Machinations

by Hayley Stone

  Debriefed by the council. I know what that’s code for: trouble.

  McKinley’s political structure and history trickles back to me, somewhat disjointed, like suddenly remembering a dream in the middle of the day.

  This is what I recall: The council was something Camus and I established as a poor man’s war cabinet, maybe two years into the war, after the United States was no longer so united and its states no longer belonged to humanity. Its purpose was to provide a little democracy, order, and most importantly, leadership, back when our ragtag group of soldiers was hardly more than a militia playing at war. But since then, it became the central governing force for more than just McKinley base, as we discovered other cells of human resistance. If McKinley is the strongest arm of the North American war effort, then the council is its brain, telling it when to move and where to swing its fists.

  For Samuel to be called before the councilors for a debriefing did not bode well—for either of us. At a time when no one was stepping up to the plate, Camus and I became leaders almost by default—me more so than him, since I’m the people person, and the council was partly my brainchild—but I don’t know what changes have occurred in my absence. Nature abhors a vacuum, and if I learned anything as the daughter of a politician, it’s the slippery nature of power. Which leads me to wonder: Am I still considered McKinley’s commander? Do I still possess the deciding vote, as before? Or has that rank passed on to someone else? Someone less…dead? Technically, if I am still commander, does the council have any right to hold me here at all?

  Before I press Hanna for answers to these questions, or devise a plan to help Samuel out, my mind shudders to a violent stop.

  “Camus is here,” I realize aloud. Of course he is. Where else would he be?

  Hanna nods slowly.

  My throat feels tight. “I want to see him.” No. What I really want is to know why he hasn’t already been to see me.

  Her mouth scrunches up as she gives another shake of her head, this time indicating no. I know that’s the answer I should accept, but it’s not good enough. I haven’t trekked across half of Alaska and nearly died several times over, only to be denied and given no explanation why. I tell Hanna as much, and ask if I’m to be a prisoner.

  No, she answers. “Not exactly.”

  I’m glad she can’t hear my tone, because it’s antagonistic. “Then what, exactly, am I?”

  Her expression teeters between guilty and sad. That’s what they’re trying to figure out. Even soundlessly told, it hurts to hear. It’s like I’m some kind of dangerous creature that needs to be kept away from the public.

  “I need to speak with Camus,” I finally say, over the lump in my throat. I have it in my head that everything will work out fine if I can just see him, speak with him. He’ll know me. “Please, Hanna.” My voice cracks, and once more I’m grateful she can’t hear me.

  An eternity stretches inside me, while Hanna formulates her decision. Then she turns away, looks up and into a corner of the room.

  A moment later, the door slides open with a miraculous exhaling sound.

  She motions me to follow her to the now-unlocked door, and I do so without hesitation. Do you still know how to get to the war room? she asks.

  I nod. Even if I don’t, I expect I’ll be able to find a sign or something.

  “Don’t expect a warm greeting,” she warns before giving me one last hug and gently nudging me toward freedom.

  Just outside, there’s a bald man about Hanna’s age, midthirties, standing guard. Rankin, I think his name is. It’s hard to forget a dome that shiny. I worry Rankin’s going to lock me back up, but after flashing me a smile and a cavalier salute, he pretends not to have seen me at all.

  I have similar experiences as I navigate the unending labyrinth of hallways and corridors that make up McKinley’s innards. People openly gawk, but no one tries to stop me. Some stare with harmless curiosity, gazes tempered by disbelief. Others I think might be a little afraid of me. Rhona Long, they must be thinking. Back from the dead.

  Not entirely true, but not entirely false, either.

  Head held high, chin up, I walk like I belong here. This is my home. I belong here. I belong here. I keep telling myself that, and it encourages my stride.

