Neoliberal Economists Must Die ! (An Old Guy/Cybertank Adventure Book 3)

by Timothy Gawne

  Nevertheless it was a serious piece of hardware. Hassan did have to admit that the designers, while clearly insane jackasses, were pretty skilled at building new tech. The Jotnar had distributed slaved systems spread around it for hundreds of kilometers – a real defense-in-depth – and it was mobile, so it could not be targeted from long range. It had internal hangars and automated maintenance bays, which was certainly handy out here in the middle of nowhere. While Hassan had been assured that it was not self-aware, its computer systems were far smarter than anything that he had encountered before.

  Hassan addressed it via his suit radio. “Jotnar, how are you doing?”

  The Jotnar replied with a rich male tenor voice. “Commander, this unit is fully functional and all systems are within 98% tolerance. Suggestion: physical presence of commander outside of command center is contraindicated by standard procedures. Suggestion: commander returns to command center with maximum speed consistent with safety.”

  “Your suggestion is noted,” said Hassan. “But a commander needs to see his command with his own eyes. It’s important.”

  “Suggestion: remote sensing systems are adequate to the task of determining status of command elements. Suggestion: commander returns to command center with maximum speed consistent with safety.”

  Hassan grunted. Technically the thing was right. He had no business being out here. This walking alone on the surface was an indulgence, but he could not help himself. He was a throwback, a dinosaur. He liked to see things himself and with his own eyes. He liked to win. He valued courage, and honor, and loyalty. His classmates in the war college, the ones that had gone on to make General or Admiral, had made fun of him. “Hassan the Glorious,” “Hassan the Righteous,” or “Hassan the Most Wonderful and Amazing Officer that this Universe has Ever Seen.” Usually they would say this right after he had beaten them flat in a wargame, or a Muay-Thai contest, and then they would go off to stroke the genitals of whomever it was that possessed the genitals whose stroking would yield the most return on investment (genital-stroking wise).

  After a while Hassan didn’t care. There were still elements in the defense establishment that valued competence. They were almost a secret society, weak compared to all of the eight-star generals and admirals and assistants to the adjutants to the undersecretary of the butt-fondler of the minister of defense, but still not without influence. Hassan had made Colonel, knew that he would never rise further, and was happy. He had a decent salary and benefits, useful and interesting work that he could take pride in doing well, and the respect of those of those peers that he himself respected. Let the perfumed satraps do their political thing on Mount Olympus, Hassan had found his niche.

  Until the aliens attacked and messed it all up. A real enemy. Not a bunch of disorganized slimers in an urban slum armed with hacked-together low-energy slugthrowers, but an external force that could kill them all. That was when Hassan wished that he had taken politics more seriously because the operational always trumps the tactical. No matter how many brilliant majors and colonels were out in the field, if the generals and admirals were fuckwits, they were screwed. This was perhaps the only time in his life that Hassan realized that he had made a really, really, big and unforgivable mistake (aside from not screwing Hadley Fletcher, but that was another story). Perhaps he should have spent more time stroking genitals after all.

  He had an anti-gravitic sled transport him back to the main headquarters. It used a lot more energy than something that ran on wheels or treads, but if there were multiple tracks leading to the entrance of their defense headquarters, it would be like putting up a big sign: “HEY ALIENS THE COMMAND CENTER IS HERE FEEL FREE TO DROP FUSION BOMBS ON US!”

  Hassan walked down the sloping tunnel from the hidden entrance, and then let himself into the airlock of the main ice moon defense headquarters. The headquarters was a single pressurized cylinder, five meters in diameter and 100 meters long, buried a kilometer under the ice. Most of it consisted of life support equipment, a small fission reactor with massive heatsinks buried even deeper, and of course racks of tactical computer equipment. The base had no defenses other than anonymity, and contacted the outside world via deep-buried fiber optic lines.

