Deliberation. Could it be the deliberation not of irresistible power, but of great mass? Anything hard enough to resist a steel-jacketed bullet must weigh more than flesh.
At that moment von Rheydt crumpled, as if his injured ankle had given out. He fell to the sand and groaned.
The alien hesitated for a moment, then strode forward, its camellike foodpads making deep impressions on the sand.
It reached the fallen German, and the quick stride turned to a stumble as his spear entwined itself in the long legs. It began to topple over him, and von Rheydt rolled, bounding up. The neck extended as the creature fought for its balance; and then the whole frame jerked as von Rheydt swept the short spear around and rammed its butt into the back of the alien’s neck.
It hit the ground so hard that little gouts of dry sand flew up. Von Rheydt reversed the spear and leaned the point into the base of the neck stalk, but the creature did not even shudder. Von Rheydt smiled tightly; there had been a major nerve from the eyes to the brain.
He glanced around for the others and saw Casca grinning at him. The Roman was bareheaded, and blood covered his scalp and the right side of his face; but he was kneeling on the chest of the blue-armored alien and his short sword was at its throat.
Where was Mbatha? He looked around and saw, about twenty meters off, the last minute of that combat. The giant Zulu, body shining with sweat, had both hands interlocked on his opponent’s back in a powerful full nelson. The alien seemed to sag suddenly; the Zulu’s back and shoulder bulged with a great effort, and with a horrible tearing sound, one of the brassy arms was bent far back.
Mbatha dropped the unconscious alien, fell to his knees and was sick in the sand, his body shaking with the aftermath of his exertion.
There was a sound of clapping from above them, and von Rheydt looked up at the general, who was sitting alone on the lowest tier of seats.
“Well done, Captain!” he called down, honest admiration in his harsh voice.
Von Rheydt looked around at his companions. Casca had raised his palm in the air in salute; he looked surprised. Mbatha had risen to his feet and extended his spear arm. What, von Rheydt wondered, were they seeing in place of a general of the O.K.W.?
“Thank you,” he said to the general. “And now—your part of the bargain?”
“Of course. Return to life for all three of the victors,” the general said. “Finish these three off, and then–”
“No,” said von Rheydt.
The general stopped in mid-stretch, arms in the air. “What did you say, Captain?”
“I said no. This—creature—fought bravely. It is not a soldier’s way to kill when his opponent, though brave, is helpless.”
The general lowered his arms and laughed. “And what do your less-civilized friends say to that noble sentiment, Captain?” He said something rapid, something von Rheydt couldn’t catch, and they both looked at Casca.
The Roman looked down at the blue-clad warrior, slowly raised his hand and—turned his thumb upward.
Mbatha spread his hands and walked away from his defeated opponent. Von Rheydt turned back to the general. “You see?”
“This is insane,” said the general, angrily. “This primitive chivalry has no place in modern warfare. Even in your time, Captain—do your enemies give quarter to the wounded?”
“No,” said von Rheydt; then his eyes fell to the sand of the arena. “Nor… do some of my own countrymen. But the best among us, the professional soldiers, do. Obedience is not our only code, General. We also have honor.”
“That’s enough,” said the general, who had turned white. “Your last chance, Captain. Finish this matter properly. Now.”
Von Rheydt stepped forward and threw the spear violently to the ground. It stuck there, quivering. “You do it,” he said flatly. “It’s your war.” He turned, motioned to the Roman and the Zulu. They walked away across the sand.
Von Rheydt felt the blackness coming, drawing closer to him, like a velvet curtain sweeping in to end the last act of a play. It reached him, and he sank into it.
He opened his eyes to the white coldness of snow against his face and to a warmth that glowed like fire in the pit of his stomach. His eyes blinked, focused on a face. A human face. The face of a white-clad soldier who shouted something and raised a submachine gun…
* * *
It had rather enjoyed the role of a General Staff Officer, and It still retained the appearance of one as It sat down to write Its report. The battered army typewriter rattled as It typed; It paused occasionally to refer to a document from the desk or to take a draw on Its cigar. The gray octagonal room gradually filled with drifting layers of smoke as It wrote:
…the directive embodied in paragraph [4], reference {a], was fully carried out in accordance with standard testing procedures as set forth in Ordnance Manual, latest revision… Evaluating officer personally observed comparative combat testing and was highly impressed with performance of Human soldiers. They proved the better fighters in three of three encounters.
However, the Humans evinced certain undesirable characteristics as far as suitability for front-line use is concerned. The most serious was a refusal to obey orders contrary to their primitive codes of fighting.
It leaned back in the chair and thought about that one for a while, absentmindedly blowing smoke rings. In all good conscience, It could not recommend immediate employment of the Humans in the Disputed Sectors; they simply wouldn’t do if they couldn’t take simple orders. But then, It thought, there’s just too much combat potential here to simply close down and start over again with some other design.
