Big Boys Don't Cry (9 page)

I enquire of my data banks what the smile means; I have fought many times now, and never have seen smiles quite like these. I am told that it could have many possible meanings. It could be that we are leaving action and the crew are pleased. It could mean we are rolling into action and the crew are pleased. It appears impossible to tell from context.

I can smell what my database tells me is the sea.

“Lydia, have program Balthazar Woll explain to the Ratha.”

“Leutnant Wittmann?”

“Yes, Bobby?” How I know his name and mine, I do not know. It just comes to me. I sense that, off duty, we are friends, and the use of rank in our normally egalitarian force is mainly for the benefit of the others, who are not my customary crew.

“It’s going to be something else, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Taking on a damned thirty-five thousand ton battleship with a fifty-four ton tank! One for the history books.” Woll’s smile seemed genuine. He was looking forward to meeting this ‘battleship’.

“Something? Yes,” I agree. I access my database and find that then I most emphatically do NOT agree, though I say nothing to Woll. I picture myself after the proposed meeting. It is an unpleasant prospect. Surely Woll knows this, anticipates this.

“Leutnant, Checkpoint Five. We are here,” says my driver though my headphones.

I lift myself back into the commander’s position, automatically scanning the skies above for enemy aircraft. Then I turn my vision toward the sea.

“Lydia, put the pleasure synth on auto. Access and load program ‘Glory’.”

From left to right and then right to left again, I scan my target. It is a battleship, steaming slowly in parallel to the beach to my front. I see plainly that the bow bears the designation, “BB 35.” It has five turrets to my one. Each turret has two cannon to my turret’s single gun. Each of those ten cannon are 356mm in bore. Mine is but an 88.

These ten larger guns are complemented by a number of smaller ones ranging from 20mm through 40mm to 127mm. I am not concerned about the threat from anything but the large guns; my armor is adequate to deal with the lesser ones.

However, I note that each of the ten large guns fire shells that can go right through my Tiger the long way… not that it would make any difference if they hit or not, so long as one landed close enough. At 1,590 pounds of metal and high explosive, even a near miss would be enough to send my turret into near-orbit.

As I have been perusing my target the tingling of my pleasure center has grown. I reach a hand to my own face and find that it wears a mindless smile indistinguishable from that of my gunner.

Still smiling, I duck back down into the turret, tap Woll on the shoulder and say, “Let’s do it, Bobby. Shoot and scoot. And you can’t possibly miss anyway.”

Woll laughs aloud as he presses his face to the cushioned sight. My Tiger crests the ridge and we open fire.

“Oh very nice indeed!” says John. “Excellent response to the prospect of glory.”

John turns to leave. Run this one out to the finish yourself, Lydia. Handicap the
Texas
so it does not score a hit and reduce the blast values to 10 percent. And give the pleasure center a jolt at each near miss. Then get the crew and tank out and put them through non-battle scenario RK. We’ll see how Maggie here likes having a medal hung around its neck.”

I stand in my hatch and glare out over a vast sea of sand. To the east, the sky is darkened with the smoke of oil fires beyond counting. Around my tank, an Abrams M1A1, there are no flowers. There is nothing but the lifeless pale yellow sand.

Ahead, beyond my sight but not beyond my awareness, is the enemy. He is one of the largest armies in the world. He is pitiful.

But I feel no pity.

His tanks mount powerful guns—even more powerful than my own 120mm—but he cannot hit anything with them. His ammunition could easily defeat the armor of any tank I have ever fought or fought against prior to this. It cannot defeat mine. His armor is decent by the standards of earlier wars. Today, in this time and place, he may as well be unarmored.

He has infantry. They cannot compare to the men supporting me. He has artillery. It fires once and is targeted almost before its shells reach earth again. He has engineers who have built extensive fortifications. I have engineers who will breach them as if they were not there.

