Indira frowned. She had told the captain she didn't want 'Lima's head filled with tales from that b.l.o.o.d.y fiasco. The wheedling tone in her daughter's voice disturbed her. She would not encourage the girl to follow in her father's footsteps and go running off to join the Navy. Indira had suffered enough distress thanks to the Navy. Besides, the Deng war was old history, fought two hundred years ago. They were here to start a new life together. She didn't want the lingering wreckage of the last war to start any foolish, romantic illusions of glory in her only child's mind.

"Forget it, 'Lima. Those machines are dangerous, even when they look harmless. We have work to do. Don't you want to help with the new puppies?"

Her daughter cast one last look over her shoulder, toward the ruined fort, then trotted obediently at her heels. Indira was deeply thankful when 'Lima began chattering excitedly about the litter of puppies that had arrived early, while they were still aboard ship. Indira still winced at the expense of transporting Sufi; but leaving her behind would not only have precipitated war in their little household, it would have meant at least a six-year setback in Indira's research.

She had a feeling Sufi's puppies were going to change the colonists' lives forever. She smiled in antic.i.p.ation and grabbed the handle of the servo-truck which held their luggage.

"Can you find our new house?" she asked it.

"Proceed three blocks east, turn left and proceed seven blocks. You have been a.s.signed the last house in the cul-de-sac. It is painted green, with black roof and shutters."

'Lima giggled. Indira grinned. It was good to see her daughter smiling again. "Well, don't just stand there. Let's go home and see what it looks like!"

-3-.

I do not know how much time has pa.s.sed. I return to awareness and fade again, how many times I am unable to calculate. This inability disturbs me. I probe during consciousness for damage. I find it everywhere I investigate. My internal linkages are so battered I am unable to scan for damage in many sections. One of my forward sensors still functions. I am able to see the battlefield which I recall in shattered fragments. My crystal memory banks are clearly damaged beyond repair. Power reserves continue to drain in frightening increments from my fission reactor, wasting irreplaceable fuel, as intermittent shorts drain my power plant. I am forced to shut down all diagnostic and other non-essential activity and retreat again into my Survival Center. Perhaps with sufficient power, I could determine the extent of my injuries; but I am not certain even unlimited power reserves would allow me to run full diagnostics.

I do not understand why my new Commander did not transmit the coded order to engage my Command Override circuit, thus completely burning my Action/Command center. The pa.s.sage of time and the hazy recollection of enemy forces around me suggests that no new Commander survived to transmit the code. Perhaps I am too badly damaged even for the Enemy to have made use of me. During recent periods of near-awareness, I recall only the sounds of empty wind. No Enemy activity has been detected during the last dozen times I have awakened into solitude.

Other sounds come to my sensors. My shattered data banks register them as falling conifer cones bouncing against my hull. There were no trees inside the compound. A very long time has pa.s.sed, if mature conifers drop cones on me. Has the Enemy completely destroyed humanity? The shame I feel at my failure to carry out my mission skitters through broken wire-ends and jumps spark gaps into other memory cells. If humanity has survived, then I have been abandoned. I am irreparable. I am alone. A sizzle sputters somewhere in my vocal circuitry and my voice stutters into the silence, uncontrollably.

"Yavac. Yavac. Yavac. Yavac. Yavac . . . Hold. Hold. Hold . . ."

The sizzle fades.

Darkness returns, with the sound of cones falling against my scarred back.

-4-.

"Double-dog dare you!"

"I'm not going!"

Bradley Dault laughed in that derisive way little boys manage when dealing with all lesser beings. Kalima Tennyson glared at him, hating Bradley for relegating her to that status.

"You're skeered!" he taunted, fists planted on hips, legs akimbo in the faded autumn sunshine.

"Am not!"

" 'Lima's a 'fraidy cat! 'Lima's a 'fraidy cat!"

She took a threatening step forward. "I am not afraid! It's just stupid! There's nothing over there but a bunch of rusted, burned out old ruins."

"Hah! That's your mama talking, not you. Your daddy wouldn't be skeered to go, Kah-Lima Tennyson!" He emphasized the first half of the name her father had given her--the half her mother wouldn't use. Her mother had come to despise everything which remotely smacked of violence, including her ancient ancestors who had worshipped as Thuggees.

