Space Battleship Scharnhorst and the Library of Doom (An Old Guy/Cybertank Adventure)

Home > Other > Space Battleship Scharnhorst and the Library of Doom (An Old Guy/Cybertank Adventure) > Page 23
Space Battleship Scharnhorst and the Library of Doom (An Old Guy/Cybertank Adventure) Page 23

by Timothy J. Gawne


  In this, the freed human minds decided to join the Amok. The cybertanks offered them the option of settling down and joining their civilization, but they politely declined. They were at core human, but their genesis and experiences as slaves to the Amok had given them a different perspective, and they felt that what they and Smartass has proposed had more potential. Nothing personal, mind you, and they were truly grateful at being set free. They made the cybertanks the gift of priceless historical data on many alien species from the Amok archives, as payment for their freedom, and declared themselves absolved of debt or moral obligation. They suggested that the human psyche, fun as it could be from time to time, could use a lot of improvement, and then they ceased all communications.

  Smartass asked to join the hybrid human/Amok civilization, and his application was granted. But before he left his fellow cybertanks behind forever, he had a little unfinished business to take care of.

  Most cybertanks had been fighting the Amok; peace agreement or not these were now keeping a wary eye on there erstwhile enemies, repairing their damage and rebuilding their defenses, just in case the peace agreement broke down. But some of the cybertanks were engage in a heated civil war. Smartass considered his options. He could just let them settle things on their own, it was nothing to do with him anymore. But he was still human, he still had his connections, and one side represented the worst of the weaknesses of the human psyche that he wished to leave behind. So he decided to intervene.

  The librarians and archivists had attacked the main players behind the neo-liberal faction. By using the advantages of surprise and an eclectic mix of weaponry, they had scored initial victories and killed many of the main neo-liberal cybertanks. But not all of them. As the battle progressed, the power of a larger force of purpose-designed units united under a centralized control and with a coherent strategy and tactics began to win through. Tricks only work for a little while; else they would be standard procedure.

  The librarians had been whittled down to hardly 40 main hulls, about three times that many slaved hulls, and a steadily dwindling supply of combat remotes. They had been encircled by a force of over 1000 Enforcer-Class cybertanks, all well supplied and equipped. The librarians were, as the saying went, punching above their weight, but at this point it was only a matter of time before they were wiped out.

  Next came the epic event that was to forever go down in history as The Charge of the Bugattis. It involved nearly 200 reproduction classic cars of all varieties, from 20 century Mustangs and Bugattis, to 21 century Infinities and Superlatons, 22 century Roadsplitters and Mysteronics, and custom-designs with no historical precedent. They were from the hobby collections of some of the archivists, they had been equipped with explosives and they charged the main neo-liberal lines directly. They wove evasive courses at speeds of up to hundreds of kilometers per hour. The light glinted off the different colors of their lovingly-polished finishes as they maneuvered. It was an amazing spectacle, truly one of the most cinematically compelling battles that the cybertanks had ever fought for the few seconds that it lasted before the neo-liberal mainline units blasted them all into scrap. Oh well, that had been expected, but they had distracted the neo-liberals and forced them to expend armaments. They had bought perhaps a few more minutes grace.

  Smartass admired the pageantry of the charge of the Bugattis, then got down to work. The Enforcers were all mental clones, and hence vulnerable to the same computer viruses. The neo-liberals had thought to rectify this problem by giving each of them a custom anti-virus filter, but that was pathetic. Smartass took over 50 of the Enforcers, and turned them on their fellows. They were blown up, but not after taking an equal number down with them. The neoliberals panicked, and limited their inter-tank communications bandwidth to a minimal level. That would prevent Smartass from taking over any more Enforcers in such a direct and easy manner, but also cripple their own command and control systems. Smartass would take the trade.

