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Computer War by

Mack Reynolds

PART ONE

Chapter I

NUMBER ONE SAID, "Coaids, we are in session."

The murmuring dropped away to be replaced by respectful silence.

With the others, Ross Westley gave full attention to his ultimate leader.

He had read somewhere that eventually a person's character was reflected

in his face. Were it true, then Number One was overly fond of the sensual

pleasures as well as power. As a young man, he must have been

exceptionally handsome; now, at approximately seventy, his face had gone

gross, his smile, when it did appear, humorless. His voice, even when

addressing these, his closest associates, was empty of inflection save that

of command.

It was said, Ross knew, that since the cruelly suppressed revolt of

Maximilian Barker, for years Number Two in the Alphaland hierarchy, the

Presidor had only one intimate. His vices, did they exist, and his face

proclaimed they existed, were enjoyed in solitude. It was said he was a

connoisseur of vintages, in spite of the United Temple's ban on alcoholic

beverages, and a gourmet with a staff of half the best chefs on the planet.

It was even said he took tobacco, in some form or other.

Number One said now, "Coaid Graves."

Graves was not a member of the Central Comita and nervously shuffled

his papers in this august gathering.

He said, "The computers reveal that Betastan could be reduced with a

short, sharp conflict lasting 2.35 months, plus or minus 3.8 days. The cost

in casualties would be 17,900 killed and 310,000 wounded, plus or minus

293 killed and 7,021 wounded. The cost would be 127,895,367,400 gold

Alphas, plus or minus 6,730,412."

Number One looked at his Deputy of Finance, who indicated

unhappiness.

"Coaid Matheison?"

Deputy Matheison jiggled a stylo. He was obviously in awe of his leader

and his voice came in apology. "It seems fantastically expensive for a war

lasting two months. Your Leadership is familiar with the state of the

treasury."

Marshal of the Armies Rupert Croft-Gordon, without being called upon,

said heavily, "The more mechanized modern warfare becomes, the more

expensive. Firepower increases geometrically every decade, but so does the

cost of keeping a man in the field."

Number One looked at him. He said, "We shall hear from you shortly,

Marshal Croft-Gordon."

The Marshal flushed.

Number One said, "Coaid Wilkonson, what does our geopolitician think

of the project?"

The nattily goateed Wilkonson was at home in any gathering, from

undergraduate students to the highest echelons of the government of his

land.

"The Presidor is already cognizant of the situation. Our planet is

divided into two major land areas and two major powers, Alphaland and

Betastan, and twenty-three minor powers. Geographically, we almost

duplicate each other, and, as all know, down through history this has led

to neither one being able to dominate the smaller nations. There has been

too delicate a balance. If Alphaland were able to bring its rival to its knees,

then the world government which Your Leadership foresees would become

an immediate reality. It is doubtful that even a confederation of the minor

powers could stand before our glorious march."

Temple Bishop Stockwater murmured unctuously, "Amen."

Ross Westley, conscious of his comparative youth, seldom spoke at

these gatherings. Now he shifted in his chair.

Number One looked at him. "And our Deputy of Propaganda?"

Ross said unhappily, looking at the last speaker, and then over at the

computer expert, "The figures deal with a quick war between Alphaland

and Betastan. What would happen if some of the neutrals, seeing the

handwriting on the wall, entered on the side of the enemy?"

"Well, Coaid?" Number One said to Graves.

Graves shuffled his papers again. "Of the twenty-three, the computers

reveal that only twelve could mobilize in time to affect the conflict. Of

these twelve, the computers report that four would favor our cause, four

favor that of Betastan, and four remain neutral. None of these twelve are

strong neutral powers. If the Presidor would like more details…"

"Not now."

Number One sat and thought. It was a long-time habit of his. Not a

sound came from his associates. The story was that almost twenty years

ago a deputy had gone into a coughing spasm during one of the Presidor's

retreats into contemplation and had never again attended a command

session, losing his office within a matter of weeks.

