My new commander and I share mixed feelings about our arrival at Thule. Alessandra DiMario is understandably stressed, although anxious to come to grips with her personal demon and overcome it. I am uncertain about my spliced and patched systems. Due to the urgent nature of my refitting, I have never been field-tested, a situation which perhaps alarms me more than it does my commander, who is doing her best to put her faith in me.
Our transit time has been brief, by interstellar military standards, less than a day at hyper-L, although I suspect Thule's beleaguered colonists would say those twenty-three point two standard Terran hours were not brief. It is a curious phenomenon, much commented upon by biological life-forms, that the passage of time seems to be variable in relation to the events against which it is measured. I calculate the passage of time exactly and have never experienced this phenomenon for myself; but even a refurbished Mark XXIII Bolo can understand how bleak and long the hours must seem to people who are waiting almost hopelessly for rescue.
For the sake of Rustenberg's colonists, I am glad our transit time has been so short.
From orbit, Thule's daylight hemisphere—glimpsed briefly, as Rustenberg currently lies in the night side of the planet—shows the blinding flash of sun-struck snow fields across most of the northern and southern hemispheres. Thule is beautiful in its way, with rainbow dazzles off glaciers and vast tracts of virgin snow. Deep sapphire oceans have generated bands of moisture-laden clouds which spill over Thule's northern land masses, dropping snow in locally severe blizzard conditions.
We are informed, upon achieving orbit, that the mining colony at Seta Point and the Eisenbrucke Research Station are the only two human settlements affected by this foul weather, which has acted as a temporary protection against Tersae attacks. Rustenberg, which lies at the southernmost edge of this massive storm front, has experienced high winds and freezing rain, but this has not been enough to protect them from enemy aggression.
Thule's axial tilt, almost directly vertical, has created a narrow band of tropical luxuriance at the equator, bounded by vast regions of forest and tundra and enormous ice caps which reach from the planetary poles to more than thirty degrees of latitude. Thule's seasons are brought about by its eccentric orbit, which brings it closer to the system's star in summer. With Thule rapidly retreating from its primary, the entire planet is now entering the winter season. Within weeks, even the equatorial belt will turn cold, plunging the entire planet into its long winter.
Rugged mountain chains, thousands of kilometers long, are visible as dark and jagged scars across the sun-bright glare of snow, where tectonic plates have collided or pulled apart in fiery volcanic violence. Ancient impact craters are visible as faint outlines in snow-free areas. The Thule system is thick with debris from the ancient supernova which created the star system, making trans-system shipping for ore freighters and our own naval transport a tricky proposition. If the saganium were not so critical, prompting Concordiat underwriting, shipping costs through the muck flying loose in the Thule system would be prohibitive.
Despite the difficulties of trans-system navigation, we achieve orbit without incident and orbital drop proceeds smoothly. Captain Roth and Unit XPJ-1411 leave our transport first. I depart the Aldora's cargo bay six point two five minutes later and plunge into darkness as my heavy lift sled enters the night side of Thule. The glowing contrail from my powered drop platform leaves a trail of fire across the nighttime sky. If anyone—or anything—below is watching, our arrival will certainly be spectacular.
My trajectory carries me in a streaking arc to the planetary west, toward the edge of the storm system which has brushed so closely past Rustenberg. As I plunge into heavy cloud cover, we experience strong buffeting from storm winds. My commander grips the padded consoles of my command chair, thins her lips, and says nothing. Combat drop is always stressful for humans, this one particularly so.
To our mutual relief, I drop below cloud cover and sight Rustenberg using infrared sensors and radar. The bleak landscape beyond Rustenberg's outermost structures—terrain I must hold against enemy incursions—gives me new cause for anxiousness. The colony sits in a vast and ancient lava field, fissured by deep gorges and steep-sided valleys. A mantle of forest covers the surface of this ancient basalt, making it doubly difficult to see anything in the deep cracks. Hundreds or even thousands of enemy soldiers could congregate within a few dozen meters of Rustenberg, completely undetected until the moment of attack. I have a limited number of aerial survey packages on board, which is cause for concern. If our mission briefing was correct, the Tersae will attempt to blast out of the sky anything we put up into it.
On the heels of that thought, my heavy lift sled comes under enemy fire. "Seven incoming missiles of unknown configuration."
"Get 'em."
I attempt to lock onto the missiles—
—and am horrified to discover a devastating unsteadiness in my new target-acquisition and weapons-guidance systems. I am unable to secure an accurate weapons lock. A disorienting stutter of incompatible signals ghosts across the interface between old circuitry and new.
We are all but helpless in the air.
The best I can do is fire heat-seeking missiles of my own, which do not rely on my internal, malfunctioning guidance systems. They are not the weapon of choice, given the speed at which the enemy missiles are closing with my heavy lift sled.
