The Drift Wars

by James, Brett

  “I’m sure. Good to be out of our suits, no matter what the reason. Nice just to pee in a toilet.”

  “Yeah,” Peter said. He didn’t want to talk about it. He pointed at the terminal. “What is that?”

  “Battle simulator,” Saul said.

  “Really?” Peter leaned in for a better look.

  “Yeah,” Saul said. “Lets me play general in some of the hardest battles in the war.” He tried to make room for Peter, but as was usually the case with Saul, there wasn’t much room left.

  The big man leaned back, scratching a toothbrush on the metal interface port installed just below his ear. The men all had neural webs stitched into their skulls on the very first day of Basic, and the port connected magnetically to the collar in their combat suits, giving them direct mental control. It was much faster than buttons or joysticks, but you were screwed if the connection went bad, so cleaning their contacts was basic hygiene.

  “It’s called the Sim Test,” Saul said. “You ever wanna be a colonel, this is how. When a promotion opens up, it goes to whoever has the most wins. You’d pick up on these important facts if you weren’t off getting private flying lessons.”

  Peter tried to imagine Saul as colonel, barking orders with a six-pack under his arm. “How does it work?” he asked.

  “Just like on our visor maps. You’re the blue guys, and the Riel are red. You can’t see the Riel to start with, so you send out scouts and sensor pods. Each Riel has a different symbol. These are Gyrines and this is a missile turret, and that big X over there is a Typhon. You move your men by dragging a finger across the screen. Tap to assign a target and the battle computer handles the details.”

  Saul demonstrated, flicking his hand over five blue dots and sending them toward the Typhon, where they blinked and disappeared. Peter frowned.

  “That’s all there is to it?”

  “It takes practice,” Saul said defensively. “You’ve got to give it some strategy.”

  “Show me,” Peter said, pulling up a chair.

  Saul scanned the map. “This is a cluster of four Gyrines,” he said. “So I’ll start by firing a few missiles at them to soften them up. Then I’ll send in these two platoons, plus this one from over there. Hit them from two directions.” He moved his hands over the monitor, putting his words into action.

  “It won’t work,” Peter said.

  “You a sudden expert?”

  “No, but look at that rocket battery. It’ll pick off your missiles. And this platoon here, their heavy weaponry has laser sweeps. Those are useless against Gyrines.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Saul assured him. “It’s ten-to-one. I’ve got them completely outnumbered.”

  The two men watched the blue dots move across the screen. The missiles disappeared as they passed the rocket turret and the platoons. They reached the target at different times and blinked out as quickly as they arrived. Peter fought back a smile as Saul punched the terminal off.

  “This thing is stupid,” Saul said.

  “If you two generals are done playing,” Mickelson said, appearing behind them, “then I’ll remind you that your first high-atmosphere jump is less than six hours away. Assuming this time everyone has a good hold on his breakfast.”

  “Yes, sir,” Peter and Saul said in unison, rising and saluting. Mickelson walked off, muttering and shaking his head.

  — — —

  “There are scientists who postulate that the two species of the Riel are simply the two sexes of a single race,” Mickelson said. “If that’s so, then my money’s on this one for the female.”

  The projection beside the sergeant was so large that, were it real, they’d have to cut a hole in the roof of the four-story lecture hall just so it could stand up.

  The creature had two distinct parts. The bottom was like a mechanical spider, with each of its six legs broken into four joints, and each of these joints larger than a man. Capping the legs was a round metal plate, above which the colossus became flesh—a monstrous Lucifer, with red skin over rippled muscle.

  Two god-thick arms swung to the ground, with human-shaped hands, yard-long fingers, and shovelhead fingernails. High at the top loomed a bearded, triangular face, with horns jutting from the forehead. Its eyes were golden yellow, the edges curving up like a screaming mouth. It was the most horrible thing Peter had ever seen, in life or in nightmare. It was a Typhon.

