Mack Reynolds - Computer War

“Tu, tu, tu. And now who’s using four letter words?”

He looked at her blankly.

“Damn,” she said.

He tried to follow along with her lighter mood, knowing full well that in her presence he was apt to become miserably dull, absorbed in his need for her.

“I thought it was a three letter word,” he said. He crossed her heart and pointed upward. “May the Holy Ultimate strike me dead if I ever use a four letter word to you again.”

Her eyebrows rose, even as she put the book she had been recovering to the side. “Your stock just went up,” she said. “I thought you were a fully indoctrinated follower of the United Temple.”

He growled, “That’s for the yokes.”

“Oh? Is that the common belief among you deputies? I understood that Number One in particular was never without a Temple Monk by his side.”

Ross scoffed contempt. “It’s my department that spreads that bit of gobbledygook. Actually, Pater Riggin is an old-time friend of the Presidor’s. They bat the breeze around about top decisions but so far as religion is concerned, I doubt if either of them has attended conclave for the past ten years.”

She said suddenly, “What develops, Rossie?”

He looked at her, his face sullen now. “It’s set. One month to go. Listen, Till, get out from under. Marry me. Call it all quits. I can cover for you indefinitely. Betastan is sunk. According to Marshal Croft-Gordon we have the military and industrial potential to take Betastan three times over. Three times, Till! What you’ve got to do is use what influence you’ve got to get your country to capitulate. Otherwise, when the initial missile and air attack takes place, Betastan has had it to the tune of millions of casualties.”

Her eyes were first narrow, but her expression faded into the thoughtful.

“If I’m reading you correctly, Rossie, there’s to be a sneak attack.”

“I shouldn’t have revealed that,” he said, still sullen. “But you might have guessed.”

“Where do you draw the line?” She laughed mockingly at him. “You’ve been giving me information for months.”

“Trying to enable you to get out from under. But now it’s getting to the point where there’s no alternative. Each man’s got to take his stand, Till. And Betastan hasn’t got a chance. I was a fool to help you at all.”

She said, after pursing her lips, “I’ll tell you, Rossie. Maybe you’ve got a point. But it’d be a mistake, the sneak attack. Bad propaganda. You should know that, it’s your field. You ought to give some slight warning. Any warning at all would look better to the neutrals. At least it gives us the chance to back down before your, uh, might.”

“You’re right!” Ross said. “I’ll have to bring that up. Then you think there’s a chance your government will capitulate? But look, why don’t you drop it all and marry me?”

She looked down at her meager figure as though in surprise. “What is there about little Tilly Trice that moves the overgrown cloddy just so?”

“It’s no joke, Till!”

She let her bright face go serious. “I know, Rossie, but that’s the way the water flows. As I told you, when all this trouble is over, well, then possibly there’ll be me.”

It was the last session of the Central Comita of the Free Democratic Commonwealth of Alphaland previous to C-Day, the day during which the Crusade, the liberation of Betastan from its depraved Karlist-Amish government, would commence.

Marshal of the Armies Rupert Croft-Gordon, using his swagger stick to point out on small scale military charts the points of attack, had been holding forth. His talk was punctuated with the figures his computers had come up with, plus or minus this amount, plus or minus that percentage. The Marshal, it was obvious, was in fine fettle. A man does not study a science, if the military be science, for a lifetime without yearning to put his pet theories into practice.

He came to an end, at long last, hit his swagger stick against his leggings with a quick double rap, and said, “Questions, Coaids?”

Number One said, very evenly, “You will address me , Coaid Marshal. I shall decide whether or not at this point we shall have a session of questions.”

Croft-Gordon flushed darkly. “Yes, Your Leadership. That is what I meant. Does Your Leadership have any questions to ask?”

Number One looked at him thoughtfully and for a long moment. Once the dogs of war are let loose, he well knew, none can say what will transpire before they are in leash again. And the military mind is ever ambitious. Number One was not so naive as not to know that Marshal Croft-Gordon dreamed of ultimate power, and that various of the deputies supported him in their secret hearts. Number One had no need of a computer to tell him that.

He took in the unhappy face of Ross Westley.

“Coaid, you wish to speak? I hope your contribution is somewhat more efficacious than the farce your commissariat precipitated in regard to the so-called Amish threat.”

Ross shook his head. “Your Leadership, perhaps we can all take a lesson from that—not to underestimate the enemy.”

“Jetsam,” Mark Fielder of Surety snorted.

Ross looked at him. “It was no easy romp on the part of the Betastani to infiltrate the Commissariat of Information and feed false data into our banks. We proceeded on the basis of that data. How were we to know that in actuality the Amish are small in number in Betastan, invariably well-thought-of by their neighbors, not interested in accumulating large amounts of property and having no interest whatsoever in government? The worst result of our misinformation, of course, was neither in Alphaland or Betastan, but in the two or three neutral nations where there are large Amish elements.”

He directed his gaze, somewhat apologetically, at the Presidor, and held up a report tape.

“Your Leadership, immediately before entering this meeting I received final news on the overthrow of the pro-Alphaland government of Moravia. The revolt is completely successful and the new regime leans toward Betastan. We have, of course, branded it Karlist.”

Number One said, “Ordinarily, we would have sent in airborne marines to preserve liberty, but at this point we can afford to divert no considerable number of effectives. We shall have to deal with Moravia following the Crusade.”

Deputy Matheison jiggled his stylo. “Are they really Karlists?”

Ross shook his head. “No, Coaid. But the new government is so liberal that it just misses being so labeled. The more notorious anti-Alphaland elements all support it.”

Number One said, “I assume the point you wished to raise didn’t deal with this now past matter of the anti-Amish propaganda.”

Ross turned back to his ultimate superior. “No, Your Leadership. I rose to protest the sneak attack the Marshal proposes. The plan to strike all their most important cities, industrial complexes and military bases without warning.”

“What!” Croft-Gordon barked. “Our whole campaign… !”

Number One held up a hand. “That will be all, Co-aid Marshal.”

He turned back to Ross. “Develop your point, Coaid Westley.”

Ross went on doggedly. “We have already had a bad start on our propaganda meant to influence our own people, the neutrals and dissatisfied elements among the Betastani. An attack without a previous formal declaration of war will unite the Betastani, shock our own people who are poorly prepared for this aggressive war at any rate, and will certainly turn the neutrals against us.”

The Central Comita broke into mutterings.

Number One said, “Marshal?”

The Marshal said heatedly, “The plans have all been explained. The computers have worked on the basis of such a surprise… I resent the Coaid Deputy’s use of the term ‘sneak attack.’ Without it we would still triumph easily, of course, but the cost in casualties and finances would inevitably be higher.”