Architect (Last Resistance Book 3), page 17
“Yes,” Camus says. “It was likely only a matter of time until someone tried. Even McKinley wouldn’t have been able to hold the reins forever without force.”
What a nightmare this has all become. I rub the sides of my face, trying to ease another oncoming headache. Ever since the alley when I was almost blown apart my head’s been killing me. To say nothing of the hallucinations. “Wait. But you aren’t with the Oregonians right now,” I point out.
“And as we’ve established, you aren’t dead. I’d say the New Soviets are in for a great deal of disappointment.”
My lips are drawn into an unavoidable smirk. “Camus Forsyth. You’ve gotten snarky.”
“Someone had to take up the mantle in your absence.”
There’s laughter in my voice as I hold up my hands and say, “I’m not complaining. In fact, this may come as a great shock to you, but I’m into it. So, you came to coordinate a takeover of the Oregonians, but ended up staying with these… machinists. How’d that happen?”
“They saved my life,” he says, and there’s true emotion in his voice. A little awe, like it’s still a baffling miracle even to him. “I was scouting the city with a team ahead of the invasion, and we became cornered by the higher echelon’s forces. Everyone else was killed. I thought I was dead too. But then Glasgow arrived. He took control of the predators somehow. I was still in rough shape from the fight, but the Portlanders were able to get me back on my feet within a few weeks. And by that time… Well, McKinley had written me off, and it seemed best to stay gone. After speaking with Jo and seeing Glasgow in action, my mind was made up.”
I don’t want to think about how close I came to losing Camus without even knowing it, so I latch onto the last thing he said. “But doesn’t the machinist philosophy strike you as a little… romantic? Idealistic?”
“No more so than relying on a single woman to captivate and hold together a global coalition of untrusting allies.”
“Touché.” I let a small smile touch my lips. “Still… what was it that convinced you on a logic level? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like a lot of mindless faith. They trust Glasgow implicitly. It’s like they’ve learned nothing from the past decade.”
“Or they’ve taken exactly the right lessons by trying to avoid repeating history. The technology is here, whether we like it or not. We could destroy every machine, erase the higher echelon from existence, but that wouldn’t destroy our knowledge of either. Without thoughtful consideration or oversight, there’s every possibility someone rebuilds dangerous AI and restarts the cycle of violence. Better to have it all out in the light.”
I glance away, discomforted by this alternative. The wall rising up between our ideologies makes me feel like we’re on two different sides of the war. “I don’t know. Maybe some technology is too dangerous to exist. Maybe some ideas should be suppressed.”
“And who gets to decide that? You?”
“Of course not,” I say, frowning. “I’m not trying to make this about me.”
Camus eases off with a nod. “I know. And I also know it will be difficult to change your feelings about the machines. I didn’t come easily to this opinion either. But imagine turning a mass force like the machines toward good. Putting them to work repairing what’s been broken. Living alongside them instead of in opposition. The New Soviets would take us back to an age of imperialism, and trust me, they have every intention of doing just that now that they have the numbers and the resources.”
Because of me, I think miserably. I loaded the gun and put it in their hands, and yet I still don’t see a way I could have avoided this. We needed allies. We needed their strength.
At least, I thought we did.
“We don’t have to go from one dystopia to another,” Camus continues, and I hear Jo’s radical passion in his voice. “We should be striving to create something better than what was before.”
“That’s a beautiful sentiment,” I say, “but aren’t you forgetting one thing? We’ve already tried what you’re proposing. That’s literally how the world was until this happened. The machines were supposed to be on our side. They were supposed to make life easier. Instead they slaughtered us.”
“Only one AI was responsible for that, not all of them.”
“All AI are the same. They don’t think like us or feel like us. They have no conscience. No moral tether stopping them from deciding to get rid of us.”
“I’m not so sure that’s true.”
“Don’t tell me you think Glasgow has a soul.”
“We aren’t discussing souls. You said you didn’t think they possessed a conscience; in other words, the ability to determine right from wrong.”
