Architect (Last Resistance Book 3), page 7
It was almost a relief to leave for Montana with its shapeless wilderness and mountains.
“Hand me another, would you,” Butch asks, not a question. He doesn’t ask questions, though his grammar often suggests one. I’ve gotten used to his blunt manner. With Butch, unlike other men in my past, I never have to wonder what he’s thinking or how he’s feeling. It’s always plain as day, like a familiar book inviting you back in.
His brother, Corey, reaches into his pack and passes another stick of homemade dynamite. It’s rudimentary, but it gets the job done. This is the second place we’ve hit in as many weeks. I’m not sure the strategy of destroying every possible backup site for the higher echelon is a good one, but it’s no worse than any of the plans I’ve come up with lately. The version of me in charge, anyway.
It’s still weird to consider myself as some kind of sequel. I know time passed between my initial death and rescue, but to me it felt like a small interruption in consciousness—like going to sleep and waking up the next morning. I remember close to everything leading up to my predecessor’s death, and I remember the surprised face Samuel made when he learned that I remembered everything. Apparently, Rhona 2.0 has some faulty wiring—memory loss, confusion. Sucks to suck. It’s hard to feel bad for her when she’s had all this time with Camus. Time I’ll never have.
I rub my arms back and forth quickly, satisfying the urge to itch as harmlessly as I can. The clothes make me sweat, especially the bulletproof vest. Our resident medic, Lindsey, gave me some aloe vera to apply underneath my clothing back at base camp, but I don’t think it’s helping. At least some of the worst of the psoriasis has cleared up on my face, though Samuel thinks it will be back when the weather turns cold again. We’re barely out of January and it’s already warm most days, the world eager for a new summer.
My ears prick as from somewhere within the labyrinth I hear the hydraulic systems of several predator-class models working in pained hushes, compensating for the machines’ hefty guns and the extra weight of whatever new horrors they’re concealing beneath thick plates of black armor.
“Company,” I warn.
“I’d already be done if Butter Hands McGee over here would move a little faster and stop dropping everything,” Butch complains.
“That’s helping, calling me names,” Corey mutters.
“Boys,” chides the third member of our little gang. She’s a big woman with the longest hair I’ve ever seen, a plus-sized brunette Rapunzel. When we first met, she introduced herself as Tank. I assumed it was a nickname, but I haven’t heard anyone ever call her differently. “We’re on a bit of a timetable here. Pick it up.”
Thankfully, we have plenty of cover. These narrow aisles were not built with machines in mind. The predators’ large frames barely clear the endless rows of bulky, bare-metal servers, forcing them to stick primarily to the wide intersections between aisles. Makes them easier for us to keep track of and avoid. Which is exactly what we want, since we don’t have the numbers to take them in a straight fight.
“I’m going to scout ahead,” I say. I need to know this facility ends. That we’re not in some twisted Sisyphean play, depositing dynamite sticks until the end of time.
“Don’t go too far, Rash.”
There’s that tenderness in Butch’s voice again. And that silly nickname. These gentle interactions between us have started to knot my stomach. He keeps reaching out like a call trying to connect, and lately I’ve felt something in me wanting to respond. But to acknowledge the presence of any fluttery, fledgling feelings means also acknowledging the quiet truth that Camus might be lost to me forever. And I’m not ready to accept that. I’m not sure I ever will.
“You know me,” I reply, trying for playful, not flirty. Butch strikes me as a man who hasn’t known enough kindness in his life to be able to tell the difference though. “Can’t stay away from trouble long. I’ll be right back.”
“Holler if you find anything,” Tank adds.
“But not literally,” Corey says. He doesn’t do metaphor. “That’s why we have comms.”
I can’t help a smile. “Noted.”
None of them need to worry. I’m not suicidal, unlike some of my counterparts. I don’t stray far from the safety of my team. But then, I don’t really have to.
Trouble finds me quickly.
