Machinations (35 page)

Machinations

Counterpart

PHOTO: HAYLEY STONE

H
AYLEY
S
TONE
has lived her entire life in sunny California, where the weather is usually perfect and nothing as exciting as a robot apocalypse ever happens. When not reading or writing, she freelances as a graphic designer, falls in love with videogame characters, and analyzes buildings for velociraptor entry points. She holds a bachelor's degree in history and a minor in German from California State University, Sacramento.

@hayley_stone

hnstoneauthor.com

by Hayley Stone

D
ENALI
N
ATIONAL
P
ARK,
A
LASKA—
P
RESENT

People are everywhere. Propped against walls, lying half on top of one another. Talking. Sniffling. Snoring. If McKinley base were a heart, these people would be its cholesterol, clogging every walkway with noise and limbs, and turning a short trip between levels into a cross-country marathon.

I maneuver over one man's legs only to crush the hand of some poor Kazakh woman next to him. She pulls back with a harsh word at the same moment I apologize, in English. As she focuses on me, recognition silences her. I might as well be Tom Cruise. If Tom Cruise were a chick. And also, you know, not dead.

The woman sinks her gaze to my knees. A form of respect in her culture. “Rhona Long.”

“What? Where?” I tease her, looking backward. It's a reflex. In truth, I don't know what to do with all this worship. Seems like my name is on everyone's lips, all the time. I alternate between loving the attention and wanting to throw up. So much rides on me and the success of this coalition. Submarines have less pressure on them.

The Kazakh's eyes dart back to me briefly and she smiles. Good. At least I brightened someone's day.

“As you see, Commander Long, we are herded into halls, no better than livestock.”

Well, the feeling was nice while it lasted.

“The smell alone. Is very bad,” Commissar Yevgeny Kozlov continues, wrinkling his rather substantial nose. Seriously, you could land a plane on that thing. Of course I don't say that. While Kozlov's not the highest authority in the former New Soviet bloc, he represents her in all matters pertaining to this coalition. He's one of the big dogs in these negotiations, and for this coalition to have even a chance of succeeding, I'll need his approval.

Unfortunately.

“I wish there were a better solution, Commissar.” I sound only a little out of breath. Kozlov has a long, anxious stride, and he'd likely stay a yard ahead of me if I didn't half-jog to keep up. “But it's the best we can do, under the circumstances.”

He takes a long drag off his e-cigarette and blows the vapor away from my face. I still catch a whiff of dark chocolate as he turns back to me. When Kozlov first arrived in Juneau, he was an unpleasant bully, trying to quit a nasty cigar habit cold turkey. Now, instead of blowing up at imaginary slights, he burns through nicotine patches and smells like a cupcake. It's a definite improvement.

“We were promised comfortable lodgings. This is no better than hole in ground.”

I wish I could say he was wrong, but McKinley base was never meant to hold the number of people that are here now. We've had to get creative with accommodations. That means bodies everywhere we can fit them, even the most cramped spaces. Despite maximum filtration, the air feels heavy and wet, like the inside of an armpit. Most of the corridors reek of body odor, urine, and worse; there aren't enough bathrooms, either. We've begun dimming the fluorescent lights at night to help people in the halls sleep, but I still receive at least a dozen noise complaints every morning from McKinley citizens. Conditions could be worse, but they could be a lot better, too.

“You were promised
safe
lodgings,” I remind the Commissar. It's a weak rejoinder, but if he thinks I'm going to speak badly about my home, he's sorely mistaken. “And we've more than delivered on that front. Your people are safe here.”

He wrinkles his nose again. “I notice the Chinese have been accommodated on your dormitory level.”
Ah. And there's the rub.
“They have beds. Clean sheets. What do we have? Dirty carpets? A corner for everyone to piss in?”

“With respect”—
Screw you
—“you have beds and clean sheets, too. But you also have a lot more people. Let's not play this game, Commissar.”

“What game? If this place cannot even handle peace, how can we trust it with war?”

I force a smile. “What do you propose, then?”

“Perhaps, if you were to send us some of your people in exchange, there would not be so much…” He searches for the word, knocking away the boot of a soldier who's in our way. “Clutter.”

