The Drift Wars

by James, Brett

  The billboard was shaped like the wings of the service. It showed two marines, a man and a woman, firing guns at a comically distorted Typhon. Glowing letters announced: “UF Marine IX: Retribution.”

  “Immerse yourself in the war experience,” it read. “Fight as the United Force’s most dangerous weapon: a Grade 6 Military Reproduction.”

  A game, Peter thought. Just like Donald had said.

  — — —

  Peter made slow progress. The sky was a light gray when the park appeared in the distance. The sight encouraged him. He pushed forward on rubbery legs.

  A radio chirped behind him. He turned and saw a police officer following him from a few blocks away. The cop turned and fled, yelling into his handset.

  Peter picked up his pace, jogging at first and then running. Every muscle ached and he choked on the air. He had halved the distance to the park when an engine roared overhead. A small ship raced into view and stopped high overhead, hovering. Another craft took up position down the road.

  Peter took a left, away from the park. I don’t want to lead them to her, he thought. But a wide, flat tank pulled into the road, blocking the way. The dark eye of its main cannon rose toward Peter’s head, but it didn’t fire. Peter backed up and continued down the street. The tank followed.

  Each time he tried to change direction, he met another tank. Soon a small division crowded the road behind him. His last hope was to lead them beyond the park, but there were more tanks waiting at the entrance, forming a barricade that led to the arched gate. It was all machinery; there wasn’t a human in sight.

  They already know, Peter thought. The tanks crowded up behind him and he stumbled forward into the park. A single tank moved to the gate, blocking his return. Neither it nor the airships followed him inside.

  — — —

  The sun peered over the forest, and he squinted as he walked up the path. Linda wasn’t at the bench by the lake. He hadn’t expected her to be, but it still made him anxious.

  He took a minute to rest, bracing his arms on the back of the bench, not trusting himself to sit. His body hurt all over and his eyes wouldn’t focus. He hadn’t felt this bad since catching the flu as a child.

  “As a child,” Peter laughed caustically. He pushed to his feet and started into the trees.

  — — —

  He found the ship lying calmly among the trees, its white hull catching the early light. Its door was open. He called out Linda’s name, but there was no response.

  Peter rushed to the ship, heart pounding. She was inside, sleeping peacefully. He steadied himself on the door, watching, holding his sleeve to his mouth to muffle his breath. But something was wrong. He stepped softly inside, reaching for her forehead.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” said a familiar voice behind him. “You won’t want to remember her that way.”

  Peter turned. The dark outline of a man stood against the morning sun. Red light caught his shoulders and reflected off four brass stars.

  [01.14.6.2::9234.1427.937.5L]

  “You killed her,” Peter said, too shocked for anger.

  “She was dying,” the General replied.

  “You bastard!” Peter lunged, grappling for the General’s neck. But the General slipped to the side, batting him to the ground with casual ease.

  “Crossing the Drift boundary killed Linda,” the General said. “Bringing her here killed her. I simply offered her mercy.”

  “Mercy?” Peter spat. He tried to stand but toppled back, coughing, clutching his chest.

  “You get a different offer,” the General said, holding out a clear plastic mask. “Put this on. The air here is poisonous.”

  Peter hesitated, suspicious.

  “I am going to kill you,” the General said, “after we talk.”

  — — —

  Peter took the mask and breathed deeply. He felt his head clear. “How can the air be poisonous?” he asked. “This is our home.”

  “Actually we’re of Sakazuarian manufacture. We’re only modeled after Genesians. Our memories—our entire lives—were created from scratch. But you already know that, don’t you?”

  Peter nodded.

  “You and I were born in the Drift,” the General continued, “and we’re meant to stay there. The air on Genesia is poisonous to us because we’re nitrogen intolerant. It builds up in our blood and makes us sick. It’s a kill switch designed into our bodies to keep us out of the Livable Territories. Both you and Linda would be have been dead in another twenty-four hours.”

  “So you murdered her?”

  “We don’t have time for this, sergeant. I offered her pills and she took them. From the look of her, she would have taken them weeks ago. If anyone had asked.”

  “And how are you even alive?” Peter asked. “The whole base was destroyed. I saw it.”

  “Do you really think we take such risks?”

  “There’s another base?”

  “There are hundreds, maybe thousands, for all I know. Don’t give me that look. You’ve kept your share of secrets. You were told why no one below the rank of colonel knows he is a clone?”

  “Because people fight harder when they believe their lives are at stake.”

  “And?”

  “And because battles are decided by how motivated we are to fight.”

  “Not just battles, kid. Wars. Clones are expensive. Suits and weapons are expensive. We can’t have our boys throwing their lives away like it was some video game. They need to have a stake.

  “The same principle applies to a base. If you think the fate of the entire war hangs on its survival, then you’ll fight like hell to defend it.”

