by Hayley Stone
“Yeah,” I lie. “Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”
“I’ll need you to stay as still as you can. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.” His lips move a fraction of a second after I hear his words.
I start to give him a thumbs-up before I remember I’m not supposed to be moving.
“Right. No moving. Got it.”
The screen clicks off, leaving me alone in the metal coffin. I don’t even have my thoughts for company—the buzzing noise has turned into a clunking so loud it drowns them out. My body vibrates, a combination of anxiety and the tremors of the machine. A couple of times Matt reminds me to keep still, and I shut my eyes, willing my body to acquiesce.
The torture is over in a matter of minutes, as Samuel promised, and the machine ejects me. I swing my legs off the tray, feet meeting the cold floor with a slap. No sooner have we finished than I’m ushered into a second machine in another room, and after that a third, and finally a fourth. By that last one, I’ve adapted and climb inside with minimal trepidation.
Meanwhile, Matt and Samuel work from inside a small, soundproof office connected to each room. Between tests, when they’re giving me directions to move to the next room, I can see them through a window. Once I catch Samuel literally scratching his head, perplexed by something on a monitor whose screen is turned away from me.
Matt’s poker face is much better, and gives nothing away regarding my condition. Occasionally he rubs his eye, squinting, but that’s about it. It’s probably not even a tell for anything. It probably just means he has something in his eye.
Still, I can’t help wondering if something’s wrong. Would they even tell me if there was? Either way, there’s no sense in worrying about it at the moment. My schedule’s clear for the foreseeable future; I’m sure I’ll have time for paranoia later.
The rest of the day proceeds in the same manner, although I’m happy no more grinding machinery is involved. I don’t trust technology these days; maybe as a result of it trying to kill me so often (and once succeeding). Not all of it’s bad, granted. I wouldn’t even be here without whatever advanced science and technology it took to clone a human being. But things like computers and technical equipment large enough to eat me if it ever goes rogue make me uneasy.
I felt this way even before the Machinations, and if there’s an after, I doubt that’ll change.
As Samuel plays chiropractor, testing the elasticity of my joints, gently rotating my arm and identifying weaknesses in my flexibility, I remember the reason I prefer human contact. He’s chosen not to wear gloves, and his hands leave my skin warm wherever they touch. While the room is supposedly heated, I’m cold in my wisp of a gown, so the sensation is more pronounced. As always, he’s careful with me, as if he’s afraid I might break into pieces at the slightest provocation. I want to tell him I’m made of tougher stuff, but I think he needs to rediscover it on his own. Scientists are like that.
We break for lunch at around two o’clock. As Matt brings the food in, I think I notice movement behind a giant mirror positioned high on the wall, near the top of the vaulted ceilings. It’s only now I think to ask about it.
“Is that an observation room?”
Matt nods. “There are many within the facility. No secrets kept from command.”
“Is someone from command watching right now?”
“Probably.” He doesn’t seem too ruffled about it.
I look up again, thinking about Camus. Was his nonchalance some kind of act for the benefit of the council? Could he have hidden his emotions behind his indifference yesterday, as effectively as someone is now hiding behind that mirror? Then again, maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part.
“Would’ve been nice to know I’m being monitored.”
“You haven’t stopped being monitored since you arrived.” Matt’s matter-of-fact tone seems to make light of the issue. “Does that bother you?”
“Yeah, a little.”
“Then you should get used to it. After all, yours is the face the whole world watches.”
My eyebrows pull together. “Okay, that’s not creepy at all…”
Suddenly my mouth goes dry as an image of what looks like some sort of media room invades my head: there is a camera in my face, a lot of people standing at the edges of the room, wearing anxious looks, and Camus is tugging on my arm, trying to draw me into a private conversation. It reminds me of the dream—or memory—I had of us on the cliff.
Someone has to do it, I tell him.
