Peace and War

  Peace and War

  Also by Joe Haldeman

  Novels

  War Year (1972)

  The Forever War (1974)

  Mindbridge (1976)

  All My Sins Remembered (1977)

  Worlds (1981)

  Worlds Apart (1983)

  Tool of the Trade (1987)

  The Long Habit of Living (1989)

  The Hemingway Hoax (1990)

  Worlds Enough and Time (1992)

  1968 (1995)

  Forever Peace (1997)

  Forever Free (1999)

  Short Story Collections

  Infinite Dreams (1979)

  Dealing in Futures (1985)

  None So Blind (1996)

  Copyright © Joe Haldeman 2006

  The Forever War copyright © Joe Haldeman 1974, 1975, 1997

  Forever Free copyright © Joe Haldeman 1999

  Forever Peace copyright © Joe Haldeman 1997

  All rights reserved

  The right of Joe Haldeman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him, in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This edition published in Great Britain in 2006 by

  Gollancz

  An imprint of the Orion Publishing Group

  Orion House, 5 Upper St Martin's Lane,

  London WC2H 9EA

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

  7 9 10 8

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9 780 57507 919 9

  Typeset at The Spartan Press Ltd,

  Lymington, Hants

  Printed and bound in Great Britain at Mackays of Chatham plc,

  Chatham, Kent

  The Orion Publishing Group's policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  'Man was born into barbarism, when killing his fellow man was a normal condition of existence. He became endowed with a conscience. And he has now reached the day when violence toward another human being must become as abhorrent as eating another's flesh.'

  —Martin Luther King, Jr.

  The Forever War

  For Ben and, always, for Gay.

  Forever Free

  For Gay, again, twenty-five years later.

  Forever Peace

  This novel is for two editors: John W. Campbell,

  who rejected a story because he thought it was absurd to write

  about American women who fight and die in combat,

  and Ben Bova, who didn't.

  The

  Forever War

  Author's Note

  This is the definitive version of The Forever War. There are two other versions, and my publisher has been kind enough to allow me to clarify things here.

  The one you're holding in your hand is the book as it was originally written. But it has a pretty tortuous history.

  It's ironic, since it later won the Hugo and Nebula Awards, and has won 'Best Novel' awards in other countries, but The Forever War was not an easy book to sell back in the early seventies. It was rejected by eighteen publishers before St Martin's Press decided to take a chance on it. 'Pretty good book,' was the usual reaction, 'but nobody wants to read a science fiction novel about Vietnam'. Twenty-five years later, most young readers don't even see the parallels between The Forever War and the seemingly endless one we were involved in at the time, and that's OK. It's about Vietnam because that's the war the author was in. But it's mainly about war, about soldiers, and about the reasons we think we need them.

  While the book was being looked at by all those publishers, it was also being serialized piecemeal in Analog magazine. The editor, Ben Bova, was a tremendous help, not only in editing, but also for making the thing exist at all! He gave it a prominent place in the magazine, and it was also his endorsement that brought it to the attention of St Martin's Press, who took a chance on the hardcover, though they did not publish adult science fiction at that time.

  But Ben rejected the middle section, a novella called 'You Can Never Go Back.' He liked it as a piece of writing, he said, but thought that it was too downbeat for Analog's audience. So I wrote him a more positive story and put 'You Can Never Go Back' into the drawer; eventually Ted White published it in Amazing magazine, as a coda to The Forever War.

  At this late date, I'm not sure why I didn't reinstate the original middle when the book was accepted. Perhaps I didn't trust my own taste, or just didn't want to make life more complicated. But that first book version is essentially the Analog version with 'more adult language and situations', as they say in Hollywood.

  The paperback of that version stayed in print for about sixteen years. Then in 1991 I had the opportunity to reinstate my original version. The dates in the book are now kind of funny; most people realize we didn't get into an interstellar war in 1996. I originally set it in that year so it was barely possible that the officers and NCOs could be veterans of Vietnam, so we decided to leave it that way, in spite of the obvious anachronisms. Think of it as a parallel universe.

  But maybe it's the real one, and we're in a dream.

  Joe Haldeman

  Cambridge, Massachusetts

  Private

  Mandella

  1

  'Tonight we're going to show you eight silent ways to kill a man.' The guy who said that was a sergeant who didn't look five years older than me. So if he'd ever killed a man in combat, silently or otherwise, he'd done it as an infant.

  I already knew eighty ways to kill people, but most of them were pretty noisy. I sat up straight in my chair and assumed a look of polite attention and fell asleep with my eyes open. So did most everybody else. We'd learned that they never scheduled anything important for these after-chop classes.

  The projector woke me up and I sat through a short tape showing the 'eight silent ways.' Some of the actors must have been brainwipes, since they were actually killed.

  After the tape a girl in the front row raised her hand. The sergeant nodded at her and she rose to parade rest. Not bad looking, but kind of chunky about the neck and shoulders. Everybody gets that way after carrying a heavy pack around for a couple of months.

  'Sir' – we had to call sergeants 'sir' until graduation – 'most of those methods, really, they looked … kind of silly.'

