Bolo_The Annals of the Dinochrome Brigade Read online

  “You mean like Bobby?” the boy asked.

  “Like Bobby used to be.” Crewe switched off the transmitter.

  “Bobby’s swell,” another child said. “He tells us stories about when he was in the war.”

  “He’s got medals,” the first boy said. “Were you in the war, mister?”

  “I’m not quite that old,” Crewe said.

  “Bobby’s older’n grandad.”

  “You boys had better run along,” Crewe said. “I have to …” He broke off, cocked his head, listening. There were shouts outside; someone was calling his name.

  Crewe pushed through the boys and went quickly along the hall, stepped through the door onto the boardwalk. He felt rather than heard a slow, heavy thudding, a chorus of shrill squeaks, a metallic groaning. A red-faced man was running toward him from the square.

  “It’s Bobby!” he shouted. “He’s moving! What’d you do to him, Crewe?”

  Crewe brushed past the man, ran toward the plaza. The Bolo appeared at the end of the street, moving ponderously forward, trailing uprooted weeds and vines.

  “He’s headed straight for Spivac’s warehouse!” someone yelled.

  “Bobby! Stop there!” Blauvelt came into view, running in the machine’s wake. The big machine rumbled onward, executed a half-left as Crewe reached the plaza, clearing the corner of a building by inches. It crushed a section of boardwalk to splinters, advanced across a storage yard. A stack of rough-cut lumber toppled, spilled across the dusty ground. The Bolo trampled a board fence, headed out across a tilled field. Blauvelt whirled on Crewe.

  “This is your doing! We never had trouble before—”

  “Never mind that! Have you got a field car?”

  “We—” Blauvelt checked himself. “What if we have?”

  “I can stop it—but I have to be close. It will be into the jungle in another minute. My car can’t navigate there.”

  “Let him go,” a man said, breathing hard from his run. “He can’t do no harm out there.”

  “Who’d of thought it?” another man said. “Setting there all them years—who’d of thought he could travel like that?”

  “Your so-called mascot might have more surprises in store for you,” Crewe snapped. “Get me a car, fast! This is an official requisition, Blauvelt!”

  There was a silence, broken only by the distant crashing of timber as the Bolo moved into the edge of the forest. Hundred-foot trees leaned and went down before its advance.

  “Let him go,” Blauvelt said. “Like Stinzi says, he can’t hurt anything.”

  “What if he turns back?”

  “Hell,” a man muttered. “Old Bobby wouldn’t hurt us …”

  “That car,” Crewe snarled. “You’re wasting valuable time.”

  Blauvelt frowned. “All right—but you don’t make a move unless it looks like he’s going to come back and hit the town. Clear?”

  “Let’s go.”

  Blauvelt led the way at a trot toward the town garage.

  The Bolo’s trail was a twenty-five foot wide swath cut through the virgin jungle; the tread-prints were pressed eighteen inches into the black loam, where it showed among the jumble of fallen branches.

  “It’s moving at about twenty miles an hour, faster than we can go,” Crewe said. “If it holds its present track, the curve will bring it back to your town in about five hours.”

  “He’ll sheer off,” Blauvelt said.

  “Maybe. But we won’t risk it. Pick up a heading of 270°, Blauvelt. We’ll try an intercept by cutting across the circle.”

  Blauvelt complied wordlessly. The car moved ahead in the deep green gloom under the huge shaggy-barked trees. Oversized insects buzzed and thumped against the canopy. Small and medium lizards hopped, darted, flapped. Fern leaves as big as awnings scraped along the car as it clambered over loops and coils of tough root, leaving streaks of plant juice across the clear plastic. Once they grated against an exposed ridge of crumbling brown rock; flakes as big as saucers scaled off, exposing dull metal.

  “Dorsal fin of a scout-boat,” Crewe said. “That’s what’s left of what was supposed to be a corrosion resistant alloy.”

  They passed more evidences of a long-ago battle: the massive, shattered breech mechanism of a platform-mounted Hellbore, the gutted chassis of what might have been a bomb car, portions of a downed aircraft, fragments of shattered armor. Many of the relics were of Terran design, but often it was the curiously curved, spidery lines of a rusted Axorc microgun or implosion projector that poked through the greenery.

