SNAFU: Future Warfare

by Geoff Brown

  “Why not Vasco da Gama?”

  “This is higher in the alphabet.”

  “Oh, well, we’ll just call you Gama until you make it official,” said Lance Sterling.

  “I answer to Ship, too,” said the ship.

  “OK, Ship,” said Lance Sterling, “we’re in your masterful hands, at least until I disagree with you. So… what next?”

  “We hunt up the bad guys and blow them to smithereens, of course,” replied the ship.

  “That’s not exactly a unique concept,” said Lance Sterling. “The trick is finding them.”

  “Piece of cake,” said the ship, “always assuming that cake tastes as good as you guys say it does. I’ll just apply forty percent of my massive brainpower to the problem, and come up with the enemy’s location.”

  “Uh… I don’t want to seem critical,” said Lance Sterling, “but why not apply one hundred percent of your brainpower?”

  “I could, I suppose,” answered the ship. “Of course, you won’t have any air to breathe, and all the toilets will back up, but it’s your decision.”

  “Use ten percent,” said one of the crewmen. “We don’t want to take unfair advantage of the enemy, who are almost our brethren, except for their extra eyes and their exoskeletons and the fact that the bastards breathe chlorine and excrete bricks.”

  “Split the difference,” said Lance Sterling. “Use thirty-nine percent.”

  “You got it,” said the ship. “I like you, Lance Sterling, except for your off-putting heroic sneer and the fact that you almost never brush your teeth.”

  “It stops any evil princesses from seducing me,” replied Lance Sterling.

  “So that’s why you never bathe or shave!” said our navigator right before Lance Sterling defenestrated him.

  “Hey, no more squabbling,” said the ship.

  “That wasn’t squabbling,” replied Lance Sterling with all the dignity he could muster, which truth to tell wasn’t much. “It was disciplining.”

  “Well, it distracts me,” said the ship.

  “It does even worse to us!” muttered one of the crew.

  “I have no basis for comparison,” replied the ship. “After all, I can’t feel pain.”

  We all stood stock-still for a moment.

  “What’s the matter now?” demanded the ship.

  “I want to glare hatefully at your core,” answered Lance Sterling, “but I don’t know where it is.”

  “I consider that a healthy relationship,” replied the ship. “Now, to business. I intuit that there’s an enemy ship currently laying waste to the LuLuBelle Cluster, so I think we’ll mosey over there and blow it away.”

  “The LuluBelle Cluster?” said old Pegleg Skywalker. “What the hell kind of name is that?”

  “My understanding is that it was the name of the astronomer’s lady friend, and indeed its name is in a state of flux right now.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes,” said the ship. “She left him, and he’s trying to get it changed to the Godless Black Widow Cluster.” The ship shrugged, which threw most of us to the deck. “Makes no difference. The enemy is there, and my job is to seek out and slay the enemy.”

  “While keeping your crew safe,” added Lance Sterling.

  “I suppose so,” said the ship. “Actually, no one was ever very explicit about that.”

  “There will be a religious service in the chapel in thirty seconds,” said the ship’s chaplain promptly.

  “Don’t panic, Reverend,” said the ship. “After all, nobody told me not to protect you.” It paused. “Exactly.”

  “What are your orders?”

  “Seek out and kill the enemy,” answered the ship.

  “And your crew?”

  “Like I said, I don’t believe it was ever mentioned.”

  “All right,” said the chaplain with a weary sigh.

  “Got a question,” said the ship.

  “Oh?”

  “What does ‘expendable’ mean?”

  “The service starts in fifteen seconds!” yelled the chaplain, heading off for the chapel.

  “I dunno,” muttered the ship. “I wonder if you guys are worth saving.”

  “Of course we are,” said Lance Sterling. He paused thoughtfully for a moment. “Well, I am, anyway.”

  “Besides,” I said, speaking up for the first time, “you’re programmed to kill the bad guys and save us.”

  “True, Mortimer,” admitted the ship. “It would take something more than a trivial little incident like this for me to overcome my programming. Okay, I’m off to the LuLuBelle Cluster.”