The predators’ heavy, plodding steps echo through the different channels of servers. They aren’t usually difficult to locate, even in the dark. Yet somehow an old sanitation-class machine manages to sneak up on me. I jerk to a stop as it passes, dragging a skirt of purple UV light through the pitch-black room. The hue reminds me of guiding treads at a theater, the unlit space beyond boxed in quiet mystery.
I trap my breath, holding completely still, unsure what kind of sensors the glorified Roomba is equipped with, whether it will be able to detect intruders in its midst and transmit that information to the higher echelon. So far, Corey’s security workaround seems to be functioning fine, just like at the facility we last hit. The machines aren’t picking us up on any surveillance cameras. Thank God he decided to come back to his home state after earning his degree at MIT.
The sanitation class chirps, giving a cheeky warning to a wall in its path before adjusting course and moving on. I don’t think it notices me.
But the predator one aisle over certainly does.
I lock eyes with it from across the room. This model’s always reminded me of a raptor, but it’s never looked more beastly than here in the jungle shadows of the vault, barely illuminated by the tiny blinking lights on the surrounding servers. As we stare each other down—me slowly reaching for the electromagnetic pulse gun at my waist, it unmoving—its optics click, articulating like thoughtful blinks. I almost miss the fact that they’re not red but green, since the rest of the machine’s appearance matches every other predator from my memory. Inside that curious, inhuman stare, death waits like a switch ready to be flipped. Strangely, it doesn’t whir, but I haven’t the time to dwell on the reasons why.
I dart behind a server, taking cover quicker than it reacts. It seems slow, and I can only hope all its time spent guarding empty halls has decayed its wiring.
My mind fills with swears. I had one job. Butch is going to be so pissed. Samuel, too, if I don’t return alive. He didn’t want me going on missions in the first place. Just stay in camp. Keep a low profile, he’d instructed before I departed, to which I replied, Fly casual? It didn’t earn me the smile it should have, the one I expected. Even if he won’t say it, I know Samuel sees me as more fragile than the other Longs. Weaker. Prim broke under months of torture, and Snow once threatened Bossy outright, but yeah. I’m the one who needs to be watched.
I brace for the crack of gunfire, slipping my EMP-G from my waist, but the silence stretches on. And on. And on.
After what feels like an eternity, I finally hear the machine stomp off, resuming its patrol down another nearby aisle.
Odd, I think. Or incredibly lucky.
I decide to wait another minute in case the machine turns back to investigate. My hand trembles even as I force myself to breathe. My eyes have begun to tire from the night-vision goggles, and I’m increasingly aware of the weight of my gear, growing heavier every second. I lift the goggles momentarily to run a hand across my face.
That’s when I spot it. Them. A person-shaped something.
“Hello?” I whisper, lowering my night-vision goggles quickly.
My eyes must be playing some cruel trick on me, leading me to see the impossible: life in a place where nothing living should be. But I swear I saw a face, the gray look of eyes in the dark. Someone watching.
I start back before my imagination really starts to run amok.
I’m halfway to Butch and the others when a hand clamps down over my mouth. A gun digs into my lower back and an unmistakably human voice near my ear hisses, “Not a sound.”
The stranger begins dragging me back toward where I spotted the machine. I hear it again and begin to struggle, freeing my mouth. “We can’t go this way,” I blurt, still trying to be semi-quiet. I’m more worried about the predator around the corner than the gun at my back. If my attacker wanted me dead, they could have made it happen by now. “There’s a machine—”
I cut off, flinching as a shock of electricity ripples through me, almost enough voltage to bring me to my knees. Certainly enough to force me to drop my EMP-G as I lose control of my motor reflexes.
Not a gun, then. A taser. But who in the world carries a taser anymore?
“Listen to me,” I plead. I dig in my heels, but there’s nothing for my shoes to grip. The floor is smooth linoleum. It protests my efforts with a small shriek. I can’t make my comm work either. The taser must have fried it. “We can’t go this way.”
