New Decameron Seventy: Robert Reed

Innocents of War

by Robert Reed

I was an eleven year-old boy, and like most of my species, I often felt quite brave and wonderfully fierce. In addition, superior grades in school had led me to the assumption that I was an expert in many important topics, and because my parents adored me, it was easy to believe that I naturally deserved everybody’s love.

Subsequent life, being what it has been, has stolen away each of those ridiculous illusions.

That particular day was the holy Monday in November -- a school holiday where honor students were free to wander the local park. The weather was miserable in ways you might not recognize, what with a bitter north wind and the dampness reaching through trousers and gloves. Little birds were singing about warmth and sunshine returning in so many days. (Juncos, I subsequently learned, have a clear sense of both calendars and hope.) And what was I doing? Carrying a long stick, playing various boy games. With war being the day’s topic, I made myself into a fearsome Marine, and the stick was either my gun or my lightsaber. In my head, I was battling our official enemies, scaring off refugee hordes, and no doubt thwarting alien invaders who had foolishly fallen from the stars.

Boys will often have a favorite hill, and mine was in the park -- a steep slope populated with leafless trees pinned between massive black stones. Eager and happy, I was approaching the hill when something quick caught my gaze, and looking up, I spied a tortoiseshell cat. She was running, and she might have been running for some while. I’d seen this cat or her twin on several previous occasions, so it felt as if I knew her. Two blinks into the event and I’d already spun a vivid little story. She was chasing a rabbit or a squirrel. Because that’s the kind of big game that a marvelous killing machine deserved.

Soldier and feline: An electric current instantly linked us. So true and obvious was the bond that despite everything subsequently learned about cats, my impression remains: She felt this connection too. I know it because she stopped running when she saw me. I know because while she was panting as hard as any cat can, those fearful green eyes of hers were staring at me, her only salvation.

I wish wish wish we had never noticed paths.

Into this scene, insert one dog. A medium-sized stew of breeds, he was a black and white malevolence who must have been running too, but presently was sitting on a higher rock, patiently contemplating his quarry. “Contemplating” and “patience.” I mean those words. What he had chased for some distance was now too spent and frazzled to continue. What he wanted to accomplish next could be achieved with minimal effort. Yet the dog believed it was important to enjoy this pause, admiring the situation for what it was: An example of his highborn capacity to render Death however he wished.

“Oh no,” I muttered. Or I said nothing. Memory offers both versions of the story, and I trust neither.

A moment later, the dog made his leap.

And my cat began a final dash for her champion: An eleven year-old human wielding a stick no longer or thicker than his own immature forearm.

The dog pounced where the cat had been.

Which was when the dog noticed me, or he didn’t. Again, two stories exist for me, and neither makes the slightest difference.

Panic carried the cat down the hill. A soft kewing cry came with her. Pathetic. Ignoble. Honest. She was two steps from me when she was taken. A sixty pound dog grabbed her by the neck, shaking his prey just hard enough to prove his mastery. Just sharply enough to deliver misery and terror without breaking the vulnerable neck. And what unnerved me more than anything: The cruelty was accomplished with an ecstasy that I saw and felt and recoiled from.

Boys rarely have the power to give aid to the small and desperate.

My life story is proof of that.

Oh, I launched into action. Adrenal played its role. But mostly, I acted brave because I was already pretending to be brave. That stick in my hand? The best weapon available. It didn’t hurt that I’d been around dogs, on occasion, and friendly or not, they’d always proved reliably submissive. So yes, I attacked the attacker, whacking the head and snout while yelling, “No. Bad dog. No.” Words from a can, yes. And then, when the animal didn’t cower before me, I grabbed the stick with both hands, prepared to shatter bone, if that’s what it took to free what had suddenly become my cat.

As it turned out, the dog was ten times better at fighting than I was.

Anticipating my clumsy next effort, he retreated. A tactical retreat, and not even hurrying to do that. With the cat still trapped in his jaws, he watched my stick swish through the air and strike the rocky ground, shattering at its base with a dry snap that only proved how inadequately frail this lightsaber had been.

The cat was subsequently dropped to the ground.

Not dead. Not yet. But the neck was bloody, the body limp, its shattered soul free of concern about every impossible future.

Once again, the dog became patient, contemplative. What would be the best response to what was happening now? That’s what he was asking himself. That’s what I realized too slowly then. And if forced to be honest, let me admit that this dog was a genius in the art of weighing character.

He laughed at me.

With those bright amoral eyes, the wagging tongue, and all the various sounds that weren’t words and never could be. Because despite augmenting certain animals in the most profound ways, we have always scrupulously avoided giving our slaves the power of speech.

#

The wounded cat was suffering miserably. But she still wasn’t dead.

I stood over her. Horrified. Mortified. Ready to accept any hand from the first courageous adult.

