Keith Laumer - The Compleat Bolo

There are faint sounds, at the edge of audibility. Abruptly, my chemically-powered self-defense system is activated and at once anti-personnel charges are triggered -but there is no response. My mechanical automatics have performed their programmed function, but to no avail; luckily, perhaps, since it may well be my new commanders presence to which they responded. I compute that deterioration of the complex molecules of the explosive charges has occurred over the centuries. Thus I am defenseless. It is a situation not to be borne. What affirmative action can I take?

By withdrawing awareness from all but my most elementary sensory circuitry, I am able to monitor further stealthy activity well within my inner security perimeter. I analyze certain atmospheric vibratory phenomena as human voices. Not that of my commander, alas, since after two hundred standard years he cannot have survived, but has doubtless long ago expired after the curious manner of humans; but surely his replacement has been appointed. I must not overlook the possibility-nay, the likelihood-that my new commandant has indeed come at last. Certainly, someone has come to me-

And since he has approached to that proximity reserved for my commander only, I compute a likelihood of.99964 that my new commander is now at hand. I make a mighty effort to acknowledge my recognition, but I fear I do not attain the threshold of intelligibility.

Standing before the great machine, Dub started at a faint croaking sound from the immense metal bulk. "Hey, Mick," the boy said softly. "It groaned-like. Did you hear it?"

"Naw, I didn't hear nothing, dummy, and neither did you."

"Did too," Dub retorted stubbornly. Looking down, he noticed that the smoothly tiled floor ended at a white-painted curb which curved off into the darkness, apparently surrounding the great machine. Inside the curbing, the surface on which the Bolo rested was uneven natural rock, still retaining a few withered weeds sprouting from cracks in the stone. Dub carefully stepped over the curbing to stand uneasily on the very ground where the battle had been fought.

"Too bad they had to go and kill old Jonah," he said quietly to Mick, who hung back on the paved side of the curb.

"Never kilt it," Mick objected scornfully. "Gubment man come here and switched him onto what they call 'low alert.' Means he's still alive, just asleep-like."

"Why do they hafta go and call him 'Jonah' anyway?"

Dub demanded. " 'Jonah's' something bad, it's in a story. I like 'Johnny' better."

"Don't matter, I guess," Mick dismissed the thought.

Dub moved closer to peer at a second placard with smaller print.

"Whatya looking at, dummy?" Mick demanded. "You can't read."

"I can a little," the younger boy objected. "I know J and N and A-that's where they get 'Jonah.'

"So what?"

"You read it to me," Dub begged. "I wanta know all about Johnny."

Mick came forward as if reluctantly.

" 'Unit JNA was at Dobie, receiving depot maintenance after participating in the victorious engagement at Leadpipe, when the emergency at Spivey's Find (GPR 7203-C) arose. No other force in the area being available, Unit JNA was rushed to the scene of action with minimal briefing, but upon assessing the tactical situation it at once took up a position on a rise known as Jake's Mountain, fully exposed to enemy fire, in order to block the advance of the invading enemy armor on the village. Here it stood fast, unsupported, under concentrated fire for over thirty hours, before the final Deng assault. Concordiat land and air forces had been effectively neutralized by overwhelming enemy numerical superiority long before having an opportunity to engage the enemy armor. Balked in his advance by Unit JNA, the enemy attempted an envelopment from both flanks simultaneously, but both thrusts were driven back by Unit JNA. Discouraged by this unexpected check, the enemy commander ordered the expeditionary force to retire, subsequently abandoning the attempt to annex GPR 7203-C, which subsequently has become the peaceful, productive world we know today. For this action, Unit JNA was awarded the Star of Excellence to the Nova, and in 2705 O. S. was retired from active duty, placed on Minimal Low Alert Status, and accorded the status of Monument of the Concordiat.

"Gosh," Dub said solemnly. "He's been sitting right here-" he looked down and rubbed his foot on the weathered stone-"for more'n two hundred years. That's older'n them old cultivators and such out back. But he don't look that old. You can still go, can't you, Johnny?"

For a time (.01 nanoseconds) I am stunned by the realization that my commander is indeed at hand. Only he called me "Johnny" Almost incoherent with delight, I concentrate my forces, and speak with what clarity I can:

"I await your orders, Commander."

"Mick!" Dub almost yelled, jumping back. "Did you hear that? Johnny said something to me!"

"Name's 'Jonah,' " Mick replied disparagingly. "And it never said nothing. You're hearing things."

"Just stands for JNA," Dub said doggedly. "Could be 'Johnny' just as much as 'Jonah.' I like 'Johnny' better." He looked up in awe at the monster combat unit. "What did you say, Johnny?" he asked almost inaudibly.

Again I hear my secret name spoken. I must try once more to reassure my commander of my readiness to attempt whatever is required of me. "Unit JNA of the Line reporting for duty, sir," I manage, more clearly articulated this time, I compute.

"He ain't dead," Dub blurted. "He can still go."

"Sure," Mick said in the lofty tone of One Who Already Knew That. "If he had his plates recharged and switched on. Must be pretty boring, jest setting and thinking."

"What ya mean, thinking?" Dub demanded, withdrawing a few inches. "That'd be terrible jest sitting alone in the dark thinking. Bet he's lonesome."

"We better get out of here now," Mick blurted, looking toward the front of the building, from which direction someone was shouting outside. Dub moved close to him.

"Scared?" Mick challenged.

"Sure," Dub replied without hesitation.

Back outside the enclosure, the boys again heard raised voices, outside the building, but nearby.

"We can't stay in here," Dub almost whispered. Mick pushed him aside and went to the corner of the partition. He glanced quickly around the angle, then beckoned impatiently to Dub, who followed obediently. Now Mick was studying another sign painted on the wall in red. " 'Absolutely No Admission Beyond This Point.' " he read hesitantly. " 'Authorized Personnel Only'."

"What's that mean?" Dub demanded.

"Means we ain't spose to be here," Mick explained. "Especially where we already been," he added.

"We already knew that," Dub said. "Come on." He started past the older boy, but halted and faded back as the sound of an opening door came from ahead, followed by the clump of feet and a wheezy voice he recognized as that of Hick Marlowe, the town marshal.

"Prolly drunk, Mr. Davis, I'd say. I'd say forget it's what I'd say."

"I'm afraid it's not quite that simple, Marshal," was the reply, in the precise tones the boys recognized as those of Mr. Davis, the big gubment man.

"Gosh," Dub said faintly, to be shushed silently by his older friend. Brilliant light glared abruptly from the office ahead, dimming the dusty sunlight.

"As planetary representative here on Spivey's-that is, GPR 7203-C," Davis went on solemnly, "it is my duty to report this incident to Sector." There were clattering sounds that the boys realized, with excitement, represented the uncovering of the big gubment-owned SWIFT machine. Mick crowded Dub, edging forward for better hearing.

"No use getting the gubment all excited about nothin," Hick was saying. "Time Henry sleeps it off, he won't even remember nothin about it."

"Possibly, Marshal," Davis conceded calmly. "But his description of a Deng trooper was remarkably accurate."