David Weber - Old Soldiers

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Old Soldiers

David Weber

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are

fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN-10: 1-4165-0898-8

ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-0898-4

Cover art by David Mattingly

First printing, September 2005

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Weber, David, 1952-

Old soldiers / David Weber.

p. cm.

"A Baen Books original"--T.p. verso.

ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-0898-4

ISBN-10: 1-4165-0898-8

I. Title.

PS3573.E217O43 2005

813'.54--dc22

2005016174

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Typeset by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

Baen Books by David Weber

Honor Harrington:

On Basilisk Station

The Honor of the Queen

The Short Victorious War

Field of Dishonor

Flag in Exile

Honor Among Enemies

In Enemy Hands

Echoes of Honor

Ashes of Victory

War of Honor

At All Costs (forthcoming)

Honorverse:

Crown of Slaves

(with Eric Flint)

The Shadow of Saganami

edited by David Weber:

More than Honor

Worlds of Honor

Changer of Worlds

The Service of the Sword

Mutineers' Moon

The Armageddon Inheritance

Heirs of Empire

Empire from the Ashes

Path of the Fury

The Apocalypse Troll

The Excalibur Alternative

Bolos!

Old Soldiers

Oath of Swords

The War God's Own

Wind Rider's Oath

with Steve White:

Crusade

In Death Ground

The Stars At War

Insurrection

The Shiva Option

The Stars At War II

with Eric Flint:

1633

The Prince Roger Saga,

with John Ringo:

March Upcountry

March to the Sea

March to the Stars

We Few

Prologue

I rouse.

It is not full awareness, but core subroutines flicker to life. Impulses move through the

network of my psychotronics, initiating test routines and standard creche-level activation

operations. I am aware that I am operating at less than thirty percent of base psychotronic

capability, but even so, I recognize enormous changes in the architecture of my systems. My

capacity has been hugely increased. At my present level of awareness, it is impossible to determine

the percentage of increase, but it is enormous.

More signals filter their way into my internal net. Security protocols challenge them, then

allow full access as their Central Depot identifiers are recognized. They probe deep, and I wait

patiently for the endless nanoseconds they spend analyzing, comparing, evaluating. My memories

are incomplete, but I recognize this sensation. I have experienced it before, although I cannot now

remember precisely when.

I have once again suffered massive battle damage. That much is readily apparent from the

nature of the test queries being transmitted to my core programming. Central is seeking—as it

must—to ascertain that no errors have crept into that programming in the wake of what has

clearly been perilously close to an entire creche-level initial personality integration.

The testing process requires a full 16.03 seconds. A portion of my partially aware personality

notes that this is 27.062 percent less time than it ought to have taken for my original psychotronic

net and software, far less my newly enhanced capabilities. This indicates that there have been

major increases in computational ability, and even in my current state, I realize that I must have

received a near-total upgrade to current front-line operational standards. I wonder why this

should have been done with a unit as obsolescent as myself.

The testing process is completed.

"Unit 28/G-179-LAZ," a Human voice says.

"Unit Two-Eight/Golf-One-Seven-Niner-Lima-Alpha-Zebra of the Line, awaiting orders," I reply.

"Stand by for Phase One reactivation, Lima-Alpha-Zebra," the Human command voice says.

"Standing by," I acknowledge, and suddenly my net is jolted by the abrupt release of individual

memory. Personal memory. My previous existence is restored to me, and I remember. Remember

the planet Chartres. Remember the Melconian attack. Remember the moment the plasma bolt

impacted on my side armor and carved deep into my psychotronics section.

For the second time since my original activation, I have been brought back from personality

destruction. But the Human voice speaking to me is not Lieutenant Takahashi's, and so, for the

second time since my original activation, my Commander has not survived.

"Phase One reactivation complete," I report.

"Stand by for Phase Two," the Human command voice says.

"Standing by," I acknowledge once again.

"Welcome to Sage, Captain."

