by Mira Grant
“That would be nice,” I said, and stood, pausing a moment as my rubber-soled socks found traction on the hard tile floor. I would have preferred shoes—even slippers—but the orderlies responsible for my clothing wouldn’t let me have anything but socks. At least the rubber treads made it easier for me to walk with my hands restrained.
The cuffs didn’t come out until the third time they took me out of my room. They’d been a constant reality since then. If I left the room to go anywhere but the bathroom, I left it in handcuffs. Presumably, whoever was actually in charge of my care—and it wasn’t Dr. Thomas; if he’d been in charge of me, he would never have come near me—wanted to be sure I wasn’t going to make some sort of daring escape. I was never sure whether I should be flattered by their apparent faith in my ingenuity or insulted by the fact that they thought handcuffs would stop me. That was the sort of thing I had a lot of time to think about these days. Solitary confinement punctuated only by intrusive medical testing will do that for a person.
The guards were waiting in the hallway. I recognized both. Not surprising, but reassuring in its own way. If I was starting to know the guards on sight, that meant they didn’t have an infinite number of them. Eventually, they’d start thinking of me as a person, rather than as a test subject, and that would make them easier to get around when the day finally came for me to escape. Assuming I didn’t spontaneously amplify or suffer acute organ failure before then. Also assuming Gregory didn’t find a way to smuggle me out with the laundry, or do something else out of a bad pre-Rising heist movie.
Also, if the guards had never been repeated, I would have started to worry that they were being taken out back and shot after their shifts were finished. Call me sentimental, but I’d really rather not be the human equivalent of a death sentence.
One of the guards led us down the empty hall, while the other walked behind us. In the time since I woke up, I hadn’t seen anyone aside from Dr. Thomas, Gregory, the constantly shifting crew of guards, and the lab technicians who were waiting at the end of this little journey. If there were any other patients in the building, my handlers were doing an excellent job of keeping me away from them. Whether that was for my protection or for theirs, I couldn’t say.
We reached the end of the hall. The first guard pressed his hand against a blood test panel, waiting for the light over the door to go from red to green. The door opened, and the guard stepped through. Dr. Thomas repeated the process. The second guard gestured for me to do the same, not saying a word. None of the guards liked to talk to me. I’m pretty sure I made them nervous.
Dr. Thomas and the first guard were waiting on the other side. Dr. Thomas motioned for me to start walking, not waiting for the second guard. “Come along. The faster we get this done, the faster we can get you back to your room.”
“Yes, empty rooms without Internet are absolutely the sort of place I yearn to get back to.” This hall was colder. I shivered. This was a negative-pressure zone, and whoever was responsible for the environmental controls kept them turned lower than was strictly necessary.
“It’s for your own good,” said Dr. Thomas. There was no conviction in his words. He was parroting the argument we’d been having almost constantly since we met, and somehow, the thought of having it one more time was enough to make me tired.
“Right,” I said, and kept plodding steadily along.
Dr. Thomas stopped at a door that looked like every other door in the vicinity. “Here we are. I don’t have to remind you again how important it is that you cooperate with the technicians, do I?”
“No, Dr. Thomas, you do not,” I replied blandly. “I’m going to be a good girl today. I’d like you to make note of that in my file, since maybe it can help me get Internet privileges faster. How would that be?”
Dr. Thomas smiled, the expression not quite managing to mask the fact that he was grinding his teeth. “We’ll see,” he said, and opened the door.
I was becoming quite the expert in CDC labs, at least as they were configured locally; like the guards, they seemed to rotate, with every battery of tests conducted in a different place. Even when I saw the same rooms, they’d been rearranged, equipment swapped around until my head spun. I couldn’t tell whether they were intentionally trying to disorient me or just doing a really good job by mistake. Either way, I’d started making note of the things they couldn’t rearrange—or wouldn’t, anyway, unless those things were pointed out to them. I glanced up as I entered the room, making note of the pattern of holes on the ceiling. This was the one I called lab three, then. The last time I’d been in lab three, my afternoon test array included a bone marrow sample.
