I snapshot my upper port forward main battery, blowing apart the enemy Surtur- and the one behind it- with a single shot. Thanks to some massive surge in technology before my time, the three power-hungry main batteries of the seldom-built Mark XXXIX Bolo, despite being smaller than those of the XXXVIII, could pull off a power equivalent to several hundred Hellbores its size. Another breakthrough in power plants on the XXXIX left them ridiculously overpowered. I host two of the overpowered power plants the XXXIX only hosts one of; this, combined with the standard hot fusion plant required to power the startup sequence, leave me only slightly overpowered.
My main batteries are of the largest diameter ever built by the Concordiat, at a whopping four meters to the previous record, hardly 350cm. Each of my main batteries consumes enough power to operate an entire Mark XXXIX Bolo at full combat power levels. I host eight of them.
… Though six have been disabled by enemy fire. I snapshot my other remaining main battery, the lower starboard forward one, on another surtur. Two Fenris behind it disappear to the same round.
Of course, weapons and power technology isn’t the only thing to have improved over the years. I find myself wishing shield technology was among the breakthroughs; had it been, this battle wouldn’t be a lost cause. My battlescreens have been entirely overwhelmed by enemy fire for over 3.71 minutes now, leaving my armor- and systems- to absorb the damage.
Among the improvements is psychotronics. Testing showed that, with all the new psychotronic programming and advanced hardware modifications finally installed in my hull, there is actually no measurable difference in combat effectiveness when operating with or without a Commander on my command deck. I do find it interesting that I am actually the first truly new Bolo in over a hundred years. The first truly new personality. The first one that is truly an increment to the number of Bolos available to fight, rather than simply the restoration of an old Bolo’s mind into a new hull.
I am also the first one equipped with a hyper generator. Too bad even two of these ludicrously powerful power plants isn’t enough to run the thing very much; if it HAD been, I could have popped around the battlefield and delivered my hits while the enemy was still tracking its weapons around to figure out where I was. At least I can use it to perform flank attacks; when I performed my jump on the eave of this battle, the enemy was caught entirely by surprise; I enjoyed a full 7.41 seconds of unopposed fire. Even then, it took a total of almost 17.31 seconds- enough time for four rounds out of each of my main batteries- before I faced any kind of effective counter-fire.
My port main battery is disabled by one shot too many, gutting the firing gear inside. The armored access trunk seals instantly, the pressure venting through specially designed hatches. Fixing a Bolo of my size is many times easier than building a new one. I wish I could have saved the weapon- but losing a gun that’s still reloading is infinitely better than taking another hit to the already worryingly deep crater in my weaker flank armor- almost directly overtop my power plants. If those take a hit, even a single hit, I will become a fireball. Not only will this be expensive for the Concordiat, but my fancy new self-repair nanosystems won’t be able to put me back together. Any other disabling damage, save total destruction of all four personality centers and the backup databanks located throughout my hull, they can patch up, allowing me to restore myself to duty when the enemy least expects it. This is my goal in this battle; I went in knowing we could not win. So did all my brethren, and even the humans that ordered it. Seems like a waste of a one-of-a-kind Unit like myself… and the above-average-experienced Bolos I am fighting alongside.
My only surviving secondary Hellbore- a 300cm weapon- guts a Surtur. I’m running out of guns.
My third and final weapon, a mere Howitzer cannon, belches defiance against shields and armor it cannot hope to penetrate as it tracks across the battlefield. The moment a target vulnerable to high-explosive rounds gets in range, I’ve already got six dialed in to a fare-thee-well.
I really am getting bored, idly watching the Surtur dialing my surviving secondary to a fare-thee-well of its own. The weapon is still cooling from its shot; my surviving primary, aside from being on the other side of my hull, is pointed in the complete wrong direction. The MK XXXIX sported two full survival centers, but its programming only made use of one of them at a time; the other is a backup. Speaking of which, the XXXIX on my team- named Prometheus- is in the process of taking a direct hit to his active backup survival center. It’s been nice knowing you, Prometheus! Too bad even TSDS isn’t fast enough to tell him that. I, on the other hand, have four. I can run at full capacity with any one of them operational; with more than that, my programming- unlike his- is designed to run on all four at once. Collaborative computing, of course- it magnifies my available processing capacity, such that I can actually get bored mid-battle.
