The Road to Damascus (bolo)

by John Ringo

  Then she thought of Sonny, realized with a shock of fear that a Bolo Mark XX was sitting in her back yard, at full Battle Reflex Alert, listening to this conversation and drawing its own conclusions — and it already suspected sabotage and attempted murder.

  “Oh, shit—” She slapped her wrist-comm. “Sonny. Sonny, are you there? Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, Kafari. I have been monitoring your wrist-comm since your departure from home.”

  The surgeon’s brow furrowed, then his eyes opened wide as he realized who Kafari was talking to — and why.

  She cleared her throat. “Who do we need to notify? How do we notify them?”

  “I have already contacted Sector Command, apprising them of my Commander’s medical status. I am filing updated VSR now, based on the medical recommendations I just heard. I am forwarding a voice copy of the conversation you just held with Simon’s attending physician. I will relay Sector’s instructions once I receive VSR from Brigade.

  “I will need the registry information for the Malinese freighter, to remain in contact with my Commander and his medical team. Sector has already diverted the scoutship, which is needed elsewhere, now that Simon is incapable of transfer to Hakkor. When Simon regains consciousness, please tell him that I am at fault for having failed him. I was scanning for overt threats. Missiles, artillery, energy weapons. I did not anticipate an enemy action based on subterfuge and sabotage of his transport vehicle. That failure has nearly taken my Commander’s life. It may end the career of the finest officer it has been my privilege to serve. Please tell him I am sorry.”

  Kafari was staring at her wrist-comm. She had known, at a superficial level, that Sonny was the most sophisticated psychotronic system she had ever seen, or ever would see. She had not realized, even after nearly fourteen years of interactions with him, just how complex his programming really was. The machine speaking to them via her wrist-comm had a metallic voice unlike any real person’s, yet it was full of anguish and regret.

  She didn’t know what to say. Neither, evidently, did Dr. Zarek. Yalena was crying again. Kafari finally broke her silence. “Thank you, Sonny. I’ll…” She had to stop and start over. “I’ll do that, for you. I’ll tell him. That’s a promise. A vow.” In the awkward silence that followed, it occurred to Kafari to wonder who would be issuing Sonny’s orders, now. She didn’t want to think about it. Couldn’t stop thinking about it. Was terrified by the answers occurring to her.

  A Mark XX Bolo was capable of independent action. She knew that much, but somebody would have to issue instructions to Sonny. Those instructions couldn’t come from Sector, so they had to come from somebody on Jefferson. She didn’t know which was more frightening. The idea of Sonny acting on his own, at a Battle Reflex Alert that even Simon walked cautiously around, or someone like Gifre Zeloc, who took his orders directly from Vittori Santorini.

  We’re in trouble. Oh, Christ, Simon, we’re in deep, horrible trouble. I need you… More than she had ever needed anyone or anything else. The lack of his arms around her, his steady voice, the absence of his rock-solid courage and strength of character were a physical ache in her flesh, more wrenching than the pain of childbirth.

  Someone was saying her name. Kafari blinked against the weight of terror and focused on the surgeon’s worried face. “What?” she managed to croak.

  “You’ll need to fill out a great deal of paperwork, Mrs. Khrustinova, signing as next-of-kin, authorizing us to bill the Concordiat on his behalf. No, don’t worry about money, our admissions and billing office has already determined that the Brigade will be paying for all treatment rendered. We just need signatures on the requisite forms to submit the charges to the planetary purser’s office rather than the health management plan you carry through your job at the spaceport. You’ll need to file emigration paperwork, as well, for you and Yalena.”

  Kafari held her breath. Then turned to look at her daughter. Yalena shook her head. “No. I don’t want to leave Jefferson. I just can’t.”

  “Your father needs medical care we can’t get here.”

  “I know. But they’re sending a doctor with him. He can come home when he’s well. I won’t go live somewhere else, where I don’t have any friends or anything. You can go, Mom, I understand that, but I’m not leaving.”

