Bolos: Old Guard Part 29

"Initiating," Andrew said, and a battlefield unfolds within my mind.

"What's this?" Colonel Lang demanded, pointing at a bank of monitors and readouts suddenly active. Several screens showed rapidly s.h.i.+fting, flickering views that might have represented soldiers . . . but in the uniforms and carrying weapons a millennium out of date. "What's going on?"

Lieutenant Martin gave the monitor array an amused glance. "They're playing games."

"What?" The word rebuked. "What are you talking about?"

"That's the Bolo QDC console, sir," Martin explained. "It's essentially a private communications channel. They use it during downtime, to hone their tactical and strategic faculties. Don't try to make sense of it. It goes too fast. But it can be interesting to play the scenarios back later, at a speed the human mind can grasp."

"That QD . . . what? What is that?"

"Quantum Determinacy Communications, sir. These two combat units were fitted with a prototype quantum communications system . . . oh, must've been three or four hundred years ago."

"Ah," Lang said. "Of course. . . ."

Amused by Lang's pretense, Martin pushed ahead. "The concept of quantum-dynamic ansibles has been floating around for centuries, of course. The idea predates human s.p.a.ceflight."

"A quantum communications system?" Khalid asked. "You mean where quantum particles are paired off, and their spins change at the same time?"

Martin nodded, impressed at the governor's knowledge of historiotechnic trivia. "Exactly." He touched his forefingers together, then spread them apart. "Generate two quantum particles-a photon, say-in the same subatomic event. They will be identical in every respect, including such characteristics as what we call spin. Move them apart. Change the one from spin up to spin down . . . and the second particle's spin will change at the same instant, even if the two are separated by thousands of light years. It's one of the fundamentals of quantum physics, and the basis for communications devices that can't be tapped, jammed, or interfered with in any way. No carrier wave, you understand. No signal to block or intercept. What happens in one unit simply . . . happens in the other, at the same instant. Physicists still don't really understand why the universe seems to work that way."

"And your Bolos have such a device?" Khalid asked, his eyes wide. "Can we turn it to our advantage?"

Martin glanced at Lang, who was staring at the two of them with an expression mingling confusion with suspicion, and smiled. "I'm afraid not, sir." He patted the top of the console. "The idea was to let Bolos communicate with one another, and with their HQ, without being jammed. It apparently worked pretty well . . . but too quickly for us slow human-types to understand what was going on."

"You mean, the Bolos could understand one another, but humans could not follow the conversation?"

"Exactly. Bolos think a lot faster than humans, you know . . . although comparing the two is about like comparing Terran apples with Cerisian tanafruit. When they talk to us, they use a whole, separate part of their psychotronic network, a kind of virtual brain within a brain, to slow things down to our speed. The QDC network resides within their main processor. To slow things down in there so we could follow what was going on would be counterproductive, to say the least." He shrugged. "They considered using it as a part of the TSDS, that's Total Systems Data-Sharing technology, which let an entire battalion of Bolos essentially share a group mind in tactical applications, but there was no way to monitor what was going on that satisfied the human need to stay on top of what was happening."

"Logical enough," Lang said. "You wouldn't want an army of Bolos operating outside of human control!"

Martin grimaced. "The threat of so-called rogue Bolos has been greatly exaggerated, sir."

"I think not! The Concordiat faces enough threats from rampaging aliens. We scarcely need to add a battalion or two of our own creations, battle-damaged or senile, to our list of enemies!"

"If you say so, sir." Martin had exchanged thoughts on the topic with Lang before, insofar as a mere lieutenant could exchange thoughts with a hidebound and narrow-sensored colonel. Their debates generally devolved rapidly into a polemic from superior to junior officer, laying down the law, chapter and verse of The Book, exactly the way things were, had been, and always would be in the future.

"Why are those machines wasting time with games?"

"Simulations, sir. I've noticed they do a lot of that, each time they're raised to semi-active status."

"They play games?" Khalid asked. He sounded intrigued.

"Well, it's been almost a hundred years since Hank and Andrew were last at full-alert status, but we bring them on-line at low awareness every few months for maintenance checks and diagnostics. As soon as we do, they start throwing sims at each other. I think it's their way of staying sharp."

"They can do this when only partly aware?"

"Believe me," Martin said. "Even half awake, a Mark XXIV Bolo is sharper than most people. They don't store detailed memories in that state, so I guess they remember it as a kind of dream. And they don't really wake up until they're in full combat reflex mode."

"You talk about those . . . those things as though they were alive," Lang said, disgusted.

