Alternate Wars

by Gregory Benford

  The mechs still had not arrived but Bradley could see them well enough through the binoculars now to know why. They were riding on self-powered inventions of their own, modified forms of the getarounds mechs sometimes used on streets. These were three-wheeled and made of shiny brass.

  They were going slowly, probably running out of energy. As he watched one deployed a solar panel on its back to catch the rising sun and then the others did but this did not speed them up any. They did not look like the elegant social mechs he usually saw zipping on the bike paths, bound on some errand. They were just N- or P-class mechs who had rigged up some wheels.

  They came pedaling into the crossroads, using their arms. The one in front saw the hauler on its side and knew something was wrong right away and started pumping hard. Nelson shot at him then even though Dexter had said nothing. He hit the lead mech and it went end over end, arms caught up in its own drive chain. Angel could not resist and she took out the next three with a burst. Then the others came in with a chorus of rattling shots and loud bangs, no weapon sounding like the other, and in the noise Bradley squeezed and felt the butt of the rifle kick him.

  He had been aiming at one of the mechs at the rear of the little column and when he looked next the mech was down, sliding across the road with sparks jetting behind it, metal ripping across asphalt.

  “Stop! Stop shooting!” Dexter called, and in the sudden silence Bradley could hear the mechs clattering to a halt, clanging and squealing and thumping into the ditch.

  “Get them off the road—quick!” Dexter called. He waved Bradley down the hill and the boy ran to see the damage. As he dashed toward them the mechs seemed to be undamaged except for some dents but then up close each showed a few holes. He had time to glance at Paul, who was red-faced, breathing hard, his eyes veiled. There was no time to talk.

  The men and women from across the road got most of the mechs started up again on override keys but one had suffered some sort of internal explosion and the back was blown off. Bradley helped three men tilt it up enough to roll off the gentle rounded asphalt, and once they got it going it rolled and slid into a copse of eucalyptus. They threw branches over it. Bradley looked for the one he had shot at but it was impossible to tell which that was now.

  He felt a prickly anticipation, a thickening of the air. The fragrances of trees and grass cut into his nostrils, vivid and sharp. They ran back up the slope. Bradley found the rifle he now thought of as his and sprawled down with it in the grass, getting down behind a hummock near Dexter.

  Bradley lay there just breathing and looking at the rifle, which seemed to be made of a lot of complicated parts. Dexter tossed him three clips and a box of coppersheathed ammunition. The box promised that they were armor-piercing. Bradley fumbled a little learning how to load the clips but then moved quickly, sliding the rounds in with a secure click as he heard the distant growl of a tracked vehicle.

  It was coming closer along the other road. The crossroads looked pretty clear, no obvious signs of the ambush.

  The Mercer team had laid two mines in the road. They had a chameleon surface and within a minute were indistinguishable from the asphalt. Bradley could tell where they were because they were lined up with the white marker stones and from up here were smoother than the asphalt.

  He wondered if the mechs could sense that. Their sensorium was better than human in some ways, worse in others. He realized that he had never thought very much about the interior life of a mech, any more than he could truly delve into the inner world of animals. But in principle mechs were knowable. Their entire perspective could be digitized and examined minutely.

  The clatter and roar of the approach blotted this from his mind. “Activate!” Dexter shouted, his tight voice giving away some of his own excitement.

  A big tracked vehicle came flitting through the trees that lined the black road, flickering like a video-game target. There were mechs perched all over it, hitching rides, and many more of them packed its rear platform. When Bradley looked back at the road nearby the mines jumped out at him like a spider on a lace tablecloth. The entire valley vibrated and sparkled with intense, sensory light. Smells coiled up his nostrils, the cool sheen of the rifle spoke to him through his hands.

  The mech driver would surely see the mines, stop, and back away, he thought. And the mechs aboard would jump off and some of them would attack the humans, rolling down the road and shooting the lasers they had adapted from industrial purposes. Bradley had heard about mechs that could override their safety commands and fight.

