nowhere.”
“Not really.” Esteban blinked as Merrit disagreed with him. “Oh, you’ve always been a farming world, and I’m not saying there was ever anything here worth raiding for, but your system’s in a fairly strategic spot. The Navy’s pre-war strategic planning had included the possibility of using Santa Cruz to stage operations against the Quern, you know. Until Hillman and Sixth Fleet smashed their spearhead at Quellok and obviated the need to, that is.”
“Maybe,” Esteban said dubiously, then chuckled. “ ‘Course, even if that was true then, there ain’t no cause for anyone t’be interested in us now, now is there? I mean, there ain’t no more Quern t’operate against!”
“That’s true, I suppose. On the other hand, now that they’ve charted the jump points to open up the Esterhazy Sector, you may see a lot more shipping moving through here.” The two men had reached the welcome shade of the admin building, and Merrit paused to sweep his eyes back over the field. “Santa Cruz is well placed as a natural transfer point for cargoes and passengers moving through to Esterhazy-or, for that matter, down from the Camperdown Sector-and you’ve certainly got a nice big field.”
“Wouldn’t happen t’be that’s why Central finally got around t’taking a look our way, would it?” Esteban asked shrewdly.
“It could be, Mister Esteban. It could indeed be. In the meantime, however, I have my own responsibilities to look after. Is there anywhere around here I could rent or borrow a vehicle?”
“Shoot, son, I can do better’n that,” Esteban said with a huge grin. “Seeing as how I’m the base CO and all, I reckon I can let you use the vehicle park. I got a nice little recon skimmer I can let you have.”
“You do?” Merrit sounded surprised, and Esteban’s grin grew still broader.
” ‘Course I do. I might not’a known anything ‘bout your Bolo, Captain, but when the Navy pulled out, they left most’a their base vehicles behind in the depot over there. We’ve even got most of a battalion of old Wolverine heavy tanks tucked away in there.”
“They’re still operable?”
“Accordin’ t’the depot diagnostics they are. The Militia-what there is of it-trains with ‘em every four, five months. Don’t see any harm in it. After all, they’re as outa date as the whole field is, and iffen the Navy was interested in ‘em, it shoulda taken ‘em with it when it pulled everything else out. Still, I promised old Albright I’d look after ‘em for him. Old fellow was always pretty decent-taught me a lot about ‘tronics and system maintenance when I was a snot-nosed kid-so I figured it was the least I could do for him.”
“Well, in that case, I’ll take you up on that skimmer, Mister Esteban,” Merrit said.
“Lorenco, Captain,” Esteban said, holding out his hand once more. “We don’t stand much on formality out here, and iffen you’re gonna become a Cruzan, y’might as well get comfortable.”
3
Merrit double-checked the skimmer’s IFF transponder as the surface portion of the depot bunker came into sight. The depot was buried in otherwise virgin jungle over a hundred kilometers from the field, and he wondered why it hadn’t been installed right at the fleet base, given that the initial idea had been to deter attacks and that any attacker would make the field and Ciudad Bolivar his first objectives. Of course, there was no reason for the depot’s location to make any more sense than any of the rest of the Santa Cruz Detachment’s puzzles.
He studied the skimmer’s radar map of the terrain below him. From the looks of things, the depot’s inconvenient distance from the field might have been a security measure of some sort. It was the sole sign of human handiwork for a hundred klicks in any direction, and the surrounding jungle’s steel-cable creepers had overgrown the site almost completely. Not even Santa Cruz flora could break up the six solid meters of ceramacrete that formed the depot’s landing and service apron, yet enormous trees, some well over eighty meters tall, overhung it, and creepers and vines festooned the entire command bunker. The solar power panels were clear-kept that way by the depot’s automatic servo-mechs, he supposed-but the rest of the site was covered in a dense cocoon like Sleeping Beauty’s thorny fortress.
