The Mammoth Book of SF Wars (2 page)

As if to demonstrate that even this coin has a flipside, four of our twenty-four tales feature peace or peacekeeping in their titles – fittingly, since this is surely what we
really
want, or so we like to tell ourselves.

The truth is that there is something about warfare, about Conflict, about violence, that sets the heart racing and the blood singing. Our genre has been responsible for some of the most thought-provoking, challenging, edifying and intelligent fiction of the past century, and doubtless it will continue to be so; but there is another side to science fiction. The tang of weapon-oil, the sleek slide or the grind of metal on metal, the sizzle of an energy beam, the raw ferocity of explosion, and the cunning of a black ops specialist, are just as important an aspect of science fiction as the virtual futures, cybernetic implants, and the nature of the multiverse. The brilliance of a ship’s commander who triumphs against all odds (despite being heavily outgunned and tactically disadvantaged) will raise a cheer as surely as the flash of insight that casts light on a puzzling aspect of the human condition. In fact, the chances are that it was just such stories of bravery and derring-do that drew many of us into science fiction in the first place. We
like
big explosions and impossible missions, men and women pitted against aliens or against other men and women. We
like
to read of nobility, treachery, and sacrifice, of triumph and loss. And that’s what this particular Mammoth is all about. Humankind pushed to the limits in every conceivable way.

A problem with tackling a subject as vast as “war” in a genre that has been fascinated by the subject for many, many decades is that there are a whole lot of stories to choose from. No single collection can ever encompass all that merit inclusion and no anthology can hope to satisfy everyone. There are bound to be those who glance down the contents list and think, but what about this story or that one? If we’ve missed out your favourite we apologize, but hope you’ll take a look in any case and discover a few new favourites in the process. As with any anthology, not everything has gone absolutely to plan. Some of the stories we had hoped to include proved to be unavailable, while, despite initially promising signs, Games Workshop’s Warhammer 40,000 proved one universe that was closed to us; alas, the company lawyers declined any reprinting in a non-GW publication.

Thankfully, our successes have far outweighed our disappointments, and we are delighted with both the quality and diversity of tale we have gathered together in
The Mammoth Book of SF Wars
. We only hope that you, the reader, are too.

Ian Whates and Ian Watson, 2012

PEACEKEEPER

Mike Resnick and Brad R. Torgersen

Suppose that soldiers of our present day are drafted by advanced aliens as peace enforcers on a distant world in exchange for technology …

In this first of the three original stories commissioned for this book, Mike Resnick teams up with Brad Torgersen, a Writers of the Future finalist in 2009 who then speedily sold stories to
Analog,
and who has been in the army reserves for twenty years. The amazingly energetic Mike Resnick has collaborated with a bushel of other authors (which turns out not to be a big sheaf but is actually eight gallons; nevertheless we’ll leave this), as well as authoring a library of books by himself and being expert on horseracing, purebred collies, Africa and who knows what else. As of 2009 at least he has the unique distinction (ahem, there can only be one) of being the all-time top award winner for short fiction.

I
T WAS A
normal duty day in the city until the Earth limo showed up. It glided through the chaotic
s’ndar
traffic that bustled across my assigned six-way intersection. Flow control was provided by a single
s’ndar
of the city’s provisional constabulary, who jerked his brightly coloured paddles to and fro over his bug’s head, herding his people this way and that.

Since the ceasefire, my squad and I didn’t mess with the locals unless we had to. We kept out of the way, as backup for the traffic cop in case of real trouble.

I exchanged glances with Corporal Kent, who’d seen the limo. Her facial expression said,
You’re the boss; you figure it out
.

I sighed, then got up out of my sandbagged security position and began walking towards the vehicle as it ground to a halt a few metres away.

The
s’ndar
traffic cop watched me, decided it was none of his business, and went back to waving his paddles.

