Machinations (23 page)

“What came first, the chicken or the egg?” I asked Samuel after he told me all this. Did the higher echelon initially plan Glasgow, knowing it would prompt such a response? Was it a test to see if humanity could curb its appetite for violence? Or was it simply a malfunction, a tragedy, that we turned into something more? And if that was the case, wasn't the higher echelon simply doing what it was programmed to do: stop our wars?

We'll probably never know for sure. Obviously the virus failed.

Camus takes his finger away from his lips, and asks, “What do you propose we do then, Gratham?”

“We should be preparing McKinley for an attack.”

“We can do that
and
send aid to Churchill,” I offer. I've given it some thought—or as much thought as I could give it in the span of a few minutes—and I've already decided I won't condemn the rest of the base for the treachery of one or two of its leaders. However deep the conspiracy goes, I'm certain it doesn't involve most of those who call Churchill home. “The two don't have to be mutually exclusive.”

“All the resources we expend for Churchill take away from McKinley,” the even-keeled voice of Dahlia Cameron chimes in. She's a former lawyer, the same woman who sat in on the meeting with Meir forever ago. “We have an obligation to protect our own, first and foremost. I don't want to seem coldhearted, but I have to agree with Gratham on this.”

“Let's not put the cart before the horse,” Camus says, calming the emotional response of the councilors. “Do we still have Churchill on comm? Bring them up.”

I expect Commander Meir to appear on screen, but we get Glasses instead, whose first name I've learned is actually Jeffrey. But after I told him how I was referring to him in my head, he laughed and insisted I keep calling him Glasses. But he's not wearing his signature glasses now, his eyes rimmed with purple fatigue instead of black frames. He doesn't look like he's slept in days—years, even.

“For a few moments there, we thought you might have forgotten us,” he says with a desperate smile.

“Never,” I reply, thinking,
But apparently we're willing to abandon you.

“There's a lot of speculation going around, and I'm afraid it's causing some confusion,” Camus says diplomatically. “We were hoping you could set the record straight. What facts do you have concerning your security?”

“Intelligence intercepted a distress call originating from Copper Center. It's a small city in our purview. We deployed a rescue team to investigate, but there was no one there. After a few hours, they came back, and we passed it off as a ghost signal, an old SOS tripped by a power surge or shortage, something like that. It's happened before. We just figured…”

He sighs and drags a hand across his cheek, shame and exhaustion leaking through his pores. “We made a mistake, McKinley. The machines tracked our team back to base. We have it on good authority from our scouts, in position outside Valdez, that the enemy is preparing to mount an offensive right now. To tell the truth, I don't know what's taking them so long to make their move.”

“They don't know the size of your forces,” Camus assumes, trying to psychoanalyze the machines' behavior. “They're calculating risk, estimating the potential for losses.”

Glasses-without-his-glasses nods along with the assessment. “Believe me, I'm not complaining. It's given us some time to raise our defenses—”

“Why aren't you evacuating now?” Gratham interrupts.

“We started to, but somehow the machines knew about our escape routes. They collapsed our emergency tunnels.” His eyes look glossy, but I can't tell whether it's because he's tearing up or if it's just glare off the screen. “There were people in them at the time, trying to get out. It was…
terrible.
”

He shakes his head as if the word doesn't do the event justice. I remember being trapped beneath rubble, suffocated by panic, and the feeling of the whole world crumbling down around me. I glance at Camus, and the way he's locked his jaw makes me think he's remembering, too.

“It's only dumb luck they didn't land a direct hit on our main facility. Their weapons capabilities have certainly improved in the last year.”

“Yes, McKinley experienced some of their bunker-busting technology some months back,” Clarence says. The gears are turning in his mind. “Denali cushioned most of the damage. Our lower levels were unaffected. I don't think the machines have anything that can hurt us too badly, but the hangar is more susceptible. We'll have to look into it.” I can tell he's making mental notes to himself more than planning to actually give anyone else an order, already trying to engineer a better defense than the one that failed Churchill.

“Have there been any strafing runs, anything that would prevent air support?” Camus asks, much to Gratham's frustration. He huffs at the idea, adjusting and readjusting himself in his chair, unable to get comfortable. “Will we meet any resistance?”

“I won't lie to you. It's possible. It's been quiet for the last hour and a half, but there's nothing to say it'll stay that way for much longer.”

“How's the situation inside the base?”

Glasses judges his answer before speaking it aloud. “Fearful. Nothing major, though. Command has been keeping the panic down, but people are still afraid.”

“Where's Meir?” I ask.

“She's…indisposed,” Glasses answers uneasily.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Politics,” Camus offers.

Oh
, I think. Not indisposed.
Deposed.

Glasses starts to fiddle with his bifocals, obviously force of habit, before realizing they're no longer there anymore. “Commander Forsyth has the right of it. Some of Evelyn Meir's recent activities came to light—including, I'm afraid, her part in the attempt on your life, Commander Long.” He looks nervous and absolutely miserable, operating under the assumption we don't already know this. Which would have been true just a few days ago. “According to her, it was only meant to scare you, to motivate your move to Churchill base, but obviously that's no excuse. Intentions aside, the entire council deeply regrets the trauma you went through as a result, and has condemned her for the role she played in orchestrating such an attack.”

Everyone is watching me, waiting for my reaction. I try to push my personal feelings aside for the moment. If this had been my first time learning of Meir's involvement, it probably would have soured me on helping Churchill. But in the short time I've had to process it, I know it would be pointless to punish the rest of the base for the sins of its mother.

“It's in the past,” I proclaim. “Let's just deal with the present, and leave the rest for tomorrow.”

“Agreed,” Glasses says, visibly relieved by this decision. “Can we count on McKinley's help then?”

