It was a trap. The two remaining spiders had been hiding behind some cargo containers, and they targeted Old Guy. He was out of position and facing the wrong way. The vampire shot one of the spiders five times in rapid succession with her massive revolver. She had hit its central core, it slewed around and slumped over, dead. One to go.
Time moved in slow motion. Old Guy struggled to turn around and bring his heavy plasma cannon to bear. The final Amok spider raised and activated its own cannon. Old Guy was going to lose this race.
The vampire jumped onto the remaining Amok spider with a speed that would have put a frontline combat unit to shame. Mid-leap, the spider shot her point-blank through the stomach with a 20 mm cannon round. She landed on top of it, and in a fit of inhuman strength twisted its cannon over to one side. Old Guy then killed the last Amok spider with his plasma cannon, and the battle was over. Well, except for the clean-up, but then historians are never big on the clean up, are they?
Old Guy cradled the vampire in his arms. Her space-suit had a robust self-sealing capacity, so she was not going to die of vacuum exposure, but a 20 mm cannon round through the gut will ruin any hominids’ day.
In the movies this was the time where the dying heroine would profess her love, or whatever, and the hero would act sad and heroic, and the heroine would expire with some poignant last words. Well screw that! That’s not how a cybertank fights. If there is a chance you go for it, however slim. Regrets and last words are for later, if there is a later. In milliseconds Old Guy had communicated the situation to Fanboy. As injured and limited as he was, Fanboy was still a super-intelligent space battlecruiser. He evaluated a million possibilities, and selected the optimal one. Old Guy ran as fast as he could, over-riding his safeties – faster than many old-time racing cars – carrying the injured vampire back to the central pressure wheel. Fanboy was already filling it up with air before they even got there (it was punctured in several places but a few mattresses placed against the biggest holes and some industrial tape over the smaller ones slowed the air loss to a level that was tolerable, for now). By the time that Old Guy arrived, the wheel was near normal pressure and Old Guy could strip the suit off of her. She looked dead and floppy, like a puppet without strings. They put her down on the table in the conference room that they had previously turned into a surgery, and Fanboy’s few remaining drones started to work on her. They were so short-handed that Old Guy was drafted as a surgeon – he accepted instructions direct from Fanboy because his own personal databases on human medicine were so limited.
They tried their best, but the vampire had died even before they had arrived at the pressure wheel. The cannon shell that had wounded her had been armor-piercing, and had penetrated clean through her abdomen before exploding, but the hydrostatic shock had still turned most of the tissue between her neck and her hips into mush. You can sew torn arteries back together but mush is mush. Fanboy persisted in trying to revive her, but as the vampire’s corpse started to turn cold and grey, Old Guy had to gently persuade him that she was gone.
---------------
Old Guy was sitting in the pressure wheel of the space battlecruiser Fanboy doing nothing much of anything. Their reinforcements had arrived late (isn’t that when reinforcements usually arrive?) but at least they had brought the materials and energy to begin rebuilding Fanboy back to his main strength. Uncle Jon’s General Sherman android had been retrieved; apparently the Amok spider that had attacked him had still been alive when the floor had given way and he had defeated it in zero-G hand-to-hand combat, which would have been notable if so much other stuff had not been happening. There was enough help that Old Guy didn’t need to do anything, so he just sat and brooded. Zippo sat next to him, also doing nothing, and assisted him in brooding.
“Old Guy, how are you doing? You’ve been quiet for a while,” said Fanboy.
Nothing much to say. We’ve beaten the Amok invasion of this system, thanks to you, but I have a feeling that this is just the start. Bad stuff is going down. But how are you doing? Repairs going OK?
“No worries there. My peers are being very generous with supplies and equipment; I should be a good as new in a month or two. I’m not sure what to do with the space monkey, though.”
Yes, Zippo has lost his master, but there are still a lot of different pieces of Rock Dancer’s mind distributed around the system, more than enough for a reseed and reboot if that’s what he wants. I suppose you should just let Zippo hang around until Rock Dancer decides what he is going to do. If that doesn’t work out, I’ll take him, he’s a handy little unit.
“Fair enough. But I will have to give him a job in a bit, he seems kind of dog-like and a dog with a job is a happy dog.”
So now that you are a famous combat hero, how does it feel? Is it what you always dreamed of?
Fanboy was silent for a few seconds. “Huh. I hadn’t thought about that. I suppose that I should be proud, this is what I always wanted for myself. But at the time I was so busy and so stressed that I didn’t feel heroic. I didn’t feel like anything: I was just acting. Maybe it will kick in later. For now I am just glad that it’s over, and sad that the vampire didn’t make it.”
I hear you. Some of that is the old grass-is-always-greener-on-the-other side effect. It’s one thing to want to become a famous war hero, but when it happens, why, you are still the same person, you don’t feel any happier, so what’s the big deal? Also, no two cybertanks react to combat in the same way: me, I go a little crazy, you I think are one of the focused ones. A lot more dangerous, your type: I’m glad that you are on my side. Still, trust me, it’s good to be a hero, that will grow on you. I am proud of my own past achievements, as you should be of yours. But I never watch my own combat recordings for pleasure, it’s not the same as watching somebody else’s. I only see my mistakes.
