Counterpart Page 2

  That’s when it hits me. This has nothing to do with conditions. Kozlov’s unloading his “undesirables” on McKinley, and using their discomfort to bargain for better people. No—better soldiers.

  Exchange, indeed. Bastard.

  “I’ll take it into consideration.” The hell I will.

  Kozlov changes the subject, not wanting to appear too eager, and I focus on where I’m walking, instead of how much I want to punch him in the face.

  While he talks about food-shortage concerns, I carefully navigate the space between one soldier’s splayed legs like a delicate game of hopscotch. I don’t want to wake her if she’s sleeping. With her eyes closed in the shadow of a small cap, it’s difficult to tell one way or another.

  As I pass by her, I feel a hand on my leg.

  The contact is brief, gentle, but jarring. I glance back. The young woman’s face is clenched in a smile, the whites of her eyes brownish and watery, and she’s staring right at me.

  Not creepy at all…

  After another moment, she tucks her chin down, and huddles back into a beat-up NUSSR military jacket that would fit a person twice her size. Where her skinny neck protrudes from a popped collar, the skin is jaundiced, reminding me of an old bruise. Maybe her liver’s not working properly, or she’s anemic and not getting enough red meat. There are still plenty of ways to die that don’t involve the machines.

  I want to stop, ask the soldier how she’s doing, maybe send her in for a checkup. But if I stop for her, I’ll end up stopping for everyone.

  Still, as my steps shorten, my burly German bodyguard nudges me from behind. When I frown at him, he lifts his chin.

  Ulrich’s message is clear: keep walking.

  At least one of us is keeping my hectic schedule in mind. I’m expected to meet with the North Korean delegation an hour from now, then join some of our Chinese allies for lunch. My head pounds. I’ve already been awake for almost twenty-four hours, trying to juggle everything I need to cement this pact. Camus says I need to learn how to delegate. But he also told me I’d enjoy Middlemarch if I just stuck with it, so what does he know, really?

  I try to forget the odd moment with the Russian soldier, but it’s not the first time strangers have tried to touch me, and it happens again periodically as we progress through the medical level. I feel hands on my pants, at the hem of my shirt, and one man even tries to pet me on the head. It’s like none of them have heard of personal boundaries.

  Finally, Kozlov shakes his head with a smirk. “They believe you offer good luck.”

  “What?”

  “Why they touch you.” I didn’t think he’d been paying attention, too occupied with complaining about Medical’s restrooms. Maybe it was just me not paying attention to him. “They believe you are lucky. That you cannot be killed.”

  If they only knew the half of it. A bloodstain outside Anchorage would correct that belief real quick.

  I dodge another hand heading for my sleeve, but then feel bad and offer a handshake instead. “So, what? I’m some kind of rabbit’s foot?”

  Kozlov wrinkles his forehead. “Rabbit…foot? No—lucky.” He says it loudly, as if I’m merely mishearing him. His throat struggles with the vowels, like he’s gargling spit. “Is that not right?” he asks one of his translators, who confirms it is, in fact, the right word.

  I try not to laugh. “Never mind. For the record, I try not to encourage those kinds of rumors.”

  “Why not?”

  Because it’s tempting fate. “Because it’s obviously not true.”

  “Isn’t it?” he says. “You were missing for six months, thought dead. Then poof.” He gestures with his e-cigarette as if it were a magic wand, trailing chocolate-scented vapor. It’s making me hungry. I can’t remember the last time I ate something—dinner the previous night? “You return, oversee two victories against the mashiny, and survive an avalanche. Maybe they’re right. Maybe you cannot be killed.”

  Kozlov gives me a significant look, as if he’s in on my secret—or a minute away from trying to rub my head, too.

  “If you believe that, Commissar, then I have some ice to sell you.”

  Ulrich snorts, but Kozlov just rolls his shoulders. “There are worse reputations to have. Now, you mentioned new diagnostic equipment? I would like to see this.”

  He starts toward Medical’s emergency-services wing, but I stay back. I’d sooner shoot myself in the foot than have to stomach another hour of this political hobnobbing—and given what I’m about to say, that analogy is likely to prove dangerously apropos.

