The Forever War

Most people work at a desk for five years and are discharged. A few lucky souls, about one in eight thousand, are invited to volunteer for combat training. Refusing is ‘sociopathic,’ even though it means signing up for an extra five years. And your chance of surviving the ten years is so small as to be negligible; nobody ever had. Your best chance

While I was lying there being squeezed, a silly thought took hold of my brain and went round and round like a charge in a superconductor: according to military formalism, the conduct of war divides neatly into two categories, tactics and logistics. Logistics has to do with moving troops and feeding them and just about everything except the actual f

If they could condition us to kill on cue, they can condition us to do almost anything. Re-enlist.’

I felt my gorge rising and knew that all the lurid training tapes, all the horrible deaths in training accidents, hadn’t prepared me for this sudden reality … that I had a magic wand that I could point at a life and make it a smoking piece of half-raw meat; I wasn’t a soldier nor ever wanted to be one nor ever would want—

The 1143-year-long war had been begun on false pretenses and only because the two races were unable to communicate.

‘Folk hero.’ I sipped at the beer. ‘Where is John Wayne now that we really need him?’ ‘John Wayne?’ He shook his head. ‘I never went in the can, you know. I’m no expert at military history.’ ‘Forget it.’

Heaven was a lovely, unspoiled Earth-like world; what Earth might have been like if men had treated her with compassion instead of lust.

But while my conscious mind was rejecting the silliness, somewhere much deeper, down in that sleeping animal where we keep our real motives and morals, something was thirsting for alien blood, secure in the conviction that the noblest thing a man could do would be to die killing one of those horrible monsters …

He slapped his hip and it made an odd sound. ‘Got wounded and it turned out that I had a rare disorder of the lymphatic system, can’t regenerate. Nothing but metal and plastic from the waist down. To use your word, I’m a cyborg.’ Far out, as my mother used to say. ‘Oh, Private,’ I called to the waiter, ‘bring me one of those Antares things.’ Sittin