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A Question of Valor

by Todd Johnson

Excerpt from Bolos: An electronic history of the 4th Dinochrome Brigade

Of course, only one Bolo has every been found guilty of desertion in the face of the enemy. Bolo Cephalus earned that distinction in the defense of Detaloi. The honor and the shame of its historic actions must never be lost from Bolo memory.

Shame—for such is the only reaction to such a heinous crime as desertion.

Honor—for the selfless dedication that Bolo Cephalus displayed in casting all aside in the execution of its orders.

Here is the story as it was learned:

 

ETHERMAIL—GALAXYWIDE

 

CONFIDENTIAL

FOR BOLO DIVISION INTERNAL USE ONLY

FROM: Contracts Department, Legal Division

TO: Field Agent Finaghey

SUBJECT: Claim #43257

* * *

You are assigned to the Detaloi System (GCC 341-22-19-1534) to investigate claims made by the inhabitants that Bolo Cephalus failed to perform to contract.

 

Marsha P. Slotnik

Senior Civil Litigator

 

ETHERMAIL—GALAXYWIDE

 

PERSONAL—MEMO

FROM: M. P. Slotnik

TO: B. K. Finaghey

 

Brian, they claim one of our Bolo Mark XXXIV's turned chicken on them. They say it deserted under fire. It's probably just another crank claim. Check it out, find the perpetrators and report back.

 

Brian Finaghey belonged to a long line of trusted investigators retained by the Bolo Corporation. The report in the ethermail was nothing new to him—it would be the fourth such allegation he'd investigated in the past six assignments. Three had proved hoaxes, the fourth was merely a case of poorly communicated orders—and the contractors were pleased to not only be rid of their enemy but also have a Bolo-made superhighway.

Even so, he approached every new case without bias. He found people much easier to work with that way.

After he locked in the course for Detaloi, Finaghey called on his ship's computer for a data dump on the planet.

 

Detaloi was a rare gem surrounded by a replenishing ring of rare-earth asteroids.

The Detaloi system was mostly standard—Oort cloud, gas giant, comets, smaller interior planets, a decent asteroid belt, and one moderately habitable planet from which the system got its name.

It was also an outpost system—one of the furthest in on the galactic arm, far away from green Earth. Two things made it non-standard—the system was relatively young, and the habitable world was ringed.

Normally, being a ringed world is not an asset in a habitable planet—because asteroids were continuously forced out of orbit to fall on the surface below, producing a very severe planetary rash.

Detaloi was lucky—two large asteroids orbited around a common axis near the planet. Castor and Pollux kept a cordon sanitaire above the planet—and paid for it by receiving a continual barrage of wayward asteroids.

A stellar geologist would have looked at the arrangement and shaken her head sadly, knowing that in a few millions of years the cozy arrangement would come to a very sticky end.

Settlers and miners viewed things in a different light—the light of credits steadily accruing. While cursed Castor and Pollux were constantly bombarded by metal-rich asteroids, green Detaloi lay like a large gem surrounded by a glittering halo of lesser stones.

Detaloi's equator was studded richly with valuable metals—early losers in a stellar game of tag that had been in play for a billion years.

The rest of the planet was an inviting mix of minerals and climate perfect for growing a vast array of rare crops—particularly those that grew best with traces of rare earth metals.

As inviting as it was to the miners and settlers, it was equally inviting to pirates and plunderers. The inhabitants recognized this fact and put a mortgage on their wealth to raise the enormous capital required to acquire a Bolo. Bolo Mark XXXIV Cephalus.

* * *

Finaghey was met at the edge of the Detaloi system by a heavy cruiser. Finaghey identified it as a Hawk class cruiser—two generations out of date militarily, but more than a match for anything in the class of Finaghey's little flitship—and over one hundred times the size.

It was manned by an expensive mercenary group—the Lincoln Inveterates. The Lincolns had a reputation of being good—a reputation made by choosing contracts so that they were always on the winning side.

"What's your business here?" the cruiser's comm officer demanded. He was a young man of Asian ancestry, sporting a thin waxed mustache in the manner of some fictional French detective. His nametag identified him as Yueh.

Finaghey knew that his ship's registry and personal background had already been accessed by the cruiser's personnel. The question was purely for form. "I'm a private detective on assignment from General Motors' Bolo Division."

As he keyed in data on his console, the comm officer said, "You're in for a hot time! Never heard of a Bolo deserting before. Not that we care—makes for better business for us."

Finaghey raised an eyebrow. "What did you hear?"

Yueh frowned, his mustache drooping disapprovingly, "Nothing more than some aliens popped up, landed an assault force and the Bolo took off never to be seen again."

"What happened to the aliens, then?"

"Didn't like the climate or something—they pulled out after their ground force got pulverized." The comm officer checked his readouts and said, "You're cleared through. Contact Detaloi Control on channel 124.6."

 

If anything, the encounter with Detaloi control was more exasperating. Finaghey's vid view of the control center showed a normal, functioning space control center under light load.

The controller answering his hail was a heavyset, dark man, soft from easy living. "Did you bring the money?"

