Architect (Last Resistance Book 3), page 2
I’ve been thinking about Renee a lot these past few weeks. She saved our lives by warning us about the missile strike, likely at great personal cost. The councilwoman was already sick when we left McKinley. Cancer. I hope the New Soviets are continuing the care she needs, but I don’t have high hopes, given their callous treatment of so many of their own sick and dying.
If they realize she was responsible for tipping us off, what cruel shape might their spite take?
My comm crackles to life. I recognize Ximena’s voice on the other end. “We’ve got movement from the northeast.”
She’s stationed a few miles out, along with three others, to give us much-needed eyes on the area. Alaska’s borders have been secure for more than a year, but it pays to be vigilant. If the rumors we’ve heard are true, then the higher echelon has been testing the border by throwing small detachments of machines at those guarding it. The higher echelon never takes any action carelessly, so there must be a reason. My guess? It’s gauging the strength of the New Soviets’ response.
That’s good news for our side in these upcoming negotiations. Canada is large. The Soviets will need local factions on their side to protect their flank. Hopefully they’re not so far up their own ass to realize it.
I activate my comm. “Define movement.”
“Two helicopters, low-flying. They look like McKinley birds,” she says. I’d trust her to know. Prior to joining me on the Calgary op, Ximena worked primarily on Military level as a mechanic. She had hopes of a promotion to pilot and was learning the ropes of flying from her friend Tucker Chaplin before he died during the attack on the base. “They’re about five minutes out. You should start to see them in three.”
“Noted. Hold your position for now in case of unwanted guests.”
“Roger that, Commander.”
I hold back a sigh and a reminder not to call me that. I’m no one’s commander anymore, and that’s fine by me. That position almost killed me last year. Literally. From those experiences, I discovered that maybe I don’t want to be the great Commander Long anymore. I don’t want to be absorbed back into another effigy of command, doused in flame to keep others warm.
When I turn back to the rest of my team, I can tell they were listening in. Lefevre’s eyes are open, his gaze focused and clear, while Armin and Dhruv have stopped their game. The air is charged with expectation.
This is the first significant action we’ve taken since Calgary. The last few weeks have been mercifully machine-free, probably owing to the fires. As far as we can tell, only a few predator-class models survived Calgary’s immolation—clambering from the radiation and flame in black-scorched bodies—and they were spotted heading south, away from Alaska. With the Oregonians gathering for a siege, Liz thinks the machines were likely recalled to the higher echelon’s stronghold in Portland. She’s probably right, and part of me can’t help but feel guilty for not being there instead. What I’m doing here is important, too, but it’s still not as flashy as an all-out assault on a major city.
I clear my throat. “You heard her. Positions, everyone,” I call out in a steady voice, making sure that even the Canadians a little farther away can hear me. I roll my balaclava down, concealing the face of a woman who should be dead twice over. “It’s party time.”
We’re stationed in sight of the old Bureau of Land Management’s Anchorage field office, just off the road and near the worn-down airstrip. Anchorage is a natural spot for a meeting from a logistics standpoint—practically a stone’s throw from Denali, but not so close as to make the New Soviets feel territorial about the Canadians being here, this site in particular serving as an inside joke. Well, maybe not so much a joke as a secret message. One someone in my old inner circle might decipher.
It's probably a vain hope, but it kills me to think of Camus suffering needlessly, ignorant to my being alive. Or Hanna. God, Hanna. It’s only been a few months since Rankin passed, but it must feel like years inside her grief. The idea of my death adding more time to that prison sentence makes me wish I’d eaten bad salmon, just so I’d have something to expel.
I hear the approaching drumbeat of the choppers. “Would you look at that,” I say to Charlene, glancing obviously at my watch. “Right on time after all.”
“Bully,” Charlene grunts. She reminds me so much of Ulrich some days, it’s uncanny.
