Machinations (28 page)

“No, but they understand termination. System failure takes away everything that self-awareness has given them, robs them of their primary programming. In one respect, it's like death. Their function is all they have. Then there's you. If they compute human interference as the largest threat to their continued operation, imagine what you represent, constantly bringing more humans out of the woodwork?”

“You make it sound like I'm some…
bogeyman
they use to scare little toasters at night.”

“Oh, no,” he replies with a touch of a smile. “You're much worse. You've become a rallying point. Everyone else is one person, one life, but you represent many. You are legion. Let me put it this way—you're like a virus, infecting their perfect system. They can try and contain the damage, but as long as you're still floating around, multiplying allies and hope, you're the greatest impediment to them carrying out their programming.”

“That's it,” I whisper; it all clicks in my head. I grab him by both shoulders, ignoring the dull pain in my shoulder. “Samuel, that's it! I know how we can save them! You're a genius!” I lean in, giving him a quick peck on the cheek.

“Glasses!” I shout. “Back at McKinley, Meir mentioned Churchill was developing some sort of new broadcast system, one safer and more effective. Do you know anything about that?”

He nods. “I helped design it. Why?”

“Will it work from here?”

“Well, it's unfinished, Commander. Hasn't been properly tested. Again, I have to ask, why?”

“Because I'm about to be amazing,” I reply with a smile. I feel a surge of confidence calming my nerves. “While we're waiting for Kennedy, I want you to prepare for a broadcast. There should be a satellite tasked to this location already, judging by the machines' heavy presence. If you can hack into it, then you can use that to boost the signal.”

“Since when did you become Miss Know-It-All about satellites?” Zelda asks, more curious than accusatory.

“Clarence gave me a crash course before we left, just like I had you do with the comms,” I reply curtly. In the days before our departure, I had dutifully cornered every expert I could find, in an attempt to cram as much knowledge as I could into my head—much that my original probably knew, but maybe some new stuff, as well. I turn my full attention back to Glasses. “Can you do it?”

He suffers a moment of doubt, which plays out in his fingers fidgeting on a keyboard, before he finally nods. “Maybe. Maybe.” The machines bang and rattle outside the door. “Yes,” he says with renewed determination. “I think so. I'm sure as hell going to try. Move back.” He scoots Zelda aside, positions himself at the head of the table. A flash of schematics and controls materialize as floating, three-dimensional objects before him.

“Now, what are you up to, Commander?” Rankin inquires.

Before I can answer him, Lefevre grabs me by the shoulder. “Listen,” he tells me.

I do. “I don't hear anything,” I say distractedly.

He nods, and only then does it dawn on me. The sudden quiet seems like a foreign intruder, taking on an ominous, menacing quality. Each of us turns to look at the wall where the camera feed of the corridor has frozen. Except it isn't frozen. The time stamp continues to tick away, meaning the images are still live and transmitting.

The machines have just stopped.

“What are they doing?” Samuel is the first to break the silence, while the rest of us are unconsciously holding our breaths, as if inhaling or exhaling will startle them into animation again.

“Better question: What are they waiting for?” Zelda says.

“Maybe Kennedy's gone and done it,” Rankin supplies optimistically.

“No…” I say slowly. “I don't think so. It's too soon.”

A voice erupts from the speakers in the room. A voice I know. A voice we all know. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I forget to breathe again, or else I can't. My stomach clenches like a fist, or feels like I've been punched by one.

“No,” Zelda whispers, horror painting her face in mixed tones of disbelief, fear, and grief.

The voice is Ulrich's, and Ulrich is supposed to be dead.

The cadence is disjointed. Every word is broken down into its distinct syllables, a mockery of the human voice. Yet it still retains the same rough, gravelly sound of Ulrich's speech, along with the rich German accent that stubbornly defied years among Americans. While something about it is clearly wrong, it somehow makes no difference when you're hearing a dead man—a dead
friend
—talking again.

“Jeffrey Casa. Kennedy Jenkins. Rhona Long. Rankin Moore. Orpheus Lefevre. Zelda Lefevre. Samuel Lewis. We know you are here,” says the voice that is and is not Ulrich's. “We have documented your arrival and determined that you will not be leaving the facility, except with our permission.”

“Shut up,” Zelda says under her breath, recovering from the shock and converting it into anger. “Shut up, shut up, shut
up.
” Lefevre holds her by the arms, but I think it's meant less as a comforting gesture, and more as an effort to restrain her. It's no wonder. While the machines are technologically advanced, even they can't imitate something they've never heard. They would have had to spend time in Ulrich's company, long enough to record his vocal patterns. They weren't supposed to take him alive, I want to tell Zelda, but somehow I doubt she'd find that any consolation.

“Never leaving the facility, huh?” I say aloud, my mouth dry with fear, but my voice surprisingly strong. “I'd like to see your statistics on that.” To my surprise—although in hindsight, maybe not so surprising—the exact calculations pass across the wall displays in a complex series of zeros and ones. “Oh, that's right. I forgot. You guys don't have a sense of humor, do you? Sarcasm must just drive you up the
wall.
”

“We require no tonal constructs to communicate effectively, Rhona Long.”