  “Commissar. Yevgeny.” My voice turns him around. I sound steady, sure, but my chest constricts with dread. Here goes nothing. “I think I’ve earned the right to call you that. I have met with you every day this week. I’ve played the generous host. Now I’m just going to ask you outright. Will you sign the treaty tomorrow? Will you commit Russia to this coalition?”

  Kozlov brings his e-cigarette to his mouth. He huffs and he puffs and—

  “Probably,” he says.

  “Probably?”

  Another look at his translator. “This is also wrong word? It means—”

  “I know what it means,” I say quickly. “It’s the right word. Actually, no. No, it’s not.” In my mind, I’m rolling up my sleeves. No more Missus Nice Resistance Leader. “After everything McKinley has done for your people, everything we’re willing to offer, probably is the best you can give me? Sorry, Commissar, but frankly, that’s not good enough.”

  He shrugs. “I make no promises until I see terms.”

  “You know the terms. And you know damn well the outcome if Russia backs out!” The whole bloody coalition will fall apart. I don’t say that last bit. He’s aware of the stakes. “You think you can hold Asia without Alaska, and the rest of your eastern side exposed? Good freaking luck with that. If we go, so do you.”

  My words crease the air with tension. The hallway’s gone suddenly silent, making me sound all the louder. Several people roll over, facing away from us, pretending to sleep.

  “Careful, Commander Long. Someone could mistake your words for a threat.” Kozlov drops his e-cigarette and stomps on it like it’s a real cigarette that needs to be put out. I can’t tell whether it’s just an old habit or if he’s being dramatic on purpose, but he’ll regret it later, when he’s jonesing for nicotine.

  I move closer to him, stepping over someone’s tangled pile of clothes.

  “Good,” I say, looking him in the eye. He’s got me beat by a few inches, but I like to believe my presence is at least somewhat commanding, if not due to the bright red hair, then due to the odd smattering of freckles on exactly one half of my face. Cloning mishap. “If you’re not afraid, you’re not paying attention. This coalition might be the only thing that stands between us and complete annihilation by the machines.

  “Look at what we’ve already achieved with Alaska. In two months, we’ve managed to secure our borders as far as Canada. Two months.”

  “With our help,” Kozlov says.

  “Yes.” I grant him the point. “Now imagine what we could do with our combined resources in a year.”

  “I am sorry, Commander.” His tone suggests nothing of the kind, though it’s a little hard to tell through the thick accent. “I am simply not convinced McKinley is best location from which to operate. Lake Baikal would—”

  I thrust a finger in his face. “I’m not going to let you blow this because you’re too busy negotiating for your own interests. I’ll go over your head if I have to.”

  “Another threat?”

  “A promise. We’re done here, for now. Ulrich.” I push past Kozlov, and when he reaches out to stop me, Ulrich knocks his hand away with the barrel of his assault rifle, a Heckler & Koch G36 (I only know the model because Ulrich wouldn’t shut up about how good its condition was after we found it abandoned in a local shooting-range office). The warning look he gives the Commissar could melt stone. Ulrich doesn’t much care for the Russians—go
figure—and he likes Kozlov least of all.

  Just keep walking, I tell myself, you’ve said enough, but I can’t help turning and imparting a final shot.

  “This coalition is happening, Commissar. Get on board.”

  Ulrich and I haven’t yet reached the elevators—there’s a huge line for them, as always—when I turn to him. “All right. You can say it. I totally just screwed the pooch, didn’t I?”

  “Maybe so.” Ulrich’s face breaks into a rare smile, making him look almost a decade younger than his fifty-seven years. “But I got to smack a Russian. I have had worse days. And so have you.”

  Talk about an understatement.

  I may not have recovered all my old memories, but what I do have is enough.

  I remember Anchorage, where Commander Rhona Long first died. Smoke blotting out the sun and burning my throat. I remember the hollowed-out carcass of Churchill base, haunted by whirring machines, the darkness fouled by the stench of corpses. My allies. My friends. And the many days in between, when I was questioned and doubted, and the love of my life refused to come out of his grief to meet me.

