Then Sar Gremian shouts, “Back up! Now, goddammit! Take the tension off those cables!” As the two remaining cables go slack, Sar Gremian mutters, “Jeezus Crap, that was close.” I surmise that the broken cable has sliced through something a very short distance away from the president’s chief advisor. “All right,” he says, voice grim, “do you have any bright ideas about how to turn you over?”
“You will require a heavy-lift transport similar to those used by the Brigade in combat drops from orbit. The Concordiat cannot divert such equipment away from the current war zone. The laboratories on Vishnu may be able to provide you with a lifter strong enough to roll me back onto my treads.”
“Oh, just wonderful.”
“I would suggest,” I add, “that repairs to my treads commence before then, as it will be easier to replace tracks when I am not sitting on them. I am unable to verify with visual confirmation, but I find it unlikely that any of the spares in my temporary depot survived the explosion.”
“I’ll say it didn’t,” Sar Gremian snarls. “And you look like one seriously screwed up piece of shit. Can the rest of you be fixed?”
“I am running diagnostics. I have sustained serious damage. Eighty-two percent of that damage would be repairable, if I had a properly trained technician and sufficient spare parts. The remaining eighteen percent of the damage would require an overhaul at a Brigade depot such as Sector Command’s main repair yards. Brigade resources are not available. You will therefore need to purchase parts, including special-order items that will require customized tool and die manufacturing. You will also need the services of a team of technicians from Vishnu. I estimate that restoration to even a minimal level of functionality will require an investment in excess of ten billion—”
“Ten billion?” Sar Gremian’s voice hits an unlikely and harsh soprano. “Mother of—” He breaks off, breathing heavily. “Goddammit, do you have any idea what Vittori Santorini will say when he hears that? You have been one nonstop bitch of an expensive problem! You can’t stop one lousy insurrection led by a handful of terrorists. Every time you’re sent out on a job, you manage to let some asshole throw a bomb at you. You’re supposed to be a high-tech war wizard, rolling-death incarnate, but you can’t even detect an ordinary terrorist with a coat full of explosives! You let these bastards drive a truckload of explosives through your front door and now you think we’re just going to cough up ten billion—”
My temper snaps, as suddenly and brutally as the cable at my prow. “I have endured six years of constant attrition with no fiscal allocations from this government to correct any of the damage. Seventy percent of my sensor arrays were cobbled together from cheap, stolen parts spliced improperly into my circuitry with patches attempting to mate incompatible systems. The technician assigned to me was incapable, incompetent, and inappropriately trained. It took Phil Fabrizio four years of intensive study just to reach a level of competence expected of a first-year apprentice technician in the Brigade. He is now unavailable. The team you dispatched to replace him spent the last moments of their lives trying to steal what little remained in the way of spare parts.
“I have not been given an intelligence update since the beginning of the insurrection and I have been locked out of databases critical to carrying out my mission. I routinely act without infantry or air support, which has led to serious damage inflicted by suicide squads and ambushes. I have nearly been killed multiple times by mobile Hellbores that were inadequately guarded by a handful of poorly trained, incompetent thugs masquerading as soldiers. My condition is pitiful. I am less operational now than I was on the killing fields of Etaine.
“My depot has been destroyed by a bomb that the P-Squads guarding me — and their own planetary headquarters — somehow failed to discover. They failed despite the fact that the entire truck was one ten-meter-long bomb and would have been discovered if the gate guards had done something as simple as open the doors to look inside. Either they failed to conduct a simple visual check through innate sloth or they were bribed into allowing that bomb to enter the base.
“The systematic, government-sanctioned destruction perpetrated on Jefferson’s manufacturing industries has left this planet incapable of producing duralloy or even flintsteel from which to manufacture new parts. Jefferson’s sole remaining high-tech computer plant is no longer capable of producing psychotronic circuitry, which is the mainstay of my intelligence. This means there is no on-world source to replace psychotronic circuitry damaged by the blast. I therefore hold little hope that my condition will materially improve until and unless Jefferson’s president, House of Law, and Senate approve the expenditures necessary to purchase what I need from off-world vendors.
“Given the government’s past track records on financial matters, I am not optimistic that this will occur. If you are not going to fix me, then either go away and let me be miserable alone or simply issue the destruct code that will fry my Action/Command core and put me out of my misery. That would be more pleasant than being snarled at by abusive bureaucrats unfit for command.”
Sar Gremian remains silent for three minutes, twelve seconds. I anticipate the destruct codes at any moment. His eventual response, however, surprises me. “For once,” he mutters, “you are so right it stinks like last week’s garbage.” He sighs, a tired and bitter sound. “All right, give me a detailed damage report. Be sure it lists everything you need replaced. And I mean everything, right down to the nuts, the bolts, and the screws. Vittori’s gonna shit sideways when I tell him we’ve got to go shopping on Vishnu. And when Nassiona sees the size of that invoice, the whole goddamned roof is going to blow sky-high. When I get my hands on that Oroton bastard, I’m going to slice him into little cubes a centimeter wide.”
He utters one final curse and ends transmission.
I complete my diagnostics and transmit a list of required parts. I then retreat once more into my survival center and await repairs.
II
Simon was poring over a message from Kafari when the call came through, using a Brigade code that signaled a high-priority message. Startled, Simon touched his wrist-comm. “Khrustinov.”
Sheila Brisbane’s voice asked, “Simon, are you home or out somewhere?”
“Home, why?”
“Do you mind a couple of visitors?”
Simon frowned, wishing he could see Captain Brisbane’s face. “No, of course not. It’s always a pleasure talking to you, Sheila.”
“Thanks,” she said drily, “but you may change your mind when you’ve heard what I have to say.”
“Sounds bad.”
“Isn’t good.”
“What time do you want to stop by?”
There was a brief pause as she spoke to someone else, voice muffled. “Half an hour from now?”
“That bad, huh? Make it fifteen minutes so I won’t have as much time to worry.”
Sheila’s chuckle reflected their shared experience of careers spent in the Brigade. Officers preferred knowing the worst news as soon as possible. Too much time squandered on fretting just wasted energy and resources that wouldn’t change the outcome one jot, whereas facts could make all the difference in the world. “I’ll step on the gas, getting there, then. See you in twenty or so.”
“Roger.”
Another chuckle greeted his automatic response. Simon smiled, but there was an ache in his throat, all the same. Forcible retirement — even after years to accustom himself to it — still rankled deep. It had robbed him of the chance to take further part in the epic struggle for which he had been so laboriously trained. Retirement had also robbed the Concordiat of his experience, skill, and judgment, which were not inconsequential. He wasn’t sure what Sheila Brisbane, commander of the Bolo assigned to Vishnu, wanted, but he’d welcome an opportunity to reverse that unhappy situation.