The Drift Wars (27 page)

“The
morning of, the other nurses surprised me with a dress. They had
sewn together some old uniforms and made a train out of bedsheets.
It was horrible, but it was wonderful. You should have seen it.”

Peter’s
fists were tight, mangling the throttle. He forced his hands open,
raised them to the air, and tried not to punch anything.

“Peter…
I mean,
my
Peter, ordered the promenade deck shut for
repairs. Chiang San officiated and all of your sergeants were there.
We even had a honeymoon of sorts, locked in the cargo bay of a naval
destroyer. The ship spent three days pretending to chase an enemy
scout while we… It was amazing, Peter. It was a gift.”

Peter
cut the comm.

—   —   —

He
found Linda among the wreckage below the base. He parked at a
distance, not trusting his piloting skills, then tethered himself
and leaped. He kept the comm shut as he pulled her to the ship and
stowed her in the back. He left her in the suit.
The ship’s not
safe until I check the airlock
, he told himself. But he knew
better.

He
circled around to the cargo bay and landed with extreme care, using
quick taps of the thruster. He unloaded Linda, leaned her against
the ship, and opened the comm.

Neither
spoke at first. When they eventually did, it was awkward. Peter
wanted to discuss supplies and living arrangements, but Linda wasn’t
interested. The base’s life support had completely failed, so
Peter left her in her suit and got to work.

First
he inspected the ship, checking the solar panels, water reclamation,
and oxygen generators. Then he loaded it up.

Being
in the cargo bay meant that finding supplies was as simple as
opening crates. Peter stuffed the ship with a year’s worth of
food, a couple extra suits, a crate of batteries, and two of every
type of weapon he could find. Experience had taught him to be
prepared.

He
tore out the backseats and laid in a full-size mattress—no doubt
intended for some officer’s quarters. It was going to be a long
trip, so they might as well be comfortable.

Peter
worked quickly, worried about what the Riel had left behind, then
loaded Linda and flew the ship back outside. When they were safely
distant from the base, he released her from the suit. She crawled
into the bed, stretching her muscles and inspecting her bruises
without comment.

—   —   —

Peter
had been fiddling with the Nav computer for close to an hour when
Linda squeezed under him and into the cockpit. She was just small
enough to fit inside, and it turned out she knew a bit of
Sakazuarian.

“You’re
sure about this?” she asked.

“It’s
our only choice,” Peter replied.

Linda
brought up the autopilot, keyed in a quick sequence, and the ship
began to move. Peter watched the base shrink in the rear monitor.
First it blended with the other stars; then it disappeared
completely.

—   —   —

Once
they were at speed, Linda peeled off Peter’s suit and attended to
his wounds with the ship’s medical kit. The painkiller she
injected made his skin tingle and made him all the more conscious of
her touch. Her hands felt soft, even as she stitched the bullet hole
in his arm and the long, deep cut in his calf.

“If
you really think this is your last body,” she said, “you might
want to take better care of it.”

—   —   —

It
took five weeks to cross the Drift, most of which Peter spent lying
in bed, drugged and healing. He wanted to climb back into his suit
to numb the pain, but Linda wouldn’t allow it.

“Your
suit’s drugs are too strong. They don’t heal you, they only keep
you operational.”

So
Peter accepted the pain and held out as long as he could before
asking for another injection.

He
had nothing to occupy his mind—the room didn’t even have
windows—so he spent his time fretting about Riel patrols. Linda
avoided him, shutting herself in the cockpit except to tend his
wounds or feed him.

The
food came in cartons of raw powder; lacking the equipment to
reconstitute it, she simply mixed it with water. The result was a
chalky paste. There were a few flavors, but they all tasted like
ground flour.

A
couple of weeks into the journey, the sterile smell of antiseptic
gave way to the acrid smell of their bodies. The ship lacked a
shower, which Peter found odd, given the length of the journey, and
they had to clean themselves with wet towels.

Peter’s
own smell embarrassed him, but he was attracted to the sweet
coarseness of Linda, which added to his feelings of awkwardness.

