But I am a Bolo, part of a Brigade that carries out duty no matter what. I signal acknowledgment. Sector’s parting comments are startling.
“Good luck, Unit SOL-0045. From the gist of Avelaine La Roux’s transmission, you will need it.”
Transmission ends.
I ponder each word of the communication, trying to cull as much information as possible from this somewhat unsatisfying guidance. I am still pondering it, particularly the last ten words of it, when I receive a second transmission, this time from Madison.
“Uh… hello? I want to talk to the machine.”
I contemplate the likelihood that the individual speaking would be using my command frequency to speak to one of the approximately 7,893 psychotronic systems on Jefferson capable of voice-activated operating mode. I decide this person is, in fact, trying to talk to me.
“This is Unit SOL-0045. Please clarify your identity and intentions.”
“I’m the president. The new president. Avelaine La Roux. You called me, yesterday, after poor Gifre and Madeline were killed. The people at that army place off-world said you would respond to my directions. Oh, uh, I’m supposed to say something… Code Absalom?”
“Acknowledged. What are your instructions?”
“My instructions? I don’t have any instructions, not really.”
I begin to question the wisdom of placing La Roux in a command structure that she is clearly not qualified to handle. The commander I lost in the Quern War, Alison Sanhurst, was the finest and most courageous human female I have ever known, although Kafari Khrustinova runs a close second. I have never before encountered a human who could not tell me, at the bare minimum, why they had called. How do incompetent humans rise to command status?
I try again. “Did you have a purpose for contacting me?”
“Well, no, really not, I suppose. Oh, I can’t do this! I’m talking to a collection of rusty nuts and bolts and loose screws!”
I surmise that this last comment was directed at someone with her, rather than at me; still, it stings my pride. “A Bolo Mark XX is significantly more than a collection of rusty nuts and bolts and only zero point zero-two percent of the screws within my thirteen-thousand-ton warhull qualify as sufficiently worn to be termed ‘loose.’ Request permission to file VSR.”
“VSR? What the hell is that?”
I begin to understand the human maxim that patience is a virtue. It is one I clearly lack. It is irritating to stop and explain everything I say in terms a human toddler should comprehend. “VSR is an acronym for Verified Situation Report.”
“What’s that?”
“A verifiably factual report on current conditions affecting my short-term duty and long-term mission.”
“Oh. What do you want to say?”
“Sector Command views the likelihood of armed insurrection as exceedingly high. I concur. I would recommend putting Jefferson’s defense forces on heightened alert status.”
“Why?”
The lack of tactical understanding encapsulated into that single word is stunning. I require a full ten nanoseconds just to frame an explanation. “A weapons confiscation bill was signed into law last night. It is unlikely that all weapons holders will be willing to comply. I foresee a high probability of armed resistance to any attempt at door-to-door disarmament.”
“After what happened last night, no one would dare!”
“After what happened last night, armed resistance is virtually assured.”
“But why?” She appears to be truly baffled.
I am attempting to frame a reply when I pick up an emergency transmission from Barran Bluff, a small munitions depot fifty-three kilometers south of Madison, built a century ago to protect the Walmond Mines, which have been largely inactive under POPPA-mandated environmental codes. The largest town in the region, Gersham, has become virtually a ghost town, while farming in the region has burgeoned due to government-run emergency food-production measures. The small garrison of poorly trained federal troops stationed there, deployed mostly to keep Granger conscripts at work in the fields, is under attack.
“—they’re comin’ over the fences, through the fences, hunnerds of ’em! Can’t even tell how many there are, out there. They’re headin’ for the big artillery bunkers, the ammo dumps. We got more of ’em comin’ in from the south, carryin’ rifles and stuff—”
I hear the sound of small-arms fire through the commlink, unmistakable in its crisp staccato cracking as individual slugs reach supersonic speeds and slice through the sound barrier. The yelling sound of voices in combat is audible in the background, coming mostly from the troops assigned to guard the weapons depot, from the sound of it. I tap the facility’s computer-controlled security cameras as I inform Jefferson’s president of the situation.
“An attack? What attack? There can’t be an attack!”
I flash the transmission to her datascreen and send, as well, the data feed from the compound’s security cameras. An estimated two hundred Grangers on foot have stormed the outpost, armed with heavy rifles and handguns. The contingent of troops on the site boasts a mere twenty-three defenders, six of whom are visibly dead on the ground. They appear to have been shot while running from their posts at outlying gates and guard towers, attempting to reach the safety of the command bunker.
“What do I do?” the fledgling president asks, voice rising to a near-hysterical screech.
The guards at the beseiged outpost are asking the same question in virtually the same tone. “What do we do? There’s too many of ’em! What do we do?”
A voice I recognize at once slices through the confusion, transmitting from the president’s office. Sar Gremian, sounding irritated in the extreme, says, “Shoot them, you idiot! That’s what we gave you rifles for. If you can remember how to load them and pull the triggers. We’re sending down an emergency tactical team by airlift. Try not to shoot them when they get there.”
I signal Sar Gremian through the president’s datacomm. “Unit SOL-0045, standing by. I would advise sending me to Barran Bluff at once.”
“No. Out of the question.”
“This garrison is armed with heavy artillery that—”
“I said no. The last thing we need is for some camera crew to shoot news footage of a Bolo having to step in to contain a few disgruntled assholes with guns.”
I understand, with abrupt clarity. This order is entirely political in nature. I am the first choice to destroy unarmed rioters, sending a specific political message beneficial to POPPA’s campaign of rule by intimidation. But sending in a Bolo to quash armed rebellion would be a tacit admission that the situation is out of control. Sar Gremian and his superiors in the POPPA upper echelons cannot afford to publicize the fact that “a few assholes with guns” have overrun a military compound in an act of open warfare.
I am, however, required by directive from Sector Command to conduct threat assessments in defense of this world. I therefore flash my attention to a roster of Barran Bluff’s military assets. I do not like what I discover. Barran’s heavy-weapons bunker houses ten artillery field guns, lightly armored but fitted with 10cm mobile Hellbores, the heaviest weaponry on Jefferson, excluding myself. These guns represent the only nuclear technology on site, but the potential for devastation is ominous, including a mobility kill on me. Given my role in recent events, Granger dissidents certainly have cause to attempt such a kill. They cannot hope to prevail as long as I am functional.