The Drift Wars (29 page)

“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 think, 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.” Peter 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.