The Swarm

by Orson Scott Card

  In moments, he had a sat link. His frequent exercises here at night were a good cover for his real purpose for coming. Captain Li no doubt knew about Bingwen’s trips to the hole, and he no doubt checked the sim database to ensure that Bingwen had indeed come to train. And so Bingwen did train, using the last few minutes of his visit to sign in to Mazer’s forum.

  For his username he had chosen the number and surname of a current Uruguayan soccer star, and whenever Bingwen posted, he dropped in the occasional Spanish slang or colloquialism to remove any suspicion that he might be Chinese. Even Mazer didn’t know who he was in the forum.

  He reviewed Mazer’s most recent submission and sketches for the nanoshield. Bingwen was no engineer, but he recognized a promising idea when he saw one. The design could work well in tunnel combat in space, as the shield could move to the front or rear of the soldier as needed, depending on the direction of attack. And since the shield could fluctuate in size and shape, it could accommodate the ever-changing widths and heights of the tunnels. It could even allow the soldier to pierce the shield with the barrel of a slaser and fire at the enemy without any fear of exposure.

  Bingwen expressed all of this in his post, adding who he thought might be the best manufacturer for such a tool. Juke Limited was obvious, but there were others as well. Gungsu Industries had shown promise in nanotech, as had Micronix—

  The screen went blank, his sat link severed. Why? Interference? The projection tube on the wall was still operative. As was his tablet. Which meant the problem was with the cable or the winch. Bingwen didn’t take any chances. He stored his gear and hustled for the exit. As he approached, he began to feel uneasy. He stopped, crouched, and turned up his helmet’s exterior mike to maximum so that he might pick up even the softest of sounds ahead. A whirring noise flooded his ears, and he recognized the sound of the winch cable unspooling as someone made a quick decent. It was not the same sound the winch made when Bingwen used it, however; this was a lower frequency, as if the cable was strained and carrying a heavier weight. An adult.

  Bingwen stayed where he was and listened. Feet touched the ground. A D-clip snapped and released. The winch screamed as it hauled up the line. There was a moment of silence, and then the whine of the winch returned: slow, strained, and steady—a second adult coming down.

  It was one in the morning. Whoever was coming was coming for him. He listened for voices but heard nothing, which meant they were either well trained or wearing full helmets that covered their faces and sealed to their suits. Bingwen ran through every possible frequency—including the encrypted ones—until he found the one they were using. Two voices. Men. Speaking Mandarin.

  “—dark as death down here.”

  “You go first.”

  “That hole’s not big enough for a dog to crawl through. You go first.”

  “Soldiers go in all the time. Move.”

  “Why don’t we wait for him outside? He’s got to come out sooner or later. We tag him when he pokes his head out.”

  “Then it won’t look like an accident. We’ve got our orders. If we leave the body deep enough they won’t find it for weeks.”

  “They’ll smell it for weeks, though.”

  “Just move.”

  Bingwen retreated back into the tunnel. He recognized those voices. They belonged to two of the recent transfers into the squadron, two of the thugs Captain Li had brought in. Typical. Captain Li had probably given them the order himself. The men had no idea they were being used.

  Bingwen picked up his pace and hustled farther into the tunnel.

  All of the projection tubes on the walls came to life, and the holofield once again filled the tunnel. A large three-dimensional arrow appeared in the air in front of Bingwen, pointing at his chest. Then another arrow appeared behind it, and another, extending all the way down the tunnel in front of him. Similar arrows from side tunnels hovered to his right and left, pointing at him.

  “He’ll know we’re here now.”

  “Doesn’t matter. He’s not going anywhere.”

  They would follow the arrows right to him. It was the same system rescuers used to find lost soldiers after the exercises. Or the arrows could be used to guide the soldier toward the exit. The holofield was working against him, he realized, and since it filled the tunnel, he couldn’t escape it or hide.

  Bingwen paused to think. He had two advantages. One, the men clearly had no experience with the tunnels. And two, Bingwen’s size—he could move much faster than they could through the narrow passages. It bothered him that he didn’t know what he was up against, however.

  What weapons were these men carrying? If they needed his death to look like an accident, it would be handwork, most likely. Choking or smothering or a broken neck. Hard to make a laser wound through the heart look like an accident. Yet weapons would still come in handy. They needed to subdue him, catch him, force him to comply. A knife would be useful, as would a slaser.

  Then there was their equipment. Harnesses, helmets with radios—not standard-issue gear. Someone had equipped them. Li, most likely, or someone operating under his orders. Which meant Bingwen would be wise to assume they had every piece of field hardware at their disposal.

  He decided to test that theory.

  He tapped his wrist pad and turned on the simulation. The Formic holos were so lifelike and fierce and terrifying that at least one new recruit cracked each week, dropping to the tunnel floor and crying for rescue like an abandoned child. The holos would be especially unnerving to someone who had never experienced them before and who might not even know they were part of the training.

  The soldiers’ screams a moment later confirmed that fact. Bingwen heard the soft, high-pitched whine of their lasers. And then one man shouted for the other to calm down. “They’re not real. It’s a sim.”

