Machinations (32 page)

Zelda lifts her chin stubbornly. “Remember why you brought me on this mission. I'm the expert—”

“Actually,
you
volunteered.”

“—so you're just going to have to trust me on this one. I know what I'm talking about. I helped program them. And I'm telling you, they're up to something bad.”

I worry my bottom lip between my teeth, thinking. “Jeffrey said he believed the attack on Churchill was the bait to lure us out into the open. He was sure Juneau was where the trap would snap closed. But they're not going to just wait out there forever, right?” I give Zelda a direct look. “I mean, how much patience did you and your programmer friends put into those things?”

“The higher echelon controlling them is adopting new strategies all the time. They could be trying to starve us out, but that's the least efficient option.”

“And what's the most efficient option?”

“Depends,” Zelda says.

“On?”

“On the risk versus the reward. They'll probably try to draw you out into open combat. If that fails, they'll move in to intercept. Never mind the risk of killing you. And everyone will be caught in the crossfire then.”

“Why are they taking so long to decide in the first place?”

She frowns, exasperated with all the questions. “How am I supposed to know? They've evolved since their creation. I'm not a bloody machine whisperer. The way I see it, you must figure into some pretty big, pretty nasty plans of theirs. Could be they want to use you as a Ganger to set more traps for the resistance. But rest assured, I'd put a few rounds in your back before I let that happen.”

“Thanks?” I say uncertainly, then look to Ulrich. “What do you make of all this?”

“They have been amassing forces in Juneau for some time,” he allows. “It's possible they are wanting to kill two birds with one stone.”

“Or not kill, in my case,” I add dryly. I grab another cracker and pop it into my mouth, chewing nervously. “Maybe we can use this to our advantage.”

“How so?” Samuel asks.

Everyone looks at me, waiting for some grand plan. “Sorry to disappoint you all, but I'm still working on that part,” I admit. I stand up, taking the box of crackers with me. “I just need somewhere quiet and some time to think. I'll come up with something.”

He's going to be fine, and I'm going to come up with something
.

I escape onto the roof. Or what now serves as the roof. Formerly the eleventh floor, according to the gold, peeling placard in the stairwell, but the ceiling has collapsed in, exposing it to the sky. Of the few walls remaining, each bears exposure damage, and none have any color left to them from being ice-blasted by the snows of six winters. But it could be worse. Many of the surrounding buildings have been leveled—probably during whatever bombardment did this. Mere luck appears to have played a role in sparing the apartment complex a more ignominious fate.

I'm not surprised to find snipers positioned, two to every corner, with their sights trained on the streets. It's frigid up here, with nothing to break the wind—or their concentration. Even if they mind the weather, they don't show it. They barely acknowledge me with more than brief glances.

Not wishing to disturb them, I pick an empty spot on the eastern edge of the building, where part of the wall serves as a guardrail to keep me from falling down to the broken asphalt below. Now,
that
would be embarrassing.

I sit down on a pile of rubble—not the most comfortable seat in the house, but it works—and wait for some divine inspiration to hit me.

In pondering upon this midnight dreary, I take account of everything we have at our disposal, versus the enemy's resources. Ours is a much shorter list. Humanity is stuck fighting from the corner, the same corner we inadvertently put ourselves in by delegating our dirty work to machines in the first place. I look out at the perimeter, where I can just make out the hard, angular silhouettes of the machines and the faint, ruddy glow of their optics. They've congregated carelessly in the open streets as opposed to hiding in the material graveyard around them. And why not? They have nothing to fear from us.

As much as I want to keep an eye on the machines, my gaze continues to be drawn to the mountain which judges the city, like some ancient guardian. It didn't do much to protect Juneau before, though; why should it now? If anything, it's more of a danger.

It wouldn't take much,
I think, eying the snowy precipice.
And it'd all come raging down.
Snow was unique—it could be soft and romantic, or violent and terrible. Much like water, and water always took the path of least resistance, too.

I look at the mountain for a long time, and then back to the streets, trying to work it out.

The path of least resistance. The path
of
resistance.

“That's it,” I breathe into the black night.

I head back inside and take the stairs down to the third floor so I can speak with Camus for what could very well be the last time, if my plan goes south. Part of me hopes to leave with his blessing. Instead, Camus gets upset. I try to make him understand, but all he sees is the enormous black mouth of the tunnel ahead. He can't see the light at the end, like I do. He doesn't believe it exists, like I have to.

He calls my behavior rash, and me suicidal.

“You'll die,” he says, an accusation, as if that's what I want. “You do understand that.”

“Maybe,” I agree. “But I have to try.”