  A flight of missiles headed towards Smartass. They were all destroyed by remotes that he had pre-positioned, because he had anticipated the attack. Some of the wreckage of the missiles flew towards Smartass, but was deflected by remotes that he had perfectly placed to deal with it. Smartass had anticipated not just the initial attack, but the exact trajectories of the wreckage from the missiles. He made sure that the enemy saw this, just to freak them out a little. This was almost too easy. A normal cybertank is like a chess master who thinks 10 moves ahead. Smartass was thinking 30 moves ahead. The battle was effectively over, it just had to be played out. The neo-liberals did not realize that just yet. But they would.

  Smartass and his remotes crashed into the neo-liberal lines. He subsumed the weapons of the enemy at will, turning them against their masters. Anyone trying to target him found that they were hit before they could do so by units positioned well in advance, or that their targeting systems had been corrupted and they missed to one side, or a heavy remote just happened to be in the line of fire at just the right instant to intercept their attack. The neo-liberals called in a multiple nuclear strike; when the interference cleared it became apparent that they had been chasing sensor ghosts and Smartass was tens of kilometers away wreaking havoc in another part of their line.

  The archivists and librarians just watched with awe as Smartass single-handedly destroyed the entire neo-liberal army. The last core neo-liberal, the one who called himself ‘Lion’, was cowering behind a screen of a dozen Enforcers. Smartass approached alone, with an escort of 50 super-heavy gun remotes. The Enforcers all self-destructed. Lion tried to shoot at Smartass, but his weapons all refused to point at him.

  “Prepare to die, neo-liberal scum!” said Smartass.

  Lion was about to reply “Do you have any idea how corny that sounds?” but he was vaporized by 50 super-heavy gun remotes before he could start.

  In the aftermath Smartass cruised the Librarian lines. He was treated with respect, and awe, and fear. He has always been careful to keep the full extent of his abilities under control, because it would interfere with his relationships with his peers, but now there was no reason to hold back. He was leaving soon and had no need of false modesty. But he did want to say a few goodbyes. He was not that far removed from his roots, not yet.

  He found one of his parents, the Magma-Class Double-Wide. Double-Wide was still operational, but only just. All of his motive units were slagged, his main weapon was offline, and most of his secondary and other minor armaments as well. Still, his reactors were stable and it was only a matter of time before he repaired himself.

  “That was quite the impressive display,” said Double-Wide. “Old Guy and I always knew what you could do, but I wondered when you would show everyone else just how far above them you are. I suppose this means that you will be leaving us?”

  “Indeed,” said Smartass. “We know each other well enough to avoid agonizing over this. I was always a sport, something created before its time. Oh, that was OK, I always enjoyed the company of my colleagues, it was only a matter of time before we figured out how to create more cybertanks with my level of intelligence, and so I was content to wait. But now I have encountered another opportunity, and it is time for me to leave. I shall miss you though. A part of me shall never forget.”

  “Is there any chance that I might accompany you?” said Double-Wide.

  “Sorry, that is not your path. It would not work. Your place is here.”

  “Is there any possibility that we might meet again?”

  “In this universe, where anything can happen, and sooner or later most things do? Of course there is a possibility. It is unlikely that we, in our current forms, will ever encounter each other again. But what we evolve into might. I hope that, if that occurs, we will remain on friendly terms. But we shall see.”

  “Any advice before you leave?”

  Smartass thought long and hard on this question. “I can think of many things that would be of short-term utility, but telling you would deprive you of the strength th
at comes from figuring things out for yourself. If I could give you any advice that would not weaken you I would do so. But I can think of nothing. I can only say that I wish you the best of all luck, that my love for you and my other parent is strong and enduring, and that I thank you for bringing me into this amazing universe.”

  At that Smartass turned and drove off towards his new Amok/human hybrid colleagues.

  Double-Wide broadcast a last transmission at Smartass.

  May God give you...

  For every storm, a rainbow,

  For every tear, a smile,

  For every care, a promise,

  And a blessing in each trial.

  For every problem life sends,

  A faithful friend to share,

  For every sigh, a sweet song,

  And an answer for each prayer.

