The Road to Damascus (bolo)

by John Ringo

  “No Bolo is ever ‘deactivated’ until and unless it is killed. Even badly damaged Bolos can survive literally for a century or more and return to full awareness in less than a single pico-second. Sar Gremian, himself, is responsible for Sonny’s awake status. He carried a concealed firearm into a restricted military zone with a Class One-Alpha weapons system inside it. Given his status as your chief advisor, he was permitted to retain that weapon, as a courtesy to his position on your personal staff. But anyone who enters a Bolo’s reflex-alarm zone triggers a return to consciousness. Anyone carrying a weapon into that zone triggers an active-alert status. If that weapon is handled in a threatening manner, that action will set off an automatic Battle Reflex action. You can,” Simon adds with an elegant touch of sarcasm, “send a query to Sector Command, requesting verification of these facts. Be sure to attach a copy of the recording Sonny made, showing Sar Gremian trying to shoot me.”

  President Zeloc’s coloration once again resembles his maroon cravat.

  “That won’t be necessary! Very well, I will take your explanation under advisement. What I want from you — the only thing I want from you — is to send that Bolo into town and clean out that pack of rabble-rousing protestors.”

  “As I explained to Sar Gremian,” Simon replies coldly, “Sonny stays where he is. In your haste to disperse your political opposition by using a mobile nuclear weapons platform, did you bother to consider the size of Unit-0045’s warhull and treads, as compared with the size of Jefferson’s streets?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sonny,” Simon speaks as though addressing a small and none-too-bright child, “is a big-ass, honking war machine. His treads alone are wider than all but two or three streets anywhere in Madison. Darconi Street is just barely wide enough, if you don’t mind losing the decorative stonework, wrought-iron balconies, doorways, news kiosks, or vehicles lining the sidewalks. Not to mention the building fronts he’d have to demolish along the five kilometers of city streets he would have to navigate just to reach the area where the protestors are gathered.

  “And that’s just his treads. Sonny’s warhull and the weapons projecting out from it are wider than the treads. Considerably wider. If you really want Sonny to drive protestors out of Law Square, you’ll have to decide which corner of Assembly Hall you would like him to flatten, trying to get there. Or, if you like, he could always flatten the concert hall in Lendan Park, instead. Or the southeast corner of the Museum of Science and Industry, or maybe the northern wing of the Planetary Justice Hall? Take my word for it, the only time you’re likely to want that Bolo in downtown Madison is if the Deng or Melconians are throwing weapons at you. At which point, collateral damage from knocking down part of a building will be the least of your concerns.”

  Gifre Zeloc evidently likes the color maroon. He sputters for three point two seconds, then says in a squeaking voice, “He won’t fit?”

  “No, he won’t. You were,” Simon finishes with sweet derision, “briefed on Unit 0045’s major operational specs when you assumed office. I do assume you actually read them?”

  “I read what I goddamned well have time to read! Fine, the fucking thing won’t fit! So what are you going to do about all these protestors?”

  “Me?” Simon queries, lifting one brow. “I’m not doing anything. Handling a lawfully conducted political rally is your problem, not mine. Of course, it might become my problem, if you turn loose an unholy jihad of P-Squadrons against a crowd of unarmed civilians. The Concordiat’s not real fond of slavery and ethnic cleansing, either, and speaking as an outside observer, you’re skatin’ on mighty thin and spidery ice, mister. You might just want to chew on that for a bit, before you decide to start slinging around more orders.”

  “I see.” Clipped. Angry. Dangerous. “Very well, Colonel, have it your way. For now,” he adds ominously.

  The transmision ends. I have taken the precaution of recording every millisecond of the exchange in my archival databanks. Simon has done what he can. Now, all he can do is wait.

  II

  Kafari was nearly frantic with worry, but she did exactly what she and Simon had agreed upon when they’d worked out that emergency code. She picked up their daughter, dragging her out of class, and headed for home. She maintained radio silence the whole way and switched off the AirDart’s auto-signal broadcast, in an effort to remain relatively invisible until they reached the safety of their quarters on Nineveh Base. She gripped the controls so tightly, her fingers ached. At least the need to concentrate on flying helped tune out Yalena’s scowl. Her daughter had spent the entire flight from her school to their home in a deep, adolescent sulk, which did not improve Kafari’s temper one jot.

