The Swarm

by Orson Scott Card

He turned to the holotable and waved his hand. The head of an IF officer appeared. Older. Crew cut. Dark complexion. Indian. It was a recorded message, sent via laserline.

  “Crew of the Gagak,” the holo said. “My name is Khudabadi Ketkar, the Polemarch of the International Fleet. I am responsible for building, arming, and maintaining the ships of the Fleet as well as training their flight crews. We have been informed that you have discovered an anomaly in your sector that appears to be of Formic origin. We commend you for bringing this information to the attention of the International Fleet. The defense of the human race is the duty of all men and women, soldier or civilian.

  “According to the Wartime Space Commerce Act, signed by the Hegemon and ratified by a majority of the nations on Earth after the Formic invasion, the International Fleet holds the authority to commandeer any space vessel for the purpose of Earth defense when a flight-worthy vessel of the International Fleet is not readily available. Therefore, by the authority invested in me by that law, your vessel is now under the direct command of the International Fleet.”

  “Is this is a joke?” Victor said.

  “There’s more,” Arjuna said.

  “We recognize that most people on your ship are civilians,” the Polemarch said. “Please rest assured that the safety of your crew is our highest priority. However, under the circumstances, and considering the potential magnitude of this threat, we find it necessary for your ship to take action. We are therefore placing command of your vessel into the hands of Ensign Imala Bootstamp, who we recognize is a new recruit of the Fleet, but whose actions in the previous conflict are evidence of her abilities to follow orders and defer to command. Captain Bootstamp, when you have received this message, reply immediately so that we can relay your orders. Ketkar out.”

  The holo winked out, and the words END OF TRANSMISSION appeared. Imala stared at the empty holofield, mouth slightly open in shock.

  Arjuna folded his arms and regarded her. “Well now, isn’t this awkward.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Nardelli

  No punishment or penalty may be imposed upon any soldier awaiting court-martial, other than arrest or confinement. Nor shall the confinement inflict any cruel or unusual discomforts or restrict the person’s access to the basic necessities of life. Minor noncorporal punishments may be imposed for infractions of discipline during confinement.

  —International Fleet Uniform Code of Military Justice, Article 27

  Mazer anchored his feet to the floor in the kitchen and began scrubbing inside the oven, removing all the black residue along the inner walls.

  There were five such ovens in the kitchen at WAMRED, each one large enough to fit a grown man. Mazer’s orders were to clean them all before the night was through. Then he was to conduct an inventory of the walk-in freezer, prep the next day’s breakfast, and service the dishwashing machines. Then it was on to the latrines and showers and docking area for more mopping and scrubbing and waxing. Then laundry. Then changing air filters. Then everything else on his duty list. It was far more than he could possibly complete in a single shift, but that was Colonel Vaganov’s intent: to load Mazer with too many assignments and then to dock him at the end of every shift for failing to follow orders.

  The MP who stood guard was dozing off, his arms rising to his side in zero G. At first the MPs had been annoyed by their assignment to guard Mazer, but that annoyance had quickly grown to resentment, particularly since it required them to work during what was normally their sleep shift. Mazer felt sorry for them. But since he had been ordered to remain silent, he couldn’t express any sympathy.

  He had been isolated for over a week now, with no word on when he might be sent to Luna for his court-martial. Mazer used the time as best as he could. His earpiece contained dozens of lectures and academic studies on the Formics, and Mazer listened to them while he worked. He didn’t have access to the nets, but at least he didn’t feel like his time was completely wasted.

  His post on the forum had been passed up the chain—or Lem had gotten word to the Hegemony. Either way, the covered asteroid was common knowledge now. Mazer had overheard the MPs talking about it. The IF was addressing the situation, though how they were doing so was unclear to everyone.

  Mazer’s arms and clothes were caked in black goo by the time he started on the last oven.

  Nardelli, the MP who had roughly escorted Mazer from the colonel’s office, arrived to relieve the MP on duty. Mazer stayed focused on his work and pretended to be disinterested, but the exchange broke routine and put him on alert. Nardelli carried himself with an air of self-importance, as if he knew he had more authority and freedom than others. He glanced at Mazer and spoke to the first MP in hushed tones.

