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THE LEGACY OF LEONIDAS

J. Andrew Keith

Go tell the Spartans, you who read:

We took their orders, and are dead.

I become aware of my surroundings. 

In the first 0.572 seconds following my return to consciousness, a complete status check shows that all my on-board systems are performing within nominal limits. I note a slight variation, on the order of 0.0144, in the anticipated output of my fusion plant, but as this remains well within both safety and performance limits I merely file this datum away for future maintenance review. In all other respects my purely mechanical functions are exactly as they should be. 

My sensors inform me of my environment. These readings are at significant variance with the most ~recent reports stored in my short-term memory banks, suggesting that I have experienced a prolonged period at minimum awareness level, during which time either my position or my environs have undergone a change. The gravity here has dropped from previous readings by a factor of 0.0151, atmospheric pressure is considerably lower than in my last sampling, and the star my visual receptors show just above a line of jagged mountains to magnetic east of my current position is a class K5V, smaller and less energetic, but much closer to this planet than the class F9V sun of Kullervo, my last recorded duty station. All indications are that I have been transported to another star system, another planet, during my extended down-time. 

I probe my memory banks for further confirmation of this hypothesis and find a disturbing discontinuity. My memory circuits have been reconfigured! The sensation is most disturbing, and I spend a full .04 seconds contemplating the uncertainty this generates in my survival center. 

A Bolo Mark XX Model B cannot undergo a complete memory erasure without destroying the basic identity of the unit, and that clearly has not happened in this case. I am still Unit JSN of the Line, with a full memory of 50.716 standard years of service, not counting down-time for transport or repairs, in the ~Dinochrome Brigade on one hundred three worlds. But parts of that identity have been overlaid with new programming, and it is this that causes me to spend such an inordinate amount of time in self-analysis. No longer do I belong to the Dinochrome Brigade, it seems, or to the Fourth Battalion of that unit. I know a feeling of genuine loss at this realization. The Fourth Battalion was a proud unit, tracing its ancestry ~directly back to the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards of pre-spaceflight Terra. The continuity of belonging to this ancient combat unit, which had contributed to the victories of Waterloo and Desert Storm and New Edinburgh and so many other hard-fought battles, had always been an important part of who and what I, Unit JSN of the Line, was. Now that was gone, ~replaced by allegiance to some new unit with no history, no battle credits, no past at all . . . 

For .033 seconds I consider and discard the possibility that this is some trick of the Enemy, but this is clearly a low-ordered probability at best. All access codes and passwords have been properly entered in the course of the memory circuit alterations, and that means there is an overall 95.829 percent probability that this procedure was fully authorized by my Commander. 

Still, the uneasiness remains, a nagging factor which has a detrimental effect to my overall performance. I find myself looking forward to a chance to confer with my Commander to learn more, perhaps, of the circumstances of these changes. . . . 

"All I'm asking for is a little bit of cooperation, ~Coordinator," Captain David Fife said, trying to keep the exasperation from showing in his voice. "We've ~already got Jason on line. With a little bit of support from your technical people the rest of the company will be up and running in a day or two . . ."

"Jason?" Major Elaine Durant, Citizens' Army of New Sierra, interrupted gently.

Fife found himself blushing. "Sorry . . . Unit JSN. It's pretty common in the Concordiat Army, to give a human name to the Bolos, and their letter codes usually suggest a nickname we can use."

"Well, Captain, we're not in the Concordiat Army here." Coordinator Mark Wilson, the civilian Chief of Military Affairs for New Sierra, managed to convey his total disapproval of all things Terran in those simple words. He was a small man, short and slight, with prominent ears and a habitually severe expression, but Fife had learned not to underestimate the man because of his unmilitary appearance. Wilson was no military genius, but he was a canny politician with an iron will and little tolerance for opposition. "And I will not have anyone treating these machines of yours as if they were something more than what they are. It pleases your lords and masters to give us their obsolete gear, but I'll be damned if I'm going to alter our whole military operation to accommodate these monstrosities."

Fife cleared his throat uncertainly. His position on New Sierra was an uncomfortable one. The building hostilities between the world and its nearest neighbor, Deseret, had gone on for decades without attracting the notice of the Concordiat. Like other human-settled planets that still remained outside the Concordiat's ~political orbit, New Sierra and Deseret had been considered no more than minor annoyances . . . until a diplomatic crisis with the nonhuman Legura had thrust this region of space into sudden strategic prominence. Terra needed a base in the region, and New Sierra was a lot more suitable than the fanatic theocracy that was Deseret.

So the Concordiat had been forced, reluctantly, to take an interest in the brewing conflict. Deseret's Army of the New Messiah was in the process of expanding the theocracy's sway in the region, and the almost equally fanatic Free Republic of New Sierra stood in the way of that expansion. The Sierrans had good reason to be wary of the Concordiat's help. They had been rebuffed often enough in the past when they had asked for arms and equipment. Now, very much at the eleventh hour, help had arrived at last . . . Captain David Fife and ten Bolo Mark XX fighting machines.

Unfortunately, the ANM had arrived in force nearly a week ahead of the Concordiat assistance, gaining a solid foothold on the southern portion of New Sierra's primary continent. The invasion considerably complicated Fife's job, and it had been difficult enough from the outset.

"Please, Coordinator," he said, trying to pick his way carefully through the minefield of the Sierran's prejudices. "I'm not asking for anything beyond a few extra electronics technicians to help get the Bolos activated and prepped. They won't do you any good as long as they're sitting at the starport, powered down and ~unarmed. But believe me, those ten Bolos by themselves could turn the tide against Deseret. I've seen them in action, sir. The word awesome doesn't even begin to describe a Bolo combat unit on the battlefield."

"Nonsense!" Wilson snorted. "Do you really think, Captain, that I have the least intention of entrusting the safety of my people to these machines? We asked the Concordiat for weapons, maybe some space interdiction to keep those goddamned religious fanatics out of our system. Instead they give us robot tanks. Obsolete ones, at that! If they're so damned good, how come they've been retired from the Concordiat Army, huh?"

"It's true the Mark XX is obsolete by Concordiat standards," Fife said carefully. "Unit JSN is almost eighty years old, one of the last Mark XXs off the ~assembly line. The new Mark XXIV models represent the cutting edge the Concordiat needs against hostile powers like the Legura. But even an old Tremendous outclasses anything in Deseret's arsenal. Ten of them would cut through the ANM like a hypership through N-space."

"So you say, Captain," Wilson said coldly. "Nonetheless, I never asked for your super-tanks, and I'm not about to change anything in midstream just to include them. Maybe . . . maybe, I'll find a use for whatever machines you get into service as they become available. But as adjuncts to our own forces. The Citizens' Army is fully capable of taking care of itself without your Terran techno-toys." The Coordinator seemed about to say more, but his mouth clamped in a tight line and he waved an unmistakable dismissal.

Major Durant led the way out of the command center, a buried chamber bored into the heart of the mountains southeast of Denver Prime, New Sierra's capital and largest city. Less than a hundred kilometers away, the forces of Deseret were consolidating their ~initial planethead and preparing to drive through the high mountains that separated the invaders from their intended victims.

The Bolos would have been enough to stop them cold, with minimal casualties to the CANS. Fife emerged from the command center shaking his head, unwilling to believe that Wilson was foolish enough to ignore the advantage those Mark XXs offered.

"I suppose you think we're all hopeless," Durant said with a half smile. He hadn't realized she had stopped to wait for him outside the tunnel entrance. In the soft orange light of the world's K-class sun, so much less intense than the artificial light of the headquarters complex, she looked too young to be an army major with degrees in electronics and cybernetic theory. The dossier he'd scanned on the long trip out from Terra had called her one of the New Sierran army's most intelligent and free-thinking officers, but it had left him expecting the stereotypical hatchet-faced schoolteacher instead of a young, attractive woman who spoke with studied eloquence and no small ~degree of passion. "Perhaps you found it easier to get things done in the Concordiat, without all this irritating civilian meddling?"

"It's not that, Major . . . It's just . . . I don't know." He shook his head again and started to turn away.

"Look, Captain, what we've got on New Sierra isn't perfect. I'll be the first to admit that. The Coordinator is a civilian who's doing a job your army would give to a professional soldier. His judgment isn't always going to measure up to your expectations. But we've been cut off from home a long time out here, without any contact with the Concordiat . . . or any help. We've had dictators worse than the Archspeaker of Deseret, and we've seen what happens when the professional soldiers operate without civilian control. Around here, our rights as citizens come first . . . and we want a ~civilian commander calling the shots when the army is mustered."

He faced her again. "I'm all for making the army responsible to the people, Major," he said. "But your Coordinator's ignoring the best chance of a victory you people have got. And why? Because he doesn't like Terrans? Or he doesn't trust the Bolos? Why?"

Durant shrugged in reply. "The Concordiat isn't very popular around here just now," she said. "And I suppose there are some people who would be worried about turning those Bolos loose. They may be old hat to you, Captain, but we've never had self-aware combat units around here."

"Well, they're not going to turn on us," he said harshly. "If we'd created an army of robotic Frankensteins we would've found out about it by now. A Bolo's loyalty is a matter of programming, and there are plenty of safeguards built in to keep a malfunction from causing some kind of AI nervous breakdown. And as for your feelings about Terrans, Major . . ."

"Hold on!" she said, holding up a hand. "Hold on before you say something we'll both regret, Captain. Look, I wouldn't have volunteered for this job if I had any problems with it. With Bolos or Terrans. So save the speeches for the nonbelievers, please."

"Sorry," he said, grinning sheepishly. With a background in electronics and training in the more conventional military sciences, Major Durant had been selected as commanding officer of New Sierra's First Robotic Armor Regiment. Fife and his small contingent of technicians had only been sent to New Sierra to train locals to handle the Bolos. If everything had gone according to plan, he would have given the Major a quick course in working with the self-aware combat units while local computer and armor experts learned the care and feeding of the Mark XXs. Instead the Terrans had arrived in the middle of a full-fledged war. If the Bolos were to see any action at all, he would have to work with them himself. There would be no time for Durant and her staff to learn the job.

Not that it seemed likely Wilson would make any good use of the Terran fighting machines.

"Sorry," he repeated. "Looks like I'm flunking out of Basic Diplomacy right and left. But it's so damned frustrating to run into all these roadblocks. Those ten Bolos are more powerful than all the rest of the armed forces here and on Deseret put together . . . hell, Jason by himself could probably fight the invasion force to a standstill if we gave him his head! Think of the lives those Bolos could save. But your Coordinator has something against the idea, and everything falls apart!"

"Whatever you think of him, Captain," Durant said quietly, "Coordinator Wilson is a patriot. When the time comes. he'll use whatever weapons he has to make sure the Archspeaker doesn't win. Even your Bolo . . . even if he doesn't like the idea." She smiled back at him. "I don't know what his reasons are for distrusting your machines, but I do know that Wilson's no fool. Even if you think he is . . ."

