Bolo

by Keith Laumer

  I went along to the end of the corridor. From the transverse hall, a grand staircase rose in a sweep of bright chrome and pale wood. I didn’t know where it led, but it looked right. I headed for it, moving along briskly like a man with important business in mind and no time for light chitchat.

  Two flights up, in a wide corridor of muted lights, deep carpets, brocaded wall hangings, mirrors, urns, and an odor of expensive tobacco and cuir russe, a small man in black bustled from a side corridor. He saw me. He opened his mouth, closed it, half turned away, then swung back to face me. I recognized him; he was the headwaiter who had pointed out the flaws in my waiting style half an hour earlier.

  “Here—” he started.

  I chopped him short with a roar of what I hoped was authentic upper-crust rage.

  “Direct me to his Excellency’s apartments, scum! And thank your guardian imp I’m in too great haste to cane you for the insolent look about you!”

  He went pale, gulped hard, and pointed. I snorted and stamped past him down the turning he had indicated.

  This was Baronial country, all right. A pair of guards stood at the far end of the corridor.

  I’d passed half a dozen with no more than a click of heels to indicate they saw me. These two shouldn’t be any different—and it wouldn’t look good if I turned and started back at sight of them. The first rule of the gate-crasher is to look as if you belong where you are.

  I headed in their direction.

  When I was fifty feet from them they both shifted rifles—not to present-arms position, but at the ready. The nickle-plated bayonets were aimed right at me. It was no time for me to look doubtful; I kept on coming. At twenty feet, I heard their rifle bolts snick home. I could see the expressions on their faces now; they looked as nervous as a couple of teenage sailors on their first visit to a joyhouse.

  “Point those butter knives into the corner, you banana-fingered cotton choppers!” I said, looking bored, and didn’t waver. I unlimbered my swagger stick and slapped my gloved hand with it, letting them think it over. The gun muzzles dropped—just slightly. I followed up fast.

  “Which is the anteroom to the Baron’s apartments?” I demanded.

  “Uh … this here is his Excellency’s apartments, sir, but—”

  “Never mind the lecture, you milk-faced fool,” I cut in. “Which is the anteroom, damn you!”

  “We got orders, sir. Nobody’s to come closer than that last door back there.”

  “We got orders to shoot,” the other interrupted. He was a little older—maybe twenty-two. I turned on him.

  “I’m waiting for an answer to a question!”

  “Sir, the Articles—”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I think you’ll find paragraph Two B covers Special Cosmic Top Secret Couriers. When you go off duty, report yourselves on punishment. Now, the anteroom! And be quick about it!”

  The bayonets were sagging now. The younger of the two licked his lips. “Sir, we never been inside. We don’t know how it’s laid out in there. If the colonel wants to just take a look …”

  The other guard opened his mouth to say something. I didn’t wait to find out what it was. I stepped between them, muttering something about bloody recruits and important messages, and worked the fancy handle on the big gold and white door. I paused to give the two sentries a hard look.

  “I hope I don’t have to remind you that any mention of the movements of a Cosmic Courier is punishable by slow death. Just forget you ever saw me.” I went on in and closed the door without waiting to catch the reaction to that one.

  The Baron had done well by himself in the matter of decor. The room I was in—a sort of lounge-cum-bar—was paved in two-inch-deep nylon fuzz, the color of a fog at sea, that foamed up at the edges against walls of pale blue brocade with tiny yellow flowers. The bar was a teak log split down the middle and polished. The glasses sitting on it were like tissue paper engraved with patterns of nymphs and satyrs. Subdued light came from somewhere, along with a faint melody that seemed to speak of youth, long ago.

  I went on into the room. I found more soft light, the glow of hand-rubbed rare woods, rich fabrics, and wide windows with a view of dark night sky. The music was coming from a long, low, built-in speaker with a lamp, a heavy crystal ashtray, and a display of hothouse roses. There was a scent in the air. Not the cuir russe and Havana leaf I’d smelled in the hall, but a subtler perfume.

