Counterpart

by Hayley Stone

  Zelda snorts, shakes her head, and rests the carrying case on the floor. “Hopefully.”

  “What do you mean, hopefully?”

  “Didn’t you see the hacker out there?”

  I strain to connect her colloquialism to the facts. “You mean, the siege-class model?”

  “Whatever you want to call it. That thing—given time—can unlock any door, get past almost any system that doesn’t have someone actively fighting its incursion. Let alone figure out the password to a stupid utility closet.”

  “It wasn’t a password. It was a hand scanner.”

  Zelda roots through one of the boxes near her elbow. “Same difference.”

  “They’ll have other targets to worry about. Out of sight, out of mind. Right?” She answers me with a noncommittal shrug, still picking through the box for I don’t know what. Maybe a spare weapon, or something to barricade the door. “We just have to wait them out—” I’m saying, when Ulrich groans and suddenly collapses.

  I’d noticed he was quiet, but that wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was his hand releasing the EMP-G, which then clanged as it hit several shelves on the way down, and his body ultimately crumpling to the floor like a broken toy. In such confined quarters, simple instinct spurs me and Zelda to try and catch him—however, his bulk and weight prevent us from being very effective. All we manage to do is slow his descent. He still ends up crashing into a container of high-caliber bullets on the way down, sending them spinning across the floor.

  “Ulrich!” Zelda says something else in German, cradling his head in her lap.

  Ulrich mutters something in reply, but I can’t make it out. His eyes flutter once and then they’re still, the rest of his face and body immediately going slack.

  “Was he hit?” I ask.

  “What do you think?” Zelda snaps.

  I search him for a wound and then frown, plucking the tranquilizer dart from his left leg, close to his crotch. “I think yes. I also think he’s too stubborn and proud to mention it,” I add loudly, even though Ulrich’s out by this time and can’t hear me.

  It’s easier to direct my frustration at Ulrich—who is incapacitated and thus the perfect scapegoat—than acknowledge the real issue. Once again, people trusted me to know what I was doing, and once again I let them down. Also, being trapped in an enclosed space is doing nothing for my nerves or patience. I really need to study McKinley’s layout better so this doesn’t happen again. (Provided we don’t die in here—which is a thought that persists in hounding me, however illogical.)

  “Wait,” I say after another moment. “Listen. Do you hear that?”

  Zelda looks up from Ulrich’s prone body. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Exactly. The alarm’s stopped. Maybe it’s over.” Or maybe it’s not, but I need to get the hell out of this closet, right now. I check my EMP-G. It still has a charge, enough that I could put up a short fight, if necessary. “I think we should check.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Zelda growls. “Give it a few minutes, at least.”

  “For what? You said it yourself. The siege class will be all up in our business sooner rather than later, anyway. This way, we decide the moment of confrontation. Hand me Ulrich’s rifle.”

  “You are out of your damn mind,” she complains under her breath, but retrieves the weapon, all the same. I’m waiting for her to deliver it to me when she stands, still holding onto it. “Nuh-uh. Slow your roll, Commander. You think I’m going to trust you with a high-powered rifle after those crappy potshots you took with the imp?” Imp—shorthand for EMP. Zelda has really adopted every possible McKinleyism into her vernacular. I still spell out the acronym half the time, mostly because the alternative has always given me a weird mental image—like I’m using a small woodland creature to attack the machines.

  Actually, that would be kind of cool. Huh. I’ve been missing out.

  “I know you’re stressed, but damn, Long.” She’s right. Normally, I’m a much better shot.

  “All right,” I say. “Then get up here and cover me. I’m opening the door.”

  Whatever scene I’m expecting to find on the other side, it’s not this. The machines have frozen in the halls. The predators’ heads slump, and the siege class has stopped rotating. Their bodies still vibrate with power beneath my fingertips, their core processors humming a quiet, persistent tune, but their optics have gone dark, and it’s clear by the way none of them respond to us that they’re in some kind of standby mode. Zelda goes as far as to bang on one’s shell—rap rap rap with her knuckles—causing me to cringe and jerk back from the one I’m investigating, out of caution. But nothing happens.

