The Road to Damascus (bolo)

by John Ringo

  “That will not be necessary,” I advise him. “Phil Fabrizio was not in his quarters when they were destroyed. He had left the base to visit his sister. I spoke to him before your aircar arrived.”

  Sar Gremian frowned. “Where is he? Never mind that, just call him and tell him to shag his ass out here. He’s going to earn that fancy salary we’ve been paying him.”

  “Very well. Message sent.”

  The president’s advisor says, “Get some work crews out here, Teon. I want a fence around the Bolo, something solid, that curious reporters can’t photograph that machine through, and put an interdiction on fly-overs until we can rig something to park this thing under. Get ’em out here and started within thirty minutes. Phineas,” he addresses a man whose wrist-comm signal identifies as General Orlége, POPPA’s chief propaganda official, “we’re going to need one hell of a damage-control effort on this mess. We can’t hide the loss of Nineveh Base or even Barran Bluff. It’s got to be explained.”

  Phineas Orlége says smoothly, “It’s being handled. I’ve already cleared the basic strategy with Vittori and Nassiona. As expensive as this will be to replace,” he waves one hand at the scorched earth of Nineveh Base, including in his gesture my own damage, “this incident will work powerfully in our favor. By my conservative estimate, the events of the past twenty-five hours — and I include Gifre’s death and the arson in downtown Madison — will move our timetable up by several months, at a bare minimum. By this time tomorrow, we may be as much as a year ahead of schedule, which is fine news, indeed. The masses will not tolerate this kind of brutality and their reaction will give us precisely what we need. I refuse to be discouraged by mere price tags, particularly given the size of the stakes in this fascinating little game.”

  Sar Gremian favors him with a cool stare. “Then I will give you the pleasure of presenting the bill to Vittori and Nassiona. Your glib assurances may desert you.”

  Phineas Orlége smiles. “I shall look forward to seeing which of us is right.”

  I am attempting to decide whether this comment was a threat or challenge when Phil pulls his groundcar to a halt six meters from the group beside my ravaged treads. He climbs out, sees the cluster of uniformed officers, and halts. His nano-tatt flares a deep mustard yellow, while the remainder of his face loses color entirely. The resulting combination is not visually appealing.

  “Who are you?” General Meinhard demands.

  “That,” Sar Gremian says coldly, “is the Bolo’s mechanic. You’d have known that, if you’d bothered to read the security reports I sent when we hired him.”

  Meinhard turns purple and sputters. Sar Gremian ignores him and turns his ill temper onto my technician, speaking with a bite like acid. “What kind of excuse do you have for deserting your duty post in the middle of combat?” He gestures to the empty, burnt-out ruin of my maintenance depot. “Do you have the slightest idea what this equipment was worth? Or the spare parts? You didn’t even try to defend it. You just ran like a scared rabbit and let a pack of terrorists blow it up. I should by God take it out of your pathetic little salary. Better still, I should have you court-martialed and shot for treason!”

  Phil’s jaw muscles bunch in sudden anger. His nano-tatt pulses crimson. He thins his lips and glares at the president’s senior advisor, but does not speak. This is perhaps the wisest thing I have ever seen him do.

  “Did you hear me, you stupid slopebrow?”

  Phil’s jaw juts forward, increasing his resemblance to an angry australopithecine. Quite unexpectedly, I sympathize. I have been on the receiving end of Sar Gremian’s temper. Phil goes up in my estimation even further when he says, “How’s about I set somethin’ straight, Mr. High-and-Mighty Advisor? Court-martial is what’cha do to soldiers, only I ain’t a soldier. I’m the Bolo’s technician. You ought t’ be dancin’ for joy, ’cause it’s a damned good thing I got the hell outta here when the shootin’ started. If I hadn’t a got outta here when I did, you’d be lookin’ for a new mechanic, on top of all the other stuff you gotta pay for.

