Counterpart (12 page)

“Are you ready?” Hanna asks me, aloud.

Night is finally upon us. The shadows have all been absorbed by the dark, and I feel the temperature dropping. Above us, a long tear has opened in the sky—light from distant galaxies blending with our atmosphere, churning out shades of blue and purple and pink, all surrounded by an incomprehensible pattern of stars. Here on the ground, people have begun lighting their candles. Tiny flames spring to life across the field, a hundred eyes opening at once. They shiver each time the wind blows down from the mountain, and some are extinguished completely.

I pull my crumpled speech from my pantsuit pocket and smooth out the wrinkles. My handwriting looks like a doctor tried to write a prescription after a couple of beers.

“I don't suppose I could just recommend everyone watch the second half of
The Lion King
?” I say. Ulrich's look suggests he'd consider it—the man loves his Disney almost as much as his Westerns—but Hanna shakes her head. I sigh. “Didn't think so.”

In place of mounting a stage, I climb the steep, grassy knoll overlooking the crowd. Audio equipment has been set up to amplify my voice, and someone hands me a microphone before I reach the apex of the hill. Blood pulses in my ears. My hands feel slightly numb. I've spoken with a lot of people over the past couple of days, but this is a different beast. Much less intimate. Normally, when I'm giving big speeches like this, it's in the War Room, and while it's a live broadcast, I'm not actually confronted by the faces of those listening in.

Not so here.

The moment I tap-tap-tap on the microphone head, I feel the crowd's collective gaze swing toward me like an enormous fist. In my hand, the notes for my speech suddenly feel immaterial. Insincere. Cheap. These people don't need some lousy, greeting-card sentiment.

Screw it.
I quickly shove the speech back into my pocket.

“I prepared a few words to say here tonight,” I begin, then stop. My own voice blasts back at me from the speakers, delayed by a fraction of a second, and it takes me a moment to adjust to it. “But I'm not going to read them to you. Because they're lies. I wanted to get up here and tell you that everything is going to be all right. That what happened earlier this week will never happen again. That McKinley is safe once more. But I don't know that for sure.”

Looking out across the field, I spot Hanna and Ulrich, Hawking and Kapoor, as well as dozens of other familiar faces, including Ximena Torres's. Her dark hair is smashed beneath an army cap, mouth locked in a solemn line. Lieutenant Chaplin is conspicuously absent, though I expect I'll hear his name later tonight, listed among the dead. I know the pair succeeded in their task because people have been coming up to me since the attack, grateful for the instructions I gave. They tell me stories of Torres's heroism, hearing her voice, and narrowly avoiding the trap of the stairwells. No one mentions Chaplin, and when I asked Torres about it, she clammed up and shook her head. When I pressed her for the details, she simply said, “There was a machine, Commander. It's all there in my briefing, but I'd really prefer not to talk any more about it, if you don't mind.” I never did find out what the true nature of their relationship was, though I suppose it doesn't matter now.

“They say there are only two things certain in life,” I say. “Death and taxes. Well, we don't pay taxes anymore—guess you could say that's one good thing about the machines, huh?”

The crowd is silent, many looking mortified by my irreverence.
It's like they don't know me at all.

“Sorry,” I continue, fighting a creeping numbness in my fingers.
Keep it together, Long.
“I know you didn't come here for jokes. I know you probably think they're in bad taste, and maybe they are.”
Or maybe they're the only thing keeping some of us from falling over the cliff.
“The fact is, we lost a lot of people in these attacks. Too many people. It happened in our home. If you're not angry about that, get angry! Because this is our future if something doesn't change. If we don't find a way to get past our differences and come together, we've already lost. The machines present a united front; we have to present one, too.”

I catch Hawking's sharp eyes. “They'll try to divide us. Try to get us to turn on each other, because that's what we're good at. Blame.”

Releasing the councilwoman's gaze, I scan the sea of heads, distinguished by pale eyes and candlelight. Overhead, another jet engine roars, white contrail slicing through the night.

“But you know what else we're good at? Compassion. Hope. Lifting one another out of the darkness. We have a long, hard road ahead. No surprises there, really. But let's not forget the people still walking alongside us, even as we mourn those who have fallen on the way…”

Another plane growls across the sky, heading back the way the other came. Odd. Their rounds should spread them at least ten minutes apart.

“As you listen to the following speakers, remember—”

Two more jets tear past Denali in the same direction as the last one, cutting me off. They're followed by the distant beat of helicopter blades, and my first thought is
The machines are coming.
We were fools to believe it was any safer outside of McKinley base now than a year ago. Alaska might be secure at the moment, but no border is impregnable. This was a stupid risk.