"I'm here to investigate the claim," Finaghey replied.

The controller frowned and said, "Nothing to investigate—all the news had it on 3D. The enemy came and the Bolo turned tail."

"I see," Finaghey replied noncommittally. "Do you have my landing clearance?"

"Yep, you're expected. Land at Iris, it's in the database. So are Flora and Rose but they aren't there anymore—they were levelled by the enemy."

"Who do I contact?"

"Iris Tower on 120.1."

 

Iris Tower acknowledged on the third call. The Tower personnel gave the tersest responses and failed to give Finaghey any warning about the fighter squadron that joined formation with him thirteen kilometers up. The fighters insisted on zig-zagging around him, darting above, below, left, right, forwards and backwards—as if daring a collision.

Iris Ground at 121.9 never responded. Finaghey taxied his ship to the transient parking without permission and with some annoyance. He was met at the door by a security officer and two armed guards.

"You didn't get clearance from Ground," the officer said. "We'll have to impound your ship."

Finaghey thought about arguing, glanced at the white knuckles of the two guards, shrugged. "Just let me power down the ship."

The officer considered denying the request but relented. Finaghey went about the task quickly, only deviating from standard procedures to set up a special messaging beacon.

The fine, the warning from Ground Control, the paperwork took him five hours. As he walked out the door, two Military Police approached him and placed him under arrest.

 

"Protective custody," the Under-Secretary of Security assured Finaghey as he escorted the detective out of the cell the next day. "I'm sorry to say that I was not informed of your arrival immediately—we would like to come to a settlement as soon as possible."

"You got my message, then?"

Under-Secretary Frennell was a heavy, jowly man, seemed to always be in a sweat. He would never meet Finaghey's eyes with his own small brown ones. "You must understand, people died because of your Bolo."

"I want to know everything about it."

Frennell stopped at a branch in the corridor. "Don't you want to eat first? You must be starving."

"No," Finaghey replied, "that's not necessary—I shall instruct our legal office that your claim is valid and to commence reparations immediately."

"What? But you haven't investigated!" The Under-Secretary reluctantly gestured Finaghey away from the smells of the cafeteria.

Finaghey gave the Under-Secretary an "I-know-and-you-know" grin. "I've done enough to establish the validity of your claim. I'm sure that my in-depth investigation won't turn up any discrepancies."

Under-Secretary of Security Frennell heaved a deep sigh of relief and guided Finaghey into his well-appointed office. "We were afraid that you wouldn't believe us."

"I am not the final authority," Finaghey said. He caught Frennell's look and added, "But my word carries some weight with the legal department."

"How much can they afford to pay?" Frenell motioned for the detective to take a seat while settling himself at his massive desk.

"I don't know—we've never had to pay before," Finaghey confessed, taking the proffered seat. "But I will leave the legal and financial matters to headquarters. What I would like to do now is gather more information to understand the conditions that caused the Bolo to take such a reprehensible action. While we may be able to afford this once, we certainly don't want to make a habit of paying for dereliction of duty."

"What about the Bolo reputation?"

"I'm sure that our legal department will attach the usual riders to the payment—'while admitting no wrong-doing, the Bolo Division has agreed to pay the planetary government of Detaloi the sum of'—and so forth," Finaghey replied.

Frennell's eyes had taken a calculating gleam at Finaghey's "the sum of."

"Now," Finaghey continued, interrupting whatever sums had distracted the heavy man, "there's just one thing we request in return—"

"What?"

"Well," Finaghey pursed his lips, "there has never been such a failure in Bolo history—"

"Are you doubting our word?" Frennell demanded, fluffing up his honor.

Finaghey spread his hands placatingly and shook his head. "No, the records are quite clear," Finaghey said. "However, the reactions of this Bolo are so abnormal that our Design Division will want to understand the conditions under which this occurred—to reproduce the environment and make corrections if necessary."

"Hmmph." Frennell's snort was short but eloquent. "I should think so!"

Finaghey nodded agreeably. "Will your government cooperate in our investigations?"

Frennell did not think long before answering, "I don't think that in the current atmosphere it would be a good idea for a horde of your techies to descend upon us."

"Nothing of the sort," Finaghey corrected, "I'll be conducting the investigation myself."

Instead of looking relieved, the Under-Secretary looked more concerned.

"Oh," Frennell said. "Well, I suppose—but we'll have to assign a security detail for your protection. I'm not sure our budget can—"

Finaghey stopped him with an upraised hand. "The Bolo Corporation will gladly recompense your government." He stood up. "Now, I don't want to take more of your time so if you could just direct me to the last site of the Bolo . . ."

 

The officer assigned to escort Finaghey was Goudrie, a Major in the air force. Every morning, he appeared wearing a spotless dress uniform and slick hair. He was escorted by an honest-faced young non-com named Kerwin who appeared every morning in pressed fatigues.

Every day for a week, Finaghey had found ways to get the officer dirty and keep the non-com clean. At first it had been simple but as time progressed it became increasingly complex. Finaghey considered it fair return for the "cooperation" the Detalan government provided—particularly the military.

