The Drift Wars (12 page)

As
Peter played it back, the memory grew thinner, less real. It was as
if he’d seen it on video or heard it in a story. Finally, he lost
interest altogether. His mind turned to a bigger problem.

According
to Command, Peter had been on base for only two weeks and fought in
just eight battles. Yet he could remember dozens of missions—six
weeks’ worth of near-constant fighting. But if he mentioned these
other battles, he got only blank stares. Saul hadn’t remembered
them, and Manzenze had insisted they never happened. Either they
were lying or Peter was going mad. And now there was no one left to
ask. Everyone he knew was dead.

Everyone
except her.

—   —   —

It
was several hours before Linda returned. Her mask was off, her face
grim. “I’m very sorry about your friend,” she said, laying a
warm hand on Peter’s arm.

“Thank
you.”

“We
can wait longer, if you…”

“No.
I’m okay.”

Linda
almost said more but changed her mind. She freed his head and
loosened the other straps, then dug her thumb into his arm and
injected the oily liquid.

“What’s
the last thing you remember?” she asked.

“Fighting
in the Cylides Asteroid Belt,” Peter replied. “There was an
explosion and then… I must have blacked out.”

“Good,”
Linda said, nodding. “What else do you remember?”

Peter
felt his resolve slipping. He looked her in the eye and took the
plunge.

“I
remember the other times that Saul died,” he said. “That both of
us died.”

Linda
stepped back.

“Every
time I survive a battle,” Peter continued, “I wake up on my
bunk. But every time I die, I wake up here with you. You tell me the
story of my narrow escape from death. My shuttle has failed eleven
times, but—miraculously—everyone on board was only knocked
unconscious.”

Linda’s
eyes were wide. Peter continued.

“If
I die in combat, I find my whole platoon waiting in the barracks.
But if I live, like I did this time, then everyone that I saw die
stays dead. Like Saul.”

Linda
retreated but Peter whipped his arm out, grabbing her elbow. As thin
as it was, his hand wrapped all the way around.
Too rough
, he
thought, but he held tight, twisting to keep her back to the camera.

“I
know I’m not supposed to remember any of this. What I don’t know
is what happens if they find out I do. So I’ll keep my mouth shut,
but first I need you to tell me something.”

There
was long silence.

“What?”
Linda asked.

“Can
I trust you?”

Linda
shook her head, looking away. Peter squeezed, Linda winced.

“Look
at me,” Peter said, but she didn’t. “I know you’re lying,
but do you? Are you making up these stories, or are you just taking
orders?”

Linda
straightened up and turned. She locked eyes with Peter. “I only
know what they tell me,” she said. “I had nothing to do with
your friend’s death. I don’t even know who he is.”

Peter
was dubious, but Linda stood firm, defiant. He had no way to know if
she was telling the truth.

“Okay?”
she asked.

“Okay,”
Peter said, releasing her arm. “Ask me again.”

“Ask
you what?”

“Ask
me what I remember.”

Confused,
Linda asked, “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“The
battle in the Cylides Belt,” Peter said loudly, angling his head
at the camera.

“Anything
else?”

“Nothing
else.”

“Nothing?”

“Absolutely
nothing.”

They
both fell silent, neither sure of the other. Linda turned sharply as
the door opened, and Peter stepped back. Colonel Chiang San strode
in.

“Sergeant
Garvey,” he said. “I understand you know something about
fighting in asteroids?”

Peter
watched as Private Tagomi drilled a pencil-size hole in the ship’s
hull. He pushed through and then unlocked the bit, leaving it
sticking out from the hull.

At
the top of the bit was a small plunger, a mechanical gauge that
measured the pressure inside. Cramped beside Tagomi, Private Sabot
opened the valve on a tank of compressed air. It hissed loudly; the
dome-shaped plastic tent around Peter’s platoon stretched tight,
straining the three-inch-wide tape that sealed it to the hull. The
plunger began to sink.