  'For instance?'

  'Like killing a man with a blow to the kidneys, from an entrenching tool. I mean, when would you actually have only an entrenching tool, and no gun or knife? And why not just bash him over the head with it?'

  'He might have a helmet on,' he said reasonably.

  'Besides, Taurans probably don't even have kidneys!'

  He shrugged. 'Probably they don't.' This was 1997, and nobody had ever seen a Tauran; hadn't even found any pieces of Taurans bigger than a scorched chromosome. 'But their body chemistry is similar to ours, and we have to assume they're similarly complex creatures. They must have weaknesses, vulnerable spots. You have to find out where they are.

  'That's the important thing.' He stabbed a finger at the screen. 'Those eight convicts got caulked for your benefit because you've got to find out how to kill Taurans, and be able to do it whether you have a megawatt laser or an emery board.'

  She sat back down, not looking too convinced.

  'Any more questions?' Nobody raised a hand.

  'OK. Tench-hut!' We staggered upright and he looked at us expectantly.

  'Fuck you, sir,' came the familiar tired chorus.

  'Louder!'

  'FUCK YOU, SIR!' One of the army's less-inspired morale devices.

&nb
sp; 'That's better. Don't forget, pre-dawn maneuvers tomorrow. Chop at 0330, first formation, 0400. Anybody sacked after 0340 owes one stripe. Dismissed.'

  I zipped up my coverall and went across the snow to the lounge for a cup of soya and a joint. I'd always been able to get by on five or six hours of sleep, and this was the only time I could be by myself, out of the army for a while. Looked at the newsfax for a few minutes. Another ship got caulked, out by Aldebaran sector. That was four years ago. They were mounting a reprisal fleet, but it'll take four years more for them to get out there. By then, the Taurans would have every portal planet sewed up tight.

  Back at the billet, everybody else was sacked and the main lights were out. The whole company'd been dragging ever since we got back from the two-week Lunar training. I dumped my clothes in the locker, checked the roster and found out I was in bunk 31. Goddammit, right under the heater.

  I slipped through the curtain as quietly as possible so as not to wake up the person next to me. Couldn't see who it was, but I couldn't have cared less. I slipped under the blanket.

  'You're late, Mandella,' a voice yawned. It was Rogers.

  'Sorry I woke you up,' I whispered.

  "Sallright.' She snuggled over and clasped me spoon-fashion. She was warm and reasonably soft.

  I patted her hip in what I hoped was a brotherly fashion. 'Night, Rogers.'

  'G'night, Stallion.' She returned the gesture more pointedly.

  Why do you always get the tired ones when you're ready and the randy ones when you're tired? I bowed to the inevitable.

  2

  'Awright, let's get some goddamn back inta that! Stringer team! Move it up – move your ass up!'

  A warm front had come in about midnight and the snow had turned to sleet. The permaplast stringer weighed five hundred pounds and was a bitch to handle, even when it wasn't covered with ice. There were four of us, two at each end, carrying the plastic girder with frozen fingertips. Rogers was my partner.

  'Steel!' the guy behind me yelled, meaning that he was losing his hold. It wasn't steel, but it was heavy enough to break your foot. Everybody let go and hopped away. It splashed slush and mud all over us.

  'Goddammit, Petrov,' Rogers said, 'why didn't you go out for the Red Cross or something? This fucken thing's not that fucken heavy.' Most of the girls were a little more circumspect in their speech. Rogers was a little butch.

  'Awright, get a fucken move on, stringers – epoxy team! Dog'em! Dog'em!'

  Our two epoxy people ran up, swinging their buckets. 'Let's go, Mandella. I'm freezin' my balls off.'

  'Me, too,' the girl said with more feeling than logic.

  'One – two – heave!' We got the thing up again and staggered toward the bridge. It was about three-quarters completed. Looked as if the second platoon was going to beat us. I wouldn't give a damn, but the platoon that got their bridge built first got to fly home. Four miles of muck for the rest of us, and no rest before chop.

  We got the stringer in place, dropped it with a clank, and fitted the static clamps that held it to the rise-beams. The female half of the epoxy team started slopping glue on it before we even had it secured. Her partner was waiting for the stringer on the other side. The floor team was waiting at the foot of the bridge, each one holding a piece of the light, stressed permaplast over his head like an umbrella. They were dry and clean. I wondered aloud what they had done to deserve it, and Rogers suggested a couple of colorful, but unlikely, possibilities.

  We were going back to stand by the next stringer when the field first (name of Dougelstein, but we called him 'Awright') blew a whistle and bellowed, 'Awright, soldier boys and girls, ten minutes. Smoke'em if you got 'em.' He reached into his pocket and turned on the control that heated our coveralls.

  Rogers and I sat down on our end of the stringer and I took out my weed box. I had lots of joints, but we were ordered not to smoke them until after night-chop. The only tobacco I had was a cigarro butt about three inches long. I lit it on the side of the box; it wasn't too bad after the first couple of puffs. Rogers took a puff, just to be sociable, but made a face and gave it back.

