Machinations (12 page)

“So Rhona did what she did best. She improvised. In front of the last remnants of the human race, across the globe, wherever they were hidden and afraid. And she was good. She was
spectacular
.” He talks with such glowing admiration, as if Rhona had walked on water rather than just winging a public speech. I know the adoration in his eyes isn't for me personally, but I pretend otherwise. I let myself have those few moments, as though it can substitute for the ones that were never really mine.

“The Americans called it the ‘signal heard 'round the world,' ” he continues with a look of amusement. “Kitschy, if you ask me, but it caught on. The broadcast catapulted Rhona to global superstardom, and no wonder. She reassured a world aching for leadership, offering much-needed direction. As for McKinley, who on the council was going to challenge the one woman unafraid of confronting the machines?”

“And after?”

“After?”

“One broadcast—however iconic—does not a leader make,” I say.

“Right,” he agrees, and I think I detect a hint of pride in his tone, pleased I've caught on. “Since then, we've been able to broadcast on occasion without jeopardizing our location. Send out news, share insights on war technology, strategy, understanding of the machines, that sort of thing. Rhona was a natural speaker, and an even better diplomat. It worked—at the time. But with the increased presence of machines in the past year, it's become increasingly harder to do. Much more dangerous. Not to mention…” He trails off, giving me a meaningful look.
Not to mention McKinley's pretty talking parrot was dead.
“I think it's safe to assume the machines know we're somewhere in Alaska now.”

“They found me before,” I point out.

“An unfortunate coincidence,” he says, his mouth flattening into a hard line. “The trap at Anchorage wasn't specifically designed for you. It was just the machines' good fortune you were there. In any case, they know you're alive now. I expect they'll be doubling their efforts trying to find us. You pose a very real threat to them. You may be the only person still capable of raising an army from the ashes. Many will rally to you, if you call them.”

I'm having a hard time meeting his eyes. I feel suddenly shy.

“People really believe in me that much?”

“They believed in Rhona Long, yes. And regardless of my personal feelings, we need to make sure they continue to do so. In fact, that's the reason I called you here.”

“Actually,
I've
been asking to see
you.
”

He's completely self-assured when he says, “I know.”

“Right, then,” I say, sighing. “And here I thought I was making some headway.”

“There'll be time enough for you to throw your weight around, believe me.” The way he says it suggests he's not entirely comfortable with the prospect, but Camus wears resignation well, remaining fairly dignified about it. “The council has decided to afford you an opportunity to prove yourself.”

Somewhere in that statement, concealed by his oh-so-careful wording, I detect a scenario in which I can fail as well as succeed. “Like a test, you mean?”

He opens his hands in a noncommittal gesture. “Consider it whatever you like. The fact of the matter remains. A few days ago, a very distinguished person and her entourage arrived from Churchill.”

“Churchill? Like the old British guy?”

“No,” he says, with a faint hint of a smile. “It's a base to the south and one of our strongest allies. I don't know how exactly, but their head councilwoman caught wind that you were back. She's been requesting a meeting with you since, and we're running out of reasons to tell her no.”

I'm listening to him explain when his eyebrows bunch up suddenly and he reaches for his crutches, rising from his seat, despite it clearly paining him to move on his bad leg. For all their “miracle of modern medicine” selling points, the bone-foam treatments still aren't capable of mending bones as fast as Camus would undoubtedly like.

In the few seconds it takes him to retrieve something from a small table beside his bed, my nerves have frayed into thin ribbons. I'm worried I've inadvertently offended him. I'm angry that he would get mad at something and not even have the guts to tell me. Then I'm just plain worried again. It's a roller coaster, and my stomach doesn't unknot itself until he returns, handing me a tissue.

Oh.
My nose must be bleeding again.

I stare down at the soiled tissue, torn from the aggressive way I wiped the blood from my nose. I'm squeamish with apprehension, reminded of Samuel's dark diagnosis, spoken behind closed doors. Is it just stress? Or is there another, more serious underlying cause for these nosebleeds? I want to share my fears with Camus, but I don't trust him to be sympathetic. Instead, I mumble a thank you, and he continues as if the interruption never occurred.