  “So how’s about you stop slingin’ the shit my way an’ get me some goddamn tools and crap t’ fix him with? And maybe while you’re at it, you can get me a computer and some new clothes and a toothbrush, ’cause I just lost every goddamn thing I had in the world, on account a somebody screwed around and let a bunch a land hogs steal weapons they got no business to have. How’s about you do alla that before you come around here pissin’ all over me? You still got a place t’sleep, tonight. I don’t and I ain’t in no mood t’listen to some uppity jackass tellin’ me this is my fault, when anybody with half a brain coulda’ seen it comin’ from ten kilometers away.”

  Sar Gremian turns white. “I refuse to be insulted by a vulgar little street rat!”

  “Who stuck the hot poker up your ass? You got nuthin’ to bitch about an’ you’re just wastin’ time flappin’ your lips at me, ’stead a doin’ your job. You don’t like hearin’ it? You c’n always get out th’ same way you got in.” He jerks his head toward the aircar. “Hey, Sonny, you want I should throw the bum out?”

  I begin to like Phil Fabrizio. He is illiterate, although possibly less stupid than I gave him credit for, but he is tough as nails and apparently cannot be intimidated by anyone or anything. Including me, for that matter. These qualities would have made him a fine technician, if he had actually known anything. Perhaps there is hope for remedial training?

  “That will not be necessary,” I tell him. “But thank you for offering,” I add with all sincerity. “This does not, however, address the immediate and critical problem of obtaining sufficient spare parts to repair the damage. I am likely to need repairs again in the near future, as we still face a situation wherein insurrectionists have seized high-tech weaponry and demonstrated that they know how to use it. There are three missing mobile Hellbores and hundreds of octocellulose bombs, hyper-v missiles, and small arms that will doubtless be used at first opportunity. Given the circumstances, it is imperative that I regain mobility as quickly as possible. I find it difficult to believe that Anish Balin and his followers will show greater leniency to POPPA Party officials in elected or appointed office than they showed the federal troops at Barran Bluff or the P-Squadron personnel on Nineveh Base.”

  My analysis of the situation brings a moment of chilled silence.

  “Gentlemen,” Sar Gremian says in an icy tone, “I suggest we return to Madison. Now.”

  They depart, rapidly, leaving Phil to stare after them. When their aircar has gained sufficient airspace for horizontal flight, Phil mutters, “They shouldn’t a’been so upper-class snooty. First of all, it ain’t right. Second of all, it ain’t what POPPA is all about.”

  I do not respond, as my view of POPPA is at variance with his.

  Phil, apparently in all innocence, glances up at my warhull and asks, “What do you think?”

  I have been asked a question, allowing me to respond, rather than simply listen to complaints. “POPPA is composed of two tiers. The lower tier produces many outspoken members who make their demands known to the upper tier. The lower tier is derived from the inner-city population that serves as the base of the party. The lower tier’s members are generally educated in public school systems and if they aspire to advanced training, they are educated in facilities provided by the state. This wing constitutes the majority of POPPA’s membership, but contributes little or nothing to party theory or platform. It votes the party line and is rewarded with cash payments, subsidized housing, subsidized education, and occasionally preferential employment in government positions such as you hold, as my mechanic. The lower tier produces only a handful of clearly token individuals allowed to serve in high offices.

  “The upper tier, which includes most of the party’s management, virtually all the appointed and elected government officials, and all of the party’s decision-makers, is drawn exclusively from suburban areas where wealth is a fundamental criterion for admittance as a resident. These POPPA party me
mbers are generally educated at private schools and attend private colleges, many of them on Vishnu. They are not affected by food-rationing schemes, income caps, or taxation laws, as the legislation drafted and passed by members of their social group inevitably contains loopholes that effectively shelter their income and render them immune from unpleasant statutes that restrict the lives of lower-tier party members and all nonparty citizens.

  “POPPA’s leadership recognizes that in return for supporting a seemingly populist agenda, they can obtain all the votes they require to remain in power. Even the most cursory analysis of their actions and attitudes, however, indicates that they are not populists but, in fact, are strong antipopulists who actively despise their voting base. This is not merely demonstrated by such confrontations as you have just enjoyed with Sar Gremian, it is proven by their efforts to reduce public educational systems to a level most grade-school children on other worlds have surpassed, with the excuse that this curriculum is all that the students can handle. They have made the inner-city population base totally dependent on the government, which they control.

