The Compleat Bolo

by Keith Laumer

  "Gosh," Dub said solemnly. "He's been sitting right here-" he looked down and rubbed his foot on the weathered stone-"for more'n two hundred years. That's older'n them old cultivators and such out back. But he don't look that old. You can still go, can't you, Johnny?"

  For a time (.01 nanoseconds) I am stunned by the realization that my commander is indeed at hand. Only he called me "Johnny" Almost incoherent with delight, I concentrate my forces, and speak with what clarity I can:

  "I await your orders, Commander."

  "Mick!" Dub almost yelled, jumping back. "Did you hear that? Johnny said something to me!"

  "Name's 'Jonah,' " Mick replied disparagingly. "And it never said nothing. You're hearing things."

  "Just stands for JNA," Dub said doggedly. "Could be 'Johnny' just as much as 'Jonah.' I like 'Johnny' better." He looked up in awe at the monster combat unit. "What did you say, Johnny?" he asked almost inaudibly.

  Again I hear my secret name spoken. I must try once more to reassure my commander of my readiness to attempt whatever is required of me. "Unit JNA of the Line reporting for duty, sir," I manage, more clearly articulated this time, I compute.

  "He ain't dead," Dub blurted. "He can still go."

  "Sure," Mick said in the lofty tone of One Who Already Knew That. "If he had his plates recharged and switched on. Must be pretty boring, jest setting and thinking."

  "What ya mean, thinking?" Dub demanded, withdrawing a few inches. "That'd be terrible jest sitting alone in the dark thinking. Bet he's lonesome."

  "We better get out of here now," Mick blurted, looking toward the front of the building, from which direction someone was shouting outside. Dub moved close to him.

  "Scared?" Mick challenged.

  "Sure," Dub replied without hesitation.

  Back outside the enclosure, the boys again heard raised voices, outside the building, but nearby.

  "We can't stay in here," Dub almost whispered. Mick pushed him aside and went to the corner of the partition. He glanced quickly around the angle, then beckoned impatiently to Dub, who followed obediently. Now Mick was studying another sign painted on the wall in red. " 'Absolutely No Admission Beyond This Point.' " he read hesitantly. " 'Authorized Personnel Only'."

  "What's that mean?" Dub demanded.

  "Means we ain't spose to be here," Mick explained. "Especially where we already been," he added.

  "We already knew that," Dub said. "Come on." He started past the older boy, but halted and faded back as the sound of an opening door came from ahead, followed by the clump of feet and a wheezy voice he recognized as that of Hick Marlowe, the town marshal.

  "Prolly drunk, Mr. Davis, I'd say. I'd say forget it's what I'd say."

  "I'm afraid it's not quite that simple, Marshal," was the reply, in the precise tones the boys recognized as those of Mr. Davis, the big gubment man.

  "Gosh," Dub said faintly, to be shushed silently by his older friend. Brilliant light glared abruptly from the office ahead, dimming the dusty sunlight.

  "As planetary representative here on Spivey's-that is, GPR 7203-C," Davis went on solemnly, "it is my duty to report this incident to Sector." There were clattering sounds that the boys realized, with excitement, represented the uncovering of the big gubment-owned SWIFT machine. Mick crowded Dub, edging forward for better hearing.

  "No use getting the gubment all excited about nothin," Hick was saying. "Time Henry sleeps it off, he won't even remember nothin about it."

  "Possibly, Marshal," Davis conceded calmly. "But his description of a Deng trooper was remarkably accurate."

  "Prolly seen a pitcher o' them spodders someplace," Marlowe muttered. "All I done was report what ol' Henry said, like I'm spose to do."

  "You acted quite properly, Marshal," Davis reassured Marlowe. "And I assure you that I assume full responsibility for any report.

  "This is a moment of some solemnity, Marshal," Davis went on. "This is the first time in my fifteen years on Spivey's that I have had occasion to use this equipment." There followed the crackle and clatter of keys as Davis activated the big SWIFT transmitter. The lights flickered and dimmed.

  Abruptly, I am bathed in induced energies of a kind which I am easily able to convert to Class Y charging current, with an efficiency of 37 percent. The flood of revivifying radiation flows over my power plates, and at once I feel a surge of renewed activity in my Survival Center. Thus, suddenly, I am able to reassess my situation more realistically. Clearly, I have fallen prisoner to the Enemy. It could only be they who stripped me of my capabilities as a fighting machine. For long have I lain thus, imprisoned and helpless. But now, unexpectedly, my basic vitality is to a degree renewed, doubtless by my new commander who has sought me out, and thus both confirms his identity and demonstrates his effectiveness. Now am I indeed ready for action.

