The Compleat Bolo (35 page)

"All I heard was Davis telling somebody named Relay Five that old Pud Boone is all set to play soldiers with, he says, 'a sizable Deng task force' is what he said, 'poised,' he says, Tor attack,' says they better 'act fast to avert a tragedy.' Sounds like we won't get no big Navy ship in here to help out, like he figgered."

"It done it again," Dub told Mick, even as the glare-strips in the ceiling far above dimmed to a faint greenish glow. The boy stepped back and this time he was sure: the Bolo had moved.

"M-Mick, looky," he stammered. "It moved!"

"Naw, just the light got dim," Mick explained almost patiently. "Makes the shadders move." But he eased back.

"Mick, if it's anything
we
done, we'll catch it for sure!"

"Even if we did, who's gonna find out?" The older boy dismissed Dub's fears.

Then, with an undeniable groan of stiff machinery, the Bolo advanced a foot, crushing the white-painted curbing.

"We better go tell old Davis 'bout Johnny," Dub whispered.

"You mean 'Jonah'," Mick corrected. "And when he arrests you for trespassin', what you going to do?"

"Don't know," Dub replied doggedly, "but I'm going to go anyway," he crept away, shaking off Mick's attempt to restrain him.

Mick followed, protesting, as the small boy ran along the partition to the forbidden office door, and without pausing, burst in. Davis, seated at the SWIFT console was staring at him in amazement.

"Mr. Davis!" the boy yelled. "You gotta do something! We was jest looking at old Johnny, and he moved! We didn't do nothing, honest!" By this time Dub was at Davis' side, clutching at the government man's arm. Patiently Davis pried off the grubby child's tear-wet fingers.

"You know you've been a very bad boy," he said without heat, in the lull as Dub stifled his sobs. "But I'm sure no harm is done. Come along now; show me what's got you so upset." He rose, a tall and remote authority figure in the tear-blurred eyes of the eight-year-old, took the damp hand and led the boy toward the door, where Mick had appeared abruptly, less excited than Dub, but clearly as agitated as his big-boy self-image would allow.

"We didn't do nothing, Mr. Davis," he said doggedly, not meeting the man's eye. "The back door was open and we come in to look at old Jonah, and it made some kinda noise, and old Dub run. That's all's to it."

"We'll have a look, Mickey," Davis said gruffly. "You
are
young McClusky; they
do
call you Mickey, eh?"

"Mick, sir," young McClusky corrected. He fell in behind the man as they returned to stand before the huge, now-silent war machine. Davis' eye went at once to the crushed concrete curbing.

"Here," he said sharply. "How the devil—excuse me, boys, how did this happen? It
must
have moved forward at least a few inches," he mused aloud. "How in the world . . ." Abruptly, the faint light winked up to its normal level of wan brilliance. Simultaneously the Bolo emitted a faint, though distinct, humming sound.

Dub went directly across to the formidable but somehow pathetic old war machine. He reached up to pat the curve of the pressure hull comfortingly.

"Wish I could tell you all about what's happening, Johnny," he murmured soothingly. "But I guess you couldn't hear me."

"I hear you very well, my commander," a constructed voice said clearly, at which Dub jumped back and peered up into the darkness.

"Who's there?" he asked in a small voice, suddenly appalled by his own foolishness in trespassing here.

"My commander," the words came distinctly from the machine. "I await your orders."

"Good Lord!" Davis exclaimed, staring at the boy. "Dub, it thinks you're its Commanding Officer! And—did you notice the lights? They dim whenever the SWIFT node generator is switched on. I forgot to switch it off, and after sixty seconds with no input, it switched off spontaneously. And—as for the Bolo's restored energy—the SWIFT generator produces a flood of waste energy, mostly in the low ultra-violet—the so-called Y-band, precisely the frequencies which the psychotronic circuitry is designed to accept. Only at an efficiency of some thirty-five percent, it's true; but the flood of radiant energy at this close range is quite sufficient to effect some degree of recharge." Davis paused, looking thoughtfully at the boys.

"Wait here a minute," Davis said to Dub. "Whatever you do, don't say anything the machine could interpret as a command." He skirted the Bolo and headed for his office at a trot. A moment later the lights dimmed, almost went dark.

"Excellent, my commander," the machine voice said at once. "I am now accepting charge at optimum rate."

