David Weber - Bolo!

The pilot who’d inherited command drew a deep breath and made himself think. Only three shots had been fired, which indicated either that the ground battery’s commander had total faith in his fire control or else that there were only three weapons and the defenders had simply gotten lucky, and the second possibility was more likely. The Humans must be as desperate to survive as the People. If the defenders had possessed additional firepower, they would have used all of it to insure they got all the enemies they’d detected.

But Yurahk still had twenty-six shuttles… and if the origin point of the fire which had destroyed his CO was below his sensor horizon, he knew roughly where it had come from.

“Plot the origin coordinates,” he told his tactical officer coldly. “Then enable the missiles.”

Jackson Deveraux stared into the glare of light. It couldn’t be. It was impossible! Yet even as he thought those things, he knew who—or what—that voice belonged to. But why was it calling him “Commander”?

“W—who—” he began, then chopped that off. “What’s happening?” He made himself ignore the quaver in his own voice. “Why did you call me that?”

“Hostile forces tentatively identified as Kestrel-class shuttles of the Imperial Melconian Navy have begun hunter-killer operations against the Human population of this planet,” the tenor replied calmly, answering Jackson’s taut questions in order. “And I addressed you simply as ‘Commander’ because I do not yet know your name, branch of service, or rank.”

The huge machine spoke as if its preposterous replies were completely reasonable, and Jackson wanted to scream. This wasn’t—couldn’t!—be happening! The Bolo he’d ridden past and around and even under this morning had been dead, so what could have—?

The shuttles! If Melconian units had reached Ararat, and if the Bolo had only been inactive, not dead, then its sensors must have picked up the Melconians’ arrival and brought it back on—line. But in that case “Excuse me, Commander,” the Bolo said, “but I detect seventy-eight inbound terrain-following missiles, ETA niner-point-one-seven minutes. It would be prudent to seek shelter.”

“Seek shelter where?” Jackson laughed wildly and waved his free hand at the flat, wide-open plain rolling away in every direction.

“Perhaps I did not phrase myself clearly,” the Bolo apologized. “Please remain stationary.”

Jackson started to reply, then froze, fingers locking like iron on Samson’s bridle, as the Bolo moved once more. It rumbled straight forward, and panic gibbered as its monstrous, five-meter-wide treads came at him. Track plates four times his height in width sank two full meters into the hard soil, yet that still left more than three meters of clearance between the tremendous war machine’s belly and Samson’s head, and the space between the two innermost track systems which seemed so narrow compared to the Bolo’s bulk was over ten meters across. It was as if Jackson and the sweating, shuddering horse stood in a high, wide corridor while endless walls of moving metal ground thunderously past, and then another light glowed above them.

The Bolo stopped, and a ramp extended itself downward from the new light—which, Jackson realized, was actually a cargo hatch.

“Missile ETA now six-point-five-niner minutes, Commander,” the tenor voice said, coming now from the open hatch above him. “May I suggest a certain haste in boarding?”

Jackson swallowed hard, then jerked a nod. Samson baulked, but Jackson heaved on the reins with all his strength, and once the stallion started moving, he seemed to catch his rider’s urgency. Shod hooves thudded on the ramp’s traction-contoured composites, and Jackson decided not to think too closely about anything that was happening until he had Samson safely inside the huge, cool, brightly lit compartment at its head.

Yurahk Na-Holar checked his time-to-target display and bared his canines in a challenge snarl his enemies couldn’t see. That many missiles would saturate the point defense of a fully operable Ever Victorious-class light cruiser, much less whatever salvaged defenses this primitive Human colony might have cobbled up!

I have not yet located the Enemy’s surviving launch platforms, but my look-down drone’s track on his missiles suggests they are programmed for a straight-line, least-time attack. This seems so unlikely that I devote a full point-six-six seconds to reevaluating my conclusion, but there is absolutely no evidence of deceptive routing. Whoever commands the Enemy’s shuttles is either grossly incompetent or fatally overconfident, but I do not intend, as Diego would have put it, to look a gift horse in the mouth if the Enemy is foolish enough to provide a direct pointer to his firing position, and I launch another drone, programmed for passive—only search mode, down the incoming missiles’ back—plotted flight path.

Point defense systems fed by the air-defense drone simultaneously lock onto the missiles, and optical scanners examine them. They appear to be a late-generation mark of the Auger ground-attack missile. Attack pattern analysis suggests that nine are programmed for airburst detonation and hence are almost certainly nuclear-armed. Assuming standard Melconian tactics, the remaining sixty-nine missiles will be equally divided between track-on-jam, track-on-radar, and track-on-power source modes and may or may not also be nuclear-armed.

My internal optics watch my new Commander—who is even younger than I had assumed from his voice—enter Number One Hold. His horse is clearly frightened, but its fear appears to ease as I close the hatch. I consider employing subsonics to soothe it further, but while comforting the beast would certainly be appropriate, it would be most inappropriate to apply the equivalent of tranquilizing agents to my Commander.

These thoughts flicker across one portion of my awareness even as my defensive systems lock onto the incoming missiles, my drone’s remote tracking systems search for the Enemy shuttles, and my communications subsection listens carefully for any transmission between them and their mother ship or ships. These efforts require fully two-one-point-three-two percent of current Main CPU capability, which would, under normal circumstances, be quite unacceptable. Given my present status, however, this is adequate if frustrating.

“Missile ETA is now two-point-one-one minutes, Commander,” the tenor voice said respectfully.

Jackson managed not to jump this time. He considered saying something back, then shrugged and sat on the deck, still holding Samson’s reins.

“I regret,” the voice said after a moment, “that I was unable to invite you to your proper station on the Command Deck. Command One was destroyed by Enemy action in my last engagement, but Auxiliary Command is intact. Unfortunately, it would have been impossible for your horse to scale the hull rings to Command Two, and there is no internal access to it from your present location. If you will direct your attention to the forward bulkhead, however, I will endeavor to provide you with proper situation updates.”

“I—” Jackson cleared his throat. “Of course,” he said. “And, uh, thank you.”

“You are, welcome, Commander,” the Bolo replied, and Jackson watched in fascination so deep it almost—not quite, but almost—obscured his fear as a tri-vid screen came to life on the cargo hold’s bulkhead. He couldn’t begin to interpret all the symbols moving across it, but he recognized vector and altitude flags on what appeared to be scores of incoming arrowheads.

Arrowheads, he realized suddenly, that were all converging on the center of the display… which made him suddenly and chillingly positive of what those innocent shapes represented.