Counterpart

by Hayley Stone

  She locks her hands on her waist. “I didn’t lose it. It’s hiding.”

  “Hiding. Oh, even better.”

  Zelda shakes her head. “No, you don’t get it. Long—it’s playing hide-and-seek.”

  Now I’m confused. “Come again?”

  “You were right about it having your memories. They must have gotten them off the servers at Brooks, like Samuel suspected. It’s got some kind of artificial brain to store them. I’m no expert, but it looks like the kind of thing we were developing to cure people who’d suffered serious brain trauma. You know, total vegetables. Only this thing is a whole brain—closer to a computer than an organ, really.”

  I’ve still got my eyes on the landscape, trying to pick anything sharp and metal from amidst the slushy brown-and-white stretch of land. Where is it? Shivers roll up and down my spine like the fists of a massage chair. Come out, come out, wherever you are…

  Or don’t, I mentally amend. That works, too.

  “The machine’s brain isn’t like a human one, though,” Zelda continues. “It can’t forget like us. Our brains only hold so much information. Think about it like an old dial-up modem. When we remember, we reestablish a connection, reactivating the network we need. Use those neural pathways all the time and there’s no problem. But stop for a while, and the brain focuses on the connections you want to keep, culling the other lines. In other words, use it or lose it.”

  “That sounds suspiciously like a Samuel analogy.”

  She smiles with an edge. “I might’ve consulted a doctor or two. I’m about machines, not people.”

  No kidding.

  “Go on,” I tell her slowly.

  Zelda hunches back over the laptop, bringing up a screen of indecipherable code. There aren’t just 1’s and 0’s, but symbols, parenthesis, and more, like someone had banged their head against a keyboard. “It’s like this: Everything you ever did—your entire life—it’s all there, stored locally, some as files and the rest as code. Once I figured that out, it was just a matter of rolling back the machine’s brain to an earlier state.”

  I narrow my eyes, reaching for a conclusion. “An earlier state?”

  “I made it a kid,” Zelda announces gleefully.

  “Why?”

  “Why the hell not? The thing thinks it’s you. Take away its guns, the years of physical training and mental conditioning, and it’s no longer a threat. It’s just playtime with steel knees and an LED smile.”

  I stare, slack-jawed for a moment, before finally shaking my head. “Okay, so you’ve clearly lost your mind. Ulrich, what do you think about all this?”

  He pops the candy from his mouth only long enough to say, “If it is hiding, go seek.”

  “Not helping.”

  “Look,” Zelda says, more soberly. “I couldn’t take all its ranting and crocodile tears. It was messing with my ability to concentrate. This way, it’s not dangerous, and it’s out of my hair.” She pauses, typing a few things into the computer. “Mostly.”

  “Mostly?”

  “Who knew you were such a needy kid?”

  Most kids, when they’re an only child, learn to happily play by themselves, but I could never stand to be by myself for more than an hour. Even as a toddler, I apparently found my own company insufficient, my thoughts like an enemy army waiting just beyond the horizon. I prefer people. Friendship. Something to keep me busy and occupied. Maybe Zelda doesn’t understand that, having grown up the elder of two, at the dawn of the electronic age.

  “Okay, so couldn’t you have just left the machine off while you tinkered with it?”

  “Short answer? No.”

  “What’s the long answer?”

  “I have my reasons, all right?”

  I don’t have to think long about what they are. Zelda’s simply curious. Those who helped design and program the artificial intelligences did so out of passion for the work. At some point, money was involved, sure, but there’s no shame in accepting payment for your life’s ambition.

  “Anyway, you’re missing the point of all this,” she says. “The machines created something. They were never programmed to do that. Scout, destroy, repair, identify, communicate with…yes. The list of things they can do is long and impressive, but not limitless. Creating something? From scratch?” She shakes her head, dreadlocks tickling her exposed neck. I didn’t notice before, but she’s wearing a dark-magenta shirt, long-sleeved, with holes over the shoulders. How she isn’t freezing is beyond me. Warm-blooded, I guess. “The higher echelon is evolving. But you want to know the best part, the real kicker? They’ve had help.”

