Machinations

by Hayley Stone

  I suddenly find the idea of leaving him alone again distasteful in the extreme. So many things could go wrong while I’m away, and who would know until it’s too late? No matter how I feel right now, I can’t lose Camus, not after everything I’ve gone through to get back to him, and I don’t want him to lose me again, either, regardless of how he claims to feel—or not feel—about us. I remain crouched by the hole for a few seconds more, knowing what I have to do, but reluctant to go through with it.

  “I’m coming back for you,” I remind him.

  His mouth grows slack for a moment, his eyes deeply haunted. In hindsight, my promise must seem an eerie iteration of my dying words. “Yes,” he says. “I know you will. Please be careful.”

  With flashlight in hand, I begin climbing. I move as quickly as I dare, taking the path of least resistance whenever I can. Sometimes I have to stop and forge a new path by picking apart the unstable roof or making another hole in the wall to crawl through. It’s nerve-racking work, and I’m mentally willing the precarious system to hold the whole time. Just a little longer. Just a little longer. There are no more quakes, thankfully. And then, after what feels like an eternity trapped in this metal labyrinth, I come across a small opening radiating a murky light.

  I push my hand and arm through since that’s all I can fit, reaching for freedom.

  Someone grasps my hand on the other side. “Here!” they shout.

  —

  Acting against doctor’s recommendation, I refuse to leave while they work on excavating the site of the collapse, searching for Camus. I hover uselessly in my blue shock blanket, forbidden from doing more physical labor. The situation is under control, they keep telling me. But I’ll believe that once they’ve located Camus and gotten him out safely, not a minute sooner.

  Samuel appears one hour and two nosebleeds later. I’m holding my nose, trying to stop a third, when he embraces me—or tries to. With his sling between us, it’s a little awkward. Not to mention painful. We both grimace, his arm and my bruises protesting until he releases me. “Sorry. I heard about what happened from Matt, and I just thought—I assumed the worst.”

  “I’m okay,” I assure him.

  He frowns, still holding me gently by the shoulders. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Normally, that would’ve been the moment you’d make some crack about being hard to kill…”

  “I’m sorry I can’t be the comic relief right now.”

  “What is it?” Samuel follows my line of sight as I strain to peer around him, at the crew still working diligently to free Camus. “Is someone else under there?”

  “I was with Camus when it happened,” I explain, and suddenly I feel responsible. If I hadn’t been there, slowing him down with conversation, distracting him…maybe we both would have been outside of the danger zone.

  “Camus?” Samuel looks perplexed. “I thought you were with Rankin—”

  I give Samuel the abridged version of events, and quickly go back to worrying about the pace of the rescue.

  “Why are they going so slow?” I grumble, mostly to myself. I already know the answer. They don’t want to risk a secondary collapse. But it’s been too long, and my brain is starting to raise concerns I can’t address calmly. Does he have enough oxygen to breathe? What about the circulation in his legs? I can’t remember whether he was bleeding or not when I left, but what if he was? What if he’s been bleeding out this whole time?

  I feel something soft press against my nose, jolting me out of my neurosis. Samuel’s holding part of his shirt to my nose, which continues to run red from stress. “You were getting blood all over your fingers,” he says by way of explanation.

  “Now I’m getting blood all over your shirt,” I reply.

  “I can change later.”

  “Thanks,” I say, a little embarrassed in the face of his kindness. “I’ll try not to ruin any more of your clothing today.”

  “Good plan.” He smiles in that gentle, understanding way that has brought me so much comfort over the past week. I wish I could repay him for all the compassion he’s shown me, but I don’t know how.

  Then the thought’s shoved from my mind, and I go right back to fidgeting, anxiously awaiting word they’ve found him, that Camus is alive and well. Not dying alone in some godforsaken hole in the ground.

  “What if I didn’t make it in time?” I whisper to Samuel, unable to give voice to my fear any more loudly. “I gave him my word I’d come back for him.”