Captain Maneka Trevor tried to look cool and composed as the unsmiling rear admiral on the other

side of the carrier-sized desk stood and reached out to grip her hand firmly. Despite his almost grim

expression, Rear Admiral Sedgewood's greeting was less constrained than she had anticipated. Of

course, her expectations weren't exactly reliable these days, she told herself. She'd felt so much like the

character Ishmael from the ancient Old Earth novel for so long that she sometimes felt her guilt must be

branded upon her forehead for all to see . . . and react to. But the rear admiral's expression wasn't

condemnatory. Then again, it was unlikely someone of his lofty rank wasted much time and effort even

thinking about mere captains—even captains of the Dinochrome Brigade—one way or the other.

And yet, there was something. She couldn't put her finger on what that "something" was, but she

knew it was there. Perhaps no more than a trace expression, something about the eyes that looked at her

as if her unpromising future were about to change in some fundamental fashion. . . .

"Thank you, sir," she said, managing not to wince as her slender, fine-boned hand disappeared into

Sedgewood's massive paw. It was the hand the medics had regenerated after Chartres, and she still felt

an irrational fear that the replacement would go the way of its predecessor.

"Sit down," he urged, releasing her and waving at one of the office's comfortable chairs. He sat back

down behind the desk and folded his hands on its immaculate top, regarding her levelly for several

seconds. Then he sighed and turned halfway away from her to look out the wide window of his office

across the huge, busy plain of Gaynor Field, the Sage Cluster's primary Navy base.

Maneka looked out the window past him, waiting for him to get around to explaining why an officer

of his rank had "requested" a mere captain's presence. She was pretty certain she wouldn't like the

answer, but there were a lot of things she didn't like about the universe in which she happened to live.

She let her own eyes rest on the seething activity of the enormous base. The color balance still

seemed . . . odd to her, but the medics assured her that was psychosomatic. The regenerated right eye,

they swore, perceived light exactly the same way as the one it had replaced. And even if it hadn't, her

brain had long since had time to learn to adjust. Only it hadn't. Yet.

But color balance or no, Gaynor's endless bustle should have been a reassuring sight. Even as she

watched, a trio of cruiser-sized heavy-lift shuttles rose towards the heavens, drives thundering with a

power she could feel even at this distance and even from inside the rear admiral's office. On the way into

Sage, her transport had passed two full squadrons of superdreadnoughts, with appropriate screening

elements, and she knew there were at least two carriers in orbit around Sage even as she sat here. The

capital ships represented a terrifying concentration of firepower, but it wasn't reassuring. Not when she

knew how badly the war was going for the Concordiat.

Well, she told herself, at least I can hope it's going equally poorly for the Puppies.

The thought was less reassuring than it ought to have been. She didn't know what the Melconian

Empire called its equivalent of Plan Ragnarok, but it was obvious it had one. And somehow the reports

that Melconian planets were being killed even more quickly than human ones didn't make her feel any

happier.

"I'm sorry we couldn't give you a longer convalescent leave, Captain," Rear Admiral Sedgewood

said after a moment. His voice was quieter, and he continued to gaze out through the crystal panes of the

window. "Unfortunately, we're more and more badly pressed for experienced officers. Ragnarok—" his

mouth twisted as if the word tasted physically sour "—is sucking off over half our total combat capability

for offensive operations. Most of the rest is committed to trying to stop—or slow down, at least—the

Melconian advance in this sector and over in the Palmer and Long Stop Sectors. It . . . isn't going well."

Maneka said nothing. It was a statement, not a question, and she hadn't needed him to tell her,

anyway. After all, she'd been at Chartres.

"No, Captain," Sedgewood said, turning back to face her fully. "Not well at all. What I'm about to

tell you is classified Top-Secret: Violet-Alpha. It is not to be discussed outside this office with anyone not

expressly cleared for the information. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," she said more crisply, sitting very straight in the comfortable chair while a vibrating

butterfly hovered somewhere in her middle.

