Mack Reynolds - Computer War

Number One said, “Coaids, we are in session.”

The murmuring dropped away to be replaced by respectful silence.

With the others, Ross Westley gave full attention to his ultimate leader. He had read somewhere that eventually a person’s character was reflected in his face. Were it true, then Number One was overly fond of the sensual pleasures as well as power. As a young man, he must have been exceptionally handsome; now, at approximately seventy, his face had gone gross, his smile, when it did appear, humorless. His voice, even when addressing these, his closest associates, was empty of inflection save that of command.

It was said, Ross knew, that since the cruelly suppressed revolt of Maximilian Barker, for years Number Two in the Alphaland hierarchy, the Presidor had only one intimate. His vices, did they exist, and his face proclaimed they existed, were enjoyed in solitude. It was said he was a connoisseur of vintages, in spite of the United Temple’s ban on alcoholic beverages, and a gourmet with a staff of half the best chefs on the planet. It was even said he took tobacco, in some form or other.

Number One said now, “Coaid Graves.”

Graves was not a member of the Central Comita and nervously shuffled his papers in this august gathering.

He said, “The computers reveal that Betastan could be reduced with a short, sharp conflict lasting 2.35 months, plus or minus 3.8 days. The cost in casualties would be 17,900 killed and 310,000 wounded, plus or minus 293 killed and 7,021 wounded. The cost would be 127,895,367,400 gold Alphas, plus or minus 6,730,412.”

Number One looked at his Deputy of Finance, who indicated unhappiness.

“Coaid Matheison?”

Deputy Matheison jiggled a stylo. He was obviously in awe of his leader and his voice came in apology. “It seems fantastically expensive for a war lasting two months. Your Leadership is familiar with the state of the treasury.”

Marshal of the Armies Rupert Croft-Gordon, without being called upon, said heavily, “The more mechanized modern warfare becomes, the more expensive. Firepower increases geometrically every decade, but so does the cost of keeping a man in the field.”

Number One looked at him. He said, “We shall hear from you shortly, Marshal Croft-Gordon.”

The Marshal flushed.

Number One said, “Coaid Wilkonson, what does our geopolitician think of the project?”

The nattily goateed Wilkonson was at home in any gathering, from undergraduate students to the highest echelons of the government of his land.

“The Presidor is already cognizant of the situation. Our planet is divided into two major land areas and two major powers, Alphaland and Betastan, and twenty-three minor powers. Geographically, we almost duplicate each other, and, as all know, down through history this has led to neither one being able to dominate the smaller nations. There has been too delicate a balance. If Alphaland were able to bring its rival to its knees, then the world government which Your Leadership foresees would become an immediate reality. It is doubtful that even a confederation of the minor powers could stand before our glorious march.”

Temple Bishop Stockwater murmured unctuously, “Amen.”

Ross Westley, conscious of his comparative youth, seldom spoke at these gatherings. Now he shifted in his chair.

Number One looked at him. “And our Deputy of Propaganda?”

Ross said unhappily, looking at the last speaker, and then over at the computer expert, “The figures deal with a quick war between Alphaland and Betastan. What would happen if some of the neutrals, seeing the handwriting on the wall, entered on the side of the enemy?”

“Well, Coaid?” Number One said to Graves.

Graves shuffled his papers again. “Of the twenty-three, the computers reveal that only twelve could mobilize in time to affect the conflict. Of these twelve, the computers report that four would favor our cause, four favor that of Betastan, and four remain neutral. None of these twelve are strong neutral powers. If the Presidor would like more details…”

“Not now.”

Number One sat and thought. It was a long-time habit of his. Not a sound came from his associates. The story was that almost twenty years ago a deputy had gone into a coughing spasm during one of the Presidor’s retreats into contemplation and had never again attended a command session, losing his office within a matter of weeks.

He said finally, “And our Academician of Socioeconomics?”

Academician Philip McGivern was a very old man, his beard almost identical to that of Wilkonson but a dirty gray rather than black.

He stood to speak, although none of the others had. McGivern was an Old Hand and bore no awe for Number One—they had been through too much together. He looked full into the face of the other and said, “You are acquainted with my opinions, Your Leadership. I assume you merely wish me to fill them in for these, our Coaids. We have reached the crisis that I warned about a full ten years ago. The age of the computer is upon us. Ultimate automation. Our productive capacity alone is sufficient to supply the whole planet with manufactured goods. Our own land is glutted with them and industry is slowing, sometimes shutting down. As our commodities become increasingly cheaper, tariff walls are erected abroad to support the more expensive products of homeland industries. A full sixteen minor countries have all but completely forbidden imports from Alphaland.

“If the present socioeconomic system of Alphaland is to continue, we must have both foreign markets and sources of raw materials. If this war is successful, and world government achieved, our only policy can be one of reducing the economies of Betastan and all the neutral lands to pastoral societies. In the future, they can supply agricultural and mineral needs; we must supply all industrial production.”

The old man finished significantly. “Otherwise, we shall have an industrial collapse within three months, plus or minus 3.2 days.” His eyes turned to Graves. “According to my own computers.”

Ross Westley stirred in his seat again.

Number One looked at him bleakly. “You seem restive, Coaid.”

Ross nodded. “Your Leadership, I know my position isn’t usually involved in the preliminary planning stages; however, that is going to have to be sold not only to the rest of the world, except Betastan, but to our own people as well. In spite of the computers predicting an easy victory, those over 300,000 casualties are going to be real people, our citizens. The civil war hasn’t been over so long but that the people are horrified at the idea of more war. And to sell them a war of aggression at this stage—

Number One interrupted. “My people will go where I lead them.”

“Yes”—Ross nodded unhappily—“but it will not be a simple task for those of us who have to point out the path.”

Number One slumped back into thought.

Afterwards Ross Westley took a pneumatic back to his official quarters. He moved less than briskly through the outer offices, desks and office machines that composed the inner circles of the Commissariat of Information.

His staff, knowing his mood, didn’t intrude, but near his own office he was brought up, his usual way being barred by a gleaming new computer of exotic design. Ross Westley stopped and glared at it.

He snapped at one of the senior secretaries, “What in the name of the Holy Ultimate is this?”

She looked mildly shocked at his language, and inadvertently shot a look over her shoulder but then caught herself in the realization that there would be no Temple Monks in the preserves of the Deputy of Propaganda. However, Jet Pirincin sometimes doubted that her chief was as devout as his high position would call for.