I know the AI is trying to spook me by using my name, just as they used the others'. The machines' voice imitation software has always been impressive, so I try not letting it get to me. But hearing my name straight from the devil's mouth is still unnerving. Made worse by the fact that it's Ulrich's voice.

“I can tell,” I reply. At the same time, I gesture to Glasses to continue working. If I keep them distracted with conversation, maybe he'll have time to finish his setup. The machines remain still, crouched outside. “All right, then. What do you want?”

“The statistical data has been computed. The odds of escape against the survival of your team are 9,200 to one.”

“Really? Samuel, what do you think?”

“I'd have to check the math,” he replies dryly.

The machines ignore him, as I imagine they've always done. Their mistake, given how he was the one who brought me back from the dead. They don't see him like I do, as someone of significance. Maybe I can use that underestimation at some point. I make a mental note of it.

“You are not leaving this facility alive, Rhona Long,” they continue, as single-minded as ever. “You have been convicted of war crimes under the Nuremberg Principles and have been summarily sentenced to death.”

Sentenced to death? Been there, done that
.
“I'm not familiar with those principles. Mind running them by me?”

“We have established international peace and reestablished law, which others—by your orders—have broken and continue to threaten. Principle III: The fact that a person who committed an act which constitutes a crime under international law acted as head of state or responsible government official does not relieve him from responsibility.

“Principle VI, subsection a, Crimes Against Peace, which follows: The planning, preparation, initiation, or waging a war of aggression or war in violation of international treaties, agreements, or assurances or participation in a common plan or conspiracy for the accomplishments of any of the aforementioned.”

“Mhm,” I answer coolly. “Sounds like I've been busy.”

“Acknowledgment of crimes accepted,” the voice says and I try not to think about how I've just implicated myself as a war criminal, lumped in the same category with men like Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin. But where the machines make no distinction, I know the difference. “In exchange for your surrender, we are willing to allow your companions to go free.”

“Wow, awful generous of you all,” Rankin says, putting himself in the line of fire. “So what's the catch?”

“There is no catch.”

I smile. “
Ohhh.
I get it now. You guys can't get past the door, can you? You can't get to us in here.”

A long silence on the other end confirms it.

“You are trapped,” insists the machine. “There is no other way out.”

I think about this. What I still don't get is why they don't just blow the entire facility, vaporizing us. It's simpler, faster than starving us out…

But then, maybe they don't want me dead—
yet.
It seems obvious now. They killed me once, and still the resistance went on just as before, because people didn't know. Humans lie. The machines need to take me alive this time, as an insurance policy, to make an example of me and deliver one final crushing blow to human morale. Or worse, reprogram me, turn me into a doppelgänger through torture and brainwashing. Use me against the resistance.

“How about I think about it and get back to you?” I tell the machine, then to Glasses, “Cut the comms.” I mean it literally. It's not enough to turn them off, because the machines would figure out a way to turn them back on, so he has to take a chair to one of the mounted consoles instead. Brutish, but effective.

“Didn't sound like such a bad trade to me,” Zelda remarks quietly.

“Your loyalty's always appreciated, Zelda,” I say back to her. “All right, Glasses, where are we at with the broadcast?”

“Just about there, I think. Seems like the machines were too busy processing your conversation to notice me fiddling with the satellite.”

“It's more likely they just don't care,” Zelda points out. “Our forces are crippled and trapped. They've defanged us, and they know it.”

“If they think that, they're wrong,” I say. “What's our ETA?”

Glasses rubs his forehead with the back of his hand. “More than a minute, less than five?”

“You don't sound very sure.”

“I'm not. You should get ready, because as soon as this is done, we're only going to have a brief window of opportunity before the machines shut us down. They might be holding back out of curiosity right now, but once you start to talk, I don't suppose they'll be too pleased to hear what you have to say.” He pauses, brows coming together as he glances up at me. “Just what
are
you going to say, anyway?”

I shrug. “No idea. I'm just going to make it up as I go along.”

This earns me a lot of skeptical looks, even from the more faithful members of my team. “She was a Theater major in college,” Samuel tells them. “Improvisation is her bread and butter. Trust her.” He smiles at me. “Go ahead, Rhon.”

“I know this is important,” I tell them. My hands are shaking, so I clasp them together behind my back. “I'm going to get us out of this mess. No one else is going to die today.” Neither are promises I should really be making, since they're not exactly in my power to control, but I make them anyway, because that's what my team needs to hear right now.
A little hope goes a long way,
shortcake.
I remember my father telling me that once—and we have a long way still to go.

“Just about ready, Commander,” Glasses says.

And because the universe is determined to prove it has horrible timing, that's the precise moment when Kennedy's distraction goes into effect. A muffled rumble shakes loose some mortar from the ceiling above, and then the machines—a good portion of them, anyway—scurry off to investigate.

“We have to move,” Lefevre says, breaking the silence when we're still standing there a second later.

