The Drift Wars (22 page)

The
officers passed through the airlock into the glass-lined docks. It
was the same route as before, but now, with the docks empty, they
had a panoramic view of the raging Drift boundary. Peter stared,
fixated, then noticed that the green plasma shield was turned off.

“Riel
scouts are prowling about,” his aide offered, catching Peter’s
look. “The shields give off an energy signature like a homing
beacon. We’ll turn them back on if we need them.”

At
the end of the long hallway was another commandship, one of several
stashed around the base, the only reserve in this all-out battle.

Green
light filled the hall as the base’s shield hummed to life. The
group stopped unevenly, the men in back knocking into those in
front. They all looked outside, searching for the cause of alarm.

A
swirling hole appeared in the orange boundary, sucked from the
inside like the birth of a black hole. An enormous steel wedge slid
out of the middle, the tip of something very big.

—   —   —

What
came out of the Drift boundary was a monstrous battlecruiser so
large that Peter couldn’t even guess its scale. It resembled a
giant spear, starting with the wedge-shaped bridge and tapering to a
long, narrow body. There was no end to it—the ship emerged with
unhurried ease, growing longer and longer.

The
base opened fire with massive tachyon cannons and swarms of rockets,
pounding the incoming ship mercilessly to no noticeable effect. The
enemy ship drew overhead, casting its shadow on the men in the
hallway, who stared wide-eyed. And still the ship grew, sliding out
from the dark hole.

Round
doors opened along the ship’s hull, pumping out streams of
fighterships. They swooped under the base, disappearing from sight.

Two
missiles fired from the back of the battleship’s bridge, making a
lazy arc and slamming into the base’s plasma shield. Sparks flew
as the missiles pushed forward, bending the shield as if it were
made of rubber. Then the shield gave way and the missiles popped
through. They shot below view and the whole base shook from their
impact. The green shield flickered and died.

There
was a loud clatter as the two aides dropped the portable Battle Map.
They picked up the General, one under each arm, and rushed him to
the commandship. No one else moved. Peter looked up and down the
hall, ready to run but unsure where.

Square
hangers opened along the battlecruiser’s body, and a string of
dots dropped out. As the dots grew closer, Peter saw their spidery
legs and red flesh: Typhons, dozens of them, dropping to the base
like commandos. They attacked the hull with Delta-class impulsors,
cutting loose whole sections and shoving them into space.

Decision
made,
Peter thought, running for the commandship. But then a
squad of fighterships swung around the base, heading toward him.
Glass shattered as bullets ripped through the docks. A rocket
exploded, tearing the hallway in half. A long section of hall spun
away, the burning commandship attached to the end.

The
other men still hadn’t moved. Another wave of fighterships swooped
down on the hallway, spraying bullets, slaughtering them. Peter’s
aide stood placid, almost distracted, as the bullets sliced him into
three pieces. Only the brigadier reacted, dodging back and running
toward the base.

Peter
leaped over the edge of the four-sided walkway. As he dropped, the
gravitational field of the perpendicular walkway pulled at his side,
slamming him against what was now the floor. Bullets sparked against
the grating. He shoved to his feet and raced for the base.

Air
streamed from the open airlock, sucked through the broken windows
behind him. It was a powerful wind; Peter leaned forward as he ran.

There
was a loud bang as the airlock’s emergency charges fired, slamming
the doors shut. The brigadier was caught in the middle, his chest
crushed.

The
walkway collapsed. Peter jumped.

He
nearly reached the airlock, but the wind threw him back. He
scrambled for a hold on the smooth glass walls, finding none.

The
windows shattered as the docks broke away from the base. A seam
appeared at Peter’s feet, and he threw himself forward, grabbing
an empty window frame as the rest of the hall tore loose and
spiraled into space.

Peter
held the very edge of what was still attached to the base, a section
of the hallway some thirty feet long. Above him the airlock doors
were wedged open by the brigadier’s body. Air rushed from the
base, flapping Peter like a flag.