  When they finally got home, Kafari took one look at Simon’s face and realized that however bad she’d feared it might be, it was worse. Far worse. So much so, her whole body went cold and scared. Simon was seated at his datascreen, staring blankly at something, a message she abruptly realized she didn’t want to know. She’d never seen that look on her husband’s face. A caved-in look, part horror, part defeat, all of it wrenching to witness.

  “Simon?” she whispered.

  He turned to look at her. Noticed Yalena. Brought his gaze back to Kafari.

  “Close the door, please.”

  Kafari did so, hand trembling. She locked it, carefully. When she turned around again, Simon was still looking at her. “I have just been notified,” he said, voice hoarse, “by Sector Command that Gifre Zeloc has invoked treaty provisions, demanding my removal from command or he will pull Jefferson out of the Concordiat.”

  Kafari’s knees turned to rubber. She groped for the sofa. “Can he do that?”

  “Oh, yes. With a vote of agreement from the Senate and House of Law. And we know only too well how such a vote would turn out, don’t we?”

  “What—” She had to stop and start again. “What in God’s name happened, Simon?”

  “Sar Gremian paid me a visit. There’s a demonstration underway in Law Square. President Zeloc wanted me to use Sonny to drive the protestors out. I said no. So Gremian and a couple of his goons showed up, to insist. When I refused, Gremian tried to pull a gun on me. Sonny responded.” A mirthless laugh sent chills down her back. “It might’ve been better if Sonny’d shot him. But he didn’t. Commendable restraint, at the time. Gifre Zeloc was not amused. I’ve sent a copy of the recording Sonny made to Sector, with a formal protest. This,” he gestured at the datascreen, the motion abrupt, bitter, “was their reply. I have never,” he added, “seen Brigade move so fast in my career, which tells me everything I need to know.”

  Kafari made herself cross the room. Made herself read the message.

  The Brigade supports your actions, which appear to have been proper and appropriate, but the Concordiat cannot afford to lose an allied world at this time, with a multi-system crisis of unprecedented proportions facing us. As Unit SOL-0045 is capable of independent battlefield action and given the low threat of invasion in the Silurian Void at this time, Sector has decided to reassign you to another Bolo in the Hakkor region, where three allied worlds are expected to come under heavy bombardment within a matter of weeks. A naval scout ship will be dispatched to take you to the Hakkor region to assume your new command. The scout will arrive in Jeffersonian space in three days. Your family will doubtless wish to emigrate. Quarters will be reserved for them at Sector Command.

  “Oh, God,” Kafari whispered. She looked up, read pain in Simon’s ravaged eyes.

  “You don’t want to go, do you?” he asked.

  “I go where you do!”

  It came out fierce, protective.

  “Where are we going?” Yalena demanded, jarring Kafari’s attention from Simon to their child, who was glaring up at them.

  “Your father has been reassigned off-world. We’re going to live at Sector Command.”

  Yalena’s eyes blazed. “You’re going to Sector Command! I’m not going anywhere!”

  Kafari starte
d to snap a tart rejoinder when a sinking, cold terror hit her gut. Yalena was thirteen years old. She had reached the “right of self-determination” age, under POPPA-mandated child-protection law. They literally could not force her to leave. She looked at Simon, saw the bleakness there, realized he’d already foreseen this turn of events. Kafari ripped herself for ten kinds of blind folly and sat down abruptly, staring utter disaster in the face.

  Her husband was being forced off-world by a regime ruthless enough to want a Bolo to disperse a few protestors. Her daughter was refusing to go. She knew Yalena, knew the stubborn core of that child, an unyielding determination that was, thanks to years of POPPA indoctrination, entirely misguided. There had to be a way! Some way out, something she could say or do to persuade her daughter to leave.

