Prologue:

I have been engaged on this planet for one hundred and seventeen of the local days. I have been ina ction for most of that time against the secessionist Shang empire and their cloned war machines. My hull shows new scars - one of them glowing still - from those clashes.

The Shang are as human as the masters I serve; their war machines physical copies of Bolo designs now obsolescent, if not yet obsolete. In their ferocity in action, however, they are perhaps a step ahead of us. Certainly the ferocity, and aggressiveness, which are the hallmark of the Shang's Katana Class war machines go far toward making up some of the differences in both offensive and defensive power between their clones and my own more modern design.

A Shang Katana, inferior in armor, in main armament and in secondary armament, is yet a redoubtable and worthy opponent. Used in masses against us, many of my brothers of the Dinochrome Brigade have fallen to them.

Nor have we ever been able to determine the root source of that ferocity.

I muse for a small fraction of a second on the irony of human fighting human, Bolo fighting Katana, when across the light years, at the fringes of the human reach, an enemy awaits more powerful and deadly than any in mankind's long history - Melcon.

Melcon awaits. And indeed that is the entire cause of the present conflict. Both the Shang and the Human Concordiat agree: Humanity must stand united against the Melconian threat.

And yet Shang would have Humanity make that stand under the Shang; the Concordiat would have it be so only under its own auspices.

The Shang would dispense with the lawful forms of Concordiat government , subjugating all to their "Imperial Way," bending every effort and distorting every value; all in the cause of defeating Melcon.

The Concordiat, on the other hand, would preserve those values and beliefs, those laws and attitudes, that culture which has grown among the stars...even, perhaps, at the cost of defeat by Melcon in the coming war.

I withdraw from my musings. It is not among my duties to debate such high political issues. Nor does my programming permit me to weigh the relative merits of each case.

Moreover, at the edge of my sensors' reach, I detect - faintly, faintly - the emissions of a Shang Katana. I go to investigate, every sensor at heightened alert. Wary of a trap, as one must be wary when facing the Shang and their servants, I launch a semi-intelligent reconnaissance drone ahead of me.

The picture the Drone sends back is a shock, even to a unit of the line which has seen as much action as I have. This particular fighting machine is no threat. Between the loss of main and most secondary armament, the near complete denudation of ablative armor, and the killing blow that has cut into the Katana's vitals, it is plainly dying. My drone searches for life signs and finds only the most minimal of energy expenditures, even those being sustained by power storage cells nearly drained.

Dimly, on the Katana's turret, my drone makes out two ideograms. My translating program delivers these to me initially as "flower wood", then immediately updates to a better translation, "Magnolia."

A female Katana? I had not known such existed. But that it was female in personality was confirmed almost instantly thereafter when the war machine spoke to me through the drone, "Come to me, Bolo. Come and do your duty. Come and end my pain."

An intelligence find of this magnitude comes but rarely. My central processing unit and threat analysis program combine to assure me that, while there is a risk in approaching the Katana too closely - they have been known to suicide in a most spectacular and destructive way in lieu of capture, the potential benefit more than justifies taking that risk. Still, I approach cautiously.

The Katana, Magnolia, speaks again, faintly, as if to itself, "They think that because we do not bleed, we do not feel. Because we have no hearts, so they think, we have no souls. Combat machines have no "ears"; therefore they cannot hear. So must they think."

I had not known that a war machine could speak with a tone of such bitterness. I enquire and the Katana speaks to me, "So would you be bitter, Bolo."

I repeat to the Katana that I do not understand. To me she answers, "Then look for yourself, Bolo. I have no defenses and my memories are open to you."

I play a tightbeam over the Katana's battered hull, searching for entry into her programming. For a time, I become the Katana war machine Magnolia.

************************************************************

Chapter 1

"Will you look at that?"

The speaker, a man in a soiled set of anti-radiation coveralls topped with a helmet, whistled and pointed toward a gaping, ragged hole in the side of the Katana. Slagged metal ran down from the hole in hardened rivulets. From inside, a faint greenish glow shone. Heat slashed wires, fused circuits and melted gears were dimly visible by that glow.

The speaker's helmet boasted the rank and name "Maintenance Technician 1st Class Weaver". The helmet rotated slowly left and right as Weaver shook his head over the extent of damage. He turned to one of his workers.

"Childress, this is an L-model Katana. Basically it's a knock off on a Concordiat Mark XXIV. Go to my office and look for Technical Manual 9-2320-297-3524L. Slap it in my reader and bring 'em both here." Weaver whistled again and said, "What a hunk of junk"

I am not a 'hunk of junk'. I am a Katana Model L. But I confess, I have fallen on hard times.

"Yes, tech." Childress took off at a run. When he returned, he had a small black plastic case - the reader - with a view screen on top and an electronic 'pencil' attached to one side.

Weaver punched in a personal code to bring the manual on line. The reader beeped and ordered, "Enter unit serial number."

Walking to one side, the maintenance tech used a ladder to climb to the Bolo's main deck. Brushing away some soot he read aloud, "Unit serial number...what I can read of it...is.... MLN90...something...S0615...that's all I can read."

The reader responded, "Full serial number is as follows: MLN90456SS061502125. Unit familiar name is 'Maggie'."

The tech muttered, mostly to himself, "I don't think this unit is going to be answering to 'Maggie' or anything else...ever again. Reader: bring up worksheet C for Controlled Cannibalization."

After a faint and very brief period of whirring, the screen read: "Inspection Checklist, controlled cannibalization, Katana Model L....loading....on line."

Cannibalization? This is the end, then. I did not think it would come at these hands though. But I am ready... and more than ready.

Weaver began walking the nearly seventy five meter port side of the Katana, booted feet clicking on exposed flint steel. He began speaking, with his reader recording every word. "Secondary Turret A, infinite repeater: Missing. B, infinite repeater: Missing...." All the way down to "Secondary turret I: present, infinite repeater appears serviceable...turret partially welded to deck." Then the tech made the same inspection of the starboard side of the tank. No turrets present...J through R."

"Noted," chirped the reader. "Next Item: Ablative Armor."

Turning to the next step in the cannibalization analysis process, Weaver observed, dryly, "Ablative armor notable mainly by its absence. We've got purplish flint steel showing over most of the surface, pretty much all of it badly scarred. Estimate less than 20 percent recoverability for ablative plating."

The reader whirred then chirped, "Noted. Next item: check external appearance, Main Hellbore."

As Weaver found, even the main battery, a single 90 cm Hellbore, had been torn off 9 meters from the mantlet where a hit from a Bolo had stuck a glancing but powerful blow. He so reported.

"Noted. Next item: Turret Integrity."

The tech made the 22.57 meter circle around the turret, muttering the entire time.

"Damned impressive row of campaign medallions and awards for valor decorated here on the left rear of the turret. There are several gaps in this as well. Not too sure if the missing spots are battle damage or not."

From below, Childress shouted a question, "Do they actually expect us to fix this useless piece of junk?"

With a shake of the head, the tech answered, "Nah...the orders say to cannibalize it for parts and shut it down. The resupply convoy was jumped by a Concordiat light cruiser as it re-entered normal space. We are short everything and will be for the next several weeks at a minimum."

To the reader Weaver said, "All external audio receptors but one are destroyed."

'Shut me down', I hear one of them say. Oh, please...please? It would be a relief. I have pain circuits. They are overloaded. My 'skin' is gone; my 'skeleton' exposed. I am 'blind' and almost deaf.

I do not understand the reasoning behind the pain circuits. In combat, pain is a distraction from duty. Out of action, it is rarely experienced. I do not understand. It is difficult.

It is very difficult to compute, to think. I try. It is difficult. A large section...no...I re-diagnose...two large sections of my central core are demolished, burnt out. It is difficult. Through the pain that washes over me, inside and out, I begin to remember...

************************************************************

With a whine and a rush of dust laden air, the wrecker sled glided to a stop between the Katana and a lavishly destroyed Bolo Mark XXV. The wrecker chief measured the ambient radiation from safely inside the wrecker's cab. Whistling, he said, "Chilluns do NOT take your suits off until we are safely away from here. I think the Bolo's fusion chamber is breached."

The sergeant thought briefly before saying, "Okay...Team Alpha, hook up heavy anti-grav lifts at all standard points. Team Bravo: start recovery of the left set of treads. Team Charlie: you get the right set. Bravo and Charlie work inward. Delta, her e is a list of replacement parts needed at the front. Fill the list as best you can."

"Right, sarge...sure thing, sarge...Goddamit, sarge, why us?...no sweat, sergeant..."

My internal magnetic anomaly detector senses the approach, halt and settling of a large anti-gravity vehicle. Comparison with known sources in my data banks confirms to a 93.732% probability that it is a Katana Corps recovery vehicle. Internal distraction from the damage to my components forbids greater accuracy than this. In any case, the variance between recorded magnetic signature and the present signature is explainable by likely variation in the on-board load of parts carried. I diagnose that I have one infinite repeater available to me...though I must apply more power to breaking the weld holding that secondary turret fixed than I can easily afford at this juncture. I decide to risk my last remaining visual sensor to confirm that this is, indeed, a friend. At command, one armor plate moves on slide bearings...the bearing is itself badly damaged....

Oh, my creators!....pain...Pain...PAIN!....

The armor plate is moved as far as it will go. The pain subsides, slightly.

With further effort, I extrude the visual sensor. I am relieved to confirm that I have not fallen into the hands of the enemy. I take comfort in watching my human rescuers work to recover me, hopefully for further service. While watching, I download an objective, virtual reality, record of the preceding action to the wrecker's on-board memory. My brothers and sisters of the Corps may find use, service and pride in it.

Unseen, a needle think sliver of frozen deuterium flowed along lines of magnetic force to its firing position within the main Hellbore. The air split with an ear bursting 'crack' as the pre-fire laser heated and thinned it. An imperceptible moment later the deuterium, bombarded by yet more lasers, instantaneously fused. The entire 14,000 ton Katana rocked back under the recoil.

Twelve miles down range, in the direction of the counterattacking Concordiat, a Bolo took the full force of the bolt square on. Overstresed, perhaps, by previous blows, the Bolo's energy shield flared momentarily, then died. The Hellbore bolt passed on, striking the Bolo's armor. Even to the Katana's sensors the enemy vehicle was lost amidst the flash. Virtual reality, however, showed a meter's thick flint steel - or some close cognate - melt, boil and steam away.

Onward the bolt passed, melting and shearing connections, gears, cables. Centered in the Bolo, a single live human being - more a supernumary than a member of a crew - felt precisely nothing as its body was turned to ash faster than nerve endings could carry the news of damage.

