"I've heard all about you, Lieutenant," the general said with blunt disapproval. With a stubby but carefully manicured forefinger, he tapped the file folder, thick with service record printouts, in front of him on his desk. "I've heard all about you and that affair at Dahlgren, and let me tell you that I don't like what I've heard one damned little bit!"
Lieutenant Donal Ragnor remained at attention, wondering if the general's point-blank attack required a response . . . and if so, what kind of response. No excuse, sir was the proper and expected reply to a superior officer's direct challenge to a junior's behavior, but Donal had arrived on Muir only hours ago and, so far as he was aware, had done nothing to get himself in trouble.
"I find myself shocked, sir, shocked," the general continued before Donal could offer any reply at all, "that you are still in military service at all!"
"I love the military, sir," he said, as the man behind the broad, hardwood desk paused to draw breath. "I would never think of leaving it."
That, of course, was not entirely true. He'd thought long and hard about just that, during the long months leading up to the court martial. He'd thought about it even harder after the court's verdict had been read in.
"Harumph!" General Barnard Phalbin, evidently, was not used to subordinates interspersing thoughts of their own into one of his tirades. He hesitated, as though wondering where exactly he'd been in his speech before being interrupted. He regarded Donal a moment longer, lips pursed, eyes narrowed in a manner appropriately menacing for interviews with know-it-all junior officers. "Harrumph," he said again. "Ah, that is . . . it takes more than not thinking to make a success of one's self as a career officer, let me tell you!"
Donal allowed his focus to drift past Phalbin's glowering visage and across the trophy display on the wall at his back. The general prided himself on his long career in the military. That much was clear from the mementos, awards, and holographic pics that were scattered about his lavishly appointed office. Most of them clustered on that wall, where they provided an appropriately impressive backdrop to the general's desk, surrounding a large holo of the Cluster's current governor, Reginald Chard. There was a moving holovid clip of the general shaking hands with President Alvarez of Dreyfus, another of Phalbin as a young captain receiving a plaque from a general in an Imperial uniform, still another showing him standing on a dock next to a grinning Prince Philip of Farmarine, rod and reel in hand, an exotic-looking game fish hanging head-down between them. The plaque was an award for outstanding efficiency by then-Captain Phalbin in his posting as base logistical officer on Siegfried. Nearby was the gold trophy for first place in the annual Imperial war games on Aldo Cerise.
That last was interesting. Donal had read Phalbin's bio on the journey out from Sector, and there was no indication that the general had ever actually been in combat. But then, the Aldo Cerise war games had the reputation for being something on the order of a gentlemanly diversion over the weekend.
No, that was probably unfair. True, Phalbin had the puffy face, the narrow and somewhat beady eyes, the studied look of dim concentration that might attend a not-too-bright pugilist . . . but appearances could be deceiving.
"I fail to understand, Mr. Ragnor," Phalbin was saying, "why Sector should see fit to burden me with your presence. It's not as though we need additional manpower just now. Quite the contrary, in fact. Things in the Cluster are quiet, have been quiet for decades, now. A young officer of your, um, impetuous nature is likely to find duty here somewhat on the boring side. I will not have the good order and discipline of my command upset by a junior officer's impatience."
"I've been hearing rumors about unfriendly neighbors out this way, sir. A new race, moving in from . . . from somewhere out beyond the edge of the Arm. My impression was that Sector HQ thought—"
"As you say, Lieutenant, those are rumors. Unverified. And unverifiable. I've discussed the issue at length in several of my quarterly reports."
"I've read them, sir."
"Then you know my feelings on the matter. I, after all, am here, smack in the center of these so-called alien incursions, and I assure you that there have been no reliable reports, nothing solid that would lend the least bit of substance to these wild stories. Some ships have disappeared along the borders of the Strathan Cluster, yes. What we are dealing with is probably a statistical fluctuation . . . or possibly a dishonest ship owner or two making fraudulent claims on his insurance."
"Eight ships of various classifications vanishing from long-established routes within the space of eighteen months," Donal said. "Reports from Starhold and Endatheline of settlements raided and burned. Seems like more than statistics to me, sir. Or an insurance scam."
"Harrrumph!" Phalbin's pudgy hands gathered up a stack of file folders from one corner of his desktop and neatly reshuffled them, stacking them with millimeter precision in another corner. "Well, as to that, I might even allow that there are some small-time pirates operating on the fringes of the cluster. That, of course, would be the Space Service's jurisdiction."
"And what do they say, sir?"
The fat lips pouted. "That they are overextended as it is. That they cannot spare a task force unless there is more concrete evidence of an alien incursion. Predictable, of course."
"Of course." Donal had read those reports as well.
"Can't say I blame them, actually. In any case, there are no alien invaders coming from out beyond the edge of the Galaxy because there is no place out there for them to come from. That's clear enough, is it not?"
