The Road to Damascus (bolo)

by John Ringo

  That response sends a vague disquietude skittering through the complex heuristics governing my logic processors and personality gestalt stabilization-analysis circuitry. Simon did not trust the political party which Gifre Zeloc represents. The POPPA coalition’s philosophies and actions are based on an alarmingly high percentage of falsified data. The coalition’s finances and off-world dealings are puzzling. POPPA advocates methods of social engineering proven ineffective on many human worlds, including Terra.

  As I am operating with woefully incomplete data, it is imperative that I bring myself up to date, scanning societal trends, economic conditions, and changes in legislative and constitutional law. Perhaps POPPA has discovered a way to translate its ideals of societal and economic parity and universal access to resources into a system that functions more effectively than its ideological predecessors?

  I face a massive, multipartite chore, obtaining an accurate VSR that I must then analyze and incorporate into my threat-assessment evaluations and defensive contingency plans. Since I am now essentially locked into active standby mode, with a low likelihood of reversion to inactive status, I will at least have the time this task will require. Provided, of course, that a now-remote enemy does not show renewed interest in this pocket of the Silurian Void.

  My list of questions grows by the second, as many of the items that puzzle me spark even more questions, creating a rapid data cascade of pending problems for which I must find answers. I am unsure that answers even exist for some of those questions. I harbor a nagging fear that I possess entirely too limited an understanding of the intricacies of human thought and societal dynamics to understand those answers, in the unlikely event that I actually find them.

  I am not comforted by Gifre Zeloc’s next comment, delivered long before I have finished reciting my data analysis efforts. He favors me with an expression that I define as smug satisfaction. “You’re very thorough, Bolo. Yes, indeed, you’re doing a very commendable job. Keep up the good work.” He taps neatly manicured fingertips against the padded armrest of his chair, narrows his eyes slightly as he ponders the things I have said — or perhaps the possible actions he wishes to take, based on my VSR.

  He reaches a decision, setting his cup aside as he leans forward and scrawls a few brief notes onto his desktop datagel interface, a micro-thin jotting system integral to the surface of the desk, that translates his handwriting into coded notes. A privacy shield pops up from the desktop, blocking any view of the writing surface, including the video component of his communications datascreen. Not even the room’s security cameras are in a position to see the surface of that datagel.

  I note these details primarily because I do not have clearance to access the datagel’s storage matrix. It therefore houses the most secure dataset on Jefferson, excepting my own classified systems, of course. After sixty-eight point three seconds, the president digs his stylus emphatically into the datagel, consigns his notes to permanent storage, and wipes the datagel’s surface clean. He lowers the privacy shield, then addresses me in a brisk, decisive manner.

  “The Joint Assembly will be voting on some important legislation in a few days. There’s been a lot of dissension from some regions, with a lot of wild talk and even threats from certain population segments. I’m not talking about the routine ‘I won’t vote for you again if you vote for that’ kind of threat. That’s only to be expected. You can’t propose any major change to a legal code without ruffling somebody’s feathers.”

  I file a reminder to research this pending legislation and the reasons it has been proposed as well as protested, since it troubles the president so greatly. After he reveals the reason for his concern, I make this my highest priority.

  “What’s worrisome — to me, at least — are the threats of retaliation against hard-working members of the Joint Assembly. If they vote to pass this legislation, if they support measures critical to the defense of this world, these dissidents are talking about personal and violent retaliation against Assembly members and their families.”

  If accurate, this is a serious charge to levy against one’s opposition. Intimidation tactics are invariably the hallmark of those whose agenda is abuse of power. Such practices are worthy of contempt. If the threat they pose is serious enough, honor demands that such threats be met with all the proper legal — or physical — action necessary to remove the threat to individuals or to a society as a whole.