Low-rise commercial and residential structures sprouted around the intersection like mushrooms, their hemispherical roofs designed to shelter pedestrians from the daily monsoon. Along the boulevards poles rose up from the pavement at regular intervals to support endless rows of electrical conduit, phone conduit and fibre optics.

A slight haze of smog hung over the
s’ndar
city. It was impossible to ignore how similar, and yet also totally different, the scene was from the average urban centre on Earth. Humans and
s’ndar
had reached roughly equivalent technology levels.

Then the Interstellar Conglomerate intervened.

The smooth hum of the limo’s twin engines quit, and the man who stepped out of the car was someone I was familiar with only from the news feeds. Senator Jeff Petersen had played football in college, and still kept reasonably fit. Tall and broad-chested, his full head of pepper-tinged hair was trimmed close. He had on a khaki field vest – one of the Earth embassy models that contained ballistic armour plating in addition to being festooned with pouches and pockets. He also wore neatly pressed khaki shorts and high-topped boots.

Given the oppressive humidity, I envied his wardrobe.

Two similarly dressed Secret Service personnel – one male, with a pistol on his hip, the other female, with a sub-machine gun in her hands – flanked the senator as he strode towards me. Other Secret Service agents stepped from the car and scanned the surroundings cautiously, their mirror sunglasses and straight faces making them seem somehow robotic.

I saluted the senator when he drew near.

“Sergeant Colford!” yelled Petersen over the din of traffic as he extended his hand. He’d obviously read my name tape on my armour. Good politician’s reflex. Made it seem like he really gave a damn who I was.

I rapidly chow-slung my rifle and shook Petersen’s hand. He had a surprisingly strong grip. Well, maybe not so surprising, given his profession. His smile was amiable, and his nicely capped teeth sparkled in the oppressive sunlight.

I strongly resisted the urge to like him.

“Senator,” I said formally, “I wish I’d known you were coming.”

“You guys always say that,” Petersen said, continuing to smile. “But how am I supposed to talk to you candidly if your commander or first sergeant is warning you at morning briefing?”

It was a good point. But if I knew my corporal, she was already calling in to the Tactical Operations Centre. Headquarters would have our asses if we didn’t report the senator’s arrival asap.

Petersen surveyed my semi-hardened position.

“A bunker and eleven troops. Kind of overkill, don’t you think? The
s’ndar
in this city are pro-Conglomerate now. They’re our friends.”

“Maybe, sir,” I replied. “But you weren’t here six months ago.”

“I read about that. Did you see a lot of fighting, son?”

Son?
Hell, I was almost thirty.

“I saw my share,” I said evenly. “My rifle company trained en route. Our Conglomerate transports already had mock-ups of
s’ndar
urban terrain on-board. We
thought
we’d be ready.”

“But you thought wrong,” the senator said.

“Yah,” I replied, grimacing at the memory.

Petersen waited, as if expecting me to say something more. When I didn’t, he ran a hand over his scalp and then folded his arms across his chest.

“So, you’ve seen some rough fighting. OK. Do you at least feel like it was worth it?”

“Worth
what
, sir?”

“Earth’s involvement in
S’ndar-khk
’s civil war.
America
’s involvement in the CEMEF – the Combined Earth Military Expeditionary Force.”

“I don’t make policy, sir,” I told him non-committally. “I just follow orders.”

“Fair enough. But the UN’s bargain with the Conglomerate is costing American lives. Do you think it’s worth it?”

I frowned, remembering my sister Karen. She’d been an officer in the Air Force, and had wanted to be an astronaut too, before the Conglomerate established their first contact with Earth. The interstellar robotic transports the Conglomerate sent to us made Earth’s space stations look like toys. We’d not even put a man on Mars yet, and the Conglomerate was picking us up and hauling us off in whole battalions – over 300 light years to this obscure little planet, where my sister had been thrilled as hell to see actual aliens.

Now she was buried back home, her skull split by a
s’ndar
bullet. It had been a closed-casket affair, given the damage. Mom and Dad still weren’t over it.

