He stepped closer, brow furrowing in perplexity, but the incongruity didn't go away. According to the readouts he'd studied, the Mark XXIII had nine infinite repeaters in each lateral battery, and so did XXIII/B-0075-NKE. But there was an extra six or seven meters of hull between InfRpt Three and Four. For that matter, the Bolo's aft track system had three extra bogies, which suggested that it was at least ten or twelve meters longer than it was supposed to be.

He reached out for a handhold and climbed up the hull-mounted rings to the carapace of the missile deck between the twin Hellbore turrets. He paced it off, placing his feet carefully between the slablike armored hatch covers of the vertical launch missile system, then stopped and scratched his head with a grimace. No doubt about it; XXIII/B-0075-NKE was a good fifteen percent longer than any Mark XXIII should have been. Someone had grafted an extra eleven meters into her hull just forward of her VLS.

"Zero-Zero-Seven-Five?"

"Yes, Commander?" The politely interested soprano voice still seemed totally inappropriate coming from a Bolo, but Merrit had other things to wonder about at the moment.

"Tell me, Zero-Zero-" he began, then paused. "Excuse me. Central has no record of what Major Stavrakas called you, Zero-Zero-Seven-Five."

"I am called 'Nike,' Commander."

"'Nike,'" Merrit murmured. "Goddess of victory. An appropriate name for a Bolo, Nike."

"Thank you, Commander. I have always liked it myself, and I am pleased you approve."

Merrit's eyebrows rose afresh at the unprompted, very human-sounding remark. A Mark XXIII should have been capable only of previously stored courtesies (outside Battle Reflex Mode, at least), yet he was beginning to suspect what lay behind those responses. It wasn't possible, of course, but still "Tell me, Nike, what exact mark of Bolo are you?" he asked.

"I am a Bolo Invincibilis, Mark XXIII, Model B (Experimental), Commander," the soprano voice replied.