  “It must have been a heavy action,” Crewe said. “One of the ones toward the end that didn’t get much notice at the time. There’s stuff here I’ve never seen before, experimental types, I imagine, rushed in by the enemy for a last-ditch stand.”

  Blauvelt grunted.

  “Contact in another minute or so,” Crewe said.

  As Blauvelt opened his mouth to reply, there was a blinding flash, a violent impact, and the jungle erupted in their faces.

  The seat webbing was cutting into Crewe’s ribs. His ears were filled with a high, steady ringing; there was a taste of brass in his mouth. His head throbbed in time with the thudding of his heart.

  The car was on its side, the interior a jumble of loose objects, torn wiring, broken plastic. Blauvelt was half under him, groaning. He slid off him, saw that he was groggy but conscious.

  “Changed your mind yet about your harmless pet?” he asked, wiping a trickle of blood from his right eye. “Let’s get clear before he fires those empty guns again. Can you walk?”

  Blauvelt mumbled, crawled out through the broken canopy. Crewe groped through debris for the command transmitter—

  “Good God,” Blauvelt croaked. Crewe twisted, saw the high, narrow, iodine-dark shape of the alien machine perched on jointed crawler-legs fifty feet away, framed by blast-scorched foliage. Its multiple-barreled micro-gun battery was aimed dead at the overturned car.

  “Don’t move a muscle,” Crewe whispered. Sweat trickled down his face. An insect, like a stub-winged four-inch dragonfly, came and buzzed about them, moved on. Hot metal pinged, contracting. Instantly, the alien hunter-killer moved forward another six feet, depressing its gun muzzles.

  “Run for it!” Blauvelt cried. He came to his feet in a scrabbling lunge; the enemy machine swung to track him …

  A giant tree leaned, snapped, was tossed aside. The great green-streaked prow of the Bolo forged into view, interposing itself between the smaller machine and the men. It turned to face the enemy; fire flashed, reflecting against the surrounding trees; the ground jumped once, twice, to hard, racking shocks. Sound boomed dully in Crewe’s blast-numbed ears. Bright sparks fountained above the Bolo as it advanced. Crewe felt the massive impact as the two fighting machines came together; he saw the Bolo hesitate, then forge ahead, rearing up, pushing the lighter machine aside, grinding over it, passing on, to leave a crumpled mass of wreckage in its wake.

  “Did you see that, Crewe?” Blauvelt shouted in his ear. “Did you see what Bobby did? He walked right into its guns and smashed it flatter’n crock-brewed beer!”

  The Bolo halted, turned ponderously, sat facing the men. Bright streaks of molten metal ran down its armored flanks, fell spattering and smoking into crushed greenery.

  “He saved our necks,” Blauvelt said. He staggered to his feet, picked his way past the Bolo to stare at the smoking ruins of the smashed adversary.

  “Unit Nine Five Four of the Line, reporting contact with hostile force,” the mechanical voice of the Bolo spoke suddenly. “Enemy unit destroyed. I have sustained extensive damage, but am still operational at nine point six percent base capability, awaiting further orders.”

  “Hey,” Blauvelt said. “That doesn’t sound like …”

  “Now maybe you understand that this is a Bolo combat unit, not the village idiot,” Crewe snapped. He picked his way across the churned-up ground, stood before the great machine.

  “Mission accomplis
hed, Unit Nine five four,” he called. “Enemy forces neutralized. Close out Battle Reflex and revert to low alert status.” He turned to Blauvelt.

  “Let’s go back to town,” he said, “and tell them what their mascot just did.”

  Blauvelt stared up at the grim and ancient machine; his square, tanned face looked yellowish and drawn. “Let’s do that,” he said.

  The ten-piece town band was drawn up in a double rank before the newly mown village square. The entire population of the settlement—some three hundred and forty-two men, women and children—were present, dressed in their best. Pennants fluttered from strung wires. The sun glistened from the armored sides of the newly-cleaned and polished Bolo. A vast bouquet of wild flowers poked from the no-longer-sooty muzzle of the Hellbore.

  Crewe stepped forward.

