"Shhh . . ." He waved Sean away with the cigar. "I'll be with you in a minute."

Petrik stood at attention and took this time to study his commander. The dry brown head had a few wild hairs protruding which were outnumbered by a maze of leathery wrinkles. The old man hadn't shaved in days-nor showered, Sean surmised from the strong smell of stale urine that pervaded the room. The clothes also were ancient and filthy, not even suggestive of a uniform, with the shirt being completely open, exposing a hairless chest and pot belly. Almond-shaped eyes that were a startling blue-green. Labored, raspy breath. He must be d.a.m.n smart if he can challenge a Bolo in chess, Sean thought.

The lieutenant shifted his gaze to the Bolo, carefully checking the layout and comparing it to the prototype he trained in. He did notice a few refinements and wondered if any of the suggestions he'd made ever made it past that s.h.i.t-brained company clerk and actually got implemented. A blinking light caught his attention and he realized that there was a problem with the coolant recirculator. I just hope I can get this puppy battle ready over the next few days, he thought.

Finally, the general moved his rook forward a few s.p.a.ces. A voice, the Bolo's, came out of the console. "General, I would not recommend that move. It would place your queen in unnecessary jeopardy."

The old man's eyes flared and he dropped his cigar into the ashtray. Then he hurled his drink against the control panel, shattered gla.s.s and liquid flying everywhere, and began screaming. "Don't you ever advise me when we play chess, you rusty piece of sc.r.a.p! I have bowel movements that have been in existence longer than you! You just worry about your own d.a.m.n game!"

"These G.o.ddam newbies," he continued, addressing no one in particular. "They squeeze 'em right out of the factory and they think they know everything. You've still got packing grease in your rocker bearings, you rolling latrine!"

"As you wish, General Cho," the Bolo responded calmly. "Queen's knight to queen's bishop four."

After taking a long swig directly from the bottle the general moved one of his p.a.w.ns two s.p.a.ces sideways and one forward to capture the Bolo's queen.

"I'm afraid that you have made an illegal move, General Cho," the Bolo protested.

"I'm invoking the Melconian variation," Cho replied calmly. "I don't imagine they taught you that one. Well, I'm not surprised since you've never been to the front. Anyway, it's real simple. Once per game, each p.a.w.n can move like the piece it protects at the start of the game. My p.a.w.n was in front of the king's knight so I used it to take your queen. Any questions?"

"No, General Cho. Using the Melconian variation, you can legally take my queen, and will have my king in three moves."

"Very good. You ain't so dumb as you look." Then he turned to Petrik and seemed to notice him for the first time. "I suppose you think you're hot s.h.i.t too, Fish-Boy."

"Fish-Boy, sir?"

"You're from Corradin II, aren't you? That's what your bio said."

"Yes, sir, but . . ."

"Coradin II's a water planet, right?'

"Well, yes, sir, but there is a rather large land ma.s.s. I was raised in the mountains and didn't see the ocean until I went to the s.p.a.ceport in Beattieburg. That was when I was shipping out for Fort Schen."

The general stared and blinked for a moment, then said, "When I was in the Academy we called all the men from Corradin II Fish-Boy. That's what I'm calling you."

"Yes, sir."

The Bolo spoke up. "Welcome aboard, Lieutenant Sean Petrik. You already know General Hayward Cho and I am TRK-213."

The Bolo's greeting was a welcome relief. "Thank you, TRK-213. How about we give you a better name?"

"I would appreciate it, sir. I was considering Tarkus."

"Excellent! Tarkus it is."

"Not so fast, Fish-Boy. You're not in command here unless I keel over. Tarkus is a great name with a glorious history in the Corps. A name like that has to be earned. Until then you're Turkey."

"Turkey?" the Bolo and Sean exclaimed simultaneously.

"It was a large Terran bird. Kind of like a Bachmanian plogger, only fatter and dumber."

"Nothing could be fatter and dumber than a plogger!" the lieutenant cried in disbelief.