  The prospect of a life without Simon, wondering day to day, hour to hour, if he’d been killed on some far-off world, while coping with a home-front situation that looked more frightening with every passing week, left her winded, unable to think clearly. Her mind whirled, frantic to find some reassurance that her life had not just shattered to pieces. Simon, cold and silent, offered no reassurance because there was none to offer. Their life together was over, along with nearly everything she valued in the world. Taken from her by idiots.

  “Yalena,” she said in a hoarse voice that seemed disembodied, with no connection to her, “please go into your room.”

  Her daughter scowled, but did so, closing the door on her way.

  Simon looked at Kafari. She looked at him. “I can’t go with you,” she finally whispered.

  “I know.”

  “I can’t leave her here, alone. They’ve got her, Simon, they’ve got her heart and her mind, her very soul. I have to fight to get her back, somehow. I’ve got to break through all the crap she’s been force-fed and make her see the truth. I can’t just abandon her. If I did… If I left with you and ended up alone on some strange military base on a world where I don’t know anyone, I would go mad…”

  “I know.”

  There didn’t seem to be much else to say. He knew. Had known her well enough to realize what her choice must be. Had accepted it, even before she had walked through the front door. Kafari crossed the intervening space between them, knelt down beside his chair, and wrapped both arms around him. She just held on. Simon was trembling. So was she. He slid out of the chair, stood up with her, held onto her tightly enough to make breathing difficult. They stayed that way a long time, long enough to develop an ache in her ribs from the pressure. “Do you have any idea,” Simon whispered roughly, “how much I need you?”

  She shook her head, realizing in that moment that she could never know the answer to that agonized question. His heart thundered against hers. Tears blinded her. In this single, wrenching moment, the ache in her heart left no room for anything else, not even hatred of POPPA for doing this to them. That would come later. She was terrified for him. How could he go into battle, give his attention to the job of waging war, with thoughts of her and Yalena intruding, breaking his concentration? He needed her too much. She had jeopardized his effectiveness as an officer, without even realizing it.

  He finally let go a deep and shuddering sigh, relaxed his death-hold on her ribs, and pulled back enough to peer down into her wet eyes. He managed a tender smile and used gentle fingertips to dry her cheeks. “Here, now, what’s this? Don’t you know the first rule of being a colonel’s lady?”

  She shook her head.

  “Never send a man into combat with tears. Or curlers in your hair. Who wants to remember a woman with red eyes and hair wound up around plastic tubes?”

  A strangled sound, half hiccough, half laughter, broke loose. “Oh, Simon. You always know just what to say.” She blinked furiously, determined to get her fractured emotions under control. “Whatever are we going to do?”

  “Our duty,” he said with a rough burr in his voice. “You’re the strongest person I have ever known, Kafari Khrustinova. Do you have any idea how remarkable you are, dear lady?”

  She shook her head again. “I don’t feel very remarkable Simon. And I probably look like a drowned cat.”

  He smiled. “I’ve seen worse.” A sigh gusted loose. “I have a lot to do, if I’m leaving in three days. That,” he gestured at the datascreen again, “doesn’t become completely official until I set foot on the scoutship, at least, so I have some time to work with Sonny before I go. They may be harried and desperate at Sector, but they’re not entirely blind, either. That recording of Sar Gremian was enough to convince somebody that I’d better not be relieved of command over him instantly, no matter how much Gifre Zeloc threatens. He will doubtless be so delighted at getting his way, he won’t quibble about three days.”

  “And you can do a lot with him in three days?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, voice dangerous. “Oh, yes, indeed.”

  Kafari shivered. And hoped Simon knew what he was doing.

  “I’m going into Madison,” he said at length. “I’ve got to see the bank manager, among other things. You,” he said, placing both hands on her shoulders, “keep yourself and Yalena inside the house. Don’t open the door to anyone but me. And keep your gun within easy reach. Sonny’s on Active Standby Alert with orders to stop any attack on my quarters, but I believe in being prepared.”

  Kafari nodded. “Do you want me to start packing for you?” Her voice didn’t quite hold steady.

