The Compleat Bolo (32 page)

"Wisht he would," Dub said yearningly, laying his small hand against the cold metal. "Bet he was
something!"

"Ain't nothing now," Mick dismissed the idea. "Jest a old museum piece nobody even gets to look at."

I come to awareness after a long void in my conscious existence, realizing that I have felt a human touch! I recall at once that I am now operating on the last trickle of energy from my depleted storage cells. Even at final emergency-reserve low alert, I compute that soon even the last glimmer of light in my survival center will fade into nothingness. I lack energy even to assess my immediate situation. Has my commander returned at last? After the last frontal assault by the Yavac units of the enemy, in the fending off of which I expended my action emergency reserves, I recall that my commander ordered me to low alert status. The rest is lost. Sluggishly, I compute that over two centuries standard have elapsed, requiring .004 picoseconds for this simple computation. But now, abruptly, I am not alone. I cannot compute the nature of this unexpected intrusion on my solitude. Only my commander is authorized to approach me so closely. Jet somehow I doubt that it is he. In any case, I must expect a different individual to act in that honorable capacity today, considering humanity's limited longevity.

But this is guesswork. I am immobilized, near death, beset by strangers.

My ignorance is maddening. Have I fallen into the hands of the enemy . . . ? Baffled, I turn to introspection . . . .

I live again the moment of my initial activation and the manifold satisfaction of full self-realization. I am strong, I am brave, I am beautiful; I have a proud function and I perform it well.

Scanning on, I experience momentary flashes of vivid recollection: the exultation of the charge into the enemy guns; the clash of close combat, the pride of victory, the satisfaction of passing in review with my comrades of the Brigade after battle honors have been awarded . . .
and many another moment up to the final briefing with my beloved commander. Then, the darkness and the silence— until now. Feebly, yet shockingly, again my proximity sensors signal movement within my kill zone.

There are faint sounds, at the edge of audibility. Abruptly, my chemically-powered self-defense system is activated and at once anti-personnel charges are triggered —but there is no response. My mechanical automatics have performed their programmed function, but to no avail; luckily, perhaps, since it may well be my new commanders presence to which they responded. I compute that deterioration of the complex molecules of the explosive charges has occurred over the centuries. Thus I am defenseless. It is a situation not to be borne. What affirmative action can I take?

By withdrawing awareness from all but my most elementary sensory circuitry, I am able to monitor further stealthy activity well within my inner security perimeter. I analyze certain atmospheric vibratory phenomena as human voices. Not that of my commander, alas, since after two hundred standard years he cannot have survived, but has doubtless long ago expired after the curious manner of humans; but surely his replacement has been appointed. I must not overlook the possibility
—
nay, the likelihood—that my new commandant has indeed come at last. Certainly,
someone
has come to me
—

And since he has approached to that proximity reserved for my commander only, I compute a likelihood of .99964 that my new commander is now at hand. I make a mighty effort to acknowledge my recognition, but I fear I do not attain the threshold of intelligibility.

Standing before the great machine, Dub started at a faint croaking sound from the immense metal bulk. "Hey, Mick," the boy said softly. "It groaned-like. Did you hear it?"

"Naw, I didn't hear nothing, dummy, and neither did you."

"Did too," Dub retorted stubbornly. Looking down, he noticed that the smoothly tiled floor ended at a white-painted curb which curved off into the darkness, apparently surrounding the great machine. Inside the curbing, the surface on which the Bolo rested was uneven natural rock, still retaining a few withered weeds sprouting from cracks in the stone. Dub carefully stepped over the curbing to stand uneasily on the very ground where the battle had been fought.

"Too bad they had to go and kill old Jonah," he said quietly to Mick, who hung back on the paved side of the curb.

"Never kilt it," Mick objected scornfully. "Gubment man come here and switched him onto what they call 'low alert.' Means he's still alive, just asleep-like."

"Why do they hafta go and call him 'Jonah' anyway?"

Dub demanded. " 'Jonah's' something bad, it's in a story. I like 'Johnny' better."

"Don't matter, I guess," Mick dismissed the thought.

Dub moved closer to peer at a second placard with smaller print.

"Whatya looking at, dummy?" Mick demanded. "You can't read."

