Mack Reynolds - Computer War

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Computer War by

Mack Reynolds

PART ONE

Chapter I

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. 'Tour 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.

Jet said, apologetically, "The technicians are still installing it, Coaid

Deputy."

"I said, what the hell is it? It's at the point where I can't get to my own

office through the curd this place is littered with."

"Yes, Coaid Deputy Westley," Jet said. She was mildly surprised. Ross

Westley was usually on the easygoing side, as upper echelon coaids went.

"As I understand, sir, it is a new development adapted to our

commissariat which, by scanning any printed page, can give a plus or

minus percentage of two, on the effect of the publication on the public."

He looked at her sourly. "What's new about that, Coaid Pirincin? We've

got a bank of machines that'll handle that sort of jetsam."

"Yes, Coaid Deputy. I wouldn't know, Coaid. The technicians know all

about it. It's some new departure."

Ross snorted and sidestepped the new equipment to continue to his

office. He muttered, "Why not turn the whole nardy government over to

these technicians? They're the only ones who know what's going on."

Jet Pirincin stared after him, more than mildly surprised now. Suppose

there had been a Surety Coaid about. Admittedly, Deputy Westley was a

member of the Central Comita, though a junior one, but you simply didn't

say such things. It amounted to criticism of the workings of the

government. She shook her head. It was her opinion that Ross Westley was

a pleasant enough boss to have, and even almost handsome in a craggy

sort of way, but she decided it was just as well that his early training to be

a teacher of history was thwarted. What might he have taught his

students?

Ross growled at the door which opened automatically before him. It

had been a long-time irritation. The damned mechanism didn't read his

mind, it read his physical presence. Suppose his desire was to approach

the door but not go through it. Suppose his desire was to come up to the

door and press his ear against it, so as to eavesdrop on someone within.

The damned door wouldn't let him! It opened, willy-nilly, upon his coming

in proximity.

He grunted sourly. At least it was an improvement over the doors of his

youth. They couldn't read individuals and opened on the approach of

anyone at all!

He realized he was in a miserable mood. He didn't like the

developments of the Central Comita session this afternoon. He didn't like

them at all. To the extent possible, he had been fighting the trend, but the

Deputy of Propaganda was a low man on the totem pole and often not

even called on to attend inmost staff sessions.

He sat and stared moodily and unseeingly at his orderbox. Finally he

flicked a finger to activate it and said; "Is there anything on my desk?"

A voice answered him in detail and he said, "Switch it to Assistant

Deputy Bauserman and cut all calls to me for the next two hours."

"Yes, Coaid."

He sat for a moment, then surreptitiously flicked a small stud on the

ring on his right little finger, with the thumbnail of his left hand. From the

side of his eyes, he observed what would seem to be a star sapphire set in

the ring. It gleamed no more than ordinarily.

Evidently, he decided, his complaint of a month or so ago had brought

results. If the highly developed little mop he had in the ring was effective,

his quarters were no longer bugged. Rank had its privileges, even in the

Free Democratic Commonwealth of Alphaland.

He got to his feet, went over to what would appear to be a closet door

and opened it. The personal pneumatic car inside was strictly a one-man

affair. He wedged into it, closed the door behind him, threw the vacuum

control, and began dialing his destination. He was too orientated to the

transportation method to be distressed by the sudden drop-away and then

the surge of acceleration.

The car came to a halt and flicked the green light for him. He threw off

the vacuum control, opened the door and stepped out. He was at the entry

port of one of Alphacity's more popular parks. He considered

momentarily, but then threw the control which would send his car to a

nearby parking area. His station would have allowed him to monopolize

the place indefinitely but of recent months Ross Westley was, possibly

unbeknownst to himself, becoming unhappy about many of his

prerogatives.

He walked toward the park center, as though heading for the famed

Interplanetary Zoo, but managed to check, two or three times over,

whether or not he was being tailed. As far as he could see, he wasn't.

He started for his true destination.

Tilly Trice looked up at his entrance into her shop. She winked perkily

and blew him a kiss, but didn't get up from her work.

She was, he told himself all over again, the most unlikely young woman

a powerful and wealthy governmental head could ever expect to make

himself a fool over. She was tiny. Her figure could hardly have been less,

being that of a teenage boy, rather than one of the current TriDi sex

symbols. Her face was pert rather than pretty, not to speak of beautiful.

Admittedly, her features were clean, her carriage soldier-straight, her

voice a dream of gentility.

But by no stretch of the imagination would any historic period of man's

evolution, whether on Mother Earth or out here in the stars, have pinned

the label of glamour girl on Tilly Trice.

At best, she would have made the grade as the famed girl next door, a

boy's best pal.