The soldier Kozlov kicked quickly pulls his legs in, reminding me of a dying spider. As he wraps his arms around his knees, making himself small against the wall, I notice he's missing his right arm up to the elbow. A chunk of him, just gone. I know a little about what that's like. In fact, now that I think about it, most of the Russians who arrived after Juneau are crippled or disfigured in some way. Veterans of a war most of them never signed up for.

That's when it hits me. This has nothing to do with
conditions.
Kozlov's unloading his “undesirables” on McKinley, and using their discomfort to bargain for better people. No—better
soldiers.

Exchange, indeed. Bastard.

“I'll take it into consideration.” The hell I will.

Kozlov changes the subject, not wanting to appear too eager, and I focus on where I'm walking, instead of how much I want to punch him in the face.

While he talks about food-shortage concerns, I carefully navigate the space between one soldier's splayed legs like a delicate game of hopscotch. I don't want to wake her if she's sleeping. With her eyes closed in the shadow of a small cap, it's difficult to tell one way or another.

As I pass by her, I feel a hand on my leg.

The contact is brief, gentle, but jarring. I glance back. The young woman's face is clenched in a smile, the whites of her eyes brownish and watery, and she's staring right at me.

Not creepy at all…

After another moment, she tucks her chin down and huddles back into a beaten NUSSR military jacket that would fit a person twice her size. Where her skinny neck protrudes from a popped collar, the skin is jaundiced, reminding me of an old bruise. Maybe her liver's not working properly, or she's anemic and not getting enough red meat. There are still plenty of ways to die that don't involve the machines.

I want to stop, ask the soldier how she's doing, maybe send her in for a checkup. But if I stop for her, I'll end up stopping for everyone.

Still, as my steps shorten, my burly German bodyguard nudges me from behind. When I frown at him, he lifts his chin.

Ulrich's message is clear: keep walking.

At least one of us is keeping my hectic schedule in mind. I'm expected to meet with the North Korean delegation an hour from now, then join some of our Chinese allies for lunch. My head pounds. I've already been awake for almost twenty-four hours, trying to juggle everything I need to cement this pact. Camus says I need to learn how to delegate. But he also told me I'd enjoy
Middlemarch
if I just stuck with it, so what does he know, really?

I try to forget the odd moment with the Russian soldier, but it's not the first time strangers have tried to touch me, and it happens again periodically as we progress through the medical level. I feel hands on my pants, at the hem of my shirt, and one man even tries to pet me on the head. It's like none of them have heard of personal boundaries.

Finally, Kozlov shakes his head with a smirk. “They believe you offer good luck.”

“What?”

“Why they touch you.” I didn't think he'd been paying attention, too occupied with complaining about Medical's restrooms. Maybe it was just me not paying attention to him. “They believe you are lucky. That you cannot be killed.”

If they only knew the half of it.
A bloodstain outside Anchorage would correct that belief real quick.

I dodge another hand heading for my sleeve, but then feel bad and offer a handshake instead. “So, what? I'm some kind of rabbit's foot?”

Kozlov wrinkles his forehead. “Rabbit…foot? No—
lucky
.” He says it loudly, as if I'm merely mishearing him. His throat struggles with the vowels, like he's gargling spit. “Is that not right?” he asks one of his translators, who confirms it is, in fact, the right word.

I try not to laugh. “Never mind. For the record, I try not to encourage those kinds of rumors.”

“Why not?”

Because it's tempting fate.
“Because it's obviously not true.”

“Isn't it?” he says. “You were missing for six months, thought dead. Then poof.” He gestures with his e-cigarette as if it were a magic wand, trailing chocolate-scented vapor. It's making me hungry. I can't remember the last time I ate something—dinner the previous night? “You return, oversee two victories against the
mashiny
, and survive an avalanche. Maybe they're right. Maybe you cannot be killed.”

Kozlov gives me a significant look, as if he's in on my secret—or a minute away from trying to rub my head, too.

“If you believe that, Commissar, then I have some ice to sell you.”

Ulrich snorts, but Kozlov just rolls his shoulders. “There are worse reputations to have. Now, you mentioned new diagnostic equipment? I would like to see this.”

