“Zero-Zero-Seven-Five?”
“Yes, Commander?” The politely interested soprano voice still seemed totally inappropriate coming from a Bolo, but Merrit had other things to wonder about at the moment.
“Tell me, Zero-Zero—” he began, then paused. “Excuse me. Central has no record of what Major Stavrakas called you, Zero-Zero-Seven-Five.”
“I am called `Nike,’ Commander.”
” `Nike,’ ” Merrit murmured. “Goddess of victory. An appropriate name for a Bolo, Nike.”
“Thank you, Commander. I have always liked it myself, and I am pleased you approve.”
Merrit’s eyebrows rose afresh at the unprompted, very human-sounding remark. A Mark XXIII should have been capable only of previously stored courtesies (outside Battle Reflex Mode, at least), yet he was beginning to suspect what lay behind those responses. It wasn’t possible, of course, but still—
“Tell me, Nike, what exact mark of Bolo are you?” he asked.
“I am a Bolo Invincibilis, Mark XXIII, Model B (Experimental), Commander,” the soprano voice replied.
“Experimental?” Merrit repeated.
“Affirmative, Commander.”
“How experimental?” he prompted tautly.
“I am a prototype.” The Bolo sounded calmer than ever beside the tension in his own voice. “As part of the Enhanced Combat Capabilities Program, my Command Center and Personality Integration psychodynamics were fitted with a secondary decision cortex with experimental interfaces and increased heuristic capacity to augment autonomous and discretionary functions.”
“A brain box,” Merrit whispered. “Dear God, that must be it. The first brain box ever fitted to a Bolo!” He went to his knees and rested one hand almost reverently on the massively armored deck.
“Excuse me, Commander, but the meaning of your last comment is unclear.”
“What?” Merrit shook himself, then raised his head and smiled into the nearest optical head. “Sorry, Nike, but I had no idea I’d find this. You’re the `missing link.’ ”
“I fear your meaning continues to elude me, Commander,” the Bolo said a bit reproachfully, and Merrit grinned.
“Sorry,” he said again, and seated himself on the bracket of a turret-mounted whip antenna. “You see, Nike, before you came along—for that matter, for something like thirty years after you came along, now that I think about it—Bolos were self-aware, but their full autonomous capabilities were available to them only in Battle Mode. They were . . . circumscribed and restricted. Are you with me so far?”
“Yes, Commander.”
“Of course you are!” Merrit chuckled and patted the leviathan’s armored flank. “But that’s because you were the next step, Nike. We knew the first experimental work had been done here in the Ursula Sector just before the Quern Wars, but the Quern got through to Ursula during the First War. They shot up Bolo Central so badly that most of the original research and hardware was destroyed, and then the pressure they put on us deferred the whole program for over thirty years, until after the Third Quern War. We needed more Bolos as fast as we could get them, so the official Mark XXIIIs were simply up-gunned and up-armored Mark XXIIs to simplify series production. But you weren’t, were you? God! I wonder how your programming differs from what they finally mounted in the Mark XXIV?”
“I fear I can offer no information on that subject, Commander,” the Bolo said almost apologetically.
“Don’t worry about it, Nike. I’m sure we can figure it out together once I dig into the depot records. But what I can’t figure out is what you’re doing here? How did you wind up on Santa Cruz?”
“I was deployed directly from Ursula Central.”
“I know that, but why?”
“I was selected for extended field test of the new and enhanced systems and software,” the soprano voice said. “As such, I was mated with an automated repair and maintenance depot designed to support the test program and further field modifications. Santa Cruz had been selected as the test site well before the planet came under threat from the Quern, for which reason it had been equipped with proper landing field and other support facilities. At the outbreak of hostilities, my deployment was simply expedited. The test program was postponed, and I was placed on immediate active duty under the command of Major Marina Stavrakas, senior project officer for Project Descartes.”
“She was the project chief for Descartes?!”
“Affirmative, Commander.”
