I target fifteen large, grounded transports scattered across the Area of Battle but elect not to destroy these, at least at this time. We as yet have little information on Kezdai psychology, but they seem close enough to humans in their actions and reactions that I assume they will fight harder knowing they have no escape. Humans refer to it as “fighting like cornered rats,” a vivid metaphor despite the fact that I can only assume that a “rat” is a creature possessed of cowardly traits yet which can, in desperation, display considerable strength, determination, or will to live.
So long as the Enemy’s troops know there is a means of escape waiting for them, they may be more cautious in their deployment and advance. Further, their transports provide a tactical lever in my own planning. By threatening their lines of retreat to their transports, we can force changes in the execution of their battle plan.
For now, though, my own maneuvering is circumscribed by my orders. I advise the Command Center that I cannot fire my Hellbore at this time and begin targeting the Enemy’s armor with VLS-launched cluster munitions.
* * *
“So . . . where do you call home?” Governor Khalid asked.
It was a quiet moment in the command center. Colonel Lang had left, moments before, to discuss the fast-worsening crisis at the spaceport with 5th Battalion’s senior officers and the military police.
“Aldo Cerise,” Martin replied, not taking his eyes from the Bolo C3 monitors. There was something odd happening. . . .
“A long way. How long since you were home?”
“Two . . . no. Almost three years. Why do you ask, Governor?’
“I was beginning to wonder if you Concordiat troops had homes. If you knew what it mean to lose it, or to be forced to leave.”
“Lang is right about one thing,” Martin told him. “We can’t more than slow the enemy down a bit. There are just too many of them.”
“I do not understand your colonel. He seems so . . . timid.”
Martin grunted, then reached out and touched a key on his console. “You might be interested in this, sir.” A holo-image of Colonel Thomas Lang appeared above the projection plate. “It’s classified data, but I think you should see it. I got curious and did a search of the personnel files.”
Khalid leaned closer, his hawklike features stage-lit by the glow from the monitors as he read a scrolling column of text.
“He was at Durango? I’ve heard of that.”
“An all-out last-stand battle. During the Melconian war. He ordered two battalions to hold the town of Cordassa on Durango at all costs. They did and were wiped out.”
“But the battle was a victory.”
“Sure. At least that’s what the military historians call it. The 1st and 2nd Battalions of the 345th Regiment delayed the main Melconian advance on Cordassa until the Concordiat fleet could arrive and destroy the invasion force.”
“But Lang—”
“They couldn’t punish him, not while they were turning Durango into the biggest victory since the Alamo.”
“Alamo?”
“A similar last stand, a long time ago. Pre-spaceflight days, in fact.”
“I see.”
“Did you see this?” He highlighted a section of text.
Khalid frowned. “His brother . . . ?”
“Major Geoffrey Lang, in command of the 2nd Battalion. He died with the others, in Cordassa. Our CO was in a military orbital station at the time and survived.”
“It says he was court-martialed.”
“And acquitted. He was a hero, after all. A court-martial is something of a requirement if you’re careless enough to lose your entire command. It says here there was some discussion over whether or not his actions should have been censured, but in the end they gave him a medal.”
“They rewarded him.”
“And punished him. He was given a new command . . . here. Far from anywhere important. Out of sight, out of mind, as it were.” Martin looked at Khalid. “Being sent here was tantamount to ending his career.”
Khalid’s mouth twisted in a wry grin. “That could explain some of his feelings about my world.”
“It could also explain why he’s afraid of seeing Izra’il turn into another last stand. He’s been trying to get in contact with the Kezdai commanders. Peace at any price . . .”
“That approach has been tried throughout history. Appeasement has the distressing habit of making the aggressor more and more hungry.”
“I . . . I wish there was something we could do. Lang’s right, though. The bad guys outnumber us by a good margin. Unless help comes in time, we’re not going to be able to hold them.”
“Not even with two Bolos?”
“Not even with them.” And especially if they’re not allowed to fight their way, he thought, but he didn’t say the words aloud.