"What makes you think they aren't? Sir."

"Those machines, Lieutenant, are Bolo combat units, nothing more, nothing less. As a matter of fact, they're Mark XXIVs, which makes them pretty well obsolete now . . . the reason, I suppose, that Sector HQ saw fit to stick them out here on this iceball. You tell those machines to sit tight. I'll give the word when it's time to roll!"

"Yes, sir." Colonel Lang, Martin knew, had been sidetracked in his career . . . a screw-up of some sort on New Devons.h.i.+re, with only powerful political connections to keep him from losing his commission.

And why, Martin thought, did they stick you in this hole, Colonel? Because you're as obsolete as those Bolos out there? Or simply because you're incompetent?

The answer to that question, he decided, might be important.

In the past 25.23 minutes, we have refought the battle of Blenheim eleven times, alternating the roles of Marlborough and Eugene on the one side, and of Marshal Tallard on the other. John Churchill, the Duke of Marlborough, is a favorite of Andrew's, though not, I confess, of mine. All Bolos with sentient capabilities are programmed with exhaustive files of military-historical data, a means of drawing on and learning from the experiences of over three millennia of human experience in warfare.

At Mode Three temporal perception, we follow each engagement in what we perceive as real time, from the initial Allied scouting of the French positions from Tapfheim on August 12, 1704, through the battle proper on the afternoon of the 13th, ending with Tallard's surrender of the encircled Blenheim garrison at 9:00 P.M. the following evening. We end up with two victories apiece, and seven draws, demonstrating the even matching of Andrew's and my tactical abilities more than inherent differences in the troops or ground.

Four additional scenarios, however, end with two wins to two wins, all four victories for the French. In these contests, we fought hypothetical engagements based on an alternate what-if possibility north of the actual battlefield, with Tallard's forces holding a defensive position at Tapfheim. The results suggest that Tallard was unwise in his choice of a defensive position. At Tapfheim, with his left anch.o.r.ed on some wooded hills and his right on the Danube, he would have enjoyed the same flank security as the historical placement, but with a narrower front where his slight numerical superiority-and his three-to-two superiority in artillery-could have made itself felt.

The simulations do not demonstrate that Tallard could have beaten Marlborough and his "Twin-Captain," the Prince of Savoy, of course. Both Churchill and Eugene were commanders of considerable talent, while Tallard was mediocre, at best. Andrew and I agree, however, that the selection of the ground in any battle-a selection generally made by the defender-is of paramount importance in the prosecution of any military encounter.

Within our simulation, I step from the ball-battered ruin of Blenheim's defensive wall, sword in hand. Andrew, in his virtual guise as Marlborough, meets me, his staff and Prince Eugene at his back. Around us, smashed cannon, splintered barricades, and the broken bodies of men of both armies lie in tangled heaps and scatters. Kneeling, I present my sword. This re-creation was far bloodier than the historical reality of the War of the Spanish Succession. In the original Blenheim, Marlborough lost 12,500 battle casualties, or 23 percent of his total effective force, compared to Marshal Tallard's historical loss of 21,000 battle casualties, plus 14,000 lost as prisoners of war and another 5,000 deserted, a total of 70 percent of the Franco-Bavarian strength.

In this final refighting of the cla.s.sic battle, both sides lost nearly 60 percent as outright killed and wounded, an unthinkably high attrition rate in real-world combat. I consider the possibility that Bolos may not be as sympathetic to the weaknesses of flesh and blood as human commanders and are willing, therefore, to push harder. They are only imaginary soldiers, after all, electronic shadows within our QDC-shared virtual universe. And, just possibly, the nature of warfare itself has changed. Human warfare in the era of Marlborough was a gentler art, for all that people still died in the thousands.

Interesting that Colonel Lang seems hesitant to deploy us, despite the obvious threat. He seems to have less pa.s.sion as a commander even than the hapless Tallard.

An enlisted technician called from the other side of the command center. "C-Colonel Lang?" He was painfully young . . . a teenager with fuzz on his cheeks.

"Whaddizit?"

"S-sir, we're getting reports now of major landings on the far side of the Frozen h.e.l.ls! There's fighting in both Gadalene and Inshallah, and . . . and refugees are starting to come west through the pa.s.ses!"

"What do we have over there?"

"Only a few garrisons, sir. I've got Captain Chandler on the line now."

"Let me talk to her."

