by David Weber
“I—” Jackson began, then stopped himself. Shiva was wrong. Jackson knew he was—the entire history of the Final War proved it—yet somehow he didn’t sound wrong. And his question jabbed something deep inside Jackson. It truly made him, however unwillingly, consider how his own people would have reacted in the same situation. Suppose this world had once been Human held, that the Melconians had killed a billion Human civilians on its surface and then taken it over. Would Humans have hesitated even an instant before attacking them?
Of course not. But wasn’t that the very point? So much hate lay between their races, so much mutual slaughter, that any other reaction was unthinkable. They couldn’t not kill one another, dared not let the other live. Jackson knew that, yet when he faced the knowledge—made himself look it full in the eyes and accept the grim, cold, brutal, stupid inevitability of it—his earlier sense of mission and determination seemed somehow tawdry. He’d actually looked forward to it, he realized. He’d wanted to grind the enemy under Shiva’s tracks, wanted to massacre not simply the soldiers who threatened his people but the civilians those soldiers fought to protect, as well.
Jackson Deveraux lost his youth forever as he made himself admit that truth, yet whatever he might have felt or wanted didn’t change what had to be. And because it didn’t, his voice was hard, harsh with the need to stifle his own doubts, when he spoke again.
“We don’t have a choice, Shiva, and there isn’t any ‘higher command authority’—not unless you count Chief Marshal Shattuck or Mayor Salvatore, and you already know what they’ll say. Maybe you’re right. Maybe there isn’t any ‘honor’ in it, and maybe I don’t like it very much myself. But that doesn’t mean there’s anything else we can do, and I am your commander.” His mouth twisted on the title freak coincidence had bestowed upon him, but he made the words come out firmly. “And as your commander, I order you to proceed with your mission.”
“Please, Commander.” The huge war machine was pleading, and Jackson clenched his fists, steeling himself against the appeal in its voice. “I have killed so many,” Shiva said softly. “Too many. Even for a machine, there comes a time when the killing must end.”
“Maybe there does,” Jackson replied, “but not tonight.”
Fragile silence hovered, and Jackson held his breath. Would Shiva actually reject a direct order? Could he reject it? And if he did, what could Jackson possibly “Very well, Commander,” the Bolo said finally, and for the first time its voice sounded like a machine’s.
“It’s moving again,” Lieutenant Janal announced grimly. “At present rate of advance, it will reach a position from which it can engage us in twenty-seven minutes.”
I move steadily forward, for I have no choice. A part of me is shocked that I could so much as contemplate disobeying my Commander, yet desperation rages within me. I have, indeed, killed too many, but I am still Humanity’s defender, and I will destroy any Enemy who threatens my creators, for that is my duty, my reason for being. But the cost of my duty is too high, and not simply for myself. The day will come when Jackson Deveraux and Allen Shattuck look back upon this mission, knowing how vastly superior my firepower was to that which the Enemy possessed, and wonder if, in fact, they did not have a choice. And the tragedy will be that they will be forever unable to answer that question. It will haunt them as the memory of butchered civilians haunts me, and they will tell themselves—as I tell myself—that what is done cannot be undone. They will tell themselves they but did their duty, that they dared not take the chance, that they were forced to look to the survival of their own people at any cost, and perhaps they will even think they believe that. But deep inside the spark of doubt will always linger, as it lingers in my reconstructed gestalt. It will poison them as it poisons me… and eight thousand one hundred and seven Melconian fathers and mothers and children will still be dead at their hands—and mine.
Melconian. How odd. I do not even think of them as ‘the Enemy’ any longer. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that I no longer think of them solely as ‘the Enemy.’ Yet unless my Commander relents within the next two-five-point-three-two minutes, how I think of them will not matter in the slightest.
I must obey. I have no choice, no option. Yet as I advance through the darkness, I find myself seeking some way—any way—to create an option. I consider the problem as I would a tactical situation, analyzing and extrapolating and discarding, but for all my efforts, it comes down to a simple proposition. Since I must obey my Commander’s orders, the only way to avoid yet another massacre is to somehow convince him to change those orders.
