The Drift Wars

by James, Brett

  “I need to find a hospital,” Peter said. “Or a doctor.”

  The woman stared for a moment, blankly, then said, “Come on in. We’ll get you sorted.” She winked at him and sauntered back inside.

  Peter checked both ways—the alleyway was empty—then followed, ducking though the small door.

  — — —

  The room was just tall enough for Peter to stand. A short bar was set against one wall and a few dozen tables were scattered about. Everything was lit, but there was no source of light. It was as if the air itself glowed. The woman was nowhere to be seen.

  “What are you drinking, friend?” a man asked from behind the bar. He was middle-aged and wore a paisley felt vest over a white plastic shirt. He craned his neck up at Peter, giving him a welcome smile.

  “I need to find a hospital,” Peter said.

  “A what?”

  “A hospital,” Peter repeated. “The woman outside said you might be able to help me.”

  The bartender frowned.

  “Or a doctor,” Peter said. “A medic?”

  The man remained still as a picture for several seconds and then brightened. “Perhaps you’ll start with some food?” he asked, gesturing at a machine in the corner. It was a miniature of those in the Purple Area of the base. “We print a fine selection of meats here, with vegetables as good as fresh.”

  “That’s not what the man wants, George.”

  Peter turned. Three small men stood behind him, dressed in gaudy felts and plastics. The one talking had plastic glasses so large they covered his face.

  “He asked for a medic,” said the second man, who wore a wig of solid rubber.

  “How’s the war, soldier?” said the third, taking a drag from a toothpick-thin cigarette. “Kill the nasty Riel today?”

  “What kind of amusement is this anyway, George?” the man in the glasses asked the bartender.

  “No idea, friend,” the bartender replied.

  “Stupid projection,” the smoker said, flicking his cigarette at the bartender. It flew through him and struck the wall. The bartender didn’t seem to notice. Peter saw for the first time the shimmering translucency of the man’s skin. He was a projection.

  “Like talking to a wall,” the wigged man said, waving a hand at Peter. It connected, slapping against Peter’s leg. The man jerked back, shocked.

  “Hang on,” he said. “It’s real.”

  “Real like what?” asked the smoker. “A robot?”

  The man in glasses reached out tentatively, pinching the skin on Peter’s arm. “Flesh and blood.”

  “Hey,” Peter said, raising his fist. The man in the wig backed away.

  “Scared?” chided the man with glasses, shoving his friend at Peter.

  “So you’re what?” the smoker asked, lighting another cigarette from a glowing plug.

  “I’m a sergeant,” Peter said. The small men only looked confused. “A marine,” he added.

  “A reproduction?” he asked, incredulous. “For real?”

  “I heard they were big, but…”

  “A drink for the sergeant, George,” the man in glasses told the holographic bartender.

  “Do you drink?” the smoker asked Peter.

  “I can’t,” Peter said. “I’ve got to find a—”

  “A medic,” the man in glasses cut in. “We heard it. So why are you here?”

  “I have to go,” Peter said, starting for the door. Then he stopped. “I need to tell you something important,” he said.

  “Go on, then,” said the man in the wig.

  “The base was destroyed,” Peter said. “Wiped out.”

  The men stared blankly.

  “There’s nothing left to stop the Riel from invading the Livable Territories,” Peter continued.

  The men only stared. Peter took their reaction for fear, but then they burst out laughing.

  “Don’t you get it?” Peter shouted. “We lost the war. The Riel are coming!”

  “You sure he’s real?” asked the smoker. He reached out, but Peter slapped his hand away. There was a crunch. The smoker collapsed, clutching his wrist and screaming.

  “What the hell?” said the man in glasses, retreating. “Cops, George.”

  “I already called them, friend,” replied the bartender.

  Peter went for the door, but the two men blocked him.

  “You’ll wait here,” said the man in glasses.

  “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Peter said.

  “Too late.”

  “By far.”

  The men puffed up their small chests, seemingly ready to fight. But they jumped out of Peter’s way as he bulled past, knocking the door from its hinges and out into the alleyway.

  Sirens blared, growing louder. Peter was greeted by the shriek of a crowd gathering at one end of the alley. He ran in the opposite direction, away from the park.

  — — —

  Peter shoved through awnings hung at chest level, tearing the fabric and snapping the metal underneath. He scattered tables and chairs and reached the far street just as two police cars squealed to a halt in front of him.

  The police leaped from their cars, drawing projectile guns and taking cover. Peter raised his hands to surrender and one of the cops fired. The bullet caught him square in the chest.

  Peter staggered back, hands clutching his chest. The wound hurt, but not much. He lifted his hands; there was a hole in his shirt and a blemish on his skin, but no blood.

  The cops, terrified, opened fire. Their bullets stung like hornets.

  “Stop,” Peter yelled, kicking one of the cars. The bumper caved, crumpling the hood, and the car hopped backward, landing on a cop. The other three retreated, still firing. When their ammo ran out, they turned and fled.

  Peter lifted the car off of the cop and tossed it aside. The small man was mangled, but alive. He moaned in agony.

  Peter stared, horrified.

  More sirens approached and Peter ran, from himself as much as the police.

