Earth Afire (The First Formic War)

by Orson Scott Card

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh you know. Give us a little show, Lieutenant. Zip around the valley for a minute. Impress us. No loop-the-loops, though,” he said with a laugh. “Go upside down and we lose antigrav.” Then he laughed as if that were the funniest joke in the world.

  Fatani was back inside by now. He and Mazer exchanged glances, and Fatani shrugged. Mazer hit the command to seal the hole in the floor and made his way back to the copilot’s seat.

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?” Reinhardt said under his breath.

  “I’m finding out,” said Mazer. He slid his helmet visor back down into place. “Blue River, Blue River. This is Jackrabbit. Target is secure and airborne, over.”

  This time the voice on the radio was Colonel Napatu’s. “Jackrabbit this is Blue River. Have you secured the passengers?”

  “Affirmative. They’re retrieved and buckled in the cabin, sir.”

  “Good. Don’t jostle them. Bring her in nice and easy.”

  “They’re asking that I come in hot, sir. Give them a show.”

  “Negative. You bring her in slow. We’re not bowing to some corporate jackass any more than we have to.”

  * * *

  “A sales demonstration?” said Reinhardt. He, Patu, Fatani, and Mazer were all standing in Napatu’s office, still wearing their flight suits. “The mission was a sales demonstration?”

  “The Chinese are interested in the HERC,” said Colonel Napatu. “They wanted to see it in action before they cut any deal with Juke Limited.”

  “Since when does the SAS give test-drives to the Chinese?” said Reinhardt. “Look, no offense, sir, but we were taking some heat out there. Nothing but flares, yes, but we all took this op rather seriously. I was flying like a bumblebee to avoid that flack. We could have buried that bird in a hillside. And for what? To show off to a Chinese captain and some suit from sales trying to meet his monthly quota? Pardon me for saying so, sir, but this whole thing strikes me as incredibly negligent.”

  Napatu leaned back in his chair, folded his hands across his stomach, and cocked his head to the side. “Are you finished, Lieutenant?”

  Reinhardt straightened and retreated a step, his cheeks flushed. He put his hands behind his back in parade-rest position. “Yes, sir. Pardon me for speaking candidly, sir.”

  “Since I happen to believe you’re justified in being annoyed, I’ll forgive that candor, Lieutenant. But I’ll kindly remind you that an SAS officer holds his tongue as well as he holds a rifle, especially when addressing a senior officer.”

  “Yes, sir. Begging your pardon, sir.”

  Colonel Napatu sighed and swiveled in his chair for a moment. “All of you sit down. I don’t like you hovering over my desk like that.”

  Mazer and the others took a seat in the armchairs and sofa opposite Napatu’s desk.

  Napatu put his elbows on his desk and rubbed his eyes, suggesting he was as sleep deprived as the others. “I would love for you all to believe that the SAS is immune to the bureaucratic crap that so plagues the rest of the military,” he said. “And I would love for you to believe that I as the CO of this unit have the authority to tell the defense department where they can stick the asinine orders they so often toss in our laps. But since you all tested so highly for intelligence, you know both statements are false.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Fact is, we are a branch of the NZ military, and when we receive orders we follow them. That is our duty. We do not question them. We do not voice our disapproval. We obey. This business with the HERC came straight from General Gresham. He called me himself two days ago. His orders were clear. Give this Chinese captain and his Juke sales rep a real show. The natural assumption was that I would have you fly the HERC around the tarmac a lap or two. Not so, said the general. I was to coordinate a full heavy-vehicle extraction. Lots of noise, lots of daring piloting, and the two guests of honor were to be waiting inside the Copperhead. That was their explicit request. They didn’t want to observe. They wanted to experience.”

  He sighed and rubbed at his eyes again. “As you might expect, I expressed my concerns regarding safety and liability. The last thing this country needs is for a Chinese officer to die under our care. That would read just dandily on the news nets. But my objections were ignored. I was to follow orders to the letter. Nor was I to inform the extraction team of the uniqueness of their mission. While I agree that you all took a lot of heat, I was not for a moment concerned. Reinhardt can dance circles around any other pilot in this unit.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “He’s buttering you up so you won’t be mad at him,” said Patu.

