Architect (Last Resistance Book 3), page 20
Ulrich gives me a once-over before finally lowering his gun. A moment later, he lunges at me, wrapping me in a solid bear hug. “You were dead,” he tells me, like it’s news I should know. “You were all dead.” He looks at Samuel and Dhruv. “And you,” he pauses when he gets to Camus, “defected, they said. Lost his mind and ran.”
Camus makes a scornful noise. “Calling it a defection when there wasn’t loyalty to begin with seems a bit of an exaggeration.”
A rare smile tugs at Ulrich’s mouth. A good-to-see-you-haven’t-changed sort of smile.
“Who’re your friends?” I ask.
The other soldiers have been conferring privately while we talk. It’s only as Ulrich pulls away from me, his smile failing, that I wonder if he’s secretly been listening in to their conversation this whole time. Does he understand what they’re saying? And if so, do they know he knows?
“Your gun,” he murmurs, too low for anyone but me to hear. “Get ready.”
I don’t have even enough time to ask for what. When Ulrich turns and fires on his own allies I follow his example, except this time I don’t shoot to kill. I aim at their feet, assuming he merely means to drive them back.
But Ulrich never commits to half measures.
After the firing is over and the soldiers lay dead, Camus flies at Ulrich, turning aside the weapon in his hand. Ulrich must allow it, because there’s no way Camus is stronger than the bulky German. “What was that?” Camus demands heatedly. He didn’t know these soldiers, but his time in Portland appears to have softened his heart, made him more of a pacifist.
“They were discussing her identity,” Ulrich answers, brushing Camus’s hands off him. “They would have hunted her.”
Camus steps back, takes a moment to regain his composure. He doesn’t argue with Ulrich’s logic. Neither can I, although they’d have a hard time finding me, given that even I don’t know where I’m headed next.
Behind us comes the clatter of a trash bin being knocked over. We all turn. Dhruv is standing beside Samuel, now on the ground, barely propped up by the garbage bin he’s knocked over. Blood is pushing out between his fingers, his hands clamped tightly over his side.
“Samuel!”
I rush to him. Ulrich doesn’t join me so much as shove me out of the way. Having performed a stint in the military, he’s likely better equipped with the medical knowledge to be useful right now. I hover behind him as Ulrich persuades Samuel to lift his hand momentarily.
That’s when I finally understand. Samuel’s been shot. One of the bullets from the dying soldier’s guns must have found him as the man fell.
“Samuel.” My throat is tight with fear. I grab his face to make him look at me. “Hey. Stay with us, okay? You’re all right. You’re going to be all right.” I glance at Ulrich for confirmation of this fact.
He leans Samuel forward against the latter’s cry of pain. “No exit wound,” Ulrich grunts.
“Rhona,” Camus says, and he doesn’t have to say more. The boat will not wait. And Samuel doesn’t have a chance of surviving if we stay in the city.
“Samuel, can you stand?” I ask.
“Maybe,” he says, the skin tightening over his face. He clenches his teeth as Ulrich helps him to his feet.
“Like old times,” Ulrich says, even managing a sliver of a smile for Samuel’s benefit. “Always on the run.”
“Dhruv?” I check in with our other wounded teammate. “You good to walk?”
He nods. “I’m not sure how quickly I can move, but I’ve no desire to remain behind. Lead on, Commander.”
But I’m not the one to lead us right now. Camus knows the way, so I let him take point until we reach a portion of the city I know better. Samuel lags behind with Ulrich, and when the German asks for better coverage, Camus doesn’t hesitate to fall back to the rear. Dhruv stays with me, more agile than I assumed his wound would allow. Whatever medical treatment he received while in the higher echelon’s care must have been top notch. I don’t know why that surprises me. Some of the first AI assisted in hospitals. They saved our lives before beginning to take them.
“Thanks, by the by,” Dhruv tells me, only slightly out of breath.
I glance over at him briefly, afraid of getting distracted. “What for?”
“For coming back for me, of course.”
