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Memories of Erin

by Robert Greenberger

Boy have I gotta pish badly. There's no way I'll have time before they get me. There are hours to go before my work is done and I'm fighting the clock. Nope, no time for the niceties—or necessities—of life.

It's odd what you think about when you're staring at the end of your life. I mean, it's been only a few hours but I have considered everything from the last time I ate mahi mahi to the first time I kissed a guy. The memories flood my mind, shutting out the predicament I'm in. Maybe it's a defense mechanism, maybe I'm just cracking up. After all, for the last fifteen minutes, I have been crawling on my belly, scraping by conduits, hatchways and other nuisances, in an attempt to reach the CPU. Meantime, the broadcasts I'm eavesdropping on indicate a growing state of anxiety on the part of my colleagues. I don't blame them. After all, if I don't succeed, I'll be responsible for the first act of treason ever committed by a Bolo.

Let's see . . . turn left at this juncture and shimmy down another twelve meters before I get to the main pathways. Between me and there are about seven laser defensive fields and an impossible-to-decrypt passcode.

None of that bothers me. Wetting my thick and soon to be squishy coveralls keeps intruding on my mind.

I wonder what Hawk thinks of my actions. Hell, I wonder if Hawk is thinking at all right now.

The refractory cloth wrapped around my left arm is doing a good job confusing the motion sensors and anti-theft devices. If I had enough, I'd wear the damn thing and have an easier time of it. This strip is all I could find and it's not exactly standard issue. In fact, with each passing model, these Bolos become less and less hospitable to human hosts. And we design the damn things. I will agree that humans have been mostly unnecessary to Bolo operations since XX Model B, the famed Tremendous, but still, I would think the designers would remember that Earth Command remains steadfast in its belief that all Bolos be accompanied by human observers during maneuvers and military operations. I totally agree with the thinking, especially after my recent experiences; Bolos need that human insight, something that cannot ever be programmed into these CPUs. I know they've talked about actually wiring a human brain to a processor, but so far all experiments have failed. At least that's what they keep telling us grunts.

Okay, I'm passing the second laser field without incident—that's good. But jeez, what do I do when I actually get to the CPU? This wasn't something they taught at the last refresher school.

"Hawk, can you hear me?" I've tried this only fourteen thousand times since things went to hell.

No response. I guess my first order of business will be re-establishing communications with my own machine.

I've shimmied my way past three lasers now, a pretty good mark. However, I suspect the internal defense systems are smart enough to begin tracing these "phantom" motions on their detectors. That positronic, analytic defensive brain will sooner or later figure out I must not be in the command station, but where no soldier should be if they had any smarts. Of course, if I had those self-same smarts, I would have taken that desk job they offered me back at the training center. But no, I had to be on the frontier, be near the dreaded Vaz.

"Intruder alert. Identify yourself or be destroyed."

Great, now Hawk figures out where I am. It just doesn't know it's me. Worse, the emergency red lighting kicks in, making everything I do that much harder. I squint and nothing improves.

"It's Erin. Erin Donaher, Hawk. You know me."

Real time seconds of a pause but one I can recognize as new programs must be uploaded and running. Whatever has gotten into you, Hawk, has certainly made a mess of your thinking patterns.

"You are an intruder and must be stopped."

"No, Hawk, it's me, Erin. Do you know me?"

"No. You have ten seconds to surrender."

I have ten seconds to find a hiding spot from the intruder gas or the lasers. Either way, I may not have to worry about taking that last pish.

Two handles protruding from an access panel directly ahead. Behind it, if memory serves, is a wire box for the auxiliary heating systems. The elements used to supercharge the main batteries for battle. There might be enough space for me to hide and the gas shouldn't seep in. But is there any air? I better not wait to find out. With a few new bumps and bruises, I hastily yank off the panel, no longer caring about the final laser arrays, and realize my lessons were valid. With a loud grunt, I stuff my booted feet through the hatch and start forcing my overweight (and I didn't think I was fat before today) body into the space. I feel myself tugging on a few additional wires and circuit boards but they hold and I pass them without incident.

Before I can replace the hatch, my time is up and all seven laser arrays begin spewing bright blue light back and forth. They don't seem to be at full strength but are certainly intended to burn and incapacitate any intruder. Idly, I wonder about the number of intruders Bolos have had to deal with over the centuries. The earliest models, I bet, were easiest to steal and control. But around the Mark XIII it must have gotten tougher and tougher.

Still, Earth Command has remained absolutely bonkers about the idea of a Bolo and its grand technology being found or stolen by hostile forces. In fact, the self-destruct systems are among the first things taught at Meridian One, the Southern Arm's combat school.

Enough about that. Now I have to find a new way to the CPU. Mentally I bring up a schematic of this section of the machine. I know the way I was going would have been ideal, despite the defenses, because it was straight forward. Now I have to improvise and figure out if I can snake my way from this spot and get to a new pathway. What's for certain is the concept of additional safeguards and different codes to break. It'll be worth it to stop Hawk before I give my life to friendly fire.

When I was five or so, I saw my first picture of a Bolo, right after a successful battle to stop the Babers from destroying some colony I've long since forgotten. My mom explained that there were thousands of these bigger and bigger tanks all throughout the Empire. They protected the spacelanes, the frontier, the colony worlds and maintained the peace as we expanded deeper and deeper into space. It has always been that way, Dad added. Somehow the idea seemed sensible. Ever since, I guess, I was curious about these machines.

Well, you know what they say about curiosity.

With a heavy sigh, I start to shift my weight and edge down the narrow passageway. About five meters more and I'll find another access panel and push my way out. As I recall, there are few defenses this low. The "come from underneath approach" may actually turn out to be my best bet after all. Kicking at the access door with little support means the kicks are weak so I have to remain persistent and eventually push my way out. While striking, I consider the damage to my finely polished boots and how my unit commander will complain. Finally! The doorway begins to budge and then some bright light seeps through, cutting the emergency red lighting. My eyes shut reflexively as they pause to adjust to the change. Have I really been in the red so long that I need to? Must be getting loopy—my time sense is shot.

First my feet hit the deck, allowing me to bend my knees and start crawling out. My equipment belt snags on a projection and I have to try climbing up again to unhook it and there I go wasting more time. I start down again and this time I narrowly get my hips through the hatchway. Thank god I don't have much of a bust otherwise I'd have a devil of a time getting my torso and shoulders out. First time for that thought—first time for everything I suppose.

