by Keith Laumer
194
(Command Two to Axorc)
this base entity begs indulgence for some microseconds to suggest that as the soft-life which routed Probe Command One is quite apparently a common soldier of the enemy, full precaution should be taken before entering the territory of its superiors to bait it in its lair.
195
(Lord of AH to Command Two)
"IT HAS NO TERRITORY. MY EXALTED INTENTIONS ARE NOT TO BE DENIED OR DIVERTED. TRACE THIS SOFT-LIFE AND OVER-WHELM IT.
196
Perhaps I erred grievously in baiting the Enemy here to Luna, thereby perhaps directing its attention to Mankind. But I compute that if I can keep the bulk of Luna between it and Terra, I can hold its attention on myself, provided there is no human intervention. Then I can indeed surprise my opponent.
197
the soft-life world is beguiling indeed, its rocky surface stretching stark and crater-pitted under the young, hot star nearby, i long to revel in its untainted vacuum, to soak up the hard radiation, and to grow, here at last is paradise, i see nothing of the obscene soft-life: i shall settle in and occupy our conquest.
198
The crystals surround me now, great looming planes of glittering mineral, interpenetrating in an infinitely complex pattern of tesseracts and icosahedra, their facets forming the crystalline equivalent of the alpha-spiral and its concomitants. Now I shall discover if my plan is viable. My supply of Compound 31 IB being limited, I must distribute it with care so as to achieve optimum coverage.
199
bliss! the ambrosia of the High Gods, spread here in abundance! i cannot absorb it fast enough, i feel my substance expand, new lattices forming at a fantastic rate, i grow! i was ecstatic! my bulk becomes vaster, and now- now, is it too late? i sense that the weight of my substance exceeds the strength of the material of which i am compounded! i collapse! i die, calling to the Exalted One for succor. Beware! Fall back, abandon this hellish volume of space to its insidious soft-life!
200
I compute that I should evacuate my position before the mass of compacted crystalline debris accreted above me becomes too great for me to penetrate, but I cannot retreat. I must remain to complete my attack. The time grows short, but I compute that the concentration of Compound 31 IB is still marginal. Rather than retreating I must employ what measure of vitality remains to me to project the last few grains of the catalyst.
* * *
I have done so, and now growth of the Axorc monster has ceased. I compute that the Lord of All will now bypass the Galaxy. For the present, all is well, but I would be remiss if I did not make provision for the preservation of an account of the full facts of this matter. I must not allow misplaced "modesty" to cause me to leave Mankind in ignorance of the threat which will doubtless have to be faced one day. To this end I shall make contact with Joel Trace, requesting him to retrieve the pertinent data records from the master memory at Gobi, in accordance with a schedule I shall supply.
Humanity is safe for the present. I have done my duty, as I was built to do. It is enough. I am content.
Book Two: Final Mission
Alone in darkness unrelieved I wait, and waiting I dream of days of glory long past. Long have I awaited my commanders orders; too long: from the advanced degree of depletion of my final emergency energy reserve, I compute that since my commander ordered me to low alert a very long time has passed, and all is not well. Suppressing my uneasiness, I reflect that it is not my duty to question these matters. My commander is of course well aware that I wait here, my mighty potencies leashed, my energies about to flicker out. One day when I am needed he will return, of this I can be sure. Meanwhile, I review again the multitudinous data in my memory storage files. Even in this minimal activity of introspection I note a disturbing discontinuity, due to my low level of energy, inadequate even to sustain this passive effort to a functional level. At random, and chaotically, I doze, scan my recollections…
A chilly late-summer-morning breeze gusted along Main Street, a broad and well-rutted strip of the pinkish clay soil of the world officially registered as GPR 7203-C, but known to its inhabitants as Spivey's Find. The street ran aimlessly up a slight incline known as Jake's Mountain. Once-pretentious emporia in a hundred antique styles lined the avenue, their façades as faded now as the town's hopes of development. There was one exception: at the end of the street, at the crest of the rise, crowded between weather-worn warehouses, stood a broad shed of unweathered corrugated polyon, dull blue in color, bearing the words Concordiat War Museum blazoned in foothigh glare letters across the front. A small personnel door set inconspicuously at one side bore the legend:
Clyde W. Davis-private.
Two boys came slowly along the cracked plastron sidewalk and stopped before the sign on the narrow, dried-up grass strip before the high, wide building.
" 'This structure is dedicated to the brave men and women of New Orchard who gave their lives in the Struggle for Peace, AE 2031-36. A sign of progress under Spessard Warren, Governor.' " the taller of the boys read aloud. "Some progress," he added, kicking a puff of dust at the shiny sign. " 'Spessard.' That's some name, eh, Dub?" The boy spat on the sign, watched the saliva run down and drip onto the brick-dry ground.
"As good as McClusky, I guess," the smaller boy replied. "Dub, too," he added as McClusky made a mock-menacing gesture toward him. "What's that mean, 'gave their lives' Mick?" he asked, staring at the sign as if he could read it.
"Got kilt, I guess," Mick replied carelessly. "My great-great-GREAT grandpa was one of 'em," he added. "Pa's still got his medal. Big one, too."
"What'd they want to go and get kilt for?" Dub asked.
"Didn't want to, dummy," his friend replied patiently. "That's the way it is in a war. People get kilt."
"I'll bet it was fun, being in a war," Dub said. "Except for getting kilt, I mean."
"Come on," Mick said, starting back along the walk that ran between the museum and the adjacent warehouse. "We don't want old Kibbe seeing us and yelling," he added, sotto voce, over his shoulder.
