Bolos: Honor of the Regiment Part 20

Arlan nodded. "It's short for 'Military Agrarian Socialism'--the system the Russians used, to colonize Siberia. The soldiers had to farm to keep themselves fed."

"Right. Only, after a while, they were guarding prisoners who did the real work. No criminals get sentenced to come here--we couldn't trust 'em, especially if the Xiala attacked. You have to volunteer for this outfit."

Arlan s.h.i.+vered; somehow, the sight of the great military machines, converted to pulling plows, made the Xiala seem very real, and very close--not just a relic from pioneering days. It was also a sight that summed up the whole nature of the colony--a sword beaten into a plowshare, but ready to become a sword again at a moment's notice.

Chono turned in through an automatic gate in a wire fence; it swung closed behind them. The reason was immediately clear--a hundred cows and steers, wandering about chewing the dusty gra.s.s. In separate fields far off, the bulls grazed by themselves against the sunset.

A few hundred feet inside the fence, a dozen long, low buildings cl.u.s.tered, with young men and women in khaki slacks and s.h.i.+rts wandering about and standing in small groups, chatting with one another. For a moment, Arlan had the crazy thought that he was looking at summer camp again.

The feeling pa.s.sed as Chono pulled up in front of a bunkhouse on the end. People looked up, and started drifting over.

"This is home, for as long as you want," Chono said, and got out.

Arlan followed, feeling very nervous.

"Hi!" She was long-legged, brunette, and freckled, with a snub nose and a wide mouth. "I'm Rita. Welcome to Milagso!"

Other young men and young women were coming up behind her with grins on their faces, smiling and welcoming. Arlan felt sudden relief from a tension that he hadn't known was there. Slowly, his own smile began to grow.

Breakfast was a happy, boisterous time of laughing and boasting about the number of hectares they would plant and plow that day--and ribald joking about who was eyeing whom. The only damper on the hilarity was the rifle slung over Rita's shoulder--and the variety of personal arms carried by every other member of the camp, locally born or volunteer.

Michael saw Arlan eyeing his automatic and smiled. "Don't worry--we'll issue you one before you go out to work. You'll probably want to get the folks at home to s.h.i.+p you your own, though."

Michael was Milagso-born; it never occurred to him that people everywhere didn't grow up carrying lasers and slugthrowers.

"Do you really need them?" Arlan asked.

"If we're lucky, no. But you never can tell."

"I thought the Xiala hadn't attacked for fifty years!"

Michael nodded. "Doesn't mean they won't, though. They're still out there, you know--and still attacking Terran planets, when they think they can get away with it."

"Yeah." Arlan frowned. "I've noticed it on the news, now and then."

"Even if they didn't," Michael said, "carrying portable mayhem has become a tradition with us--and traditions always have their reasons, Arlan."

Arlan was going to get sick of hearing about the good reasons for traditions, in the next few weeks--especially when he found out that half the reason for farming with Bolos, was because they had become traditional, too.

By the time they climbed aboard the hovertruck, Arlan had managed to convince himself that the Bolos were tame and peaceful--but it was a conviction that wavered as soon as he came in sight of one of the huge machines. "Uh--couldn't we start with some other ch.o.r.e?"

"Scared of the Bolos?" Rita looked up, grinning. "They are kind of intimidating, at first. Took me three days before I was willing to go near them. When I did, I found out they were the best friends I could have--gentle as kittens, and strong as earthquakes. But come on--it's plowing season, so steering this plow is what you need to learn."

"If you say so," Arlan said dubiously. "After all, their cannons aren't loaded . . . ?"

"Not loaded?" Rita looked up, startled. "Arlan, my friend--an unloaded gun is a piece of sc.r.a.p iron!"

"They are loaded?" Arlan drew back. "That machine, right there, that I'm supposed to work with, could blow up a major city?"

"Could, but it won't," Rita a.s.sured him. "Besides, even if you were an enemy and it did fire, you'd never know what hit you."

That, Arlan decided, was rather cold comfort--but he followed Rita toward the gang-plow. Their lieutenant-mayor had known what he was doing, a.s.signing him to Rita for the first day's learning--he'd known Arlan would rather die than chicken out in front of a pretty girl.

"Morning, Miles," Rita called out, waving.

"Good morning, Rita," the huge machine returned. "Did you have a restful evening?"

"Well, not too restful. Who won the chess match?"

"Gloriosus was one game ahead of me by dawn," Miles answered.

