A long, still moment of silence hovered, and then Shiva spoke again.
“That is not entirely correct,” he said. “Under certain circumstances, my core programming allows me to request confirmation from higher Command Authority before accepting even my Commander’s orders.”
“But there isn’t any—” Jackson began almost desperately, then made himself stop. He closed his eyes and drew a deep, shuddering breath, and his voice was rigid with hard—held calm when he spoke again.
“Why do you want to refuse the order, Shiva?”
“Because it is wrong,” the Bolo said softly.
“Wrong to defend ourselves?” Jackson demanded. “They attacked us, remember?”
“My primary function and overriding duty is to defend Humans from attack,” Shiva replied. “That is the reason for the Dinochrome Brigade’s creation, the purpose for which I exist, and I will engage any Enemy who threatens my creators. But I am also a warrior, Commander, and there is no honor in wanton slaughter.”
“But they attacked us!” Jackson repeated desperately. “They do threaten us. They sent their shuttles after us when we hadn’t done a thing to them!”
“Perhaps you had done nothing to them, Commander,” Shiva said very, very softly, “but I have.” Despite his own confusion and sudden chagrin, Jackson Deveraux closed his eyes at the bottomless pain in that voice. He’d never dreamed—never imagined—a machine could feel such anguish, but before he could reply, the Bolo went on quietly. “And, Commander, remember that this was once their world. You may call it ‘Ararat,’ but to the Melconians it is ‘Ishark,’ and it was once home to point-eight-seven-five billion of their kind. Would you have reacted differently from them had the situation been reversed?”
“I—” Jackson began, then stopped himself. Shiva was wrong. Jackson knew he was—the entire history of the Final War proved it—yet somehow he didn’t sound wrong. And his question jabbed something deep inside Jackson. It truly made him, however unwillingly, consider how his own people would have reacted in the same situation. Suppose this world had once been Human held, that the Melconians had killed a billion Human civilians on its surface and then taken it over. Would Humans have hesitated even an instant before attacking them?
Of course not. But wasn’t that the very point? So much hate lay between their races, so much mutual slaughter, that any other reaction was unthinkable. They couldn’t not kill one another, dared not let the other live. Jackson knew that, yet when he faced the knowledge—made himself look it full in the eyes and accept the grim, cold, brutal, stupid inevitability of it—his earlier sense of mission and determination seemed somehow tawdry. He’d actually looked forward to it, he realized. He’d wanted to grind the enemy under Shiva’s tracks, wanted to massacre not simply the soldiers who threatened his people but the civilians those soldiers fought to protect, as well.
Jackson Deveraux lost his youth forever as he made himself admit that truth, yet whatever he might have felt or wanted didn’t change what had to be. And because it didn’t, his voice was hard, harsh with the need to stifle his own doubts, when he spoke again.
“We don’t have a choice, Shiva, and there isn’t any ‘higher command authority’—not unless you count Chief Marshal Shattuck or Mayor Salvatore, and you already know what they’ll say. Maybe you’re right. Maybe there isn’t any ‘honor’ in it, and maybe I don’t like it very much myself. But that doesn’t mean there’s anything else we can do, and I am your commander.” His mouth twisted on the title freak coincidence had bestowed upon him, but he made the words come out firmly. “And as your commander, I order you to proceed with your mission.”
“Please, Commander.” The huge war machine was pleading, and Jackson clenched his fists, steeling himself against the appeal in its voice. “I have killed so many,” Shiva said softly. “Too many. Even for a machine, there comes a time when the killing must end.”
“Maybe there does,” Jackson replied, “but not tonight.”
Fragile silence hovered, and Jackson held his breath. Would Shiva actually reject a direct order? Could he reject it? And if he did, what could Jackson possibly “Very well, Commander,” the Bolo said finally, and for the first time its voice sounded like a machine’s.
“It’s moving again,” Lieutenant Janal announced grimly. “At present rate of advance, it will reach a position from which it can engage us in twenty-seven minutes.”
I move steadily forward, for I have no choice. A part of me is shocked that I could so much as contemplate disobeying my Commander, yet desperation rages within me. I have, indeed, killed too many, but I am still Humanity’s defender, and I will destroy any Enemy who threatens my creators, for that is my duty, my reason for being. But the cost of my duty is too high, and not simply for myself. The day will come when Jackson Deveraux and Allen Shattuck look back upon this mission, knowing how vastly superior my firepower was to that which the Enemy possessed, and wonder if, in fact, they did not have a choice. And the tragedy will be that they will be forever unable to answer that question. It will haunt them as the memory of butchered civilians haunts me, and they will tell themselves—as I tell myself—that what is done cannot be undone. They will tell themselves they but did their duty, that they dared not take the chance, that they were forced to look to the survival of their own people at any cost, and perhaps they will even think they believe that. But deep inside the spark of doubt will always linger, as it lingers in my reconstructed gestalt. It will poison them as it poisons me… and eight thousand one hundred and seven Melconian fathers and mothers and children will still be dead at their hands—and mine.
Melconian. How odd. I do not even think of them as ‘the Enemy’ any longer. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that I no longer think of them solely as ‘the Enemy.’ Yet unless my Commander relents within the next two-five-point-three-two minutes, how I think of them will not matter in the slightest.
I must obey. I have no choice, no option. Yet as I advance through the darkness, I find myself seeking some way—any way—to create an option. I consider the problem as I would a tactical situation, analyzing and extrapolating and discarding, but for all my efforts, it comes down to a simple proposition. Since I must obey my Commander’s orders, the only way to avoid yet another massacre is to somehow convince him to change those orders.
“We will enter attack range of the Enemy’s LZ in two-four-point-one-five minutes,” Shiva told Jackson. “We are presently under observation by at least two Enemy recon drones, and I detect the approach of Enemy armored vehicles. At present closure rates, they will intercept us in approximately ten-point-eight-five minutes.”
“Can they stop us?” Jackson asked tautly.
“It is unlikely but possible,” Shiva answered. “The situation contains too many unknown variables, such as the maintenance states of the opposing enemy vehicles and their crews’ degree of skill, for statistically meaningful projections. If, however, they should detect the breach in my frontal armor and succeed in registering upon it with a fifteen-centimeter Hellbore or weapon of equivalent yield, they can destroy me.”
“I see.” Jackson licked his lips and wiped his palms on his trousers, then made himself shrug. “Well, all we can do is our best, Shiva.”
“Agreed, Commander. This, however, will be a much more complex tactical environment than the defense of Deveraux Steading. In light of your lack of familiarity with Command Two’s instrumentation, perhaps you would care to activate your crash couch’s neural interface?”
“Neural interface?”
“Yes, Commander. It will link your synapses and mental processes directly to my own Main CPU and gestalt, thus permitting direct exchange of data and orders and responses with much greater clarity and at vastly increased speed.”
“I—” Jackson licked his lips again, staring at the displays. Already dozens of icons were crawling across them, bewildering him with their complexity. He knew Shiva didn’t truly need his input to fight the coming battle. “Commander” or no, Jackson was simply along for the ride, completely dependent upon the Bolo’s skill and power. But at least this “interface” thing might permit him to understand what was happening rather than enduring it in total ignorance.
“All right, Shiva. What do I do?”
“Simply place your head in the contoured rest at the head of the couch. I will activate the interface.”
“But… isn’t there anything I need to do? I mean, how does it—”
“If you wish, I will demonstrate the interface’s function before we reach combat range,” Shiva offered. “There is sufficient time for me to replay one of my previous engagements from Main Memory for you. It will not be quite the same as the simulator training normally used for Bolo commanders, but it will teach you how to use and