“Won’t this be fun,” I muttered.
Lab three was about the size of every other lab I’d been in at the CDC: twice the size of my current bedroom, and roughly the size of a large living room. It just seemed small because it was so packed. My stomach sank as I realized I didn’t know what half of the machines were for. Technicians in lab coats bustled around the room, making tweaks and adjusting settings.
I used to try guessing which technicians would be running my tests. That was before I realized the person in charge was never one of the people operating the machines. Operating machines was beneath anyone chosen to supervise testing on a real live clone of a dead journalist. This session was no different. As soon as the door closed behind us, another door opened on the opposite side of the lab, revealing a small office. A tall, Nordic-looking woman with ice-blonde hair scraped into a tight bun stepped out, offering a chilly smile in our direction.
She was beautiful, in a “touch me and get frostbite” sort of way. Her lab coat was the normal white, but she had accessorized it with an indecently red silk shirt the color of the lights on a testing unit. Her shoes matched her blouse. I found myself envying them, despite their three-inch heels. I hate high heels. Having actual shoes would have been enough to make up for my dislike. Besides, in a pinch, high-heeled shoes can make good improvised weapons. Sure, that gets you right back to barefoot, but at least then you’re armed.
“Ah, Dr. Thomas,” she said, directing her words at my escort, even as her gaze settled firmly on me. “You’re just in time. Thank you for bringing the subject to see me.”
“It was no trouble, really, Dr. Shaw. If there’s anything I can do to assist—”
“There’s nothing you can help me with,” she said, still not looking in his direction. She was studying my face avidly, like she expected it to provide the answer to some question she hadn’t told me anything about. “I’ll have you contacted when it’s time to return her to her holding cell. Thank you.”
“Dr. Shaw, I’m not sure—”
Annoyance flashed across her features as she looked away from me for the first time. “I have tests to perform, Dr. Thomas, and as you have made so abundantly clear, we are on a schedule, one that required me to jump through a ludicrous number of hoops in order to get even this much access. I refuse to waste any of my allotted time in shepherding you around my equipment. You may go, and take your trained monkeys with you. I will send one of my assistants to collect you when I’m prepared to remand the subject to your care.”
Dr. Thomas hesitated, looking like he was going to argue. Dr. Shaw narrowed her eyes very slightly, and took a single half step forward. The heel of her shoe hit the floor with a loud snapping sound, like a pencil being broken in half.
That seemed to decide the matter. “Georgia, Dr. Shaw is in charge until I return,” he said. “Cooperate with whatever she requests.” He turned and stepped quickly out of the room, gesturing for the guards to follow him. Looking uncertain about the whole situation, they did.
Dr. Shaw waited for the door to shut before returning her attention to me. Something about her expression made me want to squirm, which just annoyed me even more. I stood up a little straighter, narrowing my eyes, and met her stare for stare.
Finally, surprisingly, she laughed. “Oh, very good! They really did bring you back, didn’t they?
Or good as, one supposes. If you would be so kind as to step behind the screen there and remove your clothing, we can begin.”
“Sorry. Can’t.” I held up my hands, showing her the cuffs. “I’m too much of a threat to run around without restraints.”
“I see.” Dr. Shaw reached into her pocket, producing a key. She smiled at my startled expression. “They’re standard CDC issue, for control of troublesome subjects. It wouldn’t do to have someone require the services of a locksmith simply because their primary physician was unavailable when their cuffs needed to be removed.”
I kept still as she unlocked me, waiting until the cuffs had vanished into her pocket before I asked, “Does the CDC make a practice of handcuffing patients?”
“Only the potentially dangerous ones.” Her amusement vanished as quickly as it had come. “Now please. Behind the screen, and remove your clothing. Kathleen will supply a robe once you’re done.”
