Earth Awakens (The First Formic War)

by Orson Scott Card

  “What happens if we don’t shut them off?” asked Mazer. “Other than we lose Imala?”

  “Gamma radiation superheats if it’s on too long,” said Victor. “Everything will burn up and melt. The whole ship will become radioactive.”

  “So we lose all the tech,” said Deen.

  “And we all die,” said Benyawe.

  There was a brief silence, then Wit said, “Victor, do you know how to shut it off? If I go to the helm could you walk me through it?”

  “You can’t go in there,” said Victor. “The ship is superheated. You’ll die of radiation poisoning. Even in your suit. The levels are way too high.”

  “Could I make it to the helm and shut off the pipes before I die?”

  Victor stared at him. “But—”

  “Answer the question. The longer we stand out here, the hotter the ship becomes and the less chance I have. Would I survive long enough to get it done?”

  “Um, yes. Maybe. I can’t be certain. It depends on how quickly you reach the helm. I wouldn’t go through the cannon hole. We’re much closer here. You could cut a hole where we’re standing and fly down the launch tube. You’d be very close to the helm.”

  “Send the directions to my HUD.”

  “But I can’t walk you through the steps once you get there. The radiation might interfere with the transmission. I should tell you now just in case.” He rotated his holopad. “This is the helm. You see this large wheel. Rotate it as far as it will go counterclockwise.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. No computers. No buttons. Just a big wheel.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Mazer.

  “You’re too small,” said Wit. “The radiation will kill you faster. I’m the biggest and have the best chance of getting there. Mazer, you’re in command.”

  Mazer looked surprised. “But … I’m not one of your men.”

  “You’re as much a MOP as I am. You always have been.” He walked away from the group to the center of the aperture. He took out his laser cutter and started cutting a hole wide enough for someone to crawl through.

  “Turning off the gamma plasma won’t be enough,” said Victor. “You also need to ventilate the ship.”

  “How?” said Wit.

  “By opening all these launch tubes,” said Victor. “They go all the way around the ship.”

  “That sounds like a lot of work. Do I have time for that?”

  “There’s a single wheel. Rotate that clockwise and all the tubes will open.”

  “Another wheel?” said Wit. “I thought these Formics were innovative.”

  “Fancy tech, simple controls.”

  “Show me where the wheel is.”

  Victor pulled up images of the ship’s interior from his vid. “You’ll see a console like this at the base of the tube. The wheel is here.” He circled it with his finger and sent to Wit’s HUD.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes, all of us need to come inside this launch tube as well. We’ll seal the bottom hatch once you go. That way, when you ventilate the ship, we won’t be outside and bombarded with all the radiation.”

  “What about the top of the launch tube? Can I close this one, yet keep the other ones open? You need to be sealed in tight, both at the bottom and the top.”

  Victor showed him the image again. “Each individual console has an override wheel. At the base of this launch tube here. Turn it to close this tube only.”

  “Turn three wheels. This is easier than I thought.”

  He finished cutting and pushed the cut manhole down into the launch tube.

  Victor got down beside him. “It should be me, Wit. I know the way. I’ve watched them turn the wheel.”

  “This is not open for discussion,” said Wit. “Now follow me into the tube and seal it shut behind me.” He pulled himself down into the manhole, got his feet anchored inside and launched downward toward the bottom of the tube.

  One by one they followed him in.

  * * *

  Lem fired the shatter boxes, and they catapulted away from his fighter, spinning through space like a thrown bola. War was all around him. Juke mining ships of the shield were battling a swarm of Formic transports in near-Earth orbit. The Formics outnumbered them two to one, and the transports were just as nimble in space as they had been on Earth. Lem couldn’t tell who was winning. Everything was happening too quickly.

  There had been an order at the beginning—a coordinated effort to take the Formics together. But that had gone out the window the moment the shooting started. Now it was every man for himself.

