The steam filling that valley could provide Andrew with a tactical advantage, masking his heat signature and helping to render him invisible even at close range.

My destination is the Al Buruj Pa.s.s to the north, a narrow defile through the mountains named "The Mansions of the Stars" in the local tongue.

I sense now the near approach of the Enemy ahead and increase my pace.

"I really think we should be listening to them, sir," Martin said, stubborn. "They have more experience on the front line than any of the rest of us have on the chow line." He hesitated, trying to gauge just how far he could go. "Colonel, a good officer knows to listen to his sergeants. What they have to say comes from experience, not simulations!"

Lang almost smiled. "Lieutenant, the day I take advice from a giant track-crawling piece of construction equipment with a psycho-whatsit brain and a programmed-to-order att.i.tude is the day I retire from the service! Get it through your head, son. Those toys of yours are machines. Not men. They don't think, not the way we do, and you'll just get yourself in trouble pretending they do!" He turned and glanced at the QDC console, then indicated the fast-flickering screens with a nod of his head. "Besides, it looks like they play simulations. Not paying attention to the real world much, are they?"

"Some of that is ordinary conversation, Colonel. They're discussing something. It looks like there's also a game running, but they have it isolated in a pretty small shared virtual world. They don't need that much thought to traverse terrain or watch for incoming. My guess is that they're modeling some possible Kezdai strategy and tactics, so they can decide how best to deploy."

"They'll decide, huh?" Lang shook his head. "I'm not getting through to you, Lieutenant. Bolos are machines, not people! Stop G.o.dd.a.m.n pretending they're alive!"

"Yes, sir."

Martin returned to his console. On a map display overhead, two points of green light crawled toward the mountains.

I am now in full Combat Reflex Mode as battle is joined at 0587 hours, local time. Three Kezdai aircraft, possibly drones but carrying numerous missile weapons, flew across the mountains on an attack vector for the Combat Command Center. I downed one and Andrew two, brushing them from the night's sky with twin bursts of ion bolts from our infinite repeaters.

My Vertical Launch System is on-line, and I use it to deploy a combat zone recon drone package. Ninety-six small, autonomous probes will relay visual and e-signal data via Izra'il's military-comm satellite network or, should that fail, by way of relay drones landed atop the Frozen h.e.l.l's higher and more inaccessible peaks.

As the recon drones come down on the eastern side of the mountains, our battle centers are flooded with incoming data. Weapon and ship designs, radio frequencies and code types, all match samples from the last Kezdai incursion at Delas, verifying the Enemy's ident.i.ty. They appear more numerous than the first field reports suggested.

We observe at least forty-two heavily armored ground crawlers, each with an estimated ma.s.s of five hundred tons, each with a turret-mounted energy weapon and obvious missile launch tubes. They appear to be moving in two groups of twenty-one toward the two pa.s.ses. We could take them out now . . . but our orders from our command center specifically prohibit this.

On my long-range sensors, I pick up an orbiting Kezdai battlecruiser rising above the western horizon.

For the next 0.015 second, I wrestle with conflicting hierarchies of programming and the orders to avoid firing at targets in orbit. I decide that an attack from the battlecruiser will warrant a reply, but until then I will merely observe. Colonial s.p.a.cecraft remain in orbit, I note. Possibly the command center hopes to avoid a naval engagement.

As I continue to move toward Al Buruj Pa.s.s, the ground begins rising. A roadway pa.s.ses beneath my tracks and is pulverized, but I do avoid brushing against the pylons of the monorail line connecting the east and west plains across the mountains. Several cars have pa.s.sed already, each filled with civilians. I notice a large number of civilians in ground vehicles-snowcats and hovercraft, mostly-all headed west.

The presence of civilians within the narrow confines of the Al Buruj Pa.s.s will seriously complicate my defense of this position. I try to increase my speed but am forced to halt several times as the refugee crowds grow thicker. Many, I now note, are on foot.

Andrew informs me that similar conditions prevail in the Ad Dukhan Valley.

