Machinations (14 page)

Until it did.

I remember our last kiss, tasting of blood and ash and too many things left unsaid.

“You can't,” he concludes, misinterpreting my choked silence. “I know. Through no fault of your own, I'll admit. But these feelings you think you have for me, they're echoes.
You
barely know me, and even then only through someone else's memories. How can you claim to love me?”

I could tell him all those things, and maybe he would believe I was telling the truth, but it wouldn't matter. Because maybe he would also believe I was making it all up to please him, and hate me for it. I don't know which would be worse, his skepticism or his dismissal. “You make me sound like a machine just following its programming,” I tell him as soon as I find my voice, the only safe thing I can think to say.

“Aren't we all?” He sweeps aside some of my hair, his fingertips as soft as feathers. I feel his lips against my forehead, a surprisingly tender gesture from a man who maintains he feels nothing for me. I shut my eyes, taking in the brief comfort of his kiss.

“I wish to God you could prove me wrong,” he whispers, collecting his crutch from the floor and leaning heavily on it. “But I'm not expecting any more miracles.”

“I will, you know,” I say when he's at the door. He glances back at me. I press fingers to my eyes, not wanting any more tears to ruin the power of what I say next.

“I am going to prove you wrong, Camus. Just…in a few hours.”

Camus smiles, a flash of good humor, maybe even hope, but he says nothing else.

I crawl back into bed and, using the remote, change the screen to a great stretch of desert where the moon hovers above an unbroken horizon. But I don't sleep.

Instead, my mind continues to pulse with memory.

The London Eye. A Ferris wheel, not some European Cyclops. Disappointed? Only a little. Night sky, stars, and light. One more time around. But your hands are freezing. Let me warm them for you.

I roll over, pulling the covers with me and shutting my eyes, as if I can freeze the images in my head, relive them in the darkness and quiet.

Cannes. Sand and celebrities. Crowds of people. Is that Ewan McGregor? I think not. Ooh, are we jealous? Should I be? No, but I think it's cute when you are.

My imagination is drenched in sweet remembrance, down to the minutest detail of a smile or inflection—everything Camus assumes I don't remember, and much I wasn't aware I remembered myself.

I jump out of bed, getting tangled in the sheets and narrowly avoiding face-planting in the process. I pad across the carpet to the desk. I'm suddenly desperate to write the memories down, save them in a physical form more reliable than my brain. I imagine it's the same reasoning behind taking pictures or recording home movies, a way to safeguard events we can't bear to forget. I've already forgotten too much.

There's a desktop computer, a portable pad with digital screen and stylus, and an even tinier device, bafflingly small and to my eyes impractical. Even though I'm sure they all have their uses, not only am I too tired to try and figure out how they work, but I don't want to entrust my private memories to any of them anyway. Technology can be wiped, altered. I don't like the thought of London and Cannes being just a series of ones and zeroes in some binary language foreign to me, but accessible to machines. Existing in some intangible arithmetic world, vulnerable to electronic glitches and hacks.
No, thank you.

I keep digging and discover a pencil and notebook of lined paper at the back of a drawer that coughs dust when I open it.
Perfect,
I think, rolling the yellow pencil between my thumb and forefinger. Once a Luddite, always a Luddite. I'm glad I prepared for this eventuality. I lick my finger, touch the graphite tip as if for luck, and begin writing. I like the sound of the pencil on paper, scratching and real.

The record is unfinished when I fall asleep. I make the mistake of letting my head rest against the desk for only a minute. My last waking moments are spent remembering the feeling of Camus's love rather than the brutality of his grief.

The following morning, the meeting opens without the usual exchange of pleasantries, getting down to brass tacks as soon as introductions are made. There is an air of formality as everyone takes their seat.

Commander Meir and a delegation of two others are on one side of the table, while Camus, myself, and several other McKinley council members sit opposite them. There was no seating arrangement, so I can't help but feel the natural division might be a portent of the way the discussion will go. As far as opening statements are concerned, they begin amicably enough, with updates on both Churchill and McKinley operations.

Meir also inquires after my health, but I suspect it's only intended as a springboard into her next question, directed at Camus. “And have you discovered who was behind the attempt?”

Attempt,
I think, mentally adding the ugly word
assassination
before it.

I haven't thought about it that way until now, but obviously the machine—one of half a dozen used for training exercises—didn't go rogue on its own. And it didn't send me that fake message from Samuel, either. Someone wanted me dead—still wants me dead. I think of Zelda with her wild eyes, and hands like cinderblocks. I instinctively rub my neck, wondering what happened to her. Could she have been responsible for this?

“We're looking into it,” Camus answers her.

“But you have a suspect,” Meir presses.

“Yes.” This is news to me. I can't tell whether he's bluffing or if it's the truth. Even with the bags under his eyes betraying a sleepless night, his poker face is as impeccable as ever. “Rest assured, the situation is under thorough investigation. It's not something we're taking lightly.”

“I'm glad to hear it. Although this isn't the first time she's come under attack while here at McKinley, is it?”

