Machinations (21 page)

He takes a moment to develop his answer. I'm glad it's not going to be some half-assed reply off the top of his head. I don't need any fortune-cookie aphorisms.

“Rhona and I discussed the topic of loss at length. Once, she said to me, ‘At least failure means we tried.' I think she had to believe in something, and so she chose to believe that one of these days all those tries would amount to something better. All that failure would have worth; all the death meaning.

“I couldn't tell you what future she was hoping for, precisely, but she did say all she wanted in the world was a hot sun to complain about again.”
New Mexico,
I think.
I wanted to go home.
“She regretted every loss bitterly, just as you're doing right now, but somehow she always found the strength to move past it and do what was necessary.”

“Hmm,” I say. “Sounds like she was a real leader.”

“Not always, and not at first,” he admits. “But she adapted, I adapted, and so will you.”

“
She
didn't have to do it alone,” I point out, bristling at my memories. Memories of being comforted by words during the day, and held and soothed in the night. Of being loved and cared for, and elevated by that love. Together, Camus and I used to function as a unit, acting as one another's support system. Apart, we may be forces to be reckoned with, sure, but once the storm passes, we're left stranded in separate bodies of grief.

Isolated.

“No, you're right, she didn't,” Camus answers quietly. “But neither do you. You have her strength. I saw it today. That's something you can rely on and trust. You'll survive, whatever the circumstances, I have no doubt; but you also have friends when you need them.” He pauses, gazing at me meaningfully before adding, “And, I suppose, if worse comes to worst, you have me.”

I stare back at him, feeling confused. It doesn't escape my notice that those are the same words I said to him a week ago.

His offer of friendship takes me by surprise. It feels like an undeniably huge step in the right direction in our relationship, all without my having to push for one. Not only am I hopeful about any future we might have, as friends or more, I'm also gladdened that Camus is making progress toward his own détente with the past. Above all, I want peace for him.

Finally, when I can speak without the threat of tears choking my voice, I say, “Oh, so we're good-buddies-old-pals now, on top of the whole partner thing?”

He smiles. “Tentatively speaking. I don't believe Rhona—you would begrudge me that.”

“No, I wouldn't,” I say, jokingly adding, “and neither would I.”

This earns me a chuckle. Glad to see he isn't completely inoculated against my odd sense of humor.

I'm starting to feel better, supported by his unexpected vote of confidence, enough to bravely venture closer. “You know, you're being entirely too agreeable today,” I tease him. “Are you feeling all right?” I reach to feel his head for a temperature, but he catches my hand.

“You forget, we had a victory today, too.” He absentmindedly strokes the back of my hand with his thumb. I don't think he even realizes he's still holding it, somewhat possessively, near his chest. “Maybe you should spend a little time with Rankin and the other men and women you saved. It might broaden your perspective.”

“Maybe I will,” I say. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” He releases my hand and starts to make his way back toward the main facility, instead of returning to the hangar. I guess he's not in a partying mood, after all.

“I'll be wanting my coat back at some point, too, you know,” he calls back to me, the statement accompanied by a quick wag of his index finger. “Don't forget.”

“Very funny!” I return, laughing despite myself, all the time thinking,
When did the world turn right side up again?
But not completely trusting it has, not just yet.

I'm all set to give my first international address a week later, presumably after enough time for details regarding Operation Pigs in a Blanket to have begun making the rounds on the resistance circuit.

It's not long enough to make the mission's code name any less ridiculous, however, and after a debate over whether to change it to something more heroic, taking into consideration the feelings of those who lost loved ones, the council decides to keep it. Their reasoning? Future generations need to know humanity still had a sense of humor, even in the midst of robotic genocide.

I stand in front of a podium, my lacquered nails rapping against the side. I get the necessity of presenting Commander Rhona Long at her finest, a strong face for a strong cause, but the camera isn't going anywhere below my neckline, so I'm not sure what painting my nails was about. Maybe they want me feeling at my best—or maybe Hanna was just looking for an excuse to fix my chipped nails and peeling cuticles. She may be a historian now, but I think she operated a beauty parlor in another life. “I hope it was in the fifties,” she replied when I told her this. “I love Elvis.”

The audience around me is small, quiet. While the official reason is to reduce noise, I'm not stupid enough to take that explanation at face value. They're trying to make me as comfortable as possible by minimizing any sources of public-speaking anxiety, i.e., the public. I'd be more grateful if I didn't know better. In the back of my mind, I'm aware of how many people will be tuning in to my address, either receiving it live or having it relayed to them at a later time. There's a lot riding on the success of my broadcast, which is why I decline the padded chair I'm offered and take to standing. I think quicker on my feet.

Not that I'll have to do much thinking. Holed up in the war room, the best literary minds on the council spent the last two days writing my speech, discarding draft after draft until the most anal among them was satisfied. The final version is projected on the wall across from me in perfectly legible text, the font size increased to allow for distance. All I have to do is read it aloud.

