The Drift Wars (5 page)

Peter
dove headfirst into the narrow gap, pressed his pistol to Ramirez’s
boot, and fired. The boot glowed red, warping and melting, and then
exploded into vapor, along with the foot inside. Ramirez popped
loose, colliding with Saul and sending them both tumbling.

The
resistance of Ramirez’s boot gone, the asteroids lurched together,
clamping onto Peter’s helmet.

—   —   —

Peter
tried to twist free, but he was stuck. The fibers in his helmet
cracked and snapped, so loud that he thought his skull was
splitting. His only hope was for a painless death, but even as his
thoughts turned toward acceptance, he was overpowered by the urge to
escape. He didn’t want to die here; he wanted to get home, to see
Amber.

He
flailed wildly, bucking and screaming. The cracking grew louder and
louder, and then came a terrible thud, twisting Peter’s neck. A
foot flew at his face, connecting with another thud. The foot swung
back and came hard, bending Peter’s head to his shoulder, but he
broke loose. He was yanked up, dangling by his ankle, face-to-face
with Saul.

Saul
spun him like a baton, set him on his feet, and stood back. He
smiled expectantly.

“Thank
you…” Peter started, but he was shoved forward. He took several
long steps to recover his balance, and then turned and drew his
pistol. He was facing a rock wall; Saul had set in him in the path
of the approaching asteroid.

“You
better watch out for those things, sir,” Saul said. “Get
yourself killed and they’ll try to make me the new sergeant.”

Peter
whirled on Saul, ready to be angry, but saw the smirk on his face.

“I
wish they would,” he said with a weak smile.

The
ground shook as the two asteroids came together. Ramirez, standing
on one leg, hopped to keep his balance and fell over. He laughed
like he was drunk, and soon they were all laughing.

“Thanks,
Sarge,” Ramirez said as Peter helped him up. “Man, I need a new
foot.”

Ramirez’s
missing foot outlined on Peter’s visor. It was annotated with a
dozen details—his estimated top running speed and how much weight
he could support, as well as a list of which painkillers and mood
enhancers his suit was administering, the latter explaining his good
mood. Peter turned to Saul and saw similar data.

Must
come with my promotion
, he thought. He looked at the bullet
wound in his arm, but nothing appeared.

“So
what’s next?” Saul asked, clapping Peter on the back.

Peter
shrugged. His map was blank—he had no connection to the battle
computer and no idea where the Riel outpost was. He turned in a
circle, taking in the nothingness. Even the stars had abandoned him,
blocked out by unseen asteroids.

—   —   —

“When
I’m Sergeant,” Ramirez said, “I’m gonna have all my men
carry a spare gas tank.”

“You’ll
never be a sergeant,” Saul said.

The
men were still on the asteroid with no idea where to go and no way
to get there. Peter paced the rock’s perimeter; the asteroid was
still moving, and he hoped to pick up a signal from Command. Ramirez
sat in seeming thin air, having bent his leg and locked his
artificial muscles. Saul was sprawled out on the ground, which in
zero gravity was more of a statement than a comfort.

“Why
not?” Ramirez asked.

“Who
ever heard of a sergeant with a missing foot,” Saul replied.

“They’ll
give me another one,” Ramirez said. Then, to Saul’s dubious
look, he added, “A better one, like what the Gyrines get.”

“With
a gun?”

“Sure.
Why not?”

“You
ever seen anyone with gun feet?”

“We’re
recruits,” Ramirez protested. “We just got here.”

“What
about you, Sarge?” Saul called to Peter.

Peter
ignored him at first—this was the third time they were having this
conversation, even though they’d been stuck here only a few
minutes. But then he was struck by a thought. “Mickelson has a
limp,” he said, and then corrected himself. “That is, he
had
one.”

“No,
he didn’t,” Saul replied, firing a look at Ramirez.

“I
never saw him limp,” Ramirez said, thinking. “Not in Basic,
anyway.”

Peter
thought about it, but then his visor flashed; it had found a
connection to the battle computer.

“Hang
on,” Peter said. “I’ve got the location of the outpost.”

Both
men got to their feet.