"Well, turkeys were," replied Cho. "The Terrans used to raise them and sacrifice them once a year in some religious feast. They were suppose to be great eating."

"Then I will be called Turkey." The Bolo sounded dejected.

The General took another pull from the bottle, then gave a sigh of appreciation. "I'll tell you, Fish-Boy. There's no subst.i.tute for real, distilled scotch. Oh, I know the synthohols are chemically identical. And I wouldn't expect a sprout like you to know the difference. But when you been around as long as I have you can understand the value of time. I feel a kind of kinship with a well-aged single malt. Like we're old friends." He offered the bottle to Petrik. "Go ahead, son."

"No thank you, General. I don't drink."

Cho considered this for a while and his eyes seemed to penetrate into Sean's soul. "Tell me, Fish-Boy. What are the three most important things in life?"

The lieutenant was about to speak when the general answered his own question.

"Scotch, chess, and cigars; in that order."

"Well, sir, I have to disagree. What about women, children, family?"

"I said things, not people. For G.o.d's sake, boy, I hope you realize that people are always more important than things. If not, you have no business in the Corps."

"No, sir, that's not what I mean," Sean was getting fl.u.s.tered. "I mean . . . "

The general turned back to the chess board and picked up a rook. "When this game was invented, this piece was also called a castle. Trouble is, their castles couldn't move. The Bolo is the true rook. A mobile castle."

"General," Petrik said abruptly, changing the subject. "Private Lawlor told me that we're going into battle in three days. Is that true, sir?"

General Cho smiled and shook his head. "That John is quite a character. Plays one h.e.l.l of a game of chess. But he's right. I've got to drag you and Turkey here into the maelstrom in a couple of days."

"Well, shouldn't we be running Turkey through maneuvers? That's not as much time as I need but I should be able to field test all the major weapons systems if I can start right away." Petrik then addressed the Bolo. "Are you aware of any systems damage, Turkey? What's wrong with the recirculator?"

"Some of my sensor links seem to be functioning at less than optimal levels. In addition, two of the backup systems as well as the coolant recirculator-"

The general interrupted. "I'll tell you what you'll start, Fish-Boy. Lawlor has a list of supplies he needs. You'll be taking the rover to the depot and filling the requisition."

"But sir, I'm the only one here who knows the Mark x.x.xIV. I need to . . . "

The general got the same look he had just before he threw the drink. "You need to follow orders, you little s.h.i.t! Are you telling me I don't know Bolos? Now get the h.e.l.l out of here!"

As Petrik made his way out he heard the general address Turkey. "How 'bout I get me a fresh bottle and we start another game?"

"Will we be using the Melconian variation in this game as well, General?"

"Only if one of us invokes it. Until then it's not in effect . . ."

Sean was disgusted. No wonder the old fool could play chess with a Bolo, he thought as he went outside. He cheats.

Two days later the lieutenant was cursing out loud as he pulled up next to Turkey. What a nightmare of a trip, he recalled, renewing his frustration. First of all, it took the rest of the first day to get the list from that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Lawlor. Sean spent the time inspecting and testing some of the external systems and did manage to repair the recirculator but he really wanted to get inside and put the Bolo through its paces. When he finally got the list it was getting dark and the technician told him he'd better wait until morning to leave. Petrik spent a restless night in the field barracks and, in the morning, was presented with a rover that was actually the incarnation of Satan himself. Between breakdowns and bad directions his two hour trip took closer to eight. And each time he broke down, he had to spend every other second looking over his shoulder for more of those crab monsters. Fortunately, they must have been pretty rare because he didn't encounter any more. Then those rotten sons-of-b.i.t.c.hes at the supply depot kept giving him the run around and he didn't have his requisition filled until after nightfall. He spent that night in a damp tent being devoured by flying and crawling insects the likes of which could only be conceived by servants of the lower planes of h.e.l.l. The drive back only took five hours since he knew the way and just had to deal with the breakdowns, but, since he'd left, every minute, every second was eating away at his insides and the five hours seemed more like twenty. He was going into battle the next day and had spent less than an hour with his Bolo. The damage to those sensor links could be critical, not to mention the possibility of faulty backup systems and who knew what else. Well, hopefully, the general was able to check out the major systems, he thought. He couldn't be that much out of touch . . . or could he?

