Counterpart (25 page)

Finally, I hear the door slide open behind me, but I'm busy trying to keep the machines in my peripheral vision.

“Here!” I yell at Zelda and Ulrich, and then to the soldiers, “Fall back!”

Only one of the soldiers appears to hear me. The woman turns, at just the wrong moment, catching something—a bullet, maybe?—in the back for her troubles. She staggers forward, but only a step, then collapses. She's unconscious before she even hits the floor, unable to catch herself and keep from face-planting. The machines advance, stepping around her body without so much as a second glance. Their red optics fix on me instead.

I hold their artificial gaze only so long as it takes to fire my EMP-G. I miss, just barely, short-circuiting a section of hall lights instead.
Should've aimed for the alarm.

My obvious aggression attracts the machines, who temporarily swing their focus to me.
Uh oh.
I quickly duck back into the inset before they can fire, and having lost line of sight, the machines' event programming directs them to find a different, more immediate target. They fixate on Ulrich, Zelda, and the others again.

One of the predators lunges for the male soldier, securing him to the wall by his throat, while the others continue toward the female soldier. In such close combat, it's no surprise the machines aren't using bullets. It would be a waste of ammunition. Much more practical to simply crush a windpipe, snap a neck, or slit a wrist. Predators are some of the most multifunctional machines in the higher echelon's arsenal; killing takes all kinds, I guess.

I don't wait to see what the predator will do to the man. I fire again, this time disabling it. The man drops to the floor on his knees, but is quickly back on his feet, and delivers several bullets to the machine's core processor while its defenses are down.

But then more machines appear—not behind the first trio, but behind
us
, appearing from around the same corner we emerged from. Two predators, and what looks like a waste bin on wheels. Its entire body rotates around a stationary axis, multiple arms extending with a variety of plugs and tools.
Siege class.
The name pops into my head like it was always there, along with background knowledge about the machine. Siege-class models were created for infiltrating high-security installations, opening the way for predators and other heavier models. I haven't seen one in this lifetime. After most major buildings and facilities were cracked, invaded, and destroyed, the model sort of disappeared. At least in North America. It could be a different story elsewhere. I recently heard a rumor the Nigerians designed electronic wire traps to prevent any sieges from getting near their bases. Or was that in Dubai?

“Come on!” I yell again, in the narrow space between alarm cries, so Ulrich, Zelda, and the soldiers are certain to hear me this time. I also gesture frantically, hoping to catch their eyes if nothing else.

Zelda explodes toward me and the open door with as much speed and power as if she'd launched from a sprinter's position. Having swapped his Heckler & Koch assault rifle for an EMP handgun like mine, Ulrich covers her as best he can, even going so far as to shoot over his shoulder. The couple move in such easy synchrony I'd be surprised if they hadn't actually seen combat together beyond Juneau and Churchill, or at least practiced scenarios like this one. It would explain how they both stay in such great shape.

As she runs, Zelda raises her carrying case high above her head to distract the machines, who view it as an object of threat, or possibly mistake it for her head, and respond accordingly.

Instead of a lead hailstorm, however, two large tranquilizer darts bounce off the carbon material, tumbling harmlessly onto the floor. Zelda's expression turns to one of confusion, but she doesn't hesitate. In fact, it's only my grabbing her that stops her from slamming directly into the wall, carried forward by her own momentum. Ulrich is the last one to make it. When no one else comes around the corner, I have to assume the machines succeeded in overcoming the remaining soldiers—and pray they received nothing worse than tranquilizers.

“Tranquilizers,” I say breathlessly, while we all hastily push into the room, letting the door seal us into temporary darkness and safety. The automatic lights should come on in a moment, but I fumble for a control panel or switch all the same. My hands encounter the edges of cardboard boxes. “Why would predators be using—oh, no.”