“Oh. Yeah. I mean, you’re welcome,” I say quickly, sidestepping his gratitude, which feels ill-directed. Guilt turns my stomach when I think about how my initial focus was on Samuel above everyone else. If it had come down to saving Dhruv or Samuel, I know who I would’ve chosen, and the fact that I could make the decision between two lives so easily disturbs me. A true leader should be more impartial. Maybe that’s where I failed. Where I’ll always fail.
“Although it was interesting seeing what the higher echelon has been up to,” Dhruv adds thoughtfully.
Curiosity makes me take the bait, even though with Dhruv, I know the answer will likely be both disturbing and long-winded. “Like what?”
“You wouldn’t be able to tell from the outside, but the higher echelon has completely restored the interiors of several buildings surrounding Providence Park. There used to be a bookstore, for example…”
“Powell’s,” I say, remembering my discussion with Benji.
“Right! Powell’s. It’s been converted to partial living quarters in addition to what amounts to a library, given there’s no exchange of currency. And I was also treated in a hospital—a hospital! By machines mostly, but still. It was like stepping back in time.”
I’m starting to wonder if Dhruv hit his head on the way down too, because what he’s describing sounds too fantastical to be true. “Why would the higher echelon restore a bookstore? Or any building, for that matter?”
“For its people,” Dhruv says. “I can’t think of any other reason to do it.”
Unfortunately, neither can I.
Dhruv’s theory bounces around in my head as we make for the Hawthorne Bridge where I first crawled out of the Willamette. Such good times. I’m relieved we won’t have to hoof it all the way to the mouth of the Columbia River, which would doubtless take hours, but I’m concerned that we now seem to be heading toward the main action rather than away from it. For some reason I assumed the boat would be too big for the river, or that the higher echelon wouldn’t tolerate its presence, but none of my predictions for this mission have been accurate, so…
The docks below the bridge seem better suited to casual swimmers than boat enthusiasts. Only a few floating concrete walks remain. The rest are partially submerged in various states of unrest, their moorings tugged by the river’s current. The surrounding area is all retail shops and foot outlets, newer than everything else I’ve seen, like it may have been built shortly before the Machinations as part of some new city project. Portland is a mishmash of historic and modern architecture, speaking to a previous effort to keep up with changing times and stay attractive to newcomers. It must have worked. The city once held a huge population—so where did all the people go during and after the war? Did the machines carry off the bodies for some nefarious purpose or did everyone just quit the city and flee into the wilderness? I think about future historians, if we succeed, and everything they’ll discover about this period that I may never find out. Like so many other aspects of my past, I must be content without that extra context, living without ever knowing the whole truth. The full scope of this tragedy. But first I have to survive it myself.
I hesitate before proceeding across the Hawthorne Bridge. We’ll be out in the open when we cross, but I don’t currently see any machines—or another option. At least I can see the boat from here. I hadn’t realized it would be so big—and a hydrofoil at that judging by its design, though it’s currently sitting low in the water, anchored off the docks on the opposite side of the river. It’s bulky and looks old, almost like a derelict ferry or yacht. In between the twenty or so people and half dozen machines moving around onboard, portions of the deck stand out in a mottled green to match the rusting yellow paint on the sides, but appearances can be deceiving.
I glance backwards at my companions: Ulrich is behind me, supporting Samuel’s weight as he hobbles forward, clutching his side where the bullet struck. His face is streaked with daylight and pale with pain, his mouth tightened in an uncomplaining line. Camus, meanwhile, is bringing up the rear. It should be me back there, given that he’s the one who knows the city best, but I guess it’s pretty straightforward from here.
“I don’t suppose there’s another way across?” I ask Camus. “One less exposed?” The machines didn’t fire on us before when we were part of their strange exodus, but now? The higher echelon knows I’m here. It could recognize Ulrich or Camus or Samuel.
“The plan has always involved Glasgow holding the bridge if it came to open conflict with the higher echelon,” Camus says. “We have to trust that Jo’s sticking to that.”
