The Drift Wars

by James, Brett

  Round doors opened along the ship’s hull, pumping out streams of fighterships. They swooped under the base, disappearing from sight.

  Two missiles fired from the back of the battleship’s bridge, making a lazy arc and slamming into the base’s plasma shield. Sparks flew as the missiles pushed forward, bending the shield as if it were made of rubber. Then the shield gave way and the missiles popped through. They shot below view and the whole base shook from their impact. The green shield flickered and died.

  There was a loud clatter as the two aides dropped the portable Battle Map. They picked up the General, one under each arm, and rushed him to the commandship. No one else moved. Peter looked up and down the hall, ready to run but unsure where.

  Square hangers opened along the battlecruiser’s body, and a string of dots dropped out. As the dots grew closer, Peter saw their spidery legs and red flesh: Typhons, dozens of them, dropping to the base like commandos. They attacked the hull with Delta-class impulsors, cutting loose whole sections and shoving them into space.

  Decision made, Peter thought, running for the commandship. But then a squad of fighterships swung around the base, heading toward him. Glass shattered as bullets ripped through the docks. A rocket exploded, tearing the hallway in half. A long section of hall spun away, the burning commandship attached to the end.

  The other men still hadn’t moved. Another wave of fighterships swooped down on the hallway, spraying bullets, slaughtering them. Peter’s aide stood placid, almost distracted, as the bullets sliced him into three pieces. Only the brigadier reacted, dodging back and running toward the base.

  Peter leaped over the edge of the four-sided walkway. As he dropped, the gravitational field of the perpendicular walkway pulled at his side, slamming him against what was now the floor. Bullets sparked against the grating. He shoved to his feet and raced for the base.

  Air streamed from the open airlock, sucked through the broken windows behind him. It was a powerful wind; Peter leaned forward as he ran.

  There was a loud bang as the airlock’s emergency charges fired, slamming the doors shut. The brigadier was caught in the middle, his chest crushed.

  The walkway collapsed. Peter jumped.

  He nearly reached the airlock, but the wind threw him back. He scrambled for a hold on the smooth glass walls, finding none.

  The windows shattered as the docks broke away from the base. A seam appeared at Peter’s feet, and he threw himself forward, grabbing an empty window frame as the rest of the hall tore loose and spiraled into space.

  Peter held the very edge of what was still attached to the base, a section of the hallway some thirty feet long. Above him the airlock doors were wedged open by the brigadier’s body. Air rushed from the base, flapping Peter like a flag.

  He clung dearly to the window frame, hanging in space with nothing to protect him but the thin fabric of his dress uniform. The cold ached in his bones and clamped at his chest. But for the escaping wind, he would have frozen in seconds.

  — — —

  Peter’s hands grew weak. He looked up at the airlock, squinting against the stinging wind, which cooled below freezing in the short distance between him and the base. But it was better than nothing, which was what he’d have if the airlock weren’t propped open.

  Peter tried to pull forward, but the wind was too strong. He swung his legs back and forth, building up momentum, then kicked up. The heel of his boot caught the inside of a fractured window. He doubled one hand over the other and pulled, throwing an arm over the frame. A shard of glass pierced his bicep. Peter jerked back, but he was skewered, stuck.

  Blood welled from the cut, spraying his face. He blinked to clear his eyes, but his vision grew dim. Darkness crept in at the edges. Exhausted and freezing, Peter slumped back, suspended by arm and leg. His eyelids drooped.

  — — —

  Something clapped Peter on the head. His eyes popped open and he glimpsed a boot flying past. He looked up at the brigadier’s corpse in the doorway. His shredded clothes streamed in the escaping wind. One foot was bare.

  I owe you one, Peter told the dead man, adjusting his grip on the frame. His arm was numb, the bleeding stemmed by a red crust of ice. He pulled forward, throwing his other foot over the window frame, then freed his arm from the shard of glass and reached for the next frame. Most of the windows were shattered, leaving empty framework. Peter climbed toward the airlock.

