No backup power cells left. And there never had been a way to refuel his fission plant. No one here was qualified to install a new one—even if one had been available. There was nothing—not a thing—she could do to save him.
The words caught in her throat. “Permission granted.”
Lin was setting the explosive charges. Kalima climbed up to help. She talked to Gonner the whole time.
“Remember that first day, Gonner? You scared me half to death. Never thought we’d see battle together, big guy. I’m sure proud of you, though, more than I was that day you kept the wall from crushing us . . .”
She was babbling and didn’t care. She was losing a friend—two friends—and no one knew yet how badly injured Bradley was in there. He could be dying, too . . .
“All set. Get clear, ‘Lima.”
They skinned down the ladder and took refuge behind a scarred fender.
The charge blew. Smoke engulfed them. Kalima was climbing even before her ears stopped ringing.
“Brad! Brad, can you hear me?”
“Com-coming up . . .”
She hovered at the lip of the hatch. He moved slowly, awkwardly. His right arm didn’t appear to be functioning properly. Tears streaked his face. Halfway up, his breath caught sharply. He clung to the ladder.
“I’m coming down to help.”
“No . . . I’m okay. See?” He climbed higher.
Shock made her go cold.
Blood covered his whole right side. She could see ribs in one spot. But he was still climbing. His face and arms were burned, blistered in places from the heat of the sustained Yavac attack. She got an arm around his shoulders. He snaked his good arm around her and kissed her raggedly; then groaned and leaned heavily against her.
“Gotta . . . get down . . . or I’ll fall . . .”
Kalima steadied him down. He slid to his knees the moment his feet touched ground.
“Did it, Gonner,” he whispered hoarsely. “We did it.”
“It was my honor to serve with you, Bradley Dault. Commander Tennyson, I estimate another 4.07 minutes before critical power failure. Unit Six Seven Zero GWN and Unit Shiva of the Line, retiring as ordered.”
The Bolo pivoted awkwardly on its remaining track. The machine clanked and rattled up the ridge and into the trees. Parallel gouges in the soft earth marked his trail. Someone, she wasn’t sure who, had pulled Bradley onto a stretcher. He caught her hand, urged her down.
“Go with him,” he whispered. “Nobody should die alone.”
Her eyes filled. She kissed Brad very tenderly. Her voice went husky. “Don’t you dare die on me, too, Bradley Dault. This . . . this won’t take long.” He squeezed her hand. Then she broke and ran.
Kalima found Gonner in his former position, atop the shattered gates at the old compound.
“Gonner?”
The Hellbores tracked disjointedly in a ragged salute.
She climbed doggedly and slid down through the blasted hatch. A hole had been punched straight into the passenger compartment. Relays and boards she’d spent years repairing were twisted, broken beyond anyone’s capacity to repair. Her breath caught when she saw Shiva. The dog whined, very faintly.
“Good boy,” she whispered, burying her face in the dog’s blood-spattered neck fur. “Brad’s okay, Shiva. You did a good job. The town’s safe.”
Shiva licked her hand very weakly. Then what remained of his body sagged in the steel cradle. Kalima turned away and dragged the back of a dirty arm across her eyes.
“You did a good job, Gonner,” she choked out. The whole passenger compartment reeked of blood, smoke, fried electrical connections.
“I have done my duty. It is a beautiful day for victory, Commander.” The observation screens flickered and went dim. “Bradley Dault spoke at length of you, Commander, as we went to meet the Enemy. He is a good officer. I am glad he was not damaged fatally. He loved Shiva. He loves you.”
“I love you, Gonner,” she whispered. “I— Thank you for . . . for . . .”
She couldn’t get it all out quickly enough, with the result that everything she wanted to say got stuck in her throat.
“It has been my honor to serve you, Commander Tennyson. I will hold . . .”
The screens went dark.
Very, very slowly, Kalima climbed out of the blasted passenger compartment. The great Hellbore guns drooped, silent. Warm summer wind whistled across the pitted war hull.
Gonner didn’t speak again.
But he had held, to the last.
