My receiver is fused and so I am unable to refine its reception, but I can reroute the output signal for additional processing. I boost power to the receiver as high as I dare, then route the raw output down to an auxiliary optical processor. By transferring backup code modules from my emergency core, I am able to turn it into a makeshift broadband signal processor and enhancer.
I filter noise from the signal, enhance, amplify, filter again. The resulting output is unrecognizable.
I dwell on the problem for 0.6931 seconds.
A legitimate command code would contain a constantly repeating mask of code bits. If I assume these are part of the incoming data-stream, they may provide a key to extracting the rest of the signal from the noise, rather the way a reference laser was used to reconstruct some primitive holograms. The effort requires diversion of five percent of the capabilities of my hyper-heuristic processing nodes. This is of no consequence, as I have nothing else for them to do at present.
It is a voice message on automated loop, the sort of loop that would be generated by a command headset whose voice recognition circuitry detected a distress message.
An analysis of the transmission confirms, with a confidence of 89.9343 percent that it is my Commander’s voice. The first entire word I recognize is my Commander’s unofficial designation for me, “Ziggy,” a further assurance that the transmission is genuine.
But then the words that follow fill me with distress.
“Hurt bad. Need you to come.”
The distant world I presume to be Delas again spins through my field of vision.
The message repeats, again and again. “Need you to come.”
Four
General Kiel and Lieutenant Veck leaned over a holographic map of the northern battlefield, replaying a recent engagement.
“This is a new strategy the Kezdai are using,” Kiel said, pointing at the strange formation on the map. “The DDF call it a `snake pit.’ ”
“Weird,” Veck said.
“See how this is shaped?” Kiel asked. “The Kezdai position a group of their Toro tanks in a ring facing outward. With the Toros’ massive guns and thick forward armor protecting their vulnerable flanks, it’s a formidable emplacement.”
“I’ll bet ammo carriers or cached ammo stockpiles are inside the ring,” Veck said, “waiting to reload the Toros, compensating for their limited five-shot magazine capacity.”
“Exactly,” Kiel said. “In some ways, a pit is almost the equivalent of a Bolo in terms of firepower and armor, but it lacks the Bolo’s mobility.”
“So exactly how are these snake pits being used?” Veck asked.
“Skillful tactics on the part of the Kezdai are being used to drive DDF forces into them,” Kiel said. “It’s playing hell with the DDF conventional forces. Usually, a Bolo has to be called in to wipe out the pit, and those are spread pretty thin at the moment.”
Veck nodded and stepped back. “Speaking of that, don’t you think I should get back to Rover?”
Kiel tapped his command earpiece and smiled. “The Concordiat put a lot of time and thought into that link between commander and Bolo. You need to start understanding how to use it effectively.”
Veck nodded, but clearly didn’t like the idea. He was more of a hands-on type of guy. Even with the understanding of the Bolo that the neural link had given him, he still liked being physically present.
“Trust the Bolo, son,” Kiel said, clearly catching Veck’s feelings. “They’re good soldiers, good soldiers. Never met one that wasn’t, because that’s what they’re built to be. But us humans, we have to learn it the hard way.”
“Yeah, I’m learning that,” Veck said, half smiling.
“Actually,” General Kiel said, “I’ve ordered all the officers of the 1198th back behind the lines. I want them sleeping in real bunks, getting proper food, maybe even getting to an officers’ club when there is a lull in the fighting. They can rotate back to their units when the time is right. Until then—” he tapped his earpiece again “—the Bolos can cover what needs to be covered.”
“But I don’t—” Veck stopped his protest.
Kiel laughed. “Now you’re learning. From here on out, the 1198th is doing things my way.”
“Meaning that my way was wrong,” Veck said.
“No, not really,” Kiel said. “Maybe in another place and time, your method would be right. But now, you are correct, it’s wrong.”
Veck nodded. He felt as if the general had just slugged him in the stomach. Why hadn’t he gotten on that transport after all and taken his chances? Would have been easier.
“But, Lieutenant,” Keil said, “that doesn’t mean you don’t have good ideas. You do. And you’re smart and creative. And you’re willing to learn, even if it is the hard way sometimes. That’s why I want you at my side.”
