Computer War

by Mack Reynolds

  Fielder held up a hand again, the hands holding the travel, and chuckled without humor. “Coaids, please. You evidently failed to hear me. I said that we would promise elections. Once in power, various emergencies can arise—a threat of the Karlists attempting to put their own candidates on the ballot, or some such. We can face such problems when they confront us; certainly no one here is so foolish as to suggest mob rule.”

  “Amen,” the Temple Bishop murmured.

  Fielder pressed on. “A ruling triumvirate, fraternally united, will be a departure from one man control, such as the Presidor has exercised. It will seem, and on the surface be, a radical change and appear to herald still more definite reform. However, in actuality, such a triumvirate will continue to reflect the desires of this, our lady, the Central Comita.”

  Bauserman said, “I suggest that the name of the Comita be changed, as well as the title of every official in it, save, of course, the representative of the United Temple.” Here he nodded his head to the Temple Bishop. “The Temple, of course, remains unchanging, as it should be, down through the ages. But the Commissariat of Finance should have its name changed to something like the Ministry of the Treasury. The Commissariat of Information could become the Department of Public Knowledge.”

  Fielder was nodding encouragingly. “Coaid Bauserman is obviously going to be a valuable member of the new regime. We must make as many surface changes as possible.”

  Somebody called, “All right, but who’s to be on this Triumvirate?”

  Fielder looked at the speaker. “Among ourselves, of course, we are Coaids and equals. The actual trio will be meaningless. I suggest we now nominate our three figureheads, our supposed chiefs of state.”

  Ross grunted inwardly. Figureheads, his aching back. He already knew who was to succeed Number One, given a success of this putsch. And he strongly suspected that it had been worked out long ago.

  Matheison called, “I nominate Marshal Croft-Gordon, our most noted hero. Next to the present Presidor, certainly the best known public figure in Alphaland.”

  “Second,” someone called. Ross noted idly that the seconder was in uniform.

  “Our chairman, Coaid Fielder,” someone else called.

  The holder of the gavel held up a hand. “Now, consider well, Coaids. Remember, in actuality, our three will be but figureheads for this Comita. However, is it wise that a police official be on the group?”

  “Absolutely,” Bauserman called. “The military and police must be seen to be represented. The iron fist within the silken glove.”

  “Second the motion,” Franklin Wilkonson, the geopolitician, called out.

  One of the Old Hands, Ross told himself bitterly. Shoulder to shoulder with Number One on the barricades.

  “Jon Matheison,” someone else called out and was seconded.

  Ross nodded to himself. He had called it. Croft-Gordon, Fielder and Matheison. The other two didn’t know it, but eventually that triumvirate was going to thin down to one man again. He might not call himself the Presidor, but eventually, Ross had no doubt, Mark Fielder would stand alone at the head of government. Neither of the other two had the capability to hold ultimate power.

  He listened, but largely unhearing as they droned through other proposals.

  Finally, Fielder brought it to the crux. “We are, then, in complete agreement. Number One has failed us. It is our duty to take over the reins of government.”

  “Who’s going to bell the cat?” Ross said, evenly.

  All eyes came to him, most faces frowning.

  Ross said, “Who’s going to take on the job of getting through Number One’s Surety and informing him he has just been demoted from the job he’s held for almost half a century?”

  Fielder pursed his lips. “That has been worked out, Coaid. Marshal Croft-Gordon, Deputy Matheison and I will request audience with the Presidor. We will inform him of the changes.”

  “And what will his guard have to say about that?”

  Fielder arched his eyebrows. “My dear Coaid Westley, it is I who appoints the Surety guards to protect the Presidor.”

  Ross nodded. He should have known the answer. Evidently, Number One was not to survive the audience with his three top deputies.

  Fielder repeated himself. “We are, then, in complete agreement?”

  Ross, who had been slouched in his chair, trying to keep from contemplating the result of what he knew he was going to do, came deliberately to his feet. He looked around at the rest of them, one by one. Deep within himself he was amazed. All this was not in his basically retiring nature.

