Old Man's War

by John Scalzi

  “So you and I are all that’s left of our universe,” I said.

  “It’s a pretty good bet that universe continues to exist,” Alan said. “But we are almost certainly the only two people from it in this universe.”

  “I don’t know what to think about that,” I said.

  “Try not to let it worry you too much,” Alan said. “From a day-to-day point of view, all this universe hopping doesn’t matter. Functionally speaking, everything is pretty much the same no matter what universe you’re in.”

  “So why do we need starships at all?” Ed asked.

  “Quite obviously, to get where you’re going once you’re in your new universe,” Alan said.

  “No, no,” Ed said. “I mean, if you can just pop from one universe to another, why not just do it planet to planet, instead of using spaceships at all? Just skip people directly to a planet surface. It’d save us from getting shot up in space, that’s for sure.”

  “The universe prefers to have skipping done away from large gravity wells, like planets and stars,” Alan said. “Particularly when skipping to another universe. You can skip very close to a gravity well, which is why we enter new universes near our destinations, but skipping out is much easier the farther away you are from one, which is why we always travel a bit before we skip. There’s actually an exponential relationship that I could show you, but—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, I don’t have the math,” Ed said.

  Alan was about to provide a placating response when all of our BrainPals flicked on. The Modesto had just received news of the Coral Massacre. And in whatever universe you were in, it was horrifying stuff.

  Coral was the fifth planet humans settled, and the first one that was indisputably better acclimated for humans than even Earth itself. It was geologically stable, with weather systems that spread a temperate growing zone across most of its generous landmasses, and laden with native plant and animal species genetically similar enough to Earth’s that they fulfilled human nutritional and esthetic needs. Early on, there was talk of naming the colony Eden, but it was suggested that such a name was karmically tantamount to asking for trouble.

  Coral was chosen instead, for the corallike creatures that created gloriously diverse island archipelagos and undersea reefs around the planet’s equatorial tropical zone. Human expansion on Coral was uncharacteristically kept to a minimum, and those humans who did live there largely chose to live in a simple, almost pre-industrial way. It was one of the few places in the universe where humans attempted to adapt to the existing ecosystem rather than plow it over and introduce, say, corn and cattle. And it worked; the human presence, small and accommodating, dovetailed into Coral’s biosphere and thrived in a modest and controlled way.

  It was therefore entirely unprepared for the arrival of the Rraey invasion force, which carried in its numbers a one-to-one ratio of soldiers to colonists. The garrison of CDF troops stationed above and on Coral put up a brief but valiant fight before being overwhelmed; the colonists likewise made the Rraey pay for their attack. In short order, however, the colony was laid waste and the surviving colonists literally butchered, as the Rraey had long ago developed a taste for human meat when they could get it.

  One of the snippets broadcast to us via BrainPal was a segment of an intercepted food program, in which one of the Rraey’s most famous celebrity chefs discussed the best way to carve up a human for multiple food uses, neck bones being particularly prized for soups and consommés. In addition to sickening us, the video was anecdotal proof that the Coral Massacre was planned in enough detail that they brought along even second-rate Rraey celebrities to take part in the festivities. Clearly, the Rraey were planning to stay.

  The Rraey wasted no time toward their primary goal for the invasion. After all the colonists had been killed, the Rraey transported down platforms to begin strip-mining Coral’s islands. The Rraey had previously tried to negotiate with the Colonial government to mine the islands; corallike reefs had been extensive on the Rraey homeworld until a combination of industrial pollution and commercial mining had destroyed them. The Colonial government refused permission for mining, both because of Coral’s colonists’ wishes to keep the planet whole, and because the Rraey’s anthropophagous tendencies were well known. No one wanted the Rraey overflying the colonies, looking for unsuspecting humans to turn into jerky.

