"Well, that's that. Let's go." Dr. Tennyson glanced around the Bolo's pa.s.senger compartment, then climbed out. Brad hesitated.

"Bradley?" Dr. Tennyson called down. "You're delaying the Bolo."

He started for the ladder. Shiva whined and tried to thrash inside the steel cradle. Brad returned to his friend and laid his hand on the dog's neck again. It was just about the only spot of fur left on him Brad could touch.

"Easy, boy. I'm not going anywhere." He tilted his head. "Get clear, Dr. Tennyson. We have a battle to fight. Gonner, please inform your Commander that we're ready for battle."

"Understood. Welcome aboard, sir."

Overhead, the hatch sealed with a faint hiss of pneumatics.

Brad strapped into the observer's chair and maintained contact with his dog's fur.

"Let's go." He tried to smile. "Dog-Gonner ready for battle."

Shiva emitted a faint whine of eagerness.

The Bolo pivoted and cleared a path out of town, taking off the corner of one burning house to gain maneuvering room. Brad glued his gaze to the observation screens and tightened his hand through Shiva's fur.

"Go get 'em, boy."

As the Enemy Yavac units came into focus on the observation screen, Bradley said as offhandedly as he could, "Did I ever tell you about the moment I started falling in love with Kalima Tennyson, Gonner? She punched me in the nose . . ."

-16 -.

From behind her hastily-dug entrenchment, Kalima watched the advancing Deng through Gina Lin's survey lens. The distance was telemetered automatically from the size-scale comparison computer. Fred Howlett had tried using an active-system laser range finder and the Deng had locked onto it and blown it up. Fred hadn't survived. The pa.s.sive-system survey scanner was far more primitive equipment, but it was effective and kept the Deng from locking in on her position.

The main a.s.sault force had struck through the trees on the ridge and now rolled down across their defensive perimeter. Over on the edge of town, where the diversionary force had struck first, they were losing ground in enormous bites. Several buildings--homes, the school--were fiercely ablaze.

"We're not holding," she muttered. "Gonner, where are you?"

The Bolo had reported battle readiness more than five minutes previously. Meanwhile, the Deng had blasted through the barricade of heavy equipment they'd set up. Several Cla.s.s C Yavac Scouts and some of the forward infantry had fallen into acid pits; but the heavier Cla.s.s B and Cla.s.s One Yavacs which followed them avoided the carefully laid traps. Infantry units, also skirting the remaining acid pits, were pouring through the gaps in their defenses. Fighting down there was hand-to-hand--and their side was dying.

Trees at the crest of the hill swayed and toppled. Kalima held her breath . . .

h.e.l.lbore guns thundered above the deafening sound of Yavac fire. The first salvo had little effect. On the second blast, a Yavac was. .h.i.t directly in the turret. The Deng unit exploded in a brilliant fireball. A ragged cheer went up. Gonner sped forward. Rear infantry units went down under a blaze of lethal anti-personnel fire. The ma.s.sive h.e.l.lbores tracked, corrected slightly, and belched fire again. Another Yavac unit exploded.

The rearmost Yavac pivoted its guns and fired back. Gonner rocked under the concussion, but kept coming. Other heavy Cla.s.s One Yavacs turned and blasted the Bolo with deadly fire. Gonner's purple-black flintsteel hull began to glow, as his energy panels attempted to absorb the murderous energy beams and convert them to useful battle energy. Blue fire streaked out from his turret's infinite repeaters. A Yavac Cla.s.s One caught the blast at its turret juncture and blew open. Fire exploded out of it. Kalima bit her lips. She could see pieces of Gonner's ablative armor blown clear as Yavac Cla.s.s B units turned and added their fire to that of the remaining Yavac Heavies. Gonner charged down the ridge toward town on a relentless, unstoppable course that took him past one dying Yavac after another. Several units retreated fatally into open acid pits behind their positions as they attempted to avoid the onrushing Bolo.

"Look! They're scattering! They're breaking formation!"

Dogs broke from hiding all along the enemy flank. Deng infantry went down under snarling canine jaws. Kalima glued her gaze to the surveyor's lenses and snarled in satisfaction. The dogs chewed off legs and arms, bit into unarmored, hairy Deng bellies. Weird, alien screams floated down the street. The h.e.l.lbores barked again. A final Yavac Heavy died. Gonner turned on the smaller Cla.s.s B and C Yavacs and blasted them with brilliant blue repeater fire. On the opposite flank, colonists rose behind barricades and earthen embankments and fired small arms into the ma.s.s of panicked Deng. Kalima fired her own rifle with lethal effect.