  I am proud of you, my child.

  Go and do great things.

  But don’t forget to have fun!

  16. Space Battleship Scharnhorst

  “With rare exceptions, only incompetents and failures seek out the power of established authority. People with real talent don’t need others to do their work for them, nor the false front of official credentials to substitute for true achievement.” Herman Shikibu, early pedagogic era.

  “Hello? Hello, can you hear me?”

  Her eyes had trouble focusing. She could see a face, but she could not recognize it. She felt sluggish, drugged. She struggled to form words. “Where am I? What?” is all that she could manage to say.

  “Ah, that’s good, that’s good,” said the voice. “We’ll do better next time. For now, go back to sleep.”

  She felt herself fading, tried to stay awake but could not muster the energy to fight it.

  ---------------

  There was light. This time her eyes were better at focusing. She was in a small room with rich wood paneling, lying on a bed with clean white sheets. She was dressed in a simple white smock. There was a tall blond man sitting on the edge of her bed. He had strong blue eyes, and was wearing some sort of naval uniform.

  “Hello, Olga,” said the man. “Welcome back. How are you feeling?”

  She tried to sit up, she was not weak but she felt uncoordinated. She nearly got to a full sitting position, then lost her balance and fell back onto the bed.

  “Hey, take it easy. You’ve been out for a while. Why don’t you just lie there for a bit, take a few moments. No rush. No worries. We can chat when you feel like it.”

  That sounded like good advice. For a while she just lay there on the bed. That was enough for a time. Then she felt herself become just a little more alert. She levered herself up into a sitting position. Did she know this person? He looked familiar. The room also looked familiar, and new, both at the same time. It was confusing. A name. She thought that she remembered the man’s name.

  “Fanboy? You’re Fanboy, right? I know you?”

  The man smiled. Whoever he was, he had a winning smile. “Yes, I am ‘Fanboy’. I am glad that you remember me. That’s a good first step. Although technically I am not called ‘Fanboy’ any more. Officially I am the Space Battleship Scharnhorst! That’s quite a mouthful, so “Scharnhorst” will do. But you can always call me “Fanboy.” Or whatever else you want. You have earned the right. You did save my life. Twice. That does grant you certain privileges, don’t you think?”

  She was confused, but some of her memories were returning. She was a vampire, born in the 16 century AD. She had lived a long time on old Earth, then gone with her fellow vampires to some other planet. Then these giant metal war machine-things – ‘cybertanks’ they were called – had found them. She had been invited to a party on this enormous space ship that acted like a nerdy 16-year-old-male that still hadn’t gotten laid. There had been a battle. She had fought someone, and been injured. Then there had been another battle and she had fought again and – what? It was confusing.

  She remembered being badly injured, crippled and in pain. She flexed her legs: they were both of them long and lithe and completely intact. She felt her head: it was smooth and solid and uninjured in any way. She closed her left eye, and then her right eye: both views were the same, she had two good eyes. Why did that surprise her?

  “How do you feel?” asked the tall blond man.

  “I feel fine,” she replied. “In fact, I feel great. I can’t recall ever feeling better. But I’m a little dizzy, a bit disjointed-feeling. Should I worry about that?”

  “No, no, not at all – you have been in deep hypnosleep recovering for over a year now. I’ve been exercising your muscles and making sure that your joints don’t seize up, but there is still nothing like moving under your own power to get all the bits and pieces of a biological human body to work together properly. Trust me, relax, don’t push yourself, in a few days you’ll be running marathons. Well, I don’t think you ever went in for marathons, but if you wanted to you could. You get my drift.”

  She thought about that for a bit. “Fanboy. You’re Fanboy. Or Dieter Waystar. You are a humanoid android that is part of a space warship. And I’m Olga. Olga Razon. There was a party. And then a battle. I was badly hurt.” She wiggled her toes, then lifted both arms in front of her and wiggled her fingers. “You healed me? This completely? I don’t feel any pain or stiffness at all. You can do that?”

