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The Human Division is dedicated to the following:
To Yanni Kuznia and Brian Decker, for their love and friendship.
To John Harris, in admiration, and in appreciation for his art work for this novel and for all the Old Man’s War books.
Thank you for your visions.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
EPISODE ONE: The B-Team
EPISODE TWO: Walk the Plank
EPISODE THREE: We Only Need the Heads
EPISODE FOUR: A Voice in the Wilderness
EPISODE FIVE: Tales from the Clarke
EPISODE SIX: The Back Channel
EPISODE SEVEN: The Dog King
EPISODE EIGHT: The Sound of Rebellion
EPISODE NINE: The Observers
EPISODE TEN: This Must Be the Place
EPISODE ELEVEN: A Problem of Proportion
EPISODE TWELVE: The Gentle Art of Cracking Heads
EPISODE THIRTEEN: Earth Below, Sky Above
Extras
After the Coup
Hafte Sorvalh Eats a Churro and Speaks to the Youth of Today
Other Novels by John Scalzi
About the Author
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Writing this particular installment of the Old Man’s War universe came with its own unique set of challenges, not in the least was writing thirteen separate episodes that had to work as their own stand-alone stories while at the same time functioning as a novel when they were all stacked together. It was a hell of a lot of fun, but it was also a hell of a lot of work.
To that end, my first acknowledgment here is to my editor, Patrick Nielsen Hayden, whose confidence in the book from the day I first suggested it through to the end of the process helped me considerably, especially on the days I sat there wondering what it was I had gotten myself into. His ability not to panic is a marvelously reassuring thing, and I thank him deeply for it.
Likewise, thanks to Irene Gallo for managing the art side of things, which for this project (especially the electronic version) was far more intensive than it usually is. Irene is the best art director in science fiction and possibly all of publishing, and I am always indebted to her work on my behalf.
Cover artist John Harris’s contribution to The Human Division is significant enough that I have codedicated the entire book to him, but I want to acknowledge again his spectacular work for the book and for the individual episodes. It was a joy to see all the art for the first time, and a greater joy to get to show it all off to you. The book would not be the same without his efforts.
The copyediting of this particular book was an undertaking of its own epic scale, and for that thanks are in order to Sona Vogel. Thank you for catching my many errors. Also thank you to Heather Saunders for book design, and to Alexis Saarela and Patty Garcia and all of Tor’s publicity department for getting me out there in front of folks.
The Human Division was not only released as a print book but also electronically, by episode. This was new territory for Tor and for Macmillan, who went out on a limb to try a new way of getting stories to readers. For getting out on that limb, I am indebted to Tom Doherty, Linda Quinton, Fritz Foy, Dan Schwartz, and Brian Napack.
There are always people I should thank at Tor whom I miss. I hope they will accept my apologies and know I am glad they do the work they do for me and other authors.
Over at Audible, who handled the audiobook version of The Human Division, many thanks are in order to Steve Feldberg and William Dufris.
Thanks as ever to Ethan Ellenberg and Evan Gregory, my fiction agents, and I wish them good hunting in selling this overseas. Also, this is a good time to thank my film/tv agent, Joel Gotler, and also the folks involved with the Old Man’s War movie project: Wolfgang Petersen, Scott Stuber, Alexa Faigen, David Self, and Chris Boal. I’m cheering you guys on.
The electronic edition of The Human Division featured dedications for each individual episode. The people to whom those individual episodes were dedicated to were (in order of episode dedication) Brad Roberts and Carl Rigney; Alex Seropian, Tim Harris, Hardy LeBel, and Mike Choi; Alexis Saarela, Patty Garcia, and Tor Publicity; Paul Sabourin and Greg DiCostanzo; Glenn Reynolds; Jonathan Coulton; the SFWA 2012–13 Board of Directors; Diana Sherman; Jared Cloud and Joanna Beu; The Webb Schools of California Class of 1987; Rena Watson Hawkins; Megan Totusek and Jesi Pershing.
As I was writing The Human Division I was also touring for Redshirts (my previous novel) and doing a staggering amount of travel. Trying to keep my head in the novel while at the same time doing everything else I was doing was a dizzying experience, to say the least. Friends who helped keep me sane through all of this include (in no particular order) Karen Meisner, Deven Desai, Mary Robinette Kowal, Joe Hill, Kyle Cassidy, Doselle Young, Wil Wheaton, Bill Shafer, Kate Baker, Pat Rothfuss, Natasha Kordus, Robert Lawrence, Jenny Lawson, Pamela Ribon, Lorraine Garland, Neil Gaiman, Paolo Bacigalupi, Hiro Sasaki, Dave Klecha, Yanni Kuznia, Karen Healey, Justine Larbalestier, Adam Lisberg, and Daniel Mainz. Thank you all for putting up with me while I was at loose ends. I am forgetting people. I am sorry. My brain, it is still recovering. Forgive me.
Thanks also to the board of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, for putting up with me essentially falling into a hole for the month of October while I was finishing up the novel: Jim Fiscus, Matthew Johnson, Ann Leckie, Lee Martindale, Bud Sparhawk, Cat Valente, and Sean Williams. Sorry, guys. It won’t happen again while I’m president. I promise.
