Counterpart

by Hayley Stone

  “Yeah?” I shift my elbow on the door, waiting for her to make this weird. We still have nine hours before we reach Calgary, and that’s a conservative estimate, barring any disasters or detours. The last thing I need is our driver turning into a fangirl or critic.

  But all she says is, “You’re shorter than I expected.” She returns her eyes to the road. “Like your hair, though.”

  I smile. “Thanks.”

  “You sound relieved. What did you think I was going to say?”

  “Honestly? I never know how people are going to react. Some people treat me like the Second Coming. But then in the last few months…I haven’t exactly been Miss Popular.” I rest my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes a moment. “I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this.”

  “According to Liz, I’m a good listener. But to her, everyone’s a good listener. They have to be, because she never shuts up.” The words would seem harsh coming from anyone else, but there’s a lightness in Charlene’s voice that quashes any sense of severity. “Anyway, seems like you could use someone to talk to.”

  Through the rearview mirror, I catch Samuel’s dozing form in the backseat. His head is dangerously close to Lefevre’s shoulder, which would really be a sight. “I do. Have someone. Or I used to.”

  “Your boyfriend back there?”

  Hah. “Samuel’s a close friend, not my boyfriend.”

  “Is there a Mister Right back at McKinley?” She pauses, stretching her fingers above the steering wheel. “Or a Miss Right?”

  I side-eye her, finally picking up what she’s laying down. “Are you flirting with me?”

  “Depends. Is it working?”

  “Sorry,” I reply with a laugh. “I’m flattered, but yes, there is a Mister Right.” I think about the ring laying flat beneath my shirt, nestled against my chest.

  Charlene shrugs good-naturedly. “Okay. Then what’s the problem? Don’t you talk to him?”

  “About some things. Not everything.”

  “I get it. Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  I watch the road, dark but for the small cones of light we’re casting ahead of us. We’ve entered the mountains now, and they loom on opposite sides of our small convoy like titans. Above, the sky is cluttered with stars, but in the small wedge of space between the peaks, I see the horizon, already hemmed red by approaching daylight. I clutch at the necklace chain. “It’s just hard to hold on to people these days.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh. Sorry. With respect, Commander Long. Bullshit. You don’t ‘hold on’ to people. They’re not fish on a line. You love them—and either they let you or they don’t, but it’s not a matter of gripping them so tightly neither of you can breathe. I mean, I see how you could get confused about that. No offense, but you seem like you’re wound pretty tight.”

  “Well, I am responsible for uniting the last outposts of humanity and keeping our species from going extinct, but you know. Who’s keeping track?”

  Charlene smiles. “Tough gig, but no excuses. Love ’em, or release ’em to be loved by someone else. Those are your options.”

  She settles back in the driver’s seat, relaxing her arms a little. Her eyes must be getting tired, straining to watch the road, but if she’s tired she doesn’t complain. I lift my eyes again to the rearview mirror. There’s at least one person in this vehicle I haven’t exactly done a very good job of loving lately.

  “What about that woman with you,” Charlene says, interrupting my guilt trip, “the one driving the other car?”

  “Ximena?”

  “She seeing anyone?”

  I shake my head. “You’re just as bad as Liz.”

  —

  With my feet on the seat and knees up against the dash, I try to ignore Charlene humming some song I don’t know to keep herself awake, and the engine’s incessant grumbling, in order to focus on the task at hand. We’re almost an hour out from Calgary, at which point I’ll need to contact McKinley and instruct them to launch the next stage of the mission.

  Thinking about this portion of the mission curdles my stomach. Right now, somewhere on the Alaskan border with Canada, an enormous battalion of resistance fighters are waiting for the go-ahead to engage the enemy. Somewhere, a woman is squared away in some tank, her foot hovering above the gas pedal, while overhead a man is sitting in some airplane cockpit, zipping past a whirring mass of machines on the ground. They’ve been told that McKinley is involved in another pushback against the machines, that this engagement will solidify our hold on Alaska, while at the same time clearing a path for us to ultimately retake the former United States at some unspecified time in the near future.

