Counterpart (4 page)

Camus offers to accompany me, though he insists we take the elevator instead of the stairs. He won't admit it, but I think his old injuries are bothering him again, the gunshot wounds that almost killed him in Juneau. I noticed him favoring his left side when I straddled him in the Impala, wincing a little at my urgency, and now he keeps rubbing his chest whenever he thinks I'm not looking.

“I didn't hurt you, did I?” I'm only half teasing. Since getting back to McKinley, we've tried to be gentle with one another, physically and emotionally, which has largely meant no sex. Of course, that doesn't exclude other fun activities—we've gotten creative learning each other's bodies again, especially mine. Still, the last thing I want is for one of our make-out sessions to end in stitches. Not only would I feel terrible about it, but it'd be pretty embarrassing trying to explain what happened to Matt down in Medical.

“Hardly,” he replies, but I can't tell whether he's telling the truth or not. In public, Camus is sometimes another person entirely. Cool, rational. Untouchable. So much so that some have taken to calling him the Iron Lord behind his back. Somehow, they make it sound less than complimentary.

“You really should let Matt take a look at you,” I suggest. “Make sure everything's still healing properly.”

“I'm fine. Truly,” he adds at my skeptical look. “You don't have to worry about me.”

I link arms with him, snuggling close as we hit the back of the queue for the elevators. “Maybe I like worrying about you.”

“I wish you'd spend more time worrying about you.” His gaze is troubled. I feel his hand tighten on mine. He won't speak openly about his fears, either, but he doesn't have to. I hear them when he sleeps, tossing and turning, crying softly,
“Rhona, Rhona, no,”
even when I'm right there beside him. Calming only when I wrap my arms around him and press my face to his shaking back, whispering the words he needs to hear.
“I'm here, Camus, I'm still here.”

“How's this? I'll make you a deal. I won't die if you don't.”

“That's not funny.”

“I don't know what else you want me to say. I don't know what I can do to convince you I'm safe.”

He sighs. “It's not about convincing me of anything. I just want you to know the resistance doesn't own you. You don't owe the world anything more than you've already given.”

“I know that,” I say, though there's a difference between knowing something in your head and knowing it in your heart. I'm afraid, in this case, it's the former rather than the latter. “I'm not interested in becoming a martyr, Camus.” At least that one's true.

Camus nods stiffly. “I—”

“LONG!”

Both Camus and I turn at the sound of someone hollering my name from down the hall.

A powerfully built black woman is headed our way, pushing past people like they're slalom gates and she doesn't care about losing time. Her dreads have been wrangled into a bun at the back of her head, making her angular features even more dramatic. She wouldn't have looked out of place on the wall of an Egyptian temple.
Coming right ahead of a plague, maybe.

“You and I need to talk,” Zelda says to me, even before she's reached conversational distance. Her eyes dart quickly to my companion. “Camus.”

“Zelda,” Camus says.

“Actually, Zelda, I was just heading to—”

She doesn't let me finish. “Don't care. Now!”

I look at Camus. “Why don't you go on ahead? The Chinese seem to like you better anyway.” Zelda snorts. I can't tell whether it's a sound of amusement or disapproval. “I'll meet you in a few.”

“Are you sure?” He cuts his gaze toward Zelda.

Zelda crosses her arms.
Tick tock,
her expression seems to say.

“Yeah,” I answer. “It'll be fine.” Probably.

Camus boards one of the elevators and Zelda drags me out of the line and into a small alcove nearby that looks like it used to house some kind of circuit breaker. The elevator lobby is large enough that we can speak with some privacy, as long as we stay inside the alcove, where we're partially concealed by the large leaves of a fake philodendron.
Hey, when did we get that?
The phony plant stands in a wicker basket, and it has Hanna written all over it. No one's tried to make McKinley feel more homey and normal than Hanna.

“All right. What fire needs putting out now?” I ask Zelda.

“First, you give the Chinese and Russians unfiltered access to the military level—”

“It's not
unfiltered
—”

“They've been all inside my machines!” Zelda says. “That feels pretty damn unfiltered to me.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. This feels like it's going to be a long conversation. “For starters, they're not
your
machines.” I talk louder over Zelda's objections. “They're property of McKinley base, and as such, we can do whatever we feel like with them. More importantly, we need an outside perspective on their programming. Who knows if the evolution of the machines is the same globally, or if the higher echelon operate them differently based on environment? If there is even the slightest chance that the Chinese can spot a flaw in the kind we deal with, don't you think that's worth the risk of them screwing something up?”

