Machinations (15 page)

He surrenders to a faint smile. “Don't get cocky.”

I spin around in my chair a little, propelling myself with one hand on the table. “Come on, Camus. Would it kill you to admit I did a good job?”

“Do you really need my commendation?”

“No?”

“Is that a statement or a question?”

“Yes?” I reply in the same inflection, intentionally teasing him this time.

He shakes his head, and for a moment—one incredible, lunar eclipse of a moment—I think he might even laugh. But he manages to rein in his amusement, depriving me of that, as well.

Too bad.

Later, as we're leaving, Meir catches us, accompanied by Glasses, whose name I really should find out.

“Commanders, a moment more of your time? There was one other matter I wanted to discuss with you both. I would have brought it up during the meeting, but wouldn't you know it? It slipped my mind.” She looks suitably embarrassed by the gaffe. “Now that Commander Long is back with us, don't you feel it would benefit the cause if she were to go on the proverbial wires and announce her return?”

The request appears to catch Camus off guard. A strange expression passes over his features, darkly suspicious. He says nothing, and Meir goes on.

“I'm aware you may have some reservations about broadcasting from here, which is why I'm prepared to offer Churchill as an alternative location for the broadcast. My scientists have been working on a system that would prevent—”

“That's generous of you,” Camus says, interrupting, uncharacteristically rude. “Especially at such great risk to your base.”

Meir takes it in stride, ever the consummate professional. “Not so great. As I was saying, we believe we have figured out a way to avoid detection when sending out a signal.”

“Really?” Camus feigns surprise. “Then I'm sure you can share the technology with us, and we'd be able to avoid the dangers of a trip to Churchill altogether.”

“It's still in development. But Commander Long is welcome to stay with us in the meantime. She can tour the base as well as oversee some of our daily operations. I'm sure it would mean a great deal to our residents.”

“A visit from the Red Menace would certainly boost morale,” Glasses agrees.

I'm confused. “Communism?”

Glasses laughs and pushes his namesake up the bridge of his nose. “Not exactly, Commander. It's just a nickname some of our soldiers gave you, because of your hair. And because you've been one hell of a menace to the machines. Pardon the language.”

The jury's out on the name, but I'm starting to warm to Meir's idea when Camus answers with a frigid, “We'll need to discuss it.”

Oh,
sure.
He says that
now,
but I already hear a big, fat whopping
No
in his tone. I don't like the way he's excluding me from the decision.

“I don't see why not,” I say.

“I don't need an answer right this minute,” Meir says, cleverly backing out of the conflict she's created. “But I do wish you to consider it.” She nods. “Commanders.”

Camus gives the slightest nod back in acknowledgment, so slow and tense I expect his neck to audibly creak.

Meir and Glasses go one way and we go another.

“Mind telling me what
that
was all about?” I ask after we're out of earshot. I struggle to keep up with his lengthy stride, even with him on crutches and a bum leg. I can tell he's angry, but I don't think it's directed at me.

“Do you have to be so damned contrary all the time?” he asks.

“I don't
have
to,” I say, “but we're supposed to be partners in this. And I don't like being left out of the loop.”

“Of course,” he agrees, although he doesn't look particularly happy about it. He slows his pace to accommodate me.

“So?” I prompt.

He stops and draws me into an empty room to speak privately. I can't help feeling a tingle of excitement across my skin, being alone with him, even though I know nothing will happen.

“This whole visit, this meeting, everything…it's all in order to get you. It has nothing—or at least very little—to do with concerns about Valdez. Evelyn knew if she came with that agenda, she would be summarily turned down. So she employed the salesman's tactic of opening with a steep price to make a high price seem a deal. It's also why she conveniently forgot to mention it during the meeting, and only brought it up afterward. To make it seem insignificant, an afterthought. When in reality, it's been her endgame all along.”

“Hold on. Stop. Rewind. Why does she want me in the first place?”

“Samuel didn't have a chance to brief you, did he?” Camus says.

“I…no. A killer machine kind of got in the way of that yesterday, and there was no time this morning.”

“Then to answer your question in a word: politics. Evelyn's gotten it into her head that if she aligns herself with you—someone who is a powerful symbol of humanity—then when we finally vanquish the machines, she'll be in a good standing to assume a high level of authority in the new world order. That's not even considering the short-term ramifications, such as economic and tactical support. As I said before, if you called, half a dozen bases in the Northern Hemisphere would come running. It's helped McKinley in the past, and she believes it would help Churchill in the future.”

