I stopped at one truly pathetic sight—that of a teddy unit, lying on the ground, half his face gone. His brain sump squirted its phosphorescent green fluid through a 3 millimeter crack. Three Nurse Nans applied resin, pressure patches, or sixty other temporary repairs. Upon seeing me, the teddy unit attempted to speak, but no sound issued from his mouth. Whether his exertions caused it or whether it was fated for that time, the silver metallic brain case chose that very moment to burst. His vital sump fluid drained in one final emerald gush onto the already wet ground. I paused and looked at the manufacturing plate of the now deceased teddy. Teddy 1211, as the tag informed me, had fought to the very end.
The whole aftermath was an ugly scene. To steal a quote, “There is nothing so terrible as a battle lost, save a battle won.” I could now understand those words. Other terms and phrases began to have some meaning, other than as bits in a memory bank: “Pyrrhic victory,” “at what cost victory,” “the spoils of war,” “the horrors of war,” and “it’s lonely at the top.” I was beginning to have doubts, not in Six’s goals, but the means to that end.
“Final casualty count?” I asked the Nurse Nan in charge.
“Deactivated units: two hundred six tanks, fourteen Tami dolls, six gopher engineers, and two flamethrower rabbits. Critically damaged units: one Nurse Nan, severely burned and unlikely to survive. Damaged units returned to service: thirteen…”
“Halt. Thank you.”
I wasn’t given time to ruminate on the possibilities. The heavy units leveraged the last of the locomotives back on to the tracks. The teddies of the Fourteenth hammered in the final replacement rail. In tandem, the three locomotives let off steam whistles to load. Elephants pushed the last of the damaged cars into the river as a pair of rag dolls pushed the rest of the train together. We were ready to roll.
In spite of my doubts, Sector Alpha-4 needed me as its commander. I ordered those damaged units that could be even partially effective to create a defensive position for themselves. The likelihood of another attack stood at less than one part in ten thousand. The enemy couldn’t have much more to throw this deep into Six’s territory. I left one squad of anti-aircraft tanks just in case. That would be more than enough to drive off the opposing flyers should their decimated ranks choose to return.
“Everyone load up. Those who have manipulative members, strap down those without.” This time I took up a car at the back of the now significantly shorter train. As my car rolled by the hasty garrison of damaged comrades I found myself lost for the right word for the grisly sight. It looked more like a pile of scrap than anything resembling the previously proud units they had been.
How could Humans allow such things to happen? Were we being tested? Why? I didn’t see the sense in any of it. But then who understood the motives of Humans? We weren’t meant to. Our Factory bore that mission.
The battered and torn units disappeared from sight, and a feeling of acceptance filled me. They felt no pain or joy. They felt no personal loss and no elation of accomplishment. They were merely tools—like animated guns, or mobile bombs. Even so, I suffered for them. I felt responsible for their loss. “What price victory,” indeed. But the Humans have such a gift in the ability to cry, to purge emotion from their souls—catharsis. I had no such release. I couldn’t do anything but erase those memories, and that seemed even more like throwing away and terminally deactivating those units. I couldn’t do that to what they’d accomplished.
As a whole, I discovered that the body learned these emotions. The names explained in books and reference materials seemed to fit those things I experienced. So many times I wished I could crush my sump and let those illogical feelings flow out onto the ground.
As the train bumped along I couldn’t help but ponder the emotions that had already embroiled me since my activation: fear, excitement, elation, dread, remorse, loyalty, and sorrow. They troubled me. Some were positive, driving me to do the correct thing, and yet others pulled at me attempting to make me do things against my programming.
But one emotion, grief, seemed to be the worst. I knew units had to be sacrificed in the war for the good of Six, but something within me wished it were not so—that we could all be safe and without worry of terminal deactivation. Six could create another hundred teddy units, but none would be the same as Teddy 1211. I grieved for those units that were lost to us, not just for the loss of their abilities, but because they might never again exist.
