Even the casualties were convincing, though it seemed to him the Wyzhnyny might be dying in unreasonable numbers. Then Wyzhnyny APFs-armored personnel flyers-sliced across the field at perhaps two hundred feet. Not a lot of them. The script writers, he recalled, had decimated them during the aerial preliminaries.
The picture cut to an oblique overhead view a few hundred yards back from the forest edge. The Wyzhnyny APFs hovered close above the trees, lowering troops on individual slings, from doors with short, stout, drop booms. Then it cut to a view within the forest. As the airborne Wyzhnyny landed, they triggered their sling releases and began forming up squads.
Suddenly warbots hit them, greatly outnumbered, but fighting with astonishing speed and power. The Wyzhnyny were slaughtered. The warbots seemed too heavily armored to be harmed by their shoulder-fired blasters. And bots, Mulvaney knew, had a backup "torso" sensorium in case their eyes and ears were knocked out.
Briefly the trainees witnessed special effects sufficient to impress even Terrans. For Jerries who'd never seen dramatic video before-or video at all till they'd come to Camp Stenders-it had to be a truly powerful experience.
The airborne Wyzhnyny were shown as effectively wiped out, the few survivors dispersed and routed. Only a handful of warbots had gone down. The remaining bots did not linger. As if on command, perhaps received by built-in radio, they turned and loped off among the trees. Mulvaney was skeptical that machines on two legs could move so smoothly.
As the final bots disappeared, the viewpoint changed again, to the close-range fighting in the forest fringe. Wyzhnyny bodies were abundant, but many humans also lay "dead." Not as many as you'd expect, Mulvaney thought. I suppose War House doesn't want to shock the trainees too badly. Then the warbots entered the fighting there, too, striking swiftly and powerfully. The Wyzhnyny gave way and, after a brief desperate moment, broke and fled across a welter of bodies. Three warbots lay disabled, presumably by heavy slammers. The camera watched the surviving Wyzhnyny gallop all the way across the fields to the forest on the far side, impelled by human fire that added more bodies to those already sprawled.
As the final Wyzhnyny disappeared into the far woods, the scene froze on the field, and music cut in, restrained but powerful. Mulvaney recognized it as "The Arrival of Alp Arslan," by the Egyptian composer Ibrahim Hakim, in his orchestral suite Manzikert. It ended with a dark and powerful closing phrase, as the visual faded and disappeared.
Then the shed's lights came on, and the recorded narration resumed. "This cube was made to show you the basic function-and the great importance!-of warbots in modern warfare. For every regiment, the table of organization calls for two warbot platoons. Without them, no infantry regiment is complete, or fully prepared for combat. You will learn much more about warbots as your training progresses."
The voice stopped. Mulvaney got to his feet and stepped again to the lectern. Well, Martin, he thought, scanning his Jerries, it's time to earn your pay. "All right, men, stand up in place, and stretch. Really stretch, so you feel it."
They did, with a chorus of groans.
Mulvaney grinned. "Now stamp your feet!"
Boots drummed on the plank floor.
"All right, now turn to the men around you; tell them hello, and shake hands with them." After half a minute of confusion and laughter, everyone had been included. "Good. Now tell them you're glad they're here. And mean it." He paused to let the chatter play out. "All right, at ease. Sit down." They stilled and sat. "We have something very important to talk about."
He paused a long moment, letting them wait. "Who of you," he asked, "will tell us why you're here, instead of back home on New Jerusalem?"
A hand shot up. "Recruit Isaiah Vernon," Mulvaney said, "tell us about it."
"Captain, sir, it's because invaders have come, invaders not made in the image of God. They're conquering human worlds, and killing the people on them. If we stayed, we'd be killed, too. Here we're learning to drive them away."
"Right," Mulvaney said. "At last report they'd definitely captured fourteen human worlds, and probably two others. Those we've heard from say the Wyzhnyny"-he paused, pronouncing the name carefully again-"the Wyzhnyny were killing everyone they came to, including those who tried to surrender."
Mulvaney scanned his audience again, his eyes stopping on Esau. "Recruit Esau Wesley, suppose we don't get back to New Jerusalem soon enough, and the Wyzhnyny take it. What then?"
"Then we'll drive them off, sir."
Mulvaney frowned. "Why not leave in-say a month from now? That should get us there in time."
"Fine, if we're ready. But if we're not, and we go, the Wyzhnyny will beat us."
"Exactly right. And believe me, you're a long way from ready. You're coming along well, very well, but you're far from ready." His gaze found his religious advisor. "Recruit Spieler, you trainees are all from New Jerusalem, so it's obvious why you should return there to defend it. Or regain it. But I'm a Terran. All your cadre are. Why should we go there to fight?"
The somber Spieler got to his feet. As recruits went, he was old, twenty-seven Terran years. "Captain Mulvaney, sir, long ago, God put Adam and Eve on Terra, and they were fruitful, and multiplied. Then, in His own good time for His own good reasons, He shepherded folks out to the stars. But all of Adam's progeny are God's children, created in His own image and saved by the sacrifice of His own son. It is the duty of us all to drive out these"-he paused, struggling with the pronunciation-"these Wiz-nin-ee."
"Well said, Spieler." Once more Mulvaney scanned his audience, making them wait. He was no orator, but he knew how to communicate. "So," he said, changing directions on them, "what did you think of the cube? Anyone?"
"Exciting, sir," someone called. Someone else followed with "We've got some idea now of what fighting will be like."
"Recruit Jael Wesley, what did you think of it?"
"Sir, it made me realize the cost of being in this war. If we lose, we'll all die. But even winning, lots of us will."
"Good observation. Recruit Spieler, what about death?"
"Sir, we'll all die sometime. If not on the battlefield, then maybe in bed. But death isn't the thing to fear. Hell is, and next after Hell, the destruction of the human race." Spieler paused, then went on. "Most of us here-maybe all of us-when we die, we'll go to Heaven and be with the Lord."
"Thank you, Recruit Spieler." Another hand rose as he said it. "Recruit Esau Wesley, what have you got to add?"
"Sir, I was wondering about the warbots. The cube said every regiment was supposed to have them. And those folks it showed would have been in bad trouble if it wasn't for warbots. But I haven't seen or heard of any in our whole division."
Mulvaney stood tall, sure of himself. He made them wait again, tightening their attention. "I was coming to that, Wesley," he said, "but I'm glad you brought it up. What do you suppose a warbot is?"
"Sir, it's a kind of machine."
"Ah. That's right, as far as it goes. But they're more than that." Again he pointed. "Recruit Vernon, do machines have souls?"
"No, sir. Only people have souls."
"And brains?"
"I suppose they have artificial brains, sir."
Mulvaney nodded. "You certainly might think that. But actually a bot has both a soul and a human brain."
There wasn't a sound from his audience, but it seemed to Mulvaney he sensed doubt, resistance. "I have a sister who's a bot," he went on. "A different model than shown in the cube. She's a medic bot."