by Keith Laumer
30
It appears that the enemy is absorbing my barrage with little effect. More precisely, for each enemy unit destroyed by my fire 2.4 fresh units immediately move out to replace it. Thus it appears I am ineffective, while already my own shielding is suffering severe damage. Yet while I have offensive capability I must carry on as my commander would wish. The pain is very great now, but thanks to my superb circuitry I am not disabled, though it has been necessary to withdraw my power from my external somatic sensors.
“I can assure you, gentlemen, insofar as simple logic functions are concerned, the Mark XX is perfectly capable of assessing the situation even as you and I, only better. Doubtless as soon as it senses that its position has grown totally untenable, it will retreat to the shelter of the rock ridge and retire under cover to a position from which it can return fire without taking the full force of the enemy’s attack at point-blank range. It’s been fully briefed on late developments, it knows this is a hopeless fight. There, you see? It’s moving …”
32
“I thought you said—dammit, I know you said your pet machine had brains enough to know when to pull out! But look at it: half a billion plus of Concordiat funds being bombarded into radioactive rubbish. Like shooting fish in a barrel.”
33
“Yes, sir, I’m monitoring everything. My test panel is tuned to it across the board. I’m getting continuous reading on all still-active circuits. Battle Reflex is still hot. Pain circuits close to overload, but he’s still taking it. I don’t know how much more he can take, sir; already way past Redline. Expected him to break off and get out before now.”
34
“It’s a simple matter of arithmetic; there is only one correct course of action in any given military situation. The big tactical computer was designed specifically to compare data and deduce that sole correct action. In this case my readout shows that the only thing the Mark XX could legitimately do at this point is just what the Professor here says: pull back to cover and continue its barrage. The onboard computing capability of the unit is as capable of reaching that conclusion, as is the big computer at HQ. So keep calm, gentlemen. It will withdraw at any moment, I assure you of that.”
35
“Now it’s getting ready—no, look what it’s doing! It’s advancing into the teeth of that murderous fire. By God, you’ve got to admire that workmanship! That it’s still capable of moving is a miracle. All the ablative metal is gone—you can see its bare armor exposed—and it takes some heat to make that flint-steel glow white!”
36
“Certainly, I’m looking. I see it. By God, sir, it’s still moving—faster, in fact! Charging the enemy line like the Light Brigade! And all for nothing, it appears. Your machine, General, appears less competent than you expected.”
37
Poor old Denny. Made his play and played out, I reckon. Readings on the board over there don’t look good; durn near every overload in him blowed wide open. Not much there to salvage. Emergency Survival Center’s hot. Never expected to see that. Means all kinds of breakdowns inside. But it figures, after what he just went through. Look at that slag pit he drove up out of. They wanted a field test. Reckon they got it. And he flunked it.
38
“Violating orders and winning is one thing, George. Committing mutiny and losing is quite another. Your damned machine made a fool of me. After I stepped in and backed you to the hilt and stood there like a jackass and assured Councillor Grace that the thing knew what it was doing—it blows the whole show. Instead of pulling back to save itself it charged to destruction. I want an explanation of this fiasco at once.”
39
“Look! No, by God, over there! On the left of the entrance. They’re breaking formation—they’re running for it! Watch this! The whole spearhead is crumbling, they’re taking to the badlands, they’re—”
40
“Why, dammit? It’s outside all rationality. As far as the enemy’s concerned, fine. They broke and ran. They couldn’t stand up to the sight of the Mark XX not only taking everything they had, but advancing on them out of that inferno, all guns blazing. Another hundred yards and—but they don’t know that. It buffaloed them, so score a battle won for our side. But why? I’d stack my circuits up against any fixed installation in existence, including the big Tacomp the Army’s so proud of. That machine was as aware as anybody that the only smart thing to do was run. So now I’ve got a junk pile on my hands. Some test! A clear flunk. Destroyed in action. Not recommended for Federal procurement. Nothing left but a few hot transistors in the Survival Center. It’s a disaster, Fred. All my work, all your work, the whole program wrecked. Fred, you talk to General Bates. As soon as he’s done inspecting the hulk he’ll want somebody human to chew out.”