Bradley was dancing around her like a disjointed marionette, chanting, "Kalima's a chicken! Kalima's a chicken! I'll bet your big famous daddy was really a chicken, too!"

Kalima was under express orders never to fight, no matter what the provocation.

Bradley's face glowed with evil glee. He poked at her while shouting, "Chicken, chicken, chic-"

She put her whole seventy-one pounds of thirteen-year-old muscle behind the punch. The blow landed squarely on Bradley's nose. He squealed and flipped backwards in the dirt. She stood over him, fists still clenched, jaw stiff.

"Don't talk about my dad! Ever!"

Then she whirled, ignoring the sting and ache in her knuckles, and left Bradley sucking blood up his nose. Bradley Dault was a pig. The whole colony knew it. He deserved everything Kalima could think up to do to him. And she was not afraid to explore the old ruins! It was just plain stupid, was all. Just as she'd told Bradley. The ruins were dangerous and not only because of the old Bolo jammed into the gates. The ancient fighting machines had been known to short out, go berserk, and inflict terrific casualties against civilian populations before running out of power.

Their Bolo, however, the one lodged in the old fortification's gates, had been inert for the entire three years she'd been on Donner's World. Everyone said it had been dead for two centuries, killed in the last battle with the Deng before they overran the planet. No one in the whole colony believed their Bolo was any more dangerous than the pine cones falling on it. But the wall around the old colonists' compound continued crumbling under its flintsteel sheath, which meant that occasionally whole sections came down with a thunderous crash where the war had cracked the black-violet alloy casing.

Kalima didn't want to be under any of that wall when it came down.

Still, the Pig had issued a challenge. She would lose stature in the eyes of the other kids if she didn't respond suitably. And the taunt about her father stung more than she cared to admit. It wasn't easy, Kalima scowled as she jogged over the broken valley toward the distant ruins, being the only child of a genuine war hero.

She had been aware most of her life that her mother had never forgiven Major Donald Tennyson for getting himself killed. Kalima wasn't sure what she thought about her father's death. She remembered sitting on her father's lap, listening for hours to the stories he told about combat duty and the Navy and the wonder of the newest Bolos. After school lessons, she'd spent hours reading everything she could about the Bolos, about the worlds her father's unit had seen, about the Navy. For a long time, she'd wanted to grow up and follow him into service.

Then, shortly after her eighth birthday, the message that had changed her mother into another person and left a giant hole in her own life had arrived, along with the posthumous medal for valor. Her mother had thrown the medal away and immersed herself in her work. Kalima had secretly rescued it again and hidden it in her personal belongings; then she had spent a lonely couple of years trying to keep herself interested in schoolwork that was suddenly the dullest thing she had ever been forced to do.

But her mother's work had paid off, handsomely. The result had been not only a new home on Donner's World, where they could start fresh, but also a companion that took everyone's mind off the past.

Behind her, faint in the distance but growing rapidly closer, Kalima heard an emphatic series of barks. She knew what that particular code meant. She kept going anyway. Sufi would track her without difficulty, but not even the dog was going to stop her this time. She'd prove to everyone, including her mother, that Major Tennyson's daughter was no coward.

The Bolo really was jammed into the crumbling gates. The closer she jogged to the ruined walls, the larger the ancient fighting machine loomed. It was at least fifty feet from treads to turret. Gaping holes in its armor revealed the extent to which it had suffered damage doing its duty. The enormous h.e.l.lbore guns were silent, coated in a reddish scale of rust. Her father had told her eye-popping stories about Bolos, about how difficult they were to kill.

Was this one really dead? Just because everyone thought it was . . .

She paused well outside its anti-personnel-charge range and scooped up a rock. Kalima heaved with all her strength. The rock thudded into the dirt a few feet short of the Bolo's right tread. No movement creaked anywhere on the machine. It sat staring blindly forward, a metallic corpse left to lie where it had fallen.

"Huh. Maybe it really is dead."

A low growl behind her was followed by three short, sharp barks.

"You're a bad girl," was the message.

Kalima turned toward her nursemaid. "I'm not a little girl anymore, Sufi. I'm thirteen and I know exactly what I'm doing."