Martin followed Lang as he approached the com console, where a holographic image flickered above the transmitter plate. Captain Maria Chandler was a handsome, ebon-skinned woman with five battle stars on her tunic and a reputation for a tough att.i.tude and devoted troops in her command. "Colonel Lang!" she snapped as soon as she saw the CO's image on her console. "Either send help or get us the h.e.l.l out of here!"

"What's your tacsit, Captain?"

"My tacsit," she said, in a prissy, near-mocking tone, "is tacs.h.i.+t. We have alien transports coming down all over the place. Take a look for yourself."

A flatscreen monitor above the console lit up, transmitting jerky, sometimes incoherent images from a handheld camera. Martin saw the domes and greenhouses of flintsteel and blue crystal of one of the eastern settlements-he wasn't sure which one, but Captain Chandler was commanding a garrison at Glacierhelm, and he a.s.sumed that was what he was seeing. Smoke rose in columns, illuminated from beneath in the black night sky by the turbulent orange glow of fires. An ungainly landing craft of unfamiliar design, all angles and bulges and blunt ends, descended toward the ice, a shadow behind the harsh glare of landing lights. Heavily armed troops were already on the ice, their combat armor painted white with random smears of dark gray, as camouflage within the icy environment. The bodies on the ground, broken and fire-tossed, were nearly all clad in light Concordiat body armor, panted black with white trim.

The scene fuzzed with static suddenly, then went blank.

"We need help!" Chandler said, angry. "We're completely outnumbered and have no way to resist! I've ordered the civilian population to board icecats and make it through the pa.s.ses, but there aren't enough-"

And with startling abruptness, the holo image winked out in a white blur of static.

"Wait!" Lang bellowed. "Get her back!"

"Can't, sir," the technician replied. "Transmission interrupt . . . from her end."

Other monitors were showing similar scenes of chaos. The local colonial news service was reporting landings and hostile attacks among most of the domed towns and habitat outposts scattered across the Eastern Tundra, and camera views of incoming landers and running troops were displayed on a dozen monitors. More and more of those monitors were going blank, however. On one, a news reporter, heavily swaddled in synthfur against the cold, was talking into a handheld microphone when white-armored troops burst in behind him, blasters flaring in dazzling bursts of blue light. The reporter's head came apart in a blurred red mist, and then that camera feed as well went dead.

"Colonel!" Khalid cried, "you must do something!"

Lang was still staring at one of the few active screens. It was difficult to see what was happening-ma.s.sive, armored shapes moving in the darkness, as flame gouted into the night. "Martin? What are those things?"

"I can't tell, sir." He checked another screen, tapping out a command on the keyboard, entering a query for information. "There's nothing on them in the warbook. They may be something new, something we didn't see with the last Kezdai incursion."

"Ground crawlers. They look almost like . . . Bolos."

"Small ones. They can't ma.s.s more than five hundred tons. A Mark XXIV ma.s.ses fourteen thousand."

"But there are a d.a.m.n lot of them, Lieutenant. And they're heavily armored. Even a Bolo can be taken down by numbers, if there are enough of them."

"It takes more than armor to do that, Colonel. Bolos are smart." If you let them use their talents and fight the war their way. . . .

"They're headed west," Khalid said. "Toward the pa.s.ses. Toward us."

Lang looked at Martin and nodded. "Order the Bolos out," he said.

"Yes, sir!"

It's about freaking time. . . .

Were I human, I would exult. "It's about time," I believe, is how humans express this particular emotion.

Ma.s.sive doors rumble aside as I engage my main drive trains. I notice a group of humans, mech-technicians of the Izra'il Field Armored Support Unit, 514th Regiment, standing to one side as I pa.s.s like a duralloy cliff towering above them. Humans are so tiny, tiny and frail, yet I must recognize that it was they who created my kind.

I move out at full speed, hitting 100 kph by the time I clear the doors and reaching 140 on the open parade ground beyond. While combat feeds do not indicate any immediate threat to this base, I do not wish to expose myself to the possibility of orbital bombardment while I am still restricted in mobility by the physical structure of the base.

Three hundred meters south, Andrew emerges from his bunker in a glittering spray of ice crystals illuminated by the base lights, racing east on a course parallel to mine. The Frozen h.e.l.l Mountains rise a few kilometers ahead, rugged and ice enfolded.

The tactical situation is fairly simple. The Frozen h.e.l.ls, rising nearly four thousand meters above the Izra'ilian tundra, form an ideal defensive barrier to surface movement, though not, of course, an impediment to air transport or attack. There are only two overland routes through the mountains within almost a thousand kilometers of the base-the Ad Dukhan River Valley to the south, and the Al Buruj Pa.s.s to the north.