  Mazer lowered the volume on his earpiece and listened.

  “The case is sealed,” Nardelli said. “Nobody knows details. But I heard there was some accident during a field test and this guy abandoned his men. A marine lost his leg as a result.” He gestured at Mazer. “This coward didn’t even administer first aid. He was too busy trying to save himself. Also heard he leaked classified intel. Selling out soldiers to the press.”

  The first MP glared at Mazer. “I knew it had to be something bad. A captain getting mess duty during sleep shift. That’s as low as it gets.”

  Nardelli glowered at Mazer. “What an emu. Has he talked at all?”

  “Nope. Just scrubs away, silent as the dead.”

  Nardelli turned to Mazer. “Hey Rackham, you leave a man behind? Is that why the colonel busted your culo?”

  Mazer didn’t respond. He kept cleaning the oven.

  “Don’t harass him, Nardelli,” said the first MP. “He’s a captain.”

  “He won’t be after his court-martial,” said Nardelli. “They’ll fillet him and bust him down to ensign. Colonel says so. He’s nobody now. He can’t touch us. Hey, Rackham, I asked you a question.”

  Mazer kept his eyes on his work and said nothing.

  Nardelli came right up beside Mazer, his face inches from Mazer’s ear. He looked even stronger and dumber up close.

  “Are you ignoring me, soldier?” Nardelli said. “You think you’re above us, better than us? You think your rank protects you? You must not be familiar with Article 4 of the International Fleet’s Code of Military Justice. Because if you were, you’d know that when an authorized military police officer asks you a direct question, regardless of his rank or yours, you are under obligation to respond as thoroughly and as truthfully as you are able. To fail in that regard could be considered obstruction of justice, a very serious offense. You’d be looking at dishonorable discharge, forfeiture of all pay and allowances, or up to five years of confinement. Do you like confinement, Captain Rackham? Does that suit your pansy ass?”

  Mazer said nothing.

  “Leave him alone, Nardelli. The man can’t speak. You’ll get us both in trouble.”

  “Oh he can speak. He’s just too much of a culo to respond. What’s that in your ear, Rackham? Your earpiece?” He held out his hand. “Let’s have it.”

  “Don’t take his stuff,” the other MP said.

  Nardelli pointed a finger at the MP. “Your shift is over, Utami. Vacate. This is my prisoner now.”

  Utami hesitated and then left.

  Nardelli turned back at Mazer and beckoned with his hand. “The earpiece, Rackham. Hand it over. You’re not supposed to have any tech.”

  That wasn’t true, but Mazer gave him the earpiece anyway.

  Nardelli held it up and examined it. “You know, I lost an earpiece just like this one. In fact, I think this might be the very one I lost. How kind of you to return it to me. You don’t mind if I take it back, do you, Rackham?”

  Mazer kept silent.

  “By all means, if you object, just say so,” Nardelli said. “No? Well, that’s generous of you. I could use something to play my music. What kind of music do you listen to, Captain?” He wiped the earpiece on his shirt, slid it in his ear, and tapped play. “What is t
his? Lectures on the Formics? Interesting. You have a little Formic fetish, do you, Rackham? A little love for the bugs? Not smart. That will reflect poorly on you in your court-martial. The judge isn’t likely to take kindly to a bug lover.” He tapped the earpiece again to silence it, but he kept it in his ear. Then his hand tapped his riot rod at his hip. “Give me any problems, Rackham, and I will give you bruises where no one looks. Bones and bruises. That’ll be you. As purple as an eggplant.” He moved away, giving Mazer his space. “Now do your list.”

  Mazer scrubbed at the oven and continued with his list, moving about the station, completing each task.

  Nardelli scuffed his boot on the floor and left a mark. “You missed a spot over here, Rackham.”

  Mazer removed the scuff, but Nardelli made another one with his boot.