"Well, better luck tomorrow night. I'd better get hopping."

"How can two machines play chess with each other?" Arlan whispered.

"In their computers. They can keep track of the moves perfectly, but I don't know if they visualize the board or not."

Arlan marvelled at the thought of engines of mayhem having a peaceful, stuffy game of chess to pa.s.s the time. He hoped Miles wasn't a sore loser.

"You can't think of them as machines," Rita explained as they climbed up onto the plow. "They're allies, friends. Just remember, each one of them is at least as smart as you, and most of them have just as much personality, even if it is artificial."

"How about if one of them decides he doesn't like me?"

"Can't--it's built into their programming." Rita settled herself on the seat, swung it around to face the far 'tractor,' and laid her hands on the wheel.

"Why not just hitch the plows to them, and let them go out in the field to pull?"

"'Cause they'd pack the earth down to concrete," Rita said flatly. "These tractors are heavy." She looked up over her shoulder. "Okay, Miles! Tell Gloriosus to start pulling, would you?"

"Certainly, Rita," the huge machine boomed.

Arlan noted the courtesy, and decided to be very polite to these "tractors."

The gang plow lurched into motion, and Rita spun the wheel, straightening out. "The tractor will pull, but you have to keep the furrows straight. . . ."

Arlan listened, trying to pay close attention, but he kept being distracted by the huge machine in front of them, looming closer and closer as they chewed their way across the field. They finished two round trips before he felt ready to try steering by himself.

They went back to the camp for lunch and stayed for an hour's siesta--everyone insisted it was too hot to work. But when things cooled down in late afternoon, back they went for another four hours' labor--and this time, Rita said good-bye as they were pa.s.sing Miles.

"So soon?" Arlan stared, then caught himself and forced a smile. "You're going to trust me to steer straight, all by myself?"

"It's not that tough, once you get the hang of it," Rita laughed, "and from what I saw this morning, you have. Finish the field, bravo. See you back at camp."

And she was on her way, with a smile and a wave. Arlan stared up at the huge Bolo, towering overhead, and swallowed. He wondered if Miles could tell when a man was afraid of him.

Well, if he could, it was doubly important not to let on. Arlan forced a smile, waved cheerily, and called up to the turret, "Evening, Miles!"

"Good evening, Arlan," the huge machine answered, in a calm, deep voice that seemed to be right next to Arlan's ear. It almost made him jump, but he hid the reaction and smiled wider.

"Do we just take up where we left off?"

"That is the usual procedure, yes, Arlan. There are no bandits or robbers on Milagso, so we just leave the plows at the end of the row, when it comes time to stop for the night."

No wonder there were no bandits--not with a monster of a Bolo sitting right nearby. Arlan went to climb aboard his plow, thinking desperately of some sort of conversational topic. "Didn't the Xiala try to steal equipment, when they were raiding?"

"Surprisingly, no," Miles answered. At least his voice seemed a few feet away now. "The Xiala were warriors exclusively; they did not seek to dwell here, so they had no reason to steal. They were only concerned with destroying everything in sight."

"Cheery blighters, but at least they were predictable." Arlan only wished that the Bolo was--or that he could be sure of it. "Well, time to plow."

"I shall tell Gloriosus to begin pulling, Arlan. Wave when you are ready."

"Will do." Arlan settled himself on the seat, took hold of the wheel, and waved. The plow jerked into motion, and he was off.

He couldn't escape the feeling that he was at the mercy of the two huge killer machines.

After an hour or so, Arlan began to relax, but when Miles announced that it was quitting time, the volunteer shuddered at the thought of being alone with the giant. To cover his apprehension, he tried to strike up a conversation while he waited for the truck. "You remember the Xiala wars, don't you?"

"The data is stored in my memory banks, yes, Arlan--including visual scans, if they are needed. However, I would caution you that the wars may not be over."

Everybody always seemed to be reminding him of that. Well, let them come--Arlan was ready for his shot at glory. He shuddered at the thought, but he was ready. "Chances aren't too high that the Xiala will attack again, are they?"

"We thought so before," Gloriosus told him. "There was a twenty-year gap between incursions, and we had begun to think there might be peace. Then the Xiala came boiling up out of the irrigation ditches."

"Out of the ditches?" Arlan looked up sharply. "How did they get there? They had to land, first!"

"So they did--but they had been landing secretly, at night, for a year, planting small groups of commandos."