  The layout of the base is octagonal and complex, but not without reason. McKinley base was built prior to the war, as a spiritual twin to the former United States Pentagon, even before the latter was destroyed. It was unoccupied until we arrived, since the president and his cabinet were slaughtered during the surprise attack on DC, and everyone else down the political line of succession was systemically hunted down and exterminated by the machines. They never had the chance to retreat to the safety of the mountain. It was only a stroke of luck that Camus and I, after traveling to Seattle, managed to evacuate along with a few of the only people alive who knew it existed. At least, that’s the story I’ve been telling myself, based on what little memory I have of those early days. Until I’m told differently, it might as well be the truth.

  If memory serves, McKinley has five levels, with meters of rock and ice between each level to cushion an attack from the surface—although, thankfully, that’s never been put to the test. The mountain above, Denali—formerly Mount McKinley—functions not only as a formidable natural defense, but as a further precaution against detection by the machines. So far, anyway. I’m not sure why knowledge of the base hasn’t leaked, when other, more important things have, but I try not to look the gift horse in the mouth.

  Even with minimal wrong turns, it takes me about fifteen minutes to find the war room—conveniently located on the same level. Double doors and a pair of soldiers standing guard are all that separate me from the council inside. And Camus.

  I pull back around the corner before the soldiers have seen me. Suddenly, I’m nervous. Unsure. But I have only my impulsiveness to thank for this predicament. I nibble on my lower lip, chewing through my doubts. I have a few seconds to decide what to do, but ultimately, my impatience wins out. I’m done waiting for answers.

  I approach the two men standing diligently at their posts.

  “Camus sent for me,” I tell them. It’s useless to try and trade on my own name until I know what my position is here.

  “No, he didn’t,” says the man on the right. He’s enormous, built like a Grecian statue, all dark marble and stone-faced. It would be easy for him to deal with a half-baked clone like me, but instead he just stares, watchful.

  “Okay,” I confess. “He didn’t. But he will. Just consider me fashionably early.”

  “We have our orders. No one goes in or out without priority security clearance,” adds the other, shorter one. His voice is surprisingly quiet, soothing even, better suited to a psychologist’s office. And how does that make you feel? There are more words in his eyes, unsaid. Both of them are looking at me expectantly. It feels reminiscent of those dreams where you’re taking a test you haven’t studied for. What am I supposed to do here?

  Security clearance…

  There’s only one person I can think of with the right access, who’s available and willing. Guess now is as good a time as any to figure out where I stand. “Do I still have priority clearance?”

  “Commander Long’s clearance is still active,” the statue says.

  “Right.” I look at the identification console on the wall, then back at the guards who have remained remarkably passive, considering I’m kind of an escapee. “Do you mind?”

  “If your clearance is denied, you’ll be returned to your cell.”

  “I’ll take that as a no,” I say and press my hand to the palm reader before they change their minds. I feel a slight prick at the tip of one of my fingers, and wait for it to process. Three pairs of eyes watch the black screen as the swirl of DNA is computed. I hope Samuel wasn’t lying about that whole genetically identical bit.

  There’s a quiet Beep! and then green capital letters flash across the screen:

  RHONA LONG RECOGNIZED


  ACCESS GRANTED

  Both soldiers stand at attention immediately, hands flying to their foreheads in sharp salutes. I smile at them, these two loyal remnants of my former command. “At ease, soldiers,” I say, only a little awkward. Even with some of my memory returning, it’s going to take time to slip back into my old routine—that is, if the council accepts my identity as readily as these two have.

  I take a deep breath, straighten my blouse. It’s hard to believe all that stands between me and Camus now is a pair of blast-proof doors. Compared to dying, that seems inconsequential. I tap my hands against the sides of my pants, deliberating.

  I’m not ready.

  I am ready.

  No, I’m not.

  Yes. Yes, I am.

  While my courage holds, I activate the door’s mechanism. It slides open in near silence and I slip inside, hoping to attract as little attention as possible.

  The war room is fairly large, uncluttered save for some anatomical data displayed on a few of the floor-to-ceiling screens covering every wall. My eyes are quickly drawn to the center of the room, which is dominated by a single round table, like King Arthur’s. Just over a dozen swivel chairs surround it. It’s rare for all of the seats to be filled at any one time, but tonight it’s practically a full house.