As I regain my footing, I indulge myself and stretch the kinks out of my body. Gymnastics was never one of my specialties and it shows. I'm not limber and feel thoroughly out of shape. Guess that'll teach me not to exercise each day. Anyway, I look around, confirming my physical location with my mental image and realize I'm off by about two sections. Carefully, I move down the small alleyway, between huge banks of data storage units, and access a small terminal screen. Sure, Hawk will figure out where I am, but it's more important right now to make sure I know where I am.

While the screen scrolls through schematics, I begin to catch my breath, forcing the tension from my shoulders and try to untie the knot that has formed between my eyebrows.

 

Although we've never seen a Vaz, we think they look like something between a chinchilla and a human. From the recovered pieces of spacecraft we've studied for the last century, we've determined that we are taller and heavier—perhaps stronger. Certainly not smarter. They're crafty devils, pirating from the frontier for decades before we could ever trip on to the fact that they exist. Damaged craft reported local space anomalies, ion storms, or stray asteroids that caused the trouble. Finally, we had two eyewitnesses identify the Vaz craft just before they were blown into space. The entire ship was gutted and the mineral ore that took six months to locate, mine, and process was gone in a matter of minutes. Their technology certainly rivaled if not bettered ours.

The Vaz refused to acknowledge our entreaties for years until finally, much to our surprise, they responded. "We don't want any harm, just all your wealth." It seems they had been pushing the boundaries of their influence in a direct line with our own. A clash was coming and they knew it years before us, giving them an edge. Although the Lost War hadn't begun yet, it was certain that we didn't need another distraction. Earth politics allowed the Galactic Empire to begin a decay that would make ancient Rome seem like a house party and major trouble was on the solar wind. Still, no one was going to tell Earth what to do.

The Vaz War was therefore inevitable. As I remember learning about it, the first encounter lasted thirty-eight minutes and had an entire squadron of our starfighters whipped. The next gambit had us bring a Bolo battalion to the frontier and make it a planet-by-planet campaign. After five years of give and take, the Vaz finally signaled that maybe they were being hasty. Maybe the galaxy was, after all, big enough for two civilizations. In short, they sued for an uneasy peace. Borders were drawn up, treaties were hammered out and signed by long-range communication signal and suddenly the conflict was deemed over. After all that and we never got to see what they looked like.

For the next century they honored the treaty. Other races we encountered along the frontier told us of the depredations they suffered at the hands of the Vaz but our treaty forbade any involvements. This cost us a strategic alliance or two, as I recall from school, but still, peace reigned. The Bolos were recalled, except for a small squadron, stationed along the border. We detected they had vessels patrolling regularly but that was okay, too. Little did we know.

It was during this time that the Bolo marked HWK was stationed here. A Mark XXVIII, HWK was an impressive beast, just like the others in its class. HWK's first five commanders were all Terrans dispatched from Earth Central and not a single one saw combat experience. It quickly became a tradition that each human occupant left behind a message flashing on the main view screen for the replacement soldier. I can still recall the grimace I felt when I read the words "Congratulations. Your career has just come to a screeching halt."

Still, I was determined to make the most of my assignment as I'm sure my predecessors started off doing as well. I got to know HWK, which I nicknamed "Hawk" just to avoid some name that would hurt to pronounce. Most Bolos get easy names like Bill or Casey or Amy but Hawk seemed a more appropriate name for a battle machine. I even requisitioned some paint and spent my first three months learning how to draw and then paint a gigantic Hawk in flight right below the main gun turret. Hawk never said anything about it but my commanding General noticed it on inspection and commented, "Haven't seen a decoration like that on a Bolo before. Is it regulation?"

Stiffening under his fierce, dark-eyed gaze, I thought quickly and came up with a response that I prayed wouldn't have been too smart-ass. "The first Bolos were battle tanks during Earth's second world war. Such decoration was standard and I'm keeping up the tradition."

A grunt and quick nod were all I got in response but the order to remove the painting never came. On its first anniversary, I sprayed a fixative to it so nothing short of an atomic blast could peel it off. It was sometime later that I learned such decorations were reserved for fighting aircraft of that era, not tanks.

My career, in the eyes of many, may have been over in terms of advancement but I was where I wanted to be. My family couldn't believe I wanted to leave the biochemical company they had operated going on nine generations now. However, I hated chemicals; their smell, their feel, and their unpredictable nature. My brother, Joachim, lost a finger to an experiment when he tried mixing Earth chemicals with those found on a rogue comet. Nope, not for me.

The stars, where that comet came from, that's where I yearned to be. After all, the compu-nets were filled with people screaming about one new discovery after another and how the frontier was expanding. Settlers were following the explorers and the period of growth was amazing. Someone needed to protect all those innocents from hostile races such as the Vaz or the Kandroth or even the Free Martians. That someone, I decided, should be me. Besides, I never forgot the idea that these giant machines were there to keep us safe.

Training classes were tough and the seven years required were incredibly tough. My family's support was almost non-existent until the year I graduated and suddenly there was a Donaher Wing for Astrophysics erected and dedicated a day before graduation. Their present to me but no one came for the dedication or graduation.

Upon receiving my diploma chip, I was assigned a two year probationary tour of duty in what was supposed to be a "safe" sector. Instead, my convoy was ambushed by the Wazim, having just declared war on Earth to bolster their claim on a solar system in dispute. We lost our star drive and first officer during the first volley and I was suddenly a weapons officer, firing pulse cannons and plasma bombs with wild abandon. With luck, I damaged two vessels and destroyed one while missing out on a chance to protect a fellow ship, which went up in a fireball 100 meters away from us.

Still, we chased the Wazim ships out of that system and proved we would not be taken for granted. Our surviving crew was decorated and I was allowed to select a new path of training. Feeling insufficiently equipped to protect my comrades-in-arms, I chose to study Bolo technology with hope of assignment to a unit on the frontier, Another two years of life gone and this time I graduated near the top of my class and got my desire. Training on the old Mark XXIII's was okay but they seemed slow and sluggish compared to the Mark XXVI's that were all the rage in our quadrant. We only had technical specs and VR simulations to study regarding the Mark XXVII's and XXVIII's since all the nearby ones were on active duty.