"I can a little," the younger boy objected. "I know J and N and A—that's where they get 'Jonah.'

"So what?"

"You read it to me," Dub begged. "I wanta know all about Johnny."

Mick came forward as if reluctantly.

" 'Unit JNA was at Dobie, receiving depot maintenance after participating in the victorious engagement at Leadpipe, when the emergency at Spivey's Find (GPR 7203-C) arose. No other force in the area being available, Unit JNA was rushed to the scene of action with minimal briefing, but upon assessing the tactical situation it at once took up a position on a rise known as Jake's Mountain, fully exposed to enemy fire, in order to block the advance of the invading enemy armor on the village. Here it stood fast, unsupported, under concentrated fire for over thirty hours, before the final Deng assault. Concordiat land and air forces had been effectively neutralized by overwhelming enemy numerical superiority long before having an opportunity to engage the enemy armor. Balked in his advance by Unit JNA, the enemy attempted an envelopment from both flanks simultaneously, but both thrusts were driven back by Unit JNA. Discouraged by this unexpected check, the enemy commander ordered the expeditionary force to retire, subsequently abandoning the attempt to annex GPR 7203-C, which subsequently has become the peaceful, productive world we know today. For this action, Unit JNA was awarded the Star of Excellence to the Nova, and in 2705 O. S. was retired from active duty, placed on Minimal Low Alert Status, and accorded the status of Monument of the Concordiat.

"Gosh," Dub said solemnly. "He's been sitting right here—" he looked down and rubbed his foot on the weathered stone—"for more'n two hundred years. That's older'n them old cultivators and such out back. But
he
don't look that old. You can still go, can't you, Johnny?"

For a time (.01 nanoseconds) I am stunned by the realization that my commander is indeed at hand. Only he called me "Johnny" Almost incoherent with delight, I concentrate my forces, and speak with what clarity I can:

"I await your orders, Commander."

"Mick!" Dub almost yelled, jumping back. "Did you hear that? Johnny said something to me!"

"Name's 'Jonah,' " Mick replied disparagingly. "And it never said nothing. You're hearing things."

"Just stands for JNA," Dub said doggedly. "Could be 'Johnny' just as much as 'Jonah.' I like 'Johnny' better." He looked up in awe at the monster combat unit. "What did you say, Johnny?" he asked almost inaudibly.

Again I hear my secret name spoken. I must try once more to reassure my commander of my readiness to attempt whatever is required of me.
"Unit JNA of the Line reporting for duty, sir,"
I
manage, more clearly articulated this time, I compute.

"He ain't dead," Dub blurted. "He can still go."

"Sure," Mick said in the lofty tone of One Who Already Knew That. "If he had his plates recharged and switched on. Must be pretty boring, jest setting and thinking."

"What ya mean, thinking?" Dub demanded, withdrawing a few inches. "That'd be terrible jest sitting alone in the dark
thinking.
Bet he's lonesome."

"We better get out of here now," Mick blurted, looking toward the front of the building, from which direction someone was shouting outside. Dub moved close to him.

"Scared?" Mick challenged.

"Sure," Dub replied without hesitation.

Back outside the enclosure, the boys again heard raised voices, outside the building, but nearby.

"We can't stay in here," Dub almost whispered. Mick pushed him aside and went to the corner of the partition. He glanced quickly around the angle, then beckoned impatiently to Dub, who followed obediently. Now Mick was studying another sign painted on the wall in red. " 'Absolutely No Admission Beyond This Point.' " he read hesitantly. " 'Authorized Personnel Only'."

"What's that mean?" Dub demanded.

"Means we ain't spose to be here," Mick explained. "Especially where we already been," he added.

"We already knew that," Dub said. "Come on." He started past the older boy, but halted and faded back as the sound of an opening door came from ahead, followed by the clump of feet and a wheezy voice he recognized as that of Hick Marlowe, the town marshal.

"Prolly drunk, Mr. Davis, I'd say. I'd say forget it's what I'd say."

"I'm afraid it's not quite that simple, Marshal," was the reply, in the precise tones the boys recognized as those of Mr. Davis, the big gubment man.

"Gosh," Dub said faintly, to be shushed silently by his older friend. Brilliant light glared abruptly from the office ahead, dimming the dusty sunlight.

