Architect (Last Resistance Book 3), page 5
His eyes catch something behind me while he’s preparing his reply, and he points at the opposite end of the terminal. “Search team is back.”
Rash and Snow are sniping at each other as I approach, their cloth masks inflating with every barb; Elle and the others just look exhausted, tugging their nose and mouths free of the cloth coverings. They would have been out for hours already. Above their masks, ash has glued to the upper portion of their faces like a death plaster, sweat having worn bleeding holes the size of bullets on their foreheads.
Prim isn’t with them.
“We looked everywhere—” Elle starts to say.
“I’m sure you did your best,” I cut her off. “You and the others should rest. We’re going to have to get moving soon.”
“You think the fire’s going to jump the river?” Dunk asks. His real name is William Dunkeld, but there were so many kids named William when he was in school he couldn’t even be identified along with the first letter of his last name either. It’s a weirdly specific explanation, which he tells everyone he meets, but undeniably effective. I’ve never forgotten his name.
I should’ve known Dunk would go with Elle. The two are practically inseparable, and it’s obvious to anyone with eyes that he has a massive crush on her.
“It’s a big river,” I answer. “But these wildfires are big too. And fast.” And there’s nothing left for us here, anyway. “Better to act on the safe side.” I place a hand on Elle’s arm while looking at the rest of the group. “If you still have energy, they could use your help down at Gate 2. Otherwise, you should all get some rest.”
As I head toward the Longs—who have evolved to aggressive hand gestures and aren’t exactly keeping their argument quiet—I hear Samuel ask Elle behind me, “You didn’t find anything? No sign of her at all?” and Elle’s reply: “None. We found some bodies, but it must have happened ages ago. Looked self-inflicted, a family. A lot of wildlife fleeing the fires too. It’s a zoo out there.”
Not much better in here, I think, recalling our pop-up triage area, the chaos of our arrival when it was supposed to have been a triumph. I’m glad to be away from the noise at least, all the sounds of suffering. I’m a little light-headed, my temples pounding, and I’m not sure if it’s from all the smoke I inhaled earlier or the quiet ache in my heart traveling due north. I realize I haven’t slept for longer than a few hours at a time in… days, probably. Weeks? Probably not a good sign that I can’t remember, but what else is new.
“Every time,” Rash is saying. “Every time you do this.”
“Cry about it some more,” Snow replies. “I’m sure that’ll make a difference.”
“Children,” I interrupt, gesturing for calm. I’m not interested in playing arbiter to whatever debate they’re having. I tried that in the beginning, but even I could feel how patronizing my efforts were to keep the peace. I’m not their mother. I’m barely their sister. But, I think miserably, I am responsible for them. “A word?”
Snow regards me coolly, her red-eyed stare as unnerving as ever. “What do you want?” She’s gotten increasingly defiant in recent days, and she didn’t exactly start off as a meek little kitten. Ever since I told her she wasn’t coming with us to Anchorage, she’s been giving me lip and mouthing off to the other Longs. She hasn’t yet recognized this hard truth: that at the end of the day, her objections are wasted air. Her—mine—our voice no longer matters. Words can’t do shit when everyone’s talking the language of bullets.
“Ignore her,” Rash says of Snow’s bad attitude. “I try to.”
Snow snorts derisively. “Yeah, let’s all just stick our heads in the sand when confronted with something we don’t like. So brave. Such leadership.”
“I’m done fighting,” I announce before Rash gets another word in. Snow articulates a challenge with a single raised brow, but her genetic twin just looks worried.
“What do you mean?” Rash asks.
“This isn’t working.” I gesture to them and then myself. “Us. All together. Maybe it was never going to work, but clearly the situation has deteriorated to the point where Prim felt it necessary to run. I don’t know all her reasons for leaving or where she’s headed, though I can guess. I can’t protect her now that she’s gone, but I can still protect the both of you. And that’s what I’m going to do. Ladies—I am splitting up the band.”