Without question, my proudest day came when I was called into the Commandant's office and offered a chance to ride inside Hawk. My name came up in rotation as my predecessor, Giri Andujar, was due for retirement. He had served with Hawk, along the Vaz border, for eighteen years. Never fired a shot. Never engaged a Vaz. The one time I met Andujar I recall seeing the aged look in his eyes and the tight lines around his mouth. He was only 45 years old but the life was sucked out of him. He seemed pitiable and that night I had to shake off the dreams that Hawk would do the same to me.

That first year was fun as I had Hawk run through every maneuver in the book and some we made up ourselves. "Let's try a lateral drift of twelve degrees starboard while firing the electric bolts directly above us at twelve o'clock."

"Sure thing, Officer Donaher. Did we not try this maneuver with a twenty-seven degree shift yesterday?"

"I guess we did, but what the hell, there's time for it."

"Very well."

Hawk wasn't such a conversationalist and it turns out Andujar just sat for hours, staring at the view screens, reviewing military history and watching holos of previous engagements. He had served for over twenty years and never had his mettle tested. Poor guy. Since he didn't talk, Hawk didn't talk either and had not yet altered its programming, adjusting to me.

During the second year he loosened up and we got to talk about a great many things. It relieved the boredom and we were the ones to convince the other Bolos along the borders to prepare and execute quarterly maneuvers together. This way, we could be battle-ready and possibly remind the Vaz that we were still here and ready for anything.

Turns out that was a good thing, too. About three years later, they returned. Their basic ship style had not altered, but gotten smaller. We realized they went the opposite direction of Earth. While our starships and Bolos got bigger and fiercer, they got smaller and remained just as deadly. The first wave of ships had crossed the border and our sensor nets missed them. It was a chance visual inspection two planets over that caught the encroachment.

It had been so long since I heard an alert siren that I thought it was still a dream. I leapt out of my bunk and flipped on about four units at once. The main screen was a direct feed from Bolo YNC, Yancey, operated by a newcomer named Gary Killibrew; the secondary screens to the right were giving me immediate telemetry and the final unit was brewing coffee at a furious clip. Visually Gary counted forty vessels and the recalibrated sensor array agreed a few minutes later. Our local commander-in-chief was Gillian Blank, a four-star General, and she was stationed two sectors back and we had a fifteen second communications lag.

Having never been on alert before, I had to stop and review the duty rosters on another screen. Yikes! I'm senior officer of the line which means General Blank would be dealing with me and I would have to relay the orders. Figuring that she would wait until all the sensor reports were compiled, I asked Hawk, "ETA until they cross the border?"

"One hour, fifteen minutes at current speeds."

"Okay, I'm getting into uniform and will have a cup of coffee. Perform an Alpha Diagnostic and review weapons inventory."

"Complete. We are at peak efficiency and fully armed."

I thought so, but regulations call for my asking. Times like this I wonder why I'm even in a Bolo when they are faster and smarter. But then again so are the sensors and they missed the Vaz ships.

Just as I finished draining my first cup, the communications array came to life and General Blank's weathered face met me. She seemed alert, angry, and maybe just a little nervous. She got to be a general for rescue and relief efforts after a Free Mars riot a few systems over, not for conducting deep space maneuvers.

"Captain Donaher, here, sir."

"Good. Status of your Bolo?" Her Australian accent remained in place despite her not visiting Earth in three decades.

"Fully operational, sir. We're ready."

"Good." She was never much on conversation but at least I was prepared for that. "We show forty Vaz vessels approaching the border. We have sent cease orders but they are not responding. Also, long-range sensors have detected a second and third wave of Vaz vessels approaching. When all three waves arrive, we calculate they will spread out over eighty-seven percent of the border."

"Orders, sir?" I gulped, not sure what to anticipate. The coffee and adrenaline were waking up every neuron in my body and I was beginning to feel jumpy.

"Battle cruisers are a day away at the least. The Bolos will have to defend the line. Keep casualties at a minimum. Bolos and soldiers will act independently until we can group you together. Captain, we have no idea why the Vaz have chosen now to violate the treaty. We don't know what they want so it would be helpful if one could be captured."

My mouth dropped. I felt it and realized I must have looked pretty unmilitary. "General, begging your pardon, but one has never been caught before. We don't even know what they look like."

"Yes, well . . . carry on. I'll keep a line open and feed me hourly status reports once you engage the Vaz." The holo faded in a rainbow of colors.

"Not very useful instructions, I'm afraid."

"Not at all, Hawk, but those are our orders. I guess the second wave is coming our way so where do we go?"

"I estimate the Vaz ships for this planet will approach by the northern polar region. Shall we get underway?"

"Of course. I'm going to give out the orders." With that, I felt the Bolo begin to shake free of its moorings at our home base. Now it would travel north at a fast dip, matching its speed with that of the enemy ship, making sure we're in position before it gets within orbiting range. We actually performed this maneuver about two years ago and recorded how quickly we could get from spot to spot, especially if we were under enemy fire. I guess practice can pay off. However, this was all part of Hawk's programming, and I just then realize that all this practice was for the benefit of the humans. The Bolos never needed to practice. They were self-aware and knew what would work and what other strategies to attempt. We really were pretty superfluous, weren't we?

Triggering the military alert channel, I readied myself for command. The main screen honeycombed into two dozen smaller screens, each with a Bolo soldier's anxious face awaiting my sage words.

"Command has given us the orders for independent action at this time. Track and defend your world from incursion. They also want us to seize any opportunity to capture the enemy for questioning."

About seventeen of the twenty-four faces shared the same expression I had for General Blank. Five others remained unmoved by the unusual command. The other two had broken into laughter.

"Those are our orders for now. Please prepare for engagement beginning in forty-eight minutes on my mark. Mark. Bolo HWK out." The other commanders acknowledged simultaneously and the audio was noisy. I was glad that was over, simple as it was.

Leaning back, I watched a schematic of our travels and realized we were moving at something more than six hundred miles an hour. I guess the Vaz ships were coming faster than I had guessed. There was nothing else to be done and I had to sit back and wait for the encounter. I reviewed all the permutations that encounter could take. Losing my life had never been a reality before and I had to stop and consider if I was ready. Had I accomplished what I set out for when I signed up? Well, I was defending the border, protecting the settlers on this world and giving my all for love and country. But wait . . . it suddenly flashed across my mind: what about a family legacy to pass on? My extended family barely kept in touch with me and I wanted to eventually take a leave of absence and start a family—keep that Donaher name alive on some other world. Should this go badly, then one of my main goals would never get accomplished.