  “Whenever I look at this thing,” Mickelson continued, “I can’t help but wonder if one of them didn’t happen upon the original homeworld, back when men were jotting down the great book. But Satan himself was never so evil—and probably a hell of lot easier to kill. I figure that if just one of these had shown up back in biblical times, there’d be nothing left of the human race but a well-chewed pile of bones.

  “As terrifying as it looks, there’s more to this thing than size. There are motorized turrets at the top of each leg, mounted with either a rocket launcher or a ninety-three-millimeter recoiler, which is strong enough to shoot clean through your average naval destroyer. And it’ll have any number of armaments mounted on that plate up there, where the monster meets the machine. Sometimes, just to mix it up, it’ll strap a few missiles on its back or carry a Delta-class heavy impulse blaster around like it was a rifle.

  “In other words,” Mickelson concluded, “the Typhon is a walking fortress. Nothing in your armory will even tickle it. If you happen upon one of these in the battlefield, the best you can hope for is that your last will and testament is in good order.”

  — — —

  The sun dropped behind the distant hills, purpling the sky and raising a cool wind. Peter cupped Amber as they lay facing the sunset. She had been sleeping, but now stirred, rolling her head toward him.

  “You have your knife?” she asked.

  Peter reached for his pants and dug out a bone-handled pocketknife. She combed her fingers through her hair, separating out a pencil-thick clump. “Hold this,” she said. He pulled it taut as she sliced off the last few inches. Then she grabbed her dress and pulled out a well-worn gold locket.

  “I brought this just in case,” she said sheepishly. “It belonged to Mimi.” Amber curled the hair into the locket and snapped it shut. “For you,” she said. “So I’ll always be there with you.”

  They sat up and faced each other. Amber slid her arms around his neck and fixed the clasp behind him. Peter pulled her close, her bare skin warm and soft. She hugged back, hard, and then pushed loose.

  “We have to go,” she said, standing up and motioning for him to do the same. His lust slaked, Peter admired her coolly. The gentle curves of her white body and the soft definition of her legs and stomach. A wisp of hair trickled up her belly, and full breasts pillowed to her ribs, tapering to light pink. She was perfect. They dressed in silence and began the long walk home.

  The next morning was overcast. Amber borrowed her father’s pickup and drove Peter to Bentings Naval Base, which was no more than a half-dozen small buildings with a fenced-in landing pad. A rocketship was parked on the pad, a dull-gray bullet with stubby wings. It was visible for miles over the empty farmland and, as they approached, seemed to scrape the sky.

  “Is that your ship?” Amber asked, wide-eyed.

  “That’s just a shuttle,” Peter replied, trying not to be impressed. “The transitship’s up in orbit.”

  Cars were backed up for a half mile. When they finally reached the base, Amber pulled up to the curb and threw the truck in park. She turned to Peter and took his hands in hers.

  “Promise me…” she started.

  “I’ll be careful.”

  Amber seemed to want to say more, but instead she just threw her arms around him, kissing him all over his head and ending at his mouth. They were interrupted by a knock on the roof. A man in fatigues walked by, swinging a riding crop
. “Kiss and go,” he called to no one in particular. “Kiss and go.”

  Peter pulled away, their lips separating like warm glue. He slid backward from the truck, keeping his eyes locked with Amber’s, then turned away. A man at the gate checked his name and waved him to the shuttle. He climbed the metal steps to the hatch, then stopped to look back.

  Amber was still at the curb, watching through the dog-wire fence. She made herself smile, and Peter, feeling his throat tighten, turned and rushed inside.

  — — —

  Military graduation ceremonies are for the generals. After five months of the hell that is Basic, the last thing any marine wants is to stand at attention in full dress for an hour while an old man rambles on about honor and valor.

  When the general—whose name Peter had forgotten—ran out of things to say, all two hundred thousand marines of the freshly christened Digamma San Division hefted their duffels in unison and marched through massive hangar doors to the launch pad.

