“Whatcha want me to do about it? I ain’t no soldier, machine. I’m a cop. I got an award for throwin’ that pack of murderers in jail, but I ain’t no soldier. Whatever it is you want, it’s your problem, not mine.”
I surmise that Captain Lokkis is not sufficiently acquainted with the interior of his training manuals to comprehend what “infantry support” means. Yet again, I revise my phrasing.
“I need people on foot to go into the compound first and see what’s there.”
“Whoeeeee! You ain’t askin’ much, are you? So’s I hear tell, folks in hell want icewater, too. Don’t mean they get it. We got no ‘infantry.’ And even if we did, which we don’t, I wouldn’t send ’em in there, anyway. Did you see what those bastards did to the plane and the tank? Ain’t no way my people are goin’ in there.” He jabs a dirty finger in the direction of the bluff overlooking his command post, such as it is, and says, “You wanna see what’s in there? Fine. You go take a look. That’s what they pay you for, ain’t it?”
I consider correcting his misapprehension about a Bolo’s terms of service, which include nothing resembling a soldier’s pay. Jefferson is obliged to provide repair parts and a technician, but that is the extent of the government’s contractual remuneration for my services. I decide that any attempt at clarification would only cloud the issue further.
I make yet another attempt to obtain what I need. “There are three infantry units listed on active duty status in this sector. Contact their commanders and request an immediate scramble of combat infantry troops to this location.”
Captain Lokkis’ jaw juts out in an unpleasant fashion. “You ain’t got much brains, do you? I said we didn’t have infantry. Those ‘units’ were disbanded, musta’ been about two years back, or more.”
“Disbanded?” I am so startled by this news, I request further clarification. “Please explain. These units are listed as active.”
“Oh, they can be filled if they hafta, from reserves. But just b’tween you, me, an’ the fencepost, those infantry units were ‘politically destabilizing and financially draining.’ ” The last five words are clearly a direct quotation, they are so unlike Captain Lokkis’ routine diction.
“If these units are still kept on the active list but have been disbanded, what happened to the funds required to support them?” I am thinking, urgently, about the long-term implications for my primary mission.
“Oh, they divvied up the money.”
“How?”
He just stares vacantly into my external visual sensors. “I dunno how. Why’s that any a’ your business?”
I do not bother to answer, as he is clearly incapable of understanding the serious consequences of misappropriated military funds. I begin searching the governmental datanet via wireless interface and discover financial transactions that divide the money saved by disbanding the infantry divisions into two main categories: increasing the politically essential subsistence allowance and funding the federal police combat forces known as Op-Squads. I face combat and must put my reliance for repairs upon an illiterate mechanic and a government that is lying to the public about how it spends tax money. Since I cannot gain infantry support and Captain Lokkis has refused to assist, I consult the president. “Unit SOL-0045, requesting infantry support.”
“Infantry support?” Sar Gremian asks, sounding irritated. “Why? Dammit, never mind why. Request denied.”
“I require authorization—”
“I know, I fucking well know! Tell him he can’t have any soldiers.”
The president says, “You can’t have any soldiers. Just do what he says.”
The president has clearly authorized Sar Gremian to give me commands. This will at least save time.
“Understood. I will conduct this exercise operating independently.” I break transmission and address Captain Lokkis. “Please clear your vehicles from my approach vector.”
“What?”
“Move your cars. Unless you want me to crush them.”
Lokkis issues rapid orders to move the ground- and aircars blocking my path. I move forward at a cautious pace, launching an aerial drone. It arcs up to an elevation of twenty meters and is promptly shot down by rebel missile fire from the compound. I lock onto the missile’s trajectory and fire mortars, but am unable to determine whether the rounds strike their intended target.
Approaching from the northern face of the bluff is a tac-tically disadvantageous maneuver. I reverse course and loop the long way around, reapproaching from the south. My warhull is tall enough that my uppermost turret sensors provide a partial view into the compound. Internal berms block my view in seven tactically important locations.
I am down to three drones in my warhull and only four available in depot as replacements. I launch a drone at full speed, hoping to gain altitude before the enemy can react. It streaks to a height of eleven point nine meters and is shot down by missile fire. I launch mortars blind, having gained nothing but a view of the top of the nearest berm. I cannot tell if my mortar shells struck their intended target.
I pause to study the terrain I can see. The southern perimeter fence is down along a thirty-meter stretch to either side of what had been a security check-point gate. Tank traps block the road in a checkerboard pattern. The berms beyond create an even more difficult access route, forcing an invader to weave in deep zigzag patterns to reach the main compound. My treads are, of course, capable of crushing the tank traps flat and I can climb or even plow through the berms, if necessary. The problem is my inability to see what lies on the other side.
I launch a second drone, sending it skimming forward less than one meter above the ground. It weaves its way through the tank traps, then hugs the outside of the first berm, mere centimeters above the slope. It pops up over the crest—
—and rifle fire takes it down. It falls to the ground, shattered like a clay pigeon. I still have not seen beyond the berm. Neither speed nor subterfuge has worked. Brute force, perhaps?
I launch a massive mortar barrage, targeting the hidden terrain behind the berms, and launch my next-to-last drone. It streaks skyward amidst an unholy rain of artillery shells. I catch a fleeting glimpse of foot soldiers scrambling behind the first berm…
Hyper-v missiles scream into the thick of my incoming shells. One of them kills the drone. I am nearly out of drones. And completely out of patience. Yet I cannot fire blind. Not if I am to avoid damage to the equipment in this compound. And I dare not risk the last drone to such pinpoint-accurate rebel fire. Without infantry to search for enemy emplacements and with no aerial drones, I am acutely vulnerable to ambush. There are no power emissions from any of the Hellbores to lock onto, which is immensely frustrating. But I have no choice.
I push forward, grinding across the downed fence and gate. I am approaching the first set of tank traps when a sudden power emission blossoms. A Hellbore snout appears dead ahead. It fires and runs, virtually in the same instant. I take a direct, point-blank hit, at virtual muzzle contact. My screens bleed. Raw energy pours across my warhull. The shot breaches my defensive screen for zero point zero-two seconds. I return fire with a massive mortar barrage. Explosions slam into the far side of the berm, even as the enemy’s power signature vanishes like steam.