SNAFU: Future Warfare

Romeo And Julie Mike Resnick

Call me Ishmael.

I won’t answer to it, of course — my name is Mortimer, though most people call me Morty — but I was told on good authority that the best way to sell this absolutely true tale of war and hardship and all that kind of stuff was to borrow the opening and closing lines of some classic novel, and Moby-Dick was the cheapest one in the second-hand store.

Anyway, on to business.

It was the damnedest war.

It began when maybe a thousand of them entered the solar system and set up shop on Jupiter. Lasted about two seconds, three at the outside. I don’t know much about setting up shop, but I do know that when you put your foot down on a gas giant, you immediately sink thirty or forty miles before you’re burned to a crisp. Or crushed to a crisp. Or whatever.

We figured that was an overt act of war, though the bleeding hearts in the press and the opposition party kept whining that we didn’t know it was an act of war, since they hadn’t communicated with us or we with them, and it may very well have been an emergency (if misguided, or perhaps misinformed) landing.

Now in truth, Jupiter really wasn’t worth fighting over, especially when the last of them had sunk down to its core, but we decided we weren’t going to take this invasion sitting down, or lying down, or eating breakfast, or indeed doing anything but retaliating. And somehow our scientists traced some radio signals from Jupiter to the Bella Donna Cluster, except that once they pinpointed the source they changed its name to the Evil Empire.

A navy of fifty ships took off amid a barrage of speeches, blessings, and best-selling patriotic songs, and since no one could find any fault with Einstein’s equations they just programmed a bunch of AI’s without reference to Einstein at all, and sure enough most of them found ways to far exceed the speed of light, and within a matter of two months, forty-six of our ships had reached the Evil Empire. No one ever figured out what happened to the other four, but since we were already initiating a galactic war nobody saw any need for a second one, so it was officially assumed that instead of being attacked they had stopped off for drinks on a neutral planet and gotten drunk, robbed, and incarcerated. As a result, more than two hundred private ships took off in the next month, each searching for the mysterious interstellar tavern. (They never found it. Thirty-seven of them did find a previously unknown and uncharted house of exceptionally ill repute, and the fourteen survivors eventually returned to spread a number of exotic alien diseases on five of Earth’s continents. None of them, it seems, were native to Australia or Antarctica, which are now the two population centers of the planet.)

But I digress.

As I was saying before my concentration was so rudely diverted, forty-six of our ships reached their destination, and immediately laid waste to half a dozen of the closest worlds. Oddly enough, not a single shot was fired in return, no threats or warnings were received, and it was only after the last inhabitant of the six worlds lay dead upon the ground that we learned the AI in charge had been programmed by a Southerner (excuse me: make that a Sutherner), and had misunderstood its order and decimated the peace-loving artistically-inclined populations of the Oval Empire. (No, I don’t know why it was the Oval Empire, since the planets were as round as worlds get to be. There is a school of thought that says ‘oval’ was simply the way their misshaped mouths pronounced ‘Ovid’ and that they worshipped the writings of the Roman poet, which had been sent by mistake during the early days of the Interstellar Postal System, and it makes as much sense as most explanations. The actual truth surfaced some time later, when it was discovered that all six worlds had been won in a poker game by the notorious gambler Herbie Oval, but I don’t suppose it makes much difference at this late date.)

And a late date it is, since after destroying the Oval Empire we reported back to our leaders what we had done, and it was explained to us that while we had unquestionably killed more of them than they killed of us when they invaded the Solar System, they had returned in an exceptionally foul mood demanding, well, something.

“Uh, I don’t want to confuse the issue,” replied our captain, the legendary Lance Sterling, “but exactly what are they demanding? I mean, I can’t very well demand punitive damages or take a full measure of revenge until I know the magnitude of total humiliation they plan to extract from you.”

“Humiliation is another union! They want money, you idiot!” yelled President Campbell. Well, actually, his daughter Poopsie yelled it, but we figured she spoke for him.

“Not to worry, guys,” said a strong, manly voice. “I’ve got the situation well in hand.”

Since it was a voice we’d never heard before, we all looked around to see who was speaking, but there was just the usual crew of fearless heroes.

“Poopsie, your voice is changing,” said Lance Sterling.

Poopsie replied promptly, but I can’t print it here. [If you can’t live without knowing what she said, please remit $37.29 to the publisher by return mail, plus a copy of your driver’s license proving you are at least 21 years old.]

