Counterpart (30 page)

I wish I had something to hold in my hands—so I could crush it, or tear it to pieces. “Samuel isn't the enemy here,” I say in a clear voice, “and neither am I, for that matter. Renee, you're looking in the wrong place for someone to blame. The machines are out there; that's where our focus should stay.”

“What happens in McKinley has the potential to affect the rest of the world,” Hawking replies. Before I can respond, she cuts her gaze to my left. “Commander Forsyth, you—perhaps more than anyone here—have been impacted by Doctor Lewis's mistakes. Now this new proposal recommends bringing more of these dangerous clones into the base. The council could benefit from your thoughts on the matter.”

Camus lays down his stylus, but keeps his hand folded over it protectively.

“What mistakes would those be, exactly?” he asks crisply. “The mistake of bringing the woman I love back to life? The same woman, I might add, who came to the rescue of Churchill base—after you and the rest of its leadership made the disastrous decision to answer a phony distress beacon? Or perhaps you mean his mistake of not informing the council, when we have always proven so compassionate and understanding in the past?”

I exchange a look with Samuel, who blinks back at me in surprise.

“Tell me, Renee, is it the idea of the clones' existence you have a problem with—or merely one in particular?”

“You didn't answer the question, Commander,” Hawking says. “This isn't about me.”

“Precisely. So quit politicking and agree to a solution, rather than creating more irrelevant debate. Rhona is right. We don't need to sit here crucifying our own. Doctor Lewis has done more in service to this base than half the people at this table—enough that any errors in judgment can and should be forgiven.” His green eyes shift to Samuel, who reacts as if physically touched. Something powerful passes between them—understanding a long time coming. “And as far as I'm concerned, have already been.”

“Touching,” Cordier remarks dryly, “but what's any of this have to do with Calgary? Long's plan wants our people to capture the clones; Hawking has us neutralizing them, period. Do we have a consensus one way or another?”

“Let's put it to a vote,” Albany suggests. He flips his head to get some hair out of his blinking eyes. “That's fair, right?”

“No,” I say. “No vote. I'm exercising my right as leader of this base to decide the matter. This is a rescue mission, not a hunt. Unless my fellow commander has other thoughts…”

“We're not assassins,” Camus agrees, and I think,
Finally.
Finally we're on the same page, on the same side again. It jolts my heart with fresh hope.

“However,” he goes on to say, and my heart plummets, “if we can't liberate the clones without taking casualties ourselves, if they won't come with us or cooperate…if there is no other recourse, I'm authorizing their destruction.”

You can't do that!
I want to shout at him.

But the truth is, he can. And his decree isn't unreasonable. I won't have anyone else die for Samuel's pride, or mine. Still, I take some issue with his phrasing. Destruction. Like they're no more than machines themselves.

“Fine,” I grunt. “I accept the use of lethal force—but
only
if there's no other option.”

Hawking rubs her forehead, the points of her nails creating tiny grooves in her black skin, while her lips dip into a frown. “We're all ignoring the larger issue. In a best-case scenario, what happens when we bring clones back to the base? How long do you think we could keep that a secret? Once it came out, it would put you, Commander Long—as well as McKinley, its leadership—under extreme scrutiny by our foreign allies. Allies we desperately need. Are you willing to take that risk? Jeopardize everything we've worked for, simply for your own vanity?”

“My own vanity?”

“If not yours, certainly your friend's.” She accuses Samuel with another look.

I nod my head like a damn seal performing at a circus, still somewhat baffled by this leap in logic. “Okay. I'll bite. How do you figure?”

“If these clones were anyone else, anytime else, they'd be considered enemies of the state, and there can be no room for uncertainty or hesitation where traitors are concerned. The fact that you and Lewis—and, to some extent, Commander Forsyth—are all desperate to protect these clones shows an enormous absence of critical thought, and an alarming trend toward prioritizing personal concerns over those of our species as a whole.

“In a word, Commander, vanity. You want to save them because they're like
you.
”

She's not entirely wrong. I am invested in the fate of the clones because of who they are. But these are special circumstances, unprecedented in the history of mankind. I think that gives me a little leeway to be emotional. To care. I've bottled everything else up, shelved my relationship with Camus—I deserve to be in charge of this, at least.

“So?” I answer after a long pause, slouching awkwardly in my throne. “I'm only human, Councilwoman, and I'm tired of having to pretend otherwise. I want to save them because they're human lives, they're still
people,
and they deserve as much of a chance at life as I got. If that makes me selfish, then I'm selfish.”