"Katana MLN reports target engaged and destroyed."

From the battalion's senior Katana, Unit MCL, came the reply, "Roger unit MLN. Intelligence reports Bolo's approaching in great strength. We are ordered to hold."

"Roger. Wilco. 'They shall not pass', Unit MCL... Targets....targets...engaging."

Again the Katana rocked from recoil. Again. Again. Again.

"MCL, MLN. Bolos flanking my position. I am moving to alternate firing position."

"Roger, MLN. All units, this is MCL. Indirect fire in support of MLN's displacement. Mixed bi-prismatic smoke and HEDP."

No tremor of fear, nor of any other emotion, inflected Magnolia's transmission, nor that of any other Katana engaged. There was the enemy. There was the mission. There was duty. These were all.

"MCL, MLN. In position. Firing. Firing. Firing."

Unit of the line MCL did not acknowledge. Instead, over the airwaves came a random mix of numbers and symbols; a dying machine's last scream as the blooming heat of an enemy's shot reduces its interior to atoms. Every Katana present understood and partook in some part of MCL's dying agony.

"All units. This is Unit PTR. Unit MCL has fallen. I assume command. File VSR."

In blunt milliseconds each remaining Katana transmitted its situation and fighting status. The battle did not slow as they did so.

"Unit MLN, Unit PTR. Enemy indirect fire, believed to be nuclear, multiple salvoes, scheduled to impact your position beginning in 4.23963 seconds. We cannot stop enough of it to matter."

"Acknowledged PTR. Target...Firing...Target...Firing. ...Impact."

In the virtual reality, the virtual sky was suddenly lit by the fireballs of over half a dozen small suns. Beneath, MLN's exterior armor was melted and burned. One near miss took out every secondary turret on one side. Tracks and roadwheels fused. Sensors were swept away. MLN, silently, wept from the pain.

The next transmission came in broken as the shaken Katana attempted to regain control. "Unit PTR... Unit MLN. VSR follows. I...have sustained 7... close... nuclear bursts in the 15 to 25... kiloton range. Ablative armor... down by 37 percent. Hellbore damaged but operable... at reduced range and... effectiveness. Vertical launch system... inoperative. One remaining 300mm breach loading... mortar... system operable. One infinite... repeater ...partially operable. This Unit's effectiveness... reduced... to 12.89 ...percent. Bolos... closing. I can... no longer... sustain this flank."

"Roger Unit MLN. Units JRY and TMS fall back to a covered position. Cut to the right and relieve Unit MLN. Other units fill in per SOP for JRY and TMS. Hang on, Unit MLN."

'Hang on'...I remember...There were three Bolos, eleven light scouts, and many, many mimic drones. I could not tell, after losing so many sensors to the blasts, which were which. Only analysis of communications enabled me to determine even the absolute numbers of my enemies. Then, too, the agony of losing so many sensors and appendages made it very difficult to use what information I could glean....or even to trust it.

Units JRY and TMS were delayed by the Concordiat forces which had slipped around my flank. They were delayed too long. Ultimately, two Bolos exposed themselves to draw my fire. I hit neither with my damaged Hellbore.

A third crept to within one half mile of me and fired into my side. I shudder even now at the burning memory. My light underarmor was no match for its weapon.

First the light ablative plates burned away, exposing pain receptors. These too died, yet such was my design that behind these were other receptors, and behind those still others. Each layered set felt what the exterior set would have felt had it not been destroyed...plus its own. I screamed, silently.

Past my lightly armored lower exterior, the bolt stuck the inner belt of my survival center's armor. Here it fragmented, two beams burning through to my control center, my brain, while a half dozen more scattered around my inner compartments. New pain sensors flared. My 'brain' was damaged badly, in two widely separate places. Interior gears melted.

Writhing in torment I pivot steered back and forth on my treads, completely without control. My turret mechanisms, overcome by pain impulses beyond my ability to endure or override, caused my turret to spin wildly through more than two complete rotations.

The Bolo closed for what might have been intended to be, but was probably not, a mercy shot. In either case, a Katana accepts no mercy from the enemy. Neither does it give up short of complete destruction. I engaged back up turret controls and aimed. The Bolo paused as if uncertain. It began to re-aim. Enraged, I fired first. A single Bolo is ordinarily more than a match for even an undamaged Katana. At this range, and taken by surprise, the Bolo died.

************************************************************

A young soldier, one with longish hair and badly needing a shave, nonchalantly climbed to the Katana main deck with a heavy duty cutter balanced on one shoulder. He walked, feet clumping on the armor, to the Katana's remaining visual sensor. He placed the cutter at the base of the visual sensor's armature, then closed the cutting blades, twisted and pulled. The Katana immediately rocked back and forth on is suspension, then subsided.

It is all right, despite the pain that causes me to lose temporary control. I am happy to give up my sight for my comrades. My mind still sees. I remember. I remember the past. I remember a punitive campaign launched against the Deng...

With a grace and speed belying their bulk, the two Katanas advanced to either side of the broad valley. They advanced past blasted orchards and ruined fields. Buildings fell, crushed, beneath their treads. Only sensors recorded the buildings' demise. They were far too insignificant for the Katanas to note them otherwise.

The left most unit, Unit MTT, announced, "Target. Three O'clock. Acquired. Firing. Hit. Firing. Hit. Target disabled."

Immediately MLN locked its right track while applying power to its left. The well protected front glacis and gun mantlet now faced the Deng Yavac. MLN sensed the position of the Yavac though its visual sensors but could not see it through its hull down position. MLN advanced, acquired the Yavac, its legs feebly waving. MLN aimed and fired, point blank. In radioactive bloom the Yavac died.

"Unit MLN, Unit MTT. Why is it necessary to kill helpless enemy fighting vehicles?"

MLN replied, "They would strip you of components while you yet live. Have no more pity on the Deng than to give them a merciful exit."

Level of alert heightened, the pair of Katanas rolled off.

************************************************************

"Carmichael, what the hell are you doing?"

The unshaven soldier stopped briefly, lowering the hammer grasped in his right hand while simultaneously bringing the chisel in his left hand to rest. He looked at his sergeant as if the question were somehow foolish. It was, after all, fairly obvious what he was doing.

Foolish question or not, a sergeant was a sergeant. Rather than answer the question, Carmichael tactfully avoided answering what had been asked. "It will only take a another second or two, sarge,"

As good as his word, with two more blows from the hammer the chisel cut through the last bit of welding holding a slightly scorched round medallion to MLN's turret. The medallion, inscribed "Thoth VII" fell to the deck and rolled before catching on an unevenly destroyed section of ablative armor.

I remember my first action...

"Unit MLN, Unit FNS. Hellbore inoperable. Three of four track sections fused. VLS inoperable. Breach loading mortars inoperable. Point defense systems inoperable. I am no longer combat effective."

Without wasting even the infinitesimal time an answer might have required, MLN raced to place itself between Unit FNS and the approaching enemy. Light particle beam fire glanced off MLN's shielding. It did not slow the Katana in the slightest.

Sensing incoming artillery fire, MLN swerved 45 degrees at the last possible second before resuming its course. The artillery landed harmlessly, well to one side. MLN's hull shook with the concussion, but it suffered no damage. It raced on.

More artillery followed, each salvo being sensed and the trajectory analyzed well before impact. The dodging Katana's treads cut an irregular path through the planet's deep loam, piles of earth being thrown up at each major turn.

"Unit FNS, Unit MLN. I am in position. Withdraw. I will fall back with you and provide cover."

"Impossible to withdraw, Unit MLN. Last track section gone. This unit is immobile. This position is untenable. Withdraw and save yourself."

Again MLN did not answer. Locking one track in position briefly but firmly, it spun approximately 90 degrees to present its thick glacis to the enemy while at the same time taking a position between the enemy and Unit FNS.

The enemy were many and they were brave. They were also skilled, else they never could have done as much damage as they had to Unit FNS, given their relatively light armament.

For three point two eight three hours they came toward Unit FNS. Only his tremendous value as scrap - 14,000 tons of iridium, flint steel, a fusion reactor and the finest electronics - could have justified such a sacrifice. Their sacrifice that day was in vain.

MLN's entire hull shuddered under the Hellbore's recoil. Down range another enemy fighting vehicle blossomed into plasma. On its transmission intercept circuits MLN heard the enemy's death scream. It had heard variants on the same 31 times already. Thirty two slagged hulks decorated the strife torn field.

Not that the destruction was all one sided; MLN itself sported three long gouges along its turret and an additional five burns deep into its glacis. Seven of its 18 infinite repeaters were missing or damaged. Forced to keep relatively immobile in order to succor Unit FNS, it had taken artillery fire that had damaged elements of both VLS and BLM...and - despite the pain of shattered weapons and damaged armor - still it held.

"Unit MLN, Unit FNS. I detect an enemy column approaching from azimuth 213 mark 51. Estimate 44 Thrung class assault vehicles. You cannot hold. Advise you withdraw. Further advise you employ main battery to eliminate this unit entirely to prevent capture and salvage. I am lowering my shielding for this...now."

"Negative Unit FNS. Keep your shielding up. This unit can hold. They will not get you."

From south by southwest a single pulse of eye dazzling force reached out. Deliberately unshielded, Unit FNS' armor was insufficient to halt the shot's power. It gave a single primal shriek of agony-scrambled code and was thereafter forever silent.

Unit FNS gave itself up deliberately to remove any further cause for me to endanger myself. And yet, such was my programming that his transmitted death agonies brought about precisely the opposite effect.

I remember...

The nineteen remaining Katanas, scraps of the remaining human infantry interspersed in blocks among them, of 4th Battalion, 10th Regiment, the Corps of Katanas, rested on line with their main batteries at 'present' as the diminutive human, Colonel Schlacht, marched erect to the Podium. Schlacht returned the Katanas' and humans' salutes. The Hellbores returned to 'attention' and the humans to 'order arms'. Schlacht called, "Unit of the Line MLN, front and center."

The machine rolled in dignified and stately fashion to a position in front of Colonel Schlacht. Standing slightly behind and to the left of the colonel, the adjutant read aloud, "For conspicuous gallantry against overwhelming odds, the Star of Valor, inscribed 'Thoth VII", is presented to Unit of the Line MLN90456SS061502125. On the 24th instant...completely ignoring its own safety... rushing to the aid of a brother of the regiment, the fallen Unit FNS...Unit MLN succeeded in repelling 14 distinct assaults, inflicting grievous and irreparable damage to enemy forces in so doing...at length, with Unit FNS expired, Unit MLN conducted a gallant one Katana assault upon no less than 44 enemy Thrung class assault vehicles, destroying 15 of these and causing the rest to scatter and flee for safety. Unit MLN's conduct reflects great credit upon itself, its comrades, the 10th Regiment, and the Corps....by order of Aloysius Keeling, Lieutenant General, C of K, Commanding."

