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Bolos III: The Triumphant

Table of Contents

The Farmer's Wife

Little Red Hen

III

Little Dog Gone

Miles to Go

Page 1

A Brief Technical History of the Bolo

A Brief Design History of the Bolo

General Armament Notes

Bolos III: The Triumphant

Created by Keith Laumer

Edited by Bill Fawcett

This is a work of fiction. All the characters portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to

real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

ISBN: 0-671-72184-4

Cover art by Paul Alexander

First printing, September 1995

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

Page 2

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

The Farmer's Wife

by Linda Evans

—1—

Tillie Matson stepped aboard Star Cross wearing an idiotic grin, a sheen of sweat, and—affixed to her

comfortable jumpsuit—an official-looking badge that read "PHASE II TRANSPORT DIRECTOR."

She didn't feel much like a transport director with temporary responsibility for three hundred fifty-seven

men, women, and children, not to mention a cargo hold full of live animals and viable botanical specimens

in sealed containers. She felt like a giddy schoolgirl released for the biggest field trip any kid ever took.

And underlying the excitement: What if something goes wrong? Something always goes wrong on a

project this big, not just little stuff like Tommie Watkins getting his nose bloodied by Sarah

Pilford, but really big stuff, and I'm the one on the hotseat. . . .

Tillie wasn't trained in Project Administration. She just happened to be good at organizing things, had a

knack for solving problems and soothing tempers, and—coincidentally—was married to the Phase I

Colony Director. She also held Phase II's only veterinary sciences degree.

So Tillie Matson had, by popular acclaim and logical choice, been chosen to lead this misfit band of

farmers, educators, agricultural production specialists, wide-eyed kids, irritable nanny goats, sweating

horses, balking cattle, and screaming chickens onto Star Cross for a two-week Hyper-L voyage.

She wished someone else had been elected mayor.

But she wasn't about to reveal how genuinely scared she was. So, with her idiotic grin, her sheen of

nervous sweat, and her badge, Tillie stepped onto the transport's deckplates. A freckled young crewman

in a crisp uniform grinned when he saw her. Tillie greeted him with her widest smile and firmest

handshake.

"I'm Tillie Matson, thank you for meeting us like this."

"Kelly McTavish, ma'am, and welcome aboard the Star Cross. I'm the Passenger Steward." His smile

was bright and genuine, same as his carroty hair. "If you have that passenger list, ma'am, I'll double check

Page 3

it against mine and we'll be set to board your people. Booker Howard, down in Cargo One, is ready to

onload bio-specimens."

Tillie hid a smile, wondering if Booker Howard's experience with "bio-specimens" was up to irascible

goat temperaments. Even crated, they could be a handful. She handed over the micro-crystal wafer with

their personnel roster. Kelly McTavish scanned it, ran a compare, then nodded. "Very good, ma'am.

And your transfer authorities for the bio-specimens are here, too. It's all in order. Welcome aboard, Dr.

Matson. If I might suggest it . . . Allow me to handle onloading the passengers. You'd maybe better help

Book with the animals?"

Tillie didn't bother to hide this smile. "I think so, yes. My brood mares are pretty broody just now, even

with the tranks I gave them. They don't like to travel. Particularly not while they're in foal. I'd hate for

them to injure themselves trying to get out of the crates. And the goats are even worse."

"That," Kelly McTavish gave her a broad grin and a wink, "is why I stick to handling people. All my

passengers generally do is scream at me."

She laughed and used her com-link to let Itami Kobe, her second-in-command, know the drill; then

made her way to Cargo One. They hadn't left space port yet, but she felt better already. Soon, she

promised her lonely heart, soon you'll be back with Carl again and everything will be perfect.

Hal Abrams wasn't one to run from a fight.

Shucks, he'd been a combat engineer in Space Arm—and earned himself a few ribbon hangers, while he

was at it—before tackling another whole career in ag mechanics. In some ways, he could stomach

up-close-and-dirty combat almost easier than he could stomach hearing a pig scream when you

butchered it. (At least when you stared a man in the eyes, knowing he would try to do you as fast as

you'd try to do him, you knew the son would understand why he was dying.)