"Today, I'd like to talk to the contracts officer responsible for the Bolo contract," Finaghey said as he stepped from his ship to the aircar.

Major Goudrie frowned. It was a new tactic for Finaghey. "I'll have to consult with Records," the Major said, detaching a datapad from the dashboard.

"Of course." Finaghey waited patiently in the back seat, watching Goudrie's inputs on the datapad. Ah, he thought as he caught the missing sequence of the Major's security code, that's better.

Goudrie sighed, his search completed.

"I'm afraid that Captain Shirwer was among the casualties in the glorious defense of Flora—" Finaghey caught Kerwin casting a veiled glance at the Major "—where so many innocent lives were lost because of your Bolo."

Here we go again, Finaghey sighed and steeled himself for the eighth recounting of Bolo Cephalus' crime.

"We know that General Crenshaw—" Who's dead. "—ordered your Bolo to stop the enemy that had landed after Air Marshal Fedorov's—" Also dead. "—air/space forces valiantly expended themselves—" Ineffectively, vainly. "—against the enemy's landing ships," Goudrie paused dramatically for breath.

"Those orders," he continued, "were witnessed by Chief of Staff Gestotkyn—" again, dead "—countersigned by Adjutant Captain Meyers—" dead "—and stored with Captain Shirwer's mobile records platoon which was—" wiped out, Finaghey guessed "—wiped out in the defense of Flora."

"Truly a tragedy," Finaghey agreed as solemnly as he had the other eight times.

"I am sorry that you were grieved by the death of so many fellow officers," he added. "Your tone makes me wonder, Major, did you lose any relatives?"

Major Goudrie choked suddenly, face red. Sergeant Kerwin cast a wide-eyed glance as the Major made a reassuring gesture.

"No, Mr. Finaghey, I did not lose any relatives," he said at length, "but Sergeant Kerwin, here . . ."

Finaghey raised an eyebrow but said respectfully, "Sergeant, I am truly sorry. No one close, I hope?"

Kerwin passed a hand over his face when Goudrie answered, "His mother."

"A tragedy," Finaghey repeated. "One that must never recur." He fell respectfully silent.

Kerwin stirred uneasily in the driver's seat. "Where to, sir?"

Goudrie turned inquiringly back to Finaghey. Finaghey already had his answer, "Back to the valley, Major. I'd like to follow a vector from the last reported positions of the Bolo."

Kerwin sighed, Goudrie frowned. They had done this several times before—without results.

"I'd like to tie it in with the battle command data links, if possible," Finaghey said.

"Mr. Finaghey," Goudrie said with restraint, "I've already told you that the battle command data was lost when Army HQ was destroyed at Rose."

"But you also said that your milsat was not blasted out of orbit until after Rose fell," Finaghey replied.

Goudrie failed to grasp the significance, "So?"

"So your central headquarters here received a complete relay of all the battle command data," Finaghey answered.

Goudrie looked surprised but recovered quickly, drawing breath to speak. Finaghey beat him to it, "Your milsat is a Bolo milsat, of course. That's how I know that all data was relayed."

Goudrie's jaw went slack.

Finaghey ignored it, continuing cheerfully, "It'll be excellent to see how your generals arrayed their forces in the defense of your planet."

 

The valley where the aliens had landed was rectangular in shape, being roughly eighty kilometers by fifty kilometers. A long sinuous silty river flowed diagonally from one far end to the other and from there across a wide plain to the sea. The mountains were young and rich in minerals, the valley and the seaward plains were fertile.

The valley was strategically placed on the east coast of the large northern continent. Seaward lay the large city of Rose; some one hundred kilometers north of the valley was the fertile farming plain of Nomet, and the market center, Flora. Several hundred kilometers inland, bracketed to the north by large freshwater lakes was the thriving city of Iris.

By making their base in Charmed Valley—as it was called—the aliens had positioned themselves to dominate two of the three major northern cities and be within easy striking distance of the third, while setting themselves in a camp protected from air strikes by the surrounding mountains. All aerial attacks would have to rise up from the plains into easy view of air defense radar.

It was also, Finaghey realized, not a good place to be stuck in—if the aliens had lost their spacecraft and airpower, they would have been completely annihilated.

 

"I would have thought that you already had seen enough of the valley," Major Goudrie remarked as they banked through the pass from the west.

Charmed Valley was ground that they'd been over several times before as Finaghey collected his information—neither Goudrie nor Kerwin were thrilled at the prospect of a return to that hot, dry and, now, barren valley.

Finaghey made another intense scan of the terrain spreading out below the aircar before replying, "Actually this valley intrigues me mightily.

"The mountains are quite impressive, giving the whole place a rugged majesty," Finaghey gestured from the nearer mountain range beneath them to the far one opposite them. "Yet the mountains make temperature inversions practically inevitable. The air here would be awful if pollutants were steadily driven off by the sea breeze."

Goudrie snorted. "Until the aliens came the place was only farmland."