  Hassan’s subordinates glared at him accusingly for so foolishly risking his life by walking alone on the surface, but they said nothing. Hassan liked them.

  The base was threaded with narrow corridors and steep metal staircases with bare steel handrails that wound through the computer banks. The living quarters were extremely cramped, but luxurious in a way that a high-class private atmospheric jet aircraft could be, with soft lighting, beige-paneled walls, big leather armchairs, a compact gym, and a vast database of entertainment software. Everyone had a private soundproofed pod-like sleeping cubicle, with built in music, video, and automated massagers. It might seem a little lacking in Spartan military toughness-forming harshness, but if you are going to spend a quintillion dollars building refineries on an ice moon it would be a shame to lose the entire investment because the staff went insane from isolation and boredom. In this kind of environment a little extra spent on creature comforts went a long way.

  There was also “Roboto-helfer,” a 40 centimeter-tall humanoid robot. Nobody knew why it was here. Someone had probably thought that it would boost morale. It was made of sleek white plastic, and had an overly-cute child-like face with bright rings around the eyes that could light up when it was (pretending to be?) happy. It also was disgustingly cheerful, often singing little inspirational songs. Finally, it could only speak in German, which nobody on the Ice Moon understood.

  “Hallo Kommandant! Wie war ihre reise außerhalb?”

  At first Hassan had despised this cloying little plastic toy, but as time went on he came to accept it. Even if its perkiness was irritating, irritation was better than boredom, and locked into a small pressure cylinder on a desolate ice moon having a sort of mascot was not such a bad thing. It had even managed to become slightly useful. It would help pick up after meals or fetch him coffee when he needed it, sometimes without him even needing to ask.

  “Well, little Roboto-helfer, how have you been?” asked Hassan.

  “Ich war in Ordnung, obwohl ich über sie ganz allein auf der oberfläche besorgt. Sie reall sollte lass mich mitkommen und helfen! Ich kann Englisch sprechen, wenn sie nur wechseln würden meine sprache schalter,” piped the little robot.

  “Good,” said Hassan. “I’m glad that you had a good day. Now if you could get me some coffee, I would be much obliged.”

  The little robot stood up straight and saluted. “Auf einmal Kommandant! Kaffee auf der doppel!” It pivoted in place and marched off towards the pantry. As it went, it sang a cheery song to itself:

  Es ist ein wunderbarer tag!

  Das leben ist so eine freude!

  Manchmal zeiten sind hart

  Aber ein freudiges herz

  Macht es lohnt sich!

  They recycled all of their water, and had a compact hydroponics system that produced an algae that, in theory, they could live off of indefinitely (although eating slime could get very old, very fast). However out here a little in the way of luxury makes a big difference. Thus, they also had a pantry with some real food. It was dehydrated, of course – bad enough to ship this stuff up from the main planet, paying to ship the water along with it would have been ridiculous – but it was a welcome supplement to the vat-grown algae.

  Most of the food was in plain white plastic pouches with simple black lettering: “Space Stew,” “Space Snacks,” “Space Macaroni and Cheese,” “Space Salad,” and “Space Veal Parmigianino with Eggplant and Cilantro.” The only exceptions to the ranks of standardized white pouches were a few bright red cylinders of a powdered beverage-mix that, in bright yellow letters, was known as “Proton.” The advertising copy stated proudly that “Proton” was “Now Made With Real Freeze-Dried Beet Juice!” Either the quartermaster corps had gotten a really good deal, or someone’s brother owned a food-processing
business and they were rich enough to be exempt from the conflict of interest rules. Still, despite his initial skepticism, Hassan was gaining a taste for “Proton.” Perhaps there was something to be said for freeze-dried beet juice after all.

  Later that night Hassan and his staff had had a formal meal with rehydrated Space Steak, Space Asparagus and Space Potatoes with Space Dumplings, and they had toasted each other’s health with excessive amounts of 42-proof brandy that Hassan had smuggled in. This was totally, totally illegal and very much against regulations, but what kind of officer would he be if he could not supply some decent high-octane alcohol to the last meal of a doomed command? It had been perhaps the best time that any of them had had for months. They were all far too professional to get drunk, but they did get a mild buzz and the conversation had been more engaging than usual.