He'd been a good soldier, but Hal had never regretted signing on for the agricultural expedition to

Matson's World. He'd finally stopped having dreams about skies black as the inside of Hell, thick with

smoke and tons of earth blown skyward when the big Hellbores cut loose with a blaze like Satan's own

breath. . . . Besides, it was fun tinkering with agricultural equipment, getting it to do things its designers

had never imagined it would do.

So when Carl Matson first brought in the SWIFT dispatch from Sector, giving evacuation orders, Hal's

gut response was, "Hell, no, Carl. This is our home. We put our sweat and souls into this dirt. If it ain't

worth fightin' for, what the hell are we doin' out here, killin' ourselves to turn jungle into farmland?"

"You know I trust your judgment," Carl told him quietly.

Hal had never seen a look quite like that in the colony director's eyes. Wordlessly, Carl handed over the

rest of the message. Hal scanned it; then read more slowly.

"Mama Bear . . ."

An unknown alien species had broken into Concordiat space.

"Sector Intel thinks these things may be running from attack by the Jyncji."

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Hal glanced up sharply. "The Jyncji? Aren't those the spiny little bastards that use bacteriological

warfare?"

Carl nodded. "Yeah. They xeno-form whatever they run across. Sector thinks the Jyncji have attacked

worlds held by the Xykdap—whatever the hell they look like. Nobody knows yet. But Sector figures the

Xykdap are looking for new homes, new supply bases, new sources of raw minerals . . ."

That would certainly explain the strength of the invasion force headed their way. Space Arm Intelligence

estimated it mustered out at full battle-fleet strength. That would mean potentially thousands of heavy

fighting machines, tens of thousands of infantry, plus fully mechanized scouts that had been encountered

with fatal results in three places already.

Enemy'd come through Matson's like crap through a force-fed goose, no mistake about it.

Hal glanced up. The look in Carl's eyes scared him. Hal met the director's gaze steadily, allowing the

younger man to see the worry in his eyes; then spat to one side. For long moments Hal just stood there,

swallowing fire he had no choice but to swallow. Finally he said it. "We cain't fight that, Carl."

"Didn't figure we could. Not even with Digger."

Hal spat again. "Nope. Not even in his prime, which he ain't seen for a couple a centuries. Oh, he's still

got a tactical nuke or two and his small-weapons systems are operational, although God knows when

they were tested last. I got a certificate somewhere says when. Been a while. Digger's old , Carl.

Government surplus still made me fill out forms like you wouldn't . . ."

He shook his head. It didn't matter that he'd managed to obtain an ancient, decaying Bolo out of surplus

only because he was still a Reserve Marine officer and nominally the head of Matson's defense forces.

Matson's was entitled to some form of military support and centuries-old Bolos were cheap—and could

be reprogrammed to handle genetic engineering computations a helluva lot cheaper than plunking down

the cash for specialized gengineering equipment usually sold to ag colonists.

So they had Digger and Digger had done every job they'd assigned him. But one Bolo Mark XX Model

M—essentially a Mark XX brain in a Mark XIV chassis, minus the Hellbore—extensively modified to

handle genetic cultivar computations and field trials, plus plowing, harvesting, and heavy construction, just

wasn't any kind of match for a whole enemy fleet. Hal spat one last time.

"He might buy us time, but we'd still end up dead. Or worse. We gotta skedaddle, Carl, and git now .

Sector send word to Phase II to hold up transhipping?"

The look in Carl's eyes worsened. "They said Phase II had already left. But they'll use SWIFT to make

contact with the Star Cross . They should be able to drop out of FTL and turn around in time."

Hal nodded. "That's good. This ain't gonna be no place for women and kids and nanny goats."

Carl set his jaw muscles. Hal immediately wished he hadn't said that. More than just Carl's wife was

aboard that Phase II ship. The future of everything and everyone they loved was on that transport. And

all of it was headed right into the teeth of an alien invasion fleet. If anything went wrong . . .

"Well," Hal muttered, "I'd better get busy shutting everything down."

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Keith Laumer - Bolo 03 - The Triumphant.pdf

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