Gene Wolfe - The Horars of War.pdf - fantasy - rhea137

THE HORARS OF WAR

by Gene Wolfe

Gene Wolfe is an engineer who served in the United States Army during the Korean War. He

knows engineering—and he knows war, and with this joint knowledge has composed a story that

has more than a little to say about both. It is a fine example of second-generation science fiction,

the examining in greater detail, many times with greater art, of the older and more familiar

themes of this medium. In the primitive, or flaky-pulp, days it was enough to cook up an android

and have him step, steaming, from the pot. But Mr. Wolfe, with sharp skill, goes a great deal

further.

The three friends in the trench looked very much alike as they labored in the rain. Their hairless skulls

were slickly naked to it, their torsos hairless too, and supple with smooth muscles that ran like oil under

the wet gleam.

The two, who really were 2909 and 2911, did not mind the jungle around them although they

detested the rain that rusted their weapons, and the snakes and insects, and hated the Enemy. But the

one called 2910, the real as well as the official leader of the three, did; and that was because 2909 and

2911 had stainless-steel bones; but there was no 2910 and there had never been.

The camp they held was a triangle. In the center, the CP-Aid Station where Lieutenant Kyle and Mr.

Brenner slept: a hut of ammo cases packed with dirt whose lower half was dug into the soggy earth.

Around it were the mortal pit (NE), the recoilless rifle pit (NW), and Pinocchio's pit (S); and beyond

these were the. straight lines of the trenches: First Platoon, Second Platoon, Third Platoon (the platoon of

the three). Outside of which were the primary wire and an antipersonnel mine field.

And outside that was the jungle. But not completely outside. The jungle set up outposts of its own of

swift-sprouting bamboo and elephant grass, and its crawling creatures carried out untiring patrols of the

trenches. The jungle sheltered the Enemy, taking him to its great fetid breast to be fed while it sopped up

the rain and of it bred its stinging gnats and centipedes.

An ogre beside him, 2911 drove his shovel into the ooze filling the trench, lifted it to shoulder height,

dumped it; 2910 did the same thing in his turn, then watched the rain work on the scoop of mud until it

was slowly running back into the trench again. Following his eyes 2911 looked at him and grinned. The

HORAR's face was broad, hairless, flat-nosed and high-cheeked; his teeth were pointed and white like a

big dog's. And he, 2910, knew that that face was his own. Exactly his own. He told himself it was a

dream, but he was very tired and could not get out.

Somewhere down the trench the bull voice of 2900 announced the evening meal and the others threw

down their tools and jostled past toward the bowls of steaming mash, but the thought of food nauseated

2910 in his fatigue, and he stumbled into the bunker he shared with 2909 and 2911. Flat on his air

mattress he could leave the nightmare for a time: return to the sane world of houses and sidewalks, or

merely sink into the blessed nothingness that was far better…

Suddenly he was bolt upright on the cot, blackness still in his eyes even while his fingers groped with

their own thought for his helmet and weapon. Bugles were blowing from the edge of the jungle, but he

had time to run his hand under the inflated pad of the mattress and reassure himself that his hidden notes

were safe before 2900 in the trench outside yelled, "Attack! Fall out! Man your firing points!"

It was one of the stock jokes, one of the jokes so stock, in fact, that it had ceased to be anything

anyone laughed at, to say "Horar" your firing point (or whatever it was that according to the book should

be "manned"). The HORARS in the squad he led used the expression to 2910 just as he used it with

them, and when 2900 never employed it the omission had at first unsettled him. But 2900 did not really

suspect. 2900 just took his rank seriously.

He got into position just as the mortars put up a parachute flare that hung over the camp like a white

rose of fire. Whether because of his brief sleep or the excitement of the impending fight his fatigue had

evaporated, leaving him nervously alert but unsteady. From the jungle a bugle sang, 'Ta-taa… taa-taa…"

and off to the platoon's left rear the First opened up with their heavy weapons on a suicide sguad they

apparently thought they saw on the path leading to the northeast gate. He watched, and after half a

minute something stood up on the path and grabbed for its midsection before it fell, so there was a

suicide squad.