“Sounds dramatic,” Snow says. “But what’s that actually look like? Where are you going to go?”
I’m momentarily distracted from answering as I notice Ximena greeting Samuel a few gates down. She takes his hand and he turns into her embrace, holding her gently around the waist. His face tucks into her neck in a way that is intimate enough to make me look away. That’s new.
Or is it? Have I just been so focused on my own business that I didn’t notice them getting closer in the past few weeks?
“Hello?” Rash says, waving a hand in front of my face. “Earth to Bossy.”
I hate that nickname, but… well, it’s not entirely unearned. I shake my head to clear it, becoming present again. “I’m remaining here with the Canadians until we decide our next play. You,” I look at Rash first, because I know she’ll put up less resistance, “are going to Montana. Liz has—had been in communication with a small outfit there that could use more warm bodies. They seem like good people, and the community is isolated enough that you’ll be safe.”
“Montana?” Rash scratches at a raw spot on her cheek. I keep telling her not to pick at it, but she keeps not listening. “I thought that state was made-up. You know, like North Dakota.”
“And what about me, dear leader?” Snow crosses her arms, pulling the drawbridge up, preparing her defenses. “What brilliant vacation spot are you shipping me off to?”
“We need to know what the machines are planning. I want you and Lefevre to go to Palo Alto. Investigate what’s left and see if you can determine what the machines were doing at all of these sites the New Soviets destroyed.”
“Wait,” Rash butts in with a pout in her voice. “She gets to go to sunny California, and meanwhile I’m stuck going to Montana? I’m not the only one that sees the discrepancy there, right?”
Snow is still studying me, several calculations flitting across her pale face. I stare right back like I’m facing down a schoolyard bully, unflinching, knowing any show of uncertainty or weakness on my part could be met with violence. I haven’t forgotten her threats or the pressure of her hand at my throat, fingers clenching the delicate chain necklace holding my only physical connection to Camus. “What if we say no?”
Rash points at her excitedly, like, hey, yeah, that’s a good point.
“I can’t force you,” I agree. “But if we remain together, eventually we’ll be caught together, and then we’ll die together. I don’t think that benefits anyone—do you?”
“Okay,” Rash says after a long moment, the first to speak. “But Montana?”
“California is a long way from here with a lot of machines in between,” Snow points out. “How am I supposed to get there safely?”
“The smoke from the fires right now has grounded the New Soviets as well as the higher echelon’s aerial forces. That’ll give us some cover to move safely out of the area. There are a few factions that might lend us support traveling in both directions, Montana and California, but I won’t pretend the journeys aren’t going to be dangerous, especially with current weather conditions.”
“I’m so sick of snow,” Rash grumbles, and I’m not sure whether she means literal snow or her sister, maybe both, “but if it means I get to stop looking at my own mug every minute of every day, I can deal with it. I’m in.”
I look at Snow expectantly.
She waits a beat before answering with a nod. “Fine. But I want Samuel to come with me too.”
I shake my head. “No way. That’s a non-starter. Samuel’s staying with me.” And with Ximena, if that’s a thing that’s happening now.
“So, you get Camus and Samuel,” she ticks each name off on her fingers, “and every other one of our friends, while we get shuffled off to strangers.” Snow steps toward me in a clear attempt at intimidation. I don’t back even a step, despite her proximity making my skin crawl. Compared to the others, there’s something uncanny about Snow that makes her never feel quite real, like I’ve invented her. My own personal demon come to life. But I know the danger surrounding her is real. I haven’t forgotten how we found her hunched over a dead clone, breathless from the exertion of trying to save a life—or from taking one. “Doesn’t sound very fair to me.”
“Life’s not fair. I figured you’d know that by now.” I end the debate by walking away. It’s a cheap move, but it works. Neither of the Longs follows. “Pack your things. I don’t know how soon we’ll have the opportunity to move but be ready to go at a moment’s notice.”
