Counterpart (32 page)

I know what I want to say, what answer I want to give him. But instead, my smile falters. I hesitate under the umbrella of my fears. “I don't know, Camus. I mean, how are we going to do this?” His brow scrunches in confusion, so I quickly elaborate. “With all the craziness going on, how do we figure out how to be
us
again? Let alone…” I gesture at the offered ring.

“Not sending me back to Siberia would be an excellent start.”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I. Maintaining a healthy relationship, a marriage, isn't an easy thing under normal conditions, when machines
aren't
attempting to exterminate the human race. What hope is there if we're thousands of miles apart? At least if we're together, we can try.”

“That's all I wanted before,” I remind him.

He nods, looking down, ashamed. “I realize now exactly what your fears were. I should have been more sympathetic to them.”

“Hey, it takes two. I'm not blameless either. So where do we go from here?”

Camus runs a hand along my arm, and even though the thick jacket presents a barrier, I still feel goosebumps rise in the wake of his touch. He looks away and then back at me with a sly smile. “For starters, you could say yes.”

“Yes,” I say, a little breathlessly. “Yes. Of course, yes!”

He slides the ring onto my finger. It fits snugly, perfectly, like it was made for me. I try not to think about the woman who was originally intended to wear it, or the woman who would have killed to have it, and instead lean in to make good on my earlier suggestion. This is my moment. No,
ours.

My lips just brush his before something else occurs to me, and I back off again.

“What is it?” he asks, worried.

“If we're doing this, I need to be honest with you.”

“About?”

“I'm planning on doing something. It's dangerous, and you're not going to like it.”

“You want to accompany the Calgary team,” he says. I pause, then ask him how he guessed. “I know you.” He wraps his arms more tightly around my waist, and I revel in the solid feeling of his body pressed against mine. Why did I ever think giving us up was the solution?
Because you were afraid,
says a little voice in the back of my head.
Better to surrender and have it be your choice than to have the choice taken from you altogether, in a single, violent moment.
“You always want to be where the action is. I'm only surprised you didn't bring it up during the meeting.”

I smile, secretly pleased. “Fair enough. I need to be on that team, though. If anyone has a chance of reasoning with another Rhona, it's me. Also, maybe Ewan McGregor, but that's out for obvious reasons.”

“Don't take what I'm about to say as cruelty,” Camus says, “but the last time you interacted with one of your clones, it didn't end well.”

“All the more reason I need to do this.”

The wind picks up, batting my hair around my face. I slide a finger down my cheek, removing the strands of hair, and wait for Camus to say something. His expression is one of conflict, especially as he lifts his eyes to the sky, looking first toward Denali, then in the other direction—toward Canada, its border miles and miles away.

“I'd rather you didn't go,” he finally admits, returning his gaze to me, “but you already knew what my feelings would be, which is why I suspect you considered
not
telling me. I'm glad you did. In any event”—he breathes into his hands and stuffs them into his pockets; I mourn the loss of contact—“you don't need my permission. You should, however, inform the council of your intentions.”

“Why? So they can shoot me down? Lock me up? They'll never go for it.”

“I'll ensure they see reason,” he promises.

“How?”

“I have my ways.” The way he says it—not bragging, but merely as a statement of fact—convinces me that he's not just blowing smoke.
Camus, ever the politician.
It does make me wonder just how many times he's done this, worked behind the scenes to smooth things over with the council, dismantling any obstacles before I come within a mile of them, or repairing the damage in my bumbling wake. Countless times, I'm sure. Though he would never tell me, even if he had. Camus never does anything for the glory. “I know the council hasn't exactly been a friend to you, as of late, but you need to learn to work with them.”

“They should learn to work with me,” I reply stubbornly. It hasn't been long enough for me to forget being on trial, accused and harangued by my peers, by the same people I considered my comrades, if not friends.

“I don't disagree, but you might consider extending them a little more charity and goodwill. We all want the same thing, even if we don't always see eye to eye on how to accomplish it. It benefits no one to hold a grudge.”

I raise both hands. “All right. You've made your point. I'll tell the council.”

“The sooner the better. We'll need to begin making arrangements for your absence, so our allies don't wonder.”

“My absence. That makes it sound like I'm not coming back,” I joke, turning my hand in the light and watching a prism of colors reflect on my ring. At least it's supposed to be a joke. I can't quite pull off the humorous tone. Instead, I sound uncertain, maybe even a little afraid.