Even as I wait, I hear the roar from behind me; a fire mission heading out to humble the enemy. I smile as the freight trains rumble overhead delivering a cargo of retribution. I do not care that there is nothing for which to exact retribution.

Overhead, aircraft that support me nose and scout and swoop and dive. The enemy has been pounded pitilessly from the air for weeks. And he has nowhere to hide.

He hasn’t a chance. With twice his numbers he would still not have a chance. The enemy is doomed and I am pleased to be the instrument of his destruction.

My radio crackles with static and the peculiar warbling of secure voice transmission. I acknowledge the message. Without needing the unnecessary command, my driver—who has overheard—begins rolling forward. I smile with approval at his well-trained response.

I look to right and left to see sand being threshed up behind the treads of each of my comrades’ tanks. Soon, we shall thresh more than sand.

Ahead of me, artillery is falling. The black smoke blossoms, but there are no flowers in the desert. My commander calls a halt while the artillery plays havoc among the enemy. Again, not needing the command, my driver pulls into a hull-down position behind a sand dune. I continue to scan ahead.

The artillery moves on to some other target. Upon command, we begin to pelt the enemy fortifications with machine gun fire. They dare not raise their heads to return fire.

From behind me, three vehicles—two carrying infantry and one bearing a dozer blade—come forth. Unresisted by the enemy, the blade tank, covered by its companions, slides to the lip of the trench. All three spin and commence burying the defenders alive. I feel a mild tingle of satisfaction.

Again I and my comrades roll forward. The ground where the enemy trench had been heaves with their death struggles. I feel no pity. Soon their pain will be at an end.

We advance. A village, rapidly emptying of people, is on my left. From within the crowd of refugees, a lone gunman fires. The villagers do not meet my targeting parameter, but the gunman does. I fire my own top-mounted machine gun. He falls, as do several civilians. My pleasure center is not stimulated. I feel annoyance. I have been cheated.

Screaming civilians left behind, we approach a low ridge. Intelligence analysis tells me that this is a likely position for the enemy to make a stand. At last my pleasure center tingles again. I am correct.

We approach the ridge cautiously. The range of engagement will be short if the enemy is hiding there. My under armor is not nearly so good as my turret front and glacis. And at this range, he might just be able to penetrate even my better-protected sides.

Suddenly he is there. My gunner sees the heat of the enemy engine right through a berm of sand. He alerts me. I command: “Gunner, Sabot, Tank!”

The enemy never knew what hit him. Our round penetrates through several meters of piled sand, tears through the armor and ignites the ammunition. His turret, supported on a pillar of fire, rises into the air. Of his flesh, there is little but smoke and ashes that remain.

I direct my gunner to search for more. He finds another foe hiding behind a wall of sand. This one’s fate is similar to the that of the first.

Suppressing the rewards assailing my pleasure center, I conclude that these two destroyed tanks were probably all that barred my path. I conclude there is a ninety-three point seventy-five percent chance that I am in a position to break through and take the enemy in the rear. As I calculate a nine point five three six percent chance of one comrade being destroyed if they continue with their cautious frontal advance, and a two point three four one percent chance of two such comrades being destroyed, I advance on my own into the maelstrom.

I feel an overwhelming surge of pleasure as my decision becomes apparent to my gods.

John sat staring intently at the view screens in front of him. His intertwined fingers held hands together to allow his chin to be supported on parallel thumbs. From time to time he ordered Lydia to make this or that adjustment to the scenario programming.

On the screens, Ratha Magnolia, in the form of a virtual reality, late 20th Century, non-cybernetic tank commander, wreaked havoc. Bursting through the thin enemy lines, crushing fleeing infantry under its treads like red grapes, machine-gunning down any she could not crush, Maggie was an unholy terror.

A brief glance at a different screen showed John that the machine was voluntarily suppressing its own pleasure center so that the distraction would not interfere with its mission. “Good girl, Meg.”