“You think I wouldn't have discovered a flaw by now, if one exists? I helped program the damn things in the first place!”

Nearby, a couple of soldiers in outdated Taiwanese uniforms turn, eying us suspiciously.

“Maybe keep your voice down when you decide to claim credit for creating our unfriendly robot overlords, huh?” I smile at the eavesdroppers, and eventually they shuffle forward in line.

“Like I was the only one.” She snorts. “At least I'm willing to own up to it.”

“Is that all?”

On the elevator to the far right, a feminine-looking Korean man is standing too close to the sensor, eyes down on a tablet, totally oblivious to the doors trying and failing to close behind him.

“One more thing,” Zelda says, “Your supreme worship could've at least given me a heads-up before letting the Chinese bring their own machines into the base.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah. There's like a dozen of them in the training rooms. Few in my workshop. They've been showing up all week.” Zelda frowns. “You're saying you know nothing about that?”

Even distracted by the situation over at the elevator—some Chinese nationals are trying to get the man to move, but the latter's not getting it, partly because of the language barrier—a queasy feeling fills my stomach, like I've just swallowed eight ounces of castor oil.

Maybe Zelda's right. Maybe the Chinese brought their own machines for testing, or the Russians did, or the French-Canadians. Maybe the council approved it without consulting me. Maybe there's nothing to be concerned about, but I'm not in the business of ignoring my instincts.

“Get on comms. We need to lock down Military,” I tell Zelda, leading her from the alcove, and turning toward the elevators. “Right—”

The whole lobby shakes. Plaster drops from the ceiling in a tsunami of chunks and dust. The wall to my left balloons and bursts open like a pustule, belching smoke.

At the same time, there's a sound like an oncoming freight train. Metal screaming.

People
screaming.

The elevator car sways moments before an enormous fireball bursts forth, blowing the doors to both shafts—including the one finally beginning to close—entirely from the wall. One door flies right past me, slamming a woman into the wall behind her. The other takes off a man's arm like a commercial paper cutter.

I barely have time to shield myself with my arms before the inferno hits, engulfing me in flames. My ears burst, silencing the roaring wall of heat and debris. I'm unexpectedly airborne, but only for a few seconds before my head bounces off something hard. Then, darkness.

My eyelids stick when I try opening my eyes, glued by a stream of blood flowing from my forehead. I feel for the wound with shaking fingers; it's close to my hairline, but I can't tell how bad it is. When I pull my hand back, it looks like I've been picking blackberries. I resist the insane urge to suck the red from my fingers.

Get up,
I think, almost saying the words aloud to motivate myself. I manage to get my hands and knees beneath me, then push. My skeleton feels loose, as though it's sliding around inside me, my bones little more than gelatin. It hurts to breathe.

Up, dammit.
I finally struggle onto my feet, but lift my head too suddenly. A wave of nausea bends me over. I clutch my knees and vomit bile speckled with blood.
Oh, delightful.
After it's over, my throat stings like I've gargled salt water. Probably a good thing I didn't take Camus up on his offer of breakfast this morning.

Camus.

Oh, God. Camus was just in the elevator!

The realization pushes through me like a hot blade, cramping my stomach. My gorge rises again, but I have nothing left inside me to expel.

I circle in place—a spinning compass, trying to think, trying to get my bearings.

Around me, death. Disfigurement. Exposed bones and barbecued flesh. The smell pushes into my nostrils. I catalog the horror almost clinically—I don't know how else to process it. The explosion chewed through the lobby in a matter of seconds, replacing people with bodies. Estranged limbs. Bloody, lifeless fat.

I keep my eyes from the elevator.

I don't want to see what happened to the people inside the car. The Korean man preoccupied with his tablet. The visiting Chinese soldiers who just wanted to get where they were going. They died inconvenienced—though maybe, in the end, that was a blessing. Death would have been the furthest thing from their minds.

Think
,
Rhona. What's happened?

A bomb. Must be.

Okay, so what are you going to do about it?

Something. Can't stay here.

Where should I go? Who do I help first? What am I supposed to do?

I don't have answers to those last questions, and it's nearly impossible to concentrate with the nest of hornets buzzing in my ears, anyway.
The only way out is through.

As I begin shambling forward, my foot connects with something solid. Someone.

Zelda.
She's on her back, eyes closed, not moving. I wipe the blood from my eyes, but I still can't discern whether or not she's breathing. If she is, it's very shallow.

I move to my knees, ignoring the bolt of pain that shoots through my spine; I worry I've pinched a nerve in my back, but it'll have to wait, regardless. I search Zelda's sooty neck for a pulse. As I do so, her eyes flick frantically beneath her eyelids, and she lets out a moan. Followed shortly by a choice four-letter word.