  It’s only partly a lie.

  In reality, they’re a distraction. Their main purpose is to drag the higher echelon’s attention away from Calgary like the Eye of freaking Sauron, while we sneak in the back door. Some of those men and women are going to die today. For the sake of my own conscience, I need to make sure their deaths mean something.

  I make the call.

  Chapter 22

  My first impression of Calgary is probably similar to the feelings Troy must have provoked in the archaeologists who first uncovered the ruins of her ancient past—namely, that this is a city of remembered glory. In its past, a center of energy and technological competition; now, one more dead, mammoth civilization, felled by the machines.

  As we enter the city, I scout for landmarks—Calgary Tower, the Glenmore Reservoir, Canada Olympic Park, the University of Calgary—all places I was briefed about ahead of time so I’d have some sense of my surroundings, should I get separated from the team. But we must be too far out, because I can’t even spot the Tower. Canada Olympic Park is the only place I recognize, and it’s impossible to miss from our western approach into the city.

  An immense ski jump overlooks the old sports complex, elevated above an overgrown field of browning grass and empty parking lots. There’s no moisture in the air, no wind to stir the flags on their ancient poles; faded colors and symbols for countries that no longer exist. The whole place feels like it’s frozen in time. Or it would, if not for the machines crawling all over the hill, navigating among the trees of the forest like ants among the quills of a shaggy porcupine.

  “I thought Liz said most of the units were inactive,” I say to Charlene, who takes a sharp turn down a side road, then parks behind some trees and kills the engine. Behind us, the armored truck does the same.

  “Something must have woken them up,” Charlene says. “Strange they’d pick the Park, though. The only things here are some athletics buildings and the old Sports Hall of Fame.” The machine’s song floats back to me. Take me out to the ballgame, take me out with the crowd. I mentally make a note to search the Hall of Fame first, even as Charlene goes on to say, “It’s got no strategic value of any kind. Not to mention it’s almost completely indefensible: too many open stretches. Too many glass panes in all the buildings.” She looks at me. “Are you sure this is the place they’re holding your people?”

  I’ve racked my brain, trying to solve the puzzle of why the machines would choose this location, of all places. A hospital would be a more logical option; it would have the equipment to treat the clones. But equipment can be moved. All they need is a little power. It’s been months since the machines captured the other Rhonas. Plenty of time for some of them to recover their strength—the ones most amenable to the higher echelon’s designs, the ones who can be used. Plus, if the higher echelon fears us coming for the clones, they likely wouldn’t keep them in an obvious spot.

  “Rhona?” Samuel says to prompt me.

  “Yes. This is the place,” I answer. “The presence of so many machines all but confirms that something’s here. Something they don’t want us to find or have. If this lead doesn’t pan out, we can expand our search to nearby teaching hospitals, emergency-care centers, and hospices. But for
now, it doesn’t make sense to go hunting around the city when our enemy is here.”

  “You’re the boss,” Charlene says.

  But just as she turns the key in the ignition, Lefevre’s comm bursts into life.

  “McKinley to November team,” says a voice I don’t recognize. It was my idea to call us November team. I wanted to use one of the letters not commonly spoken in the NATO phonetic alphabet—at least in any film or TV show. Also, I thought it’d be ironic to be called November team in September. It’s the little things in life.

  As team leader, Lefevre answers it. “Go for November.”

  “All field units are to be recalled immediately to base,” says the man on the other end of the line. While his syllables are crisp, they also sound weirdly fake, like a foreigner’s interpretation of an American accent. “Do you copy, November?”

  “We’re operating under strict parameters from the council. What’s the reason for recall?”

  “Classified, November. It is important you return as soon as possible.”

  I gesture frantically for Lefevre to hand me the comm unit, but he refuses.

