Authors: Brett James
The
Teisserenc Belt stretched out for thousands of miles, like a massive
stone wall with the mortar removed. It was so calm, so beautiful.
Peter didn’t want to spoil the view by thinking about how many
Riel were hiding in there.
— — —
Orienting
in the three dimensions of space was far more complex than doing so
on the ground, and Peter was still fumbling into position when
Mickelson gave the order to move out. Their first target was a
missile turret a few thousand yards inside the belt, which was close
enough, Mickelson decided, to burn gas. It was a calculated risk:
their fuel was limited, like their oxygen and batteries, and once
they ran out, they would be stuck.
Mickelson
fired his rocket pack and flew ahead, diving below the asteroid that
had been their cover. The platoon fell into a double-V formation,
like the twin blades of a broadhead arrow. The other men readied
their rifles, but Peter had to settle for his pistol.
They
weaved through the asteroids, which were invisible beyond the green
outlines on Peter’s scope. The occasional flash of distant rocket
fire echoed through the rocks, but it became less frequent as the
platoon moved deeper into the belt, away from the battle and into
the eerie stillness beyond.
Mickelson
called for helmet lights, and a bloodred asteroid leaped from the
dark. The marines banked, their formation flattening as they skimmed
along the rock face, heading toward a small cave. The cave walls
were smooth, machine-made. The men formed up around the rim, as if
protecting it, and Mickelson motioned Peter inside.
“You’re
up, Garvey,” Mickelson barked. Snipers were rarely useful in the
close quarters of an asteroid belt, so Peter had drawn double-duty
as the explosives team. He eased himself to the edge and, pistol
first, peered in.
His
helmet light reflected off something large and flat ten yards down:
a crystal shield that blocked the way. Something moved on the far
side, but Peter couldn’t tell what.
He
took a deep breath, grabbed the rim, and flung himself down.
— — —
Peter
aimed his pistol forward as he descended, his hand clenching the
grip. The glare from his helmet light was blinding, so he switched
to a smaller one mounted on his wrist, holding it wide to reduce the
reflection.
The
pistol clinked against the shield, and Peter brought his face to it.
A cross-hatched electronic eye, mounted on a missile turret, stared
back at him. It was flocked with a dozen missiles, each as large as
his arm, all of which were aimed at him. Peter started, pushing
himself back, his heart pounding.
“Hop
to!” Mickelson shouted over the comm. Peter lurched at the sound,
knocking against the crystal.
I’m
wasting time
, Peter thought. Back on the surface, his platoon
was exposed to attack.
He
slipped an explosive from his belt—putty packed into a shallow
metal bowl, which focused the blast. He peeled the plastic film from
the flat side, pressed it to the shield, then twisted it to set the
adhesive. He placed another bomb in the opposite corner and, for
luck, a third one in between. Sweat trickled through his eyebrows,
but he had no way to wipe it.
Underneath
the crystal, the turret tracked Peter’s movements, keeping its
missiles aimed at his head. But the shield remained closed; the
turret felt that either the crystal would protect it or that
reinforcements were on the way. Peter suspected the latter.
Peter
armed the explosives and the countdown started on his visor: three
minutes. Plenty of time, but no reason to waste it. He flipped
around, banging against the tight cave walls, then shoved off the
crystal’s surface, leaping away. He rose through the cave,
reaching the top just as the onslaught began.
— — —
Flaming
tracers zipped by Peter’s head. They would be mixed with more
deadly rounds that were invisible in the dark. Something rattled
against his helmet, but it was only rock fragments that had chipped
from the asteroid behind him.
A
half-dozen machine guns twinkled in the distance, the Riel behind
them hidden by the bright muzzle flash. Peter’s blood ran warm as
his suit injected him with Battle Heat.
Heat
was a volatile drug, its use limited to the most desperate of combat
situations. Peter had never felt it before, but knew it by the
warmth and by his swelling muscles. His mind sharpened and his
thinking cleared. He could see now just how frail the enemy was, how
outnumbered—their weapons were inconsequential. Killing them would
be easy.
