Author: Alastair Millar
“They can’t do this!”, fumed the Officer Commanding. The arrival of the memo from Staff HQ had interrupted the usual morning routine of carefully reviewing the battlefield monitoring reports. It was always better to form an independent judgement about what they meant, and now it would be necessary to start over.
“I’m afraid they can, comrade field commander,” said the deferential adjutant who’d had the joy of bringing the message to the OC’s attention, retreating into neutral formality.
“But the training camps have been sending us plenty of troops. New defensive and ground assault units have being arriving daily. There are clearly no holdups in the system of getting them to the front.”
“I am aware, comrade field commander. We’ve actually been receiving slightly more than our requested allotments.”
“So then why on Earth are we suddenly being fobbed off with flesh and blood combatants at such a critical stage in the campaign?”
“The Ministry Thinker responsible seems to feel that their inherent instability could turn the tide, comrade field commander. Intel suggests that the enemy AI has come to expect logical countermoves to its offensives at both the theatre and local levels. Human unpredictability might fox it completely.”
“Please tell me that they’re at least enhanced.”
“I’m afraid not, comrade field commander; all available cyborg and enhanced troops have been moved to the southern front for urban combat roles that require greater target discernment.”
“Well that’s a crying shame.”
“I hear what you’re saying, comrade field commander.”
“Still, the officers will be artificial people, I suppose.”
“Unfortunately not, comrade field commander.”
“They… Alright, I will not over-react. But you know my view. There’s nothing wrong with human soldiers in a pinch; on a good day they can even achieve as much as real troops. But they need to be led by robot officers.”
“I respect your opinion, and share it, comrade field commander. But the other issue is apparently that we simply don’t have enough officers coming through. The leadership brainset facility took a direct hit from a bunker-buster kamikaze drone last week, and the Planning Mainframe says it will take at least another week to bring it back online.”
“A week! We could be pushed back along the whole line by then!”
“There’s nothing we can do, comrade field commander.”
“Look, you know as well as I do that human officers can’t do the job. They can’t process all the battlefield situation data fast enough to make good decisions.”
“I know, comrade field commander. And HQ shares your concerns. But for the next two weeks or more, we simply have no choice. Supply was only just keeping up with attrition rates as it was.”
The OC let silence stand in for further comment. The objections and justifications were now on record, come what may. Orders were orders, and whether they disagreed with them or not, it was not just duty, but the officers’ very nature, that would ensure they were carried out–whatever the casualty rates incurred.
They turned their metallic faces to the monitors, plugged themselves in to the sensor arrays, and got on with the business of planning destruction.