Our tactical data feeds indicate that both pa.s.ses are now crowded with Izra'ilian civilians streaming west through the two pa.s.ses, fleeing the slaughter now being wreaked by the Enemy among the towns on the far side of the mountains. The human traffic will make movement through the pa.s.ses difficult. A more viable option is to open up with a long-range indirect bombardment of Enemy positions on the eastern flank of the mountains and to engage Enemy s.p.a.cecraft now in planetary orbit.

I perform a final systems check and determine that all weapons and combat systems are fully operational. I open the communications channel to headquarters and request weapons free.

"They want to what?"

"Bolo HNK is requesting weapons free," Martin said. "He wants to target enemy positions on the far side of the mountains and to hit Kezdai s.h.i.+ps in close orbit."

"Negative!" Lang said. "Request denied, d.a.m.n it!"

"Sir-"

"I said denied! We start hitting Kezdai s.h.i.+ps, and they're going to start hitting our s.h.i.+ps. We can't afford that, not if we want to maintain an open route off this rock. As for lobbing missiles over the mountains, forget it! There are still friendlies over there, and I don't want to start an indiscriminant ma.s.s-bombardment!"

Martin looked at the number one monitor on his console, which showed one of the Bolos up close, grinding off across the ice-locked tundra toward the east. Its hull was pitted, worn, and battle-scarred, reminding him with a jolt that these machines had been in several dozen actions already, stretched across the last couple of hundred years. The machines bore eight battle stars apiece, and they'd seen plenty of minor engagements that hadn't rated the fancy unit citations welded to their glacises.

It suggested that they knew what they were doing, d.a.m.n it.

"Lieutenant Martin!"

"Yes, sir."

"Deploy the armor into the pa.s.ses. Have them hold the pa.s.ses against enemy attempts to break through. That should give us the time we need to regroup on this side of the mountains, see what we're going to do."

"Yes, sir." He reached for the comm headset.

I find it hard to believe that we have been issued such orders. A Bolo is, first and foremost, an offensive combat unit. Its best a.s.sets are wasted in a purely defensive stance. Andrew and I discuss the situation via our QDC link, confident that we cannot be overheard by the Enemy . . . or even understood by those monitoring our transmissions at the Combat Command Center.

"They must have reasons for this deployment," Andrew suggests. Of the two of us, he was always the more stolid, the more steady, the more certain of reason behind muddled orders. "The situation on the far side of the mountains is still confused. Perhaps they fear incurring friendly-fire casualties on Izra'ilian civilians."

"Perhaps," I reply, "though the use of drones and AI missiles for final targeting options would limit civilian casualties. Especially when our targets would be primary Enemy targets, such as their transports, field headquarters and communications stations, and armor concentrations."

"It's also possible that C3's reasons for these orders are the same reasons Marshal Tallard decided against deploying on the Tapfheim Line."

"And those reasons are?" I prompted.

"Mistaken ones."

I was intrigued by the fact that Andrew had just a.s.sayed a joke. Not a very good one, perhaps, by humans standards, but a definite attempt at humorous wordplay. Bolos are not known for their sense of humor, nor would such be encouraged if humans had reason to suspect it.

It was not the first time that I had wondered if Andrew and I were entirely up to spec.

In the past, I've primarily been concerned that I have trouble integrating with other Bolo combat units. Obviously, our QDC link makes us closer than would otherwise be the case, so much so that various of our human commanders in the past have referred to us as "that two-headed Bolo," or as "the Bolo Brothers." Our diagnostics, however, have always been within the expected psychotronic profiles, and no mention of processing aberrations has been made by any of our commanders or service teams. We are combat-ready and at peak efficiency.

We are ready to engage the Enemy.

Andrew is moving further to the south now, angling onto a new heading of 099 degrees in order to enter the western end of the Ad Dukhan Valley. I can see the valley entrance now, for it is marked by high thermal readings and a visible outflow of water vapor. The name, in the Arabic of this world's colonists, means "The Smoke" and refers to clouds of steam emerging from a river rising from hot thermal vents in the valley. Izra'il possesses considerable tectonic activity, the result of the constant tidal tug-of-war it plays with the gas giant called The Prophet and others of The Prophet's moons. An important deep thermal power station is located at the thousand-meter level of the path; the Ad Dukhan River itself is so hot it remains liquid despite an ambient temperature ranging between minus five and minus fifty degrees all the way to the Al-Mujadelah Sea.