Earth Afire (The First Formic War)

by Orson Scott Card

  Inside the ship, Zubeka spread his arms. “Welcome. On behalf of the people of Earth, I extend a hand of fellowship to you, our brethren of the universe.”

  A voice on the feed translated Zubeka’s words into Mandarin.

  “We present you with this hologram, a show of our hope for peace and mutual respect between our species.”

  Above the disc a giant holo of a dove with an olive branch in its beak flapped it wings, as if taking flight.

  Bingwen sighed. A dove? That means nothing to this species. They’ve never seen one and have no idea what it represents.

  “This creature is a dove,” said Zubeka. “A symbol of our—”

  Hundreds of globules of light exploded from a point on the alien ship and rained down on the dove, disintegrating the platform beneath it. The hologram winked out, and the villagers watching gasped and recoiled.

  Zubeka’s smile waned, but he strained to keep his composure. “They must be offended that I didn’t come forward in person.”

  The cameras from the news shuttles swiveled and zoomed in on the alien ship, where a section of the hull had slid open and a strange, elongated device was protruding from inside. Clearly a weapon of sorts. Zubeka kept his eyes forward but gestured to the captain of the ship to his right. “Captain, perhaps we should give the ship some space.”

  The captain spun to one of the flight controllers. “Back us up! Get us out of—”

  A second burst of light shot forth, engulfed the U.N. ship, and shattered it to bits.

  The villagers screamed. Hopper scrabbled backward, screaming, frantic. The alien gun rotated, fired again. A news shuttle vaporized. Then another. A third one turned and tried to flee, but the aliens hit it from behind. Dust. The gun swiveled again. Screams from inside the last shuttle remaining, the one broadcasting. The camera shook. The image spun as the ship turned, unsteady, frantic, desperate. There were noises off screen, people screaming, scrambling, engines gaining power, preparing to run.

  A searing burst of light punctuated the chaos, and the projected feed went to black.

  For a brief moment the villagers were too shocked to speak. Then everyone began shouting out at once, getting to their feet, calling out names, searching for others in the crowd, picking up children, telling loved ones to hurry, rushing for the village stairs that led down to the fields. Several of the men were calling for calm, but no one seemed to be listening.

  “Bingwen!”

  Bingwen looked down. Mother was below, frantically waving for him to get off the roof.

  “I’m coming!”

  “What do we do?” said Hopper. Tears were running down his cheeks, but he seemed not to notice.

  Bingwen grabbed him by the arms. “Hop! Look at me. Look at my face. That ship is in space and we are down here. You understand? It’s far away. We’re safe.”

  Hop blinked, nodded.

  “We need to help everyone stay calm. All right? Someone’s going to get hurt if we don’t. I need you to have a clear head.”

  Hopper blinked again, nodding, coming to himself. He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. “Right. Yes. Sorry. What do you want me to do?”

  “Come with me.”

  They ran and retrieved the ladder, lowered it over the side, then slid to the ground. Bingwen hastily hid the ladder in the grass, then he and Hopper sprinted to the front of the building. Mother was there. She scooped Bingwen up into her arms. Father arrived a moment later, half carrying, half dragging Grandfather, who was holding his side and wincing.

  “What happened?” said Mother.

  “Crowd pushed him over on the stairs,” said Father. “Nearly trampled him. It’s madness. They would’ve killed him if I hadn’t pulled him out.”

  He lowered Grandfather to the ground, who clutched at his chest, gritting his teeth.

  “Your heart,” said Mother. There was panic in her voice.

  “I’m fine,” said Grandfather, waving the concern away. “Bruises is all.”

  “Broken ribs is more like it,” said Father. “Maybe more.”

  A toddler nearby, a young girl, stood alone, crying. People ran by her, oblivious, ignoring her. Bingwen nodded to Hopper, who understood at once and ran to the girl, kneeling beside her, putting an arm around her, comforting her, scanning the crowd for her mother. The child screamed on.

  “Bastards,” wheezed Grandfather. “No respect for their elders. Knocked me over like a herd of water buffalo. I should carry a cane. I could’ve beat a few of them.” He turned his head to Bingwen. “That mud sucker who gives you problems. The one that’s all bluster.”