  “You’re not listening, Rackham. I said you missed a spot. Are you too stupid to see it? It’s right here.”

  The scuff-and-clean cycle continued a few more times, until Nardelli grew bored of the game and drifted off, mumbling under his breath. Mazer was waiting for the riot rod to fall, and plotting his response if it happened. Nardelli was large, but he had the same pressure points and bones as anyone else.

  But Nardelli made no move, and the rest of the shift proceeded without incident.

  “Time’s up, Rackham,” Nardelli finally said. “Get up. Let’s move.”

  Mazer was only halfway through his duty list, but he stored the cleaning supplies, washed up, and did as he was told.

  One of Colonel Vaganov’s officers was waiting outside Mazer’s quarters when they returned, holding a tablet. “Did Captain Rackham finish his duties?” he asked Nardelli.

  “No, sir. He did not.”

  “Did he ever speak to you, address you in any manner?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are you sure he didn’t say a word? Nothing at all?”

  Nardelli got the hint. “Now that I think about it, sir, he did say some rather unkind words about you and Colonel Vaganov, sir. About the Strategos as well. I don’t feel comfortable repeating such language as I found it quite offensive.”

  The officer nodded, satisfied. “I see. I’ll make a note. Now kindly escort Captain Rackham to the medical wing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mazer followed without a word. The medical wing? Why?

  He soon learned. A doctor put him in one of the examination rooms and told Nardelli to wait outside. The doctor conducted a thorough physical, poking and prodding and drawing blood. When he finished he asked Mazer to dress into a compression suit and run the treadmill for an hour. Mazer did so. It was exhausting, especially after ten hours of physical labor, but Mazer pushed his way through, setting a steady pace and ignoring the pain in his side. He knew the standards the IF demanded, and he watched the monitoring equipment to make sure he met them. When it was over, he legs twitched, his back ached, and his lungs felt as if they couldn’t get enough air. To his surprise, the doctor then gave him a series of strength and agility tests, which Mazer had never taken in any previous physical. When it was over, his whole body was spent and covered in sweat.

  The doctor flipped through the test results on his tablet. “There’s no easy way to say to this, Captain, so I’ll get right to it. Your career as a combat soldier is essentially over. The IF has set very strict standards for physical readiness, and I’m afraid I have no choice but recommend you for light duty.”

  Mazer watched in stunned silence as the doctor tapped at his tablet, checking boxes that would essentially end Mazer’s combat career. Any hope of getting on a warship with a decent crew vanished in an instant. He would never see action or serve alongside fellow marines. He would never again contribute in the ways that he had trained for. He’d be relegated to mindless administrative work. A desk job. All those years of pushing himself and conditioning his mind and body would be for naught.

  He had been ordered not to speak, but he wouldn’t remain silent now. “My results were within the acceptable range.”

  “You’re at the lower end of the scale,” the doctor said. “So technically, yes, you’re still within the acceptable range. And for that you should be proud. The standard now for breach marines is extremely high. Most soldiers from Earth wouldn’t make the cut. These are elite special-forces standards, the one and two percenters. The fact that you scored as high as you did at your age is impressive.”

  “You say that like I should be retired,” Mazer said. “I’m twenty-five years old.”

  “It’s a young man’s war now, Captain. The average age for marines is twenty. You’re a dinosaur by comparison.”

  “So you’re retiring me because of my age?”

  “I’m not retiring you, Captain. I’m simply recommending a different course for you. And I make that recommendation based on a number of factors. Age is one. Your endurance is another. But the primary reason is your debilitating injuries. I simply can’t clear a soldier with your kinds of wounds.”

  Mazer’s wounds. The ones he had sustained in the First Formic War.

  “I’ve healed,” said Mazer. “That was three years ago. I’ve passed every physical exam since then.”

  “And your performance has slipped every year. Only slightly perhaps, but I have the results right here in front of me.”

  The doctor stepped to the wall, and it lit up with data readouts and body scans. “You suffered serious abdominal trauma during the war, Captain. The wound to your stomach should have killed you, especially considering you were in a contaminated zone and hemorrhaging internally.”

