Counterpart (35 page)

Without electricity in the building or the use of our flashlights, it's dark inside Canada's Sports Hall of Fame. The only light comes from the windows, narrow shafts of light that lay on the floor like a cat's eyes.

Glass from the door crunches beneath my boots, grinding into the green, patterned carpet with every step. The carpet is meant to resemble an athletic field, I'm sure; it even includes slashes of paler green that make it look like people have been scuffing the floor with cleats. But I've stood outside on an actual grassy knoll—and recently—so it compares poorly. Nothing competes with the real thing.

Elevated a little from the main lobby floor are the exhibits. They flank either side of the entrance on four-foot-high daises, fenced in by a thin, transparent guardrail, the walls beneath them a faded red. We don't have time to explore every exhibit in depth, but I do take a moment to study the layout of the museum, which points out our own location with a red maple leaf, and details which gallery is where. I cycle through them, trying to guess where the machines would keep a cluster of clones.
Motion Gallery, Mary Simpson Ride Gallery, Splash Gallery, Contact Gallery
…the list seems endless, and the building fairly large. I don't know where to begin.

Fortunately, I don't have to make that decision. Just then, there's the sound of warping metal, and of electronics being destroyed. Violently.

Alongside me, Ximena and Lefevre react to the noise, followed by Mathis, who's bringing up the rear with the rest of the team: a pair of council-elected soldiers whose psych tests referred them as competent, loyal, and able to keep a secret. This included a woman named Armin who I remember seeing around the command and military levels occasionally, and, in a weirder twist, Dhruv Chander, that strange Indian guy Ulrich and I once met in an elevator. Kismet, I guess.

We follow the noise into the Contact Gallery.

“Huh,” Dhruv says, as we come upon the scene. Mathis rubs his eyes and Armin whispers, “Holy shit.” Ximena says nothing, dumbstruck.

There, beside a blank wall, one of my clones stands beating a projector to death with a golden stand that reads
SHADOW BOX WITH LENNOX LEWIS.
While everyone on my team has been briefed about the existence of my clones, the briefing couldn't prepare them for the reality. It's the difference between being told the Loch Ness monster is real, and seeing Nessie poke her head out of the lake.

The other Rhona pummels the innocent machine until finally noticing us from the corner of her eyes. She freezes, and for a long moment, I worry she's going to try to attack us—attack me—just like Crazy Rhona did.

Instead, this Rhona blows some hair out of her mouth and sets down the stand.

Turning to us, but still panting heavily, she folds her arms across her chest and cocks her hip. “Aren't you a little short for a leader of the resistance?”

God.
Maybe my humor
is
genetic.

I smile at her, though honestly I'm unprepared for the rush of sentimentality and fear that explodes through me. She's me. I mean, I'm also me, but if she has more of my memories—does that make her more me? Philosophically, it's all very confusing. But any existential crisis will have to wait until later.

“Where are the others?” I ask.

“Others?” she replies.

“The other clones. There should be at least four of you, right?”

Princess Rhona—which is what I'm going to call her, after her
Star Wars
wisecrack—frowns. “I don't know.”

“You don't know?”

“That's what I just said.”

I suspect I know the reason why she's being so combative. She must realize I'm a threat to her. It's like Crazy Rhona said: there can be only one. And I'm ahead of her in many ways. I'm the one with the soldiers, weapons, and good health.
I'm the one wearing Camus's ring.
I resist the urge to finger the chain again. “Look. We need to find the others and get out of here. The Russians are planning to level this whole city in less than two hours. Are you able to walk? Fight?”

“The Russians,” she says, suddenly sounding muted, as if someone pointed a remote at her and turned down the volume. “Is that who your puppet master is?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Come off it,
Commander.
I know all about McKinley's martial law. I know a foreign government, or whatever passes for one these days, is pulling your strings. Making you, and probably everyone else on the council, dance their salsa. Tell me. Did you ever feel guilty when you were whistling their jingle to the rest of the world?”

