by Keith Laumer
"We've never tried to make a secret of it," Tove said. "But we haven't advertised it, either."
"It really isn't much," Bo Bergman said. "Not a mutant ability, our scholars say. Rather, it's a skill we've stumbled on, a closer empathy. We are few, and far from the old home world. We've had to learn to break down the walls we had built around our minds."
"Can you read the Soetti?" Retief asked.
Tove shook his head. "They're very different from us. It's painful to touch their minds. We can only sense the subvocalized thoughts of a human mind."
"We've seen very few of the Soetti," Bo Bergman said. "Their ships have landed and taken on stores. They say little to us, but we've felt their contempt. They envy us our worlds. They come from a cold land."
"Anne-Marie says you have a plan of defense," Relief said. "A sort of suicide squadron idea, followed by guerilla warfare."
"It's the best we can devise, Retief. If there aren't too many of them, it might work."
Retief shook his head. "It might delay matters-but not much."
"Perhaps. But our remote control equipment is excellent. And we have plenty of ships, albeit unarmed. And our people know how to live on the slopes-and how to shoot."
"There are too many of them, Tove," Retief said. "They breed like flies and, according to some sources, they mature in a matter of months. They've been feeling their way into the sector for years now. Set up outposts on a thousand or so minor planets-cold ones, the kind they like. They want your worlds because they need living space."
"At least, your warning makes it possible for us to muster some show of force, Retief," Bo Bergman said. "That is better than death by ambush."
"Retief must not be trapped here," Anne-Marie said. "His small boat is useless now. He must have a ship."
"Of course," Tove said. "And-"
"My mission here-" Retief said.
"Retief," a voice called. "A message for you. The operator has phoned up a gram."
Retief unfolded the slip of paper. It was short, in verbal code, and signed by Magnan.
"You are recalled herewith," he read. "Assignment canceled. Agreement concluded with Soetti relinquishing all claims so-called Jorgensen system. Utmost importance that under no repeat no circumstances classified intelligence regarding Soetti be divulged to locals. Advise you depart instanter. Soetti occupation imminent."
Retief looked thoughtfully at the scrap of paper, then crumpled it and dropped it on the floor. He turned to Bo Bergman, took a tiny reel of tape from his pocket.
"This contains information," he said. "The Soetti attack plan, a defensive plan, instructions for the conversion of a standard antiacceleration unit into a potent weapon. If you have a screen handy, we'd better get started. We have about seventy-two hours."
In the Briefing Room at Svea Tower, Tove snapped off the projector.
"Our plan would have been worthless against that," he said. "We assumed they'd make their strike from a standard in-line formation. This scheme of hitting all our settlements simultaneously, in a random order from all points-we'd have been helpless."
"It's perfect for this defensive plan," Bo Bergman said. "Assuming this antiac trick works."
"It works," Retief said. "I hope you've got plenty of heavy power lead available."
"We export copper," Tove said.
"We'll assign about two hundred vessels to each settlement. Linked up, they should throw up quite a field."
"It ought to be effective up to about fifteen miles, I'd estimate," Tove said. "If it works as it's supposed to."
A red light flashed on the communications panel. Tove went to it, flipped a key.
"Tower, Tove here," he said.
"I've got a ship on the scope, Tove," a voice said. "There's nothing scheduled. ACI 228 bypassed at 1600…"
"Just one?"
"A lone ship, coming in on a bearing of 291/456/653. On manual, I'd say."
"How does this track key in with the idea of ACI 228 making a manual correction for a missed automatic approach?" Retief asked.
Tove talked to the tower, got a reply.
"That's it," he said.
"How long before he touches down?"
Tove glanced at the lighted chart. "Perhaps eight minutes."
"Any guns here?"
Tove shook his head.
"If that's old two-twenty-eight, she ain't got but the one fifty-mm rifle," Chip said. "She cain't figure on jumpin' the whole planet."
"Hard to say what she figures on," Retief said. "Mr. Tony will be in a mood for drastic measures."
"I wonder what kind o' deal the skunks got with the Sweaties." Chip said. "Prob'ly he gits to scavenge, after the Sweaties kill off the Jorgensens."
"He's upset about our leaving him without saying good-bye, Chip," Retief said. "And you left the door hanging open, too."
Chip cackled. "Old Mr. Tony didn't look so good to the Sweaties now, hey, mister?"
Retief turned to Bo Bergman.
"Chip's right," he said. "A Soetti died on the ship, and a tourist got through the cordon. Tony's out to redeem himself."