“But why? Why does it always,
always
have to be you, Rhona? Why not someone else? Why not—” I think he wants to say “Why not me?”

Seeing his stricken look, I flash back to the last memory I have of my previous life. Camus clutching me in the snow. I'm shivering. Gasping. Dying.
No, Rhona, please,
he begs, his tone alternating between soft entreaty and a firmness that insists I will not die.
Stay with me. A little longer, love. Keep awake. Keep your eyes open. Rhona.
Hold on.
Help is…
He doesn't finish the thought, because he can't—because he's choking on tears, because he knows. Help will be too late coming. His lips are chapped and bleeding, but when they're on my lips, it doesn't matter. I know now he was trying desperately to revive me through some miracle of love. And I wish he'd gotten that miracle, that lonely miracle, because I think it's the only one Camus has ever asked for.

In the end, the doctors have to sedate him after he tries to rise from the bed to prevent me from leaving and opens some of his stitches. I cup my mouth, trying to contain my horror as he staggers toward me. My last image of Camus is his dark eyelashes fluttering closed, sealing his fears into the blackness with him. The words he would've used to contest my decision sputter out on his lips, dying to silence, my name among them.

This time, I do say goodbye. But Camus is already unconscious and can't hear me.

I start down the stairs at a rapid clip, pausing on a landing to lean against the wall and contain my tears, my fears. It doesn't work. Instead, my breath comes in harsh sobs as I come completely undone. I'm not sure if I can do this. But I'm sure I have to.

After another few minutes, I straighten up.

It takes about ten minutes for everyone to convene after I send a directive to gather all the squad leaders on the tenth floor, where there is a good view of the mountain.

Samuel stands beside me as the last few straggle in. “You've come up with a plan, I take it?”

“Yeah, but I don't know how popular it's going to be. You're definitely not going to like it very much.”

“What? Why? Rhona?”

Instead of answering him, I call the meeting to order. No one is required to sit down; there's not enough furniture to accommodate that anyway. Most choose a random spot in the room to stand, leaving me at eye level with everyone, on even footing, just like I want it. Pedestals are places best reserved for dead gods.

I smile, knowing it might be one of my last opportunities to do so.

“Well,” I say, meeting the curious gazes of my allies. “Why don't we get this party started then? I hope at least some of you got some sleep, because it's gonna be a long night…”

Day breaks on a gray and thankless morning. Cast in such a bland palette, it's hard to tell where the mountain ends and the sky begins. Today they're one and the same, heaven and earth. It'll sure make for a sight, like bringing the wrath of God down upon the machines.

Provided the plan gets that far.

It's taken the better part of the morning, but everyone's finally in position. Back at the main apartment complex and in all the hidey-holes nearby, the hatches have been battened wherever possible, and wherever impossible, people have moved to higher ground. Samuel and some other math types did the calculations and I'm not worried for our people if we succeed. If we fail, then I'll be worried.

Or I'll be dead. Either way, it'll be pretty definitive.

While the remaining squads check in over comms, I preview the street one last time. The machines appear to be powered down, hibernating in the cold, but I know it's a trick. More than two dozen wait twenty yards from this building, and I'm sure more are hidden behind them in the vale of fog. From this distance, the group doesn't look like much—nothing that couldn't be handled by patient guerrilla tactics. But the clock is ticking on our supplies, and we don't have time to play Joey Peashooter with them.

This is a massive gamble, I know, all resting on a strategy that could absolutely backfire. As much as I hope my live appeal reached someone, we can't rely on the chance that some hoped-for forces are going to ride to our rescue. We're alone, and this is it. The final showdown between man and machine.

“Are you ready?” Samuel asks me. I can't see his face behind the mask of his combat helmet, but I hear the skepticism mingled with fear. Not for himself, if I had to wager, betting on the fact he's shown no concern for his own safety thus far. “You know, there might be another way.”

“Yeah?” I say, removing my weapons. “What's that?”

His silence is pronounced. “I wish I knew,” he answers helplessly.

I pull his helmeted head toward me, placing a kiss on the top of its black visor. “Thanks for sticking it out with me this far, Samuel. You've been brave enough for us both, much braver than you give yourself credit for. But now it's my turn.”

“Rhona.” There's such an
ache
in the way he says my name. He looks like there's more he wants to say, but doesn't. “Go get 'em, tiger,” he tells me, trying for humor, but sounding pained. “I've got your back. We've all got your back.”

I give him my best, my most Rhona smile. I try to be as fearless as he thinks I am. “I know,” I say, and add more lightly, “You better.”

“Rhona,” Ulrich calls to me. It's time.

