by James, Brett
“We did, but I didn’t see the report.”
The General nodded. “When you completed your survey two weeks later,” he said, twirling the system forward, “you were still seeing activity on this planet, but this one was silent. Is that correct?”
“That’s what I heard. I didn’t witness it myself.”
“Relax, sergeant. This isn’t a trial. My suspicion is that this planet has a small, isolated base, somewhere in here.” The General drew a circle onto the projected planet, his finger leaving a green mark. “And when we advance the clock to zero hour, these are the only two planets in the fourth-quadrant approach. More important, this one has created a blind spot on the other.” The General scrolled the planets around to demonstrate.
“My plan is to send the main invasion force through here, led by two naval destroyers. We’ll skip the less active planet—leave it for clean up—and send the destroyers straight for this one. What do you think?”
Peter inspected the map, nodding his head as if he understood. “That sounds very smart, sir.” he said.
The General glared at him. “I’m glad you approve,” he said. The other men laughed. “But I think we’ll do without your tactical advice. The question is, do you remember anything useful?”
“Yes, sir,” Peter said. He studied his boots, his face burning. “Of course, sir.” He caught the eye of another general, who frowned back.
“Well,” General Garvey prodded.
“I…” Peter’s mind raced. He looked from one planet to the other, unable to remember any of what the General had just told him. “I don’t think so, sir.”
The General gave Peter a hard look, then walked over, close.
“Colonel San has access to this,” he said gently. “Go over it again with him tonight.” Peter flinched as the General placed a hand on his shoulder. “And take your time, son. It’s important.”
Peter nodded and the General dismissed him. Peter took a walk to see what else he could remember about the Riel solar system. He knew every detail was important but that only made them harder to remember.
— — —
As hard as Peter had found the Sim Test, the battle computer was a level beyond. Everything moved twice as fast and there was a lot more to keep track of. Each blue dot was labeled with a string of numbers that were meant to tell him, at a glance, the platoon’s armament, mobility, and condition. But even after two weeks of practice, Peter still had to stop to work out the code. And with dozens of platoons on the table, there just wasn’t time.
Even more frustrating were the Riel markers, which were shaded in hues from translucent pink to solid red, depending the strength of the intel. Peter learned that any marker that was not bright red—indicating the enemy was being observed at that very moment—was extremely unreliable. The Riel moved quickly, especially on their home turf. And they were nearly impossible to track. More than once, Peter had sent his men to fight a single squad, only to find four more waiting.
Peter blundered through several hours of simulated battles every day, feeling worse for the practice. And so far he had managed only twenty platoons—a couple hundred men. A general managed a couple million.
— — —
On the eve of the battle, Chiang San led Peter to the conference room for their final briefing. Every colonel on the base was crowded into the room, along with the generals and their staffs. The naval officers, as usual, attended by video. Peter wondered if they were even allowed to leave their ships.
General Garvey entered to muted applause. The Riel universe appeared on the projector, and Garvey opened with an overview of the battle plan that Peter had watched develop over the previous weeks. The first objective was to get past the Riel bases, which they would soften up with atomics. The bases themselves would be unaffected—their deflectors were too strong—but any patrolling fighterships would be incinerated and the rest would be grounded. They’d nuke the bases for ten minutes, which was long enough, the general believed, to sneak the fleet past.
The General had ruled out trying to capture the bases but planned to leave behind a decent-size force to convince the Riel that they were his principal target. “The bases will give us a rough time,” he said, “but at least we know what to expect there. What lies beyond is entirely new territory.”
The projection scrolled to the Riel homeworld.
“We’ve never locked horns with the third race before, and we have precious little information about them. Perhaps they are weak—bonded or enslaved by the others—but I don’t think so. I believe the Threes are the master race, reigning over the others.
“When I consider the size of the enemy bases that protect this planet, and the ships that attacked our scouting mission, I see a homeworld of utmost importance. I see the center of the entire Riel kingdom.
“I said we could win the entire war tomorrow and I meant it, but it won’t be easy. We’ll be facing a massive force, and as with any dominant race, the Threes will have reserved the best technology for themselves. Our one advantage is surprise. We must knock the Riel off balance, scatter their defenses, and keep them scattered until we plant our flag in the rubble of their capital.
“Our assault will come in two waves. The first will use every marine we have—a full ninety-six divisions built and ready to go. The second wave is a duplicate of the first, printed and waiting in cold storage, to be resuscitated the moment the first wave is off base. The organization of both waves will be the same—platoons, regiments, and divisions all under the same chain of command unless I specifically order otherwise. This includes everyone in this room; so all second-wave officers will refrain from open-channel communication until the death of their first-wave counterpart. Myself and other noncombat officers will be replaced as necessary, per standard battle procedure.”
