Future War
Page 1
Table of Contents
PREFACE
SECOND VARIETY
SALVADOR
FLOATING DOGS
THE PRIVATE WAR OF PRIVATE JACOB
SPIREY AND THE QUEEN Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
A DRY, QUIET WAR
RORVIK’S WAR 1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
SECOND SKIN
THE WAR MEMORIAL
A SPECIAL KIND OF MORNING
FUTURE WAR
Edited By
JACK DANN & GARDNER DOZOIS
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
eISBN: 978-1-62579-185-6
Copyright © 2013 by Gardner Dozois and Jack Dann
First printing: August 1999
Cover art by: Ron Miller
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
Electronic version by Baen Books
http://www.baen.com
Edited by Jack Dann & Gardner Dozois
UNICORNS!
MAGICATS!
BESTIARY!
MERMAIDS!
SORCERERS!
DEMONS!
DOGTALES!
SEASERPENTS!
DINOSAURS!
LITTLE PEOPLE!
MAGICATS II
UNICORNS II
DRAGONS!
INVADERS!
HORSES!
ANGELS!
HACKERS
TIMEGATES
CLONES
IMMORTALS
NANOTECH
FUTURE WAR
Edited by Terri Windling
FAERY!
Acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint the following material:
“Second Variety,” by Philip K. Dick. Copyright © 1953 by Space Publications, Inc. First published in Space Science Fiction, May 1953. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate and the agent for the estate.
“Salvador,” by Lucius Shepard. Copyright © 1984 by Mercury Press, Inc. First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, April 1984. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Floating Dogs,” by Ian McDonald. Copyright © 1991 by Ian McDonald. First published in New Worlds (Gollancz). Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Private War of Private Jacob,” by Joe Haldeman. Copyright © 1974 by Universal Publishing and Distributing Corp. First published in Galaxy, 1974. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Spirey and the Queen,” by Alastair Reynolds. Copyright © 1996 by Interzone. First published in Interzone, June 1996. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“A Dry, Quiet War,” by Tony Daniel. Copyright © 1996 by Dell Magazines. First published in Asimov’s Science Fiction, June 1996. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Rovik’s War,” by Geoffrey A. Landis. Copyright © 1995 by Geoffrey A. Landis. First published in New Legends (Tor).
“Second Skin,” by Paul J. McAuley. Copyright © 1997 by Paul J. McAuley. First published in Asimov’s Science Fiction, April 1997. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The War Memorial,” by Allen Steele. Copyright © 1995 by Bantam Doubleday Dell Magazines. First published in Asimov’s Science Fiction, September 1995. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“A Special Kind of Morning,” by Gardner Dozois. Copyright © 1971 by Gardner Dozois. First published in New Dimensions I (Doubleday). Reprinted by permission of the author.
PREFACE
That there will probably always be war is a conclusion with which your editors have to reluctantly agree, although, unlike some others who seem almost to relish the prospect gloatingly, we take no pleasure in that predication. Still, a realistic appraisal of human nature and the often bitter lessons of history lead one almost inevitably to the conclusion that as long as human beings are still human beings as we understand them, war, of one sort or another, on one scale or another, in one arena or another, will probably be part of the human condition. (Some science fiction speculates that you could eliminate war by changing human nature itself, by, say, regimentation and control of the brain and the emotions by nanotechnology, or by eliminating human aggression through biological or chemical means; but, in almost every such scenario we know of, the cure seems almost worse than the disease.)
If war will probably always be part of the human condition, at least until war manages to wipe the human race out of existence, then the future will have war. And that’s the unsettling but all-too-probable scenario that we deal with in this anthology, which features stories that examine the ultra high-tech battlefields of the future—on Earth, in space, behind the front lines after the concept of “front line” itself has become meaningless and every place in the world is itself a battlefield. These stories give us a powerful, and sometimes harrowing look at what future war and future combat might really be like to those who live through it—and those (probably the more numerous) who do not.
Over the millennia, the human race has turned an enormous amount of its scientific ingenuity into inventing ever more effective and devastating ways for people to kill each other, to give one army a technological edge over another, to win wars at any price, even at the price of the destruction of life on Earth. And we’re pretty sure that you ain’t seen nothing yet. Just as people peering into the upcoming century from the end of the nineteenth century couldn’t possibly have imagined the horrors and complexities and sinister wonders of technological warfare that awaited humanity in the twentieth century, so we too lack the ability to see the as-yet-unimaginable weapons and technologies that lie ahead in the twenty-first century and beyond, things that would seem just as bizarre and impossible to us as the atomic bomb or a Stealth fighter or a cruise missile or a nuclear submarine (or a radar set, or a laser bombsight, or a computer, or a microchip) would have seemed to somebody back in 1899.
