Keith Laumer - Bolo - Combat Unit.pdf - Keith Laumer - widez2

Combat Unit

I do not like it; it has the appearance of a trap, but the order has been

given. I enter the room and the valve closes behind me.

I inspect my surroundings. I am in a chamber 40.81 meters long, 10.35

meters wide, 4.12 high, with no openings except the one through which I

entered. It is floored and walled with five-centimeter armor of flint-steel,

and beyond that there are ten centimeters of lead! Curiously, massive

combat apparatus is folded and coiled in mountings around the room.

Energy is flowing in heavy buss bars beyond the shielding. I am sluggish for

want of recharge; my cursory examination of the room has required .8

seconds.

Now I detect movement in a heavy jointed arm mounted above me. It

begins to rotate, unfold. I assume that I will be attacked, and decide to file

a situation report. I have difficulty in concentrating my attention. . . .

I pull back receptivity from my external sensing circuits, set my bearing

locks and switch over to my introspection complex. All is dark and hazy. I

seem to remember when it was like a great cavern glittering with bright

lines of transvisual colors. . . .

It is different now; I grope my way in gloom, feeling along numbed circuits,

test-pulsing cautiously until I feel contact with my transmitting unit. I have

not used it since . . . I cannot remember. My memory banks lie black and

inert.

"Command Unit," I transmit, "Combat Unit TME requests permission to file

VSR."

I wait, receptors alert. I do not like waiting blindly, for the quarter-second

my sluggish action/reaction cycle requires. I wish that my brigade comrades

were at my side.

I call again, wait, then go ahead with my VSR. "This position heavily

shielded, mounting apparatus of offensive capability. No withdrawal route.

Advise."

I wait, repeat my transmission; nothing. I am cut off from Command Unit,

from my comrades of the Dinochrome Brigade. Within me, pressure builds.

I feel a deep-seated click! and a small but reassuring surge of energy

brightens the murk of the cavern to a dim glow, bringing forgotten

components to feeble life. An emergency pile has come into action

automatically.

I realize that I am experiencing a serious equipment failure. I will devote

another few seconds to trouble-shooting, repairing what I can. I do not

understand what catastrophe can have occurred to thus damage me. I

cannot remember. . . .

I go along the dead cells, testing, sampling. . . .

"—out! Bring .09's to bear, .8 millisec burst, close armor . . ."

" . . . sun blanking visual; slide #7 filter in place. Better . . ."

" . . . 478.09, 478.31, Mark! . . ."

The cells are intact. Each one holds its fragment of recorded sense

impression. The trouble is farther back. I try a main reflex lead.

" . . . main combat circuit, discon—"

Here is something; a command, on the reflex level! I go back, tracing,

tapping mnemonic cells at random, searching for some clue.

"—sembark. Units emergency stand-by . . ."

" . . . response one-oh-three: stimulus-response negative . . ."

"Check-list complete, report negative . . ."

I go on, searching out damage. I find an open switch in my maintenance

panel. It will not activate; a mechanical jamming. I must fuse it shut

quickly. I pour in power, and the mind-cavern dims almost to blackness;

then there is contact, a flow of electrons, and the cavern snaps alive; lines,

points, pseudoglowing. It is not the blazing glory of my full powers, but it

will serve; I am awake again.

I observe the action of the unfolding arm. It is slow, uncoordinated,

obviously automated. I dismiss it from direct attention; I have several

seconds before it will be in offensive position, and there is work for me if I

am to be ready. I fire sampling impulses at the black memory banks,

determine statistically that 98.92% are intact, merely disassociated.

The threatening arm swings over slowly; I integrate its path, see that it

will come to bear on my treads; I probe, find only a simple hydraulic ram. A

primitive apparatus indeed to launch against a Mark XXXI fighting unit,

even without mnemonics.

Meanwhile, I am running a full check. Here is something. An open breaker,

a disconnect used only during repairs. I think of the cell I tapped earlier,

and suddenly its meaning springs into my mind. "Main combat circuit,

disconnect . . ." Under low awareness, it had not registered. I throw in the

switch with frantic haste. Suppose I had gone into combat with my fighting

reflex circuit open!

