“Holy shit!” the lieutenant exclaimed, examining the alien. It was about four meters long and, when it had stood up to run, was about two meters high. The entire body was covered by a rock-hard, greenish brown shell and it had twelve legs plus the two deadly claws, as well as some smaller, more intricate appendages near its mouth that it must use to assist the eating process. Then he anxiously looked around for any others. Is this a Kezdai? he thought. But on further inspection he saw no evidence of weapons or armor. Besides, from what he had read, they weren’t suppose to be this big. Also they were described as vaguely reptilian with bird beaks. This thing looked more like a cross between a crab and a giant cockroach. It was probably described in the fauna disc but he had never gotten around to studying it.
Giving the beast a good-bye nudge with his boot, he resumed his trek; this time keeping a sharper watch for danger instead of just sightseeing.
When he finally broke into a clearing, the sight he was presented with inspired a great pounding in his chest. There it was, the Mark XXXIV. His Mark XXXIV! God, what a beauty! He’d only seen them on the testing range. But here, in this pristine natural setting, it looked like an armed city that had floated down out of the clouds. The twin Hellbores jutted out; the shiny new mortars glistened in the daylight. And the Hellrails . . . They stuck straight up giving the appearance of invulnerable towers. The Hellrails were the latest development on the Bolos. That’s what made it a Mark XXXIV. These were not the puny railguns mounted by the outdated local militia tanks, the Templars. These were advanced Bolo railguns, more powerful than any other mobile land weapon in the known universe. The twin Hellrails were sixty meters long and were designed for knocking out enemy ships even before they entered orbit. Each delivered a bolt of ninety megatons. How could the Kezdai stand up to such firepower?
When he approached the Bolo he noticed a tall, thin man working on one of the forward turrets. “Hello there,” Sean called up.
The man continued working but responded. “H’llo.” Petrik caught a glimpse of a weathered, reddened face and a large nose sticking out from under a dark mop of unkempt hair.
“I’m Lieutenant Petrik.”
“Figured.” The man switched tools and spat.
This was less of a reception than he had expected and he was not about to tolerate insubordination. “I said I’m Lieutenant Petrik, soldier. You do know how to salute don’t you? Delas may be on the other end of the universe but it’s still part of the Concordiat.”
The technician turned around slowly and sized up the indignant officer. Then he put away his tool, hiked up the filthy grey coveralls that he looked so natural in, and methodically climbed down. He jumped off the lower platform and walked up to his superior. “Tell you what, Lieutenant. This fancy crate of yours is goin’ into battle in three days and I’m the only maintenance crew there is. He took a pretty hard fall when they dropped him and got a couple of hardwoods up the kazoo. Now, I can spend the next three days followin’ you around wipin’ your ass or I can be puttin’ things right with this machine. Your call. But it won’t be my butt stickin’ out when the shit starts flyin’.”
The lieutenant glared at the man. “What’s your name, soldier?”
“Private Lawlor.”
“Carry on, Lawlor. The general inside?” He pointed to the Bolo.
“Yup.” The private turned back and began to climb.
Sean mounted the elevator platform and rose into the control room. From what he could see, the Bolo seemed to be intact inside but if it hit hard enough to damage some of the external systems, it was likely that a few things were shaken loose in the internal systems as well. Seated in the commander’s chair was a dark, shriveled figure, hunched over and staring at a chess board with a cigar in his left hand. His right arm was missing all the way to the shoulder. Sharing the table with the chess pieces were an ash tray, a half filled glass, and an almost empty bottle.
“General Cho?”
“Shhh . . .” He waved Sean away with the cigar. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Petrik stood at attention and took this time to study his commander. The dry brown head had a few wild hairs protruding which were outnumbered by a maze of leathery wrinkles. The old man hadn’t shaved in days—nor showered, Sean surmised from the strong smell of stale urine that pervaded the room. The clothes also were ancient and filthy, not even suggestive of a uniform, with the shirt being completely open, exposing a hairless chest and pot belly. Almond-shaped eyes that were a startling blue-green. Labored, raspy breath. He must be damn smart if he can challenge a Bolo in chess, Sean thought.
The lieutenant shifted his gaze to the Bolo, carefully checking the layout and comparing it to the prototype he trained in. He did notice a few refinements and wondered if any of the suggestions he’d made ever made it past that shit-brained company clerk and actually got implemented. A blinking light caught his attention and he realized that there was a problem with the coolant recirculator. I just hope I can get this puppy battle ready over the next few days, he thought.
Finally, the general moved his rook forward a few spaces. A voice, the Bolo’s, came out of the console. “General, I would not recommend that move. It would place your queen in unnecessary jeopardy.”
The old man’s eyes flared and he dropped his cigar into the ashtray. Then he hurled his drink against the control panel, shattered glass and liquid flying everywhere, and began screaming. “Don’t you ever advise me when we play chess, you rusty piece of scrap! I have bowel movements that have been in existence longer than you! You just worry about your own damn game!”
“These goddam newbies,” he continued, addressing no one in particular. “They squeeze ’em right out of the factory and they think they know everything. You’ve still got packing grease in your rocker bearings, you rolling latrine!”
“As you wish, General Cho,” the Bolo responded calmly. “Queen’s knight to queen’s bishop four.”
After taking a long swig directly from the bottle the general moved one of his pawns two spaces sideways and one forward to capture the Bolo’s queen.
“I’m afraid that you have made an illegal move, General Cho,” the Bolo protested.
“I’m invoking the Melconian variation,” Cho replied calmly. “I don’t imagine they taught you that one. Well, I’m not surprised since you’ve never been to the front. Anyway, it’s real simple. Once per game, each pawn can move like the piece it protects at the start of the game. My pawn was in front of the king’s knight so I used it to take your queen. Any questions?”
“No, General Cho. Using the Melconian variation, you can legally take my queen, and will have my king in three moves.”
“Very good. You ain’t so dumb as you look.” Then he turned to Petrik and seemed to notice him for the first time. “I suppose you think you’re hot shit too, Fish-Boy.”
“Fish-Boy, sir?”
“You’re from Corradin II, aren’t you? That’s what your bio said.”
“Yes, sir, but . . .”
“Coradin II’s a water planet, right?’
“Well, yes, sir, but there is a rather large land mass. I was raised in the mountains and didn’t see the ocean until I went to the spaceport in Beattieburg. That was when I was shipping out for Fort Schen.”
The general stared and blinked for a moment, then said, “When I was in the Academy we called all the men from Corradin II Fish-Boy. That’s what I’m calling you.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Bolo spoke up. “Welcome aboard, Lieutenant Sean Petrik. You already know General Hayward Cho and I am TRK-213.”
The Bolo’s greeting was a welcome relief. “Thank you, TRK-213. How about we give you a better name?”
“I would appreciate it, sir. I was considering Tarkus.”
“Excellent! Tarkus it is.”
“Not so fast, Fish-Boy. You’re not in command here unless I keel over. Tarkus is a great name with a glorious history in the Corps. A name like that has to be earned. Until then you’re Turkey.”
“Turkey?” the Bolo and Sean exclaimed simultaneously.
“It was a large Terran bird. Kind of like a Bachmanian plogger, only fatter and dumber.”
“Nothing could be fatter and dumber than a plogger!” the lieutenant cried in disbelief.
“Well, turkeys were,” replied Cho. “The Terrans used to raise them and sacrifice them once a year in some religious feast. They were suppose to be great eating.”
“Then I will be called Turkey.” The Bolo sounded dejected.