  Oh, yeah. Good times.

  “There will be worse days still,” Ulrich says, barreling through the line of people still waiting for the elevator. I mumble apologies in our wake, but as soon as I’m aboard, Ulrich punches the Close button, prohibiting anyone else from joining us. Security measures, he’s told me before, but, really, I think Ulrich’s just using my safety as an excuse to be antisocial. “Enjoy what you have done.”

  I move to the right wall of the car, closest to the door. The handrail vibrates against my hip and the hand I fasten to it in a death grip. “Yeah. It’s what I’ve done that concerns me.”

  Chapter 2

  Due to traffic in the halls—and an incident involving a very aggressive hugger—I arrive late for my meeting with the North Korean delegation. The room reserved for the meeting is one of McKinley’s nicer spaces, filled with halcyon light that makes the hardwood furniture glow. All the chairs have been perfectly arranged, the table has been polished, a red flower arrangement has been set out—and no one’s there. Perfect.

  I get on comms, connecting to McKinley’s information desk, where someone should know what’s going on. One of the newer secretaries answers—Roger or Roderick? I can’t remember his name, but I don’t have time to feel bad about it right now.

  “Hi. This is Rhona Long. I was supposed to meet with the North Korean delegation in meeting room three, and no one’s here. Has it been rescheduled or…?”

  “Uh. Yes, Commander. Hold on.” I hear fingertips pecking at a screen. “There’s a note here. It says the meeting venue has changed.”

  “To?”

  “Military level. Training complex D.”

  Odd. That room’s normally used for urban-warfare exercises. After what happened the last time I was mysteriously relocated to the military level for a meeting, I immediately think trap. “Are you sure?” I ask, trying to keep any fear from my voice.

  “That’s what it says, ma’am.”

  “On whose authority was the venue changed?”

  “Commander Forsyth. There’s also a note here: the commander says not to worry, that the venue was changed so the delegation can review a few of McKinley’s urban strategies, and Evelyn Meir hasn’t been invited. Uh, does that name mean anything to you?”

  Camus knows me too well. I almost smile, or would, if the thought of trekking back down to Military wasn’t filling me with dread. “Yeah, it rings a bell. Nice of Commander Forsyth to let me know before I booked it all the way up here.” I flatten my palm against my forehead and release a breath into the awkward silence. “Sorry…Roger?”

  “Roderick, ma’am.”

  Dang. “Sorry, Roderick. This isn’t your fault. Could you call ahead and let the delegation know I’m on my way? And have our translator apologize—profusely—for the delay.” First I lose my temper with Kozlov. Now I’m late to my first-impressions meeting with the Koreans. What’s next? Tripping over my own feet during the treaty signing tomorrow?

  Just to be on the safe side, I knock on the wooden table before leaving the room.

  Ulrich, leaning against the wall next to the door, delivers another tight smile when I emerge. “That was quick,” he remarks, barely turning to look at me. I half expect him to start chortling. Who knew smacking a Russian was the trick to putting Ulrich in a good mood?

  I catch him up as we head for the express elevator that will take us to the military level, four levels down. The express elevator is a direct line from Command to Military, allowing for quick transit between McKinley’s two most important levels. It’s reserved for Command staff only. Both Ulrich and I have to provide our handprints for authorization before the car will even agree to open its doors.

  The express elevator cuts the time it’d take us to reach our destination significantly. We avoid all the foot traffic on the stairs, as well as the endless queues for regular service cars. On the downside, the car runs in a blind shaft. No doors on any of the levels between here and the military level. If the car malfunctions or loses power, we’ll be trapped between levels for hours. Helplessly suspended thousands of feet in the air, pressed between walls of solid bedrock and steel.

  My hand leaves a wet palm print behind on the scanner, and my wrists stiffen with tension. I clench my teeth, feeling the car give a little beneath Ulrich’s weight as he follows me inside. God, I hate the express elevator.

