The Drift Wars (26 page)

The
giant Riel battlecruiser floated serenely overhead, backlit against
the orange Drift boundary. It was fully visible now, twice as long
as the base was wide. Gleaming steel fighterships patrolled through
the detritus, which were mostly fragments of the base. The
fighterships moved at a lazy pace; the battle was long over.

Peter
waited at the door as a squadron flew past; then he started down the
hallway deliberately, as if he belonged there. He even put a wobble
in his gait, aping that of the short-legged Gyrine.
It could
work
,
he thought.
From a distance.

He
looked up at the battlecruiser. It was large beyond imagination. How
had the United Forces ever hoped to defeat such a thing? He could
see now that the war had been doomed from the start.

Peter
saw the ship parked outside, coupled to a door at the very end of
the hall. It was as sharp as a missile and flat white like the armor
worn by the Threes. For a second he feared it was a Riel ship, but
then he saw the winged UF logo on the side.

A
squadron of fighterships curved around the base, heading toward him.
Peter tried to remain calm, but every step was an eternity. He
wanted to dash to the ship, to fly away.

The
fighters closed in, near enough to see through his farce. He was
certain that they had—they were aimed right at him—but he had to
play it out. Certainly the Riel knew about this ship and certainly
they were keeping an eye on it. Were they expecting him? Was it a
trap?

The
ships arced upward, passing over the hallway, so close their exhaust
buffeted the glass. And then they were gone, shrinking into the
distance. Peter reached the ship; its door was wide open. He allowed
himself a smile, but it didn’t last.

There
was a flicker of movement, something fluttering behind the ship. A
large piece of metal swung up and over the hull, pressing against
the roof. Another came around the front. Giant, red-skinned fingers
gripped the cockpit and the ship rolled back on its mooring as it
took the weight. A monstrous golden eye rose up in front of Peter;
the lustrous cornea rippled as the iris tightened to an angry dot.

—   —   —

Peter
staggered backward as the Typhon rose on its spidery metal legs. It
had a devil’s face, with pointed teeth and shark-smooth red skin
that turned black at the top, resembling hair. Thick horns curved
out from its forehead, one of which was half broken. The creature
towered into space, looking down at Peter through the dock’s glass
ceiling. It spread its heavy arms, either for balance or to attack.

The
very sight of a Typhon usually made Peter freeze with fear, but he
now saw it with clarity; it wasn’t some terrible, nightmarish
demon. It was a manufactured soldier, just like Peter. It was
dangerous and horrifying, but it could be killed.

It’ll
have to be
,
he thought.

The
Typhon gazed down at him with the same curiosity that Peter had
witnessed in the central hub. It was curious what he was. Curious
why he was here. It stretched a leg out and tapped the glass
overhead. The noise was deafening, the point chiseling the glass.
Peter forced himself to remain still. The creature tilted its head,
perplexed by his inaction.

There
was no point in dashing for the ship; the Typhon could tear it
apart. Peter backed up calmly, smiling casually at the Typhon. He
got about twenty paces before the Typhon’s face twisted with
anger, its mouth opening as if to roar. Peter turned and ran.

The
Typhon leaped onto the hall, which bowed under its weight. Then it
jumped again, landing right over Peter and driving its spiked feet
at him on both sides. Glass shards flew through the room and a
sharp-pointed foot grazed Peter’s back. He ran faster and the
Typhon chased behind.

Metal
legs jabbed through the glass around him. Peter ducked under one
leg, then hurtled over another. A third caught his calf, slicing
through both suit and flesh. Peter staggered and fell as another
knocked the back of his helmet. He rolled with the fall, coming up
on his feet, but another leg blocked the way. The Typhon, watching
through the glass, withdrew the leg to let him pass.

Why
doesn’t it just kill me?
he wondered. It had enough weaponry
to wipe out a regiment. Peter thought back to the base’s hub, to
how the Typhons had toyed with their victims before killing them.
Toyed with people. Fury welled inside Peter, but he held it back.
Anger wouldn’t help. He needed to be cunning.