  “Their current actions are repressive and heavy-handed. Last year’s abolishment of the presidential election commission is a case in point. It was passed in clear violation of this world’s constitution, but has not been stricken down as unconstitutional. Until that legislation passed, POPPA was required to placate those elements of the party uncomfortable with an extremist agenda. That restraint no longer exists, paving the way for POPPA’s leadership to be as extremist as they wish. Given events of the last two days, I predict a harsh response that will clarify POPPA’s deeper agenda for everyone to see.”

  “But—” Phil sputters. “But that’s not what the party’s about! Not at all! POPPA loves the people! And I can prove it! POPPA takes money from all them rich farmers and gives it to the poor. And if that law was unconstitutional, then how come the High Court ain’t done anything about it?”

  “The High Court has been drawn, with the exception of a single individual, from the upper tier of POPPA leadership. I am fully aware that you have had no real historical training, but I can list fifteen cases from the last two years, alone, where high courts rendered purely political judgements that had nothing to do with justice and everything to do with political expediency. Your comment about the party’s intent only shows the logical fallacy of their statements. They say they want to help ‘the people,’ but their efforts have succeeded in lowering overall living conditions, reducing educational standards, and sharply curtailing individual freedom.

  “As to the ‘rich farmers,’ the agricultural producers remaining on Jefferson live on fifteen point seven-three percent less money than the poorest of the urban subsidy recipients. Yet they work sixty and seventy hours a week at hard physical labor and they endure a standard of living three times lower than conditions in Port Town’s worst slums. There are no ‘rich farmers’ anywhere on Jefferson.

  “There is a phrase from a major Terran religious text that is appropriate to this situation: ‘By their fruits shall you know them.’ POPPA has only one demonstrated attitude — contempt — and one demonstrable goal — total power. POPPA’s ruling echelon has very nearly achieved that goal, which will give party officials an open field in which to demonstrate its utter contempt of those it holds powerless. Jefferson is on the brink of political and economic disaster.”

  Phil stares, openmouthed. Then he says, “If you really believe alla that, how come you obey their orders? Especially the unconstitutional ones?”

  “My controlling authority rests solely with the president and is not governed by the constitution. My mission parameters were defined by Sector Command. I take advisement only from the president. As long as presidential orders do not exceed my parameters for ‘excessive collateral damage’ or conflict with my primary mission, I am under the president’s orders for rules of engagement.”

  Phil blinks several times. Finally manages to squeak, “You mean you’re the president’s personal Bolo?”

  “In effect, yes.”

  “And you do whatever the president orders?”

  “Yes. Unless it violates my mission or involves excessive collateral damage.”

  “What’s, uh, ‘excessive collateral damage?’ ”

  “There is an algorithm that determines the relative target worth versus the likelihood of collateral damage. One example is using a nuclear weapon to destroy a city from which I am taking ineffective fire. I cannot fire nuclear weapons at a city unless there is effective fire directed at my position.”

  “What if the fire is effective? Like, damaging your track.”

  “Then I can fire at will, as I did in combat against Anish Balin’s forces. In that engagement, no civilians lost their lives. Had that battle occurred in a city, rather than a military outpost, there would have been civilian deaths. It is unfortunate and I do my best to avoid this, but collateral damage happens. I am not proud of having crushed to death civilians in my attempt to reach Gifre Zeloc. Given the parameters of that engagement, with the constraints of not being able to fire my main weapons systems, I killed as few as possible while carrying out the immediate mission.”

  Phil does not speak. His jaw muscles clench. I detect an expression in his eyes that I have not seen there, before. Then he turns on his heel and stalks over to his groundcar. He slams the door and drives away, moving in a rapid and reckless manner. I am alone again.

  I do not like that feeling.

  III

  Three days later, Simon received an incoming call from The Star of Mali. Simon hadn’t seen his wife’s cousin since the wedding, but he knew Stefano Soteris at once.

