Authors: Brett James
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.
“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 let 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.
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.