Bolo Brigade Read Online Free
now see the two sentries currently on duty, discussing a third man walking away from them. "Sheesh," one of them says to the other, shaking his head. " He's not gonna last long!"
The object of their discussion is a man wearing the uniform of a Concordiat lieutenant, walking away from the guard post and onto the Bolo facility. I compute a 79.22 percent likelihood that this is, at last, a new commander.
"That could be a new tactical officer," Bolo 96875 says, echoing my thoughts.
"Possibly," I reply. "However, there are two billets open for TOs at this facility."
"I am accessing the base personnel files."
Bolo 96875's electronics suite has been upgraded more recently than mine, and he is slightly faster than am I at penetrating secure communications lines. Within .054 seconds he has retrieved the files and is downloading them into temporary storage.
It takes .021 seconds to scan completely the data enclosed in the personnel records and military history files, confirming that Lieutenant Donal Ragnor has, indeed, been transferred to this command as a Bolo Tactical Officer. I feel considerable curiosity as to which of us he has been assigned to.
In the guard shack, one of the men assigned to sentry duty returns to his desk, picking up the magazine he has been reading. The interest male humans have for images of unclad female humans, both in flat photo and holo, never ceases to amaze me. Most humans, I have learned, do not take the business of war seriously at all.
I wonder what kind of a commander this Lieutenant Ragnor will be.
Lieutenant Colonel Victor Wood was a small, fussy-looking man with a neatly trimmed mustache and light brown hair turning silver above the ears. His office was considerably smaller than Phalbin's, lacked the trophy wall, and possessed a much smaller window—a wallvid, this time, with a static view overlooking Kinkaid.
As Donal walked into the office, ushered through the door by a dour-faced secretary, the colonel was speaking into a small, hand-held computer transcriber, watching his words flick across the screen on his desk.
". . . in view of this, it is the recommendation of this office that alternate sources of the necessary supplies be found outside of official channels, unless such purchases are expressly prohibited by civil or military law." He clicked off the mike and looked up.
Donal came to attention and rendered a salute. "Lieutenant Donal Ragnor, reporting for duty, sir. My record files have already been uploaded to Brigade HQ."
The colonel gave him a once over, then nodded. "Welcome to the end of the Galaxy, Lieutenant," he said. "I won't bother to tell you which end I mean, since I'm sure you've figured that out for yourself."
"Thank you, sir." He wasn't entirely certain how to answer; the colonel's words, while friendly enough, carried a sharp and bitter edge, warning Donal that he was on somewhat shaky ground. Wood's face was flushed, his voice very lightly slurred. Donal wondered, with some alarm, whether the man had been drinking.
"So, tell me," Wood said. "What brings you to this dizzying nadir of your military career?"
"I . . . I don't consider it to be such, sir."
"Mmm. Or, as our illustrious and beloved commanding general might put it, 'harrumph.' It seems to me I read something about a court martial. . . ."
Donal sighed. "Yes, sir. I . . . let's just say I didn't get on well with my former CO. But I assure you that I—"
Wood held up one bony hand, shaking his head. "Leave it, son. Leave it. I'm not really interested in what happened. You're here, and we'll both have to make the best of it, eh?"
Turning in his chair, he made a keyboard entry on his desk computer, then studied the information that came up an instant later. Donal couldn't see the screen from where he was standing, but he assumed that the colonel was accessing his service record.
"Mmm-mm. Thirty-six T-years old. Sixteen years with the Concordiat Army. A little old for a lieutenant,
The object of their discussion is a man wearing the uniform of a Concordiat lieutenant, walking away from the guard post and onto the Bolo facility. I compute a 79.22 percent likelihood that this is, at last, a new commander.
"That could be a new tactical officer," Bolo 96875 says, echoing my thoughts.
"Possibly," I reply. "However, there are two billets open for TOs at this facility."
"I am accessing the base personnel files."
Bolo 96875's electronics suite has been upgraded more recently than mine, and he is slightly faster than am I at penetrating secure communications lines. Within .054 seconds he has retrieved the files and is downloading them into temporary storage.
It takes .021 seconds to scan completely the data enclosed in the personnel records and military history files, confirming that Lieutenant Donal Ragnor has, indeed, been transferred to this command as a Bolo Tactical Officer. I feel considerable curiosity as to which of us he has been assigned to.
In the guard shack, one of the men assigned to sentry duty returns to his desk, picking up the magazine he has been reading. The interest male humans have for images of unclad female humans, both in flat photo and holo, never ceases to amaze me. Most humans, I have learned, do not take the business of war seriously at all.
I wonder what kind of a commander this Lieutenant Ragnor will be.
Lieutenant Colonel Victor Wood was a small, fussy-looking man with a neatly trimmed mustache and light brown hair turning silver above the ears. His office was considerably smaller than Phalbin's, lacked the trophy wall, and possessed a much smaller window—a wallvid, this time, with a static view overlooking Kinkaid.
As Donal walked into the office, ushered through the door by a dour-faced secretary, the colonel was speaking into a small, hand-held computer transcriber, watching his words flick across the screen on his desk.
". . . in view of this, it is the recommendation of this office that alternate sources of the necessary supplies be found outside of official channels, unless such purchases are expressly prohibited by civil or military law." He clicked off the mike and looked up.
Donal came to attention and rendered a salute. "Lieutenant Donal Ragnor, reporting for duty, sir. My record files have already been uploaded to Brigade HQ."
The colonel gave him a once over, then nodded. "Welcome to the end of the Galaxy, Lieutenant," he said. "I won't bother to tell you which end I mean, since I'm sure you've figured that out for yourself."
"Thank you, sir." He wasn't entirely certain how to answer; the colonel's words, while friendly enough, carried a sharp and bitter edge, warning Donal that he was on somewhat shaky ground. Wood's face was flushed, his voice very lightly slurred. Donal wondered, with some alarm, whether the man had been drinking.
"So, tell me," Wood said. "What brings you to this dizzying nadir of your military career?"
"I . . . I don't consider it to be such, sir."
"Mmm. Or, as our illustrious and beloved commanding general might put it, 'harrumph.' It seems to me I read something about a court martial. . . ."
Donal sighed. "Yes, sir. I . . . let's just say I didn't get on well with my former CO. But I assure you that I—"
Wood held up one bony hand, shaking his head. "Leave it, son. Leave it. I'm not really interested in what happened. You're here, and we'll both have to make the best of it, eh?"
Turning in his chair, he made a keyboard entry on his desk computer, then studied the information that came up an instant later. Donal couldn't see the screen from where he was standing, but he assumed that the colonel was accessing his service record.
"Mmm-mm. Thirty-six T-years old. Sixteen years with the Concordiat Army. A little old for a lieutenant,
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