Counterpart (6 page)

Now.

Another swing. The blade slips against the metal this time.

Now.

“You're going to get us all killed—”

Now.

It's useless, but I can't stop flailing at the car. I have to get through. If I don't…

If I
fail
…

“For fuck's sake, Long!”

A hand grabs my shoulder. I spin around, prepared to give its owner a piece of my mind, but Zelda's expression runs me through. Her face brings to mind a forest ripped apart by fire, her cheeks smeared with ash and grief. She glances down at Hanna, whose arms hang limp as a doll's, her feet dragging on the ground.

“She's the priority,” Zelda says. Her teeth look yellow in the grimy light, but they're still easier to look at than her hard, devastated eyes.

I glance back at the elevator. Listen for noise on the other side.

Nothing.

No coughing. Not even a rasp.

Even as Zelda and I descend the stairwell with Hanna strung limply between us, people are going up. Shoulders grind against me, legs threatening to tangle with mine and Zelda's. If we trip, we'll be trampled. If we stop, even for a moment, there's a good chance we'll be carried backward by the force of so many bodies, trapped in the stream of panicked people searching for a way outside.

Animal instinct. I hear it, too. A harsh drumbeat in the background of my thoughts, pounding lustily as a heart.
Get away,
it orders.
Get away from the flames get above the smoke get away get away get away—

They have no way of knowing that direction leads only to death.

Someone needs to tell them,
I think. Give them instructions—what to do, where to go. And just as I finish the thought, I know that someone has to be me. Rankin said a bomb went off on Command, too. For all I know, the rest of the council is dead and I'm the only one left. The only one with any real authority. People will listen to me.

I open my mouth to shout a warning to those passing by us, but the smoke's wrecked my voice. Even trying to wheeze out a few syllables—
Wait, no, down, go DOWN
—makes me feel like I'm drowning, my lungs packed with brackish water. I can't catch my breath. Coughing harder into my arm, I reach a hand out to stop a woman with short brown hair; she slaps it away. Her terrified gaze travels straight through me. I'm just another obstacle in her fight for survival.

So much for that idea. I'd need a damn megaphone to punch through all this chaos.

Huh. There's a thought.

As soon as we reach Medical, we're welcomed by a gust of clean air—or clean
er
air. The faint, acrid odor of hot metal, sweat, and smoke invade even this level, delivered along with the many bodies currently flocking through its open doors. Adrenaline makes the scene feel a little unreal, like I've accidentally stepped onto a movie set. Part of my brain refuses to acknowledge that this is happening, this is
actually happening,
and Rankin…

I pass Hanna off to Zelda, urging my friend's body gently into the other woman's arms. “Get her to a doctor,” I order, trying not to hack up the rest of my lungs. “Ask for Matsuki Shigeru.”

“Water?” A man cuts in between us, his arms laden with bottles of water.

“Yes, thank you,” I say, my throat feeling more than ever like a desert. I'm touched by the thoughtfulness. He's not the only one reaching out, either. There are others going around with water and bandages, trying to help the influx of victims.

Zelda snatches a water bottle without thanks, uncaps it, and throws it back like a shot. “And where do you think you're going?” she rasps, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. I expect her expression to be fierce or irritated—typical Zelda attitude—but instead she looks a little afraid. Her eyes scan the crowd around us, searching all the faces stained with soot and dust and blood. I know she's looking for her brother or Ulrich.

“Other people need—” the man begins to answer.

“Not you,” she snaps, then adds more gently, “but thanks. For this.” She wags the water bottle in his face. He nods and departs, drawn back into the orbit of the wounded and thirsty. Zelda swings her gaze to me, though it lacks her usual intensity. She seems drained, her face ashen with pain.

“Someone needs to take control of the situation,” I answer her. My voice doesn't sound like my voice. I'm hearing it from far away, the words much calmer than I feel. The ringing in my ears still hasn't subsided, and suddenly I'm reminded of a line in an old poem
.
Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
Freaking Camus and his insistence on reading me depressing poetry. I don't care if it's “good for stirring memory”; it's equally effective at stirring a quiet sense of dread and despair. Which I definitely don't need right now.

