Earth Awakens (The First Formic War)

by Orson Scott Card

  “Stay there. I’ll come for you when this is over.”

  “Wrong. You’ve got at least four Formics coming to your position. I’m on my way.”

  “No, Imala. You don’t have enough oxygen to leave your ship.”

  “I’ve got at least fifteen minutes of emergency reserves in my suit.”

  “You may not reach me in fifteen minutes.”

  She blinked the command to open the cockpit canopy. To her surprise, it obeyed. The top had caved in slightly, and she had worried it was too damaged to operate. She undid her harness and disconnected her suit from the ship.

  “Warning! Warning! You have disconnected life support.”

  “Override warning,” she said. “Silence system. Display oxygen remaining.”

  The numbers appeared on her HUD. She wasn’t sure if it was fifteen minutes’ worth. She needed to calm her breathing and make it last as long as it could. She pulled herself out of the cockpit and crawled up the side of her ship. The gamma plasma had seared through everything on the mothership as evenly as a knife through butter. Imala didn’t want to touch the edges in case they were radioactive or sharp enough to cut her suit. She hopped into a corridor beside her and landed on the far wall. She couldn’t tell which was the floor and which was the ceiling. “Vico, send me the map of the ship. Show me where you are in relation to my position.”

  “I don’t know where you are exactly, Imala. And my map isn’t comprehensive. I didn’t explore every corner of the ship.”

  “Send me what you have. Can you see my helmetcam?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t mean much. The shafts and corridors all look the same.”

  “But if I keep moving in the direction I’m going, I’ll get closer to you, right?”

  “Go back to your ship, Imala. Reattach your oxygen. Please. I’ve already lost too many people close to me. I can’t lose you, too.”

  That almost stopped her. The pleading in his voice and everything behind it—it almost turned her around. What could she do anyway? She didn’t have a weapon.

  “Do you have a weapon, Vico? Did Wit bring a gun to the helm?”

  “I have my laser cutter, Imala. And I’ve barred the hatch. I’m fine.”

  A laser cutter could make a formidable weapon, true. She had one herself, now that she thought about it. An emergency one in the pocket of her suit, for cutting away her harness or cutting away the cockpit canopy in the event of a crash. She unzipped the pouch and pulled it out. It was such a little thing.

  She launched up the corridor. A barred door wouldn’t stop the Formics. They would find a way in. And when they did, they’d pull Victor apart. If she could find one of the big shafts from the vid, or maybe the main corridor that scooted the garden, if she could find any of those, she could get to the helm.

  She checked her oxygen. The numbers had gone down significantly. I’m coming, Vico. I’m coming.

  * * *

  Victor listened to the celebrations. The surviving miners were cheering over the radio, singing and shouting in a multitude of languages. They had wiped out the last of the Formic transports and skimmers—including the ones that had landed on the hull of the ship. Lem and a few others had strafed those from above, slicing them in two.

  None of the Formic ships had fled or retreated in the end. Instead, they had turned and launched themselves at their enemies. Only twelve human ships had been lost, which was nothing short of a miracle considering how many Formic ships there had been in the swarm.

  The Formics were distracted, Victor realized. That’s why the miners had won. The Formics were so focused on retaking their ship, so determined to win back what they had lost, that they had been blind to anything else.

  Victor removed his laser cutter from his tool bag and severed the rod that held the gamma plasma wheel to the console. The wheel drifted away, leaving a metal stump behind. If Imala was right, if Formics were coming, he would make sure the helm was useless when they arrived. He cut off switches, sliced off levers, slashed every surface of the controls. Lem would go ballistic when he saw the damage—all that alien tech destroyed! But it wasn’t destroyed completely. Not really. With a little time, a smart team of engineers could piece it back together and figure out how it all ticks. For now, however, Victor would do what he knew needed to be done: Remove the Formics’ last hope and chance. End it once and for all.

