The Road to Damascus (bolo)

by John Ringo

  II

  I limp back toward my depot under a veil of darkness and apparent secrecy. The most noteworthy observation I make en route is the utter lack of civilian presence anywhere along the path I follow. Farmhouses, villages, and the occasional fuel station are vacant, giving every appearance of having been abandoned in a great rush. I conclude that the government has issued orders forcibly evacuating a corridor that allows me to crawl home unobserved.

  I am still thirty kilometers from depot when a sudden “Mayday” broadcast originates from Nineveh Base. Someone is screaming incoherently about an attack. I catch the sound of massive explosions, then the broadcast slices off. I monitor government communications and tap the planetary datanet via wireless communications. I cannot access the base’s security system without a land-line connection, however, which leaves me effectively blind. I need to know what is happening at Nineveh Base.

  I attempt to contact my mechanic.

  He does not respond. He is either so drunk he has passed out or is not in his quarters. Either way, he is useless. I attempt to contact Nineveh Base’s commandant. No one answers. I do not like this state of affairs. I continue to plod northward, unable to speed up without risking further damage to my tracks. Minutes crawl past. At my current rate of speed, it will take thirty hours to reach my depot. I debate the wisdom of contacting Jefferson’s president or even Sar Gremian. I have doubts that either will be inclined to respond.

  Sixteen point three minutes after the abortive distress call from Nineveh Base, a massive flash strobes across the northern horizon. A far-off rumble of sound resolves into an explosion of such staggering size, it nearly stops me in my tracks, from sheer shock. I am the only thing on Jefferson capable of creating an explosion on that scale. Unless…

  I do not care for the implications.

  Not at all.

  My entire supply of replacement munitions is on Nineveh Base. Along with all my spare parts and what passes for a mechanic. I pick up speed. Damaged track plates rattle. The burst of light that heralded the explosion has faded to a steady, dull glow that marks a large fire when my final aerial drone, circling the canyons behind me, registers a burst of rifle fire. Nervous P-Squads searching for rebels with stolen munitions shoot straight up. The drone goes off-line.

  My personality gestalt center registers dismay and disgust in equal measures. Ninevah Base is under attack and my last drone has just been shot down, a victim of “friendly fire.” Without a drone, I cannot find attackers to launch a remote strike. Even at my increased rate of speed, I cannot reach Nineveh Base in time to do anything about the attack, let alone trace the attackers. The strike force will disappear in its entirety long before I arrive.

  Sar Gremian contacts me. “Machine, do you see any sign of rebel gun crews out there?”

  “No. Request VSR. What was the cause of the explosion my sensors just registered?”

  “Somebody’s shot the shit out of Nineveh Base. Find them.”

  “I have sustained damage that precludes—”

  “I don’t give a hairy rat’s ass! Find them!”

  “I would welcome suggestions as to how I should accomplish this. I am incapable of speed greater than three km per hour. I have no aerial reconnaissance capability left, as the P-Squads searching the canyons behind me have just shot down my last aerial drone. I cannot shoot an enemy I cannot find.”

  Sar Gremian’s suggestion is anatomically impossible. I do not possess the kind of orifice into which he suggests I insert an appendage Bolos do not possess, as we do not procreate biologically. His order is therefore invalid and cannot be carried out. When I tell him so, he simply terminates the call. I maintain Battle Reflex Alert and strain my sensors to their greatest range, but catch no sign of any rebel forces.

  Clearly the attack against Barran Bluff was carried out specifically to gain access to the heavy weaponry needed to assault Nineveh Base. Anish Balin has proven himself a shrewd and resourceful commander. I speculate that the Hancock Family Cooperative was the target of a substantial rescue operation, with the destruction of the air assault team at Barran Bluff used deliberately as a diversion to draw me away from Nineveh Base. My presence there would have doomed any such rescue, as the commander of the rebellion doubtless knew only too well.

