Computer War

by Mack Reynolds

  Combs said, “Whee. Suppose they’d phoned up to this Supervisor Hillary? Is there any such cloddy?”

  She shot him an impish grin. “Sure. You think I’m inefficient? I happen to know that Hillary left the building by another entrance and at this moment is being entertained by his mistress, half a dozen kilometers from here. If they phoned up to his office, his secretary, who covers for him, would have said he was wandering around the building, checking on his underlings.”

  Combs shook his head.

  They moped along down the building’s corridors, drawing only the slightest attention from bustling bureaucrats, secretaries, building maintenance workers, and the others who teemed the halls.

  They got to the part of the building which was their destination and had to saunter up and down a couple of times until the way was clear.

  Tilly opened a door and they hurried inside. She barred it behind them.

  “We’ve got to work moderately fast,” she said. Prove your worth, Centurion.”

  “Where in Zen’s the line?”

  “Here, help me push this box away. There you are. I assume you can get that open?”

  “I can get anything open.” The youthful looking Betastan operative bent down to look at the metal aperture set into the wall “How’d you ever locate this?”

  “My dear boy,” Tilly said, “in a country like this, where the gold Alpha is almighty, spreading them around a bit will buy you just about anything at all.”

  He was on his knees working at the tiny door. It swung open to reveal wires beyond.

  Tilly said, mildly impressed, “How’d you open that?”

  “Hairpin,” he said absently.

  Combs opened his jerkin and brought forth a device from an inner garment that resembled a many compartmented money belt. He was humming sourly to himself as he worked.

  “Don’t think it all goes this easily,” Tilly said. “There isn’t much of a Surety guard about the Commissariat of Information.”

  “Hmmmm,” he murmured, not really hearing her.

  It was a full two hours later when they emerged from the building maintenance room. Tilly came out first, shot her eyes up and down the corridor.

  “Hurry,” she said.

  Combs began to emerge, still stuffing some of his equipment back into his compartmented belt.

  At that split moment, a uniformed Surety guard, trailing a scrambler gun at ease, rounded the nearest corner of the hall. It was one of the two who had been posted at the entry.

  He came to a halt and blinked at them.

  “Hey,” he snapped. “What’re you two kids doing, eh? What in Zen’re you still doing in the building?”

  Tilly walked toward him. “Aw,” she said. “I couldn’t find my old man at first. He was out gettin’ a bite, or somethin’.”

  Combs slouched along behind her. “Yeah,” he sneered. “We’re spendin’ the whole day around this crumby…”

  The guard snapped, “What were you doing in that? Tilly dove for his legs, throwing what little heft she had into the attempt to bring him to the floor.

  Behind her, Combs leaped, his hands held chopper fashion.

  The guard tumbled, too astonished to yell.

  One chopper slashed out, and the guard’s larynx collapsed. Combs banged him again, behind the ear this time.

  Breathing deep, the two Betastan agents came to their feet.

  Tilly was pale. “We’ve got to work fast,” she said. “If we’re caught, they’ve got the perfect excuse to start the war. Public opinion throughout the neutrals…” She let the sentence fade. “Come on.”

  She had grabbed one foot of the dead man. He took the other.

  “Where’re we going?” he demanded, breathing heavily. “Somebody’ll come along this hall…”

  “Here,” she said. They’d reached a stairway.

  They pushed the Surety man down, letting him roll over and over again.

  “Quick,” she said. The gun.”

  Combs scurried back and got the scrambler. They tossed it after their victim.

  “Just a minute. I thought of something,” Tilly whispered. She scurried back to the room they had just left, while Combs’ eyes darted up and down the deserted hallway. It was lunch time, but you never knew.

  She came back, one of the banana skins in her hands.

  She put it on the top step, put her foot over it and rubbed it flat, as though it had been stepped upon accidentally.

  “Come on, Centurion, let’s get out of here,” she said.

  He looked at her, even as they scurried from the scene. “That was no joke when I called you Killer,” he said.

