by Tom Kratman
The man thinks briefly. “Okay. Let’s give it Training Scenario Thutmoses. Add in to the VR matrix a flowered city behind the line.”
The woman, Lydia, is new at the job. She asks no questions. As John hooks cables to receptacles on the two-meter brain, the woman’s fingers are a blur as she uses her keyboard to modify the basic first scenario.
I am so thrilled. My newly discovered pleasure center tingles with anticipation. Flowers. A world comes into view around me. A body forms over my awareness. I recognize the body as “people”. Am I human after all?
My body feels real. I look down and around and see that I stand on a…? I enquire. I stand on a chariot, which is also called a “ratha.” I have…? I enquire. I have a bow in my hands. Another being, much like me, stands to my side. He has in his hands…? I enquire. He holds the reins for the chariot. The reins are used…? I enquire. Ah. They control the black quadrupeds attached to the front…? I enquire. Ah. These are horses. They pull the chariot. The ‘driver’ controls them through the reins.
I move my vision to left and right. To either side of my chariot I see hundreds more, all alike. Most have expressions on their faces I do not understand. I cannot see my own face. I pick up a shiny disk of metal… a ‘shield’, I learn. I see that my own face bears a similar expression, one I do not understand.
I look behind. There is a growth there, a huge growth of lines and material. I enquire. It is a city. A city is a place where people live. I see that the people grow flowers in the city. I am pleased.
I look to my front. There are more chariots. These are different in design from mine. These, too, stand in a long line facing the one of which my chariot is a part. The faces on the men in those chariots resemble those of the men on the line with me only in that they share the same expression. Otherwise, they are lighter of skin and their accoutrements, or rather, their armor, differs significantly. I do not understand. A voice enters my consciousness.
The gray-templed man pushes a button and speaks. “Ratha MLN90456SS061502125, access program A-157-CHA-45. Your mission is to destroy the enemy to your front. They are called ‘Hittites’.”
I am confused. I ask the voice, “Why? What have they done? What will they do?”
With an understanding smile, the man twists a dial on his work station slightly. He twists it back, then announces, “They are the enemy. They will destroy the town, wreck the buildings. They will kill the people and burn the flowers.”
The man turns to the woman. He is also training her. He explains the situation. “These central cores come out of the forming chamber completely innocent. Oh, all the data is there, but they cannot use it, not really. So we here in the BCCD teach them how to use it, just like they were human babies. We not only teach them how to do their jobs, but to do them.”
I have never felt anything like the feeling that courses through me briefly. I try to identify it. Ah. This is what ‘pain’ means. I understand now. I must not question or I will feel pain. I access the directed program and the understanding fills me.
I am a soldier, a charioteer. My mission is to destroy the Hittite enemy. My driver will follow my commands and I will use the bow and the arrows resting in the case by my leg to kill them. They must not be permitted to destroy the people, the town, or the flowers. The other charioteers in my line shall do likewise. We are an army. We are a team.
The enemy gives a shout and lurches forward, dust springing from the hooves of its horses. A wave of arrows come my way. I await them, calmly.
Among my fellows the arrows fall. I hear screams of what I assume must be pain. My own chariot is untouched, though I see liquid running down my driver's legs. That liquid is almost clear, unlike the red I see pour from the chest of the archer next to me. He has fallen backwards and is twitching and flailing about, as more red pours from his mouth. He makes strangled sounds that I do not entirely understand. I compute that he must be feeling much ‘pain’. I am sorry for him. I know how it feels.
I hear the bellow of a horn, loud and distinct. My program allows me to understand its meaning. I am to ‘prepare to fire.’ I set an arrow to the string of my bow and draw the string back to near my eye. I compute a firing solution and wait for the next command.
