Machinations (22 page)

“Doesn't it? I've never had Rhona's capacity for empathy. I would have let the world burn before losing her.” Powerful, frightening words. I have no doubt they're true. “She would have suspected, and rightly so, I wouldn't be interested in exchanging her for some carbon copy—no offense.”

I bite the inside of my lip. “But if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck…”

“Can you honestly look me in the eyes and tell me you're the same woman?”

“Yes and no,” I confess vaguely, having done much soul-searching on the matter, but very little soul-concluding. A lot of memories are still unaccounted for, and new ones making trouble for the old. “I'm unique,” I add with a brave smile. “Lucky me.”

“All this isn't to say that I can't be close in other ways with…the duck.”

“Oh, no.” I shake my head. “Please. Let's not make that analogy a thing.”

“Already forgotten.” He glances down the hallway. “It's late. I shouldn't keep you any longer.”

I kind of wish he would. The adrenaline from the broadcast has done a number on me and I don't foresee sleep in my immediate future. I don't tell him this, however, and he sees me safely back to my room, even though any danger has passed.

We stand on the threshold, in so many ways.

“Do you want to come inside?” I ask him.

He considers it. “Yes,” he says quietly, honestly, “but not tonight, I think.”

I'm disappointed, but also a little relieved. I'm not sure what I was offering exactly, casual company or…something else, but I suspect Camus ran his mind through the more intimate possibilities and came to the same conclusion I'm arriving at now: not yet.

He skillfully leans in, placing a kiss on my cheek.

“You're getting warmer,” I say, thinking of the progression of his kisses from forehead to cheek and what should follow. He seems to understand my joke, but is otherwise immune to my poor attempts at flirting with him. Shame.

“Good night, Rhona,” he says with a perceptible smile.

“Good night, Camus.”

He disappears around the corner, heading back in the direction of both war and Tea Rooms, but I don't go inside my quarters. At this hour, I practically have the base all to myself. It's nice and quiet, the heaters breathing softly, my footsteps the only other sound in the halls. I walk by myself for a while, going everywhere and nowhere in particular. The freedom is bracing, the silence not as lonely as I would've imagined. Maybe it's because I don't feel as lonely anymore, as divided from the people I love, distinguished for all the wrong reasons.

Though I've come to realize there is a sort of freedom in being alone. It takes strength, and strengthens in turn. After tonight, with McKinley leading the charge, humanity's period of seclusion seems to finally be at its end. For the first time in a while, I feel indescribably hopeful for the future. Mostly, I'm eager to see what strength of character five long years of hermitage has produced.

The machines aren't going to know what hit them.

Winter thaws, and spring begins to peek through as the cold loosens its grip on the arctic world. Tulips, crocuses, and only the hardiest wild roses fight to come back from their hibernation, shaking off their frosted petals and reaching for the sun, blots of color in an otherwise colorless landscape.

Apart from those little intrigues, the change between seasons is glacially slow. Our chief engineer, who I come to find out is an Alaskan native himself, calls it the “breakup,” but that word seems too dynamic to me. While the ice
is
fracturing, there isn't a single cataclysmic moment when it happens. Clarence also describes an event that used to take place in the city of Nenana, when people would try to guess the exact moment when the ice on the Tanana River would crack. The competition was judged by the movement of a tripod positioned on the ice. When it moved enough, a line attached to it stopped a clock on shore, deciding the winning time. It sounds long and boring to me—much like the speed of this seasonal passing of the baton.

Inside the base, the changes occurring are just as subtle.

I rebuild my body and mind in the months following the public address. Samuel is with me most days, monitoring my health and progress and generally being my rock, our little snafu with the kiss all but forgotten—but it's Rankin who drills me in most of the training exercises down on the military level. These range from marksmanship to close combat, with a smattering of survival strategies like emergency weapons assembly and stealth techniques, in case I'm stranded in enemy territory. Basically, anything and everything that might keep me alive outside the safety of McKinley's perimeter.

While strenuous, the exercises leave me feeling stronger and more prepared—though for what exactly, I'm not yet sure. Whatever the future holds, I suppose. And judging by all of what I'm being taught, it's not going to be a very pleasant experience when that time arrives, but at least I'll be ready.

It's not all work and no play, however. I go out of my way to have fun every once in a while, just so I don't lose my mind. Despite the heavy nature of McKinley, its people are remarkably adept at finding secret pleasures, set apart from all the efficiency and functionality. I'm amazed by the dozens of traditions I come across. Some are minor superstitions, like knocking on metal to disrupt any mechanical listening devices. Others are larger and more lighthearted, like the Concert of Voices in March, when the whole base gathers in the cafeteria to listen to people sing while musicians play. I turn out to be bad at both, go figure, but no one seems to mind, least of all Samuel, who clapped and hollered the loudest for me anyway. Even Camus is drawn to the activities every now and again, although if he takes as much enjoyment from them as everyone else, he's more reserved about it. No surprises there.