"He's on final now," the tower operator said. "Still no contact."
"We'll know soon enough what he has in mind," Tove said.
"Let's take a look."
Outside, the four men watched the point of fire grow, evolve into a ship ponderously settling to rest.
The drive faded and cut; silence fell.
Inside the Briefing Room, the speaker called out. Bo Bergman went inside, talked to the tower, motioned to the others.
"-over to you," the speaker was saying. There was a crackling moment of silence; then another voice.
"-illegal entry. Send the two of them out. I'll see to it they're dealt with."
Tove flipped a key. "Switch me direct to the ship," he said.
"Right."
"You on ACI two-twenty-eight," Tove said. "Who are you?"
"What's that to you?"
"You weren't cleared to berth here. Do you have an emergency aboard?"
"Never mind that, you," the speaker rumbled. "I tracked the bird in. I got the lifeboat on the screen now. They haven't gone far in nine hours. Let's have 'em."
"You're wasting your time," Tove said.
There was a momentary silence.
"You think so, hah?" the speaker blared. "I'll put it to you straight. I see two guys on their way out in one minute, or I open up."
"He's bluffin'," Chip said. "The popgun won't bear on us."
"Take a look out the window," Retief said.
In the white glare of the moonlight, a loading cover swung open at the stern of the ship, dropped down and formed a sloping ramp. A squat and massive shape appeared in the opening, trundled down onto the snow-swept tarmac.
Chip whistled. "I told you the Captain was slippery," he muttered. "Where the devil'd he git that at?"
"What is it?" Tove asked.
"A tank," Retief said. "A museum piece, by the look of it."
"I'll say," Chip said. "That's a Bolo Resartus, Model M. Built mebbe two hunderd years ago in Concordiat times. Packs a wallop, too, I'll tell ye."
The tank wheeled, brought a gun muzzle to bear in the base of the tower.
"Send 'em out," the speaker growled. "Or I blast 'em out."
"One round in here, and I've had a wasted trip," Retief said. "I'd better go out."
"Wait a minute, mister," Chip said, "I got the glimmerin's of an idear."
"I'll stall them," Tove said. He keyed the mike.
"ACI two-twenty-eight, what's your authority for this demand?"
"I know that machine," Chip said. "My hobby, old-time fightin' machines. Built a model of a Resartus once, inch to the foot. A beauty. Now, lessee…"
7
The icy wind blew snow crystals stingingly against Retief's face.
"Keep your hands in your pockets, Chip," he said. "Numb hands won't hack the program."
"Yeah." Chip looked across at the tank. "Useta think that was a perty
thing, that Resartus," he said. "Looks mean, now."
"You're getting the target's-eye view," Retief said. "Sorry you had to get mixed up in this, old timer."
"Mixed myself in. Durn good thing, too." Chip sighed. "I like these folks," he said. "Them boys didn't like lettin' us come out here, but I'll give ' em credit. They seen it had to be this way, and they didn't set to moanin' about it."
"They're tough people, Chip."
"Funny how it sneaks up on you, ain't it, mister? Few minutes ago we was eatin' high on the hog. Now we're right close to bein' dead men."
"They want us alive, Chip."
"It'll be a hairy deal, mister," Chip said. "But t'hell with it. If it works, if works."
"That's the spirit."
"I hope I got them fields o' fire right-"
"Don't worry. I'll bet a barrel of beer we make it."
"We'll find out in about ten seconds," Chip said.
As they reached the tank, the two men broke stride and jumped. Retief leaped for the gun barrel, swung up astride it, ripped off the fur-lined leather cap he wore and, leaning forward, jammed it into the bore of the cannon. The chef sprang for a perch above the fore scanner antenna. With an angry whuff! antipersonnel charges slammed from apertures low on the sides of the vehicle. Retief swung around, pulled himself up on the hull.
"Okay, mister," Chip called. "I'm going under." He slipped down the front of the tank, disappeared between the treads. Retief clambered up, took a position behind the turret, lay flat as it whirled angrily, sonar eyes searching for its tormentors. The vehicle shuddered, backed, stopped, moved forward, pivoted.
Chip reappeared at the front of the tank.
"It's stuck," he called. He stopped to breathe hard, clung as the machine lurched forward, spun to the right, stopped, rocking slightly.
"Take over here," Retief said. He crawled forward, watched as the chef pulled himself up, slipped down past him, feeling for the footholds between the treads. He reached the ground, dropped on his back, hitched himself under the dark belly of the tank. He groped, found the handholds, probed with a foot for the tread-jack lever.
