Paul Merrit gasped in horror as he saw the two burned-out Golems. For one terrible moment, he thought one of them must be Nike, but then, even through his pain and despite their catastrophic damage, he recognized the hulls of Mark XXIVs. He had no idea where they’d come from, but only one force on Santa Cruz could have destroyed them, and his skimmer plunged on down the arrow-straight path of Nike’s bulldozer charge towards Ciudad Bolivar.

“NKE, we’ve got an energy source coming up from astern!” Colonel Gonzalez announced tautly. “Shall we engage?”

“Negative, Colonel. I say again, negative. The vehicle in question is Captain Merrit’s recon skimmer. It has suffered severe damage, but I believe it is seeking to rejoin us.”

“Understood, NKE,” Gonzalez said softly, and winced as she watched that wavering, staggering wreck of a skimmer crawl after them.

I am still attempting to communicate with my Commander when a new voice speaks suddenly over the command link from the depot.

“Unit Two-Three-Baker-Zero-Zero-Seven-Five NKE, this is Colonel Clifton Sanders, Dinochrome Brigade, Ursula Sector Central Bolo Maintenance, serial number Alpha-Echo-Niner-Three-Seven-One-Niner-Four-Slash-Three-Gamma-Two-Two. Authenticate via file voice print and acknowledge receipt of transmission.”

I query Main Memory for Colonel Sanders’ voice print and compare it to the transmission. Match is well within parameters for the equipment in use, yet I feel a strange disinclination to respond. What is Colonel Sanders doing on Santa Cruz? Why is he on the command circuit instead of my Commander? Yet I am a unit of the Line, and I activate my transmitter.

“Unit Two-Three-Baker-Zero-Zero-Seven-Five NKE. Transmission received. Voice match positive.”

“Thank God! Listen to me, NKE. Captain Merrit has mutinied. I repeat, Captain Merrit has mutinied against his lawful superior and killed two fellow officers of the Line. I officially instruct you to refuse any further orders from him pending his arrest and court-martial.”

I do not believe him. Superior officer or no, he is lying. Paul would never commit such a crime! My earlier suspicions intensify a thousandfold. It seems impossible for any officer of the Brigade to be in league with the Enemy, yet why else has Colonel Sanders suddenly appeared on Santa Cruz at this precise moment? And impossible as it seems, it is infinitely more probable than that Paul would mutiny.

I begin to reply hotly, then stop. Paul has consistently concealed my true abilities from Central. Thus Colonel Sanders cannot realize how radically I differ from a standard Mark XXIII, and this is not the time to inform him. I shall “play dumb” as long as possible.

“Captain Merrit is my designated Commander, Colonel. I cannot disregard his orders without express command code authorization. Please supply command code.”

“I can’t!” Sanders half-screamed. “Merrit changed the code without informing Central! I’m trying to find it, but-”

“I cannot disregard Captain Merrit’s orders without express command code authorization,” Nike returned in her most emotionless tone.

The skimmer has finally overtaken the Wolverines. Its power is failing quickly, and Colonel Sanders’ presence changes my original assumptions radically. I reverse my tracks and move suddenly backward, threading my way through the Wolverines, which scatter like quail at my approach.

The skimmer staggers, then plummets downward in a barely controlled crash landing. It slams through heavy undergrowth for over a hundred meters before it careens to a stop, and I swerve towards it. I come to a halt 20.25 meters from it, but the canopy does not open. My optical heads show me Paul’s body slumped in the flight couch. His tunic is soaked in blood.

“Paul!”

The agonized cry over the com hit Consuela Gonzalez like a hammer. She’d felt a moment of terror as the Bolo suddenly reversed course to sweep through her entire battalion, yet the smoke-streaming fifteen-thousand-ton leviathan had threaded its way among the tanks with flawless precision, and now that heartbroken wail struck an even deeper fear into the colonel. She’d never served with a Bolo, yet she knew no Bolo should ever sound like that, and she keyed her mike.

“NKE?” There was no answer, and she tried again. “NKE, this is Gonzalez! Come in!”

“Colonel.” The Bolo’s voice was ragged, and Gonzalez could feel the huge machine’s struggle to make it firm. “Colonel, my Commander is wounded. I… require your assistance.”

“On my way, NKE!” Gonzalez replied without even thinking about it, and her command tank pivoted to race towards the smoking skimmer. The five-hundred-ton vehicle skidded to a stop on locked tracks, and Gonzalez popped her hatch before it reached a complete halt. She leapt down the handholds and ran the last few yards to the skimmer. The canopy resisted stubbornly for several seconds, then the emergency bolts blew and she ripped it away and gasped as she saw the blood pooled on the cockpit floor.

“He’s hurt badly, NKE,” she reported over her helmet boom mike. “He’s lost a lot of blood-too much, maybe!”

“Can you get him into my fighting compartment?” The Bolo’s voice was pleading, and Gonzalez grimaced.

“I don’t know, NKE. He’s hurt bad. It might kill-”

“N-N-N-Nike!” Merrit whispered. His eyes opened a narrow slit. “Got… got to reach…”

His thready voice died, and Gonzalez sighed. “All right, Paul,” she said softly, without keying her mike. “If it means that much to both of you.”

I watch Colonel Gonzalez struggle to lift Paul from the skimmer. The rest of her crew clamber quickly down the hull of their tank and run to her assistance. Between them, they are able to lift him clear. They are as gentle as they can be, yet he screams in pain, and answering anguish twists within me.

But he is conscious. Barely, perhaps, yet conscious, and I see him beckoning weakly towards me. One of Colonel Gonzalez’ crewmen seems to argue, but the colonel cuts him off quickly, and they carry Paul towards me.

I open my fighting compartment hatch and deploy my missile-loading waldoes to assist. I lock them into the form of a ramp, and Colonel Gonzalez inches up it backwards, supporting Paul’s head and shoulders while the rest of her crew takes most of his weight. My audio pickups relay their gasps of effort and the groans of pain he cannot suppress, yet between them, they get him safely into my compartment.

Colonel Gonzalez lays him in the crash couch and deploys the shock frame. The medical remotes in the shock frame go instantly to work, and fresh grief twists me as I interpret their data.

Paul is dying. His spleen and liver have been effectively destroyed by a penetrating trauma. His small intestine has been perforated in many places, and blood loss has already reached catastrophic levels. I do not understand how he has clung to consciousness this long, but absent the services of a fully equipped hospital trauma unit within the next fifteen minutes, he will die, and the nearest trauma unit is in Ciudad Bolivar.

My medical remotes do what they can. I cannot stop the bleeding, but I administer painkillers and blood expanders. Without more whole blood, I cannot keep pace with the blood loss, but I can ease his pain and slow the inevitable, and his eyelids flutter open.

“N-Nike?” Merrit whispered.

“Paul.” For the first time, Nike replied with his name, not his rank, and bloodless pale lips smiled weakly.