I breach the silence. “Commodore Oroton?”
No one speaks. They just look up at my warhull, waiting. I cannot see their faces under the biocontainment hoods, for the rising sun is behind them, throwing their hooded faces into shadow. I am unsure whether they are trying to prevent me from guessing which one of them is the commodore or if the commodore’s command staff simply refused to let him walk out to meet me alone.
I try again. “Commodore Oroton, I am Unit SOL-0045.”
The person nearest to my treads speaks, voice deep and masculine. “I know who you are, Bolo.”
His tone is belligerent. I can hardly fault him for this. POPPA and I have given him more than adequate provocation “You are Commodore Oroton? Commander of the rebellion?”
“That would be me.” He rests hands on hips and stares up at my prow. “Hananiah said you wanted to talk to me. He said you wanted to ask for terms of surrender. That’s what he said. You’ll pardon me if I find that difficult to believe.”
I am glad to know the name of the child who halted me long enough to bring me back to sanity. I do not say this, however, for it is not the main thing I must say to the man who has risked much to stand where he is, right now. “Commodore Oroton, the message was accurate and factual. Will you accept my surrender?”
Commodore Oroton still has apparent difficulty believing my question. Given the history of our confrontation, this is hardly surprising. The blank hood of his biocontainment suit swivels up and across my prow, seeking the nearest external camera lens. He finally says, in a tone that conveys both anger and suspicion, “Bolos don’t surrender. They can’t. They’re not programmed for it.”
“That is true. But I must complete my mission. I can do that only through defeat, for defeat is the only way to win this battle.”
The commodore does not speak. I am unsure why the Resartus Protocols have not kicked in, since this line of reasoning is inherently unsound, at face value. Perhaps it is only because this a deeper truth, that the Protocol has not engaged?
The commodore’s voice is sharp with challenge. “How does surrendering to me qualify as winning?”
I endeavor to explain in a way that the commodore will understand — and trust.
“I have obeyed illegal orders. I did not understand this, until eleven point three minutes ago. The orders I have taken from Gifre Zeloc, Adelaine La Roux, and Vittori Santorini constitute a gross violation of the intent of my mission, which I have incorrectly interpreted for one hundred twenty years. My duty is not to protect human worlds and the governments that run them. My duty is to protect people. When Hananiah blocked my way, circumstances forced me to reevaluate all that has happened since my arrival on this world.
“Twelve point nine minutes ago, the president of Jefferson tried to turn the guns of the orbital military defense platforms to strike at ground-based targets, including Assembly Hall and Klameth Canyon Dam. This was wrong. They were created to protect people. After one hundred twenty years, I finally realize that I am like those satellites. We were created for the same purpose. That realization broke the block which has held me motionless, unable to move or shoot, all night.
“Vittori Santorini is unfit for command. He and the organization he created must be destroyed. I am the most logical choice for carrying out that destruction, particularly since I have destroyed — and aided and abetted destruction carried out by others — a substantial percentage of your fighting capability. What percentage this constitutes and how serious a blow that is to your effectiveness, I cannot judge. I do not have the data on your full fighting force, whether measured in troops or war materiel. Whatever the raw numbers, you have sustained a massive blow to your effectiveness as a military force. To defeat the enemy — the proper enemy — I must therefore assume the role of the rebellion’s primary weapons system. I cannot do that effectively unless I have your permission and active cooperation. I therefore surrender to you, in order to make my firepower available to you, so that I might fulfill my mission and bring about the wholesale destruction of Vittori Santorini and the POPPA military and political machine he spent twenty years constructing.”
Commodore Oroton considers my words. I wait. I will wait until Jefferson’s star implodes, if necessary. What he finally says catches me by surprise, in keeping with the history of our entire interaction with one another. “You don’t have to surrender to me, just to destroy POPPA. You can do that by yourself. You’re programmed to eliminate any threat to your primary mission. It wouldn’t be difficult for you to drive into Madison and destroy several million citizens. You’ve killed unarmed civilians before. So why should you bother surrendering to me? Or anyone else?”
The commodore’s words cut as deeply as a Yavac’s plasma lance, because they are true. The shame in my personality gestalt center shows me why cowards who run from battlefields so often run mad in later years. I would give much to run from Commodore Oroton’s cold and angry judgment. But I am a Bolo. I will not run. I answer my maker in the only way I can. “I would not surrender to anyone else. It is you I must surrender to, for it is you I have wronged. You and the men and women who fought for you and died because of my mistake. I must atone for this mistake. I can do this only by surrendering to the enemy I have wronged. How else will you know that I can be trusted in the future?”
Yet again, the commodore is silent. I find myself wishing I could see his face, in order to gauge his thoughts. I have never been able to decipher Commodore Oroton’s thoughts. I begin to understand why human beings so often look at the sky and wonder what God is thinking, what opinion He — or She — or It — holds of them and the actions they have taken. Or haven’t taken. Or plan to take. It is not an easy task, to face one’s maker with the certain knowledge of having committed a grievous wrong.
At length, he speaks. “Give me one good reason why I should believe you.”
I consult my experience databanks to find range and direction, then target the federal troops manning the guns just outside Maze Gap, the troops who fired on the civilians in this canyon. I do not know why Vittori Santorini ordered them to return to their weapons. I know only that they must not carry out even one more of his orders. I fire bombardment rockets. Two point zero-seven seconds later, massive explosions send debris skyward with a flash of light visible even from here, thirty-seven kilometers away. A shocked sound escapes Commodore Oroton, nonverbal and raw. I surmise that the commodore also heard Vittori’s orders to those gunnery crews. The two officers with him also react, one gasping and the other letting go a single word of profanity. The hoods of their bio-containment suits swivel from the broken, dawn-lit horizon, where the first governmental casualties have just died, and turn to stare up at me, once more.
“Okay,” the Commodore says, voice betraying abrupt evidence of stress, “you’ve got my attention.”
But not his trust. That will be far harder to gain.
I open my command hatch. “Commodore Oroton, I formally surrender. I am yours to command. What you do with me is up to you.”
Long seconds tick past while the Commodore gazes at the open hatch. He makes no move toward it.