The two boys hung back, awed in spite of themselves at the understanding of what was happening.

"If it starts moving around, we'll get squashed for sure," Mick said, and pressed himself back against the wall.

"Johnny ain't going to squash
us,"
Dub objected. "He's going to go out and squash them spodders—soon's I tell him to," he added hastily.

After some minutes, Davis returned. "That ought to do it," he panted, out of breath. "Now," he went on, taking Dub's hand, "this is a most unusual situation, but it may be for the best, after all. We'd better go see the mayor, lad. Meanwhile, tell Unit JNA to stand fast, until you call.

"Dub," he said seriously, catching the boy's still-damp eye—"a Bolo is programmed to 'imprint,' as it's called, on the first person who enters its command zone and says some special code word—and it seems like that's what you did; so, like it or not, the machine will do your bidding, and none other's."

"Bet it'll do what I say, too," Mick said, stepping in close to the machine. "I was here, too, jest as much as him." He faced the Bolo. "Now, you back up to where you was before. Right now," he added. All three persons present watched closely. There was no response whatever.

"I didn't mean no—any harm," Dub declared firmly.

"Unit JNA of the Line, reporting low energy reserves," the echoic voice spoke again. This time Dub stood his ground.

"Johnny—it's
you
talking to me," he said in wonderment. "I jest never knew you could talk."

"I await your instructions, sir," the calm voice said.

"O.K., Johnny," Dub spoke up. "Now, you better get ready to go. The spodders is back, and about to start the war up again."

"I am ready, my commander," the constructed voice replied promptly. "Request permission to file a voluntary situation report."

"You're asking
me
for permission?" the boy's tone was one of incredulity. "Sure, go ahead," he added.

"I must report my energy reserve at fifty percent of operational optimum. I must further report that a hostile force is in position some two thousand yards distant," the Bolo announced flatly. "A smaller force is near at hand, but I compute that it is merely diversionary."

"Yeah, me and Mick seen 'em," Dub responded eagerly. "And Mr. Davis says them militia is jest going to get theirselfs kilt. Johnny—you got to do something. If all the men get kilt—Pa's one of 'em too—that'd be terrible! I'm scared."

The dim lights far above flickered, almost winked out, then steadied at a wan glow.

"Reporting on charge," the machine-voice said. "I compute that I will be at full operational status in one point one-seven seconds. I so report. Now indeed am I ready, my commander."

A moment passed before the meaning of the words penetrated. Then Dub, pressed close to the comforting bulk of the machine dubbed
Horrendous
by friend and foe alike, said urgently, "Johnny, we got to
do
something—now."

Dub felt a minute tremor from deep within the immense fighting machine, and jumped back as, with a muted rumble, the vast bulk . . . moved. The boy stared in wonderment, half exultation and half panic, as the Bolo eased forward, paused momentarily at the partition, then proceeded, pushing the barrier ahead until it toppled with a
crash!
and was trampled under the mighty tracks. Glass cases collapsed in splinters as the Bolo moved inexorably, angling left now, then pivoting in a tight turn so that now it faced the front of the building. Without hesitation, it proceeded. Dub watched in horrified fascination as the high wall bowed, letting in wedges of dusty light, then burst outward. Dub and Mick ran from the building and up the dusty street toward the crowd in front of Kibbe's Feed Depot.

The New Orchard Defense Force (First Fencibles) was drawn up in two ragged ranks, forty-three in number, including fourteen-year-old Ted Plunkett, seventy-eight-year-old Joseph Peters, and Mildred Fench, thirty-seven, standing in for her husband Tod, indisposed with a touch of an old malaria.

Chester (Pud) Boone, Colonel, CTVR, awkward in his tight-fitting uniform and reeking of bromoform, took up a position some twenty feet in front of the first rank, facing Private Tim Peltier, a plump young fellow in dung-stained coveralls.

" 'Smatter, Timmy, forget your pitch fork?" Pud essayed comfortably. "Let's jest move off smart, now," he went on in the sober tones of command. "Round back, for issue of weapons."

"As you were," a strange voice cut authoritatively across the hubbub as the Fencibles executed an approximate about-face and began to straggle off along the rutted street. The troops halted, those behind colliding with those before, and all heads turned to seek the source of the order. Colonel Boone, bridling, strode over to intercept the cleanshaven old man who had countermanded his instructions. He stared long at the seamed face and into the pale blue eyes, only slightly bloodshot; surveyed the clean but ill-fitting pajama-like garment the newcomer wore; his examination ended with the bare feet prominent below the frayed pants-cuff.

