The Drift Wars (20 page)

“Thank
you, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

“Sir.”
Peter walked to the door.

“One
more thing, sergeant.”

“Yes,
sir?” Peter turned back.

“Per
her request, I’ve granted Linda 75 reassignment, but only after
the battle. You’re in poor health, and medically speaking she
knows you better than anyone. So for now the two of you will have to
put your feelings aside. That won’t be a problem, will it,
sergeant?”

“No,
sir,” Peter said.

“Good.
Now get some rest. We’ve got a lot of work ahead.”

Peter
walked to his bunk on autopilot—nothing had changed in the year
and a half he had been gone—but when he got there, it was already
occupied.

“Sir?”
a sergeant asked, standing and saluting. Peter didn’t recognize
him, but the sergeant obviously knew who he was.

“Nothing,”
Peter said, stepping back and letting the door close.

—   —   —

Peter
made his way to the officer’s quarter and was only half-surprised
when the door opened for him. Halfway down the hall was a door with
his name on it. He hesitated, but the door slid open automatically.
He stepped inside.

Linda
had left in a hurry. Drawers hung open and hangers were scattered on
the floor. His own clothes filled exactly half the closet.

He
sat on the wide bed. It had been carelessly made, and there were
dents in both pillows.

“
We
have a rare opportunity in front of us—a chance to turn the tide
of the war. It won’t be easy. In fact, it will be the toughest
battle in the history of mankind. But also the most important.”

General
Garvey was addressing a crowd of some ten thousand men. Peter sat
with Chiang San in his office, watching on the monitor. He
remembered viewing these briefings in the barracks with his platoon
when he was a private. Back then he hung on every word, hunting for
clues about the mission. But this time he already knew the plan, so
he wondered about the other men in the room. He had never attended a
briefing personally, and it occurred to him that he didn’t know
anyone who had.

“It’s
all canned,” Chiang San said, as if reading Peter’s mind. The
colonel was leaning back in his chair, feet on the desk. “If
there’s a room like that anywhere on this base, I’ve never seen
it. Figure the audience is pre-recorded or computer-generated. I
don’t even know whether the General delivers the speech himself or
just lets the computer handle that too. I asked him one time, but he
just laughed. Told me I’d find out when I got promoted.”

“How
many of me are there?” Peter asked. It was an obvious question,
but he had never thought to ask.

“Just
the one, now.”

“But
what about…?” Peter pointed at the monitor.

“Oh,
he’s not you. Not exactly. But that’s complicated. Let’s talk
about you.

“Each
line typically starts with ninety-six copies. Some advance and
others are eliminated. Not only because they fail, mind you, but
also because others succeed. Sergeants have a lot more access than
privates, so there are fewer of them running around. After the first
dozen privates get promoted, the rest are retired. That’s why the
base is divided into twelve even parts.”

“And
I’ve never seen the other parts?” Peter asked.

“Of
course not,” Chiang San replied. “That’s the whole point. As a
sergeant, you get the run of your section, and everyone in it knows
only that one version of you. Not that you could tell the
difference: each section is exactly the same. The whole base is
divided out from the center, like slices of a giant pie. It’s only
us colonels who can move between sections. Of course, that means
once a sergeant gets his commission, all of his dupes are iced.

“Most
lines don’t produce a colonel, though. We’re a rare breed, you
and I.”

“
We’re
not just fighting over another piece of empty space,”
the
General continued on the monitor.
“Even as I speak, the base is
advancing toward the Drift’s far boundary, bringing us within
striking distance of a Riel homeworld. This time, we’re taking the
battle to the enemy’s doorstep.”

Applause
erupted in the room, seemingly spontaneous.

“Towing
the battle to the enemy’s doorstep,” Chiang San corrected from
his chair. “The base hasn’t got engines. There was even talk of
taking it straight through the boundary, but we decided against
that. Took months to repair the damage from bringing it in here in
the first place, and no matter where we’d cross, it wouldn’t
take long for the Riel to find something this big. Better to go in
shooting.”

