Authors: Brett James
Moments
later the four fighterships appeared on his scope. They plowed
through the icy belt in a tight line, leaving a hollow cone in their
wake.
Peter
glimpsed steel as they shot past, pelting him with ice. He wiped his
visor clear just as the fighterships rammed the broken glacier,
exploding in such quick succession that they were just flickers of
the same fire. But only the first three; the last one swung up,
clipping and ricocheting off the glacier. It spiraled out of
control, then came to a sudden stop. After hanging still for a
moment, it flung back like a yo-yo rolling up its string.
Peter
clicked on his suit and fired his rocket, racing to the other side
of the glacier that he’d been lying against. He didn’t have a
plan; he was simply hoping that the fightership would overshoot,
giving him a head start. But his luck had run out. The fightership
whipped over the glacier and curved down, stopping right in front of
him.
— — —
The
fightership spun in place, the trapezoidal window rolling up from
below, casting a green light that moved up Peter’s body like a
searchlight. It stopped at eye level, and the squashed face of a
Gyrine stared out at him. The creature was upside-down, but then the
whole ship rotated, orienting itself with Peter. It eased forward
until its window practically touched his visor.
The
Gyrine was expressionless—not that Peter knew anything about
Gyrine expressions. He saw that it was only a face; the skin was
stretched tight at the edges and then melded with the machinery. The
entire fightership was a full-body cybernetic.
The
creature inspected Peter with pale green eyes, then eased to his
left, taking in his profile. The ship continued around back,
disappearing from sight.
Peter
remained stock-still, fearing that any movement would trigger
instant death. He felt the Gyrine’s eyes on him, crawling over his
back like sweat. An endless minute later, the ship came around the
other side, finishing where it started, face-to-face.
“What
happens now?” Peter wondered aloud. As if to answer his question,
his rocket pack fired of its own accord.
— — —
Peter
raced away as the fightership erupted in twin explosions—not, as
he first thought, the ship firing on him. Two rockets shot out of
nowhere and slammed into the fightership. Its thick hull shattered
and the explosion engulfed Peter in roiling orange, searing his
skin.
Peter’s
rocket fired again, lifting him from the fire, then aiming him
forward. He raced at full burn, ice hammering his helmet. A massive
glacier appeared on his scope, directly in his path. He tried to
steer around it, but his rocket wouldn’t respond. He tried the
override, but it ignored him. He reached up to unbuckle the whole
pack, but just then a doorway slid open in front of him. It was just
a doorway floating in midair.
Peter
hurtled inside and gravity pulled him to the floor. He tumbled down
a short hallway and slammed into the door at the end. He was inside
an airlock.
— — —
The
outer door shut, and air hissed into the room. Peter’s legs burst
into flames—his suit, red-hot from the explosion, ignited in the
oxygen-rich air.
An
inner door slid open and two men rushed in, wearing black uniforms
that Peter didn’t recognize. They raised extinguishers and bathed
him in a fog of halon gas.
“Nice
decoy work,” one told Peter as they hauled him inside.
“Yeah,”
the other said as they dumped him on the floor. “Good man. Now
stay out of the way, right?” They left without waiting for an
answer.
Peter
sat up and looked around. The ship was no more than a single room,
with the door to the flight deck set at the top of a high ladder.
Figures moved through the dim red light, quickly but quietly. They
wore black uniforms, with exaggerated shoulders and pants tucked
into high felt boots. It was a menacing look, but they ignored
Peter, their attention on the large table in the center of the room
and the four men who stood around it.
Peter
got to his feet, wondering how much of his legs were left inside his
suit. He walked to the table, over which hovered a projection of
Catrols’ icy ring. There were blue and red marks, as in the Sim
Test, but they were far more complex.
Each
blue dot was captioned with a scrolling list of statistics—how
many men, what sort of heavy weaponry, and how experienced. The red
markers were shaped like what they represented, Gyrines or
fighterships in this case—and some had live video of fighting in
progress. Large green pins rose at various points around the belt,
each capped with the head of a colonel or naval captain.