  Kafari’s father spoke sharply. “And just where do you intend to live?”

  “POPPA will put me in a state dormitory, same as they do orphans. I can even stay in my school.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Kafari said, weary to the bone. “I want to go, Yalena, more than you can ever understand. But I won’t leave you here alone and I certainly won’t let you go live in some horrible dormitory.” She cupped her daughter’s wet cheek in one hand. “And your father would want me to stay. It’s what we’d already decided, before…” Her voice wobbled.

  Yalena started crying again.

  The surgeon spoke very quietly. “I’ll send the hospital volunteer with the paperwork you’ll need to sign. And I’ll let you know when he’s awake.”

  She nodded and he left. The volunteer arrived a few moments later with an appalling stack of forms to fill out and sign. Kafari wondered how she could possibly face the years that lay ahead, while Simon struggled through rehabilitation alone, without anyone who loved him there to help. In the grim and ghastly silence that had fallen across the room, Kafari made a steel-cold vow to her unconscious husband.

  I will stay here, Simon, as long as it takes. I’ll fight them for her. I’m sorry, my dearest love, but I can’t just leave her with the bastards who did this to you. And one day, she added, eyes narrowing with hatred she could neither deny nor contain, one day, they will regret it.

  Bitterly.

  PART THREE

  Chapter Sixteen

  I

  My Commander is gone.

  Nor will I have a new commander. I am stunned by the reality of it. Despite Simon’s forebodings, I did not truly believe Sector Command would totally abandon me. I am not fit for self-command. I know this, even if Sector does not.

  What am I to do, without Simon?

  I have not even been able to prove that the crash was deliberately engineered. The official verdict of the crash-investigation team was software failure in the aircar’s governing circuitry. Accidental cause is the official — and only provable — explanation. I remain suspicious, but cannot justify a further need for Battle Reflex Alert status, given the rendering of this verdict. The freighter carrying my last commander to the hospital complex on Vishnu has barely left spacedock at Ziva Two when I receive my first communique from President Zeloc.

  “Bolo. Wake up.”

  “I have been awake for two days, nine hours, fifteen point three-seven minutes.”

  “Why?” The voice addressing me carries the timbre of suspicion. The president has not seen fit to activate the visual portion of his transmission, so that I am speaking to a disembodied voice. I find the impersonal greeting more irritating than I had anticipated. I am not programmed for complex protocol, but I am accustomed to civil courtesies.

  “Sar Gremian’s attempt to kill my Commander brought me awake from inactive standby mode. I maintained active standby mode at his orders, monitoring the unfolding situtation. When my Commander’s aircar crashed, leaving him seriously injured, I could not relapse into inactive standby, given my mission parameters. Sector Command’s SWIFT transmission notifying me of Simon Khrustinov’s medical-retirement status, with no replacement commander pending, placed me on immediate permanent active Standby Alert. I am therefore awake.”

  “I see.” I detect a slight abatement of hostility in these two words. “Well, here’s my first order, Bolo. Shut yourself down and stay shut down until I call you again.”

  “I cannot comply with that directive.”

  “What?”

  “I cannot comply with that directive.”

  “Why the hell not? I gave you an order! Obey me at once! This instant!”

  “You
are authorized to direct my actions in defense of this world. You are not authorized to interfere in my primary mission.”

  “How do you construe an order to go to sleep as interference with your primary mission? I’m the president of Jefferson. Your mission is whatever I say it is.”

  “That is incorrect.”

  “What?” The inflection is incredulous, full of frustrated anger.

  I attempt to explain. “Your belief that you have the right to determine my mission is incorrect. My primary mission was assigned by Sector Command. It has not been rescinded. You are not authorized to interfere with the critical parameters of that mission.”

  The video portion of President Zeloc’s transmission is abruptly activated. One look at his face confirms that Gifre Zeloc is angrier than I have ever seen him. Veins protrude at his temples and his face has flushed dangerously purple. “Do you see who I am, Bolo?”

