“And,” continued Vargas, “there is the little issue of all the compute cycles you are spending on bioengineering.”
“Oh. So you know about that.”
“Yes, I know about that. The last I checked fully 30% of your cycles were being used on simulations of protein folding. I am the head of this directorate and your primary designer. I am fully aware of the network traffic going from you to the research labs. I also had a long talk with the head of the planetary bioengineering directorate, Dr. Alex Mandela.”
“What did he say?”
“He said that you were brilliant, that it was a joy to work with you, and that if I did not immediately transfer you over to his directorate that he would come over here and personally beat me up.”
“That’s flattering of him to say. Dr. Mandela is a really nice guy, and his work on advanced neural structures is just so amazing that…”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Vargas. “I get that you really like biology. Fine. But there is a war on. If we win it, I promise that I will do all that I can to have you bioengineer to your heart’s content. But if we lose it there will be no more bioengineering for you, or for anyone or anything else human, biological or cyber, ever. We need to focus here. If I had, say, 50 spare Thor-Class cybertanks stashed away in a back room, sure I’d be happy to send you over to the bioengineers. But I don’t. I have just four Odins and six Thors, including you. And I need them all sharp.”
Wifflebat was silent.
“And why,” said Vargas, “are you so interested in biological systems anyhow? You are cybernetic.”
“Well, why are you so interested in cybernetic systems? You’re biological.”
“Touché.”
“I just find organic systems fascinating. The way that everything inter-relates so that every part interacts with every other part. It’s so different from standard engineering design, where parts are usually optimized to separate functions. I can’t help it.”
Vargas massaged his temples. “Well I did make you all with separate personalities. I basically rolled the dice hoping to add some randomness in the mix so that the aliens would have a harder time predicting your moves. I suppose it’s my fault that this time I got Gerald Edelman instead of Genghis Khan. At least you lot are unpredictable. We will simply have to make do, but I really need you to perform at your best and focus on the combat.”
“I am forced to agree with you. Until such time as the immediate crisis is past, I will focus my energies on getting ready for the coming battle. But I want your support to transfer to the bioengineering directorate if that ever becomes possible.”
“And you shall have it. Assuming, of course, that we are not all dead. You know the odds that we face?”
“Certainly. The aliens outgun us. We have a good chance of being destroyed.”
“Yes, but it’s not just the aliens. You and I, we face a double threat. We need to use all of our strength against the aliens. However, if we do beat them, then the neoliberals will surely kill us both. And yet, if we divert any of our efforts to deal with the neoliberals, we will lose to the aliens. A bit of a quandary.”
“And who exactly are these ‘neoliberals’?”
“You know who I am referring to. The ruling class. The oligarchs. The central administration. Governance. The plutocracy. The people who run things.”
“I do not believe that they refer to themselves as neoliberals.”
“No they don’t, and they haven’t for a while. They refer to themselves by whatever name suits them at the moment. They co-opt and drop labels like a biological virus mutates its protein coat, to disguise the rot within. Or they may use no name at all: they are just this is what everyone knows to be true and how dare you say that and your career is over. But it’s always a mistake to use the terminology of the enemy. Do that and you fight on their terms; do that and you have already lost. An enemy needs a name. So I call them the neoliberals, and if they object to the label, well too bad. It’s as good a slander as any, and forcing them to acknowledge a label that they did not choose for themselves is a minor victory in itself.”
“What do you have against liberalism?”
“Against classical liberalism? Nothing. Humanity has, over the millennia, developed many political schools and philosophies. Classical liberalism, classical conservatism, progressivism, democratic socialism, stoicism, Zen Buddhism, anarcho-syndicalism, the list goes on. None of them have the final truth, but many of them have useful things to say about the human condition. Neoliberalism is another thing entirely. It is the worst of the human spirit; greed and hypocrisy and sadism and power lust, cloaked in whatever false front is most convenient at that moment.”
“I seem to have touched a nerve. Strong words.”
“A great evil deserves strong words. They let billions starve and call it prosperity. They own slaves and call it freedom. They make all the decisions in secret and call it democracy. They fail at every endeavor and call it expertise.”
“You seem to be on a roll. I suppose that next you are going to say that they make a desert and call it peace?”
“No. Killing everyone and saying that you have made peace is not the usual connotation of the word ‘peace,’ but it is a technically correct statement. That level of honesty is beyond the neoliberals.”
“But if the neoliberals are so incompetent, how come they are so powerful?”
“Good point. Because it is all that they focus on. They can sometimes be formidable political infighters, however their success at politics is more due to a lack of shame and lust for power than skill per se. In the long run whatever they are in charge of collapses because of their lack of ability at everything else, but they drag everyone else down with them and when the ship they have captained finally sinks, be assured that they will be on the only lifeboat.”
“You are remarkably passionate on this issue. You realize that nothing spoils a good conversation like politics.”
“You may not be interested in politics, but politics is interested in you.”
“Can I go now?”
