mentally reviewing what he’d studied nearly a year previously.
“Move aft,” the Bolo responded. “It’s in the port corner of my Crew Compartment, aft of the seats.”
He jumped at least eight centimeters off the deckplates.
“I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Uh—” He glanced around and found the camera lens that marked the Bolo’s video pickup. “Hi. Didn’t realize you were . . .” He trailed off and felt his neck grow hot. He sounded stupid and green.
A remarkably human chuckle issued from the speaker. “Don’t feel embarrassed, Willum. You’ve never been assigned to a Bolo before. Welcome aboard, by the way.”
“Uh, thanks. You’re, uh, not what I expected.”
“My programming provides for a closer simulation of human dialogue and verbal interplay than an FTL ship’s programming. My duty is the welfare of this crew. I do my best to perform that duty.”