He
clung dearly to the window frame, hanging in space with nothing to
protect him but the thin fabric of his dress uniform. The cold ached
in his bones and clamped at his chest. But for the escaping wind, he
would have frozen in seconds.

—   —   —

Peter’s
hands grew weak. He looked up at the airlock, squinting against the
stinging wind, which cooled below freezing in the short distance
between him and the base. But it was better than nothing, which was
what he’d have if the airlock weren’t propped open.

Peter
tried to pull forward, but the wind was too strong. He swung his
legs back and forth, building up momentum, then kicked up. The heel
of his boot caught the inside of a fractured window. He doubled one
hand over the other and pulled, throwing an arm over the frame. A
shard of glass pierced his bicep. Peter jerked back, but he was
skewered, stuck.

Blood
welled from the cut, spraying his face. He blinked to clear his
eyes, but his vision grew dim. Darkness crept in at the edges.
Exhausted and freezing, Peter slumped back, suspended by arm and
leg. His eyelids drooped.

—   —   —

Something
clapped Peter on the head. His eyes popped open and he glimpsed a
boot flying past. He looked up at the brigadier’s corpse in the
doorway. His shredded clothes streamed in the escaping wind. One
foot was bare.

I
owe you one
, Peter told the dead man, adjusting his grip on the
frame. His arm was numb, the bleeding stemmed by a red crust of ice.
He pulled forward, throwing his other foot over the window frame,
then freed his arm from the shard of glass and reached for the next
frame. Most of the windows were shattered, leaving empty framework.
Peter climbed toward the airlock.

He
made rapid progress, rising to within a body length of the base. But
the remaining windows were intact and the walls were too smooth to
climb.

—   —   —

Peter
leaned into the hallway, breathing the rich air inside and trying to
figure out how to reach the doors. They were too far away to jump
and the windows were too tough to break. His sole option was to
climb, and there was only one thing to hold on to.

He
slipped his legs through the window frame and locked his feet to the
edge, reaching for the brigadier’s body, which dangled in the
middle of the hallway like the clapper of a bell.

The
wind pressed against Peter and his stomach trembled. He was losing
strength. He grabbed at the general’s leg, clamping on to the
man’s calf. It was as hard as a block of ice.

Peter
tugged, wondering if it would hold his weight. It seemed solid, and
there were no other options. He locked the calf in both hands,
slipped his legs loose, and swung out to the middle of the hallway.

The
brigadier’s leg stretched under Peter’s weight and the knee
cracked, bombarding Peter with iced flesh. The calf broke loose and
Peter fell.

He
dropped three feet and lurched to a stop. A thin strand of tendon
stretched between the calf and knee. Peter twirled in the wind,
gripped by vertigo unlike any since Basic.

He
curled into a ball, clamping his feet around the brigadier’s
ankle, then pushed with his legs, reaching up and digging his
fingers into the tattered pants. He eased his other hand up to the
man’s belt, then drew his legs up and clamped them to the
brigadier’s thigh. He pushed up again, his head rising to the
doors.

The
wind was strong here, and Peter kept his face down to as he felt
around. He found the thick rubber seal that ran between the doors,
grabbed tight, and let go of the brigadier.

The
door bowed and the brigadier’s body slipped free. It slammed into
Peter, rebounded, and shattered against the wall, its crystal
fragments scattering into space.

Something
clamped around Peter’s hand. The airlock had shut. The flow of air
was cut and the vacuum of space sucked at Peter’s lungs. Ice
formed on his skin and his eyes froze, fracturing his vision. He
didn’t have long.

He
kicked at the door, wedging his foot in the seal, then pried and
pulled. The doors wouldn’t budge. Peter kicked one foot with the
other, driving it farther in. The rubber fluttered as a thin line of
air rushed out.

Peter
pressed his lips to the seal and let the warm air fill his lungs. He
leaned away and the air was sucked back out. He breathed like this
three times, clearing his head, then straightened his back and
pulled with all he had. The doors spread fractionally. He shoved his
foot farther in and locked his arch on the lower door’s edge. He
pulled harder; the doors yielded slowly.