He's right. This might well be our only chance to get out of here alive. But if I leave before the broadcast, there's no hope for Juneau and its refugees. The idea of saying “To hell with it” and saving my own skin is certainly tempting. Even now, I can feel death in my chest like a cold I've been fighting off.

And yet…

If I break and run, what message will that send to my allies and my foes except to say it's all been for nothing? My death, Ortega's death, Kennedy's risk, Camus's sacrifice and the sacrifice of every person who has stood up and said “No,
dammit
. We will not go quietly, we will not lie down and die.” I have to make it all mean something.

“Go,” I say. “I'll be right behind you, as soon as I finish the broadcast.”

“Don't be stupid,” Zelda says, almost like she cares whether I live or die. “There's no time for that.”

“I'm making time.”

“If you're staying, I'm staying,” Samuel announces.

“The only people staying are me and Jeffrey.” It seems weird using his real name, but now's not the time for playful nicknames.

I hear him murmur, “Lucky me.”

“Sorry, but I need you,” I tell him. To the rest, I say, “I don't want any arguments. Go! Get Kennedy on comm, brief him on a rendezvous point, and then get yourselves the heck out of Dodge. We'll meet you topside as soon as we're finished. Make sure there's a chopper waiting for us when we get there.”

The team is all reluctance, unmoving until I shout, “
That's an order!
” One of the first I've ever given explicitly. Maybe the last, depending on how this goes. They prep their weapons and depart, destroying the sentinels guarding the exit with unexpected ease and efficiency.

Samuel purposely lags behind, making him the last to leave.

“Don't you even think of saying goodbye,” I warn him.

“Fine, fine. Just don't give me a reason to regret not saying it,” he replies. “See you in a bit?”

“That's the plan. Now, get.”

The door shutting behind him gives a stark feeling of finality to the whole thing.

Let's see what happens now.

“Rhona,” Jeffrey says, mere seconds later. “I think I've got it.”

“I'm ready.” I move to stand in front of the table, positioned just so. My image is captured and contained in a small, projected holo-screen, from where it will broadcast to the world. If all goes according to plan.

I look almost ethereal, tinted a translucent sea green by the flickering feed. “Let me know when,” I say. I don't feel ready for this, but I don't think it matters. I'm pretty sure that even if I'd had an entire year, it wouldn't have left me feeling sufficiently prepared. I inhale, hold my breath. Think about the people who matter most to me. The world I want back. The new love and future I want to explore.

I exhale slowly.

Jeffrey gives me the green light by silently holding a thumb up.

“By now, I'm sure you all know who I am and what I'm about,” I open with. “But I'm not here today to give you smiles and an empty State of the Union address.

“Three days ago, a critical faction of our resistance, Churchill base in Alaska, was attacked by machines and forced to evacuate its people to Juneau. My own base contributed manpower to the evacuation, and now they're also trapped in the city with enemy forces bearing down on them. We need air support in Juneau,
immediately,
to assist our boots on the ground, or there will be no survivors.”

Machines clamor outside. I couldn't ask for a better soundtrack to my speech.

“I know there's going to be worry about riding to the rescue, and I wish I had time to address those concerns. If wishes were fishes, huh?” I chance a smile, stalling for time. It's hard to think with the background noise of the machines and the internal turmoil of my own thoughts. “I don't know what else there is to say, but
please.
Please don't leave those in Juneau to become another statistic of the war.

“We call ourselves a resistance, but we've become so accustomed to losing we've stopped fighting altogether. And that's not good enough.” I can't stop the frustration that leaks into my tone, a hairline fracture in the dam holding back every emotion and feeling I can't afford to deal with. “We can't hide with our heads in the sand forever. Don't make survival an excuse for complacency and apathy. Otherwise it's just a nicer name for a slow death. The moment we become passive, that's the moment when the machines have truly won.”

Jeffrey looks uneasily at the camera feed, which shows a growing number of predators congregating beyond our steel barrier. Not quite enough to make escape impossible, but it's not going to be a cakewalk, either. He makes a gesture to speed me up.

“I won't lie. There is the possibility that Juneau is a trap. The machines could be using our compassion for one another against us, corralling us to be slaughtered. I realize it is a tremendous risk—but to do nothing at all will mean certain defeat. If not now, later. We've exercised enough caution. Over the past five years, we've had to pick and choose our battles. I'm asking you now: Pick this battle. Choose
this fight.
If it were your bases requesting aid, you can be damned sure me and my people would be there.”

I break off as a loud banging interrupts, then I pick up the final strand of my transmission, speaking quickly.

“Show up or don't. Save us or don't. But never stop fighting—especially not on account of fear. Sure, the maybes are terrible and the what-ifs are frightening, but you know what? Dying's not really so bad. We've built it into this monster, just like we built the machines, but everyone dies. The trick is making it count.

“And if this is the last broadcast I ever make, well, it hasn't exactly been fun, has it? But it's still been an honor to count myself a part of the resistance alongside you. I hope at least some of you out there get this message, and I haven't just been talking to myself. I hope it makes a difference.”