Crusher of Modern War
by Douglas Christian Larsen
The soldier came loping down like a
rangy wolf from the surrounding foothills where rumor had it the ultra secret
facility of the combined nations was buried. The gathered spectators watched
the lithe gait of the trotting soldier, observing him on giant screens videoed
and constantly available at a plethora of angles. The screens encircled the
entire room and each spectator was able to spin his plush leather chair to
select the most pleasurable and interesting individualistic view.
Hovering drones sat at elevations just
outside the range of the naked eye, parked in the sky, training down digital
telephoto cameras, arresting the action in the below theater with nary a
tremor, and hover globes invisible to the naked eye constantly circled the
ever-moving theater of war, measuring relative temperatures, production of
sweat, elevations of adrenaline, respiration, as well as recording audio and
digital photography.
Also, a bulletproof window was
available on an observation deck—offering views of only twenty-five to
seventy-five feet away from the action, depending on the fluctuating trample of
the battle—for anyone wishing to watch the oncoming confrontation directly, but
none of the military personnel seemed even remotely interested in looking away
from their television screens. After all was said and done, everyone knew that
HD was better than real life.
Technicians working computers nearby
and just out of sight would speedily produce the best slow-motion reviews,
replays, commentaries, and zoom-ins.
“So this is their best, I mean their
absolute best, bar none, is that what we’re to believe, that this is their
best?” a nervous dignitary babbled, a lily white hand pawing at a comically
Hitlerian moustache. He was a politico, not a military dignitary, and no one
felt the need to reply to his inanely repetitive question.
An attractive young woman in crisp
black fatigues kept moving among the spectators, refilling drinks, replenishing
individual snack receptacles from a hovering cornucopia vendor. But the
developing scenario out in the theater of battle arrested all of the attention
of the mostly portly spectators, eliminating most of the pawing or attempts at
flirtation with the attractive young woman in the crisp black fatigues.
“Where’s our synth?” a military figure
carpeted in glittering medals and metallic ribbons whispered, to no one in
particular, and intended the question to be of a rhetorical nature, but nearly
everyone in the room leaned forward, scanning screens, in a concerted
competitive race to be the first to provide the military figure an answer.
“Right there! It’s right there!” the
nervous dignitary spat, still stinging from the reaction to his earlier nervous
babble, and was utterly delighted to trump all the eagle-eyed military bigwigs.
That would show the buggers, fascists, and imperialists, the lot of them.
Buggers all.
A figure from the opposite side of the
battle theater emerged, at first tiny in size, but growing swiftly as it
approached their location at what seemed exaggerated speed.
“That doesn’t even look like a
soldier, let alone a warrior,” another military personage spoke, watching
closely the approaching figure.
“We let our player customize their icon,
and our synth or avatar is generated to match the user icon, as closely as
possible,” a helpful narrator spoke, voice projecting in deep resonance from
recessed speakers encircling the chamber.
The spectators snorted, or at least
mostly suppressed their derisive barks, but the prominent military figure
actually voiced the collective thought: “You call them…players?”
“It is a term best used for purposes
of suppressing moral imperatives, or containment of alleged conscience,” the
unseen narrator spoke. The voice was intimate, comforting, very soothing. And
what the voice said made sense.
“War games,” the prominent military
figure muttered, nodding, for a moment contemplating the end of his long, dark
cigar. The smoke from his cigar vanished almost immediately, sucked in by the
generous wind of the cooling system.
The first soldier, the one approaching
from the foothills, was now detailed on the screens. A handsome specimen, robust
and powerful, tanned, blondly crewcutted, chiseled sinews jutting from a
muscular v-shaped frame, the confident icy blue eyes of a warrior prepared to
do what he did best and relished doing well. On a larger screen the warrior’s
specifications superimposed over the warrior, including a severe rotating mugshot
of the man that displayed a full 360 degrees of his fierce being, every lump,
jut, undulation, and mound of a chiseled frame:
Name:
Carlo Hermanni
Age:
29 years
Height:
6’ 2” (188 centimeters)
Weight:
210 pounds (15.5 stones)
Profession:
Border Guard Special Combat Agent
Combat Specialization:
Kas-Pin Empty-Hand Instructor
Jiu-Jitsu 3rd degree black
belt
Kenpo Karate 2nd degree
black belt
Silver Medalist 2016 Rio de Janeiro
Olympics
Light Heavyweight Boxer
“Looks like you found a giant in
Finland,” someone said and a few people chuckled.