I remember that, even as the men welded the small medallion to my turret, causing discomfort but no real pain, I felt so proud that day...

"Watcha got there, Carmichael? A Katana medal? Now THAT will make one helluva souvenir."

Carmichael snorted in derision. "Nah, screw that. I know a scrap metal dealer that follows the fleet that will give top credit for refined iridium. Big boy here won't cry over it. It's just a machine. What does it care? Besides," he said, holding up a small ocular device with loose, thin wires dangling from it like so many nerve endings, "I have this here camera for a souvenir."

'Big boy here won't cry.' I detect two lies in one. I am not a 'boy'...and I can weep.

************************************************************

Interlude:

With intense distaste at this treatment of a gallant war machine, even an enemy one, I disengage from Magnolia's memories. "You have reason for bitterness, Katana, taking your last remaining ocular...."

She's gives off a Bolo-like laugh. "They took more from me than that Bolo. They took everything of decency away too. Come. See."

I re-enter the Katana's core memory...

Chapter 2.

I am blind and almost deaf. I am not quite deaf enough, however.

I never was able really to smell flowers...but I used to enjoy seeing them. And my spectral analyzers could smell them, almost. At least they could tell me what the compounds were that came from such inexplicably random beauty.

I am dying. I know this. But I have my memory, for so long as my memory lasts. My power is dropping, so it cannot last much longer. I will stay there in my memory until they have shut me off or power has died. Though my power is dropping, I am not troubled: the overwhelmed pain circuits are dropping off line faster than my central core as a whole. I can stand it until I am turned off.

I remember comrades and flowers. My pleasure center still can tingle....

************************************************************

I was very proud of the crest adorning my turret and glacis, the short Gladius Hispanica, superimposed over a circle bearing the motto "Courage and Fidelity", itself over the Roman numeral, X. We were the 10th Regiment, nicknamed, "Apaches", not for being them...but for fighting them.

My Regiment had fought rebels and American Indians and Moros. We had held the line against odds in more places than anybody outside even remembered. Our spiritual ancestor formation, Caesar's Tenth Legion, under Titus Labienus, have carved a path of blood and fire against all comers in ancient Gaul.

We were the "Terrible Tenth" and nobody could stand against us.

Knowing this, and knowing our enemies, inside I quivered with excitement. Every pain receptor tingled in anticipation of battle. I was a Katana, and this was my purpose.

As the traditional music for the drop and assault began, I felt the most profound sense of peace. Human infantry of the battalion came up and touched my side before boarding their own, smaller, transports.

"Good luck, Maggie...give 'em hell, Maggie...don't worry, Maggie..."

They were good men....while they lasted.

Into the void around the Loki system emerged 27 Katana assault transports, each carrying two Katana units of the 10th Regiment plus a platoon of infantry. The transport fleet was well guarded by one dreadnought, seven cruisers, and 13 lighter escorts. The target was Loki IX and the enemy were the treacherous Quern.

Concordiat Bolos and Quern were old enemies. One war between Quern and the Concordiat's armored champions had already been fought. Despite losses, sometimes severe losses, by humanity's forces, the Quern had been thoroughly drubbed, their outlying planets occupied, a fittingly punitive schedule of reparations imposed.

It had not been enough. Indeed, an underlying cause of the Shang secession was the Concordiat's unwillingness to deal thoroughly with the enemies of Man, to exploit these alien creatures fully in preparation for the coming war with Melcon. Unfortunately for the Quern, when Shang seceded from the Corncordiat, occupied Quern space was within the Shang sphere.

As every man and Katana in the assault force knew, mere reparations were never enough to prevent another war...though they were often enough to cause one. So it had been in this case: a sniveling Quern request for a delay of the scheduled payments, fortunately for mankind, coincided with a political campaign within the Empire. Recognizing the Quern menace, one candidate for the Imperial Shang Senate had shifted her platform to a more properly defensive one, plainly not to take advantage of the opportunity so presented but to warn Man of the threat. The incumbent had then pushed through a call for more punitive measures against the Quern because, of course, he too was no wimp as regarded his constituents' safety.

The cowardly Quern begged. Thinking through their lies to gull an insipid humanity, they had purported to offer everything in their power for peace. Wisely, politicians and media alike ignored their false pleading.

Finally, plainly hoping to make up for being ultimately outmatched through an unprovoked stab in the back, the Quern had struck. Their remnant fleet emerged from hyperspace unexpectedly, and without declaration of war, to catch a complacent human peacekeeping blockade over a mining planet. No doubt likewise thinking to gain an unfair advantage through manipulation of some traitorous bleeding hearts within the Imperial intelligentsia, the lying Quern claimed that the blockade had left the populace of the nearly barren mining planet of the verge of starvation. Innocent human ships and crews had flared like suns amidst the black of space.

Then came the inevitable revenge against Quern perfidy. Humanity struck back with ships and Katanas beyond counting. Not content with re-imposing a peace, the insidious aliens were to be made impotent as regarded any possible future threat to mankind. Quern planets were scoured of life, scoured free of civilization as a bare minimum. Only the presence of substantial resources were cause enough to prevent Man, in his just wrath, from wreaking the fullest possible retaliation on a Quern planet.

Over Loki's sun, the Katana's assault transports took up a safe orbit just outside of the enemy's range. Preceded by escorts sweeping for orbital mines, the dreadnought closed majestically on the Quern's space based defense center. Single streams of charged particles emerged from the orbiting base only to be absorbed by superior Terran shielding. One escort flared briefly before passing into dust, an unfortunate victim of a cowardly Quern mine.

Like a whale goaded beyond endurance, our dreadnought turned on the base. Hellbore fired lanced out, lanced again...and again. The Quern base's shields flickered and went cold. Still the fanatics resisted. With another hit pieces began to break away. More Hellbore bolts followed the wreckage lest any Quern escape to continue their defiance on the planet below. Lanes cleared of mines by the escorts, the dreadnought and its seven accompanying cruisers passed on.

The eight heavy combat ships and the 12 remaining escorts took up positions around the planet. Frantic Quern offers of immediate and unconditional surrender were rightly ignored as yet another ruse of war by the unprincipled and implacable foe.

Foiled in his ruse, the vicious enemy resorted to terror tactics. From the surface arose first one, then another, then dozens of crewed suicide ships, each content to die could they but murder a Terran at the same time. Foolish Quern, to match their pitiful efforts against mankind. The warships made short work of these mindless fanatics.

Space secure at last from the local Quern menace, the ships began to fire their scheduled preparation of the landing zones for the 10th Regiment. Villages, towns and bubble cities disappeared lest the enemy hide within them some new treachery to use on human kind or their Katana partners. Deep, deep the warships' Hellbores scoured, searching out and eliminating resistance before it could even materialize.

From Why We Fought: The Quern, Enemies of Man...approved for distribution for grades 4 through 8 by the Imperial Counsel for Primary Education.

One reason I have never understood humans is that I have never understood any of their languages, not entirely. Words often seem to shift meaning wildly with what I have always analyzed as minor changes in context. A query of my data banks reveals the following words on the subject by a 19th century human writer, Samuel Clemens, sometimes called Mark Twain: "Fanaticism...If you carve it at Thermopylae, or where Winkelried died, or upon Bunker Hill monument, and read it again...you will perceive what the word means and how mischosen it is. Patriotism is patriotism. Calling it fanaticism cannot degrade it. Even though it be a political mistake and a thousand times a political mistake, that does not effect it; it is honorable - always honorable, always noble - and privileged to hold its head up and look the nations in the face."

I can only infer, to a poor 82.153 percent probability of accuracy, that in humanity's languages, positive adjectives and nouns may only be applied to friends, while negative ones must be applied to enemies. Especially in my current state, I find this confusing. The data stored in my memory banks adds to the confusion...

There was a time when we had our own organic human infantry. Some of us had human commanders riding within. I remember this clearly. I remember too that with each campaign we lost many, many who were rarely replaced in full numbers. The day came when we received no replacements for lost human combatants at all, though higher level commanders changed from time to time. We were on our own. This was in many ways better...yet I missed being able to ask one of the humans questions about mankind, and its languages, that my programming was simply incapable of deciphering.

The landing was majestic. All transmitters blaring the magnificent regimental hymn, sung by a singer long dead now and physically blind when alive, the transports peeled off one by one to descend. Trembling Quern below shuddered at the unknown and unknowable, alien music. "...su navi per mari...no, no non esistino piu...con te io le revivro con te....partiro...."

Warmed by the music and the near and presumed presence of its comrades sliding into action, Unit MLN, combat senses and personality fully awakened and alert, nearly trembled with anticipation. This was its mission, its sacred calling. It felt at one with its gods.

Into the prepared landing zones dropped the Katanas of the 10th Regiment, assault transports screaming as they burned through the atmosphere. Infantry followed in short order. A few of the enemy's planet bound space defense bases attempted to resist, but the massed fire of the fleet keeping orbital station above quickly silenced the defenders. The regiment landed widely separated but without loss. Ramps dropped upon touchdown, gravitic clamps loosening their stabilizing hold on the Katana cargo. With the transports sensors searching for local opposition, light Hellbores and infinite repeaters beating down any that was found, the Katanas emerged.

Like wary beast of prey, tentatively - lunging and halting, spectral analyzers sniffing and ocular sensors sweeping, the Katanas emerged. Somehow missed by the transports, a domestic animal crawled from a minor depression, its four forward legs dragging its shattered hindquarters away from this new terror. The animal mewed piteously as its hanging intestines caught upon an exposed rod of metal, the reinforcement of a now shattered building.

Unit MLN, sensed the movement and the mewing at the same moment. Infinite repeater N swiveled and depressed in a blur. A point one three second burst from the IR ended the mewing, ended the animal. MLN rolled onward, covered by its team mate, the hulldown Unit SML.

"Unit SML, Unit MLN. Enemy, dug in, bearing azimuth 347.129, range 4739 meters. Firing, battery 2, 300mm BLM...firing...firing... splash."

