“We’ve had that problem before, Mother.”
“I realize we have, dear, but alternative methods can be so . . . messy.” She pouted at the light sculpture, then sighed again. “Do you know, the most provoking thing of all is that they don’t even have any idea why we want their little dirt ball.”
“No one does yet, Mother. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps. But I really think I might not mind as much if I were up against an opposition that understood the rules of the game—and the stakes, of course.”
“Mother,” the young man said patiently, “their system is the only logical place to become the primary transfer node for the jump points serving three entire sectors. You know it, I know it, and whenever Survey gets around to releasing its new astrography report, every major shipping line will know it. Does it really matter whether they know it or not?”
“Don’t forget who taught you everything you know, dear,” his mother replied with an edge of tartness. “It’s really very unbecoming for a son to lecture his mother.”
“Was I lecturing?” He smiled and shook his head. “I didn’t mean to. Why don’t we think of it as a case of demonstrating I’ve done my homework?”
“You got that from my genes, not your father’s,” she said with a laugh, then shook her own head. “Still, you’re quite right. All that matters is making certain GalCorp owns the only habitable real estate in the system when the time comes. All of it.” She brooded at the light sculpture for a moment longer before she shrugged. “Well, if we have to be messy, I suppose that’s all there is to say about it. Who do you think we should put in charge of it?”
“Why not me?”
“But you’ve never done any, um, field work, dear.”
“Which doesn’t mean I can’t handle it. Besides, we ought to keep the command loop on this one as secure as possible, and every young man should start at the bottom. It helps him appreciate the big picture when he finally winds up at the top. Not—” he smiled again “—that I have any desire to wind up at the top for many more years, Mother.”
“Wisdom beyond your years,” she murmured. “Very well, it’s your project. But before you take any steps, be sure you research the situation thoroughly. This sort of thing is seldom as simple as it looks at first glance, and I don’t want my only son to suffer any unpleasant surprises.”
“Of course not, Mother. I’ll just pop out to Ursula and spend a few weeks nosing around Sector Central. I’m sure I can find some generous soul with the access to provide the information we need. Who knows? I may even find the ideal people for that messy little job we discussed.”
— 6 —
One week after his arrival on Santa Cruz, Paul Merrit sat back in the comfortable crash couch and rubbed his chin with something very like awe. The screen before him glowed with a complicated schematic any Bolo tech would have given ten years of his life to study, and its design was over fifty years old. Fifty years! Incredible. Working all by herself, with only the resources of a single automated maintenance depot—admittedly a superbly equipped one, but still only a single depot—Marina Stavrakas had developed Nike’s brain box design into one that made the newest Mark XXV’s look clumsy and slow.
He tilted the couch back and crossed his legs. More screens and displays glowed around him, filling Nike’s fighting compartment with a dim, shifting luminescence. There were more of them than there would have been in a more modern—well, recent—Bolo. Nike was a modified Mark XXIII, after all; humans needed broader band data interfaces than any Bolo did, and Nike’s basic technology was eighty years old, without more recent updates in human-machine information management systems. But for all that, the compartment was surprisingly spacious. Not only had Nike been the first fully autonomous Bolo, whether anyone knew it or not, but she’d also been the first to incorporate molycirc psychotronics. It was very early generation stuff, considerably bulkier than its more modern equivalents, but Stavrakas had used it in some amazingly innovative ways. What she might have accomplished with the current technologies scarcely bore thinking on.
He turned his couch and keyed another screen to life. A forty-nine-year-old time and date display glowed in one corner, and the white-haired woman who appeared on it sat in the same crash couch Merrit now occupied. She was far frailer and older than the single, poor-quality flatpic of Major Stavrakas he’d found in Central’s surviving records, but her olive-dark eyes were still sharp and alert. He’d already played the recording three times, yet he felt a fresh sense of respect, coupled with a regret that he’d never known her, as she began to speak.
“Since you’re viewing this—whoever you are—” she said with a wry smile, “someone must’ve finally remembered where they parked Nike and me. I suppose I should be a bit put out with the Brigade and the Navy, but from the little Jeremiah and I have picked up over the all-units channels, we assume the Quern got through to Central.” Her smile faded, and her voice—a soprano remarkably similar to Nike’s—darkened. “I further assume the rest of the Descartes Team must have been lost at the same time, since they all knew where I was.”
She cleared her throat and rubbed her temple with one fragile, veined hand.
“Jeremiah’s offered to use the commercial bands to request a relief ship with a proper medical officer, but I turned him down. However much he may grump and grouse, Santa Cruz is his home now. I know he really loves it here, and so do I, I suppose. Besides, from the bits and pieces we can pick up, the Quern are still operating in some force in the sector. Given their native habitat, I doubt they’d care much for Santa Cruz’s climate, and I suppose that’s the main reason they’ve never paid us a visit. On the other hand, they might just change their mind if they started intercepting transmissions from us. Nike’s good, but I’d just as soon not match her against a Quern planetary assault force. Even if she won, there wouldn’t be very many surviving Santa Cruzans to cheer for her when it was over.”
She lowered her hand and smiled again.
“Actually, it hasn’t been a bad life. A little lonely, sometimes. Thanks to all the Descartes security, most of the locals never even knew Nike and I were here, and those who did know seem to have forgotten, but I had dear Jeremiah. He and I accepted long ago that we’d become permanent residents of Santa Cruz, and in addition to him, I had Nike, my work, and plenty of time to spend with all three of them. And, of course,” her smile became an impish grin, “no brass to give me a hard time! Talk about research freedom—!”
She chuckled and leaned back to fold thin arms across her chest.
“Unfortunately, it would appear I’m finally running out of time. My family’s always been prone to heart trouble, and I’ve had my warning. I’ve discussed it with Nike—she tends to worry, and I’ve made it a habit to be honest with her—and she understands the depot doesn’t stock the sort of spares I need. I’ve also made arrangements to put her on Autonomous Stand-By if—when—the time comes. I’m certain someone somewhere else has picked up where the Descartes Team left off. By now there’s probably a whole new generation of autonomous Bolos out there, but now that you’ve come to relieve me, I think you’ll find Nike still has a few surprises of her own. Take care of her, whoever you are. She’s quite a girl. I’m sure my tinkering is going to raise a few eyebrows—Lord knows the desk-jockeys would tear their hair at the mere thought of some of the capabilities I’ve given her! But I’ve never regretted a single facet of her design. She’s unique . . . and she’s been more than just my friend.”
The old woman on the screen sighed. Her smile took on a curious blend of sorrow and deep, abiding pride and affection, and her voice was very soft when she spoke again.
“When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,
Thy youth’s proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter’d weed, of small worth held:
Then being ask’d where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Were an ill-fitting shame and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty’s use,
If thou couldst answer `This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,’
Proving her beauty by succession thine.