  “Zihao,” said Bingwen.

  “That’s the one. Stepped on my kidney. Looked me right in the eye, too. No honor. I’ll cut his liver out if I ever see him again.”

  “Don’t talk,” said Mother.

  “I’m fine,” said Grandfather. “I can walk. Give me a minute.” He tried to sit up, winced, and fell back.

  “I’ll stay with him,” said Bingwen. “We’ll catch up with you later.”

  Mother looked uncertain.

  “Nobody’s staying with me,” said Grandfather. “I’m going at my own speed and pace. Don’t know what all the rush is anyway. Alien ship blows up a few news shuttles, and everyone pisses their britches. Running around like fools won’t accomplish anything.”

  “He’s right,” said Bingwen. “This panic is only making things worse.”

  “I’ll stay with him,” said Father. “Bingwen, get your mother home.”

  “We’re staying together,” said Mother.

  “Only person who’s staying is me,” says Grandfather. “Am I not to be respected?”

  “Not this time,” said Father.

  “Then leave me with Bingwen,” said Grandfather. He pointed at Father. “If I go with you, I’ll never hear the end of your complaints. All the way home, it’ll be how I should be more careful, how it’s my fault I fell, how I’m a burden.”

  “You should be more careful,” said Father.

  “You’re no burden, Father,” said Mother.

  “Leave me with the boy,” said Grandfather.

  “You can’t even walk,” said Father. “Bingwen can’t carry you.”

  Grandfather pushed himself up, wincing, but he got to his feet this time. “I don’t need carrying. We’ll be right behind you. Go. Before someone ransacks our home and takes what little food we have.”

  Mother and Father exchanged nervous glances.

  “What,” said Grandfather, “you think these people will suddenly be civilized when they go home? They’re stirred up like hornets. If they fear there’s a fight ahead, they’ll think only of themselves and stockpile whatever they get their hands on.”

  Father looked back toward the retreating crowd. Mother covered her mouth with a hand, afraid. Bingwen almost told them then. Don’t worry. I have supplies. I know you told me not to, Father, but I buried some tools and cans and rice sacks up at the top of the hill above the village. We’ll be fine. For a little while at least.

  But before Bingwen could muster the courage to admit that he had defied Father, the moment was past and Father was pulling Mother by the hand back toward the stairs.

  “Get home as fast as you can, Bingwen,” Father called back over his shoulder. Then he shouldered his way into the crowd, hurrying down the stairs, pulling Mother along. In seconds, Bingwen lost sight of them completely. He turned back to Grandfather, who had seated himself on the ground again, resting.

  Hopper was still with the little girl. But now Meilin, Bingwen’s cousin, was with him also. The little girl clung to Meilin’s shirt, her eyes wet and wild with fear.

  A young woman broke through the crowd, running back up the stairs. The little girl saw her, tore away from Meilin, and ran into the woman’s arms. The woman embraced the child and lifted her up, crying, terrified, relieved.

  “How could you run off without your own child?” Hopper scolded.

  Meilin rounded on him, eyes wide with shock. Bingwen w
as surprised as well. It was unthinkable to address an adult like that.

  The woman was shaking her head, ashamed, clinging to her daughter. She mumbled her thanks and ran back the way she had come, the girl in her arms.

  “You see?” Grandfather said to Bingwen. “No respect for one’s elders.”

  When the woman was gone, Meilin poked Hopper hard in the chest. “You had no right to say that to her.”

  “She had no right to abandon a two-year-old,” said Hopper.

  “She might not have abandoned her. Maybe she thought her husband had her. Maybe she was helping someone.”

  “She should have taken the child with her.”

  “Oh you know so much about parenting.”

  “Enough,” said Grandfather. “Both of you. A sack of rice knows more about rearing children than either of you two. And where are your parents, hmm? Would you scorn your own mother so, boy?”

  Hopper hung his head, ashamed. “No, Ye Ye Danwen,” he said, addressing Grandfather with the proper respect.

