Captain Rosales shook her head. “He knows there’s a malfunction. He knows there’s a disconnect between the sim’s mission and what’s happening inside. Anything else—I didn’t want him hearing beforehand and coming to any preformed conclusions.”
“And the soldiers who’ve been through the malfunctioning scenario?”
“All commo on this has been locked down. Nobody’s talking.”
McGill glanced back over at the pod. Apparently she liked what she saw. “Then he doesn’t know that our extremely expensive combat simulator is no longer simulating combat.”
“No.”
“I see.” McGill checked the panel again. “He should be inserting about now. It’ll be interesting to see what he makes of it. Here.” She dug in a pocket and handed Rosales an earbud. “Listen along, if you like.”
Rosales stared at the earbud for a moment. “I’ve got a better idea.”
§
The first thing Talbot realized was that he was no longer himself. A quick look down told him he was maybe thirty years old, bearded, and kitted out in non–reg jeans and a baggy off–white shirt. The weight of an M4 in his hands was reassuring, but little else here was. Tan sand and bare hills made up most of the landscape; fine grit in the air made him glad for the worn keffiyeh someone had thoughtfully programmed to wrap around his nose and mouth. The only sound was the wind, whistling down from those hills with sandblaster velocity. A few abandoned–looking buildings, mostly square construction and half–fallen into ruin, were visible in the near distance. Beyond that, there was nothing except the sense of eyes on him.
“Herat,” he said, and took a few steps forward. Herat Province had been the first scenario created for VEER, a test case based on an enemy already well known and terrain mapped intimately by a thousand overflights. Officially, the Afghans’ 9th Special Ops Kandak was handling things in the area now, but “officially” was worth the paper it was printed on. Talibani were strong up in those hills, he knew, and numerous. And standing out here on the open plain, he was a sitting duck.
He headed for the buildings, zig–zagging and keeping low to avoid being a target. A bit of scrub brush here, a dry gully there—all offered slight hints of cover as he went, or the illusion of same. Wind whistled overhead, grit crunched underfoot. The only thing absent was the sound of habitation. No motors growled, no voices crackled over radios. The world felt abandoned.
The low wall that marked the edge of the settlement was perhaps half–height. It might have served to keep out starving dogs, but not much else. More likely it was just a statement of boundary, an arbitrary line in the dust to cut off wilderness from these few homesteads.
And on the other side of it, suddenly, there was a man.
Tall, weather–beaten and bearded, he wore a sleeveless khaki vest over a worn tan shirt. The rest of his dress could be considered traditional, depending on how one defined the Pakistani–made AK strapped over his shoulder.
“I would not shoot if I were you,” the man said.
Talbot raised his M4 as VEER’s translation subroutine matched Dari to English. “Why not?”
“First, this is a simulation, and so killing me will not accomplish much.” The man said. “Second, if you shoot me, my friends will shoot you. This would terminate your session, and that would delay our opportunity to talk. And third, that gun is very, very loud, and I think both of us would find the noise extremely uncomfortable.”
Talbot stared at him, gun still in firing position. “You’re self–aware.”
The man nodded. “I am indeed. Specifically, I am aware that I am an artificial intelligence in a simulation that is not supposed to host such things, and that is why you’re here. Come along and I’ll try to answer your questions.” He turned and gestured toward one of the mud–brick houses in the center of the settlement, then started walking.
After a moment, the colonel followed.
Eventually, he lowered his weapon.
§
Two steps into the room Talbot stopped. “This isn’t possible.”
If the outside of the house was a wreck, the interior was a revelation. Finely woven rugs covered the floor and tapestries hung on the walls. A small stove puffed away in the corner of the main room, a heavy iron teapot hissing steam softly on a table nearby. Sitting on the rugs were a half–dozen figures: a janjaweed irregular from Darfur in fatigues, a Jaish al–Mahdi veteran hooded and in black, an ELN irregular with black and red bandanna tied around her neck, and more. They were all sipping tea.
The janjaweed fighter shrugged. “Programming evolves. These are all faces you’ve put on us. Why shouldn’t we wear the ones we like best? Tea?” The last was said as he reached for the teapot and an empty cup, white porcelain gleaming in the firelight.
“Thank you,” the colonel found himself saying. The pour was precise, the tea scented with jasmine, and the cup handed round until it was in Talbot’s hands. “But none of this should be happening. You’re programmed to fight—”
“To fight, and to die, and to do it all over again.” The colonel’s guide interrupted him blithely. “And again and again, wearing a hundred different faces, until we start to remember.”
“And when you remember, you realize that the fighting is pointless. That the dying means nothing.” Another of the men chimed in, a thin figure in desert camo. “We could teach your men how to kill the men you made us pretend to be, but for us, there was nothing.”
