by Hayley Stone
“They don’t know the size of your forces,” Camus assumes, trying to psychoanalyze the machines’ behavior. “They’re calculating risk, estimating the potential for losses.”
Glasses-without-his-glasses nods along with the assessment. “Believe me, I’m not complaining. It’s given us some time to raise our defenses—”
“Why aren’t you evacuating now?” Gratham interrupts.
“We started to, but somehow the machines knew about our escape routes. They collapsed our emergency tunnels.” His eyes look glossy, but I can’t tell whether it’s because he’s tearing up or if it’s just glare off the screen. “There were people in them at the time, trying to get out. It was…terrible.”
He shakes his head as if the word doesn’t do the event justice. I remember being trapped beneath rubble, suffocated by panic, and the feeling of the whole world crumbling down around me. I glance at Camus, and the way he’s locked his jaw makes me think he’s remembering, too.
“It’s only dumb luck they didn’t land a direct hit on our main facility. Their weapons capabilities have certainly improved in the last year.”
“Yes, McKinley experienced some of their bunker-busting technology some months back,” Clarence says. The gears are turning in his mind. “Denali cushioned most of the damage. Our lower levels were unaffected. I don’t think the machines have anything that can hurt us too badly, but the hangar is more susceptible. We’ll have to look into it.” I can tell he’s making mental notes to himself more than planning to actually give anyone else an order, already trying to engineer a better defense than the one that failed Churchill.
“Have there been any strafing runs, anything that would prevent air support?” Camus asks, much to Gratham’s frustration. He huffs at the idea, adjusting and readjusting himself in his chair, unable to get comfortable. “Will we meet any resistance?”
“I won’t lie to you. It’s possible. It’s been quiet for the last hour and a half, but there’s nothing to say it’ll stay that way for much longer.”
“How’s the situation inside the base?”
Glasses judges his answer before speaking it aloud. “Fearful. Nothing major, though. Command has been keeping the panic down, but people are still afraid.”
“Where’s Meir?” I ask.
“She’s…indisposed,” Glasses answers uneasily.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Politics,” Camus offers.
Oh, I think. Not indisposed. Deposed.
Glasses starts to fiddle with his bifocals, obviously force of habit, before realizing they’re no longer there anymore. “Commander Forsyth has the right of it. Some of Evelyn Meir’s recent activities came to light—including, I’m afraid, her part in the attempt on your life, Commander Long.” He looks nervous and absolutely miserable, operating under the assumption we don’t already know this. Which would have been true just a few days ago. “According to her, it was only meant to scare you, to motivate your move to Churchill base, but obviously that’s no excuse. Intentions aside, the entire council deeply regrets the trauma you went through as a result, and has condemned her for the role she played in orchestrating such an attack.”
Everyone is watching me, waiting for my reaction. I try to push my personal feelings aside for the moment. If this had been my first time learning of Meir’s involvement, it probably would have soured me on helping Churchill. But in the short time I’ve had to process it, I know it would be pointless to punish the rest of the base for the sins of its mother.
“It’s in the past,” I proclaim. “Let’s just deal with the present, and leave the rest for tomorrow.”
“Agreed,” Glasses says, visibly relieved by this decision. “Can we count on McKinley’s help then?”
I open my mouth, but Camus’s voice is there first. “We need to discuss the matter further, Commander, but we’ll get back to you with all due haste.”
Camus makes an almost imperceptible cutting motion with a finger and Glasses disappears from the screen midsentence. The argument resumes almost immediately. There are advocates for both sides, each making valid, defensible points. I’ve never known reason to be so confusing.
“Even if we send aid, someone will have to go with the team to help organize the evacuation,” Ms. Cameron says. “This is a delicate matter. It requires delicate handling. Who among us wants to volunteer for the job?”
This sets off a secondary wave of dispute, some like Gratham, still holding on to their original position of isolationism, and others like Clarence, suggesting men or women who could get it done.
“I’ll go,” I say, but no one hears me, except Camus.
“Rhona, no,” he whispers to me, placing a hand on my hand. There’s something darkly worrying in his eyes.
“Hey!” I say louder, trying to get the room’s attention.
Just as I think I’ve broken through, Camus lets go of my hand, pushes back from the table, and lurches to his feet. Everyone’s eyes turn toward him, like in a film where all the actors know their cue.
“I’ll lead the team,” he announces.
My eyes widen. What did he say?
“Camus!” I say in a forceful stage whisper. “What are you doing?” I’ve turned my head and back away from the crowd for the barest minimum of privacy between us, the words themselves squeezing past my teeth. I’m trying not to look as shocked as I feel.
He doesn’t look at me. “Does anyone have any objections?” he asks to break the stunned silence.
Me! I think so loudly I’m surprised my thoughts don’t manifest aloud. I object!
And yet the objection stays confined to my mind. I don’t want to cause a scene in front of the council, not after the months I’ve spent painstakingly building back my reputation, proving myself as someone with restraint and control, when in reality, neither comes easily to me. Besides, the last thing I want to do right now is sow more discord in a room already fit to burst with it. Camus knows this, and I’m willing to bet he’s relying on it to force my agreement. What I can’t understand is why.