  — — —

  People scattered as Peter raced down the sidewalk, shoving each other and diving into traffic. The path cleared except for one man, as large as Peter, wearing a charcoal-black suit. He stepped from a shop and stood right in Peter’s way, facing the other direction. Peter aimed to the left, but the man swung into his way and turned around. It was another Peter.

  The clone reached into his jacket as Peter scrambled to stop. The clone broke into a wide grin. “Just admit it,” he said. “You look better in a Blanshim suit.” He winked at Peter and dissolved. It was only a projection.

  Four police cars raced around the corner. An officer leaned from a window, leveling an automatic rifle. Peter hopped to his feet and ran as the cop opened fire. Bullets drummed against Peter’s back.

  He quickly outpaced the police cars and took a left down a long, wide avenue, heading deeper into the city. The sky was a thin ribbon of yellow smog.

  Halfway down the block, narrow stairs led below the sidewalk. Peter hopped down them four at a time and kicked through the metal door at the bottom. He ducked inside.

  He followed the steps down past giant metal girders that looked sturdy enough to support the entire city. Machines clanked and hammered, hidden in the dark. Greasy dust coated the handrails, and the acrid stink of chemicals was overpowering. Far below, the room opened up to a wide expanse where trains crisscrossed one another, riding on cushions of sparkling blue electricity.

  The stairs ended at a narrow catwalk. Peter followed it, moving carefully in the dim light. He passed several massive supports, each with a staircase leading down, and then the catwalk split into three directions. He didn’t want to get lost, so he sat on the steps to get his bearings. He was breathing hard, and the room was spinning.

  He tried to thin
k, to make sense of what was happening, but his head was thick, fuzzy. All he knew was that he had to find help for Linda. He needed a plan, but the rhythmic mechanical sounds were a lullaby.

  His eyelids grew heavy and sleep washed over him.

  — — —

  Peter woke to the sound of footsteps. He bolted upright and saw two dark figures walking toward him. They stopped when they saw him, mumbled excitedly, and retreated.

  He rubbed his head, aching with the dullness of a hangover, and wondered how long he had slept. His legs and chest were sore and his stomach was tight with hunger. That can wait, he decided, getting to his feet. I’ve already wasted too much time.

  He climbed unsteadily to the streets.

  There were few indications that it was night. The strip of sunlight overhead was gone, and there were more gaps in the lighted grid work of offices in the surrounding buildings. The sidewalk was empty but for a small huddle of people on the corner. Peter walked in the other direction back toward the park.

  He stopped at a holographic projection of a man and woman that was behind a plateglass window. The man’s nose was enormous, nearly a foot long, and his skin was as smooth as car paint. The woman’s eyes and lips were unnaturally large, and her hair exploded from her head like mortar fire. Their mouths moved, and when Peter looked at them directly, their voices were projected into his ears.

  “…the big news tonight is a reproduction on the loose in downtown Bentings,” the woman said. “This was scanned earlier today—”

  Suddenly it was daylight. A car was overhead, falling in slow motion. It knocked Peter down; he felt the weight of the car and heard bones breaking. Then the car rose again and Peter saw his own face staring down at him, wearing a queer expression.

  “UF officials have teamed up with police to track it down,” the woman continued from behind the desk.

  “This is a nightmare scenario,” a policewoman said. “A military-grade weapon running around on our streets. They told us this could never happen.”

  Peter turned away from the projection as several motorcycles raced toward him. They whizzed past, engines echoing through the tall buildings.

  They’re after me, Peter thought. He needed to hide, but he still hadn’t found help for Linda. He’d go check on her, he decided, but as he stepped to the curb, a yellow car squealed up beside him. The door slid open, but the car was empty—no driver and no room for one, just two bench seats facing each other. A red laser pricked his eye, followed by a voice from the car.

  “Hello, P. Garvey, ident 765697897,” it said. “May I offer you a ride home?”

  — — —

  Peter took a step back. The car eased sideways, staying close. “Maximum travel time is seventeen minutes guaranteed,” it insisted.

  “Yes,” Peter decided, suddenly certain. “Take me home.”

  “Please enter the vehicle and fasten your seatbelt,” it said, a tinge of impatience in its electronic voice.

  The car was tiny. Peter squeezed inside by tucking his feet back and propping his knees on the opposite seat. His head was bent nearly to his lap. The car pulled away the moment he was inside.

  The sudden momentum rolled Peter’s stomach. He wiped the cold sweat from his face. It wasn’t nerves. His throat was raw; he was getting sick.

  They traveled through the city, passing clusters of nightlife—restaurants and bars spilling over with well-dressed people. They giggled and laughed, as if the war didn’t exist. Do they even know they’ve lost? Peter wondered. Do they even care? He turned away, staring down the road.

  The car stopped in front of a narrow cement building and bid him goodnight, whisking away without asking for payment.

  Probably goes right to my account, Peter thought. He leaned back and looked up; the building faded into the heights. He corrected himself: His account.

  — — —

  The door opened heavily as Peter approached, giving way to a lobby of shining white plastic. Three elevators stood opposite the door; one was open. There were no buttons. The doors closed behind him and the elevator rose.