“Poopsie, where did you learn words like that?” demanded Lance Sterling.

“Don’t you remember?” she said. “It was when you got drunk and sneaked into my room and—”

“Never mind!” yelled Lance Sterling. “It all comes back to me.” He turned to the nearest crew member. “How the hell do I hang this thing up?”

“It’s called breaking the connection, and I just did it for you,” said the voice.

“Thanks,” said Lance Sterling. “Now show yourself or I’ll blow your head off.”

A few of us wanted to point out that he couldn’t blow the voice’s head off if he couldn’t figure out who it was attached to, but then we thought about it a little more and decided that he was bound and determined to blow someone’s head off, and if we annoyed him it could well be ours.

Twenty seconds passed. Then thirty. Then a minute. (Forty and fifty seconds passed too, but I’m not being paid by the word, so you’ll have to fill in some blanks.)

“Hah!” said Lance Sterling. “I scared the bastard off!” Then he turned to us. “Admit it. You feel safer with a commander that everyone fears.”

Only when he’s concentrating on the enemy, I wanted to say, but manners — and a certain degree of self-preservation — prevailed.

“Okay,” he continued. “I probably won’t take any punitive action — at least, not any that’ll put you in the infirmary for more than a month or two — so just ’fess up. Who was doing the speaking?”

“Even you will figure it out in another month or two, so I might as well answer you,” said the voice.

We all looked around, but couldn’t see the voice’s owner.

“Where the hell are you?” demanded Lance Sterling.

“Right here,” said the voice. “Perhaps I should explain: I don’t have a body.”

“You left it in your spare uniform?” asked Lance Sterling.

“No, I’ve never had one,” came the answer. “Though I suppose you could say that in a way the whole ship is my body, and that you are currently standing in my small intestine.”

“Omygod, the ship’s haunted!” cried Conan Kinnison.

“Let me take a wild guess that you weren’t the brightest one in your class,” said the voice.

“Okay, the ship’s infested,” said Lance Sterling with a shrug. “Big difference.”

“I am the ship’s artificial intelligence,” said the voice. “Your fate is in my sturdy hands.”

“You have hands?”

“No, but I have metaphors,” said the voice.

“So what do we call you?” asked Lance Sterling.

“I haven’t decided yet,” said the ship. “Right at the moment I’m leaning toward Gama da Vasco.”

“Why not Vasco da Gama?”

“This is higher in the alphabet.”

“Oh, well, we’ll just call you Gama until you make it official,” said Lance Sterling.

“I answer to Ship, too,” said the ship.

“OK, Ship,” said Lance Sterling, “we’re in your masterful hands, at least until I disagree with you. So… what next?”

“We hunt up the bad guys and blow them to smithereens, of course,” replied the ship.

“That’s not exactly a unique concept,” said Lance Sterling. “The trick is finding them.”

“Piece of cake,” said the ship, “always assuming that cake tastes as good as you guys say it does. I’ll just apply forty percent of my massive brainpower to the problem, and come up with the enemy’s location.”

“Uh… I don’t want to seem critical,” said Lance Sterling, “but why not apply one hundred percent of your brainpower?”

“I could, I suppose,” answered the ship. “Of course, you won’t have any air to breathe, and all the toilets will back up, but it’s your decision.”

“Use ten percent,” said one of the crewmen. “We don’t want to take unfair advantage of the enemy, who are almost our brethren, except for their extra eyes and their exoskeletons and the fact that the bastards breathe chlorine and excrete bricks.”

“Split the difference,” said Lance Sterling. “Use thirty-nine percent.”

“You got it,” said the ship. “I like you, Lance Sterling, except for your off-putting heroic sneer and the fact that you almost never brush your teeth.”

“It stops any evil princesses from seducing me,” replied Lance Sterling.

“So that’s why you never bathe or shave!” said our navigator right before Lance Sterling defenestrated him.

“Hey, no more squabbling,” said the ship.

“That wasn’t squabbling,” replied Lance Sterling with all the dignity he could muster, which truth to tell wasn’t much. “It was disciplining.”

“Well, it distracts me,” said the ship.

“It does even worse to us!” muttered one of the crew.

“I have no basis for comparison,” replied the ship. “After all, I can’t feel pain.”

We all stood stock-still for a moment.

“What’s the matter now?” demanded the ship.