  “All of those lies,” Peter said, “just to make us fight?”

  “Oh, it’s more than that. We aren’t as advanced as you might think. Sure we’re big and tough, but we’re still human. Our improvements are merely the result of genetic trial and error. We’re nothing compared to the Riel.

  “Gyrines and Typhons were designed from the ground up, not only as fearsome killing machines but also as perfect soldiers. Order them to guard a rock and they will—for a week or for a decade—and never even ask why.

  “You and I, on the other hand, inherit the frail emotions of our originals. We require purpose. We must be inspired, given a reason, simply to do what we were created for.”

  “So they give us memories?” Peter asked. “Make us think we’re human?”

  “It’s a subtle trick. Take this planet, for example.” The General looked around, grimacing. “Disappointing, isn’t it? Where are those small towns? The earnest people? And let’s not forget, the pretty women.”

  The General pulled a locket from his coat pocket and tossed it in Peter’s lap.

  “Amber,” Peter said.

  “Someone you’d die to protect. Every marine is given a cause. Ours was her.”

  “It’s cruel,” Peter said.

  “Maybe,” the General said. “But it works. Look how far you’ve come to save the woman you love.”

  Peter looked at the ship’s dark doorway, where Linda lay dead.

  Forever.

  — — —

  “So here’s your choice,” the General said. “Either I’m going to kill you, or I’m going to scan your memory and then kill you.”

  “That’s a choice?”

  “Either you go back, or we restore the colonel—the version of you who married Linda. The version who has never seen this planet, the Threes, or the inside of the Riel universe.”

  “You said he was destroyed,” Peter said, “wiped from the memory banks.”

  The General gave Peter a disdainful look and glanced at his watch. He drew a needle from his pocket and filled it from a small bottle.

  “Why did you bother coming here?” Peter asked. “Why not just l
et me die?”

  “Because you’re me,” the General said, distracted.

  “What?”

  “You are me. Same genes, same memories. My own line, restarted from scratch.”

  “Why not just clone you?”

  “Oh, they have. Hundreds of times. There’s a General Garvey running nearly every base in the UF. And that makes the originals nervous. They’re afraid that the Riel will catch on to my tactics, that one day I’ll start losing like the robots lost the first Drift War. It’s not a flattering comparison, but you get used to it, answering to optimates.

  “The trouble is, none of the other lines have shown much potential. And that’s where you come in: you’re a variation on a proven line. New and improved, or so I’m told. Now hold still.”

  The General knelt down, pressing his gun to Peter’s temple while he jabbed the needle into his neck.

  Peter’s head went light. The General eased him to the ground.

  “All generals are told the truth,” Garvey said. “We know who we’re really fighting for. This isn’t how you’re supposed to find out, but since you have, I’m here to see if you will.”

  “Will what?”

  “Fight.”

  “Fight?” Peter mumbled. “To defend these…?”

  “Self-important worms?” the General suggested. “Pathetic mice?”

  “Yes,” Peter agreed. “Why do you fight for them?”

  The General shrugged, stirring pine needles with his boot.

  “What else is there?” he said. “We are made to fight.”

  “We’re pawns,” Peter said.

  “We’re warriors,” the General said, “fighting the greatest battle in history.

  “We’re not human. We’re gods. We die a thousand deaths but live forever. Every day brings a new thrill, a new battle, and another chance to prove ourselves in the face of death. The ancients dreamed of a life like ours. They called the place Valhalla. To them it was heaven—a myth. But we live there.

  “You’re not a boy anymore, Peter. You don’t need any made-up, romantic nonsense.” The General motioned to ship. “You killed a Typhon for her. Would you dare to just live your life for her?”

  Peter concentrated on the General’s words, but they were fuzzy. He turned to the ship, to Linda.

  “You’re running out of time,” the General said. “Choose.”

  Peter didn’t have an answer. She was gone. Everyone was gone. The sky faded and, in the last twinkle of light, he mouthed his choice.

  Then everything went black.

  [16.45.19.8::4783.9183.722.8D]

  White.

  White so thick that Peter couldn’t see his hands. His gloves appeared as he dropped below the clouds, but everything else remained white—an overcast sky and a snow-covered planet met seamlessly at the horizon.

  Marines plunged from the clouds, speckling the sky. Two hundred thousand men—a full division—all under Peter’s command. Colonel Garvey’s command.

  Peter was leading from the front. An unnecessary risk, but today he just felt like it. And this mission was only a decoy, a feint to draw the enemy’s attention from the real invasion, which was at the other end of the solar system. He wasn’t going to win, so he might as well have some fun.

  Being out front also gave him a chance to watch his new men in action—the freshly christened Asigma Garvey division. Recruits all, with no memories past Basic. These men believed that Peter had personally supervised their entire training. In reality, this was the first time he’d laid eyes on them. So far he wasn’t impressed.

