"Stand easy, Lieutenant," he said, returning her Academy-sharp salute rather more casually. She dropped back into parade rest, rather than a full stand-easy position, her eyes gazing a regulation fifteen centimeters above his head.
"So, you're our new Bolo commander," he said.
Maneka's eyes popped wide and, against her will, they dropped to Colonel Tchaikovsky's face. Bolo commander? Surely she must have misheard him!
He simply sat there, gazing back at her with a mildly speculative expression, and she fought an urge to lick her lips nervously as she realized he was prepared to go right on doing it until she said something.
"Sir," she began, surprised her voice didn't quiver uncertainly, "my orders were to report to Fort Merrit for duty with the Thirty-Ninth Battalion. Exactly what those duties were to be wasn't specified. However, I certainly never anticipated that someone as junior and inexperienced as I am might be considered for assignment as a commander."
"Think you're not up to the job?" Tchaikovsky let a deliberate edge of challenging coolness into his voice, but the young woman's composure remained unruffled.
"Yes, sir, I believe I'm up to the job. I believe my Academy record demonstrates that I have the training and the native ability to command a Bolo in combat. I am also, however, as I said, very junior and aware of my inexperience. I'd anticipated an assignment to additional training with hands-on experience under the tutelage of a fully qualified and experienced Unit commander. That was what I was led to expect by my instructors at the Academy."
"I see."
Tchaikovsky cocked back in his chair, propped his elbows on the chair arms, and steepled his fingers in front of his chest. He considered her coolly for several seconds, then allowed the first millimetric hint of a smile to show.
"Not a bad answer, Lieutenant," he told her. "And I'm sure that's exactly what the Academy types told you to expect. But the truth is, the Brigade is experiencing some changes just now."
Maneka's eyes darkened. She knew exactly what he was referring to.
"The Melconian Empire isn't as technologically advanced as the Concordiat," Tchaikovsky continued in a flat, dry, lecturer's tone. "Or not, at least, in most areas. They do remarkably well in electronic warfare and stealth capabilities, but they're far, far behind us in cybernetics, and they've demonstrated no equivalent of our own psychotronic technology. Unfortunately, the Empire is also much larger than the Concordiat. We knew that. What I strongly suspect none of the analysts considered was that we might be underestimating just how much larger it might be. And now that we're busy killing one another in planet-sized lots, that particular question takes on a certain burning relevance."
He looked at her levelly, and neither of them needed for him to be more specific. The current war against the Melconian Empire had begun in 3343, the same year Maneka was born. Everyone had seen it coming; no one had even begun to imagine how terrible it would be once it began. The sheer, stupendous size of the Empire had taken the Concordiat's so-called "intelligence experts" completely by surprise. On the other hand, the Concordiat's technological superiority must have come as just as great a surprise to the Melconians. The initial naval engagements had gone overwhelmingly in humanity's favor... until, at least, the Puppies had mobilized their real battle fleet. After that, things had gotten progressively uglier.
Six years ago, after fifteen years of increasingly bloody warfare, the Melconians had carried out what the Emperor had been pleased to call a "demonstration strike" on the planet of New Vermont. None of the planet's billion inhabitants had survived.
The Concordiat's inevitable retaliatory strike on the Melconian planet of Tharnas had been equally... effective. But instead of inspiring the Melconians to renounce its genocidal attacks, the Tharnas Strike had simply become the first human contribution to an ever upward spiraling cycle of murderous violence. By now, under the grimly appropriate "Plan Ragnarok," the extermination of the Melconian ability ever to wage war again-which everyone knew, whether they would admit it or not, meant the effective extermination of the Melconian species-had become the official policy of the Concordiat.
As, self-evidently, the extermination of Humanity had become the reciprocal policy of the Melconian Empire.
For Maneka, at this point, that was still an intellectual awareness; for Tchaikovsky, it wasn't. Maneka was aware (though she really wasn't supposed to be) that Tchaikovsky's last post before being given the Thirty-Ninth had been as the executive officer of the 721st... which had taken sixty-six percent casualties at the Battle of Maybach.
"It's obvious that we have a significant advantage in combat power on a ton-for-ton basis," Tchaikovsky continued. "Their warships need a three-to-one advantage to meet us on an even footing, and the differential is even worse for their planetary heavy combat units going up against modern Bolos. The problem is that they appear to have that numerical advantage, and quite probably a good bit to spare. I take it that you are already aware of most of this?"
"Yes, sir," she said quietly.
"Then you realize the Brigade is going to take heavy casualties in this war," he told her flatly. "In addition, we're expanding our strength at the highest rate in the Brigade's history. That, of course, is why your Academy curriculum was shortened by a full semester and why your graduating class was twenty percent larger than the one before it... and twenty percent smaller than the one behind it, despite how difficult it is to find officer candidates capable of passing the Brigade's screening process. It's also why the Thirty-Ninth has been systematically raided for experienced commanders. We're running at full stretch-and beyond, frankly-to keep up with combat losses and simultaneously crew the new-build Bolos. So while I would prefer to assign you to an experienced commander in the traditional mentor relationship, it simply isn't practical. In fact, of the Thirty-Ninth's twelve Bolo commanders, only three, including myself, have seen actual combat.
"You'll be our youngest and most junior commander, and I'm giving you Eight-Six-Two-BNJ-'Benjy'-as your Bolo. He's been around the block more than a few times, Lieutenant. You can learn a lot from him, just as you'd better be learning from everyone else around you. I'm sure you and your classmates at the Academy worked the math on your odds of surviving to retire. Assuming that anyone is allowed to retire in the foreseeable future, of course."
He smiled briefly.
"If you did the math, then you know your odds aren't especially encouraging. Recognizing that will probably contribute to a realistic perspective, but don't fixate on it. That sort of thing can create a self-fulfilling prophecy situation. Instead, remember this, Lieutenant. Every single thing you can learn here, every trick you can pick up, every tactical insight and every speck of deviousness you can acquire, will shift the probabilities in your favor. It will also make you a more effective commander, more dangerous to the enemy in action. For right now, that's your entire responsibility-to learn. To learn how to survive, how to meet the enemy, and how to defeat him. A Mark XXVIII Bolo like Benjy is too long in the tooth for front-line deployment in a war like this, but he's been around for one and a quarter Standard Centuries. Over a hundred and twenty-five years, Lieutenant Trevor. He's picked up quite a few tricks in that time. Learn them from him."