Computer War

by Mack Reynolds

  The Temple Monk’s grasp was surprisingly firm. “This way. Jim. Holy Ultimate, move!”

  Number One’s eyes were streaming and already his stomach and lungs seemed to churn. He stumbled along, his mind reeling at the developments of the quarter hour.

  He was led through a room, back through a passage. He knew his own quarters, of course, but the confusion was upon him to the point that he really did not know which way he went.

  Suddenly the air was clear and he was in an alleyway. Vaguely he recognized it, though circumstance had not taken him this way for so many years he could not remember. It was sort of servant entrance.

  Pater Riggin, a slight tremor in his voice, said ruefully, “We may now pray to the Holy Ultimate that our good Deputy of Surety did not go to the bother of completely surrounding the Presidor’s palace. Remain here for a moment, Jim. Please don’t stray. I am an old man and cannot handle too many variables. Besides”—there was a wry humor—“I am not too practiced in rescuing deposed chiefs of state.”

  He was gone.

  Number One, the gas relieving him of all dignity, leaned against the stone of the alleyway and vomited desperately. His eyes burned so that he could hardly see, his stomach churned.

  The voice of Pater Riggin was back.

  “Here. In here, Jim. Quickly. They’ll burn their way through those doors in moments.”

  The former dictator was hustled into a small two-seater hover-car. He did not know why, nor where they were bound. And he cared less.

  Ross Westley had come awake possibly an hour earlier, but had not brought attention to himself. There were half a dozen others in the long barracks-like room, but none that he recognized. Three or four of them were bandaged—obviously wounded; he suspected the others there were too. They were remaining in their bunks, similar to his own situation.

  He considered his position. Certainly, his need was escape.

  But how, and to where? He could think of no place to go. Once again, he had been a long-term fool. He was enough of the historian to know that in the past, high ranking officials of totalitarian regimes made a practice of establishing-funds in a secure foreign land, or more than one. Given collapse of government or personal misadventure, one could then live out one’s life in luxurious retirement.

  But not he! What a flat! What a common yoke, not to have feathered his nest when resources were unlimited.

  But this wasn’t the time for self-recrimination. He had to act. Now. Immediately. He was in the hands of the enemy.

  But at that he had to smile his self-deprecation. Who wasn’t the enemy? He had no friends.

  It occurred to him that it had been a long time since Ross Westley had had friends. What top government deputy of a totalitarian regime has friends? Drinking companions, had he wanted them, in large number, in spite of the anti-alcohol stricture of the United Temple, yes. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, or any combination of the three, yes. Mopsies galore to anticipate his any variation of vice, were he so inclined, yes. Those to fawn, those to agree with his silliest statement, those to encourage him on to any secret desire, yes. But a friend?

  He thought of Tilly Trice.

  Yes, Till. She had milked him of information when he was infatuated with her, and now, at the end of the road, had given the final humiliation of kidnapping him.

  And at that point, Tilly herself entered the bunker, immediately followed by Centurion Combs and a dozen others of the youthful appearing guerrillas that were her command.

  Combs, his face whitish, had his right arm in a sling. Two of the others seemed to bear minor wounds. Tilly herself was filthy dirty, as though she had rolled on the ground. She had lost her Robin Hood cap and her hair, short-cut, was a mess.

  She did manage, however, to come up with a characteristically pert grin when she saw he was awake.

  “Hi, lover-mine,” she said, coming over. “Those Surety men of yours are beginning to look a little more stute. They’re catching on to even the better of our little fun and games bits. They’re evidently now in the silly position of arresting all boy scouts and such uniformed teen-age groups.”

  He shook his head. “It’s just a matter of time, Till. They’ll get you.”

  She twisted her small mouth. “Perhaps. But there are others. Besides, it’s not just us, anymore. Your own people are beginning to take to the field. This country is becoming one fouled up confusion, Rossie.”

  She sat down on a stool next to his bed. “How are you feeling?”

