by Hayley Stone
“I tried to get a hold of him on the walkie, but he’s not answering. If I had to guess, he’s probably with the council.”
“With the council? You and I are on the council, Camus. He’s not here with us, unless you’ve got a German stashed away somewhere I don’t know about.” I arch an eyebrow.
“Hawking’s like a dog with a bone,” Camus says. “Do you really suppose she’ll sit on her hands for the next few days? Hardly. She’s probably attempting to gather the eyewitness testimony she needs to convict you right now.”
“If you’re so sure about that, why aren’t we doing something about it?”
He runs a hand through his hair, shaking the wet from it, and furrows his brows. “Why? Because I don’t believe that testimony exists. I don’t believe you had anything to do with the attack.”
“What about the footage?”
“Doctored. Has to be. I don’t care what Clarence says. How much footage of you is there in the world? You give broadcasts all the time now, and there are recordings of you all over the base. Would it really be so difficult to edit an already blurry piece of camerawork?”
“You seem to be ignoring an obvious alternative.”
“What? That she’s another clone? Rhona, you said it yourself. The facility was destroyed. Your other clones are gone. Stop worrying.”
“Easy for you to say,” I grumble while he sits down on the edge of the bed and begins putting on his shoes, struggling to get the tongue just right. I’d love to wrap myself in Camus’s logic and confidence, but the nugget of doubt persists like a kernel stuck in my teeth. “So you’re not even a teensy bit concerned Hawking might be right? Or Cordier?”
How much do we know about what Lewis created in that facility at Brooks?
Better yet, I think, how much do we know about the woman who ordered him to do it? If my progenitor was willing to take such drastic steps once, what else would she be willing to do now, if she were a puppet of the machines?
Camus brushes his finger across his bottom lip, thinking, and is quiet for a long moment. Anyone else would have fed me empty reassurances, told me not to fret, but Camus values honesty, the offspring of logic and reason. Sometimes, that kind of transparency can be frustrating—uncomfortable, even—but right now, I’m glad for it. I don’t want the shadow of any lie between us.
“Once,” he admits, “I might’ve believed it. Once, I would have welcomed the possibility that you were secretly some monster in a disguise. An agent of the machines, sent to torment me.” His smile has an edge to it. “It’s easier to hate a monster than to love a woman you’ve already lost.”
I sometimes forget my journey from the blood-soaked snows of Anchorage was not the only one. Camus had longer to travel to reach this point. At times, I still witness him struggling to crest those final peaks of doubt, trying so hard to meet me with an open heart. But not today. Today and yesterday, he’s shown nothing but faith. I couldn’t ask for a greater sacrifice from a skeptic.
“I no longer want to be the man who has to wear blood on his finger before he believes. Before he trusts.” At my baffled expression, Camus adds, “Like Thomas. Doubting Thomas? Not ringing any bells?”
“I must not have gotten to that part in Middlemarch yet.”
Camus laughs. “That must be it.”
As he rises and moves toward the door, I grab him. He seems to understand what I’m asking, because he bends his head toward mine, grazing my lips. A quick kiss goodbye.
But it’s not enough.
I curve my hands over his shoulders, draw him roughly against me, and hold him near until his arms slide around my aching lower back, scattering my thoughts. Most of them. The terrible fear that I will lose Camus sticks to my insides like tar, increasing my desperation. My heart flickers in my chest, starting, stopping, energized by the movement of his mouth, his tongue. I wish we had more time.
After we part, he looks at me, a question in his eyes.
“I love you,” I tell him, lifting a wet curl off his forehead. “Be safe.”
He gives me a small smile. “I’m just going to maintenance.”
“Yesterday, you were ‘just’ getting on an elevator to Dormitory.”
All amusement vanishes from Camus’s face, replaced with guilt. Dammit. I hate when I’m the buzzkill in this relationship. I’m way more comfortable as the charming comic relief.
“I’ll be careful.” He leans down, planting a soft kiss on my cheek that I feel all the way to my toes, even more than the one that preceded it. “You do the same. And I know I might as well ask the earth to stop spinning, but try and take it easy.”