  Roboto-helfer seemed especially pleased at being allowed to serve the drinks. The little robot had to stand on a box to reach the table, but it did a perfect impression of a snooty waiter, making a show of unscrewing the cap, pouring the brandy with precise wrist turns that did not spill a drop. At the end of the dinner Roboto-helfer did a low bow, and everyone clapped.

  If, by some fluke, they did survive the coming alien attack, Hassan resolved to drink alcohol with his staff on a more regular basis. But in that case he would probably need to rig up a still. He wondered if the Jotnar would help out, or if its non-sentient machine mind would automatically report the infraction? Hassan supposed that he could just ask it.

  The only point of the command center was the computer systems. In an emergency almost any unit could take control of the moon’s defense, even the computers in a Wolverine. Modern warfare had become computationally intensive and the big arrays of computers buried in the command center were the beating heart of the ice moons’ defense. Hassan had four subordinates – all officers - sharing the command center with him. Mostly they worked on the software systems, and checked on the combat units via remote telemetry. Their physical duties were just maintaining the life support systems and occasionally replacing a burnt out computer module. They respected each other but familiarity breeds, if not contempt, at least boredom. At this point they had little to say to each other. Everything was automated, everything was set in motion, they would do what they did, the game would play out the way that it had before on the five previous ice moons, and in three days time they would all die, and that would be that.

  There were another two-dozen humans on the ice moon, most working in the refineries, a few other defense personnel hidden in distant backup command centers or maintenance facilities. They conversed with each other on a regular basis via ground lines, and they still had a secure laser link back to Alpha Centauri Prime so they could get messages from friends and relatives, but there were super-maximum security prisons back home with more social outlets.

  As commanding officer Colonel Hassan had a private office, it was a palatial two meters wide and three meters long, and had just enough headroom that he did not need to stoop. He had his own personal tiny bathroom squeezed into one corner, it was an indulgence but then even in outer space the commanding officer must be seen to be special. There was no central bridge where he could shout orders at subordinates from a fancy command chair festooned with buttons; that would have been pointless. The defenses were all automated and in a real combat everyone needed to be in a separate pressure zone. Mostly Hassan sat at his desk in his office and accessed status reports on a computer screen.

  With little to do but sit in a buried pressure chamber, and death just three days away, morale had taken a bit of a plunge. Hassan knew that he should have done something about that – organized a strategy contest, given advanced Muay-Thai lessons, maybe even gone back to the days of the ancient Terran seafaring navies and had the troops scrub and polish the decks of the command center until they shone. Anything to keep their minds active and distracted. But Hassan’s morale had also largely evaporated and at this point he didn’t care. It’s not that his staff weren’t still doing their duties – nobody gets sent off into space unless they have stable personalities, and his people were solid – but they slept in a lot, they ate more than their rations allowed (which would have been a problem if they weren’t all going to die in three days), and when awake spent a lot of time playing video games. “Special Weapons Team Epsilon” was the general favorite, although “Ninja Girl-Rock-Band Steel Cleavage: The Zentopia Missions!” was also popular.

  Hassan had taken up the habit of conversing with the Jotnar via laser link. Hassan could get all the information that he needed from the computer screen in his office, but the Jotnar was pretty good at explaining things, for a computer, and it helped to break the monotony. Perhaps Hassan spent so much time talking with it because it was, in some ways, almost like a dog. It was completely non-judgmental and Hassan could just vent without any stress.