If I harbored any hopes that this location would serve as a sanctuary, they're quickly dashed when the lights come on. The realization of where we are sinks into me like teeth. It's some kind of utility closet. Walk-in-pantry size, with barely enough room to fit all three of us comfortably—practically four of us, taking into account Ulrich's big-ass gun. I never appreciated just how large it was until now. Although in this context, by “appreciated,” I mostly mean “did not realize how little I would enjoy having it shoved in my face.”

“Hey, watch it with that thing,” I crow at Ulrich, slapping the assault rifle away.

“You've got to be kidding me.” Zelda groans, then pins me with a glare. “With this kind of luck, how the hell have you stayed alive for so long?”

“Funny story about that.”

“Right,” she says, dropping the attitude. Well,
most
of the attitude. She crosses her arms sullenly. “Still. Great choice for an escape route.”

“I didn't see you coming up with any bright ideas.” I mean, apart from using the carrying case to draw fire from the machines. That was pretty smart. But I'm not about to compliment her when she's standing here attacking me. “Anyway. Look at the bright side. The machines can't get us in here,” I point out, trying to ignore my inner monologue, which is already beginning to babble about how small this room is. Somewhat larger than the tank I spent three days trapped inside, but not quite as large as our biggest elevator, not with equipment and supplies jutting out from the steel cabinets.

Zelda snorts, shakes her head, and rests the carrying case on the floor. “Hopefully.”

“What do you mean,
hopefully
?”

“Didn't you see the hacker out there?”

I strain to connect her colloquialism to the facts. “You mean, the siege-class model?”

“Whatever you want to call it. That thing—given time—can unlock any door, get past almost any system that doesn't have someone actively fighting its incursion. Let alone figure out the password to a stupid utility closet.”

“It wasn't a password. It was a hand scanner.”

Zelda roots through one of the boxes near her elbow. “Same difference.”

“They'll have other targets to worry about. Out of sight, out of mind. Right?” She answers me with a noncommittal shrug, still picking through the box for I don't know what. Maybe a spare weapon, or something to barricade the door. “We just have to wait them out—” I'm saying, when Ulrich groans and suddenly collapses.

I'd noticed he was quiet, but that wasn't unusual. What
was
unusual was his hand releasing the EMP-G, which then clanged as it hit several shelves on the way down, and his body ultimately crumpling to the floor like a broken toy. In such confined quarters, simple instinct spurs me and Zelda to try and catch him—however, his bulk and weight prevent us from being very effective. All we manage to do is slow his descent. He still ends up crashing into a container of high-caliber bullets on the way down, sending them spinning across the floor.

“Ulrich!” Zelda says something else in German, cradling his head in her lap.

Ulrich mutters something in reply, but I can't make it out. His eyes flutter once and then they're still, the rest of his face and body immediately going slack.

“Was he hit?” I ask.

“What do you think?” Zelda snaps.

I search him for a wound and then frown, plucking the tranquilizer dart from his left leg, close to his crotch. “I think yes. I also think he's too stubborn and proud to
mention it,
” I add loudly, even though Ulrich's out by this time and can't hear me.

It's easier to direct my frustration at Ulrich—who is incapacitated and thus the perfect scapegoat—than acknowledge the real issue. Once again, people trusted me to know what I was doing, and once again I let them down. Also, being trapped in an enclosed space is doing nothing for my nerves or patience. I really need to study McKinley's layout better so this doesn't happen again. (Provided we don't die in here—which is a thought that persists in hounding me, however illogical.)

“Wait,” I say after another moment. “Listen. Do you hear that?”

Zelda looks up from Ulrich's prone body. “I don't hear anything.”

“Exactly. The alarm's stopped. Maybe it's over.”
Or maybe it's not, but I need to get the hell out of this closet, right now.
I check my EMP-G. It still has a charge, enough that I could put up a short fight, if necessary. “I think we should check.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Zelda growls. “Give it a few minutes, at least.”

“For what? You said it yourself. The siege class will be all up in our business sooner rather than later, anyway. This way, we decide the moment of confrontation. Hand me Ulrich's rifle.”