  “As a representative of the Concordiat government I’ve been asked to make this presentation,” he said. “You people have seen fit to design a medal and award it to Unit Nine five four in appreciation for services rendered in defense of the community above and beyond the call of duty.” He paused, looked across the faces of his audience.

  “Many more elaborate honors have been awarded for a great deal less,” he said. He turned to the machine; two men came forward, one with a stepladder, the other with a portable welding rig. Crewe climbed up, fixed the newly struck decoration in place beside the row of century-old battle honors. The technician quickly spotted it in position. The crowd cheered, then dispersed, chattering, to the picnic tables set up in the village street.

  It was late twilight. The last of the sandwiches and stuffed eggs had been eaten, the last speeches declaimed, the last keg broached. Crewe sat with a few of the men in the town’s lone public house.

  “To Bobby,” a man raised his glass.

  “Correction,” Crewe said. “To Unit Nine five four of the Line.” The men laughed and drank.

  “Well, time to go, I guess,” a man said. The others chimed in, rose, clattering chairs. As the last of them left, Blauvelt came in. He sat down across from Crewe.

  “You, ah, staying the night?” he asked.

  “I thought I’d drive back,” Crewe said. “My business here is finished.”

  “Is it?” Blauvelt said tensely.

  Crewe looked at him, waiting.

  “You know what you’ve got to do, Crewe.”

  “Do I?” Crewe took a sip from his glass.

  “Damn it, have I got to spell it out? As long as that machine was just an oversized half-wit, it was all right. Kind of a monument to the war, and all. But now I’ve seen what it can do … Crewe, we can’t have a live killer sitting in the middle of our town—never knowing when it might take a notion to start shooting again!”

  “Finished?” Crewe asked.

  “It’s not that we’re not grateful—”

  “Get out,” Crewe said.

  “Now, look here, Crewe—”

  “Get out. And keep everyone away from Bobby, understand?”

  “Does that mean—?”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Blauvelt got to his feet. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure.”

  After Blauvelt left, Crewe rose and dropped a bill on the table; he picked the command transmitter from the floor, went out into the street. Faint cries came from the far end of the town, where the crowd had gathered for fireworks. A yellow rocket arced up, burst in a spray of golden light, falling, fading …

  Crewe walked toward the plaza. The Bolo loomed up, a vast, black shadow against the star-thick sky. Crewe stood before it, looking up at the already draggled pennants, the wilted nosegay drooping from the gun muzzle.

  “Unit Nine five four, you know why I’m here?” he said softly.

  “I compute that my usefulness as an engine of war is ended,” the soft rasping voice said.

  “That’s right,” Crewe said. “I checked the area in a thousand-mile radius with sensitive instruments. There’s no enemy machine left alive. The one you killed was the last.”

  “It was true to its duty,” the machine said.

  “It was my fault,” Crewe said. “It was designed to detect our command carrier and home on it. When I switched on my transmitter, it went into action. Naturally, you sensed that, and went to meet it.”

  The machine sat silent.

  “You could still save yourself,” Crewe said. “If you trampled me under and made for the jungle it might be centuries before …”

  “Before another man comes to do what must be done? Better that I cease now, at the hands of a friend.”

  “Good-bye, Bobby.”

  “Correction: Unit Nine five four of the Line.”

  Crewe pressed the key. A sense of darkness fell across the machine.

  At the edge of the square, Crewe looked back. He raised a hand in a ghostly salute; then he walked away along the dusty street, white in the light of the rising moon.

  COMBAT UNIT

  I DO NOT like it; it has the appearance of a trap, but the order has been given. I enter the room and the valve closes behind me.

  I inspect my surroundings. I am in a chamber 40.81 meters long, 10.35 meters wide, 4.12 high, with no openings except the one through which I entered. It is floored and walled with five-centimeter armor of flint-steel and beyond that there are ten centimeters of lead. Massive apparatus is folded and coiled in mountings around the room. Power is flowing in heavy buss bars beyond the shielding. I am sluggish for want of power; my examination of the room has taken .8 seconds.