Camus removes his hands from his pockets and gently cups both sides of my face. For a moment, he just stares at me, as if he wants to preserve this image in his memory, or as if I am a mystery he cannot fully puzzle out.

I start to ask what, but his lips descend too quickly.

Finally,
finally
his mouth is on mine, crushing any anxiety in an instant, and I feel like I can breathe again—really breathe—for the first time since the attack. My chest unlocks like a cabinet door swinging wide open, releasing the fear, the guilt, the anger. All that spidery malaise is cast away, and what remains is the singular, uncanny feeling that things will work out. Somehow. I hope.

The sun shines fiercely, decorating even the inside of my eyelids with light. I tangle my fingers into Camus's hair, combing through his curls, before trickling my touch down the back of his neck and sliding one hand beneath the warm collar of his jacket. He gathers me against him with both arms, and it's all the invitation I need to open his lips with my tongue. His mouth is hot and urgent, his body a sturdy barrier to the wind, but still there is something brittle about this moment. Transient. I feel Camus gripping his self-control like an icicle, still afraid to let go.

But in the end, he manages it. Camus relaxes in my arms, rests his forehead against mine, and I think he lets himself finally feel all the terror that comes with loving another person.

Our breaths recycle into the fresh mountain air as we come apart, and Camus steps back, rubbing his mouth. I've left a stain of red skin around it, raw from our desperate friction. I figure I must look the same. Well kissed, but also a little sad.

“You had better,” he says. It takes me a second to recall what we were talking about. The possibility that I won't be returning from Calgary. That something could go wrong. But I can't continue living my life in fear, and when Camus smiles down at me, I realize I don't have to. Not alone, anyway. Not anymore.

“If not,” he says, resting his chin on the top of my head, “then I'm coming to get you.”

Camus and I decide to keep our engagement quiet for the time being, so as not to distract from the present. I put the ring back on its necklace, wearing it underneath my shirt: a tiny silver reminder of the future we're fighting for. Over the course of the next few days, while my fiancé keeps the New Soviets occupied, I pore over the minutiae of the mission with the council, making sure all the pieces fall into place.

Getting to Calgary is half the battle. With machines patrolling the border, an aerial approach into Canada is out of the question. Calgary is also too far away (not to mention too well occupied between here and there) for simple ground transportation. Unless, of course, the team wants to suffer an excruciating weeklong journey, dodging machine radar the whole time. I certainly don't.

It takes some hobnobbing with the New Soviet elite—including hours of lying through my teeth, fawning over and flattering our dear allies—before the Russians oh-so-graciously agree to lend us the use of one of their submarines, an old Polish Kilo class designated
Rekin
, under the guise of needing it for a reconnaissance effort.

When they first tell me the name of the sub, I have to resist fingering my ear, and force them repeat it.
Rekin
—it means shark in
Polski,
but it sounds so much like Rankin that, for a moment, it feels like a sign, like I'm finally on the right track. Here is my friend, looking out for me from the body of an incredible ship. He'd get a kick out of that. As ridiculous and illogical as it is, knowing I might have a guardian angel makes me feel better about the whole thing. Camus doesn't challenge my superstition, though I can tell he doesn't share my belief. I don't bother bringing my thoughts up with Samuel or Hanna, either, even on the morning of D-day when Samuel and I are packing, or later that night, sitting shoulder to shoulder at last supper with Hanna. My grieving friend has taken to looking after the refugees, putting together small packs of essentials to pass out among those sleeping in the halls who don't have easy access to the dormitory level's cafeteria or showers. There's no point in raising ghosts around her; she's busy seeing to the living. I'm glad. She has her mission now, and I have mine.

“What a piece of junk,” Samuel whispers, giving me a tiny smile as we stand on the shores of Juneau—our first time back since the battle—inspecting the submarine. I know he's quoting
Star Wars,
but I do wonder about the vessel's seaworthiness.

Apparently the Soviets went to great lengths to acquire
Rekin
late in the war, shipping the vessel over land from the port of Gdynia to supplement their dwindling Asiatic flotilla—for all the good it did them. I know this because Captain Paszek makes its history a selling point during her hour-long spiel, citing the ship's good condition and competent crew. I'm still skeptical, given that
Rekin
was originally mothballed years before the higher echelon grew delusions of grandeur, but Paszek claims her people have refitted it with all the latest sonar technology. Anechoic tiles all along its hull absorb sound waves and reduce the sub's own engine noise, minimizing the range at which it can be detected underwater by active sonar. Supposedly, the machines still have ballistic subs of their own, including a few that are nuclear capable, though if they're still in operation is anyone's guess. The machines never used nuclear weapons against us. I assume because they knew the damage it would do to the environment—and ultimately to themselves, over time.