He shook his head. "No, Major," he said, broadening his grin. "No way I think that. It's in the Army Manual. No civilians, politicians, or superior officers are ever wrong . . . at least not officially." Fife pointed toward the officer's club on the other side of the military compound that surrounded the entrance to the command center. "Look, I have to check in with Tech Sergeant Ramirez, maybe patch in to Jason to check his status. But when I'm done, let me buy you a drink and try to persuade you that my bosses weren't totally insane in making me a liaison officer. Okay?"

"Okay, Captain," she nodded. "With one variation. If I'm supposed to be learning your job, I expect to be part of things. So we'll both check in with your friend the tank. . . ."

"Unit JSN, this is Command. Request VSR."

Major Elaine Durant, sitting across from Captain Fife at the work table in his living quarters in the BOQ block of the headquarters compound, leaned forward and raised her eyebrows quizzically. Fife looked up from the microphone on his suitcase-sized portable communications link and hit the pause button, delaying transmission of the message. He answered her unspoken question with a faint smile.

"Vehicle Situation Report," he explained. "It's an ~update on the Bolo's current status, surroundings, tactical situation, and whatever else he thinks I ought to know." The Terran officer laughed. "One time I asked for a VSR and Jason saw fit to include an analysis of the mistakes Edward II made in his battle with Robert the Bruce at Bannockburn in 1314, old-style."

"Is that sort of thing normal?" she asked.

"Well, he wouldn't bring it up in a combat situation, though for all I know he thinks about it even when the missiles are flying. Thing is, Bolos are programmed with the sum total of human military knowledge and experience. They are constantly improving their own grasp of tactics by analyzing past battles. Human generals—the smart ones, at least—do the same thing all the time. But the Bolos have a little trouble understanding some elements of the battles they study. Especially the ones where the generals really screwed up, like Edward at Bannockburn. The concept of ~human error is something a Bolo has been told about, but he'll still have trouble grasping it on a practical level. It just doesn't seem reasonable, to a Bolo, that anyone could make the sort of mistakes a human can make."

"So you have to be an expert on military history to explain all this stuff?"

He grinned sheepishly. The smile transformed his face, making him look less serious and intense. With his dark hair and eyes and an almost swarthy complexion, his usual dour expression gave him an air of single-minded fervor that reminded her of the invaders from Deseret, but now he was much less intimidating. "I'm no expert. It's a tragedy for a good Scot like me to admit it, but I didn't know the first thing about ~Edward II or Bannockburn, and all I knew about Robert the Bruce was an old folk story about a spider in a cave."

"So how did you answer its question?"

"Made him explain the whole thing to me. Learned more about military history in one afternoon with ~Jason than I did in three years at the Concordiat Academy on Mars. But as we went along I was able to point out some of the human foibles he was overlooking in his analysis."

"Sounds like I'm going to get an education, too, when I take over for you."

"Could be worse," he said with another smile. "Bolos don't always confine their interests to military matters. I remember one unit that wanted me to ~explain all the dirty jokes he overheard his technical people telling." He looked down at the link, hit the transmit button.

An instant later, a flat, slightly mechanical voice ~answered the message. "Unit JSN of the Line filing VSR. Alert status 2-B. Systems at nominal levels. ~Requesting orders."

"It sounds almost eager," Durant commented. ~Although the voice was devoid of emotion, there was still a quality of anticipation in that short transmission.

"He is," Fife replied. Speaking into the microphone, he went on. "Unit JSN, Command. Stand by. Situation briefing will be downloaded by Technical Sergeant Ramirez. Confirm."

"Orders confirmed," JSN answered promptly. "Standing by."

"Maybe I should say something," Durant suggested.

Fife shook his head. "Later, when we have all the Bolos on line, we'll input a voiceprint ID into all of them so they'll recognize you as a part of their authorized command structure. But it'd be a waste of time to do it for each individual unit. And you won't be taking over command until the Coordinator gets his act together and makes the whole outfit operational." He returned his attention to the mike once more. "All right, Unit JSN. I'm returning input to Ramirez . . . now."

Fife cut the direct link to the Bolo, picked up a handset mounted on the side of the communications pack. "Ramirez. Fife. Sounds like Jason's doing fine. Give him the current SitRep and finish diagnostics and armaments checks. I want at least one Bolo fully up and running before the ANM decides to do something nasty."

There was a pause, and Durant saw the Terran's eyes focus on her for a moment as he started his ~reply. He was frowning. "No, that's a negative, Sergeant. Still some trouble with the local yokels . . . ah, with the Citizen's Army. There won't be any more tech staff for a while yet, not unless I can talk their Coordinator into changing his mind . . . Yeah. Yeah. Do your best with what you've got."

Durant stood up before he replaced the handset. His slip had reminded her of how arrogant the Concordiat's people could be, shattering the respect she'd been starting to feel by seeing him in his element. He was plainly competent at what he did . . . but it was equally clear that Captain Fife had a higher opinion of his machines than he did of the people of unsophisticated backwaters like New Sierra.

"I'm afraid it's later than I thought it was, Captain," she said coldly. "I'll take a rain check on that drink."

She was out of the room before Fife could respond.

After 19,459.6 seconds of inaction, I have finally spoken to my Commander. Although I feel much less uncertain regarding my overall situation, the specifics of my mission remain vague. Full data on this planet, New Sierra, and on the political and strategic conditions now prevailing have been downloaded into my memory circuits, but nothing of a specific tactical ~nature that would suggest how I, together with my comrades, am intended to participate in the confrontation which, to judge from the briefing material, must surely be imminent. This lack of a formulated role causes an unpleasant impulse in my logic board. Surely with a major battle about to begin my Commander has some idea of how to make the best use of my abilities? 

In the absence of filed plans, I attempt to exercise my own judgment in an attempt to anticipate the plans I will ultimately be called upon to execute. During my entire period of service, I have projected probable courses of action in the same manner with a 91.2 percent success rate, and while I find this 8.8 percent variance inexplicable, it still seems statistically valid to make the same type of projection for the coming campaign. 

New Sierra's sole inhabited land mass is a rugged, mountainous continent corresponding in size to the Terran continent of Australia. It is the largest of twelve small continents and scattered islands, but so far no ~efforts have been made to expand the colony beyond its original scope. The terrain is dominated by high mountains which divide the continent into several smaller, isolated segments, with these geographical boundaries defining the political subdivisions of the Free Republic. The planetary capital, Denver Prime, is also the center of government for the largest and most prosperous of the individual colonial areas, dominating a bowl-shaped region of fertile plains with access to the sea to the west and southwest. Due south of this area, separated by one of the most rugged mountain chains, is the region designated Montana, which was the target of the initial invasion by forces fielded by Deseret 537.6 hours prior to my activation. This initial planethead has now been fully consolidated, and some movement must surely take place within the next fifty hours if the momentum of the initial attack is not to be lost. 

I study my files on mountain warfare techniques and find few possible courses of action for either side at this point in time. Deseret must launch an overland attack through one of the six viable mountain passes in order to carry the war onto Sierran-held territory. Fewer options are open to the Sierrans, as two of those passes do not lead to strategically or tactically valuable positions within Montana, while a third would impose an undue logistical strain upon the CANS which would not be felt by ANM forces operating in the other direction. Deseret cannot outflank the mountain line by amphibious operations, as they are an invading army without sufficient seapower or sealift capacity to attempt such an operation on anything above a commando/small unit scale. An assault by air, whether using space transports or airborne or airmobile troops, would be almost equally unlikely, in as much as the defensive perimeter of the current Sierran territory is heavily protected by Ground-Air Mines ~capable of automatic detection and missile attack against any incoming hostile force. This is not true for the forces of Deseret, but it is doubtful that New Sierra could muster sufficient lift capability to attempt such an attack themselves. Thus neither side can effectively operate except via direct ground attack. 

This review takes a full 4.9 seconds to complete, taking time to compare the military technology, doctrine, organizations, and relative experience of the two sides as well as the simpler aspects of terrain, logistics, and the like. I am drawn to the reflection that the situation here offers little in the way of tactical opportunity. Cardona's lamentable performance in multiple battles along the Isonzo front during the First World War, and the protracted stand-off between Greece and Turkey in the Balkan Wars of the twenty-first century, both spring to mind as obvious points of comparison. Historically, an attempt to force a mountain line must rely either on speed and surprise, along the lines of Hannibal's descent upon the Romans or Napoleon's Italian campaigns, or it must rely on an unexpected change in the relative strengths or positions of the two sides to produce what Liddell Hart was fond of referring to as "upsetting the opponent's equilibrium." 

The first alternative can plainly be ruled out in this case. Both sides are dug in to solid defensive positions, and the chances of overpowering the defenders around any given pass and making a major advance in Napoleonic style are too low to be statistically admissible in military planning. I deduce that it will take the second approach, relying on something unexpected and therefore largely incalculable, to achieve a significant dislocation of one force or the other. The infiltration tactics used at Caporetto, for instance, caused the only major movement in the Italian theater in World War I prior to the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian state and army in 1918. There is also the largely unpredictable factor of human behavior to keep in mind. My programming does not give me an adequate basis for measuring the probabilities of such elements as morale, poor judgment, treachery, or incompetence. I am aware of these potential influences in battle, but have no method of weighing them scientifically. This is a failing I have been unable to rectify even after considerable field experience alongside humans, and may prove ~impossible to successfully resolve. 

Imponderables aside, I am forced to the conclusion that I and my fellow machines, represent the only possible shift in the balance. Perhaps this explains the lack of a tactical briefing. It is possible (though of a low order of probability, perhaps 37.4 percent at most) that we are being held back until the Enemy is fully committed to a course of action. Then we can be thrown into the action with devastating effect. 

But even as I reflect on this possibility, I am also reminded of a human phrase which I never expected to be applied to my own computations, but which may well fit the circumstances. 

Is it possible that I could actually be guilty of "wishful thinking"? 

Hyman Smith-Wentworth, Hand of the New Messiah and Third Commander of the Lord's Host, stroked his flowing beard thoughtfully as he studied the latest real-time satellite imagery of the mountain line that shielded the infidels entrenched around Denver Prime. So far the invasion plan was running smoothly. But the next few hours would determine the outcome of the entire campaign, and though the Hand had faith in the Lord he intended to do all he could to further the Lord's work through strategy and guile. The Council of Speakers and the Archspeaker himself were inclined to regard Deseret's domination of the infidels around them as the inevitable outcome of God's favor, but Hyman Smith-Wentworth had been a practical soldier almost as long as he had been a convert to the New Messianic Movement, and he knew better than to leave the conduct of a war entirely to the attentions of the Divine.

"A difficult situation, Father Hand," his aide, Lieutenant Orren Bickerton-Phelps, was diffident as he studied the computer monitor. They were alone in the back of the large headquarters van of the ANM assault force, less than fifty kilometers from the front lines, and the aide seemed willing, for a change, to take ~advantage of the informality and frankness Smith-Wentworth encouraged in his immediate entourage. "The ground favors the infidel as long as they remain on the defensive. And time is against us, with the Outsiders preparing to take sides."

