Neoliberal Economists Must Die ! (An Old Guy/Cybertank Adventure Book 3)

by Timothy Gawne

  There were calls to give the cybertanks medals and honors and even name high schools after them. This latter proposal clearly showed a lack of foresight that, given the circumstances and enthusiastic spirit, was considered forgivable. Old Guy thought that “Old Guy High School” would be great, while Whifflebat would have preferred to have a University named after him: “Whifflebat Institute of Technology,” or “WIT.” Crazy Ivan suggested that a community college, or perhaps a school for the mentally challenged, would have been more appropriate, and in any event could there be anything cooler than “Crazy Ivan High School?” This latter, the others were forced to admit, was surely true.

  So that’s all finished then. It was fun while it lasted.

  “I suppose,” said Whifflebat. “We’ll be days chasing down the last alien units, and digging out their buried facilities, but that’s routine. We can leave it to our remotes running on automatic, or even the regular military. We have won the day.”

  “We have won the day” – charming phrase! It’s been a long time in warfare since anyone could say that they have taken the field, and it meant something.

  “So what comes next?” asked The Kid.

  We repair ourselves as best as we can out here, and then go back to our main hangars for a more complete refit. And then we prepare for the next battle.

  “And when will that be?”

  Hard to say. We have wiped out the Fructoids on the main planet here, as well as taken out most of their near-planet space systems. They committed an awful lot of their resources to this ground assault so they are probably really thin in the rest of the system. With a little luck we should be able to push back, retake the manufacturing centers on the asteroids and ice moons, and kick them out entirely. It might take decades for them to launch another invasion here. Centuries, even.

  “The Fructoids are not stupid,” said Crazy Ivan. “They’ve been around for millions of years, at least, and who knows what sort of resources they have stored up back in their civilizations’ main centers? They will also have the records of this battle. They will learn from it, and the next attack will not be so easy. And of course, there are those other human star systems under assault.”

  “We should beg for peace,” said Moss.

  “After we’ve just beaten them?” asked The Kid. “Surely they are the ones that should be trying to make peace?”

  “No,” said Moss. “This was a minor setback for them. The Fructoids will destroy us, in time, if we do not come to terms with them. The only sane course of action is to use the temporary advantage that we have won here to make a peace.”

  That’s the longest string of uninterrupted words that I have ever heard you speak.

  “More words were not required previously,” said Moss.

  “But will our government let us make a peace? Can we do that?” asked Crazy Ivan.

  “Our so-called government?” said Whifflebat. “No they won’t let us do that. They will say that we have won, that we won’t bow down to aliens, that we must stay the course of multiplying our numbers like rodents and expanding without limit. The oligarchs only think short-term. The possibility that there might be another assault in a few decades or centuries won’t bother them. After all, there’s money to be made, for now.”

  “A cynical response,” said Crazy Ivan.

  “Check your databases. Examine the record. I believe that everything that I have said is well supported in fact,” replied Wifflebat. “Unless you want to narcotize yourself with the opiate of wishful thinking.”

  “Narcotize yourself with the opiate of wishful thinking?” said The Kid. “Do you have any idea how lame that phrase is?”

  “Think about it,” responded Whifflebat.

  Changing the subject, Kid, even though you didn’t screw up, do you still want a new nickname? I think that you’ve earned one. Suggestions, anyone?

  “Golgi,” said Whifflebat.

  “Retrograde,” suggested Crazy Ivan.

  “Ten,” said Moss.

  “Ten?”

  “You are the tenth cybertank.”

  “Oh, right. Thanks, guys, but I think I will pass. Somehow “The Kid” has grown on me.”

  A wise decision. I always knew that you’d come around.

  10. Porkchop Hangar

  Engineer: Why are sequels usually so bad?

  Zen Master: Can you be more specific?

