Architect (Last Resistance Book 3), page 16
Before I can make myself scarce, Benji points me out to the woman. She’s dressed simply, blue pants and a loose pink blouse, the sleeves rolled up, and as she heads my way I know there’s no use pretending I don’t see her.
“Joanna-Pauline Taylor.” She holds out her hand with a quiet smile that plumps both cheeks. As we shake, she adds, “Though I go by Jo to avoid sounding like a serial killer. It’s nice to finally meet you, Rhona Long.” She pulls on my hand as she leans in, increasing the sense of shared confidence between us. “You probably get this all the time, but after seeing your broadcasts year after year… well, I feel like I know you. Does that make you uncomfortable?”
I feel strangely pressured by the question, like it’s a test. “It was my job to be recognizable,” I say. “So, no. Not really.”
“I have so many questions.” She places her other hand on top of our joined hands. I don’t know whether to trust her warm enthusiasm, which feels like a relic from some bygone era. It’s like she stepped out of the fifties. All mannered politeness. “But you must have questions for me too I imagine.” Her expression turns expectant, as she waits for me to ask mine first.
“You’re the leader of this outfit?”
“Only insomuch as this rabble consents to be led,” she laughs. “It’s a group effort.”
“And you work with machines. You reprogram them, make them fight for you.”
She pauses to consider her answer, releasing our hands and leaning out of my personal space. I breathe a little easier, having escaped the intense charm of her closeness. “Our goal is not violence. In fact, we share your objective in putting an end to the war. We just believe that can be achieved through peaceful means as opposed to force.”
“Is that right?” I fold my arms across my chest. “And yet you use machines. Seems like using monsters to fight monsters.”
“Would you say the same of using airplanes or tanks or guns?”
“That’s different.”
She nods. “I can see how you might think so. We’ve always had a fraught relationship to technology, and is it any wonder why? Tension between creator and creation is one of the oldest stories we know. Man versus God has evolved into machine versus man. But we don’t have to keep the same ending. It’s in our power to change that narrative.”
She sounds like a bad televangelist. A narrative isn’t killing us, I want to respond. Machines are. But no doubt she’d have some pithy response to that as well. Those with faith always find ways to rationalize away the concerns of those without.
“Maybe you should be the one giving broadcasts,” I say.
Her friendly smile turns genuinely shy, as if I’ve complimented her. “I’ve never liked cameras. But thank you.”
Cameras, I think, Elle. “I was with another woman earlier. We got separated, but Benji said she was safe. Her name’s Elle—Ellen Soo. Is she here?”
Jo nods. “We also have a diabetic. I believe they’re exchanging strategies for artificial insulin production.”
That’s one less thing to worry about I guess. “Okay. So, what comes next?” I ask irritably. “My team came to rescue a person who doesn’t exist. People out there are dying attempting to take back a city that has nothing in it left worth dying for. All of this has been for nothing.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Jo glances away from me for the first time, and in the grim underground light I watch her cheeks tint with a touch of shame. “They’re buying us time.”
Nearby, the faceless machine controlled by Glasgow turns to study us, its head angled in our direction. Something clicks, the missing piece to this whole puzzle slotting into place.
“It was you,” I say. “You’re the one who’s been communicating with the Oregonians. Feeding the resistance intel. You asked us here… You’re ‘Glasgow’.”
She looks back at me, her smile slight. “That would be a good trick, wouldn’t it? But it’s only half true, I’m afraid. By the time I learned the higher echelon was communicating with the resistance under the guise of Glasgow, it was too late to change anyone’s mind. I’m no one anyone is going to listen to, not when their Glasgow had been feeding them what, on the surface, appeared to be solid intelligence—”
"But the intel was good,” I point out. “The New Soviets have retaken a lot of the northwest. The Oregonians were able to launch a surprise invasion of Portland…” I trail off at her sympathetic expression. “You’re suggesting the higher echelon wanted these attacks. Why?”
“The resistance has been playing a game of checkers and doing well at that. I hope you won’t mistake my tone as patronizing here. McKinley is a triumph in many ways. Juneau, too, was an unexpected victory. Unfortunately, the higher echelon isn’t playing checkers. It’s playing chess, and for every check it has allowed on itself, it has lured the resistance into precisely the locations it wants. Tell me, Commander Long,” her tone shifts down, to something far less personable, “haven’t you ever wondered why the higher echelon has left so many bases alone?”
I swallow back dread. “They’re hidden.”
“Not that well.” Jo’s brow knits in sympathy—feigned or sincere, I can’t tell. “The resistance has been living on borrowed time. And that time is almost up. I couldn’t stop the Oregonian forces from coming. But I could provide a more strategic goal. Something to focus their efforts, make all the dying worth it if they, by some stroke, succeeded in pushing far enough into the city.”
“Providence Park.” So it was a trap, I think, just not for us. “What’s there that’s so important? Benji called it creepy, but he wouldn’t say more.”