  I locate Samuel first. He’s at the far end of the room, beneath the harsh, unnatural light of the fluorescent bulbs. There’s a dark, purplish bruise at the base of his jaw, and his arm is in a cast, supported by a sling. He slumps over the table, looking exhausted. But he’s alive, and I’m grateful for that much.

  And there, beside him, is Camus, who hasn’t seen me yet.

  I gawk, unable to help myself. His black hair is longer than the last time I saw him, almost to his shoulders, and curling at the ends. I don’t know why that’s the first thing I notice, fixating on it as though it holds some significance. Even from the side, his profile is striking, lean and somehow hard, almost like a bird of prey. Handsome and proud.

  Samuel says something to him which I can’t hear, and Camus’s forehead wrinkles in thought, troubled by indecision. His eyes are too dark and far away for me to see the color of them, but I know they’re green: the clearest color in my memory. And finally I look at his lips, which last tasted of salt and blood and regret when pressed against mine. They move to words I can’t hear as he confers privately with Samuel, until finally the latter spots me.

  “Rhona!” Samuel blurts out in surprise.

  My presence doesn’t go unnoticed after that. Once I’m seen, whispers rush around the table like hot currency that needs to be exchanged. It doesn’t bother me. If I were in their position, I’d be curious, too. In the meantime, I wait to be acknowledged by the only person who matters.

  Look at me, Camus. Just look at me.

  Despite my silent plea, Camus is the last to shift his attention to me, and even then it’s brief. Almost a glance. His expression is painfully neutral, and it’s much worse than being treated to loathing or horror.

  It’s as if I’m no one special, not to him. Not any longer.

  And when he looks away from me to finish his sentence, I feel sick. Rejected.

  I consider slinking back to my holding cell for a moment, but that’s not an option. Instead, I take the only available seat, between one “Matsuki” and the more generically named “Jones” (I know their names by their military-style name tapes). The former is kind enough to offer me his water, but the latter leans away uneasily, like I’m somehow contagious. How kind.

  “Well,” I begin, interrupting the din of murmurs. My hands are shaking; I conceal them in my lap beneath the table. “Let’s get this dog-and-pony show started. I’m sure you all have questions, and I’m sure you all want answers. So do I.”

  I sit a little straighter as Camus’s eyes settle on me again.

  Say something, I plead with my eyes.

  He stands wordlessly, and it’s like a wave travels through the table, throwing everyone else to their feet. The only one who doesn’t get up is Samuel, who continues to sit there, looking miserable.

  “We’ll reconvene at a later time,” Camus tells everyone, suppressing his British accent to make him stick out less as the Other in a base manned mostly by Americans. Former Americans, I’m forced to remind myself. “Dismissed.”

  The room empties, leaving only the three of us.

  “That wasn’t necessary,” I say, swiveling anxiously in my chair. Some reunion this is turning out to be. I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop and really kick me while I’m down.

  But Camus doesn’t say another word. He doesn’t chastise me, or scream or yell, or do anything I can respond to with words or assurances. He just walks out. I’m chilled by this indifference. I don’t know what to think about it, or about the severe-faced stranger wearing my lover’s skin.

  Samuel comes and sits down next to me. I didn’t hear him get up. We sit for a few minutes, unspeaking. I appreciate how he doesn’t force conversation on me, but eventually I can’t take the silence anymore. My memories lurk there: old wounds reopening, only now I’m bleeding out from the good ones.

  “Now you can apologize to me,” I finally say to Samuel in a voice as small as I feel. “I know you’re dying to.”

  “I didn’t think it would be like this,” he says. “It doesn’t look like they’re going to welcome you back as commander just yet. They want assurances first, that you’re…well, you, and that you can handle the stresses of command again.”

  “What kind of assurances?”