  As we begin our descent, Juneau swells in my mind like a balloon ready to burst. Three days of cold and darkness. The musty smell of metal on my hands. No escape. I can’t do that again. I stand near the door, counting the seconds until it opens, bouncing on the balls of my feet.

  …Eight, nine, ten…

  My eyes stay glued to a small readout screen beneath the control console. A map of the base is lit in bright blue, surrounded by a vague outline of Denali. The illustration helps drive home just how deep we are beneath the surface. I watch our little animated car descend.

  Around the dormitory level, the elevator shudders, and I suck in a sharp breath.

  Ulrich clears his throat. I’m clutching his arm.

  “Sorry.” I release him. “Nice muscle tone.”

  “Danke.”

  Fifteen, sixteen…

  “Been working out?”

  He turns to look at me slowly, suggesting I should stop talking. Probably a good idea. I babble when I’m anxious, and this elevator isn’t helping my nerves. I need to pull myself together before walking into that meeting or the North Koreans are going to devour me. And here I used to think machines were all I had to fear. Someone should have warned me about politics.

  I jump clear of the elevator as soon as the doors start to open and feel a blast of relief as soon as I’m in the large, open hangar. I’m taking the stairs from now on, late or not.

  It used to be only McKinley personnel were allowed on the military level, and even then, it required the proper clearance and training. Now, half the people I bump into down here are strangers to me, newcomers to the base. Granting our allies limited access to McKinley resources is all part of the council’s strategy (see also: my strategy) to lock down their commitment to the coalition. The potential for shared knowledge and technology is thrilling. Necessary, too, if we’re going to have any hope of pushing back the machines. At the same time, something about the wave of new faces makes me uneasy. I don’t yet know who I can trust—or who I shouldn’t.

  Within a few minutes, Ulrich and I reach our destination, and while he leans down to adjust the laces on his boots, I march past him, going through the door marked D.

  I expect to be grilled by half a dozen impatient North Koreans the moment I walk in. Instead, I’m greeted by a scene straight out of the 1960s. Half the vehicles we use for cover or as obstacles during urban-combat training have been organized into two staggered rows. In front of the cars, an enormous tarpaulin has been stretched vertically between two metal fr
ames like a giant sheet of tissue paper.

  The lights dim as the door automatically slips closed behind me. I don’t feel Ulrich at my back any longer, but I’m not alone either.

  “I thought you could use a break.”

  Camus comes alongside me in the dark. His accent’s been blunted from years spent among Americans, but he hasn’t changed much from the stuffy Brit I met all those years ago in Reading, dragged to the music festival by his friends. He still holds himself like a student being judged on an oral presentation, or an aristocrat stepping into a waltz.

  I relax my back against his chest, releasing a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I feel silly for assuming the worst. McKinley is safe, I remind myself for the hundredth time. And I’m safe here. Throwing on a smile to hide my nerves, I finally turn toward Camus. “What are you up to? What is all this?”

  “Watch and see,” he whispers in my ear.

  He goes to a squat projector perched on top of a waist-high barricade. Strikes from experimental electromagnetic weapons and pulse grenades have left black veins in the concrete. A few large chunks are gone from the top of the wall, where a machine attempted to swipe at those taking cover behind the barricade.

  “What about the North Koreans?”

  “They sent a communication, about a week back,” Camus says, fiddling with the power cord. Geez, how old is this thing that it requires a cord? “Apparently, there’s been some…bad weather over the Pacific. They decided to…postpone their trip. Ah, there we go.”

  The projector hums to life, whirring violently for a few seconds until Camus repositions it on a flatter part of the barricade.

  I relax my hand from the service weapon at my hip. I’ve always had a visceral reaction when it comes to the sound of the machines, but it’s been downright Pavlovian since Churchill. I still have nightmares of predator models jerking toward me inside flashes of gunfire. Red optics at the end of every corridor and shiny metal carapaces emerging from a hard line of shadow, glinting like knives. Coming for me. Coming for Camus. Ulrich. Hanna. I can’t keep them from hearing that dreadful whirring any more than I can protect them from the monsters that make the noise. But I have to try.