Peace and War - Omnibus

Peace and War

Also by Joe Haldeman

Novels

War Year (1972)
The Forever War (1974)
Mindbridge (1976)
All My Sins Remembered (1977)
Worlds (1981)
Worlds Apart (1983)
Tool of the Trade (1987)
The Long Habit of Living (1989)
The Hemingway Hoax (1990)
Worlds Enough and Time (1992)
1968 (1995)
Forever Peace (1997)
Forever Free (1999)

Short Story Collections

Infinite Dreams (1979)
Dealing in Futures (1985)
None So Blind (1996)

Copyright © Joe Haldeman 2006
The Forever War copyright © Joe Haldeman 1974, 1975, 1997
Forever Free copyright © Joe Haldeman 1999
Forever Peace copyright © Joe Haldeman 1997
All rights reserved

The right of Joe Haldeman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him, in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This edition published in Great Britain in 2006 by
Gollancz
An imprint of the Orion Publishing Group
Orion House, 5 Upper St Martin's Lane,
London WC2H 9EA
An Hachette Livre UK Company

7 9 10 8

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9 780 57507 919 9

Typeset at The Spartan Press Ltd,
Lymington, Hants

Printed and bound in Great Britain at Mackays of Chatham plc,
Chatham, Kent

The Orion Publishing Group's policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

www.orionbooks.co.uk

'Man was born into barbarism, when killing his fellow man was a normal condition of existence. He became endowed with a conscience. And he has now reached the day when violence toward another human being must become as abhorrent as eating another's flesh.'

—
Martin Luther King, Jr.

The Forever War

For Ben and, always, for Gay
.

Forever Free

For Gay, again, twenty-five years later
.

Forever Peace

This novel is for two editors: John W. Campbell,
who rejected a story because he thought it was absurd to write
about American women who fight and die in combat,
and Ben Bova, who didn't
.

The
Forever War

Author's Note

This is the definitive version of
The Forever War
. There are two other versions, and my publisher has been kind enough to allow me to clarify things here.

The one you're holding in your hand is the book as it was originally written. But it has a pretty tortuous history.

It's ironic, since it later won the Hugo and Nebula Awards, and has won 'Best Novel' awards in other countries, but
The Forever War
was not an easy book to sell back in the early seventies. It was rejected by eighteen publishers before St Martin's Press decided to take a chance on it. 'Pretty good book,' was the usual reaction, 'but nobody wants to read a science fiction novel about Vietnam'. Twenty-five years later, most young readers don't even see the parallels between
The Forever War
and the seemingly endless one we were involved in at the time, and that's OK. It's about Vietnam because that's the war the author was in. But it's mainly about war, about soldiers, and about the reasons we think we need them.

While the book was being looked at by all those publishers, it was also being serialized piecemeal in
Analog
magazine. The editor, Ben Bova, was a tremendous help, not only in editing, but also for making the thing exist at all! He gave it a prominent place in the magazine, and it was also his endorsement that brought it to the attention of St Martin's Press, who took a chance on the hardcover, though they did not publish adult science fiction at that time.

But Ben rejected the middle section, a novella called 'You Can Never Go Back.' He liked it as a piece of writing, he said, but thought that it was too downbeat for
Analog's
audience. So I wrote him a more positive story and put 'You Can Never Go Back' into the drawer; eventually Ted White published it in
Amazing
magazine, as a coda to
The Forever War
.

At this late date, I'm not sure why I didn't reinstate the original middle when the book was accepted. Perhaps I didn't trust my own taste, or just didn't want to make life more complicated. But that first book version is essentially the
Analog
version with 'more adult language and situations', as they say in Hollywood.

The paperback of that version stayed in print for about sixteen years. Then in 1991 I had the opportunity to reinstate my original version. The dates in the book are now kind of funny; most people realize we didn't get into an interstellar war in 1996. I originally set it in that year so it was barely possible that the officers and NCOs could be veterans of Vietnam, so we decided to leave it that way, in spite of the obvious anachronisms. Think of it as a parallel universe.

But maybe it's the real one, and we're in a dream.

Joe Haldeman
Cambridge, Massachusetts

Private
Mandella

1

'Tonight we're going to show you eight silent ways to kill a man.' The guy who said that was a sergeant who didn't look five years older than me. So if he'd ever killed a man in combat, silently or otherwise, he'd done it as an infant.

I already knew eighty ways to kill people, but most of them were pretty noisy. I sat up straight in my chair and assumed a look of polite attention and fell asleep with my eyes open. So did most everybody else. We'd learned that they never scheduled anything important for these after-chop classes.

The projector woke me up and I sat through a short tape showing the 'eight silent ways.' Some of the actors must have been brainwipes, since they were actually killed.

After the tape a girl in the front row raised her hand. The sergeant nodded at her and she rose to parade rest. Not bad looking, but kind of chunky about the neck and shoulders. Everybody gets that way after carrying a heavy pack around for a couple of months.

