The Mammoth Book of SF Wars

by Ian Whates

  Then an improved model had done away with those wires and some imaginative officer had remembered that “Mr Punch” had been a knockabout marionette – and the wireless improvement was suddenly very easy to name. But, like Punch and its fairy-tale namesake, it was vulnerable if it went out into the world alone.

  A brave man (and the Enemy had many) could hide himself until Pinocchio was within touching distance. And a well-instructed one could then place a hand grenade or a bottle of gasoline where it would destroy him. Pinocchio’s three-inch-thick armour needed the protection of flesh, and since he cost as much as a small city and could (if properly protected) fight a regiment to a stand, he got it.

  Two scouts from 2910’s squad preceded him through the jungle, forming the point of the diamond. Flankers moved on either side of him “beating the bush” and, when it seemed advisable, firing a pattern of flechettes into any suspicious-looking piece of undergrowth. Cheerful, reliable 2909, the assistant squad leader, with one other HORAR formed the rear guard. As patrol leader 2900’s position was behind Pinocchio, and as squad leader 2910’s was in front.

  The jungle was quiet with an eerie stillness, and it was dark under the big trees. “Though I walk in the valley of the shadow …”

  Made tiny by the phones, 2900 squeaked in his ear, “Keep the left flankers further out!” 2910 acknowledged and trotted over to put his own stamp on the correction, although the flankers, 2913, 2914 and 2915, had already heard it and were moving to obey. There was almost no chance of trouble this soon, but that was no excuse for a slovenly formation. As he squeezed between two trees something caught his eye and he halted for a moment to examine it. It was a skull: a skull of bone rather than a smooth HORAR skull of steel, and so probably an Enemy’s.

  A big “E” Enemy’s, he thought to himself. A man to whom the normal HORAR conditioning of exaggerated respect bordering on worship did not apply.

  Tiny and tinny, “Something holding you up, 2910?”

  “Be right there.” He tossed the skull aside. A man whom even a HORAR could disobey; a man even a HORAR could kill. The skull had looked old, but it could not have been old. The ants would have picked it clean in a few days, and in a few weeks it would rot. But it was probably at least seventeen or eighteen years old.

  The ornithocopter passed them on flapping wings, flying its own search pattern. The patrol went on.

  Casually 2910 asked his helmet mike, “How far are we gong? Far as the creek?”

  2900’s voice squeaked, “We’ll work our way down the bank a quarter mile, then cut west,” then with noticeable sarcasm added, “if that’s OK with you?”

  Unexpectedly Lieutenant Kyle’s voice came over the phones. “2910’s your second in command, 2900. He has a duty to keep himself informed of your plans.”

  But 2910, realizing that a real HORAR would not have asked the question, suddenly also realized that he knew more about HORARS than the company commander did. It was not surprising – he ate and slept with them in a way Kyle could not, but it was disquieting. He probably knew more than Brenner, strict biological mechanics excepted, as well.

  The scouts had reported that they could see the sluggish jungle stream they called the creek when Lieutenant Kyle’s voice came over the phones again. As routinely as he had delivered his mild rebuke to 2900 he announced, “Situation Red here. An apparent battalion-level attack hitting the North Point. Let’s suck it back in, patrol.”

  Pinocchio swivelled 180° by locking his right tread, and the squad turned in a clockwise circle around him. Kyle said distantly, “The recoillesses don’t seem to have found the range yet, so I’m going out to give them a hand. Mr Brenner will be holding down the radio for the next few minutes.”

  2900 transmitted, “We’re on our way, sir.”

  Then 2910 saw a burst of automatic weapon’s fire cut his scouts down. In an instant the jungle was a pandemonium of sound.

  Pinocchio’s radar had traced the bullets back to their source and his main armament slammed a 155 mm shell at it, but crossfire was suddenly slicing in from all around them. The bullets striking Pinocchio’s turret screamed away like damned souls. 2910 saw grenades arc out of nowhere and something struck his thigh with terrible force. He made himself say, “I’m hit, 2909; take the squad,” before he looked at it. Mortar shells were dropping in now and if his assistant acknowledged, he did not hear.