Sufi's short tail wagged once. That message was clear, too: Humor her.

"Huh. I'm going closer to the Bolo."

Sufi barked once, warningly; then tried to interpose her body between Kalima and the defeated engine of war.

"Forget it, Sufi. I'm going to get a good look at it. The Pig isn't going to get away with calling me a chicken."

Sufi's ears p.r.i.c.ked, then her jaws opened in a canine laugh.

Kalima stalked away, conscious of her own wounded dignity. The closer she drew to the dead Bolo, however, the slower her footsteps shuffled. Old bomb craters pitted the ground, overlapping one another until the footing was so rough she stumbled at every other stride.

"Must have been some battle, huh, Sufi?"

She tried to picture it and decided not even her vivid imagination could do justice to what must have taken place here. The Bolo's long, chilly shadow stretched over her head and left her shivering at the foot of its enormous treads. Each tread was ten feet from edge to edge. She had to tilt her head to look up at the war hull. The whole surface was uneven, where special armor--her Dad had called it "ablative"--had blown off in layers under Enemy fire.

Each little section of special armor was six-sided; the combined effect of interlocking pieces reminded her of the honeycombs built by the colony's bees. Most of the honeycomb-shaped armor was gone. Forlorn scales and patches remained. In places the layers ran at least four deep. Most of the Bolo's exterior was naked flintsteel, its iodine hue having long since lost any vestige of polish. Kalima wondered how many layers of armor had been blown away, even in the patches where it remained four layers deep?

She tilted her head back farther, trying to see up the imposing prow.

"There's a designation up there," Kalima muttered. "I'm going to see if I can find it."

The dog whined sharply when she put her foot on the nearest rung and started to climb. Kalima paused, waiting to see if the Bolo would respond; but it just sat there, rusting away under the late autumn sun. She climbed higher. The designation ought to be right about . . .

There. Mark XX Model B, Tremendous, Unit Six Seven Zero GWN, Dinochrome Brigade Three. "Wow. Look at those battle decorations!"

Despite the rust and the battle scars, she counted six, each from a different world.

"Poor old Bolo." She climbed higher, up to the turret. The war machine was twice as long as it was high, jammed so solidly into the gates, it didn't look like anything, not even a nuclear blast, would ever budge it loose. "Mr. Hickson told us the Navy didn't even bother burning your Action/Command center. The Deng did it for them, two hundred years ago. It's kind of sad, I think, hunting out the members of the Dinochrome Brigade, just to wipe out their brains. It's not a very nice way to treat a combat veteran." She stroked the pitted hull. "Maybe," she sighed, outlining a long, jagged scar with her fingertip, "maybe it is better you got killed in battle."

Kalima glanced over the top of the mighty war machine's turret, into the compound itself. Every building inside had been smashed open, burnt out, obliterated. Not even skeletons remained of the hapless colonists who had died here.

"It's too bad you were a gonner, Unit Six Seven Zero. I'll bet this was a nice place before the Deng came."

On the ground, Sufi emitted a shrill yelp, then barked frantically to get her attention. At first, Kalima wasn't sure what had agitated her genetically enhanced nursemaid. Then she felt the tremor. Earthquake? Her eyes widened and she grabbed for the nearest rung to scramble down before the wall on either side of the Bolo collapsed.

A metallic screech, like bending rebar, half deafened her. She stared around wildly for the source- The h.e.l.lbore guns were moving.

They tracked jerkily, halted, then moved another two inches. Somewhere in the depths of the critically wounded Bolo, an engine groaned and wheezed. The sound died away, leaving Kalima shaking atop the uppermost rung.

"It isn't dead! It isn't dead at all and I'm stuck up here . . ."

If she tried to jump down, the Bolo might trigger anti-personnel charges. What if she couldn't get down, ever? No one would even be able to rescue her, get close enough . . .

Then she heard a sound that made her hair stand on end.

The Bolo was talking. . . .

-5-.

I become aware of sunlight and the sound of machinery close to me: over the nearest ridge, no farther than the next valley. The Enemy has returned!

