Earth Awakens (The First Formic War)

by Orson Scott Card

  Gadhavi turned around and faced them. “Since it’s orange, spicy, and cooks Formics, we’re calling the counteragent ‘Delhi Duck Sauce.’” He smiled at his own joke.

  “How do we know the goo has been neutralized?” Wit asked. “You’ve demonstrated that you can create a violent reaction, but you haven’t proven that the air is clear. How do we know there aren’t lethal traces of it still in there?”

  Gadhavi’s smile broadened. “Captain O’Toole. You never disappoint. Always with the tough questions. But you’re right. Pyrotechnics will not solve our problem if the counteragent doesn’t completely neutralize the goo. I couldn’t have asked for a better setup to the final portion of our demonstration.”

  Gadhavi faced the glass again and made a few hand gestures in the holofield. In the demonstration room, a door slid open, and a chimpanzee stepped out into the room.

  “The demonstration room has not been ventilated since I released the gas,” said Gadhavi. “The air has not been filtered in any manner. The test subject is breathing the same air that was exposed to highly lethal doses of the gas only moments ago.”

  Long handrails lowered a foot from the ceiling. The chimp jumped up and grabbed them and began swinging around the room.

  “Even with increased breaths and when moving to all corners of the room, the test subject remains perfectly healthy. No melting of the skin, no cell degradation. I could release a dozen more animals or people in the room with the same result. And should you require it, I can analyze the air and prove the gas is neutralized.”

  For a moment, Mazer and the others were too stunned to speak.

  “How quickly can you mass produce this?” asked Wit.

  “The formula isn’t terribly complex,” said Gadhavi. “If we could commandeer a few chemical facilities with the right capabilities, we could make a few thousand barrels in a week. If China were to join in the effort, we would make four times that many.”

  “What about the weapons and shotgun rounds?” said Shenzu. “How long would it take to mass-produce those?”

  “The assault weapon is an industrial paint sprayer bolted to a shotgun,” said Gadhavi. “There’s also a heating mechanism attached to the sprayer to keep the duck sauce hot. That requires a heavy battery. Our prototype is fairly crude. The gun isn’t balanced well. We’re not weapons designers. We only made that one for the demonstration. Same with the shotgun slugs. Mass-producing those would take time, I suspect.”

  “We don’t have time,” said Wit. “We need to mobilize soldiers now. If a team of scientists unfamiliar with weaponry can retrofit a shotgun, soldiers should be able to do so in their sleep. Who cares if the gun is balanced or not? It works. That’s all that matters.”

  “Even if soldiers do it themselves,” said Ketkar, “we still need to supply them with detailed instructions.”

  “We will,” said Wit. “MOPs made a site on the nets for sharing combat tactics with the Chinese military: stoptheformics.net. We upload the instructions there and wherever else we think the military may be looking. In the meantime, we contact every manufacturer in the world who makes a similar paint sprayer and we kick their production lines into overdrive.”

  “We’ll need more than foot soldiers,” said Shenzu. “We’ll cover more ground if we retrofit military aircrafts with crop-dusting sprayers.”

  “That would take time,” said Mazer. “You’d have to gut the aircraft to make room for the tanks, then build and modify the sprayers for every class of aircraft. Plus you’d need to train pilots. We could mobilize faster if we enlist aerial firefighters and seasoned crop dusters. Their planes are ready to go, and they have the needed skill. I consider myself a decent pilot, but liquid falls differently than cargo or bombs. It’s easy to overshoot or drop too early. I’d much rather have a crop duster at the stick.”

  “And fire crews,” said Wit. “The chemical reaction is so volatile, we should have two to three fire crews shadowing every assault team. In fact, China should immediately begin training a quarter of its army on fire control, particularly in urban areas. If we burn cities to the ground, we haven’t done the Chinese any favors.”

  Mazer nodded. “Strike teams will need flame-resistant suits over their biosuits. Something that can withstand intense flash fires. We’ll find plenty of those in heavy manufacturing and firefighter units. Maybe we ask firehouses and the private sector all over the world to donate what suits they have.”

