"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."
Esau hadn't sat back down yet. "Sir," he said, "your sister?"
"My sister. She was a nurse, until she came down with a condition called `cascade syndrome'-the breakdown of one body part after another. By age thirty she was expected to die at any time. The last time I heard from her was since we arrived here on Luneburger's World. She'd volunteered to have her central nervous system-that's her brain, her spinal cord and nerve connections-removed from her body and put into what's called a `bottle.' Then the bottle was put into a machine called a `servo'-the sort of machine you saw in the cube. Without the human central nervous system, and the soul associated with it, the servo is a useless piece of machinery. It's the combination-the servo, the central nervous system and the soul-that makes a warbot. Or in Audrey's case a battlefield medic bot.
"And therein lies the reason the 1st New Jerusalem Division has no warbots yet; why no division has anything like as many as it should. People don't get converted into warbots unless they're badly crippled, or they're dying of something.
"Because becoming a bot is final. If someone becomes a bot, and later wishes he hadn't, it can't be undone. So even severely disabled people, who may feel tempted, often can't bring themselves to take that final step. And until the past month, many people who were willing weren't sufficiently disabled to qualify. Now recruitment for what is called `bottling' has picked up. So the 1st New Jerusalem Division should have at least a partial contingent of warbots when we leave."
There Mulvaney stopped and simply stood, the silence longer than before, as if he were looking for the words to continue. Finally he nodded, as if to himself. "When we get to New Jerusalem, we cannot expect replacements for our casualties. You noticed in the cube that not all the casualties were Wyzhnyny; not even close. We'll have a medical battalion to treat our wounded; Indis-people from another heavyworld called Epsilon Indi Prime."
Again he paused. "There will also be damaged warbots. We'll have spare servos-warbot bodies-and bottles can be transferred from damaged servos to replacement servos. But in some of the damaged servos, the human inside will have been killed. And we'll need to replace them if we can.
"So-" This was the hard part. His new pause was not for effect; he was groping. "So what we need," he said carefully, "are volunteers. People like you and me, who'll agree in writing that if we're disabled or mortally wounded, our central nervous system-our brain and spinal cord-can be bottled and installed in a warbot. Division will have specialists to do the job."
Once more he paused, sensing his audience was ill at ease with this. "We don't know now which of you will receive such wounds," he went on. "So beginning next week we'll start training all of you in how to operate as a warbot. The training modules are expected to arrive next Twoday. The same ship is also bringing a platoon of real warbots to continue their training here. Later you'll do tactical exercises with them."
A hand shot up. "Yes, Recruit Arvet?"
"Sir, how can we learn to operate as a warbot if we're not-bottled?"
"You'll find out. You'll probably enjoy it." He grinned. "It won't require running up Drag Ass Hill."
He pointed at another hand. "Yes, Recruit Harrison?"
The young man's voice was subdued and tentative. "Where do we, uh, sign the agreement, sir? To get bottled if we're crippled or dying?"
"Right after supper, at the orderly room. Sergeant Henkel or Corporal Tsinijinnie will sign you up." He scanned the room and saw no sign of enthusiasm. "Or at some later time. The sooner we know, the better." Again he looked around. "Any more questions? Cochran?"
"Sir, you said we'd see cubeage of how warbots are made, and watch one of them get interviewed."
"Right. That comes next. Corporal Cavalieri, continue with the cube."
B Company was introverted when it left the lecture shed, but the condition was not allowed to persist. Captain Mulvaney had prearranged for that. Outside, they were ordered to drop down and this time pump out thirty-five. Even Recruit Vernon managed thirty-two. Then Sergeant Fossberg led them on a gallop to the Physical Training Area, where they spent a long Luneburgian hour and forty minutes deeply in touch with the physical universe-gravity, dirt, fatigue and pain. Afterward they trotted back to the company area by a roundabout, nearly hour-long route, chanting from time to time, to disrupt their breathing cadence. They arrived at their hutment sweating profusely, and were dismissed for showers, dry clothes, and a layabout before supper, mostly napping.
After supper but before evening muster, exactly five trainees showed up at the orderly room to sign agreements. If they were severely disabled or mortally injured, and unconscious, the army was authorized to "extract the undersigned's central nervous system, and install it into an interfacing module for installation in a servomechanism, to serve as a cyborg of a model, and in a military unit, deemed appropriate by the army."
B Company's platoon sergeants had been allowed to choose their own site for their evening session. Sergeant First Class Arjin Hawkins Singh had chosen a field training site less than a mile from their hutment. There they found a platoon-size bleachers, with trees shading it from the lowering sun. Some second-level cadreman had delivered a folding chair to the site, for Hawkins, to help this seem like a conversation instead of a lecture.
The Jerries had been brought up to disdain war, and according to the briefing handbook on Jerrie ethnology, they put great stock in showing respect to the bodies of the dead, who presumably would be watching. On the other hand, the afternoon's training cube had rubbed their noses in their mortality, and the prospects of being killed or maimed would be more real now. And if five volunteers fell short of a landslide, it seemed to Hawkins that the bonding among the trainees, and their psychological identification with their regiments, would strengthen with time, and make a difference. A shortage of agreements now didn't necessarily mean they'd be lacking when the casualties began on New Jerusalem.