It thought for quite some time and then stubbed out the cigar, tilted the chair forward again and typed, Recommendations:
What is needed now for this Project is an intensified, speeded-up program of development. To effect this, it is proposed that two great power blocs be created at the conclusion of the present war and that a situation of continuous conflict be maintained for as long as is necessary to produce a deployable Human weapon…
It nodded in satisfaction. Just the thing. And It could stay on to supervise, in a soft rear-echelon job, far from the front…
It smiled and began to change.
Editor's Introduction to:
INTERIM JUSTICE
by William F. Wu
It is a fundamental principle of the common law that justice delayed is justice denied; which says volumes about what passes for justice in the United States today. We have more lawyers than any society in all history; indeed, nearly as many as all societies in all times combined. For all that it takes years for civil cases to come to trail, and if there is a large discrepancy of resources—if the aggrieved party is small and weak, and the other large and rich—the case may never come to trial at all.
When disaster strikes far away, the French send doctors, the Swedes send food, and we send lawyers. After the disaster at Bhopal, India, a dozen lawyers sued Union Carbide in the name of the victims. Some went to India to seek clients. At least one took the name of his “client” from a newspaper account, and only later tried to get the client’s approval. Suits claiming billions of dollars were filed. It was ambulance chasing on a grand scale.
The worse the injury, the more the lawyers will collect—and the longer it will take to settle the matter. We all know this; but any attempt to change the system is fought tooth and nail by the lawyers. Since all judges are lawyers, it is not surprising that matters affecting the financial interests of lawyers as a class are not easily settled—especially when we note that a majority of both state and national legislators are also lawyers.
Nuclear power; release of new drugs; whether or not to conduct genetic experiments; building dams, closing steel mills, purchasing weapons, conducting research: no matter how technical the matter, lawyers are thought competent to settle it. Two teams of lawyers argue to convince yet another lawyer (called a judge). Usually none of the parties have any technical training, and often none can expl
ain the technology of the matter in dispute. Nevertheless, in many cases all concerned are paid by the taxpayers. Certainly the judge will be.
Dr. Arthur Kantrowitz, development scientist, Dartmouth professor, and Chairman of the L-5 Society, has long advocated “science courts” staffed by professional scientists to settle complex technical matters. The concept has won considerable approval, but it seems no closer to implementation now than it did when first thought of.
An ancient Roman principle holds that it is to the benefit of the commonwealth that there be an end to litigation; that disputes be settled once and for all, rather than dragged on forever. Norman law allowed trial by combat: the litigants, or their champions, fought in the lists after priests and heralds prayed that “God grant the right.” Whether or not the Almighty intervened, battle unambiguously settled the dispute. The loser was not generally in any condition to file an appeal.
Dr. William Wu writes of a time a few years hence; a time when people have had enough of lawyers and have turned to war games as a way to decide civil cases. Not everyone is satisfied that justice is thereby done—but then not everyone believes our present system dispenses justice.
INTERIM JUSTICE
by William F. Wu
Ken Li pushed buttons on the arm of the gaming chair to adjust its position and then looked down over the big white holographic playing field in front of him. He had already tuned out the presence of thirty-five thousand excited, eager spectators packed into the stands around the arena. Now he swung up the flat keyboard on a steel arm and worked it into exactly the right height and distance from himself.
Ten meters away, across the playing field, his opponent finished maneuvering his own keyboard and raised one hand, signifying that he was ready. Ken centered his keyboard and made sure the small videoscreen across the top row of keys was not obscured by any glare from the lights. Then he raised his hand.
An attendant seated on the left edge of the playing field pushed a button on his own keyboard. Instantly the blank field came alive with holographic terrain and miniature armies drawn up in battle formation. The little video screen read, “Culloden Moor, 1746. House of Stuart. Prince Charles Edward Stuart.” A list of Victory Conditions followed.
Ken nodded to himself. As a Gamer of the Master class under contract, he was about to play a war game as the representative of a litigant in a civil suit. He had fifteen seconds in which to recall the details of the battle before the computer activated the game. Culloden? Yes…
“Lydia?” A month before, Ken had stood up behind his desk as his secretary ushered in his next appointment. “Why didn’t you just call me at home? I didn’t know you were coming until I checked the calendar this morning.” His heart started pounding.
The slender, honey-blonde woman stood by the closed door across the room. “I’m here to see you professionally,” she said coldly. She wore a simple dark-blue dress that he remembered.
“As a client then, please have a seat.” Ken gestured toward the two padded armchairs in front of his desk.
“A prospective client.” Clutching her purse in both hands, she walked primly forward and sat down. “I guess you know I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t absolutely desperate.”
Ken sat down behind his desk, intensely curious. “Yes. I never expected that you, of all people, would volunteer your litigation for a Guild contract.” He picked up a pen and nervously twirled it.
“Have you read about the case? It’s been in the papers.” She held herself stiffly erect.
“I saw some headlines. When I realized they were about you, I… quit reading.” He smiled, a little self-consciously.
“I know you’re good, and I know your fee. I’ll pay you in full, of course.” She opened her purse.
“You know it’s customary to give discounts to friends.”
“I’d rather pay you in full.” She pulled out a checkbook.