The
men around the table were generals. And this wasn’t a Sim; this
was the actual battle they were controlling.
— — —
Peter
watched the generals move their hands over the table, their motions
becoming orders, the troops at their beck and call. One of the green
pins blinked and switched to a live feed—a colonel’s face,
bloated by his in-helmet camera.
“All
clear here, sir,” the colonel said. “Moving to two hundred and
forty-four point twenty-one, but it’s blind up there.”
“Sending
you eyes,” the general replied, his face hidden in the dim light.
Peter knew the voice but couldn’t place it.
The
general tapped the corner of the table, and a blue dot shot forward.
It flew past the colonel and exploded, filling in details on a blank
section of the projection.
Sensor pods
. The general leaned in
to inspect the new information, his shoulder twinkling in the
light—four stars. This was the Great General himself.
“I
know it’s fascinating,” the General said to Peter, “but please
don’t stand so close to the table.”
“Yes,
sir,” Peter said, seeing that his arm was inside the projection.
“Sorry, sir.”
The
General’s head snapped up at the sound of Peter’s voice. He
glared at Peter, his face twisted between recognition and rage.
“This
is a mistake,” he barked. “Kill this man immediately. And in the
future, keep him out of my sector.”
Several
men rushed at Peter. Someone pressed a pistol to his helmet.
“No!”
Peter screamed. He tried to knock the gun away, but his suit was
disabled.
“Oh,
get over it,” the man said. “You marines are such sissies.”
The
man squeezed the trigger, twice, and everything went black.
“Peter?”
Linda
sounded close, her breathing quick, anxious.
He
kept his eyes shut; the image stuck in his head—the Great
General’s face.
“Peter,”
Linda snapped. His eyes opened involuntarily. Linda leaned back,
sighing with relief. “What is it?” she asked.
“I
saw something,” Peter said. “Back on Catrols.”
“Catrols?”
Linda went to the monitor. “You were never on Catrols.”
“I
was
just
on Catrols,” he said. “In the ring.”
“No,”
Linda said, scrolling around. “Not in the ring. Not even in the
system. Not ever.” She turned back to him and laid a searing hand
on his forehead. Peter brushed it away.
“I
was just there,” he insisted.
“I…”
Linda looked from him to the monitor. “The computer’s never been
wrong.”
“Then
they’re hiding something,” Peter said, sitting up. “Because of
what I saw.”
“Down,”
Linda said, shoving his chest. “You’ll hurt yourself.” She
held him until he nodded. “Tell me what you saw.”
Peter
opened his mouth but stopped.
She’ll never believe me
, he
thought.
She already doesn’t.
“I saw the General.”
“You
what?” Linda said, her voice cracking.
“I
saw the General. The Great General. He—”
“Stop!”
Linda said. She looked nervously to her monitor, then to the camera
on the ceiling. Her face was drained.
“I
need…” she sputtered. “I need to talk to the supervisor.”
“No,”
Peter said, grabbing for her. But she was too fast.
“I
have to,” she insisted. “Just wait here.”
“Linda,”
he called, but she was out the door.
— — —
Peter
was unstrapped. He felt around for the button that raised the bed
and then opened the drawer on the side. He found the long needle,
already filled with oily liquid.
He
dug around his arm until a vein swelled, then jabbed the needle in.
It stung more than he expected. He pressed the plunger, withdrew it,
and tossed it to the floor.
Peter
pumped his hands and swung his legs, feeling the warm animation
spread though his body. It was taking too long. Linda would have
already reached her supervisor’s office.
They
killed me because I saw him
, he thought.
The General himself
gave the command. The General…
Peter
worked feverishly, flexing his muscles until they ached and pounding
his fists on his legs. Then he eased himself to his feet.
There
was a tray over his bed, splashed with bright red, filled with
hundreds of long needles. He ran his fingers through them, rubbing
the blood between his fingers. Then he touched his scalp; the skin
was tender.
He
let go of the bed, balancing himself, and started for the door. His
legs buckled, and he threw himself into the chair at Linda’s desk.
