Counterpart (31 page)

Despite being early evening, the hangar is sparsely populated, and then only by McKinlians performing routine maintenance. A lot of these planes haven't seen use in over a year, and combat even longer, but they still need to be ready. At the moment, they appear to be slumbering peacefully, but I still can't help being awestruck by their size—these great leviathans of metal that once soared the skies, ferrying people across continents and vast oceans.
And still do,
I remind myself, thinking of all the refugees who have come here from Asia.

It's hard not to look at the planes and be a little afraid, remembering what the machines used them for during the war: dropping bombs and gas on helpless civilian populations. Even powered down, their cockpits are like open eyes shining in the dark, watching us. Same goes for the choppers, tanks, and other military vehicles.

I watch one woman slide effortlessly underneath the belly of a snowmobile, wrench in hand, while another man nearby sorts through a toolbox. The sound of nuts and bolts echoes, along with tools straining against metal, and from a nearby radio, a male voice sings about pressure pushing down on him. At the chorus, both the man and woman chime in, singing loudly and off-key.

Camus glances at me with a secret look, and I smile back at him without thinking.

Oh, yeah. This is what normal feels like.

We disembark from the cart, and I follow Camus first to a flight of stairs, then up a ladder that pings and dings as we climb, ascending toward the hangar's massive dome ceiling. From this high up, looking down seems like a bad idea—but what the hell. My stomach lurches as I calculate the distance from here to the ground. It's not an altogether unpleasant sensation. Adrenaline rushes through me, leaving my fingers tingling as I take the last few rungs. Ahead of me, Camus doesn't appear to share my interest in the ground below. He doesn't look down once.

We reach the roof without incident. I leave the hatch open behind us, not wanting to be accidentally locked out.

From the outside, the dome's ceiling is slightly convex and, during the winter, not a problem since it's indistinguishable from the snowy landscape. With the ice melted, however, we have to make more of an effort to conceal it. Until recently, every year was something different. Immediately following the war, we tried importing dirt, but each time the hangar opened, it left noticeable indentations in the earth. It was a temporary solution to a recurring issue, and not to mention nerve-racking for the souls tasked with the job of landscaping. Presently, we rely on camouflage netting that Churchill base designed, before its destruction. It's still a pain, since we have to roll it up it every time we want to open the hangar and then put it back in place afterward, but it's better than nothing.

“All right,” I say at last. “What's this big surprise of yours?”

Camus has to stoop a little to avoid hitting the netting, whereas I can easily stand beneath it. Light squeezes through the net's slightly transparent squares, and is blocked by the opaque ones, making our path into a chessboard. “You've been cooped up in that base for too long,” he says. “When was the last time you breathed fresh air, or felt the wind on your face?”

I open my mouth, then close it. I can't remember.

Wait. Yes, I can.
The vigil. When I had to say goodbye to my friend, and everyone else I let down.

“This way.” Camus heads right, and I come with him, as if pulled by an invisible string.

Eventually we emerge into the sun. I squint against the bright azure sky, staggered by the expanse of blue. That sensation of vertigo I experienced while climbing to the roof momentarily returns, more powerful than ever, along with a new and completely irrational fear of falling up. I've gotten used to having a ceiling above me, walls and rock to protect me. There's none of that here. Only the sky, broken by mountainous upthrusts of earth.

Behind us, Denali gorges on low clouds, the mountain range stretching in both directions as far as the eye can see. Alaska has entered into early autumn, but you wouldn't know it by the snow draped across the range's many peaks, like fondant on a cake. Everything is still beautiful, vibrant, and alive. I'd forgotten what it was like to breathe without the weight of a base pressing down on me, and expectation shadowing my every step. Even seeing the grass brings a subtle ache to my chest.

Stupid, pretty grass.

While I'm admiring the view, Camus slips his hand into mine, and I surprise myself by letting him. “I thought it might be worth reminding you there's a world that exists beyond McKinley.”