  The men were shuttled up to the transitship a few hundred at a time. Peter’s platoon was late on the list, so the men spent the afternoon lounging on the grassy parade field. It was the first free time since arriving at the orbital, and no one knew what to do with it. They didn’t even have a deck of cards.

  The shuttle ride took an hour, after which they joined a long line of marines in the transitship’s cavernous landing bay, waiting to be loaded into cryo chambers. It was a long journey—the UF base was deep inside the Drift—so they would be frozen to conserve resources. Passing through the Drift boundary was hard on the human body, killing one in ten men and injuring the rest. Being frozen somehow protected them. Peter didn’t understand the explanation, but he was used to that by now.

  When he reached the front of the line, Peter stripped naked and stuffed his clothes into his duffle, which he tossed onto a nearby cart. Then he lay in his assigned chamber, flinching as his skin touched the cold vinyl. Unsure what came next, he crossed his arms as if in a casket.

  A silver-haired med tech appeared. She smiled down at him, then apologized that he couldn’t keep his locket inside. Peter unclasped it and handed it out. She slipped it into her pocket and assured him that she would put it in his duffle. Then she jammed an IV needle into his wrist and attached a bag of greenish fluid. She checked that it was flowing, hung it inside, and closed the lid. The chamber was dark but for a blue indicator light by his head.

  The chamber moved, rolling into the ship’s cargo hold. Peter wondered whether he would be filed alphabetically or by his platoon’s ident-code, but he forgot the question before he could decide. He took a deep breath and released it as the blue light faded away.

  [14.08.2.21::3948.1938.834.2D]

  Peter blinked, squinting as the white light clicked on. He lay on a bed, a nurse in a green surgical mask working on the monitor over his head. But there was something else, something that had happened in between. He searched his memory, but it only made his head ache. He tried to rub it, but his arm was strapped down.

  “Don’t rush,” the nurse said sternly. “You’re still quite cold.”

  She unstrapped his arm and raised it, injecting him with oily liquid. The warm fluid trickled in, spreading through his body. The nurse turned back to the monitor, nodded, then walked to the top of the bed. She tugged at his head as if pulling his hair out a strand at a time. Each tug was followed by a metallic ping. She hummed, but Peter didn’t know the tune.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  “Linda,” she said, tapping the tag on her jacket. It read Linda 75.

  “Seventy-five?”

  “The room number.” She motioned to the door, which had a large 75 painted on it.

  “They worry you’ll get lost?”

  Linda laughed, surprisingly warm. “More worried that they’ll lose me. This is a big place, you know.”

  “Not yet,” Peter said.

  “Of course not,” Linda said, frowning. “You only just got here.” She moved back beside him, wiping her hands and inspecting the monitor.

  “Only just,” he tried. “But I’m in for the long haul.”

  “Squeeze this, kid,” Linda said curtly, offering him a foam ball. “It’ll speed up the resuscitation process.”

  Peter reached for the ball but stopped, feeling the heat radiating off her hand. He touched her skin warily, curious. Linda took his hand and pressed the ball into it.

  “Pump,” she ordered. She let go, grabbed a steel tray at the head of the bed, and walked to a sink on the far side of the room. She dumped the tray; Peter saw a flash of red as its contents clanked into the basin.

  “Boys,” she muttered, spraying water around the sink.

  Peter pumped the foam ball and watched Linda work. She looked to be about ten years older than him, which put her in her late twenties. But her movements were slow and deliberate, like those of someone much older.

  — — —

  Linda finished cleaning and sat at a desk across the room, her back to Peter. She stared at the wall for a few moments, then pulled a stack of worn papers from the side drawer. She flipped through them, selected one, and began to scribble.

  The scratching of Linda’s pen and the wheezing of Peter’s foam ball filled the next two hours; then a chime sounded overhead. Linda put the papers away and walked back to Peter.

  “Hear that?” she asked, unstrapping him. “You’ve only just arrived and already they put you to work.”

