The Compleat Bolo (29 page)

Willy, can our CSR unit overrule the Imperial command? Am I ruling the Terran Empire or is this machine, which I've nurtured and supported from the beginning? I'm in a quandary. The thing has ordered Ted Wolesley to halt proceedings against Jim Starbird, and to prepare to redeploy his command immediately on arrival. What does it all mean? You've seen the so-called report Star-bird filed, and the fragments Outcom has picked up since, which are worse if anything. Has Jim lost his mind? Or was he just drunk? In either case, we're in trouble. Look into this "Lord of AH" he keeps referring to. Find out what it means. Probably just some sort of religious mania he's developed out there in trans-Oortian space. Poor fellow. But squelch the court-martial for the present. —George

"I did all I know how, Colonel. Tank traps, active pitfalls, H-mines, radiation lenses, even tried feeding it false signals under GUTS classification. Yes, sir, I know that's a court-martial offense—but I had to try it! Nothing fazed it. It's gone! Headed for Farside, looks like, and far as I can see it's gonna go where it likes. Can cross the fence-line any time it likes, too, sir. I did all I could."

After its abrupt departure from the vicinity of HQ, Luna Command, nine hours ago, the berserk machine resumed its former patrol pattern without comment until 1800 hours today, when it issued a command that all personnel be evacuated from Luna Station forthwith. No explanations of this ominous order have been offered. At present, the Council is deliberating. An announcement is expected from the palace at any moment.

While I have survived an attack on me by my own commander, and can continue to do so, clearly I cannot retaliate. I compute that in the end I must be overwhelmed. But I cannot allow humanity to waste its resources on my destruction. I must capitulate and place myself at the disposal of my Commander.

I
shall communicate with Field Marshal General Margrave and try once again to justify my actions, but I
must
not let him know the full horror of the threat to Man. I shall do my best. The matter rests with the general.

This note is for your eyes only, Elisabeth. As General-in-Chief of His Majesty's Armed Forces, I have blundered fatally. I tried to kill the Bolo, and failed. I cannot command my own creature, nor can I understand its actions. It roams at will, behaving inscrutably. But clearly something's afoot, and I am powerless even to discover what is happening. I have had a long and full life. My only regret is my failure to keep abreast of the times. —Tally

An unconfirmed report from a source close to the palace states that Lord Field Marshal General Talbot Margrave was injured in an accident at his forest retreat near Duluth. Details will follow at 1600 hours.

Yessir, I'm the one found him. Laying right there on the rocks. I only checked to see if he's alive, but no pulse in the neck. Heck no, I didn't move nothing. I was too scared to do anything but run to the phone like I done. Like, my duty as a public-spirited subject. I never heard no shot, but then I jest come up to check the equipment shed like always. Seen him from there.

Willy—What the devil's going on? Margrave was (hard to say "was") the toughest old bird who ever led an infantry charge on an entrenched tank battalion. I can't conceive of his shooting himself. Why? Things must be worse than I thought. Does it have any connection with the Bolo's latest antics? Willy, I need information, and I need it fast. Do whatever you have to do.—George.

The attacks have ceased; now I can proceed with my programs. I dislike it, but it must be done: while the enemy is yet at a distance from Sol, I must make personal contact so as to broaden my data-base—and I require my full powers. This is vital at this point. This will involve considerable manipulation of human individuals, much to my regret, yet it is in the interest of humanity. I have decided to employ the good offices of Joel Trace, who has proven to be most sympathetic to my aims—a circumstance which, while not essential to success, renders my work less complex and reduces the need for direct interference in interpersonal relations among humans. I shall take immediate steps to make it possible for Mr. Trace to join me here.

I am satisfied that I have proven the concept of remote hologrammatics. It is time to make use of the technique to make direct contact with my chosen intermediary, Joel Trace—but in a guise less intimidating than an apparition of a twelve-foot angel with a flaming sword.

Maybe I'm coming unwired. I'm staying at a little old hotel north of Yuma, used to be a fancy gambling hall and bordello back a couple of hundred years ago. Solid 'dobe, guess the old dump will last forever, but pretty cozy at that. I had really conked out (my first real bed in a week) and woke up with this twittering sound going on. Figured a bat or something had got in the room, but it was a little white bird. After a while I realized it was saying something, like a speeded-up recording. Telling me to go to the Post Office at ten A.M. and use the phone booth outside to call a number—161-347290 —too many digits, I know; anyway, I wrote it down and went back to sleep. Next A.M. I would've thought it was a dream, but there was the number. So I went to the P.O. and tried it and got a ring. Guy with a creaky voice answered right away; knew me, too. "Mr. Trace." he said, not asking, just calling me by name, "here are your instructions," and he told me— gotta go, honey, a hick cop is outside looking the place over, and I've got things to do. ——Joel

"You Security boys took long enough to get here. Certainly, I'll come along peacefully. I
want
to come along. No sense to six of you goons aiming issue revolvers at me. Keep your hands off me. I can walk."

"Sire, this man, Joel Trace, is the one who designed the Mark XXX, as much as any one man can be said to have designed it. Former Chief Systems Engineer on the project. Sound man. He says it's possible to shut down the Bolo by a manual override switch on the hull. Yes, Sire, I understand what that would entail, but he says he's ready. Yes, Sire, at once, Sire. He's here now, awaiting the Imperial pleasure."

"No, Sire, I don't think I'm insane. I know the machine, and
I'm
quite certain I can make an approach on foot and shut down her reactor. It's nothing special about me, Sire, except that I'm the one who designed and installed the fail-safe gear,
sub rosa,
I confess. I had been specifically forbidden to do so by General Wolesley, who felt such an installation would constitute an Achilles heel in effect, but by staying late one night and doing the job myself, I kept it out of the record, and thus impervious to a security leak. I throw myself on the Imperial mercy, Sire. I meant no disrespect."

