Architect (Last Resistance Book 3), page 24
“I need to tell you something,” I say, letting Camus draw me back down onto the sofa. The moment I say the words his brow puckers and I know what he’s thinking. “I’m not pregnant,” I add quickly. Not in any traditional sense.
I expect this assurance to buy me a little good will, but Camus doesn’t look relieved. He looks—sad. Almost crestfallen. His mouth works for a moment before he finally answers. “Okay,” he says, his voice utterly flat. “Then what’s this about?”
“Hold on,” I say, leaning back to fully view him. “What was that?”
“What?”
I point at his face, like he has something on it. “That face you just made.”
He gently turns my finger aside. “You’re changing the subject again.”
“Camus, do you want kids?”
He’s watching my expression closely when he answers. “I’m not opposed to them, as a general principle.”
“That’s a weird way to say yes.”
“All right. More simply put, yes,” he admits, “but I’d rather you didn’t take it for criticism.”
“Why would I?” My voice is a little too high, my throat restricted. I’m sure I can find some room to squeeze in a little more guilt alongside all the rest, but I wish I didn’t have to.
“I’m not trying to put you on the spot,” Camus reassures me. “You asked me a question. I gave you an answer.”
“I know. I’m just surprised you’re considering kids at all while we’re in the middle of an extinction event.” I want to make a joke about Camus’s biological clock ticking but it feels in poor taste.
“Of course I’ve considered it. We aren’t ascetics. But I agree, now isn’t the right time or place, obviously. I think we both understand that.”
“Then why did you look so disappointed just now?” Shut up, I think to myself. Quit while you’re ahead. But quitting isn’t in my nature. Being a stubborn jackass, on the other hand…
“I can’t always help how I feel,” Camus replies tensely. “I’m sorry if that bothers you.”
“Whoa.” I hold out my hands, as if to slow the backward slide of a large train on a steep incline. “Are we fighting right now? Because it kind of feels like we’re fighting.”
He ignores my lame attempt at defusing the situation. “You’d have me believe the thought’s never crossed your mind, not once, in all the time we’ve been together?”
Yep. Definitely a fight now.
“We have so much work to do right now,” I say. “Why waste time thinking that far ahead? Not like this war’s going to be over next week.”
“But that is our goal, isn’t it? An end to the violence, some return to normalcy. A future free of machines and death and war. You haven’t pictured what that future might look like for yourself at all?”
How can I tell him that in all my visions of the future I’m not there?
Not this incarnation, anyway. I don’t see a way this role doesn’t eventually cost me my life. Camus won’t accept that answer. He cares more for me than he does the fate of McKinley, maybe even the whole of humanity altogether. His love is narrow and selfish. He’s the guy in the trolley problem who changes tracks to kill five strangers in order to save one person he loves. Problem is, I’m the person who dives underneath the trolley hoping my body jams the wheels and stops it from killing anyone else.
Quite a pair we make.
“Obsessing over the future got us all into this mess,” I say, crossing my arms. “I mean, lethal autonomous weapons? Come on. We had so much fiction telling us how bad an idea that was. But what kind of future would it be without robots?”
Camus lets my comments pass unremarked. His shrewd eyes have zeroed in on me, and I can tell he’s not fooled by my combative non-answers. “As I said before, my desire for children one day isn’t a criticism of us not having them now. I’m not trying to put more pressure on you. Though I do think it’s worthwhile to examine why you’re so resistant to the idea of us having some kind of life after all of this.”
“I’m not resistant to it. Don’t put words in my mouth, Camus.”
“Then just be honest with me!” he explodes, pulling his hands away.
He makes an abortive attempt to get up before apparently thinking better of it. When he finally looks at me, his expression is full of savage hurt, his eyes like open wounds.
“You’ve been secretive for months. I know you’ve assigned Samuel and Ulrich to some taskforce doing God only knows what and that they’ve barely been back to base since. It seems the only time I see you for more than a few minutes is during council meetings…” He pauses, dragging a hand through his hair, collecting himself. “I don’t need to know where you are at all hours of the day. I know the demands the resistance places on you—but Rhona. It’s like you’re slowly disappearing from our life. I’d like to know why.” His voice quiets. “Have I done something wrong? Something to make you unhappy?”
“No,” I tell him certainly, “God, no. That’s not it at all.”
He waits for an explanation. He’s been patient enough, I think. It’s time to tell him.
My comm buzzes, alerting me to an incoming call from the Tea Room. It’s become so automatic to carry my commlink that when I dressed to leave our room I snatched it from my bedside table and shoved it into my pocket unconsciously. I don’t think I’ve ever turned it off outside of a meeting where everyone important was already there. Once I forgot it in my quarters and backtracked three levels in order to get it and rid myself of the nakedness I felt without it.
I should answer. Could be important. But Camus is important, too, and he deserves the truth.
The comm buzzes again, insistent.
Camus looks away before I’ve made my decision. He already knows what I’m going to do. In the end I choose McKinley, like I always do.