Some one , he told himself. Someone . Not something . Someone grabbed for his midsection. They

were all human out there.

The First began letting go with personal weapons as well, each deep cough representing a half dozen

dartlike fletchettes flying in an inescapable pattern three feet broad. "Eyes front, 2910!" barked 2900.

There was nothing to be seen out there but a few clumps of elephant grass. Then the white flare

burned out 'They ought to put up another one," 2911 on his right said worriedly.

"A star in the east for men not born of women," said 2910 half to himself, and regretted the

blasphemy immediately.

"That's where they need it," 2911 agreed. "The First is having it pretty hot over there. But we could

use some light here too."

He was not listening. At home in Chicago, during that inexpressibly remote time which ran from a dim

memory of playing on a lawn under the supervision of a smiling giantess to that moment two years ago

when he had submitted to surgery to lose every body and facial hair he possessed and undergo certain

other minor alterations, he had been unconsciously preparing himself for this. Lifting weights and playing

football to develop his body while he whetted his mind on a thousand books; all so that he might tell,

making others feel at a remove…

Another flare—went up and there were three dark silhouettes sliding from the next-nearest clump of

elephant grass to the nearest. He fired his M-19 at them, then heard the HORARS on either side of him

fire too. From the sharp corner where their own platoon met the Second a machine gun opened up with

tracer. The nearest grass clump sprang into the air and somersaulted amid spurts of earth.

There was a moment of quiet, then five rounds of high explosive came in right behind them as though

aimed for Pinocchio's pit. Crump. Crump. Crump . . . Crump. Crump . (2900 would be running to ask

Pinocchio if he were hurt)

Someone else had been moving down the trench toward them, and he could hear the mumble of the

new voice become a gasp when the H.E. rounds came in. Then it resumed, a little louder and

consequently a bit more easily understood. "How are you? You feel all right? Hit?"

And most of the HORARS answering, "I'm fine, sir," or "We're okay, sir," but because HORARS did

have a sense of humor some of them said things like, "How do we transfer to the Marines, sir?" or "My

pulse just registered nine thou', sir. 3000 took it with the mortar sight."

We often think of strength, as associated with humorlessness , he had written in the news

magazine which had, with the Army's cooperation, planted him by subterfuge of surgery among these

Homolog ORganisms (Army Replacement Simultations). But , he had continued, this is not actually the

case. Humor is a prime defense of the mind, and knowing that to strip the mind of it is to leave it

shieldless, the Army and the Synthetic Biology Service have wisely included a charming dash in

the makeup of these synthesized replacements for human infantry .

That had been before he discovered that the Army and the SBS had tried mightily to weed that sense

of the ridiculous out, but found that if the HORARS were to maintain the desired inteligence level they

could not.

Brenner was behind him now, touching his shoulder. "How are you? Feel all right?"

He wanted to say, "I'm half as scared as you are, you dumb Dutchman," but he knew that if he did the

fear would sound in his voice; besides, the disrespect would be unthinkable to a HORAR.

He also wanted to say simply, "A-okay, sir," because if he did Brenner would pass on to 2911 and

he would be safe. But he had a reputation for originality to keep up, and he needed that reputation to

cover him when he slipped, as he often did, sidewise of HORAR standards. He answered: "You ought to

look in on Pinocchio, sir. I think he's cracking up." From the other end of the squad, 2909's quiet chuckle

rewarded him, and Brenner, the man most dangerous to his disguise, continued down the trench…

Fear was necessary because the will to survive was very necessary. And a humanoid form was

needed if the HORARS were to utilize the mass of human equipment already on hand. Besides, a

human-shaped ( homolog ? no, that merely meant similar, homological) HORAR had outscored all the

fantastic forms SBS had been able to dream up in a super-realistic (public opinion would never have

permitted it with human soldiers) test carried out in the Everglades.

(Were they merely duplicating? Had all this been worked out before with some greater war in mind?

And had He Himself, the Scientist Himself, come to take the form of His creations to show that He too

could bear the unendurable?)

2909 was at his elbow, whispering, "Do you see something, Squad Leader? Over there?" Dawn had

come without his noticing.

