He had been in the military for most of his life, and had planned to stay in. He was happy in uniform, and for many of the colonists here, that was a totally foreign concept.
Both of those stories of his ancestors were in his mind as he stood, travel-weary and yet excited, before a massive piece of the machinery of war, a glorious hulk of purpose-built design. It was larger than a good many of the buildings of this far-off colony at the edges of human space.
Bachman’s World. A poor colony known only for its single export of a medicinal desert plant, it was not a place likely to attract a tourist trade. Those who came here left because life was even harder in the slums of Calcutta, or the perpetually typhoon-swept mud-flats of Bangladesh. They were farmers, who grew vast acreages of the “saje” for export, and irrigated just enough land to feed themselves. A hot, dry wind blew sand into the tight curls of his hair and stirred the short sleeves of his desert-khaki uniform. It occurred to him that he could not have chosen a more appropriate setting for what was likely to prove a life-long exile, considering his hobby—his obsession. And yet, it was an exile he had chosen willingly, even eagerly.
This behemoth, this juggernaut, this mountain of gleaming metal, was a Bolo. Now, it was his Bolo, his partner. A partner whose workings he knew intimately . . . and whose thought processes suited his so uniquely that there might not be a similar match in all the Galaxy.
RML-1138. Outmoded now, and facing retirement—which, for a Bolo, meant deactivation.
Extinction, in other words. Bolos were more than “super-tanks,” more than war machines, for they were inhabited by some of the finest AIs in human space. When a Bolo was “retired,” so was the AI. Permanently.
There were those, even now, who were lobbying for AI rights, who equated deactivation with murder. They were opposed by any number of special-interest groups, beginning with religionists, who objected to the notion than anything housed in a “body” of electronic circuitry could be considered “human” enough to “murder.” No matter which side won, nothing would occur soon enough to save this particular Bolo.
Siegfried had also faced retirement, for the same reason. Outmoded. He had specialized in weapons’-systems repair, the specific, delicate tracking and targeting systems.
Which were now outmoded, out-of-date; he had been deemed too old to retrain. He had been facing an uncertain future, relegated to some dead-end job with no chance for promotion, or more likely, given an “early-out” option. He had applied for a transfer, listing, in desperation, everything that might give him an edge somewhere. On the advice of his superiors, he had included his background and his hobby of military strategy of the pre-Atomic period.
And to his utter amazement, it had been that background and hobby that had attracted the attention of someone in the Reserves, someone who had been looking to make a most particular match. . . .
The wind died; no one with any sense moved outside during the heat of midday. The port might have been deserted, but for a lone motor running somewhere in the distance.
The Bolo was utterly silent, but Siegfried knew that he—he, not it—was watching him, examining him with a myriad of sophisticated instruments. By now, he probably even knew how many fillings were in his mouth, how many grommets in his desert-boots. He had already passed judgment on Siegfried’s service record, but there was this final confrontation to face, before the partnership could be declared a reality.
He cleared his throat, delicately. Now came the moment of truth. It was time to find out if what one administrator in the Reserves—and one human facing early-out and a future of desperate scrabbling for employment—thought was the perfect match really would prove to be the salvation of that human and this huge marvel of machinery and circuits.
Siegfried’s hobby was the key—desert warfare, tactics, and most of all, the history and thought of one particular desert commander.
Erwin Rommel. The “Desert Fox,” the man his greatest rival had termed “the last chivalrous knight.” Siegfried knew everything there was to know about the great tank-commander. He had fought and refought every campaign Rommel had ever commanded, and his admiration for the man whose life had briefly touched on that of his own ancestor’s had never faded, nor had his fascination with the man and his genius.
And there was at least one other being in the universe whose fascination with the Desert Fox matched Siegfried’s. This being; the intelligence resident in this particular Bolo, the Bolo that called himself “Rommel.” Most, if not all, Bolos acquired a name or nickname based on their designations—LNE became “Lenny,” or “KKR” became “Kicker.” Whether this Bolo had been fascinated by the Desert Fox because of his designation, or had noticed the resemblance of “RML” to “Rommel” because of his fascination, it didn’t much matter. Rommel was as much an expert on his namesake as Siegfried was.
Like Siegfried, RML-1138 was scheduled for “early-out,” but like Siegfried, the Reserves offered him a reprieve. The Reserves didn’t usually take or need Bolos; for one thing, they were dreadfully expensive. A Reserve unit could requisition a great deal of equipment for the “cost” of one Bolo. For another, the close partnership required between Bolo and operator precluded use of Bolos in situations where the “partnerships” would not last past the exercise of the moment. Nor were Bolo partners often “retired” to the Reserves.
And not too many Bolos were available to the Reserves. Retirement for both Bolo and operator was usually permanent, and as often as not, was in the front lines.
But luck (good or ill, it remained to be seen) was with Rommel; he had lost his partner to a deadly virus, he had not seen much in the way of combat, and he was in near-new condition.