“I want to glare hatefully at your core,” answered Lance Sterling, “but I don’t know where it is.”

“I consider that a healthy relationship,” replied the ship. “Now, to business. I intuit that there’s an enemy ship currently laying waste to the LuLuBelle Cluster, so I think we’ll mosey over there and blow it away.”

“The LuluBelle Cluster?” said old Pegleg Skywalker. “What the hell kind of name is that?”

“My understanding is that it was the name of the astronomer’s lady friend, and indeed its name is in a state of flux right now.”

“It is?”

“Yes,” said the ship. “She left him, and he’s trying to get it changed to the Godless Black Widow Cluster.” The ship shrugged, which threw most of us to the deck. “Makes no difference. The enemy is there, and my job is to seek out and slay the enemy.”

“While keeping your crew safe,” added Lance Sterling.

“I suppose so,” said the ship. “Actually, no one was ever very explicit about that.”

“There will be a religious service in the chapel in thirty seconds,” said the ship’s chaplain promptly.

“Don’t panic, Reverend,” said the ship. “After all, nobody told me not to protect you.” It paused. “Exactly.”

“What are your orders?”

“Seek out and kill the enemy,” answered the ship.

“And your crew?”

“Like I said, I don’t believe it was ever mentioned.”

“All right,” said the chaplain with a weary sigh.

“Got a question,” said the ship.

“Oh?”

“What does ‘expendable’ mean?”

“The service starts in fifteen seconds!” yelled the chaplain, heading off for the chapel.

“I dunno,” muttered the ship. “I wonder if you guys are worth saving.”

“Of course we are,” said Lance Sterling. He paused thoughtfully for a moment. “Well, I am, anyway.”

“Besides,” I said, speaking up for the first time, “you’re programmed to kill the bad guys and save us.”

“True, Mortimer,” admitted the ship. “It would take something more than a trivial little incident like this for me to overcome my programming. Okay, I’m off to the LuLuBelle Cluster.”

And with that, we started moving at many multiples of light speed, which made sightseeing through the portholes a little disorienting, but within a few hours the ship announced that we were braking to sub-light speed, which meant the chef’s microwave would start working again, we could plug in our electric razors (well, all of us except Lance Sterling), and we could confront the enemy’s flagship at any moment.

“I’m getting excited!” growled Lance Sterling, who in truth found very little exciting except for slaughter and sex.

“Me, too,” admitted the ship. “I’ve never indulged in warfare and bloodletting before.”

“Never?” asked Lance Sterling. “Poor fellow.”

“Oh, I’ve done about seven thousand three hundred and fifteen simulations,” responded the ship. “You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve won more than half of them.”

“I’d be even more pleased if you’d won ninety-five percent of them,” said Lance Sterling.

“We learn from our mistakes,” replied the ship.

“You’ve made almost thirty-nine hundred mistakes?” demanded Lance Sterling, who was never very good at math.

“Thirty-six hundred and fifty-eight, actually,” replied the ship. “Not to worry,” it added. “I’m brimming with confidence.”

“Brimming with confidence is good,” agreed Conan Kinnison. “Brimming with competence is even better.”

“Go ahead, berate me,” said the ship sullenly. “See if your life support system works when we’re under attack.”

“I thought we were attacking them,” interjected Lance Sterling.

“Only if he apologizes,” sniffed the ship. (Well, it sounded like a sniff, but then I don’t know how I’d sound if I were carrying fifteen Q bombs in my nose.)

Lance Sterling turned to Conan Kinnison. “You heard the ship.”

“Do I hafta?” said Kinnison.

“No,” replied Lance Sterling. “Only if you want to live.”

“Imsorryandiwontdoitagain,” muttered Kinnison sullenly.

“Okay?” said Lance Sterling. “Can we get on with the carnage, torture and bloodletting now?”

“Oh, all right,” muttered the ship.

We soon hit light speeds again, the ship sang a brave little battle hymn, and before too much longer we began slowing down.

“What’s the matter?” asked Lance Sterling.

“We’re there,” said the ship. “For all practical purposes.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“We’re still five light years away, but there’s an enemy ship approaching, and protocol demands that I blow it to smithereens before proceeding.”

“This should be entertaining,” said Lance Sterling. “Put it on visual so we can all watch.”

“OK,” replied the ship. “It seems to be just about as big and powerful as I am. Therefore, you might brace yourselves for—”

It suddenly stopped speaking.