  If the seven Hellbores left behind had succeeded in killing me — as they could have done, if their crews had been better trained — the rebellion could have brought POPPA and its ruling regime to its knees in one night. This suggests speed, good military intelligence that is probably the result of a talented computer programmer hacking into the government’s computerized security systems, and a level of organization surprising for a fledgling group that has had neither time nor opportunity to train. An army of civilian soldiers can be formidable, particularly when motivated by a combination of high ideals and righteous wrath.

  The Granger population has an ample supply of both.

  They have failed to destroy me, however, which dooms them to a long and costly war of attrition. How costly that war will be is brought home to me when I finally reach a line-of-sight distance from my maintenance depot. The eastern sky is turning to flame above the Damisi Mountains, heralding the rising of Jefferson’s sun, when I halt on the floodplain, a full kilometer from the smouldering wreckage.

  Nineveh Base no longer exists. Neither does my maintenance depot. Phil Fabrizio’s quarters are entirely gone. So is most of the surrounding shantytown. Thousands have died, here. Battle rage sweeps through my personality gestalt circuitry. There will be retribution for this wanton slaughter. It is one thing to shoot soldiers in combat. It is another to destroy innocent civilians whose main crime was living too close to the backblast of war.

  I feel a twinge in my complex logic circuitry, which I suppress. I have no desire to follow the chain of thought that would compare the actions of Granger rebels with my own actions in downtown Madison. I was operating under orders from a lawfully elected president. The Granger rebels have acted in willful defiance of that government, perpetrating an illegal act of war. My duty is clear.

  How I will carry out that duty, I do not know. I have tangled with the rebels only once and have sustained serious damage. That damage cannot now be repaired, certainly not in a timely fashion. I hesitate to consider what Sar Gremian will send by way of a replacement mechanic for Phil Fabrizio. There is no point in sitting out here, a kilometer away from the destruction, since Anish Balin’s men have been gone for hours. They have doubtless scattered to hiding places in the Damisi Mountains.

  The thought of searching the maze of canyons weathered into those mountains is too daunting to consider. I spoke the truth to Sar Gremian when I told him that I cannot make such a search. Anish Balin doubtless knows this and will capitalize on it, to his advantage and my frustration. As there is no point in continuing to sit where I am, I move cautiously forward. The destruction has been savage and thorough. When I reach the perimeter of my own missing depot, I halt again, literally at a loss as to my next course of action. There are no guards along the base’s perimeter, mostly because there is not enough left to guard. Rescue workers are combing the wreckage of shanties, attempting to find survivors. Or perhaps merely locating bodies for burial, to reduce the contagion likely to spread from unburied remains. I am noticed and pointed at by crews who clearly would prefer to take themselves elsewhere.

  I am still sitting there when a civilian groundcar approaches, picking its way carefully through the rubble-strewn streets of the shantytown. My first thought — that POPPA officials have arrived to inspect the damage — is only partially correct. The occupant of the car has, indeed, arrived to survey the damage. But he is not a ranking member of POPPA’s government. Phil Fabrizio climbs out of the groundcar and stares at the bare patch of ground where his quarters once sat.

  “Aw, shit, man! They blew it all to goddamned hell!”

  I am so startled to see my mechanic alive, it takes me three full seconds to find something to say. “You are
alive,” I finally manage, with less-than-scintillating wit. “Why?”

  Phil stares up at my warhull. “Huh? Whaddaya mean, ‘why?’ ”

  “Why are you alive? More accurately, where were you, as you clearly were not in your quarters at the time of their destruction.”

  “Huh,” he snorts, “I wasn’t in ’em, ’cause I ain’t entirely stupid. When the shootin’ started, I skedaddled, just jumped in my car and ran for it. They blew up a buncha buildings, straight off. I didn’t figure it was too healthy to stick around, you know? So I hightailed it over to my sister Maria’s house. We heard the whole place go, right after I got there, like a volcano or somethin’, but there ain’t no news reports on it, nowhere. Not even the chats. So I figured the only way t’ find out was t’ go home and see for myself. Only,” he stared at the spot where his quarters no longer stood, “I got no home left. Goddamn ’em! How’m I s’posed to pay for alla my stuff? You can just bet your flintsteel butt, Sar Gremian ain’t gonna pay for it.”