  He tightened his grip on his rifle. He was dimly aware of Dexter sighting along his tube-shaped weapon and of Angel muttering to herself as she waited.

  “If they were like us they’d stop, first sign of trouble they see,” Dexter muttered, probably to himself, but Bradley could hear. “Then they’d deploy fighter mechs on both sides of the road and they’d sweep us, outflank.”

  “Think they will?” Bradley asked wonderingly.

  “Naw. They don’t have what we do.”

  “What… what’s that?” Bradley knew the wide range of special abilities mechs possessed.

  “Balls.”

  The mechs perched atop the tracked vehicle were looking forward down the road and holding on tight against the rough swerves as they rounded curves.

  Then one of them saw the mines and jerked a servo arm toward them. Some mechs sitting near the front began sending warning wails, and the track car slammed on its brakes and slewed across the road. It stopped at the lip of the ditch and made a heavy, grinding noise and began backing up.

  Three mechs jumped off its front. Bradley brought his sights down onto one of them and the air splintered with a huge rolling blast that made him flinch and forget about everything else.

  The gunmetal hood of the transport seemed to dissolve into a blue cloud. The tailgate of the tracker flew backward with a sharp whap.

  The air became a fine array of tumbling dots as debris spewed up like a dark fountain and then showered down all across the hillside. Thunks and whacks told of big mech parts hitting nearby. Bradley tucked his head into the grass. He yelped as something nicked his knee and something else tumbled over him and was gone. Pebbles thumped his back.

  When Bradley looked up he expected to see nothing but small scraps left on the road. His ears roared with the memory of the sound and he wondered if he would be deaf. But through the smoke he saw several mechs lurching away from the disemboweled transport. There were five of them bunched closely together.

  He brought his rifle up and shot very swiftly at the lead mech. It went down and he shot the next object and the next, seeing only the moving forms and the swirling blur of action.

  Angel was firing and Nelson too, sharp bangs so regular and fast Bradley thought of the clack of a stick held by a boy as he ran by a picket fence—and in a few seconds there were no more Mechs standing on the road.

  But there were two in the ditch. Gray smoke billowed everywhere.

  Bradley saw a mech moving just as a quick rod of light leaped from it, cutting through the smoke. He heard Angel yelp and swear. She held up her hand and it was bloody.

  Another instantaneous rod of light stood for a second in the air and missed her and then a third struck her weapon. It flew to pieces with a loud bang. Bradley aimed at the mech and kept firing until he saw it and the second one sprawl across the ditch and stop moving.

  A compressed silence returned to the valley. The transport was burning but beyond its snaps and pops he could see nothing moving on the road.

  Angel was moaning with her wound and Nelson took care of her, pulling out a first-aid kit as he ran over. When they saw that her wound was manageable, Dexter and Bradley walked slowly down to the road. Dexter said, “Bet that’s the last big party. We’ll get strays now, no problems.”

  Bradley’s legs felt like logs thudding into the earth as he walked. He waved to Paul, who was already on the road, but he did not feel like talking to anybody. The air was crisp a
nd layered with so many scents, he felt them sliding in and out of his lungs like separate flavors in an ice cream sundae.

  “Hey!” Mercer called from the transport cab. “They got food in here!” Everyone riveted attention on the cab. Mercer pitched out cartons of dry food, some cans, a case of soft drinks.

  “Somethin’, huh?—mechs carryin’ food,” Angel said wonderingly. For several minutes they ate and drank and then Paul called, “There’s a boy here.”

  They found Paul standing over a boy who was half-concealed by a fallen mech. Bradley saw that the group of mechs had been shielding this boy when they were cut down. “Still alive,” Paul said, “barely.”

  “The food was for him,” Mercer said.

  Bradley bent down. Paul cradled the boy but it was clear from the drawn, white face and masses of blood down the front, some fresh red and most brown, drying, that there was not much hope. They had no way to get him to cryopreservation. Thin lips opened, trembled, and the boy said, “Bad … Mommy … hurt…”

  Dexter said, “This ID says he’s under mech care.”

