David Weber: Bolo!

The depot’s main vehicle chamber was a vast, dim cavern, yet for all its size and cool, gently circulating air, Merrit felt almost claustrophobic as he stared up at the first Bolo Mark XXIII he’d ever seen. He’d studied the readouts on the model in preparation for this assignment, but aside from a handful buried in the reserve forces of smaller sectors, the Mark XXIII had been withdrawn from service thirty years before. None of which made the huge war machine any less impressive.

The Mark XXIV and XXV, the only Bolos he’d ever served with, were both at least a thousand tons lighter than this. They were only marginally less heavily armed, yet the molecular circuitry and smaller, more efficient power plants which had come in with the Mark XXIV allowed more firepower to be packed into a less massive hull. But Bolo XXIII/B-0075-NKE was far older than they, and measured almost seventy-five meters from its clifflike prow to the bulbous housings of its stern anti-personnel clusters. Its interleaved bogie wheels were five meters in diameter, and the tops of the massive, back-to-back turrets for its twin eighty-centimeter Hellbores towered thirty meters above the fused ceramacrete of the chamber floor.

It was immaculate, like some perfectly preserved memorial from a lost era. The hexagonal scales of its multilayered ceramic antiplasma armor appliques were the mottled green and brown of standard jungle camouflage, though Merrit had always questioned the practicality of applying visual camouflage to fifteen thousand tons of mobile armor and weaponry.

He walked slowly around the huge fighting machine, noting the closed ports for its lateral infinite repeater batteries and thirty-centimeter mortars, the high-speed, multibarrel slug throwers and laser clusters of its close-in anti-missile defenses, and the knifelike blades of its phased radar arrays. Optical pickups swiveled to watch him as he circled it, and he smiled-then stopped dead.

He stepped closer, brow furrowing in perplexity, but the incongruity didn’t go away. According to the readouts he’d studied, the Mark XXIII had nine infinite repeaters in each lateral battery, and so did XXIII/B-0075-NKE. But there was an extra six or seven meters of hull between InfRpt Three and Four. For that matter, the Bolo’s aft track system had three extra bogies, which suggested that it was at least ten or twelve meters longer than it was supposed to be.

He reached out for a handhold and climbed up the hull-mounted rings to the carapace of the missile deck between the twin Hellbore turrets. He paced it off, placing his feet carefully between the slablike armored hatch covers of the vertical launch missile system, then stopped and scratched his head with a grimace. No doubt about it; XXIII/B-0075-NKE was a good fifteen percent longer than any Mark XXIII should have been. Someone had grafted an extra eleven meters into her hull just forward of her VLS.

“Zero-Zero-Seven-Five?”

“Yes, Commander?” The politely interested soprano voice still seemed totally inappropriate coming from a Bolo, but Merrit had other things to wonder about at the moment.

“Tell me, Zero-Zero-” he began, then paused. “Excuse me. Central has no record of what Major Stavrakas called you, Zero-Zero-Seven-Five.”

“I am called ‘Nike,’ Commander.”

“‘Nike,’” Merrit murmured. “Goddess of victory. An appropriate name for a Bolo, Nike.”

“Thank you, Commander. I have always liked it myself, and I am pleased you approve.”

Merrit’s eyebrows rose afresh at the unprompted, very human-sounding remark. A Mark XXIII should have been capable only of previously stored courtesies (outside Battle Reflex Mode, at least), yet he was beginning to suspect what lay behind those responses. It wasn’t possible, of course, but still “Tell me, Nike, what exact mark of Bolo are you?” he asked.

“I am a Bolo Invincibilis, Mark XXIII, Model B (Experimental), Commander,” the soprano voice replied.

“Experimental?” Merrit repeated.

“Affirmative, Commander.”

“How experimental?” he prompted tautly.

“I am a prototype.” The Bolo sounded calmer than ever beside the tension in his own voice. “As part of the Enhanced Combat Capabilities Program, my Command Center and Personality Integration psychodynamics were fitted with a secondary decision cortex with experimental interfaces and increased heuristic capacity to augment autonomous and discretionary functions.”

“A brain box,” Merrit whispered. “Dear God, that must be it. The first brain box ever fitted to a Bolo!” He went to his knees and rested one hand almost reverently on the massively armored deck.

“Excuse me, Commander, but the meaning of your last comment is unclear.”

“What?” Merrit shook himself, then raised his head and smiled into the nearest optical head. “Sorry, Nike, but I had no idea I’d find this. You’re the ‘missing link.’”

“I fear your meaning continues to elude me, Commander,” the Bolo said a bit reproachfully, and Merrit grinned.

“Sorry,” he said again, and seated himself on the bracket of a turret-mounted whip antenna. “You see, Nike, before you came along-for that matter, for something like thirty years after you came along, now that I think about it-Bolos were self-aware, but their full autonomous capabilities were available to them only in Battle Mode. They were… circumscribed and restricted. Are you with me so far?”

“Yes, Commander.”

“Of course you are!” Merrit chuckled and patted the leviathan’s armored flank. “But that’s because you were the next step, Nike. We knew the first experimental work had been done here in the Ursula Sector just before the Quern Wars, but the Quern got through to Ursula during the First War. They shot up Bolo Central so badly that most of the original research and hardware was destroyed, and then the pressure they put on us deferred the whole program for over thirty years, until after the Third Quern War. We needed more Bolos as fast as we could get them, so the official Mark XXIIIs were simply up-gunned and up-armored Mark XXIIs to simplify series production. But you weren’t, were you? God! I wonder how your programming differs from what they finally mounted in the Mark XXIV?”

“I fear I can offer no information on that subject, Commander,” the Bolo said almost apologetically.

“Don’t worry about it, Nike. I’m sure we can figure it out together once I dig into the depot records. But what I can’t figure out is what you’re doing here? How did you wind up on Santa Cruz?”

“I was deployed directly from Ursula Central.”

“I know that, but why?”

“I was selected for extended field test of the new and enhanced systems and software,” the soprano voice said. “As such, I was mated with an automated repair and maintenance depot designed to support the test program and further field modifications. Santa Cruz had been selected as the test site well before the planet came under threat from the Quern, for which reason it had been equipped with proper landing field and other support facilities. At the outbreak of hostilities, my deployment was simply expedited. The test program was postponed, and I was placed on immediate active duty under the command of Major Marina Stavrakas, senior project officer for Project Descartes.”

“She was the project chief for Descartes?!”

“Affirmative, Commander.”

“My God,” Merrit breathed. “They managed to reconstruct maybe twenty percent of the Descartes Team’s original logs after the wars, but they were so badly damaged we never knew who’d headed the team in the first place. She was brilliant, Nike-brilliant! And she ended up lost and forgotten on a farming planet in the middle of nowhere.” He shook his head again, eyes bright and sparkling with a delight he’d never expected to feel in this assignment, and stroked the Bolo’s armored flank again.