A knock comes at the door. Lefevre, no doubt.
“I have to go before this whole level’s underwater,” Camus says. “Eat something,” he adds as an afterthought on his way out.
Instead of Lefevre, one of McKinley’s technicians waits on the other side of the door, a pretty Latina with dyed-blonde hair and a lazy right eye. I think her name’s Audra. She solved the mystery of why half of the dormitory level wasn’t getting any hot water a couple of weeks back. (Spoiler: bad pilot light.) I hear Audra beginning to tell Camus about some problem with an emergency shutoff valve before the door closes behind them.
And then there was one.
I briefly wonder if there are any cameras in the room, though I quickly dismiss the thought as paranoia. McKinley isn’t a police state—yet. Besides, there are definitely cameras in the hall; they’ll pick up Camus leaving, while confirming I never left the room. That should be enough to guarantee my innocence if anything happens while I’m unsupervised. I don’t want the council pointing any more fingers at me. The only question that remains is what to do in the time that Camus is gone.
First things first: I need to deal with my bandage. Matt left me specific instructions not to get it wet, but seeing as he also provided me with several extra dressings, I’m guessing he knew I wouldn’t be able to adhere to that rule.
I stand in front of the mirror and slowly unravel the dressing. Once that’s done, I remove the small square of gauze taped against my skin, exposing a cut at my hairline where a high-speed piece of plaster caught me during the explosion, and seven stitches holding the bloody mouth shut. I’m lucky a headache and some mood swings are all I have to contend with. The shrapnel could’ve taken out an eye.
For a moment, I simply stand there, clutching the edge of the sink and staring at myself. Everything feels unreal. Distant. Like I’m standing on the far side of the lake, with the rest of the world waiting on the other shore. I trace the cuts on my face and drag a finger across my lips. Still nothing. I smile, trying to resurrect the feeling that goes with it, but it’s there in my eyes. Emptiness.
I take a few heaving breaths, trying to dredge up the urge to cry. Why haven’t I cried yet?
What the hell is wrong with me?
I shake my head, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. “I’m fine,” I tell myself aloud, because I need to hear it outside the quagmire of my own thoughts.
Deep breaths.
I need a goal. Something I can accomplish. I settle for twisting my hair over the sink, squeezing the water from it, and then reach for one of the four bathroom towels someone’s left stacked on the toilet tank. Camus planning ahead? Or a small courtesy from the room’s previous occupants? I don’t make eye contact with myself in the mirror again.
After toweling off, I change into a dry shirt and pants. Since my own clothes are currently trapped in my quarters in the portion of the command level still considered unsafe, all the clothes in my duffel bag here are loans. This particular shirt reads If history repeats itself, I’m getting a dinosaur with an image of a cute, feathered raptor, and smells like it’s gone a couple of spin cycles with lilac detergent. Only Hanna, I think, smiling. The pants, on the other hand, are a little tight around my calves, but, hey, it’s better than going naked.
Then I wait.
And wait.
When Lefevre doesn’
t show up after half an hour, I pop some of the pills Matt prescribed, crawl back into bed, and lie there awhile. While waiting for sleep to come, I recycle the council meeting in my head, saying all the right things this time. It’s not as effective as counting sheep, but it’s better than letting my thoughts lurk in other places, and eventually I drift off.
I dream of a stairwell clogged with people, running up flight after flight, landing after landing, but never reaching the top. And then I’m on some kind of ship—or maybe I was always on the ship—a luxury liner with a slick, black hull and four funnels releasing steam, and I know something terrible is going to happen just as surely as I know I can’t stop it.
I dream of Camus standing in front of an elevator cage. I’m trying to warn him, but he’s turned away from me. Seconds later, the ground rumbles, the elevator doors open, and a tidal wave swallows us both.
I dream I’m back in this room, a shadow falling over my face.