  “I guess this is the vote,” he said. “This is where we take our stand.”

  He looked at Wilkonson. “I understand that you, Coaid, along with my father and Number One, were one of the original revolutionary committee. One of the handful who revolted against the takeover of the Karlists. Who else is left of that group? Only Academician McGivern, I suppose, the party theoretician. I notice Coaid McGivern isn’t here.”

  Fielder said coldly, “He met with an unfortunate accident, shortly after being approached, Coaid.”

  Ross nodded. He looked at Marshal Croft-Gordon, who appeared to be building up a head of steam. “And the good Marshal, although not an Old Hand, also fought in the war, if party history serves me. At first as a sergeant, but under the wing of Number One he rose quickly in rank until at last he is supreme head of the military.”

  Ross turned his gaze on Mark Fielder. “And our Deputy of Surety. As I recall, a nephew of one of the now deceased Old Hands who recommended him highly to Number One. And he, as a favor, saw our present chairman, and triumvir to be, promoted and promoted again.”

  Fielder said ominously, “What are you getting to, Coaid?”

  Ross shrugged. “Isn’t it obvious, Coaids? I am the son of Franklin Westley, another of the Old Hands. Frankly, I am a misfit in my position. However, I am not a traitor, although I find myself increasingly against our present government. My single vote is against this coup d’etat. I suggest instead that the full Central Comita be convened and that the Presidor be allowed to defend himself before it. If he cannot do so, I suggest that an immediate election be held and a new government be chosen by all elements of the population.”

  An angry buzz had already started through the room.

  But Fielder held up a hand.

  He said, his mouth twisted in half mockery, “You will notice, Coaids, that the Commissariat of Information is represented by Assistant Deputy Bauserman, as well as by the estimable Ross Westley, who by his own confession is a misfit in his position. Coaid Bauserman was invited to this meeting in anticipation of just such an occurrence as this. Indeed, it was he who first brought to my attention, as Deputy of Surety, the fact that Coaid Westley is not quite as veracious as he might project when he tells us so nobly that he cannot act the traitor.”

  “What are you driving at?” Ross growled.

  “It was through Coaid Bauserman that my men first became aware of the fact that Coaid Westley had fallen under the feminine charms of a Betastani national now known to be a leader of saboteurs, ECE agents and guerrillas taking active action against our forces here in Alphacity and elsewhere. Further, our own ECE agents in New Betatown inform us that the Betastani General Staff is in possession of information that could only have originated in meetings of the Central Comita.”

  Fielder’s eyes flashed out over the conference table. “This man is a traitor to Alphaland, Coaids!”

  He turned dramatically and pointed to the door. “You will leave at once.” His voice went into a sneer. ” Coaid Westley.”

  Ross took a deep breath, opened his mouth as though to retort, closed it again and shrugged. Without further word, he turned and marched toward the door.

  Angry voices echoed after him. He ignored them.

  He opened the heavy door and stepped out into the Corridor beyond. Two Surety agents fell in step beside him.

  “This way,” one of them grunted.

/>   They departed the Ministry of War by another route than the one by which he had entered.

  He wondered emptily about the scene just through, still amazed at his own temerity. Had he supported Fielder and his gang, would the other have kept the secret of Tilly Trice and his connection with her? He didn’t know. Perhaps he could have found a position in the new government for himself, had he kowtowed to the other. It made no difference now. Nor did much else.

  He had to smile inwardly in self-deprecation. It was only a matter or time, anyway, before Job Bauserman got his job. The Holy Ultimate knew, the man was more capable of holding it.

  His two guards ushered him downstairs to a dark garage and to a Surety police semi-armored car. He was hustled into the back seat, a bully-boy on each side, and noted in mild surprise that the vehicle was chauffeur driven rather than being auto. It must have been designed to be used in rough country where coordinates couldn’t be dialed.

  They took off, zooming up a ramp to the boulevard outside.

  “Where are we going?” Ross said, not expecting an answer.

