Old Soldiers

"Unit Three-Four-Alpha-Zero-Zero-One-Sierra-Bravo-Romeo of the Line, Third Battalion, Dinochrome Brigade, Indrani Command, awaiting orders," the Bolo said.

"Very good, Sabre," Colonel Hawthorne said, and even through his grandson's formal tone, Edmund Hawthorne heard the affection as the younger man addressed the stupendous, self-aware machine.

"Prepare for deployment."

"The Battalion stands ready now, sir," the Bolo replied.

"Very good." The younger Hawthorne turned back to face Maneka/Lazarus. "Bastion Detachment is prepared to deploy, ma'am!" he a

"In that case, Colonel," Maneka's voice said, "board transports."

"Yes, ma'am!"

Colonel Hawthorne saluted once more, and then disappeared down the hatch from which he had emerged. The hatch closed, and the deep, vibrating thrum of massive counter-gravity generators arose from twelve Mark XXXIVs. It washed over the vast crowd, burrowing into their bones, almost but not quite overwhelming, yet nothing else happened for approximately ten seconds. And then, as effortlessly as soap bubbles, twelve mammoth war machines lifted lightly on their internal counter-grav. Slowly at first, then more and more rapidly, slicing upward through Indrani's atmosphere to the brand-new Chartres-class Bolo transports built specifically for them.

"It is good to be needed," Lazarus told her quietly. "To have a function. To be useful and to protect those for whom one cares, is it not, Maneka?"

"Yes. Yes, it is," she replied.

"Then you forgive me for consigning you to this fate without first consulting you?" the Bolo said, even more quietly, and Maneka felt the eyebrows she no longer possessed rising in surprise. It was the first time, in all the years they'd shared, that Lazarus had explicitly posed that question, and she was unprepared for the tentative, almost uncertain tone in which it was asked.

"Of course I do!" she said quickly. "There's nothing to forgive. You've given me over a human century with people I love—and relatively speaking, far longer than that with you. And like you just said, you've also given me the opportunity to continue to protect the ones I love. Lazarus, if I'd wanted to, I could have self-terminated long ago. I've never even been tempted."

"I am ... relieved to hear that," Lazarus said after a moment. "I had believed that to be the case, yet I have also discovered that there are things I fear more than combat. The possibility that I had, with the best of intentions, condemned one for whom I care deeply to the equivalent of Purgatory, was one of them. Which is why it has taken me so long to find the courage to ask."

Maneka was about to reassure him further when they were interrupted.

"Maneka," Edmund Hawthorne subvocalized over their com link.

"Yes, Ed?"

"It was good, wasn't it?" he asked almost wistfully.

"Yes, it was," she agreed. "Anson is a fine officer—one of the best we've ever had. He and Sabre will do just fine on Bastion."

"Oh, I'm sure he will," Hawthorne said. "But that wasn't really what I was asking. I meant ... all of it.

Everything, since Seed Corn. It's been good, hasn't it?"

"Well, there's been the odd bad moment," she replied after a moment. "But over all? I'd have to say it hasn't been just 'good,' Love. It's been much better than that. Although I have to wonder why you and Lazarus both seem to feel the need for reassurance on that point just now."

"Oh, he did, did he?" Hawthorne chuckled. "Two great minds, with but a single thought ... between them." He chuckled again, shaking his head. "You know, it's been odd, hasn't it? A sort of strange menage a trois."

"I suppose you could put it that way," she said. "But surely you've never thought you and Lazarus were in some sort of competition, have you?"

"No, of course not. And yet you've been so central to both of us. And, if I'm honest, I think I am just a little bit jealous of him, in a wistful sort of way. There's so much he'll still see and do with you."

"Ed, you know it might be possible—"

"No," he said, firmly. "We've discussed it before. You and Lazarus still aren't sure how you reestablished and reintegrated your personality in that matrix. I'm not sure I could. And, to be honest, Dearheart, I'm tired. I've had an incredibly long, full life. One full of challenges, achievements, wonderful people. But this chassis wasn't designed to last as long as Lazarus. I'm ready to call it a day, and much as I love you, I don't really want to trade up to a Bolo at this late date."

"We'll miss you, Lazarus and I," she told him softly.

"I know. But you'll remember me, too. I find that ... comforting." He was silent for several moments, then spoke again. "You can still see them, can't you? You and Lazarus?"

"Do you have any idea, woman, how proud of them you sound?"

"Well, of course I'm proud of them!"

"No, the question I should have asked is whether or not you realize how proud you sound of all of them? All of your Bolo commanders—not just Anson—and of the Bolos themselves, as well. They're all your children, aren't they? Anson, of course. But the Bolos, too. Anson is yours and mine, but Sabre is yours and Lazarus'. All of them, the children of your heart and mind."

"Yes, Ed. Yes, they are."

"Good. Because I've just been thinking about that quotation of your General MacArthur you and Lazarus told me about. The one about old soldiers."

He paused once more, long enough for her to begin to worry just a bit.

"What about it?" she prodded finally.

"Well, the first half of it was accurate enough. You didn't die—either of you. But I've been thinking about the second half."

"The bit about fading away?"

"Exactly. I don't think I'll see another Founders' Day, Maneka. The doctors and I have seen that coming for a while."

"Ed—!"

"No, don't interrupt," he said very gently. "I told them not to share the information with you. You're a worrier where the people you care about are concerned, and I didn't want you worrying about me. And, like I said, I'm ready for a good, long sleep. But promise me something, Maneka. Please."

"What?" The tears she could no longer shed hovered in her voice, and the old man seated among his family—and hers—on the missile deck of the Bolo in which she lived smiled lovingly.

"Promise me that MacArthur was wrong, Love," he said. "Promise me you won't 'fade away.' That you—and Lazarus—will look after yourselves and all the other people I love, and all the people they love, and the people those people will love. In the end, that's what it's all about, isn't it? Not hatred for the 'enemy'—even the Dog Boys—but protecting the people and things we love. You and Lazarus do that so well, Maneka. Promise me you'll keep doing it."

Maneka swiveled the main optical head so that he could look directly into it. For a moment she longed once more for the human eyes she had lost so long ago, wished he could look into them one more time, see the love and the deep, bittersweet joy his words had kindled deep inside her. He couldn't, of course. And, she knew, he really didn't have to. Not after so many long decades together. But whether he needed to see it or not, she needed to express it, and her smoky soprano voice was very quiet, and infinitely gentle, in his mastoid implant.

"Of course we will, my love," she said. "Of course we will."