  Ketkar stepped forward. “Yes, there is much to consider. And China would be wise to involve all of you in the strategic development of the operation. But unless China agrees to troop assistance, unless we have fresh boots on the ground, we won’t make a dent in the Formics. Captain Shenzu, are you willing to face the cameras?”

  “I should give the speech in Chinese,” said Shenzu. “If it’s coming from the heart, I should speak in Chinese.”

  * * *

  Twenty-four hours later, Major Ketkar stood at a rostrum before a crowd of three hundred reporters, humbly thanking them all for coming. They had gathered inside a vast empty hangar at a weapons test site northeast of New Delhi. Behind Ketkar was a massive glass terrarium as big as a small home. The terrarium had been Ketkar’s idea. He had ordered its construction early in the week and had filled the bottom of it with earth. Shrubs and small trees had been planted to simulate the terrain in China, and a projected image on the back wall showed a beautiful rice field in a green mountain valley.

  “What would you have done if I had said no?” Shenzu had asked when he saw the setup.

  “We knew you wouldn’t,” Ketkar had said. “You love your country.”

  Every seat in the hangar was taken. Most of the reporters were correspondents stationed in India and working for the major networks. Others had flown in for the event from Europe, Africa, and the Middle East. Thousands more were watching the event live throughout the world. Holoprojectors and traditional 2-D cameras were set up all around the stage. A few special seats had been reserved down front for the Chinese ambassador to India and his senior staff.

  An Indian Para Commando in a fire-resistant yellow biosuit was inside the terrarium holding the modified paint-sprayer shotgun. Gadhavi had wanted to use the robotic arms again, for safety, but Ketkar had flatly refused. “Soldiers will be doing this in the field. I want the press to see China being saved by a PC. Besides, you look like an idiot in those socks and gloves. Late-night comedians would have a field day with that. We need the world to applaud us, not mock us.”

  From his place at the rostrum, Ketkar introduced the PC and briefly gave an account of his impeccable service record and training. The subtle message was clear: PCs are excellent soldiers and would be an asset to the war.

  Ketkar then turned the rostrum over to Dr. Gadhavi who walked on stage wearing a white lab coat over his oxford shirt and slacks.

  “But I never wear a lab coat,” he had told Ketkar before the presentation. “That’s so cliché.”

  “You’ll wear it and you’ll smile about it,” Ketkar had told him through gritted teeth.

  They had rehearsed the presentation several times beforehand. Gadhavi really worked the crowd. They laughed at his two jokes, and listened intently as he went through the chemistry of it all. Ketkar had worried that this part was too dry and needed some more cutting, but Gadhavi had pushed back, and Ketkar had acquiesced. It had been the right decision. The crowd was hanging on every word.

  Then it was showtime.

  Inside the terrarium, a Formic emerged from behind a large shrub. A goo gun was strapped to its back, the wand in its hand. The special effects company had done its best to make the creature look fearsome and lifelike, and Ketkar had to admit they did an impressive job. It hung from a wire rig positioned in the ceiling and moved out like a marionette. A murmur from the audience. A few people gasped.

  When the PC aimed the weapon, it was absolute silence. When he fired at the goo tank, and the Formic and goo pack exploded in a fireball of absolute devastation that se
nt Formic parts flying in every direction, the room erupted with applause and cheers. Some people were out of their seats. One woman near the front was actually crying.

  For a moment Ketkar wondered if the demonstration alone was enough. Even the Chinese ambassador was cheering. But no, this was theater, the energy of the crowd. Beijing would be a different story. Shenzu was the pièce de résistance.

  Gadhavi waved and exited to another round of applause. Then Shenzu walked on stage. The crowd quieted. Another murmur went through them. A Chinese officer had not been on the agenda. Shenzu walked past the rostrum and faced them center stage. He waited for total silence, then gave the speech from memory in Chinese. English subtitles appeared on the front of the stage beneath him, visible to everyone. When he mentioned Sima’s name, there was a murmur among the audience. Sima? The General Sima?