  He didn’t get it.

  The eternal goons, he thought.

  They turned a corner, and immediately the driver smashed on the brakes. Careening toward them was a fast moving civilian car, another immediately behind it, as though the two were racing.

  Racing? Here in the downtown area of Alphacity? Both cars seemed overflowing with kids.

  The Surety driver swerved frantically, and uselessly. The lead racing car sideswiped them one way. He spun the wheel in desperation. The following car swiped them on the opposite side. There was screaming and rasping of tortured metal.

  And over they went, rolling, crashing ultimately against a store front.

  And all went black for Ross Westley.

  Far, far away, and as though in a dream, he seemed to see Tilly, done up as she had been dressed that day when she’d told him she belonged to an archery club—in boy’s clothing, a Robin Hood-like cap on her head. She was bending, now, over one of the Surety men who had been thrown out onto the pavement. She was looking over the papers she had evidently pulled from his pockets, seemingly in no great hurry. She held a small shooter in one hand, as though she were very used to having a shooter in hand. And then the black rolled in again.

  Chapter X

  He came out of it to feel his head cushioned warmly and to feel the sensation of rapid movement still. Confusedly, he thought it must be impossible. The vehicle in which he rode had turned over.

  A faraway voice said, “He isn’t hurt badly.”

  Another voice—was there a feminine quality?—said ominously, “He’d better not be. You cloddies are on the precipitous side when it comes to rescues.”

  Still a third voice said, in defense, “That Surety car was armored, Till. How’d you expect us to take it, especially with such short warning?”

  Ross opened his eyes. “What in Zen’s happened?” he asked.

  Tilly Trice grinned down at him. “The cavalry arrived in the nick of time,” she said. She patted his head. “Now you relax. Well have a medico look at you shortly.”

  His head was in her lap. He closed his eyes again. Who was he to argue?

  He tried to make sense of his position.

  Evidently, the underground guerrillas were even more highly organized than the Alphaland authorities had suspected. Somehow, they had known of that meeting. Somehow they had suspected his arrest would follow. Somehow they had rescued him, for whatever purpose. It was quite a collection of somehows.

  He must have dozed off again. When next he brought his mind to bear on his surroundings, he was being hustled, albeit gently, from the car in which he had been riding into what looked like an ordinary commercial garage, though of considerable size.

  Their vehicle had pulled to the far end where customers could hardly have seen it. He was helped out, supported at each arm, and half led, half carried, into a room beyond. It appeared to be an office of some sort. Someone pushed a large file which swung on hinges, revealing still another room beyond.

  It brought back to memory the cement bunker under Tilly’s bookstore. And he vaguely wondered just how long the Betastani had been preparing for this offbeat war.

  They put him into a lower bunk and he shortly felt the administrations of someone who was obviously a medico.

  A voice said from great distances, “A mild concussion. There is nothing seriously wrong.”

  Ross Westley felt protest. Nothing wrong, indeed. Everything was wrong.

  Number One, Presidor of the Free Democratic Commonwealth of Alphaland, glared at his three top associates.

  “For thirty years,” he said heavily, “it has been a basic of this government that I not be disturbed upon retiring to my private apartments. Even the Presidor needs rest eventually.”

  Mark Fielder shook his head, as though in regret. “Your Leadership, the most fast rule must on occasion have its exception.”

  Marshal Croft-Gordon, already dark of face, simply returned his superior’s glare.

  Jon Matheison was not a man of action. His eyes darted uncomfortably about the room, taking in the bar, the fireplace, and the rounded Pater Riggin seated quietly beside it.

  Fielder said to Number One’s old companion, “Pater, I suggest you leave. This conference is of first priority.”

  Pater Riggin’s eyes went to his lifelong companion.

  “Jim?”

  Number One, eyes narrow now, said, “Remain where you are, Rig. It occurs to me that I may wish to have witnesses to this indignity, later.”

  Fielder shrugged, “As you will. It is on your own head, Pater. In the future, you may be sorry to have been a witness.”

