* * *
“Colonel Gonzalez?”
Consuela Gonzalez twitched as the Bolo’s voice came over the link again. There was an indefinable change to it, almost as if it were shadowed with pain. She shook the fanciful thought aside with a savage shake of her head and keyed her mike.
“Gonzalez here.”
“I am now feeding your tactical display from the planetary surveillance system,” the Bolo told her. “Can you confirm reception?”
“Confirmed, Connie!” her sensor tech called.
“We have it, amiga,” Gonzales confirmed in turn.
“Excellent. I have destroyed two heavy Enemy armored units which I believe to have been Golem-IIIs. I have sustained major damage but remain combat capable at eighty-two point three-one-seven percent base capability. I am advancing on a heading of zero-two-niner degrees true to secure the space field and relieve Ciudad Bolivar. I suggest you alter your own course to follow directly after me while I clear passage for your Wolverines.”
“Copy that, amiga.” Gonzalez punched a frequency change and spoke to the other thirteen tanks of her command. “Wolf Leader to Cubs. Form on me and guide right. We’ll follow the Bolo through.” Taut-voiced affirmatives echoed back, and she switched back to Nike’s frequency. “We’re on our way, amiga.”
“Excellent, Colonel.”
Gonzalez felt her tank buck and quiver as it swept around to follow the huge pathway Nike was battering through the jungle. Small as the Wolverines might be beside a Bolo’s huge bulk, each was still five hundred tons of armor and alloy, with all the inertia that implied. Even so, violent motion hammered Gonzalez against her crash couch’s shock frame as the big tanks edged up to a speed of over sixty kph.
Her sensor tech managed to feed the data from the satellite net to Gonzalez’ own display, and she swore in savage silence as she saw the huge pall of smoke rising from the capital. Yet even as she watched it, a question probed at the back of her brain, and she keyed her mike once more.
“Unit NKE, Gonzalez,” she said. “Are you in contact with Captain Merrit?”
“Negative, Colonel Gonzalez.” The Bolo’s reply came back instantly, and, for the first time, it was so flat it sounded like a computer’s voice. There was a brief moment of silence, and then it went on. “I have had no contact with him since the attack began. I do not know the reason for his silence. Absent any communication with him, I must consider you the senior officer present. Have you any instructions?”
My God, Gonzalez thought. NKE’s running Santa Cruz’s entire defense on its own! How in hell can a Bolo that old do something like this? Her eyes dropped to the white-hot carcasses of the dead Golems on her display, and she shrugged. However it—she’s—doing it, she’s doing a damned good job!
“Understood, NKE,” she said after a moment. “Negative instructions. You’re doing fine, amiga—just keep telling us what you need and go kill those bastards.”
“Thank you, Colonel. I shall attempt not to disappoint you.”
A crippled recon skimmer staggered through the air. Its barely conscious pilot had long since lost any clear idea of his course, but some instinct kept him wavering steadily towards the north.
A huge, raw furrow appeared in the jungle below him, a dark swatch of damp, black earth, gouged from the rich emerald as if by some impossibly huge plow, and Paul Merrit’s glazed eyes brightened. His mind was going fast as blood loss eroded his strength, but only one thing could have made that wound, and he altered course along it and rammed his dying drive to full power.
I continue to study the satellite reports on the fighting in and around Ciudad Bolivar, but a new energy source suddenly takes my attention. It is to the south of me, pursuing at a velocity of 425.63 kph, and its signature is very weak and fluctuating. I redirect one of the satellites to a close examination of it, and a sense of all too human horror stabs through me as I recognize it.
It is my Commander’s recon skimmer, and it has suffered severe damage. I attempt to contact it directly, but it does not respond to my transmissions. From the satellite data, it is probable its own com facilities have been destroyed.
I am faced by a cruel dilemma. The pilot of that skimmer is almost certainly my Commander—Paul. He may be injured, even dying, and instinct cries out for me to alter course to meet him, yet every moment I delay may cost scores of other human lives in Ciudad Bolivar. I attempt again and again to contact him, without success, and anguish twists me at his silence, yet I compute he will overtake me within 4.126 minutes—if his damaged drive lasts that long—and I know him well. He would not wish me to stop, even to save his life, at the cost of civilian lives, and so I continue on my chosen course, clearing a path for the Wolverines.