“Commander,” a female voice greets me on the other end of the comm. Must be new staff, because I don’t immediately recognize her voice as belonging to one of our normal operators. “Sorry to wake you and Councilman Forsyth, ma’am, but we’ve just received a distress signal near Anchorage.”
Camus straightens, his expression immediately alert.
“How legitimate is this distress signal?” I ask. We’ve been tricked before, answering calls for help that only led to machine ambushes. The higher echelon isn’t stupid; the malevolent intelligence knows we’re in Alaska somewhere, and given enough time, it will undoubtedly figure out the location of McKinley base. But Anchorage was also once a major city: if survivors were looking to lay low or hunting for supplies that wouldn’t be a bad place to go. I can easily imagine a scenario whereby a small group got caught between some wilderness hideout and the city.
“We’re still waiting for confirmation on the ground, but the source appears reliable.”
“There’s been a lot of machine activity in that area.” Camus’s voice holds an edge of warning.
“Maybe this is why,” I respond to him, before telling the woman on comm, “Have the council convene in the War Room. Camus and I will be there shortly.”
Camus manages to hold his peace until I end the call. “There aren’t likely to be survivors,” he says. “I know you keep hoping…”
As we exit the maternity ward the room floods with blue darkness behind us, the energy-saving settings killing the lights in the absence of occupants. Something about our departure feels permanent, and I think briefly of a story I once heard about President Lincoln, about how he dreamt of his death the night before his assassination. I wonder if my own dreams have been premonitions too. Maybe I will never make it to motherhood. My future feels as vague to me as the beach in that painting, frozen in the moment everything comes apart.
“We have a duty to help,” I reply automatically. “Even if we fail to save anyone, at least that failure means we tried.” I don’t reveal how I obsessively worry that the one time we don’t respond to a distress signal, that will be the time it’s real. That people will die, people we could have saved.
That it will be my fault.
“It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind.” We walk, not quite together or apart, with enough room for a ghost between us. His gaze is trained ahead, no doubt toward that future he’s determined to reach. “You’re going to send a team to Anchorage, aren’t you?”
His voice is calm like a cold lake, all the pain trapped underneath the surface. I don’t know how to tell him, yes, I’m going to send a team and yes, I’m considering going myself—that I can feel myself slowly atrophying in this place, petrifying on the pedestal McKinley has built beneath me, becoming something else. Someone else. Camus is right: I’m disappearing, but not only from us, our life together. I need to discover myself again, whatever that means. I need to feel what I’m doing is making a difference. Otherwise, what is the point of me? More importantly, how can I justify continuing my existence in another’s body?
“We can discuss this with the council,” I demur.
“Right. The council.” He sighs, somehow dignified even in his resignation. “Will you at least tell me what brought you down here in the first place?”
It’s a long walk to Command level, but not long enough to make him understand.
“Later,” I promise. “It can wait.”
This, too is a lie, but it’s not the worst I’ve told.
Seventeen
Somewhere Off The Coast Of California – Three Days After Portland
I hear a shrill, almost-human wail just before the first bomb hits. Then screaming.
I’ve had this dream before. I know how it ends, but I still go through the motions, following myself like I’m both the subject and camera.
Nearby a wide black ocean butts against a frozen shore, but despite the earth bursting open in chalk-white sprays all I hear is the distant shush of waves. I wouldn’t have been able to see the ocean where I died, trapped inside wilderness, but in dreams that doesn’t matter. The ocean is both miles away and close enough to breathe in its salt sting. As always it’s winter, cold and desolate. Perpetual winter, like the world has forgotten how to open into spring.
There’s no feeling in my hands or arms or legs. The world is going all at once, and I can’t stop it, and I can’t run from whatever’s coming. Camus clutches me to him. Once again, I’m making promises I shouldn’t. Promises I can’t possibly keep.
I’ll come back to you.
The machines are there too, lurking in the background. Their hard metal bodies produce shadows in angles like teeth. Red optics open all around me, appearing from every direction at once, following my movements like those of a painting suspended on the wall of a haunted estate. Sometimes I stay until the inevitable bloody end, but more often I successfully claw my way back to consciousness instead of reliving the loss.
Not this time. This time I can’t get out before a predator model enters the scene, its dark bulk eclipsing the sun behind Camus’s head. Just as the machine turns its guns on him, however, I realize I’m no longer staring at Camus’s face, but the back of his head.
I wake in a cold sweat, flinching at the sensation of hands on my shoulders. I struggle, instinctively hitting and kicking out at my attacker, trying to dislodge them. For a moment I forget myself in space and time and fumble my naked thigh, searching for the pocket where I used to keep my shiv back at McKinley. My mind fires away, reacting like a dog to fireworks:
She’ll kill me if she has the chance—
She’ll kill me—
There can be only one.
“Rhona! Rhona, it’s all right. It’s me.” Above me, Camus’s face swims into view. He holds me down with both hands, gently but firmly. “It’s just me, love.”
The hot curtain of panic retracts from my vision, reality finally coming through. I quickly release my fists, letting my hands slacken at my side. “Camus,” I wheeze. My pulse slams at my throat, thick with so much fear I feel like I could choke. I throw my arms around his neck and without hesitation he cradles me close. “Sorry,” I murmur, over and over, “sorry.”
