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Authors: Brett James

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BOOK: The Drift Wars
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Peter
blundered through several hours of simulated battles every day,
feeling worse for the practice. And so far he had managed only
twenty platoons—a couple hundred men. A general managed a couple
million.

—   —   —

On
the eve of the battle, Chiang San led Peter to the conference room
for their final briefing. Every colonel on the base was crowded into
the room, along with the generals and their staffs. The naval
officers, as usual, attended by video. Peter wondered if they were
even allowed to leave their ships.

General
Garvey entered to muted applause. The Riel universe appeared on the
projector, and Garvey opened with an overview of the battle plan
that Peter had watched develop over the previous weeks. The first
objective was to get past the Riel bases, which they would soften up
with atomics. The bases themselves would be unaffected—their
deflectors were too strong—but any patrolling fighterships would
be incinerated and the rest would be grounded. They’d nuke the
bases for ten minutes, which was long enough, the general believed,
to sneak the fleet past.

The
General had ruled out trying to capture the bases but planned to
leave behind a decent-size force to convince the Riel that they were
his principal target. “The bases will give us a rough time,” he
said, “but at least we know what to expect there. What lies beyond
is entirely new territory.”

The
projection scrolled to the Riel homeworld.

“We’ve
never locked horns with the third race before, and we have precious
little information about them. Perhaps they are weak—bonded or
enslaved by the others—but I don’t think so. I believe the
Threes are the master race, reigning over the others.

“When
I consider the size of the enemy bases that protect this planet, and
the ships that attacked our scouting mission, I see a homeworld of
utmost importance. I see the center of the entire Riel kingdom.

“I
said we could win the entire war tomorrow and I meant it, but it
won’t be easy. We’ll be facing a massive force, and as with any
dominant race, the Threes will have reserved the best technology for
themselves. Our one advantage is surprise. We must knock the Riel
off balance, scatter their defenses, and keep them scattered until
we plant our flag in the rubble of their capital.

“Our
assault will come in two waves. The first will use every marine we
have—a full ninety-six divisions built and ready to go. The second
wave is a duplicate of the first, printed and waiting in cold
storage, to be resuscitated the moment the first wave is off base.
The organization of both waves will be the same—platoons,
regiments, and divisions all under the same chain of command unless
I specifically order otherwise. This includes everyone in this room;
so all second-wave officers will refrain from open-channel
communication until the death of their first-wave counterpart.
Myself and other noncombat officers will be replaced as necessary,
per standard battle procedure.”

Next
the General outlined the force deployments. The first wave would
concentrate on the outlaying defenses with only two divisions
targeting the homeworld—and those just to probe their defenses. If
all went well, the entire second wave would head directly for the
homeworld.

The
briefing lasted two hours. Afterward the men filed into the Officer
Resuscitation Center, which was far more refined than what the
troops used. The hallways had frosted glass and nurses were
stationed at every door. Now that they had their orders, their
brains would be scanned. Each man could expect to be killed several
times during the course of the battle, and with the exception of
Peter, this moment would be the last they remembered when they
awoke.

Colonel
Chiang San guided Peter to a doorway and clapped him on the back.
“See you in the morning,” he said with a wink.

The
nurse waited for him inside. It was Linda, but she wore a mask over
her face and a scrub hat pulled low on her head. Peter started to
speak, but she looked away, motioning him to the bed. He lay down
and she raised a long needle.

[20.74.9.72::1938.7493.738.8D]

Peter
stood at the large bay window at the front of the commandship,
watching the disk-shaped base slide underneath. He had forgotten how
large it was, like a flattened steel moon.

He
tried to distinguish the pie-shaped sections that Chiang San had
described, but he saw no seams on the hull’s corrugated surface.
Each section must be laid out sequentially, he decided, with the
printing machines in the center, the resuscitation area next, and
then the barracks and the docks.

But
how do you get from one section to another?
Peter wondered.