Why does that someone have to be you, of all people? comes his reply. It will make you a target. Do you understand that? The machines will make it a priority to eliminate you, just as they have every other man and woman who has tried to be a hero.
Don’t treat me as if I’m simple or naive. I know exactly what I’m doing. Exactly what I’m risking. Look around you, Camus. Look at where we are. We’re targets already. It can’t get much worse.
Maybe not, but if you stretch out your neck, you’re only giving them a better angle to cut off your head.
Shaken, I watch Matt squeeze hot sauce onto a piece of raw fish before popping it into his mouth. I’m trying to figure out where to take the conversation when Samuel returns.
“Where’d you get off to?” I ask with a mouthful of food. Not the most ladylike, I’ll admit.
“Nowhere,” he says. “What are we having?”
“Sushi for Matt.” Matt holds up his chopsticks, dripping red sauce onto the side of his hand and down his wrist. He quickly licks it off. “Just a PB&J for me, though.”
“Always the traditionalist.” Samuel smiles at me, but there’s worry in his dark eyes as he grabs some sushi himself, sans hot sauce.
I decide to give him until the end of the day to tell me everything that’s going on, or else I’ll confront him. By tonight, I expect to have answers, one way or another.
—
It’s late when Samuel suggests starting the cognitive interview, and I’m already half-asleep after a hearty dinner of bread and clam chowder. I try my best to stay awake, but I’m fooling no one.
“We can pick this up tomorrow,” Samuel says. I lift my head from the desk. My chin leaves a red mark on my hands where I’ve been resting it.
“Are you sure?” I feel obligated to ask, but have no intention of arguing the idea.
He nods. “Between the two of us, we have more than enough data to work through tonight. And probably the better part of tomorrow, too. Go get some sleep.”
In complete agreement, I make for the door, then stop, remembering something. I turn back. “Walk with me?” I ask, innocently enough.
“Uh, sure,” Samuel says, caught off guard by the request.
At the elevator, the soft-spoken soldier from yesterday—he introduces himself as Lieutenant Ortega—is waiting for us. Since neither Samuel nor I are free to walk the base unsupervised—not yet, anyway—a few soldiers are stuck babysitting us in shifts. Earlier, it was Captain Lefevre, the larger half of the war-room guardian post, and before him this morning it was Rankin. For the most part, they don’t speak with us. Maybe they’re not supposed to. That doesn’t stop Rankin from sharing what he insists used to be my favorite dirty joke, nor does it prevent Lefevre from inquiring after our recent experience with the machines in the Alaskan wilderness. Through this discussion, I learn Lefevre has a sister, and both of them were close with Ulrich before his transfer to Brooks. I’m not sure why this surprises me, except that in the short time I’d known him, Ulrich came off as someone who preferred his own company to that of others. Or maybe I just preferred thinking that way. I feel worse now, knowing there are people who miss him.
Ortega lets us inside first, following after. He says, “Command level,” after punching in an authorization code. The doors close, and we begin to ascend.
“So are you going to tell me what the tests show?” I ask Samuel. He gives me an incredulous look, stunned by my candor in the presence of a third party.
&nbs
p; We both turn to Ortega, who’s busy mastering invisibility behind us.
“What, him?” I hook a thumb toward the guard. “He doesn’t mind. Ortega, you don’t mind if we talk about this, do you?”
“It’s none of my business, Commander,” he answers. I like how he and Lefevre both call me that still. Commander. It makes me feel like I have more control than I actually do.
“See?” I say.
Samuel rubs his face. “I should’ve guessed you weren’t just interested in my company.”
“That’s not true. I love your company. But you know what else I’d love? Some answers.”
“Rhona,” he says, trying for patience, but sounding mostly weary with me. Or maybe not me specifically, but the overall situation, definitely. He glances uneasily at Ortega again. “I haven’t even had a chance to properly look the results over. These aren’t answers to a multiple-choice test. They’re complex medical scans and graphs that require thorough inspection and analysis. At best, all I can do is hazard a few theories…”
“Hazard away,” I encourage him.