41
“Look at that pile of junk! Reading off the scale. Won’t be cool enough to haul to Disposal for six months. I understand you’re Chief Engineer at Bolo Division. You built this thing. Maybe you can tell me what you had in mind here. Sure, it stood up to fire better than I hoped. But so what? A stone wall can stand and take it. This thing is supposed to be smart, supposed to feel pain like a living creature. Blunting the strike at the Complex was a valuable contribution, but how can I recommend procurement of this junk heap?”
42
Why, Denny? Just tell me why you did it. You got all these military brass down on you, and on me, too. On all of us. They don’t much like stuff they can’t understand. You attacked when they figured you to run. Sure, you routed the enemy, like Bates says, but you got yourself ruined in the process. Don’t make sense. Any dumb private, along with the generals, would have known enough to get out of there. Tell me why, so I’ll have something for Bates to put on his Test Evaluation Report, AGF Form 1103-6, Rev 11/3/85.
43
“All right, Unit DNE of the line. Why did you do it? This is your Commander, Unit DNE. Report! Why did you do it? Now, you knew your position was hopeless, didn’t you? That you’d be destroyed if you held your ground, to say nothing of advancing. Surely you were able to compute that. You were lucky to have the chance to prove yourself.”
For a minute I thought old Denny was too far gone to answer. There was just a kind of groan come out of the amplifier. Then it firmed up. General Bates had his hand cupped behind his ear, but Denny spoke right up.
“Yes, sir.”
“You knew what was at stake here. It was the ultimate test of your ability to perform correctly under stress, of your suitability as a weapon of war. You knew that. General Margrave and old Priss Grace and the press boys all had their eyes on every move you made. So instead of using common sense, you waded into that inferno in defiance of all logic—and destroyed yourself. Right?”
“That is correct, sir.”
“Then why? In the name of sanity, tell me why! Why, instead of backing out and saving yourself, did you charge? … Wait a minute, Unit DNE. It just dawned on me. I’ve been underestimating you. You knew, didn’t you? Your knowledge of human psychology told you they’d break and run, didn’t it?”
“No, sir. On the contrary, I was quite certain that they were as aware as I that they held every advantage.”
“Then that leaves me back where I started. Why? What made you risk everything on a hopeless attack? Why did you do it?”
“For the honor of the regiment.”
THE LAST COMMAND
I come to awareness, sensing a residual oscillation traversing me from an arbitrarily designated heading of 035. From the damping rate I compute that the shock was of intensity 8.7, emanating from a source within the limits 72 meters/46 meters. I activate my primary screens, trigger a return salvo. There is no response. I engage reserve energy cells, bring my secondary battery to bear—futilely. It is apparent that I have been ranged by the Enemy and severely damaged.
My positional sensors indicate that I am resting at an angle of 13 degrees 14 seconds, deflected from a baseline at 21 points from median. I attempt to right myself, but e
ncounter massive resistance. I activate my forward scanners, shunt power to my I-R microstrobes. Not a flicker illuminates my surroundings. I am encased in utter blackness.
Now a secondary shock wave approaches, rocks me with an intensity of 8.2. It is apparent that I must withdraw from my position—but my drive trains remain inert under full thrust. I shift to base emergency power, try again. Pressure mounts; I sense my awareness fading under the intolerable strain; then, abruptly, resistance falls off and lam in motion.
It is not the swift maneuvering of full drive, however; I inch forward, as if restrained by massive barriers. Again I attempt to penetrate the surrounding darkness and this time perceive great irregular outlines shot through with fracture planes. I probe cautiously, then more vigorously, encountering incredible densities.