  The Colonial government’s failing was in not recognizing what a priority the Rraey had made coral mining—beyond its commerce, there was a religious aspect involved that Colonial diplomats grossly misinterpreted—or the lengths that the Rraey were willing to go to undertake the operation. The Rraey and the Colonial government had mixed it up a few times; relations were never good (how comfortable can you really be with a race that sees you as a nutritious part of a complete breakfast). By and large, however, they kept to their knitting and we to ours. It was only now, as the last of the Rraey’s native coral reefs choked toward extinction, that the extent of their desire for Coral’s resources came to slug us in the face. Coral was theirs, and we’d have to hit them harder than they had hit us to get it back.

  “It’s pretty fucking grim,” Lieutenant Keyes was telling the squad leaders, “and it’s going to be grimmer by the time we get there.”

  We were in the platoon ready room, cups of coffee growing cold as we accessed page upon page of atrocity reports and surveillance information from the Coral system. What skip drones weren’t blasted from the sky by the Rraey reported back a continuing stream of inbound Rraey ships, both for battle and for hauling coral. In less than two days after the Coral Massacre, almost a thousand Rraey ships hovered in the space above the planet, waiting to begin their predation in earnest.

  “Here’s what we know,” Keyes said, and popped up a graphic of the Coral system in our BrainPals. “We estimate that the largest portion of Rraey ship activity in the Coral system is commercial and industrial; from what we know of their ship design, about a quarter of the ships, three hundred or so, have military-grade offensive and defensive capabilities, and many of those are troop transports, with minimal shielding and firepower. But the ones that are battleship class are both larger and tougher than our equivalent ships. We also estimate up to one hundred thousand Rraey forces on the surface, and they’ve begun to entrench for invasion.

  “They’re expecting us to fight for Coral, but our best intelligence suggests they expect us to launch an attack in four to six days—the amount of time it will take us to maneuver enough of our big ships into skip position. They know CDF prefers to make overwhelming displays of force, and that is going to take us some time.”

  “So when are we going to attack?” Alan asked.

  “About eleven hours from now,” Keyes said. We all shifted uncomfortably in our chairs.

  “How can that work, sir?” Ron Jensen asked. “The only ships we’ll have available are those that are already at skip distance, or those that will be in the next few hours. How many of those can there be?”

  “Sixty-two, counting the Modesto,” Keyes said, and our BrainPals downloaded the list of available ships. I briefly noted the presence of the Hampton Roads in the list; that was the ship to which Harry and Jesse were posted. “Six more ships are increasing speed to reach skip distance, but we can’t count on them to be there when we strike.”

  “Christ, Keyes,” said Ed McGuire. “That’s five to one on the ships, and two to one on ground forces, assuming we can land them all. I think I like our tradition of overwhelming force better.”

  “By the time we have enough big ships in line to slug it out, they’ll be ready for us,” Keyes said. “We’re better off sending in a smaller force while they’re unprepared and doing as much damage as possible right now. There will be a larger force in four days: two hundred ships, packing heat. If we do our job right, they’ll have short work of whatever remains of the Rraey forces.”

  Ed snorted. “Not that we’ll be around to appreciate it.”

  Keyes smiled tightly. “
Such lack of faith. Look, people, I know this isn’t a happy hike on the moon. But we’re not going to be stupid about this. We’re not going to slug it out toe to toe. We’re going to come in with targeted goals. We’re going to hit troop transports on the way in to keep them from bringing in additional ground troops. We’re going to land troops to disrupt mining operations before they get going and make it hard for the Rraey to target us without hitting their own troops and equipment. We’ll hit commercial and industrial craft as opportunities present themselves, and we’ll attempt to draw the big guns out of Coral orbit, so when our reinforcements arrive, we’ll be in front and behind them.”

  “I’d like to go back to the part about the ground troops,” Alan said. “We’re landing troops and then our ships are going to try to draw Rraey ships away? Does that mean for us ground troops what I think it does?”

  Keyes nodded. “We’ll be cut off for at least three or four days.”

  “Swell,” Jensen said.