  Chapter III

  The guard at the door clicked his heels and said, “Coaid Deputy Ross Westley.”

  Number One looked up from the work on his desk.

  Ross entered and came to attention, even though he was dressed in mufti.

  “Your Leadership,” he said.

  The guard closed the door behind him.

  Number One nodded. “Sit down, Ross.”

  “Yes, Your Leadership.” Ross Westley crossed nearer to the quarter acre of desk behind which his ultimate superior sat, and found himself a chair. He had heard once that Number One deliberately had the chairs in his sanctum sanctorum constructed to be uncomfortable—possibly working on the theory that he didn’t want people about him to be at ease, physically or mentally. Ross didn’t know, but uncomfortable the chairs were.

  Number One looked at him bleakly. “The decision has been made. Your commissariat has exactly one month in which to prepare the people for our crusade against Betastan.”

  “A month!” Ross blurted.

  “We can afford no more. I wish your father were still alive, Ross, but since he isn’t I trust your own ability to handle this.”

  “Your Leadership,” Ross said tightly. “I doubt if my father, even, could have drummed up a war fever in this country in as short a period as one month. What possible approach…”

  The Presidor eyed him grimly. “That is the problem of your offices, Coaid. You will receive full cooperation from all departments.”

  Ross Westley’s mouth worked, but he could think of nothing to say.

  “Snap out of it,” the other rumbled in sudden irritation. “There are thousands of approaches. Consult your staff. Bauserman would have a dozen suggestions by this time.”

  A dozen? Ross thought bitterly. A double-score was more like it. Each more repulsive than the last.

  Number One now said, “One suggestion of my own. The United Temple is fully behind this crusade. In fact”—he smiled his humorless smile—“His Holiness himself suggested that we call it just that, a Crusade. You realize that in the past century, in particular, the Betastani have drifted away from the more orthodox dogmas of the United Temple. I would play upon the fact, concentrate upon it, that our most basic desire in the war to defend ourselves against the Betastan aggressors is to bring back the true faith to that benighted land.”

  Ross winced. “Isn’t that going to be a bit hard to swallow? Not on the part of the Betastani, of course. They don’t count. But the neutrals?”

  “That is your task, Ross. Your commissariat had carte blanche. The computers have put your budget at approximately sixty-three million Alphas.”

  The Presidor took a deep breath. “I suppose that is all for the moment. We shall have a session of the inmost coaids this afternoon and shall devote part of it to your propaganda campaign. By then, I assume you will have at least a skeletal program to present to us.”

  Ross Westley came to his feet. Yes, Your Leadership. With your permission.”

  “Until this afternoon,” Number One said.

  Ross Westley slumped at the head of the table while his assistant, Job Bauserman, briefed department heads of the Commissariat of Information on the orders which had come directly from Number One.

  He followed Assistant Deputy Bauserman sourly. The other was a full ten years the senior of Ross Westley and h
ad come up in the governmental branch from the near bottom. He was lean and fanatic, had a gleaming eye and an overpowering ambition—and hated his superior’s guts.

  It had been, of course, a matter of nepotism. Franklin Westley, the father of Ross, had been one of the Old Hands—those who had stood shoulder to shoulder with Number One on the barricades of the first rebellion. He was one of those who had remained true when the Max Barker revolt burst into flames and even the Old Hands had been split.

  The Old Hands took care of their own. When Franklin Westley died, Ross had been given his position as Deputy of the Commissariat of Information, known in party circles as the Department of Propaganda. At the time he received the appointment, shortly after taking his doctor’s degree in ancient history, his knowledge of the office was exactly nil. In time he had learned, but it was Job Bauserman and the others who were long-time pros upon whom he had to lean. He knew it and they knew it. And most of them hated him. Surely, Job did.

  The other turned to Ross finally and, forced respect in his voice, said, “Have you anything to add to my summary, Coaid Deputy?*”

  Ross shook his head and sat more erect. His assistant took his chair.

