Counterpart (28 page)

Dopey sags against the table. “What can I say? I'm clever.”

“Yeah, you are,” Zelda remarks, almost proudly. I think she's forgotten that she didn't build this thing.

Hawking shakes her head. “You're reaching, Commander.”

“Am I? Those last few bars were from the Canadian national anthem, right? So the clones are being kept somewhere in Canada?”

“Calgary,” Zelda proposes. “Or Echo Lake? Both were coordinates in the code.”

“It sang about a lake,” Lefevre says.

Dopey shakes her head.

“Not a lake?” I say. “But maybe like a lake?”

Dopey nods.

“What's in Calgary that's not a lake, but like a lake?”

“The Glenmore Reservoir,” Hawking says.

Dopey smiles.

“All right, so the higher echelon is keeping the clones somewhere in Calgary. What was the other song? ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame,' right? So it has something to do with a stadium? Or—a sports theater? Sports?” Dopey is nodding rapidly. I look at Hawking, Zelda, and Lefevre. “Feel free to jump in at any time, guys. I don't know anything about Calgary.”

“They once hosted the Winter Olympics, years and years ago,” Hawking says. “I believe the park is still there.”

Dopey confirms we're on the right track by humming what I can only assume is the Olympic theme.

I smile with relief. A lead. At long last.

“Well, Renee? How's that for cooperation?”

She nods to Lefevre, who releases the machine and steps back, allowing us to suss out what else the machine knows without the threat of violence. For the first time since Rankin died, when his gaze flicks to me, it doesn't carry hostility or disappointment. Instead, it's the same guarded look he gave me on my first day back at base, when I was a woman returning from the wilderness, a woman resurrected, and him a longtime believer.

“You did well in there,” he says afterward, as he and Hawking are leaving. They're the first words he's spoken directly to me since our argument in my quarters.

Oh, yeah?
I want to say.
Was that leader enough for you?
But that's my pride and bitterness talking. My hurt feelings. I want to repair whatever's broken between us, not let it continue to fester like an open sore.

“Thanks,” I say. “Does this mean we're done with this whole silent-treatment thing?”

He cracks a small smile inside his dark, trim beard and looks askance. “Maybe. I don't regret what I said, but I regret the spirit in which I said it. I was angry…”

“You don't have to explain. It was a bad time for all of us. Water under the bridge.”

For anyone else, I might feel the need to have a lengthy sit-down to discuss exactly what went wrong, and what issues may still exist in our relationship. But for Lefevre, I know these few words are enough. Anything more would be superfluous. Merely a bandage for my ego, cushioning any insecurities leftover due to my hiatus from Camus.

“Water under the bridge,” he agrees.

“Captain.” Hawking stands at the end of the hall, waiting for her personal escort.

“Commander,” Lefevre says to me in parting, and it finally feels right. Earned.

I turn back into the lab. Time to find out what else Dopey knows.

What remains of August passes in a stressful knot of judgments, deliberations, and more attacks on McKinley's allies. In the south of Russia, Kemerovo, an industrial city that humans and machines have exchanged control of several times during the past few years, falls within hours after its defenders are given bad intelligence from a familiar face. Mine. Then there's the tragedy at Chengdu, with the machines setting fire to half the city in an attempt to smoke out resisters. The Chinese refuse to give us an estimate of their dead, but according to my own people, it has to be in the high thousands. A few survivors who hid in the archeological site at Sanxingdui relayed word when it happened, but without a signed treaty, I couldn't convince the rest of the council it was worth sending people. By the time they reached central China, it probably would've been too late anyway. We needed men and women there weeks ago.

Everything is made worse by the fact that all our broadcasts from McKinley mean jack squat while one of my clones is out there feeding our allies bad information, or luring them into outright traps. The situation isn't just unbearable on a personal level—it's unsustainable on a long-term, political one. The North Koreans leave the table shortly after coming to it, and we lose touch with nearly all of our French-Canadian allies east of Manitoba. Those who stick around, disenchanted with my recent leadership, want an explanation, but I can't supply the truth without betraying my own secrets. Simple incompetence is the best I can offer, and that goes over about as well as can be expected.

At least no one touches me in the hall anymore.

Even with Hawking's support, it's almost another month of this madness before the rest of the council finally has its come-to-Jesus moment and approves my proposal for a mission to Calgary to deal with the issue of the clones. It takes all that time to get the wheels rolling, and to coordinate all the moving pieces involved. In the interim, the machines begin amassing on the Alaskan border in frightening numbers, and the Chinese drop hints that they're about to jump this sinking ship.

The New Soviets, on the other hand, entrench themselves within McKinley's domestic and military infrastructure, showing no signs of abandoning us. Ulrich assures me this is perfectly in character for the Russians. “They're stubborn,” he remarks with grudging respect, but I'm not convinced it's their stubborn nature so much as cunning. We still have something they want: a sturdy base of operations in a defensible location and raw manpower. They've fought harder for a lot less.

