by Hayley Stone
“I don’t care,” Hawking answers, though her voice wobbles a little. “This is what we agreed upon. It’s not my fault you went ahead. Wake her up.”
“The shock will almost certainly kill her,” Matsuki objects heatedly. “When we brought her in, she was in an unimaginable amount of pain. Do you know what it feels like to burn your finger, Councilwoman? Imagine that tenfold, on every inch of your body. Nothing was spared the heat.”
For a moment, I think Cordier is going to say something, but instead he turns around, holding his hand to his mouth. And here I thought Kapoor would be the squeamish one.
“I won’t wake her,” Matsuki says.
“It’s treason to disobey a direct order from the council,” Kapoor points out, not harshly, only as a point of fact. “Even if you’re on it.”
Matsuki does not remove his dark, unflinching gaze from Hawking. “Then arrest me.”
“No one’s arresting anyone,” I interrupt, sliding between them again before it comes to blows. Though, for the record, my money would totally be on Hawking. “Matt, even if we wake her now, will Cynthia be in any condition to answer our questions?”
“Unlikely.”
“Renee.” I look at my fellow councilwoman. “Is it worth the Commander suffering horribly on the off chance that she might remember something pertinent?”
“Yes,” Hawking answers.
“Wow, okay. I was really hoping you’d say no just then.”
I rub my face. This is going to suck.
Inhaling slowly, I straighten and give the command. “Matt, wake her up.” He opens his mouth to object, but I don’t let him get the words out. “I know what you’re going to say, and normally I’d agree with you. Hell, just a few minutes ago, I agreed with you, but Hawking’s right. We don’t have the time or luxury to be humane. You see what the machines have done here. How much carnage only a few of them caused. If the higher echelon is plotting something else—if the machines are on their way here next, we need to know that. I like to think Commander Pan would understand the difficult position we’re in, and consent to the risks.”
Matt turns away sharply, throwing his hands up and taking a few agitated steps in no particular direction before finally swinging back toward us. “You don’t know her. You don’t know what she would say,” he says, then sighs. “But I do. I know her. Perhaps better than most.”
“You know her?” I can’t hide my surprise.
He nods, grimacing, but doesn’t elaborate. Like many doctors, Matt’s a workaholic; it’s hard to imagine him having any kind of relationship, romantic or otherwise. Lately, I’ve been so wrapped up in my own endeavors that I might as well be wearing horse blinders. It’s easy to forget the rest of the world exists when I’m not in the room.
“I will give you two minutes.” He gestures to his aides to begin the process. “No more.”
Hawking agrees with a tight-lipped nod. Cordier continues to look like he’s going to be sick. And I stand there, hoping I haven’t just made a terrible mistake.
—
Cynthia Pan is incoherent for most of our questioning, but her moaning cries stay with me long after I’ve left surgery. My mind is numb. It feels like I tried to swallow too large a bite of food, and now it’s lodged in my chest. I can’t erase the mental snapshot of Pan writhing on the table—hissing and puffing, short of breath, her fingers arching into claws against the pain—any more than I can ignore the words that finally scraped past her lips.
Long, she said, just before her eyes rolled back in her head and she began to seize. Commander Long called for assistance.
“It’s impossible,” Cordier says, not for the first time. He paces between a few sets of interlocking seats. The council, such as it is, has adjourned to one of Medical’s waiting rooms, though only after shooing everyone else out, mostly those loitering around with minor injuries, scrapes and bruises. “Our communications were down that entire time. Even if Long wanted to send out a message, it wouldn’t have been possible.”
“Yes. Generally, that’s what impossible means,” Kapoor remarks dryly. He’s leaning over with both hands on the arm of a chair, not looking up from the floor. He looks how I feel: as if at any moment, the ground is going to suddenly fall away beneath him. “So where does that leave us?”
“Perhaps the Commander was delusional,” offers one of the other council members. “Imagining things. She was in a lot of pain.”
“She wasn’t in pain when it all happened,” Cordier points out. “And she seemed pretty damn sure of what she was saying.”