“I don’t see Glasgow,” I say, expecting a few armed sentinels at the very least. “Wait—”
I do finally spy the flat-faced machine behind the bulk of the boat, but Glasgow isn’t patrolling the dock. He’s the last one boarding.
I swear. “I think they’re leaving.”
“Then we should hurry,” Camus says.
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I quicken my pace before realizing that Samuel and Ulrich are falling behind. I start to double back like an anxious dog on a walk when Ulrich sweeps Samuel into his arms, bridal-style, and begins moving at a speed I wouldn’t think possible for such a short, compact man.
I can hear boat engines beginning to rev up even from this distance, halfway across the bridge. I watch for signs that the boat is lifting onto its foil or pulling away, but it doesn’t. I’m not sure what condition the bridges are in farther up the river, but maybe the boat is too large to pass under them raised on its foil.
“What happens if we don’t make it?” I ask Camus. We’re moving as quickly as possible, and it still doesn’t feel fast enough. “Will we really be trapped in the city?”
“I suppose we could turn ourselves over to the ground forces and hope for the best,” he says, “but between my defection and Ulrich’s… solution, I doubt they’re going to be entirely friendly toward us.”
Not to mention I think the higher echelon has more reason to get its people out than we know.
It takes maybe a minute to cross the bridge, and by that time the boat is departing. No! “Can’t you message Glasgow to wait?” I ask Camus.
“I have,” he pants, “I am. There’s no response. Go, go!” he adds, as if I need any more incentive to hurry.
I dig deep, pushing through that wall of exhaustion, and break into a sprint. My entire body protests, immediately flaring with white-hot pain, but I let my mind go elsewhere, focusing on nothing except my next stride. The stitch in my side feels more and more like an outright tear, and it’s an effort to keep my thoughts from drifting to it. I can’t let the pain win control of my thoughts or I’ll collapse right here, a mere hundred feet from rescue.
Bubbles churn at the rear of the boat as it pulls away. We’re not going to make it.
“Camus—!”
“I see it.”
I’m running so quickly that the incline toward the water nearly sends me toppling head-over-heels. I recover with a little arm-wheeling, and then my feet are hitting wet concrete. The boat is still close enough that I’m able to jump to one of the metal ladders affixed to its side. It shudders beneath my weight, moaning in protest, but holds.
I wait for another shudder as my companions join me, but instead there’s one splash followed by three more. Ulrich, Dhruv, and Camus are in the water, but I don’t see Samuel. Above me I hear voices yelling, but I can’t tell over the noise of the engines and water if they’re directed at me or at the person captaining the ship.
I descend and reach out to Dhruv, hauling him onto the ladder. He climbs over me awkwardly on his way up to the deck.
I reach for Camus next, but the boat is pulling away faster than he can swim, the water roughened by its passage. I lean out and over the water as far as I can, straining to reach him. The effort is so much I can’t even speak, only silently will him close enough to grab. My fingers grope at the air like I’m trying to catch the ghost of him. He’s tiring, I can tell from the stricken look in his eyes. Don’t give up, Camus, I think. Don’t you dare give up on me now.
With what is clearly the last of his strength, he dunks his head and powers toward me and the boat with several long strokes. I catch his arm, and it nearly pulls me off the ladder. I don’t know how I hold on, but I do, finding his hand next and with a primal cry pull him close enough to grab onto the ladder beside me. He clings, shaking from the effort and from the icy water. I press a grateful kiss to his cold forehead, still holding onto his arm to prevent him from slipping off the ladder as the boat vibrates beneath us, continuing ahead.
“What?” Camus shouts over the sound of the engine.
“Where are Samuel and Ulrich?” I repeat my question into his ear.
I scan the wake, but both are nowhere to be seen.
Fifteen
“Kill the engines,” I demand, pushing past a bunch of gaping machinists toward Jo. She is, as always, surrounded by predators and what I’ve come to classify as Glasgow-style machines, each under the command of their namesake and who all turn toward me as one, expressionless faces eerie as ever.
