The Drift Wars

by James, Brett

  “Just float?” Peter asked, running a finger down her dress, from her stomach to her thigh.

  “Peter Garvey!” Amber said, slapping his hand with mock affront.

  “We might die tonight,” Peter said.

  “I bet you say that to all the girls,” Amber said, but she knew better. She and Peter had been a couple for as long as either could remember. They grew up friends and didn’t so much start dating as notice that they already were. They would get married too, as soon as they were out of high school.

  “Come up here, instead,” Amber continued, peeling her collar back slowly, tantalizingly. Peter stiffened, his eyes glued.

  “You like that?” she asked.

  “You know I do.”

  “You have a filthy mind,” Amber said.

  “You know I do.” Peter sprang on top of her, nibbling her soft skin with his lips. He worked down her neck to her collarbone, then dropped to a breast, nosing back her dress and taking a bite. He pulled back before she could protest, then dug his fingers into her ribs and tickled. He had years of practice—once upon a time, his only interest in her body had been tickling. She giggled loudly, slapping his chest until he stopped. He settled on top of her, circling her face with his fingers and gazing into her eyes.

  “Peter Garvey,” she sighed, “I can’t wait until we’re married.”

  “I don’t see why we have to.”

  “Because my dad owns a gun?”

  “That’s,” Peter said with a laugh, “that’s a pretty good reason.”

  “And because I say so. Girls like me don’t come cheap.”

  Peter frowned, rolling off her. “I’m not sure I can afford it.”

  “You still bothering on that scholarship?” she asked, hugging his back. “It won’t matter now. No one’s gonna watch football with a war on.”

  “I suppose,” Peter said.

  “I don’t want you to give it another thought. We’ll find some rich old hag who won’t mind you too much. I’ll just take you on the weekends.”

  Peter lay back, and Amber slid on top of him. Suddenly the whole sky flashed white. Peter bolted up as an orange fireball ballooned in the distance. It was so low to the horizon he couldn’t tell if it was on land or in space. He raised his arm to point, but Amber buried her face in his side, crying.

  — — —

  “This, gentlemen, is the Drift. You’ve all heard of it and you’ll all be fighting in it. Most of you will die in it.”

  Colonel Chiang San lectured under the glow of a three-dimensional projection; a model of the Drift floated over his head. Chiang San was a stout man, Asian, with a thick chest and a wide wrestler’s stance. He stood in a large auditorium that was packed with twenty thousand recruits. It was a lot of men but still only a tenth of the newly formed Digamma San Division, the youngest in the United Forces. Or they would be, as soon as they finished Basic.

  Peter’s platoon, lost somewhere near the back, were all sealed inside their combat suits. They had been stuck inside them for six straight days now and would remain so for the next two months.

  “Starting now,” Mickelson had told them, “you will train in your suit and you will sleep in it. You will eat through its feeder tube and you will use its map to find the bathroom. More important, you’ll acquaint yourself with the delicate art of controlling your artificial muscles. Any of you morons can bend bars with them, but I want you to peel an egg. And you’ll do that for me before I’ll let you so much as flip your visor up.”

  It had been a difficult week. The artificial muscles were hard to control, and Peter had to relearn the most basic tasks. Things broke and mangled in his hands, and the first time he tried to walk, he launched himself into the ceiling. Worse, after a couple of days, the suit began to itch and chafe, especially at the joints. Peter wanted to claw his skin off.

  “The Drift is a desolate place,” Colonel Chiang San continued, circling the projection, which depicted a long, thin pocket of black with a burning orange skin. “It’s large enough to pack several galaxies inside but has few stars and even fewer planets. Mostly it’s just barren rocks and empty space.

  “Passing through the Drift’s boundary,” Chiang San said, running a pointer along the Drift’s orange exterior, “is such a violent experience that for centuries we were convinced it was impossible. At this scale, it looks peaceful, but in real life it’s a terrible thing, an eternal storm of radiation and X-rays that will pulverize anything that gets near it.

  “The boundary surrounds the entire Drift, but there are only two parts that concern us. Here, where we cross it, and way over here, where the Riel do. Right now, they’re over here, by our side, ready to attack at any moment. Our job is to push them all the way back to their side and, just maybe, beyond it to where they live.”

  Chiang San paused, considering the model as if imagining a long and journeyed battle playing out. He nodded with satisfaction and turned back to the audience.

  “There are scientists who argue that the Drift is the seam of the universe, the place where space wraps all the way around to meet itself like some vastly oversize doughnut. Others argue that it’s a border, a no-man’s-land between our universe and the next.

  “Me? I don’t give a shit what it is. I only care that it’s full of Riel. And if we allow them back into our universe, then they will burn our cities and slaughter our families. The Riel have no mercy. Hell, they don’t even have common sense. They exist only to kill, and they’re damn good at it. To quote the Great General, ‘This is a battle of evolution, from which only one species will survive.’ Personally, I’d rather it be us.”

  — — —

  The night the Riel attacked the Livable Territories, every power station on Genesia was either bombed out or shut down. As a result, the town received no news until the following morning, when a white pickup drove in from Genesia City. It was loaded with medical supplies and copies of a special edition of the Genesia Tribune, just two pages thick. The truck left some of the supplies and a half-dozen papers and continued down the road.