  When he was done, he looked at the cutter in his hand and smiled. Funny that it would come to this, in the end. It wouldn’t be a nuke or another WMD, but a tool every decent mechanic carried in his bag.

  A heavy object slammed against the hatch. It was not human. No one was calling him on the radio. It hit the hatch again. A third time. The bar he had put in place wouldn’t hold. Not for very long. Maybe if he had carried with him a few other tools, he could have secured it better. Father would be disappointed. A good mechanic is never without his—

  The hatch door exploded inward, flew across the room, and struck him, knocking him back against the far wall. The pain was instantaneous. His upper arm was broken. Maybe his collarbone as well. His vision was blurred. His visor was cracked. The laser cutter was gone from his hand. He initiated his boot magnets, and they snapped to a wall behind him.

  The Formic scurried into the room. It was wearing a pressure suit and carrying a jar weapon. It went straight to the console, ignoring Victor. It saw the damage. Its eyes moved back and forth across the bank of controls, taking it in. It stood there a long moment as if unable to comprehend what it was seeing. Then its head turned, and it saw him. It raised its weapon. Light spun within the jar. Victor was cradling his arm. He deactivated his boot magnets and leaped to the side just as a glob of mucus slammed into the wall where he had been positioned. Victor careened into another wall, landing on his shoulder. Searing pain shot through him, like breaking his arm all over again. The membrane on the wall exploded. Victor recoiled into the corner. He was behind a bank of levers and switches, not concealed at all, really. He looked to his left and right for a weapon, but there wasn’t one.

  The Formic approached and regarded him. Victor waited for it to raise the weapon again. It had a clear shot. Victor had nowhere to go. Five seconds passed. Ten. But still the jar didn’t move. The Formic cocked its head to the side. Its eyes seemed to grow in their intensity.

  It’s trying to speak to me, Victor realized. It’s sending me a message. Victor listened but heard nothing, felt nothing, sensed nothing. Then the Formic’s face relaxed. A small black device was suddenly in its hand. Victor had seen that device before, the first time he was in the cargo bay. It was the tool they had used to eviscerate the pilot.

  The Formic reached out with the device.

  There was a flash, and the creature’s hand holding the device was no longer connected to its body. The hand drifted away, spinning slowly. Another flash and a line appeared at the Formic’s midsection. A line that had not been there a moment before. Slowly, the top half of the Formic slid away from the bottom half, and the life in the creature’s eyes faded.

  Victor turned and saw Imala at the hatch entrance with her laser cutter. She flew to him and attached her own suit to his. “I’m borrowing some of your oxygen. Tell me where you’re hurt.”

  “I thought you said there were four of them.”

  “There were. Mazer killed two and is chasing down the last one. We’re safe. Where are you hurt?”

  “My arm and collarbone. Maybe ribs, too. Hurts to breathe.”

  She tapped the medical screen on the side of his suit. “No external bleeding. No holes in your suit. Visor’s cracked, but it’s not leaking. Don’t move. I’ll tell your suit to give you something for the pain.”

  “No offense, but do you know what you’re doing?”

  “It’s a mild sedative, Vico. The system knows your size and weight. It won’t let me give you too much.”

  He felt a small prick in his arm, and in moments much of the pain subsided. His muscles relaxed. His breathing normalized. (He had
been taking short, quick breaths to keep his chest from expanding.) He turned to her and studied her face a moment. “You crashed your ship, Imala. That was stupid.”

  “Or you could say, ‘Thanks for saving my life, Imala. You’re the most amazing human being in the world and my hero.’”

  He smiled. “I was getting to that.”

  CHAPTER 25

  International Fleet

  A Juke mining vessel carried Mazer and the other survivors back to the Valas for the return flight to Luna. The mining ship docked above the freighter’s cargo bay and extended a tube down to the airlock. The medic team and several of the engineering techs were all waiting at the hatch inside. Victor came through the airlock first, and the medics whisked him away to the sickbay, with Imala close behind. Mazer came through the airlock next, pulling behind him the body bag that held Wit O’Toole. A pair of techs took it with the greatest reverence. There were also bags for ZZ, Deen, Bolshakov, and Caruso. Collecting Cocktail’s remains had been a messier business, but Bungy and Lobo had found some, and there was a smaller bag for him.

