Machinations (8 page)

For once, I don't know what to say. Even my sense of humor fails me. Later, when I'm trying to fall asleep tonight, I'm sure I'll think of half a dozen different replies, each as pointless as the one before. Because I don't have access to them right now, when they're actually needed.

“Commander? Doctor?” Ortega interrupts as unobtrusively as possible. I'd forgotten he was even there. He points to the steel cage around us. “The elevator.”

“I think I'm…” Samuel clears his throat. “I'm just going to head back down, work on a few more things. You don't mind heading back alone, do you?”

“I won't be alone,” I say. “I'll have Ortega with me.”

Ortega nods and Samuel agrees. “Great.”

He doesn't wish me a good night before Ortega directs the elevator to return to the medical level—and
only
the medical level. As the doors close, I catch the barest glimpse of some unspoken pain on Samuel's face through the narrowing crack, a vulnerability he's been keeping from me. Or maybe it's always been there, and I'm only noticing it now, with fresh eyes. It leaves me with an unsettled feeling in my chest.

“You're not going to report all that to anyone, are you?” I ask Ortega on the way back to my holding cell.

“I have my orders, Commander,” he says evasively, failing to tell me what those are.

Rankin's waiting outside my room as always, ready to exchange custody with Ortega.

“You have a visitor,” he tells me and for the few seconds it takes me to walk inside, I allow myself to hope it's Camus, come to settle things at last.

It's not Camus.

Inside is a woman with endless dreads of dark hair coiled down past her shoulders. Banded together in thick braids, they remind me of Medusa's snakes. She's standing when I come in, despite there being a seat available, a chair Rankin must have brought in for her. I'm in no mood to play host this late, especially after the day I've had, but I try to be as friendly as I can. No sense in burning bridges when I don't know where they lead yet.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“Orpheus was right,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Rhona Long. Back from the dead. Lovely.” The rancor in her tone catches me off guard. It takes me a moment to recover and realize I'm being insulted.

I'm too tired for this kind of grief. “Look, sister, I'm not some twenty-four-hour exhibit, okay?” I shoot back, in part because I
do
feel like a caged animal. “Rankin might have been the one to let you in, but I can still kick you out.”

“Oh?” She sneers at me. “Big, tough words from the little girl in the cell.”

She looks down her nose at me, a good several inches taller than I am, practically an Amazon. She's certainly built like one, with an athletic physique that would make some professional Olympians envious—if any were still around.

“Who are you, anyway?” I ask.

“I was a friend of Ulrich's, until
you
got him
killed,
” she says harshly. “More than friends, actually.”

I rapidly put the pieces together. “You're Lefevre's older sister. Zelda.”

The line of her jaw tightens. “I want to know exactly what happened in that forest.”

“I can only tell you what I told your brother—”

“No!”
She slams her fist against the wall, making me jump. “Tell me
the truth
!”

The wildness in her eyes tells me everything I need to know about this woman. She loved, she lost, and now she's in the emotional purgatory that exists somewhere between the two. She's broken—and maybe not for the first time, either. I experience a pang of empathy for her, being in much the same situation right now with Camus. The difference being, of course, that Camus is still alive. I wish I'd known about Zelda's relationship with Ulrich before. I would have offered my condolences—or tried to.

Zelda takes several threatening strides toward me. Her anger feels huge in such a confined space, and her domineering presence makes me defensive.

“I don't know what version you heard,” I say, backing up, “but Ulrich died a good man. He died to save Samuel and me. He was wounded, the machines were closing in, and he…He sacrificed himself for us.” Even telling the abridged version of events takes me back to the camp, to the smell of cinders and pine, to the sight of trees dying under bursts of gunfire, and black blood in the snow. Mine. Ulrich's.

I finally look her in the eyes, willing her to understand. “That's the truth, Zelda.”

“Liar,” she says, her voice strangely calm. For a moment, it appears as if she's gotten herself back together, but the hairs on the back of my neck refuse to stand down. “You ordered him to fight. You sent him to his death.”

It's then I understand why she's come. It isn't for the truth.

She's here for a scapegoat.

“I think you should leave,” I say, trying to sound less afraid than I am.

“What are you going to do?” she asks me, pressing in closer and closer until my back is literally against the wall. “With no one here to throw themselves on their sword for you?”

“Rankin!”

I barely manage to get his name out before Zelda lunges at me, her big hands wrapping around my neck like a pair of boa constrictors.

Life-or-death situations are always surreal for the first few seconds, like bad dreams where you want to scream but you can't, or you want to run and your legs won't move. In this instance, both things are actually occurring. She has me by the throat against the giant mirror, preventing me from breathing, let alone yelling—and although I kick out again and again, it doesn't seem to have an effect on my assailant. I grab and scratch at her hands, try to push them from my neck. My efforts prove futile, and patterned static begins to obscure my vision.