“How odd for him,” she remarks with an affectionate smile. “Usually he says too much. From what we’ve been able to observe the higher echelon is performing live human experiments. Providence Park has become a camp of sorts for these subjects. Sometimes we see them about the city moving freely or accompanied by an escort. They’re not prisoners, but they don’t seem fully aware of their situation either. If anything, they view us as enemies, and the higher echelon as a sort of parent figure.”
That explains the little girl I saw with the machine. No wonder she was terrified of me. Benji was right—I murdered her protector. “The higher echelon is raising children?” I ask.
“We suspect it’s a breeding program of some kind. But we don’t know for sure. We avoid that area for the most part.”
“You’ve been here for how long—years? Why haven’t you put a stop to it?” I imagine what I would do in their position. They seem to have the means to do some damage. A few well-placed explosives could probably take the whole stadium apart.
“We haven’t remained in Portland by choice,” Jo explains. “The higher echelon knows we’re here. It tolerates our presence because we’re non-violent and haven’t directly interfered with its plans, but any attempt to leave has been met with lethal force. Whatever secrets it has it wants to keep safe.”
It’s hard for me to believe the higher echelon wouldn’t root Jo and her machinists out, but maybe they’re not seen as worth the effort.
Or maybe the higher echelon has moved on from senseless killing, tired of the cull. But I’m not sure I believe that, either.
“With the Oregonians distracting the higher echelon, this is your chance to leave, isn’t it?” I say. “That’s what you meant when you said they were buying you time?”
“We have a boat,” Jo confirms. “In less than an hour all of my people will be on it. With Glasgow running radar interference, we’ll slip out without the higher echelon ever being the wiser. I do hope you’ll join us. Until then, you should rest. You look like you’ve been through a war.” She provides one final smile. It’s almost a smirk. “We’ll take care of all the preparations.”
“You could help,” I tell her as she’s departing, joined as before by the unknown model of machine. “Instead of running away. Your people know the city better than anyone. You have machines. If the Oregonians win, you won’t have to leave.”
Jo stops, regarding me curiously. “Why do you assume we want to stay?”
“Haven’t you built a life here?” I gesture to the furniture, some scavenged but others cleverly hand built. A limp American flag hangs on one wall, strung up at two corners. The Portland tunnels used to be a tourist opportunity, but now they’ve been converted to an actual lived-in space, and everywhere bears the fingerprints of people still trying to create a normal space for themselves. “Wouldn’t it hurt you to lose all of this?”
Glasgow’s flat-paneled face flickers to life, showing an image from two years ago of a woman I barely recognize: sweating, frustrated, and a little terrified—but determined, too. Assured. My voice emerges from the machine’s hidden speakers, as if I’m speaking directly to myself. “We can’t hide with our heads in the sand forever. The moment we become passive, that’s the moment when the machines have truly won.”
I swallow thickly, recognizing my words. They were from the last broadcast I gave before the battle of Juneau. Staring at myself delivering them, all the emotions of that moment flood back into me. I was afraid then too. But I still had hope. I was still pushing forward despite the losses and the setbacks. What am I doing now, except spinning my wheels in mud and calling it momentum?
“Don’t make survival an excuse for complacency and apathy,” the machine finishes, using my own goddamn speech.
“Well said,” Jo agrees. “We can look ahead for hope and backward for wisdom, but if you marry every vision of the future then the inevitable divorce becomes that much more painful. So—no, I’m not losing anything. I’m simply making the decision to leave, just as I make the decision to indulge in pain or not. Sorrow isn’t something that just happens to us, you know. We have to make space for it. I’m grateful we had this sanctuary for the time that we did, and that’s where my feelings end. Does that answer your question, Commander Long?”
After Jo departs to continue organizing the evacuation, a short exploration of the nearby tunnels turns up little to distract me from my perilous thoughts, just a lot of dead ends. I need somewhere quiet where I can be alone to process everything, away from the stream of strangers shuffling equipment and supplies. Eventually I find a small, private staircase leading aboveground. It looks like it hasn’t seen use in a long time, dominated by algae black enough to be mold. I collapse onto the damp steps, partially concealed by the gradient of shadow, and gather my knees to my chest.
If what Jo says is true… then the higher echelon has merely been keeping us corralled by fear and a false sense of security. All my efforts to unite the resistance—did that just make us easier to monitor? And if that’s the case, and the higher echelon knows where we all are, why doesn’t it just end everything? Go in guns blazing?
I let my head sink into my hands. Here I thought I’d finally put the puzzle together, but really I’ve been working off of an incomplete picture. My brain feels thick, like an overripe fruit ready to explode. “Everything in this city is wrong,” I moan. The people, the machines. Even me. I’m not unraveling—I’m unbecoming. Unbecoming the woman I was created to replace.
“Not everything, I hope.”
My gaze springs up to find Camus watching me with a gentle smile.
“You’re back!” I launch myself to my feet against the protests of my battered body. Camus opens his arms just in time to meet me.
“You’re alive,” he says into my neck, his voice heated by such deep emotion in this moment I can’t help but become caught up too.
This is how I always thought it would be. The man I love waiting for me on the other side of tragedy. Our beautiful reunion didn’t happen before, but it’s happening now. I feel the last crack across my heart caused by Camus’s initial rejection finally closing, the jagged edges finding a new way to fit together. Everything healing. Everything between us forgiven.