  “I’m ashamed to admit it’s working,” said Reinhardt.

  “What was this about, sir?” asked Mazer. “Why should the SAS be involved in a sale to the Chinese? If Juke wanted to show off the HERC why not do it at their own facilities? Our HERC isn’t the only one in existence. Why bring the Chinese here?”

  “Several reasons. One, Juke pilots aren’t nearly as good as you. I’m not buttering you up, that’s simply a fact. Juke knew they’d get a much more dramatic presentation here. Second, the Chinese wanted to see soldiers in action. That’s who will be flying theirs, and they happen to have a lot of respect for the SAS. That is why, in fact, they wanted all of you sleep deprived. They figure a sleep-deprived SAS officer is equal to a well-rested Chinese one.”

  Fatani grunted. “Hardly.”

  “You’re an exception to any such comparison, Fatani,” said Colonel Napatu. “You’re equal to four Chinese officers. And I don’t mean simply in terms of mass.”

  “I can see why the Chinese might like this arrangement,” said Mazer, “but why would the defense department agree to it? Why do a favor for the Chinese? I thought we were hoping to keep this tech proprietary.”

  “I asked those same questions. First off, we couldn’t keep the HERC for ourselves even if we wanted to. Juke will sell the tech to whoever will pay for it. The U.S. military is big enough to make stipulations like that to their contractors, but not us. We’re small potatoes. We’ll buy a few dozen HERCs at the most, which is barely enough to break a sweat on the Juke assembly line. China is a big buyer. Juke would hang us out to dry and leave us with nothing if it meant snagging a deal with the Chinese. My point? We never had a chance of keeping this proprietary. As to why we agreed to do the show, it turns out the SAS is getting a few HERCs for free for our troubles.”

  Fatani whistled. “For free? Considering the price tag of a HERC is more than the GDP of most third-world countries, I’d say we got a good deal. Not bad for an hour’s worth of work.”

  Napatu leaned forward and frowned. “Well, that’s the sour part of this conversation. The Chinese didn’t ask for just a single hour of work.”

  “That look on your face makes me think I’m not going to like the next thing out of your mouth,” said Reinhardt.

  Mazer thought the same, but he kept quiet.

  “The primary reason why we gave a show to the Chinese,” said Napatu, “was because they were testing you as much as the HERC.”

  “Told you,” said Fatani.

  “Testing us for what?” said Patu.

  Mazer answered. “The Chinese not only want to purchase a fleet of HERCs, they also want an experienced HERC team to train their pilots how to fly it.”

  “Say it ain’t so,” said Reinhardt. “We have to babysit a bunch of Chinese pilots?”

  “How many pilots are they sending us?” asked Fatani.

  “None,” said Colonel Napatu. “The Chinese aren’t coming here. You’re going to them. Guangdong province. Southeast China. It’ll be a six-month op.”

  Nobody spoke. It wasn’t uncommon for an SAS team to be given orders to conduct a joint cooperative engagement training—or JCET—but that didn’t mean everyone was thrilled by the idea.

  Sensing disappointment in the others, Mazer said, “It’s China, Reinhardt. They have hair dryers and silk sheets. I think y
ou’ll survive.”

  Napatu took a data cube from his desk and offered it to Mazer. “Captain Rackham, you’ll continue as team leader. Your mission objectives are there on the cube. You’ll brief the others on the plane. You fly out at 0900.”

  Mazer took the cube, surprised. “Captain, sir?”

  “You’ve just been promoted. I’m not having some Chinese officer thinking he outranks everyone on your team.”

  * * *

  It was six o’clock in the morning when Mazer left Colonel Napatu’s office and made his way across base toward the motor pool. Three hours. Napatu had given them three hours to arrange their affairs before getting on a plane for an overseas six-month assignment.