Sean was somewhat dismayed to see Turkey still sitting there instead of moving around. He was downright distressed when he looked at the ground and realized the Bolo hadn't moved an inch since he left. What was that senile curmudgeon doing? He burst into the control room and there was the general with his scotch and cigar, still playing chess.

"General, we have to test the systems! The battle is tomorrow!"

General Cho completely ignored the outburst. He took a sip of his drink, then leaned forward and slid his rook diagonally across the board and captured a p.a.w.n. He then removed his own rook.

"Once again, General, you have made a move that I am unfamiliar with."

"Rook's Gambit. Once per game the rook can move like any other piece on the board but then it is sacrificed. I'm surprised your programmers left out the latest rule changes. I believe that is checkmate, my friend, or at least will be in three moves."

"You are correct, General," Turkey replied.

Cho then turned to the distraught lieutenant. "What's all this commotion?"

"Well, sir. It's just that I don't want to be in the middle of a battle and have one of the systems fail."

"Don't talk to me about failing systems, Fish-Boy!" the general yelled. "How do you think I lost this arm? That was back in '14 and I was commanding a Mark XXVIII. Not a bad unit, the XXVIII, but not up to the x.x.x's standards. Anyway, we had the Melconians on the run, like usual, when we took a direct hit on the starboard hull, just below the mizzen mortar, and the d.a.m.n lateral stabilizer failed. Slammed me against the rail so hard my right arm was shredded."

"Why don't you use a prosthetic, sir? I hear they work better than the real thing."

"I got one of them things at home; use it as a back scratcher. Nope, never liked it. Gives me a rash. Anyway, don't worry about the systems. John says they should all work just fine when he's done."

"Um, excuse me, sir, but I don't think Private Lawlor is qualified for this unit. I mean, well, isn't he responsible for maintaining the rover also?"

"Yeah, he sure loves that thing." The general smiled. "You're lucky he let you drive it. He's pretty particular about that. But I guess he really didn't have a choice."

He's lucky I didn't dump it into the river, Sean thought. "But about the testing . . ."

"Lawlor says he needs a hand outside. Go see what you can do to help."

Petrik was about to protest but he saw that look again and just saluted. "Yes, General."

The mechanic was under the Bolo finishing up a seam weld with a laser pistol. Sean admired his dexterity and complete absorption in the task. When it was completed he called out. "Private Lawlor! I'd like a word with you."

Lawlor removed his face plate and put it on the ground with the rest of his equipment, then sauntered over, wiping sweat from his forehead. "As many words as you like, L.T. It's your credits. Anyway, I could use the break."

"Nice job you did on that seam. Looks like new."

"Better than new. That's pure durachrome solder I was using. If his belly splits, it won't be at that seam."

"Anyway, the general sent me out to see if you need a hand. I can see that you do, but, before I start, can you give me the lowdown? What's happening around here?"

"I guess you already know about the invasion. About three years ago the first wave of Kruds landed and got their a.s.ses kicked by your Bolos."

"Kruds?" Petrik inquired.

"Them d.a.m.n Kedzees, or whatever they call themselves. We call 'em Kruds. Well, it seems they learned a whole lot about us in their defeat and the next time they came they were ready. And a whole lot more than before.

"We didn't get too much of the action up here but the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds took over most of the southern regions. Wiped out everyone they got their claws on. We lost quite a few Bolos as well. Looks like we're gearing up for another planet buster of a battle. Leastwise that's how I figure it. Why else would HQ be spreading the front all the way out here?"