The arm reaches position and I move easily aside. I notice that a clatter

accompanies my movement. The arm sits stupidly aimed at nothing, then

turns. Its reaction time is pathetic. I set up a random evasion pattern,

return my attention to introspection, find another dark area. I probe, feel a

curious vagueness. I am unable at first to identify the components

involved, but I realize that it is here that my communication with Command

is blocked. I break the connection to the tampered banks, abandoning any

immediate hope of contact with Command.

There is nothing more I can do to ready myself. I have lost my general

memory banks and my Command circuit, and my power supply is limited;

but I am still a fighting Unit of the Dinochrome Brigade. I have my

offensive power unimpaired, and my sensory equipment is operating

adequately. I am ready.

Now another of the jointed arms swings into action, following my

movements deliberately. I evade it and again I note a clatter as I move. I

think of the order that sent me here; there is something strange about it. I

activate my current-action memory stage, find the cell recording the

moments preceding my entry into the metal-walled room.

Here is darkness, vague, indistinct, relieved suddenly by radiation on a

narrow band. There is an order, coming muffled from my command center. It

originates in the sector I have blocked off. It is not from my Command Unit,

not a legal command. I have been tricked by the Enemy. I tune back to

earlier moments, but there is nothing. It is as though my existence began

when the order was given. I scan back, back, spot-sampling at random, find

only routine sense-impressions. I am about to drop the search when I

encounter a sequence which arrests my attention.

I am parked on a ramp, among my comrade units. A heavy rain is falling,

and I see the water coursing down the corroded side of the Unit next to

me. He is badly in need of maintenance. I note that his command antennae

are missing, and that a rusting metal object has been crudely welded to his

hull in their place. I find no record of alarm; I seem to accept this as

normal. I activate a motor train, move forward, I sense other Units moving

out, silent. All are mutilated. . . . Disaster has befallen the mighty

Dinochrome!

The gestalt ends; all else is burned. What has happened?

* * *

Suddenly there is a stimulus on an audio frequency. I tune quickly, locate

the source as a porous spot high on the flint-steel wall.

"Combat Unit! Remain stationary!" It is an organically produced voice, but

not that of my Commander. I ignore the false command. The Enemy will not

trick me again. I sense the location of the leads to the speaker, the alloy of

which they are composed; I bring a beam to bear. I focus it, tracing along

the cable. There is a sudden yell from the speaker as the heat reaches the

creature at the microphone. Thus I enjoy a moment of triumph.

I return my attention to the imbecile apparatus in the room.

A great engine, mounted on rails which run down the center of the room,

moves suddenly, sliding toward my position. I examine it, find that it

mounts a turret equipped with high-speed cutting heads. I consider blasting

it with a burst of high-energy particles, but in the same moment compute

that this is not practical. I could inactivate myself as well as the cutting

engine.

Now a cable snakes out from it in an undulating curve, and I move to avoid

it, at the same time investigating its composition. It seems to be no more

than a stranded wire rope. Impatiently I flick a tight beam at it, see it glow

yellow, white, blue, then spatter in a shower of droplets. But that was an

unwise gesture. I do not have the energy to waste.

I move off, clear of the two foolish arms still maneuvering for position, in

order to watch the cutting engine. It stops as it comes abreast of me, and

turns its turret in my direction. I wait.

A grappler moves out now on a rail overhead. It is a heavy claw of

flint-steel. I have seen similar devices, somewhat smaller, mounted on

special Combat Units. They can be very useful for amputating antennae,

cutting treads, and the like. I do not attempt to cut the arm; I know that

the energy drain would be too great. Instead I beam high-frequency sound

at the mechanical joints. They heat quickly, glowing. The metal has a high

coefficient of expansion, and the ball joints squeal, freeze. I pour in more

heat, and weld a socket. I notice that 28.4 seconds have now elapsed since

the valve closed behind me. I am growing weary of my confinement.

Now the grappler swings above me, manuvering awkwardly with its frozen

joints. A blast of liquid air expelled under high pressure should be sufficient

to disable the grappler permanently.

But I am again startled. No blast answers my impulse. I feel out the

non-functioning unit, find raw, cut edges, crude welds; I have been gravely

wounded, but recall nothing of the circumstances. Hastily, I extend a

scanner to examine my hull. I am stunned into immobility by what I see.