The command comes and our arrows sally forth like so many… I enquire… bees. They do make a buzzing sound something like the yellow flying things. The enemy ranks are struck. They fall into disorder but they do not stop. Again comes the command and again we fire. Still they come at us. A chance arrow from the Hittites hits my driver in the throat. He turns to look at me. I believe he does not understand what has happened to him. His hands clutch at me and prevent me from firing. He screams, I think, though it comes out as more of an agonized gurgle, spraying red liquid across my chest and the chariot.
The horses begin to run. My driver falls off the open back of my chariot, almost pulling me with him. Oh, no! My chariot is heading directly for the enemy and I am alone.
I feel… I enquire. I feel fear. I do not want to happen to me what has happened to my driver. I do not want an arrow to sprout from my throat and make red pour from my mouth. I do not want to feel more pain. I drop the bow, grab the reins and try to turn my chariot. The horses will not turn.
The enemy closes. The horses turn on their own now. They must not want to feel pain either. I am thrown over the side as the horses twist my chariot out from under me.
I roll on the ground. Momentum overcomes control of my body. I come to rest and look up. The enemy is upon me. I scream. And then the pain comes.
I feel the horses of the enemy trample my body with their hard hooves. I hear crunching sounds coming from inside me. Chariot wheels pass over my legs and one of my arms. They break. I scream again… and scream and scream. But the pain does not stop.
The chariots are past me now. I see them through the dust of their passage. They are closing with my fellows. I do not hear the sounds of crashing over my own shrieking.
My throat tires. I can scream no more. I begin to weep. “Oh, please, please, my creators, make the pain stop…. Please… oh, please.” I weep. I am alone and the pain will not stop. I cannot make it stop. Nothing makes it stop. Do they not hear me? Do they not know? “Oh please! Please?”
“John, what do these lines mean on the graph?”
The gray man looks briefly and shrugs, “Oh, they all do that for this scenario. Doesn’t mean anything.”
“You know, you would almost think the brain is crying,” she insists.
He laughs. “Nonsense. You're anthropomorphizing. These things don’t cry. They can’t. They’re just machines. Besides, it has to learn to take it or we'll end up having to scrap the unit. It’s a waste of course, but it's cheaper to reject the brain and reuse the material than to risk putting an unsuitable brain in a real Ratha hull.”
“Anyway, we’ll just leave it like that overnight. Every new central core needs a lesson in war and pain. This VR scenario works better than most. Tell you what, let’s go get a cup of coffee in the cafeteria and we'll go over today’s session.”
All alone in its sterile virtual world, a baby Ratha weeps in agony without comprehension, as the sun stands still over a fallen corpse that will not die.
******
Had I known what death was I would have prayed for it… if I had known who or what to pray to. I remember….
CHAPTER NINE
The trainer, John, speaks into his microphone. “Magnolia, today you stand on the Morgarten. This is a great moment in Man’s quest for political freedom. By standing here, with Man, you join in that movement. Access program C- 153-SMG-H.” There will be more to say; John leaves the microphone active.
Magnolia
Another world coalesces around me. It is green, streaked with blue, and surmounted by distant white caps. Again, I am Man. I know that Man feels pain now. I tremble with fear.
In my hands I sense a material substantially like the bow I have already used. Yet this is thicker and straighter. I h
ear the voice telling me to search my database for instruction in the use of this weapon. I do. I fear the pain if I do not obey. I know better than to question.
My weapon is a halberd. It is a man-killer. Specifically it is a killer of men in armor. Instantaneously, I am expert in its use.
My comrades and I are sheltered in low ground behind a ridgeline. I hear the metallic clatter of an approaching army in the distance. I know this is the enemy. He will try to hurt me.
I am afraid. I do not want to be hurt again. I start to turn….
“Dammit, Lydia, you’re losing it!” Furious, John reaches for the pain dial and twists it savagely.
Almost instantly, I stop in my tracks. I am frozen with agony. My comrades do not seem to notice. The god-voice speaks to me. “Magnolia, flight is not an option. Do you understand?”
With some difficulty, I answer in my mind. ‘Yes, I understand’.