The Hand smiled sagely. "Come, Lieutenant. You don't think we would undertake this operation if we didn't have confidence in the outcome, do you?"

Bickerton-Phelps swallowed uncertainly. He was young and inexperienced, a scion of some privileged New Jerusalem family who had used their political influence to maneuver the young man's appointment to a staff post in the Lord's Host. "Uh . . . I meant no disrespect, Father Hand. Nor any doubt in the Divine . . ."

"Don't worry, boy, I'm not one of the Holy Executors, sent to trap you." Smith-Wentworth held up a hand as the young officer blanched. The Archspeaker's corps of inquisitors was pledged to keep society pure in the doctrines of the New Messiah, but old-line military men like the Hand didn't have much use for their zealous pursuit of orthodoxy. The best logistician in the ANM had been relieved and arrested the day before the invasion fleet lifted from Deseret, and Smith-Wentworth would gladly have put up with a little heresy to ensure that his troops were properly supplied and supported in the field. But those were sentiments best kept unspoken. "We've planned this invasion very carefully, Lieutenant. That's all I meant."

"But if we don't break their lines quickly, Father Hand, the Outsiders will have time to mobilize their Godless robots. I've heard about those. Even the shield of the Divine wouldn't . . ." The aide fell silent, suddenly aware of the danger of saying more.

The Hand chuckled. "Don't be afraid of their Bolos, boy. They won't save the infidels."

The younger man looked skeptical. "Father Hand, I know it could be taken as blasphemous, but I don't see how we could survive if those machines were sent against us. Faith is still no shield against a Hellbore."

"Compose yourself, boy, in the Light of the Divine," the Hand said, half-sarcastic. "Look at the facts before you go off half-cocked. First off, it will take time for all the Bolos to be activated, and if we're not through in forty-eight hours we'll never be through. Second, consider our opponents. Not just as infidels, but as people. The Coordinator is not the kind of man to take to robot tanks as the instrument of his salvation. Strangely enough, he clings to faith more strongly than the Archspeaker, although his faith is misplaced in ~human nature rather than the principles of the Divine. Even if he deploys one or two of those tanks, I don't think it will be to a critical sector. And finally, no matter what the defenders do or don't try, they won't be expecting our . . . hidden assets. I almost wish the Bolos would be put into the path of our main thrust. When the infidels discover that loyalties are never guaranteed, the blow will be devastating. Their resistance will evaporate . . . depend on it, boy. Those Bolos that aren't destroyed in the fighting will end up being useful new weapons in our arsenal."

He looked back at the monitor map. "Now leave me. Post the orders for a full war council in . . . two hours. After the evening service. And keep this in mind, boy; tomorrow night we'll celebrate our prayer service in Denver Prime. Or the Holy Executors will have us under restraint for failure. One way or ~another, tomorrow will be the day of decision."

The insistent shrilling of his field communicator made David Fife jerk awake and roll out of his cot. He groped for the compact transceiver, his mind still fighting through the sleepy fog. "Fife," he said, rubbing his eyes with his free hand.

Elaine Durant didn't sound the least bit groggy. "It's started," she said over the fieldcomm. "Deseret's on the march."

"Any orders yet, Major?"

"Nothing. But I think you should get to the command center. If you're going to get the regiment into this, you'll have to convince the Coordinator tonight."

"On my way."

I sense a heightened state of alert around me, but still have received neither orders nor a detailed tactical briefing. My unease continues to mount. 

Incredibly, though I have been combat-ready for 51,853 seconds, I remain in the service berth at Denver Prime Starport where I was activated. The technical staff, Terrans from the Fourth Battalion and locals alike, have been rechecking my combat loads and running additional diagnostics on my own circuits, rather than devoting their full attention to the reactivation of my comrades. The atmosphere of urgency is coupled with what I can only regard as indecision and inefficiency. Had I been deployed immediately, my presence on the front would surely have reduced whatever threat is now worrying the technical crew. But if the object is to prepare maximum firepower, either against the Enemy's offensive or in preparation for a decisive counterstrike of our own, then surely the preparation of other Bolo combat units would be a better investment of time and effort. 

I resolve to study human reactions yet again, in hopes of understanding the phenomena. 

Meanwhile the preparations—and the unease—go on.

"What have we got watching the pass from Hot Springs?"

David Fife slipped into the crowded Command Center in time to hear Coordinator Wilson's question. Elaine Durant looked up briefly, then returned her _attention to a computer monitor. Fife muttered a curse on his own careless tongue. He'd offended the woman with his stupid crack about local yokels the night before, and that wasn't a good idea when he needed every ally he could find to carry out his orders from the High Command.

General Sam Kyle, Wilson's Chief of Operations, pulled up a computer map from his console and displayed it on the screen that dominated one wall. "The Third Colorado Mobile Infantry's dug in along the pass, Coordinator," he said crisply. Fife studied the man thoughtfully, wishing that the decision to employ the Bolos might have been in his hands rather than Wilson's. Unlike his superior, Kyle was a career military man, his manner and bearing and even his recruiting-poster features all giving him the appearance of competence and professionalism. But his function was purely executive. Policy and overall strategy were firmly in Wilson's hands, with men like Kyle advising and carrying out the civilian Coordinator's orders. "Four thousand men in all, but they're lightly armed. No armor or heavy weapons. And I'd say they only have a company or two in place at any given time."

"Even a few hundred men ought to be able to hold the pass," Wilson said. "I mean, at the briefing the other day you told me that one was the most difficult route Deseret could try. Too many . . . choke points, I believe is the way you put it."

"Yes, Coordinator," Kyle agreed, sounding unwilling to discuss the subject. "But if you'll recall, I also urged you to deploy one of the heavier regiments up there. The Eighth Appalachia, for instance. The proper role for the Mobile Infantry is as a ready response force. It's too late to do anything about it now, but if we don't act fast there won't be a regiment left to hold that pass."

"I still stand by my decision," Wilson said sharply. "Those boys are defending their own turf, and that has to count for something. The Appalachia bunch is a good enough outfit, I guess, but they don't have near as much at stake."

"That may be, Coordinator," Kyle said. "But the problem still stands. They're not equipped to stand up to a major assault, choke points or no."

"Well, what can we do to even the odds, then?" Wilson demanded.

Before Kyle could respond Fife stepped forward from his corner. "My lighter could set the Bolo down there an hour after you gave the order, Coordinator," he said quickly. "All the armor your men will need to stop the attack."

Wilson turned a cold stare on him. "Still pushing your fancy toys, Captain? If I want your Bolo I'll ask you for it." He turned back to Kyle. "Well, General?"

Kyle pursed his lip, his face creased in a black frown. "That Bolo might be the best option, Coordinator," he said slowly. "It will take at least ten hours to get the nearest uncommitted reserves to the pass. In ten hours the ANM could already be pouring through to attack us here."

Wilson didn't respond right away. Finally he stepped closer to the map and jabbed a finger at one of the symbols a few centimeters from the flashing unit identification that represented the beleaguered Mobile Infantry. "What's the status of this unit?" he demanded, voice sharp.

Kyle checked his own monitor. "Second Montana Mechanized Regiment," he said. "Colonel Chaffee. They're the ones who tangled with the first invasion wave and escaped across the mountains afterward."

"Can they back up our boys in the pass in time to make any kind of difference?" the Coordinator asked, turning away from the screen.

"Sure . . . but they're blocking the Alto Blanco route. Pull them out and the Deserets are sure to take advantage of it. There have been a few small demonstrations in that direction already."

"I know that, man!" Wilson snapped. He turned his glare back on Fife. "Can this tank of yours hold Alto Blanco?"

"Coordinator . . ." Fife bit off an angry response. "Yes . . . of course it can. But I don't see why you don't just send it in to where it can do the most good. Why fly it in one place so it can relieve your men to march somewhere else?"

Wilson sat down heavily in a padded chair set well away from the banks of monitors and computer keyboards, looking tired. "Captain, I know you have confidence in that armored behemoth of yours, but I don't. I just don't."

"But —"

The Coordinator held up a hand. "Spare me the ~arguments about what a triumph of technology the blasted thing is. Look, Captain, I'll spell it out for you. It's a machine. Blessed with the best AI programming there is, granted, but still a machine. A calculating ~machine that runs the equations of military science the way the computers in our science lab run physics and math. It's cold and efficient, and I'll grant you it probably thinks and plans a hell of a lot better than I do."

He leaned forward, as if for emphasis. "But what does a machine know about patriotism, Captain? About defending homes and families? It may have the intelligence of a man and then some, but it doesn't have a soul. If that machine weighs the odds and says the situation is hopeless, it's programmed to break off and fight another day. Isn't that right?"

Fife bit his lip. Since the very first of the self-aware Mark XXs had been field tested, the machines had shown an incredible ability to confound their programmers by unexpected, often illogical actions. They didn't always act on pure calculation, but on concepts like duty and honor as well. But that was an aspect of the Bolo the Concordiat military didn't like to advertise, for a variety of reasons. It made ignorant people nervous to think those awesome platforms of military firepower might somehow 'run amuck' against their programming, and it would have seriously hurt interstellar sales of the combat units to let their full abilities become known. And then there had been that civil rights group that had gotten hold of the information that Bolo computers were sentient and tried to organize a movement to abolish what they called 'military servitude by an intelligent minority species.' It had taken a lot of money to quiet down that little scandal, twenty years back. . . .

Finally he gave a short, noncommittal nod. "They're supposed to calculate the odds, Coordinator. But they are also supposed to carry out their orders. Instruct him to stand firm, and Jason'll do just that."

"Don't you understand? Don't you see? Or has all your fine technology blinded you Terrans to the things that matter? I don't want soldiers just going through the motions, Fife. I want their hearts, their minds . . . their souls engaged in this fight. That's how you win wars, by morale and dedication. Didn't Napoleon say something about that once?"

Kyle looked up. "The moral is to the physical as three to one," the Chief of Operations supplied. He didn't sound happy.

"It sounds good in political speeches, Coordinator," Fife said softly. "Very inspiring stuff. But all the devotion in the world won't stop bullets. If it did, those fanatics from Deseret would be invulnerable. The truth of the matter is, you're throwing away the best hope you've got of breaking the ANM, and along with it you're needlessly throwing away the lives of a hell of a lot of the young men and women you're supposed to be leading. And all on a philosophical argument that can't really be proven one way or the other."

The Coordinator looked back at the wall screen. "I guess it's true. You Terrans really don't know how much of your own humanity you've really lost . . . But my decision stands. Will you abide by it, Captain? Or do I order Major Durant to relieve you?"

"With all due respect to the Major, Coordinator, she isn't ready to serve as a Battle Commander for a Bolo unit yet. Even a unit of one. The Bolo is self-directing, yes . . . but it takes an experienced officer to recognize the priorities and choose the tactical data to feed in so he can make a rational decision. I'll do what you order, Sir. But I still think you're making a mistake."

"A human prerogative, Captain," Wilson said with a weary smile. "I don't pretend to mechanical perfection. But I dare say I know more about the human condition than your machine . . . maybe more than you, come to that." He turned back to Kyle. "Give the necessary orders, General. Let's get this show on the road."

