Old Man's War

by John Scalzi

  I loved my rifle.

  I forwarded the firing specification to Watson and Viveros; Viveros forwarded it up the chain of command. Within about a minute, the battlefield was peppered with the sound of rapid double shots, followed by dozens of Consu puffing out as the explosive charges strained their internal organs against the insides of their carapaces. It sounded like popcorn popping. I glanced over at Viveros. She was emotionlessly sighting and shooting. Watson was firing and grinning like a boy who just won a stuffed animal at the state farm BB shoot.

  Uh oh—sent Viveros. We’re spotted get down—

  “What?” Watson said, and poked his head up. I grabbed him and pulled him down as the rockets slammed into the boulders we’d been using for cover. We were pelted with newly formed gravel. I looked up just in time to see a chunk of boulder the size of a bowling ball twirling madly down toward my skull. I swatted at it without thinking; the suit went hard down the length of my arm and the chunk flew off like a lazy softball. My arm ached; in my other life I’d be the proud owner of three new, short, likely terribly misaligned arm bones. I wouldn’t be doing that again.

  “Holy shit, that was close,” said Watson.

  “Shut up,” I said, and sent to Viveros. What now?—

  Hold tight—she sent and took her multipurpose tool off her belt. She ordered it into a mirror, then used it to peek over the edge of her boulder. Six no seven on their way up—

  There was a sudden krump close by. Make that five—she corrected, and closed up her tool. Set for grenades then follow up then we move—

  I nodded, Watson grinned, and when Viveros sent Go—we all pumped grenades over the boulders. I counted three each; after nine explosions I exhaled, prayed, popped up and saw the remains of one Consu, another dragging itself dazedly away from our position, and two scrambling for cover. Viveros got the wounded one; Watson and I each plugged one of the other two.

  “Welcome to the party, you shitheads!” Watson whooped, and then bobbled up exultantly over his boulder just in time to get it in the face from the fifth Consu, who had gotten ahead of the grenades and had stayed low while we mopped up its friends. The Consu leveled a barrel at Watson’s nose and fired; Watson’s face cratered inward and then outward as a geyser of SmartBlood and tissue that used to be Watson’s head sprayed over the Consu. Watson’s unitard, designed to stiffen when hit by projectiles, did just that when the shot hit the back of his hood, pressuring the shot, the SmartBlood, and bits of skull, brain and BrainPal back out the only readily available opening.

  Watson didn’t know what hit him. The last thing he sent through his BrainPal channel was a wash of emotion that could best be described as disoriented puzzlement, the mild surprise of someone who knows he’s seeing something he wasn’t expecting but hasn’t figured out what it is. Then his connection was cut off, like a data feed suddenly unexpectedly shut down.

  The Consu who shot Watson sang as it blew his face apart. I had left my translation circuit on, and so I saw Watson’s death subtitled, the word “Redeemed” repeated over and over while bits of his head formed weeping droplets on the Consu’s thorax. I screamed and fired. The Consu slammed backward and then its body exploded as bullet after bullet dug under its thoracic plate and detonated. I figured I wasted thirty rounds on an already dead Consu before I stopped.

  “Perry,” Viveros said, switching back to her voice to snap me out of whatever I was in. “More on the way. Time to move. Let’s go.”

  “What about Watson?” I asked.

  “Leave him,” Viveros said. “He’s dead and you’re not and there’s no one to mourn him out here anyway. We’ll come for the body later. Let’s go. Let’s stay alive.”

  We won. The double-bullet rifle technique thinned out the Consu herd by a substantial amount before they got wise and moved to switch tactics, falling back to launch rocket attacks rather than to make another frontal assault. After several hours of this the Consu fell back completely and fired up their shield, leaving behind a squad to ritually commit suicide, signaling the Consu’s acceptance of their loss. After they had plunged their ceremonial knives into their brain cavity, all that was left was to collect our dead and what wounded had been left in the field.