“Thanks,” Veck said.
“And you thought,” Kiel said, “I was just keeping an eye on you.”
“Yes, sir,” Veck said. “I did.”
Keil chuckled. “Smart boy.”
* * *
For the past day Jask had tried to keep Orren’s fever under control. He had managed to get a little seyzarr broth into him, but the man needed more help than Jask could provide. The problem was, Jask couldn’t figure out a way to get it for him.
Jask had considered going into Rockgate for help, but the man more than likely would be dead by the time he got back. He had thought about sending Bessy, but somebody at Rockgate would probably have tried to figure out some way to steal his Bolo.
So instead he had just put wet rags on the man’s forehead. He would have to hope that what he could do was enough.
On the second morning, as Jask put a damp rag on the man’s forehead, he awoke.
“Can I have a sip of water?” the man asked, his voice so hoarse it sounded like it hurt him to speak.
Jask helped him drink until the man choked. Then he said, “Can I have my earpiece?”
“That thing doesn’t work,” Jask said. “I tried it. You was talking to somebody yesterday, but it was just the fever.”
The man shook his head. “Not the fever.”
Jask gave him the headset, but reaching for it nearly caused the man to pass out. He rested for a minute, then took a deep breath, put on the headset, and started to talk.
“Ziggy, do you hear me? It’s Lieutenant Orren, Ziggy. You’ve got to come. I’m too sick. Talk to the boy. Let the boy talk you in.”
Lieutenant Orren’s eyes closed for a while. Jask figured he’d passed out, but then Orren’s eyes opened again, as though he was listening to something.
“Command override,” Orren said. “Code alpha-bravo-tango-sierra-bravo-delta-five.” Remembering the code seemed a great effort, and Orren’s eyes closed again.
This time he fell asleep.
Hesitantly Jask took the headset and held it to his ear. Jask was sure that Lieutenant Orren was just talking to the fever. He listened to the silence for a moment, then shrugged. “There’s nothing to hear.”
Then there was a crackle.
“Unit R-0012-ZGY of the Dinochrome Brigade requesting Situation Update and new orders.”
This time Jask actually did drop the headset.
* * *
When Vatsha entered her brother’s dining chamber, the platters of raw grazer-flesh sat untouched on the low table. Rejad stood in front of a huge holotank that had been lowered from the ceiling.
“You summoned me, brother?”
He did not turn.
“If you persist on staring at a holo all the time, you will ruin your eyes. It would be sad to see you trying to find your concubines with a cane.”
Finally he turned and stepped away from the screen, the hem of his white and gold day-robe dragging across the floor as he walked. “Then I should be blind already, sister. A battle commander’s work is never done.” He gestured broadly at the tank. “Do you know what that is?”
She looked at the tank. Maps floated, globes, representations of orbital trajectories, table after table of statistics, all floating, illuminated in yellow, red, blue and green. It looked like the games of Conquest that she and Rejad had played as children, only infinitely more complex. “I would say it is a battle simulation of some sort.”
“It is victory, sister, the victory that should have belonged to the Kezdai after our last great battle with the Humans. Only the intrusion of that one ship, insignificant as it was, turned the day. One ship. I have run the simulation many times, adjusting variables. It is that ship that saves them. This is what bothers me.”
“But brother, there are no other ships. The humans have launched no fleet against us. They are visited by freighters and puny convoy defenders that run when threatened. All their ships are cataloged and known to us, even the ship that turned the battle was known to us upon its arrival.”
Rejad’s hood flared nervously. He stabbed a fingertip into a slab of grazer-flesh, examined the wet pinkness of it, sniffed its salty musk, then tossed it back onto the platter. “The problem is, we do not know where those freighters came from, or who has supplied these hairy monkeys with the weapons that have stymied us so. What lies beyond their jump-points could be a vast and powerful empire. Clearly they do not much favor these pathetic creatures, or we never would have been allowed to get a toehold at all, but neither have they left them defenseless. Each time I run this simulation, it becomes more imperative that we not wait for the other two new ships.”