The Drift Wars

by James, Brett

  Peter pressed a hand to his chest, where, beneath the combat suit’s hard shell, hung a locket of soft, brown hair. My dearest Amber, he thought. If you ever pray for me, pray for me tonight.

  Saul floated over and took Peter’s arm. The platoon locked together, hands grabbing elbows, forming a ring. All were quiet. Each man soberly watched his visor and waited for the order to move out.

  — — —

  Somewhere deep inside the Teisserenc Asteroid Belt was a Riel base. Where exactly, or even how large, nobody knew, but the mission was to find and neutralize it. Even if everything went according to plan, Peter would never lay eyes on that base. His regiment, along with a half-dozen others, was running a diversion far from the core assault.

  There would still be plenty of action. Several outposts had been scouted in this area, each protected on all approaches by missile turrets. Peter’s platoon would either take out the turrets, allowing for a naval assault, or they would attack the outposts directly. They had trained for both, but would only now find out which. Either way, there were a lot more Riel in this area than they could hope to handle. Their orders were simply to fight until called off. Or, the unspoken alternative: until they were all dead.

  Back on the base, Colonel Chiang San had called this battle “risky.” “Don’t think of yourself as men or marines,” he had said, “but as the last line of defense for the Livable Territories. Any man who gives his life today does so to secure the freedom of his homeworld.”

  Peter wasn’t impressed. He had no desire to die for his homeworld or for the entire Livable Territories. But if he had to, he’d do it for her. For Amber.

  — — —

  A fleet of missiles trailed far behind the marine invasion force. It had followed them here from the base and had taken up position just beyond the reach of the Riel sensors. Most were armed with warheads to strike as critical targets were identified, but a few—like the one approaching—carried a more specialized payload.

  It wasn’t visible until it passed overhead in a great gray shadow. And then it was gone, the blazing ring of its impulsor engine shrinking away. The engine flared out, replaced by twelve smaller ones as the missile broke into sections, each heading in a different direction. Those sections divided again, spreading like intricate fireworks, and the smallest ones exploded, scattering silvered marbles. These were sensor pods. They flooded the area with frequency-coded radar waves, indicating time and place of origin, which allowed the marine’s combat suits to interpret their signals directly. While the suits had their own sensors, using them would be like wearing a neon target.

  The battle computer merged the gathered information into a single picture, and a green-mesh diagram of the asteroids drew out on Peter’s visor. This overlay, called his scope, blended with what little he could see and, when he focused on something, gave him information about its size, distance, and composition. Peter zoomed his scope all the way out to get a view of the battlefield.

  The Teisserenc Belt stretched out for thousands of miles, like a massive stone wall with the mortar removed. It was so calm, so beautiful. Peter didn’t want to spoil the view by thinking about how many Riel were hiding in there.

  — — —

  Orienting in the three dimensions of space was far more complex than doing so on the ground, and Peter was still fumbling into position when Mickelson gave the order to move out. Their first target was a missile turret a few thousand yards inside the belt, which was close enough, Mickelson decided, to burn gas. It was a calculated risk: their fuel was limited, like their oxygen and batteries, and once they ran out, they would be stuck.

  Mickelson fired his rocket pack and flew ahead, diving below the asteroid that had been their cover. The platoon fell into a double-V formation, like the twin blades of a broadhead arrow. The other men readied their rifles, but Peter had to settle for his pistol.

  They weaved through the asteroids, which were invisible beyond the green outlines on Peter’s scope. The occasional flash of distant rocket fire echoed through the rocks, but it became less frequent as the platoon moved deeper into the belt, away from the battle and into the eerie stillness beyond.

  Mickelson called for helmet lights, and a bloodred asteroid leaped from the dark. The marines banked, their formation flattening as they skimmed along the rock face, heading toward a small cave. The cave walls were smooth, machine-made. The men formed up around the rim, as if protecting it, and Mickelson motioned Peter inside.

  “You’re up, Garvey,” Mickelson barked. Snipers were rarely useful in the close quarters of an asteroid belt, so Peter had drawn double-duty as the explosives team. He eased himself to the edge and, pistol first, peered in.

  His helmet light reflected off something large and flat ten yards down: a crystal shield that blocked the way. Something moved on the far side, but Peter couldn’t tell what.

  He took a deep breath, grabbed the rim, and flung himself down.

  — — —

  Peter aimed his pistol forward as he descended, his hand clenching the grip. The glare from his helmet light was blinding, so he switched to a smaller one mounted on his wrist, holding it wide to reduce the reflection.

  The pistol clinked against the shield, and Peter brought his face to it. A cross-hatched electronic eye, mounted on a missile turret, stared back at him. It was flocked with a dozen missiles, each as large as his arm, all of which were aimed at him. Peter started, pushing himself back, his heart pounding.