Don't black out,
I tell myself, but my body isn't getting the memo. In a desperate attempt to get some air, I lash out with both hands, going for her face. My fingers press into her eyes, yank at the corners of her mouth. She slackens her grip momentarily and that's all the opportunity I need to scurry away.

Taking in huge gulps of air, I yell for Rankin again, but my voice is a broken rasp.

I just get to my feet when something slams into my back, knocking me chest-first into the wall. Before I even get my bearings, I'm being choked again.

Zelda hisses nasty things in my ear as she forces the life from me. The most painful is her accusation that I'm a doppelgänger, a pet of the machines. Something less than human, tortured, and converted to their way of thinking. Brainwashed—no,
programmed.

“And you're going to pay for killing Ulrich,” she says.

Apparently this business of killing me is taking too long—or will be over too soon—because she yanks me back by the hair and then slams my head forward into the wall. I barely have enough time to cushion the blow with my arms before I'm being pulled back and thrown at it a second time.

“You're wrong,” I grind out through my locked jaw, bracing once more for impact.

Except when she tries it a fourth time, I anchor my arms against the wall and push backward, connecting our heads with an unpleasant crack.

My arms come up in a defensive technique I don't remember ever learning. But just as she comes at me again, the door opens. I'm dizzy and seeing fuzzy stars when Camus sweeps in, rushing Zelda with an effective combination of force and surprise. He twists her arms behind her back, causing her to give a sharp cry. The shine of Rankin's bald head catches my eye a moment before he steps between the pair of them and me.

“Enough,”
Camus says, his voice low and dangerous. Zelda continues to resist, forcing him to tighten his grip. “Enough, Zelda. It's done.”

Her hazel eyes are red, hurting.
She's crying,
I realize numbly, even as she continues spitting curses at me.

Camus restrains her while her anger runs its course. His features are stoic, complete steel except for his eyes, which show hints of the man I used to know. Empathy, and understanding. He knows this grief.

Eventually, with Zelda refusing to be sensible, Camus has no choice but to pass her off to Rankin, who escorts her from the room in handcuffs.

Only once we're alone does he finally look at me.

“I apologize for that,” he says, weirdly professional, like I've simply been given the wrong room at a hotel. “It won't happen again, I assure you. I'll send someone to tend to your injuries shortly.”

As he begins to leave, I panic. “Camus, wait!”

To my relief, he stops on the threshold, although he doesn't turn around. There must be a million different things I want to tell him, but I can't organize my thoughts into the right words. There's no convenient greeting card sentiment for
Congratulations! Your Girlfriend's Not Dead!

“If…you're going to judge me,” I say, faltering, “do it on the merits of who I am, not who I'm not.”

His hands ball into tight fists at his side. He releases them after a moment, flexing stiff fingers. “I intend to,” he says, and is gone.

After that incident, I become McKinley's worst-kept secret. It's certainly no coincidence that I'm moved to new quarters in a different corner of the level the next day.

I don't know Zelda's fate, because no one will tell me when I ask, but I have a feeling she's occupying my former cell. This bothers me a little. Even though she tried to kill me, there's still an unreasonably large part of me that cares what happens to her, because Zelda's as much a victim of recent circumstances as I am. Only I don't see myself as a victim; I see me in the same way I've always seen myself—as a survivor.

“Do you think she'll be okay?” I ask Samuel while investigating my new living situation. The place is the size of a small apartment—a considerable improvement on the holding room. It's furnished with modern amenities, and finished with a flourish of sunny colors on the walls and bed. Yellows, oranges, browns, to name a few. They remind me of autumn, and I recall the sensation of leaping into a pile of leaves my father had just finished raking in the front yard of my childhood home.

“Difficult to say,” Samuel answers, hovering near the open door, watching me. Feelings are still tender from last night. “Everyone handles the death of a loved one in their own way. Zelda just needs time, I think.”

I pick at the withered buds of a dead flower arrangement, trying to picture what it looked like in full bloom. “Is it weird that I feel bad for her?”

He shakes his head. “I'd say it speaks to your character. It's good. Human.”

Hearing him affirm my humanity is reassuring. Especially since I haven't told Samuel—or anyone else for that matter—about the vitriol Zelda spat at me during the fight. I know it was said in the heat of the moment, a product of anger, but it still made me think, wonder, and worry. I give him a weak smile of appreciation for the words, even though he's unaware of their significance for me.

“She blames me for Ulrich's death,” I tell him.

He's quiet for a moment. “There's nothing more frustrating than the senselessness of death,” he explains, drawing an answer from somewhere between science, observation, and feeling. “We, as humans, are programmed to find the logic in everything—even when there is none. She wants a reason, and assigning blame is the easiest way to achieve one.”

“Maybe.”

