Architect (Last Resistance Book 3), page 10
“No,” Zelda replies shortly, “and you just lost by asking. So now we’re starting over. No talking.”
She can just make out the frown on Dopey’s digital face, hidden within the hood. Before they departed her workshop, Zelda intentionally dimmed the display so that her face would appear more shadowed, less clear to any passersby. With some minor tinkering, Zelda also learned she could customize the display to anyone’s face, which is why instead of Rhona Long, Dopey currently looks like a knock-off Beyoncé Knowles. A close inspection will spoil the trick, leading to some unanswerable questions, but her plan doesn’t involve loitering long enough to draw suspicion.
She’s giving Hanna five more minutes before leaving without her.
Hanna shows in three. Thank God.
“Hanna!” Dopey chirps, greeting the blonde woman with a wave. Zelda hasn’t figured out how to modify her voice settings yet, except to make them higher or deeper, so she still sounds like Rhona. Unfortunately.
Zelda gives Dopey a slow, disapproving look. “What did I just say?”
“Sorry,” the machine answers, and then realizing she’s spoken again and lost the game, adds another, “Sorry! Ah! Sorry!” It’s easy for her to get caught in these repetitive loops. Her facsimile of consciousness is not perfect, and to keep her from going mad Zelda has had to repeatedly reset her, occasionally going so far as to delete entire sections of encoded memory. Anything that would hurt her to remember.
Hanna balances a box of seeming junk against her hip to rest her hand gently on Dopey’s shoulder. Her touch settles Dopey as effectively as a reset. It’s a better solution than the one Zelda was about to try, which involved jamming her elbow into the machine’s side. She’s worked with this thing for months, and some days she still feels like she barely understands it.
“About time,” Zelda says to Hanna, without heat. She can’t be mad, because she’s too goddamned relieved. Since Ulrich left, Hanna’s been her only friend here.
Both she and Dopey hurry to catch up to Zelda as she starts down the corridor at a clipped pace, not wanting to waste any more time.
Sorry, Hanna signs in a quick gesture over her heart, almost dropping her mysterious cargo in the process. Occupied with juggling the box, Hanna speaks the rest of her explanation. “I got held up. They’re installing more cameras in the west stairwell.”
Hanna could have taken the east stairwell or the elevators; both would have been faster, but Zelda understands why she doesn’t. It’s the same reason Zelda avoids it most of the time. The char has been scraped from the walls, the damaged elevator dismantled and removed, the concrete washed, but she can’t set foot in the stairwell without imagining the smell of smoke and hearing voices.
Howdy, Amazon.
Hey yourself, cowboy.
For the first few months after the attack, she forced herself to take the newly reopened stairwell anyway, refusing to let her brain bully her. Refusing to acknowledge the way her gut twisted and her heart raced and everything around her looked suddenly destructible. When the news broke that the Calgary team had been lost, and her brother with them, it was in that same stairwell where Ulrich found her, partway between levels, grasping the railing with both hands, and just—screaming. Throwing all her grief behind her voice and listening as each wailing cry faded into a dying echo. She felt better after. Not whole, not good, but better.
Zelda glances skeptically at the box in Hanna’s arms. “What’s all that?”
“Equipment. To fix the sensors in the southwest corridor.” She leans in confidentially. “In case we get caught,” she adds in a failed whisper.
“Yeah.” Zelda doesn’t bother to hold back a smile. “I got that. Good thinking.”
Hanna uses one hand to sign thank you.
They wind their way through the level’s labyrinth of halls toward their destination. In the past week Zelda has visited McKinley’s evacuation routes twice under the guise of checking the sensors, so no one should bat an eye at her returning to check the southwest corridor today. The sensors for this corridor go off so frequently, triggered by the slightest movement of earth, that security has mostly stopped paying attention to it, ignoring the flashing light on the console by duct taping over it. The Russians have been upgrading so many of their systems she felt sure they would have taken care of this issue, but now she knows better. It’s simply not a priority. But it is a way out for her and Hanna.