  "That there SWIFT machine'll punch through to Sector quicker'n Ned Sprat got religion, right, Mr. Davis?" the marshal said excitedly. "Pulling all our pile's got to give, too."

  "The Shaped-Wave Interference Front Transmitter is capable of transfer of intelligence at hyper-L velocities," Davis confirmed. "Excuse me." His voice changed, became urgent and level.

  "Davis, Acting PR Station 316-C," he rapped out. "Unconfirmed report Deng activity at grid 161-220. Special to CINCSEC: In absence of follow-up capability, urge dispatch probe squad soonest." The SWIFT unit buzzed as it transmitted the signal in a.02-picosecond burst, at full gain. The lights dimmed again, almost went out, then sprang up.

  Again I receive a massive burst of Y radiation. The revived flow of energies in my main ego-gestalt circuitry bestows on me a sense of vast euphoria as I become aware again of long-forgotten functions-at an intensity still far below my usual operating level, but remarkably satisfying for all that. Once more I know the pride of being Unit JNA of the Line, and I thirst for action. Surely my commander will not disappoint me…?

  "That ought to fetch 'em," Marlowe said in a satisfied tone.

  "Either that, or we've committed a capital offense," Davis said soberly. "But don't be alarmed, Marshal. As I said, I assume full responsibility." He was interrupted by a brief clatter from the communication machine. Davis bent to read the message.

  "Maybe I oughta jest head for the hills, jest in case," Marlowe said. "But I'd prolly run into them spodders, luck I have. What's Sector say, anyways?"

  "Don't panic, Marshal," Davis said sternly. " 'Deng activity confirmed,' " he summarized. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have further work to do before the meeting. Only ten minutes now."

  "Jest leavin'," Marlowe muttered. "I got my own work to tend to." The boys heard two sets of footsteps, then the door open and close.

  After a moment, Dub moved close to Mick. "I heard him say about them spodders," he said in a small voice. "Did Mr. Davis mean they come back?" He paused and looked around fearfully.

  "Naw, said old Henry was drunk," Mick assured shortly. "We beat 'em good in the Big Battle. Come on." He entered the sacrosanct office and looked around hesitantly.

  "But what'd that mean?" Dub persisted. "Bout 'Deng activity confirmed' and all?"

  "Nothin. Jest the answer come in on the SWIFT. Let's take us a look at it."

  Dub followed reluctantly: he halted and gazed with awe at the glittering console when Mick removed the cover.

  " 'Penalty for unauthorized use IAW CC 273-B1,' " Mick read. "Well, we ain't using it, jest looking. Come on. Let's go."

  "Where to?" Dub objected, hanging back.

  "You heard what Davis said, about some big meeting," Mick reminded his friend. "Let's go hear what's happening."

  Dub objected, but weakly. He was still staring at the imposingly complex SWIFT console. An impressively thick, black-insulated cable led from the apparatus to disappear into a complicated wall fixture.

  "See them lights dim when he fired her up, Mick?" Dub inquired rhetorically. "Must be just about the powerfulest machine in the world."

  "Except for old Jonah," Mick countered, pointing toward the pa
rtition with a tilt of his head. "If he was on full charge, I mean."

  Dub picked up a strip of printout paper and showed it to Mick. "Must be the answer that Davis got," he commented.

  " 'Deng incursion confirmed, grid 161/219,' " Mick read. " 'Estimate plus-ten hours offload and deploy, contingency plan 1-A, recommend evacuation scheme B instanter.. Mick's voice trailed off. "Boy," he said, "the war's on again. Says to get out, leave Spivey's to the spodders. Must be gonna send in transport. No wonder they got a big meeting. Come on. They always have the big town meetings and that over to Kibbe's. We can get inside fore they get there and hide in the loft."

  "Naw." Dub shook his head solemnly. "Jest outside the winders, that's close enough."