After giving my non-answer, I try to take my mind off Zelda by exploring the rest of the apartment. Only after a few minutes do I realize it's decorated in the exact fashion that appeals most to me. Everything from the lemony smell of the linens to the organization of the furniture sparks recognition. I see myself in the little details of the room, as if I had a hand in the design.

“This was my room.”

Samuel nods. “I didn't want to say anything before. I wanted to see if you'd remember.”

I forgive him the test, preoccupied with the niggling feeling that something's off. I turn in a small circle, surveying the room with a critical eye. “Something used to be here,” I say, laying my hands on a waist-high dresser. “And here.” I move to the desk in the corner. “Pictures. There were pictures.”

“I'd guess Camus has them.”

Dust has collected on top of the desk like a second carpet, which I find strange. It's not been that long since I died. A week, tops. I think back to my flowers. No one could be bothered to water my flowers or dust for one week?

That off feeling persists, and I rub my arms.

“Well, you can tell Camus I want them back,” I say, feeling petulant.

Samuel smiles, but doesn't promise me anything.

I drop down onto the bed, and Samuel joins me a moment later. “You should know it wasn't by chance they moved you back here,” he says. “I suggested it.”

“Why?”

“I wish I could say it was so you'd be more comfortable, but that's only half the truth. I had hoped it might jog your memory.”

I sit up, immediately attentive. “Did the tests reveal anything?”

“Yes and no. Matsuki and I have developed a few working theories based on yesterday's scans.” He pauses, rearranging himself on the edge of the bed, leaning toward me. “I hesitate to ask after what happened yesterday, but I wonder if you're feeling up to that cognitive interview right now?”

“You're the doctor,” I say, partly teasing. “You tell me.”

“Despite the blows to the head, there were no signs of a concussion,” he answers seriously. I don't like this wall he's built between us, particularly because I'm on the wrong side of it. “But it's ultimately your choice.”

The smile leaves my lips. “Okay, then. I'm ready when you are.”

He stands and retrieves an electronic pad from the desk, then pulls up a chair next to the bed.

“I don't need to lie back or anything, do I?” I ask.

“Not unless you want to. Whatever helps you relax.”

I nod, remaining upright, watching him flip through digital pages full of diagrams until he comes to whatever he was looking for. He opens a new page, lined for notes. His fingers perch over the screen. “Could you close your eyes for me?”

I'm not comfortable with limiting my senses, but I trust Samuel. I close my eyes.

“I'm going to ask you questions using some mnemonic devices. They're memory-retrieval techniques intended to help you revisit details from your past that you might have forgotten. I'll guide you through several key periods in your life to see which events you remember the most.”

“What if I can't remember anything?”

Since my eyes are closed, I can't see Samuel's expression, and his silence makes me nervous. Then I feel the warmth of his hand as it closes around mine. “I think you'll be surprised how much you remember, but don't worry if you can't. We'll just move on to something else. Okay?” I nod and the comfort of his hand disappears. “Let's begin with your family. What can you tell me about them?”

“My father was a soldier,” I say, one of the things I'm sure about. “And my mother was a career politician. I don't remember having any brothers or sisters. Wait. That's not right. Did I have any siblings?”

“Slow down. Let's go back to your mother. What position in office did she hold?”

“She was a senator.”

“No,” he says. “This is a recollection exercise, Rhona, not a multiple-choice test. It's all right if you don't know or can't remember, but please don't guess. It'll upset my observations and make it more difficult to ascertain the extent of your amnesia.”

“Sorry,” I murmur.

Samuel's expression softens. “Don't be. You were close, on both accounts. Your mother served as a state representative. She was very popular for her progressive stances.”

“And siblings? Do I have any brothers or sisters?”

“You had an infant brother named Conrad—but he died from SIDS when you were six. That's probably why you couldn't remember him. Your mother and father kept trying for another child, but she had several miscarriages, and then your father was killed in action during an operation in Pakistan.”

“How do you know all this? I mean, the miscarriages. You would have been the same age I was when they happened.”

“During her career, your mother was an outspoken advocate for infertility programs, determined to make them affordable for lower-income families. It's a matter of public record. Plus, I had to do a school project about her once. It came up in my research.”

This makes me smile. “You had to write a paper on my mom?”

“It was a letter to her, but close enough.”

“Thank you,” I say, taking his hand.

He bends toward me, eyebrows pulling together. “For what?”

So many, many things.
“For helping me fill in the gaps. It doesn't feel right to complain—I'm alive when I should be dead—but it's hard. Not knowing who I was, what events shaped me. I hate the idea of forgetting people, places…all these little moments that survive or die depending on whether I remember them or not.”

Samuel hesitates. “I never thought about it like that.” He quickly moves on, visibly uncomfortable. Does he feel guilty, because it was his project going wrong that left me in this half-finished state? “Let me know when you're ready to continue with the exercise.”