  He made rapid progress, rising to within a body length of the base. But the remaining windows were intact and the walls were too smooth to climb.

  — — —

  Peter leaned into the hallway, breathing the rich air inside and trying to figure out how to reach the doors. They were too far away to jump and the windows were too tough to break. His sole option was to climb, and there was only one thing to hold on to.

  He slipped his legs through the window frame and locked his feet to the edge, reaching for the brigadier’s body, which dangled in the middle of the hallway like the clapper of a bell.

  The wind pressed against Peter and his stomach trembled. He was losing strength. He grabbed at the general’s leg, clamping on to the man’s calf. It was as hard as a block of ice.

  Peter tugged, wondering if it would hold his weight. It seemed solid, and there were no other options. He locked the calf in both hands, slipped his legs loose, and swung out to the middle of the hallway.

  The brigadier’s leg stretched under Peter’s weight and the knee cracked, bombarding Peter with iced flesh. The calf broke loose and Peter fell.

  He dropped three feet and lurched to a stop. A thin strand of tendon stretched between the calf and knee. Peter twirled in the wind, gripped by vertigo unlike any since Basic.

  He curled into a ball, clamping his feet around the brigadier’s ankle, then pushed with his legs, reaching up and digging his fingers into the tattered pants. He eased his other hand up to the man’s belt, then drew his legs up and clamped them to the brigadier’s thigh. He pushed up again, his head rising to the doors.

  The wind was strong here, and Peter kept his face down to as he felt around. He found the thick rubber seal that ran between the doors, grabbed tight, and let go of the brigadier.

  The door bowed and the brigadier’s body slipped free. It slammed into Peter, rebounded, and shattered against the wall, its crystal fragments scattering into space.

  Something clamped around Peter’s hand. The airlock had shut. The flow of air was cut and the vacuum of space sucked at Peter’s lungs. Ice formed on his skin and his eyes froze, fracturing his vision. He didn’t have long.

  He kicked at the door, wedging his foot in the seal, then pried and pulled. The doors wouldn’t budge. Peter kicked one foot with the other, driving it farther in. The rubber fluttered as a thin line of air rushed out.

  Peter pressed his lips to the seal and let the warm air fill his lungs. He leaned away and the air was sucked back out. He breathed like this three times, clearing his head, then straightened his back and pulled with all he had. The doors spread fractionally. He shoved his foot farther in and locked his arch on the lower door’s edge. He pulled harder; the doors yielded slowly.

  Air poured over him, warm and moist. Peter slipped his shoulder in, then tucked his head and leaped inside.

  The wind threw him back, but the doors slammed shut, catching him.

  — — —

  The roar of the wind echoed in Peter’s ears and his skin burned in the warm air. The gravity generators were out, so he floated in midair, catching his breath.

  His arm throbbed where the glass had pierced it. He pulled off his jacket and tossed it away. When he rolled back his shirtsleeve, he saw that the cut was jagged and bruised, but the blood had clotted. He checked himself further, finding no other damage. He kicked off from the airlock doors and sailed down the hallway,
heading toward the center of the base.

  The gravity started to return some fifty yards in. Peter sank like an old balloon and paddled over the floor with his hands. He dropped farther, crawling, then finally stood and ran.

  He passed through Command and into the resuscitation hall. An alarm blared, but everyone was gone. All of the doors were open, all of the stations abandoned.

  He cut over to the larger hallway, the one used to transport freshly printed bodies. The alarm was even louder here and sharp white lights strobed on the ceiling. Peter saw movement in the distance and sprinted toward it.

  The crowd was a mix of small nurses and smaller technicians, with a few towering, black-uniformed guards. They all shoved against one another, panicking, each trying to get to the front. Peter overtook them easily.

  She was near the back. He touched her shoulder and she turned.