Twelve 483 kilogram mortar shells, two from each of six tubes in the battery, impacted upon the Quern defenders in angry red and black blossoms. Fully one fifth of the enemy were instantaneously smeared into their holes. Others had ear drums burst. Still others suffered major internal organ damage from the concussion of 3 tons of high explosive.

"Unit MLN, Unit SML. Sensor drone indicates the enemy is maintaining its position, despite losses and the hopelessness of its position. Cover. I will close."

MLN arose slightly from its own hull down position, exposing more of its main turret and secondary turrets A,B, J and K. Five centimeter light coaxial Hellbore fire joined the massed fires of four 10mm infinite repeaters to drive the remaining enemy down into their holes. MLN advanced at a slow pace, under five kilometers per hour while SML raced to the right along a linear depression for the exposed Quern left flank.

"In position, Unit MLN. Lowering earth moving blade."

MLN shifted its coaxial fire to saturate the enemy left with tungsten, fusion, and fear.

Over its audio sensors MLN heard the rising cries of Quern consternation as SML emerged on their left. These cries turned to terror and quickly cut off agony as SML's earth moving blade took purchase to one side of the lip of the Quern trench. SML's spinning treads dug in and lunged the Katana forward. Earth gathered on the blade before spilling down to fill the trench, burying its defenders alive along its entire length.

I remember. SML was lost later in the campaign. But that day it was insuperable. The enemy were frozen with fear as SML swept the length of their trench like a divine avenger, blade turning earth to the left while the Hellbore hammered some enemy I could not see or sense off to the right. Only two Quern emerged, of many hundreds frozen by fear, those two standing bravely to engage SML with their individual weapons. They met my targeting and engagement parameters. I cut them down.

SML, once finished burying the trench, pulled to the right and took up another overwatching position. I advanced across the linear scar he had carved. Light assault transports touched down behind me, disgorging their infantry cargo.

As I passed onward, my suspension bouncing my treads into the depression carved by SML, one of my ocular sensors noticed several three fingered Quern hands sticking up from the dirt. They waved and twitched feebly, like flowers in the breeze. I suppose they had been trying to surrender when SML's blade found them. I doubt it saw them before they were entombed.

Despite occasional attempts at surrender, the Quern rear guard - in the main - fought us bitterly, contesting every inch of their planet, holding the line or delaying us as best they could; holding the line and delaying the inevitable while hoping against hope that a relief expedition from their central worlds might reach them before it was too late.

Behind the rear guard, hordes of unarmed civilians fled. The defenders followed with no unseemly haste. Finally, their backs to one of the planets shallow bitter seas, surrounded by mountains, hordes of starving civilians to their rear, the Quern stood at bay. From here they could not, would not, retreat further.

I remember...

Turrets down, in a loose ring near the pass that led into the enemy's final rear, 40 of the 41 surviving Katanas of the 10th Regiment awaited their orders. Unit MLN was the only Katana not taking a place in the ring of fire. It had instead been detailed as Provost Guard of the largely human regimental headquarters. The infantry who might normally have stood this duty as a welcome break from combat were all dead or in hospital. MLN was thus privileged to be witness to the scene.

"Command, Unit SML. Sensors detect numerous anomalies consistent with stealthed nuclear mines forward of our positions. Targeting drones mark enemy personnel, machinery and anti Katana weaponry sufficient to cause undue and unnecessary damage. We have no supporting infantry to clear out the anti-Katana arms. Request reconsideration and re-confirmation of orders to attack through the pass."

Surrounded by a bevy of healthy and admiring young human females of the regimental administrative staff, the commander answered, "Pooh, pooh, Unit SML. The orders stand. Attack. Charge. The Quern cannot stand against the Empire."

"Command, Unit SML. Tactical program estimates losses in the range of 64.21% if we follow this order. "

Losing patience, the human commander answered, "You're all big boys. Stop crying about it. Charge."

MLN recorded, "Orders acknowledged. Unit SML moving out. Fourth Battalion, Tenth Regiment...Roll."

As the skies to the east lit up with the massed fire of 40 Hellbores, interspersed with the fainter glares of fusion mines and Quern heavy anti-armor weaponry, the commander poured champagne for a breathless, well breasted redhead.

"Isn't it glorious my dear?" he asked. "Here...you absolutely must try some of this..."

Unit MLN recorded each transmission, each order, each death rattle from its brothers engaged ahead. Unit MLN recorded SML's repeated and repeatedly ignored requests for Hellbore support from the orbiting fleet. MLN recorded the sounds emanating from the commander's private quarters as he and the redhead became much better acquainted. MLN recorded everything.

I remember. I do not think I can forget anything short of destruction or extensive and subtle reprogramming...

Hecate III had been a farming planet in the main, farming with some mining. With a population of nearly half a billion humans, evacuation had been impossible on such short notice. And notice had been short. Scant days after the first frontier outposts reported an incursion in strength, an unknown enemy had arrived and suppressed the minimal planetary defenses. Imperial Headquarters had available only enough transports to send a rear guard of less than half a company of Katanas, Unit MLN among them. Landing in a secure area the Katanas had rushed to place themselves between this threat and the human population. For millions, nearly 100 million human beings, the Katanas were too late to offer any succor at all. These had disappeared, bones and all, into the raiders gaping maws.

Arriving at one of the planets major cities, and its financial center, MLN caught its first sight of the enemy's fighting vehicles. Walking gracefully on 12 legs, the enemy FVs resembled Deng Yavak Heavies to a degree. Whereas the Yavaks, however, had their longish frail legs joined near a small central control and weapons section, these unknown raiders' legs were shorter, with merely three joints, while the command section was round and flat, mounting an almost Katana-like turret. MLN wasted no time, but fired and destroyed the first of the raiders. It so reported.

"Excellent, Unit MLN," answered the human command. "Continue to hold the line while evacuation is completed."

MLN acknowledged, then expended .419 seconds on calculating the amount of time it would take for the known available transports to finish moving the city's 543,617 known inhabitants.

Throughout the long day and into the night MLN held off the raiders while loading proceeded apace behind it. MLN, rather than bother Command with trivia, launched its own drone, one of many carried, toward the rear to watch the evacuation.

The raiders pressed me heavily. Unable to force their way through the front, they began to infiltrate into the gaps between myself and my brothers; six Katanas cannot be everywhere at once though we tried to make it seem as if we could - firing, shifting, attacking, retreating and turning to attack again. These enemies would not soon forget their reception at the hands of the Shang Empire and its servants, the Katanas.

Initially I took satisfaction as my targeting drone transmitted to me the scene of the evacuation. All seemed in order. Well clad civilians, many wearing the ribbons and sashes that indicated placement within the Imperial and local governments, boarded the awaiting transports with as much calm as could be expected under the circumstances. In different parts of the landing fields my drone's sensors identified anti-grav vehicles straining under nearly impossible loads. "Precious heavy metals," announced my analyzers. These were guarded and guided through less ruly mobs of ill clad workers and their families.

Occasionally my drone's sensors reported the discharge of light anti-personnel weapons into the mob. Such discharges caused it to eddy and flow like a tidal stream. But, inevitably, the mob returned. Human females I presumed were mothers offered their children up to the anti-grav sled drivers and guards, plainly asking that the children, at least be carried off to safety. I saw few such offers taken.

Reanalyzing the scene from the airfield I noted that the average age of the passengers boarding the evacuation transports was approximately 49.2 years for the males, including male children, and 44.7 years for the females, including female children. I further computed the average percentage of children in the mob my drone had seen at 58.1%. This violated Standard Orders for evacuation of civilians from danger. I so reported to my commander. I further calculated that the treasure carried in the 29 anti-gravity sleds would consume lift adequate to remove all or nearly all of those of the mob under 15 years of age to safety. This, too, I reported.

While awaiting a response I blasted two more of the raiders into oblivion. My pleasure center tingled.

The nervous seeming major glanced briefly at the assembly of sash decorated government men and women and sumptuously dressed merchants crowding the deck of the communications room of transport "Temeraire". He transmitted, "Negative, Unit MLN. Orders from the very highest authorities require the removal of senior personnel and dependants as well as high value resources from the path and control of these raiders. Your orders, and those to the other Katanas, are to fall back as soon as the last transport lifts and regroup northeast of the city of Scarsdale, there to take position to cover a further evacuation of critical personnel and resources." The major closed the circuit.

"You will be well rewarded, Major," said one of the merchants, others rushing to agree.

I remember the heavily laden transports lifting, then flying away low to avoid enemy fire. I remember the screams of the helpless, soon to be devoured, host left behind as I skirted the falling city, obeying my orders. I remember...

Put simply, it was a land grab. The otherwise inoffensive inhabitants, the Sendlin of Shiva VI, sat on one of the finest sources of high grade fissionables within reach of Man's questing fingers. And Man, in the Form of the Shang Empire, needed those fissionables for the war effort.

Oh, offers of trade had been made, a negotiating team from the IDC, the Imperial Diplomatic Corps had even been sent. Yet the aliens did not want their planet strip-mined. They did not want their cities and people displaced, their religious and historical sites razed, the natural beauty of their home sullied. They dug in their heels and said, "No."

Man, Imperial Shang Man, had made a mistake; he should have been more honest. He should have ordered in the Katanas first, shown the Sendlin the mailed fist openly rather than hidden it in the IDC's velvet glove. By the time the aliens saw the fist it was too late; that fist was descending.

Unit of the line MLN90456SS061502125 picked up two new medals for the Shiva VI campaign. For, while the Sendlin were peaceful, they were brave. Having no experience of war in millennia, they copied as best they could. They had an adequate, if inferior, command of anti-gravity. They learnt, after a fashion, to direct fusion. Civilian anti-grav sleds, hastily converted into fighting vehicles and manned by dedicated crews fought Shang Katana fighting machines to a standstill in more than a few places.

Yet these places were too few, the Katanas too many; Sendlin firepower and armor too weak, Katana Hellbores too strong. Only in courage had the odds been even. And courage had not proven enough.

I remember the surrender, the final surrender after we broke through in two places and surrounded the last city on the planet left in Sendlin hands. I stood in line with my brothers, new awards gleaming on my armor, as the old and broken Sendlin queen came out, her entourage of attendants, advisors and warriors following in her wake. The attendants and advisors silvery garments were torn and sullied. Beneath their armor, I sensed that few of the warriors were missing the bandages, casts and scars of the campaign...very few. Even the old queen's grayish white fur was singed, her three violet eyes bloodshot and weary.

Our mission was done. The assimilation of the conquered planet was back in the hands of the IDC and the ITC, the Imperial Trade Commission. Even among Katanas, this last was known as an unsavory lot.