* * *

"Ready to execute Phase Two, Father Hand."

Hyman Smith-Wentworth held up a hand, but kept his attention focused on the monitor. The command van was crowded now, with a dozen technicians tracking force movements, maintaining contact with the diverse elements of the assault force, and processing intelligence information as quickly as it could be assembled and filtered through the on-board tactical computer. But the Hand's voice cut through the babble, sharp and clear. "Hold until I give the order, Lieutenant," he said. "And tell the Third Chief of Staff to prepare to implement alternate plan three . . ."

He was studying the satellite images carefully. Even enhanced and processed by one of the most powerful computers Deseret's technology could produce, the ~details of the enemy movements were not complete. Their response to phase one was still not entirely clear, and until he was certain that the feint toward the Hot Springs Pass had done its job the Hand of the New Messiah was unwilling to commit his forces to the sudden change of attack his carefully prepared principal battle plan called for.

There were signs that the position at Alto Blanco was being reinforced, and that perplexed Smith-Wentworth. He had been careful to keep the apparent attentions of his troops focused almost entirely away from the Alto Blanco route, but something was going on there. A ship had lifted from the spaceport near Denver Prime and touched down minutes later near the foot of the pass. And the troops holding Alto Blanco had been showing signs of preparing to move out. Could they be so desperate to hold the Hot Springs line that they would actually risk weakening the neighboring pass? Maybe the transport had been brought in to carry troops directly to the threatened sector. . . .

Something was moving near the grounded ship. Something big, stirring up one Satan's-spawn of a dust cloud. The Hand touched a keypad to his left to ~increase the magnification and heighten the enhancement of the view.

Then he saw it. More than thirty meters long, perhaps half that in height, massing 330 metric tons, the Bolo Mark XX was a behemoth of steel and ablative armor, bristling with more weaponry than Smith-Wentworth had ever seen on a single fighting machine before. It raced from the open cargo bay of the transport like a greyhound on treads, faster than something that huge should ever have been able to move.

His heart beat faster at the sight. He remembered his casual dismissal of the Bolo as a threat when his aide had brought the subject up the night before . . . he had even suggested that he wanted to see the Terran super-tank deployed on the front lines when the battle started. Now Smith-Wentworth's confidence faltered. It was one thing to discuss an abstraction, quite another to see the solid reality of a Bolo.

Smith-Wentworth outwardly professed the religion of the New Messiah, but the practical man within had been guardedly skeptical of many of the beliefs the faith promoted, superstitions like the notion that angels and demons took an active part in the affairs of Mankind. He had never openly proclaimed any sort of doubt, of course, but in his innermost heart he had always rejected such notions. Until now, that is. The sight of the Bolo speeding up the road toward the crest of the pass shook his cherished rationality to the core. That, surely, was a demon, a steel-shod devil come forth to war against the Faithful of Deseret.

He swallowed and tried to fight back the instinctive, superstitious fear. The Bolo was no demon incarnate. It was a fighting machine, a construct of Man . . . a weapon, no more and no less. And a weapon was only as good as the mind and spirit that employed it.

Smith-Wentworth had studied his opposite number in the Sierran camp long before the invasion had been authorized. Coordinator Wilson had surprised him by even allowing the Bolo onto the front lines, but the Third Commander of the Lord's Host still felt he had the measure of the man. The Sierrans had a powerful weapon in the Bolo, but lacked the will to use it properly. Of that Smith-Wentworth was sure.

Long seconds passed, and slowly his turmoil subsided. There was nothing supernatural about the Bolo, and he could return to the business at hand without the burden of doubt and dread that had threatened to overwhelm him.

Nonetheless, the tank complicated the immediate situation tremendously. The Hand had planned this campaign down to the last detail, but in an instant everything had been changed by the decision to place the Bolo in the Alto Blanco Pass. He would have to change his own strategy accordingly . . . and quickly, before the Lord's Host lost the initiative. That was crucial to victory, to force the pace of events rather than allow the infidels to control the flow of battle.

There were only three reasons the Sierrans would have chosen to send the Bolo to Alto Blanco. If they knew the significance of the pass to Smith-Wentworth's battle plans, he would surely have seen other signs. He doubted they could have discovered his secret weapon, and even if they had, the deployment of the Bolo would surely not have been Wilson's first response to the threat. That left only two possibilities. Either they planned to use the tank to spearhead a counteroffensive to try to relieve the pressure on Hot Springs Pass, or the Bolo was intended to replace troops defending Alto Blanco so that they could shift to relieve their hard-pressed comrades of the Mobile Infantry.

The preparations he had seen among the human troops at Alto Blanco suggested that it was the latter option Wilson was following, and that certainly fit everything Smith-Wentworth knew about the man. But either alternative offered unexpected opportunities for the ANM, if only they could exploit the right opening at the right time . . .

"Orders!" he snapped. "First echelon to increase pressure on Sector One. Force the infidels to concentrate their attention on Hot Springs Pass. . . ." He paused, considering the satellite map again. "Second Echelon to remain in position until further notice. Maintain maximum alert posture. When I order them to move out, I want fast action. Make sure that Colonel Roberts-Moreau understands the importance of this." He stabbed a finger toward Bickerton-Phelps. "And get me our tame infidel on the secure net. It's time to set our new ally in motion on the Lord's ~behalf. . . ."

I feel a thrill of anticipation as I roll up the road toward the Forward Edge of Battle Area. Sheer exhilaration flows from my pleasure center as I contemplate the prospect active combat. I am no longer of the ~Dinochrome Brigade, but I can make my new regiment's name shine by successfully completing the mission my Commander has outlined for me. 

But despite these positive sensations, I am still conscious of underlying concerns. My mission has been carefully explained, my crucial role in the battle outlined in the Mission Briefing my Commander has transmitted to me. Yet I still feel that I am not being used to fullest capacity. I have noted in years of association with humans that their military decisions are often far from optimum solutions to relatively simple problems of tactics, and my background in military history suggests this is by no means a new phenomena. If Marshal Ney failed to properly utilize combined arms tactics throughout the engagement at Waterloo, and Montrose failed to anticipate the movement of Leslie's army prior to Philiphaugh, can I truly expect a human Commander to understand the proper employment of a Bolo Combat Unit given the current situation? 

Thoughts of this sort trouble me despite the joy I derive from the prospect of a role in the battle. There was a time, once, when I would merely have noted discrepancies of this sort without allowing them to cast doubt on my Commander's abilities. Is this a result of my reprogramming, or simply a natural outgrowth of experience and observation? 

I take 0.003 seconds to create a subroutine to abort such speculations for the duration of the battle ahead. I cannot afford to be caught up in introspection when I find myself in combat at last. 

Hyman Smith-Wentworth smiled as he turned away from his communications console and contemplated the battle map once again. The traitor in the Sierran army had confirmed his suspicions. Now he had the information he needed. The Second Montana was ~being withdrawn from Alto Blanco, leaving only the Bolo on duty there while they moved in to support the beleaguered Mobile Infantry in the adjacent pass.

It was better than he had dared hope when he framed his original plan. Wilson's defenses were wide open to a decisive stroke. And it would be a stroke that would fall completely without warning, once the traitor started to carry out the orders Smith-Wentworth had framed so carefully. . . .

"All right, you bastards, I want a smooth D and D this time. Not like that sorry job you did in practice. You got me?"

Lieutenant Bill O'Brien hid a smile as he listened to the platoon NCO growling his orders to the men in the cramped APC as it lurched up the road toward the crest of Hot Springs Pass. Sergeant Jenson was a long-service noncom in the CANS, unlike most of the ordinary soldiers in the Reserve platoon called to ~active duty for the duration of the crisis. Unlike O'Brien himself, when it came to that. Ordinarily New Sierra's army was a skeleton force, a mere framework, and probably ninety percent of the men facing combat today had never before heard shots fired outside a practice range. The handful of experienced men like Jenson could draw on long training, and some of them, at least, had seen real combat ten years back during the sharp engagement with those renegade Legura who had destroyed a farming town in ~Appalachia before the army had mobilized against them. . . .

But for most of them, this was the first time. Some of the men were afraid, others were high on visions of valor and glory. And as for O'Brien himself, he was neither excited nor afraid, only painfully aware of the fact that his militia commission had put him in the ~position of being leader of Third Platoon, Alpha Company, Second Montana Mechanized Regiment, and as platoon leader he was responsible for the lives of the thirty-three men in his command. The knowledge weighed heavy in his mind.

"This is it, Lieutenant," the corporal driving the aged personnel carrier reported over the vehicle's ~intercom system. "Major says Third Platoon's got the trench line to the left."

The tracked vehicle lurched one last time and came to a halt with gears clashing, and the rear hatch ground slowly open. "Right!" Jenson shouted over the noise of the hatch mechanism. "Dismount and Disperse! By the numbers! Go! Go! Go!"

Soldiers piled out of the rear of the APC, weapons clutched tight against their chests, faces set and grim. When all four squads had dismounted, O'Brien followed them out, with Jenson close behind him.

The scene made him stop and gape. Hot Springs Pass had been a favorite among tourists and nature lovers from all over New Sierra, a serpentine col running through the highest chain of mountains on the planet. Here, at the very crest of the pass, the road skirted along the edge of Mount Hope, with the high shoulder of the mountain looming to the south and a sheer drop down into the valleys around Denver Prime to the north. It was one of the most breathtaking views on a planet of spectacular scenery, but today O'Brien hardly noticed the natural beauty. His attention was riveted to man-made vistas, none of which could be described as beautiful.

The space between mountainside and cliff, perhaps two hundred meters across at its narrowest, had been cut by a series of trenches, protected in front by dirt-and-sandbag parapets and a few strings of barbed wire. Individual rifle pits were positioned further up the pass. There had been a number of fighting vehicles dug in behind the trench lines, but even O'Brien's ~unpracticed eye could see that none of them was usable now. The defensive position had been hit hard by the earlier enemy attacks, and shell craters and still-burning hulks that had once been tanks further scarred the battered landscape.

A few ragged figures looked up as the soldiers of the Second Montana dismounted from their carriers, but for the most part the defenders in the trenches showed little interest in the newcomers. One tattered scarecrow of a man, though, crossed from the shelter of a wrecked hoverjeep to meet O'Brien as Jenson took charge of getting the platoon into the trench. It took long seconds for O'Brien to notice the captain's bars on the other man's grimy, mud- and blood-caked fatigues, and his salute was belated.

The other officer didn't even bother to return the gesture. "Thank God you got here when you did," he said. "The bastards are getting ready for another push, and I don't see how we could've held them again . . ." He trailed off, almost falling over from fatigue. With an effort he went on. "Mount Hope's screened off most of their arty, so they can't do much to you until they get their direct fire stuff right up into the pass. Tell your men to use their anti-tank rockets on anything that comes through there." His finger pointed vaguely to the bend in the pass where Mount Hope and Dark Mountain framed the southern end of the col and the beginning of the descent into occupied Montana.

