“The shells might take a couple hours,” Serina warned her.
“I’ll wait.”
Serina looked mournfully at the giant black and white head that bobbed in the water. It would be impossible to work while being watched like this. Distant thunder reminded her of how miserable it was outside, and the rain showers wouldn’t be passing by until nightfall. Shopping would be difficult in weather like this, and she could do the calls tonight when she got home.
“I have to get my swimsuit,” she suddenly announced.
* * *
The monstrous Bolos were parked on the edge of the starport tarmac, their cannons overlooking the kilometers of green scrubgrass of the Beischal Savannah that stretched out to the south of the starport. The white serrated edges of the scrubgrass flashed in the sporadic sunlight as the wind passed in waves over the flat landscape. On a clear day one could see the very tops of the mountains of southern Deladin from here, but today the mists grew dark to the south, shrouding the horizon.
Captain Reginald Brooks had never seen a Bolo firsthand before, and the sight was intimidating. Concordiat Army recruiters often visited Delas, bringing their deadliest and most impressive gravtanks to sway students away from joining the local Guard units. But even their mightiest siege cruisers would seem insignificant next to a Bolo Mark XXX. Its 110cm Hellbore was capable of delivering 2.75 megatons of precision firepower per second, capable of shattering any known armor. But even without that, the Bolos looked as if they could just crush anything that they rolled over. That something so big, and wielding so much firepower, was alive and thinking was unnerving. It didn’t help matters when he saw a couple ion bolt turrets swivel in his direction as he approached in his vehicle. Out of instinct, his foot hit the brake hard, skidding his tires briefly.
The remaining distance to the Bolos was traveled more slowly. This seemed to appease the turrets, which stopped tracking his vehicle’s motion.
Reginald had not been told about the arrival of these war machines until midafternoon, when General Rokoyan had called personally to give him his orders. The Concordiat colonel’s arrival had been expected at Argus, not Starveil, it seemed. Donning his DDC issue light gray uniform, Captain Brooks raced off to the starport to offer Colonel Ishida transportation, and whatever else the man might need.
The vehicle that he drove was a land-car, powered by a simple power cell and therefore was somewhat small and light. The few grav-cars that sailed through the sky were all transit authority shuttles and city emergency vehicles. Few grav-cars were owned by individual citizens, as the city feared such unrestricted and uncontrolled air travel. A DDC insignia marked his car to be owned by the Delassian Defense Command, and Reginald was very careful driving it. He was a clean-shaven model officer, as he was often described in his performance reviews, and he was genuinely proud of it. The valuable solid platinum captain circlets on his high collar, standard issue on the metal rich planet of Delas, reflected brightly next to his black skin and short, cropped black hair.
Except for a few brief squalls, today’s storms had passed Starveil to the south. It was now late afternoon, and massive thunderheads still flashed and rumbled in the distance. The orange Delassian sun shined through the dark clouds at times, creating a rainbow to the east of them where light rains still fell over the ocean there. Captain Brooks was thankful for the weather, since the starport’s tarmac was unbearably hot on sunny days. On Delas, people appreciated the rain and didn’t mind getting wet.
Still, the puddle that Reginald stepped into when leaving his vehicle soaked his sock, and he hated that.
“Good afternoon, Captain.”
Brooks was surprised at the sudden appearance of the Concordiat colonel, rounding the backside of the Bolo. There must be some hatch back there, he assumed.
“Good day, Colonel. Welcome to Delas.”
“Thank you. It’s been a couple years since I’ve been here.”
At the appropriate distance, Colonel Ishida stopped and exchanged salutes with Brooks; then they shook hands. Brooks’ dark black skin and large hand contrasted with Toman’s small, white hand.
“Then I won’t bore you with the planetary briefing that I was told to give you,” Captain Brooks told him. “General Rokoyan was surprised that you landed at Starveil instead of Argus. He was looking forward to showing you around our Blackstone Defense Complex.”