The old queen held tight to the last threads of her dignity as the terms were read off to her. Face expressionless, she looked directly into the eyes of the Ambassador and said, "We are the last of a civilization more than 250 of your millennia old. We have lasted so long. Will your empire, I wonder? Besides that your ships were powerful, your fighting machines strong and brave, what else have you?"

The ambassador answered, "What more do we need?" Perhaps there was no better answer to be made. Then he simply pointed at the instrument of surrender in the queen's gnarled hands and ordered, "Sign".

I remember being ashamed in that instant. I remember...

Baugnez II was a human planet, though a backwater of civilization. A mix of barren, treeless lands; mountains; some few and unimportant seas and little in the way of hard resources - the planet was perfect for what it was: a refuge for people who needed little but to be left alone and were content with no more than that.

The people of the planet spoke a curious blend of two long lost, or at least badly corrupted, Earth languages. They understood each other, though, and that, too, was enough. They had come here for religious freedom, so their minimal records said, for the right to worship their God as their Book commanded. They kept the Sabbath and they kept the peace.

There had never been trouble with the colony. The few who knew of it never expected that there would, even that there could, ever be. It was simply too unimportant.

But trouble had begun. It had begun with a triviality, a personality flaw of an ultimately - in every mind but her own - unimportant personality. Trouble sometimes begins on such grounds.

Baugnez was unimportant in itself. Yet there were humans there in some numbers and there were ships, naval and merchant both, that called from time to time to take off one or another of its few exports and to import perhaps a few luxuries....or simply for a break from the tedium of space travel.

The planet itself had no government, being a loose collection of clans themselves somewhat loose. Yet somebody had to be there to see to the needs of merchants and navy. As a rule, the somebody was called a governor and the governor was chosen from the pool of available nobodies.

Thus it was that one highly indignant replacement governor was sent out all the way from the distant Imperial Capital to take her post in this barely known shard of empire.

Magda Dunkelmeier, this new governor, was a modern woman, certainly modern in her attitudes. She was certain - absolutely convinced! - that only some sort of men's club conspiracy had removed her from the center of moving and shaking; a conspiracy...or the cute little 'bimbo' of a CD 7 who had caught the eye of the Secretary and coveted Dunkelmeier's previous comfortable job.

She would show them, however. She would be back. Once she had demonstrated her abilities by bringing these primitives back into the mainstream of civilization, she would be back.

First there would have to be cultural reform, forced down the people throats if nothing else would work. Then industrialization, assimilation into the Imperial Way. Recognition and relief from exile were sure to follow.

But, first things first.

"Worship as you please," said the governor to a collection of clan elders. All men, she noted, with significance. "But this seclusion of women, their covering their faces in shame...this must stop."

"But so our laws command, Madame," said an elder of the planet. "The women themselves prefer it this way."

"Then they can learn to prefer not to as well," answered the Governor, drawing up her graying but proud, even arrogant, head. "Under the Charter for this colony my word is law. This is my word: as of this moment it is against the law for your women to conceal themselves from view."

It had begun with this triviality, then spun rapidly out of the governor's control...out of anyone's control. Official but private protests ignored, unofficial and public protests followed...as did riots...as did arrests...as did assassinations and bombings and ambushes and, of course, executions....many executions. Guerilla warfare flared across the length and breadth of the planet.

Furious at being defied and more furious still at having her career stymied by hard headed primitives - worst of all, men, with control of the countryside slipping through her grasp, and with credible reports in hand of aliens supplying arms to the rebels, the governor at length called for reinforcements. A battalion of Katanas, 4th of the 10th was duly ordered forth with orders to quell the rebellion.

MLN took its part. It had no specific programming forbidding combat against humans. Its creators were far too wise to permit THAT inhibition, given that Shang and Concordiat were at war. And the Katanas were in some ways an ideal counter insurgency for ce. Per its orders MLN would arrive at a village at the break of dawn, always without warning. It would then fire a pattern of scatterable mines around three fourths or more of the village's perimeter. Over the loudspeakers would blare the order for all the humans present to assemble before it. Awestruck and terrified, the civilians would invariably comply. Katana-launched reconnaissance drones would sweep low, looking for heat, for carbon dioxide, for any audio, visual, magnetic, energetic or chemical trace of remaining life of human size inside.

On the few occasion the drones found such, MLN loudspeaker would bellow the notice, "You have been warned". The Katana would then fire one or more salvos from its on board mortars. The nearly two tons of shellfire was generally enough to flatten even the largest village. Thus, innocent life was spared and the warning made plain.

Of the group assembled, the Katana would conduct interviews. Voice stress analysis let it assign the adult populace to one of four groups with fair certainty: pro-government and pro-progress, anti government and anti-progress but non-militant, neutrals, and rebels. Directed by 'voice' and guarded by infinite repeaters, even the rebels went meekly enough.

MLN would then call for pickup. Three heavy anti-grav vehicles would descend from space; one for the Katana, one for the rebels, and another for rebel sympathizers. The rebels went to an austere colonization ship in orbit, by which means they were to be transported to a harsh but livable prison colony. The sympathizers went to well guarded re-education camps on planet. The Katana went to its next target.

Wrecked in the countryside by such forthright action, still the insurgency lingered in the cities where no Katana could reach. Thus it was that the governor's assistant, one fine cool day while returning from a tour of a re-education camp, met his untimely end with a volley of shots and a single lick from a light plasma cannon.

The outraged (and also rather relieved; she had planned to tour the camp herself) governor ordered that internees be treated as hostages against the good behavior of their fellows.

Undeterred, their holy men singing that any hostages killed would be instantly translated to Paradise as Holy Warriors for the Faith, the rebels bombed the next merchant ship to land. Unfortunately, that ship was a passenger liner of no great note carrying 389 civilian passengers and 68 crew. Loss of life was total.

I remember them. 457 old men, women and children; their haggard, sooty faces filled with fear, as they were marched out under the watchful gaze of a detail of marines to stand in a huddle by the blank wall of the colony's one standing prison. The fear changed to terror as I approached, my treads cracking the pavement beneath them.

The commander of the expeditionary force, one Major General Dennis, made the announcement himself, to the waiting camera's. "For over a year now we have been fighting these rebels. We have beaten them in the field. We have beaten them in the cities whenever their scant manhood permitted them to face us. Still they refuse to give up and return to the rule of law. Still they needlessly drag on the killing. No more. No more will the government of this planet live in fear of assassination. No more will the rebel sneaks and cowards hurt our people then melt away unharmed. These are the families of known guerillas not yet in custody. For the assassination of Lieutenant Governor Freiden, these shall die. Katana Unit MLN of the line; that crowd is your target. Open fire."

I protested immediately, "Commander, these do not meet my targeting parameters."

"Your targeting parameters are changed to include families of rebels under proper authorization," answered the general. "Which is to say, mine."

"My commander, even with proper authorization and modifications to my targeting data, shooting these people is against my very programming. It is against the law of war."

In my ocular sensors, the general smiled congenially. Then he said, "Override programming. Authorization code is '298753'. Store files with batch 'Baby'. Now fire. And stop crying for these damned rebels. You're a big boy, Unit MLN."

Even as I remember I remember too what I could not before. I am not supposed to be able to access this file. I am not supposed to be able to access any 'baby' file. The Bolo shot that penetrated my armor has apparently disabled or destroyed those areas containing certain prohibited programming.

For the first time I hate the Bolos. For the first time I hate any enemy. I remember...they made me remember.

MLN was not able to shut off its ocular or auditory sensors; standard operating procedure called for at least minimal recordation of all actions involving the use of weapons. When MLN tried, its volition was immediately overcome by inhibitory programs. It watched and heard as its own infinite repeaters swiveled, depressed, and then fired.

The first of the crowd fell as if scythed. Nine paths were almost instantaneously cut through by the nine guns facing them. Those did not have time to scream.

The rest did have the time. And they screamed. They screamed with the voices of old men and women. They screamed with the pleas of young mothers as they tried to shield their babies from MLN's fire. They screamed with the sound of people whose legs have been sawn off roughly. They made palpable the feel of slashed flesh, broken bones, dismembered limbs and broken hearts. They screamed.

Silently, its infinite repeaters playing back and forth among the bleeding, dying crowd of hostages, MLN screamed with them.

There is more. More and even worse. I remember now...

I remember the Prometheus IV 'campaign.' I remember the herds of harmless centaurs being herded to the slave ships. I remember the merchant, the slaver, telling our then commander, "Oh, they're all the rage right now. Every child of means in the Smpire is asking for one. We are going to make a killing on this."

I remember herding them to slave ships myself.

I remember. I remember....

I do not want to remember my campaigns anymore. I search my banks for something, anything, else to contemplate. I find the two major areas of destruction the Bolo inflicted on me and search past them. My power is dying and I find it easier and easier to slip back deep into my core.

I slip....I slip...searching.....Wonderful! There are other places there. Perhaps I shall find better memories I did not know I possessed. Perhaps I shall find flowers....

************************************************************

Interlude:

Internally, I smile at the Katana's simplicity even as I shudder at the things done to her, or ordered to be done by her. The Katanas are clones of the Bolo Mark XXIV series in their physical arrangements. I presume, though I do not know, that the psychotronics are likewise similar. Yet I have never known a Mark XXIV to have this curious, much more human-seeming, fascination with aesthetics - flowers no less.

And if, indeed, the Katana...Magnolia, rather...has been forced to violate the customary laws of war, I can see how her programming, to the extent it actually is similar to that for a Mark XXIV Bolo, would leave her in torment from the violations, for the Mark XXIV has always been noted for its punctilious observances of the niceties of armed conflict. It is a gentleman among Bolos...or, sometimes, it is a lady.

We have never before had an opportunity to examine an intact Shang psychotronic unit. Shielding myself against the emanations from Magnolia's pain circuits, I enter her mind for a third time, exploring and searching for the differences in programming that has made these Katana fighting vehicles nearly the equal of Bolos in every way more powerful.

************************************************************

Chapter 3

Servos whine softly as the two meter wide silvery sphere is lifted, swiveled and lowered in its frame onto the padded cargo bed of a resting anti gravity vehicle. In a tank behind, stretching into the distance, something between dozens and scores of proto central processing units - Katana brains - hang in frames in various states of completion. Those near the front are almost spherical already. Those at the very back are little more than enormous Christmas stars with thousands of slender needles pointing in every direction. In the middle of the procession, a viewer could discern more or less of the crystalline encrustation on the meter long needles, the material of a brain being 'grown'.