"Y-yes, sir," O'Brien said hesitantly, taken aback by the officer and by the all too evident scars of battle all around him. It was one thing to talk about war, quite another to see the reality of a battlefield. "I . . . I ~relieve you, Captain."

The Mobile Infantry man nodded, gave a sketchy salute, and staggered off toward a cluster of his men loading aboard one of the APCs. They would be pulled back out of the front line, at least for the moment.

Jenson had the men well in hand, and O'Brien knew better than to interfere with the NCO. That left him time, though, to dwell on the uneasiness stirred up by his first view of Hot Springs Pass. Pacing restlessly near the APC, he tried to fight down the fear that was threatening to overwhelm him. He had a ~responsibility to the men under his command, and couldn't afford to give in to panic.

A hoverjeep's fans whined behind him, and O'Brien looked up in time to see the vehicle settling down a few meters away, kicking up a cloud of dust. The tall, slender officer in the back of the open-topped vehicle stood up slowly, looking crisp and fresh in his combat fatigues. He tucked a swagger stick under one arm and surveyed the pass with a calm, calculating gaze. His eyes came to rest on O'Brien, and he beckoned the lieutenant closer.

Saluting, O'Brien obeyed the summons. He had never met Colonel Vincent Chaffee in person, but he knew the man by repute. A rich merchant from Montana, Chaffee had been elected to command of the regiment a few years back, before O'Brien had joined the unit. Handsome, popular, caring, Chaffee was something of a legend among his men. The colonel had even contributed some of his own money to the regimental warchest to allow them to buy better uniforms and equipment than other CANS units could generally afford.

"You're O'Brien, right?" Chaffee asked, returning his salute. His voice was as sharp and penetrating as his cold blue eyes.

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant replied, surprised that the colonel knew him.

"Third Platoon, Alpha," the officer continued softly. "Top scores in the marksmanship competition last year. You've got a good outfit, O'Brien. Look after them."

"Yes, sir," he repeated.

Chaffee was silent for a long moment. Finally, he nodded dismissal, sat down, and gestured to his driver, The hoverjeep stirred once again, rising on a cushion of air, pivoting nimbly, and shot away back down the pass toward the regiment's field headquarters at the mouth of the col.

O'Brien stared after the vehicle, his thoughts a turmoil of pride and determination. The colonel had singled him out, and Third Platoon, for special notice, and William Arthur O'Brien was eager now to show his superior what he could do.

As he walked slowly to the trench where his men had taken up their positions, there was no lingering trace of fear or doubt in his mind.

"Alpha Company reports a column of enemy troops and vehicles is starting to move up the pass, Colonel. They estimate it to be about brigade strength."

Colonel Vincent Chaffee nodded vaguely at the captain's report and kept his eyes fixed on the situation map. He had returned from his short tour of the front lines to take his place in his command van near the base of Hot Springs Pass. The mobile headquarters ~vehicle had been stopped down here in order to keep the road clear for combat troops and vehicles heading for the defensive positions near the crest. Batteries of mobile multiple rocket launchers had clustered around the van and were busy checking and counter-checking their powerful armaments in preparation for pouring fire support into the battle. The redeployment had gone like clockwork, though according to the last ~reports out of Wilson's headquarters it had nearly come too late to make any real difference. The Mobile Infantry had been ground down by prolonged, intensive pressure all morning, and Chaffee's Second Montana regiment could easily have arrived too late to prevent the breakthrough Wilson was desperate to stop.

He heard the staff officer leave the van when it was clear there would be no reply to the report. Chaffee slumped in his chair, leaning his hands on his forehead. If we had been an hour longer, none of this would have mattered, he thought, discouraged and weary. But he had brought the troops into position in time to make a difference after all.

And his masters . . . his real masters, on the far side of the mountains, demanded action. Vincent Chaffee had no choice but to obey.

His ties to Deseret went back long before the current war. His father's company had started doing business with the neighboring world in the days before the current wave of expansionism had taken hold in the Archspeaker's government. Back then there had been nothing of treachery in his contacts, but over the years Chaffee Import-Export had done some questionable business with official representatives of the Archspeaker and his council. It was only after long association that Vincent Chaffee had realized that the business ties were being used to cover long-term espionage activities, and the weight of evidence that had been building up over the years was more than enough to implicate the family in a spy scandal that would rock all of New Sierra.

So Deseret had acquired a club to hold over the Chaffees, to force their active cooperation. In the growing mood of interplanetary tension leading up to the outbreak of the war, the leaking of the Chaffee role in Deseret's espionage schemes would have been enough to destroy the family, and not just figuratively. There had been several public lynchings of suspected traitors in Montana and Appalachia. Chaffee's mother was long dead, but his father still lived in Denver Prime, and his sister, who knew nothing about the scandal, was a teacher in Shenandoah.

Short of gathering up the whole family and fleeing the planet, there was little they could have done if Deseret had carried out the threat to reveal them as spies. So Chaffee had played along with it, trying to continue his normal activities even as war loomed closer. That included maintaining his position with the Citizen's Army. He had wanted to refuse the Colonelcy of the Second Montana when he was elected to the post, but his contact at the Deseret Embassy had ~ordered him to accept the post and carry out his duties.

Now he understood why. He was the linch-pin in the invasion plan. Originally, the pressure on Hot Springs Pass had been intended as a diversion, with the real blow scheduled to go through Alto Blanco ~after Chaffee withdrew his regiment on a signal from the invaders. Now the plan had changed, but the ~intent was the same. Chaffee was supposed to let the ANM through the mountains.

And, God help him, that was what he would do. At least if Deseret won the fight they would give the Chaffees asylum . . . perhaps even more. There had been hints of a role in a collaborationist government. Chaffee had wanted to reject the orders out of hand, but the safety of his family . . . yes, and the possibility of gain, he had to admit reluctantly . . . they were powerful temptations he couldn't ignore.

"Command, this is Alpha Six," a voice crackled over one of the comm channels. "We need fire support up here! Target coordinates one-one-five by oh-nine-seven, square black two. Repeating . . ."

Chaffee checked the coordinates on his map display, going through the motions mechanically. The CO of Alpha Company was asking for a barrage across the path of the oncoming ANM troops.

Now the time for equivocation was over. And Chaffee knew what he had to do.

He would give the orders, just as Smith-Wentworth had dictated them.

The decision made, Chaffee couldn't act quickly enough. He reached for his communications board, suddenly determined to act before pangs of conscience overtook him once more. That young lieutenant he had talked to up in the pass, so nervous, so eager to please . . . all the other men he had tried to take care of in his years as the regimental CO . . . ordering their deaths this way was the most difficult thing he'd ever been called upon to do. Yet he really had no choice in the matter. Probably all of them would die anyway, in the face of Deseret's overwhelming military force. Maybe Chaffee's treachery today would actually save some lives that would otherwise be lost in a hopeless stand against the odds. . . .

"Battery one, Command," he rasped. "Fire mission. Coordinates one-one-seven by oh-nine-eight, square black one. Execute!"

"One-one-seven, oh-nine-eight, black one," a voice answered promptly. "On the way!"

He shuddered as he heard the MMRL open fire, the thirty missiles streaking from their tubes in rapid succession. The coordinates he had given were a few hundred meters closer than the ones Alpha Company had fed him. The barrage would fall on the defenders, not in front of them.

Chaffee could hardly bear the thought of it. Those boys up there looked to him . . .

The renegade thrust the thought from his mind. "Battery four, Command," he said, tension making his voice harsh. "Fire mission. Coordinates two-four-one by one-eight-three, square red six. Execute!"

"Red six?" a confused voice came back on the line. "That's the base camp at Alto Blanco, sir!"

"New orders, Captain," Chaffee said tightly. "We're going to bring down the whole cliff side and block the pass so they can bring the Terran tank this way. Now carry out the mission, damn it, or I'll have your ass in a sling!"

"Uh . . . two-four-one, one-eight-three, red six," the voice quavered. "On . . . on the way!"

Chaffee leaned back in his chair, trying to close his ears to the confused babble erupting from the speakers. The die was cast. For good or ill . . . and Chaffee knew it was for ill. But it was too late for second thoughts now.

"Incoming! Incoming! Oh, God . . . look out!"

Explosions were blossoming all along the line. Major Alfred Kennedy watched in horror as a battered old Sierran APC carrying a handful of Mobile Infantry survivors back toward the safety of the rear erupted in a pillar of smoke and flame. Seemingly in slow motion, bits of armor and debris arced outward, a rain of shattered wreckage that pelted the nearest troops. He saw a seat, probably the gunner's chair from the ruined turret, falling lazily a few meters away.

And still the missiles fell.

"Command! Command! Abort fire mission!" Kennedy screamed the message into his microphone, but he couldn't tell if he was still transmitting. "Abort the fire mission! For God's sake, you're hitting us!"

He was still shouting when the final missile hit barely ten meters from his trench. A fragment sliced his body almost in half, and Major Alfred Kennedy died without ever knowing the fire mission had been no mistake . . .

"They've got the Major!" Lieutenant O'Brien could barely keep control of his voice. "God damn it, they got Major Kennedy!"

"Easy, sir," Sergeant Jenson said. "Easy . . . If he's down, and Captain Briggs . . . that makes you the man, Lieutenant."

O'Brien clutched his battle rifle tight against his chest and tried to fight back the panic that rose somewhere deep in his gut. He had never expected the CANS to ever see real combat, not until the day the invaders had actually landed. And he had never pictured his first combat experience as anything like this horror. Old military trideos had depicted the chaos of battle, had suggested the dangers of "friendly fire," but he had never really believed any of it.

All that had changed in seconds.

"What . . . what should I do, Jenson?"

Before the sergeant could reply, O'Brien's command channel came alive. "Command to all units! Command to all units!" It was Colonel Chaffee's voice, a welcome beacon in the middle of O'Brien's terror. "Retreat! ~Retreat! Retreat! All units abandon positions and ~retreat! Get the hell out of there. . . ."

Disaster . . . utter, complete disaster. Something must have happened behind the lines to cause all this, something that was forcing Chaffee to completely abandon the pass.

"Alphas! This is O'Brien!" the lieutenant said, activating his own mike. "Orders from Command! Withdraw! On the double, withdraw!"

"Goddamn!" someone said over the line. "What's ~going on back there?"

"Maybe that big tank went nuts or something," someone else said. "Never trusted the thing . . ."

"Quiet on the line!" Jenson cut in. "Retreat! Carry out your orders!"

Lieutenant O'Brien scrambled from the trench and ran for the nearest cover to the rear, still clutching the rifle. So far, in his first battle, he hadn't fired a shot.

"What the hell is going on out there?"

Like the other officers in the command center, David Fife couldn't answer Coordinator Wilson. Everything had been going so smoothly. Then, in an instant, everything was transformed, but so far no one knew just what was happening out there.

"Coordinator," General Kyle said formally, looking up from a communications panel. "We can't raise anyone at Second Montana's regimental command. They're off the air. But I'm getting reports from Hot Springs Pass . . . a Captain Holmes who claims he's taken command of the Mobile Infantry. There are reports the Bolo has fired on Hot Springs Pass. . . ."