Someone touches my elbow, and it's everything I can do not to leap out of my skin. I turn, finding Ulrich at my arm, and my heart slowly slides back down from my throat. With the noise from the planes and the inbound chopper, I didn't hear him approach.

Ulrich leans over, speaking in my ear. “Trouble. We need to return to base.”

I jerk my gaze to the crowd and spy two other soldiers pulling Hawking and Kapoor away, too. The uniformed pair are trying to be subtle, but Hawking is arguing, and the soldiers' presence alarms those nearby. People begin turning fragile gazes toward one another. They're starting to talk. Ask questions. I can't postpone my speech for much longer without instigating a panic.

I cover the microphone with my hand, angling it away. “What's going on?”

Ulrich hesitates, likely knowing what effect his words will have on me. I brace myself for more bad news. “There's been another attack.”

I keep my expression as neutral as I can for the crowd. “On McKinley?”

He shakes his head, and I nearly melt with relief. “Elsewhere. I don't know the specifics, but you must come now. The council is being called for an emergency session.”

“That can't be good,” I murmur.

“Now,” he repeats, trying to move me.

“Wait. I need to finish my speech. Give me another minute.” Ulrich frowns—more prominently, anyway—but doesn't fight me on the decision.

I apologize to the crowd for the interruption, reassuring everyone that everything's fine, even though it clearly isn't, and welcome the next speaker to the hill. A First Nations grief counselor named Jillian Wenakeneck, who was present during the machines' invasion of Ottawa, and presumably knows a little about dealing with trauma. As I pass the microphone to her, she asks me if something's wrong.
If
, not what. I like her optimism.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” I tell her, which isn't exactly a lie these days.

She gives me a tight smile. “That bad, huh?”

Doctor Matsuki Shigeru bars the door to surgery with his body, like a political activist challenging a line of tanks. I don't know where that image comes from, but it's striking—one lone man against hulking metal machines. Instead of keeping back the military, however, Matt is holding the remnants of the council at bay: Hawking, Kapoor, myself, and others who scrambled here from the vigil. Cordier, who claims he made the mistake of lying down for a brief nap and overslept, is dressed in a white tank top and grey, drawstring pants, and sports some serious bedhead. Added to his pale skin, close shave, and black, beady eyes, he looks like a malcontent snowman.

“Why are we even arguing over this?” he complains, arms crossed.

“I agree. This is more important than one person's life,” Hawking tells Matsuki in a firm voice. She's already asked nicely and been refused. “Now, stand aside, Shigeru.”

Matt shakes his head, keeping his hands braced on opposite sides of the door. It's a little ridiculous seeing him stretched out in the doorframe, but I don't think he's worried about his dignity at this moment. “I respect the decisions made in the War Room. Respect the ones I make here. If you postpone Commander Pan's surgery any longer, she
will
die.”

“Yes, you've made that abundantly clear,” Kapoor remarks dryly.

Matsuki gives his fellow councilman a flinty look like he's attempting to set fire to Kapoor's fat, caterpillar eyebrows with his mind.

“Just two minutes,” I suggest, holding up a pair of fingers, creating an inadvertent peace sign. “Cynthia Pan's the only surviving member of rank, and likely the only one who knows what happened at Wrangell base.”

We spoke with many of the civilians from our newly planted sister base, but none of them had any answers. Most spoke haltingly of the attack, describing the fast, brutal efficiency of the machines. It's a story I already know by heart, though the specifics still matter. They came by land instead of air, taking advantage of the warm weather. Predators scuttled across the Alaskan tundra, navigating the mountainous terrain just behind other war machines created specifically for breaching walls and tough outer defenses. The survivors described the chaos and fear, the smell of scorched metal, and blood hanging like a mist in the air. Smoke twisting through the corridors of the base, blotting out signs meant to guide people toward the emergency exits. Everyone running every which way. Screaming. Dying.

One woman told me how she and her partner survived by sheer, dumb luck and a strong libido. The two women had snuck into the back of an Army Reserve helicopter—one we loaned to them until more replacement parts could be found to repair the dead birds recovered from Valdez—and were enjoying the thrill of a little exhibitionist fun when the machines punched through the southern passage into the base. The woman in question was part of Wrangell's aviation force. No military experience, but she'd been in Civil Air Patrol as a teen in California, and later flew planes and choppers for Cal Fire, during a time when the state burnt and burnt during the summer months. She and her lover managed to get sixteen people out of Wrangell before the machines broke into the hangar.