  This is why it would never work with Kim, he told himself. This is why it was ridiculous to even consider marriage. No relationship can operate this way.

  They had never discussed marriage, but Mazer knew Kim was thinking about it as much as he was. It was evident in the little things she did: the way she smiled at any baby they passed in the market, or how she casually mentioned her goals for the future, like how she wanted a bay window in her home when she settled down, or how she would grow her own vegetables when she settled down. That was her phrase: “When I settle down.” It was never “When we settle down,” but the subtext was there nonetheless. The implication was obvious. She was putting her toe in the marriage waters and seeing what ripples it produced.

  Mazer always responded as if he sensed no subtext at all. They were making conversation, nothing more. Why yes, a bay window would be lovely. But no, gardens were a pain; there were weeds to be pulled and bugs to be sprayed and dirt to be tilled. That was time, and time was money. I’ll buy my vegetables, thank you very much.

  It was a game they played, a game of compatibility. And the more they played it, the more convinced Mazer became that he would never find a better match.

  He woke the officer on duty at the motor pool and checked out a vehicle. The drive from Papakura to East Tamaki was quick, and he parked across the street of Medicus Industries at ten minutes to seven. She would already be up in her office, he knew; she always came in early to get a jump on the day.

  He didn’t call her. Instead, he tapped his wrist pad three times to ping her, then he watched her office window on the fifth floor. She appeared a moment later, smiled, and waved him to come up. He walked to the front door, waited for the holo to appear in the box, and typed in the sequence she had taught him. The door opened, and he crossed through the empty lobby to the lifts.

  She met him on the fifth floor and gave him a light kiss on the cheek. She looked as beautiful as ever, her hair pulled back in a ponytail to keep it out of her face while she worked over her holos all day. “This is a pleasant surprise, Lieutenant,” she said. Her American accent always made him smile.

  “I’m a captain now actually,” he said.

  “As of when?”

  “This morning.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Really? With a captain’s pay?”

  “I assume so. There wasn’t much time to discuss it. Why, you need a loan?”

  She smiled, though he could see that the promotion made her uneasy. An unexpected early-morning promotion was a bad sign. It might mean they were shipping him out.

  He waited for her to ask, but instead she cocked her head to the side and said, “You look tired.”

  “I haven’t slept in thirty-something hours,” he said.

  “And yet you came to tell me about your promotion before getting some sleep. I feel special.”

  “I didn’t come to tell you about my promotion,” he said.

  She sensed bad news coming and held up a hand. “Before I get the whole story, let’s eat first. There are pastries in the conference room.”

  She hooked her arm in his and led him down a corridor. All the offices they passed were dark and empty of people. They reached a glass-paneled room with a long table and a wide marble counter at the far end loaded with fresh fruit, pastries, and self-cooling containers of juice and milk. Kim handed him a plate, grabbed one for herself, and started loading up.

  “Are these yesterday’s pastries?” Mazer asked, picking up an apple turnover and giving it a sniff.

  “A caterer brings them in early. They’re fresh. And why should you care? You’re supposed to be able to survive off the land, eating worms and roasted field mice. Day-old pastries are luxury food.”

  He didn’t feel like eating, but he put the turnover on his plate anyway and followed her back to her office.

  A holo of an adult-sized human skeleton was floating on its back in the air above Kim’s holodesk. Windows of data surrounded it, along with handwritten notes in Kim’s squiggly shorthand.

  “Looks like we’re a party of three for breakfast,” said Mazer.

  Kim waved her hand through the holofield, and the skeleton disappeared. “Sorry. Not exactly what you want to see before eating.”

  There was always something floating above Kim’s desk. If not bones, then muscles or the circulatory system or some cross section of damaged tissue. She had studied medicine at Johns Hopkins in the U.S. and done her residency at one of the most notoriously brutal trauma centers in Baltimore. Despite being one of the youngest doctors on staff, she quickly built a reputation for being coolheaded and smart in the most gruesome situations. Several medical associations honored her, and it was those citations that had brought her to the attention of Medicus, which had offered her a position at their corporate offices in New Zealand with the promise that she would be helping far more people by working as a medical consultant.

