Bolo!

He quirked an index finger, touching a function key on his virtual keyboard, and the logistical report disappeared, replaced by the concisely encapsulated abstract from Lieutenant Trevor’s records Sergeant Schumer had prepared and uploaded for him.

Graduated thirty-second out of an Academy class of eleven hundred and fifteen, he noticed. Top of her class in tactics, bottom third in psychotronic theory. Substantially and regularly above average in all of her other courses, and ranked fourteenth in military history.

Forty-plus Standard Years in the Brigade had taught Everard Tchaikovsky’s face to wear whatever expression he told it to, and so he managed to avoid any dramatic widening of his eyes or pursing of his lips, nor did he stand to applaud her arrival. She was certainly impressive on paper, although he had his reservations about her apparent weaknesses in psychotronics. But he’d seen quite a few passed-cadets who looked impressive on paper and never lived up to that apparent promise in the field.

He finished his perusal, cleared the display, and cocked his eyebrows interrogatively as he looked directly at the lieutenant for the first time.

“Lieutenant Maneka Trevor, reporting for duty, sir!” she said, snapping to full attention and saluting sharply.

Her Standard English had an interesting accent which gave a throaty, almost smoky edge even to crisp, formal military phraseology, he noticed. He felt certain that hint of soprano sensuality was both unconscious and unintentional, and he hid a mental grin as he contemplated how testosterone-challenged young bucks were likely to respond to it.

“Stand easy, Lieutenant,” he said, returning her Academy-sharp salute rather more casually. She dropped back into parade rest, rather than a full stand-easy position, her eyes gazing a regulation fifteen centimeters above his head.

“So, you’re our new Bolo commander,” he said.

Maneka’s eyes popped wide and, against her will, they dropped to Colonel Tchaikovsky’s face. Bolo commander? Surely she must have misheard him!

He simply sat there, gazing back at her with a mildly speculative expression, and she fought an urge to lick her lips nervously as she realized he was prepared to go right on doing it until she said something.

“Sir,” she began, surprised her voice didn’t quiver uncertainly, “my orders were to report to Fort Merrit for duty with the Thirty-Ninth Battalion. Exactly what those duties were to be wasn’t specified. However, I certainly never anticipated that someone as junior and inexperienced as I am might be considered for assignment as a commander.”

“Think you’re not up to the job?” Tchaikovsky let a deliberate edge of challenging coolness into his voice, but the young woman’s composure remained unruffled.

“Yes, sir, I believe I’m up to the job. I believe my Academy record demonstrates that I have the training and the native ability to command a Bolo in combat. I am also, however, as I said, very junior and aware of my inexperience. I’d anticipated an assignment to additional training with hands—on experience under the tutelage of a fully qualified and experienced Unit commander. That was what I was led to expect by my instructors at the Academy.”

“I see.”

Tchaikovsky cocked back in his chair, propped his elbows on the chair arms, and steepled his fingers in front of his chest. He considered her coolly for several seconds, then allowed the first millimetric hint of a smile to show.

“Not a bad answer, Lieutenant,” he told her. “And I’m sure that’s exactly what the Academy types told you to expect. But the truth is, the Brigade is experiencing some changes just now.”

Maneka’s eyes darkened. She knew exactly what he was referring to.

“The Melconian Empire isn’t as technologically advanced as the Concordiat,” Tchaikovsky continued in a flat, dry, lecturer’s tone. “Or not, at least, in most areas. They do remarkably well in electronic warfare and stealth capabilities, but they’re far, far behind us in cybernetics, and they’ve demonstrated no equivalent of our own psychotronic technology. Unfortunately, the Empire is also much larger than the Concordiat. We knew that. What I strongly suspect none of the analysts considered was that we might be underestimating just how much larger it might be. And now that we’re busy killing one another in planet-sized lots, that particular question takes on a certain burning relevance.”

He looked at her levelly, and neither of them needed for him to be more specific. The current war against the Melconian Empire had begun in 3343, the same year Maneka was born. Everyone had seen it coming; no one had even begun to imagine how terrible it would be once it began. The sheer, stupendous size of the Empire had taken the Concordiat’s so-called “intelligence experts” completely by surprise. On the other hand, the Concordiat’s technological superiority must have come as just as great a surprise to the Melconians. The initial naval engagements had gone overwhelmingly in humanity’s favor… until, at least, the Puppies had mobilized their real battle fleet. After that, things had gotten progressively uglier.

Six years ago, after fifteen years of increasingly bloody warfare, the Melconians had carried out what the Emperor had been pleased to call a “demonstration strike” on the planet of New Vermont. None of the planet’s billion inhabitants had survived.

The Concordiat’s inevitable retaliatory strike on the Melconian planet of Tharnas had been equally… effective. But instead of inspiring the Melconians to renounce its genocidal attacks, the Tharnas Strike had simply become the first human contribution to an ever upward spiraling cycle of murderous violence. By now, under the grimly appropriate “Plan Ragnarok,” the extermination of the Melconian ability ever to wage war again-which everyone knew, whether they would admit it or not, meant the effective extermination of the Melconian species-had become the official policy of the Concordiat.

As, self-evidently, the extermination of Humanity had become the reciprocal policy of the Melconian Empire.

For Maneka, at this point, that was still an intellectual awareness; for Tchaikovsky, it wasn’t. Maneka was aware (though she really wasn’t supposed to be) that Tchaikovsky’s last post before being given the Thirty-Ninth had been as the executive officer of the 721st… which had taken sixty-six percent casualties at the Battle of Maybach.

“It’s obvious that we have a significant advantage in combat power on a ton-for-ton basis,” Tchaikovsky continued. “Their warships need a three-to-one advantage to meet us on an even footing, and the differential is even worse for their planetary heavy combat units going up against modern Bolos. The problem is that they appear to have that numerical advantage, and quite probably a good bit to spare. I take it that you are already aware of most of this?”

“Yes, sir,” she said quietly.

“Then you realize the Brigade is going to take heavy casualties in this war,” he told her flatly. “In addition, we’re expanding our strength at the highest rate in the Brigade’s history. That, of course, is why your Academy curriculum was shortened by a full semester and why your graduating class was twenty percent larger than the one before it… and twenty percent smaller than the one behind it, despite how difficult it is to find officer candidates capable of passing the Brigade’s screening process. It’s also why the Thirty-Ninth has been systematically raided for experienced commanders. We’re ru