That's not the only twist in this tale, however. The machines waited until Wrangell's main strike teams were away before moving in, and no one's been able to tell us yet why the teams left the base so unguarded in the first place, or how the machines seemed to know it. Nearly the entire force was massacred, not in service of their own base, but on an open stretch of highway near Kluane Lake—miles into Canada, and well beyond our defensive line. What they were doing there has remained a mystery.

One only Commander Pan can answer.

“We wait,” Matsuki says, “and she dies. And you find out nothing.”

“You've already said the surgery is risky,” Kapoor points out. “Who's to say she doesn't die on the table anyway?”

“She deserves the chance to live. They're preparing the anesthetic to put her under now.”

“
What?
” Hawking shouts. It's the first time I've ever heard her raise her voice. “Who authorized that?”

“I did,” Matsuki replies calmly. “Just now. It is standard operating procedure for this kind of surgery. Forgive me for not waiting for your signed permission, Councilwoman.”

“Come down off your high horse, Shigeru,” Cordier says. “You're no better than us for wanting to save one person. We're trying to protect the entire resistance here. Look at the bigger picture. Greatest good for the greatest number of people.”

Matsuki looks at me. “Is that how you feel, Commander Long?” When it's just us, he calls me Rhona, and it's strange to hear my rank instead. Almost like he's reproaching me for the position. “Is the individual expendable for the masses? Am I expendable? Renee? Or Camus?”

Cordier snorts. “That's
not
what I said.”

“I interpreted,” Matt says flatly.

Where
is
Camus
? The question wriggles in my brain like a worm chewing through an apple. No one's been able to reach him on walkie, and the soldiers sent to locate him reported back saying he wasn't at our dormitory quarters or any of his usual haunts. I'm starting to worry. Even if Camus was just avoiding the vigil before, nothing could be more important than this. He should be here.

“Commander?” Hawking's staring at me. Crap. What did she say?

“Hmm?” I try to look thoughtful.

“I propose we take a vote,” she says.

“But we're missing members of the council,” Kapoor points out, ever the stickler for rules. “And this isn't officially a session—”

“Emergency measures,” Hawking interrupts in a clipped tone. “All in favor of questioning Commander Pan now?”

“Aye,” Cordier says, without hesitation.

Kapoor rubs his face, but also says, “Aye.”

“Aye.” Hawking, unsurprisingly.

Matt breaks the chain of ayes, voting nay.

The other pair of council members cast their votes. One aye, one nay.

“Nay.” I agree with Matt, even though I know it's essentially throwing my vote away. “I'm sorry, Renee, but Matt's right. If we start dissecting every situation as a cost-to-benefit ratio, we're no better than the machines. Life has to mean something. People aren't just numbers on a scorecard. We have to treat them as more than that.”

“A pretty sentiment, Commander,” Hawking replies, “but ultimately irrelevant. The ayes have it.”

She starts toward surgery, and I notice Matt's knees lock. He's ready to do what he has to, regardless of the council's decision. But to lay a hand on any of us could be considered an act of treason. I doubt Kapoor would make an issue of it, but Cordier might. Hawking's a wild card entirely.

“Wait.” I move between Hawking and Matt. “Commander Forsyth would agree with me if he was here.” Probably. Maybe. Camus's practicality has its dark side; his priority is this base—and my safety. Honestly, there's no telling which way he'd vote, but that doesn't help my case at the moment. Better to fudge the truth a little. “That would make this a tie, in which case, as primus inter pares, I have the deciding vote.”

Hawking shunts her gaze to her right, then her left. “But Forsyth isn't here. Is he?”

For a moment, I wonder if Hawking has something to do with his disappearance. No amount of ill will between us would ever drive her to harm Camus—would it? Renee, after all, came from the same base as Evelyn Meir, and the latter nearly had me killed to prove a point. Maybe they both graduated from the same school for aspiring dictators.

Or maybe I'm projecting. Hard to tell.

“Move aside, Commander.” Hawking stands her ground, an inch away from me. The fluorescent lights give her black skin a waxy look, making her appear tired, almost sickly, but there's no trace of weakness in her voice. “Democracy has run its course. You don't get to ignore it simply because you disagree with the outcome. And consider this: the longer you two drag this out, the less likely it is Pan survives, surgery or not.”

I turn around, and something in my expression must tell Matt everything he needs to know about my decision. His features turn to stone, his eyes dead like a statue's. I open my mouth to apologize, but the words catch in my throat. I have nothing to apologize for. We're low on alternatives.