I repress a sigh. “No time like the present.”

The next two and a half hours are spent reliving my past through the details I remember. My mind resists at first, but through patience and careful instruction, Samuel begins to coax out reluctant memories.

What begins in my childhood home in New Mexico suburbia ends on an away mission near Anchorage to rescue refugees. It's not easy facing a lifetime in 140 minutes. We stop several times so I can recover from a forgotten memory, or explore it in depth. Like my dad dying when I was only ten and mom throwing herself into her career, to the exclusion of her family. I remember talent shows and opening-night fumbles. I wanted to be an actress, which was, as my theater teacher used to say, “Like a politician, but more honest”—either not realizing or (more likely) not caring who my mother was. In some ways, it feels like I got my wish.

I remember awkward, fumbling first kisses—on the bus, at school, beneath a tree at a park two streets over from where I lived, the playground half sand most of the time, and filled with prickly desert bushes that exploded with flowers at the oddest times. After a particularly bad experience with a boy who called me slobbery, I remember practicing my technique on Samuel, and the way his neck turned all red beneath my hand.

Good choices and bad choices and times when I had no choice; I remember matters that at the time felt like life or death, but weren't—and matters that
were
life or death, but didn't feel like anything at all. This is what it was to be young Rhona Long. I grew up in the shadow of my parents' great love, glimpsing my mother like sunlight falling from a high window after my father's death. It wasn't her fault, and I try not to blame her for the small hole in my heart, the one I've tried filling with other people, through popularity. Some people are just better at loving widely, better at caring for strangers instead of the people standing right beside them.

I remember a lot more than I thought I did.

But for those missing memories—events, places, names and faces—it's like I was never a part of them at all. Rhona took them to the grave. But Samuel is able to fill in a few of the gaps, which makes me grateful we remained close enough over the years that he can now act as my personal historian. We even laugh over some mutually remembered absurdities—some little, like the time I made him laugh so hard during recess that he peed himself and had to go home early from school, and others larger, like the time Samuel had to bail me out of jail after I got picked up at a party for underage drinking. He'd had to use all the money he'd accrued from his paid internship, money he was saving to attend a scientific conference on retinal neurobiology and visual processing in Colorado. I paid him back, he tells me—with interest. Not only did I pay for his flight and hotel room out of pocket (
Hello, cheap comedy-club gigs, and a part-time job at a fast-food place, and coming home smelling like French fries and onion rings for three months
), I also joined him, so he wouldn't have to deal with the nightmare of traveling alone.

“On the first day alone, you sat through several keynote speakers and postgrad presentations without making a single joke,” he says admiringly.

Of course I did
, I think, but don't say.
I was trying to understand what you cared about.

For those few moments, as we reminisce, it's like the past five years haven't happened. The world is right again.

“I'm glad you're here, Samuel,” I say, reaching for his hand, needing contact. “I'm not sure what I'd do without you. I mean it.”

“I'm sure you'd manage,” he demurs, his smile faint.

He runs his thumb gently over the back of my hand. I watch our hands together, fitted to one another's palms.

“At the risk of sounding juvenile, are we okay again?” I ask.

“Did I give the impression we weren't?”

“Well…”

“Sorry,” he says, bowing his head beneath the weight of the apology.

I don't want him to feel guilty. I just want him to be honest with me. “I'll take that apology and raise you an explanation.”

Samuel is quiet for a long time, for so long I think he might not answer me at all, but then he says, “Our friendship has always come easy, ever since the first grade, when you kicked that fifth grader in the shin after he kept picking on me.”

I smile, even though the memory is fuzzy, at best. Combined with my other recollections, it seems we've always looked out for one another—a fact that comforts me.

“But sometimes—recently, a lot more than usual—I think I made a mistake between then and now.”

“How so?”

“Do you remember the summer before you left to study abroad in England?”

“Probably not as well as you do.”

He gives me a drawn look, lips pulled together in a line. “Rhona, could you be serious for two seconds, please?”

“Sorry. Am I supposed to be remembering something in particular?”

Most of the summers in my teenage years blur together into sun, heat, and lawlessness. Recalling specific days is a challenge. I try to think of anything that stands out, but my memory pulls me in the direction of the following August. When I first met Camus.

The details of that early time are still fuzzy to me, like trying to peer through a glass clouded with milky water. I came to Reading for its annual music festival, a year before the Machinations started—six years ago now, if my math is correct. I remember Camus hated the noise, the crowds, the cloud of sweat and weed and sex that hung over the entire place, and I teased him about it. What kind of self-hating introvert decides to spend his weekend at a loud, hectic concert venue? Remarkably, I haven't forgotten the quirk of his lips, followed by his smooth reply:
The kind who hopes to meet someone like you.