Counterpart (7 page)

While we're discussing it, Torres returns to picking over the pile of equipment. “Looks like there's enough here to set up another PA system,” she says. “If someone climbs up, past the blockage in the stairs you were talking about, Commander, they could deliver instructions to at least one other level.”

“I'm not sure there
is
a way up,” I say.

Chaplin picks at his dark five-o'clock shadow. “There might be, if the person went through the old maintenance rooms.
If
it hasn't been destroyed. And
if
the stairs are still intact there. Hypothetically, you could get to Biology from Military that way, bypassing the worst of the lower-level fires. Same goes for Biology to Dormitory.”

“Why is this the first I'm hearing of these stairwells?” I don't even remember seeing them on any of the map printouts I studied last year while trying to refamiliarize myself with McKinley's layout so I'd stop needing an escort.

“It was judged a security risk. They were all sealed off years ago. You don't remember?”

“Right,” I lie. “Must've slipped my mind. Okay. We have a decision to make. Which level do we send the equipment to, and who's going to take it?”

“I'll do it,” Torres volunteers.

“Mena, no,” Chaplin says. The nickname he uses and the way he says it—so quiet, almost intimately—raises more red flags. I can't stand the thought of another couple's blood on my hands, but more people are going to die if something's not done.

“I can go,” I suggest. “As soon as I finish here, I can—”

“Out of the question,” Chaplin says.

“You're too valuable,” Torres agrees.

Chaplin turns to Torres, eyes softening. “Hey. You're valuable, too.”

She rolls her eyes toward the floor, grumbling something in Spanish.

“What's that supposed to mean?” he says.

“You know what it means.”

They argue for another minute, bickering like an old married couple, before I finally shut them both down. “Torres goes. Chaplin, you go with her. She'll need some help carrying all this stuff. And she'll need someone to watch her back.” Anticipating Chaplin's next objection, I add, “Leave a few soldiers back with me, if it'll make you feel better.”

Things move quickly after that. My gladiators disappear to fight their way back up McKinley base, while I take a seat in front of the microphone. Deep breaths.

“Attention, McKinley base.” I pause until I hear my voice repeating on the other side of the door, sounding somewhat tinny as it escapes the trumpet-shaped speakers. Good. At least it's working. Whether people will hear and pay attention to it remains to be seen.

“This is Commander Long speaking. Be advised: stairwells A, C, and D are blocked. Do not attempt to board any elevators. If you are below the biology level, use stairwells B or E to head down to Medical. If you are at the biology level or above, head to the northeast portion of the level and exit through the emergency tunnels. They will lead you above ground. If you are able to walk, don't wait for an emergency crew to reach you. Cover your face with a wet shirt or cloth and go to the northeast portion of your level. If you're hearing this message, tell others. Spread the word. McKinley base is secure, but the fires are not yet contained. Be advised: stairwells A, C, and D are blocked…”

Every word shreds my throat, but I repeat my instructions over and over and over again, until finally I can't speak anymore. Afterward, my heart is a little lighter. I've done what I can. I just hope it makes a difference.

A few hours later, I'm lying on a cot beside Hanna's when she starts to come around. Doctors flit about, but my eyes stay with her. I watch Hanna's fingers wrestle down the oxygen mask from her nose and mouth, long enough to ask me where Rankin is. If he's okay. And I have to tell her the truth.

She can't hear the words, but her eyes track the movement of my lips. Her hands begin to shake. She doesn't know what to do with them. She covers her mouth, touches her forehead, claws through her hair. Shakes her head. No. No. No.

When she lunges from the bed, I catch her. Refuse to let go. Even when her hands beat weakly against my back, even as her mouth parts in a long, soundless howl.

McKinley burns for hours.

