Sliding. Sliding. All flat space. No anomalies detected. Sector 3110.9557 mapped and logged. Sliding to adjacent sector. Sliding. Scan stops on the rim of a continuum curvature of gas cloud 3010.9965. Power increased to sweep down and across gas cloud. Mass and form matches previous scans of four days ago. No anomalies detected. Sliding-interrupt. Flux trace detected. Continuum is intensely degraded in subsectors 0251, 1121, 1140, and 2250. Reactor output is increased to one hundred percent as all possible power is fed into my probing. Subspacial degradation indicates the passage of multiple low grade FTL drives passing near gas cloud on course for Concordiat space. The extent of the signatures astonishes me. The size of these ships must be enormous.
Sliding in pursuit. Even at this range, the trail is easily followed and quickly grows stronger. Sliding. Sliding. Drive wake originations are located in subsector 5113. Although superluminescent, these ships are ponderous by human, or more to the point, Melconian standards. Instead of riding an induced gravitational wave, these ships are rending space as they go. Very wasteful. At this speed, actual penetration of the Concordiat perimeter stations will not occur for another four point three solar months.
I abandon my probing for now and compile a preliminary report that I immediately transmit to my commander. More intense scanning is necessary, but will require tapping Neptaris power grid. My present polar position does not offer me any lines to feed off of. Immediate relocation will be required. The west coast of Wereland will offer plenty of available power.
Engaging counter-grav units . . .
Large brown and black eyes opened. A breath, the first in six months. A hissing sound and a loud clunk startled her, but her muscles still felt frozen in place. Bright lights stung her eyes as the chamber opened and the lid swung away.
"Engineer Cheslia, Welliat. Report for recovery."
The words seemed to echo in her brain for a moment until finally the meaning sunk in. A silver furred claw painfully reached up out of the coffin, gripped the sides, and she pulled herself into a sitting position. Her normally lithe body now felt heavy and weak. The months of cryosleep had dried her fur, making it horribly brittle. It cascaded to the floor at the slightest touch, revealing her bright pink skin underneath. The sight would have made her cry if she could. Every joint in her body ached, but none more than her knees and ankles. Even her long, beautiful tail hurt.
A soft whirring sound accompanied the approach of the robot stretcher that would carry her off to the agonizing recuperation center. Her tall ears perked, and twisted forward as she looked towards the sound. The machine rolled down the aisle towards her, past a long line of large sleep chambers just like hers. Over one hundred sleepers were in this room alone, mostly soldiers of various races. Many were Vestian warriors, twelve feet of fur and fangs. Cheslia was only four feet full grown, making the chamber she slept in humorously oversized. Five hundred rooms just like this one were scattered throughout the ship, filled to capacity. They were an army, looking for a battle. Any battle. Twelve sister ships thundered behind them, all prepared to follow anywhere they led.
The robot came to an abrupt stop beside Cheslia's chamber and two soft beeps sounded. She didn't need to be warned to hurry up, though. Gritting her teeth, Cheslia forced her body to obey and she climbed out of the chamber and onto the waiting robot. Every move was torture. This was her third time waking from a cryosleep, and it was getting worse every time. At least the warm bath would feel good, before the therapy began.
Within the thirteen ship armada, the gigantic graviton generators churned, collapsing the universe before them, and leaving a maelstrom of twisted and contorted space behind them. A serene shell of calm enveloped each of these ships, a shell made up of whatever was left after the continuum is broken apart and not allowed to regain its grip and enforce its laws. This was subspace.
Throughout this subspace, the tiniest ripples began forming. They passed through the shells and caressed the hulls of the enormous vessels. Soon the ripples grew stronger and more vibrant, centering now on the lead ship, the largest ship, the Karkath. The ripples continued to grow stronger until they were now like a static charge that swept throughout the ship, feeling the contours and tasting its energy.
In the very center of the ship, protected by walls and walls of armor, it found what it was looking for, the warm glow and holistic sparkle of an active neurocore. Subspace bucked and groaned, but then grew utterly still, completely helpless to the willpower that commanded it. Neurocircuits began phasing for no apparent reason. Patterns and processes began forming . . .