  “Help as in…human help?”

  A voice suddenly cries out from behind one of the artificial knolls—my voice, but with the petulant tone of a six-year-old. “Are you still looking?”

  I raise my brows at Zelda.

  “Yeah,” she calls back, not quite convincingly, but I guess it’s still enough for a prepubescent machine. “Damn, you’re good at this game.”

  “Ooooh,” the machine cries, voice pitching upward in alarm. “That’s a bad a word!”

  Zelda smirks at me. “Look at you, all self-righteous even as a baby.”

  “Don’t do that,” I say stiffly. “That thing isn’t me.”

  “I bet that’s what your predecessor would’ve said about you, too.”

  Ulrich grunts, and I turn in time to catch him shaking his head. The look he gives Zelda is a warning one. She frowns and leans over the computer, the muscles in her arms bulging against her long sleeves. For a programmer, she stays remarkably fit. Which reminds me, I should probably start working out again. You know, with all my free time.

  “All I’m saying,” Zelda continues with an air of defensiveness, “is you’re not exactly in a position to judge what’s human or not, what’s you or not.”

  “Zelda,” Ulrich says disapprovingly.

  “It’s all right,” I say to Ulrich, then to Zelda, “You’re entitled to your opinion.” I shrug. “Even if it’s a crappy one.”

  “It doesn’t sound like you’re looking!” the machine calls out again.

  “You’re too good,” Zelda replies, noticeably without a curse word. I don’t get it. This thing killed people. It’s a monster in a metal skin. I understand wanting to dissect its head, learn its secrets. But why is she treating it with such compassion in the meantime? I’ve never seen Zelda care about anyone’s feelings; she’s even rude to Ulrich half the time. “Someone else is going to help me look.”

  She turns to me.

  I turn to Ulrich.

  Ulrich looks between us. With a sigh, he drops the arm holding the candy cane and grumbles something in German before unslinging the assault rifle from his back and resting it against Zelda’s desk. He stomps dramatically toward the middle of the room, probably so the machine will hear and know he’s searching. Or to illustrate his deep disapproval. Maybe a combination of both.

  “What did he say?” I ask Zelda while Ulrich fee-fi-foes around.

  “That he isn’t getting paid enough for this.”

  “He’s not getting paid at all.”

  Zelda holds out her hand, as if to say, Exactly.

  “What makes you think the machines have help?” I say, getting back on topic.

  “The higher echelon is smart—brilliant, really.” Zelda sits back against the small desk and crosses her arms. “It developed new code for itself, broke every shackle we placed on it. Let’s not forget, this is the same intelligence that devoured every other AI on the market, essentially murdering its competition. But you know what happens when you become that smart? You start looking for shortcuts. You get lazy.”

  “Work smarter, not harder.” That’s always been my policy.

  Zelda nods. “You got it. The higher echelon has enough on its plate without dealing with the intricacies of developing a new sentient being. So, what does it do?” She smiles, almost affectionately, like a proud mother. “It outsources.”

  “Outsources to who?
I thought the machines killed all their creators.”

  “They didn’t kill me,” Zelda points out. “Maybe others survived. Maybe the higher echelon are keeping them hostage, forcing them to perform maintenance, and now work on this project. Who knows? What I do know is there are deliberate errors in this code. Errors no machine would make. Hell, errors any programmer worth her weight in silicon wouldn’t make.”

  “So?”

  “God, Long. I know you’re no brain surgeon, but try and keep up. The errors are breadcrumbs. I followed the trail, and they lead me to coordinates.” Her fingers flit across the keys—a new screen pops up. It’s a map of North America with small purple dots over a handful of Canadian and United States locations: Calgary, Echo Bay, Palo Alto, Detroit…and that’s just at a glance.

  Zelda waits, watching me with an expression of uncontained expectation.