We’re still on board the hydrofoil in one of the private cabins below deck. The past couple of days have blended together, separated only by long periods of rest and intermittent moments of blissful intimacy. Mostly we’ve sat in calm waters, slowly patching any damage onboard caused by the wave. The boat is hardier than I’d expected, but it didn’t emerge unscathed. It was my idea to continue dark a while longer while making repairs, all non-essential electronics off, just until we were all sure the higher echelon did not suspect our survival. Until it felt safe again.
“Easy,” Camus whispers against my hair. “It’s all right. You have nothing to apologize for.”
I wish that were true.
“Another bad dream?” he asks as I push myself into a sitting position.
“You could say that.” I drag fingers through my hair, wincing a little at the cut above my hairline. “Anchorage again.” I don’t mention the other dream, the one about McKinley. That felt more like a memory, and not a pleasant one at that.
Camus issues a soft, knowing ah. “I still dream about that too sometimes.”
I shake my head. “This time was… different.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this. He’s just going to ask questions—
“How so?”
Like that.
Camus hasn’t pestered me about my weird lapses in cognitive presence, though I know he must want to. But how can I explain them any better when I don’t fully understand what happened myself?
“You know how it is.” I paste a smile onto my lips and hope it doesn’t look as fragile as I feel. “One minute you’re walking down a sidewalk, the next you’re underwater basket-weaving with Elvis. Dreams never make any sense.”
Camus seems to accept this answer. He opens his arms to me, and I lay back down beside him, glad for his warmth. “We still haven’t spoken about the clones. Maybe doing so would allow you to sleep more easily.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’ve been murmuring names in your sleep. I thought they were merely words at first. Rash, Snow…”
“Prim?” I guess, and Camus murmurs a confirmation. “Yeah. Okay.”
“The whole point of going to Calgary was for the clones. From these names, I assume you found them?” Underneath my fingertips, tension tightens the muscles of Camus’s forearms. It’s a question I don’t think he really wants an answer to, and I can’t really blame him. Our relationship has often felt crowded by the late Rhona’s memory. Adding three more living women to it sounds downright nightmarish, if I’m being honest.
“Three survived,” I say, turning in his arms so that we’re facing each other, “but they’re not nearby. I felt it would be safer if we split up.”
Safer? I remember Rhona the White saying right before her departure, when I tried reminding them of the purpose for sending them away. Or easier for you?
“Where are they now?” Camus asks.
“One is with a militia in Montana, helping destroy the higher echelon’s North American backup sites. Another went with Lefevre to California to investigate the destruction near Palo Alto.”
Mention of Palo Alto causes me to instinctively cover my neck, imagining the choke of a necklace chain being pulled taut. I would have sent Snow to the far side of the world if I could have, but there would have been no easy way to get her there, even if we could have persuaded a European or Asiatic faction to accept my albino twin without asking too many questions. California felt like a decent compromise, especially given the attack on Palo Alto. Like the saying goes: keep your friends close and hateful sociopathic clones closer.
“Neither of those places seem safer,” Camus points out.
I try not to let my hackles rise, but I feel suddenly defensive. It wasn’t an easy decision to banish my genetic sisters, and logistically it had been a nightmare coordinating travel arrangements. “Camus, we’re talking about a group of mes. You shouldn’t expect them to sit around on their thumbs. They wanted to help. Those are the places they can make a difference.”
“Fair point. And the third? Prim, you said?”
“We lost her. She ran off, probably headed toward McKinley. We didn’t have the time or resources to look for her.”
He's silent a moment, considering. When he looks at me, it’s from beneath a heavy, worrisome brow, and I immediately know what he’s going to ask. “She remembered McKinley?” I nod. “What else do they remember?”
Too much. “A lot,” I say. “The war. The resistance. You.”
“That must’ve been difficult—for you, and for them,” Camus says.
“Just a little.” I don’t tell him about Snow’s threats or Prim’s bossiness or Rash’s health issues. It’s too much for this quiet moment to hold without breaking completely. Instead I roll over, nesting down into my sweaty sheets and settling my back against him. They’re far away, my sisters. Far, far away.
“Sleep,” Camus whispers into my ear, like he’s speaking a spell over me. “You’re safe now.” We lay together beneath heavy silence, so much still waiting to be said, until eventually his breathing softens into a regular rhythm against the back of my neck and all the tension leaves his body. I close my eyes, trying to follow his example, but sleep won’t come. My heart flounders in my chest, drumming so loudly I’m surprised it doesn’t wake Camus.
After a few more minutes pass I surrender to my restlessness, quietly extricate myself from my slumbering lover, and dress in the dark. At one point Camus stirs, a hand absently searching my side of the bed, but then he rolls over, gone to face his own dreams and whatever difficult truths they may hold.
The air on deck bites. I fully expect to be the only one up at this hour, especially with this kind of dreary weather. But instead I spot a lone figure leaning against the balustrade, wrapped in a woolen blanket and watching the waves slap against the boat.
