Laumer, Keith - Bolos 3 - The Triumphant

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Bolos III: The Triumphant

Created by Keith Laumer

Edited by Bill Fawcett

Fout! Onbekende schakeloptie-instructie.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters 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

ISBN: 0-671-72184-4

Cover art by Paul Alexander

First printing, September 1995

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

The Farmer’s Wife

by Linda Evans

—1—

Tillie Matson stepped aboard Star Cross wearing an idiotic grin, a

sheen of sweat, and—affixed to her comfortable jumpsuit—an official-

looking badge that read “PHASE II TRANSPORT DIRECTOR.”

She didn’t feel much like a transport director with temporary

responsibility for three hundred fifty-seven men, women, and children,

not to mention a cargo hold full of live animals and viable botanical

specimens in sealed containers. She felt like a giddy schoolgirl released

for the biggest field trip any kid ever took. And underlying the

excitement: What if something goes wrong? Something always goes

wrong on a project this big, not just little stuff like Tommie Watkins

getting his nose bloodied by Sarah Pilford, but really big stuff, and I’m

the one on the hotseat. . . .

Tillie wasn’t trained in Project Administration. She just happened to

be good at organizing things, had a knack for solving problems and

soothing tempers, and—coincidentally—was married to the Phase I

Colony Director. She also held Phase II’s only veterinary sciences

degree.

So Tillie Matson had, by popular acclaim and logical choice, been

chosen to lead this misfit band of farmers, educators, agricultural

production specialists, wide-eyed kids, irritable nanny goats, sweating

horses, balking cattle, and screaming chickens onto Star Cross for a two-

week Hyper-L voyage.

She wished someone else had been elected mayor.

But she wasn’t about to reveal how genuinely scared she was. So, with

her idiotic grin, her sheen of nervous sweat, and her badge, Tillie stepped

onto the transport’s deckplates. A freckled young crewman in a crisp

uniform grinned when he saw her. Tillie greeted him with her widest

smile and firmest handshake.

“I’m Tillie Matson, thank you for meeting us like this.”

“Kelly McTavish, ma’am, and welcome aboard the Star Cross. I’m the

Passenger Steward.” His smile was bright and genuine, same as his

carroty hair. “If you have that passenger list, ma’am, I’ll double check it

against mine and we’ll be set to board your people. Booker Howard,

down in Cargo One, is ready to onload bio-specimens.”

Tillie hid a smile, wondering if Booker Howard’s experience with

“bio-specimens” was up to irascible goat temperaments. Even crated,

they could be a handful. She handed over the micro-crystal wafer with

their personnel roster. Kelly McTavish scanned it, ran a compare, then

nodded. “Very good, ma’am. And your transfer authorities for the bio-

specimens are here, too. It’s all in order. Welcome aboard, Dr. Matson. If

I might suggest it . . . Allow me to handle onloading the passengers.

You’d maybe better help Book with the animals?”

Tillie didn’t bother to hide this smile. “I think so, yes. My brood mares

are pretty broody just now, even with the tranks I gave them. They don’t

like to travel. Particularly not while they’re in foal. I’d hate for them to

injure themselves trying to get out of the crates. And the goats are even

worse.”

“That,” Kelly McTavish gave her a broad grin and a wink, “is why I

stick to handling people. All my passengers generally do is scream at

me.”

She laughed and used her com-link to let Itami Kobe, her second-in-

command, know the drill; then made her way to Cargo One. They hadn’t

left space port yet, but she felt better already. Soon, she promised her

lonely heart, soon you’ll be back with Carl again and everything will be

perfect.

Hal Abrams wasn’t one to run from a fight.

Shucks, he’d been a combat engineer in Space Arm—and earned

himself a few ribbon hangers, while he was at it—before tackling

another whole career in ag mechanics. In some ways, he could stomach

up-close-and-dirty combat almost easier than he could stomach hearing a

pig scream when you butchered it. (At least when you stared a man in

the eyes, knowing he would try to do you as fast as you’d try to do him,

you knew the son would understand why he was dying.)