“Where?”
Saul asked as the asteroid slowly rolled down, revealing a battle in
progress.

“There,”
Peter said, raising a finger.

—   —   —

Not
a hundred yards away, a platoon of marines advanced over an asteroid
the size of a small mountain. Peter had an overhead view of the men
as they moved over the rough surface, trading shots with what he
assumed was the Riel outpost—from this angle, all he could see was
a steel base at the top of the rock.

Peter,
newly crowned Sergeant Garvey, had orders to take charge of the
battle, but had no idea how to do so. His map showed eight blue dots
on the face of the asteroid, as well as four red ones—unidentified
Riel clustered at the outpost. The battle computer scrolled through
possible attacks, filling his screen with lines and arrows mixed in
with confusing code names. It was beyond comprehension. Peter was
about to pick one at random when three Riel fighterships shot into
view.

The
fighterships were perfect spheres, fifteen feet in diameter,
gleaming of polished steel. An assortment of armaments dented their
smooth surfaces, both guns and rocket launchers. They moved in a
tight line arcing out from behind a far asteroid and heading
straight for the other marines. Machine guns strobed as they
approached, and through the green trapezoidal cockpit window, Peter
saw a Gyrine sneering with pleasure.

The
ships streaked past, curved away, and disappeared into the belt. The
screech of their engines came to them in the gas from their exhaust,
and then all was silent. Across the expanse the eight marines
floated lifelessly.

“That
your new command?” Saul asked.

“Yeah,”
Peter said, “my very first.”

—   —   —

Peter
had known from the start this was a suicide mission, but that
abstract idea was now spelled out in three concrete, and equally
hopeless, options. They could wait for reinforcements, which were
unlikely. They could retreat to the edge of the belt and call for
evac, but with no gas for their rocket packs, that would take days
and they’d run out of oxygen long before they got there. Or they
could attack the outpost by themselves—an idea well past the line
where courage becomes stupidity.

“So
what’s the plan?” Saul asked.

“I’m
open to suggestions,” Peter replied.

“Right,”
Saul said, whipping his giant multi-pulse cannon up to his shoulder.
“We know those fighterships saw us, so I vote we start this attack
before they circle back.”

Saul
was right. Peter nodded. He backed up to get a running start and
leaped into the void.

—   —   —

Peter
dove for the asteroid’s bottom, staying below the enemy’s line
of fire. He doubted they would leave the safety of their outpost to
come get them.
Bother to leave
, he thought,
might be a
better way to put it.

They
sailed past the lifeless marines from the other platoon. Ramirez
grabbed one to check its rocket pack.

“Empty,”
he reported.

“Just
keep on cheering me up,” Saul replied.

—   —   —

Peter’s
boot magnets locked to the asteroid, and he took off at a full
sprint. He had a scavenged general infantry rifle in one hand and a
grenade in the other. He kept an eye on his scope, matching his pace
with Saul’s, who was racing up the far side of the asteroid. They
would attack the outpost from both sides while Ramirez, with his
limited mobility, would draw their attention to the front.

The
outpost appeared on the shallow horizon. It was three stories tall,
covered with opaque crystal blocks, and held together by a steel
framework. It was round and narrow, like the turret of a castle.

Ramirez
opened fire, and machine guns replied from the high walls, their
bullets tearing through his chest and drawing red strings of blood
out from his back. His blue dot disappeared from Peter’s map,
leaving only Saul’s and his own.

Peter
leaped up, flying through the air and firing at a thin slit in the
wall. A thick steel leg swung over the wall, taller than the entire
outpost. It was triangular in cross-section and had several joints
that tapered down to a spiked tip. The first leg was followed by a
second, then a third. It was a Typhon.

The
Typhon was the other species of Riel, a monster so large that, even
with the legs right in front of him, the top half was still hidden
over top of the outpost. Peter had seen diagrams, pictures, and even
full-size holograms of the beast, but nothing had prepared him to
meet one face on.

He
dropped the rifle—it was useless—and cocked the grenade back.
The Typhon’s battery of machine guns blazed high above, knocking
Peter down and flattening him to the ground. The grenade slipped
from his hand, floating just over his head, its three-second fuse
counting in Peter’s visor.