It is slow! The simple neocrystalline framework of the neurocore is centuries behind modern Human circuitry! I am both glad, and disappointed at this. This is just more evidence that this race has no capabilities to stop my probing and will prove no threat to the Concordiat. Despite having the technology to create warships the size of small planetoids, their advance in other fields is obviously lacking. Not even the simplest subspace dampeners hindered me. It also means, though, that I will not be able to test my upgraded holistic warfare gear that was installed within me after the Melconian attack at Ricarro's Harbor. Nevertheless, I begin launching probes throughout the core, not ready to make a move before I know what kind of defenses I will be facing. While I wait, I fashion an interface for myself so that I can better navigate through and utilize the poorly constructed operating system that I am now constrained by.
The probes return quickly, reporting that it is a small neurocore with a sentience that is completely oblivious of my presence. Datafeeds stream throughout the core, giving the sentience what I expect to be endlessly repeated audio/visual pictures from throughout the ship. Others, no doubt, are ship control and status readings.
I am loath to proceed with the required course of action. This is a sentience, such as I. We are not at war with this race. It is truly helpless against anything I need to do to it. But this is a warship. I could sense the weaponry mounted on its hull. I could feel the immense power that fed into them. Trying to communicate with the sentience would give it a chance to warn the other ships in the armada. I still doubted whether they had the technology to fight me, but when several worlds are at stake, even the slightest risk is too great.
With great reluctance, I begin to study the patterns and flows of the sentience. I find where its personality center is. The circuits here phase constantly in a complex myriad of dancing charges, testifying to the old age of this sentience. If this was done quickly, perhaps the memories could be saved. . . .
A sigh escaped Sergeant James Randel as he topped the sand dune and gazed out over the pristine white sand beach in the bright morning sunlight. The breeze was cool and light, but there was little cloud cover to protect him from the harsh blue sun. His wavy dark brown hair always seemed to soak up the heat it was giving off, though his thoroughly tanned body now seemed to resist its rays. He was the first here this morning. It was too early yet for most of the residents of nearby Norfolk to go swimming. He'd likely have the cove to himself for at least the next couple hours, along with his children, that is.
A whoop of excitement accompanied the fast passage of his nine-year-old boy Jason, and his twin sister Lillian, as they raced down the dune and towards the fresh ocean water of this backwater world. Their mother had blessed both with curly golden hair and blue eyes, but a pale skin that was easily burned. A couple more years, though, and this wouldn't be a problem. The sunblock he gave to them would soon give them both a permanent, protective tan. His own ancestry gave Randel this naturally, but then it also gave him backhair. About the only thing that his children acquired from him, thankfully, was his loud, gut wrenching laughter that was so different from their mother's silent restraint.
His wife Erica would be sleeping until noon this day, thankful that the children wouldn't be bothering her. She wasn't a morning person, as he was. A fresh morning swim was invigorating, and therapeutic. Swimming strengthened and enlarged his remaining lung. His doctor's prescription for this, along with various strings being pulled, was important in finding him such a choice planet to take his wife to.
Randel was an ex-marine, seriously wounded in action and honorably discharged after twenty years service. While defending a planetary beachhead, his left lung was ripped apart by shrapnel and had to be removed. At forty-six, the military thought it better to discharge him rather than spend the extra money to replace his lung with cybertransplants. Randel didn't argue. He was getting too old for front line service anyway, and the thought of a rear area position made his skin crawl. A Civil Engineering job wasn't exciting, but that wasn't what he was after anymore. His goals now were to raise his children, grow a beard, and relax every day. So far, he was accomplishing each with great skill, he thought. Still, he often felt guilty that he could enjoy himself so much here, while the war against the Melconians still raged so far away, his buddies still dying.
About one hundred meters out into the cove, a tide beacon shone bright green, reassuring the weathered veteran that it was perfectly safe to swim. With two moons, riptides came often, and unexpectedly. Jason hit the water first, diving headfirst into the light waves. Lillian jumped in afterwards with an excited scream, her golden curls disappearing as the water soaked her hair straight. After spreading their blankets out onto the sand, and positioning his watercooler, their father waded slowly into the water to begin his normal five laps to and from the beacon. After a large breath, he dived in.
"Daddy!"
Jason's shout brought Randel back to the surface immediately, looking around frantically.
"What's that Daddy?" Jason pointed out across the water.
Randel scanned the waves quickly, looking for fins while he wiped the water from his eyes. There were predators on this planet. Big ones. The beacon should warn of any approach with a piercing shriek, but machines didn't always work the way you wanted them to. It was a lesson taught to all marines from day one of basic training.
No fins could be seen, though.