At a much lower awareness level, we continue our round of simulations. We have modeled the surrounding terrain, estimating Enemy capabilities and weaponry as best we can by comparing them with known opponents and materiel. At a conservative guess, we a.s.sign the Kezdai armored crawlers with armor values and firepower equivalent to Deng Type A/2 Yavacs, which possess a similar ma.s.s. Our initial gaming suggests that the Enemy must employ 8.75 A/2-equivalent crawlers in simultaneous direct-fire combat to jeopardize a single Mark XXIV. Our strategy, clearly, while necessarily defensive in nature, must be directed toward preventing the Enemy from achieving that level of numerical superiority.

I reach the top of Al Buruj Pa.s.s, a crest that affords an excellent view of the tundra plains beyond . . . and the blazing torches of Consortium villages.

The first refugees were arriving at the s.p.a.ceport, two kilometers south of the command center. Monorail cars were sliding in one after another, spilling hundreds of shocked, terrified, and confused civilians onto the port concourse, while ground-effect vehicles and snow crawlers continued to arrive from both pa.s.ses in apparently unending streams.

"Order the 5th Brigade to the s.p.a.ceport," Lang said, speaking into a comm headset. "Off-planet transport is to be reserved for Concordiat military!"

Khalid's dark face flushed darker. "You cannot be serious!"

"I'm dead serious, Governor. We'll see to it that you and your top people get out okay. But there are seventy thousand colonists on this rock, and we don't have s.p.a.ce transport enough for a quarter that. What we don't need now is a riot at the s.p.a.ceport."

"So . . . what is it you intend to do?"

"Delay the Kezdai for as long as we can, first off. It won't be easy because they outnumber us by a considerable margin."

"But your two Bolos . . ."

"Can only do so much. I'm a realist, Governor. Those machines won't more than slow the incoming tide. But in the meantime, we'll be trying to open negotiations with the Kezdai. It's possible that we can arrange a truce and evacuate peacefully . . . and without further bloodshed."

"Indeed?" Khalid looked down at Lang with undisguised contempt. "And has it occurred to you, Colonel, that this rock as you keep calling it, this iceball, is our home? We may be only a Concordiat mining venture, but the people here have made this world their home. I suggest you help us defend it."

"If we do that, Governor, you won't have a home left." He shrugged. "Defend the place yourselves, if you want. My people were not posted here to die in some hopeless gesture!"

"Colonel!" Martin called, hoping to prevent an ugly scene. He could feel Khalid's fury radiating from behind his eyes and clenched fists, barely contained.

"What is it, Lieutenant?"

"Both Bolos have reached their a.s.signed defensive positions, sir. Andrew reports poor visibility. Hank, however, has a clear view of the towns of Inshallah, Glacierhelm, and Gadalene. He has the enemy in sight."

"Then have them open fire on them, d.a.m.n it! Give 'em h.e.l.lbores! Do I have to think about everything around here?"

I receive the order to commence firing, and for the first time in my career history, I hesitate at that command. I have the Enemy in my sights, and yet I am aware with laser-exact precision what the firing of my 90cm h.e.l.lbore in close proximity to unarmored civilians would do.

The mountain pa.s.s is perhaps eighty meters wide at this point and walled in by sheer, basaltic slopes capped with snow and ice. h.e.l.lbores fire a "bolt" of fusing hydrogen at velocities approaching ten percent c. Within a thick atmosphere such as Izra'il's, the bolt's 30-million-degree core temperature dissipates as a shock wave that would kill or maim any unarmored individual within a radius of approximately two kilometers and would bring down the surrounding ice in a cataclysmic avalanche.

Civilian casualties would be horrendous.

I withhold my main battery fire, then, in order to allow the refugees to continue pa.s.sing me on their way to the west. Instead, I launch four VLS missiles with CMSG warheads, vectoring them toward concentrations of Enemy armor and radiating communications a.s.sets east of the mountains.

Each cl.u.s.ter-munitions warhead disintegrates above the target area, scattering a cloud of self-guiding force packages across broad, suddenly lethal footprints. As expected, the Enemy's armored units appear unaffected, but troops caught in the open, along with the buildings and light vehicles being utilized as C3 units, are shredded by bursts of high-velocity pellets fired like shotgun blasts from falling CM warheads.

