The recording had come to an end. The scientist removed the helmet and found himself back in the general’s office. The general was leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed, his chin resting on his fist.
“It’s not working, Doctor.”
He blinked and cleared his throat. “I see what you mean.”
“It’s not just that one soldier.” The general handed an electronic pad over. “Take a look at these records. Almost twenty-five percent of the soldiers given SM-rifles either go AWOL, turn objector, or kill themselves.”
The scientist took the pad and glanced at the report. “That last one is regrettable.”
The general sighed. “They’re
“Right. Sorry.”
“The SM-rifles were supposed to help bring out the soldier in those boys. Instead it’s doing the opposite.”
The scientist thumbed the scroll button and read through the introduction to the report. When he finished, he looked up. “Twenty-five percent, general. But what about the other seventy-five percent?”
“The other seventy-five percent are doing just fine. I’ll admit that the SM-rifles even allow for greater accuracy in combat for those soldiers. But that twenty-five percent—those are almost all the soldiers who report ‘bonding’ with their weapons, which is what we were hoping for. But in every single case—well, I’ve already told you.”
“Still,” the scientist said, “that seventy-five percent that are doing fine—”
“Compared with the ninety-five percent success rate we had in turning boys into soldiers before the SM- rifles…”
“I understand.” The scientist stood up. “Let me go discuss this with my colleagues. We’ll see if we can figure out what the problem is.”
The scientist left the general’s office, and returned to the weapons development laboratory, where his assistant director was waiting for him.
“Well?” she asked once he had shut the door behind him.
The scientist took a seat and smiled. “It’s working. As soon as the soldiers discover the hidden aggression in their R-complex, they reject it.” He handed over the pad, and she studied it briefly.
Finally, she looked up. “Not all of them, though.”
“No, not all. But enough.”
“Enough so that we’ve been noticed.”
He nodded. “Well, yeah. There was no way to avoid that.”
“Then we can’t keep this up forever.”
“We don’t have to. We just need to keep it up until the government gives up on this useless war. In the meantime, let’s get back to work.”
He stood up to return to his office, but the assistant director held up her hand. “I can’t help but wonder if we’re doing the right thing. What if the day comes when the tables are turned, and we’re the ones being invaded?”
He smiled. “We’ve already got plenty of foreign contracts for the SM-rifles. If they do the same job overseas that they’ve been doing for us I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”
“I hope you’re right.”
SPEC-OPS
“We can’t afford a war, General.”
“We’ll have a war with Seasia sooner or later. We can afford later less than sooner.”
“The people won’t stand for it, and no nation has ever stood for long against the will of its citizens.”
“Then change their minds. We need this war.”
“Change your weapons, General, if you need this war.”
I.
“You’re last, Tech deJahn. Chimbats,” replied the major. “Nu-type. Seasies haven’t seen. Take over from Hennesy. Third seat.”
Leastwise, no scroaches. DeJahn link-pulsed.
Hennesy blinked, unlinked, and stood. “You got it, deJahn.”
“Got it.”
Hennesy had left the sensie-seat hot, damp. DeJahn wiped it with the cloth he always brought.
Still hated taking over a hot seat. Leastwise, he was beside Meralez. Her eyes were open, link-blank.
Sexy eyes when she was in her skull, not like now.
He pulled the thin mesh cap into place over his short mil-cut hair. Made sure the contacts handshook, blanked his thoughts, and settled into the link.
Firsties were just chitterings, light-darts in blackness. Be a while before the biogator expelled the chimbats from the pouch under its ridged back. Side-mind went to the back plot, illuminated only in his thoughts. Green blips were the gators, swimming upstream after a tidal boost. Red blip was target—
Seasie biointerdict station. An hour plus to release.
DeJahn hated pre-release. Babysitting chims just in case the vector got zapped. Seasies weren’t going to see gators in one of a dozen canals and muddy streams, not the main river channel.
He might have slept in the dark pod. Would have slept, except for the majors overscreening and the checks. Time passed. Slowly.
DeJahn stifled a yawn, compared closure rate once more. Ran a complete monitor on the
bioindicators, then reported.
More dark and quiet time. Time where his thoughts, behind the link, lingered on Meralez. Good body, better voice. Reminded him of Margot. Probably not good. Wished Meralez weren’t pseudo les-butch. Could be a front. Keep the tech types from pawing. Hazard of spec-ops. Had to find ways to remember who you were. Sex and women helped. Did men help the female techs? Or not? That why so many women partnered with other women?
More time passed in darkness. More chitterings as the chimbats got restless, their soporifics wearing off. Screen checks came, went.
Mil-type reduns still plagued pros like him.
Chitterings increased. Chimbats getting restless as the sops wore off.
Stet.