  Then I remember: officially, I’m not here. It’s possible the person on the other end is on the up-and-up, a council lackey as he would like us to believe, but I don’t recognize his voice, and we can’t risk anyone knowing I’m gone. Outside of McKinley’s walls, I’m exposed to innumerable threats, from the machines and anyone looking for a prize hostage. Such perceived carelessness could anger our allies, refreshing old concerns about my impulsiveness, and that’s discounting the risk of getting myself killed during the mission itself.

  So I keep my mouth shut, and instead strain against my seat belt in silence, grip the armrest, and twist around to face Lefevre. Charlene remains mute, acting as though she isn’t listening in, though I know better. No one loves drama more than someone with no personal stakes.

  “Who is this?” Lefevre finally asks. “Under whose authority has this order been given?”

  “This comes straight from the council.”

  Both Lefevre and I check each other with a look that confirms we’ve both noticed what was absent from his reply. He didn’t say who he is.

  “Who on the council?” Lefevre asks.

  A brief pause. “Commander Long.”

  “But the commander wouldn’t give a reason.” Lefevre’s quick. He doesn’t let on that the commander is sitting right in front of him.

  “Take it up with her when your team gets back.” Frustration makes the man’s accent slip. His w’s slide into v’s; it’s for just a moment, but it’s enough.

  Lefevre meets my gaze again. I shake my head “Ask for Camus,” I mouth.

  “Sorry, base. That’s a negative. If you’re going to rescind our previous orders, I’ll need verbal confirmation from someone on the council. Put Commander Forsyth on.”

  “The commander is indisposed at the moment.”

  Indisposed? I almost blurt out. I reach over, silencing the comm unit. “Ask him what he means by that, Orpheus. Ask him—”

  He motions me to silence, then reactivates the comm. “Then ask for another councilor. They can’t all be indisposed. This is their job.”

  “Very well,” the man says, relenting. “I will see who is available. Hold your current position until further notice.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the man contacts us again. Right as the signal connects, I swear I hear the last, angry syllables of someone cursing nearby. There’s a wet sound, like the speaker dragging a hand across his mouth, and then his voice comes through, somewhat out of breath. “November, report.”

  “Go for November.”

  “I have Councilwoman Hawking here to speak with you.”

  Lefevre sits up straighter, holding the comm more tightly in his large hands. “Renee?” His voice is etched with more than professional concern.

  “Hello, Captain,” Renee says, sounding pained.

  “Is everything all right?”

  She hesitates—a woman I have never known to be anything but rigid and exacting. I imagine the scene: pressed beneath the thumb of some physical threat, her eyes cutting to the man holding her hostage. “Yes. Everything’s fine. The reconnaissance mission has been canceled. Vancouver, as it turns out, is not our primary concern right now.”

  Vancouver, she said. Not Calgary. She doesn’t want whoever else is in that room overhearing our location. For good reason, no doubt.

  I’d also be interested to hear what she considers our primary concern at the moment, if not a bunch of sabotaging clones.

  “Understood,” Lefevre replies. “Should we return with Lewis’s equipment?”

  Lewis’s equipment? Samuel didn’t bring any special laboratory equipment, only medical essentials, in case the clones need to be treated on the return trip.

  “What is he talking about?” Samuel whispers to me, brows drawn together over worried eyes.

  Then it hits me.

  Lewis’s equipment. Oh, for Pete’s sake.

  Lefevre’s talking about me. He’s asking whether he should obey this stranger’s order and bring me back to McKinley.

  “No,” Renee answers, drawing a labored breath. My mind races with questions, fears. What have Renee’s captors done to her? To the rest of the council, for that matter? What the hell is going on back at base? And where is Camus in all this? “That won’t be necessary. It would be less than useless here. In fact, I worry it might get damaged while in storage. You know how careless maintenance can be, even with our most precious utilities.”