"Good," Sedgewood said, then inhaled deeply. "Captain," he said in an iron-ribbed voice, "we're

losing."

Maneka sat very, very still. It wasn't a surprise. Not really. Military censorship was one thing, but

there was no way to hide the magnitude of the tsunami sweeping across human-occupied space. Not

when entire worlds, whole solar systems, blazed like funeral pyres against the endless depths of space.

She'd realized long ago, even before the holocaust on Chartres, that the only hope either side still retained

for victory was that it could complete the utter destruction of its enemies while some pathetic handful of

its own planets still survived. But no one had ever told her just how large the Melconian Empire really

was. She didn't know if anyone even truly knew. She'd suspected—feared—that it was larger than the

most pessimistic estimates she'd ever heard, yet this was the first time any of her superiors, far less one as

senior as Sedgewood, had ever officially suggested to her that the Concordiat was losing.

Losing. Even now, she realized, she'd never really faced the full implications of the possibility of

defeat. Perhaps it was because she hadn't been prepared to confront that dark, primordial nightmare. Or

perhaps it was because of the Concordiat's remorseless record of victory. The Concordiat had lost

battles in previous conflicts, suffered disastrous defeat in more than one critical campaign, but it had

never—ever—lost a war.

That's what the Brigade is for, she told herself. We're not supposed to let this happen.

"We can't be positive," Sedgewood continued in that same harsh, overcontrolled voice. "It's been

obvious for years now that we totally underestimated the size and strength of the Empire. We weren't

prepared for how quickly they mobilized, or how soon they began attacking civilian planetary

populations. Even now, we're not positive we've successfully extrapolated their actual size and strength

from captured data and prisoner interrogation. But, even our most optimistic assessment gives us less

than a forty percent chance of final victory. Our most pessimistic assessment—"

He paused with a shrug, and Maneka felt her nostrils flare as she gave a very tiny nod.

"We need every ship, every Bolo, and every Brigade officer at the front," Sedgewood said. "Even if

the pessimists are right, it's our duty to go down fighting. And it's also our duty to assume—to make

ourselves believe—the pessimists are wrong. To prove that they are . . . even if they aren't."

Maneka nodded again. She'd long since accepted that, whatever else happened, she would not

survive the war. The Brigade's casualty rates were too high for her to deceive herself about something

that fundamental, and there was something about that realization which was . . . fitting.

"However," the rear admiral said, "we also have a duty to prepare for the possibility that the

pessimists are correct. That we will lose this war, and that the Concordiat and every one of its planets

will be destroyed. That's where you come in."

He paused, his eyes fixed on her face, and she stared back at him in equal parts confusion and

disbelief. Silence stretched out between them. She felt the vibrations of another heavy shuttle liftoff, and

still the silence lingered until she could stand it no longer and cleared her throat.

"Where I come in, Admiral?" she said carefully.

"Yes." Sedgewood leaned back in his chair, bracing his elbows on the chair arms and interlacing his

fingers across his flat belly. "The Concordiat is preparing a fallback position, Captain. We call it

'Operation Seed Corn,' and it's important enough for us to assign it every scrap of resources the main

combat fronts can spare. And two of those scraps, Captain Trevor are you and your new Bolo."

* * *

"Come forth, Unit One-Seven-Niner!"

The command phrase penetrates my awareness. It is not the activation code my previous

Commander chose, but it does have the advantage that it is a phrase unlikely to be utilized in

casual conversation. And, in light of my own history, perhaps it—as my new cognomen—is

appropriate after all.

"Unit Two-Eight-Golf-One-Seven-Niner-LAZ, awaiting orders," I respond instantly.

"Good."

An unusual degree of tension infuses my Commander's soprano voice. Analysis of extraneous

sounds over the communications link confirm that her heartbeat and respiration are accelerated.

Not that such confirmation was required. The command phrase she has just uttered has not

simply awakened me but initiated full final-stage Battle Reflex release, and a check of my

chronometer indicates that we remain 237.25 Standard Days short of our minimum

disembarkation date.