“What
will the casualties be like just getting the men across?” Peter
asked.

Chiang
San winced. “Not so bad. We’ve ironed out a lot of the kinks
since your trip. Hardened the equipment and the men.”

“
I’ll
clear up the rumors right now,”
the General said.
“We
have discovered the third race. Our objective is their homeworld.
They may look like us, but make no mistake: they are our enemy just
like the rest.

“
This
is an unprecedented opportunity—a chance to win the war in a
single stroke. To ensure, once and for all, the safety of our loved
ones.”

“Another
homeworlds-approved message,” Chiang San grumbled.

Peter
smiled, taking it as a joke.

“You
don’t believe me?”

“How
could it be?” Peter asked. “The Livable Territories are
light-years away. They couldn’t even know about the attack yet.”

“You
study physics?” the colonel asked. Peter shrugged. “Then don’t
make like you’re smart. They got it figured, trust me. They keep a
hand in every little thing we do out here and don’t you ever
forget it.”

Applause
erupted as the General left the stage. A projection appeared where
he was—a combat suit, but not a marine’s. It was white and
shiny, and while its proportions looked normal from the front, they
were elongated when seen from the side. The suit looked familiar,
but Peter couldn’t place it.

“
Meet
the new enemy,”
a colonel said, walking up from the audience.
He was a stout man, with dark hair and olive skin.
“It may not
look as fierce as the others,”
he continued,
“but it’s
just as deadly. Probably more so.”
The colonel reached the
stage and turned around—it was Chiang San.

“Just
like an onion, ain’t it, kid?” said the Chiang San who sat
across the desk from Peter. “You peel back a layer and there’s
always another.”

—   —   —

Peter
divided his attention between the colonel on the screen and the
colonel in the room. He tried to gauge the nearby Chiang San’s
reaction, to see if he already knew what his on-screen self was
going to say. But Peter’s companion watched without expression,
offering no comment about his performance onstage.

On-screen,
the colonel gave a summary of the new race, which he called the
Threes. He talked about where they lived, what they breathed, and
what it took to kill them. He knew a lot more than Peter’s
expedition had dug up, and he wondered how much of it was
embellished.

The
colonel said moving the base into position would take two weeks,
during which the marines would train on new weapons—ones that
fired both impulsor and projectile ammo.

Peter
tuned him out; he wasn’t going to be fighting. He would spend the
next two weeks with Chiang San, getting a crash course on the Battle
Map, the complicated system the generals used to control the entire
battle. General Garvey wanted Peter on the commandship in case he
thought of anything relevant, and so he needed to be able to follow
the action.

During
Peter’s first session, Chiang San had told him: “The Battle Map
may look like a more complex version of the Sim Test, but it’s far
more than that. The Sim Test is meant only to identify men capable
of strategic thinking, not to simulate actual battle. There are no
false positives, no enemy decoys, and the outcome of every
engagement is predictable. In the Sim Test, three platoons of
marines will always defeat a squad of four Gyrines. That’s not how
it works in real life.

“There’s
a lot more guesswork and chance in a real battle. The Battle Map
collates information from all over the board—information that is
changing constantly, not just for the Riel but also for our own
side. A general’s job is to weigh what he sees and make
decisions—up to hundreds of them a minute, depending on the size
of the conflict. It takes training—two years of it—but it also
takes talent, which is something you have to be born with.

“So
to speak,” Chiang San added, giving Peter a wink.

—   —   —

“Not
bad,” Chiang San said as his on-screen self finished his lecture,
“if I do say so myself.”

“Was
that—?” Peter asked.

“Wait
for your promotion,” the colonel cut in, “like the rest of us
did. Right now, there are more important things to worry about. As
in, you’ve got a meeting with the General.”

“We
do?”

“
You
do. Right now. He wants you to review his initial battle plan.”

Chiang
San was already on his feet. Peter followed him out.