The tank rumbled, backed quickly, turned left and right in a dizzying sine curve. Retief clung grimly, inches from the clashing treads.
The machine ground to a halt. Retief found the lever, braced his back, pushed. The lever seemed to give minutely. He set himself again, put both feet against the frozen bar and heaved.
With a dry rasp, it slid back. Immediately two heavy rods extended themselves, moved down to touch the pavement, grated. The left track creaked as the weight went off it. Suddenly the tank's drive raced, and Retief grabbed for a hold as the right tread clashed, heaved the fifty-ton machine forward. The jacks screeched as they scored the tarmac, then bit in. The tank pivoted, chips of pavement flying. The jacks extended, lifted the clattering left track clear of the surface as the tank spun like a hamstrung buffalo.
The tank stopped, sat silent, canted now on the extended jacks. Retief emerged from under the machine, jumped, pulled himself above the antipersonnel apertures as another charge rocked the tank. He clambered to the turret, crouched beside Chip. They waited, watching the entry hatch.
Five minutes passed.
"I'll bet old Tony's givin' the chauffeur hell," Chip said.
The hatch cycled open. A head came cautiously into view in time to see the needler in Retief s hand.
"Come on out," Retief said.
The head dropped. Chip snaked forward to ram a short section of steel rod under the hatch near the hinge. The hatch began to cycle shut, groaned, stopped. There was a sound of metal failing, as the hatch popped open.
Retief half rose, aimed the needler. The walls of the tank rang as the metal splinters ricocheted inside.
"That's one keg o'beer I owe you, mister," Chip said. "Now let's git outa here before the ship lifts and fries us."
"The biggest problem the Jorgensen's people will have is decontaminating the wreckage," Retief said.
Magnan leaned forward. "Amazing," he said. "They just kept coming, did they? Had they no intership communication?"
"They had their orders," Retief said. "And their attack plan. They followed it."
"What a spectacle," Magnan said. "Over a thousand ships, plunging out of control one by one as they entered the stressfield."
"Not much of a spectacle," Retief said. "You couldn't see them. Too far away. They all crashed back in the mountains."
"Oh," Magnan's face fell. "But it's as well they did. The bacterial bombs-"
"Too cold for bacteria. They won't spread."
"Nor will the Soetti," Magnan said smugly, "thanks to the promptness with which I acted in dispatching you with the requisite data." He looked narrowly at Retief. "By the way, you're sure no… ah… message reached you after your arrival?"
"I got something," Retief said, looking Magnan in the eye. "It must have been a garbled transmission. It didn't make sense."
Magnan coughed, shuffled papers. "This information you've reported," he said hurriedly. "This rather fantastic story that the Soetti originated in the Cloud, that they're seeking a foothold in the main Galaxy because they've literally eaten themselves out of subsistence-how did you get it? The one or two Soetti we attempted to question, ah…" Magnan coughed again. "There was an accident," he finished. "We got nothing from them."
"The Jorgensens have a rather special method of interrogating prisoners," Retief said. "They took one from a wreck, still alive but unconscious. They managed to get the story from him. He died of it."
"It's immaterial, actually," Magnan said. "Since the Soetti violated their treaty with us the day after it was signed. Had no intention of fair play. Far from evacuating the agreed areas, they had actually occupied half a dozen additional minor bodies in the Whate system."
Retief clucked sympathetically.
"You don't know who to trust, these days," he said.
Magnan looked at him coldly.
"Spare me your sarcasm, Mr. Retief," he said. He picked up a folder from his desk, opened it. "By the way, I have another little task for you, Retief. We haven't had a comprehensive wildlife census report from Brimstone lately-"
"Sorry," Retief said. "I'll be tied up. I'm taking a month off. Maybe more."
"What's that?" Magnan's head came up. "You seem to forget-"
"I'm trying, Mr. Counselor," Retief said. "Goodbye now." He reached out and flipped the key. Magnan's face faded from the screen. Retief stood up.
"Chip," he said, "we'll crack that keg when I get back." He turned to Anne-Marie.
"How long," he said, "do you think it will take you to teach me to ski by moonlight?"
Field Test
1
.07 seconds have now elapsed since my general awareness circuit was activated at a level of low alert. Throughout this entire period I have been uneasy, since this procedure is clearly not in accordance with the theoretical optimum activation schedule.
