Blackout: Book 3 of The Newsflesh Trilogy

by Mira Grant

  “That you realized we’d called the authorities, and ran.” Her eyes were clear and calm. “Or maybe I won’t tell them anything. The choice is yours.”

  It took me a moment to realize that she was saying I could shoot her: She was unarmed, and I had her gun. They wouldn’t be able to use the ballistics to trace me, or to conclusively prove I’d pulled the trigger while she was still alive. I shook my head. “Tell them whatever you have to in order to get them off your back, and then find a way to get to Florida. Alaric’s sister is named Alisa Kwong. She’s in the Ferry Pass Refugee Center. Get her out.”

  “Then what?”

  I stepped forward, leaning in to kiss her forehead the way she used to kiss mine when there was an appropriate photo opportunity. Until that moment, I hadn’t really realized that I was taller than her now. “Do what you couldn’t do for us, Mom,” I said. “Love her. Until Alaric can come back for her, just love her.”

  She nodded. “I’ll try,” she said. “That’s all that I can promise.”

  “That’s fine.” I smiled at her. She smiled back. She was still smiling when I slammed the gun into her temple. I wasn’t trying to knock her out—the human head is thicker than most movies want you to believe, and knocking someone out without killing them is a precise science—just catch her off guard. I managed that. She staggered backward with a shout, the skin split and bleeding above her eye. That was going to be one hell of a shiner.

  She didn’t grab for the gun. She didn’t swear at me. She just clapped a hand over the wound and pointed to the door, saying, “Go. We’ll take care of things from here.”

  I went. As I ran through the kitchen, I threw Mom’s gun into the sink. It was still half-full of soapy dishwater. The gun sank into the bubbles. I broke into a run.

  Dad and Becks were in the garage with the door standing open. The sky was starting to lighten, hints of sunrise creeping up around the edges. “Come on,” I said, gesturing for Becks to follow me. “Dad—”

  “The scanner says they’re eight blocks out. Miss Atherton has the jammer. Now go.” He adjusted his glasses with one hand. His shoulder was bleeding copiously. There was no telling what Becks had used to make the wound. Mom’s toolbox provided a wealth of possibilities.

  He saw me looking and smiled. I smiled back and kept going, heading for the van. Becks ran behind me, a boxy object cradled under one arm that I recognized as one of Mom’s highly prized, highly illegal jammers. If we were caught with it, we’d be looking at a nice long stay in prison… assuming we lived long enough to get there, which seemed less than likely. But Becks was laughing when we reached the van, adrenaline and exhaustion bubbling over, and I joined in, and we threw ourselves inside just as soon as we could get the locks to disengage.

  I didn’t even bother to fasten my seat belt before I started the engine and slammed my foot down on the gas. Becks put the jammer on the dashboard, connecting it to the stereo’s USB power outlet before turning it on. A soft white-noise whine filled the cab, more psychological than anything else; it was there so we would know the equipment was working.

  The sound of sirens was just beginning to split the Berkeley air when we turned the corner, gathering speed all the while, and we were gone.

  You really can’t go home again.

  Sometimes, that’s a good thing.

  Sometimes, when you try, you find out that home isn’t there anymore… but that it wasn’t only in your head before. Home actually existed. Home wasn’t just a dream.

  Sometimes, that’s the best thing of all.

  —From Adaptive Immunities, the blog of Shaun Mason, July 28, 2041. Unpublished.

  Seattle is gray, damp, and far too proud of being surrounded on all sides by trees which never lose their leaves and hence, never stop providing cover for whatever might be lurking behind them. The natives are as friendly as any Americans, and tend to become extremely helpful when I produce my passport. “I’m an Indian citizen” carries a lot of weight here.

  I’m worried about Maggie. We have yet to bribe our way in to see the Monkey, and she’s not doing well with all this secrecy and illicit trafficking. I would have said Alaric was the weak link in our particular chain, with his sister as a possible hostage to his good behavior, but I am beginning to fear our dear Magdalene might be just as easily swayed with the promise of a return to her “real life”…

  —From Fish and Clips, the blog of Mahir Gowda, July 28, 2041. Unpublished.