  Engineer: For example, Herman Melville's novel “Moby Dick” is considered to be one of the greatest novels of English literature, and yet “Moby Dick: The Sequel” sank into obscurity. Joseph Heller’s work “Catch 22” is a masterful satire of bureaucracy, and yet “Catch 23” failed to latch on, and he never authored another significant work.

  Zen Master: True. However, the sequel to the Old Testament garnered considerable commercial and critical success.

  Engineer: Granted. But that was an exception, and in that case the authors had powerful friends. Still, why is it that so many authors and artists only produce a single great work?

  Zen Master: Why should not a person have only one major story to tell? Should we have it that a single person writes all the books that need to be written, that a single musician composes all the songs that need to be sung? How boring the world would be if that were true. If an author should write only a single world-changing masterpiece how wonderful! It would be selfish to wish for more. Leave something left for the rest of us to write, or to sing, or to paint, or sculpt. To think otherwise is to lower human genius to the level of a base art, where anyone can turn the crank and produce more on schedule. By definition genius is that which cannot be produced on command, else it would be something lesser.

  Engineer : I cannot stand it anymore. Squeeze me close to you.

  (From the video series “Nymphomaniac Engineer in Zentopia,” mid-22nd century Earth)

  The five surviving cybertanks patched themselves up, and began the long trek back to their hangars. Thankfully there was no rush this time so they cruised along at a few tens of kilometers an hour, and had the luxury of being able to steer around buildings rather than drive through them.

  Large parts of the landscape were blasted wasteland. They passed kilometer after kilometer of flattened buildings. There were places where tens of thousands of humans had been blown onto the surface and then asphyxiated; their scrawny desiccated corpses looked like scattered jacks. Everywhere was the drifting debris of destroyed human structures: insulation, paper, styrofoam cups, all the lightweight bits and pieces of human civilization had blown around on the winds and now settled everywhere like ugly dirty snow. Occasionally they passed some of the buildings that they themselves had driven through in the initial phases of the battle. They saw the rough edges where they had torn through, with bits and pieces of corpses dangling over the edges. Over it all was the indistinct red glow of the sun through the clouds of radioactive dust.

  Their main hangars had sustained significant damage when they had burst out of them, but the core facilities were still intact. The cybertanks carefully backed into them, and then people with breathing masks covered over the gaps with heavy plastic sheeting, and reintroduced breathable air. Work commenced on making real operable hangar doors. The need for surprise was over so there was no reason to pretend that the buildings were something else.

  Human technicians and remotes controlled by the cybertanks themselves swarmed over their hulls. Even though mostly functional, the damage was extensive enough that it would take weeks to completely repair. Self-repairing systems are all well and good, but there is a lot of technology that requires centralized industrial facilities in order to be tuned up to full specifications.

  Giseuppe Vargas stood in the middle of the hangar and looked at the main hull of Old Guy, which was still dripping from the heavy rinses required to decontaminate it of radiation.

  “Nicely done,” said Vargas. “Reports are still coming in, but the regular military is being efficient at mopping up the remainders of the alien landing force. Even bet
ter, you got most of their low-orbit space forces. Plans are being made to push out and retake our outposts in the rest of this system. Pity that we had to lose five of you though.”

  The casino of war. Compared to the billions of human deaths I suppose that it’s not much of a sacrifice, but it’s the loss of the ones you know personally that has the most impact. I will miss them.

  “Truth. You should know that there is a movement to give you five survivors full legal human status.”

  I do not deny the generosity of that proposal, but when I see how cheap human life is you will forgive me for being underwhelmed. However, we five are considering making you an honorary cybertank.

  “That would be the higher honor.”

  We think so too.

  “By the way, do you know where Vajpayee is? I haven’t seen him since he left for central administration.”

  Dr. Vajpayee is in the main computer lab. Some of my auxiliary data matrices were damaged in combat, and he’s helping switch in some new units. Oh, and in case you are wondering, Janet Chen is working with her tech crew and running diagnostics on my fusion reactor. She seems quite engaged in her work and I estimate that she will not be finished for at least six hours.