The army stampeded toward the remaining camouflaged acid pits, trying to retreat the way they'd come and stumbling into the lethal traps they'd avoided on their way in.

"They're going for 'em!" Kalima yelled. "They're going right for 'em!"

Within ten minutes, there were only scattered wounded left of the Deng invasion force. Most of their infantry had plunged into the acid pits. The heavily armored Yavacs were burnt-out hulks,or dissolved bits of metal at the bottom of the acid pits. On the forested slope--now denuded, deeply scarred from the terrible battle--Yavacs still burned fiercely. Colonists rose on all sides, cheering spontaneously.

Kalima rose on shaky legs and started down the street. She gripped a rifle in one hand, her radio link to Gonner in the other.

"Gonner, report."

"Enemy neutralized. I have sustained serious damage."

Heart in her mouth, Kalima closed the distance to the enormous war machine.

New gouges tore into Gonner's war hull. One of his treads was missing. He must've sustained damage to it and blown it clear. Anti-personnel guns along his right flank were twisted, ruined. His turret was badly gouged, canted on its swivel.

"Unit Six Seven Zero GWN and Unit Shiva reporting, as ordered. Bradley Dault requests a.s.sistance disengaging. My pa.s.senger compartment and hatch have sustained damage."

"Bradley? My G.o.d--is Bradley in there with you?"

"He refused to leave. Unit Shiva required Bradley Dault's presence to maintain battle-ready efficiency."

She understood, in a flash of insight. Poor, terrified dog . . .

"Gonner, how can I get to him?"

"The pneumatics on my turret hatch no longer function. You will require an explosive charge to clear the hatch from my hull. The battle damage which penetrated into the pa.s.senger compartment is not sufficiently large to extricate an adult human."

Kalima swallowed hard, then called Gina Lin over. She explained what was needed.

"Sure. Take, uh, maybe ten minutes."

"Gonner, what other damage have you sustained?"

"An explosion through previous battle damage has destroyed my backup emergency power cells. I am operating on residual charge from my hull-plate grid. I cannot discover any method of repairing this damage in the time which remains before this charge drains. I estimate another fifteen minutes before critical failure occurs. Unit Shiva has sustained fatal injury to spleen and kidneys as result of shrapnel damage. We request permission to retire from the field as soon as Bradley Dault has been safely extricated from my pa.s.senger compartment."

No backup power cells left. And there never had been a way to refuel his fission plant. No one here was qualified to install a new one--even if one had been available. There was nothing--not a thing--she could do to save him.

The words caught in her throat. "Permission granted."

Lin was setting the explosive charges. Kalima climbed up to help. She talked to Gonner the whole time.

"Remember that first day, Gonner? You scared me half to death. Never thought we'd see battle together, big guy. I'm sure proud of you, though, more than I was that day you kept the wall from crushing us . . ."

She was babbling and didn't care. She was losing a friend--two friends--and no one knew yet how badly injured Bradley was in there. He could be dying, too . . .

"All set. Get clear, 'Lima."

They skinned down the ladder and took refuge behind a scarred fender.

The charge blew. Smoke engulfed them. Kalima was climbing even before her ears stopped ringing.

"Brad! Brad, can you hear me?"

"Com-coming up . . ."

She hovered at the lip of the hatch. He moved slowly, awkwardly. His right arm didn't appear to be functioning properly. Tears streaked his face. Halfway up, his breath caught sharply. He clung to the ladder.

"I'm coming down to help."

"No . . . I'm okay. See?" He climbed higher.

Shock made her go cold.

Blood covered his whole right side. She could see ribs in one spot. But he was still climbing. His face and arms were burned, blistered in places from the heat of the sustained Yavac attack. She got an arm around his shoulders. He snaked his good arm around her and kissed her raggedly; then groaned and leaned heavily against her.

"Gotta . . . get down . . . or I'll fall . . ."

Kalima steadied him down. He slid to his knees the moment his feet touched ground.

"Did it, Gonner," he whispered hoa.r.s.ely. "We did it."

"It was my honor to serve with you, Bradley Dault. Commander Tennyson, I estimate another 4.07 minutes before critical power failure. Unit Six Seven Zero GWN and Unit Shiva of the Line, retiring as ordered."