My neck hurts. I struggle to breathe, fight to make my arms move, but I’m paralyzed. Trapped. Not again. Panic tightens my chest, strangling the noise coming from my throat. All around, the darkness gains weight and substance, bearing down on my chest like hands. And then I sense it—a presence beside me. Close and malevolent. The way the machines feel.
Something means me harm. And it’s here in this room. Whirring.
No. Not whirring. What is that sound? Hissing?
My eyes snap open seconds later, and I sit up fast enough to make my vision turn to static. One of my pillows is missing—no, wait, there it is on the floor. I must’ve knocked it off the bed with my flailing. I lower my head into my hands, pressing my palms against my tired eyes. Just a bad dream. The first of many, I expect. Matt said I might suffer from insomnia. He didn’t say anything about night terrors, but it makes sense, given everything that’s happened.
The door buzzes, nearly launching my heart from my chest. I curse a little, drag myself to my feet, and answer the door.
It’s Lefevre, almost an hour late. He doesn’t bother to explain his tardiness, but it’s no mystery, really. With a third of our elevators down and one stairwell blocked, the traffic’s gotten even worse between levels.
He stations himself near the door, saying nothing to me beyond a curt “Commander.” I try engaging him in conversation—about his sister’s recovery, about reconstruction efforts on the military level, his new buzz cut—but he only supplies me with chilly, monosyllabic answers. It’s like he’s totally forgotten everything we’ve been through together.
The childish portion of my brain—the part that’s sick of all the mistreatment and mistrust—wants to throw my arms up and shout Fine! Be that way! But that’s probably my traumatic brain injury talking, so instead I offer Lefevre a glass of water from the faucet in the bathroom as a formal peace offering.
“No,” he says. His gaze remains constant on my right shoulder, like I have an invisible parrot perched there. Well, at least this isn’t going to be awkward.
“Suit yourself.”
I return to the bathroom and splash myself with water, trying to wake up, but dread clings to me like a shadow. It felt so real.
I’m not safe here.
The realization sneaks up on me, sudden and gripping. I need a weapon. Something I can use to defend myself. The council refuses to let me carry anything—not even an EMP-G, which is harmless against humans, other than creating a feeling of unease and headaches at its highest setting—so I’m going to need to improvise. Lefevre’s an honorable man, but I remember his expression when he arrested me. If he thinks I’m capable of flipping like a switch and killing my own people, how much effort is he going to put into protecting me, when it comes down to it? I’m not about to leave my life to chance.
Even though the door’s cracked, Lefevre still comes to investigate after about a minute. By this time, I’ve planted myself on the edge of the closed toilet seat, with a fresh bandage and a square of clean gauze in my lap. He stares and I almost think I’m going to get a full sentence out of him—a question about what I’m doing. Instead, he just raises one eyebrow.
“I need to change my dressing,” I explain, and suffer through a long, pregnant pause. “Look. If you’re not going to help, I’d rather you didn’t stand there and watch. I don’t really need an audience.” I angle my head in such a way as to give him a nice peek at my wound, hoping for a flicker of sympathy, something that tells me he still cares.
Lefevre turns and lets the door slide partway closed again. Guess I have my answer.
I listen to Lefevre’s heavy footsteps move away, then abandon my task, tossing the bandage and gauze onto the floor and scooting off the toilet. The dressing should be replaced, but it’s going to have to wait.
“You know, that’s not me in the footage,” I tell Lefevre through the door, switching on the faucet. The rushing water should help cover the noise of my search. There has to be something in here I can use. I look at the plunger near the shower. Too large. Also, what am I going to do with that? Unclog a machine’s toilet?
Lefevre continues to perform his best impression of a mute while I jerk open the medicine cabinet and begin fumbling through it. Some expired aspirin. A full container of Vaseline. A less full container of water-based lubricant with a sexy silhouette on the side. I repress a smile at the cheesy name: Passion Fruit Explosion. At least someone’s having fun around here. Or was.
“So, what? You’re going to stand there, babysitting me all day?” Still no response. “Just like old times,” I grumble.