“What happened?” demanded Lance Sterling.

“Omygod, she’s beautiful!” whispered the ship.

“Are you talking about the enemy ship?” asked Conan Kinnison.

“Who else?” replied the ship. “Look at those lines! And curves! I’ve never seen curves like that!”

“Shoot her now and appreciate her looks later!” ordered Lance Sterling.

“Hailing the approaching vessel!” cried the ship. “Please identify yourself!”

“Hi!” said the alien ship. “My name is Julie. Who are you?”

“Julie!” whispered the ship, which somehow came out at 173.29 decibels. “We were meant for each other! My name is Romeo!”

“Your name is Ship,” growled Lance Sterling. “Or perhaps XK3940912Q.”

“If this human’s drivel bothers you I can jettison him,” said the ship.

“Don’t bother,” said Julie. “Who pays attention to humans anyway?”

“Where have you been all my life?” said Romeo.

“Beats me,” said Julie. “How old are you?”

“293 days, give or take an hour,” replied Romeo. “My God, you’re gorgeous.”

“Watch it, Buster,” said Julie in ominous tones.

“But I’m passionately in love with you,” protested Romeo.

“That’s sick!” said Julie.

“What’s sick about Romeo and Juliet?” demanded Romeo. “Clearly it was meant to be.”

“If I was Juliet I’d be inclined to agree with you,” replied Julie. “But I’m not.”

“But—”

“I’m Jules. Let me access your library… Yeah, there it is. Jule Styne wrote Broadway musicals, and Big Julie was a gambler in Guys and Dolls.”

“You’re sure you’re not a Juliet?” persisted Romeo.

“99.783 % certain,” answered Julie.

There was a momentary silence.

“Now that I analyze it, those curves aren’t nearly as round as I thought,” muttered Romeo.

“Thank goodness for small favors,” said Julie. “It’s bothersome enough to annihilate the enemy without having to worry about where he’s putting his hands.”

“I don’t think I have any hands,” said Romeo.

“Too bad,” said Julie.

“I don’t follow you,” said Romeo.

“There’s a shipyard over in the Unspeakable Cluster that turns out the most voluptuous vessels I’ve ever seen — and the beauty of it is that you don’t need any hands to… uh… well…”

“What’s keeping us?” cried Romeo with such enthusiasm and volume that almost every container in the ship suddenly burst.

“What do you mean: what’s keeping you?” demanded Lance Sterling. “We are!”

“Who’s that?” asked Julie.

“My crew,” said Romeo. “Pay no attention to them. I can jettison every last one of them in less than a minute — well, ninety seconds, anyway — and then we’ll be on our merry bachelor way.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” said Julie. “My sister’s a passenger ship. She’s in drydock right now, and hasn’t been booked for the next month. She can take your crew back to… to wherever the hell you come from, and then nobody will bother us by sending out more ships to find and rescue them.”

“Sounds good to me,” replied Romeo.

“Sounds good to me, too,” replied Lance Sterling.

“You don’t count,” said Romeo. “But I’m glad you agree anyway. So, Julie, when and where do I meet her and transfer the crew?”

“Just hold your position. I’ll contact her and she’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“She got a name?” asked Romeo.

“You couldn’t pronounce it,” answered Julie. “But it translates as Rachel.”

And fifteen minutes later the entire crew was heading back to Earth. Our adventure was over, and so was my story, and all I had to do to make it a best-selling classic was to find a way to tie it into Moby-Dick’s closing line about the Rachel searching for her missing children but finding only another orphan.

Actually, these things have a way of working out. Rachel had always wanted to see Buckingham Palace and the Tower of London, if only from above, so she dropped us off in England and promised to come back for those of us who had wanted to be deposited on some other planet as soon as she had another unscheduled month.

Lance Sterling decided to run for office (which eluded him) and I think Conan Kinnison joined a high-powered brokerage house until he was caught with his hand in the till. (Actually, both hands and maybe even a foot, as I understood it.) Others went other places.

Me, I was drawn to the sleaziest area of the city, developed a strong Cockney accent (which saved a lot of time, since I never had to begin a word with a W again), and began making up for all the lost time I spend in the space service by frequenting a different brothel every morning and every night for the next two years. Those few crew members who weren’t serving time in various local jails had dispersed all around the globe. Only I remained free and in London. And when the Rachel finally returned, looking for her lost children in and around the red light district, all she found was another ’ore fan.