The Compleat Bolo (36 page)

"His name, as I recall," Davis said imperturbably, "was Major General Thadeo Henry." He put out his hand. "I think all of us are glad now you got here in time to prevent the destruction of our old Jonah, General Henry."

Henry took the proffered hand briefly. "I was lucky on that one," he muttered. "I was just a 'misbegotten dog of a broken officer' as Councilman Gracye put it, but the locals here were on my side. They run that demolition crew back where they came from. Good thing Spivey's is so far back in the boondocks; they never bothered with us after that. And now," he went on after a pause, "you're thinking a Bolo righting machine has run off and deserted in the face of the enemy. Not bloody likely."

At that moment, a staccato series of detonations punctuated the hush that had followed Henry's astonishing statement. Through the gap where the Bolo had passed the machine was visible half a mile distant now, surrounded by smaller enemy Yavac units, three of which were on fire. The others were projecting dazzling energy beams which converged on the Bolo, stationary now like a hamstrung bison surrounded by wolves. As the townsfolk watched, the Bolo's forward turret traversed and abruptly spouted blue fire. A fourth Yavac exploded in flames.

"General Henry," Davis addressed the old man formally, "will you assume command for the duration of the emergency!"

Henry looked keenly at Boone and said, "Colonel, I trust you'll stay on and act as my adjutant." The reservist nodded awkwardly and stepped back.

"Sure I will," Henry told Davis firmly. "Now after old Jonah finishes with that bunch, he'll swing around and hit the advance party from the flank. Meantime, we lie low and don't confuse the issue."

"Right, General," Boone managed to gibber before turning with a yell to the disorganized crowd into which his command had dissolved.

"Ah, General," Davis put in diffidently. "Isn't there something constructive we could do to assist, rather than standing idly by, with all our hopes resting on an obsolete museum-piece?"

"The Deng have one serious failing, militarily, Mr. Davis," General Henry replied gravely.

"Inflexibility—the inability to adjust promptly to changing circumstances. They're excellent planners—and having once decided on a tactical approach they ride it down in flames, so to speak. You've noticed that the forces concentrating on the west, behind the screen of the thicket, have made no move to support the main strike force now under attack to the east. They've taken up a formation suited only to an assault on the village here; when Jonah takes them in the flank, they'll break and run, simply because they hadn't expected it. Just watch."

Through the gap the Bolo had flattened in passing, the great machine was still visible within the dust-and-smoke cloud raised by the action. Five enemy hulks now sat inert and smoldering, while seven more were maneuvering on random evasive tracks that steadily converged on the lone Bolo, pouring on their fire without pause.

I select another enemy unit as my next target. These class C Yavac scouts are no mean opponents; clearly considerable improvement has been made in their circuitry during the two centuries of my absence from the field. Their armor withstands all but a .9998-accurate direct hit on the turret juncture. My chosen target—the squad leader, I compute—is a bold fellow who darts in as if to torment me. I track, lock onto him, and fire a long burst from my repeaters, even as I detect the first indications of excessive energy drain. My only option is to attune my charging grid to the frequency of the Yavac main batteries and invite their fire, thus permitting the enemy to recharge my plates—at the risk of overload and burn-out. It is a risk I must take. I fire what I compute is my last full-gain bolt at the enemy unit, at the same time receiving a revivifying jolt of energies in the Y-band as I take direct hits from two Yavacs. I am grateful for the accuracy of their fire, as well as for the sagacity of my designers, who thus equipped me to turn the enemy's strength against him
—
so long as my defensive armor and circuitry can withstand the overload. I see the squad leader erupt in fire, and change targets to the most aggressive of his subordinates. He was a bold opponent. I shall so report to my commander, taking due note of the fallen enemy's ID markings.

"Looky there! He done blowed up another one!" Hick Marlowe cried, pointing to the exploding Yavac which was already the focus of all eyes. "Look at old Jonah go! Bet he'll pick 'em off one at a time now till he gets the last one. But . . ." Hick paused, squinting through the obscuring dust, "he sure is taking a pasting his ownself—but he can handle it, old Jonah can! He's starting to glow—must be hotter than Hell's hinges in there!"

"Can it stand up to that concentrated fire, General?" Davis asked the newly-appointed commander.