Next the General outlined the force deployments. The first wave would concentrate on the outlaying defenses with only two divisions targeting the homeworld—and those just to probe their defenses. If all went well, the entire second wave would head directly for the homeworld.
The briefing lasted two hours. Afterward the men filed into the Officer Resuscitation Center, which was far more refined than what the troops used. The hallways had frosted glass and nurses were stationed at every door. Now that they had their orders, their brains would be scanned. Each man could expect to be killed several times during the course of the battle, and with the exception of Peter, this moment would be the last they remembered when they awoke.
Colonel Chiang San guided Peter to a doorway and clapped him on the back. “See you in the morning,” he said with a wink.
The nurse waited for him inside. It was Linda, but she wore a mask over her face and a scrub hat pulled low on her head. Peter started to speak, but she looked away, motioning him to the bed. He lay down and she raised a long needle.
[20.74.9.72::1938.7493.738.8D]
Peter stood at the large bay window at the front of the commandship, watching the disk-shaped base slide underneath. He had forgotten how large it was, like a flattened steel moon.
He tried to distinguish the pie-shaped sections that Chiang San had described, but he saw no seams on the hull’s corrugated surface. Each section must be laid out sequentially, he decided, with the printing machines in the center, the resuscitation area next, and then the barracks and the docks.
But how do you get from one section to another? Peter wondered.
The ship angled up and accelerated, passing through the shield’s triangular gateway. The entire fleet waited outside, a dark mass like a black sun against the shimmering orange Drift boundary.
Peter remained at the window while the crew scurried about. He had no task or duty, and there was little chance he’d remember anything useful. Even the General seemed to realize this, relieving Chiang San from babysitting duty and giving
him a proper command.
Woven throughout the commandship’s cold efficiency was an air of suspense, perhaps even dread. They had towed the base to the very border of the Riel universe, which was necessary to rapidly deploy the second wave, but that put the entire United Forces at risk. A loss today meant losing the entire war. If General Garvey were telling the truth, the coming battle would be the most important in human history. But Peter couldn’t stop thinking about Linda.
She had barely spoken to him during the scan, and when he tried to apologize, she walked away. Not that it had been much of an apology—more of a boneheaded attempt at conversation. The man she loved had been killed, utterly destroyed, so that Peter could take his place. How could he apologize for that?
She must hate the sight of me, he thought.
“Strap in for the crossing, sergeant,” the captain said, appearing on a nearby monitor. Peter shook his thoughts away and joined the men on the floor, lying down and pulling straps over his body. He peered up at the window as thick steel shutters began to close. The asteroids rolled by outside like malformed dice, tossed by the boundary’s violent radiation. The shutters locked with a deep thrum, sealing out the light, and then the crossing began.
A wave of pain rolled over Peter, washing away all other thoughts.
— — —
Peter was alone on the floor when he woke. The generals were across the room, huddling over the Battle Map, and their staffs orbited around them. He tried to sit up but lacked the strength.
A man in a black uniform strode over and helped him to his feet. Peter was embarrassed, but it was the third time he’d crossed the Drift in this body.
“I let you sleep,” the man said in a hushed voice. “Still a few hours before the hammer drops.”
Peter nodded. He needed distraction, so he went to inspect the map.
There wasn’t much to see yet. The fleet was marked in faint blue—an estimated position, not their actual. The rest of the map was nearly blank. There were no charts of the Riel universe, and for stealth the commandship’s sensors were throttled to a few thousand miles—just enough to avoid a collision. The only other features were the three orange Riel bases and, off in the far corner, the blue homeworld.
The man who had helped Peter to his feet took up station behind him, his hands clasped behind his back like an aide. Or maybe his job was to make sure Peter didn’t bother anyone important. Peter himself wasn’t important. He was here only because General Garvey had once decided he might be useful. This had since been proved otherwise, but the General wasn’t going to admit that he was wrong.
All Peter wanted was for someone to hand him a gun and send him out to fight.
— — —
The battle started without a countdown, without a word. The General simply ran his hand over the map and it began. The room stood motionless, all eyes following the blue tracers racing across the map. The dots blinked when the atomics reached their target, then disappeared as they detonated.