  “He’s survived worse,” Samuel reassures me. “He’ll make it through this, too.”

  I chew at my fingernails—a nervous habit I don’t remember ever having before now. “You’re right,” I say, thinking Please God let him be right. But I continue to fret, my brain wandering into the unattractive landscape of worst-case scenarios.

  “Hey! Over here!” someone yells. “We’ve got him!”

  The announcement goes up like a war cry, sending the rescue team into a frenzy of increased activity as they redouble their efforts. I want to be right there with them, contributing in some way, however small, but I’m kept back by a severe look from the medics standing by, and by Samuel, who’s taken my hand, ensuring I stay put.

  Together, the strongest arms begin to lift the beam from across Camus’s legs. In their haste, the team upsets the other pylon, nearly bringing down the feeble ceiling on top of themselves. As soon as the area is designated safe enough, the doctors rush forward in a blur of white lab coats, lifesaving equipment in hand. I think I stop breathing, able only to watch and pray.

  Camus is limp, unmoving, as they hoist his body from the metal wreckage. He’s pale underneath a thin film of dust, with dirt caked around a bloody head wound that looks worse in full light. His eyes are closed, but I think I see a flicker of movement behind the lids as the doctors strap him to a spinal board and equip him with a cervical collar.

  All the while, I strain to catch bits and pieces of their harried conversation. They’re tossing around words like pulmonary embolism and linear fracture and possible MTBI, as well as a bunch of other medical jargon that sounds painful and life threatening.

  I throw off my shock blanket and rush forward to meet them as they start to take him away. Samuel is unable to stop me. In hindsight, I don’t think he actually tries to.

  “Is he okay?” I ask in a rush of syllables. “Is he going to be all right?”

  “Please, Commander, stand back,” one of the physicians, a woman, tells me.

  Camus comes around briefly, eyes meaningfully finding mine. He tries to move the oxygen mask from his face with a weak hand, as if he wants to say something, but another doctor prevents him.

  “You’re going to be all right, Camus,” I tell him, even though I don’t really know that for sure. After another moment, his eyes roll back beneath their lids.

  I persist in following the gurney until the female physician breaks off from her fellows, barring me from going any farther.

  “Don’t let him die,” I say, not only to her, but to the other doctors, too. “You can’t let him die! You won’t.” An order, as if I have any control over life and death. Then, less forcefully, “Please, tell me you won’t let him die.”

  “We’ll do everything in our power to save him,” she promises. “But you’re going to have to trust us with this, ma’am.”

  I nod stiffly before she disappears down the same corridor as the rest.

  “Rhona,” Samuel says quietly behind me. I turn, swiping at my cheeks. He is all sympathy, and that makes me feel worse. “You really should let the doctors have a better look at you.”

  “You’re a doctor. Can’t you just bandage me up or something?”

  “I’m not that kind of…” he begins to say, then changes his mind. “Yeah. I can do that for you.”

  —

  I don’t remember the walk back to the section of Command partitioned as living quarters, and I think it may be in part due to whatever medication the pa
ramedics gave me earlier. In what seems like no time at all, we materialize in front of my room. Instead of going inside, we idle around the door like vagrants. I finally open it to a dark room filled with ghosts.

  “I don’t want to be here tonight.” Alone with the past, I mentally append. “Can we go to your place instead? I don’t snore—I don’t think.”

  “Uh, sure,” Samuel agrees, looking equal parts surprised and confused. “My quarters are just around the hall here, but are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable in your own bed?” I shake my head, but offer no reason why. “All right, but I can’t say my place has nearly the amount of feng shui as yours.”

  “Shut up,” I say, almost laughing at the joke.

  “Did I forget to tell you? You were also an interior decorator in your other life,” he adds, continuing to rib me as we head toward his apartment.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to distract you,” he answers honestly. “Is it working?”

  “If I say yes, will you stop teasing me?” I reply, managing a smile even after everything that’s happened. Samuel must be a miracle worker.