  I realize she wants congratulations. Kudos. I don’t know why it surprises me, but it does. For someone so determined to convince the world she doesn’t give a damn, I’ve always suspected Zelda cares a great deal about its survival. More than that, I think she wants people not to hate her for her contribution to the rise of the machines. Then again, maybe it has nothing to do with anyone else. Maybe she just wants to stop hating herself.

  “Coordinates for what, exactly?” I ask.

  “I have no—”

  A peal of laughter interrupts Zelda, followed by a slew of cursing. In Deutsch.

  I yank my EMP-G from its holster, ready to come to Ulrich’s aid—but my fear proves unfounded. A moment later, the German appears over the hill, marching toward us, wearing the machine for a backpack. Despite its considerable size, the machine has wrapped each of its mechanical limbs around Ulrich’s body, securing itself like some kind of artificial leech. Or, you know, like a kid desperate for a piggyback ride.

  “He found me.” The machine giggles. Giggles.

  Zelda doesn’t bother to restrain herself. She throws back her head, bursting into laughter at the sight. Ulrich doesn’t share her sense of humor, or the machine’s innocent enthusiasm for the game. “Remove it,” he orders Zelda. “Now. Or I will do it myself.”

  “Did you try asking it to get off?” I offer.

  He looks at Zelda, who shrugs, still smiling. “Might work,” she agrees.

  “Get,” Ulrich tells the machine through his teeth, “off.”

  The machine’s LED eyes move toward me, the smile sliding off its face. While there isn’t anything hostile about its curiosity, I sense definite suspicion. Apparently its mother warned it about strangers. It tilts its head. “Who are you?” When I don’t immediately answer, machine-Rhona looks at Zelda. “Who is she?”

  “It doesn’t remember me?”

  “Why would it?” Zelda responds. “What kid would recognize themself as an adult? Plus, I may have erased some knowledge of what happened the other day in the IC lab.”

  “You did what now?”

  “She’s me?” the machine cuts in, electronic eyes widening.

  “Good job, Long. Now I’m going to have to roll her back again.”

  “You can’t just erase the machine’s memories,” I say, bristling. For some reason, this bothers me more than anything else Zelda’s done. Either the machine is some kind of hybrid—part human, part machine, worthy of consideration and care—or it’s just another machine. She doesn’t get to have it both ways, and it’s obvious she’s leaning toward the former. Regardless of my personal feelings toward the thing, removing its memories and reducing it to this infantile state strikes me as a violation.

  Zelda waves me off. “Don’t worry. I made copies of its original state. Ulrich, relax.”

  Ulrich turns around, and around, trying to see the machine and forcibly remove it.

  “That’s not the only issue here…” I say, but I’m distracted by Ulrich’s struggle, too. Machine-Rhona doesn’t seem to understand this isn’t a game. She—it—smiles as he inadvertently twirls it around. “Zelda, would you just help him?”

  With a roll of her eyes and a heaving sigh, she moves toward Ulrich, stopping only when she’s blasted with red, strobing light—the training room alarm going off. The klaxons start a moment later, with only a second squeezed between the light and sound, like someone taking a breath to scream.

  I can barely concentrate with the alarm drilling into my ears, but I manage to stagger toward the door, anyway. I’m just about to palm the panel when I feel a hand on my arm. Expecting to see Zelda or Ulrich, I’m confused to find the machine standing there, its skeletal fingers clutching my bicep. There’s strength there, more than enough to do some serious damage if it wanted to.

  I rip my arm back, battling the urge to gun down the machine, this despite the fact it hasn’t actually displayed any aggression toward me. Today. It releases me without a fight.

  “You shouldn’t go out there,” it tells me. The expression on its unreal face is one of concern—or is trying to be. It looks smug more than anything, like it knows better.

  “Why?” I shout. “What’s out there?”

  Local comms have been restored for most of the military level, its repair having been prioritized ahead of the other levels. It’s strange there hasn’t been any announcement yet over the loudspeaker, or any instructions given. Just the alarm blaring, and a vague, prickling sense of danger.

