Old Man's War (Old Man's War, #1)

by John Scalzi

I did two things on my seventy-fifth birthday. I visited my wife’s grave. Then I joined the army.

I’d rather apologize for something I didn’t really care about, and leave someone on Earth wishing me well, than to be stubborn and have that someone hoping that some alien would slurp out my brains. Call it karmic insurance.

“You can still die, you know,” I said. “You are joining the military.” “Yeah, but I’m not going to die old,” Harry said. “I’m going to have a second chance to die young and leave a beautiful corpse. It makes up for missing out on it the first time.”

Take a group of people who generally have had little sex, due to lack of partners or declining health and libido, stuff them into brand-new young, attractive and highly functional bodies and then hurl them into space far away from anything they ever knew and everyone they ever loved. The combination of the three was a recipe for sex. We did it because we could, and because it beats being lonely.

“Assuming you know the good guys from the bad guys will get you killed. You can’t afford anthropomorphic biases when some of the aliens most like us would rather make human hamburgers than peace.”

“But ultimately, you should care because you’re old enough to know that you should. That’s one of the reasons the CDF selects old people to become soldiers, you know—it’s not just because you’re all retired and a drag on the economy. It’s also because you’ve lived long enough to know that there’s more to life than your own life. Most of you have raised families and have children and grandchildren and understand the value of doing something beyond your own selfish goals.

Add your belt, which includes your combat knife, your multipurpose tool, which is what a Swiss army knife wants to be when it grows up, an impressively collapsible personal shelter, your canteen, a week’s worth of energy wafers and three slots for ammo blocks.

The first was that when new guys come in, it was because some old guy has gone—and typically “gone” meant “dead.” Institutionally, soldiers can be replaced like cogs. On the platoon and squad level, however, you’re replacing a friend, a squadmate, someone who had fought and won and died. The idea that you, whoever you are, could be a replacement or a substitute for that dead friend and teammate is mildly offensive to those who knew him or her. Secondly, of course, you simply haven’t fought yet. And until you do, you’re not one of them. You can’t be.

Part of what makes us human is what we mean to other people, and what people mean to us.

Susan’s death was clarifying to me, a reminder that humans can be as inhuman as any alien species. If I had been on the Tucson, I could see myself feeding one of the bastards who killed Susan to the gapers, and not feeling in the least bit bad about it.

Guns don’t kill people, the aliens behind the triggers do.