Keith Laumer
The Compleat Bolo
A book in the Bolo series, 1990
The Night Of The Trolls
1
It was different this time. There was a dry pain in my lungs, and a deep ache in my bones, and a fire in my stomach that made me want to curl into a ball and mew like a kitten. My mouth tasted as though mice had nested in it, and when I took a deep breath wooden knives twisted in my chest.
I made a mental note to tell Mackenzie a few things about his pet controlled-environment tank-just as soon as I got out of it. I squinted at the over-face paneclass="underline" air pressure, temperature, humidity, O-level, blood sugar, pulse, and respiration-all okay. That was something. I flipped the intercom key and said, "Okay, Mackenzie, let's have the story. You've got problems…"
I had to stop to cough. The exertion made my temples pound.
"How long have you birds run this damned exercise?" I called. "I feel lousy. What's going on around here?"
No answer.
This was supposed to be the terminal test series. They couldn't all be out having coffee. The equipment had more bugs than a two-dollar hotel room. I slapped the emergency release lever. Mackenzie wouldn't like it, but to hell with it! From the way I felt, I'd been in the tank for a good long stretch this time-maybe a week or two. And I'd told Ginny it would be a three-dayer at the most. Mackenzie was a great technician, but he had no more human emotions than a used-car salesman. This time I'd tell him.
Relays were clicking, equipment was reacting, the tank cover sliding back. I sat up and swung my legs aside, shivering suddenly.
It was cold in the test chamber. I looked around at the dull gray walls, the data recording cabinets, the wooden desk where Mac sat by the hour rerunning test profiles-
That was funny. The tape reels were empty and the red equipment light was off. I stood, feeling dizzy. Where was Mac? Where were Bonner and Day and Mallon?
"Hey!" I called. I didn't even get a good echo. Someone must have pushed the button to start my recovery cycle; where were they hiding now? I took a step, tripped over the cables trailing behind me. I unstrapped and pulled the harness off. The effort left me breathing hard. I opened one of the wall lockers; Banner's pressure suit hung limply from the rack beside a rag-festooned coat hanger. I looked in three more lockers. My clothes were missing-even my bathrobe. I also missed the usual bowl of hot soup, the happy faces of the techs, even Mac's sour puss. It was cold and silent and empty here-more like a morgue than a top-priority research center.
I didn't like it. What the hell was going on?
There was a weather suit in the last locker. I put it on, set the temperature control, palmed the door open, and stepped out into the corridor. There were no lights, except for the dim glow of the emergency route indicators. There was a faint, foul odor in the air.
I heard a dry scuttling, saw a flick of movement. A rat the size of a red squirrel sat up on his haunches and looked at me as if I were something to eat. I made a kicking motion and he ran off, but not very far.
My heart was starting to thump a little harder now. The way it does when you begin to realize that something's wrong-bad wrong.
Upstairs in the Admin Section I called again. The echo was a little better here. I went along the corridor strewn with papers, past the open doors of silent rooms. In the Director's office a blackened wastebasket stood in the center of the rug. The air-conditioner intake above the desk was felted over with matted dustvnearly an inch thick. There was no use shouting again.
The place was as empty as a robbed grave-except for the rats.
At the end of the corridor, the inner security door stood open. I went through it and stumbled over something. In the faint light, it took me a moment to realize what it was.
He had been an MP, in steel helmet and boots. There was nothing left but crumbled bone and a few scraps of leather and metal. A.38 revolver lay nearby. I picked it up, checked the cylinder, and tucked it in the thigh pocket of the weather suit. For some reason it made me feel a little better.
I went on along B corridor and found the lift door sealed. The emergency stairs were nearby. I went to them and started the two-hundred-foot climb to the surface.
The heavy steel doors at the tunnel had been blown clear.
I stepped past the charred opening, looked out at a low gray sky burning red in the west. Fifty yards away, the five-thousand-gallon water tank lay in a tangle of rusty steel. What had it been? Sabotage, war, revolution-an accident? And where was everybody?
I rested for a while, then went across the innocent-looking fields to the west, dotted with the dummy buildings that were supposed to make the site look I from the air like another stretch of farmland | complete with barns, sheds and fences. Beyond the site the town seemed intact: there were lights twinkling here and there, a few smudges of smoke rising. I climbed a heap of rubble for a better view.
Whatever had happened at the site, at least Ginny would be all right-Ginny and Tim. Ginny would be worried sick, after-how long? A month?
Maybe more. There hadn't been much left of that soldier…
I twisted to get a view to the south, and felt a hollow sensation in my chest. Four silo doors stood open; the Colossus missiles had hit back-at something. I pulled myself up a foot or two higher for a look at the Primary Site. In the twilight the ground rolled smooth and unbroken across the spot where Prometheus lay ready in her underground berth. Down below she'd be safe and sound, maybe. She had been built to stand up to the stresses of a direct extra-solar orbital launch; with any luck, a few near misses wouldn't have damaged her.
My arms were aching from the strain of holding on. I climbed down and sat on the ground to get my breath, watching the cold wind worry the dry stalks of dead brush around the fallen tank.
At home, Ginny would be alone, scared, maybe even in serious difficulty. There was no telling how far municipal services had broken down. But before I headed that way, I had to make a quick check on the ship. Prometheus was a dream that I-and a lot of others-had lived with for three years. I had to be sure.
I headed toward the pillbox that housed the tunnel head on the off chance that the car might be there.
It was almost dark and the going was tough; the concrete slabs under the sod were tilted and dislocated. Something had sent a ripple across the ground like a stone tossed into a pond.
I heard a sound and stopped dead. There was a clank and rumble from beyond the discolored walls of the blockhouse a hundred yards away. Rusted metal howled; then something as big as a beached freighter moved into view.
Two dull red beams glowing near the top of the high silhouette swung, flashed crimson, and held on me. A siren went off-an ear-splitting whoop! whoop! WHOOP!
It was an unmanned Bolo Mark II Combat Unit on automated sentry duty-and its intruder-sensing circuits were tracking me.
The Bolo pivoted heavily; the whoop! whoop! sounded again; the robot watchdog was bellowing the alarm.
I felt sweat pop out on my forehead. Standing up to a Mark II Bolo without an electropass was the rough equivalent of being penned in with an ill-tempered dinosaur. I looked toward the Primary blockhouse: too far. The same went for the perimeter fence. My best bet was back to the tunnel mouth. I turned to sprint for it, hooked a foot on a slab and went down hard…
I got up, my head ringing, tasting blood in my mouth. The chipped pavement seemed to rock under me. The Bolo was coming up fast. Running was no good. I had to have a better idea.
I dropped flat and switched my suit control to maximum insulation.
The silvery surface faded to dull black. A two-foot square of tattered paper fluttered against a projecting edge of concrete; I reached for it, peeled it free, then fumbled with a pocket flap, brought out a permatch, flicked it alight. When the paper was burning well, I tossed it clear. It whirled away a few feet, then caught in a clump of grass.