With fingers clumsy from fatigue he switched the control of his M-19 to the lower, 40mm

grenade-launching barrel. The grenade made a brief flash at the spot 2909 had indicated. "No," he said,

"I don't see anything now:" The fine, soft rain which had been falling all night was getting stronger. The

dark clouds seemed to roof the world. (Was he fated to reenact what had been done for mankind? It

could happen. The Enemy took humans captive, but there was nothing they would not do to HORAR

prisoners. Occasionally patrols found the bodies spread-eagled, with bamboo stakes driven through their

limbs; and he could only be taken for a HORAR. He thought of a watercolor of the crucifixion he had

seen once. Would the color of his own blood be crimson lake?)

From the CP the observation ornithocopter rose on flapping wings.

"I haven't heard one of the mines go for quite a while," 2909 said. Then there came the

phony-sounding bang that so often during the past few weeks had closed similar probing attacks.

Squares of paper were suddenly fluttering all over the camp.

"Propaganda shell," 2909 said unnecessarily, and 2911 climbed casually out of the trench to get a

leaflet, then jumped back to his position. "Same as last week," he said, smoothing out the damp rice

paper.

Looking over his shoulder, 2910 saw that he was correct. For some reason the Enemy never directed

his propaganda at the HORARS, although it was no secret that reading skills were implanted-in HORAR

minds with the rest of their instinctive training. Instead it was always aimed at the humans in the camp,

and played heavily on the distaste they were supposed to feel at being "confined with half-living flesh still

stinking of chemicals." Privately, 2910 thought they might have done better, at least with Lieutenant Kyle,

to have dropped that approach and played up sex. He also got the impression from the propaganda that

the Enemy thought there were far more humans in the camp than there actually were.

Well, the Army—with far better opportunities to know—was wrong as well. With a few key generals

excepted, the Army thought there were only two…

He had made the All-American. How long ago it seemed. No coach, no sportswriter had ever

compared his stocky, muscular physique with a HORAR's. And he had majored in journalism, had been

ambitious. How many men, with a little surgical help, could have passed here?

Think it sees anything?" he heard 2911 ask 2909. They were looking upward at the "bird" sailing

overhead.

The ornithocopter could do everything a real bird could except lay eggs. It could literally land on a

strand of wire. It could ride thermals like a vulture, and dive like a hawk. And the bird-motion of its

wings was wonderfully efficient, saving power-plant weight that could be used for zoom-lenses and

telecameras. He wished he were in the CP watching the monitor screen with Lieutenant Kyle instead o£

standing with his face a scant foot above the mud (they had tried stalked eyes like a crab's in the

Everglades, he remembered, but the stalks had become infected by a fungus…).

As though in answer to his wish, 2900 called, "Show some snap for once, 2910. He says He wants

us in the CP."

When he himself thought He, He meant God; but 2900 meant Lieutenant Kyle. That was why 2900

was a platoon leader, no doubt; that and the irrational prestige of a round number. He climbed out of the

trench and followed him to the CP. They needed a communicating trench, but that was something there

hadn't been time for yet.

Brenner had someone (2788? looked like him, but he couldn't be certain) down on his table.

Shrapnel, probably from a grenade. Brenner did not look up as they came in, but 2910 could see his face

was still white with fear although the attack had been over for a full quarter of an hour. He and 2900

ignored the SBS man and saluted Lieutenant Kyle.

The company commander smiled. "Stand at ease, HORARS. Have any trouble in your sector?"

2900 said, "No, sir. The light machine gun got one group of three and 2910 here knocked off a group

of two. Not much of an. attack on our front, sir."

Lieutenant Kyle nodded. "I thought your platoon had the easiest time of it, 2900, and that's why I've

picked you to run a patrol for me this morning."

'That's fine with us, sir."

"You'll have Pinocchio, and I thought you'd want to go yourself and take 2910's gang."

He glanced at 2910. "Your squad still at full strength?"

2910 said, "Yes, sir," making an effort to keep his face impassive. He wanted to say: I shouldn't have

to go on patrol. I'm human as you are, Kyle, and patrolling is for things grown in tubes, things fleshed out

around metal skeletons, things with no family and no childhood behind them.