  “It’s war, you jackasses,” Keyes snapped. “I’m sorry it’s not terribly convenient or comfortable for you.”

  “What happens if the plan doesn’t work and our ships are shot out of the sky?” I asked.

  “Well, then I suppose we’re fucked, Perry,” Keyes said. “But let’s not go in with that assumption. We’re professionals, we have a job to do. This is what we’re trained for. The plan has risks, but they’re not stupid risks, and if it works, we’ll have the planet back and have done serious damage to the Rraey. Let’s all go on the assumption we’re going to make a difference, what do you say? It’s a nutty idea but it just might work. And if you get behind it, the chances of it working are that much better. All right?”

  More shifting in chairs. We weren’t entirely convinced, but there was little to be done. We were going in whether we liked it or not.

  “Those six ships that might make it to the party,” Jensen said, “who are they?”

  Keyes took a second to access the information. “The Little Rock, the Mobile, the Waco, the Muncie, the Burlington and the Sparrowhawk,” he said.

  “The Sparrowhawk?” Jensen said. “No shit.”

  “What about the Sparrowhawk?” I asked. The name was unusual; battalion-strength spaceships were traditionally named after midsize cities.

  “Ghost Brigades, Perry,” Jensen said. “CDF Special Forces. Industrial-strength motherfuckers.”

  “I’ve never heard of them before,” I said. Actually I thought I had, at some point, but the when and where escaped me.

  “The CDF saves them for special occasions,” Jensen said. “They don’t play nice with others. It’d be nice to have them there when we got onto the planet, though. Save us the trouble of dying.”

  “It’d be nice, but it’s probably not going to happen,” Keyes said. “This is our show, boys and girls. For better or worse.”

  The Modesto skipped into Coral orbital space ten hours later and in its first few seconds of arrival was struck by six missiles fired at close range by a Rraey battle cruiser. The Modesto’s aft starboard engine array shattered, sending the ship wildly tumbling ass over head. My squad and Alan’s were packed into a transport shuttle when the missiles hit; the force of the blast’s sudden inertial shift slammed several of our soldiers into the sides of the transport. In the shuttle bay, loose equipment and material were flung across the bay, striking one of the other transports but missing ours. The shuttles, locked down by electromagnets, thankfully stayed put.

  I activated Asshole to check the ship’s status. The Modesto was severely damaged and active scanning by the Rraey ship indicated it was lining up for another series of missiles.

  “It’s time to go,” I yelled to Fiona Eaton, our pilot.

  “I don’t have clearance from Control,” she said.

  “In about ten seconds we’re going to get hit by another volley of missiles,” I said. “There’s your fucking clearance.” Fiona growled.

  Alan, who was also plugged into the Modesto mainframe, yelled from the back. “Missiles away,” he said. “Twenty-six seconds to impact.”

  “Is that enough time to get out?” I asked Fiona.

  “We’ll see,” she said, and opened a channel to the other shuttles. “This is Fiona Eaton, piloting Transport Six. Be advised I will perform emergency bay door procedure in three seconds. Good luck.” She turned to me. “Strap in now,” she said, and punched a red button.

  The bay doors were outlined with a sharp shock of light; the crack of the doors blasting away was lost in the roar of escaping air as the doors tumbled out. Everything not strapped down launched out the hole; beyond the debris, the star field lurched sickeningly as the Modesto spun. Fiona fed thrust to the engines and waited just long enough for the debris to clear the bay door before cutting the electromagnetic tethers and launching the shuttle out the door. Fiona compensated for the Modesto’s spin as she exited, but just barely; we scraped the roof going out.

  I accessed the launch bay’s video feed. Other shuttles were blasting out of the bay doors by twos and threes. Five made it out before the second volley of missiles crashed into the ship, abruptly changing the trajectory of the Modesto’s spin and smashing several shuttles already hovering into the shuttle bay floor. At least one exploded; debris struck the camera and knocked it out.

