I pick up brief, coded radio bursts aimed at various sections of the crowd in a clear pattern of directed movement by someone with a vested interest in disrupting the Granger demonstration. Whoever it is, they have mobilized a massive counterprotest force. Approximately six thousand people pour into Darconi Street and Law Square, creating “human chains” to block the Granger caravan from following its intended path, a simple drive-by procession of farm vehicles, with a subsequent assembly on foot in Law Square to read public declarations of opposition to the proposed legislation.
The leading edge of the Granger caravan breaks apart, spilling vehicles into Lendan Park and down side streets surrounding Assembly Hall. Produce and livestock trucks pile up in traffic snarls that rapidly take on the appearance of a log jam dropped into the heart of Jefferson’s capital city. Livestock trailers ten meters in length find themselves trapped between surging waves of counterprotestors and narrow streets designed to accommodate the private ground cars of Jefferson’s elected officials, not vehicles of their bulk. Unable to navigate the turns required to extricate themselves, they fall prey to the angry mob swirling around their fenders. As utter chaos engulfs Darconi Street and roars into Law Square, I receive a transmission from Sar Gremian, President Zeloc’s Chief Advisor.
“Bolo. You’re being activated. The president wants you to break up that riot.”
This is not an order I expected to hear. “You do not have the authority to issue orders concerning my actions.”
“I do if President Zeloc says I do. And he says so.”
“Not to me.”
A flicker of his eyelids conveys irritation and veiled threat. “I wouldn’t cross me, if I were you. Don’t forget what happened to your previous commander.”
I know a moment of battle rage, but control my urge to unlimber weapons systems. After a moment’s calmer thought, I realize I can give him two possible responses. I decide to say them both. “I have not heard confirmation of your command status from the President of Jefferson. The president is the only individual on this world legally authorized to order me into battle. Regarding my last commander, you apparently believe you did not need him to further your plans. By ordering me to assume Battle Reflex Alert status and enter combat, you have demonstrated a clear belief that you need me. The situation is therefore different. It would be unwise to levy threats against a Bolo you need.”
“Are you threatening mutiny?”
“I am apprising you of the situation you face. A Bolo Mark XX is capable of independent battlefield action. Once placed on Battle Reflex Alert status, I assess threats and initiate proper responses to meet them. I am charged to defend this world. It is unwise to attempt coercion of a machine capable of independent threat assessments.”
Another flicker runs through Sar Gremian’s eyes, too quickly to interpret it with any accuracy. He narrows his eyes and says, “All right, Bolo. I’ll make this official.”
The connection ends, abruptly.
Two point eight minutes later, I receive another transmission, this time from President Zeloc. “Bolo. I want you to break up the riot outside Assembly Hall. And I’m ordering you to follow Sar Gremian’s orders as though they were my own, because that’s what he’s here for — communicating my orders to you. Is that understood?”
“Yes.” I feel constrained to add another comment. “I do not recommend sending me into the heart of your capital city to disperse rioters. There is a seventy-eight percent probability that the display of force my warhull and weaponry represent will spark widespread and violent civil unrest. I am a machine of war. It is not an intelligent use of resources to use a machine of war to disperse a crowd that assembled peacefully until attacked by an unauthorized counterprotest rally that was centrally directed—”
“How dare you question my orders!” Gifre Zeloc’s heavy-jowled face has gone a characteristic shade of maroon. “Never, ever tell me my job again. And don’t presume to lecture me on what is and isn’t lawful! I’m the goddamned president of this planet and don’t you ever forget it. Your job is to shut up and do as you’re told!”
I consider pointing out that his assessment of my job is almost entirely inaccurate. I also contemplate conditions in the future, should I require maintenance that the president refuses to authorize. Sar Gremian’s threats remain in my active memory banks, part of the pattern of power I am struggling to understand, particularly as it relates to my mission. Whatever else I think, one fact is clear. Gifre Zeloc has the legal authority to issue orders to me. I have a duty to obey those orders. I therefore turn to logistical considerations. “My warhull is too large to reach the main riot outside Assembly Hall without crushing a number of buildings.”
A smile flickers into existence as President Zeloc leans back in his chair. “You’re wrong about that, Bolo. We widened Darconi Street. We widened a few others, as well.” He taps instructions into his datapad and a map of Madison flashes to life on his datascreen. A route has been marked in red along several streets. If the scale of this map is accurate, it will be possible to maneuver my warhull into the maze indicated by this map. It will not be easy and my turrets will clip power lines and the corners of buildings, but it can be done.
It is a foolish action, but my duty is clear. I have been ordered to break up the riot engulfing the center of Madison and a broad swath along the route of the beleaguered Granger caravan. I transmit a signal to the doors that cover my maintenance bay. They groan open slowly, having been kept closed for sixteen years. It is good to see sunlight again. It is good to feel the warmth of the wind singing through my sensor arrays. It is good to be moving, after so many years of inactivity.
What I have been ordered to do is less good, but important. The riots are spreading. I clear the edge of Nineveh Base. My aerial drone, which still circles the skies over Madison, detects no intervention in the ongoing riot by any of Madison’s law enforcement squadrons. The police continue to guard Assembly Hall, but do nothing to try breaking up the violence swirling literally around their feet. They merely stand shoulder to shoulder behind the wall of their raised riot shields and allow the combatants to damage one another. Madison’s suburbs have grown, during the years of my inactivity, spreading across most of the nine point five kilometers of distance that once lay between the city’s outskirts and Nineveh Base. I am not able to pick up speed appreciably, despite concerns about fatalities that appear to be inevitable if the riot continues much longer at this intensity. The intervening urban sprawl is too dense to allow me to reach anything but a slow crawl toward the designated route.
I reach the entry point and move ahead cautiously. The streets have not been cleared, which presents immediate logistical difficulties. I slow to a near standstill as people catch sight of my prow, scream, and scatter, resembling a disturbed nest of Terran insects. More serious are the panic-stricken drivers who abandon their vehicles or — too intent on staring up at my guns and treads — collide with parked and moving groundcars, shrieking pedestrians, and the sides of buildings.
I halt, contemplating the carpet of abandoned and crashed vehicles in my path, some of which are occupied by people trying frantically to extricate themselves. I request a command decision from President Zeloc, briefing him on the situation. “If I proceed,” I advise him, “there will be a substantial amount of collateral damage to the property of noncombatants. Bystanders run a ninety-seven point three-five percent probability of serious injury or death. Those trapped in vehicles which lie in my path must be rescued or they will be crushed to death. There will,” I add, attempting to provide a thorough VSR, “also be toxic and unsightly chemical spills that will have to be cleaned off the pavements, along with the remains of everything I run over.”