“I’ve lost some friends here,” I said. “And family too. Things were a mess on this planet when we showed up. Lots of killing all over the place. Now there’s not so much. But only because we’re still alert every hour of every day. You ask me if it’s worth it … I sure as hell hope so.”

Petersen’s brow furrowed. He reached out and put a hand on my shoulder, his face turning empathetic.

“I’m sorry for your friends, and whoever else you lost in your family, too. Part of the reason I’m here is to assure you and the other troops that you’re doing truly important work. You’re saving lives.
Human
lives. We help the
s’ndar
establish and keep the peace, and the Conglomerate helps Earth. We
need
the Conglomerate’s clean fusion technology to reverse the economic and political damage from the Oil Crash. You’re standing guard on this intersection so that you – or someone like you – doesn’t have to stand guard over a few barrels of crude in the Person Gulf or Venezuela.”

“Militia coming!” yelled one of my privates.

Senator Petersen and I turned our heads to see a small patrol of
s’ndaran
-made armoured personnel carriers manoeuvring towards us through the hubbub. The large-wheeled, tank-like vehicles took a few minutes to reach our position, and when they did, several armed
s’ndar
climbed from the hatch on an aerial-spiked APC, and approached my squad.

The
s’ndar
in the lead looked older than the rest. It was a female. Hell,
all
the authority figures in the insectoid race from sergeant on up were females, just like the ants and bees back on Earth. Her chitin was greyed at the edges and had several wounds that had been puttied over with artificial quick-cure ceramic, now weathered. Her thorax bore the militia equivalent of a non-commissioned officer, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out she’d seen her share of combat.

Sergeant to sergeant, we saluted, the
s’ndar
in its form, me in mine.

As I lowered my rifle from the vertical, my Conglomerate-manufactured Translation Application Device – TAD – began speaking into my helmet’s earphones. Emotionless metallic English filled my ears as the
s’ndar
’s mandibles clicked and scratched consonants in between flute-like vowels.

“Good morning, Staff Sergeant,” she said.

“Good morning, Primary Sergeant,” I replied, my TAD turning my English into
s’ndar
words.

“My soldiers and I arrive in coordination with the senator’s visit,” said the primary sergeant.

I studied her. You could never really be sure about the militia. They worked for the provisional government, who worked with the Expeditionary Force. But that didn’t mean much on the street. I’d learned that first-hand. A few of the militia were quality. Many of them were either incompetently hazardous or deceitfully dangerous. It was best to be cautious.

Petersen turned back to me. “Do you mind if I go talk with your people?”

“Feel free, sir,” I said.

I watched Petersen navigate away from my fighting position, chatting briefly with privates, specialists and my corporal.

Finally the
s’ndar
sergeant spoke. “I apologize for this nuisance,” she said.

“Not a problem,” I answered, grateful my TAD didn’t translate my distaste. We’d come to
S’ndar-khk
to help, and the various
s’ndar
hives had fought us tooth and nail – in the middle of their own stupid hive-on-hive war. They might have gone nuclear on each other if the Conglomerate hadn’t established first contact, and intervened for humanitarian reasons.

I heard some loud, rumbling engines, and turned to see a series of large trucks manoeuvring into the intersection. They were flatbeds of
s’ndar
construction, weighed down with large, square containers. I frowned. Any kind of large-scale commercial traffic like this should have been cleared with the Tactical Operations Centre well beforehand. The native traffic cop out in the intersection knew it too, and began waving his paddles furiously, signalling for the trucks to stop.

Their drivers obeyed …

… and the traffic cop exploded in a spray of barking rifle fire.

After that everything became a blur.

I remember the sides of the shipping containers splitting open and a small swarm of
s’ndar
pouring out. Civilians on foot began to scatter while vehicles attempted to either halt, or speed off. The air buzzed with countless
s’ndar
voices which overwhelmed my TAD. I switched over to the squad channel as I brought my weapon from off my back and pulled the charging handle.