Part 23 (2/2)

But with only one man here, it was far less expensive for High Command to arrange for his supplies to come in at regular intervals on scheduled freight-runs. The Bolo ate nothing. They didn't even use ”local” water; the Bolo recycled nearly every drop, and distilled the rest from occasional rainfall and dew. Siegfried was not the usual soldier-on-leave; when he spent his pay, it was generally off-planet, ordering things to be s.h.i.+pped in, and not patronizing local merchants. He bought books, not beer; he didn't gamble, his interest in food was minimal and satisfied by the R.E.M.s (Ready-to-Eat-Meals) that were standard field issue and s.h.i.+pped to him by the crateful. And he was far more interested in that four-letter word for ”intercourse” that began with a ”t” than in intercourse of any other kind. He was an ascetic scholar; such men were not the sort who brought any amount of money into a community. He and his partner, parked as they were at the edge of the s.p.a.ceport, were a continual reminder of how Bachman's Planet had been ”cheated.”

And for that reason, the mayor of Port City had suggested--stiffly, but politely--that his and Rommel's continuing presence so near the main settlement was somewhat disconcerting. He had hinted that the peace-loving citizens found the Bolo frightening (and never mind that they had requested some sort of defense from the military). And if they could not find a way to make themselves useful, perhaps they ought to at least earn their pay by pretending to go on maneuvers. It didn't matter that Siegfried and Rommel were perfectly capable of conducting such exercises without moving. That was hardly the point.

”You heard him, my friend,” Siegfried sighed. ”They'd like us to go away. Not that they have any authority to order us to do so--as I reminded the mayor. But I suspect seeing us constantly is something of an embarra.s.sment to whoever it was that promised a battalion of troops to bring in cash and got us instead.”

”In that case, Siegfried,” Rommel said gently, ”We probably should take the mayor's suggestion. How long do you think we should stay away?”

”When's the next s.h.i.+p due in?” Siegfried replied. ”There's no real reason for us to be here until it arrives, and then we only need to stay long enough to pick up my supplies.”

”True.” With a barely audible rumble, Rommel started his banks of motive engines. ”Have you any destination in mind?”

Without prompting, Rommel projected the map of the immediate area on one of Siegfried's control-room screens. Siegfried studied it for a moment, trying to work out the possible repercussions of vanis.h.i.+ng into the hills altogether. ”I'll tell you what, old man,” he said slowly. ”We've just been playing at doing our job. Really, that's hardly honorable, when it comes down to it. Even if they don't need us and never did, the fact is that they asked for on-planet protection, and we haven't even planned how to give it to them. How about if we actually go out there in the bush and do that planning?”

There was interest in the AI's voice; he did not imagine it. ”What do you mean by that?” Rommel asked.

”I mean, let's go out there and scout the territory ourselves; plan defenses and offenses, as if this dustball was likely to be invaded. The topographical surveys stink for military purposes; let's get a real war plan in place. What the h.e.l.l--it can't hurt, right? And if the locals see us actually doing some work, they might not think so badly of us.”

Rommel was silent for a moment. ”They will still blame High Command, Siegfried. They did not receive what they wanted, even though they received what they were ent.i.tled to.”

”But they won't blame us.” He put a little coaxing into his voice. ”Look, Rommel, we're going to be here for the rest of our lives, and we really can't afford to have the entire population angry with us forever. I know our standing orders are to stay at Port City, but the mayor just countermanded those orders. So let's have some fun, and show 'em we know our duty at the same time! Let's use Erwin's strategies around here, and see how they work! We can run all kinds of scenarios--let's a.s.sume in the event of a real invasion we could get some of these farmers to pick up a weapon; that'll give us additional scenarios to run. Figure troops against you, mechs against you, troops and mechs against you, plus untrained men against troops, men against mechs, you against another Bolo-type AI-”

”It would be entertaining.” Rommel sounded very interested. ”And as long as we keep our defensive surveillance up, and an eye on Port City, we would not technically be violating orders. . . .”

”Then let's do it,” Siegfried said decisively. ”Like I said, the maps they gave us stink; let's go make our own, then plot strategy. Let's find every wadi and overhang big enough to hide you. Let's act as if there really was going to be an invasion. Let's give them some options, log the plans with the mayor's office. We can plan for evacuations, we can check resources, there's a lot of things we can do. And let's start right now!”

