The Need for Random

OR

Know your enemy

By Louis Bourgault

The blue light pulsed. The only sound in the room was the rhythmic tapping of keyboards and heavy breathing. And, of course, the bombs hitting the ice around and above. The enemy’s search for this place was never-ending.

The general spoke up, his voice harsh and echoey. “Where’s the president?”

A high-pitched voice answered from across the room. This soldier, he remembered, was eager — almost too eager. They must keep tabs on him, he thought. He could already be itching to get out. Too hasty. “He’ll be arguing with his guard as to where he should go — wait, I’ll fast forward it…” He clicked a few times and a projection strand up on the wall. “There’s a heavier firewall on his MindFiles, that’s why it’s taking so long,” he explained, apologetically like he’d put the firewalls there. Too apologetically. “We can’t get his ones, so we’re having to simulate his entire life. All the data we have is put together from his parents DNA and the experiences he’s had. They’re all from other people.”

MindFiles had appeared at the dawn of the 22nd century. Like a second brain, they could trial what would happen if you made certain decisions. Problem was, they showed other things as well. Like tactics you’d choose.

He paused, and Sector Commander Raynold could smell the sweat beading on the back of his neck. This soldier needed urgent management. He was just too enthusiastic.

“Hang on… here it is.” A new section appeared on the screen. “They’ve finished the argument by now. They’ve decided.  At midnight GMT, 3:00 our time, he’ll board a plane. In the middle of the flight, at exactly twenty-seven past one, he’ll be most vulnerable. A missile could easily do it, and even be overkill.

“But,” he continued, “they can predict that we’ll do that. And they’ll be able to predict that I’ll predict that. They can simulate us all. Just as we can simulate them.”

That was it. He would have to be examined more closely. This was like talking to an adult-sized kid. His logic had championed the rest of his thought.

“So, I say…” Was he ever going to stop? Raynold groaned. “We should let the computer choose for us. Pick a random spot to attack. They can’t predict that. They’ll try, but random is random.”

 

He finished with a satisfied air. There was a tense silence. Nobody spoke, and you could hear the moans of the early explorers in the wind — men frozen to death in the early days, ill-prepared for the blasting Antarctic cold. You could even hear it over the constant bombing. The soldier – his name was Rutherford, wasn’t it? – obviously hadn’t noticed. Was he going to do a bow?

He didn’t. At least the fellow had a faint idea on what to do to not be terminated.

 

The soldiers busied themselves. Orders were given, commands typed. The random point had been chosen, although no one knew where it was for fear of the enemy being able to predict from the reaction. A single amazed breath could be detected from the other side of the continent.

Presently a small red button was brought to the captain. It would have been possible to automate this procedure, even the decision it took. The simulations were almost perfect, almost impossible for a rash choice to be made. But it had to be a physical thing that did it. If the missile hit, the president would die. The enemy would be in turmoil and probably surrender. If it missed, then their location would become known. They would all die, and someone would need to hold the blame for that.

The promise of revenge was one of the highest laws there was, and it was impossible to have adequate revenge on a computer, because they could not feel pain.

He hovered over the button. It was still a minute until he would have to press it. There would be a beep, but that would be too late, as ten milliseconds of error could cause the missile to miss. To get this precision, the signal would have to be going up his arm before the beep even happened. It would take fifty milliseconds to perceive and react, he had ten.

He stared at the button.

Then the timer.

Then the button again.

He pressed.

BEEEEEEEEEP…

I wrote this story for school

©2021 Louis Bourgault