Architect (Last Resistance Book 3), page 26
“I thought I locked the door,” the man says. “But apparently not. Thanks for bringing him back.”
I nod, whispering, “no problem. He wanted me to know something about a red train. Does that mean anything to you?”
The man shakes his head. “Not a thing. But that’s not unusual. He talks in his sleep a lot, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say anything that made sense.” His gaze slides over to Benji with so much affection I know immediately this man is either a family member or lover.
“Rhona,” I introduce myself. It’s been so long since I’ve had to tell anyone who I was, but in the dark I think maybe the man can’t tell. I no longer have red hair to give me away, but the strange pattern of freckles might under the growing light of dawn.
“Sanjay,” he replies.
“Benji is your…?” I leave space for him to finish the sentence.
“Boyfriend. And you said Rhona… as in the Rhona Long?”
Someone in one of the standing bunks shushes us, and I mumble a quick ‘sorry’ even while Sanjay waves them off. “They snore, so honestly it’s a good thing they’re awake right now. It’ll give me time to fall back asleep before they start up.”
“I can hear you,” a female voice replies, deadpan.
“We have a celebrity in our midst and you want to complain about noise?” Sanjay says, but he’s answered with a grumble as the woman rolls over, stuffing her head beneath her pillow.
“I think I should go,” I say, turning to leave.
I hear a zipper followed by some shuffling as Sanjay climbs from his sleeping bag. He joins me just outside the cabin, closing the door behind him. Standing together in the corridor I realize just how tall he is. And he is tall—at least pushing seven feet. His locks only add to that impression of height, knotted into a bun on the top of his head. I have to crane my neck to look up at him, and I imagine Benji must have to stand on his tiptoes to reach his boyfriend’s lips.
“Sorry,” Sanjay says, crossing his arms in a gesture I think is meant to appear casual. His thick, dark beard makes him look like he’s already been at sea far longer than the rest of us. “But since I have you, I wanted to ask you something. Benji said you tapped into the machines’ shared consciousness back in Portland. Any truth to that?”
I feel my body tense as if preparing for a fight, even though I doubt Sanjay means anything malicious by his curiosity. Still, I can’t help feeling annoyed at Benji for being such a blabbermouth.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “That’s what it seemed like.”
He gives me a pleading look, all big dark eyes. “Is there a chance I could get a few more details? I’m one of the techs who helps maintain Glasgow’s mobile database. It could be useful to know if there’s a way he might be hacked—or the higher echelon even.”
Nothing about Sanjay strikes me as insincere, but I’m still reluctant. I don’t know him. I don’t know if he’ll use this information against me, or how. At the same time, it would be nice to share what’s happened with someone who has no emotional stake. Who isn’t my lover or my friend, whose perspective won’t be colored by anything other than clinical interest.
“How much time do you have?” I finally reply. Maybe it will be good to let the burden of solving my health issues fall onto someone else’s shoulders instead of resting solely on Samuel.
Sanjay smiles a smile full of straight white teeth and charm. “I’ll get my coat.”
Eighteen
We’re at sea long enough that I begin to lose track of the days. Occasionally Glasgow brings us to shore, long enough to scavenge supplies from the numerous coastal towns dotting the western continental US. They’re mostly ghost towns now, full of screeching gulls and territorial animals, mostly house pets who have adapted to being on their own. Green grass hills are filled with brown-backed cows, and the sight fills me with a sort of childish glee, as much as if I’d spotted a lion or tiger at a zoo. I never imagined I’d see a cow again, but as we travel I realize that a large majority of what has survived this war belongs to nature. It lends credence to Jo’s theory about the higher echelon’s intent to help the world recover, but it doesn’t redeem the AI in my eyes. Humans governments were imperfect, but humanity doesn’t deserve to be wiped out, whatever the reason.
