“You could have told me all this earlier,” Hart said.
“You didn’t ask,” Brous said.
“Ah,” Hart said.
“Also, I could be wrong,” Brous said. “I’ve learned over time I’m full of just about as much shit as anyone.”
“No, I don’t think you are,” Hart said. “Wrong, I mean. I remain neutral about the ‘full of shit’ part.”
“Fair enough,” Brous said. “It sounds like you’re having a moment of existentialist crisis here, Hart, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Maybe I am,” Hart said. “I’m trying to decide what I want to be when I grow up. A nice thing to wonder about when you’re thirty.”
“I don’t think it matters what age you are when you figure it out,” Brous said. “I think the important thing is to figure it out before someone else tells you what you want to be, and they get it wrong.”
“Who’s giving the toast this year?” Isabel asked. They were all seated at the table: Alastair and Isabel, Hart, Catherine, Wes and Brandt and their spouses. The children were sequestered away in the next room, on low tables, and were busy throwing peas and rolls at one another while the nannies vainly tried to keep control.
“I’ll give the toast,” Alastair said.
“You give the toast every year,” Isabel said. “And your toasts are boring, dear. Too long and too full of politics.”
“It’s the family business,” Alastair said. “It’s a family dinner. What else should we talk about?”
“And besides which, you’re still bitter about the election, and I don’t want hear about it tonight,” Isabel said. “So no toast from you.”
“I’ll give the toast,” Brandt said.
“Oh, hell, no,” Alastair said.
“Alastair,” Isabel said, admonishingly.
“You thought my toast was going to be long and boring and full of politics,” Alastair said. “The gloater in chief here will positively outstrip your expectations of me.”
“Dad does have a point,” Catherine said.
“Then you say it, dear,” Isabel said to her.
“Indeed,” Brandt said, clearly a little hurt at having his toast proposal rebuffed. “Regale us with tales of the people you’ve met and crushed in the last year.”
“The hell with this,” Wes said, and reached for the mashed potatoes.
“Wes,” Isabel said.
“What?” Wes said, spooning out a heap of potatoes. “By the time you figure out who’s toasting what, everything will be dry and cold. I have too much respect for Madga’s work for that.”
“I’ll make the toast,” Hart said.
“Ho!” Brandt said. “This is a first.”
“Quiet, Brandt,” Isabel said, and turned her attention to her youngest. “Go ahead, dear.”
Hart stood, picked up his glass of wine and looked over the table.
“Every year, whoever makes the toast gets to talk about the events in their life from the last year,” Hart said. “Well, I have to say this has been an eventful year. I got spit on by aliens as part of a diplomatic negotiation. My ship was attacked with a missile and almost blew up around me. I got a human head delivered to me by an alien as part of another, entirely different negotiation. And, as you all recently learned, I helped zap a dog into unconsciousness as part of a third negotiation. All the while living day to day in a ship that’s the oldest one in service, sleeping in a bunk that’s barely wide enough for me, rooming with a guy who is either snoring or passing gas most of the night.
“If you think about it, it’s a ridiculous way to live. It really is. And, as has also been pointed out to me recently, it’s a way that doesn’t seem to hold much of a future for me, assigned as I am to a low-ranking ambassador who has had to fight her way to the sorts of missions that more exalted diplomats would turn down as a waste of their talents and abilities. It does make you wonder why I do it. Why I have done it.
“And then I remember why I do it. Because as strange, and exhausting, and enervating, and, yes, even humiliating as it can be, at the end of the day, when everything goes right, it’s the most exciting thing I’ve ever done. Ever. I stand there and I can’t believe that I’ve been part of a group who meets with people who are not human but can still reason, and that we’ve reasoned together, and through that reason have agreed to live together, without killing each other or demanding more of the other than what each of us needs from the other.
“And it’s happening at a time in our history that’s never been more critical to humanity. We are out here, all of us, without the sort of protection and growth that Earth has always provided us before. And because of that, every negotiation, every agreement, every action we take—even those of us on the bottom rung of the diplomatic service—makes a difference for the future of humanity. For the future of this planet and every planet like it. For the future of everyone at this table.
“I love all of you. Dad, I love your dedication to Phoenix and your desire to keep it running. Mom, I love that you care for each of us, even when you snipe at us a little. Brandt, I love your ambition and drive. Catherine, I love the fact that one day you will rule us all. Wes, I love that you are the family jester, who keeps us honest. I love you and your wives and husbands and your children. I love Magda and Brous and Lisa, who have lived their lives with us.
“I was told recently by someone that if I wanted to make a difference, that this must be the place. Here, on Phoenix. With love and respect, I disagree. Dad, Brandt and Catherine will take care of Phoenix for us. My job is to take care of the rest of it. That’s what I do. That’s what I’m going to keep doing. That’s where what I do matters.
“So to each of you, my family, a toast. Keep Phoenix safe for me. I’ll work on everything else. When I come back for Harvest Day next year, I’ll let you know how it’s going. That’s a promise. Cheers.”
Hart drank. Everyone drank but Alastair, who waited until he caught his son’s eye. Then he raised his glass a second time and drank.
“That was worth holding off on the potatoes for,” Wes said. “Now pass me the gravy, please.”
Also by John Scalzi
Old Man’s War
The Ghost Brigades
The Android’s Dream
The Last Colony
Zoe’s Tale
Your Hate Mail Will Be Graded
Fuzzy Nation
Redshirts
Edited by John Scalzi
Metatropolis
About the Author
JOHN SCALZI is the author of several SF novels including the bestselling Old Man’s War and its sequels, and the New York Times bestsellers Fuzzy Nation and Redshirts. He is a winner of science fiction’s John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer, and he won the Hugo Award for Your Hate Mail Will Be Graded, a collection of essays from his wildly popular blog Whatever (whatever.scalzi.com). He lives in Ohio with his wife and daughter.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
HUMAN DIVISION #10: THIS MUST BE THE PLACE
Copyright © 2013 by John Scalzi
All rights reserved.
Cover art by John Harris
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
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New York, NY10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
e-ISBN: 978-1-4668-3059-2
The Human Division
John Scalzi’s stirring new novel in the universe of his bestselling Old Man’s War
New e-episodes will appear every Tuesday from January 15 to April 9, 2013, on all your favorite e-book sites. Don’t miss a single one:
January 15: The Human Division #1: The B-Team
January 22: The Human Division #2: Walk the Plank
January 29: The Human Division #3: We Only Ne
ed the Heads
February 5: The Human Division #4: A Voice in the Wilderness
February 12: The Human Division #5: Tales from the Clarke
February 19: The Human Division #6: The Back Channel
February 26: The Human Division #7: The Dog King
March 5: The Human Division #8: The Sound of Rebellion
March 12: The Human Division #9: The Observers
March 19: The Human Division #10: This Must Be the Place
March 26: The Human Division #11: A Problem of Proportion
April 2: The Human Division #12: The Gentle Art of Cracking Heads
April 9: The Human Division #13: Earth Below, Sky Above
John Scalzi, This Must Be the Place
(Series: # )
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