He starts toward Medical's emergency-services wing, but I stay back. I'd sooner shoot myself in the foot than have to stomach another hour of this political hobnobbing—and given what I'm about to say, that analogy is likely to prove dangerously apropos.

“Commissar. Yevgeny.” My voice turns him around. I sound steady, sure, but my chest constricts with dread. Here goes nothing. “I think I've earned the right to call you that. I have met with you every day this week. I've played the generous host. Now, I'm just going to ask you outright. Will you sign the treaty tomorrow? Will you commit Russia to this coalition?”

Kozlov brings his e-cigarette to his mouth. He huffs and he puffs and—

“Probably,” he says.

“Probably?”

Another look at his translator. “This is also wrong word? It means—”

“I know what it means,” I say quickly. “It's the right word. Actually, no. No, it's not.” In my mind, I'm rolling up my sleeves.
No more Miss Nice Resistance Leader.
“After everything McKinley has done for your people, everything we're willing to offer,
probably
is the best you can give me? Sorry, Commissar, but frankly, that's not good enough.”

He shrugs. “I make no promises until I see terms.”

“You
know
the terms. And you know damn well the outcome if Russia backs out!” The whole bloody coalition will fall apart. I don't say that last bit. He's aware of the stakes. “You think you can hold Asia without Alaska and the rest of your eastern side exposed? Good freaking luck with that. If we go, so do you.”

My words fill the air with tension. The hallway's gone suddenly silent, making me sound all the louder. Several people roll over to face away from us, pretending to sleep.

“Careful, Commander Long. Someone could mistake your words for a threat.” Kozlov drops his e-cigarette and stomps on it like it's a real cigarette that needs to be put out. I can't tell whether it's just an old habit or if he's being dramatic on purpose, but he'll regret it later, when he's jonesing for nicotine.

I move closer to him, stepping over someone's tangled pile of clothes.

“Good,” I say, looking him in the eye. He's got me beat by a few inches, but I like to believe my presence is at least somewhat commanding, if not due to the bright red hair, then due to the odd smattering of freckles on exactly one half of my face. Cloning mishap. “If you're not afraid, you're not paying attention. This coalition might be the only thing that stands between us and complete annihilation by the machines.

“Look at what we've already achieved with Alaska. In two months, we've managed to secure our borders as far as Canada. Two months.”

“With our help,” Kozlov says.

“Yes.” I grant him the point. “Now imagine what we could do with our combined resources in a year.”

“I am sorry, Commander.” His tone suggests nothing of the kind, though it's a little hard to tell through the thick accent. “I am simply not convinced McKinley is best location from which to operate. Lake Baikal would—”

I thrust a finger in his face. “I'm not going to let you blow this because you're too busy negotiating for your own interests. I'll go over your head if I have to.”

“Another threat?”

“A promise. We're done here, for now. Ulrich.” I push past Kozlov, and when he reaches out to stop me, Ulrich knocks his hand away with the barrel of his assault rifle, a Heckler & Koch G36. (I only know the model because Ulrich wouldn't shut up about how good its condition was after we found it abandoned in a local shooting-range office.) The warning look he gives the Commissar could melt stone. Ulrich doesn't much care for the Russians—go figure—and he likes Kozlov least of all.

Just keep walking, I tell myself, you've said enough, but I can't help turning and imparting a final shot.

“This coalition is happening, Commissar. Get on board.”

Ulrich and I haven't yet reached the elevator—there's a huge line for it, as always—when I turn to him. “All right. You can say it. I totally just screwed the pooch, didn't I?”

“Maybe so.” Ulrich's face breaks into a rare smile, making him look almost a decade younger than his fifty-seven years. “But I got to smack a Russian. I have had worse days. And so have you.”

Talk about an understatement.

I may not have recovered all my old memories, but what I do have is enough.

I remember Anchorage, where Commander Rhona Long first died. Smoke blotting out the sun and burning my throat. I remember the hollowed-out carcass of Churchill base, haunted by whirring machines, the darkness fouled by the stench of corpses. My allies. My friends. And the many days in between, when I was questioned, doubted, and the love of my life refused to come out of his grief to meet me.