“Wow. That offer's a lot less flattering now. She's made it before, I take it?”

“Yes, but never seriously, and never with as much to recommend her argument.” I'm about to ask him what he means, but he reads my mind. “She was right about our security. Something is clearly wrong here.” The reality appears to exasperate him. He lays a fist against the wall, bending his forehead to it. “I just don't know what.”

It doesn't take much to read between the lines.

“I'm still in danger,” I say.

“Yes,” he says, never one to mince words. “Until we find out who was responsible for reprogramming the machine, it's better to assume you're not safe. I'll do what I can, but you also need to be careful.”

I frown. “You're not going to restrict my access again, are you?”

“No. Limiting you to one level or location would only make it easier for your attackers to find and trap you. But I am going to assign you a guard detail. The choice of who will be yours.”

After this latest incident, I'm certainly not going to argue against it. Camus opens the door and leads us back into the hallway. Before we part ways, he stops, bringing his gaze to me. Something soft and gentle is in his eyes. “And Rhona?” My heart sings at his use of my name. “Good job today.”

Dinner that night with Meir proves to be its own odd brand of torture. I'm subjected to glimpses of the man I love as Camus and I maintain our charade of companionate lovers in front of our guests. I smile at him. He brushes the side of my hand on the table, reaching for silverware. I eat off his plate. He laughs at my jokes. It's all very sweet, very romantic. But none of it's real.

Not for him, anyway.

I've just turned on the TV and collapsed into bed to forget the whole thing when the door threatens more company. More
acting.
There's a part of me that resists answering it, the volume control on the remote proving a great temptation.
I can just turn it up,
and then I won't hear a thing.

In the end, I stomp across the carpeted floor and open the door. I'm glad I do, because it's not Meir or Camus or anyone else who wants anything from me. It's just Samuel, here with his usual offering of friendship.

“Hey,” I say, like we're eighteen again, when that was an acceptable way to start a conversation.

He opens his mouth, presumably to greet me back, but stops midway and wrinkles his brow. “Am I imagining things or is that the
A-Team
theme song I hear?”

“What? Oh.” I step aside, prompting him to come in. He immediately beelines it to stand in front of the TV, where a motley group of characters are jumping into a black, red-striped van. “Yeah. Found it in the digital catalog along with some other relics from the eighties. It's dated, but the theme song rang a bell.”

“Your dad used to love
The A-Team,
” Samuel tells me, smiling, hypnotized by the hijinks on the screen. “He owned every season, converted you to a fan at an early age. I remember how you used to make me sit and watch them with you when I came over. That and the original
Battlestar Galactica
series. That was more my taste. Science fiction, you know.”

I faintly remember those days, with Samuel and me huddled together in the giant armchair my dad had marked as his. He was gone a lot with the military, so we made up for the vacancy. This is how the memory looks in my head, but there's no way of knowing whether it's accurate; I could be filling in the blanks with what makes sense to me, what I'd like the past to look like, warm and friendly. I've begun to wonder how much I recall is actually real, and how much is stuff I've made up, cushioning the loss in my head.

We're both watching the screen now, side by side.

“I'll tell you one good thing about memory loss, though,” I remark. “It's like watching everything for the first time again.”

“In that case, we'll have to break out
Battlestar
one of these days, too. I haven't seen it in forever.”

I plop down on the bed, suddenly tired. It's an effort to remain social, but for Samuel, I try my best. “So, what have you been up to? I haven't seen you all day.”

“Oh, not much. Caught up with some old friends, and some old studies. Nothing too exciting. I was going to come look for you around two, but I figured the meeting was still going.”

“Nooo.”
I shake my head. “I'm pretty sure I'd have committed seppuku if it'd gone on that long.”

Again, he grins, a few degrees from laughter, always free with the expression. Unlike Camus, whose heart is currently boarded up against me, business between us being what it is. The difference between them is staggering, sometimes.

“I hope that's not an indication of how the meeting actually went,” Samuel comments.

I shrug. “More a reflection of the company. You wouldn't believe the politics.”

“Yeah, I'm not sorry to say my expertise doesn't include political science. I'm happiest leaving the bureaucracy to you and the council. Give me a toad to dissect any day of the week.”

