Counterpart (36 page)

“We should do something,” Rashy Rhona says, grimacing next to me.

I open my mouth, but it's Rhona the White who speaks. “Leave them,” she says.

Her callousness would shock me more if I hadn't just entertained the same thought.

Thankfully, Armin doesn't suffer from indecision. She turns back to help, managing to land three hits on the attacking machines with her EMP-G. But despite these heroics, Ximena still doesn't have enough time to rally Mathis. Unlike the machines we faced earlier, these resurrect in five seconds, not ten. The higher echelon knows something's wrong here, and it's sent some of its best to deal with the threat.

The machines press their advantage, chasing after us, guns blazing. Bringing up the rear, Armin is forced to quickly dart behind an old dumpster just as we're about to round an athletics building, heading toward the highway, where, hopefully, we can find a car that will start.

I glance backward, stalling in horror as I watch the machines fire on Ximena and Mathis. He attempts to shield her with his body, but it's no use. They both tumble backward in a spray of blood.

It's unclear whether or not Ximena's also been shot, but I can't hang back any longer. I pass Rashy Rhona off to Rhona the White, yelling “Cover me!” to Lefevre, and make a beeline to my pair of fallen comrades.

“Mathis,” Ximena says, gasping as I shove the captain's dead body off of her. I wish I had more time to be respectful. “Is Mathis—”

“Dead. I'm sorry.” I extend a hand to her. “Are you okay?”

She nods numbly. Miraculously, she has avoided taking a single stray bullet.
Kozlov would've loved her,
I think, remembering the dead Commissar's belief that I was lucky. But that's not quite true, is it? It was Mathis who protected her. Mathis who saved her, in the end, payment for her efforts to save him.

Then we're running again.

Over the course of our haphazard dash, I almost go through my EMP-G's entire charge. But it isn't enough. There are too many of them. And too few of us.

This is how it ends.
The pessimistic thought flies to the front of my mind, unbidden, followed by the useless urge to cry.

Sorry, Camus. Guess I'm not coming back this time, after all.

Then I hear it.

A mechanical sound different from the machine's ceaseless whirring.

The armored van appears, as if from nowhere. It brakes hard, its wheels momentarily losing traction on the asphalt, slipping, sliding, its heavy frame beginning to tip—but the van doesn't turn over. Instead, the bulk of the vehicle smashes through half a dozen machines, not quite destroying them, but certainly rendering them temporarily inoperable. And then, if that isn't miracle enough, the driver reaches over and throws open the passenger door.

“Get in!” Samuel shouts.

Lefevre opens the back, allowing for everyone else to pile in, while I hop into the passenger seat up front and slam the door shut. As soon as everyone's situated—maybe even before, judging by a few thumps from the back—Samuel hits the gas. We tear off, returning to the straight lanes of the highway.

“What—how did—why are you—” I suck in mouthfuls of air, trying to make my panicked brain work. “Samuel, what are you doing here?”

“Being heroic. I think.” He cuts his eyes to me, then back toward the road, just in time to swerve around a derelict car. “Or stupid. At the moment, I'll admit I'm leaning toward the latter.”

“How did you know where we were?”

“GPS in your watch. I was keeping an eye on your movements, and saw when you all reached the Hall of Fame. Even when the GPS died, I assumed you couldn't be much farther away, and hoped for the best.”

I nod, fixing my seatbelt, which has gotten all twisted up. “Where's Charlene?”

Samuel chews his bottom lip and grimaces. “At a rest stop near Calaway Park?”

“Is that a statement or a question?”

“We'll pick her up on the way back,” he promises.

I shake my head. “So, what? You just kicked her to the curb?”

“She refused to turn the truck around,” he says, as if it should be obvious. “What else was I supposed to do?”

I'm secretly pleased he would risk so much, even after we argued, but even more pleased because his dereliction might have just saved all of our lives. “Fair enough. One last question, then: How much self-control did it take not to quote
Terminator
just now?”

Samuel drops his head to the steering wheel and groans, muttering an oath I've never heard come out of his mouth before. “It didn't even occur to me. Can you believe that?”

I pat him on the back. “Always next time, sport.”

“God. I hope there's not a next time.”

