The Drift Wars Read Free

The bad news is that we’ve got a long walk before we get
ourselves killed.”
    —   —   —
    Sixteen
minutes after touchdown, the newly formed North-58 platoon rolled
out. Their target was three and a quarter miles away, and their
orders were to be there in seven minutes, so they had to hump it.
    Even
though this section of the jungle had been declared clear, the men
stayed in formation, guns at the ready, wary of ambush. In the
field, clear was a relative term. More than once, men had
stumbled onto Riel encampments right in the middle of their own.
    “Let
the suit do the work, Garvey,” Mickelson growled. Peter’s oxygen
light was glowing yellow again.
    Running
should be easy—he just needed to guide the artificial muscles with
his own. Peter had run literally thousands of miles during Basic,
but while he could remember the motions, his body seemed to have
forgotten. His legs struggled against the suit, tiring him out and
wasting precious air.
    Thankfully,
they soon reached the no-man’s land, and Mickelson motioned to
slow down. “Stay low,” he warned. “The Riel see you first,
you’ll never even know it.”
    —   —   —
    The
platoon took up an arrowhead formation with the seven general
infantry marines forming a V on the perimeter and the three
heavy-weaponry specialists—including Saul—just behind them. As
the platoon’s sniper, Peter walked to the center with Sergeant
Mickelson.
    The
platoon crept forward, the GIs expanding and contracting to maintain
their field of vision through the trees and underbrush. One of them
glanced at Peter with bloodshot eyes, a side effect of Battle Heat.
    Heat
was a drug cocktail administered by the suit’s Life Control System
to maximize a marine’s effectiveness in combat. Peter knew it only
by reputation—it was never issued to snipers for fear of impairing
their aim.
    They
arrived at their target three minutes late. There had been no
resistance along the way, and when they saw what they were up
against, they understood why. Who would skirmish in the jungle when
they could hole up in a fortress?
    —   —   —
    The
Riel stronghold was an oblong shard of reddish rock that towered
over a wide clearing. Its rough-hewn walls tapered to an impossibly
narrow base, like a massive spike balanced on its tip. A few green
patches were scattered around the rock face—trees and plants that
somehow found purchase. In several places sunlight glinted off
crystal shields, Riel fortifications impenetrable to even the
heaviest rifle in the marine arsenal.
    Mickelson
brought the platoon to a halt and moved to the front. His face
distorted as the glass in his visor thickened and reformed,
magnifying the distant rock. Peter tuned his visor to Mickelson’s
to see what his sergeant saw.
    Each
of the crystal shields—a half dozen in all—protected a gun nest,
either armed with a heavy-caliber recoiling rifle or twin machine
guns. Rocket batteries were spread over the stronghold, unmanned,
either sentient or operated by remote.
    All
these Riel had to be guarding something important, and Peter guessed
it was a Delta-class heavy-impulse blaster, which was exactly the
sort of antiship weapon they’d have to destroy to get back off
this planet.
    Mickelson
tracked along a recessed walkway cut into the rock face, spotting a
patrolling Gyrine.
    The
Gyrine was the smaller of the two Riel species. It was several feet
taller than a man, but from this distance its squat body made it
look short. Its black skin was dry and scaly, like the skin on a
bird’s legs, and its face was pinched, with squinting eyes and the
heavy jaw of a bulldog. Thick white fangs jutted up on either side
of its flat nose, the effect more cartoonish than ferocious—not
that Peter cared to put it to the test. This particular Gyrine had
no cybernetic augmentation, which made it an officer.
    “There’s
your first target, Garvey,” Mickelson said; a yellow dot appeared
on Peter’s visor