“What about Prim?” Rash asks.
But I pretend I don’t hear her.
CAMUS
McKINLEY BASE, ALASKA –
THREE MONTHS AFTER CALGARY
Armed personnel stop Camus at the door to the War Room, patting him down as usual.
The two women are fitted in McKinley fatigues, but they’re undoubtedly Soviets above all else. With no discernable pattern to the guard shifts, Camus has struggled to learn their names. He’s certain that’s a feature, not a bug. A way of preventing friendships that might later be exploited for a favor. An all-too real danger if Rhona were still around. She could win a smile from a stone, but there’s little risk of Camus charming anyone to betrayal.
“Satisfied?” Camus asks peevishly, lowering his arms as the last woman finishes his leg. It’s not right that he should give them grief when they’re only doing their jobs, but it’s been three months since the takeover. If he was going to try something, he’d have done it by now.
The woman in charge punches a code to open the door, allowing him entry. The previous ID scanner has been replaced with something less technical, harder to hack. It’s one of many changes the New Soviets have implemented throughout the base to strengthen security. Much as he might hate to admit it, they haven’t done a terrible job keeping order—although if he has to sit through one more insincere moment of silence “for the heroes we’ve lost” God help him, he will not be held responsible for his actions.
“Councilman Forsyth,” Paszek greets him in her crisp Polish accent, wiping at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
She’s seated at the head of the long, oblong table in what was formerly Rhona’s seat, small and petite, just like Rhona was. The comparison between the two women ends there, but it’s still enough to turn his stomach even now, like an unexpected inversion on a roller coaster. Nothing is right-side up anymore.
The powerful odor of the commissar’s dinner doesn’t help. The War Room reeks of fish, a dewy smell bordering on outright stench. But just as the commissar doesn’t bother to stand when he enters, she also doesn’t bother to make any apologies for her meal.
Camus feels a jolt of recognition at her eating alone. It wasn’t that long ago when he was the one sneaking meals in the margins of all the chaos, too busy bailing water out of a sinking ship to take a moment for himself. This is probably the first opportunity Lena’s had to eat all day, maybe even the first chance she’s had to sit down. The curls have fallen out of her dark blond hair, and whatever makeup she applied in the morning to feel human has been demolished by sweat. She must have reapplied her lipstick though, because her mouth is still a slash of red against her pale skin like a deep cut.
“Please.” She gestures to the row of empty seats, indicating he should take one.
He does. He is nothing if not a good, obedient dog.
It’s not unusual for the commissar to call the council to order, even at such a late hour. The New Soviets love their meetings, all that fake democracy. What is unusual is that he has, apparently, been the only one summoned.
“Have you eaten?” Paszek lifts the edge of her plate, as if he can’t see well enough the salmon lying there, half-consumed. Its eyes stare helplessly at him, head still intact. The rest of its body has been picked clean. Nothing left but bones. “I’m not going to finish it.”
Camus declines the scraps, trying not to see her offer as an insult. Truthfully, Lena’s done nothing to earn his enmity apart from accepting this position at the behest of her Russian overlords. Under any other circumstances he would have found her cool, level-headed approach a likeable alternative to the normally indecisive, emotionally impulsive council.
“I assume there’s a reason you summoned me here that doesn’t involve breaking bread together,” Camus says.
“Yes, but first,” she stabs down into the fish’s fatty cheek, then begins sawing away the scales with her knife, still holding his gaze, “how are you, Councilman?”
“How… am I?” he repeats, incredulous.
She nods as if to say, that’s what I asked.
Camus casts a significant glance at the segmented walls of video screens around them. All he sees is a rough approximation of himself in their dark reflections, drawn and suspicious. But he’s no fool. There are numerous, unseen recording devices present in the room, and every day he knows Soviet engineers are installing more on every level of the base.