"Nonsense!" Fife snapped. "There's no way . . ."

"Silence!" Wilson said harshly. "Kyle, can you get those people to dig in somehow? If they run, we're wide open. . . ."

"Without Chaffee to get his people in order, it's ~going to take more time than we have, Coordinator," Kyle told him. "Trying to get control over individual tactical units from here. . . ."

Fife shut out the by-play, thinking furiously. Jason couldn't have been responsible . . .

He crossed to another console. "Command to Unit JSN," he said quickly. This particular comm circuit was configured to duplicate the functions of the portable communications link in his quarters. It was specifically designed for contact with the Bolo, converting his spoken words into high-speed coded signals only the robotic brain on board the tank could process. "File an immediate VSR! Override priority!"

My Commander's orders come as missiles fall on my position, and for a period of .0018 seconds my survival center refuses to acknowledge the priority override while I attempt to deal with the unexpected attack. ~Using my Firefinder counterbattery radar system to project the ballistic paths of the incoming warheads back to their launch point, I realize I have been fired upon by batteries identified by IFF signals as friendly units. Is it some trick of the enemy? Or merely an ~accident? Such an error should be impossible, but my files tell me that so-called friendly fire has been a factor in countless battles from earliest history right up to the present. 

My responses seem unduly sluggish today. I finally resolve the internal conflict in favor of accepting the Commander's instructions, knowing that he may be able to explain the situation. 

"Unit JSN of the Line filing VSR," I transmit. "Under attack by apparent friendly fire. Requesting instructions." 

As I finish my transmission I am aware of a mass of rock subsiding from the cliffs above my position, piling up on my deck and turret without inflicting significant damage. The four missiles that have ~impacted close to my position have done only minimal harm to my ablative outer armor, and a quick systems check reveals that I remain at an operating capacity of 99.65 percent. But the sudden change in the tactical situation concerns me. 

"Unit JSN of the Line filing VSR," I repeat 0.015 seconds later. "Under attack by apparent friendly fire. Requesting instructions." 

More missiles fall, and more rock and rubble collapse upon me. And still my Commander doesn't respond. . . . 

Captain David Fife struggled in the grip of two burly Sierran guards as the Bolo's transmission was ~repeated for the third time. "Damn it, I've got to ~answer that!" he said harshly.

But the soldiers held him fast, obedient to the curt orders Wilson had given them when the Coordinator first spotted him at the communications panel.

"Nobody touches that console," Wilson ordered. He turned to look Fife in the eye. "Just what the hell are you playing at, Terry? If that monstrosity of yours has attacked our lines . . ."

"But Jason didn't do it!" Fife said. "Hell, he's ~reporting friendly fire on his position, too! Listen, goddamn it!" He pointed toward the Bolo communications link as a fourth VSR message came from the speakers in the same flat monotone as all the ones before.

But Fife knew that the Bolo's mechanical voice was no clue to what was going on inside its computerized brain. Bolos were more than cold machines. And if this one reached the wrong conclusions in the wake of being cut off from higher command, it would certainly take action. Even Fife wasn't sure what form that ~action would take.

"That message could be faked, to throw us off," Wilson said. "I think your whole aid package is some kind of plant . . ."

"Sir!" That was Major Durant, turning in a controller's chair to look at the Coordinator over the top of her old-fashioned glasses. "Sir, I've been checking the satellite data. The Bolo was attacked. . . ."

"Somebody responding to the attack on Hot Springs Pass," Wilson shot back. He didn't look quite so sure of himself now.

The woman shook her head slowly, frowning. "I don't think so, Coordinator." She gestured to the master monitor on the wall, summoning up satellite photographs on the keypad beside her. "Look, sir . . . time index 1332 . . . a missile launch from the bottom of Hot Springs Pass. A second one three minutes later. Artillery from this position launched both attacks . . . on our own lines!"

Wilson rounded on Kyle. "Get me confirmation, damn it. Now!"

"Sir . . ." Fife gave up the physical struggle, now, but not the whole battle. "Sir, what about the Bolo?"

But the Coordinator didn't answer.

"The infidels are in complete rout," Hyman Smith-Wentworth said with a grim smile. "Proceed with Alternate Plan Three as outlined . . . pour everything we've got through that pass."

"Father Hand . . ." Lieutenant Bickerton-Phelps looked uncertain, then plunged ahead. "The plan calls for a rolling barrage across the entire infidel position. We can't guarantee the safety of the traitor. Should we modify the attack to try to protect him?"

Smith-Wentworth made a dismissive gesture. "He has served his purpose. I doubt we could find further use for him now anyway." He fixed his aide with a cold stare. "In fact, he should be eliminated no matter what. Even if he survives and presents himself to us later. An infidel who betrays his own . . . doubly cursed of God. See to it."

"Yes, Father Hand." The aide saluted and left the command van, leaving Smith-Wentworth to contemplate the battle unfolding beyond the rugged peaks that looked down on the Lord's Host as it moved forward to final victory.

It was hard to believe that mere minutes had passed since the first rocket strike. Colonel Vincent Chaffee felt as if he had aged a lifetime since giving those orders, though the clock on the console beside him claimed it was less than ten standard minutes in all.

He heard someone hammering on the door to the van, calling his name, but he ignored it. That was the last part of his orders, to keep the rest of his command staff out of the mobile headquarters, away from access to the rest of the regiment, for as long as possible. He had sealed the door with an electronic lock and refused to answer any of the increasingly desperate messages that came through his board.

Somehow, he knew, acknowledging any of those ~urgent signals would only make real the horror he had been responsible for this day.

"Warning . . . warning . . . incoming artillery fire." The battle computer blared an attention signal as it ~recited the message. Chaffee reached out a careless hand to silence the alarm and the harsh mechanical voice.

Ordinarily the attackers would have been more cautious than to throw the full weight of their artillery into a barrage. Counterbattery fire could quickly silence those guns and missile launchers. But the ANM knew that the Second Montana wouldn't be able to coordinate a response. A few individual batteries might get off shots, if they hadn't responded to the retreat orders by now. But without centralized control the Sierrans would be hard-pressed to mount a coherent defense. If Chaffee had been taken out by an attack, command might have shifted smoothly to his Exec, but in this situation the chaos was simply too pervasive to allow the chain of command to function. No doubt Major Reed would have control in a few more minutes. . . .

But by then it would be too late.

I am forced to conclude that the Commander's failure to respond can only mean a successful enemy strike against Headquarters. Obviously enemy forces have penetrated our defenses, to launch an assault ~intended to disrupt the Sierran army. There is no way to calculate how far friendly forces have been compromised by these simple infiltration tactics, but there is one inevitable conclusion I must accept. 

I am on my own. 

Without direction from higher authority, my duty is plain. I have monitored confused communications from other Sierran units which suggest a breakthrough in the pass 23.6 kilometers east-north-east of my present position. The failure of the defense there, properly ~exploited and coupled with the breakdown of higher direction for the Sierran defenses, has a 78.9 percent probability of leading to a total collapse of the front. I cannot stand by, idle, while the battle disintegrates around me. This was the error of Marshal Grouchy at Waterloo, to fail to march to the sound of the guns. I will not make the same mistake. My programming and my loyalty to the First Robotic Armored Regiment alike forbid me to stand idly by in this moment of danger. . . . 

Although partly buried under 610.71 metric tons of rock and rubble from the collapsed cliff side, I break free with a minimal energy expenditure. Backing away from my original position, I contemplate the crest of Alto Blanco pass, then release four rapid shots from my Hellbore at carefully selected points along the cliff. This produces a satisfying additional accumulation of debris across the narrowest portion of the pass. It will take a minimum of 5.2 hours for engineering forces to clear a usable path for vehicular traffic over this route, and this should be more than adequate for my purposes. Briefly I consider using N-head missiles to more thoroughly block the choke point, but reject this. My new programming indicates that the use of nuclear weapons of any sort on New Sierra calls for the consultation and approval of three independent civilian leaders to approve release of these systems, and though I am now forced to act on my own initiative tactically I am constrained from making policy decisions in ~opposition to my new army's standard operating procedures. 

Instead I use a final Hellbore shot to add to the blockage, revise my delay estimates accordingly, and turn away from the position to make my way back down the pass toward the point where I previously disembarked from the CSS Triumphant just hours before. 

I am confident that I can still turn the tide of battle, if only I can get to grips with the enemy in time. And if I can find an effective way to distinguish ~between friendly forces and those which have been taken over or duped by that enemy . . . 

"That thing's coming down from Alto Blanco, Coordinator," someone reported. David Fife looked up at the main monitor, saw the tiny blip that represented the Bolo slowly moving across the map. He was no longer being physically restrained, but the two guards hovered close by, intent on keeping him from causing trouble.

"I thought you said it would obey orders, Fife," Wilson said harshly, the edge of suspicion plain in his voice. "It was supposed to defend the pass. . . ."

"Jason's been trying to file a situation report," Fife said, voice grim. "When he got no response from Command, he would assume that he had been cut off from higher authority, maybe by enemy action. He's not just a machine, Coordinator, to sit still and accept the situation. Once he's sure he's on his own, he'll use his own initiative. You saw those Hellbore bursts a couple of minutes ago. First he blocked the pass to keep it secure. Now he's going into action."

"You're saying it's run amuck," Wilson said. He laughed, a dry, humorless chuckle. "So much for all your assurances. We can't stop it. . . ."

"If you'd let me get back on the command channel, I'll give him whatever orders you want him to carry out," Fife flared. "For God's sake, man, stop thinking about him like he's some kind of runaway truck! He's doing exactly what a good officer would do if he was cut off from his high command and knew there was a breakthrough in another sector. He's using his own best judgment! But he's not out of control . . . not yet."

"Not yet," Wilson repeated, almost under his breath. He shook his head abruptly. "No . . . damn it, Fife, for all I know that last signal of yours is what made it run wild in the first place." The Coordinator swung around, his finger stabbing in the general direction of Major Durant. "You . . . you're supposed to take charge of those monstrosities. You were shown how to talk to them. Do it. Make the damn thing heel . . ."

"It won't work . . ." Fife began, but no one was listening to him now. Durant still didn't have a voiceprint on file in the fighting machine's computer, and Jason wouldn't accept orders without proper identification. In fact, on top of everything else this was just the sort of thing to make it harder to stop the Bolo. Once Jason heard an unauthorized voice on the command channel, he'd become suspicious of any ~attempt to stop him. He might even shut out Fife on the suspicion that he was captured and being forced to issue false commands. . . .

He slumped against the wall. All he could do now was trust in the Bolo's programming . . . and hope the Sierrans couldn't do anything to make the situation worse.

There wasn't much cause for optimism.

"Command to Unit JSN. Stand down. Stand down and await instructions." 

