Counterpart (22 page)

“I'm going to stay,” he concludes, taking a step back toward where the other Rhona lies still beneath her sheet. “With her. I owe the both of you that much.”

I curl my toes, dig my nails into the palm of my hand. “If you're sure.”

He nods once.

“All right.”

“Rhona?”

I stop inches from the control panel, turning back to Samuel.

“You're, uh…you're covered in blood.” I can tell he's trying to be diplomatic, but there's really no nice way of pointing it out. And he's right, I realize suddenly, glancing down at myself. My hands are washed in crimson, already drying dark. Same goes for my shirt. I look like I just participated in a ritual sacrifice.
Her life for mine. Her life
or
mine.

I'm already rubbing at my hands before I reach the bathroom.

But the blood doesn't come off as easily as that. Obviously. I need water. Soap. A hand towel, maybe. I need it
off.
I need to feel clean again.

As soon as I cross the threshold, I kick the door closed behind me, not bothering to wait for its complete closure before tearing my shirt off over my head. I nearly get stuck, forgetting the blouse buttons in the front, and have to perform some unsightly acrobatics to escape it. After, I wriggle my pants down over my hips and step free, leaving them in a black puddle on the floor. They're not as dirty as my shirt, but the bottoms are still crowned with blood from the IC lab. It's been that kind of day.

After a few minutes, there's a quiet knock on the door, then Samuel asks through the crack, barely loud enough for me to hear over the running water, “Everything okay in there?”

I hunch over the sink, clutching the counter, breathing shallowly. My hands are still red and angry, but now it's because I've scrubbed them raw. “I need a change of clothes. Could you—” Terror rises in me suddenly like the feeling of day-old tacos coming back up. I shake my head, trying to keep it together, trying to keep the shiver of panic from my voice, “Could you grab me something from my duffel bag? It's to the right of the bed.”

“Sure thing.”

“It's yellow,” I call to him. I don't know why. It's the only duffel bag there.

“Got it,” he shouts back.

He snakes a pair of white jeans—bad color choice—and a loose, black sweater through the gap, carefully averting his eyes. I almost call him on it. After all, it's nothing he hasn't seen before, but I know he's just trying to be respectful.

A part of me wants him to look—to see me not in any sexual way, but a human one. I feel myself disappearing into this role of commander, needing to be everything to everyone, all the time. I don't know how much
me
will be left after everyone's taken their piece. That's not even taking into account the weight of two more deaths on my conscience. I remember learning about silent drowning a long time ago. How when someone is really in trouble, they don't have the air to cry out. It's how children drown in pools while their parents sit ten feet away. It's how I feel right now.

“Need anything else?” Samuel asks helpfully.

A do-over of the last year.
“No,” I answer. “Thanks.”

“There were a few T-shirts in the bag, too, if you think the sweater will be too hot.”

“I'm good.”
Not even close.

Samuel falls silent outside the door, while inside I finish stripping and step into a cold shower. I wash as quickly as possible, not even waiting for the water to heat. The showerhead sprays me with needles, and my eyes blur, watching the blood sluice away, turning the water pale pink as it circles the drain.

When I come back into the room, hair still wet, but fully dressed, Ulrich is kneeling over the clone's corpse. He replaces the sheet over her head, but not quickly enough for me to miss her bruised head and my savage handiwork. I wait for another pang of guilt or stab of sickness, but nothing comes. The prolonged stress of the night has hollowed me out.

“Hold down the fort,” I tell Samuel, adjusting the waist of my sweater for something to do with my hands. “We'll be back as soon as we can. Ulrich?” I palm the door-control panel, and the German follows me out into the hall.

“The wound to her neck,” he says as soon as we're alone, falling into step with me.

“What about it?”

“She was turning her head. When you struck, her head would have been turned.” He angles his own head and taps his neck. “Like so.”

“I don't remember.”

This nonanswer appears to satisfy Ulrich—for the moment. He moves into the elevator ahead of me, saying nothing more on the matter.