  “Hop to!” Mickelson shouted over the comm. Peter lurched at the sound, knocking against the crystal.

  I’m wasting time, Peter thought. Back on the surface, his platoon was exposed to attack.

  He slipped an explosive from his belt—putty packed into a shallow metal bowl, which focused the blast. He peeled the plastic film from the flat side, pressed it to the shield, then twisted it to set the adhesive. He placed another bomb in the opposite corner and, for luck, a third one in between. Sweat trickled through his eyebrows, but he had no way to wipe it.

  Underneath the crystal, the turret tracked Peter’s movements, keeping its missiles aimed at his head. But the shield remained closed; the turret felt that either the crystal would protect it or that reinforcements were on the way. Peter suspected the latter.

  Peter armed the explosives and the countdown started on his visor: three minutes. Plenty of time, but no reason to waste it. He flipped around, banging against the tight cave walls, then shoved off the crystal’s surface, leaping away. He rose through the cave, reaching the top just as the onslaught began.

  — — —

  Flaming tracers zipped by Peter’s head. They would be mixed with more deadly rounds that were invisible in the dark. Something rattled against his helmet, but it was only rock fragments that had chipped from the asteroid behind him.

  A half-dozen machine guns twinkled in the distance, the Riel behind them hidden by the bright muzzle flash. Peter’s blood ran warm as his suit injected him with Battle Heat.

  Heat was a volatile drug, its use limited to the most desperate of combat situations. Peter had never felt it before, but knew it by the warmth and by his swelling muscles. His mind sharpened and his thinking cleared. He could see now just how frail the enemy was, how outnumbered—their weapons were inconsequential. Killing them would be easy.

  He charged forward with a quick burst of his rocket pack, diving straight at the machine guns. He raised his pistol and clicked the trigger. His gun had no flash or kickback. The only indication that it worked was a red light blinking on the back. The machine guns hammered Peter, bullets glancing harmlessly off the sharp angles of his suit’s shoulders and helmet. Then his arm caught a solid hit, knocking it back.

  Peter had no way to tell if the bullet had penetrated. If it had, his combat suit would instantly anesthetize the wound, and his artificial musc
les would compensate for any damage to his flesh. In case of an air leak, the suit would seal his arm off from his body, leaving it to fend for itself against the freezing vacuum of space.

  — — —

  The Gyrine appeared behind a blazing machine gun. It was naked, its tough body as comfortable in rancorous space as on any planet—more so perhaps, since the creature drank oxygen instead of breathing it. From the chest down, its right half was completely robotic. Its arm ended with a multi-barreled minigun, which spit a continuous stream of bullets.

  Peter’s confidence wavered. The creature was enormous, its machinery powerful. But then the warmth in his blood grew to fire. He aimed at the creature’s head, holding the trigger until the battery ran dry.

  There was no impact from the shot; the Gyrine’s skull simply dissolved, its head melting to a jiggling sack. Peter had never killed anything before. He stared, transfixed.

  Bullets strafed his feet. Peter shoved a fresh battery clip into his pistol and spun, but the battle was over. Four marines stood nearby—the survivors—while eight others floated lifelessly in space, forming a trail that led back to the asteroid.

  Saul flew up to Peter, thumbs up, waving at the dead Gyrines. Their bodies were drained, their robotics warped and twisted. Peter returned the gesture, trying to be enthusiastic, but the Heat had dissipated and with it his confidence.

  Two men for every Gyrine, Peter thought, counting the corpses. Mickelson had told them they’d be lucky to see that ratio. So they had been lucky, but Mickelson had not. Their sergeant’s body floated among the dead.

  — — —

  A red light blinked in Peter’s visor, reminding him that the charges he had set would explode in less than a minute. It wasn’t much time to clear the blast radius. He checked the gas level in his rocket pack; he’d be lucky to get a three-second burn. It wasn’t enough. The only asteroid in that range was the one they needed to escape.

  Peter searched his map for options and found none. The battle computer suggested a route off to the right, drawing a blue line on his map, but Peter knew it wouldn’t work. While they might clear the initial explosion, shattering a crystal shield would require tremendous force; the resulting shockwave would reflect several times with deadly power, catching them squarely. So either the computer had made an error or was simply offering false hope in lieu of none at all.

  The other men had already started along the computer’s route when Peter squeaked, “Stop,” his voice cracking.

  Peter reddened as the other men turned to him, but he couldn’t take it back now. Seconds were ticking away.

  “This way,” he said, pointing back to the missile turret. “The asteroid is too big to explode, so we can take cover on the other side.”

  The men looked at one another, unsure. They had all seen the flaw in the computer’s plan, but in Mickelson’s absence, the computer was the authority.

  “You’re sure?” Saul asked.

  “No,” Peter said, but he didn’t back down.

  Saul chewed on it. “Better idea than what Command had,” he said, considering. Then he nodded, waving Peter ahead.