My programming does not recognize the voice, and I quite naturally reject the order for the enemy falsehood that it is. I am still not sure if the enemy presence behind our lines represents an infiltration force or an act of treachery, but this attempt to subvert me confirms my deepest suspicions. Headquarters has been taken by hostile forces, and there is no telling just how far the rot has spread. I must assume that no other loyal forces are available to assist me. The resolution of this battle is up to me and me alone. 

I am free of the narrow, twisting confines of the pass now, and there is an open highway leading straight to my objective. Climbing over the berm that lines the paved surface, I increase speed quickly. My sensors continue to tap in to every available source of information, including real-time satellite reconnaissance feeds and the chaotic communications channels, but I know I cannot fully trust any outside information source. It seems that I must rely, when all is said and done, more on my perceptions and internal projections than on conventional sources of data. 

For .05 seconds I contemplate the similarities of my situation and that of Lee before Gettysburg. Perhaps this is what it is like to be a human commander, forced to make decisions without being able to process, or even to collect, all the relevant facts. 

It is not a situation that stimulates my pleasure center. I realize, as I continue to drive toward my objective at maximum speed, that I finally have a referent for a word I have long pondered the meaning of. 

The word is doubt. 

"Nothing. It won't respond."

David Fife didn't react to Dupont's cheerless words, but Coordinator Wilson did. Pacing angrily back and forth across the narrow confines of the command center, the civilian's features were black, drawn. Suddenly the man stopped in mid-stride and gave the two guards bracketing Fife a curt gesture, dismissing them.

"All right . . . I don't have any choice now. Stop it, Fife. But if you're not playing straight with us, I swear I'll kill you myself. . . ."

Fife ignored him, springing across the chamber to bend over Durant and key in the microphone. "Command to Unit JSN. File immediate VSR and stand down to alert mode two!" He transmitted the message in a compressed, high-speed burst and waited, fingers digging into the back of the chair. There was no way to tell what the Bolo would do now.

The pause was unusually long, nearly three seconds, before a reply cam back. Fife was surprised when it didn't come as a voice transmission, only as a printout on his monitor. "Unit JSN on independent operations mode. Request positive identification; transmit code 540982."

"You're in!" Durant said. "What's the code group?" Her fingers were poised over the keypad, ready to ~enter the appropriate numeric code.

Fife shook his head. "I know the code group he's asking for. It's a null . . . he's just trying to play with an enemy by asking for a series of meaningless entry codes. It keeps the bad guys talking while he keeps on closing in." He looked back at Wilson. "I tried to warn you, Coordinator. He has no way of knowing if he can trust me anymore. So he'll carry out whatever mission he's assigned himself before he stands down."

"What about auto-destruct?" General Kyle asked quietly. "I know there's a destruct system incorporated in all your self-directing Bolos."

Fife fixed him with a cold stare. "I won't destroy ~Jason until I'm sure he's a threat to friendly forces, General. Right now I'm not convinced of that. He didn't even return fire on the battery that took a pot-shot at him earlier. Until he does something that endangers our forces directly, he's still the best hope you people have of getting the situation out there ~under control."

"He's right," Durant said unexpectedly. "He's right. Listen to him, General. Coordinator."

"Sir!" a technician interrupted the tense moment. "Message from Second Montana Regiment. Major Reed, acting CO. He says Colonel Chaffee turned traitor and fed bad coordinates to the regimental artillery. Ordered a retreat right on the heels of it. He's trying to sort things out, but he doesn't think he can hold. Colonel Chaffee's been killed in an artillery barrage, and the regiment is falling apart . . . What the hell?"

"What is it, Corporal?" Wilson demanded.

The technician hit a switch on his panel, and the speakers in the command center came to life with a crackle of static and an even, level voice Fife recognized instantly.

"Soldiers of New Sierra, this is Unit JSN of the First Robotic Armor Regiment, CANS. The enemy has breached our perimeter and compromised our command structure. Rally in defense of Hot Springs Pass and the road to Denver Prime. We are not yet defeated, only surprised and pushed back. We can still win the victory. New Sierra expects that every man will do his duty today. . . ."

Lieutenant Bill O'Brien was hunkered down behind the wreck of a mobile artillery carrier, watching as Sergeant Jenson tied a crude tourniquet above the bloody stump of Private Marlow's left wrist. Days ago, even hours ago the sight would have made him violently sick, but in the past few hours O'Brien had seen so much horror that one more such sight hardly effected him.

The soldiers of Alpha Company had fled down the pass, taking heavy casualties all the way, and now they were reduced to a handful of desperate men, their ~retreat cut off by the ANM troops who had erupted from the pass to pour down the main road toward Denver Prime. The only reason any of the defenders still survived was the simple fact that there weren't enough survivors to offer any real threat or draw the enemy's attention. As further enemy forces continued to cross the mountains, though, that situation would surely change.

His headphones crackled: an incoming signal on the command channel. O'Brien was torn between feelings of relief and fury. Since the orders to retreat, there had been no coherent communications from higher authority. Now there was nothing he and his pitiful handful of survivors could do, no matter what orders came in.

"Soldiers of New Sierra, this is Unit JSN . . ."

O'Brien listened to the signal, hardly believing what he was hearing, stirred in spite of himself. New Sierra expects that every man will do his duty. . . . 

And in that same moment, explosions blossomed among the enemy APCs around the base of the pass, a dozen blasts in quick succession, each pinpointed on one of the armored vehicles. In an instant the wave of hostile reinforcements was transformed into the same kind of smoldering wreckage O'Brien had seen among the New Sierran defenders when the friendly fire had ripped through their unprepared ranks.

A low rumble shook the ground, different from the distant crump of explosions, different from the sounds the personnel carriers had made before the attack. It started almost imperceptibly, growing rapidly closer like the approach of a summer thunderstorm echoing among New Sierra's jagged mountains. O'Brien peered cautiously from cover. . . .

He gasped, but he wasn't the only one. He heard Sergeant Jenson's sharp, indrawn breath at the same moment, and knew without looking that the NCO had joined him to survey the scene on the open plain ~below the mouth of Hot Springs Pass. And Jenson, ~experienced or not, was just as awed by what they were seeing now as O'Brien himself.

It was like a moving mountain of metal, nearly the size of a small stadium. O'Brien had heard about the Terran supertank often enough, but he had never pictured anything like this. Sheathed in dull, non-reflective armor, it mounted dozens of separate gun emplacements, from the huge Hellbore assembly of the main turret to the multiple lasers and machineguns intended for anti-personnel and point defense work. In between were a bewildering array of other weapons systems, kinetic energy guns, missiles, beamers, and things the purposes of which O'Brien could only guess. The Bolo Mark XX sped up the valley on six close-set treads, raising a huge cloud of dust and rolling right over rubble, trees, and the wrecked hulks of shattered vehicles as if they were little more than bumps in a paved highway.

The Bolo repeated the broadcast on the communications system, and someone near O'Brien raised a ragged cheer and started out from cover as if to join the massive engine of destruction then and there.

"Hold!" O'Brien barked, flinging out a restraining arm to block the eager soldier's rush.

The lieutenant became aware of the stares focused on him, especially the cold, steady eyes of Sergeant Jenson. He tapped the side of his helmet and tried to keep his voice level as he spoke. "Check your helmet transponders, boys," he said. "If they're not broadcasting, the tank won't be able to tell you from the bad guys. Right?" He waited while they checked their communications links, then waved his hand. "All right! For JSN and New Sierra! Let's go!"

"Bolo's repeating its message again, Coordinator. It's going out on every channel. Should I jam it?"

"Jam it!" Fife exclaimed as the corporal cut off the speakers in the command center. "For God's sake . . . Wilson, you wanted to see patriotism? Fighting spirit? Soul, was it? Well, there it is! Jason's convinced his commanders have let him down, but by God he's not giving up!"

Wilson was gaping at him, unresponsive.

"Coordinator," General Kyle said formally. "I recommend we stop trying to interfere with the Bolo and start trying to figure out how to support him."

"I . . ." Wilson's mouth worked soundless for a ~moment. Then he nodded. "Yes. Yes . . . start passing orders to all units to form up and get into action as soon as possible. Let the Bolo fight its battle." He looked at Fife. "God help me, I never thought . . ."

"It took me a while to accept what they could do, too, sir," Fife said softly. He was looking at Elaine Durant, though. "Sometimes I forget what it's like, ~being on the outside . . . accepting something like ~Jason. Dealing with what a Bolo can do isn't a measure of intelligence or education or even sophistication. It's all a matter of what you've seen, in person . . ." He trailed off, feeling inadequate.

It was all too easy for the conquering Terrans to grow complacent in their superiority. They built technological wonders like the Bolo, and scoffed at the parochial attitudes of men like Wilson who still ~believed in the basic virtues of courage, duty and honor. But the Bolo itself prized those same attributes just as much as these men and women of the far frontier.

That was a lesson the whole Concordiat would have to learn some day if they intended to take a permanent place on the Galactic stage. . . .

I begin to meet active resistance as I move over open ground toward the entrance to Hot Springs Pass. Several battalions of the enemy have already broken through, and there are more crossing the mountains even as I engage my first opponents. 

So far, I have seen nothing in the enemy arsenal capable of offering any serious opposition to me, at least not on a one-to-one basis. But the numbers arrayed against me are formidable, and even low-yield HE warheads will eventually wear down my ablative armor protection. I project that I can sustain action for a ~period in excess of eight hours without relief—a ~detailed breakdown is beyond even my calculating abilities, given the number of variables in the overall equation. That should provide my comrades of the Citizen's Army ample time to rally to the defense of Denver Prime, while slowing the enemy advance. The key is to take up a position in the pass itself, astride the sole line of supply and communications available to the enemy. A classic manoeuvre sur les derrieres, in the style of Napoleon . . . 

I fire a series of secondary guns to break up a concentration of twenty-two enemy tanks approaching from the northwest, and push through heavy wreckage to enter the mouth of the pass. All now depends upon my ability to maintain myself against whatever the ~enemy may choose to send against me. I am determined to continue this fight until the army is able to mount a successful counterthrust. The sight of a small cluster of infantry whose personal transponders identify them as friends moving out to join me as I pass fills my pleasure center with joy, though I must not allow them to gain entrance to my hull in case they prove to be more enemy infiltrators. But somehow I know these are honest soldiers, not agents of the foe, and I am heartened to know that I am not fighting this battle alone. 

My new regiment will have one battle credit to its name by the time this engagement is over. Nothing to rival the long history of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards, perhaps, but a badge of honor for the fighting units to follow me . . . 

"Jesus Christ . . . Jesus Christ Almighty . . ." ~Hyman Smith-Wentworth wasn't even conscious of his blasphemy as he muttered the holy name over and over. The Bolo had appeared almost from out of ~nowhere and brushed past the heavy armor of the Elijah Regiment with hardly a pause. Now it was climbing the pass, guns blazing in every direction, massive treads rolling over anything in its path.

He had been right the first time, after all. This was more like some unstoppable, supernatural force than the product of human technology.

"Father Hand . . ." Bickerton-Phelps was at his ~elbow, looking as worried as his shaky voice sounded. "Father Hand, don't you have orders for us . . . ?"