  Fifteen

  I was left mostly to my own devices after the alarm. That was a good thing; my headache got steadily worse once Gregory’s painkillers wore off. I wasn’t willing to ask the orderlies for anything else, and I couldn’t exactly ring for my buddy the EIS mole. So I spent most of what felt like a day in bed, huddled under the covers and trying to shove my head far enough beneath the pillow to block out the room’s ambient light.

  Eventually, I managed to go back to sleep. When I woke, my headache was gone. The isolation was another matter. Dr. Thomas didn’t appear, and the orderlies who brought my meals were even more perfunctory than usual, like they were performing an unpleasant chore. I considered trying to talk to them, and dismissed it in favor of playing the good little clone, tractable, meek, and willing to be told where to sit, what to eat, and when to go to the bathroom. None of them appeared more than once, and I could see the guards waiting in the hall when the door slid open to allow the orderlies in or out.

  That was enough to worry me. Were the guards there because they thought I might be smart enough to get wind of what was coming? Had some other clone of Georgia Mason seen the writing on the wall when her decommissioning approached, and tried to make a break for it? Or had Gregory slipped somehow—was our window not as secure as he thought it was, did he say the wrong thing, did he get caught? Were the guards there because the plan to bust me out, sketchy as it was, had been blown?

  I realized the fear was irrational almost as soon as I finished figuring out what it was. I still had my gun. If Gregory had been caught, someone would have come to take my gun. As long as I was armed, I had to make myself assume that things were going as planned… whatever that plan turned out to actually be.

  The next “day” inched by at a glacial pace. By the time dinner came, I was virtually climbing the walls. I forced myself to sit on the bed, holding as still as I could, and tried to focus on what I knew about the layout of the facility. I’d seen plenty of labs, but I didn’t have a good idea of where they were relative to one another—the identical halls and rapid walk-throughs had seen to that. If I managed to get out of here, I’d be flying blind unless I had someone to escort me. All of which brought me back to Gregory, and the increasingly pressing question of where he was.

  Another unfamiliar orderly brought my lunch, a truly uninspiring combination of cheese slices, soy spread, and sliced bread. “The catering has definitely gone downhill around here,” I called after his retreating back. My stomach rumbled, making it clear that no matter how lousy the food looked, I was damn well going to eat it. I needed to keep my strength up.

  The cheese was as bland as I’d expected. After the second bite, I started to doubt that it was even cheese, since it tasted more like a blend of soy and artificial flavorings. I wrinkled my nose and kept eating. Cheese meant protein, even if it didn’t necessarily mean dairy, and protein was a good thing. That thought was almost enough to motivate me through the rest of the plate before I lost all interest, picked up the bread, and retreated with it to the bed. Who cared if I got a few crumbs in the sheets? It wasn’t like there was anyone here to complain about them.

  For some reason, that made me wonder if any of the Georgia Masons who came before me tried to seduce an orderly when they hit the last days of their captivity. The image was enough to make me snort with involuntary laughter. It wasn’t just that I had no idea how to go about seducing somebody—seduction was never exactly required, given my particular set of circumstances. It was the idea of any of those stiff, buttoned-down order
lies trying to explain that dinner didn’t come with a side order of clone sex.

  Hell, maybe one of the other Georgias even made a play for Dr. Thomas. That would certainly explain why he was so careful to avoid physical contact, even now that we were well past the point of needing to worry about spontaneous amplification. Maybe he was afraid I’d rip my pajama top open and start trying to buy my freedom.

  I was still snickering when the door slid open and a slim blonde woman in a lab coat stepped into my room. “Did I come at a bad time, Georgia?” asked Dr. Shaw. “I can come back later, if you would prefer.”

  I jumped to my feet, dropping my bread. “Dr. Shaw,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting you today.” Or here. Or ever.

  “There are times one must enjoy the privileges of surprise,” she said. “Have you finished your lunch? I do apologize for the blandness of the ingredients, but I was unable to come and brief you before your afternoon meal was delivered, and it was important that preparations begin immediately.”