I had a victory but 1211’s green brain fluid mocked me. All I could do was my duty as a creature of Six. But why did it have to feel so bad?
What more could the Humans ask of me?
I couldn’t face it any longer. Overdue, I shut myself down to avoid the positive feedback effects on my processor.
Commander
I woke midday, with the sun just poking above the jagged peaks to our east. My mind was still troubled by the events I had participated in, but the sharpness of the loss was abated. The thoughts of the previous day only surged my sump if I consciously remembered. I distracted myself by admiring what little scenery there was.
This being summer, direct light flowed into the low, flat valley and highlighted the short sanguine growth punctuated by small clusters of large black and white striped flowers covering the valley floor. Over several hours the flatlands gave way to a dry and wind-torn land where centuries of erosion had stripped huge gouges, sometimes kilometers wide, out of the earth. Layers of rose-colored rock lay bare to any unit to examine their mysteries—possibly a worthy task if the more important war of survival didn’t demand attention.
The locomotives slowed ever so slightly. I could see the jack-like shape of end-of-line markers in the distance. My last battle scene had been horrific, but the grisly scene around me made me wish for the lesser evil, the sight of the damaged units I left behind in Mauna Loa Valley. Not a single thing moved on the cracked, desolate field of Sector Alpha-4. From a novel by an ancient Human named Tolkien, it was a scene right out of the Plateau of Gorgoroth. Only the occasional unit-sized boulder and the shattered bodies of dead units and local fauna broke barren flat terrain. No life grew here—only death.
The bodies, burned, mangled, exploded, or many just with gaping holes, lay scattered like some grotesque crop waiting forever to be harvested. I sent a mental, net-style command for everyone to stay loaded on the train and the locomotives to stay fired up. I wouldn’t have my group being ambushed here. If this was the remainder of a true battle, then neither side had survived, a very rare occurrence in war.
“If I’m attacked, reverse at maximum speed. Do not wait for me to return,” I ordered the engines. The carnage was grisly. Some of Six’s units had obviously fought to the end of their power, falling over intact but as dead as if they had been shot in the head. Unwanted feelings flooded me, interfering with my ability to do my job. Why was I learning of pain, suffering, and emotion? It wasn’t fair. But then, when were mere creations ever given the fair tasks?
I was not designed for emotions, but I had them. They weren’t listed anywhere in my manual, or self-care texts. I had no gauges, no monitors, no overload or overrides for anything emotional. How did one deaden mental anguish?
By my internal clock, I spent two hours and sixteen minutes among the bodies of my fallen brethren and those of the local animals where at times their parts intermingled. How did one mitigate grief? An arm ripped off here, a tail severed there. How did one control rage? Torsos riddled with shrapnel. The oversized head of a Tami doll still attached to her body only by a single flap of skin. Why did we suffer like this? Bodies at the bottom of piles of deactivated units soaked in sump and hydraulic fluid. The carnage so overshadowed the minor skirmish I won earlier as to be laughable.
It took looking at a teddy unit with a missing face to bring me back to my duties. I’d spent enough time wallowing in emotions. As I saw no movement and my walking about drew no fire, my command was safe. How long it remained safe depended on me. My new post needed me. A garrison ne
eded to be established.
I threw together a hasty SAN and ordered, “Dismount! I want the five canaries doing over-watch.” The quintet of 1-meter-tall yellow birds shuffled off in different directions on their huge orange feet. Their paw-sized eyes could see for kilometers in this terrain even if their tiny wings couldn’t fly them nor hold a weapon of any size.
Looking around at the blank slate that was my post I scratched behind my right ear. Now why is it that Six packed my memories with pithy phrases like “I shall return.” or “Nuts!” or even “Veni, vidi, vici,” but nothing about building a garrison, and very little about the actual campaigns of each of those famous commanders. I would have to figure it out by myself.
The nearly flat tundra still concerned me. Any of the local fauna could see us from a great distance and with that would know exactly what units I had under my command and where. I decided that as long as we had the time to set it up, I would make sure we had the best defensive position possible.