  Peter and Amber were tucked into a booth at the diner, having breakfast. Amber had pancakes, but Peter ordered a cheeseburger, which was free on account of the thawing freezer. Downtown was nearly abandoned, so they got a copy of the paper to themselves.

  The headline screamed, “SNEAK ATTACK!” The Riel had broken the sixty-year-old peace accord without warning, swarming out from the Drift and taking the United Forces by surprise. A counterattack hadn’t been organized until the early morning.

  The Great General declared the situation dire, but under control. The Riel had retreated, and the UF was on high alert. Civilians were urged to remain near shelters and to conserve water and food, particularly canned and dry goods.

  The rest of the paper was just pictures of Genesia City, which had been pounded throughout the night. One photo showed a toppling high-rise; another was of a fire that ran for blocks and blocks. In the middle was a foldout of the skyline, taken at first light. It looked like a collection of shattered bottles. Peter had never been to Genesia City, but the image shocked him: the capital of his planet was on fire.

  “What are we going to do?” Amber asked. Peter had no answer, so he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close.

  “It’s war now,” Chad McGuffin said, appearing over the far seat. He was a sturdy kid, muscular, but with a soft layer of fat that would win out in a few short years. His sole hobby was brawling, but in the presence of adults, he had to settle for just being an ass. “See if it’s not,” Chad continued, his S’s whistling through a missing tooth. “I always knew those bastards would pull something like this. They only signed that accord so they could catch us jerking off.”

  Peter felt his blood rise—he didn’t like McGuffin, and he didn’t like him talking like that in front of Amber—
but he let it go.

  “I expect that you’re right,” he said dismissively, easing Amber from the seat. “Let’s get you home,” he said. She nodded, giving him her bravest smile.

  — — —

  As much as he had admired it through the window, Peter was petrified the first time he faced black space through an open door. His platoon had shuttled out to the middle of nowhere for its first space walk, and while the other men had filed out in an orderly manner, Peter couldn’t even rise from his seat. His hand clamped so tight that the bench was molded to his glove.

  Mickelson insulted him for a few minutes, then fell silent, standing by the open hatchway—the door to nothing. Peter worried what came next and kept his eyes on the floor in the hope that Mickelson would just give up on him. But the sergeant walked over. Even without air, and therefore no sound, Peter felt the weight of each approaching step.

  “There’s no going back,” Mickelson said, his voice surprisingly soft. “You do realize that, don’t you? You enlisted for two years. You will serve, and I will find some use for you. If you won’t jump out of ships or shoot at Riels, I’ll toss you out just to draw the fire away from those who will. A big guy like you will make a fine decoy.”

  Mickelson tapped his foot. Peter watched the floor.

  “But you know what?” he continued. “I’d rather have a marine. I’d rather see you go leaping out of that hole shooting, killing as many of those sons of bitches as you can. Doesn’t that sound better? To get out there and fight, instead of just floating around getting shot at?”

  Peter remained frozen. In spite of Mickelson’s reassuring tone, dread filled his stomach, thick and cold.

  “Doesn’t it?” Mickelson prodded.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do for you. I’m gonna toss you out that hatch and we’ll just see what happens.”

  Peter objected, but his suit moved on its own—Mickelson had taken control of it by remote. Peter’s own muscles were no match for the artificial ones. The suit slowly stood up as he flailed inside. Mickelson hefted him onto his shoulder and walked to the hatch.

  “You might hate me for this,” he said, “but I hope not. You seem smart enough to see that this is for your own good.” Mickelson might have said more, but Peter couldn’t hear over his own screaming.

  The sergeant cocked him like a spear and flung him into the dark.

  — — —

  The Riel didn’t reappear after their initial attack. The United Forces sent scoutships into the Drift but found no trace of them. Down on Genesia, power was restored and the videos were flooded with news of the attack, which had occurred on all planets simultaneously. The Council of the Livable Territories voted unanimously to declare war on the Riel, which seemed a little redundant. Two days later the Marine Corps set up a recruiting table in front of the general store.

  It was late morning when Peter walked into town. The sun was bright and the road dusty, and the line to enlist ran down the street. All of the upperclassmen from school were there, along with every other man who considered himself fit to serve.

  It wasn’t uncommon for the town and countryside to gather together on Election Day or for the Harvest Festival, but this was different. The war had aligned people as never before. Men moved freely along the line, talking and laughing with anyone whose name they knew. A new club had formed, and the only criterion was that you were human. Even Chad McGuffin got some laughs, making lame cracks about “Riel sandwiches.” And Peter surprised himself by laughing as hard as anyone. It felt good just to be standing there, to be part of the excitement.

  Two Marine Corps recruiters worked the table, interviewing one man at a time. As each man was accepted, the taller recruiter stood and called out his name, raising a cheer from the crowd. Men hung around after they had enlisted, not wanting to miss any of it.

  As intoxicating as it was, Peter grew anxious. The word had spread and spectators were arriving. It wouldn’t be long before the whole town was there—including Amber.