“I support the Commander’s decision.” Clarence is the first to recover from the surprise and voice his opinion. Like a chain reaction, the other council members tip into concurrence, like so many domino pieces falling down.
My mouth is dry. I look to Gratham, hoping he’ll play the devil’s advocate for me. To my disappointment, he appears tired of the issue, the passion gone out of him. “I want it made clear I don’t support this course of action,” he makes a point of saying, “but if it’s what we’re going with, then what the hell. Camus is as good a choice as any. More power to him if he wants to go be the hero.”
Faced with that allegation, Camus offers nothing in his own defense. But I don’t buy it. I know him. He’s not the type to believe in heroes or happy endings. Maybe once upon a time, but not anymore.
“Then it’s decided,” Camus says.
“Wait,” I say, pumping the brakes on this whole thing as it hydroplanes out of my control. “I’ll go with you. I’ll go with Camus.”
I’m met with instant rejection before I can even make my case.
“Out of the question,” Gratham says.
“It’s a bad idea, Commander,” Clarence says.
“You’re too valuable to lose,” Cameron adds. “We can’t spare both of you.”
“I appreciate the concern, Rhona, but I can handle the matter,” Camus tells me, affecting tenderness as he takes my hand. We’ve played this game in front of the council before, but it was always to help secure my position. The more he accepted me, the more it cemented the council’s trust. So why is he doing it now when it has no bearing on the situation? Why is he circling his thumb against the tender part of my wrist, when no one else can see it? When no one else can feel it, no one but me and him.
I think he’s trying to tell me something with his eyes. “Stay. McKinley needs you here.”
And then it clicks. He’s offering me a graceful way to bow out. How
kind of him.
My every instinct says to fight this. But I can’t decide whether it’s because I genuinely feel I could do a better job or out of some juvenile sense of entitlement. Or simply because I don’t want Camus to go. And that’s when I realize I’ve already lost the battle. “All right,” I say at last, my throat tight with resentment, and not all of it directed at Camus. I’m ashamed of myself for being so selfish and nearsighted. “I’ll stay, help in whatever way I can.”
The details of the evacuation are worked out with Glasses over comms and the meeting concludes. I’m leaving when Camus catches me and asks for a word in private.
“Oh, I can think of a few choice ones to give you,” I tell him.
“Will you allow me to explain?” he inquires softly.
“Depends on who I’m talking to.” His brow scrunches up in confusion. Good. Keep him on the defensive for once. “Am I speaking with Camus the nice or Camus the grouch? Camus the friend or Camus the leader? You’re so damned inconsistent I never know what I’m going to get with you.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“Don’t talk about fairness with me. What the hell was that back there in the meeting? Look at me. I want to know.”
He looks at me with pointed confusion, as if I should know. “I realize you’re upset, but that wasn’t my intention.”
“That wasn’t your intention? Okay. Then what was your intention, Camus?”
“We can’t have this discussion here.” He’s right. We’re standing in the middle of the hall and people are starting to stare. “There are some preparations I need to make, but later, tonight,” he suggests instead. “My room. I’ll answer your questions then. Agreed?”
“Fine,” I answer moodily. I’m still angry with him, even if he’s trying to be agreeable. Too little too late on that account, Camus.
After we part, I head for the military level in the opposite direction, taking the longer way by stairs. I desperately want to shoot something.
—
Camus is already halfway out the door when I show up at his room. He’s dressed in full combat gear—thermal flight suit, flak jacket, boots, and of course a holster for his EMP-G. All he needs to complete the aviator-hero look is a pair of shiny, silver sunglasses, but instead I’m treated to a clear view of his soul. There’s no longer that cautious distance he kept between us like a wall. The windows are open. I feel a breeze of hope.
But also a niggling fear. He’s leaving sooner than expected.
“They’ve moved up the timetable. We’re heading out now instead of tomorrow morning,” he tells me as we move back inside to talk. Before I can ask why, he explains. “Weather concerns. They want to get us in the air as soon as possible. I regret we won’t have more time.”
“That always seems to be a problem for us, doesn’t it?” I remark, and while it’s meant to be an offhand joke, the truth weighs it down, giving it edges like roughly hewn stone. Camus only nods. “Okay. Talk quickly then,” I add.
“Where would you have me begin?”
“What do you mean? You can start by explaining the whole I-will-take-the-ring-to-Mordor crap you pulled back at the meeting!”
“For someone suffering from severe memory loss, it’s incredible to me how many old pop-culture references you pull out of a hat.” Camus smiles, but it’s strained.
“Not that strange. Samuel made me watch all three of those movies just the other day, and I think he’d take offense to it being called an old pop-culture reference. He makes a good case for their relevancy.”
Camus shrugs and gives me the classic line. “The books were better.”
“You’re a snob. And you’re trying to distract me by changing the subject. I thought we were in a hurry.”
“We are.” The smile disappears from his lips. He sighs and spreads his hands wide. “But I don’t know what answer to give you.”
“Funny. You had all day to come up with one.”
“There’s no need to get nasty,” he says, but he doesn’t sound injured by my snark. He almost sounds amused.