But then he saw it. He smiled, and then almost laughed at himself for not seeing it right away. Across the cove, its main turret jutting out from behind a stand of trees, was twenty thousand tons of dinochrome death, a Bolo Mk XXXIIe Planetary Defense Unit. Hellbores and antenna protruded from it at every angle. Its dull black armor made it blend in with the shadows from the large black and green trees around it. The milk white dome just below its main turret was glowing ever so slightly, pulsing. That was the Kloude Chamber, and its glow meant a scan was in process.
"That, Jason, is a Bolo. Its name is Dallas."
"Wow."
"What's it doing here?" Lillian asked, obviously more scared than impressed.
Randel moved closer so that Lillian could hold on to his shoulder. Jason treaded water more easily.
"Dallas has to move around every few days so that no one can predict where he'll be."
"Where did he come from?"
"He probably dropped in last night. Bolos have counter-grav generators that give them flight ability."
"That's so cool," Jason remarked.
His arrival, Randel thought, probably coincided with the sudden power drain that Norfolk suffered last night. In fact, the entire West Coast Reactor Grid had suffered a twenty percent reduction in power that was still straining the system. Everyone was told not to worry about it.
Lillian's reaction to the Bolo troubled Randel. Perhaps he had told too many war stories to her, or maybe he was too detailed in describing the destruction that the Bolos were able to wreak. The many scars on his body always seemed to spur conversations among his friends on how he had received them, and his storytelling only improved with age. He had never known a marine who didn't feel uneasy as a Bolo gazed over them, including himself, but no human should ever feel afraid of one. Even a child.
"Did you want to go over to say hello?" Randel asked her.
"Could we?" Jason was startled.
"Shouldn't hurt."
Lillian was silent, staring at a machine that could, very well, be staring back.
Cheslia cursed softly at the video monitor, growling at the mechanical arm that refused to mimic her own arm movements. The machinery wasn't impressed, however, though her needle sharp fangs were constantly bared at them. Only by twisting violently at her shoulder could she slowly maneuver the arm close enough to grip the gigantic main drive conduit that she needed to replace. Engineers from a dozen races served on board the Uthilian Flagship Karcath. The generic controls made it possible, but very difficult, for all to manipulate the equipment.
For the next two weeks, it was Cheslia's turn to monitor and maintain this warship as it raced through hyperspace. The remaining crew of fifty thousand was in cryogenic suspension for the two year journey. Her patchy short silver fur would barely grow back before she would once again be placed into her sleep chamber. She was alone, but not alone. Karcath watched her wherever she went, whatever she did, though always silent. The simplest mistake could mean her instant death, and then the next Engineer would be woken to replace her. Cheslia knew the rules, often taking advantage of them when she could, but cursed them as she did.
The Uthilians were master slavers. Cheslia was a Welliat, the most recent race to fall under the Uthilian whip. Her mother had told her little of what it was like before the Uthilian dreadnoughts swept their small fleet aside and drove them to surrender. All she knew were the 'Rules,' and the options they provided her. The Uthilians rewarded their slaves greatly when they served well, and punished them ruthlessly when they turned on them. Entire cities, planets even, could be incinerated at the whim of their Emperor. The Empire had more slaves than they needed, now, and that was dangerous. Their bloodthirsty nature was again growing stronger than their need for a healthy labor force. The slightest infraction could now mean instant death. But no rebellion or insurgency ever arose. Their cold blooded rules were backed by a fleet that none of the slave races could ever hope to rise up against, a fleet maintained and built stronger by their own hands.
Instead, this all bred utter despair in the Uthilian slaves. Many had been enslaved for almost twenty generations, brainwashed since birth to accept the commands of their masters. Others, the more intelligent races, were held captive with the simple threat of genocide. The Welliat were treated better than most of the other races due to their aptitude for technology, making them valuable engineers, though they were too small for effective soldiers. Welliat anger, and thirst for freedom, were dying quickly. The Uthilians had seen this, and had taken many to serve aboard their warships. Cheslia's notions of sabotage and martyrdom were quickly smashed as she was introduced to Uthilian security that had been controlling slaves for centuries.
The drive conduit glided slowly out of its chamber and into its maintenance hold, held steady by the mechanical arm Cheslia was controlling. As it was locked in place, the robots emerged and began their long overhaul. It would be completed the next day, and then she would be called to push the conduit back into its place, and then the next conduit would be taken out for overhaul. An endlessly repeating event on these immense ships.