By the time I get down to Medical, Camus is sitting up and complaining about the fuss the medical staff is making over him. I hear him long before I come into view of the room. The doctor is insisting he needs stitches, but he's having none of it.

“In a moment.” I linger outside the door beside Ulrich, watching as Camus waves off a nurse who tries coming at him with needle and thread in hand. “Has anyone located Commander Long yet?” he asks one of the soldiers stationed near a supply cabinet. The soldier looks helplessly at his companion. No one likes delivering bad news to the boss. Lucky for him, he doesn't have to.

“Camus.” I call his name in a dry, scratchy voice, drawing his attention and the attention of everyone else in the room. Part of me wants nothing more than to rush into his arms, but something holds me back. I hesitate on the threshold, rubbing at my hand, sure I spotted a fleck of dry blood.

“Rhona.” His posture crumbles in relief as I come toward him. “Thank God you're all right.”

“We have to quit meeting like this,” I joke lamely.

He meets me halfway, wrapping his arms around me and leaning his head against mine before remembering we're not alone.

Camus releases me. “Give us the room,” he orders.

The doctor objects, something about the risk of side effects, but Camus won't hear it. “There are more important matters to discuss,” he responds. “Thank you.”

Everyone vacates in abject silence, and we're left alone behind closed doors.

My hands grow clammy almost immediately, breaths turning shallow as a Bermuda shoal. I feel inexplicably claustrophobic, every thought crashing against this one:
trapped I'm trapped.
Which is ridiculous, of course. But logic doesn't silence the instinct to press myself as close to the wall as possible, if only to expand the small space of the hospital room. I try to absorb Camus's presence like a calming day at the beach, but the moment he stops touching me, that warm assurance recedes.

His eyes study the scratches on my face, but before he can ask about them, I say, “Ulrich told me you were drugged.” It's clearly not a question, given where we are and the way Camus sits back down after a moment, looking woozy from standing up too quickly. I follow him, asking, “Do you know by who? Or why?” I have my suspicions, but I want to hear him tell it.

“Yes,” he admits in a small voice. “But you first. What happened?”

I pull my sleeves down until they cover the lower portion of my palms. “Two-for-one special on commander beatings, I guess.”

Camus looks pained. “Without the jokes, please.”

Even though I know it's because this matter is serious, his comment still stings. Doesn't he understand I need humor right now? Without it, I'm defenseless. There's nothing separating me from what I've done except my thinning veil of sanity. I'm a raw nerve waiting to be nicked.

Taking a breath, I answer in a deliberately neutral tone, “We were right to suspect another clone was behind the attack on McKinley. She came after me.”

Camus swears. Virulently. “Tell me everything,” he says.

I give him the highlights. Returning to the room looking for him, being ambushed in the bathroom by a woman who looked and sounded just like me. Fighting for my life, trying to talk sense into Rhona, but ultimately being forced to use the knife. It's not everything, not by a long shot, but it's enough for now.

Camus listens expressionlessly, not interrupting once, not even for a point of clarification. Toward the end of my explanation, he begins to list to the side, eyes taking on a glassy look, but when I comment on it, he shakes his head and gestures for me to continue.

“Maybe I should have the doctor come back,” I suggest. I'd be lying if I said it was entirely due to good-natured concern. I'm eager for a way out of this discussion. If we talk long enough, inevitably Camus will come around to asking me how the other clone died. I'm not prepared to share those specifics with him. Not him or anyone else. Not yet.

“I'm fine,” he answers, massaging his temples.

“Mhm. When people say ‘I'm fine,' they usually mean just the opposite.”

“Yes,” he murmurs. “Well. You'd know something about that.”