“I can do this,” I assure Camus for the hundredth time.

His brows pull together. “I didn't say anything.”

“You didn't have to. You've got that look again, like I'm about to go before a firing squad.”

He shakes his head and returns his gaze to some data projected on the table, but I don't think he's actually reading it, only pretending to. Really, we're both just killing time now while the technicians set everything up. But since Camus isn't one for small talk, especially when on edge, the minutes that tick by are agonizingly slow. I begin wishing Samuel was here. He'd talk to me. But Samuel's busy with who knows what. Science stuff. He insists that nothing's the matter, and maybe that's true, but I still worry if we will be able to reach a new plateau of normal after what's passed between us.

I resist the urge to scratch my cheek, but the makeup they used to apply freckles to the other side of my face itches like crazy. Unfortunately, it looks great, realistic, but damn it if I don't feel like I'm wearing scales. Too bad I can't wriggle out of this, like a snake from its skin.

No.
I stop that destructive train of thought.
I
can do this.
The public address was my idea in the first place. Past time we projected some hope to the resistance, as opposed to contributing more bad news.

“How much longer?” I ask.

Camus consults the technicians through a mounted screen in the corner. They chatter for a while, rambling on about the complexities of installing their new system, how it will be impossible to trace, yadda yadda yadda. We've heard it all before. Finally Camus guides them toward producing an estimated time frame. Five minutes happens to be the golden number. Five minutes and we're live.

“Thank God,” I say, exhaling shakily. “The waiting's killing me. Actually, I'm pretty sure death went faster and easier than this.”

Camus overlooks the bad joke. “Relax,” he says, making it sound like an order. “Read over your lines a couple more times. Familiarize yourself with it so you don't look dead out there.”

I raise an eyebrow at his choice of words.

He sighs, massages his temples. “No pun intended, of course.”

“Of course,” I agree, but I think I'm wearing off on him all the same. I try not to smile. With his nerves, he'd probably take it the wrong way.
Serious face, Rhona. Serious face.
“What should I do if I've already memorized the script?”

“So soon? We just gave it to you twenty minutes ago.”

I shrug. “Guess I've got good retention.”

He's polite enough not to comment on the irony. “A side effect of your acting days, I suspect,” he says, and I'm hopeful he's going to talk about them—Was I a good actress? Would I have had a Hollywood career ahead of me?—but he doesn't. He just suggests I look it over again.

The minutes tick by slowly at first, and then suddenly it's time. I wait for my cue, alternately looking between the camera and the wall where my speech is patiently hovering. Off camera, Camus begins to count down from ten. He mouths the last three numbers silently.

Three, two…

And then we're live, broadcasting to the last survivors of the human race around the globe. God only knows how many that is. I try to restrain my thoughts, stay focused.

I begin after a few more seconds, as previously instructed, to allow people a chance to tune in. The camera glares at me.

“My name is Commander Rhona Long,” I say to introduce myself, as if that's even necessary. “And despite the enemy's best efforts, I'm not dead yet.”

It seems like I've just started when the final lines are scrolling up on the wall.

If intercepted by our enemies, nothing in the speech compromises our operation. The majority of the machines may be nothing but stupid insects, but the higher echelon possess a frightening intelligence. Best not to put it to the test.

I conclude not with the call to arms I'd like, but with suggestions for future survival, a reminder to hold the line no matter what, and finally some quote from a long-dead man, Winston Churchill. “Difficulties mastered are opportunities won.” Camus's contribution to the speech, no doubt. I try to deliver the line with as much unsmiling sincerity as I can muster, even though what I really want to do is turn to Camus and mouth the words “Your British is showing.”

Then it's over, and I have nothing to remember it by except a taste of bile on the back of my tongue, produced by nerves.

“How'd I do?” I ask as soon as I'm given the signal that we're no longer live.

“I thought it had the right amount of gravity,” Camus says, but the way he's running his finger over his lips suggests he's keeping some of his thoughts to himself. I confront him on it, and he gives up without a fight. “I was just thinking it might have benefited us to let you write your own speech. Don't get me wrong. You did well with what you had. It just lacked…Rhona's spontaneity, her spirit.”

“I offered critiques. They wouldn't take my corrections.”

“I know.”

“Why was that, anyway?” I take a seat next to him, spinning absentmindedly in the chair. “It's almost like they don't trust me or something.” It's an offhand remark that suddenly gains substance in my brain. I stop spinning, slamming my feet to the ground. “That's it, isn't it? They still don't trust me.” He holds his tongue and I have to ask. “Do you?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “You more than proved yourself with the operation last week. But the rest of the council are still anxious.”

Even though I know their concern is reasonable, and even though I know it shouldn't, it bothers me some. “Next time, I write my own speech,” I tell him.

He nods. “Yes, I think that'd be best.”

