Machinations (31 page)

I grow increasingly anxious when I can't find the face I'm looking for, and the pulsing atmosphere of fear doesn't help any.

“Wait here,” Ulrich says.

I don't wait there. I step forward, asking, “Does anyone here know where Commander Forsyth is?” I voice the question like this is some kind of open forum, hoping someone knows something. Anything.

“He's not back yet,” volunteers a woman, and it takes me a moment to recognize Evelyn Meir beneath all the dirt, grime, and frost. I'm caught off guard by a sharp stab of anger, a bitter recognition of the injustice. Why should she be alive, with all her scheming and selfish politicking, when Jeffrey—who put his base before himself—is dead?

“Where's he gone?” I ask, trying to dam up my resentment.

“I couldn't tell you. I'm not exactly in good standing with our dear Commander Forsyth.”

“Then why are you wasting my time?”

“For starters, I was hoping to change that. Most believe in working from the ground up, but I prefer aiming for the top.” I choose to ignore her poor, all too apropos metaphor, for the sake of civility. “However, if I can be of assistance to you or Camus or our cause, do let me know.”

For a woman as eloquent as Meir, I can't help feeling every word is deliberate. Calculated. She hasn't changed at all. The cuts and bruises add a degree of vulnerability, meekness, maybe, but they haven't broken her ambitions. Unbelievable. Who would've guessed the machinations of man could ever be as unfeeling as those of the machines themselves?

I step close to her, keeping my voice low. “I don't know what it must be like in your imagined world of political intrigue,
former
Commander, and quite frankly I don't want to, but if you jeopardize the safety of me or any of these other people here, I swear to God…I'll give you to the machines.”

Her smile freezes on her face. I've surprised her. It's a good feeling. “You must have misheard me. I was offering to help—”

“I heard what you said. Now hear what I'm saying. I know what you're trying to do. No more, Evelyn. You try anything like the stunt you pulled at McKinley and we're going to have problems.”

She blinks, caught out. “As you say,” she demurs.

I leave while I still have the upper hand, while my temper holds. “Keep an eye on her,” I order one of the soldiers nearby, a man I recognize from one of the McKinley evac teams. In truth, I don't expect she'll try anything now, especially without any people or resources at her disposal, but better safe than sorry.

“Rhona would have been more diplomatic,” Ulrich says as we're walking away, a smile twitching beneath his bushy beard.

“Not this Rhona,” I respond, rubbing the pain in my shoulder. “This Rhona watched better people than Meir die today.
This
Rhona is sick and tired of all the…all this…” I struggle for an appropriate curse.

“Schiesse,”
Ulrich supplies in German.

“If by
schiesse
you mean complete bullshit, then yes.”

“Commander!” I turn to see Rankin booking it down the ramp toward us. I'm worried by the absence of Kennedy, and the tone that tells me something's happened.

“Is Kennedy all right?” I blurt out.

He looks confused, but recovers swiftly. “Kennedy? Yeah, the kid's just sleeping off some meds in one of the upper levels. But that's not why I'm here. The away team's just returned, and you're gonna want to come quick, Rhona. Camus is with them, but he's in a bad way.”

“How bad?” I ask as we race back up the ramp, to a back entrance on the ground floor of parking. Soldiers are still stumbling in, dazed and bloodied. I search but don't find Camus among the shell-shocked faces. “Where is he?”

“They must have taken him upstairs. They've set up a kind of clinic for themselves on the third and fourth floors. It's this way.”
Not a practical location for the seriously wounded,
the logical portion of my brain manages to think against the screaming background crescendo of anxiety. But it's quickly forgotten.

“How bad, Rankin?” I ask him again in the stairwell.

“The machines got the drop on them. He took two rounds in the chest.” He glances back at me from four steps up, reads my halted expression. “Sorry, Rhona. That's all I know.”

My response is to take the stairs two steps at a time.
Faster, faster.
It seems almost inconceivable that Camus could die before I reach him, after everything I've done to get here. But then, I haven't exactly had the best of luck lately.

We catch them on a landing before the last flight of stairs. They've had to stop so Camus can catch his breath. He leans heavily on Samuel, who's beneath one of his arms, helping to support his weight.

A different man—one I don't recognize, but who has the look of a medical professional about him (or maybe that's wishful thinking)—is beneath Camus's other arm. It seems they're the only thing keeping him upright, and I feel a bit faint myself at the sight of all the blood.
Too much
, I keep thinking, my head hot and swimming with fear.
It's too much blood.