“I guess.” said Fanboy. “I never realized that after winning a victory, I could never be my own fan, but it makes perfect sense, once you think about it.”
Unlike the old humans, we are spared the physical suffering of combat, the pain of wounds, the privations of going cold and hungry in the freezing mud, the crippling injuries that could last a lifetime. We have only the adrenaline-analog rush of the battle itself, plus of course the intellectual challenge of devising strategies and tactics against a capable foe, but these pleasures are transient, and counterbalanced with the fear of failing and letting your comrades down. Afterwards there is only the cleaning up, and realizing that it would have been so much easier if the whole thing could have been avoided in the first place. Remember, we were designed to be good at combat, but not to like it so much that we don’t avoid it if we can.
“Could that be what the Amok are? Descendents of some ancient defensive system that was programmed to enjoy combat, with no restraint?”
Perhaps. It is as likely an explanation as any. We are similar to the humans in that we have to deal with the loss of those no longer with us, and that has always been the greatest cost of war. Rock Dancer, Frisbee, they were only subminds, other parts of them continue elsewhere. But Olga Razon is gone. You liked her, didn’t you?
“Yes, I did. I don’t even know why. I just enjoyed talking to her, she was fun to have around, that’s all.”
In the end, she saved both of us (although as subminds Uncle Jon and I hardly count: YOU, she saved entirely). She didn’t have to. She could have just hid out and waited for help while you were gutted by the Amok spiders.
Fanboy said nothing. He drifted through space as armies of worker drones patiently reconstructed him. There was nothing further to say.
Then they got word that the Amok had attacked and successfully captured the Omega Library, apparently displaying an uncanny knowledge of the libraries’ command codes and physical layout. Their battle against the Amok battleships suddenly seemed a lot less epic than it had before.
11. Would You Buy a Used Cybertank from this Man?
One of the penalties for refusing to participate in politics,
is that you end up being governed by your inferiors – Plato, 424-328 BC
Flattery is the single most deadly weapon for humans.
Flattery pierces the thickest armor easier than a sword through tissue paper, and bypasses sophisticated anti-virus routines with casual grace. It cancels out intelligence and strength. It was the tool that had made Doubletap so influential, and with a little luck, would end up making him powerful.
The Spirit-Class cybertank “Doubletap” was en-route to a meeting with the little Stiletto-Class “Grasshopper.” He hoped the meeting would not take long, he had a lot to do, and Grasshopper was so naïve and cloying that it was painful to be around him. Oh well, he would need all the allies he could get in the days to come, and it might be useful to have the little tank on his side someday.
The Spirit-Class was one of the more powerful of the recent cybertank designs, not at the level of a Magma or Mountain, but still strong: roughly comparable with the Horizon-Class. Instead of a single main turret, a Spirit has two large plasma cannons each in its own all-around traversing turret. The main turrets are placed one in front of the other, with the rear one higher than the first one, a so-called ‘super-firing’ arrangement that allowed both weapons to fire forwards. The arrangement looks sort of clunky and camel-backed, but it works surprisingly well in practice.
Even though the Spirit-Class had acquitted itself well in many fields, it was not a popular choice, and there were not many currently in service. That was OK. He was especially proud of his nick-name: “Doubletap,” it referred to the dual nature of his main weaponry and hinted at martial prowess, because ‘doubletap’ can refer to the act of shooting a target twice to ensure that it is really, positively, undeniably, dead.
Doubletap had never been in combat, he always had other priorities. A reputation for combat ability was, however, always useful. So he had lobbied and cajoled and called in favors to get what he considered to be one of the best nicknames out there. In theory you were supposed to just take the name that your peers gave you, but there were ways to influence the system. Ways that Doubletap had refined to a high art.
Most cybertanks had interests of one sort or another. Many enjoyed military strategy and tactics, although usually in the abstract sense of wargaming and theorizing. Some become absorbed by one of the various fields of science, or history, or art, or the study of dead civilizations, or mental engineering. Doubletap had his own interests. They were power and influence. While his peers where off God only knew how many light years away fighting aliens, or entranced in figuring out what obscure subatomic particles were involved in whatever equally obscure physical forces, Doubletap was always on one of the main worlds, always engaged, always thinking, always building his network of associations.
His pride and joy was his internal database of personal connections. Every contact that he had ever had with a fellow cybertank, every insult or compliment or favor or debt, he had listed and cross-referenced. This was how the game was played, not with plasma cannons and nuclear weapons, but skill at building personal relationships. Not a great warrior with a string of flashy military victories? No problem. Just spread the rumor that you are a great warrior with a string of flashy military victories, pull in some favors, get people to act like it’s an accepted fact, and then it becomes real. With a lot less of the risk and effort than the real thing.
Privately, Doubletap had always been disgusted by the cybertank cult of personal martial prowess. Didn’t they know that it’s not the footsoldiers that win wars, it’s the generals? Instead of worshipping individual heroes, they should be looking to the planners, they were the ones that counted.