  Lem’s spinning shatter boxes zeroed in on their target and snapped to opposing sides of the transport. An instant later, the tidal forces were ripping the transport to shreds, breaking down molecular bonds and turning every molecule into its constituent atoms. One second it was a transport. Two seconds later, dust.

  To Lem’s right, a mining vessel was sliced in half with a laser. The ship’s lights flickered and extinguished. Screams were heard over the radio. Equipment and bodies were sucked out of the two severed pieces. Lem’s fighter arced right, dodging a laser and avoiding the same fate. A transport had zeroed in on him. He released another set of shatter boxes at his pursuer, but the shot was wide and the shatter boxes spun off into space.

  Lem dove. The transport tailing him dove after him. Lem spun, twisted; the transport responded, mirroring his moves. A laser narrowly missed him on the right. He fired a third pair of shatter boxes, but these missed as well. Another dive and spin and twist. Still he wasn’t free. He banked right and narrowly avoided colliding with a different transport. He fired behind him and obliterated that one, but the original pursuer held its course.

  Lem accelerated and spun left. He couldn’t keep this up. He would soon vomit or pass out. The G-forces were overwhelming. His equilibrium was shot. His harness held him tight, but his body was being flung back and forth against the straps like a ragdoll.

  He spun again, fired again, missed again.

  He had gotten off a few lucky shots. That was it. He was out of his league here. He was not a combat pilot. Why had he thought he could do this? What was he trying to prove?

  Ahead of him a mining ship broke apart as two transports cut into it at once. Lem spun away to get clear of the line of fire.

  He was going to die, he realized. The only reason he had lasted this long was because he was such a small target.

  A laser to his left missed him by inches. He dove again, spun away.

  No one would grieve his loss, he realized. There would be headlines and sad admirers and a few blips on the nets about how he had died heroically, but no one would really care. Not deeply. Not in any meaningful way. They would shake their heads, call it a shame, and move on.

  Those who actually knew him might even call it a relief.

  Father would care, he thought. Father would grieve. Despite whatever it was they had between them, Lem was still his son.

  And Simona. She would be upset as well, almost like a friend might, despite how he had treated her.

  He thought of Des. Not the real Des. But the person he had thought she was. The fake Des. Young and bright-eyed and full of affection. That version of her would have grieved.

  But of course the real Des would only laugh at such news. What a fool, she would say. How easily played.

  He wondered where she was now. In another man’s arms? Another man’s bed? No, not a man. A customer.

  The transport giving chase disappeared from his holofield, turned to dust.

  A familiar voice sounded over the radio. “You have me to thank for that, Lem,” said Chubs. “I take personal checks or money transfers.”

  Lem smiled. “How many times have you saved my neck now, Chubs?”

  “More than I can count. But I hope you’re keeping a tally.”

  Chubs. The man who had been his cocaptain for their two-year trip to the Kuiper Belt. Not a friend, necessarily. But certainly a welcome sight now.<
br />
  Ten minutes later it was over. Nine of the mining ships were lost. The others were intact and celebrating over the radio, thrilled to be alive. It was then that Lem realized the Valas had been trying to contact him. He responded to their pinging. “This is Lem. Go ahead.”

  “Mr. Jukes. The landers. They’re taking off.”

  * * *

  After ten seconds in the ship Wit’s nose was bleeding. He felt like he was being cooked in a microwave. Every instinct told him to fly back to the safety of the launch tube and seal himself in tight with the others. The heat wasn’t just burning him, it was sucking him dry, draining the life out of him like a vacuum. He had never felt so weak or sick in his life. He gripped the wheel at the base of the launch tube and turned. All of the launch tubes except for the one where the others were waiting opened with a whoosh. He could feel the air around him being sucked out of the tubes; like standing against a heavy gale. Had his feet not been anchored to the floor as Victor had suggested, he might have been sucked out as well.

  The air depletion went on for almost a minute. Formic corpses flew by him, along with various small items that hadn’t been tied down—all of it whisked out of the tubes and into space. Wit could feel the heat in the room dropping, as if the furnace had been turned down from high to medium heat. When it was over he stood there a moment gathering himself. There was more for him to do, he knew. He had another task. He had remembered what it was a moment ago, but it had slipped away.

