Counterpart (3 page)

Oh, yeah. Good times.

“There will be worse days still,” Ulrich says, barreling through the line of people still waiting for the elevator. I mumble apologies in our wake, but as soon as I'm aboard, Ulrich punches the Close button, prohibiting anyone else from joining us.
Security measures,
he's told me before, but, really, I think Ulrich's just using my safety as an excuse to be antisocial. “Enjoy what you have done.”

I move to the right wall of the car, closest to the door. The handrail vibrates against my hip and the hand I fasten to it in a death grip. “Yeah. It's what I've done that concerns me.”

Due to traffic in the halls—and an incident involving a very aggressive hugger—I arrive late for my meeting with the North Korean delegation. The room reserved for the meeting is one of McKinley's nicer spaces, filled with halcyon light that makes the hardwood furniture glow. All the chairs have been perfectly arranged, the table has been polished, a red flower arrangement has been set out—and no one's there. Perfect.

I get on comms, connecting to McKinley's information desk, where someone should know what's going on. One of the newer secretaries answers—Roger or Roderick? I can't remember his name, but I don't have time to feel bad about it right now.

“Hi. This is Rhona Long. I was supposed to meet with the North Korean delegation in meeting room three, and no one's here. Has it been rescheduled or…?”

“Uh. Yes, Commander. Hold on.” I hear fingertips pecking at a screen. “There's a note here. It says the meeting venue has changed.”

“To?”

“Military level. Training complex D.”

Odd. That room's normally used for urban-warfare exercises. After what happened the last time I was mysteriously relocated to the military level for a meeting, I immediately think
trap.
“Are you sure?” I ask, trying to keep any fear from my voice.

“That's what it says, ma'am.”

“On whose authority was the venue changed?”

“Commander Forsyth. There's also a note here: the commander says not to worry, that the venue was changed so the delegation can review a few of McKinley's urban strategies, and Evelyn Meir hasn't been invited. Uh, does that name mean anything to you?”

Camus knows me too well.
I almost smile, or would, if the thought of trekking back down to Military wasn't filling me with dread. “Yeah, it rings a bell. Nice of Commander Forsyth to let me know
before
I booked it all the way up here.” I flatten my palm against my forehead and release a breath into the awkward silence. “Sorry…Roger?”

“Roderick, ma'am.”

Dang.
“Sorry, Roderick. This isn't your fault. Could you call ahead and let the delegation know I'm on my way? And have our translator apologize—profusely—for the delay.” First I lose my temper with Kozlov. Now I'm late to my first-impressions meeting with the Koreans. What's next? Tripping over my own feet during the treaty signing tomorrow?

Just to be on the safe side, I knock on the wooden table before leaving the room.

Ulrich, leaning against the wall next to the door, delivers another tight smile when I emerge. “That was quick,” he remarks, barely turning to look at me. I half expect him to start chortling. Who knew smacking a Russian was the trick to putting Ulrich in a good mood?

I catch him up as we head for the express elevator that will take us to the military level, four levels down. The express elevator is a direct line from Command to Military, allowing for quick transit between McKinley's two most important levels. It's reserved for Command staff only. Both Ulrich and I have to provide our handprints for authorization before the car will even agree to open its doors.

The express elevator cuts the time it'd take us to reach our destination significantly. We avoid all the foot traffic on the stairs, as well as the endless queues for regular service cars. On the downside, the car runs in a blind shaft. No doors on any of the levels between here and the military level. If the car malfunctions or loses power, we'll be trapped between levels for hours. Helplessly suspended thousands of feet in the air, pressed between walls of solid bedrock and steel.

My hand leaves a wet palm print behind on the scanner, and my wrists stiffen with tension. I clench my teeth, feeling the car give a little beneath Ulrich's weight as he follows me inside. God, I hate the express elevator.

As we begin our descent, Juneau swells in my mind like a balloon ready to burst. Three days of cold and darkness. The musty smell of metal on my hands. No escape. I can't do that again. I stand near the door, counting the seconds until it opens, bouncing on the balls of my feet.