“We need you to meet with her, talk with her, but more importantly, convince her you're truly back and that McKinley has everything well in hand.”

“You want me to pretend to be Rhona?” I say, arching an eyebrow.

He meets my gaze evenly. “I thought you already were Rhona. Or isn't that what you keep insisting?”

Later that evening, as I'm preparing for my big debut, I review my face in the mirror. Apart from the odd alignment of freckles, which is easily concealed beneath a pasty layer of foundation, nothing seems out of place. That is to say, there's nothing to identify me as a clone. Camus might see me as some kind of fraud, but I can't afford to feel like a cheap imitation tonight. I have to be the real deal.

No, I
am
the real deal. And I need to stop letting him get under my skin. Unfortunately, Under-My-Skin Lane is my heart's current address, and it has ideas all its own, often living divorced from my brain, which knows better.

It takes me many moist towelettes and several different shades before I get the right combination of blush and lipstick working with my skin tone. I initially shy away from the dark colors, but it feels insincere to hide behind pink pastels. Instead, I commit to the dramatic with a russet tube labeled
Darling Dahlia,
spots of a matching roseate color on each cheek, and navy eye shadow topping off the look. The effect is startling, but in a good way, I think. I hope.

Deciding what to wear is an easier task, given my limited selection. Between a pantsuit and a dress, I go for the dress. A girl likes to feel pretty from time to time, especially when she's coming back from the dead. Anyway, it's not as though it's immodest: the black fabric covers everything, and decorative silver rings hold up the sleeves. For a moment, I imagine wearing something much more slinky and risqué, just for the look on Camus's face.

My hair is the last to get the makeover treatment, and I'm at a loss about what to do with it. I straighten what bits I can, accidentally singeing myself once or twice, and finish by curling my long bangs into twin ribbons along the sides of my face. Hanna could probably have done better, but all in all I'm pleased with my efforts, amateur or not. If nothing else, at least the business of getting ready has taken the edge off my nerves.

I have to be the best version of myself tonight, which is a lot to ask of anyone under normal circumstances. And it's been well-established that these are not normal circumstances.

The pressure is immense, and in the absence of activity, I feel it more keenly. I find myself pining for Samuel's company above anyone else's. He was the only one to visit me during my incarceration, probably because he was the only one allowed to, for medical reasons, but it's the thought that counts. If anyone can keep me sane for the next half hour while I wait, it's him. I wonder why he's not shown up yet, since—along with my having developed a sixth sense about these things—Camus mentioned Samuel would stop by and brief me beforehand.

Just as I'm thinking he must have gotten busy or sidetracked, my door panel chirps.

Instead of a visitor, however, I have what equates to an email. The notice says it's from Samuel, informing me of a change of plans. We need to meet on the military level right now. This contradicts Camus's orders, which could be summed up as: don't leave your room until I come and get you. But I find my door unlocked, so I assume I'm no longer under house arrest.

I don't see the harm in a brief drop-in at Military, especially if Samuel's waiting for me there. I trust the right hand knows what the left's up to. McKinley is generally well coordinated.

I take the shortest route possible, which happens to present the most foot traffic. Everyone acknowledges me with a polite “ma'am,” complimenting my appearance with double takes. Most smile.

The military level is the only level we had to somewhat renovate after moving in—to account for the hangars, primarily—and it's still struggling to adapt to its second life as a living, breathing base. For one, the level layout doesn't make a lot of sense, with some rooms half-demolished, and a few hallways leading to abrupt dead ends. No major changes appear to have occurred over the past year, either—or none I can see, anyway. Even with its problems, that doesn't diminish the vast size of the level, which is the largest of McKinley's five. Not to mention that the level's filled to capacity with planes, choppers, tanks, and most everything else you'd need to furnish an army—most of it scavenged from battlefields and rebuilt.

At the risk of getting lost, I stop and ask for directions to the room where Samuel wanted to meet. The guard I talk to is kind enough to escort me there personally, saving me from relying on my iffy sense of direction.