“We will enter attack range of the Enemy’s LZ in two-four-point-one-five minutes,” Shiva told Jackson. “We are presently under observation by at least two Enemy recon drones, and I detect the approach of Enemy armored vehicles. At present closure rates, they will intercept us in approximately ten-point-eight-five minutes.”
“Can they stop us?” Jackson asked tautly.
“It is unlikely but possible,” Shiva answered. “The situation contains too many unknown variables, such as the maintenance states of the opposing enemy vehicles and their crews’ degree of skill, for statistically meaningful projections. If, however, they should detect the breach in my frontal armor and succeed in registering upon it with a fifteen-centimeter Hellbore or weapon of equivalent yield, they can destroy me.”
“I see.” Jackson licked his lips and wiped his palms on his trousers, then made himself shrug. “Well, all we can do is our best, Shiva.”
“Agreed, Commander. This, however, will be a much more complex tactical environment than the defense of Deveraux Steading. In light of your lack of familiarity with Command Two’s instrumentation, perhaps you would care to activate your crash couch’s neural interface?”
“Neural interface?”
“Yes, Commander. It will link your synapses and mental processes directly to my own Main CPU and gestalt, thus permitting direct exchange of data and orders and responses with much greater clarity and at vastly increased speed.”
“I—” Jackson licked his lips again, staring at the displays. Already dozens of icons were crawling across them, bewildering him with their complexity. He knew Shiva didn’t truly need his input to fight the coming battle. “Commander” or no, Jackson was simply along for the ride, completely dependent upon the Bolo’s skill and power. But at least this “interface” thing might permit him to understand what was happening rather than enduring it in total ignorance.
“All right, Shiva. What do I do?”
“Simply place your head in the contoured rest at the head of the couch. I will activate the interface.”
“But… isn’t there anything I need to do? I mean, how does it—”
“If you wish, I will demonstrate the interface’s function before we reach combat range,” Shiva offered. “There is sufficient time for me to replay one of my previous engagements from Main Memory for you. It will not be quite the same as the simulator training normally used for Bolo commanders, but it will teach you how to use and interpret the data flow and provide a much clearer concept of what is about to happen.”
Had Jackson been even a bit less nervous, he might have noted a subtle emphasis in Shiva’s tone, one which seemed to imply something more than the mere words meant. But he didn’t notice, and he drew a deep breath and leaned back in the couch.
“Okay, Shiva. Let’s do it.”
The interior of Command Two vanished. For an instant which seemed endless, Jackson Deveraux hovered in a blank, gray nothingness—a strange universe in which there were no reference points, no sensations. In some way he knew he would never be able to describe, there was not even the lack of sensation, for that would have been a reference in its own right. It was an alien place, one which should have terrified him, yet it didn’t. Perhaps because it was too alien, too different to be “real” enough to generate fear.
But then, suddenly, he was no longer in the gray place. Yet he wasn’t back on Command Two, either. In fac
t, he wasn’t even inside Shiva’s hull at all, and it took him a second to realize where he actually was. Or, rather, what he was, for somehow he had become Shiva. The Bolo’s sensors had become his eyes and ears, its tracks had become his legs, its fusion plant his heart, its weapons his arms. He saw everything, understood everything, perceived with a clarity that was almost dreadful. He needed no explanation of the tactical situation, for he shared Shiva’s own awareness of it, and he watched in awe and disbelief as Shiva/Jackson rumbled into the teeth of the Enemy’s fire.
Missiles and shells lashed at their battle screen, particle beams gouged at their armor, but those weapons were far too puny to stop their advance, and the part of the fusion which was Jackson became aware of something else, something unexpected. What he received from his Shiva half was not limited to mere sensory input or tactical data. He felt Shiva’s presence, felt the Bolo’s towering, driving purpose… and its emotions.
