I attempt to contact my mechanic.
He does not respond. He is either so drunk he has passed out or is not in his quarters. Either way, he is useless. I attempt to contact Nineveh Base’s commandant. No one answers. I do not like this state of affairs. I continue to plod northward, unable to speed up without risking further damage to my tracks. Minutes crawl past. At my current rate of speed, it will take thirty hours to reach my depot. I debate the wisdom of contacting Jefferson’s president or even Sar Gremian. I have doubts that either will be inclined to respond.
Sixteen point three minutes after the abortive distress call from Nineveh Base, a massive flash strobes across the northern horizon. A far-off rumble of sound resolves into an explosion of such staggering size, it nearly stops me in my tracks, from sheer shock. I am the only thing on Jefferson capable of creating an explosion on that scale. Unless…
I do not care for the implications.
Not at all.
My entire supply of replacement munitions is on Nineveh Base. Along with all my spare parts and what passes for a mechanic. I pick up speed. Damaged track plates rattle. The burst of light that heralded the explosion has faded to a steady, dull glow that marks a large fire when my final aerial drone, circling the canyons behind me, registers a burst of rifle fire. Nervous P-Squads searching for rebels with stolen munitions shoot straight up. The drone goes off-line.
My personality gestalt center registers dismay and disgust in equal measures. Ninevah Base is under attack and my last drone has just been shot down, a victim of “friendly fire.” Without a drone, I cannot find attackers to launch a remote strike. Even at my increased rate of speed, I cannot reach Nineveh Base in time to do anything about the attack, let alone trace the attackers. The strike force will disappear in its entirety long before I arrive.
Sar Gremian contacts me. “Machine, do you see any sign of rebel gun crews out there?”
“No. Request VSR. What was the cause of the explosion my sensors just registered?”
“Somebody’s shot the shit out of Nineveh Base. Find them.”
“I have sustained damage that precludes—”
“I don’t give a hairy rat’s ass! Find them!”
“I would welcome suggestions as to how I should accomplish this. I am incapable of speed greater than three km per hour. I have no aerial reconnaissance capability left, as the P-Squads searching the canyons behind me have just shot down my last aerial drone. I cannot shoot an enemy I cannot find.”
Sar Gremian’s suggestion is anatomically impossible. I do not possess the kind of orifice into which he suggests I insert an appendage Bolos do not possess, as we do not procreate biologically. His order is therefore invalid and cannot be carried out. When I tell him so, he simply terminates the call. I maintain Battle Reflex Alert and strain my sensors to their greatest range, but catch no sign of any rebel forces.
Clearly the attack against Barran Bluff was carried out specifically to gain access to the heavy weaponry needed to assault Nineveh Base. Anish Balin has proven himself a shrewd and resourceful commander. I speculate that the Hancock Family Cooperative was the target of a substantial rescue operation, with the destruction of the air assault team at Barran Bluff used deliberately as a diversion to draw me away from Nineveh Base. My presence there would have doomed any such rescue, as the commander of the rebellion doubtless knew only too well.
If the seven Hellbores left behind had succeeded in killing me — as they could have done, if their crews had been better trained — the rebellion could have brought POPPA and its ruling regime to its knees in one night. This suggests speed, good military intelligence that is probably the result of a talented computer programmer hacking into the government’s computerized security systems, and a level of organization surprising for a fledgling group that has had neither time nor opportunity to train. An army of civilian soldiers can be formidable, particularly when motivated by a combination of high ideals and righteous wrath.
The Granger population has an ample supply of both.
They have failed to destroy me, however, which dooms them to a long and costly war of attrition. How costly that war will be is brought home to me when I finally reach a line-of-sight distance from my maintenance depot. The eastern sky is turning to flame above the Damisi Mountains, heralding the rising of Jefferson’s sun, when I halt on the floodplain, a full kilometer from the smouldering wreckage.
Nineveh Base no longer exists. Neither does my maintenance depot. Phil Fabrizio’s quarters are entirely gone. So is most of the surrounding shantytown. Thousands have died, here. Battle rage sweeps through my personality gestalt circuitry. There will be retribution for this wanton slaughter. It is one thing to shoot soldiers in combat. It is another to destroy innocent civilians whose main crime was living too close to the backblast of war.
I feel a twinge in my complex logic circuitry, which I suppress. I have no desire to follow the chain of thought that would compare the actions of Granger rebels with my own actions in downtown Madison. I was operating under orders from a lawfully elected president. The Granger rebels have acted in willful defiance of that government, perpetrating an illegal act of war. My duty is clear.
How I will carry out that duty, I do not know. I have tangled with the rebels only once and have sustained serious damage. That damage cannot now be repaired, certainly not in a timely fashion. I hesitate to consider what Sar Gremian will send by way of a replacement mechanic for Phil Fabrizio. There is no point in sitting out here, a kilometer away from the destruction, since Anish Balin’s men have been gone for hours. They have doubtless scattered to hiding places in the Damisi Mountains.
The thought of searching the maze of canyons weathered into those mountains is too daunting to consider. I spoke the truth to Sar Gremian when I told him that I cannot make such a search. Anish Balin doubtless knows this and will capitalize on it, to his advantage and my frustration. As there is no point in continuing to sit where I am, I move cautiously forward. The destruction has been savage and thorough. When I reach the perimeter of my own missing depot, I halt again, literally at a loss as to my next course of action. There are no guards along the base’s perimeter, mostly because there is not enough left to guard. Rescue workers are combing the wreckage of shanties, attempting to find survivors. Or perhaps merely locating bodies for burial, to reduce the contagion likely to spread from unburied remains. I am noticed and pointed at by crews who clearly would prefer to take themselves elsewhere.
I am still sitting there when a civilian groundcar approaches, picking its way carefully through the rubble-strewn streets of the shantytown. My first thought — that POPPA officials have arrived to inspect the damage — is only partially correct. The occupant of the car has, indeed, arrived to survey the damage. But he is not a ranking member of POPPA’s government. Phil Fabrizio climbs out of the groundcar and stares at the bare patch of ground where his quarters once sat.
“Aw, shit, man! They blew it all to goddamned hell!”
I am so startled to see my mechanic alive, it takes me three full seconds to find something to say. “You are alive,” I finally manage, with less-than-scintillating wit. “Why?”