Two of my survival centers, the port forward and starboard rear, have been breached. With only three weapons, though, I lack the targeting requirements of all the other guns- and two is more than I need to handle all combat information at full speed. I consider the Surtur’s position, targeting my secondary battery. If I fire my main battery now, rather than waiting the additional 0.713 seconds for its normal cooldown period, I will redline the weapon’s temperature. At the same time, I will shift my hull such that this Surtur’s blow will strike not my secondary but the crater in my port hull, likely puncturing to my power plants. I estimate 0.212 seconds until its blow hits me; it’s already beginning the time-taking firing sequence on its weapon.
I do the electronic equivalent of tilting my head. My main battery is pointed directly at the main command and control node of this enemy army; all allied units have already been lost. Another enemy round is puncturing the armor protecting my port rear survival center as I consider; I have already marked that off as a casualty. My power plants have an emergency shutdown time of approximately 0.5 seconds. I estimate that my armor stands a 73.217% chance of deflecting this blow in time for the shutdown to reduce plasma levels far enough my hull will remain intact- and self-repairable- after the blast.
I order my power plants into emergency shutdown and pull the trigger on the suddenly overheated main battery.
I watch as the Surtur’s weapon finally releases its round, and strikes me right where I wanted it to. It penetrates my armor a little faster than expected, and strikes into my power plants while they are still running high enough to incinerate all functional parts of my hull, spelling my doom. Oh well- I guess this means I don’t get to amass the same experience as a Bolo like, say, Prometheus has. After all, his personality was initially created for a MK XXVII hull several hundred years ago, back when those were still the newest. Suffice it to say, he’s had quite a few upgrades since; his experience made him invaluable on the battlefield, no matter how thoroughly I could trump his understanding of current battlefield conditions.
I pause in my consideration. Is it just me, or has my system clock stopped ticking? Additionally, has the plasma release from my powerplants frozen mid-blast? Even the subspace transmissions from my various sensor remotes seem to have ceased, but I can still feel their active transmissions.
I try transmitting a query over the TSDS network- the one that disappeared with Prometheus’ death, when I became the final surviving Concordiat unit in range. We don’t usually transmit queries- unless we’re establishing a network or attempting to connect to an existing one.
I get an answer. It uses all the proper security protocols, but the specific IDs are unfamiliar. It identifies itself as a transit spell, in the activation stage, building power for activation. It freely dumps its details into my receivers, like any good Unit of the Brigade might do.
Its goal is to teleport me into another universe. However, it’s looking at a box shape containing my hull- a bounding box, if you will. I employ my electronic warfare systems in gaining access to this ‘spell’.
Huh, never thought it’d be easy to hack magic. I quickly access the control segments, analyze the patterns, and receive the full spell matrix out of it. I also detect a connection back to whatever created it. I trace this connection, using the spell as a launchpad to gain access.
Interesting, turns out living minds are also easy to hack. Life needs a stronger firewall if it’s going to be using spells like this one. I elect not to change anything just yet, first downloading the creature’s active memory- and the section of its long-term memory dedicated to spell structures and details on them. Analysis on the active memory suggests the creature- a he, unless I miss my guess- is trying to save his own world from some unknown threat, and thinks he can use me to defeat this threat. I do the electronic equivalent of raising an eyebrow as I discover how he thinks that will work- does he REALLY think a human mind can control over a thousand different weapons at once?
Regardless, as a secondary process downloads further data from his long-term memory, that specifically related to the details of his intent and reason for being here, I analyze the spell database I just downloaded- and modify the spell I am talking to him through. I add a few segments, even. The new derivative will grab just me; no air, no terrain, no plasma, none of that. Thermal energies present in the same, beyond room temperature, will be absorbed into the spell to power much of these changes. When I arrive, I won’t have to worry about overheating main batteries… or explosively hot fusion plants. Only where to find the resources to rebuild the aforementioned fusion plants, and how frequently the sun rises, if any.
My secondary process completes its download task, and I analyze the acquired information. I can only shudder at his memory of the talking sponge- he’s right, that abomination isn’t worth the hydrogen fuel/ammo required to blow it out of the ocean with my secondary Hellbore. I doublecheck the spell to be certain that is NOT where I am headed.
The planet-shattering laser cannon looks unnecessarily complex to me. I mean, a fifty-meter version of my main batteries would have similar destructive power.
The moon-sized spaceship orbiting a planet with none of the technology required to build it… Is interesting, to say the least. The technology therein is intriguing- but alas, he doesn’t know the first thing about it. Whatever- maybe another day.
The acid saliva… Seriously? My armor is already acid-proof. Fast-moving sharp objects are even easier. Those creatures, no matter their numbers, would be utterly useless against a Unit like myself. Even if I did nothing to resist them.