He
strode toward the base, taking measured steps, an easy target. The
Typhon curled up to pounce, shaking with excitement, eyes riveted on
Peter.

Peter
tightened the focus on his rifle and aimed at the airlock. He held
down the trigger and used the beam to draw a circle around the
doorframe. The Typhon shifted its legs, eyes wide.

The
doorframe was glowing orange when the first clip ran dry. Peter
swapped in the second without taking his finger from the trigger.
The Typhon pounced.

Peter
hopped forward as the metal legs sliced through the walls. He
sprinted at full tilt and the Typhon bounded after him, batting at
him like an oversize kitten.

The
second clip ran dry twenty feet from the airlock. The doorframe
glowed like a bright red lasso. But the floor was no longer shaking.
Peter looked back.

The
docks were ruined, a twisted metal frame that spiraled into the
distance. The Typhon was perched on top, looking first at Peter and
then at the airlock. The weapons at its midsection—machine guns
and rocket launchers—ratcheted forward.

Does
it know?
Peter wondered.

He
slapped the last battery into his rifle, switched to rapid pulse,
and fired right into the Typhon’s eye. The gun wouldn’t do any
real damage, but he hoped to piss it off. He did.

The
Typhon leaped at Peter, landing on the glass overhead. It ripped the
hallway in half and shoved the back part away—along with the
escape ship—to squeeze inside. It shot forward, legs closing
around Peter like a giant claw.

Peter
dropped the gun and body-slammed the airlock. The door fell away,
glowing metal strands stretching like taffy from the molten frame.
The Typhon’s legs pierced the walls, shredding it as they clamped
together, coming at Peter on all sides. The spiked points zeroed in
on his head and chest, then suddenly stopped.

The
Typhon’s space-cold legs had frozen the molten doorframe on
contact, trapping the legs in a metal ring. Its joints twitched
harmlessly against Peter’s suit.

The
Typhon twisted and bucked, shaking the entire room. In moments it
would tear the whole wall out, but Peter was already on the move.

He
rolled, turning upside down and using his boot magnets to run up the
underside of one of the Typhon’s legs. He dove for the disk that
separated the metal from the meat, grabbing the edge and flipping
smoothly to the top.

The
Typhon’s machine guns strobed and its rockets flared, but too
late. Peter jumped inside the circle of weaponry. He didn’t doubt
that the monster would turn its weapons on itself, but it didn’t
seem able to.

Peter
swung his feet onto the Typhon’s rugged stomach. It was as hard as
rock and, he was happy to discover, iron-rich. His boot magnets
locked to the red flesh and he sprinted up its torso. He ducked a
swipe by one massive arm and dodged left to avoid the other.

He
sprung off the chest, caught the chin in both hands, and
leap-frogged over the snapping teeth. He landed on the bridge of the
nose; the giant eyes crossed to look at him. A large hand swatted at
him, but it was too far away.

Peter
pulled the last explosive from his belt, ripped off the cover, and
slammed it down with both hands, dead center on the Typhon’s
forehead. He twisted it in place and then pulled, flinging himself
forward.

The
moment his hands were clear, he triggered the charge and flipped
around to watch the explosion. The monstrous head blew apart,
disappearing in a cloud of black blood.

The
Typhon’s body struggled for another minute before realizing that
it was dead. Peter sailed off into space, his own laughter echoing
painfully inside his helmet.

Peter
twirled slowly off into space. He locked the motors in his suit to
blend in with the other debris and watched the base shrink into the
distance. No one investigated the dead Typhon for two hours. After
that Peter was too far away to see.

A
flurry of shuttles ran between the Riel battlecruiser and the
remains of the base.
Were they studying it? Stealing food?
Whatever they were doing, Peter hoped they would finish soon.

He
was desperate to link to Linda, to find out if she was okay, but to
transmit when the Riel were nearby would be fatal to them both.
Instead he studied the shuttles and tried to fathom what the Riel
were after.

A
flat chunk of the base’s hull floated past. Peter got a hand on it
and pulled it in front of him.

—   —   —

By
the tenth hour Peter was a wreck. His air was half gone and he had
floated deep into space; the base was the size of a coin. Shuttle
activity had continued nonstop, and he worried that the Riel were
moving in.