I rush to Camus without considering the consequences. He blinks at me, eyes glazed with pain, but the recognition is almost immediate. “No,” he moans. “No, no.”

“Why can't you ever be happy to see me?” I tease him, but I'm too full of emotion and it comes out sounding more like a genuine complaint.

“Of course I'm—” Pain splits the thought in half. His head drops forward and he wheezes. “Why did you come?” he asks me, before turning on Samuel, all accusation. “Why did
you
let her come?”

Samuel's brows lower defensively. “When was the last time I
let
Rhona do anything?”

“Come on now, Commander,” says Camus's other support beam. There are flecks of silver in the man's brown hair. I hope that means he's old and wise and he'll know what to do when it comes to saving Camus's life. Because right now, I'm watching that life leaking down his arm, dripping onto the floor in dark droplets.

“We have to get you to the third floor. Can't have you bleeding out on the landing, not one of our commanders-in-chief. No, sir. We're almost there.”

Although it's clearly agonizing for him, he takes a step, one and then another, tackling the stairs with jaws clenched and the unwavering determination he's known for. But even still, he doesn't make it to the top on his own power. His strength is flagging by the sixth step, and gone by the eighth. It takes all of us to carry him the rest of the way, trying not to jostle him and make the injuries worse.

As we lay him down on a bed, he reaches for me, his hand passing across the flap of my jacket, just missing me. I step closer, take his hand in mine, but it's only for a moment. “Don't you leave me,” I tell him, right before I'm rushed out of the room by the medics.

Camus flatlines sometime in the middle of the night.

None of the doctors tell me directly; instead I have to hear about it through the grapevine, and even then accounts are confused. One man gossips to his friends that Commander Forsyth is dying; another man says he heard he was already dead. When I ask another woman, one of the medical staff, she staunchly insists he survived surgery just fine. But I see the doubt in her eyes. That's what scares me the most. All of this is merely compounded by the fact that when I try to see him, the doctors refuse to let me inside the room.

“I want to see him,” I say, and if it's not clear by my manner or tone, I add a hard
“Now.”

The physician looks uncomfortable with the confrontation, but it's clear he's already gotten his orders from someone else. “There was a lot of blood. We're still cleaning up…”

“Is he dead?” Somehow I manage to distance myself from the words. It's the only thing keeping me from screaming them.

“Dead?” His eyebrows rise almost comically high. “No! I mean, no, of course not. Who told you that, Commander?” The relief brings me right to the edge of hysteria. I have to cover my face with my hands to hide the shine of tears in my eyes.

The physician continues quickly. “Commander Forsyth had a close call about half an hour ago, but the doctors have stabilized him since then.”

My throat is still tight when I ask, “Is he conscious?”

The discomfort returns, apparently slipping in somewhere beneath his shirt collar, since that's what he keeps tugging at. “I couldn't tell you, Commander.”

Something clicks. I shake my head. “He's conscious. Or was…”

“Briefly,” he admits.

“And I'm willing to bet he told you to keep me out, huh?”

His silence is as good as a confirmation. I don't know whether to feel angry or amused. Camus and his stupid pride.

“I'm going in now,” I tell him, and this time he doesn't argue.

Inside, the room is the size of a one-bedroom apartment—because it once
was
a one-bedroom apartment. A place to start a life. There are still decorative touches from the previous owner, lamps and bookends and cheap posters masquerading as famous works of art. I also notice a depression in one side of a sofa from where someone must have spent years wearing in their spot. Even having been abandoned for so long, the place still has a hauntingly lived-in quality to it.

That eerie feeling might owe something to the blood, too. When we carried him in, Camus was bleeding badly—I know, I
remember.
But the scene before me puts it into too fresh a perspective.

Bloody spots in the carpet have turned brown, dried and crusted. Some Churchillians are trying to scrub out the stains, but they're having a hard time with it. On the wall near the door, a red handprint is preserved where one of us must have touched it for additional support while bringing Camus inside. Seems the physician wasn't lying about cleaning up, after all. I'd think it a waste of time if it weren't something to keep the civilians busy. Any distraction, no matter how simplistic or moderately unpleasant, is probably welcome at this point.

I carefully step around the cleaning crew in time to run into the man from before, the one with gray in his hair, as he's leaving the bedroom-surgery. I catch a glimpse of Camus inside, but only a glimpse, because the doctor shuts the door behind him.