The Bolo pivoted awkwardly on its remaining track. The machine clanked and rattled up the ridge and into the trees. Parallel gouges in the soft earth marked his trail. Someone, she wasn't sure who, had pulled Bradley onto a stretcher. He caught her hand, urged her down.

"Go with him," he whispered. "n.o.body should die alone."

Her eyes filled. She kissed Brad very tenderly. Her voice went husky. "Don't you dare die on me, too, Bradley Dault. This . . . this won't take long." He squeezed her hand. Then she broke and ran.

Kalima found Gonner in his former position, atop the shattered gates at the old compound.

"Gonner?"

The h.e.l.lbores tracked disjointedly in a ragged salute.

She climbed doggedly and slid down through the blasted hatch. A hole had been punched straight into the pa.s.senger compartment. Relays and boards she'd spent years repairing were twisted, broken beyond anyone's capacity to repair. Her breath caught when she saw Shiva. The dog whined, very faintly.

"Good boy," she whispered, burying her face in the dog's blood-spattered neck fur. "Brad's okay, Shiva. You did a good job. The town's safe."

Shiva licked her hand very weakly. Then what remained of his body sagged in the steel cradle. Kalima turned away and dragged the back of a dirty arm across her eyes.

"You did a good job, Gonner," she choked out. The whole pa.s.senger compartment reeked of blood, smoke, fried electrical connections.

"I have done my duty. It is a beautiful day for victory, Commander." The observation screens flickered and went dim. "Bradley Dault spoke at length of you, Commander, as we went to meet the Enemy. He is a good officer. I am glad he was not damaged fatally. He loved Shiva. He loves you."

"I love you, Gonner," she whispered. "I- Thank you for . . . for . . ."

She couldn't get it all out quickly enough, with the result that everything she wanted to say got stuck in her throat.

"It has been my honor to serve you, Commander Tennyson. I will hold . . ."

The screens went dark.

Very, very slowly, Kalima climbed out of the blasted pa.s.senger compartment. The great h.e.l.lbore guns drooped, silent. Warm summer wind whistled across the pitted war hull.

Gonner didn't speak again.

But he had held, to the last.

Miles to Go

by David Weber

-1-.

I rouse from Low-Level Autonomous Stand-By to Normal Readiness for my regularly scheduled update. Awareness spreads through me, and I devote 0.0347 seconds to standard diagnostic checks. All systems report nominal, but I detect an anomaly in Number Twenty-One Bogie in my aft outboard port tread and activate a depot sensor to scan my suspension. A parikha, one of the creatures the colonists of Santa Cruz erroneously call "birds," has built its nest in the upper angle of the bogie wheel torsion arm. This indicates that the depot's environmental integrity has been breached, and I command the central computer to execute an examination of all access points.

The depot computer net lacks my own awareness, but it is an efficient system within its limitations and locates the environmental breach in 3.0062 seconds. Maintenance and Repair's Number Seventy-Three Ventilator's cover has been forced open by an intruding cable-vine, thus permitting the parikha to gain access. I command the depot computer to dispatch auto mechs to repair the hatch cover. A further 0.000004 seconds of a.n.a.lysis suggests to me that the possibility of such an occurrence should have been allowed for in the depot computer's original programming, and I devote 0.0035 seconds to the creation of fresh execution files to establish continuous monitoring of all depot access points and to enable automatic repair responses in the event of future failures in integrity.

These actions have consumed 3.044404 seconds since resumption of Normal Alert Readiness, and I return to my initial examination of the parikha nest. Its presence const.i.tutes no impediment to combat efficiency, yet the sensor detects live young in the nest. I devote an additional 0.0072 seconds to consideration of alternatives, then command the depot computer's remotes to remove the nest and transfer it to an exterior position of safety near the repaired ventilator cover. I receipt the depot computer's acknowledgment of my instructions and turn to a second phase Situation Update.

My internal chrono confirms that 49 years, 8 months, 3 days, 21 hours, 17 minutes, and 14.6 seconds, Standard Reckoning, have now elapsed since my Commander ordered me to a.s.sume Low-Level Autonomous Stand-By to await her replacement. This is an unacceptable period for a unit of the Line to remain in active duty status without human supervision, and I check the depot com files once more. No updated SitRep or other message to explain the delay has been receipted during my time at Stand-By, and I allocate another 4.062 seconds to consideration of possible explanations. Despite this extensive a.n.a.lysis, I remain unable to extrapolate the reason for the delay with certainty, yet I compute a probability of 87.632 percent that my Commander was correct in her observation that Sector HQ considers my planet of a.s.signment "the backside of nowhere in particular."