…Eight, nine, ten…

My eyes stay glued to a small readout screen beneath the control console. A map of the base is lit in bright blue, surrounded by a vague outline of Denali. The illustration helps drive home just how deep we are beneath the surface. I watch our little animated car descend.

Around the dormitory level, the elevator shudders, and I suck in a sharp breath.

Ulrich clears his throat. I'm clutching his arm.

“Sorry.” I release him. “Nice muscle tone.”

“Danke.”

Fifteen, sixteen…

“Been working out?”

He turns to look at me slowly, suggesting I should stop talking. Probably a good idea. I babble when I'm anxious, and this elevator isn't helping my nerves. I need to pull myself together before walking into that meeting or the North Koreans are going to devour me. And here I used to think machines were all I had to fear. Someone should have warned me about politics.

I jump clear of the elevator as soon as the doors start to open and feel a blast of relief as soon as I'm in the large, open hangar. I'm taking the stairs from now on, late or not.

It used to be only McKinley personnel were allowed on the military level, and even then, it required the proper clearance and training. Now, half the people I bump into down here are strangers to me, newcomers to the base. Granting our allies limited access to McKinley resources is all part of the council's strategy (see also:
my
strategy) to lock down their commitment to the coalition. The potential for shared knowledge and technology is thrilling. Necessary, too, if we're going to have any hope of pushing back the machines. At the same time, something about the wave of new faces makes me uneasy. I don't yet know who I can trust—or who I shouldn't.

Within a few minutes, Ulrich and I reach our destination, and while he leans down to adjust the laces on his boots, I march past him, going through the door marked
D
.

I expect to be grilled by half a dozen impatient North Koreans the moment I walk in. Instead, I'm greeted by a scene straight out of the 1960s. Half the vehicles we use for cover or as obstacles during urban-combat training have been organized into two staggered rows. In front of the cars, an enormous tarpaulin has been stretched vertically between two metal frames like a giant sheet of tissue paper.

The lights dim as the door automatically slips closed behind me. I don't feel Ulrich at my back any longer, but I'm not alone either.

“I thought you could use a break.”

Camus comes alongside me in the dark. His accent's been blunted from years spent among Americans, but he hasn't changed much from the stuffy Brit I met all those years ago in Reading, dragged to the music festival by his friends. He still holds himself like a student being judged on an oral presentation, or an aristocrat stepping into a waltz.

I relax my back against his chest, releasing a breath I didn't realize I was holding. I feel silly for assuming the worst.
McKinley is safe,
I remind myself for the hundredth time.
And I'm safe here.
Throwing on a smile to hide my nerves, I finally turn toward Camus. “What are you up to? What is all this?”

“Watch and see,” he whispers in my ear.

He goes to a squat projector perched on top of a waist-high barricade. Strikes from experimental electromagnetic weapons and pulse grenades have left black veins in the concrete. A few large chunks are gone from the top of the wall, where a machine attempted to swipe at those taking cover behind the barricade.

“What about the North Koreans?”

“They sent a communication, about a week back,” Camus says, fiddling with the power cord. Geez, how old is this thing that it requires a cord? “Apparently, there's been some…bad weather over the Pacific. They decided to…postpone their trip. Ah, there we go.”

The projector hums to life, whirring violently for a few seconds until Camus repositions it on a flatter part of the barricade.

I relax my hand from the service weapon at my hip. I've always had a visceral reaction when it comes to the sound of the machines, but it's been downright Pavlovian since Churchill. I still have nightmares of predator models jerking toward me inside flashes of gunfire. Red optics at the end of every corridor and shiny metal carapaces emerging from a hard line of shadow, glinting like knives. Coming for me. Coming for Camus. Ulrich. Hanna. I can't keep them from hearing that dreadful
whirring
any more than I can protect them from the monsters that make the noise. But I have to try.

Camus comes back and takes my hand—a bold action that would have been unthinkable a year ago. He's unafraid to look at me, unlike when I first arrived at McKinley. Six months after I bled to death in his arms.

“Are you all right?” His green eyes are gentle, his tone careful. We're still learning each other, learning what it means to be
us
again.

I try to smile. “Just tired.”

“No wonder. You've been going nonstop.”