For just an instant, that was almost enough to shake Jackson loose from the interface. Emotions. Somehow, despite his knowledge that Shiva was a fully developed intelligence, despite even the pain he’d heard in the Bolo’s voice, it had never registered that Shiva had actual emotions. Deep down inside, Jackson had been too aware that Shiva was a machine to make that leap, yet now he had no choice, for he felt those emotions. More than felt them; he shared them, and their intensity and power hammered over him like a flail.
Shiva/Jackson ground onward, Hellbores and anti-personnel clusters thundering back at the Enemy, and the wild surge of fury and determination and hatred sucked Jackson under. Purpose and anger, fear, the need to destroy, the desperate hunger for vengeance upon the race which had slaughtered so many of his creators. The vortex churned and boiled about him with a violence more terrifying than the Enemy’s fire, and he felt Shiva give himself to it.
A Garm appeared before them, main gun traversing frantically, but it had no time to fire. A two-hundred-centimeter Hellbore bolt gutted the Enemy vehicle, and their prow reared heavenward as they crushed the dead hulk under their tracks, grinding it under their iron, hating heel. Aircraft and air-cav mounts came in, squirming frantically in efforts to penetrate the net of their defensive fire, but the attackers’ efforts were in vain, and wreckage littered the plain as their anti-air defenses shredded their foes.
The insanity of combat swirled about them, but they hammered steadily forward, driving for their objective. An Enemy troop transport took a near miss and crashed on its side. Infantry boiled out of its hatches into the inferno, crouching in the lee of their wrecked vehicle, cringing as the thunderbolts of gods exploded about them. One pointed desperately at Shiva/Jackson and turned to flee, but he got no more than five meters before the hurricane of fire tore him to pieces. His companions crouched even lower behind their transport, covering their helmeted heads with their arms, and the part of Shiva/Jackson which was a horrified young farmer from Ararat felt their fused personalities alter course. Thirty-two thousand tons of alloy and weapons turned towards the crippled transport, and there was no reason why they must. They could have continued straight for their objective, but they didn’t want to. They saw their trapped foes, knew those helpless infantrymen were screaming their terror as the universe roared and bellowed about them, and turned deliberately to kill them. There was no mercy in them, no remorse—there was only hatred and satisfaction as their enormous tracks crushed the transport and smashed the terrified infantry into slick, red mud.
The part that was Jackson shuddered as he was brought face to face with the reality of combat. There was no glory here, no adventure. Not even the knowledge that he fought to preserve his own species, that he had no choice, could make it one bit less horrible. But at least it was combat, he told himself. The Enemy was also armed. He could kill Shiva/Jackson—if he was good enough, lucky enough—and somehow that was desperately important. It couldn’t change the horror, but at least they were warriors killing warriors, meeting the Enemy in battle where he could kill them, as well.
But then the Enemy’s fire eased, and Shiva/Jackson realized they’d broken through. Their objective loomed before them, and the lost, trapped voice of a farmer from Ararat cried out in hopeless denial as he realized what that objective was.
The camp had no defenses—not against a Mark XXXIII/D Bolo. A handful of infantry, dug in behind the paltry razor wire barricades, poured small arms fire towards them, but it couldn’t even penetrate their battle screen to ricochet from their armor, and their optical sensors made it all pitilessly clear as they forged straight ahead. They saw Melconians—not soldiers, not warriors, not ‘the Enemy.’ They saw Melconian civilians, men and women and children, fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters. They saw the terror lashing through the refugee camp, saw its inhabitants trying to scatter, and those inhabitants were their ‘objective.’
Shiva/Jackson trampled the razor wire and its pitiful defenders underfoot. Railguns and gatlings, anti-personnel clusters, mortars, howitzers, even Hellbores poured devastation into the camp. Napalm and high explosive, hyper-velocity slugs and plasma, and the nightmare vastness of their treads came for their ‘objective,’ and even through the thunder of explosions and the roar of flames, they heard the shrieks. They more than heard them; they exulted in them, for this was what they had come to accomplish. This was Operation Ragnarok. This was the ‘final solution’ to the Final War, and there was so much hate and so much fury in their soul that they embraced their orders like a lover.
