He turned his couch and keyed another screen to life. A forty-nine-year-old time and date display glowed in one corner, and the white-haired woman who appeared on it sat in the same crash couch Merrit now occupied. She was far frailer and older than the single, poor-quality flatpic of Major Stavrakas he’d found in Central’s surviving records, but her olive-dark eyes were still sharp and alert. He’d already played the recording three times, yet he felt a fresh sense of respect, coupled with a regret that he’d never known her, as she began to speak.
“Since you’re viewing this-whoever you are-” she said with a wry smile, “someone must’ve finally remembered where they parked Nike and me. I suppose I should be a bit put out with the Brigade and the Navy, but from the little Jeremiah and I have picked up over the all-units channels, we assume the Quern got through to Central.” Her smile faded, and her voice-a soprano remarkably similar to Nike’s-darkened. “I further assume the rest of the Descartes Team must have been lost at the same time, since they all knew where I was.”
She cleared her throat and rubbed her temple with one fragile, veined hand.
“Jeremiah’s offered to use the commercial bands to request a relief ship with a proper medical officer, but I turned him down. However much he may grump and grouse, Santa Cruz is his home now. I know he really loves it here, and so do I, I suppose. Besides, from the bits and pieces we can pick up, the Quern are still operating in some force in the sector. Given their native habitat, I doubt they’d care much for Santa Cruz’s climate, and I suppose that’s the main reason they’ve never paid us a visit. On the other hand, they might just change their mind if they started intercepting transmissions from us. Nike’s good, but I’d just as soon not match her against a Quern planetary assault force. Even if she won, there wouldn’t be very many surviving Santa Cruzans to cheer for her when it was over.”
She lowered her hand and smiled again.
“Actually, it hasn’t been a bad life. A little lonely, sometimes. Thanks to all the Descartes security, most of the locals never even knew Nike and I were here, and those who did know seem to have forgotten, but I had dear Jeremiah. He and I accepted long ago that we’d become permanent residents of Santa Cruz, and in addition to him, I had Nike, my work, and plenty of time to spend with all three of them. And, of course,” her smile became an impish grin, “no brass to give me a hard time! Talk about research freedom-!”
She chuckled and leaned back to fold thin arms across her chest.
“Unfortunately, it would appear I’m finally running out of time. My family’s always been prone to heart trouble, and I’ve had my warning. I’ve discussed it with Nike-she tends to worry, and I’ve made it a habit to be honest with her-and she understands the depot doesn’t stock the sort of spares I need. I’ve also made arrangements to put her on Autonomous Stand-By if-when-the time comes. I’m certain someone somewhere else has picked up where the Descartes Team left off. By now there’s probably a whole new generation of autonomous Bolos out there, but now that you’ve come to relieve me, I think you’ll find Nike still has a few surprises of her own. Take care of her, whoever you are. She’s quite a girl. I’m sure my tinkering is going to raise a few eyebrows-Lord knows the desk-jockeys would tear their hair at the mere thought of some of the capabilities I’ve given her! But I’ve never regretted a single facet of her design. She’s unique… and she’s been more than just my friend.”
The old woman on the screen sighed. Her smile took on a curious blend of sorrow and deep, abiding pride and affection, and her voice was very soft when she spoke again.
She blinked misty eyes and nodded to the pickup, as if she could actually see him, measure him, know the innermost, most secret part of him.
“A tiny misquote, perhaps,” she said quietly, “but I think Shakespeare would forgive me. Take good care of my child, whoever you are.”
The screen blanked, and Merrit shook his head,
“You must have been quite a girl yourself, Major,” he murmured.
“She was,” the Bolo’s soprano said softly, and he looked up at the small green light glowing below the speaker from which it came. Now that he’d seen Stavrakas’ last log entry, it no longer seemed strange to hear Nike speak without prompting. There was a moment of silence, and then the Bolo continued in that same, soft voice. “I never realized I had that message in memory, Commander. She must have recorded it during one of my down periods.”
“She didn’t want you to worry about her.”
Merrit didn’t even want to think about how the psych types would react to this entire conversation. Every field officer of the Dinochrome Brigade could quote chapter and verse from the manual’s warnings against over-identification with Bolos. They were war machines, the manual said. Self-aware and with personalities, yes, but machines, built to fight and die against humanity’s enemies, which must, in the final analysis, be regarded as expendable. The Bolos themselves knew that; it was only their human commanders and partners who tended to forget-as Merrit had forgotten on Sandlot.
“No. I compute that she would not have wanted that,” Nike agreed after a moment.
“Of course she wouldn’t have. But she was proud of you, Nike, and even from the little I’ve seen so far, she had reason to be.”
“Indeed?” The Bolo sounded pleased, and somehow he had the sense of a cocked head and a quirked eyebrow. “I compute that seventy-nine-plus years have passed since I was deployed, Commander. Surely newer and more modern Bolos surpass my own capabilities?”
“Fishing for compliments, Nike?” Merrit grinned and patted the arm of his crash couch. “Major Stavrakas was right. The desk-jockeys would tear their hair out if they could hear you now!”
“Why?” the Bolo asked simply.
“Because they worry about Bolos that get too human.”
“Because they fear what such a Bolo might do? Or because they fear what it might refuse to do?”
“I think because they’re afraid it might start asking questions just like those,” Merrit said more seriously. “You’re a very powerful fighting machine, Nike. There’s never-ever-been an instance of an undamaged Bolo in proper repair violating orders, but we’ve had the occasional accident with a unit that’s suffered damage or lack of maintenance. That’s why the Brigade still worries about its ability to retain control of the newer, autonomous units. They’ve cut back on the inhibitory software in the Mark XXVs, but the core package is still in there.”
“A wise precaution,” Nike observed after a moment. “An irrational machine with the combat power I possess would be far too dangerous to its friends.”
“I’m afraid I have to agree, but that’s what would upset the desk-jockeys about you. You don’t have anywhere near the systems redundancy the Mark XXIVs and XXVs have. Technically, that makes you more vulnerable to failure from battle damage, and-probably worse, from HQ’s perspective-what I’ve seen so far suggests that Major Stavrakas’ modifications to your Personality and Command Centers are way outside the current parameters, as well. Just for starters, your inhibitory package is a lot less restrictive. No modern Bolo should be as ‘awake’ as you are outside Battle Mode, either, and it looks like your personality integration is at least a full magnitude more developed than a Mark XXV’s. I’m not certain yet, but coupled with the modifications to your secondary command cortex, I suspect you could even hold off the Omega Worm for a while.”