Finaghey ignored his comment, pointing to a spot immediately below them. "Sergeant, I'd like to land there, if possible."

Sergeant Kerwin banked the aircar into a spiral before glancing sheepishly to Major Goudrie for permission. Goudrie gave him an irritated frown then glanced away feigning interest in the view outside.

 

They landed at the foot of the mountains, right beside the western pass. Finaghey consulted his milsat positioning receiver briefly, paced off a certain distance and crouched, carefully examining the ground all around him.

Kerwin and Goudrie exchanged glances but did not approach the offworlder, respecting his intent expression.

Finally Finaghey glanced up, "Major, you say this was where the enemy's main Command Post was located? Here, at the base of this pass?"

Major Goudrie shrugged, "That's what Army Intelligence said."

"Hmm." Finaghey walked off a few steps and crouched again, searching the ground. Something caught his attention which he scooped into his pocket before the two Detalans could identify it. He smiled at them boyishly, explaining, "I always get excited to find some old war flotsam."

Finaghey stood up again and strode briskly back over to them. He pointed to the far side of the valley, "The Bolo was last seen heading towards that pass?"

"Coming from the east, of course," Goudrie agreed testily—they'd spent the whole first day going over the eastern approaches and the Bolo's last reported position.

"And it turned aside when peppered with a couple of lightweight guided missiles," Finaghey said, repeating as fact the Detalan military reports. He pointed across the valley. "I'd like to go there, Major."

 

The eastern side of the valley was not much different from the western side. At the eastern pass, while the mountains rose less steeply than the eastern side, they made up their height by being deeper from west to east. But the eastern pass was a gentler slope than the western slope, making it less defensible except for the several switchbacks along the way.

A few well-placed guided missile nets were all that was required to secure that pass from infiltration.

"Your army cleared up this area?" Finaghey asked as he paused halfway in his unannounced hike to the crest of the pass.

"Of course," the Major responded. "We needed to be sure that the area was safe for civilians."

"Not that I am so convinced of the operation that I would have recommended taking this walk if you had suggested it to me." He blandly swept the sweat accrued in fifteen minutes of brisk walking from his brow.

"With both Rose and Flora destroyed I am surprised that your government would see any need for marginal land like this," Finaghey commented. "After all, Iris is a better location for a sustained expansion. The robot ore ships can sail up from the equator through that sea channel right into the smelters while the surrounding plains provide all your agricultural needs."

Goudrie nodded in agreement.

"Flora and Rose were earlier settlements," Kerwin said. "And the climate down south is nicer in winter."

"So these two cities were just the sites of summer vacation spots?"

"I wouldn't quite say that, detective," Major Goudrie chimed in suddenly. "Both Flora and Rose were vital parts of our planet's economy and home to a sizeable part of our population."

"Well, I'm sure you've got your pick of immigrants to replace their loss," the off-world detective commented. Goudrie and Kerwin exchanged troubled glances. "No? News of the aliens have scared people off?"

"It's too early to say," Major Goudrie replied with a thoughtful frown.

"And there's the debt you've got with all that mercenary help guarding your system," Finaghey continued to himself. "That much red ink must be hard to explain. How low can your population get before it's no longer self-sustaining?"

Major Goudrie shifted nervously but Finaghey kept at it, "And what about your economy? This invasion must have been quite a blow not only to your pocketbook but also to your ability to generate revenue—is your workforce too small to pay your bills?"

"Nonsense!" Goudrie exclaimed. "Our economy is sound as any other."

Finaghey shook himself, gave the Major an apologetic look and said, "Of course it is. Even if it wasn't, our settlement will soon put that to rights."

He pointed to the crest, saying, "I see we're almost there. Excellent. The view should be rewarding."

 

Finaghey was right—the view was most rewarding. The hike up to the crest had been along an unremarkable paved road—suitable for heavy hauling but not at speed. As they crested, they could make out a vast sprawling city nestled between the mountains and the shoreline. Rose.

Major Goudrie motioned for them to halt, turning to Sergeant Kerwin, "What are the radiation readings, Sergeant?"

Sergeant Kerwin unslung the omni-analyzer from his shoulder and scanned towards the horizon. "We can stay here for three hours, sir."

Goudrie frowned with a troubled look. "Given our previous exposure this week, I should like to limit our time here to no more than thirty minutes."

"That's perfectly all right with me," Finaghey agreed, searching through his shoulder bag. "All I want to do is plant this one transceiver—"

"Why didn't you do that the other day back where the Bolo was last seen?" Goudrie demanded.

"Because I wanted to get to higher ground, Major," the detective replied, pulling a fist-sized object. The top was hemispherical, the bottom pointed—like a spike. Finaghey searched about, found an outcropping of rock and placed the spike-like transceiver on the ground, propped upright in a crevice.

"And also on solid rock—" he pressed the activation stud at the top and the transceiver fused itself into the crevice like a hard-hammered piton, leaving only the hemispherical top "—which conducts better."

Goudrie was puzzled, "Why on earth would you want to do that?"

"Sound waves." Sergeant Kerwin guessed.

