Keith Laumer - Bolos Cold Steel

Bolos: Cold Steel

Table of Contents

Prologue

The Greater Machine

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Though Hell Should Bar the Way

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Bolos: Cold Steel

Created by Keith Laumer

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.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-7434-3549-4

Cover art by David Mattingly

First printing, July 2002

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Typeset by Brilliant Press

Printed in the United States of America

The Bolo Series

The Compleat Boloby Keith Laumer

Created by Keith Laumer:

The Honor of the Regiment

The Unconquerable

The Triumphantby David Weber & Linda Evans

Last Stand

Old Guard

Cold Steel

Bolo Brigadeby William H. Keith, Jr.

Bolo Risingby William H. Keith, Jr.

Also by Keith Laumer:

Retief!

Odyssey

Keith Laumer: The Lighter Side

Prologue

It wasn't anywhere you went for a vacation. Thule's eccentric orbit hinted the planet was not native to its

sun, but had been captured from a passing star. That same orbit made for an agonizingly hot, wet, and

short summer followed by a winter where a good day was merely unbearable. Both seasons shared only

one thing: storms featuring winds over 100 KPH. To which was added the joy of a thin crust and

constant volcanic activity.

The star system was crowded with debris; Thule itself had seventeen moons and the beginnings of at

least one ring. It was generally a good place to avoid when there were so many more hospitable worlds

to colonize. But that wasn't an option. Thule was unique for more than being the virtual poster world for

being barely habitable. Wherever the planet originated, it had gathered into itself the largest concentration

of the rare earth element saganium ever found by humans among the over 40,000 explored

worlds—saganium was the vital trace ingredient in a newly developed and amazingly resistant duralloy

armor. With the Deng Incursion reaching its destructive climax, mining colonies were en route before the

survey team's preliminary report was even finished printing out. There were just a few details they had

missed.

The Greater Machine

J. Steven York &

Dean Wesley Smith

Chapter One

For the moment it wasn't pouring rain. Jennifer Harom dropped off the last rung of the ladder onto the

damp sand and stretched, glad to be out of the massive pulverizer that towered fifty meters into the air

above her. Her overalls were damp from the sweat and the light breeze felt good against her skin, cooling

her and clearing her head. The jungle greenery pulped by the big machine had a chlorophyll and vinegar

smell, like a Caesar salad.

The ground under her feet shook as the grinder tore into the earth, ultrasonic cannon aimed downward,

tearing sand and gravel apart at a molecular level, turning it into the uniform, black ore-sand that

crunched under her boots. Despite the violence and power of the pulverizer, active noise dampeners

shielded the machine from its own power, reducing the sound to a low rumble, and incidentally keeping

the crew from going deaf. She could have even heard the noises from the jungle around her, if the

machine hadn't frightened away every animal within five kilometers.

Confident that she was safe from the local predators, she scrambled up a nearby bank and looked back

at the big machine, floating on its contra-gravs a few meters above the ground, a duralloy thundercloud

lost down from heaven and pretty damned pissed about it. Behind it a two-hundred-meter swath of

freshly created ore-sand stretched back up the valley, waiting for the processing machines that followed a

kilometer behind. Keeping the beast running, keeping it from ripping itself apart, was a big job, but her

three co-workers were more than capable of covering for her while she got a little fresh air. Getting out

of the control cabin in the middle of a shift was against the rules, especially while the grinder was in

operation, but they all did it. Staying cramped into that small control cabin for ten hours straight would

drive anyone nuts. Besides, who cared as long as the pulverizer kept tearing up the ground on this

godforsaken planet.

She stepped toward the edge of the jungle. The wide-leafed plants and tall trees towered over her like a

wall. At the moment the grinder was tearing a wide path up a sandbar beside a small river. When they

reached the end of the valley they would turn around and come back down, cutting another swath beside

the one they were working on now, passing the processing machines somewhere along the way. The

pulverizer's downward-pointing sound cannon dug the ground to a depth of twenty meters and could

chew up rocks as if they were cotton candy.

Eventually all the jungle would be gone from this valley as they mined the saganium, but that would take

at least a year and she planned on being gone, headed back into civilized space, long before then. Ten

years from now this valley would be twice as deep and wide as it was now, a scar big enough to see

from orbit. There were ten colonies and more than double that number of mining sites spread around the

planet. This planet, with its smells and heat was barely worth inhabiting now. She had no doubt that in ten

years the place would be nothing more than a large pile of rock orbiting a weak sun.