  Now I detect movement in a heavy jointed arm mounted above me. It begins to rotate, unfold. I assume that I will be attacked, and decide to file a situation report. I have difficulty in concentrating my attention …

  I pull back receptivity from my external sensing circuits, set my bearing locks and switch over to my introspection complex. All is dark and hazy. I seem to remember when it was like a great cavern glittering with bright lines of transvisual colors …

  It is different now; I grope my way in gloom, feeling along numbed circuits, test-pulsing cautiously until I feel contact with my transmitting unit. I have not used it since … I cannot remember. My memory banks lie black and inert.

  “Command Unit,” I transmit, “Combat Unit requests permission to file VSR.”

  I wait, receptors alert. I do not like waiting blindly, for the quarter-second my sluggish action/reaction cycle requires. I wish that my Brigade comrades were at my side.

  I call again, wait, then go ahead with my VSR. “This position heavily shielded, mounting apparatus of offensive capability. No withdrawal route. Advise.”

  I wait, repeat my transmission; nothing. I am cut off from Command Unit, from my comrades of the Dinochrome Brigade. Within me, pressure builds.

  I feel a deep-seated click and a small but reassuring surge of power brightens the murk of the cavern to a dim glow, burning forgotten components to feeble life. An emergency pile has come into action automatically.

  I realize that I am experiencing a serious equipment failure. I will devote another few seconds to troubleshooting, repairing what I can. I do not understand what accident can have occurred to damage me thus. I cannot remember …

  I go along the dead cells, testing.

  “—out! Bring .09’s to bear, .8 millisec burst, close armor …”

  “… sun blanking visual; slide number-seven filter in place.”

  “… 478.09, 478.11, 478.13, Mark! …”

  The cells are intact. Each one holds its fragment of recorded sense impression. The trouble is farther back. I try a main reflex lead.

  “… main combat circuit, discon—”

  Here is something; a command, on the reflex level! I go back, tracing, tapping mnemonic cells at random, searching for some clue.

  “—sembark. Units emergency standby …”

  “… response one-oh-three; stimulus-response negative …”

  “Check list complete, report negative …”

  I go on, searching out damage. I find an
open switch in my maintenance panel. It will not activate; a mechanical jamming. I must fuse it shut quickly. I pour in power, and the mind-cavern dims almost to blackness. Then there is contact, a flow of electrons, and the cavern snaps alive; lines, points pseudo-glowing. It is not the blazing glory of my full powers, but it will serve; I am awake again.

  I observe the action of the unfolding arm. It is slow, uncoordinated, obviously automated. I dismiss it from direct attention; I have several seconds before it will be in offensive position, and there is work for me if I am to be ready. I fire sampling impulses at the black memory banks, determine statistically that 98.92% are intact, merely disassociated.

  The threatening arm swings over slowly; I integrate its path, see that it will come to bear on my treads; I probe, find only a simple hydraulic ram. A primitive apparatus to launch against a Mark XXXI fighting unit, even without mnemonics.

  Meanwhile, I am running a full check. Here is something … An open breaker, a disconnect used only during repairs. I think of the cell I tapped earlier, and suddenly its meaning springs into my mind. “Main combat circuit, disconnect …” Under low awareness, it had not registered. I throw in the switch with frantic haste. Suppose I had gone into combat with my fighting-reflex circuit open!

  The arm reaches position and I move easily aside. I notice that a clatter accompanies my movement. The arm sits stupidly aimed at nothing, then turns. Its reaction time is pathetic. I set up a random evasion pattern, return my attention to my check, find another dark area. I probe, feel a curious vagueness. I am unable at first to identify the components involved, but I realize that it is here that my communication with Command is blocked. I break the connection to the tampered banks, abandoning any immediate hope of contact with Command.

  There is nothing more I can do to ready myself. I have lost my general memory banks and my Command circuit, and my power supply is limited; but I am still a fighting Unit of the Dinochrome Brigade. I have my offensive power unimpaired, and my sensory equipment is operating adequately. I am ready.

  Now another of the jointed arms swings into action, following my movements deliberately. I evade it and again I note a clatter as I move. I think of the order that sent me here; there is something strange about it. I activate my current-action memory stage, find the cell recording the moments preceding my entry into the metal-walled room.