  “I should think not,” said Grandfather. He motioned for Bingwen. “Help me up.”

  Bingwen offered a hand and pulled, but it was Grandfather who did most of the work, getting one foot under him and then another, slowly, painfully getting to his feet.

  “Don’t let me sit and rest again,” he said. “Hurts too much to get back up.” He inhaled deep and winced. “Hurts to breathe, too.” He gingerly raised his arms above his head, stretching, testing the threshold of his pain. Then he lowered them, out of breath. “I need a length of fabric, Bingwen. To tie around my chest and keep my breaths shallow. And a staff.”

  Bingwen looked around him. The area outside the library was deserted now except for the four of them. Homes lined both sides of the staircase that twisted up the hillside, and the lights inside the homes were mostly on. Bingwen could hear people talking in hushed, hurried voices. Fear, their voices said. Fear and death.

  Two houses up, a clothesline stretched between two homes. A sheet flapped on the line, lifting and falling with the updrafts from the valley below. Bingwen ran to the sheet, listened a moment, then yanked it down and threw it over his shoulder. At the same home, by the edge of the roof, a two-meter length of bamboo stretched from the corner of the roof to the rain barrel, directing the runoff. Bingwen turned the bamboo and pulled it free of its lashings, then carried both items to Grandfather.

  “That’s stealing,” said Meilin.

  “No,” said Grandfather. “That’s minding your elders. Rip the sheets into long strips, Bingwen.”

  Bingwen dug in the dirt for a stone, found one with an edge, then worked it in the sheet enough to tear it. Then he got his fingers in the hole and ripped the sheet easily.

  They made long strips, wrapping them tight around Grandfather’s chest and putting the knot far from the wound. “Tighter,” Grandfather kept telling them, until it was so tight Bingwen was afraid Grandfather might not be able to breathe at all. But it was only then that Grandfather’s face finally relaxed.

  “Good. Yes, good,” he said. He sounded old and tired and leaned on the bamboo. “Now down the stairs with us.”

  The four of them took to the stairs, moving at Grandfather’s pace, taking each step slowly, one at a time. Grandfather’s free hand rested on Bingwen’s shoulder for support, clutching at the boy’s shirt.

  “You two run on home,” said Grandfather, nodding to Hopper and Meilin. “I’ll not keep you. Your families will fear for you.”

  “We’re staying with you,” said Meilin. “If you fall down the stairs, Bingwen will never get you home.”

  Grandfather leaned on his staff and laughed, which instantly brought on a new wave of pain that nearly buckled him. “Don’t make me laugh, child. Or I will fall.”

  Bingwen grabbed Grandfather’s belt to steady him more, and Grandfather nodded his thanks. Then Grandfather took a breath and, moving slower than before, continued down the staircase.

  We won’t get home before sunrise, Bingwen realized. Not at this pace. Not with three kilometers of rice fields to traverse. He watched Grandfather’s feet, shuffling forward, carefully maneuvering each step.

  Step. Shuffle. Step. Shuffle.

  Bingwen looked up. It was a cloudless night. The Milky Way and millions of stars arced across the sky. One of the stars seemed particularly bright. At first Bingwen thought it might be a plane or a high-altitude skimmer. But the light didn’t move. It didn’t blink. It stayed there, staring down at him, unflinching. Bingwen kept his eyes on it, waiting for it to drop from the sky and spill fire.

  CHAPTER 11

  HERC

  Mazer doubted he would get through to the NZSAS, but he went to his office to try contacting them anyway. It was the middle of the night, and the administration building was dark and deserted when he arrived. The holodesk was on and waiting for him, cycling through images of Chinese soldiers in combat gear. Mazer wiped his hand through the field, and the images disappeared, replaced with a menu of Chinese characters. The base didn’t have an English model, but Mazer knew enough characters to operate the thing. He tapped out the appropriate commands and waited.

  The star icon spun in the field, indicating the uplink was pinging Auckland. Mazer had tried this hours ago, but the grid had been too congested then. Trying now, moments after the alien ship had fired upon news shuttles and essentially declared war on the human race, would almost certainly prove a waste of time; every secure link in the New Zealand Army would be in use now.