I slew us around midair, overriding the sled's auto-programming. This cants us so any missiles which elude my return fire will detonate against my war hull, not the lifter. My commander shouts in shocked reaction. I am built to withstand high explosive rounds, but the underside of my lift sled is vulnerable without my guns to take down incoming fire. I log the frantic observation that this constitutes a serious design flaw in the lift sleds. I cannot risk a fall from this altitude, since the impact would crush my commander. As we twist sideways in the air, three enemy missiles reach my war hull and explode. A brief flare of pain registers on my damage-control sensors, but I am barely scratched. I slew us around again to continue the descent.
"Jesus Christ! What the hell do you think you're doing?" Her voice is more a sob of terror than a demand for information.
"I am experiencing an unknown weapons-control malfunction, originating in the interface between my original and upgraded systems." As I speak, I take careful note of where each missile originated, backtracking heat signatures and missile-launch flares against the darkened, ice-covered rooftops. "Mapping origination points to my forward data screen. Coding enemy emplacements in flashing red. The enemy has penetrated most of the settlement." Indeed, the Tersae have ringed Rustenberg in a vast circle of death.
"The enemy is firing from rooftops as indicated, Commander." I superimpose flashing pointers over the launch sites, laying down a gridwork map to show the extent of abandoned habitations below. "I detect a plascrete wall four meters high around this central core, which could serve no logical peacetime purpose." I highlight the structure, which encloses an area of approximately five acres, on which numerous structures have been built.
"They must've retreated as far as they could, then threw up a defensive barrier. God knows how they got that wall up under enemy fire."
There is no point in speculation about the ease or difficulty of the wall's construction. The colonists have abandoned most of Rustenberg as indefensible, a fact of immediate and critical importance. The open-pit mineworks north of town and a crude-oil refinery capable of cracking crude petroleum into useable fuels have been likewise abandoned.
More missiles arch upwards in a blaze of fire against the darkness. Most are aimed at my lift sled, which has dropped to a mere five thousand decimeters, but five of them streak over the settlement's defensive plascrete wall. I fire interceptors at both sets and once again slew us sideways in the air. We are hit by four more enemy missiles. Our transport rocks and shudders. The lift sled has taken a direct hit in the armored engine nodules. Another such hit and we will lose the engines. I cut power to drop rapidly, making us a more difficult target to acquire. My commander shouts once, violently, then digs her fingers into the padded armrests.
My interceptor missiles knock down four of the five missiles racing toward the heart of Rustenberg. The explosions spread burning debris across the rooftops and streets, well inside the defensive wall. The fifth missile slams against a tall structure. The warhead explodes and its target burns fiercely. If this building was occupied by refugees, they had no time to escape, for the entire structure ignites within zero point six seven seconds and burns unchecked.
My commander snarls ugly and helpless curses.
Fury and shame engulf my battle reflex circuitry. I do not understand what is wrong. I have failed to stop easy targets. What can I say to my commander that will put this right? Nothing. I struggle with diagnostic programs and restore power to our heavy lift sled for final descent. "Ninety-seven heat signatures detected on the rooftops surrounding Rustenberg's core," I say with a sense of desperation. "These heat signatures correspond with missile-launch points."
"Verifiable as nonhuman?" Captain DiMario's voice grates with tones of anger.
I attempt verification at the top speed of which I am capable. Using laser range finders to give me exact distances and using the size of human-built doorways and windows as a gauge, I determine that these heat signatures are too large to be human in origin, although the temperature range they exhibit is within 0.2 degrees of human-normal. "Heat signatures register as bi-pedal and biological, averaging two point five one meters in height. These cannot be human heat signatures."
"Fry 'em."
Her voice is terse, ugly. I fire ion-bolt infinite repeaters and HE short-range missiles, raking the Tersae's rooftop positions in a broad dispersal pattern that does not require the pin-point accuracy of antimissile fire. The Tersae's visible heat signatures vanish in a flare of violent explosions which destroy the buildings they have occupied. Fires raging from these initial explosions ignite neighboring structures, until the outer circle of Rustenberg burns fiercely.
"Goddammit, Senator! We've got live refugees down there and you just ignited a firestorm!"
I know deep and desperate shame. I am unable to properly carry out even the simplest of tasks. That I have, at least, destroyed ninety-seven of the enemy before reaching the ground is of little consequence, given the enormity of my failures and the unknown cause of the drift malfunctions in my weapons-guidance and fire-control systems.
My heavy lift sled sets down outside the ring of blazing buildings and releases the tiedowns fastened to my treads. I engage drive engines and begin a rapid circle of the town's perimeter. A complete circuit reveals no trace of enemy personnel outside the ring of blazing buildings. In this, at least, I have been effective. But I must deal with the fires my HE rounds have ignited before the flames destroy what little Rustenberg's miners have managed to salvage.
My commander has the same thought, for she says, "All right, Senator, if it's burning, knock it down. We'll salvage what's left in the buildings that haven't burned yet, then knock them down, too. I want a good, clear perimeter around this place."
"Understood, Commander."
I wade into the burning mass, grinding down blazing timbers and crushing plascrete walls to rubble. My commander punches controls to initiate radio transmission, muttering, "Those people have to be terrified, with all the explosions out here. It's going to be hard enough on them, when they see how much they've just lost. Rustenberg, this is Captain Alessandra DiMario, Third Dinochrome Brigade. Do you copy? Repeat, this is Captain Alessandra DiMario. Are you receiving?"
