“Unit Nine Five Four of the Line, reporting contact with hostile force,” the mechanical voice of the Bolo spoke suddenly. “Enemy unit destroyed. I have sustained extensive damage, but am still operational at nine point six percent base capability, awaiting further orders.”

“Hey,” Blauvelt said. “That doesn’t sound like…”

“Now maybe you understand that this is a Bolo combat unit, not the village idiot,” Crewe snapped. He picked his way across the churned-up ground, stood before the great machine.

“Mission accomplished, Unit Nine five four,” he called. “Enemy forces neutralized. Close out Battle Reflex and revert to low alert status.” He turned to Blauvelt.

“Let’s go back to town,” he said, “and tell them what their mascot just did.”

Blauvelt stared up at the grim and ancient machine; his square, tanned face looked yellowish and drawn. “Let’s do that,” he said.

The ten-piece town band was drawn up in a double rank before the newly mown village square. The entire population of the settlement—some three hundred and forty-two men, women and children—were present, dressed in their best. Pennants fluttered from strung wires. The sun glistened from the armored sides of the newly-cleaned and polished Bolo. A vast bouquet of wild flowers poked from the no-longer-sooty muzzle of the Hellbore.

Crewe stepped forward.

“As a representative of the Concordiat government I’ve been asked to make this presentation,” he said. “You people have seen fit to design a medal and award it to Unit Nine five four in appreciation for services rendered in defense of the community above and beyond the call of duty.” He paused, looked across the faces of his audience.

“Many more elaborate honors have been awarded for a great deal less,” he said. He turned to the machine; two men came forward, one with a stepladder, the other with a portable welding rig. Crewe climbed up, fixed the newly struck decoration in place beside the row of century-old battle honors. The technician quickly spotted it in position. The crowd cheered, then dispersed, chattering, to the picnic tables set up in the village street.

It was late twilight. The last of the sandwiches and stuffed eggs had been eaten, the last speeches declaimed, the last keg broached. Crewe sat with a few of the men in the town’s lone public house.

“To Bobby,” a man raised his glass.

“Correction,” Crewe said. “To Unit Nine five four of the Line.” The men laughed and drank.

“Well, time to go, I guess,” a man said. The others chimed in, rose, clattering chairs. As the last of them left, Blauvelt came in. He sat down across from Crewe.

“You, ah, staying the night?” he asked.

“I thought I’d drive back,” Crewe said. “My business here is finished.”

“Is it?” Blauvelt said tensely.

Crewe looked at him, waiting.

“You know what you’ve got to do, Crewe.”

“Do I?” Crewe took a sip from his glass.