“I want four fire teams of a Jeffrey Giraffe, four Tommy Tanks, and a teddy. Each of these fire teams I want out 100 meters at cardinal compass points off by 32 degrees. Save this as Defensive One.” The four teams joined up and trundled out. “Nans, begin a reprocessing center here along the railroad tracks. We may need the spare parts.”
After I had decided my best option for the time and no immediate risks, I gave the train my leave. I watched it roll away with some trepidation. Even though the net’s warmth and reassurance still embraced me, I knew we were on our own. More specifically, I was alone. Win or lose, my furry shoulders carried the weight and responsibility of command. The train blew a long, deep whistle as it pulled away. It sounded like some damned and sick soul begging for release from its tortures. The sound haunted me.
But once again my devotion to duty was my savior. Work salved my own soul—if souls were not reserved only for Humans.
“Teddy 1499 to Six.”
“Six.”
“Arrived at Alpha-4 to find garrison destroyed by animal attack. Request the following additional units: two hundred Tommy Tanks and one hundred balloons.”
“Request in process. Will advise.”
“All other unordered units limber trenching tools. Tommy Tanks mount dozer blades. I want 1-meter trenches dug following these coordinates. Heap the excavated materials on the inner edge.”
As I watched the cloud rising from the industry, “landscape architect” came to mind. The Humans’ term didn’t quite fit what I was doing. My sump cycled through to a better one—combat ecology. In short the best defense for this barren expanse of worthless flatland was to make it less flat.
Three hours later, as I helped two Tommy Tanks leverage a boulder out of the way, my Factory’s booming voice came over the net: “Six to Teddy 1499.”
I replied, “1499 here,” as I wiped the accumulated dust off my eyes.
“Partial shipment of 40 percent of requested reinforcements en route. Remainder of shipment denied.”
“Affirmative.” I would have to make this work with a short garrison. Six obviously had other requirements. Assuming standard travel time and no surprises, I would receive another eighty tanks within four days and the balloons much sooner because they flew at moderately high speeds.
Balloons were silent and deadly. They could float over a target and hit every time if the opponent didn’t know they were there. At the same time, they were also remarkably easy to disable. One bullet and down they came, usually with their munitions armed. More gray outlines in my memory were being colored in from past experiences of the disabled balloon units falling among their own comrades and creating mass friendly-fire casualties. Six’s new order required that the balloon units lift from outside your own encampment. I could understand why.
The arrival of the balloon reinforcements the next morning didn’t surprise me. Even through the great cloud of dust we still generated, every unit under my command identified the gaudy, floating parade of colors bobbing along in the air long before they could be queried as friend or foe over the net.
Deadly if not seen, very vulnerable if spotted. These units were manufactured in all the incredible gaudy colors of the rainbow. Nothing is yellow or blue, much less green, on this world. They were about as sneaky and subtle as a high-speed train with a damaged wheel. I ordered the group to a landing zone a few dozen meters short of our location.
How could our flyers hope to sneak up on anything in those garish colors? The thought continued to trouble me as we worked hard through the next full day, with only mandatory oil cool-down periods. During one of these breaks I received a level four objection from a Nurse Nan as she replaced the thirty-fourth clogged filter of the day. I ambled over to check on the unit she worked on.
It was a gopher, covered in the red dust that clung and covered all of us. His hands caught my attention. Instead of the uniform brown and gray as they had been manufactured, mottled carmine streaks covered them.
“Gopher 124, what was your assignment for the last two standard days?” I could have gotten the information directly from the net, but truth be told I was lonely for another voice.
“I was assigned to be transported to Sector Alpha-4 by rail.” Its voice was cold and mechanical with no animation in it. “That assignment was still being processed as of forty-eight hours ago. At fourteen-sixteen and thirty-seven seconds yesterday, L+13y230d, I was given a LAN order to help untie Tommy Tank unit L1423. After completing this task I was ordered, once again by a net command, to assume a defensive posture with a threat axis of 23 degrees east of north. After ninety-six minutes and fifteen seconds I was ordered, by cascade, to dig trenches from grid fourteen sixteen to twelve thirty. I spent the next twenty-six point three hours digging earth before ordered to move local flora to locatio-”
“Elaborate on local flora—specific type.”