Donal opened his mouth, ready to contradict Phalbin. The gulf between the galaxies was not completely empty, and the old and half-magical phrase "the edge of the Galaxy" was meaningless. There could be no well-defined edge to the Galaxy's arms when in fact they gently trailed away, the local star density only gradually petering out into the near-emptiness of the galactic halo. Likely, there were suns in the gulf halfway out to Andromeda, too thinly scattered to be detectable, isolated one from the next by light millennia, rather than the five- or ten-light-year average spacing between suns within the galactic arms.
But Donal rethought what he'd been about to say and closed his mouth with a snap. Talking without thinking—in particular, spouting off to his superiors without thinking—had gotten him in deep hot water more than once in the past. It had landed him here, for one thing . . . and there might very well be worse assignments than Bolo Tactical Officer for the Strathan Confederation.
"You were about to say, Lieutenant?"
"Ah . . . just that what you were saying is perfectly clear, yes, sir," he said. Better not to antagonize the man who was going to be his superior for at least the next four years.
Four years, out here on the ragged edge of nowhere. God, he thought with a fresh burst of anger tinged with despair. Did I really deserve this?
"Harrumph," Phalbin grunted with comfortable self-satisfaction. "Quite. We are remarkably self-sufficient out here in the Cluster. The Confederation is organized as an autonomous border district, you understand, with its own legislative body, constitution, and military. We need little from the Concordiat. We want less. That is why I really can't understand why they sent you here. . . ."
As Phalbin continued to expound on how little the Confederation military actually needed a supernumerary like Donal Ragnor, the lieutenant stole a sidelong glance out of the big window that dominated Phalbin's office.
It was a status symbol, a real window of transplas rather than a wallvid, one occupying most of two full walls in the general's corner office. It looked out over the Kinkaid Spaceport and, across the sundance-sparkling waves of Starbright Bay, to the city of Kinkaid itself, capital both of Muir and of the entire Strathan Confederation. Phalbin's eagle's eyrie, fifty floors up, gave an excellent view out over the spaceport which was the Confederation military's particular responsibility on Muir. The starliner Rim Argent still stood needle-slim in her landing pit on the port's field, her silver-blue finish dazzling in the late afternoon light of Muir's sun. Donal had come in on that liner, grounding less than half a dozen hours ago, and he wondered wryly if it was too late to wangle passage aboard her back to Gaspar where he'd come from.
Not that he could, of course. Muir was the end of the line, so far as Donal Ragnor was concerned. The end of the line . . . and if he was not careful, the end of his career.
At least he would still be working with Bolos. The Dinochrome Brigade . . .
"Perhaps, General," he said carefully, when Phalbin had paused to draw breath, "they felt I could benefit from a tour under your command."
"A nicely turned answer, Lieutenant, but not one, you understand, that I am bound to accept as completely sincere."
"Sir, I didn't mean—"
Phalbin held up one pudgy hand. "No excuses, now, Mr. Ragnor. You have a history, I understand, of always knowing the right thing to say. You have, too, the reputation for going over your commanding officer's head when there was something you wanted, going over . . . or around, or under or through, for that matter, in a manner entirely inconsistent with the niceties of proper military protocol. I will tell you right now, however, that while you are here, you will answer first to Colonel Wood, who commands your Bolo unit, and then to me, as commanding general of all ground military forces throughout the Cluster. You understand the TC out here?"
Donal nodded. He'd done his homework. "You've got command of all ground forces in the Cluster, though the units out on the other thirty-some worlds are more like regional militias. A brigade-level Bolo unit, the 15th Gladius." The term "Dinochrome Brigade" was sometimes applied to all Bolos everywhere, which could get confusing. Generally, a real brigade numbered about twenty Bolos.
"The key idea there, Mr. Ragnor, is that I am in charge here. I will have my eye on you, Lieutenant, of that you may be assured. I will tolerate no trouble makers in my command. Possibly they didn't know how to handle insubordination back at Sector, but I promise you that I do! Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly clear. Sir."
"Very well." Taking a pen and a memo block, the general scribbled a note, tore it off, and handed it to Donal. "There's your temporary authorization. Check in with the BOQ . . . ah, you're not married, are you?"
"No sir." Not any more. . . .
"Then check in at the bachelor officers' quarters and get yourself settled in. After that, report to Colonel Wood. He'll get your permanent papers and security ID." Phalbin leaned back in his chair, giving Ragnor an appraising look. "How long have you been with Bolos?"
Was this a test? Phalbin would know that from Ragnor's service record. "Almost ten years, sir."
"You like 'em?"
Donal nodded slowly. "Yes, sir. I do." When Phalbin didn't say anything more, he went on, more confidently. "They're easier to get along with than most people I know."
"Bolos," Phalbin said, "are double-edged weapons. They can be as dangerous to the user as they are to the enemy."