“You're way off base, but that's going to have to wait. As I mentioned—Russians. Bombs. Impending death. Let's find those other clones and get out of here.”

Princess Rhona doesn't budge. “I'm not going anywhere with you. I know
you
let them kill Samuel.”

“I don't know what the machines told you, but Samuel's not dead.” I glance at Lefevre, then back to Rhona. “You remember him, don't you? I mean, if you share my memories.” Princess Rhona hesitates, then nods. “Orpheus, tell her.”

“Samuel's alive,” he says. “He was with us for a time.”

“Why isn't he with you now, then?”

“He turned back with another of our drivers,” Mathis says.

Princess Rhona narrows her eyes at Mathis, who I don't think she knows, since we met for the first time after Operation Pigs.

“It was my decision,” I say quickly. “He had doubts. He was a risk to the mission.”

“How convenient that he isn't here to back up your story.” My clone picks up the stand again, brandishing it like a broadsword. “How do I know you're telling the truth?” Dhruv makes the mistake of taking a step toward her, maybe thinking he can ease her fears, friendly man that he is, but she swings the stand in a small arc toward him and the others, warning him back. “
Any of you?
Hell, for all I know, you could
all
be working for the machines.” She takes a step back, nearly tripping over the destroyed projector. “Is this some kind of test? To check if I'm still loyal? Still
obedient
?”

“Of course not!”

“If you think I'm going back in there and delivering one more fake broadcast…You're just going to have to kill me.”

“We're not—” Something clicks. “Wait. You were the Rhona they got to do the broadcasts, aren't you? Why would you do that?”

“Commander,” Lefevre says, no doubt trying to hurry things along. I wave him off, giving my clone the chance to answer for her actions.

“Why?”
she says angrily, and then more quietly, “Because they promised me.”

“Promised you what?”

“An end.” Her eyes harden, and she stands up straighter. “How's Camus, by the way? If you came from McKinley, then you must have…seen him.” The stand rattles in her trembling hands, and her voice clears suddenly. “You must be with him.”

Any answer I give will only hurt her, but she'll know the truth as soon as we get out of here, anyway. “We're together, yes.”
But it wasn't easy,
I want to tell her.
It still isn't easy.

A range of emotion crosses her face. Bitterness creeps into her tone. “How nice for you both.”

“All right. Enough of this.” I want to be sympathetic, but there's no time. I stride over to her and, when she swings the stand at me, I catch it by the handle, wrest it from her, and toss the stand aside. She's weak. I guessed as much. It's unlikely the machines fed her well, or let her out to exercise; her muscles must have atrophied. “We can flip a coin for Camus later. Right now, if you can think of any place in here where the machines would be keeping the other clones, please tell me.”

“I've been trapped in there most of the time. What makes you think I know anything?”

“Because I'm clever and resourceful,” I say, “and I'm guessing so are you.”

The compliment softens her some. “They brought me to the Media Room to make the broadcasts, so it can't be there.” She rubs her face, and I notice she's missing some nails on her right hand. It looks painful. “I don't know. The Legends Gallery, maybe?”

“Okay. Why?”

“There were always multiple machines guarding the path into it. Also, because irony.”

“I don't think the machines appreciate irony,” Ximena says.

Princess Rhona makes a face. “You'd be surprised.”

“All right,” I say. “Let's check out the Legends Gallery.”

I start to turn away, but Rhona grabs me by the arm, speaking low. “So we're clear, I'm helping you right now because my life depends on it. But don't assume that means I'm just going to roll over and continue playing second fiddle once we get back to McKinley. I'm—”

A scream from another room interrupts, slicing through her rant like a sonic boom, and making those who have weapons draw them. I'm the first to move, heading in the direction of the terrified crying. In the direction of the Legends Gallery.