We remain in a holding pattern while Jo attempts to contact other cells of the resistance, especially her fellow machinists. I wrongly assumed the group out of Portland was an aberration, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. Apparently there are machinists around the world, all managing to stay in communication with one another via Glasgow. Funny how the very thing that has broken most of our methods of communication—machines—has made it easy for the machinists to stay in touch. I leave her to the work of reaching out and gathering information, still maintaining the cover of being dead for all the world. My time to shine has passed. The best thing I can do for anyone now is stay dead, a perfect regret in their memory. Anonymity will hopefully give me the advantage when it comes time to finishing off the higher echelon, in whatever shape that takes. Jo is still being vague about how exactly we’re going to set up the fight between Glasgow and the higher echelon. That too I try not to worry about. It doesn’t do much good to hold on to things I have no control over.
I’m also occupied with my own to-do list. Sanjay has been helping investigate my strange mental acuities, the ones that allow me to somehow connect to the machines. Samuel, on the other hand, has continued to be morose and distant. I want to give him the space to be angry and to grieve Ximena, but I need answers.
And there’s one other surprise I have planned. Something that’s not just for me, but for Camus too. He’s been finding ways to be useful around the boat while I’ve been joining almost every shore party, slowly gathering what I need. Some of the other machinists—and Elle and Dunk—have been helping me out too, kindly hiding my stash in their shared sleeping quarters. When I told Jo about my plans for a wedding she smiled and took my hands and told me it was a wonderful idea. I didn’t need her blessing, but having it fills my chest with a strange warmth. I think it’s because sometimes her politic manner, friendly but a little removed, reminds me of my mother.
I let Ulrich into my plot the day he catches me struggling to hand sew a sleeve onto a dress I nabbed from an abandoned bridal store. Who could have guessed that there wouldn’t have been a run on veils and high-heeled stilettos when the apocalypse hit?
Ulrich stands in silence for a long moment, staring at my haphazard attempt. “You’re probably wondering what’s going on here,” I start to say, but he only shakes his head.
“I know what is going on,” he says. “Poor craftsmanship. Give it to me.” He closes the door behind him and takes a seat beside me on the bed, holding out his hands.
Which is how I learn that in addition to guns and poker, Ulrich is also an adept sewer—sewsman? He learned from his mom as a boy, back in Germany.
“Who do you think kept our clothes so nice at Brooks?” Ulrich says. “The boy can barely stitch a wound.”
I smile faintly. “I guess I never thought about it.” I let a beat pass, watching the hypnotic rhythm of Ulrich’s steady hand. “Speaking of Samuel, have you seen him recently? I think he’s avoiding me.”
“No.”
“No you haven’t seen him, or no, he’s not avoiding me?”
“We haven’t spoken,” Ulrich says.
“Would it be inappropriate for me to ask you to check on him? We didn’t have the best conversation the last time I saw him.”
“You are fighting?” Ulrich raises his brows, pausing his work to look at me.
“I’m honestly not sure. It wasn’t a fight exactly, but it felt… bad. And I don’t think he’s left his quarters in a week except to eat. I’m getting worried.”
“Recovery can be slow,” Ulrich says. “Trying mentally as well as physically.”
I don’t think he’s just recovering from his gunshot wound either, but I don’t say that. “I don’t know what to do, Ulrich. I want him at my wedding, but I don’t want to hurt him either.”
“Why would your happiness hurt him? You are friends.”
“We had the chance to be more once. Well, a couple times actually, but we didn’t go that way. And then there’s what happened with Ximena. All the clones the higher echelon made using his research. It’d be a lot for anyone, and Samuel’s more sensitive than he lets on.” More than even I knew, given how long I operated assuming everything was fine. It wasn’t until he told me outright how he was suffering that I understood. And the winner of the shitty friend award goes to…
“Invite him,” Ulrich says. “Let him make the choice.”
“I’ve been trying, but I refer you to the ‘avoiding me’ subsection of this discussion.”
Ulrich gives me an impatient look, like I’m still not getting it. “It is a small boat.”
I let my shoulders out of their stiff hold and release a breath. “Right. What if he doesn’t want to come?”
