Counterpart (26 page)

“It's a long story.” That's when I notice the bloody rip parting his shirt, exposing part of his clavicle. “Camus…”

He follows my gaze. “Damn. That predator must have nicked me. Can you believe the thing actually resorted to its close-combat weaponry? I haven't seen a machine use its limbs like that since…” He trails off, probably because the last time he saw it was in the security footage of the attack on me in a Military training room, by Meir's reprogrammed machine. It was programmed not to kill me, only rough me up. Scare me a little. I suspect that's what happened here, too.

“I have a few theories about that, actually,” I tell Camus, while Zelda turns back to fetch Ulrich. We help her. “None you're going to like.”

“Naturally.”

Even as we begin hoisting Ulrich up from the ground, I can't tear my eyes from Camus's injury, minor as it may be. “You should probably get that dressed.”

“Hurts worse than it looks,” he jokes, wincing a little as we string the burly German between us.

“How'd it happen?”

“I got hasty. It's not important.” He grunts at Ulrich's weight as we start forward. “I'm just glad you're safe.”

Safe. The epitome of love these days. Not happy. Not merry, or excited, or even content. Just—
safe.
It's all we can do for one another: offer security, or at least the illusion of it. Clearly I haven't done a very good job of either, because here Camus is, bleeding once again.

McKinley isn't safe for him,
I think.

Or maybe, just maybe, I'm the one who's not safe.

Zelda vetoes my plan to take Ulrich downstairs and get him checked out, insisting he'll be fine just as soon as he wakes up, though really I think it's because she finds the medical level too depressing. The whole place stinks of death. Camus also refuses to see a doctor, so after we deposit Ulrich in his bed, I leave Camus at our quarters and go to fetch a first-aid kit myself.

At this late hour, I don't expect to meet anyone important, anyone I know personally, which is perfect because I didn't bother with makeup today, even to mask my missing freckles. The baggy clothes I'm wearing scream
I don't give a flying fuck,
and combined with the dark, half-moon circles under my eyes make me look like a drug addict. But whatever. The world won't end if McKinley's commander looks frumpy for one night.

People have taken up residence in the halls again. I have to navigate an obstacle course of sleeping bags in order to move around the level. But while I'm prepared to see desperation on the faces of those who lost out on actual room and board, I'm not prepared for the peace and humor I see instead, the sheer relief among the refugees. It manifests in various forms: a husband teasing dirt onto his wife's cheek, and her swatting him with a smile; two older women, leaning against one another, arguing in low, tired voices about the best flavor of Starburst; tiny children tucked against their mother's side, sleeping without fear, even though fear must be all they've ever known in this world. And there are the volunteers, most from McKinley, moving among them, making sure everyone has a blanket, water, snacks, and clean bandages, if needed. Some merely lend a sympathetic ear, sitting with total strangers until they've exhausted all topics of conversation and fall asleep. I hear more than one promise of safety. That things will be all right. The council has everything under control. Commander Long hasn't given up, and neither should they.

It's encouraging to see everyone banding together, reaching out to one another. Too bad those of us in power can't seem to get along as well as the people we claim to serve.

I wrap my arms around myself and tuck my head down, progressing comfortably through the level as a nobody, but feeling my stomach churn all the same. An energy, almost a momentum, is building inside me that I don't understand, powered by the sight of these survivors. Individuals holding on to one another because they've lost everything else.

The sacrifices humanity's last refugees have made, and continue to make each and every day, rob my little angst balloon of heat. Suddenly my issues with Camus, our fight the other night, seem petty. Irrelevant.

As I float back down to thorny reality, several realizations strike me at once. First, if our species stands a chance of coming back from the brink of extinction, it'll need a leader who isn't so caught up in her own drama that she misses the big picture. Second, if I'm going to be that leader, I can't give up the fight, no matter how tired I am. Third, I may have to give up something else instead.

Someone.