“Commander Long,” he greets me.

“How is he?” I ask, thinking it might be a good idea to prepare myself for what I'm going to find past that door.

“Weak,” he answers candidly, “but strong willed.”

I smile halfheartedly. “Sounds about right. What's all this about him flatlining, though?”

“There was a close call earlier. Closer than I'd like, I'll admit. He's just resting now. I'd recommend not disturbing him, but I have a feeling that's a request that will go ignored.”

“I see my reputation precedes me,” I reply. “Don't worry. I won't be long.”

As I pass him, I place a hand on his shoulder. “And thanks, Doc,” I add. “For everything you've done.”

“You know, I was a pediatrician before the Machinations. Back then, I never could have imagined treating gunshot wounds inflicted by thinking, reasoning machines. And now here I am. Funny how life turns out, isn't it?” He smiles grimly, sadly. I know that look. He doesn't know how he got here. Do any of us?

Upon entering the bedroom, I'm immediately confronted with the sight of Mount Juneau from the nearest window. It takes up the entire pane, a hulking mass of black topped with glowing white, almost yellow in the moonlight.
Breathtaking,
I think, even as my breath fogs up the glass. It's easier to look outside, above the ranks of machines and men…

Away from the man lying in bed behind me.

It's ironic, really. For the past five days, I've longed for nothing more than to see Camus's face again. And now I'm afraid to look at him.

“Talk about your room with a view, huh?” I break the ice with as neutral a topic as I can find. I would've opened with commentary on the weather, but seeing as it's night, it's difficult to tell what it's like outside. Still dismal, I don't doubt. From what I've observed, Alaska vacillates between two weather patterns: cold and cloudy, or cloudless and freezing. I rub my hands together for warmth and then blow into them, achieving little effect. “Could use a better heater, though…”

“Rhona.” His voice is a dry croak. He swallows, trying to fix it. “I should have known you'd subvert my plans. Somehow, you always manage…to do that.” He closes his eyes for a moment, head lolling to the side on his pillow.

“Well, you know me. I hate to be predictable.”

“Mhm.” His lips form a weak, fatigued smile.

I sit down on the edge of the mattress, going over my thoughts and wondering if there's something I could be doing for him. Camus reads my mind. “Could you pass me some water, please?” I grab the glass on the end table, and hold it to his lips, which are cracked and peeling from the cold. “Thank you,” he says after he's had enough to drink.

“How are you?” I ask him.

“I feel like I've been shot,” he answers. “But other than that…”

I smile. “Camus, did you give the physicians outside orders to keep me out?”

Camus rolls his eyes at my musical gotcha tone. “I gave orders to keep everyone out. Seeing your commander bleeding and bedridden is not exactly what you would call good for morale. But you especially, yes, I didn't want—I know how you feel about blood.”

I set Camus's empty glass back on the table, largely in an effort to avoid looking at him when I say, “Yeah, well, you should also know how I feel about
you.
” It's still a little weird being this frank and open about my feelings for Camus, since for the longest time it was the enormous elephant in our quarters we just didn't acknowledge.

Camus tries to sit up, but his wounds prevent him. I place a hand on his shoulder, encouraging him to stay still. His eyes are filled with love and worry as he stares at me.

“You shouldn't be here. Wait, I'm not finished,” he adds, cutting off my objection. “You shouldn't be here, and you know exactly why, so don't bother pretending otherwise.” He pauses, emits a sigh. “All the same, for purely selfish reasons, I'm glad you are.”

He raises his arm, inviting me to curl up next to him on the bed, and I'm cautious not to jostle him as I do. His cheek falls against my head and he breathes out. The tension leaves him for a time.

“Camus,” I ask after a brief interlude of peace and quiet. There's been a question building inside me for a long time, and I decide now's as good a time as any to have it answered. Now might be the only chance I get to ask. “If I'd had all of my memories, like I was supposed to, do you think…would we have made it work? Could it ever have worked like I planned?”

“I imagine Rhona thought so, at the time,” he answers vaguely.

“I want to know what
you
think.”

Camus lapses into a considering silence. “Maybe,” he says at last, but then corrects himself with an agitated sigh and answers more reflectively. “I don't know.” He doesn't have to do this. Camus is an excellent liar, good enough to lead me on if he wanted to. The fact that he doesn't shows a willingness to be honest. I appreciate that, even if it hurts to hear the truth. “Science is capable of extraordinary things, wonderful things, but even it has its limits. It would have to, in order to allow room for miracles.”