“You are out of your damn mind,” she complains under her breath, but retrieves the weapon, all the same. I'm waiting for her to deliver it to me when she stands, still holding onto it. “Nuh-uh. Slow your roll,
Commander.
You think I'm going to trust you with a high-powered rifle after those crappy potshots you took with the imp?”
Imp
—shorthand for EMP. Zelda has really adopted every possible McKinleyism into her vernacular. I still spell out the acronym half the time, mostly because the alternative has always given me a weird mental image—like I'm using a small woodland creature to attack the machines.

Actually, that would be kind of cool. Huh. I've been missing out.

“I know you're stressed, but damn, Long.” She's right. Normally, I'm a much better shot.

“All right,” I say. “Then get up here and cover me. I'm opening the door.”

Whatever scene I'm expecting to find on the other side, it's not this. The machines have frozen in the halls. The predators' heads slump, and the siege class has stopped rotating. Their bodies still vibrate with power beneath my fingertips, their core processors humming a quiet, persistent tune, but their optics have gone dark, and it's clear by the way none of them respond to us that they're in some kind of standby mode. Zelda goes as far as to bang on one's shell—
rap rap rap
with her knuckles—causing me to cringe and jerk back from the one I'm investigating, out of caution. But nothing happens.

“They're out,” she announces, relaxing her grip on Ulrich's rifle.

Maybe it's the adrenaline lingering in my system, or simply a volatile concoction of frustration and embarrassment—that we've been humbled and frightened by something that turns off so easily, something that we
made
ourselves
—but I snatch the rifle from Zelda, ignoring her protests, and fire several shots into one of the predator's core processors. It isn't as satisfying as I'd hoped it would be; no smoke spirals up, the machine doesn't give any grunt or cry. I should leave it at that. But it's not enough. Not by a long shot.

Unwilling to waste more ammo, I hand the gun back to Zelda and settle for attacking the siege class with my bare hands. I mean, I seriously go to town on this thing. Settling my foot against its inert base, I manage to wrest off one of its arms, then proceed to beat the top of its waste-bin body—what amounts to its head—with it. The metal chimes with every blow like a boxing-ring bell. It's an unfair fight, but who cares?

Zelda doesn't bother trying to stop me. She stands there, the rifle still poised for action. “Feel better?” she asks after I've exhausted myself somewhat.

“Not really.” I stop and squint at the machine. “Actually, hold on. Come take a look at this. Isn't that the New Soviets' symbol?” I gesture to the small emblem on the predator's shoulder—falcon wings curved around the silhouette of a bear. “The one they used to have on their flag?”

“Yeah. Looks like.”

“Correct me if I'm wrong, but these are Russian-built machines, aren't they? The ones they recently put in a request to transfer here? The ones Kozlov originally claimed were completely inoperative, and safe for analysis?”

I watch Zelda's face as she reaches the same conclusion. She tightens her hands around Ulrich's gun. “Son of a bitch.”

“Rhona!”

I turn at the sound of Camus's voice, dropping the siege class's arm like a cookie I stole from a forbidden jar. At this point, I'm honestly surprised I don't have a Pavlovian reaction to hearing my own named called. It almost always means something bad has happened, or is about to happen.

Despite the fact the danger has passed, Camus still charges down the hall, navigating warily around the stationary machines, and slowing to a halt only when he is finally in spitting distance of me and Zelda. A large automatic rifle bounces in rhythm to his stride. He must have gotten the gun from one of our armories, responding quickly to the attack. Ulrich would be pleased at the thought, though Camus's expression and posture suggests having the weapon isn't his preference. He holds the gun like it's a squalling child someone's dumped in his arms—a little disgusted, not quite sure what to do with it.
There's an academic for you.

“Are you both all right?” he asks me and Zelda, still scanning the area. “Where's Ulrich? He was supposed to be with you.” He looks at me. Of course. Because I'm the one who needs constant babysitting.

“We're fine,” I say, at the same time Zelda answers, “He's in the closet.”

Camus deepens his frown. “The closet?”