Khalid sighed. “We prize peace highly on this world, Lieutenant. Two hundred years ago, the Izra’ilian Consortium hired people on Kauthar to come here, to start a new life working the iridium and durillium mines. Most of them were B’hai, a faith that lives for peace and understanding . . . or Islam reformed.
“They found this world an icy hell. They named it after the Angel of Death, astride the worlds, one foot in the Seventh Heaven, the other on the bridge between Hell and Paradise. He keeps a roll of all humanity. When a person dies, Izra’il severs his soul from his body after forty days. They vowed to make Hell into paradise.
“Izra’il is no paradise. We, the grandchildren of those first colonists, know that. But it is home, and home to our children. We cannot simply . . . abandon it. Not on the whim of the man assigned by the Concordiat military to protect us!”
“I’m sorry,” Martin said, miserable. “There’s nothing I can do about it. He’s my commanding officer, and . . .”
“And to disobey his orders means prison or discharge or dishonor. I understand. But . . . I have heard such things about Bolos. Autonomous war machines that think like a man. That cannot be defeated. And you are the Bolo command officer, are you not?”
Martin nodded, miserable. “Yeah. That’s me. But I still can’t order them to do things he won’t allow. As for not being defeated . . .” He shrugged. “No machine is invincible. Bolos can be beaten, if they’re badly enough outnumbered. Or if they’re badly handled and deployed.”
“You fear for these two, Hank and Andrew.”
“Yeah. They’re pinned in by those valley walls up in those two mountain passes. No room to maneuver. Worse, they can’t use their speed and mobility and weapons to full tactical advantage.”
“Bolo NDR to Command,” a voice said in his earpiece. It was deep and richly inflected. “The Enemy is moving up the Smoke Valley now. I’ve knocked down three aerial drones, and I suspect they’re trying to maneuver some heavy equipment up the east slope, using folds in the terrain for cover.”
“Bolo HNK to Command,” a second voice said. It was a bit higher in tone than the other, distinct in inflection and meter. “No sign of the Enemy yet in the Buruj Pass. Refugee traffic is still heavy, and I cannot engage with primary weaponry without causing unacceptable collateral damage and high civilian casualties. Request permission to move forward ten kilometers, in order to engage the Enemy freely.”
“Bolo HNK,” Martin said, speaking into the comset pick-up. “Hold position, as ordered. Can you target the enemy with your Hellbore?”
“Affirmative.” Was there just a trace of bitterness in that one-word response? Anger? Or was it his imagination? There was a long hesitation. “Command, I must refuse the order to fire my Hellbore at this time. Request permission to move forward ten kilometers, where I will not be responsible for heavy civilian casualties.”
Martin blinked, drew in a sharp breath, then let it out again slowly. “Negative. Hold position.” He studied the QDC readouts again. “Damn. . . .”
“What is it, my friend?”
“I’m not quite sure,” he said, frowning. Both Hank and Andrew were operating at a considerably higher level of mentation than could be expected of Mark XXIVs. “The way they’re talking, I could swear they’re Mark XXXs.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well . . . we don’t have time here for a dissertation on Bolo evolution. In extremely simple terms, Bolos became generally self-aware, possessing roughly human-equivalent intelligence, with the introduction of the Mark XX and psychotronic circuitry in the late 2700s. Succeeding marks have grown more intelligent, more human in their reasoning abilities and—importantly—in their speech patterns over the next few centuries, though their abilities were restricted by inhibitory software aimed at preventing a `rogue Bolo’ from turning on its owners. Okay so far?”
Khalid nodded. “I understand. The early models couldn’t do a thing without direct orders from their human commanders.”
“Right. Now, Mark XXIVs, like Hank and Andrew, were the first truly autonomous self-aware machines. The latest models, like the Mark XXX . . . well, if you talk to them by comm, the only way you can tell they’re not human is by the fact that their speech tended to be a bit more formal, a bit more erudite than that of people. They’re fully Turing capable.”