  The Jotnar did have a few quirks though. It always referred to itself as “This Unit.” When Hassan had asked why the Jotnar did not use a personal pronoun when referring to itself, the Jotnar had replied that it was not self-aware. Because humans have such a strong tendency to anthropomorphize, when non-sentient computers referred to themselves as “I,” it had in the past led to misunderstandings and mistakes. Thus, even though using “I” to refer to itself might seem more efficient and less verbose, it would continue to refer to itself as “this unit.”

  The other issue was that, while quite smart, the Jotnar would often take commands literally. For example, if you asked it if it could tell you the temperature on the surface outside, it might just respond “yes” and then fall silent. You would have to explicitly command it to tell you the temperature if you wanted the answer. Other times the Jotnar would make the correct interpretation, and give you the answer up front. It wasn’t consistent on this point; probably later models would have this matter solved.

  Hassan thought that perhaps another reason that he so enjoyed talking with the Jotnar was its honesty. It wasn’t trying to curry his favor, or massage his testicles, or get on his good side, or climb the political ladder. It just said what it thought. Jarring, at times, but also refreshing. It was becoming an addiction.

  Hassan was reviewing the status of his limited forces for the umpteenth time, when the proximity alarm went off. He checked the defense systems’ main display: an alien attack squadron was inbound at a very high rate of speed. As more data came in, and the defensive systems analyzed it, it became apparent that this was according to usual pattern.

  The high speed of the inbound alien force meant that it would not be possible for it to land or even insert into an orbit. This was a pure offensive softening-up attack. The lead elements would be heavy with scouts, they would try and blast through the human perimeter and get enough intelligence so that the following heavier weapons could acquire targets before they lost the ability to maneuver.

  If the enemy scouts could get high-quality info on the human defensive layouts while the heavies were still 100,000 kilometers away, then they could really dish out some punishment. On the other hand, if the aliens couldn’t get this information until the missiles were 100 kilometers away it would be too late. At the speed they were traveling the missiles would not be able to adjust their courses in time and they would smash uselessly into some empty plain on the surface of the ice moon. The race was on: how quickly could the aliens learn about the humans’ defenses, and how much could the human systems slow them down?

  Hassan watched the synopsis unfold on his computer screen as automated systems fought automated systems. Humans were still useful in setting up the strategies and tactics, but useless during the battle per se. It was like shooting an old style rifle: a human needed to load the rifle, point it in the right direction, and pull the trigger. At that point the human element was removed from the equation as the action of the firing pin, the detonation of the primer and then the main explosive charge, the acceleration of the bullet down the barrel and its flight to the target, were all to
o fast for human involvement. Modern combat is like that, it’s just that instead of pulling a mechanical trigger, the humans programmed in algorithms and set parameters for the automated systems that would take over when things got too fast for the merely biological.

  The Jotnar was maneuvering hard to avoid being targeted; pity it would almost certainly be destroyed, Hassan would miss their conversations.

  The alien forces closed. Computer fought computer with targeters versus jammers in the space of milliseconds, and then it was all over. Hassan checked his defense systems status. He had lost about 16% of his total forces. What? That didn’t make any sense. In all five previous softening-up engagements of this kind the humans had never lost less than 45%.

  He noticed that, unlikely as it seemed, the Jotnar had survived. He hailed it.

  “Jotnar, report your status.”

  “This unit is fully operational. This unit sustained minor hits from shrapnel, of no functional significance. Awaiting your orders.”

  “Jotnar, give me a summary briefing on the latest engagement.”

  “The aliens launched a high-speed attack designed to attrite our defenses before their main landing forces arrive. The alien attack pattern and force structure was nearly identical to the previous five similar engagements in this system. This unit commandeered the human defense network and, with improved tactics, reduced the loss factor to approximately 16%. Main enemy force still inbound; long-term tactical situation unchanged.”

  Hassan was a little taken aback by this. “You took command of the entire defensive grid? In the middle of a combat?”

  “Answer to first question: yes. Answer to second question: no. Taking control of the defense network in the middle of a combat operation could have degraded defense efficiency. This unit commandeered the defense network five standard days ago.”