  My shoulders tensed. I forced them to unlock. Dr. Shaw is a friend, I reminded myself. She gave me the gun. She’s not going to do anything to hurt me. Not unless she had to, anyway. “Preparations?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, and smiled. She was gorgeous when she smiled. Not beautiful; gorgeous, like the cam-girl porn bloggers who make a living on looks and panty shots. Maybe that was the reason she didn’t smile much. Save them up, and use them like weapons when she needed them. “I finally got approval for my deep-state sleep study. They would probably have dragged their feet on me longer, but Dr. Thomas has proposed a series of tests that will occupy all your time as of next week, and that gave me the leverage I needed to convince our superiors to let me have you until then.” She paused, clearly expecting something from me.

  “Um… yay?”

  “Yes,” she said, with an enthusiastic nod. “Very ‘yay.’ This is going to tell us so much about your mental state, Georgia. There are things to be discovered by examining your subconscious that, well… I won’t bore you with details, but suffice to say that I expect us to both be very pleased with my results. Now, I am afraid you may be slightly inconvenienced by what has to be done…” She let the sentence trail off, again waiting for my reply.

  This time, I was faster on my cue. “Inconvenienced how, exactly?”

  “You’ll be sleeping in my lab for the duration. I realize it’s an invasion of your privacy, but it can’t be avoided if we want to get good results.”

  I managed not to laugh at the notion of my possessing anything remotely resembling “privacy” in the room I’d been sleeping in. “I think I can handle it.”

  “Thank you,” said Dr. Shaw. Her smile faded, replaced by her more familiar chilly professionalism. “Is there anything you’d like to bring with you?”

  I blinked. I hadn’t realized she meant we’d be leaving the room now. “No,” I said, with complete honesty. My gun was tucked into the top of my left sock, and I’d long since finished reading the few books I’d been able to cajole Dr. Thomas into giving me. Nothing else here was mine. They could decant the next girl and put her in this room, and she’d never know I’d existed, just like I woke up not knowing there had been others here before me.

  The thought was sobering. One way or another, I was never going to come back here. Either I’d get out, or I’d just be gone, and no one would miss me, or mourn for me, except for maybe Gregory. Maybe not even him. Assuming his cover hadn’t been blown, he’d probably be busy trying to find out whether the new Georgia Mason was the one he could finally save.

  “Good,” said Dr. Shaw, breaking me out of the dark spiral of my own thoughts. “If there’s nothing here you’d like to bring, then we’re ready to begin.”

  “I didn’t have anything else on my calendar for today,” I said. Dr. Shaw started for the door. I followed, resisting the urge to look back at the room that was never mine, not really. It was a stopping point, and yet somehow, walking through the door with her felt very, very final.

  Two of the technicians from our first round of tests were waiting for us in the hall, along with two guards I didn’t recognize. I was getting used to that. I focused my attention on the technicians, smiling as earnestly as I could. “Kathleen. George. It’s good to see you again.”

  “See?” crowed Kathleen, bouncing in place. The guards looked at her with visible discomfort but didn’t move from their positions. “I told you the sleep studies would get approved!”

  “I should never have doubted you,” I said.

  “You’re looking… well,” said George.

  “I’ve had lots of rest,” I said.

  “Which is excellent for our purposes,” said Dr. Shaw. “Now that we’re all acquainted again, come along. We have much to do, and little time in which to do it.” This said, she turned and strode down the hall, her heels punctuating each step with a gunshot-crisp crack. Kathleen and George fell into step behind her, and I trailed after them, with the guards following after me. Their presence kept me from getting too relaxed. This might be a step toward freedom, but I wasn’t in the clear yet.

  Dr. Shaw led us down the hall toward the lab where her first round of tests on me had been conducted, stopping at an unmarked door. “You are no longer required,” she informed the guards, holding up her ID badge. “I assure you, the automated systems will make sure nothing untoward happens between here and our final destination.”