  Vargas grinned. “Our relationship is that obvious?”

  'Obvious' is not a strong enough word. It’s as hard to miss as the main gun on my turret - when I’m firing it. Especially with that idiot grin that you display whenever her name comes up.

  “It’s not an idiot grin. It’s a sublime expression of a truly deep respect for and attraction to another person which lightens my otherwise grim days in this life.”

 

  At this point the lights in the hangar went out. For a moment there was only the dim glow of the instruments that had battery power, then the emergency lighting kicked in. People were looking up from their work, confused but not panicked.

  Vargas noticed that all of Old Guy’s repair drones had frozen in place. “Old Guy? Can you hear me? What’s happening?” asked Vargas, but the big cybertank was silent and unmoving.

  One of the repair drones was flashing its light on and off. Vargas walked over and looked at it. It was statue-still like the others in the hangar, and it was only the light that was flashing. The minimal circuitry of the drone must have been reconfigured to flash the light without any external controls. Vargas noticed that there was a small piece of oddly-shaped aluminum in the drones’ multi-jaws. He pulled it out and saw crude writing engraved on it.

  Vargas dropped the piece of aluminum and sprinted towards the far end of the hangar. A gazelle could have beaten him, but not by much. Heads turned to follow him but he was out of the hangar before anyone could say anything.

  The piece of aluminum hit the floor with a small ‘ping’, and came to rest. Engraved on it by the multi-jaws of the repair drone were the words:

  VAJPAYEE BETRAYED US

  ___________________

  Vargas was sprinting down the corridors, caroming off walls, charging past startled workers, and upsetting carts laden with delicate electronics. Faint cries of “what?” and “hey!” echoed in his distant wake.

  Vargas charged into the main computer lab. The far wall was covered with large display screens dense with flow graphs and mental circuit diagrams. Stanley Vajpayee was sitting at a console and typing furiously.

  In one leap Vargas crossed the room, and he grabbed each of Vajpayee’s hands, lifting them away from the keyboard.

  “What are you doing?” asked Vargas.

  “Nothing - hey, this hurts, stop it! I’m just fixing the auxiliary processors. Let me do my job.”

  Still holding Vajpayee’s wrists immobile, Vargas scanned the complex displays.

  “No you are not. You have scrambled Old Guy’s control circuits,” said Vargas. He tightened his grip on Vajpayee’s wrists, who writhed in pain. “Tell me what the plan is.”

  “We are knocking out the cybertanks, and then the security forces will come and take over. I had no choice – they would have fired me. You can cut a deal, I’m sure…”

  Vargas started to twist Vajpayee’s wrists, slowly tearing the ligaments. Vajpayee tried to break free, but he would have had a better chance tearing a hole in the reinforced high-strength concrete walls with his bare hands.

  “Tell me how to reverse this,” said Vargas.

  “I can’t!” wailed Vajpayee. “I don’t have the codes. It’s ultra high-level encryption - it’s irreversible.”

  “Then,” said Vargas, “you are of no use to me.”

  Vargas efficiently broke Vajapyee’s neck with a blow from one hand, then with the other he threw him across the room against the far wall. Before Vajapayee’s dead and broken body slid to the floor Vargas was at the computer console and analyzing the displays. Without averting his gaze, he activated his comms. “Janet Chen, come to the main computer lab. Now! It’s an emergency.”

  For a time Giuseppe Vargas was alone in the room, frantically typing on the console. Then Janet Chen arrived. She was startled to see Vajpayee’s lifeless body slumped against a wall.

  Vargas kept his eyes focused n his display screens. “Janet. Sorry about this. Vajpayee has shut down Old Guy, and locked me out. I’m trying to find a way to reactivate our cybertank, but I’m not sure how long it is going to take me. The federal security teams are probably going to arrive any moment now. I need you to organize a defense.”