  For the day, 2nd Platoon came through pretty well; two dead, including Watson, and four wounded, only one seriously. She’d be spending the next month growing back her lower intestine, while the other three would be up and back on duty in a matter of days. All things considered, things could have been worse. A Consu armored hovercraft had rammed its way toward 4th Platoon, Company C’s position and detonated, taking sixteen of them with it, including the platoon commander and two squad leaders, and wounding much of the rest of the platoon. If 4th Platoon’s lieutenant weren’t already dead, I’d suspect he’d be wishing he were after a clusterfuck like that.

  After we received an all clear from Lieutenant Keyes, I went back to get Watson. A group of eight-legged scavengers was already at him; I shot one and that encouraged the rest to disperse. They had made impressive progress on him in a short amount of time; I was sort of darkly surprised at how much less someone weighed after you subtracted his head and much of his soft tissues. I put what was left of him in a fireman’s carry and started on the couple of klicks to the temporary morgue. I had to stop and vomit only once.

  Alan spied me on the way in. “Need any help?” he said, coming up alongside me.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “He’s not very heavy anymore.”

  “Who is it?” Alan said.

  “Watson,” I said.

  “Oh, him,” Alan said, and grimaced. “Well, I’m sure someone somewhere will miss him.”

  “Try not to get all weepy on me,” I said. “How did you do today?”

  “Not bad,” Alan said. “I kept my head down most of the time, poked my rifle up every now and then and shot a few rounds in the general direction of the enemy. I may have hit something. I don’t know.”

  “Did you listen to the death chant before the battle?”

  “Of course I did,” Alan said. “It sounded like two freight trains mating. It’s not something you can choose not to hear.”

  “No,” I said. “I mean, did you get a translation? Did you listen to what it was saying?”

  “Yeah,” Alan said. “I’m not sure I like their plan for converting us to their religion, seeing as it involves dying and all.”

  “The CDF seems to think it’s just ritual. Like it’s a prayer they recite because it’s something they’ve always done,” I said.

  “What do you think?” Alan asked.

  I jerked my head back to indicate Watson. “The Consu who killed him was screaming, ‘Redeemed, redeemed,’ as loud as he could, and I’m sure he’d have done the same while he was gutting me. I’m thinking the CDF is underestimating what’s going on here. I think the reason the Consu don’t come back after one of these battles isn’t because they think they’ve lost. I don’t think this battle is really about winning or losing. By their lights, this planet is now consecrated by blood. I think they think they own it now.”

  “Then why don’t they occupy it?”

  “Maybe it’s not time,” I said. “Maybe they have to wait until some sort of Armageddon. But my point is, I don’t think the CDF knows whether the Consu consider this their property now or not. I think somewhere down the line, they’re going to be mightily surprised.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy that,” Alan said. “Every military I’ve ever heard of has a history of smugness. But what do you propose to do about it?”

  “Shit, Alan, I haven’t the slightest idea,” I said. “Other than to try to be long dead when it happens.”

  “On an entirely different, less depressing subject,” Alan said, “good job thinking up the firing solution for the battle. Some of us were really getting pissed off that we’d shoot those bastards and they’d just get up and keep coming. You’re going to get your drinks bought for you for the next couple of weeks.”

  “We don’t p
ay for drinks,” I said. “This is an all-expenses-paid tour of hell, if you’ll recall.”

  “Well, if we did, you would,” Alan said.

  “I’m sure it’s not that big of a deal,” I said, and then noticed that Alan had stopped and was standing at attention. I looked up and saw Viveros, Lieutenant Keyes, and some officer I didn’t recognize striding toward me. I stopped and waited for them to reach me.

  “Perry,” Lieutenant Keyes said.

  “Lieutenant,” I said. “Please forgive the lack of salute, sir. I’m carrying a dead body to the morgue.”

  “That’s where they go,” Keyes said, and motioned at the corpse. “Who is that?”

  “Watson, sir.”

  “Oh, him,” Keyes said. “That didn’t take very long, did it.”

  “He was excitable, sir,” I said.

  “I suppose he was,” Keyes said. “Well, anyway. Perry, this is Lieutenant Colonel Rybicki, the 233rd’s commander.”

