by John Ringo
This assessment matches the military analysis in our briefing files, that Jefferson is a prosperous world, well worth defending despite its remote location, tucked into an isolated pocket of human space surrounded on three sides by an immense, starless stretch of space known as the Silurian Void. The robust capital city does not, however, look anything at all like Etaine, with its ethereal towers of gemstone-hued glass and ribbon-lace titanium. I am deeply grateful to Jefferson’s architects, stonemasons, and engineers, for Simon’s sake. We have landed, as directed, at a facility nine point five kilometers south of the outskirts of Jefferson’s capital city and zero point three-seven kilometers north of the barracks and bunkers of Nineveh Military Base, constructed nearly a century ago, during the last Deng war. Nineveh houses the bulk of Jefferson’s defense forces, ninety-eight percent of which are listed as inactive reserves.
While this is consistent with a world that has known a hundred years of peace, it does not lend itself well to providing a trained and battle-ready army. Still, it is far better than some border worlds, which are new enough that no military force at all exists, let alone a system of planet-wide military bases with relatively modern weaponry in their arsenals. It speaks well of Jefferson’s current rulers that they have maintained this system against future threat.
A broad stretch of open, flattened ground has been cleared of underbrush for a construction project that has barely begun. Immense plascrete slabs have been poured and piles of building materials lie scattered in orderly profusion, covered neatly by tarpaulins to protect them from inclement weather. If all goes well, this muddy stretch of ground will be my new maintenance depot. Jefferson’s treaty with the Concordiat requires the local government to provide an adequate depot with requisite spare parts and a powder magazine to house my small-bore, projectile-weaponry’s ammunition, along with access to the planetary datanet and quarters for my Commander. The fact that they’ve already begun to meet my depot requirements suggests a fierce determination to defeat the Deng. A government facing planetary invasion could well be forgiven a decision to delay construction until the battle has been decided, one way or the other.
Seven ground cars sit parked at the edge of the landing field. Three larger vehicles are evidently press-corps vans, given the number of camera crews and technicians standing on the muddy ground. They have strung power cords and cables out behind them like the drifting tentacles of a Terran jellyfish. Cables caught by the gusting storm front sing and hum in the sharp, unpredictable wind shifts that are already scattering blossoms on the damp air. Lights glare on poles held aloft, while cameras roll and reporters deliver “serious situation” monologues to the camera lenses. This is a behavior I have never fully understood, an evident compulsion that drives some humans to tell as many people as can be persuaded or coerced into listening what is happening and what they should think about it.
Since the opinions of the “press” have tallied with my own assessments of battle and other war-relevant situations only zero point nine-two percent of the time during the one hundred and three years since my original commissioning, I remain baffled as to why most humans continue listening to them. It is, perhaps, something that only another human can understand.
A second group, composed of civilians and uniformed military officers, also waits to meet my Commander. Some of the people on the periphery are busy speaking with reporters, but most are talking excitedly and pointing toward my warhull.
Simon releases the restraints on his command chair. “I’d better get dirtside. Looks like we’ve got quite a reception committee and most of those folks look pretty nervous.”
“Civilians always are, when they see me.”
Simon pauses beside the ladder leading out of my Command Compartment, resting one hand lightly against the bulkhead. “I know, Sonny,” he says, using my new nickname. “You deserve better. Maybe they’ll get used to you, eventually.”
I refrain from sharing the thought that Renny never did. Neither did most of the other civilians I have known. I am warmed by the gesture, however, for it was meant affectionately, a welcome change from the grim silence into which Simon lapses all too often. I have known six other commanders since my initial commissioning and my relationship with all six was satisfactory, but there is something special about Simon Khrustinov, something that I cannot quite define. I am abruptly very glad that he will be the human to share my last mission — and that I am the Bolo to share his.
As my Commander drops from the end of the long ladder and splashes into the muddy soil beside my treads, a man with a long, thin frame and a long, lean face to match steps forward in greeting. “Major Khrustinov?” he holds out one hand. “I’m Abe Lendan.”