  “I rather doubt it,” the Temple Monk said mildly. “I am an old man, my son. There are few threats that could frighten me.”

  Marshal of the Armies Rupert Croft-Gordon rasped, “Let’s get to the point!”

  “Yes,” Number One said, looking at his Surety Deputy. “Let us get to the point. The first point is that all three of you are dismissed from your offices.”

  Jon Matheison giggled nervously.

  Mark Fielder let his head go left and right slowly. “That is why we have come. The opposite is true. It is you who have failed in your duties and have been dismissed by the Central Comita.”

  The nostrils of the supreme chief of the Alphaland government flared. “The Comita has no power to remove me, as you well know, Fielder. However, we shall immediately convene that body.” His eyes went briefly to the Temple Monk. “Rig, do me the kindness to summon the guard.”

  Fielder looked at the seated old man. “Don’t bother, Pater. The former Presidor has no guards. In fact, he hasn’t had any for over a month.”

  “Are you drivel happy?” Number One roared.

  “They are my guards,” Mark Fielder said mockingly.

  Alphaland’s strong man stomped to his private bar, took up a bottle with shaking hand and poured a heavy slug into a tumbler. He took up the glass and spun back to them.

  “You fools! You can’t attempt this in time of war. The people will tear you apart. Besides all that, it will most likely mean a collapse of the war effort. Civil war at the very least.”

  Jon Matheison had at last found courage to speak. He shrilled, “It is you who would be torn apart. The war’s impossibly unpopular. The peace riots are everywhere. We will take power on a platform of ending the war quickly. The Commissariat of Propaganda is ready to release a broadcast from the triumvirate that it will immediately go to Betastan and terminate the war as soon as possible.”

  Number One threw the drink back over his palate.

  “Traitors!” he rumbled. “Surrounded by traitors, supposedly my friends.”

  Pater Riggin said mildly, “You should have read your Machiavelli better, Jim. Ultimately, a prince must have no intimate friends.”

  Marshal Croft-Gordon said, “Enough of this nardy blather. What are we arguing about? It’s all over. Call the guards
in. Convene the court martial.” He grimaced his hatred, repressed for so many years. “The sooner he’s liquidated, the better. Anyone flat enough to think in terms of supporting him will be left leaderless.”

  Number One poured another drink and chuckled bitter laughter. “Sergeant Croft-Gordon of the paratroopers. No, you weren’t so aristocratic in those days, were you, Rupert? It was Rupert Gordon then. The hyphenated Croft, your mother’s name, was added after I had promoted you over more capable officers because I was cloddy enough to think you capable of gratitude.”

  Pater Riggin looked at him wanly and murmured beneath his breath, “Dreamer.”

  Mark Fielder said, “Enough. Let’s go.” He made a sour mouth. “You first, Your Leadership.” He brought a small handgun from his tunic pocket.

  Both the Marshal and John Matheison did the same.

  The Marshal motioned with his toward the door.

  Number One, still enraged beyond the point of being conscious of physical danger, stood stiff, as though refusing to budge.

  Up until this point, Pater Riggin had sat quietly by the fire, the customary ancient book in his lap, one finger holding his place. When he sighed and set it aside, not an eye followed his movement. He did not have the color to draw interest in this heated conflict between strong men.

  He slipped a pale hand into a pocket of his robe and flicked, rather than threw, a small pellet between the triumvirate and his lifelong companion.

  It burst into a very fireworks of smoke, bright flame and—they were soon to find—nausea gas.

  He came erect, surprisingly nimble for such a sedentary type. There was a handkerchief at his nostrils. He bustled forward, grasping the deposed dictator by the arm.

  “Quickly now, Jim. This way.”

  A beam from Fielder’s gun burned a ray across the room, striking nothing but a tapestry on a far wall.

  The Marshal was shouting incoherently.

  Mark Fielder spun around and was pounding upon the door he had entered through ten minutes before. “Guards! Guards!”

  Jon Matheison had slipped to the floor and was holding his throat and sobbing in terror.