We're all right now, Camus and I, even calling ourselves friends. In private, at least. In public, the lovers' charade goes on. The base is fooled, and although I try not to let myself forget it's supposed to be an act, sometimes I do. I think Camus forgets, too. I catch him with his arm still draped comfortably around my shoulders even after everyone else has left the room. I feel the way his pulse jumps when we touch, however briefly. I notice how he swallows when leaning in to say good night, and the way he always wishes me good night, even if we're alone, playing to no audience.

To avoid scrutiny about our relationship, we spend a few nights every week together in his quarters or mine. Nothing exciting happens. Usually, we're both so exhausted from the day's exertions, we fall asleep immediately. He insists I sleep in the bed, regardless of whose room it is, while he stretches out on a sleeping bag on the floor, or burritos himself with blankets on the couch.

Some nights we just talk. It doesn't matter what about. Other nights, he reads aloud, often from a favorite dead William, Shakespeare or Yeats or Blake. And that's nice, too. It's simple, undemanding. I like to close my eyes and listen to the sound of his voice stroking me to sleep. Warm with feeling. New Mexico warm.

I'm relearning him like an old story I used to know. At the same time, I let him look inside me, wanting him to see past the cover he's familiar with and appreciate the new chapters. Often, I consider sharing all the memories I exorcised from my brain after our last bad fight, and confessing to him how much I
do
, in fact, remember…but each time, I change my mind. If he's going to love me again, it should be for who I am now, not the woman I was then.

Hanna assures me he's coming around, but I know better now. Camus doesn't need to “come around”—he's circled his pain like a vulture, picking at the carcass of the past for too long, sustained by anger and grief. He needs to heal. I'm trying to give him time to do that. But it's still a challenge accepting the reality that we'll never have what the “original” Rhona and Camus did, and even harder waiting to see what will replace it.

While I wait, the hole in my heart where I was convinced only he would fit is slowly filled in by other things, other plans, and other people. I still reserve a small, secret place inside myself for us, but I don't let the fact that it's not happening quickly or
Right This Instant
dissatisfy me with the present. I don't let hope destroy me.

Life goes on.

I'm enjoying some urban warfare training with Rankin, Samuel, and a few other McKinlians, laughing about some fool move I pulled during the exercise, when Camus enters the room. There's serious urgency in his body language, obvious even before he clears his throat to speak my name.

“I need you,” he says.

Words that—under any other circumstance—would fill me with a fluttering feeling now hit me like someone's dropped an anvil on my head. My body floods with hot panic. My bones feel rubbery, my newfound happiness utterly breakable.
Something's wrong,
I think, but have better sense than to say in front of the troops.

Camus is already striding out of the room before I can respond. I throw a quick wave to my friends and hurry to catch up with him. The whole time, I'm thinking of a thousand terrible things that might've happened, each more horrible than the last.

“What is it?” I ask. “What's happened?”

“We've been contacted by Churchill. Their location has been compromised. They're requesting immediate evacuation and sanctuary.”

The news is a blow to the head, momentarily rendering me senseless.

“What?” I stammer, understanding, but at the same time not totally comprehending.

We enter the elevator. The doors seal us in.

“How do they know they've been compromised? Are they under attack?”

Camus shakes his head. “I don't have the details yet. I was only just made aware.”

He watches the lights ticking off the levels. I watch him, wondering at the strength of his composure. His body is still, so impossibly still. It's like he's not even breathing.

“There's something else, isn't there?” I ask him.

“Zelda believes she discovered who was behind your assassination attempt,” he says, and for a moment, I don't breathe, tense as a bowstring. Fortunately, Camus doesn't punish me with suspense, speaking quickly while we still have the privacy of the elevator. “It was one of Meir's people, as I suspected.”

“Who?” I want a name. I want a face to balance out the terrible memory of almost dying due to human malice, not machine indifference.

“It doesn't matter. Obviously, they were working under Meir's orders.”

“How can you be sure? Maybe they went rogue. Maybe they have some personal beef with me, or—”

Camus cuts me off with a hard shake of his head. “Zelda said the machine's basic code had been rewritten. It had specific orders not to kill you; only rough you up, so to speak.”

I put it together before he has a chance to voice his suspicions. “Meir wanted me to think I wasn't safe here.” He nods. “And then she tried to sell me on a transfer. It was all a ploy to get me to Churchill.”

“That would be my guess.”

The elevator doors open, and I stride forward, painfully conscious of this news, like I'd just been told there's a tumor in my breast. A power play. Meir nearly killed me, and jeopardized the resistance, all for a petty power play. Unbelievable.

“When did Zelda figure it out?”

Camus grimaces. “A month ago.”

“Camus!”
I exclaim.

He holds up a hand. “I know. I should have told you sooner, but it was a dead thread. It wasn't as though we could do anything about it from here, and such nasty politics would have distracted you. I'm only bringing it up now because it might have relevance in the upcoming meeting.”