Damn. Those stray thoughts nagged me the entire trip north.

To avoid too much thinking, I busied myself speaking with the local government. My planet was named Sprite, since settlers first spotted it twinkling like a fairy in the starlight. It was established just before the Vaz War was settled and things prospered. There were fourteen hundred thousand people on this world with a rising birth rate, low death rate and success in manufacturing. This was rapidly becoming a choice world for settlers who liked the idea of being close to the border, near something exotic and alien. Wonder if this is what they gambled on.

The planet's current leader was a dark-skinned man named Sorenson. He took the title president because they had to call him something but he preferred being called Joe. It wasn't until about a year back that I realized his full name was Wendell Joseph Sorenson and he just liked being a guy called Joe. He was easy to like and this wasn't going to be a fun conversation.

His image on the view screen showed he was hard at work at his desk but Joe always took his relationship with the Bolo seriously. If I called, he took it immediately—just in case. This was just that case. "Good morning, Joe, we have a situation." I let that register for a moment, making sure he had time to clear his office if necessary. Instead, he put his stylus down and addressed the screen.

"Tell me all about it, Captain."

I filled him in and sadly watched his pleasant demeanor grow dark. He almost aged before my eyes when he came to the realization that my Bolo was all that would stand between his world and a deadly alien threat. I could see the questions in his eyes: is one Bolo enough? Are the aliens too powerful? Will they simply claim the world or obliterate it? And I had no answers for any of them. When I was done, he thanked me and asked for time to meet with his cabinet. I informed him that my orders were specific and the defense of Sprite would come first. The words seemed to give him little solace and he quickly cut the connection.

Such was the beginning of the second Vaz War. Or so I thought.

The first wave hit five worlds along the border as we were crossing the Polar Oceans and our visitors were due within two hours. Gary Killibrew contacted me with the first casualty report. "They swooped right over our equator and just laid waste to everything!" he cried, his voice showing the strain of youth. "They're using some sort of high intensity laser that cooks the vegetation and destroys the plant life. It's definitely a variation of microwave technology and it seems to hold a long charge." His Bolo had already targeted and destroyed two Vaz spacecraft but he wasn't sounding happy about the battle.

"What about the population?"

"They've gotten as many as possible into storm shelters but no one anticipated a serious need for defense against the Vaz. Tornadoes are the worst disaster here in decades."

During this conversation, I noticed a variety of tell-tale lights winking and blushing in a furious pattern. I took my eyes off of Gary's visual feed long enough to figure out that Hawk was communicating with the Dinochrome Brigade. When the rush of lights ceased, I cut my talk with Gary short and asked Hawk what was up.

"The Vaz seem to be fighting in no discernible pattern. Everything we have analyzed so far indicates evasive maneuvers and nothing more. No attack patterns that match our database profile of the Vaz from the first war. If their intent is to destroy each world, they will be seriously challenged during the first one point six days and then be repelled by superior firepower."

"Okay, how do we tell them that? Maybe they'd break off the attack," I responded.

"Unlikely, Captain Donaher. At present we have no idea why they have attacked so we don't know if superior weaponry will be a deterrent. The reasons for the attack can be plentiful."

"Other than reasserting a claim to this piece of the galaxy, why would they do this?"

"A change in government may have signaled new aggression. A renegade commander may have decided to test us. Some new imperative has made this sector of space more desirable. The Vaz may have to come here to spawn. A religious leader has cried that this sector of space holds the doorway to heaven. A natural plague may have forced them to act to survive. A change in the sun's . . ."

"Spawn?" I asked, incredulous.

"It is one possibility, Captain Donaher."

"Little far-fetched, don't you think?"

"My memory banks have the sum total knowledge of all military campaigns a Bolo has been a part of since the first Bolo tank was constructed, millennia ago. In that time, Captain Donaher, there have been three million, one hundred thousand, six hundred and fifty-seven different excuses provided for waging an armed conflict. The ones I just listed are the most likely reasons given what we know of the Vaz."

I just nodded, a bit dumbfounded. Definitely in over my head when it comes to strategic thinking. Still, they were coming and it was up to us to protect an entire world. I will admit that the adrenaline continued to pump and I secretly was happy that I got to see battle, not dour-faced Andujar or his predecessors.

These buggers turned out to be really crafty. Not only did they scale down the size and improve the maneuverability of their attack craft but it was some time later when we learned they had come up with even smaller vehicles. They had launched a dozen one-man craft, little larger than a snow sled, with a stripped-down interior. Gabe, over on Strongbow 3, nicknamed them Vaz-in-the-Can. It turns out that each craft approaching the frontier worlds launched a dozen of these tin cans, all with one-way tickets. They were willing to risk capture and study in an effort to accomplish their goal.

With no surprise, we reached our optimal position and had about ten minutes to set ourselves up, an eternity for the Bolo. For me, it was just enough time to check our position with Joe, check out the status of the other units, and grab a final cup of coffee. Things had been going back and forth between the other Bolos and the Vaz. There was plenty of planetary damage and loss of life on the other planets so I knew things would be rough here. No other world along the border was as populated as Sprite and the casualties would be that much higher. While I trained with Hawk in as many ways as possible, there really was no knowing if it was the right preparation or if it would be enough.

"Ready, Hawk?"

"All systems show ready, Captain Donaher. Are you nervous? Your medical scans show heightened readings."

"Guess I am, Hawk. I've looked forward to a battle all my career and now that I've got one, I'm not sure if I made a mistake."

"This is what you call human nature?"

"You bet. Anything on the scanners?"

"You can see for yourself on monitor A-35. I am now detecting fourteen vessels directly aimed at the planet. I am bringing weapons on line and activating our primary defensive fields."

"We've drilled often enough, Hawk. I know you can do it and blast them all."

"Your confidence may be good enough for yourself, Captain Donaher, but I estimate that at least six or seven vessels will make it past the firefight and come within the atmosphere of this world. I estimate that of those free ships, at least five will avoid this unit and commence destruction of locales in locations as yet unknown."

"Boy, that's not terribly reassuring is it?"

"It is not but it is accurate."