  “He told me about his children and grandchildren,” said Shenzu. “He said he would do anything to protect them. He asked me about my own children. Six-year-old Shidhu and two-year-old Mingshu. My duty to them is greater than all others, he said.”

  He gestured back to the PC in the terrarium. “I thank my brother in the Para Commandos and the good Dr. Gadhavi, who have worked so hard to honor General Sima’s final request and to take steps to keep all of our children safe.”

  My brother.

  Ketkar smiled. He had read the speech several times, but that part always hit home in his heart. A Chinese calling an Indian his brother. And not a politician posing for photos at some summit. A soldier. A common man. It was the entirety of the message summed up in two simple words. Shenzu need not mention any proposal for troops. That was for others to handle. His job was to pave the road for others to follow.

  And they would follow, Ketkar knew. The last part of the speech left no question in his mind.

  “Let us come together,” Shenzu said. “All of us, not just China and India”—as if such a thing had already happened, as if their alliance was already sealed—“but all nations. We will need everyone’s help, everyone’s hand, everyone’s might. China is where the war began, but a united Earth is where the war will end.”

  They cheered him. They rose to their feet. The Chinese ambassador came to the lip of the stage and shook his hand.

  Ketkar cued the house lights. There would be no Q&A session. End with a bang, when the mood was high. Shenzu was escorted off by aides. So sorry, Captain Shenzu has other duties. Then the doors were opened, and the reporters released.

  The microblogs lit up immediately. The vid had played live all over the world, and everyone took to the nets. Women were asking if the PC was single. Someone found photos of Shenzu’s adorable children, and those spread like wildfire. Sima’s photo was passed around as well. Someone put his head on the body of the PC in the yellow jumpsuit with the caption: WANT SOME DUCK SAUCE WITH THAT, BUG FACE?

  But the posts from the citizens of China were the ones that got the most bounces and reposts. Vids of women crying, giving heartfelt thanks. Their deceased sons and husbands in the military will not have died in vain. Children cheered. Celebrities echoed the cry for unification. And on and on in a deluge of unstoppable support—all of it linked with the net tag: EARTHUNITED.

  Ketkar returned to his temporary office in the hangar and waited. It was only a matter of time now. He looked again at the maps. He would accompany Mazer, Wit, Shenzu, and a team of PCs to the doughnut tower where a large cache of goo was stored. Destroying it would be their first mission in China. A sort of ceremonial kickoff event with plenty of pyrotechnics.

  He would likely lose Mazer, Wit, and Shenzu after that. The Chinese would insist that they help with the operation’s development. Ketkar would almost insist upon it. He had greater faith in their strategic thinking than his own or anyone else’s in either military. That would put the three of them in a war room somewhere instead of in the thick of the fighting, but the operation already had its share of martyrs. What it needed now was minds.

  Messages from his superiors flooded his in-box. They all praised him for the press conference. The subtext was obvious: Remember me when you’re promoted, Ketkar. I am your true friend. Let us rise together.

  Ketkar deleted them after reading the subject line. They were from parasites and careerists.

  It wasn’t until later that he received the message he had been waiting for, an encrypted one that would self-delete after he had read it. It was the only message that mattered, the one that would cement his future.

  There were only two words: Well done.

  And to Ketkar’s great surprise, Ukko Jukes had included a smiley face emoticon.

  CHAPTER 14

  Dragon’s Den

  Bingwen and the MOPs were standing on a dusty two-lane road ten klicks southeast of Dragon’s Den when the truck arrived to pick them up. All around them was death and rot. The road they were on cut through the center of a valley filled with rice fields, and the Formic gas had killed everything here a long time ago. Paddy frogs lay belly-up in the muck, their skin sun scorched and dry as a raisin. A bloated water buffalo lay half submerged in the mud, decomposing amid a cloud of flies. The rice crop lay withered and black atop the standing water, the surface of which glistened with a toxic oily film. The sight of it all made Bingwen grateful for his radiation suit, which kept out the gag-inducing smell of decay.

