Architect (Last Resistance Book 3), page 19
“They don’t talk?” I whisper as soon as their gazes pass.
“Rarely. Never to each other, only to the others.”
“Is everyone here a clone?” It seems impossible that the higher echelon could produce the infrastructure to generate so many bodies, to say nothing of copying minds.
“No. The teens, from what we’ve gathered, have simply been raised by the higher echelon. They were young enough to be molded to the machine’s standards.”
“But—” I quickly shut up, schooling my features into a neutral expression as several Rhonas turn in our direction as one. I also look behind myself, only a fraction slower, operating off instinct. For one terrifying moment I’m sure we’ve been caught out, but then Camus gives me a slight nod, and when I turn back the other Rhonas are marching steadily forward again.
“What’s the point of all this?” I speak out of the side of my mouth, more cautious now. “I thought they wanted humanity dead.”
“They never wanted anything,” Camus corrects. “They were programmed to end human wars, and they’ve essentially accomplished that by destroying the governments responsible for waging them.”
I tighten my jaw to avoid shaking my head. “But they didn’t stop at politicians. They murdered civilians in the millions. They drove us all into hiding. At every available opportunity they’ve hunted us.” Hunted me. “Something doesn’t add up.”
Camus ducks his head, feigning interest in his shoe as several Rhonas move past us. They’re armed with guns—real guns, not EMP-Gs. Curiosity begs me to look to see where they’re going, but I decide against it. Thankfully, not all of them are heading to the back of the train, so it’s not completely unreasonable for me to remain where I am, close to Camus.
“Do you see anyone you know?” Camus asks me.
“Aside from the obvious?” I scan the crowd with as much subtlety as I can muster. It’s not easy to pick out identifiable features when all I can see are the backs of people’s heads ahead of me. “No, no one yet. Let’s move up.”
“You first. It will look less suspicious. I’ll be right behind.”
I journey toward the front of the train. I don’t need to worry about accidentally brushing against others: everyone jerks out of my way instinctively, keenly aware of my presence. It isn’t fear, but respect, and that’s almost as disturbing. If I thought the machinists’ weird friendship with the machines was alarming, this feels more intimate. Trusting.
It takes everything in me not to react when I finally spot someone I do know. It’s not anyone who made the initial jump, but former commander of Churchill base, Evelyn Meir. The same Evelyn Meir whose political machinations included once having a machine programmed to try and kill me to help inch me toward abandoning McKinley as my home and moving to her base instead. Last I’d heard, she remained behind in Juneau to help coordinate refueling efforts for those who came to our aid. I didn’t keep tabs on her after that.
And yet, here she is, living amongst machines. She’s dressed in the same simple outfit as everyone else, but her hair is much longer than I remember, lying in a long flat blade at her back.
She catches me staring and averts her eyes meekly. “Have I done something wrong, warden?”
With that simple gesture, so humble, it’s obvious that this isn’t actually Evelyn. She must be a clone, which also means her DNA must have been taken at some point by the machines. Maybe during the attack on Churchill base or the one on McKinley?
I also worry what the presence of this clone means for the real Evelyn. We obviously weren’t besties, but I never wished her ill. I hope she’s somewhere safe—and still alive.
“No,” I answer with only a little hesitation. God, how I want to ask her questions, but I doubt she’d have the answers I seek, and in any event it’d break my cover. Limiting my direct interactions is probably wisest right now. “Proceed,” I say without emotion, turning away robotically. I might be overdoing it, but Evelyn’s body double—clone?—doesn’t seem to notice.
I wish she were the last surprise. Instead, one familiar face after another assaults me. Many belong to the dead, those lost in the fight against the machines over the years. Most notably I recognize several victims of the McKinley attack, which throws me. Folks who had never previously left the base. Somehow the machines managed to gather what they needed to replicate them from that invasion, which makes me wonder now if that was whole point. For as terrible as the attacks were, they’d always struck me as somewhat restrained. The machines could have done far more damage—is this why they didn’t? Because they were after living samples, not corpses?