I palm an interface that welcomes me as Commander Long, and the door slides open.

But the room is dark.

“Are you sure this is the right room?” I ask the soldier.

He nods. “Would you like me to wait with you, Commander?”

“No, that won't be necessary. But, thanks.”

With a stiff salute and a sharp right turn, he leaves me to my private business, which is mostly just a matter of waiting for Samuel. He must be running late. Instead of worrying about it, I focus on finding a way to turn on the lights. The dark makes me uneasy.

Moments after I've crossed the threshold, the door hisses shut behind me, sealing me in the pitch-black room. I try reopening it, but it doesn't respond to the usual commands.

“Great,” I grumble aloud, talking myself out of the initial stages of fear. There are plenty of explanations for the door closing. Faulty wiring from the bombardment, an automatic response once there's no one in the way—any number of things, really.

I blindly feel for the panel on the wall. Some low lighting comes on, turning the room a ghastly black and green. In seconds, my eyes adjust to the dim, awkward lighting, but it's like staring through a pair of night-vision goggles. I suspect this room must be used for training in scenarios of near-total darkness.

I hear a noise and the hairs on my arms stand up in warning. But there's nothing there—just some broken cars and waste receptacles, basic obstacles you'd encounter in a combat situation outside of the base.
I'm getting myself worked up over some trash bins?
I was probably right before about the faulty wiring.

Whir-whir-whir,
goes one of the dumpsters.

Except it's not a dumpster.

The machine rises to its full height, red optics trained on me. Predator class, known for its speed and brutal efficiency. There's not a chance in hell it hasn't seen me. Depending on its programming, I have maybe two seconds before it engages. Five if I'm lucky.

I'm not lucky. It comes at me with the single-minded determination the machines are known for, knocking aside some of the broken cars like toys. The sound of metal scraping against metal is horrible, like nails on a chalkboard, and I have to cover my ears for a moment as the steel screams. In the same instant, I dive out of its trajectory, scrambling behind cover I know won't do much good. It's still better than nothing, and leaving the machine's line of sight throws it for a few seconds.

After nearly twisting my ankle because of my heels—which, let's face it, are walking death traps even when I'm
not
being hunted by a machine—I desperately work to undo the straps.

The machine fixes on me again before I'm done, forcing me to move prematurely. Hopping on one foot, I manage to get the second shoe off, freeing myself to run. I chuck the stiletto in the opposite direction, hoping to distract my attacker, but it doesn't work. The persistent noise of the machine's inner workings, that low vibrato of death, still comes for me.

Weapon,
I think frantically.
I need a weapon.

There's nothing in the vicinity except garbage—things to trip me up, not help me out. And with everything black or green, it's that much more difficult to figure out what's what. As far as worst-case scenarios go, this one ranks pretty damn high on the list. I fumble with the junk in the few seconds I have, grabbing the first blunt object I come across. I can't take any longer with my search; I have to keep moving.

For all the good it does me.

The machine traps me against a beaten-up four-door sedan. The next thing I know, I'm backing into the rear seat of the vehicle, pulling the door closed. Its windows are blown out, with not even a trace of broken glass left for my defense. But the body is still in decent condition and absorbs the brunt of the damage when the machine attacks. However, the impact is enough to tip it onto its side, and a second attack flips it over entirely.

My head smacks against the seat, bringing nausea and blurred vision. For a few terrifying seconds, I'm sure I'm going to black out and the machine is going to kill me. I won't have made any difference at all in this life. I'll have blown my only second chance. That's the part that scares me the most.

But I don't black out. Finding myself now on the ceiling of the car, I'm torn between staying put or attempting escape. Neither option holds any special appeal, if I'm honest. Outside, the machine is pacing around the overturned sedan, no doubt cycling through its event-driven programming to figure out how best to get at me. It occurs to me that if it had a gun of any sort, I'd be dead by now. For some reason, it doesn't, but I don't waste time on why. I plan my counterattack.