  The boys exited by the back door after a quick look which showed the coast to be clear. They chose a route behind the warehouse next door to come up under a high, double-hung window set in the brick wall of Cy Kibbe's Feed and Grain Depot. Cautiously, they stole a quick look inside. They knew all the men sitting at the long table. Breathless, they listened:

  "New Orchard ain't much, maybe," the plump, fussy, but hard-eyed little mayor, an ex-softrock miner, said dully to his colleagues sitting slumped in the mismatched chairs along the former banquet table salvaged from the Jake's Palace Hotel and only slightly charred on one leg by the fire which years ago had completed the destruction of the old frame resort to which few, alas, had ever resorted.

  "Like I said, the Orchard ain't much," Kibbe continued, "but it's ours, and it's up to us to defend it."

  "Defend it how, Cy?" someone called, a query seconded by a chorus of "yeah's," followed by muttering.

  "Ain't got no army troops here, nor such as that," Cy conceded. "Got to do what we can our ownselfs."

  A tall, rangy man with a bad complexion rose and said, "I say we put in a call to Sector, get a battle-wagon in here." He looked challengingly at Davis. "We got a right; we pay taxes same's anybody else."

  "They'd never send it, Jason," a round-faced fellow named Cabot said, and thumped his pipe on a glass ashtray as if nailing the lid on the coffin of the idea.

  "What we got to do," interjected Fred Frink, a small unshaven chap who tended to gobble rather than speak, "what we got to do, we got to put on a defense here'll get picked up on the SWIFT Network, get us some publicity; then we'll get them peace enforcers in here for sure."

  "Put on a defense, Freddy?" the fat man echoed sarcastically. "What with?" He looked around for approval, rapped the ashtray again, and settled back like one who had done his duty.

  "Got no weapons, nor such as that, nothing bigger'n a varmint gun," the mayor repeated aggrievedly, and looked at Frink.

  "Got old Jonah," the whiskery man said and showed crooked teeth in a self-appreciative grin. "Might skeer 'em off," he added, netting snickers from along the table.

  "Heard old Jonah can still kill anybody gets too close," Cabot muttered, and looked around defiantly, relieved to see that his comment had been ignored.

  "Gentlemen," said Davis, who had been rapidly jotting notes, in a severe tone. He rose. "I must remind you that this is a serious matter, nothing to joke about. In less than ten hours from now, the Deng will have completed their off-loading and will be ready to advance in battle array from Deep Cut. Sector advises us to evacuate the town. We can expect no help from that quarter. Unless something effective is done at once, the Deng will have rolled over the settlement well before this time tomorrow." After a moment he added, "With reference to Mr. Frink's japes, I remind you that Unit JNA is the property of the War Monuments Commission, which I have the honor to represent." He sat, looking grim.

  "Sure, sure, Mr. Davis, we know all that," the mayor hastened to affirm with an ingratiating smile. "But what we gonna do?"

  "Now, no offense, Mr. Davis, sir, and don't laugh, boys, but I got a idear," Frink put in quickly, in a furtive voice, as if he hoped he wasn't hearing himself.

  "Treat it gentle, Freddy," the plump fellow said lazily, and mimed puffing at his empty pipe.

  "Way I see it," Frink hurried on, stepping to the sketch map on the blackboard set up by the table. "They're in Deep Cut, like Mr. Davis said, and they got only the one way out. If we's to block the Cut-say about here-" he sketched quickly "-by Dry Run, they'd be bottled up."

  "Just make 'em mad," the fat man commented. "Anyways, how are you going to block a canyon better'n a hundred yard wide, so's their big Yavacs can't climb out?"

  "Easy part, Bub," Frink put in glibly. "We blast-got plenty smashite right here at Kibbe's. Plant it under the Rim, and the whole thing comes down. Time it right, we bury 'em."

  "You got a battalion of Rangers volunteered to plant the charges?" Bub Peterson queried, looking around for the laugh; he was rewarded with compliant smirks.

  Davis rose, less casually this time. "I say again," he started in a heavy tone. "As planetary representative of Concordiat authority, I will tolerate no ill-advised jocularity. I am obliged to report the developing position to Sector, and I have no intention of relaying assays at humor. Now, Mr. Frink's suggestion regarding blasting the cliff is not without merit. The method of accomplishment, as Mr. Peterson has so facetiously pointed out, is the problem." He resumed his seat, jotted again.

  "Now, boys," Kibbe said soothingly into the silence that followed the pronouncement of officialdom, "boys, like Freddy said, I got over two hundred pound o' smashite here in my lock-up. Enough to blast half the Rim down into the Cut. Got detonators, got warr, even got the radio gear to set her off long-range. Need a dozen good men to pack everything up along the ridge. It'll be my privilege, o' course, to donate the stuff till Sector can get around to settlin' up."

