Architect (Last Resistance Book 3), page 6
“Councilman?”
Camus looks over sharply, only now realizing he’s been sitting in stony silence.
“Are you sure you’re all right? You look…” Lena’s gaze softens on him. She sets down her knife and slides her hand near his, shockingly close. “Tense.”
He restrains himself from jerking his hand away, barely. Instead, he coolly removes it from the table under the guise of adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “Please,” he says in a low, tired voice, begging off her unwanted attention as politely as he can manage given the circumstances. “Let’s not do this.”
She’s made two subtle passes at him in recent weeks, but never like this. Never when they were alone.
“Do what?” Lena replies in her crisp accent, leaning in. He’s grateful for the table still between them, a physical barrier doing the work of keeping her away. “It is not wrong to accept solace when it is offered.”
Short of getting up and walking out, Camus does the only other thing he can think of to escape this uncomfortable conversation.
He changes the subject.
“You said you had an assignment for me, but you’ve neglected to tell me what that is. I can’t put out thousand-acre fires.”
Lena takes the hint, finally withdrawing her hand. “No, but there is a smaller fire you can put out for us. As you can imagine, the Vancouver faction was unhappy with the Calgary action. Their malcontent seems to be spreading to other parts of the Pacific Northwest. Combined with rumors of Commander Long’s personal involvement with the destruction of Wrangell base—”
“Rhona had nothing to do with that,” Camus interjects. Those broadcasts were done by a clone, but of course he can’t explain that. It’s easier to blame the video on digital manipulation or another doppelganger machine.
“Whatever the truth, several factions are now calling McKinley’s leadership into question. Such doubt, as you know, is poison to the unity of our cause.”
Poison to the unity of our cause? She might as well be reading off a pamphlet.
“We need to provide a show of support, solidarity, and strength. The Oregonian faction has appealed to us for assistance in retaking the city of,” Lena checks a tablet to the left of her plate, “Portland. Do you know it?”
A snide reply pops into his head, but he holds back. She’s Polish. Why would she have any knowledge of Oregon? “Yes,” he answers simply. “Portland’s been occupied by machines almost from the beginning. But apart from being one of several Northwest staging areas, there’s nothing of significance there. It’s a dead city.”
“The Oregonians have reason to believe otherwise. They claim to have a source on the inside with intimate knowledge of the higher echelon. Some sort of machiny collaborator named Glasgow. It seems this person, whoever they are, has already been providing actionable intelligence in exchange for a promise of rescue, and the Oregonians finally feel themselves in a position to make good that promise.”
He’s heard of collaborators. Zelda said several of her coworkers worked the higher echelon’s bidding even while the rest of them were trying to prevent the apocalypse. There have always been people who refuse to recognize a fire even when the room is filling with smoke, and others who simply don’t care if they burn if it means others burn first. In recent years, there was even rumored to be a fanatical group of machine sympathizers operating in Montana, repairing broken machines and traveling alongside them for protection. But he’s never seen any proof.
“Let’s for a moment pretend that this Glasgow character exists,” Camus says, “… and that their information is reliable. You’re still talking about a siege on a major city. For one person.”
“We came when Rhona Long called,” Lena points out.
“It’s not remotely the same. Juneau is maybe a fourth the size of Portland, if that. Our forces already held it, and the battle was largely won by the time reinforcements arrived. If the Oregonians attempt an assault, the loss of life will be significant.”
“Which is why they will need help. The Canadians are refusing to provide it. Too worried about their fires.” She waves dismissively. “For the resistance to move forward, we must consolidate. Once we take Portland, we will have the foothold in the region we need to press into the former United States. The Oregonians will belong to us. They will not be able to hold the city alone. And the Canadians, as disparate as their factions already are, will have no allies left to stand against us.”
Camus sits frozen, momentarily stunned. It’s been easy letting the Soviets pull his strings, allowing whatever new protocol they’re proposing to pass. Easier not to have to think. The first time Rhona died, she left him everything. The base. The fate of the resistance. Running McKinley left him little space for his pain, and at least initially that had felt like a mercy. All that pressure held him together, like hands pushing down on a bleeding wound. It’s different this time. With so many responsibilities taken from him, he has coasted through the past two months like a dreamer, moving half-asleep through a world he barely recognizes.
But with Lena’s words, he’s suddenly awake. Awake and angry. Downright livid.
Because she isn’t talking about creating a coalition of the kind Rhona wanted.
She’s talking about forging an empire. And it seems she—Chersky, whomever—plans to accomplish their expansion the same way all empires have. By conquering and oppressing others.
“You want to invade,” he can barely manage the tremor in his voice, “our allies. That’s the end goal here? War with machines isn’t enough. You want war with other humans, too. Do I understand you correctly?”
Lena doesn’t even have the decency to look a little ashamed. “How is it invasion if there is no country to invade?” She sounds frustrated. Frustrated that he refuses to share the New Soviets’ vision. “They have had more than six years to secure Canada’s borders. We can succeed where they failed.”