  “Sir,” I said. “Sorry about not saluting.”

  “Yes, dead body, I know,” said Rybicki. “Son, I just wanted to congratulate you on your firing solution today. You saved a lot of time and lives. Those Consu bastards keep switching things up on us. Those personal shields were a new touch and they were giving us a hell of a lot of trouble there. I’m putting you in for a commendation, Private. What do you think about that?”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “But I’m sure someone else would have figured it out eventually.”

  “Probably, but you figured it out first, and that counts for something.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When we get back to the Modesto, I hope you’ll let an old infantryman buy you a drink, son.”

  “I’d like that, sir,” I said. I saw Alan smirk in the background.

  “Well, then. Congratulations again.” Rybicki motioned at Watson. “And sorry about your friend.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Alan saluted for the both of us. Rybicki saluted back, and wheeled off, followed by Keyes. Viveros turned back to me and Alan.

  “You seem amused,” Viveros said to me.

  “I was just thinking that it’s been about fifty years since anyone called me ‘son,’” I said.

  Viveros smiled, and indicated Watson. “You know where you’re taking him?” she asked.

  “Morgue’s just over that ridge,” I said. “I’m going to drop off Watson and then I’d like to catch the first transport back to the Modesto, if that’s okay.”

  “Shit, Perry,” Viveros said. “You’re the hero of the day. You can do anything you want.” She turned to go.

  “Hey, Viveros,” I said. “Is it always like this?”

  She turned back. “Is what always like this?”

  “This,” I said. “War. Battles. Fighting.”

  “What?” Viveros said, and then snorted. “Hell, no, Perry. Today was a cakewalk. This is as easy as it gets.” And then she trotted off, highly amused.

  That was how my first battle went. My era of war had begun.

  TEN

  Maggie was the first of the Old Farts to die.

  She died in the upper atmosphere of a colony named Temperance, an irony because like most colonies with a heavy mining industry, it was sprinkled liberally with bars and brothels. Temperance’s metal-laden crust had made it a hard colony to get and a difficult one for humans to keep—the permanent CDF presence there was three times the usual Colonial complement, and they were always sending additional troops to back them up. Maggie’s ship, the Dayton, caught one of these assignments when Ohu forces dropped into Temperance space and salted an army’s worth of drone warriors onto the surface of the planet.

  Maggie’s platoon was supposed to be part of the effort to take back an aluminum mine one hundred klicks out of Murphy, Temperance’s main port. They never made it to the ground. On the way down, her troop transport hull was struck by an Ohu missile. It tore open the hull and sucked several soldiers into space, including Maggie. Most of these soldiers died instantly from the force of the impact or by chunks of the hull tearing into their bodies.

  Maggie wasn’t one of them. She was sucked out into the space above Temperance fully conscious, her combat unitard automatically closing around her face to keep the air from vomiting out of her lungs. Maggie immediately messaged to her squad and platoon leader. What was left of her squad leader was flapping about in his descent harness. Her platoon leader wasn’t much more help, but he wasn’t to blame. The troopship was not equipped for space rescue and was in any event gravely damaged and limping, under fire, toward the closest CDF ship to discharge its surviving passengers.

  A message to the Dayton itself was likewise fruitless; the Dayton was exchanging fire with several Ohu ships and could not dispatch rescue. Nor could any other ship. In nonbattle situations she was already too small a target, too far down Temperance’s gravity well and too close to Temperance’s atmosphere for anything but the most heroic retrieval attempts. In a pitched battle situation, she was already dead.

  And so Maggie, whose SmartBlood was by now reaching its oxygen-carrying limit and whose body was undoubtedly beginning to scream for oxygen, took her Empee, aimed it at the nearest Ohu ship, computed a trajectory, and unloaded rocket after rocket. Each rocket burst provided an equal and opposite burst of thrust to Maggie, speeding her toward Temperance’s darkened, nighttime sky. Battle data would later show that her rockets, propellant long spent, did indeed impact against the Ohu ship, dealing some minor damage.