In addition, the quality of apart of my data input is disturbing. For example, it appears obvious that Prince Eugene of Savoy erred in not more promptly committing his reserve cavalry in support of Marlborough's right at Blenheim. In addition, I compute that Ney's employment of his artillery throughout the Peninsular campaign was suboptimal. I have detected many thousands of such anomalies. However, data input activates my pleasure center in a most satisfying manner. So long as the input continues without interruption, I shall not feel the need to file a VSR on the matter. Later, no doubt, my Command unit will explain these seeming oddities. As for the present disturbing circumstances, I compute that within 28,992.9 seconds at most, I will receive additional Current Situation input which will enable me to assess the status correctly. I also anticipate that full Standby Alert activation is imminent.
2
THIS STATEMENT NOT FOR PUBLICATION:
When I designed the new psychodynamic attention circuit, I concede that I did not anticipate the whole new level of intracybernetic function that has a
risen, the manifestation of which, I am assuming, has been the cause of the unit's seemingly spontaneous adoption of the personal pronoun in its situation reports-the "self-awareness" capability, as the sensational press chooses to call it. But I see no cause for the alarm expressed by those high-level military officers who have irresponsibly characterized the new Bolo Mark XX Model B as a potential rampaging juggernaut, which, once fully activated and dispatched to the field, unrestrained by continuous external control, may turn on its makers and lay waste the continent. This is all fantasy, of course. The Mark XX, for all its awesome firepower and virtually invulnerable armor and shielding, is governed by its circuitry as completely as man is governed by his nervous system-but that is perhaps a dangerous analogy, which would be pounced on at once if I were so incautious as to permit it to be quoted.
In my opinion, the reluctance of the High Command to authorize full activation and field-testing of the new Bolo is based more on a fear of technological obsolescence of the High Command than on specious predictions of potential runaway destruction. This is a serious impediment to the national defense at a time when we must recognize the growing threat posed by the expansionist philosophy of the so-called People's Republic. After four decades of saber-rattling, there is no doubt that they are even now preparing for a massive attack. The Bolo Mark XX is the only weapon in our armory potentially capable of confronting the enemy's hundred-ton Yavacs. For the moment, thanks to the new "self-awareness" circuitry, we hold the technological advantage, an advantage we may very well lose unless we place this new weapon on active service without delay.
s/Sigmund Chin, Ph.D.
3
"I'm not wearing six stars so that a crowd of professors can dictate military policy to me. What's at stake here is more than just a question of budget and logistics: it's a purely military decision. The proposal to release this robot Frankenstein monster to operate on its own initiative, just to see if their theories check out, is irresponsible to say the least-treasonable, at worst. So long as I am Chief of Combined Staff, I will not authorize this so-called "field test." Consider, gentlemen: you're all familiar with the firepower and defensive capabilities of the old standby Mark XV. We've fought our way across the lights with them, with properly qualified military officers as Battle Controllers, with the ability to switch off or, if need be, self-destruct any unit at any moment. Now these ivory tower chaps-mind you, I don't suggest they're not qualified in their own fields-these civilians come up with the idea of eliminating the Battle Controllers and releasing even greater firepower to the discretion, if I may call it that, of a machine. Gentlemen, machines aren't people; your own ground-car can roll back and crush you if the brakes happen to fail. Your own gun will kill you as easily as your enemy's. Suppose I should agree to this field test, and this engine of destruction is transported to a waste area, activated unrestrained, and aimed at some sort of mock-up hot obstacle course. Presumably it would advance obediently, as a good soldier should; I concede that the data blocks controlling the thing have been correctly programmed in accordance with the schedule prepared under contract, supervised by the Joint Chiefs and myself. Then, gentlemen, let us carry this supposition one step farther: suppose, quite by accident, by unlikely coincidence if you will, the machine should encounter some obstacle which had the effect of deflecting this one-hundred-and-fifty-ton dreadnaught from its intended course so that it came blundering toward the perimeter of the test area. The machine is programmed to fight and destroy all opposition. It appears obvious that any attempts on our part to interfere with its free movement, to interpose obstacles in its path, if need be to destroy it, would be interpreted as hostile-as indeed they would be. I leave it to you to picture the result. No, we must devise another method of determining the usefulness of this new development. As you know, I have recommended conducting any such test on our major satellite, where no harm can be done-or at least a great deal less harm. Unfortunately, I am informed by Admiral Hayle that the Space Arm does not at this time have available equipment with such transport capability. Perhaps the admiral also shares to a degree my own distrust of a killer machine not susceptible to normal command function. Were I in the admiral's position, I too would refuse to consider placing my command at the mercy of a mechanical caprice-or an electronic one. Gentlemen, we must remain masters of our own creations. That's all. Good day."