I clench my fists. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Only that I wish you would admit when you need help.” He rubs his forehead, then reaches for my waist, drawing me back toward him. “I'm not trying to start a fight. But the truth is, I feel awful. It's this headache—”

“All right.” I'm standing close to him, practically squeezed between his legs. It would be so easy to lean against Camus, rest my head on his shoulder, close my eyes, and forget the past twenty-four hours.
Ignore the fact I killed a woman in cold blood.
Or at least lukewarm blood. But I can't change history, and I don't deserve to forget.

I clear my throat. “I've shown you mine. It's your turn.”

“Unless we have another clone running amok, I was attacked by the same woman,” Camus says. I touch his jaw and he tilts his head obligingly, allowing me a better angle to see the needle mark on his neck. Small, probably only painful when she initially jabbed him. All things considered, it could have been worse—a lot worse. “I met her in the cafeteria, before the vigil. She thought she could pass as you. She was mistaken, of course, but I let her continue believing I was fooled.”

“Why?”

“I figured I could get more information out of her that way. She seemed willing to talk, as long as I acknowledged her as Rhona, as you. I hoped she'd let something slip about what the machines are planning, why they attacked us, beyond the obvious motivations.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“And I worried she might turn violent, if caught out.” He frowns at my expression. “What?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly.

But Camus refuses to drop it. His eyes harden. “Did you imagine I'd accept her into my life simply because she looks the same as you?”

“You're saying the thought never occurred to you?”

He massages his neck. “Occurred to me to do what exactly? Rush into her arms? Yes, because in the past, I've proven entirely amenable to someone appearing out of thin air who looks and sounds identical to my dead lover.”

My cheeks burn. He's right; it sounds stupid out loud, a sign of my insecurity in our relationship, not an honest reflection of reality.
But what if it had been your Rhona?
I want to ask him.
What would have happened to us then?

“Right.” I hold up my hands in a gesture of surrender. “Fine.”

I turn my back on him, pacing toward a counter nearby where a few medical supplies have been left out. Some iodine, a half-empty package of cotton balls, a pair of bandage scissors. Fiddling with the latter gives me something to do while I fight the urge to cut and run. That's not an option here.

Paper crinkles as Camus gets up from the exam bed. His steps echo loudly on the linoleum floor as he approaches. There's an awkward pause, and the only sound is me shuffling the tongue depressors in a tall glass container, and him softly breathing next to me.

“Would you please look at me?” Reluctantly, I set the container down and face him. This man I love, who sometimes I don't know how to love, and who sometimes doesn't know how to love me back. “Rhona. What's this really about?”

I take a breath.

I mean to tell him about the doppelgänger machine, about risking Pan's life to learn what happened at Wrangell base. Hawking's cancer. The threat to Water Treatment. I'm ready to spill all the gruesome details of the cloning process like sewage—this nasty process that gave me life, by requiring the deaths of twenty-three other potential lives—and all the ethical lines I forced Samuel to cross in order to save me.

But when I open my mouth, none of those topics emerge.

Instead, I say, “Why don't we have sex?”

Camus glances at the exam bed, brow furrowing. “Right now?”

“No. I mean generally.”

“Generally.”

I know he's stalling, trying to collect his thoughts. I fit my argument into that space. “It's been months since Juneau. You've recovered from your wounds. I've recovered from mine.”
Or we had, before the attack.
That's irrelevant to my case, however. I move around him and plop down on the exam bed, tired of standing. “What are we waiting for, Camus?”

He touches his forehead. “Of all things…this is what you want to talk about right now?”

“If not now, when?”

“Maybe when neither of us are suffering from minor wounds?”

“It's a simple question, Camus.”

“No, it isn't.” He takes a small lap of the room, walking back and forth in front of the exam bed before sinking down beside me. Near enough for our legs to almost touch, but
not quite.
It's always distance with him. “I don't understand. Are you unhappy?” he asks me quietly, brows furrowing.

“No,” I answer definitively, scooting closer, taking his hand in mine. His thumb moves absently across my fingers, and I feel suddenly more awake. “I'm not unhappy. But impatient? Yeah, a little.”

“Why didn't you say something before?”