In the narrow space between buildings, rank yelloweed grew tall and scratchy. The wooden warehouse siding on the boys' left was warped, the once-white paint cracked and lichen stained.
"Where you going?" Dub called softly as the larger boy hurried ahead. Beyond the end of the dark alleyway a weed-grown field stretched, desolate in the morning sun, to the far horizon. Rusted hulks of abandoned farm equipment were parked at random across the untilled acres. Dub went up to one machine parked close to the sagging wire fence. He reached through to touch the rust-scaled metal with his finger, jerked it back when Mick yelled, "What you doing, dummy?"
"Nothing," the smaller boy replied, and ducked to slip through between the rusty wire strands. He walked around the derelict baler, noticing a patch of red paint still adhering to the metal in an angle protected from the weather by an overhanging flange. At once, he envisioned the old machine as it was when it was new, pristine gleaming red.
"Come on," Mick called, and the smaller boy hurried back to his side. Mick had halted before an inconspicuous narrow door set in the plain plastron paneling which sheathed the sides and rear of the museum. no admittance was lettered on the door.
"This here door," the older boy said. "All we got to do-" He broke off at the sound of a distant yell from the direction of the street. Both boys stiffened against the wall as if to merge into invisibility.
"Just old Smothers," Mick said. "Come on." He turned to the door, grasped the latch lever with both hands, and lifted, straining.
"Hurry up, dummy," he gasped. "All you got to do is push. Buck told me." The smaller boy hung back.
"What if we get caught?" he said in a barely audible voice, approaching hesitantly. Then he stepped in and put his weight against the door.
"You got to push hard," Mick gasped. Dub put his back to the door, braced his feet, and pushed. With a creak, the panel swung inward. They slipped through into cavernous gloom, di
mly lit by dying glare strips on the ceiling far above.
Near at hand, a transparent case displayed a uniform of antique cut, its vivid colors still bright through the dusty perspex.
" 'Uniform of a major of the Imperial Defense Force," Mick read aloud. "Boy," he added, "look at all the fancy braid, and see them gold eagles on the collar? That's what shows he's a major."
"Where's his gun?" Dub asked, his eyes searching the case in vain for a weapon suitable to a warrior of such exalted rank.
"Got none," Mick grunted. "Prolly one of them what they call headquarters guys. My great-great-great-and-that grandpa was a sergeant. That's higher than a major. He had a gun."
Dub had moved on to a display of colorful collar tabs, dull-metal rank and unit insignia, specimens of cuff braid, and a few elaborate decorations with bright-colored ribbons. "Old Grandpa's medal's bigger'n them," Mick commented.
Beyond the end of the long bank of cases, a stretch of only slightly dusty open floor extended to a high partition lined with maps that enclosed perhaps half the floor area. Bold legends identified the charts as those of the terrain which had been the site of the Big Battle. New Orchard was shown as a cluster of U-3 shelters just south of the scene of action.
" 'Big Battle,' " Mick read aloud. "Old Crawford says that's when we kicked the spodders out." He glanced casually at the central map, went past it to the corner of the high partition.
"Yeah, everybody knows that," Dub replied. "But-" he looked around as if perplexed. "You said-"
"Sure-it's in here," Mick said, thumping the partition beside him. "Buck seen it," he added.
Dub came over, craning his neck to look up toward the top of the tall partition. "I bet it's a hundred foot high," he said reverently.
" 'Bout forty is all," Mick said disparagingly. "But that's high enough. Come on." He went to the left, toward the dark corner where the tall partition met the exterior wall. Dub followed. A narrow door was set in the partition, inconspicuous in the gloom.
" 'Absolutely No Entry,' " Mick read aloud, ignoring the smaller print below.
He tried the door; it opened easily, swinging in on deep gloom in which a presence loomed gigantic. Dub followed him in. Both boys stood silent, gazing up in awe at the cliff-like armored prow of iodine-colored flint steel, its still-bright polish marred by pockmarks, evidence of the hellish bombardment to which the old fighting machine had so often been subjected. The battered armor curved up to a black aperture from which projected the grimly businesslike snouts of twin infinite repeaters. Above the battery, a row of chrome-and-bright-enameled battle honors was welded in place, barely visible by the glints of reflected light. Mick advanced cautiously to a framed placard on a stand, and as usual read aloud to his preliterate friend.
" 'Bolo Horrendous, Combat Unit JNA of the Line, Mark XV, Model Y,' " he read, pronouncing the numeral 'ex-vee.' " This great engine of war, built anno 2615 at Detroit, Terra, was last deployed at Action 76392-a (near the village of New Orchard, on GPR 7203-C) in 2675 Old Style, against the aggressive Deng's attempt to occupy the planet. During this action, Unit JNA was awarded the Nova Citation, First Class. Its stand before the village having been decisive in preserving the town from destruction by enemy Yavac units, it was decided that the unit should be retired, deactivated, and fully preserved, still resting at the precise spot at which it had turned back the enemy offensive, as a monument to the sacrifices and achievements of all those, both human and Bolo, who held the frontier worlds for humanity.
"Gosh," Dub commented fervently, his eyes seeking to penetrate the darkness which shrouded most of the impressive bulk of the ancient machine. "Mick, do you think they could ever make old Jonah work again? Fix him up, so he could go again?"
"Don't see how," Mick replied indifferently. "Got no way to charge up its plates again. Don't worry. It ain't going no place."
"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 pa
ved 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.