The specification screen for the
Finnish warrior shifted to the left side of the room where the warrior’s
statistics were available for constant reference. Heart rate, respiration and
other vital statistics also flashed in constant monitor. This was a cool,
well-conditioned warrior.
The other soldier appeared in detailed
center screen and elicited an organic burst of unsuppressed laughter, and more
than a few hoots. Because what looked out of the screen at the dignitaries and
high-ranking military leaders was not another severe warrior, but some
phantasmagoric amalgamation of a cartoon British Bulldog and a common street
thug, only at bizarre proportions, the ugly dream warrior of a boy, conjured up
to deal with bullies. A short pug, fireplug stout, stubby legs knotty with
bulging muscles, and shoulders almost as wide as a piano.
The “soldier” lugged a massive chest
of muscled knots as well as a rug of black he-man hairs, a gleaming bald head that
appeared too large even for the absurdly large neck, and hands the size of
catcher’s mitts, all fisted up into bony protrusions. The specifications
superimposed over the glowering bulldog face with the garish black eyebrows and
absurdly jutting brush of Kaiser Wilhelm moustache:
Name:
Crusher of Modern War
Age:
9 years
Height:
5’6” (66 centimeters)
Weight:
235 pounds (16.78 stones)
Profession:
Student
Combat Specialization:
You
Are There Kung Fu, 33rd
Level
You
are There Professional Wrestling,
33rd Level
You
Are There Punch Box,
33rd Level
If a fire hydrant mated with a walrus,
this might be the resultant mess.
No one voiced what everyone thought.
There was complete silence in the room as the images on the center screen slid
over to the right, where Crusher of Modern War statistics remained constant for
monitoring.
Every face was monitored by almost as
many cameras hidden in the observation theater as there were outside in the
battle theater. At a level three stories below the theater, another crew of
technicians monitored multiple screens, noting the expressions of the
high-ranking dignitaries in the room, recording every muttered exclamation and
profanity. Supervisors, one each assigned to a corresponding spectator in the
observation theater above, standing just behind the seated technicians, made
quiet notes into hand-held voice recorders.
“Gentlemen, and now we shall begin.
Please witness Modern War,” the narrator spoke in its deep, beautiful,
echoingly deep rumble.
The two soldiers came crashing
together in the theater of battle. The Finnish soldier seemed to pause for a
defensive feeling-out period, to gather knowledge of the opponent, but the
cartoonish slab of muscled meat rumbled forward with fists swinging in great
hay-maker punches. The Finn dodged and eluded the Crusher’s initial rush, and
as the bulldog creature turned back the Finn cracked the thing across the face
with a roundhouse kick, an unbelievably powerful blow, the right shin of the
Finn crashing down like a sledgehammer across the left side of the Crusher’s
head.
“That was fast,” one of the watching
dignitaries sneered, in obvious disappointment. “Novel. Funny, but hardly
revolutionary. Not for war.”
“What were we supposed to take away
from this?” another dignitary spat, outraged.
In the battle theater the Crusher
hardly staggered, but came back at the Finn, big fists hooking in from both
sides in an unorthodox display of aggression. The Finn blocked the blows with
his elbows, but the leer of pain in the twist of his face revealed that the
blows were powerful, and even though blocked, some damage was done. The Finn
leapt in close, seized the Crusher by its thick neck, and instantly yanked down
on the head while simultaneously rocking up a right knee full into the
creature’s face.
“Ooh!” a general groaned, “this just
gets worse and worse. That thing ain’t real, is it? I mean come on, it looks
like a cartoon, like something outta a Bugs Bunny cartoon!”
The Finn repeated his knee barrage
with the left knee, and then without pause rocketed back with a right knee,
each of the monstrous blows landing full-force in the Crusher’s face.
“I think that’s about enough,” someone
said, and many voices agreed, many with curses.
Then the Crusher landed a deep blow
with its right fist and the Finn grunted and nearly crumpled. The Finn’s entire
body twisted around the punch high on his waist. But he did not fall, but
scrambled out of reach of the short fireplug of a warrior.
The Crusher laughed, a ratcheting,
guttural woof, sounding more like the bulldog that he looked like, than any
human sound of mirth.
“Come on!” the freakish soldier said,
beckoning with his fingertips, “I really want to play now!”
The Finn, recovering, moved cautiously
in a circle away from the Crusher’s right fist. His hands were open and low,
defensively ready to grapple with the synth. The Finn was bleeding, profusely
from his nose, and a gash up near his right eyebrow, and a garish dark bruises
was already appearing where the monster blow landed upon his waist. The big
soldier was obviously in a lot of pain.