Henry nodded. "Up to a point," he muttered. "Depends on how much retrofit he got before they sent him out here. Now, this is top GUTS-information, Davis, but under the circumstances, I think you qualify as a 'Need to Know.' The new—or was new back in Ought-Four—defensive technology is to turn the enemy strength against him, by letting the Bolo absorb those hellish Y-rays, restructure them, and convert the energy into usable form to rebuild his own power reserve. But to do it he has to invite the enemy fire at close range—that's why he's sitting still—and take all the punishment that entails—if he can handle it without burnout. At best his 'pain' circuitry is under severe overload. Don't fool yourself, Davis. That's no fun, what Unit JNA is going through out there. Good boy! He took out another one, and now watch that fellow on the left, he's been getting pretty sassy, nipping in and out. My guess is he's next."

Standing on the porch of his ramshackle store with Freddy Frink, Mayor Kibbe wiped his broad brow and frowned. Even if the town survived this damn battle, things'd never be the same again. The last trickle of off-planet trade would die out if Spivey's became known as a battleground, where the Deng could hit anytime. Abruptly, he became aware of what Frink was saying:

"—be worth plenty—the right stuff at the right place, at the right time, Mr. Mayor. And you're the only one's got it. Shame to let it go to waste."

"What you talking about, Freddy?" Kibbe demanded impatiently. "Town's getting blowed apart practically, and you're worrying me about wasting something. Stray shot hits the town, whole thang's wasted—and you and me with it."

"Sure, Mr. Mayor, that's what I'm talking about," Frink came back eagerly. "Don't forget even if old Jonah runs these here spodders off, they's still the main party back in the Canyon. And Pud's idea was right: we can blast the Rim right down on 'em."

"How we going to do that?" Kibbe challenged. "We been all over that. Ain't no way to tote two hundredweight o' smashite up yonder onto the Rim."

"Old Jonah could do it, Cy," Frank urged. "Could swing out into the badlands and come up on the Cut from the northeast and get right in position. Got the old mining road comes down the face, you know."

"Bout halfway," Kibbe grunted. "He might get down far enough to set the charge, but how'd he get back up? No place to turn around."

"I betcha a thousand guck a kilo wouldn't be too much to expect," Frink suggested. "A hundred thousand, cash money—if we act quick."

"That's damn foolishness, Freddy," Kibbe countered. "You really think—a hundred thousand?"

"Minimum," Frink said firmly. "I guess you'd give a fellow ten percent got it all set up, eh, Mr. Mayor?"

"Old Jonah might not last out the day," Kibbe said more briskly. "Don't know where he got the recharge; he was drained dry before they built the museum around him, back in eighty-four. Can't last long out there." He half turned away.

"Wait a minute, Mr. Mayor," Frink said quickly. "Don't know what happened, but he's still going strong. He'll be back here pretty soon. All we got to do, we got to load that smashite in his cargo bay, wire it up fer remote control, and send him off. Works, we'll be heroes; don't work, makes no difference, we're finished here anyway. This way we got a kinder chance. But we got to move fast; don't want old Cabot to try to grab the credit. That's solid gold you got back in the shelves, Cy—if you use it right."

"Can't hurt none to try, I guess," Kibbe acknowledged, as if reluctantly. "Got to clear it with Davis and
General
Henry, too, I guess."

"Hah, some general," Frink sneered.

When Unit JNA had pounded the last of the dozen attacking Yavacs into silence, it moved past the burned-out hulks and directed its course to the west, bypassing the end of Main Street by a quarter mile, then just as the raptly observing townsfolk perched on roofs or peering from high windows had begun to address rhetorical questions to each other, it swung south and accelerated. At once fire arced from the north of the trees, where enemy emplacements were concealed. The Bolo slowed and then halted to direct enfilade fire into the crevasse, then resumed its advance, firing both main batteries rapidly now. A great gout of soil and shattered tree trunks erupted from mid-thicket. The bodies of Deng troopers were among the debris falling back to the ground.

"Smart, like I said," General Henry told Cy Kibbe, who had made his way up beside him. "He poured the fire into the zond-projector they had set up yonder, because he knew if he could boost it past critical level it'd blow, and take the heart out of 'em."

