“Is there any way to get him talking right again?”
She looked unhappy. “Let me show you.”
He got down on hands and knees and followed her toward the distant light pouring through the hull.
“See that?”
She pointed to a tangle of destruction the size of his torso.
“Yeah. Pretty bad, isn’t it?”
“That’s his vocal processor center.”
“Yipe. That’s dire.”
“Maybe, if I study long enough, I’ll figure a way, but . . .”
It looked hopeless.
“Any danger he’ll go berserk, like some of those Bolos you hear about?”
She bit her lower lip, looking suddenly vulnerable.
“I don’t know. His Action/Command center wasn’t hit, so I don’t think so, but I’m scared, anyway. He’s my friend, Brad.” Her eyes, luminous and wide in the shadows of the crawlspace, sought his gaze. “I don’t want to lose him, too.”
It took him a minute, but he finally caught on. “Hey, at least you knew your dad. I still don’t know who mine is.”
She sniffed once and nodded. “Sorry. I really am. Does he still hit you?”
He shrugged. “Yeah.”
“You ought to report him.”
He stared toward the distant rip in the Bolo’s hull. “Colony needs him,” was all he said. “They’d only deport him for reconditioning and then where’d we be? Can’t go without a surgeon for a year, waiting for someone to come out on the next transport.”
She scowled. “Still ought to report him. Beating a minor’s a serious crime.”
“Dying’s worse,” he countered laconically. “You wanna risk a bust appendix while he’s gone?”
Her lower lip came out, reminding him of a photo he’d seen of her father in a recent-history text.
“Just don’t say nothin’, okay? I only gotta put up with him for another four years and I’m not home much now, as it is. I won’t talk about the Bolo and you won’t talk about him. Deal?”
He stuck out one hand.
With every evidence of reluctance, she took it. They sealed the bargain with a vigorous handshake. Afterward, he felt better than he had in months.
“You want one of Sufi’s puppies?” she asked unexpectedly.
He looked up quickly. “What?”
“You want one of the puppies?”
“I—” He closed his mouth before he could blurt out how desperately he wanted one of the beautiful, smart dogs. “But they’re really expensive!”
“Mom said I could have one. I’d rather you had one. You’re better with them than I am, and, well, it wouldn’t be such a bad idea, having a nursemaid to watch your back. I’ll bet not even Davis Dault would hit you, with a dog like Sufi between you and him. And he’s sure not stupid enough to kick one of Mom’s dogs. They’d tear his leg off at the knee and the whole colony would approve.”
Brad wanted to grin. But the enormity of the offer overwhelmed him so deeply, his throat closed. All he could manage was a feeble, “Thanks.”
“Come on, then. Let’s say goodbye to Unit Six Seven Zero GWN and go pick up your dog.”
As they walked away from the massive hulk of the Bolo, Brad felt like he was dancing on air.
—11—
“This really is a tangled mess, Gonner. I’ve been studying everything in the colony archives, everything my dad left me on Bolo design and psychotronic circuitry; but this . . .”
Kalima let her voice trail off. Five years of intensive study had allowed her to restore many of the Bolo’s systems, but she hadn’t quite dared tackle his speech defect yet.
“Are you sure you want me to try and fix this?”
The Bolo’s metallic voice responded in a fashion she’d grown accustomed to interpreting over the years.
“Worms.”
Translation: “I’d rather be dead and eaten by worms than go on this way.”
“Okay, big guy. I apologize in advance if I really blow this one.”
Out in the passenger compartment, Brad’s voice said, “Go for it. If you don’t get it right, no one can.”
Her hands were already sweating, but she knew she had to at least try. She turned on the high-speed resonant cutter. Over in the opening to the crawlspace, Shiva laid back his ears at the sound. Brad chuckled and called the dog over to him. Kalima bent over the tangle of two-hundred-year-old damage, took a deep breath, and began the surgery. She cut away damaged boards, squared off ragged explosion damage, exposed raw connections which had lain half buried under fused droplets of flintsteel from the outer hull. Then came the delicate job of trying to reconnect and splice boards whose purposes she only vaguely understood.