  I turned and looked into the eyes of a girl with long black lashes. Smooth black hair came down to bare shoulders. An arm as smooth and white as whipped cream was draped over a chair back, the hand holding an eight-inch cigarette holder and sporting a diamond as inconspicuous as a chrome-plated hubcap.

  “You must want something pretty badly,” she murmured, batting her eyelashes at me. I could feel the breeze at ten feet. I nodded. Under the circumstances that was about the best I could do.

  “What could it be,” she mused, “that’s worth being shot for?” Her voice was like the rest of her: smooth, polished and relaxed—and with plenty of moxie held in reserve. She smiled casually, drew on her cigarette, tapped ashes onto the rug.

  “Something bothering you, colonel?” she inquired. “You don’t seem talkative.”

  “I’ll do my talking when the Baron arrives,” I said.

  “In that case, Jackson,” said a husky voice behind me, “you can start any time you like.”

  I held my hands clear of my body and turned around slowly—just in case there was a nervous gun aimed at my spine. The Baron was standing near the door, unarmed, relaxed. There were no guards in sight. The girl looked mildly amused. I put my hand on the pistol butt.

  “How do you know my name?” I asked.

  The Baron waved toward a chair. “Sit down, Jackson,” he said, almost gently. “You’ve had a tough time of it—but you’re all right now.” He walked past me to the bar, poured out two glasses, turned, and offered me one. I felt a little silly standing there fingering the gun; I went over and took the drink.

  “To the old days.” The Baron raised his glass.

  I drank. It was the genuine ancient stock, all right. “I asked you how you knew my name,” I said.

  “That’s easy. I used to know you.”

  He smiled faintly. There was something about his face …

  “You look well in the uniform of the Penn dragoons,” he said. “Better than you ever did in Aerospace blue.”

  “Good God!” I said. “Toby Mallon!”

  He ran a hand over his bald head. “A little less hair on top, plus a beard as compensation, a few wrinkles, a slight pot. Oh, I’ve changed, Jackson.”

  “I had it figured as close to eighty years,” I said. “The trees, the condition of the buildings—”

  “Not far off the mark. Seventy-eight years this spring.”

  “You’re a well-preserved hundred and ten, Toby.”

  He nodded. “I know how you feel. Rip Van Winkle had nothing on us.”

  “Just one question, Toby. The men you sent out to pick me up seemed more interested in shooting than talking. I’m wondering why.”

  Mallon threw out his hands. “A little misunderstanding, Jackson. You made it; that’s all that counts. Now that you’re here, we’ve got some planning to do together. I’ve had it tough these last twenty years. I started off with nothing: a few hundred scavengers living in the ruins, hiding out every time Jersey or Dee-Cee raided for supplies. I built an organization, started a systematic salvage operation. I saved everything the rats and the weather hadn’t gotten to, spruced up my palace here, and stocked it. It’s a rich province, Jackson—”

  “And now you own it all. Not bad, Toby.”

  “They say knowledge is power. I had the knowledge.”

  I finished my drink and put the glass on the bar.

  “What’s this planning you say we have to do?”

  Mallon leaned back on one elbow.

  “Jackson, it’s been a long haul—alone. It’s good to see an old shipmate. But we
’ll dine first.”

  “I might manage to nibble a little something. Say a horse, roasted whole. Don’t bother to remove the saddle.”

  He laughed. “First we eat,” he said. “Then we conquer the world.”

  6

  I squeezed the last drop from the Beaujolais bottle and watched the girl, whose name was Renada, hold a light for the cigar Mallon had taken from a silver box. My blue mess jacket and holster hung over the back of the chair. Everything was cosy now.

  “Time for business, Jackson,” Mallon said. He blew out smoke and looked at me through it. “How did things look—inside?”

  “Dusty. But intact, below ground level. Upstairs, there’s blast damage and weathering. I don’t suppose it’s changed much since you came out twenty years ago. As far as I could tell, the Primary Site is okay.”

  Mallon leaned forward. “Now, you made it out past the Bolo. How did it handle itself? Still fully functional?”

  I sipped my wine, thinking over my answer, remembering the Bolo’s empty guns …

  “It damn near gunned me down. It’s getting a little old and it can’t see as well as it used to, but it’s still a tough baby.”