  A big of jagged metal from a grenade or a mortar round had laid the thigh open, but apparently missed the big artery supplying the lower leg. There was no spurt, only a rapid welling of blood, and shock still held the injury numb. Forcing himself, he pulled apart the lips of the wound to make sure it was clear of foreign matter. It was very deep but the bone was not broken; at least so it seemed.

  Keeping as low as he could, he used his trench knife to cut away the cloth of his trousers leg, then rigged a tourniquet with his belt. His aid packet contained a pad of gauze, and tape to hold it in place. When he had finished he lay still, holding his M-19 and looking for a spot where its fire might do some good. Pinocchio was firing his turret machine gun in routine bursts, sanitizing likely looking patches of jungle; otherwise the fight seemed to have quieted down.

  2900’s voice in his ear called, “Wounded? We got any wounded?”

  He managed to say, “Me. 2910.” A HORAR would feel some pain, but not nearly as much as a man. He would have to fake the insensitivity as best he could. Suddenly it occurred to him that he would be invalided out, would not have to use the letter, and he was glad.

  “We thought you bought it, 2910. Glad you’re still around.”

  Then Brenner’s voice cut through the transmission, jumpy with panic: “We’re being overrun here! Get the Pinocchio back at once.”

  In spite of his pain 2910 felt contempt. Only Brenner would say “the Pinocchio”. 2900 sent, “Coming, sir,” and unexpectedly was standing over him, lifting him up.

  He tried to look around for the squad. “We lose many?”

  “Four dead and you.” Perhaps no other human would have detected the pain in 2900’s harsh voice. “You can’t walk with that, can you?”

  “I couldn’t keep up.”

  “You ride Pinocchio then.” With surprising gentleness the platoon leader lifted him into the little seat the robot tank’s director used when road speeds made running impractical. What was left of the squad formed a skirmish line ahead. As they began to trot forward he could hear 2900 calling, “Base camp! Base camp! What’s your situation there, sir?”

  “Lieutenant Kyle’s dead,” Brenner’s voice came back. “3003 just came in and told me Kyle’s dead!”

  “Are you holding?”

  “I don’t know.” More faintly 2910 could hear him asking, “Are they holding, 3003?”

  “Use the periscope, sir. Or if it still works, the bird.”

  Brenner chattered, “I don’t know if we’re holding or not. 3003 was hit and now he’s dead. I don’t think he knew anyway. You’ve got to hurry.”

  It was contrary to regulations, but 2910 flipped off his helmet phone to avoid hearing 2900’s patient reply. With Brenner no longer gibbering in his ears he could hear not too distantly the sound of explosions which must be coming from the camp. Small fire made an almost incessant buzz as a background for the whizz–bang! of incoming shells and the coughing of the camp’s own mortars.

  Then the jungle was past and the camp lay in front of them. Geysers of mud seemed to be erupting from it everywhere. The squad broke into a full run and, even while he rolled, Pinocchio was firing his 155 in support of the camp.

  They faked us out, 2910 reflected. His leg throbbed painfully but distantly and he felt light-headed and dizzy – as though he were an ornithocopter hovering in the misty rain over his own body. With the light-headedness came a strange clarity of mind.

  They faked us out. They got us used to little probes that pulled off at sunrise, and then when we sent Pinocchio out they were going to ambush us and take the camp. It suddenly occurred to hi
m that he might find himself still on this exposed seat in the middle of the battle; they were already approaching the edge of the minefield, and the HORARS ahead were moving into squad column so as not to overlap the edges of the cleared lane. “Where are we going, Pinocchio?” he asked, then realized his phone was still off. He reactivated it and repeated the question.

  Pinocchio droned, “Injured HORAR personnel will be delivered to the Command Post for Synthetic Biology Service attention,” but 2910 was no longer listening. In front of them he could hear what sounded like fifty bugles signalling for another Enemy attack.

  The south side of the triangular camp was deserted, as though the remainder of their platoon had been called away to reinforce the First and Second; but with the sweeping illogic of war there was no Enemy where they might have entered unresisted.