The ten science fiction writers in this book, daring and expert dreamers, take their best shot at it, coming up with some of the strangest, most imaginative, most mind-bending—and frightening—concepts of recent years, including some stuff that we sincerely hope doesn’t come to pass, for the sake of all those who will have to live in that new century . . .
So quickly, before one of those future wars comes along to interrupt you, while you still have the chance, open up this anthology and enjoy the vivid entertainment, slam-bang action, and sometimes-disturbing visions of the stories that wait within—and keep your fingers crossed that all of this stuff remains science fiction!
SECOND VARIETY
by Philip K. Dick
A dedicated investigator of the elusive nature of reality, an intrepid explorer of alternate states of consciousness, a wickedly effective and acidulous satirist, the late Philip K. Dick wrote some of the most brilliant novels and short stories in the history of the SF genre, and is now being widely recognized as one of the major authors of the late twentieth century, in any genre. He won a Hugo Award for his novel The Man in the High Castle, and his many other novels include Ubik, Martian Time Slip, The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldrich, Time Out of Joint, and Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, which was somewhat disappointingly filmed as Bladerunner. His most recent books, published posthumously, include The Transmigration of Timothy Archer, Radio Free Albemuth, Puttering About in a Small Land, The Man Whose Teeth Were All Exactly Alike, and the massive three-volume set The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick.
The nightma
rish story that follows, “Second Variety,” may well be the progenitor of most of the stories about high-tech future war that have followed it over the years. Although dated in some ways—there’s no longer a Soviet Union, for instance—in the ways that really count, it’s perhaps even more germane than it used to be, closer by far to becoming a reality as scientists and military technicians take us ever farther down the road Dick prophesied we’d follow all the way back in 1953. Phil Dick may well be smiling bitterly in Heaven as we ignore the harrowing fictional warning you’re about to read and spend millions of dollars to create nearly autonomous killer robots and weapons systems, machines designed to kill enemy machines as well as to kill enemy humans, machines that, as military experts confidently tell us, will soon make the human soldier obsolete on the battlefield.
Let’s hope they don’t make humans obsolete as well . . .
(“Second Variety” was filmed, somewhat loosely, as the movie Screamers.)
* * *
The Russian soldier made his way nervously up the ragged side of the hill, holding his gun ready. He glanced around him, licking his dry lips, his face set. From time to time he reached up a gloved hand and wiped perspiration from his neck, pushing down his coat collar.
Eric turned to Corporal Leone. “Want him? Or can I have him?” He adjusted the view sight so the Russian’s features squarely filled the glass, the lines cutting across his hard, somber features.
Leone considered. The Russian was close, moving rapidly, almost running. “Don’t fire. Wait.” Leone tensed. “I don’t think we’re needed.”
The Russian increased his pace, kicking ash and piles of debris out of his way. He reached the top of the hill and stopped, panting, staring around him. The sky was overcast, with drifting clouds of gray particles. Bare trunks of trees jutted up occasionally; the ground was level and bare, rubble-strewn, with the ruins of buildings standing out here and there like yellowing skulls.
The Russian was uneasy. He knew something was wrong. He started down the hill. Now he was only a few paces from the bunker. Eric was getting fidgety. He played with his pistol, glancing at Leone.
“Don’t worry,” Leone said. “He won’t get here. They’ll take care of him.”
“Are you sure? He’s got damn far.”
“They hang around close to the bunker. He’s getting into the bad part. Get set!”
The Russian began to hurry, sliding down the hill, his boots sinking into the heaps of gray ash, trying to keep his gun up. He stopped for a moment, lifting his field glasses to his face.
“He’s looking right at us,” Eric said.
The Russian came on. They could see his eyes, like two blue stones. His mouth was open a little. He needed a shave; his chin was stubbled. On one bony cheek was a square of tape, showing blue at the edge. A fungoid spot. His coat was muddy and torn. One glove was missing. As he ran, his belt counter bounced up and down against him.
Leone touched Eric’s arm. “Here one comes.”
Across the ground something small and metallic came, flashing in the dull sunlight of midday. A metal sphere. It raced up the hill after the Russian, its treads flying. It was small, one of the baby ones. Its claws were out, two razor projections spinning in a blur of white steel. The Russian heard it. He turned instantly, firing. The sphere dissolved into particles. But already a second had emerged and was following the first. The Russian fired again.
A third sphere leaped up to the Russian’s leg, clicking and whirring. It jumped to the shoulder. The spinning glades disappeared into the Russian’s throat.
Eric relaxed. “Well, that’s that. God, those damn things give me the creeps. Sometimes I think we were better off before.”