She dropped down onto the ground and rested her back against a boulder. As the machine slowly

moved away from her, the Caesar salad smell was already fading, replaced by a stench like mildew, old

socks and rotting garbage. Now, after two weeks, she was starting to get used to the smells of this ugly

planet. Not all the way yet, but enough that they didn't make her choke anymore. It was ironic that the

only way to get a good smell out of the jungle was to blast it to hell, and even that didn't last.

She took a deep breath and let the solidness of the ground ease the tension of a long morning inside the

pulverizer. She would take a few minutes, then get back to work. They were pushing the grinder as fast

as it would go, and she had every intention of getting the bonus promised them if they made the cliff at the

head of the valley in two weeks. The more money she made, the quicker she could head out of here, get

back to school, finish the degree in architecture. Then all this labor would just become a bad memory,

laughed at over drinks and a good meal.

Suddenly the smell of rot engulfed her even more strongly, and a branch cracked just behind her.

"What—?"

She sprang to her feet and spun around.

For a moment her mind didn't register what she was seeing. Along the edge of the jungle were at least

twenty massive alien creatures. For a moment she thought that they were predators of some kind, that

she'd been wrong about the sound scaring them away. The things were vaguely humanoid, small heads

mounted on massive, fur-covered bodies. The fur was black and scattered with bold, irregular white

spots. The things hunched slightly as they spotted her, their heads shifting nervously as they looked at her,

first with one side-mounted eye, then the other, like massive birds. The lips on their wide mouths looked

hard, beaklike, adding to the impression that these things were somehow in the bird family.

At first, she didn't realize they wore clothes, their black loincloths and harnesses blended so well with

their fur. It was only when she saw the primitive hand weapons, curved knives, long blades mounted on

shafts to create something like a cross between a spear and a broadsword, that she was sure she was

dealing with intelligent creatures. The biggest of them also carried a long, heavy-looking, leather bag over

his shoulder, though he lacked the spear/sword that the others carried.

Natives? The damned survey hadn't said anything about natives.She tried to remember something,

anything that she'd been taught about first contact in school, but it was all gone, vanished down the same

mental sinkhole as hyperspatial geometry and most of her Earth history. She held up her hands, trying to

indicate she was unarmed. "Where did you come from?" she asked, managing to choke down the fear.

That was stupid. Like they could understand her. Why had she left her side arm back in the pulverizer? It

was regulation that she always carry it, just as it was regulation that they stay inside their machine for the

entire shift. But there weren't supposed to be any aliens on this planet, especially aliens as big as these

beasts.

The creature closest to her just turned its head from side to side, its birdlike black eyes staring down at

her with great intensity, even if she couldn't read the emotion behind it. The creature showed no sign that

it understood her. Of course, it wouldn't.

She eased a step back, trying not to move too suddenly. The smallest of the creatures, still a good three

heads taller than she was, stepped forward, lowered his spear-weapon, and casually jabbed it at her.

She cursed and jumped back, feeling the dull impact of the weapon against her side, just below the rib

cage.

She cursed again, more angry than afraid. Her side hurt, and without thinking she touched herself, feeling

something hot and wet on her fingers. She looked at her bloody fingers in shock. "Youcut me, you

bastards!"

The alien watched her intently, still utterly unreadable to her. Then it made a noise, a hissy, rasping noise,

punctuated by clicks of those hard lips. It was talking.

The others joined in, all chattering at once.

She knew without a doubt she was going to have to make a break for it, and while they were talking

seemed as good a time as any. She just hoped the others up in the grinder control cabin could see what

was happening out here and have the door open when she came up the ladder.

She bolted, skittering back down the slope toward the waiting ladder. After twenty steps, she dared to

glance back, and was surprised to see that the aliens weren't following. Instead, the big one had lowered

his bag to the ground, and the others gathered around as he opened it and pulled out a large, cylindrical

object made of metal. She had no idea what the object was, only that it clearly hadn't been made by a

bunch of savages in loincloths. She stopped and clutched her injured side, trying to figure out what they

were doing.

The big creature hoisted the cylinder up onto his shoulder, one eye pressing awkwardly against a

rearward-facing eyepiece that seemed totally out of position for its anatomy. Then he turned toward the

pulverizer. The other natives chattered excitedly.