  “Request assistance from Synthetic Biology Service for injured HORAR personnel,” Pinocchio was saying. Talking did not interfere with his firing the 155, but when Brenner did not come out after a minute or more, 2910 managed to swing himself down, catching his weight on his good leg. Pinocchio rolled away at once.

  The CP bunker was twisted out of shape, and he could see where several near-misses had come close to knocking it out completely. Brenner’s white face appeared in the doorway as he was about to go in. “Who’s that?”

  “2910. I’ve been hit – let me come in and lie down.”

  “They won’t send us an air strike. I radioed for one and they say this whole part of the country’s socked in; they say they wouldn’t be able to find us.”

  “Get out of the door. I’m hit and I want to come in and lie down.” At the last moment he remembered to add, “Sir.”

  Brenner moved reluctantly aside. It was dim in the bunker but not dark.

  “You want me to look at that leg?”

  2910 had found an empty stretcher, and he laid himself on it, moving awkwardly to keep from flexing his wound. “You don’t have to,” he said. “Look after some of the others.” It wouldn’t do for Brenner to begin poking around. Even rattled as he was he might notice something.

  The SBS man went back to his radio instead. His frantic voice sounded remote and faint. It was ecstasy to lie down.

  At some vast distance, voices were succeeding voices, argument meeting argument, far off. He wondered where he was.

  Then he heard the guns and knew. He tried to roll onto his side and at the second attempt managed to do it, although the light-headedness was worse than ever. 2893 was lying on the stretcher next to him, and 2893 was dead.

  At the other end of the room, the end that was technically the CP, he could hear Brenner talking to 2900. “If there were a chance,” Brenner was saying, “you know I’d do it, Platoon Leader.”

  “What’s happening?” he asked. “What’s the matter?” He was too dazed to keep up the HORAR role well, but neither of them noticed.

  “It’s a division,” Brenner said. “A whole Enemy division. We can’t hold off that kind of force.”

  He raised himself on his elbow. “What do you mean?”

  “I talked to them … I raised them on the radio, and it’s a whole division. They got one of their officers who could speak English to talk to me. They want us to surrender.”

  “They say it’s a division, sir,” 2900 put in evenly.

  2910 shook his head, trying to clear it. “Even if it were, with Pinocchio …”

  “The Pinocchio’s gone.”

  2900 said soberly, “We tried to counterattack, 2910, and they knocked Pinocchio and and threw us back. How are you feeling?”

  “They’ve got at least a division,” Brenner repeated stubbornly.

  2910’s mind was racing now, but it was as though it were running endless wind sprints on a treadmill. If Brenner were going to give up, 2900 would never even consider disobeying, no matter how much he might disagree. There were various ways, though, in which he could convince Brenner he was a human being – given time. And Brenner could, Brenner would, tell the Enemy, so that he too would be saved. Eventually the war would be over and he could go home. No one would blame him. If Brenner were going—

  Brenner was asking, “How many effectives left?”

  “Less than forty, sir.” There was nothing in 2900’s tone to indicate that a surrender meant certain death to him, but it was true. The Enemy took only human prisoners. (Could 2900 be convinced? Could he make any of the HORARS understand, when they had eaten and joked with him, knew no physiology, and thought all men not Enemy demigods? Would they believe him if he were to try to take command?)

  He could see Brenner gnawing at his lower lip. “I’m going to surrender,” the SBS man said at last. A big one, mortar or bombardment rocket, exploded near the CP, but he appeared not to notice it. There was a wondering, hesitant note in his voice – as though he were still trying to accustom himself to the idea.

  “Sir—” 2900 began.

  “I forbid you to question my orders.” The SBS man sounded firmer now. “But I’ll ask them to make an exception this time, Platoon Leader. Not to do—” his voice faltered slightly “—what they usually do to nonhumans.”

  “It’s not that,” 2900 said stolidly. “It’s the folding up. We don’t mind dying, sir, but we want to die fighting.”

  One of the wounded moaned, and 2910 wondered for a moment, if he, like himself, had been listening.

  Brenner’s self-control snapped. “You’ll die any damn way I tell you!”