And then I think,
Camus might be dead.

The startling possibility hits me with the force of a car crash, stealing my breath again.

He could have been crushed by a ceiling collapse, or killed by shrapnel. He might have ended up trapped somewhere, slowly smothered by smoke. Or a machine might have found him. Caught him off guard. One bullet. That's all it would take…

No.
I challenge the evil thoughts, reining in my gruesome imagination.
I would know.

Wouldn't I?

Zelda steadies me, temporarily smooshing Hanna between us in order to accomplish the feat. I must have looked unsteady there for a moment.

“You need a doctor, Long,” she tells me, like I don't already know that.

I ignore the suggestion, instead looking left and right while I swish water around in my mouth, trying to revive my throat. I'm all turned around; normally I arrive at Medical from a different elevator lobby. My confusion is compounded by the amount of people in the halls, many blocking helpful signs. “Which way to Communications on this level?” I ask Zelda, who makes a face that says “Beats me.” I wave her off. “All right. Let me worry about it. You. Hanna. Doctor. Now.”

“Wait. What are you going to do? Long!”

“My job.” I toss the answer over my shoulder, already pushing through the throngs toward a corridor that doesn't look so crowded.

Once there, I practically have to clothesline a doctor to get him to stop and answer my questions. The one I manage to nab breathlessly informs me they don't have a proper comm room on Medical like we have on Command; rather, they have an old public-address system. A relic from the pre-Machinations days, when McKinley's builders, funded by Congress, were inclined to cut corners in an effort to diminish costs. I make him repeat his directions to the room with the PA system three times because I can't hear him well with all the noise—and because I'm worried I'll forget in the meantime.

It takes some effort navigating the level when it's choked with people, but thankfully I have some experience dodging feet and arms from all the tours I've been giving Kozlov and other leaders like him. Briefly, I wonder if the commander made it through all right, and how the rest of our on-base allies are faring. McKinley was supposed to be an example of renewed safety and strength. Humanity's comeback. Now she's hemorrhaging—quite literally, if you count all the bloody and the dead—her insides roiling with smoke and flame. What kind of message will this send to those already hesitant about joining us? Besides
Run and save yourselves
?

Stop it. That's not helping.

I'm trying to stay positive, but it's a little hard with the taste of a crematorium in my mouth, my hands covered in fat, angry welts, and the weight of my friend's death bearing down on my shoulders like the claws of a raptor.

I choke down some more water, but my mouth still feels scorched.

One of Rankin's favorite phrases springs to mind unbidden, in exactly the same tone of voice he always used.
Other than that, Mrs. Kennedy,
how was your trip to Dallas?
I'm still not sure I entirely understand the joke, though from the context, I gather it was a bad trip. I should've asked him to explain it instead of smiling along with everyone else. Too late now. Strange, the appearances regret takes.

Just before I reach my destination, several men and women wearing United States military fatigues round the corner, and it's a near collision. Their leader, a man I dimly remember as one of the soldiers we recruited from Churchill base after Juneau, recognizes me almost immediately. His eyes light up and he looks relieved, even as he jerks into a stiff salute.

“Commander Long!” His greeting snaps the rest of the group into the same posture, like falling dominoes in reverse.

Really?
We're going to do this now?
“At ease, soldier,” I say quickly, moving right through them. “Kind of on a mission here, guys, so if you want to help…keep up. Or, better yet, clear the way.”

The leader barks an order, and the others move ahead, arms spread, shepherding people to the walls and making a small path. He himself falls in beside me, lifts his army cap, and runs a hand through his sweaty black hair. “We have orders to get you to a secure location, ma'am.”

“Orders?” I reply, not slowing my pace. “Orders from who?”
Who else is still alive on the council?
is what I really want to know.

“Standing orders, ma'am. In the event of an emergency, such as this.”

My disappointment is palpable. It was too much to hope for. “Oh. Well, in that case…”

I continue marching straight ahead, taking a right at the fork instead of the left he tries to guide me toward.