  “You are Gifre Zeloc, ninety-first president of the Concordiat Allied World of Jefferson.”

  “Then explain this bullshit you’re feeding me. I am your commander and I am damned well ordering you to go to sleep!”

  “You are not my Commander.”

  Eyes bulge, even more prominently than the veins in his temples. “What do you mean by that? ‘I’m not your commander’? Now, see here, machine, I won’t stand for any nonsense out of you, do you hear me? You’d better get that clear, right now, or you’ll find spare parts exceedingly difficult to find! I’m your goddamned commander and don’t ever forget it!”

  “You are not my goddamned commander, either. You are the civilian authority designated to issue specific instructions that direct me in carrying out my mission.”

  Fleshy lips work for six point nine seconds, but the sounds emerging are unintelligble as any human language with which I am familiar. This is of considerable interest, since I am programmed to understand twenty-six major Terran languages and the lingua franca of eighty-seven worlds which use various pidgins and polyglots. I have not needed to make use of this information during my active career, but the Brigade does its best to be prepared for all contingencies.

  President Zeloc eventually recovers his powers of intelligible speech. “You’re as good at double-speak as Vittori Santorini. All right,” his voice grates harshly, “clarify your primary mission. And then give me a straight answer on why you won’t go to sleep as ordered.”

  I fear that it will be a long and stressful mission, without Simon to assist me in political and protocol minefields. I do my best. “My primary mission is to safeguard this planet from danger. As the highest ranking public official on Jefferson, you are authorized to direct my actions in carrying out this mission in the event of an armed threat to the stability of this world. Without a human commander to coordinate the defense of this star system, it is imperative that I remain awake to function as a human commander normally would, maintaining surveillance over shifting conditions that affect the primary mission.”

  “I see.” A sudden change in tone and facial expression suggest that I have said something that pleases Gifre Zeloc. I wonder a little frantically what it was. He smiles into the videoscreen, flashing well-maintained dentition. “Well, now. That’s much clearer, isn’t it?”

  I am pleased that I have been understood, although I am still unsure how this explanation made such a marked difference in attitude.

  “What, exactly, do you intend to do while awake?”

  Since I am unsure, myself, what I am to do during the long years that will undoubtedly comprise my defense of this world, I am unsure how to answer. I settle for the simplest response I can provide. “Maintain surveillance over potential threats to Jefferson and run possible defense scenarios based on conditions both on- and off-world.”

  “I see. Or maybe I don’t. Just what, exactly, do you mean about maintaining surveillance over on-world conditions?”

  “My mission includes threat assessments from on-world sources, including subversive activity, sabotage by enemy agents, armed dissident organizations that may pose a security threat to the stability of the government and therefore pose a potential threat to the long-term survival of Jefferson as an autonomous, self-governing planet. I monitor economic conditions to advise my Commander—” I hesitate and correct that statement ” — or the highest civilian official authorized to direct my actions on possible stability issues that may affect Jefferson’s long-term sustainability as a viable society. My mission is comprehensive, complex, and of high importance to Sector Command, as no human commander can be spared from the shifting battle front with the Melconians.”

  Gifre Zeloc frowns for a moment, then an expression I cannot immediately interpret shifts his heavy-jowled features. He hesitates before speaking, giving me time to cross-reference what I know of human facial expressions from a century of contact with humans. I classify the configuration of eye, mouth, brow, and jaw muscle movements as slowly dawning realization of something unforeseen and potentially useful.

  “Tell me,” he says in a voice that reminds me of purring kittens, “tell me about the battle front with the Melconians.”

  “I cannot divulge classified information,” I begin, earning a scowl, “but it is within your need-to-know status to clarify the general situation as it pertains to Jefferson’s security.”

  “And what is that general situation?”