Now it’s my turn to sigh. “Can’t we just be honest with each other for two minutes? Here. I’ll even go first. I’m tired of getting the runaround from you, Camus. I want to know where we stand. I thought we were making things work, and then you go and do that.” I motion in an arbitrary direction. “It’s like you’re trying to sabotage us.” I can’t prevent the hurt from creeping into my tone, however much I strive to sound cavalier about all this.
“No. No, that’s not it at all,” he assures me.
“Hello, words? Sorry, you’re going to have to speak up. I can’t hear you over actions.”
“Cute.”
“Just be honest with me. Why did you volunteer for this mission when it’s clear you think it’s going to fail? Why bite the bullet?”
“Because I’m falling in love with you,” he says quickly, as if he needs to get it out before the words stick in his throat. And just like that, his careful, neutral expression breaks apart. He rolls his eyes at himself, trying for another smile. “Again.” But the smile doesn’t last on his lips, and his eyes betray anxiety. “I thought that was obvious by now.”
“What?” I scarcely breathe because it feels like he’s put us both under a spell with his words and I’m afraid—no, terrified—that saying anything else will break it.
Camus’s expression is raw. He looks in complete agony as he tries valiantly to explain himself further, but can’t find the right words. This man is the most eloquent person I know, and he can’t speak. I watch the struggle on his face, the war inside him exposed.
“So, hold on,” I finally manage to say, and he exhales, like he’s relieved I’m the one speaking now. “This whole evacuation was your way of throwing yourself on the sword for me? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“Such a cliché, isn’t it?”
I smile, though my sight is blurred with happiness and my pulse is slamming, making it hard to think. “You know what, Camus? I’m starting to think we have a serious communication issue.”
He laughs, because it’s true.
“But as far as clichés go, I prefer it to the dark-and-brooding, tortured-soul thing you’ve had going on. Not that that isn’t sexy in its own way.”
He chuckles, then groans and stares at the ceiling. “God. How do you do that? How do you always manage to do that?”
“What?” I move toward him.
Camus looks back at me. “Make the world seem less…hopeless? I don’t know. That sounds grossly sentimental, doesn’t it?”
“I’ll allow it,” I tease him.
For the first time in forever, I feel like I’m speaking with the real Camus. The one the machines buried alive beneath ice and fire and death. Camus Forsyth, the man Rhona Long fell in love with once upon a time. The one who smiles and laughs and isn’t afraid of a little sass, giving or receiving it. The English major, the Shakespearean who wrote me sonnets in college—good ones, not just crummy poetry—as an expression of love because “doing anything else would have been too pedestrian.”
Camus. The man I’ve never stopped loving, even though it was painful. Even though it felt pointless and unreasonable at times.
The comm buzzes and he goes to answer it. The teams are ready to deploy. It’s time. He tells them he’ll be right there.
“Camus, wait.”
He swings back around to me expectantly, brow furrowed with doubt. I take in his appearance for a second time, comparing this image of him to other memories I have of soldiers going away to war. I think about my father. I think about Ulrich. A dark, slithering fear slides through me, making my limbs heavy. I don’t want him to go—and especially not on my behalf. But I also know I can’t stop him from going, either. My tongue feels thick in my mouth, loaded with so much I want to say. Stupid, useless words.
I give up and launch myself at the inviting space between his arms. I wrap my own arms around his middle, moving my hands up the curve of
his back, ultimately gripping his shoulders to hold him to me. After a moment, his arms come around me certainly, and it’s as if I can suddenly breathe. Like I’ve been holding my breath for the past year. We cling to each other, stranded in this world that doesn’t make sense, this world of orphans and monsters; we find each other again. I make a small gasping sound, not from surprise, but from shuddering relief. Beneath the strength of his embrace, he trembles, too, and I wonder whether he shares my relief, or if he’s afraid.
We start to come apart, and that’s when he kisses me. His mouth is full of desperate communication. My heart fills with feeling, shutting off the poisonous part of my brain that fears and worries, and I’m sliding my hands up the nape of his neck until his hair tickles my fingertips and I feel the substance of him. His lips are a warm luxury against mine—insisting, demanding, and restless. I kiss him back, receiving it like a long-awaited testimony. His hands settle on my sides, definitively. I feel captured and released. I feel safe. I try to comfort him in the same way, breathing his name into his mouth.
It’s a short reprieve. The comm sounds again, and while Camus doesn’t bother to answer it, he does pull away from me. Reluctantly, our arms fall away from each other. I turn slightly from him, touching my lips, which still tingle with the expression of his surrender. No. Not surrender. That wasn’t him giving up or giving in.
That was him fighting—finally—for us.
In his eyes, I glimpse more than responding desire; there is realization, too. The somnolence of his grief has fled, and he looks awake. For better or worse. The sad twist of his lips says he knows it, too.
“Hey,” I say with a pout, sensing a goodbye I don’t want to hear. “Don’t get dead.” My eyes feel like they’re on fire. I’m holding back tears.
“Good advice,” he answers, his voice scratchy. He attempts to correct the issue by clearing his throat. “But you know I can’t make you that promise.”