He’d been a good soldier, but Hal had never regretted signing on for

the agricultural expedition to Matson’s World. He’d finally stopped

having dreams about skies black as the inside of Hell, thick with smoke

and tons of earth blown skyward when the big Hellbores cut loose with a

blaze like Satan’s own breath. . . . Besides, it was fun tinkering with

agricultural equipment, getting it to do things its designers had never

imagined it would do.

So when Carl Matson first brought in the SWIFT dispatch from

Sector, giving evacuation orders, Hal’s gut response was, “Hell, no, Carl.

This is our home. We put our sweat and souls into this dirt. If it ain’t

worth fightin’ for, what the hell are we doin’ out here, killin’ ourselves

to turn jungle into farmland?”

“You know I trust your judgment,” Carl told him quietly.

Hal had never seen a look quite like that in the colony director’s eyes.

Wordlessly, Carl handed over the rest of the message. Hal scanned it;

then read more slowly.

“Mama Bear . . .”

An unknown alien species had broken into Concordiat space.

“Sector Intel thinks these things may be running from attack by the

Jyncji.”

Hal glanced up sharply. “The Jyncji? Aren’t those the spiny little

bastards that use bacteriological warfare?”

Carl nodded. “Yeah. They xeno-form whatever they run across. Sector

thinks the Jyncji have attacked worlds held by the Xykdap—whatever

the hell they look like. Nobody knows yet. But Sector figures the

Xykdap are looking for new homes, new supply bases, new sources of

raw minerals . . .”

That would certainly explain the strength of the invasion force headed

their way. Space Arm Intelligence estimated it mustered out at full

battle-fleet strength. That would mean potentially thousands of heavy

fighting machines, tens of thousands of infantry, plus fully mechanized

scouts that had been encountered with fatal results in three places

already.

Enemy’d come through Matson’s like crap through a force-fed goose,

no mistake about it.

Hal glanced up. The look in Carl’s eyes scared him. Hal met the

director’s gaze steadily, allowing the younger man to see the worry in his

eyes; then spat to one side. For long moments Hal just stood there,

swallowing fire he had no choice but to swallow. Finally he said it. “We

cain’t fight that, Carl.”

“Didn’t figure we could. Not even with Digger.”

Hal spat again. “Nope. Not even in his prime, which he ain’t seen for a

couple a centuries. Oh, he’s still got a tactical nuke or two and his small-

weapons systems are operational, although God knows when they were

tested last. I got a certificate somewhere says when. Been a while.

Digger’s old, Carl. Government surplus still made me fill out forms like

you wouldn’t . . .”

He shook his head. It didn’t matter that he’d managed to obtain an

ancient, decaying Bolo out of surplus only because he was still a Reserve

Marine officer and nominally the head of Matson’s defense forces.

Matson’s was entitled to some form of military support and centuries-old

Bolos were cheap—and could be reprogrammed to handle genetic

engineering computations a helluva lot cheaper than plunking down the

cash for specialized gengineering equipment usually sold to ag colonists.

So they had Digger and Digger had done every job they’d assigned

him. But one Bolo Mark XX Model M—essentially a Mark XX brain in

a Mark XIV chassis, minus the Hellbore—extensively modified to

handle genetic cultivar computations and field trials, plus plowing,

harvesting, and heavy construction, just wasn’t any kind of match for a

whole enemy fleet. Hal spat one last time.

“He might buy us time, but we’d still end up dead. Or worse. We gotta

skedaddle, Carl, and git now. Sector send word to Phase II to hold up

transhipping?”

The look in Carl’s eyes worsened. “They said Phase II had already

left. But they’ll use SWIFT to make contact with the Star Cross. They

should be able to drop out of FTL and turn around in time.”

Hal nodded. “That’s good. This ain’t gonna be no place for women

and kids and nanny goats.”