I open my mouth, but Camus's voice is there first. “We need to discuss the matter further, Commander, but we'll get back to you with all due haste.”

Camus makes an almost imperceptible cutting motion with a finger and Glasses disappears from the screen midsentence. The argument resumes almost immediately. There are advocates for both sides, each making valid, defensible points. I've never known reason to be so confusing.

“Even if we send aid, someone will have to go with the team to help organize the evacuation,” Ms. Cameron says. “This is a delicate matter. It requires delicate handling. Who among us wants to volunteer for the job?”

This sets off a secondary wave of dispute, some like Gratham, still holding on to their original position of isolationism, and others like Clarence, suggesting men or women who could get it done.

“I'll go,” I say, but no one hears me, except Camus.

“Rhona, no,” he whispers to me, placing a hand on my hand. There's something darkly worrying in his eyes.

“Hey!” I say louder, trying to get the room's attention.

Just as I think I've broken through, Camus lets go of my hand, pushes back from the table, and lurches to his feet. Everyone's eyes turn toward him, like in a film where all the actors know their cue.

“I'll lead the team,” he announces.

My eyes widen.
What
did he say?

“Camus!” I say in a forceful stage whisper. “What are you doing?” I've turned my head and back away from the crowd for the barest minimum of privacy between us, the words themselves squeezing past my teeth. I'm trying not to look as shocked as I feel.

He doesn't look at me. “Does anyone have any objections?” he asks to break the stunned silence.

Me!
I think so loudly I'm surprised my thoughts don't manifest aloud.
I object!

And yet the objection stays confined to my mind. I don't want to cause a scene in front of the council, not after the months I've spent painstakingly building back my reputation, proving myself as someone with restraint and control, when in reality, neither comes easily to me. Besides, the last thing I want to do right now is sow more discord in a room already fit to burst with it. Camus knows this, and I'm willing to bet he's relying on it to force my agreement. What I can't understand is why.

“I support the Commander's decision.” Clarence is the first to recover from the surprise and voice his opinion. Like a chain reaction, the other council members tip into concurrence, like so many domino pieces falling down.

My mouth is dry. I look to Gratham, hoping he'll play the devil's advocate for me. To my disappointment, he appears tired of the issue, the passion gone out of him. “I want it made clear I don't support this course of action,” he makes a point of saying, “but if it's what we're going with, then what the hell. Camus is as good a choice as any. More power to him if he wants to go be the hero.”

Faced with that allegation, Camus offers nothing in his own defense. But I don't buy it. I know him. He's not the type to believe in heroes or happy endings. Maybe once upon a time, but not anymore.

“Then it's decided,” Camus says.

“Wait,” I say, pumping the brakes on this whole thing as it hydroplanes out of my control. “I'll go with you. I'll go with Camus.”

I'm met with instant rejection before I can even make my case.

“Out of the question,” Gratham says.

“It's a bad idea, Commander,” Clarence says.

“You're too valuable to lose,” Cameron adds. “We can't spare both of you.”

“I appreciate the concern, Rhona, but I can handle the matter,” Camus tells me, affecting tenderness as he takes my hand. We've played this game in front of the council before, but it was always to help secure my position. The more he accepted me, the more it cemented the council's trust. So why is he doing it now when it has no bearing on the situation? Why is he circling his thumb against the tender part of my wrist, when no one else can see it? When no one else can
feel
it, no one but me and him.

I think he's trying to tell me something with his eyes. “Stay. McKinley needs you here.”

And then it clicks. He's offering me a graceful way to bow out. How kind of him.

My every instinct says to fight this. But I can't decide whether it's because I genuinely feel I could do a better job or out of some juvenile sense of entitlement. Or simply because I don't want Camus to go. And that's when I realize I've already lost the battle. “All right,” I say at last, my throat tight with resentment, and not all of it directed at Camus. I'm ashamed of myself for being so selfish and nearsighted. “I'll stay, help in whatever way I can.”

The details of the evacuation are worked out with Glasses over comms and the meeting concludes. I'm leaving when Camus catches me and asks for a word in private.

“Oh, I can think of a few choice ones to give you,” I tell him.

“Will you allow me to explain?” he inquires softly.

“Depends on who I'm talking to.” His brow scrunches up in confusion. Good. Keep him on the defensive for once. “Am I speaking with Camus the nice or Camus the grouch? Camus the friend or Camus the leader? You're so damned inconsistent I never know what I'm going to get with you.”

“That isn't fair.”

“Don't talk about fairness with me. What the hell was that back there in the meeting? Look at me. I want to know.”

He looks at me with pointed confusion, as if I should know. “I realize you're upset, but that wasn't my intention.”

“That wasn't your intention? Okay. Then what
was
your intention, Camus?”

“We can't have this discussion here.” He's right. We're standing in the middle of the hall and people are starting to stare. “There are some preparations I need to make, but later, tonight,” he suggests instead. “My room. I'll answer your questions then. Agreed?”

“Fine,” I answer moodily. I'm still angry with him, even if he's trying to be agreeable.
Too little too late on that account, Camus.

After we part, I head for the military level in the opposite direction, taking the longer way by stairs. I desperately want to shoot something.

Camus is already halfway out the door when I show up at his room. He's dressed in full combat gear—thermal flight suit, flak jacket, boots, and of course a holster for his EMP-G. All he needs to complete the aviator-hero look is a pair of shiny, silver sunglasses, but instead I'm treated to a clear view of his soul. There's no longer that cautious distance he kept between us like a wall. The windows are open. I feel a breeze of hope.

But also a niggling fear. He's leaving sooner than expected.

“They've moved up the timetable. We're heading out now instead of tomorrow morning,” he tells me as we move back inside to talk. Before I can ask why, he explains. “Weather concerns. They want to get us in the air as soon as possible. I regret we won't have more time.”