The Free World War

by Matthew William Frend

  The pillar girl keeping the others in sync … I wish the world was that simple.

  The voices around the table drew her attention back.

  “… Without directed evolution as a framework then we’re simply following natural selection,” said Grillon, “which is always at the mercy of a chaotic nature – a slave that can never be free of its master.”

  “But where might that lead us? Should we sever our relationship with the natural environment completely? Hmm … think of the Enlightenment – instead of clones, we could start hosting ourselves in machines, and take nature out of the equation altogether,” countered Macrose, another of Arjon’s colleagues.

  Okay now we’re getting too heavy, Eya thought, and returned to her less serious reflection. She had a moment of pure joy as she remembered one of their dinner party discussions from years ago. They had asked, “Was it that science has progressed to a height where it could now prove the spiritual mysteries of the past? Or has spirituality descended to a level where it can now be scientifically proven?”

  “Neither!” they’d cried in unison. It was one of those moments when the couple did not need words to confirm mutual understanding, their champagne and caviar consensus had concluded that the two concepts, science and spirituality, had been elevated to a point where they could both see each other from their loftier vantage points.

  ∞

  Mannheim, Germany

  December 14th, 1945

  A dry and bitterly cold morning greeted Elsa Huber as she opened the front door of her lodgings. She paused to put on her mittens and wrapped her woolen scarf a little tighter around her neck, then began her regular walk to the café on Duden Strasse.

  US Army trucks passed by, splashing up mud from freshly thawed puddles. Elsa checked her stockings for any spots, drawing a wolf-whistle from one the drivers at the sight of a knee. She blushed, and continued on in a slight hurry.

  The street ran parallel to a railway line. She spied an approaching locomotive as it came down the line toward her. Beyond the billowing column of charcoal gray smoke she could see it was another trainload of armored vehicles and artillery.

  So many trains full of tanks and soldiers. I thought the war was over?

  She went into the café and ordered some tea. It was much busier than it had been during the war. The nearby army depot brought in both GIs from the Occupation Forces, and Red Cross nurses. It made for a noisier atmosphere than she preferred, but at least the nurse’s presence meant that the soldiers would leave her alone.

  Elsa watched out the window as the last car of the train passed through a crossing. The thin dusting of snow between the tracks was whipped up into the frigid, dry air in whirling flurries. Orange and blue flitted through the snow, as sparks spat and crackled up from the rails.

  A soldier approached her table and asked if the seat opposite her was taken.

  “Yes … I’d prefer to sit on my own if you don’t mind.”

  He smiled politely, but was clearly put out. Elsa turned back to the window to avoid the soldier’s forlorn gaze. She noticed a car bearing down on the railway crossing. It was a big American model, the kind she’d seen high ranking officers being driven around in. Just as it went over the rails there was a bright flash … lightning?

  The car halted suddenly, tires screeching. Perhaps it was a burst of static electricity from the tracks, she thought. Then she stood up, startled, as a three-ton truck barreled over the crossing just in front of the car, narrowly missing it.

  The sounds from the near-miss had everyone in the café on their feet, so Elsa, following them, went outside. Within minutes military policemen from the depot arrived and cleared the spectators from around the car. Word quickly spread through the throng that an important US General had been in the car. Elsa didn’t hear the name clearly, General Parton was it?

  She weaved her way deeper into the huddle, fighting against her own discomfort more than the other onlookers. She was intrigued. The bright light at the time of the near-miss. Was she the only one who saw it?

  Now within earshot of the truck’s driver being interviewed by one of the policemen, she heard him say, “It was weird … I was almost blinded. Before I knew it I’d driven straight across in front of that car … lucky we missed them.”

  “Sure pal. And have you been drinking?” asked the MP.

  Voices from the crowd, many of them off-duty servicemen, quickly grew into a murmur of accusation.

  The MP called out, “Look – the General’s okay – only some bruises – everyone go back to your own business.”

  The driver was quickly ushered away by the Military Police and the noise began to peter out. As Elsa walked over the road to the café her mind was full of the images from the incident. She felt a shiver run down her spine, but it was not from the cold.

  ∞

  Order is a rebellion against chaos.

  Mantra of the Union of Nations

  Mojave City

  2265 CE

  “Hesta, I want a summary of the potential damages that Sargent Harrison would have incurred due to the accident.”

  “Certainly, there will be a speculative factor of thirteen point nine percent.”

  “Fine. We’ll deduct that from the fiscal outcomes.”

  Moments later a report materialized in front of Arjon. He glanced at the early paragraph, skipping over the more obvious consequences of a prematurely terminated career in the Signal Corps. That was followed by a summary of the Sargent’s activity as he spent twelve months “laying low,” and all of the limitations to employment he was subjected to, along with the economic hardship he had endured.

  “Hmmm, looks like there is a solid case for compensation for our client. Please add this to the final report. You’ll need to trim it a little so it fits our standard template … but be sure to leave the most important points, then, add reference links to the finer detail.”