  We reach his room without any more jokes about my decorating prowess. He’s not kidding about the lack of feng shui, but then there’s very little in the way of furniture at all. The place is as ordinary as could be, not looking the least bit lived in. I know he’s been gone for the past two years, but I find myself wondering whose quarters these were before he moved back in. No space goes unused for long in McKinley unless there’s a reason.

  As Samuel goes to fetch a first-aid kit from the bathroom, I lie down on the bed and curl up on top of the covers. By the time I realize my mistake, I’m already drifting off. I open one eye slightly when a weight settles over me—a blanket, soft and warm and perfect. Without Samuel noticing, I watch him settle in on the couch on the other side of the room.

  He rubs his face, exhaling slowly. When his hands finally come away, his eyes are unnaturally pink, rimmed by dark bags. I think it’s because he’s tired until I notice the thin streaks of tears. He pinches his nose, and wipes his cheek with the palm of his hand.

  Feeling like an intruder, I close both eyes again, giving Samuel some privacy, but the image of him crying stays with me into sleep and troubles my dreams.

  Chapter 10

  A little over a week later, I’m watching prerecorded cartoons on the flat-screen in my room when the picture flickers and clicks over to another image. The abrupt shift from surrealist cartoons to a live camera is disconcerting. This isn’t some cheap found footage, made-for-TV movie, either, but a feed from the war room. Samuel and Matt are there, along with the other councilors. Sans Camus, who I haven’t been allowed to see since the cave-in.

  I’m confused. The time stamp on the footage indicates this meeting took place hours ago, so it has to be a recording. How did I get access to it? I try pressing a few buttons, but nothing happens.

  “The subject displays traits characteristic of a trauma patient,” Matt is saying, only now he doesn’t sound like Matt. Standing there, his face drawn and serious, he feels unfamiliar. One Dr. Shigeru who I don’t know, rather than the friendly Matt who offered me a glass of water back when we first met. “Moderate to low-grade amnesia, confusion, heightened awareness of her surroundings…”

  “Is she dangerous?” one councilmember asks. There are murmurs of curious wonder.

  “No,” Samuel answers immediately.

  “Only to the degree that her genetic donor was,” Dr. Shigeru clarifies. “We had an opportunity to test her combat aptitude last week, and she performed quite admirably, given her condition.” Score! Until this moment, I wasn’t sure how I’d done. Camus stood in stony silence the entire time while I ran around the training room, testing my familiarity with various military hardware, reacting to some routine situations, and responding to fear stimuli—namely machines, under strict local control. “Added to the reports made by Doctor Lewis and Lieutenant Moore concerning the escape from Brooks facility, it seems fair to conclude the subject retained most, if not all, her knowledge of warfare. On the matter of the subject’s memory, however, I will defer to my colleague’s expertise.”

  Samuel nods and utilizes holographic controls on the table to slide graphs and other diagrams onto the wall. Whatever he’s showing the council is off camera, however, so I can’t see them once he’s thrown them up. I think back to my last visit to the war room, of the anatomical image being displayed. Was that me?

  “There’s no exact medical term for the type of memory loss the subject is suffering from.” I shut my eyes against the word subject coming from Samuel, as if I can shut my ears to it. “Calling it amnesia is something of a misnomer. Whatever she can’t or doesn’t remember isn’t because she’s forgotten it. It’s because the memories were never properly mapped to her neural pathways during the process we call transference. Doctor Shigeru and myself have theorized that as a result of the interruption the brain hastened the executive function of discernment, randomly deciding which memories were important and which were not, on the basis of emotional content.

  “To give you some understanding of how memory normally works, everything is processed through the visual, auditory, and olfactory areas of the brain. Even this minute, your brains are selecting information to associate with this meeting. The temperature of the room, the sound of my voice, all these things contribute to what is called episodic memory. You’ll remember this meeting as a whole, while certain details—such as the color of my shirt—will be discarded as trivial.