They mapped every dry stream-bed, every dusty hill, every animal-trail. For months, the two of them rumbled across the arid landscape, with Siegfried emerging now and again to carry surveying instruments to the tops of hills too fragile to bear Rommel's weight. And when every inch of territory within a week of Port City had been surveyed and accurately mapped, they began playing a game of ”hide and seek” with the locals.

It was surprisingly gratifying. At first, after they had vanished for a while, the local news-channel seemed to reflect an att.i.tude of ”and good riddance.” But then, when no one spotted them, there was a certain amount of concern--followed by a certain amount of annoyance. After all, Rommel was ”their” Bolo--what was Siegfried doing, taking him out for some kind of vacation? As if Bachman's World offered any kind of amus.e.m.e.nt. . . .

That was when Rommel and Siegfried began stalking farmers.

They would find a good hiding place and get into it well in advance of a farmer's arrival. When he would show up, Rommel would rise up, seemingly from out of the ground, draped in camouflage-net, his weaponry trained on the farmer's vehicle. Then Siegfried would pop up out of the hatch, wave cheerfully, retract the camouflage, and he and Rommel would rumble away.

Talk of ”vacations” ceased entirely after that.

They extended their range, once they were certain that the locals were no longer a.s.suming the two of them were ”gold-bricking.” Rommel tested all of his abilities to the limit, making certain everything was still up to spec. And on the few occasions that it wasn't, Siegfried put in a requisition for parts and spent many long hours making certain that the repairs and replacements were bringing Rommel up to like-new condition.

Together they plotted defensive and offensive strategies; Siegfried studied Rommel's manuals as if a time would come when he would have to rebuild Rommel from spare parts. They ran every kind of simulation in the book--and not just on Rommel's computers, but with Rommel himself actually running and dry-firing against plotted enemies. Occasionally one of the news-people would become curious about their whereabouts, and lie in wait for them when the scheduled supplies arrived. Siegfried would give a formal interview, reporting in general what they had been doing--and then, he would carefully file another set of emergency plans with the mayor's office. Sometimes it even made the evening news. Once, it was even accompanied by a clip someone had shot of Rommel roaring at top speed across a ridge.

Nor was that all they did. As Rommel pointed out, the presumptive ”battalion” would have been available in emergencies--there was no reason why they shouldn't respond when local emergencies came up.

So--when a flash-flood trapped a young woman and three children on the roof of her vehicle, it was Rommel and Siegfried who not only rescued them, but towed the vehicle to safety as well. When a snowfall in the mountains stranded a dozen truckers, Siegfried and Rommel got them out. When a small child was lost while playing in the hills, Rommel found her by having all searchers clear out as soon as the sun went down, and using his heat-sensors to locate every source of approximately her size. They put out runaway brushfires by rolling over them; they responded to Maydays from remote locations when they were nearer than any other agency. They even joined in a manhunt for an escaped rapist--who turned himself in, practically soiling himself with fear, when he learned that Rommel was part of the search-party.

It didn't hurt. They were of no help for men trapped in a mine collapse; or rather, of no more help than Siegfried's two hands could make them. They couldn't rebuild bridges that were washed away, nor construct roads. But what they could do, they did, often before anyone thought to ask them for help.

By the end of their second year on Bachman's World, they were at least no longer the target of resentment. Those few citizens they had aided actually looked on them with grat.i.tude. The local politicians whose careers had suffered because of their presence had found other causes to espouse, other schemes to pursue. Siegfried and Rommel were a dead issue.

But by then, the two of them had established a routine of monitoring emergency channels, running their private war-games, updating their maps, and adding changes in the colony to their defense and offense plans. There was no reason to go back to simply sitting beside the s.p.a.ceport. Neither of them cared for sitting idle, and what they were doing was the nearest either of them would ever get to actually refighting the battles their idol had lost and won.

When High Command got their reports and sent recommendations for further ”readiness” preparations, and commendations for their ”community service”--Siegfried, now wiser in the ways of manipulating public opinion, issued a statement to the press about both.

After that, there were no more rumblings of discontent, and things might have gone on as they were until Siegfried was too old to climb Rommel's ladder.

But the fates had another plan in store for them.

Alarms woke Siegfried out of a sound and dreamless sleep. Not the synthesized pseudo-alarms Rommel used when surprising him for a drill, either, but the real thing- He launched himself out of his bunk before his eyes were focused, grabbing the back of the com-chair to steady himself before he flung himself into it and strapped himself down. As soon as he moved, Rommel turned off all the alarms but one; the proximity alert from the single defense-satellite in orbit above them.