“On a scale of one to ten, how much of a bad idea do you think this is?” I ask Samuel on our way to the newly refurbished War Room, where we'll be ironing out the final details of the Calgary mission. And, hopefully, where we'll finally agree on a date for launch.

“I stopped trying to fit your plans into that scale a long time ago,” Samuel replies.

“So would that be a high nine or a low eight?”

We squeeze ourselves against the wall, maneuvering out of some passerby's way, and he shakes his head with a smile.
Too bad they didn't think to widen the corridors while renovating.
Still, I have to admire all the effort that's gone into rebuilding Command. They—meaning the countless volunteers and maintenance staff—repaired and spackled over the walls, though a few remain slightly concave, creating the feeling of a funhouse maze, and occasionally making me want to reach out to steady myself.

The closer to the War Room, the worse the damage, and ironically, the poorer the job we've done patching it up. Here, the previous flooring has been ripped away, and the pockmarked concrete is covered in a new coat of black vinyl paint. Every now and then, I spot a shoe smear where someone entered the hallway before the section was completely dry. It makes me think of ghosts. Those who died for me. Those who will die for me in the future.

I know what Camus would say to that:
Don't add more nails to your cross.

But Camus is still in Siberia, and every communication has been through official channels—everything cordial, but strictly limited to business. It's surprising how little you can say to a person you once shared everything with, once a certain cord is cut.

Anyway, it's my cross. I'll pound as many nails into it as I damn well please.

I turn to Samuel several feet from the door to the War Room, stopping him by placing a hand on his chest. Samuel glances down, then meets my eyes. “Hold on a second,” I say, partially under my breath so no one overhears. “Before we go in, I just want to give you a heads-up. Things may get dicey in there.”

“Dicey how?”

“You know how it is with the council. I'm just saying, I might get some pushback on a certain…addendum to my proposal.”

“A certain addendum.” Samuel frowns. “What else are you planning?”

I pat him on the arm, bouncing a fake smile onto my face. “Nothing to worry about. Just follow my lead.”

“Right. Is now a good time to point out that the last time I followed your lead, I got shot?” He's of course referring to the Battle of Juneau, where in a shocking turn of events, things didn't exactly go according to plan.

“Actually, you got shot trying to play hero, and
not
obeying orders.”

Samuel pretends to think. “No, no. I distinctly remember being heroic.”

At that moment, a stubble-chinned Cordier wanders past us, wearing a nice suit and his trademark look of wearied disgust. It's like the world is Cordier's oyster—and he's got a severe shellfish allergy. “Are you two going to loiter out here all day, or are you going in?”

“I believe that's our cue,” I say to Samuel and follow Cordier past the new blast-proof doors. A necessary addition for obvious reasons.

The inside of the new War Room is equally impressive. Instead of its previous angles, all the walls surrounding the room have been expanded, gathering at the far side into a massive curve, segmented into more than a hundred high-resolution screens. Right now, a tiny grid of rotating black diamonds covers each display as one continuous image, producing a feeling of activity without added distraction. I think the screen saver looks like the underbelly of a writhing snake, scales skidding back and forth across glass. Still, it's better than the first time I entered this room last year, with my own anatomy on full display.

That's not the only major change. At the center of the room, McKinley's former round table has been replaced by a black, oblong slab with hard chairs along either side and one slightly more ornate seat at the head. It's not a design I was consulted on, obviously, and I balked the first moment I laid eyes on it.

Modern
and
contemporary,
my foot. The council—or whoever decided this was a good idea—has given me a throne. Maybe as a jab at my leadership, or maybe in some twisted form of flattery, but whatever the case, I hate it. If I didn't have other problems at the moment, I'd even go as far as to make the table a topic of discussion. Fortunately for my colleagues, I have bigger machines to fry.

“Everyone's going to get a crick in their neck from always having to turn their head…” I'm still complaining about the layout to Samuel as we enter, so I don't immediately notice who's filling the chair closest to mine.

When I finally do, it's like being punched in the throat. I cut off midsentence.

Sitting in one of the new chairs, inches from where the table makes a sharp left turn into my little kingdom, Camus is watching me. Déjà vu swats at me like a knife passing in front of my face, just close enough to steal my breath. But there's nothing dispassionate about his gaze, nothing remotely indifferent, like the last time we were reunited in this room. He stares at me, barely breathing. His hands flatten on the table, fingers spread with tension; I stare back, trying to swallow the urge to push people out of the way and take him into my arms. It's been almost two months since we've seen each other, but suddenly it feels like years.

“Did you know Camus would be here?” I ask Samuel in a murmur.

Samuel shakes his head. “I thought he was still in Yakutsk.”

“Apparently not.”