  If there are sufficient numbers of dissidents advocating intimidation, coercion, and violent retaliation against lawfully elected officials, Jefferson may face a serious threat. An internal enemy can be as deadly to long-term stability as outside invasion. It is all the more insidious because it is subtle, making it more difficult for people to recognize a threat to their safety, freedom, and well-being.

  Bolos are programmed for strong ethics in this regard, for good reason. Were a Bolo to use its firepower to usurp command of a local system of governance, few governments could muster anything to stop it. Tyranny is tyranny, whether perpetrated by humans upon one another or by war machines against their own creators.

  Usurpation is one of the Seven Deadly Sins a sick Bolo can commit, sins which trigger the Resartus Protocol, preventing a Bolo from acting on its destabilized impulses. There is very little a human fears more than the spectre of a mad Bolo. Intentions — good or otherwise — are immaterial when human survival is at stake.

  Gifre Zeloc’s voice jolts me out of my distracted reverie. “The vote is due to take place six days from now. I want a full report on dissident activities and plans before then. I’ll give you further guidance after you’ve debriefed me on the state of affairs you uncover.”

  The president breaks the connection. I ascertain, through my surveillance of data lines leading from the Presidential Residence’s computers, that he places an immediate call to Vittori Santorini. I ponder whether or not I should monitor that conversation, along with everything else I am attempting to do. Before I can decide whether or not to break contact, the call goes through and Gifre Zeloc says, “Vittori, I’ve got some wonderful news. No, not over the phone. The usual meeting place? Is four-thirty suitable? Excellent. I can hardly wait to discuss things.”

  The president breaks the connection, leaving me to ponder what Gifre Zeloc has to tell the founder and leading power behind the POPPA coalition. Speculation in the dark is useless. I turn my attention to the daunting task of learning what has transpired during the bulk of the past ten years and what the dissidents President Zeloc spoke of may be saying and doing. I am unsure that once I know, I will be any materially better positioned to know what to do. It is an unhappy state of affairs to look forward to additional guidance from a man Simon Khrustinov refused to trust.

  I have no other choice.

  Unlike Gifre Zeloc, I am not pleased.

  II

  Simon drifted in and out of awareness, caught somewhere between confusion, pain unlike anything he had ever known, and a drifting disconnection from himself, from the world, from reality itself. It was like drifting through thick fog where every touch of smothering vapor cut like razor wire. He didn’t know where he was or why everything was so desperately wrong. He could remember nothing except a lurch of terror that blotted out everything beyond the knife-edged pain.

  When the pain ceased, as suddenly as though it had never existed, Simon fell headlong down a bottomless black hole in which nothing, not even himself, existed. When he roused again, his mind was strangely clear, but he couldn’t feel anything. That was sufficiently alarming to nudge him further toward wakefulness. He struggled to open his eyes and found nothing that looked even remotely familiar. The space in which he lay was small and cramped, which he found odd, since he was positive that he’d been injured badly enough to need a hospital’s care.

  Had he been captured? Kidnaped by Vittori Santorini in some weird vendetta?

  He tried to reach for his wrist-comm, to contact Sonny, and discovered that not only could he not feel anything, he couldn�
��t move, either. Straining produced no response at all, not even a twitch. Fear began to seep into his confusion, cold and poisonous. He stared at the portions of the room he could see and frowned, or would have, if he’d been able to control his body. The walls and ceiling looked like the interior of a space-capable ship.

  He’d been on enough interstellar transports of one kind and another to know the telltale signs and this room had them. He was trying to puzzle out why he might be on a space ship when he heard a sound from somewhere behind him, exactly like the opening of a cabin door.

  “You’re awake, Colonel,” a quiet, soothing voice said. A moment later, a man he didn’t know stepped into his field of view. He was dressed in medical whites. “I’m Dr. Zarek, Colonel. No, don’t try to move. We’ve got nano-blocks in place in your nervous system, to keep you from shifting, even involuntarily. Do you remember what happened?”