  Crackling static in the earpiece. “Captain O’Toole.”

  That was his name. Someone was calling him. The team from the tube. He turned and faced them. They were at the glass watching him, their faces concerned. Then he remembered.

  “I’m all right. It’s … not bad. Like a … really hot sauna. The radio gets through … that’s good. I’m … going to need it.”

  “Let me come in and help you,” said Victor.

  “No. I’ve already been exposed. There’s still radiation … in here. Just talk me to the helm. I’ve got the map … but my mind can’t … focus.”

  “He’s too disoriented,” someone said. “He’ll never make it.”

  “Shut up and let Victor talk,” another voice said.

  “Move around to the other side of the console,” said Victor. “You’ll see a passageway on your left.”

  Wit tried moving. His feet wouldn’t come. “My … feet.”

  “Your boot magnets are initiated,” said Victor. “I’ll decrease their strength from here. Get ready to launch.”

  Wit pulled again, and this time one foot came free. He pushed off with the other and flew to the wall, making his way around the console.

  His nose was bleeding worse now. There was nothing he could do to stop it. His hand couldn’t reach inside his visor.

  “Where’s Imala?” someone asked.

  “Getting close,” said Victor. “She’s going as slow as she can. We need to hurry.”

  “I’ll get there,” said Wit. “It’s not far.”

  His insides were burning, like someone had built a fire in his gut. His eyes were burning, too. He wanted desperately to rub them.

  Wit found the passageway. Victor told him which direction to go. Wit obeyed.

  He and Father were tossing the football. The big one, the one they used in the NFL. It hurt every time Wit caught it. Like catching a big inflated stone.

  Father was drawing the run on the palm of his hand, explaining a buttonhook. “You run out downfield. Then after twenty yards, about where that tree is, you turn back to the line of scrimmage and I hit you with the pass.” Wit nodded. He was eight years old and big for his age.

  The ball hit him in the face, square in the nose, blood was everywhere, all over his shirt. Momma would be furious. It was a school shirt. He wouldn’t cry, though. Not with Father watching. The tears were there in his eyes, ready to jump out, but he wouldn’t let them come. “Don’t lean your head back, son. Lean it forward. Let it drip into the grass.” Mother came out with the dishrag. Wit could taste the blood in his mouth. “This is why they wear helmets,” Father had said, wiping gently at Wit’s nose. “Does it feel broken?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, sir. I just hit it hard is all.”

  “You caught it with your face is what you did.”

  “You should use one of those foam balls, David. He’s too small for the real thing.”

  “No I’m not, Momma. I just caught it wrong. It was my fault. Please, Daddy. Let’s do it again.”

  Father chuckled. “Your nose is still bleeding son.”

  Your nose is still bleeding.

  Your nose is still bleeding.

  Your nose is still bleeding.

  “Captain! Can you hear me?”

  Wit jerked awake. He was in a corridor. Floating. Alone. A dead Formic floated to his right.

  “Captain. Wit. It’s Victor. Can you hear me?”

  “Yes … I’m here.”

  “You’re not responding. You missed the turn. You have to go back.”

  “Go back. Yes. I’m sorry.”

  Wit reached out to the nearest wall. Lifting his arm took more energy than he thought he had. He turned his body. He was so hot. So very hot. He had lost control of his bowels, he realized. Thank God for his suit.

  “Sir, you need to hurry.”

  “Yes … I’m moving.

  He pulled himself forward, using a pipe as a handhold. One hand over each other. It surprised him that he still had hands. It felt as if they had burned off. It felt as if everything had burned off, as if he were floating through flames.

  As if …

  He was sitting too close to the fire. He would melt the bottom of his sneakers if he wasn’t careful. The smoke was thick and kept blowing in his face. Lana Taymore was beside him—lithe and freckled and wearing flip-flops. Her legs were longer than his, it seemed.