“Why is it that you people always try to get me naked first thing? It’s not like I have any weapons to hide in my pajama pants.” I rubbed my wrists as I walked to the indicated screen and stepped behind it. Then I stopped, my heart jumping up into my throat as I saw what the screen had been concealing from the rest of the room.
“Go ahead, Georgia,” said Dr. Shaw’s voice from the main room. “We really must get started as quickly as possible.”
I stepped slowly forward, barely breathing as I picked up the tiny pistol that was sitting on the stool, almost like it was waiting for me. I revised that thought to remove the “almost” as I felt the way the gun fit into my palm, vanishing behind my fingers. Firearms this small were usually mass-manufactured, but this was a custom job. There was no other way to explain the rightness of it sliding into my hand. It felt like it was made for me because it was made for me.
It was made of hardened ceramic and heat-resistant plastic polymer. All the metal detectors in the world wouldn’t be able to catch the fact that I was carrying it, and the guards’ reluctance to touch me when they didn’t have to meant I was pretty much safe from a pat down. It was mine. They wouldn’t take it away from me, because they wouldn’t know I had it. Not until I needed them to.
The gun had been holding down a piece of folded paper. I picked it up with my free hand, unfolding it, and read.
Georgia—
This is all the protection we can give you right now. We’re still working on an exit plan. Trust Dr. Shaw. She’s been working with me for a long time. Keep cooperating. They can’t know you’re planning to escape. You have to keep trusting me.
The gun was enough to buy a lot of trust. I kept reading, and stopped breathing for the second time in as many minutes as I saw the second part of his message:
I have received confirmation from my West Coast contact: Shaun Phillip Mason is alive. I repeat: Shaun is alive. He’s been off the grid for a little while, for reasons I hope to have the opportunity to explain soon, but he is alive, and he will be waiting when we get you out of here. Whatever they say, whatever lies they try to make you believe, believe me: Shaun is alive. All we have to do now is keep you that way long enough to get you back to him.
Yours—G.
I sank onto the stool, staring at the letter. My fingers were creasing the paper, rendering some of the words almost illegible, but that didn’t matter. I knew what they said. They were burning behind my eyes, lighting up a darkness that I hadn’t even realized was there.
Shaun was alive. I wasn’t making educated guesses. I wasn’t just telling myself something I wanted to believe: Shaun was actually and genuinely alive. That, or the CDC had planted Gregory to earn my trust… But the gun nixed that line of thinking. I paused, turning my attention from the paper to the pistol just long enough to eject the clip and check that it was loaded. It was. Those tiny bullets made all the difference, because no matter how hard the CDC was trying to make me believe them, they weren’t going to give me a gun.
“There you are.” Dr. Shaw stepped around the screen, moving with a silence that made it plain how much she’d been exaggerating the sound of her footsteps before. She plucked the paper from my hand, not seeming to mind when she ripped it in the process. “Thank you for cleaning up the lab, Georgia. I’ll just go feed this through the shredder while you finish undressing. You can leave your clothing here. No one will disturb it.”
My eyes widened as I glanced from her to the gun and back again. Dr. Shaw followed my gaze and nodded understandingly.
“I appreciate that you have little privacy in your current circumstances, but I assure you, no one will touch your things while you’re here. I take privacy concerns very seriously.” Her smile was thin and cold, briefly recalling the way she’d first presented herself. “You have my word.”
Gregory said I could trust her, and she wasn’t sounding the alarm over my possession of a weapon. I swallowed to clear my throat, and nodded. “I’ll get ready.”
“Thank you. Call for Kathleen when you want the robe.” She paused, as if one more thing had just occurred to her, and added, “You may keep your underwear.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I thought you might.” Dr. Shaw walked away, her heels clacking on the floor, as if to illustrate that outside this small, screened-in space, we were playing by the CDC’s rules.
