War with the Robots

Of course the robots will help since by this time, after so much training, they will be getting very good at the game themselves. This robot participation will take away a great amount of the pleasure gained from hand-to-hand combat, but a perfecting trend cannot be stopped. As long as one side gets a little bit ahead, the other side has to rush to catch up.

Until in the end we will have global warfare of a truly majestic sort, where the entire surface of the planet, the air and the seas will be a single gigantic battleground…

WAR WITH THE ROBOTS

ONLY THE SLIGHTEST VIBRATION could be felt through the floor of the hurtling monorail car. There was no sensation of motion since the rushing tunnel walls could not be seen though the windowless sides. The riders, all of them in neatly pressed uniforms with buttons and decorations shining, swayed slightly in their seats on the turns, wrapped in their own thoughts and mumbled conversations. Above them, thousands of feet of solid rock sealed them off from the war. At an effortless one-hundred and fifty miles an hour the car rushed General Pere and his staff to their battle stations.

When the alarm screamed the driver clamped the brakes full on and reversed his motors. There was not enough time. At full speed the metal bullet tore into the barrier of rocks and dirt that blocked the tunnel. Steel plates crushed and crumpled as the car slammed to a halt. All the lights went out; and in the empty silence that followed the ear-shattering clamor of the crash only a faint moaning could be heard.

General Pere pushed himself up from the chair, shaking his head in an effort to clear it, and snapped on his flash. The beam nervously danced the length of the car, gleaming on settling dust motes and lighting up the frightened white faces of his staff.

"Casualty report, verbal," he told his adjutant, his voice pitched low so that no quaver might be heard. It is not easy to be a general when you are only nineteen years old. Pere forced himself to stand still while the metal back of the adjutant robot moved swiftly up the aisle.

The seats were well anchored and faced to the rear, so it was hopeful that there would not be too many casualties. Behind the backs of the last chairs was a rubble of dirt that had burst in through the destroyed nose. The driver was undoubtedly dead under it, which was all for the best. It saved the trouble of a court-martial.

"One killed, one missing in action, one wounded, total active strength of unit now seventeen." The adjutant dropped the salute and stood at attention, waiting further orders. General Pere nervously chewed his lip.

Missing-in-action meant the driver. Presumed dead, damn well dead. The "one killed" was the new captain from Interceptor Control, who had had the bad luck to be leaning out of his chair at the time of the accident. His neck had been cracked on the edge of the chair and his head now hung down at a sickening angle. The moaning must be the wounded man, he had better check on that first. He stamped down the aisle and shined his light on the sallow, sweatbeaded face of Colonel Zen.

"My arm, sir," the Colonel gasped. "I was reaching out when we crashed, my arm whipped back and hit the metal edge. Broken I think. The pain…"

"That’s enough, Colonel," Pere said. A little too loudly, because the man’s fear was beginning to touch him too. There were footsteps in the aisle and his second-in-command, General Natia, joined him.

"You’ve had the standard first aid course, General," Pere said. ‘Bandage this man and then report to me."

"Yes, sir," General Natia said, her voice echoing that same note of fear.

Damn all, Pere thought, she should know that’s no way for a general to act. We can’t let the troops know we’re afraid — even if we are. He made no allowance for the fact that General Natia was a woman, and just eighteen.

Once his staff had been attended to he turned his mind to the problems at hand. Some of the tension eased as he sorted out all the factors. Problem solving was his speciality, and he had been selected for it before birth. Gene analysis had chosen the best DNA chain from his parents’ sperm-and-ovum bank. This, and subsequent training, had fitted him perfectly for command. With the instantaneous reflexes of youth, he was a formidable opponent on the battlefield and looked forward to a successful career of at least four or five years before retirement.

For a man who would soon be directing a global conflict this problem was childishly simple.

"Communications?" he snapped, and pointed his finger at the Signal Corps Major. There was an automatic authority in his voice now, in marked contrast to his boyish crewcut and freckles.

"None, sir," the officer said, saluting. "Whatever blocked the tunnel knocked out the land lines as well. I’ve tried with the field phone but the wires are dead."