“If we hadn’t invented them, they would have.” Leone lit a cigarette shakily. “I wonder why a Russian would come all this way alone. I didn’t see anyone covering him.”
Lieutenant Scott came slipping up the tunnel, into the bunker. “What happened? Something entered the screen.”
“An Ivan.”
“Just one?”
Eric brought the viewscreen around. Scott peered into it. Now there were numerous metal spheres crawling over the prostrate body, dull metal globes clicking and whirring, sawing up the Russian into small parts to be carried away.
“What a lot of claws,” Scott murmured.
“They come like flies. Not much game for them anymore.”
Scott pushed the sight away, disgusted. “Like flies. I wonder why he was out there. They know we have claws all around.”
A larger robot had joined the smaller spheres. A long blunt tube with projecting eyepieces, it was directing operations. There was not much left of the soldier. What remained was being brought down the hillside by the host of claws.
“Sir,” Leone said, “If it’s all right, I’d like to go out there and take a look at him.”
“Why?”
“Maybe he came with something.”
Scott considered. He shrugged. “All right. But be careful.”
“I have my tab.” Leone patted the metal band at his wrist. “I’ll be out of bounds.”
He picked up his rifle and stepped carefully up to the mouth of the bunker, making his way between blocks of concrete and steel prongs, twisted and bent. The air was cold at the top. He crossed over the ground toward the remains of the soldier, striding across the soft ash. A wind blew around him, swirling gray particles up in his face. He squinted and pushed on.
The claws retreated as he came close, some of them stiffening into immobility. He touched his tab. The Ivan would have given something for that! Short hard radiation emitted from the tab neutralized the claws, put them out of commission. Even the big robot with its two waving eyestalks retreated respectfully as he approached.
He bent down over the remains of the soldier. The gloved hand was closed tightly. There was something in it. Leone pried the fingers apart. A sealed container, aluminum. Still shiny.
He put it in his pocket and made his way back to the bunker. Behind him the claws came back to life, moving into operation again. The procession resumed, metal spheres moving through the gray ash with their loads. He could hear their treads scrabbling against the ground. He shuddered.
Scott watched intently as he brought the shiny tube out of his pocket. “He had that?”
“In his hand.” Leone unscrewed the top. “Maybe you should look at it, sir.”
Scott took it. He emptied the contents out in the palm of his hand. A small piece of silk paper, carefully folded. He sat down by the light and unfolded it.
“What’s it say, sir?” Eric said. Several officers came up the tunnel. Major Hendricks appeared.
“Major,” Scott said. “Look at this.”
Hendricks read the slip. “This just come?”
“A single runner. Just now.”
“Where is he?” Hendricks asked sharply.
“The claws got him.”
Major Hendricks grunted. “Here.” He passed it to his companions. “I think this is what we’ve been waiting for. They certainly took their time about it.”
“So they want to talk terms,” Scott said. “Are we going along with them?”
“That’s not for us to decide.” Hendricks sat down. “Where’s the communications officer? I want the Moon Base.”
Leone pondered as the communications officer raised the outside antenna cautiously, scanning the sky above the bunker for any sign of a watching Russian ship.
“Sir,” Scott said to Hendricks. “It’s sure strange they suddenly came around. We’ve been using the claws for almost a year. Now all of a sudden they start to fold.”
“Maybe claws have been getting down in their bunkers.”
“One of the big ones, the kind with stalks, got into an Ivan bunker last week,” Eric said. “It got a whole platoon of them before they got their lid shut.”
“How do you know?”
“A buddy told me. The thing came back with—with remains.”
“Moon
Base, sir,” the communications officer said.
On the screen the face of the lunar monitor appeared. His crisp uniform contrasted to the uniforms in the bunker. And he was cleanshaven. “Moon Base.”
“This is forward command L-Whistle. On Terra. Let me have General Thompson.”
The monitor faded. Presently General Thompson’s heavy features came into focus. “What is it, Major?”
“Our claws got a single Russian runner with a message. We don’t know whether to act on it—there have been tricks like this in the past.”
“What’s the message?”
“The Russians want us to send a single officer on policy level over to their lines. For a conference. They don’t state the nature of the conference. They say that matters of—” He consulted the slip: “—matters of grave urgency make it advisable that discussion be opened between a representative of the UN forces and themselves.”
He held the message up to the screen for the general to scan. Thompson’s eyes moved.
“What should we do?” Hendricks said.
“Send a man out.”
“You don’t think it’s a trap?”
“It might be. But the location they give for their forward command is correct. It’s worth a try, at any rate.”
“I’ll send an officer out. And report the results to you as soon as he returns.”
“All right, Major.” Thompson broke the connection. The screen died. Up above, the antenna came slowly down.
Hendricks rolled up the paper, deep in thought.