  “Don’t worry. It’ll just be a few tests to put their minds at ease.”

  “A few tests.” I almost laugh. Haven’t I been tested enough already?

  I shut my eyes and pull myself together for what seems like the hundredth time, breathing out slowly.

  “Okay,” I agree.

  What else is there to say?

  When we’re ready, the two soldiers at the door escort Samuel and me back to our individual holding cells. Significantly, his is right next door to mine. It trips my conscience like a switch. I’m responsible for the trouble he must be in, even if I don’t know what that is yet. Still, it’s comforting to know he’ll be close by.

  “Good night,” he tells me before we part ways.

  “Good night,” I respond mechanically.

  Inside my room, I find another surprise waiting for me. Hanna has set up an extra sleeping cot, looking as though she has every intention of spending the night here. She checks her smile when she sees me.

  That bad? she signs. I nod. To be fair, she had warned me not to expect a warm reception. “Sorry. Slumber party?”

  “Maybe another time,” I answer, but I’m glad she stays anyway.

  I lie down on my bed, wanting to sleep and forget, but I end up doing neither. Instead, my thoughts accumulate as uneven sets of questions and answers, like the broken sticks of a beaver’s dam. I struggle to think sensibly about everything, but it’s difficult to do when I’m so close to the problem. When I am the problem.

  Unable to keep my misery to myself any longer, and incapable of sleep, I nudge Hanna’s shoulder with my foot. She claps the lights on like in one of those old, kitschy infomercials.

  “Does Camus hate me?” I ask.

  No, Hanna signs. He just really loved her.

  Chapter 6

  The next morning, Samuel’s granted permission to start running tests on me under the supervision of another doctor, Matsuki Shigeru. Compared to Samuel, Dr. Shigeru appears short and stocky, though he’s really of middling height. His dark-silver hair is thinning, although it’s hard to tell whether it’s from age or stress. I recognize him as the gentleman from the meeting yesterday who offered me something to drink when everyone else was acting like I was some kind of contagion to be avoided. That earned him brownie points in my book, but it’s only when he insists on being called Matt—joke or not—I decide I like him.

  We take an elevator down to the medical level,
far beneath the earth’s ice-encrusted surface. While it has several rooms devoted to research, filled with expensive diagnostic equipment such as X-ray and EKG machines, most of the place has the feeling of a triage center. There are rows of beds with clean linens. Knowing they were once filled to capacity, the site is haunting. More than likely, they’ll be servicing the dead and dying again some day in the future. It’s a sobering thought. After some basic blood work in the lab, I’m ushered into another room with one enormous, complex-looking machine and very little else.

  “Here.” Samuel hands me a thin, crinkly hospital gown. I raise an eyebrow before accepting it grudgingly. It’s the same polka-dotted design I remember having to wear back in grade school when I was sick with a rare strain of the flu. Not good times then; not the greatest times now, either. “You’ll need to change into this.”

  “Oh, Samuel, you always buy me the nicest things,” I tease him.

  “Only the best for my best friend,” he replies in kind, smiling without peeking up from his clipboard.

  I dress quickly behind a sliding curtain.

  First on the agenda is neuroimaging, which involves me getting into yet another confined space.

  “I don’t suppose you could just hook some wires up to my head?” I ask, standing in front of the machine. Matt shakes his head.

  Taking a breath to calm my steadily growing claustrophobia, I lie down on the metal tray. A few button presses later, it sucks me inside. The quiet humming the MRI machine makes is frightfully similar to another sound I know. My heartbeat accelerates as my flight instinct kicks in, I want so badly to escape this place. I grip the sides of my gown, lock my jaw. This has to be done. The sooner I prove I’m still me, the sooner I can make things right with Camus. Maybe it’s foolish, but I still hope for that. For us.

  I can’t see what Matt or Samuel are doing, but after a few moments I hear the former’s voice buzzing in my ear from a speaker on my right. “You all right in there?” Above, on a little screen, I make out a pixilated version of his face.