No one stops to ask where they’re going or what they’re doing. She’s surprised the assumption of trust returned so quickly, but maybe it’s because the New Soviets feel in control with all their cameras and spies. As for everyone else, it’s difficult to move through the world full of resentment and suspicion. Far easier to just give in and accept the way things are, rebuild the delusion of safety.
Easier for some, anyway.
They meet Renee just before the first security door, waiting for them like she said she’d be. “You’re late,” she says crisply.
As a necessary precaution, Zelda’s primary communication with the former councilwoman has been through coded messages. This is the first time she’s seen her in over a month, and the older woman’s appearance shocks her into silence. Renee’s hair is gone, enough that Zelda can make out the exact shape of her skull, and her cheeks have turned into sunken pits. She’s wearing several layers capped by a thick woolen robe, like she just stepped out of a shower or like she can’t get warm. A month ago she wouldn’t have been seen in anything less than a sharp pantsuit, but now it seems she can’t be bothered.
What did she say? Hanna signs, squinting. There is sparse light here. No use in wasting electricity on an empty tunnel. Dopey translates Hanna’s question aloud for Zelda, who is only now beginning to regret taking French in college rather than ASL.
“We’re late,” Zelda answers.
“My fault,” Hanna says, guessing correctly that Renee does not know ASL either.
“No matter.” Renee punches in a code to disarm the door. In the event of a base emergency it would unlock automatically, but right now the only emergency is the one the council is refusing to acknowledge.
About a month ago, Zelda discovered a strange assembly hidden in one of Dopey’s ongoing processes. Just when she thought she fully understood the doppelganger machine’s engineering, another puzzle presented itself. This particular assembly had been easy to miss, reinstalled in seconds the moment Zelda had rebooted the machine that first time. Much like the encoded coordinates for Calgary, Detroit, and Palo Alto, the assembly wasn’t intended to be discovered. The process of deobfuscating the files took a frustrating amount of time; the malicious process kept terminating itself the moment she found it, requiring her to reboot the machine again and again to reinitialize the assembly and then find alternate ways to approach the toolkit without triggering execution. In short, it was a pain in the ass.
She persisted because her drive to understand was stronger, and because between her and Orpheus, she had been the one who inherited all of her mother’s stubbornness. She was right to keep digging. What she found wasn’t simple coordinates, but a whole goddamn A.I. working in tandem with Rhona’s consciousness, replicating her personality and thoughts, wearing the commander like a mask.
The higher echelon, it appeared, had learned how to hide.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. That came later, when the isolated AI gave up its plans, fooled by Zelda’s manipulation of its timeclock into thinking its endgame had already been carried out.
“There are supplies, gear, weapons, and a comm unit waiting for you before the corridor lets out,” Renee says. “Look for a footlocker on the right. It will be unlocked.”
“And the snowmobiles?” Zelda asks.
“I’m sorry, but no. I couldn’t requisition them without drawing attention.”
Hanna’s occupied with drawing out a long scarf from her excuse box and wrapping it lovingly around her throat. It’s clear by her lack of reaction she’s unaware of Renee’s terrible update. Zelda decides she’ll wait to tell her, afraid the other woman will change her mind about coming. Traipsing down part of the mountain on foot isn’t exactly the easy escape Zelda promised. Hikers and tourists disappeared all the time in Denali National Park even before there were machines hunting them, swept away by fast-running rivers or buried under a collapse of snow and rock. By comparison the base feels safer, even if it isn’t. Even if it’s the last place on earth anyone should be right now. This is for Hanna’s own good—for her friend’s survival, Zelda tells herself, while at the same time weirdly hoping she’s wrong about the machine’s intention to destroy the base once and for all.
Renee grabs her arm as she makes for the door. “Are you sure about all this? Once the Soviets notice you’ve gone—and what you’ve taken—you’ll join their list of enemies too.”