And Bachman’s World wanted a Reserve battalion. They could not field their own—every able-bodied human here was a farmer or engaged in the export trade. A substantial percentage of the population was of some form of pacifistic religion that precluded bearing arms—Janist, Buddhist, some forms of Hindu.
Bachman’s World was entitled to a Reserve force; it was their right under the law to have an on-planet defense force supplied by the regular military. Just because Bachman’s World was back-of-beyond of nowhere, and even the most conservative of military planners thought their insistence on having such a force in place to be paranoid in the extreme, that did not negate their right to have it. Their charter was clear. The law was on their side.
Sending them a Reserve battalion would be expensive in the extreme, in terms of maintaining that battalion. The soldiers would be full-timers, on full pay. There was no base—it would have to be built. There was no equipment—that would all have to be imported.
That was when one solitary bean-counting accountant at High Command came up with the answer that would satisfy the letter of the law, yet save the military considerable expense.
The law had been written stipulating, not numbers of personnel and equipment, but a monetary amount. That unknown accountant had determined that the amount so stipulated, meant to be the equivalent value of an infantry battalion, exactly equaled the worth of one Bolo and its operator.
The records-search was on.
Enter one Reserve officer, searching for a Bolo in good condition, about to be “retired,” with no current operator-partner—
—and someone to match him, familiar with at least the rudiments of mech-warfare, the insides of a Bolo, and willing to be exiled for the rest of his life.
Finding RML-1138, called “Rommel,” and Siegfried O’Harrigan, hobbyist military historian.
The government of Bachman’s World was less than pleased with the response to their demand, but there was little they could do besides protest. Rommel was shipped to Bachman’s World first; Siegfried was given a crash-course in Bolo operation. He followed on the first regularly-scheduled freighter as soon as his training was over. If, for whatever reason, the pairing did not work, he would leave on the same freighter that brought him.
Now, came the moment of truth.
&nb
sp; “Guten tag, Herr Rommel,” he said, in careful German, the antique German he had learned in order to be able to read first-hand chronicles in the original language. “Ich bin Siegfried O’Harrigan.”
A moment of silence—and then, surprisingly, a sound much like a dry chuckle.
“Wie geht’s, Herr O’Harrigan. I’ve been expecting you. Aren’t you a little dark to be a Storm Trooper?”
The voice was deep, pleasant, and came from a point somewhere above Siegfried’s head. And Siegfried knew the question was a trap, of sorts. Or a test, to see just how much he really did know, as opposed to what he claimed to know. A good many pre-Atomic historians could be caught by that question themselves.
“Hardly a Storm Trooper,” he countered. “Field-Marshall Erwin Rommel would not have had one of those under his command. And no Nazis, either. Don’t think to trap me that easily.”
The Bolo uttered that same dry chuckle. “Good for you, Siegfried O’Harrigan. Willkommen.”
The hatch opened, silently; a ladder descended just as silently, inviting Siegfried to come out of the hot, desert sun and into Rommel’s controlled interior. Rommel had replied to Siegfried’s response, but had done so with nothing unnecessary in the way of words, in the tradition of his namesake.
Siegfried had passed the test.
Once again, Siegfried stood in the blindingly hot sun, this time at strict attention, watching the departing back of the mayor of Port City. The interview had not been pleasant, although both parties had been strictly polite; the mayor’s back was stiff with anger. He had not cared for what Siegfried had told him.
“They do not much care for us, do they, Siegfried?” Rommel sounded resigned, and Siegfried sighed. It was impossible to hide anything from the Bolo; Rommel had already proven himself to be an adept reader of human body-language, and of course, anything that was broadcast over the airwaves, scrambled or not, Rommel could access and read. Rommel was right; he and his partner were not the most popular of residents at the moment.
What amazed Siegfried, and continued to amaze him, was how human the Bolo was. He was used to AIs of course, but Rommel was something special. Rommel cared about what people did and thought; most AIs really didn’t take a great interest in the doings and opinions of mere humans.
“No, Rommel, they don’t,” he replied. “You really can’t blame them; they thought they were going to get a battalion of conventional troops, not one very expensive piece of equipment and one single human.”
“But we are easily the equivalent of a battalion of conventional troops,” Rommel objected, logically. He lowered his ladder, and now that the mayor was well out of sight, Siegfried felt free to climb back into the cool interior of the Bolo.
He waited until he was settled in his customary seat, now worn to the contours of his own figure after a year, before he answered the AI he now consciously considered to be his best friend as well as his assigned partner. Inside the cabin of the Bolo, everything was clean, if a little worn—cool—the light dimmed the way Siegfried liked it. This was, in fact, the most comfortable quarters Siegfried had ever enjoyed. Granted, things were a bit cramped, but he had everything he needed in here, from shower and cooking facilities to multiple kinds of entertainment. And the Bolo did not need to worry about “wasting” energy; his power-plant was geared to supply full-combat needs in any and all climates; what Siegfried needed to keep cool and comfortable was miniscule. Outside, the ever-present desert sand blew everywhere, the heat was enough to drive even the most patient person mad, and the sun bleached everything to a bone-white. Inside was a compact world of Siegfried’s own.
