Paulson thought he seemed arrogant.
“With my experience and insights, I promise to do my best to develop an effective strategy to defeat these alien monsters. No more sailors need to shed blood into the sea. I am humbled by the sacrifice of all those who died on the Far Horizon, as well as the volunteer who formerly inhabited this body.” Haldane touched his own shoulders and chest, as if to reassure himself of where and who he was. “That man gave his life so I could stand before you today and vow my revenge against the aliens. Thanks to him, I can lead the EPN’s retaliatory strike and wipe out those squirming bastards once and for all!”
Admiral Haldane raised a fist, but his movements were jerky and uncertain, as if he hadn’t quite adjusted to his new body. It seemed to fit him like a stiff pair of new boots.
The crowd cheered regardless, and the media imagers captured the drawn and determined expressions on the sailors’ faces as they vowed to avenge their fallen comrades.
Looking at the crowd of EPN seamen, Paulson could not picture himself as one of them, no matter what the draft notice said. He felt as if he had swallowed a hand grenade, and it was still in his stomach, ticking down the last few seconds. He couldn’t run, couldn’t escape the summons. He was DNA imprinted, and he had been chosen by a flawed lottery system: no exceptions. And he certainly couldn’t argue that he was too valuable in civilian life.
He liked to read and ponder but had never found the ambition to acquire a philosophy degree (which, in itself, would not have led to a lucrative career). He was healthy enough, but only due to biological good fortune; he wasn’t overweight, thanks to a natural metabolism. But he was sweating now, as if he had just run a marathon. Paulson didn’t have many loose ends to tie up in his life, because he didn’t have much of a life.
He had to figure out some way to get to the La Diego base. Because budgets were tight, and all finances had to be devoted to constructing new Navy warships and weapons against the Sluggos, Paulson Kenz had to pay his own way to the last place on Earth he wanted to go.
THE NAVAL TRAINING center was aswarm with new recruits, herded about by junior officers as if they were a separated mass of Sluggos in human form. The chatter of conversation in the giant intake hangar was deafening; announcements over loudspeakers were garbled and incomprehensible. The background noise seemed to increase each time important instructions were given. Paulson expected this routine would have been more organized under normal times, but the EPN was undergoing quite an upheaval as they increased their ranks tenfold in response to the invasion.
Paulson stood among other recruits, some of them shiny-eyed and eager, jabbering with nervous enthusiasm. They pounded one another on the back, laughing and trying to outdo any braggadocio from their comrades. Paulson knew about such attitudes: patriotic young men and women ready to go off and kick some enemy butt. Most often that didn’t turn out as planned. Some came home in body bags, others were lost forever. And the ones who did return were haunted for the rest of their lives.
Oddly, with so many disorganized people and so much chaos, the bureaucratic machinery hummed smoothly. Everyone flashed ID access cards and passed through human inventory kiosks into gigantic hangars where lines queued up, snaking around pedestals. Personnel Specialists studied each person that flowed into the larger base.
Paulson was confused and anxious, but he followed the person ahead of him, and he listened to instructions. When yeoman ran a quick gaze over him, studied his ID chip, then sent him into corpsman scan lines, he cooperated. He tried to keep his expression meek (which wasn’t difficult at all). The intake officers studied the records displayed on their screens, narrowed their eyes, and frowned at him, then directed Paulson into a different line. Each time he met with more skepticism, was directed into a smaller line. He could tell he was being winnowed out.
They took blood samples and urine samples; they breathalyzed him; they performed a digital rectal examination, then a dental examination (mercifully changing gloves in between). They fitted a mesh hood around his scalp and took a brain scan. They gave him vision tests, and then they clucked at all the results.
One nurse who looked as if she had retired from a Valkyrie squad loomed over him, knitting her eyebrows together. She turned to the yeoman at her side and spoke loudly enough to be sure Paulson heard her, “I thought we hit the bottom of the barrel last week.”
“Sorry,” Paulson said. “If you’d like to excuse me from service, I’ll understand.”