"Precisely," detective Finaghey replied. Secretly, he resolved his suspicion that Sergeant Kerwin really was an Intelligence operative. As Major Goudrie apparently had no inkling of intelligence, military or otherwise, Finaghey explained, "It's an outside possibility that those guided missiles damaged the Bolo's communications circuitry. However it has receptors which enable it to pick up extremely-low frequency transmissions—and those are mounted internally in the hull."

"So you'll transmit an ELF sequence for the Bolo to report in," Goudrie guessed, "how long will that take?"

"As the request is simple, the code is simple," Finaghey said. "But given the transmission rates of ELF through rock, it will take quite some time for the message to radiate outward—say about a kilometer a minute, depending upon the thickness of the rock."

Sergeant Kerwin looked thoughtful. Finaghey guessed what he was thinking—that the Bolo should respond within the next day.

Major Goudrie made his calculations based on their radiation exposure, "I'm sure that if the Bolo was within thirty kilometers of this location we would have found it by now—"

"Any response will be received by my ship's ELF equipment," Finaghey said without acknowledging the Major's remark, moving back to the roadway. "We can leave now."

 

They were just entering the aircar when the P-wave of the earthquake hit. The earth rumbled and bucked underneath them. Major Goudrie pushed Finaghey into the back seat, dove in and shouted to Kerwin who was moving just as fast, "Get us out of here!"

Finaghey watched with growing horror as a line of dust arrowed towards them from the pass, punctuated here and there by toppling trees.

The heavier S-wave caught them before Kerwin could get the jet engine revved up fast enough for take-off. The aircar was tossed up into the air, landing with a bone-shattering jar.

"Stop it, stop it, stop it!" Major Goudrie shouted, slamming a fist against the dash in time with his shouts.

The quake paid him no heed. The aircar crashed against a boulder with a loud crunch. The roar of the aircar's jet changed to a high-pitched grinding noise.

"Oil line's gone," Kerwin yelled over the cacophony of noises, "I'm shutting down!"

"No," Goudrie shouted, "get us out of here!"

"We can't get far," the sergeant replied as his fingers moved to obey the orders and force the aircar to lurch upwards, the squeal of its engine rising in pitch and volume, nearly drowning out the bass rumble of the tormented valley.

Goudrie hadn't heard Kerwin, instead grabbing the microphone and punching up the emergency frequency on the radio. "Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! Aircar THX 1984 in Charmed Valley."

"THX 1984, this is Iris Tower. Telemetry indicates three souls on board, say intentions," a distant voice replied calmly.

Buoyed by the ephemeral contact, Major Goudrie gripped the mike tighter, took a breath and responded just as calmly, "This is THX 1984. We need to get as far as possible from the epicenter of this quake—"

"1984 did you say quake, over?" Tower shot back.

"Roger. I estimate magnitude eight or higher."

"Scanning . . . got it! Milsat reports a magnitude eight point three, with ground movements up to three meters at the epicenter. Activity is . . ." the controller's voice trailed off.

The aircar bucked as the jet engine coughed once, twice. Sergeant Kerwin shot the Major a horrified look.

"Control!" Major Goudrie called.

"Roger," the controller responded, "the activity is trailing off."

"We're going down!" Kerwin shouted, his voice suddenly loud against the jet engine as it gave one final squeal of distress and seized up solidly.

"Roger, rescue craft are—" the controller's transmission stopped.

Major Goudrie could only stare at the handset in horror.

Sergeant Kerwin fought the controls as he searched for enough ground to land the tortured machine.

Detective Finaghey scanned the ground beneath them, his legs and arms braced in the crash position. He did not doubt that they would land safely, having enough experience of Sergeant Kerwin's skills. What worried him was Iris Tower's sudden silence and the quaking ground beneath them.

 

Earthquakes were a phenomenon found on all planets worth inhabiting. For a planet to have an atmosphere, it seemed that it must also have a molten core. That meant tectonic plates and that meant earthquakes.

The magnitude of an earthquake depended upon the amount of energy coiled up in the frustrated earth—vented in one sudden movement as tectonic plates slid over each other. Above a certain level—somewhere above magnitude five—the magnitude of a quake no longer reflected the amount of the earth's motion but the duration of that motion.

Worse, the motion could be centralized about one small point on the plate or it could involve hundreds of kilometers all tearing and shifting at once.

Brian Finaghey knew that theoretically but had never experienced the effect firsthand. It was awesome, it was deadly—and they were going back to it.

"Where should I land, sir?" Sergeant Kerwin asked the major.

"Huh?" Major Goudrie looked at him blankly.

The sergeant tried a different tact. "How big is it? How long's the tear?"

"Tower's not answering," Goudrie replied, waving the mike as evidence.

"What do you mean, how big's the tear?" Finaghey asked.

Sergeant Kerwin banked the aircar and lined up with the flattest ground he could see. "The magnitude of a quake is the same along the length of the fault line and for a distance equal to it. If it's a small tear, then we could land on less quaky ground."