“No. I’m sorry. I can’t in good conscience make any assessments yet.”
“Samuel—”
“Rhona, please.” He cuts me off in a brittle tone I’ve never heard him use before. Not with me, anyway. “I’m under enough pressure without you adding to it. Don’t you think I would tell you if I knew something?” With this last admonishment, the hurt surfaces in his voice.
“Would you?” It’s a knee-jerk response. “Even if the truth was horrible, you would tell me?”
“Yes.”
I don’t believe him, and tell him so.
He frowns, looking a little helpless.
“I know you, Samuel. You’ll try to spare my feelings. It’s what you always do, what you’ve always done, as far back as I can remember. Admittedly, there are some holes now. But still.”
“Rhona, come on.”
“No. Remember that time in the eighth grade when you lied about receiving an A plus on an exam so I wouldn’t feel bad about my C minus?”
“I can’t believe you remember that,” Samuel says.
As the car comes to a stop and the doors grind open, I step into the threshold, preventing the elevator from closing behind me. Ortega waits while I whip back around and face down Samuel, anchoring my arms between the doors.
“Earlier, when you disappeared during lunch, where did you go?”
Samuel’s lips pucker in resistance. He clearly doesn’t want to tell me, but he also doesn’t want to be caught out as a liar.
“Camus wanted an update on our progress,” he finally says, relenting. At the mention of his name, I think I stop breathing for a second. Then the pieces come together.
I exhale. “He was in the observation room.”
“He cares about this—about you,” Samuel tells me. His gaze fixes on a spot on the wall, somewhere past my head. “But it’s…difficult for him.”
I snort. “Difficult for him?” I’d laugh if my chest didn’t feel caved in.
“It’s not like that for everyone.” I don’t know when he stepped closer, but suddenly I’m aware of how he’s right there and my heart travels to my throat, lodging there, preventing me from speaking. “Nothing’s changed for me. I already know who you are. You’re Rhona.” The corners of his lips rise in a thin smile. “My friend. I don’t need some computer printout to tell me that.”
For once, I don’t know what to say. Even my sense of humor fails me. Later, when I’m trying to fall asleep tonight, I’m sure I’ll think of half a dozen different replies, each as pointless as the one before. Because I don’t have access to them right now, when they’re actually needed.
“Commander? Doctor?” Ortega interrupts as unobtrusively as possible. I’d forgotten he was even there. He points to the steel cage around us. “The elevator.”
“I think I’m…” Samuel clears his throat. “I’m just going to head back down, work on a few more things. You don’t mind heading back alone, do you?”
“I won’t be alone,” I say. “I’ll have Ortega with me.”
Ortega nods and Samuel agrees. “Great.”
He doesn’t wish me a good night before Ortega directs the elevator to return to the medical level—and only the medical level. As the doors close, I catch the barest glimpse of some unspoken pain on Samuel’s face through the narrowing crack, a vulnerability he’s been keeping from me. Or maybe it’s always been there, and I’m only noticing it now, with fresh eyes. It leaves me with an unsettled feeling in my chest.
“You’re not going to report all that to anyone, are you?” I ask Ortega on the way back to my holding cell.
“I have my orders, Commander,” he says evasively, failing to tell me what those are.
Rankin’s waiting outside my room as always, ready to exchange custody with Ortega.
“You have a visitor,” he tells me and for the few seconds it takes me to walk inside, I allow myself to hope it’s Camus, come to settle things at last.
—
It’s not Camus.
Inside is a woman with endless dreads of dark hair coiled down past her shoulders. Banded together in thick braids, they remind me of Medusa’s snakes. She’s standing when I come in, despite there being a seat available, a chair Rankin must have brought in for her. I’m in no mood to play host this late, especially after the day I’ve had, but I try to be as friendly as I can. No sense in burning bridges when I don’t know where they lead yet.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“Orpheus was right,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Rhona Long. Back from the dead. Lovely.” The rancor in her tone catches me off guard. It takes me a moment to recover and realize I’m being insulted.