“That wasn't your decision to make. From now on, you find something out, you tell me.” Camus nods, not bothering to defend himself even a little. He knows he's in the wrong, despite intending to protect me. “Do you think anyone else was involved?” I ask him, straining to do so quietly, and avoid drawing any nosy passersby into the conversation. “Churchill's council?”

“Impossible to know for sure,” he replies. “My instinct says no, but we can't rule out the possibility.”

“Wonderful.”

On our way to the war room, we pass half a dozen people, each greeting us with a smile or head bob. The day is progressing normally for them, all ignorant of the fact that we're headed right toward a cliff. It's a painful thought—primarily because, some months ago, I might have been in the same position, wearing the same friendly face, completely blind and deaf to the events transpiring around me. I still remember the feeling of helplessness from being kept out of the loop. But these people act as though they're not even aware of the loop, the secrets kept behind closed doors.

“They're better off not knowing,” Camus says, guessing my thoughts.

“Are they?” I snap, still smarting over Camus withholding need-to-know information from me. “If the world you knew was about to explode, can you honestly tell me you wouldn't want to know about it?”

The look he gives me is harsh and impatient. “Would you want to know?”

“Seriously?”

“Even if it would make no difference, your knowing or not? Even if there was nothing you could do to prevent this terrible thing from happening?”

“Didn't we just have this conversation?
Yes!
You can't predict the future, Camus. You can't know who or what will make a difference or not.” Our conversation is momentarily paused as a couple walks around us, talking and laughing about who knows what, probably nothing important. I miss conversations like that. It seems my words are constantly weighted with machines and fear and death. “People are full of surprises. Miracles can happen.”

He's shaking his head before I finish. “That is an incredibly naive worldview. People are predictable, and miracles aren't as common as you think.”

“Oh, yeah. That's not cynical at all.”

“We'll have to continue this discussion at a later time.” Camus backs into the war room doors, but hesitates before opening them. His eyes gentle some. “All I'm trying to say is I suggest you adopt a little pragmatism before we go in. This could get ugly. You have to be realistic.”

“That's why we keep you around,” I say and open the doors myself, pushing past him.

Every seat in the room is taken, save the two reserved for Camus and me.

Doesn't this feel familiar?

The atmosphere is hot and loud, swamped with the worries of a dozen people, all trying to voice their concerns over one another. I stand there trying to pick up the frayed strands of conversation and find a way in, but no one's listening to anyone else.

I feel Camus's hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward a chair, wanting me to sit down. Instead, I brush him off and remain on my feet, determined not to be overwhelmed by the chaos. I try to bring order to the feuding council members, raising my voice until I'm heard. The war room settles down long enough for me to ask, “Right, then. What's the situation?” A flurry of answers come at me, everyone firing back wildly, all at the same time. “One at a time! Okay, you.”

“With all due respect, Commander, I feel we should be less concerned about Churchill's safety and more concerned about our own,” the man I know only vaguely as Mr. Gratham says. Dissent bubbles up, but Camus stops it dead with a look of cold reproach only he could pull off. I'm glad he's in my corner, for once.

“Go on, Mr. Gratham,” I encourage him. “I'm listening.”

“Thank you.” He adjusts the collar of his shirt, sweat dripping from his receding hairline. I think he'd look like a military man if not for the paunch he's carrying around his waist. He looks more like a retired cop whose pension has consisted of donuts instead of money. It's amazing he's able to maintain his weight, really, given the way food is rationed.

“I'm sure I speak for everyone when I say yes, of course we'd like to go to Churchill's aid. No one here wants the inhabitants of Churchill to die. But there's a larger issue we have to consider. If they're compromised, as they seem to believe, then who's to say McKinley isn't? We've been in bed with them. They know all about us. All the machines would have to do is hack their systems.”

Clarence shakes his head. “Every resistance base has viruses in place to wipe out their systems in the case of such an emergency. I tried telling you earlier, Carl.”

“Since when have viruses ever stopped the machines?” Gratham counters. “Last time we relied on a virus to protect us, we ended up getting our asses handed to us. Not to mention five years of hell on earth.”

The murmurs convey agreement.

“That's simplifying what happened. The Corinthian virus was a complicated piece of code, intended to salvage the AIs by disabling their hostile routines, not perform a task as simple as destroying data,” Clarence grumbles, but no one's listening to him. I think I recall Samuel mentioning something about the Corinthian virus, during some of our recent review sessions. Developed by a programming team in Greece, the virus was humanity's last effort to lobotomize the wayward intelligences, when the higher echelon had not yet devoured its artificial competition and come together to form itself. But at least one of its kind had already claimed a few hundred lives in the Glasgow Disaster, when an experimental all-machine cast turned on themselves and then the audience at the National Theater. It was initially considered an act of terrorism. If only. In response, Scotland and its allies moved more troops into the Middle East, and there was even talk of another Gulf War. No one knows for sure, but it's thought this provided the incendiary spark that provoked the higher echelon to take such dramatic measures.