  The engineering techs then escorted Mazer and the others to the decon showers. Mazer was instructed to stand in a box while still wearing his radiation suit and to scrub himself clean with chemicals. If the technicians were bothered by the blood on his suit they gave no sign. Mazer then sucked up the chemicals and shed the suit for disposal. He was given clean clothes and then directed into a room barely bigger than a closet. There were storage cabinets on the wall, and a small holotable.

  “What am I doing in here?” Mazer asked the tech.

  “You have a holo from Earth, sir.” The man left and closed the door behind him.

  A holofield appeared above the table. Mazer put his head into the field and waited. A man’s head appeared. Midfifties, clean shaven, square jaw, buzzed head. Definitely military. Probably eastern European.

  “Captain Rackham, my name is Lieutenant Colonel Yulian Robinov of the Russian Ministry of Defense. I currently act as chair of Strategos, the international military body that operates under the direction of the United Nations and dictates orders to MOPs. Captain O’Toole reported directly to me.”

  Reported. Past tense. So he knew what had happened. “My condolences, sir. Captain O’Toole was the finest commander I have ever had the privilege to serve under.”

  “He was the finest soldier I have ever known. Period,” said Robinov. “His loss is a great tragedy. But I assure you his sacrifice today will be remembered.” He paused then continued. “What I am about to tell you now, Captain Rackham, is highly classified. In seventy-two hours, the entire world will know, but until that time I ask that you exercise discretion and not reveal this information to anyone. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In three days time, the New Zealand Special Air Service to which you belong will no longer exist. Nor will the Russian military, or the American military, or any national military for that matter. The leaders of the world are forming an International Fleet, a single global military force that will defend the human race against any future Formic attack. We have been divided throughout the course of this war, Captain, and that division was nearly our undoing. If we remain divided, the Formics will wipe us out of existence. It’s time to unite our strengths and resources. I’m sure I need not give the full speech to you.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Every active serviceman like yourself will have the option of finishing his years of committed military service with the International Fleet or enlisting with the IF for a new term of service. Our hope is that this announcement will inspire millions of new soldiers to join our cause. The key word here is inspire.

  “The Mobile Operations Police will be used as the model for the International Fleet. We’ll call MOPs a microcosm of what we hope to achieve on a global scale. If the victory today is reported as a MOPs victory, therefore, we will give Earth clear evidence that an international military is not only possible, but also has already achieved great victories. With less than a dozen MOPs, we brought the Formic army to its knees. Imagine the global security we can provide with a whole army of likeminded soldiers.”

  Mazer nodded. “So you’ll make heroes of Captain O’Toole and the other casualties, and bill this as a MOPs operation in order to build support for and acceptance of the fleet.”

  “It’s propaganda. We recognize that. But it’s necessary. This mission must be a MOPs mission. Lem Jukes served his purpose and will be given credit for such, but the soldiers were MOPs.”

  “Except for me and Shenzu.”

  “You two break the myth. Shenzu is an asset since he already helped facilitate an alliance between India and China. He embodies the International Fleet, in that sense. Plus the Chinese adore him. When he enlists, millions will do the same.”

  “Then there’s me,” said Mazer. “The unknown outsider, the soldier to whom Captain O’Toole gave command. If people know I was involved or led any aspect of this op, suddenly this isn’t a MOPs mission since I’m not technically a MOP.”

  “You see our dilemma.”

  “It’s easily solved, sir. I’ll never reveal my involvement in the operation. Mazer Rackham was never here. I don’t play the game you’d want me to play anyway. I don’t smile for cameras and speak to audiences. There are others far better suited to that.”