"If the quake was big enough, would it affect Iris Tower?" Finaghey asked the major.

Major Goudrie did not respond. Finaghey tapped him gently on the shoulder. Goudrie started and turned to stare at the detective.

"Could this affect the Tower?"

"Yes!" Goudrie's eyes were full of terror.

"Major, we're landing!" Sergeant Kerwin yelled.

The major turned back and braced himself just as the aircar slammed onto the ground. It porpoised up and settled again onto its belly, skidding across the soil with a mixture of metallic screams and hot dust. It lurched once as it encountered a rock, slid another ten meters and stopped.

In the silence that fell, they could hear the radio, "THX 1984, please respond. Rescue craft are on their way—estimated arrival time forty minutes."

"That's bloody fast!" Major Goudrie exclaimed. Then he groaned and rubbed the back of his neck to relieve the tension.

"My flitship, I suspect," Finaghey responded. The two military men turned back to him. "It's under orders to protect me in such circumstances."

Sergeant Kerwin raised an eyebrow. "See many earthquakes, detective?"

Brian shook his head. "No, this is my first. But in my line of work—"

The ground shook underneath them.

"My god! An aftershock." Goudrie exclaimed. "Kerwin, get that door open. Let's get out of here!"

"Wouldn't we be safer here?" Finaghey asked.

"No, not at all!" Goudrie replied, pushing against his door frame.

Outside the air was thick with dust. Underneath them the ground bucked and weaved with the movement of the earth's crust.

"Find a flat spot and lie down!" Goudrie ordered. "You're safest on the ground."

Sergeant Kerwin had already flung himself down and was staring up into the sky, searching for Finaghey's flitship. Finaghey joined him and lay there for the next forty minutes until his ship arrived.

* * *

Two hours later, detective Finaghey escorted the two Detalans out of his flitship and onto the hard concrete of Iris spaceport. Hard, cracked concrete. Iris Tower in the distance had split, the top falling to the side, leaving a jagged tooth sticking in the air.

In the distance, distant fires were matched with the sounds of distant fire engines racing from one disaster to the next. The spaceport itself was dabbed with pockets of light from harsh nightlights.

Spacecraft lay at the center of most lights—toppled, cracked, in various states of destruction.

Brian Finaghey viewed the scene with narrowing eyes. "How long have these earthquakes been going on?"

Goudrie was silent for a moment, then shrugged. "There've always been earthquakes."

"No there haven't," Finaghey said. "There haven't or you wouldn't have billions of credits lying in ruin here on the ground. How long have they been happening?"

Major Goudrie took breath to reply, but changed his mind. His shoulders slumped and he turned away from the detective. "I have to go report in."

Finaghey pursed his lips, nodded. To the sergeant he said, "Sorry about your uniform."

It was torn and bloody, a ragged remnant of the uniform it had been in the morning.

"Nothing money can't fix."

"Major," Finaghey called. "I won't be needing your services in the morning, if that will help the situation."

Major Goudrie turned back to say, "I had figured that, detective."

As the two soldiers faded into the darkness, Brian Finaghey turned back to his ship muttering, "I've got some heavy thinking to do."

 

In fact, Finaghey required none of their service for the next three days. In that time the city of Iris did its best to recover from the magnitude 9.4 quake that had ripped along a two hundred and fifty kilometer fracture zone on the eastern seaboard.

As Finaghey found out from his reading and the local news, earthquakes diminish in strength only at distances greater than the length of the fault line—so Iris had had to contend with ground movements equivalent to a local magnitude 7.5 earthquake.

It was not long before sights that detective Finaghey had associated with battle were associated also with earthquakes. And less time before Finaghey found out how often Iris had previously had to contend with large quakes.

It took no time at all, with the Major's security codes, to break into the Detalan Department of Defense and gain access to all the data needed for his computer to produce an animated replay of all the earthquakes along the eastern seaboard.

It took slightly less time to break into the command and control of the Bolo milsat which was, understandably, most cooperative.

On the morning of the fourth day, detective Brian Finaghey requested a meeting with the President and the Secretary of Defense.

 

He was met at his door by Major Goudrie and Sergeant Kerwin.

"We're here to escort you to your appointment, sir," Major Goudrie explained as they drove downtown. "City center is a bit of a mess as you must know."

"Yes, I've been keeping up with the 3D," Brian replied with a grimace. "I'm sorry about that."

The major nodded agreeably but Sergeant Kerwin gave him a searching look.

 

Detaloi's President lived in a modest skyscraper that doubled as Iris' City Hall and local museum—rather, it used to. The building had not taken the last quake any better than the other two and aftershocks had further weakened the structure. However, it was safe enough and remained the best place to house the Detalan government.

The President met them in the war bunker—the safest place in the building. President Keems was a warm, friendly, affable person with a ready smile but a no-nonsense grasp.

"Well, Mr. Finaghey, what can I do for you?" Keems asked as he pumped Finaghey's hand out in the lobby. He was surrounded by aides who successfully looked busy and resentful of Finaghey's intrusion.

