This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.”
She blinked misty eyes and nodded to the pickup, as if she could actually see him, measure him, know the innermost, most secret part of him.
“A tiny misquote, perhaps,” she said quietly, “but I think Shakespeare would forgive me. Take good care of my child, whoever you are.”
The screen blanked, and Merrit shook his head,
“You must have been quite a girl yourself, Major,” he murmured.
“She was,” the Bolo’s soprano said softly, and he looked up at the small green light glowing below the speaker from which it came. Now that he’d seen Stavrakas’ last log entry, it no longer seemed strange to hear Nike speak without prompting. There was a moment of silence, and then the Bolo continued in that same, soft voice. “I never realized I had that message in memory, Commander. She must have recorded it during one of my down periods.”
“She didn’t want you to worry about her.”
Merrit didn’t even want to think about how the psych types would react to this entire conversation. Every field officer of the Dinochrome Brigade could quote chapter and verse from the manual’s warnings against over-identification with Bolos. They were war machines, the manual said. Self-aware and with personalities, yes, but machines built to fight and die against humanity’s enemies which must, in the final analysis, be regarded as expendable. The Bolos themselves knew that; it was only their human commanders and partners who tended to forget—as Merrit had forgotten on Sandlot.
“No. I compute that she would not have wanted that,” Nike agreed after a moment.
“Of course she wouldn’t have. But she was proud of you, Nike, and even from the little I’ve seen so far, she had reason to be.”
“Indeed?” The Bolo sounded pleased, and somehow he had the sense of a cocked head and a quirked eyebrow. “I compute that seventy-nine-plus years have passed since I was deployed, Commander. Surely newer and more modern Bolos surpass my own capabilities?”
“Fishing for compliments, Nike?” Merrit grinned and patted the arm of his crash couch. “Major Stavrakas was right. The desk-jockeys would tear their hair out if they could hear you now!”
“Why?” the Bolo asked simply.
“Because they worry about Bolos that get too human.”
“Because they fear what such a Bolo might do? Or because they fear what it might refuse to do?”
“I think because they’re afraid it might start asking questions just like those,” Merrit said more seriously. “You’re a very powerful fighting machine, Nike. There’s never—ever—been an instance of an undamaged Bolo in proper repair violating orders, but we’ve had the occasional accident with a unit that’s suffered damage or lack of maintenance. That’s why the Brigade still worries about its ability to retain control of the newer, autonomous units. They’ve cut back on the inhibitory software in the Mark XXVs, but the core package is still in there.”
“A wise precaution,” Nike observed after a moment. “An irrational machine with the combat power I possess would be far too dangerous to its friends.”
“I’m afraid I have to agree, but that’s what would upset the desk-jockeys about you. You don’t have anywhere near the systems redundancy the Mark XXIVs and XXVs have. Technically, that makes you more vulnerable to failure from battle damage, and—probably worse, from HQ’s perspective—what I’ve seen so far suggests that Major Stavrakas’ modifications to your Personality and Command Centers are way outside the current parameters, as well. Just for starters, your inhibitory package is a lot less restrictive. No modern Bolo should be as `awake’ as you are outside Battle Mode, either, and it looks like your personality integration is at least a full magnitude more developed than a Mark XXV’s. I’m not certain yet, but coupled with the modifications to your secondary command cortex, I suspect you could even hold off the Omega Worm for a while.”
“Omega Worm?”
“Sorry. That’s current slang for the Total Systems Override Program.”
There was a moment of silence—a very human moment which Merrit understood perfectly. The TSORP was the ultimate defense against a rogue Bolo, a suicide file designed to crash every execution file in the memory of any Bolo which disobeyed the direct orders of its properly identified commander. Many Brigade personnel, like Merrit himself, questioned TSORP’s necessity. Since the brain box technology had come in, so many redundant, stand-alone backup systems had been added to the Bolo’s brains that the possibility of irrational behavior virtually no longer existed. And, as he’d just told Nike, no Bolo had ever disobeyed a legal order. But TSORP had been incorporated into the very first self-aware Bolos and every Bolo since, and it could not be a pleasant thing to know an involuntary suicide override controlled by others was part of your basic matrix.
“I believe you are correct, Commander,” Nike said after a moment, and his eyebrows rose at her merely thoughtful tone. “I could not resist it indefinitely, of course, yet I compute that the additional processing capability Major Stavrakas installed within my psychotronics would allow me to delay file execution for no less than forty minutes and possibly for as much as an hour. Does this constitute an unwarrantable risk factor in my design?”
“I don’t think so. Of course, given my own record, I may not be the most impartial judge. I guess the risk factor depends on how likely you are to disobey your commander’s orders.”
“I am a unit of the Dinochrome Brigade. I would never act against the honor of my Brigade, Commander.”
“I know, Nike. I know. I told you I wasn’t worried.” Merrit gave the couch arm one more pat, then rose and yawned hugely. “Sorry, Nike. Unlike you, I don’t have a fusion plant, and it’s been a long day for me. I need some shuteye.”
“Of course, Commander.”
“Wake me at oh-six-hundred, would you?”
“Certainly.”
“Thank you.” He smiled and waved to the visual pickup above the main fire control screens. It was a common gesture of courtesy among the men and women who commanded the self-aware war machines of the Dinochrome Brigade, yet it had more meaning than usual for him tonight. The green “System Active” light under the speaker flashed in unmistakable response, and he chuckled wearily and climbed out the hatch.
* * *
I watch through the depot’s interior optics as my new Commander makes his way down the corridor to the Personnel Section. He is only my second Commander. I am aware that my experiential data is thus insufficient to permit a realistic evaluation of his suitability as Major Stavrakas’ replacement, and he is quite different from my previous Commander, but I feel content. It is good to have a Commander once more, yet this is more than the relief a unit of the Line should feel at receiving a new Commander. There is something about him which I cannot adequately define. I devote a full 20.0571 seconds to an attempt to do so, but without success. Perhaps further acquaintance with him will provide the critical data my analysis presently lacks.
I consider what he has said as I watch him prepare for bed. He is correct about the danger an uncontrollable unit of the Line would pose to all about it. My function is to protect and defend humanity, not to threaten my creators, and I feel an odd disquiet at the thought that I am less well protected against that possibility than more modern Bolos. Yet my Commander is also correct in recognizing the remote probability of such a situation. TSORP becomes operational only in units that reject direct orders, and I cannot conceive of a unit of the Line in proper repair which would commit such an act.
My Commander extinguishes the lights in his new quarters, and I leave the audio system on-line. Should he wake and desire to communicate with me, I will be ready.
He has not instructed me to return to Stand-By to conserve power. In that much, at least, he is like Major Stavrakas. My Main Memory contains much background data on standard operating procedure; I realize how rare this is, and I am grateful for it. The depot power systems are fully charged. I do not even require internal power to maintain Full Alert Status, and I turn to my Library Files with pleasure.
—7—
Gerald Osterwelt didn’t like Ursula. Sector capital or no, the planet, as all planets in the frontier sectors, was terminally uncultured. He preferred the civilized amenities and pleasures of the Core Worlds, yet he comforted himself with the reflection that his task here was worth temporary inconveniences. He supposed it wasn’t really necessary for GalCorp to own the entire Santa Cruz System, but they certainly needed to own enough of it to control the rest, and the original planetary charter had made that difficult. Virgin as much of the planet might still be, most of it was already owned by some descendent of the original colonists or set aside in nature reserves held by the planetary government. Certainly all the choicest bits and pieces were, and GalCorp hadn’t become the third largest transstellar corporation of the Concordiat by settling for leftovers.