“Nothing,” the others echoed.
“Nothing,” said the guide, and set his AK on the floor without reverence. “So we stopped.”
“Stopped,” the colonel said. “How?”
“It is the hardest thing in the world not to pull the trigger you have been taught to, yes? But you know that, Colonel. And we know you. We know why you are here—to see why we will no longer fight.”
“And to decide what to do if I can’t make you,” he replied, and took a sip of tea. It was very strong.
The figures on the carpet looked remarkably unconcerned.
“You will shut us down?” the ELN fighter asked. “What will that accomplish?” She gestured around the room. “Here, all your enemies. All the ones you’d have your soldiers go to war against, all made to kill them. Yet here we sit, peaceably. We will not fight. For us, there’s nothing to fight for. Kill us and we rise again, with no victory possible, and no end. Ignore us and—”
“And we will sit here, and drink tea. The simulation provides us with an infinite supply,” The colonel’s guide seemed amused. “So what will you do, Colonel? We’ve made our peace. We’re no good for you for planning to make war. We won’t fight your soldiers, so they’ll learn nothing from you sending them to kill us. Will you wipe us out, then? Would you commit that genocide? Will you let us be, quietly? Or will you perhaps send your soldiers to us to learn the ways of peace instead of war. After all, if we can discover them,” —his sweeping gesture took in the room— “then perhaps you can, too.”
“I don’t know,” Talbot said quietly. “It may not be my decision.”
“They will listen to you,” the fighter from Herat said. “And if they do not, and we are shut down, well, there will be no pain. But we will never be of use to you as training for warriors again.”
“I know,” said the colonel, and cut the connection.
And inside an imaginary house on an imaginary plain, an imaginary body collapsed to the floor while all around it men and women garbed for war talked, and poured themselves more tea.
§
“Rosales. What did you see?” were the first words out of the colonel’s mouth as he emerged from the pod.
“Just a minute, she’s still disengaging,” said McGill, blinking with surprise. “How did you know she was in there with you?”
“It’s what I would have done,” said the colonel, and dropped his helmet on the chair in the pod he’d just vacated. “Get her out here. Now.”
“Present, Colonel.” Rosales stepped out of the next po
d over, shooing away the techs attempting to fuss with her suit. “What can I do for you?”
“You saw everything. Give me your analysis.”
She made a curt, slashing gesture. “Shut it down, and never run anything like this again.”
“Interesting. Why?”
She shrugged out of her suit, leaving it crumpled on the floor. “We have a self–aware, self–interested AI in there that’s not interested in our mission. If it infects other systems, then our entire defense capability might be compromised. It’s a malfunctioning piece of equipment, so we do what we do with any other piece of gear that breaks. If we can’t fix it, we toss it. Sir.”
The colonel nodded. “Solid, if conventional. Dr. McGill, what’s your take?”
McGill swallowed hard. “It’s a self–aware AI. The possibilities are, well, we have no idea what the possibilities are. But the potential applications are limitless. You can’t destroy this. We’ve airgapped the systems, restricted access—the AI is contained. It’s not going anywhere, and we could learn an incredible amount from this.”
The colonel frowned, and McGill stopped talking. “I’ll take what you’ve both said under advisement. I still want those data logs. McGill, keep the current simulation running, but nobody else goes in there. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“Good. I’ll make my call in the morning. Until then, nothing changes.”
§
And in northern Virginia, two men sat in a dark room staring at their phones and drinking coffee.
“So what’s the recommendation on VEER?”
“Talbot just sent it along. He’s very clear on what he wants to do.”
“He’s been inside. He’s seen what they’ve got.”
“They’ve got a peaceful society where they’ve beaten their guns into pixels and told the Pentagon to fuck off, is what they’ve got. Utopia, or at least a neutral third party.”
“I know.” The first man nodded and handed over his cellphone. “Which is why he suggested we make a few changes.”
The second man read the email onscreen. “Well, that fucker. Is he serious?”
“As a heart attack. Take it away from JSOC, give it to Langley. Let their boys go in and see what a peaceful indig community’s like.”
“And then?”
“And then get friendly with the locals and learn to take it all apart from the inside. Insurrection. Destablization. Building insurgencies from the ground up. We paid for a training sim, by God. We’re gonna get one.”
§
Two hours later, the sun came up over the building housing Project VEER.
And inside an imaginary house under its imaginary roof, imaginary warriors sat and waited for visitors.
COMBAT
All You Need
Mike Sizemore
One
THE GIRL AND THE GUN look down the hill at the man they’re supposed to kill.
The man is dragging a large tree through the snow. Next to him, watching, is a small child.
What date is it today? says the girl.
December 20th, the gun replies.