“It's certainly better than the alternative,” Camus adds quietly, turning coolly toward Hawking. “Being a heartless machine.”

“I don't appreciate the implication, Commander,” Hawking retorts.

Cordier drops his head back against the top of his seat, hard enough to issue an audible crack. “Can we please skip the veiled-insults portion of the meeting?”

“This is all moot unless we reach the clones,” Kapoor says, attempting to get us back on track. “So let's focus on doing that, yeah?”

I must have a dozen more things I could say—including a request that would undoubtedly meet harsh opposition across the table. In the end, I decide to bite my tongue and keep my mouth shut. We can solve the particulars of my accompanying the away team later, in one of the many meetings we'll no doubt hold between now and then. Besides, it's probably not the best request to open with, especially now that Camus is back. I want to prove—if not to him or the council, then to myself—that I've improved my wily, impulsive ways. That I'm the leader they need, not just the one they're stuck with. And that sacrificing my happiness, and being with the man I love, on the altar of my own pragmatism was the right decision. I definitely intend to give it some more thought.

The council sorts out the final details of the mission, including overruling my (somewhat facetious) suggestion of Captain Paszek for team leader in favor of Orpheus Lefevre. I genuinely believe Paszek would be a better choice, but she isn't exactly in the loop as far as these mission parameters go. Telling her about the clones would be letting the cat out of the bag, even if we had assurances it wouldn't get back to the New Soviet leadership. I know it's a pointless recommendation. I do it out of spite—one last poke at the beast.

The meeting concludes shortly after.

As soon as I exit the War Room, Samuel comes up behind me, looking like he's just run a 5K. His short bangs are matted to his forehead by sweat. “You implied things would get hairy in there,” he says, pushing aside his hair, “but it wasn't any worse than usual.”

I scrunch my nose. “It was a little worse.”

“But not because of anything you did or said.” Samuel eases the tense line of his mouth into an almost-smile. “Here I thought you'd be proposing something more…radical.”

“After all that talk about my vanity, it didn't seem like a good idea. Anyway, I have a new plan.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” I'm distracted by Camus, who appears to have just finished his conversation with Peter Albany—evidenced by an exchange of civil nods—and is heading straight toward us. It's still jarring to see him after all this time, like a dream stepping into reality. I wipe my clammy palms on the sides of my pants, and resist the urge to pat my hair into place.

Samuel leans into my view. “Which is…?”

Camus intercepts us before I can answer Samuel. I'm glad for it, though, because I don't actually have a new plan. Just some old instincts telling me to leap before I look.
And we all know how great that turns out…

“Rhona, a word?” Camus asks, not bothering to come to a complete stop. I get the feeling he's trying to appear busier than he actually is. “When you have a free moment.”

I catch his arm before he can stalk off. He looks down at my hand; I quickly release him.

“I'm free now.” I hate how eager I sound.
So much for playing it cool.
I turn to Samuel. “I'll catch up to you later?”

Samuel nods, although he casts an uneasy look at Camus. “Glad your trip was a success,” he tells him. “More or less.”

Camus replies with a stiff smile. “Thank you.”

“All right,” I say once Samuel's left. “What is it?”

Camus moves his gaze away from my eyes, hovering just above my right shoulder. I look behind me without subtlety, noting the slow exodus of Hawking, Kapoor, and a few others. Although they're speaking to one another, talking about some of McKinley's other issues—a sewage leak on the military level, air-recycling malfunctions, our worsening antibiotic shortage—it's clear they're also watching us.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.

“Not here,” Camus says in a whisper. “This is a conversation best reserved for private.”

The thought of being alone again with Camus floods my insides with fire. Any hope that our time apart would diminish my feelings and allow me to be more levelheaded, calm, and rational, drowns quickly in all my girlish excitement. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, all things considered. Death couldn't alter the powerful way I feel about him. I don't know why I thought a few months would.

“All right,” I agree.

“Walk with me.” It's not a question. I almost expect him to hold out his hand or his arm, but he does neither, and although I know I have no right to it, I still feel a tiny pebble of disappointment skip across my heart.

I match his unhurried pace, heading away from the War Room and its prying eyes.

“It was nice,” I say, pumping words into the uneasy silence. “What you said in there about Samuel. Did you mean it?”

“Yes,” Camus answers, without hesitation. “There's plenty of blame to go around for the way things have turned out. If he deserves to hang, so do we all. Anyway, it's in the past, where it belongs.”