Even once the fires are out, the smell of burnt plastic, concrete, and steel lingers amidst other, more biological smells I try not to think about. The base looks like someone's ribcage cracked open. Guts exposed. Smoke clings to the ceiling of every level above Medical like spirits presiding over a battlefield, and everywhere I go I have to wear a mask to keep my lungs clear of the hazardous materials freed during the explosion. Lead, cadmium, and crystalline silica are among the most likely culprits to cause me trouble. I know this because Dr. Matsuki Shigeru listed them while telling me I should not, under any circumstances, visit the command level.

I'm starting to wish I'd taken his advice.

Command is in ruins. Some portions of the level have collapsed completely, while others have been cordoned off against the risk of future collapse. The few corridors that remain passable are covered with a dense layer of dust—walls, equipment, and furniture pulverized by the blast. Dark footprints mark the places where emergency personnel have tromped through, searching for survivors. Ground zero, near as I can tell, is a janitor's closet near the Tea Room—our shorthand for telecommunications—and they were still pulling bodies from the rubble of the nearby War Room when I arrived on the scene.

With the Tea Room in smithereens, communications inside McKinley is sketchy at best. Someone handed me a walkie-talkie back in Medical to help keep me in the loop, but after a while I had to mute it. Couldn't stand listening to the casualty reports. An endless chant of names and injuries. These are people I know. Knew. Until a couple hours ago, I didn't realize just how violent the past tense could feel.

No one's been able to tell me if Camus survived. His name's come up in passing conversation—
Commander Forsyth, among the missing; Commander Forsyth, last seen on the military level
—and each time, I crane my neck, lassoed by the gossip. Listening in, hoping for new information. Anything that will tell me whether the man I love is alive or dead.

I press myself against the wall as another stretcher goes by, bearing another broken body beneath a thin sheet. I'm almost able to make out the shape of the person's nose—a shark fin about to break the surface tension of water.

Wonder if they've worked their way into the stairwell yet.

The thought catches me off guard, like the feeling of tipping your chair back too far. I march ahead quickly, trying to distance myself from the image of the crashed elevator, and who rescuers might find behind it. If I could post a warning sign inside my brain, it would read
Don't go there.
Even that probably wouldn't stop me, though. I've never been one to obey instructions.

I haven't taken more than a few steps when I find myself in a separate part of command level, without any idea how I got there. The world comes back into focus slowly, as if someone were adjusting a microscope, the walls growing back in around me, white and shivering and smeared with ash. The floor seems to harden once more beneath my feet. My heart is hammering, and shallow rivers of sweat have formed in the lines of my palms. If I didn't know any better, I would have assumed I'd just passed out, but I'm upright. Conscious. Plus, someone surely would have noticed if I'd just keeled over in the middle of the hall.

Without knowing how long I was absent, I backtrack, relieved to find I only traveled a few corridors on autopilot. Couldn't have been out for more than a minute. Matt did warn me to take it easy. Of course, he failed to mention the possibility of having blackouts—unless he did, and I just wasn't listening.

More stretchers pass by me, some bearing the dead, others the wounded. To my sorrow, I notice the former greatly outnumber the latter.

“You,” a man croaks at me while I'm still coming back to myself. He urges those holding his stretcher to stop by groping at one of the rescuer's sleeves. The entire right side of the man's body has been mauled by fire, and now resembles a black, crispy log with bloody canyons of exposed flesh. He stares at me with a mixture of hostility, confusion, and inexplicable hurt. “This is all your fault.”

I assume he means because I failed to prevent the attack. I know it's an unfair criticism, but right now it feels earned. My circus, my monkeys.

“It's going to be all right,” I assure him. The words sound empty, even to my own ears.

The man gives a shake of his head, wheezing something I don't catch.

“Sorry?”

“You did this.” His gaze strains up toward his rescuers. “She did this.”

One of the rescuers gives me a sympathetic look.
What can you do?

“I
saw
her,” the burnt man insists. “Before…before…”

“Sure, buddy,” answers one of the rescuers gently, then nods at me. “Commander.”