I target fifteen large, grounded transports scattered across the Area of Battle but elect not to destroy these, at least at this time. We as yet have little information on Kezdai psychology, but they seem close enough to humans in their actions and reactions that I a.s.sume they will fight harder knowing they have no escape. Humans refer to it as "fighting like cornered rats," a vivid metaphor despite the fact that I can only a.s.sume that a "rat" is a creature possessed of cowardly traits yet which can, in desperation, display considerable strength, determination, or will to live.

So long as the Enemy's troops know there is a means of escape waiting for them, they may be more cautious in their deployment and advance. Further, their transports provide a tactical lever in my own planning. By threatening their lines of retreat to their transports, we can force changes in the execution of their battle plan.

For now, though, my own maneuvering is circ.u.mscribed by my orders. I advise the Command Center that I cannot fire my h.e.l.lbore at this time and begin targeting the Enemy's armor with VLS-launched cl.u.s.ter munitions.

"So . . . where do you call home?" Governor Khalid asked.

It was a quiet moment in the command center. Colonel Lang had left, moments before, to discuss the fast-worsening crisis at the s.p.a.ceport with 5th Battalion's senior officers and the military police.

"Aldo Cerise," Martin replied, not taking his eyes from the Bolo C3 monitors. There was something odd happening. . . .

"A long way. How long since you were home?"

"Two . . . no. Almost three years. Why do you ask, Governor?'

"I was beginning to wonder if you Concordiat troops had homes. If you knew what it mean to lose it, or to be forced to leave."

"Lang is right about one thing," Martin told him. "We can't more than slow the enemy down a bit. There are just too many of them."

"I do not understand your colonel. He seems so . . . timid."

Martin grunted, then reached out and touched a key on his console. "You might be interested in this, sir." A holo-image of Colonel Thomas Lang appeared above the projection plate. "It's cla.s.sified data, but I think you should see it. I got curious and did a search of the personnel files."

Khalid leaned closer, his hawklike features stage-lit by the glow from the monitors as he read a scrolling column of text.

"He was at Durango? I've heard of that."

"An all-out last-stand battle. During the Melconian war. He ordered two battalions to hold the town of Corda.s.sa on Durango at all costs. They did and were wiped out."

"But the battle was a victory."

"Sure. At least that's what the military historians call it. The 1st and 2nd Battalions of the 345th Regiment delayed the main Melconian advance on Corda.s.sa until the Concordiat fleet could arrive and destroy the invasion force."

"But Lang-"

"They couldn't punish him, not while they were turning Durango into the biggest victory since the Alamo."

"Alamo?"

"A similar last stand, a long time ago. Pre-s.p.a.ceflight days, in fact."

"I see."

"Did you see this?" He highlighted a section of text.

Khalid frowned. "His brother . . . ?"

"Major Geoffrey Lang, in command of the 2nd Battalion. He died with the others, in Corda.s.sa. Our CO was in a military orbital station at the time and survived."

"It says he was court-martialed."

"And acquitted. He was a hero, after all. A court-martial is something of a requirement if you're careless enough to lose your entire command. It says here there was some discussion over whether or not his actions should have been censured, but in the end they gave him a medal."

"They rewarded him."

"And punished him. He was given a new command . . . here. Far from anywhere important. Out of sight, out of mind, as it were." Martin looked at Khalid. "Being sent here was tantamount to ending his career."

Khalid's mouth twisted in a wry grin. "That could explain some of his feelings about my world."

"It could also explain why he's afraid of seeing Izra'il turn into another last stand. He's been trying to get in contact with the Kezdai commanders. Peace at any price . . ."

"That approach has been tried throughout history. Appeas.e.m.e.nt has the distressing habit of making the aggressor more and more hungry."

"I . . . I wish there was something we could do. Lang's right, though. The bad guys outnumber us by a good margin. Unless help comes in time, we're not going to be able to hold them."

"Not even with two Bolos?"

"Not even with them." And especially if they're not allowed to fight their way, he thought, but he didn't say the words aloud.

Khalid sighed. "We prize peace highly on this world, Lieutenant. Two hundred years ago, the Izra'ilian Consortium hired people on Kauthar to come here, to start a new life working the iridium and durillium mines. Most of them were B'hai, a faith that lives for peace and understanding . . . or Islam reformed.

