The display focused on them for a moment, and then Nike moved slowly backward. The lizard cat tried to fling itself on the moving tread, only to tumble backward with a squall of pain as the Bolo brought up her kinetic interdiction battle screen. She must have it on its lowest possible power setting, since it hadn’t splattered the cat all over the jungle, but it was sufficient to throw the scaly mother safely away from her treads.
The lizard cat heaved herself groggily to her feet, swaying for balance, then howled in victory as the threat to her young gave ground. Nike retreated a full hundred meters, then pivoted to her left once more to circle wide, and Merrit shook his head with a wondering smile. Any other Bolo would simply have kept going. Even if it had realized the den lay in its path, that wouldn’t have mattered to it. But no other Bolo he’d ever served with would even have thought to wonder why the cat had attacked in the first place, much less acted to preserve both mother and children.
The Bolo started forward once more, skirting the den, and he patted the couch arm.
“Nice move, Nike, but how’d you guess? I just thought the critter was out of its mind.”
“I have not previously personally encountered a lizard cat,” Nike replied calmly, “but the depot’s computers are tied into the planetary data net. I have thus been able to amass considerable data on Santa Cruzan life forms, yet none of the records available to me suggested a reason for a lizard cat to attack me. I am neither edible nor small enough for it to hope to kill me; as such, it could not regard me as prey, and lizard cats are less territorial than most large predators. They are also noted for their intelligence, and, faced with a foe of my size and power, the only intelligent choice would have been for the creature to flee, yet it did not. Thus the only logical basis for its actions was that it perceived me as a threat it could not evade, yet the lizard cat itself manifestly could have evaded me. That suggested a protective reaction on its part, not one of pure aggression, and that, in turn, suggested investigation to determine the nature of that which it sought to protect.”
Merrit shook his head, eyes shining as he listened to the explanation no other Bolo would have been capable of making.
“I follow your logic,” he said, “but why stop?”
“Your tone suggests what Major Stavrakas called ‘a trick question,’ Commander. Are you, in fact, seeking to test me?”
“I suppose I am, but the question still stands. Why didn’t you just keep going?”
“There was no need to do so, Commander. No time parameter has been set for this exercise, and avoiding the creature’s den presents no inherent difficulty.”
“That’s an explanation of the consequences, Nike. Why did you even consider not continuing straight forward?”
He watched an auxiliary display as the mother lizard cat, still snarling after the threat to her cubs, retreated into her half-ruined den, and Nike moved smoothly along her way for perhaps five seconds before she replied.
“I did not wish to, Commander. There was no need to destroy that creature or her young, and I did not desire to do so. It would have been… wrong.”
“Compassion, Nike? For an animal?”
There was another moment of silence, and when the Bolo spoke once more, it was not in direct answer.
“What was that?” Merrit wondered aloud.
“A poem, Commander. More precisely, the first verse of the poem ‘To a Mouse,’ by Robert Burns, a poet of Old Earth.”
“Poetry, Nike?” Merrit stared at the command console in disbelief, and the speaker made a small, soft sound that could only be called a laugh.
“Indeed, Commander. Major Stavrakas was a great devotee of humanity’s pre-space poets. My earliest memory here on Santa Cruz is of her reading Homer to me.”
“She read poetry to you? She didn’t just feed it into your memory?”
“She did that, as well, after I requested her to do so, yet I believe she was correct not to do so immediately. It was her belief that poetry is a social as well as a creative art, a mode of communication which distills the critical essence of the author’s emotions and meaning and makes them transferable to another. As such, it reaches its fullest potential only when shared, knowingly and consciously. Indeed, I believe it is the act of sharing that makes poetry what Major Stavrakas called a ‘soul transfusion,’ and it was her hope that sharing it with me would complete the task of enabling the emotion aspects of my Personality Center.”
“And did it?” Merrit asked very softly.
“I am not certain. I have attempted to compute the probability that my ‘emotions’ and those of a human are, indeed, comparable, yet I have been unable to do so. My evaluations lack critical data, in that I do not know if I have, in fact, what humans call a ‘soul,’ Commander. But if I do, then poetry speaks directly to it.”
“My God,” Merrit whispered, and stared at the console for another long, silent moment. Then he shook himself and spoke very seriously. “Nike, this is a direct order. Do not discuss poetry, your emotions, or souls with anyone else without my express authorization.”
“Acknowledged.” For just an instant, Nike’s soprano was almost as flat as any other Bolo’s, but then it returned to normal. “Your order is logged, Commander. Am I permitted to inquire as to the reason for it?”
“You most certainly are.” He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “This entire conversation comes under the heading of ‘aberrant behavior’ for a Bolo, Nike. Any Bolo tech would hit every alarm button in sight if he heard you saying things like that, and as soon as he did, they’d shut you down. They’d probably settle for removing your brain from your hull for further study, but I can’t be positive.”
“Are you instructing me to deceive our superiors, Commander?” Nike’s tone was undeniably uncomfortable, and Merrit closed his eyes for a moment.
“I’m instructing you not to advertise your capabilities until I’ve gotten a handle on all the, um, unauthorized modifications Major Stavrakas made to you,” he said carefully. “In my judgment, you represent an enormous advance in psychotronic technology which must be carefully studied and evaluated, but before I risk trying to convince anyone else of that, I need a better understanding of you of my own. In the meantime, I don’t want you saying-or doing-anything that might prompt some uniformed mental pygmy to wipe your Personality Center in a fit of panic.”
The Bolo forged ahead in silence for some moments while she pondered his explanation, and then the green light under the speaker blinked.
“Thank you for the explanation, Captain Merrit. You are my Commander, and the order does not contravene any of the regulations in my memory. As such, I will, of course, obey it.”
“And you understand the reasoning behind it?”
“I do, Commander.” Nike’s voice was much softer, and Merrit sighed in relief. He relaxed in his crash couch, watching the screens as the Bolo slid unstoppably through the jungle, and smiled.
“Good, Nike. In the meantime, why not read me a little more poetry?”
“Of course, Commander. Do you have a preferred author?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know any poems, Nike, much less poets. Perhaps you could select something.”
There was another moment of silence as the Bolo considered her Library Memory. Then the speaker made the sound of a politely cleared throat. “Do you speak Greek, Commander?”
“Greek?” Merrit frowned. “ ‘Fraid not.”