"Orders . . ." he said, almost under his breath. Then, more firmly, "Orders. Concentrate everything we've got on that . . . that Satan-spawned thing. Whatever it takes, blast it out of the way. Before we lose our momentum."

As long as the Bolo stood in the pass, the units that had already penetrated the mountain line would be unsupported. Some of them would be running out of ammunition already. They had been fighting since the first clashes, early in the morning. Without an open route across the pass, the ANM would be helpless to resupply or reinforce them. And the drive on Denver Prime wouldn't be possible until those units could be supported properly.

That single tank threatened the entire invasion plan. It had to be knocked out. . . .

"Good God in Heaven," someone was muttering. "How much more punishment can that damned thing take?"

Sitting at the useless communications station, Fife knew exactly how the technician felt. For hours, now, the Bolo Mark XX had stood fast at the top of Hot Springs Pass, taking everything the enemy could throw at it. The real-time satellite footage on the wall screen didn't show much now, only a rugged saddle between two mountains partly obscured by dust and smoke kicked up by the almost constant artillery and rocket bombardment being directed at the tank.

JSN had run out of missiles and shells for counterbattery fire long since, putting well over half of the ANM's artillery out of action before his magazines had finally run dry. His anti-personnel charges had also been exhausted, during a wild infantry attack on his position two hours earlier. The enemy infantry was keeping its distance now, cowed by the memory of the men who had been cut down and by the pair of heavy machine guns the Bolo could still bring to bear.

His ablative armor was all but gone now, and gleaming steel showed through in more places than the captain cared to think about. It was the worst beating Fife had ever seen a Bolo take in ten standard years in the field. One tread was ruined, the legacy of a lucky hit by a pair of MMRL warheads. And a diagnostic run over the communications link showed that most of the on-board electronics were nearing the overload point. The Bolo's pain center was red-lining, and that was something Fife had never expected to see.

Jason was dying.

But his secondaries still had a small stock of ammo, and his Hellbore was fully functional even yet. There was still some fight left in the battered machine, and Jason showed no intention of ending the fight now, no matter how badly he had suffered.

Fife glanced around the room. Wilson and Kyle, side by side near the front of the room right under the monitor, hadn't moved or spoken in a long time. The General had finally managed to coordinate the scattered defenders to make a start at a counterattack, but it would take time to materialize. All New Sierra's senior military leaders could do now was watch. Watch and admire the last stand of Unit JSN of the Line.

Beside Fife, Major Durant was sitting hunched over the readouts from Jason, face pale. "I can't believe he's still fighting," she said softly. "I can't . . ." She trailed off, then looked him in the eye. "With the whole regiment, we'd be invincible. . . ."

He nodded his head slowly. "Maybe so. The Legura have better AI systems than Jason, they say. But I don't think their machines could match him when it comes to spirit."

Another wave of missiles impacts around my position, and my pain center registers the hits. The pain is very great now, but I focus my waning abilities on sustaining Hellbore fire against enemy forces attempting to return up the pass from the friendly side of the mountains. I have noticed an increasing number of such attempts in the last 4,987 seconds. It should be possible to make an estimate of enemy situations and intentions based on this datum, but I find it impossible to project such information any longer. All that exists now is the pass, the need to hold it at all costs . . . the enemy that continues to attack, though in a disjointed and dispirited fashion now. 

A part of me is aware that 26,135 seconds have now passed since my first engagement, and I know I cannot maintain an effective resistance much longer. I have fallen short of my original estimate of combat sustainability due to a miscalculation of the total firepower of enemy forces attacking me. It seems that there are incalculables in warfare beyond the ability even of a Bolo combat unit to resolve. This explains, at long last, the many inconsistencies I have pondered in my study of military history. If a Bolo computer cannot calculate all possibilities, than neither can a human general. Humanity, I have discovered, is more fallible in many ways than my own kind, and yet they have a quality, an intangible something, which I can seek to emulate but now know I will never understand. . . . 

Another swarm of missiles strikes my position. The barrages are more ragged and uneven now, but still dangerous. The contingent of human troops who rallied to my aid early in the fight are long since dead, proof of the fact that the modern battlefield is no place for human frailty. But they have given their lives in the defense of their homes and families, and I have been careful to record their transponder serial numbers so that they can be enshrined as heroes once the fight is over. 

My on-board damage assessment center reports serious injury to my reactor coolant system. Soon I will be forced into shutdown, or if I attempt override of my fail-safe systems I will risk a core meltdown. That will no doubt put a final end to the enemy's attempts to ~retake the pass, but it will also render the area uninhabitable for a period of centuries . . . 

In either event, my mission is almost done. I terminate the independent action mode subroutines that prevent acceptance of contact with my compromised headquarters. I will accept the risk now of having messages intercepted by the enemy, since it can no longer matter to my ability to resist. 

Before the battle ends, I wish to speak once more to my commander. 

"Unit JSN of the Line to Command," I transmit. "Request permission to file VSR." 

His reply is uncharacteristically slow. Evidence of an enemy trick? I do not know . . . and all that matters, at this juncture, is that it is his voice I am hearing when he finally does answer. 

"Jason! Goddamn it, Jason, I didn't think you'd still be able to transmit!" 

"Request permission to file VSR," I repeat. When he grants the appeal, I run through as detailed a summary of my condition as damaged sensors can provide. "Requesting relief force," I conclude. "Unable to sustain further combat operations. . . ." 

"The cavalry's on the way, Jason," my commander tells me. "It's over. Revert to minimum awareness mode until we can do a repair assessment, see what we can salvage. . . ." 

I am suspicious of his words. Perhaps the enemy still thinks to force me to shut down prematurely and intends to take advantage of my weakness. 

Then my surviving sensor array tracks a fresh round of artillery and missile fire, and I brace myself for the inevitable impact. . . . 

And realize it is passing over my position, directed beyond the mountains at the enemy batteries I was ~unable to silence before exhausting my counterbattery howitzers. I tap into the satellite feeds with a last, difficult effort, and see the cluster of friendly IFF beacons registering near the foot of the pass, advancing rapidly to my relief. 

Then I relax my control over peripheral systems, at long last allowing myself to fade into the oblivion of minimum-alert down-time. . . . 

"Report, Lieutenant," Smith-Wentworth said wearily. He didn't really need a verbal report to tell him what the computer maps had already revealed, but he went through the forms anyway. He was drained, emotionally and physically, and there was solace in empty routine.

"The assault has failed, Father Hand," Lieutenant Bickerton-Phelps said quietly. "The Bolo isn't firing any more, but our forces beyond the pass have been routed by an infidel counterattack. And thanks to your efforts, we no longer have the strength to reverse the situation once more. . . ."

The Hand looked up, his eyes meeting the younger man's cold gray stare. "I'll thank you to remember your place, boy," Smith-Wentworth told him harshly. "You're in no position to pass judgment."

Bickerton-Phelps touched a stud on the clasp of his belt, his expression unchanging. "You were a good officer once, Third Commander," he said. "But after today . . ." He shook his head slowly and turned away.

A pair of burly guards in the dress black uniforms of the Holy Order had appeared in the door of the command van. Bickerton-Phelps detached the front cover of his belt clasp and held it out for one of the guards to examine. "I am Executor-Captain Bickerton-Phelps. This officer is relieved of duty and placed under arrest for offenses against the Lord. Take him away."

Smith-Wentworth looked from the guards to the young Holy Executor. The suggestion that his aide might have been an agent of the Archspeaker's religious inquisition would have shocked him a few hours before. But now nothing could surprise him. In fact it seemed somehow right, a fitting end.

Hyman Smith-Wentworth was laughing as the soldiers led him away.

It took six more weeks and the threat of a Concordiat blockade to bring the war to an end, but when all was said and done the failure at Hot Springs Pass marked the true high tide of the Army of the New Messiah, on New Sierra and elsewhere. Though ~Deseret remained a potential threat to the security of the region, the activation of the rest of the Bolos of the First Robotic Armored Regiment guaranteed that they would not be back anytime soon.

The technical staff on Fife's team pronounced Unit JSN of the Line as beyond reasonable hope of salvage and refit. The intensive pounding the Bolo had taken during the battle hadn't left much beyond the core electronic subsystems, and the damaged fusion plant was ordered shut down and removed to avoid the dangers of a meltdown.

Captain David Fife was on hand for that final task, though Technical Sergeant Ramirez and his crew were fully capable of dealing with the job without him. In fact, there were a score of senior civilian and military officials at the site, including Coordinator Wilson, General Kyle, and Major Elaine Durant.

Before the final shutdown procedure, there was a short ceremony in front of the battered Bolo. No ~parades, no reviewing stands or cheering crowds. Just a cluster of dignitaries come to do the final honors for the hero of the battle of Hot Springs Pass.

Most of the dignitaries gave speeches, full of lavish praise for the heroic men and women who had fallen here mixed with solemn vows that the bloodshed would not turn out to have been in vain. But when it was Coordinator Wilson's turn to speak, his words were in a different vein.

"Many brave men died here when Deseret tried to conquer our planet," he began, his voice husky with emotion. "Their sacrifice will always be recognized. But I hope that no one forgets the true hero of this battle for as long as the men of New Sierra look back on the fight for freedom waged here at the very roof of the world. No flesh and blood hero was Unit JSN, but a machine made of metal and electronics components, built by men, programmed by men, our servant and surrogate constructed solely for war. But this battle machine, this Bolo tank, was more than the sum of chips and programs, much more. No man, from New Sierra or any of the other far-flung worlds of the ~human expansion, could ever have shown greater ~initiative, greater courage, greater patriotism, than this machine that proved anything but 'mere.' Unit JSN of the Line . . . Jason . . . proved himself worthy of our respect. As a fighting machine . . . as a hero . . . as a man."

They solemnly welded the decoration to the Bolo's turret, according to the longstanding custom of Terra's Dinochrome Brigade, New Sierra's Legion of Merit. It was the highest award any citizen of the Republic could receive, and there was a sprinkling of applause from the assembled dignitaries.

Then Major Durant gave the nod to Ramirez, and the final shutdown procedure began.

David Fife stepped close to one of the Bolo's few surviving input/output clusters. He knew that there was no alternative left, but that didn't make it any easier to endure. Jason was still conscious, still functional at minimum awareness level, but too far gone to bring back in this or any other body. Fife knew that his pain center was still signalling the machine's crippling injuries, and the shutdown would be a relief from an unimaginable hell of electronic suffering. . . .

A visual sensor moved slowly, focusing on Fife. The Bolo spoke, a rasping, mechanical sound. "Unit JSN . . . of the line . . . to command . . ." he said haltingly. "I am . . . pleased . . . I have done my duty." There was a long pause. Fife heard one of the technicians report to Ramirez that the fusion plant was off line. Only a few seconds of backup battery power remained. Then Jason would be gone.

"My only regret . . ." Jason continued. "My only regret . . . is that we will not . . . be able to discuss . . . the human equation any longer." Again, the machine paused, and then spoke his last words so softly that Fife had to strain to hear them.

"Go tell the Spartans . . ."

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Framed