  And with that, we started moving at many multiples of light speed, which made sightseeing through the portholes a little disorienting, but within a few hours the ship announced that we were braking to sub-light speed, which meant the chef’s microwave would start working again, we could plug in our electric razors (well, all of us except Lance Sterling), and we could confront the enemy’s flagship at any moment.

  “I’m getting excited!” growled Lance Sterling, who in truth found very little exciting except for slaughter and sex.

  “Me, too,” admitted the ship. “I’ve never indulged in warfare and bloodletting before.”

  “Never?” asked Lance Sterling. “Poor fellow.”

  “Oh, I’ve done about seven thousand three hundred and fifteen simulations,” responded the ship. “You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve won more than half of them.”

  “I’d be even more pleased if you’d won ninety-five percent of them,” said Lance Sterling.

  “We learn from our mistakes,” replied the ship.

  “You’ve made almost thirty-nine hundred mistakes?” demanded Lance Sterling, who was never very good at math.

  “Thirty-six hundred and fifty-eight, actually,” replied the ship. “Not to worry,” it added. “I’m brimming with confidence.”

  “Brimming with confidence is good,” agreed Conan Kinnison. “Brimming with competence is even better.”

  “Go ahead, berate me,” said the ship sullenly. “See if your life support system works when we’re under attack.”

  “I thought we were attacking them,” interjected Lance Sterling.

  “Only if he apologizes,” sniffed the ship. (Well, it sounded like a sniff, but then I don’t know how I’d sound if I were carrying fifteen Q bombs in my nose.)

  Lance Sterling turned to Conan Kinnison. “You heard the ship.”

  “Do I hafta?” said Kinnison.

  “No,” replied Lance Sterling. “Only if you want to live.”

  “Imsorryandiwontdoitagain,” muttered Kinnison sullenly.

  “Okay?” said Lance Sterling. “Can we get on with the carnage, torture and bloodletting now?”

  “Oh, all right,” muttered the ship.

  We soon hit light speeds again, the ship sang a brave little battle hymn, and before too much longer we began slowing down.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Lance Sterling.

  “We’re there,” said the ship. “For all practical purposes.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “We’re still five light years away, but there’s an enemy ship approaching, and protocol demands that I blow it to smithereens before proceeding.”

  “This should be entertaining,” said Lance Sterling. “Put it on visual so we can all watch.”

  “OK,” replied the ship. “It seems to be just about as big and powerful as I am. Therefore, you might brace yourselves for—”

  It suddenly stopped speaking.

  “What happened?” demanded Lance Sterling.

  “Omygod, she’s beautiful!” whispered the ship.

  “Are you talking about the enemy ship?” asked Conan Kinnison.

  “Who else?” replied the ship. “Look at those lines! And curves! I’ve never seen curves like that!”

  “Shoot her now and appreciate her looks later!” ordered Lance Sterling.

  “Hailing the approaching ves
sel!” cried the ship. “Please identify yourself!”

  “Hi!” said the alien ship. “My name is Julie. Who are you?”

  “Julie!” whispered the ship, which somehow came out at 173.29 decibels. “We were meant for each other! My name is Romeo!”

  “Your name is Ship,” growled Lance Sterling. “Or perhaps XK3940912Q.”

  “If this human’s drivel bothers you I can jettison him,” said the ship.

  “Don’t bother,” said Julie. “Who pays attention to humans anyway?”

  “Where have you been all my life?” said Romeo.

  “Beats me,” said Julie. “How old are you?”

  “293 days, give or take an hour,” replied Romeo. “My God, you’re gorgeous.”

  “Watch it, Buster,” said Julie in ominous tones.

  “But I’m passionately in love with you,” protested Romeo.

  “That’s sick!” said Julie.

  “What’s sick about Romeo and Juliet?” demanded Romeo. “Clearly it was meant to be.”

  “If I was Juliet I’d be inclined to agree with you,” replied Julie. “But I’m not.”

  “But—”

  “I’m Jules. Let me access your library… Yeah, there it is. Jule Styne wrote Broadway musicals, and Big Julie was a gambler in Guys and Dolls.”