Things like my friends.

He added, "We've been the luckiest squad in the company, sir."

"Fine. Let's hope your luck holds, 2910." Kyle's attention switched back to 2900. "I've gotten under

the leaf canopy with the ornithocopter and done everything except make it walk around like a chicken. I

can't find a thing and it's drawn no fire, so you ought to be okay. You'll make a complete circuit of the

camp without getting out of range of mortar support. Understand?"

2900 and 2910 saluted, about-faced, and marched out 2910 could feel the pulse in his neck; he

flexed and unflexed his hands unobtrusively as he walked. 2900 asked, "Think we'll catch any of them?"

It was an unbending for him—the easy camaraderie of anticipated action.

"I'd say so. I don't think the CO's had long enough with the bird to make certain of anything except

that their main force has pulled out of range. I hope so."

And that's the truth, he thought. Because a good hot fire fight would probably do it—round the whole

thing out so I can get out of here.

Every two weeks a helicopter brought supplies and, when they were needed, replacements. Each trip

it also carried a correspondent whose supposed duty was to interview the commanders of the camps the

copter visited. The reporter's name was Keith Thomas, and for the past two months he had been the only

human being with whom 2910 could take off his mask.

Thomas carried scribbled pages from the notebook under 2910's air mattress when he left, and each

time he came managed to find some corner in which they could speak in private for a few seconds. 2910

read his mail then and gave it back. It embarrassed him to realize that the older reporter viewed him with

something not far removed from hero worship.

I can get out of here, he repeated to himself. Write it up and tell Keith we're ready to use the letter.

2900 ordered crisply, "Fall in your squad. I'll get Pinocchio and meet you at the south gate."

"Right." He was suddenly seized with a desire to tell someone, even 2900, about the letter. Keith

Thomas had it, and it was really only an undated note, but it was signed by a famous general at Corps

Headquarters. Without explanation it directed that number 2910 be detached from his present

assignment and placed under the temporary orders of Mr. K. Thomas, Accredited Correspondent. And

Keith would use it any time he asked him to. In fact, he had wanted to on his last trip.

He could not remember giving the order, but the squad was falling in, lining up in the rain for his

inspection almost as smartly as they had on the drill field back at the crêche. He gave "At Ease" and

looked them over while he outlined the objectives of the patrol. As always, their weapons were

immaculate despite the dampness, their massive bodies ramrod-straight, their uniforms as clean as

conditions permitted.

The L.A. Rams with guns, he thought proudly. Barking "On Phones," he flipped the switch on his

helmet that would permit 2900 to knit him and the squad together with Pinocchio in a unified tactical unit

Another order and the HORARS deployed around Pinocchio with the smoothness of repeated drill, the

wire closing the south gate was drawn back, and the patrol moved out.

With his turret retracted, Pinocchio the robot tank stood just three feet high, and he was no wider

than an automobile; but he was as long as three, so that from a distance he had something of the look of a

railroad flatcar. In the jungle his narrow front enabled him to slip between the trunks of the unconquerable

giant hardwoods, and the power in his treads could flatten saplings and bamboo. Yet resilient organics

and sintered metals had turned the rumble of the old, manned tanks to a soft hiss for Pinocchio. Where

the jungle was free of undergrowth he moved as silently as a hospital cart ,

His immediate precursor had been named "Punch," apparently in the sort of simpering depreciation

which found "Shillelagh" acceptable for a war rocket "Punch"—a bust in the mouth.

But Punch, which like Pinocchio had possessed a computer brain and no need of a crew (or for that

matter room for one except for an exposed vestigial seat on his deck), had required wires to

communicate with the infantry around him. Radio had been tried, but the problems posed by static,

jamming, and outright enemy forgery of instructions had been too much for Punch.

Then an improved model had done away with those wires and some imaginative officer had

remembered that "Mr. Punch" had been a knockabout marionette—and the wireless improvement was

suddenly very easy to name. But, like Punch and its fairy-tale namesake, it was vulnerable if it went out

into the world alone.

Gene Wolfe - The Horars of War.pdf

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