  They were a nervous, uncoordinated bunch. They jerked around in the air, their virtual training out of tune with their newly minted bodies. It always took a couple versions to settle in. And they hadn’t found their balls yet, either. They had been as silent as corpses on the way here, no doubt fearing for their very lives.

  And with good reason, Peter thought, turning to study the empty field below. He was expecting a volley of bullets to greet them, but it hadn’t come. Something was wrong. Not ten hours ago, the satellites had spotted a Riel garrison in the area.

  “They’re catching on to us,” he muttered. He logged the enemy’s absence into the battle computer and fired his rocket—a thermal-ionic booster pack with enough fuel to fly around for hours. One of the privileges of rank.

  He hovered as the other men, clumsy and howling, fell past; then he oriented himself with a distant mountain range. Three miles to the south was a Riel outpost, their official target. He decided to rough out some sort of assault, just in case. He dialed up the mission intel.

  This time of year, he read, the outpost was buried under a hundred yards of snow. The only access points were the front door, the back door, and a half-dozen ventilation shafts. They were all heavily fortified, so there was no chance he’d actually get inside. “But if you are prudent with your men,” General Garvey had advised, “you should be able to stretch the assault out for a couple of hours.”

  And it’ll be good experience, Peter decided, for any who survive.

  His thoughts were interrupted by an explosion, which was followed by several more. Puffs of black smoke rose from the white landscape. Shit, Peter thought, almost laughing. Land mines.

  Explosions cracked in the morning air and a blanket of dark smoke covered the plain. Clusters of blue dots disappeared from Peter’s map and the comm was flooded with screaming sergeants and moaning men. So much for that, Peter thought. A whole fifteen seconds’ worth of distraction. He killed the comm and focused on his own landing.

  There was no map of the land mines yet—satellite coverage wasn’t scheduled until they were groundside, and their suits’ sensors weren’t strong enough to penetrate the snow. For now, the only way to find them was to set them off.

  He drew his pistol and fired in a spiral pattern at the ground. A mine exploded, splattering snow on his visor. He landed gently, the webbing on his boots spreading his weight and allowing him to stand on the fresh powder.

  Peter was the last to touch down. The battle computer reported that three-quarters of his division had been killed on impact. He set a meeting point for the remaining men and slapped a fresh battery into his gun. As he started forward, bullets ripped up the snow at his feet.

  Finally, he thought, something to kill.

  His suit calculated the bullets’ reverse trajectory, highlighting his target. Peter checked which of his forces were nearby and, racing ahead, opened the comm. “Sergeant Graff,” Peter said.

  “What?” Saul replied.

  “Live target in your sector. Sending coordinates.”

  “I’m standing right on it,” Saul said. Peter saw a group of men ahead, where the target was supposed to be. There was nothing else. Then the snow swelled, bursting in a red flash as a Typhon leapt from a trench. It landed in front of Peter, its column-thick legs sinking in the deep snow.

  Peter’s hand went for his belt, but he wasn’t carrying explosives.

  Oh well, he thought, as a monstrous hand swung down at him. I wouldn’t get to pull that trick twice anyway.

  The Typhon grinned, scooping him into the air. It lobbed off a couple of rockets, opening its hand as they struck him on both sides.

  Black.

  White.

  Peter blinked. There was a rustle of sheets and a young woman’s face appeared, smiling down at him. She was beautiful, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” she asked.

  “Being in love with you.”

  “It better be,” Linda said, flopping heavily onto his chest. Peter traced his hand down the cleft of her back, feeling the silken skin of her new body. He reached for the light beside the bed.

  Black.

  Also by Brett James:

  The Deadfall Project

>   Thank you Rob, and damn you

  Rob, for encouraging this.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My enduring thanks to my editors, Jeff Stark

  and Jenna Kamp. Thanks as well to Jeremy Roth,

  Nicholas Sher, Barri Evins, Jennifer Wilkin,

  Allen White, Ian Saunders, Pam Susemiehl,

  Megan Caper, Jason James, Donna Bell,

  Bill Loeb, Ed Overton, Skunk,

  Jeanne and Lance James, Mo Flaherty,

  Paul Ford, Paula Z Segal, Jason Engdahl,

  Kristin Campbell-Taylor, Fred Ohler,

  David Hagberg, Danielle Hlatky,

  Andrew Leung, Libby Stephens,

  Pablo Morales, and so many others

  that have offered support, both moral and

  tangible, through the years.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 Brett James

  All rights reserved.

  Fallacy Publications

  http://thedriftwars.com

  ISBN 978-0-9850864-2-8

  First Edition

  cover art by Andrew Leung

  Book design by MobiHue