Aside from Samuel, I find myself searching for one other face. Rankin. I’m not sure if I’m hoping to see him or hoping not to. Dread twists inside me before each passing shoulder. I pretend to feel nothing. I make my face into a glass mirror, reflecting the expected expression, or lack thereof. I glance back once to make sure Camus is following, relieved to see him slowly winding his way through the crowd, checking those around him too. Nothing must come as a shock to him after living in this half-life city, where the dead come back in place of the perished.
Relief almost pulls me to a full stop when I spot Dhruv in limping lockstep with the others. His timid, almost frightened expression stands out compared to the relaxed faces around him. He’s still wearing the hard-shell suit he jumped in, which is pretty convincing evidence that he isn’t a clone.
He’s being guarded by one of the Rhonas. This one has two mean scars across her face, like claw marks. I can’t imagine what kind of injury would scar like that, leading me to wonder if the higher echelon had her mark herself, though I can’t think of a reason why apart from distinguishing her from the rest. Some of the others are wearing their hair differently or have it dyed, just as I did with the Longs, but our purpose was subterfuge and individuality. I doubt that’s the goal here.
I let my mind work through a plan. I know we’re in a hurry, but it won’t help to rush into something and get myself killed. If I stomp over to Dhruv and drag him out of the line, the higher echelon will almost certainly recognize that I’m not part of its League of Extraordinary Rhonas. I don’t want to know what happens then.
Okay. So I need a distraction. But any distraction I come up with will only work once, and I still haven’t located Samuel. I can’t act until I do.
Sorry, Dhruv. As difficult as it is to leave him I continue ahead, noting his location for when I’m ready to move ahead with a plan. If they haven’t executed him yet, then he’s probably safe for the time being. That’s the story I tell myself anyway. I wish I could consult with Camus, but he’s trapped between two Rhonas, and doing his ample best not to show his face. Dammit.
I feel myself losing hope the longer my search goes on, sure I would have already spotted Samuel if he were here, especially given his height and build. Everyone here seems thick and hale and few are as tall as six feet. The train ends less than a hundred yards ahead, and he’s nowhere to be seen. Maybe it was too much to hope for—
Someone brushes against me. Initially I assume it’s Camus, but I force myself not to react in case it’s not. A cry nearly works its way out of my throat as Samuel wanders by with the dazed, war weary look of a veteran, completely unaware of me.
I grasp his hand at the last possible moment, lengthening my stride so that I’m not seen reaching for him.
His head jerks down and then back up in one swift motion, catching himself. “Rhon?” he says in a small voice, eyes forward.
I offer a reassuring squeeze before releasing his hand. “Are you okay?”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“We came to rescue you—Camus is with me. He’s been living in the city with a bunch of machine-lovers, if you can believe it. Long story. I spotted Dhruv back there. I’m so glad you both made it.”
“Dhruv?” His surprise catches me off guard.
“You weren’t together? I just assumed—our reports said two people made it to Providence Park.”
“Ximena.” I cast around with just my eyes before Samuel adds, “I lost track of her.”
“Is she here in the train?” It’s everything I can do not to twist around to further scan the crowd.
“No,” Samuel says, frowning. “I don’t think so. Another group left ahead of us. She must have been with them.”
“Where is everyone going?”
“Bunkers,” Samuel says.
“Bunkers?” I repeat, but we’re prevented from further discussion by the Rhonas starting toward us, moving as one unit through the crowd. Some of the siegers also stop in their tracks, their artillery articulating backwards in an obvious threat.
I’m not sure what gave me away, but I’m almost positive the Rhonas are heading straight for us.
Shit shit shit. I allow myself a panicked look at Samuel, figuring the jig is up, but his face shows a total lack of fear. His brow twinges, but mostly he looks exhausted, like the world has run him through so many times, what’s one more sword?
“Stay here,” I instruct Samuel in a rush of breath. “Find Camus.”