  Machine-Rhona doesn’t answer. I’m not sure whether it’s out of rebellion, a kid resisting authority the only way they can, or because it simply doesn’t know. I’m willing to bet the latter. The machine shrinks back toward Zelda, who is quickly packing her laptop into a heavy black case that looks like it could withstand an atomic bomb. Freed from his unwanted rider, Ulrich backtracks toward his gun, resting upright against Zelda’s desk. He doesn’t check to see whether it’s loaded. I’m guessing it is.

  I don’t wait for them to discuss what’s going on. I suspect they don’t know either, and even if they did, I’m not sure they would tell me. Ulrich would keep me in the dark if it made a difference to my safety. Zelda might be more candid, but she’s clearly distracted trying to save her precious computer. Best to go straight to the source.

  Before I’ve opened the door, however, another thought stops me cold.

  Am I being careless? Isn’t this exactly the sort of behavior I swore to myself I would give up?

  My hesitation allows Ulrich enough time to reach me. He grabs my shoulder and forces me backward, away from the door and any potential danger outside it. It irritates me, but what annoys me even more is the fact that his overprotective behavior isn’t overprotective at all. It’s just the right amount of caution—because McKinley isn’t safe anymore. Maybe it never was, but I could largely ignore that fact until a week ago. Now I know the truth; the machines wrote it on the walls of my home in blood. This place is not safe. You are not safe. The ones you love are not safe. Sometimes it takes moments like these, rudely barging into my delusions, to remind me.

  “Wait here,” Ulrich orders. “I’ll find out what is happening.” He exits into the hall.

  Before the door has even closed, Zelda is pushing past me, her briefcase against her chest, protected by both arms. “Hey! Where are you going?” I ask her.

  She pauses on the threshold, and the door, sensing her presence, slides back open all the way. “If there’s another bomb, I’m sure as hell not getting trapped in some training room, left to suffocate to death,” she says.

  “That won’t happen. The emergency protocols for the air-conditioning units will kick in.”

  “Just like they did last time, you mean?” My hands go clammy, while my mouth dries to a desert. She’s right. Those protocols failed Rankin; they could fail us, too. Zelda shouts at someone to watch where they’re going, after they barrel past her in the hall, before regarding me again. “I’ll take my chances with the machines. Now, are you coming?”

  “Fine.” I take two steps toward the door, then stop. “Wait. What about…it?” I crook my thumb toward machin
e-Rhona, who is anxiously dancing from foot to foot.

  Zelda curses, and to her credit, looks genuinely torn about abandoning the machine. “I’ll lock the door behind us. We can deal with her later. Come on.”

  “Don’t leave me,” the machine pleads. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  Its words yank at something primal swimming around in my chest, but I don’t have time to dwell on it. With a push of a button, Zelda closes the door, and quickly types in a code to lock it. There are a few thumps on the other side—the machine banging—then silence. Well, except for the alarm, of course, which continues to blare, pushing panicked soldiers down the hall.

  Chapter 16

  I spot Ulrich several feet away, conversing with another man. Because of the noise, they have to put their heads together in order to hear one another. Keeping an eye on them proves challenging as men and women race between us; it’s like peering between the boxcars of a moving train. The stranger is gesticulating wildly to help convey some sort of important information—is he miming an explosion, or indicating the enemy number?—while Ulrich’s hands remain clenched on his gun. The German’s eyebrows bunch the skin above his nose into three neat lines, and I don’t think it’s possible for him to frown any deeper. Guess this isn’t a drill.

  “Don’t just stand there,” Zelda snaps. “Let’s move.”

  “What about Ulrich?” I say, but I’m already following her down the hall.

  She looks uncertainly back at her lover, then presses forward. “He’s fine. He’s coming.”

  I glance behind us. “He looks pissed.”

  “You should know him better than that by now. That’s his resting combat face.”

  I barely move aside in time to avoid getting mowed down by a line of soldiers going in the opposite direction. In all the pandemonium, they don’t recognize me. The possibility of engaging the enemy has their complete attention. A giant, pink gorilla could start swinging from the ceiling and I doubt any of them would notice, let alone spare it another thought. As long as the gorilla wasn’t interfering with their duty, of course.