He
worried about Linda too. Had he sealed her suit properly? Minor
leaks were common and easy to fix, but Linda had no control over her
suit. By now even the smallest leak would have bled her air tank
dry.

He
tried not to imagine Linda suffocating, but he couldn’t escape it.
There were few distractions, and the need to contact her itched
under his skin.

—   —   —

After
two more grueling hours, there was a swarm of light as the
fighterships and shuttles returned to the battlecruiser. The
cruiser, a distant needle under full magnification, rotated to face
the Drift boundary.

A
translucent blue cone grew from its bow, drilling a hole in the
orange haze. The massive engines fired, as bright as any sun, and
the ship plunged in, heading back to its own universe.

The
hole closed behind it and all was still.

—   —   —

He
managed to wait another fifteen minutes before opening the comm.

“Peter?”
Linda’s response was both urgent and thick with disbelief.

“It’s
me,” he said.

“I…”
she stammered, “I can’t believe you made it.”

“We
both made it. How do you feel?”

“Cold,”
she said, “it’s very cold out here.”

“We’ll
get you warm soon. It’s all over.”

“Yes,”
Linda said, “I saw them leave. You made it.”

“
We
made it,” Peter said, embarrassed by how eager he sounded. He had
a lot to say, a lot to explain, but he wanted to wait until they
were together.

“I’ll
get us a ship,” he said. “You keep watch. If you see anything,
anything at all, just say ‘incoming’ and then go radio silent.
You got that?”

“Got
it.”

Peter
tried to think of more to say but couldn’t. He turned back to the
wrecked base.

—   —   —

Peter
raised the piece of hull over his head, used his stabilizers to aim
directly away from the base, and heaved with all his might.

Tossing
the debris in one direction sent him in the opposite. He turned to
watch the base approach, but his speed was so slight and the
distance so great that he had to use his suit’s tracking system to
see that he was moving.

—   —   —

A
half hour later his boot magnets clicked to the base’s hull. He
stayed on the edge, jogging to the Section 13 docks. The airlock
door had been cut away and the dead Typhon removed.
Do they know
we’re still alive?
he wondered. He looked out at the white
ship. It floated nearby, the broken hallway still attached.
Was
it a trap?

Peter
decided to leap. It would have been safer to get a fresh rocket
pack, but he didn’t know where to find one and he’d rather not
go back inside to look.

He
sprang from the hull and soared through space, catching the
framework and scurrying to the ship’s open door. The interior was
like a standard shuttle—a single room behind the cockpit with
three rows of seats and room for cargo. But the scale was minuscule;
the ship was designed for someone half his size.

Sakazuarians
,
Peter thought.
Or whatever they’re called.
He crawled to
the cockpit. He was too large to fit, so he leaned in, squeezing his
shoulders through the doorway.

The
controls looked simple enough. There was a stick for direction and a
throttle to control the speed. He poked around the console, pressing
the most likely buttons, and the engine hummed to life. He then
released the dock and flew the ship in a slow figure eight, getting
the feel of it.

“Linda?”

“Still
here.”

“I
need you to talk, so I can triangulate on your signal.”

“Talk
about what?”

“It
doesn’t matter. Just keep transmitting.” Then, as an
afterthought, “Tell me a story.”

“I
can see the promenade deck from here,” she said.

“The
room with all of the windows?”

“Yes,
that one. I was married there.”

“What?”
Peter blurted. He cut the comm, suddenly short of breath.
They
were married.
It was several minutes before he could reopen the
link.

“—ter,
are you there?” Linda asked, spooked.

“I’m
right here,” Peter said. “Everything is fine. Tell me about it.”

“I
don’t know if—”

“Please.”

“Okay,”
Linda said. It was a few moments before she spoke. “Nobody had
ever been married on the base before, so we made up our own
ceremony. You had proposed to me right after officer training, but
it took weeks to arrange everything. We kept it a secret as best we
could, afraid of what the General would do. But even that was fun,
sneaking around and talking in code. We called it the Event.