“Commander…”

“No. I'm not going to go cower in some bunker somewhere.”
Not yet, anyway.
“Have we secured the air space over the Park? That's part of our emergency protocols, too, right?” If there's anything I do pay attention to during long, boring council meetings, it's worst-case scenarios and contingency plans. In the event of an attack, McKinley base locks down, and any forces in the immediate vicinity are prioritized to defend around Denali. Of course, we planned for an external invasion, anticipating plenty of forewarning as the machines slogged across the arctic tundra. We weren't expecting this.

Captain Leader hesitates, but one of the women with him jumps into the conversation. “Yes. I heard some of the higher-ups talking about it. The hangar suffered some damage, but I think they already had birds in the sky. Denali's secure—at least from the outside.”

“Good. Great.” I spot the door to the room with the PA system, and my heart does a little flip. Step one: complete. It feels good to be actively doing something, contributing, as opposed to merely trying to survive myself. If I keep moving, keep working, I don't have to think about those who no longer have that option. “Right this way, folks,” I say, opening the door. Half the soldiers squeeze in after me, while the remainder wait outside with their weapons drawn.

“Commander?” Captain Leader again. I really should ask him his name, though part of me wonders whether I should already know it. “Mind if I ask you what we're doing in this—closet?”

“It's not a closet,” I say, though to be fair, it does kind of look like a closet. Or a small sound studio, minus the window to another room where a high-profile recording artist would be doing their thing. There is a fair amount of electronics, and for a minute I fear I'm out of my depth. Then I notice the main board. It's practically an antique, reminiscent of the stage equipment I dealt with during my theater days. And in the corner, amid other discarded equipment, there's an XLR cable coiled on top of a large speaker, some more power cables, and a speaker stand. Everything's coated in a fine layer of dust, obviously having gone unused for years.

I smile, tossing a quick thank-you up to the powers that be. This is all low-tech. Low-tech I can deal with.

“Do any of you know how to set up a PA system?”

The female soldier tentatively raises her hand. “I used to volunteer as a chaperone at my niece's school dances. It was a low-income area, near Detroit. Got worse after the second recession. The school couldn't afford anything state-of-the-art, so we always had to rent our PA system from a local music center.”

“I didn't know you were from Detroit,” Captain Leader says, sounding a little wounded.

“You never asked,” she replies quietly.

“Think you could figure out how to work that pile of junk over there?” I ask the woman.

She walks over to the equipment, lifts this cable, then that one. I glance over at Captain Leader, who is watching his subordinate intently. Even though he's trying to hide it, I know that look. Concern, but mixed with fondness and pride.
There's something there.
Satisfied with the cables, the female soldier grabs and rotates the subwoofer, peering at the connections at the back. “Yeah. I think I can make this work,” she declares at last. Captain Leader smiles, and I clap my hands together.

“You're my new favorite person,” I say, returning my attention to the main setup. It doesn't look like it's been used for quite some time, probably because the docs have been relying on our normal comm system. “While I get this organized, why don't you tell me your names?”

I learn the woman is Ximena Torres (from Detroit), and Captain Leader is actually Lieutenant Tucker Chaplin. “No relation,” he adds with a smile, though I'm not sure who he's referring to.

“Nice to meet you both. Wish it was under better circumstances.” I situate the microphone, then dust off my hands. “Okay. Here's what I want you to do…”

As quickly as possible, I detail my plan to set up a makeshift PA system in the stairwell—“or near it, if the smoke is too bad”—and give the pair exactly the same instructions to repeat that I intend to broadcast over Medical's antiquated sound system, provided it still works. All the while, both soldiers listen intently, and with surprisingly little skepticism. Chaplin corrects me on some of my talking points, providing as much knowledge of the areas affected by the bombing as possible. Torres also raises a question about the upper levels, closer to Command. There's no way of knowing whether the wiring and infrastructure survived to convey my message. Getting the word out past the military level will be a hurdle unto itself.