By now, everyone has taken up their positions. We have people hidden in the tree line, but for the most part, the majority of the party stand where the New Soviets will see them. We want the impression of a large presence without giving away our true numbers. Most wear something to obscure their features—matching balaclavas, or scarves drawn up over their mouths—so that I won’t look like the odd woman out. Also, if this thing goes south, no one wants to end up on the New Soviets’ shit list.
I join Liz and Charlene on the airstrip. Liz is the only one with her face uncovered. She settled on wearing the blue Vancouver Canucks’ snapback she brought from Canada. It’s oversized and not exactly the sort of style you’d expect from a woman in her late sixties, but she loves the thing. A few of the seams have sprouted—a clear sign of use—but it does the job of keeping the sun off her face. I wouldn’t call Liz vain, but the last two drug stores we scavenged for supplies along the way she grabbed whatever bottles of expired moisturizer and anti-aging cream she could find. And to be fair, her skin has looked much better recently.
Crap. I’m doing it again. Taking mental snapshots, trying to hold the world still enough to capture it permanently in my mind. The other day I realized I couldn’t remember the last conversation I had with Rankin, the day before the attack. It was just gone from my mind, completely wiped out by the trauma surrounding his death. A small gap, like someone had dragged an eraser through a line of text. I’ve always had a complicated relationship with memory, but constructing my own mental scrapbooks helps alleviate my anxiety around forgetting. One day I might be called on to give my account of the war, and I want to remember everything and everyone. Especially those who aren’t around to promote their own contributions.
Liz pats me gently on the shoulder. “Not to worry,” she says. She must notice how squirrely I am. I keep adjusting and readjusting my belt, my balaclava, the cuff of my sleeve. “The cars are gassed up and ready to go if this goes sour, though I don’t expect it will. Rarely does one arrive on time to a meeting they don’t care about. And that commissar I spoke to—Lena Paszek—was quite courteous over comms. She didn’t seem the least suspect concerning your team’s survival.”
Everything hinges on maintaining our element of surprise until I’m confident of the New Soviets’ intentions. If they’re here in good faith—which I’m honestly doubtful of—then they could be receptive to listening to a ghost. I could use my identity as a bargaining chip to ingratiate myself and the team back into McKinley’s high command, threatening to release broadcasts that expose them as turncoats otherwise. Ally killers. It’s not the best plan, but it’s what we’ve got. I don’t have anything else worth a damn except my value to the resistance.
I see the choppers now. Twin beads of black rapidly gaining depth and detail. The downwash from their blades churns the tops of the trees as they come closer.
“I just hope they’re feeling more cooperative and less shoot-y,” I say, speaking above a normal volume to be heard. The choppers should be moving to land by now, but they’re still airborne. My stomach pinches with dread, though I’m not exactly sure why.
Liz seems unbothered by the suspicious altitude of the choppers. “Either way, a little theater certainly never hurts during a negotiation.” She plucks a strand of grey hair from her mouth, pushing the rest back behind her ear. “Shall we?”
I throw an arm out, stopping her. “Wait. Something’s wrong. They’re not moving to land.” I almost have to shout to be heard now over the chopper blades’ cawing. “Tell everyone to get to cover. Now!”
Liz doesn’t question me, even though I would in her position. She immediately gives the order, and everyone scrambles toward the building or the nearby tree line, whichever is closest. The airstrip erupts while some are still running, heavy artillery rounds causing the ground to spit up geysers of earth and snow. Not everyone makes it. Armin goes down and doesn’t get back up. The same with several of the Canadians positioned closer to the middle of the strip.
The choppers pass overhead like planes. More rounds pelt the roof of the building like explosive hail. The sound makes me cover my ears, and I crouch against the wall, eyes clenched shut, fooling myself into feeling protected by the thin wood until the noise fades.
I open my eyes when I feel Liz clutching my arm. Her mouth is full of blood. “Liz!” I catch her as she starts to sink to the floor, lowering her as gently as I can the rest of the way. I can tell from her injuries that she’s not going to make it, that there’s nothing I can do—no point in calling for Dhruv, our resident medic. Instead I yell for Charlene, my voice throaty with desperation.