  Simon couldn’t shake his head and his vocal chords didn’t seem to belong to him any longer, either. The doctor frowned, tapped at something behind him, and muttered, “Too high. Let’s dial that down a bit.”

  A whisper of pain ate into his awareness. His first voluntary sound was a hiss that he had almost no control over, as his body reacted to some ghastly level of abuse he didn’t want to think about too closely. Then he realized he could move his face, just a little. “What happened?” he whispered, barely able to control the muscles in mouth and tongue enough to get the question out.

  “Your aircar crashed. If you were someone else, I would say you’re a very fortunate fellow. Instead, I’ll say it’s a good thing you’re a cautious Brigade officer and listened to the intuition that prompted you to armor your aircar. It saved your life.”

  “Shot down?” he managed to ask.

  Dr. Zarek’s eyes were shadowed. “We don’t think so. Your Bolo didn’t think so, either. I was in the room when your wife contacted the Bolo, so I heard what it — he — said.” The doctor’s expression altered, shifting into something Simon couldn’t quite fathom. “He apologized. The Bolo asked your wife to tell you it was his fault. He was watching for missiles and didn’t think about sabotage.”

  Simon narrowed his eyes, then winced. How much damage did it take, to make that small a gesture hurt that badly? Through a body-wide nano-block? Then Simon forced his attention back to the larger issue. If Sonny thought his aircar had been sabotaged, no doubt remained in Simon’s mind, either. It bothered him, however, that he couldn’t remember the crash.

  “Don’t remember,” he struggled to say.

  “That’s not particularly surprising,” Dr. Zarek said with a slight frown. “The mind can blank out an event too traumatic to face, right away, just as the body can dump enough endorphins to deaden severe pain long enough to get to safety. You knew you were going down, probably knew somebody had deliberately rigged your transport, and doubtless knew that your wife and child would be left alone in the hands of a hostile regime. Given enough time, the memories will probably resurface, once your subconscious mind thinks you’re strong enough to face what’s hidden.”

  That made some sense, although he found it disquieting that a portion of him, one he couldn’t control, was able to hide something that serious from his conscious memory. Then a new thought cropped up, more alarming. “Kafari! Where — ?”

  “She stayed on Jefferson, Colonel. With your little girl. You’re on a Malinese freighter, headed for Vishnu.” An unhappy shadow passed across his face. “I was chief surgeon at University Hospital. I assembled a whole team of surgeons to stabilize you. We did the best we could, but I can assure you that the medical care and rehab you will need do not exist on Jefferson.”

  Simon’s brows twitched as he focused on the most puzzling part of that statement. “Was?” he rasped out hoarsely.

  Dr. Zarek’s gaze held his, steady and unflinching. “Colonel, I’ve been watching POPPA just about as closely as I’m sure you have and I can tell you, sir, I do not like what I see coming.” Muscles jumped in his jaw. “News of your recall by the Brigade was splashed across every newspaper, datachat, and broadcast medium on Jefferson. So was the gloating over your near-fatal crash. And I use the word gloating deliberately. They’re calling it a suicide attempt. ‘Disgraced officer tries to kill himself rather than face military tribunal.’ ”

  Simon cursed. Hideously. And tried to get up.

  “Easy, Colonel,” Dr. Zarek cautioned, “you can’t move, yet, and you can’t afford the physiological strain of trying.” Despite the soothing, cautionary tone, his eyes crackled with anger as he studied a monitor just out of Simon’s visual range. “That’s better. As to the rest of it… A government willing to engineer the destruction of a Dinochrome Brigade officer’s career is a government that cannot be trusted. But they weren’t content with that. They tried to kill you, as well. That suggests some very ugly things to me. I don’t know what you know, Colonel, or how big a threat that might be to Vittori Santorini and Gifre Zeloc.