Whatever its reasons, Sector HQ clearly has attached no urgency to detailing a new Commander. This conclusion is disturbing, and I allocate an additional 2.007 seconds to deliberation of potential responses on my part. My Autonomous Decision Protocols grant me the discretion to break com silence and dispatch an interrogative signal to Sector Central in conditions of Priority Four or greater urgency, yet my a.n.a.lysis of satellite data and commercial com traffic to and from Santa Cruz reveals no indication of current or near-future threats to my a.s.signed station. Absent such threats, I must grudgingly concede that there is, in fact, no overriding urgency in the arrival of my new Commander.

I make a note in my active memory files to reconsider this decision yet again during my next scheduled Normal Alert period and revert to Autonomous Stand-By.

-2-.

Lorenco Esteban stepped out of his office into the humid oven of a Santa Cruz summer afternoon and scratched his head as a tiny s.p.a.cecraft slid down towards Santa Cruz's weed-grown landing ap.r.o.n. The immense plain of ceramacrete stretched away in all directions, vast enough to handle even the largest Navy cargo shuttle, but it was occupied only by a single dilapidated tramp freighter in the livery of the Sternenwelt Line. The tramp was already cleared for departure with a full cargo of wine-melons, and given her purser's persistent--and irritating--efforts to negotiate some sort of real estate deal, Esteban was heartily ready for her to clear the field. Not that she was placing any strain on Santa Cruz's basing facilities.

No one was quite certain why Santa Cruz had been given such a large field in the first place. It dated from the First Quern War, and conventional wisdom held that the Navy had planned to use Santa Cruz as a staging area against the Quern. That was only a guess, of course, though it made sense, given the Santa Cruz System's spatial location.

If the Navy had so intended, its plans had fallen through, yet the incongruously enormous field remained, though only a fraction of it was used with any sort of regularity. Ciudad Bolivar, Santa Cruz's capital and only real city, lay fifteen kilometers to the northwest, just outside the old Navy Reservation. The area to the immediate northeast was a vast expanse of melon fields--most of which belonged to Esteban himself--and few people visited the field under normal circ.u.mstances. Despite the Sternenwelt officer's efforts to buy up crop land, there was little about the sleepy farming planet to attract even casual commerce. Wine-melons brought a decent price, but only a decent one, and no official presence had ever shown even a pa.s.sing interest in Esteban's homeworld. Until today, at least, he thought, and scratched his head harder as he recognized the Concordiat Navy insignia on the incoming shuttle's nose.

It looked like one of the new Skyhawk three-man shuttles, though he couldn't be certain. He'd never actually seen one, only read about them in the periodic updates the Navy still sent to the attention of "CO FLT BASE SANCRUZ." In his own mind, Esteban was positive the computers on the other end of those updates had no idea who the current "Commanding Officer, Fleet Base Santa Cruz" was. He hoped they didn't, anyway. The probability that Concordiat officialdom had simply forgotten Santa Cruz's existence was much less disturbing than the possibility that the Navy considered a farmer with no military background and who'd never been off-planet in his entire seventy years a suitable CO for anything, much less a "fleet base."

Now he watched the Skyhawk (if that was what it was) deploy its landing legs and settle gracefully onto them. From what he'd read of the Skyhawks, they were hyper-capable for short hops--no more than forty or fifty light-years--and that made a certain degree of sense. The shuttle could have made the run from Ursula, the sector capital, under its own power without diverting a regular vessel from some useful duty. Of course, that left the question of just why the Navy would go to the bother of sending anyone to Santa Cruz in the first place.

The hatch popped, and Esteban ambled over as a trim, wiry man in an immaculate uniform swung down the hull handholds. Esteban couldn't place the uniform, though something about it tugged at the back of his memory, and he paused with his hands in his pockets as the newcomer jumped the last meter and a half to the ceramacrete and stood looking about him.

"Morning, stranger."

The uniformed man turned at the greeting. He said nothing, but Esteban took his hands from his pockets when those cold, grey eyes met his. It wasn't anything the stranger did. There was just something about those eyes, as if they'd seen too much, done too much, that sent a faint and formless chill down Esteban's spine. The stranger's gaze held his for a moment, and then the mouth below those eyes smiled pleasantly.