That hoped-for hand belonged to a gentleman -- a word that I never use carelessly. The gentleman was a grown fellow who might have been thirty-six, might have been fifty-one. (Eleven year-old boys are terrible at judging adult ages.) The stranger suddenly stepped into my line of sight, apparently for no reason but to smile at me with an intense, palpable warmth. I felt better instantly. My sense of the moment was that he had witnessed my plight and would now solve every problem. The dog? Struck on the nose and left cowering. The cat? Picked up by kind hands and taken to a veterinarian. Or deftly killed by those same kind hands. And the protagonist of this vivid tragedy? He would escape from this present difficulty, and for the whole of his remaining life, he would be as he had always been: One spectacularly fine boy.

That hopeful scenario survived for another delightful moment.

Continuing his stroll, the smiling stranger passed me and passed the cat. Obviously, he was aiming for the dog, and without the tiniest sign of fear, which was rather startling to see.

I offered advice to the careless bystander.

“Careful,” I said.

My advice was ignored. The man stopped and knelt, and breaking one cardinal rule never done with dogs, he thrust his face down where that bloody mouth could easily snap at him.

“All right,” the man said.

With a quiet, firm voice.

“You had your fun,” he said.

I recognized that tone. It was how my father sounded when we were in public together, and his only son left him sorry and disappointed.

“You need to finish things,” the man said.

The dog responded, and in a multitude of ways. Emotions bubbled from that intense little face. There were plaintive mutterings and a flash of canines. And then, finally, a simple hard snort that even I understood.

“Well, okay,” the dog declared.

The gentleman rose and stepped back.

And then the dog hit the smaller human with a sharp, scornful glance. I felt his contempt aimed at my deepest nature, and as I recoiled, he grabbed up the unfortunate cat by her head. What came next was swift and efficient, and in the most unexpected ways, tidy. One vivid life ended in the most casual manner possible. Then with a second flip of his head, the carcass was thrown aside.

I was astonished.

Spellbound.

And in the next moment, furious.

A cat I never knew was dead, and I was enraged. So much so that I let my legs do as they wished, which was to run forwards and kick the damned dog.

Inviting another life lesson in violence and aftermaths.

#

The dog yelped, or he didn’t.

Both truths live inside my complicated soul.

But I’m sure I felt my foot make contact, and with enough force to bend ribs while lifting the canine body. Except there wasn’t much bending and there was very little lifting. Which made me even angrier. I wanted the fiend to cartwheel. I wanted him high in the air, over the horizon, gone.

So I tried to kick him again. But somehow I was the one who became airborne, grabbed by a pair of hands and physically lifted from the ground. And then, just as I became rather accustomed to this new state of existence, I was turned and set down on the ground again. And shoved. Shoved hard, and my balance was stolen. I dropped to the ground with the violence found in a pratfall. It was a clumsy useless little tumble, leaving me embarrassed … and nothing more. I know this because my first act was to look around, counting all of the eyewitnesses to this very tiny crime.

But nobody else had seen it happen.

With his back to me, the man was kneeling again. But now his dog was standing on hind legs, one front foreleg thrown across a human shoulder. And in that position, that loving embrace, the killer’s sloppy long tongue worked fast to make every part of the man’s face wet and happy.

Yes, happy.

Because, you see, it was the man who needed comforting. Something in these final moments -- the murdered cat, the embarrassed boy, the possible yelp of a dog -- had triggered a visceral response. This very gentle man was sobbing, his soul apparently close to breaking, and instead of being the victim here, I was forced to serve as the only witness.

“Sorry, sorry,” said the pathetic adult.

I put my feet under me and stood, utterly appalled by all the slobbering.

Yes, I’d halfway watched news stories about a special defense department program. Dogs and men were joined as partners, AIs serving as bridges and communication nodes. In the battlefield, one soldier brought speed along with the perceptive powers of smell and sharp ears, while his weaker partner was relegated to standing at a safe distance, begging the sky to deliver fire and targeted mayhem.

If I was an adult, things might have been different. Perhaps I could have summoned enough poise to apologize for my impulses, and then, if allowed, give the two soldiers a chance to tell their story. I’m sure it would have been an illuminating experience. But being young and innocent, I never considered any of that.

Having recovered my balance, I did what every coward calls reasonable.

I turned and ran away.

#

More than anything, what I wanted was to be home again.

Unfortunately, the holiday parade was beginning, meaning that the street between the park and my bedroom was barricaded, forbidden to me. I had no choice to stop running. Which I can remember, in some fashion or another. Was there an old lady standing on the sidewalk, a hot drink in hand? Some moment in my childhood involves gray hair and a serene, half-dementia grin. So sure, picture her beside me. And on my other side, imagine a boy younger than me and his teenage sister. One was holding the other by the hand -- not in a friendly manner, but to keep him captive. After all, a crowd of spectators were standing beside the four of us. Except no, that doesn’t make sense either. Now that I’m forced to recall, all I picture are scattered pedestrians like myself -- innocents caught by an patriotic event already one hundred and nineteen years old.