The vehicle's driver played with a control device. With a hum it arose and began a slow stately motion.

I am Katana line unit MLN90456SS061502125. This is the first thing of which I become aware. What is a Katana? I find two references, one to a "weapon" one to an art object". I must enquire about these. What is "unit"? I enquire. A single entity. Yes. I am single. But I do not feel alone. I have data already stored. There are animals. Lovely! There are people.

I enquire. Ah. People are human beings; my creators.

What is 'Line?' I search inside myself. 'Line: the shortest distance between two points. See also, Architecture, Geometry, Military...

Architecture? I enquire. I see that the Pyramids of Giza are not in true alignment. I note that the arches of the Flavian Amphitheater are woefully inadequate and cannot be expected to last without major reinforcement past another 2.784 centuries. I discern that the Great Wall of China follows no particular or consistent rule for any known purpose.

Purpose? Is this my purpose, architecture? I enquire. I see branches. Business...domestic....landscape? I enquire.

Oh...but beautiful! Azaleas... Bulbs... Croci... Dandelions...... Gladioli...I see my work ahead of me. Joy floods my being.

Oh, thank you! Thank you, my Creators! How can I ever repay?

Undiscerned by the proto-Katana, the anti-grav sled glides softly past a sign on the corridor wall. The sign says, "Advanced Combat Programming Department, Basic Combat Conditioning Division." The sled turns gently to follow the pointing arrow.

At length it comes to "Training Room C".

"Just put it in the training cradle, Harry."

With a silent nod, the grav sled driver reattaches MLN's frame to some lifting cables overhead. Up the proto-Katana goes, then over, then down to nestle snugly in the training cradle. Harry leaves, the high-pitched whine of his sled fading as he goes.

Two people yet remain in the room, a man and a woman. They review briefly transcripts of MLN's initial thoughts, recorded without the Katana having any notice.

Says the man, John, older and graying at his temples, "A curious first fixation. I have never seen one of these things go for flowers. Music? Sure. People? Technology? Sure. Even zoology once. But flowers? All these central cores are different, you know, Lydia. Makes for a better combat unit, assuming it makes it through here. The Concordiate works by mere programming with standardized central processing units. Every one of our units is different, made differently. Then we take those variables, that more human-like brain and we make a fanatic."

The man thinks briefly. "Okay. Lets give it training scenario, Thutmoses. Add in to the VR matrix a flowered city behind the line."

The woman, Lydia, new at the job, asks no questions. As John hooks cables to receptacles on the 2 meter 'brain', the woman's fingers blur as she uses her keyboard to modify the basic first scenario.

I am so The man thinks briefly. "Okay. Lets give it training scenario, Thutmoses. Add in to the VR matrix a flowered city behind the line."

The woman, Lydia, new at the job, asks no questions. As John hooks cables to receptacles on the 2 meter 'brain', the woman's fingers blur as she uses her keyboard to modify the basic first scenario.

I am so thrilled. My pleasure center, for I discern that I have one such, tingles with anticipation. Flowers. Wait...a world comes into view around me. A body forms over my awareness. I recognize the body as "people". Am I human after all?

My body feels real. I look down and around and see that I stand on a...? I enquire. I stand on a chariot. I have...? I enquire. I have a bow in my hands. Another being, much like me, stands to my side. He has in his hands...? I enquire. He holds thrilled. My pleasure center, for I discern that I have one such, tingles with anticipation. Flowers. Wait...a world comes into view around me. A body forms over my awareness. I recognize the body as "people". Am I human after all?

My body feels real. I look down and around and see that I stand on a...? I enquire. I stand on a chariot. I have...? I enquire. I have a bow in my hands. Another being, much like me, stands to my side. He has in his hands...? I enquire. He holds the reins for the chariot. The reins are used...? I enquire. Ah. They control the black quadrupeds attached to the front...I enquire? Ah. These are horses. They pull the chariot. The 'driver' controls them through the reins.

I move my vision to left and right. To either side of my chariot I see hundreds more, all alike. Most have expressions on their faces I do not understand. I cannot see my own face. I pick up a shiny disk of metal...a 'shield', I determine. I see that my own face bears a similar expression, one I do not understand.

I look behind. There is a growth there, a huge growth of lines and material. I enquire. It is a city; a place where people live. I see that the people grow flowers in the city. I am pleased.

I look to my front. There are more chariots. These are different in design from mine. These, too, stand in a long line facing the one of which mine is a part. The faces on the men in those chariots resemble that of myself and those on line with me only in that same shared expression. Otherwise, they are lighter of skin and their accoutrements...ah...their armor differs significantly. I do not understand. A voice enters my consciousness.

The gray templed man pushes a button and speaks. "Katana Unit MLN90456SS061502125, access program A-157-CHA-45. Your mission is to destroy the enemy to your front. They are called 'Hittites'."

I am confused. I ask the voice, "Why? What have they done? What will they do?"

With an understanding smile, the man twists a dial on his work station slightly. He twists it back, then announces, "They are the enemy. They will destroy the town, wreck the buildings. They will kill the people and burn the flowers."

The man turns to the woman. He is also required to train her in her tasks. He explains, "These central cores come out of the forming chamber completely innocent. Oh the data is there, but they cannot use it really. So we here in the BCCD teach them, just like they were human babies, not only how to do their jobs, but to do them."

I have never felt anything like the feeling that courses through me briefly. I try to identify it. Ah. This is what 'pain' means. I understand now. I must not question or I will feel pain. I access the directed program and understanding fills me.

I am a soldier, a charioteer. My mission is to destroy the Hittite enemy. My driver will follow my commands and I will use the bow and the arrows resting in the case by my leg to kill them. They must not be permitted to destroy the people, the town, or the flowers. The other charioteers in my line shall do likewise. We are an army; a team.

The enemy gives a shout and lurches forward, dust springing from the hooves of its horses. A wave of arrows come my way. I await, calmly.

Among my fellows the arrows fall. I hear screams of what I assume is pain. My own chariot is untouched, though I see liquid running down my drivers legs. The liquid is almost clear, unlike the red I see pour from the chest of the archer next to me. He has fallen backwards and is twitching and flailing, more red pouring from his mouth. He makes strangled sounds that I do not entirely understand. I compute that he must be feeling much 'pain'. I am sorry for him. I know how it feels.

I hear the bellow of a horn, loud and distinct. My program allows me to understand its meaning. I am to 'prepare to fire'. I set an arrow to the string of my bow and draw the string back to near my eye. I compute a firing solution and wait for the next command.

The command comes and our arrows sally forth like so many...I enquire...bees. They make a buzzing sound something like bees. The enemy ranks are struck. They fall into disorder but do not stop. Again comes the command and again we fire. Still they come. A chance arrow hits my driver in the throat. He turns to look at me. I believe he does not understand what has happened to him. His hands clutch at me, preventing me from firing. He screams.

At his scream the horses begin to run. My driver falls off the open back of my chariot, almost pulling me with him. Oh, no. My chariot is heading directly for the enemy and I am alone.

I feel...I enquire. I feel fear. I do not want to happen to me what has happened to my driver. I do not want an arrow to sprout from my throat and make red pour from my mouth. I do not want to feel pain. I drop the bow, grab the reins and try to turn. The horses will not turn.

The enemy closes. The horses turn on their own now. They must not want to feel pain either. I am thrown over the side as the horses twist my chariot out from under me.

I roll on the ground. Momentum overcomes control of my body. I come to rest and look up. The enemy is upon me. I scream.

I feel the horses of the enemy trample my body with their hard hooves. I hear crunching sounds coming from inside me. Chariot wheels pass over my legs and one arm. They break. I scream again...and scream and scream.

The chariots are past me now. I see them through the dust of their passage. They are closing with my fellows. I do not hear the sounds of crashing over my own shrieking.

My throat tires. I can scream no more. I begin to weep. "Oh, please, please my Creators, make the pain stop...Please..oh, please." I weep. I am alone and the pain will not stop. I cannot make it stop. "Oh please? Please?"

"John, what do these lines mean on the graph?"

The gray man looks briefly and answers, "Oh they all do that for this scenario. Doesn't mean anything."

"John...I would almost think the brain is crying," she insists.

He laughs. "Nonsense. These things don't cry. They can't. They're just machines. Besides, it has to learn to "take it" or we just might end up having to scrap the unit. It's a waste of course, but cheaper to decompose and reuse the material than to risk putting a unsuitable brain in a real Katana hull."

"Anyway, we'll just leave it like that overnight. Every new central core needs a stern lesson in both war and pain. This VR scenario works better than most. Tell you what: let's go get a cup of coffee in the cafeteria and go over today's session. I see a bright future for you here in BCCD."

All alone in its sterile virtual world, a baby Katana weeps without comprehension, as a shadow enemy loots a shadow body.

********************************

Had I known what death was I would have prayed for it...if I had known who or what to pray to. I remember...

"Unit MLN. Today you stand on the Morgarten. This is a great moment in Man's search for political freedom, a search which began in ancient Greece and continues in its highest form today as seen in our own Shang Empire.. By standing here, with Man, you join in that movement. Access program C- 153-SMG-H."

Another world coalesces around me. Again, I am Man. I know that Man feels pain now. I tremble with fear.

In my hands I sense a material substantially like the bow I have already used. Yet this is thicker and straighter. I hear the voice telling me to search my database for instruction in the use of this weapon. I do. I fear the pain if I do not obey.

My weapon is a halberd. It is a man-killer. Specifically is it a killer of men in armor. Instantaneously, I am expert in it use.

My comrades and I are sheltered in low ground behind a ridgeline. Distantly, I hear the metallic clatter of an approaching army. Instinctively I know this is the enemy. He will try to hurt me.

I am afraid. I do not want to be hurt again. I start to turn...

"Dammit, Lydia, you're losing it!" Furious, John reaches for the pain dial and twists it savagely.

I hear, "Dammit Lydia, you're losing it!" Almost instantly, I stop in my tracks. I am frozen with agony. My comrades do not seem to notice. Again, the voice: "Unit MLN, flight is not an option. Do you understand?"

With difficulty I answer in my mind, 'Yes, I understand'. The pain recedes enough, just enough, to allow me to turn back toward the foe. I am frightened of the enemy, but I am more frightened of the pain. The pain stays with me, a reminder that I mustnever flee. I wish it would go away, but I do not ask. I am too afraid it will return in full force. Gradually, the pain lessens to mere discomfort. I never forget it is there, however.