He put his head between his knees, trying to still the room. After a
few deep breaths, he sat back up. Linda’s drawings were stacked on
the desk.
The
top drawing was of a church, done in black ballpoint, precise and
detailed. It was an imposing cathedral of cut stone, its windows
dark and foreboding.
The
next one was of an alleyway between two tall buildings, the ink so
thick it warped the paper. A shaded figure waited deep inside, a
man.
The
drawings were all similar—gloomy scenes rendered through intense
pen work—except for the very last. It showed a man lying
peacefully in bed, a faint smile on his face. It was Peter.
He
pushed to his feet. He felt better, steady. He went to his duffel
and pulled on pants and a T-shirt, to be less obvious, and walked
through the back door. He started for the supervisor’s office but
saw Linda in the other direction, walking away, her ponytail
swinging.
He
sprinted after her, moving quietly on the pads of his feet. His
muscles throbbed from the effort and were leaden before he was
halfway to her. He considered calling out but was worried about what
she’d do when she saw him back here. He hobbled on, reaching her
just as she opened the door numbered 63.
“Linda,”
he whispered, slipping through the door behind her.
She
started at his voice, then jumped at the sight of him. She opened
her mouth—to speak or scream—but Peter pressed a finger across
her lips.
“I’m
glad I caught you,” he said, panting. “This could all just be
some crazy mistake, a bad dream. So before you go to the supervisor,
let me just ask, have you ever seen the Great General?”
Linda
retreated, wide-eyed. Peter followed her, staying close.
“No?”
he asked. “The thing is, in my dream he… This is going to sound
ridiculous, but…”
Linda
tripped against a chair, falling into it. Peter knelt down in front
of her.
“Let
me put it this way,” he said. “Is there anyone on this base who
looks like me?”
Saying
it aloud made it sound insane, but Linda gasped. She looked to the
bed in the middle of the room. A man lay there, chunks of ice
sliding from his body. He appeared to be asleep, but his eyes moved
rapidly beneath the lids. A mass of needles grew from his skull,
each wired to the monitor over the bed. The screen flashed wildly,
symbols scrolling by in some foreign language. But it wasn’t the
monitor that caught Peter’s attention, it was the man. It was him.
Peter. An exact copy of himself.
“It’s
true,” he said dumbly. He stared at himself on the bed, thinking
back to the commandship, to the look of recognition on the General’s
face. Peter had felt the same recognition; they were the same
person.
Peter
turned back to Linda, looking first at her face, then down to her
name tag. It read Linda 63.
— — —
Peter
shoved past the Linda, toppling her from the chair. He dashed from
the room and down the hall, the numbered doors passing in a blur.
Am
I behind each of these?
he wondered. He ran faster, pushing his
stiff legs.
The
alarm began to shriek as he passed number 8, biting his eardrums.
Oversize doors loomed ahead, labeled Purple Area, Authorized
Personnel Only. They swung open as he approached. He passed through
into a different world.
Both
walls were lined with glass that looked in on large rooms filled
with frantic machinery, like an automated assembly line. The machine
nearest Peter was a massive archway operated by small men in white
arctic jackets. Under the arch was a steel bed, the same as the one
that Peter had just woke up on. That he always woke up on. A robotic
arm raced back and forth, extruding water, creating a long block of
ice one razor-thin slice at a time. But it wasn’t just water, it
was flesh and muscle, blood and bone. The machine was a giant
printer, printing a man encased in ice.
A
hand fell on Peter’s shoulder. He reacted instinctively, throwing
his elbow back and finding something soft, probably a throat. Then
he ducked low, stepped forward, and turned. A man in a black uniform
charged him, another lay on the floor, grasping his head.
Peter
drove his foot in the charging man’s stomach, then walked over him
as he fell. More black uniforms rushed into the room.
Guards of
some sort
, Peter decided. They looked tough enough, but Peter
was a marine.
They
rushed him from all directions. One pulled a gun, but it fell as
Peter broke his hand. Another grappled Peter’s chest but crumpled
as Peter’s fist drove into his neck. Two more down.