“Rhona,” Jo says warmly. “I’m so glad you made it. And Camus. We were worried.” She sounds sincere, but that means nothing. Actions are everything.
“I assumed you’d give us a little more time,” Camus says. He looks pissed, but he can wait his turn. “I signaled to Glasgow.”
Jo opens her mouth to answer Camus’s unspoken accusation, but I step in front of him. “Did you hear what I said? Drop anchor. We have people in the water.”
“Impossible,” Jo says. “We need to put to sea now. We can’t afford to wait. I’m sorry.”
“I see them!” Dhruv shouts, leaning over the bulkhead. He waves, presumably to let them know that they’ve been spotted. “I think they’re okay!”
“Joanna,” Camus says. “We don’t leave people behind.”
She crosses her arms in the first defensive gesture I’ve seen from her. A small wrinkle materializes between her eyes “You’re asking me to jeopardize the lives of everyone on board and our mission.”
“It’ll take five minutes.”
“Five minutes may matter more than you think,” Jo says.
I realize then I may have to force the issue, just like with Charlene after Liz’s death, what feels like a million years ago. I search those surrounding us on deck, frantically looking for a weapon I might be able to steal, but none of them are packing. Figures. My eyes land on the fire ax, held in place behind glass. While Camus continues trying to appeal to Jo’s sentimentality, I shove free of the crowd and race for the ax. Every minute that passes puts more distance between us and Ulrich and Samuel. I’ve lost enough people on this mission. I’m not losing them too.
The glass doesn’t break under the first blow from my elbow, only popping free after a few more hits. My hand finds the handle of the ax. It’s heavier than I’m expecting, and the head slumps to the deck with a thwunk. I push air from my mouth as I heft it upright and proceed upstairs into the wheelhouse. If Jo won’t listen to reason, maybe whoever’s sailing this thing will be more amenable.
Except there is no captain. No one’s at the helm. I assume that means Glasgow is running the show and say aloud, “I know you’re listening, Glasgow. Unless you want to become real intimate with this ax, stop the boat.”
I’m bluffing. I can’t risk stranding us here by damaging the boat controls, but I’m covered in blood and river spray and look exactly like the type of person who would. If Glasgow has done its research, then it knows I’m willing to do whatever it takes to protect my people, even at the cost of my own safety. I just hope it isn’t smart enough to conclude I won’t choose two lives over the dozens on board.
For added effect, and to prevent anyone from interfering, especially Glasgow’s physical analogs, I seal and lock the door.
“We also have our virtues,” answers a voice from the console speaker. I hate that it keeps using my voice, my words against me. Does it behave that way with everyone? I haven’t seen it respond to anyone else, even Jo. “And one of those is protecting the people we love.”
Is it threatening me, implying it will defend itself to protect those on board? A more generous interpretation would be that Glasgow is saying it understands me and what I need to do.
I hear footsteps on the stairs. A moment later there’s pounding on the door. Camus calls my name.
“You think I won’t do it?” I challenge the machine, raising the ax.
Instead of a reply, static pours from the console speakers, filling the room like a pool with water. Glasgow is blasting the same signal that made me slip into an altered state of conscious before. My vision starts to go first this time, the world slanting away, and I let the ax fly without thinking. I don’t see where it connects, but I feel the vibration of its meeting up through my arm. The static remains uninterrupted.
I barely feel the swelling headache, too distracted by a new vision:
The machines are in retreat now—not just some, all. It’s less of an assault on my senses than before, as most of the machines have quit the main action. They’re surrounded by empty highway now or trees, struggling up wilderness trails and hiking across long untraveled pavement. Some have stopped, monitoring the city from a significant distance, almost like they’re waiting for something. That’s when I notice the radius around the city, serving like a giant magnet, first expelling, and now repelling the machines from its borders. I can’t see it in any physical sense, but code draws a picture inside my mind.