  Mallon swore suddenly. “It was Mackenzie’s idea. A last-minute move when the tech crews had to evacuate. It was a dusting job, you know.”

  “I hadn’t heard. How did you find out all this?”

  Mallon shot me a sharp look. “There were still a few people around who’d been in it. But never mind that. What about the Supply Site? That’s what we’re interested in. Fuel, guns, even some nuclear stuff. Heavy equipment; there’s a couple more Bolos, mothballed, I understand. Maybe we’ll even find one or two of the Colossus missiles still in their silos. I made an air recon a few years back before my chopper broke down—”

  “I think two silo doors are still in place. But why the interest in armament?”

  Mallon snorted. “You’ve got a few things to learn about the setup, Jackson. I need that stuff. If I hadn’t lucked into a stock of weapons and ammo in the armory cellar, Jersey would be wearing the spurs in my palace right now!”

  I drew on my cigar and let the silence stretch out.

  “You said something about conquering the world, Toby. I don’t suppose by any chance you meant that literally?”

  Mallon stood up, his closed fists working like a man crumpling unpaid bills. “They all want what I’ve got! They’re all waiting.” He walked across the room, back. “I’m ready to move against them now! I can put four thousand trained men in the field—”

  “Let’s get a couple of things straight, Mallon,” I cut in. “You’ve got the natives fooled with this Baron routine. But don’t try it on me. Maybe it was even necessary once; maybe there’s an excuse for some of the stories I’ve heard. That’s over now. I’m not interested in tribal warfare or gang rumbles. I need—”

  “Better remember who’s running things here, Jackson!” Mallon snapped. “It’s not what you need that counts.” He took another turn up and down the room, then stopped, facing me.

  “Look, Jackson. I know how to get around in this jungle; you don’t. If I hadn’t spotted you and given some orders, you’d have been gunned down before you’d gone ten feet past the ballroom door.”

  “Why’d you let me in? I might’ve been gunning for you.”

  “You wanted to see the Baron alone. That suited me, too. If word got out—” He broke off, cleared his throat. “Let’s stop wrangling, Jackson. We can’t move until the Bolo guarding the site has been neutralized. There’s only one way to do that: knock it out! And the only thing that can knock out a Bolo is another Bolo.”

  “So?”

  “I’ve got another Bolo, Jackson. It’s been covered, maintained. It can go up against the Troll—” He broke off, laughed shortly. “That’s what the mob called it.”

  “You could have done that years ago. Where do I come in?”

  “You’re checked out on a Bolo, Jackson. You know something about this kind of equipment.”

  “Sure. So do you.”

  “I never learned,” he said shortly.

  “Who’s kidding who, Mallon? We all took the same orientation course less than a month ago—”

  “For me it’s been a long month. Let’s say I’ve forgotten.”

  “You parked that Bolo at your front gate and then forgot how you did it, eh?”

  “Nonsense. It’s always been there.”

  I shook my head. “I know different.”

  Mallon looked wary. “Where’d you get that idea?”

  “Somebody told me.”

  Mallon ground his cigar out savagely on the damask cloth. “You’ll point the scum out to me!”

  “I don’t give a damn whether you moved it or not. Anybody with your training can figure out the controls of a Bolo in half an hour—”

  “Not well enough to take on the Tr—another Bolo.”

  I took a cigar from the silver box, picked up the lighter from the table, turned the cigar in the flame. Suddenly it was very quiet in the room.

  I looked across at Mallon. He held out his hand.

  “I’ll take that,” he said shortly.

  I blew out smoke, squinted through it at Mallon. He sat with his hand out, waiting. I looked down at the lighter.

  It was a heavy windproof model with embossed Aerospace wings. I turned it over. Engraved letters read: Lieut. Commander Don G. Banner, USAF. I looked up. Renada sat quietly, holding my pistol trained dead on my belt buckle.

  “I’m sorry you saw that,” Mallon said. “It could cause misunderstandings.”

  “Where’s Banner?”

  “He … died. I told you—”

  “You told me a lot of things, Toby. Some of them might even be true. Did you make him the same offer you’ve made me?”