Carl set his jaw muscles. Hal immediately wished he hadn’t said that.

More than just Carl’s wife was aboard that Phase II ship. The future of

everything and everyone they loved was on that transport. And all of it

was headed right into the teeth of an alien invasion fleet. If anything

went wrong . . .

“Well,” Hal muttered, “I’d better get busy shutting everything down.”

“Yes. That FTL transport Sector mentioned will be here tomorrow. It’s

carrying refugees from Scarsdale, too, so there won’t be room to take

much out.”

Hal glanced sharply at his director. “Not even Digger?”

Carl glanced away. “I’m sorry. We’ll . . . You saw the message. Sector

said to fry his Action/Command center. We can’t let him fall into enemy

hands.”

“Yeah, but that was an ‘if you can’t remove the unit’ order, not a hard-

and-fast gotta do it order.” He shut his lips. He knew as well as Carl that

Sector had really meant, “Kill your Bolo, Hal.” He cleared his throat.

“Well, damn . . . First they farm him out as surplus junk, now they want

me to go and . . .”

“I know.”

Hal shrugged, trying to shunt attention away from his emotional

outburst. Complaining about it wouldn’t do any good, anyway. “You got

other business. Just leave the equipment to me. I’ll wreck what we can’t

take.”

Carl nodded and left.

Hal watched him go. Then: Kill Digger?

Not if he had anything to say about it. Maybe Digger had to die; Hal

hadn’t forgotten that much about soldiering. But there was ways of

carrying out an order, and then there was ways. By golly, the least they

could do was let him die honorably in combat—and since Mark XX

Model M “Moseby” units had been designed for slash-and-dash raids

behind enemy lines, maybe Digger would give these invaders a rude

surprise or two before they killed him. That’s what Digger’d want, for

sure. Hal waited until the Bolo returned from the fields that evening.

Everything else was set. He’d wrecked what they hadn’t crated; then

he’d rigged explosive charges throughout the compound, setting things

so the whole installation would go the minute any life form larger than a

housecat was detected inside the main buildings. The bastards might

occupy Matson’s World, but they’d pay dear for it or Hal Abrams wasn’t

a Marine Engineer.

The last thing he told faithful old Digger, so antiquated he qualified

for admission to the War Relics and Monuments Commission roster,

was: “Digger, I want you to check out that new orchard in the back forty

tonight. Stay out there for a couple of days, work on those cultivars we

been gussying up. I’m leavin’ it up to you, Digger, to take care of things.

You just keep right on with your mission, Digger, same as I programmed

you. Battle Reflex Alert inside colony perimeter. Understand?”

“Understood, Commander. I will continue the work for which I am

programmed. I will develop new cultivars, plant and harvest test

acreages, and protect the colony’s crops and physical plant until such

time as I am relieved from Battle Reflex Alert.”

“That’s good, Digger,” Hal said, wishing he didn’t feel quite so

choked up. He wanted to say goodbye, but didn’t have the heart to tell

the faithful old machine he wouldn’t be coming back. Better to let him

die not realizing he’d been betrayed and abandoned by friends. “You’d

best be getting on out to that orchard, Digger.”

“Understood, Commander.”

The hulking machine backed neatly on its ancient treads. It turned in

the moonlight and trundled obediently across the fields, taking the access

road it had built the previous year. Backhoes, plowshares, bulldozer

blades, manipulator arms, reaper extensions, sampling baskets, and

harvesting prunes festooned its moonlit hull, all but obscuring the

ominous snouts of infinite repeaters which hadn’t cycled in two hundred

years.

Hal sighed.

That was about to change.

He just hoped Digger put up a good fight.

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BolosIII:TheTriumphantCreatedbyKeithLaumerEditedbyBillFawcettFout!Onbekendeschakeloptie-instructie.Copyright©1995byBillFawcettandAssociatesThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Allrightsreserved,includingther...

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Laumer, Keith - Bolos 3 - The Triumphant

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