  “They’re out,” she announces, relaxing her grip on Ulrich’s rifle.

  Maybe it’s the adrenaline lingering in my system, or simply a volatile concoction of frustration and embarrassment—that we’ve been humbled and frightened by something that turns off so easily, something that we made ourselves—but I snatch the rifle from Zelda, ignoring her protests, and fire several shots into one of the predator’s core processors. It isn’t as satisfying as I’d hoped it would be; no smoke spirals up, the machine doesn’t give any grunt or cry. I should leave it at that. But it’s not enough. Not by a long shot.

  Unwilling to waste more ammo, I hand the gun back to Zelda and settle for attacking the siege class with my bare hands. I mean, I seriously go to town on this thing. Settling my foot against its inert base, I manage to wrest off one of its arms, then proceed to beat the top of its waste-bin body—what amounts to its head—with it. The metal chimes with every blow like a boxing-ring bell. It’s an unfair fight, but who cares?

  Zelda doesn’t bother trying to stop me. She stands there, the rifle still poised for action. “Feel better?” she asks after I’ve exhausted myself somewhat.

  “Not really.” I stop and squint at the machine. “Actually, hold on. Come take a look at this. Isn’t that the New Soviets’ symbol?” I gesture to the small emblem on the predator’s shoulder—falcon wings curved around the silhouette of a bear. “The one they used to have on their flag?”

  “Yeah. Looks like.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but these are Russian-built machines, aren’t they? The ones they recently put in a request to transfer here? The ones Kozlov originally claimed were completely inoperative, and safe for analysis?”

  I watch Zelda’s face as she reaches the same conclusion. She tightens her hands around Ulrich’s gun. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Rhona!”

  I turn at the sound of Camus’s voice, dropping the siege class’s arm like a cookie I stole from a forbidden jar. At this point, I’m honestly surprised I don’t have a Pavlovian reaction to hearing my own named called. It almost always means something bad has happened, or is about to happen.

  Despite the fact the danger has passed, Camus still charges down the hall, navigating warily around the stationary machines, and slowing to a halt only when he is finally in spitting distance of me and Zelda. A large automatic rifle bounces in rhythm to his stride. He must have gotten the gun from one of our armories, responding quickly to the attack. Ulrich would be pleased at the thought, though Camus’s expression and posture suggests having the weapon isn’t his preference. He holds the gun like it’s a squalling child someone’s dumped in his arms—a little disgusted, not quite sure what to do with it. There’s an academic for you.

  “Are you both all right?” he asks me and Zelda, still scanning the area. “Where’s Ulrich? He was supposed to be with you.” He looks at me. Of course. Because I’m the one who needs constant babysitting.

  “We’re fine,” I say, at the same time Zelda answers, “He’s in the closet.”

  Camus deepens his frown. “The closet?”

  “It’s a long story.” That’s when I notice the bloody rip parting his shirt, exposing part of his clavicle. “Camus…”

  He follows my gaze. “Damn. That predator must have nicked me. Can you believe the thing actually resorte
d to its close-combat weaponry? I haven’t seen a machine use its limbs like that since…” He trails off, probably because the last time he saw it was in the security footage of the attack on me in a Military training room, by Meir’s reprogrammed machine. It was programmed not to kill me, only rough me up. Scare me a little. I suspect that’s what happened here, too.

  “I have a few theories about that, actually,” I tell Camus, while Zelda turns back to fetch Ulrich. We help her. “None you’re going to like.”

  “Naturally.”

  Even as we begin hoisting Ulrich up from the ground, I can’t tear my eyes from Camus’s injury, minor as it may be. “You should probably get that dressed.”

  “Hurts worse than it looks,” he jokes, wincing a little as we string the burly German between us.

  “How’d it happen?”