—   —   —

The
muted tension of the trip was broken by the reappearance of the
Drift boundary—they had reached the border to their own universe.
Peter, fully healed, squeezed his head into the cockpit and chatted
with Linda about what lay beyond the shimmering curtain.

Next
Peter went though the familiar routine, strapping both of them flat
to the mattress.

“Don’t
worry,” he said, “I’ve done this before.”

Linda
nodded, dubious, and then the hull began to shriek.

Peter
was surprised at how easily his new body handled the crossing; he
felt no more than a sinking feeling, like he was nodding off to
sleep. Linda didn’t fare as well.

She
lay still at first, eyes closed, then let out a low moan. Her body
started to shake, as if the ship were passing through heavy
turbulence. Bruises appeared on her neck and arms, seemingly caused
by nothing. Peter called to her, but she didn’t seem to hear. When
they finally reached the other side, he ripped off the straps and
sat her up. She doubled over, gasping for breath.

She
sat there for over an hour, panting heavily, then lay back and fell
into a troubled sleep. Peter sat beside her, watching her chest rise
and fall, and listening to the rattle of her breath. He spread out
the medical kit and tried to guess what might help.

Linda
woke up feeling better, but her skin was pale and she could barely
talk. She guided Peter as he injected her with painkiller, but she
wouldn’t allow anything else. When he pressed her, she only looked
away.

Peter
wanted to leave, to give her a moment alone, but there was nowhere
to go. He turned away and kept quiet.

Another
hour passed and he grew restless. He got up and mixed some food; the
scraping sound of the spoon filled the room.

“Thank
you,” she said, taking a bowl from him and setting it, untouched,
at her side.

—   —   —

Three
days after they entered their own universe, Peter put on his combat
suit and went outside. He told Linda he was going to inspect the
hull, but the truth was that he just had to get away. Linda was very
sick. He could smell the decay on her breath, the sickness inside,
but she refused to talk about it. It was dismal. It was driving him
crazy.

Stepping
outside of a moving ship was jarring. The stars streaked past,
racing from the glowing white mass in front of the ship, arcing
overhead, then melting away behind. Peter clung dearly to the hull
as he climbed to the roof.

The
ship was encased in the shimmering bubble of a warp envelope. Green
dots flashed in the air—microscope particles incinerated by the
force of the ship’s passing. They reminded Peter of the fireflies
that swarmed the fields of Genesia on warm summer evenings.

Home
,
Peter thought, settling on the roof. They would be there soon, and
he was nervous. He’d been so young when he left, and the war had
barely started. Would he even recognize it?

—   —   —

“Are
you excited to see your homeworld again?” Peter asked over
breakfast. They had been in their own universe for three weeks now,
and while Linda’s condition hadn’t improved, last night they had
detected a large energy source that had to be the Great Barrier, the
giant shield that protected the entire Livable Territories.

“It
isn’t really my homeworld,” Linda said.

“You
know what I mean.”

“I
do,” Linda said, nodding. “But to be honest, I’d rather not
go.”

“Really?”

“My
memories of that place…her memories. They aren’t mine, but
they’re just as real. Just as inescapable. I was relieved to learn
I am a clone.”

“I’m
sorry,” Peter said, thinking back to the drawings in her desk, the
dark images in heavy pen.

“Don’t
be. That was a long time ago. And as for my original, I’m sure
she’s long dead.”

“Why?”
Peter asked.

“Do
you have any idea how old I am?”

Peter
shook his head.

“I’m
ninety-two, Peter. Not counting the age of my original.”

“You
don’t look it.”

“Clones
don’t really show their age, but we do wear out. We last about a
century.”

“And
you’re still on your first body?”

“My
only body. Technician-grade clones don’t have a neural web.
There’s no way to get my memories out.”

“So
then what? You just die?”

Linda
stared at him, sober, then coughed into a bloodstained napkin.

Peter
looked away, stirring the yellowish paste on his plate. Several
minutes passed before he said, “He married you anyway. Even though
you only have a few years left.”