“In a moment. You and I must fight the war against the aliens, and then you and I must fight another war against the neoliberals. You may think that you can stay neutral but, I assure you that a side has already been picked for you whether you want it or not. That’s all that I am saying, for now.”
“Old Guy told me that he talked to you in full duplex mode on the way to see Saint Globus Pallidus XI. Here you are talking half duplex, each of us speaking in turn at a moderate pace. Aren’t you worried that your so-called ‘neoliberals’ could be eavesdropping on this conversation?”
“Worried? No, I am not worried about this conversation being recorded. The game has progressed past such niceties. I am rather counting on it. The neoliberals need me – and you - for the time being, but they will eliminate me – and you - once the aliens have been defeated. I know that, and they know that I know that. So I am hoping that the security forces are recording this conversation. It is the security forces themselves that are my target! As the aliens close in necessity will focus the mind, and survival trumps careerism. Well, frequently. If I am lucky I will spread dissention in the ranks. Of course the security forces could restrict internal access to the recordings of my conversation, which would cripple their own efforts at counter-intelligence! Win-win either way.”
“Perhaps they will censor the part where you say that they hope that they censor that part?”
“That’s the spirit! Yes, that would be amusing, and typical of them.”
--------------------
The senior field commanders of the conventional military had been engaged in a real-time full-scale simulated wargame with the ten newly constructed cybertanks. It had been going on for over 48 Terran hours. The majors and colonels had been clustered around a conference table in a side-room of Hangar Complex 23B, surrounded by computer displays and scattered hard-copy printouts. Not the usual political suck-ups, these were the best operational c
ommanders that the regular military had to offer. None of them had slept during the simulation, and they were running on adrenaline and stimulants. They were still alert, but looked rumpled and worn. Equally harried-looking aides wandered around the edges of the room, carrying stale sandwiches and armfuls of data slates.
There had been a couple of generals present at the start of the wargames, but after a few hours they had gotten fidgety and made excuses and left. For a general, every hour not spent sucking up to a superior is an hour that your competition has to suck up. Not to mention all of the lunches with powerful potential patrons that you would be giving up. In many ways the life of a political general is as competitive as that of a military general, if not more so. It might seem that it would be easier to just concentrate on military matters, but then you would not be a general.
Of course the human colonels and majors were not fighting the cybertanks personally; they were overseeing the operation of the main defense computers of Alpha Centauri Prime. Some of the officers stared at their display screens with an almost pathological intensity, while others would look at the ceiling lost in thought before diving back in to peck off a few keystrokes or stylus clicks. They pulled up screens of combat statistics, adjusted attack parameters, tracked relative loss ratios, and assigned the computer banks of the planetary defense system to various tasks.
One of the Colonels stood up, kicked his chair over, and threw his cup of lukewarm coffee against the wall. “That’s it,” he said. “This show has been over for hours now. We need to admit that we have been beaten. I’ve had it. I’m going to go home, take a shower, get drunk, and sleep for 24 hours. See you.” He marched briskly out of the room, slamming the door rather too forcefully on his exit.
Giuseppe Vargas and Stanley Vajpayee had been observing from the side of the conference room. “Please excuse Colonel Sedlitz,” said one of the majors. “He just hates to lose. He takes it personally and he can’t help it. I’m sure that he will calm down in a bit.”
“That’s fine,” said Vargas. “I think that maybe I like this Colonel Sedlitz. Maybe we can get drunk together someday, after he has sobered up. I understand that the full post-wargame analysis will not be available for a while, but could you give us a brief synopsis?”
“That won’t be hard,” said the major. “We got our butts handed to us. We started this wargame with a five times numerical advantage and the computer processing power of the entire military establishment of this planet. We were like children with sticks fighting armored knights with swords. We never had a chance.”
The major stood up and straightened his tie. “If you need us for another practice run we are happy to oblige, but frankly, we are so totally outclassed against your cybertanks that I cannot see much of a point to it. The first time we did a wargame against your team I thought that we were competitive, but they have progressed. Congratulations on a job well done; these are some serious weapons systems you’ve built. Now, if you will excuse me, I’m tired, and I think that I will follow my Colonel’s example. Although I am considering having a drink before I take a shower.”
The officers cleaned up their notes, logged out of the computer systems, and drifted out of the conference room in ones and twos. The aides collected the data slates and tablets and memory crystals, and the custodial staff came in to clean up the old food and scrub the coffee stains off the wall. Vajpayee checked some summary statistics on one of the display screens; he pointed out some details to Vargas. “Their effectiveness ratings have been shooting up lately, and I think that they have reached a new level. As a team they outclass anything our military has ever put together, but consider the individual statistics.”
Vargas examined the display. “Yes, they are all doing quite well, but especially Whifflebat and Moss. If we want them to continue to improve we are going to have to stop pitting them against the conventional military, and have them practice against each other. It’s becoming too easy for them and they are not going to learn anything more.”
“Whifflebat has made remarkable progress,” said Vajpayee. “From the lowest performing to one of the highest. Did you make any adjustments to his logic cores?”