The stink of hot electrical connections tickled the back of her throat. Out in the passenger compartment, Shiva pinned back his ears and whined, but stayed put. Time trickled past. She sat back periodically and wiped sweat with an arm. Brad handed in water and a sandwich about halfway through. Her hands were less than steady when she set the cutter aside.
“Thanks. This is good.”
“Made it myself.”
“How much time’s gone?” She wasn’t wearing a watch, for fear of damaging the delicate circuitry she was exposing.
“A little more than two hours. Want a shoulder rub?”
She emerged from the crawl space. “Sounds great.”
Bradley Dault’s fingers dug into tight knots. “Ow! Ooh, that’s good . . .”
When he’d finished, he stole a kiss. She grinned. “Naughty! I’ve still got a good two hours’ work left in there. Hang on, big guy,” she told the Bolo.
“Hold.”
She patted Shiva and earned a hand-washing, then dried her hands carefully. “Okay. Back to work.”
The job took more than five hours, altogether. Kalima conducted frequent tests, asking Gonner questions to which he either responded in his usual murky fashion or—more ominously—to which he didn’t respond at all.
“Don’t worry,” Brad told her. “Just keep going.”
She connected a splice between two damaged sections—
And sparks jumped and skittered through a whole series of cables and junctions. The Bolo emitted a high-pitched keening sound and jerked spasmodically on its treads.
“Ow!” Kalima’s arm throbbed clear to the elbow. Her fingertips were reddened from the shock.
Bradley dove down the crawlspace and hauled her out. “Are you hurt?” His face was actually ashen.
“I’m fine. Gonner! Gonner, what happened? Talk to me!”
For a long, breathless moment, there was no sound save a dying sputter somewhere in the connections behind her. Then—
“Unit Six Seven Zero GWN of the Line, reporting for duty.”
“Gonner!”
“That is my security clearance code, Commander Tennyson.”
Both of them whooped aloud. Shiva barked joyously and danced at their feet.
“You did it!” Bradley was abruptly kissing her, very thoroughly.
When they unclutched, they both panted for air and grinned like fools. Bradley’s face swam wetly in her vision.
“He can talk! Brad, he can really talk!” Then she cleared her throat, recalling her position as Gonner’s commanding officer. “Unit Six Seven Zero GWN, please report damage assessment.”
“Affirmative, Commander Tennyson. Diagnostics indicate that the connection between my Action/Command center and my vocal-processing unit is repaired. However, a short has now developed in my motor control function. I cannot track my guns accurately. Is there a maintenance depot available, Commander Tennyson?”
She exchanged a glum look with Bradley.
“Great,” she muttered.
He squeezed her waist. “Maybe it’s not too bad?”
Kalima gulped. “Let’s hope not. Uh, Gonner, I’m afraid I am the maintenance depot. I can’t request official help. If I do, the Navy will just send someone out to burn out your Action/Command center. They’re trying to find all the old Bolo field units to destroy them. They, uh, think you’re already dead, Gonner.”
“Understood. I cannot function properly in my current status.”
“Let me see what I can do. It took five years, but I finally fixed your voice.”
She went hunting, prompted by Gonner, and found the trouble.
“Oh-oh.” This didn’t look good. The short had melted a solid-state unit in the Bolo’s fire-control center. “Uh, Gonner, this doesn’t look like something I can fix. Unless you have a spare part stashed somewhere?”
“You have already exhausted all replacement units which I carried on board. My sensors now function at proper battlefield capacity. The damage to my psychotronic circuitry has been repaired. I no longer experience intermittent power drains from my emergency reserve batteries. I am able to retrieve 68.935 percent of my stored memory capacity and your additions of data crystals and new input have enhanced many of my losses. There is no replacement for this fire-control module.”
Out in the passenger compartment, Brad muttered, “How’d I know you were going to say something like that?”
“Was it . . .” She hesitated. “Was this damage caused by something I did?”
Gonner actually hesitated at least half a second—an eternity for a Bolo.
“Affirmative. I am pleased to have my speech centers repaired, Commander. It may be possible to bypass the fire-control module. I will need to conduct a thorough search of my memory banks. Stand by.” A few instants later, he said, “I cannot access certain data crystals, but my memory shows no rerouting possible under existing circumstances. May I obtain additional technical data?”