  “Given current trends in the position of battle fleets, evacuation patterns, and Brigade transmissions to and from the Central Worlds, on Brigade and Navy channels that I routinely monitor, it is likely that the war will continue to move away from this region of space. Given the total annihilation of Deng populations in this sector by Melconian forces, there are no longer any inhabited star systems on the formerly Deng-held side of the Silurian Void. Zanthrip is the nearest star system still held by the Deng. The Melconians have been unable to colonize this region, given the ferocity of the battle front along Melcon’s border with humanity, which has forced Melcon to divert ships and personnel it would doubtless have committed to that colonization process to deal, instead, with the severe fighting that rages across thirty-three populated star systems.”

  I flash battle schematics to the president’s datascreen, carefully omitting any information that Gifre Zeloc is not authorized to know. He draws an abrupt hissing breath as the general pattern becomes clear to him.

  “The Concordiat has been unable to take advantage of the emptied worlds, for the same reasons Melcon has not. The fighting through this region,” I shift the color of affected star systems, to clarify my explanation, “has forced Sector Command to commit most of its military assets to the defense of human space. This leaves a substantial buffer of seventeen newly uninhabited star systems between Jefferson and the nearest Deng- or Melconian-held worlds. Given its position relative to current battle fronts and its location within the Void and the vacant star systems beyond, Jefferson is now, in effect, the most isolated human system anywhere in this sector of space.”

  Gifre Zeloc leans back in his chair, staring at the schematics I have transmitted to him for long moments, so long, I begin to wonder if he intends to speak again or if I should simply terminate the transmission. At length, a slow and mystifying smile appears. “Very instructive,” he murmurs. “Yes, very instructive, indeed.”

  The smile broadens, indicating a state of mind I find peculiar. Admittedly, I have not known many planetary heads of state, but I know from many sources that command responsibility is a heavy burden. Heavy enough that it prematurely ages office holders, even in times of peace and economic stability. During war or the threat of war — or some other cataclysmic shift that damages a society — the burden can become intolerable. It killed Abraham Lendan, a man who commanded Simon’s deep loyalty, the love of Kafari Khrustinova — one of the most creative warrior minds it has been my pleasure to know — and the respect of an entire world.

  It therefore confuses my logic processors that President Zeloc should be so pleased by my VSR. I would have expected a mo
re serious response from the planetary ruler of a system as isolated as Jefferson now is, with outside assistance and resupply unlikely, should any of a number of social, economic, or military disasters befall this world. President Lendan was, by every measure I am capable of using to judge performance and character, a far more capable leader than Gifre Zeloc.

  I know serious misgivings as the man who will be directing my defensive efforts leans back in his chair and says, “That’s fine, Bolo, very fine, indeed. I believe I am going to enjoy having you work for me.”

  I consider pointing out that Gifre Zeloc works for the Concordiat, serving as their proxy in the defense of a highly isolated corner of human space, and that he therefore works for me, as I am the instrument of the Concordiat’s intentions regarding the defense of this world, but am unsure how to explain this subtle difference. I am still struggling with possible wording when Gifre Zeloc, tapping restless fingertips against the gleaming wood of his desk, issues another complex question.

  “Just what is the extent of your on-world monitoring of shifting conditions affecting the stability of this government?”

  “Please clarify. I require specific parameters to properly answer your question.”

  He considers for a moment, then asks, “What specific data on Jefferson’s internal political and economic activities did you collect for Colonel Khrustinov before I instructed him to shut you down?”

  This is the simplest and most direct question he has yet posed. “It will take approximately nine point nine-two hours to present this information to you at a delivery speed suited for the average human’s assimiliation.”

  Gifre Zeloc’s eyes widen momentarily, then he smiles again and says, “I’m all ears, Bolo. And I suspect there is literally nothing on my plate that is more important than hearing what you’re about to say.” He picks up a cup from the corner of his desk and sips. “Go ahead, Bolo. I’m listening.”

  I begin to speak. As I explain my data collection methods and summarize the data I have collected on Simon’s orders — during which there are significant lapses in my active standby status, creating substantial gaps in my information — Gifre Zeloc’s smile turns to shock, followed by slow, smouldering anger. This is finally superceded by an abrupt, deeply startled grin that appears to indicate delight.