  “Well turn it off.”

  “I don’t know how. Ignore them.”

  “I can’t ignore them. They’re charging us.”

  Bingwen of course had Formics coming for him as well, but he paid them no mind, and they shattered into pixels when they reached him. He moved to the nearest holo projector, and wired in his tablet. He could not turn off the arrows with his wrist pad, for it was not a command he had initiated. But he could change their target. He did so and the arrows flipped, pointing at one of the men in the tunnels.

  Bingwen took a side tunnel then and made his way east, connecting with another tunnel system that had a separate exit to the surface accessible via a gradual slope and a few switchbacks. It took Bingwen ten minutes to reach the surface, but when he did, all was quiet. He came out with his lights off and scanned the area with his night vision. The winch tower was two hundred meters to his right. Bingwen zoomed in with his optics and was relieved to see that the winch cable was still extended down into the tunnel, meaning the men had not yet found their way out. Not surprising. Even if they had known the way, they would not have had time to crawl through all the narrow places Bingwen had ensured would be between them and their exit.

  He sprinted to the winch tower and reeled in the cable, tying it off at the top. Then he removed the pieces of transmitter hardware he had installed on the tower months ago. Finally he tapped at his wrist pad again to increase the number of Formics in the simulation below from a dozen at any given time to a thousand. The holofield would be filled with so many holos of charging Formics, that they would look like a river of light, rushing forward, arms outstretched to kill. The bombardment of holos would be so constant and disruptive and relentless, that the men’s senses would be too overwhelmed to make sense of anything. It would be nightmarish. Bingwen almost felt sorry for them.

  He hustled to his skim cycle and rocketed back to base. He changed into his sleep suit and then woke every man in his squadron, ordering them outside to stand in formation. The men obeyed, shivering in the cold, barefoot and dressed in their undergarments.

  Bingwen faced them. “I have just been awakened by reports that men from this squadro
n sneaked out and left these barracks after hours. I laughed at such an accusation. ‘This squadron?’ I told the accuser. ‘The 301? No, sir, you must be mistaken. These men, these excellent soldiers, would never allow two of their own to be so foolish. They would stop men from such flagrant insubordination. For ours is a squadron of discipline, unity, and absolute respect for the military code of conduct. No, sir. Not this squadron. Because we understand that the offense of one is the offense of all. There is no finer group of soldiers in all the world,’ I said. Sergeant, prove me right. Roll call.”

  The two missing culprits were soon identified. Their names were called out, but there was no reply.

  Bingwen feigned shock. He shook his head, deflated. Then he squared his shoulders and faced his men. “Clearly I have failed you,” he said. “I have failed to teach the importance of respecting our elders who established this code of conduct. I have failed to instill a sense of brotherhood, a sense of mutual responsibility. I have failed to teach you that foolish decisions endanger us all. In war, discipline is paramount to survival. And yes, we are now at war. Copernicus is destroyed. The enemy returns. Yet what example do we give our mothers and fathers who look to us to protect their homes and fields and children? Disobedience? Delinquency? Rebelliousness?” He shook his head. “No, we must right this wrong immediately. We must take our punishment and start anew. Sergeant, order your men to follow me to the brig, where we will serve a two-day sentence.”

  The sergeant shouted the orders. Bingwen led them in a jog to the brig, which was located on the other side of the base, two kilometers away. Bingwen ordered the jailer on duty to open the available cells. The men were filed inside, ten to a cell.

  Bingwen then stood in front of all the cells and removed his shirt. “Jailer, I have failed these men. Take this cane and deliver three strikes across my back.”

  Bingwen handed the man the cane and turned his back to him, bringing his arms forward to expose his full back and take his strikes.

  The jailer, a mere private, hesitated. He looked around him at the others, confused. Then he turned to back to Bingwen. “Sir, I cannot possibly strike an officer.”

  “I order you, Private.”

  The men were all crowding the front of the cells to watch.

  “But, sir, the military does not inflict corporal punishment.”

  Bingwen faced the man and seized the cane. “Very well.” He turned to his men in the cells and chose the biggest and strongest among them. “Corporal Mayzu, come deliver three strikes. That is an order.”

  The jailer let Mayzu out. The man took the cane. He was broad-shouldered and thick. He seemed uncertain. He hesitated. “Sir, I do not feel comfortable striking an officer.”

  “Do it,” Bingwen said.

  The first blow knocked Bingwen to his knees, pain exploding across his entire upper body. He thought for a moment that he might pass out, but he gathered himself and got back to his feet. He stumbled forward to the nearest cell and grabbed the bars to steady himself.

  “Two more, Mayzu.”

  There was silence. “But, sir, you are…”

  Bingwen turned and faced him. “What, Mayzu? A boy? A child?”

  Mayzu didn’t respond.

  Bingwen faced his men, his back screaming in pain. “Is that what I am to you all? A child?”

  The men were silent.

  “The Formics slaughtered my parents, burned my village, assaulted my homeland. There is no greater privilege than to give my life to defend China again, whether I am twelve or two hundred. We will be the finest squadron in this army, and we will not allow a stupid act of insubordination to weaken us and threaten our ability to defend our people.”

