John Scalzi - We Only Need the Heads

“Asking your CDF friend for information on an active military mission is a fine way to get yourself shot, Schmidt,” Abumwe said.

“I suppose it would be,” Schmidt said.

Abumwe was silent at this for a moment. “I don’t think you should risk being caught doing something like that,” she said, eventually.

“I understand you entirely, ma’am,” Schmidt said. He turned to go.

“Schmidt,” Abumwe said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Schmidt said.

“You understand that earlier I was implying that they left you with me because you were largely useless,” Abumwe said.

“I got that, yes,” Schmidt said, after a second.

“I’m sure you did,” Abumwe said. “Now. Prove me wrong.” She returned her gaze to the Clarke .

Oh boy, Harry, Schmidt thought as he walked away. I hope you’re having an easier time of things than I am right now.

The shuttle from the Tubingen hit the atmosphere of the planet like a rock punching into an earthen dam, throwing off heat and rattling the platoon of Colonial Defense Forces soldiers inside as if they were plastic balls in a child’s popper.

“This is nice,” Lieutenant Harry Wilson said, to no one in particular, then directed his attention to his fellow lieutenant Heather Lee, the platoon commander. “It’s funny how something like air can feel so bumpy.”

Lee shrugged. “We have restraints,” she said. “And this isn’t a social call.”

“I know,” Wilson said. The shuttle rattled again. “But this has always been my least favorite part of a mission. Aside from, you know. The shooting and killing and being shot and possibly eaten by aliens.”

Lee did not look impressed with Wilson. “Been a while since you’ve dropped, Lieutenant?”

Wilson nodded. “Did my combat time and then transferred into research and technical advising for the diplomatic corps. Don’t have to do many drops for that. And the ones I do come down nice and easy.”

“Consider this a refresher course,” Lee said. The shuttle rattled again. Something creaked worryingly.

“Space,” Wilson said, and sank back into his restraints. “It’s fantastic .”

“It is fantastic, sir,” said the soldier next to Lee. Wilson automatically had his BrainPal query the man’s identity; instantly, text floated over the soldier’s head to let Wilson know he was speaking to Private Albert Jefferson. Wilson glanced over to Lee, the platoon leader, who caught the glance and gave another, most infinitesimal of shrugs, as if to say, He’s new .

“I was attempting sarcasm, Private,” Wilson said.

“I know that, sir,” Jefferson said. “But I’m being serious. Space is fantastic. All of this. It is awesome.”

“Well, except for the cold and vacuum and the unbearable silent death of it,” Wilson said.

“Death?” Jefferson said, and smiled. “Begging the lieutenant’s pardon, but death was back home on Earth. Do you know what I was doing three months ago, sir?”

“I’m guessing being old,” Wilson said.

“I was hooked up to a dialysis machine, praying I would make it to my seventy-fifth birthday,” Jefferson said. “I’d already gotten one transplant, and they didn’t want to give me another because they knew I was going to leave anyway. Cheaper to hook me up. I barely made it. But I got to seventy-five, signed up and a week later, boom. New body, new life, new career. Space is awesome.”

The shuttle hit an air pocket of some sort, tumbling the transport before the pilot could right the ship again. “There’s the minor problem that you might have to kill things,” Wilson said, to Jefferson. “Or get killed. Or fall out of the sky. You’re a soldier now. These are the occupational hazards.”

“Fair trade,” Jefferson said.

“Is it,” Wilson said. “First mission?”

“Yes, sir,” Jefferson said.

“I’ll be interested to know if your answer to that is the same a year from now,” Wilson said.

Jefferson grinned. “You strike me as a ‘glass half-empty’ kind of guy, sir,” he said.

“I’m a ‘the glass is half-empty and filled with poison’ kind of guy, actually,” Wilson said.

“Yes, sir,” Jefferson said.

Lee nodded suddenly, not at Wilson or Jefferson, but at the message she was getting from her BrainPal. “Drop-off in two,” she said. “Fire teams.” The soldiers formed up into groups of four. “Wilson. You’re with me.” Wilson nodded.

“You know, I was one of the last people off, sir,” Jefferson said to Wilson a minute later, as the shuttle zeroed in on its landing site.

“Off of what?” Wilson said. He was distracted; he was going over the mission specs on his BrainPal.

“Off of Earth,” Jefferson said. “The day I went up the Nairobi beanstalk, that guy brought that alien fleet into Earth orbit. Scared the hell out of all of us. We thought we were under attack. Then the fleet started transmitting all sorts of things about the Colonial Union.”

“You mean, like the fact it had been socially engineering the Earth for centuries to keep it a farm for colonists and soldiers,” Wilson said.

Jefferson snorted quietly. “That’s a little paranoid, don’t you think, sir? I think this fellow-”

“John Perry,” Wilson said.

“-has some explaining to do about how he managed to head up an alien fleet in the first place. Anyway, my transport ship was one of the last out of Earth dock. There were one or two more, but after that I’m told the Earth stopped sending us soldiers and colonists. They want to renegotiate their relationship to the Colonial Union, is how I’ve heard it.”

“Doesn’t seem unreasonable, all things considered,” said Wilson.

The shuttle landed with a muted thump and settled into the earth.

“All I know, sir, is I’m glad this Perry guy waited until I was gone,” Jefferson said. “Otherwise I’d still be old and missing my kidneys and probably near death. Whatever’s out here is better than what I had there.”

The shuttle door cracked open and the outside air rushed in, hot and sticky and rich with the scent of death and decomposition. From the platoon came a few audible groans and the sound of at least one person gagging. Then the platoon began its disembarkment by fire teams.

Wilson looked over at Jefferson, whose face had registered the full effect of the smell coming off the planet. “I hope you’re right,” Wilson said. “But from the smell of it, we’re probably near death here, too.”

They stepped out of the shuttle and onto a new world.

The Bula sub-ambassador looked not unlike a lemur, as all Bula did, and carried the jeweled amulet that signified her station in the diplomatic corps. She had an unpronounceable name, which all things considered was not unusual, but insisted that Abumwe and her staff call her “Sub-Ambassador Ting.” “It is close enough for government work,” she said, through a translator device on her lanyard as she shook Abumwe’s hand.

“Then welcome, Sub-Ambassador Ting,” Abumwe said.

“Thank you, Ambassador Abumwe,” Ting said, and motioned for her, Drolet and Wilson to sit across from her and her two staff at the conference room table. “We are delighted that someone such as yourself was available for these negotiations on such short notice. It is a shame about Katerina Zala. Please send her my regards.”

“I shall,” Abumwe said. She sat.

“What is this ‘appendix’ she ruptured?” Ting asked, sitting herself.

“It’s a vestigial organ attached to the larger digestive system,” Abumwe said. “Sometimes it gets inflamed. A rupture can cause sepsis and death if not treated.”

“It sounds horrible,” Ting said.