For the first time since climbing into the truck cab, I notice he's shaking. He keeps blinking furiously, too, reminding me of Peter Albany, though this isn't some nervous tic. It's exhaustion, and the last tremors of an anxiety attack, maybe. I can't imagine the willpower it took for him to challenge Charlene and drive back into a city an hour away from destruction.

Heroic, indeed,
I think. But that's no great surprise.

That's just my best friend.

Roughly half an hour later—the Soviets are early with the launch, or I miscalculated how much time we had left—a missile streaks over us and disappears into Calgary. We're out of the blast zone, but even still, the shock wave nudges the van. It feels like being rear-ended by another car going sixty miles per hour.

In the rearview mirror, an enormous mushroom cloud blooms, swirling with fire, too bright to look at for more than a second. Superheated smoke and dust blast out across the city, moving straight toward us. For a time, there's no sun, only darkness, then we emerge from the debris field, heading into the clear air of the Rocky Mountains.

For a long time, no one speaks.

What is there to say?

By using a nuclear weapon against the machines, the Soviets have just—purposefully or not—changed the rules of the game. I only hope the higher echelon aren't poor sports.

Back in Kamloops, Liz gets us set up in an old Victorian not far from the river. Weather and years of neglect have worn away the house's paint job, making it almost impossible to tell what color it used to be—blue? teal?—while the wood paneling sprouts a rough fuzz, threatening splinters to anyone who touches it. But it's in a defensible location, with every window shuttered by random car doors nailed to the side of the house, and the white-oak porch has been ripped apart and transformed into a minimalist barricade. The upper story also has a wide, uncluttered view of the street, and should serve as a decent sniper perch.

Not that we'll need one. But hey, you never know.

When we arrived earlier, my brain was still cycling through worst-case scenarios, and despite my desperation for a few hours of shut-eye, it hasn't switched off yet. At least I don't have to listen to Charlene grumbling about Samuel dumping her on the side of the road. I can also stop worrying, for the time being, about anyone guessing the identities of the clones. I had the brilliant idea of bringing balaclavas to hide their faces, so even Charlene—who spent several hours in the armored truck with them—doesn't know what they look like. She has to suspect, though, after Rhona the White requested some water on the drive here and Princess Rhona joked about whether we were there yet.

Liz is the opposite. She doesn't inquire about our new friends at all, and I get the sense she doesn't want to know. There's danger in knowing someone else's secrets.

Sequestered in the house, and free of their balaclavas, the clones beat the dust from an old sofa and move it near the wood-burning fireplace, trying to ward off the evening chill. They make room for Samuel, but immediately crowd him once he's seated. Rhona the White sits closest.

From my spot near the door, I can't hear what Samuel's saying to his rapt audience. Probably he's providing some explanation for why they exist, and how they ended up prisoners. Not an easy story to tell. Samuel talks expressively, with his hands, while the clones listen, mostly quiet and still. For a few moments, an uncharacteristic softness invades Rhona the White's face, suggesting understanding, maybe even forgiveness, and in the light of the fire, her eyes seem to glow even redder.

After a while she places a hand on Samuel's arm.

Then, one by one, the others do the same.

Rashy Rhona leans her head against his shoulder, and his entire body relaxes. He chuckles at some lame remark she makes, but his shoulders continue to shake well after the laughter has died in his throat. He's crying.

This is how the healing begins.

Even so, watching them with him, I don't know how to feel.

Glad? Afraid? Relieved? Jealous?

For the first time in their brief lives, these clones have a choice. A choice I was never given. They won't have to labor beneath the bone-crushing expectations that come with leading a resistance, nor lose themselves in someone else's idea of greatness. Some of them might want to go back to McKinley, try and re-create some semblance of the life our predecessor had, but we'll cross that bridge when we get to it.
If
we can get to it.

“Any luck?” I ask Armin, who's been aggressively negotiating control of the fried comm units with Dhruv for the past half hour. Every time he asks to try, she says she's almost got it, and vice versa, yet neither of them have been able to get the damn things to work since the EMP went off. Liz offered to loan us hers, but that was a dead end, too. McKinley isn't responding to any of the Canadians' channels. Another ominous sign.

Armin shakes her head. Dhruv continues fiddling with the unit. And nearby, Lefevre is catching up on some sleep after being awake for over twenty-four hours. He mutters names in his sleep.
Rankin. Mathis. Zelda. Renee.