  “I got hasty. It’s not important.” He grunts at Ulrich’s weight as we start forward. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”

  Safe. The epitome of love these days. Not happy. Not merry, or excited, or even content. Just—safe. It’s all we can do for one another: offer security, or at least the illusion of it. Clearly I haven’t done a very good job of either, because here Camus is, bleeding once again.

  McKinley isn’t safe for him, I think.

  Or maybe, just maybe, I’m the one who’s not safe.

  —

  Zelda vetoes my plan to take Ulrich downstairs and get him checked out, insisting he’ll be fine just as soon as he wakes up, though really I think it’s because she finds the medical level too depressing. The whole place stinks of death. Camus also refuses to see a doctor, so after we deposit Ulrich in his bed, I leave Camus at our quarters and go to fetch a first-aid kit myself.

  At this late hour, I don’t expect to meet anyone important, anyone I know personally, which is perfect because I didn’t bother with makeup today, even to mask my missing freckles. The baggy clothes I’m wearing scream I don’t give a flying fuck, and combined with the dark, half-moon circles under my eyes make me look like a drug addict. But whatever. The world won’t end if McKinley’s commander looks frumpy for one night.

  People have taken up residence in the halls again. I have to navigate an obstacle course of sleeping bags in order to move around the level. But while I’m prepared to see desperation on the faces of those who lost out on actual room and board, I’m not prepared for the peace and humor I see instead, the sheer relief among the refugees. It manifests in various forms: a husband teasing dirt onto his wife’s cheek, and her swatting him with a smile; two older women, leaning against one another, arguing in low, tired voices about the best flavor of Starburst; tiny children tucked against their mother’s side, sleeping without fear, even though fear must be all they’ve ever known in this world. And there are the volunteers, most from McKinley, moving among them, making sure everyone has a blanket, water, snacks, and clean bandages, if needed. Some merely lend a sympathetic ear, sitting with total strangers until they’ve exhausted all topics of conversation and fall asleep. I hear more than one promise of safety. That things will be all right. The council has everything under control. Commander Long hasn’t given up, and neither should they.

  It’s encouraging to see everyone banding together, reaching out to one another. Too bad those of us in power can’t seem to get along as well as the people we claim to serve.

  I wrap my arms around myself and tuck my head down, progressing comfortably through the level as a nobody, but feeling my stomach churn all the same. An energy, almost a momentum, is building inside me that I don’t understand, powered by the sight of these survivors. Individuals holding on to one another because they’ve lost everything else.

  The sacrifices humanity’s last refugees have made, and continue to make each and every day, rob my little angst balloon of heat. Suddenly my issues with Camus, our fight the other night, seem petty. Irrelevant.

  As I float back down to thorny reality, several realizations strike me at once. First, if our species stands a chance of coming back from the brink of extinction, it’ll need a leader who isn’t so caught up in her own drama that she misses the big picture. Second, if I’m going to be that leader, I can’t give up the fight, no matter how tired I am. Third, I may have to give up something else instead.

  Someone.

  By the time I find a first-aid kit still populated with the supplies needed, I know what I have to do. I think I’ve known for some time now. I’ve only lacked the courage to go through with it.

  I turn and head back. Camus is waiting for me.

  Chapter 17

  “Camus, we need to talk,” I say as soon as the door has closed behind me. I have to grimace at my own choice of words. Some time in the near future, maybe that expression will be the harbinger of a joyful message, but it isn’t going to be today.

  Camus is seated on the edge of our bed, slowly peeling off his shirt. I notice the care he takes, especially around his shoulder, where a narrow alley of skin appears to have been taken off as easily as his shirt. The meat of his shoulder is red and angry. Looks painful. “If this is about what happened with Wrangell base, and later with the machine in the IC lab, Hawking told me all about it. She wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the details, but thankfully Peter Albany was there, and he was more than happy to—” He halts at my strained expression. “What?”

  I inhale deeply, exhale slowly. No sense in postponing the conversation I need to have with him. I could wait for a better time, but in all honesty, I don’t think that time exists. “There was something else.”

  He lets the shirt drop to the floor, looks at me. “Something else?”