A minute later, a face appears on one of the walls. I recognize the technician, his head blond and stubbly, matching his unshaved cheeks. “Ma'am. Sir,” says the man, addressing us with equal respect. “I think you're gonna want to come see this.”

Once we've exited the war room, it's two rights and a left down several long hallways to reach the telecommunications room, affectionately referred to as the Tea Room by its operators. Less for the beverage and more for the letter, I'm guessing, though I'm also told the officers who take the late-night shifts don't want for caffeinated drinks. I could use a little pick-me-up myself right now.

The Tea Room appears much more festive than I remember it. On the wall is a world map lit up with half a hundred green dots. Technicians work religiously to the
clack-clack-clackity
mantra of keystrokes. Others are busily tending something that looks an awful lot like a switchboard, except more complicated. Most are so lost in their business, absorbed by the hustle and bustle, that our entrance goes unnoticed. I don't mind; it gives me the opportunity to observe. I try to take it all in so I don't seem like a complete idiot when I'm finally called upon to address something.

“Commanders!” cries the same man as before. This gets everyone else's attention, and so begins a mad scramble to stand.

Camus impatiently waves them down while some are still rising. “What's going on?” he asks, glancing around with what must be the same expression I'm wearing: interest, slightly flavored by confusion.

“Transmissions, sir,” the technician explains with breathless enthusiasm. “From all over the world. We're talking Brazil, India, Portugal, Russia, China, South Africa…” He lists more in rapid succession, counting them on his fingers until he runs out. “Even some from the continental US, central mostly. The incoming transmissions are arriving in different codes, different languages, too fast for us to break and translate them all. But the ones we have broken, they're all saying the same thing.”

He looks deliberately at me, scratching his cheek and grinning. “We're not dead yet, either
.
”

I can't help smiling. “So we're not by ourselves in this fight, after all.”

“No, ma'am. I'm happy to report we most certainly are not.”

After how much Samuel told me was gone, this comes as both a relief and a surprise. Word was that the Middle East was a graveyard, and Africa littered with ghosts. Mexico and South America were supposed to have fared a little better than the US, with some of Brazil and Argentina's major cities still intact. Even so, we haven't been successful in maintaining contact with anyone down there for longer than a few months at a time. The resistance factions there are transient, constantly jockeying with local gangs—spiritual successors to the drug cartels—for control over safe zones and weapons technology. It's a mess, but it's still not as bad as Western Europe, or so we thought. Until today, we had assumed Europe was nothing but the remains of buildings and people. Near the beginning of the war, the machines came down on countries like Germany, France, Italy, and England with an iron fist—they firebombed cities, co-opted our own ICBMs, and hacked missile shields like child's play. No wonder we thought they were all dead. For once, I'm pleased we were wrong.

“Are we in any danger due to this sudden influx of communications?” Camus asks. Always the sensible one.

Stubbles shakes his head. “No, sir. The communications are being routed into open channels. Anyone can pick up the frequencies without risk of their location being identified. The only reason we know where some of these are coming from is because it's mentioned in the transmission, or else the language gives them away.”

I'm stuck on one part of that explanation. “Anyone, you said. Including the machines.”

“Unfortunately. They won't have much trouble breaking any of the codes, either. But there's no sensitive information contained in any of the ones we've translated so far. Our allies aren't stupid.”

“No, they're not,” Camus agrees, eyes finally lighting on the displays.

“If you'll excuse me, Commanders, I have to—” He's in such a hurry to get back to his work he doesn't bother finishing the sentence. It's like Christmas has arrived at McKinley a second time, or early, however you want to look at it in February.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask Camus when he doesn't volunteer his thoughts.

“The nature of chaos,” he says.

I laugh. “Of course you are. I don't think you've had a normal thought in your life.”

He actually smiles, a slight fracture in his otherwise stolid demeanor. “Even in complete chaos, order can find a way. I've been wondering what that way would be since we established McKinley. What would it take to unite the remnants of the human race effectively enough to challenge the machines? Defeat them?”

“And what conclusion have you drawn, great thinker?”

I follow him into the hallway, empty at this time.

“It's you,” he says honestly. “You resonate with the world. I'm still only just beginning to understand the full extent, but I think it has something to do with that first broadcast. For those few minutes, you made a broken, scattered world feel whole and together again. There's power in raw hope. They haven't forgotten it, and they haven't forgotten you. If you asked me now—and I hope you'll permit me to be poetic—I would say you're the order that can defeat the chaos.”

“But no pressure,” I say, fighting against a chokehold of emotions.

“Make light all you will,” Camus says, “but I'm guessing you already knew this, which is why you had yourself cloned in the first place.” His expression turns sad, poignant. “I'll admit, I thought it was selfish at first. I should have known better. It was never about one woman living forever.”

“It was about the world surviving, about maintaining a rallying point,” I deduce, puzzling it out at the same time. He nods. “That still doesn't explain why I never told you. Before.”