  The truck parked directly in front of them, and the Chinese soldier behind the wheel hopped down, moved to the back of the truck, and lowered the gate for them to board. He wore a biosuit, and when he turned back, Bingwen saw that he was only a boy. Fourteen at the most, not even old enough to drive. The suit was probably the smallest size available, but like Bingwen’s it hung limp on the soldier’s narrow shoulders like a rubber blanket.

  Were boys lying about their ages now to enlist? Bingwen wondered. The influx of Indian commandos was alleviating the burden on the Chinese military, but maybe it wasn’t enough. Maybe China still needed anyone willing to join the fight.

  Bingwen doubted the military would take him, however. He was small for an eight-year-old, and even the most lenient of recruiters wouldn’t believe him a day over ten.

  A young Chinese lieutenant got out of the cab on the passenger side, and Bingwen knew at once that there would be trouble. The lieutenant was tall and thin with a hard, tight line for a mouth and suspicious eyes that darted between all of the MOPs in an instant. A sidearm was holstered at the waist of his biosuit, and his hand rested on it as he approached. He spotted Bingwen and crinkled his nose.

  “I was told to bring in soldiers, not boys.” His English was good, but his accent was heavy.

  “He’s part of our unit,” said Deen.

  “A boy among a group of men. One can’t help but wonder what you used him for.”

  Bingwen didn’t understand the lieutenant’s meaning, but it was clearly offensive. Deen smiled in that way he did sometimes when he wanted to throttle someone.

  “What’s your name, Lieutenant?” Deen asked pleasantly.

  The lieutenant put his hands on his hips. “Li.”

  “Well, Lieutenant Li, we’re MOPs. We’ve spent the last two weeks blowing up transports and skimmers and about three hundred Formics, give or take, without any word from our commanding officer. So when he calls us out of the blue and tells us to meet him at Dragon’s Den, we obviously stop what we’re doing and come. He’s even going to send a truck to pick us up. Great, says I. But then you show up, and something tells me you didn’t read your orders very closely because you’re being difficult.”

  “I was told to pick up MOPs, not children.”

  “Bingwen is a MOP. A little shorter than most maybe, but he’s been an integral part of our success.”

  Li scoffed. “You gave a weapon to a child?”

  “He may not carry a gun, Li, but he knows the land, he knows the language, and he knows a few ways to kill Formics. He’s got tactics in that little head of his that none of us had considered. His takedown idea for the transports has re
sulted in about…” He looked at the others. “How many would you say? Ten, twelve destroyed transports?” He turned back at Li. “Can you say that, Lieutenant? Can you say you’ve been responsible for destroying a dozen transports?”

  Li glanced down at Bingwen, and there was only disdain in his eyes.

  When he lifted his gaze back to Deen, he said, “I’m to take you to a secret military facility. It’s no place for a child.”

  “Agreed,” said Deen. “But Dragon’s Den is a big place, we’re told. There are camps of civilians there as well. There’s shelter and food for those who need it. Surely Bingwen has earned that much.”

  “The camps are beyond capacity.”

  Deen sighed. “Lieutenant, get on your radio. Call Dragon’s Den. Ask for Captain Wit O’Toole. He’s probably swapping war stories with a few of your generals right now. I’m sure they won’t mind the interruption. Ask them if it’s all right if Bingwen comes. I’m willing to bet all the tea left in China that you were supposed to bring him anyway.”

  Lieutenant Li scowled.

  “Or, if you prefer to be difficult,” said Deen, “kindly point us in the direction of Dragon’s Den, and we’ll walk there ourselves. When you arrive, you can explain to your commanding officer why you failed such a simple assignment.”

  The lieutenant’s grip tightened around his handgun, and for an instant Bingwen thought everything would end badly. But then Lieutenant Li came to his senses and removed his hand from his holster.

  “Very well. The boy may come. But all of you must relinquish your weapons.”

  Really? thought Bingwen. Are you that desperate to assert your authority? You make a mistake and rather than accepting it and moving on, you try to manipulate us some other way? How did this guy become a lieutenant?

  But Deen wasn’t having it. He started walking toward the back of the truck. “If we get attacked by a Formic death squad, Lieutenant, I doubt you want our weapons up in the cab with you.”