  “About the clone attack. I didn’t mention it before.”

  “Go on.”

  “The other clone said something that’s been rattling around my brain.” Like an army of sabers. Because the thoughts are bright and sharp, and I’ve been at war with them since they first broke free from her mouth. “She said she did this for you. Staging the attack on McKinley, letting the machines in, trying to murder me. She did it for you, Camus.”

  I know this hurts him to hear by the way he swallows. “She was mad.”

  “Maybe.” I approach and set the first-aid kid down beside his leg. He absently flicks the lid open, but even as he roots through the supplies, I can tell I’m still holding the majority of his attention. “Or maybe she just reached wisdom ahead of me. Maybe she’s meant to be my own Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.”

  “I knew it was a mistake showing you that film,” Camus says, straining at humor.

  “That’s not even the worst part. The worst part is that I understood her, Camus. I don’t always think clearly where you’re concerned, and I think the reverse can be said. I can easily imagine putting you ahead of the resistance, and that scares me.”

  He swallows again, pressing his lips into a tight line. “What are you saying?”

  Just as he asks me this, he fumbles with a roll of a gauze, cursing as it rolls off the bed, unfurling like a white red carpet. “Here. Let me…”

  “Say what you’ve come to say, Rhona,” he says, accepting the gauze back.

  “My priority has to be McKinley. The resistance needs a leader who isn’t distracted.”

  “And I’m a distraction.”

  You’re everything to me, everything. “Yes. Or worse. Let’s review, shall we? I almost killed myself trying to get to you during the attack…and then when the machines invaded again, you got hurt searching for me.”

  “I never said—”

  “You didn’t have to say it.”

  I sit down beside him, resisting the temptation to dress his wound myself, or offer some sort of physical comfort by touching his arm, his knee, anywhere, everywhere. I need to steady myself. Steel myself. Right now, I’ve got to be strong. Logical. Ruthless. “How many times have you told me to be more careful? And how many times have I ignored that advice? But you’re right. I can’t be so reckless all the time. During the attack, I should’ve considered th
e effect my death would have on the base, on the alliance, and taken the appropriate precautions to guard my own life. Instead, all I was thinking about was you.”

  “It’s natural to be concerned about the ones you love,” Camus says. He applies the gauze to his wound—sloppily, I might add—and tapes it up. I almost point out that he should clean it first, but stop myself. It’s not my responsibility to mother him, to baby him. I can’t protect him from every little threat. Hell, I can’t even protect him from the big ones. And by holding on to him so tight, I think I’m inadvertently endangering him even more.

  “You’re not listening,” I say. “Humanity is hanging by a thread, and I’m running with scissors. And so are you. That’s a problem.”

  “We’ll be more cautious, then, not more alone.”

  “Maybe that’s the solution, though. If I’m alone, maybe I’ll be more focused. And if I’m more focused, maybe we won’t suffer any more major attacks. Maybe we can finally make some headway in this war.” Maybe you’ll be safe, away from the fat target on my back.

  “You’re not giving yourself enough credit—or too much. The attack wasn’t your fault. Rankin’s death—”

  I almost bite through my tongue. “You can stop right there.”

  “—wasn’t your fault either. Rhona.”

  He reaches for me, but I jerk to my feet, moving away, trying to keep my thoughts clear.

  I begin anew, rambling. “If McKinley had a leader who wasn’t ankles deep in relationship troubles—”

  Camus shakes his head. “We had a minor disagreement. All couples fight. Besides, you’re working off a fallacy that isolation brings clarity of purpose. But it doesn’t, not always. Sometimes all isolation does is leave you stranded on the far side of the world, away from the people who need you and who you need in return.”

  The fact he’s trying so hard breaks my heart. As does what I have to say next.

  “That’s just it,” I tell him. “Everyone needs me, but I don’t get the same luxury. My needing someone means I’m vulnerable. Too weak to carry the burden of leadership alone. I can’t be weak, Camus.” When I’m weak, my friend sends her husband’s ashes up to a cold Alaskan sky. “Not again.”