His mouth twitched at the thought of Sleeping Beauty. No one (except, perhaps, a member of the Dinochrome Brigade) would call any Bolo a beauty, but his instruments had already confirmed that Bolo XXIII/B- 0075-NKE was still active in there, and he hoped the same remotes which had kept the power panels on-line had kept the old war machine from slipping into senility. The emissions he was picking up suggested the Bolo was on Stand-By… which was why he’d made damned certain his IFF was functioning.
His small smile turned into a frown as he set the skimmer down and surveyed the greenery between him and the bunker’s personnel entrance. According to the fragmentary records Ursula Central had been able to reconstruct, the Bolo’s first (and only) commander had been a Major Marina Stavrakas. He hadn’t been able to find much on her-only that she’d been an R amp;D specialist, born in the city of Athens on Old Earth itself, and that she’d been forty-six years old when she was assigned here. R amp;D types seldom drew field command slots, which suggested she’d been grabbed in a hurry for the Bolo’s emergency deployment, but experienced field officer or no, she must have been insane to leave a Bolo permanently on Stand-By. Either that, or, like Commander Albright, she’d died unexpectedly and been unable to change the settings. Either way, a Bolo as old as this was nothing to have sitting around in that mode.
Before the improved autonomous discretionary command circuitry that had come on-line with the Mark XXIV, Bolos had a hard time differentiating between “unauthorized” and “hostile” when someone entered their command areas. They’d been self-aware ever since the old Mark XX, but their psychotronics had been hedged around with so many safeguards that they were effectively limited to battlefield analysis and response. From the beginning, some critics had argued that the inhibitory software and hardwired security features had reduced the Bolos’ potential effectiveness by a significant margin, yet the logic behind the original safety measures had been persuasive.
The crudity of the initial psychodynamic technology had meant the early self-aware Bolos possessed fairly “bloodthirsty” personalities, and the human technophobia an ancient pre-space writer had dubbed “the Frankenstein Complex” had shaped their programming. Nothing in the known galaxy had thought faster or fought smarter than a Bolo in Battle Reflex Mode; outside direct combat, they’d been granted the initiative of a rock and a literal- mindedness which, coupled with multiple layers of override programming, had made them totally dependent upon humans for direction. When something with the size and firepower of a Bolo was capable of any self-direction, its creators had wanted to make damned sure there were plenty of cutouts in the process to keep it from running amok… or to stop it-dead-if it did.
The inhibitory software had done just that, but at a price. Full integration of a Bolo’s personality had been possible only in Battle Mode. The division of its cybernetic and psychotronic functions into separate subsystems had been a deliberate part of design security intended to place the Bolo’s full capabilities beyond its own reach except in combat. Effectively, that reduced its “IQ” to a fraction of its total potential even at Normal Alert Readiness, for the huge machines simply were never fully “awake” outside combat. But because the Bolos’ autonomous functions operated solely in Battle Mode, they had, perversely, been more likely, not less, to go rogue if system senility set in. The only thing they’d known how to do on their own was to fight, after all, and if any failing system or corrupted inhibitory command file toggled their autonomy Merrit suppressed a familiar shiver at the thought of what a Bolo that thought its friends were its enemies could do. It hadn’t happened often, thank God, but once was too many times. That was the main reason the Dinochrome Brigade had spent decades hunting down abandoned and obsolescent Bolos from Mark XX to Mark XXIII and burning out their command centers. Hideously unpopular as that duty had always been with the personnel assigned to it, they’d had no choice. “Sleeping” Bolos were too dangerous to leave lying around, and the cost efficiency people had concluded (with reason, no doubt, if not precisely with compassion) that it would have been too expensive to refit the older Bolos’ psychotronics to modern standards.
All of which meant it was probably a very good thing no one on Santa Cruz had remembered this Bolo was here. If anyone had remembered and come hunting for salvage, or even just for a curious peek at the old site, Stavrakas’ Stand-By order would almost certainly have unleashed the Bolo on the “hostiles,” with catastrophic consequences.
He sighed and popped the skimmer hatch, then climbed out into the sound of Santa Cruz’s jungle wildlife