I channel all available power to a single ranging pulse, direct it upward. The indication is so at variance with all experience that I repeat the test at a new angle. Now I must accept the fact: I am buried under 207.6 meters of solid rock!
I direct my attention to an effort to orient myself to my uniquely desperate situation. I run through an action-status checklist of thirty thousand items, feel dismay at the extent of power loss. My main cells are almost completely drained, my reserve units at no more than .4 charge. Thus my sluggishness is explained. I review the tactical situation, recall the triumphant announcement from my commander that the Enemy forces were annihilated, that all resistance had ceased. In memory, I review the formal procession; in company with my comrades of the Dinochrome Brigade, many of us deeply scarred by Enemy action, we parade before the Grand Commandant, then assemble on the depot ramp. At command, we bring our music storage cells into phase and display our Battle Anthem. The nearby star radiates over a full spectrum unfiltered by atmospheric haze. It is a moment of glorious triumph. Then the final command is given—
The rest is darkness. But it is apparent that the victory celebration was premature. The Enemy has counterattacked with a force that has come near to immobilizing me. The realization is shocking, but the .1 second of leisurely introspection has clarified my position. At once, I broadcast a call on Brigade Action wave length:
“Unit LNE to Command, requesting permission to file VSR.
I wait, sense no response, call again, using full power. I sweep the enclosing volume of rock with an emergency alert warning. I tune to the all-units band, await the replies of my comrades of the Brigade. None answer. Now I must face the reality: I alone have survived the assault.
I channel my remaining power to my drive and detect a channel of reduced density. I press for it and the broken rock around me yields reluctantly. Slowly, I move forward and upward. My pain circuitry shocks my awareness center with emergency signals; I am doing irreparable damage to my overloaded neural systems, but my duty is clear: I must seek out and engage the Enemy.
2
Emerging from behind the blast barrier, Chief Engineer Pete Reynolds of the New Devonshire Port Authority pulled off his rock mask and spat grit from his mouth.
“That’s the last one; we’ve bottomed out at just over two hundred yards. Must have hit a hard stratum down there.”
“It’s almost sundown,” the paunchy man beside him said shortly. “You’re a day and a half behind schedule.”
“We’ll start backfilling now, Mr. Mayor. I’ll have pilings poured by oh-nine hundred tomorrow, and with any luck the first section of pad will be in place in time for the rally.”
“I’m—” The mayor broke off, looked startled. “I thought you told me that was the last charge to be fired. …”
Reynolds frowned. A small but distinct tremor had shaken the ground underfoot. A few feet away, a small pebble balanced atop another toppled and fell with a faint clatter.
“Probably a big rock fragment falling,” he said. At that moment, a second vibration shook the earth, stronger this time. Reynolds heard a rumble and a distant impact as rock fell from the side of the newly blasted excavation. He whirled to the control shed as the door swung back and Second Engineer Mayfield appeared.
“Take a look at this, Pete!”
Reynolds went across to the hut, stepped inside. Mayfield was bending over the profiling table.
“What do you make of it?” he pointed. Superimposed on the heavy red contour representing the detonation of the shaped charge that had completed the drilling of the final pile core were two other traces, weak but distinct.
“About .1 intensity.” Mayfield looked puzzled. “What—”
The tracking needle dipped suddenly, swept up the screen to peak at .21, dropped back. The hut trembled. A stylus fell from the edge of the table. The red face of Mayor Dougherty burst through the door.
“Reynolds, have you lost your mind? What’s the idea of blasting while I’m standing out in the open? I might have been killed!”
“I’m not blasting,” Reynolds snapped. “Jim, get Eaton on the line, see if they know anything.” He stepped to the door, shouted. A heavyset man in sweat-darkened coveralls swung down from the seat of a cable-lift rig.
“Boss, what goes on?” he called as he came up. “Damn near shook me out of my seat!”
“I don’t know. You haven’t set any trim charges?”
“Jesus, no, boss. I wouldn’t set no charges without your say-so.”