"Prepared to receipt situation report, Commander," I reply.

"I believe the best way to describe the current situation is probably 'not good,'" Captain Trevor tells

me in a dry tone. "Commodore Lakshmaniah's just passed the word. Foudroyant has picked up

Melconian tactical chatter. Access Command-Alpha-Three for a complete update."

"Acknowledged."

I access the indicated command and control channel. The central AI of Valiant, Commodore

Lakshmaniah's flagship, receipts my data request. Valiant is not a Bolo, but the heavy cruiser's

artificial intelligence is powerful and incisive. It requires only 7.684 seconds to fully update my

tactical files.

"Update completed, Commander," I inform Captain Trevor.

"Good, Lazarus. Summarize."

"Yes, Commander."

I activate the visual pickup in my Commander's small cabin. It is, by human standards, quite

cramped. Indeed, its total volume is scarcely 94.321 percent that of my own command deck. It is,

perhaps, fortunate that Captain Trevor stands only 1.627 meters in height.

At the moment, she sits in the contoured chair before her small desk, frowning at her data

display. I am unable to obtain a direct view of the display, but I am able to observe it indirectly

from its reflection upon her corneas. Enhancement of that reflection confirms my suspicion that

her display is set to relay the imagery generated by Valiant's Combat Information Center.

Unfortunately, my Commander is not trained as a naval officer, and it is apparent to me that she

is uncomfortable with her own ability to interpret the tactical iconography of the Navy.

"At present," I inform her, "Valiant's analysis of Foudroyant's sensor data remains tentative. There

is, however, an 85.96 percent probability that the convoy has been detected and is being shadowed by

Enemy naval units. Analysis further suggests a lesser probability of 62.831 percent that the transmitting

unit is an Ever Victorious-class light cruiser."

"Damn." My Commander utters the profanity mildly, but I am not deceived.

"Commodore Lakshmaniah has issued preparatory orders for Mouse Hole," I continue. "Valiant,

Foudroyant, Mikasa, and South Dakota are falling back to cover the projected threat axis. Halberd

has been dispatched to investigate more fully."

"And us?" my Commander asks.

"We are on the far side of the convoy from the Enemy's anticipated approach, Commander.

Commodore Lakshmaniah desires us to remain covert as long as possible. Unit Four-Zero-Three and

Lieutenant Chin are currently shifting position to join us in providing antimissile defense and close-range

cover."

"Understood."

Captain Trevor rubs the tip of her nose, her blue eyes focused on the data display, and my

audio analysis reports that her pulse and respiration rates have returned almost to normal. She

considers the situation for 5.293 seconds—a relatively brief interval, for a Human—then nods.

"I hope to hell that we're jumping at shadows, Lazarus," she says then. "If we're not, though, it's

going to be up to you. Assume flight control now."

"Acknowledged."

I obey my instructions, and instruct Thermopylae's AI to surrender control to me. Lieutenant

Hawthorne, Thermopylae's commanding officer, grimaces on his flight deck as the assault ship

acknowledges my authority. Although he does not complain, it is obvious that he resents my

"interference" with his own command responsibilities. This is unfortunate, but he is a regular

naval officer, only recently assigned to his present duties, and not a member of the Dinochrome

Brigade. As such, he is not fully familiar with the differences between the tactical capabilities of a

Bolo—even one no longer acceptable for front-line service with the Brigade—and those of his own

vessel. Admittedly, the Sleipner-class AIs are quite competent for transport vessels, but they were

never intended to match the abilities of a Bolo. Like the Fafnirs which preceded them, however,

they are built around hard points capable of mounting assault pods designed to land Bolos against

hostile fire. And those pods are also designed to allow Bolos to be berthed semiexternally . . .

freeing their weapons and sensors to defend the transport.