And of course, thanks always to Kristine and Athena Scalzi, whom I love more than is entirely sensible and I’m just fine with that.
Finally, thank you. You guys have been asking me to go back to the Old Man’s War universe for a while; I wanted to make sure that if I did, it would be worth your time to make the trip. I hope you enjoyed it. I enjoyed writing it for you. Thanks for making it possible.
— John Scalzi
October 27, 2012
EPISODE ONE
The B-Team, Parts One and Two
PART ONE
I.
Ambassador Sara Bair knew that when the captain of the Polk had invited her to the bridge to view the skip to the Danavar system, protocol strongly suggested that she turn down the invitation. The captain would be busy, she would be in the way and in any event there was not that much to see. When the Polk skipped dozens of light-years across the local arm of the galaxy, the only way a human would register the fact would be that their view of the stars would change slightly. On the bridge, that view would be through display screens, not windows. Captain Basta had offered the invitation merely as a formality and was sure enough of its rejection that she had already made arrangements for the ambassador and her staff to have a small reception marking the skip in the Polk’s tiny and normally unused observation desk, wedged above the cargo hold.
Ambassador Bair knew protocol suggested she turn down the invitation, but she didn’t care. In her twenty-five years in the Colonial Union diplomatic corps she’d never once been on a starship bridge, didn’t know when she’d be in
vited to one again, and regardless of protocol, she was of the opinion that if one was going to issue an invitation, one should be prepared to have it accepted. If her negotiations with the Utche went well, and at this point in the game there was no reason to suspect they would not, no one anywhere would care about this single breach of convention.
So screw it, she was going to the bridge.
If Captain Basta was annoyed by Bair accepting her invitation, she didn’t show it. Lieutenant Evans produced the ambassador and her assistant, Brad Roberts, on the bridge five minutes prior to skip; the captain disengaged from her duties and quickly but politely welcomed the pair to the bridge. Formalities fulfilled, she turned her attention back to her pre-skip duties. Lieutenant Evans, knowing his cue, nudged Bair and Roberts into a corner where they could observe without interfering.
“Do you know how a skip works, Ambassador?” Evans asked. For the duration of the mission, Lieutenant Evans was the Polk’s protocol officer, acting as a liaison between the diplomatic mission and the ship’s crew.
“My understanding of it is that we are in one place in space, and then the skip drive turns on, and we are magically someplace else,” Bair said.
Evans smiled. “It’s not magic, it’s physics, ma’am,” he said. “Although the high-end sort of physics that looks like magic from the outside. It’s to relativistic physics what relativistic physics is to Newtonian physics. So that’s two steps beyond everyday human experience.”
“So we’re not really breaking the laws of physics here,” Roberts said. “Because every time I think of starships skipping across the galaxy, I imagine Albert Einstein in a policeman’s uniform, writing up a ticket.”
“We’re not breaking any laws. What we’re doing is literally exploiting a loophole,” Evans said, and then launched into a longer explanation of the physics behind skipping. Roberts nodded and never took his eyes off of Evans, but he had a small smile on his face that Bair knew was meant for her. It meant that Roberts was aware he was doing one of his primary tasks, which was to draw away from Bair people who wanted to make pointless small talk with her, so she could focus on what she was good at: paying attention to her surroundings.
Her surroundings were not in fact all that impressive. The Polk was a frigate—Bair was sure Evans would know what type specifically, but she didn’t want to train his attention back on her at the moment—and its bridge was modest. Two rows of desks with monitors, with a slightly raised platform for the captain or officer of the watch to oversee operations, and two large monitors forward to display information and, when desired, an outside view. At the moment neither display was on; the bridge crew were instead focused on their individual monitors, with Captain Basta and her executive officer walking among them, murmuring.
It was about as exciting as watching paint dry. Or more accurately, as exciting as watching a crew of highly trained individuals do an action they have done hundreds of times before without drama or incident. Bair, who by dint of years in the diplomatic corps was aware that trained professionals doing their thing was not usually a gripping spectator sport, was nevertheless vaguely disappointed. Years of dramatic entertainments had prepared her for something more action oriented. She sighed without realizing it.
“Not what you were expecting, ma’am?” Evans asked, turning his attention back to the ambassador.
“I didn’t know what to expect,” Bair said, annoyed with herself at having sighed loudly enough to be heard, but hiding it. “The bridge is more quiet than I would have assumed.”
“The bridge crew has worked together for a long time,” Evans said. “And you have to remember that they pass a lot of information internally.” Bair looked over to Evans with an arched eyebrow at this; Evans smiled and pointed a finger to his temple.
Oh, right, Bair thought. Captain Basta and the rest of the bridge crew were all members of the Colonial Defense Forces. This meant that aside from the obvious distinguishing genetically-engineered characteristics of green skin and a youthful appearance, each of them had a computer called a BrainPal nestled up inside their brains. CDF members could use their BrainPals to talk or share data with one another; they didn’t have to use their mouths to do it. The murmuring indicated that they still did, however, at least part of the time. CDF members used to be normal people without green skin or computers in their heads. Old habits died hard.
