Short Fiction: "Simulations"
I’ve long since lost count of how many times you’ve died in front of me.
There is a cavernous compartment in Admiralty headquarters on Hadfield Station, the grand old military base at the barycenter of the Centauri system, where simulations are run three shifts per day, one after another. The admirals and their staffs come and go, bringing the parameters of a new war game, or the specifications of a proposed new class of warship, then returning later for the results. Sometimes they stay, orchestrating a simulated campaign directly, or watching one of their nervous subordinates wear the burden of command. Other times, they let the system play both sides with roughly the same level of skill, in order to observe the relative strength of various kinds of deployments in the hands of the theoretical “average admiral.”
It’s my job to keep the simulation systems working, and to adjust them whenever a change is needed. When a simulation is running, and fleets of imaginary starships sweep towards each other in grand formations across the shimmering air, I often find myself with little left to do, so I watch. I watch and remember what sometimes I think the admirals forget: each ship that blinks out of the simulation is the deaths of dozens or hundreds of brave Navy personnel.
Most of the symbols flashing into simulated cinders are just bureau numbers to me, but I remember the hull number of your ship. We parted ways on less than favorable terms, I know; even though I am as much to blame as anyone for our falling-out, it hurt when my last message bounced back unanswered. Maybe you’ve moved on and found someone else already, but I haven’t.
Every time the hull number of your ship appears is in the simulation profile, I take notice, pausing to watch your gallant crew leap into action to defend a digital shadow of the Colonial Reach from the threat of the week. I’m there to watch you become a hero, and I’m there to watch you die.
Sure, there are scenarios where your ship survives. For example, most of the war-games for a battle like Cold Refuge are laughably one-sided, but those are usually only given to the junior war college students to prove that they are no less incompetent than Brunetti was at the real thing. Such setups rarely feature heavy losses for the fleet, but they aren't supposed to.
In all the real wars the admirals have us simulate, your ship is on the losses board within six weeks. Sometimes, you’re already dead in the opening hours of the campaign, the victim of a first strike. In others, you and your compatriots leap into the fray time and time again, defying the odds for as long as you can. Eventually, of course, those odds catch up with you.
I’m certain that even if you knew, you would go into the fight with your usual level of enthusiasm. Perhaps you do already suspect the odds, and you are at peace with them. Perhaps the disaster that fell on you when you let me into your life has made you a fatalist. Now that I'm sitting on the other side of both the Reach and a datasphere block, I may never learn how much you know.
The simulations and the faces of the admirals reviewing the results have become more and more grim as reports from Sagittarius come in. I can see it in their manner: fear and worry gnaws at the admirals now. The simulations aren't abstract war-games any more. The real thing is coming, and high command doesn't think the fleet is ready.
I can't save you from what is to come, nor is it any longer my place to try. I only pray that you still have enough time left that before the end comes, you might forgive me.