“Sure,” Kapoor says. “After she stopped screaming.”
Hawking turns toward me in her seat, and it’s as startling as having a gargoyle suddenly come to life and face me. She’s been utterly still and silent, keeping her own counsel. Even now, her expression remains smooth and vague, like an undisturbed lake. I don’t know what’s lurking beneath the surface. “What are your thoughts, Commander?” It’s the last thing I expect her to say, given how many accusations she’s leveled at me in the past few days.
Unwilling to volunteer my darkest suspicions, I stall by answering, “Commander Pan’s a smart woman. We trusted Wrangell to good people. Intelligent, competent. None of them would have committed soldiers unless they received a direct order. Whatever message they got, it must have been damn convincing. The machines can replicate voices. Maybe they’ve finally learned how to replicate video, too.”
“In which case, it’s also possible they replicated the security footage of you allowing them into McKinley. Is that your theory?”
No. My theory is that Rhona Mark 1 is back from the dead and plotting humanity’s demise.
“Could it be another clone?” We all turn and look at Cordier, who frowns defensively and raises his hands. “I know I’m not the only one thinking it. You and Forsyth already admitted to your own…creation, Commander. And while you may claim there aren’t any other clones, who’s to say Lewis didn’t lie to you both? Hell, maybe he has a whole army hidden away somewhere.”
“It’s not like mass-producing Barbie dolls,” I snap, though in truth I don’t know all the details of what goes into cloning a person. Samuel’s never been forthcoming about the specifics. He always sidesteps the conversation whenever I try to bring it up, though I’ve eavesdropped on him and Matsuki discussing the complicated science once or twice. There’s a lot of talk about proteins and neuron pathways, and usually the talk goes right over my head. “Sorry to burst your bubble. I didn’t come with a jeep and a dream house, either.”
Cordier’s gaze is cold. “That isn’t a no.”
Kapoor lifts his head, studying me instead of his feet. “Hypothetically speaking, could other clones exist?”
“No,” I say, trying to keep the doubt from my voice. The fear that somewhere out in the world, angry and afraid, is another woman with my face, my memories, and a heart polluted by the machinations of unthinking, unfeeling machines. I like to think my progenitor would have the willpower to resist the higher echelon, but everyone has their breaking point. Everyone. And it’s been months since Anchorage…
“Brooks facility went up in flames,” I continue, falling back on what I know as fact. “Ulrich made sure of it. Samuel can corroborate. All three of us saw it burn. Everything was destroyed. There are no other clones. Only me.”
“I still think we should interview Lewis,” Cordier says, nibbling his fingernails. I take back the snowman analogy. Now he reminds me of an agitated rabbit, eyes flicking from one person to another. Cordier’s the only one on the council who can’t remain still. “When’s he supposed to be getting back, anyway?”
“Some time tonight, I thought,” Peter Albany says. “Although, with all of Wrangell’s refugees, it’s a madhouse in the hangar. His arrival might’ve been delayed.”
“Samuel could be here right now?” Hope squeezes my voice down to almost a whisper.
“It’s possible.” Why or how he knows all this, I have no idea. Maybe with t
he death of Councilwoman Cameron, someone’s tasked him with monitoring transportation. Or maybe the council’s suspicions of Samuel run so deep now, they’re all keeping tabs on him.
“Good,” Cordier says. “The sooner we can question him, the better. He might know something we don’t. That you don’t.”
He flings that last comment at me like a dagger. It’s meant to hurt.
And it does—because I don’t disagree.
“I think it’s more likely the Commander’s right,” Hawking says with her hands folded in her lap, fingers locked. Cordier throws one of his hands up dismissively. “We received reports the machines’ reset times have been halved. If their defensive capabilities have evolved, there’s every reason to believe they’ve made other technological advancements.”
“Where does that leave us, then?” Kapoor asks. “Our only advantage was Long’s face.”
“Hey.” I frown. “Don’t forget my sparkling personality and razor-sharp wit.”