The Valkyrie-nurse gave him such an intense glare that his scrotal sac shriveled to the size of a prune, even though he had already been thoroughly checked for hernias.
“No one’s excused,” she said. “If nothing else, you’ll do as cannon fodder.”
III
Day by day, Admiral Bruce Haldane was growing accustomed to the new body, and he certainly had no time to waste. Fortunately, the volunteer had kept himself in good shape. The body was adequate, with a good frame, well-toned muscles. He was even handsome, in a way. Haldane was growing accustomed to what he saw in the mirror. Instead of being startled, he took the time to study his features, the dark hair, heavy eyebrows, the boyish expression of an innocent young recruit who had seen little horror in his life. But Haldane’s eyes looked out from the face, and he had seen enough of war in the last few months.
Previously, his career had been soft and dull, but the Sluggos changed all that.
The volunteer’s name had been Aaron Shelty, a seaman-apprentice who seemed a perfectly reasonable recruit for the Earth Planetary Navy, but he must have been a coward, because he refused to sign up for actual combat duty. Too many people have grown as soft as the Sluggos, Haldane thought.
After the mind transfer, Haldane had glanced through Shelty’s dossier, looking at his grades, his performance in basic training. Everything seemed normal. Haldane couldn’t understand why the man would sign up as cannon fodder. Shelty had left behind a fiancée, but she was young and pretty; she would find someone else before long. Shelty had parents and a sister, and they would all receive a compassionate and carefully-worded letter thanking them for Mr. Shelty’s sacrifice aboard the Far Horizon. Haldane certainly appreciated the gesture, otherwise he would have died aboard the destroyer rather than his replacement.
It must have seemed like a good bargain when young Shelty had signed up for the program. The young man had gambled—whether through laziness or cowardice Haldane didn’t know—that nothing would happen to Admiral Haldane. And the gamble had backfired on Shelty.
But Haldane benefited, and therefore the EPN benefited, and therefore the human race benefited. The admiral was alive, and he still had his expertise. The Earth Navy could count on him.
Yes, he was glad for Aaron Shelty’s sacrifice, but was that sacrifice any more dramatic or extraordinary than that of all those seamen who had died, devoured or crushed under the onslaught of the alien slugs? Haldane didn’t think so. Every person needed to do his or her duty, and Haldane needed to do his, even if it meant he had to swap bodies at the last minute and let the old body die on the battlefield. The war depended on him, and so it was worth the hassle.
Haldane looked in the mirror again, ran his fingers through the dark hair, made different expressions as he practiced the movement of his facial muscles. Yes, this body would do. Maybe he’d even pay a visit to Shelty’s pretty fiancée. Now wouldn’t that be a surprise!
But he didn’t have time for that. There was a war on. After all the alien creatures were wiped out, however …
Unless something terrible happened again to him on the battlefield.
This time, the shock of the body transfer hadn’t been as dramatic as when his original body was killed, when he’d been forced in that awful last second of indecision to push the transfer button on the implanted pendant, to give up his actual physical form, the one that had emerged from his mother’s womb, the one he’d lived with all his life. But during the explosions, the firefight, and the horrific swarming Sluggos, after wa
tching so many uniformed men and women torn to pieces around him, the decision hadn’t been so difficult after all.
New body, same old job. He was back at EPN Headquarters in the La Diego main base, briefing world leaders, requesting new ships, more armaments, more depth pulsers, and an expanded fleet to attack the Sluggos.
As he drove in that morning, two Marines had tried to stop him at the outer gate. Though he had a new ID, the system had not updated his fingerprints, photographs, and DNA scans. Haldane made three increasingly angry calls until revised credentials were transmitted back to the guard shack.
After the Far Horizon tragedy, he had delivered his grand speech in this new body. Didn’t they recognize him? Everyone on Earth should have seen the images of how the destroyer had been torn apart and sunk, all hands lost. How could these Marines not recognize Admiral Haldane’s new body? He hated to be reminded that he wasn’t as famous as he believed himself to be. Earth itself was under attack! Why wasn’t every human being glued to their media and entertainment screens? Didn’t they know that the fate of their planet was at stake?
