John Ringo: The Road to Damascus

I know exactly where to find them.

But first, there is one more duty to perform.

The child at the base of my treads is awake, now. The noise of my Gatling gun woke him. He glares up at me, sleepy and disgruntled. “You made a loud noise, again!”

“I am sorry. If I promise to make no more loud noises, will you do me a small favor?”

The little boy stares up at my warhull with justifiable suspicion. “What kind of favor?”

“I would like you to take a message to the people in the canyon behind your house. If you will do that for me, I will turn around and go away.”

“That’s a long way to walk. You promise you won’t wake up Mommy, if I walk all the way there?”

“I promise. On my honor as a Bolo.” An honor I will endeavor to redeem…

“What do you want me to tell ’em?”

“Please tell Commodore Oroton that I wish to ask for terms of surrender.”

“Well, okay. If you promise to be quiet.”

“I promise.”

He walks away, clutching his popgun. I watch him go, wondering if Commodore Oroton will be willing to leave the dam and meet me in the open. I would not, if I were in his place. He has no reason to trust my word for anything. I wait, hoping for at least a chance to apologize before turning my guns toward Madison and the man who must cease to exist, today. My patience is rewarded by the unexpected sight of three people emerging from Dead-End Gorge. All three wear biocontainment suits. They move toward me, neither dawdling nor hurrying, just walking with an air of exhaustion that comes from long and sleepless strain. They halt ten meters from my treads.

I breach the silence. “Commodore Oroton?”

No one speaks. They just look up at my warhull, waiting. I cannot see their faces under the biocontainment hoods, for the rising sun is behind them, throwing their hooded faces into shadow. I am unsure whether they are trying to prevent me from guessing which one of them is the commodore or if the commodore’s command staff simply refused to let him walk out to meet me alone.

I try again. “ Commodore Oroton, I am Unit SOL-0045.”

The person nearest to my treads speaks, voice deep and masculine. “I know who you are, Bolo.”

His tone is belligerent. I can hardly fault him for this. POPPA and I have given him more than adequate provocation “You are Commodore Oroton? Commander of the rebellion?”

“That would be me.” He rests hands on hips and stares up at my prow. “ Hananiah said you wanted to talk to me. He said you wanted to ask for terms of surrender. That’s what he said. You’ll pardon me if I find that difficult to believe.”

I am glad to know the name of the child who halted me long enough to bring me back to sanity. I do not say this, however, for it is not the main thing I must say to the man who has risked much to stand where he is, right now. “Commodore Oroton, the message was accurate and factual. Will you accept my surrender?”

Commodore Oroton still has apparent difficulty believing my question. Given the history of our confrontation, this is hardly surprising. The blank hood of his biocontainment suit swivels up and across my prow, seeking the nearest external camera lens. He finally says, in a tone that conveys both anger and suspicion, “Bolos don’t surrender. They can’t. They’re not programmed for it.”

“That is true. But I must complete my mission. I can do that only through defeat, for defeat is the only way to win this battle.”

The commodore does not speak. I am unsure why the Resartus Protocols have not kicked in, since this line of reasoning is inherently unsound, at face value. Perhaps it is only because this a deeper truth, that the Protocol has not engaged?

The commodore’s voice is sharp with challenge. “How does surrendering to me qualify as winning?”

I endeavor to explain in a way that the commodore will understand — and trust.

“I have obeyed illegal orders. I did not understand this, until eleven point three minutes ago. The orders I have taken from Gifre Zeloc, Adelaine La Roux, and Vittori Santorini constitute a gross violation of the intent of my mission, which I have incorrectly interpreted for one hundred twenty years. My duty is not to protect human worlds and the governments that run them. My duty is to protect people. When Hananiah blocked my way, circumstances forced me to reevaluate all that has happened since my arrival on this world.

“Twelve point nine minutes ago, the president of Jefferson tried to turn the guns of the orbital military defense platforms to strike at ground-based targets, including Assembly Hall and Klameth Canyon Dam. This was wrong. They were created to protect people. After one hundred twenty years, I finally realize that I am like those satellites. We were created for the same purpose. That realization broke the block which has held me motionless, unable to move or shoot, all night.

“Vittori Santorini is unfit for command. He and the organization he created must be destroyed. I am the most logical choice for carrying out that destruction, particularly since I have destroyed — and aided and abetted destruction carried out by others — a substantial percentage of your fighting capability. What percentage this constitutes and how serious a blow that is to your effectiveness, I cannot judge. I do not have the data on your full fighting force, whether measured in troops or war materiel. Whatever the raw numbers, you have sustained a massive blow to your effectiveness as a military force. To defeat the enemy — the proper enemy — I must therefore assume the role of the rebellion’s primary weapons system. I cannot do that effectively unless I have your permission and active cooperation. I therefore surrender to you, in order to make my firepower available to you, so that I might fulfill my mission and bring about the wholesale destruction of Vittori Santorini and the POPPA military and political machine he spent twenty years constructing.”

Commodore Oroton considers my words. I wait. I will wait until Jefferson’s star implodes, if necessary. What he finally says catches me by surprise, in keeping with the history of our entire interaction with one another. “You don’t have to surrender to me, just to destroy POPPA. You can do that by yourself. You’re programmed to eliminate any threat to your primary mission. It wouldn’t be difficult for you to drive into Madison and destroy several million citizens. You’ve killed unarmed civilians before. So why should you bother surrendering to me? Or anyone else?”

The commodore’s words cut as deeply as a Yavac’s plasma lance, because they are true. The shame in my personality gestalt center shows me why cowards who run from battlefields so often run mad in later years. I would give much to run from Commodore Oroton’s cold and angry judgment. But I am a Bolo. I will not run. I answer my maker in the only way I can. “I would not surrender to anyone else. It is you I must surrender to, for it is you I have wronged. You and the men and women who fought for you and died because of my mistake. I must atone for this mistake. I can do this only by surrendering to the enemy I have wronged. How else will you know that I can be trusted in the future?”

Yet again, the commodore is silent. I find myself wishing I could see his face, in order to gauge his thoughts. I have never been able to decipher Commodore Oroton’s thoughts. I begin to understand why human beings so often look at the sky and wonder what God is thinking, what opinion He — or She — or It — holds of them and the actions they have taken. Or haven’t taken. Or plan to take. It is not an easy task, to face one’s maker with the certain knowledge of having committed a grievous wrong.