It’s not entirely a joke. I don’t like being reduced to my physical appearance, as if anyone who shares my face could do what I’ve done. If that was the case, my predecessor wouldn’t have gone through all the trouble of pouring her memories into my head and stitching the same feelings into my heart. I’m more than red hair and freckles. I’m a constellation of hope tucked inside a body that still remembers peace—that feeling of standing on the shore of a dark beach with someone’s hand in mine, unafraid of the coming dawn.
At the same time, Kapoor has a point. As Rhona Long, I’m the one the resistance trusts—my voice, my face, my decisions. The machines are trying to rattle that trust. Apart, humanity is no threat. It’s only when we’re united that we pose a significant danger to the higher echelon…
“Until we get communications working again, there’s very little we can do,” another council member says.
I jerk my head up. Holy crap.
The realization surfaces like the sun from an arctic sea, blasting me with cool clarity. “That’s it!” I shoot to my feet. “That’s the reason for the attack, or the primary one. Think about it. They knock out our communications, so our sister bases can’t contact us; then they demolish part of our hangar so we can’t send out messengers without putting a strain on our own defenses. The machines want us cut off from our allies. Why?”
“To control the flow of information.” Hawking’s eyes ignite with understanding. “To manipulate the dialogue.”
“Exactly.”
Hawking frowns. “I should’ve thought of it sooner. It’s classic Washington politics.”
“Except, you know, with more blood and mayhem?”
Her smile is tight. “Apparently you never worked in Washington.”
“All right. So the machines can fool us via video now,” Cordier says. “Wonderful. What are we going to do about it? If it comes out that Rhona Long led her own people into a trap, it won’t matter what the truth is. The rumor alone will kill any trust the New Soviets and Chinese have in us.”
“We have to keep it a secret.” I’m the first one to say aloud what we’re all thinking.
“What about Pan?” Kapoor asks, glancing uneasily at the doors to surgery. “When she recovers, she’ll be able to tell everyone exactly what happened.”
“If she recovers,” Peter Albany mumbles under his breath. His first contribution to the conversation.
Cordier points at him, as if they’re discussing a sports game and the other council member had just assessed a difficult play perfectly.
I close my eyes. “Hold on a minute. Please tell me you’re not implying what I think you’re implying.”
Hawking tosses me a look, mouthing, “Washington.” Good grief.
“It might be a mercy,” suggests a different council member. She’s been timid until now. Glad to see she has such strong feelings on premeditated murder. “She was in so much pain, and her face—”
“—will heal,” I cut in angrily. “And even if those scars never go away, that doesn’t mean she won’t go on to live a fulfilling life.” I turn in a small circle, trying to catch the gazes of my fellow council members. The only one who will meet my eyes is Hawking. Naturally. I don’t think that woman has backed down from anything since coming out of the womb. “Seriously, people? We nearly cost Cynthia Pan her life already. I’ll be damned if I let any of you threaten it a second time. We have to be better than this, or what’s the point? Even if we beat the machines, we’ll just be replacing one homicidal life form with another.”
“Commander Long’s right,” Hawking says, and I try not to fall over dead from receiving her support. “This discussion is premature. If Pan wakes, we will deal with it then. For now, perhaps we should all attempt to get some sleep.”
She waits until the rest have trickled out, then rises slowly. I notice her focusing intently on the arm of the chair, even reaching out to catch it when her knees begin to go. No one else is around to see her falter.
“Renee?” I say, approaching her.
Her hand shoots up, palm flat as a stop sign. She sucks in a tiny breath, face straining, and a moment later releases vomit all over her own shoes and down the side of the chair.
I quickly gather some tissues from a nearby box. “Here. Let me help.”
Renee lets me guide her to another seat, one not covered in sick. “If you want, I can go get Matt—”
“Don’t bother.”
I lean over, swiping at her shoes with a handful of tissues. “This has happened before, I take it?”