“My God,” Merrit breathed. “They managed to reconstruct maybe twenty percent of the Descartes Team’s original logs after the wars, but they were so badly damaged we never knew who’d headed the team in the first place. She was brilliant, Nike—brilliant! And she ended up lost and forgotten on a farming planet in the middle of nowhere.” He shook his head again, eyes bright and sparkling with a delight he’d never expected to feel in this assignment, and stroked the Bolo’s armored flank again.
“I wonder what she tucked away inside you? Somehow I can’t quite picture the woman who headed the original Descartes Team not tinkering a bit once she’d figured out Central had `lost’ her. She did continue the project on her own, didn’t she?”
“Affirmative, Commander,” the Bolo confirmed calmly.
“Well, well, well, well,” he murmured. “I can see this assignment is going to be lots more interesting than I expected. And—” a devilish twinkle had replaced the cold weariness in his eyes “—I don’t see any reason to share my discoveries with Central just yet. After all, they knew where you were and forgot about it, so why remind them? They’d just send out rafts of specialists to take you away from me. They might even decide to take you apart to see just how you tick.” He shook his head and gave the armored hull another pat. “No, Nike. I think you can just go on being our little secret for a while longer.”
—5—
“Well?”
The silver-haired woman behind the immense desk was perfectly groomed, and her face was the product of the sort of biosculpt available only to people for whom money truly was no object. Unlike the nondescript, somehow subliminally seedy man in the uniform of a Sternenwelt Lines purser, she was perfectly suited to the elegant office, yet there was a coldness in her eyes, and her smile held a honed duralloy edge that beaded the purser’s forehead with sweat.
“I’m sorry, Madam Osterwelt,” he said, “but they won’t sell.” The woman said nothing, only gazed at him, and he swallowed. “I upped the offer to the maximum authorized amount,” he said quickly, “but only three or four of them were even interested.”
“You assured us that your local knowledge of the sector suited you for the job. That we could rely upon your good offices to attain success.” The woman’s mild tone was conversational, and he swallowed again, harder.
“I was certain they’d sell, ma’am. We were offering them ten years of income for a successful melon grower!”
“An attractive offer,” the woman conceded. “Yet you say they refused it. Why?”
“I-I’m not certain, ma’am,” the purser said unhappily.
“They must have given some indication,” she pointed out, and he nodded.
“As near as I could figure it out, they simply didn’t want the money, ma’am. I talked to old Esteban, the yokel who runs the field, and he just said his wife, his father, and his grandfather were all buried in the plot behind his house. That . . . that was fairly typical of what all of them said, ma’am.”
“Parochialism,” the woman said distastefully. She shook her head, and her tongue made a clicking sound against her teeth. “Regretfully typical of these untutored frontier people. I suppose I ought to have expected it—and you should have anticipated it as well, Mister Bergren.” She cocked her head. “I fear you’ve served us less than satisfactorily in this matter.”
“I did my best, Madam Osterwelt!”
“I’m sure you did. That’s the problem.” The purser wilted before the chill dispassion of her voice, and she made a weary shooing motion with one hand. “We’ll be in touch, Mister Bergren.”
The purser withdrew with obvious relief, and the woman pressed a stud on her desk panel. A discreetly hidden door opened silently within twenty seconds, and an athletic young man walked in.
“Yes, Mother?”
“You were right about Bergren, Gerald. The man’s an utter incompetent.”
“Is he?”
“Utterly,” she sighed. “How fortunate that no one knows he was acting for us. In fact, I think it would be a very good idea to take steps to ensure that no one ever does know he was representing our interests.”
“I’ll see to it,” Gerald said, and she smiled at him.
“A good son is a mother’s greatest treasure.” She sat back in her chair and folded her hands atop the desk while she gazed across the office at the subtly shifting patterns of a light sculpture. “Still, incompetent as he may be, he has put his finger on the nub of the problem, dear. Farmers can be the most stubborn people in the galaxy, and frontier people cherish such boringly predictable attachments to their land. I’m afraid that if they refused the price we authorized him to offer, it’s unlikely they’ll sell to anyone.”