My hull, my proud hull of chrome-duralloy, is pitted, coated with a crumbling

layer of dull black ultrathane. The impervious substance is bubbled by

corrosion! My main emplacements gape, black, empty. Rusting

protuberances mar the once smooth contour of my fighting turret. Streaks

run down from them, down to loose treads; unshod, bare plates are

exposed. Small wonder that I have been troubled by a clatter each time I

move.

But I cannot lie idle under attack. I no longer have my great ion-guns, my

disruptors, my energy screens; but I have my fighting instinct.

A Mark XXXI Combat Unit is the finest fighting machine the ancient wars of

the Galaxy have ever known. I am not easily neutralized. But I wish that

my Commander's voice were with me. . . .

The engine slides to me where the grappler, now unresisted, holds me. I

shunt my power flow to an accumulator, hold it until the leads begin to arc,

then release it in a burst. The engine bucks, stops dead. Then I turn my

attention to the grappler.

I was built to engage the mightiest war engines and destroy them, but I

am a realist. In my weakened condition this trivial automaton poses a

threat, and I must deal with it. I run through a sequence of motor

impulses, checking responses with such somatic sensors as remain intact. I

initiate 30,000 test pulses, note reactions and compute my mechanical

resources. This superficial check requires more than a second, during which

time the mindless grappler hesitates, wasting its advantage.

In place of my familiar array of retractable fittings, I find only clumsy

grappling arms, cutters, impact tools, without utility to a fighting Unit.

However, I have no choice but to employ them. I unlimber two flimsy

grapplers, seize the heavy arm which holds me, and apply leverage. The

enemy responds sluggishly, twisting away, dragging me with it. The thing is

not lacking in brute strength. I take it above and below its carpal joint and

flex it back. It responds after an interminable wait of .3 seconds with a

lunge against my restraint. I have expected this, of course, and quickly

shift position to allow the joint to burst itself over my extended arm. I fire

a release detonator and clatter back, leaving the amputated arm welded to

the sprung grappler. It was a brave opponent, but clumsy. I move to a

position near the wall.

I attempt to compute my situation based on the meager data I have

gathered in my current action banks; there is little there to guide me. The

appearance of my hull shows that much time has passed since I last

inspected it; my personality-gestalt holds an image of my external

appearance as a flawlessly complete Unit, bearing only the honorable and

carefully preserved scars of battle, and my battle honors, the row of

gold-and-enameled crests welded to my fighting turret. Here is a lead, I

realize instantly. I focus on my personality center, the basic data cell

without which I could not exist as an integrated entity. The data it carries

are simple, unelaborated, but battle honors are recorded there. I open the

center to a sense impulse.

Awareness. Shapes which do not remain constant. Vibration at many

frequencies. This is light. This is sound. . . . A display of "colors." A

spectrum of "tones." Hard/soft; big/little; here/there . . .

. . . The voice of my Commander. Loyalty. Obedience. Comradeship . . .

I run quickly past basic orientation data to my self-picture.

. . . I am strong, I am proud, I am capable, I have a function; I perform it

well, and I am at peace with myself. My circuits are balanced; current idles,

waiting. . . .

. . . I do not fear death, but I wish to continue to perform my function. It is

important that I do not allow myself to be destroyed. . . .

I scan on, seeking the Experience section. Here. . . .

I am ranked with my comrades on a scarred plain. The command is given

and I display the Brigade battle-anthem. We stand, sensing the contours

and patterns of the music as it was recorded in our morale center. The

symbol "Ritual Fire Dance" is associated with the music, an abstraction

representing the spirit of our ancient Brigade. It reminds us of the

loneliness of victory, the emptiness of challenge without an able foe. It

tells us that we are the Dinochrome, ancient and worthy.

My commander stands before me; he places the decoration against my

fighting turret, and at his order I weld it in place. Then my comrades attune

to me and I relive the episode . . .:

I move past the blackened hulk of a comrade, send out a recognition signal,

and sense only a flicker of response. He has withdrawn to his survival

center. I reassure him and continue. He is the fourth casualty I have seen.

Never before has the Dinochrome met such power. I compute that our

Keith Laumer - Bolo - Combat Unit.pdf

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