The
ship angled up and accelerated, passing through the shield’s
triangular gateway. The entire fleet waited outside, a dark mass
like a black sun against the shimmering orange Drift boundary.

Peter
remained at the window while the crew scurried about. He had no task
or duty, and there was little chance he’d remember anything
useful. Even the General seemed to realize this, relieving Chiang
San from babysitting duty and giving him a proper command.

Woven
throughout the commandship’s cold efficiency was an air of
suspense, perhaps even dread. They had towed the base to the very
border of the Riel universe, which was necessary to rapidly deploy
the second wave, but that put the entire United Forces at risk. A
loss today meant losing the entire war. If General Garvey were
telling the truth, the coming battle would be the most important in
human history. But Peter couldn’t stop thinking about Linda.

She
had barely spoken to him during the scan, and when he tried to
apologize, she walked away. Not that it had been much of an
apology—more of a boneheaded attempt at conversation. The man she
loved had been killed, utterly destroyed, so that Peter could take
his place. How could he apologize for that?

She
must hate the sight of me,
he thought.

“Strap
in for the crossing, sergeant,” the captain said, appearing on a
nearby monitor. Peter shook his thoughts away and joined the men on
the floor, lying down and pulling straps over his body. He peered up
at the window as thick steel shutters began to close. The asteroids
rolled by outside like malformed dice, tossed by the boundary’s
violent radiation. The shutters locked with a deep thrum, sealing
out the light, and then the crossing began.

A
wave of pain rolled over Peter, washing away all other thoughts.

—   —   —

Peter
was alone on the floor when he woke. The generals were across the
room, huddling over the Battle Map, and their staffs orbited around
them. He tried to sit up but lacked the strength.

A
man in a black uniform strode over and helped him to his feet. Peter
was embarrassed, but it was the third time he’d crossed the Drift
in this body.

“I
let you sleep,” the man said in a hushed voice. “Still a few
hours before the hammer drops.”

Peter
nodded. He needed distraction, so he went to inspect the map.

There
wasn’t much to see yet. The fleet was marked in faint blue—an
estimated position, not their actual. The rest of the map was nearly
blank. There were no charts of the Riel universe, and for stealth
the commandship’s sensors were throttled to a few thousand
miles—just enough to avoid a collision. The only other features
were the three orange Riel bases and, off in the far corner, the
blue homeworld.

The
man who had helped Peter to his feet took up station behind him, his
hands clasped behind his back like an aide. Or maybe his job was to
make sure Peter didn’t bother anyone important. Peter himself
wasn’t important. He was here only because General Garvey had once
decided he might be useful. This had since been proved otherwise,
but the General wasn’t going to admit that he was wrong.

All
Peter wanted was for someone to hand him a gun and send him out to
fight.

—   —   —

The
battle started without a countdown, without a word. The General
simply ran his hand over the map and it began. The room stood
motionless, all eyes following the blue tracers racing across the
map. The dots blinked when the atomics reached their target, then
disappeared as they detonated.

That
was the signal to drop radio silence. The battle computer connected
to the other ships, receiving their actual positions, and the map
flashed as every blue marker brightened at once. The fleet shifted
into a narrow line, slipping past the besieged bases.

On
the map the commandship was moving at high speed, keeping pace with
the fleet, but there was no engine noise and no sense of motion. The
inside of the ship was as staid as an underground bunker.

Red
dots appeared. Just a few at first, but as the General scattered
sensor pods, they popped up across the map, tightening around the UF
fleet in a horseshoe formation. All the generals leaned in, their
hands darting around and sending men to meet the enemy.

Peter
stood on his toes, peering over shoulders, but the men were too
fast—he couldn’t follow their actions, only see the results.
Soldiers died by the thousands. The only sound was the electronic
hum of the Battle Map.

After
a minute of deafening silence, a brigadier said, “First-wave
placement, ninety-five percent.” He was the youngest of the
generals, and his forehead was beaded with sweat. General Garvey
acknowledged him without looking up.

