Another Shortage

In the Office of Military Resource Planning, Captain Bruno Horvath scanned a message on his screen. "It seems we have a shortage, Colonel," he said laconically. "A critical shortage."

Colonel Wiktor Kobayashi raised a graying bushy eyebrow and grunted. There were endless shortages, most of them flagged critical. "Is that so? What's this one?"

"Nothing new. An old one getting more urgent." The captain flicked it to the colonel's screen. "With three red flags now," he added.

Kobayashi looked. It was the shortage of qualified warbot volunteers again. Warbots carried the cyborg concept to the ultimate, and lots of them were needed, but qualifying was tough. You needed to have lost at least three limbs, including both arms, or two limbs and your eyes, or be dying from incurable injury or illness, or be serving a life term in prison. The central nervous system had to be functional, intelligence normal or above, and personality profile acceptable. Thus most quadriplegics, amputees and convicts were ineligible, as well as older invalids with significant decline in CNS function.

"Nothing to it," the colonel said wryly. "We'll assign a regiment to meet the evacuation ships with swords, and cut both arms and one leg off everyone on board."

"Sorry, Colonel, but we've got a serious shortage of swords. Would laser saws be all right?"

Kobayashi was rarely sarcastic, and didn't like it when he was. And the shortage of warbots was real and serious; sarcasm wouldn't reduce it. It directly and seriously affected the combat readiness of all infantry divisions, of which 63 were now in training. Some of those divisions had begun or were approaching interactive tactical training-so-called unit training. Within five months, the plans called for a total of 300 divisions in service or training. And tactics-even strategy-called for each to have a "normal" contingent of warbots.

He was well-informed on the subject, and knew the arithmetic too well. Three hundred divisions, each with eight regiments, each regiment with two platoons of warbots. Forty-eight hundred warbot platoons; some 110,000 bots overall. But the latest figures showed only 4,400 qualified volunteers. If every one of them completed training successfully, that would still mean fewer than two bots, let alone platoons, per regiment. And for most warbot tasks and missions, "organics"-ordinary infantry-were not suitable substitutes.

Producing trained warbots took time and care. First the central nervous system had to be extracted from the body. Then came its painstaking neuro-electronic bottling. Installing the bottled CNS in a battle servo was similarly demanding. And finally a period of neurological, and sometimes psychological detraumatization and "breaking in" was required, before the individual was ready for warbot training.*

But the basic problem was the demanding legal qualifications for volunteers.

"Shit," the colonel muttered. The captain was tempted to answer "Yessir. I'll be right back, sir," but he sensed that just now, humor would not be appreciated. Certainly not that kind.

Kobayashi touched a pair of keys and began to dictate.

I see no possibility of providing the necessary warbots without (a) modifying the legal qualifications for volunteers, and (b) promoting intensively. Therefore I STRONGLY RECOMMEND that the army:

(1) Accept candidates with two useable limbs; volunteers with four useable limbs but who are blind; and volunteers with debilitating conditions, even though promising research is under way toward a cure. The latter limitation in particular permits all manner of opinions to block us.

It wasn't the first time Wiktor Kobayashi had proposed that. But previously he'd been rebuffed by government attorneys under political pressures. This time he would add to it. If he became sufficiently extreme-who knew? They might go along with his more moderate suggestions.

(2) Attach recruiters to all hospitals, including emergency rooms, with access to candidates over the objections of hospital personnel.

(3) Accept able-bodied volunteers-if they can pass appropriate mental and psychological tests-and to hell with family approvals.

Number three awed the captain. It seemed to him that reasonable mental and psychological tests would automatically eliminate able-bodied volunteers. And the part about attorneys and family approvals would offend a lot of politicians.

He hoped it wouldn't result in Kobayashi getting transferred. If it did, he'd probably be named to replace him, a dreadful thought.

(4) Before long, we will start shipping divisions to combat sites. There they will suffer casualties, and some will become bot eligible. Therefore I ALSO STRONGLY RECOMMEND (a) that each division carry neuro-electronic conversion teams, and extra BEIUs and servos; (b) that all organic trainees get effective virtuality training on warbot operations and tactics. The training they already receive as organics will go a long way toward getting them ready. Let the motto be, "today's serious casualty, tomorrow's warbot."

As it now stands, the warbot situation makes a charade of our entire defense program. If prompt and effective measures will not be taken to correct it, I recommend throwing in with the Peace Front and rolling out the red carpet for the invaders. It will save a lot of effort and money, and the result will be the same.

(Signed) Colonel Wiktor Kobayashi, Assistant Director for Human Military Resources.

Captain Horvath stared aghast. Kobayashi scanned his monitor, then pressed SEND. Thereby committing professional suicide.

Horvath blew softly through pursed lips. Maybe a suicide was needed. Maybe somewhere up the line, someone would pay attention. Maybe Lefty Sarruf would lay his neck on the block; surely someone would pay attention then. If it comes down to it, Horvath decided-if they can Kobayashi and promote me to the job, I'll send the same goddamn message up lines, verbatim. And fuck the pettifogging, obfuscating, political sons of bitches. It's the survival of the human species they're pissing around with.

A Day in the Life

B Company was gasping and staggering when it reached the top of the slope. And sweating profusely, although the sun was still low. This was only their third week, but already their morning run had been extended to thirty long Luneburger minutes. And this was the first time it had been routed up what the Terrans had dubbed "Drag Ass Hill."

Despite their cadre, who'd snapped relentlessly at their heels, their ranks had strung out pretty badly on the hill. But once at the top, their pace firmed. Through stinging, sweat-blurred eyes they could see the regimental area some five hundred yards ahead, and their company hutment with its orderly rows of small gray buildings.

Almost there, thought Esau Wesley. Grimly. He'd never liked taking orders, even as a boy from his father. And looking back, his father's orders had mostly made sense. But where was the sense of running uphill? Or running at all, if you weren't in a hurry? For toughness, they'd been told. For physical conditioning. He had no doubt he was tougher than anyone in their cadre.

"Hup, hup, hup two three four!" The voice was Sergeant Fossberg's, and seemingly effortless, though he was sweating as much as any. Esau didn't notice. He was too busy being angry. Then, some three hundred yards from the company area, Fossberg shouted, "You're on your own! The last ones to reach the mess hall and slap the wall get punishment!"

Esau snarled his anger-wanted to shout it. Lowering his head, he ran hard. Too hard. With a hundred yards to go, his legs began to fail. He fought it, eyes slitted with effort, his gait increasingly heavy-legged. 2nd Platoon had been second in the column, yet without being aware of it, Esau had fought nearly to the front of the now badly strung-out company. Anyone in his way, he'd elbowed aside. But he staggered the last twenty yards, barely keeping his feet. When he'd slapped the wall, he stumbled aside and fell gasping to the ground.