“Atta girl. Come on, Zelda. Help me out here.” I insert myself beneath one of her arms—the one that doesn't appear dislocated from her shoulder. She cries out in pain, but doesn't fight me. Thank God.

“Long?” She slouches against my shoulder. “—the hell happened?”

“Bomb. I think.” I grit my teeth. It's an effort getting us both upright. “How bad are you hurt?”

She's silent, her eyes taking in the room.

“Zelda?”

“I'll survive,” she says quietly. “You?”

“I think I'm okay, for the most part. Hard to tell with all the adrenaline.”

“The machines did this.” Her voice shakes with anger. “They're inside the base. They did this, those
fuckers.
Ahh.” I help her snap her arm back into place, just like her brother once did for me. She grimaces as I lean her against the wall, next to one of the philodendron plants whose fake leaves have turned partly to ash. It reeks of burnt plastic. Better than many of the other odors filling the lobby. “What are you doing?”

“I need to check for other survivors.” In truth, I want to get the hell out of here, find Camus—if he's still alive. But I can't simply abandon those here.

“Long, the machines are still in the base,” Zelda says, slipping along the wall, trying to follow me as I hunt for signs of life. “We need to get to Command. We need to get armed. Stop wasting time. They're dead.”

“No,” I say, fumbling with a woman's sleeve to get at her pulse. The side of her face is raw and pulpy, like meat that went through a grinder. She's wearing a nice watch, though it's an hour off. I'm surprised the blast didn't stop it altogether. “I think this woman's alive.”

“Leave her. We're dead if we stay.”

Someone moans from nearby. They're quickly joined by others, the sounds of restless, sloppy movement, people stirring awake. Soon, the screaming will start up again. And their screams will bring the machines, if the metal monsters aren't already on their way to finish the job. Zelda's right. Dammit.

“They need help.” I feel stupid even saying it. Obviously these people need help. I'm stalling, hoping for an epiphany. Hoping I can think myself out of this tiny, burning box. “We leave them, and—”

Zelda pushes herself off the wall, limps over to me. Her hand clutches my arm almost tight enough to cut off the circulation. “They're already dead. Most of those wounds aren't survivable.” She's lowered her voice, and it's almost a growl. “Much as I hate to say it, you're important, Long. This resistance—whatever it is, whatever it could become—needs you more than it needs them. That's a fact. So move it. I'm not sticking around here waiting to get executed by machines just to satisfy your moral vanity. Fucking
move.
”

I slip beneath her arm again, trying to ignore the rising swell of frenzied voices. The hands pawing at my leg, some missing fingers.
Don't look down. Don't look back.
Until that moment, I never realized how much easier it was to die for a cause than to live for one.

Someone calls my name, and though I don't see them, all I can imagine is that Russian soldier from the hallway. Her and all the others who reached out to me, who stared at me like I was their savior. I'm not a savior now. I feel somewhat like a coward, ashamed of the kernel of relief in my heart as Zelda and I leave the gruesome scene.
Don't look back.

The stairwell is crowded with smoke and blackened faces. People flee in both directions, coughing into their arms. They scrape past Zelda and me, their eyes panic-stricken as they push us out of the way. A pair of men coming down pause long enough to share news of a blockage near level three, Biology, where a different elevator has apparently punched through its shaft into the stairwell. They suggest heading down, out of the path of rising smoke and away from the flames. My instincts concur.

But Camus was on that elevator.

I grab one of the men's arms, jerking him back. “Were there any survivors?”

“Commander Long.” He blinks a couple times, rubs his eyes. “I—what survivors?”

“On the elevator. Were there any survivors in the elevator that crashed into the stairwell?”

I hold a hand to my ear, as if that will stop the persistent buzzing. Between that and the chaos of a base in distress, I barely make out what he's saying. Frightened McKinlians pound the stairs in a rhythm matching my racing pulse. Fire crackles from somewhere higher up, unseen through all the smoke. The air inside the stairwell feels like the exhaust from a car's tailpipe. For some reason, the sprinkler system hasn't kicked on to battle the flames. Either the blast knocked out some important pipes, or it was sabotaged. Either way, the fire is eating up all the oxygen. Breathing underwater would be easier than gulping down this superheated air.

“What?” I missed the man's answer.

“I don't know!” he repeats, leaning in to shout. “What are your orders, ma'am? Ma'am?”