“Eden
is in sight, sir,” the brigadier reported, using the code name for
the Riel homeworld.

“Location?”
the General asked.

“Exactly
where we expected her.”

The
General smiled—a twisted, disturbing smile—and looked straight
at Peter. “Good job, sergeant,” he said.

Peter
surprised himself by blushing. “Thank you, sir,” he replied, but
the General had already turned back to the map.

“Give
me an ETA on the second wave,” the General said, but his words
were lost under a piercing alarm. Something exploded against the
roof and ripped it open.

The
escaping air sucked Peter up, slamming him into the ceiling. He
struggled to breathe, but the suction was too strong. The alarm
faded and became tinny as the air thinned. Below him General Garvey
dangled from the Battle Map, holding on with one hand while the
other moved calmly over its surface, issuing his last orders before
the air ran out.

—   —   —

Linda’s
face emerged from the white light. She was leaning over him, ripping
the steel needles from his head and flinging them into a tray. Her
mask was off, her lower lip clamped in her teeth. A loose clump of
hair swung in front of her face.

“Sorry,”
she said when Peter winced. “They need you as soon as possible.”

She
jabbed a needle in his arm, plunging it so fast that her knuckles
whitened. She tapped a button and gray ceramic panels rose on all
sides of the bed, encasing Peter. “I’m going to cook you,” she
said, hidden from view. “Try to hold still.”

There
was a loud buzz and Peter’s senses lit up. He felt like he was
being tickled over every inch of his body, inside and out. The
process lasted several minutes; then the noise stopped and the
panels slid back down. Linda leaned in and laid a cold towel on his
forehead. He smelled burned hair.

“What
was…?” Peter tried to ask, barely able to speak.

“Microwaves,”
Linda said. “They accelerate the resuscitation process. It’s a
very complicated procedure, VIP only.”

“I
should be flattered,” Peter mumbled. Linda smiled, producing
another needle.

“This,
too. A strong mix of painkiller and stimulant. Highly addictive.
Sometimes we have to toss a body after just a single dose.” She
gave him the shot and raised the bed to a sitting position.

“No
questions?” Peter asked.

“No
time,” Linda replied, taking his hands and yanking him up. Peter
came forward too fast, falling over her. She locked him in a bear
hug to hold him up.

“I’ve
done that better,” Peter said. Linda laughed, then caught herself
and looked away. Peter started to speak, but she cut him off.

“I
don’t want to talk about it,” she said.

“I
know,” Peter said. He found his balance and she released him.
Neither moved. They just stood there, close, he gazing at her and
she at the floor. Then the door opened and Peter’s aide, or
whoever he was, came in.

“Ready,
marine?” he snapped.

“Yes,
sir,” Peter replied. The aide turned on his heel and led Peter
into the hall.

—   —   —

Peter
followed the aide down the hallway, the stimulant surging through
his body like raw power. He pulled on his jacket and was momentarily
surprised to notice that he had a right arm again.

They
joined up with a cluster of two-dozen men, all racing giddily for
the docks. A heavy-set general in the back read out the battle’s
highlights from a portable screen, right up to the point where the
commandship was destroyed. General Garvey was in the front, where
two aides supported a monitor between them—a scaled-down version
of the battle computer. A third aide had his hands on the General’s
shoulders, guiding him from behind. The General worked furiously,
ignoring everyone else.

The
thin brigadier dropped back alongside Peter. “You remember?” he
whispered. There was awe in his voice, like he was witnessing a
miracle. Peter nodded. “What happened?” the brigadier asked.

“Maybe
a missile,” Peter replied, shaking his head. “It was over fast.”

A
naval captain appeared on the device in the brigadier’s hand—a
different one from the last time. “Engines warm and ready, sir,”
she said.

“Very
good,” the brigadier replied. He shortened his step, dropping
behind Peter, and quizzed the captain about Riel proximity.

BOOK: The Drift Wars
10.38Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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