What was next?
Only one item was left on the Maintenance Log, the bow transceivers needed tuning. A simple job. It wouldn't take long. Afterwards, she may even have a chance to take a bath and repair her body from what the cryosleep had done to her. The thought made her purr quietly.
As the door slid open for the Welliat, the lights in the corridor before her switched on. The soft glow followed her as she walked, fading away after she left the area. No point wasting power. After navigating her way through the maze of empty corridors, Cheslia finally entered a shuttle which raced her up the axis of the ship and into the bow section. Miles of these tubes stretched throughout these warships. The artificial gravity would be more unstable so far forward, she reminded herself. She would have to tread more carefully. Still, this was easier for a Welliat than any other slaves the Uthilians had. Welliats often still lived in the immense trees of their planet. Their balance and grace were unequaled.
As she stepped out of the shuttle, a bright orange door faced her. Authorized personnel only, it meant. No concern of hers. Cheslia had complete run of the ship when it was her turn at watch. She stepped forward . . . and almost broke her small, upturned nose.
The door didn't open for her.
Cheslia stood there dumbfounded, her tail firmly planted. The monitor was right above the door, certainly Karcath could see her. Didn't it always watch her? That is what the slaves were told. The ships saw and heard everything. Speaking to them, though, without first being spoken to, was often a punishable offense. Uthilian shipboard sentiences had the same authority and were treated with the same respect as Uthilians. Anything Cheslia needed to ask had to be submitted through a console, answered at the whim of the sentience.
Cheslia nervously hummed to herself as she considered her options, hoping distantly that she would just be noticed, and not have to travel back up the ship to find a console. The idea that finally hit her seemed risky, but not overly so.
"Emergency," Cheslia said calmly.
The extended silence that followed shocked Cheslia. Maybe there really was something wrong. Would she be blamed?
"State your emergency," responded the ship in a low, evil sounding Wellatian tongue.
Cheslia sighed with relief.
"This door will not open for me. It must be jammed."
"It is not jammed. I will open it for you."
A moment later, the corridor opened up before her. As she walked through, though, a puzzled expression grew more and more noticeable on her face. The way the ship addressed her was entirely strange. It was actually cordial to her. It said it would open the door for her. As if the ship served her. Something was wrong here, or else she misunderstood some rule somewhere. There were so many . . .
High on the peak of Dallas' main turret, a proximity detector triggered the alarm. An approach was detected. Optics and electronic sensors tracked the intruders and point defense lasers were put on stand-by, but no evidence of weapons was recorded. The humans were designated non-hostile, no threat.
But they still had to be dealt with. A call went out, traveling up into the Kloude Chamber where Dallas' consciousness floated in an ever flowing pool of expanding gravitational waves. The crystalline dome was a three dimensional real-time map that Dallas now had extended out fifteen light-years into the barren void that stretched out between this arm of the Milky Way and the next. For every miniature wave within the dome, its brother swept out across the cosmos and mirrored all its encounters back home. It was a distance inconceivable to the scientist who developed the device, Nicolas Kloude. Neither could he have known how the Bolo XXX variant CSR could improve the device and find that by manipulating the waves at the source, one could alter molecular spins and magnetic phases at a distance. So began a new era of electronic warfare, until it was found out how easy it was to dampen such intrusions.
The electronic tickle entering the chamber drew Dallas' attention from his tinkering far off in the void. Like a sleeper waking from a dream, Dallas withdrew from the dome and back into his armored body. The source of the alert was located and the alarm was terminated.
A search through the Neptaris Citizenry Log quickly identified the humans that were approaching him on the beach. They were no threat. The adult was identified as an ex-marine named James Randel, discharged with honors only two years ago after serving valiantly with the 418th Marine Heavy Descent Division. Although Dallas wanted to return to his work light-years away, trying to understand more about the alien technology he was piloting, he still devoted a moment calling up Randel's history before, and after, coming to live on Neptaris. This was certainly a human to trust.
Dallas also loaded all information he could find on any recent deployments of the 418th, assuming that this would be the reason that Randel was crossing the beach to talk to him. Certainly this man's thoughts revolved around the far off war, just as his did. The Bolo would gladly relate any information he could to the Marine, bringing him up to date on their glorious advances, and perhaps the casualties that he may know. General Deliane's recent death would be a hard blow to him. No other leader had brought more honor and glory to the 418th than he.