His gaze skates over Paszek’s abandoned knife, a possible answer to Hanna’s question. What are you going to do about it? She meant about finding Rhona, but if Rhona is gone, then McKinley base, the resistance, humanity’s future—these may be the only parts of her he can still protect.
“Like you’ve succeeded in securing Russia?” he says, knowing the answer.
She ignores his swipe, like a bear unbothered by the buzz of an insect. “We have a chance to do something great here.” He hates how sincere she sounds, like what she’s spouting isn’t just more empty spray from Chersky’s nozzle. “This climate is perfect for a change in operational command.”
Camus is confident he can reach the knife first. She won’t be expecting it—but what then? If he kills her, how soon before she’s replaced? Will a commissar’s death stop this horrific plan or merely delay it? Will it make any difference whatsoever to McKinley reclaiming its autonomy?
Lena drops her gaze and adjusts her plate on the table with both hands like an actor’s idea of driving, the first hint of nerves he’s seen from her. “You are a good man. I know you want what is best for the resistance. That’s why I’d like you to go with our forces south. Meet with the Oregonians. Deliver our terms personally and insist they agree to them.”
“Terms such as…?”
“In exchange for our assistance in retaking Portland, the Oregonians will submit to be governed by the New Soviet Union, answering to the authority of McKinley and Chersky bases. And they will encourage other factions in the former Continental United States to do the same.”
“And if those other factions refuse? What happens then?”
“The same thing to happen to all our enemies,” Lena answers, so mechanically she could almost be mistaken for the higher echelon herself. “Whatever cannot be controlled will be destroyed.”
His mind races. His window to act is closing. At any moment she could continue her meal, and then he’d have to wrestle the knife from her. She doesn’t strike him as a pushover, despite her slight frame. But still he hesitates. He’s never taken a life before, and he doesn’t hate Lena, not truly. She didn’t give the order for the Calgary strike. That was someone in Chersky, some nameless face halfway across the world. Out of reach of any justice he can deliver. Lena is just one head of the hydra, and he’s not sure what would grow in her place would be any better.
“Camus.” Lena softens her voice. Her gaze reaches for him, like she can feel the distance between his thoughts and where he is physically. “This is how we beat the machines. Not by offering an open palm to every group with a few guns, but by promising a closed fist if they do not join their might to ours. You know this. You saw how Commander Long struggled to bring people to the table. All those wasted months while the sick and orphaned lay clogging the halls.”
Nor has he forgotten how the New Soviets were largely to blame for that delay, clutching their pearls over McKinley’s defensibility only to take over the base by exploiting exactly her weaknesses. Everything was projection with these people.
Still, much as it pains him, she has a point. Hasn’t he balked at the council’s bureaucracy? Wouldn’t it be nice to act without the countless deliberations and endless arguments? The machines operate with one mind, one goal. Maybe it’s time they do the same. If he plays his cards right, he can help ensure that better people eventually replace those in power.
“Don’t look at this as an invasion, but as redemption,” Lena concludes. “We are giving the rest of the world a chance to get things right this time.”
Camus slowly unclenches his fists. His heart settles back in his chest as he looks away from Lena, the shame of his violent thoughts scalding him like a hot pan.
Perhaps Hanna is right. Perhaps he should talk to someone.
“When do I leave?” is all he says.
Lena straightens. He hadn’t realized she was capable of slouching, her posture is ordinarily so upright and stiff. “You agree then?”
“I don’t see how I have much of a choice.”
“The Oregonians have indicated they would wait until spring to launch the assault. We’ll wait until the weather’s warmer before we begin moving our forces to join them. February, at the earliest. You’ll leave then.”
He starts to stand.
“While you’re here, Councilman, there is one other thing we would appreciate your feedback on.”
Lena taps her tablet and one of the wall screens comes to life, showing a still capture. Camus slips back down into his seat, his heart moving into his throat.
It’s Rhona. His Rhona, the one he’s been dreaming about. He can just tell. Some of her makeup has faded, hinting at the splotchy shape of her dark freckles underneath. A side effect from her cloning. But it’s also the way she holds herself: always confident but with an edge of uncertainty. Like she’s never completely sure if she’s doing or saying the right thing, only hopes that she is.
The capture is framed from the shoulders up like one of her previous broadcasts, but the background is all wrong. Instead of the Tea room’s neat, orderly space, she’s standing in what looks like the interior of a house. There are picture frames on a dresser behind her, filled with a family he doesn’t recognize.
“We’ve intercepted several messages like the one I’m about to play in the past two months, broadcast over open channels. Allow me to also preface this by saying, Chersky believes them to be clever digital forgeries. Our technicians are the best at what they do. However, I feel it prudent to get your unique perspective.”
Another finger tap, and the video begins to play.
“This is Rhona Long, former commander of McKinley base,” the woman begins. It must be cold where she is. Her breath mists, and her throat is wrapped in a thick hand-knit scarf. A small chain hangs over it, pendant out of frame. “I have made several attempts now to reach out to McKinley base but have received no response. It is my hope that other factions will receive this message and share it.”