  “Colonel Khrustinov?” Stefano asked, brow furrowed as he stared uncertainly into Simon’s ravaged face.

  “Hello, Stefano. Sorry about the alterations to my face. I didn’t have much of one left, after the aircrash. The surgeons did a damned fine job, sculpting a new one.”

  “I’m so sorry, Colonel—”

  “Simon,” he said gently.

  “Yes, sir,” Kafari’s cousin said, working to control his shock. “Very well, sir. We’ve just docked at Bombay Station. Can you meet us at eleven hundred hours, Gate Seventeen?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Stefano just nodded and ended the transmission. Simon stepped through the shower, then dragged on a good dress shirt and slacks, even a jacket. He looked bad enough, as it was. He didn’t need to compound it with sloppy clothes, particularly not today, when he’d be meeting Yalena. He hadn’t seen his daughter in two years. He wouldn’t know her and she wouldn’t know him. They’d never really known one another at all. Trying to adjust to one another’s company, particularly since Yalena did not see eye-to-eye with him, was going to be difficult for both of them.

  He had to move slowly, even with the servo-motors of his leg braces, which allowed him to walk faster than he could with only the crutch canes. Time was, he’d feared that he would never walk again. It had taken two years of on-going treatments and hard work just to get this far. He wanted to call Sheila Brisbane and ask her to go with him, but decided against it. Yalena had enough to adjust to, without throwing in the company of a woman whose presence could be misconstrued as evidence of an affair.

  No, he wouldn’t do that to Yalena or himself. Or Captain Brisbane.

  By the time he reached the spaceport and parked his groundcar, he had a serious case of jitters. He didn’t know which was worse: dreading the reunion with his daughter — and the lie he must tell her, about Kafari — or the difficulties he would face during Yalena’s adjustment, which would be tough on them both. He stopped at a small gift shop and bought a bouquet of flowers, following the old Russian custom handed down through his family generation after generation. The Khrustinovs who’d left Terra had carried that tradition from one star system to another as they spread out and made homes for themselves on distant, scattered worlds.

  He hoped the custom would earn a smile, at least. He wanted to see
a smile, even a half smile, on his daughter’s face before he told her about her mother’s death. He reached Gate Seventeen with scant minutes to spare. He had barely settled into a chair when the shuttle landed, sliding gracefully into the docking bay he could see through the tall glass windows. The engines cut off. Simon rose to his feet, clutching the flowers in one hand, and waited, not quite sure what to expect.

  Then he caught sight of her. The teen-aged girl who stepped off the Star of Mali’s shuttle was no longer a child. She looked up at him through eyes that had seen too much horror. He knew that look, had seen it in the eyes of soldiers fresh from combat, had faced it in his bathroom mirror all too many times since Etaine.

  Yalena had grown, during the past two years. Tall and willowy, she had her mother’s face, something he’d never noticed before. Her footsteps slowed when she saw him. The look in her eyes hurt. He moved forward to greet her, holding out the flowers. She took them, not even speaking, and buried her nose in their fragrance.

  “Mom wouldn’t come,” she whispered, the words muffled against the flower petals.

  “I know,” Simon told her, dreading what he was about to do. He had to force himself to say it. “I received a SWIFT transmission. Before you got here.”

  “From Mom?” Her voice wavered.

  “No,” he lied. “Your mother… didn’t make it. She was shot by a P-Squad dragoon, trying to slip out of the spaceport. They’re shooting looters on sight and they don’t bother to ask for credentials first.” That last part was true, at least. They were shooting looters on sight.

  Blood drained from her face so fast, she swayed. “No…”

  He tried to steady her. She jerked away, rigid. “It’s my fault!” she cried. “Mine! She came into town just to get me out. We walked all night through the sewers. She put me in that cargo box to save my life! And some stinking P-Squad—” She dissolved into hysterical weeping. Simon caught her, held her close. The sound of her grief, knife-edged and raw, made him want to take the words back, to reassure her. But he couldn’t — just couldn’t — trust her yet.