Peter
linked to the camera that had been drilled through first, making
sure that the hallway below them was still empty. He knew he was
being compulsive, but he was nervous. It was his first mission as a
sergeant, and he didn’t want to make any mistakes. He was
responsible for more than just his own life now.

It
had been a busy month since Chiang San had promoted him; Peter had
trained both for his new job and this mission.

It
was a massive assault, with forty divisions of marines storming the
largest Riel base in the Drift. But that was just a distraction. The
real job was here, twenty-five miles away, infiltrating the Riel
flagship beneath Peter’s feet.

Sabot
closed the air tank as the plunger flattened to the hull. The
pressure inside the tent was now the same as the inside of the ship,
which should circumvent the ship’s breech sensors. That was the
theory, anyway. This was the first time anyone had put it to the
test.

Peter
did a final check through the camera and motioned for Tagomi to
start cutting.

—   —   —

It
had been pure luck that Peter’s platoon was leading the mission.
The plan, concocted by the Great General personally, depended on the
Riel’s bringing in a flagship to oversee the defense of their
base. They knew the flagship would hide at the periphery of the
battle—the ship was too valuable to expose to open combat—but
the question was where.

Several
days earlier, the UF scouted the area, then placed ambush teams of
six platoons at each of the most likely locations. Each colonel had
been asked to provide a platoon of his best men, and Peter was as
astonished as anyone that Chiang San had picked him. By chance, the
flagship stationed itself beside Peter’s platoon, inside a hazy
mass of gas and rocks that had either once been a planet or was on
its way to becoming one. The ship moored so close that the men just
leaped over.

—   —   —

Cutting
their entry was taking too long; the assault on the Riel base was
going to last no more than an hour, and they’d already used half
of that. The saw was meant to be stealthy, with microscopic teeth
and sensors that reduced power at the slightest vibration. But its
designers had erred far on the side of caution, and the thing barely
worked.

Peter
swore quietly, fighting the urge to take it out on Tagomi.
It’s
beyond his control
, he told himself.
The best thing is to act
confident, to set an example for my men.

The
saw finally completed its circular cut, and two marines lifted the
middle out with suction handles. Peter dipped his head into the ship
and looked both ways. All clear. He slung a polymer strap—two
inches wide and as thin as dental floss—down the hole and secured
it to the hull with a square foot of tape. He rappelled in.

It
was a long drop. The hallway was cavernous, large enough to drive a
commercial EMV through. Peter hopped to the floor and stepped clear
of the others behind him. He motioned his men into two rows,
back-to-back, to cover the hall in both directions. More holes
appeared in the ceiling, and the other platoons streamed in. Peter
motioned them into formation; their radios were disabled to avoid
detection.

Seventy-two
men was a sizable force, but they barely spanned the hallway.

—   —   —

Peter
was already familiar with the ship’s layout—they had practiced
the mission on a holographic model that had been pieced together
from fragments collected during previous battles. So he knew exactly
where he was going and what sort of resistance he could expect when
he got there. The team’s objective was to disable the ship,
allowing it to be recovered intact. That meant both crippling its
engines and cutting all communication to keep it from calling for
help.

Sergeant
Garcia, the section leader, took four platoons forward to the bridge
to take out communications. The other two, including Peter’s, were
to head aft under Sergeant Windham to cripple the engines.

Windham
had a tall, sagging body and an undersized head, making him look
like a giant from a children’s book. His soft face was made softer
by a thin beard. Non-coms weren’t allowed to wear facial hair, but
Windham had assured Peter that, because he held the top score on the
Sim Test, he was all but promoted.

Windham
motioned Peter’s men down the left wall, then followed his own
down the right.

—   —   —

The
hallway was lined with structural arches, which the men used as
cover, advancing in stages. It was a playbook move, but as far as
Peter was concerned, the wrong one. Their principal concern should
be speed—if they were spotted, the mission was blown, no matter
what their cover.