Beginning with the only thing I have on hand, some sort of rusted pipe, I rapidly assess my surroundings. Against a machine's skeleton, the pipe won't do much good, apart from testing the acoustics of its steel hide. But maybe I can—

The machine rams the car while I'm still putting together a plan. The vehicle lurches forward, skidding on its roof, which screeches at the contact. On my knees, I grip the hanging seatbelt straps to keep from falling over. It strikes again and again, making it difficult for me to think because I'm so busy concentrating on not being thrown around the interior.

Finally, in frustration, I lash out with my pipe, striking at the machine's equivalent of a leg. I nearly lose my hand for the effort, but at least I inconvenience the bastard, if sparking wires are any indication.
It's the little victories.

Just as I'm considering playing knock-knock with it again, I swear I hear the sound of a door opening, then someone calling my name. The machine reacts to a new threat, so I know I haven't gone crazy with hope.

“Here!” I yell over the aggravated whirring of the machine.

Quickly, I crawl beneath the front seat, and slam my hand against the steering wheel. The horn blares violently, and I hope it'll confuse the machine's auditory sensors—at least long enough for the cavalry to dispatch it.

I let up momentarily, in case they're trying to give me any verbal direction, but at that moment, the machine reaches in and yanks me out. I realize too late there's no driver-side door.

The thing about machines is they don't have any villainy programming. They don't monologue about mission success, or wait for the most dramatic moment.

They simply commence executing their primary function.

A small part of me expects some kind of eleventh-hour intervention, but that illusion shatters the instant I smack into the wall, thrown halfway across the room. I instinctively try to cushion the blow, but I only succeed in breaking my arm upon impact—that's how it feels, at least. The world erupts into searing agony. Dazed, it takes me too long to get back to my feet. By this time, the machine has closed in again.

I'm dimly aware of someone yelling as I'm launched through the air.

I collide with the hood of a different car, bouncing off it and rolling onto the ground. The impact steals my breath and rattles my bones. As I lay there gasping, I hear the mechanized approach of the machine again.
Whir-whir,
whir-whir.
I will myself to get up on limbs shaking from exhaustion and pain, holding my aching arm in an imaginary sling. I taste metal in my mouth and spit blood.

Stepping backward, my foot slides along some rebar. The machine seems to be studying me and the other occupants of the room, its optics dilating in clicking radials. I know that the moment I go for the rebar, it'll perceive me as the more immediate threat. Right now, unmoving, it's trying to determine the severity of my injuries, and what it will take to finish me off versus the others.

It moves before I'm quite prepared, and I drop unceremoniously to the ground, scrambling for the nearest length of rebar.

The machine bleeds blue light, shutting off, as someone fires an EMP-G. I hold fast to the rusty piece of steel, thrusting up through its now unshielded breastplate. The momentum of its collapse does the rest.

Soldiers rush to my aid, lifting the machine off me, since I'm not strong enough to pike it away with the rebar. Then Samuel's there, letting me lean on him. He assesses the damage, looking overwhelmed with worry. He appears to be at a loss for words, which is good, since I don't have any, either. Instead, Samuel wordlessly wraps his good arm around me and helps me walk away from the scene under my own power.

Samuel watches unhappily from the sidelines as Dr. Debra Gabardine tends to my injuries. Debra's the doctor who came through on her promise to do what she could for Camus, so I trust her. While she's not the gentlest physician I've ever had the pleasure of being stitched up by, I appreciate her frank manner. I know the exact extent of my injuries in a matter of minutes, without her babying me with countless reassurances that I'm going to be fine. As it turns out, I
am
going to be fine, but I'm glad she fixes the damage before telling me so.

The final tally is one concussion, several hairline fractures in my arm, a twisted ankle, and countless other cuts and bruises deemed not life-threatening. It could have been worse, Debra says. Samuel's dour countenance seems to say, yes, but it never should have happened.

A page summons the good doctor out of the room, and uncomfortable silence takes her place. I'm used to this sort of behavior from Camus, but it's not like Samuel to hold his cards so close to the vest, excluding me from his thoughts.