After the fiasco at the guard shack, he finally made it to his office. As he entered, he still met the questioning stares, the double-takes from his staff as they tried to readjust to his new appearance. The admiral’s uniform had been altered, but the rank insignia and nameplate were transferred over, same as before. Haldane was still himself, with his demeanor, his facial expressions. They would have to get used to it.
He sat behind his large desk and called up the day’s intel reports of aerial flyovers and deep-water scans. His chief of staff, Ms. Tenn, entered the office and stood before his desk, running her eyes up and down his face and uniform. “I have your calendar, sir. If there’s anything you need, please let me know.”
“I need concentration time to reassess these images. Is there full documentation regarding new intel on the Sluggos? I need to plan our next strategy. There’s some piece missing, and because I have the most experience, I’m the one to find it.”
“It’s all here, sir.” Tenn leaned over the desk to activate Haldane’s screen, calling up the messages he needed and spreading them out so he could sort and review them in whatever order he chose.
She brought him his usual bitter black coffee, but when he took a sip, it tasted strange. “Are you using a different blend, Lieutenant? Or does the brewer need cleaning?”
“No, Admiral. Same as always.”
“Taste it.”
He pushed the cup toward her, and she dutifully took a sip. “Tastes awful, sir, just like always.”
Haldane shook his head. “Must be these new taste buds. Bring me a variety of coffees, lattes, cappuccinos, espressos. I need to sample them until I find one that tastes right on Aaron Shelty’s tongue. Can’t do my work without caffeine.”
“Certainly, Admiral.” She departed.
Haldane took another gulp of the bitter brew, struggled to swallow it, then pushed the cup away. That wouldn’t do at all, and the inconvenience was troublesome. He’d have to compile a more detailed dossier about the next volunteer waiting in the wings. Shelty had passed all the required tests and his brain scan had been a match for Haldane’s, but no one had thought to ask about his favorite foods or drinks. The admiral made a note of that.
On the screen, he called up the new messages. The Sluggos were damned difficult to locate under the water, but they were such a huge mass, millions of them writhing together, spreading out, moving like a gigantic school of fish. Each time sonar bursts tried to pinpoint the location of the main mass, the swarm faded away and reappeared elsewhere. As soon as the mass of Sluggos was spotted, attack aircraft would drop explosives, which would kill a lot of fish and individual Sluggos—thus the military scientists had plenty of specimens, but very few answers. Even after the most horrendous explosions, though, the main Sluggo body would reappear and continue to attack.
All the EPN efforts thus far had only pissed off the squirming invaders, but Haldane wasn’t going to use that as an excuse to relent. Even ineffective explosions were far superior—from a PR standpoint if nothing else—to letting the Sluggos do whatever they liked. The aliens had not proven to be good neighbors.
As humans expanded into the solar system, no one found any evidence of ancient Martian races or prehistoric Venusians, no Selenites under the craters of the Moon, no civilizations under the ice sheets of Europa, no bizarre creatures drifting among the asteroids.
No one knew where the Sluggos came from. Their ships were detected at the edge of the solar system by bored teams of asteroid mappers, but no one noticed their speed or incoming trajectory until the invaders had almost reached Earth orbit. Though the human military scrambled, the metallic teardrop ships hammered into the atmosphere like shotgun pellets and plunged into the Pacific Ocean.
Ships were dispatched to the area to see if they could find wreckage of the alien vessels, while news pundits demanded rescue efforts. Subs and diving bells went down to the crashed ships to save the benevolent alien visitors before they drowned. (Even then, Admiral Haldane knew it was a brash notion to assume that any alien visitor would breathe air instead of water.)
Considering the size of the alien ships, they should have been easy to find even in the deep water, but sonar detected nothing. The vessels seemed to have vaporized on impact.