  'Were you in school when you got drafted?' she asked.

  'Yeah. Just got a degree in physics. Was going after a teacher's certificate.'

  She nodded soberly. 'I was in biology…'

  'Figures.' I ducked a handful of slush. 'How far?'

  'Six years, bachelor's and technical.' She slid her boot along the ground, turning up a ridge of mud and slush the consistency of freezing ice milk. 'Why the fuck did this have to happen?'

  I shrugged. It didn't call for an answer, least of all the answer that the UNEF kept giving us. Intellectual and physical elite of the planet, going out to guard humanity against the Tauran menace. Soyashit. It was all just a big experiment. See whether we could goad the Taurans into ground action.

  Awright blew the whistle two minutes early, as expected, but Rogers and I and the other two stringers got to sit for a minute while the epoxy and floor teams finished covering our stringer. It got cold fast, sitting there with our suits turned off, but we remained inactive on principle.

  There really wasn't any sense in having us train in the cold. Typical army half-logic. Sure, it was going to be cold where we were going, but not ice-cold or snow-cold. Almost by definition, a portal planet remained within a degree or two of absolute zero all the time – since collapsars don't shine – and the first chill you felt would mean that you were a dead man.

  Twelve years before, when I was ten years old, they had discovered the collapsar jump. Just fling an object at a collapsar with sufficient speed, and out it pops in some other part of the galaxy. It didn't take long to figure out the formula that predicted where it would come out: it travels along the same 'line' (actually an Einsteinian geodesic) it would have followed if the collapsar hadn't been in the way – until it reaches another collapsar field, whereupon it reappears, repelled with the same speed at which it approached the original collapsar. Travel time between the two collapsars … exactly zero.

  It made a lot of work for mathematical physicists, who had to redefine simultaneity, then tear down general relativity and build it back up again. And it made the politicians very happy, because now they could send a shipload of colonists to Fomalhaut for less than it had once cost to put a brace of men on the Moon. There were a lot of people the politicians would love to see on Fomalhaut, implementing a glorious adventure rather than stirring up trouble at home.

  The ships were always accompanied by an automated probe that followed a couple of million miles behind. We knew about the portal planets, little bits of flotsam that whirled around the collapsars; the purpose of the drone was to come back and tell us in the event that a ship had smacked into a portal planet at .999 of the speed of light.

  That particular catastrophe never happened, but one day a drone limped back alone. Its data were analyzed, and it turned out that the colonists' ship had been pursued by another vessel and destroyed. This happened near Aldebaran, in the constellation Taurus, but since 'Aldebaraniam' is a little hard to handle, they named the enemy 'Tauran.'

  Colonizing vessels thenceforth went out protected by an armed guard. Often the armed guard went out alone, and finally the Colonization Group got shortened to UNEF, United Nations Exploratory Force. Emphasis on the 'force.'

  Then some bright lad in the General Assembly decided that we ought to field an army of footsoldiers to guard the portal planets of the nearer collapsars. This led to the Elite Conscription Act of 1996 and the most elitely conscripted army in the history of warfare.

  So here we were, fifty men and fifty women, with IQs over 150 and bodies of unusual health and strength, slogging elitely through the mud and slush of central Missouri, reflecting on the usefulness of our skill in building bridges on worlds where the only fluid is an occasional standing pool of liquid helium.

  3

  About a month later, we left for our final training exercise, maneuvers on the planet Charon. T
hough nearing perihelion, it was still more than twice as far from the sun as Pluto.

  The troopship was a converted 'cattlewagon' made to carry two hundred colonists and assorted bushes and beasts. Don't think it was roomy, though, just because there were half that many of us. Most of the excess space was taken up with extra reaction mass and ordnance.

  The whole trip took three weeks, accelerating at two gees halfway, decelerating the other half. Our top speed, as we roared by the orbit of Pluto, was around one-twentieth of the speed of light – not quite enough for relativity to rear its complicated head.

  Three weeks of carrying around twice as much weight as normal … it's no picnic. We did some cautious exercises three times a day and remained horizontal as much as possible. Still, we got several broken bones and serious dislocations. The men had to wear special supporters to keep from littering the floor with loose organs. It was almost impossible to sleep; nightmares of choking and being crushed, rolling over periodically to prevent blood pooling and bedsores. One girl got so fatigued that she almost slept through the experience of having a rib push out into the open air.

  I'd been in space several times before, so when we finally stopped decelerating and went into free fall, it was nothing but relief. But some people had never been out, except for our training on the Moon, and succumbed to the sudden vertigo and disorientation. The rest of us cleaned up after them, floating through the quarters with sponges and inspirators to suck up the globules of partly-digested 'Concentrate, High-protein, Low-residue, Beef Flavor (Soya).'

  We had a good view of Charon, coming down from orbit. There wasn't much to see, though. It was just a dim, off-white sphere with a few smudges on it. We landed about two hundred meters from the base. A pressurized crawler came out and mated with the ferry, so we didn't have to suit up. We clanked and squeaked up to the main building, a featureless box of grayish plastic.