She was fiddling with some red leather and a pot of glue. And it came

to him that it was probably real leather. He wondered where she'd

imported it from. Holy Ultimate, from Earth? The space freight alone! But

then, of course, Tilly Trice's customers were the most ultra-wealthy the

planet provided and were not of Alphaland alone. In fact, she boasted

clients in every nation of this world.

She said, that faint mockery in her voice, "Hi, Coaid."

"Don't call me that," he growled.

She went, "Tu, tu, tu. Nardy temper today."

"Don't swear," he growled. "It doesn't become a half-pint. It sounds

incongruous, a four letter word coming out of your mouth."

"Nardy," she said righteously, "is a five letter word. I know some four

letter ones. You want to hear them?"

"No. Number One held another session today. Graves had the final

computer returns."

She dropped her light air. "Oh," she said,

"They were as bad as I told you they would be. Graves gives Betastan a

little better than two months."

"Oh, he does!" she said tartly, her attitude suddenly that of a defiant

child.

He eyed her unhappily. "Listen, Till, what do your own computers carry

on this? You've had enough material turned over to you to program…"

She was shaking her head to silence him. She got up and approached

one of the dusty bookshelves that lined the shop's walls. She stared

unseeingly at a short row of German language first editions.

Tilly shook her head again. "I won't give you any jetsam, Rossie. We

have a few computers in Betastan, but nothing like the number you have

here. None of them have been directed toward the military. Even after my

warnings came through."

"But why not!"

She looked at him. "I think it's a bit difficult to explain our way of

thinking to someone with your background, Rossie. But let me use an

example. Back in the very old days on Earth, when the nations were

perpetually arming—do you remember their terminology? They were all

expending the gigantic sums involved in defense. It was a gobbledygook

term. Nobody ever spent money on offense, it was always defense. By the

oldest traditions of our race, the oldest teachings, he who lives by the

sword, dies by it. And over and over again it was seen that those nations

which built large military machines sooner or later found occasion to use

them. Sometimes because they were attacked, more often they found

occasion to attack—by flimsy excuse, or otherwise."

"What are you driving at?"

She sighed. "We're trying a new theory in Betastan."

"It's doomed to failure, you cloddies! Why do you think I've been acting

the traitor for these past months? It's not just Betastan. Don't you realize

that if this war is lost, the whole planet eventually comes under the

domination of Number One?"

She raised her eyebrows at him. "The war isn't lost."

He gave up.

He looked about the small store in despair. Finally he said, "You know,

Till, I've sometimes wondered how you manage to transmit the

information I've been giving you. I've known you for five years. For two of

these I've known you to be connected with Betastan espionage. For the

past eight months I've been feeding you the innermost secrets of Number

One's private sessions with his deputies and closest coaids."

She tinkled laughter, but he went on, his forehead wrinkled. "I've gone

to the trouble of checking out some of the methods our Commissariat of

Surety uses to intercept espionage messages, and they're elaborate far

beyond my first conception. Why, Deputy Mark Fielder has more

computers devoted to that problem alone than I have in my whole

commissariat."

Tilly Trice wickedly said, "I shouldn't trust you with this, Rossie, since

you're not very good at keeping secrets. However"—she reached down and

picked up a card from her desk—"I just mail a postcard through your post

office."

Chapter II

THE PRESIDOR of the Free Democratic Commonwealth of

Alphaland—known as Number One throughout the hierarchy—relaxed

once he had passed through the doors of his private chambers. Perhaps

slumped would have been the better term.

He headed for the moderately large living room which was his true

home, and for the bar which sat in the corner there.

"This early in the day?" a voice said gently.

Pater Riggin sat in a leather armchair near the fireplace. He had

evidently turned the thermostat down to the point where a fire was

desirable. It was, Number One thought wryly, perhaps his lifelong friend's

sole indulgence, sitting before the embers of a primitive blaze.

He spoke from the bar, even as he poured a double shotglass of Metaxa,

imported from far Earth. "I sometimes wonder at the advisability of my

having given you a key to my rooms. Sooner or later, in one of your

typically absentminded moments, you'll either lose it, or, in one of your

more idealistic spells, you'll decide that the Presidor of Alphaland has at

long last become redundant and hand the key over to one of my none too

few political opponents."

The Temple Monk closed the age-flimsy book he had been reading, but

held the place with his right forefinger.

He said mildly, "The first is an admitted possibility. But who would

know, upon finding it, that the ultra-remote Number One…"

"Don't call me that, Rig."

"… excuse me, utilized a device as anachronistic as a lock and key to

protect himself? In the second case, I am not a believer in the theory that

displacing a dictator ends dictatorship. It merely opens the way to a

different dictator, who may well be worse than the one just, eh,

liquidated."

Number One brought his glass back to the fire and slumped into the

chair across from his friend. He swallowed a larger amount than was his

wont, in a gulp.

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Mack Reynolds - Computer War

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