I don’t wait another moment before pressing my lips to his. I kiss him like I’ve ached to each morning I woke and found him absent, like I should have every day we’ve had together. I kiss him like there won’t be any more endings for us, only new beginnings.
I kiss him like I’m finally ready to forget.
“I never wanted to believe,” he says in between kissing me back, “that you’d died at Calgary. But the Russians told us your entire team was lost. It wasn’t until I saw the broadcast you made that I knew for sure.” His lips follow his fingers as they travel my face, my neck, everywhere he can touch. Every part of me still miraculously, unfathomably here. I wince as he makes brief contact with the cuts, and he carefully withdraws. “It is… you, isn’t it?” His gaze journeys quickly over me like he might find a clue pointing to one answer or the other.
I’ve stopped using concealer to hide my splotchy, uneven freckles. With no audience and no broadcasts to give, there’s really no point.
I could let Camus’s question sting, but I don’t. It’s a fair one. “It’s me,” I confirm, drawing my necklace out from underneath my shirt. A ring spins on the end of a rough silver chain, the shine dulled by shadow.
Camus catches it between his fingers, following its golden curve with his thumb before bringing me back for another kiss. As he smooths my hair away from my face I find I can’t breathe, caught up in the unreality of both of us being here together. I didn’t realize how strongly I believed I’d never see him again. Despite never admitting that possibility aloud, somewhere down in my subconscious the thought lurked, moving underneath my days like the shadow of a shark. It’s a strange thing to live with fear for so long that you stop recognizing it.
“Are you alone?” I ask, the trance momentarily broken by the memory of my missing teammates. Glasgow may have been able to report on survivors, but it failed—or declined—to tell us their identities. “Where are the others?”
Camus’s mouth dips into a frown. “We searched around Providence Park, but we couldn’t find them.”
“But you didn’t find any bodies,” I whisper. He shakes his head, and I hear it in my voice, that insidious creep of hope. “Then there’s a chance they’re still alive.”
“Yes, but it’s likely the higher echelon has them now.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means they’re lost to us either way. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t accept that,” I say, even though I don’t know what I can do about it either. It’s not like I can assault the stadium, not with the small numbers I have, and Jo has made it clear that she’s disinterested in engaging the higher echelon directly.
Luckily, Camus has anticipated my stubbornness. “I knew you wouldn’t,” he says, “which is why I’ve asked Glasgow to monitor our camera installations around the park for any change. If there’s an opportunity to pull your people out of there, we’ll take it.”
“As long as it happens in the next hour, right?” He furrows his brows convincingly. “Jo told me about the boat.”
“Ah.” Understanding lifts the confusion from his face. “I wasn’t aware we were leaving this soon.”
Part of me wants to bluster about how I’m not leaving without Samuel, but there’s another part, a deadly quiet voice inside, that reasons he’s probably dead. Ximena too. And Dhruv. They weren’t with Charlene and the others. She would have sought them out if they’d survived the landing, so what other explanation could there be? Glasgow didn’t say who it saw. They might not even be members of my team at all, just other humans. I’ve been pushing down this terrible thought, trying to give it as little space as possible to exist, but now it’s surfaced and all I feel is dread and guilt. If Samuel’s dead… if all my friends are dead, then it’s my fault. I brought them here. I made them beads in the rosary of my last hail-Mary, trying to contribute something to the cause. I burned them for the glory of being useful.
“Do you need to help with the evacuation?” I ask in a small voice.
His eyes roam my face for a moment, like an abstract painting whose meaning he can’t quite discern yet. “No. My friends here are quite capable of moving a few boxes. We have a few minutes.” He touches my hair curiously, but instead of asking about the change he says, “I want to know everything. What happened in Calgary? How did you survive the missile strike? And please don’t mistake this next question for ingratitude, but how are you here?”
“I could ask you the same thing. Why aren’t you back at McKinley?”
“—and where are the other clones?” he adds suddenly, while I finish asking, “Why are you helping these machine sympathizers?”
It’s been six months since we last saw each other, but it feels like a lifetime. So much has happened that having a conversation right now is like trying to shout between two cars moving in opposite directions. I feel time pressing down on us, some inexplicable countdown accelerating at the back of my mind. We could be interrupted at any moment, so every word needs to count. After all, who knows when we’ll have this same chance to be alone again?
We both pause to reset the conversation with only a little awkwardness.
“You first,” I tell him.
“Very well,” Camus concedes, and then proceeds with his account of the past six months. How he was initially sent under the guise of fostering cooperation between the New Soviets and Oregonians when his real mission was to help bring the Oregonians under New Soviet control—or else. I know without needing to be told the Oregonians won’t be the only ones subjected to an ultimatum by the New Soviets in the future.
“They’re making a play for world domination amid an ongoing global crisis,” I say. I only wish I felt more surprised. Mostly I feel dumb for not recognizing the dangers of bringing everyone together under one authority. I thought we were the scrappy rebels, but instead I’ve created the Empire.