"Maybe it's just a precaution. Why take a chance of being flanked?"

"We're already flanked, Lieutenant. Those scaly b.u.g.g.e.rs are stretched out across the whole continent. But now that we got reinforcements, well, I bet they're rethinking things a bit. " 'Course, even with the new forces, we're still spread out thin as a spider's thread."

"You're probably right, Private. Well, whatever happens, we want to be ready. What do you need me to do?"

"Got most of the hull breaches sewed up. That starboard-aft repeater's giving me a devil of a time though. I'm gonna have to jury-rig the targeting manifold. It's probably gonna take me most of the afternoon. How about calibrating the forward mortars?"

Petrik spent more time fending off insects than working and instead of feeling better about actually having some hands on time with Turkey, by the end of the day he felt worse. For every repair job he completed he found three more things that needed attention. He needed at least a week with a full twelve man maintenance crew to bring the Bolo up to regulation standards. "The d.a.m.n battle is suppose to be tomorrow and I don't even know if he can get there without an anti-grav towbus," he muttered to himself. As he worked he made up his mind that he was not going to trust Cho. Tonight he would sneak into the Bolo and program an override in case the old man became confused during the battle.

It was about two in the morning when he crept into the control room. There was the general, still sitting and playing chess. Turkey communicated the next move and addressed the commander.

"I believe that is check mate, General. Or will be in three moves."

"What the h.e.l.l kind of move was that? Knights can't move just one s.p.a.ce!"

"The move is called Dismounting." The Bolo answered calmly. "When you dismount your knight, it moves like a king. But once a knight dismounts, it can not regain its original movement power."

The general sat back and sighed. He looked even older and more withered as he looked over at Sean. "Couldn't sleep, eh son? I remember the night before my first battle. Didn't get one minute of shut eye. Well, don't you worry, boy, you're gonna do just fine. And so are you, Turkey. This sure as h.e.l.l isn't my first battle so I'm gonna get some rest. You two go ahead and run whatever tests you want, just don't make a racket. Make sure I'm up fifteen minutes before dawn."

The old man finished his drink, rose slowly, and, with a staggering shuffle, feebly made his way to the elevator. Sean wanted to help him but didn't want to take a chance of firing the general up. Was this really the great Hero of Laxos? The man who was responsible for saving an entire planet, six hundred million people, from being conquered by the Melconians? He looked so frail and withered now, but he must have been gloriously impressive in his prime.

As soon as Cho left, Petrik began to run some tests. The diagnostic program showed a long list of malfunctions. "Turkey, twenty-five percent of your systems are damaged! Can you even function in combat?"

"I believe that most of my primaries will be within acceptable parameters, though some are at the lower end of the range. Private Lawlor a.s.sures me that I am battle ready."

"Has Lawlor ever worked on a Bolo before?"

"No, Lieutenant Petrik, but he has extensive experience working with Templars and came highly recommended."

"Highly recommended? By whom?"

"General Cho."

"That figures. Well, he does know how to patch up a hull, but I have my doubts about that repeater he tried to repair." Petrik looked at the damage list again and shook his head. Too late do anything about this now. "Who knows, maybe the battle will be postponed."

He then began to program in the override. He felt guilty, betraying his hero, but he wasn't prepared to risk Turkey and possibly the whole battle to the whims of a dotard. Besides, he might not have to activate it. It was only a safeguard in case of extreme emergency.

Sean awoke to the gentle voice of Turkey. "Lieutenant Petrik. It's time to prepare for today's battle."

Petrik was still in his co-commander chair. He must have fallen asleep. Then he checked his console in a panic and was relieved to see that he had finished his project and filed it away before he pa.s.sed out.

"You ready for the big time, Fish-Boy?"

Sean turned and saw the general in his chair. He was clean shaven and was wearing a pressed uniform. The table in front of him was missing the chess board but still had the essential scotch and cigar-filled ashtray. Petrik marveled at how much authority his commander projected. "Yes, sir."