“I’m not here to make inspections, Captain,” Ishida said with a pleasant smile. “Starveil is more centrally located on your world. It was better to station my Bolos here.”
Reginald once again looked over the massive hull that towered over him.
“Of course, we appreciate your help, though I’m not sure I understand the necessity.”
“Perhaps we should get out of the heat to talk.”
“Of course. But one thing . . .” The captain pointed up high onto the black turret of the Bolo, where there was a silver and blood-red shield emblazoned with a shadowy figure in black robes, wielding a fiery hammer. “Your insignia has the English shield design of a regimental strength unit, yet there are only two Bolos on your roster. Or do I have my Concordiat heraldry all wrong?”
“You don’t,” Toman said, shaking his head. “Chains and Quarter are the only Bolos left from the regiment. Angelrath is temporary assignment until they decide whether to reconstitute the 39th.”
“Only two left? Do you think they’ll do it?”
“The 39th was formed almost six hundred years ago from three brigades of Mark Nineteens. They’ve fought on the battlefields of sixteen interstellar wars, and settled countless conflicts. We’d be losing a great deal of history if we broke them up now.”
“Aren’t Mark Thirties out-of-date?”
“Chains and Quarter each have over two hundred sixty years fighting experience, upgraded to Mark Thirties over a century ago from Twenty-Eights. It would be smartest to upgrade them again and re-form the 39th around them.”
“Rather than wasting them garrisoning a far-off outpost?” Reginald completed the colonel’s point.
“Exactly.” The colonel agreed without expression.
Reginald chuckled and looked up at the insignia again.
“What does . . . what does that Latin say on the insignia.”
“It means `Stand and be Judged,’ ” said the colonel, again without expression.
Reginald’s right eyebrow rose, then he nodded and turned back to his vehicle.
“Hop in,” the captain offered. “I’ll take you back to the DDC base where you can requisition a vehicle for your stay on Delas.”
As Toman walked around the vehicle and got in, he mentally reviewed this planet’s military structure again. The “DDC” stood for the Delassian Defense Command, which meant that the captain was employed with the planetary government. The “DDF” were the Delassian Defense Forces, which were the local militias. The DDC had no standing troops, though the cities always agreed to lend them their formations for special assignments, if absolutely necessary.
He remembered from previous discussions with his son that the DDF and DDC didn’t always get along.
Captain Brooks’ vehicle was soundless as its power cell sped them over the tarmac, back towards the starport’s terminal. A passenger aircraft was landing at the far side of the airport, with another waiting to take off on a crossing runway. The cargo shuttle to the Aragonne Isabelle would not be coming back to Starveil on this trip. Most of Delassian’s merchant trade passed through Argus, or Reims on Deladin’s southeastern shore.
“So why does Angelrath suddenly think we need a couple Bolos to protect us?”
Colonel Ishida was surprised that the captain hadn’t heard. Had the DDC buried the event, he wondered? The thought occurred to him that certain people might not wish him to talk freely about this, but Toman always hated secrets.
“Almost two standard weeks ago, an alien probe was caught tailing the Ulysses Eridanis as it approached Angelrath, coming from Delas.”
“Yes, I heard about that.” The captain remained unenlightened. “Didn’t it self-destruct when you closed in on it?”
Colonel Ishida hesitated a moment as the significance of both events seemed to be lost on the captain.
“Yes,” Toman said pointedly, “which identified it as a military probe sent to gather intelligence. We’ve caught other probes from these aliens, but all were barely trans-light and relatively low-tech. This one was different.”
“You believe that the probe was sent as a prelude to an invasion?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” the colonel said. “Their initial probes found us. From that point they could have either pulled back from contact, sent a diplomatic envoy, or prepared to attack. That last probe was assuredly meant for the latter.”
“Are all planets in this sector being mobilized?”
“No. If their hammer falls, it will likely be here. Your Firecracker Nebula plays havoc with our deep space detectors, but sporadic communications traffic, and projected courses of these probes, seem to point directly to the nebula. And Delas is, by far, the closest colony we have to the nebula.”