  “Cut your BrainPal feed to the Modesto,” Fiona said. “They can use it to track us. Tell your squads. Verbally.” I did.

  Alan came forward. “We’ve got a couple of minor wounds back there,” he said, motioning to our soldiers, “but nothing too serious. What’s the plan?”

  “I’ve got us headed toward Coral and I’ve cut the engines,” Fiona said. “They’re probably looking for thrust signatures and BrainPal transmissions to lock missiles on, so as long as we look dead, they might leave us alone long enough for us to get into the atmosphere.”

  “Might?” Alan said.

  “If you’ve got a better plan, I’m all ears,” Fiona said.

  “I have no idea what’s going on,” Alan said, “so I’m happy to go with your plan.”

  “What the hell happened back there anyway?” Fiona said. “They hit us as we came out of skip drive. There’s no way they could have known where we would be.”

  “Maybe we were just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Alan said.

  “I don’t think so,” I said, and pointed out the window. “Look.”

  I pointed to a Rraey battle cruiser to port that was sparkling as missiles thrust away from the cruiser. At extreme starboard, a CDF cruiser popped into existence. A few seconds later the missiles connected, hitting the CDF cruiser broadside.

  “No fucking way,” Fiona said.

  “They know exactly where our ships are coming out,” Alan said. “It’s an ambush.”

  “How the fuck are they doing that?” Fiona demanded. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “Alan?” I said. “You’re the physicist.”

  Alan stared at the damaged CDF cruiser, now listing and struck again by another volley. “No ideas, John. This is all new to me.”

  “This sucks,” Fiona said.

  “Keep it together,” I said. “We’re in trouble and losing it is not going to help.”

  “If you’ve got a better plan, I’m all ears,” Fiona said again.

  “Is it okay to access my BrainPal if I’m not trying to reach the Modesto?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Fiona said. “As long as no transmissions leave the shuttle, we’re fine.”

  I accessed Asshole and pulled up a geographic map of Coral. “Well,” I said, “I think we can pretty much say the attack on the coral-mining facility is canceled for today. Not enough of us made it off the Modesto for a realistic assault, and I don’t think all of us are going to make it to the planet surface in one piece. Not every pilot’s going to be as quick on her feet as you are, Fiona.”

  Fiona nodded, and I could tell she relaxed a little. Praise is always a good thing, especially in a crisis.

  “Okay
, here’s the new plan,” I said, and transmitted the map to Fiona and Alan. “Rraey forces are concentrated on the coral reefs and in the Colonial cities, here on this coast. So we go here”—I pointed to the big fat middle of Coral’s largest continent—“hide in this mountain range and wait for the second wave.”

  “If they come,” Alan said. “A skip drone is bound to get back to Phoenix. They’ll know that the Rraey know they’re coming. If they know that, they might not come at all.”

  “Oh, they’ll come,” I said. “They might not come when we want them to, is all. We have to be ready to wait for them. The good news here is Coral is human friendly. We can eat off the land for as long as we need to.”

  “I’m not in the mood to colonize,” Alan said.

  “It’s not permanent,” I said. “And it’s better than the alternative.”

  “Good point,” Alan said.

  I turned to Fiona. “What do you need to do to get us to where we’re going in one piece?”

  “A prayer,” she said. “We’re in good shape now because we look like floating junk, but anything that hits the atmosphere that’s larger than a human body is going to be tracked by Rraey forces. As soon as we start maneuvering, they’re going to notice us.”

  “How long can we stay up here?” I asked.

  “Not that long,” Fiona said. “No food, no water, and even with our new, improved bodies, there’s a couple dozen of us in here and we’re going to run out of fresh air pretty fast.”

  “How long after we hit the atmosphere are you going to have to start driving?” I asked.

  “Soon,” she said. “If we start tumbling, I’ll never get control of it again. We’ll just fall down until we die.”

  “Do what you can,” I said. She nodded. “All right, Alan,” I said. “Time to alert the troops about the change in plan.”