  "Where you going to get twelve fellas can climb the ridge totin' a hundred pound o' gear?" Bob inquired as if thoughtfully. "Let's see, there's Tom's boy Ted, likes to climb, and old Joe Peters, they say used to be a pretty fair climber-"

  "Say, just a minute," Fred blurted. "Mr. Davis, I heard one time old Jonah's still got some charge on his plates; never had his core burned back in Ought-Six when the gubment was tryna pick up all the pieces after the Peace. So…" Fred's strained voice trailed off. He looked uncertainly along the table and sat down abruptly.

  "Durn fools," a hoarse voice said immediately behind the two boys, who first went rigid, then turned to bolt. Their way was blocked by a forlorn-looking figure clad in patched overalls who stood weaving, bleary-eyed and smelling strongly of Doc Wilski's home brew.

  "Guess I know what I seen," the intruder went on. "Wait a minute, boys. I ain't going to bother you none. You're young McClusky, ain't you? And you're Bill Dubose's boy. What you doing out of school? Ne'mind. I guess you're in the right place to get a education right now. Lissen them know-alls funning each other about old Jonah. Whatta they know? Nuthin. Let me get up there." He groped unsteadily between the boys to tilt an ear toward the grimy window.

  "Can't hear as good as you young fellas," he said. "They said anything except it's true, and kidding around?"

  "Naw sir," Mick replied, leaning away from the old fellow's goaty aroma.

  "Sure, I'm hung over to here," Henry conceded. "But I'm not drunk no more. Wisht I was."

  "Yessir, Mr. Henry," Dub said respectfully.

  "Just 'Henry,' " Henry corrected. "I ain't one o' them Misters. Now, boys, what we going to do about this situation? Come on, I'll show you where I seen the spodder. Won't miss nothing here. They'll set and jaw is all."

  Mick hung back. "You mean them things is running loose, around here?" he challenged, looking along the narrow alley as if to detect an invading alien.

  "What I tole old Marshal," Henry confirmed. "Come on. Ain't far. Seen the sucker sneaking through the brush jest west o' Jed Lightner's store yonder. In that patch o' brush, by the fault. Just seen the one and skedaddled. Must be more of 'em. Let's find out what them suckers is up to."

  "What do they look like, sir?" Dub asked timidly.

  "Oh, kinda like reglar spodders, boy," Henry explained as he led t
he way along the narrow alley toward the street. "Got four skinny legs each side," he continued, after peering out to see that the coast was clear, "move quicklike; sorta round, hairy body, couldn't see too good on account of he was wearing a uniform, all straps and bangles and sech as that. Carried a rifle or something like in the front legs-arms, I guess you'd call 'em; got big eye-goggles on, shiny helmet-thing covered his whole head and what you'd call his shoulders. Not much bigger'n a small ghoti; 'bout so high. Come on." Henry indicated a terrier-sized creature, as he stepped out and started down the deserted street.

  "Never seen a ghoti," Dub said, following the old man.

  "No, used to be a lot of 'em hereabouts," Henry acceded. "Never bothered the crops, o' course; can't eat Terry plants. But they trampled the corn to get at the yelloweed used to grow good where the ground was cultivated, between rows-like. So they been extink now for some years. Like I said, 'bout so high. A spodder's got brains, got them fancy guns, can blow a hole right through a feller, but don't worry. We won't let 'em see us."

  The boys looked doubtfully at each other, but as Henry scuttled away toward the street, they followed.

  "Pa finds out, I'll catch it," Dub said solemnly. "You, too," he added.

  "Not if we come back and report to Marshal what they're up to and all," Mick rejoined.

  Although Main Street was deserted except for two men disputing, with gestures, in front of the pictonews office, and a few women moving aimlessly in the market at the south end of the street, Henry went furtively along, close to the building-fronts, and the boys followed. The old man cut across to the west side of the avenue and disappeared into the narrow alley beside the opera house-cum-cathedral. His two followers hurried after him, emerging on the unused alleyway which ran behind the buildings, thence east-west across dry clods toward a stand of tall Terran-import Australian pines and squat scrub oak, mixed with native yim trees even taller and more feathery than the alien conifers. There, in a shallow fold, Henry paused, and after cautioning the boys to silence told them: "Got to go easy now. Seen him about fifty yard yonder." He pointed to the deepest shadows ahead.