I turn away with an ache in my stomach. “Well, let me know if anything changes—”

At that moment, a knock comes at the door. Frantic. Repetitive. And doesn't stop until I go and answer it.
Ask and ye shall receive.

It's Charlene and Liz.

“Commander,” they both say, almost simultaneously.

Liz gives Charlene an exasperated look and then continues. “There's something coming through on the wire. Actually, no wires are involved. Should we even be using that expression anymore?”

“Liz,”
Charlene says.

“Yes. Right. Sorry.” She peers around me, but the clones and Samuel are out of her line of sight, well concealed by a corner wall. Before either woman can ask to come inside, I step outside, closing the door behind me.

“What is it?” I ask.

“You should probably see for yourself,” Liz says, and then nods to Charlene.

I hear his voice even before Charlene hands over the small comm unit.
Camus.

His face appears onscreen, eyes lacking any of the warmth they held when we stood outside McKinley, promising to try for a shared future. He's in the middle of explaining a transition of power to the New Soviet establishment, but I barely register the words because I'm so focused on the purplish bruise peeking above the collar of his shirt, and a dark, damp spot on his shoulder. How badly have the Russians hurt him? They haven't touched his face, clearly. They must still need him—but for how long?

“This message will repeat,” Camus says, sounding utterly defeated, and then it does.

“For those who don't know me, my name is Camus Forsyth. I am acting commander of McKinley base, alongside Commander Long, who most of you know.”

His eyes track something out of frame, which makes me think he's reading from a prompter. There's no life in his words. What's more, the speech doesn't carry his flair for language, his love of rhythm and honesty over empty sentiment.

“It is with a heavy heart that I appear before you today. As of nine hours ago, Commander Rhona Long was”—he pauses to breathe, glances down, brow furrowing from the strain of keeping himself together; this part is not an act, and his obvious pain cuts me to the bone—“killed in action. In retaliation, and with the assistance of our allies in Russia, McKinley organized the launch of several SS-25 ballistic missiles. These missiles destroyed the machines responsible, as well as eliminating several key foundries in Alberta, Canada and several weapons depots in Palo Alto, California.”

So that's how they're selling it,
I think, tasting bitterness at the back of my tongue.
As marauders for justice. Avenging poor, dead Rhona Long.

I try to keep my expression as neutral as possible, given current company. But in that moment, an odd thought occurs to me.

I'm no longer valuable.

At least, not in my former capacity as a leader. Now, not even as an figurehead. If I still possessed any worth, the Russians wouldn't have committed to this ploy. Either they can't find me at base, which means they know they'll have to kill me if I eventually show up, or they tortured someone on the council into giving up my location and intended to eliminate me with the machines. Maybe they always planned to kill me. Maybe I'd finally outlived my usefulness to them, to the cause, and they genuinely believed me incompetent after all the ambushes my clone staged.
Maybe maybe maybe
…

This realization should startle me, and it does. Yet it's also weirdly freeing.

I'm no one again—which means I could become anyone.

Camus goes on. “Due to the heroism of our soldiers on the border of Canada, Alaska is more secure now than ever before. However, in light of recent events, the council of McKinley has elected to create a new cabinet that includes our
distinguished
allies”—he nearly chokes on the word, like a bird vomiting up a worm—“and representatives from the New Soviet Union. In time, it is the hope of this new cabinet that resistance factions of other countries will join us to realize Commander Long's dream of humanity united. Thank you. This message will repeat.”

I start to watch the communication over again, but stop midway through. I'm only torturing myself.

Charlene's first to break the ice. “You look incredible for a dead woman,” she says.

“You'd be surprised how relevant that statement is to my life in general,” I reply dryly.

“What happens now?” Liz wants to know.

“For starters?” I hand her back the comm unit. “I'm going to go back inside. I'm going to sleep for a long time. I mean, a
long
time. Then I'm going to wake up, maybe bathe down in the river, get dressed—do you have a change of clothes, by chance?” Liz nods. “Great. I'm going to get dressed, gather my people together, and then? I'm going to figure out how to rescue my boyfriend from a bunch of megalomaniac Russians, and get this resistance back on track.”

Liz takes that all in. “What about having breakfast?”

“Let's not get crazy.”

Back inside, Samuel motions me over to him and the sofa filled with other me's. For the first time since reaching Kamloops with the clones, I join them.

“Uh oh,” Rashy Rhona says. “I know that look.”

“What look?”