She's like a cougar,
I think. Artful yet deliberate.

Camus doesn't flinch from the implication. “If you're referring to the business with one of our civilian personnel,” he replies, “that was a misunderstanding.”

“Of course,” Meir agrees diplomatically, pushing a lightly curled lock of brown hair behind her ear. “It's just…Well, it would be quite the embarrassment if, after just getting her back, something were to happen to Commander Long, don't you agree?”

“Careful, Commander. Someone could misinterpret that as a threat.”

She looks appropriately offended. “Not at all. But feel free to consider it commentary on your security measures.”

I notice his jaw tighten. “Noted.”

There's a palpable increase in tension, like the air's been let out of the room, and then another member of her delegation, a man with black, horn-rimmed glasses, gets the ball rolling again with a harmless statement concerning agricultural output.

I mostly listen after that, taking mental notes on the topics that follow, such as rates of energy consumption, population maintenance, supply conservation, etc. All the things keeping the gears in our tiny corners of the world spinning. Although I initially worry the talk will go over my head, that fear proves unfounded. I'm able to keep up and at times even throw some ideas for improvements into the pot. It's a little like a sixth sense, or maybe not. Maybe it's some lingering savvy from my early college days, when I briefly studied political science (Mom's idea) before deciding it wasn't for me. The universe has a sick sense of humor.

While I can't say I'm particularly excited by the subject of food production, I perk up when it comes to talk of Churchill's military programs. From what I glean, it sounds like they're developing new tech to combat the steadily improving armor of the machines. Which I'm all for, obviously. Clenching my bandaged hands, I still feel the rebar's winding pattern on my palms. Unfortunately, before the Churchill representatives can get into the nitty-gritty, the conversation moves on to what Meir refers to as “more pressing matters.”

Translation: bad news.

“We've been picking up increased activity in Valdez over the last month,” she explains, and clearly this means more to everyone else than it does to me, because a pensive hush spreads over the group.

Camus frowns. “Do you think the machines have repaired the pipeline?”

“I do,” Meir says. “And I shouldn't have to tell you what that means.”

I wish she would, for my sake. I consider keeping silent and going along pretending I know what the heck they're talking about, but I'd rather be thought of as stupid than lose out on being able to meaningfully contribute to the discussion. “What's this about a pipeline?”

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I continue to forget about your condition. But to answer your question, the Alaskan pipeline has been a major energy source for the machines since they conquered North America. While the machines themselves don't run on petroleum-based fuel, a lot of their production and maintenance equipment does. If nothing else, they like to keep it out of our hands. Through a joint effort, Churchill and McKinley managed to sabotage the pipeline about a year or so ago. We'd hoped it would halt the manufacture of more machines.”

“Did it?” I ask.

“Not long enough, apparently,” Camus chimes in, less than cheerful. “Seems we just bloodied their noses for a bit.”

“Their operations in Valdez could be indicative of more than just a recovery of the pipeline,” the man with the glasses says. I'm trying to remember his name, but I'm better with faces. “It's entirely possible they're assembling a strike force.”

“Have you sent scouts to survey the area?” one of the council members on Team McKinley asks. He's blond, with a stout face and thoughtful eyes. Clarence something. It's not really important, except I'm trying to familiarize myself with the people who once placed in me their faith and entrusted me with their lives. While many of them seem willing to transfer their loyalties to me again, I don't want it before I've earned it.

“Yes. A six-man team was dispatched for that purpose, but we lost contact with them more than a week back,” Meir explains, showing some of the first real emotion I've seen from her: frustration. “At last report, they believed the machines were gearing up—if you'll excuse the pun—for something large.”

Glasses adjusts his bifocals uneasily. “What the Commander is trying to say is that we think Churchill's location might be compromised.”

Meir shoots him a reproachful look. “My colleague speaks out of turn.” Her expression softens, wearies. She pinches the bridge of her nose. “But…he's not wrong. And if the machines know where we are, there's a very real possibility they know where McKinley is, too.”

“Activity in Valdez is nothing new. Circumstantial at best.” The speaker is a woman with dirty-blonde hair, a narrow nose, and a face peppered with adult acne. She sounds more like a lawyer than a resistance fighter. I think she may be a new addition to the council, brought on for a more levelheaded approach. Camus's pick, probably. “Before we start crying wolf, what other evidence do you have to support this assumption?”

“I noticed the damage to the mountain flying in,” Meir says, rather than answering the question. I'm starting to understand why Camus doesn't like her. She's a politician. But so was my mother, I remind myself, trying to lend Meir the benefit of the doubt
.
“Unless you've been doing a little redecorating, I'd say you've already had a run-in with the machines.”

“Our scientists determined the damage was superficial,” the woman answers.

“Even so, have you known the machines to be anything but deliberate? It may have been a stroke of bad luck they decided to test their weaponry here, I'll grant you. But you have to consider the possibility they were testing your defenses, not their bombs.”

“Let's assume you're right,” Camus says over the sudden din of argument. I admire his ability to moderate such a high-strung crowd. He could've been a politician himself. “What are you proposing we do exactly?”