  To Mazer’s surprise, there was a chime, and a New Zealand comms technician appeared in the holofield. The tech was young, barely eighteen, and looked frazzled.

  “NZ comms,” said the tech. “You are connected. Identify. Over.”

  “Captain Mazer Rackham requesting immediate contact with Colonel Napatu at Papakura. NZSAS.”

  “One moment, sir.” The tech busied himself with offscreen controls.

  Mazer watched him. He’s not frazzled, Mazer realized. He’s afraid. He’s scared out of his buck-private mind because the world he thought he knew, a world in which nothing questioned our position at the top of the food chain, was just thrown out with the bathwater.

  The tech finished whatever he was doing. “I’m sorry, Captain. Colonel Napatu is inaccessible. Shall I patch you through to the SAS switchboard?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “One moment.”

  The kid disappeared. The star icon returned. Mazer waited for ten minutes. Finally Sergeant Major Manaware, Colonel Napatu’s assistant, answered. Before Mazer could say a word, the sergeant major said, “Your orders are to maintain your position, Captain.”

  The holofield chimed, and a memo from Colonel Napatu appeared as an icon in the field. A form order, no doubt.

  Mazer exhaled to keep his cool. “Sergeant Major, if the SAS deploys, my team needs to be on hand. No one knows the HERC like we do.”

  “Captain, I know you’re frustrated, but the colonel’s got seventeen strike teams on assignment all over the planet, and right now we don’t have the means to bring you all home. And even if we did, the colonel is asking everyone to stay put. We don’t know what we’re up against, and we are not yet in a state of war. The alien ship remains in geosynchronous orbit. We’re not circling the wagons just yet. Colonel Napatu is on conference with the admiral and other unit chiefs as we speak. In the meantime, watch the feeds and stay informed.”

  “That’s just it,” said Mazer. “We can’t watch the feeds anymore. After the alien ship destroyed the news shuttles, the Chinese blocked all public access to the feeds. We’re in the dark. We have no idea what’s going on now. I think the Chinese are trying to prevent a panic, but they’re liable to only make things worse.”

  “Then check in with us on the switchboard every few hours, we’ll keep you informed.”

  “I usually can’t get through,” said Mazer. “It’s a miracle I got through this time. Request permission to keep this line open.”

  “Negat
ive. I need every available line. If you can’t check in with us, then use your receivers to access one of our satellites.”

  “We can’t do that either. The Chinese only allow access to their own satellites. They jam everything else. It’s been that way ever since we got here.”

  Manaware was getting impatient. “Then talk to the Chinese. Even if they’ve blocked public access, the military will still have access to feeds. Ask them to keep you informed.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Captain, I’ve got twenty holos in my queue to answer. Excuse me.”

  He clicked off.

  Mazer tried reconnecting with the switchboard, but he couldn’t get through. He waited ten minutes, tried again, then slammed his fist on the desk when the transmission failed. He switched off the machine, closed his eyes, and exhaled. The SAS wasn’t getting them out. And now Mazer and his team were cut off from the world, right when they needed minute-by-minute intel.

  He tapped the memo Manaware had sent and opened it. He skimmed through it in five seconds and saw exactly what he had expected. Carry on. Continue in your duty. We’ll keep you informed. Blah blah blah.

  He couldn’t take much more of this. The world had known for eleven days now that the ship was coming, and all anyone wanted to do was wait and see. Let’s not act, everyone was saying. Let’s wait and see. Let’s observe this alien ship. Let’s watch it and see what it does.

  Well guess what, geniuses, “waiting and seeing” is the same as “waiting and getting blown up.” Did the U.N. actually think all that wreckage in the Belt was the miners’ fault? And now the aliens had just disintegrated the secretary of alien affairs. A clown to be sure, but the man was an emissary of the human race. These creatures, whatever they are, just took our little flag of peace and pissed all over it.

  And what does the SAS do? Do they bring Mazer and his team home at all speed and prepare for the worst? No. They park us in China and have us whistle our way through our training exercises.