  It had taken all night to convince her not only that his enlisting was a moral obligation but also that his salary could buy them a future. And then he still had to talk her out of coming along. He’d told her she would find it upsetting, but the truth was, he just didn’t want her there. He didn’t want the other guys to think he had to bring his girlfriend along.

  Amber finally consented, and they made plans to meet for lunch afterward. But it was nearly lunchtime, and the line had barely moved. He knew Amber would grow impatient and come find him.

  The crowd broke into laughter. Peter looked up as Charlie Davis’s father—who was also named Charlie—drove his truck right up to the line, got out, and dragged his son out of place by his ear. Young Charlie was only fifteen but had sneaked out of the house to come down anyway. The two argued, the younger stating that only the recruiters could decide about his age. “You don’t even shave yet,” the older Charlie snapped.

  Peter self-consciously stroked at the soft fuzz on his own chin.

  — — —

  “We’ve been using tachyon technology to drive our spaceships for centuries,” the armorer said, “but never once did we even consider using it as a weapon. In fact, we thought it was harmless.”

  Peter’s platoon had been in Basic for a month now. The men were comfortable enough with their combat suits, Mickelson decided, to begin weapons training. And so they reported to the armorer, a short, thick man whose only visible hair was a white gull-wing moustache. He wore a suit but no helmet, and his bald head looked tiny atop the thick ceramic shell. Behind him a table was covered with a variety of impulsors, the tachyon-based weaponry that made up the Marine Corps arsenal.

  The armorer drew his sidearm and dialed it up to its highest setting; then he pointed it at his bare hand and fired. It made a faint hum, but did nothing.

  “Doesn’t even tickle,” he said. “But if I do this…”

  The armorer lobbed a baseball-size rock over his audience and shot it in midair. The rock exploded, spraying through the room. Peter covered his face as fragments rattled off his suit.

  “Quite a different effect,” the armorer beamed, pleased by the men’s reaction to his prank. “The pulse waves of the tachyon beam pass harmlessly through many elements—especially those with low boiling points, like what’s in our bodies. I can only imagine the Riel’s surprise when they discovered that we were impervious to their tachyon-based guns.

  “Unfortunately, the opposite is also true. The Riel are evolved of harsh conditions and can live comfortably in freezing space, exposed to intense radiation and microscopic meteorites that travel fast enough to drill through steel. As a result, their hides are so tough that our bullets bounce off and our rockets are nothing but an irritation.

  “Of course, it didn’t take long for both sides to figure out the score. I find it one of this war’s great ironies that the weapons used by both sides are the very ones each had developed to use against their own kind.”

  — — —

  Peter was abandoned in space for almost twenty-four hours, his combat suit locked as tight as an iron maiden. Mickelson had led the rest of the platoon through their maneuvers, loaded them into the shuttle, and left without a word. Peter’s fear had turned to anger, and as time wore on, to despair.

  “How do you feel, recruit?” Mickelson said over a closed channel. Peter felt a flood of relief.

  “Better,” he replied.

  “Better?” the sergeant barked.

  “Better, sir.”

  “You get any shut-eye?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Right,” Mickelson said. Peter’s suit relaxed as his artificial muscles returned to his control. He stretched, his own muscles bruised and stiff, and looked around. The sky was empty in all directions; he was comp
letely alone. “Next time you’ll have muscle relaxers,” the sergeant continued. “I hadn’t figured you’d be out here so long.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But as long as you are out here, you might as well learn how to use your rocket pack. I’m uploading some coordinates to your computer. Let’s say…seventeen. You get yourself to each of them, and then I’ll come pick you up. Sound good?”

  “Yes, sir,” Peter said, though nothing he could think of sounded worse.

  “I don’t expect you’ll use more than half your fuel.”

  “Yes, sir,” Peter repeated, and then added, “Sir?”

  “Yes?” Mickelson snapped.

  “I wanted to…to thank you, sir. For helping me.”

  “Carry on, recruit,” Mickelson said gruffly.

  — — —

  Amber arrived at the town square just before one in the afternoon. The line to the recruiting table had grown sedate, the men’s enthusiasm withered by the harsh sun.

  She walked down the line swinging a small paper bag, pausing to chat with the boys she knew, who obliged her with smiles and jokes. Then she saw Peter and stopped. For a second, it seemed like she was going to cry, but her face grew hard. She tossed the bag at him and walked away.

  Peter started after her, but she ignored him. He wanted to chase her, but anything he said now would only make it worse. He watched her go and returned to his place in line.

  The crowd, which had fallen silent, burst into nervous chatter. Someone picked the paper bag off the ground, dusted it, and handed it to Peter. Inside were a sandwich and a note, “For my brave soldier.”

  — — —

  “The general infantry rifle is, as the name implies, an all-purpose weapon.” The armorer held a gun that, at a glance, could have been any rifle ever carried by a marine in the history of warfare. The basic design hadn’t changed because neither had the men who used them. What had changed, however, was the technology inside. This gun fired tachyon rays instead of bullets; a two-inch glass lens capped its barrel.