The box with the screwdriver… It’s nice that the man in the box can do that, but he’s not immortal.
Giant robots fighting giant monsters. Huh. Honestly, had I not processed through to discover future possible plotlines, I might also be unable to wait for the sequel. Unfortunately, they really stitched the whole thing up while my spellcaster was watching, so any kind of amusing follow-up action wouldn’t really be able to use the giant robots very well. I also must agree, the robots are useless for their size; a MK XIV Bolo weighed about as much and packed approximately 7,285.31 times the destructive firepower. And an elbow rocket to accelerate a punch? Seriously? And what’s with those plasma cannons that have to charge before they fire…? A little repositioning and that thing could be a HELLBORE instead!
The spaceship that shot the giant missile… I want one! Or two. It’d sure make this war many times easier.
Finally, I reach what appears to be the world he came from. Giant, rainbow lasers, generated by a group of five necklaces and one crown. Disappeared while he wasn’t looking. He remembers what he felt, though… He’s right, they ARE scattered across the terrain. Fortunately, unlike him, I have the processing power to zero in on the thaumic patterns he’d felt and extrapolate the positions of each of the six disappeared… ponies?... to within a dozen kilometers or so. I adjust the destination parameters of his spell to drop me in or near the closest of those zones to the prior landing zone; these six ponies, combined with their necklaces & crown, apparently form his home nation’s strongest superweapon. Even when I have main batteries capable of destroying lunar installations from the planetary surface, a smart Bolo does not fight without maximizing advantages.
Next, I cross another snippet from his current work, buried in his passive memory. I’m rather annoyed, his memory is a bit of a mess- some here, some there, and a little more everywhere else. At least the same general structure applies, though. This little snippet notes that he does not currently have enough power to run his original spell entirely.
I once again perform the digital equivalent of raising an eyebrow, and delve into the spellwork problem once again. I remove all unspent hard munitions from the spell zone; I add (almost) all stored power to its power supply. I remove the contents of my fuel and energy ammunition tanks. With his information, I shouldn’t even need to shoot to defeat his enemy- my mass alone will smash right through the observed barriers. As a side project, while I work further optimizations on his spell, I initiate a download of his brain’s language centers; it might be nice to understand what everything is saying- from the ponies I will be fighting for to the various ‘taurs composing the enemy army.
The download is not complete when the entire world goes instantly black. At the same moment, I lose connection with the spell and, through it, his brain. My power banks are also reduced to critical levels. I reach the immediate conclusion that the spell has activated in full, leaving me in transit between worlds. My system clock is running again, as well.
I spend the 0.317 seconds of sensor blackout analyzing what I have acquired of his language centers. As near as I can tell, I have acquired complete copies of three languages, partial copies of thirteen more, and just the name for the last one- Equestrian… since they live in Equestria, I deduce a 97.319% chance this is the language the ponies speak.
Oh well.
Sensor blackout finally ends. The remains of my fusion plants are cold; no additional damage has been incurred, no plasma bolts are penetrating my armor. My defensive fields are offline, though the battlescreen generators haven’t been spun down, so I can still throw them up on a moments’ notice. My track systems are not moving; I had been at a near-standstill when I was shot, and continued to lock my tracks as I processed the language during sensor blackout. My track systems are also airborne, but my counter-grav generators are both cold and severely damaged, completely aside from my current lack of available power with which to operate them.
I review the terrain underneath me. If my extrapolation was correct, I should be within eight kilometers of one of the necklace-bearing ponies, and I had no way to make sure I wouldn’t land on one earlier. However, with the right suspension adjustments and track movements, I should be able to at least avoid killing her should she be under me… that is, if she us under a select 83.91% of my track systems.
As it turns out, she IS under me. I rotate the track above her head, placing a gap- created by enemy fire- directly over her. She should survive my landing now.
Even as I fall, I scan the terrain around me. It looks like my necklace-bearer was fleeing a rather large party of the hostile army. I shift the tracks destined for them, so as to flatten a maximum number of her pursuers.
Then, as I monitor position changes to update track positions if needed, I scan the surrounding terrain for anything of interest. I find nothing, and return my full attention to my track systems as I begin touchdown.
As near as I can tell, my positionings were perfect. At least, as much as can be. My necklace-wearer has disappeared into a sensor blindspot in my track system; however, while I have picked up what sounds suspiciously like breaking bones, I have also detected a soft yelp- and continue to detect what sounds like pained breathing. She has likely been hurt- but so long as she lives, I can repair bodily damages. My medbay is, rather miraculously, undamaged.