He
charged forward with a quick burst of his rocket pack, diving
straight at the machine guns. He raised his pistol and clicked the
trigger. His gun had no flash or kickback. The only indication that
it worked was a red light blinking on the back. The machine guns
hammered Peter, bullets glancing harmlessly off the sharp angles of
his suit’s shoulders and helmet. Then his arm caught a solid hit,
knocking it back.
Peter
had no way to tell if the bullet had penetrated. If it had, his
combat suit would instantly anesthetize the wound, and his
artificial muscles would compensate for any damage to his flesh. In
case of an air leak, the suit would seal his arm off from his body,
leaving it to fend for itself against the freezing vacuum of space.
— — —
The
Gyrine appeared behind a blazing machine gun. It was naked, its
tough body as comfortable in rancorous space as on any planet—more
so perhaps, since the creature drank oxygen instead of breathing it.
From the chest down, its right half was completely robotic. Its arm
ended with a multi-barreled minigun, which spit a continuous stream
of bullets.
Peter’s
confidence wavered. The creature was enormous, its machinery
powerful. But then the warmth in his blood grew to fire. He aimed at
the creature’s head, holding the trigger until the battery ran
dry.
There
was no impact from the shot; the Gyrine’s skull simply dissolved,
its head melting to a jiggling sack. Peter had never killed anything
before. He stared, transfixed.
Bullets
strafed his feet. Peter shoved a fresh battery clip into his pistol
and spun, but the battle was over. Four marines stood nearby—the
survivors—while eight others floated lifelessly in space, forming
a trail that led back to the asteroid.
Saul
flew up to Peter, thumbs up, waving at the dead Gyrines. Their
bodies were drained, their robotics warped and twisted. Peter
returned the gesture, trying to be enthusiastic, but the Heat had
dissipated and with it his confidence.
Two
men for every Gyrine
, Peter thought, counting the corpses.
Mickelson had told them they’d be lucky to see that ratio. So they
had been lucky, but Mickelson had not. Their sergeant’s body
floated among the dead.
— — —
A
red light blinked in Peter’s visor, reminding him that the charges
he had set would explode in less than a minute. It wasn’t much
time to clear the blast radius. He checked the gas level in his
rocket pack; he’d be lucky to get a three-second burn. It wasn’t
enough. The only asteroid in that range was the one they needed to
escape.
Peter
searched his map for options and found none. The battle computer
suggested a route off to the right, drawing a blue line on his map,
but Peter knew it wouldn’t work. While they might clear the
initial explosion, shattering a crystal shield would require
tremendous force; the resulting shockwave would reflect several
times with deadly power, catching them squarely. So either the
computer had made an error or was simply offering false hope in lieu
of none at all.
The
other men had already started along the computer’s route when
Peter squeaked, “Stop,” his voice cracking.
Peter
reddened as the other men turned to him, but he couldn’t take it
back now. Seconds were ticking away.
“This
way,” he said, pointing back to the missile turret. “The
asteroid is too big to explode, so we can take cover on the other
side.”
The
men looked at one another, unsure. They had all seen the flaw in the
computer’s plan, but in Mickelson’s absence, the computer was
the authority.
“You’re
sure?” Saul asked.
“No,”
Peter said, but he didn’t back down.
Saul
chewed on it. “Better idea than what Command had,” he said,
considering. Then he nodded, waving Peter ahead.
Peter
took a deep breath and fired his rocket pack, leading the men
straight at the explosives.
— — —
Peter
used his stabilizers to flip around, approaching the asteroid
feet-first. He banked, skimming over the surface, the rock passing
inches from his face. He was heading toward the edge of the asteroid
where, according to his scope, the rock tapered to a thin wall that
would offer cover. His plan was to swing around behind it, somehow.
The
explosive’s timer fell to ten seconds as his feet passed the
bottom of the asteroid. He dragged his hands along the surface,
feeling for anything large enough to grab.
When
the counter hit five, he was halfway below the edge. He clawed at
the rock, his fingers slipping on its smooth surface. The bottom
rose to his chin, then slipped away. Beyond was nothing but empty
space.
He
stretched his arm up, grasping for the very tip of the rock, but it
was too thick. His hand wasn’t wide enough to get a grip. The
asteroid climbed out of reach, floating away. The counter dropped:
Three.