  Mazer hardly needed reminding of that. The crash was still a vivid memory. Every so often his dreams were filled with the roar of the rotor blades and the heat of the fire and the acrid smell of charred bodies and burning plastic.

  “I received lifesaving surgery in the field,” Mazer said. “It’s not as if my injuries went unattended.”

  “I wouldn’t call it surgery. What you got was more of a hack job. I’ve read the report. A few Chinese rice farmers did a little cutting and stitching. Whatever previous experience they had wielding a knife must have come from skinning goats and peeling vegetables. I’m surprised you didn’t die from infection.”

  “I had additional surgery after the war to correct their mistakes. I’m fine now.”

  The doctor pointed to a body scan. “Doctors removed another six inches of damaged tissue from your small intestines, Captain. Had I been your attending doctor at the time I probably would have recommended a medical discharge at that point.” He tapped one of the charts, and it ballooned in size. “Your wounds have had an effect on your performance metrics. You used to be extraordinarily fast and flexible; it’s sad to see how much function you’ve lost. Your knowledge, aptitude, and acuity results are off the charts, but your body is not what it used to be. What’s more, I know you’re in pain right now. You can put on a brave face, you can look as content as a sparrow in springtime, but I know it’s an act. Your compression suit doesn’t lie. You’re hurting.”

  It was true. There was a gnawing ache in his stomach—not a stitch in his side or the discomfort of a stretched muscle, but the throbbing annoyance of his old wound. Like someone prodding him with a sharp stick. It wasn’t enough to make him buckle over, and he could mostly ignore it if he focused his mind intently on a task. But it was there.

  “You’ve performed well here at WAMRED,” said the doctor. “So no one paid much attention to your medical file. Or maybe you knew someone who was willing to overlook it. Either way, I can’t overlook it now.” He tapped the wall, and the charts disappeared.

  “Were you ordered to mark me for light duty?” Mazer asked.

  The doctor looked affronted. “Absolutely not. I take offense at such a suggestion.”

  Mazer believed him. The man couldn’t be that good of an actor. “How long have you been here at WAMRED?” Mazer asked. “I’ve never seen you before.”

  “I don’t see how that makes any difference.”


  “It might.”

  The doctor folded his arms, growing impatient. “I arrived on the shuttle this morning.”

  “So I’m one of your first patients.”

  “You are my first patient. What are you suggesting, Captain?”

  “Who scheduled my physical? I had one only five months ago. I thought these were annual checkups.”

  “They are. Normally. But they can be requested if a soldier’s health or physical stamina is in question.”

  “So someone made a special request in my case?”

  “I have no idea. I arrived, they gave me a schedule, you were first. I don’t set the appointments.”

  “Interesting. On average, how many soldiers do you recommend for light duty?”

  “This is beginning to feel like an interrogation,” the doctor said. “We’re through here.”

  The doctor moved for the door, but Mazer was faster. He stepped between the doctor and the exit.

  “Out of my way, Captain, or I will call in the officer.”

  “Last question,” Mazer said, “because I think you’re being played here.”

  The doctor paused, folded his arms again, and frowned, waiting.

  Mazer said, “Would you agree that other doctors within the IF are too lax when it comes to testing soldiers’ physical readiness?”

  The doctor sighed. “If you’re asking me if I’m harder on soldiers than other doctors, Captain, the answer is, I am accurate, where other doctors are not. I am thorough. They are not. There should be no leniency in soldier readiness. Period. Any soldier who has ever sustained a life-threatening wound should be placed on light duty. That experience mars him. He is far more likely to hesitate, hold back, or buckle in the heat of battle. His fear of repeating his previous experience heightens his anxiety and diminishes his rational thinking. Physical wounds create irreparable mental wounds. I have written a paper on the subject.”

  “Was it published?”

  “Several times.”

  “Did you present scientific evidence for this theory?”

  “It isn’t a theory. It is fact. I’ve been doing this for a long time, Captain. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”