  “Linda,” he shouted over the alarm. “I know you’re angry with me, but you have to listen…” Peter saw the confusion on her face. He looked down: her badge read Linda 19.

  He looked up and saw several faces staring at him, all of them Lindas. It was too much for Peter; he shoved Linda 19 away. She knocked into the others, who all turned and scrambled away, merging with the crowd.

  Peter watched the confused mass push down the hall. A thousand bodies, but only a few dozen clones. He didn’t know where to go, but it wasn’t with them.

  The noise of the crowd faded beneath the shrieking alarm. He looked to a speaker in the ceiling and walked to a wall console. “Alarm override,” he said.

  “Authorization required,” the console replied.

  “Sergeant…” Peter started, then had a better idea: “General Peter Garvey.”

  The alarm stopped, its noise fading down the hall. In the silence, Peter heard the sounds of war: pounding explosions, the moaning hull, and distant gunfire—Riel were inside the base.

  His first thought was to find a weapon. He was in the Purple Area, which put the armory in the wreckage behind him. On either side of him, dark machinery slept behind glass walls. A half-printed body defrosted on a metal bed, its blood draining to the floor.

  Am I alone? he wondered. The last marine on the base?

  Even if the others came back, what good would it do? That colossal Riel battlecruiser would shred the entire UF fleet long before it reached the base. No, the battle was lost. The war was over. Peter’s only hope was escape.

  The base shuddered, from impact or explosion, and Peter was thrown to the floor. Fractures laced up the glass walls.

  Not without Linda.

  — — —

  Peter pushed to his feet and raced up the hallway, chasing after the crowd. They were bunched up at a doorway, all of them shoving to get through.

  “Linda,” he yelled over the panicked din. A number of Lindas turned to him. “Seventy-five?” he asked. They all shook their heads, then waited. But he had nothing to tell them, so he pushed past though the doorway.

  “Linda Seventy-Five!” he shouted.

  The crowd spilled out into a large, circular room. A dozen doors were spaced evenly around the walls, like spokes on a wheel. This was the center of the base, the hub that connected all twelve sections.

  People poured in from all directions and, having arrived at their destination, milled around as if at the end of a fire drill. Peter pressed through the crowd, shouting for Linda, his voice straining. He drew a deep breath and bellowed with all his might, “Seventy-five!”

  Right in the middle of the chaos, a head turned. Their eyes locked and she said his name—or maybe she just mouthed it—and then she smiled.

  Peter started toward her, but a horrible shriek filled the room. The ceiling broke loose and enormous red fingers wrenched it back, bending it up like the lid of a can. Hideous golden eyes peered down from the darkness above. A Typhon.

  The cacophony of the crowd united in the single scream of a thousand throats.

  — — —

  Every instinct told Peter to run, but Linda was trapped. He plunged into the room, shouldering through the crowd.

  The Typhon’s giant hand swept through the room, plucking up a technician and lifting him to its shadowed face. The man screamed and screamed as he was flipped and turned, inspected from every angle. The room grew still, watching and waiting.

  The Typhon bent his thumb under the man’s chin and popped his head off. The head plopped to the floor, spraying blood and gore. The crowd shrieked, retreating. A monstrous smile glinted high overhead.

  The crowd panicked, shoving violently in all directions. Several more Typhons appeared at the wall. Their large arms swung into the confusion, grabbing people at random and tearing them apart. The monsters seemed curious, inspecting the dead bodies the way a child might look inside a doll. A guard opened fire but only drew attention to himself.

  Peter bent his elbow to a point and tried to drive forward, but the flow of the crowd changed every time someone was pulled from it. Linda dropped from sight and then whipped past a moment later. Peter reached out too late; his fingers brushed her shirt.

  Frustrated, Peter balled his fists and began to swing, clearing a path by knocking people down and stepping over them. He reached Linda, grabbed her arm, and towed her toward the nearest exit.