“We'll be quick,” I promise. “Two minutes…”

He holds up a hand, stopping me from saying more. Taking a few steps to his right, Matsuki—seems wrong to refer to him as Matt right now—presses his palm flat against the scanner, which immediately accepts his identity.

The double doors unlock behind him, swinging open with a rush of decompressed air that blows my hair back. At the same moment, noise releases like my ears have popped—a steady murmur of frantic voices streams past me, and a strong, sterile smell of antiseptic attacks my nose, reminding me of the capsule I was born in. The hairs on my arms leap to attention, and I'm suddenly possessed by the urge to turn tail, run back the way I came. I know what lies at the end of this short corridor. Nothing good.

Hawking strides past without a second thought, followed by the rest of our weary entourage. I pick up the rear alongside Matsuki, occasionally glancing over at him, though he refuses to make eye contact with me. Right. One more person growing disillusioned with the great Commander Long.
Get in line, buddy.

The primary operating theater lies at the end of the hall, second door on the right. Between us and our destination, doors open and close as doctors rush from one emergency to another. McKinley's medical staff is grossly overworked after days of dealing with our own tragedy, and right now in particular, we're understaffed, too. We were never prepared to deal with an attack of this magnitude, or this many casualties at once. Each time a door opens, I glimpse a tableau of misery: bodies on gurneys beneath white sheets; arms or legs jerking spasmodically as a physician tries to recall someone from death; someone attacking a dark pool on the floor with a mop. I don't know what to do with these images but hold them in my brain and ache. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Things were
improving.
Now it feels like we're back to square one. Anchorage all over again.

It doesn't escape my notice that Hawking knows exactly where she's going. I wonder when she's had occasion to come here before the other day—or for whom. So many little mysteries these days. So many people keeping secrets.

We reach the operating theater, but not before Commander Pan has already been put under. Even with Matsuki's explicit briefing, I underestimated the extent of her injuries. The commander looks like she got into a fight with a jet engine. Her face is almost unrecognizable, as if savaged by some animal. Bright, angry flesh peers from her torn-up cheeks, and any eyebrows she once had are completely gone. Half her clothing has been burnt off, and the aides are attempting to carefully remove the rest with tiny scissors. They're not having an easy time of it. Some of the material appears to have melted directly onto her legs and torso, and the smell that comes off her skin reminds me of leaving a plate of tuna casserole in the microwave for too long.

“Wake her up,” Hawking orders.

Matsuki's horror finally rises to his face, parting his mouth. “She is already unconscious. To wake her would risk—”

“I don't care,” Hawking answers, though her voice wobbles a little. “This is what we agreed upon. It's not my fault you went ahead. Wake her up.”

“The shock will almost certainly kill her,” Matsuki objects heatedly. “When we brought her in, she was in an unimaginable amount of pain. Do you know what it feels like to burn your finger, Councilwoman? Imagine that tenfold, on every inch of your body. Nothing was spared the heat.”

For a moment, I think Cordier is going to say something, but instead he turns around, holding his hand to his mouth.
And here I thought Kapoor would be the squeamish one.

“I won't wake her,” Matsuki says.

“It's treason to disobey a direct order from the council,” Kapoor points out, not harshly, only as a point of fact. “Even if you're on it.”

Matsuki does not remove his dark, unflinching gaze from Hawking. “Then arrest me.”

“No one's arresting anyone,” I interrupt, sliding between them again before it comes to blows. Though, for the record, my money would totally be on Hawking. “Matt, even if we wake her now, will Cynthia be in any condition to answer our questions?”

“Unlikely.”

“Renee.” I look at my fellow councilwoman. “Is it worth the Commander suffering
horribly
on the off chance that she
might
remember something pertinent?”

“Yes,” Hawking answers.

“Wow, okay. I was really hoping you'd say no just then.”

I rub my face. This is going to suck.

Inhaling slowly, I straighten and give the command. “Matt, wake her up.” He opens his mouth to object, but I don't let him get the words out. “I know what you're going to say, and normally I'd agree with you. Hell, just a few minutes ago, I agreed with you, but Hawking's right. We don't have the time or luxury to be humane. You see what the machines have done here. How much carnage only a few of them caused. If the higher echelon is plotting something else—if the machines are on their way here next,
we need to know that.
I like to think Commander Pan would understand the difficult position we're in, and consent to the risks.”

Matt turns away sharply, throwing his hands up and taking a few agitated steps in no particular direction before finally swinging back toward us. “You don't know her. You don't know what she would say,” he says, then sighs. “But I do. I know her. Perhaps better than most.”

“You know her?” I can't hide my surprise.