As press cameras record their handshake, my Commander blinks in genuine surprise. “It’s a distinct honor to meet you, Mr. President.”
I, too, feel surprise. This is Abraham Lendan, president of Jefferson? Clearly, Jefferson’s president does not insist upon the same pomp and ritual other planetary heads of state generally demand as their just due. President Lendan introduces the men and women of the official delegation with him. “Major Khrustinov, this is Elora Willoughby, my chief of staff, Ron McArdle, my attache for military affairs, and Julie Alvison, energy advisor. This is Representative Billingsgate, Speaker for the House of Law. Senator Hassan, President of the Senate. And Kadhi Hajamb, High Justice of Jefferson.”
Hands are duly shaken and polite phrases exchanged; then he introduces several ranking officers in the drab green uniform of Jefferson’s home defense force. Their dull uniforms create a sharp contrast with Simon’s brightly colored dress crimsons. Dinochrome Brigade officers do not need to worry about camouflage on the battlefield, since they ride to war inside a hull designed to withstand small nuclear blasts. Among other things, it makes for a stirring and colorful display on the parade ground. It also — and more importantly — serves as a morale boost for officers, technicians, and beleaguered civilian populations.
I pay close attention to these introductions, for these are the men and women with whom my Commander and I will work most closely, planning and carrying out Jefferson’s defense. President Lendan introduces first a man surprisingly elderly for an active military officer. “General Dwight Hightower, our Chief of Defense and Commandant of Combined Ops.” The general’s hair is entirely white and his face bears the lines of many years, perhaps as many as seventy-five or eighty of them. The president turns, then, to the rest of the officers. “Lieutenant General Jasper Shatrevar, Commander of Ground Defense Forces. Admiral Kimani of the Home-Star Navy and General Gustavson, Air Defense Force. And this,” the tall, lean president of Jefferson turns to me, “is Unit SOL-0045?”
A glow is born in Simon’s shadowed eyes. “Indeed it is, Mr. President.”
I am startled that President Lendan has made it his business to learn my official designation, as well as my Commander’s name. Most politicians I have encountered simply refer to me as “the Bolo” and don’t bother to include me directly in conversations.
“How should I address him, Major?” the president asks uncertainly. “Surely his full designation is too long to use all the time?”
“He’ll answer to Sonny.”
Surprise rearranges the worry lines in Abe Lendan’s long face. Then he nods, as the oblique reference to humanity’s home star registers in an expression even I can read. He clears his throat and addresses me directly, peering toward the nearest of my external visual sensors.
“Sonny, welcome to Jefferson.”
“It is my pleasure to be here, Mr. President.”
Several of the onlookers start at the sound of my voice, although I am always careful to use a volume setting low enough not to damage delicate human hearing. Jefferson’s president, however, merely smiles, suggesting a rock-solid core of inner strength that he — and all Jeffersonians — will need. I also note deep lines and dark, bruised-looking hollows around his eyes, which suggest worry and sleeplessness, a state confirmed by Pre
sident Lendan’s next words.
“You can’t know how glad we are that you’re here, both of you. We’ve been worried the Deng would get here ahead of your transport. Sector Command’s been sending messages meant to reassure, but we’ve dealt with the Deng before. And we’ve had refugee ships coming through, a lot of them. It takes a desperate captain and crew to try crossing the Silurian Void, especially in some of the ships we’ve had limping through our star system. Private yachts that weren’t designed for hyper-L hops that long and dangerous. Merchant ships shot to pieces before they made the jump out. Big ore freighters crammed full of terrified people and damned little food or medical supplies. All of ’em hoping the Deng fleet wouldn’t follow if they ran this way, across the Void, not with richer worlds to tempt them along the main trade route.”
Simon blanches at such news. “Good God! There are Concordiat naval captains who’d think twice about crossing the Void.”