  His breakout caught the attention of a Typhon. It dropped the nurse in its hand and lashed out at Peter. The hand swung low, its shovel-thick fingernails raking gouges in the steel floor.

  Peter dodged to his right, but the hand shifted, staying on him. He moved to his left, but it was no good—the thing was just too fast.

  He stumbled into a guard, a man about his own size. He tossed Linda aside and grappled the man’s neck, twirling him in a forced dance. They spun around and Peter let go, flinging the disoriented guard right into the approaching hand. The red fingers closed around the offering, passing so close that they brushed Peter’s jacket.

  Peter hefted Linda over his shoulder, bulled through the crowd, and escaped from the room.

  — — —

  They were in a hallway, but Peter wasn’t sure which one. Chiang San had said that each of the twelve sections was identical, so it probably didn’t matter.

  The hall was empty. No one else had thought to flee or even to follow him as he did. The glass door closed behind him, muffling the noise.

  Peter ran through the Purple Area as fast as he could, stopping short at a door marked Armory. Only then did he notice Linda pounding on his back. He set her down and reached out to calm her. Tears streaked up her forehead.

  “What are they?” she asked.

  “Typhons,” Peter said, surprised. He assumed that everyone knew about the Riel. “They’re too large to follow us here,” he assured her. Linda nodded, unconvinced.

  “So what now?” she asked.

  “We get out of here,” Peter said. “Off the base.” He turned to the armory door and identified himself as the General. The door slid open, revealing a large, long room. Racks of combat suits lined one wall, crates of weapons the other. Peter pulled Linda inside, shut the door, and searched through the suits.

  “Where can we go?” Linda asked. “If they destroy the base…”

  Peter found a suit his size. Open and empty, it looked like a tailor-made casket. He stepped into it backward, closing the hinged plates around his shins and thighs. Next he pulled a yoke-shaped piece through his legs, raising it over his torso. He swung the chest plate down and locked the two pieces together.

  A dull thump shook the room, rattling the equipment. Peter stopped and listened, waiting for the next impact. None came.

  “We retreat,” he said to Linda. “Head for the Livable Territories.” He slipped his arm down the suit’s rigid sleeve, wiggled his fingers into the glove at the end, and snapped it to his shoulder. He repeated with the other arm
.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Linda said. “We’d have to cross the entire Drift. And then how would we find it? The universe is a big place.”

  “The commandship will have charts,” Peter said. But will it? Was there even a commandship left? He slipped his helmet on, cutting off the conversation. The control link clicked to the interface port on his neck, and the suit hummed to life. The pain in his arm numbed and his body swelled with the strength of artificial muscles. He soaked it in for a moment, fueling his confidence, then took the helmet back off.

  “We get off the base and then figure out the rest,” he said firmly. “Let’s get you into a suit.”

  — — —

  None of the combat suits were even close to Linda’s size. Peter put her in the smallest one that he could find, but it was still so large that she barely peeked out from the neck. Her joints didn’t match the suit’s, which meant that if Peter tried to drive it remotely, it would break her bones.

  At least she’ll be armored, he decided, clamping on her helmet and opening the communicator link between them.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “No,” Linda replied. “Please take this thing off of me.”

  “You’re safer this way,” Peter said. He closed the link, cutting off her reply, and propped her in the corner. He turned to the weapons and dug in.

  Peter strapped a rocket pack to his back, slid eight explosive charges into his belt, and clipped a pistol to each leg. He dragged an X-910, a bazooka-shaped impulsor with a fat rectangular lens at the tip, off the heavy weaponry rack. It was so heavy he could barely hold it. He didn’t know if it was strong enough to kill a Typhon, and he was hoping not to find out.

  Peter wrapped a four-shot powerbelt around his waist and tied some webbing to the gun’s stock so he could lug it from the top. His artificial muscles strained as he lifted the gun in one hand and Linda in the other. He started for the docks.