I respond to his sentiment with an unimpressed face, though truthfully, I'm glad to be out here.
With him.
“It's a nice thought, Camus, but I don't have the time for this…”

He squeezes my hand gently, and I have to stare straight ahead to avoid losing it then and there. If I look at him, I'll see the man I failed. The one I promised to love, who I shunted aside the moment things got difficult. And he'll see me: not the leader I'm supposed to be, but a broken spirit held together by spite and stubbornness. Insubstantial as a wisp, sustained only by the belief of others. I almost preferred when I was trapped in the wilderness with the machines; at least then I knew who I was fighting.

“I understand the temptation to bury yourself in work,” Camus says, “to starve the pain and loneliness by keeping busy. How do you think I kept my grief at bay for so long after you died? But Rhona…”

I take a shaky breath, unable to meet his eyes, even as he moves into my view.

“Look at me.” I refuse, but he takes a breath and continues anyway. “Fighting the good fight is noble, especially now. There's never been a time when we've needed heroes more. But what's the point of being the hero if it means you're standing alone at the end?” He squeezes my hand, thumb rolling over the valleys between my knuckles. “The machines have taken enough. Don't give them your happiness, too. Don't give them us.”

I clench my fists tight enough to cut off blood flow. Anything to distract myself from the knot in my throat, my stinging eyes. “Isn't it selfish to only worry about myself?”

“It's not selfish to want to be happy.” He lowers his voice, but even then, the quiet magnifies it. I'd almost call the soft, ambient noise around us peaceful, except I'm accustomed to the constant, angry hum of the air conditioning and other machinery that keeps McKinley base running. Their absence makes me nervous more than anything else. “Why should everyone else get a happy ending but you?”

I mumble something about sacrifice, about fulfilling the promises I've made to others. The exact wording isn't important. Camus doesn't go for it, and I barely believe the regurgitated nonsense myself.

“I hope you'll pardon my language, but that's bullshit,” Camus says. “I don't buy into the belief that victory should come at all costs. Surely some part of you must realize that, too.”

“Don't call me Shirley.”

He sighs. “Rhona.”

I cross my arms. “Look. Bullshit or not, I've made my bed. Everyone relies on me. Everything rests on me getting this right. Everything.”

“That's your old, American, bootstrap mentality talking,” he says. “This ridiculous notion that success or failure revolves around only
your
actions is archaic and, frankly, self-defeating. It ignores the other factors involved, factors outside any single person's control. It ignores the role that chance plays.

“Take this war. Take everyone in this base.” He gestures at the mountain. “What did any of us do that made us more deserving of life than any of the millions who have died? The fact is, you can work hard, struggle, fulfill every promise you ever made…and still,
still
lose in the end. Nothing in this life is certain. That's why we have to make the most of where we are, and the time we have. You were willing to fight for us, once.” The abrupt shift of topic back to our relationship throws me off balance. “So, what's changed?”

Maybe it's the soft, desperate look in his eyes, or the sound of his voice breaking, or the culmination of the past few months finally bursting my heart like a fat pimple, but when I reach for another lazy excuse, some reason for my behavior, there's no answer I can think of to give. Nothing except for the truth.

“I'm
tired,
Camus.”

There.

I said it. It's done.

Except, not. Saying the words aloud is like slamming a pickax into a fragile dam. The tears release before I can pull myself together for the millionth time. “Do you get that? I'm just so tired of all the fighting, the dying, of pretending to be impervious when clearly I'm not. You know what?” I sound shrill, even to my own ears, out of control. “Maybe I should step down. Yeah. Maybe I should hand over the reins now, and save Hawking the trouble of deposing me. The queen is dead, long live the queen.”

I laugh, because if I don't, I'm worried I might start screaming.

Camus watches me like I'm a child playing too near the street. Like at any moment I'm going to dart out and get hit by a car. I don't think he knows how to handle my destructive bout of self-deprecation. Which only encourages me to take it further, as far as I can, until he says something. Pulls me back from the brink.

Help me. Someone please fucking help me.