The first attack struck a far-ranging Japanese whaler, the Dragon Pearl. The terrified crew transmitted images and distress signals, wailing for help as squirming conglomerate tentacles rose out of the water to smash the decks. After the initial horror subsided, Haldane thought that the scenes reminded him of a clip from a bad low-budget Japanese giant monster movie, some horrific rubber behemoth rising from the sea to toss about a toy model of a boat.
But the destruction of the Dragon Pearl was real, the Sluggos were real, and the alien mass had attacked other cargo ships, an oil tanker (causing great consternation among environmentalists who insisted that the resultant spill was a greater threat to Earth than the alien invasion), and even a large cruise ship—all passengers and crew slaughtered on formal night. Recovered surveillance cameras showed frantic, swanky passengers trying to flee in their fancy tuxedos or slinky cocktail gowns and high heels.
Admiral Haldane had led the first unsuccessful responses against the aliens, embarrassed because he couldn’t even find the Sluggos. When he finally did locate the enemy, they had destroyed his ship, killed his crew, and forced him to evacuate into a different body.
But he was the first one to notice that the Sluggos were pulling some equipment down into the water after destroying the ships, as if they meant to use the components, metals, antennae, even some of the weapons pieces.
The Far Horizon had been the Earth Planetary Navy’s most heavily armed destroyer, and that too had been utterly destroyed, but Haldane did not feel defeated. He was back again in a new body, and he would continue to fight—although if he continued to die during engagements against the enemy, it would look bad on his record.
Ms. Tenn returned carrying a tray with seven cups of various coffee drinks. “I brought you a variety of options, sir. One of these should do.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said, then had a horrible thought. “God, I hope Shelty wasn’t a tea drinker.” He decided to be methodical about his testing. He closed all the records displayed on his screen. He would review them later.
Haldane fingered the implanted pendant at the base of his skull. Sooner or later he would go out on another brutal engagement. He couldn’t put this off. “Ms. Tenn, I want you to go through recruiting records so we can prepare for the worst-case scenario. This body is certainly adequate, but there’s no telling what might happen to me. Find me a new volunteer.”
IV
Boot camp was hell—and Paulson meant that literally, as well as figuratively. (Yes, he did know the proper usage of the term.)
Throughout his life, Paulson was always the last person picked for any team sports activity. He played a go
od game of archaic chess, but no one considered that a “sport,” despite his protestations. Any activity that required coordination, speed, strength, or other physical prowess was not his forte. He had done a good job as a statistician, however. When he suggested that he be considered for such a role in the EPN, the training officer simply scowled at Paulson as if he were a form of nematode even lower than the Sluggos.
Because the alien invasion was now of immediate relevance to him, Paulson wanted to spend every spare minute scouring information about the alien invaders infesting Earth’s oceans, but that plan quickly went out the porthole. All day long, the training officer tortured the recruits, forced them to do appalling exercises, tested their endurance. He did his best to kill every single trainee through exhaustion, screaming muscles, and cardiac failure before they had a chance to confront their first Sluggo.
Paulson struggled to memorize the rank system of the Earth Planetary Navy—no, EPN called it a rating system, just to make it more confusing, he supposed. He struggled to understand who outranked (or was it outrated?) whom. As a practical matter, it made no difference, since as a seaman-recruit, Paulson Kenz was lower than absolutely everyone. Even among the trainees who had been inducted on the same day, Paulson’s performance set him apart—and beneath them all.
Inside the gigantic hangars, the recruits marched in ranks, drilling like robots, following nonsensical orders—moving back and forth, side to side, and around in circles, as if that sort of regimented pageantry would impress the alien hordes.
Paulson was in the lowest pay grade, but had no opportunity to spend what he earned. He was too sore, too exhausted, and too miserable to read in the evenings. He felt nauseated, so he couldn’t even eat the ill-seasoned chow they fed recruits. It seemed a sort of irony—perhaps intentional, perhaps a coincidence—that they had to eat seafood for every meal. Paulson plunged a fork into his fish sticks with a vengeance, as if attacking a surrogate Sluggo.
Selected Stories: Volume 1 Page 6