Free The Drift Wars by Brett James Page A

your most valuable target.” Mickelson studied
the Gyrine. “Probably a colonel, or even a general. We don’t
know if they choose their officers at birth, sons of generals and
whatnot, or if the restoration of limbs comes with each promotion.
    “Hell,”
he said, “for all we know, they just grow new bodies by the vat.
They’re certainly eager to mutilate the ones they’re born with.”
    —   —   —
    The
ship slapped against the planet’s upper atmosphere and skipped
along the surface. The cabin rattled and creaked as if being torn
apart, and every bounce threw Peter’s guts twice as far as the
rest of him. He pressed his back to the seat, trying to ignore the
tempest in his stomach.
    “Cripes,
Garvey,” Mickelson said, strolling up. “You’re white as your
own ghost. You gonna make it, recruit?”
    Peter
tried to reply but couldn’t unclench his jaw.
    “Anyone
in there?” Mickelson asked, tapping a finger on Peter’s visor.
Peter bent forward and threw up, flooding his helmet with khaki
vomit.
    “Son
of a…” Mickelson said, hopping away instinctively. He yanked the
emergency release—disconnecting the marines from their seats—and
threw Peter to the floor. He raised Peter by his legs, upside down,
so that the vomit pooled at the top of his helmet. It puddled over
his eyes, but his mouth was clear. Peter gasped for breath, chunks
of food flying down his throat.
    “Someone
get that goddamned helmet off,” Mickelson barked. Saul hopped over
and fumbled with the clasps at Peter’s neck. The helmet dropped to
the floor, leaving a gooey smear. Mickelson threw Peter aside and
slammed his fist into the wall, muffled obscenities spewing from his
helmet.
    When
he had calmed, Mickelson linked to Command. “High-altitude jump
aborted,” he said. “Bring us home.”
    —   —   —
    In
the basement of the barracks, there was a computer room filled with
long rows of terminals for the men to send and receive mail from
home; the Training Orbital was too far away for video.
    Peter
plodded in, exhausted, barely able to stand. His face was scrubbed
red, but the smell of vomit lingered on his skin. His stomach was
empty and sore, not only from throwing up but also because
Mickelson, arguing that Peter had nothing left to lose, kept him on
the shuttle for another three hours, doing one planetary entry after
another. When they finally docked, Peter was so shaken that he had
to crawl off the ship.
    The
silver lining, if only for one night, was that he was finally out of
his suit while it was getting cleaned and checked for damage. After
being sealed inside for six straight weeks, his skin tingled in the
open air.
    Peter
searched the room for a free terminal. He was due for a letter from
Amber.
    After
he enlisted, she wanted to help out with the war effort but quickly
found there wasn’t much for her to do. Most of the factories were
automated, and she didn’t have the education to oversee the
machinery. She joined an effort to send care packages to the troops,
but it turned out the distance between the Livable Territories and
the Drift made shipping prohibitive. They couldn’t even send
handwritten letters, but had to scan them to send by computer.
    She
finally settled on organizing a local conservation awareness
program. Raw materials—steel and petroliates—were limited by
production, and the less they used domestically, the more was
available for ships, suits, and weapons. The work kept Amber busy,
and she always had plenty to report, which made Peter feel guilty
about his meager replies.
    Despite
his hectic schedule, his life just wasn’t that interesting. There
were hours of marching and drills, followed by endless target
practice—Peter had been selected for sniper training. By the end
of the day, when he finally got to the computer room, he was too
tired to think. But Amber didn’t seem to notice that their
conversations were one-sided. And that was good, because she was
Peter’s only