Bair, who had been born on the planet Erie and had spent the last twenty years stationed out of the Colonial Union home planet of Phoenix, had neither green skin nor a computer in her head. But she had spent enough time around CDF members during her diplomatic travels that they no longer seemed particularly notable among the variety of humans she worked with. She sometimes forgot that they were, in fact, a genetically-engineered breed apart.
“One minute to skip,” said the Polk’s executive officer. Bair’s brain popped up a name: Everett Roman. Aside from Commander Roman’s notation of the time, nothing else on the bridge had changed; Bair suspected the announcement was for her and Roberts’s benefit. Bair’s eyes flicked over to the large monitors to the fore of the room. They were still dark.
“Commander Roman,” Evans said, and then motioned his head toward the monitors when he had gotten the executive officer’s attention. The XO nodded. The monitors sprang to life, one with an image of a star field, the other with a simple schematic of the Polk.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Evans,” Bair said, quietly. Evans smiled.
Commander Roman counted off the last ten seconds of the skip. Bair trained her eyes on the monitor showing the star field. When Roman counted zero, the stars in the field seemed to shift at random. Bair knew that the stars hadn’t actually shifted. These were entirely new stars. The Polk had, without fuss or noise, instantly traveled light-years.
Bair blinked, unsatisfied. If you thought about what just happened in terms of what was physically accomplished, it was a staggering event. As a personal human experience, however …
“So that’s it?” Roberts asked, to no one in particular.
“That’s it,” Evans said.
“Not very exciting,” Roberts said.
“Not exciting means we did it right,” Evans said.
“Well, where’s the fun in that?” Roberts joked.
“Other people can do fun,” Evans said. “We do precise. We get you where you need to go, on time. Or ahead of time, in this case. We were asked to get you here three days ahead of the Utche arrival. We delivered you three days, six hours early. Here you are, ahead of time twice.”
“About that,” Bair said. Evans turned his head to the ambassador to give her his full attention.
The deck of the bridge leaped up at the trio, with violence.
Voices on the bridge suddenly became very loud, detailing damage to the ship. Hull breaches, loss of power, casualties. Something had gone very wrong with the skip.
Bair looked up from the deck and saw that the images on the monitors had changed. The schematic of the ship now featured sections blinking in red. The star field had been replaced with a representation of the Polk in three-dimensional space. It was at the center of the representation. At the periphery of the representation was an object, heading toward the Polk.
“What is that?” Bair asked Evans, who was picking himself up off the deck.
Evans looked at the screen and was quiet for a second. Bair knew he was accessing his BrainPal for more information. “A ship,” he said.
“Is it the Utche?” Roberts asked. “We can signal them for help.”
Evans shook his head. “They’re not the Utche.”
“Who are they?” Bair asked.
“We don’t know,” Evans said.
The monitors chirped, and then there were multiple additional objects on the screen, heading quickly toward the Polk.
“Oh, God,” Bair said, and stood as the bridge crew reported missiles en route.
Captain Basta ordered the missiles lanced out of the sky and then turned toward Bair—or, more
directly, to Evans. “Those two,” she said. “Escape pod. Now.”
“Wait—,” Bair began.
“No time, Ambassador,” Basta said, cutting her off. “Too many missiles. My next two minutes are about getting you off the ship alive. Don’t waste them.” She turned back to her bridge crew, telling them to prep the black box.
Evans grabbed Bair. “Come on, Ambassador,” he said, and pulled her off the bridge, Roberts following.
Forty seconds later, Bair and Roberts were shoved by Evans into a cramped box with two small seats. “Strap in,” Evan said, yelling to make himself heard. He pointed below one of the seats. “Emergency rations and hydration there.” He pointed below the other. “Waste recycler there. You have a week of air. You’ll be fine.”
“The rest of my team—,” Bair said again.
“Is being shoved into escape pods right now,” Evans said. “The captain will launch a skip drone to let the CDF know what happened. They keep rescue ships at skip distance for things just like this. Don’t worry. Now strap in. These things launch rough.” He backed out of the pod.
“Good luck, Evans,” Roberts said. Evans grimaced as the pod sealed itself. Five seconds later, the pod punched itself off the Polk. Bair felt as if she had been kicked in the spine and then felt weightless. The pod was too small and basic for artificial gravity.
“What the hell just happened back there?” Roberts said, after a minute. “The Polk was hit the instant it skipped.”
“Someone knew we were on our way,” Bair said.
“This mission was confidential,” Roberts said.
“Use your head, Brad,” Bair said, testily. “The mission was confidential on our end. It could have leaked. It could have leaked on the Utche side.”
“You think the Utche set us up?” Roberts asked.
“I don’t know,” Bair said. “They’re in the same situation as we are. They need this alliance as much as we do. It doesn’t make any sense for them to string the Colonial Union along just to pull a stupid stunt like this. Attacking the Polk doesn’t gain them anything. Destroying a CDF ship is a flat-out enemy action.”