Command
was a long hallway lined with colonels’ offices. It bulged at the
end to accommodate five doors, one for each general. Chiang San
knocked on the one in the center.

“Don’t
let him rile you,” Chiang San whispered with sudden urgency. “He
doesn’t like you much.”

“Why
not?” Peter asked. He had only had two brief conversations with
the General.

“Nothing
you did,” the colonel said. “Just who you are.”

Before
Peter could respond, the door swung open. A man in a black uniform
motioned him in—the very man who had shot him.

—   —   —

A
short passage connected the General’s office to an interior
replica of a commandship. The Battle Map dominated the dimly lit
room, a three-dimensional projection of the Riel universe rising
from its massive steel table. Five generals stood beside it. Peter
had met two of them before. There were no introductions.

“Ah,
375,” General Garvey said, motioning him to the projection. “I
wanted your input on this.”

“Yes,
sir,” Peter said.

“We
drop the formalities in this room, sergeant.” The General’s tone
was uncharacteristically warm. “Look here.”

The
General scrolled the Battle Map past the three Riel bases, zooming
in on the homeworld’s solar system. “This is how the system will
look when we attack. And this”—the General twisted his hand
above the table, revolving the planets backward around the sun—“is
how it was when you surveyed it. You reported heavy radio use on
this planet here, and this one as well. Both planets are
uninhabitable, so they are either outposts or mines. Did your team
investigate?”

“We
did, but I didn’t see the report.”

The
General nodded. “When you completed your survey two weeks later,”
he said, twirling the system forward, “you were still seeing
activity on this planet, but this one was silent. Is that correct?”

“That’s
what I heard. I didn’t witness it myself.”

“Relax,
sergeant. This isn’t a trial. My suspicion is that this planet has
a small, isolated base, somewhere in here.” The General drew a
circle onto the projected planet, his finger leaving a green mark.
“And when we advance the clock to zero hour, these are the only
two planets in the fourth-quadrant approach. More important, this
one has created a blind spot on the other.” The General scrolled
the planets around to demonstrate.

“My
plan is to send the main invasion force through here, led by two
naval destroyers. We’ll skip the less active planet—leave it for
clean up—and send the destroyers straight for this one. What do
you think?”

Peter
inspected the map, nodding his head as if he understood. “That
sounds very smart, sir.” he said.

The
General glared at him. “I’m glad you approve,” he said. The
other men laughed. “But I think we’ll do without your tactical
advice. The question is, do you remember anything useful?”

“Yes,
sir,” Peter said. He studied his boots, his face burning. “Of
course, sir.” He caught the eye of another general, who frowned
back.

“Well,”
General Garvey prodded.

“I…”
Peter’s mind raced. He looked from one planet to the other, unable
to remember any of what the General had just told him. “I don’t
think so, sir.”

The
General gave Peter a hard look, then walked over, close.

“Colonel
San has access to this,” he said gently. “Go over it again with
him tonight.” Peter flinched as the General placed a hand on his
shoulder. “And take your time, son. It’s important.”

Peter
nodded and the General dismissed him. Peter took a walk to see what
else he could remember about the Riel solar system. He knew every
detail was important but that only made them harder to remember.

—   —   —

As
hard as Peter had found the Sim Test, the battle computer was a
level beyond. Everything moved twice as fast and there was a lot
more to keep track of. Each blue dot was labeled with a string of
numbers that were meant to tell him, at a glance, the platoon’s
armament, mobility, and condition. But even after two weeks of
practice, Peter still had to stop to work out the code. And with
dozens of platoons on the table, there just wasn’t time.

Even
more frustrating were the Riel markers, which were shaded in hues
from translucent pink to solid red, depending the strength of the
intel. Peter learned that any marker that was not bright
red—indicating the enemy was being observed at that very
moment—was extremely unreliable. The Riel moved quickly,
especially on their home turf. And they were nearly impossible to
track. More than once, Peter had sent his men to fight a single
squad, only to find four more waiting.