“Then you accept it. You both must find your own paths to peace. Maybe they are the same and maybe they are not.” Ulrich finishes the sleeve and holds the dress up. “The hem needs work. Do you have more thread?”
I try Samuel’s quarters first, but he’s not there. His bunkmate tells me he’s gone to the sick bay, and my mind is immediately consumed by worry that his gunshot wound is bothering him—or worse, has somehow become infected.
But, no. He’s just offering his own services, increasing the knowledge base of the ship by sharing what he knows. I watch from just outside the doorway to the sick bay as Samuel instructs several of Jo’s crew on some strategies for triage in a mass casualty situation based off McKinley’s practices. I hope that never comes in handy on board, but it’s still good for others to know.
I don’t want to interrupt, so I start to leave when I catch Sanjay on the way in. “I know, I know, I’m late,” he says. “Blame Benji. I love him to death, but if he keeps me up one more night with all his sleep talk, I might have to lovingly smother him with a pillow. You know what I mean?” His smile is so warm and easy, I can see why Benji fell for this guy. “So, are you here for the lecture too?” he asks me.
“Oh,” I say. “No. I was hoping to talk with Samuel, but I can see he’s busy. Actually, could you give him a message for me after class?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“I’m actually planning a wedding for Camus and I.”
“No kidding!” Sanjay taps his forehead. “Ah, so that’s what all that fuss upstairs is about. Jo said there was going to be a surprise festivity later this evening, but she was super cagey about it.”
The fuss in question must be Jo’s people arranging the deck for the ceremony, which they should be continuing to do even as we speak. “It’s supposed to be a surprise. I was hoping Samuel would come, but I haven’t had the chance to ask him personally. Could you extend the invitation?” I provide him with the details, which are sparse. It’s in less than two hours. Surely Samuel’s lecture will be over by then?
“Can do,” Sanjay says. “And hey, congratulations by the way.”
My encounter with Sanjay isn’t the reconciliation with Samuel I was hoping for, but it’s the best I can do on such short notice. That’ll teach me to put off uncomfortable conversations.
Now all that’s left is recruiting the groom.
Jo has agreed to do me the favor of keeping Camus busy until everything’s ready, and I’m initially relieved for that time to myself beforehand, especially as my nerves start to kick in. Should I have clued Camus into this day sooner? Maybe I should have at least asked him?
Am I making a mistake?
What if he says no?
All of these fears evaporate as soon as I head downstairs to fetch Camus. Jo told me he went back to his quarters with a headache which immediately sent my stomach spiraling with dread. Count on Camus to let his mind get in the way of what’s supposed to be a happy day. Granted, he doesn’t know that, but still…
I knock before entering our quarters out of habit. Sharing such a close space means inventing ways to allow one another privacy when it’s so desired. You can love a person and also need time to yourself. Camus answers the knock by telling me to come in.
“How are you feel—?”
I cut off as Camus turns toward me, adjusting the jacket of his suit. The navy color is so dark it’s almost black, especially offset by the bright white of the pressed shirt underneath. For a scavenged find the fit is also shockingly good, emphasizing a strong chest by tapering in at the waist. He’s also gone with an adorable black bowtie in place of a tie. I’m so baffled by his formal presentation that all I can manage is a few slow blinks. I haven’t seen him look this good since our last, pre-Machinations date night.
Camus holds out his arms, turning them over in their sleek fabric. “What do you think? I thought I might bring a bit of old-fashioned tradition to the event.”
“Wow,” I breathe out, letting my gaze slide over him appreciatively. “You clean up nicely.”
He smiles shyly. “Thank you.”
“Okay, so who spilled the beans?” I’m not disappointed the surprise has been spoiled, far from it. I’m relieved. I’d already begun to regret not including Camus on my plans. A wedding shouldn’t be a one-person affair. Thankfully, my flexibility seems to have worn off on my lover.