“What’s the difference?” I huff, throwing myself down onto the steps. It feels like we’re going in circles, trying to reach a center where we both can agree. But I’m not sure that center exists. In six months, Camus has gone from a humanist to a machinist, and I’m scared of what that means for us. I’m scared I can’t change my stance or my beliefs, and I’m scared about what it would mean if I did.
Camus joins me after a moment, sitting close enough for our shoulders to touch. It’s amazing how even now, even when we’re fighting, that small amount of contact lets me breathe a little easier.
“None of this is what I was expecting when I came here either,” he says. “But the world is changing. Our enemy is changing—we must change, too. That means joining forces with unexpected allies, and maybe, just maybe, admitting that the future we thought we were fighting for is no longer viable.”
“I never thought you, of all people, would be lecturing me on change.” I smile weakly, wanting him to know I’m not upset with him, even though his words gut me. My smile quickly fades. “If you’re right about what the New Soviets are planning, then—it’s not just their fault. It’s mine. I made this possible, Camus. I helped create this coalition. It never once occurred to me that there might be another way. A middle ground. Some compromise that didn’t require building a new world superpower to throw down with the machines. And honestly, I’m still not entirely convinced a peaceful resolution is possible. What does that say about me?”
Camus considers his reply for a long moment, and I appreciate that he doesn’t fire off some cheap response to make me feel better. “That you’re as vulnerable to magical thinking as the rest of us mere commoners.” I’m not looking at him, but I don’t miss the smile in his voice. “And that you tried to do what you thought was best with the information available.”
“I’m not sure my intent matters, especially when the outcome is—all of this.”
A not insignificant part of me hopes he’ll disagree. “Maybe not. But the work you’re doing right now is good. Humans are an exceptional species: wildly imaginative, progressive, and forward-thinking—except when it comes to interrogating ourselves. It’s difficult to imagine something that has never been and terrifying to admit that the institutions we built to protect us may be cruel and unsustainable. We saw this even before the war, remember? But while one person may contribute to a systemic issue, they alone are not the cause of it.”
His hand slides over mine. “And no person, however selfless and determined, can solve it alone either.”
We lapse into silence, the only sound that of the battle above ground growing closer. It’s hard to sit here. To wait. Especially while others are spending their lives elsewhere on a faulty dream that I sold them. With every broadcast I promised the survivors we would eventually return to the world we knew, like we were only in exile, temporarily banished. It wasn’t a lie at the time. I genuinely believed we could go back to the way things were. I didn’t realize we were sailing away from Atlantis, backs turned as it disappeared beneath the waves.
“You really believe this is our only path forward?” I ask. “Working with machines?”
“Not everyone here is a machine,” he reminds me, “And I don’t know about only, but it feels like a better alternative than what the New Soviets are proposing.”
“I’m not sure that’s saying much.”
“Fucking finally.” Benji pops out from around a corner, gaze landing on us before shooting to the ceiling in relief. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
I start to my feet. “I just needed some time alone to think—”
“Not you,” he says. Looks at Camus. “You. Timetable just got moved up. We’re leaving now. Like, right the fuck now. If you’ve got stuff to grab, grab it.”
“What changed?” Camus asks, already moving to follow Benji. I’m right behind them both.
“Providence Park’s being evacuated. Glasgow just caught it on the cams. Everyone’s leaving.”
“And going where?”
“Up toward the hills looks like. But that’s not exactly what I’m worried about right now. More worried about why.”
Right. Because if the higher echelon is packing up and shipping out, it’s because it’s no longer safe in the city. Maybe the ground forces have made too much headway or the machines know something we don’t. Regardless, if cornered, the higher echelon will do what all tyrannical powers do on their way out: burn it all down. And woe to anyone unlucky enough not to get out in time.
Samuel, I think desperately. If he’s still alive I can’t just leave him behind. I can’t just not try to look for him.