“I mean, who really believes leaving me in charge is a good idea?” I kick at a stone near my boot, dirt and grass exploding at once. I watch the stone careen down the side of the hill, toward the mountain, while the pressure that's been building inside me all this time finally explodes. “I'm irrational. Impulsive. I don't think before I speak. I'm hard on people when I need to be soft, and make soft decisions when I need to make hard ones. Just look at this last meeting.” I slap my forehead. “My God. Hawking's right. I'm being naïve…”

After playing competent and in control for so long, it feels good to rake myself across the coals. Like every piece of flesh I can verbally strip from myself will make me that much lighter.

The pain pulls me from my head, and I'm so tired of living inside my head.

I want to be free.

I want to not be afraid anymore.

I want Camus back.
This last thought startles me. It's the first time I've honestly admitted to myself how much I've missed him since sending him away.

Camus doesn't respond to my tantrum with words. Instead, he folds me into his arms, holding me tightly to his chest. I wonder, if I struggled, pushed him away now…would he let me go? Probably. Camus isn't the type to force his company or affection on anyone; he barely gives it willingly. But I don't want to struggle—I want to break. Just this once, I want someone else to have to deal with the mess, even if that mess is only me. One woman at the end of her rope, dangling above yet another abyss.

“This isn't what I wanted,” Camus mumbles into my hair, his hand a soothing presence on my back. I'd forgotten how much consolation can be found in a simple embrace. “When I brought you out here—I didn't mean to upset you.”

I know
, I want to tell him.
This is my fault. I brought us to this point.
But my throat feels like shattered glass, and I can't catch my breath.

After another moment, I feel Camus swallow, and he says, “Everything you said is true.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

“I'm not finished. You are impulsive, and sometimes a little naïve. But I could just as easily call it compassion. You're quick to want to help others. You always believe a solution can be found, despite the universe conspiring against you, and everyone telling you otherwise. As for soft decisions…choosing to live and let live isn't a soft decision. If it were me, and they were my clones, I'm not sure I would be so benevolent. I like to think I'm a better man now than I was before you came back into my life, but even so, it's in my nature to be guarded. To protect myself, and the people I care about.”

He stands back from me a little, tilting my chin up, so I'm forced to look him in the eyes. “In your rather exhaustive list of failings, you also failed to mention one thing. Because you do have your flaws, and you may be an imperfect leader—but do you know what you are to me? Above all things? You, Rhona Long, are a miracle.”

I fight to not roll my eyes at the loaded statement. “Please…”

“I don't mean that in the biblical sense—I don't expect you to start multiplying fishes and loaves, or transforming water into wine. I refer to the most basic, working definition. Simply, you are amazing and unexpected. If others fail to see it, or disagree with it, then that's their problem. Not yours.”

Camus's words hit home. More than that, they remind me I still have a home—not a physical location, no, unless you count McKinley. But together, maybe he and I can construct something that will last, something that can survive beyond the destruction of a building or base. Between us, maybe there's material worth salvaging beneath all the rubble.

I clear the tears from my cheeks. “I know I should reply with something profound and moving right now…but I really think you should just kiss me.”

Camus surrenders a tiny smile. “Is that so?”

I nod, already interlocking my fingers behind his neck and dragging his head down toward my lips. “Yeah.”

But then he stops, inches before our mouths meet. “Wait.”

He drops to one knee, reaches into his jacket pocket, and withdraws a thin chain necklace. Attached to the end a small ring twirls, dancing in the air, glittering silver in the light of the sun. Camus smiles up at me.

“I wanted to wait for the right moment. I planned it all out in my head—I've been planning it since before you sent me to Timbuktu…”

“Yakutsk,” I correct.

He chuckles, nodding. “But then I realized, there's no such thing as the right moment. The future might be perfect, but the present is all we have. And I'm done denying the fact that I want to be with you. Now, and for the rest of my life. Rhona Long,” Camus says, with all the ceremony of a gothic hero, “will you marry me?”