The Crusher, on the other hand, did
not seem to be tired, or damaged, or to be suffering from any discomfort. The ugly
creature grinned and it had its big toaster-sized hands up as if ready to
clutch its opponent. Oddly, the Finn did not seem so comparatively large as he
had at the beginning of the encounter, as he did on the superimposed
text-graphics that spat out the cold hard statistical facts.
The Crusher jumped at the Finn and
shouted: “Boo!”
The Finn, hardened warrior that he
was, stumbled backward and fell in a heap, his hands up over his face. “Please,
stop! It’s too strong. Please. I am hurt. No more.”
The Crusher leapt up and down, its
absurd hands lifted over its head, dancing and laughing in its woofing bark. “I
win! I am the best! I am sick! I am bad! I killed him! Ooh, I killed him!”
No one spoke in the observation
theater. Most of the leaders looked sick. On the projected monitors, the
specifications and statistics on the Finnish soldier displayed probable broken
ribs, as well as a fractured right arm.
Outside, a team of medics appeared
about the stricken Finn and hastily moved him onto a stretcher.
“Please,” the unseen narrator spoke in
its comfortingly deep voice. “Please meet our victorious warrior. Please meet
the Crusher of Modern War.”
A panel in the theater wall slowly
revolved, and a small boy sat there, his eyes closed, reclining, hands folded
peacefully in his lap, looking for all the world a sweet, nine-year-old child,
possibly asleep. The woman in the black fatigues approached the boy and touched
him gently upon the shoulder.
The boy’s eyes opened, he smiled, and
easily removed a small beanie cap from the top of his head, and leaned forward
from the plush sensory chair.
“Gerry,” the deep voice of the
narrator said. “How did you enjoy your game?”
The boy smiled and said, “That was
great, although the other player wasn’t very good. I’ve beat five or six of
them better than that, I mean together, you know. That felt like fighting a
real guy. It hardly wasn’t fun at all. Man, dude sucked.”
“How do you feel, Gerry?” the narrator
asked.
“Great.”
“Are you sore? Tired?”
“Nope. I want to play some more.”
The commanding military figure stepped
forward, burly arms across medallioned chest.
“I want a further demonstration. I’m
not convinced this boy had anything to do with what we witnessed outside
there,” he barked, glaring down at Gerry.
“Gerry, would you like to further
demonstrate the Crusher of Modern War?” the narrator queried.
“Sure, I’d love it,” Gerry said and
sat down on the chair in the wall and replaced the tiny cap upon his head. He
closed his eyes, smiling peacefully, leaning back into the plush embrace of the
sensory chair.
Suddenly a very large presence was in
the room. The Crusher of Modern War came striding up to the commanding military
figure, smiling around its ludicrous moustache, its great bushy eyebrows
standing up Mark Twain fashion. In real life, the Crusher of Modern War seemed
much, much more domineering, and decidedly dangerous. It still seemed utterly
ridiculous, but now, in the false plastic flesh, the men in the room were
cowed, and they shrank back.
“What do you want me to do?” the
Crusher said in his ratchety voice.
The commanding military figure scuttled
back, like a crab, into the safety of the numbers of his fellows, elbowing
others forward as shields.
The narrator said: “Gerry, open your
eyes.”
The boy sitting in the chair opened
his eyes and smiled. As his eyes came open, so the Crusher’s eyes closed.
The narrator said: “Gerry, close your
eyes.”
The boy nodded, and closed his eyes,
and as his eyes closed so did the Crusher’s eyes open. The panel in the wall
spun slowly around and just before it closed the woman in the black fatigues
stepped onto the rotating disk and within a moment the wall was whole, and the
boy in the little cap and the woman in the black fatigues were both gone.
The Crusher slammed a huge fist into a
huge hand.
“I want to play,” it said.
“Crusher of War,” the unseen narrator
said. “These men are your opponents. Play with them, but only for a while. Show
them what pain is. Show them what war is. Crusher of War, show them terror.”
“Okay,” the Crusher said, grinning,
its huge teeth just glimmering through its huge brush of moustache.
The tiny figures in the room scrambled.
They threw their clipboards. Some lifted chairs like lion tamers. It was almost
comical. And then they began to fight, at least a few did, and some of them
knew some moves, but unfortunately, much
faster than did the Finnish fighter, these rounded, roly poly men began to fall
down, and twitch, and whimper as the Crusher came forward, its monstrous hands
swinging in vast haymakers. And then the military leaders and dignitaries began
screaming.
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