Just last week he encountered a man leaving his quarters in the middle of the day. After a short, awkward exchange concerning what the man had been doing, Camus spent the next hour hunting for bugs, ultimately finding a small microphone nested inside his comm’s wall housing and another in a picture frame on his dresser. He knows there are more. He just can’t find them.
“Is this some kind of assessment?”
“No, no,” Paszek insists, shaking her head. “I ask only as a friend.”
His sound of disgust is involuntary. “Spare me.”
“I’m not your enemy. The machines—”
“The machines didn’t kill Rhona,” he replies tightly. “Your missile did that.”
“Commander Rhona Long’s death was a tragedy,” she says, and it takes all his mental resolve not to leap across the table, drag her to the ground, and scream in her face, she didn’t just die! You murdered her! “But the greater tragedy would be in letting her sacrifice go to waste.”
Her words sound rehearsed. No surprises there. The Russians are excellent at organizing a consistent narrative, and for her part, Paszek has stayed beautifully on message, framing every change as beneficial for the base or the resistance. He has his doubts.
“Whatever point you’re moving towards,” Camus says, watching Paszek’s knife carve and deliver another bite to her mouth, “I think we’d both benefit from you arriving at it directly.”
Before answering, the commissar makes a face and drops her mouth to her plate, spitting out bits of fish skull. She uses her fingers to excavate an especially small piece of bone from her teeth, adding it to the frothy pile. Mutters what he assumes is a Polish oath before continuing.
“I have an assignment for you,” she finally announces.
He furrows his brow. “An assignment?”
Paszek sets her utensils down. “In addition to successfully ending machine operations in Calgary,” she carefully leads with a popular talking point, “the missile generated some unfortunate weather phenomena in the area, albeit temporarily. Realistically, there is no way to determine the role these fluke thunderstorms had in igniting the current wildfires—”
“Wildfires?” Camus cuts in. It’s been unseasonably warm for this time of year, but he hasn’t heard of any wildfires raging in the province. “How large?”
How close? is the question he really wants answered.
Wildfires once threatened Denali National Park, but that was years ago. Most of the largest fires happened early into the Machinations, the nasty result of dry summers meeting the constant spark of war. Whole cities disappeared in runs of flame, gone overnight. But that’s not when the fires started. The western United States, Australia, and Alberta had been battling seasonal blazes for decades, each year worse than the one before. That’s what people forget: communities began turning to ash even before the machines got involved.
Briefly, he wonders what’s there now. Did nature eventually recover what man and machine together lost?
“As of the Canadians’ report last week, around three hundred thousand acres and burning. But it’s likely those estimates are exaggerated.”
Three hundred thousand acres. And not a single mention of this during any of their countless, pointless meetings. Unbelievable. What’s the point in having a council if none of them are ever consulted on anything?
But he already knows the answer to that. Appearances.
“Perhaps you should have mentioned this last session,” Camus can’t help remarking.
“It was not deemed relevant until now,” Paszek replies carelessly. Her petite features make her appear doll-like, her eyes small and black and hard. She’s difficult to read. He’s never been able to decide on the extent of her complicity. Had she been covertly reporting on McKinley’s infrastructure the whole time she was here, documenting their internal weaknesses for Chersky, betraying their secrets?
Lena Paszek was, after all, one of only a handful present when Rhona discovered that atrocity on the biology level: a machine programmed with a crude approximation of her own consciousness, driven mad by the memory of living. Its very existence changed everything, blurring the lines between man and machine. It also revealed a frightening truth: not only was the higher echelon adept at snuffing out humans, but it was now experimenting with creating them too for some ungodly reason.
Was that the deciding factor in the New Soviets’ invasion?
There have already been several heated arguments about what to do with the machine, whether to destroy it. He can’t let that happen. That machine, grotesque as it is, holds the last of Rhona’s memories and may be all he gets to keep, as far as remains are concerned. Not to mention Rhona went to great lengths to keep it intact, alive in its own absurd way. She must have seen its value. Otherwise she would have dismantled it herself.