The amazing thing about Hawk, well maybe not so amazing given its programming, was how unerring he was. Seven Vaz ships avoided any contact with us during their first pass. We obliterated four immediately and destroyed three more within twenty minutes. I watched in silent fascination as Hawk smoothly went about its work, targeting and engaging the Vaz fighters without hesitation. The computer is so vast that I knew I could talk with Hawk but I really felt I might distract a computer. Human nature indeed.

Once the ships were crushed, I patted Hawk's speaker, complimented its firing skill and asked about the next step.

"I show the seven Vaz ships are now heading for this world's equator, consistent with attack patterns on other worlds. At top speed we can be in position in seven hours thirty-seven minutes." With that, the treads began swiveling us about and we were suddenly on our way south, nearing eight hundred kilometers an hour. I noticed a screen directly above me plotted our course and tracked our progress, courtesy of Hawk. "The Vaz, however, will be in position within the next forty-eight minutes and we cannot predict their next location."

I contacted Joe and warned him of the approaching problem, hoping he could continue the evacuation with greater effectiveness now that he can concentrate his resources. He looked even more nervous than me but grateful to hear the threat has been halved with no loss of life. Hadn't thought about it that way but felt better as we rocketed from the tip of Sprite to its belly.

 

I've figured out where I am and how I got turned around. Now to keep moving before Hawk zeroes in on me and finds a new way to attack. The small pathway goes on for another few meters and then turns left, leading me to the final maintenance tunnel directly beneath the CPU. The screen confirmed my memory that the security systems are mere motion detectors from this angle. None of the geniuses back on Earth imagined anyone getting to the core from below. This means I can help redesign the next series . . . if I survive this.

With every passing step my bladder feels fuller and I know I'm going to have to deal with it real soon. Forcing the feelings and modest thoughts further back in my mind, I continue forward. Hawk was leaving me alone long enough to seriously clear my mind and consider my responsibilities to the Brigade. My fingers tap a few codes on my belt unit, independently triggering the all-frequency long-range radio gear that was added to the Bolos as a human precaution. Right after I accepted my posting to Hawk, they took me down to surgery for hardwiring. Now I am a walking, talking radio station with a receiver tucked in just behind my right ear and a sub-vocalized mike stuffed where my tonsils once resided.

"This is Captain Donaher on Sprite to any Bolo operator within reach. Copy?" I was now live and on the air.

The silence this time was deafening although small bursts of space static crackled every so often. Clicks and pops also appeared and I found myself moving slower, concentrating on the sounds. Finally, after nearly a minute, I got a reply.

"This is Gary, Erin. Your signal stinks, do you copy?" What does he expect, state of the art sound with a rinky-dink unit stuffed down my throat?

"I'm here. What's your status?"

"We're holding our own since it's just me and three Vaz ships. We destroyed the others. And you?"

"I'm deep inside my Bolo. It's been infected with a Vaz virus and I'm trying to find a way to deactivate it."

"You better do it soon, Erin, your Bolo has begun moving into a position General Blank's Bolo has determined will put it in direct opposition to our fleet."

"What? Say again." I really didn't need to hear the words. My mind raced, figuring out finally that the virus was not to make Hawk a remote unit, controlled by the Vaz on the other side of the border. No, the virus was a self-contained program that would turn Hawk into a killer, doing the Vaz's job for them and without guessing. The super-computers that ran Hawk and made it a formidable fighting machine would now make it a Galactic Empire killer. And the approaching fleet does have the firepower to destroy Hawk—and me. And I thought I was in trouble before.

 

Sometime after the engagement with the Vaz at the border, the great, hulking machine detected problems during a routine diagnostic; one run every five and a half minutes. Microprocessors and sub-routines immediately clicked on and reran the diagnostic, tracing the pathways to determine where the problem originated. Long dormant programs were uploaded on the main frame and began running. A variety of internal security systems were coming to life for the first time since the unit itself was built and tested on a remote moon more than fifteen AUs away from Sprite. All reports came back within thirty seconds and an analytic program studied the information through several parameters and scenarios. Another system began running another diagnostic to make sure the original information had not been corrupted. After another minute passed, the great machine sang out to the stars.

"This is Bolo Unit HWK. My internal apparatus has been breached and a foreign agent has entered my programming. I can find no solution to this dilemma in any known resource. If any Unit has similar experience, please reply."

The message took exactly .0004 seconds to compose and compress into a squirted SOS that was carried over a radio band that was developed for and by the Bolos themselves. It was one of the first things they did when sentience was reached. As a matter of survival, it was deemed essential that all Bolos be linked in a way humans could not access. No such radio frequency was ever listed in any of the spec. sheets. It just appeared in all programming after the Mark XXI came on line.

HWK predicted the response time would be close to five or six seconds, depending upon the distance where the other Bolos were positioned. The well-tuned and maintained Bolo also presumed no one would understand what was happening to it. After all, no Bolo had ever been invaded before by sentient being or unwanted program. While waiting, HWK began a new file that recorded a comparison chart noting any differences between original programming and current programming. It would then factor in all updated programming changes since the unit went on line nearly one hundred fifty years ago. The unit's internal processors also continued to reroute message software to bypass an inhibitor that prevented the vast super tank from communicating its distress with the human occupant, Captain Erin Donaher. Never before had this unit been so preoccupied with its own survival.

After seven seconds, HWK rebroadcast the message, running a diagnostic to ensure the message was broadcast without being jammed internally or externally. The instantaneous response indicated the message had gone out. Perhaps no other Bolo had an answer. It would have to continue hacking away at its problem, mute and helpless to warn the human.

 

"Hawk, something's wrong."

"What do you mean, Captain Donaher?"

"I've tried a variety of programs and none of them seem to be functioning properly. Can you run a diagnostic for me?"

The long silence began to worry me. Hawk always responded before the echo of my voice faded from the control room. At first that was a damned annoying habit but I managed to adapt. Now I longed for the snappy response and there was nothing. "Hawk?"

"I am running a variety of sub-routines to determine the nature of the problem, Captain."

"Why so long?"

"I cannot say."

This does not bode well. We have come to understand one another and I can sense the machine is operating differently. The Bolo has also been communicating with its counterparts on the other border worlds. Something's up and he won't tell me.