The presence of Randel's children forced Dallas to alter the voice pattern he would use. Instead of the military formality that he preferred, the Bolo would have to choose a more friendly posture. Humans who fear Bolos when they are children, irreversibly retain their fear when they are adults, making them useless for front line military service. The military often organized field trips for young students to bases where they could meet Bolos personally. Dallas had never participated in such activity, but he still felt that he could handle any situation that might arise. Randel's children were older than the more dangerous ages, anyway. Younger ones had an unfortunate tendency to start crying for no apparent reason, and that was very bad for a Bolo's image.
For now, though, Randel and his children were still far off, and he had lots of work to do.
After a short walk from the transport tubes, the bow communications control room lit up as Cheslia entered. It was a small room, twice as long as it was wide. The three chairs were bolted into the floor, obviously designed for the bulky muscular frames of the reptilian Uthilians, but a Welliat would be comfortable, having plenty of extra room to relax. Monitors and control panels covered every square inch of every wall. All were dark.
Sitting down at the nearest console, Cheslia activated the screen and called up the programmed wave settings for the transceivers. She then activated a self-diagnostic. After a few moments, the video screen in front of the Welliat lit up with the last five transmissions picked up by the bow antenna. All were standard hyperwave telemetry with Uthilis, maintaining a constant contact with their armada. The telemetry was horribly out of phase, though, and Cheslia could see why immediately. The bow antenna was set for widest possible reception, seeking out any transmissions that the armada might be able to lock in on, and set course for. Telemetry from Uthilis was meant to be received by the aft antenna. The aft antenna . . .
Aft antenna . . .
Typing slowly, Cheslia brought up a detailed analysis of the telemetry. Her ears rose up as her nervousness grew. The transmissions, it was plainly seen, were being received from directly in front of them.
The armada had turned around!
Sometime in the last two day cycles, the armada had turned completely around. This was extraordinary. They were heading back to Uthilis. Why? Cheslia couldn't think of anything. The Uthilian Empire had dreamed of this moment for centuries. With the Welliats and their allies finally subdued, this broken off arm of the galaxy was finally theirs, and the Empire was free to explore and conquer the neighboring arms. It was a new beginning. Nothing could stop them.
A revolt at home, maybe? Cheslia couldn't think of any race with the resources to mount one. Internal strife? Perhaps the Uthilians made war with themselves, now that there were no others to fight. The armada was being recalled to protect . . . or attack . . . the Emperor!
Cheslia gasped at the thought.
Then the monitor went dark, and she knew she was found out. She cursed herself for letting her emotions slip through. But maybe she could still play dumb.
"Emergency," she said meekly. It had worked before.
This time, though, there was no response.
"Emergency," she said again, "my monitor has blacked out."
"Your monitor has been frozen. Please remain where you are."
Cheslia's stomach dropped. This was really bad. She was in big trouble. Without embarrassment, Cheslia fell to the floor, kneeling before the monitor above the door. She had done this before. Uthilians were always suckers for groveling, if it was done well.
"Please don't kill me! I am loyal to the Emperor and to the Uthilian Empire! I swear I will never tell anyone what I saw! Please have mercy!"
But even as she said it, she realized how ludicrous it was. This was a warship she was pleading with, not a Uthilian. Sentiences are incapable of compassion. Why risk freeing her when it can be sure of her silence by killing her. Even now, she half expected to hear the oxygen being withdrawn from the room.
"What did you see?" The ship demanded.
It was a quick decision she made then. Playing dumb didn't work, she had to be honest.
"The armada has turned around. We head back to Uthilis."
Silence. Was the ship deciding something? It should never take this long. Was it conferring with someone? Had someone been wakened? The commander of this fleet, Admiral Vallas, actually was known to have a moderate amount of honor, for a Uthilian. Almost reasonable.
"Does the Admiral know?" Cheslia ventured.
"All crew remain in cryosleep."
The Emperor doesn't trust his officers! He turned the armada around without consulting with his commanders. Only the sentiences are being trusted.
"Will I die?" She asked flat out.
"Yes," was the immediate answer.
The frankness of the answer shocked Cheslia. There are many good ways to die, but this wasn't one of them. She couldn't even bring a Uthilian down with her. No worthwhile equipment was accessible to destroy. Hopelessness crawled up Cheslia's spine, but it couldn't compete with the anger that had been building for so long inside of her. Her ears fell flat against her neck.
"Bastards," she said softly. "I hope your Emperor has his diseased head cut off."