“Oh, yes. And it will continue to happen. Side effects of the radiation treatments. I have cancer.” The word still has such power, even now, after the end of the world. I feel the urge to shrink down in my seat, move away. Hide.
Instead, I look Renee in the eyes, wishing I could offer more than a meager “I’m sorry,” but it’s all I think to say. How else can you reply to what essentially amounts to a death sentence?
Renee applies a tissue to the corner of her mouth, alternately gulping down mouthfuls of air. “So much heart,” she says with a brief grin. Her nostrils flare as she struggles to take in more air, calm herself. She closes her eyes, as if trying to stop the world from spinning. “I can see why they love you.”
“Who?”
“Everyone.” The grin evolves into a complete smile without ever reaching her eyes. “But especially your men. Forsyth and Lewis. One brought you back from the dead, and the other gives you reason to keep living. Isn’t that right?”
My body tenses. Panic buzzes in my gut again. “Do you know where Camus is, Renee?”
She gives me a quizzical look. “No. Why do you ask?” But before I can answer, her furrowed brow smooths out and she nods to herself. “Ah. You think I have something to do with his not being here.”
“A lot’s happened. I just…”
Renee holds up a tissue-laden hand. “No need to defend yourself, Commander. You need to be certain. I understand.” She would, wouldn’t she? After all, that’s all Renee’s been trying to do this entire time: be certain—of me. And here I’ve been imagining her as some vaudeville villain, twisting her mustache and plotting behind my back. My paranoia has truly gotten out of hand. “Rest assured, I’ve done nothing to Camus. You have my word. If that’s not enough, as you may recall, I was looking for him just a few hours ago, too.”
“Well, that could have been to throw me off your trail.” I smile when I say it.
She nods. “Very true. But it wasn’t a ploy. The truth is, I wanted to get his thoughts on my proposal for a vote of no confidence, if it came to that.”
My thoughts screech to a stop. “Wait a minute. You want to vote me out?”
“I was prepared to suggest it, yes. We may need your celebrity status, but not necessarily your leadership. This new evidence, however, does quite a lot to exonerate you.
“But there’s something you need to understand, Commander Long. I am willing to do whatever it takes to ensure the continued survival of this base and hum
anity itself. Whether that means deposing a corrupt commander, or letting a few die to save the many, I am not opposed to getting my hands dirty. Being a leader means making the tough choices. The choices no one else can—nor should ever have to—make.”
“You think I can’t do that?”
“I think your vision is shortsighted and a little naïve, to be perfectly honest.”
I huff but let her continue.
“You believe you can save everyone, and you take it personally when you lose someone. Lieutenant Moore, for instance. But I remember the shores of Normandy. World War II,” she clarifies, as if I don’t remember. As if I haven’t been studying up on the major wars and revolutions of the twentieth and twenty-first century in my spare time to fill in the knowledge I’ve forgotten. Ulrich pushes military texts on me whenever he gets the chance. I normally return the favor by sneaking erotica into his room when he’s not there. I have no idea whether he reads it or not, but I’ve never received a complaint. Maybe he’s too embarrassed to admit to finding the books or, better yet, to enjoying them.
“What’s your point?” I walk over and toss the tissues in a nearby trash receptacle.
“My point, Commander, is this. The past is a steep bank of corpses. If you’re too afraid to see them, too afraid to acknowledge this simple fact, then you’ll never be able to reach victory. Those who can’t climb the bank die upon it. Even some who are perfectly equipped for the struggle perish along the way.” I believe she’s referring to herself when she makes this last statement. I wonder how much time she has left, if the cancer treatments are working or not. “Life isn’t fair, Commander. You may have been given a second chance, but that’s rare. Miraculous, even. It’s time you stop living in a fantasy and wake to the reality of our situation.”
“And what, in your esteemed opinion, is that reality?”
Renee leans down with a tissue to rub off the last bit of vomit from her shoe. “If something doesn’t change, and soon, every last human in the Northern hemisphere will be dead before winter. And no amount of feel-good speeches is going to stop it.”