  Pain skittered through his eyes. “Yes, I think that would help. It would give you something to do. All the uniforms, please. And the personal sidearms. Besides the one I’ll be carrying, of course. Personal sundries, toiletries. A few changes of civilian clothing. I’ll be traveling light.”

  “I’ll make two piles. The definites and the maybes.”

  He kissed her, very gently.

  Then headed for the door. She wanted to run after him, tell him to be careful, tell him everything in her bursting heart, but she let him go. No tears. Nor anything like them. She was a colonel’s wife. She realized fully, for the first time, what that really entailed. She lifted her chin, stiffened her resolve, and marched into the bedroom to sort her husband’s things in preparation for his new war.

  And hers.

  III

  Yalena threw herself onto her bed and cried for a solid, miserable hour.

  It wasn’t fair! The very thought of going somewhere else, leaving her friends, her home, going to another star system where she would never see Ami-Lynn again, left her shaken so deeply, she couldn’t do anything but cry, muffling the sound in her pillow so her parents wouldn’t hear. She hated the Brigade, had never hated anyone or anything so much in her life. She had tried to love her father, but she just couldn’t. Her mother… sometimes, she felt very close to her mother. And other times, they were like strangers, unable to talk to one another through the glass walls between them, so thick Yalena despaired of ever truly getting through and making her mother understand.

  And now they wanted her to just go with them, just pack up her things and go away to a place where she wouldn’t know anybody or anything. The very thought of having to start over at a new school, where nobody understood anything really important, like saving the oceans or making sure that every child had legal rights to protect them, where nobody would like her because she was the new girl, different, with a father who killed for a living…

  Panic rose up and choked her until she couldn’t breathe, because there wasn’t room for the air inside a chest too full of terror and humiliation to take in anything else. Yalena had thought she’d long outgrown that kindergarten terror, but it was still there, down inside, where nobody could see it. She lay shaking for a long time, soaking the bedspread with tears and a streaming nose. When the worst of the storm had finally passed, she sat up, feeling shaky and light-headed. It was awfully quiet, out there. Yalena crept to the door and listened, but there were no voices outside. She heard someone in her parents’ room, opening and closing drawers, it sounded like.

 
; Yalena stepped to the window and peered outside, across the small yard to the landing pad. Her father’s aircar was gone. She clenched the curtains in one hand. He was gone! He hadn’t even said goodbye! Tears threatened again. Then reason reasserted itself. He couldn’t be gone, yet, because there weren’t any ships docked at Ziva Two, right now. Not even the Brigade could get a ship here that fast, could it? No. He must’ve gone into town. She finally realized what she was hearing, from her parents’ room. Her mother was packing.

  Yalena swallowed hard. Was her mother going to leave, too? Where would Yalena go? She had the right to stay, but she wasn’t sure where that would be. Could she move in with somebody like Ami-Lynn’s parents? Or would she have to go out to Klameth Canyon and live with her grandparents. Yuck. That would be dire. Almost as bad as going with her parents. She’d have to start a new school in that case, too, and if she went to school in Klameth Canyon, it would be full of farmers who would hate her as much as her cousins hated her.

  Panic threatened again.

  Yalena finally thought to check on the datanet, to see what her rights actually were and what would happen to her if her mother insisted on leaving Jefferson, too. What she found wasn’t entirely reassuring, but if she had to live in a state-run dormitory, at least she could stay in her same school. That would help. If she lost her friends, she really didn’t know what she would do. She sighed, then decided to send Ami-Lynn a long chat message, to let her know what was happening. She knew Ami-Lynn had been scared, too, when Yalena’s mother had showed up at the classroom and yanked her out the door with a brief apology to her teacher for the inconvenience.

  Yalena scowled. She didn’t understand why her parents had forced her to leave school just because her father was being fired from a job he hated and had to go off and be a soldier somewhere else. They could’ve left her in school while he went running off to town and her mother packed suitcases, instead of dragging her all the way out here, to do nothing at all. She pulled up her chat account and started the message.