If she didn't know any better, she'd think it was some kind of energy weapon. But that couldn't be. The

rest of these creatures looked primitive, and none of them were carrying anything but swords and knives.

Maybe they'd just found the weapon somehow, didn't even know what it did. Maybe they just wanted to

see the pretty colors in the sighting system.

"Hey!" she shouted, stepping back slowly. "Don't be aiming that thing at my machine!"

The small alien barked something. From the tone, it might have been an expletive, then started moving

towards her, stafflike sword raised. The big one snapped something else at the little one, but was

ignored.

The large alien again lifted the energy weapon. For a moment she hesitated between running and trying

to watch. Then it was decided for her. The flash nearly blinded her.

She felt the shock wave in her rib cage and staggered back. Itwas a plasma cannon.

The small alien paused, looking, as she was, at the pulverizer.

The cannon had been powerful, but the big mining machine was built to take punishment— Then she

saw the smoke coming from the emitters over the sonic cannon.They'd taken out the active noise

cancellation. She felt it first through her feet, like a pipe organ hitting a low note, building in intensity.

Instinctively she covered her ears, knowing how little good it would do. The pulverizer was shaking now,

ripples running through its metal sides.Shut down, shut down! What was wrong with her crew?

Then she saw someone on one of the catwalks near the control room. She squinted against the sky. Not

one of her people. Another alien, and it carried something in one hand. It tossed the object down to the

others. It was round. It bounced in the sand and rolled to a stop at the big one's taloned feet.

It was a head. She caught a glimpse of Vanderhaven's blonde hair, and felt her last meal fighting to come

back up.

Then the sound came, full blown, like needles in her eardrums, distracting her even from the horror of

what she had just seen. She fell to her knees in pain.

The pulverizer was tearing itself apart from the inside, shedding hull plating and external fittings in a gentle

rain as it continued its blind way down the valley. The aliens watched, seemingly unbothered by the

sound. The big one raised the weapon again, aiming at the midsection where the power core now stood

revealed by peeling hull. She couldn't believe they knew what they were doing, but they clearly did.

He fired again. The power core exploded, not in a single blast, but like a string of huge firecrackers

angling down through the hull toward the sonic cannon. She watched the machine, her friends, and every

hope she had of earning her way off this rock, plow into the riverbank, sending up a shower of sand,

smaller explosions sending shudders through its flame-engulfed hull.

Her friends were dead, and if she didn't run, she was going to be as well. While the aliens were still

occupied watching the machine burn, she bolted, staggering as she slipped in the loose sand.

She never saw how the small one noticed her, never heard him as he made pursuit. She didn't even

know the alien was there until the talons closed around the back of her neck, smashing her face down

into the ore-sand.

She struggled weakly, called out, barely able to hear her own voice. The creature rolled her over

effortlessly, the point of the alien's blade centimeters from her face.

She fought, but the talons on the creature's feet held her while it reached down to grab her hair and yank

it back hard.

Her hearing started to come back, just in time as the alien screamed and flashed toward her neck. And

this time—this time she understood the alien's meaning completely.

Victory. * * *

Tyrus Ogden stood on a catwalk that crossed the roof of the vast vehicle hangar. On the floor below, a

space big enough to park a Concordiat cruiser of the line with room to spare, a half dozen huge mining

machines were being assembled or repaired. Voices echoed through the vast space, sometimes shouted

instructions, sometimes, eerily, a whisper relayed, as though by some acoustic wormhole, from a hundred

meters away. Power tools chattered, buzzed, and roared. Brilliant flashes from a dozen different exotic

welding methods cast colorful shadows on the walls. The place smelled of ozone, hot metal, machine

lubricant, and just a little of sweat.

For Tyrus it should have been just another job. It could have been any world, literally. Big as the building

was, it was a standard prefab that he'd seen on a dozen planets. But he hadn't asked to come here,

hadn't planned to drag his family to this jungle hellhole of a mining colony. And most of all, he hadn't

planned on the machine whose superstructure towered up from the floor, ending only a few meters below

the catwalk. It was the machine beneath his feet that made the job different. He looked down at the

gleaming durachrome hull, the ranks of two-meter-wide treads, the main turrets, each bigger than any

house he'd ever lived in.

"Mr. Ogden," a man's voice, high and nasal, called from behind him.

