The Drift Wars (11 page)

“I’m
just glad they kept us together,” Saul continued. “You, me, and
Ramirez. From what I hear, Command usually splits a platoon apart
after the sergeant is killed.”

“Why
didn’t they?”

“I
don’t know,” Saul shrugged. “Maybe no one else wants us.”

“Or
we’re too good to break up.”

“Ha,”
Saul said. “I hate to think what that means for the other guys.”

—   —   —

The
docks ringed the base in concentric circles. Their hallways were
large and hexagonal, with a grated steel column running up the
center. The column was squared off, a box tube with gravity
generators inside that allowed marines to walk on all four sides to
rapidly load into the transportships. The walls were
transparent—triangular windows in metal framework—and would have
provided a spectacular view if the docks weren’t encased by
dormant transports. The little bit of space that Peter could see was
tainted green by the base’s plasma shield.

They
hadn’t gone far before Peter began to drag. He marveled at how
quickly he’d become dependent on his combat suit.

Saul
walked effortlessly, sighing as Peter steered him down yet another
glass hallway. This one ended in a glass wall. Outside, a massive
ship was parked in a wide gap in the docks. The ship was long and
blocky, like a toppled building, and had an arched bottom, as if to
sail on water. It was linked to the base by a dozen bridge cranes,
and a continuous stream of containers poured out.

“Cargoship,”
Saul said impatiently. “Comes every week.”

The
UF base was deep in empty space, far from any habitable planet.
Security by obscurity, but it also meant everything they
needed—food, water, and weapons—had to be shipped in from a
great distance.

“Could
those be the new men?” Peter asked.

“Why
not?” Saul replied.

“Not
a very pleasant way to travel.”

“What
do they care? They’re frozen solid. It’s what you wake up to
that counts.”

“Your
nurse?”

“Exactly.
Beckie.” Saul whistled appreciatively. “A little old, but…”

“The
same one every time?” Peter asked.

“What
‘every time’? I haven’t seen her since they thawed us out.”

“I…”
Peter trailed off, not sure what he meant.

“Not
that I would mind,” Saul said. “This base isn’t exactly full
of excitement.”

“Better
than out there.”

“Just
go ahead and state the obvious,” Saul said, drumming his fingers
impatiently on the glass.

The
containers trailed off and the cranes folded up. Three ball-tipped
spires rose off the base and punctured the shield, forming a dark
triangle. The cargoship backed out of the gap, turned in a wide arc,
then passed overhead as it headed for home.

“Now
can we go get a drink?” Saul asked.

“Yeah,”
Peter said, starting down the hall. He was disappointed not to have
met anyone in the navy. Actually, they hadn’t seen anyone at all.
Peter wondered if he was the only person on the entire base who was
interested in anything beyond the canteen.

—   —   —

“Cumberland
is the best,” Peter said to Saul, making his selection and sliding
his mug into the autotap. Golden beer rose inside, filled from a
valve at the bottom. A ring slid up the outside, frosting the glass.

“Cumberland?”
Saul said with disgust. “You would like him. Smallest quarterback
in the history of the draft.” Saul filled two mugs, making use of
Ramirez’s, who hadn’t yet arrived.

“He’s
smart,” Peter said. “He has a good sense of the field.”

“He’s
a pushover,” Saul said, downing one beer while the other filled.
“If he can’t make a pass, he’s screwed. He has to hand off
just to make a one-yard push.”

Saul
was right, but Peter still liked Cumberland. His off-the-cuff
playing style had inspired Peter’s own tactics.

“You
think they’re still playing?” he asked. “With the war and
all?”

“Especially
because of the war,” Saul replied. “People need distractions
during tough times.”

The
two men returned to their table just as Ramirez arrived. He spotted
them and rushed over, waving a roll of paper. “That mine?” he
asked as he took a full mug from Saul.

“What’s
that,” Saul asked, pointing to the paper.

“My
tat,” Ramirez replied. “You know how once you make sergeant you
get to put a design on your suit?”

“I
thought it was colonel,” Peter said.

“Some
sergeants too. If they’re senior enough.”

“You
get a sudden promotion?” Saul asked.

“Planning
ahead,” Ramirez replied. “Check this out.”

