Bolo!

12

Nike’s after Hellbore turret altered its angle of train with a soft hum, barely perceptible through the background thunder of the plunging waterfall. The shift in position was small, but sufficient to adjust for the sinking sun and preserve the shade in which Paul Merrit sat. A corner of the captain’s mind noted the unasked-for courtesy, but most of his attention was on the dancing interplay of sunlight and shadowed water as he reeled in his lure. Ripples spread outward downstream from his float, like ranging bars on a fire control screen that pinpointed the big leopard-trout’s location.

Merrit finished reeling in his line, then sat up straight in the folding chair and snapped the tip of the rod forward. The glittering lure-leopard-trout liked bright, shiny prey-arced hissingly through the air, then seemed to slow suddenly. It dropped within a half meter of where the trout had broken the surface to take the fly, and Merrit worked his rod gently, tweaking the lure into motion to tempt his quarry.

It didn’t work. The meter-long trout (assuming it was still in the vicinity) treated his efforts with the disdain they deserved, and the captain chuckled softly as he began to reel the line in once more.

“This does not appear to represent an efficient method of food gathering,” a soprano voice remarked over an external speaker, and Merrit’s chuckle turned louder.

“It’s not supposed to be, Nike. It’s supposed to be fun.”

“Fun,” the Bolo repeated. “I see. You have now been occupied in this pursuit for three hours, nine minutes, and twelve seconds, Standard Reckoning, without the successful capture of a single fish. Clearly the total lack of success thus far attendant upon the operation constitutes ‘fun.’ “

“Sarcasm is not a Bololike trait,” Merrit replied. He finished winding in the line, checked his lure, and made another cast. “Do I cast aspersions on your hobbies?”

“I do not cast aspersions; I make observations.” The Bolo’s soft laugh rippled over the speaker.

“Sure you do.” Merrit reached down for his iced drink and sipped gratefully. The weather-as always on Santa Cruz-was hot and humid, but a Mark XXIII Bolo made an excellent fishing perch. His folding chair was set up on the missile deck, twenty meters above the ground, and Nike had parked herself on the brink of the cliff over which the river poured in a glass-green sheet. She was far enough back to avoid any risk that the cliff might collapse-not a minor consideration for a vehicle whose battle weight topped fifteen thousand tons-but close enough to catch the soothing breeze that blew up out of the valley below. Spray from the sixty-meter waterfall rode the gentle wind, occasionally spattering Nike’s ceramic appliques with crystal-beaded rainbows and cooling the jungle’s breath as it caressed Merrit’s bare, bronzed torso.

“The true object of the exercise, Nike, is less to catch fish than to enjoy just being,” he said as he set his glass back down.

“Being what?”

“Don’t be a smartass. You’re the poet. You know exactly what I mean. I’m not being anything in particular, just… being.”

“I see.” A lizard cat’s coughing cry rippled out of the dense foliage across the river, and another cat’s answer floated down from further upstream. One of Nike’s multibarreled gatling railguns trained silently out towards the source of the sounds, just in case, but she made no mention of it to her commander. She waited while he cast his lure afresh, then spoke again.

“I do not, of course, possess true human-equivalent sensory abilities. My sensors note levels of ambient radiation, precipitation, wind velocity, and many other factors, but the output is reported to me as observational, not experiential, data. Nonetheless, I compute that this is a lovely day.”

“That it is, O pearl of my heart. That it is.” Merrit worked his lure carefully back along an eddy, prospecting for bites. “Not like the world I grew up on, and a bit too warm, but lovely.”

“My data on Helicon is limited, but from the information I do possess, I would surmise that ‘a bit too warm’ understates your actual feelings by a considerable margin, Commander.”

“Not really. Humans are adaptable critters, and it’s been a while since I was last on Helicon. I’ll admit I could do with a good cold front, though. And,” his voice turned wistful, “I wish I could show you Helicon’s glacier fields or a good snow storm. Santa Cruz is beautiful. Hot and humid, maybe, but a beautiful, living planet. But snow, Nike-snow has a beauty all its own, and I wish I could show it to you.”

“I have never seen snow.”

“I know. You’ve lived your entire life on a planet where it doesn’t happen.”

“That is not quite correct. The polar caps experience an average yearly snowfall of several meters.”

“And when was the last time you were up above the arctic circle, my dear?”

“Your point is well taken. I merely wished to point out that if you truly miss the phenomenon of snowfall, you could easily make the trip to experience it.”

“Nike, I already know what snow looks like. What I said I wanted to do was show you a snow storm.”

“I see no reason why you could not take a tactical data input sensor pack with you to record the phenomenon. Through it, I could-”

“Nike, Nike, Nike!” Merrit sighed. “You still don’t get it. I don’t just want you to have sensor data on snowfall. I want you to experience snow. I want to see you experience it. It’s… a social experience, something to do with a friend, not just the acquisition of additional data.”

There was a lengthy silence, and Merrit frowned. Somehow the silence felt different, as if it were… uncertain. He listened to it for a moment longer, then cleared his throat.

“Nike? Are you all right?”

“Of course, Commander. All systems are functioning at niner-niner point niner-six-three percent base capability.”

Merrit’s eyebrows rose. There was something odd about that response. It was right out of the manual, the textbook response of a properly functioning Bolo. Perhaps, a half-formed thought prompted, that was the problem; it sounded like a Bolo, not Nike.

But the thought was only half-formed. Before it could take flesh and thrust fully into his forebrain, he felt a titanic jerk at his rod. The reel whined, shrilling as the seventy-kilo-test line unreeled at mach speed, and he lunged up out of his folding chair with a whoop of delight, all preoccupation banished by the sudden explosion of action.

I watch my Commander through my optical heads as he fights to land the leopard-trout. It is a large specimen of its species; its fierce struggle to escape requires all of my Commander’s attention, and I am grateful. It has diverted him from my moment of self-betrayal.

“Friend.” My Commander wishes to show me snowfall as he would show it to a friend. It is the first time he has explicitly used that word to describe his attitude-his feelings-towards me, and I am aware that it was a casual reference. Yet my analysis of human behavior indicates that fundamental truths are more often and more fully revealed in casual than in formal, deliberated acts or statements. It is often human nature, it appears, to conceal thoughts and beliefs even from themselves if those thoughts or beliefs violate fundamental norms or in some wise pose a threat to those who think or believe them. I do not believe this is cowardice. Humans lack my own multitasking capabilities. They can neither isolate one function from another nor temporarily divert distracting information into inactive memory, and so they suppress, temporarily or permanently, those things which would impair their efficient immediate function. It is probable that humanity could profit by the adoption of the systems functions they have engineered into my own psychotronics, yet if they could do so, they would not be the beings who created me.