  Linda pressed a button and electric motors whirled, folding the bed into a seat. Peter saw that he’d been laying on a steel table, with runnels like a cutting board, leading to drain holes in each corner. Water trickled down his back as the bed angled up.

  Linda felt Peter’s forehead, then pulled back his eyelids and peered in.

  “Looks good,” she said. She offered her hands; they were so small that they disappeared inside his own. They were no longer hot, only warm. “Gently,” she said, leaning back and pulling him to his feet. He towered over her.

  “Lift your left foot and rotate it,” she ordered. “Good. Now the other.” She watched him, nodding. “You’re good to go.”

  Peter stared down at Linda, trying to see the face behind the mask. She had wide cheekbones and a long nose that raised her mask like a tentpole. She cleared her throat and shook her hands—she had let go, but he was still holding on.

  “Sorry,” he said, blushing, letting them drop. “Which way to…?”

  “Through the door,” Linda said. “Just follow the arrows. And don’t forget that.” She pointed to his duffel, which lay beside the bed. Peter suddenly realized that he was completely naked. He lurched for the bag and held it over his crotch.

  “Thanks,” he said, backing out the door.

  “Just doing my job, kid,” she said, amused. She reached for her mask, but the door closed before it came off.

  — — —

  The hallway was long and wide, with freestanding steel walls that opened to the base’s vaulted ceiling. Men shuffled like zombies, knocking mindlessly into Peter. He stepped to the side, pulled on his clothing, and joined the flow.

  The roof arced upward as he moved toward the center, fading into the heights. The base looked large enough to swallow the Training Orbital a dozen times over.

  Corridors appeared on either side of the hall, and men split off, thinning the crowd. Peter found one labeled with his division, Digamma San. It was lined with doors. Halfway down, he found his platoon’s ident-code, DS-52.

  The door opened to a small dormitory with twelve tightly packed bunks. Peter was the last to arrive; the rest of the platoon was dressed and unpacking. Saul and Ramirez played cards at a small table in the middle.

  “Don’t be shy,” Mickelson said from behind Peter, urging him inside with a hand to the shoulder. Seeing thei
r sergeant, the men hopped to attention.

  “Form up,” Mickelson barked, and they snapped into a line. After five months of Basic, you could have trimmed the entire platoon’s nose hairs with one shot of a laser.

  Mickelson walked down the line, inspecting the men as if they were used cars. He had a slight limp that Peter had never before noticed. The sergeant gave each man a once- over and then put them all at ease.

  “I have some good news, gentlemen,” he said. “Command wanted to give you a warm welcome, so they’ve given us a priority mission. We move out at fourteen hundred, which is one hour from now. So skip the makeup and get your asses in your suits.”

  — — —

  “You heard about the third race?” Saul yelled. Peter could barely hear him over the rattling ship, which bucked and swerved as it sliced through the planet’s atmosphere.

  “No,” Peter said, taking it as the start of a joke. “What about the third race?”

  “I heard a rumor that there is one. Some new Riel that we haven’t seen before. Command intercepted an enemy transmission, but the video was too garbled to get a good look.”

  “Great,” Peter said. “We haven’t even seen the other two yet.”

  The ship banked hard, weaving, throwing the men around inside their suits. Peter had expected his first combat jump to be harder than any in Basic, but this was too much. In addition to the normal turmoil, they had been dodging enemy fire for the last ten minutes. He clutched his chest where Amber’s locket hung inside his suit. He was glad that she couldn’t see him now, as scared as he was.

  “Oh, crap,” Mickelson snarled over the open comm. He leaped to his feet and cupped his hands to his helmet as if covering his ears. “Incoming!” he yelled as the ship’s hull cracked open. Peter gazed up. The stars floated peacefully in a black pool; then a wall of fire ripped through the ship.

  [14.08.2.22::3948.1938.834.2D]

  The white light clicked on and Linda sat beside him, face hidden by a surgical mask. “Follow my finger,” she said, moving it around, her own eyes on the monitor. “I said follow it.” Peter did this time, not sure how she knew otherwise.