  “Please confirm the list of central items.”

  A holo-list popped up in front of Arjon and he read it through. The top few rows showed the plaintiff’s complaint in summary. Foremost, the financial hardship and the injury to the reputation of Sargent Harrison, allegedly caused by the negligence of the Military Police.

  By being responsible for the loss of one of their records, and subsequently not clearing up any indications that their soldier, Sargent Harrison, was in any way at fault in General Patton’s accident, there was a case for compensation against the Military Police, and hence the US Army.

  Arjon mused on the likely outcome. With the sometimes-extensive timeframes involved in genealogical cases, the legal remedy may only be intangible. A statement made which restores the reputation of the plaintiff. The defendant may no longer be alive, or exist as a legal entity to be sued.

  In this case that wouldn’t be a problem. Although it hadn’t been called upon by the Union of Nations in a very long time, the Pentagon was still just off Washington Boulevard.

  “These are fine, but change the position of the line about the accident report – a standard military document logged by the Military Police being ‘misplaced.’ Move it up two places. It’s the critical piece of evidence.”

  “Understood.”

  “Oh, and don’t forget to add a copy of the accident report as Appendix A.”

  This area of Genealogical Litigation was Arjon’s bread and butter. A piece of evidence, a document or visual record, comes to light after hundreds of years, the existence of which would have a significant impact on a person’s life. In this case, a family from Pennsylvania, the direct descendants of a soldier involved in an incident over three centuries ago had filed the complaint. The incident had involved a significant historical figure: General George S. Patton.

  Sargent Harrison was the driver of the truck which had narrowly missed Patton’s staff car. However, he had been blamed for the accident and had to disappear. Although Patton had received only minor injuries, rumors immediately spread that Harrison had been drinking. The fact
that he had almost killed the most important General in the US Army meant that people were out for his blood, and he vanished accordingly.

  Now … in the year 2265, a critical report of the accident, lodged by the Military Police who attended the scene of the crash, had finally surfaced. The report stated that the Sargent’s blood alcohol level had been zero.

  “Report processing complete,” Hesta said. “Would you like me to delete the matrix?”

  “No, not yet… I’m curious about the ongoing significance of this incident.”

  He had a sudden yearning to be back in the late 1940s. A time when so many events had occurred that shaped the world, and the centuries that followed. He daydreamed of being an invisible observer, floating above the Earth and watching as the struggling and suffering people of the time made their way through those momentous trials.

  Due to the recent improvement in Hesta’s virtualization performance, Arjon’s work on this case was completed early, so he allowed himself to do something with his research he wouldn’t normally do – he speculated.

  What if the accident had been fatal?

  ∞

  February 13th, 1946

  Near Linz, Austria

  The cone of light from a steamtrain’s headlamp wound its way through a snow-covered valley. The plume of steam from its engine disappeared into the starless night sky, as Colonel William Blackett scanned the heavens. Snowflakes falling in heavy clusters peppered the exposed part of his face as he looked up hopefully at the gray void.

  Just keep it up for another day … or even two.

  The snow whipped up around him in flurries, driven by the slipstream of the relentless train. Lowering his gaze, he strained to catch a glimpse of the lone red tail light on the guard car he knew to be almost half a mile astern. He felt assured by the obscured blackness between him and the unseen light, zero visibility … couldn’t be better.

  He turned and went back into the dimly lit shelter of the carriage. No heating, but the air was warmed by the bodies swathed in thick brown coats and woolen balaclavas. These were the officers and senior NCOs, the enlisted men were huddled in the boxcars. He unraveled the scarf from around his face and looked up the aisle. Most of the men were asleep, but a few met his eye. It struck him that those eyes looking back at him held that quality of purpose … a tempered edge. Something within them that ordinary soldiers didn’t have. But these weren’t elite troops. Many had been recruited from German POW camps after being captured on the Eastern front fighting for the Red Army. Now in the RLA, they’d been through hell … and had willingly returned to go through it all again if they had to.

  Considered traitors by their homeland, if caught, no doubt Stalin would have them sent to labor camps from which they would not return. Blackett admired them for what they had done … and for what they were about to do.

  He passed through four more similarly packed cabins until he reached the foremost carriage reserved for the senior officers. No extra comfort here. The same unfinished timber as the other unheated economy class compartments.

  He took his seat next to a dozing Major Rhuzkoi and then closed his eyes.

  Another two hours till we reach Enns, then unload 45 tanks in the total darkness. This is going to be fun.

  At midnight the train reached a junction and pulled into a freight depot on a siding. No lights or whistles … just the blowing hiss of pressurized steam being released into the blizzard, and the sound carried away on the blustering wind.

  The nearby sleeping town of Enns had seen hundreds of similar trains pass through in the previous weeks, but not all stopped at this siding. Many continued through to Steyn, where the US Third Army was building up for “maneuvers.”