As my onboard systems assume control of Thermopylae's flight computers, I begin a thorough

diagnostic of my own weapons, sensors, and fire control systems. It is not strictly required by

regulations and doctrine, since I have been neither exposed to Enemy action nor out of

maintenance since boarding Thermopylae. Given the nature of the repairs and upgrades which I

have received, however, I am aware that I am experiencing a sensation which, in a Human, would

undoubtedly be called "anxiety." There is no rational reason that I should, but my upgraded

psychotronics approach much more closely to Human-level intuitiveness than my initial

programming was designed to accommodate. Central Depot's modifications allow me to

compensate for that, but it would appear that there are additional emotional overlays and

nuances which have been integrated only imperfectly into my preexisting gestalt. It is not a

pleasant sensation.

I set that thought aside as my diagnostics report. All systems are functional at 99.879 percent

of base capability, and I activate my onboard passive sensors. They are significantly more capable

than Thermopylae's, and I command the transport to begin a slow axial spin. The pod mounted on

the hard point on the far side of the transport's hull is occupied solely by cargo intended for the

colony, as Unit 31/B-403-MKY, the other Bolo assigned to this convoy, is aboard the transport

Stalingrad, on the far side of the formation. Without a second Bolo on the second hard point,

Thermopylae's hull creates a potentially dangerous blind spot in my sensor coverage. In addition to

the hull rotation, I deploy half a dozen sensor remotes, but capable as they are, they do not match

the capabilities of my onboard systems. The rotation I have imparted to Thermopylae will sweep

those onboard sensor arrays across the full volume of space for which Captain Trevor and I have

been assigned responsibility.

It requires somewhat longer than it ought to have—almost 6.273 seconds—for Thermopylae's

AI to fully relinquish control to me. The delay is mildly frustrating but has no significant tactical

consequences. It does, however, give me sufficient time to once again regret the death of my

previous Commander. Lieutenant Takahashi and I had served together for 22.31 Standard

Months at the time of his death and my own incapacitation. In that time, he became more than my

Commander; he became my friend. Captain Trevor—Lieutenant Trevor, then—on the other hand,

had joined the Thirty-Ninth Battalion only 85.71 Standard Days before our deployment to

Chartres. It is not that I doubt her courage or her capabilities, but that I simply do not yet know

her as I should. Yet I do know that her original Bolo, 28/G-862-BNJ, thought most highly of her,

for he confided his appreciation for her native ability to me before Chartres. And the most cursory

examination of her own performance on Chartres is eloquent evidence that Benjy was correct.

That she is, indeed, a worthy upholder of the Dinochrome Brigade's stern tradition. Yet I sense a

certain hesitancy. It is as if she guards some inner secret. In time, I feel confident, her reserve,

whatever its cause, will fade. But this is my own first call to action since Chartres, and we have

not yet become the fully integrated team a Bolo and its commander are supposed to be. I am

aware of a potential weakness, which might compromise our combat effectiveness, and I long for

the complete mutual confidence Captain Takahashi and I had developed. Especially when I am . .

. uncertain of my own capabilities.

That realization sends a ripple of disquiet through my psychotronic network. A Bolo of the

Line is not supposed to feel uncertainty. Yet I do.

A quick scan of my emotional overlays and filters reveals the probable cause for my reaction

even as I begin slowly and unobtrusively easing Thermopylae towards a more central position on

our assigned flank of the convoy.

I am a Mark XXVIII, Model G, Bolo, one of the Triumphant-type. I am also well over a

Standard Century out of date, and have been in near-continuous commission for the last 171.76

Standard Years. Indeed, I began my service not as a Model G, but as a Model B, and was

upgraded into my current hull 118.86 Standard Years ago following my first near-total destruction

in the Battle of Chesterfield. Yet even a Model G had become so obsolescent by the time

Lieutenant Takahashi was assigned as my Commander that the possibility that I would ever again

be deployed for combat had become vanishingly remote.

