Free Machinations by Hayley Stone Page B

I can do that, too.
    “Can I see him?” I ask her.
    The smile disappears from her eyes and she shakes her head.
    “Why not? You said he was fine…”
    Yes
, she assures me, although I think she’s leaving out some key details.
More or less.
    “More or less? What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “He’s being debriefed by the council.” She says this aloud, maybe because she doesn’t think I’ll understand the obscure signage for it.
    Debriefed by the council.
I know what that’s code for: trouble.
    McKinley’s political structure and history trickles back to me, somewhat disjointed, like suddenly remembering a dream in the middle of the day.
    This is what I recall: The council was something Camus and I established as a poor man’s war cabinet, maybe two years into the war, after the United States was no longer so united and its states no longer belonged to humanity. Its purpose was to provide a little democracy, order, and most importantly, leadership, back when our ragtag group of soldiers was hardly more than a militia playing at war. But since then, it became the central governing force for more than just McKinley base, as we discovered other cells of human resistance. If McKinley is the strongest arm of the North American war effort, then the council is its brain, telling it when to move and where to swing its fists.
    For Samuel to be called before the councilors for a debriefing did not bode well—for either of us. At a time when no one was stepping up to the plate, Camus and I became leaders almost by default—me more so than him, since I’m the people person, and the council was partly my brainchild—but I don’t know what changes have occurred in my absence. Nature abhors a vacuum, and if I learned anything as the daughter of a politician, it’s the slippery nature of power. Which leads me to wonder: Am I still considered McKinley’s commander? Do I still possess the deciding vote, as before? Or has that rank passed on to someone else? Someone less…dead? Technically, if I am still commander, does the council have any right to hold me here at all?
    Before I press Hanna for answers to these questions, or devise a plan to help Samuel out, my mind shudders to a violent stop.
    “Camus is here,” I realize aloud. Of course he is. Where else would he be?
    Hanna nods slowly.
    My throat feels tight. “I want to see him.” No. What I really want is to know why he hasn’t already been to see me.
    Her mouth scrunches up as she gives another shake of her head, this time indicating no. I know that’s the answer I should accept, but it’s not good enough. I haven’t trekked across half of Alaska and nearly died several times over, only to be denied and given no explanation why. I tell Hanna as much, and ask if I’m to be a prisoner.
    No,
she answers. “Not exactly.”
    I’m glad she can’t hear my tone, because it’s antagonistic. “Then what,
exactly,
am I?”
    Her expression teeters between guilty and sad.
That’s what they’re trying to figure out.
Even soundlessly told, it hurts to hear. It’s like I’m some kind of dangerous creature that needs to be kept away from the public.
    “I need to speak with Camus,” I finally say, over the lump in my throat. I have it in my head that everything will work out fine if I can just
see
him, speak with him. He’ll know me. “Please, Hanna.” My voice cracks, and once more I’m grateful she can’t hear me.
    An eternity stretches inside me, while Hanna formulates her decision. Then she turns away, looks up and into a corner of the room.
    A moment later, the door slides open with a miraculous exhaling sound.
    She motions me to follow her to the now-unlocked door, and I do so without hesitation.
Do you still know how to get to the war room?
she asks.
    I nod. Even if I don’t, I expect I’ll be able to find a sign or something.
    “Don’t expect a warm greeting,” she warns before giving me one last hug and gently nudging me toward freedom.
    Just