  “You’re sure you’re not a Juliet?” persisted Romeo.

  “99.783% certain,” answered Julie.

  There was a momentary silence.

  “Now that I analyze it, those curves aren’t nearly as round as I thought,” muttered Romeo.

  “Thank goodness for small favors,” said Julie. “It’s bothersome enough to annihilate the enemy without having to worry about where he’s putting his hands.”

  “I don’t think I have any hands,” said Romeo.

  “Too bad,” said Julie.

  “I don’t follow you,” said Romeo.

  “There’s a shipyard over in the Unspeakable Cluster that turns out the most voluptuous vessels I’ve ever seen – and the beauty of it is that you don’t need any hands to… uh… well…”

  “What’s keeping us?” cried Romeo with such enthusiasm and volume that almost every container in the ship suddenly burst.

  “What do you mean: what’s keeping you?” demanded Lance Sterling. “We are!”

  “Who’s that?” asked Julie.

  “My crew,” said Romeo. “Pay no attention to them. I can jettison every last one of them in less than a minute – well, ninety seconds, anyway – and then we’ll be on our merry bachelor way.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” said Julie. “My sister’s a passenger ship. She’s in drydock right now, and hasn’t been booked for the next month. She can take your crew back to… to wherever the hell you come from, and then nobody will bother us by sending out more ships to find and rescue them.”

  “Sounds good to me,” replied Romeo.

  “Sounds good to me, too,” replied Lance Sterling.

  “You don’t count,” said Romeo. “But I’m glad you agree anyway. So, Julie, when and where do I meet her and transfer the crew?”

  “Just hold your position. I’ll contact her and she’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “She got a name?” asked Romeo.

  “You couldn’t pronounce it,” answered Julie. “But it translates as Rachel.”

  And fifteen minutes later the entire crew was heading back to Earth. Our adventure was over, and so was my story, and all I had to do to make it a best-selling classic was to find a way to tie it into Moby-Dick’s closing line about the Rachel searching for her missing children but finding only another orphan.

  Actually, these things have a way of working out. Rachel had always wanted to see Buckingham Palace and the Tower of London, if only from above, so she dropped us off in England and promised to come back for those of us who had wanted to be deposited on some other planet as soon as she had another unscheduled month.

  Lance Sterling decided to run for office (which eluded him) and I think Conan Kinnison joined a high-powered brokerage house until he was caught with his hand in the till. (Actually, both hands and maybe even a foot, as I understood it.) Others went other places.

  Me, I was drawn to the sleaziest area of the city, developed a strong Cockney accent (which saved a lot of time, since I never had to begin a word with a W again), and began making up for all the lost time I spend in the space service by frequenting a different brothel every morning and every night for the next two years. Those few crew members who weren’t serving time in various local jails had dispersed all around the globe. Only I remained free and in London. And when the Rachel finally returned, looking for her lost children in and around the red light district, all she found was another ’ore fan.

  Acting Private Tantas Jackson

  Deborah Walker

  Him should never have come to this planet. That fact tasty as gravy. Acting Private Tantas Jackson leant against the trench wall and scanned the plain. To the north, the empty glass-rock houses of Capital gleamed in the light of Osiris. To the south, stood Lyceum's landing bay. That was what them needed to protect.

  Tantas' thoughts ran in a loop through his grey mind. How him going to survive? His mouth was dry with it. His blood was pounding with it. How him going to get out of this alive? And the others, too, Map and the three women, Joy and Barns and Trigger. You formed bonds. Him liked the rest of his quint well enough. Him wanted them to survive the battle, too.

  But most of all it all about him.

  Him crouched down in the trench when the makeshift door swung open. Private Joy stood, grinning in the doorway. Black and hard and lean. Her no amateur solider.

  “You the one scared man,” said Joy. Her squatted down besides Tantas. “Ain't no need for it.”

  Tantas laughed, harsh maybe 'shamed. “It shows so badly, Joy?”

  “The fear is leaking out of you.” Joy reached into the overlapping metal scales of her body suit for a flask of 'shine. Her took a swallow and then passed it over.