  Bingwen turned back to the bars and gripped them once again. “Mayzu, two more. And if I lose consciousness, you will drag me into a cell.”

  There was a long silence.

  Then the second blow came, hard across the already tender flesh.

  Bingwen did not remember the third strike. When he awoke, he was on his stomach in the medical wing, with wet bandages draped across his bare back.

  Captain Li was sitting in the chair beside the bed. “I will say this, Bingwen, you always surprise me. Just when I think I know how you will respond, you do something like this.”

  Bingwen said nothing. Captain Li had been with him ever since the Chinese military took Bingwen away from Mazer. Li had been only a lieutenant then.

  “Your back will take weeks to heal,” Li said. “And for what? To earn the respect of your men, to show them that your heart is given completely to China? To paint yourself a worthy commander? I wish I could have heard your speech. The jailer was near tears when he recounted it. I thought he might start singing the national anthem.”

  Bingwen didn’t respond.

  “I let your men out of the brig after six hours. I told them that was punishment enough. Oh, and we found the men in the tunnels, curled up into balls, crying like children, forgive the expression. They had both soiled themselves. And who can blame them? So many Formics. I fear both men may be scarred psychologically. Question is, what to do with them? I can’t return them to your squadron. There are already whispers among your men to maim them both on sight. Was that the point of your theatrics? To turn your squadron against these delinquents, to have your men inflict the justice you are too cowardly to inflict yourself?”

  Captain Li crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in his chair. “Honestly, Bingwen. You would rather take a cane across the back than shoot men guilty of attempted murder?”

  “Is that what I was supposed to do?” Bingwen asked. “Shoot them? They were following orders. Though I cannot imagine who would give them such a command.”

  Captain Li grinned. “Yes, it is troubling. But when the Formics return, you will thank me for making you a soldier, Bingwen. You may not like my methods, but you will never be the weapon we need you to be if you live by a morality other than the correct one.”

  “And what morality is that, sir? Yours?”

  Captain Li stood and buttoned up the jacket of his uniform. “We also checked your tablet. How strange that you would take one down into the tunnels. When we opened your files, all we found were your journal entries, all of which were surprisingly complimentary of me. Needless to say, I was amused. I could threaten to have you caned to find out what you were actually doing down there, but of course caning is not permitted and right now I need you well. I have been ordered to assemble a unique group of soldiers for training in the Belt. China, it seems, has finally agreed to give troops to the International Fleet. You will be happy to know that you will be among them, although because of your age your involvement will not be public knowledge. You’ll be an experiment of sorts. The school is called Variable Gravity Acclimatization School, or VGAS, but everyone calls it Gravity Camp, or GravCamp for short. The IF has been training soldiers there for years. So get well. You leave in a week.”

  He moved for the exit, but Bingwen stopped him with a question.

  “And you, sir? What is to become of you?”

  Li smiled. “I’m coming with you, of course. To be your commanding officer and take a position at the school. As I informed our superiors, you would not want it any other way.”

  Li smiled wider and exited, leaving Bingwen alone with his bandages.

  CHAPTER 3

  Vaganov

  As with all armed conflicts, the Second Formic War took its toll on our most fundamental social unit: the family. What made this war unique, however, was that it not only enlisted our sons and daughters into combat, but it also dictated how and when the free citizens of Earth could produce sons and daughters in the first place.

  Because it was considered essential that all human activities be centered on the production of war materiel to fight the Formics in space, as far from Earth as possible, the Hegemony Council determined that Earth’s economic resources must not be dissipated by trying to meet the needs of a growing population. Food production, housing, transp
ortation, and medical facilities needed to be maintained at fixed levels so that all new production could be directed toward the construction of an effective war fleet during the brief time before the main Formic invasion force would arrive.

  Countries like Iran, India, Uzbekistan, and the United States had long practiced passive, voluntary population control, mostly consisting of free access to birth control and the natural tendency of prosperous people to have fewer children; or somewhat more aggressive laws that disallowed men and women with multiple children to run for public office or receive certain benefits. But it was China’s one-child policy that served as the ultimate model for the population laws instituted by the Hegemony prior to the Second Formic War. The child limit was set at two per family, doubling the Chinese quota, but failure to comply with this more generous policy resulted in fines, loss of property, and, in some tightly policed countries, incarceration.

  Resistance to the laws was heaviest in those nations with a large Catholic population, such as Poland, which initially won an exemption of conscience for its Catholic citizens. That exemption was later swept aside once the Hegemony’s political control was firmly set. Nations where Muslims historically had larger families and a tradition of resistance to outside interference in cultural matters, such as Bangladesh and Pakistan, also resisted.

  The people most affected by the population laws, however, were the children born in defiance of the laws, or, rarely, those whose parents had been granted a Hegemony exemption. These third children—and in rare cases fourth and fifth children—were scorned, isolated, or taunted as Formic sympathizers. Their persecution—which included violent attacks from their peers, and in some cases from adults—is an often overlooked and shameful result of the population restrictions.