  He said in a burst of candor, “I’m fine. I’ve just been figuring out a plan of escape.”

  “Escape,” Combs said curtly, over a cup of coffee he’d just drawn for himself one handed, from a huge urn on a mess table. “Did you labor under the illusion we’d stop you?”

  “That’ll be all, Centurion,” Tilly Trice said.

  Ross scowled at her. “You mean I’m free to go?”

  “Why not? Have you someplace better to be?”

  Then it came back to him—the circumstances under which he had been seized by the Betastani irregulars. He flushed.

  “I suppose I should be thanking you.”

  “Oh, don’t bother.” One of the other seeming-youngsters grinned. “It was no trouble at all, getting you away from those Surety goons.”

  “Shut up, Altshuler,” Tilly said. She looked back to Ross. “What’re your plans, Rossie?”

  “I have none,” he said bitterly. “Fielder, Croft-Gordon and the rest are overthrowing Number One. I don’t know why I didn’t string along. I suppose it was because of my old man. He wasn’t really very smart about politics, but he was, well, loyal. He thought Number One was the only answer to combat the Karlists. I couldn’t betray his memory, I suppose.”

  Combs looked at him and then at Tilly, his expression surly. At what, Ross didn’t know. Combs didn’t seem to think much of Ross Westley.

  Tilly turned to another of the guerrillas who stood to one side, ultra-weary, a cup of coffee in one hand. He had been watching, unspeaking.

  She said, “Manuel, you’d better get that on the air. Either Number One is overthrown, or, if not, our broadcasting it will precipitate the crisis. In fact, it’d help if Alphaland first heard of his mutinied deputies from a Betastan source.”

  Manuel Gonzales put the coffee down and said, “It’s doubtful if there’s a station left in Betastan capable of planet-wide broadcasting. The Alphaland troops have overrun them all.” But he moved toward a corner of electronic equipment at the far end of the bunker.

  Tilly said, “We don’t need a station of our own. Just so we can beam the information to a neutral—if there are any neutrals left.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Ross scowled up at her. He began to feel foolish, remaining in his bunk after admitting that nothing was wrong with him. Especially since the others seemed so completely exhausted, Tilly included. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat erect, preparatory to coming to his feet.

  “About the neutrals? They’re lining up, Rossie.” Her mouth twisted wry humor. “And I’m afraid that, in choosing sides, yours hasn’t come up with many pals.”

  She had slumped down on a bench at the mess table nearest him, and he changed his mind about standing.

  He shook his head at her. “I don’t see how you’ve done what you have. Admittedly, you’ve shot your bolt by now; your government is in hiding, your army has deteriorated into small units, except in a few places like the Tatra Mountains. Your navy is scattered or sunk and your air fleet either shot down or in hiding at minor fields. But what amazes me is that you were able to hold out as long as you have. The computers…”

  Combs chuckled sourly, as he drew some more coffee. “You’ve been listening to your own propaganda, fella. We’re still going strong. It’s you Alphaland yokes who’re disintegrating. Sure, our army has split up into small units. That was the plan. Sure, maybe half our navy has been sunk. It’s expendable. But where’s your merchant fleet, eh? It’s not doing so well.
And what’s the effect on your economy? Fella, this war is just getting under way.”

  Ross looked at Tilly rather than at the speaker, and he was frowning.

  Tilly said, reasonably, “Rossie, never underestimate the enemy. Never expect him to do what you want him to do.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Your Marshal Croft-Gordon and his general staff, with all their computers. Figuring out exactly what we would do, were we logical and consistent. Figuring out just where we would logically make our stand. How we would defend our cities against your bombers and missiles. How our fleet would sail forth to do what it could against your stronger, more numerous vessels. Don’t you see the only answer, Rossie?”

  He continued to scowl his lack of understanding.

  “Rossie, we simply couldn’t be logical and consistent, your computers were exactly right. They were quite infallible…”

  “Ha!” he snorted.

  “… if we had been logical and consistent, or, worse still, if we had resorted to our own few computers to give us our answers to military problems.”