Even as they carry him away, the man continues arguing. It's the same wheedling tone a child uses to debate his bedtime. I know I shouldn't take him seriously—he's probably suffering posttraumatic stress in addition to the physical injuries—but still. He saw me before? What the hell is that supposed to mean?

I spend a while on Command, visiting with those organizing the rescue effort. Everyone seems happy to see me; their eyes hint at smiles, though their mouths remain hidden behind white dust shields. I shake a lot of hands, offer a word of encouragement where I can. In truth, I'd much rather be doing physical labor, removing debris, and actively aiding with the rescue efforts, but Matt warned that with my injuries, any serious exertion could set my recovery back by weeks. Concussions don't heal overnight, after all. Not to mention, I don't want to open the sores on my hands from where I grabbed the elevator's hot steel, or put any more stress on my already traumatized body.

When I told Matt I wanted to help, he told me it wasn't my job, and much as I might try to dispute that, I know he's right. My job is to be the rock, steady in the face of tragedy. An icon. A symbol. The Statue of Liberty didn't weep after the machines visited devastation on her city, and neither can I. Not a single tear, even as I watch rescuers liberate victim after victim from the wreckage, listen to their stories of the attack and their fears about what will come next. I scoop out my compassion and empathy, seal it away. I empty myself to better carry their grief.

It's the only way I know to survive this.

“That's not good enough.”

I jerk my head up from a tablet detailing the damage to McKinley's electrical systems. My heart sprints against my ribs. That voice. I know that voice.

“We have people due to arrive within the hour. The hangar needs to be cleared and ready to receive them…”

“Excuse me a moment.” I thrust the tablet back into the hands of its owner.

With my ears still buzzing faintly, I follow the retreating voices, catching sight of him just before he rounds another corner. “Camus!”

He stops and turns. Whatever stony expression he was wearing moments before crumbles, a vulnerable look taking its place. “Rhona?”

The hallway shrinks, both of us moving toward each other. I rush into his arms—a little too roughly, eliciting a groan. He rubs his chest, his old wound protesting again. “Sorry!” I begin to say, but his hands are already moving up my neck, cupping my jaw, and lifting my face toward his. For a brief moment, I believe Camus is going to break his strict no-PDA rule, rip both our masks off and kiss me. I ache for the comfort of his mouth against mine, an outlet for all the frustration and fear of the past day. But it doesn't happen. Damn his practicality.

Instead, Camus tilts my head back and forth, scanning me with a concerned look. I must be quite a sight, with a thick, white bandage around my head and a red tracery of shrapnel marks to balance out my uneven freckles.

Camus brushes his thumb gently over a bruise on my cheek, just below the strap of my dust shield. I wince. “Are you all right?”

“No one could tell me where you were.” My voice cracks, all my unspoken fears trying to break free.
I was afraid you were dead,
I want to tell him.
I was afraid I'd lost you.
I was afraid.
But these are not words I can say right now without completely losing it. Instead, I run my fingers over the tops of his ears, pushing the hair back from them. I can't stop touching him.

He starts to speak, but has to stop. Clear his throat. Rather than look at me, he focuses on the floor. There are things Camus cannot say, too. “Communications have been—” he begins.

“I know. I believe the expression Clarence used was
completely screwy.
”

Camus glances up at me, the skin around his eyes scrunching in a soft smile. “A good analysis.” The smile vanishes. “I asked after you in Medical, but they said you'd left.”

“Well. You know. Can't keep the Red Menace down for long.” I manage a smile for only a few seconds before the elevator crashes into my mind again.
Tell my wife I love her. And I'm, I'm—I'm sorry.
I don't know what expression shows above my mask, but Camus's arms tighten around me.

Someone clears their throat.

Three others are with Camus: two council members who have been standing around awkwardly during our reunion—and Ulrich. The throat clearer. I reach for the German next, and am pleased when he doesn't object to my embrace. Nevertheless, I can't resist teasing him. “Ssh. Just let it happen,” I say, squeezing Ulrich tight and ruffling his blond hair a little. He mutters something in German, but when I pull away, I swear his cheeks have lifted in a smile.