"Tom here—" he gestured to a man in a plain dark suit whom Finaghey took to be the Secretary of Defense "—tells me you wanted to talk about something. I hope it won't take long."

"I'm afraid it will," Finaghey said. "May we sit down?" He looked around for a chair.

Keems took a flustered breath, let it out again loudly to cover his irritation. And, seeing that Finaghey had not backed down, turned to his aide, "Gary, get me ten minutes on the schedule now."

"Yes, sir."

"Right this way, Mr. Finaghey," the President said, gesturing towards the large double doors.

 

Safely inside the office, the President turned to Finaghey and said, "Are you stopping the check?"

"Pardon me?"

"I asked if you're stopping the check. 'Cause if you are, I've got to make calls right now." Keems made ready to rush out.

Brian Finaghey shook his head. "No, that won't be necessary."

Keems rubbed his chin, glancing sharply at Major Goudrie, "The Major there told me that you'd tumbled on to us."

"He was right," Finaghey agreed. Major Goudrie looked both relieved and unhappy at the same time.

"Well I'm glad, because if he hadn't my comment sure as hell had—didn't it?" The President shook his head ruefully. "I just knew it wouldn't work. That Bolo of yours was clever!"

He gave Finaghey a measuring look. "And so are you, Mr. Finaghey. How much do you want?"

Finaghey snorted. "Before I tell you my price, I want you to clear up a few things for me."

The President nodded. "Fire away."

"What were the Bolo's exact orders?"

Keems shrugged. "We have no idea. The general in charge died not long afterwards."

"Kill the guards and their guards, too?" Finaghey suggested.

The Secretary of Defense leapt to his feet. "See here! You've no call to say that! Good men died—"

"Tom, it's all right," the President said, raising a hand reassuringly. "Mr. Finaghey knows that."

"Yes, I do," Finaghey agreed. "Bolo Intelligence Corps will want to sign an investigatory contract with you to get every piece of military gear you cleaned out of Charmed Valley."

Major Goudrie frowned. "How did you know they were aliens?"

"There were several clues," Finaghey replied. "The first of which was this—" He fished something out of his trouser pocket and threw it on the President's desk.

"A cigarette butt!" Keems shot a hot look towards the Secretary of Defense.

"Not many civilized people smoke anymore," Finaghey went on. "Your records indicate no tobacco crops grown nor any tobacco imported. So the cigarette must have come in from off-planet."

"Aliens who smoke?" Kerwin muttered to himself.

"No, not aliens—the Lincoln Inveterates," Finaghey corrected.

"Begging your pardon, detective, but why didn't that point straight to a scam?" Sergeant Kerwin asked.

"For a number of reasons," Brian ticked items off on his fingers, "one—the Inveterates have been around the block, they'd never be so sloppy if they were trying to pull a scam.

"But they wouldn't be quite so meticulous if they were cleaning up a real battlefield, and two—the Inveterates are honorable, they would never try to pull such a scam—but clearing up a battlefield for financial gain is not beyond them, particularly as they would have cataloged everything before handing it over to you."

The Secretary of Defense let out a groan.

Finaghey grinned, "So you lost one customer—that's not such a big deal. You can charge not just for the hardware but for the know-how you gained in defeating the aliens."

The President's face looked pained.

Finaghey raised his eyebrows. "How did you defeat them?"

"The quake destroyed most of their equipment on the ground," Major Goudrie said to fill the silence that followed Finaghey's question. "We mopped up the rest, mostly by nuking Flora and Rose."

"But it didn't matter anyway because you'd already evacuated both cities," Finaghey said.

"Yes, on the Bolo's recommendation."

"It must have been timed to the split second or the aliens' fission dampers would have kept your nukes from detonating," Finaghey decided. "Did you identify any of them in the rubble, by the way?"

"Fission dampers?" Keems repeated, looking from Goudrie to Frennell.

"Of course, or they would have nuked your cities out of existence."

Sergeant Kerwin meanwhile had been silently talking things over with himself and now asked, "How could the Bolo know about the earthquake?"

"It created it, of course," Finaghey replied. He looked up at Major Goudrie. "Think about it—you pulled all your forces back, clearly signalling to the aliens that you were about to unleash your greatest weapon, it moves up, the aliens fire a few testing shots and the weapon retreats!"

"They must have been convinced they could defeat us!"

"So they come pouring out of both passes, out to your cities, leaving their supplies barely guarded and their command center dangerously exposed—to attack from below."

Keems got it first. "The Bolo turned away, bore into the ground and down to the fault planes—"

"Where it proceeded to set off a continuous major magnitude quake. The shaking toppled anything standing and threw up so much dust that their fission damper shorted out—at which point it detonated your two nukes to knock out their spearheads."

"Casualties were very high mopping up," Major Goudrie pointed out. "It was touch and go."

"Particularly because your military was mostly militia," Finaghey agreed. The group looked startled. Finaghey explained, "It would have been difficult to hide such a difference with your old records but most of them were destroyed with the alien invasion—it took nothing for you to recreate records which showed an established standing army.