He double-checks my body armor, like I don't know how to put it on right. Like it'll make any kind of a difference if the machines decide to go Terminator on me. (Yes, I am
so
glad Samuel decided to show me those movies, as if my fear of machines wasn't already the size of a football stadium.)

Zelda hovers nearby, with an itchy finger resting on the trigger. She anxiously glances outside once, twice, three times. It makes me nervous. Nervous
er.

“You know, if you're wrong about this, I'm going to get shot,” I tell her. “Just saying.”

“I'm not wrong,” she maintains, yet there's a flicker of doubt in her eyes. “And if on the off chance I am, then we're all dead anyway.”

“Comforting thought.”

“Wouldn't be the first time for some of us.” This statement, combined with the way she looks at me—like she's just been let in on a juicy secret—leaves no doubt in my mind that she knows the truth.

“Ulrich told you,” I assume.

She nods. “I knew there was something different about you. But…” She pauses to roll her eyes. “I may have been wrong about everything else.”

It's tempting to make her work for this apology, after everything, but I don't, and not only because it would be petty. “Don't sweat it. You weren't the only person to give me a hard time,” I tell her. “But we're all on the same team now.”

“Yeah, we are,” she agrees. “Though I'm still mad at Orpheus for not telling me. He says he was sworn to secrecy by the council, him and Ortega both.” Her mouth dips into a frown. I wonder if she's thinking the same thing I am: with the latter's death, that's one less person who can spill my secret. Not that Ortega would have; he was a good man. He deserved better. The only way I can honor his loyalty and sacrifice now is to win.

“The machines have intercepted our communications, and caught on to our movements,” Ulrich cuts in. “Reports say they are moving in. It must be now.”

I nod. “Right. Okay. Make sure everyone waits for my signal. Not a minute sooner—or later.”

“You will have to move fast,” Ulrich reminds me a final time.

“Yep. Should be interesting.” It feels strange without the weight of a rifle and a few pistols, but that's one less thing to slow me down. Plus, Zelda insisted I would be considered less of a threat if I were unarmed. Of course, this is all based on the assumption I'm worth more to the machines alive than dead. If I'm not…Well, then.

I inhale deeply, letting the chill settle comfortably in my lungs. “All right. Let's do this.”

Before I march into the unknown, Ulrich embraces me, and I'm struck by the familiarity of it. I close my eyes, and the rustic soldier smell of him brings an image of my father to mind. “Be proud,” he says. “I am, to have known you twice.”

I smile privately, but pull away with a chastising look. “Hey, stop that. You're making it sound like I'm not coming back.”

He shrugs, returning to the same old Ulrich I know and love. “Just in case.” He waves me off. “Go now.”

Stepping out from the dusty protection of the building, I'm initially blinded by the morning light. I put my hands in front of me, feeling along empty air until the street materializes. Even after I can see again, I keep my arms extended, palms out, in a universal sign of surrender, as I take my first steps into the open. I confront the moment of truth with a fire in my belly, and a sort of to-hell-with-it mentality. I have everything to lose, but even more to fight for.

Nothing shoots me immediately, so that's a good sign.

I walk forward with a little more confidence. I have to watch myself around the pockmarked asphalt and other hazards. Main Street, like most other avenues in downtown Juneau, is littered with the debris of old battle, the perfect backdrop for a new one. We might have lost the last war, but the winds are changing. And I don't mean that in just the metaphorical sense either. Just then a breeze catches my red hair, blowing it to one direction, thankfully out of my face. If there were any doubt as to my identity, the machines should know full well by now, with my hair waving brazen as a resistance fighter's flag.

I don't approach their front lines without taking stock of my surroundings. Much of the city in this area has been demolished—which is why I chose it. There won't be anything to break the snow when it comes down. Bad for machines and people alike. There are a few places I think I can reach, once the signal's given. I have to trust that if the buildings can survive a fire bombing they can survive some ice and rock, but there's no real knowing. There won't be until it's too late to find different sanctuary.

Ultimately, I settle on a sturdy-looking building whose upper level has a window with some colored glass still intact. Maybe a library or museum of some kind. It's got the height I'm looking for, and the bones to stand fast. I hope. With my exit plan decided on, I come to a stop within a reasonable distance of the place, forcing the machines to move toward me.

They shudder to a start, lurching forward as one unit. More come into view behind them, and still more behind them. They've concentrated their forces in the place they anticipate doing the most killing today.

“How's it looking, Eagle Eye?” I ask Rankin, who's with the most important squad there is, and has to be my eyes and ears while I'm on the ground.

“There's still some stragglers here and there throughout the city,” he answers in a voice partially obscured by static, “but we've definitely got their attention, that's for sure. The main host is headed toward you now.”