In any event, even if the sub was garbage—and luckily, Paszek seems to be right about its decent condition—beggars can't be choosers.

While waiting in the hangar, preparing to leave, I wear a crash helmet with the visor down to hide my face from the few personnel present. It's a relief when darkness falls and we finally depart McKinley. Outside of my team, the council, and a small contingent of Canadian resistance planning to meet us, no one is the wiser about my absence. As far as they're concerned, Commander Long is feeling under the weather and resting.

We fly south to the sea. From there, we take the submarine south along the coast as far as Vancouver Island. The trip is uneventful apart from a couple of anxiety attacks I have, which might be due to the stress of the mission, or because of the cramped space inside the boat. Either way, I usually manage to hide my panic long enough to make it to the dimly lit head, where I can hyperventilate in privacy.

Well, mostly in privacy.

Samuel catches on the third time it happens and stays outside the door, gently talking me down. I know this is no picnic for him, either, which makes his effort to calm me even more touching. At the same time, I feel guilty, concerned he's putting me first again, above his own needs. Samuel has a talent for taking care of others, but he's not so great at self-care. Exhibit A: the bags beneath his eyes, his unshaven cheeks, and half-starved look. If we survive this, and everything goes according to plan, we're going to need to have an uncomfortable chat about him—and maybe about us. He can't keep neglecting himself for his work, and he has to stop polishing my pedestal, trying to protect me from every possible scratch.

I'm also worried what seeing the clones will mean for Samuel—what it will do
to
him. Being confronted with a mistake is never pleasant. To say nothing of being confronted by two or more of them, all wearing your best friend's face, along with the physical scars of captivity. Hell, I'm not sure what that moment will do to
me.
Not after what happened last time.

Locked in the stall, I moan into my hands. This is going to be
loads
of fun.

We wait to make landfall until the short, dark hours of the morning, then hoof it inland on foot, crossing the only bridge that connects the island to the mainland, and hotwire several cars there. Most car manufacturers made the switch to electric before the Machinations began—too little too late; the oil crisis in the Middle East had already spawned several wars by then.

It's a simple matter of powering the vehicles back up using a portable battery. Once we have wheels, it takes another four hours to reach the ruined city of Kamloops, where we're met by members of the Canadian resistance. After exchanging some good-natured humor about the weather, maple leaves, and free healthcare—the last of which, admittedly, goes over my head, though both my team and their Canadian counterparts seem to get the joke—the Canadians provide instructions on the best approach into Calgary, as well as giving us a rundown on the machines' presence there.

“What kind of numbers are we talking?” I ask while we're loading up for the last leg of the journey. The Canadians have supplied us with two vehicles: one military Humvee in olive drab that belonged to the CF Land Forces, and an armored truck like the kind that used to transfer bank funds. The back of the armored truck has been refurbished with enough spare seating to fit six people in addition to our merry band. I also make sure to confirm with Lefevre that we have enough gas for the trip there and back. This is what passes for optimism these days.

“Oh, hundreds, at least,” the leader of the team replies, a small woman with a grey bob. She looks like she's edging into her seventies, with deep wrinkles cracking her face, putting me in mind of my neighbor's yard in New Mexico, the year of the drought, when the grass died and the soil turned to hardpan. When she speaks, the old woman's voice wavers like a phone suffering from a bad connection, but when she shook my hand earlier, her grip was firm.

“Hundreds. Great.” Admittedly, it's no less than we were expecting, but I was still hoping maybe the machines simply wouldn't be home. Would a little luck be too much to ask for?

“Of course,” the old woman continues, “most of them are inactive now…”

I'm currently filling the Humvee's gas tank, and nearly dribble gasoline onto my foot. “Come again?”

“Was it not mentioned in the reports we sent you?” She frowns and looks at one of her companions, a mannish woman with dark eyebrows that don't match her short, blonde hair. “Charlene, have you been forgetting to send McKinley the weekly reports again?”

“Again?” She glances at me, cheeks flushing. “It happened once. But no, Liz”—she stares down the old woman—“I didn't forget to send the reports.”

Liz raises her hands defensively, chuckling. “Someone's grumpy in the mornings.”

“I'm sorry. Reports?” I say.