Some cybertanks had pointed out that, although he made great store at being a master strategist, none of his plans had ever been successful. Doubletap was publicly humble and respectful whenever this opinion was voiced, but privately his hatred of these voices grew and festered. On his internal database he would mark them with the label “despised persons that we WILL get back at someday.” Did people think that strategic planning was easy? That just anyone could possibly understand the complex multi-tiered plans that he made?
One thing that Doubletap wanted to change was this cybertank fetish for ‘accountability.’ As if merit at the highest levels could possibly be judged by such trivial metrics as success and failure. The decision makers have to be insulated from the short-run thinking of the mob, or else, how are they going to make the tough decisions?
Another thing that Doubletap wanted to change was this whole ‘post-scarcity’ cult. He had several important projects that needed doing, he had the resources, but no other cybertank would help him. He needed to actually convince his fellows that the projects were worthwhile! As if they could ever really appreciate what he was trying to do. No, they all went off and worked on their own projects, and there was nothing that he could do about it.
Now, if they could increase the number of cybertanks so that there was not enough energy to go around, well, that would be a different matter. They would have to work on his projects, or run out of fuel. The more that he thought about it, increasing the number of cybertanks would have other positive effects as well. If there were more cybertanks than energy, not only could he get them to work on what he wanted worked on, he could also get them to support him on committees and votes and the like: if they didn’t do what he wanted, he could find someone else who would. There just needed to be more cybertanks than resources, that’s the only way to enforce discipline and create efficiency.
He was meeting Grasshopper in person at an out-of-the-way construction facility. The facility had the usual random mix of pipes and tanks, power feeds and low sheds, but was dominated by a single large hangar. He had arrived early, to check on some arrangements, and presently the little Stilletto-Class cybertank drove up and parked next to him.
“Hello, Doubletap. So why did you ask me to drive all the way out here? This facility is not on any of the standard maps, what’s this all about?”
“It’s something of a secret – or a surprise – and I wanted you to see it in person. Anyhow, I hear that you are planning on getting rebooted into a more modern design? Made a decision yet?”
“I have not finalized the arrangements, but I have been consulting with the mental engineers Buzzcut, Big Turtle, and Dust Bunny, and I think that I am going to go for a Raptor-Class. I considered the Horizon for a bit, but I’m used to being mobile so I’m not sure that I want to go for such a big model, and they also think that my datacores would be more compatible with a Raptor’s chassis. They might be ready to make the reboot within a month.”
“Yes, those three are certainly very respected in the field, hard to go wrong with them, but they are a little conservative. Not quite as cutting-edge as they used to be. I thought that I would show you another design that some of us have been working on. Take a look.”
Doubletap triggered the main doors to the large hangar to open, and turned on the internal floodlights for good measure. As the doors rolled back, there was revealed a single large cybertank. It was big, bigger than a Horizon-Class, conventional hull arrangement but sleek and elegant. It looked powerful. Even standing still, it looked fast.
Cybertanks don’t generally indulge in cosmetic treatments, they typically just leave their surfaces unadorned. Depending on the model, they might be a shiny anti-radiation chrome, or a dull ablative-gray. Sometimes they would paint themselves black, if the tactical circumstances warranted, but that was about it. This model, however, was a rich deep blue with white trim. Grasshopper thought that it looked beautiful.
“This is the prototype of the all-new Enforcer-Class! Absolutely top-of-the-line in all respects. Hyperfast weapons tracking, ultra-rez multi-spectral sensors, fifth-generation hyperloy armor with autoreactive energy dampers, and a tuned suspension with a power-to-weight ratio that makes a Raptor look like a bulk freight hauler. Here, check out the specifications.”
Doubletap transmitted a small datafile over to Grasshopper.
“Those are preliminary specs, when it’s operational they are going to be better than that, trust me. But a high energy consumption is the price you pay for all that power. Stop thinking small.”
“The physical specifications are impressive, but unless I have misread it, it looks like the mental capacity is smaller than a Raptor.”
“Those are just the gross capacities you are looking at. This is a new design approach, a lot of the boring stuff has all been offloaded onto automated systems. The real usable mental capacity would put a Golem-Class to shame. Just look at the reaction time and sensory bandwidth specs.”
The hangar was big enough that the little cybertank could enter and drive around the Enforcer prototype, observing it with his own optics directly.
“But would the datacores be compatible with mine? Who’s working that end of this project?”
“That would be Einstein, Dr. Amazing, and DaVinci. We would have to check, of course, but they are, well, a little more advanced and forward thinking in their designs than most in this field. I’m sure they could make this work.”
“Wasn’t Dr. Amazing involved in that fiasco with the Barracuda-Class a few years ago?”
“Don’t believe all the rumors that you hear. Dr. Amazing was only a side consultant, and the main team went against his advice. Here, check out the database entries for it yourself.”
Grasshopper checked, and sure enough, it was on record that the main design team had acted contra to the strong recommendation of Dr. Amazing. It was funny, he seemed to recall a different story. He must not have been paying attention.
Space Battleship Scharnhorst and the Library of Doom (An Old Guy/Cybertank Adventure) Page 16