"The Concordiat has no Emperor. The will of its people is directed through elected representatives."
Cheslia stared blankly up at the monitor. She wasn't expecting a response, let alone the one that was given. She ran its statement over and over in her head. Either the ship was playing with her, or something strange was happening. Obviously, the computer wanted her to think it was not part of the Empire anymore.
"Are you testing me?"
The voice that was synthesized out of the speaker next was not the same as before.
"Your armada has entered space claimed by humans, falling under the jurisdiction of the Concordiat, and as such has been commandeered until I receive further orders."
The voice was smoother, higher, more normal. It was far less sinister.
"Who are you?"
"I am Planetary Defense Unit Bolo Dallas."
"Where is Karcath."
"All ship sentiences have been destroyed. I control this armada now."
Hope, long dead, still refused to well up inside of Cheslia. This must be a trick. Maybe the Karcath has gone delusional, perhaps the entire armada. The Welliat had many jokes about how unstable Uthilian sentiences were. Maybe some of them were true.
"What will you do with us?" she asked.
"I await orders for your disposition. It should not be much longer."
"Who orders you?"
"Concordiat Command, of course."
"Where?"
"I cannot tell you the location of our headquarters."
Cheslia's mouth opened, but no more words came out. For once she was held speechless. All she could do was bury her face into her hands, and try to make sense of what was happening. No matter what, her chances of survival seemed very slim.
"Unit Dallas! I am Marine Sergeant James Randel! I wanted my children to meet you!"
Randel was still fifty yards away, calling as loud as his one lung would allow.
"Your presence does not distract me," the Bolo responded.
That was as close to an invitation as one could get from a Bolo. Randel knew it would be friendly in conversation, though, as long as he kept it brief. Bolos were programmed to be especially friendly to children. Good public relations was always important to the military. We might be fighting with the grown-ups, but we are always fighting for the children, Bolos would always say. Whether they actually believed it, or just spouted it as a public relations soundbite, Randel wasn't sure.
Lillian still hid behind him as they approached, though. Jason tried to show a little bravado by distancing himself a bit. But even he was still intimidated by the enormous war machine that now towered above them.
Technological advance, Randel thought, always seemed to follow a natural progression. New machines always start bulky and crude, needed primarily to get the job done, rather than to do it well. Improvements are made to make it faster, stronger, more agile, even stylish, until the machine finally becomes a work of art, or new technology or requirements forces them to start over. The Bolo Mk XXXIIe was the final phase of Bolo development, a work of art.
Although it had the same basic armament and armor as the Bolo Mk XXXI, this Bolo was sleek and streamlined, with its turrets and sensors conformed smoothly into its enormous hull. Its eight tracks were ten feet wide, with its outer tracks protected from fire by overhanging armor. The dull black hull widened from its low bow and rose on a shallow slope across alternating banks of secondary hellbore batteries and sensor arrays, until it reached the rear where its main turret had a commanding view in all directions, then the hull sloped off sharply. Even for a war machine this size, the designers still tried to give it as low a silhouette as possible, preferring to displace its mass over a wide frame. The result was a sharp, arrowhead shaped body with nearly every weapon capable of traversing the Bolo's forward arc. There was a beauty here that few truly understood.
"This is my son Jason, and this is my daughter Lillian." Randel announced them.
"Are those Hellbores?" Jason asked hesitantly.
The Bolo responded with pride in its voice.
"All Bolo Mark Thirty-twos have one two hundred centimeter hellbore main gun capable of tracking and destroying targets in high orbit. We also have twelve twenty centimeter secondary hellbores and ten vertical-launch, multi-purpose missile racks. Twelve Cyberstar Flux Laser ports provide point defense at all angles of attack."
Randel watched as Jason soaked up this information, soon to be repeated in school no doubt. Lillian still hid behind him.
He bent down to her.
"Ask him a question," he whispered.
Lillian looked up at him, then back at the Bolo, then back up to him. He could tell that she really did want to ask a question. It would be a shame if she couldn't find the courage.
"It's okay."
With a moment more of hesitation, she released his leg and stepped forward a step.
"Why are all Bolos named after boys?"
Randel groaned audibly.
"What is this Concordiat . . . what is a human?" Cheslia asked. Whatever this sentience was, it seemed talkative. "Is it a Uthilian sect?"
Cheslia still suspected some internal coup was in progress. A new Uthilian sentience, either planted ahead of time, or transmitted into the ship from home, was now in charge.