The Veterans were marching. Though “marching” is an old word often misused by subsequent generations. Most of our aged heroes rode in various states of comfort -- in civilian cars and trucks, revamped military vehicles, and far more golf carts than a non-golfer like myself had ever envisioned. And many, many more veterans were on foot, but they weren’t marching either. Not like the soldiers in any respectable war film that I’d ever seen. Faded uniforms were worn with some small trickle of pride, or far too much pride. I recall a few stern grins and some wild, slightly mad expressions, as well as faces that seemed quite brave, but probably weren’t. Liquor or pot, or both, had worked their magic. And was any veteran in these ranks marching? No. Every row was an undisciplined wiggle, perpetually ready to fall apart. Unit banners were on display, but without context and perhaps without any of that unit’s survivors in attendance. And as an offended witness to all that careless pageantry, what was self-evident to this eleven year-old warrior was that the “marchers” outnumbered their audience, and by a long measure.

I was standing where I had to stop running, toes on the curb, waiting for the first gap and my chance to bolt across the street.

Except there was too much confusion in the ranks to allow gaps.

The uniforms eventually came to an end, but that only opened up the street to our latest crops of heroes: Baby-faced drone pilots, rotund hackers, the prosperous wizards responsible for our robust national security, as well as all manner of office-dwelling generals. One group that earned applause were the technicians who serviced our fearless robots, and with them, one squad of AI-driven machines, a few years old and now several generations out of date. And yes, there were men and a few women walking beside unleashed dogs. But I didn’t see “my dog” or “my man,” and for all I knew, these were nothing but family pets enjoying an unusual stroll.

The parade ended with the guest of honor followed by an enormous marching band.

The former was an insulated metal tank adorned with American flags, its resident supercomputer riding inside a bath of liquid nitrogen.

That was thrilling for me, watching a piece of the wartime Internet rolling past.

But the biggest excitement was what came last. One or several of the eight military services had sent their best. Although now that I think about it, maybe the band didn’t belong to any branch of the armed forces. Maybe these were musical mercenaries hired for this one event. The truth barely matters. It was that patriotic roar that stunned me. It had been audible from blocks away, and when they were beside me, I was deaf and wonderstruck -- in equal measures. What mattered to me were the colorful clean and very new uniforms, and how each row was loyal to its line, everyone moving forwards while the united notes tore through the cold, cold air.

I loved it.

I was smiling, right up until the moment when my mind pulled me back to the dead cat.

#

Thirty years ago, that was. As of last November.

And now I’m a veteran too. As the Security Act of 2043 dictates, eight percent of my augmented neural cortex works in code breaking and general surveillance, while a slippery portion of my cloud computer system is dedicated to critical wartime duties, including resource management and propaganda.

Dogs are no longer used in war. Not by us, they aren’t. The public excuse is that the program was found to be inhumane. But the real reason, I suspect, is that dogs and men simply aren’t durable enough and wicked enough to achieve our national goals.

On the other hand, my son is a well-crafted blend of humanity and titanium.

A brave and fierce boy who plays with all of the expected weapons.

How can I be anything but proud?

***************************************************

The cat jumps up off and stalks away. "He didn't like reading about the cat being killed," Maya says,

"The cat can't read," he says, but he doesn't sound very sure.

"That's a scary scary future," Maya says. "Brilliantly written, but not one I'd want to be in at all!"

"No, me neither," he says. "Well, it's bedtime. Let's take these sandwiches and cakes upstairs, and settle down."

They go upstairs, put the sandwiches down, and go to wash their hands. When they come back, the cat is licking his lips and the plate of sandwiches is disarranged. "He took all the salmon ones," Maya says. "Oh well, plenty of egg and cress for the morning."

Without any discussion they settle down for the night, and this time Maya falls asleep easily, images from the day's stories mixing in her head, so that marriages are being made between whole constellations of people and robots and refugees and magenta lions are peeping between the legs of tea trolleys.

When she wakes it is morning, and a clear cool light is filtering down from the high windows. The cat is sitting on her stomach, washing himself diligently. His fur still has a slight irridescence in the morning light. 

When Maya gets back from the bathroom, both cat and man are sitting beside the sandwiches and the pile of books. Maya joins them and eats two sandwiches and a chocolate cake. He is drinking coffee from his pouch. "I hope we can find more coffee soon!" he says. "There's never enough coffee."

"You and your coffee," she says. "I thought we were looking for a cure for the plague!"

"Well, that too of course," he says. He picks up the book on top of the pile. "Daryl Gregory. A Thousand Gomorrahs. What do you think?"

"Let's try it," she says. 

And they read.