Miles to Go
by David Weber
—1—
I rouse from Low-Level Autonomous Stand-By to Normal Readiness for my regularly scheduled update. Awareness spreads through me, and I devote 0.0347 seconds to standard diagnostic checks. All systems report nominal, but I detect an anomaly in Number Twenty-One Bogie in my aft outboard port tread and activate a depot sensor to scan my suspension. A parikha, one of the creatures the colonists of Santa Cruz erroneously call “birds,” has built its nest in the upper angle of the bogie wheel torsion arm. This indicates that the depot’s environmental integrity has been breached, and I command the central computer to execute an examination of all access points.
The depot computer net lacks my own awareness, but it is an efficient system within its limitations and locates the environmental breach in 3.0062 seconds. Maintenance and Repair’s Number Seventy-Three Ventilator’s cover has been forced open by an intruding cable-vine, thus permitting the parikha to gain access. I command the depot computer to dispatch auto mechs to repair the hatch cover. A further 0.000004 seconds of analysis suggests to me that the possibility of such an occurrence should have been allowed for in the depot computer’s original programming, and I devote 0.0035 seconds to the creation of fresh execution files to establish continuous monitoring of all depot access points and to enable automatic repair responses in the event of future failures in integrity.
These actions have consumed 3.044404 seconds since resumption of Normal Alert Readiness, and I return to my initial examination of the parikha nest. Its presence constitutes no impediment to combat efficiency, yet the sensor detects live young in the nest. I devote an additional 0.0072 seconds to consideration of alternatives, then command the depot computer’s remotes to remove the nest and transfer it to an exterior position of safety near the repaired ventilator cover. I receipt the depot computer’s acknowledgment of my instructions and turn to a second phase Situation Update.
My internal chrono confirms that 49 years, 8 months, 3 days, 21 hours, 17 minutes, and 14.6 seconds, Standard Reckoning, have now elapsed since my Commander ordered me to assume Low-Level Autonomous Stand-By to await her replacement. This is an unacceptable period for a unit of the Line to remain in active duty status without human supervision, and I check the depot com files once more. No updated SitRep or other message to explain the delay has been receipted during my time at Stand-By, and I allocate another 4.062 seconds to consideration of possible explanations. Despite this extensive analysis, I remain unable to extrapolate the reason for the delay with certainty, yet I compute a probability of 87.632 percent that my Commander was correct in her observation that Sector HQ considers my planet of assignment “the backside of nowhere in particular.”
Whatever its reasons, Sector HQ clearly has attached no urgency to detailing a new Commander. This conclusion is disturbing, and I allocate an additional 2.007 seconds to deliberation of potential responses on my part. My Autonomous Decision Protocols grant me the discretion to break com silence and dispatch an interrogative signal to Sector Central in conditions of Priority Four or greater urgency, yet my analysis of satellite data and commercial com traffic to and from Santa Cruz reveals no indication of current or near-future threats to my assigned station. Absent such threats, I must grudgingly concede that there is, in fact, no overriding urgency in the arrival of my new Commander.
I make a note in my active memory files to reconsider this decision yet again during my next scheduled Normal Alert period and revert to Autonomous Stand-By.
—2—
Lorenco Esteban stepped out of his office into the humid oven of a Santa Cruz summer afternoon and scratched his head as a tiny spacecraft slid down towards Santa Cruz’s weed-grown landing apron. The immense plain of ceramacrete stretched away in all directions, vast enough to handle even the largest Navy cargo shuttle, but it was occupied only by a single dilapidated tramp freighter in the livery of the Sternenwelt Line. The tramp was already cleared for departure with a full cargo of wine-melons, and given her purser’s persistent—and irritating—efforts to negotiate some sort of real estate deal, Esteban was heartily ready for her to clear the field. Not that she was placing any strain on Santa Cruz’s basing facilities.
No one was quite certain why Santa Cruz had been given such a large field in the first place. It dated from the First Quern War, and conventional wisdom held that the Navy had planned to use Santa Cruz as a staging area against the Quern. That was only a guess, of course, though it made sense, given the Santa Cruz System’s spatial location.