“No one told me,” Camus says, coming toward me. His dress shoes click against the floor, summoning pleasant images of formal occasions—dances and proms, all those moments of connection I thought gone forever. But they’re still here; we can create new moments, new memories. “You aren’t as subtle as you think. And you’ve been talking in your sleep.”
I’d been having anxiety dreams about showing up to the makeshift altar naked and being unable to say my vows, not because I don’t feel them deeply, but because no words seemed adequate and my lips wouldn’t move. “How long have you known?”
“At least a week.”
Plenty of time for him to put a stop to it or change his mind. Instead, he went to the effort of finding his own suit. I don’t recall Camus going ashore in the past week, so he must have enlisted someone else’s help. Mystery upon mystery.
“Shall I give you the room?” Camus asks.
“Oh, no, I thought I’d wear this,” I tease, pulling at my raggedy shirt. “I’m going for an art-nouveau look. Apocalypse chic.”
Camus glances down at himself. “Maybe I can find a knife and rip some holes in the side… I’d hate for you to feel overdressed.”
“Don’t you dare.”
His grin is unexpectedly boyish as he holds his hands up in a gesture of innocence. “In that case, I’ll leave you to it. Unless you want help?” His arms encircle me enticingly.
I allow my body to align against his, enjoying the delicious spark between us. “It’s bad luck to see the bride in her dress before the wedding.”
“I don’t need to see the dress,” he murmurs, dropping his lips to my neck.
I give him a playful swat, barely pulling myself out of the dangerously tempting daydream he’s painted. “Save it for the wedding night, champ.”
Camus laughs even as I drive him from the room. I lean against the door after he’s gone, taking a moment to acknowledge the flare of warmth in my chest.
A short time later I join my guests, ascending from below deck in my wedding gown. Everyone is already standing in anticipation, and I’m relieved to see the evening weather holding. Earlier in the day it looked like it might rain, but now the sun has put in a brief appearance before retiring for the night, and I can feel a little heat bouncing up from the metal floor.
Courtesy of Jo and a few others, the main deck has been transformed with candles and gaslight. The ferry benches are bolted down, but a central aisle passes between the two sides like that of a church. Camus waits at the end, hands folded in front of him, illuminated by the last touches of daylight. Glasgow’s main analogy, the flat-faced machine, joins him at the makeshift altar. It took some convincing on Jo’s part to persuade me to allow the machine to officiate our wedding, but maritime traditions being what they are, Glasgow is technically the captain of the ship. It’ll make a good story one day anyway.
In lieu of white carpet, the aisle leading to my beloved groom is draped in blue, made from several old tarps stitched together. The venue is surprisingly romantic, all things considered.
Ulrich meets me at the head of the aisle as planned.
“Beautiful,” he says, and as I begin to answer, he adds, “dress” with a wink. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ulrich wink in either of my lives.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For everything.” I’d have never made it this far without Ulrich, and I want him to understand I recognize his sacrifices for me and am grateful.
He hooks his arm into mine and folds his calloused hand over my own, patting it affectionately. The music is already starting. Someone onboard turned out to be a violinist and had managed to save their instrument, bringing it through six years of war like an ancient relic. The sound of the strings singing out the beginning of the wedding march immediately fills my eyes with tears.
I scan the crowd before I take my first step, searching. I don’t spot Samuel, not at first, and my heart drops. It doesn’t seem right to be at my wedding without my best friend. It’s only as I begin to move forward with Ulrich that I feel the German bump my shoulder and nod to our left, in the space that would have been reserved for my family.
Samuel’s slipping into the front row, quietly apologizing to those he maneuvers around. Our eyes meet, and as I pass he holds out a hand to me. I take it without thinking, giving him an understanding squeeze before continuing up the aisle.
Camus waits with his hands folded in front of him, the love in his eyes all I could ever want. Yet as I take one step after another toward the altar, some small part of me still paces back and forth inside my mind, waiting for my happiness to turn to ashes. Waiting for something to go wrong, because it always does.
