In the aftermath of my unhappy first encounter with Captain DiMario, I have busied myself studying the mission briefing files on the conflict we are soon to join, partly to prepare myself for combat and partly to distract myself from worry over my new commander's unorthodox behavior. The files are not overly large, however, and the review does not take long.
I therefore turn my attention to internal diagnostics, trying to determine the extent of changes to my psychotronic circuitry, weapons systems, and war hull. I am still occupied with this self-evaluation when the cargo lift hums again, signaling the approach of another human. I turn my attention to the lift doors and am startled when my new commander emerges, moving purposefully in my direction. She carries a heavy duffle, presumably containing her personal gear. Given the grim set of her face, I brace myself for further unpleasantness.
Captain DiMario pauses directly in front of my war hull. I have spent many years learning to read human emotions based on the movements of facial muscles and skin. Unless I am mistaken, my commander is embarrassed. I doubt the accuracy of my analysis. Then—unexpectedly—she clears her throat, the sound uncertain in the vastness of the cargo hold.
"Hello again," she says in a low voice. "I'm afraid I owe you a fairly serious apology."
I am so surprised, I cannot even find words to answer.
"I won't try to excuse my behavior, which was fairly hideous. I . . . Oh, hell, there just isn't any easy way to say it. I came aboard this transport directly from a hospital ship. I should still be on it." I detect fine tremors in both her body and her voice. A sheen of sweat has appeared on her skin. My commander is clearly suffering deep emotional distress. I listen silently, trying to understand.
"I spent more than three months on the front lines, fighting the Deng from world to world. Three weeks ago, my Bolo was destroyed. I knew the risk was high. Terribly high. But I couldn't see any other choice. I lie awake nights, wondering if there might have been some option I missed, some other way out that wouldn't have involved ordering Danny to his death." She blinks rapidly; wetness trembles on dark eyelashes. Three months is a long time for a human to spend in constant combat. I am keenly aware of the human need for periodic rest from the stress of battle, without which even the strongest soldier begins to experience psychological dysfunction. I begin to understand.
"After the salvage engineers cut me out of the wreckage, the surgeons fixed most of what was wrong. And the psychiatrists pumped me full of drugs, trying to fix the rest of it . . ." She draws a deep breath. I feel a deep and unexpected pity for her, watching this struggle and realizing the cost of this admission, made to me in an unmistakable gesture of apology. "When word came of another Deng breakthrough, the command went out to scrape together every officer capable of fighting, to put into active service every Bolo that could be pulled out of mothballs and refitted for combat. All I could think, when they sent me out here to rendezvous with this transport, was that I was going back to the front lines, when I knew I wasn't in any shape for it. And going back in a Bolo that wasn't . . ."
Her voice breaks, raggedly. I say, as gently as possible, "I am old, Commander, and my war hull may be flintsteel, but that flintsteel is still quite strong and duralloy ablative armor has been added for extra protection. I will endure against even direct fire from Yavac Heavies."
A strange sound emerges from her throat, defying interpretation. "I'm sure you would, if we were still assigned to the Deng front lines. That's the other reason I came back down, with my gear." She lifts one shoulder, over which she has slung the heavy duffle. "We're dropping out of hyper-L in about fifteen minutes, to rendezvous with a fast courier. We've been reassigned."
"Reassigned?" I repeat, deeply startled.
"There's been an unexpected attack on the saganium mines at Thule."
"By Deng?"
"No." She gives me a strained smile. "By a sentient native species nobody knew existed. I've got the new mission files with me. I'll copy them to your Action/Command Center before we off-load. We'll transfer to the new courier ship together, with me tucked into your command compartment. Captain Roth and his Bolo will be shipping out with us." She manages another strained smile. "Colonel Tischler can spare only two of his battle group for the Thule relief effort. He asked for volunteers."
I understand. Profoundly. My commander is doubtless correct that she is not fit for front-lines combat, leaving me with a feeling of deep unease. But I am a fully self-aware and self-directing Bolo, capable of carrying out even complex battle plans without human guidance. If my commander collapses, I will not be crippled and neither will our mission. For her sake, I hope that we do not see the kind of heavy fighting that would doubtless tip her back into a state of psychological breakdown.
"Understood, Commander."
She nods, slowly. "Thank you, SPQ/R-561. Permission to come aboard?"
"Of course, Commander." I open my hatch with a hiss of pneumatics. She climbs aboard and stows her gear in one of the command compartment's storage bins, then powers up the command chair, straps in, and feeds the new mission files into my Action/Command Center. I scan rapidly, satisfied with the completeness of the data. I begin to look forward to the coming mission, which holds out the promise of being far more interesting than mere combat against Deng Yavacs.
As my commander runs through the systems check required of any ship-to-ship transfer of my war hull, she says, "I can't keep calling you SPQ/R-561. It's too long, for one thing. And I don't want to use whatever nickname your last commander used. That's a little too personal. If you miss your old commander the way I—" She breaks off, biting one lip.
"I am deeply sorry for your loss, Commander," I say gently.
"Thank you." She clears her throat. "I will get over it. So . . . when I saw your unit number for the first time, it reminded me of something from old Earth history. They added that /R designation for Refurbished, which is what triggered the association. SPQR. The Senate and People of Rome." She smiles slightly into my video pickup. "My remote ancestors were Roman legionaries, you know."