  I sympathize with Phil’s loss, as I find myself in exactly the same predicament. Unlike Phil, however, my losses will force Sar Gremian to act, if he wants me to continue functioning as a mobile interdiction force. Phil is entirely correct in his assessment of Sar Gremian’s reaction. He will not like the size of the price tag.

  “What happened to you?” Phil finally asks, noticing for the first time the gaping holes in my track linkages.

  “I was shot. I require extensive repair to damaged tracks.”

  “But—” He stumbles to a halt, staring in open dismay. “How’d you get shot? I watched the news last night, before all the shooting and shit started here, and they never said nuthin’ about you gettin’ shot.” He frowns. “Come t’think of it, they never said nuthin’ about you bein’ there at all. And you was never in the pictures. Just the explosions, blowin’ up the rebels. I never thought about it, ’cause I knew where you was, an’ all. Why didn’t they show you fightin’ those gun-totin’ land hogs?”

  “It is politically expedient for the government to hide the fact that I was required to put down an armed rebellion. It is also in the government’s best interest to hide the fact that the rebels were sufficiently armed and dangerous to inflict heavy damage to me. That damage must be repaired. You will need track plates and durachrome linkages to replace seventeen point three meters of damage in my left-hand track, twenty point five meters in my right-hand track, and eleven point nine-three meters in my central track.”

  Phil’s nano-tatt contorts itself into a knotty tangle of black filaments reminding me unpleasantly of Deng infantry. He scowls at the ground, then mutters, “I dunno how t’do that. And even if I did, which I don’t, what am I s’posed to use? Spit balls and elbow grease? I got no tools, let alone parts!”

  “Sar Gremian will have to authorize payment for off-world equipment to be shipped in, which will take time. In the interim, you will have to scrounge.”

  Phil scratches his ear. “Yeah, but how? And scrounge for what, exactly? We got nothin’ on this whole planet strong as durachrome. Hell, we can’t even make durachrome. What’m I supposed to use? Steel?”

  I review technical specs. “Not an optimal metal, but steel linkages should work, if I do not have to face combat against Deng Yavacs. They will have to be replaced after every mission, however. My weight will warp and degrade them over any appreciable distance. I will download technical specifications on metallurgy, casting, and forging requirements for you as reference material when contacting potential vendors. Tolerances must be within specification, as well. I would suggest contacting the Tayari Mining Consortium’s tool-and-die division for assistance.”

  “How’n hell I s’posed to do that?”

  “Try looking them up on the datanet,” I suggest, with creditable patience. “Your status as this world’s only Bolo mechanic gives you treaty-level clearance to request technical assistance from any on-world resource.”

  This elementary piece of advice appears to affect Phil Fabrizio like Divine Writ. “I can? Hey, that’s like fuckin’ fabulous! Yeah, I’ll do that! I’ll download them specs you was talkin’ about — hey, how’m I gonna do that? My computer got blown up.”

  “Go back to your sister’s house. When you arrive, call me on your wrist-comm and tell me the identity code for your sister’s datanet account. As the engineering specs for my treads are not classified, I am authorized to download them to an unsecure computer. Clearly, you will also need a new computer.”

  He gives me a grin. “Now that, I can scrounge by my own self. Sit tight, Big Guy. I’ll call you.”

  He swaggers back to his car, chest puffed out at the prospect of calling Tayari’s executives with a question they must, by treaty obligation, answer. My mechanic is easily delighted. I could learn to envy such a carefree creature, under other conditions.

  Phil has been gone for twelve point three minutes when an aircar on approach vector from downtown Madison signals me, using the proper command code to enter my proximity alert zone without triggering a defensive reflex. The aircar circles above the shattered base for three point oh-seven minutes, evidently taking stock of the damage. Two minutes and twelve seconds later, the multi-passenger aircar touches down near my warhull. Sar Gremian emerges. There are eleven high-ranking military officials with him and four other civilians. I brace for trouble.