Everything
went black.

White
light pulsed like a failing fluorescent tube, jarring Peter from
sleep. Something hot clamped to his wrist, searing the skin. His
eyes popped open; a nurse leaned over him, her hand on his wrist.
Her thumb dug into his artery, its short nail biting his skin. She
counted silently, her face hidden behind a surgical mask.

The
room was covered floor to ceiling with white tiles, and a hose was
coiled up in the corner. Medical equipment was stacked along one
wall, piled haphazardly, looking long out of use. Peter tried to
lean over to get a better look but was strapped to the bed.

“There
you are,” the nurse said, noticing him stir. “You had me
worried.” She didn’t sound worried; her tone was flat,
efficient. She tucked his wrist gently against his side and used a
pencil-size light to inspect his eyes.

She
peered into one ear, then leaned on top of him to look in the other.
Her body was scorching, even through the fabric of her shirt.
She
must be burning up
, Peter thought. He reached to touch her bare
arm. Linda recoiled, glaring, but not at him.

“Everything
seems normal,” she said finally. “What’s the last thing you
remember?”

Peter
thought back: He was in full-dress uniform, standing with Saul and
Ramirez in a hanger full of marines. A general spoke on a distant
stage.
Was that only yesterday?
Peter wondered.

“Graduation,”
he said. “Basic Training.”
But if that was yesterday, what
about…?

“Good,”
the woman said. “Anything else?”

There
was something else.

Peter
reached deep into his memory, searching. Then it leaped out at him.

“Typhon,”
he gasped, adrenaline chilling his blood.

The
woman frowned, crossing her arms. “That’s not right,” she
muttered, turning to the monitor over Peter’s head.

“Typhon!”
he shouted, jerking against his straps. “I’ve got to warn Saul.”

“Careful
now,” the nurse hissed. She clamped a hand under his jaw, locking
his head to the steel bed. “Hold still.”

Peter
wrenched back and forth, but she was too strong. His strength
withered and he lay still, panting, his heart racing. A door opened
behind him.

“Everything
okay, Linda?” a man asked.

“Everything
is fine,” the nurse replied, irritated. She jabbed a finger at the
video monitor and electricity crackled in Peter’s ears. The room
shrank away, retreating down a long tunnel.

Black.

—   —   —

The
white light jarred Peter awake. A nurse inspected him, her face
covered by a surgical mask.

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

Peter
thought back. “Graduation,” he said. “Basic Training.”

“Anything
else?”

“No,”
he said, shaking his head. “Just Basic.”

“Good,”
the woman said, her gunmetal eyes smiling.

“The
one thing you children need to keep in the forefront of your feeble
little minds,” Sergeant Mickelson said, shouting in a strained
voice, “is that what is back there is back there, and back there
doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters now is what’s out
there.”

Peter
had just arrived at the Marine Training Orbital. It was a flat disk,
several miles across, in low orbit over one of the Livable
Territories’ rim planets. A clear dome covered the top, rising to
a half mile at the center, encasing buildings and roads that could
have been in any town on any planet. Except there was no sun, just
the permanent green twilight of the orbital’s plasma shield.

He
stood with twelve other recruits, all facing a large, grass-covered
parade field. Sergeant Mickelson paced the ramshackle line,
scrutinizing them with increasing disdain.

Mickelson
was a short, thin man with feline strength. His face was flat and
weatherworn, and his eyes had a distant squint, as if you were
standing in the way of what really interested him. Peter had only
just met him as he left the shuttle. The sergeant had ordered him to
stand at attention, though Peter wasn’t exactly sure how.

The
sergeant had been lecturing for twenty minutes, most of it insults
and threats. Peter’s attention wandered to the base around him,
which would be his home for the next five months. Though it was
supposedly a small orbital, its size overwhelmed him.

Beyond
the wide field, buildings stretched down long roads. It dwarfed the
town Peter had grown up in, and unlike the mismatched buildings and
shambling farms of home, everything here was uniform and modern.
Even the marines, marching around as if by interlocked gears, looked
freshly minted.