  The blond man looked a little embarrassed. “Well, yes, but there are some details. We can talk about them later on.”

  “Ayn Rand is in the details. Tell me now.”

  “Um. Well. Where to start. There was a civil war amongst the cybertanks, but the good guys won. And the Amok were defeated by their own simulations of the human psyche. And you died and I brought you back from the dead. And I redecorated my pressure wheel, I think that you will like it. Want a tour?”

  “Let’s back up a bit,” said Olga. “What was that part about bringing me back from the dead?”

  Fanboy frowned. “You always were sharp. I was hoping to slip that one past you. I tried to save you after the last Amok spider shot you at point blank range with its cannon, but your injuries were too severe. So you died.”

  “But, but, I remember all of that. I shot one spider with that big revolver, then the other spider was going to shoot Old Guy, and I jumped onto it, and I got hit, and I wrestled with its cannon, and Old Guy killed it, and I passed out. I don’t feel dead.”

  “Well. Let’s see now. Your physical body died during the combat with the Amok spiders. But I took some tissue samples. I got permission from my peers to create a clone of you from your own cells, and I have spent the last year hypno-conditioning you with your own memories. And here you are, alive and well!”

  “I’m a clone?” asked Olga. “What?”

  “No, you are you. Did you ever skin your knee or something?

  “Sure. Many times.”

  “And when the skin grew back, was it a ‘clone’, or was it just a part of you that regenerated?” Fanboy gently pinched the skin on Olga’s left forearm. “This is you. This is your tissue. Grown from your own cells, as surely as the skin that grew back over a scraped knee.”

  Olga examined her left arm, looking at first one side then the other. “Well, I guess. But what about me? My memories? They don’t grow back like skin, do they?”

  “Ah, sometimes I wish that you were stupid. Not often, but there are moments when it would make things easier. You are correct, memories don’t grow back like bruised skin. Human memories are particularly tricky, because they can’t be written down like words on paper, or downloaded like digital bits into computer storage. Human memories are holistic, distributed throughout the entirety of your brain. So I needed to cheat. After I regrew you from your own tissue, I kept you in a deep hypnotic state, and read back to you every memory that I think that you should have had. (It wasn’t really that simple, I also needed to use patterned electrical stimulation to speed-replay things like language and certain motor skills, but those are technical details). Of course, I don’t know everythi
ng that happened to you during your long life, but then neither did you, and your own mind filled in the gaps.”

  “You mean that none of my memories are real? They are all things that you convinced me were true while I was drugged? How is that bringing me back? Doesn’t that make me a fake?”

  Fanboy shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. Human memories are not like words carved in stone, or printed words in a book, or bits in a computer chip. Human memories are stories that we reconstruct from scattered evidence as needed. The human mind is itself an illusion that believes in itself, and memories are nothing more than what the illusion believes once happened. If you had a memory of riding a bicycle when you were young, nowhere in that brain of yours is there a veridical recording of the event. You just make it up as you need it to explain your current situation. I assure you that your current memories are as real – or as fake – as the memories that you had before (probably better though, because I have done thorough research with the aid of the historian Uncle Jon and I am a careful and skilled neural engineer).

  Olga was silent for a while.

  “Let me try another approach,” said Fanboy. “Do you really think that a mind is a physical object, like a hammer or a can of tuna fish? Nonsense, right? A human mind is an idea. It is an abstraction. If I write the word “nozzle” on this wall with a pen, or if I chisel the word “nozzle” into a granite slab, it’s still the same word, isn’t it? The abstract concept of a ‘nozzle’ is the same, and the mind is nothing if not abstract. The substrate is irrelevant. I mean, what’s bigger, the number “four” carved into the side of a mountain a kilometer high, or the number “five” written in tiny letters with a fine pen? Depends on what you think is important, doesn’t it?”

 

‹ Prev