I keep searching, trying not to rustle too loudly. Useless. Everything in here is useless, unless I plan on garroting a machine with mint-flavored dental floss. All that’s left is a half-empty tube of toothpaste, and a blue toothbrush with stiff, yellowing bristles.
Huh. There’s an idea.
“I don’t believe you’re guilty.”
The running water did its job too well. I don’t hear Lefevre until he’s standing right there in the doorway, the bathroom light partitioning his face into three distinct sections—dark, light, dark. His deep voice, unexpectedly close, startles me almost as much as the words themselves.
I quickly stash the toothbrush behind the lubricant and face Lefevre with a weak smile. “He speaks!”
His gaze settles on the open medicine cabinet. “What were you looking for?”
“Painkillers, mostly,” I lie, shutting the cabinet. “My head’s killing me.” Less of a lie. I cross my arms, if only because I don’t know what to do with my hands under his steady scrutiny. “If you don’t believe I’m guilty, why the cold shoulder?”
He frowns. “Don’t I get to be angry, too? Shouldn’t I get to grieve?”
“Of course. I mean, you do. You should.”
“Rankin was as much my friend as he was yours. We served side by side in Nevada and Utah. We were together at Salt Lake.” He says the name of the city as if I should remember the battle that took place there. I don’t. Of course I don’t. That would be too convenient.
“I know that.” The friend part, at least. I didn’t know about their shared history of military service. Utah, of all places. I bet the Mormons put up one hell of a fight. “But I did everything I could to save Rankin”—Didn’t I?—“and I have to believe you know that. So why take your anger out on me? Because I’m present? An easy scapegoat?”
“I said, I didn’t believe you were guilty. Not that you aren’t responsible.”
I stiffen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He slides the door open wider, but doesn’t step inside, leaves me space. “You made decisions that led us here. Your policies made McKinley vulnerable.”
“This isn’t a dictatorship. The council—”
“The council.” He shakes his head and rubs a smile from his mouth. His lips are pale and cracking inside his dark, trim beard.
“Say what you’re thinking.”
“The council bends over backward to satisfy your vision of the future, Commander. The
y derive their power from you.”
Funny. I didn’t feel so powerful yesterday when they were putting me on the rack.
“If humanity survives this—if—no one will remember anyone on the council. Just like no one will remember me or Zelda. History remembers power, Commander. It celebrates the individual. Harriet Tubman. Nelson Mandela. Martin Luther King, Jr. History is quick to forget the shoulders those people stood upon to affect change, the backs that broke to ensure victory. It wants clear heroes. Decisive battles. War.”
His gaze falls on me, heavy as a house. “You.”
Lefevre’s said more in the past minute than in all the time we’ve been together combined. Listening to him talk makes me realize I don’t really know this man at all. This soldier who’s put himself in harm’s way for me on multiple occasions, who I’ve eaten with, laughed with, and suffered alongside—I don’t know the first thing about him. What did he do before the Machinations? I know he joined up after the attacks on DC, like so many others, prompted by fear and a national outpouring of fervor.
But what about before?
He could have been a professor, a lawyer, a civil-rights activist. A man of letters and learning, or the owner of a small bistro that served a free side of coleslaw on Tuesdays. I wouldn’t know, because I never thought to ask.
“I didn’t choose this,” I say at last. “I never asked to become some great celebrity.”
“Didn’t you?” His hazel eyes appear bright and harsh under the fluorescent lights, almost scolding. “Commander Rhona Long gave herself to the people, to the cause of humanity, the moment she stepped in front of those cameras. She knew her importance. Enough to try and make herself immortal. Heroes die. But the belief they can’t is a powerful thing.”
“Some trick. There’s only one of me.” Or is there?
He snorts. “For now.”
“So let me get this straight. You’re saying all of this is my fault, simply by virtue of the fact I didn’t stop it?” I clutch the edge of the counter, my knuckles whitening to the same color as the porcelain sink, and shake my head. “That’s insane. I’m not clairvoyant. I can’t predict the future.”