“The-world-is-ending-and-it's-up-to-me-to-save-it look.”

I cross my arms. “Why does everyone insist on naming my looks?”

“Everything all right?” Samuel asks. “She's right. You do look…worried.”

I think about Camus, bruised, battered, and believing I'm dead—again. I think about Hanna, who's already had to bury her husband. Ulrich. Zelda. Dozens of names and faces, all the people who trusted me to lead, and who are now being forced into the yoke of the Soviets. Maybe their intentions are genuine, and they're what's needed for humanity to recover. An iron fist to counter my open-palm policy. Then again, maybe not.

My head aches from all the drama. “I'll catch you up tomorrow,” I tell Samuel, then sink down into the sofa, throwing my hands over my eyes. “Am I a fool for thinking we still have a chance of winning this war? Of coming out on top?”

“I don't think so. One Rhona gave the machines a run for their money.” Samuel glances around him, wearing a soft, almost embarrassed smile. “Imagine how much trouble four of them can cause.”

“You know what they say.” This from Princess Rhona, who reclines against one of the sofa's arms. I sit up, ready to receive pearls of wisdom from my counterpart. She smirks. “Mo' Rhona, mo' problems.”

I laugh despite myself.

Yet later that night, already sleeping fitfully in my sleeping roll on the hardwood floor—Samuel tried to insist I take the sofa, but I felt Rashy Rhona needed it more, given her skin condition, and the other clones had claimed the beds upstairs—I'm woken by the feeling of something pushing the back of my neck.

When I open my eyes, I'm startled to meet red ones. Rhona the White is hovering over me, backlit by the low fire in the hearth. Her hand is a fist around my chain necklace, exposing the ring to the dreariness of the house, and in the dusky light, its silver looks dull as a nail.

“What are you doing?” I ask in a harsh whisper, jerking up onto my elbows. The others are still asleep, with the exception of Armin, keeping guard outside, and as of yet, I see no reason to wake them.

I hope Rhona the White doesn't give me a reason.

She releases the chain and pulls away, but doesn't have the decency to look even a little bit ashamed or caught out. “Did Camus give this to you?”

What can I tell her but the truth? “Yes.”

“He proposed? To
you
?”

“Don't sound so—”

Her hand moves to cover my mouth so quickly I have no time to scream or respond. She pins me down by my head, turning my face and holding my cheek to the floor, surprisingly strong for a newborn clone. For the first time, I wonder how long she's been out of the capsule. Could it be possible that she was working with the machines that whole time? Do they have some kind of agreement?
Was everything—the nakedness, trying to resuscitate that dying clone—just an act?

I never considered it before, but maybe Rhona the White
killed
the clone she was pretending to save. How convenient that she was there, striking a heroic posture, just when we turned up. Maybe she would have murdered Rashy Rhona and Princess Rhona, too, had we not arrived when we did.

Maybe she means to murder me now.

Even as I struggle, I feel the necklace pull violently at my neck, but the chain doesn't snap, like in the movies. It holds tight, and instead digs into my neck like a boa constrictor, its tiny links sawing against my flesh.

“It's not yours,” Rhona the White hisses, still holding one hand over my mouth, but not applying as much weight on the rest of my body. I can breathe, barely, through her fingers. She smells like a chasm with something dead and rotting at the bottom of it. Musty water and decay. And, oddly enough, a tiny bit of salt, probably owing to the stale beef jerky we shared at dinner.

She leans down into my view, and for a moment, all I see is white: her pale face, her teeth, the whites of her eyes. Behind her, the log in the fireplace continues to smolder, covered in bright veins and red lesions from where someone recently stoked it. The log pops, releasing more heat, and my eyes go wide as Rashy Rhona stirs on the sofa, but does not waken.

“This life isn't yours,” she continues, blasting me with her stale breath. “McKinley isn't yours. Camus isn't yours.”

Maybe it's fear keeping me still and quiet—or maybe it's curiosity. I want to know her thoughts, her secrets. Nature abhors a vacuum; most people talk to fill a silence.

I'm no exception. And there's nothing she could say that I haven't told myself in anger or self-pity.

“The others, they won't say it, but I will. You're a pretender like the rest of us. Don't imagine for a second that we're coming to kneel at your throne. In our absence, you might have fooled Camus, but he'll know which one of us is truly Rhona, and he'll realize his mistake.”