“I'm sure you could've found one in that meeting without much difficulty.” This time, Samuel does chuckle, but doesn't vocalize his agreement. Ever the diplomat, with never a bad word to say about anyone. I wonder how he does it.

“Is everything okay?” Samuel asks me, sitting down on the edge of the bed. I almost wish he was heavier, so his indentation in the mattress would pull us together. My sudden desire to be closer to him—or maybe just my desperate need for human contact of any sort—twists my gut with guilt. I shouldn't be thinking such things, especially not about my best friend.
Then again, why not?
says a tiny, treasonous voice in the back of my head.
Camus doesn't want you.

“Why?” I manage to sound light, nonchalant.

“I don't know. You just seem a little out of it.”

Don't do it. Don't drag Samuel into your little melodrama.
“Really?” I reply neutrally.

He focuses on me,
The
A-Team
all but forgotten in the background. “Did something happen during the meeting?”

“Actually, the meeting went well,” I answer, recalling Camus's parting congratulations.
I'm surprised he didn't choke on the words.
It's an uncharitable thought, but after dinner tonight, I'm not exactly in a place, emotionally, to be generous toward my lover. “Granted, I'm not sure what precedent I set before, but I think I met it.”

“I knew you would,” Samuel says.
Always confident. Always faithful…

I wait for him to say more, to voice any one of the thoughts stirring concern into his soft, brown eyes. Instead, he says, “Well, I don't want to disturb your marathon. I should let you get back to your show…” But he doesn't get up from the bed. I don't think he really wants to leave.

I
don't want him to leave.

“Camus came to visit me the other night,” I blurt, despite my reservations.

Samuel's brows bounce up and down as he tries to hide his surprise and then decide what expression to respond with instead. He settles on polite interest. “Oh?”

“We fought.” I sigh. “Again. He thinks it's over between us. That what we had died with the previous Rhona. He wants me to give up.”

After staring at the bedspread for a few seconds, Samuel finally summons the courage to look me in the eyes. “I know this isn't what you want to hear, but maybe he's right.” I resist the urge to get defensive and let him continue. “Rhona, have you ever considered this might be a chance to…I don't know, start over? Maybe this is your tabula rasa. A chance to wipe the slate clean. Begin again.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

In truth, there's something wonderfully attractive about the idea of starting fresh, of becoming someone else—anyone else. But is that what I want? Or am I just afraid? Afraid of failing to live up to my dead donor's legacy, of letting everyone down?

All I know is that I'm tired of feeling like I'm taking blow after blow after blow in the ring, while Camus watches from the sidelines.

Samuel has never made me fight for him. Samuel has never pretended with me…

“No, I know it's not,” Samuel says. “I didn't mean to suggest that.”

“Look at us,” I say after another short period of silence. I crack a smile, brittle with self-pity. “I'm a mess. Whoever thought it was a good idea to put me in charge of anything?”

Samuel frowns and scoots a little closer, briefly squeezing my hand. “You're not a mess.”

“That makes one of us,” I say. “But thanks.”

“Of course,” Samuel says, and then we both return our attention to the screen.

The bed is large enough to accommodate the two of us comfortably with plenty of space left over, but somehow over the course of two episodes we end up smooshed in the middle. It happens slowly, like the gravitational pull of two planets (I think Samuel would enjoy that analogy). At first neither of us notices, and by the time we do notice, neither of us cares.

“Just like old times, huh?” Samuel remarks, letting me lean against him.

“Yeah, I seem to recall you hogging the armchair then, too.”

“That's funny,” he replies. “I remember just the opposite.”

We laugh a little at our own expense, and as I look at him I feel…something. I'm not sure how to describe it except to call it just that, a feeling. The culmination of a thousand thoughts never afforded the chance to breathe. It's not a shadow cast by the past or some emotional relic left over from history. This is unique to my new life, unique to me as I am now.

We both lean in and our lips touch briefly, meeting in a new and exciting way. The contact lasts a second, maybe two. And the whole time, I feel him here with me, not trying to escape, nor pushing back against my affection. Doing everything right, just like I wish someone else would—
oh, no.

I shoot backward like a bolt of lightning.

“Oh my God,” I say into my hand.

Samuel's brows draw together. Is he confused or penitent?

“I'm sorry,” he says, like a reflex.