“Now who's guilty of sentimentality?”

“I've been shot. Indulge me.” His thin smile splinters into a frown. “What I'm trying to say is that science can't manufacture emotion. It can't re-create the human experience with all its infinite variety and—and color.” He wheezes, coughing some. His lungs sound like they've been through a cheese grater. I realize this conversation is an effort for him, and know it can't go on for much longer. “Our previous attempts to do so, if you'll recall, didn't turn out so well for us.”

“True, but there's a difference between creating artificial intelligence that can't feel, and a living consciousness that can,” I counter. Isn't there?

“I'm not trying to debate the finer points of philosophy with you, Rhona,” he says, although I think he'd like to if he were feeling better. “I'm only pointing out that science and technology have a dark side. We can't expect to keep playing God without consequences.”

“What about me? Am I just the fallout of bad judgment? Human hubris in the flesh?”

“No.” He answers so quickly there can be no doubt he means it. “I'll admit, I'm still uncomfortable with the whole notion of cloning, but even bad ideas sometimes have good outcomes.”

Something brushes against me, and I look down to find Camus's fingers reaching toward my hand. His fingers are cold and stiff, so I try warming them between my palms. His other hand comes over and closes on mine, holding them intensely still.

His eyes meet mine, serious but gentle. “History will be the judge of what Samuel and Rhona, Matsuki and the rest of them did, whether it was morally or ethically right. But you're more than some test-tube marvel. The things you've done, the people you've helped and saved, who you continue to help and save—science can't take the credit for that.”

“You know, normally this would be the time I'd answer with something clever,” I tell him with a short laugh, batting away some of the tears his words have brought to my eyes.

Camus rubs his thumb back and forth over the back of my hand. I find it soothing.

“One more thing, while we're clearing the air,” I say after a moment. “Back at McKinley, I received private footage of the council meeting where Samuel reviewed my…case, I guess you'd call it. Was that your doing, by any chance?”

Camus starts coughing again, but nods. “I forwarded it to you when I was sent the footage, since I obviously wasn't able to be at that meeting myself. I thought you should be made aware of your situation. And while we're clearing the air,” he says, “I confess there were other, less kind reasons at the time, but they no longer exist.”

“No?” I ask, unable to sound anything but hopeful.

“No,” he says, holding my gaze with feeling.

His coughing keeps up, however, interrupting our moment and delaying more of the conversation we need to have. It causes him to slouch forward. He lets go of my hands and pushes me from the bed. “Let me get you some more water,” I say, rising.

He coughs into his hand, and it comes away from his mouth black and wet in the dark. “Maybe a doctor would be better.”

“He's going to be fine,” I tell Samuel and Ulrich, just like I've told everyone else, and will continue telling myself until it's proven true—or false.
No. Don't think that way.

Until then, I become an unwilling participant in the waiting game. Again. With the machines ominously holding their positions, there's little else I can do but wait.

Samuel and I are just joining Ulrich for a quick meal when Zelda shows up, drawing the latter away to collaborate on something. She doesn't say squat to us, but she does look excited—though not necessarily in a happy way. I nibble on some saltines, the only thing my stomach can handle while continuing to flip-flop in anxiety—and try to leave the worrying in the back of my mind. Samuel distracts me with a memory of eating this same brand of crackers in the yard our houses shared back in New Mexico.

When Ulrich and Zelda finally come back in, her edginess has spread to him.

“Do you want to tell her, or should I?” Zelda asks.

Ulrich rubs his face, looking all sorts of tired. “Zelda has a theory—”

“It's more than just a theory,” she says. Instead of sitting down, she paces back and forth. Her energy is contagious and I find my leg rocking to her stride. “I've been trying to figure out what the machines' endgame is. Their recent behavior is all wrong for their basic programming. They have the numbers and the weaponry to take us out, but instead they're just sitting on the perimeter. I couldn't figure it out…
until
I started thinking about everything else that's happened.

“The machines want to take you alive, Long. They hinted at as much back at Churchill. It's the reason they didn't fire on you in the facility, and again why they kept missing once we were out in the open here. Remember, they blew up the chopper only
after
you got out. It's not convenience or luck. Put it all together.” I have, and I don't like the picture it's forming. “The machines aren't attacking
us
because they don't want to risk killing
you.
”

“If you're wrong about this…” I start to tell her.