Paul Merrit gasped in horror as he saw the two burned-out Golems. For one terrible moment, he thought one of them must be Nike, but then, even through his pain and despite their catastrophic damage, he recognized the hulls of Mark XXIVs. He had no idea where they’d come from, but only one force on Santa Cruz could have destroyed them, and his skimmer plunged on down the arrow-straight path of Nike’s bulldozer charge towards Ciudad Bolivar.
* * *
“NKE, we’ve got an energy source coming up from astern!” Colonel Gonzalez announced tautly. “Shall we engage?”
“Negative, Colonel. I say again, negative. The vehicle in question is Captain Merrit’s recon skimmer. It has suffered severe damage, but I believe it is seeking to rejoin us.”
“Understood, NKE,” Gonzalez said softly, and winced as she watched that wavering, staggering wreck of a skimmer crawl after them.
I am still attempting to communicate with my Commander when a new voice speaks suddenly over the command link from the depot.
“Unit Two-Three-Baker-Zero-Zero-Seven-Five NKE, this is Colonel Clifton Sanders, Dinochrome Brigade, Ursula Sector Central Bolo Maintenance, serial number Alpha-Echo-Niner-Three-Seven-One-Niner-Four-Slash-Three-Gamma-Two-Two. Authenticate via file voice print and acknowledge receipt of transmission.”
I query Main Memory for Colonel Sanders’ voice print and compare it to the transmission. Match is well within parameters for the equipment in use, yet I feel a strange disinclination to respond. What is Colonel Sanders doing on Santa Cruz? Why is he on the command circuit instead of my Commander? Yet I am a unit of the Line, and I activate my transmitter.
“Unit Two-Three-Baker-Zero-Zero-Seven-Five NKE. Transmission received. Voice match positive.”
“Thank God! Listen to me, NKE. Captain Merrit has mutinied. I repeat, Captain Merrit has mutinied against his lawful superior and killed two fellow officers of the Line. I officially instruct you to refuse any further orders from him pending his arrest and court-martial.”
I do not believe him. Superior officer or no, he is lying. Paul would never commit such a crime! My earlier suspicions intensify a thousandfold. It seems impossible for any officer of the Brigade to be in league with the Enemy, yet why else has Colonel Sanders suddenly appeared on Santa Cruz at this precise moment? And impossible as it seems, it is infinitely more probable than that Paul would mutiny.
I begin to reply hotly, then stop. Paul has consistently concealed my true abilities from Central. Thus Colonel Sanders cannot realize how radically I differ from a standard Mark XXIII, and this is not the time to inform him. I shall “play dumb” as long as possible.
“Captain Merrit is my designated Commander, Colonel. I cannot disregard his orders without express command code authorization. Please supply command code.”
“I can’t!” Sanders half-screamed. “Merrit changed the code without informing Central! I’m trying to find it, but—”
“I cannot disregard Captain Merrit’s orders without express command code authorization,” Nike returned in her most emotionless tone.
The skimmer has finally overtaken the Wolverines. Its power is failing quickly, and Colonel Sanders’ presence changes my original assumptions radically. I reverse my tracks and move suddenly backward, threading my way through the Wolverines, which scatter like quail at my approach.
The skimmer staggers, then plummets downward in a barely controlled crash landing. It slams through heavy undergrowth for over a hundred meters before it careens to a stop, and I swerve towards it. I come to a halt 20.25 meters from it, but the canopy does not open. My optical heads show me Paul’s body slumped in the flight couch. His tunic is soaked in blood.
* * *
“Paul!”
The agonized cry over the com hit Consuela Gonzalez like a hammer. She’d felt a moment of terror as the Bolo suddenly reversed course to sweep through her entire battalion, yet the smoke-streaming fifteen-thousand-ton leviathan had threaded its way among the tanks with flawless precision, and now that heartbroken wail struck an even deeper fear into the colonel. She’d never served with a Bolo, yet she knew no Bolo should ever sound like that, and she keyed her mike.