  Ross said, “One month. I needn’t tell you that we’re going to need every second of it. This afternoon, there’s a meeting of the Central Comita. I’ve got to have at least a skeleton program to present. All right, ideas, please.”

  Pater Ian said, “The United Temple has in its infinite wisdom long foreseen this development. The erring brethren of Betastan must be brought back into the fold. Of recent months we have been studying the workings of a historic organization which, under somewhat similar circumstances, proved highly effective. It was called the Holy Office. However, this plan of operation will not be practical until the collapse of the Betastani resistance. Meanwhile, the United Temple plans to open a full drive, not only in Alphaland and Betaland, but among the neutrals as well, revealing the extent to which the Betastani government has allowed atheism and agnosticism to undermine the faith of the people. If you will find time, Coaid Deputy, I shall go over in detail our broadcasts, publications and so forth, detailing the campaign.

  Ross nodded. “Tomorrow morning, please.” He turned to another department head. “Coaid Taylor?”

  Martha Taylor was the dry, neuter-sex type prevalent in governmental higher ranks.

  She said, “I think I have something good. The Amish.”

  Ross scowled at her. “The Amish?”

  “To brief you, Coaid Deputy, I found this in my department’s data banks, somewhat to my surprise. It would seem that when the planet was first being colonized from Mother Earth, one ship’s complement was composed of a somewhat discriminated against religious group which settled in the back areas of Betastan near the Tatra Mountains. Later, elements of this group diffused over the planet, though few came to Alphaland.”

  “Never heard of them,” somebody growled. “What’s this got to do with drumming up war fever against the damned Betastan funkers?”

  She rewarded the speaker with a scornful eye, but went on. “The reason they had been discriminated against soon became obvious. They stuck together against all outside pressures. They went into such fields as finance and merchandising, soon gaining all but monopolies not only in Betastan but in several other nations. They also gained high governmental offices, though usually inconspicuous ones. Evidently, from my data, they are the power behind the Betastan administration.”

  Ross was frowning. “The Amish?”

  “That is the common name given their pseudo-religious group, Coaid Deputy,” she said stiffly.

  Ross said, shaking his head, “When I was a boy, I went once to the Tatra Mountains on a vacation. skiing. I didn’t get to know any personally, but I failed to gain your picture of these people. They were rather drably dressed and not overly gregarious perhaps…”

  “That’s what I am saying, Coaid. Evidently they’re almost like misers, hoarding their finances, associating only with each other. And, to top it all, they have their own false religion, not abiding by the benevolent guidance of the United Temple.”

  “Hmmmm,” Pater Ian injected. “It seems to me that I have vaguely heard of this group. However, I didn’t think their powers extended as far as you report.”

  The data banks hardly lie, Pater,” she said primly.

  “No, of course not,” The Temple Monk said.

  Assistant Deputy Bauserman came into it, his eyes gleaming. “It’s a natural. There’s absolutely nothing like religion to get people steamed up to the boiling point. Remember the Hindus and Moslems, back on Earth? Supposedly, a Hindu wouldn’t swat a mosquito since it would be breaking the taboo against” taking life, but given religious troubles with the Moslems and they slaughtered and were slaughtered by the millions. Or take the centuries-long wars and massacres between the Christian sects; all in the name of the gentle Jesus, they butchered each other wholesale. Or take the Christian prosecution of the Jews, down through the millennia. No, religion is the perfect background for butchery.”

  “My son,” Pater Ian said in mild protest.

  Bauserman looked at him. “Oh, I didn’t mean the Holy United Temple, Pater Ian. Obviously, at long last man has evolved to the perfect intermediary between himself and God. However, from what Coaid Taylor says, this Amish scum doesn’t even observe the leadership of the United Temple in matters religious. They are fair game in this holy crusade we are about to embark upon.”

  The Temple Monk nodded thoughtfully. “It would seem so.”