  “Wait.” It was suddenly difficult for 2910 to talk, but he managed to get their attention. “2900, Mr Brenner hasn’t actually ordered you to surrender yet, and you’re needed on the line. Go now and let me talk to him.” He saw the HORAR leader hesitate and added, “He can reach you on your helmet phone if he wants to; but go now and fight.”

  With a jerky motion 2900 turned and ducked out the narrow bunker door. Brenner, taken by surprise, said, “What is it, 2910? What’s gotten into you?”

  He tried to rise, but he was too weak. “Come here, Mr Brenner,” he said. When the SBS man did not move he added, “I know a way out.”

  “Through the jungle?” Brenner scoffed in his shaken voice. “That’s absurd.” But he came. He leaned over the stretcher, and before he could catch his balance 2910 had pulled him down.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Can’t you tell? That’s the point of my trench knife you feel on your neck.”

  Brenner tried to struggle, then subsided when the pressure of the knife became too great. “You … can’t … do this.”

  “I can. Because I’m not a HORAR. I’m a man, Brenner, and it’s very important for you to understand that.” He felt rather than saw the look of incredulity on Brenner’s face. “I’m a reporter, and two years ago when the Simulations in this group were ready for activation I was planted among them. I trained with them and now I’ve fought with them, and if you’ve been reading the right magazine you must have seen some of the stories I’ve filed. And since you’re a civilian too, with no more right to command than I have, I’m taking charge.” He could sense Brenner’s swallow.

  “Those stories were frauds – it’s a trick to gain public acceptance of the HORARS. Even back in Washington everybody in SBS knows about them.”

  The chuckle hurt, but 2910 chuckled. “Then why’ve I got this knife at your neck, Mr Brenner?”

  The SBS man was shaking. “Don’t you see how it was, 2910? No human could live as a HORAR does, running miles without tiring and only sleeping a couple of hours a night, so we did the next best thing. Believe me, I was briefed on it all when I was assigned to this camp; I know all about you, 2910.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Damn it, let me go. You’re a HORAR, and you can’t treat a human like this.” He winced as the knife pressed cruelly against his throat, then blurted, “They couldn’t make a reporter a HORAR, so they took a HORAR. They took you, 2910, and made you a reporter. They implanted all the memories of an actual man in your mind at the same ti
me they ran the regular instinct tapes. They gave you a soul, if you like, but you are a HORAR.”

  “They must have thought that up as a cover for me, Brenner. That’s what they told you so you wouldn’t report it or try to deactivate me when I acted unlike the others. I’m a man.”

  “You couldn’t be.”

  “People are tougher than you think, Brenner; you’ve never tried.”

  “I’m telling you—”

  “Take the bandage off my leg.”

  “What?”

  He pressed again with the point of the knife. “The bandage. Take it off.”

  When it was off he directed, “Now spread the lips of the wound.” With shaking fingers Brenner did so. “You see the bone? Go deeper if you have to. What is it?”

  Brenner twisted his neck to look at him directly, his eyes rolling. “It’s stainless steel.”

  2910 looked then and saw the bright metal at the bottom of the cleft of bleeding flesh; the knife slid into Brenner’s throat without resistance, almost as though it moved itself. He wiped the blade on Brenner’s dead arm before he sheathed it.

  Ten minutes later when 2900 returned to the CP he said nothing; but 2910 saw his eyes and knew that 2900 knew. From his stretcher he said, “You’re in full command now.”

  2900 glanced again at Brenner’s body. A second later he said slowly, “He was a sort of Enemy, wasn’t he? Because he wanted to surrender, and Lieutenant Kyle would never have done that.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “But I couldn’t think of it that way while he was alive.” 2900 looked at him thoughtfully. “You know, you have something, 2910. A spark. Something the rest of us lack.” For a moment he fingered his chin with one huge hand. “That’s why I made you a squad leader; that and to get you out of some work, because sometimes you couldn’t keep up. But you’ve that spark, somehow.”

  2910 said, “I know. How is it out there?”

  “We’re still holding. How do you feel?”

  “Dizzy. There’s a sort of black stuff all around the sides when I see. Listen, will you tell me something, if you can, before you go?”