By the time I find a first-aid kit still populated with the supplies needed, I know what I have to do. I think I've known for some time now. I've only lacked the courage to go through with it.

I turn and head back. Camus is waiting for me.

“Camus, we need to talk,” I say as soon as the door has closed behind me. I have to grimace at my own choice of words. Some time in the near future, maybe that expression will be the harbinger of a joyful message, but it isn't going to be today.

Camus is seated on the edge of our bed, slowly peeling off his shirt. I notice the care he takes, especially around his shoulder, where a narrow alley of skin appears to have been taken off as easily as his shirt. The meat of his shoulder is red and angry. Looks painful. “If this is about what happened with Wrangell base, and later with the machine in the IC lab, Hawking told me all about it. She wasn't exactly forthcoming with the details, but thankfully Peter Albany was there, and he was more than happy to—” He halts at my strained expression. “What?”

I inhale deeply, exhale slowly. No sense in postponing the conversation I need to have with him. I could wait for a better time, but in all honesty, I don't think that time exists. “There was something else.”

He lets the shirt drop to the floor, looks at me. “Something else?”

“About the clone attack. I didn't mention it before.”

“Go on.”

“The other clone said something that's been rattling around my brain.”
Like an army of sabers.
Because the thoughts are bright and sharp, and I've been at war with them since they first broke free from her mouth. “She said she did this for you. Staging the attack on McKinley, letting the machines in, trying to murder me. She did it for you, Camus.”

I know this hurts him to hear by the way he swallows. “She was mad.”

“Maybe.” I approach and set the first-aid kid down beside his leg. He absently flicks the lid open, but even as he roots through the supplies, I can tell I'm still holding the majority of his attention. “Or maybe she just reached wisdom ahead of me. Maybe she's meant to be my own Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.”

“I knew it was a mistake showing you that film,” Camus says, straining at humor.

“That's not even the worst part. The worst part is that I understood her, Camus. I don't always think clearly where you're concerned, and I think the reverse can be said. I can easily imagine putting you ahead of the resistance, and that scares me.”

He swallows again, pressing his lips into a tight line. “What are you saying?”

Just as he asks me this, he fumbles with a roll of a gauze, cursing as it rolls off the bed, unfurling like a white red carpet. “Here. Let me…”

“Say what you've come to say, Rhona,” he says, accepting the gauze back.

“My priority has to be McKinley. The resistance needs a leader who isn't distracted.”

“And I'm a distraction.”

You're everything to me
,
everything.
“Yes. Or worse. Let's review, shall we? I almost killed myself trying to get to you during the attack…and then when the machines invaded again, you got hurt searching for me.”

“I never said—”

“You didn't have to say it.”

I sit down beside him, resisting the temptation to dress his wound myself, or offer some sort of physical comfort by touching his arm, his knee, anywhere, everywhere. I need to steady myself. Steel myself. Right now, I've got to be strong. Logical.
Ruthless.
“How many times have you told me to be more careful? And how many times have I ignored that advice? But you're right. I can't be so reckless all the time. During the attack, I should've considered the effect my death would have on the base, on the alliance, and taken the appropriate precautions to guard my own life. Instead, all I was thinking about was you.”

“It's natural to be concerned about the ones you love,” Camus says. He applies the gauze to his wound—sloppily, I might add—and tapes it up. I almost point out that he should clean it first, but stop myself. It's not my responsibility to mother him, to baby him. I can't protect him from every little threat. Hell, I can't even protect him from the big ones. And by holding on to him so tight, I think I'm inadvertently endangering him even more.

“You're not listening,” I say. “Humanity is hanging by a thread, and I'm running with scissors. And so are you. That's a problem.”

“We'll be more cautious, then, not more alone.”

“Maybe that's the solution, though. If I'm alone, maybe I'll be more focused. And if I'm more focused, maybe we won't suffer any more major attacks. Maybe we can finally make some headway in this war.”
Maybe you'll be safe, away from the fat target on my back.