“Don’t,” Samuel starts to say, but I’m already moving.
I have one last desperate play. I turn and follow the Rhonas behind me which are also racing toward the back of the train. It’s a stupid gambit that I saw in an old movie about a mummy, but it freaking works. In the flood of Rhonas, I don’t stand out. Talk about my monkey paw wish finally coming true…
The other Rhonas are holding weapons, mostly guns, but some tasers too. It’s clear to me now that they’re responding to some threat to the caravan. I understand why Camus insisted on traveling without a weapon, but damn if it’s not inconvenient and a little ironic.
I shorten my stride, letting most of the other Rhonas go ahead of me to meet the danger. Gunfire begins, followed by the sound of an explosion. Now the crowd reacts, dormant human instinct kicking into high gear. The train erupts into organized chaos as people begin to run. By keeping to the main boulevard and taking the path of least resistance the train still holds more or less together, and this is when I see my opportunity.
Confident the Rhonas are distracted, I backtrack. Thankfully, Samuel and Camus seem to have found each other. I unceremoniously usher them out of the crowd and into the first available side street.
Camus catches me as I’m heading once more into the breach. “Where are you going?”
“Dhruv’s still out there.” I take back my arm. “Stay here with Samuel. I’ll be right back.”
Camus looks like he wants to fight me on this, but instead he just tells me to be careful. I’m grateful for his trust, even as I have doubts about my ability to do as he’s requested. I’m a little hurt by Samuel’s lack of input. He doesn’t offer encouragement or object. He slouches against the side of the building, looking utterly drained and dejected, hope spent. A worry for later, I think and weave back into the stampede.
Dhruv can’t move quickly with his injury, which turns out to be a blessing in disguise. I locate him quickly.
“Come with me,” I order. He doesn’t resist, perhaps assuming I’m one of the higher echelon’s wardens. Whatever works.
We’ve almost made it to Camus and Samuel when I catch sight of one of the Rhonas acting strangely. She’s standing in the stream of people like a mighty obelisk breaking up a river. She sees me. She knows.
Another nearby Rhona turns toward me, but I’m faster. I take the gun off her and fire two neat shots without thinking, first at her and then at the other clone. Guess I was right before—I am someone who can pull the trigger after all.
The kickback surprises me, along with the sound. I’m so used to the quiet discharge of EMP-Gs. My ears ring for a few seconds. I don’t hear the thump of their bodies hitting the ground, but both Rhonas collapse like dolls. I start toward them, habit telling me to pull out their processors, destroy their petty mechanical hearts, before I realize they don’t have them. They’re flesh and blood. Bullets are enough.
I drag Dhruv through the crowd, ignoring his protests of pain as I yank on his hand. If we don’t find cover he’s going to have more to worry about than any shrapnel still working its way out of him.
I don’t think about the Rhonas I just killed. They weren’t really living after all, right? Just machines dressed in flesh. That’s all.
That’s all.
“Rhona!” Camus rushes me, and it’s not until he says, “What happened? You’re covered in blood,” that I realize that’s why I’m newly wet again. Sour burns up my throat, and I lean over, heaving for a long moment. Camus takes the gun from me and draws me further down the street, away from my victims and the screams around them. I can’t draw in a deep enough breath. I feel like I’m back in the Willamette, held under the water by the weight of myself. Drowning.
“What did you do?” Samuel’s looking at me with the first real expression I’ve seen from him since I took his hand. But it isn’t concern. It’s horror.
Something dark rises up inside me, demanding to know what he has to be afraid of. He’s seen what I can do. I’ve defended myself before. I’m capable. Everyone seems to forget just how capable I am.
Dhruv lets out a curse, glancing down at the bandage peeking out through the hole in his suit. That’s odd. Did he administer first aid himself or did the machines take care of him? The Rhonas, even?
I shove the thought away.
“Let’s go,” I say to Camus, wiping the line of saliva from my chin. My mouth still stings with bile. “We need to catch a boat.”