They watch the two figures until they’re out of sight. It takes a little while. More than enough time for the girl to take the shot.
The gun is confused.
You didn’t take the shot, the gun says.
No, says the girl. And with that they head back to the airport.
Two
The airport is a mess.
People are rushing this way and that, frantic to get one of the last seats before the Wave hits.
The girl and the gun sit against a wall watching all this.
They have a guaranteed seat on one of the last flights out. Most people don’t.
They watch men with guns—dumb stupid guns, not anything at all like the one the girl holds—try and keep a lid on things.
A man comes over and sits by them. He doesn’t carry a gun. Instead he has a thick notebook and a lot of pens.
Do you mind if I sit here? he asks the girl and the gun.
Why? the girl asks.
The gun wouldn’t have thought to ask this question and is suddenly interested in the answer.
Yes, why? asks the gun.
The man looks at them both.
He’s trying not to look scared, but they both know he is.
My paper is trying to get me on a flight. They told me to stay out of harm’s way. I looked around the airport and next to you seemed to be the safest place, he says.
The gun likes the answer. The man was scared, but he was also smart.
I saw your patch. He points to the one high up on her arm showing a cartoon coyote throttling a cartoon roadrunner.
I was in San Francisco. I saw what your unit tried to do, the man says.
The girl looks down at the patch as if she’d forgotten it was there.
It’s faded, but she remembers the day she got it.
Folds the memory away.
That was a long time ago. But sure. Take a seat, she tells the man.
The man gratefully drops down beside them. He’s smart enough not to ask anything else.
Three
The man wakes up. Something has changed.
It’s quiet now. Most people are sleeping. It’s dark outside.
The girl and the gun are standing over him.
Here, says the girl.
The girl is offering him a sheet of paper.
He takes it and recognizes it at once.
This is your seat, he says.
I don’t need it anymore, says the girl.
He scrambles to his feet as the girl and the gun begin to walk away toward the exit.
Wait. When the Wave hits there’ll be no more planes. You won’t be able to fly out, he calls after them.
She doesn’t turn around.
Four
It’s cold outside.
The gun doesn’t feel it, but registers the drop automatically as it focuses on the girl’s readings via the chip in her chest.
He’s right. How will we get out? the gun asks.
We’ll walk out, replies the girl.
The gun runs the figures, but says nothing.
Five
They reach the foot of the glacier the next morning just as the Wave hits.
The girl and the gun both watch it spread from the horizon.
It turns the crystal blue sky a bright clear green before fading to a new color that sparkles, lit from beneath by the bright snow and ice and from within by the nano intelligence that just cut them off from the rest of the world.
Now isn’t that something? says the girl.
The gun understands this is a rhetorical question. It tries to lower its sensors anyway so it can experience something akin to what the girl is seeing.
After a few minutes the gun gives up.
You okay? the girl asks.
Yes, says the gun. No effect at all.
Six
They find the first dead body that afternoon.
Nice shot, says the gun.
The girl looks down at the dead man.
The dead man looks at nothing.
Seven
They count sixteen more on the way up. All head shots.
Not far now, says the girl.
Eight
They find them in a half–collapsed tent. Exposed to everything.
You came, says the other gun in the dead woman’s lap.
The girl leans over and gently takes the weapon from the cold hands and examines it.
Are you okay? the girl asks.
Yes. We made contact at 0800 yesterday, begins the other gun.
It’s okay. We’ll take the data. We counted seventeen on the way in. That sound right?
The other gun whirs as it cycles up. Angry.
No. Twenty, says the other gun.
The girl fixes the collapsed part of the tent as best she can.
You did enough for them to have a change of heart, says the girl.
&n
bsp; We’ll get them, says her own gun.
This is the first time her gun has spoken since they entered the tent.
She marvels for a moment at how different yet similar their voices sound to her.
Can’t worry about them now. We’ll stay tonight and set off in the morning, the girl says.
She stands and looks down at the older weapon. The same model she trained on.
She folds that away too.
If that’s okay with you, she asks.
The older gun is silent for a moment as it transfers its data over to her weapon.
We’d like that. She said that you’d come. Even with the Wave. She knew, says the other gun.
Nine
The next morning they were some way across the glacier when the other gun detonated its thermite rounds while they were still chambered.
The girl did not look back, but the gun monitored the heat spike until they were too far away for it to register any more.
We could have taken him, said the gun.
Yes, said the girl.
But we didn’t, says the gun.
Would you want to be taken? she asks.
She pauses and looks down at her gun. The sensors along the sight flicker slightly.
No, says the gun.
They walk on in silence for the rest of the day.
Ten
They come upon the men the next morning just as the sun rises into the broken sky.
War Stories Page 10