That was the signal to drop radio silence. The battle computer connected to the other ships, receiving their actual positions, and the map flashed as every blue marker brightened at once. The fleet shifted into a narrow line, slipping past the besieged bases.
On the map the commandship was moving at high speed, keeping pace with the fleet, but there was no engine noise and no sense of motion. The inside of the ship was as staid as an underground bunker.
Red dots appeared. Just a few at first, but as the General scattered sensor pods, they popped up across the map, tightening around the UF fleet in a horseshoe formation. All the generals leaned in, their hands darting around and sending men to meet the enemy.
Peter stood on his toes, peering over shoulders, but the men were too fast—he couldn’t follow their actions, only see the results. Soldiers died by the thousands. The only sound was the electronic hum of the Battle Map.
After a minute of deafening silence, a brigadier said, “First-wave placement, ninety-five percent.” He was the youngest of the generals, and his forehead was beaded with sweat. General Garvey acknowledged him without looking up.
“Eden is in sight, sir,” the brigadier reported, using the code name for the Riel homeworld.
“Location?” the General asked.
“Exactly where we expected her.”
The General smiled—a twisted, disturbing smile—and looked straight at Peter. “Good job, sergeant,” he said.
Peter surprised himself by blushing. “Thank you, sir,” he replied, but the General had already turned back to the map.
“Give me an ETA on the second wave,” the General said, but his words were lost under a piercing alarm. Something exploded against the roof and ripped it open.
The escaping air sucked Peter up, slamming him into the ceiling. He struggled to breathe, but the suction was too strong. The alarm faded and became tinny as the air thinned. Below him General Garvey dangled from the Battle Map, holding on with one hand while the other moved calmly over its surface, issuing his last orders before the air ran out.
— — —
Linda’s face emerged from the white light. She was leaning over him, ripping the steel needles from his head and flinging them into a tray. Her mask was off, her lower lip clamped in her teeth. A loose clump of hair swung in front of her face.
“Sorry,” she said when Peter winced. “They need you as soon as possible.”
She jabbed a needle in his arm, plunging it so fast that her knuckles whitened. She tapped a button and gray ceramic panels rose on all sides of the bed, encasing Peter. “I’m going to cook you,” she said, hidden from view. “Try to hold still.”
There was a loud buzz and Peter’s senses lit up. He felt like he was being tickled over every inch of his body, inside and out. The process lasted several minutes; then the noise stopped and the panels slid back down. Linda leaned in and laid a cold towel on his forehead. He smelled burned hair.
“What was…?” Peter tried to ask, barely able to speak.
“Microwaves,” Linda said. “They accelerate the resuscitation process. It’s a very complicated procedure, VIP only.”
“I should be flattered,” Peter mumbled. Linda smiled, producing another needle.
“This, too. A strong mix of painkiller and stimulant. Highly addictive. Sometimes we have to toss a body after just a single dose.” She gave him the shot and raised the bed to a sitting position.
“No questions?” Peter asked.
“No time,” Linda replied, taking his hands and yanking him up. Peter came forward too fast, falling over her. She locked him in a bear hug to hold him up.
“I’ve done that better,” Peter said. Linda laughed, then caught herself and looked away. Peter started to speak, but she cut him off.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said.
“I know,” Peter said. He found his balance and she released him. Neither moved. They just stood there, close, he gazing at her and she at the floor. Then the door opened and Peter’s aide, or whoever he was, came in.
“Ready, marine?” he snapped.
“Yes, sir,” Peter replied. The aide turned on his heel and led Peter into the hall.
— — —
Peter followed the aide down the hallway, the stimulant surging through his body like raw power. He pulled on his jacket and was momentarily surprised to notice that he had a right arm again.
They joined up with a cluster of two-dozen men, all racing giddily for the docks. A heavy-set general in the back read out the battle’s highlights from a portable screen, right up to the point where the commandship was destroyed. General Garvey was in the front, where two aides supported a monitor between them—a scaled-down version of the battle computer. A third aide had his hands on the General’s shoulders, guiding him from behind. The General worked furiously,
ignoring everyone else.
The thin brigadier dropped back alongside Peter. “You remember?” he whispered. There was awe in his voice, like he was witnessing a miracle. Peter nodded. “What happened?” the brigadier asked.
“Maybe a missile,” Peter replied, shaking his head. “It was over fast.”
A naval captain appeared on the device in the brigadier’s hand—a different one from the last time. “Engines warm and ready, sir,” she said.
“Very good,” the brigadier replied. He shortened his step, dropping behind Peter, and quizzed the captain about Riel proximity.
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.