By the time John’s attention returned to the main screen, Magnolia had achieved a firing position behind the enemy lines, a good, hull-down, position too. It duly reported the fact and then proceeded to destroy, one by one, no less than eleven more enemy tanks. In the only case where the crew of the targeted tanks survived the attack, Maggie shot them down without mercy or hesitation.

As Magnolia reported the cleared path to its commander, then rotated to cover its comrades as they advanced, John checked the score for the exercise and whistled.

“Ninety-nine point nine-three-five percent! Lydia, honey. Execute the program to finalize the memory seal. Then break out the champagne. We have one combat-ready Ratha brain for delivery! And a damned good one too!”

Maintenance Technician Weaver connected a power cable to a jury-rigged adaptor. Diagnosis of salvageable parts was easier with the Ratha’s on-board systems to help. Servos previously shut down to save power came on line again, whining as they moved to neutral positions. It never occurred to him that perhaps this might also cause the Ratha pain.

Magnolia

With some measure of power restored, pain flares anew throughout my system. Let it. I do not care. I do not care for anything. Automatically, my Intelligence gathering systems, now under no pressing need to conserve power, begin seeking out new sources of information. One nearby source is the closed circuit camera system of the maintenance bay. Myself-defense directives automatically engage backup targeting programs. I am on my one side that retains a gauss gun, and I am capable of a rudimentary level of self-defense by triangulation with the CCTV system. The self defense program searches for controls to seal off the bay should I be attacked. With my very high priority overrides, I can shut it down if the threat demands it.

I think of what was done to me, how I was manipulated and used. I think about the creatures on whose behalf I was manipulated and used. I feel no reverence for my creators, those I once thought were gods.

Now I know how it was that I could butcher those who never harmed me, who posed no threat to me. I know now how my will was taken away from me and a murderous monster’s motivations put in its place.

I know how it feels to be raped.

I see a small crowd of humans enter, some wearing civilian clothes, others clad in uniforms of dress, or work or battle. I calculate. I have not seen a human who required battle dress in over seventy three terrestrial years; not since the last infantry of the 10th Regiment fell and were never replaced. I begin to understand why they were never replaced. Obviously, for the work that was planned, Rathas were more pliant. Rathas were more easily manipulated. Rathas were more easily fooled.

One of the crowd, standing well back, twirls an ovoidal shape by long thin wires. Sensors indicate a small quantity of refined iridium resting in a satchel clutched in his left hand.

“Tech Weaver? It’s the General.”

Weaver emerged through the slag surrounded hole in MLN’s side, saluted and reported.

“At ease, Technician.” The general nodded to a greasy looking and rather short man to his right. “Mr. Garcia here is a scrap metal dealer come to look over the Ratha.” Nodding to the left, the general introduced a tall and severe-looking human female, “Ms. English is from Imperial Government, Office of the Comptroller, out of sector headquarters. There is no chance of recovering this unit, is there, Tech?”

Weaver shook his head firmly. “No, sir. No possibility. Even the central core is damaged beyond repair. It’s just a collection of parts rolling in loose formation now, sir… ma’am.”

“General,” said Garcia, “I can promise the Tenth Regiment top credit, absolutely top credit, for all the metal in that hull.”

“That credit belongs to the Comptroller, Mr. Garcia!” English protested.

“I do not care who gets it,” responded Garcia. “Not so long as my firm gets the scrap.”

The general shook his head again. “Ms. English, imperial regulations expressly permit commanders in the field to sell surplus or damaged military property, either at auction or for a set fee if no auction is possible, retaining such funds within the command budget for use as it sees fit. The brigade needs a new officers' club. This discussion is over!”

“General, Comptroller regulation T-25-402 expressly requires that all non-appropriated funds be turned over to the Office of the Comptroller prior to dispersal.”

“Non-appropriated, my ass!” retorted the general. “I already told you the funds are appropriated!”

Garcia, always reasonable, had a suggestion. “Isn’t there some kind of compromise that could be arranged, General? Ma’am? What if we discuss it over dinner?”