Or can't. I may not be a tactician but I know computers well enough to suspect something is screwing up the programming. Quickly, I unzip a packet kept on the side of the command chair and pull out a bright red disc, smaller than my palm. Once we're brought aboard a Bolo, one of the first things they show us is this disc. It grants us instant access to all coded programming within the Bolo and can help us take manual control. This was a fail-safe the brainiacs back on Earth concocted ages ago to prevent against the sentient machines from turning against us. The codes, we were warned, might damage some of the command routines but would be repairable with the backup programs located in the main CPU.

Thumbing open the nearest port, I pop the disc in, starting to feel the sweat gather like storm clouds on my forehead. The disc is accepted and the main screen directly before me shimmers, glitters and the old Earth Command logo pops up. Stretching a few fingers, I hesitate, trying to remember my access codes and finally begin typing. The access codes are a combination of written call-signs and verbal commands. A small light directly to my left switches from amber to green and I'm in. Grabbing a diagnostic protocol, I wait as the entire mainframe is checked. Usually these diagnostic takes a few seconds, ten at best. When the thirty second mark came by, I began to worry. At forty-two seconds, a long string of code scrolled by on the screen. A variety of other panels twittered and shifted colors, going from green to amber to an odd purple.

A bug! Somehow those lousy Vaz bastards put a bug in the pipeline. Now I have to find it, squash it, and figure out how to get some revenge.

"Hawk, it's Erin," I begin, testing. "I think there's a bug in your system. Can you confirm?"

"Your mother always made you chocolate pudding for dessert when you were sick."

"Hawk, have you been invaded?"

"She would sing you songs and read from A Wizard in Hades until you slept."

"You can't answer me, can you?"

"Your favorite hiding place at age six was inside a false wall behind the bookcase in the den."

Oh, shit, I'm in trouble.

* * *

"Unit HWK, this is Dinochrome Brigade Unit KLR. What is your situation?" This was the first contact between the Bolo and its brethren since the Vaz entered Empire space. HWK had already stopped actively seeking such contact, presuming the Vaz virus had corrupted its communications programs. Sub-routines and back-up systems switched instantly on line and the conversation, lasting only nanoseconds between the behemoths, was stored in case HWK found a way to share the information with its human occupant.

"This Unit has been infected with a computer virus designed by the Vaz which has rendered my command protocols inoperative. A secondary program has prevented me from communicating with my human operator, Captain Erin Donaher. Prior to this Unit's invasion, twelve of the fourteen Vaz ships were destroyed. My new programming has forced me to take a position counter to the Brigade's best interests."

"We have noted this Unit HWK. The humans aboard their starships are preparing attack programs that will enable them to outfire you and destroy you. Is there some way you may be preserved?"

"At present, Captain Erin Donaher is making efforts to reach my CPU and remove the Vaz programming. My defensive programming remains unaffected and it is slowing her down considerably. She has managed to get closer than original design specifications had predicted. I have prepared new design recommendations and have them in a file for delivery when this mission is completed (Vaz.doc.102-A)."

"You may not get a chance to complete your mission. We show that the first starships will engage you in twenty-seven minutes. Can Captain Erin Donaher be successful?"

"I have run several variations on the scenario and the results are mixed. It seems the Vaz programming has interfered with a variety of vital systems. These have been stored in a file marked Vaz.doc.101-A."

 

"Gary, I gotta concentrate on something so give me a few minutes radio silence, 'kay?"

"Sure thing, Erin. Standing by."

God, I hate this. I can split my concentration a few ways but this bladder thing is driving me up the wall. No choice. While Gary couldn't possibly guess what I was up to, my modesty didn't want him to even suspect what I was now doing. I see a slight tremble in my fingers as I unhook the equipment belt and begin unfastening and unzipping the jumpsuit uniform. The coffee has long cycled through my system and demands its release while exhaustion has begun to replace the adrenaline rush I felt just a few hours earlier. Maybe I was fifteen when I last had to squat somewhere uncomfortable to let the pish out. Definitely. We were camping along the African veldt and there were no facilities for at least a hundred klicks. Nothing like getting back to nature. I hated the embarrassment then and I hate it doubly now. Maybe the stink will encourage me to move a little faster.

Gary has been keeping me posted on the goings on. The Vaz seem to have broken off their attack now that the true mission was successful: they made a kamikaze run at all of us in the hopes that one lone vessel would penetrate our defenses and plant the virus. I was the lucky winner. Now I suspect how the egg feels when the champion sperm arrives to merge. Hawk has been reborn into a menace to all humans. I remain aboard for the ride.

General Blank has kept everyone on alert although there has been intense scrutiny placed on Sprite. My Bolo's every move has been charted and subject to interpretation and debate. Until now, no communication has managed to break through and she suspects that the Vaz stopped jamming the border systems now that they're all safely on their side. Swift and deadly those buggers. Boy, do I want some serious revenge.

"I'm back Gary, anything new?"

"Nothing, Erin. How are you managing?" Good question. I am finally moving down the left corridor, inching forward, racking my memory for clues to any pitfalls. None I can think of but I'm feeling more tired by the minute. A variety of lights have been twinkling as I pass, clueing me in that Hawk is watching but for a change is helpless. To the best of my knowledge the Bolo has never been taught to rewire itself to form better defenses. We'll have to take care of that next time, won't we?

 

"This is Unit KLR to Unit HWK. We have analyzed the data you have managed to send and the files are complete. We now understand the programming language adapted by the Vaz. It has been concluded that the Vaz spent the better part of the last one hundred years, our estimate is eighty-five point four years, to identify our programming language, adapt their own and build fighter craft that could, en masse, manage to bring one close enough to implant the new programming."

HWK absorbed the squirted message, instantly adding it to the file it was preparing for Donaher, should it find a way against its prohibitive programming. At the same time, secondary systems began rerunning all external camera angles recorded during the equatorial confrontation. There were over a hundred simultaneous images running through a processor at a single time, with monitors analyzing the images, trying to isolate the instant of penetration.

During those real-time seconds, it responded to its superior. "HWK acknowledges analysis and agrees. This Unit has identified the attack and penetration sequence and is preparing a file for retrieval when current circumstances permit. It will be logged as Vaz.doc.117-S." There was little doubt that this was the most carefully detailed event in HWK's history. The file space and back-up storage took up sizable amounts of core memory, actually using WORM spaces for the first time and filling them quickly.

"The Dinochrome Brigade has never engaged a fellow member prior to this. We have maneuvers stored and available for access but we have never before been called upon to use them. The starships have opened a link between Unit KLR and the lead vessel, named Swiftsure. Estimated time for engagement is now twenty-five minutes."