“Look at you. All forgiveness and moving forward.” I can't help giving him a small, teasing smile. “Who are you and what did you do with Camus?”

“It's not the only revelation I've arrived at recently.”

“Oh?”

“Consider this,” he says, drawing closer. He keeps his voice low, even though we're out of earshot of anyone else who might care. “If the Russians come on board, if we ratify a treaty that solidifies at least one corner of your coalition, we can lay the foundation for a new, centralized government. What do you think will happen then?”

“A lot more bureaucracy, I'm sure. Little signs posted around McKinley in Russian.
This vay to sleeping quarters, comrade.
” I salute theatrically.

“Cute,” he replies with an almost-smile. “Yes, there will likely be more bureaucracy than before—but also liberation.”

He pauses as we pass the door to his old quarters, glancing sidelong at it. The room wasn't badly damaged by the blast, but I made sure maintenance checked its infrastructure and cleaned up any broken pieces. Now that Camus has returned, I wonder if he'll move back into it.
Without me.
The thought drops a lump into my throat. Swallowing this new reality, where he and I live apart, is like trying to digest dirt.
Have I made a mistake?

“You'll no longer be the only one in charge,” Camus continues. “Others will come along to help ease the weight you're under.”

I frown. “I think I'm managing all right, thanks.”

Camus rubs the back of his neck. I track the movement with my eyes, resisting the urge to reach out and touch him.
Good grief. What am I, a horny teenager?
“That wasn't commentary on your leadership skills, or what you've created here. Your ability to endure what would kill most people is impressive, no doubt, but it shouldn't be necessary. You shouldn't have to wage war on a daily basis just to survive.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Is this what you wanted to talk about?”

He stops walking, turning toward me. “How long are you going to continue with this, Rhona?”

“What?”

“This act. This ungodly determination to shut me, and everyone else, out.”

“I'm doing what I have to for this base. For the cause of humanity.”

“Please.” Camus holds up a hand, not bothering to disguise his anger for the first time since our temporary/maybe-not-so-temporary separation. “Spare me the company line. You made it very clear where your priorities lie. I thought—I'd
hoped
…” He clenches his jaw and resets his posture by studying the wall. “You're digging in, when you should be more concerned about how to dig your way
out.
”

“I'm running a resistance, Camus, not building trenches.”

“That's exactly what I'm talking about. A resistance only lasts as long as there is something to resist. Things won't continue like this forever—or isn't that the point? When the machines are gone and humanity has risen from the proverbial ashes, Denali will become just another place to visit on a map.”

“I can't think that far ahead,” I say, walking away. I feel better when I'm moving.

“No?” Camus catches up to me quickly, cornering me against the wall of people near the elevators. Most are back in service now, but you wouldn't know it based on the amount of foot traffic. Every time I turn around, it seems like the Soviets have transferred more of their people into McKinley. On any other level, I'd be more surprised to hear English than I would Russian, Polish, or Slovakian. “You seemed more than capable of living in the future two months ago when I recommended focusing on the present. On us.”

Touché.
I can't defend against that statement, so I reach for the next easiest excuse. “Other people need me, Camus.”

“Other people. Of course.”

“I'm not just McKinley's commander. I'm an icon, remember? The face the world watches.” I say the latter phrase with exaggerated gravitas.

Camus shakes his head. “Again with the company lines. You are a symbol, yes. But even symbols wear out. Flags tatter and anthems are forgotten. The day is fast approaching when the world won't need its standard-bearer anymore.”

“When it won't need
me
, is what you're saying.”

“Yes. That anonymous body of fear and desire out there, the people you're so eager to sacrifice yourself to, might need you now—but I'm the one who wants you,” he says softly. “Just you, the woman, not the icon. Regardless of what's happened, and regardless of what might happen.” He lifts a strand of red hair from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear. I almost sigh. “Don't let yourself be devoured by your own reputation before we reach the end. That's all I ask.”

I'd like to be offended, but I know he's right. I'd be lying to myself if I said I didn't feel carnivorous fame making an effort to swallow me, every minute of every day, especially lately. I thought I knew who I was, what it means to wear the body of Rhona Long as well as the name, but lately it's like I'm seeing myself from the outside. Reviewing every thought in my head before I speak, watching my every action through a stranger's eyes. Not just any stranger. Someone hateful, ready to pounce and shred me to pieces.

When did I become more afraid of opinions than machines?