“You're not giving yourself enough credit—or too much. The attack wasn't your fault. Rankin's death—”

I almost bite through my tongue. “You can stop right there.”

“—wasn't your fault either. Rhona.”

He reaches for me, but I jerk to my feet, moving away, trying to keep my thoughts clear.

I begin anew, rambling. “If McKinley had a leader who wasn't ankles deep in relationship troubles—”

Camus shakes his head. “We had a minor disagreement. All couples fight. Besides, you're working off a fallacy that isolation brings clarity of purpose. But it doesn't, not always. Sometimes all isolation does is leave you stranded on the far side of the world, away from the people who need you and who you need in return.”

The fact he's trying so hard breaks my heart. As does what I have to say next.

“That's just it,” I tell him. “Everyone needs me, but I don't get the same luxury. My needing someone means I'm vulnerable. Too weak to carry the burden of leadership alone. I can't be weak, Camus.”
When I'm weak, my friend sends her husband's ashes up to a cold Alaskan sky.
“Not again.”

“Rhona, come here.”

“No.” I turn away from him. He's weakening my resolve.

“Rhona.”

“No
.
”

Camus stands.

A moment later, his arms encircle my waist, his mouth settling in the nape of my neck. I hold my breath, hoping against hope that he will convince me otherwise, deter me from this course. And at the same time, knowing I can't let him do that.

“That's not what needing—
loving
—someone means,” he says quietly, and I feel his lips shape each word, printing every syllable into my skin. “It's exposure, yes. Baring parts of your soul best left in the dark, and trusting the other person not to look away. But it's also relief, the relief of finding another person whose soul testifies to a feeling you can't quite put into words. Whose very existence is a promise of peace, even when things are falling apart. That's love. That's needing someone.”

I close my eyes, enjoying his radiant warmth, but at the same time knowing we can't stay like this forever. “You should have been a poet,” I murmur around the thickness in my throat.

“English major,” he reminds me gently. “I had to do something with that degree.”

As much as I want to banter with him like nothing's happened, and allow his pretty words to infiltrate my heart, I can't ignore the facts. Somewhere thousands of feet below us, separated by layers of rock and steel and a hundred other souls, a woman with my face lies dead in the morgue. Because she loved Camus, too. Because she was willing to do anything to save him, even destroying everything else. Everyone.

I killed that woman once,
I think with a dry mouth, my heart heaving like a dog's in late summer.
I can do it again.

I slowly extricate myself from my lover's arms, turn, and face him.

“Don't,” he says. His eyes are ovens of misery, scalding me with guilt. I can barely look at him, but I owe him at least that. “Not after everything…”

I straighten as much as I'm able to, surprised it doesn't break every bone in my back. Tension makes my jaw stiff, or maybe that's just leftover injuries from the attack. “I overheard the Russians talking yesterday. Some of them are leaving soon, returning to their base in Yakutsk. I'd like you to go with them.”

“Yakutsk.” Camus swipes at his forehead. His gauze tents with the movement; he didn't tape it properly. “You want to send me to Siberia?”

“You're making it sound worse than it is. Before his death, I spoke to Kozlov about the Soviets' major assets. He was mostly evasive, but he did mention a massive cryostorage unit in Yakutsk, storing the genes for all kinds of pre-Machinations agriculture.”

“A seed bank.”

I nod. Off the top of my bruised and battered head, it's the safest place I can think of to send Camus, where he might actually go. “You could travel there, assess its potential for the future, while also providing a vital liaison between McKinley and Cher.” I try a smile on him. “Two birds, one stone.”

Cher is local slang for Chersky base, the Russian answer to a potential extinction event, much like McKinley turned out to be. Rumor has it the base used to be an old KGB operation center built into the Chersky mountain range during the Cold War, and later served as a refuge for the military elite and their families during the Machinations. The exact coordinates for Chersky base—and countless other bunkers the Soviets claim exist in the Baikals—is still a mystery, though I'd bet the main facility lies somewhere beneath the range's tallest peak, Pobeda. Just a hunch.

