Architect (Last Resistance Book 3), page 3
Entering Whitehorse is a trip. When we left, it looked like a city: now it looks like a warzone. Everything has been buried beneath an inch, maybe two, of cold white ash. It’s nearly impossible to distinguish street from sidewalk, dead lawns from empty lots. Even the high beams aren’t helping. Despite creeping along at granny speed, I swerve several times to avoid some abandoned truck or roadside dumpster that appears suddenly from out of the smoldering dark.
I’d like to say I’m all ears during Ximena’s exchange with Samuel over comms as she catches him up on the situation, but at best I’m one ear, maybe one and a half. I’m afraid if I divert my attention for even a few seconds, I’ll slam us straight into a wall or plunge into an unexpected creek, one of a dozen made by the flooding Yukon River. The whole lower half of the downtown area from Rotary Park to the old mission is underwater due to worsening glacier melt. The only good news is that this city doesn’t look like anyplace someone would want to live. The New Soviets haven’t installed any soldiers to hold it, either. Safety is barely a theoretical concept these days, but it’s safer than many other places, especially along the former border.
“Hold on,” I blurt, half-heard words from the comm pulling my attention away from the road. I lean toward Ximena, causing the SUV to stray. The wheels grind against a curb, loosening noises of surprise from everyone in the car and causing Ximena to grip the door inset again. I quickly straighten out. “Samuel—did you say missing? Who’s missing?”
Ximena kindly holds the comm up to me so I don’t have to lean over again to hear and be heard.
“I’m sorry, Rhon,” Samuel rushes out. Always apologizing. But the panic in his voice is so clear despite the comm crackle that my affection evaporates, and I feel his same fear slither into my own belly. “I don’t know when it happened. I don’t why she’d leave without telling anyone where—”
“Who?” I repeat.
“Prim,” he says. “Prim’s gone.”
Princess Rhona. Of course. Of my fellow clones, neither Rashy Rhona nor Rhona the White were thrilled with their nicknames, for obvious reasons, but Princess Rhona—so-called for the Star Wars joke she’d made when first rescued—certainly acted the part. Within days she was walking around like she owned the faction, giving marching orders, organizing tasks and, for better or worse, people listened to her. Several times I caught Liz or Charlene on some random mission for her that I knew nothing about, which resulted in some awkward conversations about who was actually in charge.
In the way of nicknames, Princess Rhona eventually became Prin and then finally Prim. And now Prim is gone, whatever that means. I ask Samuel to elaborate.
“She told me she was going to be keeping watch last night with Elle, but when Dunk came on this morning no one was there. I checked with Elle, and she said Prim told her she had the night off.”
Part of me can’t believe a plot as minimally complex as telling a parent ‘I’m sleeping over at Rachel’s tonight’ then going to a boyfriend’s house had worked to buy her time to sneak away, but then we’ve all been so busy watching for enemies around us we never thought to strictly monitor our own group. “Did she take any supplies with her? Anything that might suggest the length of her trip?”
“Nothing’s missing except her backpack and EMP-G,” Samuel says, “But she has been volunteering for a lot of scavenging trips lately.”
“So she could have been stocking up in secret,” I conclude.
“It’s possible.”
I assume she’s headed north to McKinley, to Camus and the life she wants back; but even with knowledge of the area and ignoring the threat of a stray machine or New Soviet patrol, she’ll still need transportation and more supplies to supplement anything she doesn’t already have. Qwanlin Mall would be her best option for finding both. That’s where I’d try first, anyway. I only hope she’s still on foot.
“Did she seem upset last night, when you spoke with her?” I’m trying to get a sense of her mental state. Prim isn’t outwardly confrontational, like Snow—the terror formerly known as Rhona the White (before she told us to stop calling her that)—or as impulsive as Rash, but she’s still cold and dangerous in her own way, full of deep resentment over the treatment she received from the machines. She doesn’t like to talk about the torture that took place while I was cozying up to Camus back at McKinley, so I don’t know the extent of it, but I’ve seen the mistrustful way she watches me when she thinks no one’s looking. Like I’m the one responsible for her pain, even though I didn’t know she existed until a month ago. Samuel and I had both thought the destruction of Brooks Facility meant the end of any more clones, but apparently the higher echelon had other designs.