“Simple,” Meir says. “A preemptive strike.”

“On the pipeline?”

“On Valdez. With our combined forces, we could cut off the snake's head.”

Camus is already shaking his head, but I kind of like the idea. “Why not take the fight to them?” I say.

“They wouldn't be expecting it,” Clarence agrees mildly.

“Exactly. We'd have the element of surprise. Camus?”

He rubs his brows, shading his tired eyes with his hand. “Provided we could even take their numbers, which is by no means a certainty, what happens when they send for reinforcements? Once word is out, the snake—as you so quaintly put it—will only grow more heads with which to devour us. For all we know, this could be a ploy to draw us out.”

“So we do nothing?” Meir says unhappily. “
That
is your counterproposal?”

“It's dangerous to mistake caution for apathy, Commander. Rushing into a situation as volatile as this is likely to get a lot of people killed if it's not done right. The memory of what happened the last time we made so grave an error is still fresh in my mind.” I feel Camus's hand close over my own, a nice show of solidarity for our allies. “So you'll have to forgive me if I'm not eager for a repeat performance.”

The head of Churchill arranges her features into penitence. “Of course, Commander Forsyth, Commander Long. I know the cost of the Anchorage rescue was very great for McKinley. However, we must take some form of precaution.”

“What about the pipeline?” I suggest, taking my hand out from underneath Camus's to pull up a 3-D projection of the pipeline's mapped route. “We sabotaged it once. Why not do it again? It's not a permanent fix, but at least it'll buy us some time to gather more intel. Believe me, I'd love to go in guns blazing,” I add with a brief smile, “but Camus has a point. If we're going to win, we'll have to engage the enemy on our timetable, not theirs. Doesn't mean we can't ruin their day beforehand, though.”

I look over at Clarence. “You're our head engineer, right?” I think that's how he introduced himself. I'm relieved when he nods, confirming it. “Where are the best places to hit this thing?”

He analyzes the image quietly, and then pointing at each, says, “Here. Here. And here.” They light up in a swelling and receding fluorescent red, as if to say
Hit me, hit me, hit me.
“We attacked the last two nodes previously, but they're likely to be guarded more closely now.”

“Which is why we'll attack someplace else. The machines must have some way to maintain it, right? I mean, they can't babysit eight hundred miles of pipe.”

“You're right. They use the same pipeline pigs as we did.”

“And for the folks at home, those do what exactly?”

“There's several different types, each with a different function,” he says, and then goes on to explain in detail. I manage to get the gist of it. Scraper pigs keep the walls of the pipeline free of wax buildup; corrosion detectors utilize either magnetic or ultrasonic sensors to identify any accumulated damage to the pipe over time; and “smart” pigs, which are basically glorified sensor bots, perform a combination of the above. “They're usually inserted here at Pump Station One and also here at Eight. The beginning and midpoint of the pipeline, respectively.
Oh.
”

I watch as he leans forward in his seat. He gets it.

“We're going to attack the pig launchers,” I say for the benefit of everyone else.

“They're certainly less protected,” Clarence agrees. “And a breakdown in maintenance should have the same effect as if we'd bombed a chunk of the pipe.”

“Can't they just rebuild these…pigs?” Meir asks.

“Yes, but it'll take time to do, and require a significant diversion of resources.”

“Time's all we need,” I point out, laying my hands flat on the table. “Although that other part doesn't hurt, either.”

“Clever,” Camus says, rubbing his lips thoughtfully. I think I see him smile.

Commander Meir takes longer to decide her position, consulting with her fellows in a discussion that eventually absorbs the entire table. Everyone has their two cents, but the general consensus is in favor of sabotaging the pig-launching and receiving stations. Through a verbal agreement, McKinley promises to send a contingent of soldiers and weaponry to Prudhoe Bay in the north, while Churchill handles Fairbanks, located at the pipeline's midpoint. The attack will be a collaborative effort, the first in a long time, it seems. I smile to myself, watching the proceedings with secret pleasure. United, I believe we actually stand a chance.

“It will have to be a decisive strike,” Camus says in the tone of a closing statement. “A veritable blitzkrieg. We need to overpower them before they know what's happening. Before they can organize a response. All without them getting a trace on our forces. Win or lose, it is absolutely imperative we do not lead them back to base.”

“I know the drill, Commander,” Meir says, with only the barest hint of annoyance. “My men can be in position in less than a day's time. Whenever you're ready, of course.”

They schedule the attack for this coming Wednesday, as easily as they would a dentist appointment. Although, like a dentist appointment, I doubt the experience itself will be so painless.

The meeting adjourns on that note. The rank and file exit through double doors, but I stick around with Camus and Clarence, who are still reviewing details of the pipeline. I hear them agree to give the away teams a crash course on what to anticipate, and then Clarence departs with the rest.

“So, how'd I do?” I ask Camus once we're alone, folding my arms over my chest in what I hope amounts to a friendly challenge. “Not bad for someone with a mild concussion and doped up on enough drugs to sedate a baby elephant, huh?”