"Commendable, I'm sure, General," Kibbe commented. "But I'm afeared these niceties of military tactics are beyond me. Now, General—" Kibbe followed closely as Henry turned in at an alley to approach the scene of action more closely. "—me and some of the fellows are still quite concerned, General, about what we understand: that most of these dang Deng—" he broke off to catch his breath. "No levity intended, sir," he interjected hastily—"these infernal aliens, I meant to say—which remain at Big Cut, with offensive power quite intact!"

"As you said, Kibbe," Henry dismissed the plump civilian, "these are matters you know nothing about. I assure you I'm mindful that the enemy has not yet committed his main body. You may leave that to me." He walked into the field, watching as the Bolo closed on the now-gutted thicket, whence individual Deng troopers were departing on foot, while the few light Yavacs which had come up maneuvered in the partial screen of the burning woods to reform a blunt wedge, considerably hindered by the continuing fire from their lone antagonist. Then they, too, turned and fled, getting off a few scattered Parthian shots from their rear emplacements as they went. Unit JNA trampled unhindered through the splintered remains of the patch of trees, skirting the shallow gully at its center, and turned toward town. A ragged cheer went up as the huge machine rounded into Main Street and crossed the last few yards to halt before the clustered townsfolk. Davis thrust Dub forward.

People shrank back from the terrific heat radiating from the battle-scarred machine, if not from the terrifying aspect of its immense bulk, the fighting prowess of which adjust been so vividly demonstrated before their eyes.

"Well done, Johnny," the boy said unsteadily. "You can rest now."

"Jest a dad burned minute here," Kibbe burst out, pushing his way to the fore. "I guess ain't no mission accomplished while the main bunch o' them spodders is still out to Big Cut, safe and sound, and planning their next movet"

Henry came up beside Dub and put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Your protégé did well, Dub," he said. "But the mayor has a valid point."

"Johnny done enough," Dub said doggedly.

"More than could have been expected," Henry agreed.

"Jest a dang minute, here," Cy Kibbe yelled. "I guess maybe us local people got something to say about it!" He turned to face the bystanders crowding in. "How about it—Bub, Charlie, you, Ben—you going to stand here while a boy and a—a . . ." the momentum of his indignation expended, Kibbe's voice trailed off.

"A boy and 'a drunken derelict,' is I believe, the term you were searching for," Henry supplied. He, too, faced the curious crowd. "Any suggestions?" he inquired in a discouraging tone.

"Durn right," a thin voice piped up promptly. Whiskery Fred Frink stepped to the fore, his expression as determined as his weak chin allowed. "Mr. Cabot, here, come up with a good idear," he went on. "Said let's load up this here museum-piece with some o' Mayor's explosives, left over from the last mining boom, you know, petered out all of a sudden, and send him out and blow that cliff right down on top of them spodders." Frink folded his arms and looked over his narrow shoulder for approval. General Henry frowned thoughtfully.

"Johnny's done enough," Dub repeated, tugging at the former town drunk's sleeve. "Let the mayor and some o' them go blow up the spodders."

"I'm afraid that's not practical, Dub," the general said gently. "I agree with the mayor that there are not enough fit men in town to carry out the mission, which I'm inclined to agree is our only option, under the circumstances. It's Unit JNA's duty to go where he's needed."

"You, boy," Frink yapped. "Tell this overgrowed tractor to pull up over front of the Depot."

Dub went casually over to confront the whiskery little man. Carefully, he placed his thumbs in his ears and waggled his fingers. Then he extended his tongue to its full length, looking Frink in the eye until the little man stepped back and began to bluster.

"Me, too, Dub," General Henry said, and pushed the boy gently toward the machine. Dub went as close to the Bolo as the still-hot metal would allow. "Listen, Johnny," he said earnestly. "They want you to go up on top the Badlands and plant some kind o' bomb. Can you do it?"

There was a moment of rapt silence from the open-mouthed crowd before the reply came clearly:

"As you wish, my commander. I compute that my energy reserve is sufficient to the task, though I am not fully combat-ready."

"Ain't gonna be no combat," Frink piped up. "Jest get the stuff in position, is all."

"Better go over by Kibbe's," Dub addressed the machine reluctantly. At once the vast bulk backed, scattering townsfolk, pivoted, and advanced to the indicated position, dwarfing the big shed.