  Numbers scrolled rapidly on a brass-colored plate, coming to rest at 2174. There was a slight rise as the elevator stopped and the doors opened on a dim hallway. A sign on the far wall offered directions by apartment number. Peter tried to the left.

  The carpet and wallpaper were matching green-on-green paisley. Brass-colored chandeliers clicked on, leading Peter forward and dimming as he passed.

  Halfway down the hall, a door clicked.

  — — —

  “Hello,” Peter whispered, leaning through the doorway. It was dark inside. “Hello,” he repeated, louder. No response. He stepped in.

  It was a spacious apartment. A short hallway led to a living room that was dominated by a U-shaped leather sofa. Sheer curtains hung over bay windows on the far wall. Peter walked over and looked out.

  He was miles in the air; he couldn’t even see the street below. The city lights were a panorama, stretching out in all directions, twinkling like stars in dark space.

  He let the curtain fall and spotted a glass-framed photo—a man and a woman. He tilted it to catch the light, but then heard a metallic clink behind him.

  “Don’t move,” said a trembling voice. Peter turned slowly.

  A small man, wrinkled and aged, stood across the room with a projectile gun in his hand. His eyes grew wide when he saw Peter’s face.

  “My God,” the man said.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Peter said, raising his hands.

  “I said don’t move.” The old man crept sideways, toward a phone on the table. Peter examined him, trying to peel back the cloak of age and find himself inside.

  He was half Peter’s height and thin with hunched shoulders. His ears were overlarge and his nose hung down at the tip, as if it had grown too long and then drooped. A few threads of white hair were strung over his mottled skull, and his eyes—magnified behind thick spectacles—were either green or yellow. Peter’s were blue.

  “Why am I here?” Peter asked.

  “What?”

  “A cab brought me here. It said this was my home. Why?”

  “How should I know?” The man said, feeling for the phone.

  “Am I you?” Peter asked. “Are you my original?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” the man said, raising the phone. “This is Donald in—” he started, but Peter was on him, ripping the phone away and crushing it in one hand.

  “Stay back,” Donald hissed, jabbing the gun into Peter’s ribs. Peter didn’t move.

  “My name is Peter Garvey,” he said.

  “I know who you are,” the man snapped.

  “You know Peter?”

  “There is no Peter.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I want you to leave,” he said, raising the gun to Peter’s face.

  “That thing is useless,” Peter said, staring him down.

  “I know,” he said. He slumped into a chair with a hand over his face. “What do you want?”

  “I need help.”

  “Help?” Donald was incredulous. “With what?”

  “My…friend. She’s sick.”

  “So go to a hospital.”

  “Where?” Peter asked. “How?”

  “She’s like you?”

  “She’s a nurse. Technician-grade.”

  “But she’s—?”

  “A clone, yes.”

  “We call them reproductions,” Donald said. “You’re…you’re Petra’s.”

  Peter was confused.

  “My wife,” Donald explained. “You were made from her code.”

  “But I’m…”

  “All marines are male. They make you that way. But everything else about you is her. The hair. The face. The eyes.” Pete
r shifted uncomfortably under Donald’s gaze. “She was very proud of you,” Donald continued. “You’re a general?”

  “No. The General is dead.”

  “No matter. The general dies, the soldiers die. Millions every day, billions every year. It’s all just a game, isn’t it?”

  “They were people, fighting to—”

  “Reproductions, you mean,” Donald said impatiently. “And what are we even fighting over?”

  Peter didn’t answer. He didn’t have an answer.

  “The great Drift Wars,” Donald sneered. “This is what? Our third?”

  “I don’t know,” Peter said weakly.

  “Petra liked it, though. She’d watch the Battle Channel most nights. If she could see you here, talking to me...” Donald smiled wistfully.

  “What happened to her?”

  “She died. We all do.” Donald looked down at the gun in his lap. “Some days there’s nothing to do but wait for it.”

  A minute passed. Neither man spoke.

  “You can’t take your friend to a hospital,” Donald said finally. “They’ll destroy her.”

  Peter nodded.

  “I’m sorry,” Donald said.

  Peter looked around the dim room, his eyes stopping at the picture by the window—the photograph of Donald and Petra. He took a step toward it, then stopped.

  “I should go,” he said.

  “Yes.” Donald pushed to his feet, set the gun on the table, and led Peter to the door. “Good luck,” he said. “I mean it.”

  “Thank you,” Peter said. Then, struck by a thought: “May I ask you something?”

  “Please.”

  “Do you know a woman named Amber? Amber Taylor?”

  Donald thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No,” he said, “I can’t say as I’ve ever heard of her.”

  — — —

  Peter stumbled down the sidewalk, light-headed, sweating profusely. He was breathing hard and the air burned his lungs like smoke. His stomach turned sour; he turned in to an alley and vomited. He leaned against the wall, retching out thin strings of fluid.

  After a few minutes he straightened up. Light shined on him from all directions, surrounding him. He had stumbled into some kind of arcade set in a small courtyard. It was closed for the night, but projections for the various entertainments glowed above him. Peter was drawn to one in particular.