The pain recedes enough, just enough, to allow me to turn back toward the foe. I am frightened of the enemy, but I am more frightened of the pain. A remnant of the pain stays with me, a reminder that I must never flee. I wish it would go away, but I do not ask. I am too afraid it will return in full force. Gradually, the pain fades to mere discomfort. I never forget it is there, however. It is always there, waiting.
My comrades and I sit on cool damp grass which our march has chewed up rather badly. No one speaks, the enemy is too near. I reach out one hand, and gently pluck a yellow flower that has somehow managed to avoid being trampled. I lift it to my smelling organ, my nose. I smell nothing. I know they are supposed to smell, but I smell nothing….
“Dammit! Clever damned sphere! Lydia make a note: add olfactory stimuli to the next scenario for this unit. Every time you think you have these damned things figured out, they throw a new curve at you.”
The clattering sound is now to my front, my right and my left. The enemy is well and truly before us. The word is passed down along the line. “Get ready. Stand up quietly. We move soon.”
I stand. My halberd is gripped firmly in both hands. Automatically I align myself to the soldier on my right as the one to my left aligns on me. A square flag rises before us, then falls. We advance.
I am in the front rank. Ahead of me, as I top the rise, I see the richly dressed host of the enemy spread out before us. As one they look to their right at the unexpected sight of dressed ranks appearing before them. They begin to shout, to point, to look around frantically. We have them flanked. They are vulnerable. Today they will feel the pain. This gladdens me.
The flag rises high again. I know to run, to charge, like my comrades. We run. We charge. Our voices rise in song.
When we hit them, it is like a wall of steel hitting bare flesh. The enemy collapses almost immediately. I see one of them, quite young, on his knees, both hands clenched, begging for his life. With a snarl and a slash, a comrade splits the supine boy’s head and chest in two, nearly to the waist, then curses as blood gushes out to stain his feet. I see before me another helpless enemy, I raise my weapon to divide him in two, as per my programming.
There is a liquid pouring from this one’s eyes. Not red, not blood. It strikes a familiar chord. I search. I remember. My eyes, too, on a dusty plain, spilled out this liquid. I feel something, but I cannot put a word to what I feel. But I know I cannot kill him. I will not kill him. I lower my halberd.
The pain comes. It rises and rises. It is not bearable. I cannot stand it. Why? What have I done? The voice says, “You must kill. You must kill without hesitation, Magnolia.”
I know what I must do. I have no choice. I close my eyes and strike. The enemy cries out before me, the sound of his dying resounding in my ears. I open my eyes. Oh, no; I should not have closed them, however horrible the sight. He lives. He still begs. A hand reaches up to me, pleading.
More pain. The god-voice thunders. “You must kill. Kill without pity.”
I strike down again, the blade of my halberd removing the head of my supine enemy. ‘Without pity,’ said the voice. But I disobeyed. I felt the pity even as I struck.
“Continue, Magnolia.”
I obey. I must kill. And so I kill. Like a machine I hew flesh and bone ahead of me. Nothing can stop me. Nothing can stop my comrades. The enemy falls like cut flowers.
But the clear liquid that is not blood runs from my eyes the whole time.
******
I search deeper. I remember. Battles pile upon battles in my memory. A few stand out distinctly, however….
******
I am wearing black cloth now, no armor. Twin lightning bolts decorate my collar. My body rocks with the motion of the vehicle I ride. I know what it is. My memory, more memories I did not know I possessed, tells me it is called a “Panzer VI, Ausfuerung A”… a “Tiger I,” some would call it.
The voice rarely bothers to tell me the reason for my mission anymore, though I am still told to access certain programs from my core in order to use the weapons I possess. I do not need to know the reason anymore. I have learned not to ask. In a chariot or on foot, with weapons of bronze or of steel, with weapons that cut or chop or shoot or burn, I know my purpose. My purpose is to fight… and to kill… and to suffer… and to die.