“Yes,”
Linda said. “Even though he would have to watch me die. Even
though I would forget everything. Do you know how much that means?”

Peter
shook his head. “No,” he admitted.

Linda
gave him a hard look, probing, and smiled. “You might just,
someday.”

“Someday?
How old am I?”

“You
have thirty months of active service. Add that to the age of your
original and you’re about twenty.”

“Not
that. The real total.”

“Active
service is all that matters.”

“For
others. Not for me.”

Linda
shook her head, but Peter only waited. She gave in: “I was
seventy-four the year they rolled out your line.”

“Eighteen
years?” Peter asked. “We’ve known each other that long?”

“I’ve
known you that long. You’ve only known me as long as you remember.
And you’ve forgotten a lot.”

Peter
nodded.

“And
the war?” he asked.

“I
arrived at the base when I was twenty-two,” Linda said, “and
even back then nobody could say when it had started.”

—   —   —

Peter
spent as much time as he could outside. It was painful to watch
Linda waste away, painful that he couldn’t help. That she wouldn’t
let him.

Her
attitude was frustrating. She was a nurse. She knew about medicine,
but she refused to take any. And she wouldn’t even discuss finding
help when they reached the Livable Territories.

“I
don’t want to die in a hospital,” she said. “Besides, I don’t
know what you think will happen when we get there. It’s not like
an unidentified ship coming out of the Drift is going to be met with
a hero’s parade. There’s a war on.”

—   —   —

Peter
had been napping on the ship’s roof when he woke to a warm glow.
He squinted at the shimmering green wall in front of him, a plasma
shield so broad that it sliced apart space itself. He scrambled
inside.

He
found Linda in the cockpit, examining the shield with the optical
enhancer. The shield was an epic polygon, flat triangles
interconnected by satellite. And there were millions of satellites,
their protective green bubbles studding the massive sphere. It was
the Great Barrier.

“Any
sign of the Riel?” Peter asked.

“No
other ships in range,” Linda replied. “Maybe they’re not
coming.”

“I
wouldn’t count on that, but at least we beat them here. Where are
we headed?”

Linda
pointed at a large rectangular frame. “Looks like a gateway,”
she said. “It’s sending us a transmission, either asking for
identification or an access code.”

“Is
there one in the computer?”

“I
checked,” Linda replied with a shrug. She was wrapped in a blanket
that had worn to the shape of her body. Her skin was chalk white and
her lips were stained brown.

“You’d
better cut the autopilot,” Peter said. “I doubt they’ll just
let us in.”

“You’ve
got some clever idea?”

“Extremely.”

—   —   —

A
few hours passed before a ship appeared on their long-distance
scanner. It was a large one, judging from its energy signature, and
it was coming toward the gateway.

Peter
worried it was the Riel battlecruiser, but the computer identified
it as a cargoship, the same model that supplied the base.
Maybe
even returning from it
, Peter thought.

—   —   —

Peter’s
plan required that they make themselves hard to detect, which meant
getting back into their suits and turning off the ship’s life
support. Peter encased Linda and strapped her in the back, then
wedged himself in the doorway to the cockpit, freeing both hands to
fly. He backed the ship up beside the gateway and killed the
engines.

Six
hours later the running lights of the cargoship twinkled in the
distance. Another hour and its hull glittered in the shield’s
green light.

The
cargoship was headed straight toward them with no sign of slowing
down. Peter’s hand hovered over the throttle. He didn’t want to
risk detection, but the alternative was worse: they would shatter
across the larger ship’s bow.

The
proximity gauge switched from miles to yards. The ship filled the
cockpit window and grew larger still. The vacuum of space was dead
silent, but the large ship’s engines thundered in Peter’s mind.
The distance dropped to double digits, then single. The
U
on
the cargoship’s hull looked to be thirty stories tall.

Peter
yanked the throttle back, but just then the cargoship stopped.

He
reset the throttle before the engines could fire; then he watched
the cargo ship pivot toward the gateway.