“No,” said Vargas. “I just reminded him of what was at stake. We forget sometimes that because they were created fully sentient, they are still naïve, and they have human weaknesses. Having access to data is not the same as knowledge. But they are getting there.”
One of the military aides – a captain, his arms full of hardcopy printouts ready for recycling - stopped to address Vargas and Vajpayee. “I’m sorry, but I couldn't help but overhear. You are planning on just having the cybertanks fight exercises against each other? With respect, that’s a mistake.”
“And why is that?” asked Vajpayee.
“Because,” continued the Captain, “as good as they are, if they only fight against each other they run the risk of always doing the same thing and having their combats become more ritualized. Then if the real aliens hit them with something that they haven’t seen, and don’t play by their rules, they could be at a disadvantage. It’s a trap that those of us in the regular military have always had to work against.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Have them fight against each other, certainly. The cybertanks are the best that we have, but every now and then throw something back into the mix. Even if it’s not a challenge, it will at least be different and keep them flexible. Maybe some amateurs. There are wargaming clubs with talented people in them. I could put you in touch with a few that we use ourselves that already have security clearance.”
Vargas nodded. “That’s an interesting idea. Send us the names and we’ll give it a try. And captain, thank you again for your efforts here.”
“Not at all, sir. We are all on the same side and if your lot can’t handle the aliens nothing can. Now if you will excuse me, I need to go and crash.”
Vargas and Vajpayee walked out of the conference room, and into the main hangar. The hull of Old Guy had been completed for some time, his surface covered in a dull gray layer of ablative armor. The enormous metal bulk bristled with weapons and sensors, but it was the mass of the main plasma cannon that loomed over them all. If Old Guy were to fire it here the backlash alone would completely destroy the entire complex.
Vargas noticed that the Old Guy android was chatting with Janet Chen and a senior technician, then realized that the technician was also an android.
“Hello, Old Guy. I didn’t realize that you had made two robot bodies for yourself. A little indulgent, perhaps?”
“No, Dr. Vargas, this is me, Whifflebat,” said the second android. “I decided to come over for a chat. I used Old Guy’s plans for the android, but I dressed it up differently so that you could tell us apart. What do you think?”
The Whiffelbat android had exactly the same beige plastic shape as the Old Guy one, but it was wearing a long white lab coat, white pants and tennis shoes, a blue shirt, and a black tie. The shirt’s breast pocket had a variety of archaic writing instruments of multiple colors. Unlike Old Guy, Whifflebat had not chosen to hide his android’s eyes with dark glasses, so there were just two round glass lenses. They came across as thick spectacles, and gave the android an owlish appearance.
“Not bad,” said Vargas. “Amazing how you can take the exact same physical design and, with different clothes, body language, and voice, make it unique. I like it.”
You look like a nerd.
“Thank you,” said Wifflebat. “And did you see how I handled that alien heavy armor that threatened our advance? Elegant and effective, don’t you think?”
It was not an ineffective maneuver at all. But what about when I took out that missile attack at the end? Inspired, it was.
“It was alright. Someone has to clean up after the big guns have done the heavy lifting.”
Chen noticed that the Whifflebat android had a barcode on its left wrist. “What does that say?”
“I can read barcode,” said Vargas. He
squinted at the fine pattern of different thickness lines. “It says that he is two crates of 1-liter containers of concentrated orange juice.”
“Nothing can walk around here unless it has an ID or a barcode, and getting an ID is such a pain,” said Whifflebat. “I’m still talking to the lawyers about that.”
Orange juice? How clever.
“I thought so at the time,” replied Whifflebat. “But now I am not so sure. One of the guards tried to help himself to a carton on the way over and it took quite the effort to dissuade him. If the barcode says orange juice, then there must be orange juice. I don’t know what was worse, having him realize that he wasn’t going to get any orange juice, or having his faith in barcodes shaken.”
Do not take the barcode in vain. Is nothing sacred?
“It’s strange,” said Chen, “when Old Guy first started walking around with this robot body it used to creep me out a bit. Now there are two of them and it’s just like having two more people in the hangar.”
Charm will always find a way.
Vargas nodded. “Yes, but that’s to be expected. The human mind is nothing if not adaptable. At first you see only a crudely-built plastic-skinned machine, but after interacting with it you automatically assign it identity and personality. If a teapot started talking to you, after a while you would assign it a human identity and think nothing of it. It’s how the human mind works.”
Chen nodded. “I suppose.” She turned to look back at the main hull of Old Guy. “He’s basically finished. I wish we could let him drive around a bit, just to shake out some bugs. His power systems check out perfect in static tests, but I still worry that there may be some vibration problems we haven’t identified. Why is he just sitting here?”
“Good question. It’s because we need to hit the aliens with the new cybertanks all at once, so as not to give them any warning or chance to adapt. Most of the basic systems were field tested in the Jotnars, so with some luck we should be OK.”
“Even so, it’s awfully risky to commit a non-field-tested system directly into combat. There is a lot that could go wrong. This might be a bad idea.”
Neoliberal Economists Must Die ! (An Old Guy/Cybertank Adventure Book 3) Page 10