"Henry?" he inquired in a tone of total incredulity. "What call you got to go interfering with serious business? Now, you just go 'bout your business, Henry; we got a job o' work ahead of us here, got no time for fooling."

"Don't be a damned fool, Colonel," Henry responded firmly. "All you'll do is get these fellows killed. Those are Deng regulars out there, and there's armor coming up. You heard young McClusky's report. Now, dismiss this gang and let's get busy."

"By what right—" Boone started, but was cut off by the old fellow's surprising sharp reply.

"Used to be in the service; Marines, to be exact," Henry told the cowed reservist.

In the street, all heads turned as one toward the sudden
screech!
of tearing metal from the direction of the museum, and all eyes stared in disbelief as the snouts of the twin infinite repeaters thrust out through collapsing blue panels into daylight. They gazed, transfixed, as the vast machine emerged, shouldering the scattered facade aside to advance with the ponderous dignity of an irresistible force to the street, where it paused as if to orient itself while the remains of the museum collapsed gently behind it. Davis exited through the dust at a dead run, his corner office being the only portion of the structure not to fall.

"Here, what in damnation's going on?" Colonel Boone yelled.

"Stand fast," old Henry's voice cut across the cacophony of astonishment. "Looks like she's come out of retirement. I don't know how, but the timing is good!"

"Old Jonah'll take care of them spodders!" a middle-aged corporal shouted. "Three loud ones for old Jonah! Yippee!"

"At ease," Henry barked. "Look out there, Colonel," he advised Boone. "Better get your troops out of the street."

"Sure, Henry, I was jest . . ." the reservist faltered.

"Fall out!" Henry shouted over the din. "Form up in front of Lightner's!"

The bewildered Fencibles, grateful for authoritive guidance, broke up into a dozen small groups and headed across the street, all talking at once, their voices drowned out by rumbling as the mighty Bolo's treads pulverized the hard-rutted street surface, moving past them with the irresistibility of a moon in its orbit.

"—going right after 'em!"

"—here, where's it—my store!"

"Damn thing's going the wrong way! Damn spodders is
thataway!"

A man ran a few steps after the combat unit as it angled abruptly right and crossed the walkway to doze aside the building which stood in its path, one of the older warehouses, trampling the old boards flat while its owner danced and yelled in frustrated fury.

"Hey, you damfool! Not that way, over here!" Cy Kibbe shouted, his voice lost in the splintering of seasoned timber.

As the townsfolk watched in astonishment, the old machine laid its track of destruction through the warehouse, taking off the near corner of the adjacent structure, and continued out across the formerly tilled acreage, trailing a tangle of metal piping and conduit ripped from the flattened buildings.

"It's running away!" someone blurted, voicing the common thought.

"Well, boys, it looks like we're on our own after all," Boone yelled, his voice overloud in the comparative hush. "Let's form up in a column of ducks here and go roust them damn spodders!"

"Stand fast!" Henry's command rang out, bringing movement to a halt. He strode across to take up a position between Boone and his disordered command.

"The enemy has zond projectors, and they've set up a z-beamer. Do you have any idea what those energy weapons can do to you? Now, fall out and go about your business."

"Not while I'm colonel," Boone shouted. "I don't know who you think you are, tryna give the orders around here, but we ain't going to jest stand by while a bunch of spodders take our land!"

"Just a minute," Davis' cool voice cut in, as the government man stepped forward to confront Henry.

"You say you were a Marine, Mr. Henry. May I ask what your duties were in the Corps?"

"Sure," the old fellow replied promptly. "My duties was killing the enemy."

"I recall a case some twenty years ago," Davis said as if musing aloud. "It involved a much-decorated combat veteran who refused a direct order from the Council, and was cashiered." Davis glanced at Henry's face, set in an inscrutable expression.

"Wanted me to supervise burning out all our old combat veterns—combat units, I'm talking about," Henry said in an indignant tone. "Didn't need 'em anymore, the damned civilians figgered, so
I
was supposed to see they all had their cores melted down. Damned if I'd do it!" Henry spat past Davis' foot.