“People are done listening to you.” The way she says it makes it sound personal. Like she knows me. Maybe she does. “We’ve tried it your way for years. Now it’s time you try ours.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Warm shame shoots through me as I hear the note of rising hysteria in my voice, like a wrong chord plucked. “Or what you think you’re accomplishing by kidnapping me. But you’re going to get us both killed.”
The machine must only be one aisle over now. Its unhurried steps sound like a countdown. Five – four – three…
“Is that what you think is happening here?” the stranger asks. Her grasp on my shoulder is ironclad, unbreakable. But it loosens a smidge with her surprise. “For god’s sake. This isn’t a kidnapping, Commander Long.”
The stranger thrusts me forward. I stagger drunkenly into the next aisle, mind spinning, searching for a way out. But it’s too late. The predator is there waiting an arm’s length away, guns drawn: my own personal firing squad. Death arriving again in its old familiar format.
“It’s an intervention.”
My mouth seals, becoming a tomb for my useless tongue. All the words I know won’t save me now, and in the end my captor gets her wish.
As the machine shuffles its great bulk toward me, I don’t make a sound.
Five
RHONA
Portland, Oregon – Six Months After Calgary
The plane shudders as we descend, the metal begging to come apart. I’m strapped in against a thick nylon net, huffing pure oxygen to purge the nitrogen from my lungs for the jump, but even that high isn’t enough to distract from the jostling terror of the dive. Or the knowledge of what awaits once we level out.
When Liz, Charlene, and I had first discussed going south to meet up with the Oregonians months ago this definitely wasn’t what I had in mind.
Across the aisle, I watch flight helmets bounce and weave while the bodies holding onto them jerk inside their own safety straps. I expected turbulence, but this is something else. Gravity shoves me back against my seat. I’m suddenly aware of every inch of my body—all its heft, the increasing pressure of meat against fragile bone. The tight sleeves of my windproof shell pinch my wrists, and I begin picturing my hands turning blue, withering from hypoxia. I wish Samuel had left out some details during his briefing on what happens when a HALO jump goes wrong.
“Approaching the drop zone.” The pilot’s voice bursts over my helmet com, punctuated by static crackle. “Door opening. Standby.”
I glance down at the altimeter welded to my glove. Twenty thousand feet. That can’t be right. I was told we’d be jumping from an altitude of fifteen thousand. Not that it makes a difference if your canopy blows out. Pretty sure the ground feels the same falling from twenty thousand as it does from fifteen. But still. It’s the principle of the matter. Twenty thousand feet means we’ll be in freefall for almost two minutes.
I’m about to ask about the change when the plane’s nose pulls up, the pilot ending our descent. My heart slides down from my throat, my previous heaviness vanishing at once. For a moment I’m weightless. Feather-light. I feel myself lift off my seat, anchored only by my straps. Then gravity resumes with an unfriendly rattle; turbulence shakes the plane like a child’s toy. I drop back to my seat in seconds, like I’m all out of faith, trust, and pixie dust.
The cargo ramp begins to lower slowly, as if someone is cranking it by hand. Air rushes inside, snapping at the nylon net. My helmet protects me from the worst of the noise, but I still feel the shuddering power of the plane’s jet engines underfoot. The wind outside is an oscillating purr that almost sounds like whirring.
I check my EMP-G for the fourth time. My waist is loaded with more weaponry and battery packs than I’d normally carry—certainly more than is comfortable—but once we’re inserted behind enemy lines chances of a supply drop reaching us are close to nil. Better to go in prepared.
“Remember, your decision altitude is 1,200 ft AGL,” our pilot warns. AGL, short for above ground level. Though I’ve also heard him refer to AGL as angels, and honestly I like that better. “After that, you’ve got until angels seven to sort out any malfunction before you’re bugs on a windshield. Don’t be bugs.”
Of all the pilots, ours has a sense of humor. Talk about karma.
A moment later, said pilot signals my private comm channel.