Static greets us for zero point eight seven seconds. Then a human voice responds, a woman's voice, babbling in tones of semihysteria. "Oh, my God, are you really here? Was that your guns firing, just now? We thought—never mind what we thought, oh, thank God you've finally come!"
"Sorry it took our transport so long to reach you. Where are you?"
"Underground," the woman answers. Excited voices erupt through the open radio link somewhere close to her. "We used the mining equipment to dig bunkers."
My commander says very gently, "You can come out of hiding very soon, ma'am. My Bolo has already killed nearly a hundred Tersae firing on your compound. As soon as we've cleared your perimeter, you'll be able to come up."
I fret over the unpleasant surprise waiting for these people. Very little shocks and demoralizes a civilian population more swiftly than the loss of homes. All else that civilians endure in combat—bombardments, destruction of livelihoods and cultural centers, even the death of friends—is simply part of the misery that must be lived through, however numbly or angrily. But the loss of home is a personal wound. Such violations breed hatred—and hatred becomes a wind that sweeps whole worlds into war.
I fear for the repercussions of my actions.
It takes me ten point three five minutes to knock down the greater portion of town. This leaves me with a beautifully clear perimeter where the enemy is denied concealment and cover, but leaves the owners of Rustenberg with a vast rubble field where an occasional warehouse or personal home rises, lonely and scorched, from the ruins. I feel a sensation akin to pity as I complete the task. Captain DiMario does not speak during the entire ten point three five minutes, but sits staring at the forward data screen, jaw muscles as tightly clenched as her fingers, which curl crushingly around the padded armrest.
"All burning structures outside the wall are down, Commander. There is still an unchecked blaze inside the defensive barricade. Shall I breach the wall and knock down these structures, as well?"
"Christ, no! Not until we find out where those people are." She reestablishes radio contact. "Rustenberg, Captain DiMario here. You're clear to come up. Please evacuate quickly. We have a fire burning out of control inside your defensive wall. We need to bring the buildings down before the fire spreads. If we run over your bunker, trying to reach the blaze, my Bolo will cave the roof in."
"Good God, I hadn't thought of that," the same voice responds, sounding startled. "We're coming up, Captain."
From the vantage point of my uppermost turret sensors, I locate a deep pit gouged into the soil near the center of town. This proves to be the entrance to the underground bunker. Heavy-gauge metal doors crash open at the bottom. A moment later, a stream of shaken, filthy colonists appears, rushing forward to greet their rescuers. Most of them stare up at my war hull, which towers above the broken wall, bathed in harsh firelight from the blaze still burning inside the defended compound. My commander watches the exodus in silence for five point eight seconds, then issues rapid commands.
"Senator, after you deal with this last fire, I want you to clear out those trees south and west of town. Give us a five-thousand-meter cleared perimeter in all directions. I want a report on the condition of the mines, equipment, and ore stockpiles. And scout our perimeter out to a distance of one kilometer. I want to know what we're up against, out there. That terrain looks wicked. Map it to the last centimeter, along with anything the Tersae have stashed in convenient overhangs and crannies. Look for places we can leave a few surprises, too. And start thinking about what kind of surprises we can jury-rig from whatever the colonists can fabricate. If," she adds grimly, "there's anything left to fabricate things with. Any questions?"
"None, Commander. Permission to file VSR?"
"Shoot."
"I have attempted to run diagnostics and cannot trace the difficulty with my tracking and fire-control systems. I believe the source to lie somewhere in the splices between my pre-existing systems and the new upgrades. I am experiencing data scrambling which suggests the systems are not entirely compatible. It is urgent that we discover whether anyone in Rustenberg has experience in psychotronic systems repair. This situation alarms me."
My commander possesses a most creative vocabulary. Her tone, however, softens when she addresses me directly again. "It doesn't make me want to dance, either. God, what else—" She bites off the rest of whatever she had planned to say. "All right, we'll just have to play this hand as dealt, since there's nobody out here to redeal. Get those burning buildings knocked down, get that perimeter cleared and that survey done, then we'll take a look at your retrofitting specs."
"Very good, Commander."
Captain DiMario exits my command compartment and climbs down to greet the shaken inhabitants of Rustenberg. I wait until she and the colonists are clear, then engage drive engines. I back up and turn my prow towards the wall, then carefully push down the section closest to the blaze. Within two point three nine minutes, I have demolished the burning structures and contained the blaze, although the narrowness of the street requires additional demolition which distresses me.
I back out again with extreme caution and set out to complete the other assigned tasks. As I carry out the terrain survey, I realize that reconnaissance will be difficult across the entire range of territory to be monitored. I turn my thoughts toward ways other than aerial surveillance to accomplish this. I cannot formulate complete plans until I know what tools and materials remain available, but entertain fair hope of creating a simple, effective network which will surprise the enemy.
Given the circumstances and my uncertain malfunctions, I hope this not overly optimistic.