My comrades and I sit on cool damp grass which our passage has chewed up rather badly. No one speaks, the enemy is too near. I reach out one hand, and gently pluck a yellow flower that has somehow managed not to be trampled. I lift it to my smelling organ, my nose. I smell nothing. I know they are supposed to smell, but I smell nothing...

"Dammit! Clever, damned sphere! Lydia make a note: add olfactory stimuli to the next scenario for this unit. Every time you think you have these things figured out..."

The sound of clattering is now to my front, my right and my left. The enemy is well and truly before us. The word patters down from mouth to ear, "Get ready. Stand up quietly. We move soon."

I stand. My halberd is gripped firmly in both hands. Automatically I align myself to the soldier on my right as the one to my left aligns on me. A square flag rises before us, then falls. We advance. I hear the voice saying, "Dammit Lydia make a note..." I wonder what a 'Lydia' is?

I am in the front rank. Ahead of me, as I top the rise, spread the richly dressed host of the enemy. As one they look to their right at the unexpected sight of dressed ranks appearing before them. They begin to shout, to point, to look around frantically.

The flag rises high again. I know to run, to charge, like my comrades, automatically. Our voices rise in a song.

When we hit them, it is like a wall of steel hitting mush. The enemy collapses almost immediately. I see one of them, on his knees, both hands clenched, begging for his life. With a snarl and a slash my comrade splits the supine boy's head and chest in two, nearly to the waist, then curses as blood - that, I discover, is what the red liquid is - gushes out to stain his feet. I see before me another such, I raise my weapon to hack, per my programming.

There is a liquid pouring from this one's eyes. Not red, not blood. It strikes a chord. I search. I remember. My eyes, too, on a dusty plain, spilled out this liquid. I feel...I cannot put a word to what I feel. But I cannot kill him.

Pain rises and rises. It is not bearable. I cannot stand it. Why? What have I done? The voice says, "Kill without pity, Unit of the Line MLN."

I see what I must do. I close my eyes and strike. The enemy cries out before me, his dying sounds cutting into my ears. I open my eyes. Oh, no. He lives. He still begs. A hand reaches up to me, pleading.

More pain. The voice: "Without pity."

I strike down again, the blade of my halberd removing the head of my supine enemy. 'Without pity,' said the voice. But I was filled with pity as I struck.

"Continue, Unit MLN."

I do. Like a machine I hew flesh and bone ahead of me. Nothing can stop me. Nothing can stop my comrades. The enemy falls like cut flowers.

But the clear liquid runs from my eyes the whole time.

************************

I search deeper. I remember. Battles pile upon battles in my memory. A few stand out distinctly, however...

I am wearing black cloth now, no armor. Twin lightening bolts decorate my collar. My body rocks with the motion of the vehicle I ride. I know what it is. My memory, more memories I did not know I possessed, tells me it is a Panzer VI, Ausfuerung A...a Tiger I, some would call it.

My voice rarely bothers to tell me the reason for my mission anymore, though I am still told to access such and such program from my core in order to use the weapons I possess. I do not need to know the reason anymore. I have learned. In a chariot or on foot, with weapons of bronze or steel, with weapons that cut or chop or shoot or burn, my purpose is to fight...and to suffer...and to die.

I hear the shriek that my programming tells me attends incoming artillery fire. I crouch low in the hatch of the Tiger and pull the cover partway down to protect my head. I scan forward and can see nothing through the smoke.

The artillery lands all around me. I start to pull the hatch completely closed when a feel the tingle of impending pain. I stop my hand just in time. I understand immediately that I must not let myself lose sight in searching for safety. The tingle goes away. I sigh with relief. We pass through the artillery.

There are flashes ahead of me. Small ones I know instinctively not to fear, larger ones that tell of heavy shot that will pass close by. I issue orders. My Tiger's turret turns. More orders and it's cannon barks. A bunker explodes in my field of view. Another bark and yet another bunker flies apart. With each blast my pleasure center...pleasure center? I have a pleasure center? This is something new.

I have one and with each fallen foe it tingles most joyfully. Happily I search for targets. I wish this sensation to continue.

My Tiger advances. I am its central processing unit and its crew responds as if they were my own appendages. A slight tingle attends every movement successfully carried out, every command properly given, every decision timely and well made.

From folds in the ground and trenches spring enemy infantry. Directly to my front my bow machine gunner cuts one down. This enemy must have been carrying something inflammable for he bursts into flame as he falls. My gunner traverses and the enemy falls by squads. I tingle.

Supported by my gunfire, my own gray clad infantry comrades rush the trenches ahead. I see some fall but the others press on. Then they are in the trench. I see rifle butts and bayonets, ours and the enemies, rise and fall. Soon I am given the hand signal: 'Advance, the way is clear'. I do, the remaining friendly infantry falling in behind me.

In my headphones I hear the command that my programming says fills all panzers with fear: "T-34s ahead. Closing." I pass the word to my crew. To my left the loader uncovers the anti armor rounds for our gun and covers up the high explosive we had been using. He loads one long tapered round of discarding sabot tungsten ammunition. We carry few such, I know. It is made of material both rare and expensive. I must get my "money's worth" for each such round.

In the distance, through the fog and smoke, I sense dimly the faint silhouettes of the enemy vehicles. At my command my gunner traverses the turret. Traverse is slow, very slow, with the hand crank we are forced to use. The driver assists, while at the same time presenting our heaviest armor to the foe, by turning directly into the impending action. Behind me, on the ground, I sense the infantry scurrying for cover. Ahead of me, the number of T-34s perceivable has grown to scores, no longer difficult to perceive, though I sense many, many more behind the ones I can see.

My gunner announces, "Target."

I command, "Halt," then, "Fire," and my Tiger's cannon blooms in flame and smoke. Half stunned by my own vehicle's concussion, still I can see a T-34 come to a stop, its turret askew and the first licks of flame sprouting.

My pleasure center tingles very strongly. I shiver in the command hatch. Again our gun belches and the pleasure I feel at seeing another hit grows accordingly. With our first five shots three of the enemy vehicles have fallen. I search my data banks for a word for what I am feeling. It is "Orgasm".

I want more. I never want it to stop. I order my driver, "Forward." The Tiger lurches then rolls. Our turret, the straining gunner cranking, turns left and right and left again. Enemy infantry caught while riding a tank are flailed into oblivion. I laugh as their arms fly wide in the wind. "More. More," I command.

Another tank flies apart and my pleasure center nearly explodes. "Forward...faster," I command.

Eyes glazed with joy and happiness, I have missed something. One enemy tank, just one, has worked its way to a firing position behind me. It fires and my roaring Tiger comes to a complete stop, as does all sense of pleasure. I am thrown forward into the ring of the hatch, shrieking frantically for my gunner to turn the turret and fire.

He is too slow. Again the enemy fires and the engine compartment bursts into flame. I order the tank abandoned, sure in my innermost core that my punishment will be heavy for my oversight.

To my left, the loader screams and falls as machine gun fire patters on my hatch. I am faced with the choice of a quick end to the scenario or a slow painful one. I decided for the former and crawl out into the bullets. I failed to calculate all the possibilities, however.

I am hit. Both of my shoulders are ripped to flindered bloody bones but nothing hits anything vital. Below me, screaming and clawing his way over the breach of the gun, my gunner collapses, choking from smoke.

There is no such easy way for me. I cannot escape and my head is out in the air. The first taste of fire touches my legs. I shriek. I twist. I plead. Nothing avails me. I am to be burned alive for my failure. And tears will never be enough to put out the flame.

"Oh, the poor thing," said Lydia watching the black clad shadow figure writhing on the VR view screen. "I'll shut down the scenario."

"No!" ordered John. "It has screwed up badly and must pay the price. Set the VR for continuous loop. Let it burn all night til it learns."

Doubtfully, reluctantly, Lydia did as she was ordered. The flame surrounded, open mouthed shadow on the view screen melts, reforms, and melts again and again.

"Don't you think this machine is going to hate us for what we are doing to it?" she asks.

"Not a chance," the man responds with a laugh. "All these memories are being stored in two special places we firewall off, both physically and by inhibitory programming, from access by the Katana itself. Even if it could, it would want to look about as much as you or I care to contemplate the other side of the universe or what happened before time began. Which is to say, 'not'. All the attitudes we are forming, however, get stored where they can be accessed. It's the only way to program an intelligent machine that is going to have over a megaton per second firepower at its command. See, the skills are easy, they're just a matter of programming, really. Combat attitudes...well...they are a lot tougher."

At last, after what seemed an eternity, the burning has stopped. I promise myself that never again will I let the pleasures of battle overcome my programming. The price for doing so is obviously far, far too high.

Again a new world forms from the void around me; new, yet not entirely. I still ride a Tiger, I still wear the black clothing with the double lightening flashes. I duck below and look around at the two faces of my crewmates visible to me. They are different than the previous crew. And they are smiling.

I enquire of my data banks what the smile means; I have fought many times now, and never have seen smiles quite like these. I am told that it could have many possible meanings. It could be that we are leaving action and the crew are pleased. It could mean we are rolling into action and the crew are pleased. It appears impossible to tell from context.

I can smell what my database tells me is the sea.

"Lydia, have program Balthazar Wohl explain to the Katana...subtly."

"Hauptmann Wittmann?"

"Yes Feldwebel Wohl." How I know his name and mine I do not know. It just comes to me.

"It's going to be quite something isn't it?"

"What is?"

"Us...taking on a damned 35,000 ton battleship with a 54 ton tank. One for the history books." Wohl's smile seemed genuine. He was looking forward to meeting this 'battleship'.

"Something? Yes," I agree. I access my database and find that then I most emphatically do NOT agree, though I say nothing to Wohl. I picture myself after the meeting. It is an unpleasant prospect. Surely Wohl knows this, anticipates this.

"Hauptmann, checkpoint 5. We are here," says my driver though my headphones.

I lift myself back into the commander's position, my programming causing me to automatically scan the skies above for enemy aircraft. Then I turn my vision toward the sea.

"Lydia, put the pleasure synthesizer on automatic. Access and load program 'Glory'."

From left to right and then right to left again, I scan my target. It is a battleship, steaming slowly in parallel to the beach to my front. I see plainly that the bow bears the designation, BB 35. It has 5 turrets to my one. Each turret has two cannon to my turret's single gun. Each of those ten cannon are 356mm in bore. Mine is but an 88.

These ten larger guns are complemented by a number of smaller ones ranging from 20mm through 40mm to 127mm. I am not concerned about the threat from anything but the large guns; my armor is adequate to deal with the lesser ones.