Peter
had said as much back in practice, but that had only irritated
Sergeant Windham. Now, on the ship, the minutes felt like hours, and
Peter had to throttle his own platoon to not outpace Windham’s.
Peter was the junior sergeant, so he had no choice but to defer to
the other’s judgment.

—   —   —

They
had only fifteen minutes left by the time they reached the portside
engine room. Garcia would have assaulted the bridge five minutes
earlier, so the Riel onboard would already know about the invasion.
Windham motioned Peter to the door, giving him the lead. Peter’s
men formed into a half-circle, standing just beyond the range of the
door’s motion detector.

The
engine room was one of the most critical areas on the ship, but the
door required no special authorization—it opened automatically
when approached. In fact, there were no restricted areas on the
entire ship. The Riel, unlike the United Forces, seemed to trust all
their soldiers equally.

Windham’s
plan called for Peter to run through each man’s orders again to be
sure they were fresh, but they had practiced this assault a dozen
times in simulations so real that they might as well have been. His
men knew exactly where the Riel were stationed and which was his
target. It would be embarrassing to go over it again, not to mention
a waste of time.

He
bounced his arm, counting down with his fingers:
three, two, one…

—   —   —

The
fight was over in an instant. Within seconds of the door’s
opening, all five Gyrines were dead in their seats. Sabot confirmed
that no alarm had been triggered, and by the time Windham led his
men into the room, the bodies were piled in the corner. Peter posted
two men at the inner door, which led to the engine itself, and was
arranging the others when Windham approached.

“I’m
impressed, Garvey,” the senior sergeant said though the speaker in
his helmet. Peter nodded absently, signing instructions to his men.
He inspected each of them using the information provided by his
suit, checking their status. They were fine.

“I’m
tempted to give you a stab at the other side,” Windham continued,
louder, trying to get Peter’s attention. “See how your
beginner’s luck holds out.”

He
wants me to volunteer to assault the other engine room
, Peter
thought. Their orders assumed that whichever platoon had taken the
first assault would suffer casualties; therefore, the other platoon
would handle the starboard. Peter’s platoon was intact, so
technically it didn’t matter who went. But radio silence also
meant no connection to the battle computer, without which Windham
lacked the authority to override the mission parameters. Unless
Peter offered.

“You’d
better hurry, sir,” Peter said as the timer dropped below ten
minutes. “We’ll get this room wired up.”

Windham
nodded, giving Peter a you’ll-regret-this look, and lined his men
up at the inner door to cut through the main engine compartment. As
they moved out, two of Peter’s men closed the door behind them,
then stepped back and leveled their guns at it.

—   —   —

Peter’s
men set the explosives—the plan was to blow both rooms at the same
time. As a precaution, Peter was wired to a dead-man’s switch; if
he died, his suit would trigger the charges automatically.

After
that, they could only wait. Peter barked orders nervously, grouping
his men at the exterior door, which seemed the most vulnerable. But
as the minutes ticked by, he shifted more of them to the engine-room
door, worried that Windham had failed. Then a piercing shrill filled
the air.

Someone
had triggered the alarm.

—   —   —

The
alarm was bad news, especially if Garcia hadn’t knocked out the
ship’s communications. If the flagship got a distress signal out
to the nearby base, the mission was doomed.

Peter
knew that it was Windham’s fault; he had either been too slow or
failed outright. Unfortunately, Peter’s orders for either scenario
contradicted each other: fortify this room or assault the other. He
debated both sides, wishing—for the first time in his life—he
had the battle computer’s dispassionate guidance.

He
decided to attack the other engine room. In a worst-case scenario,
he would find Windham waiting for him. He ordered two men to stay
behind and lined the rest up at the interior door.

Peter
took up position at the back; the explosion triggered by his death
would be fatal to everyone, so it was best if he led from behind.

He
gave the signal and they moved out.

—   —   —

Peter
was struck by the beauty of the engine. Clear glass tubes as wide as
hallways filled the room in complex pipework. Arcs of pure energy
crackled inside, feeding two massive helical chambers that pulsed
with unshielded fission. He looked away; he had work to do.