Nova 1

by Anthology

  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 cutting 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 2900s 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-arms 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 him that he might find himself still on this exposed seat in the middle of the battle; they were already approaching the edge of the mine field, 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 signaling 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. Brenners 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 out 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. “I
t’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 time 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 seem to keep up. But you’ve that spark, somehow.”

  2909 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?”

  “Of course.”

  “If a human’s leg is broken very badly, what I believe they call a compound spiral fracture, is it possible for the human doctors to take out a section of the bone and replace it with a metal substitute?”

  “I don’t know,” 2900 answered. “What does it matter?” Vaguely 2910 said, “I think I knew of a football player once they did that to. At least, I seem now to remember it . . . I had forgotten for a moment.”

  Outside the bugles were blowing again.

  Near him the dying HORAR moaned.

  An American news magazine sometimes carries, just inside its front cover among the advertisements, a column devoted to news of its own people. Two weeks after a correspondent named Thomas filed the last article of a series which had attracted national and even international attention, the following item appeared there:

  The death of a staffer in war is no unique occurrence in the history of this publication, but there is a particular poignancy about that of the young man whose stories, paradoxically, to conceal his number have been signed only with his name (see PRESS). The airborne relief force, which arrived too late to save the camp at which he had resigned

  his humanity to work and fight, reports that he apparently died assisting the assigned SBS specialist in caring for the creatures whose lot he had, as nearly as a human can, made his own. Both he and the specialist were bayonetted when the camp was overrun.

  LOVE STORY IN THREE ACTS

  by David Gerrold

  The author of this story is young enough to live in the up-to-the-minute modern, electronic world of today. He is also old enough to be concerned about our relationship to the machines that we are manufacturing in ever greater numbers. And he is well acquainted with the gadgetry of flashing lights, glasseyes and twisting wires—one of his television plays was a much-acclaimed episode in the “Star Trek” series—and has no fear of them. With cool craft he takes a long look at some of the possibilities of the future.

  Act One

  After a while John grunted and rolled off Marsha. He lay there for a bit, listening to the dawn whispering through the apartment, the sound of the air processor whirring somewhere, and the occasional rasp of his own breath and that of Marsha’s too. Every so often, there was a short sharp inhalation, as if to say, “Yeah, well . . .”

  “Yeah, well . . . John muttered and began tugging at the metal reaction-monitor bands on his wrists. He sat on the edge of the bed, still pulling at the clasps, the fastenings coming loose with a soft popping sound. He reached down and unfastened similar bands from his ankles and let those fall carelessly to the floor.

  Then he stood and pad-padded barefoot across the floor to the typewriter-sized console on the dresser. Behind him he heard the creak of the bed as Marsha levered herself up on one elbow. “What does it say?” she demanded.

  “Just a minute, will you,” John snapped. “Give me a chance.” He ripped the readout from the computer and went through the motions of studying it. This was the deluxe model which recorded the actual moment-to-moment physical reactio
ns of the band-wearers. The jagged spiky lines sprawled carelessly across the neat ruled graphs meant little to him—they were there for the technicians, not the laymen—but at the top of the sheet was the computers printed analysis. Even before he looked at it, John knew it would be bad.

  “Well . . .?” Marsha demanded acidly, “did we enjoy ourselves?”

  “Yeah . . .” he muttered. “About thirty-four percent . . .”

  “Hell!” she said, and threw herself back on the bed. She lay there staring at the ceiling, “Hell . . .”

  “I wish you wouldn’t swear so much,” he muttered, still looking at the readout.

  “Hell,” she said again, just to see him flinch. She reached over to the night stand and thumbed a cigarette out of the pack.

  “And I wish you wouldn’t smoke so much either. Kissing you is like kissing another man.”

  She looked back at him, “I’ve always wondered what your previous experience was. Your technique with women is terrible.” She inhaled deeply as the cigarette caught flame.

  “Aaaa,” said John and padded into the bathroom. As he stood there, he gazed dourly at his hands. He could still see the imprint of the monitor bands on his wrists.

  Every time they did it, she had to know, so they used the damned bands; and every time the score was lower than before— and so they both knew. Who needed a machine to tell him when he was enjoying himself in bed? You knew when it was good and you knew when it was bad. So who needed the machine?

  He finished and flushed the toilet, then splashed his hands briefly under the faucet—more from a sense of duty than from any of cleanliness. He shook off the excess water, and padded out of the bathroom, not even bothering to turn off the light.