DiMario is an Italian-derived patronymic, meaning "son of Mario." The name strongly reminds me of Marius and Cinna, the Roman consuls to whom Julius Caesar was related, by birth and by marriage. Indeed, legionaries were known for centuries afterwards as Marius' mules, for the massive reforms he instituted in the armies of Rome. My commander bears a proud lineage. When I tell her so, she seems pleased.
"If you don't mind, I think I'd like to call you Senator," she says quietly.
The name she has chosen bears the hallmarks of an apology, carrying as it does the connotations of venerable age, wisdom, and deep cultural respect. The name delights me.
"I would be honored to have you address me as Senator, Commander."
She smiles again. "I'm glad."
"I am receiving ship's signal, Commander. Brace for drop into sub-light."
Our transport shudders with the transition from hyper-L to sub-light speeds. Braking thrusters fire to slow our forward motion further. "Contact with the CSS Aldora established," I relay. "Ship-to-ship transfer will commence as soon as we have matched velocities and closed to feasible transfer distances. The Aldora is firing thrusters to halt centrifugal spin. Prepare for weightlessness."
My commander nods, flicking her gaze across my data screens, watching as the two transports fire thrusters to match velocities and trajectories, making the ship-to-ship transfer possible. Both transports jockey cautiously toward one another under the control of precise computer guidance systems. This data is shared with myself and the other Bolo unit preparing to disembark. My sensors detect the jerking motions as rotational spin halts, then resumes in tiny bursts as the navigational computers match with the Aldora, lining up their respective cargo bays for transfer. Weightlessness returns. My treads are held fast in the clamps of the heavy lift sled on which I rest, preventing me from floating away from the deck. The sled itself is anchored directly to that deck. I receive the ready signal.
"Preparing for ship-to-ship transfer," I relay. "Cargo hold depressurizing for evacuation."
Alessandra DiMario nods. "Thank you, Senator." Her fingers close against the padded armrests of the command chair. I understand her increased stress. Such transfers are hardly routine, even under computer guidance. I have never experienced such a transfer before, nor have I spoken with another Bolo unit which has accomplished this type of maneuver. The engines of the heavy lift sled on which I rest rumble to life, vibrating my treads. During a combat drop, I maintain full control of the sled, but in an operation this ticklish, I will allow the sled's computers to maneuver us, using data feed from the Cheslav and the Aldora.
The Cheslav's immense cargo doors slide open, exposing my war hull and those of the other Bolo units in this bay to hard vacuum. This does not bother me and my command compartment is hermetically sealed, protecting Captain DiMario. But when the cargo sled releases its mooring grapples and propels my war hull into open space, I experience a surge through my psychotronic circuitry that can only be interpreted as nervousness. I have experienced many orbital combat drops, sliding out of transport-ship cargo bays on heavy lift sleds exactly like this one—but always with the immense bulk of a planet directly beneath us.
Interstellar space is incredibly vast.
And disturbingly empty.
The ship in which we have traveled, far larger than my war hull, shrinks to a comparative speck of matter against the black depths waiting outside the cargo hold. My commander draws air in sharply, gaze glued to my forward data screen. The cargo sled fires thrusters and we proceed forward, ponderously. The CSS Aldora lies on a direct line-of-sight trajectory from our cargo bay. The sled fires its engines in short bursts, sending us toward the waiting transport. We approach rapidly, drawing another sharp breath from Alessandra DiMario.
I locate the open bay toward which our sled's computers are guiding us. The Aldora is a far smaller ship than the Cheslav, but the cargo bay doors are ample to admit my bulk. We slow on final approach and drift forward gently. The massive doors slide past as we enter the waiting bay. Our sled fires lateral thrusters to jockey cautiously sideways, out of the open doorway, and we settle carefully toward a waiting set of mooring grapples. A vibration clangs through my treads as the grapples take hold and winch us down, mating us solidly with the deck. Three point nine minutes later, Captain Roth and Unit XPJ-1411 enter the cargo bay and moor themselves to the deck beside us.
"Welcome aboard," a cheerful voice greets us. "Communications Officer O'Leary here. As soon as we restore pressure to the hold, we'll escort you up to the wardroom."
"Thank you," Alessandra responds. "I'm looking forward to a full debriefing." She breaks contact as pressure returns to the cargo hold and the ship fires its engines, re-establishing centrifugal spin as well as forward momentum. "What a relief," my commander mutters as the artificial gravity of spin settles her firmly into the command chair once more. "I hate freefall. At least I hadn't eaten lunch yet, so there was nothing to bring up."
I have never understood the biological predilection for motion sickness in freefall. In the privacy of my thoughts, I suspect I am fortunate this is so.
"Well, Senator," my commander sighs, slapping releases on the command chair's restraints, "for better or worse, we're on course for Thule."
For better or worse . . .
I draw comfort from the similarity of my commander's observation to human marriage customs. We are, indeed, committed. To one another as much as to the mission. As my commander climbs out through my hatch and joins Captain Roth on the Aldora's cargo deck, I am hopeful about the altered situation between us.
I watch her move briskly across the deck, where a lift similar to the one on the Cheslav opens to reveal a uniformed welcoming committee. As the lift doors close again, I find myself hoping—fervently—that the upcoming mission will not add to the burden of combat stress my commander has already experienced.
We are heading into the unknown. And if there is one thing my long experience of combat has taught me, it is that the unknown is often far deadlier than the well-known and understood, however stressful that well-known situation might be. It is not a comfortable feeling.
So far, nothing about my return to duty has been.