The
men raised their glasses as Ramirez unrolled the paper on the table.
It was covered in blotches of orange, yellow, and black. Saul
squinted at it, cocking his head.

“What
do you think?” Ramirez asked.

“You’re
going to paint vomit on your combat suit?” Saul asked.

“It’s
a tiger,” Ramirez snapped. “Like my nickname.”

“You
have a nickname?”

“When
I’m a sergeant, my men will call me
the Tiger.
”

The
other men stared at him, waiting for the punch line.

“They’ll
see it in my eyes,” Ramirez said.

“They
sure won’t see it in the drawing,” Saul countered.

Peter
drained his glass and stood up.

“Where
you rushing off to?” Ramirez asked.

“Gonna
check my mail.”

“For
a change,” Saul added. “I’m surprised you waited this long.”

—   —   —

Amber
was pressed beneath Peter, her eyes closed, her back arched. Her
lips parted, exposing the tips of her front teeth, and her naked
breasts rolled up with every thrust. He wanted to touch them, to run
his fingers over the supple pink skin around her nipples, but his
hands were planted in the grass, keeping his hips raised and
allowing them to move freely.

They
breathed in unison, faster and faster, louder and louder.

Peter
released with a shout and collapsed onto her. Amber trembled and let
out a low squeal. She wrapped her arms around him and
squeezed—inside and out—her skin like warm silk.

Peter
leaned in to kiss her, but her mouth retreated. She slipped
backward, falling out of focus and dissolving to colored squares.

Peter’s
eyes popped open. Hot water poured on his head and ran down his
face. He sucked in water with each labored breath, dropping against
the wall. He raised his hand to the showerhead, splashing water
around the gray tiles, rinsing away the soap and scum.

—   —   —

Peter
walked gingerly into the computer room, his head light and sore.
After three days of drinking, the idea of combat was almost
appealing.

The
large room was empty, so Peter took the nearest terminal and pulled
up his mail. There would be nothing new—for security reasons,
radio transmission was restricted to official use, so electronic
mail came aboard the weekly cargoship.

Peter
scrolled back through his messages, all of which were from Amber,
looking for something to read. None of them appealed to him. Just
bland details of her life back home. It wasn’t that he didn’t
appreciate her letters; he did. But what he really needed was her,
here, in his arms.

He
drew her locket from his shirt and fingered the hair inside. It was
coarse and dry, and the smell had faded. He closed his eyes, calling
her up. They were back at Benting’s base. She leaned over,
watching him through the truck windows as he boarded the shuttle. It
wasn’t his favorite memory, but it was the clearest.

“Thinking
about home?”

Peter
started, dropping the locket. Manzenze, his new sergeant, was at the
door. He was a short, slight man with charcoal skin that rumpled as
if made for someone larger. They had only just met at the last
re-org.

“Yes,
sir,” Peter said. He started to rise but Manzenze motioned him
back down.

“In
the still of the night,” Manzenze said, dropping into a seat
opposite him, “home feels quite far away indeed.”

“You
been out here long, sir?” Peter asked.

“Drop
the formalities, private. I have no use for them.” The sergeant
scratched his thin nose between two fingers. “And yes,” he said.
“I have been here a long time. You’d be surprised.”

“Six
months?” Peter asked. “That is the limit, isn’t it? Before
they rotate you home.”

“Speaking
of surprises,” Manzenze said, “I was reviewing the playback of
your last mission. That idea of yours, splitting your platoon like
you did, it was ingenious. Caught those Gyrines unaware.”

“Nothing
to it, sir. Sergeant Mickelson used the same trick in the Peirescius
Belt.”

Manzenze
squinted at Peter, as if questioning his honesty. “I’ve seen
your record, private. You didn’t fight in the Peirescius Belt.”

“No?”
Peter was sure that he had but knew better than to argue. “Must’ve
been in the simulation, sir.”

Manzenze
held his squint, scratched his nose again, then smiled. “I told
you to stop calling me sir.”

“I’m
sorry, sir. I mean…” Peter flushed, feeling like an idiot.

Manzenze
laughed warmly. “It was good soldiering,” he said. “No matter
where you got the idea. But speaking of the Sims, I noticed that you
were doing a fair job with them back in Basic, but you haven’t
touched them since coming on base.”