“Let me be their enemy,” Zelda answers without hesitation. Grief shapes her anger into these words, like steel hammered into a sword. The fire is already lit in her belly; she won’t stay to be beaten anymore. “I’m done being a hostage. Done with being a model prisoner. If they won’t listen, that’s on them.” Renee nods, but as she turns to leave, Zelda adds, “Come with us. Shigeru won’t leave because of some stupid sense of loyalty to his patients, but you…”
“Have cancer,” Renee reminds her with a thin smile. “And unlike escaping the New Soviets, there’s nowhere in the world I can go where it wouldn’t follow. Here I can perhaps make a difference before the end. I can certainly buy you both time—but only if you leave now.”
Zelda understands now why Orpheus loved this woman. For his sake, she wishes she could do something more for Renee. But Renee’s right. Much as Zelda might wish otherwise, she can’t brute force a solution to Renee’s illness. Zelda was raised with the sober knowledge that some things in this world—a lot of things—aren’t fair. This is just one more shitty addition to the list, but unlike other injustices, there’s no protesting cancer.
As she offers a hand to Renee, Zelda feels her grief shift and grow larger, already accommodating for more sorrow. The older woman’s skin is cold, her fingers skeletal, but there is still strength underlying her grip. She’s still holding on against the odds.
“I’ll continue advocating for an evacuation,” Renee offers. “If your theory is correct though, and the machines are planning to utilize kinetic weaponry, there aren’t many places on earth we can go where they won’t penetrate our defenses. And not enough time to get there. They’ve outplayed us, haven’t they?”
Zelda knows she isn’t talking about the New Soviets now. “Probably,” she admits with no small amount of bitterness.
A million years ago, Zelda had played e-sports competitively. In one popular multiplayer online battle arena, fog covered the map so the only portions you could see were ones where your own teammates were at; everything else was obscured. Even within zones you could see, brush provided cover for enemies to hide. This war they’ve been fighting has felt increasingly like that game, leaving her to wonder what’s going on out of her field of vision. What is the higher echelon doing out of sight? How close are the enemies to destroying their nexus, really?
Of course, the other vital lesson she took away from that game was never face-check a bush unless you wanted a surprise sword in your face. And like a dumb, overconfident amateur, the New Soviets are now face-checking every bush, practically inviting the machines to catch them out. To fight back, whether they’re inclined to or not. Some of the AI’s answers suggest the higher echelon may only be continuing the war because humanity is forcing it to, but even if that’s true, no one’s going to listen to her. Long would have listened, maybe. But Rhona’s gone, too.
The fleshy version, anyway.
“This thing,” Renee gestures to Dopey who is busy signing with Hanna, “has caused so much suffering. It’s fitting it should do some good now. Good luck.”
Without another word Renee leans her weight against the heavy steel door to close it behind her, and Zelda hears the locking mechanism engage. That’s it then. No going back now. But then, has there ever really been a path backwards?
“She’s not coming,” Hanna says, her expression sad. “I thought maybe she’d changed her mind.”
Zelda shakes her head. “We’re on our own.”
Dopey signs to Hanna.
“What’s it saying?”
“She,” Hanna emphasizes, along with signing each word for Zelda’s benefit, “wants to know if she can talk now.”
Zelda gestures impatiently for Dopey to go ahead.
In Rhona’s young, excited voice, the machine asks, “Did I win the game? I was so quiet.”
“Yeah,” Zelda answers, unable to help a smile. “You won. Congrats.”
Everything OK? Hanna’s always been observant, but Zelda doesn’t want to be observed right now, stewing in her fear and uncertainty. And weakness.
She gives Hanna a sarcastic thumbs up before tugging on Dopey’s hand, starting them all down the long passage that will lead them away from McKinley base and the doom that’s coming for it.
Eight
Rhona
“I wish I still had my camera.”
We’ve stopped in front of an abandoned department store so that I can grab a change of clothes. Elle’s crouched below the boarded part of the window, hands cupped, staring inside. Sales ads are still posted to the crusty glass, advertising great spring savings and back-to-school deals. I wonder briefly if I might find a backpack to carry supplies while I’m here.