"A year?" Arlan looked up, startled. "What did they live off of?"

"They brought rations, but they supplemented them with local flora and fauna."

"You mean they stole crops and livestock?"

"No. Xiala tastes have very little in common with those of humankind. They consider our livestock to be vermin, and vice versa."

"So." Arlan turned to gaze out over the countryside. "They just snacked on rats and snakes. Sure, n.o.body would miss them. Then they attacked, at a pre-arranged signal?"

"They did, in tens of thousands. The hidden bands, who had no landing craft to which they could retreat, attacked the most suddenly, and fought the hardest. They were very difficult to kill."

Arlan nodded. "I can understand that. No chance they might do it again, is there?"

"Nearly none. We are very vigilant, now--at all hours."

"You said, 'nearly.'"

"That is correct. One must never underestimate the enemy."

"They might always have a new surprise in store." Arlan gazed out over the quiet countryside, imagining detection-proof landing craft, invisible parachutes--any number of technological innovations.

He neglected the oldest and simplest way of bringing in living creatures. There was no shame in that, though--so had everyone else in the colony. The Bolos could be forgiven for not thinking of it--they did not reproduce themselves.

"How long must we wait?" Kaxiax hissed. "Is all our life to be spent in hiding and waiting, like our sires before us?"

"You are young," the lieutenant answered. "I have seen both sire and grandsire die, and we must not shame their memories."

"Let their ghosts fend for themselves!" Kaxiax hissed. "I did not volunteer to end my days on this ancestor-forsaken hole!"

"The worth of your life is in your accomplishments for the species of Xiala," the lieutenant intoned. "If we were to give over and flee, our sires' lives would have been spent to no purpose. But if you, or your offspring, or your offspring's offspring, should smite the Soft Ones and their machines, your ancestors' lives as well as your own would have been filled with purpose, and they would live in glory in the Afterworld."

"If there is an Afterworld." Kaxiax's head swivelled around at a slight sigh of displaced sand. He struck, so fast that he would have been a blur to human eyes. The lizard slid down his craw in a single swallow.

The lieutenant ignored the blasphemy; he remembered when he had said much the same, in the impatience of youth. "Go disa.s.semble and oil your weapon," he said. "We must not forget the rituals, or the G.o.ds will withdraw their strength from us. Then go coil with your mate, and gain what comfort you may from this life."

"And raise up more Xiala to waste their lives in waiting, belike," Kaxiax grumbled--but he went.

The lieutenant watched him slither away along the ditch. When he was out of sight, the lieutenant laid his head down on the sand and let himself indulge in a moment's despair. Would the command to attack never come?

Chono relaxed, leaning back in his canvas chair, drink in hand, and watched the sunset. "You seem to be adjusting pretty well, Arlan."

"Thanks," Arlan said. He sipped his own drink, then added, "I'm still a little nervous, though."

"To be expected." Chono nodded. "Bolos can be mighty intimidating working partners--and a full s.h.i.+ft on a plow can be kind of lonely. We try to make up for it during lunchtime and dinnertime, though."

"Oh, you succeed admirably!" For a moment, Arlan had a vivid image of last night's party. He was looking forward to singing and dancing again tonight--Rita wasn't the only pretty girl in the camp. Far from it, in fact.

"So the nerves are only about the Bolos, huh?"

"Yeah." Arlan jolted back to the day he'd just finished. "Chono . . ."

Chono waited, then prodded gently. "Yeah?"

"The Bolos . . . they're so old! Are you sure there isn't any chance that one of them will have a circuit breakdown, and run amok?"

"I wish I could tell you a definite 'no' to that," Chono said grimly. "All I can really say, though, is that it's a low probability. The Bolos were built to last--built for the ages, you might say. We actually did an a.n.a.lysis of probability of systems failure, and it turned out that the chances of a Bolo running amok, are much less than the chances of one of us humans going psychotic."

Arlan just stared at the orange sky for a moment, then nodded slowly. "I suppose we are made out of less durable materials."

"And most of us don't take care of ourselves too well," Chono agreed. "If we're feeling just a little bit out of sorts, we go to work anyway."

Arlan looked up, amused. "Does that mean that the only ones who are really well, are the hypochondriacs?"

"They would be, if they'd go out and get some exercise. I suppose maybe a hypochondriac health-and-fitness nut would be in good shape, but I don't know any who manage to combine the two--except maybe Bolos."