  The company made the Med-Assist device, a holopad designed to help soldiers treat battle wounds. It could do anything: bone scans, blood work, give surgery tutorials, even administer drugs. It was like having a medic in your pocket, only you had to do all the work. The U.S. military had funded the initial development and now used the device extensively throughout all branches of their service. Other countries had since jumped on board. A device for the New Zealand Army was near completion.

  “Is that the new Kiwi version you’ve been working on?” Mazer asked, gesturing to a Med-Assist on the corner of her desk.

  “Latest prototype,” she said, handing it to him. “Tell me what do you think of the voice.”

  He turned on the device, clicked through the first few layers of commands, and placed it over his leg. A scan of his femur appeared on screen, the image tinged in green. A woman’s voice with a New Zealand accent said, “Femur. No trauma detected.”

  “Why isn’t it your voice?” he asked.

  Kim’s voice had been used in the American version. The U.S. Defense Department had asked that the voice be that of a real doctor, and Medicus thought Kim the perfect fit. She was already on staff, she was American, she had great bedside manner, and she was brilliant. Kim had agreed to do it only on the condition that Medicus test several voices along with hers before making the final decision. Medicus complied, recording samples from Kim and other doctors and then bringing in several soldiers from the NZSAS for a focus group. Mazer had been among them, and he was the most outspoken in the group for why the voice should be Kim’s: She sounds like a doctor; she sounds like she knows what she’s talking about; soldiers will be anxious and afraid and at the height of emotional distress; a voice like hers will calm them; I believe every word she says.

  The executives had been delighted, and afterward they had made a point of introducing Mazer to Kim, citing him as proof that she had a lot of recording to do. She had scowled at Mazer playfully and blamed him for giving her more work than she had time for. He had apologized, and in a moment of uncharacteristic spontaneity that surprised himself more than anyone, he asked her to dinner to make it up to her.

  It seemed like such a long time ago now.

  Mazer sat on the sofa opposite her desk. Kim removed her shoes, sat beside him, and draped her legs across his lap.

  “The Kiwi version can’t be my voice,” she said. “New Zealand
soldiers want to hear a New Zealander.”

  “I don’t,” said Mazer. “I’d much rather hear yours.”

  She smiled. “It’s a matter of clarity. Americans pronounce words differently. You don’t want a soldier administering the wrong drug or performing an incorrect action because he or she misunderstood the directions.”

  “True,” said Mazer. “But the real reason why it can’t be you is because your voice is so intoxicating. You’re like the sea sirens in The Odyssey. Soldiers become so enchanted by the music of your voice that they get all dreamy and starry-eyed and completely forget about their fellow soldier bleeding out in front of them.”

  She smiled again. “Yes. Tragic when that happens.”

  Why was he being playful? It would only make this more difficult.

  “I’m leaving for China,” he said. “For six months.”

  It was like a slap. She stared at him. “Why so long?”

  “Exercises with the Chinese. We’re training them on some new equipment.” He couldn’t speak of the HERC. It was still classified.

  “Not a hostile op?”

  “No,” he said, reassuring her. “Purely training.”

  “Those can be dangerous too.”

  “This one won’t be. It will be boring.”

  “How often will you get to come back?”

  “I won’t. Six months solid. No leave time.”

  She stared at him then looked down at her half-eaten pastry and pushed it around her plate. “I see. When do you leave?”

  He checked the time on his wrist pad. “Less than two hours. I only found out an hour ago.”

  She put the plate aside, angry. “That’s how much time they gave you? That’s ridiculous. Not to mention insensitive. It shows a complete disregard for people. Doesn’t it make you angry?”

  “I’m a soldier, Kim. This is what I do. I go places.”

  “Why does it have to be you? I thought you were in the middle of some important training here.”

  “I am. It’s the training here that’s now taking me there.”