A look of deep stress brings moisture to Abe Lendan’s dark eyes. “A lot of those ships had wounded aboard, some of them so critical, they’re still in our hospitals. God only knows how many of the ships that tried the crossing didn’t make it. From what the refugees are saying, there may be upwards of a hundred ships unaccounted for, this side of the Void. They also told us the Deng hit them hard, much harder than they did during the last war.”
I remember the last Deng war, in which I fought as a rookie straight off the assembly line. Captured human populations were routinely kept alive as slave labor to run mining equipment and manufacturing plants, since that is far less expensive than refitting high-tech equipment to Deng-capable specs. This time, the Deng are simply killing everything in their path. Simon and I have been briefed on this. Clearly, Jefferson’s president also knows it.
“We’re not afraid of a hard fight, Major,” Abe Lendan says quietly, “but we don’t have much here that would slow down a modern Heavy-class Yavac. We have several in-system naval cutters that could slow down an orbital bombardment, but nothing to match a Deng battle cruiser.”
Simon nods understanding as the wind rattles past, heralding the imminent arrival of the storm front. “Yes, we’ve been briefed on it. Bad as the Deng are, Mr. President, we’re fortunate to be facing them, instead of the Melconians. And the Silurian Void is one of the best defenses Jefferson has. Sector Command doesn’t expect a large force to be sent against this world, precisely because it’s so dangerous, crossing the Void. If the Deng do send a detatchment this way, it probably won’t be their first-rate equipment, which they won’t want to risk losing on such a gamble. Sonny should be more than enough to handle whatever they throw our way. He’s had a lot of combat experience.”
Heads swivel upwards as the entire group peers toward the battle honors welded to my turret. General Hightower actually steps forward for a closer look. “That’s mighty impressive, Sonny,” the general says as rain begins to splash into the muddy ground. “Seventeen campaign medals, three rhodium stars, and good Lord, is that four galaxy-level clusters? Very impressive.”
“Thank you, General Hightower. I look forward to coordinating defense plans with you. My mission-briefing files don’t mention it, but are you the Dwight Hightower who turned back the Quern advance on Herndon III?”
The general’s eyes widen in startlement. “How the devil did you know about that?”
“My Commander during the Herndon liberation campaign was Major Alison Sanhurst. She spoke highly of you, General.”
A strange, bittersweet expression touches Dwight Hightower’s rugged, battle-scarred face. “Good God, that was nearly sixty years ago. Your commander was a fine woman, Sonny. A fine woman. We wouldn’t have held the Quern back on Herndon III without her. She died bravely. And she’s still missed, very much so.” General Hightower’s eyes have misted with water that is not from the increasingly chilly rainfall.
“Thank you, General,” I say quietly, but his words have triggered unhappy memories. Alison Sanhurst did, indeed, die bravely, evacuating children under heavy enemy fire while I was out of commission, awaiting emergency battlefield repairs. I have never forgotten her. Or forgiven myself for failing her.
President Lendan clears his throat and points toward the four-meter-long slice melted across my prow. “What in the world hit you there?”
I do not like remembering the battle in which I sustained that damage and do not wish to hurt Simon, but I have been asked a direct question from the man who will be issuing orders to my Commander and myself. It would be impolitic to refuse an answer.
“I sustained injury under concentrated fire from the plasma lances of a Yavac Heavy, which I destroyed at Etaine.”
As the politicians and even the press murmur to one another, my Commander says harshly, “Sonny destroyed the other fourteen Yavac Heavies shooting at him, too. Even after they blew his treads and most of his gun systems to dust and turned half his armor to slag. That’s where the fourth galaxy-level cluster came from. The gold one. Every other Bolo on that battlefield died. We’re so short on Bolos, they rebuilt Sonny and sent him out here. With me.”
