The Compleat Bolo

Humanity is safe for the present. I have done my duty, as I was built to do. It is enough. I am content.

Book Two: Final Mission

Alone in darkness unrelieved I wait, and waiting I dream of days of glory long past. Long have I awaited my commanders orders; too long: from the advanced degree of depletion of my final emergency energy reserve, I compute that since my commander ordered me to low alert a very long time has passed, and all is not well. Suppressing my uneasiness, I reflect that it is not my duty to question these matters. My commander is of course well aware that I wait here, my mighty potencies leashed, my energies about to flicker out. One day when I am needed he will return, of this I can be sure. Meanwhile, I review again the multitudinous data in my memory storage files. Even in this minimal activity of introspection I note a disturbing discontinuity, due to my low level of energy, inadequate even to sustain this passive effort to a functional level. At random, and chaotically, I doze, scan my recollections…

A chilly late-summer-morning breeze gusted along Main Street, a broad and well-rutted strip of the pinkish clay soil of the world officially registered as GPR 7203-C, but known to its inhabitants as Spivey's Find. The street ran aimlessly up a slight incline known as Jake's Mountain. Once-pretentious emporia in a hundred antique styles lined the avenue, their façades as faded now as the town's hopes of development. There was one exception: at the end of the street, at the crest of the rise, crowded between weather-worn warehouses, stood a broad shed of unweathered corrugated polyon, dull blue in color, bearing the words Concordiat War Museum blazoned in foothigh glare letters across the front. A small perso

Clyde W. Davis-private.

Two boys came slowly along the cracked plastron sidewalk and stopped before the sign on the narrow, dried-up grass strip before the high, wide building.

" 'This structure is dedicated to the brave men and women of New Orchard who gave their lives in the Struggle for Peace, AE 2031-36. A sign of progress under Spessard Warren, Governor.' " the taller of the boys read aloud. "Some progress," he added, kicking a puff of dust at the shiny sign. " 'Spessard.' That's some name, eh, Dub?" The boy spat on the sign, watched the saliva run down and drip onto the brick-dry ground.

"As good as McClusky, I guess," the smaller boy replied. "Dub, too," he added as McClusky made a mock-menacing gesture toward him. "What's that mean, 'gave their lives' Mick?" he asked, staring at the sign as if he could read it.

"Got kilt, I guess," Mick replied carelessly. "My great-great-GREAT grandpa was one of 'em," he added. "Pa's still got his medal. Big one, too."

"What'd they want to go and get kilt for?" Dub asked.

"Didn't want to, dummy," his friend replied patiently. "That's the way it is in a war. People get kilt."

"I'll bet it was fun, being in a war," Dub said. "Except for getting kilt, I mean."

"Come on," Mick said, starting back along the walk that ran between the museum and the adjacent warehouse. "We don't want old Kibbe seeing us and yelling," he added, sotto voce, over his shoulder.

In the narrow space between buildings, rank yelloweed grew tall and scratchy. The wooden warehouse siding on the boys' left was warped, the once-white paint cracked and lichen stained.

"Where you going?" Dub called softly as the larger boy hurried ahead. Beyond the end of the dark alleyway a weed-grown field stretched, desolate in the morning sun, to the far horizon. Rusted hulks of abandoned farm equipment were parked at random across the untilled acres. Dub went up to one machine parked close to the sagging wire fence. He reached through to touch the rust-scaled metal with his finger, jerked it back when Mick yelled, "What you doing, dummy?"

"Nothing," the smaller boy replied, and ducked to slip through between the rusty wire strands. He walked around the derelict baler, noticing a patch of red paint still adhering to the metal in an angle protected from the weather by an overhanging flange. At once, he envisioned the old machine as it was when it was new, pristine gleaming red.

"Come on," Mick called, and the smaller boy hurried back to his side. Mick had halted before an inconspicuous narrow door set in the plain plastron paneling which sheathed the sides and rear of the museum. no admittance was lettered on the door.

"This here door," the older boy said. "All we got to do-" He broke off at the sound of a distant yell from the direction of the street. Both boys stiffened against the wall as if to merge into invisibility.

"Just old Smothers," Mick said. "Come on." He turned to the door, grasped the latch lever with both hands, and lifted, straining.

"Hurry up, dummy," he gasped. "All you got to do is push. Buck told me." The smaller boy hung back.

"What if we get caught?" he said in a barely audible voice, approaching hesitantly. Then he stepped in and put his weight against the door.

"You got to push hard," Mick gasped. Dub put his back to the door, braced his feet, and pushed. With a creak, the panel swung inward. They slipped through into cavernous gloom, dimly lit by dying glare strips on the ceiling far above.

Near at hand, a transparent case displayed a uniform of antique cut, its vivid colors still bright through the dusty perspex.

" 'Uniform of a major of the Imperial Defense Force," Mick read aloud. "Boy," he added, "look at all the fancy braid, and see them gold eagles on the collar? That's what shows he's a major."

"Where's his gun?" Dub asked, his eyes searching the case in vain for a weapon suitable to a warrior of such exalted rank.

"Got none," Mick grunted. "Prolly one of them what they call headquarters guys. My great-great-great-and-that grandpa was a sergeant. That's higher than a major. He had a gun."

Dub had moved on to a display of colorful collar tabs, dull-metal rank and unit insignia, specimens of cuff braid, and a few elaborate decorations with bright-colored ribbons. "Old Grandpa's medal's bigger'n them," Mick commented.

Beyond the end of the long bank of cases, a stretch of only slightly dusty open floor extended to a high partition lined with maps that enclosed perhaps half the floor area. Bold legends identified the charts as those of the terrain which had been the site of the Big Battle. New Orchard was shown as a cluster of U-3 shelters just south of the scene of action.

" 'Big Battle,' " Mick read aloud. "Old Crawford says that's when we kicked the spodders out." He glanced casually at the central map, went past it to the corner of the high partition.

"Yeah, everybody knows that," Dub replied. "But-" he looked around as if perplexed. "You said-"

"Sure-it's in here," Mick said, thumping the partition beside him. "Buck seen it," he added.

Dub came over, craning his neck to look up toward the top of the tall partition. "I bet it's a hundred foot high," he said reverently.

" 'Bout forty is all," Mick said disparagingly. "But that's high enough. Come on." He went to the left, toward the dark corner where the tall partition met the exterior wall. Dub followed. A narrow door was set in the partition, inconspicuous in the gloom.

" 'Absolutely No Entry,' " Mick read aloud, ignoring the smaller print below.

He tried the door; it opened easily, swinging in on deep gloom in which a presence loomed gigantic. Dub followed him in. Both boys stood silent, gazing up in awe at the cliff-like armored prow of iodine-colored flint steel, its still-bright polish marred by pockmarks, evidence of the hellish bombardment to which the old fighting machine had so often been subjected. The battered armor curved up to a black aperture from which projected the grimly businesslike snouts of twin infinite repeaters. Above the battery, a row of chrome-and-bright-enameled battle honors was welded in place, barely visible by the glints of reflected light. Mick advanced cautiously to a framed placard on a stand, and as usual read aloud to his preliterate friend.