  “I see you are exactly the soldier Captain O’Toole said you are.”

  “I am the soldier I am largely because of him, sir.”

  Robinov seemed to relax. “Can I assume then that you will enlist in the International Fleet, Captain?”

  “If the paperwork is ready, sir, I’ll fill it out right now.”

  * * *

  Victor was sitting up in bed in a clinic on Luna with his arm and shoulder in an inflatable cast. Several news feeds on the wall-screen showed the live celebrations all over the world. China, the Americas, Europe, Africa. Parades, fireworks, raining confetti, people waving tiny flags to the camera.

  “Looks like we’re missing the party.”

  Victor turned. Lem stood at the doorway. “The war’s over,” said Victor. “That’s cause to celebrate.”

  Lem came and stood by the bed. “Doctor says your surgery went well. Both breaks were clean and easily repaired. You’ll make a full recovery.” He gestured at the room. “This is a company clinic, so you obviously won’t be charged for your care. Anything you want, just say the word, and the nurses will get it. Swiss chocolate. French pastries. Bavarian goat cheese. Go crazy.”

  “How long do I have to stay here?”

  “That’s up to you. The doctor is willing to discharge you this evening. Do you have a place to stay?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “We’ll put you in one of the company suites. You can stay there for a couple of weeks until you get your own place.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t intend to stay on Luna.”

  “You haven’t even heard my job offer yet. You’d be working directly with Benyawe and her team dismantling and analyzing Formic tech. She told me if I left the clinic without signing you, I was in big trouble.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but my priority now is to help my family.”

  “Doing what? Salvage work? You’ll help them far more by working for me, Victor. I’d pay you very well. You could transfer what you earn directly to them.”

  “My family is getting out of the salvage trade. They want to retrofit their ship with mining equipment. Money can’t do that. I can.”

  “Money can do anything, Vico, if there’s enough of it.”

  “What about Imala?”

  “What about her?”

  “Are you offering her a job as well?”

  “My father offered her a job before the invasion. She threw the offer back in his face. He’d never allow me to bring her on after a move like that. And anyway, she’s not an engineer, which is what I need.”

  “I’m not an engineer either.”

  “You don’t have a de
gree maybe, but you know the principles better than most. I’d rather hire you than ten stuckups with Ph.D.s.”

  It was a tempting offer. Victor liked Benyawe. And it was the kind of work he had always wanted to do. Meaningful, inventive work. Most of the repairs he had made on El Cavador were fairly mindless—putting sprocket A back with sprocket B. But occasionally the work had required him to throw out a part entirely and build something new from scratch. A better part. A more efficient design. A machine that did everything the previous part did but which required less energy or produced less heat. That was the work he had enjoyed: the meticulous disassembly of something to understand how it operated, followed by the careful application of those principles to build something new. It was exactly what Lem was offering.

  The only problem: It was Lem who was offering it.

  “I appreciate the offer, Lem, but right now I can’t.”

  Lem nodded. “Six months to a year from now, after you’ve helped your family, maybe you’ll change your mind. Contact me then.”

  “I will.”

  Lem sat in the recliner by the bed and leaned back with his hands behind his head. “I’m also here to inform you that the charges against you from the Lunar Trade Department have been dropped, including the charge of fleeing from custody, which is a serious felony. Charges against Imala were dropped as well. It wasn’t hard to do. We simply showed the LTD how their rejection of your evidence of the invasion was the primary reason why Earth was so unprepared. They locked you up and buried your evidence in red tape when they should have announced you immediately to the world. When we threatened to file suit, claiming that their willful negligence resulted in the destruction of a good portion of our corporate fleet and personnel, they did whatever we asked.” He shrugged. “Of course, we’ll probably end up suing them anyway.”

  “Thanks for clearing my name.”

  “Lawyers are the deadliest of weapons, Victor. Make sure the best ones are always on your side.”

  There was a knock. Imala stepped into the room. “The nurses told me you were awake.”