Liz will want Charlene here at the end.
“Everyone okay—” Charlene cuts off as she sees Liz in my arms. She makes a horrible strangled sound like an animal dying, even though Liz is the one choking on her own blood.
I hear the choppers again. They’re making another pass.
“Nononono,” Charlene cries, trying to stanch the blood, but there are more holes in Liz than Charlene has hands. I loan my own to the effort, but I’ve been close enough to death enough times now to know when it’s time to let someone go. “Liz. Liz, stay with me. Stay with me.”
Liz raises a trembling hand to Charlene’s cheek, but her fingers don’t quite make contact. Charlene doesn’t see her attempt, but I do, and I catch Liz’s wrist, helping support her long enough for Charlene to clue in. The younger woman leans her cheek into the older woman’s open palm, tears already streaking down her face.
And then Liz is gone.
To where? Even I don’t know.
I yank Charlene back against the wall as the choppers soar low overhead, unleashing more terror. Outside, our team returns fire, adding to the raucous noise. “She’s gone!” I scream to be heard, holding Charlene back from Liz’s body as the roof falls in, breaking under the repeated punishment. The crumbling hole above is filled with dizzying sunlight. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
There is clarity in that moment. Brutal, indifferent clarity.
The New Soviets don’t care about their allies.
They don’t need allies.
I can’t go home. Maybe I should have realized that when they blew up Calgary, but part of me still held on to the idea that my attempted assassination was an accident or an unfortunate miscalculation. Now I know for certain: McKinley base is well and truly lost to me. Its resources, its personnel. Camus.
I’m on my own out here.
“We have to go.” I tug Charlene up from the ground. The chopper is going to come back around. Now’s our chance to get free of the building before we become trapped inside by gunfire or failing infrastructure.
Charlene pulls free of me. “I’m not leaving Liz,” she says.
I grip her shoulders, forcing her to look at me. “Liz knew she might not see the outcome of this war, that others might have to continue the fight without her. She’d tell you to finish the mission. Take care of yourself and the others. You know she would.”
“We don’t know what she would have said—the dead don’t get a say,” Charlene spits back. “They don’t get to make decisions.”
I realize then: she’ll never give herself permission to leave behind Liz. She’ll have to be forced. It’s what her conscience demands: no alternative, nothing to haunt her later when she’s on the edge of sleep. Nothing to make her wonder, what if? I can grant her that peace, I decide. I’ll be the bad guy if it means saving lives.
“You’re right. The dead don’t get a say. But I do.” I draw a pistol in one swift motion, not my EMP-G, but a traditional handgun with traditional ammunition. Good enough for humans as well as machines. I aim it at Charlene. “Move or join Liz.”
“You can’t be serious right now.”
“If you want to stay and die, I can’t stop you from throwing away your life. But I can ensure you aren’t captured by the enemy. I can make it quick. And I will.”
“Liz wouldn’t—” Charlene starts to say, but the chopper passing overhead again drowns her out.
“As we’ve established, Liz doesn’t get a vote right now.”
I feel a tremor working its way into my hand, and I fight to hold the pistol steady. If I show the slightest reluctance to shoot, Charlene will continue to resist. I can’t allow that. She needs to know I’m serious about pulling the trigger. In that moment, I convince myself that I’m the kind of person who could, which makes me someone who can. All that matters are the stories we tell ourselves.
Charlene fires off a curse at me, and I know I’ve won. Not the victory I came here for, not the one I wanted, but the only one that’s left.
I allow her to snatch up Liz’s hat but continue to hold her at gunpoint until we’re both out of the building and racing for the nearby tree line. I make a silent apology to Liz and to Armin and each of the others lying dead on the airstrip, but I don’t delay my disappearance into the woods, and I don’t look back.
