All the Wars Have Already Been Fought

The coin was made in secret, under strict guidelines. The judges clean it before the toss to ensure that no oil or dirt has collected on its surface to skew the results. Then they place it in a robot’s care; no human could be trusted to flip without bias.

We are massed on the right; you are on the left. The referee points to you. Heads.

Today we fight the battle of Gettsyburg. Fought during the American Civil War, it resulted in 71, 699 dead on the Confederate side and 95, 489 people dying in the Union army, but the North won. That’s all I know.

He signals to the operator, who turns on the machine. One swift movement and the metal spins in the air, shining in the bright lights of the stadium.

The disc falls to the felt platform spread beneath it. Tails.

My fellow soldiers and I march to wardrobe, to be outfitted in blue before they run us through the scanner that assigns our identities. I take one glance back at the arena, where the floor is already arranging itself into the appropriate landscape. I see an apple orchard and a hill before the door closes behind us.

They hand me a numbered uniform and I scramble into it as best I can, fumbling at buttons. I barely have time to jam the cap on my head before I’m herded into the scanner. A blue flash of light, a harsh beep, and it’s done. The pretty girl in period clothing hands me a clipboard.

My random assignment is Thomas Campbell, a lieutenant. I help hold the hill—Little Round Top—until I trip onto a charging confederate’s bayonet. Not a very noble death, but at least we win, and I get to kill three people on the other side—#3490, #281, and #70610. I am careful to memorize each number so that I don’t have to check my statistics in the middle of battle.

I forget why we arranged this fight. I think you were blocking our trade routes, or stealing our water, or raping our women. Or maybe that was the last country we fought; it’s hard to remember. We got to win that time, too.

This gun feels strange in my hands, the bayonet making it difficult to hold upright. I wonder if the real Thomas Campbell thought the same things that I am. I wonder why he was fighting, if it was because he believed in his country, or because it was a steady paycheck, or because his girl didn’t love him anymore.

The starting bell sounds. I take a deep breath and run to my first position.