Machinations (34 page)

I open the top hatch. I hear it now—a furious sound like rolling thunder. But I'm not taking any chances. I load our last missile into the turret, and Samuel helps me. We both narrowly avoid being hit by crossfire. Once back inside, I double-check to make sure the hatch is sealed tight, and then fire the second round into what's left of Mount Juneau's snowy precipice, dislodging any remaining snow. Although there's less, it still manages to join its big brother with time to spare.

The avalanche does exactly as I'd hoped. It takes the path of least resistance, channeled into the main street, directly into the enemy's forces.

The machines don't have a chance to react, and there's nowhere for them to go anyway. Mother Nature slams into them like the fist of an angry god, punishment for the genocide of the human race. But it doesn't stop with them. It heads toward us, unbroken by the now-scrapped machines.

I barely have time to think “It worked!” before it plows into the tank. The collision throws me back, and I connect violently with the bulkhead. Snow smothers the camera, and the screen goes black shortly before I do.

For three days, we're trapped in the tank.

We survive on expired army rations, and acquire water from the melting snow that falls onto our heads any time we try to shimmy the bottom hatch open. Everything's topsy-turvy since the avalanche flipped the tank over, immobilizing us. With communications dead, we can't call for rescue—
If there's anyone even out there left to rescue us,
I think—and the tank's damaged systems enter a state of shutdown. The lights flash between red and blue for a couple hours before calming down, power reserves unable to maintain the alarm. There's no heating.

The first day isn't so bad. I dig the bullet out of Samuel's shoulder, and to his credit, he only passes out for a couple minutes. Then I bandage him up a second time.

We huddle together for warmth and he tells me stories of the good old days while his teeth chatter and his body shakes. Our spirits are still high from what we hope is a solid victory against the metal forces of darkness. For all we know, we've won, and our suffering now is all worth it.

When I close my eyes, I dream of the happy New Mexico desert—a vast oasis of heat and memory, and I dream of Camus. Much like the first time, I enjoy the open spread of his arms and the way his eyes don't look so sad.

The second day is harder.

There's no way to mark the passage of time, so it feels more like the second week. Cold has a way of clouding the mind, dulling thinking to a point of difficulty.
Why?
I think in one of my less lucid moments.
Why is it so cold?
As I recall, death wasn't so cold the last time around. It was fire and blood, smoke in my chest. Immediate. Not like these quiet tremors, slow and lasting. My fingers are stiff and my joints ache when I attempt to exercise some feeling back into them, at Samuel's suggestion. It helps, but not much.

We're both in a sorry state by the third day. With the cold, there's no more dreams of New Mexico warmth, no more dreams of Camus, no more dreams at all, except the occasional hallucination, but those don't count. Falling asleep now almost certainly means freezing to death.

It doesn't help when the lights finally cut out, plunging us into a darkness so dense you can't see your hand in front of your face. A couple of times, Samuel has to shake me awake, and a couple of times I do the same for him. Eventually, we both reach our limit, a state of inescapable exhaustion. The end feels very nigh. The nigh-y-est.

“Do you think it was all worth it?” I ask him—a question loaded with other questions.

He leans his head against mine. “Yes,” he says. “You gave them hope. We gave them a chance. Yeah, I think it was worth it.”

“I'm glad you're here with me, Samuel,” I whisper into the black void. “At the end, just like the beginning, huh? Samuel?”

But he's quiet.

Everything begins to blur. I hold Samuel's hands in mine, telling myself over and over not to fall asleep. Because of the darkness, I have a hard time telling whether I'm still awake or not.

Then I remember the sound of shoveling and scraping.

Metal hitting metal.

The hatch opens, spilling brightness and powder onto us, the combination looking like pixie dust to a mind addled by cold and starvation.

“They're here!” someone shouts, and other voices answer in Russian, French, and Chinese. All beautifully human.

“We've got them! Over here! Long and Lewis are here!”