“Let me guess. No one's keeping up-to-date on paperwork.” Liz shakes her head, smiling her benign old-lady smile. “So typical of youth. If nothing's exploding, you aren't interested. We've been sending reports to McKinley for years. Oh, my. Has it been years now? Charlene?”

“Yes, Liz. Years.”

“Time flies, doesn't it? Anyway, the reports. Until recently, the occupation of Calgary was quite concrete, the city all but impregnable. But in the past two months, we've noticed a significant decline in active units. The machines are suffering significant fatigue, you know. Wear and tear is to be expected, especially after so long in the field. I don't know how long the higher echelon expected to fight, but I can't imagine they predicted anything this drawn out.”

“Why not repair the machines currently in operation?” Ximena asks. Lefevre handpicked her for the team due to her familiarity with urban geography and her impeccable situational awareness, though she would've been one of my top choices, too, based on character alone. As far as I'm concerned, she proved herself on crisis day, answering the call to help McKinley and saving who knows how many lives in the process, all without a care for her own safety. I trust she'll be just as reliable on this mission, though I hope to avoid putting her in similar danger.

Liz pauses to give Ximena a once-over, squinting. “Has anyone ever told you that you look just like that Latina movie star—what was her name? Penelope something.”

“Liz,” Charlene says.

“Yes, yes. We're all in such a rush, aren't we? To answer your question, allow me to pose one of my own: Repair them with what material? And who would do it? We had automated factories before the war, but who do you think drove the trucks that delivered the steel, the silicon, and what have you? Men, that's who. Women, too, of course, and those in between. I know what you're going to say,
But what about the cars that can drive themselves?
A fair point, except who will repair the roads for them to drive on? And where will the material come from in the first place—who will mine and process it? Everything is connected, you see. By killing us, the machines unknowingly robbed themselves of a crucial organism in their own ecosystem.

“Now that we've destroyed so many of their factories and storage facilities, they're scrambling to keep it together. Oh, I'm sure the higher echelon would love to crank out more machines, but new factories don't come cheap, they require time and labor. Both are resources the machines no longer have. Thanks to you.” Liz smiles at me.

“It's a war of attrition.” I try to make it sound like it's not a question, like I've known it this the whole time, when in reality I've been viewing the conflict all wrong. As us versus them. As last man standing.
Or woman.

“My dear.” Liz chuckles, but I'm beginning to suspect that despite her endearing-old-lady act, she has iron woven between her bones, and a mind sharp as a claw. She wouldn't have survived out here for this long otherwise. “Every war that has ever been fought has been a war of attrition. There can be no war without weapons or ammunition or flesh.”

“Or steel,” Charlene points out.

Liz nods at her, then regards me with a cool, even look, and seems to shed years. “Or steel. And there's something else you should be aware of by now, Commander. You're not just
fighting
this particular war, either. You're beginning to win it. Now, why don't you introduce me to that nice young man over there?”

Just at that moment, Samuel makes the mistake of looking over, and Liz gives him a wink. I can't help but laugh.

Liz wasn't kidding about the condition of the roads—if broken asphalt overgrown with weeds and yellow grass can even be called that. Where mud hasn't slid into the lanes of the freeway, large cracks have fissured out from the central divider, likely from the ruthless cycle of snow melting, freezing, expanding, and melting again.

According to Charlene, who tags along as our navigator and wheelwoman at Liz's insistence, Calgary used to experience fairly warm winters, but with the past decade's climate change, the winters have grown even drier, and the summers hotter. Peering out the window, I see for myself the effects of the prairie starving for rain. Everything is dull, browning, and dead. Thistle clots the roadside, and occasionally the wind pushes giant tumbleweeds out of the dirt and into our path. They hit the grill and crunch beneath our tires like pretzels. Even with humans mostly gone, it seems the planet still needs time to recover. I hope it does. Otherwise we're doing all of this for nothing, nothing but a cold future of dust.

“Okay. What?” I finally say to Charlene, who's been sneaking glances at me for the past hour and a half. I'm in the passenger seat of the Humvee, riding shotgun instead of Lefevre, who sits unbuckled in the seat behind me, along with Captain Mathis of Churchill fame and Samuel squeezed between the two men. The captain looks ill at ease on the ground, clutching his gun against his chest the whole ride.

“Nothing,” Charlene says, turning her head away again after I catch her staring.

“Is there a problem?”

“The opposite, actually. You're the closest thing to a celebrity that we have these days, you know? When they said you were coming, I couldn't believe it. We're out in the middle of nowhere, practically. But now that you're here…it's just, seeing you in person…”