"As planetary representative here on Spivey's—that is, GPR 7203-C," Davis went on solemnly, "it is my duty to report this incident to Sector." There were clattering sounds that the boys realized, with excitement, represented the uncovering of the big gubment-owned SWIFT machine. Mick crowded Dub, edging forward for better hearing.

"No use getting the gubment all excited about nothin," Hick was saying. "Time Henry sleeps it off, he won't even remember nothin about it."

"Possibly, Marshal," Davis conceded calmly. "But his description of a Deng trooper was remarkably accurate."

"Prolly seen a pitcher o' them spodders someplace," Marlowe muttered. "All I done was report what
ol'
Henry said, like I'm spose to do."

"You acted quite properly, Marshal," Davis reassured Marlowe. "And I assure you that I assume full responsibility for any report.

"This is a moment of some solemnity, Marshal," Davis went on. "This is the first time in my fifteen years on Spivey's that I have had occasion to use this equipment." There followed the crackle and clatter of keys as Davis activated the big SWIFT transmitter. The lights flickered and dimmed.

Abruptly, I am bathed in induced energies of a kind which I am easily able to convert to Class
Y
charging current, with an efficiency of 37 percent. The flood of revivifying radiation flows over my power plates, and at once I feel a surge of renewed activity in my Survival Center. Thus, suddenly, I am able to reassess my situation more realistically. Clearly, I have fallen prisoner to the Enemy. It could only be they who stripped me of my capabilities as a fighting machine. For long have I lain thus, imprisoned and helpless. But now, unexpectedly, my basic vitality is to a degree renewed, doubtless by my new commander who has sought me out, and thus both confirms his identity and demonstrates his effectiveness. Now am I indeed ready for action.

"That there SWIFT machine'll punch through to Sector quicker'n Ned Sprat got religion, right, Mr. Davis?" the marshal said excitedly. "Pulling all our pile's got to give, too."

"The Shaped-Wave Interference Front Transmitter is capable of transfer of intelligence at hyper-L velocities," Davis confirmed. "Excuse me." His voice changed, became urgent and level.

"Davis, Acting PR Station 316-C," he rapped out. "Unconfirmed report Deng activity at grid 161-220. Special to CINCSEC: In absence of follow-up capability, urge dispatch probe squad soonest." The SWIFT unit buzzed as it transmitted the signal in a .02-picosecond burst, at full gain. The lights dimmed again, almost went out, then sprang up.

Again I receive a massive burst of Y radiation. The revived flow of energies in my main ego-gestalt circuitry bestows on me a sense of vast euphoria as I become aware again of long-forgotten functions
—
at an intensity still far below my usual operating level, but remarkably satisfying for all that. Once more I know the pride of being Unit JNA of the Line, and I thirst for action. Surely my commander will not disappoint me . . . ?

"That ought to fetch 'em," Marlowe said in a satisfied tone.

"Either that, or we've committed a capital offense," Davis said soberly. "But don't be alarmed, Marshal. As I said, I assume full responsibility." He was interrupted by a brief clatter from the communication machine. Davis bent to read the message.

"Maybe I oughta jest head for the hills, jest in case," Marlowe said. "But I'd prolly run into them spodders, luck I have. What's Sector say, anyways?"

"Don't panic, Marshal," Davis said sternly. " 'Deng activity confirmed,' " he summarized. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have further work to do before the meeting. Only ten minutes now."

"Jest leavin'," Marlowe muttered. "I got my own work to tend to." The boys heard two sets of footsteps, then the door open and close.

After a moment, Dub moved close to Mick. "I heard him say about them spodders," he said in a small voice. "Did Mr. Davis mean they come back?" He paused and looked around fearfully.

"Naw, said old Henry was drunk," Mick assured shortly. "We beat 'em good in the Big Battle. Come on." He entered the sacrosanct office and looked around hesitantly.

"But what'd that mean?" Dub persisted. "Bout 'Deng activity confirmed' and all?"

"Nothin. Jest the answer come in on the SWIFT. Let's take us a look at it."

Dub followed reluctantly: he halted and gazed with awe at the glittering console when Mick removed the cover.