“She seemed fine,” Samuel says. “A little on edge, maybe, but nothing out of the ordinary. Elle went out with Rash, Snow, and a few others to look for her a couple of hours ago. Nothing yet.”
“Have they checked the mall?” I ask.
“No, I don’t think so. They went north, hoping to catch her on the Klondike.”
She could already be to Kloo Lake by now, but we didn’t pass anyone on the road here, which gives me hope that she hasn’t left the city. What is she thinking?
Ximena leans over the center console, pointing. “There!”
I slam on the brake, throwing us all back against our seats, expecting to see a familiar face suddenly appear on the wrong side of my hood.
As we complete the stop, I feel the wheel pull left, then right, the tires spinning in the ash.
“The mall’s off Ogilvie Street, isn’t it?” Ximena finishes. She releases her seatbelt to loosen the automatic tension before rebuckling it. “You just passed it.”
“Right,” I say, sounding short of breath, as if I’ve been pushing the SUV instead of driving it. I throw on my hazard lights, indicating our tail should pull off as well, drag my shirt up over my nose to ward against the smell of smoke, and climb out of the car.
“Trouble?” Charlene asks as I approach the driver’s side window. She looks terrible, dark bags grouped underneath her eyes like she hasn’t slept at all in the fourteen hours since the attack. She definitely shouldn’t be driving. Her arm trembles a little as she struggles to hold it up over her mouth and nose.
“Prim’s missing,” I say without preamble. “I’m going to look for her at the mall, so I need all of my wounded loaded into your car. Anyone who still has the stamina for a search can come with me.”
“Always a non-stop party with you, boss,” Charlene replies, but there isn’t the bitterness I’m expecting. Maybe she’s too exhausted to feel angry right now.
Works for me. I’m too tired to be clever. “Let’s do this quick.”
As opposed to the one of the multi-level behemoths abundant back in the States, the Qwanlin mall is little more than a short strip of interconnected stores. There’s a grocer, furniture shop, drug store, and an old fast-food chain across the street. That’s the good news, as it means less ground to cover in our search.
The bad news is that the flooding has worsened since we were last here. Most of the parking lot surrounding the mall has vanished beneath a black ocean pulsing with the frantic rhythms of the river. Some of the stores themselves are partially submerged, their doors open to the deluge. On the side with less water a few parked cars give the semblance of normalcy, joined by leftover traffic cones—some toppled and floating, others wearing small hats of ash.
Light from what I assume is a flashlight swans back and forth inside the drug store, barely penetrating the dirt on the front windows. Feels a little obvious if Prim is trying to hide, but maybe she assumes any search parties will have already moved on, fooled by her disappearing act into believing she’s gone straight for the highway. Or maybe it’s not her at all.
I kill the headlights and park out front. Water thrusts against the wheels of the SUV as I set the emergency brake, causing the car to rock. I consider finding another spot to park, but we’ve got limited time as it is. If Prim sees us she could bolt, but I’m almost more worried about staying in Whitehorse for much longer. The New Soviets are many things, but I wouldn’t call them stupid. We left too few bodies behind to have been wiped out, and eventually it’s likely they’ll receive reports of our little caravan and put the pieces together. We need to be gone by then.
Given the way the water is trending, Whitehorse might not be around much longer either. Although the mall doesn’t back up right to the Yukon, a new shore has developed behind it, all the roads in between drowned by the river. From my seat I watch as a large piece of debris—a tree trunk, or maybe the corpse of an old siege machine, hard to tell—is delivered into an abandoned home with enough force to crush in its back wall, exposing its living room to the torrential waters.