Bachman’s World had little to recommend it. That was the problem.
“It’s a complicated issue, Rommel,” he said. “If a battalion of conventional troops had been sent here, there would have been more than the initial expenditure—there would have been an ongoing expenditure to support them.”
“Yes—that support money would come into the community. I understand their distress.” Rommel would understand, of course; Field Marshal Erwin Rommel had understood the problems of supply only too well, and his namesake could hardly do less. “Could it be they demanded the troops in the first place in order to gain that money?”
Siegfried grimaced, and toyed with the controls on the panel in front of him. “That’s what High Command thinks, actually. There never was any real reason to think Bachman’s World was under any sort of threat, and after a year, there’s even less reason than there was when they made the request. They expected something to bring in money from outside; you and I are hardly bringing in big revenue for them.”
Indeed, they weren’t bringing in any income at all. Rommel, of course, required no support, since he was not expending anything. His power-plant would supply all his needs for the next hundred years before it needed refueling. If there had been a battalion of men here, it would have been less expensive for High Command to set up a standard mess hall, buying their supplies from the local farmers, rather than shipping in food and other supplies. Further, the men would have been spending their pay locally. In fact, local suppliers would have been found for nearly everything except weaponry.
But with only one man here, it was far less expensive for High Command to arrange for his supplies to come in at regular intervals on scheduled freight-runs. The Bolo ate nothing. They didn’t even use “local” water; the Bolo recycled nearly every drop, and distilled the rest from occasional rainfall and dew. Siegfried was not the usual soldier-on-leave; when he spent his pay, it was generally off-planet, ordering things to be shipped in, and not patronizing local merchants. He bought books, not beer; he didn’t gamble, his interest in food was minimal and satisfied by the R.E.M.s (Ready-to-Eat-Meals) that were standard field issue and shipped to him by the crateful. And he was far more interested in that four-letter word for “intercourse” that began with a “t” than in intercourse of any other kind. He was an ascetic scholar; such men were not the sort who brought any amount of money into a community. He and his partner, parked as they were at the edge of the spaceport, were a continual reminder of how Bachman’s World had been “cheated.”
And for that reason, the mayor of Port City had suggested—stiffly, but politely—that his and Rommel’s continuing presence so near the main settlement was somewhat disconcerting. He had hinted that the peace-loving citizens found the Bolo frightening (and never mind that they had requested some sort of defense from the military). And if they could not find a way to make themselves useful, perhaps they ought to at least earn their pay by pretending to go on maneuvers. It didn’t matter that Siegfried and Rommel were perfectly capable of conducting such exercises without moving. That was hardly the point.
“You heard him, my friend,” Siegfried sighed. “They’d like us to go away. Not that they have any authority to order us to do so—as I reminded the mayor. But I suspect seeing us constantly is something of an embarrassment to whoever it was that promised a battalion of troops to bring in cash and got us instead.”
“In that case, Siegfried,” Rommel said gently, “we probably should take the mayor’s suggestion. How long do you think we should stay away?”
“When’s the next ship due in?” Siegfried replied. “There’s no real reason for us to be here until it arrives, and then we only need to stay long enough to pick up my supplies.”
“True.” With a barely-audible rumble, Rommel started his banks of motive engines. “Have you any destination in mind?”
Without prompting, Rommel projected the map of the immediate area on one of Siegfried’s control-room screens. Siegfried studied it for a moment, trying to work out the possible repercussions of vanishing into the hills altogether. “I’ll tell you what, old man,” he said slowly, “we’ve just been playing at doing our job. Really, that’s hardly honorable, when it comes down to it. Even if they don’t need us and never did, the fact is that they asked for on-planet protection, and we haven’t even planned how to give it to them. How ab
out if we actually go out there in the bush and do that planning?”
There was interest in the AI’s voice; he did not imagine it. “What do you mean by that?” Rommel asked.
“I mean, let’s go out there and scout the territory ourselves; plan defenses and offenses, as if this dustball was likely to be invaded. The topographical surveys stink for military purposes; let’s get a real war plan in place. What the hell—it can’t hurt, right? And if the locals see us actually doing some work, they might not think so badly of us.”
Rommel was silent for a moment. “They will still blame High Command, Siegfried. They did not receive what they wanted, even though they received what they were entitled to.”
“But they won’t blame us.” He put a little coaxing into his voice. “Look, Rommel, we’re going to be here for the rest of our lives, and we really can’t afford to have the entire population angry with us forever. I know our standing orders are to stay at Port City, but the mayor just countermanded those orders. So let’s have some fun, and show’em we know our duty at the same time! Let’s use Erwin’s strategies around here, and see how they work! We can run all kinds of scenarios—let’s assume in the event of a real invasion we could get some of these farmers to pick up a weapon; that’ll give us additional scenarios to run. Figure troops against you, mechs against you, troops and mechs against you, plus untrained men against troops, men against mechs, you against another Bolo-type AI—”
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