  Mallon darted a look at Renada. She sat holding the pistol, looking at me distantly, without expression.

  “You’ve got the wrong idea, Jackson—” Mallon started.

  “You and he came out about the same time,” I said. “Or maybe you got the jump on him by a few days. It must have been close; otherwise you’d never have taken him. Don was a sharp boy.”

  “You’re out of your mind!” Mallon snapped. “Why, Banner was my friend!”

  “Then why do you get nervous when I find his lighter on your table? There could be ten perfectly harmless explanations.”

  “I don’t make explanations,” Mallon said flatly.

  “That attitude is hardly the basis for a lasting partnership, Toby. I have an unhappy feeling there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  Mallon pulled himself up in the chair. “Look here, Jackson. We’ve no reason to fall out. There’s plenty for both of us—and one day I’ll be needing a successor. It was too bad about Banner, but that’s ancient history now. Forget it. I want you with me, Jackson! Together we can rule the Atlantic seaboard—or even more!”

  I drew on my cigar, looking at the gun in Renada’s hand. “You hold the aces, Toby. Shooting me would be no trick at all.”

  “There’s no trick involved, Jackson!” Mallon snapped. “After all,” he went on, almost wheedling now, “we’re old friends. I want to give you a break, share with you—”

  “I don’t think I’d trust him if I were you, Mr. Jackson,” Renada’s quiet voice cut in. I looked at her. She looked back calmly. “You’re more important to him than you think.”

  “That’s enough, Renada,” Mallon barked. “Go to your room at once.”

  “Not just yet, Toby,” she said. “I’m also curious about how Commander Banner died.” I looked at the gun in her hand.

  It wasn’t pointed at me now. It was aimed at Mallon’s chest.

  Mallon sat sunk deep in his chair, looking at me with eyes like a python with a bellyache. “You’re fools, both of you,” he grated. “I gave you everything, Renada. I raised you like my own daughter. And you, Jackson. You could have shared with me—all of it.”

  “I don’t need a share of yo
ur delusions, Toby. I’ve got a set of my own. But before we go any farther, let’s clear up a few points. Why haven’t you been getting any mileage out of your tame Bolo? And what makes me important in the picture?”

  “He’s afraid of the Bolo machine,” Renada said. “There’s a spell on it which prevents men from approaching—even the Baron.”

  “Shut your mouth, you fool!” Mallon choked on his fury. I tossed the lighter in my hand and felt a smile twitching at my mouth.

  “So Don was too smart for you after all. He must have been the one who had control of the Bolo. I suppose you called for a truce, and then shot him out from under the white flag. But he fooled you. He plugged a command into the Bolo’s circuits to fire on anyone who came close—unless he was Banner.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “It’s close enough. You can’t get near the Bolo. Right? And after twenty years, the bluff you’ve been running on the other Barons with your private troll must be getting a little thin. Any day now one of them may decide to try you.”

  Mallon twisted his face in what may have been an attempt at a placating smile. “I won’t argue with you, Jackson. You’re right about the command circuit. Banner set it up to fire an antipersonnel blast at anyone coming within fifty yards. He did it to keep the mob from tampering with the machine. But there’s a loophole. It wasn’t only Banner who could get close. He set it up to accept any of the Prometheus crew—except me. He hated me. It was a trick to try to get me killed.”

  “So you’re figuring I’ll step in and de-fuse her for you, eh, Toby? Well, I’m sorry as hell to disappoint you, but somehow in the confusion I left my electropass behind.”

  Mallon leaned toward me. “I told you we need each other, Jackson: I’ve got your pass. Yours and all the others. Renada, hand me my black box.” She rose and moved across to the desk, holding the gun on Mallon—and on me, too, for that matter.

  “Where’d you get my pass, Mallon?”

  “Where do you think? They’re the duplicates from the vault in the old command block. I knew one day one of you would come out. I’ll tell you, Jackson, it’s been hell, waiting all these years—and hoping. I gave orders that any time the Great Troll bellowed, the mob was to form up and stop anybody who came out. I don’t know how you got through them …”