  She shook her head. “Rossie, what is the best defense against a mechanized army, complete with every latest device of the military, including computer-brains and data banks containing every bit of military information accumulated on any of the United Planets?”

  He looked at her blankly.

  She continued. “What is the defense against a man in an ultra-tank, with enough firepower at his control to equal a division of the time of the historic World Wars of old Mother Earth? What is such a soldier’s potential enemy?”

  He was still blank.

  She told him. “A man with a pair of pliers and perhaps a knife, a shotgun. Of course, a small amount of dynamite or even more efficient explosive helps also.”

  She could see he was still foundering after her.

  “Rossie, have you ever heard of the Yugoslavian, Tito?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Very well. Along about the middle of the Second War, when the Nazi star was at its ascendancy, the Germans decided that Yugoslavia was needed in their camp. In a matter of days, they had sent an ultimatum, bombed Belgrade, the capital, into ruins, dispatched their panzers down the roads of the little country, capturing every town that counted. The king fled, the army capitulated. The whole world realized that little Yugoslavia had been defeated, as so many of the smaller European nations had been defeated by the Nazi hosts.”

  She looked at him mockingly. “Everybody realized the defeat but the Yugoslavians. They took to the mountains. Small groups at first, slowly to be united. They fought, initially as individuals or in small squads. Slowly they grew to company, brigade, regiment and then division size. Large areas were under their domination, though the cities and roads remained in German hands. By the time of Stalingrad, the Germans had two full Army Corps tied up in Yugoslavia fighting Tito and his partisans. You’re a historian. Do you remember the significance of Stalingrad, Rossie? It was the turning point of the war. Adolph the Aryan could have used those two army corps at the time of crisis.”

  He nodded, slowly. “So you decided to follow the example of Tito.”

  “Oh, more than that. We improved considerably. You see, in the past, Rossie, guerrillas were found in their own country after it had been overrun by the enemy. But we extrapolated in the field of partisan warfare and decided to carry it into the aggressor land. In the past, saboteurs were single individuals who stealthily crept about planting an occasional bomb here, blowing up a bridge there, gimmicking up some valuable machinery the other place. We decided on parlaying that up to a grander scale. When we could see the chips were all soon to be down, we planted thousands of saboteurs-to-be here in your—” she made her typical pouting face—“Free Democratic Commonwealth.

  “But that obviously wasn’t going to be enough. We also acted illogically in not utilizing our fleet to protect our coasts against your own ships. We let our coastal cities capitulate, undefended, and our ships struck at your Achilles heel, your economy. Nor did our army stand bravely and attempt to defend our frontiers, as your computers expected. Instead, they cut for the rear, giving up space in return for finding a better field of battle. Or, indeed, splitting up and becoming guerrillas on our own soil.”

  Tilly came to an end with a pert snort. “Combs is right, Rossie. We haven’t begun to lose this war, at this point.”

  Ross stood and walked over to the coffee urn, his face in puzzlement.

  As he drew his cup of coffee, his back to her, he said slowly, “All right, but let’s take the long view. You’re possibly familiar with the reasons Number One felt the war had to be precipitated. It was either that or economic collapse on the part of Alphaland, the strongest power on this planet. What follows such a collapse, Till? How many of the neutral economies are tied in with that of Alphaland, how many currencies backed by the gold Alpha?”

  He turned and faced her when his cup was full. “Take the long view. Suppose you attain your goal. Alphaland’s economy collapses. What will we have left, a vacuum for the Karlists to fill?”

  A voice from the door said, “What’s wrong with the Karlists?”

  Ross turned his head. It was a roly-poly man in the robes of a Temple Monk,

  “Pater Riggin,” Tilly exclaimed in welcome.

  Chapter XI

  “Is that coffee?” the Temple Monk asked, making his way to the um.

  Combs stood there, cup in hand, scowling at the newcomer. He made no motion to get out of the way.