  Ross exhaled air. He had no alternative. He said, “All right, Coaid Taylor. I will expect your department to launch a full denouncement of these Amish. For three weeks you will exploit every opportunity to expose them. At the end of the period, stress the sacred need for all believers in the true religion to seek these Amish out and destroy them.”

  Bauserman broke in. “You might also continually hint that they are actually part of the Karlist conspiracy.”

  Ross looked at him. “What Karlist conspiracy, Job?” He seldom used the other’s first name, knowing Bauserman’s objection to anything less than the strictest form, but it had come out in his surprise.

  His Assistant Deputy turned to him. “I was about to brief you on this phase, Coaid Deputy Westley. Obviously, we are going to have to devote a major part of our propaganda campaign to the Karlist threat. It will be particularly effective among the neutrals. Just the mention of the word is enough to set governments trembling in half the nations on the planet. We’ll push the line that the Betastan government is infiltrated with Amish and Karlists. That there’s a scheme underfoot to allow the Karlists to take over the government and then subvert the rest of the world.”

  Somebody muttered, “I thought there weren’t enough Karlists left in the world to hold a committee meeting.”

  Bauserman looked at the speaker coldly. “Coaid, the ends justify the means. The holy crusade to bring the whole planet under the aegis of our inspired Presidor is an effort so worthy that nothing done to achieve its success can be thought of as less than the truth in the ultimate sense of the word.”

  “I could not have stated it better myself,” Pater Ian said unctuously.

  “All right,” Ross sighed. “You can go over this with me later in detail, Coaid Bauserman. And now, what else do we have as possible propaganda against the Betastani?”

  A uniformed colonel said, “Off and on, over the years, we’ve had touches of border trouble. It could be allowed to come to a boil.”

  “How?”

  The colonel looked at his superior as though the other were stupid, then caught himself and his face went militarily blank.

  “Several ways, Coaid Deputy. We could precipitate a clash with their border guards, and then claim they had started it. We could escalate the clash, over and over again—always assuming the funkers would resist at all.

  “Or, we could infiltrate a few score of our ECE men, armed with mortars, at one of the least
populated border points, and let them shell one of our own garrisons or towns. The mortar shells, of course, would be Betastan calibers and we would make sure some of them failed to explode. We could then bring a planet-wide committee to see the effects of the shelling, the dead and wounded civilians, old men, women, children—that sort of thing. A hospital would be good. A shelled hospital is particularly effective in the way of horrifying non-combatants. I’ve never quite figured out why.”

  The Temple Monk said gently, “My sons, couldn’t some more kindly tactics be devised? Not that I wish to inject a note that interferes with secular affairs. The United Temple is involved only with man’s most spiritual concerns.”

  They ignored him.

  Bauserman, his eyes gleaming, said, “A natural, Colonel!”

  Ross Westley left his pneumatic car at the park entry and, ignoring his usual precautions, made his way in the direction of the bookshop and binding service presided over by Tilly Trice. He didn’t notice the two unobtrusive men in civilian clothing who drifted after him.

  After he had disappeared into her tiny store, one of the two tails looked at the other, eyebrows raised.

  The second one said, “Better report.”

  “What’ve we got to report? The chief said to follow him. All he’s done is go into an antique bookstore.”

  “Listen, if you were in the frame of mind he oughta be in these days, would you be going into a bookstore? Some bootleg auto-bar, yeah. Even a mopsy-house, yeah. But an antique bookstore?”

  The other grunted.

  The first said contemptuously, “The flat. No precautions at all. Doesn’t even look over his shoulder.”

  The other said sourly, “Which indicates he wasn’t thinking in terms of having anything to hide.”

  “Well, let’s go report. There’s something funny about that old bookshop. Come to think of it, that’s one of the places Admiral Korshak used to go before he committed suicide.”

  “He did! Holy Ultimate, let’s get to a communicator.”

  The other looked around nervously. “Watch your lip, Larry. Just because you’re Surety doesn’t mean some Temple Monk cloddy might not nail you for blasphemy.”