Worry blows into his blue eyes like a sudden storm. “Zelda?” he asks me.

“Down in Medical. She's pretty banged up, and cranky as all get out, but she's going to be fine.” He closes his eyes and slouches with relief, whispering thanks to God. “I know she'd like to see you.”

“Later,” Camus cuts in. “For the time being, we need him with us. From now on, you go nowhere without an escort.”

For once, I agree with him. In all the chaos, I forgot to get my gun back from Zelda. As we walk, I sandwich myself between Camus and Ulrich, who both appear to be armed. “Are all the machines accounted for?” I ask.

“Yes.” It is not a happy-sounding yes.

“I sense a but.”

“Big one,” Ulrich says, without missing a beat. I can't tell whether it's a joke or not.

“We still have no explanation for how they managed to plant two bombs in two separate locations without anyone noticing,” Camus says, “nor how they got into McKinley in the first place.”

“Zelda told me the Chinese were bringing them in.”

“The Chinese? I hadn't heard, but it's worth looking into. I'll put someone on it as soon as we can access the security logs.”

“What? We can't access them now?”

“Unfortunately, not at the moment,” says one of the other council members. Renee Hawking, a transplant from Churchill. Her short, dark afro is in wiry disarray, and she looks tired. Streaks of ash have climbed her high-collared shirt, painting her brown chin grey. On an ordinary day, she's the kind of woman who seems like she grinds her teeth in her sleep. Always thinking, always tense. It makes me glad she doesn't know the truth about my origins; it'd probably give her an aneurysm. After proving myself to McKinley's original council, we decided it was best for future inductees to be left in the dark, including Hawking. The fewer people who know my secret, the better. “We had to divert all power to life-support systems, but Clarence has promised we should have access to the security archives shortly.”

“What are you thinking?” I ask Camus, who looks lost in thought.

“I think the machines had help. I think they couldn't have managed this otherwise.”

Cold seeps into my chest. “You believe one of our allies planned this?”

“It wouldn't be the first time.”

How could I forget? Evelyn Meir, former commander of Churchill base, orchestrated an attack on me by a machine just last year. She wanted to convince me McKinley wasn't safe, so I would transfer to her base. I don't just bring the party, I bring prestige and an unlimited access to resources and allies. Good thing her strategy failed. Churchill base was destroyed only a few months later.

“So, who do you suspect? Kozlov?” It'd make sense. He was pushing hard for relocation of primary operations to Lake Baikal.

“Given that Kozlov's dead, no. I don't suspect him.” Camus hesitates at my puzzled look. “You didn't know?”

“No,” I admit quietly. And now I feel bad for thinking the worst of a dead man. I scratch at my head bandage, feeling another headache coming on.
God. This day just keeps getting better and better.
“So, where does that leave us with the coalition?”

“After today?” Councilman Tejas Kapoor snorts. “You might as well try convincing them to colonize Mars. The odds are the same.” Kapoor was one of the few souls stationed here before the Machinations began, making sure everything was in place for an emergency—and one of the first people I met when I arrived, though he was only recently added to the council. As long as I've known him, he's been a Negative Nancy. The type of man who oh-so-heroically insists on playing devil's advocate, when in reality he just disagrees with you and doesn't want to admit it. Still, I can't help feeling that, for once, he's right.

“Stalled,” Camus corrects him.

“Geez. Things must really be bad for you to play the optimist,” I tell Camus, but the joke falls flat almost as soon as it leaves my mouth.

Sensing my distress, or otherwise trying to save me the embarrassment of saying something I'll later regret, Camus dismisses the other council members, though not before tasking Hawking with checking in on Clarence's progress, and Kapoor with accompanying her.

Once they're gone, Camus tucks my arm under his own, and we walk for a while, saying nothing to anyone or each other until we reach his former quarters. Ulrich remains in the hall by the door, while Camus and I duck inside.