  “The subject’s mind functions much the same way, except in her case, during transference, the brain received every memory as if it were short term. As a result, only—or rather, mostly—those memories with powerful emotional ties were passed on to the hippocampus to be kept as long-term memories. What she feels is closely related to what she remembers. It’s likely more memories will surface with time, inspired by a smell or taste, but it’s impossible to predict.”

  This information is a lot to take in—and not just for me. The room grows quiet with thought.

  “In your professional opinion, Doctor Lewis,” comes another voice from off camera, “is the subject Rhona Long, or isn’t she?”

  “I’m not a philosopher, sir,” Samuel says, nervously rolling the skin of his thumb. “I don’t feel comfortable making value judgments on what constitutes identity—”

  “But you felt comfortable experimenting with the sanctity of life?”

  He looks chastised, but recovers quickly. I’ve stopped breathing, waiting for his answer. My heart is pounding in my ears, insisting me, me, me. I’m alive. I’m Rhona. Tell them, Samuel. Tell them.

  “With all due respect, I can’t quantify her existence any more than I could yours,” Samuel answers. He’s deliberately choosing his words. The atmosphere remains tense. “But I will tell you that the woman I escaped Brooks with has as much heart and soul as the woman who gave her life near Anchorage. She’s Rhona Long in all the ways that matter. And if she’s given a chance, councilors, I believe she can do just as much good. You want my professional opinion, there it is.”

  The council members converse in muted tones of agreement. A few holdouts balk, but in the end, majority rules. I’m going to get a shot at my old life again, with some reasonable restrictions.

  I hold off pumping my arm in the air when another council member, a woman, asks, “Is there anything else we should be made aware of, Doctors?”

  Matsuki eyes Samuel without turning his head. Samuel rubs the back of his neck.

  “The subject’s immune system may be compromised,” Samuel admits. “I’m not sure to what extent. Of the laboratory’s clones at the time of the attack on the Brooks facility”—Wait, there were more of me?—“hers was the only one to reach a mature stage of development. But she still wasn’t ready when the machines arrived. She has chronic nosebleeds, and while that may be attributed to stress, it could be a sign of a more serious problem…�
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  My first thought is: He sounds like one of those old allergy commercials, warning of side effects.

  My second: Wait, I might be dying?

  Just then, the feed stutters and cuts out, returning me to my previous programming before I have a chance to find out more.

  “No!” I shout at the screen. “No, no, no.”

  I try to bring the feed back by frantically pushing buttons, but have no luck resurrecting the footage. I stare blankly at the screen, which has returned to showing cartoons. I think it’s a new episode; the heroes are taking on a different villain now.

  I don’t know how to feel about what I’ve learned. I wish I could condense the toxic mixture into something with an easy label, like ANGER or FEAR, easily dealt with. Instead I’m rubbed raw by this convoluted tangle of thought and feeling.

  Maybe I am a child, I think scornfully, directing my frustration at the only person present. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

  Voices swell outside my quarters. The sound of an argument breaking against my door. Even without knowing more, I have to admit I’m grateful for the immediate distraction. I power off the screen and sidle up to the door with a hand cupped around my ear, trying to decipher words from the muffled syllables.

  Whatever the cause of the disturbance, I don’t find out. The voices move off, and I’m left in the dark, alone behind locked doors.

  Chapter 11

  Two days later, the powers that be finally clear me to visit Camus. With my company and freedom so tightly restricted, it’s an opportunity I welcome—and not only because I’m looking to stretch my legs.

  His hospital room smells strongly of antiseptic and some lemon-scented detergent used on the linens. I don’t find Camus in bed where he’s supposed to be. Instead, I find him in an unpadded folding chair beside a holographic window, crutches off to the side. The screen mostly displays an abundance of nature—fields of green grass, some blades yellowed by fall, and trees, with no other discernible landmarks. Really, it could be anywhere, but I think it’s somewhere important to him, somewhere in England, maybe.