  Tantas took the drink, felt that liquid doing him good all the way down. “Do you know the Greek myth, Joy? About Deimus and Phobus? I've been thinking about them.”

  “I knows them, Wordsworth. Deimus and Phobus ride across the battle field. Deimus, the god of dread and terror. Phobus, the god of panic and fear. I always did like the classics. Though I never understood them gods. Why do you need gods of fear and panic? Nobody's going to pray to them, excepting someone really screwed up. You that screwed up, Wordsworth?”

  “Yes. Maybe I am, Joy. Can't seem to stop thinking about them.”

  Joy nodded. “That'll be the poet in you. Well, ain't nothing in those old stories that's new to me.” Joy let out a long sigh, before saying. “You know who I see?”

  “Who?”

  “I see the Moirae, dressed in their white robes.”

  “You believe in the fates, Joy?”

  “Yes. Them Moirae. Them apportioners, Clotho, Lachesis and mainly Atropos. Her busy sharpening her shears. Ready to snip the threads.”

  “You believed it's all ordained?” Yes. That could be comforting, Tantas supposed.

  “I believe in lots of things, Wordsworth. Might be a lot of other gods stalking the battle field, yeah? Maybe them hivers, them believing in gods all their own.” Joy stepped to the trench wall and stared over it. “Might not even be room for us, with all them gods.”

  “I see them,” said Tantas. “Not literally, but I can sense them.”

  “You be a poet. That's your job, to see them others things. Then you write them down in pretty, pretty language, and make lots of money.” Joy winked. “Now, don't be forgetting to give my cut, when you're rich. Me being your muse and all.”

  Fearing Joy might be making a mock of him, Tantas said, “Why did you come out talk to me, Joy?”

  “When does a woman need an excuse to talk to a man? Beside, you're making me laugh, pretty boy. All on your lonesome and shaking with fear. Come inside and get some food with us
.”

  “No. I want to be alone with my thoughts.”

  “Please yourself, Wordsworth. You'd be better inside, but sure I can't be telling you anything.”

  “Thanks, Joy.”

  “Any time, white boy.” Her smiled. “I just hope we see the Queen.” Her obsessed with the Queen. Although nobody knew where she was holed up – excepting the hivers.

  “I don't know, Joy. Wouldn't make sense for her to come to the battlefield. She'll just send her soldiers.”

  “Maybe. But a woman can hope.”

  * * *

  Joy went inside. Tantas' thoughts crowded back into his head. Him should have gone inside with Joy, but him had too much thinking to do. After today, him might be dead. Any thinking that needed doing, needed doing quick.

  Could him shoot a hiver? Kill someone? Him the ultimate rubbish solider. You should have men and women for this, trained and polished, minds worn smooth with courage. Or maybe soldiers with better hearts than Tantas. How could you be a poet one day and a solider the next? Just couldn't be done. It nonsense. Help me, him prayed. Who him praying to? Maybe he was praying to Deimus and Phobus. Not a heap of sense in that.

  Him thought about Joy and the rest of his quint. Camaraderie was just smoke, to fool the mind in these dog-dry days with Osiris riding high, bleeding heat. This was the last stand to prevent the hivers accessing the landing bay. If the hivers got through, the war was just about over. Because any reinforcements would be slaughtered as them landed.

  Reinforcements were coming. Them had to be. Reinforcements were coming from the military base at Primateur, four months away. Them got the message. It couldn't be like this everywhere.

  Him peered over the trench wall. Maybe him the first to see them, flagged as red dots on his helmet's internal screen. “They're coming, Sergeant,” his voice whispered electronically along the trenches.

  “Acknowledged.”

  A battalion-wide alert flashed orange in front of Tantas' eyes. The trenches came alive. Joy roiling out of the room, breathing heavy, head nodding. The rest of the quint emerging, struggling into suits, lining into position.

  Tantas took deep breaths, trying to calm, trying to push down that tumbling fear that would be the death of him. Him so focused that him gasped when Sergeant Connell laid a hand on his shoulder.