  Most of the others in the room, those of the guerrillas who were not confined to their bunks, made their way toward the Temple Monk, the larger number grinning.

  The newcomer looked at Centurion Combs slyly. “I suspect, my son, that you have little respect for my cloth.”

  Combs said ungraciously, “Very little.”

  The Temple Monk looked about the mess table, noted that there were no clean cups and took up a dirty one. He began to fill it, saying, “Then that makes two of us, eh?”

  “What was that?”

  “Ummm. Haven’t you ever heard the old saying that the more one knows of one’s religion, the less one believes?”

  Combs was, on the face of it, taken aback. He stuttered indignantly. “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, then why not get out of that costume you’re wearing?”

  The older man laughed at him. “My dear boy, look who’s talking. Your own costume isn’t exactly the uniform of the country you serve, is it?”

  “I’m a guerrilla!”

  Pater Riggin raised shaggy eyebrows. Then gesturing with his full cup at them all, said, “And so, I suppose, in a way, am I.”

  Tilly had come up smiling and had stood silently thus far on the sidelines of the discussion.

  She said to Combs, “Knock it, sour-puss. Boys, meet the longest-time guerrilla of us all.” She twisted her mouth in her mocking moue. “The espionage agent, the saboteur, the underground operative to shame the most competent.”

  In his few years in the Central Comita, Ross Westley had seen Pater Riggin on a few occasions, and even exchanged amenities with him, but although the Temple Monk was well whispered about in innermost party circles, he had never come to know the man more than in passing. The alter ego of Number One; the man behind the throne; the Svengali to the Presidor’s Trilby; the only friend before whom the dictator let down his hair. All this he had heard Pater Riggin called, but he had found no evidence to back the charges.

  But now this. The Temple Monk in the camp of the enemy, and obviously well-known to some, welcome by all, save possibly the junior officer Combs, a surly one at best.

  Ross said, “What in the name of the Holy Ultimate are you doing here?”

  Pater Riggin, his cup in his left hand, patted his tummy with his right, like nothing so much as a jovial Santa Claus. “I might ask you the same, Coaid Deputy.”

  Tilly said, “I’m afraid that handle no longer quite fits Rossie
. We had to pull a cloak and dagger rescue.”

  Ross, still confused, snapped, ” I am not so sure it was a rescue. When my hearing came up, I would have had my say.”

  The one called Altshuler laughed lowly.

  Tilly tilted her head and looked up at the deposed propaganda head. “Rossie, Rossie. There was to be no hearing. You were on your way to be shot.”

  A chill went through him, but he demanded, “How do you know?”

  Most of those present, now crowded around the table, laughed. They seemed to do a great deal of laughing and joking, Ross realized impatiently. Was it a characteristic of those continually in extreme danger? A bravado brought on by the proximity of death?

  Tilly said, mocking, “How did we know where you were and that you’d be passing that exact spot where we picked you away from Fielder’s Surety men, lover-mine? Let me give you an idea of just how well we are worked into the fabric of Alphaland. It was Jet Pirincin, who sits immediately outside your private offices; who smelled a rat when she saw you leave with the Temple Bishop. She relayed the message. So we got in contact with one of our other inside people, in Surety, who was able to get the details of what was to happen to you, and where. So, deciding that even though Alphaland might think you expendable, Betastan didn’t, we jumped on our horses and dashed off in all directions to the rescue.”

  Ross was staring at her.

  “You mean to tell me that Jet Pirincin is a Betastani agent? And that you also have them planted in the other commissariats in such Surety spots?”

  “Certainly not,” she said.

  “Then what do you mean?”

  “Jet Pirincin, my dear Rossie, is a most patriotic citizen of Alphaland. She—”

  He interrupted her, blurting, “You don’t make any sense at all.”

  “She’s a Karlist.”

  He held a long silence, then finally turned to look at Pater Riggin who had been beaming away, all the while sipping his coffee.

  “And so are you!” Ross accused.

  The Temple Monk nodded.