Two.
One.
Something
slapped into Peter’s hand; his fingers closed automatically. By
sheer luck, he caught a spur at the edge of the asteroid. He
tightened his grip, kicked his legs, and swung behind the rock.
A
flaming geyser shot from the cave. The asteroid trembled and the
rock in Peter’s hand broke free. He was adrift but safe. The
shockwave passed, tickling his feet.
— — —
The
other marines swung behind the asteroid right behind Peter, each
with better form. Three made it, but the last, Alan DeGrazzio,
wasn’t fast enough. The shockwave—a haze of gas and microscopic
particles—struck him full on. He was pressed flat as a door, and
then his suit sprang back into shape, filled with the paste of what
had just been a man.
The
remaining four men watched him float away, his visor tinted red. One
by one they turned away.
— — —
Peter’s
map was a complete blank; the explosion had knocked out all the
sensor pods in their area. Blind beyond the range of his headlamp,
he turned in a circle, guessing what to do next. Then a blue light
blinked in his visor. He was being hailed.
“Sergeant
Peter Garvey,” Colonel Chiang San said, his projection appearing
in space, as if standing beside him. “Promotion effective now.
Sending you coordinates for a nearby Riel outpost. Battle is in
progress. Get over there and take charge.”
The
projection dissipated, leaving Peter so dumbfounded that he didn’t
see the approaching asteroid until it hit him in the face.
— — —
Peter
was knocked into a backward spin, scrambling his sense of direction.
He tried to orient himself using the headlamps of the other marines,
but Saul was shouting frantically, making it hard to concentrate.
Peter had never heard the big man panic before. It was alarming.
A
second asteroid pressed against his back, shoving him toward the
first. The two rocks were on a collision course, and Peter was in
the middle. The math part of his brain figured that the explosion
had blown the asteroid backward, hurling it—and him—into the
other. The rest of his brain didn’t care; it just wanted out.
Somewhere
in Saul’s garbled shouting, Peter caught the word “legs.” He
curled his legs up just as the two asteroids connected with shearing
force. The rear asteroid slammed his head into the other, scratching
thick white lines down his visor.
The
remaining gap between the two asteroids was a V-shaped canyon that
narrowed as the two rocks rotated toward each other. The other men
were already scurrying up the rock, heading for the opening at the
top.
— — —
The
asteroid was rich in iron, providing traction for the magnets in
Peter’s boots. He climbed along a crystalline vein, gripping its
rough surface with the rubber pads on his fingertips.
He
was halfway up when the asteroid jolted backward. He hugged the rock
to keep from being thrown and looked up just as Donaldson crashed
into his visor. Peter was knocked back. He lost his grip and went
spinning into the chasm. Below him, Donaldson disappeared into a
cloud of rock dust; the two asteroids were pulverizing each other
and everything in between. Peter would be next.
He
gouged at the rock but found no purchase. The walls tightened, the
rust-colored dust engulfed him, and then, suddenly, he wrenched to
stop.
“Gotcha,”
Ramirez said. He was dangling in the air, holding Peter by his
oxygen tank. At first it looked like Ramirez was floating, but then
Peter saw a green line on his visor. The micro-cord, a carbon weave
only a few dozen molecules thick, was invisible to the naked eye but
coded for his suit to detect. The line ran up to Saul, at the top of
the canyon. The big man tugged, and Peter and Ramirez flew upward.
Halfway
there, Ramirez’s chest plate got caught in the shrinking gap and
jerked him to a stop. Peter reached the top and Saul caught him,
palming his helmet in one giant hand. He set Peter down and heaved
on the microcord.
Twenty
feet down, Ramirez was sandwiched between the tightening asteroids.
Saul yanked him free, but the rocks closed, catching him a few feet
later.
“Give
me a hand,” Saul said, panting.
Peter
took the end of the cable and pulled, his artificial muscles
whining. Ramirez finally came loose, shooting up. He was nearly out
when his foot got stuck. Saul and Peter pulled on his arms, but his
metal boot was wedged tight, bending under the press of the walls.