"But that doesn't match up with your economic reality," Finaghey told them. "You've got a mining world with good farmland. You were self-sustaining and capable of building up a steady surplus—no one would ever be out of work. But your surplus could not support both economic growth and a standing army—there's not enough money around to spend to keep people standing ready and there's too much work to be done."

"Which is why we bought your Bolo," Frennell pointed out.

"Which was another clue that you had more work than people."

"Yes, that was true," the President agreed, "but not any more."

Finaghey laughed. "And that brings me to the final and biggest clue—your economy.

"Detaloi is mineral rich—but the best concentrations of minerals are deep in the crust, pounded in over millions of years," Finaghey told them. "Farmlands are lush but farming has always been labor intensive."

"When the aliens came, you knew that just to survive you would have to squander the Bolo and surplus capital, that you'd have to leave mines empty, fields untilled while your people fought," he continued.

"And that you'd lose valuable people and resources. The war, win or lose, was going to cost you money you didn't have."

"We knew that," the President replied testily.

"But only when the crisis was upon you—or you would have set aside resources to map the nearby star systems," the detective countered. He raised a placating hand to forestall further argument. "That's beside the point, however."

"What is your point, then?"

"My point is that the Bolo could easily deduce all this, too," Finaghey answered. "And that it also could reason that if found guilty of desertion in the face of the enemy, the Bolo Corporation would have to make reparations."

"And find out how it happened," Major Goudrie observed.

The detective inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"But we've told you that everyone who heard those orders is dead," President Keems said. "So are you going to turn off the spigot or what?"

"No," Finaghey said. "My recommendation will be to make full and just reparation in the form of assistance and scientific investigation contracts."

"You mean for the alien stuff?" Frennell asked.

"That will be part of it but your most lucrative contract will doubtless come from the seismic activity you've been experiencing," Finaghey replied. The Detalans waited expectantly. "You see, Mr. President, not everyone who heard those orders is dead."

"The Bolo told you?" Goudrie exclaimed.

"No, it would not tell me," the detective replied with a shake of his head. "But I did manage to talk with it."

"So you figured out what the orders were indirectly," President Keems guessed.

Finaghey nodded. "The effect of the orders, however, is what intrigues me. The Bolo analyzed its orders, weighed them up against its programming, the environment it was operating in and produced a brilliant solution to the problem."

"But it ran!" Sergeant Kerwin objected.

"No. It chose an indirect approach to solve its problems," the detective corrected him. "You see, there are a number of rules governing the functioning of a Bolo brain—to obey lawful orders, to maintain battle readiness at all times, to value life, to act honorably. The Bolo weighed its situation against those rules and did something quite unique—it broke one of them."

"To act honorably," Major Goudrie guessed.

Detective Finaghey sighed. "And there you have it."

"What about that seismic contract?" President Keems asked.

"Well, the Bolo can communicate via the ELF network and is currently mapping your eastern tectonic plate, making repairs at the same time—"

"Repairs!" Frennell exclaimed.

"Yes." Finaghey said, "Apparently your plates are in danger of producing a near continuous series of magnitude seven quakes along fracture lines extending hundreds of kilometers.

"The Bolo is relieving the strain and smoothing the transition of the two plates. It estimates that with another four to five magnitude nine quakes it will have alleviated the problem for several millennia."

"Why would it do that?" Keems wondered.

"Perhaps in atonement," Finaghey said, "or maybe to protect you."

"So that's that, eh?" Frennell asked petulantly. "You're going to go your way, pay up and let it be said that a Bolo turned chicken."

"No, no one is going to say that—ever," Brian replied hotly. "In fact, that'll be the quickest way to see those payments stop. And I'm sure you'll take care of the Lincoln Inveterates, too. In fact, considering their average age, I don't doubt that you've worked out some sort of settlement deal with them—isn't that right Sergeant Kerwin?"

The Sergeant's honest face took on a hooded look for a moment, then he nodded. "Sergeant Kerwin, Military Government Liaison Chief," he said by way of introduction.

Finaghey nodded. "I know."

He turned back to Frennell. "As for the rest, yes we'll keep our side and you'll keep yours. Your economy will not survive without our help."'

"He's right, Tom," the President said. "It's better that the truth comes out."

A light gleamed in Finaghey's eyes, "Confession is good for the soul."

"You'll work on the Bolo's problem?" Keems wondered.

Finaghey laughed. "We'll fix its honesty discriminators."

* * *

As his flitship warped out-system and back to base, Brian Finaghey completed his report:

Confession is good for the soul, right. What you don't know won't hurt you. Right now the Detalans don't need to know that the plates of their planet are overly active and will continue to generate large earthquakes for decades. Nor do they need to know that Bolo Cephalus did not break the rule to act honorably but rather the rule to maintain itself combat ready. Cephalus has opened the door for a whole new realm of Bolo activities—extreme environment investigations.

Discretion is the better part of valor. Cephalus knew that when it "deserted" in the face of the enemy. It managed brilliantly to follow the best orders Finaghey had ever heard—"Protect my people."

 

 

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