Neither of us has said a word about the missiles. Easier not to think about it. One crisis at a time, and right now that’s me getting out of these heavy, wet clothes.
“Were you a photographer?” I ask, stepping gingerly over broken glass as I search for a safe path inside. The store must have been looted at some point, because the automatic doors lay in a smashed stack, but someone has erected rudimentary barricades using old metal endcaps, which makes me hesitant to assume the store is unoccupied.
“Not professionally,” Elle answers, following behind. “I used to go around to abandoned sites—malls, theme parks, that sort of thing—and take pictures of the breakdown over a period of weeks, sometimes years for a few places. There was something honest about the decay, a sense of stark indifference I found attractive but also a little haunting.” She’s carrying her helmet in her arms, and she shifts it from one side to the other. “It hits differently these days. Now I’d kill to see a populated 7-11. What about you?”
The question catches me off guard on its return. “What about me?”
“Who were you before you became the great Commander Long? What did you do before all of this?”
“I wanted to be an actor,” I say, even though that dream feels foreign now, grown in a different body. But maybe all forgotten dreams feel like they belonged to someone else. “I’ve never told anyone this, but I was supposed to be at that theater in Glasgow the night of the massacre.”
Elle’s eyes widen. “Really?”
Camus and I had been visiting Scotland. I’d been begging to see the all-robot cast, mostly so I could lambast them. They were receiving so much praise, and for what? Taking space from living performers? I hated it. I wanted to rip them apart in my upcoming thesis paper. How could something so artificial ever capture real feeling? “Yeah, but then the day of the performance, Camus got an invitation to a reading by Glasgow’s own Poet Laureate that he couldn’t pass up. He said I should still go to the show, but… I don’t know. It didn’t seem as fun without him. I went out with a few of his friends to a pub instead. I’m not a big poetry fan. Don’t tell Camus.”
Elle mimes zipping her lips, then says, “Talk about literally dodging a bullet.”
That same bullet found me in the end, anyway. What path would the resistance have taken if I had died in Glasgow that night? Would someone else have risen in my place, or would the resistance have remained fractured, forever splintered? Now that I’m gone the movement doesn’t seem to be struggling for want of a new mascot. They aren’t clamoring for any feel-good broadcasts.
Was I ever necessary at all?
Through the gritty dark, I can see shirts and jackets still hanging beside decapitated mannequins on the main sales floor. I pause and turn back when I hear Elle’s footsteps stop. “Something wrong?”
“You go ahead,” Elle says. “I could use a bathroom break. I’ll meet you back here after.”
“Don’t you think we should stick together?”
“One hundred percent. I won’t pretend it’s smart, but I’d rather not have an audience.”
I hold up my hands in a gesture of suit yourself.
While Elle’s taking care of nature’s call, I perform a quick smash-and-grab, snatching the first dry clothes in my size and changing into them inside a standalone fitting room. There’s no one around to see me strip down apart from Elle if she’s already finished, but I like the feeling of normalcy. I deliberately avoid eye contact with the bullet spray on the door and the unexplained stain against the flimsy grey wall behind me as I pull on pants.
By the time that’s finished, my throat feels like one long, dry crevice. I’d kill for something to drink that isn’t polluted river water. “Hey, Elle,” I call toward the bathrooms. “I’m going to do a quick search for supplies. Need anything?”
“Lancets, if you find any,” Elle calls back through the cracked door. “They’d be near the pharmacy. Unopened boxes only, please.”
“Got it.”
The in-store pharmacy has been completely ransacked, but I do find a box of lancets, dusty but unopened. Between the panic buying when the Machinations first started and the looting that happened after, I’m not optimistic about finding much else of value as I zigzag through the aisles. Most of the camping equipment is gone, no doubt taken by survivalists who hoped to disappear into the wilderness. I snag a few offhand supplies on my way back toward the front, including a backpack, hammer, duct tape—you never know—and a refillable water bottle in case I come across anything potable. It’s not everything I hoped to find, but better than nothing, and significantly lighter to haul around than what I started the day with.