  “How come?” Angel asked.

  “Says he’s mentally deficient. These’re medical care mechs.” Dexter pushed one of the mech carcasses and it rolled, showing H-caste insignia.

  “Damn, how’d they get mixed in with these reb mechs?” Nelson asked irritably, the way people do when they are looking for something or someone to blame.

  “Accident,” Dexter said simply. “Confusion. Prob’ly thought they were doing the best thing, getting their charge away from the fighting.”

  “Damn,” Nelson said again. Then his lips moved but nothing came out.

  Bradley knelt down and brushed some flies away from the boy’s face. He gave the boy some water but the eyes were far away and the lips just spit the water out. Angel was trying to find the wound and stop the bleeding but she had a drawn, waxy look.

  “Damn war,” Nelson said. “Mechs, they’re to blame for this.”

  Bradley took a self-heating cup of broth from Paul and gave a little to the boy. The face was no more than fifteen and the eyes gazed abstractedly up into a cloudless sky. Bradley watched a butterfly land on the boy’s arm. It fluttered its wings in the slanting yellow-gold sunlight and tasted the drying brown blood. Bradley wondered distantly if butterflies ate blood. Then the boy choked and the butterfly flapped away on a breeze, and when Bradley looked back the boy was dead.

  They stood for a long moment around the body. The road was a chaos of ripped mech carapaces and tangled innards and the wreck of the exploded transport. Nobody was going to run into an ambush here anymore today and nobody made a move to clear the road.

  “Y’know, these med-care mechs, they’re pretty smart,” Paul said. “They just made the wrong decision.”

  “Smarter than the boy, probably,” Bradley said. The boy was not much younger than Bradley, but in the eyes there had been just an emptiness. “He was human, though.”

  The grand opening elation he had felt all morning slowly began to seep out of Bradley. “Hell of a note, huh?” he said to no one in particular. Others were doing that, just saying things to the breeze as they slowly dispersed and started to make order out of the shambles.

  The snap and sparkle of the air were still with him, though. He had never felt so alive in his life. Suddenly he saw the soft, encased, abstract world he had inhabited since birth as an enclave, a preserve—a trap. The whole of human society had been in a cocoon, a velvet wrapping tended by mechs.

  They had found an alternative to war: wealth. And simple human kindness. Human kindness.

  Maybe that was all gone now.

  And it was no tragedy, either. Not if it gave them back the world as it could be, a life of tangs and zests and the gritty rub of real things. He had dwelled in the crystal spaces of the mind while beneath such cool antiseptic entertainments his body yearned for the hot raw earth and its moist mysteries.

  Nelson and Mercer were collecting mech insignia. “Want an AB? We found one over here. Musta got caught up and brought along by these worker mechs?” Nelson asked Bradley.

  “I’ll just take down the serial numbers,” Bradley said automatically, not wanting to talk to Nelson more than necessary. Or to anyone. There had been so much talk.

  He spent time getting the numbers logged into his comm and then with shoving mech carcasses of the road.

  Dexter came over to him and said, “Sure you don’t want one of these?” It was a laser one of the reb mechs had used. Black, ribbed, with a glossy sheen. “Angel’s keeping one. She’ll be telling the story of her wound and showing the laser that maybe did it, prob’ly for the rest of her life.”

  Bradley looked at the sleek, sensuous thing. It gleamed in the raw sunlight like a promise. “No.”

  “Sure?”

  “Take the damned stuff away.”

  Dexter looked at him funny and walked off. Bradley stared at the mechs he was shoving off the road and tried to think how they were different from the boy, who probably was indeed less intelligent than they were, but it was all clouded over with the memory of how much he liked the rifle and the sweet grass and shooting at the targets when they came up to the crossfire point in the sharp sun. It was hard to think at all as the day got its full heat and after a while he did not try. It was easier that way.