Fourteen
I fumble my first few steps, but Camus is there at my elbow, steadying me.
“Thanks,” I whisper, because to tell him I’m fine would be a lie, and I’ve told enough lies to myself and others today. Camus moves in closer, and by his knitted brow I know he’s withholding further comment until we’re somewhere safe, for now offering instead strength and reassurance sans judgment.
Thank God for him.
I’m less familiar with this part of Portland, despite having studied the map, and so I rely on Camus to lead us back the way we came. Right now everything looks the same to me—the streets, the buildings, everything being slowly absorbed back into nature. Or maybe I’m just having trouble focusing. My mind is still buzzing from the kills. I can’t stop thinking about the blood cooling on my cheek. There’s ash floating in the sky, carried in such black, vulturous plumes that for a moment I worry this conflict will ignite the dry vegetation, sparking another wildfire like the ones we fled from in Canada. Everywhere we go, death, disaster, and tragedy seem to follow. It’s almost enough to make me wonder if the higher echelon isn’t right. When does it all end?
I still hear gunshots popping in the distance like illegal fireworks, but we haven’t it made it far from the general commotion when we’re set upon by soldiers in dark paramilitary garb.
“Oh no,” I hear Samuel mutter before one of the black-clad soldiers shouts a demand to identify ourselves.
His cry is quickly taken up by his companions in a terrifying, out-of-sync chant. “Identify! Identify!”
I jerk my hands up, and the others with me do the same. “We’re with the Oregonians,” I say. Guess I’m not done lying today after all, but it seems like the best bet to engender sympathy or at least cut down on this open hostility. I don’t know what their plans are for the higher echelon’s herd, but I’m not sure I want to be a part of it.
“Oregonian?” repeats one of the soldiers, his accent thick. A few seconds pass before I realize he’s asking a question. It’s difficult to think with guns pointed at me.
“We’re sort of a… satellite group,” I stumble on the explanation.
“An ancillary faction,” Camus offers.
Two of the soldiers trades a volley of sharp syllables in a language I’m sure is Russian or maybe Ukrainian. “You are with the Oregonians?” the first soldier repeats, like maybe he’s not quite understanding.
“Keep it simple,” Camus warns me under his breath.
“Yes,” I say mechanically. “We’re with the Oregonians.”
Even if these strangers are from McKinley, that doesn’t necessarily mean they’ll be friendly, even toward other ground forces. Plus, what are the chances they don’t recognize me?
For a long moment I’m afraid the soldiers will fire out of an abundance of caution, like stepping on a spider of unknown origin, but then one soldier pushes up to the front of the group, shoving aside the guns of his companions like they’re nothing more than children’s toys.
“Move aside,” he barks. “Gehen Sie!”
Wait—I know that voice.
“Ulrich?” Samuel and I blurt at the same time as the older man wrestles off his helmet. We are greeted by a dour expression, which is far more familiar than his new hairstyle: a lopsided undercut that looks far too modern for it to have been his idea. Maybe Zelda’s or Hanna’s. And here I thought Camus’s beard was jarring.
I expect him to come forward for a hug, but instead his gun stays level.
“Ulrich, it’s us,” I say. “It’s me.” Then again, that’s not saying much. He’s probably fought a fair amount of Rhonas today if the worn look of his body armor is anything to go off of. He and the others had to come from the same direction as the conflict we just left behind. Were these soldiers responsible for the panic?
“Prove it,” Ulrich says.
“It’s true,” Samuel tries to intervene, but Ulrich holds a hand up.
I consider what answer I could give that would provide evidence of my identity. Something that would prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’m the Rhona of the past few years, not the fleshly organ of a malicious AI. All the blood on me probably isn’t helping.
“Candy,” I say. “You used to play cards with Samuel back at Brooks facility—you gambled with candy. And all you wanted when you moved to the States was to visit Disneyworld. You knew my father from your army days. You were friends, and so are we.”