  The sound cuts out for a moment—someone muting the other end—then Hawking’s back.

  “I’ve just been informed I have a matter of urgent importance I must see to regarding…a sewage leak. Give my regards to the Canadians. Oh, and let them know a devastating winter storm is headed their way.” She speeds up her words, as if she’s trying to squeeze them through a narrowing gap. “Our satellite data suggests it will hit around 1300—”

  “The councilwoman is a busy lady,” the man says, cutting her off, barely making an effort to conceal his accent anymore. There’s a muffled sound behind him, like that of a struggle, but he doesn’t comment on it. “You have your orders, Captain Lefevre. The Rekin will be expecting you shortly.”

  He kills the connection, and for a moment we’re all quiet, absorbing the occasional bump in the road while trying to process the enormity of Hawking’s warning. A minute later, we all wake from our confused stupor, and rush into suppositions, speaking over one another.

  Everyone, that is, except for Lefevre. He continues to sit in stony silence, reminding me of a statue in moody contemplation.

  “A winter storm,” Samuel says. “It’s not even October.”

  “The man had a Russian accent,” Charlene says. “I wasn’t the only one who noticed, right?”

  “Is she talking about an attack by the New Soviets?” Mathis asks.

  “Moving forward, I think we have to operate under the assumption that McKinley’s been compromised,” I say. The words sting my tongue like bile. “The council can’t help us. Renee’s message is probably all the warning we’re going to get from here on out. We’re on our own.”

  “She said 1300,” Charlene points out. “That’s less than four hours from now.”

  Barely enough time to locate the clones, let alone break them free. If we have to convince them to come with us peacefully, that will take time, too. Not to mention getting out of the city without getting sidetracked by the machines, and before whatever holocaust the New Soviets have planned. They must be behind this, though the full extent of their betrayal remains uncertain.

  A winter storm. It could mean anything, but I suspect it refers to an aerial bombardment—or worse. The Rekin wasn’t equipped with nuclear warheads, but that isn’t to say the Soviets don’t have them in another submarine lying in wait somewhere off the coast.

  The question then becomes why. Why target Calgary, of all places? Unless they know something we
don’t know. Unless…

  Zelda’s map springs to mind, the one she uncovered from the doppelgänger machine’s hard drive. Calgary was one of the places listed. She didn’t know how they figured into machine operations, but maybe the Soviets are less discerning. I guess one way to ensure the higher echelon’s plans don’t come to fruition is by destroying anything remotely associated with them.

  On the heels of that thought comes another, more terrible realization.

  If they have Zelda’s map, they have Zelda. There’s no way she would relinquish her findings to just anyone. Not unless she was forced. Dammit! How long were the Russians planning this hostile takeover? How much do they know?

  And why didn’t I see this coming?

  I stop right there, before my thoughts get too far ahead of me. It’s an effort to lower my mental flogger, but I’m done blaming myself. Despite my “God’s Gift to Humanity” persona, I’m no deity, and not everything is under my control. It’s taken me several tragedies to realize that. Shit happens, as they say. It’s not my fault. None of this is my fault.

  I exhale slowly through my mouth.

  What are our options here? We could get as far away from this doomed city as possible in what little time we have left, and forget all about the lives McKinley’s burning through this very minute to make our mission viable. Or we could do what we came here to do. We finish the mission. We find my clones.

  For once, indecision doesn’t twist my insides. I already know my choice, even before Charlene opens her mouth, asking me whether she should turn the convoy around.

  “Well, Commander?” Charlene persists. “What’s the verdict?”

  “Everyone out of the cars.”

  —

  Once we’ve all disembarked from our respective vehicles, I quickly get Ximena and the others up to speed on recent developments, leaving out the specifics of why we’re risking staying here when the Russians are mere hours away from raining death upon the city. She already knows what’s at stake, and we can’t risk Charlene blabbing about me having clones to Liz and the other Canadians. That would make this whole mission moot.