“This could be our chance,” I say, gripping Camus’s arm. “If the higher echelon is moving its prisoners—”
“Not prisoners,” Benji throws over his shoulder.
“Maybe we can blend in with the evacuees and rescue our people.”
“Your people,” Benji adds unhelpfully. I shoot him a dark look, but his back is to me.
Camus hesitates. “It would be dangerous. And if we miss the boat…”
“Samuel might be with them,” I blurt. If he weren’t, would I be willing to take the same risks? The truth is too ugly to look at for too long. Instead I suffer Camus’s heavy look of concern, my insides burning from the admission of Samuel in danger and the need to do something about it. “He jumped out of a plane with me, Camus. The least I can do is return that leap of faith.”
“Benji,” Camus says in a rough, authoritative voice, wrestling the younger man’s focus long enough to slow him, “go ahead. We’ll join you shortly. Let Jo know we’ll be detouring by the park.” He casts me a look, and I mouth thank you. His eyes soften as he returns my smile with a nod.
“Are you joking? Is he joking?” he asks me, squinting at Camus.
“We won’t be far behind,” Camus tells him. He points me to an adjacent tunnel, and I start down it, listening as Camus calls back last-minute instructions to Benji to hold the boat.
“Will they really leave without us?” I ask Camus once he’s caught up.
“Yes,” he answers simply, directing me to take a right. From how confidently he moves within these labyrinthine tunnels, I guess he’s been here for quite some time. Curious and curiouser. “Which is why we need to hurry. But we’re not going anywhere before we get you some body armor. Do you have a gun?”
“Someone took it,” I say.
“Good.”
“Sorry, did you say ‘good’?”
“I’ll explain in a moment, once we reach the armory—damn it.”
The room functioning as the armory has already been picked clean. Only empty crates and cabinets remain.
“Your people move fast, I’ll give them that.” I slide a few empty clips around on the floor with my foot, and when I finally look back at Camus he’s shed his jacket, exposing the bulletproof vest beneath. I nearly groan. “Camus, no. I’m not—”
“If we’re doing this,” he says, “then we do it my way. Safely. Or as safely as possible. No arguments.”
“It’s not much of a rescue if you die in the process,” I grumble, even as I let him help me into his vest. It’s heavy and awkward, but the slight squeeze around my chest as he tightens the velcro almost feels like an embrace.
His hands linger on my shoulders as he stares down into my eyes. “I know you’re used to being in charge, but in this instance I need you to follow my lead. Stay by me and do exactly as I say.”
I know this is an incredibly inappropriate time, but Camus’s take charge manner is really doing it for me. I can’t resist making a joke. “Ooh, I like this confident, bossy Camus. I hope this doesn’t awaken anything in me.”
He chokes on a laugh, shaking his head as I waggle my eyebrows. Although my teasing does not warrant a verbal response it does offer some temporary relief, releasing a little tension from the moment. Sometimes I think that’s all being human is: finding ways to live even amidst fear.
“You’re really not going to try and talk me out of this?” I add as we move toward one of the tunnel exits, quietly awed by his trust.
“I’ve lived the past six months by one rule: what would Rhona Long do?” Camus says. “I can hardly fault you for living up to that maxim now. If you didn’t try to run through fire for someone you loved, I’d wonder if you were sick. And it’s Samuel.” He lets that point linger between us for a moment, full of unspoken context.
I catch his hand, causing him to turn toward me. “I’d run through fire for you,” I tell him, hoping it doesn’t sound too cheesy.
“I know.” Camus plants a quick kiss on my mouth. “But let’s try to avoid that, shall we?”
We head aboveground.
HANNA
DENALI NATIONAL PARK, ALASKA
They reach the Visitor Center in the skinny hour of dawn when the veil between the past and present feels thin, the coming day full of possibility. The last time Hanna was here, years ago, it was the middle of the day. Rankin was with her. They were just starting to get serious, and she was flirting by doing silly voices for all the stuffed displays of animals while they searched for electronics equipment for McKinley. He liked the one she did for the moose best.