I stand on the roof of the apartment complex, bundled up against the wind in innumerable layers, overlooking the buried portion of Juneau. The city is alive with thousands of troops, wearing insignia from a dozen different bases. Languages that haven't been heard in this area for over five years fill the air—human voices that will not be silenced by tragedy. The sun is shining, high in the clear skies above, interrupted only by the occasional aircraft. Always one of ours.

Camus joins me after awhile.

“You're looking better,” I tell him. “Less full of holes.”

He smiles at me. “I don't know how you managed to pull it off. The French-Canadians, maybe. But the Chinese? The New Soviets? You called, and they answered. And more are still arriving every day.” He shakes his head. “I never would have believed it possible.”

“O, ye of little faith,” I reply, teasing him.

“Yes,” he agrees, solemn, as though acknowledging a deeper failing. We stand there, quiet for a time, bathed in refreshing sunlight.

Camus is the first to break the silence. “What do you suppose happens now?”

“We stop hiding, for one. We establish contact with other survivors. Secure Alaska, so we'll have a place to strike out from and retreat to when need be. You know, continue with all that fighting-the-good-fight stuff.”

“That,” he says, pausing to glance down with a tiny smile, “wasn't what I was referring to.”

“Ah…”

He looks at me with uncertainty. His eyes are green and curious and a little afraid. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“Hey,” I say, wagging my finger at him. “Didn't we already have this conversation?”

“This is for a different offense. I doubted you. The moment when you needed me to have faith, I doubted you.”

I smile to reassure him I'm not hurt. “It's in your nature, Camus. You're the skeptic. I've always known that about you.” I lean into his shoulder and he angles his face toward mine. Our warm breaths mist the air between us—a spell against the cold and isolation.

“And still, you haven't abandoned me,” he says quietly, “when it would've been well within your rights to kick me to the curb. When, in fact, I even encouraged you to do so. Why is that? I can't recall having done anything recently to deserve such loyalty.”

I laugh, despite myself. His brows lower defensively, and I take his frowning face in my hands. “Camus, I don't love you because you deserve it. Though it's cute you think that.”

“Then why?”

“I love you because you're a good man, Camus.” He gives me a look of disagreement, that look of What do you know? “Don't give me that. You are. I know you've stopped believing it, because it's easier to feel responsible; it's easier to suffer the guilt and blame yourself than to acknowledge bad things happen, sometimes for no good reason. Because the alternative is to admit none of us is in control. And I hate to say it, but you're kind of a control freak. It makes you a great leader—not to mention criminally good at Risk and chess—but you're downright lousy when it comes to judging yourself.” I expect his frown to deepen, but instead he cracks a smile, apparently aware of this fact. “And that's just one of the many character flaws which I love you for.”

His eyebrows go up in mock offense. “Many?”

I sigh theatrically, releasing his face. “I know. We can't all be as perfect as me.”

“I should aspire to your level of humility, truly,” he says, trying not to laugh.

“My point is, you've got to stop beating yourself up about…well, everything. Take a step back. Let things go once in a while.
Trust.
” He's frowning again, considering my words. Meanwhile, the sun continues to frame us in the possibility of a good day.

I face its warmth and close my eyes.

Then, without looking at him, I offer Camus my hand, wiggling my fingers. He takes it, his warm fingers spreading mine, inspiring ideas of a future for us. A different ending to the story of Rhona and Camus. One that isn't defined by what's missing or what's been lost, but what has been recovered.

“So you think you can do it?” I ask him in a hushed voice, uncertainty chewing the bottom of my stomach. “Make peace with everything that's happened?”

“I don't know, Rhona.”

An honest answer, but one which squeezes my heart. Still, I'm resolved to fight for him, committed to championing our cause, not only because I love him, but because that's who I am. I'm the fighter, the never-giver-upper. I eat hardship for breakfast.

Just as I'm cycling through these thoughts, pedaling fast toward some kind of consolation, Camus surprises me by adding, “But I'd like the opportunity to try.” He looks at me meaningfully, kisses the back of my hand, and everything inside me relaxes at once.