  “But I can tell you this, without hesitation. I have no interest in staying where that kind of government is in charge. I’m not politically acceptable, for one thing. I was a junior member of Abraham Lendan’s medical team, right after the war. My views on POPPA are widely known. If they went after you, Colonel, they’ll go after others, and their stunning success with you will breed contempt for anyone and everyone who disagrees with them. And I’m Granger bred, as well, which is starting to look like a very dangerous thing to be.

  “So I pulled rank over every other physician at University Hospital and insisted on accompanying you to Vishnu. I don’t intend to return. If Vishnu won’t allow me to stay, I’ll go to Mali, instead. They need surgeons on Mali,” he added, voice bleak. His eyes were shadowed again. “I don’t have a family,” he said quietly. “They were killed in the war. The house was almost directly under the Cat’s Claw…” Memory ran through his eyes, wet and filled with anguish. “I tried — very hard, Colonel — to persuade yours to leave with us.”

  Simon knew exactly why they hadn’t. Dr. Zarek merely confirmed it.

  “Your daughter wouldn’t go. I have a recording from your wife, which I can play now, if you like, or I can run it later.”

  “Later,” Simon whispered. He caught and held the surgeon’s eyes. “Tell me.”

  Dr. Zarek didn’t insult his intelligence by asking Tell you what?

  By the time he’d finished answering, Simon was profoundly grateful that nano-tech neurology blocks existed. He hadn’t realized it was possible to do that kind of damage to a human body and survive it. If the surgeries he still faced — an appalling number of them — were a success and if the nerve regeneration therapy and cellular reconstruction worked, he might be able to walk again. A year or two from now. Far worse was the knowledge that Kafari couldn’t — wouldn’t — leave, not without their child.

  The only hope he could cling to was the knowledge that POPPA had spent years carefully grooming Yalena’s support, because her belief in the cause held enormous propaganda value. He had never forgotten — could never forget — the year of hell they had put Yalena through in kindergarten, followed with a deliberate and highly effective piece of social engineering, during her first-grade year. Yalena still believed that POPPA’s loving regard for everyone’s rights and welfare had rescued her from the unfair cruelty of one unfit teacher acting from personal hatred. She still believed that POPPA had acted from genuine concern for her, correcting a deep social injustice and transforming misled children from enemies into dear friends. She still didn’t understand that POPPA had engineered the hatred and abuse, as well.

  It suited POPPA very well to groom Yalena into a staunchly loyal acolyte. He didn’t know, yet, what they intended to do with that loyalty or how, exactly, they intended to cash in on that propaganda. Vittori and Nassiona Santorini didn’t chart their course to power by planning what they would do during the next few months or even years. They thought in terms of decades and lifetimes. Whatever they had in mind to do with Yalena,
they’d planned it out well before her entry into school. The best — the absolute best — he could hope for, lying broken to pieces in a Malinese freighter, was that POPPA’s plans for Yalena included Kafari’s survival.

  III

  They were being evicted.

  Just like that. Kafari, home on bereavement leave from the spaceport, reread the message on her datascreen over and over while her numbed mind tried to make the words say something else. No matter how many times she reread it, the nasty little note said the same thing.

  As the legal dependents of a non-Jeffersonian military officer who has been cashiered and sent off-world in disgrace, you are hereby evicted from the government-owned quarters you are no longer entitled to occupy. You have twenty-five hours from receipt of this message to remove yourself, your daughter, and your private belongings from the dwelling you currently occupy. Failure to leave within the allotted time will result in penalties, fines, and possible criminal charges for illegal occupation of a restricted military site. Personal belongings left behind will be confiscated and distributed to the needy. Removal of any government property will result in criminal charges for theft of military property.

  A lengthy list of the items Kafari was not allowed to remove followed the message. It wouldn’t be difficult to pack, since virtually everything in the apartment had been classified as government property, including the extremely expensive computer system she had purchased with her own funds, to support the intensely sophisticated needs of a psychotronic programmer. Kafari was so stunned, she couldn’t even curse at the screen. She finally punched her wrist-comm.