Dragon's Teeth (51 page)

Now, came the moment of truth.

“
Guten tag, Herr Rommel,”
he said, in careful German, the antique German he had learned in order to be able to read first-hand chronicles in the original language. “
Ich bin Siegfried O’Harrigan
.”

A moment of silence—and then, surprisingly, a sound much like a dry chuckle.

“
Wie geht’s, Herr O’Harrigan.
I’ve been expecting you. Aren’t you a little dark to be a Storm Trooper?”

The voice was deep, pleasant, and came from a point somewhere above Siegfried’s head. And Siegfried knew the question was a trap, of sorts. Or a test, to see just how much he really
did
know, as opposed to what he claimed to know. A good many pre-Atomic historians could be caught by that question themselves.

“Hardly a Storm Trooper,” he countered. “Field Marshall Erwin Rommel would not have had one of
those
under his command. And no Nazis, either. Don’t think to trap
me
that easily.”

The Bolo uttered that same dry chuckle. “Good for you, Siegfried O’Harrigan.
Willkommen.
”

The hatch opened, silently; a ladder descended just as silently, inviting Siegfried to come out of the hot, desert sun and into Rommel’s controlled interior. Rommel had replied to Siegfried’s response, but had done so with nothing unnecessary in the way of words, in the tradition of his namesake.

Siegfried had passed the test.

Once again, Siegfried stood in the blindingly hot sun, this time at strict attention, watching the departing back of the mayor of Port City. The interview had not been pleasant, although both parties had been strictly polite; the mayor’s back was stiff with anger. He had not cared for what Siegfried had told him.

“They do not much care for us, do they, Siegfried?” Rommel sounded resigned, and Siegfried sighed. It was impossible to hide anything from the Bolo; Rommel had already proven himself to be an adept reader of human body-language, and of course, anything that was broadcast over the airwaves, scrambled or not, Rommel could access and read. Rommel was right; he and his partner were not the most popular of residents at the moment.

What amazed Siegfried, and continued to amaze him, was how
human
the Bolo was. He was used to AIs of course, but Rommel was something special. Rommel cared about what people did and thought; most AIs really didn’t take a great interest in the doings and opinions of mere humans.

“No, Rommel, they don’t,” he replied. “You really can’t blame them; they thought they were going to get a battalion of conventional troops, not one very expensive piece of equipment and one single human.”

“But we are easily the equivalent of a battalion of conventional troops,” Rommel objected, logically. He lowered his ladder, and now that the mayor was well out of sight, Siegfried felt free to climb back into the cool interior of the Bolo.

He waited until he was settled in his customary seat, now worn to the contours of his own figure after a year, before he answered the AI he now consciously considered to be his best friend as well as his assigned partner. Inside the cabin of the Bolo, everything was clean, if a little worn—cool—the light dimmed the way Siegfried liked it. This was, in fact, the most comfortable quarters Siegfried had ever enjoyed. Granted, things were a bit cramped, but he had everything he needed in here, from shower and cooking facilities to multiple kinds of entertainment. And the Bolo did not need to worry about “wasting” energy; his power-plant was geared to supply full-combat needs in any and all climates; what Siegfried needed to keep cool and comfortable was miniscule. Outside, the ever-present desert sand blew everywhere, the heat was enough to drive even the most patient person mad, and the sun bleached everything to a bone-white. Inside was a compact world of Siegfried’s own.

Bachman’s World had little to recommend it. That was the problem.

“It’s a complicated issue, Rommel,” he said. “If a battalion of conventional troops had been sent here, there would have been more than the initial expenditure—there would have been an ongoing expenditure to support them.”

“Yes—that support money would come into the community. I understand their distress.” Rommel would understand, of course; Field Marshal Erwin Rommel had understood the problems of supply only too well, and his namesake could hardly do less. “Could it be they demanded the troops in the first place in order to gain that money?”

Siegfried grimaced, and toyed with the controls on the panel in front of him. “That’s what High Command thinks, actually. There never was any real reason to think Bachman’s World was under any sort of threat, and after a year, there’s even less reason than there was when they made the request. They expected something to bring in money from outside; you and I are hardly bringing in big revenue for them.”