“Getting colder,” I tease him, with a gush of breath.

Camus smiles, leaning his face toward mine. “Allow me to try again.”

And I do.

The sun rises the next morning as it has every morning since the beginning of time, even on days when it couldn't be observed, its brilliance muted by passing clouds.

Reports come in of machines amassing in the east, somewhere in the vicinity of Valdez, not far from Anchorage. Mention of Anchorage doesn't fill me with quite so much dread as it used to. It's in the past now, where it belongs—the history of another woman. The future is where I stake my hopes.

After briefly visiting Kennedy and others recuperating from the battle, Camus and I arrive at the meal rooms, where we're immediately assaulted by applause. The soldiers there ask me to say a few words, and I don't have to think long on what I want them to be.

“Strange. You're all clapping for me when it's you guys doing most of the work, but okay. Whatever floats your boats,” I begin with a touch of my trademark self-deprecation, receiving some chuckles for the remark.

“Someday, future generations will look back on the Machinations, and it'll just be another chapter of human history in their textbooks. More than likely, they'll have to write an essay on it, and hate it.” I smile to more laughter, before growing serious again.

“You laugh now, but that's what I'm fighting for. It's what you're fighting for. To give them that chance. To give humanity a second chance, or however many it's been since we first screwed up. Sure, many probably won't know about the daily heroics—and I'm not talking about moving mountains, but the quiet, persistent dignity I've seen each and every one of you show. In short—
you
inspire
me.
” I smile during a thoughtful pause. “Okay, now you can clap if you want to, but not for me. Clap for you. Like I said, it's you guys that are doing most of the work. Me? I'm just along for the ride.”

I sit down, taking my place next to my friends. Next to Camus and Ulrich, across from Samuel and Rankin and Zelda, sitting shoulder to shoulder with other ordinary men and women whom history has called upon to be heroes.

I don't know if we'll triumph over the machines in the end. But win or lose, I know what team I'm on. And I know what I want those imaginary history books to say about me:

Her name was Rhona Long. She fought for them.

To my parents, who first introduced me to
Star Wars,
thus prompting a lifelong obsession with science fiction and fantasy. This is all your fault.

Love you.

Just like Rhona, I couldn't have succeeded without the support of a great many people. I would like to give thanks to my family for putting up with my delusions of grandeur for years, and for never doubting me, even when I doubted myself. Thanks to my mom, who gave me much-needed kicks in the pants throughout my writing journey, and to my dad, who always encouraged me to explore my passion for writing.

A heartfelt thanks to the people who helped me become the writer I am today: Adriane, Charlie, Lindsey, Missy, Monica, Paige, Rebecca, Sheena, Taylia, and Thom. And my other champions: Caitlin S., Caitlyn C., Kyle, Tasha, and all of my fellow 2014 Pitch Wars warriors. Your encouragement kept me going, kept me writing, even when giving up and becoming a bank robber started to look like an appealing career alternative. Thank you to Eden Plantz, who revived my faith in this story at a time when I was beginning to lose hope, and Brenda Drake for organizing the competition that motivated me to make a lot of hard, necessary changes to
Machinations.

Many thanks to my editor, Queen of the Editorial North and all-around awesome lady Anne Groell. You helped me tell Rhona's story the way it was meant to be told. To my copyeditor, Howard Mittelmark, for fixing all my commas (sorry, Howard); David Stevenson for the beautiful cover; and everyone else over at Hydra and Random House who has helped make this book a reality, thank you.

I would be remiss if I did not also give a huge shout-out to my incredible agent, Marlene Stringer, for her patience, persistence, wisdom, and business savvy. Thank you for believing in this story, and in me.

At the end of the day, I never would have been able to keep my sanity throughout this process if not for the love of my life, Jasper. Thank you for your steady presence, your understanding, and your undying commitment to bad puns. You are the Ben to my Leslie. I love you and I like you.