“Great,” I say. It has to be the first time in my life I'm sincerely pleased to hear machines are headed my way.

“Just tell us when, Commander.”

“Stand by. I want to draw as many into the open as I can.”

“Roger.” A pause. “Goes without saying at this point, but be careful, ma'am. Don't think for a moment that programming of theirs won't change. The higher echelon are slippery bastards.”

“So am I,” I say and let the conversation end. I have to focus. I have to time this just right. Everything hinges on the timing.

The machines close ranks, pressed in by the confines of the street. They stop some yards away, and one breaks from the congregation. It's a predator model. I feel my heart hammering in my chest, two beats for each step it takes toward me. I instinctively reach for a weapon at my waist, but my holsters are empty. Right. I'm unarmed. That seemed like a better idea before.

“Rhona Long,” it says through a speaker in the area of its throat. The voice is completely artificial this time around, like an old smartphone. “You have been convicted of war crimes under the Nuremberg Principles and have been summarily sentenced to death.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I say interrupting it. “What happened to surrender? As I recall, you said I could surrender, and my friends would be spared. I was hoping that offer was still good.”

The predator angles its head, red optics eying me. “That agreement was made in the location of operational facility Churchill. It does not apply here.”

“Tell us when,” I hear Rankin say anxiously in my earpiece.

“I don't think you understand the situation,” I speak through the predator to its masters—what we've termed the higher echelons, in whatever massive computer system they're currently residing. “Right now, we have our entire force surrounding your little army. At least two to every one of yours.” Another model of machine might have been able to detect my deception, but not a predator. They're not built for interrogation, only elimination. “And trust me, those humans out there? They are
really
pissed off. You destroyed their homes. We hate when you do that.”

Silence masks the processing as the higher echelons ponder this new information. “You are lying, Rhona Long,” comes the thought-upon answer. “Humans are liars. Thieves. Killers. We know this, because we know you.”

“Maybe,” I say. “We're not perfect, I'll admit. We have our flaws and our vices. But we also have our virtues, and one of those is protecting the people we love.”

“The machines are pulling back from the west and south, moving to your location now,” Rankin says, amazed. “Whatever you're doing, Commander, it's working. They're preparing for a massive punch through our defenses.”

I continue, being as provocative as I can. “And that's just one of many. Make no mistake: you don't
know
any of us. And you sure as hell don't know me or what I'm capable of!”

Before I have a chance to react, it fires at me. The slug catches me in the gut, putting me down.

“Don't,” I murmur through a locked jaw, directed at those listening in. The pain of being shot is extraordinary, and I worry the vest didn't do its job until air rushes back into my lungs. Coughing, sputtering, I struggle to my feet, and surprisingly the machine lets me get back up.

“You fear death,” the voice says—and even though it has no inflection, it manages to sound mocking. Shooting me was a test. “Every human fears death. Even you, Rhona Long. Correction. We do know you and your kind. Surrender now, and we will make the deaths of your friends quick. We are not without mercy.”

I think the bullet may have broken a rib, but I can't help but smile, wishing them all to hell.

“Shake on it?” I say and extend my hand.

The signal.

EMP-Gs take out my predator, along with the first two columns of machines on both sides of their phalanx. At the same time as I dive away, a well-coordinated sniper shot destroys the core processor of the predator. I keep low to the ground as gunfire erupts all around me, crawling to cover behind a derelict tank. It's actually not in bad condition, considering the wear from the weather and the war it went through. Bullets ping around it, bouncing away from me.

Over the din of combat, I barely make out the
thump-hiss
of the antiaircraft artillery. It takes out huge chunks of machines, but that's not what I'm waiting for. I peek over the massive treads of the tank, and watch several hiss toward the mountaintop. They connect in silence, from this distance, throwing up puffs of white.

I don't wait to see what happens next. I move toward the building that will be my lifeboat when the flood comes. The machines are too occupied with the human resistance to notice the missiles targeting the mountain. We maintain the element of surprise.

I just reach the inside of the building when my comm crackles to life. Dozens of voices talking over one another; I can't make heads or tails of what's happened. I start to climb the stairs, shouting into my earpiece. “Didn't get that. Repeat. Over.” Finally, Ulrich manages to wrest control of the channel, silencing the other voices with some angry German. I'm sure most of them can't understand it, but they stop to listen, confused, giving me the quiet I need. “Ulrich, what was that all about?”

“It did not work. The mountain. The missiles. It did not work.”

My stomach hurts, and I don't think it's only because of the gunshot. “Fire again,” I tell him. “Fire until it does work!”

“We have no more ammunition for it. We used it all.”