Two
Whitehorse, Former Province Of Yukon
Ash is falling as we near the city, the sky settling back into hard grey concrete. I fumble for the wiper control, missing the grip twice in an effort to keep my eyes on the road, but it’s pointless. The dial’s already set to maximum.
The frantic percussion of the wipers against the window sounds like the heart monitor of a patient seconds away from cardiac arrest. Tha-thump-tha-thump-tha-thump. With each sweep more ash clings to the underside of the blades, creating two identical smears across my line of sight. I find myself increasingly hunched over the steering wheel, an old woman straining to see.
In the backseats Lefevre, Dhruv, and several wounded Canadians all have gloved hands clamped tightly over their noses and mouths. I’ve closed the vents and set the A/C to recycle the air in the cabin, but the smell of burning still pushes inside. One of the windows must have a broken seal, but there’s not much we can do about it right now.
On top of everything else, the silence of the last few hours has been unbearable. We barely escaped the airstrip at the park. The chopper harassed us for an hour and then provided cover while its partner landed, unloading soldiers to mop up any survivors. Charlene still argued about recovering the bodies of our other companions, but in the end the debate was short. I made the call to leave them behind. We’d be slower dragging them with us, and the New Soviets were expecting corpses.
Thank God the weather took a turn, making aerial coverage impossible, and that the Sovies don’t know Alaska the way we do, or we’d never have gotten out of the state. Also helpful was Liz’s backup plan, specifically the vehicles she made sure were ready to go if we needed to hightail it out of there. Her last gift to us, a true leader accounting for every possibility and operating with her people’s safety in mind.
I bristle against my own lack of foresight. I’d always known this was a trap—but I thought it was my trap, sprung against unsuspecting invaders. I should have known the New Soviets weren’t interested in truly making peace with the Canadians. They’d claimed to be interested in explaining the action of destroying Calgary, but really all they wanted was to tie up loose ends. Eliminate anyone who might speak to the fact that I was there at Calgary and that they knew it. Accidentally killing a beloved public figure doesn’t exactly win hearts and minds, but deliberately assassinating them goes beyond the pale.
It's still hard to wrap my mind around the fact that my identity is no longer valuable. Instead, it’s become a liability. I am a walking death sentence to everyone around me. Doesn’t feel great.
I glance up to my rearview, making sure the other SUV is behind us. I can’t tell who’s driving from here, but I hope it isn’t Charlene. It’s normally twelve hours to Whitehorse from Anchorage via the Alaska Route 1 and Yukon East, and that’s when you aren’t trying to negotiate both a highway in poor repair and a hostile occupying force. It’s practically Red Dawn in these parts nowadays, the threat of machines replaced with the threat of Russians with guns. Caution has added hours to the journey, and while we’ve pulled over numerous times to swap drivers, I haven’t seen anyone exit the car behind me during any of those breaks.
It's quite possible she hates me now. That she will hate me forever. But at least she’s alive to do it. Others are not.
“Almost there. Call ahead now and let Samuel know we’re coming in with wounded,” I tell Ximena.
“Roger that,” Ximena replies from the passenger seat, her eyes never leaving the road even as she fumbles around in her bag for her comm. Every time I took a curve on the highway she clutched the door ledge, and on several occasions I’ve glimpsed her pumping a brake she doesn’t have from the corner of my eyes. I try not to take it personally. With my lead foot, my driving leaves something to be desired on a good day.
Today is not a good day.
Well, yesterday now, but they feel the same since I’ve slept so little in the car and badly at that. The skies are dark and dismal again, and without that neat divider between night and day, there’s nothing informing my body of the difference between today and the one before it. The past few weeks have blended together, time behaving strangely like a deck of playing cards shuffled quickly, and I feel like I’m staring down more long, seamless months ahead. Dread percolates at the back of my mind, and I wonder if it will be years before I see anyone from McKinley again. Or if I’ll have to wait until the end of the war entirely. If I’ll even survive that ending.