  “Bolo,” Sar Gremian says with an unpleasant tone grating through his voice, “we’ve come to give you a medal. Aren’t you pleased?”

  I am not pleased. I am astonished. Of all the things I expected Sar Gremian to say, “we’ve come to give you a medal” is the least-anticipated phrase imaginable. It is a measure of how disheartened I have been, that such a ploy succeeds in pleasing my personality gestalt center’s ruffled logic trains. It is good to be recognized for a job well done, particularly when it has resulted in physical damage to one’s self. The battle for Barran Bluff was particularly savage, in its way, and will have long-lasting consequences.

  The president’s senior advisor has brought four general officers with him, along with three colonels and four majors, a surprisingly high number of staff-grade officers in an army that has been dismantled from the ground up. Based on their uniform devices, there are now more command-grade generals than battalions. It is a strange way to run an army.

  I recognize the generals and two of the colonels from news broadcasts and meetings I have monitored. I face the officers and Party officials responsible for the creation of propaganda, the seizure of privately held property, the placation and control of urban subsistence recipients, and the conversion of property into currency used to fund POPPA’s social and environmental programs. I do not feel particularly honored by their visit.

  General Teon Meinhard gazes up at my turret for several seconds before clearing his throat to speak. “Well, now, we’ve come to give you a medal, y’see. A nice, shiny one. It’ll look good, welded up there with the others. It’s a public service award. The highest we have. We’re here to commend you for the heroic assault you made, defending the public good.”

  “That is appreciated, General. It is not easy to destroy seven 10cm mobile Hellbores shooting at you from behind cover.”

  The general blinks in evident surprise. “Hellbores? I’m not talking about destroying any Hellbores.” He shoots a suspicious glance at Sar Gremian. “Is that what did this?” He waves one hand at the destruction surrounding us. “Hellbores? Where in blazes did common criminals get their hands on something like that? I didn’t know we even had Hellbores!”

  I am appalled by the general’s utter lack of information on the battles that have been waged in the past several hours. A general who remains totally ignorant of the basic facts surrounding the heaviest military engagement since the Deng invasion is not worth his weight in mud. Sar Gremian explains the situation to General Meinhard in openly contemptuous terms, an attitude I suspect is well-earned. The other officers smirk and even the civilians appear to be concealing derisive express
ions. I begin to think it would have been no great loss if General Meinhard and the officers with him had been quartered on Nineveh Base, rather than living off post in a wealthy civilian section of Madison, which are the official addresses on record for these officers.

  When Sar Gremian completes his brief situation report, I seek clarification. “Why are you giving me a medal, if not for the battle at Barran Bluff? The insurrection at Barran is the first combat I have fought since the Deng invasion. I have not been part of any other engagements that would qualify as an assault in defense of anything.”

  “But you have,” General Meinhard protests. “You crushed a riot that killed the president!”

  I am struck speechless. Jefferson’s government is giving me a medal of valor for crushing civilians in a riot? A riot that would never have ended in Gifre Zeloc’s death if I had not been ordered to crush protestors in the first place? Or if he had used ordinary common sense, rather than jumping into a mob full of enraged Grangers? I sit in stupefied silence as one of the majors crawls up my warhull, medal and welding torch in hand.

  “I’ll put it on this side,” the major says, “so it’ll stand out from all the old ones.”

  He welds the new “ribbon hanger” — as military slang has dubbed such things through the centuries — onto my turret. After one hundred fifteen years in service, I finally understand why a medal can be referred to in such dismissive terms. I find myself glad that he has not sullied my other badges of honor by adding this gaudy decoration to the cluster of medals that reflect genuine service to humanity. The major succeeds in welding the thing to the right-hand side of my turret, where it blazes in lurid testimony to folly.

  Sar Gremian steps forward while the major is still climbing down and peers critically at the damage to my treads. He frowns. “For once,” he mutters, “you weren’t just pissing and moaning. Those tracks have to be fixed. We can’t afford to have some reporter get a photo of you with that kind of damage visible. I suppose we’ll have to find a replacement for that worthless mechanic of yours, as well.”