"They found this world an icy h.e.l.l. They named it after the Angel of Death, astride the worlds, one foot in the Seventh Heaven, the other on the bridge between h.e.l.l and Paradise. He keeps a roll of all humanity. When a person dies, Izra'il severs his soul from his body after forty days. They vowed to make h.e.l.l into paradise.

"Izra'il is no paradise. We, the grandchildren of those first colonists, know that. But it is home, and home to our children. We cannot simply . . . abandon it. Not on the whim of the man a.s.signed by the Concordiat military to protect us!"

"I'm sorry," Martin said, miserable. "There's nothing I can do about it. He's my commanding officer, and . . ."

"And to disobey his orders means prison or discharge or dishonor. I understand. But . . . I have heard such things about Bolos. Autonomous war machines that think like a man. That cannot be defeated. And you are the Bolo command officer, are you not?"

Martin nodded, miserable. "Yeah. That's me. But I still can't order them to do things he won't allow. As for not being defeated . . ." He shrugged. "No machine is invincible. Bolos can be beaten, if they're badly enough outnumbered. Or if they're badly handled and deployed."

"You fear for these two, Hank and Andrew."

"Yeah. They're pinned in by those valley walls up in those two mountain pa.s.ses. No room to maneuver. Worse, they can't use their speed and mobility and weapons to full tactical advantage."

"Bolo NDR to Command," a voice said in his earpiece. It was deep and richly inflected. "The Enemy is moving up the Smoke Valley now. I've knocked down three aerial drones, and I suspect they're trying to maneuver some heavy equipment up the east slope, using folds in the terrain for cover."

"Bolo HNK to Command," a second voice said. It was a bit higher in tone than the other, distinct in inflection and meter. "No sign of the Enemy yet in the Buruj Pa.s.s. Refugee traffic is still heavy, and I cannot engage with primary weaponry without causing unacceptable collateral damage and high civilian casualties. Request permission to move forward ten kilometers, in order to engage the Enemy freely."

"Bolo HNK," Martin said, speaking into the comset pick-up. "Hold position, as ordered. Can you target the enemy with your h.e.l.lbore?"

"Affirmative." Was there just a trace of bitterness in that one-word response? Anger? Or was it his imagination? There was a long hesitation. "Command, I must refuse the order to fire my h.e.l.lbore at this time. Request permission to move forward ten kilometers, where I will not be responsible for heavy civilian casualties."

Martin blinked, drew in a sharp breath, then let it out again slowly. "Negative. Hold position." He studied the QDC readouts again. "d.a.m.n. . . ."

"What is it, my friend?"

"I'm not quite sure," he said, frowning. Both Hank and Andrew were operating at a considerably higher level of mentation than could be expected of Mark XXIVs. "The way they're talking, I could swear they're Mark x.x.xs."

"What do you mean?"

"Well . . . we don't have time here for a dissertation on Bolo evolution. In extremely simple terms, Bolos became generally self-aware, possessing roughly human-equivalent intelligence, with the introduction of the Mark XX and psychotronic circuitry in the late 2700s. Succeeding marks have grown more intelligent, more human in their reasoning abilities and-importantly-in their speech patterns over the next few centuries, though their abilities were restricted by inhibitory software aimed at preventing a 'rogue Bolo' from turning on its owners. Okay so far?"

Khalid nodded. "I understand. The early models couldn't do a thing without direct orders from their human commanders."

"Right. Now, Mark XXIVs, like Hank and Andrew, were the first truly autonomous self-aware machines. The latest models, like the Mark x.x.x . . . well, if you talk to them by comm, the only way you can tell they're not human is by the fact that their speech tended to be a bit more formal, a bit more erudite than that of people. They're fully Turing capable."

"Turing?"

"An old cybertech term. Means you can carry out a conversation with them and not know they're machines. Anyway, I've worked with Bolos for eight years now, and I've had the opportunity to converse with a number of them. A sharp ear can pinpoint the mark of an unknown Bolo simply by listening to the way it pa.r.s.es its sentences. Lower marks tend to sound a bit bloodthirsty and narrow-minded, and they don't think about anything outside very narrow software constraints. Higher marks sound like extremely intelligent humans and can talk about d.a.m.ned near anything."