“There
hasn’t really been time,” Peter said, biting off the “sir.”
Formality was a habit easier learned than broken.

“That
changes now. I’m spacing out your combat cycle, and I’ll expect
you in here every other day. I sense talent in there somewhere.
Let’s see if we can’t find it.”

“Yes,
sir.”

Manzenze
motioned to the terminal. “You might as well show me your stuff,”
he said. “Unless you have something more pressing.”

—   —   —

Peter
practiced the Sim Test for the next six hours, with Manzenze looking
over his shoulder. The sergeant had some good advice, but Peter
still didn’t manage a single win.

Peter
shambled to the barracks, stopping by the bathroom to brush his
teeth and his interface port.

Six
months
, he thought, staring at the mirror.
If every day is
this long, it’ll be like living forever.
He bent over the
sink, cupped water into his hand, and swallowed his sleeping pill.

The
medicine had kicked in by the time he reached the barracks, and he
was so tired that he could barely climb to his bunk. Below him, the
snoring hulk of Saul vibrated the bedsprings. Peter found it
comforting, a constant reminder that his best friend was near at
hand.

He
closed his eyes and joined him in sleep.

A
white flash popped in Peter’s head, jolting him awake. “Saul!”
he screamed, wrenching against his straps, trying to tear loose.

The
memory was so clear: floating behind a large rock in the Cylides
Asteroid Belt, explosions strobing on the other side. Saul was in
his giant combat suit, repeating some old story to the new recruits,
grinning like the whole war was some big joke. His back was to the
battle, so he couldn’t see the rocket that swung around the rock.
Peter shouted into the comm, but the rocket was too fast—the
explosion engulfed Saul.

“Stop,
stop, stop!” Linda yelled, racing across the room. She leaped up,
landing on Peter’s chest and slamming him to the bed. She clamped
his wrists under her knees. Her mask was off and her face was wild
with anger.

“What
the hell are you doing?” she yelled, throwing a strap over his
forehead and ratcheting it to the bed. Peter struggled, but she had
him pinned.

Linda
checked his other straps, jerking them tight, then collapsed on top
of Peter.

Her
breathing slowed and she sat up. She sat cross-legged on his chest
and untangled her hair.

“I’m
too old for this,” she said with a dry laugh. She freed her
ponytail and shook it out. Peter had never noticed how gray her hair
was.

“You’re
early,” she said, sliding to the floor and straightening her
uniform. She walked to the top of his head and tugged. Peter felt
something slide from his skull. Linda dropped it in the tray with a
metallic ping.

“What
happened to Saul?” Peter demanded.

“How
would I—”

“Tell
me,” he said, angry.

The
phone on Linda’s desk buzzed. She raised a finger, warning him to
be quiet, and went to answer it. “Yes?” she asked, then
listened.

“Yes,”
she repeated. “I’ll tell him.” A pause, then, “I do
understand. Yes, sir.”

Linda
set the phone back in its cradle and leaned on it, staring at the
wall. It was several minutes before she returned to the bed. She
moved with determination, opening a drawer and filling a needle from
a small bottle. It was a clear liquid, different from what she’d
used in the past. This needle was thin; he didn’t even feel it.

“I’m
sorry,” she said, tossing the needle away. She wiped her hands
vigorously and threw the towel in the trash.

“During
your last mission,” she said, “your entire platoon was killed by
a rocket attack, including Private Saul Graff. Your leg was severed,
so your Life Control System put you into hibernation. Your body was
recovered and your leg reattached.”

Saul
is dead
, Peter thought. The injection worked through his blood
like steel splinters. His muscles trembled and then grew numb. He
clenched his jaw as hot tears spilled down his face. Then came
anger—at the Riel, at the generals, at everyone in this goddamn
war. His mind raced furiously. He opened his mouth to scream but had
only the strength to moan.

Linda
bit her lip and turned away, walking out the back door.

—   —   —

Peter
remembered it vividly. Saul was shredded by the explosion. Then
another rocket took out Ramirez and Manzenze. Explosions were
everywhere; all of space was burning. The men dodged and ducked, but
there was no escape. They died in twos and threes, and then a rocket
came for Peter. There was a flash, then nothing.