“Last chance if you want to scrap the jump, Commander.” Not a commander, I think irritably, but there’s no point in correcting him. “I’d recommend seriously considering aborting. Zone’s hot and conditions aren’t ideal.”
When are they ever? “We’re already here.” My body is full of so much coiled tension I fight to get words out, like I’m pulling each from the locked jaws of a very strong dog.
“Sure, but you’re not out of the plane yet. No shame in changing your mind.”
“Nice pep talk. Thanks.” Fear sometimes makes me short and mean, but after forcing in a calming breath, I try to explain myself. “We’ve come this far. I doubt we’re going to have another chance like this.”
“If you say so, Commander.”
“Turning back would be admitting defeat,” I insist, feeling dismissed. “There isn’t another option.”
For the long seconds it takes him to reply, I think maybe my message didn’t go through. Then he answers, “Just because all your options seem terrible doesn’t make a bad choice any less bad. But that’s just my humble opinion. At the end of the day, I have the easy job: I just fly where I’m told. You’re the one in charge. You make the call.”
While we’ve been talking—arguing—Charlene has unstrapped herself and begun shuffling toward the ramp in a gliding sort of walk. She moves with the confidence of someone who has done this a dozen, if not hundreds of times, never completely removing either foot from the deck. When she told me she’d previously served as light infantry for the Canadian Army, I pictured her on the ground, not serving as a jumpmaster in aerial operations. I feel better knowing at least one of us has done this before. If I’ve learned anything, it’s the benefit of surrounding myself with qualified people instead of relying solely on my own judgment and limited expertise.
“We’re going,” I tell the pilot definitively, and then switch back to our main channel in time to catch a snippet of conversation between Elle and Dunk. They’re debating the physics of terminal velocity and whether Dunk can outrace a dropped penny to the ground. It’s such a weirdly normal discussion that it helps distract me from where we are and what we’re about to do. But only for a moment.
Clouds roll across the lowered ramp like the output from an aggressive fog machine, so thick it tricks my brain into believing there’s solid ground on the other side instead of a long chute of empty air. It’s surprisingly peaceful up here, given the battlefield that’s opened in the city of Portland far below.
But we aren’t here as part of the siege. This isn’t an ambush.
It’s a jailbreak.
Charlene gestures for the rest of us to join her, apparently satisfied by the view on her thermal heads-up display. One by one, we each unlatch and slink toward the ramp, imitating Charlene’s airborne shuffle.
It takes three tries for me to get up from a seated position, and Samuel assists in that third effort, offering his hand. We’re loaded like pack mules. The main chute and reserve are almost heavy enough to immobilize me—“heavy as fuck” was Charlene’s official description—then you factor in the additional weight of all the combat gear, plus fatigue from the flight and nerves, and it’s a miracle any of us move steadily at all. Adrenaline. Hell of a drug.
“Hey, remember when your mom took us ziplining?” Samuel asks me over comm. I find him on my right, holding tightly to the skeleton of the plane. “For your birthday that one year. Some adventure park in Albuquerque.”
I should be rehearsing emergency procedures right now—how to break away from my main canopy to clear the way for the reserve if something goes wrong—but I’ve been doing that this whole trip, so I accept the welcome distraction of Samuel’s question. Most of my early life, including birthdays, are locked behind the great Before: before I died at Anchorage, before I came back as a clone. My past is full of these gaping holes, like monuments taken down by time. Only echoes of feeling remain, warm impressions in the dirt. I’ve made peace with this fact. Everyone struggles with something. Everyone forgets, eventually. My forgetting just came sooner than usual, exchanged for another chance at life. Worse bargains have been struck.
“I have trouble picturing you ziplining,” I reply as Charlene diligently double-checks my equipment. I wait for her to crack a joke about feeling me up, but that’s not the kind of easy relationship we have anymore—not since Liz’s death.
“Yeah…” Samuel drags the word out. “About that. It never happened. I chickened out. Got harnessed in twice, but I could never step off the platform. I just—froze.”