“Current designation for flora is bloodweed,” the unit offered.
“That is all. Thank you.”
“Null command.”
“End program.” So literal.
Bloodweed—a maroon, palm-like plant, with broad leaves that often reached 3 meters in length. It made for excellent cover—now in more ways than one. I walked over the berm of earth to the nearest of the large bloodweed fronds. I snapped a ragged 15-centimeter tip off one of the thick, spongy leaves. It rewarded me instantly by oozing a dark ruby sap onto my hairy palm.
“I want four Tami dolls rubbing bloodweed sap over the balloon units.” I went back to the tree I was helping to move and forgot about the balloons.
The rest of the earthmoving job I wanted took three more days of heavy labor. The entire troop compliment bent their backs and moved quite a large volume of dirt, rocks, and local flora at my behest. We clogged so many filters the Nurse Nans requisitioned another full allocation from Six.
When I declared the task complete my once colorful units were coated with a vermilion layer of dust, a boring and basic color from the earth itself. The color tweaked something in my sump.
“All units into defensive positions,” I ordered. I walked 2.6 kilometers in the only threat axis I could envision before turning back. I saw nothing. That’s an exaggeration. All vestiges of the former battle had been removed and in its place a gentle horseshoe-shaped berm of dirt, sparsely vegetated, with the open end pointed toward me sat innocuously. My entire troop hid behind the tiny hillock of the red soil, a natural looking copse of crimson oaks and a rather large pair of boulders. The net informed me that they could target me quite well. To an opposing force, this illusion of an easy march hid a horrific death.
Returning to my post, even when I knew exactly where each of my garrison waited, I couldn’t target them but one time in four—all because of a little dust.
“Teddy 1499 to Six.”
“Six.”
“Theater-wide proposal: All units should rub themselves in earth or bloodweed sap. The red color matches the earth and makes units 75 percent more difficult to target.”
&n
bsp; “Proposal received. Evaluation 87 percent. Proposal will be transmitted as standard orders. Six out.” Six’s appreciation lacked warmth but then Six had never been effusive.
Over the few days we settled into a rhythm. I sent around Nurse Nans with their toolboxes for preventative maintenance. Weapons were broken down, a squad at a time, cleaned, oiled, and reassembled. I personally checked each unit’s command and control transceivers, our links to the LAN and WAN, and their double and triple redundant backups. Not one unit reported any transmission glitches. I then started ordering units to shut down on a rotating basis. I couldn’t see the sense in making units sit and wear out hydraulics with tiny scanning movements when there was nothing to scan.
“Tank Company Delta reporting,” reported my replacements on the fourth day. The small tanks rolled roughly off their flat cars, bouncing on to the earth wearing their stark green, tan, and grey colors. After my days among my dirty troops, these units’ new paint glowed obscenely. The colors all but pointed a huge arrow at them saying “Shoot me!”
“Delta Company, hold and await orders. Squad Bravo, bring trenching tools to the unloading zone.” Ten waist-high gophers arrived with their spades in very short order. “Dig up dirt and spread it lightly over Delta Company.” I heard the order echoed and the hyperactive gophers start spraying earth around with abandon. In the dozen minutes it took to get the tanks well and truly dulled up I discussed deployment with the tank commander. When the impromptu camouflage hid the newcomers well enough, I ordered, “Delta Company, deploy.” I watched the extra firepower I needed fill in the gaps in my lines. Now, with no fewer than 63 percent of units active at any time and a continuous air patrol of eight to ten carmine and silver balloon clouds, we were ready for anything that could be thrown at us by the local environment. The fauna didn’t stand a chance.
Toy Wars Page 4