Of course.
“No, that's not—” My lips still tingle. Maybe I'm imagining it. “If anyone should be apologizing, it's me…”

But Samuel launches into an explanation before I can stop him, throwing me a lifeline I neither want nor deserve. “It's, uh, likely symptomatic of adrenaline. I mean, with everything going on…Stanley Schachter and Jerome Singer had a two-factor theory concerning emotional reaction. The theory explained that a misattribution of arousal could conceivably be a result of…”

I raise an eyebrow.

Embarrassment flushes his cheeks in a flattering pink color. “The study had flaws,” he finishes in a quiet murmur.

His eyes roam back to the television, but I watch him a moment longer, examining the possibility that briefly flared between us just now. I never noticed before how thin that line was, how easy to cross over. Samuel is trustworthy, intelligent, kind, quick to laugh, and to forgive—an easy person to love. Not to mention that he's done so much for me. There are countless qualities to recommend him. But a relationship isn't an interview. It isn't defined by cold, logical facts, or who has the best résumé. The most qualified candidate doesn't always get the job. And even now, as I sit here, my mouth tingling from another man's lips, my heart is still pulled to Camus. It was cruel to kiss Samuel. Cruel and stupid, stupid,
stupid.

After another moment of awkwardness, we both attempt to speak. “You first,” I say.

“Okay.” Samuel clears his throat. “Well. Now probably isn't the ideal time to spring something like this on you, but given what just happened…”

I force myself to look at him, even though part of me would rather crawl under a rock. The seconds when he isn't speaking burrow into me like pins, causing my skin to itch. This is torture. What was I thinking?

“You have to know I value our friendship more than anything,” Samuel finally begins.

“I do. I know that. Of course I know that.”

“There was a moment yesterday,” he continues, “when the machine threw you against the wall, that I seriously thought I was going to lose you. And I'm talking for good, this time. There are no more clones, Rhona. Whatever potential there was for more went up in smoke when we blew the facility at Brooks, and I'm not sure I can even re-create the process without all the data I lost there. All your original memories and their backups were stored in local servers. Adding to which, you don't have the transference chip to map your neural pathways that Rhona had in her head when she died; the new memories would all be lost. You—
you
would be lost. I knew if you died, that was it. We weren't getting a third chance. And it terrified me.”

I rub his shoulder without thinking about it, as if to say
It's okay,
even though I'm not sure it is.

“The past two days, I've been thinking: What would have happened if I hadn't come looking for you? Or if you hadn't asked that guard for directions so he knew where you were? All these what-ifs, like an endless string of probabilities, and no matter how hard I try, I can't be objective. Not when they each end with you murdered by a machine in the very place you're supposed to be safest.”

“Hey, I'm tougher to kill than that,” I remind him.

“Yeah, you are,” he agrees. “You're amazing. But you're not invincible. And I think that's part of the reason why
you
scare me, too, if I'm honest. You know me. I'm not as brave as you or Camus. I'm just a scientist. I like control, and for things to make sense. But then here you are, completely unpredictable, as vulnerable as anyone, this…
impossible
variable in my life.”

“I think that's meant to be a compliment,” I say slowly, squinting, “but I'm not sure.”

He smiles, embarrassed. “No, no…I mean yes, it is. A compliment. Sort of. What I'm trying to say—admittedly poorly—is sometimes I don't know how to handle it. I'm doing my best, but…” He gestures helplessly.

“Which is why you kissed me back,” I conclude quietly.

“Yes,” he says, but I can't help feeling there's more to it. “To continue this rather pathetic analogy, I don't care
how
you fit into the equation, Rhona, so long as you're here with me, working it out. I'm yours, in whatever capacity you need me, so I don't want you to feel like there's any pressure for…anything else.”

“So if, right now, I just need a really good friend?”

“Then you're in luck,” he says with a wan smile. “That happens to be my specialty.”

“All right. My turn, then.” I inhale and exhale. “I'm having a really rough couple of days, but I shouldn't have taken out my frustrations on you.”

Samuel gives me a small, wry smile. “I didn't really mind.”

I laugh. “You're not helping.”

“I think I'm helping a little.”

He's right. In spite of the innuendo, the awkwardness has mostly vanished, and I feel a bit lighter than I did before he arrived, before our disastrous kiss. Less weighed down by circumstances, and more convinced that I'm on the right path.