  “Our apologies, Dr. Shaw, but we have our orders,” said the elder of the two guards, a tall, Hispanic man with a thin mustache covering his upper lip. He looked less nervous than his companion. Maybe that’s why he got the unenviable job of telling Dr. Shaw he wasn’t going to do what she wanted him to do. “We are to escort the subject to your lab and ensure that she’s secured before we leave our posts.”

  “Bureaucracy will be the death of us all,” muttered Dr. Shaw, with what looked like sincere annoyance. “Very well, then, if you must. But if either of you so much as breathes on something you shouldn’t, the cost of decontamination will be coming out of your paychecks, and I will be speaking to your supervisors. Do I make myself clear?” Kathleen and George stepped up to flank us, presenting a united line. I was the only one not wearing a lab coat. For some reason, that struck me as funny.

  The guards looked more uncomfortable than ever, but they stood their ground. I almost had to respect that. “Perfectly, ma’am,” said the older guard. “We’re just doing our jobs.”

  “Yes, well, I believe you’ve established that.” She swiped her badge down the front of a magnetic scanner in the wall. The scanner beeped once. The door in front of us didn’t budge; instead, a door on the other side of the hall swung open. The guards turned. Dr. Shaw looked smug. “Gentlemen, if you’re so intent on managing my patient’s welfare, you can lead the way.”

  I frowned at the expression on her face. Then I looked through the open door, and my frown struggled to become a smile.

  The door opened in what appeared to be the side of a hall. A sign was posted on the wall visible through the opening—CAUTION: ACTIVE BIOHAZARD LABS BEYOND THIS POINT. CONTAMINATION RISK IS SET AT BIOSAFETY LEVEL 3. DO NOT PROCEED WITHOUT APPROPRIATE CLEARANCE. Beneath that, some joker had taped a printout reading “So come on in, and kiss your ass good-bye.”

  “Ma’am?” asked the older guard.

  “I realize you’ve been working primarily in Level 1 and 2 areas, but my primary lab is maintained in the Level 3 wing.” Dr. Shaw glanced to me as she spoke, giving me a brief but meaningful look that chased away any doubts I may have had about my fate. If I were still Dr. Thomas’s pet subject, he would never have let me enter a Level 3 biohazard lab. He approved this. He was done with me.

  All CDC properties start at Level 1, including the bathrooms and reception areas. No special training or equipment is needed to enter one. Level 1 biohazard facilities work with agents that don’t harm healthy adult humans. Level 2 biohazard facilities work with things that can harm healthy adult human
s, and will usually have some precautions in place to deal with contamination. It’s only once you hit Level 3 that you start needing major protective gear. With the door standing open, I could hear the faint hiss of air being drawn into the hall, caught by the negative pressure filters. Airborne dangers could get in, but they would never make it out.

  The guards stared at the sign. Dr. Shaw cleared her throat. “Gentlemen?”

  The younger guard actually jumped. “Ma’am?” he asked.

  “I realize you’re simply trying to do your jobs, but I assure you, no amount of staring at the wall will get us to my lab. Can we proceed?”

  “Just a moment.” The older guard murmured something to his companion before raising a hand and tapping the skin behind his ear. “I’ll be right back with you.”

  “Subdermal communications implant,” I muttered. “Slick.” Buffy would have loved to get her hands on one of those. With the way I went through the ear cuffs I used to contact my team, something subdermal would have—would have—

  I touched the top edge of my left ear, where my ear cuff should have been. I hadn’t even thought about it since waking up, and now that I remembered it, I felt naked without it. Somehow, I found that reassuring. It was one more piece of evidence that I was still me, even if I was someone else at the same time. For the first time, I felt myself feeling sorry for the Georgia Masons who had been cloned, studied, and killed before me. How many of them ever knew they weren’t the woman they thought they were? How many of them touched their ears, feeling naked and wondering whether they’d get the chance to be properly clothed ever again?

  I hoped none of them. If they hadn’t been able to escape—and clearly, they hadn’t, because I wouldn’t have been here if they had—then there was no reason they should ever have needed to feel like this.