  Then Maggie turned, faced the planet that would kill her, and like the good professor of Eastern religions that she used to be, she composed jisei, the death poem, in the haiku form.

  Do not mourn me, friends

  I fall as a shooting star

  Into the next life

  She sent it and the last moments of her life to the rest of us, and then she died, hurtling brightly across the Temperance night sky.

  She was my friend. Briefly, she was my lover. She was braver than I ever would have been in the moment of death. And I bet she was a hell of a shooting star.

  “The problem with the Colonial Defense Forces is not that they aren’t an excellent fighting force. It’s that they’re far too easy to use.”

  Thus spoke Thaddeus Bender, two-time Democratic senator from Massachusetts; former ambassador (at various times) to France, Japan and the United Nations; Secretary of State in the otherwise disastrous Crowe administration; author, lecturer, and finally, the latest addition to Platoon D. Since the latest of these had the most relevance to the rest of us, we had all decided that Private Senator Ambassador Secretary Bender was well and truly full of crap.

  It’s amazing how quickly one goes from being fresh meat to being an old hand. On our first arrival to the Modesto, Alan and I received our billets, were greeted cordially if perfunctorily by Lieutenant Keyes (who raised an eyebrow when we passed along Sergeant Ruiz’s compliments), and were treated with benign neglect by the rest of the platoon. Our squad leaders addressed us when we needed to be addressed, and our squadmates passed on information we needed to know. Otherwise, we were out of the loop.

  It wasn’t personal. The three other new guys, Watson, Gaiman and McKean, all got the same treatment, which centered on two facts. The first was that when new guys come in, it was because some old guy has gone—and typically “gone” meant “dead.” Institutionally, soldiers can be replaced like cogs. On the platoon and squad level, however, you’re replacing a friend, a squadmate, someone who had fought and won and died. The idea that you, whoever you are, could be a replacement or a substitute for that dead friend and teammate is mildly offensive to those who knew him or her.

  Secondly, of course, you simply haven’t fought yet. And until you do, you’re not one of them. You can’t be. It’s not your fault, and in any event, it will be quickly corrected. But until you’re in the field, you’re just some guy taking up space where a better man or woman used to be.

  I noticed the difference immediately after our battl
e with the Consu. I was greeted by name, invited to share mess-hall tables, asked to play pool or dragged into conversations. Viveros, my squad leader, started asking my opinion about things instead of telling me how things would be. Lieutenant Keyes told me a story about Sergeant Ruiz, involving a hovercraft and a Colonial’s daughter, that I simply did not believe. In short, I’d become one of them—one of us. The Consu firing solution and the subsequent commendation helped, but Alan, Gaiman and McKean were also welcomed into the fold, and they didn’t do anything but fight and not get killed. It was enough.

  Now, three months in, we’d had a few more rounds of fresh meat come through the platoon, and seen them replace people we’d befriended—we knew how the platoon felt when we came to take someone else’s place. We had the same reaction: Until you fight, you’re just taking up space. Most fresh meat clued in, understood, and toughed out the first few days until we saw some action.

  Private Senator Ambassador Secretary Bender, however, was having none of this. From the moment he showed up, he had been ingratiating himself to the platoon, visiting each member personally and attempting to establish a deep, personal relationship. It was annoying. “It’s like he’s campaigning for something,” Alan complained, and this was not far off. A lifetime of running for office will do that to you. You just don’t know when to shut it off.

  Private Senator Ambassador Secretary Bender also had a lifetime of assuming people were passionately interested in what it was he had to say, which is why he wouldn’t ever shut up, even when no one appeared to be listening. So when he was opining wildly on the CDF’s problems in mess hall, he was essentially talking to himself. Be that as it may, his statement was provocative enough to get a rise out of Viveros, with whom I was lunching.

  “Excuse me?” she said. “Would you mind repeating that last bit?”

  “I said, I think the problem with the CDF is not that it’s not a good fighting force, but that it’s too easy to use,” Bender repeated.