“You can say that again. It feels like I'm in a juggling act—except I don't know how to juggle, and the balls are actually grenades, and all the grenades are already missing their pins. And they're on fire.” I sag against Camus dramatically. “Save me from this horrible extreme juggling fate, Commander Forsyth.”

He laughs a little, getting that small crease at the top of his nose I love so much. I desperately want to kiss him then, and forget—just for a little while—all the things that can go wrong tomorrow. But I restrain myself for now. There are quite a few cars here with roomy backseats. Call me an optimist.

Camus clears his throat and recovers his posture. “I'll do what I can. Beginning now.”

He returns to the projector and removes its cap. A cone of colored light shoots toward the tarpaulin screen, illuminating a million dust motes in between. The picture isn't the greatest, crinkled in places by the plastic tarp, but I immediately recognize the film.
Moulin Rouge.

“Camus Forsyth.” A smile spreads slowly across my lips. “Is this a date?”

“I wanted to do something special for you,” he tells me quietly, almost as if he's embarrassed about it. Camus offers me his arm and leads me toward an old, beat-up Chevrolet Impala parked in the best spot, right in front of the screen. “I remembered how you used to love drive-in theaters. And this god-awful movie, for whatever reason.”

“Aww. Don't be jealous of Ewan. You know you're the only Brit for me.”

The Impala's front window is gone, and the passenger-side door is riddled with bullet holes, but the interior looks to be in good shape. Other than a few questionable stains.
Best not to think about it.

As we settle inside, Camus reaches forward to sweep away some pieces of glass from the dashboard.

“When did you have time to do all this?” I squint at him, then feel foolish. “And when did you get a haircut?” I finger his dark, shortened locks. Even slicked back, they still have a tendency to curl.

“A couple days ago,” he answers, the corners of his lips twitching. “You only just noticed?”

“Guess I'm more burnt-out than I thought.”

“But to answer your first question, I had some help.”

“Let me guess…

“Hanna,” we both say at the same time. Of course Hanna helped orchestrate this whole thing. She loves grand romantic gestures.

“Moore and Lefevre helped me move the cars.” Rankin Moore, Hanna's husband, and Orpheus Lefevre, one of my most trusted soldiers. Reliable sorts. They were both with Camus and me at Juneau.

“And Ulrich was in on this whole thing, too, I take it?” Camus nods. No wonder Ulrich was in such a good mood. He was helping to pull the wool over my eyes. “Hey! He made me walk all the way to Command and ride the express elevator down.”

“Shh. It's starting.”

Camus wraps his arm around my shoulders, unexpectedly, then glances at me with a guarded look, as if wondering if the contact's okay.

I smile back. It's more than okay. It's perfect.

As I rest against him, the tension loosens from my body all at once, like a snapped wire. My throat tightens; a sharp thorn grows in my sinuses. It's not just stress over the coalition that's gotten me all emotional, but the fact that we're here at all. Alive. Together.

We should both be dead.
I
should be dead.

I'm worried it could still happen. I'm worried I won't be able to save either of us, when it comes down to it. Camus lived for six months without me, and it nearly killed his soul. I can't imagine what I'd do in his place. Samuel's made it clear: there are no more clones, not of me, and certainly not of Camus. With so much of his research destroyed when Brooks went up in flames, including the local servers where copies of the previous Rhona's memories were stored, Samuel's convinced he won't be able to re-create the same results as before. No one's getting another shot at this.

I bury my hand inside Camus's jacket, flattening it against his chest, where I can feel his heart beating. Racing, a little. He looks down at me, the light from the screen creating movement on his face, color stretching and retracting over his cheekbones. This time, I do kiss him, letting the heat of his mouth cleanse me of all worries.

The movie finishes in what feels like a blink of the eye—partly because I sleep for the last third of it. As much as I love
Moulin Rouge,
I'm not too broken up about missing the end; that's when everything begins falling apart, anyway. I much prefer the first two acts, where it's all wacky dance numbers and longing looks across a piano.

The good news is I still have time to visit with the Chinese representatives on the dormitory level. And the
bad
news is…I still have time to visit with the Chinese on the dormitory level.