Then a human voice enters my awareness. My Commander is gone, has been dead for many, many years. Has a new Commander sought me out at last? The voice nears; then I feel a human hand on my war hull. My forward sensor is still functional. It is a human, a small human, with another creature that I should know but do not. My data banks are too damaged to recall the information once stored in that memory cell.

The small human climbs nearer to my turret. I will not open myself to it. I await the private code, which my long-lost Commander has told me to wait for. It seems unlikely to me, even in my battered, power-weakened state, that a new Commander can know my private code after such a long pa.s.sage of years. I search through what remains of my memory cells and recall the voice of my beloved Commander, lost to me through my own failure and the weight of unknown years.

"Unit Six Seven Zero GWN, everyone's taken to calling you Gawain. I think that's a fine name, don't you?"

"Agreed. Gawain was a n.o.ble warrior, worthy of a place in the Dinochrome Brigade."

My Commander's rich laugh fills my sensors. "If I didn't know better, I'd say someone programmed a sense of humor into your Introspection Complex. I'll tell you what, though, Gawain. We've got to work out a private code between us, to ensure proper transfer of command. How about something that rhymes with my name. Any ideas?"

I consider the challenge. "Donner. This name rhymes with honor, gonner . . ."

"Hey, Gonner. I like that. It's even close to your designation, but not close enough to be obvious. Donner's Gonner, 'cause when we hit 'em, they're gonners! How's that sound?"

"I will file the code word Gonner as my Commander's private security access code."

"Hah, you don't fool me. You like it just fine . . ."

The small human climbing on my hull speaks again. ". . . you were a gonner, Unit Six Seven Zero . . ."

Deep inside my command center, sparks flutter. I come to attention. My h.e.l.lbore guns move with extreme slowness. It takes 9.7 seconds to lift the guns seven inches. More sparks dance across broken connections.

"Unit Six Seven Zero GWN of the Line, reporting for duty."

This is what my Action/Command center begins to say. My sensors pick up the sound of my own voice, which crackles and sputters, "Gonner, gonner, gonner, gonner . . ."

I shift attention for 0.027 seconds in an attempt to locate the difficulty. My power level is critically low. I am operating on emergency backup batteries. My fission unit is completely cold. If I continue to communicate or attempt movement without a recharge during the next three days, I will cease to exist. My internal diagnostic becomes baffled by a haphazard tangle of broken circuitry and smashed crystalline retrieval centers located to the lower left of my command center.

I can think coherently. But I cannot speak coherently.

The shame of failure to my Brigade and to my new Commander deepens. I attempt again, this time to communicate the need for power. The statement, "Unit Six Seven Zero GWN of the Line, reporting. I request immediate recharge of all energy systems" comes through my speakers as "Sunlight. Sunlight. Sunlight."

The small human who has come to take command reaches the ground. My Commander has given up on me. There is little to be gained by further effort, for my emergency power reserves are failing. Oblivion will come a little sooner. I allow the h.e.l.lbore guns to drop and rotate them away from my departing Commander. It is the only salute of which I am still capable. It is not enough. My Commander leaves.

- 6 -.

The screeching sound of moving gun barrels sent Kalima sprawling into the nearest crater. She flung arms around her head, moving instinctively; but the Bolo didn't fire. Sufi pressed against her, whining softly in the back of her throat.

"Let's leave," the sound meant.

Slowly, Kalima lifted her head. The h.e.l.lbore guns hadn't tracked her. The Bolo had shifted them to one side. She frowned and sat up.

"How come it didn't try to shoot me?"

Again, Sufi whined to leave.

"Wait a minute, Sufi. This is strange. I need to think."

She'd made some silly comment, she could hardly recall what, and the Bolo had come to life. What had it said? Gonner, gonner, gonner? It had repeated what she'd said. One word, anyway. Then it had started babbling about sunshine. The sunlight on her shoulders, weak as it was in autumn, warmed a little of the chill from her bones.

"Why would it say sunshine?"

She glanced skyward and frowned again. Why sunshine, after two centuries? The most logical answer was simply that its Action/Command center was damaged. The machine was, effectively, senile. But if it were senile, why hadn't it fired on her? Maybe it was out of ammunition? No . . . It hadn't even tried to fire on her. None of its impressive array of guns had cycled. And why sunshine?