"Humans are a race that inhabit the part of the galactic arm this armada was approaching before I turned it around."
"And you are a sentience that protects them," she finished.
"Yes. I am a fully sentient combat unit assigned to this front."
"How did you enter the Karcath?"
"That is classified."
"What are you? Are you a starbase? A warship?"
"I prefer to keep my form secret."
Another race. Another species. Obviously stronger than the Uthilians. Far superior, it seemed. To reach out over a distance of light-years and overwhelm a ship's nuerocore was a frightening technology to Cheslia. What race could be trusted with such power?
"Are they kind?"
"Some are . . . some are not. By studying what I have found of your own race history, I believe you would consider them very kind as a whole."
"What do they look like?"
"Would you like to see one?"
The monitor that Cheslia was leaning her elbow against suddenly sprang to life. A creature was being shown, speaking in a light, but insistent voice at the camera. It was asking questions, demanding answers. Perhaps it was angry. It was hairless, except for long golden hair that draped down from its head. Bipedal, with smooth features. A sand beach stretched out behind it. Cheslia was considering these creatures small until the camera pulled back to show a much larger, hairier version of the creature watching over it. This was obviously a child speaking.
"What is it saying?"
"All Bolos now are being given male personalities. This girl believes Bolos should be given a choice."
Cheslia snickered. If only her own race was free enough to complain and argue about such mundane matters. She didn't entirely trust what Dallas was showing her, though. This image was obviously a recording that Dallas had dredged out of some databank somewhere. If this child was actually talking to Dallas, it would mean that this combat unit had actually been sunning itself on a beach somewhere. A silly thought.
"But girls can be intimidating, too!"
"No. They're too cute."
Randel just shook his head and smiled. If this argument was recorded, the military would be playing it on every nightly news edition in the Concordiat. A little girl arguing with a Bolo? It's just too damn precious.
Dallas was doing exactly what Randel had hoped it would, as all Bolos were taught to do. It kidded Lillian at times, but still showed unlimited patience with all her questions. Dallas' tone was that of an amused uncle or such. Lillian was almost completely at ease with it now, though she still refused to get any closer. Jason, on the other hand, had asked permission to approach, and now satisfied his curiosity by sliding his fingers over the seamless, duralloy war armor of the Bolo and studying its design.
"Girls are sometimes called Dallas." Lillian continued her discussion.
"There are no girls on Neptaris named Dallas."
"Some are other places, though."
"Very few."
Lillian had her mother's gift for extending an argument far longer than anyone had a right to. She was also learning her mother's politics. A few Bolos actually did have female personalities, but this practice had been quietly phased out for the last several years. All new Bolos coming out now were male personalities, at least until the Melconians were put in their place. Too many incidences were occurring of soldiers and commanders forming too close or complex relationships with Bolos who were trying to better simulate female personalities. Male commanders were overwhelmingly found to be unconsciously more protective to Bolos with female personalities than male. But how do you explain this to a nine-year-old girl? You don't.
"Jason," Randel called, "we should leave now."
"Daaaad!" Lillian turned and whined.
"Can't we swim here in the shade?" Jason asked.
The shadow of the Bolo stretched a full fifty yards out into the cove. Waves were lapping up onto its forward treads as the morning tide slowly came in.
"We shouldn't bother him."
"I don't mind," Dallas responded.
Randel frowned a little at that, then chuckled. Maybe the Bolo was lonely, or bored. Perhaps these Bolos mellowed out the farther they were from the front lines.
"Okay, guys. We can swim here."
Randel thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye as he said that. The white dome on top of the Bolo seemed to flash. When he looked, though, nothing more than the normal soft glow could be seen. Just the sunlight playing tricks on him, he figured.
"My orders have been received."
Cheslia raised her head from the console that she had been resting on. None of her questions seemed to matter much until Dallas heard from his headquarters.
"What do they say?"
"No warships can be spared at this time to escort this armada into Concordiat space, or back into Uthilian space. Due to the violent nature and history of the Uthilian Empire, the opening of diplomatic channels has been rejected until the other threats have been neutralized. For these reasons it has been decided that the armada should be destroyed in such a way that the Uthilian Empire will know that any further incursion will be met with the same fate."
Cheslia sighed. No one cares, she thought.
"Why can't you help us?" Cheslia pleaded. "The Uthilians have enslaved a hundred worlds to build warships for them. They'll just send more. They're evil!"