“Come on.” Reynolds started out across the rubble-littered stretch of barren ground selected by the Authority as the site of the new spaceport. Halfway to the open mouth of the newly blasted pit, the ground under his feet rocked violently enough to make him stumble. A gout of dust rose from the excavation ahead. Loose rock danced on the ground. Beside him the drilling chief grabbed his arm.
“Boss, we better get back!”
Reynolds shook him off, kept going. The drill chief swore and followed. The shaking of the ground went on, a sharp series of thumps interrupting a steady trembling.
“It’s a quake!” Reynolds yelled over the low rumbling sound.
He and the chief were at the rim of the core now.
“It can’t be a quake, boss,” the latter shouted. “Not in these formations!”
“Tell it to the geologists—” The rock slab they were standing on rose a foot, dropped back. Both men fell. The slab bucked like a small boat in choppy water.
“Let’s get out of here!” Reynolds was up and running. Ahead, a fissure opened, gaped a foot wide. He jumped it, caught a glimpse of black depths, a glint of wet clay twenty feet below—
A hoarse scream stopped him in his tracks. He spun, saw the drill chief down, a heavy splinter of rock across his legs. He jumped to him, heaved at the rock. There was blood on the man’s shirt. The chief’s hands beat the dusty rock before him. Then other men were there, grunting, sweaty hands gripping beside Reynolds. The ground rocked. The roar from under the earth had risen to a deep, steady rumble. They lifted the rock aside, picked up the injured man, and stumbled with him to the aid shack.
The mayor was there, white-faced.
“What is it, Reynolds? By God, if you’re responsible—”
“Shut up!” Reynolds brushed him aside, grabbed the phone, punched keys.
“Eaton! What have you got on this temblor?”
“Temblor, hell.” The small face on the four-inch screen looked like a ruffled hen. “What in the name of Order are you doing out there? I’m reading a whole series of displacements originating from that last core of yours! What did you do, leave a pile of trim charges lying around?”
“It’s a quake. Trim charges, hell! This thing’s broken up two hundred yards of surface rock. It seems to be traveling north-northeast—”
“I see that; a traveling earthquake!” Eaton flapped his arms, a tiny and ridiculous figure against a background of wall charts and framed diplomas. “Well—do something, Reynolds! Where’s Mayor Dougherty?”
“Underfoot!” Reynolds snapped, and cut off.
Outside, a layer of sunset-stained dust obscured the sweep of level plain. A rock-dozer rumbled up, g
round to a halt by Reynolds. A man jumped down.
“I got the boys moving equipment out,” he panted. “The thing’s cutting a trail straight as a rule for the highway!” He pointed to a raised roadbed a quarter mile away.
“How fast is it moving?”
“She’s done a hundred yards; it hasn’t been ten minutes yet!”
“If it keeps up another twenty minutes, it’ll be into the Intermix!”
“Scratch a few million cees and six months’ work then, Pete!”
“And Southside Mall’s a couple miles farther.”
“Hell, it’ll damp out before then!”
“Maybe. Grab a field car, Dan.”
“Pete!” Mayfield came up at a trot. “This thing’s building! The centroid’s moving on a heading of oh-two-two—”
“How far subsurface?”
“It’s rising; started at two-twenty yards, and it’s up to one-eighty!”
“What the hell have we stirred up?” Reynolds stared at Mayfield as the field car skidded to a stop beside them.
“Stay with it, Jim. Give me anything new. We’re taking a closer look.” He climbed into the rugged vehicle.
“Take a blast truck—”
“No time!” He waved and the car gunned away into the pall of dust.
3
The rock car pulled to a stop at the crest of the three-level Intermix on a lay-by designed to permit tourists to enjoy the view of the site of the proposed port, a hundred feet below. Reynolds studied the progress of the quake through field glasses. From this vantage point, the path of the phenomenon was a clearly defined trail of tilted and broken rock, some of the slabs twenty feet across. As he watched, the fissure lengthened.