The pain in Simon’s voice is raw. So raw that no one speaks for eight point three seconds. President Lendan’s voice finally breaks the desperate silence, and betrays emotional stress of his own. “Sonny, Major Khrustinov, it is a genuine honor to have you here. I only hope we can acquit ourselves as bravely as you have.” His unstated hope — that Jefferson does not become a second Etaine — is clearly written in the deepened stress lines in his long, tired face. The responsibility of high office is always exhausting, and never more so than when war looms large on the horizon.
“I hope it won’t offend Sonny,” President Lendan turns to my Commander, “but you ought to come into town, Major Khrustinov. We can go over everything in my office. The bottom’s about to drop out of that storm,” he indicates the rain, which is now gusting in drifts ahead of the main squall line.
Simon merely nods as they head toward the cars. “I’ll be wearing a commlink, so Sonny can participate in the discussions, no matter where they’re held. We’ll need his input, his battle experience. And I’ll want to upload into his data banks any local information you have that might be helpful. Anything that wasn’t forwarded to us with our mission briefing.”
“General Hightower and his staff have prepared quite a bit of data for you. Very good, Major. There’s room for you in my car.”
As the group scatters, hurrying as the rain slashes across the clearing in deadly earnest, I drop into Standby Alert status. This first meeting has gone well, leaving me to hope that Jefferson may prove to be a good home for Simon.
If we can defend it from the coming storms of war.
Or a repetition of history.
III
As the motorcade drove through the storm-lashed streets of Jefferson’s capital city, Simon realized he was in serious danger of falling in love with his new home. It was bitterly fitting that within moments of his arrival, blowing sheets of grey rain had shredded every delicate flower in sight. Even so, the city was beautiful, full of Old Terra-style architecture that he’d seen only in photos and movies. Madison boasted real charm, with fluted columns and triangular pediments on many of its public buildings. Gardens were graced with fountains and mosaics and what must have been locally produced bronze and marble statuary, much of it in an earthy, compelling style he’d never seen, but liked a great deal.
It helped that nothing he saw resembled anything on Etaine.
Simon was — on his father’s side, at least — Russian, and therefore pragmatic, so he looked at the world steadily, seeing what was, recognizing what wasn’t, and understanding what it would take to create the things that might be, if one applied a great deal of hard work to the effort of building them. As the car pulled up to a long, covered portico where doormen waited beneath a weather-proofed awning, ready to open the doors the moment they halted, Simon was hoping rather fiercely that he got the chance to do some of that building.
Ten
minutes later, Simon found himself in the president’s own briefing room, sipping a local beverage that put coffee to shame — both on taste and a welcome caffeine jolt — and prepared to conduct his first official meeting with Jefferson’s defense forces. The reporters who’d followed them back to town and through the motorcade’s winding route to the Presidential Residence were now blessedly absent, although he suspected they would stick to him like Setti-5’s bat-wing remoras until the ion bolts started flying.
There was nothing inherently detestable about reporting as a profession, if the reporters did their jobs properly; but preparing for war could be sheer hell, with irresponsible press reports flying wild from town to town or — worse — racing through interstellar space with myriad, nonhuman ears attuned to human broadcast frequencies. Major Simon Khrustinov had yet to meet a reporter he liked, let alone trusted. Of course, after the disaster at Etaine, he was perhaps a bit jaded…
“Ladies, gentlemen,” President Lendan said as a staffer closed the conference room doors with a soft click, “your attention, please.”
There was a general shuffling toward chairs. There was no formal invocation of deity — Jefferson was polyglot enough, it might’ve been long-winded, if there had been — or even an exhortation about duty to state. There was just an air of expectancy that spoke volumes, all of it deeply respectful of the man at the head of this particular table. And of one another, come to that. Simon liked more and more of what he was seeing.
Abe Lendan met Simon’s gaze and said, “Major, I won’t waste your time or ours, going over what was in your briefing materials. Just let me say that the people of Jefferson are solidly united behind this defense effort.” A brief twitch of his lips betrayed a moment’s humor. “After the last Deng war, all you have to do around these parts is say ‘spodder’ and people scramble for the nearest shelter. The invasion a century ago was memorable, to say the least.”