Interior lighting had gone to full-emergency red. He scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, impatiently; finally they focused on the screens of his console, and he could read what was there. And he swore, fervently and creatively.

One unknown s.h.i.+p sat in geosynch orbit about Port City; a big one, answering no hails from the port, and seeding the skies with what appeared to his sleep-fogged eyes as hundreds of smaller drop-s.h.i.+ps.

”The mother-s.h.i.+p has already neutralized the port air-to-ground defenses, Siegfried,” Rommel reported grimly. ”I don't know what kind of stealthing devices they have, or if they've got some new kind of drive, but they don't match anything in my records. They just appeared out of nowhere and started dumping drop-s.h.i.+ps. I think we can a.s.sume they're hostiles.”

They had a match for just this in their hundreds of plans; unknown s.h.i.+p, unknown attackers, dropping a pattern of offensive troops of some kind- ”What are they landing?” he asked, playing the console board. ”You're stealthed, right?”

”To the max,” Rommel told him. ”I don't detect anything like life-forms on those incoming vessels, but my sensors aren't as sophisticated as they could be. The vessels themselves aren't all that big. My guess is that they're dropping either live troops or cl.u.s.ters of very small mechs, mobile armor, maybe the size of a Panzer.”

”Landing pattern?” he asked. He brought up all of Rommel's weaponry; AIs weren't allowed to activate their own weapons. And they weren't allowed to fire on living troops without permission from a human, either. That was the only real reason for a Bolo needing an operator.

”Surrounding Port City, but starting from about where the first farms are.” Rommel ran swift readiness-tests on the systems as Siegfried brought them up; the screens scrolled too fast for Siegfried to read them.

They had a name for that particular scenario. It was one of the first possibilities they had run when they began plotting invasion and counter-invasion plans.

”Operation Cattle Drive. Right.” If the invaders followed the same scheme he and Rommel had antic.i.p.ated, they planned to drive the populace into Port City, and either capture the civilians, or destroy them at leisure. He checked their current location; it was out beyond the drop-zone. ”Is there anything landing close to us?”

”Not yet--but the odds are that something will soon.” Rommel sounded confident, as well he should be--his ability to project landing-patterns was far better than any human's. ”I'd say within the next fifteen minutes.”

Siegfried suddenly s.h.i.+vered in a breath of cool air from the ventilators, and was painfully aware suddenly that he was dressed in nothing more than a pair of fatigue-shorts. Oh well; some of the Desert Fox's battles had taken place with the men wearing little else. What they could put up with, he could. There certainly wasn't anyone here to complain.

”As soon as you think we can move without detection, close on the nearest craft,” he ordered. ”I want to see what we're up against. And start scanning the local freqs; if there's anything in the way of organized defense from the civvies, I want to know about it.”

A pause, while the ventilators hummed softly, and glowing dots descended on several screens. ”They don't seem to have anything, Siegfried,” Rommel reported quietly. ”Once the ground-to-s.p.a.ce defenses were fried, they just collapsed. Right now, they seem to be in a complete state of panic. They don't even seem to remember that we're out here--no one's tried to hail us on any of our regular channels.”

”Either that--or they think we're out of commission,” he muttered absently, ”Or just maybe they are giving us credit for knowing what we're doing and are trying not to give us away. I hope so. The longer we can go without detection, the better chance we have to pull something out of a hat.”

An increase in vibration warned him that Rommel was about to move. A new screen lit up, this one tracking a single vessel. ”Got one,” the Bolo said shortly. ”I'm coming in behind his sensor sweep.”

Four more screens lit up; enhanced front, back, top, and side views of the terrain. Only the changing views on the screens showed that Rommel was moving; other than that, there was no way to tell from inside the cabin what was happening. It would be different if Rommel had to execute evasive maneuvers of course, but right now, he might have still been parked. The control cabin and living quarters were heavily s.h.i.+elded and cus.h.i.+oned against the shocks of ordinary movement. Only if Rommel took a direct hit by something impressive would Siegfried feel it. . . .

And if he takes a direct hit by something more than impressive--we're slag. Bolos are the best, but they can't take everything.

”The craft is down.”

He pushed the thought away from his mind. This was what Rommel had been built to do--this moment justified Rommel's very existence. And he had known from the very beginning that the possibility, however remote, had existed that he too would be in combat one day. That was what being in the military was all about. There was no use in pretending otherwise.

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