I’m too tired for this kind of grief. “Look, sister, I’m not some twenty-four-hour exhibit, okay?” I shoot back, in part because I do feel like a caged animal. “Rankin might have been the one to let you in, but I can still kick you out.”
“Oh?” She sneers at me. “Big, tough words from the little girl in the cell.”
She looks down her nose at me, a good several inches taller than I am, practically an Amazon. She’s certainly built like one, with an athletic physique that would make some professional Olympians envious—if any were still around.
“Who are you, anyway?” I ask.
“I was a friend of Ulrich’s, until you got him killed,” she says harshly. “More than friends, actually.”
I rapidly put the pieces together. “You’re Lefevre’s older sister. Zelda.”
The line of her jaw tightens. “I want to know exactly what happened in that forest.”
“I can only tell you what I told your brother—”
“No!” She slams her fist against the wall, making me jump. “Tell me the truth!”
The wildness in her eyes tells me everything I need to know about this woman. She loved, she lost, and now she’s in the emotional purgatory that exists somewhere between the two. She’s broken—and maybe not for the first time, either. I experience a pang of empathy for her, being in much the same situation right now with Camus. The difference being, of course, that Camus is still alive. I wish I’d known about Zelda’s relationship with Ulrich before. I would have offered my condolences—or tried to.
Zelda takes several threatening strides toward me. Her anger feels huge in such a confined space, and her domineering presence makes me defensive.
“I don’t know what version you heard,” I say, backing up, “but Ulrich died a good man. He died to save Samuel and me. He was wounded, the machines were closing in, and he…He sacrificed himself for us.” Even telling the abridged version of events takes me back to the camp, to the smell of cinders and pine, to the sight of trees dying under bursts of gunfire, and black blood in the snow. Mine. Ulrich’s.
I finally look her in the eyes, willing her to understand. “That’s the truth, Zelda.”
“Liar,” she says, her voice strangely calm. For a mom
ent, it appears as if she’s gotten herself back together, but the hairs on the back of my neck refuse to stand down. “You ordered him to fight. You sent him to his death.”
It’s then I understand why she’s come. It isn’t for the truth.
She’s here for a scapegoat.
“I think you should leave,” I say, trying to sound less afraid than I am.
“What are you going to do?” she asks me, pressing in closer and closer until my back is literally against the wall. “With no one here to throw themselves on their sword for you?”
“Rankin!”
I barely manage to get his name out before Zelda lunges at me, her big hands wrapping around my neck like a pair of boa constrictors.
Life-or-death situations are always surreal for the first few seconds, like bad dreams where you want to scream but you can’t, or you want to run and your legs won’t move. In this instance, both things are actually occurring. She has me by the throat against the giant mirror, preventing me from breathing, let alone yelling—and although I kick out again and again, it doesn’t seem to have an effect on my assailant. I grab and scratch at her hands, try to push them from my neck. My efforts prove futile, and patterned static begins to obscure my vision.
Don’t black out, I tell myself, but my body isn’t getting the memo. In a desperate attempt to get some air, I lash out with both hands, going for her face. My fingers press into her eyes, yank at the corners of her mouth. She slackens her grip momentarily and that’s all the opportunity I need to scurry away.
Taking in huge gulps of air, I yell for Rankin again, but my voice is a broken rasp.
I just get to my feet when something slams into my back, knocking me chest-first into the wall. Before I even get my bearings, I’m being choked again.
Zelda hisses nasty things in my ear as she forces the life from me. The most painful is her accusation that I’m a doppelgänger, a pet of the machines. Something less than human, tortured, and converted to their way of thinking. Brainwashed—no, programmed.
“And you’re going to pay for killing Ulrich,” she says.