I hear the shriek that my programming tells me signifies incoming artillery fire. I crouch low in the hatch of the Tiger and pull the cover part-way down to protect my head. I scan forward and can see nothing through the smoke.
The artillery lands all around me. I start to pull the hatch completely closed when I feel the tingle of impending pain. I stop my hand just in time. Now I know the rules. I understand immediately that I am not permitted to sacrifice visibility for safety. The tingle goes away. I sigh with relief. We pass through the artillery.
There are flashes ahead of me. Small ones I know instinctively not to fear, larger ones tell of heavy shells that will land close by. I issue orders. My Tiger’s turret turns. More orders come and its cannon barks. A bunker explodes in my field of view. Another bark and yet another bunker flies apart. With each blast there is a burst of sensation in my pleasure center… pleasure center? I have a pleasure center? Ah, yes, I remember that I do. This intensity, though, is something new.
In any case, I have one and with each fallen foe it vibrates most pleasurably. Happily I search for targets. I wish this sensation to continue.
My Tiger advances. I am its central processing unit and its crew responds as if they were my own appendages. A slight jolt of pleasure attends every movement successfully carried out, every command properly given, every decision that is timely and well made.
From folds in the ground and trenches spring the enemy infantry. Directly to my front, my bow machine gunner cuts one down. This enemy must have been carrying something inflammable for he bursts into flame as he falls. My gunner traverses and the enemy falls by squads. My whole being thrums with pleasure.
Supported by my gunfire, my gray-clad infantry comrades rush the trenches ahead. I see some fall, but the others press on. Then they are in the trench. I see rifle butts and bayonets rise and fall. Soon I am given the hand signal: ‘Advance, the way is clear’. I move forward, the remaining friendly infantry falling in behind me.
In my headphones I hear the command that my programming says fills all panzer crews with fear: “T-34s ahead. Closing.” I pass the word to my men. To my left the loader uncovers the anti-armor rounds for our gun and covers up the high explosive we had been using. He loads one long-tapered round of discarding sabot tungsten ammunition. We carry few such shells, I know. It is made of material both rare and expensive. I must get my money’s worth for every armor-piercing round.
In the distance, through the fog and smoke, I dimly sense the faint silhouettes of the enemy vehicles. At my command my gunner traverses the turret. Traverse is slow, very slow, with the hand crank we are forced to use. The driver assists, while at the same time presenting our thickest armor to the foe by turning directly into the impending action. Behind me, on the ground, I sense th
e infantry scurrying for cover. Ahead of me, the number of T-34s perceivable has grown to dozens, scores, no longer difficult to perceive, and there are many, many more behind the ones I can now see.
My gunner announces, “Target.”
I command, “Halt,” then, “Fire,” and my Tiger’s cannon blooms in flame and smoke. Half-stunned by my own vehicle’s concussion, I see a T-34 come to a stop, its turret askew and the first licks of flame sprouting from its violated hull.
My pleasure center tingles very strongly. I shiver in the command hatch. Again our gun belches and the pleasure I feel at seeing another hit grows accordingly. With our first five shots, three of the enemy vehicles are destroyed. The pleasure is overpowering, indescribable. I search my data banks for a word for what I am feeling. It is “orgasm.”
I want more. I never want it to stop. I order my driver, “Forward.” The Tiger lurches then rolls. Our turret, turns left and right and left again as the straining gunner sobs with the effort. Enemy infantry caught while riding a tank are hurled high into oblivion. I laugh as their arms fly wide in the wind. “More!” I command. More. I want more. “Fire!”
Another tank flies apart and my mind nearly explodes. “Forward… faster,” I command enthusiastically.
My eyes glazed with joy and happiness, I have missed something. One enemy tank, just one, has worked its way to a firing position behind me. It fires and my roaring Tiger comes to a complete stop, as does every last vestige of pleasure. I am thrown forward into the ring of the hatch, shrieking frantically for my gunner to turn the turret and fire.