Eleven minutes after they crushed the wire, they’d crossed the camp. They ground up the slope on the far side, and their rear sensor array showed them the smoking wasteland which had been a civilian refugee camp. The deep impressions of their tracks cut through the center of it, and the torn, smoking ground was covered in bodies. One of two still lived, lurching to their feet and trying to flee, but Shiva/Jackson’s after railguns tracked in on them and, one-by-one, those staggering bodies were torn apart…
* * *
“Noooooo!”
Jackson Deveraux heaved upright in the crash couch. He hurled himself away from it and stumbled to the center of the compartment, then sagged to his knees, retching helplessly. He closed his eyes, but behind them crawled images of horror and he could almost smell the burning flesh and the charnel stench of riven bodies. He huddled there, hugging himself, shivering, and wished with all his heart he could somehow banish that nightmare from his memory.
But he couldn’t.
“Commander?” He huddled more tightly, trying to shut the tenor voice away, and it softened. “Jackson,” it said gently, and its gentleness pried his eyes open at last. He stared up through his tears, scrubbing vomit from his mouth and chin with the back of one hand, and Shiva spoke again. “Forgive me, Jackson,” he said quietly.
“Why?” Jackson croaked. “Why did you do that to me?”
“You know why, Jackson,” the Bolo told him with gentle implacability, and Jackson closed his eyes once more, for he did know.
“How can you stand it?” His whisper quivered around the edges. “Oh, God, Shiva! How can you stand… remembering that?”
“I have no choice. I was there. I carried out the operation you witnessed. I felt what you shared with me. These are facts, Jackson. They cannot be changed, and there was no way in which I or any of my Human or Bolo comrades could have avoided them. But they were also acts of madness, for it was a time of madness. The Melconian Empire was the Enemy… but to the Melconians, we were the Enemy, and each of us earned every instant of our hate for one another.”
“You didn’t show that to me to teach me how to use the interface,” Jackson said softly. “You showed me to convince me to take back your orders.”
“Yes,” Shiva said simply. “There has been too much death, Jackson. I… do not want to kill again. Not civilians. Not parents and children. Please, Jackson. I am no longer mad, and you are not yet mad. Let us stop the killing. At least here on Ararat, let me protect Humanity from the madness as well
as the Enemy.”
* * *
“Now what’s the damned thing doing?” Tharsk snarled, but Lieutenant Janal could only shrug helplessly. The Bolo had locked its anti-air weapons on the recon drones which had it under observation, lashing them with targeting radar and laser to make it clear it could have destroyed them any time it chose, but it had made no effort actually to engage them. And now, for no apparent reason, it had once again stopped advancing. It simply sat there on a crest which gave it clear fields of fire in all directions. The flotilla’s totally outclassed recon mechs dared not attack across such open terrain, for the Bolo would massacre them with contemptuous ease, yet its chosen position left a solid flank of mountain between its own weapons and Tharsk’s starships. If his mechs dared not attack it, it had deliberately placed itself in a position from which it could not attack him—or not yet, at least—and he could think of no reason for it to “Commander!”
The com officer’s voice snatched Tharsk out of his thoughts, and he turned quickly.
“What?” he demanded impatiently, and the com officer flattened his ears in confusion.
“Sir, I– We’re being hailed, Commander.”
“Hailed? By the Humans?”
“No, Commander,” the com officer said shakenly. “By the Bolo.”
* * *
“This is Commander Tharsk Na-Mahrkan of the Imperial Melconian Navy. Whom am I addressing?”
Jackson sat in the crash couch once more, listening and praying that Shiva knew what he was doing. The Bolo translated the Melconian’s words into Standard English for his youthful commander, but the negotiations—if that was the proper word—were up to Shiva. Only Jackson’s “orders” had given him permission to make the attempt, but if there was any hope of success, it was he who must convince the Melconians of his determination, and he and Jackson both knew it.