"I don't think—"
"I know, I know," the general said, holding one hand up. "I've heard all of the arguments, Lieutenant. Bolos have enough safety cut-outs that there's supposed to be no way they could possibly turn on their owners. But I always say, the fancier the plumbing, the easier it is to stop up the works. Or Murphy's Law, if you prefer. If something can go wrong, it will . . . and at absolutely the worst possible time."
"Sir, there has never been a case of a Bolo turning against its own side. Never. Quite a apart from the programming safeguards, Bolos, the self-aware Marks, at any rate, are too loyal to their regiment, to their cause, to the humans working with them."
For the first time, Phalbin's face actually creased in a smile. "You speak of these, these machines being loyal? Really, Lieutenant. You astonish me. Forward the Dinochrome Brigade! Perhaps we should simply dispense with the human factor entirely and turn the fighting of all wars over to our machines."
"I believe, sir, that that was precisely what the original AI designers must have had in mind when they developed the self-awareness circuits for the Mark XXs. Bolos are a lot better at fighting than people are."
"Which is why we must keep them on a short leash, metaphorically speaking, of course." He scowled then and seemed to be searching his meticulously ordered desktop for something more to do. "Harrrumph. I am not in the habit, however, of discussing strategy or policy with junior officers. You are dismissed, Lieutenant."
Donal snapped off a crisp salute. "Yes, sir." He wheeled in a sharp about-face and strode from the office.
It was night by the time Donal had checked in with the BOQ desk . . . or as close to night as it ever got on Muir. After arranging for the delivery of his luggage off the Rim Argent, he strode out onto the parade ground in front of the officers' quarters, staring up at the unfamiliar, glorious sky.
That sky over Muir's nightside hemisphere blazed with stars fairly jostling one another in a glowing mob of radiant embers, a dazzling, close-crowding swarm of stars that very nearly banished the night, sending rainbow-hued reflections dancing across the waters of Starbright Bay. Most shone in ruby or orange hues and provided light enough on a clear night to read by. The Strathan Cluster was ancient, a clotting of old Population II stars left over from the Galaxy's earliest beginnings, giving the swarm a distinctly orange cast. Repeated supernovae among those teeming ancients, however, and the passage of the cluster through the Galaxy's dusty plane with each orbit about the Galactic Core, had given birth to a scattering of younger Population I stars, suns with elements heavier than hydrogen and helium, and with heavy metals enough to spawn planets of their own.
Such was Muir, an earthlike world, fourth from the F9 star men had named McNair. Donal glanced at his fingerwatch; it was still the middle of the afternoon work period, whatever the sky might say. The planet's short, nineteen-hour day did not meld well with human habits, and so the working day was divided into six-hour watches that ignored the rising or setting of the local sun. With an hour and a half remaining in the afternoon watch, Colonel Wood should still be in his office.
The Bolo brigade had its own compound, tucked away in one corner of the sprawling Kinkaid Base complex. The sign above the main gate read 15th Gladius; the motto, inscribed beneath, read, in illiterate Latin, In Cogitum Victor. An unemptied garbage can with a missing lid rested against the fence nearby.
He showed his pass to the sentry at the gate, noting the man's scuffed boots, wrinkled uniform, and general I-don't-give-a-damn air. A second sentry was visible through the window of the guard hut, his feet up on the desk as he lovingly studied a nudie magazine.
"You with the Fifteenth, son?" he asked after the sentry gave Phalbin's scrawl a cursory glance and started to wave him through.
"Yeah," the man said. As Donal held him pinned with a hard, cold stare, he slowly seemed to become aware that something was wrong, then did a double-take on the insignia on Donal's collar. "Uh, I mean, yessir."
"Do you know who I am, soldier?"
"Uh, nossir."
"And yet you were about to let me just waltz into a restricted area."
"Uh, I mean, that is, uh—"
"Save it." Donal considered the unhappy man, who was now standing approximately at attention, beads of sweat chasing one another down the side of his face. He was tempted to call the corporal of the guard, even put the man under arrest . . . but it seemed pretty clear that morale in the 15th was shot.
And he didn't want to take out his feelings in the aftermath of his interview with Phalbin on the first unsuspecting private he happened to meet.
"For your information, son," Donal told the sentry, "I am Lieutenant Ragnor, the new Bolo tactical officer. I could have you put under arrest for dereliction of duty, but I'll tell you what I'm going to do instead. You tell your friend in there to get rid of the contraband, and then the two of you man your post like your lives depended on it . . . because they do. You hear me?"
"Yessir!"
"I'll be making inspection rounds later, and I'd better find you both on the ball!"
"Yessir! Thank you, sir!"
"Carry on!"
As he strode away, though, he thought wryly that the kid still hadn't properly checked his ID. And when he was almost out of earshot, he distinctly heard one of the sentries tell the other, "Sheesh! He's not gonna last long!"
I've got news for you, son, he thought. I'm going to be here four more bloody long years.