“Please, everyone,” Hawking says, herding the late-arriving council members toward the table, “if you would all take a seat, we can begin.”

I wander over to my seat, moving behind Camus's chair at the speed of a glacier, yet somehow managing to keep my expression cool and professional at the same time. Bless my theater background. Only the harsh lights of a stage and a lurking crowd could teach me how to walk past the man I love without showing any inkling of my inner turmoil.

I sit down just as Hawking begins attendance, calling the name of each council member so each of us will be captured on the recording equipment, our presence and complicity confirmed. If we succeed, everyone gets credit, and some day our discussions here may end up in some popular history on the war. That's best-case scenario. If things go poorly, the recording will be noosed around the neck of some poor sucker.

“Commander Rhona Long,” Hawking says.

“Present,” I answer, a little belatedly as I'm trying to get comfortable. The chair's cushionless, no better than sitting on the floor, and the tall back does nothing but make me constantly wary of my posture. Just leaning against the wall would offer more in the way of lumbar support.

Hawking clasps her hands in front of her. She's wearing a neat pencil skirt and dark pantyhose that make her look like a defense attorney, or maybe a divorce lawyer. “I'm sure it hasn't escaped anyone's notice that Commander Forsyth is also with us again”—Camus nods toward the rest of the table, accepting the welcome-backs with a slim smile—“and I believe he has some news regarding his time spent among the Soviets. Commander?”

“The Soviets have agreed to sign a new treaty with us,” Camus says without preamble. Half a dozen jaws hit the table, including mine. Despite their presence here at McKinley, the Russians have proven reluctant when it comes to any written commitments. They're fine with eating our food and taking up space, but I haven't been able to tie them or the Chinese down to a formal agreement. If the Russians agree to a treaty, it's likely the Chinese will finally negotiate, too.

“Why the sudden change of heart?” I ask, since no one else does. It's not skepticism, but caution. “What do they think they're getting out of it?”

Camus meets my gaze evenly. Folds his fingers together. Every movement is deliberate, which makes me think he's more nervous than he's letting on. “In exchange for unfettered access to their seed bank and a promise of continued military support, the Soviets want an official seat at the table.”

“They're already at the table. They've been at the damn table for months!”

“Not a figurative table, and not as the subject of diplomacy. This one.” Camus glances down at the stupid hunk of postmodern furniture we've all pulled our chairs up to. “They want to be involved in McKinley's operations, to have a meaningful say in the day-to-day governance, and remain privy to any private deliberations concerning the resistance.”

Cordier's shaking his head before Camus has even finished. “Out of the question.”

“After the stunt they pulled two months ago?” Kapoor says, gobsmacked at their gall.

At the same time, Peter Albany asks, “Would that be wise?” Sweat has beaded on the table in front of the young councilman, left by his hands, and he's already blinking more than normal. “I mean, can we trust them?”

“If you have to ask…” Kapoor murmurs.

“Do you think they're sincere?” Hawking directs her question to Camus, specifically, in a steady tone that volunteers none of her own thoughts.

Camus pauses—an answer in and of itself, though nobody has the balls to comment on it. “Maybe, though it hardly matters. They'll need us as much as we them if anyone's going to have a prayer of combating the machines and retaking the continent. In truth, I don't find the idea of forming a joint cabinet entirely without merit either. This”—he gestures to our little group of politicians—“was never meant to be a permanent form of government. We'll need something larger and more stable moving into the future.”

I shift in my seat, the chair's rigid back still trying to throw my spine out of alignment. “Is there any room for negotiation?” I ask. “Maybe a trial period?”

“We're not dealing with a magazine subscription,” Camus says, “or an online-dating site.”

“So, what? Compatibility is a nonissue?”

“That's not what I'm saying.”

Farther down the table, Samuel coughs into his fist. I realize Camus and I have absorbed the entire council's attention in our brief tête-à-tête. Which is a nice way of saying we're bickering like an old married couple. Not exactly a morale booster. Although at this point, anyone present who doesn't suspect we're having relationship troubles must be either blind or willfully ignorant.

“We may not have the luxury of deciding who we climb into bed with,” Camus continues in a calmer tone, while I try to ignore the pain radiating up from my tailbone. This freaking chair.

“And if we decline their offer?” Kapoor asks.

“For as little as they possess, the Soviets still have a tremendous amount of pride.”

“You're saying if they don't get their way, they'll take their toys and go home,” I say.

“Not necessarily, but it will certainly put a strain on our relationship,” Camus answers, quickly clarifying, “McKinley and Chersky, that is.”

I study Camus while the other council members discuss the finer points of such an agreement—the change in power structure, its pitfalls, and so on. His brow remains furrowed throughout the debate, and despite contributing a word here and there, he rarely looks up from his small black tablet. Even then, it's only to occasionally glance at me. His green eyes break down the moisture in my mouth, but don't vacate my mind.
What are you up to, Camus?