At the sight of the first capsule, I stop short. Everything else in the room might as well be invisible: the glass cases of memorabilia, a famous pair of skis, hanging sepia photos of men and women, none of whom I know. All I see are those damn capsules. Identical to the one I was grown in, and escaped from, back at Brooks.

One of my teammates nearly plows into my back, launching me from my temporary stupor. The rest of the room, and what's happening, lurches back into focus.

The screaming is coming from inside one of the capsules, which is open a crack. Someone's pounding on the jammed lid. Or maybe that's my heart trying to reduce my ribs to dust.

No. No, it's definitely coming from the capsule.

And nearby, a woman all in white is beating on the chest of a woman on the ground. The woman on the ground has red hair, freckles across her legs, and is completely nude. In the dark, it takes me a moment to realize the woman in white frantically pounding on the other clone isn't wearing anything either. Only her albino skin and hair makes her look like she's wearing some type of robe.

“Rhona the White,” I whisper, remembering the story Samuel told me.

She glances at the capsule with a grim look, then back at the Rhona beneath her. “Hold on,” she says, though I'm not sure who's she's addressing—the one in the capsule or her dying patient. “Hold on.”

I meet Lefevre's eyes and nod toward the capsule. He and Mathis go to liberate the trapped clone, while I jog over to Rhona the White. She doesn't jerk back; it's like there's no fear in her at all. Slowly, she turns her face toward me, her platinum hair parting like a curtain.

I'm about to say something when she holds up a hand. “Don't bother. She's dead.”

Her red eyes pin me in place, making every thought fly out of my head. They're so like a machine's optics.

“What happened?” I finally think to ask.

“The power went out and the capsules failed,” she states matter-of-factly. “This one had a heart defect. I think her cardiac device stopped.”

Lefevre forces the capsule lid open and helps the other Rhona out. She glistens with amniotic liquid, but she's also covered in what look like horrible rashes. They're all over her arms and neck. She immediately starts to pick at them, sprouting tiny spots of blood where her nails dig too deeply.

Ximena is the only one with the presence of mind to pull out an emergency blanket from her pack and cover the wet, shivering Rhona. Likewise, I grab an extra pair of pants and a shirt I brought and toss them to Rhona the White.

“What?” she says, slipping into the clothes. “Not enjoying the view?” This is directed, in particular, toward the men on the team. Damn. Who knew I could be so bold and bawdy?

“You're taking this remarkably well,” I say to Rhona the White. “No questions?”

“Later. I'm guessing now isn't a good time or place to play Twenty Questions. If I hadn't had to deal with this mess”—she gestures coldly to the dead clone on the ground—“I'd be out of here already myself.” I'm beginning to worry there's something defective in this Rhona, but any psychoanalyzing will have to wait until we get back to McKinley.

If
we ever get back to McKinley.

“You heard her,” Princess Rhona says. “Time to go.”

I don't like the way she addresses my team, almost as if she's already trying to usurp my command. But she's not wrong.

We burst out of the building into the raw, bloody light of midday. Immediately, I notice something different. A couple of the machines I specifically remember near the entrance are missing. Which can only mean one thing.

The machines are coming back online.

Without needing to be told, every member of the team begins to run. Lefevre quickly tries to start the Humvee, but it's still dead from the EMP. “Leave it,” I shout at him, and continue down the road, helping Rashy Rhona, who can only limp along, her body still waking up from a long sleep.

I don't know what we're doing, where we think we're going. We'll never be able to escape whatever the Russians are planning on foot.

But not trying is a worse fate than dying tired.

Machines begin to stir—optics glow dimly, arms and legs twitch.

Run. Run. RUN.

Fear and adrenaline make for a hell of a drug, and even though I'm tired beyond words, I don't feel it. I just run.

We haven't made it more than a third of a mile when the machines start firing on us. They strike Captain Mathis in the leg, and he goes down with a holler, nearly dragging Ximena with him. She struggles to get them both on their feet, but it's a useless endeavor. Mathis moves sluggishly, bleeding badly. His expression is one of confused dismay. Shock.