Tyrus turned at the sound of dress shoes clattering on metal grate. The man walking towards him was

thin, dark, average height, dressed in an executive suit wholly inappropriate to the environment. Tyrus

recognized him from previous holo conversations. "Dyson, isn't it?"

Dyson shoved out his hand, and Tyrus shook it without enthusiasm.Company man.

"I see you're settling right in." He made a sweeping gesture to the machine below. "Like our new mining

machine?"

"It's a Bolo, Dyson." He looked down, but not at the machine. "You shouldn't be wearing shoes like that

up here. You slip, it's a long way down."

Dyson looked nervously down at his own feet. "I didn't know."

"I'm sure."

Dyson stepped cautiously up to the railing and looked over. "I do know about that, though. I signed the

purchase order. It's a Prescott 4800 surface excavator, the first of its kind."

"It's a Bolo, Dyson."

Dyson looked uncomfortable. "Well—it's that too. A converted Bolo actually, an old Mark XX . . . I

think, maybe a XXI. I don't know about those things. I hear Prescott found a whole regiment of them

rusting in a scrap yard on some moon somewhere."

Tyrus looked at the shining sweep of the hull and felt his mind slipping back to another place and time, a

place of fire, a time of war. "Bolos don't rust. After a few centuries on a planet like this, they might

develop a surface patina. But they don't rust, and they don't bleed, and they don't ever, ever die."

"Excuse me?"

He looked at Dyson. "That's why they diverted me here, isn't it? Why they dragged me and my family

into what amounts to a combat zone. I've had combat experience."

Dyson nodded. "This situation has developed very quickly and unexpectedly. The 4800's were already

ordered as part of a trial program. You were already in the sector. You have the skills we needed. And

you—know about Bolos."

"I've fought on the same side as Bolos, Dyson. That's a whole different thing. Maybe Bolo commanders

are comfortable with those things, but I was infantry, and I never served with a man who wasn't rattled

by them, who didn't spend as much time looking over his shoulder at his own Bolos as he did looking at

the enemy line. What in heaven's name made you want to convert one into a blastedtractor ?"

Dyson was starting to look annoyed. "I told you, we bought it, we didn't think it up. You've heard the

losses we've experienced here. Three machines just last month. Out away from the colonies and the fixed

defenses, they're essentially vulnerable against even light weapons. We've taken to issuing pulse rifles to

all our crews, welded some makeshift armor to the control cabs, but the losses continue. These

aliens—natives—whatever they are, somehow didn't show up on our surveys, so we never imagined it

would be an issue. But this," he waved at the Bolo again, "was marketed as a solution for mining on

'hostile worlds.' They simply don't get much more hostile than this. The rest of our machines are

vulnerable, but the Prescott 4800—"

"The Bolo."

"Whatever . . . It can take the kind of attacks we've been experiencing. We can send it into the most

isolated and dangerous areas with impunity. They won't be able to hurt it, and maybe we can learn

something. Learn how to protect the rest of our equipment."

Tyrus cursed under his breath. "You have no idea of the trouble you've caused me personally, bringing

me here. I suppose you want me to work this beast into the maintenance rotation here?"

Dyson looked away. "Actually, we already have a pretty good maintenance chief at the colony. We

were hoping that you'd run the 4800 for us."

Tyrus blinked his eyes in disbelief. "You wantme to command a Bolo?"

* * *

Whitestar shifted the hand-forged blade in his hand, feeling the comfortable way his clawlike fingers held

the grip, the natural way that the handle cradled against the long bones of his hand. It was a good blade,

good balance, a weapon he understood, one that became an extension of his arm. The knife pleased him,

made him glad to be alive. The weapons provided by the Ones Above were powerful, but clumsy and

unnatural. Only with a blade in his hand did he feel like a fresh-hatched warrior again.

The afternoon breeze ruffled his fur and carried the smell of wood smoke from a nearby burrow. He was

dimly aware of his fellow clansmen gathering around the circle, clicking their jaws in rhythm, the ancient

ceremony of challenge. Some part of his mind dimly registered all this, cataloged it, filtered it for any

undetected threat, but his focus, hiscombat-eye , was entirely on the smaller Tersae across the circle. His

name was Warrior Twostone, and he was trying with all his might to kill Whitestar, his clan-lord.

Twostone lunged, his long, curved blade flashing in the dappled sunlight that filtered through the trees.