That memory stings, so bright and clear, like unexpectedly catching a glare from the sun. She tries to hold on to these memories like she would a baby bird—carefully, gently. Tries not to let herself be hurt by them, but sometimes they still tear at her with tiny, raptor-sharp talons.
It’s still dark, the sky hanging so low she feels she could pluck out each winking star like eyes. Zelda instructs her and Dopey to wait beside the statue of a lazing grizzly while she scouts out the main building for signs of occupation. It’s not wildlife they have to worry about mostly, but soldiers. If they’re caught, they’ll be dragged back to McKinley—if they’re not simply judged traitors and shot on sight.
Zelda returns minutes later, satisfied with whatever she’s found, or preferably, not found.
“Keep your guard up.” She makes her arm into an invisible shield rather than using actual ASL. She then shines the flashlight against her face like she’s telling a spooky story and speaks more slowly so Hanna can read her lips, which almost makes Hanna roll her eyes. They really need to work on Zelda’s signing. It’d be so much safer not to have to speak aloud, and easier on Hanna too, not having to guess every few words when Zelda mumbles. “There’s signs of someone living here.”
“Recent?” Hanna asks in what she hopes is a whisper.
“I found a sleeping bag that was still warm, so yeah. Pretty damn recent, I’d say. Whoever it was must have left in a hurry. Maybe they heard us. I don’t know, but I don’t like it.”
“One of ours?” Hanna signs along with speaking for Zelda’s benefit. “From McKinley?”
Zelda kicks aside some fallen branches on her way to the door. Between trees sagging under the weight of snow and overturned benches, the patio area doesn’t look kept to Hanna, but maybe the squatter didn’t want anyone to know they were here. Which also begs the question, why? “I doubt it. No good reason for them to stoop on our porch instead of just walking up to the door and knocking.”
“Maybe they want to avoid the New Soviets too.”
“Let’s hope that’s all it is.”
The cold follows them inside the main building, their breaths going ahead like gray ghosts, formless silhouettes against the shadow. Dopey moves sluggishly behind them, but when she points it out Zelda insists that it’s fine. Just the machine’s hydraulic systems struggling in the chill. Hanna’s not convinced. Dopey took a bad tumble when they were making their way down the mountain, resulting in serious damage to her face. Half the screen is now glitched, a colorful checkerboard that only barely resembles human features. If Hanna stares at the machine too long it starts to make her uneasy, the sagging pixels like the face of a stroke patient.
Stay here night, Zelda signs. It’s awkward, but Hanna appreciates the effort. Zelda looks like she wants to say more but doesn’t know how. “What’s the sign for mourning?” she finally asks, and Hanna furrows her brow.
“Mourning?” she repeats.
Zelda nods, so Hanna clenches two fists over her heart and twists them, like she’s wringing blood out of a shirt. Something she did for Rankin on multiple occasions when his away missions went bad. She signs the word twice to help Zelda remember, and because in the time since her husband died she’s never once signed her grief as such, preferring to confine her sorrow to words she can’t hear, rather than admitting to it in her body’s own language. Until now.
We’ll move in mourning—Good? Zelda signs, and that’s when she realizes Zelda meant morning, as in sunrise.
Good, Hanna confirms, not bothering to correct her. Thank you. In some ways, Zelda isn’t wrong. Hanna has been moving in mourning. She just hopes it’s away from the source and not toward more.
Hanna explores while Zelda attempts to set up camp. The cache of supplies Renee left for them included two sleeping rolls manufactured to withstand temperatures even more severe than this, but Hanna knows it will be a cold and quiet night regardless of their shelter, lengthened by the fear of discovery. Zelda acts like she has a plan, but whatever it is she hasn’t deigned to share it with Hanna just yet. From what she can tell, part one mostly includes putting as much distance between themselves and Denali as possible. Hanna thought it would hurt more to leave the base, but so far she feels nothing except a tricky sense of relief, as if all the memories of McKinley can be consigned to its location and left behind.