Indeed, they weren’t bringing in any income at all. Rommel, of course, required no support, since he was not expending anything. His power-plant would supply all his needs for the next hundred years before it needed refueling. If there had been a battalion of men here, it would have been less expensive for High Command to set up a standard mess hall, buying their supplies from the local farmers, rather than shipping in food and other supplies. Further, the men would have been spending their pay locally. In fact, local suppliers would have been found for nearly everything except weaponry.

But with only one man here, it was far less expensive for High Command to arrange for his supplies to come in at regular intervals on scheduled freight-runs. The Bolo ate nothing. They didn’t even use “local” water; the Bolo recycled nearly every drop, and distilled the rest from occasional rainfall and dew. Siegfried was not the usual soldier-on-leave; when he spent his pay, it was generally off-planet, ordering things to be shipped in, and not patronizing local merchants. He bought books, not beer; he didn’t gamble, his interest in food was minimal and satisfied by the R.E.M.s (Ready-to-Eat-Meals) that were standard field issue and shipped to him by the crateful. And he was far more interested in that four-letter word for “intercourse” that began with a “t” than in intercourse of any other kind. He was an ascetic scholar; such men were not the sort who brought any amount of money into a community. He and his partner, parked as they were at the edge of the spaceport, were a continual reminder of how Bachman’s World had been “cheated.”

And for that reason, the mayor of Port City had suggested—stiffly, but politely—that his and Rommel’s continuing presence so near the main settlement was somewhat disconcerting. He had hinted that the peace-loving citizens found the Bolo frightening (and never mind that they had requested some sort of defense from the military). And if they could not find a way to make themselves useful, perhaps they ought to at least
earn
their pay by pretending to go on maneuvers. It didn’t matter that Siegfried and Rommel were perfectly capable of conducting such exercises without moving. That was hardly the point.

“You heard him, my friend,” Siegfried sighed. “They’d like us to go away. Not that they have any authority to order us to do so—as I reminded the mayor. But I suspect seeing us constantly is something of an embarrassment to whoever it was that promised a battalion of troops to bring in cash and got us instead.”

“In that case, Siegfried,” Rommel said gently, “we probably should take the mayor’s suggestion. How long do you think we should stay away?”

“When’s the next ship due in?” Siegfried replied. “There’s no real reason for us to be here until it arrives, and then we only need to stay long enough to pick up my supplies.”

“True.” With a barely audible rumble, Rommel started his banks of motive engines. “Have you any destination in mind?”

Without prompting, Rommel projected the map of the immediate area on one of Siegfried’s control-room screens. Siegfried studied it for a moment, trying to work out the possible repercussions of vanishing into the hills altogether. “I’ll tell you what, old man,” he said slowly, “we’ve just been playing at doing our job. Really, that’s hardly honorable, when it comes down to it. Even if they don’t need us and never did, the fact is that they asked for on-planet protection, and we haven’t even planned how to give it to them. How about if we actually go out there in the bush and
do
that planning?”

There was interest in the AI’s voice; he did not imagine it. “What do you mean by that?” Rommel asked.

“I mean, let’s go out there and scout the territory ourselves; plan defenses and offenses, as if this dustball
was
likely to be invaded. The topographical surveys stink for military purposes; let’s get a real war plan in place. What the hell—it can’t hurt, right? And if the locals see us actually doing some work, they might not think so badly of us.”

Rommel was silent for a moment. “They will still blame High Command, Siegfried. They did not receive what they wanted, even though they received what they were entitled to.”