Agile for his greater size, Whitestar turned away from the thrust, hooked Twostone's blade with his own

and pulled, throwing the warrior off balance. He brought his foot around and kicked Twostone in the

back, his talons drawing blood.

Twostone staggered for a moment, but quickly caught himself, turning, knife held high in a gesture of

defiance. He turned his head at right angles to Whitestar, focusing one eye on the lord, and a sound came

from his throat, a low chattering that in the Tersae was an expression of amusement. In context it was a

sign of continued calm and reason, despite his wounds. The Tersae blood ran hot. A warrior could too

easily lose themselves in that heat, forget the mission, forget their clan-brothers, and waste their lives on

the battlefield. A good warrior knew how to maintain the balance, even when their own blood painted the

enemy's blade.

You are truly a fine warrior, Twostone. It will be a shame to lose you.

The two circled, each looking for some weakness in their opponent. Finally, Whitestar simply grew tired

of looking. He feinted an attack causing Twostone to step backwards, then again, and again, never letting

the warrior find balance, focusing his attention on Whitestar's blade. Then Whitestar struck, not with his

blade, but with a flying kick, his talons digging into Twostone's blade-arm, pushing it aside. Hesqueezed ,

feeling skin tear beneath his claws, until the blade clattered to the forest floor, then released, twisted in

midair to strike with his blade, bringing it against Twostone's throat. He held the blade there and he

grabbed Twostone's arm and spun him around.

Twostone ended up with his back against Whitestar's left shoulder, the knife tight against his skin. "My

life is my lord's," he gasped, "my blood is my lord's. Take them, in the name of the Ones Above."

"I take your life," responded Whitestar, "I take your blood. I give you back your blood. I give you back

your life, Sacred Warrior Twostone, to serve the Ones Above." He lowered the knife, stepped in front of

Twostone, and held it across his own chest in salute.

Twostone bowed, folding his arms behind his back like a new hatchling, a gesture of extreme

supplication and humility. "How may my unworthy life serve the Ones Above?"

"Rise, Twostone. You have been bested by your lord, but you fought honorably, and well. You are

worthy. Tonight we strike the devils in their nests. Tonight you will carry the Fist of the Ones Above. We

will barter your life for a thousand and twenty-four of the enemy's lives."

Twostone nodded his head sharply in gratitude.

"Go to your fire, and we will speak later." He turned to the circle of observers. "Make way for the

Sacred Warrior!" The circle parted and Twostone stepped through, and with that, the ceremony was

ended. The crowd immediately began to disperse. A few looked disappointed that no more blood had

been spilled, a few others paused to compliment Whitestar's skill and prowess.

Only old Scarbeak lingered at his side as Whitestar headed back to the Lord's Burrow. "You should

take a new name, my lord. 'Bloodtalon' would suit you well."

"Such a name would only fire the young warriors, old one. I fight too many challenges as it is. Tonight

our Great War begins. I should be reviewing our plans, not holding a knife to my own warrior's throat."

"So speaks the lord. I forgot for a moment the recent challenge of your eldest hatchling. It was

thoughtless of me. It pains one to take blood from one's own brood, or one's own clan."

Whitestar dismissed him with a click of his jaw. "You meant only to compliment me, old one. I did what

had to be done, and with luck, Blackspike will yet recover and take my place as lord of the clan."

They walked past the stream, where young females soaked weaver-vines and beat them between rocks

to extract the useful fibers. A few young males crouched, watching them cautiously from a distance.

"You don't know these young ones, elder. The fire burns strong in them. They have no wisdom at the

fight." He was not speaking of his son, but he could have been.

"Wisdom comes with age."

"Then it is not a lord's destiny to be wise, elder. One day I will be too slow at a challenge, and—" he

hissed and made the motion of a slicing blade with his hand— "that will be the end of me."

"Wisdom is relative, lord. You are wise enough for what you do."

"And you, elder? Is the Fist of the Ones Above ready?"

"The sacred connections are made, the sacred modules all show the light-of-function. The Ones Above

promise that it will cut deep into the belly of the human devils. The explosion should be spectacular."

"Let's hope so, Scarbeak. Twostone is a fine warrior. I wouldn't like to waste his life on a fool's

mission." * * *

The first sign of real trouble came when the hangar lights flickered, followed by the sound of a distant

boom. Tyrus looked up from where he was crouched, inspecting one of the Bolo's two-meter-wide

Keith Laumer - Bolos Cold Steel

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