Bolo!

The Bolo loomed against the setting sun, its still gleaming, imperishable duralloy black now against a crimson sky, and he felt a stab of guilt at abandoning it once more. It wouldn’t matter to the Bolo, of course, any more than to the Humans who had died here with it, but the looming war machine seemed a forlorn sentinel to all of Humanity’s dead. Jackson had long since committed the designation on its central turret to memory, and he waved one hand to the dead LZ’s lonely guardian in an oddly formal gesture, almost a salute.

“All right, Unit Ten-Ninety-Seven-SHV,” he said quietly. “We’re going now.”

He clucked to Samson, and the stallion nickered cheerfully as he headed back towards home.

4

“All right, Unit Ten-Ninety-Seven-SHV. We’re going now.”

The Human voice comes clearly over my audio sensors. In absolute terms, it is the first Human voice I have heard in seventy-one years. Experientially, only two-zero-zero-point-four-three minutes have passed since last Diego spoke to me. Yet this voice is not at all like my dead Commander’s. It is younger but deeper, and it lacks the sharp-edged intensity which always infused Diego’s voice—and thoughts.

I am able to fix bearing and range by triangulating between sensor clusters, but the restart sequence has not yet released control to me. I ca

My audio sensors track him as he moves away, clearly unaware I am in the process of being restored to function. Analysis of the audio data indicates that he is mounted on a four-legged creature and provides a rough projection of his current heading and speed. It should not be difficult to overtake him once I am again capable of movement.

“What the—?”

Allen Shattuck looked up in surprise at the chopped off exclamation from the com shack. Shattuck had once commanded Commodore Perez’s “Marines,” and, unlike many of them, he truly had been a Marine before Perez pulled what was left of his battalion off a hell hole which had once been the planet Shenandoah. He’d thought she was insane when she explained her mission. Still, he hadn’t had anything better to do, and if the Commodore had been lunatic enough to try it, Major Allen Shattuck, Republican Marine Corps, had been crazy enough to help her.

But that had been long ago and far away. He was an old, old man these days… and Chief Marshal of Ararat. It was a job that required a pragmatist who didn’t take himself too seriously, and he’d learned to perform it well over the years. Ararat’s thirty-seven thousand souls were still Human, and there were times he or one of his deputies had to break up fights or even—on three occasions—track down actual killers. Mostly, however, he spent his time on prosaic things like settling domestic arguments, arbitrating steading boundary disputes, or finding lost children or strayed stock. It was an important job, if an unspectacular one, and he’d grown comfortable in it, but now something in Deputy Le

“What is it?” he asked, starting across toward the com shack door.

“It’s—” Sokowski licked his lips. “I’m… picking up something strange, Allen, but it can’t really be—”

“Speaker,” Shattuck snapped, and his face went paper—white as the harsh—edged sounds rattled from the speaker. Sokowski had never heard them before—not outside a history tape—but Shattuck had, and he spun away from the com shack to slam his fist down on a huge red button.

A fraction of a second later, the strident howl of a siren every Human soul on Ararat had prayed would never sound shattered the night.

“Still no response?” Tharsk asked, stroking his muzzle in puzzlement.

“No, Commander. We tried all subspace cha

“Ridiculous!” Rangar grumbled. “Your equipment must be malfunctioning.”

The com officer was far junior to the astrogator and said nothing, but his lips wrinkled resentfully back from his canines. Tharsk saw it and let one hand rest lightly on the younger officer’s shoulder, then looked levelly at Rangar.

“The equipment is not malfunctioning,” he said calmly. “We’re in communication with our other units”—except for the single transport and eight hundred People we lost on the jump here—”and they report no reception problems. Is that not so, Durak?”

The engineer’s ears flicked in confirmation. Rangar took his CO’s implied rebuke with no more than a grimace, yet if his tone was respectful when he spoke again, it remained unconvinced.

“Surely it’s more likely our equipment is at fault after so long without proper service than that an entire planet has lost all communications capability,” he pointed out, and Tharsk gave an unwilling ear flick of agreement.

“Excuse me, Commander, but the Astrogator’s overlooked something,” a new voice said, and Tharsk and Rangar both turned. Lieutenant Janal Na-Jharku, Starquest’s tactical officer, was another of the pups born after the war, and he met his graying senior officers’ eyes with an expression which mingled profound respect with the impatience of youth.

“Enlighten us, Tactical,” Tharsk invited, and Janal had the grace to duck his head in acknowledgment of his CO’s gentle irony. But he also waved a hand at his own readouts.

“I realize I have no weapons, Commander, but I do retain my sensors, and it’s plain that Ishark was heavily attacked. While we are detecting emissions, the tech base producing them has clearly suffered significant damage. For example, I have detected only a single fusion plant—one whose total output is no greater than a single one of this vessel’s three reactors—on the entire planet. Indeed, present data suggest that much of the capability the surviving People do still possess must have come from salvaged enemy technology.”

“Enemy technology?” Tharsk asked sharply. “You’re picking up emissions consistent with Human technology?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Humans? Here?” Rangar’s tone expressed his own disbelief, and Janal shrugged.

“If, in fact, Ishark was attacked and severely damaged, its survivors would have no option but to salvage whatever technology it could, regardless of that technology’s source,” he pointed out reasonably, but his confidence seemed to falter as Tharsk looked at him almost pityingly.

“No doubt a severely damaged tech base would, indeed, be forced to salvage whatever it could,” the commander agreed, “but you’ve forgotten something.”

“Sir?” Janal sounded confused, and Tharsk opened his mouth to explain, but Rangar beat him to it.

“There were over eight hundred million civilians, alone, on Ishark,” the rough-tongued astrogator explained with surprising gentleness. “They had towns and cities, not to mention military bases and command centers, and all the infrastructure to support them, but the Humans would have had only the weapons they brought to the attack. Which side would have been more likely to leave anything intact enough for the survivors to glean, Janal?”

“But—” the tac officer began, then broke off and looked back and forth between the grizzled old warriors, and silence hovered on the bridge until Tharsk spoke again.

“Very well,” he said finally, his voice harsh. “If we’re picking up Human emissions, we must assume at least the possibility that they’re being emitted by Humans… who must have killed any of the People who could have disputed the planet’s possession with them. Agreed?” Rangar flicked his ears, and Tharsk inhaled sharply.