That’s not a current I want to mess with. It looks mean and fast. Certainly faster than any of us can swim, especially with all the junk traveling on the surface. But if we stay close to the building, we should be okay.
Should being the operative word.
“What’s the plan, Commander?” Ximena asks.
Again with Commander. “Actually, I’m going to let Lefevre take point on this one.”
Lefevre runs us through a modified version of our usual scavenging routine, emphasizing the need to stay together and always keep an exit clear. We only just arrived in Whitehorse a few days ago, and it’s still one giant question mark in terms of the dangers it might hold. The New Soviets have bragged, rather publicly, of pushing the machines out of Alaska and the Northwest region of Canada, but that’s mostly propaganda. For one, it’s hard to confidently declare anywhere one hundred percent machine free since many still roam freely, independent of the higher echelon’s direct influence. And for another, even if what they claim is true, it’s not like there were many machines in the Yukon territory to begin with due to its smaller population. That fact gives me hope when I consider what the experiences of the indigenous peoples of the region might have been like. My memory’s fuzzy on whether or not we ever contacted any independent tribes, though I trust we made the effort to reach out and check on our northern neighbors. I want to believe they’re happily isolated from the violence and terror, avoiding all our nonsense, and I’m going to continue believing that until someone contradicts me.
After Lefevre finishes I remind everyone in the car to perform a quick equipment check, and once I’m satisfied our bulletproof vests are in place and EMP-Gs charged, we jump out and hustle toward a service entrance with a busted door.
We’re not carrying much, making it easier to move quickly, but the wind is hot and dirty, and even though it’s less than a hundred feet to the store, it feels like miles. I struggle to keep my balance against the current, and my eyes sting, catching particles of burning earth. I hold my breath until we’re inside, when I can finally choke down air that doesn’t burn.
With Ximena and Dhruv’s help, I force the door closed behind us, enough to temporarily stop more water from rushing in. I immediately regret that choice. My eyes take a moment adjusting to the dark, and in that tiny eternity my heart begins to slam with panic. It’s been more than a year, almost two, since Camus and I were trapped in a collapse on McKinley’s command level, but the fear of tight, cramped spaces hasn’t gone away.
I search across my chest, feeling for the ring beneath my shirt. It’s become habit lately to reach for it when I need reassurance. The chain’s gentle tug against my neck provides an anchor to calm I desperately need. It’s a reminder, and a promise. Somewhere I am loved. Somewhere, someone’s still waiting for me to return.
I take several deep breaths to clear my mind and follow the sound of sloshing boots ahead of me. The backroom smells strongly of waterlogged cardboard and mildew, almost strong enough to prompt my gag reflex. I want to say something, deliver some smart remark making light of our situation, but I hold my tongue. Best to keep quiet until we’ve scoped out the place.
Lefevre leads just as he has during many of our scavenging expeditions. Dhruv and Ximena flank him in perfect formation, weapons raised, while I bring up the rear, alert and silent. Nearly everyone else in my group has more field experience, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find small relief in following instead of leading. At least this way when something goes wrong it won’t entirely be my fault.
We emerge from the stock room onto the sales floor—or what remains of it after years of disuse and occasional flooding. I’m about to point out the ambient glow I saw before when Lefevre turns toward it, gesturing for all of us to stay low. The machines don’t normally use lights or rely on them. Most basic models possess acute vision sensors that perceive heat as well as movement, with more advanced models, such as predators, also equipped with strain-gauge based sensors almost equivalent to what I might feel if someone touched my arm.
And Zelda thought I wasn’t paying attention during her lessons.
As we move toward the aisles my foot catches something hidden underneath the water, launching me into one of the metal gondolas. I catch myself on the edge of an endcap, accidentally knocking a bunch of family planning supplies off the shelf. Each splash feels like a scream into the silence, my embarrassment made more acute by everyone turning to look.
That same light from before switches on from my right, swinging toward me like a blade across the dark.
I hold my arm up against the glare, unable to see who’s on the other side but anticipating a fight, nonetheless. My hand draws the knife at my belt almost without conscious thought. I won’t be caught off guard again by one of the Longs. Never again.