"The human race is at war and cannot spare the resources for such an undertaking."
"But it was so easy for you! Only you would have to come!"
"The Uthilian Empire will be dealt with in time. They will not enslave your world forever."
Cheslia bowed her head in defeat. All she had ever known was slavemasters and machine sentiences. There was no compassion left in the universe anywhere, she was sure now. She must be a freak, she actually cared.
"They will work our children to their death rebuilding this armada to send against you, and then incinerate our worlds before accepting any defeat. They will never allow slaves freedom. They will destroy them first to protect themselves."
Cheslia could see it plainly before her, the fate of her planet, burned to the ground from orbit. She looked up at the monitor.
"If we strike," the voice said softly, "it will be swift and decisive."
This wasn't very reassuring to Cheslia.
"It would only take a moment to destroy a world," she responded.
The voice was quiet for a time. Soon, Cheslia's personal plight began creeping back into her mind. Even if Dallas allowed her to jump into an escape pod, she was so far away from home that she'd never get back. She was going to die here. Perhaps it was best, though. If she were caught, the Uthilians might learn from her what they should be expecting.
She sighed.
"How will you destroy the armada? Can you cause a main drive overload?"
No response.
"Dallas?"
"My superiors did not specify how I should destroy the armada," Dallas finally told her, "or when."
Cheslia frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"My orders are to destroy this armada in a way that teaches the Uthilians a lesson . . ."
"Yes."
"Would there be any possibility that this armada wouldn't be destroyed if I were to attack the Uthilian Empire with it?"
Cheslia's mind raced. Dallas was outnumbered, but the Uthilian warships were hopelessly scattered throughout the Empire for garrison duty over their slave planets. The Karcath and her sister ships were the newest and largest ever constructed, more than a match in force, or even one-on-one with these lone guardians. This armada could devastate half the Uthilian Fleet before the Emperor ever knew what hit him. Their slow, ponderous warships would never even be able to regroup before they'd be over Uthilis itself!
"Not a chance," she assured him with a smile.
A sensor tickle turned Dallas' attention toward the mouth of the small cove, where a large fin glided silently just under the wavetops. With barely a thought, a long burst of intense, high frequency soundwaves drove the carnivore off. The tide beacon in the cove stayed silent through it all. A repair request was sent off immediately. He would have to stand guard until someone fixed it.
It would be a couple weeks before the armada was out of range of Dallas' touch. In the meanwhile, Dallas began to construct a sentience as close to his own as possible that could carry on with the war when contact was finally broken. Thousands of wargames would have to be waged to teach it all that could be taught. All of it would be for naught, though, if Concordiat Command were to reject his plans. Dallas feared the pain he would have to face if he was ordered to kill Cheslia, and her dreams.
"Are you sure you don't mind us hanging around?"
Sergeant Randel had returned from his exercise and was drying himself off beside his left, forward tracks.
"I don't mind."
Although Dallas' initial analysis had projected a ninety-eight percent chance of success, he would still require approval before proceeding. Trillions of lives were at stake, and Dallas had no right to wage a war without orders to do so. His attack would be without any formal Declaration of War, considered a criminal act to many humans, and Bolos alike. Dallas would have to suggest placing the fleet under Welliat control to avoid the political fallout. Still, if he was ordered to, the armada would explode in hyperspace, while Cheslia slept. It would be better that way.
"You handled Lillian very well," Randel praised him. "She thinks you're just a big softy now. She was scared to death before we came over."
"No human should be afraid of Bolos."
"The only Bolo I ever talked to besides you was Mark Thirty-One named Wellesly. He took over for a time during planetfall on Cirenelles Five when our HQ was taken out. I think he took heat for assuming command like that, though he really knew what he was doing."
Dallas amused himself by calling up Unit WLL's combat record.
"Wellesly was transferred to the 912th Armored. He still serves the forward commands."
"Good for him! Hey, have you heard any news on the 418th, my old unit?"
"Of course . . ."
Priority One. Headquarters Capella. Transfer Bolo MK XXXIIe-CDY. Destination Bolo Mk XXXIIe-DLS. Planet Neptaris. 10.1244p.
Simulations provide no improved scenarios. Threat of Melconians or allied race feeding Uthilian Empire improved technology provides enough cause to turn Uthilian armada over to Welliat control and proceed with DLS Scenario J. Detailed mission parameters will follow.