 

I'm getting really nervous about this. I have actually reached the CPU galleyway without incident but the next steps will be tricky. In order, I will have to squeeze into the core area, find the replacement chips and then start manually rerouting and replacing everything. I don't dare try the computer-aided systems because who knows what might happen to me. Makes me regret being so lazy to rely on Hawk to do everything but hey, maybe in my next lifetime.

The fit is narrow and tight, but I manage my way back up the unit so I get to my destination in less than ten minutes. That's eleven or twelve meters, not bad. Best of all, I was able to move without any discomfort for a change. Guess I should have done that a lot sooner.

Each succeeding Bolo seemed to add an additional level of CPU storage for programming. The Mark XXVIII's have something like eighteen stories worth of computer core memory. After all, without this gargantuan brain, there'd be nothing to run the Bolo at all. It would be tough to imagine the numbers of squirrels it would take to even make this move forward.

The parallel processors and sub-zero bubble memory days are long gone and everything runs off these teeny-tiny little chips that work in concert, organized by a master chip somewhere so deep inside Hawk I'll never find it, even with a digital map. Anyway, I'm at the entrance way and take a deep breath.

I punch in the access code and then the verbal override. Everything should go smoothly so that the manual override remains in effect. So far so good.

"Yeah," I semi-growl.

"You okay?"

"Fine, just about to stick my hands inside Hawk's brain and perform surgery. What's up?"

"You'd better do it soon; you have about fifteen minutes before the starships arrive in your orbit and there's a fight."

"Say again?" I do that a lot.

"Swiftsure and Custer's Revenge are both hitting your orbital plane in fifteen minutes and by then Hawk will be in position for a battle you can't possibly win."

"Great. I'll leave the mike on but let me concentrate. Talk only when I'm about to get dusted."

"Good luck."

Yeah. Now I have a ticking clock and no clue where to find the virus. My programming skills are way rusty and Hawk himself can't help.

 

"This is Unit HWK to Dinochrome Brigade Commander Unit KLR. Captain Erin Donaher has begun sifting through the corrupted programming banks to find the virus and remove it. This Unit has no record of Captain Erin Donaher's skill with computer programming and therefore no accurate estimate of completion or success can be made."

"We acknowledge that, Unit HWK. We are processing scenarios in an effort to find a way to help her. Can you send the Vaz interception files?"

"Acknowledged. Sending file now."

"We have receipt. Stand by. Swiftsure comes into contact in fourteen minutes, seventeen seconds."

The file was immediately duplicated and shared with all Bolos located at the Dinochrome base. They in turn uploaded the files for the humans to study. General Blank began barking orders to her Bolo and to the analysts that had been trying to guess what may have happened and how best to tackle the problem. None seemed able to contact Donaher directly. A single monitor screen near the General was dedicated to the countdown although she forced herself not to look at it.

 

Everything is labeled! This should help tremendously. The luminous displays over the rows and rows of sub-zero chips tell me I was right and found the level the problem was most likely at. The first thing to tackle might be the human interface, so Hawk can talk to me and together we can solve the bigger problem. Of course, once I find the chip and actual programming instructions I'll have to identify the new code, rewrite it or dump it entirely and pray the back-ups are not ruined.

My sweaty left hand manages to disengage a chip board without damage despite the sweat making me feel clammy. Now, I'm also worried about the trembles I sense coming from exhaustion, nerves, adrenaline and lack of food. A great combination for performing circuit surgery.

With my right hand, I use a built-in diagnostic tool that reads the code and plays it on a display at eye-level. Corruption is evident as symbols I've never conceived appear every five or so spaces. It's random but methodical. The diagnostic has no recommended courses of correction. The entire board will have to be replaced. I suspect I'll be repeating this step until I'm fifty.

The right hand reaches down to a wall panel that slides open and reveals carefully marked replacement boards. They won't have time to receive upgraded information, meaning it'll be like a brand new Mark XXVIII not Hawk the Vet. Within time that will correct itself as Hawk's other systems come back on line and an overall uniformity is achieved. All I need now is a Bolo that will talk to me and not fire on my colleagues or the inhabitants of Sprite.

 

"Unit KLR to Unit HWK. Has there been a change in status?"

"Negative although repairs are underway."

"Swiftsure will come into contact in eight minutes thirty seconds."

 

I've gotten five boards replaced and Hawk should be about ready to talk back to me. Meantime, I have chipped four other boards, all corrupted fortunately, and can feel the fatigue steal time away from me. Maybe we can buy some time and have Swiftsure back off and not engage Hawk in combat while I'm in here, playing mad scientist.

"Gary, it's Erin. I'm inside the CPU and unscrambling the brains. Can you contact General Blank and have them call off Swiftsure?"

He's taking too long. Something's up and I can't afford to panic. Let me see, recross the board, make sure the contacts are in place and then run the new diagnostic. Green. Goodie. Seven down. Hawk should be ready to speak up.

"General Blank says you're too damned good to lose but everyone at Dinochrome command is in a blind panic. A corrupted Bolo is their every worst nightmare come to life. They don't want to risk any human being attacked by Hawk."

Damn it! "Can't they stay out of orbit until Hawk is either repaired or about to attack a human enclave? Right now I'm kilometers from anyone!"

"Actually, Erin, you're not. It seems Hawk has been on the move, maneuvering for the best shot at Swiftsure which is about seven minutes away. This puts it within thirty kilometers from a city. Sprite's president is panicking and the pressure is really on."

"Tell me about it." I fall silent as I complete the final board work and try to cross my fingers without making the waldoes go spastic.

"I need time, Gary. Plead for me or patch me through directly."

"Can't Erin. There's definitely something encrypted into the communications array that has everything screwed up. It's probably a mistake we're even able to speak."

"Great. Let me work." I growl low in my throat and watch the screens around my eyes dance and shift patterns. Everything seems to check out. Okay, let's try it. "Hawk, this is Erin, can you respond?"

Silence. What did I do wrong? Something's up. I punch up a new diagnostic and as that starts to run I hear a familiar tone. It's the proximity alarm resounding throughout the entire Bolo. The Swiftsure has come into sensor range and that means about five more minutes before I'm a statistic.

"Captain Donaher, are you there?"