'Sir' – we had to call sergeants 'sir' until graduation – 'most of those methods, really, they looked … kind of silly.'

'For instance?'

'Like killing a man with a blow to the kidneys, from an entrenching tool. I mean, when would you
actually
have only an entrenching tool, and no gun or knife? And why not just bash him over the head with it?'

'He might have a helmet on,' he said reasonably.

'Besides, Taurans probably don't even
have
kidneys!'

He shrugged. 'Probably they don't.' This was 1997, and nobody had ever seen a Tauran; hadn't even found any pieces of Taurans bigger than a scorched chromosome. 'But their body chemistry is similar to ours, and we have to assume they're similarly complex creatures. They
must
have weaknesses, vulnerable spots. You have to find out where they are.

'That's the important thing.' He stabbed a finger at the screen. 'Those eight convicts got caulked for your benefit because you've got to find out how to kill Taurans, and be able to do it whether you have a megawatt laser or an emery board.'

She sat back down, not looking too convinced.

'Any more questions?' Nobody raised a hand.

'OK. Tench-hut!' We staggered upright and he looked at us expectantly.

'Fuck you, sir,' came the familiar tired chorus.

'Louder!'

'FUCK YOU, SIR!' One of the army's less-inspired morale devices.

'That's better. Don't forget, pre-dawn maneuvers tomorrow. Chop at 0330, first formation, 0400. Anybody sacked after 0340 owes one stripe. Dismissed.'

I zipped up my coverall and went across the snow to the lounge for a cup of soya and a joint. I'd always been able to get by on five or six hours of sleep, and this was the only time I could be by myself, out of the army for a while. Looked at the newsfax for a few minutes. Another ship got caulked, out by Aldebaran sector. That was four years ago. They were mounting a reprisal fleet, but it'll take four years more for them to get out there. By then, the Taurans would have every portal planet sewed up tight.

Back at the billet, everybody else was sacked and the main lights were out. The whole company'd been dragging ever since we got back from the two-week Lunar training. I dumped my clothes in the locker, checked the roster and found out I was in bunk
31
. Goddammit, right under the heater.

I slipped through the curtain as quietly as possible so as not to wake up the person next to me. Couldn't see who it was, but I couldn't have cared less. I slipped under the blanket.

'You're late, Mandella,' a voice yawned. It was Rogers.

'Sorry I woke you up,' I whispered.

"Sallright.' She snuggled over and clasped me spoon-fashion. She was warm and reasonably soft.

I patted her hip in what I hoped was a brotherly fashion. 'Night, Rogers.'

'G'night, Stallion.' She returned the gesture more pointedly.

Why do you always get the tired ones when you're ready and the randy ones when you're tired? I bowed to the inevitable.

2

'Awright, let's get some goddamn
back
inta that! Stringer team! Move it up – move your ass up!'

A warm front had come in about midnight and the snow had turned to sleet. The permaplast stringer weighed five hundred pounds and was a bitch to handle, even when it wasn't covered with ice. There were four of us, two at each end, carrying the plastic girder with frozen fingertips. Rogers was my partner.

'Steel!' the guy behind me yelled, meaning that he was losing his hold. It wasn't steel, but it was heavy enough to break your foot. Everybody let go and hopped away. It splashed slush and mud all over us.

'Goddammit, Petrov,' Rogers said, 'why didn't you go out for the Red Cross or something? This fucken thing's not that fucken heavy.' Most of the girls were a little more circumspect in their speech. Rogers was a little butch.

'Awright, get a fucken
move
on, stringers – epoxy team! Dog'em! Dog'em!'

Our two epoxy people ran up, swinging their buckets. 'Let's go, Mandella. I'm freezin' my balls off.'

'Me, too,' the girl said with more feeling than logic.

'One – two – heave!' We got the thing up again and staggered toward the bridge. It was about three-quarters completed. Looked as if the second platoon was going to beat us. I wouldn't give a damn, but the platoon that got their bridge built first got to fly home. Four miles of muck for the rest of us, and no rest before chop.

We got the stringer in place, dropped it with a clank, and fitted the static clamps that held it to the rise-beams. The female half of the epoxy team started slopping glue on it before we even had it secured. Her partner was waiting for the stringer on the other side. The floor team was waiting at the foot of the bridge, each one holding a piece of the light, stressed permaplast over his head like an umbrella. They were dry and clean. I wondered aloud what they had done to deserve it, and Rogers suggested a couple of colorful, but unlikely, possibilities.

We were going back to stand by the next stringer when the field first (name of Dougelstein, but we called him 'Awright') blew a whistle and bellowed, 'Awright, soldier boys and girls, ten minutes. Smoke'em if you got 'em.' He reached into his pocket and turned on the control that heated our coveralls.