A figure stumbles out of the glare, but it’s not Prim.
It’s Rankin.
Three
My knife arm lowers, fingers slackening around the hilt. Without hesitation, I launch myself at Rankin, embracing my bald-headed friend as if he were long lost family. Because that’s what he was before now: lost. Rankin died during the attack on McKinley, sacrificing himself to get others, including his wife Hanna, to safety after machines detonated bombs inside the base.
He can’t be here, and yet he feels real between my arms, a solid truth dressed in a noisy windbreaker that crackles as we collide. Alive.
“You again,” he says, half mutter. His body tenses, arms frozen on either side of me, limp like a child asked to hug a disliked relative. “And you brought some friends with you. Goodie.”
“We would have come sooner, but we didn’t know,” I say, already making excuses for why we hadn’t come to retrieve him. I squeeze my eyes shut against the press of hot tears. My throat is tight with guilt. “We thought you were dead.”
“Dead?” He snorts. “Give me some credit. I know my way around this dump.”
His voice—it doesn’t twang, his distinctly friendly Texas drawl completely absent. I think, Clone. Must be. Somehow Rankin’s been cloned, and not having been raised in the Lone Star State, he’s defaulted to boring, old unaccented English. That’s why he sounds so different. So—not himself. If I’d come out of my casket speaking Portuguese, I’m sure I wouldn’t have seemed quite myself either.
Behind me, Ximena asks, “Who is that?” but I miss Dhruv’s answer.
“Hanna is going to be so happy,” I say. I’m already picturing the sweet relief blooming in my friend’s face as she takes in her husband again, the hope coming back into her eyes. Everyone deserves the same second chance Camus and I got, a way of replacing the lost hours.
“Who?” Rankin says.
“Hanna,” I repeat. He must have misheard me.
“Rhona.” Lefevre’s voice holds a warning I don’t understand. This is Rankin. He knows Rankin. They were friends. “Step away from him.”
Rankin’s confusion, I understand. Coming back from the dead can be disorienting, especially if something goes wrong with the memory transference, as happened with me. But what’s with Lefevre? Also, I’m pretty sure Dhruv and Rankin knew each other.
Why can’t everyone just take this win? After our recent losses, Team Exile could certainly use a victory. A reason to believe again that good things can still happen. That small, bright miracles can still spring out of cold, dead earth.
“Don’t know any Hanna,” Rankin says. “Hey. You mind giving me some space, girlie? I can see you’re feeling a lot friendlier, but like I told you before, I’m not interested in joining your little rebel army.”
Girlie? I frown, drawing back. Rebel army? “What are you talking ab—”
I stare up at Rankin accusingly, but it’s a stranger who stares back. He might as well be wearing a terrifying Halloween mask. The effect is equally jarring, like unexpectedly missing a step while descending stairs. I jerk backwards, stumbling over the same hidden object beneath the thigh-high water. Ximena steadies me.
The eyes, the nose, the mouth… they’re wrong. Only the baldness is the same, and they share roughly the same height and weight. But he’s visibly older than Rankin, well into middle age judging by the sagging structure of his face. Deep creases sit at the corners of his mouth, like he spent too many years scowling and got stuck that way. What’s wrong with me that I’d mistake this old man for my friend?
“You’re not Rankin.”
That’s right. We burned Rankin. At least what remained after the fire had reached him. We cremated his body and stored his ashes inside a jewelry box he’d scavenged for Hanna from a ransacked shop in Anchorage. There was even a vigil held outside the stuffy corridors of McKinley, the first time in years, for him and the others we’d lost. Everyone I failed to keep safe.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he asks me.
I take a few more steps away. Like a drunk, I reach for the metal gondola to further ground myself and miss, knocking a few parcels of moist towelettes into the water. It feels like I’ve been stabbed with a hot poker, the wound of Rankin’s death ripped clean open again. I wanted so badly for him to be alive.