“But they won’t blame
us
.” He put a little coaxing into his voice. “Look, Rommel, we’re going to be here for the rest of our lives, and we really can’t afford to have the entire population angry with us forever. I know our standing orders are to stay at Port City, but the mayor just countermanded those orders. So let’s have some fun, and show ’em we know our duty at the same time! Let’s use Erwin’s strategies around here, and see how they work! We can run all kinds of scenarios—let’s assume in the event of a real invasion we could get some of these farmers to pick up a weapon; that’ll give us additional scenarios to run. Figure troops against you, mechs against you, troops and mechs against you, plus untrained men against troops, men against mechs, you against another Bolo-type AI—”

“It would be entertaining.” Rommel sounded very interested. “And as long as we keep our defensive surveillance up, and an eye on Port City, we would not technically be violating orders . . . .”

“Then let’s do it,” Siegfried said decisively. “Like I said, the maps they gave us stink; let’s go make our own, then plot strategy. Let’s find every wadi and overhang big enough to hide you. Let’s act as if there really
was
going to be an invasion. Let’s give them some options, log the plans with the mayor’s office. We can plan for evacuations, we can check resources, there’s a lot of things we can do. And let’s start right now!”

They mapped every dry streambed, every dusty hill, every animal trail. For months, the two of them rumbled across the arid landscape, with Siegfried emerging now and again to carry surveying instruments to the tops of hills too fragile to bear Rommel’s weight. And when every inch of territory within a week of Port City had been surveyed and accurately mapped, they began playing a game of “hide and seek” with the locals.

It was surprisingly gratifying. At first, after they had vanished for a while, the local news channel seemed to reflect an attitude of “good riddance.” But then, when
no one
spotted them, there was a certain amount of concern—followed by a certain amount of annoyance. After all, Rommel was “their” Bolo—what was Siegfried doing, taking him out for some kind of vacation? As if Bachman’s World offered any kind of amusement . . . .

That was when Rommel and Siegfried began stalking farmers.

They would find a good hiding place and get into it well in advance of a farmer’s arrival. When he would show up, Rommel would rise up, seemingly from out of the ground, draped in camouflage-net, his weaponry trained on the farmer’s vehicle. Then Siegfried would pop up out of the hatch, wave cheerfully, retract the camouflage, and he and Rommel would rumble away.

Talk of “vacations” ceased entirely after that.

They extended their range, once they were certain that the locals were no longer assuming the two of them were “gold-bricking.” Rommel tested all of his abilities to the limit, making certain everything was still up to spec. And on the few occasions that it wasn’t, Siegfried put in a requisition for parts and spent many long hours making certain that the repairs and replacements
were
bringing Rommel up to like-new condition.

Together they plotted defensive and offensive strategies; Siegfried studied Rommel’s manuals as if a time would come when he would have to rebuild Rommel from spare parts. They ran every kind of simulation in the book—and not just on Rommel’s computers, but with Rommel himself actually running and dry-firing against plotted enemies. Occasionally one of the newspeople would become curious about their whereabouts, and lie in wait for them when the scheduled supplies arrived. Siegfried would give a formal interview, reporting in general what they had been doing—and then, he would carefully file another set of emergency plans with the mayor’s office. Sometimes it even made the evening news. Once, it was even accompanied by a clip someone had shot of Rommel roaring at top speed across a ridge.

Nor was that all they did. As Rommel pointed out, the presumptive “battalion” would have been available in emergencies—there was no reason why
they
shouldn’t respond when local emergencies came up.

So—when a flash flood trapped a young woman and three children on the roof of her vehicle, it was Rommel and Siegfried who not only rescued them, but towed the vehicle to safety as well. When a snowfall in the mountains stranded a dozen truckers, Siegfried and Rommel got them out. When a small child was lost while playing in the hills, Rommel found her by having all searchers clear out as soon as the sun went down, and using his heat sensors to locate every source of approximately her size. They put out runaway brushfires by rolling over them; they responded to Maydays from remote locations when they were nearer than any other agency. They even joined in a manhunt for an escaped rapist—who turned himself in, practically soiling himself with fear, when he learned that Rommel was part of the search party.

It didn’t hurt. They were of no help for men trapped in a mine collapse; or rather, of no
more
help than Siegfried’s two hands could make them. They couldn’t rebuild bridges that were washed away, nor construct roads. But what they could do, they did, often before anyone thought to ask them for help.