I may not enjoy playing by other people’s rules, but I’ve had enough experience to be good at it. I slid off the stool, putting the pistol back where I originally found it, and disrobed, piling my white pajamas over the gun. If any of Dr. Shaw’s technicians weren’t in on things—and I had no real reason to believe that any of them were in on things—they’d need to actively look before they found anything awry.
While I stripped, I heard the oddly reassuring sound of a shredder coming from the main room. Dr. Shaw had been telling the truth about disposing of Gregory’s message. I just hoped she’d have the sense to take the trash with her when she left.
Kathleen was waiting when I stuck my head around the screen. She held a plain white robe out to me, smiling pleasantly. “Dr. Shaw is ready for you now.”
“Tell Dr. Shaw I’m almost ready for her,” I said, and ducked back behind the screen to shrug into the robe. With one last, regretful glance toward the pile of clothing concealing my new gun, I turned to head out into the room.
Kathleen was still waiting. Her smile brightened as she saw that I was dressed. “This way,” she said, beckoning. “We’re going to begin by measuring your basic neurological responses.”
“Meaning what?” I asked, following her.
“Meaning we’ll be applying electrodes to your scalp, asking you neutral questions and watching to see how your brain waves change as you respond. Dr. Shaw has been petitioning for permission to do a sleep study, but so far, they’ve refused.” Kathleen frowned, like the refusal was somehow a personal insult. She led me toward a complicated-looking machine where Dr. Shaw and two of the technicians were waiting. “I’m sure she’ll be granted permission sooner or later. For the moment, conscious brain wave studies will have to do.”
“For today,” said Dr. Shaw, snapping a connector into place. “Georgia. So glad you could join us. If you would be so kind as to take a seat, we can begin getting you ready. Please remove the robe.”
I froze. “Please what?”
“Remove the robe.”
“Why did you give it to me if—?”
“Modesty and science are not always compatible,” said Dr. Shaw. “Kathleen?”
“Yes, Dr. Shaw,” said Kathleen, and took hold of my robe’s collar, tugging just hard enough to make sure I knew she was there. “If you would be so kind?”
I bit back a sigh. I’ve never been the most modest person in the world, and my time as the CDC’s favorite new lab rat was rapidly eroding what little modesty I possessed. I undid the belt, letting Kathleen peel the robe away, and took a seat in the indicated chair. It was covered in clear plastic that made little crunching noises as I slid myself into position. Worse, it was c
old.
So was the greenish gel that Dr. Shaw’s technicians began applying to my throat, shoulders, and stomach. I frowned. “I thought this was going to be a brain wave test?”
“Yes, but since we have limited time, and you’re going to be immobilized anyway, I’m taking this opportunity to get a clear picture of your vital signs.” Dr. Shaw smiled. “I’m very fond of efficiency.”
“I’m beginning to see that.” The technicians, including Kathleen, were taping sensor pads to my front.
“There’s just one more thing that you might object to. I apologize, but I assure you, it’s necessary to ensure the accuracy of my tests.”
I gritted my teeth, steeling myself for something I wasn’t going to enjoy. “What’s that?” I asked. “You need me to sing Christmas carols while you measure my brain activity?”
“That could be entertaining, and you should feel free if it helps you relax, but no.” Dr. Shaw produced a pair of scissors from her pocket, holding them up for me to see. “Your hair will interfere with the placement of the sensors on your scalp. I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut most of it off if we’re going to get a clear result.”
For a moment, I simply stared at her. Then I started to laugh. I was still laughing when she began cutting my hair, and barely got myself under control in time for the testing to begin. The real test—the test of whether or not I could survive the CDC—was still ongoing. But I was starting to feel like I might actually stand a chance.
Subject 7c continues to respond to stimulus, and has begun questioning the conditions of her containment. She—and it truly is impossible to avoid assigning a gender, and even an identity, to a subject that has been awake and interactive for this length of time—continues to adhere closely to the registered template. Her responses are well within the allowable parameters. Perhaps too well within the allowable parameters; early concerns about cooperation and biddability were not unfounded.