  Peter took a deep breath and fired his rocket pack, leading the men straight at the explosives.

  — — —

  Peter used his stabilizers to flip around, approaching the asteroid feet-first. He banked, skimming over the surface, the rock passing inches from his face. He was heading toward the edge of the asteroid where, according to his scope, the rock tapered to a thin wall that would offer cover. His plan was to swing around behind it, somehow.

  The explosive’s timer fell to ten seconds as his feet passed the bottom of the asteroid. He dragged his hands along the surface, feeling for anything large enough to grab.

  When the counter hit five, he was halfway below the edge. He clawed at the rock, his fingers slipping on its smooth surface. The bottom rose to his chin, then slipped away. Beyond was nothing but empty space.

  He stretched his arm up, grasping for the very tip of the rock, but it was too thick. His hand wasn’t wide enough to get a grip. The asteroid climbed out of reach, floating away. The counter dropped: Three.

  Two.

  One.

  Something slapped into Peter’s hand; his fingers closed automatically. By sheer luck, he caught a spur at the edge of the asteroid. He tightened his grip, kicked his legs, and swung behind the rock.

  A flaming geyser shot from the cave. The asteroid trembled and the rock in Peter’s hand broke free. He was adrift but safe. The shockwave passed, tickling his feet.

  — — —

  The other marines swung behind the asteroid right behind Peter, each with better form. Three made it, but the last, Alan DeGrazzio, wasn’t fast enough. The shockwave—a haze of gas and microscopic particles—struck him full on. He was pressed flat as a door, and then his suit sprang back into shape, filled with the paste of what had just been a man.

  The remaining four men watched him float away, his visor tinted red. One by one they turned away.

  — — —

  Peter’s map was a complete blank; the explosion had knocked out all the sensor pods in their area. Blind beyond the range of his headlamp, he turned in a circle, guessing what to do next. Then a blue light blinked in his visor. He was being hailed.

  “Sergeant Peter Garvey,” Colonel Chiang San said, his projection appearing in space, as if standing beside him. “Promotion effective now. Sending you coordinates for a nearby Riel outpost. Battle is in progress. Get over there and take charge.”

  The projection dissipated, leaving Peter so dumbfounded that he didn’t see the approaching asteroid until it hit him in the face.

  — — —

  Peter was knocked into a backward spin, scrambling his sense of direction. He tried to orient himself using the headlamps of the other marines, but Saul was shouting frantically, making it hard to concentrate. Peter had never heard the big man panic before. It was alarming.

  A second asteroid pressed against his back, shoving him toward the first. The two rocks were on a collision course, and Peter was in the middle. The math part of his brain figured that the explosion had blown the asteroid backward, hurling it—and him—into the other. The rest of his brain didn’t care; it just wanted out.

  Somewhere in Saul’s garbled shouting, Peter caught the word “legs.” He curled his legs up just as the two asteroids connected with shearing force. The rear asteroid slammed his head into the other, scratching thick white lines down his visor.

  The remaining gap between the two asteroids was a V-shaped canyon that narrowed as the two rocks rotated toward each other. The other men were already scurrying up the rock, heading for the opening at the top.

  — — —

  The asteroid was rich in iron, providing traction for the magnets in Peter’s boots. He climbed along a crystalline vein, gripping its rough surface with the rubber pads on his fingertips.

  He was halfway up when the asteroid jolted backward. He hugged the rock to keep from being thrown and looked up just as Donaldson crashed into his visor. Peter was knocked back. He lost his grip and went spinning into the chasm. Below him, Donaldson disappeared into a cloud of rock dust; the two asteroids were pulverizing each other and everything in between. Peter would be next.

  He gouged at the rock but found no purchase. The walls tightened, the rust-colored dust engulfed him, and then, suddenly, he wrenched to stop.

  “Gotcha,” Ramirez said. He was dangling in the air, holding Peter by his oxygen tank. At first it looked like Ramirez was floating, but then Peter saw a green line on his visor. The micro-cord, a carbon weave only a few dozen molecules thick, was invisible to the naked eye but coded for his suit to detect. The line ran up to Saul, at the top of the canyon. The big man tugged, and Peter and Ramirez flew upward.

  Halfw
ay there, Ramirez’s chest plate got caught in the shrinking gap and jerked him to a stop. Peter reached the top and Saul caught him, palming his helmet in one giant hand. He set Peter down and heaved on the microcord.

  Twenty feet down, Ramirez was sandwiched between the tightening asteroids. Saul yanked him free, but the rocks closed, catching him a few feet later.

  “Give me a hand,” Saul said, panting.

  Peter took the end of the cable and pulled, his artificial muscles whining. Ramirez finally came loose, shooting up. He was nearly out when his foot got stuck. Saul and Peter pulled on his arms, but his metal boot was wedged tight, bending under the press of the walls.

  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.