Air
poured over him, warm and moist. Peter slipped his shoulder in, then
tucked his head and leaped inside.

The
wind threw him back, but the doors slammed shut, catching him.

—   —   —

The
roar of the wind echoed in Peter’s ears and his skin burned in the
warm air. The gravity generators were out, so he floated in midair,
catching his breath.

His
arm throbbed where the glass had pierced it. He pulled off his
jacket and tossed it away. When he rolled back his shirtsleeve, he
saw that the cut was jagged and bruised, but the blood had clotted.
He checked himself further, finding no other damage. He kicked off
from the airlock doors and sailed down the hallway, heading toward
the center of the base.

The
gravity started to return some fifty yards in. Peter sank like an
old balloon and paddled over the floor with his hands. He dropped
farther, crawling, then finally stood and ran.

He
passed through Command and into the resuscitation hall. An alarm
blared, but everyone was gone. All of the doors were open, all of
the stations abandoned.

He
cut over to the larger hallway, the one used to transport freshly
printed bodies. The alarm was even louder here and sharp white
lights strobed on the ceiling. Peter saw movement in the distance
and sprinted toward it.

The
crowd was a mix of small nurses and smaller technicians, with a few
towering, black-uniformed guards. They all shoved against one
another, panicking, each trying to get to the front. Peter overtook
them easily.

She
was near the back. He touched her shoulder and she turned.

“Linda,”
he shouted over the alarm. “I know you’re angry with me, but you
have to listen…” Peter saw the confusion on her face. He looked
down: her badge read Linda 19.

He
looked up and saw several faces staring at him, all of them Lindas.
It was too much for Peter; he shoved Linda 19 away. She knocked into
the others, who all turned and scrambled away, merging with the
crowd.

Peter
watched the confused mass push down the hall. A thousand bodies, but
only a few dozen clones. He didn’t know where to go, but it wasn’t
with them.

The
noise of the crowd faded beneath the shrieking alarm. He looked to a
speaker in the ceiling and walked to a wall console. “Alarm
override,” he said.

“Authorization
required,” the console replied.

“Sergeant…”
Peter started, then had a better idea: “General Peter Garvey.”

The
alarm stopped, its noise fading down the hall. In the silence, Peter
heard the sounds of war: pounding explosions, the moaning hull, and
distant gunfire—Riel were inside the base.

His
first thought was to find a weapon. He was in the Purple Area, which
put the armory in the wreckage behind him. On either side of him,
dark machinery slept behind glass walls. A half-printed body
defrosted on a metal bed, its blood draining to the floor.

Am
I alone?
he wondered.
The last marine on the base?

Even
if the others came back, what good would it do? That colossal Riel
battlecruiser would shred the entire UF fleet long before it reached
the base. No, the battle was lost. The war was over. Peter’s only
hope was escape.

The
base shuddered, from impact or explosion, and Peter was thrown to
the floor. Fractures laced up the glass walls.

Not
without Linda
.

—   —   —

Peter
pushed to his feet and raced up the hallway, chasing after the
crowd. They were bunched up at a doorway, all of them shoving to get
through.

“Linda,”
he yelled over the panicked din. A number of Lindas turned to him.
“Seventy-five?” he asked. They all shook their heads, then
waited. But he had nothing to tell them, so he pushed past though
the doorway.

“Linda
Seventy-Five!” he shouted.

The
crowd spilled out into a large, circular room. A dozen doors were
spaced evenly around the walls, like spokes on a wheel. This was the
center of the base, the hub that connected all twelve sections.

People
poured in from all directions and, having arrived at their
destination, milled around as if at the end of a fire drill. Peter
pressed through the crowd, shouting for Linda, his voice straining.
He drew a deep breath and bellowed with all his might,
“Seventy-five!”

Right
in the middle of the chaos, a head turned. Their eyes locked and she
said his name—or maybe she just mouthed it—and then she smiled.

Peter
started toward her, but a horrible shriek filled the room. The
ceiling broke loose and enormous red fingers wrenched it back,
bending it up like the lid of a can. Hideous golden eyes peered down
from the darkness above. A Typhon.