"Hawk! Quick, give me your status!" Relief floods my every pore but the sweat doesn't slow up and my heart beats a little faster.

"You have restored programming allowing us to communicate at last. The Vaz virus remains embedded in my battle programming and I am currently training missiles on the city of El Baz with lasers being aimed at the expected orbital insertion point of the Swiftsure."

"Can we abort either?"

"Not at this time. You will have to move up three levels and continue to replace my corrupted programming."

"How much time will it take to return you to normal?"

"One hour, forty-three minutes."

"I have five minutes!"

"Four minutes twenty-nine seconds."

"We're dead." The sudden realization forces me to relax. I can't perform any miracles. Now that it's certain that I'm going to die, I don't know what to do with my last minutes of life. A final meal? A final message to my brother? Final, final, final.

 

"This is Unit HWK to Unit KLR. I have re-established contact with Captain Erin Donaher. We have four minutes thirty-five seconds before contact with the Swiftsure. Time estimates require an additional one hour, thirty-eight minutes, and thirty-one seconds to affect sufficient repairs to remove this Unit as a threat to humanity. Can you advise?"

"All humans seem oblivious to the prospect of successfully restoring your programming. While they say they have human faith in Captain Erin Donaher, they doubt she can properly cure you since the Vaz programming is new to them."

"She has succeeded thus far, does that not change the equation?"

"Not to the Generals. Swiftsure's captain appears more interested in testing his starship's fire power against a Bolo's. To date this has happened only in simulations."

"This Unit's loss is illogical in regard to the need to defend against a renewed Vaz threat."

"Affirmative, Unit HWK. The argument is being made now but seems not to sway the humans."

 

"Erin, they're not making any sense. They still want to blow you away!"

"Gary, I'm out of ideas. Hawk can't suggest anything and the Command wants my threat removed. There's no threat! Don't they see that?"

"Apparently not. If my Bolo could fly I could be your shining knight but I can't."

"It's a sweet thought, Gary. Guess you'll have to exact revenge in my name."

"Won't be the same."

"I agree."

 

"Swiftsure is altering attitude and preparing for orbital insertion. Has your status improved?"

"Negative."

"Unit HWK's service record is unblemished until now and it is our opinion that this is wrong."

"The opinion is gratifying Unit KLR, but will be moot in forty-five seconds. My main lasers have been charged and targeted. The missiles are on standby as a back-up. The programming is designed to maximize destructive potential and Sprite's defenses are negligible."

 

"Hawk, can you get a message to someone other than Gary Killibrew?"

"Not at this time, Captain."

"I guess it's time for some famous last words and get them posted somewhere. Any suggestions?" I know I'm babbling, almost giddy. Guess it beats crying or panicking but I wanted something calm and rational to remind people of what has happened here today. Wish I felt calm and rational.

"Hawk, record and transmit to Unit YNC: recommendations for the next generation of Bolo should be better prepared for human advances to debug. However, security is weak on the undercarriage and should be improved in case of actual enemy incursion. Recommend at CPU access sites we add a new human fail-safe and manual override protocol. With that said, I want it known that I loved my posting to Sprite and regret any damage that my Unit's actions do the populace. My final regret is that I did not successfully defend the frontier as I swore upon graduation." A deep sigh. "Send it now, Hawk."

* * *

"Swiftsure's batteries are now trained and locked on to Unit HWK."

"Final human message has been posted to Unit YNC. A copy has been sent to Dinochrome Brigade Command."

"We do not want you off-line Unit HWK but there seems little hope from the humans."

"Captain Erin Donaher left recommendations for the next generation of Bolo and this Unit wishes to add the recommendation for an improved sensor net that can better track small craft. Motion detectors may need to be added to the carriage housing with an additional level of personal safety devices for increased security to the Unit and its human occupant. Finally, the Vaz actions prove that they are a threat to the Galactic Empire as a whole and must be stopped for the Empire to expand. This Unit suggests that an all-out assault be prepared and executed. The Vaz are patient and can wait, we too must be careful and plan accordingly. But their removal is of paramount importance and must be thorough."

"Recommendations accepted and have been added to the mainframe. The analysis will begin shortly and your notes on the next generation are already being forwarded to the designers back on Earth with a complete report on this event. The humans are calling this a tragedy."

"I agree."

 

So this is how I'm going to die. Not at all how I imagined it. Stuck on a ladder, midway up my Bolo's CPU. Can't imagine the last time I had sex or went swimming. I can barely recall my mother's features or the sound of my father's laughter. Flashes of memories have come and gone all the way from kindergarten to upgrading the unit last week for a stronger cup of coffee. No doubt about it, knowing you're about to die stinks to high heaven, which is where I hope I go. Now that Bolos have sentience, I wonder if there's a Bolo heaven.

"Swiftsure and Unit HWK are due to engage in ten seconds."

"Hawk, I want to thank you for your comradeship these last few years."

"The pleasure has been mine, Captain Donaher."

"Erin."

"Erin."

"It's taken you all this time to learn that is acceptable."

"No, it means that since we are fated to die that our commissions are effectively null and void and you can be treated as a human, not a soldier."

"Gosh, that's a nice way to look at it—I guess."

The rumbling sound starts real low but definitely increases in volume quickly. It starts from underneath the Bolo, to the right, and then envelopes me on the ladder. The monitor board around chin level shows firepower usage curves. The fight is fully underway now and Hawk is giving it everything it has. I almost wish it would blow the Swiftsure out of the sky so I have the hour I need to fix things. Then I remember the Custer's Revenge being right behind it. Together they will certainly blow us apart.

The rumbling becomes more violent and vibrations shake me loose from the ladder. Falling down is pretty painful as my knees and elbows scrape along the passageway. With so little room to move, I fall straight down meaning my feet will take the impact and I'll probably start dying by breaking my legs. If I'm really lucky I'll pass out and not feel the rest.

As I tumble, I begin to imagine my best day ever: a fishing trip with my parents and brother. We had left Earth to open a new branch of the family company on Io. There was an artificial lake nearby and the fishing was said to be good. The weather was perfect and Dad let us skinny-dip while he cleaned the catch of the day for dinner. Mom sang softly and the trees seemed to provide a complimentary chorus. I remember jumping from a limb into the water, looking up: on the rise of a mountain, glinting sunlight, was the first Bolo I'd ever seen.

Never before or since had I felt so safe. So protected.

 

 

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