Bolo!

The Melconian missiles howled in on their target. Their attack had been calculated to swamp any defenses by bringing them all in simultaneously, and the nukes lunged upward. Their function was less to obliterate the enemy—though they should suffice to do just that if they detonated—than to force him to engage them to prevent them from detonating, thus exposing his active systems to the homing sensors of the other missiles.

That, at least, was the idea. Unfortunately, the attack plan had assumed that whatever had destroyed the first three shuttles was immobile. Any Human vehicle which had mounted such heavy weapons had also mounted at least one reactor to power them, but Starquest’s sensors had detected only one fusion plant on the planet, and that one was hundreds of kilometers away. No reactor meant no vehicle, and if they weren’t vehicle-mounted, then they must be part of one of the old ma

Sub-Flight Leader Yurahk’s logic was as impeccable as it was wrong, for it had never occurred to him that his adversary was, in fact, a Mark XXXIII/D Bolo which had no reactor signature simply because it had long ago exhausted its reaction mass. And because that never occurred to him, his threat estimate was fatally flawed.

The Bolo named Shiva tracked the incoming fire without apprehension. His battle screen was operable at ninety-five percent of base capability, and no missile this light could break through it. Of course, he was also responsible for protecting the nearby Human settlement for which his new Commander had been bound, but though he might have lost many of his point defense weapons, he retained more than enough for his present task, and he waited calmly, weapons locked, for the missiles’ flight to offer him the optimum fire solution.

Yurahk gawked at his display as the telemetry from his missiles went dead. All of it went out, from every single bird, in the same instant, and that was impossible. Starquest herself could scarcely have killed that many missiles simultaneously, yet that was the only possible explanation for the sudden cessation of telemetry.

He had no idea how it had been done, but he felt ice congeal in his belly, and he punched up his com.

“Flight, this is Lead. Come to three-five-three true, speed two thousand—now!”

One or two of the acknowledgments sounded surly, but he wasn’t surprised by that. Nor did their obvious unhappiness at “ru

But for all his caution, he’d ordered their retreat too late.

My second drone acquires the Enemy shuttles but remains below them, hiding its already weak signature in the ground clutter, as I consider its information. Were my magazines fully loaded, obliterating the Enemy craft would be simplicity itself, but my anti-air missile levels are extremely low. At the same time, the shuttles remain very close to the ground, below the horizon from my present position and thus safe from my direct fire weapons, but—

“What’s happening?”

My Commander’s voice demands my attention. I have now had ample time to conclude that he is a civilian and not, in fact, a member of any branch of the Republic’s military. This conclusion has no bearing on his status as my Commander—the voice—impression imperatives of my creche-level restart are clear on that point—but his lack of training will require simplification of situation reports and makes it doubly unfortunate that he is trapped in Cargo One rather than on Command Two. Were he at his proper station, my neural interface could transmit information directly to him, yet I feel a certain relief that I ca

Yet without the interface, I must rely solely upon voice and visual instrumentation, both to report to him and to interpret his needs and desires. My internal optics show me that he has risen once more and walked closer to the display. His expression is intent, and I realize he has noted—and apparently recognized—the shuttle icons which have appeared in it.

“The Enemy is withdrawing,” I reply.

“Withdrawing?” my Commander repeats sharply. “You mean ru

“Affirmative, Commander.”

“But if they get away, they can come back and attack the steading again—or attack somewhere else. Somewhere too far from here for you to stop them!”

“Correct,” I reply, pleased by how quickly he has reached that conclusion. Formal training or no, he appears to have sound instincts.

“Then stop them!” he directs. “Don’t let them get away!”

“Yes, Commander.”

I have been considering and discarding options even as my Commander and I speak. Absent proper missile armament, there is but one practical tactic. It will force a greater degree of temporary vulnerability upon me and impose a severe drain on Reserve Power, and it may provide the main Enemy force an accurate idea of what it faces, but it should be feasible.

Yurahk shifted com cha

Unit 1097-SHV of the Line shut down his battle screen in order to cha

Lieutenant Janal cried out on Starquest’s command deck as his sensors peaked impossibly, and Humans as far away as Landing cringed at the fury unleashed across the heavens. Seven twenty-centimeter Hellbores, each more powerful than the main battery weapons of most light cruisers, went to rapid fire, and the javelins of Zeus stripped away the darkness. No assault shuttle ever built could withstand that sort of fire, and the deadly impact patterns rolled mercilessly through the Melconian formation.

Nine-point-three seconds after the first Hellbore fired, there were no shuttles in the air of the planet renamed Ararat.