Camus sits down to process my words, or maybe his shoulder is bothering him. He covers his face with his hands for a moment, then looks up at me. “Is this punishment? For not sleeping with you?”

How could he think I would be so petty? “Of course not!”

“You want to know why we don't make love?” he says, struggling a little over the words
make love.
“Trust me, it isn't for lack of desire.”

“This isn't about—”

“Or because I don't love you. I do. I love you.”

“Camus.” I breathe in slowly, trying not to lose my nerve.
Change the subject,
I think.
Don't let him derail you.
But I can't help myself. I have to know. “Then why?”

“Because I'm afraid.”

“Of sex?”

The skin around his eyes crinkles, as if he would laugh. But he doesn't. “No. Not at all.”

“Then—”

“I'm afraid of losing you, Rhona. You were right when you accused me of leaving an exit before. You were right.” He sighs, raking fingers through his short, dark curls. “I thought I knew how to be alone. In fact, before I met you, I preferred my own company to that of anyone else's. But after you died…I don't know how to be alone anymore, Rhona. I don't know how to
be
without you. Without your humor brightening up my life, without your spirit lifting mine. I realize now, I wasn't alone before. I was just empty.”

No no no,
I think.
Stop there. He's getting to you. This is for his own good. Break him to save him.
But still I have to ask, “Why keep me out, then?”

“I don't know. Perhaps a part of me believes it will lessen the blow, if something—if the machines ever—I shouldn't need to say it.” I've never seen Camus at a loss for words like this. It frightens me. Here he is, baring his soul, and I'm about to crush it beneath the heel of my boot.
I don't know if I can do this.
“Contrary to popular belief,” he adds with a plaintive smile, “and my clever moniker around base, I'm not made of iron. My thoughts and feelings are not always as rational as I'd like.”

Be cruel. Be cruel to save him.

“Well.” I cross my arms, hugging myself, suddenly cold. “Like I said, this isn't about our sex life.”

“No?” His smile shrivels; it's like watching a beautiful insect die. He holds out his hands, palms upward in a gesture of surrender, helplessness, or maybe simple frustration. “Clearly I've done
something
to offend you, seeing as you're attempting to ship me off to Timbuktu.”

“Firstly, I'm shipping you off to Siberia. Totally different.” He gives me a look that would skin a cat. “Secondly, it's not going to be forever.”
Just until McKinley is better secured. Until I can wrap my mind around what I have to do to win this war, the leader I have to be, without constantly being distracted by your safety, hemorrhaging thoughts and time and concern.
I don't tell him any of this. He would just try to argue with me further.

He massages his temples. “You've had a long day. And an even more hellish month. Perhaps you shouldn't make important decisions on so few hours of sleep.”

“I'm not going to change my mind, Camus. You're going to Yakutsk. That's the end of it.”

Camus mutters something I don't catch, and clutches the comforter nearly hard enough to tear it. Finally, after another moment, he lets go and emerges from his slouch. His strong, upright posture would be more impressive if he weren't missing his shirt. Mostly he looks like a man kicked out of his apartment by an angry girlfriend.

“You want me to leave?” I expect him to be harsh, reproachful. Angry. But he delivers the following statement without heat or vitriol. The only indication of trauma is buried in the tormented glaze over his eyes. He spreads his hands. Rises to his feet. “Fine. Consider me gone.”

“Temporarily,” I correct.

He stiffens when I try to touch him, and I let my arm drop. “That may not be up to you,” he says.

This isn't how I imagined our night ending—apart from one another, so distant we can barely feel each other in the same room.
What am I doing?
A brief moment of panic claws at my stomach. But as soon as I ask myself that question, I already know the answer.

What is necessary.