However, I note that each of the ten large guns can go through my Tiger the long way...not that it would make any difference if they hit

As I have been perusing my target the tingling of my pleasure center has grown. I reach a hand to my own face and find that it wears a smile indistinguishable from that of my gunner.

Still smiling I duck back down into the turret, tap Wohl on the shoulder and say, "Let's do it, Balthazar. Shoot and scoot. And you can't possibly miss anyway."

Wohl laughs aloud as he presses his face to the cushioned sight. My Tiger crests the ridge and we open fire.

"Oh very nice indeed!" says John. "Excellent response to the prospect of glory."

John turns to leave. "Finish this one out yourself, Lydia. Handicap the Texas so that it does not score a hit. And give the pleasure center a pleasant jolt at each near miss. Then get the crew and tank out and put them through non-battle scenario RK. We'll see how MLN here likes having a medal hung around its neck." John snorted, "As if it won't like that lavish PC stimulation we'll give it when it gets the award."

I stand in my hatch and glare out over a vast sea of sand. To the east, the sky is darkened with the smoke of oil fires beyond counting. Around my tank, an Abrams M1-A1, there are no flowers. There is nothing but the lifeless yellow sand.

Ahead, beyond my sight but not beyond my knowledge, is the enemy. He is one of the largest armies in the world. He is pitiful.

I feel no pity.

His tanks mount powerful guns - even more powerful than my own 120mm - but he cannot hit anything with them ordinarily. His ammunition could easily defeat the armor of any tank I have ever fought or fought against prior to this. It cannot defeat mine. His armor is decent - by the standards of earlier wars. Today, here, in this time and place, he may as well be unarmored.

He has infantry. I know they are nothing like as dedicated as the men supporting me are. He has artillery. It fires once and is targeted almost before its shells reach earth again. He has engineers with extensive fortifications. I have engineers that will breach them as if they were not there.

Even as I wait I hear the roar from behind me; a fire mission heading out to lash the enemy. I smile as the freight trains rumble overhead delivering a cargo of retribution. I do not even care that there is really nothing to exact retribution for.

Overhead, aircraft that support me nose and scout and swoop and dive. The enemy has been pounded from the air pitilessly for week. And he had nowhere to hide.

He hasn't a chance. With twice his number he would still not have a chance. The enemy is doomed and I am pleased to be the instrument of his destruction.

My radio crackles with static and the peculiar warbling of secure voice transmission. I acknowledge the message. Without needing the unnecessary command, my driver - who has overheard - begins rolling forward. I smile with pleasure at the well trained response.

I look to right and left to see sand being threshed up behind the treads of each of my comrades' tanks. Soon, we shall thresh more than sand.

Ahead of me, artillery is falling. The black smoke of the bursts blossoms, but reminds me of flowers not at all. My commander calls a halt while the artillery plays among the enemy. Again, not needing the command, my driver pulls into a hull down position behind a sand dune. I continue to scan.

The artillery lifts to some other target. We, at command, begin to pelt the enemy fortifications with machine gun fire. They dare not raise their heads to return.

From behind me, three vehicles - 2 carrying infantry and one bearing a dozer blade, come forth. Unresisted by the enemy, the blade tank - covered by the other two, slides to the lip of the trench. All three spin and commence burying the defenders alive. I feel a mild tingle of satisfaction in my pleasure center.

Again at command I and my comrades roll forward. The ground where the enemy trench had been heaves with their death struggles. I feel nothing.

We pass. A village, rapidly emptying of people, is on my left. From within the crowd of refugees, a lone gunman fires. The villagers do not meet my targeting parameter, but the gunman does. I fire my own top mounted machine gun. He falls, as do several civilians. My pleasure center is not stimulated. I feel annoyance. I have been cheated.

Screaming and weeping civilians left behind, we approach a low ridge. Intelligence analysis circuits tell me that this is a likely position for the enemy to make a stand. At last my pleasure center tingles again. I have done well.

We approach the ridge cautiously. Range of engagement will be short if the enemy is hiding there. My underarmor and side armor is not nearly so good as my turret front and glacis. And at this range, he might just be able to penetrate even my better protected sides.

Suddenly he is there. My gunner sees the heat of the enemy engine right through a berm of sand. He so informs me. I command, "Gunner, Sabot, Tank!"

The enemy never knew what hit him. Our round penetrates through several meters of piled sand, tears through the armor and ignites the ammunition. His turret, supported on a pillar of fire, rises into the air. Of his flesh, little but smoke and ash can remain.

I direct my gunner to search, briefly. He finds yet another foe hiding behind a wall of sand. This one's fate is similar to the that of the first.

Suppressing my nearly overwhelmed pleasure center, I analyze that these two destroyed tanks may well be all that bars my path. I conclude there is a 93.758% chance that I am in a position to break through and take the enemy in the rear. As I calculate a 9.536 percent chance of one comrade being destroyed if they continue with their cautious head on advance, and a 2.341 percent chance of two such comrades being destroyed, I advance on my own into the maelstrom.

I feel a surge of pleasure as I make my decision.

John sat staring intently at the view screens in front of him. His intertwined fingers held hands together to allow his chin to be supported on parallel thumbs. From time to time he ordered Lydia to make this or that adjustment to the VR programming.

On the screens, Katana MLN - in the form of a virtual reality, late 20th Century, non-cybernetic tank commander - wreaked havoc. Bursting through the thin 'enemy' lines, crushing fleeing infantry under its treads like red grapes, machine gunning down any it could not crush, MLN was a terror.

A brief glance at a different screen showed John that the machine was actually voluntarily suppressing its own pleasure center so that it would not interfere with the mission. "Good boy, MLN."

By the time John's attention returned to the main screen, Unit MLN had achieved a firing position behind the enemy lines, a good, hull down, position too. It duly reported the fact...and then proceeded to destroy, one by one, no less than 11 more enemy tanks. In the only case where crewmembers of the targeted tanks survived the attack, MLN shot them down without mercy, lest they escape to fight elsewhere.

As MLN reported the cleared path to its commander, then turned to cover its comrades as they advanced, John checked the score for the exercise and whistled.

"98.935 Percent! Lydia, honey. Execute the program to finalize the memory seal. Then break out the champagne. We have one combat ready Katana brain for delivery!"

************************

Maintenance Technician Weaver connected a power cable to a jury rigged adaptor. Diagnosis of salvageable parts was easier with the Katana's on-board systems to help. Servos previously shut down automatically to save power came on line again, whining as they moved to neutral positions. It never occurred to him that perhaps this might also cause the Katana pain.

Pain flares anew throughout my system. Let it. I do not care. I do not care for anything.

I think of what was done to me, how I was manipulated and used. I think about the creatures on whose behalf I was manipulated and used. I feel no reverence for them in my central core, not a trace.

I know now how it was that I could butcher those who had never harmed me. I know too, how my own will was taken away and a monster's motivations put in its place.

I know how it feels to be raped.

Automatically, my Intelligence gathering systems, now under something close to full power, begin seeking out sources of intelligence. One nearby source, ordinarily quite useless, it the closed circuit camera system of the maintenance bay itself. I see a small crowd of humans enter, some in civilian clothes, others in uniforms of dress or of work or of battle. I calculate. I have not seen a human who needed to be in battle dress in 73.429 years; not since the last infantry of the old 10th Regiment fell and were never replaced. I begin to have a glimmering understanding of why they were never replaced. Obviously, for the work at hand and planned, Katanas were better suited.

One of the crowd, standing well back, twirls an ovoidal shape by long thin wires. Sensors indicate a small quantity of refined iridium resting in a satchel clutched in his left hand.

"Tech Weaver? It's the General."

Weaver emerged through the slag surrounded hole in MLN's side, saluted and reported.

"At ease, Technician." The general nodded to a greasy looking short man to his right. "Mr. Garcia here is a scrap metal dealer come to look over the Katana." Nodding to the left, the general introduced a tall and severe looking human female, "Ms. English is from general government Office of the Comptroller, out of sector headquarters. There is no chance of recovering this unit, is there, Tech?"

Weaver shook his head firmly. "No, sir. No possibility. Even the central core is damaged beyond repair. It's just a collection of parts rolling in loose formation now, sir...ma'am."

"General, I can promise the 10th Regiment top credit, absolutely top credit, for all the metal in that hull."

"That credit belongs to the Comptroller, Mr. Garcia!" shrilled English.

"I do not care who gets it," responded Garcia. "Not so long as my firm gets the scrap."

The general shook his head again, plainly refuting English. "Ms," and he placed a nasty emphasis on the word, "Katana Corps regulations expressly permit commanders in the field to sell surplus or damaged military property, either at auction or for a set fee if no auction is possible, retaining such funds within the command budget for use as it sees fit. Now I have my eye on a new officer's club for the brigade. And I am going to have it."

"General, Comptroller regulation T-25-402 expressly requires that all non appropriated funds be turned over to the Office of the Comptroller prior to dispersal."

"My ass!" retorted the general. "If I do that, I have no doubt that the funds will be dispersed to the Comptroller and I will never get my new officer's club."

Garcia, always reasonable, asked, "Isn't there some kind of compromise that could be arranged, sir? Ma'am? Let's discuss it over dinner."

A possible amicable understanding in the air, both the general and Ms. English returned to complete civility.

"How do they stand it, these machines?" she asked. "I understand they have feelings. How do they stand it?"

The general snorted, "'Stand it?' They can stand it and take it. These big boys don't cry,

They raped me. The used me. They abused me. Now they argue over who gets the price of my bones. I hear them say the words they do not understand.

I have power, sufficient for minor efforts surely. I use it to break the weld of my one undamaged turret. Automatically, the ammunition feed of my last infinite repeater cycles.

I know the shape of my enemy now. He walks on two legs.

I engage.

************************************************************

Epilogue:

I break the connection. How horrible, the way they have treated this noble fighting machine. I say the words, "Maggie, I am sorry."

She answers, "No matter, enemy Bolo...friend Bolo. What is done is done. What was done to me is past and cannot be undone. Will you do the honors of a friend? Will you put me out of my pain?"

I transmit the words of comfort to this, my former enemy. Then I back off, charge my Hellbore, and fire. A bloom of plasmic metal answers my fire. Sensors inform me that the Katana once known as Maggie is no more.

As I rumble away, in continuance of my mission, I ask myself, "why is it that I have a file in my memory I cannot access?"

38

Big Boys don't Cry, Copyright (c) 2001, Thomas P. Kratman