“Even so, you’re premature with that. Don’t worry. I don’t intend to turn you down. When you’re in trouble, I’ll still do anything for you. Now. What’s the case about?”
The Battle of Culloden—that was where the House of Hanover, represented by the English and certain Scottish clans allied with them, defeated the Stuart heir and his rebel Scots and brought about the end of the traditional Highland way of life. Ken studied the disposition of his troops just as the game activated. He played the role of Prince Charles and had most of the limitations imposed on him that the Bonnie Prince had endured. His only edge over the Prince was his own tactical ability, of which the Prince had had very little.
The Victory Conditions were simple enough. The rebel Scots had to destroy a certain number of English, or drive them from the field. The English had to destroy a certain number of Scottish rebels, or kill the Scottish heir. If Ken withdrew with the Prince and his army intact, the game would be drawn and another one played. However, with the royal superiority in cavalry, the last possibility was too unlikely to consider.
Quickly Ken worked over the keyboard to correct certain flaws in his order of battle that had been allowed by the Prince’s incompetent Irish advisor, John William O’Sullivan. For instance, the left of his lines angled away from the enemy so that they were farther from them than the right. It was nothing more than sloppy supervision, and he issued orders to have the clans there brought forward. They were anchored by the Macdonalds, a sullen lot who were angered over losing their position on the right, which had been theirs by tradition for many centuries. Ken could not move them there now. Nor could he do anything about the lack of food and sleep endured by his army prior to the time of the opening of the game, or about the rain and sleet falling out of a nonexistent sky. Their physical and emotional condition would be considered by the computer as it resolved conflict.
Ken’s opponent was in the role of the English Duke of Cumberland, who gave the order for his artillery to fire. Ken gave a similar order and hurried to rearrange his right. He felt flushed now, and the sweat flowed freely down his face and back from the effort of concentration and from the tension. A flash of memory came to him—a quote from aged Lord Lovat, who had brought his Clan Fraser out for the Prince: “None but a mad fool would have fought that day.”
A small stone house called Culwhiniac stood far to the right of the Prince’s line. A long stone wall ran from the Prince’s line all the way to the royal line. More stone walls ran from this wall to the right at a perpendicular angle, making them excellent barriers against the royal army, but O’Sullivan had failed to man them. Ken knew better, and he drew clans from his second line to hold the walls. He also sent his meager cavalry there—the Fita-James Horse that was down to squadron strength—and the half troop of Life Guards he still had. This was out of character for the Prince since the Life Guards were acting as his personal bodyguard, but Ken had the prerogative.
He had no other cavalry, however, and he was outnumbered overall by about 8,800 to less than 5,000. A third of the rebels had drifted away recently, driven by starvation and lured by the nearness of their homes. Historically, the House of Stuart had been routed in twenty-five minutes.
The royal lines began to advance.
Lydia settled back in the chair slightly. “It’s about Johnny AA9. Remember him?”
“Mm—isn’t he classified? You never said much about him.”
“He’s our most successful artificial life-form. I can’t tell you much more than that.”
“You’re covered under gamer-client privilege, you know.”
“He’s still classified. The main thing is, Carnehan-Chang Labs contracted us to conduct certain experiments, and Johnny AA9 resulted from one of them. We don’t want to proceed any farther because Carnehan-Chang won’t commit itself to full responsibility for him and we don’t want to give him up until we know he’ll be taken proper care of.” Lydia shook her head tightly. “The cell differentiation is… I can’t tell you how advanced, but I can tell you we had to put the… put AA9 into cryogenic sleep when we first went to court
. It’s been six years and we’re getting nowhere. So finally both sides agreed to a game.”
Ken fought to keep his voice professional and to control the strong attraction he still felt toward her. “So you’re resolving a simple ownership issue? Does the winner of the game take ownership or relinquish it?”
“It’s not that simple.” Lydia’s voice was almost a whisper. “Johnny’s human, Ken. He–”
“What? I thought that was just a nickname or something.”
“If he reaches full term, as we expect, he’ll have all the human needs. But who’s responsible for him? The bureaucracy of a corporation? And who’s going to protect him from being constantly experimented on by that collective bureaucracy? For that matter, will he be a person under the law? Or an animal that can be patented and owned by a corporation? We made him out of lab chemicals, not human gametes. I want some legal definitions before we go on, and the standard judicial process hasn’t given me any.”
“Well, as you so often told me, a game won’t provide any legal precedent. So what are you asking if you win?”
“That the fetus—that Johnny stay in suspended animation until my lab gets all the legal decisions we’re asking for.”
“What does the other side want?”
“They want immediate and full ownership and the total control that goes with it.” Lydia forced an ironic, unpleasant smile. “Why are you asking all these questions? Aren’t you the one who said that playing war games was independent of the issues?”
“Well, that’s true. As a gamer, I don’t pass judgment on the controversy, but I do like to know the magnitude of the case.” He shrugged slightly. “I know you still hate the Gaming Masters’ Guild, not to mention me. If you didn’t think this game was of extreme importance, I guess you wouldn’t be here.”
There Will Be War Volume IV Page 30