When did I decide to settle into the role of martyr instead of champion?

I force a smile despite feeling like someone's just poured ice water down my back. “Don't worry,” I tell Camus, “I'm not that self-sacrificing, even on my best day. I know where to draw the line.”

“Do you? It's easy to drown when you don't even realize you're standing in water.”

“Wow. Siberia must've given you a lot of time to think. You're killing it with the metaphors tonight…”

“More jokes,” Camus says, but he doesn't smile.

“Wait. Is this why you're pushing so hard for integration with the New Soviets?” I maneuver into Camus's line of sight, though I'm still not at eye level with him. The giant. “Because you assume I'll hand over the keys to the castle and happily wash my hands of command the first chance I get?”

“No, I—” Our argument is beginning to draw attention, and I can tell Camus is not eager to have us become the talk of the base again. He raises a finger in the universal gesture of
Hold that thought
.

Backtracking, he inputs the password to his quarters, then waits for me on the threshold. As much as I want to delay another fight, I think he was right before. This is something we need to hash out in private. I drag my feet a little, but enter ahead of him.

The lights spring to life, reminding me of a museum exhibit.

Everything is the same in his room, with the exception of the bedding (which I may or may not have stolen for my own refurbished quarters). Without a comforter, his bed appears barren as a winter road: the white sheets tanned by the light, stretched taut across the mattress like skin over a fist. Even the pillows have been stripped of their burgundy covers, revealing a pattern of vertical blue stripes and several drool stains.

I turn, preparing myself for round two or whatever round this is—then jerk to a stop. Camus is standing so close I'd barely have to move to brush against him. His green eyes are dark and patient, crowned by lashes that almost look brawny in direct light.

God. He is not making this easy.

I'm expecting him to say something, defend himself or attack my behavior, but instead he makes a beeline toward the dresser by the bed. For once I don't fill the silence with banal chatter. Instead, I simply watch him. He opens three drawers before finding the right one, withdraws a pair of dark soft-shell jackets, and shakes them both out. One is clearly mine, based on the size and ladies' cut. I must have missed it when I relocated the rest of my wardrobe.

He starts toward me, then remembers something and doubles back to the dresser. As he roots around in a different drawer, I finally have to ask. “What are you doing?”

“I can't remember where I put my gloves. Everything's been shuffled around…”

Whoops.
Guess I wasn't as neat and tidy as I thought.
Count on Camus to recall the exact layout of his dresser contents. “I thought we were here to have a conversation,” I say, flopping down on the edge of the bed. I pick at the beds of my nails, though not in an attempt to appear casual. The suspense is making me anxious.

Camus shuts the drawer. I think I see him slip something into his pocket, but since he doesn't draw attention to it, neither do I. He turns and holds out the jacket. “Put this on. There's something I'd like to show you.”

“And this something is somewhere cold, I take it?”

“Possibly.”

I pucker my lips. “I'm not a big fan of surprises these days…”

When Camus doesn't drop the jacket into my hands, I realize he's offering to help me into it. This isn't a fancy ermine coat, nor are we going to attend dinner at a five-star restaurant, but the gesture strikes me as romantic all the same. Despite my better judgment, I oblige him, sliding one arm into a sleeve, then the other. His hands linger on my shoulders for a moment, and I feel the weight of his presence, his longing, like a boulder.

“I won't ask you if you still love me,” he says quietly as I'm zipping myself up, causing me to nearly catch my finger in the zipper's teeth, “mostly because I don't think I could bear to know the answer right now. But do you trust me?”

I turn and face him. “Lead the way.”

Our trip takes about ten minutes, ending in one of McKinley's less utilized hangars, several miles out from the base of the mountain. In a stroke of irony, this hangar is the same one I tried to flee toward with Zelda and Ulrich during the Russian's phony attack. Although I have no trouble walking, I'm secretly glad when Camus insists on taking one of the base's golf carts to navigate the underground passage leading to the hangar, since it means less time spent in uncomfortable silence.

With everything that's happened, security has been increased even in this unfrequented area, and both Camus and I have to show our security clearance to gain access. The guard is kind enough to look embarrassed when he asks us for identification; a blush crawls down his neck as he gestures for us to apply our hands to the portable scanner before allowing us through the gate. In addition to a heavy titanium door, we have to pass through a newly installed digital portcullis, formed by lasers, intended to alert McKinley to any invading machines while also slowing their advance by frying their systems. I'm not sure what the lasers would do to a human brain, and I don't want to find out.