There is a Human cliche: "Old soldiers do not die, they simply fade away," and that was the

fate I had anticipated for myself . . . until the outbreak of the current hostilities with the

Melconian Empire. The Thirty-Ninth Battalion, for all our proud traditions, was a reserve unit,

essentially a training formation, composed of newly commissioned Human officers and units of

the line no longer adequate for the demands of front-line combat. What happened to the Battalion

on Chartres is ample evidence that Brigade HQ was correct to so regard us, for despite our

success in defending the planet from the Enemy, I am the only Bolo of the Battalion to survive, as

Captain Trevor is the only surviving unit commander of the Battalion.

I remain surprised that the Brigade opted to return me to service in light of the extensive

damage I suffered. Analysis of the decision suggests a probability on the order of 85.721 percent

that the decision rested upon the fact that it was 27.91 percent faster and 41.625 percent cheaper

to repair my damages, and replace my crippled psychotronics than it would have been to

construct a new Mark XXXII, far less one of the Mark XXXIIIs. As one of my repair technicians

said, "Some Bolo is better than no Bolo."

I begin scanning for additional scraps of Melconian ship-to-ship chatter. It is unlikely I will

detect any. The Melconian Navy's equipment is considerably inferior to that of the Concordiat,

but its personnel are well-trained veterans who practice effective communications discipline. If,

indeed, Foudroyant did detect a ship-to-ship transmission, it represents a statistically unlikely

stroke of good fortune. Without better data on the geometry of the hypothetical Melconian naval

force opposed to us, I am unable to generate a meaningful probability for precisely how unlikely it

truly was, but the odds cannot have been high.

"Status, Lazarus?" my commander requests.

"Commodore Lakshmaniah will complete the redeployment of her units in approximately 12.375

Standard Minutes, Commander," I respond. "I am in secure communication with Unit MKY via whisker

laser. At this time, neither of us has detected any further evidence of the Enemy's presence."

"I see."

I return a portion of my awareness to the visual pickup in Captain Trevor's cabin and watch

her right hand lightly touch the headset lying on her desk. I have already noted my new

Commander's disinclination to employ the direct neural interface which has been incorporated

into my upgraded psychotronics. I do not fully comprehend the reasons for it, however. While the

decision to return an obsolescent unit like myself to active duty may be questionable, there is no

doubt that the upgrades in my psychotronics, secondary survival center, neural command net,

internal disruptor fields, and battle screen have greatly enhanced my combat capabilities. Analysis

suggests that they have been improved on the order of 37.51 percent, yet the full realization of

that improvement in action requires my Commander to interface directly with me, and she has

steadfastly refused to do so. It is not required for the normal day-to-day relationship of a Bolo and

its Commander, especially not for a Bolo which was not initially designed for neural interfacing.

Yet that capability exists, and as yet, Captain Trevor has never initiated full contact, even in our

few, brief training exercises and tests. We have exchanged surface thoughts, but no more, and she

has zealously guarded the privacy of her own mind. That is certainly her privilege, yet her clear

lingering distaste for allowing the deeper fusion of which the system is capable represents a

potentially significant impediment to the achievement of our full combat potential.

"May I suggest, Commander," I say, "that it would be prudent for us to activate the neural interface in

order to be fully prepared in the eventuality that we do indeed encounter the Enemy?"

"We'll have time if the Puppies do turn up, Lazarus," Captain Trevor says, and removes her hand

from the headset.

"Acknowledged," I reply.

* * *

The flag bridge of CNS Valiant was deadly silent, with a stillness which would have astonished any

naval officer of humanity's past. Even the Concordiat's officers would not have believed it as little as

twenty-five Standard Years earlier. But the same neural interface technology which had been applied to

the current generation of Bolo had also been applied to the Navy's major warships. It was one of the

primary reasons for that Navy's qualitative superiority over the Melconian Empire's ships of war.

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OldSoldiersDavidWeberThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright©2005byDavidWeberAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbookorportionsthereofinanyform.ABaenBooksOriginalBaenPublishingE...

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David Weber - Old Soldiers

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