She then goes on to describe the events surrounding the missile strike on Calgary, masking the mission’s goal under the guise of “recovering crucial assets from the machines.” She warns against trusting the New Soviets but stops just sort of inciting insurrection, concluding with some now-outdated intelligence about the higher echelon’s movements in the region.
“Please know I’m still fighting for you.” Her voice is roughened by cold or emotion, it’s hard to tell which. She stares directly into the camera—almost, it seems, directly at Camus. “Good luck and Godspeed.”
The video ends, freezing with only a portion of shoulder and her red hair in frame as she shuts off the camera.
A moment passes, then two.
“How long have you had this footage?” Camus breaks the silence first.
“The first message came a week after Calgary. The next a week after that, and the last, to our knowledge, broadcasted late last month. We contacted the Vancouver division assigned to facilitate the commander’s failed mission to Calgary for their assessment, but unfortunately it seems they were lost in the fires. Another tragedy, certainly.”
He doesn’t bother to hide a frown. “That’s a long time to sit on something with potentially drastic implications for the resistance. How has the council not seen any of these broadcasts before now?”
“Base security,” is the only answer she gives. Funny how those two words together form an excuse for behavior of any kind. Hidden cameras? Base security. Round-the-clock surveillance? Base security. New level restrictions and strictly scheduled mealtimes? Base security. A cynic might almost believe none of these things are for security at all. Only control.
Another thought strikes him. “You said we intercepted these messages. So, others outside McKinley have seen them?”
“We’ve had a number of… inquiries. I handled them.” Camus waits for her to explain. “I told them the messages were fake. Am I wrong? Is this something we should be concerned about?” Lena leans in, almost confidentially. Like there are not a dozen cameras recording them right now. “Do you believe she is, as she claims, Commander Long?”
“It is convincing,” he says after a moment. “But no. That isn’t Rhona.”
Lena watches him intently. “Are you sure?”
“The machines fooled us before with similar technology, so yes. I’m sure. If there’s nothing else?” Lena gives a firm shake of her head, gaze still leveled at him like a gun. Camus stands and begins moving to the door, this time with an air of finality.
“Thank you for your time, Councilman,” Lena says to his back.
“Always a pleasure, Commissar.”
He hears a fork scrape across a plate before the door closes behind him, the sound sharp enough to make him wince.
No one stops him on the way back to his quarters. It’s late. The hallway lights have cycled to their nighttime dim, and he lets himself be guided by the tread in the floor, avoiding eye contact with the rare passerby. Luckily his quarters are on the same level as the War Room, so he doesn’t have to travel far.
Once inside his room, he makes his way to the bathroom.
Shuts the door. Turns on the shower but does not step inside.
Then, trusting the New Soviets have not stooped low enough to install cameras inside the bog, Camus finally allows the shock to spread across him like a stinging wave of saltwater. Laughter runs out of him first. He sinks down to the floor and just laughs and laughs, letting the water drag the sound down the drain. He laughs until he cries. Huge tears, fat as welts. He tastes them on his smile, and he is smiling. Camus Forsyth has every reason to smile now.
Because the woman he loves isn’t gone, after all.
Rhona Long lives.
Part Two
Crash
RASH
BOZEMAN, MONTANA
The cold inside the vault is familiar. It’s that of a morgue except for one crucial difference.
This cold is keeping alive a monster I want dead and gone.
I try not to scratch my goosebumps, but my skin condition’s gotten worse and nervousness doesn’t help. My whole body feels like one giant scab aching to be ripped up. At last report Samuel claimed he was still working on a solution, but I can’t sit around waiting to be cured. Maybe that’s what Bossy expected I’d do when she sent me to live with the Montanans, but then she sorely underestimated how much Montanans enjoy blowing things up. They aren’t thumb-sitters, as one of the Cooney brothers put it. Neither am I.
Each breath I take here feels shallow, incomplete. The air in this portion of the underground facility is stale and compressed, recirculated for years through the same narrow passages, passing over the same dusty servers and inert machines. I can almost sample the metal in it, a taste like blood or a dozen wished-upon pennies rusting at the bottom of a fountain.
I bite back a groan as we reach the end of an aisle and pass into another identical room of servers. This sequence—security door, servers, door, servers—has been the only constant in this place, repeating like an open line of code. I don’t know what else I was expecting from one of the higher echelon’s off-site backups, especially one originally established by a company with a name like TruTech Futures. Something a little more B-movie sci-fi, less mid-level corporate. But when this place was built I doubt the owners predicted it would come to house what amounts to a hardcopy of one of the most powerful and malevolent AI in existence.
While Butch Cooney plants more explosives, I keep watch with his twin brother and the rest of the gang. I’m pretty sure Butch being a twin made it an easier sell when Rhona told him I was her secret twin sister. No idea whether the other resistance factions bought the same lie, but it’s not like I talk to the other Longs. It’s probably for the best we haven’t stuck together. In that first week at Kamloops things were tense. No one came to blows, but there was an underlying current of negative energy, a dangerous third rail we were all afraid to touch. Everywhere I looked, I saw my own face staring back. Suspicious. Considering. Judging.