  The clang of wheels rolling through the switched junction roused Colonel Blackett and those around him. Major Rhuzkoi looked at his watch and pulled the shade, craning to peer through the glowing darkness.

  “On time,” he said. “There’s something to be said for Austrian efficiency.”

  Colonel Blackett nodded, “Yes, almost as good as the Swiss. Hey … Swiss watches … Austrian cuckoo clocks – you think there’s something with that and the trains being on time?”

  Rhuzkoi looked puzzled.

  “Eh … because of making clocks?” he asked.

  “Sure … clocks – trains running on time … get it?”

  Blackett shrugged, still not having figured out if Russians don’t like to shoot the breeze, or just don’t have a sense of humor.

  He dropped the levity. “We should be disembarked and get to the bivouac before daylight.”

  Rhuzkoi looked pleased without smiling. “General Vlasov will be very glad to hear of this. All of the divisions in his army will be at full strength when we reach him tomorrow night.”

  “And if this weather holds up … H-Hour will go ahead as scheduled,” added Blackett.

  Two Lieutenant Colonels sitting opposite spoke no English, so listened without expression. An aide came up from a radio post at the front of the car and handed the Major a message. He studied it.

  “Excellent! It is from the partisans at the bridge. They describe the road conditions from there onwards as stable.”

  “They won’t be after we’ve taken our convoy through,” said Blackett drily.

  Several hours of urgent activity followed, with two thousand troops and twenty platoons of tanks being unloaded. The temporary depot had been specially prepared with additional cranes for handling the frequent delivery of large numbers of armor and other vehicles.

  The RLA convoy left the depot well before dawn and entered another prepared site a few miles away inside a forest. They spent the following day loading up with the supplies and fuel that had awaited them there. At dusk, the column set out on the thirty-mile journey to link up with the RLA divisions already across the border in northern Austria.

  The first twenty miles would be uneventful, even in a snowstorm with icy roads. Once they reached the Danube, things could get more dangerous. Secrecy was essential. It was possible communist spies had already reported their presence here, but they would be just another convoy of US armor involved in the maneuvers. Once across the river which formed the border, they would be in Soviet-occupied territory. Once there, they would need to conceal their movements … or else deal with any patrols which happened upon them. Discovery at such a precarious stage of the operation would be disastrous.

  Blackett looked once again up into the sheltering blizzard. Was the snowfall relenting?

  ∞

  Mojave City

  2265 CE

  Arjon hadn’t felt so intrigued, so inspired, since his days at the university. He’d been poring over the possibilities generated by the probability core of the matrix for hours. General George S. Patton had been the most influential military leader of the twentieth century, and as Arjon watched the simulations play out, he searched his own memory of that period of history. Yes … there were suggestions that he had somehow influenced the political climate after the Second World War … something about the fortuitous build-up of his army’s military strength … when one would have expected widespread disarmament.

  “Hesta, run a more detailed simulation – one that demonstrates the effects on global political and military decision making during the period following the General’s accident – with a single change in parameterization …”

  “I will not have sufficient processing power to perform that enquiry in isolation. It will require my accessing the neural resources of the regional network. Confidentiality may be compromised.”

  “No matter, its pure speculation and the incidental content of the case does not have to be included. Proceed.”

  The regional neural network, or meganet, had eventuated over a century ago, from a need for massive processing power for an unfunded research project. By pooling the resources of millions of personal computers and other communication devices connected over the primitive internet, the project distributed packets of data to be processed
by each node. The concept grew, until now there were billions of nodes linked to form the most powerful neural processor on the planet. In a world with no poverty or crime, there were no security concerns, so the meganet was accessible to anyone.

  “Reconstructing matrix with the new probability algorithm. Awaiting parameter input …”

  Arjon worded his changes carefully, “General George S. Patton died as a result of injuries received in the car accident on December 14th 1945.”

  “Parameter accepted. Matrix completion estimated in thirty-two hours.”

  ∞

  February 14th, 1946

  Near Enns, Austria

  A long line of Sherman tanks, mobile artillery and Studebaker trucks carrying troops and supplies moved steadily into the night. Blackett and Rhuzkoi rode near the lead in an M3A1 scout car.

  “Did the partisans mention the condition of the bridge?” the OSS Colonel asked.

  “Nyet, but I am sure it will be serviceable. All other convoys have crossed without incident.”

  “Sure … but that’s a lot of armor already putting their weight onto it … and some of that was your RLA’s Russian built stuff. You know – heavier and clunkier than these Shermans,” said Blackett giving the Major an elbow in the ribs.

  Rhuzkoi might have understood the Colonel’s attempt at a jibe, but still no smile lifted his stern Ukrainian jawline.

  After a thoughtful moment he replied gravely, “Colonel … you are implying that the engineering of our glorious T-34 is somehow … crude?”

  Blackett wasn’t sure if he’d offended his ally. He was about to apologize when Rhuzkoi burst out laughing.

  “Ha! Your face is like little boy! The smyekh … how you say – the laugh, is on you! Da!”