“Get to the local armory.” The words tumble out of me, almost as if delivered by a different person. I don't recognize the sound of my own voice. My mind is a blur of thoughts. Bloody images I know won't be leaving me anytime soon. “Arm the Russians, the Chinese. Anyone who can hold a gun. Spread the word: the machines have infiltrated the base. Do you hear what I'm saying?” He nods stupidly. “They're on the military level; we need to keep them there.”

His mouth hangs open. “Dear God.”

“Don't just stand there,” Zelda snaps. “You heard the commander. Get to it.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He salutes awkwardly. I'm not sure he's even a soldier.
Well, today he's going to have to be.

As soon as he leaves, my confidence deflates. “I hope I didn't just send that man to his death.”

“Feel bad about it later,” Zelda says. “For now, maybe tell me why the hell we're going up instead of down?” She coughs into her shoulder. “You heard them. The way's blocked.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” I move us to the edge of the stairwell, giving Zelda a moment to rest her injured leg. A plunging abyss lies on the other side of the handrail. “Look, I'm heading up. If you want to go down, I'm sure I can find someone to help get you to Medical—”

“And leave you to get yourself killed?” She snorts. “Not likely.”

I almost smile, watching her straighten on her own. Woman must have a pain tolerance that'd put a birthing mother to shame. Sweat makes her face shine like ebony glass. “You got an extra gun?” she asks me.

“No. Just the one.”

Zelda turns around, searching a moment. I watch her eyes alight on an empty fire-extinguisher shelf. Beside it, there's a glass case with a fire ax inside, and the words
In case of emergency, break glass
written in an urgent, red font. She limps over and slams her elbow into the glass, happily following instructions.

Ax in hand, she gives me an expectant look. “Well?”

She drops her arm over my shoulders, and I wrap one of mine around her waist, helping her carry her own weight. We begin our ascent.

“Hey.” Zelda winces at every step, like we're climbing a mountain of nails. “Think Ulrich made it?”

In truth, I hadn't given Ulrich any thought, though I wish the German were here now. Last time I saw him was on the military level, but it's been hours. He probably wandered off to Entertainment in the meantime. They were supposed to be showing some spaghetti Western this afternoon. Ulrich loves a good Western. For a week after watching
Tombstone,
he answered all my requests with the phrase “I'm your huckleberry.”

“I'm sure he's fine,” I tell Zelda, not at all sure.

She adjusts and readjusts her grip on the handle of the ax. Its blade twists back and forth.

I lift my mouth up from my sleeve. “Ulrich's tough.”

“Camus, too,” she replies without looking at me.

I appreciate her effort to reassure me, but don't tell her so. The smoke's only growing denser, making it impossible to breathe, let alone talk. The air-filtration system must be operational, or the fire would've gone out due to lack of oxygen. On the one hand, that's a good thing, or we'd all be dead. On the other, the longer the flames burn, the more damage they'll cause. If we can get to Command, we might be able to cordon off sections of the base, suffocate the fire. There'd still be a risk of casualties, but I can't think of a better way to fight the fire, not with the sprinkler system unresponsive.

A dark blur shoots past me on the right. Then another. At first I think it's just debris falling from the higher levels, junk ejected from the epicenter of the blast.

Then I hear Zelda curse. “They're jumping.”

I turn in time to watch a body go hurtling by.

Oh my God.

Two more bodies follow—a man and a woman, I think—emerging from the black plumes of smoke in a streak of light, their backs trailing flames. If they're screaming, I can't hear them over the groaning infrastructure and the conflagration.

“No,” I hear myself say, as if that will stop the terrifying holocaust. “No, no, no.”

They must be trapped. It's the only explanation for why they would choose leaping to their deaths over…anything else. Fight or flight.

While I'm unable to look away from the well, my foot catches on a step and I eat it, dragging Zelda down with me. For once, she doesn't snap at me, doesn't mock my clumsiness. She's utterly silent. There are no words for what we're seeing. Instead I feel her thumbs dig into my armpits as she helps me back onto my feet. I nod to her in gratitude.

It isn't long until we reach the crashed elevator. A few scattered bodies mark the place of impact, but more than that, I swear I can hear
banging
from the other side. Not inside—the doors are open, displaying an empty car, thank God—but higher up the stairs. People stuck on the other side. Yelling. Clawing at the steel.

Why don't they just keep climbing up? Unless there's a partial obstruction there, too. Then it hits me. Back on Military, the wall exploded before the elevator spat flames. Two bombs, not one. I don't know why it didn't occur to me sooner. This was a coordinated attack. The machines
planned
this. All of it.

We are so screwed.