He said finally, "And our Academician of Socioeconomics?"

Academician Philip McGivern was a very old man, his beard almost

identical to that of Wilkonson but a dirty gray rather than black.

He stood to speak, although none of the others had. McGivern was an

Old Hand and bore no awe for Number One—they had been through too

much together. He looked full into the face of the other and said, "You are

acquainted with my opinions, Your Leadership. I assume you merely wish

me to fill them in for these, our Coaids. We have reached the crisis that I

warned about a full ten years ago. The age of the computer is upon us.

Ultimate automation. Our productive capacity alone is sufficient to supply

the whole planet with manufactured goods. Our own land is glutted with

them and industry is slowing, sometimes shutting down. As our

commodities become increasingly cheaper, tariff walls are erected abroad

to support the more expensive products of homeland industries. A full

sixteen minor countries have all but completely forbidden imports from

Alphaland.

"If the present socioeconomic system of Alphaland is to continue, we

must have both foreign markets and sources of raw materials. If this war

is successful, and world government achieved, our only policy can be one

of reducing the economies of Betastan and all the neutral lands to pastoral

societies. In the future, they can supply agricultural and mineral needs; we

must supply all industrial production."

The old man finished significantly. "Otherwise, we shall have an

industrial collapse within three months, plus or minus 3.2 days." His eyes

turned to Graves. "According to my own computers."

Ross Westley stirred in his seat again.

Number One looked at him bleakly. "You seem restive, Coaid."

Ross nodded. 'Tour Leadership, I know my position isn't usually

involved in the preliminary planning stages; however, that is going to have

to be sold not only to the rest of the world, except Betastan, but to our own

people as well. In spite of the computers predicting an easy victory, those

over 300,000 casualties are going to be real people, our citizens. The civil

war hasn't been over so long but that the people are horrified at the idea

of more war. And to sell them a war of aggression at this stage—

Number One interrupted. "My people will go where I lead them."

"Yes"—Ross nodded unhappily—"but it will not be a simple task for

those of us who have to point out the path."

Number One slumped back into thought.

Afterwards Ross Westley took a pneumatic back to his official quarters.

He moved less than briskly through the outer offices, desks and office

machines that composed the inner circles of the Commissariat of

Information.

His staff, knowing his mood, didn't intrude, but near his own office he

was brought up, his usual way being barred by a gleaming new computer

of exotic design. Ross Westley stopped and glared at it.

He snapped at one of the senior secretaries, "What in the name of the

Holy Ultimate is this?"

She looked mildly shocked at his language, and inadvertently shot a

look over her shoulder but then caught herself in the realization that there

would be no Temple Monks in the preserves of the Deputy of Propaganda.

However, Jet Pirincin sometimes doubted that her chief was as devout as

his high position would call for.

Jet said, apologetically, "The technicians are still installing it, Coaid

Deputy."

"I said, what the hell is it? It's at the point where I can't get to my own

office through the curd this place is littered with."

"Yes, Coaid Deputy Westley," Jet said. She was mildly surprised. Ross

Westley was usually on the easygoing side, as upper echelon coaids went.

"As I understand, sir, it is a new development adapted to our

commissariat which, by scanning any printed page, can give a plus or

minus percentage of two, on the effect of the publication on the public."

He looked at her sourly. "What's new about that, Coaid Pirincin? We've

got a bank of machines that'll handle that sort of jetsam."

"Yes, Coaid Deputy. I wouldn't know, Coaid. The technicians know all

about it. It's some new departure."

Ross snorted and sidestepped the new equipment to continue to his

office. He muttered, "Why not turn the whole nardy government over to

these technicians? They're the only ones who know what's going on."

Jet Pirincin stared after him, more than mildly surprised now. Suppose

there had been a Surety Coaid about. Admittedly, Deputy Westley was a

member of the Central Comita, though a junior one, but you simply didn't

say such things. It amounted to criticism of the workings of the

government. She shook her head. It was her opinion that Ross Westley was

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