  “What? But I don’t know anything about organizing a defense! I’m only an engineer. And what have you gotten us into? Can’t we just surrender?”

  “Janet. Apologies. I didn’t think that the oligarchs would strike so soon, or so effectively. At this point no surrender is possible. They are going to kill, or torture and then kill, everyone in this hangar complex. If we can hang on until I can reactivate Old Guy we will have a chance. I must stay here. You must lead the defense. You will do it because you have to. It’s not as hard as it looks. Guns are tools, just shoot the bad guys before they shoot you. It’s really just geometry. But I do have a gift for you.”

  Vargas tapped his comms again. “Harvey, I need you here now, priority.” After a few moments the metal cockroach-like form of Harvey scudded into the room.

  “Harvey,” said Vargas. “New mission: bodyguard, subject Janet Chen, commence.”

  Harvey straightened up, and scanned Chen.

  NEW MISSION ACKNOWLEDGED. BODYGUARD. SUBJECT JANET CHEN. ACKNOWLEGED.”

  “Now go,” said Vargas. “No excuses, no complaints. Succeed, or fail and die. Consult with the wargaming club. I love you. However, I cannot waste any more attention on you.”

  Vargas was paging through the displays faster than Chen could follow. Chen tried asking Vargas some more questions, but Vargas refused to respond.

  “Harvey,” asked Chen, “What should I do? What’s going on?”

  I AM YOUR BODYGUARD. YOU SHOULD DO WHAT YOU SHOULD DO. WHAT IS GOING ON IS WHAT IS GOING ON.

  “That’s a big help.”

  YOU ARE WELCOME.

  Janet Chen hesitated a moment, kissed Vargas on the nape of the neck, then left the room. The robotic cockroach-shaped body of Harvey scuttled after her, sensors and antenna constantly scanning for danger.

  --------------------

  Captain Chet Masterson of Special Weapons Team Epsilon had long resisted moving from old Earth to Alpha Centauri Prime. It had seemed like an impossibly far distance to travel. However, the continued falling apart of Earth-based civilization had made him start to reconsider. The knowledge that the elites were all going to move had sealed the bargain. Like cockroaches fleeing a burning building, he had thought.But if the building is burning, can one really blame a cockroach for trying to escape? There is a reason that cockroaches have lasted hundreds of millions of years. It’s a pragmatic attitude.

  Masterson was surprised at how easy the process of interstellar travel was. He and his team checked in at a medical facility, and spent several days being probed and scrubbed. Their individual
biochemistries were evaluated so that the suspended animation process could be tailored to each of them. Finally, Masterson had been led into a quiet and dimly lit room. He had lain down on a metal slab and an intravenous line had been started. They must have begun with a sedative because he began to feel really happy, and then he was on another planet in another star system. A junior nurse pulled electrical leads off of his body and that was that.

  All those years lying in frozen sleep had stiffened his joints, but a few days of aggressive physical therapy had fixed that.

  At first things had gone really well. Unlike Earth when he had left it, Alpha Centauri Prime was under control. People surrendered when they were supposed to, and there were no lawless areas that he and his team could not enter. Additionally the partitioning of the population into sealed-environment sheds made social control far easier than back on earth. Civilians were not allowed to own respirators, so the unbreathable atmosphere made keeping order almost too easy. Perhaps most importantly, there was plenty of funding and the video-game franchise continued to set sales records.

  Then there was the news of the growing alien threat. Most people didn’t realize that they were at war with one (or was it several?) several ancient alien civilizations, but Masterson was just high up enough to have the contacts to know what was going on. It was a very mixed blessing. There was nothing that he personally could do about it, but the prospect of oncoming annihilation was very much a downer. His subordinates – who had no clue – seemed much happier.

  There were also rumors that the aliens had made peace offers and been rejected by the government. Some rumors could get you fired. This rumor could get you killed. It was odd that it was so virulent. People were at pains not to acknowledge it in public but it was clearly having an effect.