  He had told his parents he was sleeping over at Harry Westover’s house. That’s what all the guys had told their parents: there was a sleepover at Harry Westover’s house.

  Some people were drinking. Wit had no idea how they had gotten the beer. Curt Woback was playing a guitar on the other side of the fire, murdering a folk song. Someone else was trying to sing along, but she didn’t know all the words.

  Smoke billowed into Wit’s eyes again, and he fanned it away.

  “Smoke follows lovers,” someone said. “Smoke follows lovers.”

  They meant him and Lana, Wit realized. Which was stupid. She was a junior. She didn’t know he existed.

  “You’re so immature,” Lana said. She tapped Wit on the arm. “Come on. Let’s leave the children. Help me get some firewood.”

  He got to his feet.

  “Uh oh,” Curt said. “They’re off to the bushes. Watch yourself, O’Toole. She’s got smoke fever.”

  They started chanting. “Smoke fever. Smoke fever. Smoke fever.”

  Wit followed Lana into the woods, his cheeks flushed. He hadn’t brought a flashlight. He couldn’t see a thing. Thin branches snagged at his face. He tripped on a stick. He bent down and picked it up. His eyes were slowly adjusting. There were other sticks nearby. He picked those up too and added them to his arms.

  Lana was ahead of him. She wasn’t picking up anything. “Hurry up, slowpoke.”

  He followed her. There was a path. He could barely make it out in the dark. They reached a pond. She walked out onto the wooden pier. He looked around. The trees were dark on all sides. He was still holding the sticks. He joined her at the end of the pier. She pulled her T-shirt off over her head in one fluid movement. She was wearing a black lacy bra underneath.

  She looked at him funny. “What? You don’t know how to swim?”

  “Captain. You’re not responding, sir.”

  Victor’s voice again.

  “I’m here,” said Wit. “I’m awake.”

  “You’ve arrived, sir. You’re at the helm.”

  Wit looked around. It wa
s true. The helm was there before him. The hatch was open. There were the controls. There were the dead Formics. He pushed his way inside. The wheel was to his left. He reached it. Somehow he lifted his hands to it, gripped it.

  “You can do this,” said Victor. “Counterclockwise. As far as it will go.”

  It took a moment for Wit to remember what that meant. A clock. He knew what a clock was. The hands moved one way. “Counter” meant the other way. Counterclockwise. He pulled the wheel but it wouldn’t budge. He tried again but nothing happened. Maybe when he was stronger he could have done this. But not now. He was too hot, too weak and empty. He felt so drained even breathing was difficult.

  He hawked up another glob of blood and spat it out. It floated there in his helmet.

  “It’s … not moving.”

  “It will, Captain. It will. Try again.”

  He tried again. Nothing happened. He wanted to sleep. That’s what he needed now more than anything, to sleep, to close his eyes and rest. Sucking in air was so difficult now. He didn’t have the strength for that, let alone the strength to turn a wheel.

  “You can do this, Captain.”

  “No … I can’t.”

  His voice didn’t sound like his own. It sounded like an old man. A dying old man—raspy and phlegmy, with rattling in the lungs.

  “Try again,” Victor said.

  I am trying, Wit wanted to scream. I’m giving it all I have. There just isn’t anything left anymore.

  He pushed and turned. He changed his grip and tried again. It felt as if his gloves were filled with shards of glass. The tiniest amount of pressure on his fingers and palms sent lightning bolts of pain up his arm.

  And still the wheel didn’t move.

  “I … can’t. Nothing … left in me.”

  “Give me the holopad,” a voice said. “Captain, it’s Deen. Can you hear me?”

  Deen. He knew that name. A friend’s name. There were memories attached to that name swirling around in the soup of his mind. He tried reaching for one, but it ran through his fingers like water. Deen. A name he knew. He tried to say it aloud, to give it meaning, to define it more in his head. But when he opened his lips, no words came out, only the softest exhalation of breath.