Keith Laumer - The Compleat Bolo

Standing close to the old machine, his ears alert for the sounds from the adjacent office, Dub started as he heard a deep-seated clatter from inside the great bulk of metal.

Dub gripped Mick's arm. "Didja hear that, Mick?" he hissed urgently. "Sounded like old Johnny made some kinda noise again."

"All I heard was Davis telling somebody named Relay Five that old Pud Boone is all set to play soldiers with, he says, 'a sizable Deng task force' is what he said, 'poised,' he says, Tor attack,' says they better 'act fast to avert a tragedy.' Sounds like we won't get no big Navy ship in here to help out, like he figgered."

"It done it again," Dub told Mick, even as the glare-strips in the ceiling far above dimmed to a faint greenish glow. The boy stepped back and this time he was sure: the Bolo had moved.

"M-Mick, looky," he stammered. "It moved!"

"Naw, just the light got dim," Mick explained almost patiently. "Makes the shadders move." But he eased back.

"Mick, if it's anything we done, we'll catch it for sure!"

"Even if we did, who's gonna find out?" The older boy dismissed Dub's fears.

Then, with an undeniable groan of stiff machinery, the Bolo advanced a foot, crushing the white-painted curbing.

"We better go tell old Davis 'bout Johnny," Dub whispered.

"You mean 'Jonah'," Mick corrected. "And when he arrests you for trespassin', what you going to do?"

"Don't know," Dub replied doggedly, "but I'm going to go anyway," he crept away, shaking off Mick's attempt to restrain him.

Mick followed, protesting, as the small boy ran along the partition to the forbidden office door, and without pausing, burst in. Davis, seated at the SWIFT console was staring at him in amazement.

"Mr. Davis!" the boy yelled. "You gotta do something! We was jest looking at old Johnny, and he moved! We didn't do nothing, honest!" By this time Dub was at Davis' side, clutching at the government man's arm. Patiently Davis pried off the grubby child's tear-wet fingers.

"You know you've been a very bad boy," he said without heat, in the lull as Dub stifled his sobs. "But I'm sure no harm is done. Come along now; show me what's got you so upset." He rose, a tall and remote authority figure in the tear-blurred eyes of the eight-year-old, took the damp hand and led the boy toward the door, where Mick had appeared abruptly, less excited than Dub, but clearly as agitated as his big-boy self-image would allow.

"We didn't do nothing, Mr. Davis," he said doggedly, not meeting the man's eye. "The back door was open and we come in to look at old Jonah, and it made some kinda noise, and old Dub run. That's all's to it."

"We'll have a look, Mickey," Davis said gruffly. "You are young McClusky; they do call you Mickey, eh?"

"Mick, sir," young McClusky corrected. He fell in behind the man as they returned to stand before the huge, now-silent war machine. Davis' eye went at once to the crushed concrete curbing.

"Here," he said sharply. "How the devil-excuse me, boys, how did this happen? It must have moved forward at least a few inches," he mused aloud. "How in the world…" Abruptly, the faint light winked up to its normal level of wan brilliance. Simultaneously the Bolo emitted a faint, though distinct, humming sound.

Dub went directly across to the formidable but somehow pathetic old war machine. He reached up to pat the curve of the pressure hull comfortingly.

"Wish I could tell you all about what's happening, Johnny," he murmured soothingly. "But I guess you couldn't hear me."

"I hear you very well, my commander," a constructed voice said clearly, at which Dub jumped back and peered up into the darkness.

"Who's there?" he asked in a small voice, suddenly appalled by his own foolishness in trespassing here.

"My commander," the words came distinctly from the machine. "I await your orders."

"Good Lord!" Davis exclaimed, staring at the boy. "Dub, it thinks you're its Commanding Officer! And-did you notice the lights? They dim whenever the SWIFT node generator is switched on. I forgot to switch it off, and after sixty seconds with no input, it switched off spontaneously. And-as for the Bolo's restored energy-the SWIFT generator produces a flood of waste energy, mostly in the low ultra-violet-the so-called Y-band, precisely the frequencies which the psychotronic circuitry is designed to accept. Only at an efficiency of some thirty-five percent, it's true; but the flood of radiant energy at this close range is quite sufficient to effect some degree of recharge." Davis paused, looking thoughtfully at the boys.

"Wait here a minute," Davis said to Dub. "Whatever you do, don't say anything the machine could interpret as a command." He skirted the Bolo and headed for his office at a trot. A moment later the lights dimmed, almost went dark.

"Excellent, my commander," the machine voice said at once. "I am now accepting charge at optimum rate."

The two boys hung back, awed in spite of themselves at the understanding of what was happening.

"If it starts moving around, we'll get squashed for sure," Mick said, and pressed himself back against the wall.

"Johnny ain't going to squash us," Dub objected. "He's going to go out and squash them spodders-soon's I tell him to," he added hastily.

After some minutes, Davis returned. "That ought to do it," he panted, out of breath. "Now," he went on, taking Dub's hand, "this is a most unusual situation, but it may be for the best, after all. We'd better go see the mayor, lad. Meanwhile, tell Unit JNA to stand fast, until you call.

"Dub," he said seriously, catching the boy's still-damp eye-"a Bolo is programmed to 'imprint,' as it's called, on the first person who enters its command zone and says some special code word-and it seems like that's what you did; so, like it or not, the machine will do your bidding, and none other's."

"Bet it'll do what I say, too," Mick said, stepping in close to the machine. "I was here, too, jest as much as him." He faced the Bolo. "Now, you back up to where you was before. Right now," he added. All three persons present watched closely. There was no response whatever.

"I didn't mean no-any harm," Dub declared firmly.

"Unit JNA of the Line, reporting low energy reserves," the echoic voice spoke again. This time Dub stood his ground.

"Johnny-it's you talking to me," he said in wonderment. "I jest never knew you could talk."

"I await your instructions, sir," the calm voice said.

"O.K., Johnny," Dub spoke up. "Now, you better get ready to go. The spodders is back, and about to start the war up again."

"I am ready, my commander," the constructed voice replied promptly. "Request permission to file a voluntary situation report."

"You're asking me for permission?" the boy's tone was one of incredulity. "Sure, go ahead," he added.

"I must report my energy reserve at fifty percent of operational optimum. I must further report that a hostile force is in position some two thousand yards distant," the Bolo announced flatly. "A smaller force is near at hand, but I compute that it is merely diversionary."

"Yeah, me and Mick seen 'em," Dub responded eagerly. "And Mr. Davis says them militia is jest going to get theirselfs kilt. Johnny-you got to do something. If all the men get kilt-Pa's one of 'em too-that'd be terrible! I'm scared."

The dim lights far above flickered, almost winked out, then steadied at a wan glow.

"Reporting on charge," the machine-voice said. "I compute that I will be at full operational status in one point one-seven seconds. I so report. Now indeed am I ready, my commander."

A moment passed before the meaning of the words penetrated. Then Dub, pressed close to the comforting bulk of the machine dubbed Horrendous by friend and foe alike, said urgently, "Johnny, we got to do something-now."