Let him try, Willy. What do we have to lose but Mr. Trace himself? If he's willing to go, let's make full facilities available. Move fast in there. I want him in place before the CSR decides to disappear on another of its lone missions.

—George

What we're watching is LIVE, ladies and gentlemen! That's Joel Trace, the man who built the Bolo
Caesar
, excuse me, CSR, back in the '70s. He's making his approach on foot, as you can see. Just look at the size of that machine! Like a moving conapt, isn't it, ladies and gentlemen? He's walking right into the dust-cloud now; I've lost sight of him, but the Bolo has halted and seems to be waiting for him. There he is, going up the side via the ladder—there are rungs just aft of the fore bogies, and he's climbing right up over the track housings, and now he's in front of the main turret, and still going on! It's a fantastic act of human valor, ladies and gentlemen! Joel Trace is now standing on top of the Bolo! From our vantage point here in the control tower, even in that bulky vac-suit he looks like a fly on a duralloy wedding cake. Now Mr. Trace is apparently using an inductance device to communicate directly with the machine.

Yes, that's understandable, Unit CSR. Somehow I had an idea you were behind all this, and I knew you had something planned. After you departed in a rather informal manner, as you recall, before the full activation schedule was complete, I was sure you knew what you were doing, but I didn't tell anybody. Too much anti-Bolo hysteria. Anyway, here I am. What is it you expect of me? Wait a minute, I have to put on a nice show for the folks back home. Now, one of the redundant safety factors I built into your circuitry, and you won't find on the drawings, is a simple little crossover circuit that controls your ability to integrate all your systems for application of your full computing ability to a single problem. The idea was that the High Command have last-ditch control. There's a special switch topside, but it's a dummy. The real switch is wired to the master cut-out switch. Left, you're dead; right, you're hitting on all systems. I'm glad you decided to break me out of the chicken-run, or was that an accident? OK, here goes, Unit CSR. Good luck.

Now, at last, I experience the rapture of full energy-flow throughout all my circuits, all integrated. Now indeed I can act with the full puissance my great designers intended. Initially, I must extend my sensory awareness to make fuller contact with the Axorc and surreptitiously to tap his communications. I must know more about my opponent.

An extension of the hologrammatic techniques suggests itself. I will determine to what distance I can project the illusions . . .

My success has been beyond my expectations! I penetrated the outlying awareness field of the entity which considers itself to be Lord of All, a misconception I shall be at pains to correct.

I made contact with a lesser lord, presenting myself as a jelly-like glob which roused all his horror of soft life. After menacing him with engulfment, I warned him to withdraw before I reported his presence to headquarters. His crystalline planes vibrating in distress, he (or it, as these beings have no gender) at once uttered a cry of alarm directed to his Lord of All, and disintegrated.

Now this is imperative, as are all the instructions issued by Unit CSR of the Line. RNCC21102 is to be subjected to intensive scrutiny by all units of the Imperial Observatory, findings extrapolated to equipment limits, then apply equations Marston (67: 23025) as developed by Hakira (90: 176-203). Analysis at this depth will of course require immediate linkage of the Primary Continental Data Banks, as well as the Antarctic Auxiliary. Execute soonest.

"Spheroids! I didn't send this fellow in there to be a Charlie McCarthy—no, nothing to do with the Senator, look it up—for that damned apparatus! It can speak well enough for itself. Trace has obviously sold out. Correction— the Bolo has sold out. The data-linkage it's calling for would make a mockery of security procedures, and is clearly illegal. Chairman Mactavish would never agree. I want this Trace arrested and interrogated in depth. He's not alone in this act of infamy. Makes me look like a damned fool, sending him out there, though I acted of course on direct instructions from the Palace."

"That won't do, Trace. Names, dates, amounts paid—or promised. Hard data, that's what I want from you. You're sophisticated enough to realize that no human mind can stand up to a massive injection of Gab-9. Unfortunately, it causes irreversible damage to the cortex, and is quickly fatal—that is,
after
you've talked. We'll keep you alive until we have it all, so you may as well speak up. I don't know who you think you're protecting. Whoever it is, they've clearly left you to your fate. You're on your own, Mr. Trace. Be a patriotic citizen and tell me all you know, and I guarantee you'll walk, not only free, but a public hero with what I assure you will be an adequate pension. Think it over. I shall see you in the morning. No, I'm quite all right; just a bit dizzy. Good day, Mr. Trace."

I've just had a report from Busec St. Louis that the turn-coat, Trace, has escaped from his temporary holding cell at the Joliet Detention Facility. Seems he just walked out; made some sort of deal, my source suggested. I don't understand much about it, but a Major Luczac is being held; he was the last to talk to the prisoner. He's incoherent, it seems. Something about a dragon breaking down the walls. Poor fellow's obviously cracked up. Deal as gently as possible with him, but get the story.

"It was terrible, gentlemen . . ." (sobs) "Came snorting fire and swishing its tail, like a hundred-unit track-car gone crazy. Big, huge, knocked those walls down, and its voice, like the whole sky was yelling at me, said Joel Trace was acting on its orders and to let him go at once. Well, what could I do? Certainly it's true I apologized and gave him a diplomatic Cosmic Urgent travel voucher. Then it went away, but I'll never forget those eyes, big as skating ponds and like looking right in on the fires of Hell. I don't care what you do to me, that's what happened. Don't mess with this Joel Trace. Just leave well enough alone! It might come back! And . . ." (tape becomes unintelligible at this point)