  THE NUMBER OF THE SAND

  George Zebrowski

  There are those who believe not only in the infinity of number but in actual infinity, and others who deny it, yet claim that the number of the sand cannot be said because it is too large.

  —ARCHIMEDES

  Hannibal dismounts and walks out into the center of the valley of Dama, followed only by his interpreter, a trusted veteran of the Italian campaign. Scipio also approaches with only an interpreter. At each general’s back, unseen armies wait in the hot Tunisian afternoon. The two leaders stop half a dozen steps apart and regard each other in silence.

  Hannibal is the taller and older figure, with a sunburned face half-covered with a cloth that hides his graying hair. He turns his head slightly to benefit his good eye.

  Scipio seems tense as he stands bareheaded, holding his helmet, but his expression is that of a proud, handsome man. There is gold inlay on his breastplate, but no other mark of Roman military rank.

  “Do you prefer Latin or Greek?” Hannibal asks in Greek. “I know of your interest in the Hellenes.”

  “It is one of your loves also,” Scipio replies. “I’ve heard that you write in Greek.”

  Both men glance at their interpreters, then return their attention to each other.

  “They will only witness our discussion,” Scipio says. “Neither of us needs the delay of having our words repeated.”

  Hannibal nods at this sign of respect, then stands straighter and shifts his weight to his right leg. “Luck has been with you, Consul,” he says, “but we both know that good fortune cannot continue unbroken.”

  Scipio draws a deep breath and says, “Fortune had little to do with the fact that you were compelled by obvious necessity, and your own honorable character, to leave Italy and come to the defense of your native city. All wars must aim at a truer peace.”

  Hannibal smiles. “Why be modest? The necessity was of your making, and might have been otherwise.” He pauses and waits for a reply, but Scipio waits longer, and Hannibal at last says, “You and I seem to be the only ones who understand that war should be a way to a more lasting peace. Our peoples will only benefit if we end our conflict here and now.”

  “What do you offer?” Scipio asks.

  “The islands,” Hannibal says, “even the smaller ones, such as the Malta group, between Italy and Africa. Carthage will also give up Spain.”

  “But this is less,” Scipio replies, “than the terms of the armistice already signed in Rome.”

  “Which you drafted,” Hannibal says quickly, “whether signed by your government or not.”

  “You offer us our own terms,” Scipio counters, “but
without the surrender of war vessels or the return of deserters and fugitives in your ranks.” The Roman general raises a hand. “I know that they make up the majority of the army with which you fled Italy, and I realize that you will not betray your veterans, but I cannot accept less than Rome’s original terms.”

  Hannibal sighs and nods. “I knew there was no possibility of peace between us, but I wished to meet you, and I do not regret it. We will have to attempt to destroy each other’s force. Neither of us can shirk that duty.”

  The two men gaze at each other for a long, frozen moment, then make gestures of salute and turn away…

  A sea of simmering noise swallowed the scene at Dama. The historian ended his first observation of the meeting between Scipio and Hannibal in North Africa, near Carthage, in the year 202 B.C., as the first step in his New Study of History. Any randomly selected coordinate of any linear history would have served as well.

  As the Prolegomena to his study, he had sampled numerous studies of history, observing how oral narratives gave way to the art of writing down a connected chronicle from surviving documents. This crude form of history was constructed not from a continuous flow of events, but from available, discontinuous samples; from these moments, no one could reconstruct any one true past, and the result was always biased toward the concerns of the investigating present.

  When the first linear history machines become operational, the interpretive art of the old historians collapsed, as the whole linear range of human time could now be observed at any desired speed. The old studies of history were replaced by a half-million-year literal record, which could be observed at any point along its meandering course.

  After nearly a century, despite the efforts of interpretive observers, the past became the dead past, because nothing usable could be learned from it beyond curious fact. As the old problems of history were settled, the world rushed toward a future-event horizon of incomprehensibility, on the other side of which waited a culture so changed in its biology and goals that little of history would have any meaning for it.